Chapter Text
Buck eases the Jeep into his favorite parking place in front of the station, slides the gearshift into park as the tree branches cast shade over his windshield. He could park closer, he knows. There are still open spaces right up by the door. But this spot is his favorite, not in spite of its distance from the door, but because of it. It’s nice to have a little walk after a long shift, a few steps to clear his head before he drives home.
He’s running behind again this morning; not late by any means, but most everyone’s cars are already sitting empty on the lot. He can picture the scene inside before he even opens the door.
Bobby has to have arrived first, like every morning. He’ll start a pot of coffee and sit down at the Formica dining table to start reading the newspaper while it brews.
(Buck asked him once why he doesn’t just get his news on his phone, but he’d stopped listening halfway through the tirade about how print media is a dying institution and it’s important to tear his eyes away from a screen every so often, and crossword puzzles and sudoku are best done by hand, in black ink.)
Hen probably wasn’t far behind him, always coming straight to work after Denny’s school drop-off. She’ll splash a little milk in her coffee, let it cool down until the steam stops rippling from the top before taking her first sip.
He never knows if Chimney is here or not, ever since his best friend started hanging out with his sister off and on. Sometimes Maddie drops him off, sometimes he drives her car instead of his own, sometimes she comes in with him and sits around with the team until she has to report for her own shift in dispatch.
(He tries to ignore how latently awkward it is every time Maddie and Chimney break things off again. They always get back together, sure as the sun comes up in the morning, but then he has to deal with a couple weeks of them being even more over-the-top saccharine than usual. His best friend, and his older sister.
It’s fine, really. He just wishes they’d make up their minds and either date or not.)
There’s a paper bag in his hand, a freshly baked cranberry orange muffin tucked inside. Buck can’t wait to eat it, sit back and savor the soft crumbs as his morning unfolds in front of him just like they always do.
And sure enough, he comes over the top of the stairs, sees the top of Bobby’s head poking out from behind the local news section. Hen is blowing on the top of her mug, scrolling through her phone with her free hand.
“Hey, Cap,” Buck says as he sits his breakfast down in front of an empty seat. He reaches for a mug as soon as he makes it to the counter, pours the coffee slowly as Bobby returns the greeting.
“Did you see about the zoo?” Bobby asks. “They’re adding four new -”
“Four new penguin chicks,” Buck finishes for him. “And a polar bear. Yeah, there’s a contest on Instagram to name them. I voted for Larry, Moe, Curly and Hyde.”
“Of course you did,” Hen rolls her eyes, but smiles affectionately as Buck sits down. Footsteps click on the thin metal stairs, and he glances over his shoulder. Chim is trying to look sneaky, he’s pretty sure, coming in like he wants everyone to think he’s already been there. Buck wonders why it matters to him, until he leans back far enough to see the front door opening again, and his sister’s head popping in to look around before she steps into the building.
Buck looks over at Hen, hiding a smirk behind her hand, and shifts his chair slowly until he’s close enough to lean over and whisper.
“As if they’re hiding anything,” he rolls his eyes.
“Maybe from a blind man,” Hen snickers.
Buck opens his mouth, prepared with a witty retort, but sits up straight when Maddie squeezes his shoulder as she walks behind him with a fresh mug of coffee. She skips three empty chairs, including the one right beside Buck, before sitting down and pulling her seat to press right up against Chimney’s.
“Hey, Maddie,” Buck smiles, like he doesn’t know what he’s about to do. “Don’t you have, like, work or something? Sure hope no one calls 911 while you’re hanging out here.”
“Shut up, Buck!” Maddie swats his arm with the back of her hand, barely enough force for it to sting. When she leans back, she tucks herself against Chim’s side, settling his arm around her shoulders. “My shift doesn’t start for another hour, and I wanted to spend it with everyone.” As she finishes speaking, Maddie turns around to look at Chimney. Buck barely manages not to gag; it’s painfully obvious that ‘everyone’ has nothing to do with him. Or Hen or Bobby, for that matter.
They’re disgusting, truly.
The small talk is a little easier for him to stomach, though, when he thinks about the piece of paper folded up in his pants pocket. Bobby talks about Athena’s latest brush with danger, this time in the form of a hostage situation at the suspect’s ex-girlfriend's birthday party. Everyone came out of it safe and sound, which is probably why Athena hasn’t mentioned it herself, but Buck can tell that Bobby’s a little shaken up.
He always is, when something happens to remind them all just how dangerous their jobs can be. And Buck knows Athena feels the same way when she thinks about her husband quite literally running into burning buildings to make his living.
The conversation moves on to the weather, almost unseasonably cool for the beginning of September. It feels good, a refreshing change from the intense, dry heat of the summer. Buck says as much, thinks about how nice it had felt to run around his neighborhood last night and not feel like he was going to suffer heatstroke from a few miles under the setting sun.
“Hey, Bobby, what if we move the furniture down to the driveway, have work outside today?” Buck raises his eyebrows and smiles expectantly as his boss stands up.
“My desk is fine where it is, thank you, Buck,” Bobby smiles back, refilling his coffee. It ends their informal morning meeting, silently ushers in the half-hour or so of daily limbo, waiting for the briefing to come down from the Chief for roll call. Everyone is already here, always a little ahead of schedule and ready to respond if the bells ring early, but it never really feels like the shift has started until Buck has heard the overnight reports and paid careful attention to any events they might need to be aware of today.
So he trails behind Bobby, heading down the hall presumably to make sure no one has already taken his desk outside. It’s just where he left it, and Buck mirrors him as they sit down opposite each other.
He sees Bobby staring at him, clearly waiting for Buck to say something, but the paper is searing into his leg now, its presence enough to distract him for a long moment.
“Buck?” Bobby finally breaks the silence, resting his elbows on his desk and folding his fingers together. “Is everything OK?”
He’s genuinely worried, if the look on his face is anything to go by. Buck isn’t sure why that surprises him; Bobby’s always treated Buck well, taken an interest in his life, a little bit more than the rest of the team.
It’s like he knows that Buck needs it sometimes.
Still, he feels bad for making Bobby worry, especially because he knows there’s nothing for him to worry about.
“Nah, everything’s fine. I’m just … I got another letter yesterday.” He shifts his weight, hoping that it’ll relieve some of the sensation where the note is burning fire-hot in his pocket. It doesn’t help.
“From your …" Bobby trails off. He’s never been able to settle on a good title for this, but to be honest, neither has Buck.
“From the lonely hearts club, yeah.” Buck doesn’t know what to call his whatever-kind-of-relationship he’s built with the man he’s been writing to, but he’s not ashamed to have reached out to a stranger like this. He pulls the letter out of his pocket, running his fingers carefully along the crisp folds.
“And you still haven’t met this guy? Or at least seen a picture?” Bobby sounds suspicious, and Buck remembers how he and Athena had reacted the first time he’d brought it up last month. Still, he’s got a good feeling about this, can tell deep down that he’s got a real connection with his new friend. Buck trusts his instincts; nothing yet has given him any impression that he’s writing to a murderer, like Athena fears. Or a kidnapper, which was Bobby’s suggestion. Or a murdering kidnapper, as Harry had supplied when the conversation had lulled that night.
“Not yet,” Buck unfolds the letter and smiles at the familiar, scratchy handwriting. “Soon, though, I hope.”
“Well?” Bobby changes the subject just slightly. “What’d he say?”
“’I was exhausted when I got home yesterday’ - this was a few days ago,” Buck clarifies, looking up from the paper. “Tuesday, by the postmark. Anyway, ‘but your letter made everything feel a little brighter. Even if I’m still new to LA, it feels like I’ve already made at least one friend: you. Every time your notes turn up in my mailbox, I feel a little more at home here, no matter how many boxes I have left to unpack.’ There’s more too, almost three pages this time. It was there when I got home from dinner, right on the top of the stack in my mailbox.”
He can't see the look on Bobby’s face, bent over and burrowing through the bottom drawer of his desk, but he hears the way he hums in acknowledgement. A moment later, he surfaces with a large bottle of antacids in his hand.
He shakes two into his hand and pops them in his mouth before rolling his eyes as Buck snickers at him.
“’S your fault, you know,” he washes the tablets down with a swig of coffee. “I only ever have heartburn after Athena has you over for family dinner. She’s afraid you’ll starve if she doesn’t serve enough courses and sides.”
“She doesn’t have to,” Buck fidgets in his seat. He loves joining Bobby and his family for dinner; it’s the one dinner a week he’s guaranteed not to eat in front of his TV. But he’s still a little uncomfortable with the way Athena always brushes him off when he offers to bring something to share, tells him that she loves to cook for all three of her kids. Usually he still brings a batch of cookies or something, embarrassed to turn up empty-handed, but there’s always enough food for him to go home with a day or two’s worth of leftovers, and he knows everyone else eats on it all weekend too.
“We both know she’s going to, at least until you marry someone who cooks better than you do.”
It’s true, Buck is learning as much as he can by hanging out in the kitchen with his de facto parents, but outside of basic based goods, he’s still got a lot of progress to make.
“I’m working on it,” Buck sighs. “I just read you that letter.”
“You did …" Bobby trails off, then starts over. “Have you gone out with anyone lately? In person? Maybe dancing or something?”
“I’m not … much of a dancer,” Buck shrugs, staring at the letter folded back up in his lap.
“Neither was I. Until I met Athena,” Bobby stands up and offers his hand. Buck hesitates, but lets Bobby pull him to his feet. “Marcy wasn’t ever one for dancing, so I didn’t get much practice, but I always enjoyed myself the couple of times we went out with our friends. And I wasn’t bad, either. Really, it’s not as hard as it sounds.”
“Really?” Buck breathes out a laugh, staring at Bobby a foot or so away from him.
“Really. Here,” Bobby reaches for his hand again, pulls him forward far enough that he can situate Buck’s hand on his shoulder and position his body carefully. “Like this. Stand up straight, there you go. Now follow my lead.”
Together, they move through a clumsy waltz, Bobby counting the steps quietly. After a couple repetitions, he looks Buck in the eye.
“Easy, don’t try so hard. Think like you’re floating, light on your feet, like your shoes are barely skimming the ground. One-two-three, one-two-three – with the beat, Buck.”
“You know, people really don’t dance like this nowadays,” Buck gasps as he stumbles, catching his foot on Bobby’s toe, but manages to stay upright.
“I know. It’s a lost art.”
“I’m not good at it,” Buck sighs as Bobby starts walking them around the room.
“You’ll get there. Just balance on the balls of your feet.”
“I’m not good on my feet,” he argues. Bobby stops just long enough to let go of Buck’s waist and push the door to his office open, then drags him back into the hallway.
“You’re picking it up. It takes time to learn. Maddie!” Bobby calls over his shoulder, and only then does Buck realize that all of his coworkers must be somewhere. And yet, none of them seem too surprised to find him dancing with their captain. "Can you waltz? He needs to lead.”
Maddie nods, and a moment later, Bobby’s showing him where to position his hands, explaining that he’s in charge now, guiding Maddie’s body with his own. As they start moving, Buck hears music playing and realizes that Bobby’s streaming something from his phone.
“Back-two-three, back-two-three,” Maddie counts, and Buck wonders when everyone except him learned how to do this. He can feel himself getting smoother, the motions coming more naturally the more times he goes through them. “There you go! OK, now spin me around!”
Maddie pulls their joined hands up over her head, far enough that she can twirl underneath them. It doesn’t feel much like Buck is leading for that part, but he goes along with it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hen and Chimney dancing goofily together. They look every bit like middle schoolers at a gymnasium dance, making a joke out of the chasm of space between them, fingertips barely touching each other. Chim says something about having ‘left room for Jesus’ that makes them all laugh as the song fades out. They stop dancing, and Maddie pulls Buck in for a tight hug.
“Thanks, Mads,” he says into her hair, returning the gesture.
“That was fun!” She’s still laughing as she steps away, dropping back onto the couch beside Chimney.
Buck turns around and catches sight of a silhouette standing at the top of the stairs. He’s not sure who it is; the daytime shift is all here, and the overnight crew is trickling out, but he knows all of them. No, this is a stranger, about his height and well-built, standing there in a tight fitting T-shirt.
Buck has no idea how long he’s been watching, how much he’s just seen. Suddenly, embarrassment turns his skin hot, not just at the dancing. He’s not sure who this is, but he knows he doesn’t like the idea of being a spectacle, and anxiety starts building in his stomach until Bobby steps forward and intervenes.
“Good morning. Captain Nash,” he shakes the stranger’s hand. “You’re the new recruit? Diaz, right?”
“Eddie,” the new guy says. “Eddie’s fine.”
His voice is steady, low and just a little rough around the edges. He sounds perfect, like the voice of a radio announcer. It goes with his looks, all smooth hair and toned muscle.
Buck doesn’t like him. He can’t put his finger on why, but this guy is too perfect looking, too confident for his first day at a new job. Still, he plasters on a smile and shakes Eddie’s hand to introduce himself.
Of course, he’s got a solid, firm handshake too.
Buck steps back and leans over to Bobby, whispers loudly enough that he knows Eddie – New Guy, to the voice in Buck’s head – can hear him.
“We didn’t lose anyone, why do we even need someone else here?”
“Buck,” there’s a warning in Bobby’s tone. “Be nice.”
“I’m plenty nice,” he balks. “I’m just saying, don’t we have all the team we need?”
“Hey, I’m not here to step on any toes,” New Guy interjects, and Buck bristles. He hadn’t meant to land his foot on top of Maddie’s. She’d been really nice about it, though, so no one else should get to say anything. Besides, New Guy shouldn’t have even been watching. That moment wasn’t his to be a part of; he doesn’t know any of them like that. Not yet, and maybe not ever, if he doesn’t last long with the 118.
“Good,” Buck grumbles, and Bobby glares at him.
“Buck. How about, since you’re the last new addition to the team, we see how much you remember from the tour Chim gave you? You show Eddie around, bring him upstairs when you’re done, and we’ll get to know each other a little more. How’s that sound?”
Buck opens his mouth, thinks about arguing some more. He thinks about suggesting that Chim had given him such a great tour when he started, why waste his talent today? Or faking a stomach flu and taking off for the day. Maybe even for the whole week.
But he can’t do that, because he knows it’d make Bobby and Athena worry about him. Besides, Bobby’s still staring at him, and just for a moment, Buck hates how close he’s grown to his captain. Maybe he wouldn’t care so much about pissing Bobby off if he wouldn’t look so disappointed every time it happens.
“Yes, Cap,” he mutters, knowing that Bobby will read everything he needs to from Buck’s tone. “C’mon, Ne—Eddie. I’ll show you the station.”
He steps in front of Eddie and rushes down the stairs, waiting impatiently at the bottom.
“Thanks for showing me the ropes,” Eddie says when he catches up. “I’m excited to be here. Big change from what I’m used to, but so far everything seems really great.”
“Yeah, well,” Buck barely contains his eye roll. If they weren’t at work, he’d have let it fly, but he knows he has to stick to passive-aggressive comments on-duty. And off-duty, he plans to keep as much distance between the two of them as he can. “It’s a fire station. And over there, those are fire trucks. The one with the ladder on top? That’s the ladder truck. The other one, with the hose, is technically a fire engine. It’s the pumper truck, but the ladder truck technically isn’t a fire engine. That’s important to know.” He’s trying to make himself sound bored, like he doesn’t secretly love sharing his knowledge with anyone who’ll listen (OK, anyone except Eddie), but Eddie is still listening intently.
It’s like he thinks the ability to remember which truck is or isn’t the engine is going to help him be any better at his job.
The rest of the tour goes on the same way. Buck drags it out, explains everything Eddie will need to know in finite detail, even the things he knows they teach in the academy. He’s killed almost half the shift this way, save a couple of interruptions for relatively minor calls. Eddie has skills, Buck has to admit – reluctantly, but he has to. Still, every time Bobby involves him in a scene, especially when he takes completely over for the procedure Buck is trying to execute, he resolves that he’s going to make the next stretch of Eddie’s tour even more boring and redundant.
Really, he’s impressed with his own dedication.
When he’s showing him the back of the ambulance, Eddie finally finds the guts to interrupt him. Either they’ve found the end of his patience, or Eddie is trying to befriend Buck, and honestly Buck isn’t sure which is more frustrating.
“We’ve got these rubber tourniquets, you use them if someone’s bleeding really badly, usually from an artery or -”
“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says. And Buck knows he knows, is the thing, but he still can’t believe Eddie would just cut him off like that, the asshole. “I’ve used them before. These even look like the same brand the Army stocked for us in Afghanistan.”
“Army, huh?” Buck says, like he hadn’t heard Eddie mention it to Bobby on their last call. New Guy wants to brag? Sure, let him. It’ll just make him look worse when everyone realizes what a showoff he is.
“Yeah, I was a medic before my … before I moved up here. Did a couple of tours.”
“So why firefighting then? If you were a medic, wouldn’t you want to be an EMT?”
“Nah,” Eddie shakes his head and puts the tourniquet back exactly where Buck had taken it from. “The best part of it was always the exhilaration when things got exciting. Seems like firefighting is where the adrenaline is at.”
“It’s also the more dangerous job.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Finally, Eddie snaps back, his voice suddenly harsh and acerbic.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that it seems a little hypocritical for you to be telling me not to be a firefighter, when that’s literally what you do for a living.”
“I’d know, wouldn’t I?”
“Sure, but it hasn’t driven you away yet. What makes you so sure I won’t be up for it?”
“Well it’s not Afghanistan,” Buck gives into the urge to roll his eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to get bored or anything.”
“You don’t get to decide if I’m -” Eddie cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “Nope, actually, I’m not doing this. It’s my first day, I’m not letting you get me fired. Let’s just finish the tour, OK?”
“Tour’s done whenever I say it is,” Buck reminds him. “But sure, if you think you know everything you need to, kitchen and bunk room are upstairs. Locker room is over there, you have to buy your own lock. Second shower from the left has the hottest water, but the worst pressure. Do with that what you will. Anything I’m missing?”
“I don’t think so. If I come up with something, I’ll be sure and ask someone else.”
“Good plan.”
Eddie trails behind Buck back up to the mezzanine, and waits for him to sit down at the table with the rest of the team. They’ve got a deck of cards out, and if Buck is right, they’re playing rummy. He doesn’t ask to deal in, though, just drops into the seat farthest away from Eddie and watches Chimney gamble away the pile of Skittles on the table in front of him.
The game is almost over when the alarm goes off. All at once, everyone is in motion, storming down the stairs and dropping down the pole to jump into turnout gear as an animatronic voice tells them they’ll be responding as standby to a bomb incident.
In the two years he’s been with the 118, Buck’s never responded to a bomb before. He’d be lying if he said he weren’t a little bit excited, even if he’s mostly worried about the outcome, and what they might be rolling up on. Obviously, he knows bombs are bad, especially in the wrong hands, but it’s always fun to get a call that’s a little out of the ordinary.
He’ll bet Eddie’s seen bombs before. Probably hundreds of them, every day, overseas. He’s probably going to be bored here. Maybe even bored enough that he won’t come back tomorrow.
But no, Buck isn’t that lucky. Instead of being bored out of his mind on standby, Eddie’s volunteering to help, announcing his military qualifications and strapping on a Kevlar vest, as if that’ll help him if the grenade goes off inside this guy’s leg.
Buck isn’t about to be shown up, won’t let anyone else out-adventure him at work. Least of all, the new guy, on his first day. So he’s right behind Eddie, ignoring the pang of anxiety in his chest when Eddie starts shouting for the driver to pull over. This is either going to go fine, or it’s going to be really bad, and Buck doesn’t see much room for middle ground. Still, if Eddie’s getting himself blown up at work today, he’s not going to be the only one.
It turns out that he’s got a little bit of luck left, though, because Eddie gets the firing mechanism out of Charles’ leg, and everyone is just barely clear of the ambulance when it shifts on its wheels. The movement must be enough to make the explosive roll across the box they’d locked it into, because the next thing Buck knows, the ambulance is engulfed in a fireball. The sound is deafening, the heat strong enough without his full turnout that Buck wonders if his eyelashes can melt off.
When the blast has concluded, and his ears stop ringing, Buck stops walking and waits for Eddie to turn and look at him.
“What?” He asks, and Buck presses his lips into a tight line before he responds.
“You couldn’t have looked at the cap before they started driving?”
“They didn’t exactly give me a heads up that it was going to be a live explosive. Besides, you could have secured the box where it wouldn’t roll. Then there’d still be an ambulance over there.” Buck opens and closes his mouth a few times, but when he can’t find a sufficiently scathing response, he just scoffs and walks away.
By the time they’re back to the station, the shift is almost over. He showers off, noticing that Eddie went for the hotter water over the stronger pressure, and tugs his flannel button-down over his uniform tee. They’re close enough to shift change that it shouldn’t matter, and he can always take it off if he needs to. Besides, this way he won’t have to get dressed again in 20 minutes.
It means he’s the first one out the door at the end of the shift, waving goodbye to Bobby, Hen and Chim over his shoulder and narrowing his eyes as he pointedly doesn’t wave at Eddie. The walk across the parking lot soothes some of the frustration from his bones, every step between himself and Eddie easing the anger he’s built up all day. He hauls himself into the Jeep and sits there, keys dangling from the ignition, while he jabs at his phone screen until he’s got an order number for his favorite takeout place. Usually the two dollar online ordering fee is enough to get him to order at the counter, but tonight he doesn’t care. He just wants to go home, eat his General Tso’s, drink a beer or three and put today behind him.
And that’s exactly what he does. His food is still steaming hot when he gets home, perfectly matched with the IPA in his fridge. It doesn’t hold a candle to dinner at Bobby and Athena’s, but it hits the spot tonight, the ideal comfort food to help wash away a little bit more of his foul mood.
The last dregs of Buck’s irritation disappear when he trades his takeout carton for the spiral notebook he writes his letters in. He pulls the pen from the spine and smooths his hand across the first blank page before he starts writing.
Dear Friend,
I got your letter last night, when I got home from my weekly dinner. But it made my day today, too. And a day that badly needed making, to tell the truth. You know I love my job, but today was insufferable. I don’t get it, things were fine before but they’re upsetting the apple cart anyway. I just want to go to work and not have to deal with people changing things on me all the time.
Anyway, I’m glad to read that you’re settling into your new life out here. LA’s my favorite place I’ve lived, and there have been a few of them! If you ever need a suggestion on things to do, let me know. The city’s packed, but I know all the best places to get away from it all for a little while. Maybe I can show you sometime? Provided I manage not to kill my coworkers. (kidding … mostly.)
Not that any of it matters right now, anyway. Because no matter how bad work is, I get to come home and think about you. And at least the jerk I have to work with reminds me to appreciate the good people in my life. Like you.
Write back soon.
Your Friend.
Buck scrawls the closing in large, loopy letters. He looks back over what he’s written, most of the page filled with his response to the letter that’s still folded up in his jeans. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. He knows his Friend will read it anyway, will really and truly care about what’s going on in Buck’s life, however trivial it may be in the grand scheme of things. He picks his pen up again, though, and doodles a little smiley face into the O in ‘your.’ Once he’s sketched a bowtie underneath the letter, he tears the page out carefully and folds the perforation back and forth until it pulls loose from the rest of the page.
He folds the letter into crisp thirds, relishing in the ritualistic feeling as he slides it into an envelope and neatly writes his Friend’s address across the middle. ‘Dear Friend,’ he writes above the house number, for lack of anything better to call him. They hadn’t gotten each other’s names when they’d started writing, and now it feels like they’ve been carrying on like this for so long that Buck can’t bring himself to actually ask the other man’s name. Sure, he could sign his next letter ‘Buck,’ or even ‘Evan Buckley’ if he wants to be professional about it.
But where would he draw the smiley face?
No, best to keep on as they are, preserve the anonymity a little bit longer. And this way, he knows his Friend cares about him for who he is, not what the rest of the world thinks they know about him.
With that thought, he seals the envelope and presses a stamp firmly on the corner. He gets up to toss his bottle in the recycling bin, and slides the letter onto the table beside the door. He’ll drop it in the mail before work tomorrow, but for now, having written back is enough.
As he falls into bed, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders, it’s almost like Buck can feel Dear Friend there with him. He falls asleep reciting yesterday’s letter to himself and thinking about how good it feels to have someone to care about.
Someone to care about him.