The words are stark and bloodless, but Tommy knows what it means. This Evan Buckley, cloned from cells from its donors for whatever reason, was unable to fulfill its function; returning it to Manufacturer means it will be terminated, the cells repurposed as feed or maybe as mulch.
Not an "it", Kinard. A "he". A "him".
Not just a cloned product. A person. That will be murdered and chopped into bloody bits.
It has taken Tommy several years to deprogram himself from the language used by the Firm, but now and again he slips into old patterns, even though he's no longer working for the Firm.
Sal drops into the seat next to Tommy. "Found our next rescue?"
Tommy points to the waybill.
"Sweet. Let's go steal us a clone." Sal claps him on his shoulder and squeezes.
It isn't difficult to lift a defective clone. It is near impossible to steal a new clone; the security at the warehouses rival the battalion armory down at Glint Street 77. But one that's returned and marked for destruction? No one looks at it closely enough.
Him. No one looks at him.
Tommy follows Sal into the dispatch center, both of them fully geared up, complete with the oh-so-helpful helmet covering their faces and gloving their hands.
The defective product is in his assigned room, curled up in the corner. It is a small room, so it is basically all corners.
"Up you get," Sal orders, snapping out the stun baton. "Defective product Evan Buckley."
Evan Buckley unfurls from his protective roll and struggles to his feet. His eyes are bloodshot and the skin around them puffy and pink, the tear stains on his face evident in his pallor. He is tall, as tall as Tommy, and his long legs almost buckle as he straightens.
"I'm sorry," Evan croaks. "I tried. I don't know why I didn't work."
Tommy has to stop himself from reaching out to take the clone's hand to comfort him. "Come along. We need to take you back."
"Will it hurt?" Evan asks quietly. He sounds so much like a child.
In terms of the actual number of years, Evan Buckley is a child. Less than two years of existence. Everything he knows was planted into his head with a chip. It will be several more years before he is considered a legal human being.
But he knows enough to be afraid.
Tommy clears his throat. "No," he lies.
Sal prods the clone. "Come on, don't make me use this thing. This thing will hurt you."
Evan Buckley hugs himself and comes over to them to be cuffed to Tommy. He is so withdrawn and docile that Tommy aches to assure him and tell him that he'll be okay.
"Help me pass a message?" Evan's eyes are very blue. "To my parents."
They're not your parents, Tommy wants to say. They're heartless bastards who placed an order for you and are returning you like you're a toy. Like you don't feel.
"What do you want to tell them?" is what comes out of his mouth.
"I'm sorry I couldn't save Daniel. I really tried."
Sal hurries them along to the waiting van. The clone tenses as he is dragged forward, but Sal pushes him into the van, locks the door, and gets into the passenger seat.
"Take us home, Jeeves," Sal tells Howie. "Got a clone to re-home."
Tommy unshackles Evan from himself, and the clone stares at him in astonishment. The astonishment gives way to... shyness? when Tommy removes the helmet and gloves.
"Hey," says Tommy, finally reaching out to take Evan's hand and squeezing. The clone squeezes back, his hand warm and his grip strong. "Don't be scared. We're not taking you to the Manufacturer. You're safe with us, I promise. You're leaving the city with us."
"Leaving? How?"
Howie cackles from the front. "You won't like the next part of our escape, kid. But the great thing is, you'll be alive to bitch about it!"
This is based on a real conversation I had with some random kiddo while I was jogging in my neighborhood.
+
When Sal's girls were little—before they entered middle school and immediately turned into gremlins who are way too cool to hang out with Uncle Tommy because he doesn't know who Harper Zilmer is and therefore should hang by the neck until dead—Tommy used to take them to the park across the street from their kindergarten. It's the last remaining wooden park in the greater Los Angeles area and has some of the most comfortable benches a human ass has ever sat upon.
Lately he's been trying to fit more cardio into his routine, because Lucy made a comment about him working out so much that his turnouts were starting to look like a wetsuit, and he's taken to running through that particular neighborhood. After he cools down from a run, he gets to catch his breath on one of those comfy-ass benches.
On the second day of his 72-off, he does almost seven miles in under an hour—a personal best—and then rewards himself by heading over to the wooden park so he can drop onto a bench, close his eyes, and lose himself in The Cactus Album. He's halfway through Steppin' to the A.M. when his skin starts prickling. He's being watched.
He cracks one eye open to find a little boy in a Bluey shirt standing practically on top of Tommy's sneakers, staring with wide, oddly familiar blue eyes.
Tommy opens the other eye, then takes out one of his ear buds.
"Uh, can I help you?"
With a grin that pings as oddly familiar, the boy lifts his hand to proudly show off the massive splint that has consumed his thumb. "I broke it!"
Tommy blinks. "How'd you do that?"
The kid's grin widens until it's practically splitting his face in two. If he were vibrating any harder, Tommy's phone would surely be blaring an earthquake warning.
"I slammed it in a door! Like this: BAM!" To illustrate, the kid lifts his other hand, which is holding some kind of toy, and bashes his palm against it. Then he comically whines and shakes out his hand, hopping from foot to foot. His shoes light up.
"Okay," Tommy says peaceably. "Follow-up question: why'd you do that?"
With a shrug, the boy scratches his nose with the hand holding the toy. "I screamed really loud and-and-and there was blood."
"I bet." Judging by the size of the splint, there was probably a decent amount of wailing too. Arianna, Sal's youngest, once tripped over her own scooter and scraped her knee, and she screeched loud enough to wake the dead. The scrape hadn't even broken the skin. She's definitely got the makings of a theater kid. "Uh, where are your parents?"
"In Heaven with Cap." The boy says it absently, like it's nothing. Probably because all of his attention is on one of those small, white butterflies that seem to be everywhere. It wings by them and goes to inspect some nearby dandelions.
"That sucks. I'm sorry," Tommy murmurs, then scrunches his nose in confusion. "Wait, what's the cap?"
The kid holds up the toy in his hand suddenly. "This is a helicopter! It's mine."
He emphasizes every syllable, even where there shouldn't be any. Hel-i-cop-ter. Muh-ine.
"Your helicopter isn't just any helicopter," Tommy says, taking out his other ear bud and digging out their case from the flipbelt he got in last year's Harbor yankee swap, tucking them in. He sits up a little straighter, then gestures for the kid to hand it over, which the boy does. "That's a Kaman SH-2F Seasprite."
And a pretty accurately designed one, too. Tommy'd ask the kid where he got it, but the answer's probably Santa.
"Whazzat mean?" The kid leans forward, peering at his toy with wide, interested eyes. Seeing it anew.
"These guys were pretty fast." Tommy cuts the Seasprite through the air between them, then swoops it around the kid's head. The boy bursts into giggles and tries to track what is an admittedly insane flightpath. If Tommy were actually flying like this, ATC would think he was having a stroke. "If I remember correctly, they were used for SAR and ASW."
"Whazzat?"
Tommy stifles a laugh. "SAR is search and rescue, and ASW is uh, anti-submarine warfare. So, like, looking for lost people and.... yeah, there's no way to sugarcoat this: blowing up subs."
The kid bounces on his feet. His shoes look like a Berlin electronica festival. "What's a subs?"
"Submarine," Tommy corrects gently. He remembers being that age, learning the lingo, having his world expand a little bit more. Except he learned it all from his Uncle Terry, who fought in Vietnam, had ridiculous PTSD, and ate twelve packs of cigarettes a day. Tommy's hopefully a step or two above that. "It's like a—a submarine is a boat that moves underwater. See this?"
He tilts the helicopter and taps his thumb against one of the Mk 46's hanging off the side. The kid nods, shifting from foot to foot. Blue, red, yellow, purple, green.
"This is a torpedo. I don't think the Seasprites had missiles, but they definitely had these. Now, a torpedo is different from a missile because..."
About 45 minutes later, Tommy's in the middle of the world's worst child-friendly explanation of infrared thermography—pausing every so often so the kid can scream "DOWN SCOPE!" at a decibel only dogs can hear and run around while pretending he's looking through a periscope on a submarine—which he told Tommy wasn't a submarine, but actually some big turtle Pokemon that had guns attached to its back—when a familiar pair of eye-wateringly orange Nikes enters his field of vision.
He looks up and, yep, there it is: the phantasm that haunts his thoughts whenever he allows himself to be alone with them.
It's been a year since Bobby's funeral, and Tommy's spent that time hoping Evan pissed off another dead cowboy and had been turned into a hideous swamp creature, but the universe seems to have gone in the opposite direction. He's a thousand times more gorgeous than Tommy remembers him being.
"Uh, hey," Tommy says intelligently.
He's definitely making this unexpected reunion more awkward by staring, but sue him. You don't shame someone for admiring a Rembrandt.
Evan stares back, eyes wide. "W-Were you just teaching a four-year old about modern warfare?"
After doing a quick mental rewind of the last hour and then glancing at the kid in question—who does appear to be that young—Tommy grimaces. "Uh, that... seems to be the case, yeah."
If it were anyone else, they'd probably start screaming at him, maybe throw hands, before calling the cops, because for all intents and purposes, Tommy is a complete and utter stranger who could've been using that toy helicopter to lure this kid into a rickety old van.
But Evan just stares at him for a few moments, then ducks his head and laughs.
"Did it have to be, like, bombing enemy warships?" Evan puts his hands on his hips. "Couldn't you have talked to him about, I don't know, that movie with the dinosaurs on a cross-country trip?"
"You want me to traumatize this kid with The Land Before Time?" Tommy lifts a hand to clutch his invisible pearls. "It's 10:30 in the morning, Evan. Way too early for sad tree stars."
"Corrupting the youth in your off-time, huh?" Evan asks, smiling.
Tommy can't help but tease back, "Just like my father always said I would."
A look of mortified horror washes over Evan's face. "Oh god, Tommy, that's not what I—"
"I'm just messing with you, Evan," he says, although he's really not.
Good ol' Jim Kinard believes in precisely two things: 1) Knob Creek bourbon is mankind's greatest invention, and 2) gay people were created by Russia to destroy the fabric of Western society and usher in a new world order. He said the second thing usually while chin-deep in the first, which was often.
Evan still looks like he's wishing for the ground to open up and suck him into hell, which Tommy can't let stand, and he opens his mouth to redirect the conversation to something that doesn't make him want to rip his skin off, but the kid beats him to it.
"SERGEANT TOMMY! FIRE THE MISSILES! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!"
Both he and Evan turn. Somehow in the last two minutes, the kid's managed to cover himself in grass clippings and is holding what looks like a years-old empty bottle of Pepto Bismol.
"Oh jeez, Theo," Evan says with a fond sigh. "Remember what we do with trash that we find on the ground?"
The kid—Theo, apparently—shakes his head wildly, but he does at least drop the Pepto. "No no no no no! Sergeant Tommy! Fire!"
Evan turns pleading eyes on Tommy, silently beseeching him for help.
Which Tommy can absolutely provide. "Kid, c'mon, I told you: you fire torpedoes from a submarine, not missiles. And you say "shoot" for torpedoes. Saying "fire" might make someone think there's an actual fire on board."
The pleading melts to reveal daggers, all aimed at Tommy's head.
"SHOOT! SHOOT! SHOOT!" Theo howls, bouncing.
"Aye, aye." Tommy salutes, then swings his arm down in an excellent karate chop. "BOOM!"
Shrieking with laughter, Theo runs in the direction of the imaginary torpedo, and Evan watches him like a hawk.
"I'm gonna kill you for this," Evan says serenely.
Tommy follows Theo's path thanks only to his shoes. He's running so fast that he's basically leaving trails of light behind him, like one of the bikes in Akira. When he looks back at Evan, his heart starts pounding. "I was, uh, thinking about hitting up the sandwich shop around the corner. Their breakfast paninis are supposed to be incredible—perfect for a last meal. Maybe you and the kid might want to join me? My treat."
At that, Evan's head whips around and the hopeful lilt to his smile makes some hard thing inside Tommy crumble to sand.
"Y-Yeah?"
Tommy smiles. "Yeah. And maybe you can explain how you managed to hide the fact that you have a kid from me for six months."
"T-That's not—I didn't—it's a very long story," is what Evan settles on, shoulders dropping. His smile, however, doesn't disappear. "He's not my son, but I'm his—it's complicated."
"It always is," Tommy says, then gets to his feet. "Which is terrifying on a level I don't have words to describe, but my secret therapist says I could use some complicated in my life. We'd been kicking around ideas for exposure therapy; I'm pretty sure this qualifies, so."
The grin that splits Evan's lips is so bright that it could rival the California mid-morning sun. Tommy wants to reach out and press his thumb to it to see if it's just as warm. But not yet. Exposure therapy only works if you deliberately ramp it up over time, according to Dr. Chatterjee. And Tommy has to believe him, because otherwise he's paying this guy an exorbitant amount under the table to be lied to.
He'd happily drain his 401k dry if it meant Evan might keep looking at him like this.
"BUCK! BUCK! LOOK WHAT I FOUND!"
Spell broken, they turn in unison to see Theo about ten feet away, holding up what appears to be a baby doll with a pickle jar for a head. Inside, something dark and crimson sloshes around.
"This park has everything," Tommy marvels, before he and Evan take off after him at a run.
They end up getting tacos for lunch at Guisados because the pickle jar contains a human kidney and the cops don't let them go until well after Wichcraft stops selling breakfast for the day.
Which is fine, because he gets to eat a truly life-changing bistek roja while Evan tucks a sneaker against Tommy's and makes eyes at him across the table, and Theo makes a mess of his quesadilla trying to copy the way Tommy eats.
It's not quite how he expected to end today's run, because Guisados' seats aren't nearly as comfy as the park bench, but Tommy's been shelling out the big bucks all these months to learn how to roll with the punches. Seems like it's finally paying off.
oh my goddddd, i told myself i wasn't allowed to write anything new until i finished the out of control fic i've been working on for an actual year but then i thought... why am i allowing myself to be stifled by such arbitrary (and self-imposed) rules?!
so here's a fic for @crash-that-helicopter-week that i wrote super quickly and finished JUST IN TIME.
and i'm calling this 3.3k fic 'just in time' for now because i can't think of a title!!!
E N J O Y !
🚁🌷💥
'I think Evan's cheating on me.' Tommy licks a glob of chocolate icing off his thumb. His teeth twinge from the sweetness, a sure sign that they're oversensitive from clenching them at nighttime. Across from him Lucy rocks on the back legs of her chair with one polished boot pressed against the edge of their table. She stares at Tommy and chews her donut for an unnervingly long time. 'Are you having some kind of medical crisis or —'
'Are you?' Lucy pops her foot free and her chair launches forward, steel feet and legs grating when they hit the floor. 'You think the guy who looks at you like this —' Lucy rests her chin on her knuckles and flutters his eyelids — 'for making him a sandwich is… letting someone else butter his bread?'
'We don't have to discuss this using food metaphors, you know, I've really been working on my communication skills —'
'Not enough if you're coming to me with this instead of asking him directly.' Lucy sighs. Her hand hovers above the box of donuts, her perfectly manicured fingers dancing as she tries to choose between a strawberry glazed or cookie crumble delight. 'What's he doing?' She plucks the strawberry donut from the box and smiles at it lovingly. 'Or not doing?'
Tommy's not a weak man, but he's not strong enough to deny himself another emotional support sweet treat, especially not when they've been made by Evan's own fair hands. 'One: he's been churning out baked goods like nobody's business but I'm not seeing most of them. So where are they going?'
'Here?'
'Some of them are, but where are the rest?' Tommy shoves half the donut in his mouth and god, the Oreo crumble and whipped topping is exquisite. 'Two: he's been going to his knitting circle but he never comes home with any knitting.'
'Aww, do you think he's making socks for someone else's cold feet?'
'Thirdly; he's just being… weird. Cagey. I dunno. He always seems to have somewhere to be that isn't with me.'
'Sounding a little possessive there, Kinard.'
Tommy scoffs, offended. 'I am not possessive.' Lucy scrunches her face up. 'I'm not!'
'Whatever you say, boss.'
'Not your boss,' he says, and then in unison they say, 'not yet, anyway,' because Tommy knows it's coming and that Lucy's already stockpiling as many jokes and retorts as she possibly can.
Lucy nudges Tommy's ankle with her boot. 'Just put on your big boy pants and ask him, Tommy. Kinda seems like he's grown up a lot since I first met him. He's not like… that anymore.'
Alarm bells go off in Tommy head, and in the hangar, too. 'Like what?'
'Saved by the bell, whaddya know?'
'Luce,' Tommy yells, because Lucy's already bolted for the stairs, 'like what?'
'Sorry!' she yells back, pointing at her ears and shrugging.
Tommy thinks about it for the rest of the day, and most of the night, too. He and Evan miss each other by a couple of hours when Tommy finishes his shift late and Evan goes in for his early. Tucked up in their bed later that night, Tommy replays a voice note Evan left him. It's almost six minutes long, but Tommy replays it at 1x speed anyway and hopes with everything inside that no one else is getting a rundown of everything Evan did since waking up.
*
There's nothing suspicious about Evan taking a phone call in another room, per se, but what is suspicious is the way Evan quickly untangles himself from Tommy's arm while they're watching a movie on a Saturday afternoon and shuts himself in their bedroom after answering it. Tommy huffs and crosses his arms. Maybe he is a little possessive. So what? It's Sunday, it's September, it's pouring with rain and it's the first weekend in what feels like months that neither of them have any responsibilities beyond performing basic human functions.
Evan's voice carries. The bassy tone of his hmms and yeahs vibrates through the walls and the floors and Tommy strains to make out the words. Even when he can decipher the odd word it sounds like Evan's talking in code, and it sucks to hear him laugh and not be in on the joke.
Maybe he's the joke? He's starting to feel like it.
He texts Lucy and gives her the lowdown and and receives a JUST TALK TO HIM!!!!!! in response. His phone gets shoved into the couch cushions instead of launched across the room, and he waits for Evan to bounce down the stairs and fall into his reserved place back under his arm.
Evan comes down the stairs with a spring in his step. 'Sorry, sorry!' It's the brightest apology Tommy's heard since Tommy found Evan bathing a crusty-eyed kitten he found on the side of the road in their kitchen sink. The kitchen was flooded, and Evan looked like he'd won a wet t-shirt contest. They named her Chancy. The little traitor's been upstairs the whole time, no doubt curling around Evan's feet and purring while she kept him company. She follows dutifully behind Evan as he jumps off the last step and falls back onto the couch.
'Everything ok?' Tommy keeps it light and full of genuine curiosity. He pats his leg and Chancy pounces, choosing instead to settle between them.
'Not really,' Evan says and oh, that's not what Tommy was expecting. 'Barb's husband Ernie — you know Barb from my knitting group - isn't feeling too good.'
'And she called you why?' Tommy winces. Evan snaps his head towards him so hard Tommy's surprised there isn't an audible crack. 'No, I mean, shouldn't she call his doctor?'
'Oh, um, yeah. Y-yeah she will. It's just… we've been working on a big project together and she's worried about letting us down.'
'What's the project?' There's the lightness again. The exaggerated curiosity.
'It's top secret.' Evan winks and look, Tommy usually loves when Evan throws him a wink across a room or after whispering something in his ear that makes all the blood rush to his cheeks, but tonight he can't hide the way his face twists up in disbelief, all the years of damage and doubt clouding his ability to believe the evidence he's been collecting leads to more than one conclusion. 'Tommy, what's happening here? What's wrong?'
Tommy read somewhere that petting a cat can reduce your heart rate and blood pressure and today Chancy's fulfilling her duty as Tommy's resident stress ball. He gives her firm, long strokes. Her ears and eyes pull back with every pet, her purr is bordering on aggressive. Usually Tommy would unhook her needlepoint claws from his jeans but tonight he probably thinks he deserves some pain for asking — 'Evan… is there someone else?'
'Someone else where? Here?' Evan's eyes narrow in confusion and then widen in realisation. 'Wait, are you asking me if I'm cheating on you?'
Dead silence, just the sound of Chancy having the time of her life and Tommy's heartbeat pounding in his ears. Tommy lifts his head, tries to hold onto his pride. 'I guess I am.'
It's like the worst morning after of Tommy's life all over again and there's nowhere for Tommy to run to. They have a shared calendar app now; Evan knows every shift and event weeks in advance.
Tommy's still growing, but unfortunately so is a horrible weed of doubt that he just can't kill. When he forgets to pull it up at the root, it twists around everything good inside of him. He braces himself for the outrage, the distress, and the inevitability of hating himself for making Evan feel like shit.
Evan breaking out into genuine laughter is not what he's expecting at all. Not even in his top 10, if he's being honest. Chancy hooks her claws into Tommy's thigh and propels herself from the couch. Tommy's the one to hiss as she flees the scene, and Evan says, 'Sorry,' and thumbs a tear from the corner of his eye. 'C'mon Tommy, we both know I like 'em older but you're the only senior citizen for me.'
'I'm not the one in a knitting circle!'
'Well maybe you should be.' Evan grabs Tommy's hand and pulls him in. 'Seriously, what's going on with you?'
In plain language, like the kind he uses to write his reports, Tommy runs through everything that's been worrying him. He sticks to the facts and observations, all the things that he's been turning over in his head come out in neat little bullet points for Evan to digest. When he reaches the end he pauses, and takes a deep breath. Now that everything's out in the open he realises he never once consulted his heart, and he tells Evan so.
'And what does your heart say?'
'That I'm an idiot.' Evan gives Tommy the face, and Tommy forces himself to meet Evan's eyes. 'My heart knows you would never, and that I'm an idiot for reading into what other people say.'
'What do you mean?'
'It's stupid,' Tommy says indifferently, but Evan's interest is piqued and there's no escape now. 'It was just something Lucy said.'
Evan stiffens, and then it's Tommy's turn to coax the truth out of him. Evan explains in a rush of words, fighting to get them out before he's physically restrained by some unknown force and Lucy, really?
Laughter rolls out of Tommy, his whole body shaking the tension loose. Evan pushes his arm playfully and whines for Tommy to shut up. 'Make me,' Tommy says, still laughing, and pulls Evan on top of him.
With the air clear, their combined weight and need sinks them deeper into the couch. Tommy rests his hands on the soft curve of Evan's hips as his body rises and falls. Whatever worries Tommy had are lost in the taste of Evan's mouth, and the sharp buzz of Evan gripping his hair by its roots.
*
It's a perfect Thursday in November. Harbour's qui — Harbour's had zero calls to action today which is great news for Tommy because he's been wanting to detail the interior of one of their Bell 505's for days. Who the hell eats a bag of chips while at the controls, anyway? Tommy's going to find out as soon as he buffs the grease marks out of the control panel.
Robert Plant's voice echoes across the hangar and Tommy takes a moment to air drum his frustration away after he brushes away a collection of crumbs from the footwell. Lucy's urgent footsteps barely register until she's banging on the cockpit door.
'Where's the fire?' he asks without looking away from his work.
'Get on the radio now.' Tommy's not slow to move, but he's not falling in step quick enough for Lucy's liking. 'Now. It's Buck.'
'Why's Evan radioing the station? Oh, he's gonna be pissed if he smashed his phone screen again —'
'Tommy just…' There's something in Lucy's eyes. Something Tommy doesn't like at all.
'What's going on?' He's already five steps ahead of her as she tries to play down whatever has her so rattled. At the comms unit, Tommy tightens his hand around the speaker mic and pushes the button. As smooth as he can manage, he says, 'Evan, this is an open channel.'
Evan's laugh is strained and tinny through the speaker, and Tommy knows the sound of a rotor as well as he knows his own voice. 'I lied when I said I wasn't cheating on you.'
'Again, open channel. What are you talking about?'
'I've been taking flying lessons from someone who isn't you. I'm sorry.'
'O…k,' Tommy says, because it's absurd that Evan would class that as cheating even though it stings a little to think Tommy wasn't the one to give Evan his wings. 'That's not… I mean, that's ok.'
'The engine's been um, kinda cutting out and uh, I can smell smoke and my instructor Ernie he's — I can't find a pulse, Tommy.'
Tommy's stomach churns. 'You really buried the lede on that one, kid.' Tommy blows a breath out through his pursed lips. 'Tell me everything,' he says, and switches to a headset. 'Where are you now?'
'Somewhere over Solstice Canyon. I was gonna surprise you —'
'You succeeded. Give me your coordinates.' Evan rattles them off quickly and Tommy scrawls them on a piece of paper. Lucy rips it off the pad before Tommy's pen leaves the paper. 'What are you doing?' he hisses, and tries to snatch the paper back.
'If his engine dies right now he's got about thirty seconds, a minute tops. You really want me to be the one who stays here on the radio with him while you get ready to go?' Lucy reaches out and touches Tommy's arm gently which, historically, has never been a good sign. They stare each other down for more seconds than they have before Tommy accepts the inevitable.
'Lucy and Wheeler are coming to you right now.' Tommy snaps his fingers and points Lucy towards the tarmac. 'I'm going to talk you through putting her down, ok?' A great whoosh and mechanical whirr of the rotor screams over the radio. 'I can hear her struggling. You need to find the flattest clearing you can and aim for it. Just take it easy; you don't want to overshoot it.' Tommy closes his eyes and shakes his head. How can this be happening without him behind the controls? 'Evan? You with me?'
'Yeah.' Evan gulps. 'I-I see a spot.' Evan gives him an altitude check. It's all quick math on Tommy's side as he works out the rate of descent. He can barely read his own handwriting for how shaky it is.
'How's the view anyway?' Tommy can picture the sloped terrain perfectly and it kills him to think of Evan looking down and thinking it might be the last sight he ever sees.
'Be a whole lot better with you next to me.'
'Next time,' Tommy says because there will be a tomorrow and the days after that. 'You can show me what you've learned.'
'So you can spend the whole time slamming Ernie's techniques?'
'Obviously.' In the distance, Lucy takes off.
'Make sure you tell Barb Ernie got me through this, ok? He's a proud guy.'
'You can lie to her yourself later.'
'Too bad we didn't get around to the emergency landing at the base of a canyon lesson.'
'No one teaches that lesson, baby. You're gonna make headlines when you pull it off.'
'Yeah? You really think I'm gonna do it?'
'My reputation is on the line here so you're gonna have to.' Evan's laugh is more beautiful than ever. Tommy wraps the sound up and stores it deep inside his heart.
The radio bursts with static. A deafening pop has Tommy pulling one headphone free to spare one eardrum. Then, silence. Nothing but the air spinning the blades. Tommy can hear Evan perfectly when he says, 'This is it.'
'This is it,' Tommy repeats, forcing the confidence he knows Evan loves. 'Descent's about thirty-seconds now, ok?' Tommy grips the lip of the desk and hangs his head low between his shoulders. Evan has one chance, and only one, to put the half ton of metal falling out of the sky down gently. 'Lower the collective and keep the nose straight and steady. You're in a glider now.'
'I wish I had more time.' It's the first time Evan's voice has wavered, desperate and fearful.
'Plenty of time to land it, I promise.'
'I meant with you.'
'You're gonna have so much time with me after this you're going to be begging me to get lost.'
'Never enough.' The microphone crackles, and Evan sounds disembodied and far, far away, but there's no hesitation or doubt in his voice when he says, 'I really love you.'
'I really love you, too.' Tommy turns his head to face the clock on the wall. The seconds hand sweeps towards the fifteen second mark. 'P-pull the cyclic back now, ok? Nose up. Better to go too early.' There's no response. 'Easy does it, ok? Gently.' Gently, gently.
Evan's ragged breathing hits Tommy in stereo. It fills his ears and he doesn't want to hear it but he doesn't want to not hear it. He promised Evan a lifetime for better or for worse and if this is the end he'll be there until their comms fail and there's nothing but dead air between them.
The last thing Tommy hears is a dazed oh fuck and a hideous crunch, He calls Evan's name again and again as his body turns to lead and his flesh pimples and his muscles shake.
Switching over to Lucy's frequency takes forever, getting the words out takes even longer. 'He's down, Luce,' Tommy says quietly. 'I'll tell General to get ready.'
*
Miraculously, Evan's nowhere near as twisted up as the helicopter is. Tommy sits next to his hospital bed, his knee bouncing impatiently as he waits for Evan to float back to consciousness. The worst day of Tommy's life is just another day for the doctors and nurses who dip in and out of Evan's room and, honestly, Tommy's thankful for it. He really thought he was losing his mind while Evan was up in surgery getting his arm pinned back together and they must have sensed it because it's been nothing but condensed, matter-of-fact updates since. No platitudes, just realities, and Tommy can take comfort in that even though Evan looks like he's gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.
Fluid drains from Evan's side and collects in a container next to his bed. It's pretty disgusting, but Tommy's been watching it obsessively since they wheeled Evan back in because every drop of fluid is a drop closer to them getting the hell out of there.
Slowly, Evan rouses. His birthmark is lost to a bruise. His blue eyes glitter in a sea of burst blood vessels. His smile is as bright and beautiful as always, even if it is a little drugged and lazy.
'Did I make it?' he slurs.
'You did.'
'Did I land it?'
Evan's probably not going to remember this conversation but Tommy deploys a white lie anyway. 'You landed it.' Tommy leaves out the clipped blade and the roll down the slope. It could have been so much worse.
'Wow.' Evan's IV pulls as he swats at his side. 'Still… banged up, though.'
'Rite of passage.' Tommy guides Evan's hand away from his chest tube and rubs his thumb over his knuckles.
'I'm so sorry.'
Tommy sighs. Smooths Evan's blood-matted hair back. 'Do you promise to stop apologising if I accept your completely unnecessary apology?'
'Dunno. Let's see.'
'I can't believe you went with a different instructor. His fees must have been very competitive.'
Evan's laugh morphs into a wince. 'Free. Plus cookies.'
'And here I was thinking I could sell you on flying lessons in exchange for my undying love.'
'Don't need something… I already have.' Evan's face twists up, and it's like he's flitting between the masks of comedy and tragedy. 'Poor Ernie. Barb's gonna be so upset.'
There's something Tommy's been keeping up his sleeve in case Evan needed a pick-me-up. 'Well, you're not going to believe this but Ernie's back with us.' The look of shock on Evan's face would be comical if it didn't look so sad and disbelieving. 'I don't know what to tell you. Maybe the force of the landing shocked him back to life?'
'Are you saying… I'm the first person… to save a life… by crashing a helicopter?'
'Um, maybe? Sure. That's one way to look at it, yeah.'
'Wow.' Evan's head sinks into his pillow. His split lips curl into a pleased little smile as his eyelids droop. 'Trendsetter.'
Tommy says, 'Sure, baby,' and shakes his head, laughing.
'Gonna fly you somewhere soon.' Evan's almost completely out. Tommy takes his hand again and soothes him back under. 'Bought a ring and everything.'
Tommy's stomach swoops. For the second time today, his throat feels tight. 'I'm so glad you're not going to remember this conversation,' he whispers, voice shaking.
'Me too. Gonna be a great surprise.'
'Yeah.' Tommy kisses Evan's hand, bloody raw knuckles and all. 'I can't wait.'
thank you @sad-girl-hours23 for saying 'dooooo it' when i said 'should i....' <3
As soon as he enters the club bathroom, he's met with a pair of blue eyes that have been on him the whole goddamn night. He opens his mouth to say just about anything, but before he can, there's a pair of the most gorgeous, delicious lips on his, and he's kissing back like his life depends on it.
The stranger drags him into a stall, locking it behind them without looking, expertly enough to let Buck know it's not his first, hell, maybe not even his tenth time doing this. There's this weird, possessive feeling in his chest at the thought. Which is ridiculous, because he doesn't know this man, doesn't even know his name, he doesn't have any right to claim him as his. But still, right now he feels like he wants him more than he's ever wanted anyone. And it's not like Buck hasn't had his share of bar hook-ups either. This one feels different, though. Or maybe that's just his dick talking. God, he must be hornier than he thought.
"Hey," the gorgeous stranger breaks the kiss for just long enough to smile — a beautiful, toothy, nose-scrunching grin, "I'm Tommy."
"Evan," Buck breathes out, then lounges in to capture the stranger's — Tommy's — lips again. The kiss is desperate, hungry, like either of them won't be satisfied until they eat the other alive.
1. Tommy finds the photo in his mom's sock drawer because sometimes she hides sleeves of Sixlets in there where his dad won't look for them. He sits against her dresser and studies it for a long time. His mom looked so different—young and happy, her hair swept into a big wave, wearing a big smile and an even bigger coat. She looked like an old movie star. He stares at the coat, trying to figure out what it's made of, but it's like it changes every time the light shifts. If he tilts the picture to one side, it looks almost like feathers, but if he tilts it another way, it looks like velvet. If he tilts it into the light, it almost ripples like water. He's never seen anything like it, and something inside him pulses the longer he stares at it.
2. He brings the photo out to his mom, who's lying in the backyard, staring at the sky. She does this sometimes, usually when his dad isn't home, because it makes him mad. Her shoulders tighten a little as he pads over the grass, but they relax when she turns her head and sees that it's him. She smiles the way she always does and his belly hurts to look at it the way it always does, and she holds an arm out, her wrist delicate and beautiful, inviting him down with her. He clambers down onto his knees, getting grass stains on his jeans that his dad will yell about later, and then tucks himself against her side. He places the photo on her chest. She takes it between her fingers and studies it for a long moment—she doesn't breathe the entire time—then lets it flutter to the grass, like it's too heavy for her to keep holding. He asks why she's never worn the coat before, because it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. She exhales, long and low and unbearably sad, and says that she doesn't know where it is. She tells him that his father took it from her a long time ago and hid it. She's never been able to find it, no matter how hard she looks. Tommy doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing, and as his mother goes back to looking at the sky, he rests his head on her shoulder and vows silently that he's going to find it for her. Maybe then she'll smile for real, like she did in the photo.
3. When Tommy starts asking if he can go with his dad on the day-long fishing trips he takes on the weekends, if he can help his dad fix the old Cutlass in the driveway, if he can bring his dad another beer, if his dad needs a hand cleaning out the garage.... his dad doesn't seem to find it suspicious. He just says it's about time Tommy stopped being such a pussy and started acting like a man. For the better part of a year, Tommy is his dad's shadow. He follows him around and does everything he's asked and laughs at his dad's mean jokes and tries not to see how sad his mom gets when Tommy chooses to spend time with his dad instead of with her, but he can't help it, because his dad never lets her take the car anywhere by herself or go for walks with her friends without him, and sometimes he holds her too tightly and leaves bruises and never says sorry, and now Tommy is making her feel even lonelier. She'll understand when he surprises her with her beloved coat. Except no matter how much time he spends with his dad, who he hates more and more with every passing hour, he can't find it. He looks in the Cutlass, in the gear box on his dad's little motorboat, in every nook and cranny in the garage, in his dad's closet, in the basement.... it's nowhere to be found. Maybe his dad sold it—maybe that's how he was able to afford the boat—or maybe he burned it. Tommy suddenly understands why his mother had been so hopeless, because it's like it just got up and flew away, leaving his mother behind. But he refuses to give up. He just needs to go straight to the source.
4. Tommy plies his dad with at least four beers a day, because his dad gets talkative after four. When his dad hits that point, he doesn't get mad when Tommy asks about his mom. It takes another few months—almost a year to the day since he found the photo—before four isn't enough and his dad's hands shake if he doesn't have at least five, and he's handing his dad a sixth when he finally works up the nerve to ask how his dad met his mom. Practically puddled on his work bench, his dad rumbles a laugh and says that he saw her in the woods behind their house, bathing in the same creek where Tommy used to catch frogs and fireflies before his dad said only pansies did that, and thought she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. He mumbles a word that Tommy doesn't understand—a hag-something—and snorts another laugh, muttering, "'s right under her nose. She'll n'ver find it." Tommy stares at his dad, who can barely keep his eyes open and keeps bobbing his head like he can't hold it up, and then quietly asks where the coat is.
5. It's nighttime when he shakes his mom's arm to wake her up and presses a finger to his lips, beckoning her to get out of bed and come with him. It takes a few minutes for her to slip out from under his dad's heavy arm without waking him. He takes her hand in his and they sneak downstairs; they don't put their shoes on until they get to the bottom step of the basement stairs, and then they sneak out the door that leads to the backyard. He uses his dad's Rayovac to light their way. She doesn't ask where they're going. Maybe she's just as afraid of making a sound as he is, even though they're far enough away that they could throw a party and his dad wouldn't so much as stir. She lets him pull her through the tree line at the edge of the yard and into the woods; together, they climb over fallen trees and tromp through mud puddles and jump every time a raccoon shrieks. He doesn't know how long they walk in silence, hand in hand, but finally the beam of light hits the creek. He pulls her over to the big tree by the edge, where lightning had cracked a hollow in it long before Tommy was born, and then lets go of her hand so he can crawl inside. The dead wood scratches him and he accidentally gets a spider web in his mouth, but it's all worth it when he squirms back out with his arms full of soft, soft fabric that glows like the moon. She's holding the flashlight, so he gets to see the shock and relief and joy on her face when she sees what he's holding, and it's worth every single horrible second he's spent over the last year with his dad. It was all for this. He did it. Panting, he grins at her, wiggling in pleasure when she wraps him in her arms and holds him and cries.
The bits of sky they can see through the canopy is starting to pink up, and finally his mom lets him go so she can take the coat from his arms. It looks like a sky full of stars reflected in the surface of a lake when she slips into it, rippling like water, and she is lit up almost from within, beautiful and terrifying and unfamiliar.
"M-Mom?" He's never been afraid of her, and he isn't now, but when she cups his face in her hand, his heart pounds the way it does when their neighbor's rottweiler barks and growls through the fence when Tommy walks by, or when his dad yells.
Her hair falls out of the scrunchy and falls in waves around her face and down her back, and then floats up. Not just her hair. She's floating up. Away.
She smiles, like in the photo. His eyes fill with tears.
"If you ever choose to give it to someone, please be sure," his mother says, and her voice echoes through the trees and flows in the creek and rides the wind. "Otherwise, you can never come home to me."
He watches her rise up and up, until she slips through the fiery pink lines between the treetops, and disappears.
When his father wakes up and starts tearing apart the house, howling for his wife, Tommy's in bed, hiding under the covers and sobbing into a leather coat that's as soft as clouds and warm as his own blood.
6. Bonus!
By the time Buck walks the four blocks from where he parked to Maccheroni Republic, he's glad he decided to wear a jacket. It's unseasonably cold for November and the jacket had been a gift. It would be more insulting if he didn't wear it. At least that's what he keeps telling himself when the guilt threatens to sweep his legs out from under him.
He swallows the sour taste in his mouth and enters the restaurant where his date is waiting for him. Her name is Melody. According to her Hinge profile, she's a florist who recently moved to Santa Monica and is looking to make a connection. Buck doesn't know shit about flowers, but he knows about wanting to establish something special with someone. The dates he's been on lately have been one disappointment after another, but maybe Melody will break the losing streak. Maybe she'll have all the answers.
Thank god she looks just like her profile picture. He spots her right away: riotous curls, large eyes, and a dazzling smile... that disappears the moment he approaches the table.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Buck says. "I had to park on the other side of the world. Hopefully you haven't been w—uh, is everything—?"
Because Melody is staring balefully at his chest as she gathers her purse and phone.
"Whoa, hey, I-I didn't think I was that late," Buck appeals.
The glare that Melody levels on him would fell a lesser man, but Athena has trained him up well over the years. He's able to withstand it with only a small wince.
"You're a real piece of shit, you know that?" Melody snaps. She's practically shaking with rage. The people around them are starting to stare. "Going on a date wearing someone else's—god, you asshole."
Blinking, he glances down at himself. "Wait, do you—are you talking about the jacket? I'm not sure what the big deal is, or how you even clocked it, but, uh, my ex gave it to me. I can... take it off? I was gonna take it off."
At that, she pauses, squinting at him with an insulting amount of distrust, even for an internet stranger. "Your ex? Then why do you still have it?"
Buck ducks his head and stares at the zipper pull on his chest, shrugging. "H-He didn't want it back."
After the breakup, the jacket had taken up a permanent spot in his Jeep, then the truck, which had a setting he couldn't turn off that registered any added pressure to the backseat and reminded him to check anytime he turned off the car. It was supposed to keep frazzled parents from forgetting their kids in the car on hot days, but all it did was serve as a painful reminder that he still had a piece of Tommy.
He'd caught up with Tommy after Bobby's memorial service and haltingly offered to give it back. That kind of buttery, almost liquid leather? It had to have cost a fortune. It didn't seem right to keep it.
"It was a gift," Tommy had said softly.
"A-Are you sure?" It took every drop of willpower not to throw himself into Tommy's arms and beg him to hold him for a minute, because the jacket was nice but it didn't smell like Tommy anymore and it was a poor substitute for his hugs.
But Tommy had mustered up a smile that made Buck's stomach hurt to look at, and said, "I'm sure, Evan. It's yours."
Melody stares at him for a long moment, then blows out a breath and takes her seat again. She gestures for Buck to do the same, which he does, although he feels a little bit like he's about to be put through a deposition.
"Let me make something perfectly clear: this isn't a date. I'm not dating someone who has one of those," Melody says, gesturing to his jacket.
"Is it, like, Gucci or something?" Buck runs a nervous hand down the length of one soft, soft sleeve. "There isn't a tag. I think he cut it out."
She shakes her head, then sighs. "Okay, so, I'm not an expert by any stretch of the imagination. I recognize it because... my uncle married a woman who has one. Except hers looks like one of those robe coats from the '20s. You know: big sleeves, fur collar, dragged on the ground. She gave it to him."
Buck waits for her to continue, but that seems to be the end of her thought.
"Oh, uh, that... was, uh, nice of her?"
Melody rolls her eyes, then leans forward like she's thinking about reaching across the table and shoving whatever she's trying to say down his throat. "The coat's—special. I don't know how to explain it. My uncle says it's... it could give my uncle, like, an insane amount of power over her, but he's a pretty good guy so he doesn't ever use it. It's the ultimate gesture of trust. It's like my aunt gave her soul to him."
His eyes are as wide as the bread plates on the table. He can feel his brows kiss the edge of his hairline. His fingers are buried in the jacket's cuffs.
"I-I don't... what is it? You recognized it, like, right away."
She shrugs. "I've read some—I guess, myths? In the stories, they're made of feathers, sometimes silk. My aunt and uncle ended up having my cousin Katie, and she has one, too. Hers is wool, though. Pink houndstooth, with a skirt that kinda flares out. I think it's different every time? Like, it adapts to the owner and their circumstances, that sort of thing."
Buck looks down at the camel-colored leather and thinks of how easily Tommy took it off his own body and draped it over Buck's one chilly night. How Tommy smiled and murmured, "it suits you."
"So, the fact that he gave this to me—" He can't get the rest of the words out. They're blocked by a lump in his throat that feels like it's growing by the second. His eyes burn.
For the first time that night, Melody smiles. "He must've really loved you."
+
When Buck pulls into the driveway, he's shaking so hard he can barely get his hand around the shift lever to throw the truck into park. There are no lights on in the house.
Exhaling, he opens the door and spills out into the night, which feels even colder than it did earlier. The jacket isn't doing anything to block the chill. Or maybe he's just sweating and his body can't compensate.
He starts heading up the walkway toward the porch, then stops. Something in him pulses hard, and he turns his head in the direction of where the path splits to head to the backyard. There's no cogent reason to check there first, but his heart starts pounding like he's just ran a marathon.
Buck approaches the gate and peers over the top of the door. The yard is wide open and dark; the flood light is off and all he has to help him is starlight. But there, in the grass, is a swathe of even darker darkness. A silhouette.
Swallowing hard, he gently unlatches the door and walks through, shutting it behind him. His hand trembles on the metal lock.
It's the ultimate gesture of trust.
Closing his stinging eyes, Buck takes a moment to breathe. Another pulse, deep in his chest, spurs his feet into motion. He walks slowly over the grass to the shadow lying in the middle of the yard. It isn't until he's less than a foot away that he can actually make out more than a fuzzy outline.
Even in faint starlight, Tommy looks incredible. Almost otherworldly. He's staring up at the sky like he's trying to work out a puzzle, but after a moment, he turns his head and looks at Buck. He smiles the way he always does and Buck's belly cramps.
Wordlessly, Tommy lifts an arm, his wrist thick and strong, inviting him down.
Choking on a sob, Buck clambers down onto the grass and tucks himself against Tommy's side. Tommy's arm wraps around him, warmer than anything else in the whole world.
Buck settles his cheek on Tommy's shoulder and whispers, "Did you know what it meant? When you gave it to me?"
"Yes."
"Then why give it to me?"
"Because I was sure," Tommy murmurs. "I still am."
Dragging in another shaky breath, Buck closes his eyes. "I'm sure too."
The arm around him tightens and there's a brief, warm pressure against his hair. After a moment, he hears the grass shift under Tommy's head as he turns to gaze back up at the sky. Buck doesn't know what he's looking for, but he hopes he finds it, whatever it is. Maybe he's not looking for anything in particular.
I've never been more enamored and infuriated by a ship like I am with Buck and Tommy. These two are so perfect for each other. Tommy wants someone to belong to and Buck wants someone to stay. All it would take is a little communication to fix this mess.
I poured my heart and soul into this video. I hope you enjoy! ❤️
I went into a fic to check the continuity of what was said, and I'm reading it like...wait a minute. Why is the set up the exact same as the scene I spent the last two days working on? Well, fuck me, I guess, lol.
It’s only their fifth official date - in Buck’s opinion the bachelor party and the impromptu wedding at the hospital don’t count - and Tommy suggested a walk and ice cream after lunch.
Dating another firefighter is both refreshingly easy and surprisingly difficult. Easy because Buck can tell Tommy the details about the weird call that came in yesterday without glossing over the danger. Difficult because it’s actually hard to find free evenings when neither of them is working.
So Buck is absolutely on board with a lunch date and a walk before Tommy needs to leave for his shift. Even if he can’t quite master the art of walking, talking, eating his ice cream and looking at Tommy at the same time. Buck’s new boyfriend is very distracting.
“So… no hoarding cat litter,” Buck awkwardly concludes his story and focuses on his rapidly melting ice cream.
“I’ll keep that in mind for my nonexistent cat,” Tommy replies drily.
Despite his deadpan comment, he’s looking at Buck with a very fond expression. Plus he always seems genuinely interested, even when Buck takes a long-winded detour to get to the point. Buck could get used to that kind of attention.
“Just be glad you spend most of your time in the air,” he teases.
Tommy chuckles and bends down to pick up a pebble. But instead of flipping it across the surface of the nearby pond, he just holds it in his hand. “I miss it sometimes,” he admits. “The small stuff like getting a cat out of a tree or putting out a burning pan. Nobody calls in air ops for a patient that needs a band-aid and a tetanus shot.”
“But you get to fly,” Buck points out and shoves the rest of the ice cream in his mouth.
“I get to fly. Totally worth it.” Tommy is rubbing his thumb over the pebble, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s doing it. In fact, all of his attention seems to be on Buck, and a moment later he leans in for a kiss.
“Hm, strawberry, my favorite,” Tommy announces with a teasing smile.
Buck laughs and pulls him close for another kiss. He’s too distracted to notice when Tommy drops the pebble.
~
Once Buck starts looking for it, he notices that it happens a lot.
Tommy fiddling with a pen long after he used it to write something down. Tommy holding on to his empty mug even though he doesn’t want a refill. Tommy picking up the salt shaker at a restaurant, only setting it down once their food arrives.
But Buck also starts to recognize the moments when Tommy actively stops himself from doing it. He sees the way Tommy reaches for a toy Jee left behind, only to pull his hand back half a second before he actually touches it. He notices when Tommy absentmindedly fiddles with a teaspoon, but suddenly puts it down and folds his hands on the table.
For some reason Buck finds it charming. So he buys two fidget toys and ‘accidentally’ leaves them on the dining table and the sofa, only for Tommy to ignore them completely. Buck is tempted to ask him about it, but most of the time Tommy doesn’t even seem to notice that he is picking up random objects.
It’s the beginning of a series of strange purchases: A candle holder that looks like a light house, a small jar shaped like a lemon, a smooth gray piece of quartz... None of these things really match his other decorations; Buck simply chooses them because he likes how they feel in his hand.
He’s ridiculously pleased the first time Tommy starts fiddling with the lemon jar.
~
The collection of odd little knickknacks becomes part of Buck’s loft.
By the time Tommy dumps him, Buck doesn’t even think about putting them away. It seems like the light house has always been on his bookshelf, and the decorative gourds remain on his window sill long after Halloween.
It’s only when Buck starts packing up his belongings to move into Eddie’s house - soon to be his house - that he realizes the lemon shaped jar serves no purpose at all. It’s empty. It has always been empty, because Buck bought it for Tommy. If he had filled it with candy, Tommy wouldn’t have picked it up from the table to rotate it in his big hands and rub his thumb over the side.
Buck refuses to have a mini crisis over a stupid yellow jar. Instead he wraps it up, sets it aside and starts looking for other things he bought for Tommy. Maybe he’ll use them as decorations in his new house, or maybe he’ll throw them out at some point.
In the end he has a small box filled with decorative trinkets. Buck closes it and covers the box in duct tape like he’s afraid his feelings for Tommy are going to spill back out. He carefully writes ‘Tommy’ on top and puts it into a moving box.
~
The Tommy box ends up on a shelf in Buck’s closet. Unopened. Firmly taped shut. He doesn’t really need any of this stuff.
Buck thinks about throwing it out after his night with Tommy. Their relationship is over, and there’s no point in clinging to these reminders, not when he should be embracing change and new beginnings.
He sits on his bed, holds the box in his hands and tries to picture what’s in there. The light house, the lemon, the gourds, the quartz, a rubik’s cube Tommy never showed any interest in, a few other things… Buck doesn’t need any of it, but he’s also not ready to let go.
The box goes back into the closet.
~
When Bobby dies, Buck’s whole world shifts on its axis.
Days blend together in grief, in trying to cope and doing his best to support his friends. Buck doesn’t think he ever felt more helpless in his life. But he’s packing again, getting ready to move into a new house, even though he barely knows how to deal with all the changes in his life.
The Tommy box is still in his closet. Buck stares at it for a long moment, then he takes it off the shelf and carefully puts it into a moving box. These days he’s all too aware that memories and mementos are all the remains of a person.
Tommy isn’t dead of course; he actually texts Buck every now and then. But life feels very fleeting right now, and Buck likes having a lemon shaped jar that makes him think of Tommy’s smile.
~
Buck deliberately doesn’t put the box into his new closet. Instead he opens it and unpacks the individual pieces, only to realize that he doesn’t know what to do with them. They don’t feel like they belong to him.
In the end he puts the knickknacks back in the box and sets it on his bookshelf. Maybe he’ll find the right place for some of them, maybe he’ll finally get rid of them or give them to Tommy. It’s not something Buck needs to decide right now.
The Tommy box stays on his shelf while Buck settles into his new home. Days turn into weeks, and after a while he barely notices it anymore. He’s focusing on other things, like adjusting to a life without Bobby and figuring out if he wants to date Tommy again.
The first time Tommy comes over it’s not even an official date yet. Maybe a pre date. A mutual ‘we would like this to be a date’ dinner. But the moment Buck sees that familiar twitch in Tommy’s hand, he gets the box off the bookshelf.
Buck pulls out the lemon shaped jar and hands it to Tommy. “Here.”
“What?” Tommy frowns at the lemon and then at Buck.
“Did you know I can tell when you need to have something in your hands?”
The corner of Tommy’s mouth twitches. “That obvious, hm?”
Buck shrugs, sits down next to him and shows him the contents of the box. “To me? Yes. That’s why I bought these.”
For a moment Tommy just stares into the box before he glances at Buck again. “For me.” He turns the lemon in his hand and takes the little lid off. “I don’t think I ever looked inside.”
“It was always empty,” Buck tells him. “I didn’t buy it to put something in there.”
Tommy gives him a pensive look. “How about you fill it with something you like, and I’ll just hold something else instead?”
“Alright.” Buck pulls one of the gourds out of the box. “This one?”
“I was thinking about your hand, but I’ll take a pumpkin too.”
