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Buck lets himself into Tommy’s apartment with his key and drops the stack of mail that’d been left in his box on the little wooden end table next to the door. Buck tilts his head back and sniffs the air, immediately missing the scent of tomato sauce that usually greets him when he comes over to Tommy’s when he gets off shift. Buck toes off his shoes, leaves them by a pair of Tommy’s work boots, and shuffles across the sleek hardwood toward the darkened kitchen.
“Hey, Tommy?” he calls out.
His voice ricochets off gleaming stainless steel.
Tommy’s place feels almost as empty as a tomb.
A thin trickle of fear shivers its way down Buck’s spine. His apartment feels empty, unlived in—it never feels empty. Even if Tommy isn’t physically present, there’s some familiar warmth left over, whether it’s the scent of marinara, bubbling in a pot on the stove, or the low sound of Dean Martin crooning from Tommy’s wall-mounted speakers.
Something isn’t right.
A slow-growing tension tightens in Buck’s shoulders as he pads across the kitchen and down the carpeted hall, for Tommy’s bedroom. He quickly races through all of his medical training as he presses his palm flat against the closed door and gives it a gentle push. Thankfully Tommy hasn’t barricaded himself in his room; the door swings open without much force and, after taking a bracing breath, Buck pokes his head in.
The first things Buck notices are that the air is stale and the curtains are drawn. He gropes along the wall until his fingers hit the light switch and he flips it on. If not for the bare foot sticking out from under the comforter piled up in the center of Tommy’s bed, Buck might have thought he wasn’t there.
Buck approaches cautiously and leans down over the lump in the middle of the bed. “Tommy,” he murmurs, careful to keep his voice low, soothing.
The lump of blankets rustles slightly and Tommy grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like, “Go away.”
Buck itches to yank the blankets away, draw back the curtains, and throw open the windows but he knows better than that. He lays himself out beside Tommy and curls around him, hooking one of Tommy’s ankles with his own. He feels Tommy shuffling and shifting under the blankets, arranging himself with his back against Buck’s chest.
“How’s the head,” Buck mutters, pillowing his cheek on his arm and draping his other one over Tommy.
“Bad,” Tommy mutters, muffled through the blankets.
“Did you take anything for it,” Buck asks.
“Pills don’t help with this,” Tommy replies, finally pushing the blankets off of his head.
Buck leans in and presses a kiss to the damp curls at the back of Tommy’s head. “Maybe a hot shower would help a little,” he suggests.
“Nothing really helps when it’s this bad,” Tommy sighs, reaching back and squeezing gently on Buck’s hip. “But it’s better with you here. Sorry I didn’t get to dinner. You’re probably starving. Get my credit card out of my wallet and order a pizza.”
“I’m not hungry,” Buck says, curling his arm securely around Tommy’s waist and pulling him a little more snugly back against his chest.
Tommy sighs again, gripping Buck gently by the wrist and pulling his hand against his chest. “I just hate when it gets like this,” he says, a note of apology hanging in the air. “I feel kind of useless.”
“I—I’m not here because you’re useful,” Buck says, curling in on himself a little bit so that he can kiss the back of Tommy’s neck. “I’m here because… because you’re here. And I like being with you.”
“Even when my stupid brain turns me into a lump of Jell-o?” Tommy asks, his tone dry.
“Even then,” Buck says, sliding one of his hands under Tommy’s clammy, sweat-soaked T-shirt. “Maybe we should get you into that shower. How long have you been stewing in your own juices?”
Tommy audibly cringes. “Since I woke up this morning,” he admits.
Buck sits up slowly and rests a hand on Tommy’s waist. “I’m telling you, a hot shower might help.”
Tommy sits up with a groan and pitches forward to rest his forehead against Buck’s shoulder. “Feels like there’s a dozen little men in my head jackhammering away,” he complains, curling his fingers in the front of Buck’s shirt.
“If you agree to take that shower, I’ll get in with you,” Buck says, tunneling his hands under the back of Tommy’s shirt. “I’ll scrub those hard-to-reach places for you too.”
“You’re very convincing.” Tommy presses a kiss against Buck’s shoulder through his shirt before pushing away and climbing out of the bed with a groan.
Buck takes a moment to drink in the view in front of him—even pale and sweaty, his hair sticking up in a thousand different directions, Tommy still looks like a dream—before he gets out of bed, sheds his clothes, and follows Tommy into the shower.