A Compelling Plurality of Axes

Downfall Records is a real extreme metal record label from Gothenburg, I've borrowed them for the occasion.

Song titles except collapse aren't fic-canon, though I tried to stick to the theme and aesthetics. Given that the album deals heavily with Dag's loss, the idea was to chronicle a collapse and subsequent rebuilding, hopefully in a way that's clear even with just song titles.

Rotting wasp nest is based on yellowjackets nests, but also on the artwork of Pink Floyd's The Wall.

New Phorid logo designed especially to fit on the damn album art, if anyone wants to use it hit me up for a .png!

”Buck?” Hen's face appeared above him.

”I can't feel my legs.”

Instantly, there was alarm in the slope of her brows. ”What happened?”

”I tripped.”

Hen was touching his legs through the heavy fabric. ”Can you feel this?”

”Yes.” It felt like he was losing time. Suddenly, Chimney was there. And Eddie. He blinked and Ravi appeared behind Hen's shoulder.

He was pulled to his feet. He was as surprised as the rest of them, when he could stand on his own. Hen was professional, but the concern underneath was obvious.

”We're getting you checked out, just to be safe.” He only caught half of what Hen was saying.

”Do I have to ride in the back?”

”Just to be safe,” she said again.

His vitals were fine, but they hooked him up to the monitor anyway. To be safe. He watched the ceiling of the ambulance, as they rode to the nearest hospital. He didn't know who was driving. Eddie would make sense. Hen was talking to someone, but Buck couldn't really hear it. There were no sirens.

The transfer was weird. They had him take off his turnouts in the ambulance bay, before presenting him with a wheelchair. His legs worked, even though he couldn't feel them. The nurse holding the chair smiled at him. Buck sat down and let them take him away.

It was busy, like it always was. The noise closed around him like a blanket. Everything was muffled and sort of out of focus. If it wasn't for the uniform, they probably would've had him wait in the chairs, instead of taking him straight back. They stuck him in a bay. The person next to him had a brand new cast on their arm.

Someone pulled the curtain shut around the bed. The noise was still there, but it was easier to see. Hen was still with him.

”How're you feeling?”

”I don't know,” he muttered. Without his turnouts, he could touch his legs. He ran his hands up and down his thighs. There was some amount of sensation, but it felt dull. Maybe delayed. ”Where're the others?”

”Waiting room.”

”They should head out.”

Hen looked at him for a beat. ”They will, if you're OK.”

”I am.”

Time skipped again. Someone had asked him questions, but he didn't remember answering them. Hen was talking to them. They weren't wearing scrubs or a coat. His eyes tracked Hen, as she came back.

”They're gonna take you upstairs.”

”What's upstairs?” he asked.

”Psych is upstairs. They think you're experiencing a mental health episode.”

He nodded. ”OK. Are you gonna head out?”

”I'm not allowed to come with you, so I will, yes.”

He didn't like the way she was looking at him. It was soft and … and something else. He patted his pockets and started pulling stuff out. ”You should take my knives. I don't wanna lose them.” He handed over his knives and a handful of other bits. ”Can I keep my phone?”

”Probably. They didn't say if you needed to be admitted, but you're not on a hold.” He watched her cram his stuff into her pockets. ”Tell them to call me, when they know more, yeah?”

”I will.”

*

”Dissociative episode?”

”Yes, Mr. Buckley. A mild one.”

By the tone of her voice, he'd asked before. ”Is it dangerous?”

”Generally speaking, no. It may very well be a one off. Although, given your history, you might have been experiencing dissociation without noticing for some time. It's a symptom and I highly recommend you talk to someone. It's treatable, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you here.”

”I can leave?”

”Yes, you can. I'd be more comfortable if someone came to take you home, but I can't stop you from walking out on your own.”

”I can make some calls.”

”Would you like me to do it for you?”

”Uh, no. I-I can manage.”

He instinctually went for the stairwell. If the building was up to code, it was usually the safest place to be. Sound travelled weirdly, but it was relatively quiet. He sat on their stairs and scrolled through his contacts. If he called the station, the whole crew would come running, sirens and all. They'd already done it once.

Maddie would be upset. She was at work, so she'd be busy, too, but she would probably drop everything and come anyway.

Tommy. It would be such a shitty thing to do. Come save me again. No, he couldn't ask him that. Although, maybe Tommy would know more about this than he did. He could call Tommy, ask some questions and hang up.

”Evan?”

He didn't remember making the call or putting the phone to his ear. ”Hi, Tommy.”

”Everything OK?”

”Do you have PTSD?”

The line was silent for a moment. Someone entered the stairwell above him, hurried down one flight, slamming the door after them. The sound ricocheted. Buck felt his whole body go tight.

”I have PTSD. Why do you ask?”

”Dissociation,” he forced out between clenched teeth. ”Have you– Do you know what that is?”

”I do.”

”How do I– How do you– What am I supposed to do?”

”Where are you?”

”First Pres. They told me I can go home, but I don't know what to do.” His throat was parched. ”You're on shift, aren't you?”

”On a call, actually.”

Great. He was still ex-boyfriend of the fucking year. ”Why'd you pick up the phone?”

”Because it was your name on the screen. Who's taking you home?”

His eyes were watering. ”I don't know. I'm here alone and I don't know who to call.” There was noise in his head. It took a moment to pinpoint it was coming from Tommy's end of the line and not the stairwell he was sitting in.

”I can be there in twenty minutes.”

”That's not why I called.”

”You're dissociating alone in a hospital. I've been there. Do you want me to come get you?”

”Please.”

*

He couldn't tell if it was getting better. He kept checking his phone for the time, but the numbers didn't stick. It could have been twenty minutes, it could have been more, it could have been less.

He'd moved from the stairwell, to a chair near what looked like the reception. He hadn't been to this part of the hospital before.

When Tommy found him, he was in uniform. Buck had called him on scene, knew the likelihood of him being on shift, knew the only way he could make it to the hospital in twenty mintues, was if he got a ride immediately, yet the sight of the uniform was what made all those things connect to each other.

”You left work for me.”

Tommy reached out, rubbing his hand firmly up and down Buck's arm. ”I did. Hi, Evan.”

”Hi.”

”Do you need to sign out or anything?”

”I don't know.”

”That's OK, I'll ask.”

He should have been paying attention, but he couldn't. His entire focus narrowed down to Tommy's hand on his arm and the way the light caught on the metal of Tommy's name tag and shield.

”Do you have your belongings?”

Buck nodded. ”Gave Hen my stuff before she left, I only have my phone and ID.” He patted his chest pocket, feeling the plastic. There was no pen in the pocket. He must have handed that over, too.

Tommy steered him out of the hospital, hand heavy and firm on his back or his arm, depending on how much space was available. He didn't register much, until he was sitting down. Tommy had sat him down on a bench outside.

”How're you feeling?”

”Weird.”

Tommy squeezed his arm again. ”Have you dissociated before?”

”The doctor said I probably have, but I don't know.”

Tommy nodded. ”Most people don't notice, until it's a problem.”

”Why are you squeezing me?”

”Can you feel it?”

”Not really. Is that bad?”

”No, it's not bad. It's a grounding technique. Different people need different things.” He held out his arm. ”Can you feel me?”

With both hands, Buck grabbed Tommy's forearm. His skin was warm, the hair was scritchy. ”I can feel you.”

”If it helps, keep going. Do you need me to call anyone?”

Buck stroked up and down Tommy's arm. The feeling of the hair against his palm felt good. He did the same thing to his own arm, but it didn't feel like anything, so he stuck to Tommy's arm. ”Maybe Hen? I don't really know what to do. I can't work like this, can I?”

”Probably not.” Tommy got out his phone. ”Once you get a handle on it, you'll be fine, but until then.”

Buck tried to pay attention, but it was hard to focus on anything other than how weird he felt. It wasn't like being tired. He'd been a bit panicked earlier, but he knew he could trust Tommy to handle things.

”Evan?”

”Sorry, what?”

Tommy held the phone away from his ear. ”Do you wanna swing by the station or go straight home?”

”My car's at the station.”

”We'll swing by the station first.” Buck couldn't tell if Tommy was talking to him or not.

Tommy put his hand on his knee and squeezed. ”Here's what we'll do. I'll order an Uber, we'll go to the station, get your things, tell Howie you need time off, and then I'll drive you home. Does that sound OK?”

He scritched Tommy's arm hair. ”Sounds good.”

*

Tommy must have covered it over the phone, because Hen didn't ask anything, other than how he was feeling.

”Tired. Weird. Out of it.”

”I bet,” Hen said gently, as she handed over the stuff from his pockets. ”Are you OK with,” she pointed to Tommy. Tommy made a face and she made one back.

”Yeah, I'm fine.”

”I can take you to Maddie's place, if you want?” Tommy said.

”No, I'd rather be home. She doesn't need a third baby.”

Tommy didn't say fourth, but Buck could feel him thinking it.

”You've got time?” Hen asked.

”Got a forty-eight off starting tomorrow. I already cleared it,” Tommy said. Buck didn't bother asking when he'd made the arrangements, because he'd probably been right next to him, out of his mind and not listening.

He got an intense sense of déjà vu, when he asked Chim for time off, even though he wasn't alone this time. Tommy was standing at his shoulder, still squeezing his arm intermittently. Here and there, he felt it more.

”Give me an update in a couple of days.”

”Thanks, Chim.”

”You've got it. Wanna keep Maddie out of the loop?”

Buck grimaced. ”For now, maybe? There's nothing she can do and I don't want her to worry.”

Chimney looked at Tommy. ”Want me to keep a lid on that, too?”

Buck sighed and looked to the heavens. ”Do what you want, I can't deal with whatever this is right now.”

”What?” Chimney frowned.

”The hostility. I'm gonna go home before I throw up. Thanks for the time off.” He grabbed Tommy by the hand and led them to the locker room.

Tommy took his duffel before he had the chance to do anything with it. ”Are you nauseous?”

”I'm a lot of things.” He fished his car keys out of the side pocket and handed them over. ”Can we go?”

”Of course.” Tommy shouldered the bag and moved the keys to the same side, so he could hold Buck's hand. ”Let's get you home.”

Tommy put his bag in the backseat, while Buck climbed in. It felt weird sitting in his car in his uniform. The car shook, as Tommy slammed the driver's side door. Ravi waved as they pulled out and gestured to the phone in his hand, in a way that probably meant text me.

Maybe he could ask Tommy to type a message for the group chat later. If he did it himself, he wouldn't know what to say. Sorry I lost my mind today.

They'd been driving for a bit, when he finally managed to make himself ask, ”Should I be scared?”

”No,” Tommy said. ”Not about this. It's OK if you are, it feels horrible, especially in the beginning, but you don't need to be scared of it. You're not about to be admitted. Nothing is going to happen to you. You'll learn how to handle it and you'll be OK.”

”That sounds too easy.”

Tommy smiled softly. ”It does. It's not easy, but the sun will still rise tomorrow.”

”The sun will still rise?” he huffed.

”I've got more, if you want?”

”Sure.”

”Even your worst day will end. Doesn't matter how bad it is, the day will end. Time doesn't care, it'll go on whether you want it to or not, and sometimes a new day is all you need.”

”You really believe that?”

Tommy shrugged. ”I don't know if believe is the right word. There's no way to pause time, so it's true, even if it sounds corny.”

”You think tomorrow will be better?”

”You hit your limit today. The limit is not always a hard line. It doesn't have to be dramatic. Once you hit you limit, you hit it, it doesn't have to be something big. I've had panic attacks in so many grocery stores. And it's never anything special. A toddler crying in the distance, when I haven't slept well. The lights flickering in a weird way. Catching my own reflection in a freezer door. It's stupid, it's annoying, it's always inconvenient. It sucks, but life goes on. Sometimes the next day is worse, but there's a day after that that might be better.”

”Sounds like suicide prevention.”

”It is.”

Buck wasn't sure he liked how easily Tommy talked about it. Tommy didn't talk like this, unless an engine was involved.

”Hey.” Tommy tapped him on the thigh. ”I'm a vet. I'm in the demographic.”

”Oh. No, I know, I just … I forgot.”

At the next red light, Tommy turned in his seat. ”Better or worse?”

Buck took a moment to check. His legs still didn't feel attached. He curled his toes in his boots. It didn't do much of anything, but that could just be the boots. ”Worse, I think. Or maybe just different.”

”What you said to Howie, what was that about?”

Buck brushed him off, ”Doesn't matter.”

He could hear Tommy squeeze the steeringwheel. ”Getting upset can make the dissociation worse. You looked upset.”

”He's been criticising me lately. I don't think it's warranted,” he sniffed. ”But what do I know, I'm not a captain.”

”I've been doing this twice as long as you, and you're better than me. If Howard has a problem with you, it's not about your skills. You're one of the best firefighters I've ever met.”

Buck looked into the middle distance. ”Can you pull over?”

Tommy checked all the mirrors. ”Not really. Hold on.” He changed lanes a little too tightly, earning two horns and a rude gesture.

Buck was out of the car, before it was at a full stop. He moved too fast and ended up on his knees. Tommy came around the front, as fast as he could.

”Evan.”

Buck was breathing too fast. His fingers were tingling. ”I don't like this.” The grass under his knees was brittle and dead.

”Talk to me.”

Tommy was crouched beside him. He fumbled for Tommy's forearm and dug his fingers into the skin. ”Why does it feel like this?”

”I think you're having a panic attack, honey. You're not breathing right.” Tommy's other hand settled between his shoulderblades. He could barely feel it.

”How do– How do I make it stop?”

Tommy took his hand. It felt weak and numb in his grip. Tommy flattened his fingers against his chest and held it there. ”Breathe with me.”

Buck felt stupid and useless. He knew how to talk people through panic attacks. He knew what to say, knew how to box breathe, but he couldn't make himself do it. He hated Tommy's shirt. It was full of buttons and sharp things. He wanted it to be soft like a t-shirt or bare skin.

”Evan, come on. You've got this.”

”I don't,” he cried.

”You do, come on.”

Instead of following Tommy's breathing, he curled into Tommy's chest. Weirdly, it was easier to breathe while sobbing. Tommy's arms felt heavy around his shoulders, and real, like nothing else had all day.

”I've got you,” Tommy said into the crown of his head. ”I've got you.”

”I hate this.”

”I know, baby, I know, it fucking sucks, but you're OK.”

He felt like a child. ”I wanna go home.”

”We'll go in a minute. Keep breathing.”

Buck hiccupped, until he couldn't cry anymore. Tommy was muttering into his hair, but Buck couldn't hear it over the rushing in his ears. As he looked over Tommy's shoulder, he recognised the gas station close to his house. ”Can we go now?”

Judging by the sound, Tommy kissed the back of his head. ”Yeah, baby, we can go. Can you stand?”

With Tommy's help, he could. Tommy practically lifted him into the car. The car wasn't quiet, but when the driver's side door closed, Buck's ears rang as if it was.

”Evan?”

”I feel like I overreacted.”

”You reacted. Nothing over about it.”