Chapter Text
Buck is feeling a little less loved the next morning when Eddie deliberately wakes him up by opening all the blinds, blasting country music—country music, Eddie, come on—and grinding coffee beans in the dirt-cheap grinder that Eddie bought sometime after Hildy mysteriously broke.
“Man, why?” Buck asks, trying to smother himself with the couch pillows, but he already knows the answer to that question: his best friend is not only a loving father and an amazing firefighter; he’s also kind of a sadist. Eddie isn’t even a morning person. He probably woke up early specifically to torture Buck.
“Up and at em,” Eddie says, and yep, that’s his sadist’s smile. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it, Buck?”
“I hate you,” Buck mutters, unsteadily pushing himself up off the couch. He launches a pillow at Eddie—Eddie dodges it easily—and, head pounding, drags himself into the shower.
He feels marginally more alive afterwards and even somewhere in the realm of okay after breakfast and a healthy dose of Ibuprofen. Buck and Eddie talk a little about work, a little about Christopher. Chris slept over at a new friend’s house last night, and despite how many times this has happened before, Eddie has absolutely not gotten any more chill about it. Buck doesn’t tease him too hard. He does owe Eddie, after all. (Hen, too, obviously. But at least he hadn’t puked at her house.)
Which isn’t to say breakfast isn’t a little awkward. Buck keeps shifting in his chair, waiting for the inevitable interrogation—only Eddie doesn’t demand answers, doesn’t push, just sits there, drinking his too-bitter, technophobic cup of coffee and acting like this is any other morning. Honestly, it’s not really a surprise when Buck thinks about it. Eddie will push, of course—like after the blood clots, when Buck didn’t get out of bed for a week—but unless he’s extremely worried and/or needs daycare for Chris, Eddie’s less of a meddler, more of a ... steady presence. An offered beer, a clap to the shoulder. Eddie can wait you out. Buck, he always cracks first.
Buck asks, “Did you ever have flashbacks?”
Eddie, lifting his cup to his mouth, pauses for half a second, then resumes taking a sip with almost no change in expression. “Not really,” he says, and starts counting off on his fingers. “Nightmares, anxiety, mood swings, insomnia. A lot of pent-up aggression, obviously. Never really confused where I was, though. Just ... put too much of myself in a box.” He snorts softly, shakes his head. “It broke.”
Buck nods. He wonders—not that he’s like Eddie, really. He can’t shut off his emotions the way Eddie can, and—much as he loves the guy—doesn’t really want to, either. (Eddie probably would’ve made a badass Navy SEAL, actually, but Buck can’t imagine that would’ve been any better for him in, like, a mental health capacity.) But Buck can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s had a little box of his own, too, some shitty, discount fireproof safe where he's shoved the truck bombing and the tsunami and every other crazy awful thing that’s ever happened to him.
It broke too, he guesses. At absolutely the most humiliating time.
“I ... I think I had one last night,” Buck says. “A flashback.” Which is pretty obvious by now, probably, but he has to say it. He scratches the back of his neck. “Kinda freaked out.”
Eddie nods a little, shrugging one shoulder. “Seems reasonable. Least you didn’t punch holes in your wall.”
Buck laughs softly, although he thinks some holes in his wall probably would’ve been easier to explain—and definitely easier to patch up—than the conversation he now has to have with Tommy. If Tommy even picks up the phone. If Tommy will let him explain at all.
“Wanna talk about it?” Eddie asks, presumably meaning the flashback, not Tommy.
But does Buck want to talk about it? No. Yes. Sort of. Maybe.
It’s complicated.
“Gonna talk to Dr. Copeland about it?” Eddie asks eventually, when Buck doesn’t respond.
Buck shrugs and leans back because he actually hasn’t talked to Dr. Copeland in ... kind of a while. He’s pretty sure if he admitted that to Maddie or Bobby, they’d have some pretty vocal opinions on the subject. Say Buck in that way that means disappointment, or—maybe not disappointment, really. Maybe just worry. Concern. Sometimes, it still takes Buck a minute, recognizing the difference.
Eddie, he only raises an eyebrow and nods again. “Gonna talk to Tommy about it?”
Buck takes a breath. “You talk to him today? Tommy?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, and gives him absolutely nothing else.
Buck winces. “He mad?”
“What do you think?”
“I ... think he’s mad?”
“Yeah.” Eddie sighs. “I thought you might say that.”
“Does—does that mean I’m right?” Buck asks.
“It means you’re an idiot,” Eddie says dryly. “And you should talk to him.”
Yeah. Buck knows.
He pushes his plate away from him, no longer hungry. His leg aches a little, a dull throb that could’ve come from half a dozen different things: copious amounts of alcohol, tweaking something while walking around in a fugue state, hurting himself by passing out on Eddie’s couch—which is comfortable, actually, but not, like, 6’2” comfortable. Or it could be psychosomatic: memory, stress. Buck worries about that, sometimes: pain that isn’t really there, pain he doesn’t deserve to claim.
He still feels it all the same.
Gently, Buck massages the muscle. It’s something he doesn’t normally do in front of Eddie, or anyone else from the 118, really. Not since fighting so hard to prove he was 100% again, that he was ready. Not since throwing up blood at Bobby and Athena’s and screwing up so badly with the lawsuit.
Buck swears he can almost feel how sharply Eddie clocks the gesture.
“Pain’s pretty rare, actually,” Buck says, not looking at him.
“Didn’t know you were still having any,” Eddie says, neutral. Too neutral. Almost aggressively neutral.
Buck winces. “Well, it’s not a total miracle. No one’s beating Howard ‘Rebar’ Han for Most Holy Shit Recovery.”
Eddie says nothing, flatly refusing to let him lighten the mood.
Buck sighs. “Look, I haven’t been hiding anything—”
“Secret leg pain for five years kinda feels like you’ve been hiding something, Buck—"
“Minor leg pain,” Buck says, a little annoyed. “Minor, occasional leg pain, man. Nothing serious, nothing that’s going to affect me on the job—”
“You didn’t think blood clots would affect you on the job,” Eddie says, and yeah, the neutrality in his voice is strained to its absolute limit.
“Eddie—"
“If it’s not serious, Buck, then why did you hide it from me?”
Buck actually laughs. “So, it’s your turn to make everything about you?”
Eddie pauses, and there’s a flash of something across his face ... Buck’s going to go with disgruntled realization ... before Eddie settles back into his standard guarded calm. “Moderate pain?” he asks finally, narrowing his eyes slightly at Buck.
“So moderate,” Buck promises. “And not even that often. Had it checked out and everything, really, I’m good.”
“And the other stuff?”
Buck frowns. “What other stuff?”
“Nightmares, anxiety, mood swings, insomnia. A lot of pent-up aggression.” Eddie tilts his head. “Flashbacks.”
The soft mattress giving way to gravel. Someone’s voice in his ear, but not Tommy’s; it’s not Tommy—
“No,” Buck says. “Just nightmares, that’s it. It’s been fine, Eddie—"
“Until last night.”
Buck sighs. “Until last night.”
Eddie watches him for a minute before scooting closer in his chair. He pats his own thigh twice.
“Uh?” Buck asks. “What?”
Ah, there are Eddie’s bitchy eyebrows. He points at Buck’s leg, pats his own thigh again, and waves a hand with a silent question—do I have to spell it out for you— that’s almost impressively condescending, considering how he hasn’t spoken a word.
“Eddie, you don’t need to—”
The eyebrows go higher, and Buck huffs out a laugh. He stretches his leg across Eddie’s thigh. Eddie pushes up the borrowed sweatpants and kneads carefully into Buck’s calf.
Buck tips his head back. It feels good. It hurts, but it feels good.
“It just ... it happened really fast, last night,” Buck says to the ceiling. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
“I get that,” Eddie says quietly.
“And I wasn’t trying to ... it’s not like I’ve been sneaking around, covering up Some Big Secret. There wasn’t any tip-toeing, man. I just, I didn’t feel right talking about it. It was so long ago now, and it just. It all got tied together: my leg, the bombing, the blood clots, the lawsuit, and I didn’t know how to bring up one without bringing up ... everything else.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie shakes his head. “Didn’t I tell you we’re way past that?”
“Yeah, that’s—that’s what I’m saying. I, I don’t need to talk about something that happened years ago—"
“Is that really what you think I’m saying?” Eddie asks. “Me?”
Okay. Point.
“The lawsuit,” Eddie continues. “That’s the thing we’re past, Buck. No one’s still holding onto that. You know that, right?”
He does. Nobody’s holding the lawsuit over his head. Nobody’s gleefully waiting to bring up that—or any other dumbass thing he’s done—the next time Buck inevitably pisses someone off. It’s the kind of thing his parents used to do, counting off his every mistake and bad decision like they were gathering evidence, tallying it, like they needed to prove he was the failure they’d long since written him off as. (Or. Or maybe that’s not what they were actually doing, but God, it had always felt like it.)
That’s never been this family, though. That’s not the 118. Buck knew Hen would invite him in last night, just like he knew Eddie would let him sleep on the couch. Buck knows he’s loved. He knows that love isn’t conditional.
It's just that sometimes, no matter what he knows, Buck feels like he’s tempting fate. Like if he isn’t careful, someone’s gonna realize he doesn’t deserve any of this. Like if he fucks up one more time, someone’s gonna come and take it all away.
Can’t really tell that to Eddie, though, infamous skeptic of pretty much everything, up to and including the EMS Gods—no matter how many live power poles they throw.
“Idiot,” Eddie says eventually, when Buck’s been quiet too long. There’s real exasperation in his voice, but the words are surprisingly gentle. “You keep acting like ... I don’t know, like this is baseball. It’s not three strikes and you’re out, Buck.”
And that’s not so different from what Hen had said last night, actually. Tommy isn’t keeping score.
Buck knows that. He’s pretty sure he knows that. But the laugh escapes him, anyway. “Think I’ve got more than a few strikes by now.”
“Sure,” Eddie says. “Keep missing the point.”
Well, that was less gentle. Buck lifts his head, scowling—
And Eddie grips his leg a little tighter and meets his eyes, steady as anything.
“We’re all in it for the long haul,” Eddie says. “Better get used to it.”
Buck definitely doesn’t get choked up about that.
Eddie, occasionally not a sadist, pretends he doesn’t notice, silently massaging Buck’s leg for another few minutes before eventually letting go. When Buck stands, the pain really is remarkably better. It almost annoys him, honestly, because he could’ve had this at literally any time, if he hadn’t gotten in his own way. He could’ve had this.
But he’s grateful to have it now, all the same.
“Thanks, Eddie,” Buck says, and smiles at him. “For. You know. All of it.”
Eddie shrugs. “Anytime,” he says, and Buck figures that’s the end of Feelings Talk for the day—
But then Eddie says, “Hey.”
Buck looks back at him, and Eddie isn’t smiling anymore. For the first time all morning, he looks ... hesitant, uncertain.
“I get it,” Eddie says, “why you went to Hen. Tommy, he didn’t go into a lot of detail, but ...”
But enough to get the gist. Great.
Buck has to laugh, though. “I just didn’t think you’d want the overshare, man,” he says. Not that he’d been particularly explicit with Hen, actually, but that’s probably more because he got distracted by bursting into tears rather than any sudden desire to keep his “private life” private.
Eddie looks at him, unimpressed. “Literally when has that ever stopped you?”
And Buck laughs again because okay, fine, truth.
“Look,” Eddie says, after another uncharacteristic hesitation. “The whole ... dating Tommy. Figuring yourself out. Whichever words you end up using for that. You’re going through stuff that I never have, probably never will. And I’m not always gonna be the person you need to talk to about it, I get that. I’m glad you went to Hen. I’m glad you went to someone instead of spiraling on your own like usual—”
“Uh. Ow?”
“—and doing some idiotic thing, like hiding you have leg pain for five years—”
“Barely, Eddie, come on—”
“Or climbing up a crane with a sniper on the loose—"
“Okay, that was one time—"
“Still,” Eddie continues, entirely ignoring him. “Can’t help but feel like ... you know, inconvenient panic attacks, old traumas resurfacing, making a mess of your love life ... all stuff I know a little about. And hey, call me out again if I’m making this all about me. But kinda feels like if something like this had happened with Natalia or Taylor, you’d have come to me last night with a case of beer or something.”
Buck isn’t sure what to say, mostly because it’s probably true. “Eddie ...”
Eddie shakes his head. “I’m not mad or anything. That’s not what this is. You can talk to whoever you want about whatever you want, just ... I told you before, okay? You dating Tommy, you liking men? It doesn’t change a thing between us. Wanted to make sure you remembered, that’s all.”
Buck takes a breath. “I do,” he says. “I remember.”
“Good,” Eddie says, and he smiles, and Buck smiles back.
It’s nice. It’s a nice moment—one which Eddie promptly ruins by abruptly clapping his hands. “All right, let’s get you home. I have to pick up Christopher, and you have to call Tommy.”
Buck groans, burying his face in his hands.
#
When Buck gets home, his apartment is empty.
It’s not that Buck’s surprised. Honestly, it’d probably be weirder if Tommy had stuck around, but ... Buck misses him. It’s been less than 24 hours, and he already misses him, and he doesn’t know how to start a conversation that might end with another Evan, I think you’re adorable. But I don’t think you’re ready.
He has to figure it out, though. Hen and Eddie were right about that. It’s only gonna get harder the longer Buck puts this off, and—he misses him. Whether Tommy’s keeping score or not, whether Buck deserves a second shot or not ... it kind of ... it almost doesn’t matter? Buck still wants another chance. He doesn’t want to let this go, let Tommy go, without at least putting up a fight. Tommy matters to him so much more than that.
Buck needs to apologize. He needs to explain. He also, apparently, needs to thank Tommy for washing the sheets and making the bed because this is very much not how he left his loft last night. His clothes are folded, the pillows arranged, and the sheets, are those ... hospital corners? They are hospital corners. Buck grins, and for a minute he’s so fond that he actually forgets to be sad.
But then he sees his cell phone on the bedside table, right where he left it, and remembers.
Buck sighs, sitting down on the bed. He did this once. He can do it again. If he could reach out after his no homo disaster on their first date, he can reach out again after ... this. He can, and he will, because Tommy’s worth it.
It still takes him a few minutes to work up the nerve to text: can we talk?
Tommy doesn’t text back.
But 30 minutes later, there’s a knock on his front door.
Buck opens it, and there’s Tommy, and—okay, it’s not like a real flashback this time. But for a second there, Buck’s thrown back to that first night, that first kiss: Tommy standing outside the door, glancing down, caught mid-thought, and Buck—Buck letting him in, completely oblivious to the fact that in about five minutes, his entire world is going to change. He doesn’t think Tommy could do anything now that would necessitate another reexamination of every single relationship he’s ever had in his life, but also—it feels a lot scarier this time. Like this time, Buck knows how much he has to lose.
“H—hey,” Buck says, and he’s smiling, but the word shakes a little in his mouth.
“Hey,” Tommy says, steadier, but his eyes are intent on Buck’s face, searching.
Buck steps back, letting Tommy in, and only then does he clock the to-go cups that Tommy’s holding. Tommy hands him one, and Buck sips it. It’s good. They know each other’s coffee orders by now. They’ve learned a lot about one another since they started dating.
There’s still a lot, Buck realizes, that they haven’t had time to learn.
“Thanks for coming,” Buck says, feeling awkward as he leads Tommy over to the couch. The couch is relatively new, blue with big cushions, and he still doesn’t know if it’s, like, the right couch, exactly? But it’s more comfortable than the one his parents bought him, and also, no one’s given birth on it yet, so. He’s taking it as a win.
Tommy sits a respectful distance apart. That does not feel like a win.
Buck sets his coffee down, takes a breath. “First, I need to—”
“I don’t want an apology, Evan,” Tommy says, cutting him off, and—all right, Buck had definitely imagined Tommy saying that, only in his head, the words had been hurt, angry. The real Tommy sitting in front of him, dressed in a worn gray Henley and watching him with kind, worried eyes, only sounds slightly incredulous. “I want to know you’re okay.”
“Y—yeah,” Buck says, unreasonably thrown by this wholly characteristic concern. He knows Tommy is kind. He knows Tommy doesn’t demand apologies, even when he deserves them. “Yeah, I’m ... great.”
Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up, and wow, in a contest between his bitchy eyebrow raises and Eddie’s bitchy eyebrow raises, Buck honestly doesn’t know who would win.
Buck laughs. “I’m okay,” he corrects, and when Tommy does not put away the eyebrows, adds, “Promise. I’m ... I’m better.”
Tommy nods slowly. “Good,” he says, still watching Buck closely. “Cause I’m not sure you realize just how bad you looked last night, muttering about ... forgetting something at work, was it?”
So. Actual worst lie anyone’s ever told. Great. That’s just great.
“I do,” Buck says, trying not to feel entirely defeated. He knows exactly how bad it must have looked, running out the way he did, but—but that’s okay, he just. He just needs to explain. “And I didn’t—okay, obviously I didn’t forget anything at work. Honestly, I don’t even remember saying that, which—I know that doesn’t make anything better. I’m just. I lied, but Tommy, I didn’t mean to lie to you, or, or I didn’t want to lie to you; I didn’t want—"
“Hey,” Tommy says, thankfully cutting him off.
Buck takes a second to regroup because this is not how he wanted this conversation to go. Focus. Get a grip. Less fumbling, more actual explanation. You’re gonna say, Tommy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, let me tell you what happened.
Only regrouping turns out to be a terrible mistake because the next thing out of Tommy’s mouth, too solemnly, is “Evan—"
I think you’re adorable. But I don’t think you’re ready.
“Please don’t break up with me,” Buck says.
Tommy blinks. He opens his mouth, but Buck steamrolls right past him. “I know I don’t get to ask that,” he says, “and, and I can’t blame you if you don’t believe me, not after last night. But I am ready for this, Tommy, for us. I—I like you so much, and, and I can’t promise what happened last night won’t happen again, but I think, I think maybe it won’t now that I know what to expect? I’ll, I’ll be better prepared if you give me another chance. And what happened, it was never about you. You, you were perfect. It was all me, all my fault, and I know how it looked, but—”
Tommy reaches forward and grabs Buck’s hand.
As far as merciful interruptions go, it’s not quite a kiss that makes him forget how to speak in whole sentences—but it works to shut Buck up all the same. Tommy’s skin is warm, a little rough. His thumb moves gently back and forth across Buck’s skin.
“Not it,” Tommy says. “You.”
Buck blinks. “What?”
“I said you looked bad last night. Not it, not the ... optics, or something. When you froze up, when I actually saw your face?” Tommy shakes his head. “Evan, even if you had just been freaking out about your first time with a man, or bottoming, or anything like that, I wouldn’t have been angry. I’d have understood. But I know what that looks like. In a mirror, if nothing else, and this wasn’t that. You were ... pale, shaking. You looked terrified. You looked confused.”
Buck ducks his head, closes his eyes.
“For a minute there, you weren’t here,” Tommy says gently. “I know what that looks like, too.”
Buck tries to open his mouth, tries to say something. Nothing comes out. First time for everything, he supposes, and has to work very hard not to cry.
“I tried to run after you,” Tommy tells him, which ... Buck doesn’t actually remember that, either. His sheer terror really did a number on his observational skills, apparently. Guess they call it blind panic for a reason. “Couldn’t find my pants, though. Or my underwear. Wasn’t sure your neighbors would appreciate the show.”
Buck laughs, eyes still closed. “My neighbors don’t deserve the show.”
“Yeah?” Tommy keeps moving his thumb against the back of Buck’s hand. It’s grounding, reassuring. “Wanna keep me all to yourself, huh?”
Buck doesn’t look up, but he does open his eyes and smile. “I told you. I can get pretty jealous.”
“That’s okay,” Tommy says. “I like you jealous. I like you very much, just as you are.”
That makes Buck laugh again because Tommy’s been introducing him to various romantic comedies lately, and they just watched Bridget Jones’s Diary last week. It also means his eyes won’t stop stinging because no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. “Tommy ...”
“I’d have risked it anyway, you know,” Tommy says. “Your jealousy, your neighbors’ outrage. I’d have run after you, no clothes at all—but I didn’t want to scare you worse. Hurt you worse.”
Buck does look up, then.
Tommy looks ... he looks so sad. He thumbs one more circle into Buck’s skin, then tries to pull away.
Buck catches his wrist. “No, hey. You never hurt me. It ... I got hurt a long time ago, that’s all.”
Tommy doesn’t say anything, and suddenly Buck realizes how that must sound. How Tommy sitting down a couch cushion apart might have been a deliberate choice because he’s worried, not because he’s angry. Because given how Buck reacted, when he reacted, maybe Tommy thinks ...
“Not like that,” Buck says quickly. “I was—it wasn’t like that, I promise. It wasn’t even about the sex, Tommy. That was ... you were amazing.”
The corner of Tommy’s mouth lifts slightly. “Most fun you’ve had since being struck by lightning?”
“Most fun I’ve had since you kissed me stupid right over there,” Buck says, and silently counts it as a victory when Tommy’s smile grows a little brighter. Buck instinctively beams back at him—but his own smile quickly falters as he tries to find the right words. Not, historically, his strong suit.
He looks down at their hands, their knees. Their coffee cups, sitting abandoned on the table.
“Still a lot we don’t know about each other,” Tommy says, following his gaze.
Yeah.
This time, it’s Buck who pulls back a little, dropping Tommy’s wrist. Tommy lets him, and Buck finds himself smoothing his palms over his thighs. “So, uh. Years ago—I don’t know if you remember this, but—there was this kid bomber who took out a ladder truck.”
“Sure,” Tommy says easily. “That kind of thing sticks with you when someone from your old firehouse gets ...”
His eyes visibly widen in horror.
“Yeah,” Buck says, not sure if he’s smiling or wincing. Probably both. “So, that was me.”
“Evan—”
“Anyway, I’m fine now,” Buck says, cutting him off. “And it really hasn’t been a problem—I had some surgeries, I got recertified, my leg barely gives me any trouble at all—but uh. Last night—”
“When I was on top of you,” Tommy says miserably, getting there far too quickly and no longer meeting his eyes. “When I held you down.”
“When you took care of me,” Buck corrects, and it apparently startles Tommy enough to look up. “Everything was good, and then ... I don’t know. I tried to shift my leg a little, and when I couldn’t, it was like ... like suddenly there was this awful taste in my mouth, and I was cold but also sweating, and I was so sure it was because bits of the ladder truck were all around me, still on fire. And my leg, it went kinda numb? Which happened back then, crush injury and all—but last night, everything else went numb, too, like I couldn’t feel my body right. And I think, I think you said something, but it wasn’t your voice I heard ...”
“Evan,” Tommy says softly, and Buck realizes he’s getting a little lost in the memory again.
Buck shakes himself. He’s here. He’s exactly where he wants to be, on his maybe-right couch with his very-much-right boyfriend. Or—actually, no, he wants to be closer. He definitely wants to be closer.
So, Buck leans in, looking up at Tommy from a considerably less respectful distance. “Before all that, though,” Buck says, and doesn’t try to rein in his smirk at all. “I think you know I was having a pretty great time. I’m, uh. Not real subtle about it.”
He can almost see the well come out of Tommy’s mouth before he silently nods, acknowledging the point.
“And,” Buck continues, openly grinning now. “I’m pretty sure you were having a good time, too. Or am I wrong?”
“Oh, you’re not wrong,” Tommy admits wryly, which Buck kinda already knew, but it’s always nice to hear, anyway.
“Look, I handled it badly,” Buck admits. “That—nothing like that’s ever happened to me before. I wasn’t expecting it, and ... and I lost it a little. But I think I’d be more prepared next time, if there is a next time. If you give me another chance. Maybe, maybe not today, but ... I liked it, Tommy. I like you. I want to do everything with you. Please don’t leave me.”
Tommy shakes his head, and—shit, oh shit, maybe Eddie and Hen were wrong; maybe Buck is out of chances, maybe—
“Leave you?” Tommy asks, smiling. “That was never really on the table, kid.”
—And Buck exhales, the relief so heady he actually sags backward into the couch.
Tommy watches him for a second longer, than mirrors him, letting his head fall back into the couch pillows and looking up at the ceiling. It’s quiet, and usually Buck feels the need to fill that kind of silence with something, anything, but right now he feels content, at ease.
Tommy isn’t leaving him.
“You know,” Tommy says eventually. “I couldn’t eat spam for a while.”
It’s so far from anything Buck could have imagined Tommy saying that he immediately finds himself wondering if spam is, like, a codeword for something? “O—okay?”
“My dad loves spam,” Tommy continues, eyes still on the ceiling, which is when Buck suspects that—despite the present tense—this is going to be a sad story. “Used to make us these fried sandwiches for lunch, dinner, hell, sometimes breakfast. Hadn’t had one in years, hadn’t thought about one in years. But then a while back, this buddy of mine from Harbor insists on ordering spam musubi for lunch, can’t believe I’ve never had it. And the funny thing is, a hunk of spam wrapped in rice and seaweed and a half-burnt sandwich drenched in mayo and spicy mustard, they don’t even taste alike. But still, I’m two bites in, and suddenly it’s like I’m twelve years old again, stuck in that house with my father, and he’s—well. Point is, I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. Had to pass it off as the stomach flu. Not one of my best days.”
And Buck ... God, he wants to do too many things at once. Wants to throw himself at Tommy, hug him until that sad approximation of a smile transforms into a real one. Wants to ask what Tommy’s father said to him, did to him, wants to assure Tommy that whatever it was, it wasn’t right; it wasn’t true. Buck knows what’s it like to feel trapped—in more ways than one, really—and feels sick at the idea of being twelve again, stuck in his old house with his parents and their constant disapproval, their weak version of love—but not so sick that he’d literally throw up. Whatever happened in Tommy’s old house ... Tommy didn’t deserve it, not any of it, and Buck wants to make sure he knows that, wants to fix this for him, somehow.
But even Buck knows this isn’t something he can fix, no matter how much it kills him to admit it. Tommy’s never talked about his father before, and is so clearly trying to keep his tone light—not entirely succeeding, but certainly trying. Buck doesn’t think he’ll appreciate being pushed right now, so he just takes Tommy’s hand again and says, “So, you’re saying no to Hawaiian for dinner tonight?”
Tommy laughs. “Maybe not,” he says, “but I can eat spam now, actually.”
“Yeah?”
Tommy nods. “It’s not something I reach for on a bad day. But if it’s been a good one—and I know what I’m eating before I bite into it—I’m not puking my guts out in the station bathroom. Still a trigger for me. But usually, the heads up is enough.”
Ah. Buck sees where this is going now.
Tommy shifts on the couch, facing him directly. “Evan, I like you, too. More than I’ve liked anyone in a very long time. You tell me you wanna try again, then we try again ... but we don’t have to do what we did before, okay?”
“Tommy—”
“I need you to know that,” Tommy says firmly. “There are a lot of different things we can do. I’m more than happy to switch things up—”
Which, okay, Buck gets distracted for a second there because Tommy’s tone definitely changed when he said the word ‘switch.’
“—And,” Tommy continues, more seriously, “if you need to slow things down or tap the brakes—"
Buck groans. Maybe a bit dramatically, but—
“God no, that’s the last thing I want,” Buck says, and—okay, that was probably a dick thing to say, considering. He tries again. “I mean, yeah, we can go slower if you want, that’s totally fine, but—okay, don’t give me the Eyebrows for this—”
Tommy’s eyebrows immediately jump up.
“—but despite last night, I’m not, I’m not fragile, Tommy. Maybe I need to go back to therapy about the other stuff, but you ... I want you. I know what I want with you. And I, I really do appreciate you checking in with me, how careful you’ve been since, you know, it’s my first sex with a dude—”
Tommy laughs.
“But I’m not looking to slow down,” Buck says. “Even though I’m new to this—to some of this—I want you to trust me to know what I want. I’m here. I want to be here. I’m ...”
Buck smiles.
“I’m in it for the long haul,” he says.
Tommy smiles softly at him. “It’s hard to believe you’re real, sometimes,” he murmurs.
“Uh, like in a good way, or—”
Tommy leans in and kisses him. Buck maybe melts into a little. Maybe pouts a little, too, when Tommy pulls away.
“You can’t just do that whenever you want to shut me up,” Buck complains, not very convincingly.
“I don’t know,” Tommy says, touching Buck’s face. “Seems to be working out pretty well for me so far.”
Well, Buck can’t argue with that. Doesn’t even want to; after all, it’s working out pretty well for him, too.
“Listen,” Tommy says, growing serious again. “Trust ... it doesn’t always come easy to me. I’ll work on it. You should get what you want, not just what I think you want. But I need you to promise me something, too.”
“Name it,” Buck says immediately.
“If something like this happens again—a flashback, a panic attack, whatever it is—don’t run out like that, not on your own.”
Buck shifts, guilty. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Tommy says. “Believe me, I get it. But I was scared for you. You weren’t in control, and—no, hey, that’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you for that. But you shouldn’t have been alone, and you definitely shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. You could’ve been seriously hurt, Evan, and—since I suspect this will matter more to you—you could’ve hurt someone else, too.”
Buck knows it; he’s seen enough accidents by now to know it.
“If it happens again,” Tommy says, “with me, or while I’m here ... you don’t have to explain anything, if you don’t want. You can kick me out if you need to. I want to be here for you, but if you need me gone, I’m gone, okay? You can call Eddie or your sister or Howie or Hen. You can call whoever you want, or even just bunker down in the bathroom if that make you feel safe—but don’t run out alone again. If you’d been hurt last night ...”
“Okay,” Buck says, when Tommy trails off. “I get it, I do. I’m. I’m really sorry, Tommy.”
Cause yeah, Tommy had said he didn’t need an apology, but Buck, he’s pretty sure he needs it; he needs this chance to apologize because .... because he is sorry, whether he should be or not, and he feels like that guilt will only fester if he leaves it trapped inside him. Buck doesn’t want that. Nothing good will come from it. That’s not how he wants their story to go.
And Buck can tell Tommy wants to argue—but he doesn’t. He just meets Buck’s eyes and says, “I know. I’m sorry, too.”
And Buck has to allow it, too, even though Tommy didn’t do anything wrong.
Instead of arguing, Buck curls himself against Tommy’s side. Tommy runs his fingers through Buck’s hair, and that feels ... oh, that feels really nice. Buck doesn’t think he’s ever been with anyone that he felt so comfortable being still with.
“So,” Tommy says, a bit too casually. “You said something about not-Hawaiian for dinner?”
“Mm, I was thinking Peruvian,” Buck says, because he’s had a craving for a good lomo saltado all week. It’s barely past noon, though, so he should probably amend that to lunch. Only, he doesn’t want to amend to that lunch. “If, if you’re sticking around that long.”
Buck hopes he is. He hopes—
“Hm,” Tommy says. “Thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
Tommy cradles Buck’s face. “That I’m in it for the long haul, too.”
And—God, Buck already loves him. He’s not going to say that, not quite yet, but he thinks, he thinks he really does love him. He thinks he never wants to let Tommy go.
“You can have a drawer,” Buck tells him instead, cheerfully. “You know, in case something like this happens again, and you wanna stash some jeans instead of chasing me down the hall—” he waggles his eyebrows “—buck nude—"
Tommy groans. “Evan.”
“Hey, it’s your reputation. If you want to be known as Hot Naked Guy, who am I to stop you?”
“Hot Naked Guy, huh?”
“Well, you can’t go by Firehose,” Buck says reasonably. “That’s taken. By me, I took it.”
Tommy bursts out laughing. “You did not.”
“Oh, I kinda did, a long time ago. Don’t worry, we’ll find you your own sexy, work-related nickname... oh, oh, hey, are you a fire truck? Cause you know I like it when you crash on top of me—”
“Jesus, Evan—"
“Hm, kinda immodest and doesn’t really fit the whole firefighter-pilot theme? But sure, you can go with the big JC. You do like it when I’m on my knees—"
Tommy shuts Buck up by kissing him. Buck grins into his mouth.