While we've done our best to make the core functionality of this site accessible without JavaScript, it will work better with it enabled. Please consider turning it on! Eddie can picture him, leaning against the red bricks around the back of the firehouse.
Eddie imagines the sun shining down on Buck, his ankles crossed and his hips tilted away from the wall behind him.
Maybe a hand in his pocket. So nonchalant, as he asks about it. I tweeted I think someone needs to put a vibrator in Eddie's ass and give Buck the remote quite frankly and despite the myriad of other WIPS I have with emotional depth and a quote unquote real story to tell, I decided that actually you know what I'll just do that myself.
They fall into it as they fall in most things: like tumbling down the stairs. Him, awake in his bed and staring at the ceiling. His phone, face-up and plugged into the charger, beside him. The screen illuminates itselfโ the clock proclaims AM. The message that appears across the screen declares its author in four letters: Buck. Eddie stares at it for so long in his peripheral the screen dims again.
(mh=7qPyAwIizcRjMNI_)0.jpg "Whores in El Paso")
It is a simple, unassuming text, are you up? It might mean anything. Perhaps, if Eddie wishes for it hard enough, he can convince himself it does. He debates the merits of answering. He could put this all off until morning, when the light of day might offer some additional clarity. Buck responds almost immediately.
