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winter-parrot · 19 days ago

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making my official entrance into the 911 fandom / bucktommy with a fic for #bucktommyhiatusevent week one: home.

buck looks for home in the aftermath of season 8. | 2.5k

now on ao3 as well!

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Turns out living in your car is not like riding a bicycle. His body does not magically remember how to fold up into the back seat of his Jeep and fall asleep. If anything, it feels like the space has somehow shrunk since the last time he’s done this. Although, that might have something to do with how much he’s bulked up in the last seven years since he settled in LA and became a firefighter.

It’s alright. It’s not like he’d really expected better. He’d hoped, sure. He’d hoped for a lot of things, things that did not include sleeping in his car. But hope is in short supply these days, and it’s not about to make a surprise appearance for anything so trivial as Buck’s apartment hunting woes.

It was only supposed to be for a day or two, is the thing. Just until he could find a new place to move into. But one day stretched into two into three, and somehow he’s already in his second week of car-living. His bad leg started protesting on day five, and now his back is joining in. He suspects every muscle in his body will rebel against him, one by one by one, within the next week.

The problem is, he has nowhere else to go. Nowhere has felt right. It’s not like he hasn’t tried, either. He’s been doing nothing but apartment hunting in his free time—not like there’s a whole lot else to do, living in his car—and the real estate agent helping him seems increasingly ready to stab him just to get this endless search over with. He doesn’t blame her, at this point. It feels like he’s seen every available apartment within a two-hour radius of the station house.

And yet, not a single one has felt right. Has felt like a place he could call his own, a place that might become home.

Maybe the problem is actually bigger than an apartment. Maybe the problem is just him, all of him and the hopeless needy wanting thing in his chest. Maybe he’s just Bucking it up, like always. Maybe there’s actually no right place for him in LA, and he’s just an idiot chasing a pipe dream.

It’s not so far fetched a thought, really. He keeps finding himself wanting things he’s never going to find. Things that would be hard enough to get one of, never mind all together—and that’s even before he considers LA real estate and his own less-than-impressive budget.

Knowing it’s unrealistic doesn’t stop him from wanting, as always. He longs for exposed beams and brick walls and a long dark dining table, like the firehouse. Wonders briefly if that’s why he liked his old place; the layout vaguely resembled the firehouse, with the open plan and the loft. Has to stop himself before he gets maudlin about missing the loft, on top of everything else. He pictures a big back yard with a grill, like Bo— like Athena’s old place. Makes himself stop imagining before his thoughts can stray to Bobby, to all the times he stood in that familiar space, cooking or hosting a party or manning the grill like he never will again. Thinks instead of a bright sunny living room and a big garage for his bike and his jeep and his side projects, like he’d seen at… well. Like he’d seen in someone else’s house a few times, months ago.

Those months ago feels like a different lifetime, now. Back then, he had a loft he liked well enough. He had a job he loved. He had Bobby and backyard barbecues and shared dinners. He had a family in the 118. He had a best friend whom he could always turn to, whose child he loved like his own. He had a boyfriend he could envision an actual future with.

Now, he’s got no solid roof over his head; a job he’s still debating transferring out of, never mind his cancelled transfer request; no Bobby, no backyard barbecues, no family dinners; no family that needs him or even wants him around; a best friend who maybe hates him for making things about himself, again; and no boyfriend. It’d almost be funny, how fast and hard everything fell apart, if it wasn’t his own life he had to live through every day.

He considers, vaguely, the possibility that Maddie may have accidentally cursed him, back when she told him he had to learn to be alone. Here he is, all alone now, and learning that same lesson again for the thousandth time. You’d think it would get easier over time, but somehow each review seems to make it worse and worse. It’s also possible he accidentally cursed himself, when he complained to Eddie about everything falling apart. If only he’d known back then just how far away rock bottom still was. Or it could be that he was simply cursed from birth. Couldn’t save Daniel, couldn’t do the one thing he was literally born to do; couldn’t ever make his parents happy, no matter how much he tried; couldn’t get Maddie to come with him, when he was running towards freedom and wanted her at his side; couldn’t ever stop a partner from leaving him behind, no matter how much he loved them and loved them and loved them.

Doesn’t really matter why or how, really. Point is, he’s pretty sure there has to be some kind of curse upon him. Everyone else seems to have somebody, but he’s always the one left behind. Left alone. Sleeping in his car, because he doesn’t even have a couch he can reliably crash on.

He can’t go to Maddie and Chimney; they have a newborn infant at home, on top of Chimney’s soon-to-be captaincy, and recovering from Maddie’s kidnapping barely rhree months ago. Can’t go to Athena, can’t intrude on her and May and Harry’s grief, not when they lost the most out of them all. Can’t go to Hen, barging in on her and her family when Mara’s still settling in and everyone is fragile. Can’t go to Eddie, can’t… well. Can’t do much with Eddie at all, right now. Can’t go to Ravi, because they might be friends but they’re not that kind of friends, not yet, and maybe not for years yet while the grief sits between them looming larger than their friendship. Can’t go to Tommy, because Buck’s not his problem anymore—anyway he’s done more than enough for Buck already, what with stealing a helicopter to piss off the Army and bearing Bobby’s casket with them.

Can’t go to the firehouse, because for all that it felt like home, he can’t actually live there. Besides, it doesn’t really feel like home anymore. Not with Gerrard in the captain’s office, and no family dinners, and a cavernous yawning chasm cutting through everything that no one will talk about. Not without Bobby.

So he’s stuck in the car. He could shell out for a hotel room for a few nights, probably, but that’s expensive. And it just feels stupid, too. Like admitting defeat. He used to do this all the time, in that stretch of time between driving away from Maddie and ending up at the fire academy. Being a failed Navy SEAL or ranch hand-ing or bartending in Peru was all fun and good, he doesn’t regret it, but it hadn’t exactly left him flush with cash. Hadn’t been very stable or reliable, for that matter. He’d thought he’d left that part of his life behind him, when he finally settled at the fire academy and settled into his own skin, but well. Life’s full circle, or something like that.

Buck drives aimlessly, letting the hour turn late in the hopes that sheer exhaustion will overcome the mounting discomfort of not sleeping in a bed. Or maybe not so aimlessly; the clock is just ticking over midnight when he looks around to realize habit or fate or his goddamn curse has brought him to a familiar neighbourhood.

Stupid. This was such a bad idea. This wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you could get away with just parking on the side of the street in a strange car and sleeping the night. Someone was going to call the cops on him, if he tried that. He should drive away, leave it behind, and find a parking lot or something.

But now that he’s here, now that he’s so close, the hopeless needy wanting thing in his chest is clawing at the insides of his ribs like a caged beast. He can’t stop himself from driving on instead of turning around like he most definitely should. He doesn’t have it in him to resist, is worn too paper-thin in and threadbare to put up any more of a fight than a wet paper bag. Isn’t even sure he wants to, really, even if he is sure that he should.

The lights are dark in the house, because it’s getting on 12:30 now and sane people have gone to bed. He really should leave, now. Shouldn’t interrupt the peace of this night, crashing into it like a wrecking ball. Shouldn’t disturb Tommy and bleed his petty troubles all over him, any more than he should bother Chim or Maddie or Hen or Athena with it. All the reasons why he can’t go to Tommy haven’t magically disappeared just because he’s somehow ended up in front of Tommy’s house.

But the hopeless needy wanting thing in Buck’s chest is holding the reins, now. It kinda feels like he’s watching someone else move, like that hopeless needy wanting thing has taken over his body. Hopeless-needy-wanting-Buck pulls the Jeep right up into the driveway. Kills the engine and locks the door behind him once he gets out. Walks up to the door on legs that are only slightly unsteady. Knocks.

There’s no answer, because duh. It’s 12:30 at night. Tommy might not even be home, might be on shift at Harbour. Or on a romantic date with someone that ends up at their house, not his. Or watching Buck through a gap in the curtains somewhere, wondering why the hell his ex won’t leave him the fuck alone and hoping Buck just goes away.

The thought hurts, but he wouldn’t blame Tommy for it. Not after what he said in that kitchen, setting his second—third?—chance ablaze faster than an uncontrolled wildfire in the peak of August heat. Even if the idea of Eddie being competition is more ridiculous than ever, and hurts in a whole new way now.

Buck stands there, blank in the throbbing ache of his heart and his body. Could’ve been for thirty seconds or thirty minutes, he’s not sure. Time’s been getting a little hazy at the edges, these past weeks, and the simple act of digging out his phone to check feels like an insurmountable effort. It’s like all the exhaustion has caught up to him, all at once. He debates the merits of just going to sleep right there, curled up on Tommy’s front steps like a stray cat.

The door opens. Buck doesn’t register it for a second, not until a sleep-rough voice is saying his name. “Evan?”

Adrenaline spikes through his veins, wakes him right back up and deposits him rudely back into his body. Oh God, he’s really doing this. He’s really done this, shown up at Tommy’s door in the dead of night like the world’s worst uninvited houseguest. “T-tommy, I’m sorry. I just, I-I- I should go, I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

There’s a hand on his arm, a touch so gentle he can barely feel it. It shuts him right up anyway. There’s no room in Buck’s brain for anything other than the warmth and strength of Tommy’s big hand, palpable even through his shirt.

“Do you want to come inside?” Tommy asks, searching Buck’s face. “You look like you could use some sleep. And maybe a friendly face.” Tommy’s lips press shut after that, pinched at the corners like he didn’t mean to say that. He swallows tightly and looks away, avoiding Buck’s eyes.

Buck is fascinated by the click of his throat, but not more than he’s enraged by the uncertainty behind the motion. Tommy, who showed up for him and for Chim in defiance of the Army and the FBI and Incident Command. Tommy, who flew the most insane evasive maneuvers like it was nothing, and then almost got himself arrested for it. Tommy, who made him a feast for breakfast and bought a bottle of hopeful champagne that went to his waste after that single, beautiful night at the house that was never Buck’s. Tommy should never sound so uncertain. And Buck is the one who put that hesitation there, with his stupid words that mornin after. Maybe not all of it, maybe some of it predates his own mistakes, but enough.

The anger unsticks his mouth long enough to say, “You’re the friendliest face I’ve seen in weeks.” Means it, too. Except maybe Christopher, but thinking about him leads to Eddie, and he can’t. He just can’t, not right now.

Tommy looks back up at him, a glimmer in his eyes that fades into concern. He looks at Buck, really looks at Buck; Buck feels seen for maybe the first time since… since the lab. He’s terrified that Tommy will see all the ugly parts, the rotting grief and the worn-down useless bits of him that can’t even do the one thing Bobby asked him to. Can’t keep them together, can’t help anyone, can’t be needed. Can’t be enough for anybody.

Tommy finishes his assessment. Steps back. Speaks, before Buck can fully begin to panic about having the door slammed shut in his face. “Tell me about it?” He takes another step back, pulling the door open wider. Inviting Buck into his life, his heart, his home.

Buck takes the invitation, and walks in.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #911 #911 fic #bucktommyhiatusevent #my fics #9-1-1 #evan buckley #tommy kinard #okay good enough on the tags #i'll ao3 this at some point too

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