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"What about you, Buckaroo?" Hen calls from the loft's kitchen, snapping Buck from his trail of thoughts. He looks up, gaze wandering over the expectant faces of his team. Crap, were they having a conversation? He hadn't been paying attention.
"Uh, sorry, w-" he tries to read their faces, "what were you saying?" he asks with a pathetic chuckle, as Hen rolls her eyes and Chim scoffs. Bobby carries a plate of chicken to the table, decorated with roast potatoes, gravy, and an assortment of vegetables. "You got anyone at home? We've had you for a year, and you haven't mentioned anything." Hen asks, drawling out the words with a sense of sarcastic-patience.
Buck swallows harshly, looking around as he considers his best bet. Should he mention Eddie? The St. Christopher medal around his neck- the one that he and Eddie use as an alternative to wedding rings- suddenly feels heavier. It isn't like he is ashamed of Eddie, of course not, it is just the pain. The pain of talking about the love of his life that he almost never sees, the pain of thinking about the empty bed that he returns to each night, and the pain of the looks that he constantly receives whenever he does mention that his husband is off fighting in god-knows-where.
"I've got a little boy, Christopher, he's seven." He says instead, instantly smiling at the thought of his kid back home. Buck pulls out his phone, despite Bobby's usual 'no phone at the table' rule, and shows them a photo of Chris on Buck's lap with a wide smile. A part of him feels guilty at the surprise on the face of his crew as he talks about Chris, the surprise that he has kept something so important from the team that are family to him for so long. He feels even worse that he is continuing to hide Eddie from them. They mask their hurt expressions fairly quickly, morphing into curiosity. They all ask a few questions about Chris, to which Buck cheerfully answers without a thought, until Bobby asks another.
"Is his mother in the picture?" his phrasing is careful, delicate as if he is nervous to step on unsteady ground. Buck's brow furrows nervously, as if he shifts in his seat. Bobby opens his mouth, like he is about to assure Buck that he doesn't need to answer in the caring way that Bobby always does, but he speaks up. "No, no. His- his mother died awhile back...car accident." He says, ignoring the detail that Eddie and Shannon divorced a year before her death. Still, a pang of grief still strikes him for he and Shannon had somewhat bonded in the small time that they had known one another. He grimaces at the looks of pity and apologies that he receives from his team.
He barely hides his relief when the tones go off.
Since telling the team about Chris, they are nothing short of supportive. Hen always insists on having Chris over for playdates with Denny, Bobby lets Chris hang at the station when Carla can't babysit, and Chim always entertains Chris when he is at the actual firehouse. Chris loves all of them, even refers to them as 'Auntie Hen' or 'Uncle Bobby' and 'Uncle Chim'. Bobby goes so far as to (on the safe calls only) let Chris tag along in the engine.
When Maddie comes to L.A, he introduces her to all of them. She, per Buck's request, keeps mention of Eddie on the down-low. They each take a liking to her (Chimney a little too much..) and she likes them just as much. Chris is even more delighted to spend time with his Aunt Maddie.
-
"Buck, there's a package here for you!" Chim calls from the bay. Buck looks up from where he has been playing video games with Hen, reluctantly passing her his controller, and whispers a promise to beat her later on. "Who would send me mail to the firehouse?" Buck asks, casually strolling down the stairs. Bobby stands beside Chim, shifting through the rest of the post as a small box rests by his feet. "Probably one of your crazed fan girls sending you a box of her thongs or something, right?" Teases Chim.
Buck is about to chuckle when his eyes land on the box.
Mr. Evan Buckley-Diaz,
Station 118, LAFD
Los Angeles, California
-United States Military Service
He is on his knees in seconds, ripping open the box with a lack of care for anything else. It won't be a death notification. It can't be. That is something they deliver personally, right? Not in some box. No, this will probably just be Eddie sending something from wherever the hell he is off fighting. Maybe a post card for him or something cool that he found for Chris. It won't be a death notice, it won't be a-
Inside the box is: a letter addressed to Buck, some photos taken on a low quality camera, the picture of Chris that Eddie always carries, a photo of them on their wedding night, a silver star medal, and... His hand lands on the St. Christopher medal, slowly raising it to the ground. Chim starts to speak, but Bobby stops him. No, no, no, no. This isn't happening. His hand moves to the photos, skimming over each one. He recognises most of the men, tired and injured but smiling, as Eddie's crew. Eddie is among them, all their arms around their shoulders as they lazily beam into the camera. All of them look worn down, bandages peeking out from beneath their uniforms and covering their faces. Eddie has one wrapped just above his collarbone, making Buck's stomach twist with worry. He goes to read the letter, just to discover that there are two. Buck instantly selects the hand-written one with the neat yet rushed hand writing that he recognises to be his husband's.
Dear Evan (or should I say Buck, based on your last few letters?),
So, Mr. Big-shot-firefighter, how are things going in L.A? How is Chris?
I'm glad you're still enjoying yourself at the 118- they sound great. I can't wait to meet them.
Things are okay down here. I miss you guys more than anything, especially nowadays. Don't worry though, I'll be home soon. I promise.
I don't have long to write, sorry, I swear my next letter will be longer. Just wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you.
I love you and Chris so much, and I'll see you soon.
Love, Eddie.
He smiles, forcing back the tears and loneliness that weigh him down, and moves onto the letter that has been typed out. Distantly, he knows of the crowd starting to form, but he doesn't care. It's immediately obvious that this smaller letter is not from Eddie.
Mr. Evan Buckley-Diaz,
I write to regretfully inform you that on the twenty-first of April, Eddie Buckley-Diaz's team were reported in a helicopter accident caused by an ambush.
Witnesses say that Mr. Eddie Buckley-Diaz alone saved those of his crew, but suffered mass injury in the meantime. He sustained three GSWs, a broken leg, concussion, and numerous injured ribs.
As this is written, he is stable and recovering in a nearby medical facility. While we do not know how long his recovery may take, once he is deemed safe to fly, he will be sent to a hospital nearest to your location in order to receive better treatment. In the mean time, Mr. Buckley-Diaz has requested his personals be shipped to you, in case of the worst.
After this, he will be honourably discharged. I will make an attempt to update you when he is transported to the hospital.
Sincerely,
Colonel Williams
His heart thumps heavily in his throat, blocking out the noise of his team mates as he takes in the words. Eddie is alive. He is alive, right? He reads and rereads the listed injuries. Three whole bullet wounds. Concussion. Broken leg. Injured ribs. It's a lot- it's too much. Pride wells in his chest as he reads of his husband's heroic actions, and suddenly the silver star in the box makes sense. But...when will he be sent to a nearby hospital? Is he still alive?
He looks at the box, flipping it round to check the date.
Thirtieth of April.
That was three weeks ago. Shouldn't he have received more? Shouldn't there be an update? What does this mean? Is Eddie okay? Is he at the hospital already? Or is he still recovering at some medical facility (which he knows is a formal way of saying some bullshit tent filled with infection and bacteria)? Why the hell would Eddie request his personals to be sent over 'in case of the worst' if it wasn't already serious? There isn't enough information. He doesn't know enough.
"Buck, are you okay?" Bobby's voice finally makes Buck realise that he has been hyperventilating. He drops the letter, and slowly raises the St. Christopher's medal, wrapping it around his neck alongside his own. He slows his breathing. One, two, three...inhale. One, two three...exhale. Buck repeats it once, twice, three times, before answering. "I'm fine." He mumbles curtly, scooping up the box. He wipes away tears that he hadn't even been aware of before feeling the wetness on his cheeks, and scurries off to the locker room.
He shoves the box in his locker, forcing the panic that practically chokes him down when he notices the blood that is splattered over the photo of Christopher. The two medals clang together from around his neck, just about tipping him over the edge.
With that, everything comes crashing down. His husband could be dead, or dying, or confused and alone in a hospital or shitty tent. He can just picture it. Eddie joking around with the team that Buck has read so much about, when suddenly their helicopter is shot down. Maybe that is when Eddie broke his leg or injured his ribs. Or maybe it happened after he was shot- someone came and did it manually. Was Eddie scared? He supposedly saved his entire team, so surely the more serious injuries couldn't have come till later on. Oh, god. He can visualise Eddie bleeding, alone and scared, in a ditch.
He drops to his knees, holding his head in his hands as his body shakes violently with the force of his tears. The dam crumbles, and suddenly he is back to hyperventilating as a million different scenarios of Eddie dying flash through his brain. Each one gets worse and worse, more violent than the other. Realistically, he knew that this was apart of the deal when he married Eddie, he always knew that something like this could happen. But none of the mental prep seems worthwhile now that he is actually dealing with it.
A gentle hand on his shoulder sends him flying back in surprise. "Buck?...Are you alright, kid?" Bobby whispers, face bewildered as he looks him up and down. Buck harshly wipes away his tears, looking around to make sure none of the other 118 members are there. They've all cleared out aside from him and Bobby.
He considers just lying, ignoring the tears down his face and claiming to be fine- he would probably do that if it was anyone else- but this is Bobby. The man is more of a father than Buck's actual dad. They hold an uncomfortable eye contact for a few moments, the tension thick enough to need a flamethrower to get through it.
"I'm married." he whispers, voice hoarse. Bobby tries (and fails) to hide his surprise. Buck keeps going, sitting on the bench. "His name is Eddie Diaz and he-" his voice catches for a second as he promptly gets up and pulls out the small package, handing it to Bobby. "He is off fighting in...well- I don't know anymore." he laughs weakly as Bobby's eyes trace the letter. He can't bring himself to speak anymore, letting Bobby deduct what he can from the letters and whatnot.
Eventually, when Buck is calmer, he and Bobby start to talk again.
"I'm sorry I-" he begins, bracing himself for a potential argument over keeping something so big secret for so long. Bobby raises his hand, a silent warning over his face.
"Don't apologise, Buck." A pause as Bobby looks through the photos sent by Eddie. "Took me a year to tell you guys about my family, didn't it?" Huh, Buck had never really made that connection. Still, would the others see it that way? "I wanted to tell you, Cap, I really did." He swears, fingers fiddling with the two St. Christopher medals as he does. Bobby nods, but Buck can see a slight hurt beneath the understanding look. He should have told Bobby. He tells Bobby everything. "Did you think that...that we wouldn't be supportive or something?" Bobby eventually asks, brows knitted together as he frowns at the floor.
"No, nothing like that! I-" he shrugs, "it never came up, I guess. Technically, you never asked." Bobby barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
"Well, seems like I'll be meeting this Eddie real soon anyway, right?" Bobby shrugs, smiling. Buck tries to replicate the smile, but it comes off as more of a wince.
"God, I hope so."