Hello, dearest, your words have at long last arrived. Like Etta James but not at all. Also asked by @wikiangela @eddiebabygirldiaz @stereopticons @daffi-990 🫶
“Are you expecting anyone?” Lucy asks. She sets down her early afternoon coffee, looking curiously in the direction of the front door.
Buck shakes his head, unable to verbally answer around the large bite of pastry in his mouth. It’s Sunday, so it’s possible someone’s come to call, but no one mentioned dropping by.
“I’ll go see who it is.” He starts to push his chair back.
“No, stay here,” Lucy insists, motioning for him to sit down again. “I’m sure it’s no one.”
Her boots click across the floor and echo in the hallway, the sound growing more faint as she nears the door.
Buck strains to hear any bit of conversation once he hears the handle turn. He’s completely given up trying to concentrate on his book anyway. The answering voice is masculine, not clear enough for him to understand what’s being said. There’s something familiar about the cadence, though. Like hearing the notes of a song without the vocals, or played on a different instrument. His brain stirs excitedly, but can’t seem to place it correctly.
At any rate he should check on Lucy. She’s been talking too long for their caller to be insignificant, though she hasn’t invited them in, either. He picks up his coffee, not wanting it to get any colder than it has, and carries it with him.
“Luce?” He calls. She’s standing in the doorway, obscuring his view of whoever it is. “Who is… it?”
Lucy turns to face him and several things happen at once. Time stops, speeds up, slows down. Buck is standing in his foyer, sitting at a bar in Virginia, laying in a field under the cover of millions of stars, stepping onto a cold unforgiving train platform. The porcelain cup drops from his fingertips, splintering when it crashes.
His mouth opens to say something or scream or cry, he’s not exactly sure. Eventually a single word, broken and foreign on his tongue from disuse, escapes. “Eddie?”
