Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chimney records the entire rescue of the husky, but it’s the final thirty seconds as Buck and the dog crest the edge of the cliff that go viral. The dog (“Indigo,” the desperate owner told them, pointing over the cliff where the dog sat, seemingly oblivious to his precarious situation, “but call him Indy or he’ll run away from you” and they all sit for a second trying to figure out where the dog would actually go) hung comfortably from a impromptu harness attached to Buck’s waist, while his forearms visibly strain as he pulls both their weights up the rope, hand over hand. When he gets a foot on solid ground, he grins at Chimney and --

Chimney submits it to the main LAFD account because he knows ratings gold when he sees it. They post it, “Successfully rescued the husky and reunited him with his owner. Dogs, please remind your human friends to stay leashed and on the trails!”

It does numbers.

He wasn’t expecting the PR guy to reach out to Buck to do a takeover of their TikTok account, but you reap what you sow, he guesses. Now he lives in a hell where Buck has permission to record anywhere in the firehouse he wants, not even Gerrard can say anything, and he keeps popping up, asking questions like they're up for recertification.

He doesn’t even follow TikTok (he watches videos when they get to Instagram, like the proper GenXer that he is), but Ravi sends all the videos to the group chat, so he is… gifted with the joy of watching Buck showcase the proper procedure to put on turnout gear (“This is…just a strip show in reverse,” Hen remarks) and demonstrate a firefighter’s carry and drag using Tommy as a victim (“I’m pretty sure they frown on foreplay on company time,” Ravi adds).

Buck responds to that one with “Aww, you feeling left out? I can use you as a model for the correct way to do CPR?”

And Chimney has to laugh at how fast Ravi backtracks, “Nope, nope, I’m all good, just making a point.”

In the end, it’s Tommy who has the last laugh, when Donato submits a video of him flying a helicopter that rescues a teenager from the same ocean cliff.

“I could have done that,” Buck pouts, staring morosely into his beer.

“Of course you could,” Tommy says as he kisses his frown away, while shaking his head at Chimney.

Chapter Text

After the closing ceremony, Buck goes to update his Olympics tattoo. Last time, he waited until he got home, because Covid, because it seemed like he should. This time, he's in Paris and there's no restrictions on where he can go, and who he can see, and he just wants to see the hard work of the last four (three) years reflected on his skin:

Buck approves the stencil drawing, then leans back in the chair. Hears the buzzing from the table next to him, followed by a high gasp, and looks over to see the guy’s face whiten, lips slack as he stares at the tattoo gun moving on the inside of his forearm. “First time?” he asks to distract him, to get him looking away from the drops of blood beading up on his skin. Doesn’t know if he even speaks English, but well, that’s pretty much all Buck’s got to work with, so he hopes he does.

The guy’s eyes slide over to him as he nods. “That obvious?”

Buck grins at him, “First time is the hardest,” he says. Looks over at the guy’s forearm again -- and oh, he should have guessed, this tattoo parlor was on the unofficial American recommendations list as a we don’t recommend that you get a tattoo, but when you inevitably do, go to a reputable place and don’t get hep c under our watch, please. “Your first Olympics?”

The guy bites his lip and Buck tries really hard not to notice how pink his lips are. Definitely doesn’t notice his muscles shifting in his arm. The guy says, through gritted teeth, “Yea,” then makes a finger gun with the hand not being held down by the artist. “Pistol shooting.”

Buck grins and shifts, only to be reprimanded (he assumes) by his own artist, who’s wiping down his bicep. Says a quick, “Je suis désolé,” and then looks back at the guy. Mimes climbing with his other hand, and says, “Climbing,” when the guy shakes his head in confusion.

“Did you medal?” The guy asks, and Buck can feel his face twitch. “Oh, sorry,” he says and Buck rushes to stop him.

“No, no, it’s fine, well, not fine, it sucked but.”

“It was still worth it,” the guy says, and Buck nods vigorously. The guy looks down at his arm, again, and Buck cranes his neck to look at the tattoo, sees there are a couple more rings to go.

Reaches out his hand into the space between them. “Evan Buckley,” he says belatedly, feels the guy's fingers, calloused and warm, wrap around his own. “Most people call me Buck.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Evan,” the guy says, and Buck feels a shiver down his spine. Tightens his fingers and doesn’t let go when the guy goes to pull away. “I’m Tommy.”

“Sometimes it helps,” Buck says, looking at their intertwined fingers. “Is this okay?” And the guy, Tommy, smiles back.

Chapter Text

Tommy’s body has always been utilitarian; built and nourished for what could it do, how far it could be pushed. As much as he thought about it at all, he vaguely considered what it needed — food, water, exercise. Mostly it was a nuisance that never did enough, never as much as he wanted, as his superiors wanted — so he focused on how he could build it to hold more, help more, save more.

But now, wrapped in Evan’s sheets, bolstered by Evan’s body, he wonders, maybe for the first time, what his body wants, what his body can accept, what his body can give. Evan’s hands make him question what he’s been missing, what he could have been wanting, asking for. He wants to see what Evan sees; he wants to look down and see more than a job, a soldier, a firefighter.

Evan touches him like nobody else ever has — there's desire and hunger, and those he's used to. He’s seen them before; maybe not to this degree, and that’s a trip all of its own. But Evan touches him with wonder, too — like he's precious, like he could be hurt and Evan wants to keep him safe. Nobody's ever touched him like that.

Evan lays with his head on Tommy’s chest, drawing on his skin with his finger, intricate swirls and whorls, tracing a pattern that Tommy can't see, but Evan clearly can because it's the same each time — wants to ask what it is, but also doesn't, just feels it, lets it sink in until he can almost trace it himself. He lies there and takes it, skin still sensitive, flushed and slightly sweaty and, over time, he realizes he needs it, he wants it — Evan marking his place, claiming what’s his.

When he looks down at his skin later, he can almost see the love that Evan has inscribed into his skin.

And one day, when Evan’s on a 48 and Tommy’s just lying in bed, he traces one of Evan’s favorite spots, the one he always goes back to — and he wouldn’t say he’s impulsive; he’d argue that he has good instincts— he pulls on his clothes and goes to the local tattoo parlor. He stands in parade rest, staring at the art on the wall, abstract colors and details and designs that he doesn’t understand but knows are beautiful. When she asks if she can help, he tries to explain what he wants but he can’t get it quite right. She looks at him with exasperation, with pity, and tells him to come back when he’s sure about what he wants; she doesn’t want him to regret his decisions.

He leaves, buys a pen and when Evan gets home, when they’re lying in bed again and Evan starts absentmindedly tracing the pattern on his skin, he reaches into a drawer and pulls out the pen and hands it to Evan, and tells him, he wants to see what Evan sees, he wants to wear his mark, he wants to be covered in Evan.

And he goes back to the artist the next day, with Evan sketched on his skin and she examines Tommy in a new way, like he’s a work of art, like he’s changed, improved, special. She sees what Evan sees.

And Tommy points at the design on his hip, just below his scar, and the woman tilts her head, consideringly, just breathes, “Yes.”

And he lies there and lets her permanently etch Evan onto his skin.

Evan’s eyes go wide when he sees it. “You,” he swallows, voice hoarse, “…show me. “

He knows it was actually pretty impulsive, that they haven’t really been dating long enough for tattoos. But he also knows he won’t regret it if they break up. It’ll break his heart — in so fast he can’t feel the bottom anymore — but he won’t regret it.

“I like the way you see me,” he says simply.

The next time, Evan comes with him and holds his hand, and it’s not a thing, so much as a marker of time, of love, of their life together. He’ll never be as decorated as Evan; Evan’s marks don’t litter his skin as completely -- they might, one day, if they’re together long enough, if the thing they’re building is strong enough, but they tell a tale of a romance, a fantasy. Their story. His body is their canvas, and sometimes they stand together, in front of their mirror and trace the chronicle of their history.

Chapter Text

Tommy hears Evan say, "Dad?" and just for a second he thinks that somehow, against all odds, it's Bobby standing there. He stands up so fast the chair tips over as he goes for the door.

The bubble of hope pops abruptly when Evan says, "What are you doing here?"

"Your sister called,” a voice he doesn't recognize says.

And well, fuck. There's just no way this ends well.

He rights the chair, squeezing the top slat, letting the wood bite into his hands. Evan was barely holding it together as it was, only really doing so by the skin of his teeth, by being the force of nature that he can be – focusing on his team, his family -- not on himself, or on. Or on Bobby. He asked me to, Evan told him through a sob, after, even as Tommy could see him try to push down the loss, to keep it off his face. Bobby did know his boy – worked best when given a direct plan of action.

Tommy scrunches his nose against the tears that threaten to fall again, to clog his throat. Wipes away the one that escapes and squares his shoulders to face whatever the fuck is happening in the doorway.

Wonders what on god's green earth Maddie had been thinking. Although, to be fair, he's going to go out on a limb and assume she didn't think their parents would get on a plane and fly to California to land just in time for the funeral.

Texts Chim / 🚨Phillip and Margaret are here🚨/

Gets a string of texts in response judging by the way his phone is buzzing in his back pocket, and he can't look at any of them because Evan and his parents have come around the corner and Even is saying awkwardly, "Mom, Dad, you remember Tommy." And then when neither one of them says anything, even more awkwardly, "You met him at Maddie's wedding."

Philip shakes his hand reluctantly, good WASP manners too ingrained to be actively rude enough not to.

Margaret looks at Evan. "I didn't realize you had company. Your sister didn't say."

Evan shrugs, doesn't answer. Doesn't explain.

Which, actually, Tommy wouldn't have minded a little bit of explanation, just so that he knows where he stands. Because he'd taken Evan home after the lab, after Bobby died. Nobody had questioned it. He hasn't left since. Evan hasn't asked him to, and he hasn't offered. Eddie's flight is due to land in an hour. He's not sure what happens after that. Although if Phillip and Margaret are here – for what? – having Eddie as back up might be for the best. That’s a devil he knows.

Tommy blinks and Evan is making coffee, and handing his mother a slice of coffee cake on a plate with a napkin - because given an awkward social situation, Evan, he learned the last time they tried this, will default to the polite rules of society to get through it. He doesn’t wonder where the coffee cake came from, because he'd discovered when he snooped around for breakfast ingredients that ill-fated morning that the only thing in Evan’s freezer is baked goods.

He takes the moment to check his texts, discovers that if Maddie had known their parents might show up that she hadn't told Chim. His / 😱 ‼️ / makes Tommy snort.

He checks to see if anyone needs him for anything, and then texts Eddie. As far as he knows Eddie's still pissed at him for breaking up with Evan, doesn't know if Evan told him about the hook up the other week, or the way that he'd said he was jealous of Eddie, can't imagine that's improved Eddie's opinion of him if he did. But – man deserves to be warned about the clusterfuck he's about to walk into.

/ Phillip and Margaret are here /

gets / 👀/ from Eddie, and then / why? / and then / like this day could get any fucking worse /

He’d only met them the once, in passing, nearly a year ago now, but he’s heard about them plenty - from Chim, from Eddie, and haltingly from Evan. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the full story of whatever it is, but he knows enough to know that adding them to the mix is not going to help Evan get through this day. He’d never really worried about it before, because he’d met Athena, Bobby – the important people.

He comes back into the kitchen to hear Evan saying, “You should go to Maddie’s, I’m sure she needs the help.”

And Evan’s mother waves a hand, saying, “We talked to her yesterday, she’s fine.” And then leaning in to put a hand on Evan’s arm, and he can see from across the room how surprised Evan is by that, and how much he doesn’t know what to do with it. Adds another mental note to the list of things he knows about the Buckley parents.

Thinks Margaret kind of missed Evan’s point. Maddie may be fine, but Chim’s not. Might be nice if her mother volunteered to give Maddie some extra space to support her husband, since she flew all the way here. He’s still not sure why the Buckley parents are here.

They don’t really have time to dig into it; they have a funeral to get to.

The funeral is awful. Everyone in their dress uniforms. The pomp. The circumstance. The weight of the loss literally on their shoulders. Staring at the back of Chim’s head, having to put one foot in front of the other, maintaining composure when all he wants is to hold Evan and shield him from everyone and everything. Instead, on a city street -- a funeral march. Step. Step. Step.

The only time he and Evan have been in sync since they split six months ago and it’s to bear the burden of the first man to ever really give them a shot. To believe in them.

The brass gives a speech. Athena had asked Evan if he wanted to speak, and he’d shaken his head. “I can’t.”

He agrees. Has a fierce need to let Evan keep his grief private, not for public consumption.

After the funeral he hears Evan say, "We're going to Bobby and Athena's," and his heart fucking breaks at the way Evan's voice cracks halfway through Bobby's name. But then he's continuing, "for the wake." He hesitates. "Do you want me to call you an uber, or something?"

"Oh," Margaret says, and she sounds clearly surprised. "We thought we'd go with you."

It startles Evan into honesty. "Why?"

"To pay our respects. He was your captain. I know he meant a lot to you." Which is nice, until she adds, "That's what people do, Evan."

The way she says his name grates on Tommy's last nerve. He wants to say, 'no, people don't fly across the country to crash a funeral. People write a nice card. People know when to stay in their lane'. Almost says it, when Evan looks at him. But, whatever is going on between them, shutting Evan’s parents down probably isn’t his place. Is tempted to look around for Eddie, who might be able to get away with it.

Margaret looks torn, and Maddie – bless her – says, "I'm sure Jee’d like a last bit of one-on-one time with her grandma before the new baby comes."

"I thought Mrs. Lee was watching Jee this afternoon," Margaret says, proving that she is in fact totally incapable of reading a room. Even Phillip looks a little abashed.

He loses track of Philip and Margaret for a while at the wake. More people than he expected come up to offer him their condolences, like he has a right to grieve Bobby as much as Eddie, and Hen, and Chim, and Evan.

Finds them again when he hears Margaret asking Evan if he’s ready to leave. Like she expects her claim on his time to supercede anything else. LIke Bobby’s fucking funeral.

Turns in time to catch Evan’s absolutely blank look. “I’m staying.”

Margaret looks taken aback. “Oh, well, should we meet you for dinner somewhere?”

Evan shakes his head, looks impatient for the first time. “No.” For a second Tommy thinks he’s going to leave it at that, and wants to applaud, but Evan seems to realize how blunt that is, or maybe the look of disapproval on Philip’s face clues him in. Either way he says, “I’m going to stay, help clean up after everyone leaves.”

Margaret’s face tightens, and he wants to shake her, ask what she thought was going to happen here. They’d flown out for the funeral, so on some level they understand how important Bobby had been to Evan. Just not apparently on any kind of level that lets them empathize with his grief.

He doesn’t know where they go, but he does see Margaret and Phillip leave, stopping to talk to Athena before they do. Has no idea what they say to her, but she looks faintly surprised by it.

Margaret and Phillip are at Evan’s new house, Eddie’s old house, when they finally all get home. They’ve made dinner. Like any of them have an appetite, like they hadn’t just put away a semi-truck load of leftovers from the wake -- everyone tries to feed grief, like if you fill up on food, the sadness won’t have anywhere to go.

Reins it in. They made dinner. That was kind of them. One less thing for Evan and Eddie to have to think about. He eyes the casserole that Margeret puts on the table. It’s bland, but inoffensive. Suspects that Evan could make it better. Catches Eddie’s eye and has to stifle a snort when it is very clear that Eddie is thinking the same thing. Whatever grievances Eddie has with him – and Tommy’s prepared to admit they’re mostly merited – they’re on hold for however long Evan’s parents are here.

Dinner conversation starts with polite anodyne conversation about the funeral, how big the turnout was, how nice everyone was at the wake.

It moves on to Phillip saying, “The house is – different. We didn’t know you’d moved.”

Evan picks at his food and just says, “It wasn’t that long ago.”

Eddie takes the fall. “I moved back to Texas. Buck took over my lease.”

Philip nods. “Maddie hadn’t mentioned that.”

That brings Evan’s head up a little, “Oh, um, yeah.” Then he frowns a little. “Why would she?”

Margaret gives a brittle laugh. “Well, it’s not as if you tell us anything. If we didn’t talk to Maddie we wouldn’t know anything at all about your life.”

Tommy bites back the urge to suggest that maybe there’s something they could infer from that.

Margaret looks at where Evan’s plate is still more than half full. “You’re not eating.”

Evan looks at his plate. “Sorry. I’m not very hungry.”

Margaret’s lips purse, and he silently dares her to say something. She doesn’t. Looks around the living room instead. “I like this. It’s much more grown up than your old apartment.”

Tommy winces and concentrates on his food.

Evan’s eyes flick around. “Yeah. I guess.”

Her lips purse again. “Evan, we’re trying.”

Evan looks blank. Eddie sends Tommy an alarmed look and mouths ‘oh shit’ at him.

Philip clears his throat. “We came all this way. Your mother made you dinner. I know you don’t call. But, is it too much to ask that you talk to us when we’re here?”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Evan mutters. And Tommy would bet a lot that he doesn’t realize he’d said that out loud, knows from experience that when you back Evan into a corner he lashes out. Wonders how on earth Evan’s parents don’t seem to know this.

Margaret’s face is a perfect picture of frozen devastation, and he’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t making Evan’s loss all about her. Wasn’t making a bad day exponentially worse.

There’s a knock on the door, and they all look around — doesn’t know who it could be, they’re all here.

Evan gets up to answer it, Tommy sips his wine to have something to do with his hands. Eddie twirls his fork mindlessly in the mess of noodles on this plate.

“May?” He hears and then, “are you okay? Is Athena— I can grab my coat—“

“No, no, we’re—“ something garbled, and then “not fine but –” A pause and then “I talked to Mom and we wanted you to have this.” There’s the sound of Evan taking a stumbling step back into the wall.

“I can’t, May, that’s for family, that’s for Athena — for you, for—“ and Tommy can’t bear to hear his voice breaking, cracking, gets up and leans into the hallway to see Evan clutching a flag.

Bobby’s flag.

“It is for family,” May’s voice is steady, despite the tears running down her face. “Mom said she had their house. His medals. She had what she needed and she wanted you—“ May gulps. “He would have wanted his son to have this.”

Behind him, Tommy hears two chairs being pushed back and whips around.

“You need to go,” he hears himself saying before he even realizes he’s going to. He hadn’t said anything earlier, wasn’t sure if it was his place, but he wants to try and preempt whatever they’re going to say now.

“Evan,” Margaret says, warning and entreaty, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. He feels Evan behind him, turns slightly and can see May standing awkwardly, shifting her feet like she’s not sure she should be seeing this. He understands; isn’t sure he wants to witness this either.

Evan just shakes his head. “Tommy’s right.”

Phillip stands up, arm around his wife’s waist, staring at Tommy. “He’s here. He’s not family. Maddie said you broke up.” Pauses and then digs the knife in. “She said he broke up with you. That you were devastated.”

And Evan looks at him like it's the first time he's really registered that Tommy's still there, that he hasn't left. And Tommy holds his breath, waiting to see what Evan will say, if he'll finally ask him to leave.

Instead he says, "He's here because he always shows up when I need him, and because he's willing to keep trying even when we both fuck it up."

The ‘unlike you’ goes unsaid. But, Tommy's pretty sure people from three counties over heard it loud and clear.

Evan’s on a roll now, all the things he’s been holding back all day coming out now that the dam’s been broken. “He tried to save Bobby twice, risked his life for Bobby. Risked jail for him. And you? You didn’t even — “ he chokes up.

“Funerals are for everyone else. Wakes are for family,” May says unexpectedly. “Evan was Bobby’s son. He gets to decide whoever else he wants to have here.” She holds Evan’s gaze when he looks at her, and after a moment he nods. Reaches out for Tommy’s hand, holding it hard.

“I buried my-, my father today. I’d like you to leave.” Margaret and Phillip are frozen by the dining room table. Evan unbends enough to say. “I’ll call you before you fly home.”

May looks cooly at Margaret and Phillip, every inch Athena’s daughter. “I have an uber outside, we can drop you wherever.”

Later, in bed, he’s curled around Evan. “He was supposed to be here,” barely aloud, just a whisper of a breath. “He was going to stand up for me, tie my tie and—“ Evan’s voice breaks and he lets out a single, wracking sob, his back shaking.

“He taught you,” he says to Evan, to himself. “He taught you what you need to know. To do. To be who you are.”

“I never told him,” Evan chokes out, “that I loved him, that he was my—“

“He knew,” Tommy whispers into his shoulder blades. “He knew.”

“He told me he didn’t have to worry.” Evan rolls over and pins him with a stare, the light of the moon just reflecting off the white of his eyes. “That you were good people. Don’t make him a liar.” Tommy swallows hard, holds his gaze as much as he wants to look down, away, anywhere but at Evan, tear-stained cheeks shimmering in the blue light. “He was a lot of things, but never a liar.”

“I won’t.” It breaks out of him, cracks open his chest and crawls out, like the baby in Alien, leaves him bleeding and open - would give everything to make the lie true.

“You did,” and there it is, Tommy wishes he could take it back, could live up to Bobby’s estimation of him. He wants to be that man. For Bobby. For Evan.

He can’t lie again, “I did.” Looks between them. “I won’t again.” Evan’s lashes shadow his cheeks, like he doesn’t want to look to see if Tommy is lying. He brushes tear off of Evan’s cheek, admits, “I’m really bad at it. Leaving you. I can’t — I can’t stay away. Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t,” Evan says finally. “I never did.”

“Okay. Then I won’t.” It’s a promise to Evan. To Bobby. To himself.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Buck gets back from the scene, from the building falling to pieces around them, and locks himself in Eddie’s bathroom. Doesn’t feel like his house. Again. He stands, staring at himself in the mirror, rocking forward on his toes. His heart pounding in his chest, hammering against his breast bone like it's trying to escape.

He barely recognizes the person looking back.

Eddie knocks, asks if he’s okay. Buck’s not sure exactly what to say, what he should say, what Eddie wants to hear. Whatever he ends up saying must have been good enough because Eddie tells him that he and Chris are going to Pepa’s.

Good, that’s good. More people Buck doesn’t have to put a brave face on for, any longer. He listens to them leave. In theory the house is empty now. He could unlock the door, go sit somewhere more comfortable for his breakdown. Go back to the church, double the number of times he’s gone in a decade in a weekend.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t know if the earthquake was a sign from God that he was blaspheming, but he can’t tempt fate again. Doesn’t have another earthquake or lightning strike in him right now. Bobby, God, whomever is watching over him and letting him royally fuck up.

There’s a noise, someone opening the front door, footsteps. He wonders what Eddie forgot. Then a knock on the door and, “Evan?”

He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and squeezes them shut. Grips the edge of the counter until he feels it digging into his palms. Can’t start crying now. Not sure he’d ever stop. Breathes through it until he thinks his voice will be steady.

“Tommy?”

“Hen called me. Said she was worried about you after that last call.”

And she’d called Tommy? Has no idea what to do with that.

“She thought Eddie would be here, but apparently he’s at his aunt’s?” Tommy sounds baffled. He doesn’t have the energy to explain. He’s not sure what to think about the idea that Tommy was Hen’s first call after Eddie.

Just says, “Yeah.” And then out of some kind of loyalty, or something, adds, “I, uh, I said it was okay.” It’s not Eddie’s fault that he was made wrong.

Tommy makes a non-committal noise. “Do you want to come out?” He doesn’t think he makes a noise, but he must, because Tommy’s instantly backtracking, “Or I can sit here and wait until you’re ready.”

It takes him a second to place that tone of voice, and then he wants to cringe his way into a corner, because that’s the ‘talk the crazy person off the ledge’ voice. The first responder, ‘calm the victim down’ voice. He knows that voice; he uses that voice.

Ma’am, I’m not Satan, my name is Buck. He really was begging to get smited, wasn’t he?

Slides down the wall instead, down down down, until he’s sitting on the floor. Wraps his arms around his legs, thinks he’s as small as he can be. Tilts his head against the door with a thunk. He’s sure that Tommy has better places to be, things he should be doing. He sits, for a second, a minute, expecting him to go. He should go. But then he hears Tommy moving, swearing softly, grunting when he hits the ground. His hip must be hurting him again, it does sometimes -- had always enjoyed getting his hands on him when it had, before, rubbing muscle cream into it, finding the knots and pushing until they loosened, making it better.

Now, he thinks he should get back up, open the door -- keeping Tommy down here, with him -- he’s doing exactly what Eddie said he always did. Worries his lip between his teeth. Maybe he’d never made it better; maybe he’d always made it worse.

Can’t bring himself to move. If he’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Tommy breathing and that has to be enough.

He’s silent too long, because Tommy says, "Evan, I need you to keep talking to me.”

He's foggy enough that it takes a minute to figure out why. "You think I have a concussion?"

"Well, Hen thinks it’s a possibility, and I make it a policy not to argue with Hen." He snorts wetly. Gets an amused hum in response, and then, “Since I can't get in there and check, I'm going to need you to talk to me until I can. Okay?"

Concussion protocols. He can do that. Could do it in his sleep. "Um, my name is Evan Buckley." Pauses. "Do you know you and Maddie are the only people who call me Evan. Well, my parents. But I don't like it when they do it. You and Maddie are the only people who do it and I like it."

Hears Tommy make an indistinct noise he can't parse. Keeps going.

"President is, uh, Trump. Fuck all our lives." He hadn’t cared the first time, Washington was so far away, had so little impact on his day to day until fire season rolled around. He thinks about Tommy, Hen and Karen and Josh and all the other people who dealt with the fear and anxiety every single day. He should have cared. It should have mattered. It’s just another way he failed them without knowing; another way he could have, should have been better.

"Umm, what else. Oh right, what day of the week is it." That stumps him. Thinks backwards, flips through the shift calendar in his head. Still nothing. "Okay, I don't know that. But, to be fair, I don't think I knew what day of the week it was before the earthquake, so it shouldn't count."

He can tell you how many days it's been since Bobby died though. How many days he's been trying to hold everything and everyone together with tape and string and he's not Bobby, he's not enough. He can't do it. Eddie made that very clear.

“Two out of three,” Tommy says. “Good enough for government work.” He waits for Tommy to leave. He’s done his duty. Checked on him. One more way he’s making himself the problem - pulling Tommy away from whatever he’d been doing, making him drive out of his way to come check on him. Hears Tommy shift to find a different position on the other side of the door instead, jeans rustling when his legs rub together. “Now that’s out of the way, how’ve you been doing?”

Pepa told him to accept change and Bobby told him to be there for people, that they’d need him, that he’d be alright — and he whispers, soft enough that Tommy shouldn’t be able to hear him, even back to back against the same door, “I’m not okay, Bobby said, but I’m not — and Eddie said--“ and trails off.

Closes his eyes. Swallows it down. Waits until he’s sure his voice won’t give him away. “I’m okay. You don’t need to stay.”

Tommy makes a hmming noise. “But I just got myself settled. I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll stay for a minute if that’s okay with you.”

He wants to ask why Tommy’s here. Why Tommy came when Hen called. Why he keeps coming when Buck calls, when all Buck ever is is mean to him. Thinks he should tell Tommy he’s not worth it, that whatever Tommy thinks he sees, it’s not real.

Hears Tommy shifting again. There are blankets and pillows in the bedroom. He should tell Tommy to grab some if he’s planning on staying. Floor’s not going to get any softer.

Thinks about asking what he’d have to do to make Tommy want to stay. With him, not just here on this floor. Reminds himself not to make it about him, what he wants.

He doesn’t want any of this. Wants a do-over.

There’s a stretch of silence, then Tommy breaks it. “I watched the new Blue Planet the other day. Or well, I guess it’s not new, but I missed it when it came out, so new to me.”

He appreciates what Tommy’s trying to do. It’s still a little bit -- talk the crazy guy off the ledge, but well, he feels a little bit like he’s balancing on a ledge, so maybe Tommy knows something he doesn’t.

“Proof of life,” Tommy asks him, and oh, yea, didn’t respond. Out loud, anyway. Guesses that’s the only response that really matters.

“Did you like it?” his voice sounds rusty, like it’s been scrapped over the shards of his throat. He wipes his eyes. Doesn’t know when he started crying. Must have been for a while.

“It lacked commentary,” is all Tommy says, which is weird because it has a good narrator, and he-- oh.

“You mean, uh, me?”

It’s an old house, Eddie’s, his, whoever's it is right now. There’s a gap under the door — he watches Tommy’s fingers slide under, like a cat’s paw. He hooks his finger with Tommy’s.

“I mean, you.” Buck lets that settle inside him, feels his lips quirk upward. “Think you’re ready to let me in?”

Could be talking about the bathroom. Could be about something bigger. Either way. “I’ll only hurt you, I’m no good for anyone I love.”

And Tommy’s quiet again for a long time and when he speaks, his voice is funny -- not talk the crazy person down, more like he’s trying to talk around a lump in his throat. “I’m someone you love?”

“Yes,” he says, affronted, before he can stop himself. Because that’s never been up for debate. “But that doesn’t matter, it’s not about me — what I want.”

“It matters a lot to me,” Tommy points out. “And, I think it’s a little bit about what you want.”

Buck puts his other hand on the door, presses until his knuckles whiten. It’s what he wants, but he never gets what he wants.

He can’t believe they’re having this conversation while he’s locked in a bathroom, sitting on cold tiles, staring at the toilet. The lights are harsh, because he never bothered to change them from the cheap fluorescents Eddie put in. They expose every flaw for anyone who can see — God. Bobby. Himself. Maybe Tommy.

“Think you can open the door now?”

He looks down at their fingers, still wrapped around each other. “I’ll have to let go.” Doesn’t want to let go, never did; right now it feels like the only thing tethering him, making him feel safe, wanted.

“Just for a second,” Tommy concedes. “I’ve got you.”

Chapter Text

The building collapse feels like another sign from God. Bobby. Someone. Only problem is, he’s not sure what they’re trying to tell him. Doesn’t know how to try any harder. Seems like nobody wants him to work as hard as he is. Maybe the sign is to try less, do less, be less. He’s just not sure he knows how to do that.

He saves a man, Trevor, a few years younger than him. They’ve been trapped for an hour before the guy breaks, showing the fear that Buck knows must have been roiling around inside him the whole time. Tries to calm him with a story about what he was baking yesterday (a tester cake for Eddie’s congratulations party) and it turns out Trevor’s actually a baker.

“I quit being a code monkey to make things.” Buck doesn’t really know what that means, but they trade recipes for cinnamon rolls and regale each other with their most spectacular failures. It passes the time. It takes a while, but he gets Trevor out. Well, it wasn’t really him. Or not just him. It was a group effort. But he was the one on the end of the rope who pulled him out, so he’s the one Trevor gives credit to. Seems like nobody sees them as a team anymore.

He offers Buck his number, which is unexpected. Hasn’t happened in a while, he guesses. Offers to go home with him, if he’s interested. Well, not in quite so many words, but the intent was clear.

“Thank you,” Buck tells him, “But I don’t go out with people I meet on calls.”

Trevor shrugs, “Well, if you change your mind,” and takes the hand Buck reaches out to shake and writes his number with a Sharpie he stole from the medics. Buck finds himself, laughing, just a little. The guy’s got balls. Buck salutes him, like an absolute nut job and hops into the fire truck.

After they clear the scene, the shift is finally over, and it’s time to go home. He doesn’t really want to go home. Doesn’t feel like his at the moment — also, he’s not really sure who (or what) is waiting for him there. He asks if anyone wants to go to their local for after shift drinks. The way they used to sometimes. Chim and Hen shrug off and Buck gets it; Ravi claps his hand on Buck’s back, jerks his bag up on his shoulder. “Rain check.”

“Sure thing, probie.” He looks over where Gerrard is sitting behind Bobby’s desk, can’t help but judge him for not doing more. Being more. For not being Bobby.

Sits in the Jeep watching the parking lot clear out — everyone’s got somewhere better to be, someone to go home to.

He knows he could find something easy — Trevor, from the scene, or there’s the bartender, Jen, at the retro dive bar down the street. She’s nice, has a heavy pour, leans over the bar whenever he walks in to make sure he gets a good look at her assets.

They are nice. She slipped him her number on a cocktail napkin once and he let his drink sweat until he couldn’t read it any longer.

He stares at his phone, considers – Trevor from earlier, Jen – there’s a temptation to just not think, for a little while at least, the temptation to go do something he knows he’s good at, to make somebody else feel good even if he doesn’t really.

It would be so easy. Nothing has been easy since Bobby.

But, he doesn’t want to be touched by a stranger. Doesn’t want somebody new’s hands on him. It would feel good, but he knows it wouldn't make him feel good. As much as he talks to his therapist, to Bobby, he knows that that empty, gaping feeling in his chest would only widen.

All of it leaves him feeling restless and skin hungry. Be honest, he tells himself - it leaves him horny. And he could take care of it himself, he has, that’s what he’s been doing (mostly) for months now, but he doesn’t want to.

Knows he’s being cruel and using Tommy, even as he’s parking his Jeep and ringing his doorbell.

When Tommy answers the door he’s in nothing but his lounging sweatpants, the ones that barely stay up. He loves those sweatpants.

Tommy gets about halfway through a surprised, “Evan,” before he’s kissing him. Surges up and into him, reveling in the way Tommy doesn’t stumble back, can take the force of him. Can feel the way Tommy hesitates, and digs deep for everything he learned about Tommy in those six months, every move that gets him going, and doubles down.

Still feels Tommy’s hesitation and whispers, “please,” against his mouth. “I need this, don't you need it too?”

Tommy still hesitates, but Buck knows him, that wasn’t a no. Pushes his way inside, hand on Tommy's chest, but thinks to ask, “No one's here, right?”

Tommy shakes his head, looks at him closely and then finally finally gets with the program. Buck skims his shirt up and off and then it’s bare skin against bare skin and he moans at the feeling. Relishes in Tommy’s answering groan. Pushes against Tommy, already half hard just from the feel of Tommy’s hands on him again.

That night, at Eddie's – feels like a century ago now – he'd pulled Tommy into his bedroom and pushed him down on the mattress, and took what he wanted — devoured Tommy like he had been wanting to for months. But now, he wants to be good, to go where Tommy wants, do what Tommy wants, let Tommy take him out of his head so he doesn’t have to think.

He knows he's safe, here, he can put himself in Tommy's hands and trust that Tommy won’t hurt him. Can’t say that about anyone else in his life right now. Shuts that thought down before it starts. He’s here. He wants to stay in this moment.

He drops to his knees with a thud, may regret that later – the hardwood is unforgiving. Puts his hands on Tommy's hips, mouths across the soft line of his cock, looks up across the wide plane of his chest, and their eyes meet.

It’s intense, it’s – he doesn’t know words for how Tommy is looking down at him, but – this isn't combative, this isn't – Buck closes his eyes, leans further in, looks back up through his lashes -- "Please? Can I?"

Feels the rough skin of Tommy's thumb, the callous thick, against his cheek and rubs against it, keeping eye contact, even as Tommy's head drops back against the wall with a thunk.

“What you do to me." It's a groan more than words, something Buck thinks he wasn't supposed to hear but.

"I'll do anything you want." Mouths across his cock again, the fabric rough against his tongue. "Anything."

Waits. And then Tommy cups the back of his head and he takes it as permission. Drags Tommy’s sweats down, buries his nose at the base of his cock, drags in air and the smell of Tommy -- soap and sweat and something underneath it that tastes like pure Tommy. Feels drunk on it.

Tommy’s not fully hard yet, but he’s getting there. And he’d always liked sucking Tommy when he wasn’t all the way hard yet, loved the feel of his cock filling, getting harder against his tongue. Knowing he did that.

Goes all the way down, swallowing, and pulling off more slowly, tongue against the underside of Tommy’s dick, reacquainting himself with the feel of him. The taste of him. Sucks hard at the head for a moment and then goes back down again, losing himself in the rhythm, the way he has to pull off to gasp for air before he goes down again. Hears Tommy swear, and feels his hand tighten in his hair, pulling at his curls.

Pouts when Tommy pulls him off – both of them breathing hard. “Bedroom,” Tommy says firmly.

He thinks about complaining; he's happy, here, he wants this -- Tommy wants him but –

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, tracks the way Tommy’s eyes darken when he does, and takes Tommy’s hand when he offers it to pull him up, winces as he stands; his leg will not thank him for this in the morning. Whatever. Worth it.

“What do you need?” Tommy asks and he won’t hear that Tommy said need, not want, until he replays it in his head later.

He shakes his head, pulls Tommy close and kisses him, bites down on his lower lip, and says, “No, Daddy, what do you need?”

Tommy’s hand spasms on his waist, and he looks up at Tommy from under his lashes. Asks “Please?” again.

He knows what he looks like, he's had people tell him his whole life, but now he just wants to know that Tommy wants him, that he's Tommy's, that he's good for something -- that he's doing it right. Tommy stares at him, like he's trying to see through him, into him, into the soft, squishy mess of his insides -- Buck tries to stand still, to let him -- to let him see, without squirming. To let Tommy in.

He needs to be out of his head, needs to feel something that isn’t grief and loss and like he’s failing. Wants the way that being fucked doesn’t leave any space in his head for anything else. But he’ll take whatever Tommy wants to give him. He wants to be so good for him. Good enough that maybe Tommy will let him stay.

Tommy swears under his breath and then he’s walking him backwards towards the bedroom, pushing him up against the wall halfway there to shove a thigh between his legs and kiss him sloppy and wet. And Buck clings and rides his thigh and moans into his mouth, drops his head back against the wall to pant when Tommy moves his mouth lower, sucking a vicious hickey under his jaw where everyone will see it tomorrow. And all he can think is, yes.

They’ve always done some of their best work in hallways. Today isn’t an exception. Buck feels the whine grow in the back of his throat, pushes his cock against Tommy's thigh, rides it – loves that they're the same height, that Tommy can push him back, hold him down, keep him – here – with him. His head's filled with nothing but want, need, Tommy -- the whine escapes, and he claws at Tommy’s back, he’s so close already, and he can feel Tommy's grin against his throat.

"Take what you need, Evan," bites down and his knees turn to jelly -- "I know you're good for another one," and Buck thrusts, uncoordinated, once, twice. And when Tommy, says, "That's it, baby," and he's done, comes with a wet burst, drops his head to Tommy's shoulder and tries to stay upright.

“I missed that hair trigger," and Buck feels his cheeks redden – the delicious degradation of Tommy knowing that he can't help himself, that he wants so much, that – Tommy slides his big palm into his pants, pushes into his sticky, wet underwear -- there's no hiding what just happened, and wraps his hand around him, and Buck tries to pull back, escape – it's too much, too soon, he can't – "I want this," Tommy says on a down stroke, "You want to give me what I want, right, baby?"

He swallows hard and nods. His legs can’t hold him up any longer and he wants to be good, to do what Tommy asks. “Bed,” he stutters out, “pl-please.”

Tommy’s always so good to him. Has always been so good to him, from that first gentle kiss to everything that followed, and he’s been too drunk on love, on lust, to see all the ways Tommy was making it easy for him. How much Tommy was taking care of him, keeping him safe.

Now Tommy pulls him away from the wall, guides him down on the bed, helps him kick off his shoes, his jeans. Then just stands there looking at him, splayed out on Tommy’s bed. “Fuck, you’re pretty. “

Nobody’s ever called him pretty before. Just Tommy, and he feels something inside him unknot. Sinks into it. Arches his back a little, puts himself on display for Tommy. Let’s himself drown in the way Tommy looks at him.

“You want me to fuck you?” He nods, bites his lip, knows what that does to Tommy.

Spreads his legs and says, “please. “ He’s not sure he remembers any other words tonight. Tommy kneels on the bed, taking hold of Buck’s arm and flipping him over, like it’s nothing. He spreads his legs without really thinking about it, rubbing his cheek into the pillow.

There’s a second, and another, of nothing and then he feels Tommy rub two fingers over his hole, “Who else?”

And Buck’s brain is offline, it takes him a minute —”Wha-?” He looks back over his shoulder, up at Tommy’s face, where he’s holding up a condom, raising an eyebrow, asking if he needs it.

Buck shakes his head. “No one else. I’m yours.” He has been from the first time Tommy’s hands had touched him.

Tommy groans, like it’s punched out of him, and Buck can’t help the small smile. There’s a click -- the lube -- and then Tommy’s fingers pressed against him, holding there. He pushes back; Tommy dips a finger him, pulls on the rim slightly and that’s. Oh, god. He doesn’t know how long Tommy fingers him open, slowly, so so slowly, but he holds Buck down when he tries to say he’s ready, to just fuck him already. “What I want tonight baby, remember?”

And he whines and nods and tries not to come when Tommy adds another finger, stretching him and rubbing at his prostate, and he feels too full and not full enough. Wants Tommy’s weight on him, surrounding him, grounding him -- in him.

The first time, Tommy had opened him up so well, he’d been so wet, and no matter how he’d begged — had done what he wanted. He feels like that now. Wet and open and dripping with it. Buck can hear Tommy’s fingers, slick slide in, would feel dirty but Tommy breathes, “so pretty,” and he wants to preen a little, shifts his knee up, tilts his hips back so Tommy can see more, can see everything.

“You can come whenever,” Tommy says, almost carelessly. “Don’t hold yourself back for me.” Twists his fingers, and Buck’s back arches, whole body a conduit for whatever Tommy wants him to feel. “I’m going to fuck you no matter what.” He almost comes at the thought. Being fucked when he’s already come, when it’s too much, when every thrust is overwhelming.

It’s all so much. And he can’t breathe and he can’t think. It’s perfect.

But, he loves coming on Tommy’s cock, feeling his whole body clench down on that thick, perfect dick. Not like anything he’d ever felt before, can’t believe he went 34 years without it. And, Tommy likes it when he tightens, wants to give him that but can’t if… whines. Begs. “Please. Please. I need–”

And Tommy strokes a gentle finger down his cheek, thumb pushing into his mouth and Buck opens for it, sucking on it. And Tommy swears again. “I’ve got you, I promise.”

And then his fingers are sliding out and Buck feels empty and awkward, but then Tommy’s there, muscling between his thighs, pushing them wide, lining himself up and pushing in. And he has no leverage in this position, can only take what Tommy gives him. Tommy locks their fingers together and pushes his hands down into the bed on either side of Buck’s head, and starts to really fuck him. Pushing into him deep and hard and punching the breath out of him with each thrust.

It’s exactly what he wants. Needs. He can’t think of anything except the way that every thrust winds him higher, the way that the head of his dick rubs against the sheets, the obscene slap of their hips, the way he’s panting into the pillow, Tommy breathing into his neck. His hands are going to have bruises from how hard Tommy’s holding him. Anything else wouldn’t be tight enough.

He’s so so close. Arches up to try and get that tiny bit more, pushes his dick into the bed, rubs against the sheets, and then he’s there, the coil of tension and pleasure at the base of his spine releasing all at once. Tommy stills when he comes, holding himself back; Buck knows he must have tightened, how much Tommy must want, right now. When he’s come back online enough to realize he turns his head, pushes back against Tommy. “Keep going. You know I like it. Take what you need.”

Tommy leans in, bites at his lip, and then fucks into him hard, chasing his own release, and Buck revels in it. Tiny aftershocks of pleasure that edges into too much with every thrust. Knows Tommy’s close and says, “come for me,” and Tommy makes a sharp shocked noise and does.

After, Tommy drops down on top of him, still inside. He can already feel Tommy’s come starting to leak out of him. It’s going to be messy. He loves it. Squeezes down on Tommy’s cock, once, twice — feels him chuckle against shoulder, swat his ass. “None of that now — not all of us can come twice.” He pushes himself back, Buck can feel him slide out —

Immediately wished he could have stayed there forever.

Tommy scoots over, drops on his side like a stone, lays his head on the pillow and opens his arms for Buck — he slides over so he can lay his head on Tommy’s chest, listens to the steady thump thump thump of his heart. Feels it all come back, just a little —rubs his nose on the hair on Tommy’s pecs - wants to stay hidden here just a bit longer.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He understands the rules of this kind of hookup, they don’t include morning afters. But Tommy’s warm, and the curl of his arm across his waist is perfect, and he can’t make himself get up just yet.

Wakes up ten hours later, still in Tommy’s bed, still with Tommy tucked up behind him. It’s the best he’s slept in weeks. Since Bobby died. Before that, since the last time he fell asleep with Tommy.

Feels it when Tommy wakes up. The way his arm tightens for a second before he pulls back, starts to extricate himself from the bed, from Buck. Makes himself let go, even though he doesn’t want to. Rolls onto his back and looks up at Tommy. Messy bed head and marks on his chest from where Buck had bitten and sucked at him the night before. Reaches up to ghost a touch to one. “Sorry.”

Tommy looks down. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

He’s not sure what that means. Has to look away from Tommy – from the thing he wants and blew up his life too badly to have. Looks around for where his clothes had ended up. “I should go. Let you get on with your morning.“

“Or you could stay. Let me make you breakfast. Can’t leave without me feeding you, remember?” Tommy counters.

He looks at Tommy uncertainly. “I don’t want to be in your way.”

“What if I do?” Tommy asks. Clarifies, “Want you to be in my way. What if I like you there? Would you stay then?”

“Last time I said, the thing, the thing about sleeping with people–”

Tommy's face is impassive. “I remember.”

“Right.” Or course he does. He swallows. “And– and I meant it? But, I’m sorry about the way I said it? I, um, wanted you to stay? I, uh, thought you would stay.”

“Ok,” is all Tommy says.

He put it out there; nothing to do but wait for the verdict. He watches, heart in his throat, as Tommy pushes himself up on an elbow, head resting in his hand. They stare at each other for a second, a minute -- it feels like a lifetime. “I should have — I never.” He stops, Buck waits — tries not to fill the silence, to put words in his mouth. That never ends well for them. “I wanted to stay, then. I want you to stay, now. I shouldn’t have left.”

“Then we’re agreed,” Buck smiles, running his hand down the warm skin of Tommy’s arm. “We stay.”

It’s like the sun crosses Tommy’s face. He nods, “We stay.”

Chapter Text

Buck

The first time Tommy gets his fingers in him, thick, just this side of rough, skin calloused from decades of hard work – all he can think is, oh god, why hadn’t anyone told him? Or maybe they had and he hadn’t been listening? It was so good, so much; not too much, but close, the rim of his hole aching in the best way, trying to give, to do what Tommy wanted but –

“Can you take another?” Tommy asks, and Buck whines, unsure, but he wants, spreads his knees wider, an offering. He definitely has to think about this, taking a breath and relaxing his rim, letting Tommy in.

Tommy pulls his fingers back, pets his hole, then shoves more, oh god that’s more than before, and Buck whimpers.

Answers Tommy’s silent question, a small nudge of his hips, with, “Yes, ‘m yours, please, more,” words stumbling awkwardly out of his mouth without more thought than, now please whatever gets you to move. This is new; that they’re still new, but –knows the more of Tommy inside him, making himself at home, excises the emptiness.

Doesn’t know how long it takes, minutes, hours, but when Tommy finally, finally, gets fully inside, he waits, patiently, until Buck adjusts, Tommy panting wetly against his neck -- Buck wants to gnaw on the pillow, push his ass out, to be able to loosen everything on command and just – take what Tommy has to give him, no holding back. When he finally thrusts, once, twice, he groans into his fist; he can almost feel Tommy’s dick in his throat – and he wants more, now, constantly.

Makes a decision, right then -- stuffed full, but greedy for more, for Tommy to be able to use him, just like this, whenever he wants. He’d trained his body to be a firefighter, spent a lot of time at the gym building it up to do what he asks of it on the job. He doesn’t feel ashamed about that – the time and energy devoted to arm day, leg day, to sculpting his body to be able to carry someone out of a building, be strong enough to save them. He’s paid plenty of attention to his back, his abs – thinks he could deadlift Tommy if he wanted to. He definitely wants to.

Oh, shit, he thinks as he shudders through another thrust (Tommy is a great distraction) – he’d trained his body for his job, he can train it to be Tommy’s too.

He has the discipline, the drive, the Protestant work ethic – thinks this is probably not what his parents had in mind when they told him to try, try again – has the boundless urge to research the best toys, the right methods, goes down reddit rabbit holes that leave him hard and squirming, desperate and eager. He knows how to research, knows how to train. This is just a different part of his body (one he never really considered before), a different kind of getting his body in shape, so it does what he asks it to do without question.

Tommy

He slides in a finger and Evan’s loose, probably open enough for three from the start.

Doesn’t move his fingers, but he sits up a little so he can look at Evan properly. Twists his finger and watches Evan's full body shudder, even though he’s not sure how much Evan can feel – can’t be that much, as slack as his hole is. "Anything you want to tell me?"

“More,” Evan says, voice breaking and cracking.

Gives him what he wants, slides in two more, easily, twists them meditatively, tracking the way Evan arches into it, his legs spread wide, knees bent, the way his hands clench in the sheets, the way sweat breaks out across his chest. “More? Are you sure?”

Evan’s breath shudders out, and he pulls himself up in a mind-altering crunch to grab at the back of Tommy’s neck, pulling him down into a slick sloppy kiss. “More, please,” he says a little desperately.

Tommy doesn’t actually give him more fingers. More fingers is a conversation for when they’re not sex stupid and high on endorphins. But, he does spread his fingers, rubs his thumb at the rim of Evan’s ass where he’s stretched wide.

Evan collapses back into the bed, hips lifting, begging with his whole body. He begs so pretty, and Tommy has never been able to resist a pretty boy.

He watches Evan’s hands flex and grip at the sheets, and wants those hands in his hair, holding him down, directing him. Wonders what it would take to get Evan to lose the iron tight rein he has on being so fucking polite in bed. He wonders sometimes if Evan even knows where the line is between the things he likes in bed, and the things he does in bed because he knows his partner likes them. Doesn’t have to ask to know that no woman has ever had to ask Evan to go down on them – partly because he’s Evan, but also because the first time they’d made it beyond kissing and heavy petting (read about an hour into their second date) Evan had folded down onto his knees and looked up at Tommy from under his lashes and licked his lips and said, “Teach me how to suck your cock.” And jesus fucking christ Evan.

Evan had gone down on him that first time with maybe more enthusiasm than skill – although goddamn he learns fast – but he’d eaten him out two nights later with none of the same learning curve. Tommy had tried to focus on asking, “How? What? Where did you learn?” just so that he didn’t embarrass himself.

He’d counted it as a reprieve when Evan lifted his head long enough to say, “Principle’s pretty much the same.” Tommy had felt Evan’s smug smile against his ass cheek. “‘Sides, I like doing this.”

It’s easy to let Evan do for him; it’s harder to get Evan to let him do for Evan. And, he wants to get Evan greedy, for him to just take what he wants, what he needs. Wants him to use Tommy’s body for his own pleasure.

Now he considers Evan, fingers still flexing inside him. “You never really answered the question?”

“Ques- Question?” Evan manages to stutter out after two tries.

Taps his thumb against the rim of Evan’s ass as a reminder. Evan squirms, finally answers, “ ‘M bought toys. Been practicing.”

Tommy swears — he would have had to be “practicing” a lot.

“Diff’nt one ev’ry day,” Evan slurs.

“Every day?” Doesn’t know what his voice does, but — Tommy can see it, seen him, home alone. “You used this,” dips in and tugs, a little meanly, with his thumb, “without me?”

Evan whines, head shaking back and forth.

“I thought this was mine?”

He waits while Evan thinks his way through the fog of lust. "For you?" he finally offers.

"You did it for me?"

Evan nods. "Wanted to be ready for you."

And he almost always is. Partly because they have a lot of sex and, even if Evan’s topping, he likes something in his ass at some point during the proceedings. Partly because Evan apparently bought a small sex shop’s worth of toys, and likes playing with them, with and without Tommy. He learns to check his phone in private if he’s on shift and Evan isn’t – because Evan’s got a beautiful body, and a lot of curiosity, and likes to send pictures about the things he’s exploring, the things he’s learning about himself.

“Thought I knew,” he’d confided in Tommy one night, early on, when this was still new. “Thought I had sex figured out.” Stretched under Tommy’s gaze, hooked one of those ridiculously long legs over Tommy’s hip and thumbed the head of Tommy’s cock almost absently. “I had no idea.”

After that night, they work together, pushing Evan’s boundaries, seeing what he can take, how far he can give. Tommy’s knuckles rubbing where Buck’s stretched tight around most of his hand. Nothing seems to satisfy him, not fully. He asks for more and more, and Tommy doesn’t want to hurt him, doesn’t want him unable to do his job, too loose, constantly wanting, unfulfilled in his turn-outs, nothing inside to fill him properly.

It’s fun. New.

But this is different. Evan had come over after a 48 that had run over, horny and with wandering hands. They’d had vague plans for dinner and a movie, but it’s been nearly a week since their schedules aligned, and Tommy pushes him down on the bed instead, shoves his shorts down — slides a finger down his crack, catches on the rim — small, tight, closed off.

Pulls a little at the rim, and then a little more when Evan melts against him and lets out a hitching moan. “Thought this was for me, so I could do what I want?” He asks, petting more firmly so just the tip of his finger breaches him, and Evan twists closer. “So tight, I’ll have to start all over again.” Evan whines, flushing red down his big, beautiful body, laid out in front of Tommy like a meal. He shushes him. "I like it," humming the refrain of Like a Virgin, because he's an asshole and can't help himself sometimes.

It takes Evan a second, and then he laughs and shoves at Tommy, pushing until Tommy's on his back, and Evan is balanced across this lap - thighs spread wide, ass resting against Tommy's dick.

Just for that, he slides back and forth, cockhead catching on Evan’s rim each time. Evan’s eyes roll back in his head. “You’re gonna open me up with your cock.” Reaches hands up to pinch his own nipples, shivering. “Cmon,” when Tommy opens his mouth to object, “I can take it.” Rolls hips more insistently. “I want it.” Bends, biting at Tommy’s lip. “I need it.”

It's a terrible idea. It's the best idea he's heard all week. Can tell Evan sees the moment he agrees, because he looks triumphant, and stretches to reach for the lube. Lifts up enough to stroke lube on Tommy's cock, and then—

A series of tiny, abbreviated shoves finally gets the head in and they both sit, panting. It's big, plump, spreads him wider than a few fingers, wishes briefly that he could see, but he likes this – Evan taking what he needs. Evan takes another minute to adjust before he puts his hands on the bed and starts working his way down, an inch at a time, panting.

Tommy can barely take it — grips Evan’s thick thighs, squeezes until they turn white around the edges of his fingers

Evan bites his lip, intent, concentrating. Has to recite the principals of air flow dynamics to himself to back himself off the edge. They both pause, gasping for air when Evan bottom's out, ass resting in the cradle of Tommy's hips.

When he straightens, it changes the angle, and they both make pathetic noises, and then Evan starts to move, small grinding figure eights that steal his breath. “Can you,” Evan starts, “imagine if you–” loses the plot as he drops down, friction drawing his attention.

Tommy tries to get himself under control. "Imagine if I, what?"

Plants his feet for leverage and the next time Evan drops down he fucks up, grips his hips and pulls him down.

Evan arches his back and makes a bitten off desperate noise. "Imagine if I what?" he reminds Evan.

He can actually feel Evan flutter his hole, using the control he’s gained in such a short time. Imagines it winking at him, ass spread wide between his hands, dark against the pink, pale of Evan’s cheeks. “Stop that,” he says, slapping Evan’s thigh lightly. “I asked you a question.”

Evan drops all his weight and pins Tommy in place, finding the angle that works for him and grinding into it, flush spreading down his chest.

"Imagine," he manages to get out, "if you opened me up on your cock in the morning, and then you put a plug in, kept me open and wide for you all day, you could just slip back in whenever."

And well that’s an image that deserves a reward.

Puts his thumb against his cock, not pushing in, but there so Evan can feel it. “Yessssss” he hisses.

“And imagine if you,” slides up, “could get your whole hand…” drops down and comes like a shot, splatting across his stomach and Tommy’s thighs.

Holy shit.

He didn’t even touch him.

He's not sure how, but he hasn't come yet - even with Evan clenching down on him when he came. He plans to be polite, to be kind, pull out and jerk off over Evan's abs or ass.

But then Evan comes back to himself enough to realize Tommy's still hard and rolls his hips, and it has to be too much, but Evan braces a hand on Tommy's chest and says, "Take what you need, I want to feel it." And Tommy takes him at his word. Flips them, and fucks back in, punches the breath from Evan in hitching huh huh huh noises, manhandles Evan until he's bent almost in half and slams back in, their bodies slapping together, obscene and real.

Evan's got his hands pushed back against the headboard to shove further down on Tommy's cock, and he's letting out desperate pained noises, and muttering thoughtlessly, "don't stop don't stop don't stop."

Tommy doesn't think he could stop if an armed criminal burst into the room right this second. Just pushes Evan's thigh up a little further, and Evan's ass tightens down on him, and this time he comes, shoving gracelessly into Evan before he collapses panting against Evan's collar bone.

Evan drops his leg, wincing slightly, but brings arms up to hold him in place, in case Tommy has some kind of misguided idea about moving.

"Holy shit," he says, and he sounds wrecked even to his own ears. Evan makes a vague agreeing noise.

He slides out and Evan makes a noise, like it hurts, so he pushes his knee up to his chest (Jesus he’s flexible), slides his fingers back into him, “Too empty?” Admires how three slide right in, wet with lube and himself. Pulls them out and then does it again. “So loose, baby,” he croons, “so open.”

“For you,” Evan says with a sigh, curling into Tommy, already sliding into sleep.

They fall asleep, Tommy’s fingers still inside him, holding his place.