heyyyy!! idk if you’ve done this yet w another character, but i was thinking maybe some buck x reader where buck is sick and tries to put on a brave face but reader takes care of him and it’s fluffy and sweet. thank youuuu!! <3
take care of you
evan buckley x fem reader
summary: buck is sick and you take care of him
a/n: this is my first 911 fic, so i do hope i’ve done it justice and i hope you enjoy it
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Buck has never been great at admitting when he’s was less than okay.
He has always been the type to brush off injuries, ignore fevers, and claim that he was fine. You always knew better.
So, when he walked into the firehouse with his shoulders hunched over and movements sluggish, like every step was an effort. You knew instantly that something was wrong. He clung to his hoodie pulling tight around him like a shield hiding the shivers racking through his body.
He nodded faintly at you as he walked in, his eyes rimmed with red, and skin void of colour beneath an unnatural flush.
You stood by your locker eyeing him suspicious. His hair was tousled like he hadn’t attempted to do it for the day, and the sleeves of his hoodie were pulled low over his hands. There was no bounding entrance, no joke cracked, no clapping Chim on the back. Just a quiet nod as he beelined for his locker.
“Hey, Buck,” you greeted softly, eyes lingering on the slight wobble in his step.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and strained.
You arched a brow, watching him a moment longer. You saw it. The slight sway as he tied his boots, the subtle wince as he straightens up. You decided it was your job to keep an eye on him from that moment.
The morning passed by in a blur of routine: gear checks, equipment cleaning, reports to file. Buck moved through it all like a shadow. He hadn’t made one snarky comment, there was no bite back at Chim’s heckling, and no laughter when Eddie made a horrific joke.
The only time you saw a shift in his frown was when he’d because he caught you watching him, but it never reached his eyes.
You had caught him leaning against the engine more than once, eyes fluttering shut for just a second too long. When Eddie asked him to help hoist a ladder, Buck grunted something and complied, but you noticed how he winced, how his legs shook when he thought no one was looking.
He was trying so hard to pretend he was fine.
And maybe no one else seemed to notice that he wasn’t except you.
Then a call came in just after noon.
A non-emergency call thank God. It was a sweet elderly woman down in the suburbs whose cat had climbed onto the roof and decided that is where it would remain. No danger. Just a chance to help, reassure, and get some fresh air.
You arrived on scene with Hen and Eddie, and while they dealt with the ladder setup and calming the frantic homeowner, you scanned the street for Buck.
You found him beside the truck, half hidden in its shade. He was gripping the side of the engine with whitening knuckles, and his other hand pressed flat against his lower back like he was steadying himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaking into the neck of his turnout gear, and when his eyes closed, he swayed slightly.
“Buck,” you said hesitantly as you approached, rummaging in your pocket. He startled slightly, eyes glassy.
“I’m good,” he rasped, “I just need a sec.”
“Uh-huh.” You held out a bottle of water and a protein bar, “Drink. Eat. Then sit.”
He looked at you like you were offering him gold, not snacks, “You’re a lifesaver,” he mumbled, uncapping the bottle with trembling fingers.
“Just don’t make me carry you back to the truck,” you teased gently.
He laughed for the first time all day, “Could be fun.”
You rolled your eyes, but your hand lingered on his.
The rest of the day went pretty uneventful. The team had returned back to the station, and went into their post-call clean-up, before settling into the calm between calls.
You had spent most of your down time pretending not to look at Buck, and failing miserably. He tried to carry on like usual, but he was fading fast. After lunch, you noticed he hadn’t touched his food, which was very unlike him considering his love for Bobby’s cooking, and instead just pushed it around with a fork before disappearing onto the sofa.
You waited for the rest of the crew to disappear back downstairs before joining him.
Sure enough, you found him on the sofa curled tightly under one of the many blankets you had left in the firehouse. His hoodie had scrunched around his neck, his boots were still on, and one of his arms draped over his eyes. His breathing was slow, congested, and soft.
You smiled crouching beside him and gently shaking his arm, “Hey, Buck,” you said softly.
He groaned and blinked up at you, “What time is it?”
“Time for you to go home.”
“I’m fine,” he murmured, already trying to sit up.
You stood quickly, hands out ready to steady him. He got to his feet and immediately swayed, blinking rapidly like the room was spinning.
“Okay,” he mumbled, grabbing onto your out stretched hands, “Maybe not one hundred percent.”
“That’s what I thought.” You nodded, snaking an arm around his waist letting him lean against you as you guided him downstairs and to the lockers.
You flagged Bobby with a small smile, “I’m gonna take Buck home,” you informed simply, trying to ignore the knowing smirk that played on your Captains face.
“Good. And maybe knock some sense into him while you’re at it.”
“Try not to burn the place down while we’re gone.”
Eddie followed behind a sluggish Buck with a raised eyebrow, “Wait, you’re taking him home?”
Hen looked between the two of you, then back at Chimney, “They’re seriously still not together?”
“I’m starting to think they’re doing it just to mess with us,” Chimney muttered.
“Dumbasses,” Hen sighed fondly.
You pretend not to hear them as a soft smile played on your lips, and you guided Buck to your car.
The warmth of Buck’s loft wrapped around you the moment you stepped through the door, the dim light a stark contrast from the station and the faint scent of cedar wood lingered through the air. You guided Buck up to his room pushing him to sit on the bed despite his half-hearted grumbles of protest.
You stood between his legs tapping his biceps gently, he lifted them with a wince letting you pull the sweat soaked hoodie off his warm body. The tips of your fingers skimming over his skin making his shiver instinctively.
“You do know I’m not dying, right?” He mumbled sleepily, rubbing his sore eyes before peering up at you.
“Didn’t say you were,” you said, turning away from him to toss the hoodie in the hamper, “But you’re definitely out of the count tomorrow.”
He collapsed back onto bed with a dramatic sigh, “You’re bossy when you’re concerned.”
You pulled the duvet over him, then leaned down, “You like it.”
His smile was small, sleepy, “A little.”
You kissed his temple, soft enough that it barely even registered in the moment, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
When you were younger, your mother had always made the same soup when you were sick. Sometimes you wished you’d get sick just to have some, and you carried on that tradition when you got older. Garlic, ginger, rice, chicken and carrots. A dish that was comforting, nostalgic, and medicinal all in one.
The loft filled with the gentle bubbling of the pot and the scent of broth and herbs. You hummed quietly as you worked, feeling oddly at home in the situation. When the soup was ready, you ladled a generous portion into a bowl, and you poured the rest into a container labelling it with the date and slid it into his fridge with a note stuck to the lid: reheat this. Or I will come do it for you.
You walked up the stairs carefully, the warmth of the bowl warming your hands and when you spotted Buck it warmed your heart all the same. You found him exactly where you left him, curled on his side, chest rising and falling steadily.
You placed the soup on the nightstand, cautious not to wake him, then leaned over, brushing a few curls back from his forehead.
His skin was still burning against your touch.
You bent down and pressed a soft kiss to his damp temple, “Goodnight, Buck.”
You turned to go but was stopped by the feeling of fingers wrapping weakly around your wrist.
“Can you stay?” he mumbled, barely audible, “Just for a little longer.”
You looked at him, at his flushed cheeks and pleading eyes, and your heart splintered a little.
“Yeah,” you whispered, “Of course.”
You toed off your shoes, and shimmied out of your jeans, before climbing into the bed beside him. He immediately shifted closer, curling into your side, his nose tucked against your shoulder, breath warm against your collarbone.
Your fingers found the curls at the crown of his head twirling them softly, feeling him relax further into you with every minute.
“Good night, Buck.” you whispered again, letting your own eyes drift shut.
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