Tommy is just finishing cleaning up the garage when Evan gets back from Hen and Chimney’s intervention. It’s late enough that Tommy didn’t expect him to drive all the way back here tonight, even though he said he would.
“Tommy?” Evan calls. There’s an uncharacteristic waver in his voice that speeds up Tommy’s heart rate. Something happened.
He quickly wipes his hands and goes into the house. He finds Evan pacing in his kitchen, head down and shoulders slumped. Evan is collapsing in on himself like he doesn’t think he should be taking up as much space as he does.
“Hey,” Tommy says. “What happened?”
Evan’s eyes are wide and wet when they look up at Tommy. “Hen isn’t coming back.”
“What do you mean? The intervention failed?”
“No. Well, yeah, actually, but she- she yelled at us for a little while and then she just collapsed. She’s in the hospital.”
“Because of her mysterious health condition?”
“Yeah. It’s not mysterious anymore though. They diagnosed it at the hospital. I don’t remember what they called it but, uh, it- it doesn’t get better. No matter what, there’s no cure. She’s just gonna get worse.”
Evan is still pacing, still moving. Spiraling. Tommy isn’t far behind him. This is unthinkable.
Hen Wilson has a degenerative disease. Hen Wilson, brave and strongheaded and smart enough to inspire the idiots at the 118 to finally rebel against their awful captain. Hen Wilson, whose infallible instincts drove her to fly across the Pacific to save Bobby and Athena on a hunch—the best firefighter that Tommy has ever known—will never be a firefighter again. The tragedy of it is almost enough to bring Tommy to his knees. He can only imagine how Evan feels.
Tommy crosses the kitchen to stand in Evan’s path. When Evan’s pacing brings him close again, Tommy opens his arms. Evan falls into them gratefully, bunching up the back of Tommy’s shirt in his hands. Tommy cradles the back of Evan’s head and encourages him to rest it on Tommy’s chest. Even though they’re the same height standing up, Evan knows how to tuck himself in easily.
He doesn’t cry like Tommy expected he would. He lets out a long, humid breath, hot even through Tommy’s shirt, and he holds Tommy tight to himself, like Tommy will disappear if he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “For her, mostly, and for the people of Los Angeles, but for you, too. I know you love her.”
Evan lets out a wet, bitter laugh: another thing that Tommy didn’t expect. “I’m glad someone knows that,” he says.
“What do you mean?” When Evan says nothing, just digs his fingers harder into the back of Tommy’s shirt, Tommy pushes. “Evan, what do you mean? Who said you didn’t?”
“She did. I mean, she- it wasn’t pointed at me, exactly, so maybe it was nothing, but she said none of us checked up on her after Bobby died, and I…” Evan lets out a shuddering breath. “I did. Or I thought I did, at least. I found a grief assessment online and I tried to get them all to talk to me so I could assess their grief, you know, but no one did. No one wanted to tell me how they were doing. But I did ask, Tommy, I swear I did. For weeks. Bobby- Bobby’s last words to me were telling me to take care of them, that they’d need me. They didn’t, but I tried anyway, and no one except my sister ever asked how I was doing either, but they- they were grieving, you know? It’s not about me. I shouldn’t even be hurt by this, this isn’t about me. This is about Hen. She feels like none of us checked up on her so I obviously failed. I failed her, and probably the rest of them, and definitely Bobby. And now Hen felt like she couldn’t tell us when she got sick, and I just...”
He cuts himself off with a soft whine and presses his forehead into Tommy’s chest.
Tommy takes it all in, rolls it around in his mind. He’s seen the 118 dismiss Evan when he acted too eager or strange or obtuse. Hell, Tommy would be lying if he said he’d never done it himself. They lost more than a year together because he did that.
Evan can be a lot. Tommy can understand Hen Wilson—who has been taking care of herself longer than he’s known her—trying to get away from the full force of the Evan Buckley Grief Assessment Experience. Tommy isn’t sure he wouldn’t have done the same thing himself. He certainly has run from emotional conversations with Evan before. Even after getting back together and committing himself to Evan for as long as Evan will have him, he still balks whenever Evan alludes to marriage. When a Bruce Springsteen song comes on and Evan gets teary-eyed, Tommy still wants to leave the room. When Evan cooks for Tommy while he’s on shift and leaves neat containers of well-proportioned meals stacked in his fridge with a sweet note telling him to enjoy, the feelings of love and affection run almost as deep as the shooting panic that tells Tommy he’s not worthy of being taken care of like this.
Tommy doesn’t always know how to deal with the way that Evan feels everything so deeply, and often so openly. But he knows that this is an issue with himself, not with Evan—or, at least, mostly not with Evan. Sometimes Evan doesn’t know when to stop pushing, when to let something drop or at least give someone a moment to catch their breath and collect their thoughts. It’s because Evan cares so much, Tommy knows. He’s emotionally invested in those around him, and he wants to fix everything. He’s just clumsy about it.
If Evan came at Hen with a clipboard full of questions about her grief, it’s because he wanted to make sure he didn’t miss anything. If he followed her around and tried to be subtle about it, sneaking counselor-approved questions into otherwise casual conversation, and didn’t let up until he got all the answers he needed, it’s because he thought it was the best way to make sure she was okay.
Still, Tommy can understand how Hen could see those attempts as insincere; Evan reading from a list instead of asking his own questions, coming off like he’s just going through the motions and probably looking like an open wound while he did it. Tommy might see it that way too, if he was drowning the hot swamp of his own grief and just wanted someone to be real with him. He himself has mistaken Evan’s earnestness for naivete, and has let himself believe the most ungenerous interpretation of Evan’s words.
As much as Tommy can understand how Hen probably felt, he understands how Evan felt, too. Evan asked the things he thought he was supposed to, and was ready to listen if Hen wanted to open up. He’s right to be hurt by her saying he didn’t try. Tommy has long since given up hope of being recognized for the effort he puts into something, has trouble believing that his love is something to be appreciated, but Evan is far less jaded. He still believes there’s good in the world—even magic. It’s one of Tommy’s favorite things about him.
He just wishes the 118 appreciated it more too.
“This is about Hen,” Tommy says into Evan’s hair, gently rocking him back and forth. “You’re right. It’s her illness, her grief, her feelings. In the group, you should focus on her. It’s not about you. But here, with me? You can let it be about you.”
“Yeah?” Evan’s voice is small and thick, nose pressed to Tommy’s chest.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“You don’t think I’m selfish?”
Tommy can’t help but laugh. “Evan, you are a lot of things, but selfish isn’t one of them.”
“Self-centered?”
Tommy hums. “Maybe a little. Maybe you're pushy, and maybe you don’t always understand how you’re coming across. But you’re also the kindest, most caring person I’ve ever met. That doesn't mean you're not allowed to be hurt when someone tells you that you weren’t there for them when you tried to be. It probably makes it hurt more.”
Evan takes a deep breath, and then another, and then he's turning his face in and crumpling against Tommy’s chest. The tears that Tommy expected earlier fall hot and fast. Evan’s body shakes. His breaths come in wet gasps. Tommy holds Evan tighter, presses kisses into his hair, and lets him fall apart.
ilya bursting into tears the second he realizes shane wants to spend the rest of his life with him is maybe the most perfect, precious moment in television history
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