so what were the odds i had an entire new chapter for this already done but forgot to upload it for like... more than a month. at any rate, sorry for that, and here is (finally!) chapter two! chapter total updated from four to five thanks to some scenes ballooning out of control and pushing other stuff out further.
title from mother mother's 'alright', which serves as the theme song for this fic, effectively.
Hen takes the lead up the walkway to the house, and Buck is glad - he doesn't really want to take the lead on anything right now, not when he genuinely couldn't even identify what street they're standing on at the moment. She doesn't really talk on their way up to the front door, and Buck wonders why, if maybe Hen is just a quiet person or if she doesn't know his roommates well enough to make small talk about them.
Buck, obviously, definitely doesn't. He doesn't even know how many roommates he has or what their names are, and the yawning void of uncertainty waiting for him behind that door lends a shyness to his steps. He lags even farther behind Hen, feeling like he's dragging his legs through quick-dry concrete, keeping her between himself and the door.
At this point he can barely pick her out of a lineup, but Hen is exactly one of three people he even vaguely knows at all, and besides. He's got a feeling about her, not quite the same one he'd had when he'd woken up and seen Bobby sitting beside his bed in the hospital, but a similar kind of feeling. It's the kind of feeling that tells her that she's a safe person to be around, someone who can serve as an anchor point in his unmoored, question filled reality. So, yeah. Dogged by the prickle of anxious nerves and the weight of everything he doesn't know, Buck stays behind Hen.
After a walk from the car that feels simultaneously like it took forever and like he'd blinked and it was over, Hen stops at the door, bringing Buck staggering to a halt behind her. A wave of dizziness has come over him at approximately that moment, which is why he's not entirely aware of Hen bending down and fishing around until she pulls a key out of a half-dead potted plant. As she opens the front door, Buck steadies himself on the porch railing and tries to plaster a friendly smile across his face. If he's going to be making a first impression on the people he apparently lives with, he wants it to be a good one.
It doesn't turn out to be necessary. Hen pulls the door open, stops dead in her tracks, says, "Oh hell no," out loud, and then immediately closes it again.
To say that Buck is confused would be wildly understating things.
"Is this…" He blinks around, craning his neck to get a look at the numbers next to the door. The headache that's persisted since he woke up pounds harder when he leans back, and Buck winces. "Is this the wrong house?"
Snorting, Hen doesn't even finish her answer before she's taking him by the shoulders and bodily turning him around, shepherding him back towards the car. The explanation she gives as they walk is, "Yeah, no, no way in hell am I letting you go home to that after you about split your head open this morning. Not happening."
"What's wrong?" Buck asks. Hen opens the passenger's side of the car and guides him into the seat, stopping short of actually reaching over him to clip the seatbelt herself, a small mercy for which he is grateful. "Is everybody out of town, or?"
"Nah," she says, then rounds the car and gets into her own side. She doesn't start it right away, instead fishing her phone out of her jacket pocket and tapping at the screen, sending someone a text message. "Let's just say it doesn't look like a good environment for rest and recovery. When you told us your roommates were jocks, I didn't quite understand exactly how…" At this point, Hen looks up, abandoning her text to wave her fingers out the window, back towards the house. "Frat-y it actually was in there."
"Oh," is all Buck says in response. Truth be told, he doesn't really understand her point. Does he actually live in a frat house? The lack of Greek letters on the outside of the building would indicate not, and it's a moment of acute, almost laughable frustration that he realizes he has somehow retained the factual information of what a fraternity is, but not whether or not he might live in one.
There's a short, muted buzz indicating she's gotten a reply to her text, and Hen looks down. She grins at whatever she sees, then starts the car.
"Okay," Hen says as they pull away from the curb. "Change of plans. Since you live in some college boy nightmare house, I'm taking you to Chim's instead."
One unrecognizable street gives way to another as Hen navigates residential Los Angeles. Buck shifts in his seat, looking away from the window. Trying to focus on anything going on outside is going to drive him off the deep end if he keeps trying to pick out landmarks, street names, anything at all he might recognize.
"I'd just take you back to my place," Hen continues, "but Karen - that's my wife, Karen, our son is named Denny - is in a meeting and I don't want to show up with a plus-one without checking in, y'know? So we're gonna swing you 'round to Chimney's place, he's setting up the futon for you." She stops at a red light, fingers tapping a rapid pattern against the steering wheel. It's the only indication that something is out of the ordinary here, that this isn't just any old day in the car with a friend. Everything about her demeanour is calm and collected, but that tapping still gives her away, fast and agitated.
Something uncomfortable and maybe guilty squeezes in Buck's chest and he looks down at his own hands. There's a small scar on the knuckle of his index finger, and it goes without saying he can't remember how it got there.
"You really don't, like…" Buck trails off, shrugging, wishing he remembered anything that could help him put together if this is something they would normally do for him or if this is pity talking. "I'll be fine, if you want to take me back to-"
"Absolutely not," Hen says firmly, cutting him off before he can finish the suggestion. "On account of the whole amnesia thing I'm gonna give you a pass on even thinking I would leave you there by yourself with people you yourself have told me you barely know, who were playing beer pong at five o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. Even if the doctor hadn't told told us not to leave you alone, that's a place to party, not to recover from a major head injury."
"Oh," is all Buck comes up with to say in response, for the second time in the last ten minutes. He feels like he's learned more about himself and his life in that one almost-sharp response than he has in most of the hours since he woke up not knowing any of it.
So, he and his roommates aren't close then. The way she'd described it had struck him oddly - 'people you yourself have told me you barely know'. Buck isn't sure who that says more about, his roommates or himself.
"How did I meet them?" he asks eventually. Hen takes her eyes off the road for a split second, just long enough to glance over at him, then immediately refocuses.
"Meet who?"
"My roommates." It feels awkward to ask, but Buck figures he'd probably better get used to it. Asking Hen how he'd met his roommates is probably the least of his concerns, when it comes to asking questions about the kind of thing you shouldn't have to ask other people to tell you.
Once he clarifies, there's a long moment of hesitation that Buck can't make heads or tails of before she eventually answers.
"Craigslist," is what she says, short and carefully scrubbed of any intonation, though there's a twitch at the corner of her mouth that indicates she finds this to be both entertaining and regrettable. "I remember when you told us that, I'm pretty sure Bobby about had a heart attack. Chimney asked if you'd ever seen Dateline in your life, and you asked him what Dateline was."
Apparently, what that says about him is he's the type of person who finds roommates on Craigslist. Buck isn't quite sure how to feel about that, but he can't help the small smile that forms. It's an amusing thought, really, and either he must have been poking fun at Chimney or Chimney must have explained, given Buck does in fact know what Dateline is now.
That's been an odd facet of this whole amnesia thing. Buck seems to have retained most general information, facts, things about the world and the way things work in it, it's just anything personal he's lost. He's a blank slate of a fully formed person, who knows how to tie his shoes and what Dateline is but not how he met his roommates or whether he's seeing anyone. He spends the rest of the drive trying very hard not to think about it, while Hen tells him what she knows about his roommates - not much, she thinks they're college students, nice enough, but they aren't really friends.
"Beer pong?" is what Chimney says when he opens the front door to his apartment. He's got one eyebrow raised high, and Buck notices for the first time a tiny red 'x' that dots his forehead, a birthmark, or maybe a scar. Buck catches himself staring and looks deliberately way, gaze landing somewhere between the hallway's wall and floor.
"Beer pong," Hen solemnly confirms, ushering Buck around her and towards the threshold of the apartment with a firm but gentle grip on his upper arm. "Alright, you two try not to burn anything down tonight, and I mean, I guess if you do then at least you know who to call."
And then she's gone, and Buck is alone in the front entryway of Chimney's apartment, wishing Hen would come back. They hadn't been alone for too long, but it had been longer than he'd been alone with any of the others, and it had definitely been long enough for him to get more used to her than anyone else he's 'met'. It feels awkward, to be standing here with this friend he doesn't know, in an apartment he doesn't recognize though odds are he's been here before.
Luckily, Chimney either isn't feeling the same pressure of awkwardness that Buck is suffocating under or he's really good at pretending, because after a few uncomfortable moments where they stand around not talking, he snaps out of it. Moving away from the door, Chimney starts talking over his shoulder, motioning for Buck to follow him. Just a moment's pause, and then Buck is doing as he's told.
Chimney explains as he walks that he's got the futon set up, and Bobby swung by earlier with a duffel bag of his clothes from the station. Apparently, they all keep them there, and Buck's is sitting next to the opened out futon now, full of clothes he couldn't identify as his if his life depends on it.
It's starting to feel redundant, looking around and identifying all the things he knows he should recognize, knows should spark at least the hint of familiarity in his mind, but don't even for a moment. He can't help it though - everything is new, right now, every corner Buck turns around hides another piece of his life he can't fit into a puzzle with a missing picture. The only thing he feels even remotely like he knows are these three people, these friends he made at work, and it's a complete reliance that sets him off-balance.
There's no way Chimney misses the way Buck acting, his odd quiet and darting eyes, but it seems to roll off the older man entirely. He conducts himself like things are completely normal - or at least, what Buck assumes is completely normal for Chimney. The TV is turned on, a stack of DVDs set on the coffee table, and a takeout menu next to it.
"These movies are some of your favorites," Chimney says, flopping down to sit on the extended futon and leaning against what usually functions at the back of the couch. "I've got some questions about your taste, but some of 'em are decent. And that's your favorite pizza place, there, I called them when Hen texted me, ordered your usual - which is absolutely disgusting, by the way, it's basically a crime, but y'know, maybe it'll help you call some stuff up. They say sense memory is really powerful."
Instead of saying anything, because now all of his words seem to have fled his mind as well, and there's a lump in his throat, Buck just nods. He walks over and sits down next to Chimney, moving much more slowly and carefully thanks to his concussed, aching head. All he really wants to do is take a shower and go to bed, but he's not supposed to get his stitches wet for another day at minimum, and he's already spent a lot of today sleeping.
So he sits on the futon next to Chimney and watches the movie and, letting it wash over him, trying not to try too hard to remember it as one of his favorites. Buck figures maybe trying so hard is making his memory clam up even tighter, that maybe it'll be easier if he stops trying at all. Nothing comes up, but he does enjoy the movie quite a bit, so that has to be something. Maybe twenty minutes in, Chimney goes downstairs to get the pizza from the delivery driver, and again, Buck enjoys it, but it doesn't help him remember anything.
By the time they're halfway through the next movie, Buck is exhausted, his head is throbbing, and he's beyond frustrated. The reality of his situation feels as if it's pressing down on him heavier and heavier by the moment, and it doesn't escape Buck at all that were it not for the grace of his friends - his coworkers from the station, he'd be completely lost in a world he doesn't know.
Evidently a perceptive person, Chimney pauses the movie before Buck realizes he's reached for the remote at all.
"You look pretty beat," is all Chimney says, voice light and easy. "I can't remember the last time you were this quiet for this long, probably means your head hurts. Why don't we call it a night, huh? Everything'll still be here when you wake up."
Easy for you to say, Buck thinks. Last time I woke up, everything was gone.
Not waiting for much of a response, Chimney gets up and turns the TV off, leaving Buck to get settled as he moves about the apartment, conducting his night-time routine. Or, what Buck assumes is his night-time routine. He doesn't know if he's ever been here before to see it, not that he'd remember if he had. Chimney is just moving towards the hallway, hand going for the light switch, when Buck thinks of something.
It sparks into his mind with the subtlety of a firecracker, and he blurts out, "Has anyone called my parents?"
The question stops Chimney in his tracks. He turns and looks at Buck with an expression of guarded confusion that isn't a reassuring indicator.
"Your parents," Chimney repeats, and Buck nods.
"I mean, they probably know everything about me, right? So we get them here, and I can look at, I dunno, pictures from when I was a kid and maybe that'll help. There's gotta be something more I can do than just… Sit here and watch movies."
"You told us not to call them." Of all the things Chimney could've said then, Buck wasn't expecting that in the slightest. Before he can ask what the hell that means, Chimney elaborates. He walks back into the living room, leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets and an odd look on his face. "Early on, you made it pretty clear you didn't ever want them called, no matter what. I don't have their number, I don't even think Bobby does, and if he does, he's not gonna use it. Not after you told him not to."
Static buzzes in Buck's ears, and he clears his throat. "Do you know why?" He regrets asking the question a second after it comes out, realizing too late that maybe the answer might not be something he wants to hear, not in this state. The list of reasons one could make an ultimatum like that is long and bad.
"I don't," is Chimney's answer, and Buck is both relieved and disappointed. "You don't… You don't talk about them, really. Ever."
"What about the rest of my family?" As he asks the question, Buck feels numb and cold. "Do I- Do I talk about them at all?"
"You've got a sister, I think." It's clear that Chimney is doing his best to keep his voice casual but there's a helpless awkwardness about it that Buck feels replicated tenfold in his own chest. "She's a lot older than you, last I heard you don't talk much."
"Oh." Buck is beginning to feel like a broken record, like he's been hollowed out and the only thing left in him are questions and the word 'oh'. He shifts a little, picks at a loose thread on the blanket covering his legs. "So just… Just to be clear, here, I've got roommates I met on Craigslist that I barely know, a sister I don't talk to, and parents I don't talk about. That's. That's just great. I sound like I've got a lot going for me."
It's impossible to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and if it weren't for everything that's happened today, Buck would feel bad about the petulant tone. He figures he's earned a little childish wallowing, given the last twelve hours.
"You left a part out, there, Buck." The voice is almost startling, like Buck had forgotten he wasn't alone in that room. That this is someone else's apartment, and that person is not fifteen feet away, looking at him with a slight smile like what he's saying is easy and simple. Obvious. "You've got us. You've got the one-eighteen." Chimney walks over and his hand is heavy and warm on Buck's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Parents aren't all they're cracked up to be, trust me, I get that a little too well, but family… Don't think for a second you don't have that, okay?"
"Okay," Buck breathes. His head throbs and his eyes burn and he tells himself it's because of the concussion, that the drugs he's been prescribed to take away some of the pain from his fall are what's leaving him so off-kilter, like he might break down at any moment.
And because he doesn't know any better, he figures he'll just have to take Chimney's word for it.
The light goes out, and Buck squeezes his eyes tight shut. There's something in him that doesn't want to be left alone in the dark, not after what he's learned, not when there's a churning feeling in his chest he can hardly swallow around. Eventually, though, his eyes crack open, and his focus is drawn to something.
The living room isn't dark. There's a soft glow coming from the floor, spreading a soft yellow light up the wall. A nightlight, plugged into an electrical outlet. Buck looks at it for a long time, and when sleep comes, it comes gently.