Work Text:
"Los Angeles fire department I need to commandeer that bike!"
Buck called out to the approaching motorcyclist.
"Seriously?!"
"Helmet, come on, let's go let's go!"
Buck practically snatched the helmet out of the confused man's hands, hopping on the bike and speeding away before the man even knew that was happening.
There was the slightest moment of hesitation as he kicked the bike into motion 'what if I forgot how to do this', but he supposed the saying existed for a reason, because it really was like riding a bike. His body immediately knowing what to do, without needing any thought to remember.
He'd forgotten how much he loved being on a bike, the rush of air blowing against him, the speed so much more palpable when there aren't four walls and glass windows blocking out the outside world ... though to be fair he was going considerably faster than he normal would in his jeep.
But there was something else mixed in with all the feelings of freedom and the rush of adrenaline ... something almost like dread, some deep gnawing feeling he couldn't quite identify. But for now he tried to put it out of his mind, he had a job to do after all.
When he'd reached what he suspected was a mile (a little more just to be safe) he stopped the bike and discarded the helmet beside it, leaping over the divider into incoming traffic.
That feeling arose again, stronger this time, harder to ignore. But still he pushed it aside as best he could, lighting both flares and attempting to get the attention of the speeding cars without getting himself run-over.
That feeling pulsed inside him, increasing with each whoosh of air as cars sped past him, almost overwhelming him as he planted his feet in front of an oncoming car, barely avoiding being slammed into as the car slid to a stop before him.
"LAFD! Everyone stay in your cars!" he shouted as the cars in front of him all slowed to a stop.
He breathed deeply, almost surprised at the success of his endeavor. That feeling still thrumming inside him, nagging at every corner of his mind.
He supposed now was as good a time as any to explore the cause of the feeling since the people seemed to be agreeable enough to stay in their cars and not try to slip past him.
The feeling began when he got on the bike, but he never recalled experiencing that before, and he used to drive his bike every day ... but then again he hadn't been on a bike since ...
oh
the day he left his parents home.
He hadn't thought of that day since Maddie told him about Daniel, but even then he wasn't thinking much of crashing his bike. He supposed that's what triggered the feeling today.
But he'd experienced far worse things than crashing a bike, and the reminders of those times never gave him the same feelings as today.
So he thought harder on that day that started with being kicked out of school.
He arrived in class to the teacher immediately pulling him aside and asking to speak with him.
His body was immediately thrust into fight or flight as adrenaline shot through his veins ... he knew he was in trouble, that he'd messed up somehow, disappointed someone ... failed. Again.
His hands started to shake with nervous energy, instinctively grasping his hoodie strings to fidget with.
"Evan. I'm gonna get right to the point. You're over a month behind on tuition, it needs to be paid now, otherwise we can't continue to enroll you here."
He was really panicking now. He didn't have the money. He'd thought he could stall long enough to get the money, that they wouldn't notice, somehow. But he was wrong.
And now here he was, standing in front of his teacher, out of excuses, no way to bullshit his way through it this time.
"I ..." his voice cracked, it sounded weak and pathetic to his ears. He hated it.
"I-I-I-I, don't have ... the money"
The teacher sighed, giving him a sympathetic smile. It gave him no comfort.
"I'm sorry to see you go, you showed some real potential"
And with that she left him standing there in the halls, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings he didn't know what to do with. He felt his lungs constricting, or maybe the air was getting thinner ... he couldn't tell. He could feel the press of tears behind his eyes threatening to be unleashed with each shaky breath. He didn't know what to do, but he knew there wasn't any reason to stay standing in the halls on the verge of a breakdown. It was bad enough he got kicked out of school, he didn't need his ex classmates watching him cry about it.
So he trudged through the halls with his head down, avoiding the smiles of greeting from passing students and teachers, his pace quickening with each encounter.
By the time he reached the parking lot, tears were falling freely down his face. He could barely see his bike through the blur of salty tears filling his eyes, so he let his body run on autopilot, falling into the rhythm of actions he'd taken thousands of times before.
But as he drove away he didn't take the familiar route to his house, he couldn't go there yet ... couldn't face his parents. He'd already failed, already been reminded of his flaws, his incapabilities. He'd screwed up once again, and he could already hear his parents voices in his mind telling him how useless he was, how incompetent, how he failed at everything. He'd always denied those insults, even if only inside his own mind. But now he wondered if they'd been right the whole time.
Maybe he was really useless, he couldn't even finish community college, he wasn't good enough for any of his friends, he was never their first choice, just somebody they invited when they needed more people for an activity. Hell, even Maddie had left. She had Doug, and he'd barely seen her at all since her wedding.
His parents hated him, his sister left him, all his friends had too.
He was worthless, he believed it now.
He'd never be good enough, never be important to anyone, never make anything of his life.
What was the point of it all?
Why did he keep trying?
Why keep hoping?
Why not just except that his life was a waste of oxygen, a waste of space, and a waste of everyone else's time.
His bike picked up speed, the road barely visible before him through the tears in his eyes. Some hard rock song blasting through the speakers he wasn't even paying attention to.
He was sick of everything.
Sick of living a life that never seemed to be good enough, never seemed to matter
Never good enough
Never good enough
Never enough
He saw the back of the SUV pulling out into the road in front of him. He might have had enough time to swerve out of the way, but he hesitated for just a moment too long.
His bike slammed into side of the SUV, and next thing he knew he was on the ground, his bike crashed on its side next to him. His ears were ringing and his shoulder throbbed in time with his too fast heartbeat. He was vaguely aware of a voice nearby ... speaking to him?
He wasn't sure.
He felt as though his mind was in a fog, or as though his conscious was locked away in some cage deep inside his mind, unable to rise to the surface.
But somehow he'd made it to the hospital, then to Maddie, then back to his parents home ... and then, freedom.
At least that's how he always remembered it, but that nagging feeling deep inside made him wonder if there was something he'd forgotten, some detail he'd buried deep down ... or maybe was never aware of at all.
But that was work for another time, not standing in a busy highway blocking traffic with just his presence, while waiting for a jetliner to touchdown right behind him.
So he put it aside, focused on the task at hand, waiting for the plane to land, watching it glide across the empty stretch of highway. Helping the passengers out, helping Bobby, just like before, like he'd never left at all.
And when his shift was finally over he went straight home to really remember that day, the day his life had changed forever.
He had worked with Dr. Copeland a few times on things like this in past. Recalling certain memories from childhood and focusing on the feelings he'd never had a chance to process.
He'd spent so much of his childhood minimizing all his feelings, hiding them away so he wouldn't get punished for just existing ... especially after Maddie left. She'd been the only safe place he'd had to process his thoughts and feelings, and once she was gone he just buried them away. Never taking the time to work through his feelings or process his experiences. Just feeling, and pretending it never happened.
So there were a number of experiences he'd never dealt with, plenty of instances where a feeling or a moment had just festered inside of him, eating him away from the inside. And like today, sometimes those feelings would arise in strange and unpredicted ways.
Dr. Copeland had given him a few tools to manage these instances, ways to recall the cause of the reaction and process it.
So he chose the one that always seemed to work best ... sitting in the floor of his shower, the lights off, the warm shower water pouring over him, recalling the memories again and again, focusing on every sense his mind can grasp, until he finds clarity.
He recalls the conversation with his teacher, leaving the building, the drive, the crash. But still nothing more.
So he tries again, this time focusing on the scents. Smells always seemed to jog his memory better than all the other senses, so he starts with the community college halls, an odd smell he never could identify or pin point the cause of, though it wasn't bad. Then the parking lot, the subtle crispness to the early autumn air, the sweet scent of dying leaves, the burnt rubber from his tires skidding on the asphalt.
Still nothing.
So he tries sound. His teachers voice, soft and melodic like a birdsong, the quite conversations and distant voices that floated through the halls, his footsteps as he made his escape. The click of the door handle, the swish of it's hinges, the sounds of distant traffic and birds. His engine turning on ... the music. Some metal radio song he didn't know, he'd probably heard it before, but never really listened to it. He couldn't remember the lyrics or the melody (if a metal song could even be considered to have a melody), but he remembered the rhythm. The drums.
He focused on that, on the rhythm of drums, the feeling of it vibrating through his bike, in his hands, up his arms, inside his brain. And that feeling from before started to come back, and again he followed it. Trying to remember that moment.
He couldn't grasp the specific thoughts that had flooded his mind, but he could catch ideas.
The fear that he would never be good enough.
That no one could ever love him.
That his life was a waste.
That he was nothing but a failure.
That he was doomed to always try but never succeed.
That he would always be caught in an endless loop of reaching and hoping and believing that he could have anything he put his mind to, and falling so far and so fast he never had the chance to catch himself before it was too late.
That no amount of trying would ever make up for the lifetime of mistakes.
That he could never fix it.
That he couldn't be fixed.
That there was no point to any of it.
No point in hoping.
No point in trying.
No point in living.
oh
And then he'd seen the red glow of taillights.
But he hadn't hesitated ... and least not how he'd always remembered. It wasn't that he took too long to realize what was happening, it was that he'd been driving much faster than was safe to start with. That he'd drifted to the middle of the road, then farther and farther to the left.
oh
He hadn't thought it consciously, not exactly made the choice to hit the car ... he'd just ... not tried to prevent it. And maybe he'd put himself in a position where it was much more likely, much more dangerous. Maybe some piece of him, deep deep down let his bike drift into the wrong side of the road hoping something would happen. Maybe that part of him saw that glow of light that meant STOP, and decided to keep going.
He focused now on that light in his mind, the moment he saw it, the basic human instinct to survive kicking in and causing him to swerve at the last second. But still there was that feeling, that dread ... the thought that got overshadowed by instinct and never got to be acted upon ... the thought that he didn't want to survive.
The fog began to slip away, his mind regaining some bit of clarity.
He felt a hand on his uninjured shoulder, and the voice again, this time loud enough, or maybe just near enough, to cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Son? Can you hear me?"
He didn't trust his voice not to sound as weak and feeble as before, with his teacher, so he gave a small nod and a quiet "mmhm" instead.
"Try not to move okay? I'm going to call 911."
That broke him free of the fog, a panic shooting through his veins at the thought of being driven away in the back of some ambulance. They'd have to call his parents, they'd find him in the hospital, and he suspected this time wouldn't end with special attention and care. This time he'd have to explain what happened, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. No, he needed more time to figure out what he would tell them.
"No!"
He practically shouted, struggling to a seated position and wincing as a fresh jolt of pain lanced through his shoulder at the movement.
He met the strangers eye for the first time. She was around the same age as his mother, for a moment somewhere in his mind he almost thought it was her. But this woman was kinder, he could see it just in her eyes, behind the surprise of being shouted at by some kid that just hit her car, he could tell she was a kind person.
"I'm ok."
He said with as much strength as he could muster, though even he wasn't convinced at the attempt.
The woman seemed to study him for a moment, sizing him up almost. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable in ways he'd never felt before, like she was seeing right through to his soul.
He squirmed under her gaze, and only then noticed her hand still rested on his shoulder. Normally such a thing would bring him comfort, and ground him. But just like her gaze, it felt too vulnerable, too close. Like she was reaching inside him and holding his beating heart in her hand.
"I'm ok."
He said again, more sure this time as he struggled to his feet, bracing himself against this strangers SUV.
She removed her hand, but rose with him, still keeping him in that piercing stare.
"At least let me drive you to the hospital."
There was genuine concern in her voice, it almost made him break down all over again ... though he supposed the first breakdown had never really stopped. Now that he thought about it he could still feel tears slipping from his eyes, his lungs spasming with each attempt to breathe, his whole body shaking with adrenaline and emotion.
And as much as he wanted to let this kind stranger help him, something in him couldn't bear the idea. Whether it was the fear that if he let this stranger care for him enough he might loose the last stubborn resolve he had left and break altogether, or that this stranger wouldn't really care at all and would just hurt him more in some way, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was both.
But either way, he knew it felt safer to figure it out himself.
"That's really not necessary."
He tried, in his best imitation of certainty.
"Son, I don't know much about motorcycles, but this doesn't look fit to drive."
He followed her gaze to his smashed up bike, and he couldn't help but agree with her on that account.
"And you really should get to a hospital, make sure you don't have a concussion and that arm isn't broken."
The more she talked the weaker his resolve became. If he stayed much longer he might give in and let her drive him, but he couldn't do that.
"I'm fine, I'll just go home and have my parents drive me. It's just a couple houses down, I can walk."
He motioned with his uninjured arm vaguely in the direction he'd been driving.
It was a lie, of course. He was nowhere near his parents house. But he was good at that. Making up some small lie on the spot, speaking it in such a way that was entirely believable. He'd been doing it to his parents all his life. It didn't even take any thought now, the lies slipping out of his mouth before he even thought about it.
The stranger still held him in her gaze, that concern and doubt still oozing from it. But he didn't see any point in trying to convince her anymore, so he picked up his bike and walked away.
He could feel her eyes on him still, and some part of him wondered if he was supposed to say something, to do something. He wasn't sure what one was supposed to do when you smash into someone else's car while having a mental breakdown, but just walking away didn't seem quite right.
But he couldn't bring himself to care enough to figure it out. So he kept walking. The handles of his bike shaking under his trembling hands; he was certain if he didn't have his bike beside him he'd have collapsed onto the road by now, his shaking legs feeling too weak to support him.
But he kept going.
Kept walking.
Until he heard the strangers car start, the roll of her tires fading farther and farther down the road until it was silent again. He wanted to look back to make sure she was gone, but he was afraid if he stopped for even a second he'd never be able to start walking again.
He wasn't sure how long he walked for. He wasn't even sure where he was at this point. Time always seemed different on a quiet walk like this. And even though the looming dread of facing his parents still lingered in his mind, it seemed less imminent. Like as long as he kept walking his problems couldn't touch him. He wondered if he could just keep walking forever ... maybe even walk off the earth altogether.
But every now and then a car would pass beside him on the road, and something inside him would awaken. Some magnetic pull deep down he could almost physically feel. His conscious mind convinced him it was just fear, the lingering effects of such a recent event. A dread that any of these cars might smash into him too.
But deep down, deep in the dark of his subconscious ... it was the opposite. It was desire. A grim infatuation with the danger of such fast and strong machines. The knowledge that in a split second those machines could set him free. Take away all the pain and fear and hopelessness. That he could make a single choice, and everything would be fixed.
If his conscious had shared in those grim ideas of his subconscious he might have done it. He might have fixed his eyes on those headlights before him and stepped willingly into their path.
But he didn't.
He kept walking.
One foot in front of the other.
By now leaning most of his body weight onto the bike rolling beside him. And as much as he wanted to keep walking forever, to hope the world would never break this almost peaceful moment, he was getting tired. He was still shaking, his steps slowing each time.
He hadn't realized when, but the houses lining the road had grown farther and farther apart as he'd walked, and now there were only long stretches of grass and trees lining the road before him. Not another soul in sight, no cars had passed him in some time, now he thought of it.
A sudden panic started to flood his veins, but cut short, as if he'd spent all the panic he had; but just enough to shatter his moment of peace.
He had no idea where he was.
And as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn't walk much longer.
Reality came crashing down all around him again, smothering him beneath its weight.
He was alone, somewhere he didn't know, no one in sight to help him, his parents waiting at home to demand an explanation, to tell him what a failure he was. And that feeling of being trapped came flooding back. He was a caged animal, powerless, no options, no choices, no freedom. Just the unknown empty stretch of earth before him, and his parents inevitably waiting to destroy him no matter which direction he chose.
His bike slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground beside him. And he, too, slumped to the ground next to it, his head falling into his hands.
All he could do was sit there on the side of the road and cry. Deep down his conscious was embarrassed for doing it out in the open where anyone could find him, but he was too exhausted to care. Nothing mattered anyway.
So what if someone found him like this?
They wouldn't stay anyway. Wouldn't even spare him a glance. He was invisible, nobody cared, nobody had it in them to spare the time or energy. He was too broken, too far gone.
He was beyond saving.
Everyone knew it.
And now he did too.
He started to wonder if he'd ever stop crying, or if he'd finally broken all the way and he would just keep crying until his body had nothing more to give and he died.
Maybe his soul was pouring out his eyes with his tears, maybe his life would just spill out of him and soak into the ground beneath him.
Maybe beautiful flowers would grow from it and colour the side of the road forever. Maybe children would look out the car window as they drove past and ask their parents why the flowers grew in just one spot, and how they came to be such beautiful and vibrant colours.
And maybe some sad soul walking down the street would see the flowers and understand how they came to be. Maybe they would know it was the last piece of Evan Buckley, a sad soul in his own right, a broken, cheap imitation of human life. Only beautiful, only meaningful and important in death.
Maybe that's all he'd existed for at all.
To die.
Maybe he was like a firework, worthless and pathetic until his destruction ... made only for his destruction.
It was a strange concept, a thing created only for the beauty of its end. To be useless and a waste of materials and space as long as it exists, but to bring such joy and wonder as it shatters.
He wondered if that would make a difference, make it all mean something. That maybe he did have a purpose ... a reason for existing, even if he would never get to experience it for himself. He wasn't sure if it was a comforting thought, exactly. Some part of him disliked the idea that his only purpose and value was in what he could provide for other people. But then again he didn't understand how his life could ever have value at all.
And so again his parents voices returned to his mind, telling him all the ways he was failing. But he was too spent to spiral further, the voices just soft whispers in his mind without venom. It was almost grounding in a strange way, reminding him of the present reality.
The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the world around him. Long shadows drawing macabre figures on the ground that matched the looming dread inside him.
His bike was still on the ground beside him, his shirt soaked with tears. He wasn't shaking anymore, but his shoulder still hurt, and his head did too. He couldn't remember if his head hurt before he sat down on the side of the road crying for unknown hours. He might have a concussion, even though he was wearing a helmet ... but then again too much crying always did give him a headache too.
And he might be a worthless, dumbass failure, but he was smart enough to know a trip to the hospital was in his future.
He had no idea where the road ahead would take him, but he knew if he went back the way he came he would find his way to familiar roads eventually, and from there easily enough to the nearest hospital.
So he steeled himself for the journey and rose to his feet, taking his bike in tow beside him once again. The walk was much the same as the first time, but as he approached the strangers house his heart began to beat faster, fluttering with the slightest of panic that she might be there, might notice him. And how would he explain still being in the same clothes, his damaged bike still rolling beside him, clearly having taken no trip to the hospital or gone home.
But his trip remained unhindered, so even if she was home, he suspected she hadn't noticed him walking past her house again.
Rather uneventfully, he eventually made it to the hospital, and by the time he made it to the doors he'd once again put on his best mask of normalcy. Just an average young man who happened to find himself in an automobile accident, not a sad broken soul who's life might have ended hours ago if he'd only thought about it the slightest bit harder.
And the rest was as he always remembered. Checking into the hospital, being treated and discharged, going to Maddie to fix it ... and she had. Though he'd never realized just how much she really had helped.
With hindsight now, and clarity for the subconscious thoughts of his mind, he wondered how much longer he'd have survived living in his parents house. If one more day, maybe even one more night might have been all he could take.
It was a terrifying thought.
And more terrifying still was the way he realized the feelings he'd felt on the freeway today were just an amplified version of something he was quite accustomed too. The feeling he got everytime he crossed the street, or did something risky at work. That pull, that magnetism; that feeling of something inside his chest being drawn to something, to danger ... to death.
He'd told Natalia he was old acquaintances with death, and he realized now just how accurate it was. Not only because he had died, but because most of his life was spent with death reaching it's hand out to him, and that thing inside him reaching back.
Even in his coma dream, when he'd died and yet lived again. Nearly every manifestation of his mind was trying to keep him there ... to let him die. Yes they'd appeared as his parents, as Daniel, even Chimeny and Christopher. But it was his own mind. It was that voice inside that seemed to have been born the day he first thought of ending his life, and existed only for that purpose. To remind him of that desire, to reach out to death.
And even if he'd never quite been aware of it until this moment, somehow he knew he'd never be free of it. That as long as he lived, so would that thing in the back of his mind whispering sweet songs of peace and quiet and freedom that can never be found in the world of the living.
It scared him, the thought that one day that voice might win. But it was a quiet fear, a shadow in the corner of a well lit room that's always there but rarely troubles you.
He knew he was okay now, he didn't need to heed the voice or the worry of its message. When it spoke again, he'd deny it again, as was their dance.
And if some day he listened?
Stopped fighting the voice and embraced it?
Well he'd just have to face that time when it came.
And not waste the moments the voice was silent in worrying it might speak up.