#also that top post sdlgljkkgs

[renecdote]

I posted 7,209 times in 2022

394 posts created (5%)

6,815 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

@hattalove

@octobertulip

@renecdote

@paranoidbean

I tagged 4,794 of my posts in 2022

Only 33% of my posts had no tags

#911 fox - 2,107 posts

#q - 1,959 posts

#evan buckley - 1,063 posts

#eddie diaz - 996 posts

#art - 627 posts

#911 spoilers - 504 posts

#asked and answered - 235 posts

#rb - 221 posts

#fic rec - 205 posts

#kitty - 195 posts

Longest Tag: 111 characters

#maybe beck mentioned you were their sister and i went to check out your blog because i’d been seeing your gifs?

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Wrote this so fast I haven’t even edited it but

May’s words echo around Eddie’s head. He’s pouring coffee in the break room and they’re there:

Maybe she felt like she was missing out on a life she could have had.

He’s sitting in Frank’s office and they’re there:

If she’d been born someone else, or made different choices.

He’s lying on his couch, toes wedged under Buck’s thigh, Speed Wedding playing on the TV, and he’s thinking what if this was different?

“Hey,” Eddie says, two beers and the TV half-light spurring him to bravery. “Do you ever wonder what your life might be like if you’d been born someone else?”

Buck gives a little half laugh and turns to look at him, already smiling. “Not you too.”

It’s not the answer he expects.

“Me too?” Eddie echoes.

“Yeah, we were talking about it in the truck the other day,” Buck says. “Whether we had regrets and stuff, you know? If we wished we’d done things differently, lived different lives.”

“And do you?” Eddie asks, inexplicably nervous. He’s not sure if he wants Buck’s answer to be yes or no. Maybe both.

Buck shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, picking at the label on his bottle. “My life is pretty good right now.”

A sideways flick of his gaze in Eddie’s direction, there and gone. Maybe just a trick of the light.

Eddie swallows. “Yeah,” he agrees. Right now right now right now. “I like to think we always would have ended up here.”

He’s rewarded with a bright smile, the kind that lights up Buck’s whole face, like Eddie reached right into his heart and pulled it out.

“You think?”

Eddie can’t imagine a life that doesn’t have Buck in it. Most days he doesn’t let himself imagine anything more than that—this, friends—either, but… beer, and TV half-light, and feeling brave.

“Maybe not exactly like this, but… You and me?” His voice must be giving him away, but he doesn’t care. “Yeah. Always.”

Buck’s smile is softer then, something a little more shy, a little more…

A little more.

“Always,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I think so too.”

Maybe it’s the stutter of Eddie’s heart in his chest, but it sounds an awful lot like forever.

You and me, forever.

Maybe he’s not missing out, Eddie thinks. Maybe he doesn’t need to be born someone else. Maybe always and forever are still in reach.

Maybe, one day, he’ll be lying on this couch, toes wedged under Buck’s thigh, Speed Wedding playing on the TV, and he’ll think I wouldn’t change a thing.

273 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

#4

the further we get from the shooting the more I can’t believe they did that. they really did that. live on our tv screens. wtf

338 notes - Posted October 9, 2022

#3

stay (so the world may become like itself again)

[Read on AO3]

Eddie kisses his best friend at a wedding.

At a Christmas party.

On New Year’s Eve.

He kisses Buck in the carpark after a team night at a bar on a cool February night, drunk on more than just beer and cocktails, giddy with the taste of salt on Buck’s lips.

“Come home with me,” he whispers into the space between them.

And Buck smiles, hand warm on Eddie’s cheek, and replies, “Where else am I going to go?”

They’re tipsy and giggling, shushing each other as they stumble through the door—then realising they don’t have to because Chris isn’t home. He’s at the Wilsons’ house, will be all night, which is probably why Hen gave Eddie such a knowing look when he followed Buck out of the bar.

“Buck,” he says now, his back against the wall, Buck’s mouth on his neck, the world dark and narrowed to all the places where they touch and the ache in every place they don’t. He doesn’t know what to say except: “Buck, please. Please.”

It’s Eddie’s house, but Buck takes him to bed, guiding him by the hand through the hallway and pushing him back against the sheets.

It’s Eddie’s house, but is it? Isn’t it—can’t it be—their house?

“I should tell you,” Buck says afterwards, tracing patterns on Eddie’s chest in the moonlit darkness. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Eddie kisses his best friend in his bed, both of them naked and probably still too drunk for these kinds of confessions. Or maybe just drunk enough.

“I should tell you,” he answers, “I think I want to marry you.”

Buck’s inhale is a quick, jagged thing, messy and real and trembling under the hand that Eddie has curved around his side.

“Eddie,” he breathes, an exhale and an exultation.

“I think I’ve always wanted to marry you,” Eddie admits, “even if I didn’t always know it.”

He should probably invite Frank to the wedding, he thinks. Maybe that cardiologist who told him he was repressed as well.

“Eddie,” Buck says again, but this time his voice is wet, almost wobbly. “You can’t just say things like that.”

Maybe.

Maybe if it was anyone other than Buck.

“I mean it,” Eddie tells him. Promises him. “You know I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Another trembling breath, and then certainty: “I know.”

Buck kisses him, slow and thorough, the weight of him pressing Eddie into the mattress in all the right ways. There’s no hurry to it, no hurry to any of it, except for the way that Eddie wants all of Buck, all the time, and he’s tired of pretending that he doesn’t.

“We can’t get engaged like this,” Buck says finally, lips swollen, breathing ragged between them. “The others will never let us live it down.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

“We’re not even dating, Eddie.”

But it’s not a no.

“I already gave you my heart,” Eddie says. Doesn’t have to say when, or which time, or that he’s been giving Buck pieces of his heart every day since they met, even when he didn’t know it.

See the full post

429 notes - Posted June 24, 2022

#2

tears are words the mouth can’t say

Saw the promo, had a breakdown, bon appetit.

[Read on AO3]

Buck’s caller ID says Christopher and his heart is instantly in his throat.

“Hey buddy,” he answers, striving for normal, for cheerful and calm, ignoring the way that Hen and Bobby pause noticeably, attention swivelling towards him.

“Buck,” Christopher says on the other end of the phone, and his voice sounds—wrong. Concerned. “Can you come over?”

He can’t. He’s working. But—

“Is everything okay?”

Knuckles tight around the phone, heart thudding sickly fast, already turned toward the stairs. His own worry bleeding through. Buck already knows the answer is an alarm-blaring no before Chris says, “I don’t know. Can you come over?”

A glances at Bobby, a silent response, his captain’s head nodding toward the stairs: go.

Buck goes.

****

He lets himself in.

Maybe he should have knocked.

The lateness of the hour, the darkness of the house, none of it has fully registered until Buck is swinging his arm up to protect himself from—a bat? It never connects, stopped as suddenly as Buck’s face is lit by the flash of headlights from the street.

“Buck?” Eddie gasps. And in the same breath: “Fuck.”

He presses a hand to his chest, bat still clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Buck’s own heart is racing, hands shaking with sudden adrenaline.

“What the fuck,” he starts, and then stops. Starts again. “Christopher called me. Are you—” okay? Obviously not. “What the hell, man?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, his eyes shuttered closed, breathing loud and gasping in the almost-darkness. Buck reaches for him and he flinches, rocking back, bat still held tight. Buck glances toward the hallway: no light from Christopher’s room, but. It’s only been twenty minutes since Buck got that call.

“Eddie,” he says, lower. This time he gets his hands on Eddie’s arms. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

He steers them to the couch, pushes Eddie down with gentle pressure on his shoulders when he doesn’t immediately sit. He feels like he’s moving on autopilot, muscle memory taking over even while his heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He’s probably going to go home and have this own panic attack about this later, but. Not yet. He has to help Eddie first.

Buck goes to the kitchen to fill a glass with water and when he comes back, Eddie is curled into the corner of the couch, shoulders shaking, face pressed into his knees, shuddering through sobs he is trying and failing to choke down. Buck’s heart seizes.

“Hey,” slipping out as he falls to his knees, water abandoned on the coffee table, “hey, Eds, it’s okay—we’re okay.”

Eddie shakes his head, inarticulate. He’s still holding the bat, muscles locked tight around it, and that more than anything else makes Buck feel cold, worry and anxiety a sick churning in his stomach, helplessness beating against his ribs.

“Eddie,” he tries again. “What can I do?”

Eddie’s answered is muffled. He has to lift his head to repeat it, voice thick: “Chris.”

Of course. Eddie’s first and third and tenth thought is never for himself, always for his son.

“Okay.” Buck squeezes his ankle; he never wants to let go. “I’ll be back in a second.”

****

Christopher’s door is closed, his light off, the glowing bedside clock showing well past his bedtime, but his eyes open when Buck comes in.

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486 notes - Posted March 16, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Love that Eddie came down the fire pole I know he did that just for added drama his first call back

714 notes - Posted May 17, 2022

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