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"It's like, I don't wanna die, you know?"
Buck takes a long drag of a lukewarm beer, setting the empty bottle down on the thick, sticky bartop. "But sometimes I think it might be easier."
The bartender, a tall, leggy blonde that reminds Buck, fleetingly, of Lucy, flicks her eyes up to look at him from where she's doing dishes behind the counter. Her eyes flick back down to the glasses in the sink before she responds.
"Easier than what?"
Buck grabs the bottle again, knocking it back before remembering it's empty, and puts it back down.
"You want another?"
Buck sighs deep, twisting his shoulders, face straining as his back doesn't crack like it should. "Please."
The sound of beer bottles clanging together in the fridge is harsh and violent, but Buck's too numb to let it rattle him. An open bottle slides in in front of him, along with a napkin she lays to the side.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Buck doesn't look up as he grabs the bottle, wrapping his lips around the opening and leaning it back gently. "I probably should, but I don't want to lay this on you."
"I'm a bartender," she responds coolly, a practiced kindness to her tone. "It's my job."
Buck huffs around his beer. "I thought your job was slingin' brews."
She barks a laugh and starts stacking glasses with that violent noise. "Consider this one of my other duties as assigned."
They exist together for a moment, the harsh clang of glass knocking together, the drone of sports commentators on the televisions around the bar, the crushing weight of Buck's shame, the bubbles in the beer.
"It's easier than facing my life and the incredible ways I've been able to fuck it up."
The bartender has turned around again, stacking those loud glasses on the shelf. "That bad, huh?"
"It sure fucking feels like it."
She doesn't respond, just starts pulling bottles off the shelf and lining them up on the counter.
"So, my best friend moves away, right? And it's for all the right reasons and whatever, but it like, tears this hole in my heart. So I tried to fill it."
"Let me guess," she snorts, cleaning dust from the shelf with a cloth. "With an ex?"
Buck snorts, loudly, followed by an audible pull from the bottle. "Oh yeah. Stumbled into him in this very establishment."
Turning back to face him, she drops a finger of what looks like whiskey in a rocks glass in front of him. "Consider this my apology." Her eyes trail around the bar, no doubt looking for patrons in need of a refill. She stops, focusing on someone in the corner, before turning back to Buck. "Okay, so what happened?"
"Well," Buck starts, sipping at the whiskey, "I slept with him. I didn't even put sheets on my mattress, like, god who does that?"
"In my experience, folks who are either drunk, horny, or unbelievably sad."
"Or in my case, all three."
"Oof. Rough night."
"Oh, but wait!" Buck announces, taking another sip of whiskey. "There's more! Just when I think we're gonna get back together, he announces that he only thought we could get back together because my best friend is gone."
She's got a bottle in her hands now, wiping it down. "And how would that help?"
"A great fucking question. Turns out my ex thought I was in love with my best friend. Was the reason he broke up with me too. The competition, he said."
"Well, are you?"
The clean bottles start to hit the shelf with gentle thunks against the wood.
"I am." He releases some sort of sad squeaking noise, draining the whiskey glass. "Didn't even get a chance to think about it until my sister called me out on it. But they're right. They're all right. They've all... been right.
"And then, because things just have to get more fun, we lose our captain on a call. Like, we've all been hurt, but..."
"But you lost them?"
Buck sniffs but the tears are all dried up. "He was like my goddamned father and I just had to sit there and watch it happen and it's like the memory is rotting away in my gut. And so none of us are handling that well, and my best friend comes back for the funeral. And none of us are actually mourning, we're all just trying to be strong for each other--my team--but it's just so good to see him?"
"Because you're in love with him?"
Buck grabs for the glass, then the bottle, draining the last echoes from both. "If you're gonna make me talk about this, I might need another."
The bartender huffs like a bull, but slides him a beer and a glass of water with a straw. He drains half the glass of water before picking the bottle up in his hand, fingers worrying at the label.
"Yeah. Cause I'm in love with him. He just settles something in me, y'know? And a bunch of other nonsense starts happening, and he's moving back, which is amazing, except he's moving back into the house I took over for him--don't ask--and if I have to share the house with him for one more night without spilling my guts all over the good linen sheets it'll be a goddamned miracle.
"So I moved out! Except I didn't move out, because my credit is wrecked and Los Angeles is a landlord's paradise, so I've been living in my truck for the last three weeks."
The bartender makes a cooing noise that drops Buck's forehead to the bartop.
"And it's not like I'll be there forever, but the nanosecond I let it slip that I moved out of Eddie's house and into my truck, it'll be a landslide of questions and pity and accusations and--"
Her eyes lay again on that patron in the corner. Buck's too absorbed in his life to care too much.
"It's just too much. But the worst thing about it? I love the way it feels, when they love me like that. I'm sick or I'm injured or I'm scared and people--my people--love me in that very special, overpowering way, and I just...
"I used to do it a lot as a kid, you know? Crash my bike, my mom would bring me ice cream in bed and fuss over my wounds, stuff like that. It's like, somehow, I'm never more loveable than when I'm one foot in the grave. But how do I look my friends, or my sister for that matter, in the eye and say hi, could you please love me like I have a goodbye note in my hands?"
Buck huffs awkwardly, chin resting on his folded hands on the bar. "So, like I said. I don't think death is really the way to go, no matter how badly I want to talk to Cap. But fuck if it wouldn't make everything easier."
The bartender turns back and starts cleaning off another shelf, seemingly grateful to have something to do with her hands. "My mama always said that folks were lookin' for a long-term solution to a short-term problem."
"And she's right," Buck admits quietly. "It's just too much right now."
"The houselessness?"
"The secrets. But my back is killing me, it wasn't this painful the last time. I was a younger man then."
She pulls a bowl of peanuts from under the counter and slides them over. "You're not allergic, are you?"
"Nah," Buck says, popping a few into his mouth. "Thanks for these."
She just nods, kindly unaffected.
Buck sits, the bartender goes back to her shelf, and life goes on. The football game is over now and a smattering of post-game commentators are talking about trades and statistics and things you can't begin to understand unless you've done your research beforehand.
"So, what's next for you?"
Buck tosses back a few more peanuts. "No idea. Might go to the zoo tomorrow."
"Is that where you work?"
"Nah," he answers, like it doesn't matter. "Firefighter. The zoo just reminds me of simpler times, is all."
"My sister's kid loves the zoo," she ponders, cracking open the cash register, facing bills. "Could sit and stare at the elephants for hours."
"It's the giraffes for us," Buck says sadly.
"They remind my son of his birthmark."
A hand wraps around Buck's drinking arm, fingers dancing tenderly up and down the muscle. A chin hooks over Buck's shoulder, soft brown hair floats around his ear, and a heavy head comes to lean against his temple.
Buck's body is filled with fight for a nanosecond, or maybe two, before it all disappears, floods out in a rush, leaving him staring ahead blankly with soft shoulders.
"Thanks for catching him," the voice says to the bartender. His voice is soft and he hasn't let go of Buck.
Her eyes flick to Buck, to the new guy comfortably draped around him, and back to Buck. "You know this guy?"
"S'Eddie," he whispers to her.
"The best friend?" she confirms, eyes flicking back to the patron in the corner.
"The best friend," Buck mumbles.
She flicks her eyes to Eddie. "You get him home okay?"
"Always." Buck can feel Eddie's head nod as it moves against the side of his face. "He's coming home with me."
"You, uh--you don't wanna drop him off at his new place? He was telling me about it," the bartender starts, trying to support Buck, no matter how misguided his choices.
"He still won't tell me where it is," Eddie complains softly, rocking Buck from side to side. "We didn't want him to move out in the first place, but he insisted."
"Sounds like a good deal," the bartender posits, eyebrows raised at Buck.
"Christopher's got a whole PowerPoint presentation about it. Apparently, it's a party theme now. Denny's doing one on Minecraft. We're hosting on Friday."
Buck hasn't moved, hasn't looked around, can't quite bear to. The shame has him in a vice.
"Buck," Eddie whispers gently, rocking him side to side like a baby. "Please. Come home."
"How'd you even find me here?"
"Lucky guess."
"Find My Friends?"
"Nope, you turned that off after you moved out. I hate it. So does Chris."
"Come on," the bartender urges not unkindly, bussing Buck's empty bottle and glasses. "Close out your tab. Go home. But let him drive, okay?"
Buck closes his eyes. There's no use fighting.
"Okay, okay." He softly shakes Eddie from his shoulders, who stands up and moves to the barstool next to him.
She runs the card in the glass on the counter, giving him the small pile of plastic and paper when she's done.
"Thanks," Buck mumbles as he slides it back to her. "For listening. You didn't have to."
"You wanna thank me? Move back in. Sounds like he misses you."
"Yeah," he muses softly. "Maybe he does."
Buck and Eddie walk out of the bar, Eddie's arm wrapped tightly around Buck's wide frame, fingers held firmly against his arm. He spares a glance to the corner of the bar, looking at someone that Buck doesn't notice.
Eddie nods in gratitude. Buck doesn't notice that either.
They leave. The door closes behind them.
The bartender follows, but only as far as the table in the corner.
"You know him? You were staring."
"He's my ex," the guy says. "But I worry about him."
The bartender smiles, huffing a little. "With that story he just told, I do too. You call the guy to come get him?"
"Diaz? Yeah. He'll always come when Buck needs him."
"Thanks for that," she says. "Let me take care of your next round."
"Nah," the guy dismisses kindly, "figured I'd head out after this."
"Well, at least let me knock one of those off for you. What's the name on the card on file?"
The guy tilts the last of his drink down his throat.
"Kinard. Thanks."