slowmohomos
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It could be anyone, he tells himself. Any other firefighter, any other team, hell, any other house - the 118 may have been the first to arrive on scene, but there are at least two other buses he can see on the ground with different numbers on top. The 118 might be definitely cursed but he can't go jumping to conclusions.
short drabble from my WIPs that i'm so tired of looking at
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- Part 1 of short wips
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Dr. Copeland is gonna be pissed. Actually, she'll just be sorely disappointed, but she'll take every pain to reassure him that 'healing isn't linear' and 'sometimes, we fall into old coping mechanisms even when we know better' and 'you're going through a hard time right now, Buck, it makes sense.'
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The next thing he remembers, Buck is on the ground. His head throbs, the morning sun terrible and blinding, and his face feels wetter, something hotter than sweat smearing over his cheek and chin.
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- Part 2 of take a walk around the block again
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It's been three goddamn months. It was supposed to hurt less this way. It doesn't make sense that he could've fallen so hard for Evan in the span of six months.
Series
- Part 2 of you look like you love me
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A few hours after Eddie pulls away in the U-Haul, Texas bound, Buck does something stupid.
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- Part 1 of you look like you love me
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When Robby ambled in a little early for his shift, central was a hive of activity, Walsh calling back to Jack as she accompanied a gurney out of Trauma 2: "Learn from the master, soldier boy."
"When you find one, be sure to let me know, princess," he shot right back, but the note of fondness in his tone made Robby freeze. That wasn't their usual back-and-forth. That held warmth to it. An undercurrent of knowing. A joke shared between two people who'd seen each other naked. More than once.
Robby clocked Jack watching Walsh go—what the fuck—and then he went back into Trauma 2, debriefing with the team. It was the tiniest moment, nothing—
And yet Robby's whole understanding had just realigned. Jack and Walsh. What the fuck.
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Bookmarked by slowmohomos
09 Nov 2025
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The car was no longer horizontal. It was twisted, crunched. God knew what they’d hit. The floor sloped sharply, littered with shattered glass. Smoke hung thick, mixing with the copper tang of blood and scorched plastic.
Emergency lights flickered, casting everything in a stuttering red glow like a battlefield lit by fire.
Jack’s therapist would have a field day.
Then the realization of where he was going this morning came to him. A meeting downtown. No, where were they going?
“Robby?” he rasped.
Bookmarked by slowmohomos
08 Nov 2025
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“This is fucking ridiculous,” Robby grumbled while he fumbled to straighten his tie. “Of all the admin bullshit they put us through, this may be the most demeaning.”
Jack bit back a laugh and knocked Robby’s hands away. “You’re making it worse,” he said and fixed the lopsided bow tie, patting his palm over the silken fabric when he was satisfied. “There. Don’t touch.”
Stepping back, he made an obvious show of looking Robby up and down, from his neatly brushed hair and trimmed beard to his newly shined dress shoes. “They’ll drop top dollars for you,” Jack said, teasingly, hoping his face didn’t expose his genuine appreciation for just how good Robby looked in the bespoke tuxedo.
“Ridiculous,” Robby muttered. “Hospital administration is parading department chiefs on stage like we’re contestants in a reality show.”
—-
Robby begrudgingly participates in a PTMC charity auction.
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Bookmarked by slowmohomos
08 Nov 2025
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It sparks something in him, seeing Jack wearing his clothes, and what it sparks is the startling capability for Robby to put his foot in his mouth. Because in addition to thinking of Jack in his sweater, he thinks about his reaction to it.
Robby never claimed to be a smart man. Maybe in med school when he was young and cocky, but in recent times Robby has never assumed the position of intelligent. So, really, it shouldn’t be surprising that he’d also be unintelligent about all things Jack, too.
(Or: the one where Robby yearns)
Bookmarked by slowmohomos
07 Nov 2025
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He focuses on Robby, ignoring the slides behind him. Noting the gentle product he ran through his hair this morning, dabbed lightly on the tips of his fingers and guided through bed-fluffy strands. Appreciating the apples of his cheeks and the light flush that fades into his beard, the way his lips curl around certain words and his tongue darts out to dampen them.
Occasionally, Robby’s eyes will meet his own. Holding on for a syllable or two before fluttering off to another audience member, always engaging, always welcoming someone in.
For fifteen minutes Robby speaks, for fifteen minutes Jack holds tight on to shore.
(or: Jack spirals; Robby worships his body)
Bookmarked by slowmohomos
07 Nov 2025