Just some Tommy looking at Buck

Champagne is the last thing Buck is craving when he drags himself up the stairs of his apartment after a night spent watching the citizens of LA suffer the consequences of some of the worst decisions he’s ever seen. New Year’s Eve is always like that–some people can’t help but treat the end of the year like the end of the world–but the car accidents and overdoses and exploded fingers are hanging heavier on Buck’s shoulders than they have before. Even the familiar post-shift ache in his body feels less like the accomplishment and reassurance of his own strength that it usually is and more like another repetition of a cycle that will never end. The year will always end like this. People will always die. Buck will always hurt.

That cynicism sits in his stomach like a questionable convenience store sandwich. It doesn’t belong and his system is already starting to revolt. Eventually Buck will purge it–if it hasn’t poisoned him too badly in the meantime.

“Bill, can you tell me your location? I want to send some people to make sure you’re okay. You don’t sound okay.”

“I’m not. But he’s worse off than I am. Shouldn’t you want to help him instead? Wouldn’t you want to know where he is?”

“Who is he?”

“That firefighter I buried underground.”