Work Text:
And fully clothed, I float away
(I'll float away)
Down the Forth, into the sea
I think I'll save suicide for another day.
Frightened Rabbit ~ Floating in the Forth
Another endless shift, where he was man behind, ended. Another shift where he was the personal janitor. Another one where his former family —now barely colleagues— decided that he wasn’t worth their attention anymore. Where he first tried to protest, making his presence known, he had now resorted to no reaction at all. He had made himself smaller, more likeable by shrinking into a quiet version of himself. One who also mindlessly followed orders. Every order was now met with a simple nod. There was no more backtalk or offering of other options. Purely Command, Execution, waiting for another command.
An even more impeccable version of the soldier he once was. His first Naval Special Warfare instructor would undoubtedly have been proud of him, albeit apprehensive about the subservient shell he had become. As he had begun shutting himself out completely, his former self now existed only in a dark box at the back of his mind.
He did not permit himself to sigh as he collected his duffel bag from the locker. No one deserved an honest reaction from him anymore. The reformed version of Buck he had become wasn’t entitled to display any obvious signs of struggle. This perfected façade wasn’t bubbly and colourful, it was neutral, and so refreshingly grey. He had rid himself away from every irritating trade he had called his own for the longest time.
This edition wasn’t excessive or inadequate, nor was it irritating or overwhelming. It was a collection of everything his parents, Eddie, Bobby, Maddie, Abby, Ali, Chim and Hen had asked him to be. He was stripped of all his ugliness and chiselled into a Buck that everyone desired. A hollow Buck, but a wanted and loved one at times. At least, he hoped that it would grow into that when his team realised that they had got what they had asked for. Someone who was deserving of love, attention, and all the good things in life. Something his former self had been denied and deemed unworthy of.
The neutral expression on his face, one last hint of light in his eyes died the moment he stepped into his Jeep and carelessly threw his duffel bag onto the back seat. Empty Buck overtook again, turned the key in the ignition, and drove away from the station. Like a robot, he shifted through the gears and moved through the early-morning LA traffic. Street lights flashed by as he drove past his loft, another empty, lifeless shell that he owned.
The drive was a blur; on autopilot, he made his way down the Ocean Line. His mind was filled with static, devoid of all the thoughts and facts that would normally occupy it.
Not a sound left his lips and not a movement was coincidental. It was as if he followed elapsed orders when he parked his car close to Coronado Beach just as the sun started to rise.
He left his car keys in the ignition, his phone forgotten on the passenger seat as he kicked off his heavy work boots. He ignored the faint protest when his left leg hit the concrete, the ache in his knee having been exacerbated by standing in the same position for hours during his shift and then being held in the same position for hours on the drive to San Diego.
With the ghost of a smile he turned towards the ocean, taking a few clumsy steps as his leg throbbed with each footfall on the cold sand. Straightening his posture, he approached the foamy waves with a grim expression on his face. A metre from the swash zone, he collapsed, his body feeling heavy under the weight of his emptiness.
He sat there, staring at the waves; the sound of the wash was a calming contrast to the static that had settled in his mind. Foamy water tried to grasp him, but never quite reached the spot where he had collapsed. The water called to him, inviting him to settle into its dark, endless depths.
The voice was different from the one that had made him sign the contract and offer himself up to work alongside the mass of water around him. This call was darker, intertwined with the numbness that had grown alongside the erosion of his former self.
He didn’t mind letting the dark voices in, allowing them to consume his every thought. They were treacherous companions, offering him peace amidst the growing ache that was himself.
Time floated around him, lapping at the shore like waves. It was the first time in a while that he had felt so at ease. He had always loved the ocean's calm. It was peaceful. Beautiful. Never too much, always just enough, unlike him. Being in the water made him feel small in a comforting way, unlike when he was outside of it.
He grabbed a fistful of cold sand, trying to ground himself by matching his breaths to the rhythm of the waves. But, as with everything, he could never quite get it right.
It was always too slow or too fast, and never quite enough. He was too much and never enough. Could never be. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he offered in return. He didn't matter.
His leg ached, a throbbing pain shooting through it, screaming at him for maintaining an uncomfortable position for too long. He shuffled slightly, trying to find a position that would be more comfortable for his fucked-up body. But there was no comfort to be found. He now understood that he was not worthy of it. Never had been, never would be. The growing list of accidents a constant reminder of his bad luck.
A dark, soothing voice came crashing in, whispering bitter-sweet thoughts he had tried to shove away for too long. His hollow self was not even close to being fit to fight them.
Why couldn't he die already?
Why endure so much pain?
What did he do to deserve this?
Why him?
Why was it always him?
Why couldn’t he just be normal?
Why was he always a little too much, yet never quite enough?
Why didn't they love him anyway?
Why love him at all?
What was the point in trying?
What was the point?
He stared at the ocean, its stormy, dark-blue surface mirroring the dimness of his own eyes. He couldn’t pinpoint when he had lost his spark, was indifferent about when the light in his eyes had ceased to exist. Slowly fading like a dying star shining his last rays into the orbit.
Just as the star he had lost the battle between his own gravity and the outward pressure. As he had adjusted to this new course, he had also reshaped his surroundings, quickly and violently pulverising everyone around him and turning their words into swirling debris that they used as defensive weapons against him.
A dying star was the obvious comparison he made, of course. He was such a self-centred narcissist. No matter what he tried, he would never compare to a star. He would never measure up to the beauty, nor to a version of himself that, despite the destruction, paved the way for new growth. A small, childish, selfish part of him hoped that someone would stumble upon an uncensored snapshot of his past. That they would carry on seeing some of the light that he had left. Remnants of Evan.
Each time someone told Buck that he was too much or not enough, a part of him perished. A piece of his soul broke off, his heart shattered a little more, until there was nothing left. Over the passing months, he had built a facade that was more loveable than himself. He had quietly vanished. His eyes were the only way to tell that he was living someone else's life. A happy front for a sad, lifeless, soulless man. Bright colours stuck on a grey façade.
His laughter echoed in his ears, sounding false and loud. Gradually, it faded away. It faded away each time someone told him he was annoying. Too much. Never enough. He figured that they needed to lose him in order to appreciate him. But after one too many accidents, that stopped working. His new self didn't form quickly enough, and the old parts of him damaged his relationships. He had overstayed his welcome.
He trudged back to the Jeep, his injured leg protesting with every step and reminding him of his limitations.
He didn't want to die. He didn't want to. But maybe he did a little. He just wanted the pain to stop. The longing. He just wanted it all to stop. Every dial tone rang even louder in his ear. Pick up! Pick up. Or don't pick up at all. He sighed as the automated message told him that his found father didn't have time for him. He stared at his phone, but there was no message. No one had acknowledged that he had left. Just tons of notifications in a group chat he wasn't wanted in anymore. Sighing, he scrolled through his contacts, wondering whether it would matter if he bothered someone one last time.
He would try one last time. He swore to himself that this would be the last time, because you could only ever do so much.
He hoped, prayed and pleaded with the universe for the other person to pick up, but his expectations were dashed when the same machine voice declared his fate. He laughed at the twisted stunt the universe had pulled on him. It was somewhat analogous to his life: how he tried and tried again and again, expecting a different outcome, but always getting the same result. He was destined to always be too much and never enough.
His gaze fell upon the ocean once more. Why wouldn't the universe just let him die? Why did it make him suffer? Reminding him every day just how undeserving he was of any good. He was an anomaly of the universe, brought into this life to serve one purpose, but destined to fail.
Because that's what he was. A failure. Defective parts. Undeserving. He was a whiny bastard who just couldn't suck it up and let go for once. He smiled. That was it. That was him letting go.
With dreadful certainty, he dropped his phone back onto the passenger seat; his wallet landed right next to it. He considered whether to take his car keys, but decided he wouldn't need them anymore anyway, so he put them in the centre console, closed the door, and didn't dare look back. For the first time in his life, he was the one who left, rather than being the one abandoned.
He limped back to the beach, fighting to control his fucked-up body with every step. It wouldn't be long before he was at peace. He would finally be free.
Determined, he strode forward as the sun rose over the horizon, bathing everything in a soft pink and orange glow. It was a serene spectacle. It felt cruel, indifferent to the fact that Evan Buckley was about to cease to exist.
The world should have had the decency to be grey and rainy, to match the static noise filling his head. Perhaps a final 'fuck you' from the universe. Whatever it actually meant, it didn't matter. He had witnessed enough signs of a higher force in his lifetime.
The water lapped at his ankles, cold and unforgiving, perfect for what he was about to do.
It soothed his aching body, mirroring the numbness he had felt inside for so long. He went in deeper, letting the ocean consume him completely until he was just floating.
He had to admit that this was entirely different from the tsunami. This time, he was prepared. In fact, he was ready. There was no adrenaline and no one needed saving. He was in perfect control of his surroundings, his body moving through the water like a well-oiled machine. Surviving the tsunami hadn't put him off the ocean either. It was just another layer of something he loved dearly. Although it had been stressful, worrying and challenging, he wasn't scared. His training in the Navy had proven essential: his mind switched off and his instincts had taken over. He hadn't been scared then, and he wasn't scared now.
All thoughts had been wiped out. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with salty air one last time.
His training had taught him to relax, simply letting the water flow around him. Being pushed around by the current didn't scare him. He was finally at ease. He was at peace. Home. He was finally back home.
With a soft smile, he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the current.
Buck was still here until he wasn't. Until he joined Evan Buckley, who had died a long time ago.