two years is cotton

[aringofsalt]

happy bibuckversary and happy tevanniversary and happy two freakin years of this fandom, yall 💕 what a ride. i'm glad we were all here together through everything! i haven't written anything in a hot minute but i wanted a little something to celebrate, so... here's me putting buck into one of the best bisexual-themed shirts i've ever found on the internet and getting his man back.

fandom: 9-1-1
ship: bucktommy
rating: g
word count: 1.5k
links: ao3 / tumblr

Two years is cotton, Buck's mind supplies, unbidden, as he stares at the stupid t-shirt hanging on the wall.

He'd looked it up a few weeks ago, trying to answer a question of Maddie's; she and Chim were coming up on their second wedding anniversary, she was trying to come up with something to get him that they didn't have already, and Buck's weird little sponge of a brain had pulled up the half-remembered list from... somewhere. The conversation had devolved quickly into whether the list even applied, since they'd been together for so long before getting married and they'd already had a kid and weren't those anniversaries kind of a weird standard, anyway? But he had googled it before putting his phone down, so of course he'd read through it later that night when he rediscovered it, and now, here he is, faced with a reminder.

Because Maddie's wedding wasn't the only big thing that happened two years ago.

It really is a stupid shirt, he thinks, even as he pulls his phone out to take a picture. Not something he would ever wear himself. I'm into girls and guys but I'm also really into pasta, sitting proudly in the middle of a display of other, equally cheesy slogans, surrounded by a bunch of pride flags.

"I'm all done. You gonna get that?" Hen asks behind him, eyes twinkling as he turns to glare at her.

"Not a chance. Where the hell would I even wear that?"

"You could come to Pride with us this year, finally," she points out. "Wear it there. It won't be the weirdest outfit, that's for damn sure."

"Maybe I'll come back for it."
 

→ did you know that the traditional gift for second anniversaries is cotton?

He chews his lip as he watches the screen, hoping that he'll read it, hoping that he won't, hoping that the phone will somehow pull the message back through the air so Tommy will never know just how stupidly hopeful he still is, after all this time—

← is it, now?

Fuck.

← wikipedia deep dive for maddie, i assume?

Double fuck.

→ well, yeah

Buck takes a deep breath, then keeps typing.

→ but also i saw this today. and i figured out i was bi two years ago and well, i guess that's kind of an anniversary. i was kinda thinking about getting it. but i didn't because it's stupid and it would just sit in a drawer probably

→ [image]

← it is a little stupid. but it's funny. and i know you like pasta.

→ hen said i should wear it to pride.

← you should. there's no better place to wear stupid shirts.

→ maybe

← did i ever show you the shirt i had the first year i was out? it was also pretty stupid

→ no!!

← [image]

← sal got it made for me. i was very impressed obviously.

Buck laughs out loud as the picture comes in. It's such a Tommy picture. Sal must have been the one to take it, because Tommy is flipping the camera the bird and wearing the bitchiest glare Buck has ever seen on his face, but he's clearly fighting a smile, too. The shirt is similar to the one Buck found, white with black text that says save a helicopter, ride a pilot over rainbow stripes.

→ nobody took you up on that?

← i did not wear that thing outside of the house, evan, i have a reputation to uphold.

→ sure you do.

← hey!

Buck can hear that hey in his mind clear as day, the same mock-offended tone Tommy got when he was pleased with their banter and trying to hide it.

→ if i have to wear my stupid shirt to pride, you have to wear yours.

← we'll see.

And then, a minute later, while Buck is still trying to decide what to say next,

← it was good talking to you, evan.

And that was that, apparently. Buck sighs, types, sighs again, deletes it. Finally settles on,

→ you, too. see you around, tommy.

But it doesn't leave his mind, that interaction. He wouldn't be where he was today, who he was, without Tommy.

He gives in hours later, after he's been laying in bed for far too long counting the cars driving by and having imaginary conversations in his head that go nowhere.

→ i never said thank you

→ for a lot of things, probably, but... you changed a lot for me, you know. maybe i would've gotten here eventually anyway. but i'm so glad it was you.

→ i wish it was still you, if i'm being honest.

There's no answer, no read marker, no stupid goddamn bubbles to torment him. It's late enough that Tommy's probably asleep—back when they were together, he usually was at this time—but he'd hoped that maybe Tommy would be kept up by this, too. After a few minutes of staring at the unchanging text screen, he tosses his phone on his nightstand, rolls over, and tries to go to sleep. 
 

He hadn't set an alarm or shut his curtains before going to bed the night before, so Buck wakes to sun shining right on his face. Sighing, he pulls the covers back up over his face with one hand and reaches blindly for his phone with the other.

From the safety of his cocoon, he checks Tommy's text thread. No answer, but the little delivered had changed to read.

Tommy read the texts.

He read them and he didn't answer.

"Fuck!" Buck curses.

The thought of staying in bed isn't appealing anymore, so his phone gets unceremoniously thrown back on the nightstand. He leaves it there, abandoned, as he goes through the motions of a normal morning: brushing his teeth, washing his face, shoving three bites of eggs that he barely even tastes into his mouth before throwing the rest away. He throws on running shorts and a t-shirt and grabs the shitty little mp3 player he uses when he wants to run without distractions, then heads for the door.

When it opens, he comes face to face with Tommy.

Tommy with two coffees in his hands, a bundled-up shopping bag under his arm, a determined look on his face, and a very familiar shirt on his chest.

It's tighter now than it was in the picture he'd sent the night before, Tommy's body bigger and broader than it had been nine years ago, and the save a helicopter, ride a pilot is stretched obscenely over his pecs. Buck has to forcibly drag his eyes away.

"Uh, hi?" he forces out.

"Hi," Tommy breathes.

Buck can see the discomfort start to rise in his face and, just as clearly, Tommy shoving it down and barreling on.

"I didn't mean to leave you on read, I just... felt like if I stopped moving, I would talk myself out of this, so."

He pushes one of the coffees into Buck's hand, and Buck, bewildered, takes it and moves back to let him in. They're quiet as Tommy follows him to the kitchen, staring around at the new surroundings.

"Hey, how did you even know where I live?"

"Did some grovelling at Hen's feet," Tommy shrugs like it's nothing, even though Buck knows exactly how much grovelling Hen probably made him do. "I needed to ask her where to find this, anyway. Two birds, one stone." He holds out the shopping bag and Buck takes it and peeks in, freezing as he recognizes the shirt from yesterday.

"You didn't."

Tommy shrugs again, staring at Buck's hands. "You said it was stupid, I know. But last night... I just couldn't stop thinking about it. How much I missed getting your random bits of trivia at all hours of the day. Doing mundane things with you. How much I wanted to show up to an event with you wearing a dumb joke t-shirt and not even care because it was with you. And then I woke up to your texts and..."

He clears his throat, meeting Buck's eyes.

"I wish it was still me, too, you know? I wish it had been me for the last year and a half. So."

Buck's brain has been spins a thousand miles an hour since Tommy started talking, and for once, he just closes his eyes and lets it. Lets the last few days, months, years settle into place. The anger and the sadness he'd felt that morning drip away until all that's left is hope.

He opens his eyes again. Tommy looks terrified, but he's there. He hasn't run away.

"You don't have a shift later?" Is what comes out of Buck's mouth first, and Tommy's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.

"No?"

"Good." He grins, stepping into Tommy's space. "Then I'm going to put on this stupid shirt and we're going to go get brunch and we're going to talk, properly, where we can't get distracted by a bed. And you're not going to use a shift as an excuse to leave, and I'm not going to put my foot in my mouth. Much. And then we're going to come back here and—" he smacks Tommy on the chest, right where it says pilot "—save some helicopters. Good?"

"Perfect."

"Perfect."

He leans in then, kisses Tommy for the last first time, and it feels like coming home.