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The living room is filled with boxes, again, and Buck doesn’t even know where to start.
***
Eddie was all smiles when Buck got home from his shift. There were pastries on the counter and coffee in the pot, but it didn't feel welcoming. The air was still too cold between them, an inflated cushion that pushed and pulled at Buck every time he moved.
“I’ve got good news,” Eddie said, grin spreading from ear to ear. Buck tried to match it, but he was just tired. It had been a long shift, but the exhaustion is deeper than that. It was in his bones these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the energy to do anything more than just show up for work.
Probably before.
“What’s that?” His voice sounded flat, even to his own ears.
“I’m moving back. The LAFD has agreed to reinstate me at the 118, isn’t that great?”
Bucks ears started ringing, and his body started going numb, legs heavy. He leaned against the door and tried to figure out how he was supposed to respond. He shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”
Eddie frowned. “I thought you’d be happy for me. I’m coming home in a few weeks. Chris is coming home in a few weeks. We’ll be settled back in here by the end of the month. Just like old times.”
The ringing in Buck’s head got louder. There was no way to go back anymore. Not without –
“Sure, yeah. Welcome home.”
Buck stalked out down the hallway to his bedroom and shut the door. Maybe slammed, it definitely shut a lot harder than he’d expected it to. He sat on the bed, body heavy, head full of cotton and white noise. It took all of his effort to pull for his phone out of his pocket, but once it was in his hand he didn't know what he wanted to do, or who he wanted to call.
Which was a lie.
He stared at the lockscreen until it turned off again, and stayed in his room until all the lights went off in the rest of his house.
***
One week.
One week until Eddie's back and Buck is homeless. He hasn't even told the rest of the team, because they're happy that Eddie is back, getting the gang back together. Buck's mostly avoiding them when they're not working, and they're avoiding him right back.
He keeps his head down and does his job, and chats with them about the calls, but that's about it. He's managed to sit at the dinner table and eat his takeout while everyone else talks about Eddie's triumphant return. If they think he's being weird, they're probably just chalking it up to grief, and that's it.
Every so often he catches them watching him, calculating, worried. But they don't approach.
He's starting to feel like an art exhibit.
Modern Grief
Evan Buckley, 2025
Performance art
Now, he's sitting in his living room surrounded by empty boxes in a house that had only just started to feel like home, wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do.
He hasn't talked to Eddie.
There's nothing to talk about.
***
Buck almost declined the call. But Eddie would just call back and there are actual logistics to talk about now. Buck has to leave, it's Eddie's house.
He hadn't even signed a cursory lease agreement.
"I'm driving in on the 25th," Eddie said. "And then Chris is coming on the 30th. So you'll have some time if you need it."
Buck scowled at the wall in front of him. He wished he'd gotten around to taking it out, just because.
"I'll be out, the house is yours. It always was anyway."
"Buck --"
"Don't," Buck says. "I don't want to hear it right now."
Eddie sighed on the line, and Buck could see the exasperated stance, he'd seen it plenty of times over the years. He knows when he's being exhausting.
"Can we talk when I get there, at least?"
There was nothing Buck wanted less, but he shrugged, not that Eddie could see him. "Sure."
"Okay," Eddie paused. "Okay, I'll see you on the 25th."
"Sure," Buck said again, and hung up.
***
The movers are booked for the 20th; he's given himself a few days of buffer in case he has to delay the physical move for some reason. But there's currently no place for him to move to. He can't ask Maddie and Chim if he can crash on their couch, they have enough on their plate right now. He loves Hen, but she doesn't understand why he's mad at Eddie, and he can't bring himself to tell any of them about the altercation in his kitchen.
The kitchen he can't think of as his anymore.
Maybe he was an idiot to think he could ever turn this house into a home. Not after the first night, that first morning, and everything that had come after.
The fight with Eddie had just been the last straw.
He didn't belong here.
***
Buck was on shift when Eddie caught his flight back to Texas. He had sent Chris home immediately, but stuck around longer on Buck's couch once he'd decided. There was paperwork and re-certification and Onboarding things that HR was having him do.
Somehow he'd convinced them to fast track it to get a jump on other transfer candidates, but Buck hadn't asked him how. He spent most of his not-shift days out of the house.
Hiking, driving, museums, at the beach or the gym. Anything to keep him away from the house. He hadn't surfed in years, but a board rental for a day wasn't too expensive and he couldn't keep his phone on him if he was out past the breakers. The white noise of the ocean almost drowned out the violent ringing in his ears.
Every so often a helicopter would pass over the water, the sound of it would tighten something in his chest until the steady drum of the rotos faded from earshot.
He never looked up to see who the choppers belonged to.
***
The first thing he packs up is the kitchen.
***
A different sort of weight settled into Buck's chest as the 25th creeped closer and closer.
Two weeks.
Ten days.
One week.
Five days. The 20th.
He rented a Pod, loaded it up with most of his things, and arranged for a pickup.
He hadn't booked a hotel yet, but he decided that he would, as a last resort.
His entire life was now in storage. Boxed up and sealed and carted away. As he looked around the empty house, he thought maybe this was just how his life was supposed to be.
***
He hesitates before calling, but there really isn't anyone else he can call at this point. His self imposed deadline is tomorrow. Generously. It's already almost 1am, so really, he's already there.
Buck's stomach is in knots as he hits call but he barely gets through the first ring before it's answered.
"Evan?" Tommy's voice is soft, confused. "Are you okay?"
The painful, everpresent band around his chest loosens, just a bit. He breathes deep. "Yeah. I'm fine." It's a lie.
"Evan."
Buck's eyes burn, the walls go blurry. "I'm - I'm not --"
He'd meant to say he's not hurt, he's not in danger, but the rest of the sentence gets stuck in his throat.
There's movement on the other end of the line. "Where are you? Give me 20 minutes."
"At the house," Buck chokes out. The band has moved to his throat. He can't call it home anymore. Never could. "I can't stay here."
An engine starts, the beeping of the reverse, Buck can picture it so easily, the way Tommy twists around to watch the road even though there's a perfectly functional backup cam on his dashboard. Technology is good, but my eyes are better, he'd always joked.
Tommy stays on the line, narrating each turn and stop as he does. His voice fills the silence that's weighing Buck down, surrounding him and holding him together.
"I parked behind your truck and I'll be at the door in twenty seconds." The engine noise cuts out.
He doesn't hang up the phone when he opens it, not bothering to knock. Buck hadn't locked it because there's nothing valuable left in here. He's just sitting on his couch, the last piece of furniture, staring at the blank wall and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He lost count of how many there have been this year.
"I'm here, Evan."
Tommy's voice isn't coming through the phone anymore. His hands are warm on Buck's knees, on his cheekbones.
"I'm sorry," Buck apologizes, "I didn't mean --"
Tommy gathers him up, doesn't let him finish the sentence. One second Buck is trying to tell his ex that he didn't need to be rescued from his own emotions, the next he's breathing in Tommy's laundry detergent and feeling the warmth of him sink into his skin, easing the weight he's been carrying for months.
When he blinks, his cheeks are wet.
"It's okay," Tommy says. "You're okay."
Buck wants to reply, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. More tears spill out of him, the floodgates now open.
Everything from the last six months is spilling over.
The devastation of Tommy leaving. Twice.
Maddie going missing.
Bobby.
Eddie moving.
“Eddie’s coming back.” Buck manages to choke out.
Tommy’s hand is warm and solid on his neck. Grounding him, making him feel whole in his own body. The blurred edges of him from the last few months coming back into focus.
“Okay,” Tommy says. He waits. He doesn’t move away.
Buck relaxes a bit more.
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Buck feels the way Tommy suddenly looks around, keeps his eyes closed while Tommy shifts, taking in the bare floors and walls and the couch sitting in the middle of the living room.
“This is Eddie’s house,” Tommy says. And it’s not a question.
“I have to leave.”
There’s a pause, it stretches out long enough that Buck starts to sit up, to extricate himself from Tommy’s arms.
Guess Buck is too much to him, too. He shouldn’t have called.
Tommy’s hold tightens. Keeps Buck pressed against him until he relaxes again. Not all the way, but enough.
“Is your bedroom packed?”
Buck nods. He’s been living out of a suitcase for days.
This time Tommy does let him sit up, but keeps his hand on Buck’s shoulder.
“Go get in the car, I’ll get your things.”
Tommy leans in and kisses him, just a quick peck on the side of Buck’s mouth, but the gentle touch is a revelation. Buck’s eyes go blurry again. He blinks it away.
“Go on, I’ve got it.”
Buck feels lighter as he walks out of the house. He’ll have to deal with Eddie to get the couch eventually.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Tommy comes out the front door with the last of Buck’s personal things: a suitcase of clothes, his toiletry bag, and the small duffel of personal trinkets and photos. He stows them in the backseat and climbs in, offering Buck his hand.
Buck takes it, locking their fingers together.
He keeps hold of Buck’s hand as he twists around to check his blind spots before pulling out into the street.
Buck rolls down the window and lets the cool night air wash over him, the exhaustion that’s been weighing him down since the funeral, since long before that, starts to wash away.
Tommy pulls his hand over and kisses his knuckles.
“Let’s go home.”