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English
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Published:
2025-05-07
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2,296
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1/1
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Constellations of Survival: A Map of Scars and Stories

Summary:

Evan "Buck" Buckley’s birthmarks have always drawn unwanted attention—from his parents’ quiet shame to childhood bullies, dismissive dates, judgmental strangers, and even panicked victims. Each encounter chips away at his confidence, leaving him torn between self-consciousness and defiance. But when a cruel insult during a high-stakes rescue finally cracks his resolve, it’s Eddie Diaz who steps in, fierce and unyielding, to rewrite the narrative. With the unwavering support of his 118 family—Bobby’s quiet pride, Hen’s silent solidarity, Chimney’s knowing glances, and Christopher’s adoring crayon tribute—Buck learns that his birthmarks aren’t flaws to hide. They’re proof of survival, a roadmap of resilience, and a testament to the people who love every part of him, spots and all.

Work Text:

Evan "Buck" Buckley had always known his birthmarks were unusual—scattered across his skin like constellations, pale against his summer tan, a few darker ones curling along his collarbone and the side of his neck.

They’d been a part of him since birth, but it wasn’t until he was old enough to notice the way people’s eyes lingered that he realized they were something to be noticed at all. The first time it happened, he was six years old, standing in the dim hallway of his childhood home while his mother adjusted his tie for a family photo.

Her fingers, cold and precise, brushed against the birthmark just above his jawline, and she frowned, her lips thinning as she reached for a makeup sponge on the hallway table. "Hold still, Evan," she said, her voice clipped, dabbing thick concealer over the mark. "We don’t want people thinking you’re bruised."

Buck had stood rigid, staring at his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror as the makeup caked his skin. His father, passing by, paused to glance at him and sighed.

"It’s a shame," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Such a distraction on a boy."

Buck didn’t understand what "distraction" meant, but the way his mother’s mouth tightened told him it wasn’t good.

The second time, he was twelve, sitting in the cafeteria of his middle school when a boy named Tyler slid into the seat across from him, flanked by two snickering friends. Tyler’s eyes zeroed in on Buck’s neck, where his shirt collar had slipped, revealing the edge of a birthmark.

"What’s that?" Tyler sneered, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "Did you get attacked by a squid?"

Laughter erupted around them, and Buck felt his face burn as he yanked his collar up. "It’s just…birthmarks," he mumbled, but Tyler barked a laugh.

"Looks like mold. You contagious, Buckley?" The nickname "Moldy" followed him for weeks, whispered in hallways and scrawled on his locker, until Buck started wearing turtlenecks even in spring.

By the time he was twenty, Buck had learned to shrug off the stares—or so he told himself. He was on a date with a grad student named Liam, who’d smiled at him all night over candlelit tapas, his foot brushing Buck’s under the table.

But when they stepped outside into the golden glow of streetlights, Liam reached out, fingertips grazing the birthmarks on Buck’s neck. "You ever think about getting these lasered off?" he asked casually, as if suggesting a haircut.

Buck froze. "Why?"

Liam shrugged, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. "They’re just…unexpected, you know? You’d be perfect without them."

Buck’s stomach dropped, but he forced a laugh, dodging the hand that tried to slide around his waist. "I’ll take it under advisement," he said, and left Liam standing on the sidewalk.

The fourth incident came years later, halfway through a grueling 24-hour shift at the 118. Buck was kneeling beside a car wreck victim, a woman in her thirties pinned under a collapsed doorframe, when she suddenly reached up, her trembling fingers brushing the birthmark on his cheek. "

Sweetheart," she slurred, her pupils dilated from shock, "you’ve got dirt…all over your face."

Buck flinched but kept his voice steady as he radioed for the Jaws of Life.

"It’s just how I come, ma’am," he said lightly, but her nose wrinkled. "You should wash better. Looks…unprofessional."

Chimney, working beside him, shot Buck a sympathetic glance but didn’t speak—not until they were back in the engine later. "You good?" he asked quietly.

Buck nodded, staring out the window. "Always am."

The fifth time was at a grocery store. Buck, off-duty and exhausted, was reaching for a box of cereal when a woman beside him gasped. "Oh, honey," she said, clutching her cart. "Those bruises—are you safe?"

Buck followed her gaze to the birthmarks along his forearm. "They’re not bruises," he said evenly. "Just birthmarks."

The woman’s eyes widened. "But they’re so…dark. Have you seen a dermatologist?"

Behind them, a toddler in her cart pointed and giggled. "Mommy, he’s spotty like a puppy!"

Buck’s grip tightened on the cereal box. "Yeah," he said, forcing a smile. "Spotty. That’s me." He abandoned his cart in the aisle and left.

The one time happened on a crisp autumn afternoon at the 118. The team was gathered in the loft, Bobby flipping pancakes while Hen and Chimney bickered over a crossword. Buck, still rattled from the grocery store encounter, leaned against the counter, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the birthmark on his wrist.

Eddie, sharp-eyed as ever, noticed. He opened his mouth to speak—but the alarm blared, cutting him off.

The call was for a hiker stranded on a cliffside. By the time they arrived, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the rocks. The hiker, a man in his fifties, was clinging to a narrow ledge, his leg trapped under a boulder. Buck volunteered for the harness, descending with practiced ease.

"Hold on, sir," he called, securing the ropes. "We’ll have you out in—"

The man’s wild eyes locked onto Buck’s face. "What the hell is on your neck?" he snapped, panic sharpening his voice. "Are you diseased? Get away from me!"

Buck froze, the words like a punch to the ribs. Above them, Eddie’s voice crackled over the radio. "Buck? Status update."

The man thrashed, kicking loose gravel. "I’m not letting some infected freak touch me!"

Then Eddie was there—how he’d scaled down so fast, Buck would never know—his gloved hand clamping onto the hiker’s shoulder.

"Listen carefully," Eddie said, his voice low and dangerous. "That infected freak is the reason you’re not splattered on these rocks. So shut your mouth, or I’ll leave you here to rethink your life choices."

The man gaped, silent.

Eddie turned to Buck, his gaze softening. "You okay?" Buck nodded, breathless, as Eddie took over the rescue, his presence a steady anchor.

Later, back at the station, Eddie cornered Buck by the locker room.

"Hey," he said, uncharacteristically hesitant. "What that guy said…"

Buck shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "It’s fine. Happens all the time."

Eddie’s jaw tightened. "It’s not fine." He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing the birthmark on Buck’s neck—not hiding it, just…touching it, like it was worth touching.

"These?" Eddie said, fierce and quiet. "They’re not a distraction. They’re a map."

Buck blinked. "A map?"

Eddie’s lips quirked. "Yeah. To show you survived every damn thing that tried to ruin you. And anyone too stupid to see that?" He stepped closer, his voice a vow. "They don’t get to talk to you."

Across the room, Bobby set a plate of pancakes on the table, his eyes warm with unspoken pride. Hen grinned, snapping a photo of Christopher—who’d been drawing at the table—holding up a crayoned masterpiece: a stick-figure Buck with a galaxy of spots, labeled MY HERO in wobbly letters.

Buck’s throat tightened. For the first time in his life, the birthmarks didn’t feel like a flaw.

They felt like a story. And Eddie Diaz? He’d just become his favorite chapter.