#this has also been extremely joss'd

[rcmclachlan]

"You've got to be joking." Buck reaches up and swats at the yellow clouding the periphery of his vision, which yields the very satisfying sound of metal jangling and the less awesome feeling of whacking the side of his pinky against something with a sharp edge. 

"I've never joked about anything in my life," Tommy lies, then lifts the measuring tape to Buck's cheek. 

Buck pushes the stupid thing away again and cups his hand over his cheek. "Now that's funny."

"Shouldn't be. I just said I don't joke. Evan, put your hand down, don't touch it." 

Making a face, Buck bats at the measuring tape again. 

Tommy makes a face right back. "Stop trying to spread the plague for a second and hold still. That's an order, Buckley."

"That's not what you said last night," Buck snarks, but he obediently tilts his head up and is only a little huffy about it. He also tucks his hands between his knees so he doesn't give into the temptation of smacking the thing away again, or reaching out to twist one of Tommy's nipples through his shirt for the simple thrill of being a brat.

"But it is what I said on Monday night," Tommy muses. His tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth as he brings his other hand—gloved, the big baby—to gently steady the tape just under the boil on Buck's face. 

Even as pain briefly flares at the suggestion of something touching whatever has taken residence on his cheek, heat blooms in Buck's belly at the memory of Monday night. Monday night was good. Really good. He glances down at his hands, still safely held between his knees, and mourns for the hundredth time that the red lines from the ropes have completely faded. Next time, he'll make sure Tommy ties them tight enough to leave a mark that lasts. 

"So? Are you planning to hang a picture or something? Do we need to get a stud finder?"

"I have no problem finding studs on my own, thanks," Tommy says, then pokes Buck's forehead with a grin. "Look, there's one."

He's so charming. Buck wants to hate it so much, but all he can do is laugh and try to smack him again. Tommy retreats to a safe distance a foot away and his smug little smile gives way to concern. Buck already doesn't like what he's about to say. 

"That thing is almost three inches wide."

"W-Wait, seriously? That's like the size of a frickin' giant weta!" Buck reaches up to touch the thing on his cheek, which pulls painfully just from talking. 

"I'll make sure to use the arthropodic unit of measurement from now on." This time it's Tommy who smacks his wrist. "Evan, I'm serious, don't touch it. Actually, go wash your hands right now. I'm calling Eddie."

Buck drops his head to the back of the couch with a groan. "There's no reason to call Eddie! It's not a huge deal, okay? I was lightly cursed. Josh says I just need to take a bath in hyssop, vetiver, and wormwood." 

There's a metaphysical supply store near Sunset Boulevard that has everything he needs in stock. The employee who answered the phone was very helpful, and they made a good case for buying something called moldavite. 

The look Tommy levels at him is so incredulous that Buck kind of wants to take a picture of him and see if it'll go viral as the next big reaction meme. 

"Evan." Oooh, that's not one of the good 'Evan's. "No offense to Josh, but those are soup ingredients. I'm getting a second opinion. From a medical professional."

As if to punctuate that, Tommy shucks his gloves and pulls out his phone. Buck glowers at him and calls upon the days of Trojans' football plays past, because his coach always said his offensive tackle was a thing of beauty. There is no way Eddie can know that the little red dot from yesterday has ballooned into a monster, and he has no qualms about getting physical to stop that call from going through. 

But something must give him away—maybe the way he plants his feet on the floor, or how he braces his shoulders a little—because Tommy straightens up to his full height, points right at Buck's chest like he's about to cast his own curse, and intones, "Don't make me call Hen."

Buck collapses back against the couch like he's been shot. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I'll even make sure Howie's on the call. Do not test me."

"See if I ever suck your dick again," Buck mutters, even though saying it just feels like he's punishing himself, because his skill level has finally risen to meet his love for giving head. He's reached his final form of a human Dyson. It's moments like this that he wants to kick his own ass for not realizing he was bisexual sooner. He could've been sucking cock for years. Thankfully Tommy's dick is so big that choking on it feels like Buck's making up for all that lost time.

He tries to get a good sneer going but all it does is pull painfully at his cheek. He sucks air through clenched teeth. 

Bringing the phone to his ear, Tommy gives the sage nod of someone who just had their point proven and gestures at Buck's face. "There isn't a lot I wouldn't do for that mouth, but right now? That's not the threat you think it is."

This is so unfair.

"Hey, Eddie, you busy?" Tommy glances at Buck and his mouth twists into a sympathetic smile, even as he clutches his phone a little tighter. "I need your expertise. Well, Evan does."

"Evan does not!" Buck shouts.

Tommy rolls his eyes and turns his back, curling around the phone like he's about to start sharing state secrets. "Did you get a good look at his face when you were on shift yesterday?"

As a matter of fact, Eddie had gotten a look at it and declared it nothing more than a blind pimple, maybe an ingrown hair. And sure, it had been roughly the size of a pin head at the time, but it's honestly not that bad. 

"Uh, you could say that." Tommy pauses for a moment, listening to whatever Eddie's saying, and then spares Buck a glance over his shoulder. "I'm not sure 'infected' does it justice. It looks like it's seconds away from gaining sentience."

Buck grabs the throw pillow he's been sitting on and chucks it at him. 

"I appreciate it, man. See you soon." Tommy clicks his phone off and pockets it, turning around with a big, fake-ass smile. He's still stupidly hot. Buck throws another pillow at him on principle, which Tommy easily dodges. "He's on his way. He's even picking up lunch."

With a grumble, Buck throws himself sideways onto the couch and curls into the back of it. 

"You're pouting."

"You can't even see that," Buck pouts. "This is stupid. All I need is, like, a warm compress and Josh's curse-breaking bath bomb. And moldavite, I guess?"

Tommy heaves a sigh, and Buck tugs his hood until it covers his burning face, mortified. He knows he's being stupid about this, and if this were anyone else he'd have knocked them out and tossed them through the doors of First Presbyterian without a second thought, but this is different. And he hates that he's dragged Tommy into this and completely ruined all the plans they had for their shared 48 off, which was a scheduling gift from the gods and was going to involve so much sex and short rib. 

"Evan."

"Don't," Buck snaps, even though his name sounded gentle and sincere coming from Tommy's mouth. "I made this bed, right? I deserve to lay in it."

"Evan, you did nothing wrong."

When Tommy says it, he can almost believe it, but at the end of the day, Buck was the one who disturbed the spirit of poor Derek Bradley, age 57, murder victim from 1982 by opening his coffin and displaying him for three hundred kids to gawk at. To add insult to injury, Derek wasn't even the main attraction; Buck stuck him in the back with the paper mache spiders he got last minute at Party City. It's only right that Buck suffer for the indignity of being deemed a second rate decoration. Boils and pestilence seem fair in the grand scheme of things.

"I mean, I personally wouldn't have gotten Halloween decor off Facebook Marketplace," Tommy teases, then his voice sobers into bare earnestness, "but that doesn't mean you deserve boils and pestilence. It was just a freak thing. One that a medical professional can definitely handle."

Something gently begins stroking Buck's arm, making long, sweet sweeps, and all the muscles bunched in his back begin relaxing one by one until he's sinking into the cushions. Even when Buck's a general plague area, Tommy still can't stop himself from reaching out to touch. 

Warm with something it's way too soon to put a name to, Buck smiles and rolls over. And freezes. And looks down at the box of Kleenex in Tommy's hand, which he'd clearly been using to stroke Buck with. 

Whatever Tommy sees on Buck's face makes him crack a sheepish grin. "Hey, just because you don't deserve boils and pestilence doesn't mean you don't, you know, still have them."

Buck stares at him for a long, long time, and then finally says, "Kiss me."

"No."

"Kiss me, Thomas." Buck sits up, pushes himself to his feet, and then moans hauntingly, "Kiss meeee."

Snickering, eyes wide, Tommy shakes his head and takes a step back. "Ain't no way, Buckley. I'm ready to start calling that thing Marla."

It's got to be some movie reference, but Buck ignores it and shuffles around the coffee table, arms out the way in front of him like he's in Scooby Doo, groaning so loud it might actually wake the dead. "Kiiiiiissssss meeeeee."

Tommy's almost not quick enough to dodge him, mostly because he's laughing too hard, but he manages to vault over the chair behind him and make a break for the kitchen.

The ensuing chase only ends because Eddie eventually shows up, arms full of takeout from Fat Sal's Deli, and shouts over their cackling, "Oh fuck no, I did not sit through traffic on Highland Ave so I could be part of whatever this is! Get your asses down here or I'm leaving both of you to die!"