Fics like a left at the graveyard (i'm driving past ghosts)

“My mom died,” Buck says flatly, like reciting a fact he read somewhere. He adds a small shrug, as if that explains it. It doesn’t feel real. The words sit in the air, weightless and strange. Eddie frowns. Bobby shifts closer. “Are you okay?” Bobby asks gently. Buck blinks at him, then gives a quick nod, too fast to be convincing. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is thin, brittle. “Did you want me to start lunch? I was thinking maybe that cheesy broccoli bake.” Eddie’s brows knit together. “Buck…” he says carefully, voice low and steady. “Or chili,” Buck continues, his hands smoothing out a crease in his jacket like that’s the thing that matters. “I think we’ve got enough ground beef.” “Buck,” Eddie says again, firmer this time. Buck’s hands still. He finally looks up, meeting Eddie’s eyes. Oh. His mom died. or Margaret Buckley dies, and Buck tries to navigate grief, develops a complex relationship with apple pie, while Eddie, as always, is there.

Fics like a left at the graveyard (i'm driving past ghosts)

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