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Try golfing, Eddie said.
It’s calming. He said.
Might get your mind off the break up. He said.
Why did he have to listen?
Oh, simple. One look into those brown eyes and Buck was gone. If Eddie asked him to jump off a cliff, Buck would do it, no questions asked. Well, maybe one question, that being a marriage proposal. Of course, that would immediately follow with the plummet, so Buck wouldn’t have to suffer with the painful denial.
But he sorta wished that was what was happening right now.
Nope.
Instead…
Buck stared blankly ahead of himself as fuckhead Gerrard continued speaking from beside him, the geriatric dickwad apparently under the assumption that they were friends. He doesn’t know what the hell this shriveled ball sack is saying — something racist, sexist or homophobic, he’s positive. Maybe all three put together.
He gazed around the training course, his lane unused since the arrival of the wrinkled menace.
Not many other people were here, although it made some sense after the beenado, post-plane crash. It still baffled him that it wasn’t some ridiculous overexaggerated news headline. Like, what do you mean a plane full of bees crashed right into the belly of Los Angeles? What do you mean, millions of bees are swarming anything and everything?! What the fuck is a beenado?!?!
The one blessing was that they were off-shift for the next 48 hours (36 now, because that’s how time worked). They’d dealt with the initial brunt of it, and now some other poor bastards were responsible for the aftermath.
Buck tried not to sigh too loudly as he gripped his golf club tighter than necessary. What the hell was Gerrard saying now? He tuned in.
“—and that’s why I think we should bring back segregation—”
Jesus fucking Christ. This saggy bag of bones needed a punch to the throat. Would shut him up for a minute, at least.
Buck tuned back out and angrily swung his club at the ball. He pretended it was a different ball he was hitting, and bit back a crude snort at the image in his head — lest Gerrard assume he was agreeing with his fucked up ideaology. Fuck that, seriously. Buck would rather jump into traffic.
He’s pretty content to continue pretending to be listening, working his anger out on his shitty aim, but eventually Gerrard begins to realize he's being ignored.
“Buckley — I expect to be listened to when I’m speaking!” He barked.
Buck’s eye muscle twitched. “Sorry. Just got lost in thought.”
Gerrard snorted derisively, shaking his head, before swinging his club. The golf ball sailed perfectly towards the target. Bastard. “Thinking about what, Buckley? Better not be anything unsavory.” He implied, face creasing with disgust.
“Of course not, Cap,” Buck forced a thin smile, grip tightening on the golf club. “Just wondering if the… bee situation will be resolved before our next shift.”
Gerrard rolled his eyes. “That dumb shit again? So damn dramatic. Every call is the result of dumb decisions by stupid people. Nothing scary about a couple of bees.”
Last time Buck checked, Gerrard had practically hid in the engine truck for every call, barking orders from the cracked window. Call him presumptuous, but that spoke more of fear than sheer laziness. “It’s more than a couple.” He said instead, lukewarm.
“Pah. Didn’t take you for a sissy, Buckley. Then again, I didn’t take you for a man-kisser either, so what do I know.” Every word out of this man’s putrid mouth was bullshit.
“You know what—?” Buck started, hand twisting to a firmer grip on the club.
But whatever he was going to say never made it past his lips. Instead, a distant shriek from behind them sounded. A single word, filled with terror.
“BEES!”
You’re fucking joking.
Buck shared a reluctant glance with Gerrard, before the two of them ran back inside the main building.