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hmhas-00 · 4 months ago

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Ch. 18

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- Uh Ohh I hope you enjoy the chapter! See you next Thursday! Plz like and rb if you’re hooked!🤍

Billie’s POV

My wet hair sat on my shoulders, making my shirt moist. I brushed my teeth after a hot shower in the tiny tourbus bathroom, and put myself on vocal rest for the rest of the night so my voice can be in shape for the next concert.

The day was long and everything irritated me. During my downtime, all I could think about was the way I pushed Remy on the floor, and the harsh exchanges that made us both cry. It hurt to think at all. It hurt that my brain couldn’t stop replaying the events over and over. I spit foamy toothpaste into the sink, watching it go down the drain, on autopilot.

“Okay, okay, we’ll be right there, we’re not too far, thank you.” My mom’s voice gradually became louder as she made her way through the tour bus to me. She poked her head into the bathroom with her phone pressed up against her chest. She was visibly shaken, her face blanched, and her expression downcast.

“Honey, it’s Remy, she was in a car accident today.”

When the words left her mouth, it took me a few seconds to fully comprehend. “Oh my god. Is she okay?” Stunned, I stepped forward, wanting out of the now suffocating bathroom, as its walls began to cave in on me.

“She’s in intensive care right now. They said it was pretty bad. She had to be life flighted off the highway, and she was in critical condition for a-“

My hands trembled as I pushed through the narrow walkway, stumbling toward the driver to tell him to turn around, despite having no idea where she was yet.

“Honey, we’re already taking the nearest exit so we can turn around, okay?” She grabbed my shoulder, noticing my pale complexion becoming paler, if that was even possible. “It’s okay, she’s going to be okay.” She assured me.

“Did they say that?” I narrowed in on her.

“No, baby, but they said she’s in surgery, and if all goes well, you’ll be able to see her when she’s in recovery, okay?” She rubbed knots out of my neck as I stretched away from her, overwhelmed and not wanting to be touched at the moment.

Surgery? I wondered what injuries she had sustained that meant she had to undergo surgery. I wondered how the accident happened in the first place, if someone witnessed it and called the ambulance or if she called herself, scared, waiting for someone to rescue her.

My tunnel vision began to dwindle, as I sat down on the seat, feeling nauseous. My dad was seated as copilot, guiding the driver on the fastest route to the hospital, but I didn’t notice it until later, when mom brought me some water.

“This is all my fault. If I hadn’t-“

“Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart, these things happen. They’re accidents.”

“She was supposed to be here. With us. And I ran her off.” I leaned my elbow on my knees, putting the glass of water that I gulped down.

“It could’ve happened to us, it could’ve happened to anybody, anywhere, anytime.” She put a hand on my back, gliding it up and down to confort me.

“We’re on the way. Try to relax.” Dad said, checking his gps.

“They’ll call if anything else happens. We’ll be there before she comes out of surgery, and then you’ll get to see her, because everything is going to be okay.” She reassured me.

I was so thankful my parents tagged along this week. I would be a mess right now without my mom. I thanked the gods I didn’t have to drive there myself because I’d be shaking so much, we’d probably get in an accident ourselves.

As soon as we arrived, we rushed into the ER. They guided us toward the inner hospital, where we were told to sit in an empty waiting area near the OR. An older, sweet nurse gave us all water and snacks. We politely nodded, my parents thanking her for being so kind. I sat, my head hanging low as I leaned my elbows on my knees.

It was a small, older hospital on the outskirts of Kettleman City, California. The waiting room was dated. The mint green, linoleum flooring led into the main hall, with two large doors separating the check-in area from the different patient care rooms. The receptionist sat at an antique, rounded, wooden counter, adorned with carved detailing. It was probably the original desk they built in when the hospital opened. The faint antiseptic smell made me queasy.

A tall, lanky man wearing scrubs and a face mask walked up to us, interrupting my thoughts. I stood up, scanning his demeanor, waiting for him to tell us anything.

“Ms. O’Connell?” He looked between my mom and I.

“Yes.” We both said, simultaneously.

He nodded, “The patient,” he looked at his chart, “Remy Lovelace, is still in surgery. Everything is going very well so far.”

“How bad is it?” I put a hand over my heart, hoping to steady its beating.

He pulled down his surgical mask, “We’re operating on her arm right now. She has a broken wrist, and a broken radius, which is her forearm, probably from instinctively bracing for impact. She’ll need a couple plates and screws to stabilize the bones so they heal properly. Other than that, she has a severe concussion and whiplash, which we will continue to monitor for the next few days.”

I sighed, relieved it wasn’t as detrimental as I thought I’d be. I was imagining spinal damage, having to break it to her that she wouldn’t walk again, or even brain damage.

“They told us she was life flighted, so we imagined worse!” My mom said, rubbing my shoulders and letting a big sigh of relief out herself.

“When car accidents create so much traffic that the ambulance can’t get through, they tend to life flight people. Especially if the patient is unconscious, which she was.” He nodded. “But don’t worry, she will be okay, we just need to keep an eye on that concussion.

I turned to hug my dad, who was prepared to catch me in his arms. I could finally breathe again. The doctor lets us know that it would be a little under an hour before they finish, and we could be with her in the recovery room, once they get her settled.

“Do you know how it happened? Did police or anyone give witness statements?” My mom asked.

“I’m not sure, but I can point you in the direction of someone who can.” He pointed toward the front desk, guiding her out through the double doors we came through.

A while after, my mom came back with the horrible details of the crash.

Her phone was in the back seat, locked, so it was unknown if she was using it or not. She swerved into a car on her right, causing her to hit the cement wall on her left, between the opposite side of the highway. She spun out, then, the driver’s side was hit by yet another car, totaling it and bending it into almost a U shape. Both windows on the driver’s side shattered into the inside, and the front door was so altered, that it jammed and they had to break open the opposite door to pull her out. All the other drivers involved were thankfully okay, and walked away with only bruises and probably severe body aches.

While we waited our turn to be able to see her, I figured I should probably call her parents. Despite my mom being Remy’s emergency contact, they’d want to know what happened. I stood up, looking through my contact for their numbers.

Her mom didn’t answer right away. I figured she wouldn’t answer an unknown number and I had changed mine multiple times. Her dad was next, and he answered after a few rings.

“Mr. Lovelace? Uh, This is Billie, Remy’s best friend.”

“Oh, Billie- Billie, it’s been so long. How are you? How are your parents?” He sounded surprised to receive a call from me. He hadn’t seen me in maybe two or three years, around his divorce from Remy’s mom. I’d driven Remy to her grandmother’s house, where he was now staying at, multiple times, but never got out of the car. They weren’t as close as they once were.

“I’m ok. Um, listen, I wanted to let you know Remy’s been in a car accident, about 3 ish hours from you guys. We’re here with her now, but I just wanted to let you know, in case… You know, you want to come too?”

“Oh God. That’s… Wow, is she okay?”

“Yeah she’s going to be okay, she broke some bones, but she’s gonna be fine. I just-“

“I’m glad, she’s very lucky to have you, you’ve always been such a good friend to her.” He said, confusing me a bit. Did he think he needed an invitation, or?

“Sir, I was asking if you could come see her. She’s going to be here overnight, and-“

“Billie…” he cut me off. “Remy and I haven’t spoken or seen each other in a very long time.”

I let the line sit silently for a moment. You could hear static as I processed what he said.

“I- I don’t think you understand.” I stammered. My parents would drop everything to be with me in the hospital, even if it was for a sprained ankle or a minor cold.

“She’s always handled it herself. She’s independent, she holds her own. She’s always been like her mother.”

I cringed at the thought. They were nothing alike. Not in my eyes.

“Okay.” Is all I could say.

“Thank you for calling. I’ll be praying for her. Take care of yourself, kid.” He said, sadness in his tone before hanging up.

That was pointless.

I called her mother next, hoping she’d answer this time.

“Hello?” She sounded bothered.

“Irene. This is Billie, remember me?” I swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t hang up on me.

The woman hated me. I knew she hated me since I was 11, when I hung out in her daughter’s bedroom, in the way she watched me, the way she didn’t like my clothes, or how my parents raised me, or the way I talked. Remy always told me her mother was homophobic. Back then, I didn’t know what that had to do with me. Remy would tell me she didn’t like that I was a tomboy, that I didn’t wear girly clothes, or sit, or eat like a girl. Once I got older, I became more aware of it, becoming a different version of myself at her house. Still, her mom wasn’t buying it, and forbid Rem from closing her bedroom door if I was in it. Sleepovers at my house were off limits, and she checked her text messages often. It was weird. I knew I never felt safe at their house.

Despite this, Remy always tried to look for approval from her mom. Who doesn’t? When she moved out at the age of 18, their relationship became more rocky, but she continued to send her money whenever she could. I guess I didn’t understand that, but then divorce made things more complicated and I didn’t feel I could have an opinion on it. I couldn’t relate.

“I remember.” Her voice was the same as I remembered it. It felt strange talking to her, I hesitated, fearing she wouldn’t care to check on her daughter either.

“Hello?” She said.

“Yes, hi, sorry. Uh, Remy is in the hospital right now. In surgery.” I managed to get the words out.

“Fuck. Why?” She asked.

“She had an accident driving back to LA. She’s okay, by the way, I just wanted you to know.”

“God damn. Seriously? That sounds expensive.”

For fucks sake.

“Can you come see her? I’m sure she’d appreciate having her mom here, you know?” I became frustrated, wanting to send both her parents to hell.

“Of course, What kind of parent do you think I am?” She said, an attitude forming on her end of the line.

I didn’t answer. She didn’t need to know what I thought.

“I’ll text you the hospital we’re at. It’s a couple hours away, but again, she’d really appreciate-“

“Thanks, I’ll make arrangements.” She hung up.

Fucking bitch.

“Excuse me, miss. We’re ready for you guys to come on back if you’d like.” The sweet old nurse from before tapped my shoulder.

I sighed, sliding my phone in my back pocket and following her through a cold, sterile hallway, into her room.

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alchemistc · 10 months ago

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visions are seldom all they seem

an: warning for a hint of dubcon hidden in amongst tommy's memories

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

That's a fucking fairytale if he's ever heard one. Tommy's had enough friends brought back from the brink, enough experiences of his own, to know that it's a crock.

When you die, you...die. You're there, and then you're not.

Tommy's legs are pinned, and there's smoke filling the cabin, and the last thing he'd said to Evan before he walked out the door was "Tell your father thank you, but I'm happily involved with a younger man."

There's something poetic about all of this, Tommy thinks, as he watches Garrett stumble to his feet, just beyond the door he'd managed to break loose to Tommy's left. Tommy hates poetry. Not necessarily as a general rule, but there's a lot of pretentious shit out there, and this feels pretentious. Maybe that's just the smoke inhalation.

"Kinard!"

Garrett's coming around the other side, lopsided and limping, but still pushing.

Thank fuck they hadn't been carrying passengers. He's pretty sure one of the blades had sliced clean through the hull behind him. He can't really look - there's something caught in his belt, pinning his back to the seat, and he's got one arm too fucked to reach for the blade strapped to his hip, and another that wouldn't reach if he tried. He's losing blood, he's losing time. He's done the math.

"Kinard!" Garrett's not having much luck with Tommy's door, which makes sense. The landing skid had done good work with the whole right side of the bird. Tommy's pretty sure the aftermath of that piece of work is the reason he can't move his fucking legs.

There are tools, somewhere nearby, that might have been useful, if Tommy hadn't used Garrett's clear concussion against him in an effort to get Garrett the fuck out.

It's funny, though. Funny that this is the way he goes. Not in the initial crash, which they'd somehow both survived. Not even from the blood loss, though Tommy guesses the coroner will have something to say about that being a mitigating factor. Probably won't even be the fire, which Garrett seems to have banked, a bit, with the extinguisher he'd scrounged from - somewhere. No. Four tours and a dozen plus years as a firefighter and it's the smoke that's gonna get him.

The windscreen is cracked. If Tommy wasn't in the midst of dying, he'd probably be thinking up the most professional way to tell his superiors that his windscreen isn't supposed to fucking spiderweb out like that, but -

Garrett's got the extinguisher in hand again, which is a nice thought, except he'd watched him drain it earlier. But he's not -

Tommy flinches when the canister makes contact with the windscreen and it cracks a little more.

He wishes he'd texted something better to Evan than a thumbs up emoji in response to his "Be safe" text. Gonna look real fucking ironic in a few minutes, here.

The glass webs out further when the canister makes contact again, and over the crackle as the flames kick back up, Tommy realizes that Garrett's yelling at him. Has been, for a while now, most likely. He can't really hear it, or contextualize it, but he's definitely yelling.

Something cracks. A few shards of glass sprinkle on down towards his knees. Garrett's voice gets louder. "--uckley's gonna kill me if I fuck up your pretty blue eyes, fuckhead, so close them right fucking now, Kinard!"

It's not like he has anything better to do than take orders. He follows his instructions.

The windscreen doesn't shatter - it's built not to - but a second later Garrett's got something wedged into the seal, tearing at it now that the things mangled enough not to be airtight, and Tommy isn't sure where he'd gotten a crowbar, or how the fuck he'd climbed the nose with a bum leg, but he's a little glad he'll be too dead to get the lecture from Garrett's wife on making sure his copilot doesn't do dumb shit.

"-kill you to - little leverage wouldn't - 'mon Kinard - 'mme something to work -"

Tommy's flagging. He can't really breathe, anymore. There's chance the impact shattered a rib or two.

The windscreen actually folds, under the leverage from outside, but Garrett still doesn't know Tommy's pinned. He'd have had a better chance if Garrett had just worked the fire, but Tommy doesn't plan to tell him that. As it is, he sucks in smoke and blinks through the haze as Garrett folds the windscreen farther back. "Hold on, Kinard!"

Tommy laughs. "Not going anywhere," he says, which aren't the last words he'd have chosen for himself, an hour ago, but - seems fitting, anyway. He gets a feeble cough out, and then things go blurry.

"Fuck you, Tommy," isn't the last thing he ever expected to hear, either, but - well. Today's been FUBAR since he took the chopper up, so.

Fuck you, Tommy it is.

---

The field behind his grandparents house is loud, in the soggy twilight - frogs and crickets and cicadas, a cacophony of noise.

Oh, Tommy's absolutely gonna be pissed if all his friends just didn't get far enough into dying for the flashbacks. It's not like he could have asked any of the ones who'd actually kicked the can, of course, and Tommy'd never been actually all the way dead before. Just - on the brink.

This isn't anything like Evan had described.

Tommy turns. And there's nonna, in her sapphire blue muumuu, flicked with gold trim, grey hair permed within an inch of its life. He can smell the romas she must have brought in from the sun at dusk, and the espresso poured into her fancy china next to her porch chairs - a rocking chair he'd never had a chance to fix up for her before she'd been gone, the Adirondack he'd stopped fitting into when he sprouted six inches the summer between sophomore and junior year.

Nonna grins.

Tommy watches a firebug flit by him.

He blinks, and Nonna raises an eyebrow at him - the same way she'd done the first time he tried to lie about where he'd gotten the bruise on his chin, or why his knuckles were scabbed over, or what he thought of the model on her favorite set of dog eared bodice rippers.

Tommy isn't sure what he could possibly be lying about right now, but he doesn't get a chance to ask. Between one blink and the next the night, the frogs, and Nonna's back porch are gone.

---

Tommy fucking hates Dorian Gray. The reasons had changed, over the years, but even more than being wedged into this fucking deathtrap of a desk, with it's lose nuts and bolts and the arm on the wrong side of his fucking body (because Tammy Pritchard always got the lefty desk in every fucking class and not a single one of his teachers had ever thought to wonder why his handwriting on his homework had better penmanship and an incredibly unsubtle smear of ink when compared to his in-class assignments): even more than the scent of Heather Chester's perfume and the reek of weed and Cheetos coming off of Barry Trott, in the seat in front of him; even more than the squeak of chalk against the blackboard as Mrs. Henderson posits the question of the day (What is so horrifying about the painting?); Tommy hates this fucking book.

He sort of wishes this memory had taken him back to freshman year instead - at least he could articulate why Holden Caulfield had been a whiny little bitch.

It's not like he could say -

Well.

Actually.

This is Tommy's death rattle. So.

"It's a mirror," Tommy says, like he hadn't all those years ago. No one notices that Tommy's a few decades too old and more than a few inches too wide to fit in his desk. "It's an indictment on everyone who ever had a hand in creating such a beautiful monster."

Mrs. Henderson doesn't look up. Tommy doesn't know why he expected she would.

She'd never listened to him before, either.

---

He'd been expecting his dad, next, which is his own damn fault.

Captain Turner's zipping his pants back up.

Tommy rises from his knees.

The paperwork is there on his desk. A glowing recommendation for the flight training he's been denied twice already. Tommy's throat feels gummy. He can't remember when Turner stopped using condoms.

This isn't how it happened.

"Open your eyes, Kinard."

Tommy's eyes are already open.

---

"I'm proud of you, son," Gerrard says, and Tommy would very much prefer it if he was just dead, already.

The thing is - the thing is Gerrard looks genuinely pleased to see him - a rare enough thing in general, rarer still because this is the older Gerrard, the one he'd shut the fuck down in front of the very first chance he'd been given to tell him exactly how rank Tommy really thought he was.

"You know when to give up," Gerrard continues. And.

Oh.

Well.

Did he have a choice?

"Of course there's a choice. Make the right one. Keep on making it, Kinard."

---

Pain.

Christ. Tommy's had shrapnel under his skin for decades, now - he's been blown up, and shot, stabbed once, although that was a grazing blow, really.

This is so much worse. He feels like he's hemorrhaging, like his lungs are constricting, like -

"You're no son of mine."

Yeah. That'd been worse than the IED by far.

"Dad," he says, but the damage is done. His room is in shambles, which Tommy thinks is overkill - his dad'd probably found the Blueboy Tommy had tucked under the mattress a long while before he had swept all his football trophies off the shelf and emptied what looked like the entire contents of his wardrobe onto the floor.

On the plus side, it looks like he'd actually ripped his annotated copy of Picture of Dorian Gray in half, too, so small favors.

Only.

This hadn't happened. This was his nightmare scenario, the horrific dream he'd had every day for six years until he got out of basic and the nightmare scenarios turned physically violent, instead. If his dad had ever known an inkling of Tommy's inclinations he'd ignored it until the day Tommy made him stop ignoring it.

He'd never found his dirty magazine - just the one, because he'd been too fucking terrified of having a second one lying around somewhere.

Those words he'd reserved for something else entirely.

His dad had thrown a bitch fit when Tommy'd enlisted in the Army instead of the Marines, but those words - those were the words he'd gotten when the father he hadn't spoken to in three years learned that Tommy'd gone for turnouts instead of a gun and badge.

How do you emulate your father and rebel at the same time?

"Love you too, pops," Tommy says, and waits for the blink.

---

"Oh," Tommy says, and blinks open his eyes. Keith smiles back. It's a charming little grin, the first thing that had caught Tommy's eye across the bar three months before this night. And it's not - the room is all wrong, and it'd been midday, not evening, six hours between shifts and the first time their schedules lined up in weeks. Keith is all lithe muscle and smeared makeup, barely an hour out from his latest shoot.

"Don't say it," Keith says, and shifts his weight against sheets that aren't even the right color.

Tommy had wanted to say it, though. Thirty-odd years and he'd never had the courage to say it to anyone who might say it back in a meaningful way, but Keith -

They'd been all wrong for each other. Conflicting schedules, conflicting lifestyles, conflicting expectations. Keith would spend the next six months flying back for hookups, jet setting around the world on a campaign for Dolce & Gabanna, and then text Tommy to let him know he should get tested and never reach out again. Tommy would fly his chopper over the aftermath of a tsunami and wonder how it felt to drown.

The hands on his skin are wrong - rough with calluses, working hands. Tommy slides his thumb across the palm of one and thinks it feels like home.

"Don't go back to sleep," Keith says. There's something playing on Tommy's TV, which had never been in his room when he was with Keith.

That had been a recent development, actually, and technically it wasn't even his TV, but when Evan's lease had been up it had just made sense to the both of them to -

"Monster truck rallies, really?" Keith says, but the volume on the TV is too loud to make out what he says next. His mouth moves, and the words don't make it to Tommy's ears, and when he blinks again he thinks he can hear sirens.

---

The chicken barely moves as Bobby passes it off to Officer Grant, and there's some sort of significance to this moment, Tommy knows, but Sal is too busy making smooching faces at Tommy, his laugh deep and bracing, for Tommy to figure out what that significance is.

Eddie is staring at him from the passenger seat when he swings up into the rig.

"You need to come back," Eddie says, and that stupid fucking mustache twitches. "You stupid bastard, you have to come back."

---

"Just like that?" Tommy asks, staring at the transfer papers, and Nash looks at him like he knows too much.

"Have you changed your mind?"

Tommy's uses his middle and ring finger to pull the transfer papers closer to himself. Bobby hums, satisfied. "Good. I've got my eye on one of the new kids in training - hate to pass up on him."

Tommy shakes his head. "You still haven't replaced Sal. Who's even gonna train this new guy?"

Bobby's in his civvies. He's holding his rosary beads. Did he start out like that, or is this death knell just fucking with him now? "Not your time, yet," Bobby tells him, and Tommy doesn't -

---

"Just a little something I learned at the 118," Donato says with a grin, while Jerry eyes the blown up photo of Tommy and Evan kissing in the hospital lobby that's been hung up on the announcement board right next to Jill's kids butterbraid order sheet. One of the nurses must have taken it. Donato must have bribed one of the nurses to take it on the ride to the hospital. "We're, like, a base and a half away from wiener cousins, you know," she sing-songs, and Tommy tilts a raised brow her way.

He's still staring at the picture. When had Evan's hand made it that far into his turnout?

"I'm just saying, having been on the your end of those lips - congrats."

"Does it smell like smoke in here to you?" Jerry asks, and Tommy tries to swallow, tries to respond, but there's something stopping him from -

---

"Hey," Evan says. He's on nonna's rocking chair. The cicadas and the frogs are loud, against a backdrop of misty fields. It still smells like sundried tomatoes, but there's an antiseptic scent underneath it. There's a firebug perched on Evan's birthmark. "I'd, uh, really hate it if the last conversation we ever had was about my dad's weird obsession with you."

Tommy would also hate that. He goes to say so and can't speak. His chest is on fire, and his leg feels like it might give out if he takes a step forward. Evan's too far away, but he can still feel the calluses on Evan's fingers on his wrist, steady against his pulse.

"So, if you could just. If you could just open your eyes. Twitch your fingers. Um. I have a ring, and a speech, but I'd settle for like, you waking up to tell me you're leaving me for Andrew Garfield."

He's thinking of Andrew Lincoln, but Tommy can't get his throat to work to tell him so, or to remind him that Tommy actually hates that plot in Love Actually. Now Colin Firth...

The fingers slide from his pulse point to his ring finger. His leg screams. The cicadas drown out whatever Evan says next.

---

The lights in this room are too fucking bright. It smells of sterile metal and the cedarwood soap Evan uses. His hand is stuck to the bed.

"Tommy."

Tommy's pretty sure he's imagining the firefly perched on Buck's brow as he slides into his sight line, but the rest of him is real, and solid - his ridiculous fade and the curls askew atop his head and the slow blooming smile across his face, the hand sliding up his arm and the suddenly wet corners of his eyes.

"ey," he says, or tries to say - it comes out as croaky as the frogs that'd guided him through whatever strange dream he'd been having. He's losing the edges of it already, trying to grasp details even as they slip way. Evan's going to be so fucking disappointed they can't trade coma dream stories.

Evan hovers while a nurse looks him over, demanding ice chips from someone out in the hallway, and Tommy can't stop looking at him. He'd been dead. He'd been sure this was it, this time.

Tommy gets three ice chips down before he's allowed to speak.

"Why's the chicken important?" Which is - great. They've got him hooked up to good drugs. He'd meant to start off with the basics - I love you, and don't propose to me in a hospital room I know it's a Buckley special but I'd like to limit our significant moments here until they actually dedicate a wing in your honor. "Did Eddie shave the mustache while I was out?"

Jesus Christ.

Evan's laugh is wet, and his hand is wrapped around the cup of ice chips, instead of around Tommy's, which seem unnecessarily cruel.

"I love you," Evan says.

They say when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Evan informs him, eventually, that he'd crashed twice on the med-evac and been gone for a total of one minute eighteen seconds ("There's no significance to that. A coincidence," Tommy tells him. Evan doesn't fight him on it. Not then, anyway.) The flashing thing is still a crock of shit. Tommy's lost most of it before Evan gets around to 'you'.

Tommy finally gets Evan close enough to grasp his hand - slide his finger over the rough pad of his thumb, dig a nail into the forking lifeline in his palm. "Hey," he says, when Evan's grip goes tight, and tears well up in his eyes again. "Were you watching monster trucks while I was out?"

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #why did rereading one of my fluffiest fics inspire this

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lsunstreakerl · 2 months ago

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1.4k follow up to the pacific rim thing. daniel POV... with a surprise guest feature in the middle. and the end

"Please confirm: this procedure will suppress any and all memories you have of Max Emilian Verstappen, former copilot of jaeger HB-333. Is this the correct individual?"

"Yes."

"You will no longer consciously remember this individual. You will no longer consciously recognize this individual. This procedure does not eliminate subconscious memories or habits. It is important to avoid this individual or mentions of this individual moving forward. This procedure cannot be repeated. This procedure is irreversible. Prolonged exposure to this individual post-procedure will result in a potentially harmful rapid reconstruction of your memories. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes."

"Please type your full name, birthday, and military identification code, with your fingerprint ID. Your pre-operative instructions will print shortly following identity confirmation. This is your last opportunity to cancel this procedure. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes."

------

He's alone in the drift. There's the landscape of someone else, endless corridors and half thought through structures.

There's no Max.

It's unnerving to be alone in a space designed for two. Daniel doesn't remember what Max's drift is supposed to look like.

Something is watching him, invisible eyes itching between his shoulders, flickers at the edge of his vision.

He doesn't think it's this.

------

There's an alarm blaring.

Daniel has enviro-gel in his mouth when they pull him out of the tank, a raging headache at the base of his skull.

None of the other pilots are present.

He's spitting gel into the trash can, watching the boots run in— they're not pilots. They're still military.

Max's vitals have dipped again. The boots don't care about Daniel, hitting buttons on the side of the tank.

The enviro-gel swirls out the vacuum drain that opens. They're pulling Max out, fully suited.

Daniel's head hurts.

The alarm rings in his ears, flashing strobes pulsing in sync with the throb at the base of his skull.

He asks the medic next to him what's happening.

She tells him they're taking Max to the jaeger. That he still pilots, if they drop him in next to a kaiju. That there's an outbreak.

Daniel's head hurts.

They'd pulled him out early.

Three shots. Wasted, all of them. Max still isn't awake.

They're going to put Max in 01 anyways.

The pounding in his head is worse. It's migrating behind his eyes, pulling at his chest. Screaming at him to follow. That Max is in danger.

Daniel doesn't care.

He doesn't care.

He can't care—

------

"Ah, hello 01. I wanted to name you, that is what Danny and I did with Honey. He's not here yet— it is just you and me right now. But I'm sure that's temporary, so I will tell you about him anyways.

He is my drift partner. He's Australian, and he laughs very loudly, and he loves very fiercely, and he wants to protect people just as much as I do, so I am going to make a good driftscape, so he doesn't have to work as hard when he gets here.

Some people think it's dumb to talk to their jaegers, 01, but I like it."

------

"Sorry, 01. I am sure it has been a lot, trying Alex and Pierre, but Daniel is still on recovery leave. It is only temporary, yes? They are supposed to bring in someone else soon to try and drift with me, so it hurts less.

They are saying there is a drift network edit they want to try as well— something that lets me take over most things. That way we won't need as high of a drift compatibility to pilot you."

------

"Fuck, 01— I am— the drift is—"

------

"Good news, 01! I can solo pilot until Daniel gets back. Checo is okay for helping me after we get back, but it will just be you and me for now.

It is better this way."

------

"..."

------

"Hi, 01. It is just you and me. For good. Daniel is not coming back, and I am not allowed to talk to him about it, and—

You and I are doing just fine."

------

"This is jaeger pilot MEV, jaeger code 01, requesting emergency assistance. I repeat, this is jaeger pilot MEV, jaeger code 01, requesting emergency assistance..."

------

"Hello, 01! You are looking very lovely today, much better than when they dragged us back. I think. I have only seen the pictures. I was thinking about putting a sticker somewhere, but I have not been able to decide what I want.

Charles said it was stupid, overclocking like that, but I think people are making it a bigger deal than it is.

I could have sworn I heard Daniel right at the end. I know I spend lots of time now saying shitty things about him, but really— he's not so bad. Everyone says he's not coming back, but I am not so sure. I bet he could be convinced, if someone could tell me where to find him."

------

"Yes, yes, I'm overclocking it, I am well aware, stop yelling at me. They should change those parameters, 01. They are designed for pilot pairs. If Daniel were here we would not be overclocked at all, I will tell you that much."

------

"This is pilot MEV, dropping in jaeger 01 for emergency assistance. Please use damaged units to assist in scene evacuation...

...and don't worry. I've got this."

------

"You and me, 01. Full send."

------

Daniel winces with each flash of the alarm strobes. He's behind the boots, watching Max's helmeted head roll limply where they're carrying him down the back hallways.

It's maintenance access to the jaeger docks. The hallways are used to get injured pilots out. They're not supposed to be used to put injured pilots in.

He splits away from the group at the lockers.

He and Esteban are around the same size, and the Frenchman always keeps a backup suit in the locker room.

Daniel hasn't been in a jaeger in three years. He's failed Max three times.

Four, counting the memory service.

His head is pounding, stabbing behind his eyes as he pulls gloves on, clasping the suit into place.

He hears the familiar warning siren of a jaeger being moved. He has six minutes to get into the pilots seat.

HB-333 is retired.

01 isn't.

It's designed now for a single pilot— but that doesn't make it incapable of having two.

Daniel doesn't remember, and Max isn't awake. He's not a praying man, not since he was little. He doesn't believe in miracles either, which leaves him out of options on optimism.

They used to be good.

Maybe they're both broken enough to fit together again.

------

There's a commander in front of him with ribbons across his chest. He's probably important, but Daniel doesn't remember him.

He's trying to tell him something, something about Max, and the drift.

Telling him that they aren't sure how much of Max is left.

How much of him is lost to the drift.

Daniel can hear what they're not saying— if Max doesn't wake up, he might be piloting 01 by himself.

He doesn't care.

------

"This is Daniel Ricciardo, pilot code DJR, initializing drift sequence protocols, emergency pilot for jaeger 01."

"Loud and clear, pilot. And Dan— it's nice to hear from you again, from all of us at HQ."

"Copy that, boys."

------

01 is beautiful. Daniel's head is pounding too much to appreciate it, finding his spot at the center console.

Max is limp next to him. There's a weak drift reading under his virtual name card, showing a connection to 01 just under 12%.

Daniel swallows down the bitter taste of disappointment, the lingering pressure of failure riding high on his shoulders. Max has not magically woken up.

Daniel is alone.

------

01 feels alive. Daniel takes a moment, prepared to be overwhelmed, but the crushing pressure from Max's memories never comes.

The weight of 01 feels cushioned around him, carefully ensuring that Daniel doesn't drown under the responsibility.

He sinks into the drift, flexing his fingers and feeling 01 move with him. It's smoother than HB-333 ever was, perfectly in tune with his movements.

The drift curls around his brain, reminds him of a cat slinking around his ankles. It's gentle and warm, coating his thoughts and his movements.

He feels stronger than ever— like he and 01 are a team. He's never been in a jaeger like this.

He takes a step. 01 moves with him.

Daniel had never talked to Honey. The jaegers are ultimately machines, incapable of anything beyond what the pilots ask of them.

This time, though.

"Hello, 01."

He feels lighter than he has in years. Confident. The drift curls tighter around him, friendly and content.

I missed you, Daniel.

#ficlet #pacific rim au #the maxiel is maxiel'ing here #all scene no dialogue v.s. all dialogue no scene #does this count as haunting the narrative for max

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