reincrimination - Tumblr blog

reincrimination · 10 months ago

Note

I love all your soft Sundays fics! I am currently re-reading all of them. I am in need of some fluff rn. Just them being soft and domestic is everything and really my go to fics aha. Are you planning another one hehe? Can you write a secret relationship reveal where they didn’t realize it, but they started doing some soft thing that they usually do when it’s just the two of them and they forget everyone else around them?

Aw yay, I'm so happy you love them! They're some of my absolute faves too <3 this prompt was short enough to be a blurb, so I added it to this series🫶🏼

----

intertwined, sewn together

Chapter 3

A series of unconnected fluff blurbs <3

Word count: 0.9k

----

The case files have been shoved to the edges of the conference room table, bags of takeout and carton drink holders taking their place in the middle instead. Though crime scene pictures are still hung up on the whiteboard directly in view of the hungry agents, they hardly seem to dull their appetites.

It has been six hours since they’ve eaten, after all. Six hours of pouring their brains out into a case that doesn’t want to make sense. The clock has barely hit twelve, and Emily’s sure they’re all hanging by a rapidly thinning thread.

Morgan balls up his wrapper and tosses it into the trashcan with a smooth arc just as she’s uncovering her first burger. The crinkle of paper wrappers is a welcome change from their confounded, frustrated silence, however when Reid pipes up again Emily stifles her groan into her food.

“We said that he could be disorganized, but what if there’s more than one unsub? There were at least three different weapons and the MO was—”

“There was only one set of prints at the scene.” Rossi says tiredly.

Emily doesn’t blame either of them; not Reid’s resilience or Rossi’s palpable exhaustion. She tries to chase away her own frustration by pressing her knee against Aaron’s thigh, methodically chewing her burger and focusing on the flavor that blooms on her tongue rather than the persistent call of the crime scene photos.

It almost works. Reid falls silent again, Aaron’s thumb rubs a quick circle on her slacks, but that’s just when the tart sourness of pickles evades her senses. Emily frowns and stops chewing, tentatively opening up her burger and stifling another groan when she finds the telltale cucumbers nestled between the buns.

Her brow pinches in annoyance. She told Morgan no pickles.

The half-chewed mouthful on her tongue grows heavy, but she bites back a shudder and swallows it down. Emily opens up her burger, her nose scrunching as she grabs a slimy pickle with the tips of her nails. In an easy, practiced move, she holds out her offering and tosses it onto Aaron’s wrapper on the table, amongst his few fries. From the corner of her eye, she sees him take it—uncaring that it’s half bitten by her teeth—lifting the edge of his bun and stuffing it inside as she drops two more on his wrapper.

Just when her burger is free of pickles, Emily notices the unusually thick silence that has fallen.

She looks up, bristling when she finds Morgan staring at her. At her and Aaron—and so is everyone else, Emily notices, the fog in her brain clearing when she realizes what she’s done. What they both have. Aaron goes still next to her, and she forces her eyes away from him and onto Morgan instead.

“I told you no pickles,” she snaps. Her voice echoes in the silence of the conference room.

Morgan raises a slow brow, making her skin itch as she crumples a tissue in her fist to soak up the pickle juice on her fingertips. “You seem to manage just fine with them.” He notes, with no apology. His eyes not so subtly fall to the rest of the pickles on Aaron’s wrapper.

Her knee slams almost violently against his. Aaron clears his throat, his tone purposely flat. “Prentiss knows I like pickles. She doesn’t, so she gives me hers,” he elaborates, unnecessarily.

Dave smiles, the stretch of his lips too smug. “And, ah, how did Prentiss come to know that about you?”

Emily huffs as an irrational heat rises to her cheeks. “Well I don’t know, it’s not like we’ve known each other for five years,” she snarks, her knee now bouncing into Aaron’s. It doesn’t help that his hand dips below the table, his fingers gently gripping her leg until it stills. “I don’t know why you’re making it a big deal—”

“Aw,” JJ drawls as she rests her chin on her fist, a new light shining in her eyes as she follows the line of Aaron’s arm, “it’s like the olive theory. Only with pickles.”

“The olive theory?” Aaron and Emily echo. Reid’s brows furrow as well.

“You hate pickles and Hotch likes them, which makes you a compatible couple. Perfectly balanced.” The corners of her lips tip up in a small smirk.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous—”

“We are not dating—”

“Give it up, kids,” Rossi interrupts, wiping his mouth with a napkin and neatly balling it up along with his empty wrapper. “I saw you,” he raises his brows at Aaron, “swapping your fries with hers.”

“He didn’t do that.” Emily says. She turns to Aaron, frowning a little. He didn’t, did he? She never saw anything. “You didn’t.”

If they were alone, the subtle pink to his cheeks would’ve made her kiss them. The tips of Aaron’s ears turn a deeper red as he sighs, quietly, the brown of his eyes meeting the brown of hers.

“Mine had more.”

He says it more like a confession; his voice soft, his shoulders raising in a small shrug like it’s no big deal.

“Oh.” Emily replies. Softly, too, as if she’s surprised. She turns her eyes to the small pile of fries lying on his spread out wrapper, and then to her own fries still in their container. Her heart skips, her cheeks warm, and though she tries to stifle it, a smile starts tugging at her lips.

Emily knocks her knee into his thigh again, gently. Thank you.

Aaron’s hand finds her own thigh. He squeezes quickly—you’re welcome.

She doesn’t look at him as she grabs the corner of his wrapper, dragging it—and the pickles—in front of her. Ignoring the silence and the eyes on her, Emily picks up her fries and tips half of them next to Aaron’s burger, evening their load. His intake of breath alerts her to his protest before he even speaks.

“Em—”

“Still not dating?” Dave asks.

Emily pops a fry into her mouth. “Fuck off.”

taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07 @dontemilyyyyme

25 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 10 months ago

Text

Quotes that reminded me of hotchniss

197 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 10 months ago

Text

criminal minds parents !!

883 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 10 months ago

Text

EMILY PRENTISS & AARON HOTCHNER and their complete lack of personal space

489 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 10 months ago

Text

my mind will completely erase the scene from season one of criminal minds where gideon peels AND hands that orange out to the team... but every now and again... i will remember it... and i will cry...

23 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 11 months ago

Text

race against the clock

criminal minds | aaron hotchner x reader

content warnings: canon-typical violence, guns, death (unsub), panic attack, kidnapping, mild injury.

collection: whumptober 2024, day 1: race against the clock/search party/panic attack.

“Drop the weapon!” Morgan yelled. Hotch looked at Morgan, and then to where Morgan was looking. The rest of the police force did the same, and suddenly, twenty guns were all drawn on him- the man who had you. He had a gun, too, but he wasn’t aiming it. He held it in his left hand, which Hotch- and you- had known was his dominant one, by the characteristics of the stab wounds that he had left on his victims. Stab wounds that he might’ve- Hotch’s breath hitches- left on you. “Where is she?” Hotch yells. Another agent had been talking, maybe Morgan, but he didn’t give a shit right now. “What have you done with her?”

Aaron Hotchner knows how to keep his cool. Probably better than anyone on the team. In fact, he was the one to remind everyone to do just that before they breached the doors on this unsub’s decrepit cabin.

The woods were dark and eerie, as they always are on these types of days. It was some hour past midnight, Hotch couldn’t recall- all the numbers had started to blur together. The only time he had in his head was twelve hours, twelve hours since you’d gone missing. Taken right out of the parking lot of the precinct.

At least there hadn’t been much question about who had taken you. Finding the unsub’s cabin had been easy once Garcia had been given a name. Hotch only hoped recovering you would be that easy, and that you’d be unharmed.

“FBI! Open the door!” a man fully decked out in black SWAT gear and significantly more firepower than Hotch yelled, pounding on the front door.

The slats of the porch creaked under their feet, the paint flaking off the railings and the door-frame. The light shining through the smudged windows was the only clue this place was even inhabited.

There wasn’t even a car in the driveway.

The battering ram took the rotting door clear off of its hinges. The SWAT team fans out inside, searching room after room. Hotch hears them yelling “clear” as they proceed through the house. He waited with baited breath. If it were up to him he’d have been inside with them, but they knew this guy had lots of firepower at his disposal, so it was SWAT’s job to clear the house. Which, they had. Finding no one inside. Not even you.

Hotch felt the small balloon of hope inside him pop; the wind had been knocked out of him without so much as a physical punch. The SWAT team filed back out of the house. There was no unsub, and there was no sign of you.

A loud bang pierced the quiet night air.

The entire assembly of police and FBI agents all whirled around, guns drawn without a second thought. No one knew where to point them, though. The dark forest pressed in on all four sides of the cabin, the dirt road driveway even consumed by darkness after a few hundred feet.

“Drop the weapon!” Morgan yelled. Hotch looked at Morgan, and then to where Morgan was looking. The rest of the police force did the same, and suddenly, twenty guns were all drawn on him- the man who had you. He was half-hidden by the shadows cast by the tall pine trees, the moonlight unable to illuminate anything this far down from the forest canopy.

He had a gun, too, but he wasn’t aiming it. He held it in his left hand, which Hotch- and you- had known was his dominant one, by the characteristics of the stab wounds that he had left on his victims.

Stab wounds that he might’ve- Hotch’s breath hitches- left on you.

“Where is she?” Hotch yells. Another agent had been talking, maybe Morgan, but he didn’t give a shit right then. “What have you done with her?”

The unsub smirked, his grubby little brows furrowing, beady eyes narrowing, as he stared at Hotch.

“Answer me!” Hotch screamed. His voice broke on the last word.

“Take it easy, man,” Morgan said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Let the others talk to him. Take a breath.”

Taking a breath seemed like an objectively good idea, but Hotch found, he could not. His chest felt tight, like a rope was being pulled taut around him. His vision had begun to swim, the only thing he was focused in on was that disgusting, abhorrent man who had- who had-.

“Hotch,” Morgan repeated. He holstered his gun and took Hotch’s from him. “Come here. Don’t let him see you like this. That’s what he wants.”

“I need…” Hotch gasped. His hands were tingling, his fingers cramping. He tried to make fists with his hands as he followed Morgan back and around the back of an SUV, hidden from the unsub’s line of sight, but his hands weren’t cooperating. “I need to get her back, Morgan.”

What was happening to him? He had never felt like this before. He wouldn’t even be able to fire a gun like this, not with his hands cramping. How was he supposed to do anything?

“Is- are they talking to him?” Hotch peeked around the side of the SUV. He saw Spencer, his hands out placatingly, trying to talk to the unsub. He trusted Spencer, he trusted all of his team, but he needed to be out there. What if the unsub said something that they all missed. That only Hotch could put together. What if he said that he had killed you? Stabbed you, like all the others, or worse? “I need to- Morgan, give me my gun.”

“Hotch, relax,” Morgan tapped his shoulders again, trying to draw his attention back. “Focus on me. Breathe, slowly. You’re hyperventilating. You’re panicking, man. You’re no help to her like this.”

“Morgan, she’s not just- fuck- she’s not just an agent, she’s- we’re-,” Hotch stammered.

“I know, Hotch. We all know. And we’re going to find her.”

Hotch felt his hands relaxing, his chest loosening, his composure returning, like clouds parting after a storm. Leaving a clear sky. He needed to focus on finding you, and he couldn’t do that if he was panicking. He held his breath and counted to seven and then exhaled and did it again, until his hands were steady and his vision was clear.

“I told you,” Hotch heard the unsub groan to Spencer, “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Hotch. To Aaron.”

Morgan handed him his gun back and they left the shelter of the SUV. The unsub was still talking with Spencer, but had clearly noticed Hotch’s absence. The unsub’s gaze had flicked to track Hotch as he strode to the front of the crescent of officers. He kept his gun at his side- enough officers had their guns trained on the unsub anyways- in an attempt to be non-threatening.

“I’m Aaron,” Hotch said. He stepped forward, closer to the unsub. Hotch scanned his clothes, hands, arms, boots, everything, for any trace of blood, or dirt, or any clue as to where you were hidden. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I think you know what I want to talk about,” the unsub huffed a laugh. “You were all she wanted to talk about.”

Wanted? In the past tense?

Hotch felt the panic rising again. He took a deep breath. He could do this, he could stay focused for you. He had to, if he ever wanted to see you- alive, or otherwise, again. He had to pretend this was no different than any other case, that you were just another victim. That was the only way for him to avoid panicking- something he had never known he needed to avoid doing, before. Before you. Before he cared about someone as much as he cared about you, before you were put in danger.

“What else did you talk about?” Hotch asked. He needed information, any small hint at where the man had hidden you.

“Plenty.” The unsub shifted his weight from foot to foot, his left hand flexed around the hilt of his handgun. “We talked about how I couldn’t wait to shoot you. How that would be more painful to her than any physical would I could inflict. She begged me not to. Have you ever heard her beg before?”

The unsub began to raise his left arm up, gun in hand, but before it passed his waistline, a hail of bullets rained down on him. His body hit the ground before Hotch could even blink.

“NO!” Hotch shouted. He holstered his own gun, and kicked the unsub’s gun away from his side. He sank to his knees, suit pants sinking into the damp mud and pine needles. Hotch knotted his fists in the man’s shirt, and shook him, hard. “Where is she?”

“Hotch,” Emily murmured, somehow kneeling beside him now.

“Hotch, he’s gone.”

“Tell me where she is, you bastard!” Hotch’s voice had begun to go raw from screaming. He shook him one more time. Then he noticed: the dark, round hole in the center of his forehead.

Hotch released his grip on the unsub’s body and stumbled to his feet.

His knees were wet from the mud, and maybe from the blood that had undoubtedly already pooled out around the body from the various gunshot wounds.

Now we have nothing, he thought, pushing past the crowd of officers. He glanced at the empty driveway. Not even a car.

Not even a car.

Hotch whipped around.

“Follow the tire tracks!” he ordered, breaking into a run. “He has to have used the car to move her. Wherever it is, she is.”

He pulled out his flashlight and shone it on the dirt driveway. The earth was wet and covered in pine needles, making it difficult to analyze what he found. Two divots on each side of the path denoted the place the tires must’ve usually rested when the car was parked. They extended down the path through the forest, down a few miles to the main road. There wasn’t much room between the trees for the car to have pulled off, but he must’ve found somewhere, because if he had taken you to the main road, the officers at the roadblocks there would have seen him.

Hotch broke into a run, shining his flashlight ahead of him, looking for the slightest disturbance in the forest floor. He heard footsteps and clamor behind him as the rest of the cops and his agents spread out into a search party. He knew they could get scent dogs out in a few hours, but your scent would be hard to track, if not impossible, especially if he was right and the unsub had moved you using a car. Searching on foot was Hotch’s only hope to find you soon.

He had said that they had talked about shooting him- how it would be more painful for you than anything he could possibly have done to her.

Implying that you had to have been alive when the unsub shot Hotch- or had tried to.

The relief and hope that flooded Hotch at that realization almost distracted him enough to miss what he had finally found- a tire track, veering off between two trees that the car had probably barely fit between. Hotch shone the beam of the flashlight on the trunks and noticed the bark had been scraped off, and chips of white paint were left in the gouges. You had to be somewhere close, if the unsub had walked on foot from where he had hidden you.

Hotch began yelling your name, and then, all the other officers started, too. They moved forward like in a grid search, looking behind every tree, kicking through the leaf cover for anything left behind. “I found the car!” Morgan yelled. Then, the words that Hotch had been waiting to hear for the last twelve- now more like thirteen- hours: “I got her! She’s alive!”

Hotch ran towards the sound. The officers had already clustered around a small wooden structure, a hunting blind. A few meters behind it was the unsub’s parked car. The area quickly became illuminated in bright white lights as all the cops present shone their flashlights on you.

Hotch watched as Morgan began to help you up. Your hands were zip-tied tightly behind your back; Hotch could see dried blood around your wrists where they had cut into your skin. A pair of zip ties hung off of your ankles- Morgan must have just cut them off. He used his pocket knife to slash the ones holding your wrists together, too. Your hair was disheveled and full of leaves and debris, like you had been dragged along the floor, and a huge gash and bump to your right temple, like you’d been pistol whipped, glowed in the bright light of the flashlights.

“Where is he?” you sobbed, clinging onto Morgan’s arms as he helped you out of the blind. “Is he dead?”

“He’s dead, sweetheart,” Morgan tried to soothe you and pull you in for a hug, but you pushed him away, more strongly than you should’ve been able to after being tied up for so long.

“No!” you wailed. “How could you let this happen?”

Confusion flashed on Morgan’s face, and through Hotch’s mind.

Then, he realized. The unsub had known that he would die when he faced the police, but he knew that his final act would be to psychologically torture you, leaving you to wonder if one of the gunshots you had heard had been him shooting Hotch, like he had promised you he’d do as his final act.

Morgan had misunderstood your question. He had just told you that Hotch was dead.

Hotch finally closed the distance between the two of you. He grabbed your shoulders and spun you around to face him. A broken sob wrenched its way out of your throat, tear tracks already cutting through the layer of dirt and dried blood on your face.

“Aaron,” you croaked. “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m here,” Aaron murmured beside your ear, so softly no one else could hear. It was just you and him now, in your own world. The secrecy of your relationship be damned, he would deal with the consequences later. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

You broke down sobbing into his arms, all the fight flooding out of you as soon as you realized that Hotch was alive. The dehydration, the hunger, the fear, and the pain in your head all rushed back in. Hotch’s arms tightened around you, the only thing holding you up anymore. His face was smushed into your dirty hair, the blood on your wrists was staining his shirt and tie, but neither of you noticed, nor would you have cared if you had.

“I knew you- I knew you’d find me,” you gasped, fisting his shirt in your trembling fingers. You stared up at him, into his beautiful glossy brown eyes, committing every inch of his face to memory. You had thought you’d never see him again, never hear his voice again, never feel his touch again. “When I heard the shots, I thought- oh, my God- I thought you were-.”

“Shh,” Aaron soothed. He wrapped a hand around the back of your head, near the base of your skull, and guided your face into the crook of his neck. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, a wet, raw sound. “I know.”

“I thought he…” you mumbled into his neck, the words dying on your parched lips, or before that, in your sore throat. “Aaron.”

“I’ve got you, honey,” he murmured back, cradling your head so softly in his big hands. “You’re safe now.”

#whumptober 2024 #no.1 #race against the clock #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner hurt/comfort #bau team #ssa aaron hotchner

583 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 11 months ago

Text

stay the course ch. 3 | buddie

9-1-1 | evan buckley x eddie diaz

a buddie equestrian AU

cw: explicit mlm content

chapter two <- you are here! -> chapter four

read on archive of our own!

“Are you putting me to bed?” Blurts out Eddie, almost indignantly. “Wasn’t my plan,” Buck says with a raise of his brow. “Are we on the same page?” “We are now,” Eddie breathes, as Buck leans in real close to him. He looks up, the eyes he’s become so fond of only a few inches from his own- which says nothing of his lips, which are gorgeous and pink and so close Eddie can almost taste them. He really wants to taste them.

Eddie does not know how many Manhattans he has had at this point. Enough to blur the edges of his vision, judging by how the industrial lamps scattered along the top of the bar are now more of an orange halo than they had been before. Enough to dull the sting of the edge of the table digging into his forearms where he’s leaned heavily into It. Not enough to draw his attention from the enigmatic eyes of his company- or, maybe, just enough to keep his attention on them.

“I’m heading out,” a voice pipes up from behind Eddie- right, Chim. He knew he was still there- he definitely knew that- he definitely didn’t forget. It’s not like he has had his entire body angled towards Buck for the last fifteen minutes, engrossed in whatever the blonde had been talking about- at this point, he’s forgotten. He adjusts his body, his blood feeling like molasses as it rushes from his head, as he straightens up. Chimney slaps a few bills, big bills, down on the bartop and gives the bartender a wave, and leaves quicker than Eddie had downed his last drink, which was also quick.

“Bye, Chim,” Buck murmurs, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder as he passes. Then, those piercing blue eyes are turned back onto Eddie.

His skin prickles under the gaze, the lack of self-awareness brought on by the alcohol just enough to make him lose a bit of his ingrained confidence. He rubs a hand through his dark hair- needs a cut, he notes, as the hair falls through his fingers-, enjoying the way that Buck tracks the motion with those eyes of his.

“You doing alright?” the aforementioned questions, tilting his head and resting his chin in one strong hand as he takes in Eddie’s alcohol-softened appearance.

Eddie wants that strong hand, or both strong hands, on his body, that he knows for sure, but that is not an answer to Buck’s question. Yeah, he’s great, honest-to-God. Suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious with how piercing of a gaze Buck has turned on him, he rolls his shoulders underneath his black turtleneck, the gray plaid blazer and chocolate brown overcoat long-since shed and tossed over the back of his chair.

“Been a while since I drank,” Eddie admits, finally having the courage to meet Buck’s gaze again. He doesn’t expect the other to look away as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but it makes his lips curl into a smirk regardless. “You?”

Buck waves a hand dismissively, a prominent scar on the curve of his wrist catching Eddie’s attention for a moment. “I handle my alcohol well.”

“Are you saying I don’t?” Eddie drawls, cocking an eyebrow and leaning back, crossing his arms in front of him.

Buck tactfully avoids answering, leaving Eddie no choice but to watch how his eyes again track Eddie’s movement, this time scanning from his wrist to his shoulder, as if cataloging every curve of his muscles. Eddie isn’t insanely built, but he’s fit enough, and this expensive of a turtleneck makes anyone look good underneath it. He’d love to show Buck what else is underneath this turtleneck, given the chance. God, what a modest outfit to wear when getting drinks with the hottest rider from team USA. Though, it’s not like this had been his plan for the night.

Eddie reaches up and slips two fingers into the collar of his turtleneck, tugging the finely woven fabric down just an inch as if trying to cool off a bit. The pale column of his throat is like a neon sign to Buck, who only takes one glance at the pale skin before he swallows heavily, his throat bobbing. He doesn’t mean to meet Eddie’s gaze, but his eyes drag from the lines of his throat up to the dark caramel of his eyes, and then he cannot look away. Eddie raises his brows, so subtle it could be missed by any less observant man, but Buck has spent the entire night taking in all the fine details of the man in front of him, and he isn’t about to stop. He has to catalog, namely, whatever’s underneath that turtleneck. Eddie slams back the rest of his drink, eyes flicking back to Buck once more as he swipes a stray droplet of bourbon away before it can cascade down the curve of his lips.

Fuck it, Buck thinks. Then, he’s digging around for his wallet and waving down the bartender. “Close out our tabs, both on me. And get my buddy a water, please.”

Eddie watches with narrowed eyes. What’s Buck’s endgame, here? Does he think Eddie is drunk enough to need to end his night early, or does he-?”

“Wanna get out of here?”

Eddie is half-way out of his seat, grabbing for his coats when Buck puts a steadying hand on his upper arm. “Easy. Have the water first. Want you sobered up.”

While the warm hum of the alcohol isn’t as strong as it was in the middle of his chain of Manhattans, Eddie wouldn’t mind sobering up if he thinks it’ll get him what Buck is alluding to. He slams the tall glass of water down in one go, a droplet successfully escaping this time, rolling down his jaw and almost disappearing into the hem of his turtleneck before a quick swipe of Buck’s thumb takes care of it. Eddie is dumbfounded enough that he can’t bring the empty glass away from his lips, not until after Buck says, “Would’ve been a shame to get that expensive shirt wet.”

He shrugs his coats on, and is about to motion for Buck to lead the way when a firm, guiding hand lands in the small of his back. He arches away from the touch for a moment, caught off-guard, before a rosy blush makes its way across his complexion and he obliges by letting Buck steer him to the elevators.

“You staying here?” Eddie asks as the latter’s fingers dig into his spine just a little, as he reaches with his other hand for the elevator call button.

“No. You are, though.”

“Are you putting me to bed?” Blurts out Eddie, almost indignantly.

“Wasn’t my plan,” Buck says with a raise of his brow. “Are we on the same page?”

“We are now,” Eddie breathes, as Buck leans in real close to him. He looks up, the eyes he’s become so fond of only a few inches from his own- which says nothing of his lips, which are gorgeous and pink and so close Eddie can almost taste them. He really wants to taste them.

Buck’s breath ghosts across his jaw as he leans away after slipping a hand into the pocket of Eddie’s woolen overcoat and pulling out his wallet. He leaves Eddie time to recover as he slips the golden room key out of the wallet and ushers Eddie into the elevator.

Eddie is about to make some snarky, flirty comment about being the only two in the elevator when the hand on his back is suddenly replaced with the cool mirrored wall of the elevator, and a pair of full lips are on his own. Stunned, he almost forgets to kiss back, but his hands immediately find purchase in the dark sweater that hugs Buck’s frame. He presses his hands into the knitted fabric until he finds the contour of Buck’s waist, grip settling just about his hips as he’s pressed flat against the mirror behind him.

He gasps as Buck’s other hand tightens on Eddie’s own hip, calloused fingers digging into his waistband and trying to un-tuck his turtleneck. The gasp gives the younger man the chance to flick his tongue into Eddie’s mouth, a move that should be off-putting, but it just serves to make Eddie’s knees wobble and his chin tip upwards, giving the blonde even more access. Their lips slide together messily, already reddening and slick with spit, a tangle of tongue and a bit of teeth and a lot of panting.

They’re both out of breath by the time the elevator reaches Eddie’s floor, and Eddie takes a second to rest his forehead against Buck’s shoulder while the doors slip open. Then, as quickly, as he’d begun to kiss Eddie, Buck ushers him down the hallway with one hand tight on his arm, just above the elbow. Eddie never thought he’d be being guided into his own hotel room at ten past midnight, but he is not complaining- certainly not when Buck nudges the door shut with his leg, blindly slaps for the light switch, and puts his hands right back on Eddie’s body.

It’s not elegant and it’s not very sweet, but it’s desperate, and both of them are hazy with desire by the time the backs of Eddie’s knees hit the king size bed he had yet to even sit on. He lands on his back with a little oof, not used to being manhandled like this, but God is it making his blood hot in the best way. The molasses-like feeling from the liquor is gone, replaced with an electric buzz that he can’t remember the last time he felt. Before he is allowed to ponder it more, Buck’s hands are back on his waist, demanding as his fingers fiddle with his belt.

“Gucci?” Buck breathes as he undoes the buckle, sliding the sleek leather from the belt loops without a second thought. He tosses the expensive item on to the bed, it looks like a black snake amid a sea of white snow until it’s covered by the first of Eddie’s coats.

“Yeah,” he breathes a late answer to Buck’s question, helping him shove the crossbarred gray cloth of his blazer off of his arms. It’s halfway inside out by the time it’s discarded on the floor, but it’s one less layer between Buck’s hands and Eddie’s bare skin, and he thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t feel those hands on himself sooner rather than later. “Like it?”

“Like what’s underneath it more,” Buck quips, fully untucking that damn turtleneck and immediately shoving it up Eddie’s chest, revealing the soft skin of Eddie’s stomach. The chill of the hotel room washes over his exposed skin, but that’s not the reason he’s shivering. Buck’s calloused hands wiggling their way to grab Eddie by the waist is the reason for that.

“God, look at you,” Buck exhales like Eddie just put down a million dollars in front of him, the pads of his thumbs almost touching each other below Eddie’s bellybutton. That does something to Eddie, a little whine escaping his throat as he squirms halfheartedly underneath Buck’s burning gaze.

Eddie wishes he could blame his reddened face on the alcohol, but he feels as clearheaded as ever as he reaches for the hem of Buck’s own sweater. “Off,” he requests meekly, tugging at it until the blonde obliges and tugs it off behind his head with one hand, something that Eddie didn’t know he’d find that attractive until an insanely hot man did it right in front of his half-naked self.

He doesn’t stop there, indulging Eddie by also shedding the soft cotton shirt that had been underneath the sweater. He tosses it onto the bed before leaning back over Eddie, undoing the button on his slacks and taking what grip he can on the taut fabric.

Buck pauses, and Eddie has half a mind to whine again, but instead he brings his eyes away from the sleek muscles of Buck’s torso to his face, which is looking down at Eddie with an expression a touch too fond for a half-drunken one-night stand.

“You sure you wanna go further?” Buck asks then, hand coming up to cup Eddie’s face and brush a tuft of curled brunette hair from his forehead. “You sober enough?”

“Mhm- swear, I swear on my father I’m sober enough, and God, yes, I’m sure-,” Eddie pleads, his skin burning where Buck’s fingers press into his cheekbone.

“Do not mention your father when I’m about to fuck you,” Buck groans, going back to grab at Eddie’s slacks, palming him briefly before tightening his other hand around Eddie’s waist and pressing upwards. “Up. Good boy.”

Eyes practically rolling back in his head from the praise- how is Buck even real?-, Eddie arches up into the hot, firm contact of Buck’s hand as his slacks and boxers are discarded along with the rest of his expensive outfit. The only thing left on his body is the rucked-up turtleneck. He idly thinks about how his clothes are surely going to wrinkle.

Clothes are soon the last thing on his mind when Buck takes a gentle grip on his length, not stroking, just pressure, and the smug motherfucker has the audacity to chuckle when Eddie messily grinds against his hand before huffing in embarrassment.

“Easy,” Buck murmurs, his voice gravelly and thick with arousal now, “I’ve gotcha. Scoot back.”

Obeying the commands of the boy leaning over his body is easy enough, so Eddie obliges, shuffling back on his forearms until his ankles are just barely hung off of the bed. Buck kicks off his own beige pants with a surprising amount of elegance before putting a bare knee onto the edge of the bed and climbing up to bracket Eddie’s lithe body in with his tanned forearms. Scars and freckles alike dot the suntanned skin, the muscles underneath flexing as Buck adjusts himself.

Eddie doesn’t expect a kiss to be pressed to the crease of his hip, but one is, and then another one, even lower, into the top of the fine hairs that make up his happy trail. He keens high in his throat as Buck’s breath ghosts across his dick- arched pretty and pink against his stomach as he gasps for breath. His efforts are futile as Buck licks a long stripe up the side, tongue catching on the head and then pressing firmly into Eddie’s slit- he swears he sees stars as he throws his head back, wanting to see Buck but not able to hold his neck up; he settles for propping himself up on one arm and looking down the contour of his body with pupils blown bigger than the moon, a total eclipse of his brown eyes. Buck’s eyes are in a similar state, dark and gray as they flick up beneath his lashes to take in Eddie’s already-wrecked appearance before the blonde takes Eddie’s tip into his mouth with no warning.

Hand fisting in the sheets, Eddie can’t stop the high-pitched moan that leaves his mouth, pink lips making an O as his eyes flutter shut. Buck wraps a hand around the base of Eddie’s dick, stroking what he hasn’t fit in his mouth yet, leaving no part of Eddie untouched. After a few minutes of that, he’s already embarrassingly close, the heat of the night catching up in one crashing wave, and he’s about to warn Buck when he flattens his tongue against the underside of Eddie’s dick and takes him as deep as he can- and Eddie comes with a shout, muscles taut and back arching even as Buck holds his hips to the bed until he’s done.

The rider pulls off of Eddie’s cock with sultry eyes and a satisfied smirk, and reaches for a tissue on the nightstand to spit out Eddie’s come- but before he can overthink it, Eddie grabs his wrist and pulls him up, messily licking into his mouth and tasting himself on Buck’s tongue. They break apart, Eddie shamelessly swiping a stray smear of come off of his lower lip with his own tongue, before Buck shoves his thumb in-between Eddie’s teeth and murmurs “take it” before spitting the last taste of Eddie’s seed into his own mouth.

He swallows dutifully, sticking his tongue out as if to prove it, and Buck swoops down to capture his lips in another searing kiss. Eddie’s wits are coming back to him now that the high of his first orgasm is fading, and he feels Buck’s insistent hardness pressing against the curve of his hip. He raises a leg, giving Buck more friction as he grinds haltingly, blowing out a stuttered breath in-between sloppy kisses.

“You’re so hot,” Buck says on an exhale, caging Eddie’s head in with a forearm as he adjusts himself and thrusts dirtily into the crook of Eddie’s hip. His precome is smearing over the skin underneath him, giving him an absolutely addicting glide that he almost wants to chase until he finishes.

He’s considering doing so, until Eddie grabs at his shoulders and with eyes the size of nickels says, “Fuck me, please, I’ll be so good-.”

“You-,” Buck starts, cutting himself off with a particularly satisfying grind against Eddie’s hot skin, “Fuck, do you have- lube? Condoms?”

Eddie reaches up over his own head to fumble around in the nightstand on the far side of the bed, hoping to God that the hotel had the foresight to stock up a bit. He tries to focus on what he’s blindly grabbing, but that’s hard when a particular blonde has taken the initiative to lick an aching, dark hickey into his chest, underneath his left pectoral. He grabs what he thinks is a bottle of lube just as Buck laves his tongue over the irritated skin, a sensation that catches him off-guard and nearly sends the lube onto the floor. Buck’s capable fingers grab it from his grasp, and he’s going back for a condom when he hears the pop of the lube bottle. His stomach twists, a combination of butterflies and knots, and he suddenly feels a bit exposed.

Buck picks up on the change in his body language, stopping before he squeezes lube onto his fingers to look up at the brunette. The condom is tossed to the bed, beside the discarded belt and overcoat, and Buck hums comfortingly as he goes to pull down the collar of the turtleneck to press a soothing kiss to the column of Eddie’s throat, the same tanned skin that had been taunting him in the bar. The black fabric is now shoved high up underneath Eddie’s armpits, forgotten in the boys’ pursuit of pleasure.

“You good, baby?” Buck questions, pressing another kiss higher up, underneath Eddie’s jaw. “We can stop whenever, just say the word. It’s all good.”

“No, no-,” Eddie swallows, composing himself. “Don’t stop, please- just, be gentle?”

Buck feels his heart stutter in his chest, a tightness spreading throughout all of his ribcage and even up to his face, where he creases his brow in a compassionate frown before kissing Eddie once more, on the corner of his mouth.

“Of course,” he murmurs, “You’ve done this before, right?”

Eddie nods hurriedly, not wanting the blonde to think he’s taking something significant from Eddie. What he doesn’t say is that is has been a long time, and that no one has ever been as good as Buck is, and he hasn’t even fucked him yet.

That soothes Buck, who then goes back to lubing up his fingers, warming the liquid by cupping the bottle in his hands. Then, a gentle hand is tapping on the underside of his thigh, and Eddie hikes a leg up over Buck’s shoulder. The latter presses a kiss to the inside of Eddie’s knee before his lubed finger makes contact with Eddie’s rim, circling softly, not pressing yet. The boy underneath him whines out a stuttered breath at the feeling, reaching out for Buck, but there’s nothing much to grab. Buck takes pity on him and grasps the raised hand in his dry one, settling their joined hands on the top of Eddie’s thigh where it rests on his shoulder.

“Relax,” he whispers, and as soon as Eddie complies, he gives his hand a rewarding squeeze before pressing a finger into him, up to the second knuckle. He thrusts in and out, not going too deep too quickly, even as Eddie’s aborted whines and stuttering breaths make him want to take him apart right here. He said he’d be gentle, and he is, taking his time working him open on one finger before he eases the second finger in. “Atta boy, so good for me.”

“I’m not a horse-,” Eddie pants, “Don’t- don’t ‘atta boy’ me.”

“I don’t ‘atta boy’ my horses,” Buck smirks, curling his fingers against the tight, velvety heat of Eddie’s walls. He watches Eddie’s expression closely, how his eyes squeeze closed whenever Buck rubs against that bundle of nerves a ways up inside him, how his face pinches when Buck works his two fingers in to the third knuckle. The sound of the lube is obscene as he scissors his fingers, working Eddie open as he falls apart beautifully underneath him. There’s something about how the brunette hasn’t taken his hand back from where it’s linked with Buck’s that gets Buck in the chest, pricks at his heart until he shakes it off and pulls his fingers out all the way. He adds even more lube before easing them back in, a third fingertip prodding at Eddie’s rim insistently.

“I’m good-,” Eddie breathes. “Go, come on.”

“So much for gentle,” Buck murmurs against the skin of Eddie’s thigh as he presses the third finger in. It goes easily, but punches a proper moan out of the boy underneath him, which does wonders for his own cock that’s straining desperately against his stomach. “Lemme hear you, baby. So pretty.”

Eddie whimpers as Buck twists his wrist, and if it weren’t for the blissed-out expression on Eddie’s face, Buck would’ve wanted to kiss the noise off of his lips for worry that he’s in pain. Judging by the way Eddie is trying to thrust himself back on Buck’s hand, that’s not the reason for the whimper, though.

Fingers curling and prodding for a few minutes longer, Buck finally pulls out and fumbles for the condom, unlinking their hands at long last to get a better grip on the packet. His eyelids flutter as he rolls the condom on, the contact electrifying after so long spent neglecting his own hard-on for sake of the gorgeous boy in front of him. He can’t say it isn’t worth it, especially not when Eddie kicks his other leg out wide, practically inviting Buck to settle between his thighs. He does, shifting Eddie’s leg from his shoulder to wrap around his side as he lines up, the head of his cock sliding through the slick mess he’d left at Eddie’s hole. Puckered and pink, it looks impossibly tight, and Buck has half a mind to stretch him out again- but then the heel digging into his back is suddenly insistent, and at Eddie’s clear request, he starts to press in. Keeping one hand steady on Eddie’s belly, the head of his cock slips inside, and he can’t contain the groan he lets out, which only spurs Eddie on further. The heel on his back is demanding, and he inches farther into the tight hole underneath him until he’s bottomed out.

His chest heaving like he’s just run a full cross-country course, he spares a glance up at Eddie, whose head is tipped back and showing off the sharp line of his jaw. Buck leans up to grab at his chin, bringing his jaw down so he can press a reassuring kiss to his swollen lips, noticing a taste of salt on his tongue- he looks up and sees glossy eyes and a few tear-tracks, a deep concern settling in his gut until Eddie gasps out, “Move, please, you feel so good.”

He gives a shallow thrust, testing the waters, and almost chokes on his own tongue at how tight the drag of Eddie’s slick walls are against his cock. He barely notices the condom as he pulls out and thrusts back in more insistently, the lube squelching obscenely and permeating the melody of staccato breaths that the two boys are both taking. He gets into a rhythm, encouraged by the vice grip both of Eddie’s legs have around his torso now, thrusting as deep as he can, aiming for that one spot he knows will have Eddie moaning. He finds it on the next thrust, he’s sure of it, because Eddie moans unabashedly and clenches tight around Buck’s cock like he’s trying to keep him inside forever. Buck drops his head to his chest, stifling his own grunts as he pounds into the little brunette underneath him, one hand now impossibly tight on his Eddie’s hip, and the other fisted into the downy comforter beside Eddie’s shoulder. The boy reaches up and grabs at Buck’s bicep with his own shaky hand, fingertips leaving little white circles pressed into his skin as Buck brings the two of them closer to finishing.

Eddie doesn’t know how long its been, but he feels a bead of sweat roll down his brow when he feels his second orgasm of the night building low in his gut, all tight heat and electricity. He mumbles out something incoherent, trying to tell Buck, but unable to organize his thoughts long enough.

“I know, me too,” Buck manages to grit out, a deep sigh punching out from his lungs as he bottoms out in Eddie again. “God, you’re so- so tight, fuck, Eddie-.”

Hearing the man groan out his name like that brings Eddie even closer to coming just from Buck’s dick. He reaches down to help himself along, but Buck bats his hand away and grabs him himself, big hand covering the entire top of Eddie’s cock as he messily and roughly jerks him towards his orgasm.

Eddie comes first, three whiny moans escaping his bitten lips as he claws at Buck’s bicep, nails digging red lines into the skin alongside freckles and tiny scars. The clenching of his hole finishes Buck off, his rhythm staggering as he nears completion. He manages to time it well, burying himself inside Eddie just as he starts to come, and if there were no condom, he would be filling Eddie up deep inside. He releases Eddie’s spent cock and presses his hand down on his waist, thumb smearing through the mess of come coating his skin, thrusting twice more shallowly to ride out his own orgasm before stilling. His thumb is already sweeping a soothing motion into Eddie’s skin, and he rocks back on his heels without pulling out so he can have his other hand free to run it through Eddie’s sweaty hair, pushing strands out of the way of those lust-blown eyes that Buck desperately wants to see.

Eddie’s mouth hangs open as he gets his breath back, eyes still teary and fingers shaking minutely where they rest on the bedspread. Buck can’t resist pressing another little kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth before carefully pulling out, the boy underneath him gasping again at the sensation, surely overstimulated by this point. Buck’s eyes are drawn to Eddie’s hole, gaping like he wants to be filled again, and the blonde pushes two fingers inside messily, the way still slick from the abundance of lube. Eddie writhes underneath him, whining exhaustedly and trying to escape the touch, so Buck kindly removes his fingers and goes to deal with his condom. Tying it off and tossing it into the wastebasket is all he manages to do before he hears a little sniffle, which has his head whipping around to make sure Eddie is alright.

The brunette is leaning back on his hands now, scrubbing the tears from his face, but at Buck’s alarmed expression he flashes a quick smile. “Never had someone cry because you gave it to them that good?”

Dumbfounded, Buck shakes his head. He takes a handful of tissues and carefully wipes Eddie off, as gently as possible around his rim so as not to overstimulate him any more, as much as he would love to see him squirm again. He mops up the mess on his stomach before tossing the tissue and leaning over Eddie to meet his lips for a slower, sweeter kiss than they’d exchanged before. Eddie still tastes like the Manhattans he’d downed, but it’s laced with some natural sweetness that Buck can only figure is just how Eddie tastes.

They share lazy kisses, the glow of the estate grounds outside the windows casting the dark room in a pale yellow glow. The light Buck had flicked on at least an hour ago had dimmed as the night progressed, leaving the night sky’s color palette to paint the room as it pleases. The purples and blues hug the curves of Eddie’s thighs and shoulders, but almost bounce off the sharp plane of his jawline, and Buck pulls back to admire for a second.

“I’m sticky,” Eddie whines then, shattering the moment, and Buck chuckles as he finally rolls off of the boy. “And we smell like sweat.”

“Those observation skills,” Buck lilts, butting his shoulder up against Eddie’s upper arm as he falls onto the bed beside him. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie showers first, while Buck checks his phone and sees all the messages he’d missed throughout the evening. Some from his trainer, some from his parents, some Twitter mentions, and a handful of texts from Chimney along the lines of “Where the fuck are you, it’s almost 1?” all the way to “OHHH. Get some!”

He’s flopped onto his back again, legs hanging off of the bed when Eddie emerges from the bathroom, steam billowing out behind him. He has a white towel hung low across his hips and another in his hair, water still dripping off his jawline, and Buck abandons his Twitter timeline in favor of scanning Eddie from head to toe.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Eddie teases, before going to rifle around in his suitcase.

“Don’t need to, I’ve got the real thing,” Buck murmurs, not able to tear his eyes off of the heat-reddened cheeks of the boy he’d just fucked to the point of tears.

“You staying?” Eddie asks, looking up with a few items of clothing grasped in his hands.

Buck had imagined it’d be best for him to go back to his hotel, closer to the barn, so he didn’t have to wake up too early for his schooling tomorrow morning, but when a boy that pretty is asking him to stay the night, Buck knows to listen. He nods, and then a clean pair of boxers and a hoodie are being held up for his approval.

“You own casual clothes?” Buck teases, chuckling as the clothes are then thrown roughly at his chest. The hoodie is soft, like how one gets after a few wears, but the fuzz on the inside is soft as ever. The perks of having dry-cleaners, he supposes.

“Shut up, or you’re sleeping naked,” Eddie threatens, pulling his own sweater on over his head, mussing his damp hair even more.

“Oh, come on,” Buck grins, not even pretending to look away as Eddie drops the towel on his waist in favor of pulling on a pair of sweatpants that do, in fact, match the crewneck he’d donned. “You’d like that.”

Eddie just smiles to himself and shrugs as he folds the towels he’d used and tracks back to set them on the bathroom counter. Buck follows, stepping into the steamy bathroom behind him, placing a gentle hand on Eddie’s waist as he slips past. To his delight, the brunette turns around and takes Buck’s face in both hands, pressing a kiss right to his lips, almost (but not quite) stunning Buck. The latter chases it, leaning in for another, but hands on his chest push him back lightly.

“Shower. You’re gross.” Eddie then shuts the door in his face with the most smug grin Buck’s seen so far this trip, and that’s saying something when you’re riding on the same team as Taylor Kelly.

He obliges, quickly washing off with the hotel-provided soaps and rinsing the sweat from his hair. Not that it matters- he’ll be sweaty and gross again after his schooling ride tomorrow morning, but that’s how it goes, he supposes. At least he can spend the night in a clean bed with a lovely boy before the real meat of the Games starts the following day.

He towels off and slips on the borrowed clothes, brushing his teeth with one of the spare toothbrushes in the drawer before emerging to a now-dark room. The glow of Eddie’s phone is the only warm light now, the rest all blues and purples and a touch of cool white as the moon progresses across the sky, oblivious to the activities of the two men in the hotel room stories above the streets.

Eddie hums happily as Buck crawls into bed next to him, setting his phone on the nightstand in favor of rolling over to sidle up to Buck. He’s warm and smelling of the aromatic body-wash; Eddie feels sleep threatening to crash over him already, and Buck hasn’t even settled into bed properly yet.

As soon as he does, he opens one arm and wraps it around the brunette’s shoulders, drawing him in close so that his head is shoved right into the crook of his neck, cheek pillowed on his shoulder. Eddie mumbles something unintelligible, maybe along the lines of “g’night”, and presses his nose into the skin behind Buck’s ear.

Buck anchors his hand in the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck, and scratches gently until he feels the other boy relax against him. It’s the least he can do after how good Eddie was for him tonight, he figures. At that thought, as if he can sense it, Eddie huffs a warm breath against Buck’s skin as he seems to fall asleep. Allowing a proper smile to spread on his face, in the darkness of the hotel room where no one can see it, Buck murmurs his own, “Goodnight.”

#buddie #evan buckley x eddie diaz #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #911 #911 abc #911 fanfic #ren's 911 #buddie smut

12 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 11 months ago

Text

Emily Prentiss, Criminal Minds: S4E3 “Minimal Loss” and S4E17 “Demonology” // Frank Bidart, “Half-light”

414 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 11 months ago

Text

stay the course ch. 2 | buddie

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

a buddie equestrian AU

cw: none!

chapter one <- you are here! -> chapter three

read on archive of our own!

“So, Buck, you’re not riding for the Martin family anymore?” The clatter of Buck almost dropping his steak knife is piercingly loud in the restaurant. Eddie feels like his breath has been stolen from him with the way Buck slowly turns his gaze onto Ramon, stormy eyes alight with something indignant. “Not since Kentucky,” Buck grits out. Clearly, Eddie is missing something, judging by how the Hans have all paused eating to observe the interaction with baited breath. “Shame,” Ramon sighs, turning back to his steak like he hadn’t just changed the tone of the entire evening.

The sun is properly setting by the time Eddie and his father are preparing to make their way downstairs to the hotel restaurant. His father has a room a few floors up from Eddie’s, blessedly, so Eddie is left to his own devices while he gets ready. He half-heartedly adjusts his hair in the mirror, but the humid London weather did not make his hair want to cooperate, so he surrenders. He looks fine enough, or so he thinks, but he knows his father will have his own critiques as soon as he sees him.

It’s a cool night, judging by the breeze leaking in from the window besides the lounge area in the room. The sky is dotted with dark clouds, wisps of gray darkening as the sky fully fades from blue to a fiery orange-red. Eddie opts for a blazer and a wool coat over his turtleneck, the familiar weight of the long jacket comforting even as the turtleneck itches at his jaw. He manages to get ready just in time to hear his father knock on the hotel door.

With a last look at his inviting bed and the calming sunset, Eddie makes his way down to the lobby with his father, who, as expected, smoothed down his coat and tried to fix his hair in the elevator, even as Eddie wiggled out from underneath his insistent touch. He sends Eddie to check on their reservation as he greets a business parter of some sort in the lobby, and Eddie takes the opportunity to duck away gratefully. Sighing as he steps into the dimly-lit restaurant, some of his hesitance about the night is chased away by the smell of good food and the clinking of glasses.

The hostess leads him to a back table that his father had, undoubtedly, requested. With a polite nod, she departs, and Eddie takes in the restaurant. The tables are a dark mahogany with elegant white cloths, wine glasses presumptively placed at each setting. A cluster of gold candle holders flicker, the flames dancing within them, and Eddie watches the shadows dance across the silverware with the elegance befitting of such a high class restaurant.

Eddie’s mouth tastes bitter as he is coldly reminded how little he belongs here.

He hears his father’s authoritative voice booming from the front of the restaurant, and stands in preparation to receive him and his guests. He’s looking forward to seeing who the Hans’ sponsored rider is; he needs someone to root for, since his father won’t let him pay attention to that Buck guy.

As the imposing figure of his father emerges from a cluster of waiters with a polite tip of his head, Eddie forces a smile to cross his face, praying to God he looks genuine and not like a puppet under the control of a hobbyist puppeteer. That’s how he always feels, anyways, his movements artificial and forced, like they’re not his own.

Before Badminton, he had managed to slip out from the long arm of his father during the time he spent in Los Angeles, building a life that had freed him from all the pomp and circumstance of his father’s daily life. Being thrust back into that life with short notice feels a bit like being suffocated.

The familiar, smiling face of Chimney allows Eddie to relax, his own smile becoming a little more genuine as he greets his friend for the second time that day. He and Chim take seats nex to each other, the Hans on Chimney’s right and Ramon on Eddie’s left. One seat remains at the circular table, its occupant not yet arrived.

“Did you order wine yet, Eddie?” his father asks as he picks up the drink menu, squinting as he reads. Despite being in London, the hotel is catered towards Americans, and is essentially a steakhouse.

“No, I wanted to wait and see what their rider would prefer,” Eddie lies easily, the words slipping off his tongue like oil. “Will he be arriving soon?”

At that, the senior Han nods at the crowd, and Eddie twists in his seat to get a look. He takes in his outfit first, a touch under-dressed considering the company in just beige pants and a rich, dark green sweater. The knitted material looks far more comfortable than Eddie’s turtleneck, so he can’t fault him, not when the green looks so good against his complexion.

Thank God Eddie is practiced at controlling his expressions, or else he might offend his father with how his mouth would have fallen open upon seeing a head of familiar blonde hair on the head of the rider making his way towards their table. Buck looks as uncomfortable as Eddie feels, but hides it poorly, his eyes flicking around the room and hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Chimney and his father both stand to greet Buck, and Eddie chances a glance at his own father, whose jaw is twitching with how hard it is clenched. He turns his steely gaze onto his son and raises his brows once as if to say, Would you look at that?

His father’s frustration inspires a bout of guilty giddiness in Eddie, and he gives Buck the most welcoming smile he can muster as the latter takes the last seat at the table.

“All, this is the lovely boy riding our dear Saint Florian this year. I’m sure you recognize him.” The Hans look nothing but proud as they introduce the boy, and Chimney’s mother has even laid a dainty hand on Buck’s shoulder as if to comfort him in the presence of Ramon Diaz’s judgemental gaze.

“Certainly,” Ramon finally says, breaking his stare to lean over just enough to shake Buck’s hand. Eddie notes how quickly his father releases his grip and clenches his hand into a fist, as if affronted at the very thought of touching him. “Buck, you call yourself, still?”

“Yes, sir,” Buck grimaces. “You can call me Evan, if you prefer.”

“No, nonsense,” Chimney’s father, Sang, chuckles. “It’s Buck. It’s going to be a household name soon. It’s stuck so long, there’s no need to change it now.”

“Stuck so long?” Eddie queries, looking between Buck and Chim like they’re in on a secret that Eddie doesn’t know about.

“Oh, Eddie, this is the Evan I’ve told you about. We grew up together too.” Chimney explains, reaching up to itch at the collar of his burgundy button-up. The scratch of his beard is barely audible over the clink of silverware as the table beside them is served their meal. “We did pony hunters together. That’s where our nicknames came from.”

Of course, it makes sense now. Eddie had known that Chimney had ridden horses competitively as a child, and that his best friend had been a boy about Eddie’s age. He’d explained on a few trips to the country club, over a decade ago now, that he and Buck had come up with their own nicknames for each other, as two kids lapping the warm-up arena for the fifth time together might have been prone to do. Both had stuck, to Eddie’s father’s apparent dismay. At this point, Eddie would have a hard time calling on Chimney’s real name- it had been years since he’d even thought about the fact that he only knew his friend by his nickname.

Eddie occupies himself by pondering over the rationale behind Chim’s nickname. The dinner is insufferably formal, and if one more waiter calls him sir he might spill his wine all over their pristine white tablecloths. He and his friends let the adults- well, they’re adults too, just not in this company- discuss the thrills of the stock market, whatever bets they had privately placed on Badminton placements and Olympic hopefuls, and the intricacies of helping their companies pass an internal audit. It seems they notice how they’re not only boring their respective sons, but also their guest, and Ramon is actually the one to change the path of conversation.

“So, Buck, you’re not riding for the Martin family anymore?”

The clatter of Buck almost dropping his steak knife is piercingly loud in the restaurant. Eddie feels like his breath has been stolen from him with the way Buck slowly turns his gaze onto Ramon, stormy eyes alight with something indignant.

“Not since Kentucky,” Buck grits out. Clearly, Eddie is missing something, judging by how the Hans have all paused eating to observe the interaction with baited breath.

“Shame,” Ramon sighs, turning back to his steak like he hadn’t just changed the tone of the entire evening.

No one speaks, for a moment. Eddie swallows thickly, washing down his residual discomfort with a large swig of wine, which earns him a twitch of his father’s brow. Then, Buck is the one to break the silence, turning to Eddie with a much kinder expression than the one he had leveled on his father.

“So, Eddie, is this your first time watching Badminton?” Buck questions, picking at the last pieces of his own steak, and watching Eddie through slightly narrowed eyes. His lashes are long and blonde, Eddie notes, and they shade his beautiful blue-gray eyes. There’s a purple-red birthmark above his left eyebrow, which Eddie thinks is a lot prettier than it has any right to be.

“It is. I, uh, I’ve got to admit, I know nothing about horses.”

“Nonsense!” Ramon cuts in. “You went to the racetrack with me all the time as a kid.”

God forbid he be seen as anything other than all knowledgeable and cultured in front of the eyes of a competing family, the Hans. Some would call the two families friends, but not Ramon Diaz. Everything is a calculated move, a business opportunity in his eyes. Eddie thinks the air chills, even as the candles burn brightly in the middle of the table.

Buck ignores the butting in from Ramon and instead says, “I’d be happy to teach you. Maybe I can show you around the grounds before the event starts.”

Regardless of how uninterested Eddie may have been before now, and had it been any other rider offering, Buck’s offer quickly becomes irrefutable. Not only is it time away from his father, but it’s time with who he thinks is the most attractive guy he’s seen since he moved back to Texas. Maybe since before, too.

“I’d love that,” Eddie says, and he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out how it does, all soft and pleased. He’s been with Buck for an hour and he’s already breaking the carefully practiced, if not a bit rusty, mannerisms that Eddie’s father had spent his son’s entire life training into him.

“Great. I’ll get your number before we go and we can… set something up.”

Eddie feels his cheeks heat up at the very obvious undertone of that message. It’s clear that the blatant flirting in front of his father is a bit of a lash back after the pointed jab Ramon had thrown. Eddie isn’t sure if he is just a pawn in Buck’s revenge plan, or if it’s just an avenue for his genuine interest to take. With the way that Buck is still holding eye contact with Eddie, and the way his lips have curled into a bit of a smirk the longer Eddie returns his gaze, he’s beginning to feel like it may be the latter.

It’s the Hans’ turn to change the conversation, finally getting Eddie to break the tense but not unfriendly eye contact he’d found himself sucked into.

“That’s great, you can introduce him to Florian and he can brag about meeting the winning horse of Badminton… after that happens, of course,” Sang Han jests with a little smirk, looking between the two men. “Buck has been bringing Florian along wonderfully these last few months.”

“And carefully, I’d presume.” Ramon can’t resist chipping in again with a targeted attack. An attack on what, Eddie doesn’t know, but there’s clearly some bad blood between Buck and the Martin family, and Ramon is taking advantage of that to unsettle the young rider.

Buck smiles contentedly, taking his time sipping his wine before replying. He’s more steeled this time, and barely even sets his glass down too hard. Eddie watches the thick red liquid slosh, and feels a prickle of nervousness at the back of his neck. For once, he’s glad the turtleneck is hugging him so tightly. It feels like armor.

“Florian is a fantastic stallion,” Buck confirms, his smile turning fond. “He’s the best parter I could ask for, after everything.”

Chimney nods solemnly, and Mrs. Han pats Buck on the shoulder again. Eddie looks between Buck and Chimney, trying to broadcast his confusion with his eyes. Whether or not they notice, Eddie doesn’t know, but he’s left to stew in his confusion.

“You’re welcome to come watch us in the Dressage competition tomorrow,” Buck continues, glancing at Eddie’s father, whose jaw is still impossibly tight. “He’s a big mover, but I think his one Tempis will be a crowd-pleaser. Just wait until you see him out on cross country, though. Never been a braver horse.”

His eyes seem to challenge the older man, the way he enunciates “cross country” pointed. Eddie’s knee begins to bounce and he sets his hands in his lap so he can lace and squeeze his own fingers.

“You’re gunning for gold, then, I presume?” Ramon asks, the first question of the night that doesn’t have the undertone of a finely-sharpened dagger.

“As much as anyone, but this is mostly about getting Francis some experience. Besides, Kelly’s probably got this year in the bag. This is her, what, sixth Badminton?”

That satisfies Ramon, who is about to brag about his connection to Taylor Kelly, but Buck continues, now looking at Eddie. “I’m sure your proud of your rider.”

“As much as anyone,” he parrots. “So, you’re just trying to… have a good time?”

The Hans nod for him, and Eddie doesn’t miss the way that Buck shifts a bit in his seat. “Yeah, basically. Have a good ride, put in some clean rounds, and get some attention from potential buyers.”

“He’s humble,” Sang Han huffs. “They’re going to take a place on the podium.”

However, Ramon’s attention was piqued by Buck’s last sentence. Chewing his bite of steak thoughtfully, he carefully dabs his mouth with the cloth napkin before asking, “You’re selling Francis?”

“As you’d say, anything’s for sale for the right price,” Sang Han chuckles heartily. “You buying?”

Buck’s face pales, his birthmark suddenly much more contrasted as his complexion whitens. Eddie’s stomach twists at the raw fear on Buck’s face. He knows his father is bad, but Is his interest in Buck’s horse enough to inspire that much of a reaction?

“For the right price,” Ramon jests, thinking he’s hysterical when his comment gets a polite giggle from Chimney’s stepmother.

Buck pushes his plate back and finishes the last of his wine, looking like he’s preparing to excuse himself. Chimney mirrors his actions, and before Eddie can think too hard, he does, too, downing the last of his wine and tossing his napkin onto the table.

“Going somewhere?” Ramon queries, looking from Buck to Eddie to Chimney with raised eyebrows.

Buck doesn’t have an answer prepared, nor does Eddie, but as usual, Chimney saves the day by saying, “We were going to get some drinks at the hotel bar, leave you to talk business.”

“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mr. Han,” Buck says with a small smile, before nodding at Ramon, and making his way out of the restaurant.

Eddie fails to bid goodbye to his father in his haste to follow the others, but Chimney and Buck are a few strides ahead already. He slows his pace when he hears the steady tone of Chimney’s voice over the chatter of the restaurant, his hand high on Buck’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Hey, don’t worry, I won’t let them sell Francis to the Diazes,” Eddie overhears Chimney say. That uneasy feeling in his stomach twists even more, reaching up into his chest with sticky tendrils. He feels responsible- the Diazes, not just his father. He’s one of them, he always will be, no matter how hard he tries to distance himself. Not like he’d gotten very far, anyways, he reflects.

Eddie quickens his stride, then, falling into step beside the pair, who almost look surprised to see that he’s joined them. “I’m sorry about my father. He’s…”

“A dick.” Buck shakes his head, gaze cast on the ground as they make their way across the lobby.

The tall, carved marble ceilings make Eddie feel even more insignificant than before, especially when the golden lanterns cast harsh shadows onto Buck’s stricken expression. He wants to reach out and soothe him, to make promises he can’t keep.

“I’ll talk him out of it,” Eddie continues. “Tell him a horse from Kelly’s family is better for appearances.”

That seems to pacify Buck a bit, who looks up to give Eddie a grateful smile before the three of them enter the bar. The night is young, so the bar is almost empty, and they take the first three seats they see.

Eddie shrugs off his coats, the more stuffy air of the warm room making his skin heat a bit underneath the layers. He carefully tucks them over the back of his tall chair and turns around in time to order a Manhattan from the bartender. He notices Buck’s gaze on him, passive and searching, not nearly as intense and defensive as it had been in the restaurant. He’s about to say something, when Buck turns and orders some fruity-sounding cocktail from the bar.

“What, the wine didn’t really do it for you?” Eddie asks rhetorically.

Buck huffs a little laugh as his drink is set down in front of him, pineapple and strawberries decorating the glass. A little umbrella sticks out of the pink slushie- it was a frozen margarita. Chimney orders a beer, and some fries, and Eddie feels a bit like his father, nursing a very preppy drink in the company of far more relaxed options. Truth be told, he would enjoy a frozen margarita, or a beer, much more than a Manhattan, but those were not sophisticated enough drinks for a Diaz to order, according to his father.

Eddie’s gaze lingered on the margarita in front of Buck, who notices, and offers the glass to Eddie with an unreadable expression. After a moment’s consideration, he accepts, and feels the chill of the glass sinking into his fingers immediately. He holds eye contact with Buck as he takes a small sip from the straw, and then another, as he realizes it’s pretty good.

When the blonde takes his drink back, he sips from the same straw that Eddie had, his lips closing around it as the cold of the drink causes an icy sheen to form on the outside of the glass. In the dim light of the bar, Buck’s eyes look even glossier and prettier than before.

Eddie nearly forgot that Chimney was there, and clears his throat before taking a big sip of his own Manhattan to try and cool the heat spreading across his face that he is sure is not from the margarita.

“Tropical margarita,” Buck says. “Good, yeah?”

“I never got the taste for fruity drinks,” Chimney buts in, saving Eddie from coming up with a coherent answer, which is impossible when Buck is still looking at him like a puzzle he wants to solve. He wonders if he’s been that obvious all night, if that’s the reason for Buck’s brevity, or if the atmosphere of the bar is just getting to them. It’s too early to blame it on intoxication.

It’s probably just wishful thinking, but Eddie is starting to feel lighter by the end of his second drink. It’s easy to just keep sipping Manhattan after Manhattan, even if he still feels like a boring, posh asshole, and he revels in the feeling of ease that has come over the three of them. Their conversation is shallow and pointless, mostly just filling in the silence as they take the time to themselves, away from not only the prying eyes of the press, but also the judging eyes of their families.

Eddie’s neck aches from the tension he’s held in it all night- all month, to be honest, ever since he’d come home to Texas. He suddenly sharply missed Los Angeles. He had never understood the sense of wanderlust that youths in movies he’d seen as a kid had been infected with, but maybe wanderlust is just second to the need to get out, to be anywhere other than home. Right now, he’d take his two-bedroom Los Angeles house in desperate need of renovation over the idea of going home with his father at the end of the trials.

But, of course, there was Chris. The two of them were now permanently tied to Ramon. The older Diaz had rambled on and on about how important family was, now that Chris’s mother had walked out, and while Eddie detested his father, he loved his Abuela, and he knew that Chris needed a strong female figure in his life, even if that couldn’t be his own mother. For the sake of Chris, Eddie told himself, he would suffer being back under his father’s wings.

“Where’s home, Buck?” Eddie asks at the next lull in conversation. “I’ve gotta catch up; I know nothing about you.”

“You have plenty of time to learn,” Buck says quickly. “California. I rent a studio in Pasadena.”

“Really?” Eddie leans forward, bracing his elbows on the bar. “I used to live in LA. Until… three weeks ago. Chim, I didn’t know your family moved to LA.”

“We did a few years ago. I didn’t know you were there, either. We keep our horses at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center,” Chimney fills in. “Buck and I ride together when we can, and it’s nice to have a lot of schooling shows right at home.”

The terminology is a little lost on Eddie, which is apparently clear, because Buck takes pity on him and explains, “Smaller shows that we can practice at, where nothing much is at stake.”

“Oh, so just like Badminton.”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck chuckles. The margaritas have gotten to him a bit, the tip of his nose reddening as he looks on at Eddie. Eddie wants to kiss it, he thinks, and if he were a bit more emboldened, had a few more Manhattans, he just might have.

#buddie #evan buckley x eddie diaz #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #911 #911 abc #911 fanfic #ren's 911

9 notes · View notes

reincrimination · 11 months ago

Text

stay the course: ch. 1 | buddie

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

a buddie equestrian AU

cw: none!

you are here! -> chapter 2

read on archive of our own!

“That was Taylor Kelly and Smile for the Camera given the all-clear by the vets,” says the announcer, a thick British accent immediately distinguishable. “Next up is- well, I’d say infamous, but that would imply that people like him. Next up is Evan Buckley- or Buck, as he requests we all call him- and his French-bred mount Saint Francis.” Eddie finally feels a little less stranded when he sees the similarly-young face of- uh, Buck?- jog down the path. Clad in gray plaid pants and a black sweater, the young man looks like a panther next to his tall, lanky white horse. The black of the horse’s bridle is the only thing that matches Buck, the rest a stark contrast. Buck may be under-dressed by comparison to the other riders, but the gleaming white-grey of his horse’s coat is near blinding. Its’ mane is tacked up into bobbles atop its neck, so tight they look like they hurt, and its tail is whiter than chalk and flouncing like a waterfall as they parade down the path. Eddie knows nothing about horses but he can tell that this is a proud one by the way he picks up his knees and flags his tail at the end of his jog.

Eddie knows why his father wanted to get into the equestrian world- fame. Everything Ramon Diaz does is for fame, after all, but Eddie had clearly missed the memo on just how pompous the higher levels of the equestrian world was. Though, Eddie had missed the memo on just about everything equestrian, not even having ever seen a horse beyond trips to the racetrack with his father in years prior. His father’s tastes had evolved from betting on racehorses, and now, a decade and Eddie’s own failed marriage later, he’s accompanying his father on a cross-continential trip to the 2024 Badminton Horse Trials in London, England.

Although the one-on-one time with his father should be enough to make Eddie want to pull his hair out (but not too much, lest the press catch wind of a bald spot), he would have been ridiculous to pass up an all-expenses paid trip to the Badminton trials as a VIP spectator. At least, that’s what he tells himself, which is easier than admitting the fact that he really did not have a choice in whether or not he attended.

Since his divorce, he had moved back in with his family for the sake of his son, Chris, who he has full custody of. As much as he loves his son, he can’t raise him on his own, especially since he had been working as a firefighter prior to the divorce. He had carved out a life for himself, far away from his father, where the only things that mattered were his son, his wife, and his job, in that order, too. However, with Shannon in the wind, Eddie had to put his own wants on hold (as always) and realize that being a single father in Los Angeles with a special needs son was not plausible, even on a firefighter’s not-scanty salary.

So, he’d eaten his pride and obliged his father’s request for him and Christopher to move back in with their family in El Paso, Texas. It had only been a few weeks since they’d been back, and Eddie was- well, he wasn’t really sure what was next. His father was supporting him and Chris financially, so he had time to figure out what he wanted to do. However, that meant he owed a substantial debt to his father- figuratively, of course, as he could never financially repay any sum considering he is now unemployed- and so what his father says tends to go, now. That’s how Eddie had found himself saying farewell to Christopher, set up for a week at his Abuela’s house, and getting on a flight to London.

Regardless, he had touched down in London some hours ago, and now he is nursing an icy cold mixed drink in one hand while he stares down a packed dirt fence lined with white fences and elaborate floral arrangements. On one side, the sandy expense of the show jumping arena stretches, untrodden thus far and glistening in the rare England sunlight. On the other side of the path, rows of spectators and press line the plastic blue chairs for as far as Eddie can see.

A perk of his father’s status as an owner of one of the competing horses means that Eddie, too, is afforded VIP status, and as such, stands just behind one of those white fences, with an uninterrupted view of the dirt path. Towards the other set of spectator bleachers, the announcer’s box and the in-gate lie, whereabouts tens of pairs of horses and handlers are milling.

Now, if Eddie had thought his father wearing a three-piece name-brand suit to the- what’s it called again? The inspection?- was excessive, then he really needed to keep his mouth shut about the others here. There was not a pair of were in sight, and each handler’s outfit was at least as expensive as their horse, and they are not cheap horses.

The hum of conversation is loud, the excitable energy high in the air as the announcer begins his commentary of what he began to call “the jog”.

Eddie quickly realizes why it is called “the jog” when a horse-and-handler pair does just that, along the entire length of the packed dirt track, leaving the first of at least fifty pairs of hoofprints that the soil would see today.

Eddie barely knows where to look, so far out of his depth he may as well be swimming in the ocean during a storm. Is he supposed to know who the brunette woman is, running alongside an absolutely giant brown horse? The horse has an attitude, Eddie notices, as it tosses its large head in excitement as its handler leads it off the end of the path at the conclusion of their jog.

His father nudges him in the upper arm, jostling his sweating drink and almost sending the caramel droplets onto his cream sweater, a mistake that would be problematic for such a highly-publicized event. As Eddie leans in to hear whatever his father had to say, he makes eye contact with a camera that’s panning the length of the arena. Despite having grown up in the spotlight, Eddie had never quite gotten used to the cold, gaping eye of a camera lens.

“There they are,” the elder Diaz says, before beginning to clap loudly for the next pair heading down the path.

A lighter, richer-colored brown horse and a red-headed woman make their way down the path. The woman is wearing a red pantsuit that Eddie thinks could cover all of Chris’s college tuition. “Taylor Kelly,” Ramon says. “Remember that name. She’s ours.”

Ah. The whole reason Eddie and his father are in London to begin with: his father had used his seemingly-endlessly-multiplying millions to sponsor a horse and rider team. The sponsorship was apparently a big deal, as Kelly usually rides for herself and team USA, not needing a sponsor, but the undisclosed sum that Eddie’s father had negotiated with her family had been enough to get a pin of the Diaz company logo onto the lapel of her expensive suit. Now, Taylor Kelly was riding for the Diazes as much as they are riding for team USA, though the elder Diaz would consider them to be one and the same.

The hand not being used to hold Eddie’s drink is suddenly grasped by his father’s cold fingers, and a black ear-piece is pressed into his palm. He wiggles it into his ear and it crackles to life, the previously muffled voice of the announcer now coming through loud and clear as the next pair approach the path.

Eddie finally feels a little less stranded when he sees the similarly-young face of- uh, Buck?- jog down the path. Clad in gray plaid pants and a black sweater, the young man looks like a panther next to his tall, lanky white horse. The black of the horse’s bridle is the only thing that matches Buck, the rest a stark contrast.

Buck may be under-dressed by comparison to the other riders, but the gleaming white-grey of his horse’s coat is near blinding. Its’ mane is tacked up into bobbles atop its neck, so tight they look like they hurt, and its tail is whiter than chalk and flouncing like a waterfall as they parade down the path. Eddie knows nothing about horses but he can tell that this is a proud one by the way he picks up his knees and flags his tail at the end of his jog.

Before he and Buck exit the path, the horse nudges Buck’s shoulder with his pink and white nose. Buck gives his companion a rueful smile in response, but thats all. He seems a bit subdued compared to the other handlers, less comfortable on camera, maybe- which Eddie could definitely relate to.

“I can’t say it’s unusual for the horse to outdo the rider in terms of notability, but normally it’s a closer competition than it is here. Regardless, Buck and Saint Florian are clear for the Badminton trials.” They’re graced with a courteous bit of scattered applause, before they brush right past the Diazes and emerge out into the arena, where horses, riders, and grooms of all countries seem to be mingling. Eddie watches Buck go, the blonde hair atop his head an unusual sight compared to a sea of brunette, gray, or raven-haired riders- not counting Taylor Kelly’s bright red hair, which was also an outlier.

As Eddie watches, a pair of brown horses nudge at each other’s withers in what seems to be a friendly manner, considering how their owners gush, and someone snaps a photo.

“Disgrace he is, that ‘Buck’ boy,” Ramon tsks, leaving Eddie no time to ask questions before the announcer booms out the names of the next pair. Freddie Costas and his horse Rigged to Blow make their way through the jog. “Now that’s a fine looking rider, is he not?”

Clad in a dark green coat and white pants, the rider makes his way out into the arena with an all-clear from the vets, as well. While most other riders are still mingling with other members of their team, Eddie can’t help but notice how Buck does not mingle, but rather, has begun to make his way out of sight and back to what Eddie assumes would be the stables. Eddie turns around enough to watch the boy recede, his white horse walking gracefully beside him. However, before he ducks out of view, Freddie Costas catches up, and the pair exchange an amicable handshake before they both depart.

Ramon and the announcer both seem to be a bit less fond of Buck than Eddie finds himself beginning to be. Why he’s taken a liking to the boy after a five minute appearance is a mystery, and, he realizes, probably just another unconscious rebellion against his father. Despite that, at the end of the arduously-long inspection of eighty-seven horses, Eddie has to admit that Buck is still his favorite of the group.

That admission earns a hearty chuckle from his father, and a firm clap on the back that is as much a warning as it is a fatherly gesture for the cameras. “Funny one, you are,” Ramon grits out, before giving a friendly wave to the sea of reporters and ushering Eddie in their direction.

Like a good son, Eddie stands stoic and handsome for the cameras, flashing a smile at whatever reporter snaps a photo of him and his famous father together. His hand is damp from the condensation of his drink, and when the cameras aren’t looking, he quickly downs the rest of it before handing the cup to a waiter who was weaving through the crowd with a tray balanced on one hand.

The sun is just about heading for the horizon, the tops of trees and hills visible over the edge of the tall rows of bleachers. An orange glow was beginning to bathe the arena, and photographers took advantage of the lighting to snap some more photos of the horses and riders. While his father talks to a reporter from Horse & Country about his hopes for Taylor Kelly this week, Eddie lets his eyes drift over the crowd. It’s slowly dispersing as the post-jog interviews conclude, most of the big names from Britain, the USA, Canada, Germany, and the Netherlands having already left. The other countries seem to have fewer spectators in London this week. As Eddie watches, a pair of British riders take their horses down towards the stables to the tune of enthusiastic applause from the strong local contingent here at Badminton.

Team USA seems to have gathered in the arena for a photo opportunity, and some words with reporters, but that blonde hair Eddie is looking for is absent. He’s so engrossed in the search, watching who he thinks is a groom quickly fix the braids of one of the horses, that he startles when his father pats him on the shoulder.

“Come on, I have someone for you to say hello to,” his father says with a nod. Eddie steels himself, straightening his posture as he and his father pick their way through the crowd and out towards the expansive area of the in-gate.

Eddie smiles when he sees who, exactly, his father was taking him to see. The Hans, a respectable looking family who look very comfortable amidst the horses passing on either side of them, spot the Diazes and wave. He and the Hans’ son, a slightly older man who goes by Chimney, had been childhood friends. They had spent many an afternoon sat on a boring golf course with Chim, talking about everything other than what their families had been up to while their fathers had golfed together.

Chimney looks relieved to see Eddie as well, sporting a grin as he extends a hand to him. Eddie takes his hand for a brief, formal shake before using it to pull Chim into a hug, clapping him on the back as the other man laughs.

“So glad to see you,” Eddie says, and to his father it sounds like a regular greeting, but Chimney knows that it’s more of a “Thank God you’re here”. The other man gets the message and gives Eddie’s shoulder a squeeze before they separate.

Eddie gives both of Chimney’s parents a handshake and an awkward nod before his father claps his hands proudly and announces, “We’ll be joining the Hans for dinner with their rider tonight.”

“Your rider?” Eddie raises his eyebrows, looking to Chim for confirmation, who wiggles his own brows in excitement.

“Oh, I think you’ll like him.”

#buddie #evan buckley x eddie diaz #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #911 #911 abc #911 fanfic #ren's 911

12 notes · View notes