#utterly indulgent

Being lonely wasn't new to Buck.

Sure, he was surrounded by people. He has his family at the 118, he has Maddie. He knows if he were to reach out to them, ask for help when his mind was somewhere dark and deep and he was thinking thoughts he really shouldn’t be—well, he knew they would help him.

But sometimes, loneliness came no matter how many people you had in your life.

In his big, quiet apartment, most days, the silence was deafening. He had to put on the television to some random to show to fill the space, a pathetic attempt to try and convince himself he wasn’t as alone as he felt. Sometimes, loneliness came in staring at his phone, wondering if another text or another call would be considered too much, too needy, left on read with no reply because they were busy with their own lives and their own families.

He knew it was stupid, he knew they would be more than happy to have a conversation with him but—he swallowed against the burn of tears in his eyes. Sometimes, he just wanted them to try and talk to him first. To reach out first. Check in on him, see how he was doing, even if the conversation wasn’t longer than five minutes he just—he wanted someone to try. Was that selfish of him?

Exhausting.

Buck was tired. All the time it felt like he was giving and giving and giving and normally, he was okay with that. He had a big heart, plenty of love to around, and he enjoyed taking care of the people he held close and called family.

He just tried to ignore the sting of hurt that it didn’t seem like they felt the same.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone reached out to him to make sure he was alright. After a tough call, sometimes Buck would give Eddie a call under the pretense of making sure he was doing okay, trying not to feel selfish when he felt himself relax as Eddie inquired about him before they ended the call. But, that’s what it always was. Sure, people would make sure Buck was okay. But it only happened after Buck asked about them first. After Buck started the conversation.

Some days the small whispers in the back of his head that told him his family didn’t need him, that they were eventually going to leave and forget about him, some days the voices were too loud. They screamed and demanded to be heard, shouting every insecurity buried deep in Buck’s heart in the quiet emptiness of his apartment.

You’re being too much. You’re exhausting. You’re selfish, they shouted at him.

I know, I know I am, he would cry back, his screams turning into sobs as he shouted at the walls of his apartment. I know I am!

The fear of being left behind was built so deeply into who he was. He knew he could be too much, too annoying, too loud, but he was trying.  He was trying so hard to keep this little family he built but there were some days when it felt like it was slipping from his hands like water no matter how desperately he tried to cup it in his hands.

Date night with the wife.

Buffet Friday.

Kids night with Michael.

First date with Ana.

The excuses came and with each one casually thrown his way, he shrinks in on himself. Of course, of course, of course they have other plans, things to do with their children, busy lives. Wonderful, full, vibrant lives away from the station house of the 118. They came more often now than they did before—now that families were growing, kids were getting older, new relationships were being made and forged. He feels hurt when they dismiss his desire to hang out together and then guilty for being so selfish of their precious time outside of work.

Buck wished he could make them understand. That when they were all together, he felt a little less alone, the voices were drowned out by the laughter and gentle teasing from the rest of the team. He wanted them to understand the joy he felt playing with their kids, the wistfulness for his own to have and hold and love one day. He wanted them to understand the loneliness that seemed to eat away at him inside.

But he was trying not to be selfish, and the team was good, they were happy, they were all in a good place. Buck didn’t need to make this about him by bringing up insecurities that had followed him from childhood.

So sometimes he goes to a local bar and drinks. He never gets drunk, but he gets a pleasant enough buzz that warms him to his bones and quiets the voices in his head. When he’s at the bar, sometimes he can close his eyes and let the noise wash over him. As long as he doesn’t think about how alone he is, sometimes he can trick himself into feeling satisfied in this crowded bar full of people.

Some days, though, bad days, when his brain won’t shut up and he’s itching to bounce out of his skin, he has to go back to his apartment and drink until he blinks and suddenly it’s morning. Those days he knows he’s being too loud, too annoying, too much—he irritates everyone at the station, even Eddie, and he tries, he tries not to but it never seems to work. He’s always doing something wrong, messing something up to the point he just wants his shift to be over so he can go home and cry.

Buck gets wasted, sometimes, but he’s never loud. He sits and drinks and drinks and drinks until the bottle is empty and he has to go get a new one. He stares at his phone on the table in front of him, waiting, hopeful for—well, he’s not sure what sometimes, too far gone in the cloudy bliss of alcohol. 

But he knows.

He wants the phone to light up. He wants someone to barge into his apartment to make sure he’s okay. He wants someone to come and hold him and not let go and promise him they won’t leave him like everyone else. He wants a shoulder to cry on, promises made in quiet whisper that echo around the apartment.

His phone stays dark.

Everyone always leaves him.