Random WIP snippets â an ongoing saga no one asked for Part 3
Because, ugh, I don't really have a reason. Sue me! The basic idea for this one:
Buck returns to the 118 after the lawsuit, all the more unsure of his standing at the station and with his friends. Sadly, someone seeks to take advantage of that, leaving some none too kind messages feeding right into some of Buck's worst insecurities. Can his friends get through to him before it is too late?
Cheers!
Coming back to work, Buck did not expect a welcome party. He was glad that most people acted civil around him. Hen even got him a bleeding cake. So Buck tried to focus on that instead of the rift he knew was gaping between him and his team, him and his friends, him and his best friend in particular⌠well, between him and Eddie.
Because heâs not entirely sure anymore whether Eddie considers him that anymore, his best friend.
After the fallout at the grocery store, Buck felt so floored he wanted to crawl under a rock for a week, maybe even a year. He didnât know what to say to Eddie, didnât know how fix this, where to even begin, no matter how much he wrecked his brain about it.
Something shattered, and it wasnât just the ladder truck, not just the windshield, not just his leg, his dreams of being a firefighter. Now thereâs a million pieces of his life, scattered on the ground, of what they all used to be, together. And while Buck enjoys puzzling with Christopher, trying to mend your life back together proves to be more difficult than solving childrenâs puzzles featuring the Milky Way.
Not that he ever had anything close to an idea of how to fix this, before or after the lawsuit. People were still understandably mad at him by the time he ran into them at the grocery store. Buck got that, still gets it.
But he felt like he was in an echo chamber. And he was screaming inside it, for no one to hear other than himself. Because no one seemed to get how important being a firefighter is for him. He wasnât just being a petulant child. He chose the wrong approach, but was it all wrong? Was it really onlyjust him?
Bobby wasnât being up-front with him. That shit hurt. He kept it from him, left him to believe that if he worked his ass off, the higher-ups would let him come back. But it was Bobby, and he didnât tell Buck until he had to. Bobby thought he wasnât ready, but he didnât say it out loud, he didnât even whisper it, while Buck was screaming and screaming and screaming to get back the job he fought for so desperately to keep, the team he was so desperate to return to.
But it shouldnât matter anymore, not if they all want to move on from this, right?
Buck came to the conclusion that they both should have acted differently, should have talked more instead of less. That may have prevented a great many things. But that didnât happen. Bobby didnât talk to him. Buck sued.
Shit happens, huh?
And now thereâs shards on the ground and leaving them on the ground is just no option.
Itâs always easier if there is one bad guy. But there really isnât â safe for his asshole lawyer he never should have hired. There is no moustache-twirling guy with a black cape who is there to mess them up. Bobby isnât the villain of this story, but Buck tends to think he isnât either. He made some bad calls, is all. That makes things impossibly more complicated than they should be, though. Because that means both have to admit to something. There isnât just someone to apologize and the other having to accept it. You have to find a common ground again, somehow, anyhow.
But thatâs Bobbyand him.
What really doesnât sit right with Buck is the thing with Eddie. At the grocery store, he told Buck he needed him and Buck wasnât there. That he only thought about himself, leaving two of the most important people in his life behind.
And wasnât that a harsh truth to get handed to you right next to the produce?
It had killedBuck not to be able to talk to his best friend because of the stupid lawsuit. Not to have a chance to maybe make him understand why he was doing all this. He wanted to see Christopher, God, does he miss that boy even now. And thatâs what Buck regrets about it most, that he dragged people into something that should have been between him and his captain.
That the people he loves got hurt because of him.
But it is what it is now. He canât retrace his steps to where he went wrong, or where he thinks Bobby did, and take a sharp turn to the left from there.
So what is Buck supposed to do? Apologize some more? Grovel? Buy a cake spelling it out in frosting? He cando that, thatâs not the thing. Buck just doesnât know how long this is supposed to go. How long he has to eat crow before they can forgive him. How many shards he has to glue back together before the others can start to lend him a hand to fix this mess of a life.
But he apologized, many times. And they said itâs okay. So what is the expectation here? Thatâs also what Buck struggles with. What do they expect him to do to fix this? Canât they just give him a list he can work through? Buck likes lists. Because he will jump those hoops if they show him which. He will bust his ass to get it done.
Going through the tests, that seemed easy by comparison. There were points, rules, set times. There was a finishing line in sight. But thatâs not the case here. Buck doesnât know the goalposts leading to his forgiveness. And he doesnât know who sets which and how high or lowâŚ
Yes, the lawsuit may have been a shit idea, but at its heart, keeping things from Buck was none of Bobbyâs brightest ideas either. Right? He isnât the only one who made a couple of bad calls. So Buck hoped that maybe if they forgave him for his bad calls, he could forgive Bobby, and then all would be forgotten, back to normal, no matter how complicated this is otherwise. You know, managing the amount and height of the goalposts.
It should be like that, between friends, right?
But somehow it isnât. And Buck starts to believe it wonât ever be again. Or at the very least, he finds his hopes faltering a bit more every day, walking into the station he used to consider perhaps even more of a home than his own apartment.
The ease is gone. There is always tension the moment his name is dropped, the moment his presence becomes apparent to the other members of the 118. It throws Buck back to the many times he felt that shift right upon entering the living room as a teenager, only to get that certain look from his parents. Like his mere presence was a nuisance, but not enough to make them turn their heads and say something.
And sure, those people are nothis parents. Buck wonât hold it against colleagues that his parents managed to mess him up like that. So this is in all likability really just a bit of cold shoulder treatment, a bit of awkwardness because, well, frankly, it isawkward.
Tell that my brain, though. Apparently, wonât get the memo no matter how often I leave a voicemail.
Buck tries his best to stick to his guns, keeps his head leveled, does what he is told. To make sure he doesnât trample on the shards on the ground and produce some more. He doesnât complain â as muchâ about being on chore duty all day, getting the really stupid and obnoxious tasks.
This is what he let millions of dollars slide for, after all. Heâll be damned if he lets his hurt feelings get in the way of that.
He will make this right somehow. Heâll talk it out with Bobby. And heâll figure it out with Eddie, too. Eventually. Somehow. Anyhow. Losing is no option, giving up is not.
He just needs to focus on this first. Because thatâs the only thing Buck dares to think he knows how to fix. Stick to the rules, keep a low profile, donât make your problems everyone elseâs⌠and then weâll see whatâs next.
Maybe once heâs back on calls, things will be easier. He and Eddie always fall into sync on the job. So maybe that will be an easier way to get back into the groove. Somewhere closer to where they used to be.
I fought my way back through physical therapy, through the tests, through a frigginâ tsunami. I should be able to do this, right?
He hopes.
He dares to hope, even when it all seems fleeting lately.
Itâs not like he has much of an option anyway, but that wonât stop Buck. He fought so hard to get his job back, to be back with the 118. This is just another hurdle. Just one more. One more.
Right?
Buck is pulled out of his musings when he sees Eddie approach.
Buck makes sure to put on his most charming smile as he approaches. âHey Eddie, I was about toâŚâ
âSorry, I gotta go,â is the only reply he gets. There is no malice to Eddieâs voice. A sense of urgency. To get away? He is not entirely sure. But there is no malice there, not even disinterest. Buck knows disinterest better than most, after all. There is just something he canât put, something that instantly cuts off whatever conversation may have started. And again, Buck doesnât even know where to begin to fix that.
âOkay, sure,â Buck mutters as his partner pushes past him up the stairs.
No, they are not fine.
But Iâm getting there. I will. I have to.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets, a frown forming on his lips.
âCrap, my phone.â
He jogs back into the locker room to fetch his cell phone, seemingly forgotten in the haze of trying to keep up with the conversations going on behind his back. Buck opens the locker, his frown deepening as he catches the sight of something unfamiliar inside it.
A card. Plain white, no address, no nothing. Sitting right at eye level. But there is something on it thatâs not nothing. And itâs staring back at him.
Black on white.
You donât belong here.
Itâs like teeth digging into his skin, pushing down slowly, drawing blood.
Buck stares at the card for a long while, strangely mesmerized by it. He canât believe it, doesnât even dare to touch it. Though maybe he should. Itâs sickeningly tantalizing. Like a spell. And he should break it, but he canât. Because it has teeth and it bites and it hurts and itâs drawing invisible blood out of him and he canât afford to bleed.
Because this is not a prank. Pranks, Buck can live with. Pranks, heâd even welcome because thatâd mean they could finally laugh about it again. But this is something else. This is a very clear message that he is, in fact, not welcome. Not forgiven.
And as there is no sender, Buck has no way to tell who it is who wants him gone. Which may be even worse. Maybe itâs all of them, maybe itâs some of them. Maybe itâs one of his friends, spelling it out.
That he is not welcome.
Not wanted.
Air wonât enter his lungs, no matter how hard he tries to breathe. Buck clutches at his collar, the staccato of his heartbeat drumming in his ears, shrinking the world down to just that white rectangle staring at him.
But then he manages to look away and stare down at his watch instead. He has to go, or else all eyes will be on him up on the gallery. Buck grabs his phone, quickly throws the door shut, and skips up the stairs to the others already gathered around Bobby, ignoring the whooshing in his ears, the way he feels like keeling over.
He volunteers to wash the trucks before the captain can demand it of him. Buck knows today is not the day heâll be back on calls. And a small part of him is glad for it. Because whoever it is is right, right? He doesnât belong. A sore thumb. A wound that keeps on festering that you should better cut out with a knife before the rest gets infected, too.
But maybe he can wash it off, at least for a while.
âHm?â Buck removes one earbud, trying hard not to stare at Chim crouching over him as Buck made himself more or less comfortable outside, letting the lights blind him.
âSorry, made too much food yesterday, so Iâll have my own,â Buck answers, hoping whatever his mouth does passes for a smile. âThanks.â
Chimney looks at him with confusion. âYou can still come sit with us, though?â
And Buck knows he should be happy, he should jump right on it. After all, he is desperate for this kind of thing, for the attention, for being included, not being alone, but⌠but he just canât. Not right now. Not when he feels like choking.
Because he will trample on shards, and they will turn to dust. Because heâs bringing enough of his problems into this station and he canât afford to add any more.
âThanks, I just need some fresh air. I think⌠I think I inhaled too much of the polishing stuff,â he manages to say, which earns him an amused chuckle from Chim. âYâknow youâre supposed to use it for polishing, not sniffing, Buckaroo?â
âThanks for the advice, man. Will try to keep it in mind next time.â
Chimney pats him on the shoulder. âAlright, you know where to find us in case you change your mind.â
âThanks.â
This has Chimney frown as he straightens up. â⌠Not for that.â
Buck would want to say something, but he doesnât find the words. Chimney seems to get the message and walks away, sparing them both more awkward silence, for which Buck knows he should be thankful, too.
He sighs, pulling his knee up to rest his chin on it. The mere thought of food makes him want to throw up right now, so whatâs the point of pretending to be part of those dinners that almost feel like family dinners?
Whatâs the point of all this, really?
How are you supposed to keep hoping when you have it black on white that your hopes are for nothing, your efforts futile?
