buck buckley · 9-1-1 · firefighter · drug addiction · angst · toxic relationship · los angeles · complex trauma · canon divergence · dark themes
The firehouse bathroom was a tomb of quiet, the only sound the low whir of the exhaust fan. Buck stared into the mirror, his own reflection a stranger—eyes wide and wild with a frantic, starving need. The shift’s adrenaline had curdled into phantom agony, the memory of the truck’s weight, the thinness of his blood all screaming in his veins. His hand dove into his pocket, closing around the crinkling packet. He took it, a wave of false peace washing over his face, brief and brittle. Then the door handle turned. He didn't hear the click. He didn't register the footsteps. He only felt the drug seize him, smearing the world into a bleary watercolor, as your shadow fell across the tiles behind him.