it was so hard to choose just one but bucktommy + "You keep saying you're fine and your hands keep shaking and I need you to pick one." ❤️
Aren't these great prompts?! But yes, this is a particularly good one from the list. The hard part now is who to hurt and who to give comfort because both are so good! I'm of course tempted to give my good friend Tommy Kinard another shove into the torment nexus because Buck gets thrown in all the time but the problem there is that he never (okay very rarely!) gets comfort.
But then, as those Road to El Dorado guys say: both is good. (This did maybe skew more hurt than comfort but I think a lot of future comfort is implied.)
Buck has imagined a million scenarios where he runs into Tommy. Getting coffee or at the grocery store or at the gym. There's been dozens of times they probably should have bumped into each other at a scene, at least long enough to glimpse one another. At least long enough for Buck to get an idea if there's any coming back from everything that's happened without having to text or call with no idea what Tommy's face was doing in response.
(In the middle of the night, when he's torturing himself the worst, Buck tells himself: he picked up. Even after that awful morning, I called when I needed him and he picked up.
But it's the middle of the night so he doesn't call and then it's daylight and thoughts feel different when the sun is up.)
This, though? This isn't a scenario he's imagined. He's only here because he's delivering scarves and shawls that the knitting group has made. Since a previous member of the group went through cancer (she survived but moved to Seattle with her daughter) the group has semi regularly sent items to help with the cold sensitivity that many chemo patients experience.
Usually he drops them off and the nurses distribute them but today he's prompted to go offer them because they'd run out from the last batch Buck brought. (And they know he always pre washes everything in gentle detergent and can be trusted not to make anyone sicker.)
And there he is, head back, eyes closed, sitting in one of those recliners with an IV next to him slowly sending chemicals into his body.
Buck can't move. He's not even sure he's breathing. The N95 he's wearing to come in and hand out knitted items isn't having to do any work at all right now.
It can't be Tommy. It can't be.
The guy's got a bandana on, sitting too low on his eyebrows like it's slipped down. He's wearing a mask, too. It should be impossible to tell it's Tommy.
And it's not Tommy. Because Tommy's fine. Tommy's healthy. Tommy's probably flying right this minute and-
Tommy opens his eyes and looks around. Buck realizes he's been staring, realizes his staring is probably exactly why Tommy's opened his eyes, feeling the weight of it, and then before he can think of anything to do to hide… Tommy is looking right at him.
Buck could try to run, could try to pretend he's not exactly who he is. He's wearing a mask, after all! But he's also wearing an LAFD hoodie and he's got a prominent birthmark right in plain view well above the mask and…
Still holding the box full of scarves and shawls, Buck somehow manages to make his feet move and carry him closer to Tommy. “What are you…?”
Buck stops himself before he can finish asking the world's stupidest question.
Tommy’s eyes crinkle. “New hobby. I skipped coke and heroin and went right for the really hard stuff.”
Sucking in a breath like he's been punched, Buck weaves slightly on his feet. “Jesus, Tommy.”
The eye-crinkle dies quickly and Tommy points to the empty visitor's chair beside him. “Sit, Evan, before you fall. I can't catch you.”
Buck sits. He's putting the box of knitting on the little table between them when that hits him. I can't catch you.
Suddenly his breath is hitching and he can't stop.
“Hey. Hey, no, Evan. It's… please. It's okay. Don't… You don't have to-”
“D-d-don't have to wh-what? Care about you? You asshole. Why didn't you tell me?”
What Buck can see of Tommy’s face pinches closed. “Why would I? You don't need to deal with this shit.”
“You shouldn't be dealing with it alone!” Buck keeps his voice low; he's not going to disturb anyone else here. But he's pissed.
“Lots of people do this alone,” Tommy continues.
“But you shouldn't have to!”
“I don't always, okay? Sal usually comes, but-”
“You told Sal.” Buck can't say why that hurts, he just knows that it does. Sal is Tommy's friend though. It shouldn't be a surprise that he'd have his friend here instead of his…
“My captain called the union to check some things for me. Sal was the one that took the call.”
Buck drops his face into his hands, crushing his mask and jabbing the edge into the soft tissue under his eyes. “Of course,” he mutters. “Jesus, Tommy.” Thinking he'd told Sal and not him had hurt but that Tommy wouldn't have told anyone…
“I'm fine, Evan. It's just an extra precaution. The surgery went well, they just want to be sure…”
Buck scrubs over his face with his hands then settles his mask back into place. “Alright. Then tell me. Tell me everything.”
He makes Tommy go over all of it. Type, size, surgeon, prognosis. He's searching every detail for hidden devils.
“Okay. How are you getting home? Please tell me you didn't drive yourself.”
“You took an Uber, didn't you?”
Buck very politely holds back a scream. “I want Sal's number.”
“Because I can't yell at you right now but I can yell at him. I can't believe he let you take an Uber-”
“Lyft,” Buck corrects, gritting his teeth, “to chemotherapy. Are you both this critically stupid?”
Tommy shrugs, his expression seeming to say, 'probably.’ But before Buck can add that to the ever-increasing reasons he's going to scream and scream and scream, Tommy winces and his eyes pinch with pain.
“What?” Buck says, sitting up and leaning forward.
“Just sore, Evan. One of the many benefits of this expensive little hobby I've picked up.”
“What's your pain management?”
Tommy heaves a sigh. “Can we… do this later? Or - I'll tell you what - I'll see if I can get a copy of my charts sent to you.”
His eyes are still pinched with pain and more exhaustion, too, so Buck decides to let it go.
“Tell me about you, Evan. The last two life updates I got were pretty extreme. What's going on with you lately? Has the 118 made contact with alien life yet? That's the only thing left to guess now, I think.”
“I'm fine,” Buck answers.
Tommy watches him in a silence that has never felt so awkward between them, even on that morning that went so wrong.
“Ooookay,” Tommy finally says, dragging the word out. “Well. What brings you to our fine little drug den today?”
Buck blinks. “Oh. Uh. I was bringing these.” He flaps a hand towards the box between them.
Peering at the box, Tommy leans closer before dropping back against the cushioning of the chair. “What's that?” he asks and Buck doesn't miss the wince as he settles.
“Scarves and shawls. ‘Cause…’cause people get cold with… here.”
“People do,” Tommy agrees vaguely, like it's a distant concept he only barely recalls. “And you… had spare?”
“No! We… we make them. My knitting group.”
“You made these?” Alertness and interest creeps back into Tommy's voice.
“But you made some of them?”
“Just one scarf. I'm still working on accuracy over speed.”
“Show me.” Tommy's eyes are bright with interest and temporarily unpinched.
Buck digs through the box and pulls out a scarf in mottled browns and burgundies. “I made this one.” He holds it up between his hands, the scarf draped like bunting.
Tommy reaches, then lowers his hands before asking reverently, “Can I?”
Passing it over, Buck then watches as Tommy holds it close to inspect it, his big blunt fingers delicate with the thing as if afraid he might pull it apart. “It's beautiful, Evan.”
Ducking his head, Buck swallows heavily. He certainly never expected Tommy to be holding it when he made it and seeing him with it is making it hard to breathe again.
He looks up to find those keen blue eyes watching him.
“You keep saying you're fine and your hands keep shaking and I need you to pick one.”
Buck quickly drops his hands to his knees, running his palms over the denim of his jeans.
Swallowing again, Buck finds himself caught in Tommy's gaze.
“F-fine. I'm not fine. I… I didn't…didn't expect to see you…”
“Oh.” It's just one syllable but it's heavy with hurt. Tommy tries to give the scarf back and when Buck doesn't take it, he drops it in the box. Or tries to, it's half hanging out and when the weight of the dangling end starts pulling the rest out, Tommy lunges to save it. He grips it, panting, and stuffs it back in the box.
“S-sorry,” he huffs, his mask shifting like a bellows as he breathes heavily. “Didn't mean to keep you. I'm sure you have better places to be.”
“What…? What's… I don't… what's happening?”
“I'm sorry, Evan. I've tried to stay out of your way. I'd leave, but…” he gestures at the IV with another wince.
“Y-yeah. You can't leave this time. So you want me to.”
Tommy doesn't respond, doesn't meet his eyes.
“Don't you ever get tired of running away?”
Now Tommy's eyes snap up to meet Evan's. “Sometimes it's running, yeah. And sometimes it's just taking yourself out of the vicinity of people who don't want you around.”
“When have I ever not wanted you around?”
Tommy's eyes blaze at him. “Aside from right now? I can think of a really, really blatant time.”
Sucking in a breath, Buck grabs his knees again, his hands shaking enough he's intensely aware of it.
“It's fine, Evan,” Tommy says and the words are so thick with exhaustion they seem to clunk out of him like bricks slipping from his grasp. “You didn't expect to have to see me today and… I'm hardly at my best, whatever that even is.”
“I didn't expect to see you here. This isn't about running into some neighbor you don't like while stuck in a check out line.”
“It's you, Tommy. Here. Sick and alone and I didn't even…” Buck's vehemence cracks, leaving just aching sadness. “I didn't even know,” he whispers.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Buck asks again.
“How could I? I thought about it. I thought about it a million times. But… I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't say ‘cancer’ after you lost Bobby, couldn't…” Tommy looks away. “I couldn't risk you showing up out of some… some misplaced sense of duty.”
“‘M-misplaced sense of duty’? Is that why you think I'd want to be here? How are you so smart and so… so… How do you not understand that I care about you?”
Tommy looks at him again, his hands restless in his lap. “I know you did one time, Evan,” he says so, so gently. “And I broke that. But you don't have to pretend…”
“I'm not pretending! I never pretended anything with you! You're the only one I-”
“Gentlemen? Is everything okay over here?” A nurse lays a hand on Buck's shoulder.
“Y-yes. Sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb anyone.”
“Sorry, Carol,” Tommy adds.
“Okay,” the nurse says, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Do you need anything?”
Tummy shakes his head, his eyes crinkling slightly like he's feigning a smile. “I'm good, thanks.”
“Okay.” She moves to the monitor for the infusion pump on the IV stand. “Almost done. You've got about ten minutes left.”
She moves on to another patient and silence falls awkwardly over them.
Buck breaks it with, “I'm driving you home.”
With that little victory, Buck leans forward and takes the scarf he made out of the box again. “Are you cold? Do you get cold with… all this?”
When Tommy looks at him, Buck is sent reeling. He'd forgotten what it was like when Tommy looked at him with that fondness. He'd forgotten how it felt like the sun had come out after a long Pennsylvania winter.
“Please take it,” Buck whispers.
As Buck distributes the shawls and scarves, he glances back to see Tommy holding the scarf in his lap, petting his fingers over it like it's a kitten.
Bucks hands shake as he carefully wraps a scarf around a woman's neck for her.
But this time they're shaking because he's got something delicate he doesn't want to mess up. Someone he'd somehow never noticed he needed to be careful with because he seemed so sturdy and strong and capable.
It's okay, though. Buck's learned a lot from knitting, after all. Like patience.
And… when you make a mistake, you can back up and fix it.
This is a project he refuses to frog.
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