#kris writes

Notes: I had this little scene in my head immediately after finishing playing RE9. Where is Claire?? Why wasn't she mentioned?? Is she sick at home? Maybe with kids? without kids? WHERE IS CLAIRE REDFIELD CAPCOM!!! No beta I apologize

Buck bites back a groan as he digs in his pocket. Every movement feels like digging glass into his joints, a spiking heat tied tight like a knot that pulls tighter and tighter till his fingers finally find purchase on his phone. He thoughts feel like phantom things, slipping eager and liquid between Buck's fingers as he tries to keep track of what he was doing. What he needs to do. His phone is in his hand. "Help," he manages, voice choked tight. "I need-" Buck's voice catches in his throat again. His head drops hard onto the unforgiving ground under him and for a moment Buck relishes the grind and press of the sharp little stones under him, the pinpricks of pain helping ground him amongst the ocean of where everything else is aching. Help. He needs help. His phone is in his hand. The screen crunches ominously under his fingers as he stabs clumsily at it, but it still turns on despite the delta of cracks spider-webbing across the screen. It's bright even against the endless white of the sky overhead and Buck squints, trying to order the shapes and lines into something that will make sense. There's a voicemail, the notification badge settled across Buck's lock screen in damning cheery green, contact name barely visible through the dust and cracks that make up his phone screen- 1 New Message From: Tommy.

Buck wakes with gravel in his mouth. For a moment, it's just him, silence and dark buzzing behind closed eyes like angry bees and blocking everything else out. Buck exhales and dust flutters around his face in a damp fan. He doesn't move. Doesn't think. Every bone, every part of his body is trained on nothing. On not moving. Like maybe Buck can simple will reality out of existence if he stays still enough. When Buck was 20, he crashed his motor cycle. In that one weightless, infinite moment before he'd hit the ground, there hadn't been anything. No rage, no chasmic pit in his stomach threatening to swallow him hole. Just empty air as his hands left the handlebars. And his body hit the ground. Buck inhales and the world comes clamoring back with all the grace of a car crash. It's a choking, stabbing breath, like someone twisting a knife in between his ribs, lungs filled with dirt and red-hot heat. Buck chokes and breathes in again, trying to get enough air to cut off the rising whine he can feel trying to worm it sway past his clenched teeth. His brain keeps telling him he's still falling but Buck's body is undeniably on the ground, his foot scraping helplessly over the hard dirt under him as Buck grasps desperately for some kind of purchase.

The bed was empty when Buck woke up. The sudden strangeness of not seeing Tommy there was more effective at jarring Buck awake than any alarm would. He pawed around for his phone, squinting at the sudden burst of light as he checked the time—2am. Definitely too early to be awake. There was a quiet clink from the kitchen. Still squinting, Buck hauled himself up, letting a palm on the wall guide him with half-closed eyes towards the dim light down the hall. "Hey, everything okay?" Buck murmured, watching Tommy fuss with the electric kettle. He'd turned the light over the stove on, casting the kitchen in a warm glow. It felt like they were in a bubble, a pocket of gold light in the middle of the night. Just the two of them for miles. Tommy shifted at Buck's question, an acknowledgement until he'd finished setting the kettle on its stand to boil before turning fully to Buck. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he said, scrubbing a hand down his face before leaning back against the cabinets. He looked more awake than Buck had seen him in several days, but the fatigue still hung off him like a physical weight. Heavy. Like it's an effort to just exist and move around in space. "It's nice to see you up," Buck said, moving to lean against the counter next to him, their shoulders brushing as the kettle gurgled quietly in the background. Tommy was still sleep warm where their skin touched, sheet creases just visible under the dark hair on his arms. "For whatever meaning of the word." Tommy exhaled, body dropping with the movement of it. For a moment, it was just the two of them, a mirror of how Buck had fallen asleep earlier; side by side, listening to Tommy slowly breathing. Buck could see Tommy turning something over, the set of his jaw like he was chewing the words into the right shape in his mouth before speaking. Buck wasn't awake enough to press for it. Was this how Tommy felt all the time right now? Thoughts so slow that just navigating them out of his mouth was a struggle. Buck would want to sleep all day too if that was the case. The kettle clicked off and Tommy pushed himself from the counter before Buck could move, making a gruff noise more animal than human, more old man than anything. It made heat stir in Buck's stomach, the noise pressed out of Tommy as he shifted; an involuntary thing Buck wanted to chase with teeth and tongue.

(don't worry, i wrapped it in plastic before putting on that little washi tape border or taping it to the wall. there is no adhesive directly touching the card.)

Tommy sighed, contemplating his shoes. He always forgot the true weight of fatigue that came over him until winter returns each year and suddenly the distance from his hands to his laces feels insurmountable. He's not sure how long he's been sitting here, half out of his clothes and into his pajamas, but the light outside has turned from early evening blue into the true dark of night and still Tommy is sitting here. He barely even registers that Evan is in the room until he's kneeling at Tommy's feet. "Need some help?" Evan's eyes are soft when he glances at Tommy from under his lashes. It's the gentle wash of the blue of them that finally gives him enough energy to nod and Tommy's rewarded with the deft brush of Evan's hands down the length of his thighs. Warm fingers that press and drag around the curve of his knee. His shins. Gently cupping his calves. Distantly, Tommy could feel the heat of it, like something molten dripping down his spine and coiling home in his stomach. But it's a far away feeling. One he could maybe chase and grab if he had the energy. But he didn't. The distance between him and that heat was even further than the one to his shoes.

Buck busied himself at the sink, passing Tommy his toothbrush before grabbing his own razor. Tommy might look good with the thick, dark beard he had growing in, but Buck's always seemed to come in patchy and far too light. "You could grow yours out too. If you wanted," Tommy mumbled as Buck fussed with the shaving cream, turning to raise an eyebrow at Tommy in the mirror. "So we can match? Hobo chic?" Buck grinned, but Tommy's eyes had already slipped closed, the toothbrushing only seeming to continue via Tommy's muscle memory alone. "Sure," Tommy continued drowsily, and Buck had to repress the urge to thumb away the smear of toothpaste foaming at the corner of his mouth, "But also… I like seeing you scruffy." At least, Buck thought he said scruffy. With a mouth full of toothpaste it was very possible Tommy had said something else. Fluffy? Tommy smiled up at him around his toothbrush and Buck's heart pounded. The words might have been clumsy, but the sentiment stood. It was a two way street; the same way Tommy had been carving that quiet, comfortable place for himself, allowing himself to relax, to rest, Buck had been too. Letting his hair grow out, eating more, easing into cozy nights on the couch together. Buck didn't need to perform, not as much. With Tommy, he could just exist. And Tommy liked it. Just as much as Buck did.