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It starts on one of the hottest days in LA that Buck has ever endured. The streets of the city are sweating with nonsense calls that Buck would hardly believe if he read about them in the news. Things like rocketing manhole covers and exploding soup, or the guy who fell on an air nozzle and accidentally blew up like a tire. By the end of the shift, Buck’s feet drag heavy on the ground in his cumbersome work boots. He wants nothing more than to teleport directly into his bed. Unfortunately, he must do the whole shower, change, and drive home through infuriating LA traffic routine first.
Before going to the locker room and the showers, he heads up to the kitchens to collect his two Tupperware containers. He’s pleased to find that one of them is empty and has already been cleaned spotless (probably by Bobby or Hen) and waits for him on the counter. He grabs it and then heads over to the food storage pantry for B crew, expecting an empty yet still dirty container to be waiting for him. But to his immense surprise and confusion, the container which formerly held a dozen chocolate fudge peanut butter cookies is empty but also cleaned spotless. And a note rests on top of the Tupperware lid.
Really, it starts when Buck is still a probie. He’s about two months into his position at the 118, and he’s trying so hard to get on Bobby’s good side. He’s not above being a brown-noser. So, on his days off, he starts baking desserts and bringing them in on the next shift for the entire A crew. It earns him endless favor with Chimney and Hen, as well as a few others. It sometimes seems to work with Bobby, but then Buck erases all that good will by doing stupid things like stealing the firetruck to have sex.
But the habit of baking on his days off, in-between loads of laundry and other errands, becomes a permanent fixture in Buck’s life. Eventually, he starts perfecting his recipes, and then making an extra batch to leave behind at the station for the crew who will arrive after Buck has gone home.
He’s not sure why he puts in the extra effort for B crew. He’s hardly spoken a word to any of them, and they seem to be a bunch of ungrateful dicks if you ask Buck. They typically eat all the dessert he’s left for them without a single word of thanks, and they never bother to clean his Tupperware for him once it’s been emptied.
Which is why he’s in a state of shock today.
He plucks the note up to read it.
To the Mystery Baker from A crew,
Those were quite possibly the best cookies I have ever eaten in my entire life. Thank you for cheering me up on an otherwise dreadful first day at the 118.
Yours,
Mystery Dessert Appreciator from B crew
Buck subconsciously puffs out his chest a bit, and his face flushes happily as he grins to himself like a fool. He glances out into the kitchen, making sure none of his friends are near to read the note or see the way Buck preens pathetically at such praise from a stranger.
Sure, he’s heard how good his baking is hundreds of times from everyone on A crew… but this feels different somehow.
This person went out of their way to thank Buck and make him feel good, when they could have instead followed the status quo of B crew, joining the masses as an ungrateful dick.
He pockets the slip of paper, and then takes both the clean Tupperware containers to the locker room to shove into his duffel.
***
He wonders if it will be a one-time occurrence, wonders if Mystery Dessert Appreciator will bother to keep thanking him every single time that Buck leaves desserts for B crew. He does it at least once a week, sometimes twice, and he knows that’s far too often to expect a note every single time.
Still, he hopes.
And a couple days after leaving a container full of Broadway brownie bars in the usual spot in B crew’s pantry, Buck jogs into work with an extra pep in his step. He completely skips changing into his uniform for the moment and makes a beeline for the upstairs kitchen. Bobby sits at the table, sipping from a mug of coffee and reading the paper like the old man that he is. He arches an eyebrow in confusion as Buck barely offers a greeting and heads the pantry, perhaps thrusting it open with a little too much excitement.
There it is, fourth shelf up from the ground against the back wall, right in Buck’s eyeline, a nicely cleaned Tupperware container and a delicately perched note on top of the lid.
Buck is bouncing on the balls of his feet with glee.
Dear Mystery Baker,
I have a confession to make. I stole an extra one of the brownie bars to take home to my son. They were just so incredible that I simply could not resist. Thank you for the treats. I know everyone on B crew enjoys them, even if they never tell you as much.
Yours,
Mystery Dessert Enthusiast
Buck’s entire body feels warm and giddy with a stupid sort of fulfillment. Because these damn, praising notes are doing things to him. And it swells his heart while at the same time sending swells of blood to other areas of his body.
He shoves the note in his pocket, grabs the container, and wears that foolish grin all the way down to the locker room.
***
As much as Buck enjoys the ‘thank you’ notes, they also add a layer of pressure to his weekly dessert baking endeavors. Because now when he goes to select a recipe, he worries that it might not be something Mystery Dessert Enthusiast will enjoy. He can’t even fathom the disappointment he’ll feel if he comes in one day to find a note that says the person wasn’t really a fan.
So, he combs over recipes carefully, choosing one, then changing his mind a thousand times before settling. And when he sets to work actually baking the orange buttermilk cupcakes, he combines each ingredient with extra care as well as watching through the oven door like a hawk for the entire duration of the kitchen timer. He adds extra flourish to the icing design, wanting them to look pretty. Wanting the note-leaver to say that they both appeared and tasted perfect.
“Wow, Buckaroo, you went all out this time, huh?” Hen remarks when she sees him carrying in the two rather large, covered plates of cupcakes. He unveils the one to her, watching as her eyes widen at the intricate frosting details of each individual cupcake, and then he takes the other to the B crew pantry as usual.
“Are these citrus flavored?” Chimney asks him with half a cupcake already in his mouth.
“Orange,” Buck specifies.
Chimney easily finishes the rest and licks the buttercream icing off his fingers. “Wow. Between Bobby’s dinners and your desserts, I’m gonna have to start upping my workout routine.”
Buck thinks it’s strange, the difference between the compliments he gets from the people he knows, and the ones he gets from a stranger on little notes. It’s nice to be thanked and appreciated by his friends, but it doesn’t make his heart soar into another plane of euphoria like the notes do.
And Buck can barely sleep that night for thinking about what the newest note might say about the cupcakes. He tosses and turns, dreaming of a faceless person (man or woman, he has no preference) who kisses him with the taste of citrus on their lips, whispering wonderful words of praise.
Once again, the pantry becomes his first stop at the station, getting there before Bobby has even poured his coffee this time.
Dear Mystery Baker,
I’m starting to suspect that Paul Hollywood is actually a firefighter at the 118. Do you moonlight as a judge on Great British Bakeoff?
Those cupcakes were out of this world spectacular, and the time you must have spent on the beautiful frosting designs is commendable.
I don’t want to become expectant of your baked goods, but I must admit that I find myself constantly checking the pantry at the beginning of each shift. They’re easily the highlight of my weeks.
Yours,
Mystery Dessert Addict
Buck snorts at the joke about Paul Hollywood, amusedly imagining that guy in turnout gear, and then he lets the familiar flood of praise wash over him, sending pleasant little zings to each and every one of his nerve endings. It’s almost enough to make him feel high.
***
Buck really wants to open up the communication both ways with Mystery Dessert Addict, but he knows that if he leaves a note on a full container of desserts, then everyone in B crew will read it as they’re helping themselves.
So, whatever he chooses to say, it can’t be too lame or dopey or revealing. It has to be cool. Possibly a little bit witty. Something that will be like an inside joke between him and Mystery Dessert Addict, something that will hopefully make the person laugh.
Atop the Tupperware full of mini molten chocolate cakes, Buck places a sticky note that reads, Paul Hollywood could never.
He’s pretty pleased with himself about it for all of shift, but the second he gets home, he instantly goes into a spiral of self-doubt, thinking the joke probably won’t land and the person it was meant for will decide that Buck must be positively dumb. He goes for a five-mile jog just to quell some of his nervous energy, but it doesn’t manage to prevent him from tossing and turning all night in anticipation for what the new note might say on his following shift.
It turns out, Buck has nothing to worry about in the department of seeming lame, or at least, if note-leaver does find him lame, they don’t let on.
Dear Mystery Baker,
I was beginning to think these conversations would always be one-sided, and I’m delighted to know that that’s not the case after all.
I actually laughed out loud at your joke, although it stirred many looks of confusion from the rest of B crew.
Your handwriting is rather nice, but all the more impressive were those molten cakes you left for us. I cannot even believe the things you are able to make from scratch, and I find myself wondering when you could possibly find the time to devote to so much baking. We have the same job, you and I, and I barely manage time to make dinner for my kid every day. Do you have superpowers or something?
Yours,
Mystery Dessert Devotee
Ps. You’re right. Paul’s got nothing on you.
Like an idiot, Buck is still holding the note in his hand, grinning sappily, as he exits the pantry and makes to walk across the kitchen.
“Did Eddie leave you another note?” Bobby asks from behind his daily newspaper.
Buck stops in his tracks, heart dropping into his stomach and head spinning.
“Eddie?” Buck asks, marveling at the way the new name sounds from his tongue.
“Yeah. New recruit on B crew. I’ve ran into him a time or two, and he seems to be a huge fan of the baking you do.”
Buck swallows heavily. “Did you, uh… did you tell him about me?”
“Just that you do it for fun and don’t expect anything in return. He seemed very curious as to why you’d bother baking treats for a crew other than your own.”
“Oh…”
Buck can’t think of anything else to say, so he turns and heads down the stairs, making sure to hide the note before Hen or Chim see it and conjure a whole other awkward conversation.
For some reason, it bothers him to know Eddie’s name without them having had the chance to introduce themselves properly. It makes him feel like he’s skipping a step.
Still, the thought of a handsome firefighter named Eddie devouring Buck’s sweets excites him right down to his bones. He spends a good portion of his night, lying awake, trying to draw up features in his mind’s eye. He hopes for dark hair and dark eyes. A chiseled jawline would be nice too. Someone strong enough to match Buck pound for pound. His mouth dries with thirsty desire at the enticing images he thinks up.
***
Buck decides to introduce himself. To even the playing field. Plus, he wants to do something extra nice and special for the man who has continued to bring Buck joy all the weeks since Eddie started at the 118.
He meticulously constructs his best, gooiest caramel and chocolate bars, adding walnuts for a special crunch. Then, before leaving his house for the station, he takes out a blank one of his bordered cardstock recipe cards with the frilly cursive heading, and he writes out his note to Eddie.
Dear Eddie,
I hope you don’t mind that Captain Nash let slip your secret identity to me. I promise not to use my new knowledge for evil, though I must confess that I am in fact a super villain.
But, when I’m taking time off from firefighting and plotting to destroy the world, I like to bake desserts for people and hope that it puts a smile on their faces.
So, because you are apparently my biggest fan, I’d like to offer you something that I’ve done for no one else.
Do you have a dessert request? Anything at all, you name it, and I’ll make it. (I might even make extra for you to take home to your kid).
Let me know.
Yours,
Buck
He brings the caramel and chocolate bars in, dropping one container down in front of Chimney with a loud thunk, and then he takes off to the pantry, only pulling the note out of his back pocket and placing it atop the other container when he is safely alone in there.
But to his dismay, when he walks back out into the kitchen, Hen is standing right outside the pantry door smirking at him.
“Ya’ll are cute,” she says with a knowing look.
Buck gnaws at his bottom lip, perplexed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Hen and Chimney both belt out matching laughs.
“B crew pantry isn’t exactly the most private place to do a secret love letter exchange, Buckaroo,” Hen tells him.
“They’re not love letters,” Buck defends indignantly. “And what? You two have been reading them this whole time before I get the chance to collect each one?”
“Oh not just us,” Chimney informs him, “the whole station’s talking about it, B crew included. We’re all making bets on how this thing is gonna play out.”
Hen glares at her friend, most likely annoyed that he’s revealed too much.
“You all are making bets about me and Eddie? A man whom I have never even met nor do I know much of anything about other than that he likes my baking and has a kid and watches Great British Bakeoff.”
“Yup,” Chimney confirms, “trust me, Buck. He’s a beautiful man.”
Buck draws out an agonized groan for the embarrassment that he feels.
“Chim’s got a point. I’ve seen Eddie myself, and he’s definitely your type, Buck.”
“How has everyone met this man except for me?” he questions in exasperation.
They both give him unhelpful shrugs.
He immediately turns back toward the pantry, possessed by his new desire to trash that ridiculous note he crafted this morning, and forget this entire thing has ever fucking happened. Perhaps he could transfer to a different station so that he and Eddie never have to meet.
“Don’t you dare throw away whatever note you left him, Buckaroo,” Hen says in her best threatening voice.
“But—”
“Nope,” she shuts him down.
“But—”
“Nope,” Chimney says this time, forever taking Hen’s side on everything.
“But—”
“Don’t do it,” comes his Captain’s voice from the top of the stairs, and now Buck’s beyond annoyed that they’ve fully ganged up on him.
“Fine!” he throws his hands up in surrender and then stalks off to the locker room with a pout on his face.
Buck really wants to get rid of that note so that B crew doesn’t spend their entire shift laughing about it. But at the same time, he kind of doesn’t. He truly wants things to progress with Eddie, and this is Buck’s only means of doing so at the moment.
It looks like he’s just going to have to endure the entire rest of the station snooping in on his and Eddie’s correspondence for the time being.
And he’s so glad he didn’t throw the note away because when he comes in for the next shift, the note that Eddie has left him in return, thoroughly sprinkled with praise, makes Buck feel as if he’s flying.
Dear Buck,
I’m so glad to finally put a name to the world’s greatest baker, and what a lovely name it is. Those caramel chocolate bars were a godsend at the end of my shift, taking all the ache away from the five-alarm fire we had to fight through most of the night. It still amazes me that you so selflessly go out of your way to regularly do such kind things for people. I believe your Captain described it as an inherent trait of you “golden retriever personality” when I asked about you.
So, thank you. From the bottom of my heart. For being you, Buck. I can’t help but want to know you more.
Do I have a request?
Hmmm. Christopher (my son) and I do really love anything with toffee in it…
Surprise me?
Yours,
Eddie
Buck carries the note over to the couch in the lounge area and rereads it five times, smiling like a loon, before Cap yells at him for not being dressed in his uniform yet.
***
Buck does something different this time. He makes three separate pies (all are of the toffee crunch variety) before letting them cool and then placing covers over the pie dishes.
He juggles them on his way into the station, setting one down in its usual place for A crew, and then he goes to the pantry, pulling out two separate notes from his back pocket. He sets the two remaining pies down on the fourth shelf. On one, he places a note that reads, For B crew. On the other pie he perches the notecard that says, For Eddie and Christopher. Yours, Buck.
Later in the day, he catches both Hen and Chimney sneaking into the B crew pantry to read what Buck has written. He ignores them, pretending he doesn’t see. He doesn’t really care about their nosiness anymore. He genuinely feels that he’s laid all his cards on the table with Eddie, and he hopes that the next move that Eddie makes will be something grander than a ‘thank you’ note. Perhaps a phone number?
He goes home that night and sleeps like a baby, at peace with whatever might happen in a few days regarding Eddie and the desserts.
And when he walks in for his next shift, Buck is eerily calm. An audience has gathered in the bay, watching him with anticipation as he walks up the stairs and toward the pantry. A group of people stand at the kitchen island, whispering frantically, but they fall silent when Buck passes.
He opens the door, steps in to reach the shelf, but to his complete dismay, there is no clean pie dish. Nor a note.
Buck is crestfallen.
He stands in the pantry alone for at least five minutes, gathering his bearings, practicing a visage of indifference so that he can face the others waiting expectantly in the kitchen.
He takes three deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and then walks back out. Only then does he take full stock of the individuals lurking at the barstools. Hen and Chimney, of course. Johnson and Miller.
And a man Buck has never seen before. Dark hair, dark eyes. A perfect jawline covered in stubble. Impressively muscular.
And holding Buck’s pie dishes.
He’s watching Buck carefully with those dark brown eyes and a tentative smile.
Buck takes a few steps toward him and asks, “Eddie?”
Eddie nods and then takes a few steps of his own to where Buck stands awkwardly at the corner of the kitchen, making it easier for them to speak without being overheard by the intrusive ears of his fellow firefighters.
“I wanted to give you these,” he explains to Buck, “and say thank you in person. You really didn’t have to make an entire pie just for me and Chris, but we’re so grateful to you. It was by far the best toffee dessert we’ve ever had, and I’m sure we’ll both be dreaming about it for weeks.”
Buck knows the red flush and the heart swelling and the stupid smile is coming long before it actually does. He has to glance away from Eddie’s intense eye-contact as he grins like a fool, feeling the heat on his face. It’s both exhilarating and humiliating the way he’s simply melting at the man’s words of praise.
“It was no trouble, really,” Buck stammers after a moment.
“Still, I was hoping I could buy you dinner sometime to show my appreciation?”
And if Buck’s heart had swelled before, now his ribcage must be breaking open from the engorged size of it.
“You want to go to dinner with me?” His processing rate has taken a huge hit since the moment he noticed Eddie’s presence, so he’s slowly trying to catch up and piece everything together.
“Like a date, yeah,” Eddie confirms with a playful smirk, but Buck can tell that he’s nervous here as well. He’s afraid that Buck will turn him down.
“I’d love that,” Buck breaths out, and he’s surprised that his tongue and lips manage to make any noise at all.
A chorus of whoop’s comes from the group standing around the island. Buck can’t help but to roll his eyes.
Eddie chuckles but doesn’t tear his heated gaze from Buck. “Great,” he presents the clean pie dishes to Buck, “here’s these, and uh, I left my number on a note there.”
Buck takes them from him and looks down to see that there is indeed a piece of cardstock with ten beautiful digits written on it.
“Okay, I’ll call you, then,” Buck promises, and it manages to sound less shaky this time.
“Perfect,” Eddie answers, and then he’s leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss to Buck’s cheek, “thanks again, Buck.”
Buck’s not sure if he’s going to be of any use in fighting fires for the duration of the day. Because his entire being has evaporated into the sun that is Eddie’s warm lips on his skin. And long after Eddie has gone home, Buck remains standing there in the kitchen, touching a finger to the spot on his cheek.