Epiphanies on a bathroom floor (911 ficlet - post episode 8x17)
@cecilyv and I took a crack at another version of what could have happened post 8x17. (entertainingly, I still haven't seen the episode - @cecilyv has though, so slightly more informed vibes this time around)
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Buck gets back from the scene, from the building falling to pieces around them, and locks himself in Eddie’s bathroom. Doesn’t feel like his house. Again. He stands, staring at himself in the mirror, rocking forward on his toes. His heart pounding in his chest, hammering against his breast bone like it's trying to escape.
He barely recognizes the person looking back.
Eddie knocks, asks if he’s okay. Buck’s not sure exactly what to say, what he should say, what Eddie wants to hear. Whatever he ends up saying must have been good enough because Eddie tells him that he and Chris are going to Pepa’s.
Good, that’s good. More people Buck doesn’t have to put a brave face on for, any longer. He listens to them leave. In theory the house is empty now. He could unlock the door, go sit somewhere more comfortable for his breakdown. Go back to the church, double the number of times he’s gone in a decade in a weekend.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t know if the earthquake was a sign from God that he was blaspheming, but he can’t tempt fate again. Doesn’t have another earthquake or lightning strike in him right now. Bobby, God, whomever is watching over him and letting him royally fuck up.
There’s a noise, someone opening the front door, footsteps. He wonders what Eddie forgot. Then a knock on the door and, “Evan?”
He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and squeezes them shut. Grips the edge of the counter until he feels it digging into his palms. Can’t start crying now. Not sure he’d ever stop. Breathes through it until he thinks his voice will be steady.
“Tommy?”
“Hen called me. Said she was worried about you after that last call.”
And she’d called Tommy? Has no idea what to do with that.
“She thought Eddie would be here, but apparently he’s at his aunt’s?” Tommy sounds baffled. He doesn’t have the energy to explain. He’s not sure what to think about the idea that Tommy was Hen’s first call after Eddie.
Just says, “Yeah.” And then out of some kind of loyalty, or something, adds, “I, uh, I said it was okay.” It’s not Eddie’s fault that he was made wrong.
Tommy makes a non-committal noise. “Do you want to come out?” He doesn’t think he makes a noise, but he must, because Tommy’s instantly backtracking, “Or I can sit here and wait until you’re ready.”
It takes him a second to place that tone of voice, and then he wants to cringe his way into a corner, because that’s the ‘talk the crazy person off the ledge’ voice. The first responder, ‘calm the victim down’ voice. He knows that voice; he uses that voice.
Ma’am, I’m not Satan, my name is Buck. He really was begging to get smited, wasn’t he?
Slides down the wall instead, down down down, until he’s sitting on the floor. Wraps his arms around his legs, thinks he’s as small as he can be. Tilts his head against the door with a thunk. He’s sure that Tommy has better places to be, things he should be doing. He sits, for a second, a minute, expecting him to go. He should go. But then he hears Tommy moving, swearing softly, grunting when he hits the ground. His hip must be hurting him again, it does sometimes -- had always enjoyed getting his hands on him when it had, before, rubbing muscle cream into it, finding the knots and pushing until they loosened, making it better.
Now, he thinks he should get back up, open the door -- keeping Tommy down here, with him -- he’s doing exactly what Eddie said he always did. Worries his lip between his teeth. Maybe he’d never made it better; maybe he’d always made it worse.
Can’t bring himself to move. If he’s quiet, he thinks he can hear Tommy breathing and that has to be enough.
He’s silent too long, because Tommy says, "Evan, I need you to keep talking to me.”
He's foggy enough that it takes a minute to figure out why. "You think I have a concussion?"
"Well, Hen thinks it’s a possibility, and I make it a policy not to argue with Hen." He snorts wetly. Gets an amused hum in response, and then, “Since I can't get in there and check, I'm going to need you to talk to me until I can. Okay?"
Concussion protocols. He can do that. Could do it in his sleep. "Um, my name is Evan Buckley." Pauses. "Do you know you and Maddie are the only people who call me Evan. Well, my parents. But I don't like it when they do it. You and Maddie are the only people who do it and I like it."
Hears Tommy make an indistinct noise he can't parse. Keeps going.
"President is, uh, Trump. Fuck all our lives." He hadn’t cared the first time, Washington was so far away, had so little impact on his day to day until fire season rolled around. He thinks about Tommy, Hen and Karen and Josh and all the other people who dealt with the fear and anxiety every single day. He should have cared. It should have mattered. It’s just another way he failed them without knowing; another way he could have, should have been better.
"Umm, what else. Oh right, what day of the week is it." That stumps him. Thinks backwards, flips through the shift calendar in his head. Still nothing. "Okay, I don't know that. But, to be fair, I don't think I knew what day of the week it was before the earthquake, so it shouldn't count."
He can tell you how many days it's been since Bobby died though. How many days he's been trying to hold everything and everyone together with tape and string and he's not Bobby, he's not enough. He can't do it. Eddie made that very clear.
“Two out of three,” Tommy says. “Good enough for government work.” He waits for Tommy to leave. He’s done his duty. Checked on him. One more way he’s making himself the problem - pulling Tommy away from whatever he’d been doing, making him drive out of his way to come check on him. Hears Tommy shift to find a different position on the other side of the door instead, jeans rustling when his legs rub together. “Now that’s out of the way, how’ve you been doing?”
Pepa told him to accept change and Bobby told him to be there for people, that they’d need him, that he’d be alright — and he whispers, soft enough that Tommy shouldn’t be able to hear him, even back to back against the same door, “I’m not okay, Bobby said, but I’m not — and Eddie said--“ and trails off.
Closes his eyes. Swallows it down. Waits until he’s sure his voice won’t give him away. “I’m okay. You don’t need to stay.”
Tommy makes a hmming noise. “But I just got myself settled. I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll stay for a minute if that’s okay with you.”
He wants to ask why Tommy’s here. Why Tommy came when Hen called. Why he keeps coming when Buck calls, when all Buck ever is is mean to him. Thinks he should tell Tommy he’s not worth it, that whatever Tommy thinks he sees, it’s not real.
Hears Tommy shifting again. There are blankets and pillows in the bedroom. He should tell Tommy to grab some if he’s planning on staying. Floor’s not going to get any softer.
Thinks about asking what he’d have to do to make Tommy want to stay. With him, not just here on this floor. Reminds himself not to make it about him, what he wants.
He doesn’t want any of this. Wants a do-over.
There’s a stretch of silence, then Tommy breaks it. “I watched the new Blue Planet the other day. Or well, I guess it’s not new, but I missed it when it came out, so new to me.”
He appreciates what Tommy’s trying to do. It’s still a little bit -- talk the crazy guy off the ledge, but well, he feels a little bit like he’s balancing on a ledge, so maybe Tommy knows something he doesn’t.
“Proof of life,” Tommy asks him, and oh, yea, didn’t respond. Out loud, anyway. Guesses that’s the only response that really matters.
“Did you like it?” his voice sounds rusty, like it’s been scrapped over the shards of his throat. He wipes his eyes. Doesn’t know when he started crying. Must have been for a while.
“It lacked commentary,” is all Tommy says, which is weird because it has a good narrator, and he-- oh.
“You mean, uh, me?”
It’s an old house, Eddie’s, his, whoever's it is right now. There’s a gap under the door — he watches Tommy’s fingers slide under, like a cat’s paw. He hooks his finger with Tommy’s.
“I mean, you.” Buck lets that settle inside him, feels his lips quirk upward. “Think you’re ready to let me in?”
Could be talking about the bathroom. Could be about something bigger. Either way. “I’ll only hurt you, I’m no good for anyone I love.”
And Tommy’s quiet again for a long time and when he speaks, his voice is funny -- not talk the crazy person down, more like he’s trying to talk around a lump in his throat. “I’m someone you love?”
“Yes,” he says, affronted, before he can stop himself. Because that’s never been up for debate. “But that doesn’t matter, it’s not about me — what I want.”
“It matters a lot to me,” Tommy points out. “And, I think it’s a little bit about what you want.”
Buck puts his other hand on the door, presses until his knuckles whiten. It’s what he wants, but he never gets what he wants.
He can’t believe they’re having this conversation while he’s locked in a bathroom, sitting on cold tiles, staring at the toilet. The lights are harsh, because he never bothered to change them from the cheap fluorescents Eddie put in. They expose every flaw for anyone who can see — God. Bobby. Himself. Maybe Tommy.
“Think you can open the door now?”
He looks down at their fingers, still wrapped around each other. “I’ll have to let go.” Doesn’t want to let go, never did; right now it feels like the only thing tethering him, making him feel safe, wanted.
“Just for a second,” Tommy concedes. “I’ve got you.”
