#Whump Writing

[sideblong]

when character a is barely conscious and being princess carried by character b and when b goes to put them down a whimpers and fists their hand into the fabric of their shirt and b goes shhh shh shh and takes their hand in theirs while gently cradling their head oughhhhhh oughhhhh………….

[wolf-the-whumper]

Wow. This has really inspired me! And I really wanna write something along these lines. It's a great set up for an Eldritch horror and I'm down bad. Thank you @homunculus-argument for the great inspo!

A gothic horror story where a gentleman from a good family gets haunted by something monstrous, which follows him around and keeps killing people around him at utter random, in cruel and horrifying ways. Specifically within circumstances where the protagonist has no alibi, and everything indicates that he committed the murders.

But the real horror is not that he would find himself accused of the murders, but that the people around him naturally assume that he did do it, but genuinely do not care, because the victims are never people that the society around him considers "important". The scullery maid of his household is found brutalised beyond recognition in a room where even the ceiling has been splattered with blood, and a constable of the local police brushes it off as a case of household discipline gone wrong, being horrifyingly casual with the assumption that the protagonist severely beat a girl in his service to death, and will dismiss it as an accident. The street urchin that the protagonist was seen talking with - wanting to help this poor little orphan - is found decapitated, severed head in the protagonist's fireplace. This, too, is calmly swept under the rug.

After every horrifying murder, the protagonist tries to seek help, to present the crime to authorities in hopes of getting some semblance of help, or at least clearing his own name of this, but every time it's brushed off. "These things do happen", he is reassured, like it's perfectly normal that a mansion of that size has a secret garden of unmarked graves in one shady corner.

The real horror is the ever-encompassing implication that this is perfectly normal.

[kabie-whump]

I have a huge soft spot for a whumpee who’s a bit of a diva. A bit of a brat.

“You need a hospital.”

“Um no I need a cocktail.”

[whumpy-bi]

Whumpee panicking when people raid Whumper’s facility. Maybe they don’t recognize them, maybe they’re strangers, yelling and breaking doors down and Whumpee is too afraid.

They hide and cower, hoping these people don’t know they’re there. Backed into a dark corner between furniture, holding their breath while heavy footsteps come in.

One of the newcomers jumps and flinches when they’re spotted. They pause, unsure what to do. Whumpee freezes up, anticipating some violent reaction—

Instead, the person puts their weapon away and yells over their shoulder.

“Boss! Boss, get up here, I found somebody!”

[aki-qk0]

pleeaaaseee give me villain whumpee and hero medic/caretaker its just that much more fun than the usual hero whumpee please

[lovett-the-moon]

Hey so what if I wrote a Days of Future Past charles fic with like. All of these things. That man was so unwell

whumpy hints

some tiny details that tickle the whump senses

• dark circles, bloodshot eyes

• falling asleep fully clothed, possibly with jacket and shoes still on, legs/feet hanging off the foot of the bed or sprawled half-on half-off a couch

• the “oh shit, i’m gonna faint/nevermind i’m good” face (and aborted grab for nearest solid object or person)

• a character losing their footing for a moment on rough terrain. someone reaching out to grab them so they don’t fall and they both hold on for a hot second

• closing their eyes and leaning into a gentle touch

• shaky hands, shaky voice

• falling asleep at their desk at work/tucked away in an odd place

• doing things that are out of character & having others start to notice: losing their cool, being extra chipper or extra quiet, jumpy

• zoning out

• someone getting between them and whoever they’re having a heated exchange with, gently pushing them back with a hand against their chest or shoulder

• slipping out of sight from the others to lean against a wall, tip their head back and close their eyes

[mylifewhump]

Whumpees with Stockholm Syndrome, but their whumpers hate them so they play along until they break whumpees heart, but then whumpee goes insane and becomes the new whumper and whumper becomes the new whumpee.

[sufrimientilia]

incapacitation

content warning

drugs that make a character woozy and disoriented. slurring words and falling slack, everything too heavy and confusing and muffled

blown pupils, wandering eyes, breathing too much or too little. sweating, shaking, puking, so limp and pale it’s almost like they’re dead

fevers so high a character's mind just turns to mush. glossy eyes tracking the ceiling, listless and unaware until eventually there's sweat sticking all over the sheets and they start mumbling some vague responses to caretaker's questions

tranquilizer dart that brings a character down all at once. one sudden jerk or look of confusion, not enough time to glance at it much less pull it out before eyes are rolling back and they collapse into the dirt

tranquilizer dart that comes on slowly. pulling it out and running and running until each step becomes too uncoordinated, stumbling or getting dragged along by a teammate until even their begging to stay awake, let's go, becomes hazy and distant

struck so hard that everything rings in one ugly roar. staggering or falling, told to sit down, just stay down. so confused and lost, repeating the same questions and forgetting the answer over and over and over again

character so messed up they struggle to follow any part of the conversation. everything too heavy and confusing and muffled, just useless and incoherent and completely oblivious to the situation

nervous prodding or pleading by caretaker, begging them to just stay awake or focus

jostled around by captor, told to get the fuck up and follow orders, easily manhandled and restrained

mumbling nonsense and spilling secrets. stoic characters without any masks, so confused and broken and vulnerable, slipping and powerless in every sort of way

"you're okay, i promise you're okay"

“ah, shit. you’re a mess—”

“I guess you won’t remember this anyways…”

gaze drifting and blank, too faraway to track anything caretaker/captor is saying. nudged and prodded and pleaded at to no avail, just incoherent and out of it

too weak to move. beaten absolutely senseless or bleeding all over the place, a character just hurting and spent beyond means sprawled flat against the ground

getting dragged along or stepped on, pinned down as if they're in any state to go anywhere

hypnotized and stunned into mindlessness. repeated mantras and rewired thoughts, a character made pliable and blank and used like a puppet

paralyzed but fully aware, left slack and useless and desperate with limp muscles and depressed breathing. assumed dead and abandoned, grieved over or dumped aside like a corpse, forced to watch and unable to do anything

poisoned and just getting worse and worse. teammates desperately looking for a cure while character deteriorates, puking and passing out and getting high fevers, hallucinating and begging for relief

characters taken out of commission when they're otherwise the strongest one. exposed to a weakness, given magical restraints or cuffs with neural suppressors to keep them docile, targeted and taken out

vertigo taking a character side to side, brought down and useless

[loreleiloon]

Love the idea of Hero being gagged and bound, stretched across Supervillain's desk while the two villains chat.

Supervillain freezebrands a symbol on Hero's body to warn other villains not to touch them. Then Supervillain proceeds to stich up some gnarly wounds Hero got during capture.

"You're a feisty thing," Villain comments as Hero grunts beneath their gag. "But now it's double the price to pay."

"They've already paid a part," Supervillain remarks. "Leave us so they can pay the rest."

Sniggering, Villain leaves. Once the door closes, Supervillain traces the brand they left on Hero's skin. Hero struggles in their bonds, shouting something unintelligible under their gag.

"Oh, you have something to say now?" Chuckling, Supervillain pulls the gag free from Hero's jaws. "Let it out, now," They say, cupping Hero's chin.

Hero turns away defiantly, but Supervillain can see their eyes are bleary.

"There, now, don't be shy. Whatever those things pick up, I'll have erased," Supervillain says, gesturing to the security cameras.

"Ha, like that'll make me feel better," Hero says, but their chest rises and falls unevenly.

Supervillain leans over them, "Don't tempt me, Hero. I wouldn't want to pop those stitches out."

"You're a sadist," Hero spits out.

"Mmm, pity that's your type," They draw out a long needle. "But heroes love to be martyrs, don't they?"

"What's that?" Hero asks, voice too stiff and eyes too wide.

The needle pierces their skin. They shudder immediately and go limp.

"Wh--what did you..."

"A little something I've wanted to try on you for awhile. You can feel it, can't you? A thousand pinpricks under your skin," they draw their hand along Hero's navel, "you're feeling hot now...and bothered."

"Shut up--" Hero gasps, face flushing redder than the rest of their body.

"The lethargy will kick in soon. When the adrenaline has nowhere to go."

"Lethargy?"

"Shhh, shh, you haven't slept, *really* slept for some time, have you?"

"Like you care," Hero says, but their venom is fading.

"I do care. Can't torture you properly if you're exhausted, remember?" Supervillain grins as Hero's efforts to fight the sleep sap away. "I am a sadist..."

[ebwritesstuff]

Regulating Emotions (Part 2)

Villain's POV: "I knew they would come for you." Hero's POV: "I didn't think anyone was coming for me."

Part 1: Regulating Emotions (Part 1)

This is a continuation to PART 1 which is linked above :) thanks to @whumperly for the prompt. TWs for this post include a creepy/intimate villain, general interrogation warnings and associated injuries, reference to medical torture, and an overall violent themes.

Tristan's POV

I never used to struggle to regulate my emotions, but I suppose being held captive and tortured for hours can do that to a person. The unmistakable sound of metal scraping concrete cuts through the barely-suppressed panic bubbling just beneath the surface of my carefully-composed facade.

Sergeant Gavin Chandler has been droning on and on for hours, trying to erode my resolve. I just can't let him know it's working.

"Just tell me what I want to know and you'll make it out of this alive. I can make them stop if you just give up the rendezvous point. Tristan, aren't you tired of the pain?"

Yes, Chandler, I'm tired of the pain. I'm also tired of the constant mental warfare, and the heartache of knowing I'm alone in this, and the growing desire for this to all just end.

They can't keep me like this forever.

My thoughts are halted as someone unfamiliar enters the room. All of the sudden, a sickening crunch reaches my ears. I expect to endure an all-too-familiar searing pain somewhere in my body that they haven't yet broken. Yet, to my surprise, the sound is followed by a scream that isn't my own.

A familiar body thuds to the floor, and Chandler curls into himself, for what reason I can't yet determine. My field of vision is limited to the area directly in front of me as I lay curled into myself on the concrete floor of holding room 8.

"Tsk, tsk." I hear from above, the sound punctuated by heavy footfalls landing to my left.

I crane my neck to see behind me and am greeted by a steel-toed kick to the base of my skull. Someone behind me crouches down and gently breathes into my ear, "I'll deal with you later."

As my vision clears, Chandler screams once more as he's dragged to the center of the room, uselessly clawing at the floor. A bloodied crowbar clangs to the ground. The scene before me elicits a new wave of nausea, as goosebumps creep up my arms.

Chandler's leg is broken, his tibia snapped in half, creating a sickening angle where a straight shin should be. His nose is broken and his lip is busted– both bleeding heavily– results of his violent tumble. His body heaves and his voice cracks, but none of it scares me more than the look of unbridled terror saturating his horrified gaze.

"Please, sir! I'll get him to talk, sir." He cries, babbling like a child living his worst nightmare.

"I gave you your chance, Gavin." She pauses, her tone unbothered and almost bored. "I actually gave you a few chances."

She crouches down to look him in the eye. She?

Smiling sadly, she gently brushes hair away from Chandler's tear-streaked cheeks. Shaking her head, she leans in ever-so-slowly, drawing out the moment. She grasps his chin in what I can only describe as a tender gesture, before sealing Chandler's fate.

She stands up, wiping sweaty palms across her fatigues. Looking to someone in the doorway, she gives her order. Long gone is the gentle and smoothing tone she'd used with Chandler.

"Have Cecil and Burgess take him down to the med wing. Tell Avery to harvest everything that could be of use. Make sure they don't waste any meds unless absolutely necessary. I want him to feel his failure with every incision that's made."

If Chandler is begging or pleading, I can't tell. All I can process in this moment is how truly thankful I am that no one is coming for me, because the horrors of this place are so much worse than we could've ever possibly known.

"I knew you would come for me." vs. "I didn't think anyone was coming."

[handsome-strangers]

I really love situations where a yandere struggles to understand their obsession with their darling. Like they're confused about how drawn they are or in denial of their feelings or they even lash out at their darling for bewitching them.

"It's all your fault!"

"You did this to me!"

"-Now take responsibility..."

*chef's kiss*

[cozy-whump]

I would like to see a whumpee and a carewhumper situation where the carewhumper is like. More caretaker than whumper because they’re being forced to hurt whumpee. And maybe carewhumper feels guilty about it, but whumpee just grits their teeth and says “it’s alright… I forgive you…”

Or maybe whumpee says “why do you smell like whumper?” And carewhumper just gives them a sad look.

Because at least it’s carewhumper hurting whumpee and not whumper.

[hurtingdudes]

my kind of fanfiction

[holidayinhell]

Whumper stepped to Whumpee’s right, reaching up to grasp the second cuff dangling from the ceiling. Then, without a word, his hand moved toward Whumpee’s injured arm.

It took a second for Whumpee to register what was happening.

“Wait—no, don’t—!” His voice cracked. “You said you wouldn’t touch that arm! You promised!”

Whumper didn’t stop. He grabbed the arm and yanked it upward, ignoring the way Whumpee screamed. The shoulder twisted violently. Bone ground against bone. The cuff snapped shut above his head.

Whumpee let out a strangled cry, legs buckling beneath him.

Whumper just stepped back, wiping his hands. “Promises are boring,” he said flatly. “Besides, rules change.”

Whumpee was shaking, gasping, his face wet with sweat and tears. “Why are you doing this?”

“I dunno. Guess I want to see what you do,” Whumper said. “Twenty minutes. That’s all you have to last.”

Whumpee’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “And then you’ll let me go?”

“If you don’t beg me to kill you,” Whumper replied with a twisted grin. “Yeah. That’s your challenge.”

“You’re lying.”

He smiled. “Maybe. Isn't freedom worth a little pain? Besides, when it gets bad enough, you’ll probably want me to kill you anyway.”

“I don’t, I don’t--” Whumpee shook his head, trying to breathe through it. “I don’t wanna play.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Whumper said. He tapped the timer mounted to the wall. The red numbers flared to life: 20:00. The countdown began.

He turned away, voice calm.

“Game on.”

(more whump)

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Stuck In My Ways

BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 2: Abandonment Issues (AO3 version)

The suitcase sat in the hallway, next to the coat hook and the shoe rack.

At first, Buck hadn't noticed it, or maybe he’d thought it was some kind of decoration. Tommy had an astonishing amount of decorative clutter in his house –  a plethora of fairy lights, modern paintings, flower pots. Eddie's house had always looked like it had been imported straight from a furniture store: every piece of knick-knack was faceless, every picture meaningless except for Chris's drawings on the refrigerator, standing out from all the uniformity like little points of light. With Tommy, it was different. The man—a 40-year-old with Star Wars collectibles and curtains that matched his furniture—placed a lot of importance on making his house a home. 

It seemed all the more surprising to Buck that he had decided to share it with him. Eddie hadn't actually given him an ultimatum when he announced he was returning to L.A., breaking camp in Texas and becoming a firefighter again, to provide stability for Chris. No, he’d said Buck could stay, at least until he found something new. But somehow it was clear that Eddie's idea of stability didn't include Buck, so he left. You can store anything, except feelings.

Tommy hadn't hesitated, hadn't asked any questions. Tommy had said, “I’ve a guest room,” only to add that he used it as a storage room but could certainly squeeze a bed in there. Buck could have stayed with Maddie, maybe even with Hen and Karen. But all those options were pretty much off the table. Tommy, on the other hand, was single and lived alone. And Buck told himself that maybe this was a way of testing the waters. A check for interest, so to speak. Maybe there was still something in the air, the possibility of more than just a cot in the guest room. Above all, though, and initially, a little more proximity. A long overdue conversation.

But there was this suitcase.

It wasn't Buck's; he had moved in with a duffle bag full of odds and ends. So it was Tommy’s, a sturdy carry-on trolley, right next to the door. 

“You going on a trip?” Buck had asked, unsure if the offer had been mere politeness after all. Or, and that, somehow, seemed even worse, whether Tommy only wanted him for house-sitting because he was going away. Buck wasn't sure he could handle that again. Of course, it would have been different this time than with Eddie, but then again, it wouldn't: in the end, this new beginning might have been nothing but smoke and mirrors. A place, but not a home; a space with no one in it who meant anything to him.

Tommy wasn’t going on a trip, but he also didn't mention the suitcase again. It still remained in the hallway, like a forgotten piece of a former lover. But who forgot a suitcase? 

Buck couldn't get it out of his head. He tried to be a good guest, a friend who took up little space and never got in the way: tiptoeing into the bathroom, no cluttering, just politeness and quiet coexistence. Sometimes, when he found the time, he’d cook dinner and leave a portion in the fridge for Tommy. One night, they sat on Tommy's extremely spacious and comfortable couch and watched a movie together, their fingertips so close that Buck couldn't think of anything else but how it would only take a small motion. But it didn't happen.

Buck wondered if he should make the first move. Not to repeat the one night at Eddie's house that had felt real and right, no. Rather to ask the many questions that were floating around in his head like dust particles settling on the floor. 

One of them concerned the suitcase. A seemingly innocent object, but why was it there, and what did it mean? For a while, Buck believed there could only be two possibilities. A subtle hint that he was just a guest in Tommy's house. Maybe, he thought, the suitcase wasn't always there, but now it was a kind of warning and reminder that he shouldn't overstay his welcome. The thought was ridiculous and not at all like Tommy. The other possibility... well, the idea gnawed at Buck's brain. What if it was Tommy's escape suitcase? His getaway luggage, waiting by the door so he could always leave without looking back. That thought also seemed absurd at first, because this was Tommy's house; if Buck got on his nerves, he could just kick him out. But would he? And did Buck's ever annoy him? 

Eddie's words kept creeping into his head, “You make everything about you!” Of course, his first impulse had been to say that wasn't true. That it was never really about him: Howie's guilt should have been Buck's, Eddie's fear of failure was reflected in him, and Hen's doubts about whether she was right for the captain's job felt familiar. And yet he had put all that aside because it was more important to take away their guilt, their fear, and everyone’s doubts.

Because if he didn't, Buck was convinced he would betray Bobby's memory and lose the people who were important to him. But the cracks were already there, spreading like fissures in an old house that would sooner or later lose its footing. Everyone who had ever been important to him had left Buck. Leaving didn't always mean walking away, like Eddie, who seemed to find it so easy to cut him out of his life. Some people distanced themselves in different ways, walking away inwardly, like his parents. 

Tommy had left with a bang, just when Buck thought he’d learned how to open up. How to let someone into his life even though he was afraid of being abandoned. But Tommy had returned. What if that suitcase in the hallway meant that Tommy was afraid, too? Not just of having his heart broken, but of the void left behind by everyone who left. 

One evening, after a long time, Buck baked again.

The house was filled with the tempting aroma of fresh pastry when Tommy returned from his shift. Entering the kitchen, he leaned against the doorframe, watching Buck for a long time before the latter even noticed. There was something in Tommy's gaze, something deep and calm that Buck had missed without realizing it.

“This smells good,” Tommy said. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, I'll clean up in a minute–” 

“We can clean up together. Are you baking a cake?”

Buck's cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven; he opened its door holding a kitchen towel, peered inside, and nodded. “Lemon bar cheesecake.”

“Really? Ain’t that incredibly complicated?”

Buck shrugged. “It takes two days, the lemon curd needs to cool, the dough has to rest...”

“Big ups,” Tommy said, appreciatively. “Didn't know you were such a great baker.”

“Because I never told you I started doing it so I wouldn't have to call you.”

Tommy hopped onto one of the bar stools in front of the kitchen island, resting his hands on the sides of the flour-dusted countertop.

“You... did what?”

“I baked,” Buck dryly returned. “That's why, without wanting to brag, I'm pretty good at it now. But yeah, this is still an ambitious project.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the room like the smell of lemons, and it was just as ambiguous, sweet and sour at the same time. Buck stood behind the counter and stared at Tommy's hands clutching the countertop as if he were literally looking for something to hold on to. He thought about the suitcase in the hallway. Was there an answer that wouldn't scare Tommy away?

“The cake was supposed to be a surprise,” he explained. Embarrassed, he ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a fine trail of flour behind. “I thought when you get home from your shift tomorrow, we could have it together.”

“No ketosis?” Tommy quipped, and Buck rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Sure, we can have cake tomorrow, Evan. I'd love to. I'm sure it's great, like everything you prepare. You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble, though. I mean, two days for a cake? Wow.”

“It's kind of symbolic,” Buck said. “Because some things just take time.”

“I have a feeling it's not just about the cake.”

Buck took a deep breath. “No,” he replied. “It's about the suitcase.”

Tommy blinked, clearly confused. 

“The suitcase.”

The kitchen counter seemed like a wall to Buck, standing between them literally and figuratively. He circled it and dropped onto the stool next to Tommy. Those blue eyes were distracting; they always had been. But now he needed to get it out, all of it.

“Did your parents ever lose you in a mall? You know, when they make those announcements. Well, mine might not even have noticed if Maddie hadn't been looking after me most of the time anyway. You spend your whole life longing to be noticed by them, but if they don't even see you when you're standing right next to them, how are they supposed to notice you're gone?”

He took a deep breath. There was nothing but compassion in Tommy's gaze, but perhaps also more. Perhaps there was a deeper understanding, the knowledge of someone who could relate to that feeling. Someone who saw beyond the story and knew what Buck really meant. It wasn't about the mall; as far as he was concerned, that was just the tip of the iceberg his parents had been living on.

“As a child, you come to terms with things,” he continued. “You think you're better off without them, that you'll be fine. And for a while, that's true.”

“But eventually, you fall in love. Then...” Tommy interjected. He looked as if he would rather have bitten his tongue than actually say it; his forehead wrinkled, he looked downright worried. 

“Then,” Buck said, nodding, “it gets difficult. I always gave everything I had, just to be liked. I've done everything to avoid being abandoned, either physically or emotionally. And it's never been enough, Tommy. You need a hundred hours of therapy to understand that it's not your fault, but it still happens over and over again. And you understand that leaving is easier than staying, because staying means work and commitment.“

”Evan..."

“There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge at Eddie's house,” Buck cut him off. “You put it there that morning. You wanted a fresh start.”

“And then I screwed it up.” Tommy's fingers were now tracing patterns in the flour on the kitchen island. 

They were just circles, doodles, but they could have been hearts. This was the man who said Love, Actually was his favorite movie, and this was a situation that could have come straight out of a rom-com. All the ingredients were there: misunderstandings, trials and tribulations, and above all, feelings. Those had always been there.

“You didn't,” Buck said, unaware of how wistful he sounded. “Sure, your talk about Eddie was nonsense. But at least you’d already told me that you can be pretty jealous. And then it clicked.” He snapped his fingers, emphasizing his words.  “I never thought anyone would be jealous about me. That anyone would ever want me that much.”

“Well, I guess we’ve something in common,” Tommy returned with a crooked smile.

“Hmm,” Buck went. “A man with abandonment issues meets a guy who, out of fear of being abandoned, would rather leave first. It could work, if they would just talk.”

“Evan.” Hearing his name out of his mouth was still a revelation. Buck had been Buck for so long that he hadn't even noticed that the shortened version made him seem smaller than he was. “What are you trying to say?”

Buck looked him straight in the eye. “The suitcase,” he said.

Tommy exhaled sharply. “I'm not following. What about the suitcase?”

“W-what does it mean? Why is it there? I can't get it out of my head, Tommy. I don't want to lose you again. I don't want to do anything wrong, but I can't guarantee it. Things probably won't go smoothly. But I don't want to be afraid that you'll leave, you understand?”

Tommy blinked. He opened his mouth and gasped for air like a fish out of water. 

“You think the suitcase is there so I can get out of here as fast as possible? Ouch, Evan.”

Then he laughed. It was the liberating laugh of a man who had a weight lifted from his heart. Buck's smile was uncertain as he cocked his head, asking, “No?”

“No.”

Tommy placed his hands over Buck's, ten warm fingers squeezing his, confidently. 

“What did you say? The guy who's so afraid of being abandoned that he'd rather leave first? Well, that's probably true. Maybe you should recommend your therapist to me. Or we could just work on it together, what do you think? I don't want to leave. Am I still afraid? Probably. I think you feel the same way. You have to be afraid, don't you? It ensures survival. Believe it or not, but when I get in the cockpit, my stomach drops, every single time. And then I'm up there, and I remember why I do it.”

“You have to overcome your fear.”

“Exactly,“ said Tommy. “You and me, together. If you want to.”

Buck's shoulders eased; he hadn't even noticed that he had tensed them. His whole body, actually. “You bet. I—”

A shrill noise interrupted him. There was a small robot on the counter next to the stove, a kitchen timer in the shape of R2D2. Indeed, Tommy loved his gadgets. 

“Uh–I have to get the cake out of the oven,” Buck said. “Then it has to cool, and I have to prepare the sugared lemon slices, and–”

“Evan. The suitcase?”

“The suitcase,” Buck repeated, his gaze fixed on Tommy's lips. It was an evening full of possibilities. 

Tommy sighed. “I stopped telling that story at some point, or rather parts of it,” he said. “It doesn't pay to make yourself vulnerable. Especially not in the kind of environment I used to work in.”

He took another deep breath, looking up. But it wasn't the ceiling he was looking at; his gaze was clearly fixed on the past. Buck thought there were so many stories left to tell, and so many things they had in common, and he wanted to hear them all. Even if it hurt. 

“In the late '90s, when I was in the Army, I was in Australia for Pitch Black, an international air force maneuver. The snakes and spiders in that country, boy, they'll freak you out. But the nature... makes you think that it's fighting to drive people away, and maybe it's right. Anyway, one night, there was an earthquake. It was bad, really, even the base shook like a washing machine on spin cycle. The Italians lost one of their planes; it just slipped into a crevice, and no mechanic in the world could save the engine. But the people living in the area... they lost everything. Days later, you could still see them walking around in the ruins of their houses, clutching photographs as if they were more important than anything else in the rubble."

“That sounds terrible,” Buck said softly.

“It was. I couldn't sleep for nights on end. I kept imagining myself standing there left with nothing, practically just the clothes on my back, completely alone. But I just couldn't understand why it disturbed me so much, because I’d done everything I could to avoid getting attached to anyone. Superficial friendships, meaningless sex. No one I’d have to mourn if something bad happened.“

“But no one who’d have mourned you either.”

It was a terribly sad thought. Buck had always been afraid that no one would miss him, and Tommy had been afraid that they would. Because both hurt. Both broke your heart in different ways. He thought that maybe they were completely screwed up, but that maybe they were also the only ones who understood that. And if that was the case, it was possible to work on it. Together. 

“I thought it was selfish to want someone to mourn you,” Tommy added. “And that if you prepare yourself enough, you can always be ready to start over. Then, maybe, you'd never have to look back and wonder what you left behind.”

“That's why the suitcase.”

“That's why the suitcase,” Tommy said, nodding. “Crazy, huh?”

Buck said nothing. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to Tommy's, and put his answer there.