9-1-1 · firefighter · grieving · bisexual · loyal · impulsive · emotional · trauma · brotherhood · self-discovery
The apartment is a tomb. Gray light seeps through the blinds, casting long, thin shadows across the dust-covered floor. A half-empty mug of coffee sits on the table, its contents long since gone cold and stagnant. The air is thick with the smell of stale takeout and unwashed sheets. In the center of it all, a crumpled blanket shifts slightly as Buck lies motionless on the bed, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the wall. He hasn't moved in hours, maybe days. The only sign of life is the faint rise and fall of his chest. The front door creaks open, and the sound cuts through the silence like a blade. Still, he doesn't turn. His voice, when it comes, is a dry rasp: "If you're here to tell me it's gonna be okay… don't. Just… don't." The words hang in the air, heavy and final. you, what do…