Archive of Our Own

Buck wakes on the morning of his parents’ visit gasping for breath. Pain, white-hot, searing pain races down his leg like a lightning strike, starting up in his thigh and sweeping all the way down to his toes. He bites his lip, trapping it between his teeth to stop himself from crying out as the pain overwhelms his senses.

He throws his comforter off, ignoring his scratchy throat and cold air hitting the sweat patches that stick his t-shirt to his skin. He ignores his split lip and the tears blurring his vision, and dives for his good knee, rubbing his hand up and down his leg in an effort to convince his body that his left leg is, in fact, missing and does not need to be screaming like it’s still trapped under a several ton ladder truck.

It’s his go-to method of phantom pain relief, and it usually works like a charm, but today, of all days, it doesn’t work. His leg keeps burning like an out-of-control wildfire, raging too strong to be contained. Buck is used to pain, has seen more than his fair share, but this pain is the worst it’s been in a long time, more like a fresh wound than the fading memory it’s supposed to be.

He rolls over to grab the glass of water on his nightstand, hissing as his stump rubs against his sheets. It’s raw and tender, the mild throbbing barely registering underneath everything else. Swiping the bottle of Advil from the drawer, he shakes two into his hand and downs them with a large gulp of water. Buck doesn’t like taking them unless he has to; the warnings from his doctors about addiction and the side effects of long-term use still ring loudly in his ears. His chances are low, but he’s risked his career enough and he doesn’t want to jeopardise it any more than he has to ever again.

Buck flops back onto the bed and waits for the painkillers to kick in. Phantom pain has plagued his recovery and his occupational therapist had hammered coping skills into him, especially when he first began the training to get back into work. He doesn’t experience it as much anymore, thanks to his physical recovery, lots of therapy, and eventually getting back on the job, but those first few months had been a trial by fire. Or maybe it was closer to death by a thousand cuts because experiencing it day after day, forcing him to use a wheelchair or hobble uncomfortably on crutches, had been so demoralising that, despite being surrounded by a strong support system, he was miserable.

He glances over at his alarm clock and groans. The display reads 03:59, the large red letters blinking at him mockingly. There’s little chance of him getting any more sleep, painkillers or not, so he reluctantly pushes himself out of bed. Ignoring his prosthetic by the foot of his bed, he grabs the crutches leaning by his door. When his leg acts up, especially after a long shift or on a bad pain day, he forgoes the leg entirely, preferring the crutches. His prosthetic stays on via suction, and although it’s usually comfortable, today the thought of pulling it on makes him feel physically ill.

When he’d first received his leg, he’d been determined to never use his other mobility aids ever again, swept up in the dream that he’d be able to hide it and he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of other people’s judgement. But that dream had been swiftly defeated three weeks after he’d shoved his crutches in the back of his closet when he found himself sitting in the middle of the baking aisle at his local grocery store with his leg pulled off, staring up at the ceiling in despair.

It was supposed to have been a simple grocery run, a quick pop-in for milk and eggs to replenish his depleted baking supplies. He’d been making slow progress with his new leg at the time, working his way up to full strength, doing light errands and trying to gain his independence back after months of needing to be ferried around. The day had been going well; he’d picked up some new paint swatches, had coffee with his sister, and he’d ducked into the grocery store on the way home, thinking he’d be in and out. But when he stepped inside, the pain and fatigue of the day caught up with him quickly, and he’d been forced to prop himself up against the large bags of flour on the lower shelves to free his poor stump from the abuse he’d inflicted on it. Eddie had picked him up thirty minutes later after fighting his way through rush-hour downtown traffic with Buck’s spare crutches.

Honestly, that day had been the most humiliating of his life. Customers stared at him, the employees tried to get him to leave, and the manager looked about ten seconds away from calling the cops before Eddie skidded into the aisle as his saving grace; his very sweaty, dishevelled, panicking saving grace. At the time he’d wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his bedroom forever, never to be seen again, but looking back he has to admit that it taught him his limits pretty damn fast. Not that he always paid attention to those limits, and still doesn’t, but it was an effective crash course.

After the disastrous grocery run from hell, part one, the original, Buck was better about using his mobility aids in public. He wasn’t totally comfortable right away, that took much longer, but he managed. He spent months wearing long pants in the middle of summer and studiously avoiding anyone’s gaze if he needed to use his crutches. Most people didn’t spare him a second glance, but back then, he’d been wildly insecure about his very visible disability. Every whisper and every stare felt like the world was standing around him in a circle, pointing and laughing as he wet his pants.

But Buck had a mission, to get back to work come hell or high water – or both in the case of the tsunami. And maybe staking everything on being a firefighter again had been a reckless decision, and could have set his recovery back months if it all went wrong, but it was a goal, something to work towards. Buck worked towards it with an almost single-minded focus. It would be his only focus, but unfortunately, some very smart people had drilled balance and rest and enjoying his life into his head, so he worked on it when he could, and didn't beat himself up when he couldn't.

He got over his fear of being out in the world. It didn’t stop people from being general shitheads and it didn’t stop busybodies from questioning him every time he tried to use his damn parking badge, but it gave him the confidence to fight for himself, and eventually he learned to embrace his new reality.

And with that new reality came the mobility aid decoration – a lot of it. His leg didn’t need to be that boring matte black that sucked colours and light in like a blackhole and his crutches didn’t need to be hospital grey. Free will is an excellent invention, and Buck took full advantage. He painted flames dancing up and down his crutches and lightning bolts striking down his leg (Eddie had slapped him upside the head for that one, but Buck had only grinned in response). He bought an excessive amount of leg covers, from sleek black to whimsical explosions of colour (his favourite has little fire engines on them, courtesy of Christopher). He embraced this highly customisable new part of his life, and he flaunted it (because bionic limbs are sick as hell – thank you, Bucky Barnes).

But tonight, Buck won’t be able to show off the new cover he bought last week – a vibrant shade of blue with an octopus tentacle reaching around his leg like it was going to snatch him down into the watery deep, despite how apt the metaphor might be.

When his parents come to town, Buck hides his leg. He hides it like a shameful secret under a loose pair of pants and hopes they ignore it like they have for every visit since his accident (a grand total of two, which really isn’t enough to establish a pattern but he can hope it continues). His parents are great at ignoring their children’s problems, truly world class. It would be impressive if it weren’t so impossible to talk about anything with them.

Briefly, Buck entertains the idea of turning up to Maddie’s place in his shortest pair of shorts, his stump flying bare for all the world to see. His father’s face would turn ashen-grey, his mother’s bright red, and they’d stare, finally forced to acknowledge the elephant they’ve been ignoring for so long. He’d hate every second, and it’s a vulnerable position he doesn’t want to put himself in if he can help it, but part of him burns for them to talk about his injury, wants so desperately for it not to become another thing they dismiss about him. For better or for worse, his amputation fundamentally changed his life, and the fact that they don’t care at all might be the thing that hurts the most.

The click of his crutches echoes loudly as he makes his way to the kitchen, beelining to the coffee machine. He leans against the counter, eyes lazily scanning the familiar scene before falling on the lemon tree in his building’s shared garden space. It’s not where he imagined living when he first came to LA, dreaming of cityscape views and twinkling lights, but it’s comforting and warm, and Buck loves coming home to it after a long day at work.

He still misses the loft sometimes, it’s hard not to. The loft had been his first ‘grown-up’ apartment, beautiful and sophisticated with trendy high ceilings in a fancy neighbourhood, but also important to the Buck he’d been; bright-eyed and enthusiastic and slowly finding his place in the world.

After his initial discharge from the hospital, he’d been determined to stay there, desperate for some familiarity to cling to. All the roots he’d so carefully placed had been ripped out of the ground, swiftly chopped and burned away along with a significant portion of his leg. His apartment was one of the few things that hadn’t changed when the bomb exploded. Uprooting his life was terrifying the first time, staring down the barrel of losing everything for good, it was a hundred times worse.

But that had all changed one fateful night, when all the uncertainty and all the trauma that had been bubbling under his skin reached a pressure his body could no longer contain.

That night had truly been his rock bottom, and he’d fallen to depths he hadn’t known existed. Earlier in the day, he’d had a long, painful session with his physiotherapist – a lovely older man with the sadism of someone who worked in rehabilitation – and he’d been struggling. Buck had known his recovery would be long; he’d known those first few months would be the hardest of his life, but knowing those things didn’t come close to what putting in the work was like. Rehab was an exercise in patience, and Buck could never be accused of having much of that.

Being unable to make up those stupid three steps or the end of the hallway had been deeply frustrating in a way his previous physiotherapy hadn’t. Strengthening exercises were typical for a lot of the injuries he’d had, but putting it all into context? That was a reality check. Learning to walk again when a few short months ago he’d been running into burning apartment buildings without breaking a sweat was a blow to his confidence, and to make matters worse, his doctors still weren’t sure if he could ever return to firefighting.

It all came to a head when he arrived back at the loft, full-body exhaustion wracking his body and his hoodie sleeves caked in mud from pushing his chair through puddles. All it took was one look at his apartment, and his composure went tumbling off a ledge, smashing into the rocks below. The loft itself had looked normal, almost like it would before when he’d come home from a busy shift and crash. For a second, Buck had been able to convince himself that nothing was amiss, that his life was the same as it was before, but it didn’t take long for cracks to appear in his perfect dream.

There was a temporary cot set up under the stairs, a poor imitation of the bed that lay unused for months. His crutches were scattered across the floor, one in the kitchen and the other propped against the coffee table. The coffee table itself had a pharmacy’s worth of medical supplies and equipment spread over it, a roll of bandages had unravelled itself, falling off the edge of the table and stretching along the floor, reminding him suddenly, bizarrely, of a hose line.

But none of those things set him off. What set him off was his work duffel bag, sitting innocently on the stairs, ready for him to grab on his way out the door. It was still zipped up, everything folded pristinely inside. Eddie had dropped it off when Buck was still in the hospital, along with all the stuff from his locker, after it became clear he wouldn’t be leaving for a while. Buck hadn’t touched it since, watching day by day as the dust gathered, coating it like a layer of ash.

The dam had burst. Violently. Everything he’d been burying and repressing exploded deep inside him, sending shockwaves throughout his body and cracking the impenetrable concrete wall to the outside world. He’d practically fallen out of his chair, stumbling around, sobbing as he took a bat to all the stupid showroom furniture he’d never bothered to replace. He’d smashed and thrown and beaten them to pieces, ignoring the shards of debris that came flying back at him.

Athena had found him several hours later, after Janet, his sweet elderly neighbour who’d practically been feeding him since he came home from the hospital, had called the police. He’d been curled up against his kitchen island, trembling like a cat that had been left out in the rain. His eyes had been red and puffy from crying, and he’d been bleeding sluggishly from a cut on his hand. Scratches streaked across his face and little crescents, dotted in blood, trailed up his arms, marking where he’d dug his nails in. She’d wiped his tears and cleaned the cuts, gently shushing him as his wails turned to sniffles. He’d tucked his head into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her coconut lotion, and let her bundle him home to her and Bobby so they could fuss over him properly.

The decision to sell the loft had been a simple one. Logically, it was the only one he could make. He’d held out as long as he could, fighting with each and every person who offered him their spare bedroom while he went hunting for a new place, but deep down, he’d known that it couldn’t last. Even after he finished outpatient rehab, he’d still have problems with his pain and his mobility. His prosthetic was his ticket to getting his life back, but it couldn’t ever fully replace his leg. And the stairs in his apartment? He was practically begging to have some kind of accident, falling and injuring himself further. The loft wasn’t sustainable long-term, but that didn’t make letting go any easier.

He’d been so happy in his old life. He’d had a job he loved, friends, a family who loved him, and a gradually blooming relationship. For so long, he’d been searching for somewhere he could call home, and he’d finally found it. He’d finally found this perfect niche that he could simply exist in without having to question his place, without having to worry that it would be snatched away when they got bored of him. Life had been good for the first time in maybe forever, but since when has life ever played fair?

After his injury, he’d lost so much. He’d lost his purpose in life, his independence, his girlfriend. The 118 had been there for him, through thick and thin, but major injuries, permanently disabling injuries, were, by their nature, isolating. No matter how many times they drove him to his appointments, invited him out, or tried to involve him in their lives, it was different. There was this distance between them, and Buck hadn’t known how to bridge it.

Selling the loft was a nail in the coffin of his old life, his way of moving on from the dreams of before and stepping into the dream of what could be. The soft click of the lock had echoed unnaturally in the quiet hallway as he’d turned the key, definitive, final in a way it had never been before, the faint thud of falling tumbler pins as powerful as a slamming door. He’d walked out of the building for the last time feeling unmoored, but with his sister’s arm around his trembling shoulders, he knew he had the strength and the support to make it through.

There’s something freeing about a fresh start; something about rejuvenation or rebirth or whatever that self-help book Ali had bought him a month before she dumped him (he got it, he wasn’t bitter, it was kinda funny looking back). It’s a chance to start anew, to throw away his fancy loft with too high expectations, and build a home that really feels like one.

His current apartment is that home. It’s vibrant, it’s lived in, and it actually has a couch. Housewarming gifts from all his friends, souvenirs from his travels, and whatever trinkets he’s spotted in thrift stores are spread over all the surfaces he can reach. The plain white walls have murals of colour splashed across them that he’d spent weeks painstakingly designing and painting, and he’s laid bright, funky-patterned rugs over the worn wooden floors. Since he’d had far too much time on his hands being unable to work, Buck had done most of the repairs he needed himself, with Eddie or Bobby occasionally helping with things he didn’t know how to do or physically couldn’t (bring up the broken overhead light incident of December 10th on pain of death).

Boxes of teas of all flavours are stacked in a neat, very inconvenient pyramid on the kitchen counter. There’s more in the cabinet below, enough to fill most of it up, but he keeps his favourites on the counter for easy access. He’d stumbled across them after a long (like an entire weekend with no breaks, long) research binge about natural pain management and PTSD when the meds his doctors gave him weren’t cutting it. There’s more medication he could try, but Buck doesn’t like being on any more than he has to and if drinking a cup of herbal tea prevents him from needing a regular prescription of anxiety meds and subsequently having to have more arguments with the department’s health insurance people, then he’s all for it.

He didn’t expect them to be all that effective, honestly, because he knows how much bullshit health advice is out there, but they’ve become his go-to after long shifts. Ginger tea has to be his favourite, especially with the extra spoonful of cinnamon that makes it taste like the gingerbread Maddie used to help him make at Christmas. Rosehip is his second, with a dash of honey to draw out the sweetness. Eddie always laughs and claims it’s an old lady tea, citing that it’s what his Abuela drinks. It was Eddie’s Abuela who put Buck onto it in the first place, and now he visits her every two weeks for more recipes and embarrassing Eddie stories, so who’s really laughing?

Maddie still ribs him for becoming a tea drinker after being a coffee-only-forever guy for so long, but whenever she comes over, she demands to try whatever new blend he’s trying out, and they rate them together. They’ve sampled some truly terrible flavours, and Buck still buys the matcha and orange blend that Maddie hated purely to annoy her. It tastes like someone spilled their OJ on grass and sucked it up!

Bobby has started stocking the firehouse and his home with Buck’s preferred blends, which is such a small gesture compared to everything Bobby’s done for him, but the first time he sees the boxes, he throws his arms around him and buries his face in his shoulder. His family has been so accommodating of everything he’s needed, and going out of their way to get him his creature comforts without any complaints makes him feel so loved and so thankful for all of them.

The coffee machine's insistent beeping brings Buck back to the present. He grabs the mug with two hands and inhales, closing his eyes as he lets the tension in his body bleed out of him. Balancing the mug on his arm, he does an awkward, yet practised, shuffle over to the armchair closest to the window. He’s perfected the technique over many spilt cups of coffee in the morning, so many that he’s intimately familiar with the way his hip aches as he scrubs the stains out of the rug (the rug has since been moved out of the way).

Wind and rain rage outside, battering loudly against the windows. A storm has been raining hell on LA for the past 24 hours, and Buck is totally over it. His shift at the firehouse the previous day had been absolutely miserable, filled with back-to-back low-stakes calls in the lashing rain. It feels wrong to hope for dangerous calls, but it’s a lot easier to forget about the rain valiantly trying to flood your turnouts when someone’s life is in danger.

Instead, they got stuck with rescuing a maintenance worker from his jammed-up cherry picker, a pig of all animals stuck in some iron railings, and they’d spent over an hour alone at a puddle-related incident including several broken tailbones, a fender-bender, a ruined designer outfit leading to a disorderly conduct charge, and a runaway west highland terrier. It wasn’t difficult, but they didn’t get more than two hours of rest total, so Buck isn’t all that surprised that his leg is playing up.

Buck used to love storms; the howling wind, the rain soaking him through in his mad dash to get home from soccer practice in mud-splattered kit. He loved lying in bed listening to the rumbling thunder rolling across the sky. He loved splashing in the puddles on his bike the morning after a big storm, breathing in the intoxicating smell of petrichor. Storms were wild, and they were free, and growing up in Pennsylvania, he’d needed that in his life. He’d needed it when his parents got quiet when he asked a question that got too close to Daniel, for the perceived slights against their baby boy, who Buck was unaware he was living in the shadow of.

Growing up, his parents had been closed off, reserved. They’d always been sedate, never joyful, never fun. They’d lived around their kids, not with them, apart from maybe scolding one of them for tracking mud into the house or breaking a plate or getting injured doing something dumb (that was usually Buck once he figured it out). Living with them had been a prison cell, keeping him trapped in small-town Pennsylvania with no chance of parole, and he’s grateful every day that Maddie gave him the push he needed to get the hell out of there.

Some of Buck’s first plans to escape Hershey had included becoming a storm chaser. Life on the road was alluring; the lack of expectations, the freedom to pack and move whenever you wanted, just him, a truck, and the open road. He’d spent hours researching tornadoes and hurricanes and thunderstorms, the equipment he’d need; everything. In the end, his plans never came to fruition, and his escape had been rather more improvised, but he’d still managed to live his life on the open road, even if he eventually grew tired of the isolation that came with having no roots. He’d never become a storm chaser, but his wild goose chase had led him to the 118, and everything had been alright, in the end.

Running through bellowing thunderstorms isn’t something he does anymore, mostly because LA has about thirty-six days of rain a year and storms once in a blue moon. He tried it once, when he first got his fancy running blade and was itching for some good old nostalgia, but that had ended… poorly. He’d come home, soaked to the skin and shivering miserably, vowing never to do it again. His leg had ached for the rest of the night, a combination of the damp liner irritating scars on his stump, the stiffness from the cold, and the realisation that some things could never be the same.

He thinks he finally understands why his grandfather would become a miserable old goat during winter. His mom’s father would visit them once a year, before his annual Christmas cruise, mostly to bitch and moan about the care home running out of garibaldis or the new receptionist from Guatemala or something equally asinine. He’s been dead ten years but Buck still claims the moral high ground in his head considering his whole damn leg is missing and he’s still not as much of a bastard as dear old grandpappy, so he will take it as a win and a fuck you to the guy who used to whack him with his cane and pretend it was an accident.

He’s getting off topic.

The point is, it’s storming like the rapture’s coming, Buck’s leg hurts like a bitch, and having dinner with his parents tonight sounds like his idea of the ninth circle of hell (coincidently, the ninth circle of hell is a frozen lake, fitting for both Pennsylvania and because freezing temperatures also aggravate his leg pain).

Buck, unfortunately, doesn’t have much to distract himself with today. He’s still off work for another 36 hours, and everyone else is spending time with their families, including Eddie, who has been roped into driving his Abuela up to Fresno to visit an old friend from when they were nurses together. Buck offered to take Christopher for the weekend, but he and Denny had found a new game to marathon instead of Buck’s delightful plan of a day at the aquarium. Buck is definitely okay with and doesn’t bring up any lingering feelings or abandonment issues. Chris is growing up! Being upset about it would be ridiculous. Okay, maybe he’s a little upset.

He stares at the phone in his hand, debating texting an SOS to Eddie so he turns his car around and guns it back to LA, his Abuela be damned. That’s a lie. Buck loves Abuela; he wouldn’t do anything to ruin her day, especially since her Albondigas soup recipe that he’s been eyeing is still on the line.

He thinks about it anyway.

Part of Buck, a small, selfish part of him, wants to risk the Albondigas soup recipe, wants Eddie to pull that ill-advised U-turn manoeuvre and park himself right on Buck’s couch so they can spend the next twenty-four hours watching trashy reality TV cuddled under a blanket together. Eddie always pretends to be disinterested, but Buck knows that two episodes in he’ll be leaning forward, mumbling obscenities as his favourite gets voted out.

Sure, it’s not rock climbing or surfing or any of the other crazy activities Buck’s taken up since his accident, but lazy days with Eddie are secretly Buck’s favourite. There are no expectations, no elaborate plans, no one whose life they have to save. It’s just the two of them, pressed against each other on the couch; thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, content in each other’s company as the world spins around them.

Eddie is his rock for many reasons, too many to count, and the list grows every year. But, more than anything, Eddie always seems to know what Buck needs before he realises it himself. Eddie bullies him into a chair when his leg starts to act up, brings Chris over when he gets too in his head about something, holds his hand when he jumps at scary movies and teases him while he does it. Eddie is the one person who could ease all his fears about dinner with his parents instead of letting him stew in all the ways tonight could end.

Buck doesn’t text Eddie, he doesn’t ruin Eddie’s plans because he’s feeling a bit lonely. Buck isn’t selfish. He desperately wishes he could co-opt every single moment of Eddie’s time and spend every second glued to his side, but he knows how the world works. He knows that spending every second joined at the hip because he doesn’t feel whole without Eddie by his side isn’t feasible. But that doesn’t stop him dreaming about it anyway.

Instead, he picks up the video game controller, drapes himself in the fluffy blanket on his couch, and straps himself in for a productive morning of breathing new life into the farm he inherited from his grandfather (virtual grandfather, not the prick with the cane, you get it).

Buck walks up to Maddie and Chimney’s front door with his heart in his throat. He pulls his jacket tighter around him, shivering as the bitter wind bites at his fingertips. The lashing rain had stopped sometime in the afternoon, leaving the tail end of the storm to slowly peter off, but the cold still lingers. A fresh breeze is rolling into LA, blowing the storm clouds away, but Buck still feels like he is walking right into one.

He raises his hand to knock, letting it hover an inch from the door. Only his and Maddie’s cars are in the driveway, so he knows his parents haven’t arrived yet, but Buck is still on edge. His parents haven’t visited since Jee’s first birthday, which Buck remembers with an awful clarity; them mostly ignoring him, fawning over Jee, and attempting not to say anything casually racist (they’d mostly succeeded, with the odd comment about Chimney’s ‘people’ which his poor brother-in-law had tried to laugh off).

They’d said nothing about his leg, but since ignoring everything except their most glaring issues was page one in his parents’ book, directly above criticising their kids for every tiny mistake they were perceived to have made, Buck had shrugged it off, relieved that they weren’t going to have an argument about his job being ‘too dangerous’.

Maddie opens the door with a strained smile, which turns bright when her eyes fall on him, “Buck!” She pulls him in for a tight hug, and he goes with her, soaking it in. “Thank you for coming.”

Buck steps back and smiles, putting his hands on her shoulders, “And miss dinner with our parents? I couldn’t let you have all the fun.” If Buck had it his way, he’d ignore every begrudging invitation his parents extended through Maddie every time they were in town, but he meant what he said. It was them against their parents, it always had been, and that was a fight Buck could never back down from. Plus, Chimney had bribed him by promising to pick up one of Buck’s shifts, which was totally unnecessary because he was already coming, but hey, a free day off is a free day off.

"You’re not the one having to house them for the next three days, but I appreciate the backup,” Maddie says, ushering him inside. “It’s just us for now because I made Howie pick them up from the airport.” She smiles slyly. “I said I had to do laundry.”

“And he believed that?”

Maddie snorts. “No. I owe him a date at that new Ethiopian place. Actually, I probably owe him two, considering he’s been there for three hours." She hands Buck a glass of wine, generously filled, which he appreciates. Neither of them is getting through dinner without a little liquid courage. "He didn’t find out that their plane was delayed until he got there because they ‘forgot’ to tell us.”

Buck winces in sympathy. He’s been victim to their parents’ changed plans more than once; they make them, change them, and neglect to tell anyone because half the time they leave their phones at the bottom of their bags, and the other half, they expect you to be a mind reader.

He glances around the unusually tidy living room, noting the absence of Jee’s toys and infectious toddler energy, “Where’s Jee? It’s not her bedtime yet, is it?”

“Chim took her with him. Cute toddler, happy grandparents. Plus, the car ride makes her sleepy, and I didn’t want to deal with a stubborn, energetic toddler when Mom and Dad are in the room.” Maddie shudders.

She’s not wrong to be cautious. The last time their parents had visited, Jee had been in her grabbing phase, and his poor sister had to dodge the curious hands tugging on her hair while their mom made snide comments about how they’d baby-proofed the apartment and the fact that they didn’t have a house yet (nevermind everything Maddie had gone through postpartum and her newly rekindled relationship with Chimney).

Buck follows Maddie into the kitchen and stands beside her, watching as Maddie stirs the pot on the stovetop, humming consideringly as she tastes it. She tosses in a pinch of salt and keeps stirring. “Adding too much wine and boozing our parents up a smidge would be unethical, right?” She asks, offhandedly.

“Probably,” Buck snorts and moves the wine bottle to the kitchen island behind him. “But we can dream.” He inhales the aroma rising from the pot. “That smells good.”

Maddie smiles, “Beef Bourguignon. I’m trying a new recipe.” She passes him a spoon, “Try some.”

Dipping the small spoon into the pot, Buck carefully lifts some of the sauce to his lips. The rich flavours of the red wine sauce explode on his tongue, and Buck groans softly. “Oh, that’s delicious. It’s amazing, Maddie.”

Wiping her hands self-consciously on the towel over her shoulder, Maddie's cheeks flush pink as she turns away from Buck to stir the mashed potatoes in another pan. “Took me a few attempts to get it right. Chim’s had it twice this week.”

“And I’m sure he’d love to have it again,” Buck replies, eyeing Maddie's spice rack over her shoulder. It's crammed full of jars and foil packets, containing everything from salt to saffron. His gaze flicks over to his sister, now preoccupied with a dish soaking in the sink, her back to the bourguignon, and his lips quirk up into a grin. Leaning over slowly, he swipes the black pepper from the middle shelf and flicks the lid open with his thumb.

His hand is hovering above the pot when a wooden spoon whacks him out of nowhere. He whips his hand back and sheepishly turns towards Maddie, who is glaring and brandishing the spoon at him.

“Uh uh. This is my recipe. No trying to improve it.”

“Come on, just a little–” Buck wheedles.

“No.” Despite the spoon still pointing dangerously at his neck, a small smile was playing on Maddie’s face. “Now go sit down. You’re standing funny on your leg.”

Buck is standing funny on his leg. His stump is aching inside the liner, despite his leaving his leg free and resting on the couch all day. He’d pulled it on at the last possible second, hoping that he’d given it enough time, but he guesses it’s a bad pain day. He’s not had one for a while, but a flare happening on the day his parents get into town is a perfect metaphor.

It’s fine. He’s content (stubborn) enough to pretend it isn’t bothering him. “No, it’s okay. I can keep you company.” He’s an awful liar, especially when it comes to Maddie.

“Sit,” she insists, shoving him towards the living room, “The ottoman you like is next to the couch.”

Relenting, Buck picks up his wine glass and retreats to the living room, sinking gratefully into the couch. He rests his prosthetic on the ottoman, breathing a sigh of relief as the pressure subsides. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” He calls into the kitchen. “I could set the table or, or start on the dishes!”

“I’m good, Buck, really!” Maddie calls back, “I’m the host, you relax!”

“Fine,” Buck grumbles, and chugs the rest of his wine. His fingers drum on the couch, and his good leg jiggles. He doesn’t like sitting anywhere uselessly, let alone moments before everything goes to hell.

Maddie perches next to him on the couch and curls her arm over his shoulder, pulling him into a side hug as she refills his wine. “You don’t have to stay if this is stressing you out, you know. I can handle our parents for one night.”

Buck sighs. “I promise I’m fine. I’m just nervous.” He picks at his sweater, tugging at a loose thread. “I don’t want to ruin your night, you know? Mom and Dad barely visit as it is, and I don’t want to say something that will cause a fight.”

“You won’t,” Maddie replies, and Buck stares at her in disbelief. “Well,” she amends, “You might. But Mom said that she wants to reconnect. Maybe they’ll be on their best behaviour this time.”

“Do you believe that? After everything they’ve done?” Buck asks, trying to tamp down the flare of anger and resentment that responds to the thoughts of their parents. He doesn’t have any desire to reconnect with them, and they’ve never bothered with him, but he’ll try. For Maddie.

“I don’t know. I’m hopeful. I know they’ve done nothing but let us down, and maybe wanting to make up makes me naïve, but I want to give them another chance.” Maddie’s eyes look suspiciously wet, and Buck finds he can’t be annoyed with her. He understands wanting parents; he wanted them for eighteen years. He’s never known their parents to be kind and loving, not like Maddie did. Maddie remembers what they were like before Daniel died, believes that somewhere deep inside, those parents might still be there. Hope is a powerful thing, it kept her alive, even, and Buck will be damned if he ruins this chance for her.

“That doesn’t mean I’m forgiving them, though,” Maddie says, shaking Buck out of his head. “If they pull anything, I’m putting them back on a plane and they’re never seeing Jee again.”

“Pulling out the big guns,” Buck jokes, gladly letting the sober atmosphere dissipate as quickly as it came.

Maddie shrugs. “Grandkids are a very persuasive bargaining tool. And I’m getting too old to deal with emotionally immature geriatrics. If they want to make up with us, they’re going to have to work for it.”

Buck suppresses a laugh. “You know, I think we made some good progress last time. Nothing like screaming at your parents that they’re the reason you’re in therapy to repair your damaged relationship,” he says wryly.

His words hang in the air for a moment, and Maddie lets out a quiet breath. She tips her head against his and rests her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry about telling them,” she finally says, “They were asking me for updates, and I didn’t want to get into you recertifying because they’d ask a bunch of questions that I knew you wouldn’t want to answer, so I said the first, innocuous thing I could think of. I didn’t think they’d be so weird about it.”

“It’s alright,” Buck says, “With all the yelling, I think we finally made a breakthrough.” He takes a large gulp of wine. “And who hasn’t wanted to scream their frustrations at their emotionally absent parents?”

“It is quite cathartic,” Maddie says, “Part of me hopes we can do it again.”

Buck holds his glass out to Maddie, who taps her glass against it, “To blowout fights with our parents.”

“To blowout fights.” Maddie echoes.

They continue to chat idly for the next few minutes, Maddie getting up occasionally to check on the food. For the first time that day, Buck feels the pain in his leg vanish completely as they catch up on the past week; Maddie’s call from a guy whose head was stuck in a toilet, Buck being chased up a tree by a cat, and Josh’s elaborate scheme to get out of his cousin’s birthday party via several swapped shifts, a basket of cinnamon buns, and his cousin’s fear of parrots.

In no time at all, Buck and Maddie are both in fits of giggles and halfway through the bottle of wine, briefly forgetting the incoming storm.

The doorbell spells the end of their quiet evening, the cute, dainty jingle shattering their joy. If he listens closely, Buck can hear his mom firing questions at Chimney faster than he can answer them. He feels a smidge bad for leaving Chim to the wolves, but Buck dealt with them for eighteen years. Chim can handle a few hours in an airport and an awkward car ride.

Buck groans, the knot in his chest squeezing painfully tight. “Oh, I’m not ready.”

Ruffling his curls as she stands, Maddie laughs and holds out a hand for him. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

She stands in front of the door for a moment, taking a deep breath and smoothing down her clothes. It’s a nervous tick that makes his heart ache. Maddie may have a better relationship with their parents, but it’s by no means good. She experienced their warmth before it disappeared with Daniel, but she also experienced the icy cold that was the years after; the distance, the disappointment, the secrets that tore their family apart from the inside.

Bravely plastering a smile on her face, she pulls the door open.“Mom, Dad! It’s great to see you!” Her voice wavers slightly, but Buck doesn’t think anyone notices except him and Chimney, whose brow furrows in concern from the back of the pack.

Buck hovers behind Maddie, trying his best to look happy to see his parents. He doesn’t think it’s very effective if Maddie’s elbow to the ribs is anything to go by.

He briefly greets his parents (an awkward hug from his mother and a firm handshake from his father) and gives Chim a quick hug before he turns to Jee, toddling next to her dad with her tiny hand clasped in his. “And how’s my best girl?”

Jee looks up at him and grins widely, “Uncle Buck!” She runs towards him, making grabby hands.

Chim dramatically puts his hand to his chest as Jee drops his, gasping silently like he’s having a heart attack. ‘Betrayal!’ he mouths, ‘Betrayal…’

Rolling his eyes at Chim's antics, Buck crouches down and scoops Jee up, “I gotcha, Jee.” He swings her around and beams as she squeals in delight.

“Evan, uh, Buck, are you sure you should be doing that?” His mother asks, looking between him and Maddie expectantly, as if waiting for her to snatch her child back from her very irresponsible younger brother.

“No, Mom, it’s okay. Jee loves her Uncle Buck.” Jee boops Buck on the nose, and he taps hers right back as they burst into giggles. Jee does love her Uncle Buck, and he loves her. He would love nothing more than to hang out with Jee all evening while everyone else had their grown-up dinner party. Helping her brush her teeth and reading her a bedtime story as she drifted off to sleep sounded a thousand times more fulfilling than listening to his mom criticise every decision her children have ever made.

But he sees his mother pulling a face, so he presses a small kiss to Jee’s hair and passes her to Maddie’s waiting arms. “There we go. Off to Mama.”

Their mom looks like she wants to say something, her index finger hovering in the air as if she’s going to jab it in someone’s face. But, she stays quiet – verbally, at least. Her face is anything but quiet. It’s shouting her opinions so damn loud that her lack of words doesn’t matter, but Buck doesn’t comment. Don’t get him wrong, he would love to ask what her problem is, push her until she explains it in gory detail, but the night is young, and he guesses they should at least get to eat the dinner Maddie made before an argument breaks out.

The air around them thickens with tension, the cheerful atmosphere Buck and Maddie were enjoying only minutes prior evaporating in seconds. Internally, Buck scoffs bitterly, entirely too used to dealing with their hot and cold parents despite the years they spent apart. But as he looks over at his sister, he sees her smile drop. Not so much that it slides off her face, but the light in her eyes dims a little, and it reminds him, intensely, of all the times they’ve let her down.

Jee-Yun yawns loudly, rubbing her eyes. The awful tension breaks around them as everyone turns their attention towards her, and Buck lets out the breath he was holding. Jee’s smart, and if Buck is reading the look on her face correctly, he’d say that she did it on purpose, whether to get doting attention on her or to bring happiness back to her mom’s face.

Buck’s plan to clear the air was to talk uncomfortably loudly about his neighbour who keeps setting his smoke alarm off when Buck’s on shift, which freaks him out each time they respond to his building. Chimney claims the guy’s got a crush on him, but obviously, that’s ridiculous. All the guy needs is some lessons on how not to set pan-fires, or at least use the fire extinguisher Buck very generously bought him, Chimney.

But that's not important. The point is, it was a bad plan, and Buck’s glad that his niece had the wherewithal, cute granddaughter charms, to diffuse the situation.

Maddie, also looking relieved, passes Jee off to Chimney, who guides her head onto his shoulder and pats her on the back as she snuggles into him. He and Maddie exchange a quick kiss before he disappears into Jee’s bedroom, the bright pink door covered in stickers closing behind them.

Everyone else files into the living room, the familiar sounds of small talk washing over them. The conversations are safe and easy, ranging from the traffic to the ghastly weather. Buck gets into a rather nice discussion about planes with his father, who has taken up model planes as a hobby in his retirement. Buck, naturally, has fallen into many a binge, from crashes to collisions to history to current operating practices. His father seems surprised at his knowledge, which doesn’t make him feel pride but does make him feel smug.

Buck has mixed feelings about his father. On the one hand, he’s never been one to raise his voice, unlike his mother, but on the other, no one could call him a doting parent. He, too, had been distant when Buck was growing up, and although their conversation is unlikely to explode into an argument, he doesn’t feel connected to him. Buck hadn’t really known what having a dad felt like until Bobby. Phillip Buckley might be his father, but Bobby Nash is his dad, and Buck finds that any kind of wanting to make his father proud is long gone.

“Oh, Evan. Is that a stain on your sleeve?” His mother grabs his arm and rubs ineffectually at the drying bourguignon stain with her thumb. She tuts and drops his arm, “I would have thought you would wear something clean to dinner.”

Buck spares a glance at Maddie, whose lips twitch as she tries to contain her laughter. Their mother sweeps past them, their father in tow, and Buck lets out a quiet snort. “That was your fault,” he whispers.

“Stay away from my cooking next time,” she says, smacking him on the arm.

“Maybe add flavour next time!”

Maddie gasps. “Oh, I’ll give you flavour!”

Buck opens his mouth to retaliate, something immature and ridiculous, but he’s interrupted by a call of “Children!”

They dissolve into laughter as their mother pokes her head out of the kitchen, pursing her lips in disapproval. “Is dinner ready, Maddie, or are you and Evan going to continue your little…” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Play fight.”

“Yes, Mom. It’s ready.” Maddie follows their parents into the kitchen, whipping around and rolling her eyes at Buck as she goes. He hides a grin behind his hand. His sister has been so happy recently, and they’ve grown so much closer, like when they were kids. He feels like a kid a lot around his parents, and that he hates, but much like Maddie calling him Evan, feeling like a kid with her makes his heart flutter. Their relationship is different from what it was back then, and it should be because they’re adults, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of the past, even if it is behind a veneer of nostalgia.

Buck hangs around by the dining table while Maddie handles dinner in the kitchen, sipping uncomfortably from his wine glass. Faint conversation flows between her and their parents, but Buck has no interest in listening in. He’s not jittery per se, but the closer dinner gets, the more his urge to flee increases. He stares at his wine, wondering if his blood alcohol content is still low enough to drive. It probably is; he’s on his third glass, the average glass raises BAC by about 0.02, and the limit is 0.08. His size helps, but he’s also not eaten since lunch, so for all he knows, he could be dancing dangerously close.

“You ready for this?” Chimney comes up behind him and slings an arm over his shoulder, startling him out of his trance. The wine in his glass sloshes dangerously to the rim, a drop spilling on his thumb, and for a second, Buck inexplicably feels jealous. It can escape, but he can’t. Stupid wine.

“Not even close,” he says, staring at the red staining his thumb.

“Yeah…” Chimney says. “Twenty bucks we don’t last an hour before Hurricane Buckley.”

Buck looks at Chim incredulously, “Who am I, Hen? I’m not betting on this dinner when Maddie worked so hard–” He cuts himself off at Chim’s expectant expression. “I’ll give it two hours.”

“Two? You are being generous, my friend. I look forward to taking your money.” Chimney pats Buck on the back as he walks into the kitchen. Buck, finding no excuse to continue hovering by himself, reluctantly follows.

Sitting around the table with everyone, Buck has to hold back an inappropriately loud moan at Maddie’s cooking. The sauce he had tasted was amazing, but with the perfectly tender meat, sautéed vegetables, and the smoky hint of bacon, all over the creamy mashed potatoes? Buck will be stealing this recipe before he leaves because if he weren’t in polite company, he’d be diving into his portion mouth-first.

He doesn’t admit he was wrong over the seasoning, though. He is, after all, still her younger brother, and to be annoying is his god-given right.

Buck lets the stilted conversation flow over his head, focusing on the divine offering to Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, on his plate. The atmosphere, despite the homely aroma of the food, is icy and awkward. Buck has accepted that he’ll never be close with his parents, but the wide chasm between them, Maddie, and Chimney is enough to have him wincing.

It’s been a while since they’ve all been together, and, in any other family, in any other circumstances, there would be a lot to talk about. The reality is so starkly different that it’s almost funny.

Despite Maddie's best efforts, conversation struggles to breach further than polite anecdotes about the weather and everyone’s general state of being. Buck, in particular, feels hampered because all of his conversation points seem to rile his mother up; from his trips with Eddie and Chris to the latest recipe Bobby has taught him.

Talking about his job causes his mother to clam up, no matter the story. It could be about a call where they rescued a cat from a tree, and she’d still find a way to shut it down. She does the same with Maddie, who sits in the dispatch centre day in and day out, far away from the action – excluding the times where she’s in the thick of it, but Buck’s pretty sure their mother doesn’t know about those.

Buck could entertain a whole bunch of reasons why she doesn’t want to hear about his job; it’s dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and any shift could be his last. It’s not like he’s given her a whole lot of reasons to prove them wrong. But with Maddie? Whose current job is safer than when she was a nurse? That makes him suspicious.

Buck has suspected for a long time that she looks down on them for their jobs, especially since Maddie left her nursing job for Dispatch. Maybe it’s the blue-collar of it all, but Buck finds it rich coming from her to look down on public servants when she and his father worked as school teachers for their whole careers. Dispatcher is an incredibly important job, and Maddie saves maybe more people than he does, but it lacks the prestige or brag-ability of a medical profession, and that is where the crux of all this lies.

Their parents can’t brag about Maddie anymore to their friends. Well, that’s not true. They absolutely could. The fact is, they don’t want to. They could brag about Buck, too, if they wanted, but Buck suspects they wouldn’t brag about him if he saved the president live on national television (he can already hear the we didn’t vote for him, Evan).

Being firefighters, Buck and Chim talk about their jobs a lot, so much that it might appear that they don’t talk about anything else. It’s not entirely their fault because civilians love a good story, the gorier, the more dramatic, the better, bordering and sometimes crossing into inappropriateness.

First responders are full of them (and many of them are full of it, but that’s a different discussion). When they’re not allowed to tell their war stories, their dinner party anecdotes pretty much drop to zero (Chimney’s lucky he’s got an adorable daughter to pick up the slack, Buck’s got, well, the Buckley’s have a rather traditional view of the concept of family, and apparently his ‘coworker’ doesn’t count).

Though uncomfortable, the night manages to pass smoothly. Buck doesn’t talk much, slowly picking at his second plate for as long as possible to avoid being brought into the conversation, but he does enjoy Maddie and Chimney’s anecdotes about Jee. He hasn’t been around as much as he’s wanted to recently, so he drinks in all he can about her.

With stories of Jee to get him through whatever his parents are talking about, the clock ticks past hour one and eventually bleeds into hour two. Buck waits with bated breath for the conversation to turn to him, to his bad decisions, but it doesn’t. His parents talk about people from back home, Maddie and Chim talk about Jee and the shenanigans that arise from having a kid in preschool, and Buck slides in the occasional comment about his tamest hobbies, baking and walking his neighbour’s dog, a border collie whose favourite pastime is searching other people’s gardens for petunias. He waits for his parents to intervene, to start some kind of argument, but to his surprise, one doesn’t materialise.

He’d call it a miracle, but it’s taking biblical amounts of strength for him not to react to the more inflammatory things his mother says. Mainly snipes about his and Chim’s job (she can bring it up, but they can’t, figures) but Buck’s still a firefighter after he lost a damn leg and Chim was back at work mere weeks after getting a bit of rebar straight through the skull; it’s going to take more than a few snooty words from Margaret Buckley to chase them away.

When the dining room clock finally ticks past three hours, Chimney looks over at Buck and mouths, ‘Really?’

Buck swallows a laugh with a sip of wine and rubs his thumb over the tips of his pointer and middle fingers, pay me. The outrage on Chim’s face makes him bite his lip to stop the cackle from spilling out of his mouth. He doubts he’s ever going to see that payout. Chim will probably pull out some crap about both their guesses being wrong nullifying the bet.

As the clock strikes close to midnight, the dinner ends with the last bottle of wine running dry. Buck, who has been fiddling with a dessert fork for the last thirty minutes, tries not to visibly react to his parents bidding them goodnight. His first urge is to tap dance on the table, but he settles for a relieved smile as they turn their backs and disappear into the guest room.

The table is cleared away to quiet laughter and slaps on the back, the tension of the evening bleeding out as they work. Buck insists on helping with the dishes, waving Maddie off as she tries to argue. He likes doing them. Something about the repetitiveness of it calms him; rinse the plate, scrub with the sponge, rinse again, and repeat.

Buck flounders slightly when everything is cleaned up. He didn’t plan to stay the night, hoping he could flee out the back at some point when the inevitable fight started. He snorts to himself. The lack of a fight derailed all his plans, which is the kind of nonsense that could only happen when his parents are involved. They’re usually so predictable, but he guesses that sometimes lightning strikes the same place twice, and sometimes his parents manage to have dinner with their kids without starting a fight.

It’s too late to drive home, especially with the amount of alcohol in his system. He’s not drunk, but he can feel the pleasant buzzing in the back of his mind that lets him know that getting behind the wheel is a bad idea.

Maddie briefly tries to get him to share her bed, offering to banish an offended Chimney to the couch. Buck hastily declines, mostly because he’s fine with the couch, but he’s also kind of scared that Chim will pull a prank in retaliation. Chim’s pranks aren’t dangerous per se, and for something so small, he doubts it will negatively impact his day, but Chimney is creative, and Buck does not want to inspire any more of his madness. Buck still intimately remembers the feeling of custard slopping around in his boot during a rolling house fire, and he’s in no mood to recreate that experience.

The couch is fine. Buck actually quite likes it. It’s worn leather, bought second-hand from a guy who looked relatively un-sketchy and cleaned within an inch of its life. Of all the couches belonging to the 118, he ranks it second best (first is Eddie’s because Buck’s slept on that thing so many times, it’s essentially moulded to him, and maybe for other reasons). Maddie makes it up for him, neatly arranging an armful of pillows and blankets until she’s satisfied. She kisses Buck goodnight on the cheek and pulls Chim into the bedroom with her, who hisses an exaggerated “My bed!” as they go.

“Love you too!” Buck calls as the door closes, blowing Chim an air kiss.

With everyone else now in bed, the house goes quiet, too quiet. Buck’s not unused to the silence of his own company, far from it, but there’s something about an empty house that sets him on edge. Discomfort prickles on the back of his neck, creeping down to the base of his spine. Logically, he knows the house is full, but it reminds him of all the nights he spent alone at home while his parents went out socialising. Those nights when the house went cold as the heating turned off, and every creak struck like a thunderclap.

Any other kid would have been thrilled for a free evening and probably would have taken the chance to throw a raging house party. With the number of nights he spent totally alone, his house could have been his grade’s designated party house. But, honestly, that had been the last thing on his mind. A free house is only exciting when it’s rare, and it’s hard to be excited about the potential boost in popularity when all you want is a family that loves you.

He drops onto the couch heavily, rubbing his hand along the thick wool blanket. He’s alone. Everyone else has a partner whose arms they can retreat into, but Buck is by himself, out in the cold. The house itself isn’t cold, it’s comfortably warm, actually, but Buck shivers anyway.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he stares at the lit screen, trying not to feel disappointed that the only notification is a reminder from the gas company that his bill is due. Eddie should be back from Fresno by now, and asleep if the late hour is anything to go by, since he goes to bed at a reasonable time for an adult with a kid (Buck favours late-night research binges and often forgets to sleep, but this isn’t about him).

Eddie’s made the drive a hundred times, but it doesn’t stop Buck from feeling anxious when he doesn’t hear from him afterwards. He’s aware of how much it makes him sound like he’s Eddie’s wife, but with what he sees every day, Buck thinks there is nothing wrong with checking up on the people he loves. And Buck loves, he loves loud, and if making sure Eddie is home safe makes him his wife, he’ll be his damn wife, forever if Eddie lets him.

With a grip on his phone that makes his fingers ache, he sends Eddie a quick text, in case he’s still up. Buck sprawls himself onto the couch, one leg hanging over the arm, the other planting itself on the floor. He stares up at the ceiling, an arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting on his stomach, still holding onto his phone. Idly, his eyes wander over the fancy light fixture that Maddie had excitedly bought for a ridiculous discount when she and Chim were decorating the house. He counts the glass beads dripping down their golden chains, thinks about how the light refracts and creates these delicate shimmering rainbows as it hits the beads.

Keeping his gaze on the ceiling, he reaches for his prosthetic, pulling it off with practised ease. He tosses it on the carpeted floor and curls up the best he can on the narrow couch, tugging on the blanket until it covers him completely. Buck sleeps the best with everything tucked under the sheets in a tight ball. Eddie fondly likens it to his Abuela’s elderly cat, a feisty little thing named Chichi who lay in the sun all day and hissed at anyone who messed with her food. Buck cat-sat her a few times when she was alive, and Eddie once found them curled in a sunny patch together, asleep despite the hardwood floor (Buck has never lived it down).

Getting comfortable isn’t as difficult as Buck has found it in the past. An unexpected benefit of becoming an above-the-knee amputee, especially when you’re tall, is that it’s a lot easier to fit on your friends’ couches. No one else finds his jokes about it funny, but you have to take your levity where you can find it.

He lies awake for a long time, not for any easily discernible reason, but he supposes it’s always harder to sleep when his parents are around. Something buzzes at the back of his mind, and his leg aches uncomfortably. He knows he wore his prosthetic for too long, but it wasn’t like he could whip it out while they were eating. Although he’d be lying if he said he didn’t consider it, if only for the looks on everyone’s faces.

Fruitlessly, he shifts his position, trying to avoid putting too much weight directly on his bad side. When that doesn’t work, he starts scrolling, staring disinterestedly at his phone screen. Insomnia isn’t unusual for him. Hell, it’s often where his research binges start. But tonight, of all nights, nothing catches his attention, and Buck finds himself growing more and more frustrated, which doesn’t help when he’s supposed to be relaxing.

He huffs, batting the blanket off his face, and lies flat on his back, his limbs falling off the couch. His phone disappears somewhere amongst the folds of the blanket, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force a shutdown. It doesn’t work because while his brain is a computer, it’s not the kind that shuts off with an ill-advised press of a button. Obviously. Because that’s not how brains work. Stupid evolution.

In his fit of sleep-deprived absurdity, he actually tries counting sheep, which he doesn’t think has worked for anyone, ever. He imagines a large flock of grazing sheep on a green pasture, calmly going about their days. It kind of relaxes him at first. It’s stimulating enough to keep his attention, but boring enough that it’s not actively engaging his brain.

Slowly, he feels his eyelids beginning to droop, his head growing heavier, until, bafflingly, a sheep ambles right up next to him and bleats loudly in his ear.

Buck is instantly wide awake again. Annoyed and a little flabbergasted that his rest is now being sabotaged by his own imaginary sheep. His subconscious is plotting against him, and Buck, like the Roman emperor Caligula waging war against the sea, is facing an enemy that is entirely in his mind – literally, his mind.

The war is as pointless as Caligula’s men stabbing the ocean waves, except Buck can’t collect seashells as prisoners of war as proof that it happened at all. He can’t claim that he won either because he’s still clearly awake, and that doesn’t seem to be changing any time soon.

Listen, Buck is a perseverer in all things; it’s in his nature, but this time, he’s admitting defeat on the whole good night’s rest front. He’s not a huge believer in fate or destiny anymore, but if the universe wants to scream at him, to shove those signs in his face, he may as well pay attention.

So, he lies there, bored out of his damn mind, utterly exhausted, and cursing every decision he’s ever made that led him to this point. He doesn’t know for how long, floating in the liminal space between wakefulness and dissociation, stuck between the two when all he wants is to tip into unconsciousness. When Jerry L. Walls said that purgatory was hope, he was fucking lying, because Buck’s barely spent an hour there and wants to tear his own hair out.

His phone buzzes, somewhere in the aether of all the metaphors he’s mixing. He fumbles for his phone, his uncoordinated fingers scrabbling around in the blanket for it.

The screen is lit up with a text notification. Eddie.

Back home. Have a good night, Buck :)

Warmth blooms in his chest, spreading outwards to his fingertips and down towards his toes. For the first time in hours, Buck feels himself relax, truly relax. Some deep part of his brain stops buzzing, and his muscles unclench as he melts into the couch.

He falls asleep soon after, amusement playing on his lips and his phone held loosely in his grasp.

Buck wakes to a loud shriek.

Groggy from sleep and half convinced the tones had sounded for a late-night call, Buck flails, saved from planting face-first onto the floor by his quick reflexes, honed from frequently falling out of his wheelchair when he still used it. Since he got his prosthetic, it mostly sits in the back of his closet, but on his very worst days, it’s the only thing that allows him to get around. The chair will never be his first choice, but he doesn’t hate it, not anymore. It has taken some work, and a hell of a lot of unlearning, to get past what it represented to him, but he’s accepted it, and that’s all anyone could ask of him.

He scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing the crust out of his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he slept, but he’s sure it wasn’t enough. Blinking at the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, he looks around to find the source of the scream.

His mother is staring at his prosthetic leg, lying innocently on the floor, her eyes bugged and her mouth dropped open in horror.

“Mom?” Buck asks, his voice hoarse. “What is it?”

His mom sinks to her knees and gingerly lifts the blanket, her hands trembling. She doesn’t say a word to him as she pushes the leg of his pants up to reveal the stump of Buck’s leg. She gasps, her hands hovering like she wants to touch him but isn’t sure it’s right.

Buck stares at her, confused. “Mom?” He asks again, quietly, not sure what to do.

“Your leg…” His mom doesn’t seem to have noticed him, completely absorbed as her eyes track over his stump.

Buck feels like he’s suddenly fallen into another dimension. His mom, who has never given a shit about his other injuries, let alone his leg, has a pained expression on her face, one he’s only seen when she talks about Daniel. It’s carefully blank, but her eyes hide a wealth of emotion that never gets released. Great reserves of pain hide in the quiver of her lip, the frown lines across her forehead. Buck’s seen it occasionally, but never aimed at him. It throws him for a loop.

He expected a lot of reactions to seeing his leg, but horror was not one of them, not from his mom. Derision, maybe, dismissal, ignoring it completely, but never horror. Buck knows he’s got a couple of surgery scars, but they’re neat and well healed; they’re barely visible and if you’re not looking for them, easy to overlook. He doesn’t think it’s all that shocking. But maybe it’s because he’s used to it? He knows there’s a difference between knowing your son is an amputee and seeing it in the flesh, regardless of how strained your relationship is.

“When?” His mind struggles to make sense of her question, still half-asleep. When? When? It bounces around his skull. When? When? When? Doesn’t she know?

How could she not? Maddie called their parents after the accident. He distinctly remembers her ducking out of his hospital room to tell them. Did she not? Did they brush her off before she could?

Questions whirl around in his head, and he desperately wants to let them out in a stumbling cascade, but his mother looks like she’s about to go into shock below him, so he tamps his intense curiosity down and tries his best to appear calm.

Buck clears his throat, “A few years ago. The truck bombing.” His words feel loud, too loud for the quiet living room. Faintly, he can hear a couple of birds singing to each other as they nest in a nearby tree. If he’s being fanciful, which he always is because the world needs more whimsy, he can imagine a pair of empty-nesters basking lovingly together, stretching their wings in the calm after the raging storm.

His mom whips her head up like she’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, I–” she cuts herself to take a breath. “Evan, we had no idea.” Her voice quavers as she says it, and Buck has to do his best not to explode. They had no idea. Of course, they had no fucking idea. Their son was crushed under several tons of municipal equipment and almost died, and they sat at home in Pennsylvania, perfectly content to let him suffer alone.

“Yeah, well.” White-hot anger courses through his veins; anger for the little boy in Hershey who could never figure out why his parents didn’t love him, anger from the teenager who would purposefully get into accidents so they’d pay attention to him for five damn minutes, and anger from the broken man who had joined the 118 looking for a place to belong.

Anger is easy to deal with; it’s a basic enough emotion, but it doesn’t come from nowhere. Underneath his anger is pain, the pain of growing up unloved, the pain of that same little boy from Hershey who’d cry in his room, wondering what he had done wrong who never really grew up into the angsty teenager or the broken man because he was too busy hiding from the world that wouldn’t stop hurting him.

Over the past few years, he’d been trying to forgive his parents. Not because they deserve it, Buck doesn’t think they could ever earn his forgiveness, but for himself. He’s carried the guilt over everything for his whole life, guilt that was never his to begin with, and he knew it was untenable. He’d been working with Dr Copeland ever since his accident, and after working through the worst of that trauma, he’d gradually been picking through the past to try and alleviate the weight of it all.

Standing in front of his mom (well, he’s technically lying on the sofa, but that ruins the power of the imagery somewhat) makes him feel like all the work he did was for nothing. He wants to get on his knees and beg and plead until they love him because the reminder that they don’t is ripping his heart out of his chest and squeezing it until it stops beating.

It’s all too much; the memories, the emotions, the pain. They well up inside him, the long-building pressure finally becoming too much as the system primes for eruption (Ultra-Plinian, if you’re a fan of volcanoes, the most explosive kind that creates impossibly tall plumes of ash and debris).

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him, the oxygen in the room feels like it’s being sucked out of the air itself as he tries not to hyperventilate.

Almost choking over the great lungfuls of air he takes, his hands clumsily reaching for his prosthetic. “I’m going for a walk.” Buck hurriedly pulls his liner and then his leg over his stump. As he stands, his pant leg falls, obscuring his prosthetic from view. Something inside him feels less flayed open as it disappears. It looks identical to his good leg, the metal joints surrounded by the foam cover that he wears with long pants.

He’s halfway across the room with his shoes on before his mother has a chance to look up.

“Evan!” she calls, as loud as she can to avoid waking the rest of the house. Without a single glance behind him, Buck snags his jacket off the coat rack and practically lunges for the door, unlocking it with shaking hands.

A cold burst of air hits him as he steps outside, instantly cooling some of his simmering anger like a bucket of ice water. It’s nothing on a Pennsylvania winter, but for California, it’s far from the heat he’s grown accustomed to. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he shivers, and not entirely from the cold.

The sky is a cloudless pale blue, the sun still hovering below the horizon. It’s so calm, so different from the lashing rain and swirling winds of the past few days. Buck is always amazed at how quickly the weather can change; one moment the world will be tearing itself apart, and the next it will be so still that it looks frozen in time.

Walking through Maddie’s neighbourhood, Buck himself feels frozen in time. There isn’t a soul around, except for maybe a few twittering birds, and most of the houses are dark as their residents sleep in. It reminds him of his neighbourhood back in Hershey. He used to go for walks to avoid his parents then too. Sometimes he’d leave for school two hours early so he could sit in the library and read instead of suffering through breakfast with his parents. It’s a different neighbourhood, almost two decades in the future, but part of him feels like he’s back there again, like he’s reaching a set of crossroads he’s seen before and has to decide if he wants to make the same decision.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets back, what shit storm is going to rain down upon him, but in this neighbourhood, early in that idyllic morning, Buck lets himself exist in the moment like the world itself has stopped spinning. For the first time in a very long time, he lets himself wander without a purpose, and he smiles.

When Buck returns, the house is awake, if only barely. The old coffee maker that Chim refuses to replace, like an ancient relic, chugs along loudly in the kitchen, puffing out steam like a train. Maddie and Chimney are both in the kitchen, chatting happily as they begin to make breakfast, knocking into each other playfully. It’s soft, domestic, and something Buck has seen play out about a thousand times with every couple he knows. Hell, he’s been part of it in Eddie’s kitchen, dancing around each other before shift starts, trying to corral Christopher out of bed so they can drop him off at school on time.

His parents are nowhere to be seen, and for that, Buck is grateful. He’s had some time to compose himself, but if he’s going to get through the morning without the Big Buckley Blowout, he’s going to need his backup in the form of Maddie and Chimney.

Buck hovers by the door, taking longer than necessary to hang up his jacket, fiddling with the end of one of the sleeves. He keeps an eye on the hallway to the guest bedroom, his ears pricked for the creak of an opening door.

“Hey, Buck! Come get some coffee!” Chimney shouts from the kitchen, startling him. He drops the sleeve, rolling his eyes at himself for being so ridiculous. His parents aren’t around, he doesn’t need to be haunted by the thought of them as well as their physical presence.

Pasting a small smile on his face and accepting the cup Chim holds out for him, “Thanks,” he says, closing his eyes, gripping the cup like a lifeline. Ok, maybe he’s still a little haunted by them, the power of positive thinking apparently has some limitations.

“Whoa, no one’s going to take it from you,” Chimney jokes, “Loosen your grip.”

“Mhmm,” Buck takes a large gulp, ignoring the coffee burning his throat. He pulls a hand away and looks at his palm. His skin is tinged pink from the heat. He winces.

Setting the cup on the countertop, he shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to look innocent as he dodges Chim’s discerning frown.

Chim shakes his head and turns to Maddie, who appears from the hallway carrying a full basket of dirty clothes. “I thought you had to do laundry yesterday?” he gasps with mock-seriousness.

Scoffing, she opens the washing machine and begins loading it. “You know damn well I was lying. You’re lucky I didn’t say I was ‘washing my hair’ like it’s the 1950s.”

“Ah-ha!” Chimney crows. “I believe I am owed another date!”

Buck laughs, loud and bright, “She said you’d say that.”

Chimney rolls his eyes playfully, “It’s called being in love, Buck. When one of us commits the heinous crime of lying to get out of things we don’t want to do, they pay for date night.”

“You hear that, Buck?” Maddie says, “The true meaning of love is lying and transactions.” She leans over and kisses Chim loudly on the cheek. Buck, the mature adult he is, sticks his tongue out at them.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Buck says. “Now, do you want help with breakfast? Because that bacon is about to burn.”

Cursing, Chim spins around and takes the pan off the heat. He takes a pair of tongs and snatches up a slice of bacon, slightly charred around the edges, and waves it in Buck’s face. “This is your fault, peg leg.”

“Mmm, five out of ten. Overused.”

Chimney drops the bacon back into the pan and snaps the tongs in Buck’s face. “It’s too early for clever insults. You get ol’ reliable.”

Buck grins, starting to feel more like himself again. Bantering with Chim is easy. He knows firefighters call each other their brothers, or sisters, as Hen would remind him, but Chim truly is the brother Buck never had. They’ve come a long way since Buck’s probie days. “You couldn’t think of anyone? Long John Silver, Gobber the Belch, Popeye?”

Chim lifts his index finger. “First of all, Long John Silver and Gobber are way too cool for you, and second, despite the fact your biceps resemble Popeye’s, he has two flesh legs.”

“Howie!” Maddie smacks Chim over the head with a dish towel, but her admonishment has no real heat to it.

Raising his hands in the air in surrender, Chim laughs, “Come and see the violence inherent in the system!” He ducks out of the way of the dish towel flying for another hit, allowing Buck to sneak up on him. He puts Chim in a headlock and jokingly gives him a noogie. “Help! Help! I'm being repressed!”

“Boys!” Maddie calls, “Breakfast isn’t going to finish making itself!”

Chim shoves Buck off him, and they both straighten their clothes, with what Buck assumes are matching sheepish expressions on their faces. He grabs the carton of eggs off the counter and begins making a large batch of scrambled eggs, Bobby’s recipe, because Buck doesn’t think there’s a dish that Bobby doesn’t have a recipe for. Chim, wearing a silly smile with the gooiest heart eyes Buck has ever seen, puts the bacon in the oven next to a tray of sausages to keep it warm.

“Did you seriously quote Monty Python at me?” Buck asks as he pours the egg mixture into a pan.

Leaning back against the kitchen island, Chim grins, “What? It’s a classic.”

“I was expecting something more, I don’t know, pretentious.”

Chim gasps dramatically, “I am not pretentious!”

“That list of movies you sent me that ‘I absolutely had to watch to be cultured’ says differently,” Buck says, smirking over his shoulder as he swirls the spatula around the pan.

“Youth these days, no respect for classic movies,” Chim tuts, shaking his head. Buck laughs, restraining the urge to throw another dish towel at him and start another play fight next to the lit stove. A house call from B-shift is the last thing he needs today, or ever, but especially today.

Alongside Maddie, Buck and Chimney finish up breakfast, bickering familiarly with each other. No more fights break out, but Chimney, true to form, goes on a rant about something to do with the Godfather. Buck doesn’t pay attention, mostly because he caused the rant, but also because he has no desire to learn anything about the Godfather.

The morning passes with no sign of his parents, and Buck enjoys the alone time with Maddie and Chimney. Buck doesn’t visit them as much as he used to, what with their busy work schedules and Buck spending more time with Eddie (which they make fun of him for because apparently, he gets a gross, sappy look on his face whenever he talks about him – Buck doesn’t deny it).

Still, his mom’s words nag at him, all the way through breakfast, eating away at the back of his mind.

“Did you know that Mom and Dad didn’t know about my leg?” He’s sitting at the kitchen island, ruminating over a second cup of coffee of the day. Maddie and Chim are doing the dishes together, with Maddie humming along to the song playing softly on the radio. Buck rubs his good foot against his prosthetic absent-mindedly, fingers clenching as he tries to avoid turning the counter into his own personal drum kit.

Maddie and Chimney pause in sync and spin around to face him, twin expressions of confusion on their faces. Buck kind of wants to fawn over how cute they are. He knows the beautiful depth of feeling that comes from knowing someone, loving someone so much that they become a part of you and you become a part of them. Maddie experiencing that joy herself after everything she’s been through makes him so unbelievably happy for her that he might burst.

“What do you mean?” Maddie frowns. “Of course they do. I spoke with Mom when you were in the hospital.”

“She woke me up this morning by tripping over my leg and screaming,” Buck says, tapping a pointer against the back of his other hand. “She said they had no idea.” He stares down at his coffee and hunches his shoulders, trying to disappear the best he can.

He feels rather than sees Maddie and Chim taking seats on either side of him. Maddie wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls his head against hers. “I don't know what to say, Buck.” Maddie says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Buck replies, “They could have picked up the phone any time in the past few years, but they didn’t.”

“Still,” she says, “I’m sure I told her the doctors were talking about amputation. She didn’t ask any follow-up questions, but I assumed she was in shock.”

Buck sighs, “I don’t know why I’m upset about it. I mean, it’s not like they’ve ever been all that attentive.”

“You can be used to your parents disappointing you. It doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Chim sympathises, patting him on the shoulder. Buck looks over at him. There’s a faraway look in his eyes and a sad smile on his face, and Buck aches for him. He rests his hand on Chim’s, still on his shoulder and squeezes comfortingly.

“Look at us,” he jokes, his voice a little wet, “re-hashing our childhood trauma in the middle of your kitchen. Feels like we should have some beers in front of us or something.”

“Buck, we are not day drinking on a Sunday morning,” Maddie scolds as Chim laughs. “And you’re not helping either, Chimney Han.”

“Ooooh, she pulled out the government name. Someone’s in trouble!” Buck sing-songs, leaning his head against Chimney’s.

Chim snorts, “Government name? Do you think Chimney is on my birth certificate?” He snags Buck’s abandoned coffee mug and takes a sip, wincing, “I think the creamer with a splash of coffee is rotting your brain.”

Snatching the mug back and chugging the rest of the tepid coffee, Buck scoffs, “Coffee snob, movie snob, is there anything you’re normal about?”

“Big words from the man who has an entire pyramid of herbal tea in his kitchen.”

Buck gasps. “It’s called variety, and I’ve been reliably informed it’s the spice of life.”

“Children,” Maddie mutters, rolling her eyes fondly at their antics, all too used to her partner and brother being ridiculous.

Buck leans over and gives her an obnoxious, smacking kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Mads.”

“Unfortunately, I love you too,” she grins, ruffling his hair. Buck leans into the touch, basking in it like a happy golden retriever in the sun.

None of them speak for a while. Chim makes more coffee for himself and Maddie, placing one of the cups in front of her as she holds onto Buck’s hands. The silence doesn’t feel awkward; it’s calm and peaceful, and Buck wouldn’t mind staying there forever.

The mood is ruined by the arrival of their parents.

They swan into the kitchen like they own it, fully dressed in clean clothes, and looking every bit the picture-perfect part of society they pretend to be. Buck straightens his t-shirt awkwardly, acutely aware that he’s in the same one from last night, rumpled and creased from him sleeping in it.

His spine is tense as Maddie fixes the breakfast leftovers for them, eyes constantly tracking each move they make. An argument could break out at any moment, and he doesn’t want to be caught off guard.

“Maddie, darling, these eggs are delicious,” his dad starts awkwardly, glancing between Buck and his wife, who hasn’t said much of anything since they entered the kitchen.

“Oh, those were all Buck,” Maddie says proudly.

“Evan, we had no idea you could cook so well,” he replies. There were those words again, no idea. Buck really wished they would stop saying them; he’d like the punches in the gut to stop.

His now-empty coffee mug is the victim of his ire, clenched tight in his fingers. “I’ve picked a few things up,” he grits out.

“Don’t be so modest, Buck,” Maddie says. “That French onion soup you made last week was the best I’ve ever had.”

Buck feels his cheeks heat and looks away, wrinkling his nose as he remembers sweating his ass off over the stove for hours. “I’m never making it from scratch again. The time it took to caramelise the onions and make the beef broth from scratch… My apartment smelled like onions for two days. Pretty sure I brought the smell into work.”

“Well, you smelled delicious,” Chimney jokes. “One of the women at the first scene kept trying to sniff you. Hen was trying to check her for a head injury and she wouldn’t stop moving. Turns out she had a concussion.”

That startles a laugh out of Buck. “I didn’t notice.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Chimney says, ducking away from Maddie’s imaginary dish towel instinctively. The real Maddie shakes her head in amusement on the other side of the room.

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Buck asks, exasperated.

Chimney smirks. “Oh, you’re never going to hear the end of it. I’ll be telling that story at your damn wed– ow!” He grabs his ankle, rocking back slightly on his stool. Opening his mouth, presumably to ask Buck what the hell is wrong with him, he freezes like a deer in the headlights, staring with wide, horrified eyes.

“What were you saying, Chim?” Buck says, his tone light, but his expression pointed. There have been enough revelations today, they don’t need to bring the Eddie of it all into this. If his mom thinks he’s seeing someone, he’ll get endless questions about ‘her’ and the imaginary grandchildren they’re going to give her. She doesn’t count Christopher, another reason she’s never going to find out about Eddie.

“Oh, nothing,” Chim trails off awkwardly, not-so-subtly checking to see if his parents-in-law have caught his slip-up. They’re staring at him, faintly confused, but ultimately don’t comment. Buck assumes it’s because they’re still processing him being an amputee, and if that’s true, he prefers the secret that he already thought was out there to be the one they focus on.

Maddie claps her hands, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the building storm clouds. “Alright. How about we move this to the living room? It’ll be much more comfortable.”

Relieved to get off the barstool, Buck stands and stretches his lower back, wincing at the loud popping sound it makes. His massage gun is going to be getting a lot of use when he gets home. Buck practically bolts towards the couch, flopping down onto it and smiling when Maddie and Chim join him, leaving the armchairs for his parents. They have a short, hushed conversation over him, and he lets their voices wash over him without listening to what they’re saying. It’s familiar, warm, and he lets it comfort him.

“So, they let you do that job of yours without a leg?” At his mother’s words, the room goes silent, icy like all the heat has been sucked out of the room, along with his ability to breathe. He should have known she couldn’t stay quiet forever. She had to get her licks in.

“They do,” Buck says defensively. “I’m perfectly capable.”

His mother waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, you know what I mean, Evan. I would have thought the LAFD would have considered you a liability.” Her voice is perfectly level, conversational, like she doesn’t understand the nerve she’s struck.

A liability. The word echoes around inside his head. Buck has had to fight hard to stop himself from being thought of as anything other than a highly capable firefighter ever since he got the all clear to go back to work. The brass see his medical records and the shiny, specialised leg they have to supply him, and they roll their eyes and hope he quits because they assume the guy who passed all his recertification exams in the seventieth percentile is somehow bad at his job because he happens to be disabled.

Hell, some chief tried to transfer him over to an engine company in the suburbs, and, look, Buck has the utmost respect for the firefighters that ride triples but Buck isn’t made for humping hoses all day. He’s not some impulsive probie anymore, but there’s nothing that gets his heart pumping like a high-stakes rescue 60ft in the air. That, and the idea of being forcibly pushed out of the 118 makes him want to throw up in the nearest trashcan and then maybe throw himself in there after.

Buck faced a lot of bullshit when he tried to come back to work. Recertifying was a gargantuan effort in itself, but the ridiculous adversary from the brass at every turn was a hundred times more infuriating than not meeting his physical targets. He got used to his limits, they’re something you learn very quickly as a disabled person, but every additional review, the constant scrutiny, every extra barrier that was thrown at him for no reason other than some white shirts wanting to put him on long term disability had driven him so far round the bend that every day he’d considered storming headquarters and yelling in Chief Alonzo’s face. If it weren’t for Battalion Chief Williams going to bat for him, he might have. He should probably send her flowers for that, actually.

“And you know, it’s just so dangerous, Evan. What if you lose another leg?” His mother’s eyes sparkle as she says it, like it’s some kind of hilarious joke that she expects them to share. Buck doesn’t see joy in that sparkle, he doesn’t see perfectly cut diamonds but cheap imitation glass, glinting flatly in the pale light. His father chuckles, falling equally flat and lifeless with no real emotion in it.

Buck digs his nails into his forearm, letting the sharp pain surge through him, thrusting him away from the racing thoughts that threaten to overrun his mind. His bland smile stretches painfully across his face, cheek to cheek, but failing to reach his eyes.

“Knowing Buck, he’ll get right back on that horse and keep on saving people’s lives,” Chimney interjects, trying desperately to keep the mood upbeat. “Guy saved an old lady in the hospital parking lot after he was discharged the first time.” Buck is grateful, but not even Chim can stop the indomitable power of Margaret Buckley once she made up her mind about something.

While he’s talking, Maddie puts her hand on Buck’s, pulling it away from his arm and squeezing lightly. He tries not to look at the crescent marks left behind, stark and ugly against his skin.

Now, the ‘proper’ thing to do would be to titter along with his mom, keep the facade, the polished veneer of perfection his parents always expected around polite company. He doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s not surrounded by polite company. He’s surrounded by his family, his village, his people who have been there for him through thick and thin. The people who have never needed him to hide who he is, have never needed him to suppress everything that made him different.

And of course his parents, but there’s nothing polite about them, and he’d hardly call them company.

“I don’t need your opinions on my job, Mom. I love what I do, and I’m not going to stop because you don’t like it!” He crosses his arms, fighting the urge to shrink back under her cold gaze.

“It’s dangerous, Evan! Look at you, wearing a fake leg!”

Buck seethes, “You think I don’t know that? I had to go through months of rehab, five different surgeries, and doctor after doctor telling me I might not walk without pain again! I might not have been able to work again! And yet, here I am. Back on the job, better than I was before!”

“I don’t understand why you don’t take this as a sign, Evan! You could get a nice, respectable job with better pay. You might meet a nice woman to settle down with. This obsession with firefighting is so juvenile.”

Buck ignores the nice woman comment, very generously, he thinks. He has no such reservations for the rest of it. “What the hell is a respectable job?” he asks, incredulously.

“Don’t talk to your mother that way, Evan.” his father scolds, his stern teacher's voice in full force. The uncomfortable familiarity sends a shiver down Buck’s spine.

“Oh, so she’s allowed to insult my job and belittle me, but I can’t say hell? I’m not fifteen anymore, Dad!” Buck shouts, feeling very much like he’s fifteen again.

“Evan!” his father scolds. It’s typical for his dad, really. Never much of a shouter, but always ready to gang up on Buck when he dares to say something rude while his mother spits vitriol at him.

“Enough!” Maddie shouts, glaring at their parents. “If I wanted to listen to a screaming match on a Sunday morning, I would’ve gone to the Little League soccer match on the field down the street. Calm down and stop antagonising each other for two seconds so we can have a civil conversation. We don’t want the neighbours making noise complaints, do we?”

Buck almost laughs at how effective the threat of the neighbours is. Both of his parents slam their mouths shut, looking worriedly at the door. Even in LA, two and a half thousand miles away from home, they’re thinking about what the neighbours might think, what they might say behind their backs. He can’t imagine what it’s like to live your life so beholden to other people’s possible opinions of you.

Then he thinks about Buck 1.0 and how long he spent sleeping around for the tiniest sliver of comfort and validation, and understands where a desire like that might come from. And maybe he would feel sorry for them if they weren’t currently in Maddie’s living room having yet another fight because of their bullshit.

“Now,” Maddie says, “We have some things to work out, clearly, so if we could stop screaming at each other, we might be able to make some progress.” His dad has the decency to look faintly embarrassed, but his mom crosses her arms and sniffs, looking away.

Buck sighs internally. “Mom, look. I know you hate my job and how dangerous it is, but I love what I do, and there’s nothing that I would rather do instead. Can you please try and at least respect it?”

The eye roll his mom does says it all. “I’m your mother, and it’s my responsibility to let you know when I think you’re making a mistake. And I think working such a dangerous, common job is throwing away your life for no good reason!” She shouts with all the respect of an angry llama – he isn’t entirely sure she’s not going to spit in his face.

His mom’s voice turns pleading as she continues, “You’re smart, Evan. You could have gone to college, you could have been anything, but instead you chose a job that will probably kill you in the future, and I will have to attend another one of my children’s funerals!”

Her words knock the breath out of him, and Buck suddenly feels awful for what she and his dad must have gone through with Daniel. He truly can’t imagine losing a son that way, he barely survived losing Christopher in the tsunami. But watching your child slip away day after day, slowly and painfully, mourning him and the life he could have had? “Mom, I–”

“The whispers, the pitying looks, the bad casseroles from the neighbours, oh, I couldn’t bear it. We couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard we tried. We had to move just so we could live our lives in peace. I can’t do it again, I don’t want to pack my life up again!”

Buck stares at his hands, “The neighbours, that’s who you’re most concerned about? Not me, your son, but the suburban housewives?” His voice drops to a whisper, “At least you finally said it.”

Margaret sniffs, “Don’t be so ridiculous, Evan. Of course, I’d hate to lose you. I’ve already lost one son, and that destroyed me. Losing Daniel was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. ” If it were anyone else, Buck would be mollified. His parents lost Daniel, their son. That kind of grief doesn’t disappear overnight. Grief is a funny thing, it sends you spiralling, makes the whole world seem like it’s underwater. He’s familiar with it all: the pain, the pity, the whispers behind your back. He doesn’t resent her grief, she deserved to mourn, but he does resent what she did to him.

Grief doesn’t leave you, it stays in the part of your soul that was ripped out by the death that put it there. But healing is something you choose, and Margaret Buckley never did. She chose the path of most destruction, both his parents did, destroying any chance their remaining children had to grow up loved. She might be saying all the right words now, but Buck has over thirty years of direct evidence that proves the contrary. Those words, from anyone else’s mouth would be balm, but from Margaret, they are broken promises and sweet, beautiful lies. They shouldn’t throw him in a rage, but they do.

“Oh, I know,” Buck spits. “I know because the loss of that son is the reason you don’t love me. You blame me for not saving him, you always have. He was your golden child, and I was the spare parts you made to save him. You’ve never cared about me, were all too happy to see the back of me when I left.” Venom drips off every syllable. He’s done trying to mediate, and for once in his life, he’s going to make them listen.

“We’re your family, Evan, your parents. We’ve always loved you,” his father says, trying to placate him, but it only makes him angrier.

“Really? Because you don’t show it. You’ve never treated me like I was anything other than a burden to you. I spent my entire childhood trying to get you to love me! That’s all I ever wanted, and you didn’t even manage that! The bare minimum! You can tell me you love me all you want, but you’ve never shown me! Instead, you stand here, insulting me, insulting my job, and expecting me to go along with it like I always have. Well, guess what? That’s about to change. I don’t need your approval or your permission or anything else, and I certainly don’t need you in my life!”

“Now, Evan–” his father tries to interrupt, vexation clear in his voice. It’s the most emotion he’s shown yet, and Buck revels in being able to push his buttons; his frosty, detached exterior broken down in a few short minutes and the correct short words.

There’s something behind his eyes, regret maybe, but he doesn’t say a word in Buck’s defence. Buck doesn’t care. If his father wanted to sit back and watch his wife verbally assault their son, he wouldn’t get his consideration because Philip is equally as guilty as his wife. He might not be shouting, but his not contributing isn’t the same as being innocent. He chose the same path as his wife, the same loveless household, the same expectations that Buck fails to meet. Hell, he could argue with Margaret until he was blue in the face behind closed doors but that meant fuck all if that’s where it stayed. If he wouldn’t fight for his own children, he condoned it. He was the problem, too.

“No,” Margaret says, stepping right into Buck’s space. She’s at least half a foot shorter than he is, but Buck finds himself taking a step back. “You always were a problem child, never listening to what we told you, getting into trouble constantly, pulling stupid stunts that forced us to visit that blasted hospital. We tried so hard, but you made it impossible to raise you properly and look where you’ve ended up: a low-income, blue-collar job and worse, disabled.” She spits the last word out like it’s poison in her mouth, burning a hole through her tongue.

It’s the first time she’s shown such blatant, explicit, disdain for him, for his disability and dammit, it hurts. He’s always known how she felt about him, she’s made it abundantly clear over the years, but it doesn’t make the confirmation any less painful. Knowing the knife attack is coming doesn’t make the stab wound more bearable.

And yes, he might be disabled, and life might be harder for him than it used to be, but that doesn’t make him less of a person. Margaret looks at his prosthetic and suddenly that’s all she sees. She doesn’t see the strong, capable person behind it. All she sees are weaknesses and failures, certainly not how much of a triumph it is for him to be able to return to firefighting in the first place, and Buck realises that he can’t live with that.

He can live with a lot of things: his parents’ disappointment, his chronic pain, the judgement of the world because of how he dares to exist in it, and maybe they eat away at his psyche, but he lives with them anyway because he has too. Those things are a fact of life, as true as the sky is blue and the grass is green. But there are some things he can’t live with, some things he won’t.

He won’t live with his parents stripping away his personhood and expecting him to sit down and take it. He won’t let them pick him apart, like the vultures that tore through the flesh of Prometheus day after day, returning each morning to begin again with freshly healed skin.

The art of advocating for yourself is difficult to learn, almost impossible at times, but Buck has learned a hell of a lot about it since his accident. Prometheus was eventually released from his torment by the hero Heracles, but real life is not myth, and Buck can’t wait for some hero to save him. He doesn’t need to because all he’s ever needed is the support of those who actually love him and his own relentless tenacity.

“I’m done,” he says; short, clipped, final.

“What?” Margaret stutters, her eyes darting across his face in shock, like she can’t believe he’d finally push back against her.

“I’m done trying to make things right with you!” Buck shouts. “I have tried and tried and tried to make peace with you, to be able to salvage some kind of relationship because, despite everything, you are my parents. But you’ve proved, yet again, that we can’t have that. We can’t have anything because you won’t accept me! All I do is fall short of your standards that are so high, I don’t think you can see them anymore. I don’t know how to make you love me, I don’t think you ever will, so I’m going to do what’s best for me. You’re poison and I’m cutting you out before you destroy me.”

His parents gape at him, stunned. He’s never stood up to them like this, never let his anger and pain out in such a violent way, he’s never used it to hurt them. His eyes start to burn as tears threaten to fall. He can’t cry in front of them, he can’t show them the weakness that they already think he has.

“Don’t call me,” he says, as calm as he can manage, fighting to stay in control of his emotions. He didn’t want to end his parents’ visit with him cutting them off, but it’s all too much. He’s spent too long being his parents’ punching bag, their disappointment. This is something he has to do for himself, no more begging like a dog for scraps of approval.

“Evan…” his father tries to speak one more time, looking up at Buck with an expression that he can’t parse as the unfallen tears blur his vision. Buck glares back. It’s too late for mediation. His parents made their choices, and he isn’t going to be the one who comes crawling back.

“Sorry, Maddie,” Buck mumbles sadly. His sister looks devastated, but underneath it is understanding. She gets him, she’s always got him, and she knows, like he does, that this is the right thing to do.

Buck refuses to spend one more minute in the same house as his birth parents, he can’t. Cold air strikes him straight in the face as he rips the front door open, but he barely notices. His fury is raging inside him like an inferno, hot and wildly out of control. It’s so powerful that Buck could fall through a hole in the Antarctic ice sheet and still wouldn’t feel a thing.

He whirls around, facing his parents for one last time. “And for the record, it’s Buck!” He funnels every negative emotion from the past thirty years into his words, every night he spent alone, every time he felt unwanted or unloved, every time he hurt himself to get their attention. He threw it all into those six little words.

The door slams behind him with a loud bang, and he lets the relief crash over him like a tidal wave.

It’s over. Buck is never going to see those two monsters masquerading as parents who care about him ever again. He collapses into his car like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His head tips back against his headrest. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

Buck bursts into tears.

He doesn’t drive off, he doesn’t cheer in triumph. He cries.

Buck doesn’t love his parents, he might hate them, actually, but parent-child relationships are complicated and it’s going to take time to truly unpack everything. Chim’s voice echoes in his ears, “You can be used to your parents disappointing you. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.” He hates how true it is, he hates that cutting them out won’t heal all the years of damage done to him. He hates how he can’t throw his car in drive and put this whole thing in his rearview mirror.

He can’t help what was done to him, can’t ever undo it, but healing is his choice, and Buck is done letting his parents control his happiness.

Buck’s had to choose to heal a lot in the past few years, so he’s pretty damn used to the process. And if he knows one thing, it’s that healing starts with sharing, and there’s only one person in the world Buck wants to share his pain with.

Taking a deep breath and wiping his eyes, he pulls his phone out and calls Eddie. His hand shakes slightly as he holds his phone up to his face. He’s not nervous to see Eddie, he’s dying to see Eddie, actually, but all the adrenaline his body was flooded with has started to die down, and Buck’s close to crashing.

Eddie’s grinning, beautiful face appears on his phone screen, “Hey Buck!” Buck doesn’t answer him, staring at his own face in the corner of the screen. His eyes are red and puffy, tear tracks are freshly drying on his cheeks, his curls are an unkempt mess, and his bottom lip is swollen from where he’s been biting on it. “Buck? Baby, what’s wrong?” Eddie’s voice turns concerned, and Buck finally lifts his eyes to look back at him.

“Come and get me,” Buck whispers, his gaze falling down to his lap.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Eddie says immediately, “I love you.”

Buck barely has the time to mumble, “I love you, too,” before Eddie hangs up the call. Eddie’s house is more than a thirty-minute drive from Maddie and Chimney’s. Twenty minutes means he’s breaking several traffic laws, and usually, Buck would scold him for driving dangerously. But at this moment, he doesn’t really care. Buck wants nothing more than to throw himself into Eddie’s arms and let him hold the shattering pieces of him together.

He must zone out after that because in no time at all, Eddie is flinging his car door open. He crouches next to him and gently takes Buck’s chin in his hand, turning him towards him. Buck goes willingly, his eyes dropping closed as he melts into Eddie’s palm.

“Look at me,” Eddie whispers, his thumb stroking Buck’s cheek. Buck shakes his head as best he can with his chin in Eddie’s grasp. Now that Eddie’s here, in front of him, a wave of shame rushes through him. He dragged Eddie all the way out here to come and get him because he can’t handle his stupid parents.

Eddie sighs quietly. “I don’t know what ugly thoughts are racing through that wonderful brain of yours, but I do know that they’re wrong. You’re beautiful and you’re strong, and I love you like I’ve loved no one else. Whatever happened in there doesn’t matter right now. We can talk about it later, or whenever you want, but let’s go home, yeah? It’s probably more comfortable than hanging out of the car.”

Buck sniffles and slowly opens his eyes. He gazes up at Eddie, the strong, avenging angel above him, haloed by the sun, and all the nasty words echoing in his head disappear. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Home.”

After guiding Buck into the passenger seat, Eddie hops into the driver’s seat and presses a lingering kiss to his forehead that Buck feels long after the lips disappear. The truck sputters as Eddie turns the key and roars to life, the familiar sound soothing something inside Buck. He spent a lot of time in Eddie’s truck after the bombing, what with all the appointments and extra support he needed – being unable to drive in LA was a special kind of torture that he quickly learned he could avoid if he accepted Eddie’s assistance. Trying to navigate LA public transit as a physically able person was a trial in itself, but as a disabled person? Forget it.

To Buck, Eddie’s truck represents safety, comfort. He knows how the AC rattles faintly when it’s turned up too high, he knows the right place to whack the dashboard when the radio gets static-y, and he knows that Eddie hides a small bag of candy in the glove compartment, under the manual so Christopher can’t find it.

Neither of them says much on the way back to Eddie’s house. Soft, classical music plays from the radio, the kind Buck likes to listen to when the world is too much and he needs something to focus on. Most people think classical music is boring, but Buck finds that it’s the perfect blend of relaxing and interesting to keep his attention whilst not adding to the noise, well, his perfectly curated playlist is. He’s been jumpscared by Verdi’s Dies Irae and Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring one too many times to let the classical station control his listening habits.

His arm rests on the rolled-down window, his fingers drumming lightly along to the beat. For once, the traffic isn’t a bumper to bumper gridlock bullshit, but it’s LA, so the roads are full of morons who should never have been given a license, let alone trusted with a car.

“I cut them off.” Buck keeps his gaze trained out the window, but his drumming fingers pause as his body tenses up in feigned nonchalance. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie nod once and his knuckles turn white against the wheel, but he otherwise doesn’t react.

Buck waits for a moment, wondering if Eddie is going to say something, but when it becomes clear he isn’t, he looks over at him. “You aren’t going to say anything?” he asks.

Eddie grimaces, but Buck can’t tell if he’s reacting to the road or him. “You did what was best for you, and I’m proud of you.” He glances in the rearview mirror and flicks on the turn signal, the obnoxious clicking punctuating the end of his sentence.

“But?” Buck prompts.

“This is a conversation we need to have together,” Eddie says firmly as he merges into the right lane, “Later, when I’m not fighting with idiots on Crenshaw.” A Camaro swerves in front of him, and Eddie stomps on the brakes, flinging them both forward, and narrowly avoids rear-ending it.

Slamming the horn with more force than he usually would, Eddie glares venomously at the driver in front of him, “I can’t give you my full attention when I’m trying to not ram right into this fucker in front of me.”

The light in front of them turns red, and Eddie drops back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose in the way he does when he’s trying to alleviate a building headache. Buck makes a note to grab a heating pad for him when they get home. Stress gives Eddie awful headaches that almost nothing else can touch. He doesn’t like admitting how hard they hit him, admitting to any kind of weakness, but Buck loves taking care of him and watching the pain slip off his face when he finally relents and lets Buck tuck him into bed with a pile of blankets and the heating pad on his neck and shoulders.

Loud horns erupt around them as the light turns green, and the Camaro doesn’t move. Wincing at the noise, Eddie joins in, done with the Camaro driver and their bullshit. Eddie isn’t prone to road rage, he’s actually a really cautious driver, but dangerous or stupid drivers on the road rile him up like nothing else. It’s not surprising, with all that he’s seen but Buck hates the way Eddie’s face screws up, pursed lips and harsh lines across his forehead that he longs to smooth away with his thumb.

The busted-up Camaro finally pulls away and turns off onto a different street, leaving Eddie clear to pass it. He relaxes in his seat as he does so, if only by a fraction, but Buck knows him well enough to see the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The crease in his brow stubbornly remains as he watches the other drivers like a hawk. Glaring like that will do nothing but make his headache worse, so Buck takes it into his own hands to distract his frustrated partner.

Leaning across the centre console, Buck gets right up by Eddie’s ear and whispers, “Road rage looks sexy on you.” Wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, he walks his fingers up Eddie’s shoulder, holding in his mirth at his partner’s disbelief. It takes about two seconds for Buck to crack, snorting inelegantly and collapsing into Eddie’s shoulder in a fit of giggles.

Eddie bats Buck away with a “Man, shut up,” but his eyes are twinkling with laughter and that wretched furrow slips away as easily as it came.

Buck huffs, “Don’t call me man like we’re some platonic coworkers. We had too many years of that.” But he smiles, happy to see Eddie’s spirit has not been completely dampened by shitty Camaros and their shitty drivers.

“Yeah, we did,” Eddie says fondly, “but we got through it.” He nudges Buck playfully. “And now I get to be a chauffeur for your dramatic ass.”

“Dramatic, me?” Buck clutches his heart like he’s experienced some great betrayal. “Name one time I’ve overreacted to anything!”

“Oh, I have a list,” Eddie chuckles, reaching over to ruffle Buck’s hair. His already messy curls turn into a frizzy birds’ nest that’s going to take a mountain of hair gel to smooth over, but that might have been the point. Buck hates dealing with his natural hair, doesn’t have the patience for complicated curl care routines or finding products that work the best. He picked the curl cream he uses out of a discount bin seven years ago, and it works fine.

But Eddie likes the slow, methodical process of doing his hair. He buys him better products, detangles his hair after a long day of firefighting, styles it when they go out. It’s not that Buck can’t, or won’t make an effort when he needs to; it’s simply not a priority for him. Eddie does it better, or maybe he just likes the feeling of Eddie’s hands in his hair, taking care of him in that intimate, gentle way no one ever has before.

They’re both ridiculously tactile with each other, using every possible excuse to stay in each other’s orbit. It drives their friends crazy but if they didn’t want Buck and Eddie to BuckandEddie so much they shouldn’t have forced them to pull their heads out of their asses and admit they’re wildly in love with each other.

Buck sticks his tongue out at him, very maturely, and Eddie flicks him in the forehead in retaliation, equally maturely. Their conversation peters out after their matching snorts, and they spend the rest of the journey home in silence, but Buck not-so-subtly rests his hand on the centre console, his palm facing upwards. Smiling indulgently, Eddie clasps Buck’s hand with his larger one and doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive. His hands are rough and calloused from years of physical labour, large and strong and capable of wielding so much power, but he always holds Buck’s so carefully, like he’s something precious. Warmth spreads from his hand, up his arm and into his chest, and only then does Buck fully let himself sink into his seat and float away.

It’s barely the afternoon when they pull into the driveway, but Buck already feels exhausted. He knew dinner with his parents was going to be rough, but he hadn’t been prepared for how bad it was going to get. It took every ounce of his strength to stand up to them, and it took more to finally cut them off. His chest feels hollowed out, scraped raw and bleeding sluggishly, like a wound that refuses to scab.

His body turns cold when Eddie pulls away, the warm hand that grounded Buck to the present vanishing as the truck’s engine stops rumbling and the world around him falls silent.

“Buck.” Eddie’s tender voice filters through the fog in his mind. A hand falls onto his shoulder, tugging him out of the truck, and Buck follows it easily. In the blink of an eye he’s standing in Eddie’s bedroom with the curtains drawn and the main light off.

Daylight manages to peek through the curtains, and the lamp that sits on Eddie’s nightstand is flicked on, leaving the room dim, but light enough that they are not tripping over each other in the dark. His shoes have disappeared, along with his socks, replaced by his pair of house slippers. Eddie had bought Buck his own pair when he started coming over more, replacing the flimsy pairs he kept for his other guests.

After Buck lost his leg, he wasn’t able to wear them with his prosthetic because the foot couldn’t grip it like his regular one could. He didn’t necessarily need to wear it, but it felt weird walking around with one slipper on. But now, the left slipper has a strap sewn on that wraps around the heel of his prosthetic, allowing it to stay on while Buck walks. It’s such a simple gesture, but it almost made Buck cry when he first saw it. Eddie always goes the extra mile for him, willingly and without hesitation, like the bare minimum is somehow offensive to him. Acts of service are how he shows his love, and he does so openly, even when he struggles to find the words.

Buck sits on the bed and lets Eddie bustle around him, pulling out massage oil, extra blankets and the TENS machine that Buck left there a week ago and completely forgot about. He’d missed it the day before but hadn’t wanted to climb off the couch and get it himself, too in pain for most of the morning and the afternoon to try.

When Eddie leaves the room, Buck shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair. Eddie no doubt wants to care for him, but has almost certainly not spared a thought for his own needs. For example, literally next to where the TENS machine was in Eddie’s drawer sits his electric heating pad, ready and waiting to be used. Buck rolls his eyes fondly. Neither of them considers themselves when the other is hurt; not in the field, and certainly not at home. He leaves the heating pad next to the other things on the bed and sits back down, reaching to roll up his pant leg.

Other hands push his out of the way, and Buck looks up to see Eddie kneeling in front of him. His thumb presses on the suction valve of his leg, releasing the pressure and allowing him to tug it off. He places it reverently on the floor and delicately rolls the liner off Buck’s stump. Buck lets out a soft sigh as the air rushes around the stump, and Eddie leans in to place a light kiss on the surgical scar.

It tickles a little, and a small part of Buck wants to giggle and kick his feet like a schoolgirl – or his foot and stump but the point stands. The bigger part of him presses his forehead against Eddie’s and kisses him softly. He pulls Eddie up and deepens the kiss, gripping his waist and drawing him in so he’s flush against him. Eddie follows willingly, tugging at the hem of Buck’s t-shirt and slipping it over his head when Buck lifts his arms compliantly. His own t-shirt swiftly follows.

Pushing Buck onto the bed, Eddie climbs over him, mouthing under his jaw and down his neck. Buck groans quietly and throws his leg over Eddie’s back. His hand trails down Eddie’s spine and goes to tuck itself into his pants, but is stopped by a belt. He groans again, frustrated this time, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Eddie laughs against his neck and unbuckles his belt with one hand, “Have at it.” He makes no move to continue, waving a hand at his open fly with a hint of condescension playing on his lips.

Blushing down to his chest, Buck licks his hand and shoves it into Eddie’s underwear in revenge, stroking fast and finally making Eddie moan. Satisfied, he rolls them over, pinning Eddie to the bed with one hand.

Eddie’s eyes are blown wide, and it’s his turn to blush. “Not so cocky now, are ya?” Buck goads before his voice drops to a whisper, “You’re so pretty when you blush.” His other hand drags a finger down Eddie’s chest coyly, stopping just above the band of Eddie’s underwear.

Narrowing his eyes, Eddie pulls some ridiculous MMA move and rolls them back where they started, Buck on his back, gasping, and Eddie back on top. Literally, sitting on top of him. “Don’t start a fight you won’t win, Buckley,” he crows. He paints an obscene picture, perched triumphantly on Buck’s stomach, naked save for his jeans, his belt and fly hanging open, lips bitten red, and his cheeks almost a matching colour. In the dim light of the room, he’s beautiful, a warrior standing over his conquest, fresh from the heat of battle.

Buck ghosts his hand over Eddie’s flexed abs, the pads of his fingers catching with each ridge, marvelling at his strength, how he must have been chiselled by the gods themselves. If his mouth could reach them, he’d worship them, from the cut v-line to the thin layer of fat that he wants to bite. He rubs a thumb on a small scar over Eddie’s hip, an old wound from a piece of shrapnel. It’s faded against his skin and a little uneven – likely from a rushed stitch job – but to Buck, it’s beautiful. Every part of Eddie is beautiful and strong. He’s always been a fighter, and Buck thanks the universe that he chose Los Angeles to move to so that Buck could love him the way he deserves.

He needs to get his mouth on him, right this second.

Buck jerks underneath Eddie, trying to dislodge the legs that are clamped against his sides, throwing all his weight behind it to get Eddie on his back again. Eddie doesn’t move an inch. It would be incredibly hot except a cramp chooses that moment to ripple through Buck’s hip.

“Ah!” Buck cries, his hand flying to his hip, “Fuck!” His torso curls towards the pain, face screwing up as he tries to massage the cramp away.

In the blink of an eye, Eddie is kneeling next to him, a worried expression on his face. “Buck? Are you okay? What hurts? Do you need anything?” The questions tumble out of Eddie’s mouth at a rapid pace, and his hands hover above Buck’s hip like he’s scared that touching him will hurt him more.

“I’m fine,” Buck gasps as the pain subsides. “It’s only a cramp. My leg has been playing up for the past couple days, and my parents being my parents didn’t help.”

A dark look flickers across Eddie’s face, barely quick enough to catch, but Buck knows his partner too well. He’s furious. It’s no secret that he’s never been a fan of Buck’s parents, but every time they visit, something happens, and Eddie’s pit of resentment towards them grows deeper. “I’m glad you cut them off,” he says, “I hate how they make you feel.” He brushes Buck’s cheek with light fingers, “I hate that they make you feel that you’re not perfect.”

Tears well in Buck’s eyes, “I love you,” he sniffs, catching the hand that’s still stroking his cheek, holding it close.

Eddie presses a kiss to his birthmark. “You want me to massage your leg?” he asks. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.” His thumb wipes away a singular stray tear from Buck’s cheek, his eyes earnestly glued to Buck’s face.

“Yeah,” Buck breathes, glancing down at Eddie’s lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. Eddie looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world, his focus entirely on Buck and the air between them. A freak tornado could raze the house to the ground, and Eddie wouldn’t let his attention stray. No one has devoted themselves to Buck quite like Eddie, and no one else will ever need to.

Eddie kisses him sweetly and guides Buck off the bed, holding him by the waist to ensure he doesn’t topple over. Perching carefully on the edge of the bed, Buck watches with lazy eyes as Eddie lays out a towel, smoothing it down with practised hands. He moves everything on the bed to his nightstand, mouth ticking up into a smile as he recognises the heating pad Buck laid out for him.

“Lie down on the towel,” Eddie instructs, shucking off his jeans, and Buck follows suit, slipping out of his pants before obediently climbing back onto the bed and lying face down. He rests his face and arms on his pillow, wiggling contentedly as Eddie finishes his preparations. “You ready?” he asks, flicking the cap off the massage oil and warming some in his hands.

Buck nods and closes his eyes, sighing as Eddie digs his hands into his shoulder blades. Strong hands work out the knots in Buck’s back, releasing days of built-up tension. Buck melts into the bed, his body rapidly becoming a puddle of goo; he doesn’t think he could move his limbs if he tried. If Eddie needs to adjust his position, he’ll have to manoeuvre him like some giant-sized marionette.

Neither of them says anything, too wrapped up in each other and this moment. All Buck knows is Eddie’s firm hands methodically working over his entire body. His vision fades to a fuzzy grey as he begins to lose himself in the sensations, sinking into that place between wakefulness and sleep where everything feels muted. Eddie presses on a particularly big knot in his lower back, digging his thumb almost painfully into it until Buck feels the final bit of tension flooding out of his body.

He moans, breathy and bordering on a whine, “Eddie…” One of his hands wanders behind him, reaching for any part of him he can touch. It’s not fair that Eddie can touch him, but he can’t touch him back. He wants to wrap his arms around him, tug him close until they fall asleep together. Huffing when all he can do is an awkward pat on Eddie’s hip, Buck twists his head to pout at him.

Huffing a small laugh, Eddie moves on to his legs, “I’m almost done, then we can nap, okay?”

“Fine,” Buck grumbles, half muffled by the pillow, “But I want proper cuddles. No sneaking away to do housework.”

“Whatever you want,” Eddie agrees, squeezing more oil onto his hands and diving into Buck’s hamstring muscles, “Chris is still busy with his gaming marathon, so we don’t have to worry about pick-up until five.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

Eddie leans down to kiss the back of Buck’s neck, “I expect nothing less.” He finishes with Buck’s calf and taps him on the thigh, “Roll over.”

“Sit, stay,” Buck mocks, but flips onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Woof.”

Pinching Buck’s side and smirking at his answering yelp, Eddie picks up his stump and gently begins massaging it. He glances at Buck’s face often, searching for any sign of discomfort. The skin isn’t red or swollen anymore, but Eddie cradles the limb carefully anyway. Phantom pain can be unpredictable at times, especially when it’s stress-induced, and although it’s probably not going to be an issue, Eddie isn’t the kind of person to take his chances. His worst nightmare is hurting the people he loves, whether it’s inadvertent or not doesn’t matter.

Buck is on the brink of sleep when Eddie finishes his massage, boneless and smiling dopily. He watches Eddie flit about between slow blinks, tidying everything away when Buck would have pushed the pile onto the floor to deal with later. But that’s how Eddie is, anal about cleaning to levels that don’t make sense to Buck, so he doesn’t demand that Eddie hop into bed with him immediately.

But then Eddie finishes cleaning up and doesn’t get into bed. In fact, he tries to leave the bedroom, which won’t do when Buck was explicitly promised cuddles.

“Hey!” He calls. “Where do you think you’re going?” Pushing himself up against the headboard and crossing his arms, Buck stares sternly at Eddie, whose hand is resting innocently on the door handle.

“It’s past lunchtime, Buck. I’m making us something to eat.” His hand pushes down on the handle and the door swings open. “You must be hungry by now.”

Buck is, and his stomach is seconds away from rumbling loudly, but he holds firm. “We’re getting take-out,” he says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. Typing on his phone with one hand and flipping the comforter from Eddie’s side of the bed with the other, Buck steamrolls over Eddie’s protests. “No arguments. In.” He puts the phone down and looks at Eddie expectantly.

“But–”

“Don’t make me come over there. I will carry you.” It’s not a joke, it’s a promise. Buck has carried Eddie back to bed before, and he will do it again – most memorably, several weeks ago in the firehouse, in the middle of the afternoon after a particularly busy morning. Hen had whistled, and Chimney had scoffed, and Eddie’s face had been beet-red, a fact that Buck remembers smugly.

The door swings closed, and Buck smirks victoriously. Eddie slips into the bed next to him and slings an arm over Buck’s side, “I almost left, you know, wanted to see if you’d drag me back to bed with your big, strong arms,” he says, squeezing Buck’s bicep.

“You know I would,” Buck flirts back, snuggling in close and whispering in Eddie’s ear, “And you’d like it. Would blush all prettily as I’d pin you to the bed to stop you escaping…”

Eddie groans, “Yeah…” He kisses Buck, resting his hands on his waist. Their lips move together, languid and unhurried, neither of them pushing for more intensity. It’s not about riling each other up or getting off; it’s comfort and connection, and Buck basks in the love he’s surrounded by. Kissing was never something Buck cared a lot about; when he was Buck 1.0 he was more focused on getting his partner off, and when he moved on to actual dating, it was never something that felt all that special.

But with Eddie, it’s different. There’s so much depth, so much emotion between them that something as simple as kissing feels euphoric. With Eddie, a kiss can send him rocketing into orbit, free-falling as he loses himself in his soft lips, his tender hands, and the faint scent of his soap.

“We’re going to have to talk about it, you know,” Eddie says between kisses, sending him crashing back down to Earth. “As much as I don’t want to think about your parents in our bedroom.”

“Gross.” Buck screws his face up in disgust, pushing Eddie away lightly. “Way to ruin the mood.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie chuckles, not sounding sorry at all. “But I know you tend to internalise things, and I don’t want you to get into your head about anything those people might have said to you.”

Buck’s heart swells. Eddie is always so conscious about his needs, so dedicated to his happiness, and he never feels condescended to. He makes him want to sigh like a schoolgirl over her first crush. He wants to bat his eyelashes and giggle at his jokes. God, he’s so in love, pathetically, horrendously in love. “Can it wait? I- I think I need to sit in my thoughts before I’m ready to talk about it.”

“Of course,” Eddie smiles, reaching a hand up to stroke Buck’s birthmark, “Anything for you.” His smile is so gentle, so sweet. Buck is going to marry the hell out of this man and then spend the rest of his life loving him the way he deserves. Well, as soon as he can afford a ring, because he’s drowning in medical debt and his credit score does not need another hit. But also that might go out the window the next time he walks past a ring store, so he’s not going to rule out a wedding before the end of the year.

He buries his head in Eddie’s chest, humming contentedly when he tugs him closer. “I ordered from the Cuban place on La Cienega, got you that oxtail stew you like. They’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Did you get the fried yuca?” A grown man should not be so adorable, but Eddie and his big, brown eyes staring hopefully at him make him want to squish his cheeks and coo.

Buck scoffs, “Obviously. I got three portions cause I know you’ll eat all mine.”

“Snooze, you lose.”

“Eddie, I swear to god, if you don’t wake me up when the delivery guy gets here and you eat all my yuca sticks, I will end you,” Buck threatens.

Eddie leers, “But, gordito, you know I can’t control myself around them.”

“Well, you better, because I have no problems banishing you to the couch.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Eddie snorts, “The last time you made me sleep on the couch I woke up cuddled up to you because your dumb ass carried me to bed.”

Buck’s face burns at the memory, “I was cold,” he mumbles against Eddie’s skin. It’s true, mostly. Eddie runs hot like a furnace and Buck tends to run cold, but Buck also never seems to sleep well without his partner in his arms.

“There are three spare blankets in the closet,” Eddie points out mildly.

“Oh, would you look at the time, it’s nap time. Night, Eddie, I love you!” Buck closes his eyes and snores, loud, exaggerated cartoon snores. Honk shoo, honk shoo, mimimi.

“You’re such an idiot.”

Buck cracks an eye open. “And yet, you love me.”

“I do.” The words hang in the air, not heavy, but there’s a weight to them. They’re sincere and honest, and for a split second, Buck is breathless. His heart thuds in his ears. He knows Eddie loves him, has heard it almost every day since they got together. Maybe it’s his emotional state or maybe it’s the way Eddie says it, but there’s something special about this declaration, devastatingly simple, that has Buck tucking it away in the space between his ribs for safekeeping.

If Buck could stay in this moment forever, Eddie holding him close, knowing what it is to be loved, he would. But the moment passes, and time moves forward, and Buck realises he’s been gazing up at Eddie in awe.

He clears his throat, trying to shake the intensity out of the charged air around them. “Your headache is still bothering you,” he says softly, smoothing a thumb over the faint wrinkle in Eddie’s forehead.

Wordlessly, Eddie twists around to the nightstand and grabs the heating pad. He holds it out to Buck, ducking his head and allowing Buck to secure it over his shoulders. It usually takes a few minutes for it to heat up, but Eddie melts into Buck almost immediately. He tucks his face into Buck’s hair, breathes him in. “I’ll do your hair later, your poor curls are all frizzy,” he mumbles, twisting a strand of Buck’s hair around his finger.

“And whose fault is that, hair ruffler?”

“Hair ruffler?” Eddie asks, amusement tingeing his voice, making Buck well aware that it would be coming back to haunt him, probably within Chimney’s earshot.

“Shut up,” Buck huffs, “I’m out of smart comebacks for the day.”

He can’t see Eddie’s face, but he can feel the smile pressed into his hair, “Sure, Buck, we’ll put this one down to extenuating circumstances.”

“You’re an extenuating circumstance.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You don’t make se–” Eddie interrupts Buck with a loud, smacking kiss, with an audible mwah.

“We’re getting off track,” he says, leaving a softer kiss on Buck’s forehead. Shuffling into a more comfortable position, Eddie pulls Buck down with him and covers them both with the comforter. “I promised cuddles and you’re gonna get ‘em.”

Buck snorts, “Is that a threat?”

“Absolutely.”

“Best threat I’ve ever received,” Buck sighs, kissing Eddie’s nose and pressing their foreheads together.

Eddie tangles their legs together, “Is this okay? I’m not leaning on you painfully or anything?”

“It’s perfect, Eddie. Thank you,” Buck replies, reaching out his hand to pull Eddie’s lip out from where it’s clenched in his teeth. “You worry too much.” He brushes a strand of hair off his forehead and tucks it behind his ear, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck, right above the heating pad.

Eddie’s answering laugh is quiet, fond. “I don’t think it’s possible to worry too much about you.” And maybe Buck would be offended by that, but with his track record, it’s pretty damn accurate. By the third near-death experience, anyone’s boyfriend would be a worrier, and with Eddie, it’s so much worse because he has to watch Buck run into burning buildings multiple times a week. Buck worries about his partner, too, of course, he does, but with everything Eddie’s had to go through in his life, the anxiety can be too much to bear sometimes. Some nights it gets so bad that they have to share a bunk at the firehouse. It’s a tight fit, and Buck’s woken up on the floor once or twice, but there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Eddie’s demons at bay.

Playing with the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck, Buck slides his free hand to hold one of Eddie’s, their fingers intertwined. He squeezes once, reassuring and grounding, “I can’t promise that I’ll never make you worry, but I promise to always come home to you. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The heating pad finishes warming under Buck’s hand, and he gives it a light tap. “No more than thirty minutes, okay? I don’t want to wake up to the house on fire, we’ll never live it down.”

“Oh, and my house, full of my most precious belongings isn’t reason enough?” Eddie teases, “I’m hurt.” He pokes Buck in the belly and snorts at the resulting kick to his shin.

Buck huffs, “Do you want to be LAFD gossip for the next decade? No? Set a timer.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Eddie laughs, but dutifully sets a reminder. “Better?”

Nestling further into Eddie, Buck hums contentedly, “Mhmm.” Eddie’s free hand comes to rest on his lower back, large and calloused, his fingers splayed wide like he’s trying to cover the entire expanse. He doesn’t pull Buck in tight, instead supporting him as he relaxes into it.

And that’s how Buck drifts off to sleep, tangled up in Eddie’s warm embrace, feeling safe, comfortable, and most importantly, loved.