Chapter Text
Buck's life had been in disarray for the past year.
It was not just disarray; it was more like someone coming in when he had his guard down and throwing a match on everything he'd thought was sturdy. And whenever he felt like he'd got his footing, more gasoline poured on for good measure. Just to make sure he stayed down.
It was exhausting .
But today, he's taken a step. A big step.
Buck closes one eye and tilts his head. The picture is semi-level . And that is good enough. Kicking the empty box to the side, he slumps on the couch with a sigh.
He's a homeowner.
And It's fine.
It's a nice place. It needs some work, but it does the job. It has a bed and a kitchen, and really, what else does he need? He spends more time at the firehouse anyway. But he's now an adult with a house. No more loft or trying to feel at home in someone else's place. Definitely no more sleeping on his sister's couch. It counts for something. Somewhere.
His eyes fall on the army of empty boxes dotting his new living room. He'd severely overestimated how much time it would take him to unpack. Once the furniture was in, he realized he wasn't picky about what went where. He stands, kicking the boxes further to the side—it's a problem for another time—and walks over to the front window, peering out over his new neighborhood.
It's nice.
Everything is just nice.
Aside from the whole Veronica thing, he'd never spoken to any of his neighbors at the loft. He definitely hadn't spoken to any of Eddie's, then his neighbors. But in his new pursuit of setting down roots and standing on his own two feet, he decides that introducing himself to these neighbors is a good start.
It feels like something a well-adjusted adult would do, which he is—you know, with the house and the weekly therapy sessions.
An idea strikes, and he turns, heading to test out his new kitchen.
***
Brownies are never a bad idea. Everyone loves brownies. Hello, I'm new to the neighborhood brownies at that. And he'd just perfected a new recipe.
The baking was back with a vengeance. It had waned briefly, only briefly at some point between Eddie leaving and Tommy fucking him on a bare mattress. And then spiraled out of control again, every shelf of his, Eddie's fridge piled high with baked goods and a champagne bottle he had no intention of touching. Tommy entered his brain in any capacity, and a new loaf appeared thirty minutes later. Cause and effect.
And then, Tommy hadn't reached out, and Bobby fucking died, and everything got worse. Gasoline on the fire that is his life.
But brownies made it better. He sections out half the batch between four plates—he wasn't a maniac giving them all away—and saran-wraps them.
Well-adjusted people introduce themselves to their neighbors.
***
He knocks on the red door with a plate of brownies in hand. He was starting with the house with the flowers to the left of him. It looks approachable. Every square foot of the front of the house is decked out with something. A wind chime he'd brushed past made a twinkly noise echo around him, colorful flowers lining the perimeter of the driveway, and a scary-looking gnome looking up at him suspiciously from the porch. He eyes it right back.
The door creaks, and he looks up. He'll be back to the gnome. He lifts a hand a little awkwardly in greeting. "Uh, hi. I'm Buck."
A glassy brown eye stares back at him through the crack in the door. It's not all that dissimilar from the look the gnome had been giving him.
He takes a step back. He understands he's probably not the most approachable person on the surface, especially without the turnouts.
"Uh, I'm your new neighbor; I live there," he points vaguely to his right.
The door pulls open further, revealing an old woman hunched over a cane, wiry gray eyebrows pulled over her eyes. "What have you got there?" she asks, her cane coming up to jab toward the brownies in Buck's hand.
Buck holds them out further. "Oh, brownies, they're for you. I just moved in, and I thought-"
"Are they gluten-free?"
Buck looks down at the brownies, then back at the woman. "Oh- uh- no?"
"No, thank you," she says, closing the door in his face and making him jump back.
He looks down to the gnome with a huff. "This was your fault," he mutters, hightailing it out of there, making a note to Google a recipe for gluten-free brownies. Well-adjusted people get to know their neighbors, dammit.
***
He knocks on the door with the same plate of brownies in hand and a renewed sense of determination. Second time is the charm, after all.
Who doesn't want hand-delivered still warm brownies?
This house is the complete opposite of the old woman's house he'd just been shunned from. It's not run-down or anything, just plain. The door is a sleek slate gray, the mailbox he'd just walked past is freshly painted white, and a lone wooden rocking chair sits on the porch. It's very no-nonsense. He doesn't know whether that's a better or worse sign. Looks can be deceiving clearly. His first impression of the last house was that a sweet old lady lived there. He hadn't expected a slammed door in his face. This house might house the sweet old lady he was hoping for, someone who'll take his grief brownies with gratitude .
The door opens, and oh, god .
Buck's eyes widened, his fingers gripping the plate in his hand for dear life. He's pretty sure his heart ceases to beat in his chest for a second because that's not the sweet old lady he was hoping for. He wishes he was getting a door slammed in his face again because this is worse. So much worse.
Tommy's mouth falls open for a split second before he slams it shut, his eyebrows pulling tight as he stands in the doorway, staring like it's weird Buck is here. Like Buck isn't the one who just moved in, and Tommy isn't standing in his neighbor's house staring at him.
"Who's house is this?" Buck stammers, his heart hammering against his chest. This is all an elaborate delusion he's conjured up in his head. It has to be. He's giving brownies to hallucinatommy. That's got to be it.
Tommy lets his hand loosen on the door he's still gripping. His mouth opens and closes, no words making it out.
"This isn't your house," Buck tells him firmly. "That's not your truck," he throws a hand over his shoulder toward the driveway.
Tommy grimaces. "It is my house."
"No, it's not. I've been to your house. I lived at your house when my loft lost power for a week, and this isn't your house." Buck repeats erratically, the brownies sliding around the plate with the movement.
"I moved," Tommy supplies. "Why are you at my house? How do you know where I-"
"No," Buck cuts him off. "You didn't move, I moved."
Tommy shakes his head like Buck's the one acting crazy. "I know , you live at Eddie's; I know all about your mattress on the floor."
"I have a bed now." Buck defends.
"Oh, good," Tommy nods a little sarcastically.
"I moved out of Eddie's."
Tommy's eyebrows furrow again. "Okay."
" I moved out of Eddie's to the house next door to this one," Buck says slowly. To make sure they're both on the same harrowing page.
It does the trick because Tommy's eyes widen now, flicking to the house next door. Buck's house next door.
"You- I-" Tommy tries, but nothing of substance is coming out.
Buck thinks this is the first time he's seen Tommy speechless, and he doesn't like it. If Tommy is speechless, then he has no hope.
His free hand comes up to scratch at his neck nervously. "Now would be a great time to tell me you're just house-sitting for someone," he laughs. Not because it's funny. He wants the ground to swallow him whole, and his body doesn't know what to do with that.
He doesn't know if he's ever felt as uncomfortable as he does now, standing on Tommy's apparent porch, non-gluten-free brownies in hand.
Tommy's eyes dart between the house next door and Buck like he's trying to make the pieces fit and is coming up short. He inhales sharply. "You live there?" he asks.
Buck's head jerks in a nod, holding up the brownies. "I came to introduce myself- but-" he shrugs.
"And I live here?" Tommy says, the words coming out strained.
"So no house sitting? Buck mumbles, his last hope falling away.
"No house-sitting," Tommy confirms grimly.
Buck looks over his shoulder. "Whose car is that?"
"I got rid of the truck," Tommy says like that explains everything wrong with this situation.
"You got rid of the truck and moved out?"
"Yeah," Tommy confirms with a nod.
"Why?"
Tommy shrugs. "Why did you move out of Eddie's?"
Buck pauses. "He came back."
"And told you to... Leave?"
Buck shakes his head. " No , he said I could have the couch till I found somewhere, but it wasn't my place, you know."
The only time it had felt like home was that single night. That handful of moments before it had all blown up again.
"Okay." Tommy blinks a few times. Maybe he thinks Buck is a hallucination, too. "So now you're here."
And because he doesn't know what else to do, Buck holds the plate out. "Brownie? Not gluten-free."
***
Tommy took the brownies—the bastard. And then closed the door with a mumbled I'll see you later.
Buck bites into the brownie in his hand, looking at the deserted saran-wrapped plates dotting the kitchen counter.
Introducing himself to his neighbors has taken a firm back seat for the day. Maybe even the year. If he goes and knocks on any more doors, who knows what will happen? Maybe Abby will open one. It doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility because his ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend he still obsessively thinks about, is approximately fifteen feet away at all times. He hopes he's enjoying the brownies.
On one side, he has the scary gnome owner, and on the other, he has the man who takes up so much space in his brain that he should start charging him rent.
Happy moving-in day, indeed.