earthquakebi

When he gets Tommy again, it becomes clear to Buck he has a different kind of work ethic. He asks Buck about what he likes and doesn’t like and there’s something about Tommy’s voice that makes Buck confide in him that he’s new to sex with guys and he suspects maybe there’s other things he doesn’t realize he likes.

So Tommy asks for Buck’s permission to essentially run down a list and Buck gives the okay.

When Tommy asks if Buck likes being called a “good boy,” Buck flushes and grows hot. He laughs quietly. “Uh, yeah, that’s something I already knew, but”—he takes a deep breath—“I really like it coming from you.”

Tommy hums. There’s a sound like pen scratching on paper from his end of the line. “Noted.”

At the end of what has become a 2-hour phone call, after they’ve talked through Tommy’s list, Tommy talks Buck through getting off in record time, murmuring good boy when Buck comes.

It echoes in Buck’s head long after they’ve hung up.

Time passes and Buck heals and he stops calling the phone sex line and he feels a pang of guilt about Tommy losing a client, but Buck figures Tommy is so good at his job that he’ll be okay.

Buck dates and hooks up with some guys in real life and it’s great,

but sometimes he misses Tommy’s voice, equally commanding and praising, in his ear.

Would he still sound the same as Buck remembers?

Buck knows he could just call, but for some reason he doesn’t.

Months later, Buck ends up adopting a dog, Blaze, he rescues from a fire.

He’s with Blaze at the dog park in his neighborhood day when he sees a gorgeous guy—an absolute beefcake of a man—playing fetch with his own dog; a Weimaraner, Buck’s pretty sure.

Buck needs to get closer. He needs to know this guy’s name and ask if their dogs can have a play date and also how he likes his eggs and what side of the bed he prefers…

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

He makes his way over to the bench the guy is sitting at and he doesn’t miss the way the guy does a double take. Buck’s only a few feet away when the Weimaraner comes trotting back to his owner and drops a ball at his feet.

The guy scratches the dog’s head and coos, “good boy.”

And—oh fuck—the words hit Buck like a freight train and he trips over nothing at all, and stupidly blurts out, “Tommy?”

Tommy’s head whips up, his brow furrowed. “Do I—have we met?”

Buck rocks on his heels. “Not—uh—not in person. I’m—"

“Evan.” Tommy smiles when Buck nods. “Huh. I’ve never been recognized by my voice before.”

Buck shrugs. “Well, you left quite an impression.”

Tommy just looks at him, for so long Buck’s afraid he might ask Buck to leave him alone. Instead, he scoots over and pats the bench. “Sit.”

A quick glance over and Buck sees that Blaze is doing fine, having made friends with Tommy’s dog and a few others. Buck scrambles to join Tommy before he changes his mind.

Buck asks if he can come in and Tommy says yes. They continue the silence in Tommy's living room. Tommy doesn't know about any of it and Buck isn't eager to tell him. For the first time, he has a choice in whether he wants to share it — he doesn't.

His eyes keep drifting to the hallway that leads to Tommy's bedroom. He looks at Tommy. He knows he should ask, he knows showing up here is crazy, he knows he can't just go lie on his ex-boyfriend's bed. It would be a shitty thing to do, just waltz in, like he's entitled to any of it.

But he does it anyway. He walks down the hallway and pushes the bedroom door open. The bed is unmade, like it always was. He can see Tommy looking from the living room. It sits heavy in his chest, whatever this feeling is. Knowing he's not entitled to any of this. He can't just show up in Tommy's life whenever he wants to.

But he can't not do it. He opens the door the rest of the way, toes off his shoes and climbs into Tommy's sheets. He cries almost instantly. His whole body feels like his skin has been peeled off, but Tommy's sheets are soft and slept in. Everything smells like him. There's not phantom smell of vomit, no anxiety sweat. The sheets smell like Tommy's skin.

Any moment now, Tommy will come through the door and ask him what the fuck he's doing, ask him to leave, and he'll have every right to, because his crazy ex-boyfriend keeps taking advantage of the fact that he loves him.

Tommy never said, but Buck knows that Tommy loves him. Buck was afraid of jumping the gun and didn't say it first.

Tommy appears in the door, but he doesn't look angry or outraged or anything like it. His brows are furrowed in what looks like concern; an expression Buck is all too familiar with at the moment.

Tommy climbs onto the bed and lies down beside him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't demand anything. All he does is lie close and thumb a tear off Buck's cheek. Buck gathers a handful of the sheets and presses them to his face. They're already wet, but he doesn't know what else to do.

Tommy touches the back of his head and Buck's whole body curls up in what feels a lot like fear. Tommy holds on a little firmer. His thumb presses up behind Buck's ear, rubbing gently. A sob rips its way out of his throat, only slightly muffled by the sheets.

Tommy stays. His hand is warm and steady. Buck doesn't know how long he cries for. It feels like forever. There is still the occasional hiccup, when he moves the sheet away from his eyes. He looks at Tommy through the wet clumps of his eyelashes. He hasn't looked himself in the mirror in weeks. He knows he's halfway to a scraggly beard, but he doesn't know what it looks like.

He's holding the sheets against his mouth. The words are warm and humid, when he says, "I'm sorry."

"I've got you," Tommy says. He has no idea what's going on, has no idea why Buck is even here, yet that's the first thing he says. Buck can hardly bear it.

"I know you do," every word shakes on the way out. Buck knows he's a horrible person, knows he's taking advantage again, but he knows. He knows Tommy has him and he knows he means it. "I'm sorry."

Tommy pulls him forward, wet sheets and all, and tucks him against his chest. His arms feel like they did the last time he held Buck, and like every time before it. He feels solid and real in ways nothing else has for over a year.

Tommy doesn't ask for an explanation; not because he doesn't want one, but because he's giving Buck a choice. Tommy spent six months telling him you don't have to do that every single time someone asked him to do something. Every favour, every everything. Buck had brushed it off, hadn't understood the significance. He does now.

"I fucked up," he breathes into Tommy's chest.

With no context, Tommy says, "It'll be OK." Tommy hasn't been to therapy, but he carries strong beliefs about the world and the people in it. Death is the only thing you can't come back from, as he so eloquently and morbidly put it one time. And the thing is, Buck believes him. When Tommy says it'll be OK, it will. Maybe not the way you imagine it will, but things will work out.

Buck stays. They both do. In the bed, at first. Then the kitchen, where Tommy makes him eat, and drink water until he feels sick. He stays the night. And another night. Tommy doesn't ask, all he does is stay. He asks about the here and now. Are you hungry? Are you tired? Wanna go for a walk? He excuses himself to the backyard and makes a phone call. Buck assumes he's calling out of work, but Tommy doesn't say. Tommy doesn't offer, doesn't ask, he just does it.

Buck's phone is slowly filling up with text messages and missed phone calls. After two nights' sleep in Tommy's bed, he's rested enough that the reality of the situation hits a little harder. He's effectively gone missing right after a detox, as much as he's been answering the texts, saying he's fine. Tommy asks if he's missed a shift. Buck says he's on leave. Tommy doesn't ask for any more information than that.

The only call he ends up returning is Maddie's. He keeps it brief, says he's with Tommy. It sticks in his throat on the first try, but the second makes it out. "I'm safe." Maddie is still worried. He doesn't want to give her details, but she won't let up. "It's quiet here," he swallows. "I just need it to be quiet." He doesn't know why that resonates with her, but she eases up and says she'll let the others know.

After he hangs up, he looks at Tommy. The guilt sits heavy in his throat. Tommy is taking time off to be here. He's wearing Tommy's clothes, he's eating his food, he's taking up space in his home.

Tommy thumbs a tear off his cheek and says, "I've got you."

"I keep asking you to do stuff," he sniffles.

"I can be mad about that later," Tommy says, as if that's an option. "Whatever this is, whatever you're going through, this is more important." He ends it there, doesn't demand to know what this is.