#911 on fox | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tawaifeddiediaz · 2 days ago

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I’m indecisive and those prompts are all so good but how about 8. “I’m sorry. We were supposed to have fun today.” or 23. “...Why are you here?”

lucky for you, you don't have to choose! ily, thank you for the prompt! (prompt list)

[don't need a roof (to know i'm home) - AO3 Link]

Word Count: 3113 words

There’s an elephant sitting on his chest.

He’s done for the minute he wakes up. Buck knows that.

And yet, he tilts his head to where Eddie would normally be lying on the pillow next to him, the sheets too cold and jarring against his sleep-warm skin, his back too freezing with the absence of Eddie curled around him.

Despite this, he’s content to shuffle over into the place Eddie left behind, sighing as soon as his husband’s scent envelopes him. There’s a bone-deep ache in all his limbs, like he’s been put together with rusty screws, but something about Eddie’s familiar sandalwood soap and the clean scent of him soothes a little of the ache all over.

It’s peaceful for a moment, to curl around his husband’s pillow and relax into the mattress.

Then he opens his eyes, looks at the clock and bolts up in bed.

“Holy fuck ,” he curses, grabbing his head as the room spins and spins and doesn’t stop, like a ride that dropped Buck off the side. Nausea rises in his chest, acrid bile shooting up his torso. Buck only barely manages to choke it down as he sucks in one deep breath after the other.

A hand comes to rub his back, and a trash can nudges under where Buck’s got both his hands gripping the pounding headache in his skull. “Easy, baby, easy.”

Eddie’s voice is like a balm, and Buck slumps forward into him, breathing him in to settle his stomach like the world’s best smelling salts.

He thinks Eddie will get a kick out of hearing that when Buck feels more alert.

Then it hits him — Eddie shouldn’t even be here right now.

“Eddie?” he asks, not daring to move from his place in the crook of his partner’s neck. He can feel the vibrations in Eddie’s throat against his forehead as he hums, and despite himself, Buck huffs out an amused sound at the tickle of it. “...Why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

They’ve only been planning this day for the last three months. Even in his sick state, Buck knows that Eddie knows what he’s talking about.

Mustering up the last of his strength, Buck pulls back to look up at him. “We were supposed to go with Chris to the history museum today.”

“Yeah, but you were running a fever this morning,” Eddie says gently — always gentle, always so, so gentle. He pushes a few sweaty curls away from Buck’s forehead, and that’s when it hits Buck that Eddie’s skin feels too cold — which means he’s the one running too hot — and that the ache he’s feeling is none other than his annual bout of cold.

The one that usually knocks him out for a week.

“No, no, no,” he groans, sluggishly moving to swing his feet off the bed. “We can still go. We have to.”

“Buck.” Eddie stops him, stepping in front of him.

Even when he’s at full strength, Eddie has the ability to manhandle him, and under normal circumstances, Buck would find that really, really attractive (and he still does right now, because his husband is a snack and a half and even operating at 10%, Buck knows that), but right now, all he wants to do is take Chris to the goddamn museum.

He knows he’s too late, though, because the clock is blinking 12:00pm and they were supposed to be out of the door at 10:00am, snacks, sunscreen, museum maps and anticipation in hand.

Buck’s not expecting the disappointment to lay on him much, much heavier than the thick mucus lining his lungs, but he’s also not surprised.

Because by the time Buck gets over this cold enough to go out in public, the exhibition will be gone.

“Hey.” Eddie’s cool hand lands on his neck, and Buck leans into it, blinking up at him, feeling the sense of failure curl bitterly on his tongue. “He’s already gone. Prathana and her wife offered to take him and Chetan without us. He didn’t want to leave you, but I convinced him to go with them, get the experience.”

The Space Race exhibit at the museum only came around once a year, and Buck and Christopher had been looking forward to it for months, having missed it last year, too. One of Chris’ friends, Chetan, had wanted to see it, too, so they’d made a plan with his parents to all go together.

And here Buck and Eddie are, still at home, away from all of Buck’s plans for the day.

“I’m glad you did,” he says finally, shutting his eyes. Even without looking, he can sense Eddie’s sympathetic smile, and moments later, a cool palm covers his closed eyes.

With Eddie’s hands on his skin, Buck doesn’t feel like he’s been plunged into darkness, only dragged towards the light.

It’s another clue of how sick he is because he can’t stop clinging to Eddie. The idea of pulling away from him right now feels like actual torture, and Buck thinks he’d rather run into a fire without gear than go without Eddie’s hands on him.

“You didn’t let him down,” Eddie says quietly. Too quiet for a house with only two people. “He’s fine, he’s going to take a million pictures, and he’s going to tell you all about it as soon as he gets home. Even if he couldn’t go today, you wouldn’t have let him down.”

The soft tone in his voice sends tears springing to Buck’s eyes, even behind the pressure of Eddie’s hand easing most of the pain spearing through his head. He sucks in a shuddering breath and blindly leans forward.

Eddie catches him like he always does, his hand slipping away from Buck’s eyes as he does so. Buck keeps his eyes closed even as he buries his face in his husband’s stomach, feeling sick and disappointed and like a failure all at once.

It makes for a nauseating cocktail.

He might actually need the trash can.

Buck knows it’s mostly because of how shitty he’s feeling that’s sending his emotions through the roof — he has the wherewithal for that much, at least. But he can’t help but let his brain wander in the direction of Christopher’s day at the museum, wondering if he’s having as much fun as they’d had planned, if he’s doing all the things he’d wanted to do.

It’s been something he’s struggled with since the day he met Christopher, something Eddie still gets on Buck’s case about — but the truth of the matter is, neither Buck nor Eddie have ever liked saying no, or having to change plans.

And Buck absolutely loathes whatever the fuck got him sick enough to not even wake up on time today.

Eddie’s arms keep him centered enough that he doesn’t spiral as much as he wants to, and Buck tucks himself smaller into them, holding on tightly to his anchor.

It’s silent for a long moment, just the rasping sound of Buck’s breathing filling the room. Eddie’s cheek comes to rest on top of his head, his shoulders swaying slightly as if to rock the two of them where Eddie still stands and Buck still sits at the edge of their bed.

The movement is soothing, and unwittingly, Buck’s eyelids grow heavier until he’s leaning all his weight forwards, slumping against Eddie.

“Want to lay down for a while?” Eddie asks, his fingers brushing through Buck’s hair and swirling around his temple. His broad palms cup the sides of his neck, thumb smoothing circles in the space behind his ear. All familiar places where Eddie’s hands seem to be branded into every cell, lighting him up even when his hands aren’t on him.

Buck hums, flipping it over in his mind as he burrows into his husband’s touch. “Only if you lay down with me.”

Briefly, Buck spares a thought for getting Eddie sick before deciding Eddie would’ve gotten in bed with him either way, and that it was too late for them anyway.

As if reading his mind, Eddie says, “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

This time, Buck feels Eddie’s cheeks bunch into a wide smile on his head.

Eddie maneuvers Buck into laying on his side before slipping in behind him. His chest is a line of comfort along Buck’s back, clearly unperturbed with how damp with fever sweat and disgusting Buck is.

Usually, this position would have him boneless, but today, Buck still feels restless. He wiggles in place, trying to find a place where his bones and muscles hurt a little less, where the congestion in his lungs lets him breathe, where he can feel less like he’s floating.

In the end, he only needs to flip onto his other side and press his face into Eddie’s chest to finally settle. He slings one clumsy arm around Eddie’s waist, and their knees knock together.

A low chuckle pierces through the fog and leaves Buck bereft, until Eddie’s arms tighten around him, holding Buck close as he tosses the covers over them. His fingers trail cold patterns over Buck’s hot forehead, tracing back and forth as he murmurs something nonsensical in Buck’s ears.

It takes him a moment to realize that Eddie’s singing.

Buck can’t make out a single word, but the tenor of Eddie’s voice, the exhaustion in his limbs and the heat of his husband’s body lull him towards sleep.

“If you rip my hair out with your ring again, I’m gonna be so mad, Eds,” he manages drowsily as Eddie’s left hand cards through Buck’s curls, fingertips scraping across his scalp. “I’ll be madder if you take the ring off, though. So don’t rip my hair out.”

“I’ll try not to,” Eddie laughs quietly, his lips pressing against Buck’s forehead and staying there.

Wrapped up in his husband, Buck clutches him tighter, tries to miraculously will the sickness away, and falls asleep.

The next time he wakes up, the bed is empty of Eddie, but there’s a small hand running across Buck’s forehead in clumsy patterns.

He knows that hand, and despite the pull to fall back asleep, he forces his eyes open.

Christopher’s bright eyes greet him, a little awed as he checks Buck’s temperature the way he’s seen Eddie do it. Buck knows Chris has no idea what he’s doing but the caring action itself burrows itself deep in Buck’s heart in a category made for the kid.

“Hey, buddy,” he rasps out.

His throat wasn’t this sore this morning, which means he’s just gotten worse — despite his best efforts.

“Dad said you weren’t contagious,” Chris informs him before Buck can protest his presence, tongue poking out of his mouth as he flattens his palm against Buck’s forehead.

“Yeah? What’s your assessment then, Doctor Diaz?” Buck manages a smile at him, because he looks adorable like this.

“You’re sick,” he declares.

“I concur,” he agrees, smiling as Chris laughs.

Buck clocks that Chris is sitting on the vacated side of the bed, practically sidled all the way up to him, and that he’s wearing a hat with the museum’s logo on it, his curls sticking out of the sides.

Guilt slams into Buck hard and fast at the circular logo, thick and cloying.

“I’m sorry. We were supposed to have fun today,” he whispers.

Chris, who’s somehow the world’s most understanding kid, just shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for being sick. You didn’t know it was going to happen, and it’s okay. I took a lot of pictures so we can see it together anyway.”

There is no somehow about it, Buck self-corrects as he looks at him, seeing Eddie’s kindness in every pore of the kid. He’s seen so much of Eddie reflected in Chris since the day he met him, but right now, sitting there with the look on his face that’s gentle beyond belief, Chris looks like the spitting image of his father.

“Besides,” Chris tacks on, grinning cheekily. “Dad said I can boss you around if you don’t let us take care of you. That’s the most fun thing ever.”

And there’s the personality that Eddie apparently passed right down to Chris.

Buck snorts, and immediately regrets it when he dissolves into a coughing fit. He turns his head away from Christopher, the ache in his chest only deepening. He registers the kid’s hand coming to rub his back, and slowly, he manages to settle down.

“Isn’t this the cold I had two weeks ago?” Chris says with the full airs of a middle schooler who knows too much.

“You kids are lethal with the stuff you bring back from school,” Buck sniffles, trying to clear his throat. Even his voice sounds weird — deep and nasally all at once, entirely too stuffed up.

Maybe he’ll sit in a steaming shower for an hour, he thinks vaguely as he lets his eyes flutter closed.

Christopher stays next to him, quiet as he fiddles with something in his backpack. Buck listens to the sound of rustling and the scritch-scratch of pencil on paper for a while before the creak of the door hinge draws his attention.

Eddie slips into the room quietly, tray in hand. The scent of Abuela’s chicken soup reaches past even Buck’s blocked nose. He inhales as much as he can, heaving himself up eagerly at the rich spices and vegetables that never feel like “sick food.” Christopher easily slots into Buck’s side instead of sitting at his hip, resting his head on Buck’s shoulder as he grins up at his father.

“Hey,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to Buck’s forehead, humming when he finds him less warm than before. “Feeling better now?”

“Don’t feel feverish, but my throat is killing me,” he recites dutifully. After another assessment, he realizes that some of the body aches have settled, too, and tells Eddie as much.

“I think your fever went down at some point,” Eddie says, sticking a thermometer into Buck’s mouth. “You’re still a little hot, though.”

“Damn right I am,” Buck mumbles around the thermometer, going cross-eyed to see if he can read the blinking screen.

Eddie shakes his head, his expression too damn open and fond to give his exasperation any heat.

Chris looks amused by this, already checking out the tray of food Eddie brought in to see if anything can be picked off. Buck nudges the bowl of oyster crackers towards him, shooting the kid a wink as his face lights up.

Eddie only sighs, dramatic as always.

Buck makes a face at him.

The thermometer beeps, and the relieved grin that lights up his husband’s face tells Buck all he needs to know. Without further ado, Buck snags a couple crackers from Christopher and drops them in his soup, thankful that the heady smell of food isn’t turning his stomach.

Maybe it’s just this food, because Eddie’s always said that Abuela’s soup could bring the dead back to life, and Buck really, really believes it.

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t wake Buck up.” Eddie raises a knowing eyebrow at Chris, seating himself carefully on the edge of the bed. Buck holds the tray tightly as he shuffles his feet aside, giving him more space.

“I didn’t!” Chris protests.

“He didn’t,” Buck chimes in. “I literally slept all day, I was always going to wake up at some point.”

Eddie sighs — dramatically, again. Buck elects to ignore him in face of his soup, sipping it carefully. The broth’s warmth practically chases away the tiredness that still lingers in his muscles, and already, Buck can feel himself perk up.

They’re quiet as Buck eats, Christopher munching on his crackers. He has a weirdly methodical way of eating them — biting off all the sides of the hexagon before popping whatever’s left into his mouth.

Eddie’s hand comes to curl around his ankle on top of the blankets, and Buck smiles at him over the bowl. He likes his husband just like this — a little soft, a little weathered by Buck’s hands in his hair. Buck takes in the oversized hoodie that definitely belonged to him a couple years ago before Eddie stole it, the sweatpants with the cuffs resting an inch above his ankle, the hair flopping over his forehead, tapering down his jaw into two-day stubble.

(He still wears his hair short on the sides, longer on top, and because Buck’s feeling extra nostalgic today, he remembers that it looks exactly like it did when Eddie first kissed him.)

Buck turns his attention to his kid at his side, who’s still just as content to sit in the silence with him as he was when Buck first met him.

It takes Buck a minute to work out what Christopher’s been drawing for the past twenty minutes. It’s a sketch of a missile, or a Space Shuttle, clearly from today’s museum outing.

“What are you drawing?” he asks anyway, digging to the bottom of the bowl as he waits for Chris to answer.

“They showed us blueprints of all the different spacecraft, and Chetan and I got to see a few old screws and plates that they still had,” Chris explains excitedly, angling the drawing so both Buck and Eddie can see.

From there, his excitement seems to unleash a whole dam, and faster than Buck can keep up, the conversation shifts from the Space Race, to NASA, then to the world’s other space stations, then to current projects and so on and so forth.

He hates that his mind is muddled enough that he can’t exactly keep up with everything Christopher’s rambling about, but he’s content to sit and watch his kid talk animatedly about it. Eddie lifts the tray off of Buck when one of those animated movements nearly knocks the bowl of crackers onto the bed.

Buck doesn’t waste the opportunity to yank his husband next to him, curling back into his chest to listen to Chris recap his day.

His lungs still feel heavy, and his head still hurts a little, but with Eddie’s arms around him and Chris’ happy voice permeating the air, Buck’s more content than he should be. He clearly isn’t put off by them not having been able to go, and Buck’s glad that at least someone was able to take him.

“Told you,” Eddie whispers, a ghost of his breath coasting over the shell of Buck’s ear before his lips press to the words.

Buck smiles, scrubbing a tissue across his blocked nose before dropping most of his weight back onto Eddie’s chest. Eddie doesn’t flinch, only shifts to hold him that much more.

“Yeah. I guess you did.”

#zee writes #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #911fic #911 fic #911 on fox #prompt fill #buck x eddie #christopher diaz #ren: historical genius #usernymika #oneawkwardcookie #userisha #userdahlias #userceecee

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