It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

Abusive Phillip

Buck had tried to prepare himself. He had tried to convince himself that it would be different this time. But every time he walked through the door of his childhood home, he could feel the weight of it pressing in on him—the past, the memories, the suffocating air that had always filled this house. He could still hear his father's voice in the back of his mind, taunting, belittling, accusing. Even after everything—after all these years—coming back here felt like stepping into a cage.

He opened the front door slowly, the creak of the hinges too loud in the silence of the house. The house felt cold, emptier than it ever had before. His mom was in the kitchen, her back to him as she hummed softly, moving around the counter. She didn't look up. She never did.

Buck sighed, pushing the door closed behind him.

"Hey, Mom," he called, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn't sure if she would even hear him. Sometimes, he wasn't sure if she noticed him at all.

She turned, offering a distracted smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes. "Oh, Buck. You're home." Her voice was faint, distant, like she was speaking from somewhere far away. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah, just—" He faltered, stopping himself before he said anything more. He didn't want to worry her. She already had enough to deal with. "Just a usual day. How're you?"

She didn't answer right away, just waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Fine. Just... busy."

Buck nodded, already feeling the distance between them. He didn't know why he tried anymore. She wasn't the one who had hurt him all those years. It wasn't her punches that had left bruises, her words that had scarred him. But it was her silence that stung the most. The way she pretended everything was okay when it was so obviously not.

But then, as always, the door to the living room slammed open, and there he was. Phillip. His father.

Buck froze.

"You're late," Phillip spat, standing in the doorway, his body tense, rigid. The man had barely aged a day since Buck had left for the firehouse years ago. Still tall, still imposing, still angry. He didn't have to say much to make Buck's skin crawl. His presence alone filled the room with an oppressive weight.

"I—" Buck didn't have a chance to finish his sentence before his father was on him.

"You think you can just come and go as you please?" Phillip's voice was low, angry, with that venomous edge that always made Buck feel small, insignificant. "You think this is your house now? You think you can just waltz in and out of here like I'm some kind of joke?"

"I wasn't—" Buck began, trying to step back, trying to avoid the confrontation. He had been through this enough times to know where it would lead. He tried to steady his breathing, but it wasn't enough. His pulse was pounding in his ears, his chest tightening with anxiety, the familiar knot in his stomach pulling tighter and tighter.

"You think you can just leave me here, after everything I did for you?" Phillip's voice rose, and his hand shot out, grabbing Buck's arm with surprising force. "You're nothing but a disappointment. Always have been. Always will be."

Buck's breath caught in his throat. He knew what was coming. He knew how this went. It wasn't a matter of if his father would hurt him—it was a matter of when.

"Stop it," Buck tried, his voice barely above a whisper. But it didn't matter. Phillip wasn't listening. He never did.

Before Buck could even react, his father's fist connected with his jaw. The force of it sent him stumbling back, his head ringing. The pain was sharp, but it wasn't the physical pain that made his stomach churn. It was the weight of the words, the cruelty behind them, the overwhelming rush of old memories flooding back.

"Worthless," Phillip snarled, stepping forward, shoving Buck harder. Buck's feet slipped on the hardwood floor, and he found himself falling against the wall, barely managing to catch himself before he hit the ground.

He tried to stand, tried to get his bearings, but it felt like the room was spinning, his vision blurring. "Stop... please," he choked out, his voice weak, but his father wasn't listening.

"Please?" Phillip scoffed, stepping forward again. His eyes were wild, his hands trembling with anger. "Don't you dare beg me. I don't want to hear it. I've had enough of you. You think you can leave me in this house and not even care about what's left? You think you're too good for me now?"

Buck's chest was tightening, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The memories were flooding him now—his father's brutal hands, his cruel words. The smell of alcohol in his breath, the sharp sting of his fists.

It was all the same. It always had been.

"Please," Buck whispered again, barely able to catch his breath. His knees were giving out beneath him, but he had to stay upright. He had to keep it together. He didn't want to be weak. Not now. Not in front of him. But the panic, the suffocating weight of it, was too much.

"You think I care about you? About your feelings?" Phillip continued, his voice a low growl. "I've spent my life trying to make you into something you're not. And you've always let me down. Always."

The words were like daggers in Buck's chest. Always. That word, that single word, was enough to unravel him.

"Dad..." Buck's voice cracked, his throat burning. His body was shaking now, his hands trying to brace himself against the wall, but it didn't stop the darkness creeping in. His father's figure loomed over him like a shadow, making him feel smaller than he'd ever felt.

"Shut up!" Phillip shouted, grabbing Buck's shirt and pulling him upright. The next punch came quick, landing square in Buck's stomach, knocking the wind from him. He gasped for air, clutching his ribs, his vision going black for a moment.

But there was no escape. Not here. Not now.

"You think you can walk out of here like you're something special? Huh?" Phillip growled, tightening his grip on Buck's shirt. "You'll never be good enough. Never."

Buck didn't know how much longer he could take it. His breath was coming in sharp gasps, his body trembling, his legs ready to give out. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think—his mind was a haze of panic, of pain, of everything he had tried so hard to escape.

And then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. The weight of his father's hand on his chest, the fire of his anger—it was all just gone. The door to the house had opened.

"Hey!" Eddie's voice cut through the silence like a knife, filled with authority and fear. He was there, rushing through the door, his eyes locked on Buck. "Get your hands off him."

Phillip froze, his hand still gripping Buck's shirt. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he snarled, his gaze snapping toward Eddie.

"I'm the guy who's getting you out of here," Eddie said, his voice calm but firm. He stepped forward, placing himself between Buck and his father. "You don't get to treat him like this anymore. Not while I'm here."

For a moment, Phillip just glared at Eddie, his face contorted with rage. But then, with a snarl, he shoved Buck away and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Buck was left on the floor, gasping for air, his body shaking violently. Eddie knelt beside him, his hand gently resting on Buck's back. "You're safe now," Eddie murmured, his voice soft but full of concern. "I'm not going anywhere."

Buck couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything except breathe. He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, curled up on the floor, Eddie's presence anchoring him in a way his father never could.

But for the first time in a long time, Buck felt the weight of the world shift. He wasn't alone anymore. Not with Eddie by his side.