#bucktommywhumpweek

[typicalopposite]

yesssssssss 😈 my time has arrived… lol.

It is @bucktommywhumpweek 🫶 and for day one we got: Canon Typical Injury / wound neglect

🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

The severity of the situation could almost be comical, given the absurdity and simplicity of the cause. Could be, if Tommy wasn’t facing a lifetime alone because of it. He pours himself another cup of coffee and thinks back on the past few days, and the moments that led them to where they are. 

For Tommy’s birthday Evan had bought him this big fancy table saw he had been looking at in the hardware store for the past few months. So in return Tommy put the saw to good use and began making Evan a custom built dining table; one that could expand and fit their entire found family for gatherings. 

It was almost done, but Tommy couldn’t wait any longer to show him, so he called Evan out to the shed. “You finally gonna let me see what you’ve been working on out here?” Evan asked, sliding his hand down Tommy’s arm to lace their fingers together. 

“Since you’ve been so patient, and haven’t tried to sneak a peek… yes,” Tommy said back, using Evan’s hand in his to pull him into a kiss. “Close your eyes.” Evan sighed, but did as he was asked; Tommy covered them with his free hand anyway. He guided Evan through the door, right up to the table, and pressed a kiss into the back of his neck. “Okay…”

Tommy removed his hand and Evan gasped. 

He walked around the massive table, taking note of each intricate carving Tommy had put so much work into—he particularly was taken aback with emotion by their vows with Tommy had seared along the border. It was unique, and special, and he loved it. Tommy was over the moon with relief. All it needed was some more sanding and polish. 

“Ouch… shit…” Evan hissed after sliding his hand across the top. 

“Oh no,” Tommy frowned, hurrying around to Evan’s side. “I should have warned you.”

Evan smiled and kissed Tommy’s cheek. “It’s fine, babe. Just a splinter.”

Just a splinter. 

It took less than a minute to dig it out of his hand; all the while Evan pouted and whimpered and demanded a kiss to make it better afterwards. Tommy obliged happily, placed a bandage over the wound and it was over. It should have been over. 

Then Tommy woke up two days later to Evan burning up beside him. He was dazed and confused and lethargic; Tommy had to carry him out to the truck. Sepsis… and it was sending his body was into shock. 

It seems like some sort of Shakespearen level irony that the first meal they have around their new table might be in memory of the person who was taken from them because of it. 

Tommy rubs a hand over his face, and pushes away that thought, he can’t stomach the idea and refuses to give up hope as he makes his way back into Evan’s room. 

[alidravana]

Fandom: 911

Ship: BuckTommy

Length/Rating: ~1K, Teen

Tags: Supportive Friends, Hospital Visit, Canon-Typical Injury, Hurt Evan "Buck" Buckley, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary:

Tommy misses Howie's call. As soon as he turned his phone back on, Tommy saw the blinking red light on his phone, the handful of missed messages from Howie and Hen, and even one from Eddie, asking where he was. He knew he had voice mails, but couldn’t bring himself to listen to them, conflicted with wanting to know what had happened, and the delusion that he was luring himself into, that he didn’t have to acknowledge that anything bad had happened if he didn’t speak it out loud.

Written for @bucktommywhumpweek Day 1: canon-typical injury.

Can be read here on A03!

[bibuckkinard]

Andrew, They Made It!

Hey there! Here is the sequel to "Andrew, They're Husbands!" and it's also for Day 5 of @bucktommywhumpweek: concussion. I really hope you guys like it.

Special shout-out to @desert--moonchild for help with the title. You're a star!

bucktommy - Words: 2.4k - Rating: T - Complete

Andrew is quiet for a moment and bites his lip as he stops at a red light. He’s had something he’s been wanting to ask but hasn’t had the chance. He's not sure now is really the right time, but they did tell him he could ask questions whenever he wanted, so, he might as well give it a try. In the time he's been getting to know Buck and Tommy, he's learned Tommy is a very straightforward guy. If he doesn't want to answer, he won't. "Hey, can I ask you a question?" he asks as the light turns green. He can see Tommy looking at him from his peripheral vision. "Will it distract me from the trouble my disaster-prone husband has had heaped on him this time?"

Or:  Andrew picks Tommy up to get to Buck after an incident. He has questions.

Read on Ao3

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 3 Forced to leave the other behind

All the Pain, Chapter 3 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): Back to Buck being trapped beneath rubble. Slight PTSD. | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2)

“Evan?”

Tommy calls into the darkness, what leaves his throat is but a croak. For a moment his mouth is filled with ash again, ash mixed with blood. He licks his lips and knows it's not real. What is real is that he’s standing in his own house, his own half-collapsed house.

Shouldn't he hear sirens? That probably depends on how much time has passed. That's the tricky thing about bad events, they play with your sense of time like an invisible giant using you as a pawn. It's dark, but Tommy doesn't know whether it's night or whether he's just in a giant bubble of air between destroyed stone. Pull yourself together, that’s nonsense. Tommy doesn't even know why he's standing. Was he standing the whole time, did he get up at some point? Seconds, minutes, entire hours have gone. His last memory is from sometime last night, when he unlocks the door and Evan pushes him against it, hungry for something other than the takeaway in the bags they're carrying.

Evan. He must be here somewhere. There’s not much Tommy knows right now, but this seems to be true. If he was here last night, he might still be. Whatever is left of „here“. There, a shadow within a shadow, might be the remains of his wardrobe. It could also be anything else. Tommy takes a step forward and bumps his knee on a sharp edge, as if he had carelessly walked into his living room table for the thousandth time. He looks down at himself, and even if he doesn't recognize much, he seems to have torn his trousers open above the knee, and that could be blood. But he doesn't feel any pain.

There are a whole host of reasons why he doesn't feel any pain, even though – this much is now clear – he has just torn his skin open on a piece of the ceiling; the ceiling that now partially fills his living room. Tommy can't afford to think about it, because if he does, the adrenaline that's keeping him going right now will leave his body and he'll collapse like a deflated balloon.

So his trembling fingers reach into his trouser pocket, and for whatever reason, his phone is still in there. It just doesn’t seem to work. There’s no reception. But he can deal with that problem later, what he needs right now is the phone’s flashlight. That works, but all he sees are more shadows, and the hint of disaster. His thoughts are still, somehow, in a distant land. It's a hot day, but the sun has disappeared under a cloud of dust, just like everything else. He kneels in front of the rubble of a destroyed house, limbs between stone, blood on sand. Sand?

Tommy snaps his shaking fingers. At first, nothing happens, and that is how he realizes that there are no noises at all. No, that's not true. There’s a constant crunching and squeaking, clearly the sounds of an unstable building. There's no sand, he thinks, and he flicks again, a flat little sound. No, not sand, but debris. He’s back in the present, but that’s no consolation. These are the remains of his damn house, and he still has no idea what happened. Except that it looks like an explosion. Why would his house explode?

“Evan!” he calls again, more urgent now.

Maybe his memory hasn't disappeared at all. Maybe only minutes have passed since the moment they walked through the door, lips locked together. Looks like there's no door there anymore. But he knows Evan was here. Tommy almost wishes he had actually lost time. Time for Evan to leave for a shift, time for him to be no longer around when whatever happened here happened. What are the odds? Never tell me the odds, he thinks, stumbling another step forward.

Behind all the cracking of stone and shifting wood is eery silence. In the dust and debris lies his bathroom door, ironically almost intact. There’s a memory under the ringing in his ears. Maybe it's just a pipe dream, a mirage, but Evan has walked through that door. He has walked through this door many times, so it could be Tommy’s fragile memory is simply playing tricks on him. But why is Tommy standing fully clothed in the rubble? What if actually not much time has passed from the last thing he remembers? What if they just walked in the door and Evan said he was going to the bathroom, and after that... Whatever happened after that, Tommy crawls over the rubble to see what's left of his bathroom.

The light from his phone is barely enough to capture all the destruction. I probably no longer have a bathroom, Tommy thinks. For some reason, this is suddenly an amusing idea. Tommy hears a strange noise and realizes that he’s laughing. It’s a hoarse, almost hysterical laugh. A large piece of the ceiling lies in the remains of his bath, apparently only held up by the bathtub. He installed it himself, it’s a stable obstacle now. In the event of an earthquake, door frames, tables and bathrooms are first choice to protect yourself. Was this an earthquake? If so, Evan might have been lucky. Well, lucky…

“Bloody hell,” Tommy curses out loud, remembering his purpose. “Evan, if you're here, please give me a sign.”

Seconds pass, the silence is as oppressive as the darkness. Maybe it's all a dream, and Evan was never here. Maybe Tommy is lying in a hospital bed and hallucinating, and the sharp splinters of blue tiles everywhere are a figment of his imagination.

“T-Tommy?”

Right now, in this moment, this might be the sweetest sound he's ever heard. Tommy sinks to his knees, frantically shining the light, “Evan,” he calls as his fingers grope aimlessly in the dust. “Babe. Keep talking. Say something. Let me find you.”

His words come choppily, far too quickly; Tommy recognizes the first signs of hyperventilation, and he forces himself to take a few deep breaths full of dust. His knees scrape across the floor, he feels stones pricking his thighs. His pants are dark with blood, he recognizes this despite the pale darkness, but it’s unimportant. A splintered wooden beam, he pushes it aside. A piece of his wall, off with it. Then, the realization that he was right: the bathtub has cushioned the fall of the ceiling, at least in part. There’s an air pocket. Tommy falls flat on what’s left of the floor, lights up the structure in front of him.

“Tommy,” Evan says, sounding distinctly relieved, yet Tommy thinks he has no reason to be. “You're here.”

“I'm here,” Tommy replies with a mouthful of dust flakes.

There’s his boyfriend under a pile of tons of rubble and he’s smiling, the idiot is smiling. Tommy is smiling too, at least he thinks he is.

“What happened?”

“I don't know,” Tommy says as he tries to illuminate more of his surroundings. What he sees doesn't look good. “Can you move?”

“I'm trapped,” Evan replies surprisingly matter-of-factly. “And you're bleeding.”

“Scraped my knees,” Tommy says absently as he thinks feverishly.

“N-no, your forehead.”

Frowning, Tommy raises a hand and touches his head. It’s true, he's bleeding. Never mind.

“Let me see if I can get you out, Evan.”

Evan doesn't answer, and Tommy’s pretty sure why. But facts are more important than conjecture, so he shines what little light his phone will give him to see the full extent of the destruction.

“I'm sure help will be here soon,” Evan says.

“My phone has no signal.”

“Your neighbors will have called the fire department. Whatever happened here, it must have been loud. I think I smell smoke too.”

Tommy raises his head briefly, concentrates and yes, there’s a faint hint of smoke. But still no sirens.

“Evan. My closest neighbors live a few miles away. They're probably not even home.”

Maybe it's not the best idea to speak the uncomfortable truth right now: a house outside the big city doesn't only have advantages.

“S-so, what do we do?” Evan asks in a thin voice.

There’s only one answer, and Evan knows it as well as Tommy does. But one of them has to call it.

Tommy's ears are ringing even harder now, filled with the reverberations of an explosion that has long since passed yet he cannot escape right now. He's back in the bloodstained sand, kneeling before the remains of a man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like Tommy, but with a lot less luck. The air is heavy with dust and ash, and the smell of burnt flesh will haunt his dreams for weeks. Somewhere to the west of him, a short distance from the house where explosives were apparently hidden after all, men are shouting, a high-pitched but at the same time strangely muffled sound in Tommy's ears.

No one is left behind.

Soldiers are a band of brothers, and that’s their code. And Tommy knows that he has to get up, move away from the charred hand in front of him, which is pointing upwards as if the answer is to be found in heaven. Away from the dead and towards those who are still alive, but he can't do it, he couldn't do it back then. He stays lying in the sand and listens to the screams, and he thinks that it would be a just punishment if his ears started to bleed.

“Tommy. Tommy, listen to me.”

He blinks, and the ground beneath him is not sand.

“You have to get help. You hear me? Get up, run until you get a signal. Call 911.”

Since when is Evan the voice of reason? Is any of this real?

“I'm not leaving you behind,” Tommy stammers.

“Yes, that's exactly what you're gonna do. Look at me.”

Tommy shines the light into the small cave of stone that has formed in the remains of his bathroom, and Evan's face is crusted with blood, but determined. Where is he getting this from, right now?

“It hurts,” he says, quieter now, and there's something in his voice that hurts Tommy too. “There's a couple of tons on my legs, Tommy, and I don't know how long...”

Tommy stretches out an arm, he can just about reach into the gap, but he can't reach Evan.

“It's all right,” he says. “It's all right. I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll get help. Hang in there.”

Maybe he's just babbling nonsense. Evan, however, smiles. He doesn't have much room to nod, and maybe he shouldn't right now, but Tommy takes his smile as approval. He pushes himself up and gropes his way out.

[nine-one-wanton]

Ashes and a New Foundation

Summary: Buck and Tommy are both in the business of saving lives. But one day they are faced with the impossible question of “which ones?” The only thing more difficult than choosing, is the possibility of having to live with that choice.

Notes: written for @bucktommywhumpweek

Prompts: You act like you're expendable. But you're wrong." | Abandonment issues // Forced to leave the other behind

—————

“I love you,” Tommy told him.

“I love you, too.”

Tommy extended his arm and held out his hand, fingers stretching and wiggling after him as Buck walked away - well aware of the view that he was presenting Tommy with as he headed toward the shower.

“Don’t leave me,” Tommy whined, playfully.

Never, Buck silently vowed, blowing a kiss back to Tommy as he otherwise ignored his plea.

(link to ao3..)

[rosyhoneydew]

As Long As You'll Have Me

My entry for day 3 of @bucktommywhumpweek - "You act like you’re expendable. But you’re wrong." | Prompts: Abandonment issues // Forced to leave the other behind

This is pretty brief whump but hopefully it still fits the prompt :)

"Are- Are you going somewhere?" Buck asks, there's a hollow kind of deja vu setting in when he steps into their bedroom to see Tommy packing a small duffle. "You're home!" Tommy says, startling and turning to face Buck. "Yeah, Ravi picked up the rest of my shift. Said he could use the extra hours." Normally he'd walk right up to his boyfriend, kiss him hard, maybe show him exactly how much he missed him during his shift. But right now Buck can't move from the doorway. Because Tommy's packing a bag. "I, uh, thought you'd be a little while still," Tommy says, something like a guilty smile on his face. And Buck... he's not exactly sure what's going on here but he can feel his face getting hot and his heart rate speeding up. He thought things were good with them. Is Tommy not happy? Did he miss the signs? Again? "Hey," Tommy says, "you okay?" "Are you leaving?" Buck asks in lieu of a response. It comes out a little harsher than he planned, but he's focused on not doing something like crying and begging his boyfriend to stay. Tommy sighs. “I wanted to surprise you,” he says, expression softening a bit. “You remember that I call I had up near San Bernadino?”  Yes. A hiker’s mom called in when her daughter didn’t check in along the trail. She’d been out there for a few days at least. Buck remembers the look of relief on his boyfriend’s face when he got home that night, the girl dropped off at the hospital, safe and sound.  “Turns out her mom’s got a place in Big Bear and she thought it would be nice to let me vacation there for a few days, as a thank you.” “Vacation?”  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” Tommy says, smiling and making his way toward Buck. His lightly grabs Buck’s arms, about to lean in for a kiss before he stops. “Is everything alright?” 

“Y- yeah, just…” Buck takes in the room before looking back at Tommy. “You’re not leaving me?”  “Leaving you?” Tommy seems genuinely shocked by the prospect. “No, Evan, no. Why would you think that?”  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Buck says, shaking his head like he can dislodge the thoughts that way. Tommy rubs his arms and presses a light kiss to Buck’s cheek, seemingly content to wait until Buck is ready to talk. He takes the moment to let the pounding in his heart return to normal. He's not leaving, he's not leaving, he's not leaving. “You remember my ex I told you about, right? Abby?” Buck starts. Tommy nods. “That’s how I found out, when she was going to leave you know? I came home - I was living at her place then too - and her stuff was all in suitcases.” He pauses for a moment, remembering how he had believed her when she said it was just a trip. That she would be back for him. “At the time she had planned to come back, you know? Then she, umm, she didn’t.”  Tommy’s looking at him like his own heart is breaking, and, shit, the last thing he wants is for Tommy to feel bad when he was just trying to plan a surprise for his boyfriend. 

"I know you're not her," Buck clarifies quickly. "I just- I think I saw you packing and I didn't know where you were going and it kind of took my brain a second to catch up."

“Evan, I am so sorry,” Tommy starts. “I had no idea this would stir up those memories for you.”  “Don’t apologize,” Buck says. “Of course you didn’t know. You were just doing something nice.”  Tommy reaches up to rest his hand on the nape of Buck’s neck, softly brushing his thumb there and leaning his forehead against Buck’s.  “I am not leaving you,” he says. “I will never leave you.”  Buck huffs a little laugh at that, because, well, “You say that now.”  Tommy leans back a bit to look Buck in the eye, “Evan,” he says, “I love you, and so long as you’ll have me, I will never leave you.”  Oh. He means… is he saying… Buck lunges forward to wrap Tommy in a kiss, passionate and full of feeling. Tommy's right there to catch him, arms wrapped around him, letting Buck set the pace but never faltering at his intensity. “Let me try this again,” Tommy says with a smile when they part. “Evan, would you like to spend the weekend together in Big Bear? Just the two of us.”  “Yes,” Buck says, only able to peel his eyes away from Tommy’s lips for a moment to say, “I love you.”

[al-the-remix]

BuckTommy Whump Week Day 4: Prompts: Getting shot // Chronic pain

Another fic for @bucktommywhumpweek! I'm hoping to finish a few more of these before the week is actually over, lol. Rated: E ... I don't know if this really qualifies as whump (like my last whump week fic 💀) but I just can't help making them all sappy atm.

What people didn’t know about bullets was that they rarely went through-and-through in a nice neat manner; not through walls, or car doors, or flesh. They bounced around inside you like a rubber ball, inflicting the most damage possible. 

Buck had seen the aftermath more times than would have liked to. 

The memory of being called to his first GSW was a visceral one, it had been a domestic dispute and once they’d loaded the victim into the bus, Hen had rubbed his back as he’d thrown up into some nearby shrubbery. Buck could still feel the acid burn in the back of his throat when he remembered it. 

He’d seen cadaver photos in his text books, but those never compared to the real thing. The sheer volume of blood that poured out of people was enough to make him nauseous just thinking about it. The cartoonish version of a bullet hole that he’d carried around in his head for most of his life just hadn’t held up. 

Maybe it had been shortsighted of him, but Buck had never taken the time to consider what might come later; not until Tommy had taken Buck’s hand in his own and laid it over the meat of his shoulder and let Buck feel the little knobs of bullet fragments lodged there, like ball bearings trapped beneath his skin. 

“Do they bother you?” Buck asked, in wonder. 

“Not often,” Tommy replied, his hand still blanketing Buck’s as he let him dig his fingers into his shoulder muscle like he would be more than happy to just leave it there forever. “Most of the time I forget they're even there.”

Buck found that hard to believe. He couldn’t imagine having a foreign object stuck in his body and not obsessing over it every moment of every day. 

Tommy was giving him an amused, knowing look. 

“What?” 

“You’re going to be thinking about those for a while aren’t you?”

Buck huffed, rolling his eyes. It was a little unsettling maybe, sometimes, being understood so through and quickly by another person. He liked it; it made him feel all shivery and warm inside, but more importantly it made him feel daring. Bold. 

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

Tommy took Buck’s hand in his own: his palm big, warm and dry, and slid it down to rest on the muscular curve of his outer thigh. “There’s some more over here too,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows as Buck gave all the nice warm flesh there a squeeze.

There wasn’t a lot of talking after that, but Tommy had been right, Buck had thought about it for a while, his mind stuck on invisible scars and mementoes carried around inside you that no one else could see. 

///

Buck wasn’t sure if it was the thunder or the soft orange glow spilling into the mezzanine that woke him. Quiet noises came from the kitchen below, the muted purr of the kettle and the shuffle of Tommy’s socked feet against the tile. Tommy had still been in Buck’s bed when he’d fallen asleep hours ago, tucked up against Tommy’s side as Tommy read by the lamp light.

Buck pulled on his sweatpants and made his way down to the main floor, feeling oddly awake for 4 am. He rarely had a bad night’s sleep when Tommy was with him, taking up space in Buck’s bed and stealing his covers. 

Tommy sent him a guilty look when he noticed Buck, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, not pulling honey from Buck’s kitchen cabinet. He was wearing one of Buck’s old hoodies and some sleep shorts. The circles under his eyes were dark and deep. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered like Buck might be standing there in front of him, still asleep.

“I don’t mind,” Buck said and meant it. He wasn't the one with the shift in far too few hours.

Buck leaned back against the edge of the counter crossing his arms as he did, and settled in. He knew whatever was bothering Tommy would work its way out on its own, like a splinter buried beneath skin. He watched quietly as Tommy stirred honey into his tea. Buck was no stranger to sleepless nights and aching bones. Tommy had sat with him through some of the more recent bad nights, endlessly patient. 

Buck watched him closely, quietly analyzing the tilt of his body and the clench of his jaw as Tommy leaned against the counter opposite him. The cool light from the stove hugged the contours of his face, digging out dark wedges beneath those cheekbones that could cut glass. 

“Well, aren't you gonna ask?”

Buck shrugged. “I figured I'd just wait you out.”

Tommy sighed, setting his mug to the side. He was smart enough to know when he was on the losing side of a battle. “It's the scar tissue around the shrapnel I've still got in me. Every so often it begins to pull in uncomfortable ways and makes it impossible to get settled.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Tommy tilted his head like he was really considering Buck and his words. “Honestly I don't know, I normally just take an Ibuprofen and put on a movie or something and try to just ignore it.”

“Well, I think we can do better than that,” Buck said, and Tomy raised a brow, curiosity peaked.

With hands planted firmly on Tommy’s shoulders, Buck guided him back upstairs to bed and got him splayed out on his belly across the center of the mattress on a towel, sweater-less, with his arms tucked comfortably under his head. 

“Finally, just where I want you,” Buck teased as he straddled Tommy’s waist, reaching for the massage oil. He could feel Tommy’s laugh vibrate through his ribcage, muffled by the pillow.

Buck admired the span of Tommy’s back as he warmed the oil up between his hands, deciding where to begin. The bullet and shrapnel scars were faint now, Buck knew their locations by memory and feel alone. He started by smoothing his hands up the center of Tommy’s back, following the column of his spine and the thick muscles flanking it, getting Tommy warmed up and used to his touch before applying more pressure. 

Buck always preferred to talk while he worked, and with Tommy the smooth flow of words came easy. If he let himself, he could probably let his mouth run for hours, and Tommy would listen. 

“You know, I wanted to be a masseuse for a while.”

Tommy hummed, his eyes had drifted shut when Buck began to work on the tight knot of tissue just below his shoulder blade, he peeled one open now, offering Buck an amused look over his shoulder. “And which hunky guy did you follow that career into?”

“Ha ha,” Buck said, poking his fingers playfully into Tommy's side, just to watch him squirm. “Actually, it was after working at the ranch, there was this ex bronco rider, who had compressed his spine one too many times, mucking out stalls with me. He told me all about how his girlfriend had taken massage therapy classes to help him with his back because his insurance wouldn’t cover the treatment.” 

“Ah, so it was a hunky girl that time.”

Buck chuckled. He liked how easy it was to talk with Tommy about stuff like this; he wasn’t ashamed of  himself or his past, but he was wary of how people might perceive him because of it. He’d wanted so badly for Tommy to think of him as a serious person, to know that Buck was all in. That dating him didn’t imply some sort of unspoken risk–and with Tommy it never had. 

“You know me–I always liked the idea of helping people, I just didn't know how, yet.” 

“Maybe I’m being selfish, but I think you ended up right where you were supposed to be,” Tommy said, and groaned in pleasure when Buck really started working at the scar tissue webbed deep within his back muscle.

“How’s that feel?” Buck asked, anticipating Tommy's approval.

“Fucking awesome.”

Buck grinned. He knew he was good with his hands, but it was a whole nother thing entirely to be good with his hands for Tommy. Pleased with himself, a heavy satisfaction settled warm in the pit of his stomach. He loved everything about this: having Tommy pliable and relaxed beneath him, working slick skin over with his hands, making Tommy feel good, being able to help in some small way.

Buck shuffled down, straddling Tommy’s leg so he could work his fingers into the outside of Tommy’s thigh where he knew a metal shard the size of his thumbnail lived. That one had been logged in there when an IED had struck the lead vehicle in their convoy, and some of Buck’s satisfaction melted away as he thought about just how many close calls his boyfriend’s body was littered with. He was normally the one getting shit for taking risks, but in truth Tommy was just as guilty as he was. 

Tommy had gone completely boneless underneath him, his skin pink and a little shiny from having Buck’s oiled up hands all over him. He continued to rub gently circles into his skin even after he’d finished with the final shrapnel wound he knew of, running his nails lightly over the thick swirls of hair on the backs of Tommy’s legs. 

Tommy shifted his hips against the mattress, spreading his legs a little wider. Buck knew that move, and that satisfaction in his gut twisted and flared back to life. He slid his hands up the backs of Tommy’s thighs as slowly as he could handle.

“Are you hard?” he asked, worming his fingers under the hem of Tommy’s shorts when he reached them. 

“Yeah,” Tommy sighed. “That felt really good, but, uh, we don’t have to do anything, you must be tired and–”

He was starting to sound way too with it for Buck’s liking. Buck dug his thumbs into the soft inner flesh of Tommy’s thighs and let his hips roll in a slow, pointed drag along the back of Tommy’s leg so there was no way he could miss the semi Buck was sporting.

Tommy’s muscles jumped under his hands as he groaned. “Okay, Okay, you’ve made your point. Help me out of these–”

Buck was more than happy to peel Tommy’s shorts down his legs as Tommy lifted his hips obligingly. He had half a mind to just dump a generous amount of the oil on Tommy’s big pale ass and go to town, but he had a feeling that would probably ruin the [slowly winding] mood they’d built. 

In a show of what he considered great restraint, Buck slipped a slick hand between Tommy’s thighs, rolling his balls softly in the palm of his hand just to hear the noises he would make. Quiet chuffs and deep groans were muffled by the pillow as Tommy ground his hips in lazy circles against the mattress and back into Buck’s hand, and Buck was starting to think he’d never get over how good it felt to have another man like this: a big body to push and pull and work at until it ultimately unraveled.

Buck stretched up so he could press a kiss to the thick curve of Tommy’s shoulder, not caring one bit about the oil that still clung to his skin. He let his hand drift up and rubbed his slick fingers indulgently over Tommy’s asshole, gratified by the way he moaned and pushed into it. 

“You can if you want to,” Tommy said, breathless, and Buck could tell without even looking at his face how gone he was just from having Buck’s hands on him. 

“I have a better idea,” Buck said, pulling at Tommy’s hip. “Here–roll onto your side for me.”

It didn’t take Tommy long to clue in once Buck pressed himself all up along his back and reached for the bottle of oil again, slicking his dick up in the shallow space between their bodies. 

His body tensed when realization dawned. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Evan– ” 

And it was Tommy’s turn to lose his cool, his voice reedy and feverish, a thin tremor through his body as Buck maneuvered his thigh so he could fit his dick into that hot, tight space between them. He wrapped an arm around the barrel of Tommy’s chest, pinning him tight against his own as Buck took that first long, indulgent roll of his hips. 

Buck had always enjoyed fucking someone’s thighs–what wasn’t there to like–but there was something specific about the way Tommy got so worked up over it, even in the early hours of the morning after a sleepless night, even when Buck had just worked his body to jello with his hands, that rocketed the act up into the stratosphere.

Tommy squeezed his thighs around him, Buck could hear the labored cadence of his breathing and the obscene sounds of him fisting his own cock, as Buck fucked the slick give of his thighs. The way the head of his dick kept nudging up against the soft resistance of Tommy’s balls with every stroke was still just different enough to scratch at Buck’s brain in new and interesting ways.

Tommy’s fingers dug into his hair, pulling Buck’s face down so he could slide their mouth together at an awkward angle. The kiss was sloppy, Tommy kept sucking Buck’s tongue into his mouth and then breaking away to moan again and again as he got closer to coming. Buck could feel it all through his body, wound like a coil ready to spring. He wasn’t far behind, his plan to keep things slow and simmering had fallen through quickly. He should have known better; with Tommy pressed against him like one big throbbing pulse, overwhelming Buck’s senses with the musky scent of his body, and the sounds he made when he touched himself, and how good it felt to rut against him like this, the desperate slide of skin against skin, there was just no chance he was going to last.  

Buck buried his face in the hollow of Tommy’s shoulder, just above where that pale constellation of shrapnel lived, and stilled as he came in thick pulses all along Tommy’s taint, that little space between his thighs instantly going wet and frictionless. 

Tommy made a wounded sound, and Buck held him tight in the cradle of his arms as Tommy hitched his hips into his fist until he came. He was still pressing kisses against Tommy’s damp hairline when Tommy reached up and laced their fingers together, no longer shaking. 

“Well, I’m definitely not thinking about the stupid shrapnel anymore.”

“Good,” Buck said, allowing himself to feel smug about it. “My work here is done.”

“Not so quick hot stuff,” Tommy said, reaching back to pat him on the hip. “I expect your help de-oiling in the shower. I think this mess is a four-handed operation.”

“Yes, sir.” Buck peeled himself from where he’d been clinging to Tommy like a limpet.

He took a moment to admire the long, glistening stretch of Tommy’s body, limp and satisfied. Debauched, even.

"What?" Tommy asked, stretching his arms above his head as he rolled onto his back, offering Buck a good view of where his come was actively drying in his happy trail. Buck would have a fun time scrubbing that out.

"Nothing, I'm just happy you're here, with me."

Tommy face went immediately soft and he pressed up on his knees so he could pull Buck into one more lingering kiss before breaking away.

"There's no where I'd rather be."

[bibuckkinard]

The Fire in the Fall

this is for @bucktommywhumpweek, Day 1: Canon typical injury.

bucktommy - Words: 3.8k - Rating: Teen - Complete

The air feels suffocating and even through his turnouts, the heat is reaching unbearable levels and they haven’t even entered the complex yet. He looks at the burning building in front of him and sighs, thinking that he would pick today, one of the worst days he’s had in a long time, to volunteer to help with ground ops.

Or: Tommy Kinard has a very bad day.

Read on Ao3

[bibuckkinard]

It's True, I Will Rescue You

Heya!

This fic is for Day 6 (helicopter crash) and Day 7 (near death situation) of @bucktommywhumpweek. I hope you guys like it!

bucktommy - Words: 4.2k - Rating: T - Complete

“I’m training a new probie who seems a little off in ways I can’t describe.” Evan frowns. “What did he do?” “Nothing...I don’t know, just got a weird vibe from him.” Evan grins. “Look at you, talking about vibes.”

Or: A new probie seems to be unable to take the word "No" when it comes to Tommy. How far will he go?

Read on Ao3

[bibuckkinard]

A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Ha, I have an hour and 50 minutes to spare of today! This is for Day 2 of @bucktommywhumpweek: emotional hurt.

Just a warning, Buck has an anxiety disorder in this and there's extensive discussion of it. I drew from my own experience.

bucktommy- Words: 1k - Rating: General - Complete

It’s one of those days when the intrusive thoughts and spiraling anxiety can’t be distracted with video games and research binges, when getting out of bed takes more energy than just staying in it. When the tears come whether he wants them to or not because his emotions don’t have anywhere else to go.

Or: Buck is having a bad anxiety day. Tommy helps.

Read on Ao3

Edited because it helps if I add the link. Sigh.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 7 Near death situation

All the Pain, Chapter 7 + 8 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): CPR, brief mental breakdown. | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2) (-> Chapter 3) (-> Chapter 4) (-> Chapter 5) (-> Chapter 6)

Blinking into a night full of stars, Tommy takes a deep breath, surprised that it hurts. It's such a peaceful night, it shouldn't hurt to watch the stars and breathe. 

It’s just… why’s he seeing the night sky in the first place?

Another cautious breath, analyzing his surroundings. The question of why he’s lying on the ground seems pointless and a waste of time when he doesn't even know why he’s outside. In any case, there is very dry grass on the back of his neck. It's not very cozy, so it only seems logical to sit up – that makes him a bit dizzy, interesting, but not helpful.

His head hurts. There must be an explanation for all this. For why he’s lying on the ground in what seems to be a forest, for the branches poking his back and the dry grass. An explanation for why the starry sky, covered in a soft gray, is burning in his eyes. It will soon be light, morning is approaching, so why isn't he lying in his bed?

A memory tugs at Tommy's mind, but it's somehow foggy. Thoughtfully, he runs his hand through his hair, touches his forehead and immediately pulls back. If he's not mistaken – and instinct tends to kick in when it comes to these things – he feels the edges of a gaping laceration, and currently, it only seems to be held together by crusted blood. 

Maybe he went for a run in the early morning hours. Maybe he tripped and fell, hurt his head and went out for a minute. He fumbles for his phone, which strangely enough is still in his pocket and doesn't seem to be broken, but the battery is flat. Think. You can't be too far from home, right?

That's when it hits him like a punch in the gut. That tingling feeling he's had since he opened his eyes is actually nausea, mixed with fear. Something is wrong with the house, his house. Something about Evan. 

Tommy slaps his forehand with the flat of his hand, forgetting there’s a wound, and boy does that hurt. He curses loudly, but apart from this, the night remains quiet and peaceful. Inside of Tommy, everything peaceful has vanished. There’s a gnawing feeling inside him, a bit like he’s about to throw up, although the bile taste in his mouth tells him that already happened. It’s just… he can’t remember. With his phone dead and no watch on his wrist, he can’t really tell how much time has passed, but it might be hours he’s missing. It’s not only that he doesn’t know how long he’s been lying on the forest floor, he can’t remember what happened since they picked up some Chinese food from the place Evan likes so much. 

They wanted to go home afterwards, didn't they? One of those perfect evenings: having a bite to eat, making out in front of the TV, sex on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t feel like any of this happened, but it might as well. Everything is uncertain, that’s the worst part.

Tommy stumbles to his feet, momentarily holding on to a tree. The bark beneath his palm feels somewhat familiar, but all of his sensations remain muffled, only bordering on the edge of becoming a real memory. Above all, there is this vague hunch that something is wrong, much more than just his battered head and his memory loss. Something that drives him forward, or rather back. His sense of direction is not quite right either, but Tommy still relies on his instincts; he will find his house.

Tumbling on, every step echoes loudly in Tommy's ears, every crack of a twig under his shoes hurts (they're not running shoes, he can forget this theory). He doesn't know how long he walks, but at some point the trees thin out and the barely lit road in front of him looks familiar. The light reflecting off the asphalt is red, which is strange. And then, somehow, he approaches his house, but the unreal feeling remains, because it can't possibly be his house. 

There’s a fire engine, and the radio in the empty driver’s cab is repeating a message. It seems familiar. Tommy hasn't forgotten everything, just a few hours, at most; he still knows who he is and what he's doing, and he knows this vehicle. He also recognizes from the code that's being transmitted that reinforcements will soon be arriving. 

But the house. It’s partly destroyed, a pile of rubble and dust, and the remains of a helicopter lie on its garage. Is this what out-of-body perceptions feel like? Because Tommy is a pilot, but he didn't fly tonight, did he? He didn't crash on his own house and then run into the woods, right? That's too absurd an idea, but a helicopter lying on his house, half-collapsing it, is no less absurd. It’s a wonder there’s no fire. But maybe that’s credit to the fire crew, who must be inside. 

As he slowly approaches the remains of his house, flashes of memory appear like fast-moving clouds before a storm. He sees himself opening the door, a bag of takeaways in his other hand. The door is now hanging crooked on its hinges, I don't know if I can fix this, he thinks. He continues to walk on as if in a dream. There used to be his bathroom. Now it's a battlefield of shredded concrete, illuminated by spotlights. There are people there, Tommy recognizes them, but they don't notice him. 

Maybe he's a ghost, that might be an explanation. Whatever happened, he died and is now returning as a specter. Kind of pathetic, isn’t it? This sure was a decent house, but nothing special, not really a home. At least not until Evan…

And then, another wave of realization, as hard as a tsunami. That's Bobby, isn't it? Bobby kneeling in the remains of Tommy's bathroom, his hands performing rhythmic movements. Textbook CPR, it’s just… on Evan. For a second, Tommy's thoughts perform the craziest somersaults. Why is Bobby doing this? Hen is kneeling next to him, with a look on her face that says you shouldn't do that, but not because he's not capable of it, no. Because he puts too much emotion into it. 

There's a sound as Tommy falls to his knees, it emanates from his own throat. A sound that has been stuck in there for many, many years, since the moment one of his comrades went up in flames before his eyes. Since the moment when all that was left of a family in a hot, dusty land was ashes. Horror held this hoarse scream inside Tommy’s memories for such a long time, but now it’s free. Hen turns her head, her eyes widen.

“Tommy?”

Bobby doesn't turn around, he's still fully focused on his task of pushing life into Evan’s lifeless body. Suddenly Chimney is next to Tommy, kneels down beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Tommy,” he says in a voice as if he can't believe the man’s actually sitting here sobbing in the dust, “let me have a look at you.”

Tommy doesn't listen. He stares spellbound at the attempts at resuscitation. That’s Evan there, and every squeeze of Bobby’s hands is followed by words of encouragement. That’s Evan, out of the rubble, dusty and bleeding, with obviously greater problems than his legs being crushed. The memories are back, clearer than ever, as if they were mocking Tommy, asking how could you ever forget? The deafening bang, the huge cloud of dust. The ceiling coming down, his half-destroyed house, and Evan trapped inside it. Himself, confused and troubled by a past long forgotten. He remembers running outside to get help. But are those really memories? He never reached the main road, there never was a man in a car. All of that was his concussion. Tommy woke up in the woods, and all that brought him back here was Evan, the need to get help for him. Yet he didn’t accomplish anything. There’s help now, but he had nothing to do with it. He came back too late.

There are a number of things that can tip the scales to the wrong side with a damaged body. An adequate supply of blood and oxygen is always the most important factor. Even small disturbances in this complex system may cause serious harm. Tommy knows that, but it doesn’t ease the burning pain in his chest even a bit. 

“What happened?”

Chimney blinks, this is obviously not an easy question to answer. But he also knows that it's good to distract Tommy from the sight in front of him. From his boyfriend, who Bobby is probably breaking at least one rib in his vehemence to breathe life into the man. 

“We're still waiting for confirmation, but apparently the 217 lost a helicopter due to technical problems," says Chimney as he does what a paramedic can do in a situation like this – at least find out how Tommy is doing, so he checks his vitals. “The fact that it crashed on your house is ... well, a one-in-a-million chance, huh.”

“There's a small private airfield just a few miles west,” Tommy says quietly as he counts inwardly, waiting for Evan's chest to heave. “A chance for an emergency landing. He was just unlucky. Who was it?”

“Andrews.”

“Shit.”

It's an absurd conversation, and Tommy doesn't feel anything. In a few hours, he will mourn Andrews, a good pilot who had the misfortune of not being able to reach a nearby airfield. What if he also has to mourn Evan? It’s a nightmare, and it feels like he’ll never wake up.

“He was breathing when I left him,” he says to nobody but himself, as if it's his fault that this is not the case right now. Because he left. 

Perhaps Chimney senses exactly what he means with his terse words. 

“You had to go,” he assures him, “It was the right thing to do, get help.”

“But I didn’t get help,” Tommy urges. “Why are you even here? Who called you?”

Chimney sighs, “It’s complicated,” he says, “and not really important. But, Tommy, look at me – there’s nothing you could have done. We needed the lifting bag to get the rubble off him, and it almost didn't work. But we couldn't wait for reinforcements.”

“He collapsed while I was chasing some hallucinations in the woods,” Tommy argues in a bitter tone. 

“You have a concussion, buddy,” says Chimney softly. “I’m sure all will be fine, but you might want to lie down for a minute, hm?”

“I have a heartbeat,” Hen suddenly yells. “Blood pressure is back, diastolic 25 and rising.”

Is this another dream? Just another hallucination? Tommy hears Chimney say something, but he doesn’t understand it. Everything is blurry, and he’s tired and so weak, it feels good to let go. It feels fair, even.  A life for a life, he thinks, because right now, this seems fair. The last thing he realizes is that the ground seems to be getting closer. 

But a man at his lowest can’t fall, can he? 

➽─── Epilogue ───❥

What Tommy least expected to see upon opening his eyes is Maddie. 

She’s sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs at an impractical table, which immediately tells him that he is in hospital. Maddie swipes at the phone in her hand, maybe she's texting someone. It seems surreal, somehow. 

“Hey,” Tommy says, surprised at the tiredness of his own voice. 

Maddie looks up in surprise, then swings out of the chair to stand next to his bed. 

“Hey," she echoes, smiling. “It's good to have you back.”

“Why are you here?” asks Tommy. “Not that I'm not happy to see you, I mean...”

For a second, he thinks the reason is bad news. But who would be so cruel as to ask Maddie, of all people, to tell Tommy that Evan... That's bullshit. Maddie lets out her melodic laugh. Tommy sees that she briefly looks at the monitors next to his bed with a trained nurse's eye.

“Because Evan asked me to,” Maddie replies. “He's in no position to get up right now, but he's been basically begging me to wait here, so there’s somebody with you when to come to.”

“Wait,” says Tommy, blinking, “he's alive? He's okay?”

“Well, okay,” she returns slowly,  “that’s one way to put it. In fact, he’s just suffering from some nasty and painful bruises on his legs, and a broken ankle. It really is a miracle.”

Maddie turns around briefly, maybe to hide her tearing-up gaze; she pulls up the chair and sits down again. 

“But,” she continues, looking intently at Tommy's face, “I take it that you were still aware Bobby's CPR was successful?”

“I don't think I knew what was true or not anymore,” says Tommy, involuntarily running his fingers through his hair. There seems to be a large patch stuck to his forehead. 

“Yes, you've got a nasty concussion. The doctors even suspected a basilar skull fracture, but fortunately this did not prove to be the case. You were incredibly lucky, you and Evan. Tommy… you both could have died in there.”

She searches his face, and he wonders for what; with what he thinks a reassuring look he says, “But we didn't, Maddie.”

A wistful smile crosses her features. Tommy realizes that's what Evan would have said, and it's something she's heard a lot of times, probably. It's not the last time, for sure. Maybe it's just the painkillers Tommy definitely is on, but right now he feels almost invincible. 

“Can I see him?” 

Maddie looks surprised, “What, now? I think you're on strict bed rest for a day or two.”

“Is that what you're telling me as a nurse?”

“Well I’m not a nurse anymore,” Maddie replies, slightly confused, and he cuts her off, “Great, so there's no medical staff here to give me instructions.”

“Tommy,” Maddie says in a warning tone that probably worked on Evan in the past. He’s sure she needed to use it a lot. 

Tommy sits up, sorts his IV tubes and swings his legs out of bed. It's surprisingly easy (thanks, painkillers). He tries to stand up, which works, as does walking with the infusion stand, no problem at all. 

“Room number?” he asks sheepishly.

Maddie shakes her head, “You might want to put on a bathrobe.”

Tommy looks down at himself, then awkwardly feels his back. Yes, maybe it's not a good idea to walk around in a hospital gown, bare ass.

“I'll take you to him,” Maddie sighs. 

It's exactly 25 (relatively slow) steps to Evan's room. 

He seems to be asleep, his curls tousled and his mouth half open; his phone is lying on his chest, one of his hands rests on it as if he had been waiting for a message. My phone was dead, Tommy thinks regretfully. Maybe he texted Eddie just to convince him that everything was fine and that he needn’t pull up stakes in Texas. That’s something Evan would do. Right now, he’s sleeping, and he looks so peaceful, simply like the best thing Tommy has ever seen. Maybe it's just the painkillers again, but his heart is overflowing, he could cry from happiness. 

“I'll leave you two alone for a minute,” Maddie whispers. 

He barely notices her leaving, far too transfixed by the sight of Evan. Tommy shuffles closer. It's surprisingly difficult to walk with an IV stand, but right now, there’s nothing in the world that could stop him. He drops on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch Evan's battered legs. Tommy takes his hand, simply because he wants to touch something of him. As if he still has to make sure that this is actually real. 

Evan opens his eyes. 

He looks tired, which is probably no wonder, but he smiles as he mumbles, “This's probably the best dream I've ever had.”

Tommy can't suppress a grin, “That's not a dream, sweetheart,” he softly returns. 

Evan's beautiful blue eyes widen.

“Tommy,” he stammers, “you're awake. You're all right, are you?”

“Pretty much,“ Tommy says, and then Evan crashes into his embrace. 

When his wildly beating heart has calmed down a little, Tommy says, “So, you've died again, Evan. Didn't we agree that you wouldn't do that?”

“I had no pulse for a single minute," Evan protests. “That hardly qualifies as dying, right?”

Tommy scrunches his nose, “Pretty sure it does.”

Perhaps there is something in his voice, a hint of the concern he actually felt. A fragment of all the fear. Evan also knows that one day they will have to talk about it. But not now. Now he says, clearly deflecting, “It's a crazy story, all this, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid I didn't even notice half of it,” sighs Tommy.

“Well, it will go down in the history of the 118’s weirdest missions, anyway,” Evan says, and then he shares what he knows. 

It's a painstakingly compiled tale from multiple sources, and definitely a crazy one. It's not yet clear why Andrews crashed the helicopter, but the unreliable radios were probably just the tip of the iceberg of a shady deal in which the 217 was ripped off. Despite the tragedy, this is fortunate for the LAFD, as the equipment was only used on a trial basis at three stations so far. Even worse things might have happened, it’s a depressing thought. As Evan narrates, Tommy realizes it could have been him in that helicopter. The helicopter that – what are the chances? – crashed on his own house. 

“It's either very bad luck or fate,” says Evan.

“Or pilot error. There’s a private airport near by... Well, let's just say the Cessnas that land there sometimes misjudge because of the forest.”

“Are you saying that crashes happen more often in your area?” asks Evan incredulously. 

“Near-crashes,” Tommy corrects him gently. “It's definitely not fate. My house is in the flight path. Well, was, I guess… Go on.”

Fate or not, the helicopter crashed, and neither Tommy nor Evan were able to call 911. Tommy's neighbors live a little further away, but a crash is not usually a thing that goes completely unobserved. That night, however, chance played a trick on them. Except for one neighbor, no one was at home or actually witnessed anything – contrary to popular belief, helicopters do not necessarily explode in a crash. This particular neighbor, however, is known to the local police station for numerous unnecessary calls about disturbances in the neighborhood that, in truth, rarely ever happen. Nobody was in any particular hurry to send a patrol to the area. 

The rescue could have taken much longer, and that might have been actually fatal for Evan. Because, as the police reconstructed later, Tommy had run in the wrong direction due to his concussion, not towards the road. It was thanks to Josh, who connected his rookie’s call to the weird neighbor’s call, that they found Evan in time. The LAFD has pulled out all the stops to find their missing helicopter once the alert came, but the 118 was first on the scene – due to the accident on the highway. Many things about this whole mess are ironic, including the fact that the main road Tommy was looking for was closed because of the same accident. He wouldn't have found any help there.

“That should have been me,” says Tommy, causing Evan to give a surprised look.

“You would have preferred to lie under a few tons of concrete?”

“Evan. I was supposed to help you.”

“With a huge bump on your skull, you couldn't even think straight,” Evan replies, squeezing Tommy's hand. “Don't blame yourself for something you could neither have foreseen nor prevented.”

It feels like he isn't just talking about what happened today (yesterday?). There's more inside Tommy he needs to work through, and his boyfriend has only seen a glimpse of it. It's just strange that Evan, of all people, is the voice of reason right now.

“I'm still sorry," he says. “That I had to leave you alone.”

“I get that,” Evan replies gently. “Can't say that wasn't scary, because it was. And, Tommy…”

He falters, looking uncertain. Suddenly, he appears very young, and somehow very small in this bed despite his size. 

“There's more I'm afraid of. Even of telling you about it.”

Tommy almost tears off his IV tube in an attempt to put both hands around Evans. They make an odd couple, but he wouldn’t change a thing. Well, apart from the recurring dying theme, that is. 

“You shouldn't,” he says, “you can tell me anything. We're in this together, remember? Partners.”

“Partners,” Evan huffs, now with a hint of his cheerful self in his voice, “there has to be a better term.”

“Lovers? Boyfriends? Life stage companions?”

“Very funny,” Evan replies, tapping the side of the bed next to him. “Come here.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, “Evan, I'm 6’2". I don’t fit in that bed.” “We’re the same height, and I do fit in that bed.”

“Next to you, I mean.”

“You just essentially said you belong next to me,” Evan stubbornly returns. “Lie down.”

Tommy sighs, but there's nowhere else he'd rather be anyway. Evan carefully slides to the edge and Tommy squeezes in next to him. That's actually quite pleasant. Narrow, yes, but… nice. Maybe just because the painkillers start to wear off. He yawns.

“Great, I have a soporific effect,” says Evan.

“We're in a hospital,” mumbles Tommy. "And you wanted to tell me something, remember?”

“Not just now. I think I need to be a bit more awake for this. Is that okay?”

“We'll go at your pace, Evan. That's always okay.”

“Thank you,” he voices, quite seriously. Tommy doesn’t answer, and as he softly nudges him, Buck shakes his head. “Have you just fallen asleep on me?”

Maddie returns ten minutes later, only to find them smiling, fingers entwined – and both sleeping soundly.  

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 6 Helicopter crash

All the Pain, Chapter 6 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): Still trapped under the rubble, Buck's body is giving in. | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2) (-> Chapter 3) (-> Chapter 4) (-> Chapter 5)

There's a traffic accident on the interstate at 2 a.m., and it's bad.

Six cars wedged into each other, plus a burning truck loaded with pork halves, half a mile of destroyed guardrail and a bunch of meat spread across the highway. One dead, a dozen injured. It's a battlefield with three units of firefighters plus air support to sort everything out. The helicopter is mainly used to monitor traffic, while several police units clear up the chaos on the streets. 

The 132, 217 and 118 are in operation. It's never easy to coordinate several task forces, but tonight, all captains quickly agree on Bobby because he's the oldest and has the most experience. Work runs smoothly, as if it were the catastrophe itself that welds everyone together – and often enough, it is. It's not easy, but every injured driver is freed from their wreck, and the paramedics quickly form a triage. 

The accident is still a difficult piece of work, keeping them busy for several hours. It’s long after the last injured was taken away in an ambulance that the first responders get to pack up. Adrenaline will soon fade, and once they’re back in station, they’ll be exhausted. They will still stay a bit longer to talk about what happened, Bobby will make sure of that. Captain Shore, who recently took over Harbor Station, shakes hands with him after radioing air support that the mission is over. 

“Very good work tonight,” says Bobby, and he means it. 

“Likewise, Captain Nash,” Shore replies with a smile. “Hold on a second...”

She taps her radio again and repeats her message, “Air Support, do you copy? Operation completed.”

The radio crackles into silence, which is admittedly unusual; it’s protocol to answer every radio message. Bobby and Shore gaze up into a night sky illuminated only by a few stars, but it’s empty of helicopters.

Hen, who’s loading the last emergency bag into the fire truck, asks, “Is Tommy on duty today?”

“You think he flew straight home to his boyfriend?” Chimney replies with a laugh, about to get into the vehicle. “He's off tonight, why do you think Buck was so keen to swap shifts?”

“It's Andrews, not Tommy,” Shore confirms, repeating her radio message once again. “But none of my pilots would return to base without confirming order. I swear, if it’s that gremlin technology again…”

“Dispatch, has air support reported back?” Bobby asks into his radio.

“Negative. Is this about the highway accident? Can't you get through to air support?”

“Does that happen sometimes?” Bobby asks Captain Shore, and she nods. 

“Harbor got a whole bunch of new tech gimmicks, but they keep breaking down.” Then she speaks into her radio again, “Dispatch, try to reach air support for me, please.”

She gives the helicopter’s labeling number and its last known position before turning back to Bobby with a grim face.

“Williams has been blowing me off for weeks, I keep trying to reach her. We can't work like this, not with devices that...” 

“Captain Shore, your helicopter has disappeared from our radar,” dispatch reports. It’s Josh’s rookie, Chrissy, the incredulity dripping from her voice betraying her inexperience. 

“What do you mean, disappeared?” Shore almost shouts into the radio.

“Hold on. Confirming last position according to your information, but no radio contact for about an hour, and the signal can no longer be found.”

“Does the GPS also cause problems?” asks Bobby, frowning.

“No,” replies Shore, ”but it can be difficult to locate, depending on the weather. Or when it’s blocked by trees...”

“You mean in the event of a crash,” says Hen, who, like the rest of Bobby's crew, has now stepped closer. 

“We would have noticed a crash,” Bobby remarks.

“We've been pretty busy,” Chimney interjects. “If the last signal was an hour ago, the helicopter could be practically anywhere now.”

“Why would it move away from the scene?”

“That's at the pilot's discretion,” Captain Shore explains. “There may well be reasons that are not so obvious to us down here.” 

“And air traffic control?” asks Hen, but Shore shakes her head, “Helicopters only have to sign in and out at their control centers. They don't fly anywhere near the altitude of airplanes, so they’re usually not subject to air traffic control.”

“But there's probably an app for that,” says Bobby. “To monitor helicopter traffic?”

“True. Never used it, though. I assume he’s just returned to Harbor.”

“Captain,” Hen reasons, obviously not convinced, “at least he would have called then, even if the radios were down. Especially then.”

“I believe you also think he crashed, Captain,” Chimney says, rummaging for his phone. 

“Even if I did,” she returns with doubt in her voice, “somebody would have noticed a crash.”

“This is L.A., I’ve seen tourists mistake an earthquake for a movie event. What’s the name of this app?”

“Captain Shore?” It’s dispatch again. They can hear it’s another voice now, Josh, who’s obviously has taken over the call. Shore clutches her radio and holds out a hand to Chimney, mouthing wait. “I think I know where your helicopter may be.”

 ●·○·●·○·●·○·●·○·●●·○·●·○·●·○·●·○·●

Buck is in a cocoon, just away from all the security that normally comes with it. 

There's nothing cozy or soft in his stone prison. He’s cut off from the world around him, so it might as well have gone under without him realizing it. Buck has been counting the seconds since Tommy left, but his mind keeps wandering, and it's getting harder to breathe. 

Maybe that's just it. Maybe the ceiling will collapse completely before Tommy manages to get help. Or perhaps the pain and blood loss will reach the point where his body can no longer handle either. Buck never delved too deeply into the tasks of paramedics. He knows the basics, but he's nothing more than an amateur who happened to help a baby into the world once, on his own couch. Apart from that, he knows just enough to realize things are not exactly looking good for him. He's not quite sure if his life is hanging by a thread, but his consciousness certainly is – he feels dizzy now even lying down, and the pain seems to have taken over his whole body, even in his head. He just wants to close his eyes for a minute. 

Perhaps the worst thing is the doubt. Buck is confused and hurt, but he's seen Tommy's face, and the man is guaranteed to have a concussion, if not worse. There's nothing Buck wants less than Tommy walking around in this state, but there's also nothing he could have done to stop him. He’s in crisis mode, something Buck knows all too well himself. Buck can only lie here, breathe in the dust and hope that Tommy still knows what he's doing, even with a bleeding skull.

He can't keep his eyes open. 

There's a helicopter not far above the house; it was approaching as they pulled into the driveway.

“Pretty low,” Tommy says with that admirable connoisseur's look, but Buck is more interested in him than in the helicopter, and he can hardly wait for the man to unlock the door. 

Once inside, he pushes him against the door, and the bag with the takeaway lands carelessly on the floor as Buck searches for Tommy's lips. He can never get enough of this. 

The kiss lasts just long enough to rasp up his voice as he says, “Dinner's getting cold. I'm gonna wash my hands real quick.”

“Really, Evan?” groans Tommy, but he picks up the bag as they pull away from each other. “One wonders what you like more, dim sum or your boyfriend.”

“I'll show you when I get back,” Buck grins and vanishes into the bathroom. 

He thinks he hears Tommy say, “That doesn't sound good at all,” but that doesn’t make any sense. He also hears sirens. Funny, Buck thinks, a lot of firemen claim that they can tell the difference between the sirens on their own fire engines and those on others, and that's actually nonsense because the department buys the same ones for every station. This one, however, totally sounds like the 118. What would they be doing at Tommy’s place? Buck leans on the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. 

There’s no reflection, and it startles him. He turns around, but there’s also no door anymore, which is quite confusing. Because if there’s no door, where’s Chimney’s voice coming from, calling his name?

“Buck! Open your eyes for me, will you?”

I didn't realize I had closed them, Buck thinks as he cracks his eyes open. Strangely enough, it's not so dark now. Maybe he’s just been here for a very, very long time, long enough for a new day to have passed its zenith. A second later, he realizes that headlights are illuminating his surroundings. Chimney kneels in the remains of the blue tiles and stones that were once the walls of Tommy's bathroom. He looks so serious, thinks Buck.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. Let me see if I can hook you up on an IV, and then we'll get you out of there, yeah?”

Buck wonders, very briefly, why it’s not Hen doing this, but the answer is more logical than his aching head should be capable of: Chimney is smaller and more agile, and unlike Tommy, he actually manages to reach Buck. 

“Tommy,” he says as he tries to look at Chimney's concentrated face, not really feeling what he's doing anyway. “Where's Tommy?” 

“We'll take care of that once we got you out of here, all right? Let me check your vitals.”

“But he-he called you, didn't he?” asks Buck.

“Called us?” 

His brother-in-law's face is interesting when he's confused, Buck finds. His eyebrows almost creep into his hairline, as they do now.

“No, Buckaroo. We were looking for a missing helicopter, and the only call dispatch got was from one of Tommy's neighbors. Nobody really took it seriously, unfortunately,” Chimney says as he works on Buck. Somehow, that doesn’t explain anything.

“What helicopter?” asks Buck, confused. “Tommy wasn't in a helicopter.”

“Pretty sure he wasn't. It's a long and strange story, and I'll tell you all about it as soon as we get you out of here. Okay, I think we can try now…”

“Wait,” Buck interrupts him urgently, “where's Tommy?”

Bobby's face shifts next to Chimney's. He’s visibly having a harder time squeezing into this narrow space.

“We'll find him, don't worry, Buck,” he soothes. “Let's help you first, all right?”

“No, no, you don't understand,” Buck returns with urge, voice muffled with dust in his throat. If he waits a second longer, he'll suffocate and won't have time to tell them what they need to know. 

“Blood pressure's dropping,” someone says, and then there’s Chimney's voice from somewhere, “Calm down. It's going to be okay.”

“It's not," Buck chokes, “It's not gonna be okay. Tommy ran out to get help. He had a head injury. You must...”

“Buck? Hey. Stay awake, kid.”

“... find him,” he says, and then nothing more. 

(this chapter was beta-read by @lavenderleahy, thank you!)

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 5 Concussion

All the Pain, Chapter 5 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): Tommy has a concussion, and all is not it seems to be. Hallucinations, vomiting. | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2) (-> Chapter 3) (-> Chapter 4)

Later, Tommy won't be able to remember how he staggered out of the house.

Or what's left of it. There is still something left, but he doesn't know that yet. The darkness is no longer quite so oppressive because he can see a few stars above him. The house, however, is surrounded by a cloud of smoke and dust. It's surreal, like in a dream. Tommy takes a few steps, looks back, staggers on and looks back again, but none of it seems to become any more real. 

His eyes hurt. Perhaps these are, poetically speaking, unshed tears. It's probably more the smoke and all the dust that's on his retinas, but perhaps it's appropriate to mourn this house. It was nothing special, but it was his. And Evan liked it. Evan, he remembers, who is now lying under the rubble of Tommy's bathroom and who desperately needs help. It's time to look away from the debris, to look ahead for rescue. Tommy knows that's an euphemism. It's hard to organize his thoughts or concentrate on anything.

One last look. He can't see any fire, but where there's smoke, there's fire, pretty sure; you don't have to be a firefighter to know that. Something seems to be lying at the back of the house, on or near the garage, as if something had fallen from the sky and chosen his house, of all places, to rest upon. Was it an earthquake after all? A storm that blew something over from the neighborhood? The weather forecast didn't say anything. Tommy doesn't really recognize what’s lying there, either. For a moment, the impulse to turn back to the ruins of his house is very strong. Because he doesn't recognize it from here, which is kind of strange, after all, as a pilot he needs a flawless vision. There's just something in his eyes, and when he strokes them, his fingers are wet. Maybe he has shed a tear over all this crap after all. Or maybe it's blood. Didn't Evan say he was bleeding?

Evan. The thought strikes him like a bolt of lightning, which is somewhat ironic. Tommy will have to tell him about it later, when everything is all right again. There's a joke in this, isn't there? Something-something about a lighting strike. As he trots on, the thought is lost.

It’s only at the edge of the forest, the first sparse foothills of vegetation, that Tommy turns around once more. It's actually strange, he thinks as he looks at the smoking remains of his house, that he has settled at the edge of the woods. A firefighter playing with fire, so to speak – forest fires are a real danger in California, especially in the summer months. For a moment, he stands there no longer knowing why he’s here. He feels a little dizzy and stretches out his hand to hold on to a tree. The bark is crumbling under his palm, it has been dry recently. 

The house. He needs to get help for Evan.

Tommy shakes his head, as if to organize his thoughts, but it hurts, and it doesn't help one bit. It's all a bit confusing, and it's all a bit much. He's lost a lot back there, and if he doesn't hurry, he'll lose the most important thing in his life too. Why did he walk so far? What did he want here? 

Tommy fumbles for the phone, it's still in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at it as if he doesn't even know what it's for anymore. Then he remembers. He had no signal in the house (in the ruins). But out here... Tommy presses the buttons, but nothing happens. He shakes the phone as if it would do any good and stares at it in disbelief. Is it broken? 

“Hey,” someone shouts, “hey, Sir! Please help me!”

Tommy slowly turns towards the forest. Someone is coming from there, limping forward, it's a bit of a blur. Tommy wipes his eyes again, he still seems to be bleeding, but he doesn't even know why anymore. 

“What's going on?” he asks.

That is a complex question, but not for the man stumbling out of the forest. The guy is limping and bleeding from his forehead. He looks kind of familiar to Tommy, but it's still pretty dark, and Tommy somehow just can't see properly. This is becoming increasingly frustrating.

“A fire,” says the stranger. “Do you have a signal?”

“No,” Tommy replies regretfully, waving the phone in his hand. “But I'm a firefighter. Where's the fire?”

The man stops, leans forward and rests his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A good-looking guy, apart from the fact that his forehead and legs are bleeding, and he’s quite tall and beefy. The type of guy you should expect to handle with an emergency by himself. Instead, he ran away to get help, which is probably the more reasonable way, especially if there’s a fire.

“Fireman, huh?” says the guy, ”great, but without tools... Isn't there a house back there? We could ask for help.”

“There used to be a house. I need help myself,” says Tommy, as if he's just now remembering. “My boyfriend, he's trapped...”

“Well, mine is too. A friend, I mean, not my boyfriend. Guess I’m straight.”

The man lets out a strange laugh, and Tommy feels a cold shiver creep down his spine. Something is odd here, a heartbeat off track. But he can’t put his finger on it. All he knows is that someone needs help. Now it seems to be two people already, and he's in the middle, it seems to be a kind of stalemate.

“Where's the fire?” he asks, more urgently.

“Back there, by the road,” says the stranger, pointing vaguely behind him. “He's trapped in a car.”

There really is a street back there, Tommy knows that much, the main road. He lives close to a feeder road.

“You could have stopped another car. Or call the fire department,” Tommy points out. 

“I've tried everything. It's the middle of the night, damn it. Are you coming now?”

Tommy feels his legs start to move, although the movement doesn't reach his brain until a moment later. He’s on autopilot now, because there’s been an accident, there’s a fire and someone’s trapped. Evan is trapped, too, but he can’t help him, he needs a working phone. Maybe the main road is his best chance, there will be cars, right? Even if that guy – what even is his name? – says he couldn’t stop one, that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Tommy is sure he can’t save the guy’s friend. If he’s trapped in a burning car, there’s not much he can do, he’s probably already dead. It’s a weirdly disconnected thought, but Tommy knows why. Because Evan is still alive, and he can still help him. 

“So, a boyfriend, eh?” says the man, almost in a conversational tone, as they wander through the dark forest. “Been together for long?”

“Only a couple of months,” Tommy returns.

“That's longer than I've ever been with a woman. Which probably says something about me. And… is he worth it?”

That’s a weird question from a stranger, a stranger he’s walking through the woods with. But that's exactly the point, isn't it? The question of whether something is worth the risk. Tommy knows his way around here, he would probably find the road in his sleep, and although his head hurts and he has trouble looking straight ahead, he knows that there must be a reason why he didn't walk in the other direction. Or it is simply coincidence. But now it's too late, because now he's met this guy, and Tommy is a first responder, he would never dodge a call for help.

“He is,” he replies, because it's true. It was selfish thoughts as he pondered about whether this man's friend could still be saved and that he was actually just running to the road to get help for Evan. More selfish than perhaps ever before in his life. 

“I think I can see the road.”

The stranger points ahead, and sure enough, the trees thin out again. The blackness of the night has given way to a flat gray. The road must be behind the trees, it's close.

“I don't see any fire,” says Tommy.

“I see it,” goes the guy, and suddenly, he pushes Tommy forward. “Hurry up.”

“All right,” says Tommy, confused. “Just give me a minute, I feel kind of sick.”

He leans on a tree, more clinging to it. His stomach revolts, there’s bile in his mouth. 

“It'll be fine,” says the man. “Go on.”

Somehow, Tommy does indeed keep walking. If he doesn't, he knows he's going to puke, and then what? Who's going to help this guy, who's going to help Evan if he doesn't pull himself together? Tommy stumbles out of the woods and is suddenly standing on the main road. He takes a step back, he can hardly believe it himself, but there’s solid asphalt beneath him again. Just the road, right and left, empty and gray like the sky that announces the morning. 

“Where's the car?” he asks as he turns around. 

The guy is no longer behind him. Where did he go? As if he were sleepwalking, Tommy steps into the middle of the road. Maybe it is a dream after all. 

“Just keep walking.”

Tommy turns around again, but there's no one there. Was there ever? Is anything real? Fear creeps up inside him, leaves his skin clammy. Maybe he’s going insane. 

“There’s the car,” says the invisible voice, and Tommy hears a sound, almost a sob. It’s himself, because what is he to do if he’s imagining things? What is happening?

He looks ahead. A last, sane thought in his brain tells him that the cars are heading towards the city from there. It is early morning. It's a commuter road, isn't it? And those… those are spotlights. There’s a car on the road, and it’s coming towards him. The lights blind him, and his eyes hurt so much, but Tommy is rowing his arms. He thinks he's calling something too, and maybe the next sound is squealing tires. There's someone there, someone is talking, aren’t they? Tommy can barely hear it. He's choking, everything is on fire now, and he's puking his guts out on the middle of the road. 

Maybe there is a fire, and it's consuming him from the inside. It's not quite right, but it's not quite wrong either. Because it’s true. Whatever’s going on, Tommy’s world is on fire somehow. For whatever reason, he's suddenly on his back, and there are stars above him; stars, slowly fading into the pale grey of the morning. There's no road beneath him, there's only soil.

He's alone. This feels wrong. Because if there really is a fire somewhere, then he has to do something about it. Evan is still there. He can't lose him. There's still so much... so much he needs to tell him.

It's the last thing on Tommy's mind before the sky suddenly decides that it's nightfall after all, and the darkness engulfs him.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 4 Chronic pain

All the Pain, Chapter 4 | Read on AO3 | In this chapter (CW): Buck is pondering his chronic pain (and yes, he's still under the rubble) | @bucktommywhumpweek

(-> Chapter 1) (-> Chapter 2) (-> Chapter 3)

In the weeks following the incident with the fire engine that crushed his leg, Buck had a lot of time to think. They were rarely nice thoughts. There was a violent fear in him, which was always mixed with anger, mostly anger about this twisted destiny. He didn't deserve any of this pain and struggle, and he hadn't signed up for any of it when he decided to take this job.

Except he had, somehow.

Pain was an immediate part of it all. Buck had learned that the hard way, by caring too much and by being too reckless. But there was a huge difference between a few scratches or mild smoke inhalation and... this.

He spent many days on the couch, it being the center of his life for weeks because he could hardly get up to make the unnecessary effort to climb the stairs to his bed. So he would sit there when he came home from physical therapy, aching and exhausted; his head too hyper to sleep and his leg too flamed up to give rest. Nobody told you about the less exciting parts of the job, the real strains. About what happened afterwards, after the hospital, where the nurses praised you as a hero and you were told that you had a good chance to fully recover because you were young and strong.

But it still was only a chance, not a guarantee.

And even if the pain was never again as strong as it was during those few minutes under the truck (or under a pile of stone that used to be a roof), it was always there, and it was hard. Some days he just sat there, massaging his thigh just above the cast, thinking about what would happen to him if it didn't all turn out well.

Maddie cut him off every time he brought up the subject, “Evan,” she said sternly, “it has already ended well, because you’re still alive.”

That was true, and the witness to this was the pain, now his constant companion. Day and night, Buck’s thoughts spiraled around what was worse: that he hurt, for weeks on end, or that he didn’t know what would happen afterwards. When he was finally healed. He wasn’t even sure what healing meant in his case. The ability to walk normally at some point or the actual chance to return to work?

The road to recovery was a long one, and it was uncertain, and Buck wasn’t prepared for the worst to come.

The pain eventually subsided, gradually becoming less and less, and one day Buck was standing safely on his both legs, and the suffering was just a memory. It was possible to heal, it was possible to work normally again – well, with a few stumbling blocks along the way, but that was on him. Those dreary days on the couch, staring angrily at the useless staircase, were forgotten, just like his gloomy thoughts about a future outside the firehouse.

Then, one day, when the increasingly pale scar seemed to be the only nasty reminder of a very bad day, it began to hurt. 

“Happens sometimes,” Bobby said, surprising him in the break room as he stroked his thigh thoughtfully. "When the seasons change, or sometimes even just on a rainy day. And sometimes, just because.”

“Just because?” Buck had asked, unbelieving, and Bobby had shrugged, smiling a wistful smile.

Only it wasn’t just the weather. Over the years, it was more and more “just because.” That’s also what his doctors said: that there was no real cause. It sometimes just happened – a hypersensitivity, a malfunction, and there was not much anybody could do.

It’s true, Buck had thought a lot about a future outside the firehouse. He’d just never spared a thought about a future of chronic pain. 

And now Buck is lying under a pile of rubble that used to be Tommy's ceiling – yes, he remembers. Not everything, but at least that: a perfectly normal evening, and it seems turned to ashes. This rubble crushes his legs, and the memory of the pain of that fateful day is back because it’s no longer a memory. It’s a never-ending nightmare, and he’s not sure he can take it this time.

The pain never really left him, it gave him just enough breathing space, and when Buck thought he was fine, it crushed him again. There’s no solution, because painkillers only help to a limited extent with chronic pain, and the procedure suggested by one of the doctors is experimental and possibly dangerous. The days when the pain flares up, like a far-too-old candle that just wouldn't give up, become more difficult to cope with.

All of this, all over again? More pain on top of this, and more horrible memories to haunt his sleep? The thought is overwhelming, it takes his breath away. There was a time when he would have welcomed the pain as a kind of redemption for all that he had failed in. But now? This is his life, his calling even. It’s impossible to imagine him, a guy who’s rescuing people from burning houses going back to a carefree life on the beach, mixing cocktails. Everything he’d done before being a firefighter, that had all just been jobs to distract his mind from the question of what he actually wanted. But he knows what he wants, now he knows. He’s got a fulfilling career and a boyfriend he adores. Buck is happy, and maybe that’s why the universe has decided to throw spokes in his wheels.

It didn’t need to outright crush him, though.

While the darkness around him slowly gives way to a pale gray, heralding dawn, Buck thinks with frightening clarity that it isn’t the pain alone that’s chronic. All the memories of what had happened back then are just as bad, and like the pain, they keep coming back. Sometimes, when the scar hurts particularly badly, so much so that he thinks it must swell up in an annoying red – which it never does – he's under that truck again, feeling the pressure of tons of steel. The memories are linked to the pain, which is why he usually avoids anything that takes him back to that day. That had been hard work – after all, his leg had been stuck under the fire engine which he used every day. In the end, it was necessary, Buck couldn't afford to be constantly disturbed by a siren or the engine’s red color. So it only happens very occasionally, perhaps because an oil spill on the road gives off a penetrating smell, like when he had been lying helplessly on the street with this smell in his nose. Then the pain returns, shooting through his leg and straight into his mind.

Despite everything, he had it under control, for a very long time.

There are many very good days, quite a few fine days and a few not so great ones. And then there are bad days, and Buck suddenly realizes that not even Tommy knows about them yet. It's absurd, but right now, as he lies under the rubble, unable to do anything but stare at the too-close ceiling, Buck thinks Tommy should know. He should know that Buck sometimes wakes up at night because his leg hurts, because either the memory stole into his dreams or the dreams brought up the memory. Because maybe it's not over, it's never over. Maybe this new injury is so bad that he will have to live with the pain forever, all the time.

Tommy should know that.

Buck never wanted to be a burden, because being born a disappointment was bad enough. He doesn't want that now either. The mere thought causes tears to well up in his eyes, and he angrily tries to push them back.

Dust is on his lips and his tongue, far too dry, is unable to remove it. This tiny space, which was only created by chance and keeps him alive, seems to be getting smaller by the minute. But it's not just the dusty air and sheer will that keeps him alive. It’s the thought of Tommy. His mind is only focusing on him now, repeating he needs to know over and over again.

There’s still so much he needs to tell him.

[bibuckkinard]

In from the Cold-Part 11 of The Name of the Game

Heya! This is part 11 of "The Name of the Game," but it's also day 3 of @bucktommywhumpweek: forced to leave the other behind. I hope you guys like it!

bucktommy - Words: 3.1k - Rating: Teen - complete

He and Evan had flown to Minnesota for the weekend to catch up with an old Army buddy. They’d flown into MSP International Airport, then driven another two and a half hours north to the beautiful Lake Superior city of Duluth. It was gorgeous in September, if a little cold, and overall, Tommy is glad they made the trip. Even though they’ve been married for nearly six months now, they haven’t had many chances to get away together.

Or: Buck and Tommy get into an accident while in Minnesota.

Read on Ao3