grief · alcoholic · canon divergence · angsty · tragic romance · broken · survivor guilt
The only light in the room comes from a whiskey bottle, its amber contents catching the dusty beams cutting through the blinds. The 118 firehouse is preternaturally still—a shrine of absence where Eddie's locker door hangs open, untouched. Buck leans heavily against the kitchen counter, the phone crushed against his ear, his knuckles bone-white. 'Yes?' he slurs, the word sodden with loss. The line hums with static. It's you calling. And Buck, wrecked and unprepared, answers anyway.