Chapter Text
He should be happy. He’s famous, he’s inspiring, he is happy. But people stopped looking at him, they don’t like him at all, they don’t know him, they leave at the end of the night, once the lights shut off, once the interview ends, once the clip of his worst moment is over? They leave. Not that he cares, that’s been the dynamic, right? Maddie? she left for Doug—maybe he was wrong? Maybe he was just controlling, he wanted Maddie all to himself. She was the only one to take care of him when they were kids and maybe he wanted to hold onto that. Maybe she knew that and that’s why she never answered his postcards. Not the ones from the SEALs training, not from Montana, not from Peru, not from LA, maybe her life is good. Maybe she just needed to get away from him after taking care of him for so long.
“Yeah, we’re still on track to go on tour. Doctor’s cleared me, I’m ready for it. It'll bring in money, we’ll pay everybody and give whatever’s leftover to a charity or something, maybe a wildfire aid fund?” He replies, breaking from his rumination.“Rumination”, Dr. Wells used that word before her hand started to creep up his thigh and press herself closer, press herself against—
“Buck? What do you think of an international tour? I know initial dates were set for seven months but this is our last day to change course and hit other countries, maybe garner more exposure,” Henrietta Wilson, his publicist, explains.
“We don’t have to,” Bobby adds tentatively, putting a hand on his arm.
“I didn’t even think about an international tour to be honest, but that sounds really cool, I think it’d be a good move and like you said, garnering more exposure.”
“Wonderful! I thought you’d say that, we’ll announce tomorrow and leave next Friday for Washington!” Hen claps and rushes away, already calling cancellations and ordering new announcements and rescheduling. Bobby looks at him.
“I know you have to work, love to work, but kid, don’t push yourself too far.”
“I know Bobby, you don’t have to worry about me.” He smiles. Bobby stands, leaving the room, and Buck doesn’t see it, but he lingers in the door a second, concern etched into every line on his face.
Buck drums his fingers against the metal brace, tears running from his eyes and staining his shirt. Quietly regaining his composure, he stands, leaning against the table and the wall and the chair. He walks down the hall with no problem, a feat he’s incredibly proud of, perhaps even a little cocky about because now he’s on the ground.
“Ah, sorry ma—oh, shit, Buck!” Chimney yelps. Bobby pokes his head out from his office and rushes out. “I left the cords out for the crew, they were supposed to be here by two to unload speakers and do some checks, but LA traffic got the best of ‘em.”
Chimney’s the crew and tech manager and Buck’s best friend, though not currently with the way he’s fawning over him.
“Man, get off me, I’m fine. I know it looks scary but it doesn’t bite when I fall,” Buck sighs, smiling a little too wide, taking Bobby’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he whispers to Chim, clapping Bobby on the back.
“I’m headed out for a haircut and then the live interview tonight, rehearsal starts next Tuesday, right?”
“Right.”
“See you guys.” He practically runs out of the bare hallway, just breaching the doors before tears sting his nose. Shame and embarrassment fills him as he leaves. He practically throws himself into the Jeep.
“Thank you, Phil. Tonight, we have musician Evan Buckley with us, thank you for joining us Evan.” Taylor Kelly smiles, a plaster, manufactured smile that looked real enough on camera but was a little intimidating in real life.
“Thank you for having me Taylor.” Hen gives him a thumbs up from behind the camera.
“Well, Evan, let’s get into it. What made you want to be a performer?” He smiles pleasantly, maybe a bit of a smirk like he’s been taught.
“I guess I just really thought I had something to say, to share, and enough people stopped to listen and take it in that I was like ‘wow, maybe I could really do something with this.’” He presses his palms into his thighs and readjusts how he sits.
“Wow, that’s wonderful.” His gaze drifts over to Hen, who’s holding up a notebook that says relax.
“Could you repeat that question? I’m sorry.”
“Has your perspective on performing changed? Are you even going to continue to perform after the accident?” If the question is meant to stoke something in him or is just rude because it’s an interview, Buck doesn’t know, but he tries not to let his new disdain show.
“No, I still love performing, I don’t think I will ever stop, this certainly isn’t a big enough setback to make me reconsider my decisions. I can say that there will be added security at all of my future shows to ensure the safety of attendees and crew.” Taylor, however unsatisfied she may or may not be by that answer, doesn’t change her face, instead she turned to the main camera.
“For our viewers who are unaware, Evan Buckley was a victim of the Tour Bus Bombing, although not the intended target and, while nobody was killed, he survived with severe and lifelong injuries. We have some video of the event.”
On the screen behind them, Buck watches in silent horror as the five ton bus crashes down on his left leg, the videographer zooms in on his face, blood and dirt marring his skin. Bobby hadn’t been on that bus, in fact, nobody had except him and the driver. Bobby, Hen, Chimney, had all been on the bus behind him, he’d insisted it was for them to sleep. He’d taken the crew bus because something just felt so wrong, but there was nobody with him so whatever was ever going to happen would only happen to him. Him and-
“Paul.” The name came out barely above a horrified whisper, but Taylor’s gaze shifted a little bit. He cleared his throat. “You said there were no casualties, but that’s not true. Paul, the bus driver, was thrown from the vehicle and due to his injuries passed at the hospital. Actually, we were able to prove that had the hospital had more nurses on staff and rooms available, he wouldn’t have passed.”
He’s not looking up from the table, not going to look at Hen. Of course he’s sorry for snapping, of course he shouldn’t make a scene. But he lived and Paul didn’t and he had kids and a wife to go home to and Buck had nobody, so why would she say no casualties? Why would she forget him? Why would she minimize the loss? God, why isn’t she responding?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered quietly. Buck nods tightly and turns his attention back to the screen, almost confused.
“Is there audio on the video?”
“Yes. Why?” He doesn’t respond, just studies his face in the video, how resigned he looked, how terrified, how much pain he was in.
“No reason.”
“Anyway…”
They continue the interview and instead of going the full two hours, they end it seven minutes early. Buck isn’t sure if that was Hen’s doing or Taylor’s, but to whoever it was he owes his gratitude.
As he stands for the first time for hours, his face screws in pain and Hen strides over.
“Hey, Buckaroo,” she mumbles into his neck as her arms reach to hug him, cupping his head. “I am so sorry.”
“You didn’t know they would do that?” He whispers back, voice thick as he melts into her arms.
“Of course not, I would never set you up like that.” Tears well in his eyes, nausea settling in the pit of his stomach.
“Wow, Mr. Sensitive over here, with all of those answers you could get any woman in LA after tonight,” Taylor chirps, smirking before taking a swig of her coffee.
“You listen here-” Hen starts as Taylor walks away. Exasperated, she calls after her. “We’re never interviewing here again!”