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about 800 words of seriously nothing. i'm fascinated by those two weeks between 8x15 and 8x16, so there might be a few short things set here and there.
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It's been two days since Bobby died. It's early afternoon and no one has needed Buck yet, so he's cleaning the kitchen and trying not to flip out about Tommy being gone.
Not that he's gone. He's outside talking to someone on the phone, and Buck is doing his best to make this old linoleum sparkle so he doesn't creep up to the door and try to eavesdrop. Still, it's Buck so he can't help but quietly catastrophize.
Tommy has spent every hour since the lab disaster with Buck, and he has his first shift back in the morning. He's probably talking to his captain, or that colonel, or someone about whether he actually can go to work, or whether he's only on ground duty, or whether he's suspended. Maybe he's one of the volunteers from around the LAFD who are taking shifts at the 118 until everyone is back on duty, and he's going to be grabbing his stuff from Harbor and using Buck's locker, and—and maybe he'll be out there, in danger, and Buck will be here waiting for the next thing, waiting for something.
Before Buck can come up with a new set of anxieties that make him feel like his lunch is coming back up, the front door opens and shuts. Tommy's steady footsteps are coming to find him, nothing different about them, the same footsteps he's been hearing around the house for days. Sometimes they're all Buck hears when he's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling or the wall or out the bedroom window as a silent horror movie marathon plays in his head.
"Hey," Tommy says as he comes up behind him. He stands next to Buck at the sink and rests a hand on his back. "I was just on the phone with my captain and the chief."
"Oh wow, the chief, huh?" Buck looks down at his hands, thinking that was a little bitchy.
"He's very invested in my reckless insanity that keeps saving people's lives," Tommy replies. "Another spring, another—"
"Yeah," Buck interrupts. If he has to think about where they were a year ago, where all of them were a year ago, he might not make it through the conversation. "So what'd you guys talk about?" Buck clears his throat. "Your shift tomorrow?"
Tommy's hand rests heavier on Buck's back; force of habit, or need, or something, Buck leans into it.
"They said I was cleared to go back, regular duty, nothing on my record. No medal this time since they don't want the whole supervirus thing to get out," Tommy says. "But I told them I'm taking some bereavement leave. At least a week. More, if I need it."
Buck's head whips around, his eyes boring into Tommy's. "What?"
"Yeah, see, they knew I was at the 118. Hence the whole ride-or-die, if they need me I'll come running thing, but I'm taking the leave to support my partner." Tommy's eyes meet Buck's for a moment, then drop. "So I'll be here however long you need me. If you need me."
"Need you?" Buck asks. "Or want you?"
Tommy meets his eyes again. It's that same timid look from their beyond-stupid morning after; they've had other ones since then, better in some ways and (much) worse in others. "I'm okay being a workhorse, Evan. You don't—"
"I want you," Buck says. "In every way, Tommy. Every way."
Tommy nods, even brings himself to smile. Buck does, too; he can't help it. It's been two days of automated tasks and emptiness and pain and helplessness, but he's smiled, too. There have been flashes of happiness, like tiny sparks in this darkness because Tommy's here. Because Buck's not alone. Because Buck's here with Tommy.
Another tiny spark, like a flare shot into the night, as their eyes meet and Buck leans in for a kiss. It's so gentle, barely a press of their lips against each other, but it hurts, too. God, it physically hurts to kiss Tommy and feel—light. Feel relief, hope, even joy. It hurts to feel them, even as it's hurt to be without them.
Tommy opens his eyes, immediately searching Buck's face for something. "So that was okay?"
A smile fights its way onto his face. "As always," Buck says, "It's better than fake mouth static."
Tommy laughs, and Buck feels like he'd been holding his breath until this moment. Tommy should never go that long without laughing, ever again. "I really did myself a favor, setting a bar that low."
"Who said it was low?" Buck asks. "You don't see anyone else up here with us, do you?"
Tommy's eyes drop to Buck's lips and he kisses him again, gentle and light. "No. No, I guess not."
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