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rcmclachlan · 9 months ago

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I love how it appears that Tommy is the grounded, well-adjusted foil to Buck's devil-may-care adrenaline junkie, but I also have to remind myself that Tommy was the guy who was asked to steal a helicopter and fly it into a category 5 hurricane on a hunch, and he was like, "yeah, cool, let's go."

Buck probably thinks Tommy's a rational, responsible adult, because he's so considerate and he owns a house and he's so methodical when he takes Buck apart in bed and he's got a 401k and a Roth IRA account. The helicopter heist flight was definitely an outlier.

But eventually he learns the truth: Tommy's batshit insane.

Like, they're hanging in bed one morning and Buck's on his phone trying to solve the math riddle Hen sent him, and he laments the loss of his lightning-enhanced skills. And Tommy, turning the page on the WWI biography he's reading, absently says, "At least you got them. All I got was 30% hearing loss in my left ear."

Buck slowly lowers his phone and demands an explanation, and Tommy, still focused on his book, tells him about when he was struck by lightning. Both times. The second time he was in the middle of a hoist and winch rescue trying to get to the captain of a sunk fishing boat in the middle of open ocean during a storm. Tommy holds his place in his book with his thumb and shows Buck the picture Lucy took of his Lichtenberg burn—it spans the entirety of his back and goes halfway down his arms. Buck stares at it, stunned, then takes the phone and book out of Tommy's hands, tosses them on the floor, and proceeds to suck Tommy's brain out through his dick.

The first time Buck goes to see Tommy at Harbor, Tommy is still en route back from a call, so Buck gets to talking to two people named Nico and Dana who've worked with Tommy since he arrived. Buck sheepishly apologizes for putting Tommy in such a dangerous position with the hurricane.

Nico and Dana look at each other and snort. Nico puts his hand on Buck's shoulder and is like, "Dude, that is not the craziest thing Kinard's ever done. That's not the craziest thing he's done this year."

They tell him about his legendary but batshit NATOPS check maneuvers and how no one's ever been able to figure out how he can do a barrel roll in low altitude in a transport bird.

They tell him about the time he and Donato were called to a high-rise gas explosion, and they casevac'd an unconscious, pregnant woman who ended up going into labor. Tommy got back there and, with the power of WikiHow on his side, delivered a healthy baby girl halfway to LA General.

They tell him about the time he sustained a concussion while landing a malfunctioning helicopter in the baseball field of a middle school, and yet somehow found the strength to host an impromptu AMA to three hundred kids about what being a pilot's like while he munched on tater tots and waited for a rescue.

They tell him about the time he was flying with a probie at night in an area with uncharted power lines that got tangled in the rotor, and how he slung the probie under his arm like a tote bag and dove out of the helicopter right before it exploded.

They tell him about the time Tommy and Nico were called to a cliffside mansion where some foreign dignitary's daughter was being held hostage. Tommy ended up HRSTing out of the helicopter and onto the scene, and then proceeded to beat the hell out of the guy, get himself stabbed, and give the SWAT team so much shit when they arrived that the 217 has an honorary table every year at the Backdraft Ball.

When Tommy finally shows up and disembarks, Dana's halfway through a story about the time they were all called to Shasta County to help with the Carr Fire in 2018, and as soon as Buck sees him over Dana's shoulder, he shouts, "You flew into a fire tornado?!"

Tommy's expression goes a little hunted and he holds up his hands placatingly, like, "In my defense, I tried to find another way around it—"

And Dana's like, "The fuck you did. You looked me dead in the eye and said, 'You know what would be funny?' And then you banked right into the whirl."

"It's not like you tried to stop me," Tommy says accusingly, ignoring the way the side of his head is starting to smoke from the intensity of Buck's stare.

"Well, no, you were right: it was funny," Dana says with a shrug.

That night, Buck rides Tommy slow and vicious and makes him recount every detail of the fire whirl flight before he'll let Tommy come, and the entire time he grips Tommy's head and forces him to hold Buck's gaze and thinks, I can't believe I ever thought you were normal. You're insane, you're out of your mind, you're perfect, you're perfect, you're perfect for me.

In the afterglow, practically humming with satisfaction, Buck bites playfully at Tommy's chest and says, "So this is what Lucy meant when she texted me that you and I match each other's crazy. Hell, after everything you've done, I think the only thing left to check off your list is, like, aliens."

And Tommy's entire body freezes and he falls very silent very suddenly. Buck lifts his head to stare at him, like, "You've gotta be kidding me."

"Evan, for legal reasons, I need you to change the subject."

#bucktommy #bucktommy headcanons #the freak4freak agenda #rc's 911 fics #rc's harbor ocs

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clioerato · 1 month ago

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Three times Eddie was broken (one time he paid back a debt.)

Gas can and sandwich.

“…shit shit shit shit shit…”

Thoughts swarmed through Eddie’s head like a flock of pissed-off birds. He banged his forehead against the steering wheel of the dead van a couple of times, but not out of despair — no, that emotion had long packed its bags and left. This was just exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that weighed as much as a whole damn life.

The van had broken down somewhere between Indy and Hawkins. Old faithful — except it hadn’t been faithful since the late 70s. The fuel gauge had been unreliable for years, part of the van’s charming, self-destructive personality. Normally, Eddie kept an emergency gas can in the back. Normally, he was ready for this.

Not today.

He’d burned through the last of the gas on the way to Indianapolis, chasing the fool’s gold that was Corroded Coffin’s first ever real gig. A suicidal move, financially speaking. They hadn’t made a dime — just torched through every cent the band had scrounged over the past six months. Gareth had thrown in the last $30, hard-earned mowing lawns for Hawkins suburbanites.

And now, on the way home, Eddie was stranded on some godforsaken stretch of road. Nearest gas station? Miles. Dozens of them. And even if he could get there, he was already twenty bucks in the red. His stomach twisted painfully — not just from stress, but real, angry hunger.

“…fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

Eddie had a couple of options. None of them good. He could try to find a payphone — which meant abandoning the van and wandering god knows where. Or wait and hope someone drove by. This particular road wasn’t exactly busy, though. It was a forgotten thread leading into Hawkins, not even connected to the main highway.

And anyway, Eddie Munson hated asking for help.

He let his hands fall onto the wheel and dropped his head, eyes burning. But he blinked the tears away, refusing to cry. Not now. Not over this. The memory of the warm, buzzing crowd in Indy still clung to him — how for one second, they’d made him feel seen, like he mattered. Now, life was back to rubbing his face in the dirt.

Just… give him a minute. One damn minute to mourn his broke, miserable life.

His last cigarette had been smoked yesterday.

A knock on the van window made him jolt.

Eddie blinked. Another knock.

He turned his head — and no freaking way. No. Freaking. Way.

Somehow, in the cacophony of his own mind, he hadn’t noticed another car pull up. A shiny, spotless BMW. He’d recognize that car anywhere. The royal chariot of King Steve. And there he was, in the flesh, knocking on his window like this was normal.

Eddie (exhaling, trying to gather himself): “Harrington?”

Steve (frowning slightly): “Um… do I know you? Sorry, you look kinda familiar. You okay in there?”

Eddie: “Oh, do not concern yourself, Your Majesty. This humble peasant has merely run out of fuel. Go on, ride off into the sunset. I’ll just rot here in your kingdom’s ditch.”

Steve (still frowning): “Uh…”

Eddie wasn’t expecting anything from Steve Harrington — the golden-boy jock, rich kid, probably still coasting on daddy’s money and senior year glory. Mercy wasn’t exactly part of the Harrington brand.

So when Steve just… turned, got back in his car, and drove off?

Well.

Yeah, that’s right, Eds. What the hell were you expecting from that guy?

A fresh wave of helplessness washed over him, darker than before. He wasn’t even mad. He just… had nothing left. He slumped back against the seat, letting it swallow him whole. Maybe if he sat there long enough, the universe would forget he existed.

Time blurred.

Another knock at the driver’s door snapped him out of his haze.

Eddie turned, heart suddenly tight in his chest — and there was Harrington again. Except this time, he wasn’t just standing there awkwardly. He was crouching down, placing something by the van.

Eddie looked.

Two gas cans.

Eddie: “…uh…”

Steve: “Sorry, I’m kind of running late. Think you can pour it in yourself?”

Eddie: “…uh… yeah? Thanks?”

Steve: “No problem. Try to get home safe, alright?”

Eddie couldn’t speak. His throat locked up with a stupid mix of shame and gratitude. Meanwhile, Harrington walked back to his BMW, opened the passenger door, grabbed something, and came back.

He handed Eddie a brown paper bag through the window.

Steve: “This is for you too. Don’t know how long you’ve been out here. Sorry I can’t stay — really gotta run. Take care, man.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Eddie sat frozen for a second, the paper bag crinkling in his hands. He watched the car disappear into the distance, the heat of embarrassment still burning behind his eyes.

Inside the bag?

Two sandwiches. And a cherry Coke.

2. Stitches and Insurance

It happened after that gig—the one with the bigger stage. Their band was starting to make waves, at least in the kind of circles that lived off bootlegs and basement posters. Steve helped with this, oddly enough. Eddie simply left him in the bar for half an hour on their last trip to Indy, and returned to a table where three people were sitting with Steve, one of whom was the owner of the music venue. But bigger stages came with bigger risks. And this one bit back.

Eddie cut his hand. Badly.

He swore he’d stitch it up himself. Ever since the whole Vecna nightmare—the hospital, the endless tests, the morphine haze—he’d sworn off hospitals entirely. What he hated even more than the IV drips and fluorescent lights was the bill. He’d caught a glimpse of it once, a flash of paper on Uncle Wayne’s cluttered kitchen table. All those zeros behind a number no one in Hawkins should ever have to see.

Eddie had let out a string of expletives so strong, it probably cracked a window. And then he drove straight to Hopper’s office, still limping. The government owed them. Hell, wiping out Eddie’s medical debt should’ve been the bare minimum for silence. A couple stitches? They should’ve thrown in a house in the suburbs and a damn parade.

But no—Eddie had learned the hard way: it’s cheaper to die at home than heal in a hospital.

He told all of that to Steve—who, incidentally, was at his very first Corroded Coffin show. Eddie kind of felt bad. Ruined the guy’s night with blood leaking down his arm like a horror movie prop.

Steve didn’t argue. He just drove him to the hospital.

Two hours later, Eddie stormed out, still cursing under his breath. Bandaged. Stitched. And holding a fresh, infuriating piece of paper.

Then he found out it had already been paid.

Eddie: "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

Steve: "You were bleeding and rambling about stardust and destiny. Sorry for grounding you, Vulcan."

Eddie (irritated but begrudgingly charmed): "You spoiled, trust-fund prick."

Steve: "I work at a video store."

Eddie: "You have a checkbook with no bottom, Harrington."

Steve: "Idiot parents. Occasionally useful. But I’m actually pretty decent at saving."

Eddie (quieter now): "Steve..."

Steve (more serious): «Eds… did you really think I’d let you bleed out just because you’re too stubborn to ask for help?"

Eddie swallows hard. He doesn’t answer. Just stands there for a second too long. Then, as Steve walks back toward the car, Eddie tosses it over his shoulder like it costs him nothing:

Eddie: "Thanks, Harrington. I’ll pay you back. As soon as I sign with a label."

Steve (grinning): "I’m holding you to that, rising star."

3. Ice Cream and Laundry Detergent

Steve just shows up at Eddie’s trailer, arms full of grocery bags, fumbling with the door and trying to kick it shut behind him without dropping anything.

Eddie: “What the hell is all this?”

Steve: “You said you were out of detergent. And coffee. And, swear to God, I watched Henderson steal your last bag of chips yesterday. I’ve been picking the kids up from your place three days in a row, and your cabinets are still a desert.”

Eddie: “Wait—have you been snooping through my cabinets?”

Steve: “It’s the kids.”

Eddie: “Jesus, Steve. That’s not a reason to throw money at me. I’m not your kept man.”

Steve (half-lies): “Eddie, I did it for the kids. Max hangs out here more than at home, she feels safe with you. Dustin’s over like every other day. Will’s finally planning his first DND campaign after the break. This—this is life happening. Kids.”

Eddie doesn’t buy it. Yeah, his finances are a dumpster fire the size of Indiana, but that doesn’t mean Steve has to play savior. He’ll figure it out. He’s an adult, goddammit.

But something about it hits him in the gut—something ugly and hot, tangled in guilt. He feels like a loser, like he’s bleeding self-worth out of every pore. Writing their first real album is eating up every hour, and even then, he’s behind. Part of him wonders if things would be easier—for both of them—if he just gave it all up. If he shelved the band, got a normal job, stopped pretending the dream meant something.

He knows none of this is Steve’s fault. But that ache in his chest—the thrum of self-hate and fear—is louder than reason. It’s just another reminder that Eddie has nothing to give Steve. Not really. Nothing but his stupid, breakable heart, which probably isn’t worth a damn. All he ever does is take.

Eddie can’t…

They differ. Loudly.

Steve leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ten minutes later, Eddie pulls out a pint of chocolate hazelnut ice cream from one of the bags. His favorite.

He sits on the windowsill, eats straight from the tub, and whispers into the dark:

Eddie: “You’re an idiot. And I love you. But you’re an idiot.”

+1. The Key to a New Life

It’s been almost two years. Eddie’s now the frontman of Corroded Coffin, a rock band climbing charts faster than anyone saw coming. His posters hang in teenage bedrooms across the country, and cassette tapes with their live recordings sell out weekly. He’s got a voice that cuts like broken glass and a heart that only beats for two things: music and Steve.

Steve smiles during their last call before Christmas. Eddie’s on tour. Steve—now officially the band’s manager, somehow infuriatingly good at handling everything from venue bookings to financials—isn’t with him for one reason: the kids. It’s senior year for their shrimp troop, and Christmas is just around the corner. Eddie promises to be back in three weeks, just in time for the holidays.

The call comes when Steve expects it the least. He picks up the phone, already half-distracted.

Woman: "Richard Harrington?" Steve: "Hi, this is Steve Harrington. Richard’s not home. You might wanna try his assistant—should I give you her number?" Woman: "No, I’m at the right address. Hawkins, [street name]?" Steve: "Yeah... that’s right." Woman: "My name is Abigail Richardson. I’m a realtor. I’m calling to let you know we’ve found buyers for the house. They’d like to schedule a viewing next week. I’ll call the day before to confirm." Steve: "...Wait. Abigail, sorry—what buyers? I didn’t know the house was even on the market." Abigail: "It’s been listed for two months now. I have all the notarized paperwork. I’ll bring them by so you can take a look. I’d recommend contacting Richard Harrington directly." Steve: "Right. Okay. Thanks." Abigail: "I’ll be in touch. Have a nice day."

Steve lowers the phone slowly, like it’s too heavy for his hand. His eyes roam the room as if he can anchor himself with a single glance. His parents had been here two months ago. Said nothing. Had they already known then? Had they already planned to erase him like a smudge?

There weren’t many good memories in that house. The few warm ones he had were wrapped in Eddie’s cigarette smoke, long talks with Robin on the staircase, and the laughter of kids who saw him as something solid. Still, it was his house.

The only one he’d ever had.

The following week passes in a haze. He can’t reach his parents. The viewing happens. A young couple, bright-eyed and expecting, signs papers that same afternoon. Steve hopes they break the curse of the cold Harrington mansion.

Hopper helps go over the paperwork. Then claps a firm hand on Steve’s back and mutters, “There’ll always be a room for you here, kid.” He’s given a week to pack. It all fits into three boxes, which he hauls to the Byers-Hopper place.

Everything blurs. Steve moves through days like they’re underwater. He retreats into himself, thick with the echo of old voices: Useless. Forgotten. Nothing. Now he’s homeless, too.

He doesn’t tell Eddie. He can’t. The guy’s on tour, living off adrenaline and noise. He doesn’t tell Robin either—she’s got finals, and anyway, he doesn’t want to say it. Words make things real, and Steve’s not ready to admit how badly it all hurts.

Christmas creeps closer, slow and bright.

One afternoon, Steve hears tires crunching on gravel. He looks out the window and sees it—Eddie’s new van. Not the old rustbucket, but the one they bought with their first real tour paycheck.

Eddie (storming inside): “Steve, what the hell? I go by your house and there are strangers living there! What’s going on?” Steve (half-laughing, half-crumbling): “Well, guess I’m officially free from the Harringtons. Like the wind. Or decaf coffee—completely useless.” Eddie (smirking): “Jesus, Steve. I had plans for Christmas, sweetheart. You’re messing with my whole script here."

(He pulls out a small box.)

Eddie: “So, uh... I’ve got a two-bedroom in Indy now. It’s not much. But... I figured it was time to return the favor.” Steve: “Are you... asking me to move in?” Eddie (offering the box): “It’s yours. A key. To a place where someone waits for you. Where you’re home. I know you weren’t planning to leave Hawkins yet—hell, kids. But… I want you in my life. Always. Forever. If you want me to. But if you don’t, that second room... it’s yours. Whenever. However. We can even make it legal if that helps. Because, Steve... it’s my turn to give back.”

Steve stares at him, eyes stinging.

Steve: “You don’t owe me anything. But somehow... you’ve already given me more than my parents ever did.” Eddie (softly): “Because you deserve it. Every damn thing. And more. I love you.»

Steve: "I love you too. Let's get out of this town after Christmas. We'll be just a phone call away from the kids."

#headcanon #ao3 fanfic #eddie munson #steddie #steve harrington #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #steve harington #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #ficlet #fic prompt #writing prompt #writer #ao3 writer #ao3 author #ao3

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snowluvvie · 3 months ago

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strawberry shortcake 🍓

Rodrick <33

₊˚⊹ ♡. Rodrick Heffley is certainly not a planner, he never has been. He spends plenty of time agonizing over how exactly he's gonna blow your socks off on the big day, but when he's ready to start planning, he realizes that it's two days away. He scrapes together the couple bucks in his wallet, some change from his dorm room couch (and you're 99% sure he took some money from Greg's piggy bank,) to present you on Valentine's Day with a grand total of: a beanie-baby stuffed animal, a box of candy hearts, a mostly-crushed bouquet of flowers from the gas station, and a hand-burned CD with the title "jams 4 hot gf" scrawled across the front in his inexcusably terrible handwriting. He's basically grinding his toe into the dirt all shy-like when he gives them to you, giving you a classic "I know it's not much, but—" though you cut him off by throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him so hard he makes an oof noise, the wind knocked out of him.

The two of you make an appearance at your favorite date spot—an extremely sketchy, extremely sticky bowling alley where three of the lanes are perpetually closed, and the lights in the attached arcade flicker ominously. Your squeals and his laughter echo off the wood-paneled walls, and for your whole game (him appearing on the scoreboard as RODPRICK and you as THE BABE,) it feels like you're the only two people on the whole planet. Rodrick insists on winning you a stuffed animal from the claw machine, and you put on an oscar-winning performance of being equally as excited every time he tries, and equally as shocked and disappointed every time it slips from the metal grasp. You rub his back consolingly as you walk away once his pockets are officially empty, and he slings an arm over your shoulders as he mutters, "at least you got the beanie baby" with a defeated shake of his head.

You almost let out a little sniffle at the card he gives you (it takes you a couple tries to read it cause good lord, his handwriting really is awful,) which says "ur way too cool and hot and smart for me, but i'm glad u haven't realized that yet. happy valentine's day babe :)" accompanied by the worst drawing of you two as stick figures you've ever seen. He even plays you an extremely sincere but terribly loud love song on the drum set in the communal music room, and the two of you get promptly kicked out halfway through. Ending the day with your face buried in his hoodie, watching some stupid movie, the whole day having cost probably $30 total, you hum against his lips when he kisses you and think about how it was kind of the best day you've ever had. Sure, it made it glaringly obvious that Rodrick Heffley is a total disaster—but c'mon, he's your disaster.

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andforyouevan · 1 month ago

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Uncertainty-816 spec fic

Hey there. So here's a little spec/spoiler fic for (we think) 816, regarding a certain character, but there is NO MCD. Just a little something based on some wishful thinking. Who knows, we're probably all wrong. I hope you guys like it.

bucktommy - words: 1.3k - rating: gen - complete

Summary: Buck and Tommy visit a friend.

The wait is excruciating, but the morning his alarm goes off and the arm around his waist tightens, he feels both crippling anxiety and unending relief.

“4:30 already?” Tommy says in a low voice as Buck rolls over in his arms.

“I’m excited,” Buck says, “But I feel bad about that.”

Tommy’s sleepy gaze moves to sympathetic. “I know. I’m sorry. This whole situation is insane.”

Buck leans forward and kisses him. “Share a shower?”

Tommy huffs a laugh. “That does help you feel better.”

Having Tommy alive and whole in his arms makes him feel better, he thinks, but decides not to say.

They get up, scrub each other down under the hot water, then grab their bags and pack up the Jeep. They’re on the road by 5:30, Tommy starting the drive and Buck will take over in a few hours. The intention was to let them each get a little extra sleep, the turmoil of the last few weeks having taken its toll, but Buck just can’t. He can’t get the images out of his mind, Tommy bloody under his hands as the doctors work on...well. He can’t think about that right now. He’s okay, he knows. If only…

“Hey,” Tommy says, using that radar he seems to have developed for Buck’s moods, once they’re an hour into the long drive. “Want to stop for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, not realizing that he is hungry, so they hit a fast food drive-thru for breakfast sandwiches and coffee.

The drive, according to Googlemaps, should take them about 14 hours but they don’t plan on stopping for any sustained amount of time, beyond food, gas and needing to use the bathroom. The conversation flows smoothly through that time and they make it to their destination in just under 13.

Tommy parks the Jeep and they look at the old dilapidated cabin. Buck knows it looks worse than it is, having seen the picture before they burned them, but he hates the thought of anyone having to spend any extended amount of time here.

Tommy takes his hand. “Ready?”

Buck nods and Tommy kisses his knuckles before he reaches for the groceries they’d stopped for in the backseat. They both climb out and head for the front door. Tommy juggles the grocery bag as Buck knocks, his heart in his throat as he waits and waits and…

The door opens and there he is.

“Hey guys,” Bobby says. “Did it work?”

Buck walks forward and wraps his arms around him and Bobby returns the hug without any hesitation as Tommy says, “Yeah, it worked.”

Buck lets Bobby go and he steps aside to let them in, grabbing the bag of groceries from Tommy and guiding them to the kitchen.

Buck takes the time to examine him...it’s been three weeks since his fake funeral and he looks a lot better than the night this all went down. When Tommy had been shot and Bobby had been beaten nearly to death. Had Tommy not gotten them out of there when he did, they’d both be dead and Buck would have lost two of the most important people in his life.

Bobby looks better, the bruises well on their way to healing and Buck wants to hug him again, but holds off as Bobby motions to the tiny dining room table. “Take a seat boys.”

They do, Buck and Tommy mashed against each other, which Buck is fine with. He’s been loathe to leave Tommy’s side these days.

“So how are things?” Bobby asks.

Buck and Tommy look at each other.

“Athena really wanted to come with us,” Buck says. “But she’s working her butt off on this, trying to make it safe for you to come back. Considering we’re the only people that know you’re still alive….”

Tommy takes his hand and squeezes it. “Evan’s been struggling with that.”

Bobby sighs and reaches over the table to pat their joined hands. “I know. It’s an awful thing to have to deal with. But the more people that know…”

“No, I know that,” Buck says. “I just hate lying to them, is all.”

“I know,” Bobby says. “I hate it too. I hate this whole thing actually but...Tommy, I didn’t thank you for coming after me like you did. Without you and that helicopter, I...I wouldn’t be here. And I’m so grateful. I’m trying to remember that. I’ll be back with you guys soon, right? This isn’t permanent.”

“You’d have done the same for me,” Tommy says and Buck can see the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Tommy’s relayed what happened many times...the way he’d flown in to find him beaten almost have to death, getting him out and taking fire in the process. He hadn’t even known he’d been shot until he’d gotten out of the helicopter at the hospital and collapsed in Buck’s arms. “I would do it all again, Bobby, no question.”

“Thank you, Tommy,” Bobby says and there are tears in his eyes too. “How’s the stomach?”

Tommy shifts in his seat, in that way that tells Buck that the long drive probably didn’t help, but Tommy had insisted he was fine. “Okay. Healing.”

“I’m taking care of him as best I can,” Buck says wryly. “He’s a terrible patient.”

Bobby laughs. “Yeah, aren’t we all.”

“Athena’s close,” Buck insists, sitting forward in her chair. “A week more. Maybe two. She says to tell you she misses you and loves you.”

“Please tell her that I miss her and love her too,” Bobby says in a low voice. “I miss all of you so much. Do you guys want to stay for dinner?”

“Of course,” Tommy answers. “We actually picked up some steaks, potatoes. Thought we could have ourselves a steak dinner.”

“I also have some books for you in the Jeep,” Buck says. “Let me go get them.”

Buck goes out to the Jeep, leaving Tommy and Bobby to talk. When he goes back in, he stops just inside the door when he hears his name.

“...is he doing? Truthfully.”

Tommy sighs. “He’s doing okay. We’ve talked about it...he almost lost both of us and that scares the hell out of him. Scares me too.”

“Me too,” Bobby admits.

“Knowing you’re alive helps and...and I’m selfishly glad that this isn’t a secret that I had to keep from him. I don’t know that I could have, to be honest with you.”

“No,” Bobby says, “Well, that was taken out of our hands when he was at the hospital with Athena when you brought me in. At least the rest of the 118 wasn’t there, but I would have insisted on telling him regardless.”

“I would have, too. He’s afraid they’re going to hate him for keeping it from them.”

“They won’t be happy, no,” Bobby says carefully. “But I think they’ll understand.”

“I’ve tried telling him that, but I don’t think it’s worked.”

“I know you’re doing your best. Tommy, I have to ask...you have him? You’ll take care of him?”

“Of course,” Tommy assures him in a quiet voice. “I couldn’t leave him again if I tried. I love him too much, Bobby. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Good,” Bobby says and Buck can hear what sounds like Bobby clasping Tommy’s shoulder. “That’s good.”

Buck decides that’s the time to make himself known. “Okay, well, who’s hungry?”

They spend the next few hours with Bobby, giving him tight hugs when they leave before making their way to a hotel for the night, not wanting to spend too much time there, just in case. Buck decides on a long, hot shower by himself, needing to gather his thoughts. When he gets out to tell Tommy the shower is all his, he freezes at the sight of him, all long limbs and muscle, stretched out on the usual side of the bed he sleeps on when they’re at home, out like a light.

The love and gratitude for him threatens Buck then, like it does in waves. He really could have lost him for good and that thought is as unfathomable as the idea of losing Bobby.

Loveyouloveyouloveyou he thinks as he curls up with him. He’ll wake him in a bit, knowing that he will want a shower of his own, but Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulders, even in sleep, like he can’t help himself, and Buck just wants to be with him right now.

When Tommy wakes on his own from a nightmare an hour later, Buck is right there for him, holding him, thanking him, grateful for him.

They’ll take care of each other right now, for as long as they need.

#911 #spoilers #bucktommy #fic #my fic #speculation

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anamericangirl · 2 months ago

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To back up your post about not living outside of your means:

I have lived in poverty for the last 8 years, and it's only gotten worse.

I've had to cut back on computer upgrades, expensive food, collecting figurines and toys and stuff, I've had to sell my stuff, my mother's had to get a job, so on and so forth so that we can survive.

It is important to note: We are living on about 500 bucks a month right now, but we are LIVING on that.

We are getting by. Three people in the house, 500 bucks a month. We have adjusted our budget heavily and have cut out a lot of things we don't need so that we can focus on what we need, such as food and water.

People who are like "I'm not making enough money" are people who are spending too much on stupid shit. I cut out fast food, literally just fast food, and immediately saved over $600 a month from that alone. Driving, gas, paying $30 a day for fast food, it was ridiculous and I'm saving a lot not eating it.

It really IS possible to "cut out a few avocado toasts" and live within your means. We are surviving on that 500 a month because we're not buying stupid shit.

People just can't get that through their head.

"I work a 9-5 and I'm not making enough, they should raise minimum wage so I get paid more!"

What the hell are you buying monthly? Minimum wage right now is like $2400 a month, correct me if I'm wrong. I am living on 500 a month in a household of 3 people in California. We don't have much healthy food, we don't have medical insurance and we're praying our cars don't break down, but we're alive.

The fuck are these people doing where 2400 a month isn't enough?

It really sucks you’re in that situation :/ but it is a good lesson for tumblr people to learn.

There’s no one claiming if you’re living within your means that you will be rich or be living comfortably, but if you’re not making enough money at the moment to get by, you can’t just wait for the government to fix it for you. You have to be proactive and budget the money you do have. Most people don’t realize how much they can save by cutting out buying lattes and eating out. But the people whining about “living wage” aren’t willing to do that and don’t realize they have responsibility here.

They need to take the wage they do have and make it work, even if it means sacrificing a few luxuries. You’re living proof that even though it’s not ideal it is possible. And I get what you’re saying firsthand. My family had almost no money growing up and we never ate out or anything but we made it work.

And I know California is expensive but your minimum wage there is like $16 an hour. And while that won’t get you a very comfortable life, if you can make it with $500 a month in a three person household, then people with more have no excuse for acting like they can do nothing to stretch out their paycheck.

I am sorry for the struggles you’re facing and I will certainly be praying that things improve for you!

#answered

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