Chapter Text
interlude
Mosul. Spring 2023.
The usually bustling second city of Iraq is quiet this evening. Instead of the hum of commerce, the call to prayer, the hushed tones of Arabic, Buck just hears silence. A silence that burns. In the twenty years since the American insurgency, and six years after the Islamic State, the city is still rebuilding - and will continue to do so for some time.
Buck sits on his small porch, fit with a metal chair and sun-bleached pillow, a closed Quran in his lap. He’s never been particularly religious, despite his Episcopalian upbringing, he supposes he just wants to find answers. Answers that may never come.
“Buck, dinner’s ready!” Addie calls out to him from his ramshackle kitchen. Dr. Adeline Laurent, Addie to those at the hospital, is the latest in a long rotation of his friends to check in on him. He thinks he’s on some de facto suicide watch given what happened to the twins. The twins, who are just the most recent addition to Buck’s failures. Two more lives he couldn’t save.
“Coming.” He replies tersely, the sun is barely above the horizon. The sunset isn’t particularly beautiful now, just the faded burnt purples of the last remnants of sunlight. In fact, it’s getting cold, almost unbearably so. With a silent sigh, he shuffles back into his apartment, stealing a raggedy sweatshirt from years of wearing it.
Addie already has his plate full with food they both know Buck won’t eat. It’s pizza. There has to be a joke somewhere about a Frenchwoman making pizza for an American in the Middle East. Buck’s too tired to try to find it. He sits at his wobbly table across from Addie, who is also barely eating. It’s like she’s nervous, or finding the right words, the right thoughts to say to him.
“Buck… you know we all love you here. You’ve given so much of your life, your time, your heart to this job and this hospital.” She starts, though Buck can sense a ‘but’ coming. It’s true, though. There’s a minimum of 9 to 12 months of availability for MSF. Buck’s re-upped two times since then. There’s nothing left to go back to in America.
“But, we’re worried about you. You haven’t been the same since -” Buck looks up at her then, his face etched with a warning not to talk about the twins, “We just want you to be ok again, and we don’t think you can do that here.” Buck lets the words sink in for a moment. Years of not being good enough to stay, of words yelled at him, of people leaving flash into his mind. Iraq and Doctors Without Borders is just the latest notch in his belt of trying to find someplace to stay.
“We love you so much Buck. You’ve done great work here, but you should go back to America.” Buck pushes around the now cold pizza on his plate. It just cheese, probably from the market too. Could it have been in a goat just this morning when Buck was finishing up an overnight shift?
“I don’t have anywhere to go back to.” He mumbles out. For a second, just a brief second, he imagines going back to Los Angeles. Buck hasn’t seen or heard from Maddie or anyone at the 118 for three years. He wonders what their reactions would be. Happy? Shocked? Anger? Disappointment? Could he even deal with being back in that city, back with Eddie?
The thought almost seems unbearable. Unattainable.
“What if you go to Europe then? There are posts open in Rammstein.” She would know, she was a doctor for NATO in Europe for years. Buck bets that if he told her to call up the hospital in Rammstein he would have a job in 10 minutes flat. Maybe even five.
It’s no use though. There’s a part of him that does miss Los Angeles. That misses Maddie and the 118. It’s a yearning almost, a sticky residue that won’t leave his fingers. They’re the closest he ever got to ‘home’ or family. Then That Year happened. That Year entailed a ladder truck on his leg, an errant tsunami, losing Christopher, Eddie getting shot and pulling away, Bobby denying him his job. That Year was terrible. It nearly broke him.
Is the tape he’s used on himself strong enough to go back? Could fucking cement and glue make him stronger? There’s no clear answer. No real way to try either except actually going there.
“What if I go back and everything’s different? What if nothing is the same?” He asks, looking up at Addie with bloodshot eyes.
“Everything will be different. That’s life. What matters is how you play your cards.” She says succinctly. Buck could almost laugh. The deck he was dealt is shitty. All jokers.
“Maybe I should just fold then.” She tenses up at that, the casual mention of suicide. Buck’s not even 100% sure he would do it but the fact that he’s even considering it isn’t great. The logistics of killing oneself overseas while working for an NGO in a country in reconstruction must be a nightmare.
“Buck…” She begins, but Buck cuts her off. Deep down, past the grief and the bad shit, he knows she’s probably right. Hell, she is right. He’s just been too afraid to rip that proverbial band aid off.
“I’ll look around, ok? For postings back in the States.” He acquiesces. Addie breathes a little easier then. She’d miss him, so would the rest of the doctors, staff, and patients. Dr. Buck has become a bit of a notable person in Mosul. It’d be hard not to be, all 6’4 blonde hair and blue eyes of his sticks out like a sore thumb. His penchant for kindness would be missed, she once heard that someone came all the way from Rutba, nearly seven hours away, to see him.
“Keep me updated ok? And please - please - stay in touch.” She begs, her hand outstretched for his. Buck places his hand in hers and gives in a light squeeze.
“I will. I promise.” And Buck always keeps his promises.