Honestly, Understandable If None Of The 118 Think Anything Is Up With Freak4freak Buckandeddie. Because

The fact that David Tennant could have asked for the opening skit to be all about Dr. Who (allegedly his most broadly known work and also the most recently aired) and bring Catherine Tate or any other celebrity friend as his guest star…

Yet he still chose to do it about a very niche work like Staged, prominently featuring Michael Sheen, while subjecting the entire industry (not just Britain media) to their weirdly intimate dynamic…

Just wow. Power move. They’re a set, do not separate.

This has definitely already been done by now but I don't care I'm excited for this movie

In the end…..it always comes back to them ❤️

Rae the maid secretly writes Polin fanfics and Violet is her beta

Me & the squad:

I know it's not everyone who watched the og 911 also watches lone star, but every time I see some grand spec about the point of Gerrard I think to myself "you guys do know this is coming from the guy who had a evil captain plot in ls where Charlie Swan takes over the 126 then the most dragged out premiere event ever happens and the whole thing is solved because of some rich dude who sells milk cartons right?" I think we should all bring our expectations back down.

it wasn't just Buck trying to dig Eddie up by hand. it was Bobby bodily dragging him off the ground and Buck sobbing in his arms. it was Hen and Chim giving him the spousal treatment. it was Bobby looking at him with an understanding of grief. it was Hen saying there will be two cut lines if Buck went down. it would have been rough but simpler if it was just Buck digging at the earth. it became much more because everyone else knew what that meant.

i'm a thigh girlie but i'm also a squishy kind of guy so if either 18 or 52 take your fancy for the prompts 👉👈

some sleepy stuff <3

touch prompts: 18 squishing the others cheek + 52 gripping thigh

might as well be drunk in love

Buck might be the most responsible Maid of Honour to have ever existed in the history of Maids of Honour. He told himself that half an hour ago when Ravi crowed FOMO, motherfucker at him post-Chim and Maddie’s rehearsal dinner, after Buck had sensibly and maturely taken his leave from the wedding party’s continued celebrations to get in a solid seven hours of shuteye—he’s the only one who has to be up at basically the crack of dawn to start getting things in order for the actual wedding at noon.

He tells himself that now as he pulls the thick comforter up to his neck, stretching his toes against the footboard and sighing. The empty double bed across from his own just seems to mock him, though, a reminder that Eddie’s probably knocking back the white wine Karen’s got him enjoying lately, almost certainly pink-cheeked and loose-hipped and laughing prettier than any music, only three floors below Buck right this very minute. FOMO, motherfucker indeed.

It's fine, Buck reasons, only somewhat grumpily. He’d be much more upset with himself for being too tired to be on top of things for Maddie’s big day tomorrow than he is for missing out on drinking with his friends and staring moonily at his best friend as covertly as alcohol will allow. Besides, he’s going to do just that tomorrow night anyway, with the added bonus of no pre-wedding stress. This was a good decision, the right decision, Buck is rational and correct and will have no sympathy for anyone nursing hangovers and sleep deprivation when they’re supposed to be setting out chairs and place cards at the reception tomorrow.

Somewhere between one grumbled thought and the next, he must fall asleep. It’s only a while later that the creak of the hotel room door cuts through his fuzzy dreamscape. He stays half-submerged, but Eddie trips over something and swears under his breath, and Buck swims groggily to the surface of consciousness.

He doesn’t bother cracking open an eye, listening instead to the gentle thumps and bumps of Eddie getting undressed and ready for bed. He’s almost lulled back to sleep by the sounds of it: the quiet snick of the toothpaste cap opened and shut, the whoosh of the tap running, the click as Eddie switches off the bathroom light, the rustle of sheets as he climbs into—Buck’s bed?

Buck forces one eye open then, but it’s moot since yes, Eddie does seem to be getting into Buck’s bed, except from behind Buck, so all that Buck is aware of is the sudden gust of cool air against the backs of his calves as Eddie lifts the duvet, and then the mattress is dipping and Buck’s warm again, because—because Eddie’s plastered along his back.

It’s not an accidental mix-up of beds either, because Eddie wastes no time slinging an arm around Buck’s waist, his hold loose but—there. Very much there.

“Uh. Eddie?” Buck whispers, voice rough from sleep. He clears his throat gently, pausing and straining to listen when Eddie mumbles something unintelligible. How drunk is he? Does he think Buck’s someone else? That’s—if that’s true… He broke up with Ana nearly two years ago, and there hasn’t been anyone serious since, not the scattered dates here and there, so—if it’s any of them Eddie thinks he’s getting into bed with? That would… suck.

But then Eddie says, “What, Buck,” muffled and sleepy into Buck’s shoulder.

The warmth that instantly blooms in his chest takes Buck by surprise, a little, and he feels his body automatically relax against Eddie, unaware he’d been holding it tight in the first place. Still, the confusion lingers.

“Oh. You’re—uh.” Should he—say something? Why would he say something, though. Just because this isn’t something they do… Eddie’s clearly fine with this, initiating this, and Buck—there’s never a time Buck doesn’t want this, want this bad. So why would he say you have a bed right there and come off as a dick when they’re both perfectly fine with this.

Or, worse in ways that are both hysterical and heartbreaking, come off as vaguely homophobic or make Eddie uncomfortable about the way he’s currently spooning Buck like he’s been doing it all his life.

He settles for a lighthearted, “Are you drunk?”

Eddie sighs sleepily, breath tickling Buck’s neck. “Yeah. Kinda.”

Okay. That’s fine. Their friendship is no stranger to physical touch, casual shoulder bumps and easy hip checks and full-body hugs. Eddie doesn’t need a reason to be looser with his affection, obviously, especially not where Buck is concerned, but if he did? What better combination than too many drinks and being at a wedding for their friends and family? Buck’s all too familiar with the love having to go somewhere, and if this is where Eddie wants to put it tonight? Buck’ll take it gladly and be a little moonier about it than planned tomorrow.

Eddie worms a hand under Buck’s sleep shirt, tracing his abdomen with his fingertips. Buck shivers. Okay, so not entirely platonic, but Eddie’s drunk. That blurs the lines of a good cuddle. Buck will resign his sorry ass to a night of his best friend being lovingly handsy in the spirit of friendship and lovesickness.

Eddie’s palm moves higher, ghosting across Buck’s sternum. His thumb catches against Buck’s nipple, and they both still for a second, Buck holding his breath. Then Eddie does it again, a lazy rub against it that has Buck swallowing and shifting his hips. Entirely not platonic, actually, any way you look at it.

Then, as sudden as his treacle-slow movements can be, Eddie’s hand ceases its exploratory tracing and taps once, twice, over Buck’s heart as he presses himself more firmly against Buck’s back, a lazy, languid stretch.

“Eddie,” Buck says. “What’s—are you—I’m—”

There’s a pause, and then Eddie relaxes his body away from Buck. “Hey,” he mumbles. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Buck replies without thinking, immediately reaching back for Eddie, hand stretched to pull him back close. “But—what’s—why right now?”

“Why not right now,” Eddie grumbles, sinking back into his place along Buck’s body with an ease that makes Buck screw his eyes shut tight again for a second. “Should’ve been right now many nows ago.”

“What?” Buck asks, genuinely a little lost as he throttles the rising bubble of hope inside him, squeezing just enough to still it without popping.

Eddie exhales heavily and with feeling, making sure Buck hears the exact amount of put out he is to be having this conversation when they could be sleeping, and Buck loves every disgruntled cell in his body.

“Your maid-of-honour speech,” Eddie yawns. “You said—you said you once had a conversation wi’ Maddie about—about love. About how it should be—you’re at your worst and they are too and still—you don’t give up. On each other. On… what you have. You try again.”

Buck hums. “Think they’ve had more worsts than a lot of people. Love that you fight for in the face of all that—or helps you through the face of all that? That’s. Yeah.”

“Chim showed me his vows. About—how he wishes there wasn’t hurt behind th’ reason f’r it, but he loved getting t’ be Maddie’s friend first, you know?” Eddie’s voice is a sleepy slur, murmured almost directly into Buck’s ear with the way he’s holding him. “Even when he wasn’t sure they were ever gonna be anything but. Someth’n—something about trust like that—I dunno. It’s easier when you’re friends.”

“Eddie—”

“My worst, Buck. And you walk right through the door and stay. And, and friends do that, but—I’m not imaginin’ this. Karen told me I’m not and she’s wise. She’s a lesbian. And a rocket scientist. In that order.”

The hope-bubble slips out of the grasp he has on it with a cheerful blown-raspberry sound, rising and rising inside him. Eddie’s hand is hot against his bare chest, and Eddie is comparing Chimney’s wedding vows to how he sees Buck in his own life, and Eddie’s drunk but Buck doesn’t think there’s much room for misinterpretation.

Buck’s not said anything, and before he can speak to assuage any presumably already-minimal doubts Eddie has, Eddie sighs loudly.

“Okay, this is not working. Turn over.” He tugs on Buck’s arm as he rolls over himself.

Buck shifts onto his other side slowly, carefully, a crescent around Eddie’s curled body. Close, but not touching.

“Buck,” Eddie huffs, flailing a hand back to grab his thigh, fingers digging into the meat of it. He yanks it forward, hitching it over his own hip so Buck’s flush against him from the ass-upwards.

When Buck doesn’t automatically hold him, Eddie twists his head to glare blearily over his shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact since he entered the room, and his eyes are glassy when they meet Buck’s.

“Hello,” he says. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some cuddling around here.”

Buck laughs, surprised, and Eddie smiles, smug as he turns away and settles in again, like that was his only intention. And Buck gets it, he desperately wants this to just be—to just be it, you know, to have this be the way it happens, to wrap his arms around Eddie and wake up tangled together, to not second guess anymore, but it’s late and Eddie’s been drinking and they’re at a wedding with all the wedding emotions in the air—

His leg hiked over Eddie’s means his crotch is mashed into Eddie’s ass, and Eddie’s wriggling back in an attempt to snuggle into him and—

“Eddie,” he says. “Maybe this isn’t—”

“Ugh,” Eddie says. He turns around to grab Buck’s cheek, squeezing gently. Buck winces, all for show, before his face goes completely slack because Eddie’s planting a sloppy kiss that really only lands on forty percent of Buck’s mouth, hot and minty and lifechanging.

“Right,” Buck says, strained. He takes a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut, before opening them and placing a soft kiss on Eddie’s forehead, brushing his hairline. “It’s just—you’re drunk—I don’t want you to—”

He’s cut off by Eddie rolling his eyes and flipping back around into little spoon position.

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of the thing, Buck,” he sighs, grunting as he shifts to get comfortable. He manoeuvres Buck’s arm around his waist, pulls it up against his own chest, grip firm but still with a relaxed certainty to it. “I loved you this morning when I was undercaffeinated and being bullied into redoing flower arrangements, and I loved you this evening when I thought I had indigestion from those cheese puffs, and I love you right now when I’m drunk, and I’ll love you tomorrow when I’m hungover and miserable about it. I’m in the prime of my life, I shouldn’t be facing these kinda drinkin’ consequences at thirty-three, Jesus.”

Buck shelves the kneejerk comment about Jesus probably being the biggest advocate for getting wine-drunk in your early thirties even though focusing on any of the other words Eddie’s just said might result in his own spontaneous combustion and instead says, “Oh.”

“’Oh’,” Eddie mimics, half-asleep but no less bitchy for it. “Yeah, oh. I’ll do the—the sobriety test for you in the morning if you still want, but can we go to sleep now?”

They can, and they do, and when Buck’s alarm goes off at six am, they blink awake with Eddie curled against Buck’s chest, hand once again stuck up his shirt.

“Mmmh,” he insists, bearing down when he feels Buck try to get up.

“Eddie, I gotta go set up.”

“Gotta—no, thanks,” Eddie replies, clinging harder.

Buck huffs a laugh, any trepidation he had about Eddie’s wants upon waking easing away. “Maid-of-honour duties wait for no one.”

“Maid-of-honour, schmaid-of-honour,” Eddie tells him, muffled into his chest. “What about your loving me duties. It’s a full-time job, you know.”

“Can do that with my eyes closed,” Buck says, “and I’m great at multi-tasking this maid-of-honour stuff, but I need my eyes open for the rest of it.”

Eddie ducks his head, as if to hide his smile, but Buck feels it where it’s pressed into his chest anyway. “Fine.”

There’s a beat, and then he’s propping his chin up to peer at Buck. “Also—for sobriety test’s sake. Hi. Also, I didn’t really let you get a word in last night…”

He doesn’t look nervous or unsure, just kind of sheepish. His hair is sticking up in fluffy clumps and there’s a crease along his right cheek and Buck can love him with his eyes closed but he’s so very glad they’re open, because this is a million times better.

“You really didn’t, huh. How the tables turn—ow, Eddie,” he breaks off as Eddie digs his fingers into his ribs. “For sobriety’s sake—” He hauls Eddie up, and Eddie goes with an oof that’s sighed right into Buck’s mouth. His lips are soft and chapped against Buck’s, much more coordinated but just as purposeful as they were last night when they move against him.

The kissing is lazy, early morning stuff, gentle and easy. When Eddie yawns into it, Buck pulls away, running his hands down Eddie’s sides.

“I really gotta go,” Buck tells him, trying to extricate himself. “Go back to sleep.”

“Yes boss,” Eddie finally allows, rolling over to mash his face into a pillow.

He finds Buck setting out the flower arrangements only an hour later, though, and he’s got with him a kiss and a coffee and, true to his word, a love that persists through hangovers and weddings and drunkenness that’s not his own. Through every wildly outrageous and terribly boring moment of the rest of their lives, actually; the best and the worst and everything in between. A love that stays, and stays, and stays.

(read on ao3)

You know what I really want from season 7? I want another Buddie blow up like the grocery store.

I want Eddie, whose done a whole lot of healing to yell at Buck that Buck needs to be back in therapy because he died and of course that's going to change him but he doesn't even recognize Buck sometimes anymore because Buck won't let Eddie in.

I want Buck yelling right back that Eddie's moved on with his life since the shooting, why won't he let Buck do the same after the lightning.

I want angry tears and confessions through gritted teeth. I want everything they've swept under the rug and not talked about to come spilling out in Buck's kitchen.

I want Eddie telling Buck with pain dripping from his voice that "I see you, I've always seen you, but now I don't think I know you anymore. You won't let me know you anymore."

I want Eddie leaving Buck's loft after he says it and tells him that he can still see Christopher, but maybe for now the two of them should just be coworkers because Eddie needs time and space before he can be Buck's best friend because he isn't sure he knows him anymore.

I want Eddie crying in his truck after the conversation and Buck crying on his new couch, clear that he doesn't find it comfortable. I want the episode to end on a shot of both of them crying in their own spaces, so clearly alone.

Then I want the next episode to be so clearly uncomfortable between them. They still work together seamlessly, but that's it. They're awkward and tense around each other, they can't even look at each other between calls. I want it to be 10x more awkward than their first couple shifts together. I want looks exchanged between the members of the 118 when Buck and Eddie aren't looking.

And then I want the episode to end with Eddie pacing around his living room, clearly torn and then grabbing his keys only to open the front door to Buck standing on his doorstep looking at Eddie's house key like he isn't sure he's still allowed to use it.

I want Eddie to hold Buck's face like it's something so fucking special and Buck to do the same. I want a kiss that's biting and angry that melts into something soft and tender.

Cut to them in Eddie's bed, the sheets a mess, the comforter on the ground and Buck says something like "You've always seen me, even the ugly bits that I don't want people to see. That's why I'm so scared"

And then Eddie kisses Buck soft and sweet and says something like, "There's nothing about you that's ugly Buck."

The episode ends with them starting round two.