Chapter Text
Buck waited until the sounds of the engines faded completely before he straightened up. He didn’t look at his reflection in the mirror as he stepped back, instead letting his eyes trace the pattern of the tile between his shoes over and over again. Just for something to focus on.
He shambled, limbs heavy and unfamiliar, out of the locker room to be met by the thunderous silence of a completely empty station.
The dissonance made him flinch.
Buck didn’t pause his gait even as he blinked into the natural light of the station. He moved with hard-learned purpose. You didn’t have to be smart to be a quick study. Skipping meals really wasn’t an option for him anymore.
So Buck stumbled up the stairs despite the numb horror licking at his edges. Despite the ache in his stomach that didn’t feel a thing like hunger.
Quiche for breakfast—Bobby had outdone himself and foregone a simple breakfast casserole in favor of a loving spread of different savory breakfast pies.
Stiffly, Buck snagged a pie tin that was still one-third full and headed back downstairs, clutching his prize with half-numb fingers.
He was still—he was still at work. He couldn’t go hide in the bunkroom when he was the only man here. What if someone—what if someone came in needing help, and couldn’t find him?
So it was with civil responsibility in mind that he grabbed a metal folding chair, spun it to face the open bay doors, and sat. From this position, he couldn’t miss someone entering the station if he tried.
He’d forgotten to grab any utensils and lacked the energy to hike back upstairs. It didn’t matter. Buck settled for scooping lukewarm quiche out of the tin with his hands and shoveling it into his mouth. Messily, robotically. Eating because he knew he had to. He wouldn’t last if he didn’t eat.
His energy slowly returned to him. The tension keeping his muscles taught and trembling eased out of him, leaving him loose-limbed and sore. The panic, the terror, the fury that had gripped him cracked apart, thawing instead into a tender, aching sort of shame.
Soft, hiccupping sobs, intercut occasionally by sniffling and chewing, accompanied Buck as he slowly began to feel human again.
The first thing that made itself known to him was the ache. All over his body, but concentrated most brightly in his shoulders and upper back, which felt like...well, like he’d tried to lift a firetruck with his bare hands. He stretched a little, craning his neck this way and that to try to relieve some of the burn.
Awareness drifted in lazily, after that.
Buck could feel the metal of the folding chair, cold and unyielding against his back and thighs. He pressed back against it, to feel the resistance for himself. The chair held.
Dry sweat and grease and oil clung to his skin, grimy and itchy and real. He stretched out his legs in front of him, just to prove he could. He wiggled his toes, trying to warm them up. His shirt was wet from the bathroom sink.
The soft hum of the lights joined the sounds of his own breathing, his own heartbeat. Then, the tick of a nearby wall clock. The metallic crumple of the tin in his hands.
The rest of the world, not waking or restarting, but letting Buck back in. Letting him be a part of it again.
The thought came to Buck that if he stood up, walked over, and touched one of the walls of the station, he knew how it would feel beneath his fingers. He knew the gentle scratch of the exposed brick, the tacky smoothness of the plaster. He knew that if he leaned on it, it would hold solid. He knew it so completely that he didn’t need to check.
Carefully, Buck scooped up the last remaining slice of his stolen quiche and brought it to his mouth.
There were red peppers and some kind of fancy cheese in it, he noticed. It was good.
His arm dropped to his side, the empty tin slipping from his slack fingers and falling to the floor with a soft, papery tink.
He breathed deeply.
Somewhere between an eternity and his last blink, the familiar rumble of the returning cavalry greeted him.
Buck waited until they were just close enough to see him, to see he hadn’t abandoned his post, before throwing a concerned looking Chimney a lazy salute. Then he stood, turned on his heel, and headed for the showers.
Buck’s second shower of the morning was efficient and methodical. He scrubbed himself down to his nailbeds and cranked the water temperature as high as it could go, filling the room with steam. No one else came in while he was there, not even the guys like Rick who liked to rinse off after every single call. Maybe thoughtfulness, maybe distaste.
Whichever it was, Buck resented how much he appreciated it.
After his shower, he shrugged into a warm, clean set of sweats, almost crisp in their newness. He kept his head down, making a beeline for the bunkrooms.
See, Bobby had unofficial rules about how to treat people professionally in a work environment where boundaries were easy to blur. In practice, this meant that in the entire time Buck had worked at the 118, he had never seen Bobby wake up a sleeping firefighter to yell at them.
It seemed like a good place to hunker down.
Out of habit, he'd left the bunkroom door propped open and dropped into the bed just inside, putting him as close to the sounds of the station as possible. The laughter trickling in, the sounds of work and exercise and comradery settling over him like a blanket.
He hadn’t been lying before. He felt safer at the 118 than maybe anywhere else on the planet. So it made sense that he passed the fuck out within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
It was the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep he’d gotten in months. Long spans of deep, uneventful quiet, broken by soft moments of drowsy cognizance that brought him close to the surface of wakefulness and let him float there, content, before sinking back down again.
It was during one of these in-between periods when he dimly registered someone entering the bunkroom. He didn’t open his eyes or call out a greeting; his body felt heavy in a way that promised soreness when he finally moved, and he wanted to put off the inevitable as long as possible.
Buck hoped distantly that whoever it was chose a bed on the other side of the room. His hair had curled as it dried, fluffy and clean and ruffled to all hell from having been slept on. People around here had a hard enough time taking him seriously as it was.
But the delicate footfalls stopped at the foot of Buck’s bed and went no further. After a moment of shared hesitation, the bottom edge of Buck’s blanket was peeled up and pushed back.
The action prompted groggy curiosity from Buck rather than alarm. He was at the station; no one was going to hurt him.
It was probably just Chimney, he thought, come to check on him but not wanting to wake him up.
There were hands on Buck, then, feeling along his left leg: one cupping the swell of his calf, one gently cradling his socked heel. Gently pressing, squeezing, feeling for damage and carefully manipulating the joint this way and that. Like they were confirming for themselves that muscle and bone and full articulation were still there, solid and dependable and in one piece.
The attention felt vaguely medical in nature, but his heart still twinged the way it always did whenever someone touched him with care.
There was a ragged sigh above him. A familiar one.
“You,” Eddie breathed, soft as a secret, “scare the living hell out of me, you know that?”
Before Buck could wake up enough to react, the blanket was carefully tucked back over his foot, and Eddie left, leaving the door cracked behind him. Because he knew Buck slept better that way.
Well. Buck was wide-awake now. He sat up with a groan, blinking sleep from his eyes, and took in the room.
He was more surprised than he should have been, maybe, to discover that his bedside table had been loaded down with food while he rested. Chicken and potatoes and bread and broccoli and green beans and parsnips, enough to feed him for at least two meals. His eyes stung as he took in the tall glass of orange juice with a sticky note that simply said HYDRATE, DUMMY in Chimney’s familiar scrawl.
After eating his fill, he must have drifted off to sleep again, because the next thing he knew Hen was shaking him gently awake.
“Buck,” she said, with the air of someone trying to deliver a terminal diagnosis delicately. “Bobby wants to talk to you.”
“Shit.” Buck climbed out of bed and winced at the tight, aching pull of his muscles. He stretched, hoping to ease some of the soreness and finish waking up before facing his firing squad. “Well, it’s been fun, Hen. If I don’t make it back in one piece, you can have my Xbox.” No wait, shit, had he already sold his Xbox? He couldn’t remember.
“Maybe it’ll go well?” She didn’t look like she believed the words coming out of her mouth, but he appreciated the effort.
It had been good while it lasted. He blew Hen a kiss on his way out the door and did an admirable job of walking like a normal person as he crossed the station, trying to flatten his unruly hair with just his fingers.
He felt more grounded than he had this morning, a product of having some actual rest and a real meal under his belt. The prospect of talking to Bobby had ceased to be terrifying and had resigned itself to grimly inevitable.
Bobby, looking uncharacteristically nervous, actually jumped when Buck opened the door to his office. Hadn’t he sent for Buck in the first place? What did he have to be jumpy about?
“Have a seat, Buck.” Bobby hesitated. “Or. Do you want to sit down? You can stand, if that’s better.”
Buck squinted at Bobby, baffled. “Is this some kind of test?” he asked.
“No,” Bobby shook his head. “Sorry, I just want you to be comfortable.”
“You should get better chairs, then,” Buck joked as he sunk into one, but it looked like Bobby was actually considering it, so he changed the subject. “What did you want to talk to me about?” As if he didn’t know.
“Buck,” Bobby started, then stopped. Pulled his shoulders in as if bracing for something. “How are you feeling?”
“...I’m fine.” Buck offered flatly. “How are you?”
“No, that’s not—” Bobby seemed flustered. It was unusual, which was probably for the best, because it really didn’t suit him. “I’m sorry about this morning, Buck.”
What?
“...because I’m fired?” Buck guessed warily.
“Fired?” Bobby’s eyebrows jumped up to meet his hairline. “Who told you you were fired?” More delicately, he continued, “You’re not in trouble, Buck.”
That can’t be right. Buck must have misheard. “Bobby, I...I yelled at you in front of everyone.I was way out of line. I know that.” Also, I spent the whole shift either sleeping or pretending to, but if Bobby didn’t know about that, Buck wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.
“It’s a little more complicated than that. Buck, you experienced something medical, and instead of listening or giving you space, I pushed. You needed help, and I let myself get pulled into an argument.” Bobby shook his head. “It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t what you needed.”
“You can’t let me get away with stuff just because I’m crazy.” Buck pointed out, feeling oddly defensive. “That’s not fair to the firefighters who aren’t crazy.”
Bobby rubbed his temples. “You’re not crazy. No one here is crazy.”
Then stop looking at me like that.
“How come you get to be the one who decides whether I’m crazy or not? That’s kinda messed up, Cap.”
Bobby jerked back in his seat. Then, as though trying to disguise the motion, he shuffled a pamphlet out of his bag and tossed it onto the desk between them like it was sharkbait and he was scared to lose a hand.
PTSD: Understanding Wounds of the Soul
Jesus Christ.
(Literally. It looked extremely Catholic.)
“You,” Bobby said tenderly, as though this conversation wasn’t going horribly, “went through a bad experience. Sometimes, if you’re suddenly reminded of that experience, your brain tries to use what it learned last time to protect you.”
“I know what a flashback is.” Buck glowered. “I’m not stupid.”
Bobby threw his hands up. “I know you’re not stupid. I’m just trying to—” He cut himself off. “Buck, please. I just need to know if you're okay.”
“I already said I was fine,” Buck crossed his arms, heart pounding.
Bobby stared at him, visibly out of his depth.
Because what could he say?
The singular victory Buck could claim was that Bobby couldn’t make him leave because of any complications resulting from his accident six months ago. This absolutely qualified.
The HVAC hummed. Buck’s hair drooped onto his forehead, and he scraped it back with one hand.
They stared at each other, not breaking eye-contact.
Neither of them said therapy.
[Buck had screwed up therapy in the same way he screwed up a lot of things. Therapy was like a weird combination of a hospital and a church: sacred in a way that he had utterly failed to comprehend from the soft side of twenty-five, confused and grieving and so, so stupid.
The regret had filtered in slowly after the session had ended. The skin-to-skin warmth of basking in another person’s heartbeat for a little while had faded, only to be replaced with a dull, prickling shame.
He’d done it again.
The unprofessional, idiotic behavior that had nearly cost him the first real purpose he’d ever found in his life. The fact that it hadn’t technically happened while he was at work didn’t help with the nauseous panic that had chased his heels, scratching like fingernails around his neck, against the skin of his inner thighs. God, this...this could ruin everything.
Only four months into probation and he was past his last chance at the 118. He knew that, and he’d still gone and fucked it up. Bobby was going to fire him for good this time. Cut him loose. Set adrift, again, except this time he’d bring Devon with him on the road.
The last thing he would ever do as a firefighter was let someone die.
Bobby had been trying to help him. Buck had failed Devon, and then turned around and failed Bobby, too.
His appointment had been at 11am and he’d gotten out before noon. There was still plenty of daylight left to burn.
On his way back home, Buck had picked up a bottle of cheap, strong tequila. He locked himself in his room and drank until he couldn’t think about it anymore.
He’d woken up the next morning, guilt and tequila churning together in his stomach, to three texts from Bobby:
At around 3pm:
How was your appointment?
Then, hours later:
You’re not fired.
Meet me at my office at 3pm.
Buck fumbled his phone to his call history to find a series of calls to Bobby’s number, each with a call length of 0:00.
He’d blacked out and called his boss no less than five times: The first at 7pm and the last just after two in the morning.
Thank god he hadn’t picked up.
(In Buck’s groggy, half-drunk state, the reason Bobby knew about what had happened was because Bobby always seemed to know everything; Buck rarely ever talked on the phone and didn’t consider the fact that missed calls tended to go to voicemail.)
Fuck.
He went to the damn meeting. He didn’t know what else to do.
He’d shuffled into the station wearing ratty sweatpants and a T-shirt with a hole in it, because what else did he have to lose? His dignity?
“Buck.” Bobby had said, calm and composed in a way that could only be completely forced, “You know that’s assault, right?”
Turns out, Buck’s last hurrah as a total slut had been an actual crime. The fact that it hadn’t technically been a crime on his part didn’t help the guilt gnawing at his stomach.
“Technically, yeah.” Buck had stared at his shoes, arms wrapped around himself. Unwilling to meet Bobby’s gaze. Nervous of what he might see there. “I know...I know I screwed up. I’m sorry. I promised you I’d do better.”
“Look at me, Buck,” Bobby’s voice was strained. Buck kept his eyes on his shoes. “Do you hear what I’m saying? You’ve been assaulted.”
Buck’s head jerked up to stare at Bobby disbelievingly. “It wasn’t like that. You know what I’m like. And I didn’t say no! I—I liked it. I consented, is that what you want to hear?”
“You weren’t in a position to legally consent.”
“It was stupid, I know it was stupid, I just want to move on.” Buck said desperately. “You said you weren’t going to fire me. It sounds like you don’t even blame me. Fine! Are we done? Can I go?”
Bobby looked at him for a long, long moment before he said, “Firefighters are mandatory reporters, Buck.”
Stunned silence, then: “There’s nothing to report!” Christ. She’d told him, hadn’t she? She’d said to keep this to himself. “There’s people out there who, who hurt people. There’s victims who need actual support, and you really wanna waste everyone’s time reporting—"
“—therapists who have sex with people I send to them for help? Who take advantage of emotionally vulnerable patients during sessions and then convince them they’ll be fired if they tell anyone?” Bobby was a large man, but he did a good job of hiding it behind midwestern manners and a gentle approach to his own authority. But right now, with his shoulders thrown back and his eyes flashing? He towered over Buck. “Yeah. I really do.”
The callous, logical way Bobby laid it all out made Buck flinch. It took him a moment to find his voice. “She didn’t—” he swallowed, throat dry, “no one took advantage of anyone.” And it wasn’t people, it was just me, but he couldn’t explain with words why it was true. It just felt true. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“No.”
“Can you just...keep my name out of it? I don’t want this to hurt my chances of going full time. I don’t consent t-to details from my session being shared with my name attached. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. To anyone.” Buck really, really couldn’t afford to have something like this on his record. “Can I say that?”
“Yeah, kid,” Bobby had looked at him, expression something close to sad. Disappointed, maybe. “You can say that.”
“Is there something else?”
“...Buck. About the messages you left—”
“Really? Messages? Cap...” Buck scrubbed a hand over his face, exhausted. It had been almost three days since he’d last shaved, and the scrape of stubble against his palm was oddly grounding. “If I sent you something last night...listen, I was drunk as a skunk. I don’t even want to know what I said.” He snorted a grim laugh. “Do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it. Can I please go now?”
“Before you leave, I’m...” Bobby sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls, kid. I’m going to start keeping my phone on when we’re not working, so. Call if you need to.” A clearing of the throat. “Sober, drunk, high, whatever. I’ll pick up.”
Buck blinked at him. Why would you do that? he wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure he’d like the answer. Instead, he asked, “Are we...can we be done here?”
“We can be done here.”
Bobby kept his word. He didn’t try to talk to Buck about that appointment again.
If there was an investigation, Buck never caught wind of it.
A few months later, he heard through the grapevine that Dr. Welles had been permanently suspended from practicing within the state of California.
He didn’t dwell on it.
And Bobby?
Bobby never suggested Buck try therapy again.]
But two years later, here they were. Buck was crazy and Bobby couldn’t even send him to a shrink.
It’s not like Buck didn’t know how this would end anyway. He’d proven himself utterly incompetent, but in a way that meant Bobby couldn’t fire him. Long story short, Buck could kiss his chances of going on a call any time soon goodbye and should prepare instead to field even more concerned glances from the rest of A-shift whenever he did anything more dangerous than wash the fucking dishes.
But Bobby surprised him. He muttered what sounded like bad advice and stupid idea under his breath, swept aside the forlorn pamphlet, and put his elbows on the desk, leaning forward to look Buck in the eye. “Forget the science stuff. I know you well enough to know you’ll research the mechanics behind it yourself, if you haven’t already. You don’t need me for that.”
Bobby waited until Buck met his gaze, then said, “What do you need, Buck?”
“What?” The question threw him off. Buck’s arms uncrossed and he scooted forward in his seat unconsciously.
“What do you need from me?” Bobby asked it like he wanted a real answer. “What can I do to support you right now?”
Buck couldn’t have said what he needed before walking into this room. He didn’t know for sure that there even was something he needed until Bobby asked.
“You need to let me go back under the truck.” Buck blurted out. “And in it, and on it. The other engines, too.”
Maybe crazy was new to Buck, but pain wasn’t. His go-to method was to press on the bruise until it stopped making him flinch. Maybe that could work with this, too.
“The last time I was that close to the engines, I was in bad shape. Now that I’m back, you won’t let me anywhere close. I need to see for myself that nothing’s changed, that I still know what I’m doing. But when you act like you don’t trust me around them…it kind of makes it hard to trust myself.”
“You want to try working with the engines in a controlled, safe situation.” Bobby looked…stricken for some reason. “Getting used to the equipment again when there isn’t an emergency.”
Buck wasn’t that picky; he’d take when he wasn’t trapped under it like a bug, even.
“That could be a good idea.” Bobby looked at him consideringly. “There’s a few hours left of the shift. Do you want to head there now?”
“Now?”
“Only if you’re up for it. We don’t have to—”
“No, we do.” Buck said. “We really do.” It was better than he could have hoped. If he’d left this alone, the morning’s events would have stewed in the back of his mind for days. “Lead the way, Cap.”
That was how Buck found himself eye-to-eye with the belly of the engine for the second time in a day.
He took slow, shallow breaths: in through his nose, out through his mouth. He raised a hand and it shook, slightly, before jerking toward the underside of the truck without any input from Buck. Trying to press up.
Before contact was made, a hand curled around his wrist and halted the motion. Buck flinched and looked over.
“You good?” Bobby had apparently run out of patience in the forty seconds Buck had been down here alone and decided to observe up close.
It was a little embarrassing how much better Buck felt, having him down there with him.
Buck flexed his fingers and pulled back. “I’m good.”
Bobby nodded once. Taking him at his word. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m looking at?”
“Well, that’s a fire engine, Cap.” Helpfully, Buck pointed up, indicating the fifteen ton hunk of machinery suspended a few inches above their heads.
“Not what I meant.” Buck could hear the laugh in Bobby’s voice. “You said Rick screwed it up, and that you know better.” It was Bobby’s turn to gesture upward. “Show me.”
The hint of a challenge caught Buck’s attention, but it was the soft confidence with which Bobby made his request that settled his heartbeat.
Bobby thought he could do it. More than that, Bobby wanted to see him succeed.
Buck flourished under the attention. His confidence grew, knowledge bubbling up from him as he explained the underside of Bobby’s truck to him.
He knew cars decently well, enough to own one and perform his own maintenance when needed, but he didn’t love cars the way some guys did.
A car was a car, it got you where you needed to go if you could keep it running. His jeep was special because of Maddie, not because of the year or the model or the horsepower.
But firetrucks?
Buck could get behind the hype for firetrucks.
He usually tried to keep cool about it, because he would never hear the end of it if he started acting like an actual seven year old, but his enthusiasm for the topic was either shared or infectious, because Bobby looked like he was having a blast. Buck dragged him out from under the truck and took him to the face next, popping it open to break down the most common engine problems experienced by rigs like these and what the effect looked like from the outside.
As Buck spoke, it was like he could feel the final parts of himself clicking back into place. He knew how to do this. He knew how to fix things, how to use them and stock them.The truck was finally starting to feel like it was his again.
After he was done with the ladder, he hauled Bobby over to the ambulance next, expounding a wordy, well-sourced explanation of the differences in in-house maintenance between the two vehicles. It was the most he’d spoken to Bobby in...gosh, he didn’t know how long.
He was clucking over the supplies in the ambulance, energetically lecturing,“— and Hen likes her needles stocked by type, not size. If you leave it like this she’ll rearrange it later when she notices, but what if there’s a call before that? Every second counts, you know?”
When Bobby didn’t answer, Buck glanced up from his task to find him just...watching, a tiny smile on his face. “Cap?” he prompted.
“We’re done here. You’ve shown me everything you need to.” He sounded...fuck, if Buck didn’t know better, he’d say Bobby sounded proud.
Buck climbed out of the ambulance and carefully closed the doors behind him before spinning to face Bobby. “So how did I do?”
Bobby laughed at his obvious enthusiasm. “You want a grade?”
“I mean, if you’re offering...”
Bobby smiled. “Very impressive work, Buck. You really know your stuff. I’m wondering if you’re not ready to take a more active role in mentoring new recruits.”
Buck beamed at the praise.
Bobby patted him on the back. “Head on home. I’ll see you in two days, all right?”
Willpower kept Buck’s smile from dropping, but just barely.
The next two days were surprisingly busy for him, because Chim and Hen had at some point gotten really into brunch? Like as a concept? So he found himself dragged to two separate very insistent breakfast parties over the next two days.
It was nice. Maybe they could sense how little he wanted to be alone right now.
Two days of meals, along with a nap on Chimney’s couch that had lasted about five hours longer than intended, had put Buck in a pretty good mood when he rolled in for his next shift.
So when Bobby called him back into his office at start-of-shift, Buck was hardly nervous at all. Really.
But then:
“Buck, you're cleared to go in the field again. I'm officially putting you back in rotation.”
A bolt of energy down his spine sent Buck to his feet before he could reign himself in.
He did it. He knew he could. He was patient, he was useful, he wasn't weak, and everything was his again. (Mostly.)
But most importantly: he could save lives again. He could matter again.
“You mean it?” Buck was grinning ear to ear. “I'm not letting you take that back.”
“I'm not going to. It's yours, Buck. You've earned it. But there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“What's up?” Buck asked, trepidation easing him back into his seat.
Bobby sighed, folding his hands. “You know my philosophy pretty well by now. I’ve always believed that the closer a crew became, the better they would perform. We’re putting our lives in each other’s hands every day. Trust and communication are necessary. I’ve never questioned that. But...”
“But what?” Buck didn’t like this at all. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not in trouble for what happened last shift because it wasn’t your fault.” Bobby said. “But also...you were right, Buck. I’ve been crossing lines with you that I don’t with other firefighters. You’re an adult and I wasn’t treating you like one.” He paused. “I made my decisions based on what I wanted rather than what was best for you.”
“Cap—” Buck started, but Bobby wasn’t finished.
“And,” Bobby said, “I've been doing it again. I started doing it again the moment I got you back. And it’s wrong.” Bobby met his gaze steadily. “I want to do right by you, Buck.”
I don’t want anything to change, Buck didn’t say. But that wasn’t his call, was it? Why did this feel so much like—? No. Stop right there. Buck tried to push any thought of his parents from his mind. He did not need to be thinking about what a dumb, shitty kid he’d been when trying to manage the consequences of also being a dumb, shitty adult.
“I’m sorry, Cap. If I hadn't listened to that stupid lawyer, if I'd, I don't know.” Buck trailed off, desperate to fix this but not knowing how. “I could have come up with something better. I know I shouldn't have told him all that stuff. I didn't think he was gonna do what he did. Say what he did.” Great job, Buck. Remind him of everything he’s mad at you for. “I’m really, really sorry. Please don’t transfer me. Please, just—"
“I’m not transferring you.”
“Oh. Um,” then what was happening?
“I want you to take this.”
Bobby was offering him a business card. Better than a pamphlet, at least. Buck took it, peered at it, then looked at Bobby in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Bobby gave a little half smile. “Listen to me. That’s the number of your union representative. The lawyer you worked with? He was a personal injury lawyer. His strategy was always going to be big money and scorched earth.” He tapped the card. “If you find yourself in trouble again and don’t feel like you can come to me, reach out. They’re a good resource. And if you ever do need a lawyer, they can connect you to an employment lawyer. That’s the kind who specializes in negotiations between employees and employers with a focus on mediation.”
“Negotiations,” Buck said, numb. “Not lawsuits.” Was he stupid for not knowing this? Maybe. Did Bobby think he was stupid for not knowing this?
—stop thinking about your parents—
“I care about you, Buck, but I over-invested myself in your reinstatement when I should have stepped back. You deserve space to deal with your problems without me trying to make your decisions for you. From now on, I’m going to do better.” Bobby’s voice was strained, almost as though the words hurt to say.
They felt worse to hear. “Are you saying we’re too close?” Buck whispered, stomach swooping with sudden nerves.
“I’m saying I’ve been unprofessional with you.” Bobby told him. “In a way that’s maybe done you more harm than good.”
“That’s not true! You taught me everything I know. If I’m any good at this at all, it’s because of you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Bobby’s smile was small and sad. “You’re a good man, Buck.”
“I learned that from you, too.” Buck pleaded. “Bobby, I know you don’t want to do this.”
“This isn’t about what I want.” Bobby said.
“What do you want?” Fuck, Buck didn’t mean to ask that.
Gently, Bobby told him, “What I want is for you to expand your support network, Buck. Try to make some friends outside of the 118. Build some relationships outside the job. We all love you, but I want you to have people you can go to that aren’t—”
“Stop.” Buck rasped. When had he stood up? He didn’t remember standing up. “That’s—a line. You’re crossing one. Stop.”
“I’ll stop.” Bobby had his hands up, like Buck was a dog with a bite history. “I’m sorry. We can be done here whenever you’re ready. I just want to do right by you, Buck.”
Buck couldn’t listen to any more of this. Couldn’t take a single more word. “I’m done. Thanks for reinstating me.” I won’t let you down, Buck didn’t say, because even he wasn’t that stupid.
And Bobby just...let him leave.
This was what he had wanted, right? What he had fought for. He’d wanted to be treated like everyone else.
This still felt very Buck, though. Hey, I forgive you! I know you only fucked everything up because you’re stupid and lonely. In return, please don’t bother me anymore.
Buck kept his eyes down as he crossed the station to go check on his gear. After all, he was going to be using it again soon. Finally.
They didn’t usually fight in the Captain’s office. Most of the time when Bobby didn’t-yell at Buck, he did it right out there in the open.
Buck preferred it, really. When Bobby was mad at him, he didn’t pretend he wasn’t, and he always told him why. Actionable criticism of things he’d done wrong, information Buck could work with to improve himself. Arguments between the two of them served to fill out Buck’s understanding of how to do his job: he didn’t stop taking risks, but he learned to radio in his position first; he learned that asking questions when he didn’t know something was an asset, not a nuisance; he stopped hiding injuries in the field because it wasn’t about attention and whether or not he deserved it, but about the shift leader knowing what tools they had at their disposal during an emergency.
He didn’t know how to handle this Bobby who chose his words so carefully that it didn’t feel meaningfully distinct from lying.
Buck had no idea how to fix this because he still didn’t know what he’d done wrong.
Did this mean they couldn’t cook together anymore?
The nebulous threat of space and respect made Buck’s skin itch (he didn’t need Bobby to respect him; he needed Bobby to trust him), so he did the mature thing and avoided Bobby as much as he could.
Buck would have skipped meals entirely and scavenged leftovers after, but Chimney and Hen had become weirdly invested in trapping him between them at the table while the food was still hot. They kept him distracted enough, piling food onto his plate and trying a little too hard to make him laugh, that avoiding eye-contact with Bobby was awkward rather than excruciating.
He and Bobby spoke during calls, of course, but he kept his usual friendly chatter to a minimum.
The worst part was that Bobby didn’t even push him about it. This avoidance was petty, it was unprofessional, but Bobby was letting him get away with it with seemingly no end in sight. Someone else would have been reprimanded by now, so he was still being treated different.
Except instead of hovering, it looked like Bobby had chosen to wash his hands of Buck entirely.
Buck’s third shift of being allowed back on calls had started normal, or as normal as these things ever went.
A panicking teenager with a hatchet had felled a tree on top of his dad in a “man of the woods” bonding adventure gone south—Pops ended the trip with a cracked pelvic bone and Junior was now armed with enough I told you so’s to last a lifetime.
One of those actor types with an LA-white smile had gotten his hand stuck in the bathroom drain. He’d proceeded to strike up a very interesting conversation with Chimney after recognizing him as last year’s Mr. April. Hen and Buck struggled to contain their giggles as an oblivious Chimney failed to clock the truly inspiring degree of flirtation the guy was putting down, even after offering to swap out his towel for some actual clothes and being refused twice—in the end, all fingers were accounted for post-unsticking; nothing broken, although the wedding ring (Buck and Hen had both gasped) he had been searching for when his hand got stuck was nowhere to be found.
An evacuation of a magician themed bar had been more fun than a gas leak had any right to be, with the less ill members of the staff driving the sick ones bonkers with tricks they’d seen a hundred times, but that the 118 had the pleasure of seeing for the first time—There were several headaches, but no fainters, and the building was declared safe for re-entry after only two hours. The entertainment derived from the impromptu performances had nothing on the slowly unravelling drama between two factions of magicians working at the same themed bar.
A college student had lost control of her bike when a steep section of the trail crumbled away and had actually gone off the side of a cliff. She had called 911 from a half-formed ledge that provided less than a foot of standing space, staring wide-eyed at the crumpled remains of her orange bike frame hundreds of feet below. Eddie was in the harness with Chimney on the winch. Buck hung back, trying not to take the choice personally.
The rescue went off flawlessly, Eddie securing and lifting the victim from her perch as Hen prepped supplies to treat what miraculously appeared to only be a fractured ankle and a twisted knee. They got her to the top with no trouble, and the minute she was on solid ground again the girl burst into loud, messy tears. Buck didn’t exactly blame her. Eddie pulled off his harness, turning to laugh at some joke Chimney was making, when—
—when Buck saw, before Eddie could even feel it, the silt begin to shift beneath his feet. Eddie, no longer wearing his harness, still too close to the edge. Completely unaware of the danger. There wasn’t time to shout a warning.
Buck was moving before he could think.
The next series of moments collapsed into one another.
In a second, Buck seized Eddie by the back of his shirt and used his own body as a counterweight to hurl Eddie behind him
then—
Eddie was stumbling onto safer ground, and Buck had half-risen, prepared to scramble back after him
then—
The ground dropped out beneath Buck before he could even finish turning around
then—
Shouts of alarm followed him as he slipped away, five feet, ten feet, clawing at the crumbling earth to slow his descent
then—
Buck slid free of the cliffside and found himself suspended in free air, breath stolen by the sickening openness, the emptiness of the world laid out below him
then—
An awful, wrenching pain in his shoulder, jarring him to a sudden halt and ripping a scream of pain from his mouth, his other arm clawing to grab on and take some of the weight
then—
Buck wasn’t falling.
It took him a moment to notice, gritting his teeth through the I’m being pulled apart panic-pain that was demanding his every thought.
Gradually, Buck regained his bearings. Didn’t move a muscle. Took one impossibly still breath, then another.
Below him stretched a sixty-yard drop, and Buck still wasn’t falling.
Slowly, disbelievingly, he craned his neck up to see the sky above him.
The sky and, impossibly, Eddie.
Hanging in the open air above him, Eddie was working from two points of contact. He had his harness clutched in his fist and the cord wound tightly around one of his arms, not having the time to put it back on before he, apparently, dove off the cliff after Buck. His other hand was crushing Buck’s forearm in a bruising grip.
How fast must he have moved, when he had seen Buck start to fall?
Eddie was staring down at him, terror and relief and determination warring on his beautiful face. It was like all the looking at Buck he hadn’t done in the past several weeks was suddenly concentrated into this single stare, all the attention Buck could ever want from Eddie as he hung there in the sky, his hand outstretched and his hold true, the sun behind him making him glow.
Angel, Buck thought, and promptly forbid himself from thinking it again.
Instead, he found himself just...looking. Looking as he hadn’t been allowed to, hadn’t had permission for, in what felt like forever. Arm muscles flexing, hair falling into his eyes, somehow holding himself and Buck up with the strength of a single hand...Eddie looked like a goddamn superhero. It was starting to make Buck feel a little dizzy.
Then the hand gripping Buck’s arm (you know, the one attached to Buck’s shoulder, the shoulder that fucking hurt) began to lift him higher and. Yowch. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t Eddie making him dizzy.
He let out a hoarse scream of pain that turned into sharp panting as he was slowly tugged up, higher and higher. Not by the winch, he realized, but by Eddie, who was correcting their orientation with nothing but the power in his arms. Gently, carefully maneuvering Buck until he was close enough to hear Eddie gently murmuring a litany of, “C’mon, you’re doing good, I’ve got you, you’re almost there,”
he really was like an angel
before a pair of muscular legs wrapped around his chest from behind and squeezed him tightly, blessedly taking the weight off his screaming shoulder. Eddie peeled his fingers from Buck’s arm and, for some reason, softly pressed his knuckles against Buck’s right cheek. His fingers were trembling.
The moment passed. Eddie drew his hand back and smoothly reached up to wrap a second hand around his tangled harness, adjusting for a sturdier grip, better to support the both of them.
They hung in the air together without saying a word to each other, completely exposed and utterly alone. He squeezed his legs around Buck more tightly for a moment, as though to reassure him. It was, perhaps, the safest Buck had ever felt.
Eddie turned his face skyward and called, “I’ve got him! Haul us up!”
His voice, when he spoke, sounded utterly wrecked.
When they were pulled up over the side, Buck expected something to be different. But the ambulance was still here, Chim still at the winch, Hen surrounded by dropped medical supplies, both staring at them in alarm.
The whole ordeal, from Eddie unbuckling his harness to Buck finding himself on stable ground again, had lasted less than a couple of minutes.
“I’ve got him,” Eddie rasped, tucking himself under Buck’s good shoulder to haul him further onto stable ground. “You guys don’t have to...I got him.”
Coughing from the dust kicked up by the crumbling ground, Buck tried to bear some of his own weight, but his legs were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure they would hold him up. He let himself be dragged several yards from the cliff’s edge. Only when they’d reached a safe enough distance for Eddie’s tastes did he unfold himself from under Buck and lower them both to the ground.
Buck found himself flat on his back, Eddie’s hand cupping the back of his head for just a moment, as though a light thump to the head was going to be the thing that finally killed him.
Except suddenly Eddie was straddling Buck at the waist, tearing open Buck’s jacket and cutting through his T-shirt, and correction: that was going to be the thing that finally killed him.
“Woah there handsome, at least buy me dinner first,” Buck croaked, because if he couldn’t stop a situation from spiraling wildly out of his control he could at least make it worse for everyone else.
Eddie didn’t seem to hear the comment, attention arrested by the unnatural crook of Buck’s shoulder.
His lips were close, so close to Buck's skin, but he didn't think he was meant to hear when Eddie closed his eyes for a moment and whispered, “You scare the living hell out of me,” to the rapidly forming bruises.
Careful fingers were prodding along his bare chest, skirting the injury line, feeling along where Buck’s shoulder was screaming at him. Why did that still hurt so bad. He failed to bite back a groan of pain.
“Partial dislocation,” Eddie murmured, “Not severe, but unstable. We’re going to have to relocate it before we try to travel.” He directed the last sentence at Buck, who nodded his acquiescence. Eddie leaned up, pulling away, looking over his shoulder at something that wasn’t Buck. “Hen and Chim are—"
“You do it,” Buck wheezed, panting. “You can, right? I want you to do it.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“I don’t want to wait.” Lying on the ground while his shoulder slowly went numb while Eddie ignored him sounded like absolute hell. “I don’t care if it hurts. You know I can take it. The longer I wait, the worse it might get, right? Just give me meds after.” Don’t leave me here. “Eddie, help me. Please.”
“You’re shaking.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t—don’t apologize.”
Buck didn’t know what else to say, so he just stayed quiet. Eddie returned to his position leaning over Buck, filling his vision and blocking him from view. He carefully lifted the offending limb and rotated it, feeling along Buck’s back and chest in sharp, staccato bolts of pain before nodding to himself. He looked at Buck. “Are you sure?”
“Do it,” Buck murmured. There was a controlled push, a flash of agony, and then relief. A deep ache set in immediately after, but it didn’t hold a candle to the wrongness of the pain from before.
Eddie carefully helped Buck to his feet before seizing him by his good shoulder and the opposite hip and tugging him close.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful,” Eddie said tightly. “But don't you ever do something like that again.”
“You don’t take off your fucking harness before you’re clear, then.” Buck snapped, “You know better!”
They were very nearly nose to nose, breathing each other’s air. After so long, the proximity was intoxicating.
“You two can wait to kill each other,” a hand grabbed Eddie by the scruff of his t-shirt, roughly turning him to examine the red lines snaking around his left forearm, “until after you get cleared by medical professionals.” A second hand gently cradled the back of Buck’s bare neck, pressing lightly to feel for swelling. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Hey Cap. Can you believe this guy?” Buck greeted shakily. It was the first thing Bobby had said to him outside of work-talk since that disastrous meeting. His skin was buzzing with that familiar look at me, look at me feeling. Maybe he should jump off cliffs more often.
Bobby’s friendly, professional smile had petrified into a furious grimace. “I can’t believe either of you,” he gritted out. “Go sit by the engine and wait to get checked out. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Stay where I can see you.”
Bobby’s hand on the back of Buck’s neck was trembling.
“Cap—”
“Buck,” Bobby said, “shut up.”
Buck shut up.
“Eddie, be sure to thank Chimney. He realized what you were doing and held the tension of your line in a series of stalled releases, which is the only reason both of you didn’t get your arms ripped off.”
“Yes, Cap.” Eddie replied dutifully, chagrined.
They stomped off toward the engine, with Buck (embarrassingly) still leaning on Eddie for support.
Chimney met them at the truck and proceeded to stick his entire foot in his mouth by saying, “Next time you guys decide to pull death-defying stunts, leave me out of it. I’ve got a girlfriend at home,” only to immediately grimace in horror as he remembered his audience.
Buck snickered. “Is that my problem? I’m a mess because I got dumped twice within eight months during the worst year of my life?”
But he had nothing on Eddie’s deadpan, solemn huff of, “I don’t even remember the last time I went on a date.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Chimney croaked, horrified, until a smirk started to twitch on Eddie’s lips, giving the game away. “Oh, fuck you. You guys are assholes.” Chimney kicked the side of Buck’s boot fondly. “You don’t have a monopoly on suffering, you know. I once had a proposal go so badly I almost died.”
“How could I not know?” Buck asked guilelessly. “You never shut up about it.”
Chimney laughed, professional hands carefully maneuvering Buck so he could better access his injury.
Buck reached up with his good arm and punched him on the hip. “Thanks for the save, man.”
Chimney popped his gum and grinned. “What can I say? I’m starting to get attached to you two.”
Buck had been set up with a sling by the time Chimney stepped away to fetch some sterilized gauze, leaving him and Eddie alone. He found he couldn’t stop tracing the spiraling burns that stretched from Eddie’s bicep to his wrist with guilty eyes.
“Is your arm okay?” he blurted.
“Hurts.” Eddie grunted. “I’ll live.” And then, almost reluctantly, “You?”
Hurts.” Buck responded flatly. “I’ll live.”
Eddie glared at him.
Buck sighed. “Will you cut the macho bullshit already and just talk to me? Please?”
Eddie’s shoulders began to creep up to his ears. “We’ll talk. But not now.”
Buck rolled his eyes. “Oh, Really? Because—”
“We’ll talk.” Eddie cut in firmly. “I promise. Later, in private. Please,” he added.
Buck didn’t push, but only because of the please.
The ride back to the 118 was tense.
Eddie wouldn’t look at Buck, Bobby wouldn’t look at Buck or Eddie, Hen was looking back and forth between all three of them like it was a tennis match, and Chimney was making comments about the scenery outside that slowly increased in loudness and forced enthusiasm, trying to fill the miserable silence.
When they reached the station, Buck steeled his nerves and marched up to Bobby. “My shoulder hurts and I need to get it checked out.”
Bobby’s eyebrows jumped and his shoulders seemed to slump slightly in what almost looked like relief. “Okay. You can—”
“Eddie’s driving me.” Buck interrupted.
Eddie perked at the sound of his name and stared at Buck like he’d grown a second head.
Bobby, oblivious, nodded his acquiescence. “Good. He can get looked at too. Let me know how—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. “Keep me posted if they recommend time off.”
“Yes, sir.” Buck responded curtly, because he was still feeling a little petty.
“Hey—" Eddie started, then oof’d as Buck elbowed him in the ribs.
“Grab your keys, big guy. You un-socketed my shoulder, the least you could do is give me a ride.”
Truly, nothing offset the flash-flare of adrenaline like the dull monotony of driving to an urgent care.
Fact: Eddie hated driving in LA.
This wasn’t his I-hate-driving silence, though.
Buck sat through it for ten excruciating minutes of downtown traffic before he broke.
“So, do you just straight-up hate me now?”
“I don’t—” Eddie grimaced, “I’ve never hated you, Buck.”
And then he turned his attention back to the road like they were done talking, dropping them back into that vague, undefined silence. It was frustrating. It was infuriating. Buck had had it. “I’ve tried to apologize. You won’t hear me out. I’m sick of this. I miss you. I miss Chris and you won’t let me see him.”
“That’s not—"
“Just tell me what I did and I’ll be sorry for it, whatever it is.” Buck stared at his lap. “I’ll be sorry, and then you can forgive me, and we can be friends again.”
“It’s not that simple. I—”
“Seems pretty simple to me. You don’t like me anymore.” Buck tried to keep his tone even.
“You don’t understand. I’m not—”
“Explain it to me then! Or are you too good to actually talk with me? You know, it’s been months and you still won’t even look me in the eye. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Buck was fuming by this point. “What’s your fucking damage, Eddie?”
“You almost died in front of me.” Eddie spat, suddenly thunderously angry.
Buck’s jaw clicked shut in shock. Eddie’s sudden show of emotion drained Buck of his own anger in an instant, leaving confusion in its wake.
Wait.
Was Eddie allowed to be mad at him for that?
That didn’t seem fair.
“Uh. Which time?” Buck asked, hoping to narrow it down.
“Every time, Buck!” Eddie exploded. “It’s like we’re all constantly on the verge of losing you over and over again. And—we’ve learned to live with that. It’s a dangerous job, I get that it's a possibility.” Eddie heaved a breath. “But you almost died in front of me,” he wrapped his fingers so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles turned white. “again and again, but you pulled through every time.”
Buck stared, uncomprehending.
“And then...you left.”
Left? “I didn’t—"
“Chris needed you. And when I—when we—after the tsunami, we couldn’t even see you.”
Six months ago, Buck wouldn’t have picked up on what Eddie wasn’t saying here.
Six months ago, they were work friends. Close, but professional. Help your sister move close. Take your kid Christmas shopping close. Confidently offering questionable life advice close.
They were almost unrecognizable now. Or had been, before this falling out.
Buck privately suspected he knew the cause of the extreme, almost desperate growth of their friendship: They had both shattered at just around the same time: Eddie’s family; Buck’s future. They had both lost stability and crumpled inward, into each other, rather than face it alone.
There was a comfort in not being the only person whose life didn’t feel real anymore.
Eddie was untouchable, but Eddie was known, too. Buck might know Eddie better than he’d ever known another human being, except maybe his sister.
Buck had taken over canceling Shannon’s subscriptions and credit cards when the process had overwhelmed Eddie to the point of tears. And then he just…kept helping. He was familiar with the process after Abby’s mom, so he just took over things like selling Shannon’s car. Breaking her lease. Packing up her apartment. Donating her clothes. Reaching out to her friends. Things that weren’t necessarily easy for Buck to do, but that would have been nearly impossible for Eddie to bear on top of everything else.
Eddie had, without Buck having to ask, stopped by the loft four times a week every week to help Buck shower, starting from the time Ali had dumped him up until he’d switched his plaster cast for a removable one that allowed him to wash without help.
Buck had hosted no end of impromptu Diaz family sleepovers at his loft when grief and bad dreams had made their own home hard to bear. Air mattresses and the very limits of his breakfast-making abilities and Buck himself putting in the heavy lifting to make things easier on his boys, if only for a few hours.
Eddie was the only one who hadn’t pushed him to reconsider the second operation because he understood more than anybody how badly Buck needed someone’s unwavering support.
Buck knew that...
Buck knew that Shannon leaving, and then leaving again, had hurt Eddie far worse than her dying ever could have.
“Chris has nightmares,” Eddie admitted now, eyes forward. “He won’t talk to me about them.” But he might have talked to you went unsaid. Someone in front of them braked suddenly. Eddie muttered a minced oath, instinctively pressing his right arm across Buck’s chest. Holding him in place as the truck rocked to a sudden stop before slowly starting to move again.
The gentle, secure pressure on Buck’s chest was enough to push the words out of him.
“Eddie,” Buck whispered, “that’s not fair.”
“I know It’s not.” Eddie agreed wretchedly, pulling his arm back. He hesitated for a moment, the back of his hand lingering just over Buck’s heartbeat, before placing it back on the wheel. “I'm sorry. I know it’s not fair. I know you’re not, that you’re not…”
“Stop.” Buck wasn’t going to make him say it.
Eddie stopped.
They didn’t look at each other.
Just two guys in a car trying and failing to not make each other miserable.
No wonder Eddie had avoided him for so long. Buck would avoid himself too, if he could.
But then, suddenly,
“I can’t protect him from anything.” Eddie whispered. “The only thing I ever do is drive people out of his life. Even...” you, he didn’t say. “I can’t let anyone else leave him behind. I know what that’s like.” He confessed. “I never want him to feel like that. Like no one wants him, or like no one cares.”
“You want him,” Buck said softly, “you care.”
“What if I’m not enough, Buck?” Eddie sounded...tiny. Raw.
Buck rapped his knuckles lightly against Eddie’s rightmost collarbone. It was the closest Eddie’s heart that his good arm could reach. ”Then you’ll keep trying anyway.”
Eddie dragged his eyes from the road to glance at Buck with a miserable sort of hope in his eyes.
“You can’t change the whole world to protect him, Eddie. You can’t stop anyone from ever leaving him or hurting him. The only thing you can do is be his dad. And you’re good at that.”
In his peripheral vision, he thought he saw Eddie nod. It was such a small motion, but it pushed something in him to keep going.
Buck kept talking, the words pouring out of him. “You have to, to listen, and apologize when you fuck up. You have to be there for him when he needs you. You can’t give up on him when he disappoints you. You have to tell him you love him even when you’re angry. Don’t treat him like he’s a burden, even if he is. Especially if he is. You have to...” ask him what he needs from you, Buck almost said, but remembered his talk with Bobby earlier this week and shied away from the thought. “...care.” He said instead. “You have to care. And Eddie, you care more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Eddie was looking over at him now with a soft, pained expression. “...Buck."
“And me— me too.” Buck interrupted hastily. “If you ever think you’re not enough, I’ll help, okay? You’ve always got me. I’m sorry I made you think you didn’t.”
Eddie went utterly still for a moment, and Buck had half a second to fear he’d overstepped, before Eddie shook off his surprise and blinded him with a wobbly grin. It was one of those rare, toothy ones that made Buck feel a little bit like crying if he looked at it too long. Eddie’s tone was light and warm as he murmured, “You’re impossible, you know that?” Except he said it less like it was a hassle and more like it was a miracle.
Angel, Buck thought again.
“Chris...he’s a good kid. Better than I ever was. I’m always gonna worry whether I’m doing right by him. You, you get it.” Eddie shook his head. “He just—you get it. He doesn’t deserve to get walked out on like that. He deserves better than that.”
That didn’t sound right. That didn’t feel right, because— “Eddie,” Buck said quietly, “you deserve better than that, too.”
And Eddie...froze. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel. He held his mouth in a firm straight line, utterly unwavering, but his eyes gave him away, just like they always did. They were huge, and wide, and wet. Eddie’s eyes looked terrified.
And Buck understood. Because he understood Eddie, and he understood himself, too.
And he knew what to say next because he knew intimately how it felt to need to hear it.
“Eddie,” Buck said calmly, firmly, “you’re worth sticking around for. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”
Eddie shuddered, heaving out a ragged breath. “Buck, you...” he started, then trailed off.
He doesn’t want to cry, Buck thought, because he knew Eddie. So he picked up the rest of the sentence himself. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Buck glanced out the passenger side window, smiling to himself. “I’m impossible.” Because that’s what he and Eddie did: They covered for each other.
Eddie laughed, sounding a little choked.
The office at the urgent care didn’t accept cash.
Fucking Los Angeles.
“It’s money.” Buck argued desperately, trying to keep his voice down, “real money. There’s the seal and everything. What’s wrong with it?”
“We’re paperless, Mr. Buckley. We’re going to need either a debit card or a credit card.”
Embarrassment made his eyes sting. “I don’t have one with me.” He admitted, almost in a whisper. Like it was a secret.
A muscular, tanned arm reached around him and slapped a card on the desk, making him jump. “Put it on mine.” Eddie smiled at the receptionist insincerely, placing his hand on Buck’s back to steer him gently away from the desk.
They took their seats, Buck curling in on himself, Eddie an extremely forced kind of casual. “You didn’t have to do that.” Buck said eventually, although he had no idea what the fuck he would have done if Eddie hadn’t.
Cried, maybe.
“Oh, I did.” Eddie countered. “Or don’t you remember? You saved my life. What's a measly copay compared to that?”
“It’s our job to save lives.”
“Sure. It’s not your job to try and die for me.”
You almost died in front of me, Eddie had said. Buck winced.
“Listen. I wasn’t trying to...do something risky. I should have been able to pull you back without sending me in the opposite direction. Six months ago, I could have. But I’ve lost some muscle mass in the meantime. And I didn’t have my gear. And I didn’t account for the difference in weight.” Buck swallowed. “Don’t tell Bobby. He doesn’t need another reason to think I’m incompetent.”
“You promise?” Eddie’s voice was hoarse.
The question came as a surprise. “What do you mean, promise?”
“This wasn’t some better you than me bullshit?” Eddie demanded. “It was just an accident? You swear?”
Buck gave a jerky nod, alarmed by Eddie’s sudden seriousness.
Eddie’s relief was evident as he breathed, “Good. That’s good.” He shook off his momentary intensity and shrunk into himself a little, seemingly making up his mind about something. “Buck.” He said suddenly, “You know I’m sorry, right?”
“For what?”
“These past months, you needed me, too. And I wasn’t there.”
“I never gave you a chance to be,” Buck protested, but Eddie wasn’t done.
“I want you to know that I didn’t know about what was going down with Bobby until the hearing. If I did, I would have told you, okay? I would have fought him.”
Buck’s eyes burned, just a little. “And you’re sorry for that?”
“I’m not gonna beg for forgiveness.” That’s what made the two of them different. “But you were going through something rough. I knew that. I got scared,” and there was contempt in the word as he said it, because Eddie hated admitting to fear even more than he hated crying, “and instead of being honest about that, I pushed you away. I acted like it was your fault. I hurt you. That’s what I’m sorry for.”
“Eddie, I’m okay. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be that kind of guy. I don’t want something like this to happen again. I hate fighting with you. Chris, we—” Eddie swallowed. “I missed you.”
“So we, what? Just agree to never fight again?” Buck asked dubiously. “Because I’m really good at pissing people off. Your head’s gonna pop if you commit to never getting mad at me again.”
“Listen to me, Buck.” Eddie said softly, seriously. “Next time, if you get scared, if you get in over your head, promise me that you'll talk to me before doing something crazy.”
Mouth dry, Buck tried to joke, “I feel like that’s just gonna piss you off even faster,” but he said it a little too soft, a little too hesitantly, for it to be very funny.
Eddie’s expression was pained. “Buck, please.” He let out a shaking breath. “When you feel alone, before you do something you might regret, call me. I can't promise to have all the answers, or even to agree with you every time, but I promise I'll stick with you until it's better.”
“Will you tell me when you're scared?” Buck asked, feeling oddly breathless. That hungry curiosity that showed itself every time Eddie gave up any ground between the two of them.
That giddy want that gripped him every time Eddie cried or laughed or whispered or yawned or smiled and let Buck see it happen. Brown eyes, bigger and warmer and lovelier than any Buck had ever seen, on him.
Eddie looked taken aback, “You'd want that?” he tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. “I get scared more than you'd think. I'm worried you'll lose respect for me if I told you everything.”
But I want everything, Buck didn't say. Instead, “I feel alone more than you'd think.” He said it so, so softly. Scared that Eddie would hear him. Terrified that he wouldn't. “Are you going to stop caring if I told you every time?”
Something in Eddie's lovely eyes sparked, bright and close. When did he get so close? His voice cracked savagely when he said, “Buck, I—”
“Evan Buckley?”
They jumped apart.
A nurse leaned against the door frame, staring at them because they were the only two people in the waiting room. Probably no other reason. “We’re ready for Evan Buckley.”
Buck bid his doctor goodbye with a numb sort of misery, trying to process the information he’d just been given.
Seven days. One week. That’s how long the doctor told him to take off work.
Eddie was right where Buck had left him, frowning slightly with his arms crossed. His expression warmed, however, when he spotted Buck. “How bad is it?”
Buck wordlessly shoved the paper into Eddie’s hands.
“Hey, not too bad. That’s about what I expected.”
Buck didn’t say anything.
“I’ve been thinking. You know, we don’t actually have to go back to the station.”
Yes I do. Buck thought. My jeep is there. The jeep I’m going to be trapped in for a week.
“What are you talking about?” Buck asked hoarsely.
“I can call Bobby, take the rest of the day off. You tell me where you want to go, and I’ll take you there.”
What was he going to do about food? “The station. I need to go to the station.”
“C’mon, Buck. At least consider it. Please.”
I thought you weren’t gonna beg, Buck didn’t say. “Why?” he asked dully.
“You don’t have to...seriously, anywhere. I mean it.” Eddie sounded...almost desperate. “We could swing by your place, you could pack a bag and—”
“No!” Buck spat, surprising himself with his own ferocity. “No. I don’t want to.”
Eddie leaned away slightly, expression placid, but his eyes gave him away just like always. Wide. Hurt. Concerned.
He thinks I’m not ready, Buck realized. And he hated, hated lying to Eddie, but. “I just need a minute. This isn’t...it’s not because of anything you did, Eddie.”
They drove back to the station in silence.
This one wasn’t Eddie’s I-hate-driving silence either.
It ate at him, the guilt of lying to Eddie, pretending Eddie had done something wrong, after spending the ride over from the station trying to convince him that Buck wasn’t going to abandon him.
Buck leapt from the truck as it rolled to a stop, moving quickly, flustered at the way he could feel Eddie’s eyes on him as moved through the station. He stuffed the doctor’s note into Bobby’s hands before grabbing his stuff and leaving. He didn’t want to see the expression on Eddie's face.
He couldn’t be here one more minute.
It’s a bad week.
Buck had miscalculated; he should have showered at the station before he left, because now he couldn’t go visit anyone. They’d see the dirt still in his hair and ask questions.
It sucked. He’d never craved brunch so badly in his life.
Eddie was making up for lost time by absolutely blowing up Buck’s phone, and he wasn’t alone. It was so, so good to hear from Chris again.
They talked at least once every single day, with Chris catching him up on the flash and drama of being seven years old. Chris was so funny, but also a little bit too clever for his age. When he asked Buck to come visit, he asked…searchingly, like he was trying to get information on what Buck was doing instead. He had to be careful with his answers, not wanting to lie but also not wanting Chris and Eddie to know what was really going on.
On day three, Buck tried heading into a gas station bathroom to wash himself and his clothes as best he could, but the cashier had eyed him with guarded suspicion the moment he’d stepped through the door. He felt the eyes on him as he tried to drift inconspicuously between shelves. A hushed diatribe reached his ears, one that included the word “drugs”, “disturbance”, and “police”. Buck glanced up to see the cashier holding a phone to her ear staring at him with a mixture of contempt and fear.
He tried not to take it personally. Really. He was a big guy, and he knew he wasn’t exactly at his best. It left him anxious, though. The last thing he needed right now was someone calling the police on him. Police meant Athena, and Buck didn’t know if he’d ever wanted to see Athena less in his life. Or rather, have her see him.
He dropped his eyes to the ground, left, and didn’t try again.
That night, he pulled up by the seaside after the sun had already set and scrubbed himself off in one of the public beach showers. It was better than nothing. He didn’t have any soap, and mostly ended up trading dirt for sand. He came away feeling greasy, gritty. Still no good for company. Someone would notice something.
He tried to ration the food he had in his car, but it wasn’t like he’d planned for this to happen. He hadn’t exactly stocked up. And running out of the station like that had been stupid. He’d talked to Eddie since, and they were fine. He’d over-reacted and fucked himself over in the process.
He found himself pacing around his car at night, too wired to sleep. Scared the twinges in his leg might hint at something worse, even though he’d been taking his medicine exactly as prescribed. If he had an embolism any time within this week, he would die.
Don’t think about that. Stop thinking about it.
On the evening of day five, Buck broke.
He checked his bank statement, again, and couldn’t see any sign that a paycheck had come in, again. How long had it been? Shouldn’t something have come through by now? He didn’t know how pay periods worked, but nearly seven weeks (he’d thought it was seven, had he counted wrong?) should have been enough time. Right?
He tried to access his insurance next. His login information wouldn’t even let him into the system, flashing INVALID no matter how many times he retyped his password.
What was happening? Had he fucked something up?
His shoulder hurt. He must have slept on it, unconsciously rolled onto it while sleeping, and now it fucking hurt. His leg was cramping something fierce.
He was tired, he'd been not-sleeping crumpled up in the back seat of his jeep for four nights in a row, and he was at the point where he couldn't get to sleep at all.
His skin felt dirty, dirty in a permanent kind of way that was honestly starting to scare him. It was like there was an underlying layer of grit he couldn't get off. He stunk of pain-sweat and fear-sweat and dirty clothes and—
—and he couldn't get warm.
He was the kind of hungry that was past feeling hungry, past feeling sick, and approaching just feeling dead.
He needed rest. He needed to eat.
Pulling into the parking lot of station 118 still felt like admitting defeat, somehow.
He waited for a call to get the trucks moving, waited until the man behind for C-Shift wandered off to take a leak.
He stole away into the firehouse, crept toward the laundry room without making a sound. It was just going to be for a few hours. Just long enough for him to get warm, to ward off the jittery, achy chill that had been haunting him for the past week.
Maybe he could even grab a bite to eat on his way out, before the trucks get back.
He turned the corner by the laundry room and—
The closet door was ajar.
He bolted the last few steps, wrenched the door completely open to see…nothing.
Everything was gone.
His knees buckled.
“No, no, no…” Where was it? Someone had found him out? Someone had found his belongings, thought they were trash, thrown them out?
“Buckley? A-Shift Buckley? Is that you?”
Buck spun around so fast he almost lost his balance, gripping the door frame for support.
C-Shifter Jamie Witt was staring at him with surprise and not a little concern.
Buck lurched toward him, growling, “What did you do?” only stopping when Jamie jerked his radio from his belt and raised it, an instinct borne of alarm.
Buck flinched back nonsensically as Jamie stared. Buck looked awful. He looked desperate. Jamie had already seen too much. The wail of approaching engines broke the stillness and poured much needed energy into his muscles, breath into his lungs.
Buck had to get out of here, now.
He ran out of the firehouse, making a beeline for his jeep. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, he sped out into the night, adrenaline making his fingertips tingle. He pulled onto the interstate, not sure where he wanted to go but knowing he needed to go fast. He needed to get out of the city.
He needed to see the stars.
That’s what was missing, right? He’d survived this kind of loneliness before. He had his purpose, he had his people.
If he’d survived this at nineteen, he could do it now.
He took an exit at random and drove until the roads didn’t have lines anymore. Past lights of the city, beyond the residential areas. He drove until the pavement gave way to dirt and the last streetlamp wasn’t visible in his rearview mirror anymore.
The tightness in his chest began to loosen as the world around him settled into something flat and dark and silent.
He pulled over to the side of the road and stumbled out into the crisp, dry nighttime air. Buck shivered, goosebumps prickling over his skin.
He really wasn’t built for cold.
Not that a lot of people would call LA winter cold, but as a kid in Pennsylvania Buck had been known to layer up with long sleeves and hoodies well into June.
When he’d finally escaped his childhood home by the skin of his teeth, Buck had immediately set his sights on the equator for a reason. He could have thrived in the damp, lively heat of the southern hemisphere forever if wanderlust hadn’t nipped at his heels, chasing him back up into the continental US.
Even in LA, anything under 70°F had him throwing on a sweater. Under 50°F, it felt like the air would freeze in his lungs if he breathed in too deeply.
Tonight, he was in a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans because it was the cleanest stuff he owned right now. He kicked off his shoes and stepped off the road with bare feet, his toes curling in the damp, cool grass. He took one slow, stumbling step, then another, more confident, more urgent. In just a few steps, he found himself running.
He ran until his muscles felt a little warmer, until he could just barely see the road, the black body of the jeep glinting in the low moonlight. He slowed, limbs trembling, to a stop.
He turned in a slow, lazy circle, taking in the miles of nothing all around him. Grassy plains for miles, no mountains. Not even any trees. Letting the monotony soothe his racing heart.
Buck heaved a sigh and collapsed flat on his back in the grass. After a moment of deliberation, he unclipped his sling and ripped it off over his head, tossing it to the side.He stretched his injured arm out beside him, reveling in the sleepy ache of the motion. The cold, damp grass ticking the back of his neck, the dew starting to soak into his clothes. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, tasting stillness of the air around him.
Grass. Dew. Sky. Buck. That was all that mattered out here.
When he couldn’t put it off any longer, Buck opened his eyes and turned his gaze up.
And looked at the stars.
The constellations spread out above him, immense and dizzying.
As a teenager, his first taste of freedom had thrummed like wonder in his veins. He’d laid out in fields just like this one on clear nights and the universe had felt alive with endless possibility. Those stars had felt close enough to touch. Like if he’d started up his sister’s car right then and just kept on driving, he could reach them.
Now, though?
Now, Buck saw the night sky laid out before him, so impossibly immense that looking at it like this used to burn him through to his bones with awe, his first errant thought, his only thought, was, Chris would love this view.
All at once, Buck was crying. Gasping, heaving sobs that punched out of him with so much force that it hurt.
The night blurred around him as he curled in on himself, rolling onto his uninjured side but nonetheless painfully exposed. Lit by starlight, alone and with nothing and every single bit of it completely Buck’s own fault.
No one to hear him.
Nothing but grass, dew, sky, Buck.
Slowly, agonizingly, Buck came back to himself. as the first hints of sunrise began to tease the horizon, he stumbled back to the jeep. He didn’t know what the hell he should do. He didn’t know where he was going.
That didn’t matter. He moved with hard-learned purpose. You didn’t have to be smart to be a quick study. He couldn’t stay here. That was all that mattered.
Buck heaved himself into the jeep, wet shirt sticking to the back of his seat. With shaking hands, he turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Click.
The cabin stayed dark and quiet. The engine didn’t even turn over.
Buck scrambled out of the car, heart in his throat. He wrenched the hood open and pawed desperately over the engine, the battery, the alternator but nothing jumped out. Something was wrong, and he couldn't see it. He knew this jeep better than he knew his father. Why couldn't he see it?
He couldn’t…he just couldn’t think. He was dizzy, nauseous. His vision was blurring. His knees were shaking; he had to hold on to the edge of the car to keep himself upright.
Tears of humiliation, frustration burned in his eyes. What was wrong with him? This was one of the things he was supposed to be good at. One of the things he was still good for.
Buck was already irresponsible, crazy, and a liar. Was he useless now, too?
Buck shut the hood and turned his back to the jeep, furious with himself. That’s when he spotted them, ten yards ahead of him on the dirt road. A set of train tracks. He hadn’t even seen them when he’d pulled over last night because it had been so dark.
He'd never seen a railroad intersection with a dirt road before.
They weren't raised, but level with the grass and the road. There wasn't any kind of gate or traffic control lights that he could see, just old-fashioned crossbuck signs positioned on either side.
Buck looked at those tracks.
Something dangerous hummed in his gut.
Whenever things in his life reached an explosive breaking point, Buck had a tendency to react with a sort of….sturdy resignation. to steel himself for the fallout before it reached him.
He was used to fighting past his breaking point, hunkering down under impossible weight. Keeping secrets that made his heart feel like it would burst. Letting bad things pass over and through him before picking up whatever he had left and continuing to trudge forward.
What he was experiencing right now felt nothing like that at all.
He’d held the torrent of shame and hopelessness off for months; when the dam finally did break, all that effort only meant the water pooled even faster around his feet. Rising around him. Trapping him with no way out.
An itch, a scream was welling up within him, telling him to run. Run or die.
Running had never been his vice of choice, but maybe he'd just never fully appreciated having two working legs before.
And wasn't he still a Buckley, even if he’d never amounted to much of one?
It wouldn’t be hard to put his car in neutral. He could put his good shoulder into it, push it the rest of the way until it straddled the tracks. He didn’t know how old the tracks were. Maybe the line had been out of service for years. He didn’t know enough about railroads to tell.
There wasn't a bell to tell him when a train might come. All he'd have to do is curl up in the back seat and sleep.
The flare in his chest that would rather implode like a dying star right this second than risk fading into obscurity wanted.
And Buck was so, so tired.
Except.
He’d made a promise, hadn’t he?
The morning of the sixth day of Buck’s leave for his dislocated shoulder, three phone calls were made within minutes of each other.
Laura Cartmill, returning from a traffic collision to find C-Shift buzzing with rumors, called her friend Henrietta Wilson to see if she had any idea why a guy from her shift would be in the firehouse crying in front of an empty closet in the middle of the night.
Maddie Buckley, having planned a secret visit to check on her brother (privacy be damned because he was avoiding her, she knew he was, and she was going to find out why), called Chimney Han in a panic when the evidence that Buck had not been anywhere near this building in weeks grew insurmountable.
And the third?
With numb fingers, Buck pulled his dying cellphone out of his pocket.
“I’m scared, and I’m alone, and I’m about to do something stupid.” He said in lieu of a greeting. His voice was hoarse and crackling.
“Where are you?” Eddie responded immediately. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.”