#skip fic

WIPs

wild as the west texas wind (bucktommy, ao3 link)

I am working on chapter three!! I promise!!! I am!!!!

this is my wild west bucktommy au where outlaw!buck is captured by bounty hunter!tommy except they also had sex one time years ago and neither has ever forgotten abt it - at the end of chapter two, they're trapped in a small mining town due to bad weather, and buck has just found an old photograph of Doug Kendall amidst tommy's things and is confronting tommy abt it

best served cold (scottkip)

Scott Hunter was once the brightest rising star in the NYPD, on the road to becoming one of the youngest police captains ever, but in 1930, aged 33, he's an unemployed drinker on the road to nothing but a too-early death. Until, that is, a handsome young man shows up with a story about his dearest friend being accused of a murder she didn't commit. Reluctantly, Scott agrees to investigate, though the investigation drags him deep into the criminal underbelly of 1930s New York City.

basically a scottkip detective noir murder mystery au - featuring Shane and Ilya as rival mob bosses, Dallas Kent as a corpse, Kip as the femme (homme?) fatale, and Scott as the world-weary but secretly-hopeful-and-romantic detective

gleams of sunshine (bucktommy, snippets here and here)

edwardian era/wwi au; in 1912, tommy kinard fell in love with evan buckley, the earl of rochester, and had his heart broken - in 1916, evan buckley loses a leg at the somme and is reunited with tommy in a military hospital

I am so so so fascinated by wwi and of course, I had to put tommy and buck through All That - it's gonna be angsty, and hot, and a bit soap opera-y (just like its main source of inspiration, Downton Abbey)

mystery of love (bucktommy)

sequel to blackbird on my shoulder! it's been a couple of years, tommy and abby are semi-amicably divorced, tommy's starting to consider retirement, when who shows up on tommy's doorstep in need of a place to stay?? evan buckley!!

keep the home fires burning (scottkip)

my take on how scott hunter and kip grady find their way back to each other (this fic is basically just a vehicle for exploring the ny admirals, including giving scott and carter their very own geno malkin (scott is sidney crosby, carter vaughn is kris letang, they need their russian weirdo)), also featuring scott's past as the MLH Slut and lots of both scott and kip being jewish

title from the wwi song Keep The Home Fires Burning

WIPs I'm kinda-but-not-really-except-yes-I-am working on

untitled infidelity au (bucktommy, resume here)

untitled golden age of hollywood au (bucktommy, resume here)

last sentence I wrote (from wild as the west texas wind, ch. 3):

Written on the back of the thick daguerreotype are the words "Mr and Mrs D. Leahy, Christmas 1856" and Buck flips it over, curious to see 'Mr and Mrs D. Leahy', only to nearly drop the daguerreotype in surprise when he sees an unfamiliar woman and Douglas Kendall staring up at him.

Insisting he was fine as his morning run hit harder than normal, made his body ache, panting and sweating through his under armour shirt by the time he got home. That he was just a little congested, insisting it was nothing as he sneezed his way through the true crime documentary he and Kip were watching that evening.

Kip knew that hockey players pushing past injuries and illness in order to play was a thing, had seen it in Scott many a time, in fact. He was Captain, he had to be there for his team. Be the role model, the figurehead, the centre.

But he didn't have to be Captain Hunter here in the penthouse with Kip. The season was over, they actually had some time at home together, no practices or games or other hockey things that Scott would have pushed himself to attend. He could just be Scott. And maybe Scott could let Kip take care of him.

So Kip offered his boyfriend a hot cup of tea, a warm bath, a cool compress — anything, something to help, at least a little. Cuddling on the couch under a too-expensive throw blanket, thermostat cranked up a degree or two.

Scott accepted the tea, and the cuddle on the couch, Kip pulling him into his arms. Running a hand through the sweaty strands of Scott's hair as his boyfriend rested against him, head on his chest, eyes drooping heavier and heavier. Scott sank into it, melting into his hold. Cushioned by the plush couch, the throw blanket Kip pulled over them, the warmth of Kip's body underneath him.

Which led him here, in bed with the flu, too sweaty and feverish to cuddle properly — and feeling miserable enough that he craves it even more. Desperately wanting the comfort of Kip's hold, his arms around him, the steady rhythm of his heart beat soothing his aching body. But he wouldn't forgive himself if Kip got sick because of him, because he buried himself in the comfort of Kip's body.

He compromised with himself, weighed it in his head, and let himself indulge in something selfish — and reached for Kip's hand. He lays there, aching, congested, miserable — but he's got Kip. Their fingers entwined, comfortably entangled. Warmth spreading from that point of connection, blooming in his palms and creeping up his arm.

Smiling up at Kip — a little pitifully, half covered by the comforter — Scott makes eye contact before screwing up his face. Taking stock of his body, the way he does on the ice — of the aches and pains and the build up inside him. He readily comes to the conclusion that he still feels much the same. Head aching, body, heavy, fever still making him shiver with sweat.

His sleep shirt clings to his chest, sticky and gross. Racked with chills when he went to sleep — Scott stole an old college shirt of Kip's, advertising some student art expo he had helped with. It desperately needs a wash, and yet Scott kind of doesn't want to take it off. The fabric is worn soft with age, oversized and entirely too comfortable. It's also Kip's. Another layer of comfort, of having his boyfriend with him as he slept.

"Still sick," Scott croaks in reply, congested and nasally. He clears his throat, the sleep from his voice — but just ends up coughing. Huge wracking coughs that shake his frame, tensing his muscles as if he's bracing for impact. He doesn't need to tell Kip anything else — he gets it. He can hear how Scott sounds, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Kip squeezes his hand — warm, not too tight, just holding on. Letting Scott brace against the hold as another cough takes him. He focuses in on it, on the faint callouses on Kip's own hand, on the gentle motions of his thumb.

Frowning, Scott wants nothing more than to bury himself under the covers until the flu passes — or his fever breaks at least. Instead he sighs, exhaling stagnant air, and tries to relax into the sheets again.

He squeezes back, before rolling in over in bed, still not making any move to get up. So he rolls closer to Kip, anchored together by their hands, until he can bury his face into his boyfriend's side, pressed into his hip. Inhaling, he takes in the scent of their detergent, of Kip, and the soft fabric underneath the planes of his face.

Kip's wearing ridiculously soft sleep pants that Elena had given him last Christmas, and Scott kind of wants to nuzzle it. Feel the warmth of Kip's body underneath the fabric, the comfort of his boyfriend being right there. Finding the balance of keeping the other close, while trying hard not to pass his germs on. He thinks they've found it.

And because he can have this now, because he's sick and miserable and craving comfort — he gives into the urge. Gently nuzzling his boyfriend's hip, the fabric of his sleep pants soft against his face, and faint scent of detergent pleasant as it raises over the scent of his own sweat.

Scott feels more than he sees — Kip fold a bookmark in between the pages of the history textbook he'd been reading, and put it aside. Focusing all his attention on Scott's blanketed form.

They're still holding hands.

"How about this," Kip says, voice still low, reverberating through him as he speaks. Scott feels it, from his spot pressed into his side, and sighs at the sensation. He looks up, blinking slowly, and watches as Kip's gaze focuses in on him. Gaze softening even further as he reaches over with his free hand, and gently brushes Scott's hair out of his face. "I go make you breakfast in bed — plain toast, a blueberry banana smoothie — and then we see if I can help you take a shower before we change the sheets."

"Please." Scott exhales, squeezing Kip's hand. That sounds perfect. He might not have much of a appetite right now, but hot buttered toast and a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn sound great right about now. A Kip special smoothie. His boyfriend helping him, comforting him, taking care of him sounds even better. Now that he's not trying so hard to push past the illness. He takes a second, takes a breath, and looks up at Kip through his lashes. "But. Maybe in a second?"

"Absolutely," Kip replies, easy as anything, letting Scott settle into position at his side. Immediately understanding what Scott's not saying, what he's not asking for — time in bed, just the two of them. To rest, luxuriate in the warmth of the other's hold and the sun streaming through the window.