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Buck could fill a small bakery with the amount he's baked in the past few weeks. He cleaned out the flour shelf at his local corner market, used a coop's worth of eggs, pushed his mixer to the limit, and had his oven working near constantly. Every neighbor on his floor and everyone he's passed in the lobby has had a loaf of some kind left on their doorstep or politely shoved into their hands. Everyone at the station is begging him not to overload them on anymore sugar - they'll take the carb-loaded meals he makes at work but avoid Buck the moment he enters the bay doors with a basket of saran-wrapped sweet bakes.
The worst part is that it's not even working anymore. It never really distracted him enough to not want to call Tommy, just put his hands and head to use for an hour or two at a time so that he couldn't text or call.
But now there's nothing left to bake with. And Eddie is looking at houses in El Paso. And everyone has family to go home to, except for Buck. And every reason he has for not being the one to reach out first goes out the window.
After a few rings, Tommy answers with a questioning: "-Buck?" and it's a gut-punch he doesn't need today but he's already feeling like shit so the pain just gets absorbed into the rest of it.
"H-hey, Tommy." It feels good to say his name under- well, not better circumstances than addressing his broken heart, but something with a bit of tentative hope, at least.
And it's good to hear his voice. The voicemails and audio notes and videos from their time together have soothed and tormented him, but hearing Tommy acknowledge him sends a pang of longing through Buck.
"Um. I-I, uh."
"Are you okay?"
A bitter sound trips its way out of Buck's mouth. "No. No, I-I'm not okay."
"Are you hurt?" The urgency in Tommy's voice thrills him; he still cares. But Buck doesn't want to misrepresent himself, doesn't want to trick Tommy into caring about what he's going through.
"Guess that depends."
"On what?"
"What kinda hurt you mean."
There's an inhale across the line. "What can I do?"
Tears prick at the corners of Buck's eyes. "I just- need someone to talk to." He doesn't say: even though we're not together anymore, can we still be friends? because even though he's missed Tommy being in his life, he doesn't know if he could be just friends.
"Okay." Buck hears some rustling in the background, footsteps, background noise receding. "I'm here. Talk to me."
Tommy wants to hear what Buck has to say, he always did. So Buck talks. He tells Tommy about Eddie moving away, and Tommy listens. And when it gets too much he tells Tommy about a new niece or nephew of his on the way, and Tommy offers his sincere congratulations. And then he tells Tommy about his baking coping mechanism, and Tommy quiets.
So much so that Buck checks to see if the call dropped.
"I'm on my fifth engine," Tommy admit. "I keep taking them apart and putting them back together until they work better than before. But everytime I was done I had to start again, fix another broken thing, because I couldn't fix.."
Buck takes an unsteady breath. Us. "Me."
"No," Tommy says emphatically. "I couldn't fix me. Too broken to be good enough for you."
It's a heartwrenching confession, but Buck feels a smile beneath the tears sneaking down his face. "You don't think I'm broken? Nobody stays for me, Tommy. At some point I gotta realize I'm just not someone people stick around for in the long run."
"Evan.."
Buck breezes over the sound of his name in Tommy's mouth, can't dwell on how good it feels because it won't last. "Guess neither of us are forever guys, huh." His heart, bruised and battered, bleeds a little more. The tears stream freely now. He sniffles, but manages to steady his voice as he says: "I loved you. That was real."
Tommy's breath hitches. There's a charged beat, and then: "I was a coward."
Buck nods. Cries some more. They're both fucked up.
Tommy hesitates, but then: "I'm off-shift soon. We could.."
He leaves it hanging. There's so many ways Buck could finish that sentence, most of them unbearably hopeful. He doesn't want to stay in his empty apartment anymore. "Yours?" His voice is a little wet. "Maybe I could help you with that engine."
Tommy's breath of amusement is a balm to Buck's aching heart. "You know something about vintage cars I don't?" It's teasing, and gentle, and Buck has missed this.
"Maybe. Maybe trying to do it alone is the problem."
Another breath of laughter, followed by resignation in Tommy's voice. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
Buck listens to him breathe for a moment: in, out, in..
"I'll meet you at mine."
Buck's poor heart beats a little stronger.
*
It was more than an hour later, of battling crosstown traffic and then letting himself into Tommy's house because Tommy had explicitly told him to use the spare key. They never did get to the point of swapping keys. That probably should've been a step they didn't skip over. Buck's too-long legs had skipped too many for Tommy's comfort.
He pushes all thoughts of that aside. He's not perfect, he's too much, but Tommy agreed to see him. Tommy wants.. he's not sure.
Buck stands in the little living room, surveying Tommy's space while his mind spirals, heart yoyo-ing between hope and hopelessness. He doesn't know how much time passes when the front door opens and Tommy appears in the entryway.
He looks good. Tired, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by, but good. His hair is a little longer all over, and it suits him. Buck wants to tell him as much but he can't seem to say anything.
Then Tommy says, "Hey," soft and concerned and fond, a sad smile at the corners of his eyes.
And Buck's tears threaten back into his own. "Hey." His voice is watery and brittle.
Tommy's there in three strides, gathering Buck into his arms, and Buck lets himself be wrapped in his embrace. Winds his arms around Tommy and presses into his solid warmth. Breathes him in as the tears come.
He feels safe. Seen. His heart cradled in care the way his body is cradled in Tommy's arms.
Buck takes a deep, steadying inhale of Tommy's scent and pulls back enough to look him in the face. His hands loose their grip at Tommy's shirt, smoothing to palm his sides through the cotton.
"About that engine.."
Tommy's smile is wide enough to crinkle his eyes in that way Buck loves, with joy etched in the creases.
"I wanna help you, if you'll let me. We could make it work. Together."
Tommy's eyes glisten. His smile breaks into a grin. "I'd like to try that."