Chapter Text
"Hey, uh, Buckley. Can we talk?"
Chim doesn't call Buck, Buckley unless he's extremely pissed at him and when that happens, he can usually see it on the man's face.
Instead, he looks ill and everyone can see it. Buck runs through the possibilities. It's not about Maddie or the kids because he would still call him Buck, not Buckley. Which means that Captain Han is asking for a meeting, not Chim.
Nobody hides their stares, even given the perfect opportunity to ignore the tense standoff between the in-laws. Hen keeps her book open but her gaze is tilted to observe both men closely through her glasses. Eddie purses his lips over the sucker he's been steadily working on.
Buck hasn't stood from the couch even if twisting his back to stare at Chimney is far from comfortable.
"Yeah."
"In the office?" He gestures with his thumb to the stairs.
The awkwardness of the interaction gives way to a momentary twinge of lingering grief. Chimney never refers to it as his office, only the office.
Buck spares one last glance over to their friends before following his Captain downstairs to the office.
Chimney waits for him to sit before closing the door behind them.
He hadn't made many changes since officially accepting the title. As far as Buck and Maddie were able to glean from family dinners, Chimney was fully on board with being the 118's captain. What he struggled with was seemingly erasing Bobby, even if the important things were safely tucked away at Athena's. It just left the office empty, save for a few photos of Maddie and the kids on the shelves.
"You didn't knock my sister up again, right?" Buck rubs his knees, trying to force warmth into his chuckle. The tension, however, remains thick and uncut.
"No." Chimney doesn't return his laugh. His friend inhales deeply, eyes staring at the various folders and papers in front of him. He picks one up and rearranges its contents before setting it back down slightly to his left.
"Do you remember when the tsunami took out the 136 and they temporarily reassigned everyone?"
Buck bites his tongue. He probably doesn't remember as well as say…Eddie, Lena Bosko's time at the 118. A lingering guilt and bitterness asks that Buck remind Chimney that he wasn't there so why should he remember the temporary team. However, he remembers all too clearly her name taped over his own.
"Yes."
"Well, that flooding a few weeks ago hit the 217. They were set to be operational after a day or two but the city found some structural damage."
Buck wishes he was as dumb as some people thought he was because all these puzzle pieces fit very cleanly together.
"We don't do air operations." Buck responds like he has any say in the matter. Like this simple fact will change what Chimney hasn't actually told him.
But he does confirm it, "Tommy is also a firefighter and already knows the 118. It'll only be a few weeks."
"But why?"
"Chief Simpson thought it would be an easier transition for everybody."
Buck grips his knees, his palms suddenly too fried to continue self-soothing.
"Is it going to be a problem, Buck?"
He's used to that question being colored with derision, those words hiding the real question, "Are you going to be a problem, Buck?" But Chimney's eyes are down turned, his lips pinched with concern. Has he realized that he's copied Maddie's patented, Buck Face, the face reserved for him, her baby brother? He wishes it were uncomfortable to see it on Chimney's face.
"It's just a few weeks, right? It'll be fine."
+×+×+
It is not fine. It is far from fine.
It started out okay. His troll of an ex-boyfriend didn't even need to be in his vicinity because Buck had Ravi. Reliable Ravi. On calls, it was always the two of them, Chimney seemingly going out of his way to make sure Buck didn't even have to see 'Kinard' on anyone's turnouts.
But Reliable Ravi, reliably has a quota on how much Buck he can handle. And he doesn't blame him because yes, Buck knows he's been snappy. He almost called him Probie two days into Tommy being back at the 118. Ravi dips out on Buck whenever he's allowed. This is totally fine. He doesn't struggle to keep his eyes off his ex-boyfriend at all. It is not his fault that Tommy seems to always be looking at him.
Eddie punches his shoulder.
"Less staring, more window washing." He admonishes.
Much like in the field, Chimney was diligent in making sure Tommy's chores never lined up with Buck's.
He sprays the locker room wall down with more cleaner, stepping aside to let Eddie wipe the squeegee across the plane of glass. "He's always staring at me. He broke up with me."
"And you're always staring at him." Eddie says, "Maybe he feels someone creeping on him." He widens his eyes comically.
Buck doesn't say anything.
"Look, I can't imagine what it's like working with your ex, but you can't let him get in your head."
Tommy has turned his back to them. Is he imagining the tense hold of his shoulders? Are they pinched closer to his ears? He's on the complete other side of the bay, really outside the station, cleaning one of their aid cars. His head twitches, like he's considering looking at Buck again.
Or maybe Eddie's right and he's being creepy.
But what Eddie doesn't know is that Tommy is already deeply embedded into Buck's head. He's so acutely aware of every interaction he takes with Eddie in front of Tommy. Even now he knows that their shoulders are brushing whenever they shift positions. Eddie doesn't say anything, but the little Tommy in Buck's head does. Competition. Too Close. That disgusting little scoff when he insisted that Eddie was straight. Yeah, well, Buck has heard stories of some of the shit Tommy pulled while originally at the 118. Maybe he shouldn't be throwing stones at Buck's relationships when he spent so much time being a dick in his.
Tommy shuts the hose off and as he's rolling it, he looks at Buck once again.
He takes a single step away from Eddie.
×+×+×
Tommy has been avoiding the bunk room. Buck's new problem, he can't sleep, so the bunk room is his prison. He really tried, but the day wasn't physically taxing enough to keep his brain from jumping from thought to thought. Did he spend enough time with the others to make up for time spent with Eddie? Was there too much touching? Did Buck initiate any of it?
He tosses and turns, all too aware of two distinct people. The first is Eddie to his left, snoring softly as he shoves his face into the pillow. The second is Tommy, upstairs in the loft. Normally, Buck would head up those stairs and hang out until his brain was quiet enough to let him rest. But he can't do that because Tommy is up there.
But he can't sleep here. Night sweat is clinging to his skin. The sheets are twisted around his body.
How does Tommy get to keep coming into his space and ruining it for him? His loft, Eddie's house, and now his own station. And what does sitting down here — questioning everything he does — even do for him? It proves that Tommy is right, A part of him that sounds suspiciously like Maddie says. But Tommy isn't right.
He doesn't bother putting any shoes on, letting his socks absorb the sounds of his steps. He finds himself still expecting Tommy's gaze at the top of the steps. Instead he's sitting on the couch, gaze on his phone. Buck's eye twitches.
"You're going to give yourself a migraine." Buck's voice echoes Tommy's so easily.
Some satisfaction warms Buck's cheeks at the way Tommy jumps. It's the first thing he's said to him since Bobby died. Tommy tried to reach out a few times, mainly condolences. Certainly more than when they'd been broken up because he was too scared of Eddie. His hands curl into fists inside his hoodie pocket.
"Evan, hey." Like they haven't been staring at each other for almost a week straight. "Can't sleep?"
Buck takes the farthest seat possible, "Obviously."
"Right." He rests his elbows on his knees, dropping his head down. The couch presses sharply into Buck's tailbone. Never in his life could he ever feel the springs, but they bite into him. He swears he can hear them squeak every time he shifts. But Tommy doesn't tell him to stop so it's maybe not that noticeable.
"Look, Evan…"
"Do you want some hot chocolate?" He does not want a conversation right now. Not with Tommy.
"I think we should talk. Really talk."
"Why?" Buck feels the snap of the single syllable on his tongue. "Every time we talk, Tommy, it's just you dismissing everything I think and feel."
That…isn't what he was expecting to say. The admonishment seems to catch Tommy off guard as much as it does him.
"That's not-"
"It is!" Buck shoots to his feet. Some part of him is proud that he's not kneeling at Tommy's feet, waiting for his attention and love. In fact, that pride guides his arms out, saying 'I'm not backing down.'
"I told you I wanted you to move in but then you told me I wasn't gay enough for you. I told you that I'm not in love with my best friend-"
"You never said that, Evan." Tommy stays seated, like he's so calm. Because he just knows everything, right?
"I did."
"No," he finally snaps, "You made excuses."
That knocks Buck back a bit, right into the memory. He remembers the warmth, the hope, that bloomed in his chest when Tommy said he wanted to try again. He wanted Buck.
But not really.
He wanted Buck away from Eddie.
"And now you two are all over each other," Tommy continues, "Like he was never gone. He left you."
"You left me, three separate times!"
"Because I didn't want you to settle. Is it bad of me to want to see you, I don't know, happy?" He flops his hands out, inviting Buck to see his side.
Buck has his fist clenched near his face, physically reining in his rising voice and temper.
"You had no problem settling." He seethes. His voice is low, giving power to the waiver in his voice. His eyes water.
For the first time in their relationship, Tommy looks surprised.
"Six. Months." He bites, "I hate basketball. Eddie loves it. Yo-you made all th-these promises, right? But it was Eddie you took flying. Eddie you took to boxing matches."
Buck is crying now, tears instantly turning to ice as the AC ghosts his cheeks.
"What are you talking about?"
Buck's never been able to spot a lie so clearly.
"You. Wanted. Eddie." He grinds out. "And got me instead."
Isn't that just the story of his life?
Hot chocolate isn't going to be enough. Buck stalks straight for the coffee pot.
Bones grind together in Tommy's sudden and bruising grip, latched onto Buck's wrist.
"I want you." Tommy's voice cracks ever so slightly, "And yeah, I saw Eddie and thought that maybe I had a chance."
Buck tries to pull out of his grip. Tommy uses the leverage to haul himself up, bringing them nose to nose. It's a force of habit, too look down and expect the kiss.
Tommy's breath is warm, "But I want you."
Buck feels his knees weaken. His eyelashes flutter as Tommy smiles. They're the same height but he always finds himself looking up at the other man. The more experienced queer, the firefighter, the pilot. Buck has all these life experiences, traveling the country and working any job he can, but he always pales in comparison.
Tommy cuffs Buck's chin with his index finger. The gentleness does nothing to prepare him for the fierceness Tommy imposes onto their first kiss in months. It begs for Buck to grab hold and give as good as he gets. His anger still persists, but it opens the door to lust. He digs his fingers into Tommy's shirt and drags him backwards until the counter bruises his back. Tommy bears down on him with tongue and teeth, his hand moving from Buck's chin to his neck. And like always, he will spread his legs, show his belly, all for some modicum of comfort.
"Fuck," Tommy pulls on Buck's bottom lip with his teeth. "Not here."
Buck casts his hazy vision around the open-concept station.
If he's going to make the same mistake, he might as well make them all.
He grasps Tommy's face with both his hands, trapping him into another kiss. He drags his fingers through his hair to clutch the warmth of his skin and down, down, tugging at the waist of his pants.
Tommy grinds into him, fully waking the part of Buck that desperately misses someone to be this close with.
He grips the underside of Tommy's thighs and lifts.
His gums scream as he grinds his teeth, muscles straining under the weight. Tommy is talking to him but all Buck is able to give is a simple, "Shut up."
"Noted," He says, wrapping his legs around his hips. Tommy's weight settles within his arms. Lips ghost along his skin as Buck walks them to the stairs, then down them, then to the ambulance. With his back pressed to the doors, Tommy slaps around for the handle. Their lips are locked, but it's the only parts of them that touch. Buck fumbles for his belt before coming up empty-handed, remembering that he's wearing sweats and not his uniform.
Tommy pushes him back just long enough to finish opening the doors. Their movements are like syrup, each moving carefully so as to not bring attention to their tryst.
Buck shoves Tommy down onto the gurney and straddles him. Broad hands grapple his hips, lifting Buck enough to slide his sweatpants over the swell of his ass. The metal squeaks underneath them. Tommy's hand is dry, scraping over Buck's skin as he slides it beneath his boxers, gripping the fat of his cheek and forcing him down onto his hardened cock. His other hand caresses his face as he presses his thumb to Buck's lips. He scraps his teeth along Tommy's finger before sucking the digit into his mouth. The man underneath him throws his head back, building up a rhythm where they rut into each other.
Buck spits Tommy's thumb out and replaces it with three of his own fingers.
"Shit, Buckley." Tommy groans, biting his bottom lip between his teeth.
He pulls them out with a wet pop before pooling drool into his hand. It's far from what they used to do. Hot and dirty was still careful, like Tommy was afraid of hurting him. Like Buck couldn't handle sex.
Tommy doesn't say anything about the furrow in his brow. He holds Buck's face. Holds his neck. Finger and thumb pressing up and on his pulse points until Buck is presenting the long line of his throat. He feels the heel of his palm press against his trachea every time he swallows.
Buck hisses as he sinks his index finger into his ass. It fucking burns. Between, well, everything, he's been in more than a dry spell. It takes multiple utilitarian strokes and breaks to spit more onto his hand to open himself enough to two fingers. His erection is flagging. Heat takes over his face. Tommy isn't helping at all, throwing off his rhythm every time he thrusts up. But he gets there, toes curling as he brushes just the edge of his prostate.
"You ready?" Tommy already sounds fucked out, breathing the question more than speaking it.
Buck scissors his fingers a few more times until he hisses.
"Evan?"
"I'm ready." It's clumsy and tight, the space meant for an entirely different set of circumstances. Tommy stabilizes Buck with an arm around his waist. He attacks with his lips, pressing in with his tongue, twisting and begging, pulling Buck in. It's far too easy to hold on for dear life. He grasps Tommy's face, keeping them locked together. Stubble scrapes along his palms and sweat tickles his finger tips where it drips from Tommy's temples. Hot breaths are taken in between kisses when they spread spit across each other's lips.
It is almost distantly that he is aware of Tommy's fingers inside of him. Each sting of pain begs for his attention. His body remembers that he's learned this lesson. The entire bottom half of his body is a numb buzz. He feels it in his teeth, in every struggling breath underneath Tommy's hand.
When did he start squeezing?
Almost as soon as he thinks it, Tommy eases up. A gentle quality overcomes each of his motions. He pushes Buck enough to finally separate them. Tommy's eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the slate gray that Buck used to be able to get lost in, swimming in just the joy of being wanted. He cocks a stern eyebrow. Desire and command written in every hair. Buck is far too used to seeing it. There's a threat in it, a threat of disappointment. So, Buck eases off Tommy's lap. He lies back on the gurney when guided. He holds Tommy's wrist as he places his palm on his throat once more. He waits and he pants as his joggers and boxers are removed. They dangle from his ankle, catching on the folded guardrails as Tommy spreads his legs. He's held still by the grip at his neck. His arousal further wains as he is forced to wait for Tommy to dig through the cabinets and finds the lube. It's cold where it drips on his skin. Colder, somehow, where Tommy presses his slick head against Buck's hole. His moans are swallowed in demanding kisses. Buck claws and leaves his mark. Runs his hands up and underneath Tommy's shirt. Digs his nails into his neck until the other man bites his lips. Buck holds him close between his legs.
Tommy holds his weight forward, shoving Buck and the gurney up. There would be no doubt, were anyone to pass by, as to what is occurring. Each thrust includes pressure across Buck's neck. Each gasp sears chapped lips. The buzzing continues. Tears finally shed and dribble down his cheeks, but the blurry darkness remains. Each inhale pitifully scratches at his raw throat. The gurney frame clangs as his wayward hand twitches, pain racing across his knuckles. It's in his ears. All focus narrows down to the T of Tommy's hand on his throat. Gone are the once pleasureful thrusts, the pooling in his belly that wanted nothing more than to come undone. Instead of grasping onto sex-burnt skin, he rips his nails across Tommy's arms, his body fighting for survival where his brain hasn't realized what is happening. His chest hiccups. Pressure builds behind his eyes.
Tommy is lost above him. His grunts and groans of pleasure tickle the ivories of memories within Buck. As his vision pulses, he feels maybe a modicum of arousal return. He's playing his pornographic part. His tongue presses against his teeth, mouth open and a smile playing at his lips.
But his hands don't match what his fizzy thoughts are telling him. They continue to fight. He beats against Tommy's shoulders. He rips at his shirts until threads come apart under his fingers.
Then he bites his tongue. Searing metal coats his mouth. The next little gurgle of air bubbles wetly down his throat. His trachea rejects the intrusion.
Then the world is gone.
+×+×+
"-an! Evan!"
Fire travels along the cracks in his throat as he steals a long harsh breath. His brain spins, swollen and scraping in the confines of his skull.
"Oh my god!" Sweaty hands brush through his curls. The kisses are soft.
Buck inhales again before his diaphragm contracts and he's retching.
Tommy sits him up, tucking his underneath his chin and rubbing his back and coughs rack his body.
The ambulance interior swims before him. His pants still hang off his ankle. Warmth drips along the crack of his ass.
"We should-" Tommy looks around, "Let me get the oxygen mask-"
Buck shakes off his grasp. The world shifts and he almost pitches off the gurney. His sweat-slicked hands barely hold him up.
"It's fine." The voice that speaks is not his own. It's a facsimile, torn and poorly glued back together.
"Evan-"
Double Tommys still straddle him. Their buttons are stripped and red snakes trail across his exposed skin, barely weeping their crimson.
"Get off." Buck barely makes contact as he shoves, his hands finding the wrong Tommy.
The ambulance clanks and clatters as he scrambles into the jump seat.
Buck's heart beats a rabbit's rhythm as he slips his clothes back on. An aura of disconnect surrounds him. His feet hover above the floor. His hands don't quite touch the doors. His sock catches the step as he stumbles from the ambulance. The lights are white starbursts.
And every breath is so cold, like breathing in a morgue. Snot and tears mingle on his face.
Tommy mumbles something about cleaning up.
But Buck's body can only stumble towards the bathroom. His only real thought, he needs to clean himself up, because Tommy's cum still drips down his leg and he can't sleep in wet pants.