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Tommy had always thought that when the time finally came, he’d be the one who went first. Mostly because he was older, sure, but he just couldn’t fathom losing Evan. It had never been a consideration in his mind. It had always been a given that they’d ride out the golden years of their retirement together, two old men in love, graying hair and wrinkles and lives well-lived. It was the dream.
It might have been an unobtainable one, as it turns out.
Tommy stares at the jagged piece of metal that’s currently jutting out of his belly and bangs a fist on the dusty ground beneath him. When he drags in a ragged breath, he chokes on the thick plumes of dust and debris still lingering in the air from the collapse.
He’d told Evan “Forever,” and he meant it. He’s not going to let a piece of metal make a liar out of him, goddammit. He’s not.
Tommy drags in one shallow, shaking breath and then another. And then the radio near his head crackles to life.
“—fighter Kinard, respond. Firefighter Kinard—we’ve lost contact with—Kinard—”
He wasn’t even supposed to fucking be here today, but he’d volunteered himself for ground support on a high-rise fire. Evan had wanted to use some of their PTO to go on a much-needed vacation, and Tommy had been picking up extra shifts here and there to accumulate some money for the trip. They were thinking about going to Iceland to celebrate six months together. The trip’s so close Tommy can almost taste it.
“Firefighter Kinard. Please respond.” The voice on the other end of the radio crackles with static and something else.
Panic, fear, Tommy realizes.
He fumbles with the radio, struggling to lift it to his mouth, then struggling to lift his head to speak into it. His brain feels hot, staticky. Or maybe the static’s coming from the radio.
Tommy rasps out, “H-hello? Is anybody out there? Can anyone hear me?”
Just nod if you can hear me, is there anyone home? he thinks somewhat deliriously.
He sets his head back on dusty concrete, hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The radio falls from his fingers to the ground, its black shell shattering into pieces.
He hopes—prays to a god he no longer believes in—that Evan and the 118 aren’t the ones to find him like this, that they send another house. The thought of Evan—his Evan, the human embodiment of sunshine—discovering Tommy’s rapidly cooling corpse, twisted in the throes of rigor, takes him out at the knees.
The world starts graying, fading at the edges, darkening like paper set aflame.
This is it, he thinks.
Tommy scrabbles across the concrete for the broken radio. When he lifts it to his ear, he hears nothing but the faint hiss and click of static. He drops the radio and puts his head back until he can stare up at the ceiling—or where one would have been if it hadn’t just mostly collapsed on top of him.
Tommy parts cracked, bleeding lips and chokes out, “There is no pain, you are receding. A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.”
A broken laugh dissolves into deep, wet coughs and the bitter taste of blood.
It was funnier in his head.
Tommy closes his eyes and the world around him drops into darkness.
Buck bounds up the steps of the firehouse loft and immediately zeroes right in on Bobby, who’s dicing onions and bell peppers on a cutting board over near the sink. There’s a pot of boiling water on the stove and Ravi is busy snapping bundles of uncooked pasta at his elbow. Buck leans over Bobby’s shoulder and snags a chunk of bell pepper before Bobby can whack his hand away.
“Hey Cap, Ravi,” Buck says, tipping his chin at them. “What’s on the menu?”
“You seem a little suspiciously cheery today,” Ravi says, carrying the dry pasta over and dropping it into the pot.
“Going over to Tommy’s when we get off shift,” Buck says, flashing a gummy grin when Ravi rolls his eyes at him.
“How long is the honeymoon period supposed to last,” Ravi stage-whispers to Bobby. “Because I don’t think I can put up with another six months of this.”
Bobby picks up the wooden cutting board and scrapes the diced veggies into a waiting pan with the wet blade of his knife. “Just be thankful you didn’t spend three weeks on Buck’s pull-out couch waiting for the insurance company to pay out,” he says.
“Oh,” Ravi says. “That’s right, you and Athena—oh. Oh no.”
“Yep,” Bobby says, with a pleasant smile.
“Hey, I offered you noise-cancelling headphones,” Buck says, reaching into the pan for another chunk of pepper.
Ravi winces. “Ugh.”
Bobby whacks Buck lightly across the back of his hand with a wooden spoon. “Suffice it to say,” he says, turning his attention to Ravi, “we got out of there the second we got our insurance payout.”
Buck shakes his hand out and blows on his knuckles. “Don’t play. You know you miss my homecooked meals.”
“Your homecooked meals? Those were my recipes,” Bobby scoffs.
Buck points a finger into the air, imperiously, and opens his mouth to protest but he’s cut off by the jangling ringtone emanating from Bobby’s pocket. Bobby steps away from the stove and fishes his phone out of his pocket, lifting it to his ear.
“Captain Nash,” he says, turning and heading for the loft stairs.
Buck nods at Ravi and hikes his eyebrows. “What d’you think that’s about?” he asks, reaching into the pan on the stove now that Bobby’s stepped away.
Ravi shrugs. “Probably nothing.”
Eddie sprints up the stairs, frowns at Buck with his hand in the literal metaphorical cookie jar, and clips Ravi on the shoulders. “What’s for dinner,” he asks, knocking Buck’s hand away from the sautéing veggies in the pan.
“Pasta,” Buck says, popping a chunk of onion into his mouth and licking the oil off his fingers.
Eddie shoulders Buck away from the stove. “Keep your germs out of the—”
Bobby strides back up the stairs, his expression nearly inscrutable. If Buck hadn’t become so attuned to Bobby’s expressions over the years he might have dismissed the carefully-held neutral look on his face, but he knows Bobby. He knows when Bobby has just gotten bad news but he doesn’t want to freak anyone—usually Buck—out.
“What is it?” Buck asks, wiping his greasy fingers off on his sleeve.
“Buckley,” Bobby says, crooking a beckoning finger at him. “Walk with me.”
“Uh, okay?” Buck says, slowly, his stomach dropping out like the first steep drop on a roller coaster.
His mind briefly flashes to Devon, for some reason.
“Buckley,” Bobby repeats, his tone a little sharper, “now.”
And that’s when Buck knows. He knows.
Buck feels everything inside him—his bones, blood, the meat of him—turn to jelly. He grips tightly on the counter to keep his legs from dropping out from under him and he feels a hand on his back, rubbing in gentle circles.
Buck somehow, through the fog that’s settled around him and inside him, manages to push away from the kitchen counter and follow after Bobby and down the stairs.
Once they’ve reached the ground floor, Bobby takes Buck gently by the shoulder and steers him into the locker room, letting the door whoosh shut behind them.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of the others,” Bobby says, his tone solemn, his face grim. He guides Buck to sit on one of the wooden benches and slides next to him. “I received a phone call from the captain over at Harbor.”
Buck knots numb fingers in his lap and nods. He can’t bring himself took at Bobby. “Y-yeah?”
Bobby sighs. “Kid, there’s no easy way to say this,” he says, lightly touching Buck’s shoulder again. “Harbor was responding to a four-alarm fire at a high-rise downtown. Kinard volunteered for ground support. He was in the building when a load-bearing beam fell, triggering a structural collapse.”
Buck stares at the backs of his hands, which he’s curled into fists on his knees. His knuckles pop, the skin pulling tight and angry red. “He—is he—”
“He’s been hurt,” Bobby says, gentling his tone. “It’s… not good. I’m letting you off shift early. We can find someone to get you to the hospital.”
Buck finally forces himself to turn, to face Bobby and the grave reality of what he’s just said. “Will—will you come with me,” he chokes out. “I—I don’t think I can go alone. And I don’t—I need someone there. Eddie’ll just try to make me feel better and Chim will try to crack jokes to lighten the mood, and Maddie’ll just cry. I need—”
“Of course, kid,” Bobby says, squeezing Buck’s shoulder.
After arranging for B-shift to come in early, Bobby dismisses everyone with a barebones explanation that doesn’t really explain anything, and then retreats to his office for his keys. Buck moves like a zombie through molasses, shucking his uniform and pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants he’s not even entirely sure are his. When he grabs his phone and powers it on, he finds thirty missed texts and voicemails waiting for him. The flashing red light on his phone throbs in time with his racing heartbeat.
Buck shoves his phone in his pocket and follows Bobby out of the firehouse to his car. Bobby moves quietly and efficiently, and Buck finds it oddly reassuring. He’s always looked at Bobby as somewhat of an anchor, and he thinks he’s really going to need that right now.
He has no idea what the hell they’re going to walk into when they arrive at the hospital, and that—the not knowing—scares him more than anything.
Tommy wakes with a jolt and a gasp, feeling as if he’s just been pulled out of the numbing dark of sleep like a great hand reached in and plucked him out. He’s disoriented, foggy, feels like he’s trapped in a giant sticky web, spider-silk clinging to his bare skin. When Tommy tries to lift a hand to brush away the odd sensation, he realizes his arm is wrapped in a plaster cast.
Tommy lowers his arm and closes his eyes, too exhausted to keep his head up or keep his eyes open.
Someone’s at his bedside in a second, combing fingers through Tommy’s messy curls.
“Tommy?”
Tommy blinks up at the looming figure, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The shadows around him resolve themselves into the shape of a person—into Evan. He stares down at Tommy, his blue eyes red-rimmed and swimming. His hair looks unwashed and he has at least a few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. His plush lips look raw, like he’s been chewing them non-stop since—since whenever Tommy’s luck finally ran out.
Evan reaches over the metal bedrail and grazes his knuckles tenderly over Tommy’s cheek. His face aches—in fact, his whole head hurts in a low, throbbing sort of way—but Evan’s gentle touch helps a little bit. Or, at least he’d like to think so. If anyone’s touch has healing properties, he’d think it would be Evan’s. Tommy always feels better when Evan gets his hands on him, anyway.
“Evan,” Tommy finally mumbles past dry, parched lips.
“Here,” Evan says, nudging a paper cup against Tommy’s mouth. “You’re probably thirsty. You’ve been out for a few days.”
Tommy tips his head back into the soft pillows and lets cool water trickle into his mouth. He swirls it and then chokes it down. “Wh-what happened?”
“A building fell on top of you,” Evan says, wryly, leaning over the bedrail and fiddling with the blanket that’s tucked in around Tommy’s chest. He strokes his fingers in the folds of the blanket as if to keep nervous fingers busy. “Most of your injuries were relatively minor, except for the piece of metal in your stomach. They were worried about an infection and thought they might have to remove your spleen, but you pulled through surgery just fine.”
“Pfft, a spleen? Who needs ’em,” Tommy says, waving a hand—the one not wrapped up in a plaster cast—dismissively.
“Actually, you do,” Evan says, darting back in and planting a kiss against the corner of Tommy’s mouth. He kisses Tommy again, in the same spot, and adds, “I—I was really scared you weren’t gonna come home to me. I mean, Bobby and Maddie and Eddie tried to keep my spirits up and stuff, and you were in the hands of the best trauma surgeons this place has to offer but… I really thought I might have to go back to my empty apartment and tell my potted plants that their step-dad wasn’t coming back—”
Tommy cuts him short to kiss him quiet, his uninjured hand coming to rest against Evan’s cheek. “That—” his chest heaves as he breathes deeply with the effort “—is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’d be one thing if it was a dog or a cat, but your plants?”
Evan’s mouth curls into a small, pleased smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Those are my children you’re talking shit about.”
“Do they have names,” Tommy asks, almost immediately regretting even bringing it up when Evan scrambles to sit up beside his hospital bed.
Evan starts counting them off on his fingers. “There’s Robert Planttinson and Vincent Van Grow and–”
“I regret asking. I’m going back to sleep,” Tommy says, pulling his blanket—carefully—over his face.
“Christofern Diaz,” Evan continues, “and—”
“I’m calling the nurse,” Tommy threatens.
Evan’s fingers curl in the blanket and he tugs it down, gently. He’s still smiling, his eyes a little less glassy now. his smile a little less pinched at the corners. “If you’re mean to me I’m not giving you any sponge baths. You can fend for yourself.”
“Okay,” Tommy mutters, pretending to be grumpy. “Okay, fine. Jeez.”
“I drive a hard bargain.” Evan drops a kiss onto Tommy’s scrunched forehead.
“I know you do,” Tommy says, letting his eyes slip shut. “I’m counting on it.”
He drifts back to sleep, buoyed by the sound of Evan’s ebullient laughter.