So... I'm finally playing around with this fic. Set in the aftermath of the whole firetruck/Buck's leg debacle
Sal/Buck, Measure of a Firefighter (WIP), G-rated (this bit)
Station 122 was… different from the 118. For one, it sat in a neighbourhood that felt a little more lived-in, to put it in kind words. The brickwork alone was all stained by exhaust and salt air. An old firehouse, charming enough. But honestly, it could use some updates.
Then, there were the… vibes. Buck couldn’t even have pointed out just what made everything about the place seem lighter than how he knew a firehouse could feel. Perhaps that was just some of the wires in his head still tangled up in anxiety and a multitude of worries he really didn’t want to drag up right this moment.
Buck found he was fine with different. But still, he hesitated. Standing on the sidewalk, he gripped the straps of his duffel bag until his knuckles ached and the leather creaked, before he made himself release the grip.
He felt like a traitor and a runaway all at once. What a combination. They were so differnt: one implied close ties cut, the other the complete lack of proper ties at all. (Buck had experience with the latter one, but he’d hoped to be done with that.)
For weeks, Buck had sat in his loft, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the phone call from Bobby, the one that said, 'We’re ready for you, kid. Come home.' Or something along those lines. Buck would have settled for simpler words, fewer words. Any words at all.
He would have settled for a lot less.
Instead, there were check-ins that vaguely seemed like evaluations and friendly lunches that gave the impression of interrogations. It didn’t feel like Bobby was waiting for Buck to heal; it felt like he was waiting for Buck to become someone easier to manage. Someone smaller.
Buck had no idea how to hunch his shoulders in tighter, how to fold these bones into something that might be more fitting for the 118. How to be someone that Bobby could be proud of. A part of him still desperately wanted to.
But Buck simply couldn’t break any more bones, not even metaphorically. He was caught and sealed in his skeleton plus all the parts of him that had turned just so much squishier while he tried to get back on his feet. A harsher edge had formed when he’d receritfied, but Buck still felt somewhat off.
Maybe the new enviroment would help, would remind Buck how to settle in the work. His transfer had out him at the 122. There was no going back now. Buck found he didn’t even want to.
Stumbling slightly as he stepped over the threshold, forcing himself foward finally, Buck almost collided with a massive man who looked like he’d been built out of iron and stubbornness. He inhaled to apologise, but the other firefighter beat him to it.
"Easy there, lightning," the man grunted, steadying Buck with a hand that felt like a vice.
Buck tried to find his voice. “Sorry. I’m—"
"Buckley. Yeah, we heard." The man wiped a greasy hand on his station pants. "I'm Przemysław Jastrzębski. Don't try to say it. Most people can't get past the 'P'. Just call me Proby."
Buck blinked, looking at the man’s weathered face and the senior stripes on his sleeve. “P-proby? Uh. That’s—”
Proby laughed at whatever expression was on his face.
“Ah. Yes. I’ve been here twenty-two years, and still that’s the nickname that stuck,” Proby said with a shrug that suggested he didn't care about the irony. "Go see the Captain. Second door on the left. Don't knock too hard, he likes his coffee in the cup, not on his desk."
With that odd comment, he left Buck to find his own way through the bay. At least it was clearly enough in which general direction Proby had gestured. Buck was fine just figuring the rest out.
But as he made his way through the station, several other firefighters nodded at Buck as they knew him already. Or of him. Buck hoped this didn’t mean his fresh slate was already marked. He didn’t know what to make of it.
When he found and knocked on the door that was marked as the Captain’s office, the response from the other side came quickly.
Buck found himself fixated by startlingly clear eyes the moment he stepped into the office. Captain Sal Deluca looked tired, sharp, and entirely focused as he dropped a pen to the a stack of maintenance logs. He didn't stand up for a hug or a handshake. He just gestured to the chair.
"Sit, Buckley."
Buck sat, his back rigid. He found he was half waiting for a lecture. The one about how he needed to earn back his place.
"I'v heard a lot of things about you," Sal said, cutting through Buck’s wandering thoughts and straight to the case. His voice was direct, devoid of the paternal softness Bobby used so often. "I also know how Nash runs his house. He's a good guy, but he sometimes forgets that his firefighters don't owe him for growing beyond his shadow.”
A distant voice in his head reminded him about old stories that Hen and Chim had told about Deluca; mostly unfavourable. But there was another part of him that wondered: If he was such a bad firefighter, how did he make Captain then?
“Bobby didn’t-,” Buck started, feeling the need to defend his old Captain. But the words that he had reached for wouldn’t come. He hardly knew what he’d been meaning to say.
Sal watched and waited for him to continue. But when it became apparent that Buck wouldn’t say anything else, Sal rose from his chair.
“Come on,” he prompted, not unkind. “I’ll show you around the place.”
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Rules: Make a 24hr poll listing the titles of every WIP you want to work on. (It’s fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). Whichever WIP title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every vote received.
Go ahead, pick a WIP
And Then There Was You (Buck/Tommy)
Controlled Burn (Buck/Tommy)
Where the Smoke Settles (Buck/Tommy/Sal)
What We Keep, What We Mend (FCFB) (Buck/Tommy/Sal)
Un folletto dalle leggende trentine. Il Salvanèl è, come dice il nome, un tipo di Salvan, di uomo selvatico, e perciò è vestito di foglie e indossa una maschera di pelle di coniglio, come a volte son costumato ai carnevali. E da buon folletto indossa una berretta rossa, fa perdere la gente nel bosco e gioca scherzi alla gente. Ma molte storie non lo rappresentano come cattivo.
Ein Kobold aus der Tradition der Dolomiten. Das Salvanèl ist ein Salvan, ein Wilder Mann, und als solcher ist er in Blättern gekleidet und trägt eine Hasenfellmaske, wie bei manchen Fastnachten. Als regelrechter Kobold trägt er eine rote Kapuze, lässt Leute verlaufen und spielt Streiche. Doch in den Geschichten ist er oft nicht als bösartig beschrieben.
A goblin from alpine folklore. The Salvanèl is, as the name says, a type of Salvan, a wild man, and thus dresses in leaves and a mask of rabbit skin, like in some carnivals. And as a proper goblin, he wears a red cap, gets people lost in the woods and plays prankson others. But in stories he isn’t really depicted as a bad guy.
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First chapter of "The Full Measure of a Firefighter" is up on a03!
Here's a snippet:
When the whole of the 122 was back at the station, some two hours later, Buck’s adrenaline had faded into that heavy, post-call exhaustion. The rest of the crew had drifted back toward the bunks, but Buck and Sal were in the small kitchenette. Buck watched his Captain pour a cup of coffee that looked thick enough to strip paint.
He tried not to make a disgusted face, but Sal’s little huff of amusement told Buck he hadn’t quite managed.Â
"You have good instincts, Buck,” Sal said, sipping like he actually liked that tar-like substance. It didn’t even sound like a compliment; it sounded much more like a statement of fact. "Most guys would have been too focused on the fire to hear the boiler."
"I used to get told I was 'distracted' by things like that," Buck admitted, leaning against the counter. There was a level of bitterness seeping into his voice, which Buck was trying hard not to feel. Sal considered him for a beat, clearly waiting to see if he’d add anything else. Buck didn’t.
"Distracted is often what people call it when they don't know how to use the information you're giving them. You saved us a fall into a basement fire today."
Buck hardly knew what to do with the open praise, uncut by any limiting factors, any mistakes Buck had made along the way. He knew he hadn’t meshed completely with the rest of the team yet. They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Sal looked at Buck, and Buck caught the gaze.Â
"I know it feels like a betrayal," Sal said quietly, accurately reading the shadow on Buck's face. "Leaving the 118. But you’ve grown too big for the box they kept you in."
Buck felt a sudden, sharp lump in his throat. "Thanks, Cap.”
Sal’s gaze lingered on Buck’s mouth for a fraction of a second too long before he nodded and put some more distance between them. Buck was almost certain he’d imagined it. "Get some sleep, Buckley. You earned it."
Supposed to be working on existing WIPs, instead coming up with new ones: How about rich consultant!Sal (maybe a bit crime-related, but of course, he wouldn't tell his sweet Evan) and officeworker!Buck (after his leg, he moved to a different field)?
SalBuck, WIP, E-rated
Buck sighed into the phone, unable to stop himself.
"Baby," Sal soothed from the other end of the line, and that one word from all that distance travelled through Buck's whole body all the way to his prickling scalp.
"It's just. Ugh. I could probably ignore it if they didn't make so many pointed comments at me."
"It would be bad if they didn't outright say it, too."
Buck hummed. "They're just so rude about it."
"Quit."
For a moment, Buck thought he hadn't heard right. "Sorry, what?"
Shock hit Buck at how plainly, how easily Sal could offer that.
"I can't just--"
"You'll find something else. If you want to," Sal said, perfectly calm and reasonable. "You know I can cover you. You've seen the pay stubs. It's crazy what they pay consultants these days."
Buck was half stuck on a laugh. He was about to protest, saying that Sal was hardly just any consultant. But that one would only be giving in to the diversion tactic.
"Sal, you can't just offer something like that."
"I can, and I just have," Sal told him, an amused note to his tone. "Finish up your shift. We'll talk about it tonight. I love you, tesoro."
"Love you, too," Buck told him, quietly, still tucked into that corner of the hallway, but feeling so much lighter suddenly. It was hard to hide that smile on his face firmly behind the monstera in the corner and leave it there when he made his way back.
He finished out his shift without any more scalding comments about his limp. Or at least none that Buck chose to acknowledge. There was someone waiting for him at home, and that was enough to carry him through the rest of the day.
Still, Sal wasn't entirely true to his word. There was very little talking when Buck went to his place that night. But, if Buck was being honest, he didn't care one bit.
"Ohmygod."
Buck's hands clenched into the sheets, trying to find an anchor, to hold on somehow as Sal used his grip on Buck's hips to pull him closer. The move served only to spear Buck open on Sal's cock with cruel, deep grinds that were like dragging nails over metal, sparks of pleasure flying and catching.
"-- Sal."
"There you are, baby. Take it so well."
Sal knew no mercy like this, pulling back just a little only to seat himself again with enough force to drive Buck forward on the bed. He clicked his tongue, not quite scolding but close enough to the sound he used when Buck was being a brat, just looking for firm handling that it made him shiver in anticipation. A Pavlovian response.
The hand that settled between Buck's shoulder blades forced his back into an arch. His knees shifted further apart almost without Sal's prompting tap. God, Sal had him so well-trained, and Buck only felt hotter for the spike of embarrassment that thought created.
"Comfortable?" Sal asked, fingers brushing over Buck's hip in a movement that was altogether too sweet for how he had Buck presented with his ass up and knees spread as far as they would go on the bed. Â
Buck swallowed twice to find his voice. "Y-yeah."
"My sweet boy," Sal said. "Proud of you. Telling me what you need."
"I-I barely--" Buck cut off with a moan when Sal thrust forward. He whined at the little adjustment that gave Sal more leverage. Oh fuck, that angle was worse.
"You're perfect," Sal insisted, voice growing a little tight when Buck felt that particular praise low in his gut. "Let me take care of you."
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Please."
Sal kept his word.
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Untethered Verse, Part II, Salbucktommy, WIP (M-rated)
"What are you doing here?" Sal asked when he found Buck leaning against his car about a week after they'd quietly disappeared from Sal's apartment, while he somehow managed to talk himself out of hyperventilating over shitty breakfast.
Buck lifted his hands in a universal gesture of 'i mean no harm', only Sal knew that was a lie, because the smile of that boy was so disarming that Sal knew his guard was half down before he could steel himself.
"Can we talk?"
Sal hesitated. "Where did you leave--"
"Just me," Buck said. "Let me invite you to dinner? I know a place around here."
A cruel instinct made Sal want to sneer something like 'do this a lot, do you?', only he bit down on it, because even in his fucked up head, he realised that it was a bit too obviously showing his hand. Or perhaps Buck knew anyway. Still, he didn't waver.
"Alright," Sal allowed, not even sure how he hadn't ended up at a resounding 'no'. It was something about Buck. This ridiculous puppy of a man, who smiled brightly and immediately promised to text Sal the address from his car.
"See you in a bit!"
He wasn't wrong. Sal arrived at the dinner-style place less than twenty minutes later and parked next to Buck's jeep. Perhaps there were some backroads he didn't know of, because Sal was very sure he'd pulled out of the parking lot at the firehouse first.
If Sal's nondescript irritation at the situation as a whole showed at all, Buck didn't let on. He just led Sal into the restaurant, and never once, between going inside and sitting down and ordering, stopped keeping up a conversation that was somehow easy and flowing without becoming superficial. Sal couldn't pin him down. Not at all.
"Did you know that spider silk is one of the strongest naturally occurring materials by weight?" Buck asked, with his chin resting in his palm. It looked lazy, almost, but the way he kept considering Sal was too calculating for that. "Once a net is spun, it's structurally sound. Durable too."
"I feel like you're trying to make a point," Sal said. "There's no need to lead me to make my own conclusions; you could just tell me."
Buck gave him a lopsided grin. "Have you always been this alike? Or is it because you've been partners for so long?"
The way Buck said that word, partners, was heavy beyond reason. Back in the day, Sal had realised its weight once, just once, and then forced himself to shove it all back down and never think about 'this is Tommy, my partner' ever again.
"It was like that for me with my partner for a while. Eddie," Buck went on, when Sal made no move to reply. "But that one ended a bit badly. He moved. Then came back. He has a bit of an anger issue."
Sal controlled his flinch. But something must have shown in his expression, because Buck's eyebrows rose. "It's a different story."
"When I left the 118, it was out of anger as well," Sal heard himself say, aware that the words could cut him, but unable to stop himself. Damn those pretty curls and the honest expression on Buck's face. Part of Sal wanted to give away much, much more than just a few minor truths about the past.
"That's not how Tommy tells it," Buck said. "He said Bobby transferred you because you were too good at leading."
Sal looked up from his food, a little stunned. "It feels like that's a little biased."
Buck shot back immediately: "Sure. Because Tommy cares about you."
Sal had walked into that one. Barreled straight into the knife that was always right there, just waiting to cut him. Sal should know better at this point.
There was a merciful streak in Buck because he pivoted the conversation. Not quite without letting on that he was doing it, but still. Sal asked him about work, and Buck sighed, making a motion with his hand that indicated it was all a bit difficult even before he admitted it. Sal really had no leg to stand on in demanding more details, so he didn't.
When they finally paid and left, the parking lot was already mostly empty; it distinctly felt like that was by design. Or if it wasn't, Buck at least took hold of the opportunity before Sal could even fully gather it was one. One moment, he stood next to his car, trying to find a way to say goodbye without being too mean or too honest.
The next, Buck stepped into Sal's space, hand curved around the side of his neck, and kissed him. Unhurried, open-mouthed, like he had all the time in the world. Sal could feel the kiss hook into his heartstrings, and it was hard to fight the meaning behind it.
He swallowed hard when Buck let him go. "You and Tommy are together."
"Will you keep using that as an excuse?" Buck asked, unimpressed. "Tommy knows I'm here with you."
Sal laughed, a jaded sound. "So what? Is it an open relationship now? And you've decided to play—"
"No." Buck backed away a little, something sharpening in his voice. "It's just you. You know that."
Something shifted in Buck's expression, quick and quickly gone. He looked almost hurt. Sal's mouth snapped shut.
Buck sighed. "Honestly, you want to know what's funny? You both do the exact same thing. He soft-pedals to avoid scaring you off. You bolt before he gets the chance. I'm surprised you're even talking to each other still."
"Hey—"
"Oh?" A flicker of something that wasn't quite a smile. "So when Tommy called you a friend because he didn't want to spook you, you didn't flee your own apartment because you wanted to be more than that?"
Sal took a step back, out of Buck's immediate reach. He felt unbalanced, and it took a moment before he found his anger: "You're—"
"A nosy bastard?" Buck's grin took an edge. "Nah."
He held Sal's gaze, and something in his expression settled, not softer, exactly. Quieter. More dangerous for it.
"I already love him. And I could fall for you so easily."
The silence stretched. Buck let it.
"So yeah," he said finally. "I'll push a little."
A funny thing was happening in Sal's chest. One which he felt entirely objected to, weathering an uncontrolled storm. He did that well, usually. But 'I could fall for you' and 'easily' wasn't a combination of words Sal had heard before or even thought he'd hear.
"Think about it," Buck pressed, still pushing. "Here, give me your phone."
Sal did, too unbalanced to resist Buck's open hand, palm to the sky with an ease that belied the weight of what he was offering. Maybe Buck didn't realise it, or maybe he was always this open with his affection. Sal could believe it with everything Tommy had told him.
"There," Buck said and handed Sal's phone back. "You have my number now. Think about it. If it's too hard to talk to Tommy, text me."
"What makes you think that texting you is easier?"
Buck's smile was instant, wide and true. "You don't love me yet, Tori."
Yet. Like inevitability. So fucking confident. Sal could have teased, could have said something about arrogance. But Buck was the furthest thing from that, and the implication was startlingly clear.
You love him.
When Buck touched his arm just above his elbow and pressed another quick peck to the corner of Sal's mouth, he was still absolutely frozen.
"Text me," Buck said, and Sal's gaze fell from those startling eyes to the screen of his phone. He'd saved his contact as 'Evan'.
