#118 bashing

He regretted it as soon as the dial tone sounded. Had let his thumb hover of the name — debating — for more than a few seconds before giving in to the urge to press call.

And yet — as soon as it actually started ringing — he knew he shouldn’t have done it.

That he was fine. That he was being dramatic, once again.

But he also knew he couldn’t just hang up. That it would create a panic — force them to call back — to ask questions.

“Doctor Copeland’s office,” it was a new receptionist. Her voice melodically neutral as she answered the phone, “May I ask who’s calling.”

Buck stumbled over his words for a second, before rushing to explain, “Uh — don’t worry. It was an accident.”

“Are you sure… Mr Buckley?” She drew out the question as if reading the name off a screen and Buck cursed whatever Caller ID system the psychologist’s office employed that still recognised his number.

Her tone more concerned as she asked again, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah — yeah, of course.” He felt almost breathless as the lies left his lips, “Just a wrong number. Pressed the wrong person by mistake. Sorry for any trouble.”

“Okay — then,” she sounded doubtful. “Well, we’re here if you ever need us, Mr Buckley. Don’t hesitate to ring back now. Okay? I know Doctor Copeland would be more than happy to fit you in.”

“Yeah—” he agreed half-heartedly. Desperate to get off the phone before he did something stupid like actually ask for an appointment.

Knowing it was pointless. That he was fine.

“Have a nice day then.”

He finally freed himself from the conversation. Heart racing like it usually only did when he’s had to run up six flights of stairs in full turn outs.

He forced himself to drop his phone onto the counter — hands shaking as he thought about reaching for it again — and made himself walk away instead.

Looked around the kitchen desperately for something to do and was relieved to spot the small stack of dishes from the night before.

They usually did them together. Buck drying as Eddie washed — accused of almost flooding the kitchen one too many times before Eddie had finally relegated him to the less dangerous of the tasks.

They’d been too tired the night before. Exhaustion dragging them towards bed and leaving the dishes to wait until the morning.

It had been happening more and more lately. Truthfully Buck couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared their little ritual. Meals eaten in a rush as they raced out the door to work — whoever drew the short straw and got home first left to do the tidy up.

At least if Buck didn’t end up eating alone. Eddie always out these days — the friendship he'd struck up with Tommy keeping him gone until late whenever they had the day off.

Chris, even more sociable than his father. Forever at a friend’s house, or out with the girl that he swore to Buck wasn’t a budding romance. Swindling invites for sleepovers through charm and good humour that a young Buck could never have dreamed of emulating.

Always clinging just a little too tight for people to ever really settle in his presence.

It left him alone most nights. At least the ones he didn’t spend at the firehouse, revelling in the thrum of activity. Instructions from Bobby as they cooked, Chim and Hen’s quiet rivalry as they wrestled for control of the TV remote.

Eddie sitting next to him in the engine — their legs brushing they were sat so close. Sometimes it felt like the most intimate they ever were anymore.

Never mind the way they’d clung to each other having rescued Bobby and Athena. Buck pressing into bruises to leave them there a little longer. To remind himself that Eddie had chosen him, that he loved him.

Not that he needed the reminder.

Buck knew that. Intrinsically. He did.