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Pain is a funny thing. Buck knows it can be constant, all-consuming. He knows what it’s like to feel as if he’s made of pain, to be waiting for help, existing only from one breath to the next. He knows the floating-on-cotton sensations of hospital pain management, the teeth-gritting pulses that come with physical therapy and healing.
Buck knows pain can be fleeting, too: a quick cut when he’s peeling carrots to make dinner, stepping on an errant Lego, biting his cheek.
What he feels now is nothing like that.
It wasn’t his intention to be hiding pain from everyone. For a long time, he’s been able to write everything off as the aches and soreness that come with his job. It’s less easy to ignore when pain leaks into his days off and when ice, heat, massage, rest, over-the-counter painkillers stop making a difference. That’s when he starts hiding it, intentionally or not: when he wakes up gasping next to Eddie despite dreaming of nothing but the dull piercing ache in his leg, when his mornings are characterized by stiffness and bone-deep exhaustion, when he feels fuzzy with brain fog.
As the pain appears elsewhere, Buck starts to admit that maybe something’s wrong. He starts to feel the body aches that are usually precursor to coming down with the flu, only for illness to never come, starts dropping things for no reason and wincing when he grips his mug of morning coffee with stiff fingers.
One night, Eddie sidles up behind him in the bathroom to spit his toothpaste in the sink, one hand gliding over his lower back, right where Buck’s sore today. Buck inhales sharply, just different enough from a normal breath to count as a wince. Eddie, damn him, knows Buck and knows that his gasp is one of pain. Suspicion confirmed when Buck reaches into the medicine cabinet for Tylenol, Eddie runs his hand through Buck’s hair, then cups his cheek.
“Baby,” he says.
“Hmm?” Buck responds around a mouthful of water as he swallows two pills. “What?”
“You hurting?”
“I’m fine, Eddie.” Buck brushes past him and walks to the bedroom.
Eddie follows and watches as Buck lowers himself to the bed slowly, trying to avoid angering any nerves or muscles that already feel prepared to revolt. Once he sits on the edge of the bed, the tension he held in his body to guard against the pain dissipates, and he raises his eyes to Eddie, now standing over him.
Eddie’s hand comes to his shoulder. “Buck, it really doesn’t seem like you’re fine.”
Buck licks his lips, his eyes darting away from Eddie’s. “I don’t know what to tell you, Eds, but I am fine.”
“Okay, so it’s fine that I just touched you and you flinched? The fact that it’s harder for you to lift heavy than it used to be, that’s fine?”
Buck shrugs. “I was just slacking at the gym, that’s why I’m not lifting as much. I’m sore because I'm not as in shape as I was.”
Eddie’s mouth is a thin line when he presses a kiss to Buck temple. “Can you make me one promise?”
“In addition to the current existing promises?”
“When you figure out how much you’re hurting, talk to me? Don’t hide. Don’t run.”
“Yeah, sweetheart.” The temptation to restate Eddie’s request as a hypothetical instead of an eventuality is there in Buck’s throat, but he keeps it there — even he has to acknowledge that pain has set up camp in his body.
His breaking point doesn’t come as a dramatic realization of his situation. He’s at Bobby and Athena’s house for a party, not even sure what the occasion is, kneeling on the ground in the backyard with Chris, Denny, and Harry. He leans forward to hand Chris the magnifying glass they’re passing back and forth to examine a patch of mushrooms and the muscles in his lower back tighten into a crushing fist. He squeaks with the shock of pain and Chris gives him a curious look. Buck smiles tightly and luckily Chris is more interested in the surface of a particularly nasty mushroom that he accepts the surface of Buck’s expression.
Chris is spending the night with the Wilson family, so Buck keeps it together until they get home, showered and ready for bed. His body is screaming at him the whole time, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he bends over to pull on a pair of sleep shorts.
He makes it into bed somehow, eyes closed. He feels Eddie dip into bed next to him. As soon as he’s gotten settled, Buck turns over and shoves his face into the join of Eddie’s shoulder and neck, coughing out a sob as the tears leak out of his eyes.
Eddie wraps an arm around Buck, pulling him into his hiding place more firmly, his free hand pushing through Buck’s hair, lightly scratching his head the way he goes boneless for, and stroking the back of his neck and shoulders lightly.
“Oh, Buck. Sweetheart. I know,” Eddie murmurs. “I’m here.” And Buck loves him, loves him for not saying that everything will be okay, that he’s okay, loves him for sticking to the only truth that matters for Buck: Eddie’s here, and Buck’s here with him. Eddie doesn’t even know for sure what Buck’s crying about, and he’s here.
Buck shudders as pain and fear and anxiety flood him, stills as the current subsides. Maybe a river is the best metaphor, he thinks a little desperately. The pain, and the fear that comes with not understanding it, isn’t a tide that ebbs and flows. It’s a river; it’s always there, still at times, others an angry whitewater rapid that threatens to pull him under.
He chokes out, “Can this count as me talking to you?”
Eddie pulls him even closer with both hands now like he’s trying to weld them together. “Yeah. It can.”
Buck makes an appointment with his primary care doctor the next morning.
—
In the days leading up to his appointment, he goes full Buck. He googles, falls into Reddit rabbit holes, and WebMD and the Mayo Clinic website become permanently open tabs on his browser.
What he learns is a lot of nothing. Lots of things cause pain and malaise and the general feeling of fatigue he’s started feeling, so mostly he just worries about how bad on the spectrum of "bad" this will turn out to be.
His doctor is a pretty Indian woman named Dr. Patel. She has a no-nonsense attitude and a habit of making small talk in the same tone of voice she asks medical questions in, but Buck adores her. Maybe most importantly, he trusts her to listen to him. So much of the reading he’s done comes from people who spent years trying to find a doctor who takes them seriously.
By the end of the appointment, he’s conflicted. Dr. Patel was thorough and attentive, like always, but there are tests to sort through the multitude of disorders and diseases and conditions he could have. It feels fucked up to wish he had some more explicit symptoms, but he does. Fatigue and headaches and general pain are symptoms of every disease ever it feels like and he’s being tested for all of them if the amount of blood he had drawn is any indication.
Her questions run on a loop in his mind:
What does the pain feel like? Sometimes like the body aches that come with the flu. Sometimes a deep ache. Sometimes sharp radiating pain.
Where does it hurt? Right shoulder, left hand and wrist, both hips, left leg, neck, lower back, probably some other places, too.
How are you sleeping? Good, most of the time. Occasionally a nightmare makes it hard to stay asleep, but his sleep score is a point of pride.
Are you anxious or depressed? Not unusually so.
Any major traumatic events or childhood trauma? Take your pick.
He does his best to forget the uncomfortable questions about his sex life and his digestion, instead spinning out about the last two.
Dr. Patel was reluctant to make any guess about a diagnosis without her battery of tests, but she did mention his symptoms lined up with fibromyalgia, a disorder that would be incredibly unusual for someone like him to have. Of course, it was already familiar to him through his research and, while he knew there was a lot unknown about it, he also knew trauma in childhood or adulthood or physical trauma, like a lightning strike, could trigger it. He thinks about desert rain frogs, only coming out of their underground burrows when it rains, and scoffs to himself, feeling slightly deranged.
The drive home passes with images of bombs and ladder trucks, skinned knees and cold houses and secret dead brothers he was never going to live up to, and frogs. And he lands on three disturbing questions as he pulls into the driveway: Did I do this myself? Did my parents do this to me? Which is worse?
Eddie is waiting for him in the living room. Buck would have been an idiot to have expected him to be anywhere else. With the promise he would come straight home after his appointment, Buck convinced Eddie to stay home, albeit unhappily.
He isn’t even able to get off the couch before Buck falls into him, wrapping limbs around him and burying his face into Eddie’s neck.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” Eddie says.
“I didn’t do anything but get sick.”
“You’re looking for answers. You’re taking care of yourself. And I,” Eddie kisses the side of Buck’s head, “am very proud of you for that.”
—
Months later, it’s fibromyalgia. Buck’s gone through tests and treatments, been poked and prodded with Eddie at his side, and it’s fibromyalgia.
On one hand, there’s relief in finally having an answer, and that answer not being the absolute worst-case scenario. On the other, Buck’s life has changed. It happened over the course of months, first as the pain became unignorable, then as he navigated the rollercoaster that is testing, analyzing results, finding the likely diagnoses, then having more tests only for everything to be ruled out, then starting all over.
Eddie was with him when he got a referral to his rheumatologist, was in the room when the rheumatologist broke the official diagnosis, held him as he was given a minute to come to terms with everything. It’s Eddie who asks a long list of questions, about treatment and pacing and the side effects of different drugs, Buck too stunned to ask anything other than one question, the most important one.
Buck is heartbroken, sense of self and agency and capacity for feeling alive chipped away one flake at a time by zapping pain down his leg, the sharp ache in his right shoulder, the stiffness that’s taken up residence in his joints. His body was the one thing he could trust, the thing he knew with certainty. He used to know exactly what his body could do — rope rescues, lifting weights, seek and give pleasure. Bodies, for Buck, were input-output machines, not necessarily transactional (he stopped seeing his body as something he could use to get what he wanted somewhere around 2.0), but predictable. Lift weights, get strong. Rescue, safety. Fuck, orgasm.
And now, not only does he not know what his body can do day-to-day, but he doesn’t know why it happened. No one catches fibromyalgia; there are theories about genetic predisposition and triggers, but really, it’s a big question mark.
When they get home that night, Buck goes straight to the bedroom, climbing in under the covers and pulling them over his head. He twists onto his stomach and tucks his arms under himself like he’s trying to hold himself together.
The bed shifts and the covers lift, and Eddie slides in beside him. The air under the blankets heats quickly, but it stays quiet.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Buck finally mumbles.
“Not gonna make you,” Eddie says. He turns onto his side, hand coming up to squeeze the back of Buck’s neck at the base. “What do you need, cariño?”
Buck flops over, sighing. “Kiss me?”
Eddie’s immediate compliance shouldn’t surprise him but sometimes Buck thinks he’ll never be able to expect the warmth of Eddie’s mouth, the soft, pleased noise he makes as Buck opens for him, how willingly he follows when Buck tugs him on top of him.
He’s holding his weight up, and that’s not what Buck wants, wants Eddie to hold him down to Earth, so he wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and pulls him in, tight tight tight.
Pulling back, Eddie asks again, “What do you need?”
There’s a gaping hole in my chest and I’m falling off a cliff and I’m watching you bleed out on asphalt and cut your line down a well and I’m not there because I can’t, not anymore, and even if I was there, I would be useless. This body is useless, it’s betrayed me and even worse, it’s made me betray you.
“Can’t —” Buck gasps, the words there but too far to reach, skating against his fingertips. He tightens his grip around Eddie, trying to convey that he needs to be crushed back into his body, to feel it held together like it’s a concrete thing, not as ephemeral as it feels.
“Okay, okay,” Eddie whispers into his hair, laying fully on Buck because he’s always understood, even when the words won’t come.
Oh, he realizes as Eddie thumbs at his cheeks. I’m crying.
He trembles and shakes and cries and comes back to himself. His mind settles, finally allowing him to sit up and lean against Eddie, holding his hand and fidgeting with his fingers.
“I’m scared,” he admits.
Eddie kisses the side of his head, right on the temple.
“That’s okay.”
“I can’t be a firefighter anymore.”
“Maybe, but you don’t know that for sure.”
“I won’t be able to save you, next time you’re in danger.”
With two fingers on Buck’s chin, Eddie tilts his head to make eye contact. “Hey, listen to me. I love you because of who you are, not because you can carry me out of a burning building. You're the most selfless, caring man I've ever met, and I know you aren't gonna like this, but sometimes you have to let me help you."
Buck inhales a sucking breath.
"Grief is normal," Eddie continues. "Maybe you can stay at the 118, maybe you can’t. Even if you feel like you can’t trust your body anymore, I trust you with everything I am. I love you more than any job I could have. You’re worried you can’t keep me safe? I’ll quit firefighting tomorrow if it would help you feel okay.”
“Eds…”
“This is a lot to process, but there’s time. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Let me be the one who carries you for now, and we’ll deal with the rest as it comes, okay?”
Buck buries his face in Eddie’s neck. “I wanted to be done crying,” he pouts, near-laughing even as the tears bead in his eyes.
“You cry as much as you need to. And whenever you’re ready, Chris and I have your back.”
—
Chris takes the news relatively well, largely relieved that the bad news he knew was coming isn’t Buck leaving. He has lots of questions, and once he has the answers, he starts talking about how he and Buck can stretch and do their physical therapy exercises together.
Next is the part Buck has been dreading.
As they stand outside of the Grant-Nash house, gathering the courage to go in and sour the mood of an entire barbecue, Eddie grabs Buck’s hand and squeezes before Athena opens the door and gestures them inside.
Buck hovers around the house and yard as the final preparations are made, looking over Bobby’s shoulder as he grills burgers, trying to help Athena and Hen set the table until they shoo him away, then trying to help Chim wrangle Jee and only making them both fussier.
Everyone sits at the table and Athena levels Buck with a knowing look.
“Alright, Buckaroo, out with it.”
“O-out with what?” Buck says unconvincingly.
“With whatever’s got you all twisted up. Come on, everyone knows you have news and I’d like to save my breakables from any of your nervous bumbling.”
A deep breath, and he rips the Band Aid off. “I have fibromyalgia.”
The room falls silent and Eddie’s hand comes to rest on Buck’s thigh, a grounding brand as his world stands still.
“Oh, Buck,” Hen breathes. She takes advantage of her position next to him and pulls him into a hug.
When she releases him, he instinctively looks over to Bobby, nervous about what he’ll see.
He didn’t need to be worried; Bobby looks empathetic, worried, but not angry. Not panicked in the way that leads to Buck getting benched.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Buck. How are you feeling?” Bobby asks.
“Um, I’m okay,” he says. “I mean, I’ve been having some pain, and I’ve never been more exhausted in my life, but it helps to know why. To have a reason for it.”
Chim and Maddie have been having a conversation solely through facial expressions and when they finally tune back into what’s happening at the table, Buck sees a flash of hurt on Maddie’s face, a hint of concern on Chim’s.
He hopes Maddie will understand why he didn’t tell her first and separately. It’s okay if she’s hurt at first. She'll understand I couldn’t do this more than once.
She reaches across the table, taking Buck’s hand and rubbing her thumb over his knuckle.
“Whatever you need, Buck. We’re here,” she says.
Buck thought he could get through this without crying, and oh, he was wrong.
A warm thumb wipes a lone tear off of his face. He looks over at Eddie, feeling the sadness and pain and hope in his own expression and seeing it reflected in his partner’s, and wants so desperately, more than anything he’s ever wanted, for everything to be okay.
It takes several weeks to negotiate treatment with his doctor; Buck adamantly refuses to take any medication that would disqualify him from firefighting. Not yet, not until he tries every other avenue, and even then, not until his pain is unbearable.
His rheumatologist isn’t a fan of this stance, and neither is Eddie, but whatever, it’s his life.
They find a balance of physical and occupational therapy and medication that seems to work, and then the process of convincing the brass he’s not a liability begins. Buck pouts and mopes for a week while he's on leave until Eddie comes home from a shift to find him lying in bed, in the middle of the afternoon, with the covers pulled over his head.
“Okay, enough,” Eddie says, gently peeling the comforter down so he can look Buck in the eyes. “I know this sucks, but it’s not gonna suck less just because you’re in bed.”
Buck starts working at the academy the next week. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be.
At the end of his first week, he wakes up on a Saturday to see Eddie still in bed next to him, laying on his side and gazing at him.
“You know, people might think the whole ‘watch you while you sleep’ thing is creepy,” Buck says, rolling from his back to his side to return Eddie’s look.
“Good thing you think it’s romantic, then,” Eddie returns, cupping a hand around Buck’s jaw and drawing him in for a kiss.
Buck hums, returning the kiss and folding himself closer to Eddie’s sleep-warm body. They rest together for several minutes, letting the sun slant further and further in through the window shades.
“What time is it?” Buck finally asks.
“7:30-ish.”
Propping himself up on his elbow, Buck tries to get a view of the alarm clock.
“Really?” he asks excitedly.
“Yeah,” Eddie responds.
Buck’s grin rivals the rising sun. “That’s amazing.”
“It is?”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve woken up and felt rested, much less woken up this early and not been exhausted? It’s been ages.”
“You’re feeling okay?”
Smiling and letting his teeth rest against Eddie’s neck before kissing the thin skin over his collarbone, Buck replies, “More than okay.”
A morning like this calls for pancakes, so Buck busies himself in the kitchen, mixing pancake batter and ladling perfect circles into the griddle. Even preoccupied, Buck’s subconscious is trained to pick up Eddie’s presence as he enters the room and sidles up behind Buck, bodies fitting like measuring cups nestled together.
Eddie kisses behind his ear, hands sliding up from Buck’s hipbones and rubbing deep, soothing strokes over his torso. “I’m so glad the treatment is working, mi vida. I hate seeing you hurt.”
Leaning into Eddie’s touch, Buck still can’t quite settle, driven to remind Eddie that, despite the good days, despite the treatment working, chronic illness is a moving target; he’ll likely be dealing with flares, treatment changes, and hurdles he can’t even anticipate for the rest of his life.
“You know it isn’t always going to be this good, right?”
“I know you won’t always be this healthy,” Eddie acknowledges. “But life with you is always good, even if it’s hard.”
Buck melts, butter on a hot pancake, reeling Eddie in for a kiss, then slapping his ass with his unused spatula.
A groan comes from the kitchen doorway. “Gross, Buck. Get a different spatula before you flip my pancakes,” Chris says as he sits at the table.
Winking at Eddie, Buck salutes with the spatula. “Aye, aye, captain.”
The day Buck gets to return to his usual duties, he’s nervous he’ll be designated man behind for every call, relegated to cleaning and cooking and doing maintenance and inventory. Which are important jobs, and Buck might even enjoy them more than the average firefighter, but he’s so antsy to get out there and sink into the calm space muscle memory and physical exertion give, he thinks he might combust.
His fretting is for nothing, because the first time the alarm goes off, Bobby orders Peterson to stay at the station and looks at Buck, who’s been frozen in place while everyone else gears up.
“Come on, kid. We don’t have all day,” Bobby says, smiling, and Buck scrambles to follow orders.
Most days, Buck feels good. Strong. Capable. His pain and fatigue are well controlled and he’s learned to work with the ebbs and flows in his energy levels as best he can. But “most” isn’t all, and he knew when he chose to go back to firefighting after his diagnosis that there would be days he wouldn’t be able to keep up.
It still fucking sucks to wake up from a mid-shift nap and know deep in his bones that he can’t go out on calls for the rest of their 24-hour shift.
Buck stretches in his bunk, feeling a heavy ache in his joints, soreness in his muscles, and that crushing fatigue he’s come to dread. He sits up, stifling a groan as best he can. It’s not good enough, though, because Eddie is standing in front of him almost immediately.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No,” Buck grits out. “I’m flaring. Again.” They’ve had some especially tough calls back-to-back on the past few shifts and it’s taken a toll on his body.
Eddie makes a sympathetic noise. “Meds first?”
Buck nods, and Eddie brings him his pills, plus an extra pain reliever, and a glass of water. He downs the medicine and all of the water, then rolls his neck and tries to stretch out his body. When he stands, it feels like he can stay on shift, the pain manageable but the fatigue and brain fog weighing him down make him a hazard in an emergency instead of an asset.
“Gonna go talk to Bobby,” he grunts to Eddie, who presses a kiss to his cheek and gently squeezes his hip with one hand.
“Love you,” Eddie says.
“Love you.”
Bobby’s understanding, like Buck knew he would be, and agrees to make him man behind.
“Are you up to doing inventory?”
Buck nods.
“It would be great if you could handle cooking today, too,” Bobby continues. “I’m up to my eyes in paperwork.”
“Can do, Cap,” Buck says, turning to get started on breakfast.
“Buck?” Bobby calls him back. “You would tell me if you weren’t okay, right?”
He gives a sad smile. “I wouldn’t have to. If I weren’t okay, Eddie would have to carry me home. When I’m flaring enough to not be able to do light work, it’s pretty obvious.”
Nodding, Bobby looks back down at his desk. “I’m proud of you, Buck. Be safe today.”
“I’m going to make omelettes,” Buck laughs. “Not exactly a dangerous job.”
“Still. Don’t overdo it. Rest is recovery, but of course you know that already.”
Buck exits Bobby’s office with tears brimming in his eyes, for once not out of pain, but at the fullness blooming in his chest.
Chimney and Hen are sitting at the kitchen table when Buck makes it up the stairs, both of them brightening as he makes his way over.
“Chef Buckley, we heard you were making omelettes,” Chim says, holding out a piece of paper covered in different scripts of handwriting.
“We went ahead and took orders for you,” Hen smiles, and fuck, Buck isn’t crying. He isn’t.
The thing is, he’s felt like a burden in the past. It was a real worry when he got diagnosed, that people would get tired of helping him, lose patience with his mental and physical slowness some days. But here are two of his closest friends, making accommodations for him because they know he won’t be able to keep track of everyone’s preferences this morning, not taking over the task themselves for the sake of what’s easier and faster.
He clears his throat. “Thanks guys. I’m on it!”
Eddie walks in a few minutes later, Buck almost ready to start cooking. He wraps one arm around Buck in a side hug and kisses just below his ear.
“You feeling okay?” he asks quietly.
“I’m good, sweetheart,” Buck smiles. “Go sit. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
Eddie gets in one more kiss before walking away, much to Chimney’s chagrin.
“Get a room!” he jeers, Hen shoving his shoulder good-naturedly.
“Just for that, I’m spitting in your food, Chim,” Buck tosses back, starting to pour eggs into the pan.
“Not cool,” Chim mutters.
Buck gets food in front of everyone and the meal is just winding down when the alarm rings and everyone stands in unison to respond. Hen and Chim toss him odd looks when he remains sitting without being told to stay behind. He sighs, starting to gather up used dishes as the engines and ambulance roll out.
Being the only one in the station means Buck can take his time cleaning up without worrying about concerned eyes watching him. He turns on a podcast and moves dliberately slow, shifting to start on inventory once the dishes are done.
Eventually, the crew returns, filthy and exhausted. Buck helps them clean up the vehicles and restock, then waits on the couch while they shower soot and smoke off their bodies and change into clean clothes. He’s half dozing when they come out of the locker room.
Eddie picks his legs up from where he’s stretched them out on the couch and slides under them, settling them across his thighs once he’s sat down.
“How are you doing?” He asks, rubbing a thumb over one of Buck’s ankles.
Buck hums and leans into the touch. “I’m feeling okay. Feels good to lay down.”
“Need anything? Meds? Heating pad? Tiger Balm?”
The way Eddie cares for him makes him want to laugh and kiss him and cry a little, but before he can do any of it, Hen walks by and drops a small pot of something into his lap.
“Try that instead of Icy Hot or Tiger Balm,” Hen says. “It’s got CBD, so it might help your inflammation.”
Buck picks up the container and twists it open, the smell of menthol, peppermint, and camphor over the hemp undertones hitting his nose. “Thanks, Hen! I’ve been wanting to try something like this.”
He hands it to Eddie and nudges him with his foot. “Please?” he asks, eyes big and pleading.
Eddie laughs, rolling his eyes as he twists the cap off. “No need for puppy eyes, Buckley. Your wish is my command.”
Closing his eyes, Buck loses himself in the strokes of the relief balm over his ankles and knees, coming to and sitting up so Eddie can apply it over the wings of his shoulders and his lower back while they're alone.
He makes himself comfortable on the couch once they’re done, enjoying Eddie’s presence before the next call-out.
It comes quicker than he’d like, but he squeezes Eddie’s hand when the tones go off and tells him to be safe.
Again, something lands in his lap as the crew surges toward the trucks.
“Why is everyone throwing shit?” Buck says loudly.
“It’s one of your stupid green juices, Buck, calm down,” Chim shouts back. “And say thank you!”
“Thank you,” Buck says as he turns the bottle over in his hands. Funny, I could’ve sworn I drank the last one already… He smiles to himself, feeling damn lucky to have found this family who takes care of him so well.
The green juice gives him the willpower to make dinner, a big lasagna and garlic bread and salad to go with it. There are a few stumbles as he cooks; there may be a few too many garlic cloves in the butter he melts for the bread because he keeps losing count. He has to sit a couple times to give himself a break, and the salad comes out of a bag instead of vegetables he chopped himself like he might prefer, but it all gets done.
He puts two pans in the oven to finish melting the cheese on top of the lasagna and bread right as the crew rolls back into the station. There are loud whoops and stomping feet as the smell of dinner reaches them. They clean up in record time and shove in around the table, laughter and teasing echoing around the loft.
Buck sits between Eddie and Bobby to enjoy his own meal and spots two pain relievers next to his glass of water. He glances at Eddie, who shakes his head, then at Bobby, who just winks.
“Good job, kid,” he says before shoving a forkful of lasagna into his mouth.
A pleased blush spread across Buck’s cheeks as looks down at his own plate. He surveys the table, covered in the fruits of his work, and the people sitting around it. There have been so many times over the last few months where he thought his life was over, that brain fog and pain and exhaustion were the only things he had in his future. And those things are there, definitely and unignorably, but so is this moment of peace, of family, of love and affection, of meaning. He has no way of knowing whether tomorrow will have him back at full capacity, or if today was his last day of being able to work at all, but regardless, he knows exactly who will be right beside him.