aaaaand finished the rest of the cast!! ....and i'll do it again. honestly, drawing them is so fun JKFdgfd

Vinea is 100% on Coda's route but he can't help and dote and be a mom-friend to everyone around!!.. especially when it comes to being a wingman for his future brother-in-law. he will die on that hill

I don't normally write coda's because I can't write shorts to save my life (and this is no different - I've already got plans for where it's going to go). Still, this week's episode made me a little angry, and I'd been contemplating some form of "Buck finally crashes out" fic, so here it is.

How it Starts

It starts as a tactic Dr. Copeland gave him, back when he was trying to navigate a new relationship with his parents.  After being ignored and told he was too much his whole life, they suddenly want to be involved, and it was fine.  It was better than nothing. It was nice that they wanted to make an effort.  But it didn’t go well.  For every reaction he has, and every emotion he showed, his mom would break into tears and act like he was personally attacking her.

"Have you heard of the 'Grey Rock Response?'" Dr. Copeland had asked him during one of his solo sessions.  When he'd shaken his head, she'd explained a little more. "It's not a long-term solution in a relationship, but it is a tool you can use in specific situations."

Buck feels like his life right now might be one of those situations.

It had felt like looking at a funhouse mirror, hearing Hen say all of the things he’s been feeling for months.  It twists something inside his guts, hearing her say that she’d kept everything secrete because no one had asked, as though he had tried to check in with her regularly in the aftermath of Bobby’s death.  As though he hadn’t stopped by to drop off home cooked meals and baked goods after the space capsule had returned to earth. 

He’s constantly reached out, with questionnaires, care packages of baked goods, and offers to hang out only to be brushed off, or gently turned down by Karen on Hen’s behalf.  

It has him second-guessing himself, if maybe he hadn’t made himself as available as he could have in the seven months between Eddie taking over his home again and settling into his own place. He’d thought about inviting everyone over for a house warming, but between Deryl living in his attic and… everything else, he’d just never planned it.

He almost apologizes, especially seeing the contrite expressions on everyone in the room, but then Hen says “He was our captain, but he was my friend,” like Bobby hadn’t died so Chimney could live, like Bobby somehow meant more to her than he did to anyone else in the room for being her friend.  Like Buck hadn’t lost one of the most important people in his life. 

Evan is seething, thinking of all the times he’s tried to be there for her, for everyone, only to told he’s making everything all about himself.  He balls his hands into fists in his lap, white knuckled, blunt nails digging into his palms, and says nothing.

When Hen collapses, for a brief, bitter moment, he’s angry that she’s taken the wind out of his sails, and he’s disgusted with himself for it.

Tellus (aka Coda) (he/him)

Tellus is your childhood friend, but he is no longer that sweet boy who once gazed at you so adoringly. He is bitter and angry, closed off from his fellow Resistenza members. Tellus is air-attuned, and his superior eyesight makes him an excellent marksman—the best sniper in the Resistenza.

“Evan?”

The sound sent a jolt down Buck’s spine. It wasn’t an altogether uncomfortable sensation; he turned away from the counter at the coffee shop and towards the source of the voice as the jolt settled into a kind of knotted, hopeful warmth in his stomach. His eyes scraped across the rows of tables filled with clusters of people happily chatting.

Tommy’s face twisted with shock and alarm as Buck’s eyes met his. One of the knots in Buck’s stomach untangled as he took in the fact that Tommy was sitting by himself with the day’s paper laid across his table.

Tommy stood, motioning towards the seat across from him as his brows furrowed down. Buck could feel Tommy’s concerned energy drawing in other onlookers around the coffee shop; the hum of conversation dulled as people watched Buck walk to Tommy’s table. Tommy couldn’t wipe the surprised look off his face; he watched carefully as Buck sat, taking in the half-healed scrape across one cheek and the still-sickly purple of the bruise on the other.

The noise cautiously picked back up around them, although Buck could still feel side eyes darting his way. He had gotten used to the strange looks in the last week, but under Tommy’s stare, he felt oddly exposed. He did not fidget or look away; he simply waited as Tommy assessed him.

“What happened?” Tommy’s voice was low and soft.

Buck wasn’t sure if he had come to this coffee shop intentionally. He knew Tommy came here often, that he considered their dark roast the best in the city, that if he had a day off he would come buy an actual, physical paper here and spend his morning reading it. Had he sought this out? He’d come here a few times since they’d broken up, but never because he conscientiously thought to himself: maybe I’ll see Tommy. And despite his own occasional appearances, he hadn’t run into him here, not until today, when he looked beat to hell and his chin was more scab than skin and he still couldn’t see out of the bottom of his left eye because of his stubbornly swollen cheek.

“Cappuccino for Buck!” A voice called out behind him.

Tommy pushed himself up, making a kind of disapproving tsk before Buck could move. Buck could feel the lingering sideways glances shifting from him to Tommy as he walked to the counter and back. He appreciated the momentary reprieve.

Tommy set the mug down and sat again, waiting for an answer to his question. This silence between them was unusual in its depth and softness. Tommy gave no indication of impatience or irritation, and for once, Buck felt no urgency in making the quiet end. He allowed himself to revel in it, to let more knots in his stomach unwind as he enjoyed having a person here who was worried about him without hammering him with questions, advice, or directions on how to handle himself. For the first time in weeks, he felt able to think, unencumbered by Maddie or an ER doctor or someone at the 118 hovering around him as though he needed constant attention. He felt the expanse of what Tommy was offering by simply waiting, wordless.

“I was in a car accident,” he said at last. “On my way back from the firefighter games. The person who hit us kidnapped me.”

“Wait, you went to the firefighter games? How was it?” At last, Tommy’s expression shifted from worry to intrigue. Buck smiled, even though it hurt. He had been asked, by all the people he loved and who loved him: what happened? Who did this? Why? How? Are you okay? He had been asked: do you need anything? Do you want soup or do you want casserole? Do you want a ride to the doctor? He had been asked: did you take your antibiotics? Did you change the bandage? Did you schedule your follow up? He had not been asked: how were the games?

Buck spoke; Tommy listened. When Tommy finished questioning him about the games, he pulled at the other threads of conversation Buck had offered up, asking if Buckleys were genetically predisposed to kidnapping, until Buck finished giving him an exhaustive account of what happened. It was, he realized as he recounted his conversation about grief with Bonnie while Tommy grew pale, the first time he had told the complete story.

“Wow,” Tommy said, and they fell back into silence. He was seated in front of a window, and in the time Buck had explained his adventures of the past few weeks, the sun had shifted to just above Tommy’s left shoulder, beaming directly onto the glass sugar dish between them and throwing blocky colors across the wall. Around them, the rubberneckers and eavesdroppers had all been long reabsorbed back into their own conversations.

“Now what?” Tommy asked.

Buck shrugged. “I should probably go home. Change this bandage. Rest some more. Let myself heal.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

The question was surprising. Nobody had thought to ask Buck what he wanted, only what he needed. “I don’t know. I never feel tired, but I sleep all the time. My body just needs it, I guess.”

Tommy nodded. “It does. You kinda look like I did after we took on some friendly fire in Afghanistan and our caravan flipped.”

“You’ve never told me about that before,” Buck said. He was grateful that Tommy was neither pitying nor fretting. He appreciated the constant concern from everyone around him, but it was exhausting.

“Yeah, well. Your story is more exciting. No one tried to take me hostage. And I was in a war zone!” Tommy paused. “At least I didn’t lose any teeth like the guy next to me did. It was probably a month before I looked like myself again.”

Buck swallowed the last of his cappuccino. It was cold now; Tommy hated when his coffee got cold. Buck never minded it.

“Can I…” Tommy started. “I mean, do you…” his voice trailed off. Buck felt the last of the knots undo itself and was left with just the warm feeling now. It was stronger than the dull ache he’d felt on his face since the crash. He pushed his empty mug towards Tommy and leaned forward.

“You can put this back on the counter for me,“ he started. “And you can make sure I get home safely. If you want. That’s what I want.”

Tommy took the mug. “I want that, too.”

~~~~

Do you guys remember when i updated this like every week? lol me neither