9-1-1 Bingo: Round 4 - When I Look At You I See Everything I've Ever Wanted
time is shortening (down to the bone)
Four months after the breakup Buck gets a text message from Lucy.
He’s just woken up after a 24-hour shift, the haze of sleep still clouding him when his phone chimes. He doesn’t read it straight away, a habit he’s gotten into to stop him from rushing to see if Tommy had finally texted him.
Buck has spent hours at a time staring at his phone screen and his and Tommy’s message history. Occasionally, the white bubble would bounce, the three dots telling him that Tommy was typing something out and Buck’s heart rate would spike, nerves and anticipation clogging his throat as he waited, and waited, and waited until the bubble would vanish altogether.
Tommy never messaged. But it told Buck that the man was still thinking about him, that had to mean something, right?
He’s called Tommy a handful of times, giving in to the deep-down urge to hear the man’s voice again, usually in the middle of the night when he’s been wallowing in the bottom of a liquor bottle. The ones that he didn’t end before the call connected had gone unanswered just the same as every call and text in the first few weeks following the break-up.
All he’d wanted was to talk to Tommy, try and make some sense out of what had happened for things to have derailed in the blink of an eye. One minute they’d been celebrating their sixth month anniversary, Buck looking forward to another six months with Tommy by his side, and the next Tommy had been calling him Buck and walking out of his life.
Now they’d been apart almost as long as they’d been together.
A box of Tommy’s things, his toothbrush, a spare phone charger, a harbor hoodie that Buck had claimed as his, the fluffy socks Tommy wore when his feet got cold which Buck found so fucking sweet and endearing it made his teeth hurt, still sat by the door waiting to be collected. Eddie and Chim have both offered to drop it off at Tommy’s but Buck shrugged them off.
If he’s being honest with himself he just couldn’t let them go.
It wasn’t just him who Tommy has been ghosting, Bobby, Hen, and Chim, they’ve all tried reaching out to no avail. Eddie is the only one who’s had any success, a couple of messages in the early days asking Eddie to keep an eye on Buck, and an odd one now and then replying to Eddie’s attempts to get him to meet for a pick-up game or sparing session.
“He always says he’s working,” Eddie had told him with a shrug. “I guess he’s just picking up some extra shifts to keep himself busy.”
They never see him on calls, however, not on the 217 truck or on the chopper when they’re joined by air ops, and Lucy just shrugs when anyone asks saying he’s off that day.
Buck’s starting to think Tommy’s either avoiding the 118 or he’s taken a transfer altogether.
He chews on the inside of his cheek, staring at his phone while he waits for his coffee to brew. The screen lights up again, another text coming in with a chime before falling dark again and Buck figures he’s delayed it long enough.
There’s still a spark of hope as he taps the screen to wake it, but it extinguishes in a flash when it’s Lucy’s contact that’s revealed instead.
If you have any plans today cancel them.
I know you’re off shift today so you have no excuse.
Answer your damn texts Buckley!
I’m not in the mood Lucy.
I don’t care. Clear your schedule for today.
I need you to go somewhere.
Just do it Buckley. Call it a favor.
How do I know there’s not gonna be a man with an axe waiting to try and murder me?
If that happens I’m haunting you for the rest of your life.
Buck hits the call button. Thankfully, Lucy answers after the first ring. “Why are you sending me to the hospital?” He asks. “What’s…wait, are you hurt? Did something happen on a call?”
Lucy doesn’t answer straight away. “Nothing happened on a call.” She says eventually in her usual evasive and unhelpful way.
The inflection to her words, whether intentional or subconscious tells Buck what he needs to know. “But someone is?”
Lucy sighs again but doesn’t offer any further explanation. “Third floor. Preferably before two this afternoon.”
“Please, Buck?” The desperation in her voice is enough to sway him. Lucy never sounds desperate.
“Okay, okay. I’ll go. Who am I—”
“Thanks, Buckley. Third floor. Before two.” She repeats then hangs up.
Stepping out of the elevator Buck blinks when he realizes he’s on the oncology floor. He looks around, mind reeling with who could possibly be getting treatment on this floor out of every possible department. It can’t be one of the 118, he would know.
He texts Lucy, asking who he’s there to see, and she leaves him on read. She ignores his call, too.
“Hey, excuse me,” Buck says to the nurse behind the desk. “Um, I’m not sure who I’m—”
The words die in his throat as his eyes land on a familiar form in a large wingback chair, the leg rest raised so he’s reclined with his head tipped back and eyes closed. He’s thinner than he was when Buck last saw him, deep shadows sit under his eyes and his hair, patchy in places, has been shaved short. There’s a port-a-cath in his upper arm and hanging on the drip stand above is a bag of fluid, the bright red chemotherapy label visible even at this distance.
“Sir?” The nurse says, but Buck can’t look away from the man.
“Are you a relative of Mr. Kinard?” She asks.
“Uh, I-I’m a…friend,” Buck manages to utter through his shock. “Can I…?” He points in Tommy’s direction, hoping she won’t send him away.
“Sure, he has a little longer left but go ahead.”
Buck moves as though through sludge, mind still trying to comprehend what he’s seeing, and he comes to a stop in the doorway into the treatment room, more of the wingback chairs spaced evenly throughout. A handful of them are occupied, other patients also hooked up to chemo bags, but his sight is fixed on his ex.
With Tommy’s eyes closed it gives Buck a chance to take him in up close. He looks the same and yet completely different all at once. He has the same sharp angle of his jaw; the one Buck would nip at to feeling the shadow of his scruff scratching against his own, but it’s more pronounced now, gaunt. The sweats and hoodie he’s wearing are practically swamping him. He’s a shadow of the man who broke up with Buck all those months ago.
He looks tired, worn. Sick.
Tommy coughs, the rattle deep in his chest audible from where Buck stands frozen, and he opens his eyes as he adjusts his position in his chair.
Then Tommy’s eyes land on him. They widen in shock before turning soft, the way they always did when he looked at Buck, but the look only lasts a second before it morphs into one of resigned understanding.
Buck’s mouth is dry and it takes considerable force to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yeah,” He breathes. “I-I mean, no. I mean, she told me to come to the hospital but she didn’t…she didn’t tell me. But you should have.”
Tommy at least has the grace to look regretful, his gaze falling from Buck to where his bony fingers are picking at his cuticles. “I’m not your problem anymore, Buck.” He says to his lap.
“Don’t,” Buck shakes his head. “Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me.”
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