twoslicetoast
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- 9-1-1 (TV) (7)
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Eddie climbs onto the bed. They sit side by side, legs extended, two letter L’s protruding off the page. Instead of pressing play like Eddie is expecting, Buck laughs.
“What?” Eddie asks, an instinctive smile caressing his lips.
Buck grips his jaw, thumb brushing over his teeth before he bites at the broad nail, stifling. “Just—did you ever see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”
Eddie nods. “Gene Wilder.”
“That’s the one,” Buck chuckles around his thumb, then lets it slide free. “You know the grandparents?”
Then Eddie’s laughing too. “Jesus,” he says on an exhale.
“I’m just saying,” says Buck, still giggling. “I’ve seen our future, and it’s bright.”
Or: God created the world in seven days. It only takes Eddie six to surreptitiously move into Buck’s house.
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“Ravi, I want you to have my fours,” says Buck, before Ravi can start his own turn. All three heads at the table turn to him in incredulous unison, so he adds, “What?”
“That is simply not how the game works,” answers Ravi, dumbfounded. “How do you—are you real?”
“Don’t open that can of worms,” Eddie teases with a shake of his head. “I’m still trying to work that one out, and I was roommates with the guy.”
Barely audible, Hen mutters, “Roommates, he says. Is that what historians will call it?”
or: Eddie has a work wife. Buck has a lot to figure out.
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“How come you’re still awake?” Buck asks, antsy. He pulls at a loose thread inside one pocket with pinched fingers, rapidly picking apart the stitching. Better to unravel that than eight years of friendship all because said friend’s shorts have ridden up agonizingly at the thigh.
“I was waiting for you to get back. You’re kind of early, though.” Eddie’s eyes are tracked to the TV, but they dart over at Buck when he asks, “You strike out with Dixie?”
Which… Buck doesn’t even know where to start. He desperately needs to buy a vowel.
“Huh? Why—what—did I miss a text?”
Eddie, sat cross-legged on top of pearly-white cotton sheets, a vision so soft it’s making Buck dizzy, has the audacity to look puzzled. “Not from me. Why?”
or: Eddie leaves a light on for Buck.
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"Were you really worried?” asks Eddie. Buck’s brow furrows, confused. “About, you know—what you said. That your looks wouldn’t cut it. Because that’s…”
Buck’s head tilts on its axis, in a manner that would be almost harrowing if it weren’t his familiar, ludicrously handsome face. “That’s what?”
“Stupid,” Eddie blurts out. Shakes his head. Rectifies. “Not—you’re not stupid. Not at all. I just mean that… obviously, someone should want you for all of you.” Eddie thinks that should really go without saying. “But even without all the addendums. You’re, like, a total smokeshow, man.”
Good God. That’s fucking embarrassing. Even worse—or perhaps better, Eddie is so ruined—Buck beams.
"Total smokeshow?” Buck repeats, nothing short of delighted. On topic, Eddie really could go for a smoke bomb right about now. Just—pull the pin and flee.
or: Buck goes on a hot date and knits Eddie a scarf.
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“This is the most thought that anyone, of all time, ever, has put into adjusting a driver’s seat, Eddie.”
“Buck—”
“I’m serious. That rearview mirror has lived through so many angles and lives in the past six minutes that it’s about to start recounting its first-hand experience on the Titanic.”
Just for that, Eddie reaches up between them and tweaks the mirror again. A ray of sunlight hits it and bounces across Buck’s eyeline. Buck’s face scrunches up as he rushes to shield his forehead with one hand. It does not remind Eddie whatsoever of a small, bashful dog hiding behind its soft paw, because that would be deranged. He twists the mirror back into position.
“The Titanic probably would have gotten us to Nashville better than this truck.”
Buck’s indignant squawk rings out in time with the turnover of the engine as Eddie hits the ignition.
or: Gay Thoughts: A New (Nissan) Frontier
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a collection of my (unconnected) 9-1-1 chat fics!
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- 31,459
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- 10
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In a motel room in the desert where nothing is real...
Bookmarked by twoslicetoast
16 Apr 2026
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The silence is deafening when it’s over, just the hum of the engine and the short, heavy pants of the both of them trying to catch their breath.
“Hey, Buck.”
Buck swallows thickly. “Yeah?”
“What do you call a frog that’s illegally parked?”
“What?” Buck finally allows himself to glance over, and Eddie’s sitting there, calm and collected, reading from the popsicle stick like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
Eddie grins at him, lips now stained purple. “Toad.”
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“And you’re gonna do that, where? At the 133?” Buck avoids his gaze. “Or you’re just transferring to a random station where nobody knows you and you can pretend you’re fine?”
“I’m going to the 217,” Buck finally says.
“You’re…” Eddie starts, then scrunches up his nose in confusion. “Why would you even want to–”
Oh no.
Oh hell no.
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
Buck doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him.
“Buck.”
“What.”
Breathe, breathe, brea-
“No, no fucking what. You know exactly what.”
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“You said you talked to Hen about”—Ravi makes a vague, conjuring gesture, even though Eddie can’t see it—“all this yesterday, right? She dresses the best out of all of us. You should ask her for fashion advice.”
“I tried.” Eddie huffs. “She said, verbatim, ‘I’m not your gay Yoda.’”
With that, the fitting room stall’s lock finally clicks open, the door swinging open with a muted groan. Eddie steps out, arms spread wide. “Alright. What do we think?”
From an objective standpoint, he looks good. He looks really good. Objectively speaking.
From a subjective standpoint, he looks like someone Buck wants to pin against the nearest surface and fuck until they’re both stupid.
“Handsome, you are,” Buck croaks.
—
Or: Eddie comes out to Buck and takes him clothes shopping.
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Bookmarked by twoslicetoast
02 Apr 2026
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“They’re going to laugh about this later, really. Buck is going to politely wake Eddie up and make some stupid joke—something a la, “Next time, scout the campground before you pitch a tent,” or, “Dock’s closed, cap’n,” or, “Hey, isn’t it funny how you came out to me and showed me your dead wife’s bloody shirt and now your dick is basically in my ass?”—and they’re going to laugh and laugh and laugh, because it’s objectively funny.”
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A person who listens to whatever inane, mundane shit Buck is incapable of not spouting? Actually listens, with interjected questions and regular mmhms of acknowledgement? Indulgent of every tangent, every spiel, unless Buck is actively sowing terror in the hearts of victims on calls with his worst-case scenario stories.
He has that person. Eddie. According to May, that makes Eddie his person, a thought that has a bloom of warmth unfurling in his chest.
It might not be romantic, but it’s—it’s something.
And it’s worth Buck trying to get back to who they were. When their shift is over, he follows Eddie home like he might’ve done a year ago.
or, buck learns about bird theory. eddie, unsurprisingly, is the only one who passes with flying colours
Bookmarked by twoslicetoast
30 Mar 2026
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“What was it doing?” Eddie asks. “D’you have pics?”
Buck does not, but he does his best to describe it.
“Hmm,” says Eddie, taking a seat at the counter.
Buck goes back to prepping salad dressing, but minutes later, Eddie’s poking his shoulder urgently.
“Hey, look,” he says, “it’s called double-scratching, and it’s a foraging technique that only blackbirds, towhees, and sparrows—” he waves his phone at Buck, “—do.”
Buck peers at Eddie’s phone screen, a Google search for sparrow flipping leaves hopping backward why does it do that??? revealing answers. Eddie clicks on a YouTube video that shows a couple of sparrows kicking at leaf litter as they hop back and forth.
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amourissima (you used to call me comme ça) by beetlesandstars, kryptonian
Fandoms: 9-1-1 (TV)
29 Mar 2026
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“Buck, seriously.” Eddie catches his eye, staring intently, attempting to beam the anxiety straight into Buck’s brain. “I know we’re both playing it cool, but… How are you not freaking out right now? I’m freaking out right now.”
Buck quirks an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t panic.”
“I don’t,” Eddie insists. “But I woke up in the wrong body this morning, and I had to—” He lowers his voice, ducking closer to Buck. “I touched your dick, man. Which—you know.”
A violation of boundaries. A line that can’t be uncrossed. Something Eddie feels deeply guilty about.
“You touched my dick?” Buck asks, approximately one billion decibels louder than necessary.
The room around them stills.
Or: Buck and Eddie switch bodies. Chaos ensues.
Series
- Part 15 of cjo + 911
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Bookmarked by twoslicetoast
30 Mar 2026
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He fumbles for his wallet, pulling his ID out. “Um. Here you go. Ed-mun-do Diaz. That’s me.”
“I know, I know,” Jennifer reassures him, giving the ID a cursory glance. “Just checking. Your handwriting is just… different.”
Fuck.
Abort, his brain screams.
Commit, his heart says.
“Sorry,” Buck says. “Um. I got shot.”