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A text from Buck to Jack: Hey J can I ask you a favor?
whats up?
sorry to bother you but I only know two people in philly and cass isn't answering. My old injury is acting up and buddy can't help me get to my medicine because he doesn't have hands.
oh fuck
where are u staying ill be over as soon as i can
[address]
For a disabled veteran that currently works in Law Enforcement, Buck sure lives in a damned fine apartment - and if that, and the pristine, black 2019 Dodge Challenger out front is any indication, she probably doesn't want for money.
She's on the basement level, and every single window -- meager and infrequent as they might be -- is hidden by blackout curtains.
Jack texts her, before he knocks. And then -
"'S J," he calls through the door. Though to Buck's ears it sure doesn't sound like the PFC she knew seven years ago.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually Jack can hear the soft padding of feet approaching the door. Wait. That's... two too many feet. There's a jingle that sounds like perhaps a collar and dog tags, and then the scrap of paws on the door before... oop!
The door swings open -- out towards Jack, rather than in -- and Buddy is sitting at attention on the other side, carrying a harness between his teeth that reads "Service Dog."
"...Fuck me, what a good dog..." Jack mutters, clearly impressed. "Sergeant - uh. Buck? Where're you at?" He doesn't sound entirely sure of the name, as he switches from the last title he'd known her by.
There's no response from Buck at this time.
Buddy doesn't whine, and he doesn't bark. He just stands, and takes off at a trot, leading the way towards the kitchen -- if Jack chooses to follow him -- and he stops to have a seat beside the counter where there's a little bottle of serum, and an injector.
Well that's ominous. Jack follows Buddy after carefully shutting, and locking, the door, and follows Buddy into the kitchen. Grabs the bottle and the injector, and looks...well, at the dog again.
"Alright, now where?" He draws the words out, like he's aware of the strangeness of actually talking to a dog like this. Even a smart, hardworking one like Buddy.
Buddy doesn't stop for conversation. This is a rote performance for a service dog whose owner is unable to tell him how to help. Find person. Show person help. Show help to owner.
The dog leads Jack out of the kitchen, and down a hallway a room with a half-open door. It's dark inside, and Buddy prods the door open with his nose before making a soft little boof noise.
A warm, white LED lamp comes on around ankle height in response to the bork and Buck groans when the room floods with light. Even with as soft and as unobtrusive as this particular light is. It looks like she was probably getting ready for bed when her chronic condition started to act up, because there's a pair of crumpled blue jeans at the foot of the bed, and a discarded duffel beside the door - her badge and service weapon sitting out on the bedside. Likely she was interrupted before even opening the gun safe.
"Fuckmesideways." There's a pained groan from the pit of her stomach, and Buck's words are slurred from pain and exertion as she writhes. Whatever pain she's in must be bad, because the old soldier is drenched in sweat -- it's almost entirely soaked through her shirt -- even though the room is decently cool, and she's only wearing boxers and a tank top.
"Jesus fuck -" Jack swallows down any more words and reads the instructions for the injector. And then follows them with slightly shaking hands, grimacing as he does.
After, he backs away, giving her space but clearly not wanting to leave her alone.
The results are nearly instantaneous, and immediately Buck takes an enormous breath, gulping air as if she'd just been submerged under water. The tension in her body just seems to bleed out instantly, and she waves a very weak hand signal to Buddy, who brings her a blanket.
"Fuck, I'm-" She swallows the word and there's a look on her face that suggests she might throw up. She doesn't, though, and drapes the blanket over her legs before curling up in a ball. "Sorry you had to see me like this."
"Nah, 's fine, I eh...d'you need a bucket, or...? Change of clothes...?" Jack's frowning in concern, looking around the rest of the room as if it might help tell him what to do here.
"Nah, nah." Buck waves a hand. "I'll get clothes when I get up, and the nausea should be gone in ten-to-fifteen. You've babied me enough already, J. There's a coffee machine in the kitchen. Buddy'll show you where it is if you wanna make a pot."
"Sure, I...yeah. Sure." Jack runs a distracted hand through his hair and...kinda flees through the door and back into the kitchen. With Buddy's help, he manages the coffee, and pulls out mugs. And then he just...leans against the counter and waits.
Much to Buck's chagrin, she does throw up - but it was well past the point that she was able to be up and mobile. All in all, it takes her maybe fifteen minutes to get back up and moving.
When Buck shuffles back into the kitchen, she looks like warmed over death, wearing a oversized grey shirt that reads "USMS Training Academy," a black sweatpants, and a pair of dark sunglasses.
"At ease, Bud." Her voice is weak as she gives the command, and Buddy trots in place for a moment before running off to his dog bed for some well-deserved rest. "So. Long time no see. Sorry you had to see me in my underwear, but also-" There's a grunt as she practically falls into a stool at the bar. "You're welcome, I'm fucking hot."
Her jokes usually have more oomf than that, but it's to be expected that she'd be off her game.
"You know I've never been into chicks, you gotta find someone who can really appreciate how much you look like shit." It's teasing, and warm, and he falls back into the banter so fucking easily, giving her a smile as he pours her coffee. "Still take it black?" He raises the mug.
"Keep talking shit, pretty boy. You'll never see it coming when I take you out," she aims a little finger pistol -- about two feet to Jack's right, probably as a joke about the fact that she can't see for shit -- and makes a ker-pow sound with her mouth. "... but yeah. Black's easiest, so it gets me caffeine the fastest."
Jack's smile falters when she aims the finger gun, and he huffs in something that might be amusement. Might be nervous discomfort, too. "So what else hasn't changed?" He brings over the coffee and sinks down into another bar stool.
"Well, I might be the same old caustic fuck you knew seven years ago, but at least my fucking cluster headaches have evolved into something more powerful and complicated." There's a shrug as she sips the coffee. "You?"
"The bad shit getting more powerful and complicated sounds about right, yeah." Jack sips his coffee with a chuckle. "Managed to Section 8 out, haven't looked back. An' shit's still powerful and complicated. Not like any of the shit you're dealing with, sounds like."
"They didn't hit me with a Section 8, but it was probably only on account of my service record that I managed to escape without a dishonorable discharge." There's a beat. "I wasn't good towards the end there. Took me a while to get sober."
She tilts her head to the side, looking at Jack - though it's hard to tell considering the sunglasses. "What powerful and complicated shit has it's hooks in you still?"
"Congrats on getting sober - how long's it been?" Another sip of coffee. "Took me a while, too - got a hell of a lot worse before I stopped."
"Well," she sips her coffee. "Depends on if you count from the very first day, or from the most recent time I fell off the wagon." There's a little smirk. "So. Nearly four years. Took me two years for it to officially stick." She tilts her head to the side. "... but that's exactly the hooks I've got in me. So you didn't answer my question, Martingale."
She puts a cheeky bit of oomf on the name. Like she might've back when she was his instructor.
Jack winces. "Been...all of two weeks for me, you've got me beat. It all boils down to more trauma, really." He shrugs, and keeps on sipping his coffee.
"That's fair," she offers a shrug. "I've got you beat in terms of a lot of things, Martingale. That's why I was the instructor, and you were the trainee." There's a motion that seems like a wink, but with her eyes hidden behind sunglasses it's hard to say for certain.
"Got some critiques on your instructing, don't think I remember a single fucking thing..." Jack smirks and shakes his head, turning the coffee mug around in his hands.
"But honestly, I don't really wanna. Left that life behind, definitely don't wanna pick it up again. You know?"
"Well if you don't remember my instruction, that's probably because you were a hardhead with a drinking problem," there's a little smirk from Buck as she sips her coffee. "Or maybe because I was a hardhead with a drinking problem. Let's not examine it."
Though, after that last little statement she peers at him for a long while with a furrowed brow.
"Lets go with both, and call it a day." Jack actually smiles here, and finishes off the rest of his coffee. "God it's...I mean it's really fuckin' good to see you. Though it might bring back some shit - and it does, I guess, but..." he shrugs.
"Well," Buck doesn't pull her gaze. Or maybe she does. Again, she's wearing sunglasses. "You know I'm not trying to drag you back into the shit, right?" There's a beat. "I'm trying to get as far away from that as I can, too - but sometimes it's easier to do with people who know what you've been through. Y'know?"
"Yeah." That might be a quiet breath of relief. Maybe. "How easy's it to get away, being a Marshal? He raises his eyebrows and stands to go get more coffee."
"Complicated question," Buck slides her cup along the bar after him, hoping for a refill. "I don't really hunt fugitives, I work with WITSEC." There's a beat, and she shifts awkwardly. "I also work with the Office of Professional Responsibility. So. It's about as far away from "teaching young angry kids to blow the heads off of foreign officials" as I can get when shooting people is still my only marketable skill."
"Fair enough." Jack nods with a chuckle as he returns with a refilled mug. "Yeah, somehow I managed to end up in theater, when 'army washout' was my only marketable skill, so like...shit happens."
"Yeah, but I'm sure that gig didn't just fall into your lap or whatever. I'm sure you were doing some shit like working on trucks before they picked you for sniper school, right?" There's a little acidic laugh from Buck, and she reaches for her coffee. "I mean. I guess I could join the medical field, but they don't usually take too kindly to army 'surgeons' in the civilian sector and I'm not really one for school."
"Yeah I mean...yeah." Jack sips his coffee, because she really is dead on.
"Not one for school either, never bothered with college. Thought about it, but I kept getting work, and what would I even go for, at this point?"
"I dunno, Jack. I just got here, so you tell me." There's another laugh from Buck, and she takes a sip of her coffee. "I don't know shit about your life."
"Well. I'm in a union. I do the stagehand thing and try not to let it drive me to drink. I'm...even enegaged," he says with a laugh, like he still can't quite belive it, "to...two amazing people." There's a nervous glance as he says it, like he's not sure what she's gonna say.
"I didn't know you could do that in the United States," Buck tilts her head to the side, and purses her lips. One of her eyebrows quirks in a sorta wordless enh, fuck it and she offers another shrug before toasting with her coffee cup. "Congrats on your engagement!"
"Can't legally marry both of 'em, no." Jack's voice is quiet. "But I'd do awful things to keep 'em safe and happy and we can pledge ourselves to one another, and that's almost good enough."
"Well," Buck tilts her head to the side again. "Let's hope nobody tries anything funny. For their sake, and yours." There's a beat. "Thanks again for, uhh. Coming to bail me out. Those migraines are pretty bad, and injections are just about the only thing Buddy can't do for me."
"...Migraines, huh?" Jack raises his eyebrows as he drinks his coffee, disbelief written all over his face.
"Yep," Buck offers with a slow nod. Whatever her eyes might be doing behind her sunglasses, she seems pretty calm. "From the IED."
That's the rumor that circulated back when Jack was in sniper school, but it doesn't sound so earnest now.
Obviously she's seen some combat. She knows too much, and she has visible scars both from wounds and surgery. So. Maybe whatever she did was classified?
"Uh huh." Again, open disbelief, and he sets his coffee aside.
"Always have been able to see through your bullshit, ma'am." It's a blatant return to their old dynamics.
"... I'll tell you what," there's a scrape of wood on tile as Buck shifts her position. Her sunglasses come off for the first time since she recovered. She fixes him with a pair of piercing eyes, and Jack can easily see the weight of exhaustion on her features. "You tell me why you're so afraid of getting dragged back into the life, and why your six months being dysphoric in homophobic hell aren't the worst six months of your life, and I'll talk about my very classified time in the sandbox."
"...Fair enough." Jack drains the rest of his coffee and stands, avoiding Buck's piercing gaze.
"I should...get going. 'S getting late and I've got work tomorrow. See you 'round?"
"Sure thing, Martingale." Buck slowly puts her sunglasses back on before making an clicking sound with her tongue and teeth. "Come're, Bud. Come say goodbye -- and show Jack the door."
On the way out, Jack'll probably notice that - rather than knobs - all the doors have handles. So Buddy can open them.
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