Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The night is quiet, when Eddie wakes.

For one still, silent moment he looks into the darkness, into the unfamiliar, blinking away the weight that tries to pull his eyelids back down. He can hear crickets and cicadas outside, buzzing in the low heat and moonlight that falls through his open window.

He vaguely senses his brow furrow through the haze of sleep still clinging to his thoughts. Thoughts that are slow, foggy, and, at this point in time, comprised of only a question.

Why am I awake?

The answer comes in the form of a different kind of buzzing to his left. He shifts against the pillow to see his phone illuminating the wood below it, and proceeds to make the mistake of picking it up and bringing it right to his face. He quickly puts it back down, hissing and squinting against the new ache forming right between his eyes.

Once his vision properly adjusts, he realizes his phone has stopped ringing. He looks again - slowly - and sees the time. 12:47 AM.

The seconds between checking the time, thinking who is calling me at this hour, and looking at his notifications are the last moments exhaustion still pulls at his mind.

Then he reads Missed Call: Bobby (2) and he is completely upright, heart hammering, all thoughts of sleep nothing but ashes on the wind.

Bobby wants to go back.

He wants to go back to that stupid, seemingly inconsequential moment when the world started ending and nobody realized. The moment when the paths of fate diverged irrevocably, leaving him to choke on the dust clouds of a decision he didn’t even know he’d made. Back to the moment he realizes, only now, could have allowed him to have been the one inside that damned-to-hell box. Back to when he looked at his firefighter, his kid in every sense that mattered, and told him to get their patient - get himself - to safety.

When Buck - stupid, selfless Buck - had all but dumped the slumped body on Bobby’s shoulder and said I’ll meet you out there in a sec, Cap!

And Bobby didn’t think twice, didn’t stop to consider any sort of consequences, just took the body and ran like a coward.

How could he have been so blind as to leave his team, leave his kid behind (there’s no way he could’ve known)? Why, why, why did he listen to Buck instead of putting his foot down (there’s nothing he could’ve done)? What kind of captain - what kind of man is he that he left a third child of his to—

(Athena’s voice echoes in his mind - you did all that you could.)

Bobby wants to go back.

(“All he could” was never going to be good enough.)

But he can’t.

(He will take “all he could” to his fucking grave.)

When Chimney sits up and waves into the blue-tinged camera, Bobby realizes everything is going to be alright.

The stress of the day - one of the most nerve-wracking, close-call days of both his career and life - finally releases from his shoulders, and the breaths he draws into his lungs don’t rattle with terror at long last. He prays silently for a brief moment that he and his team aren’t about to be prosecuted for terrorism by anyone here (as they’ve threatened - multiple times), but as of right now, that’s not his main concern.

His main concern is getting his team out of that metal coffin.

He can feel a smile work its way onto his face as he looks once more at the screen in front of him - Chimney is still waving, Hen is still awake, and Bobby is suiting up to lead them home. A little more tension leaves his shoulders at the thought.

He turns to the side to see his wife gazing at him with that look of hers he loves so much. “Good work today, Sergeant Grant,” he whispers, just loud enough that only she will hear, letting his smile fully take over.

She puts her hand over his not-yet-covered cheek, eyes sparkling and tone equally flirtatious when she says, “Good work to you too, Captain Nash.”

Some day, when this whole thing is more of a memory and less of a traumatic event, he’ll enjoy thinking of their time playing investigators today; of helicopter-sized distractions and bio-terrorist psychopaths. He’ll be able to remember today and think, wow, my wife is hot, instead of getting overwhelmed with a panic that his team is going to die an imminent, painful death. He’s looking forward to that day.

But today is not that day, and Bobby won’t be able to fully take a breath until his whole team is out of this God-forsaken place. So he finishes suiting up, gives his wife’s hand one last squeeze, and heads through what seems to be miles of plastic tunneling to help extract his family.

They get Hen out first so that she can be operated on as soon as she’s finished de-contaminating. Even so, they’ll do a much better job of patching her up once she’s on the side of the glass with access to proper medical care. Chimney follows close behind so that he can be hooked up to more fluids and be checked over post-infection.

He pats Ravi on the back as he passes by - adding in a welcome to the family as he does, which is partly in good humor, partly completely serious. Because you don’t go through what they have today without being family, and you certainly don’t risk being labeled a domestic terrorist for a group of coworkers. He has a feeling they’ll all be teasing him about this for a long time.

He turns from Ravi’s retreating form to wave Buck forward. “You did good today, kid,” he says, voice slightly distorted thanks to the heavy mask. “I’m proud of you.”

Buck, who’s still standing in the middle of the lab, starts to walk forward, eyes crinkling in a smile at the words. “Thanks, Cap,” he says, voice rough from both the mask and emotion. And then—

And then he’s pressing a button, and the door is sliding back down between them.

Bobby blinks. Blinks again, tilting his head. “Buck,” he says with a small, confused laugh, “We just got that door up.”

His mouth is halfway open, and his hand is halfway up to his radio to tell dispatch that Buck’s hit the wrong button, and he’s halfway into an exasperated, mostly-loving eye roll, and—

And Buck is halfway through taking off his mask.

Panic shoots through Bobby like lightning in a way he’s never really felt before. “Woah, hey, Buck—“

Buck, whose hand is still inching towards the seal and—

“Buck, stop. Stop! Right now. That’s an order—”

But despite the fact that his voice is a desperate mix between his most commanding captain voice and just plain desperate, Buck continues as if he didn’t even hear him and—

And his mask is coming off, exposing Buck to the infected air.

“Buck—“ His voice is beginning to tip dangerously into the desperate zone. “Buck, what are you doing - you need to—“

The words die right on his tongue.

Because there’s blood under Bucks nose.

There’s blood under Buck’s nose.

Something about the image isn’t computing. He sees Buck, sees the blood, sees the bloodshot eyes and dark stains on his teeth. His sickly pale pallor in the blue light. But all of these things are not coming together. Because adding all of these things together would produce a final picture that will never, can never be possible.

Buck’s mouth quirks up in something that could almost resemble a smile.

“I’m sorry, Cap,” he says, and Bobby can see the dark stains on his tongue, too. “I don’t think I can be on dish duty anymore.”

“Kid,” he chokes out, because what else can he say?

“Tell Chim I don’t blame him,” he says, far too fast, like there’s a clock he’s trying to race. And there can’t be a clock - there can’t be a clock that doesn’t have decades left instead of, what? Hours? Minutes? “Tell him not to blame himself either,” he adds with a little laugh.

And maybe that laugh is what finally breaks Bobby out of his frozen state. Because all at once, the world is moving again.

The world is spinning and the world is crashing right down on top of him, and he can feel every single pound of force that digs into his shoulders. It’s pressing down on him, suffocating him, and as it falls apart the jagged edges are cutting him open to bleed out on the dirty, concrete floor.

And he still can’t seem to say anything.

“My line broke,” Buck continues on, like the world isn’t ending right in front of Bobby in horrific, crystal-clear detail. “Noticed a couple hours ago. But it’s okay - Chimney’s gonna be okay.”

“What about you?” Bobby finally chokes out. And now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “What about - all of us? Chim’s not gonna be okay when he finds out that - that—“

“He’s got Maddie, and Jee, and - and his new kid,” Buck says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll understand that I—“

Whatever Buck thinks Chim will understand, Bobby doesn’t hear because he’s cut off by a harsh coughing fit - one that sounds like it’s ripping through his throat like glass, one that leaves blood all over Buck’s lips and hands and Bobby’s heart and soul.

“Kid, you—“

Bobby can’t do this. He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this. He can’t do this again, and yet he is. He is, he is, he is—

“Your family needs you. We need you, I—“

I need you.

But Buck just smiles that bashful little smile of his, the one that makes everyone love him a little more. Or at least, it’s always made Bobby love him a little more.

“Bobby, no one needs me,” he says, as if it’s a fact as average as they come and not the most bold-faced lie Bobby’s ever heard in his life. “Sure, I’ve got the 118 but—“ He coughs a bit more and shrugs. “I’m the only one with just the one family. I’m glad it was me.”

Bobby blinks once again because none his other nerves are firing. Buck takes his silence as permission to plow on with this madness he’s somehow been convinced is truth.

“Chim and my sister - they have each other. Hen’s got her family, you - you’ve got Athena and your kids, Ravi’s got his whole life ahead of him, and his parents - and his tenants!” He tacks on that last part with a laugh. “Who would charge rent without him around, huh?”

Your kids is all he can hear. Because Buck doesn’t seem to grasp that he’s one of those.

“Everyone will be fine without me. Everybody’s got their own people to get them through it.” He smiles. “It’s okay.”

And maybe there’s a part of Bobby that thinks, if I can convince him that he’s wrong, he’s not going anywhere.

Maybe that’s the part that makes him say, “What about Eddie?”

Something breaks in the kid’s eyes.

“He’s got Chris,” he says, but it seems to be a little more choked - seems to hurt him just a little bit more. “But I - I need you to tell him I’m sorry, and that I love him, okay? I…”

Buck blinks a couple times before coughing roughly again, hunched almost all the way over. He blinks rapidly as he comes back up.

“I need you to tell everyone that. I need you to tell them I didn’t want to leave them. And this, this choice I made? I never - never meant to hurt them.”

Bobby watches as tears gather in Buck’s eyes. He watches as they’re harshly blinked away. He can see - now that his world has somewhat stabilized into this horrifying reality - the tremble of Buck’s upper lip, the way his hands shake, one resting at his side and the other reaching out to Bobby. A quirk of his, one gained from years of stretching out a calm hand to patients as a firefighter.

He can see the way Buck’s entire frame tries to be steady but fails.

The kid is terrified.

Terrified, and doing his best to mask it to make this easier on Bobby.

And Bobby—

(Bobby wants to cry, to scream, to rage at the universe for being so cruel - he wants to scream at God for taking away another one of his children and he wants to end himself for being the cause again. He wants to break everything in the vicinity and he wants the broken pieces to puncture his heart because that would hurt far less than whatever he’s feeling right now.)

Bobby will not be the reason this is any harder on Buck.

So he channels every single ounce of fire captain in him - every ounce of self control he has from almost a decade of sobriety - to push down the uncontrollable urge to scream until his soul leaves his body. He blinks away his own tears - has no idea how many have already slipped past his defenses in the eternity since the door slid back down - and steadies his own hand as much as he can as he rests it on the glass.

Buck’s breath hitches - the kid is taking a step forward, and—

And their hands are aligned, skin only separated by a few layers of glass and rubber.

“Buck,” he says - whispers? Cries? He’s not entirely sure, doesn’t have enough left in him to care. “Kid. I need you to know that you are my family. That I see you as - see you as a son, and that every day I spend with you I am so - so proud to know I helped make you the man that you are today.”

Buck’s breath catches again, and Bobby can see tears gather in his eyes much quicker than he can blink them back. “Bobby—“ The kid turns his head away, like looking at him is too much. “I’m sorry—“

“I’m not,” Bobby continues. “I’m not sorry I got to spend so much of my life with someone as amazing - someone as precious - as you. I’m not sorry I gave a cocky punk another shot after he stole a firetruck. Twice.”

Buck lets out a snort through his tears, and Bobby can’t help but also let out a huff of what might’ve been considered a laugh if it weren’t for his own swimming vision.

“I love you, Evan Buckley.” Buck looks back at him now, tears still escaping his eyes and Bobby still has to pretend each of those tears isn’t an arrow straight to his soul. “I’m never going to stop loving you, not a single day for the rest of my life.”

“I… I—“

Buck once again breaks into a harsh coughing fit - only it doesn’t stop after a few moments, this time. The hand not on the glass goes to his mouth to stop the blood, but quickly flies down to clutch at his abdomen.

Buck’s shoulders tremble with the effort it takes to keep sucking in air through the coughs, and soon enough both his arms are wrapped around his middle, and he’s falling down to one knee.

“Buck,” Bobby rasps, fists hitting the glass like that will do anything to get him to his kid who is - who is— “Hey, you’re okay, you’re - you’re gonna be okay—“

Bobby is on his knees, senselessly clawing at the barrier as Buck continues his decent. The coughing begins to weaken before tapering off, but with that, Bobby watches in horror as Buck’s eyes begin to roll back into his head. As he slumps gracelessly against the clear barrier between them, unmoving. As his weight falls somewhere between the glass and the wall beside him.

For the briefest of moments, Bobby wonders if that was the last time Buck will ever close his eyes.

Then, as if his soul is violently broken by the very thought, he thinks, I did not just watch my son’s eyes close for the last time.

“Buck,” he calls. “Buck!”

He’s shouting, slamming his fists on the glass, barely able to feel the bruises that are already beginning to form.

No, he thinks. Open your goddamn eyes.

They were supposed to have more time. Buck was supposed to have more time, Bobby was going to call - someone else, whether that be Athena or Maddie or Eddie or anyone, everyone because they should have a chance to—

To—

“Kid - kid, look at me. Look at me! You’re gonna be fine, just open your eyes, please, just—“

But he doesn’t.

His eyes stay closed.

And Bobby looks - he looks at the glass by Buck’s mouth and sees no condensation. He looks at the kid’s chest, and sees that it lies still.

It’s only then that Bobby screams.

He wants to put up a fight when they come to drag him away from the door. He wants to shove them back - wants to keep them away from them both, doesn’t think there’s anything in heaven or on earth that could pull him away from Buck’s side.

Then he sees they’re carrying a body bag.

As soon as he sees that, all the fight leaves him like it never existed in the first place.

He’s not sure when or how it happens, but Athena is at his side.

Athena is here, and someone must have taken some of the heavy gear off of him because she is holding his face in her hands like - like he’s worth something. Like he was ever worth something.

She’s saying something to him. He doesn’t know what. He can see her lips move, can hear that there are words, but he stares because he doesn’t hear anything at all.

She seems to realize this, because she stops. And just - looks at him.

Tear tracks shine on her face. She seems fine now, at least, putting on a brave face for him. Because she’s strong like that, she’s good like that, that she can put someone else’s needs over her own. Bobby wonders if he’s ever been worthy of being in the same room as her.

“Don’t,” he finally hears her say. “You cannot blame yourself for this. Do you hear me?”

“He wasn’t infected right away.” Bobby can hear his own voice through what seems to be an entire ocean. It sounds rough - feels rough. He vaguely wonders how long he screamed outside that door. “He was - he was fine. If I had—“ He chokes on nothing. Chokes on everything. “If I had fought harder, if I had gotten my team out when I should’ve—“

“They were never going to let you into that room.” She grips his shoulders tight, and looks at him with an inescapable intensity. “Do you hear me? There’s nothing you could’ve said or done to make them open that door.”

And Bobby knows that. He knows - of course he knows.

But he still should’ve done something because now—

Now.

He’s on his feet and moving before Athena can protest or stop him. He searches blindly for a moment to find a place where he can—

He’s over a bush - realizing for the first time that they are, in fact, outside - and whatever was left of his lunch is being violently ripped from him. Once that’s all gone, he begins dry heaving, his stomach clenching painfully like it wants to purge his whole inner being - like that can rid him of this black hole taking up residence where his soul should be. He doesn’t know when the nausea will pass - it might as well be part of him now, ingrained into his body like a branding.

Athena is rubbing his back. It might’ve been soothing, any other day. Now, though? He doesn’t think there is anything in this world that could make his heart feel like anything other than shattered pieces strung across the ground.

Well, there is one thing. Unfortunately, Bobby killed it.

His stomach lurches even harder.

“I’m here, baby,” Athena says. She knows it’s okay is a lie. “I’m right here.”

He slumps back to lean against Athena’s chest after who knows how long. Her hands move from his back to his front, and he clutches them with his own like a vice, like they can tether him to the earth.

For a moment, he breathes.

“Who knows?” he asks once he feels like he can without puking.

Her breath hitches beneath him - a kink in her otherwise perfect armor. “Ravi and I do. I think Ravi told Karen. But…” She sighs deeply. “Hen and Chim were already in isolation when we found out.”

He blinks, and ignores the tears that fall.

This is something to do. Something to focus on. He can do that. Turn off his emotions, if for a moment, and be the fire captain he needs to be.

Something cracks as a thought surfaces. He leans forward so that he can turn to look at his wife. “Does…” He swallows and it burns, though it has nothing to do with the taste of acid on his tongue. “Does Maddie know?”

His heart sinks as she shakes her head. “Last I heard, she was heading over here to be with Chimney. She’ll, um.” Athena silently wipes away her own singular tear with her thumb. “She’ll be here in about fifteen.”

Bobby breathes in. Breathes out.

“We should - we should be the ones to tell them.” He wipes a few of his own tears away as she gives a slight nod. “I guess, um - you can tell Hen and I’ll tell Chim, and - we can both tell Maddie. Once she gets here.”

She nods again.

They don’t move to get up.

The walk to Chim’s tent is a blur. Getting his suit back on is even more of a blur.

Chimney smiles when he sees Bobby come through the plastic opening. He’s looking infinitely better than he had when the virus was tearing through his system.

For a moment, Bobby stops to breathe. He can’t let himself think about anything other than delivering this news.

He’s a fire captain, telling one of his men that another has fallen in the line of duty.

That’s all this is.

Chimney doesn’t seem to realize that something is wrong. And, to be fair to him, Bobby’s face and body are almost completely covered in a shield.

(He hopes it’s stronger than the one he has around his heart. That one feels a breeze away from falling to pieces.)

“Hey, Cap,” he says, grinning despite the blood still speckled around his nose and mouth (breathe, Bobby tells himself). “What a day, huh? Maddie here yet?”

“Chim,” he says.

And it’s enough.

The smile is gone. He’s looking at Bobby in a way no captain ever wants to be looked at.

“What happened?” The question is asked in a small voice, yet it echoes throughout the silent confines of the isolation chamber.

Bobby feels something fracture along the middle of his chest as he looks at Chimney. He probably should’ve planned on how he’d do this.

Chim is still looking at him.

“You weren’t the only—“

He breathes so he doesn’t break.

“You weren’t the only one.”

Chimney stares at him for a moment longer, unblinking. Something is falling apart in his eyes, and he’s turning his head away.

Because Chim knows exactly what that means - yet somehow still, he has no idea, and Bobby has to be the one to tell him.

“Buck’s…” Chimney sucks in a sharp breath, and Bobby ignores the knife lodged in his own chest because - because he has to actually say the words, the words that should never be spoken. He has to be the one to say them. “Buck’s gone.”

Bobby’s knees give out. He’s glad he expelled what was left in his stomach earlier as tears once again begin to flow, because at least he knows he isn’t about to be sick into his mask.

Chimney is still silent, until he’s not. “He can’t be.”

“Chim…”

“He can’t.” He’s looking at Bobby now like he’s got all the answers, when that’s never been further from the truth. “He was fine. He can’t be - he was fine - he can’t have—“

“I’m sorry,” Bobby says, grabbing Chimney’s hand with his gloved one. “He said he doesn’t blame you, okay? He doesn’t blame you.”

Chimney breaks at these words.

And Bobby?

Bobby breaks right down the middle with him.

Athena is there to hold Hen as she cries, just like she was there to hold Bobby.

Whatever grief is festering inside, she is sure to keep it locked away. There will be time to fall apart later. She’s already crumbled enough along the edges today. Like when she first realized why Bobby was taking so damn long; when she watched those men prepare to take Buck’s body away. She can’t fracture any more. Right now, there are people that need her.

She can fall apart later.

(Much, much later.)

Hen is still crying as Athena’s phone vibrates in her pocket. Her gut sinks as she realizes it who it must be.

Hen lets her go with barely any protest, clearly trying to hold it together. Athena’s heart breaks a bit more in her chest as she leaves - as she hears Hen’s choked sobs return from outside the tent.

She takes off her suit. Takes a deep breath, and puts one foot in front of the other.

The world is dim as she makes her way toward the parking lot, toward where she spots Maddie rushing to the outside of one of the command centers. Athena knows she won’t get any answers from the men guarding the door.

Athena looks, but she’s can’t find Bobby.

And Maddie - Maddie has spotted her. She’s already heading this way.

With one more glance around to look for her husband, Athena realizes with a drop of her stomach that she’s going to have to do this alone.

“Where’s Howie?” Maddie is asking, a frantic look in her eye. “Nobody is telling me anything - please Athena, I have to see—“

“He’s fine, Maddie,” she says, and she doesn’t mean to use such a clipped tone, she doesn’t, but it comes out that way despite her wishes. She swallows in an attempt to push down the lump that’s made its home in her throat. To push down anything that isn’t under her control.

From the moment Athena first spotted her, Maddie has been a blur of energy - she’s had a clear purpose that she came here for, a one-track mind. But Athena can clearly see something in her gaze shift at the words, the hurricane hiding beneath her skin halting in its tracks.

Maddie takes uneven breaths that are painful to simply watch. “What happened?” she finally asks. “Is - is Hen—“

“She’s fine,” Athena says, just as short and clipped, and again, she doesn’t mean to be. She has no idea how to stop. “She’s going to be fine. So is Ravi.”

“That’s good?” It should be a statement, but it’s not. “If - if everyone is fine, then—“

Athena ignores the unsteadiness in her own hands as she lifts them to hold Maddie’s shoulders. “Maddie,” she says, ignoring the fact that she’s seconds away from running to the bushes like Bobby. “Maddie, there’s…”

She had been able to tell Hen. Why can’t she do this? Why are her words getting stuck somewhere between her throat and the open air?

“What’s going on? Is someone - not fine? Is—“

Athena sees the moment it clicks. What Athena has said, what she hasn’t said.

Maddie purses her lips, the way she does when she’s doing her best to hide her feelings for the sake of others or herself. “Where’s—“ She swallows and glances around, looking for someone she doesn’t know she will never again find. “Where’s Evan?”

“Maddie…” Impossibly wide eyes snap back to Athena’s. “Maddie, I’m sorry.”

“Where is he?” There are tears now, though they have yet to fall. “Athena, where is my brother?”

“I’m so sorry, Maddie - we, we tried—“

“No.” She shakes her head, and with it the tears are flung from her lashes. She begins to tremble beneath Athena’s hands. “No. Athena, please, where is - where is my—“

The words seem to get stuck in Maddie’s throat. Her mouth opens and closes, yet no sound escapes.

“I’m sorry,” is all Athena can say.

“No,” she says again in a voice that is growing weaker and weaker with each passing word. Her gaze grows vacant as she continues to shake her head. “No, please - you can’t—“

And then the storm that was hidden beneath the surface violently breaks through, the eye of it nothing but a memory. Athena is bearing all of Maddie’s weight, and she carefully wraps her arms around her so that she can gently lower them both to the ground.

None of this registers much over the earth-shattering wails coming from the girl in her arms.

At some point, Bobby ends up back in Athena’s embrace. They sit on a curb as they lean on each other, both her own exhaustion and his radiating between them.

He apologizes for not being there to tell Maddie - for falling apart while telling Chimney. She tells him it’s okay, because it is. She knows grief - there is no playbook on how they need to go about things. Getting through each passing moment still breathing is enough, no matter how hard or painful each of those breaths might be.

They lean on each other, and Athena isn’t sure how long they do before Bobby is sighing and putting his face in his hands.

She knows what he’s thinking before he opens his mouth - Lord help her, though, she hopes she’s wrong.

“I have to call him.”

She’s not.

“It doesn’t… have to be you,” she says, the arm she has around his shoulders tightening in what she hopes is support. “Anyone at the LAFD could make the call. Or even dispatch.”

She knows - because she knows her husband better than she’s known anyone - that he’s going to shake his head before he does. “He deserves better than that. He shouldn’t—“ He sniffs and wipes under his eyes for the hundredth time. “He should hear it from someone he knows.”

She nods. “And then we go home, baby.”

It takes him a second, but then he’s nodding, too. “Yeah… home.”

(The word has never sounded less true.)

Eddie sits in bed, unmoving and unblinking as the missed calls stare up at him. They sit on his lock screen just like they would any other day, yet because of them he has to force himself to take in each new lungful of air.

His phone lights up with another call, and he’s not sure if it’s this or the notifications that make his stomach plummet to the center of the earth.

The phone vibrates in his hand. The buzzes seem to line up with his heartbeat - a throbbing pulse that has migrated straight to his throat. He sees the little green button he’s supposed to hit to answer, and the red one next to it. A splash of color in the otherwise dark room, burning straight into his retinas.

And Eddie—

(Eddie knows that there are only so many things Bobby Nash would call him about at this hour.)

Eddie has to answer the phone.

(He’s never wanted to do anything less.)

His fingers shake as he does just that, raising it to his ear before the call can go to voicemail once more.

For a moment, Eddie listens.

He hears nothing.

“Hello?” he says after a beat, voice rough from sleep even as his heart tries to beat right out of his chest.

He desperately, stupidly hopes for the unlikely scenario in which there has been a mistake. Bobby is in bed, just like him, and is - accidentally calling. Somehow. He prays to a God he hasn’t spoken to in years that that’s all this is. “Bobby, you there?”

Someone’s breath hitches on the other end. His own heart skips several beats at the sound, the blood going even colder in his veins.

“Yeah,” he hears Bobby say. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Eddie waits, but there’s nothing else to hear. He forces himself not to dwell on the raspy tone of his former boss’ voice. Forces himself to speak. “What happened?”

There is no use in beating about any bush. They both know something has happened - both know Eddie knows something has happened.

Another shaky inhale. “Eddie, there was, um… An incident. On a call.”

And somewhere, in Eddie’s heart, he knows.

He knows this is not how a call would go if someone was hurt - if someone was in the hospital, even on death’s door. He’s spent enough time as the one giving and receiving this kind of news to know the difference.

Images flash through his head. Of sitting in the back of an ambulance, of standing in front of a temporary hospital. Moments when the floor dropped from under him, when he knew in a split second that life would never be the same. Different than brushing with death. There’s a certain finality to knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s no chance. That there’s nothing you can do.

Someone on his team is dead.

He doesn’t know who. Maybe that’s the worst part - the not knowing. Any one of them could be gone and Eddie doesn’t know who because he’s eight hundred miles away.

His mouth is dry, his tongue sandpaper. There are no words he can think to say.

“Eddie,” Bobby says. The world stops and time has never moved faster. “Buck is gone.”

And Eddie—

(Eddie was wrong. Not knowing wasn’t the worst part.)

Eddie—

(Part of him feared it but - a larger part of him had thought it to be impossible. There is no world where Evan Buckley doesn’t exist. It’s a given fact that if the earth turns, if Eddie is still breathing, Buck is, too.)

Eddie—

(He was wrong that not knowing was the worst part and he’d never been more wrong in his life. He’s in a helicopter and it’s going down and it’s crashing and the world isn’t moving anymore. The world was moving - maybe even too fast - and now it’s just—)

(Not.)

He—

“Eddie? Are you there?”

He must say something. Or maybe he doesn’t - he has no idea, no clue if any words come out of his mouth or if any more are said to him in turn. One of them must hang up the phone - he’s staring at it in his hands, the screen dark as it stares right back.

Buck is gone.

The words loop themselves in his head, like if he hears them enough times they’ll start to make sense, like the world he’s been thrust into will start to feel like reality.

Buck is gone.

The phone slides out of his hold, and he distantly hears it land on the wood floor at his feet.

Buck is gone.

He falls, too. The edge of the phone digs into his knee. Something - something heavy, something hot - is pressing into his chest. He needs to reach inside his lungs and pull whatever it is out because he can’t breathe around it, can’t exist around it.

Buck is dead.

A loud, inhuman cry escapes his lips before he can stop it.

He presses a hand to his mouth, heart stuttering for a moment with something other than - whatever this feeling is, nausea and searing pain and a gaping hole opening where his soul should be. It stutters in - fear. Because—

Because he needs to keep quiet. For Chris.

Just when he thought the agony in his chest couldn’t possibly get any worse, it multiplies. He’s going to have to tell his kid, his child, that—

That—

He reaches behind himself blindly with the hand not muffling what are now unrelenting sobs, feeling around until he can latch onto his pillow. He yanks it towards himself and before he can think twice replaces his hand with it, making sure to cover and muffle and smother like his life depends on it.

As soon as he does, he can no longer stop the sounds that are tearing violently from his chest.

Because he’s too weak to suppress it. Because the very blood and bones within him are screaming. Because nothing, no piece of him, will ever be okay again.

Because Buck is dead, and he has to keep the night silent for his son.

Chapter Text

Evan Buckley dies on a Tuesday night at the age of thirty-three.

The day is sunny, when they bury him.

Eddie wants to think it makes sense. It doesn’t. The world should be dark, and the sky is a brilliant endless blue.

He watches as people - people he knows, people he doesn’t, people that can’t possibly know what’s been lost - pass by the coffin to place white roses on polished wood. He grips his son’s shoulder as they both walk up to do the same, the fabric of the material under his fingers soft and probably too expensive.

Christopher holds their flower. It’s ever so slightly brown on the edges of two petals. Eddie turns his head as his kid places it down, eye catching on a little red bird that has landed on a nearby gravestone. It’s there for a moment, gone the next.

“Bye, Buck,” his son whispers, voice carrying on the wind enough for only the three of them to hear. Eddie has to turn to look at the still cloudless, still endlessly blue sky. The sky that stares back at him, taunts him, shows him the color of the only eyes he wants to see.

Despite the effort, a few tears fall.

And then that’s it. Their turn is over. They walk back over to their place in the crowd of people who loved his best friend.

As they do, Eddie looks to the headstone.

Evan Buckley. Son, brother, friend.

The list feels incomplete. Which is - true. The list was supposed to continue on, to be added to for years. Decades.

Eddie doesn’t think about why that reasoning doesn’t sit right with him.

(He doesn’t think about sitting Chris down to tell him there had been an accident, that his Buck was gone. Doesn’t think about the way Chris sobbed in his arms, or about how his kid keeps losing parents.)

He doesn’t think about it at all.

When the ceremony is over - over, because funerals are finite things that end, things that people leave, things that people move on from - the crowd begins to slowly dwindle. Eddie sits and can’t lift his gaze from the grass or his back from the cool plastic chair.

Carla offers to take Chris home. Eddie lets her. He gives a kiss to his curls before they both walk away.

Fewer and fewer people stay as the sun begins to lower itself in the sky. Maddie and Chim leave because Jee needs to get home. Bobby is eventually pulled away by Athena. Eddie doesn’t have anyone to pull him away.

The light of the sun turns golden as it glints across the surface of his best friend’s name. The opening still sits in front of it - Eddie knows that later workers will come to fill it in with earth, will come to cover the coffin they lowered, the memory of which will be burned in his mind for the rest of his living days and for whatever comes after.

For a split second of insanity, Eddie wants to run and jump into the opening and let them bury him, too. Crawl into the coffin, while he’s at it.

He doesn’t.

Despite the overwhelming ache, he doesn’t.

Instead, he gets up from the plastic chair. Takes slow, barely stable steps forward, takes them until he hits the edge of solid ground. He looks down, looks back up at the cold, impersonal stone.

Evan Buckley. Son, brother, friend.

There are countless things he could say - endless things he’ll never get the chance to say.

None of them are enough.

He wants to say - so many things. Inadequate, meaningless things. World-ending, never-told-anyone-before things. Everyday, I’m-talking-to-my-best-friend things.

Words won’t come.

(How many meaningless conversations did they have, over the years? How many times did they bare their souls to each other? How much time were they supposed to have, going forward - how many words should they have gotten to say? How many times is he going to turn to the side, comment on his tongue, with no one there to hear?)

(So many words, spoken and unspoken and never to be said. The one person who was always there to listen, and Eddie, who has everything and nothing left to give.)

In the end, he can’t think of something good enough, meaningful enough, or just - enough. So, he lands on what Chris whispered into the warm summer air.

“Bye, Buck.” His voice somehow breaks on both syllables - an echo of the last words he said to Buck in person. The last words spoken before Eddie left. Left Buck. Left him alone, standing in the rain.

They burn on his tongue.

He thinks, if Buck were here, he’d tease Eddie for being unoriginal. The thought causes him to huff lightly.

He’d tell Buck to shut up, that he’s doing his best. Buck would roll his eyes and say, I know. Chris said it better, though.

Eddie would, of course, agree.

He swallows. Turns to walk away, and—

He collapses into a pile of limbs, knees no longer able to support his weight.

When he does finally get up to leave, the sun is gone, and the world is dark.

Evan Buckley dies on a Tuesday night and is revived two minutes and thirty two seconds later. This information is shared with no one but the holders of the highest degrees of military clearance.

When Buck wakes, he doesn’t quite know which way is up.

The room spins even with his eyes closed tightly, and the nausea in his gut spills out to all his limbs into one big pile of hurt. His mouth is dry like he hasn’t had a taste of water in years, and his head pounds like someone is performing an interpretive tap dance on his temples. Every inch of him aches, and he wants to fall back into unconsciousness just so he can escape the fire in his veins.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t happen. Awareness keeps coming to him no matter how hard he tries to push it back; he suspects the pain is what’s pulling him to the surface in the first place.

Then he notices a steady beeping to the rhythm of his pulsating headache - he’s hooked up to a heart monitor. He feels the cool plastic of an oximeter clamped on his left index finger, the itch of a tube beneath his nose, the scratch of cheap sheets against his skin.

He’s in the hospital.

Everything comes back in flashes.

The lab, the fire. The virus. Chimney coughing up blood. Cap and Athena coming through and delivering the vaccine. Chimney being cured almost instantly - the relief Buck feels in remembering that particular fact acts like a drug, and for a moment he can focus on something other than feeling like death warmed over.

Then he remembers the initial drop of his stomach at finding his own damaged line; the slow, sinking dread as he began to feel worse and worse and worse. Knowing he couldn’t let anyone find out, paralyzed by the fear that he would die before letting anyone know at all.

He has to take a second to breathe, to tell himself he’s fine. He’s okay, he didn’t die, he made it out alive. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe. He’s not back in that lab - he’s safe in the hospital. And he might still feel sick now, but they were able to get him out. That has to mean something.

Once the anxiety falls to a manageable level, he does his best to try and inch open his eyes. Thankfully the room he’s in isn’t too bright, and he doesn’t seem to be having horrible light sensitivity - or at least, not any worse than it was before he last lost consciousness.

A grey ceiling comes into focus as he squints against the low light. The image of something solid calms his heart rate the slightest bit, and it helps that it looks nothing like the lab he was just trapped in, when he—

Oh, shit.

Bobby is going to kill him.

Buck groans as he remembers shutting the door to the lab, like an idiot. A dramatic idiot, at that, since he ended up being perfectly fine. He gives the man five minutes - tops - before the lecturing begins on just how much of an idiot Buck has been this time around. He can practically hear the disapproving tone now. You endangered your life without letting anyone on your team know. I’m very disappointed in you, Buck.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes simply because his head still feels like it’s gone through a meat grinder. He can’t wait for Bobby to lecture him without end - along with Maddie, and Hen, and Chim, and maybe even Athena. Probably Eddie, too, if anyone told him about this latest brush with death. Maybe Buck should avoid calling him for the next few days.

But even as he considers that idea for exactly half a second, he’s already disregarding it. He wants to hear Eddie’s voice so badly it’s almost embarrassing. After everything that happened - getting locked in a burning lab with a lethal virus, nearly losing his brother in all but blood, thinking he was as good as dead - he wants more than just hearing his voice. He wants Eddie to wrap his arms around him and just, hold him close.

At least for a little while.

He blinks away the sting in his eyes when he thinks of the distance between them now. A voice is all he can get, but he’ll take every ounce of Eddie still available to him. Especially since—

I need you to tell him I’m sorry, and that—

Buck slams the door on that thought, much like he slammed the lab door on Bobby.

It’s fine. He doesn’t need to think about any of that right now. It’s a problem for - later.

(Or never.)

(Definitely never.)

He blinks again and looks down. The room he’s in is oddly bare, and unlike any hospital rooms he’s been in before. He must not be at Cedars Sinai - which makes sense, considering how far the lab had been from their normal response zone. They probably rushed him to the nearest place equipped to deal with - his current condition.

What hospital would even be able to house him right now? He didn’t really think about that. That might explain why this place looks so… empty, aside from an array of machines Buck could probably only name a fraction of. There are no chairs, no magazines or television, no view of anything outside of this grey cube - not even a window next to the metal door on his left.

A metal door that’s suddenly opening.

Buck hears the steady pulse of the heart monitor tick up as a figure wearing heavy duty protective equipment walks in - full mask, suit, gloves, the whole shebang.

Maybe Buck’s not as in the clear as he thought, health-wise.

“Mr. Buckley,” a man says from inside the space suit, taking down and checking a clipboard Buck only now realizes has been hanging on the wall by his head. He has green eyes that won’t meet his and slight age lines running across his forehead, both hidden behind a plastic visor. “How are you feeling?”

“Um,” Buck croaks, throat still as dry as a desert. “Just Buck is fine. And - I’m fine.”

The man writes something on the board, which is impressive for how thick his gloves seem to be. He says nothing as he continues to scribble.

“Can I get some water?” Buck asks when a few moments have passed with nothing more than the scratch of a pen filling the air.

“Someone will bring you some.” He continues writing. “Any persistent coughing?”

As if brought on by the question, Buck doubles over and hacks up what might be entire lung. His hands are only a little stained with blood when he finally stops, though, so he counts it as a win, even though he might have rather shoved his throat and vocal cords into a blender. Might’ve been less excruciating.

The man hums like he’s making a note of the weather.

Buck fidgets with the blanket as the man writes, fighting the urge to cough again by clearing his throat as gently as he can. He’s never done well with hospitals, and everyone that’s ever known him knows it - he wonders how long he can last before he’s begging the doctors to let him go. Something tells him that it might be a bit more difficult this time around.

That “something” being the literal hazmat suit.

“How am I, doc?” he asks, wincing when his voice is cracked and airy.

“You’ve been in a medically induced coma for two weeks,” the man says, not reacting at all when Buck’s heart rate audibly shoots up at the words. “As far as we can tell, you’re still infected with the mutated virus.”

Okay. That’s - not ideal. Two whole weeks? He can hardly believe it - even when he was struck by lightning he wasn’t in a coma for more than a few days. His family must be losing their minds.

Wait - his family. It’s been two weeks, and Buck doesn’t know about anything that happened with the lab. He doesn’t know if Chimney is still alive - doesn’t know if the vaccine worked for longer than the few minutes Buck was still conscious. Before he can think twice, he’s asking, “Is the 118 alright? Is Ch— Howard Han, is he alive?”

“Everyone at the lab was accounted for.” Buck sinks into the bed in relief at the words, not realizing how tight his muscles had become. That means Hen is fine, too. “It’s all been taken care of.”

“Okay,” Buck breathes. “Good. That’s - that’s good.” They’re all okay - Chimney is okay and so is everyone else. Everything is going to be okay. “Can I see them?”

“It’s all been taken care of,” the man repeats, pressing a few buttons on a monitor. “No unauthorized personnel are allowed in here.”

Oh. Buck supposes that makes sense, considering how airtight and isolated the room seems to be and, of course, the hazmat suit. Still, the idea of not being able to see his family right now hurts more than the virus currently trying to kill him.

“Okay,” he says again, trying and probably failing to hide his disappointment. “Am I getting better, at least?”

The man finally spares him a glance through the plastic visor.

His eyes make Buck feel… odd. Like something to be studied, rather than helped.

He wonders if that’s why this doctor has chosen this particular field: a fascination with mysterious diseases. Personally, Buck could never put learning above helping - but to each their own, he supposes. That’s why one of them is a firefighter and the other is a specialist.

“It’s unclear,” the man says, turning back to a chart on some sort of screen. “You’ve stabilized enough that we were able to pull you out of your coma. We also believe we are close to vaccine solution and plan to test it accordingly once completed.”

With that, the man leaves without a glance back. Buck doesn’t have much time to think before the door is opening once more, another slightly smaller figure in a full-body suit stepping through.

Once they get close enough, Buck sees a short man hidden behind another thick plastic mask, mouth not visible, same as the first man. He holds out his hand and Buck realizes he has the water he asked for, a white straw sticking out of it and everything.

“Thank you,” he says as he grabs for it, voice still rough and betraying his need to quench his thirst.

It’s cool on his throat as he takes the first sip, causing him to sink back into the thin mattress in relief. He knew his mouth was dry, but hadn’t realized it was that dry. “Thank you,” he repeats more clearly before doing his best to not drink so fast he chokes. The masked nurse says nothing, averting his eyes even as he takes the cup once Buck is done.

He hurries out of the room with it as soon as he has it in his grasp, and Buck honestly can’t blame him. Even with all that protection, being around this kind of disease must be terrifying. He would know.

As much as he understands the isolation - as much as he understands why no one wants to be anywhere near him - he wishes he didn’t have to go through it. He’s been through a lot in his life - a lot probably being an understatement - but this whole experience is rapidly climbing to the top of his “would not recommend” list, and, well.

He’d rather not be alone for it.

His whole body feels like a super powered version of the flu ate him for breakfast, and he wants company. Sue him. Getting struck by lightning sucked, but at least that was over quickly. One could even say… it was as fast as…

Yeah, he needs someone else to talk to before bad puns get the best of him.

Humor aside, he wishes he had someone to at least - be with. He hates that they can’t even let Maddie in here - he knows she would be at his side in a heartbeat, virus be damned. She’s probably raising hell in the waiting room, wherever that may be. He can’t help but smile at the thought.

He wishes they could let Bobby in, since the man is his new medical proxy (given his old one moved several states away). He imagines the man sitting and clutching rosary beads in the same room Maddie is storming around in, and the image only makes Buck want him here. There are no chairs in this room, but Bobby would probably be okay sitting on the ground no matter how much Buck protested.

He just wants someone to talk to. To take his mind off his aching bones, to distract him from the blandness of this place and how bored he’s going to get here. Alone. Did he mention bored and alone? He can’t imagine anything worse, and he knows he’s right because that was his whole childhood.

Hopefully these scientists - or doctors or biologists or whatever they are - can figure out the vaccine before he dies of boredom or just straight up dies.

He’s not sure which of the two sounds like a worse fate.

Time stretches on. More people trickle in and out of his room, scarcely saying a word to him and if they do it’s clearly a formality. A few vials of his blood are taken; his heart rate and blood pressure are checked regularly.

He doesn’t feel better as the time goes by, but he doesn’t feel worse, either. Nausea fills his gut and pain clouds his vision, but he can breathe without fear of his lungs collapsing, so he’ll take what he can get.

The heart monitor near his head continues to pierce through the otherwise silent room. The room which, for the most part, has remained starkly empty. Buck has half a mind to say “quiet” just to see if it makes something happen, even if it’s something bad.

If it’s bad he hopes it’s at least moderately interesting. Or funny.

At one point, he stops a nurse as they’re leaving to ask for something to fill this long stretch of time - whether that be his phone, a book, Netflix, he doesn’t really care. The wall can’t possibly get more interesting than it already is.

Woo, still grey!

The man doesn’t even give Buck a response before the door is shutting once more. Which - stings more than it should, that everyone seemingly wants nothing to do with him.

Logically, he knows it’s the virus they’re running from, not him, and he knows his family would be here if they could. He knows it, of course he does - they’ve proven it time and time again. Their love for him lives within his heart, despite all the years and memories working against such a notion.

There’s always going to be that little voice in his head, though. The one whispering from the shadows, the one he’s known his whole life and no amount of therapy will ever be able to extinguish.

A voice that says, they don’t care.

He knows it’s a lie, does his best to push that part of him down, but he can’t help that it practically echoes in the silence with every beep of the machines.

One moment he’s hoping the wall will turn into a TV, and the next he’s being woken by someone coming through the door. His head lifts off the pillow as much as his aching neck will allow, and he’s met with the sight of the first doctor that checked him over.

A suited woman he hasn’t seen yet follows in after him, pushing a cart filled with medical supplies he can’t quite identify at his current angle. A third suited figure - one that checked his blood pressure earlier - comes through and starts doing so again.

Buck does his best to not appear nervous at the sight of them all, but the slightly faster rhythm of his heart rate betrays him. He just hopes no one else has picked up it.

“Any news?” Buck asks, coughing as the words scrape his throat.

“We’re going to test the vaccine now,” the man says, writing something on the same clipboard as before.

The woman - an assistant, or another doctor, perhaps - is messing with the equipment on the cart, and he watches as she pulls a thin needle out of a single-use plastic package. She begins to connect it to a syringe as the other assistant cleans his arm with some sort of disinfectant.

Understanding shoots through Buck all at once, his heart rate audibly skyrocketing, but appearances are the last thing on his mind now. “Wait a second - you’re testing it on me?”

They can’t do that. Can they? It has to break some sort of law or regulation, right? It’s not like they practice with live people in the Fire Academy - there are dummies and- and mannequins so that they can help real people later down the line. He knows nothing about the world of medicine and biology aside from a few Wikipedia deep dives, but he’s pretty sure human trials are supposed to be pretty damn far down the line in the scientific method, too.

“It has to be tested,” the man says as he puts the clipboard back on the wall. “We’ve determined the makeup of this compound from what remained of the successful vaccine, so in theory it should act similarly to its predecessor.”

Buck looks at him, and then back at the other two as an incredulous and slightly fearful laugh bubbles in his chest. “You’re joking, right?”

Because they can’t possibly be serious about this. It’s not like he’s on death’s door like he was before, or like Chimney had been when they injected him. That was a life-or-death thing, barely a choice to be made. This? This feels negligent at best and at worst—

Something he’s not sure he wants to name.

But there’s no point in wondering, because they can’t just - test it on him like this, can they?

“We need to move quickly against this disease,” the man says, taking the syringe out of his assistant’s hand. Buck has to physically force himself to not flinch back, and he’s not sure he succeeds. “I assure you, this is for the best.”

The shot is in his arm, and before he can blink the plunger is down.

Well. Apparently they can test it on him like this.

He stares at the small drop of blood left in its place, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Because - that just happened. They really just gave him a vaccine as a trial run.

Buck continues to stare at his arm even as one of the assistants places a small bandage on it. He doesn’t realize that they’ve left until he finally looks up and finds himself alone once more.

He takes a deep breath. In, and out. In, out.

The mechanical pulse in the room still races to the beat of the blood rushing in his ears. Deep breaths aren’t working. They should be working - why aren’t they working?

Jello, Eddie’s voice whispers from somewhere. Turn every part of your body into jello.

Okay. Okay, he can do jello. His arms are jello, his legs are jello. They have no form, they are relaxed, and so is he. He should be relaxed. Why isn’t he relaxed? That’s what the jello is supposed to do - relax him.

His head and chest are jello now, and the monitor continues to scream. Jello, he repeats in his head. Jello doesn’t freak out. He can be calm. He’s nothing but orange flavored jello.

That’s a dumb flavor, Eddie would say.

Shut up, it’s delicious, Buck would say back.

Why on earth would you pick orange over something like strawberry?

Because it’s good. Chris would agree with me.

Whatever you say, cowboy. You’re orange jello, and no one has ever done it better.

Now you’re just being patronizing.

It’s a good thing the jello method has finally started to work, otherwise Buck would’ve had to track Eddie down in Texas just to yell at him about how dumb his methods are.

And it is this relaxation method that calms him.

Not the soothing voice of his best friend.

It has to be.

(The door is remaining closed, barricaded, locked behind several layers of pure titanium, all of the above. Which - there’s nothing behind it, anyway. Nothing.)

(It wouldn’t be so crazy.)

(Nothing.)

Just like the vaccine had to have been the right course of action. Right? The doctor said it was for the best, and he knows more than Buck does. So it had to be what was best.

It had to be.

He’ll admit that being this sick is awful, so why shouldn’t he welcome a chance to feel better? Not only that, but the doctor said they needed to move quickly. He clearly knows something about this that Buck doesn’t.

(So why does he still feel like crawling out of his own skin?)

Buck comes back to consciousness feeling like he could cry, but instead of in pain, this time it’s in relief.

He feels okay. Better than okay, actually - it feels like the sickness is completely gone. His sinuses are clear, his head doesn’t pound, and he can tell his internal temperature has finally returned to normal.

The vaccine worked.

Of course it did - they said they made it from the stuff Chimney got. Chimney, who got better almost instantly. Buck might not have experienced that same medical miracle, but he guesses it must’ve worked its magic overnight.

He overreacted. It’s as simple as that. He’s slightly embarrassed, really, about just how much he overreacted. There was no reason to not trust the doctors, and why would there be? Buck has seen time and time again - from both sides of the glass doors - that doctors always have their patients’ best interests at heart.

This means he can go home soon. Maybe his family is right on the other side of that door, ready to come in and finally, finally see him. 

Yet when the door opens, it’s only the same doctor as before.

He’s still wearing a suit. Buck supposes they can’t be too careful. Still, he kind of wants to scream.

“How soon can I get out of here?” he asks, because he’s learned beating around the bush doesn’t work with this particular crowd.

For a moment, there is no answer, and Buck might truly consider screaming, but then - “We have to continue monitoring you.” He never makes eye contact. He’s always checking some sort of monitor or chart, like they have some information Buck’s actual body doesn’t. “But it seems the vaccination was successful.”

He does his best to hold in what would probably be a very dramatic sigh. He knows that already. It’s not what he wants to hear. “Okay,” he says. Calmly. “Can I see anyone, at least?”

He’s not sick anymore, and the doctor just told him himself the vaccine worked. If he can’t leave, they should be able to come to him.

The man glances at him as he hangs one of the many clipboards. “No one is allowed in here.”

And then he’s gone.

Another day goes by, and Buck feels fine.

He tries to tell the people that come by that he’s not sick anymore, that he’s ready to leave. They tell him about contamination and lingering symptoms and “proper protocol” which is fine, it’s all fine, but - that’s just it. He’s the one that’s fine.

He doesn’t feel sick. He can see all his vitals are normal on the screens that surround him, at least on the ones he understands. He shouldn’t be here - with the coma, he’s already been gone for over two weeks. That’s entirely too long for someone prone to stir-craziness.

That, and he’s sure his family misses him.

(Or he hopes they do.)

(Of course they miss him. Why wouldn’t they miss him?)

(Maybe because there’s a reason he tried to reassure Bobby the way he did.)

(They all have their own people, their own families. He has no one to go home to. The house he’s renting sits empty - he doesn’t have people that will sit up waiting for him, no one to fill the cold side of his bed. He holds a temporary spot in everyone’s lives, always there during the day with no one to hold at night. There is no one to call his own.)

They have to miss him.

But the medical staff tells him there’s still work to be done, still aspects of his health that need monitoring. He’s starting to get sick of it (no pun intended), how many times they keep repeating the same tests. He wonders how long they plan on keeping him here - because, again, he’s fine. And he doesn’t think his hatred for hospitals can be overstated. If he doesn’t start getting answers soon he might just get up and leave, super contagious virus be damned.

Another round of people come in to run tests on his vitals. This has to be the eighth time, at least - the numbers can’t be varying that much, right?

He does his best to hold in a groan as a cuff is tightened once again around his bicep. “I'm pretty sure it’ll be the same as the last five times you checked.”

As expected, nobody answers. The people that work at this hospital sure are chatty.

He looks down at his other arm at a sudden sharp sting, just in time to see a needle slide out of his skin. He wishes he had the energy to feel nervous about it, but he ran out of that a while ago. Now he’s just annoyed. “What was that for?”

“We need to test if the vaccination works against the original CCHF contagion, and not just the mutation,” someone says on his other side, voice muffled from the masks they refuse to stop wearing.

“And what does that have to do with what you put in my arm?”

“It’s precautionary,” the one with the needle says over by a sharps disposal bin. “We’ll reassess our data after the week-long incubation.”

He’s not sure what they’re saying, but if it’s best to take extra precautions then he supposes he’s just gonna have to suck it up. But still—

“A week?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from sounding overly dramatic and whiny. “Do I really have to stay here that much longer?”

“That’s only until this precaution is checked over,” the first suited figure says. “We apologize for any stress.”

“No - no, it’s fine,” he sighs, head falling back to the pillow as he tries his best to sound like he’s not lying through his teeth. “When can my family come and see me?”

Buck waits for an answer, but no one spares him a glance as they all begin to file out of the room.

The annoyance is gone, and the nervousness he didn’t think he could feel anymore comes back full force.

Maybe it never really left.

He’s not sure why it’s this particular lack of response that does it, but it’s almost like there is a physical shift in the air as they walk away. Because - well, he’s been ignoring it. Has been telling himself this whole time there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on. But at this point he can’t deny it, that his gut is telling him—

Something is wrong.

“Hey!” he calls to the last person before they can step through the door, after shaking off his apparent muteness. “Seriously, I want to see at least - somebody. Can’t you put them in a suit? Make them, I don’t know, sign a waiver or something?”

They don’t even turn around before saying, “No one is allowed in here.”

An ice cube slips down Buck’s spine.

Why are they so adamant about this? Why can some people enter and others can’t? What’s preventing him from seeing anyone he knows?

The door closes, and with it, silence surrounds him on all sides, only heeding to the heart monitor and sudden ringing in his ears.

Before he can think, he’s tearing wires from himself, swinging his legs over the edge of bed and heading straight for the door. He wants - needs - answers.

Except the handle refuses to turn.

It’s not turning. Why isn’t the handle turning?

“Hey,” he croaks, rapping his knuckles on the metal before calling out again, hopefully loud enough that they actually hear him on the other side of this locked door. “Hey! Anybody out there?”

No answer.

He tries to ignore the way his breathing speeds up, or the way he’s practically abusing the door at this point. “Hello? I need - please, if somebody could just—“

The door opens, and for a moment relief floods his limbs. The feeling is quickly lost as hands grab ahold of his arms, almost tight enough to bruise, and he finds himself being pulled back to the bed. “Hey, what’s - what are you—“

“We need you to stay calm,” a voice says from one of the suits, he’s not sure which - the room is spinning and all the oxygen is seemingly gone. What are they - why are they forcing him back to the—

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to push back but with no success. “Can someone just - can you tell me what’s going on? Why can’t I see anyone? Why—“

Why is everyone acting so weird, like there’s something they’re not telling him? Why do they keep - keep injecting him with things? Why is there a sinking, horror-like feeling in his gut, the same one he gets right before a call goes south?

There’s a pinch in his right arm, and he looks to see another needle sliding out. He tries to turn and ask what’s happening, why they’re sticking him with something again, but—

His head falls back to the pillow, his strength all but gone.

His mouth is full of cotton. Black dots dance in his vision. The hands on him are gone, but nothing in him seems able to move his body back off the bed. No matter how hard he tries to even twitch his finger, there’s nothing. No response, no movement, no anything at all.

He’s completely limp, and completely losing the fight to remain awake or care about why he should want to be awake in the first place.

“…keep him down,” he hears through several feet of water.

The dots take over, leaving the world dark and cold and empty.

Chapter Text

The couch is soft, sturdy, and the only thing keeping Maddie upright as she looks longingly into a wine glass.

Unfortunately, she’s not even six months along in her pregnancy - she can only she sip on orange juice. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Both would taste like ash on her tongue all the same.

Howie appears out of the corner of her eye. For the briefest of moments, panic strikes as she rushes to shove a small stack of postcards under the nearest pillow. She doesn’t let the relief show on her face when he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Finally asleep,” he whispers.

She nods, watching the juice swirl as she tilts her wine glass without wine in it this way and that.

He’s silent as he comes to sit beside her on the couch, the side of her opposite the cards. His motions are tentative, like he’s afraid of frightening her. He sits just a bit too far away.

She doesn’t blame him.

“Have you thought more about it?” he asks, voice carrying a forced layer of casualness.

She hesitates, and she tries not to notice the way he’s holding his breath. “Yeah,” she finally says. “I… I wanna go back.”

“And you’re sure?” His eyes flash with alarm as she looks up. “Not that I’m questioning you! I just—” Alarm turns to anguish, and she wishes she wasn’t so adept at identifying such emotions on him, wishes she didn’t have so much practice. God, does she wish. “If you need more time, they’ll understand. The funeral was only four days ago.”

She hums and sips her juice, though her mouth continues to feel like a desert.

She wants to tell him that this will keep her from going stir-crazy. That it will give her something to focus on, that sitting at home is the last thing she needs. If she can channel this void in her chest into helping other people - like she has time and time again - then maybe the pain can be almost bearable.

She wants to tell him a lot of things. Her mouth stays firmly and stubbornly dry.

“Everyone else is already back at work,” she says. “Including you. I wasn’t even recovering from anything physical.”

“Maddie…”

She ignores whatever is trying to crush her heart to dust. Takes another sip. “I already called. I have a shift Friday.”

She doesn’t look at him as he sighs. “Okay.” Out of the corner of her eye, he moves as if he wants to take her hand. In the end, he only pulls away. “I’ll just… go to bed then. Don’t stay up too late.”

She hates the feeling of relief that sinks into her bones as he leaves, and the way she waits to hear the soft click of their door before reaching under the pillow.

Eddie hangs up the phone with tingling fingers.

The kitchen that has belonged to him for a better part of a decade, but has never felt more foreign, blurs in his vision. As a first responder and frequent subject to therapy, he knows what he’s experiencing could technically be classified as “dissociation” - the world is a million miles away from wherever he is, the table beside him as intangible as the air.

He couldn’t care less what he’s physically experiencing.

He knows, somewhere in his mind, that if he got this call just a few weeks ago it would’ve come with at least some sense of relief or satisfaction. Back even a few weeks more he would’ve been ecstatic, simply for another reason to convince his son to stay.

All he feels now is numb.

A part of him wonders what the point would be, going back to El Paso. There’s nothing for him there. Then again, there’s nothing here either.

There’s a bit of twisting irony in that, and it both tickles and stabs at him. The main feelings it brings, though, are nausea and aimlessness. Like there are no ties holding him anywhere - he’s floating through life, detached and useless.

(Everything that matters is in Texas.)

He’s not entirely sure how long he stands in the middle of the kitchen, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. He’s been doing that a lot - losing time. One minute he’s sitting on the couch, the next he’s in front of a plate of food he won’t eat. Another blink and he’s on the couch chasing sleep he won’t find.

He gets up in the morning. Makes sure he and Christopher stay alive, somehow. Goes to bed. The details in between are lost.

At some point he moves. His legs are as unstable as ever as he does, like walking has become as unfamiliar of a task as breathing.

Those same legs take him to Christopher’s room - or at least, the inexplicably empty room in the house where they’ve set up an air mattress (except Eddie knows exactly why it’s empty). He stops outside of it for a moment, unsure if he should knock or just go in, or leave him be altogether. In the end he decides on a few knocks before simply entering. He won’t get a response regardless.

Something in his disassociated heart stirs at the sight before him - Chris, lying in bed like he has been since the worst day of their lives.

(Can it really be their worst day if each new dawn only grows darker?)

There is a plate of chicken beside him that Eddie placed there - when? A few hours ago, now? He’s not sure. It’s clearly not been touched.

(Like father, like son, he thinks bitterly.)

“Hey,” he says, lowering himself down despite the slight twinge of protest in his knees.

Chris says nothing. He stares at the wall, like no one else is in the room with him.

“I just got the call from El Paso Fire,” he says, placing a tentative hand on his son’s arm. “That’s, uh - exciting? Right?”

He internally winces at the way his words and tone are so misaligned.

Chris shrugs and says nothing.

“I think it’ll be good,” he says, pushing ahead. “For both of us.”

It’ll be good, putting distance between them and this place, like that will make their pain distant, too. Eddie tells himself this. He tells himself it will be good for Chris. Good for himself.

“Sure.” His son sounds impossibly young and impossibly old all at the same time. “Whatever.”

Eddie has to blink several times and take deliberate, deep breaths, because he can’t fall apart right now. Not in front of his son - a son who needs him. Still, there is something about the way Christopher has been handling this whole - situation that is worse than anything and everything else.

His throat burns and his fingers feel even more numb, but he still rubs his kid’s arm in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “Hey, you, uh - you know you can talk to me, right?”

Christopher’s eyes flicker to Eddie’s forehead for a moment before resettling on the wall. After a moment, he nods almost imperceptibly. Eddie feels both relieved at the motion and just plain old fucking sad that that’s the kind of thing to bring him relief.

Talking makes it less scary, Eddie’s always told him.

Talking about this won’t make it less scary, and they both know it. Won’t make it any easier or better or less world-ending. But he needs Chris to know he’s not going through it alone.

“Do you want to—“ he has to stop for a brief moment, to take a breath to combat the tide threatening to pull him under. “Do you want to, I don’t know, watch a movie or something? Make some snacks?”

It’s a last-ditch effort to get him to actually eat something, but Eddie knows before Chris shakes his head that it was a long shot. He’s not prepared, though, for Chris to say, “Can I be alone, please?”

Something tightens in his chest - part of him wants to say, No, actually, you can’t. I’m staying right here. You will never be alone again, will never lose anyone again.

“Sure, bud,” he says instead. He tells himself it’s because he’s a good father, knows it’s because he’s a coward.

He barely makes it to the hall before a tear is slipping down his chin. He’s sure to keep himself turned away as he shuts the door, sure to hold his breath. Even if he only makes it all of three steps before he has to grip the wall for support.

He’s not sure how he makes it to the couch, but he does. The fabric burns beneath his skin, burns into his swimming vision.

He wants to lose time again, but every second is painfully, excruciatingly slow. His heartbeat echoes with the ticking of the clock - he can feel it in his throat as he stares at nothing and everything and where everything in his world should be.

All at once, the space beside him is vast and empty. He puts his hand on the cushion next to him - the cushion that should be holding his best friend. He should be right here, right next to Eddie, but—

But Eddie wasn’t there.

And he has to live with the consequences.

He wants—

(He wants to go back and not make the biggest mistake of his life. He wants to trade places, he wants to give his life on an altar for a miracle.)

He wants Buck right next to him. He wants to be with him, be in his presence, be by his side. He wants to - fuck, to talk to his best friend. To hear his voice, of all things.

(He wants, he wants, and he wants. This seems to be the story of Eddie’s life - wanting things and only realizing it once it’s too late.)

A violent shudder tears through him. He puts a hand over his mouth, careful to mask anything that might escape his defenses. The breath in his lungs catches on nothing, his last thought echoing in his head a little more clearly.

I want to hear his voice.

(Chris and I are always a phone call or FaceTime away.)

He’s moving before he even realizes the idea has taken hold. The terrible, downright fucking stupid idea that’s latched onto him from behind without his say-so.

And maybe he is still losing time - his phone is in his hand by his ear, and it’s - it’s ringing. And—

“Hey, this is Buck. Sorry I missed you, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can - thanks!”

The little beep plays, and before he can think he’s redialing and putting it back to his ear. More ringing, and then—

“Hey, this is Buck…”

(It doesn’t really help. But it doesn’t hurt, either, since Eddie’s already hit rock bottom.)

Athena reaches out and grasps at nothing but empty sheets.

She turns to glance at the clock, sees it’s well past midnight. She takes a moment to blink the sleep away from her eyes, turning back to the empty pillow by her head.

There’s shuffling from beyond the door, open just an inch or two. This must’ve been what woke her, she realizes as she runs a few fingers through her hair.

As she sits up, she takes a moment to breathe. Breathe, no matter how hard it seems to draw air into her lungs. Breathe, even as a flash of a boyish laugh crosses her mind and she harshly pushes it back. Shoves it down as far it will go as she pushes away the light sheets from her legs - pushes away the stabbing ache that’s been striving to overtake her.

She gets a strange sense of familiarity as she inches closer to the open door. If she were to close her eyes, she could almost imagine herself on duty, gun in hand, cornering the latest criminal doing their best to avoid her.

The only difference - besides her attire - is that the person avoiding her now is her husband.

She enters the dining room and a cool breeze moves along her skin. Soft moonlight falls through the open windows, no lights on inside their newly finished home. She looks on and sees him sitting alone, facing the direction from which she just came.

A bottle of unopened wine sits front of him. He stares at it, not acknowledging Athena’s presence at all.

She wishes she could say she felt a twinge of surprise, or even disappointment, at the sight. The only thing she can be truly surprised about is that it took this long. The funeral might have only been a few days ago, but it’s been almost three weeks now since Evan Buckley breathed his last right in front of Bobby Nash.

She sits down at the end of the table, adjacent to his unmoving form, and places her open hand on the table. She desperately wants to hold his own - to reach out and grasp them where they are, still as a statue, clasped in front of him on the table - but knows this must be a choice he makes.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

“He wouldn’t want you to,” she finally decides on.

Bobby seems to have entered a staring contest with the bottle, but eventually he tilts his head a fraction. “I know.” His voice is rough, though she cannot tell if he’s been crying in the low, silver light.

Athena waits, but he says nothing else. “He would want you to move on. To be happy.”

This time he does react - he laughs. A bitter, broken sound that has her heart cracking along the edges like a dam that’s threatening to come down.

(I can fall apart later, she tells herself.)

(She’s starting to realize she doesn’t know when “later” is.)

(She can figure it out later.)

“Why did I ever think I deserved to be happy?”

Athena feels her spine straighten as a different emotion floods her system. The hand currently on the table clenches into a fist without her telling it to.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” she hisses, and watches as he finally shows some sort of emotion - even if it’s a muted version of shock. “But no one talks about my husband that way. No one gets to say he hasn’t damn well earned his happiness a hundred times over.”

Bobby opens his mouth and closes it again, his eyes suddenly glassy. “Athena, I—“

“You what? Disagree?” She scoffs. “I can take you saying a lot of things, Bobby Nash. But if you try to insinuate that what happened to Buck was your fault? We’re gonna have a problem.”

He swallows. “It was - it was my responsibility to—“

“Did you close that door?”

He’s visibly blanches.

She knows perfectly well that Buck was the one to close the door, and that Bobby did everything he could - both that day and in that moment - to open it.

She tries to imagine herself in Bobby’s place, watching as Buck hit that button. Knowing there was nothing that could stop it. But she can’t. She knows this about herself, that she always has to be the one to do something - she can never be the one to sit by and watch. She can’t imagine how it would feel, then, to be that helpless, that powerless.

Powerless because of a damn door.

Bobby and Athena are the same, in that way. It’s why she’s such a great sergeant, why he’s such a good captain. Why they work so well together.

It’s why this is tearing him apart from the inside.

“I—“ A few tears begin to fall as he shakes his head. “Athena—“

“Did you close that door?” she asks again.

He glances at her for a moment, and then shakes his head again, this time as an answer. “No.” He shuts his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

“Did you make the virus? Set that fire?”

A choked sound escapes his throat, and Athena shoves down the growing urge to grab his hands which are still clasped in front of him. “No.”

“No. You didn’t.” She thinks, to hell with it all, and grabs one of his trembling fists. She knows it wasn’t a mistake when he immediately latches onto her hand with both of his. “You loved him. And you loved him enough to keep going now. Through the pain, through this whole mess. You owe it to him - to keep going.”

She enunciates the last two words pointedly, punctuating each with a squeeze of his hand. He looks at her with wet eyes, and she can feel her heart break just a little more than it already has at the sight.

“Baby,” she says, taking her other hand and placing it on his. “You’re not gonna find the answer to all this at the bottom of that bottle.”

He knows that - they both know he knows that. He nods, eyes never leavings hers.

“I just…” He laughs a little again, just as sad, but not as bitter. “What if I can’t?” What if I can’t keep going? “What if I can’t find the answer anywhere?”

“Then I’ll help you look,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

It’s a useless promise in their line of work. And again, they both know it. Any day, any time, anything could happen. Something that causes either one of them to never come home. The truth of this is glaringly obvious, in light of recent events. As much as it hurts her - the idea of Bobby never coming home - she knows he feels the same.

A white lie never hurt anyone, though.

He stares at her for a long time. Finally, his eyes break away from hers to look back at the bottle before him. “Okay.”

Tension leaves her shoulders in relief, but she takes care to not let this show. “Okay?”

He looks back at her, a resolve in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Okay.”

A little later, she watches as he pours the alcohol down the drain.

Even later, she lies on his chest, back in bed, absently drawing circles on his arm. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers.

He hums beneath her. She can feel the vibrations through his chest above the sound of his heartbeat.

“He would be, too.”

The breath in his lungs hitches at her words. She waits, but he says nothing.

It takes a long time for sleep to find either of them.

Eddie knows his Tia means well. Of course she does. That doesn’t stop the spike of irritation as she tries to convince him to stay in this city, in this house - doesn’t stop him from needing to take a calming breath as she refuses to let up on the issue.

“I just don’t want my boys to be so far away,” she’s saying from her place at the table.

Eddie doesn’t look at her - hasn’t looked at her since she showed up without warning about ten minutes ago. “We’re just a phone call away,” he says, trying his best to not zip his bag shut in an overtly aggressive manner. “Or a plane ride,” he adds half under his breath.

“I don’t want that. I want to see you, to help you.”

I don’t need your help, he wants to say. He has to physically stop the words from clawing their way out of his throat, because he knows she doesn’t deserve to be on the other side of the second or third or whatever-the-hell stage of grief he’s currently landed on.

A hand latches onto his before he can pick up the duffle.

“Cariño, look at me.”

He doesn’t want to, but he’s never been able to deny her. So he does, and finds himself on the other side of her piercing-yet-too-understanding gaze.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says, her hand squeezing his own. “You cannot cut out the people who love you right now.”

“I—“ He swallows and looks back at his bag. “I’m not doing that, Tia. I just think we need - a fresh start. Away.”

“And I think you need to stop running away when things become too difficult.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Because she’s right. This is the latest link in a long chain of him leaving when his emotions become too big for one place to handle.

(Too big for him to handle.)

“I’m not running,” he lies. “The job opportunity is good, and…” He swallows, turning back to another bag he needs to pack. “And it’ll be good. For both of us.”

It has to be.

He sees her start to say something out of the corner of his eye, but an alarmed shout of “Dad!” cuts her off from the living room.

A shot of adrenaline enters his system as he rushes to his son’s side, there in a heartbeat. He kneels down and puts a hand on Chris’ chest. “You okay?” he asks a little breathlessly, checking him over for any obvious injuries.

Chris doesn’t answer. His eyes - wide, terrified eyes - are locked on something behind Eddie’s head.

Eddie turns around, and his stomach drops.

A lot of thoughts run through his head, in those first few seconds. The initial realization that his team is out saving lives as he sees the familiar station number flash across the screen - then the realization that they’re in danger slams into him hard as he reads rescuers and paramedics trapped.

For a split second, his only thought is Buck is in danger.

The crash back to reality from that thought would have sent him to his knees if he wasn’t already there.

Once the room stops spinning, once he can take a breath without feeling like it will only come back out as a sob, he finds his gaze drawn to the worn turnouts on the dining room table.

Hen brought them over only a few days ago - a parting gift from Bobby. Neither of them discussed why the man hadn’t come himself - Eddie hadn’t been offended, but he did feel a flash of guilt knowing his presence could only be a reminder of who wasn’t there. He knows exactly how Bobby feels, though - he can hardly look at anyone or anything without the deep ache of something missing pulling at him from all sides.

Between all these thoughts, Eddie finds himself with only one at the forefront of his mind, drowning out all the others.

I can’t let it happen again.

In the end, Eddie is able to save the lives of both Bobby and Ravi. A crazy, half-formed idea to shoot a grappling hook across the road from a nearby roof does the trick - they swing away just as the building begins to come down around them, forming a massive cloud of dust that swallows them as they do. For the moment it takes for them to touch down safely, he is able to breathe in the relief that they are going to be okay, that he was here this time to change the outcome.

The moment is far too brief.

The ride back to the station is silent. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, burning holes into his dusty hair and turnouts, yet he knows they would all pretend to be looking elsewhere if he could be bothered to raise his head.

They pull back into the 118 just like any other day. Eddie steps off the truck and thinks about how often he dreamt of this moment these past few months. Of stepping back into his home, stepping back into his team. The dream often comforted him in what he had thought, then, to be one of his darkest times.

He looks down at his phone. He could get a red-eye flight that would get him to El Paso in time to start training. It would be easy to book - easy to run.

It would be so easy, he knows - God, does he know - to get on that plane and run, run, run until he forgets what he was ever running from in the first place. It would be easy to try and escape the pain he knows will follow him no matter where he tries to go.

It would be simple, easy. What he knows now to be impossible is leaving the place he needs to be.

I can’t let it happen again still rings in his ears as he spots his captain’s retreating form.

“Bobby,” he says, catching his attention before he can reach the door to the showers.

The man turns, a question in his gaze, and for a moment they simply stare at each other. Words are bubbling in Eddie’s chest, words that have nothing to do with the day they’ve just had or his place on the team. He pushes them down - so far down that maybe he can pretend they never existed in the first place.

“Yes, Eddie?” Bobby says when he says nothing for too long, ever patient despite the fact that that patience isn’t deserved.

Eddie takes a deep breath. Holds it, for a moment.

Does he want this?

(He thinks of steady hands next to his own that won’t be there - won’t ever be there. Thinks of trust, of a relationship he’s never had before and never will again.)

(Thinks of his son, of the support he needs right now that Eddie just can’t give him alone. Thinks of himself, and the support he needs to keep breathing day to day. Thinks of Pepa and Abuela and Chimney and Hen and Bobby and everyone that is still here.)

He does.

“You said—“ A lump forms in his throat, and he has to push that down, too. “You said I’d always have a place here, right?”

Bobby freezes where he stands, a breath visibly stuck in his chest as he fully turns to face Eddie. He tilts his head, like Eddie is a unsolvable puzzle he needs to work out the answer to.

“Are you sure?” he says after a long stretch of silence, apart from the slow shuffling of the station. Though Eddie barely registers anything besides the man in front of him. “I won’t blame you if…”

He knows what Bobby can’t say. He won’t blame Eddie if it’s all too much, too heavy for him to carry. Because working at the 118 will never be the same as it once was. For any of them, but none more so than him. Because his partner - the one he trusted to hold the ropes, to not let him fall, to always have his back - his partner both on the field and off, as much as he might try to deny it, is—

Gone.

Gone, and never coming back. Eddie will have to live day after day with that fact around his neck like a noose.

But there’s also no denying it now, the fact that Eddie knows he can’t leave. Not anymore than he could ever make Buck come home.

“This is my family,” he says, Pepa’s words from the morning echoing around his head. “I don’t belong anywhere else.”

Something softens in Bobby’s expression. Eddie watches as his eyes become glassy, as the man starts blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. It’s only from decades of practice at keeping it together - of what Frank has identified, something Eddie will never acknowledge, called “emotional repression” - that he does not need to do the same.

“I’ll put in the paperwork,” Bobby finally says, something that could be a smile on his face as he turns back around to head for the showers.

Eddie barely has time to let out the breath he was holding before a hand is on his back.

“Good to have you home,” Hen says as she appears on his right. “I take it you still don’t want a party?”

He huffs something that could be called a laugh by someone on the outside looking in. “No, I’m - I’m good.” He throws her an almost-smile as she raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Well, either way,” she says with a comforting pat before letting go. “Welcome back, Diaz.”

“Thanks, I—“

A figure brushing by on Hen’s other side makes the breath in his throat catch.

She turns and follows his gaze to where Chimney is walking briskly to the showers, head down and avoiding eye contact with anything that moves.

She turns back and he can see the bone-deep exhaustion pulling down at her. “Give him time,” she says simply.

And Eddie?

Eddie doesn’t know what to feel.

Josh is in the middle of creating next week’s schedule when she comes in.

He’s over on one of the stools, and at first, she doesn’t seem to notice him. She turns her back on the large glass doors and breathes deeply, face pinched in a way that tells him she’s been doing her best to hold it together for far too long. She brings her hands to her face to rub her eyes for a brief moment before opening them - and sucking in a breath as she realizes she’s not alone.

“Hey,” he says, sliding the tablet away.

“Hey,” Maddie says, eyes flickering away.

He waits for a beat, but she still says nothing. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah - yeah, I’m fine,” she says with a little wave of her hand as she heads for the coffee station, but the slight mistiness of her eyes as she passes him tells a different story. “You scheduling me for the full moon again?”

He doesn’t answer her attempted joke, and she doesn’t say anything else as she methodically begins to brew herself a new cup of coffee.

“I’m glad the 118 is okay,” he says instead as the low trickle fills the room.

Though she’s still facing the counter, it’s clear there is a sharp tightness that appears in her shoulders at the words. He waits as the coffee continues to fill her mug, and he tries his best to ignore the way his own heart aches.

“Yeah,” she says eventually. “I, uh—“ She turns around to give him a smile that hurts something inside of him to look at. “I’m glad, too.”

“Maddie,” he says, and her smile to cracks a bit along the edges. “Are you okay?”

Her lips purse - still, he can tell she’s doing her best to keep the grinning facade somewhat alive, at least. The coffee finishes as the whir of the machine stops, and the steady stream reduces itself to the few last drops.

She makes no move to turn back around.

“I’m fine,” she says again, though her hands shake at her sides just enough that he can see it from the other side of the kitchen. “I promise.”

He stares at her, and she gives no indication of changing her answer and he knows that won’t change either. He wishes that there was something, anything he could do - because—

Because Maddie has been through some horrible things, but nothing really seems to compare to this.

“Okay,” he says with a nod. “Just—“

He looks at her - wants to hug her, knows that it wouldn’t be well received; wants to shield her from the world that keeps throwing shit at her despite the fact that she deserves every good thing. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Her smile disappears for a second - a second so quick, he could almost tell himself he imagined it. Then she’s turning, grabbing her coffee, and heading for the door. “Thanks - gotta get back to work. See you later.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Josh to choke on her dust clouds.

He sighs to himself, because every interaction with Maddie since she returned a few days ago has been the same. A fake smile, an insistent declaration that she is perfectly fine, and an excuse to leave immediately and get back to the desk.

He thinks the only person that might be able to get through to her when she’s like this is - was her brother.

His chest tightens in grief. He knew Buck, knew him as his friend’s amazing brother that discovered himself far too late in life. A man who was kind and sweet and fun, someone Josh loved to talk with and just - be around.

It doesn’t seem real that he’s gone. Buck was far too… alive in life to really ever be gone. His memory alone fills every space he ever visited, every building his shadow ever occupied.

But he is gone, and Josh misses him more than he ever thought he would. He can’t imagine what Maddie is feeling, given - everything.

He looks through the glass to see her sitting in her chair once again, already on the line with a caller. A sigh falls through his lips at the sight.

He pulls his own coffee and tablet back, schedule laid out before him and almost complete. Looks back at Maddie, and back down to the screen - to next Wednesday, when the full moon will be out.

He removes her name and puts down his own.

Eddie’s heart is trying to rocket out of his chest and into the darkness above him.

He’s sitting up, lungs not doing their job - they’re burning hot and fast with each spasm of his heart. The dream is already fading into the silence, silence in everything but gasping breaths and deafening blood rushing to his ears.

His fingers wrap around his phone, the slick surface even slicker with cold sweat as it nearly drops to the floor. He’s opening it - he’s hitting the contact, bringing the phone to his ear - he needs, he just needs—

“Hey, this is Buck. Sorry I missed you, leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can - thanks!”

Reality has never crashed into him so spectacularly.

The world around him is quiet, and there is moonlight, low and silver. A cricket chirps from somewhere in the yard and a car honks in the distance. He can see dust particles floating in the air where low light filters through the curtains and Buck is dead.

The night is quiet and Buck is dead.

He nearly throws his phone at the wall but he can’t break the silence, can’t wake Chris.

His breaths have finally stabilized, if only because of the shock to his system. Everything around him is still and suspended in time, separate from waking hours by more than just the darkness.

He can’t remember what the dream was about, and it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Buck is dead.

Buck is dead and Eddie can’t call his best friend. He can’t call the one person that would make life after a nightmare better because he woke up to a worse one. Life will never again be a respite from his nightmares.

Life should be the same.

He’s in his house, has his job back. It’s like he never left. Life should be the same.

And isn’t that a thought - what could have happened if he never left at all.

In terms of his job, his work life? Nothing has changed, and it really is as if he never packed his whole life into boxes and left everything behind. He called the El Paso chief to turn down the offered position, and his sister is working on selling the run-down shack he tried so hard to convince himself was home.

She asked about the furniture, to which he told her - aside from shipping Christopher's things - to do whatever the hell she wanted with it. He can’t bring himself to care about a few pieces of wood and fabric nailed together, not when - practically speaking - there are perfectly good and working things like tables and mattresses and couches right here. It doesn’t really matter that he got physically sick over the idea of throwing them away or putting them in storage.

Other than the furniture, though, it is like they never left. Chris took the news that they weren’t moving the same as he did the news that they were - with a shrug and a request to be alone.

Eddie has no idea if his son is asleep, but he hopes that he is. It’s well past midnight, and after the day they’ve both had he deserves his rest. He ignores the thought that he’s being hypocritical as he makes no move to lie back down on the sheets covering the couch.

He’s back on this couch. Back with the 118, back in his house, back with his son. It’s like nothing has changed.

Aside from the fact that the one person he wants to share it with isn’t here.

Aside from the fact that everything that mattered is gone. Aside from the fact that everything - everything - has changed.

Aside from the fact that all he has is that stupid voicemail - pre-recorded, tinny words that will never be the real thing and will never be able to talk back.

He almost considers redialing just to hear it again - to pretend he can still talk to his best friend, just like before. Like they can continue their long distance song and dance. And - it’s pathetic.

It’s pathetic, how Eddie can’t seem to cope in a normal way, how he’s never been able to cope in a way that isn’t horribly self-sabotaging. He’s only run from a failing marriage to the frontlines, or taken a bat to the wall in the face of failure and grief, or chased the ghost of someone who never gave him answers.

Chasing ghosts. He supposes he’s doing that again. If he chases another one it can’t be much worse than the last time.

Fuck it, he thinks, reaching for the phone he only now realizes fell when reality did. It really can’t get worse than the last time. He’ll listen to the voicemail and it will feel like getting shot and he’ll deal with it because he can’t find anything better.

Then he looks and sees the phone call never ended. That the time is still ticking by, each second of silence recording for nobody to hear.

A dangerous thought flicks by.

It’s nearly an afterthought, barely a whisper in the dark. But it’s not quiet - it’s loud, thunderous, and everything else falls away as he considers the insanity that his own mind just conjured from nothing.

He shouldn’t. He absolutely shouldn’t. Everything he knows about mental health - which, for all intents and purposes, is next to nothing - tells him it’s a bad idea. A downright insane idea is what it is, actually. If the roles were reversed and it was Buck wanting to do this, Eddie would’ve hit him upside the head from beyond the grave.

There couldn’t possibly be a worse idea, he thinks as he brings the phone to his ear instead of hanging up.

For a few beats of his heart, he just sits and listens to the crushing silence on the other end of the line. This is a horrible idea, part of his subconscious still whispers.

Unfortunately, the rest of him doesn’t seem to hear.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, sure to keep his voice low and unsure of how he’s able to keep himself from breaking at the words.

(As it turns out, it can get much worse than the last time. Buck was always good at making him reevaluate his assumptions.)

Again, he finds himself with everything and nothing to say. Because what is there to say? What could Eddie possibly say, here and now, to an empty answering machine?

It would be easy if this was real. If Buck missed his call and was going to hear it later. If he was sitting right next to Eddie on the couch.

Like always.

So he closes his eyes, and decides to pretend Buck is right there on the couch next to him. If he ignores the world hard enough he can almost convince himself he feels warmth pressing up against his thigh, that he can hear breaths just as clear as his own.

He wants to talk to his best friend, so he’ll talk to his best friend.

“I’m coming back to the 118,” he says, eyes still closed. He can imagine the little smile Buck would give him at the words, his look of hope at the idea of them being reunited. Feels a fresh tear fall at the image. “Bobby was pretty happy to hear it. So was Hen. Chim was - I don’t know. I don’t - I’m not sure how I’m gonna convince him that I don’t blame him.

“Or maybe I do,” he says in a rush of air, because he’s never been able to lie to Buck. “God, I don’t know. I look at him and I can only see that you’re not—“ He chokes on something and does his best to ignore it as he opens his eyes, vision blurry, and he ignores that, too. “How am I supposed to get through a single shift with him, let alone the rest of our careers?”

He breathes out and can feel tears sliding down, one catching on his upper lip. It tastes salty. He wonders if Buck would be able to hear that he’s crying, and then realizes how ridiculous that question is. He’s never been able to hide anything from Buck.

“I miss you,” he says. God, he doesn’t know why he says it - it’s never been something he’d normally say. Maybe it’s the knowledge that no one will ever hear this, or maybe it’s that he can’t bring himself to do anything except bare his soul to the mere idea of Buck.

Fuck, because that’s all Buck is now, isn’t he? An idea, a concept. Not a living, breathing person that Eddie can talk to or hug or—

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself barely getting out, chest and windpipe rapidly tightening. “I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.“

He can barely feel his fingers as he hangs up the phone.

The night is still and dark and Buck is dead.

Buck is dead.

Awareness, once again, is slow.

The thoughts come quicker this time. Fire. Lab. Hospital. Others trickle in more slowly, things he learned after waking. His team, his coma. The virus still lurking in his veins.

A needle sliding out from under his skin.

Buck blinks open his eyes. The memory is fuzzy around the edges; which arm it was is unclear.

He remembers the vaccine, the one he was so terrified of. Was… was there another? He can almost grasp at the edges of one, of some sort of… precaution, maybe. If he’s even even recalling correctly. It evades him, though. Like trying to catch clouds in his hands.

The room is the same. Cold, grey, empty. He blinks some more and tries to orient himself. Sickness no longer clings to him, but the room spins all the same. He’s not sure why. His mouth is dry again. He wants someone to bring him water.

Eddie, his foggy, half-asleep brain supplies. I want Eddie to bring me water.

Wouldn’t that be nice. Even if people could come in here, Eddie is hundreds of miles away.

Later, when he’s more aware, he asks the first person he sees for water, and that’s a woman in a suit that stops by to check over one of the monitors.

The nurse returns only a few minutes later, another styrofoam cup and straw in her gloved hands. He takes it gratefully - and she surprises him with a small “you’re welcome” at his thanks.

It’s more than he’s gotten the entire time he’s been here. He’s a bit embarrassed at how much it makes his heart glow.

Maybe that’s why his heart aches when she turns around to leave, stepping through the door without a second glance. It’s nothing new - shouldn’t hurt the way it does - but those words of kindness made him hopeful for more. He deflates even more when he realizes how sad it is - how quickly so little could mean so much.

But then the door is opening again, and she’s stepping back through holding—

“I figured you could use something to do,” she says, handing it to him.

He slowly places the cup down on the small tray attached to his bed. He reaches out - the cover is smooth to the touch, and the splash of color nearly lights up the whole room as he runs his fingers over the title almost reverently.

“The Hobbit?” he says, barely able to find his voice.

She shrugs through the suit. “It’s a good one. If you finish it, I can bring you more.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, hands still wrapped around the worn pages. “I - I really appreciate it. Truly.”

Her eyes crinkle a bit. The joy is like honey, sweet and addicting and sticky, spreading to him easily. “Any requests?”

He hums, putting the book down in his lap to reach for the water. “I guess I’m a fan of nonfiction - deep dives, fun facts, stuff like that. I’m not afraid to try other things, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m Buck, by the way,” he says, almost reaching a hand out for her to shake, but then figures he probably shouldn’t contaminate anything.

How that will work with this book, he has no idea.

She seems to laugh a bit under the mask. His face heats up as he realizes she definitely already knows his name. He nearly apologizes, but then— “Nice to meet you, Buck,” she says with a little wave. “I’m—“ She shifts a bit on her feet. “I’m Jules.”

“Nice to meet you, Jules,” he says, looking back down at the book with a smile. “Did you know Tolkien originally wrote the first line of this book in the margins of one of his students’ exams?”

She laughs again. “No, I didn’t.”

And Buck missed this. Missed talking with someone just for the sake of talking. No medical emergencies, no worries of survival or when he’ll be cleared to leave. Just two people being kind to each other. His heart aches at how rare such an interaction has started to feel.

She takes the cup with her and leaves the book with him. With nothing better to do, he opens it and starts on page one.

He finishes the book in about two days, based on when they’ve been giving him food. The following morning he wakes up to find The Fellowship of the Ring on the small tray attached to his bed, the other book gone. He smiles a bit as he picks it up and begins to read.

He’s about halfway through the book when he wakes up to find his head aching and throat dry. Not for the first time, he wishes he had some sort of call button. He’s surprised to find, though, that no one is concerned when he voices his discomforts.

The next day finds his muscles weak and cold and his head splitting down the middle. His throat cracks on his coughs and his tongue tastes like sandpaper.

By the time the door opens, he’s not afraid to admit that he’s spun himself into a bit of a frenzy, but his heart rate slows when he sees it’s Jules carrying a cup with a straw.

He thanks her before taking it carefully into his shaking hands. He’s sure to not drink too fast, but it’s a hard thing when it feels as if he’s been lost in the desert for days.

“I see why they needed to keep monitoring me,” he mumbles into the cup. He shouldn’t have questioned the doctors. They know what they’re doing. He doesn’t.

“You’ll be okay,” she says. “Something tells me you’re a fighter.”

He hums and sips his water. Again, he’s grateful to have her here, but his heart yearns for the people he hasn’t seen in - over a week, now, technically three counting his coma.

(Even longer, for some.)

Maybe that’s why he tries his luck again. “Once I am - better, that is - can my family can come see me? At least for a little while?”

Her fingers fidget at her sides, and her green eyes lose their smile. They remain locked on his for a moment before they slide back to his bedsheets. He thinks she won’t answer, and half makes peace with that, but then— “They won’t let anyone in here.”

Buck’s not sure what to make of the slight change in wording.

They? Who is “they?” The hospital staff? The military? Why are they so concerned with who comes in and out of this room?

A strange feeling creeps into his bloodstream, into the very breaths that are coming quicker and quicker. Oddly enough, it’s familiar. He’s not sure why.

That makes the feeling worse.

“Could you talk to them?” he asks. “Try and get one person in, like my sister?”

Eddie, a small part of him whispers, to which a larger part hisses, shut up.

“I can’t.”

Her voice is small and it makes Buck want to scream. She can’t - which, fine. Whatever. He gets it, not being able to change such an important rule since she’s just some nurse. That doesn’t mean he won’t to lose it from how unfair all of this is.

All he wants is to see his family, and for some reason that’s the one thing he’s not allowed to do. Actually, more like one of the several things he’s not allowed to do.

“Okay. I get it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Breathes in. Breathes out. If he can’t see his family, the least he can do is make sure they’re alright. “Can you tell them I’m okay, then? That I miss them?”

(Mind making a call to Texas for me?)

(Shut up, he begs his brain.)

Jules’ eyes shift back up. Something he can’t name sits in her gaze. “I can’t.”

Buck stares.

That doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t she do that? It’s not like she’s too busy - too busy sitting with him, too busy bringing him books - or doesn’t know who they are. They have to be in the waiting room, and even if they’re not - if for some reason they’re not allowed in there, either - he imagines they’re not leaving anyone here alone. She could get a message to them easily, if they’re nearby, which - they must be.

Unless they’re not.

The thought makes his blood run cold. He’s not sure why. It’s not like there’s some grand conspiracy here; there’s no reason for how hard it suddenly is to take a breath, or for how quickly the grey walls are closing in.

“You - you can’t?” He does his best to keep the irrational panic out of his voice. “What do you mean you—“

“I can’t,” she says, and his mouth snaps shut as her eyes stay locked on his. “They—“

He can’t see most of her face beneath the mask, but her eyes are wide as she clearly tries to find the words. When she does, they’re so quiet he can barely hear. “Your family isn’t coming. They made sure of that.”

Okay.

Okay, what the fuck does that mean?

His mouth begins to work again after who knows how long. “What - what do you—“

“Thank you for finishing your water,” she says loudly, taking the cup that is decidedly not empty from his hands. “If you have further questions please take them up with a doctor.”

She’s gone before he can blink.

Your family isn’t coming.

They made sure of that.

What does that mean? What could that mean? It’s not like they would do something to his family, right? There are laws, rules and - the government can’t just hurt a bunch of people like that and get away with it.

Except Buck has gone on enough history deep dives to know the American government isn’t above anything. Still - people would notice if an entire shift of a firehouse suddenly went missing. Could they have done something else? Done something to keep them away from here, away from him?

(So much for there being no conspiracy.)

His limbs are growing weaker and weaker by the minute, but he still manages to disconnect all the wires and tubes hanging from his body to push himself off the thin mattress. His knees instantly go numb, nearly buckling under his weight as soon as his feet hit the floor, but he manages to catch himself on the guardrail at the last second.

He takes a deep breath, mostly to let his body rest but also to calm his racing thoughts. It doesn’t really work - on either front - so he gives up and practically limps to the door.

The handle doesn’t turn.

Memories shoot through him.

He‘s done this before. The door was locked before. He pounded on it, shouted for answers, felt this same panic. Then they came in here and—

He backs up, backs away, but it’s too late. It’s opening, he’s being pushed back, and—

“Hey—“ he chokes out, trying to make them let go only to nearly fall once more. “Somebody - tell me what’s going on. What’s going on? Why can’t I - why am I sick again, why are you—“

His legs turn to jello as another memory surfaces.

We need to test if the vaccination works against the original CCHF contagion.

The first shot he remembered was the vaccine. The one he’s only recalling now was them sedating him. But the other, the “precautionary measure” was when they said—

Not just the mutation.

They never meant it as a precaution for him.

Another sharp pain in his arm. He looks, knows what he’ll see before he does, and that’s another fucking needle in him with the plunger already down. He jerks his other arm to try and rip it away, but the hands holding him are too strong.

“What did you do?” he asks, voice slurred as he falls down, down, down into the rough sheets below. “What—“ He coughs and tastes iron, tastes the sickness they forced upon him. “What did you - what’d you do to—”

His vision swims, dark tendrils filling the room, and seawater fills his ears, rushing and roaring and deadly.

Gotta find Chris. He knows this much. The water is receding, and he needs to find Chris.

“…can’t continue like…”

“…knows too…”

The third time, awareness is not slow.

Air rushes to his lungs as his eyes fly open, cool tears falling onto burning skin. He can’t get his breathing under control, air is coming in and out, in and out, and that would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that he has no control over it at all.

What the hell, he thinks, and then again. What the hell. What the ever loving fuck.

They sedated him. Put him down like an animal. Shot drugs into him when he tried to get up and leave - leave this locked room. He’s in a locked room. He’s locked in. He can’t leave— he can’t - can’t—

He brings his hands up, to cover his face or help him breathe or, or something, he doesn’t even know what, but—

They stop a few inches off the bed.

He looks down (breathe, breathe breathe breathe—) (jello - you’re jello, jello, jello—) and—

Breathing is the least of his worries.

Because he’s definitely not in a hospital, and he’s certain his family is nowhere near. Because around each wrist is a padded cuff, attached to the very guardrails that just a few hours ago held his weight - held him up during what was almost certainly his last chance to escape.

Chapter Text

Getting the mail should be easy.

To Hen, this is an obvious fact. It should be a light, unburdened item on anyone’s to-do list. The most difficult part of getting the mail should be seeing the shear number of bills in the pile, and the subsequent loud complaints to her wife about how expensive existing is.

There should be no issues that arise from getting the mail and opening it, of all things. Especially if the thing she’s opening is supposed to be one of the best pieces of mail she’s ever opened in her life - is supposed to make her happier than any piece of paper ever has.

And she is. Happy, that is. She’s over the moon, could cry tears of joy. Wants to shout as much from the rooftops.

The problem - a problem that should never have to exist, for her or anyone - has come from the fact that the love exploding in her chest is at war with a grief that threatens to pull her under, to never go away. Love be damned.

Karen finds her sitting on Mara’s bed, papers from the stupid mailbox still in hand. She comes over, takes one look at them, and a smile instantly lights up her features.

“It came?” she says a little breathlessly, taking Hen’s face in her hands and kissing her forehead. An action that should make Hen feel something other than an ache. “When’s the date?”

“Next week.” Hen wishes her tone could match the joyful one of her wife - because it should. She’s happy - overwhelmingly so - and can only think of a handful of times she’s ever been this thrilled.

So why does she feel like the world is ending all over again?

“Hey,” Karen says, picking up on her feelings right away, because she’s the best wife Hen could ever ask for, and could never hope to deserve. She sits down on the bed as she asks, “What’s wrong?”

Hen shrugs. “Nothing.”

Karen stares for a moment. “Nothing?”

“Yeah,” she says, laughing a little despite it all. “I guess that’s the problem.”

Karen raises her eyebrow in that adorable, wonderful way of hers. “There’s a problem?”

“Not with this,” Hen’s quick to say, lifting the papers up a little. “God, no, I - I can’t wait to be a family. It’s just…”

Karen takes her hand and squeezes ever so gently. “Just?”

Hen looks back down at the document, the one that will finally lead to the four of them being the family they’ve always wanted. The court date is set, and Mara will finally have her forever home with them. It’s good news - the best news.

“We’re living our lives,” she says with a shrug. “And we’ll keep on living, and moving, and changing, and…”

A hand comes to rest on her back. It starts to rub in circles, and she knows Karen understands. “And Buck won’t.”

The words stab as they leave Karen’s mouth. It’s been - god, it’s almost been a month since Athena came to tell her Chimney wasn’t the only one infected, and it hurts like it happened yesterday. Like it happened - mere seconds ago. She knows it will feel this way for a long time, knows this kind of grief like the back of her hand.

(Maybe it will always feel like this.)

“We’re moving on,” she whispers, clutching the papers a little tighter and blinking away the sudden heat behind her eyes. “And I know - I know we should. I know it’s - it’s healthy, or whatever. But I—“ She chokes on a slight hitch in her chest, and barely flinches as tiny droplets fall onto the words in her hands. “I don’t want to move on, Karen. I don’t want—“

I don’t want to leave him behind.

She doesn’t want to pretend he was never here. She wants to stop hurting, but never wants him to ever feel less important to her, and she doesn’t know how those two ideas are ever supposed to coexist.

She doesn’t say all the things she wants to say. She’s not sure she could ever articulate them. What she does do is lean her head on her wife’s shoulder. A shuddering breath escapes her as Karen continues to rub her hand up and down her back, anchoring her to this moment and to her side.

“You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling,” she says, and Hen can tell she’s not alone in her tears. Nevertheless, Karen continues to reassure her, because that’s who she is. “But we’re not leaving him behind just because - we allow ourselves to be happy. He would want this for us - for our family to be together. He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over wanting that, too.”

She’s right, of course. She always is.

That doesn’t stop Hen’s heart from burning, searing at the idea of Buck wanting her to move on.

Because he would, wouldn’t he? He’d never want her to be stuck in the past, unable to get over him and the life he should’ve lived. She can practically hear him now, lovingly chastising her for ever thinking this could be an insult to his memory. He’d want nothing less for her and her family, and would hate the idea of him tainting it in any way.

She can’t help it though. Wherever Buck is right now, she hopes he can forgive her.

“I know,” she says. “It’s just - hard.”

Karen nods, her chin rubbing against Hen’s hair as she does. “I know, baby,” she says, kissing the top of her head. “I know.”

The wood is cool beneath Bobby’s hand. Light filters in through the tiny slits before him, enough to shine into his eyes but not enough to illuminate the dark space. The familiar scent of oak that usually brings some level of peace surrounds him, but today there is no comfort to be found in the familiar.

“What?” Bobby says, a bit dazed. There was something that he missed.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” the priest says again, tone as patient as ever.

Of course. Of course that’s what he would ask, it’s - Bobby should’ve known. He’s only done this hundreds of times.

“It’s been a- about a month,” he says. Almost exactly a month, now, since he usually goes once a week and hasn’t been since the week before - everything. Over a month, in fact.

He doesn’t know what to do with all the sins he’s got piled up.

He continues through the motions, motions he has done countless times that should be as easy as breathing, but considering how hard that task has gotten it’s not much of a surprise.

“I feel,” Father Brian cuts in at some point, when Bobby is in the middle of explaining how he forgot to say grace last Tuesday, “there is something on your mind heavier than all of this.”

And Bobby wonders, briefly, how he must sound. Because the priest can’t see him, is blind to his face from the other side of this confessional booth. He’s not crying, he knows that much at least, so he’s left to ponder just how much life has left his voice.

A voice that seems to be eluding him now, at the words Father Brian spoke over him. Because, well - how exactly is he supposed to confess this?

He told countless priests about his first failure over the years, including Father Brian. It shouldn’t be this hard to do it again - to practice the same broken song and dance routine he’s run through far too many times. But maybe that’s what makes this so much harder - the fact that this priest already knows the truths of his past mistakes. Mistakes he’s now repeated, even after he promised himself he never would again.

Maybe he needs to stop making promises he can’t keep.

“The one thing,” he starts, forcing the words from his throat when they don’t listen to him at first. “The one thing I said I’d never let happen - happen again - it… I don’t know if…“

He can’t finish, because there’s a lot he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay again, doesn’t know if he’ll ever deserve what is now his third chance. What he does know is there’s no amount of little black books he could fill up to replace or repay what he’s lost.

At his hesitation, Father Brian quietly asks him what happened. Bobby appreciates his calm demeanor, even if he feels nothing similar.

“One of my firefighters passed away on duty,” he says after a moment. An odd calm passes over him, now that he’s finally just - saying it. “And it was my fault.”

They both fall silent at his confession. Bobby thinks that’ll be it, that he’s about to be kicked out of the church forever for being this way, for being a walking omen of death.

He’s surprised when he hears a soft, “Tell me.”

So Bobby does.

By the end, he feels fresh tears falling over those that must’ve dried at some point during the story. Again, he wonders. Wonders how many times he’ll have to tell the story before he can make it through without feeling like this. He still can’t get through what happened in Minnesota without shedding a few tears, so maybe he’ll take this to his grave.

At some point in the story he says Buck’s name, though he’s not sure when. And he’s known Father Brian long enough that the man knows of Buck, knows how important he was to Bobby. So he knows the father isn’t surprised to hear him say, “I lost another one of my kids, and—“

He chokes on what feels like a knife in his throat, but makes no sound as he cries. He doesn’t deserve to, when he was responsible for silencing something so good.

“And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live with myself.”

Once again, they both fall silent.

Last time, it took years and constant support for Bobby to feel any right to being happy. He can’t do it again. He’s not sure if it’s because he literally won’t be able to or because he simply doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t do it again. He’s certain it would kill him if he tried.

One way or another.

“I won’t speak on if it was your fault or not,” Father Brian says, and part of Bobby sinks into the relief of it because he’s not sure he can take one more person insisting he wasn’t to blame. “But even if it was, there’s nothing we can do to make God love us any less, or anything we can do to earn that love.”

Bobby nods, and realizes the motion isn’t visible. “Yeah,” he whispers, looking down. “I know.”

“I think the same goes for the people who care about you.” Bobby can hear a faint smile in the priest’s voice, and he hates that he takes any amount of comfort from it. “I don’t think anyone loves you any less because of what happened. And I don’t think the kid would, either.”

Bobby chokes on a sob, biting his lip before it can fully form.

Part of him wants to argue, because what does this priest know about Buck? He never even knew him. For the shortest of moments, Bobby feels a dangerous sort of possessiveness over his memories. What right does this man have - does anyone have - to talk about Buck like they knew him at all?

The argument dies in his chest, though, because it’s true. Buck wouldn’t love him any less, wouldn’t blame him at all - he’d probably get mad at the insinuation that Bobby was in any way responsible, actually.

The priest before him knows of Buck’s nature through what Bobby has shared over the years. And it’s - it’s not comforting. But it is… something - the idea that some part of Buck is going to live on, despite the fact that he’s not physically here anymore. It’s something, that Buck has left such a legacy that people he never even met can make such judgements about his character.

“Maybe,” Bobby finally says with a voice he can barely hear. For a moment, the tiny confessional doesn’t seem so dark. “Maybe.”

As Ravi changes in the glass locker room a good twenty-five minutes before the start of A Shift, he can’t help but feel nervous for the day ahead. Is that nervousness the reason he’s so early? Maybe. Probably.

Logically, there’s no reason to be nervous. It should be a normal day. It’s not a full moon, nobody has said the Q word - he’s learned his lesson, on that front - and there are no major public events or holidays occurring. No weird weather, either - it’ll be as dry as summer always is in LA.

Just a simple 24-hour shift where he gets to help people, same as always, along with the people he trusts most in the world.

That, and it’s Eddie’s first day back.

There might be a reason to be nervous.

It would be daunting enough, having Eddie back after everything that happened. Ravi has no idea how everything is going to go down, how everybody will handle… everything. Has no idea how the man will deal with being out in the field after being away for so long. Which - that alone doesn’t take recent events into account.

I’m proud of you, Rav.

He shakes his head to clear away unwanted voices as he shuts his locker a bit too hard.

He heads up the stairs, where he sees an empty kitchen, B Shift apparently still out on a call. He glances at the clock, sees it’s still twenty minutes until nine. Maybe he could try and fry up some eggs before his coworkers get here?

Just - so he has something to do.

Eggs are in the fridge, in the top right corner of the left side. He looks, sees there’s probably enough in the carton he’s grabbed - it being one of three - to make eggs for a good number of larger appetites. And he thinks, why the hell not? He’s seen Buck cook—

He’s seen other people cook eggs for everyone plenty of times.

Pretty soon, though, he’s giving up on trying to find the pan he wants, and he also gives up on finding a metal whisk and opts for a fork instead. He also completely forgets to grease the pan for the first batch. By the time some of his shift is coming up the stairs, he is frantically waving a towel to clear away smoke he prays won’t set off the fire alarm.

He would never live that down.

“Woah, you okay, Rav?” Hen asks, suddenly on his left side turning off the burner. Which - he probably should have done that as soon as the smoke began to appear.

“Totally,” he says through a cough. “Just peachy.”

“Maybe try and keep the firefighting to a minimum,” a new voice says. “At least until our first call.”

He turns sharply without meaning to, glancing behind the counter to see Eddie already walking away, travel mug in hand. He says nothing else as he heads for the currently empty sitting area.

The comment could’ve sounded like playful banter - should have sounded like playful banter. To Ravi’s ears, though, and probably everyone elses’, it falls flat. He tries to not externally wince at the frigid tone and equally cold body language.

That’s the other thing he needs to worry about today: Eddie Diaz is his new partner.

Or rather, Ravi is Eddie’s new partner.

Yeah.

No pressure.

“Let me help you with that,” Hen is saying, pulling Ravi back to the mess of yellow and black eggs in front of him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says with a full wince this time, pulling the pan off and turning to dump it in the sink, where it sizzles and steams under the cool water. “I guess I just - got distracted.”

“New rule,” Bobby says with a slight chuckle, appearing on his other side. “No unsupervised cooking in the kitchen without my approval.”

Ravi tries for a smile, but it probably just looks more like an awkward grimace. “Copy that, Cap.”

He turns the pan over to continue cooling it off - a gross mess falling into the sink as he does - and looks up just in time to see Chimney walking by without a word to anyone. Ravi watches silently as he almost makes it to the sitting area, freezes, and pivots to make a beeline back to the stairs.

And that? That’s the third thing Ravi is worried about for today.

The first few calls of the day are routine. They sit around the fire house - eating breakfast Bobby graciously provided after Ravi’s utter disaster of an attempt at cooking - without much in the way of conversation. Not that Ravi expected much else. Tensions are high enough that he can sense them even while reading a book at the kitchen bar.

A few medical calls, a kitchen fire, and one call to get an honest-to-god cat out of a tree. Nothing special to write home about. Ravi does his best to stay out of the way, since he’s not a paramedic or the first one to typically go up the ladder.

It all feels so… different. The same way it has for the past month or so they’ve been on shift. Different, because no one is really talking to each other. Different because there’s no banter on the truck, no casual conversation about how the callers got themselves into their situations.

A piece of Ravi aches. He does his best to shove it down and focus on the task at hand.

Lunch comes and goes in a similar fashion, in that no one really talks to each other, the energy somehow low and tense at the same time. Bobby cooks a meal, though cook is a loose term - he cuts up fresh meat and cheese for a build-your-own sandwich bar. He says it’s for efficiency, that it’s more practical for them to eat something quick in case a call were to interrupt them.

It’s an excuse he never used to make, but no one calls him out on it. Ravi thinks no one has it in themselves to care. He certainly doesn’t.

The afternoon and evening continue on in the same manner. A call because a man got his hand stuck in a drainage pipe, another because a child fell on a rather prickly bush. Still no talking on the truck, no mingling between calls at the station. More of same, hour after hour that goes by.

The longer things go on without incident, the more nervous Ravi becomes.

The sun has just started to set when the alarm blares for a man suffering from abdominal pain so harsh he can barely sit up. Once again, Ravi is sure to keep his distance, instead sticking to crowd control since they happen to be in the middle of a very busy park.

It’s why he isn’t there to hear the beginning of whatever argument sparks. But anyone within the vicinity can clearly hear what it escalates to, and unfortunately, Ravi is in the vicinity. He just wishes his new partner was at his side instead of being the one to raise his voice.

“I’m telling you, you can’t move him like that,” he’s snapping in a way that Ravi really hopes isn’t scaring the kids at the nearby playground. “It’ll exacerbate the—“

“And I’m telling you I’ve got it,” Chimney shoots back, though not quite as heated as Eddie. “I’ve done this plenty of times.”

“Act like it then!”

“Diaz!” Bobby is suddenly there, and Ravi jerks his head back around to make it look like he hadn’t been staring. “Take a walk!”

Ravi strains his ears to hear Eddie grumble under his breath as he follows their captain’s orders. Even so, blood rushes to those same ears, heartbeat in his throat. He tries to breathe evenly - everything will be fine.

It has to be.

This mantra to himself doesn’t stop the ride back to the station from being the most tense one of the day.

Eddie is out of the truck before anyone else. Ravi tries his best to not seem like he’s following him, but he can’t help the slight rush in his step as he too heads up the stairs and into the kitchen.

Eddie is already there, hands braced on either side of the coffee maker, filling up what has to be at least his fifth cup of the day. Ravi doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He half wonders if the guy might be spiking them, too, and wouldn’t blame him if he was, but knows he takes the job far too seriously to ever compromise his abilities like that.

“You okay, man?”

He can see the knuckles on the counter turn bleach white, but Eddie’s voice is carefully methodical. “Fine.”

Ravi sucks in an involuntary breath, unsure if he should press. Actually, he absolutely knows he should not press. That would be signing his own death warrant. Nevertheless, he can see the tenseness of Eddie’s shoulders as he remains laser-focused on the final drips of coffee falling from the machine, and how it seems to take a moment to unlatch his hand from the counter to reach for the mug.

Ravi’s mouth doesn’t seem to want to listen to his brain. “Are you sure you’re—“

“I’m fine.” Eddie whirls around to full-on glare at him. “Completely fine.”

This would be more convincing - though not by much - if on the last “fine” he hadn’t slammed his mug down on the island so hard that it shattered on impact.

Ravi can feel his uncontrolled flinch at the sharp sound of ceramics shooting in all directions. With it, he watches as something that might’ve previously been held together by sheer force of will break apart in the other man’s eyes. Both of them have coffee all down the front’s of their uniforms, now, and the rest of the loft has fallen completely silent.

Ravi’s tongue tastes like sandpaper, and the air around him feels at least a few degrees colder despite the scalding liquid staining his shirt. Eddie meets his eyes, and that something broken seems to continue to fall apart and Ravi desperately wishes he could glue it all back together.

“Ravi, I—“

“Eddie.” Bobby’s cool tone interrupts Eddie’s choked one, making Ravi flinch again, though he’s pretty sure he hides it better this time. “My office. Now.”

Ravi looks down as Eddie follows their captain out. And - this isn’t what he wanted, in asking how he was. He’s only made things worse. And in doing so he’s made a huge mess of not only his new partnership, but the firehouse kitchen. He hurries over to start grabbing paper towels, ignoring his shaking hands as he pulls them off the rack.

He’s a little embarrassed to say that he jumps when a hand falls on his shoulder. “I’ve got this,” Hen is saying, gently taking the roll from his hands. “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

He nods, not really trusting himself to speak.

He heads downstairs to the bathroom, and then straight for the sinks once he’s inside. He runs the water hot and tries his best to hold his coffee-soaked uniform under the stream, but he isn’t doing a very good job.

He’s so focused - on the uniform, on taking deep, calming breaths - that it takes him a minute to realize he’s not alone. It’s not until he glances up and into the mirror that he sees Chimney sitting in the corner, knees against his chest.

Ravi freezes. Then, very slowly, turns off the water.

There’s a moment of debate in his mind on whether or not to say something. He did, in fact, just decide to say something, and it blew up in his face. Quite literally. He’s not sure if he can handle ruining two of his best remaining relationships in the same day.

But then he looks again at Chim in the mirror, who is looking anywhere but at Ravi. He doesn’t have any of the same tenseness to him that Eddie had, doesn’t seem anywhere near the emotion of anger. If anything, his demeanor reminds him of the kids he used to always be around growing up: dejected, and accepting of it.

He should know. He was one of those kids.

He grabs a few paper towels to dry himself off as best he can for now, and then carefully makes his way over. He waits to see if Chim will give any protest at all.

There is none, not even a slight nod in acknowledgement.

Ravi sits down right next to him.

The ground is cool, but in the heat of the LA summer it feels somewhat nice. The wall feels the same against his shoulders and behind his head.

Silence fills the air.

“You okay?”

For a moment, nothing.

Chimney nods mutely out of the corner of his eye.

Another moment of sitting - no talking, no anything. Just silence. Ravi thinks that any other time, with any other person, sitting on the floor of the fire station bathroom would feel at least a little bit awkward. Somehow, though, it’s the least awkward he’s felt all day.

“How, uh - how are you holding up?” Chimney asks, shifting slightly. “I feel like no one’s really checking in on you.”

Ravi feels the corner of his mouth curl upwards the tiniest bit at the words. It’s not that no one’s checking up on him, it’s just… everyone else was so much closer to Buck. They’ve all got their own problems to deal with - they don’t need Ravi’s baggage on top of it all.

Still, it’s nice to be asked.

“I’m okay,” he says. “It’s, uh. You know. Not my first go around, with losing someone. Or even losing someone I saw as…”

He remembers the cold white walls that were occasionally splashed with color from his childhood. He remembers the other kids he’d spend his days with, that would either get better and leave or wouldn’t get better and leave all the same.

In his minds eye, white walls blur with cold metal and blue lights.

“As a brother?”

Ravi looks over and sees Chimney is finally looking at him, eyes misty. “Yeah,” he says, and tries to blink away his own blurring vision. “I guess so.”

Chimney hums and smiles a bit - it’s probably the saddest smile Ravi has ever seen. “Me, too.”

Therapy.

All that shit on his first day back, and all Bobby wants is for Eddie to go back to therapy.

He supposes he can’t complain too much. He should have seen this coming - probably should have put himself back in it in the first place. He also knows that all things considered, he got off easy. Most fire captains wouldn’t have been so understanding. He should’ve ended up with a verbal warning, at the very least.

That didn’t happen, though. Bobby had been oddly calm throughout their whole meeting before ultimately telling Eddie to take the rest of the shift off - and to make an emergency appointment with Frank the next day.

Which, fine. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

He books the appointment the next morning, and makes the split-second decision to make another appointment for Chris at the same time. God knows he can’t get through to his son right now, so it’s a good thing it’s summer and Chris is available for the one o’clock time slot. Even if Chris won’t talk to him, he needs to talk to somebody.

Chris who, once again, doesn’t really react to the news that they’re going somewhere, doing something. Just another shrug.

At least he’s actually started eating again. He even manages to eat almost the entire sandwich Eddie makes him for lunch before their appointments. One less thing to talk about in therapy, he supposes.

The session goes about as well as Eddie could’ve expected. He did his best to open up - really, he did. It’s just—

Hard.

He’s a time bomb waiting for its fuse to run out. He remembers his breakdown a few years ago, remembers tearing his house apart after being shot in the middle of the street just as easily as he had been overseas, only to find out the fate of his teammates barely a few months later.

That can’t happen again. There won’t be anyone to pull him back out this time. No one will be there to break down his door.

Hence, the therapy.

Still, it felt both like chipping at an iron wall and watching glass crack under too much weight when Frank tried to get him to talk. He’s not sure how to share how he’s feeling without all the glass shattering, so he just - doesn’t. He’s not sure how long he’ll feel like his soul has been split in two, though, so he books his next session on the way out. Chris’ too, for good measure.

How effective will weekly meetings be? He honestly has no clue. It feels a bit too much like putting a bandaid over a mortal wound, especially since he’s not sure how honest he can really be. He can’t exactly go to a licensed therapist and say, hey, if it weren’t for my kid there might already be a bullet in my brain. Not without losing custody of said kid and being carted off to a padded room.

Which reminds him, he needs to update his will. To make sure Pepa gets custody in the event that Eddie dies or is otherwise incapacitated.

(It was supposed to be Eddie that went first. Eddie was okay with dying, as long as Buck could be there to look after Christopher. Maybe if Eddie hadn’t blown up his life, he could’ve been the one to go.)

(It was supposed to be him.)

He looks up from the desk when he hears clicking from the hall to his right, his son just now done with his session. He won’t look Eddie in the eye as he shuffles past to the front door.

He turns to give the secretary a tight smile before following Chris out to the car. The entire time, they don’t speak, and this continues as Eddie pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road.

He wonders if it would be worth it, broaching the topic of how they’re both doing. Wonders if this is a conversation he wants to have at all, much less in the car.

One downside of a therapy appointment in the middle of a summer day in LA, though, is the traffic. Eddie can tell this ride is going to be a long one. So - he might as well try. “How’d it go?”

He gets a shrug. He’s not sure why he ever expected anything else.

“Right.” His throat burns. When did talking to his son become… like this? “I hope you were a bit more open with Dr. Carson?”

He gets another shrug. He has to physically hold back a groan of frustration, but then— “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Eddie keeps his eyes on the road, though it proves difficult when the cars in front of them are unmoving and his chest throbs with every beat of his heart. “It matters, bud. I promise.”

This time, Chris shakes his head. “Why?”

“Other than the fact that our insurance only pays for so much each session?” Chris doesn’t react to his attempt at lightening the mood, and he can feel his hold on the wheel tighten unconsciously. “Look, I’ve always said talking makes it less scary. Telling her about your feelings might hurt now, but it’ll help down the line, okay?”

He ignores the voice at the back of his head hissing, hypocrite. It would be wonderful to follow his own advice. If only it didn’t seem so impossible.

“She can’t help me.”

“She can if you actually talk to her.”

Chris shakes his head. “Well, I can’t.”

Eddie wants to put his head down on the wheel. Of all the things to pass along to his kid, this was the last thing he ever wanted. “I know that it—“

“It’s my fault.”

Eddie shuts his mouth so fast it clicks and turns his head so quickly it hurts. He has the strangest desire to actually poke at his ear, because there’s no way he actually heard those words. Maybe he’s projecting so hard that he’s hearing things - if that’s the case, he needs to turn the car around and go straight back to Frank’s office.

“What?” he says when the world stops spinning.

“It’s my fault. What happened - it’s because of me.”

Eddie stares.

He’s not sure how long he stares, but he comes back to himself when a horn blares from the car behind him. He looks back at the road and sees traffic has moved up quite a bit, and glances back at Christopher before stepping on the gas.

He doesn’t pull forward. Instead, he looks and sees that there’s a mostly empty lot on their right for a run-down Dollar Tree. He pulls into it, picks a random spot - with a horrible parking job - and turns off the engine.

Chris still isn’t looking at him.

Don’t freak out, he tells himself. Don’t freak out. Chris doesn’t need that right now. He needs Eddie to keep a level head so they can work through this. He needs a father that isn’t falling apart at every turn, needs someone to listen to him and love him.

Words and thoughts mean nothing. Eddie can sense his pulse already spiking, can feel blood rushing all the more to his ears, his breathing growing shallower and shallower as something tightens around his lungs.

Calm the fuck down, he tells himself.

He doesn’t know what to say. That’s insane. You’re wrong, it’s my fault. We’re going back to therapy. So many things run through his head, and he knows he can’t say any of it.

“Wanna tell me why?” he decides on. Because really, he has no idea how Chris could have reached such a conclusion. Without knowing the why, he can’t explain how wrong he is.

Chris shrugs.

Eddie can barely contain his frustration this time around. “Chris,” he says, using a tone he hasn’t needed in so long.

“I was the reason you were in Texas,” Chris says, voice impossibly small, and Eddie turns a bit in his seat as his kid starts to curl in on himself. “You always… you always made sure he was okay. And - I’m the one that made you leave.”

Eddie wishes, just for a moment, that he could go back to when he thought the worst quality Chris could inherit from him was emotional avoidance.

He fully turns to face his son, who is still curling into himself like he’s afraid of being hit. “Chris,” he pleads. “Look at me.”

Chris doesn’t move.

“Please.”

His kid shifts his weight to the side so that he can meet Eddie’s eyes. The unshed tears there are like knives, sharp and painful and aimed right at his heart.

“It wasn’t your fault. Hey - hey, look at me.” Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him from turning away again. “In no way is anything that’s happened your fault. Do you hear me?”

Chris blinks a few times, and the tears fall. One catches on the surface of his glasses, leaving a small misshapen droplet on the edge of the frame. Eddie moves his other hand to brush away a few tears from his cheek.

“But—“

“It wasn’t your fault.” He grips Christopher’s shoulder a bit tighter, and the face in his hand feels like the last precious thing Eddie has to hold in this world. “Even if we were here, there’s nothing we could’ve done to change what happened.”

And—

Well.

Saying it out loud, it makes sense. He couldn’t have un-infected Buck, even if he had been there that day. He would’ve been stuck on either side of the glass, unable to do anything to make Buck not get infected. Maybe he could’ve seen through Buck’s lies that he was okay, but - but would he have realized in time? Could he have changed Buck’s mind, made him not sacrifice himself?

He’s not sure if it hurts more or less, trying to reason whether or not he failed Buck when it mattered most. If it was his fault, then - that’s a burden he’ll have to carry. If it wasn’t—

Then Eddie was never worth anything at all.

For all that they promised to have each other’s backs, he was always going to be powerless in the face of death.

Chris reaches his hand towards Eddie’s face. Eddie opens his mouth to ask what he’s doing, but then Chris is wiping away tears Eddie never felt fall.

“Then it wasn’t your fault either, Dad.”

Eddie takes his hand from Chris’ face to grab the smaller one currently settled on his own cheek. He presses a kiss to Christopher’s thumb as he squeezes it, and can’t help the slight upturn of his lips as he does. “What did I do to deserve you, kid?”

Something in his chest lifts when Chris gives him a shaky smile in return. A smile he hasn’t seen in far too long - one that he takes and holds close even when it’s gone not a few seconds later.

He pulls Chris into his chest, and for a moment, just holds him. Holds him like he always has, like he can protect him from the world and all the pain that can be found there.

He can’t help but press a kiss to his curls. “I love you. More than anything.”

“Love you, too,” Chris says, voice wet and muffled against him.

Holding Chris like this heals something in him. But it breaks something else.

Because they’re on their own, now. Eddie and Chris against the world, just like it was when they first moved to LA, all those years ago. A family of two.

He’s not sure when they grew to a family of three, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just them, now. He’s all Chris has, and Chris is all he has.

He pulls back eventually, running his fingers through Chris’ hair since he doesn’t have it in himself to fully let go just yet. “Wanna - I don’t know, go get some ice cream? A little reward for getting emotional?”

Positive reinforcement is good, right? He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Chris shuts him out again. He just has to hope these therapy sessions actually start to work - for both of them. Well enough that they can find a new normal.

(New normal. The idea sounds profoundly laughable.)

But Chris just gives him another small shrug. “Maybe… maybe another time.”

He leans forward to give Chris another forehead kiss. “Of course, buddy.”

He wipes away a few more tears from his son’s face before turning back to the wheel. He can’t push him - baby steps. It’s all about baby steps. Chris has only just started eating any amount of food again. Eddie needs to take what he can get.

They pull back onto the street, and thankfully traffic is a bit lighter. He continues to steal glances at Chris, who has turned his body to look out the window instead of at Eddie. The sight doesn’t hurt as much as the first time, but - he can’t help but feel that the little bit of progress they’ve made has already started to slip away.

The clock ticks well past midnight as Eddie makes his way out to his car. His heart is heavy yet thrumming a mile a minute as he shuts himself in. The sparse streetlights illuminate the small space, including the picture of him and Chris he still has pinned to the dashboard.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He needs to stop chasing ghosts - that’s what ruined his life last time.

(That’s why he’s out here. So Christopher won’t see him searching for long gone shadows.)

He shouldn’t be doing this, and the phone is still in his hand.

“Hey,” he says dumbly once the recording starts.

For a guy who snuck out to call nothing but an answering machine - again - you would think he’d know what to say.

“You, um. Gave me some good advice, in Texas. About Chris. So I was thinking—“ Eddie swallows, blinking away a harsh sting that is already making an appearance. “Maybe I’d bounce some thoughts off of you? Just. To get it off my chest, hear it out loud.”

He puts the phone on speaker and on the dashboard stand - the phone must sense that it’s upright, because for a moment the screen turns on. He can see Buck’s name at the top of it, like he’s really on the other end listening.

Eddie might not believe in the universe, but he hopes that somewhere, Buck can hear him. That Buck knows he’s not forgotten, or left behind.

“He thinks it’s his fault,” he finds himself saying. The words begin to pour out of him, like Buck is right there next to him in the passenger seat. “Which is - crazy. But I don’t know how to get through to him. You would be able to, if I were the one gone. You always—“

God, Eddie can’t do this. He puts his head on the wheel, like that will stop the tears from falling. “You always knew what to do.”

He shakes his head a little as he looks back up, like he can just say no to the feelings that are trapped inside of him. “We agreed that if it’s not his fault, it’s not my fault, either. And I guess - I guess that makes sense. But I don’t think I can really believe that. And if I can’t, why should I expect him to?

“Man, I don’t know. I hope this Bobby-mandated therapy can help him, at least.” He laughs a bit through the burning in his throat. “Oh yeah, I blew up on Chimney today. Because I’m a horrible person. But it’s fine, because I’m hurting. Can’t do anything wrong if I’m hurting, right?”

He laughs again and can’t even bring himself to wince at the slightly hysterical edge to it. “Not like anyone else is dying inside right now. I’ve got an emotional monopoly, I get all the free passes. I can snap at people on calls and break perfectly good mugs.”

He shakes his head again. This isn’t getting him anywhere. He knows. Or should know. It feels good, though, getting all this out. He didn’t say any of this to Frank earlier. Maybe this is all the therapy he needs, talking to his dead—

Eddie breathes out slowly.

“If you were here you’d be on their side,” he muses. “You’d think - I can do no wrong. And I - I guess I’d appreciate it. If it was from you.”

The admission - realization, more like - hurts, but it’s still the truth. Maybe he should do better at trying to accept help from others, if he’d accept it from Buck. Some part of him screams that it’s not the same, though. A hundred favors or understanding words from others could never compare to just one from Buck.

Buck, who’s gone.

“I miss you. I know I said that last time but—“ He can’t help the quiet hiccup that cuts through his sentence - he might feel embarrassed, if there were anyone around to hear. But even if Buck really were on the other end of the line, he’d have no reason to feel ashamed.

For anything.

“I do. I really… really miss you.” He picks the phone back up and holds it in front of him, like he can pray directly to Buck if he gets close enough to the speaker. “I wish you were still—“

He puts his head back down on the wheel, and drops the phone into his lap to grip it on either side. For a moment, he breathes.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t think - I shouldn’t be doing this.” He reaches for the phone once more, his finger hovering over the little red button. “I’m sorry.”

He hangs up, heads inside and onto the couch. He stares at the ceiling until light trickles in through the windows.

He wishes he could say that was the last call.

Chapter Text

It’s an addiction, and it’s one that could kill him with far more ease than any of the worst substances he’s seen in the field. He knows it isn’t healthy, knows it isn’t right. Knows how messed up it is - how often he sneaks away to his car in the dead of night, the station roof between calls, anywhere he can he completely shut out the world. All to pretend for a fleeting moment that he can still talk to his best friend. 

That doesn’t stop him, though. 

“Hey. I, uh… today was a bit rough. I guess. There was this rope rescue that Ravi and I had to do and for a second I… I almost said your name instead of his. I’m glad I didn’t, at least for his sake. I heard he dealt with that enough while I was in Texas. 

“But for a moment… it was you on the other end of that line. I wish - I wish I could go back to that split second, where you still had my back. Like you always did.

“…Christopher still won’t really talk to me. Or anyone. There’s at least been more than the first few weeks, but - still. Mostly just shrugs. You could always get him to talk - maybe I should suggest calling you, too. 

“No, wait, that’s a horrible idea. Pretend I never said that. I can hardly believe I’m doing this, it can’t be - no way is Chris getting anywhere near—

“…I don’t know what to do. With him or - or any of this. I need… why am I so afraid to say it? Is it because I can’t let myself need anything? I need you. God, that’s pathetic, isn’t it? Only figuring that out now that I… I need you here with me. And you’re not.

“You’d know what to do, with him. At least he’s eating, now. I wish he had your cooking. Then again, that would mean you’d be here and - there wouldn’t be a problem in the first place. Ironic, I guess. 

“Sorry. Every time I do this, it’s just because I wanna talk to you, and I… I don’t know how. I’m a mess, same as always. Guess you haven’t missed much there. 

“I miss you. That feels easier to say every time too, I guess.”

When Maddie opens the door, the last person she expects to see is Athena Grant. 

“Oh,” she says, pulling the ties on her robe a bit tighter above her belly, her hand coming to rest there subconsciously. “Hey, Athena. What, uh, brings you here?”

Athena gives her a soft look that inches just a bit too close to knowing. “Chimney told Bobby that you weren’t answering your phone. Usually that wouldn’t constitute a wellness check, but - well.” She smirks softly. “He asked me to come by and make sure you were okay. Guess being a sergeant’s husband has some perks.”

Maddie’s heart skips a beat, but she tries her best to smile all the same and speak as evenly - normally - as possible. “I didn’t realize - I’ve had it plugged in all day, sorry about that. You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Nonsense, I was patrolling in the area and if it puts the boys’ minds at ease, all the better.” She shifts on her feet then, polite smile dropping into something a bit more serious. “And you’re sure you’re alright, honey?”

“Yep,” Maddie says, probably too fast. “Jee’s in her room and I’m just catching up on some chores, so. All good here.”

“Hm.” Athena looks her up and down, and Maddie can’t help but feel she’s being X-rayed. “You wouldn’t mind if I came in for a quick drink, would you? It’s awfully hot today and I forgot my water at the station.”

“Oh - no, of course, come on in.”

Maddie steps aside, and Athena marches right on in like she owns the place. On anyone else, the move might seem a bit presumptuous, but it’s Athena. Maybe Maddie’s been wrong the whole time and it is Athena’s house. 

Maddie asks what she’d like - water, light ice. “Should melt pretty quick, on a day like today,” Athena says with a wink as she takes the glass. She sips slowly, though. Maddie does her best to hold in a sigh - Athena plans to be here for the foreseeable future.

Which is - fine. 

They both sit at the table, Athena on the end and Maddie on her right side. She tries her best to smile over her own glass of water, but can feel the way it shakes and ultimately falls. 

They fall into light conversation, both of them occasionally drinking slowly while the other talks. Athena asks about Jee, Maddie asks about May and Harry, and they both pretend that nothing is wrong. Maddie’s gotten a lot of practice at that, recently. She can feel the air shift, though, during her answer about how Jee-Yun is going into kindergarten this fall - can see a similar shift on the older woman’s face. 

So before the other can even ask, Maddie does. “How are you doing? With everything?”

Athena hums again before taking another small sip, as if she knows exactly what Maddie is trying to do. “I’m doing alright. Taking care of Bobby, mostly. Which is why I know this can’t be easy for you and Chimney.”

Maddie feels like she’s been struck, but does her best to cover it up. Her knuckles turn white around the glass against her will, though. “We’re doing - fine.”

Athena raises an eyebrow, but not in a judgmental way. “Honey, it’s hard enough for me, who knew him on the level I did. You can’t tell me losing him in the way you did didn’t - cause some strain.”

Strain. That’s one word for it, she supposes. 

Maddie and Howie - they don’t talk. If they do it’s about Jee-Yun, who sometimes will ask for her Uncle Buck because she’s four and doesn’t know any better. Every time it happens, Maddie feels like a terrible person, a terrible mother, because she leaves both the room and Howie to deal with it. The one time she asked when they were alone, Maddie distracted her with Bluey. 

Losing him the way you did. 

“He gave his life for him,” Maddie finds herself saying, watching as condensation beads on her glass. “And - I should be grateful. If it were anyone else, I think I would be. But I—“

Athena reached across the table to grab her hand, squeezing gently. Maddie uses her other hand to brush a few tears away. She’s always been an easy crier.

“But I’m not. I’m - I’m mad.” She nearly laughs, because it’s so ridiculous that the pain almost turns to hysteric amusement. “Can you believe that? I’m mad. At my dead brother.”

She wipes a few more tears away as Athena tilts her head. Again, her gaze pierces Maddie in a way that’s far too understanding. “I think it makes perfect sense. And even if it didn’t, we don’t choose how we feel our grief.”

Maddie nods absently, brushing back the hair that falls into her face at the motion. Her other hand still grips Athena’s tight. “I know. But that’s not - it’s not because of grief, that I’m mad. I was never mad at… I was never mad at Daniel, when he passed.”

Athena’s eyes soften. Maddie knows the look. The “your brother died of cancer” look. She expects to get a lot more of them in the future, considering she’s now lost both of her brothers to disease. 

What a great conversation starter for dinner parties. 

“I’m mad that he didn’t tell me he was sick.” Maddie lets go of Athena’s hand because she can tell it wants to curl into a fist. “I’m mad that - that he made the decision all on his own - that he didn’t tell anyone about it. I’m mad that he made Howie feel like he owes me something, just for being alive.” 

A sob builds up in her chest and she doesn’t have the energy to push it down. It comes out as a choked sound that she can barely recognize as her own voice. Athena grabs her hand again and Maddie doesn’t protest. 

“I miss my brother, but I also miss my husband. We haven’t even—“ She takes a second to breathe, and it rattles deep in her chest. “We haven’t even talked about the baby, or how we are, or - or anything. I want him to stop looking at me like - I’m going to break.”

Ironically, Maddie’s chest seems ready to crack right down the middle as she holds the weight of her tears behind her eyes. Breathing shouldn’t be this difficult, shouldn’t feel like plunging a knife into her own lungs with each and every inhale. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t protest when Athena pulls her into an embrace. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Athena whispers, rubbing her back in a way that’s oddly grounding - probably because she didn’t do that the last time they were in this position. “You’re okay, hon. It’s gonna be okay.”

She’s not entirely sure how long she breathes in for four and out for four as sweet nothings are prayed over her, but she pulls back soon enough and realizes she wasn’t as successful as she thought in keeping her tears at bay. Athena’s uniform is slightly ruined. “Sorry,” she mumbles as she sits back in her chair. “I can pay for your dry cleaning. If you want.”

Athena just smiles and waves with her hand as she says, “Don’t you worry about that. My shift’s technically about over now anyways, and the department can cover those fees just fine.” She takes another drink of water, longer this time. “I think you need to talk to Chimney, dear.”

Maddie sighs. It’s true. So true it aches. 

They haven’t spoken, and they need to. Desperately. “I know. I’ll - I’ll talk to him. Soon.”

“You do that.” Another slow sip. “So that’s how that front is going. How about the others?”

Maddie follows her gaze down. 

She brings up her hands to cover her bump, and feels a slight kick. This boy is going to be an active one, she can already tell. 

She’s going to raise another little boy into this world, but it’ll be a world without his Uncle Buck. Her son will never know him. He’ll hear stories, see pictures - but it won’t be the same. She knows Jee will also start to forget him in time, which is a thought that twists the knife of grief in just a bit deeper. 

She’s going to raise her kids, showing them photographs of the first kid she ever raised, but they won’t know him. She’s going to see Evan in her child. In every fall he takes, every kiss she gives, every I love you.

“We still need a name,” she whispers. She looks back up to see Athena’s eyes shimmering in the light. 

“Whatever name you pick,” Athena says, like the name in question isn’t hanging over them like a guillotine blade, “I’m sure that boy will have more love than he knows what to do with.”

“I finally went into your bedroom today. You, um - you left a few shirts on the ground by the bed. It was almost like - I don’t know. Like you had just stepped out, like you were coming back because you went to get us pizza or something. We’d set it up in the living room, watch whatever movie Chris picked out. 

“There was one T-shirt that was inside out - the one you always wore way too many times between shifts because you said you didn’t want more laundry but it was really because it was your favorite. You probably wore it that night, before that shift. You must’ve left in a hurry - you always put it on the end of the bed, for when you got back. Or maybe it - I don’t know. Fell. I guess it doesn’t matter, now. 

“I got myself to sit on the edge of the bed - it still smells like you, did you know that? That cologne of yours. The gym. Maybe even a bit like smoke. It felt like - you had just left. 

“I guess in the grand scheme of things, you did. It’s only been two months, two weeks, and five days. Shannon’s been gone for years and it still - still feels like yesterday. And I’m still here. For some goddamn reason, I’m the one that’s still here. Can’t make much sense of it.

“Doesn’t matter what I can make sense of. You’re gone. I miss you. And that’s - that’s never going to change. Here I am, acting like - like you can still hear me. God, I’m so screwed.

“…I put your shirt right-side out, by the way. I know you hate doing that.

“…”

“Consider it birthday gift.”

The alarm hasn’t gone off for at least the past hour. Chimney’s perfectly fine with that - it’s given him an excuse to sit on the edge of the firehouse roof and overlook the skyline, not a cloud in sight. The only thing he wishes he had was a bottle of something strong, but unfortunately he’s on the clock. He wonders if something like that would send him over the edge, though, and not in the metaphorical sense. 

He’s been a paramedic long enough to know this building isn’t nearly tall enough, regardless. 

Even so, the stillness of the air despite a soft lull from the distant highways sets his teeth just a bit on edge. It half makes him want to run downstairs and yell “quiet,” even if it makes everyone on duty hate him (at least, more than they already do). It might make the rest of his shift hell, but that hardly matters. He’s already there - all day, every day, but none so more than when he’s trapped alone up here with nothing but his thoughts. 

Or, he thought he was alone. This fact is challenged when he hears footsteps growing closer and closer to him, soft on the plaster roof. Whoever it is, they must have closed the door carefully in order to not give themselves away. Chimney reasons he must look decently similar to an easily-frightened animal, if that’s the case.

“I’m fine, Hen,” he says into the wind. “You can go back to dinner.”

“She’s in the bunk room, actually,” Bobby’s voice says and Chim can’t help but turn sharply, the man himself standing there with his arms crossed, face casual. “Dinner’s been over for quite a bit, too.”

Chimney looks at his watch, then back up at the sky to realize the sun has already started dipping below the horizon. “My bad, Cap,” he says, pulling his legs around and resting them on the roof. “Did you need me for anything?”

Bobby gives him one of those looks - like he knows exactly what’s going on in Chimney’s head. “How’s Maddie?”

A flash of ice enters his bloodstream. He has to make sure to lean forward instead of back, his full weight now on the roof-side of the parapet, mouth far too dry. “She’s - fine. I guess.”

“Hm.” Bobby comes over to lean against the wall right next to him, facing the rest of the roof just like Chimney. “Athena told me she was fine when she went over the other day, but—“ He shrugs. “Just wanted to check in.”

“Thanks.” And Chimney doesn’t mean to be short with him, he doesn’t, but - what does it matter? Nothing he can say will lower anyone’s opinion of him anyway. 

“She also said Maddie wants to talk to you. And that you both haven’t been.”

“…oh.” That’s news to him. 

“Yeah. So have you guys? Talked?”

What a question. 

They haven’t spoken at all, as a matter a fact, these past few days since the shift he was worrying so much about Maddie’s silence - she usually at least likes his messages, at the bare minimum - and did such a bad job of hiding it that Bobby got his wife involved. But that’s only because their schedules have been opposite each other - he hasn’t really seen her in days other than a passing “hello.” 

He tells Bobby as much, who hums again. “I think it’d be good for you both. To talk.”

“Why?” Chim can’t help but ask, hopelessness weighing down the word. “What good will that do, besides—“

His throat closes tightly.

He’s a walking reminder of what’s dead and gone. He’s pretty damn sure talking with anyone won’t do them any good, whether that be Maddie or Bobby. Or Eddie, who Chim’s been avoiding like the plague since he came back to the firehouse. It’s not hard, since the man is avoiding him right back. 

He startles a bit when a hand lands on his shoulder. “You can’t keep bottling this up, Chim. Sooner or later… you’ve gotta talk to someone.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll get a therapist.”

Bobby opens his mouth, and closes it. Then says, “Not what I meant, but yeah, you should. But I also know you need to rely on other people. You can’t carry the weight of the world, Chim, no matter how much you want to. No matter how much you think you deserve it.”

“Is that right?” He can’t help the bitterness that leeches into his words. The grief alone is a monster he barely feels ready to tackle - he’s not sure this demon Bobby is talking about can ever be killed. “I’ll let you know how that goes.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Chim.” Bobby’s voice is weighted with the defeat of an unknowable number of battles. “If anyone knows, it’s me.”

Chimney has never felt more like an asshole in his life. 

His mouth has also never felt drier. “I - I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s okay. Really,” he adds with squeeze to Chim’s shoulder when he starts to protest again. They’re facing each other more, now, the sunset swimming in Bobby’s eyes.

“It took me a long time to find peace,” he starts, and a tear falls, and Chimney can feel one slip down his own face along with it. “I’m not saying it will be easy. But I couldn’t have done it without my wife. So you both can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong. You have to be there for her, but you have to let her be there for you, too. Understand?”

It takes him a second to get control of his body once more, but he does his best to give a jerky nod. 

“Good.” Bobby squeezes his shoulder again, and it’s oddly grounding. “You’ve also gotta stop avoiding everyone, Chim.”

“But—“

“Nobody hates you. I promise. Nobody blames you - not me, not Hen - not even Eddie,” he says when it becomes clear Chim wants to cut in. Chim looks away, back at the sunset that’s unfairly beautiful, unable to look his captain in the eye. “Certainly not Maddie. And do you wanna know who else wouldn’t blame you?”

Something tightens painfully around Chim’s heart, the oranges and reds seemingly mocking him as they streak across the sky. His voice can barely be heard over the wind as he answers. “Buck.”

He looks back at Bobby, who’s now smiling at the sunset, tears shining in his eyes. He stares at it for a moment longer before turning his gaze back to Chimney. “He loved you, Howie. Don’t throw away what he gave you.”

He gives Chim’s shoulder one last pat before heading for the stairs. 

Chimney feels dazed where he still stands, but Bobby is already turning back around. “You coming? I saved you a plate.”

He glances back one more time at the sunset - the stupid, unfairly beautiful sunset. “Yeah.” He pushes off the wall, away from the edge. “I’m coming.”

“Hey. I know I usually call at night, but I just dropped Chris off and needed - yeah. It’s, um. His first time out, or away from me. Since you… you know. Hen thought - I don’t know. That it would be good for him, good for all the kids, to have some time together. To be kids. I guess she’s right. 

“It’ll be good for him, to not stay in bed most of the day. Summer shouldn’t be like that. You remember being fifteen - our parents wouldn’t see us ‘til the sun went down. My folks would always end up getting mad at me for not spending time with ‘em. I guess yours probably wouldn’t have given two shits. 

“I wish we’d have met, back when we were young. I wish I… I wish we’d gotten more time. More memories. God, I don’t know what I’d give to… well, we’d have been menaces, don’t you think? Would’ve drove both our sisters crazy. 

“By the way, Maddie’s doing about as well as you’d expect. But I'll admit I really only heard about her through you and Chim, and he never talks to me anymore. I don’t even know if I want him to. That sucks, right? I’m not mad, I was never mad, I just - he’s here. You’re not. And every time I look at him I can’t help but… It doesn’t matter. It can’t be easy for her, with you gone and her husband still here. Her partner still here. 

“…I’ve gotta go. Talk to you later.”

When Maddie gets home from dropping Jee off at Hen and Karen’s, she’s not at all surprised to see Howie sitting on the couch waiting for her. 

This is the first time they’ve both been home together since Athena came by and convinced Maddie to stop avoiding… just about everything. She assumes Bobby must have convinced Howie of the same thing - convinced him they needed to stop all this hiding. Easier said than done, she thinks. Hiding, running - it’s as easy to her as breathing. 

You’re never the one getting left behind. Words from years ago echo in her mind. You’re the one who leaves. You don’t know what it’s like to watch someone you love walk away. 

How ironic that Buck - her little brother who always had such a deep-rooted fear of being alone - would be the one to leave all of them. At the time, his words had stung, but she thinks she might just get it, now. How much it must have hurt him when she left. When she made the choice, all those years ago, to leave him behind. Leave him all alone. 

She can’t do anything to change the past. What she can do, though, is make the decision to stay in the here and now. 

“Hey,” she says, and Howie turns to her as she sits on the cushion next to him. It’s closer than they’ve sat in a long time - or at least, it feels like a long time. “Hen said we can pick up Jee around seven.”

He nods, not quite meeting her eyes. For a moment, neither of them speak. 

“I think that—“

“Maybe we should—“

They both start and stop at the same time, before chuckling a bit at their own mishap. And - it feels good. Maddie doesn’t think she’s actually laughed since everything happened. 

For a second, she feels light. Not a second later, she is overcome with a familiar pang of overwhelming guilt. 

Howie must see something in her expression shift, because he puts his hand over hers. 

She doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “for being so…”

“No, I’m sorry,” she says softly, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand as their fingers interlock. “I know I’ve been - difficult.”

“Maddie… your brother died.” She’s not sure if she appreciates the bluntness or not, since it feels like a punch to the sternum. “And I didn’t. Nobody said it would be easy.”

“Howie, no,” she pleads as she pulls her legs up to fully face him, trying to send as much love as she can through her gaze. “You can’t think like that. Like - I don’t want you here. I do. I may not have agreed with his methods, but - he saved you. I still have my husband - our children still have a father - because he saved you.”

“I told him to take care of you,” he whispers brokenly, not meeting her eyes, and Maddie aches. “When I was sick, I told him to take care of you.

“Was that the moment?” His voice barely cuts through the air. “Did he do what he did because I asked him to?”

Maddie thinks of her brother - the boy who scraped his knees for love, the man who was always the last to leave every fire. The one who would’ve rather died than allow someone else to never go home. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

Howie squeezes his eyes shut at her words, like he was afraid she would say that. She’s not sure what would’ve been worse for him - if he did change Buck’s mind, or if he never could have made a difference in the first place. 

She wonders if she could have made a difference, if he had told her. For the first time, she’s almost thankful to Buck for not saying anything. If he had - she has no idea how she would’ve reacted, no clue who she would have fought to save. She can’t see herself picking either one of them. Just knowing that the choice existed might have undone something deep within her soul. 

On the other hand, she never got to say goodbye. 

She would take on all that mental anguish, all that agony of choice, of knowing, any day if it meant one last chance to talk to him. If given that choice, she would choose him over ignorance. Over and over and over again. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says because he needs to hear it. She grabs his other hand and holds them both, allowing herself to feel the warmth of his skin. Maybe she needs to hear it, too. Evan might not be here, but Howie is. “I am. I’m so glad I still have you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He looks at her, then, and Maddie can help but sigh in relief as he says, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” She rubs her thumbs along the backs of his hands. “So stop acting like I don’t. Please?”

He sighs, but in a way that tells her she’s won. “Okay.” The corner of his lip twitches upward. “As long as you don’t pull away anymore. I love you too much.”

She can’t help it - she smiles. His smile in return is sweeter than honey. And even though her eyes sting, there is no guilt to be found in her this time around. Buck wouldn’t want her to punish herself for feeling joy. 

She hopes that he’s happy, too, wherever he is. Hopes both of her brothers are. 

“Hey. Sorry, I… I just wanted to hear your voice. We lost a kid on a call, and… you always made that better.”

The lawn has been freshly cut where Athena steps. She’s far enough away from the hustle of the city that she can hear the crunch of the grass beneath her feet, the wind ruffling the leaves of the few trees above. It’s a nice enough space that it’s all a vibrant green - it must be watered semi-regularly, she reasons, since it’s been such a dry summer. Just like always. 

She walks until the edges of her boots toe a line in the grass, along which soil still peaks beneath what has only recently been planted. Her gaze travels up, and a familiar name on an unfamiliar stone comes into view. 

She’s not sure who’s been here, but there are flowers resting against one side. They only seem to be a few days old at most, just barely brown at the edges of the baby-blue petals. Though it seems a bit silly, she regrets that she didn’t think to bring flowers of her own. 

Is she a fool for following a spur of the moment decision? Perhaps. But the idea of coming here was one she just couldn’t ignore. 

“Hey, Buck.” 

The wind whistling through the trees and the birds singing in the sky are the only responses she receives. 

“I’ve spent a lot of time helping Bobby,” she says to the still-growing grass. She can tell the soil hasn’t even properly settled, yet. “Helping Maddie. Hell, helping everyone. They all miss you, kid.”

Her throat tightens, and she crosses her arms like it will help, having something to do with her hands. “I guess I just…”

Just what? She’s never been one to not have any words. Yet here she is, nothing to say and no one to say it to. 

“I miss you, too.” She takes off her sunglasses to wipe at the corner of her eye. “If only the two of us from way back when could see me now, huh? A lonely sergeant and a bright-eyed punk. Though I suppose you never did stop driving me crazy.”

The stone doesn’t answer. Still, she can almost hear his laugh, even now. 

“I wanted to say thank you.” Again, her eyes sting and her vision swims, but she makes no move to brush away any tears. “Thank you for being there, for my husband. Thank you for how you gave everything your all. Thank you for being you, Buck.”

Through these past few months, she’s shoved down whatever grief that’s tried to claw its way to the surface for the sake of everyone around her. Told herself she could deal with it later. Unfortunately, later might be now. 

(She’ll do her best to make later even later, then.)

“Thank you for who you were to me. I know Bobby was special to you, and you were to him. But I hope you left this world knowing I loved you, too.”

She takes a few steps forward so that she can place a hand on the headstone - it burns to the touch from being in the sun, but she keeps it there all the same as she slowly sits. Her clothes might get a bit dirty, but it doesn’t matter to her. 

She picks up the flowers. She doesn’t know enough to identify the type, but they’re lovely. 

Buck would have loved them. 

With flowers in her lap and nothing but time on her hands, she talks. Tells Buck about life since he left, about everything and nothing at all.

Eventually the time she has reaches an end. She stands up, dusts herself off. Reaches one last time for the stone marking her kid’s grave, and gently moves her hand along it, like she would his shoulder.

She’s not sure when she’ll find the strength to come back. When she does, though, she’ll bring a handful of sunflowers. Those were always his favorite. 

“I dropped Chris off again - sleepover, this time. It’s still early, and I don’t work tomorrow, so maybe I’ll go to the bar or something. It won’t be the same as a beer with you on the couch, but - I’ve gotta get out sometime too, right? It’s been over three months now and - I’ve only really gone to work. And the store, I guess. You’d be surprised at what you can get delivered these days, though. 

“Maybe I should’ve done Instacart instead of Uber. Way less talking to people, that’s for sure. I’m kind of kicking myself now for not doing that. 

“I can practically hear you laughing from here. Yeah, I’m an idiot, I know.”

The drink burns on the way down. 

Eddie is usually comfortable with beer, but three sips into his bottle made him realize he needed something to take the edge off just a little bit faster. 

Well he’s definitely done that now, and then some. Whatever. It might only be four, but it’s five o’clock somewhere. Actually - with time zones, it’s five in El Paso. He’s tipsy-leaning-toward-drunk enough that he actually almost chuckles aloud at the thought. 

He’s raising his hand to signal to the bartender that he wants another round when a feminine voice says, “I can get his next one.”

He turns to politely or maybe not-so-politely decline. Even if he weren’t in the middle of trying to drink his sorrows away, he’s never been one to pick up girls at the bar. Unlike his gone-forever best friend, he never had a “1.0” phase. He and Shannon were best friends for years before they ever dated, and since then, he’s had exactly two girlfriends and one - whatever Kim was. 

So, yeah. He’s not in any capacity interested in sleeping with this chick. 

Then he gets a look at her, and somehow, the level of interest he had dips below what he thought was his bare minimum. 

Because it’s Taylor fucking Kelly. 

He’s too drunk for this. Or maybe he’s too sober. Who’s to say. 

“I’ve got it covered,” he tells the bartender without taking his eyes off her stupid face. When the drink comes, he takes the shot as he stares her down in a way that will hopefully make her leave and never bother him again. 

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” she says, a small smirk playing on her lips. She’s nursing her own drink, so maybe she’s been here for a while and Eddie’s just been too wrapped up in his own head to notice. 

“Always a pleasure, Taylor,” he says, grabbing his beer again so he has something to do with his hands. “Don’t you have stories to tell? Somewhere that’s, you know. Not here?”

She hums, smile suddenly gone. “Maybe,” she mutters, sipping her drink and staring straight ahead, like the bar in front of her isn’t even there. 

Wonderfully cryptic, as always. 

“Great,” he tells her, taking a swig of his beer. Go do that, then. 

For a moment, they fall into silence. Eddie signals for another drink, and he might see Taylor roll her eyes a bit out of the corner of his own. He decides to ignore it if he did. 

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “About Buck.”

At least she had the decency to wait until he got his next shot. He tips it back as fast as he possibly can.

“Thanks,” he says through the burn, doing his best to sound civil. It definitely doesn’t work. “You, too.”

“Did you guys ever—“ Taylor cuts herself off, and he turns back to her with a raised eyebrow. She shrugs and takes another sip. “You know. Figure it out?”

Yeah, he’s definitely too drunk for this. “Figure what out?”

Whatever she’s talking about, she doesn’t say. She just sighs and mutters “figures” into her glass. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s everything else, but he can’t do this right now, or maybe ever. “Why are you here, Taylor?”

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

He picks up his beer. Points it at her. “I know you. There’s always - something. You definitely didn’t come into this bar at four in the afternoon on a random Thursday by coincidence. Spill, or I’m leaving.”

“Who’s to say I wouldn’t follow you?”

The unamused look he shoots her must give her a hint, because she sighs. 

“Fine.” She turns to look around them, like someone could be listening. Which - again. He’s too drunk for this. “I am - doing a story, that is. About… that night.”

Eddie’s never been one to get angry when he drinks too much. This doesn’t stop him from worrying about breaking the bottle in his white-knuckled grip. 

“That night.” His voice is calm. The Pacific is calm before a storm, too. 

Taylor nods. “I was hoping to get your statement.”

He stares straight ahead, her red hair bright on the edge of his vision, which is now starting to match. “And you thought getting me like this, I’d be more willing to - what, talk? Is that it?”

He can hear her wince more than he sees it. “Eddie—“

“Those stories of yours,” he grinds out between his teeth. “I think they fucked with his life enough while he was living it. Don’t you think he deserves at least a little bit of peace after the fact?”

“That’s not what this is about,” she snaps. “I want to help.”

He scoffs, finally turning back to her. “Help? Is that right?”

“Yes.” Her eyes are wide, imploring, and the sudden conviction in her tone stops any words he might’ve wanted to say in their tracks. “The way the government responded to the whole situation was unforgivable. If they had—“ He feels something like shock stir below his rage when her eyes suddenly turn misty. “The virus wasn’t a death sentence. If they had set up the proper channels, given the correct medical attention—“

Her voice breaks, and Eddie has to glance away as a tear falls down her cheek because - well, he refuses to cry in front of anyone. Much less her.

She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “They had their heads so far up their asses that they let an innocent man die rather than clean up their own mess.”

By the end of her tirade, she’s breathing hard. Unfortunately for him, most of his anger is gone, too. For a split second he claws at it, desperate to hold it close, because anger is something he can handle. It’s comfortable, manageable. Not like the soul-crushing emptiness he’s grown accustomed to that returns in its absence. 

“So you need me for…” He tries to think of what he could possibly help her with, and comes up empty. “What, exactly?”

“Your point of view. Of that night.”

She sounds hopeful again, now that he’s no longer poised to bite her head off. It’s too bad, since he’s about to let her down. It’s a crazy night, he thinks, that he can almost feel sorry for Taylor Kelly. 

“That night?” He holds in a sigh as she nods. “I drove a couple from the airport to their hotel, then got home in time to say goodnight to my son. Went to bed.” He takes a long sip of his beer. “Woke up to a call from Bobby that Buck was gone.”

At her blank stare, he can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t even know he was gone until the next day. My best friend, dead. And I didn’t even know until the day was already over.”

A long silence stretches between them. 

“I’m sorry,” she eventually whispers. 

He shrugs. “It is what it is.” The bottle rolls between his hands. “I hope your article or whatever goes well.”

“Eddie, I—“

“See you around, Taylor.”

For a moment, he can still feel her eyes on him. He then sees her slide off the barstool, feels a hand on his shoulder. “See you around, Eddie.”

And with that, she’s gone. Eddie’s alone again, with nothing but his thoughts. 

He puts his hand up for another drink. 

Time is a funny thing. 

Time can be filled with things, like reading books that come from nowhere or staring at the wall like it might open. Time can blur, can melt, can stretch on and on and on until death is the only apparent escape. 

Time can pull at you, stretch you, change you, but there are fundamental things that will always remain constant. The sun will always pull the earth around itself, the seasons will come and go. Even if you don’t see it. Time never stops marching and yet there are things the hands of time can never touch. 

Buck would like to think love is one of those things. That no matter how much time passes, no matter how things go in life, if a person loves someone else then that love exists outside of time, outside of space. That it can be felt from the other side of the largest of oceans and valleys, never ceasing, never fading.  

There are other things time will never change, he’s learned. Like when something is built for a purpose - when someone is placed on the earth to fulfill a specific ideal, to be something of a certain intent - time has no say in it. It can be bent, can be twisted or ignored for a little while, but once something is set in stone, the passing of seconds and minutes and eons is of no consequence.

You can’t outrun what you were made for.

Helping people. It’s what he thought he was made for, supposes he still is. But it was never his true purpose. He was made with one function and one function only. 

He was made to be torn apart for someone else’s gain. To be spare parts for someone more worthy of them. 

When those parts were defective - when the one reason he was born was never fulfilled - his debt began to pile up. Spare parts for one multiplied and compounded until the number of those he had to save was far too high to ever chip away at. 

Those debts must be why he’s here. They have to be - there must be a reason, some cosmic explanation for the chains around his wrists, the pain in his body, the way his strength is wasting away to dust. 

There has to be a reason no one looks at him, why no one spares him a glance even when he begs to leave, begs to see his family, begs for them to stop sticking him with needles full of death. Why his pleas and pulling at his wrists are met with nothing but cold shoulders and the tightening of his shackles. 

Whatever that reason may be, Buck hopes with everything in him that - regardless of everything that has happened, regardless of his situation and whatever he did to deserve this - that everyone he loves is safe. 

Safe and far, far away from here. 

Safe and can feel his love, no matter how distant they are, no matter the space between LA and wherever they have him hidden. He hopes that whatever these people did to keep them away isn’t hurting them - that they’re living their lives all the same, just… 

Without him. 

He thinks of where he might be in relation the his sister, his parents, the 118. Wonders who he’s closest to; if he’s near the east coast or west coast or somewhere entirely in between. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He could be in Antarctica for all the good it would do him to know. 

There’s a certain number of miles between him and El Paso, Texas. He’s not sure if it’s above or below eight hundred, if he’s closer or further away than he had been before this whole mess. He wonders what these people could’ve done to Eddie, if they did anything at all.

The image of Eddie in his place always freezes the blood in his veins. He doesn’t care how long he’s here, or if he ever gets out, or if he dies next week because of some disease forced upon him. He just wants Eddie safe. If they did something to him - are keeping him somewhere just like this, or did something worse—

Maybe that’s the worst part - the not knowing. He doesn’t know why his family isn’t coming, doesn’t know why none of them have tried to break down that stupid metal door. They could be here with him, tied up right on the other side of the wall. It wouldn’t make sense, though. An entire firehouse and their families can’t disappear without a trace. Not without someone noticing. 

(Where does that leave him?)

They could know where he is, but are being told to stay away for their own safety. Maybe they were told he’s still infected, that being anywhere near him is like signing a death warrant. Or maybe they threatened everyone the same way they did before, with shouts of terrorism and prison. 

(They could know, could know everything, and just don’t care. It’s a punch to the gut thought that he shoves down, even as it tries to push its way to the surface over and over and over again.)

They have to be safe. 

Eddie has to be safe. He’d stay here forever if it meant Eddie was safe. 

It wouldn’t be so crazy. 

The words ring in his ears. At the time, all he could think was, of course it would be crazy. 

It’s only in this place - in this cold, sterile place he hasn’t seen outside of in who knows how long - that he realizes the only crazy thing was how blind he was. 

Crazy, to not see the gaping Eddie-shaped hole for what it was until he had nothing to distract him, no one to deflect onto as another set of words echo in the endless grey nothing. 

I need you to tell him I’m sorry, and that I love him, okay?

There’s nothing to hide behind, no door to keep indefinitely closed when he realizes the thought of I would rather die here than have something happen to Eddie isn’t so platonic after all. He feels it for everyone else, of course he does - but when there is no greater horror than imagining Eddie in a lab somewhere, trapped and dying and hurting—

(When there is no greater comfort than imagining the sound of his voice, inventing pointless conversations between them, remembering the cadence of his laugh—)

He knows what it means. 

Knows there can never be anyone else in his life other than Eddie Diaz. 

He’s in love with his best friend, who he will almost certainly never see again. His best friend that he prays with everything in him is safe and happy and as far from here as he can possibly be.

When Eddie regains consciousness, it’s to a pounding headache and the driest mouth he’s ever experienced. 

Shit, how much did I drink, he can’t help but think as he tries to open his eyes and immediately clamps them shut again. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hungover in his life. 

He waits a few minutes for the pain and nausea to die down at least a little bit. Once he feels like he can without puking everywhere, he inches his eyes open - it’s mostly dark, but a cream ceiling shifts into focus. He blinks a few times, and realizes he recognizes it. At the same time, he realizes the soft sheets of a bed lie beneath him. 

All at once, he knows where he is. 

His old bedroom. 

His stomach lurches. There’s a reason he’s been sleeping on the couch. 

He supposes his drunk mind hadn’t cared for his guilty conscience. He turns his head a bit to bury it more into the pillow, despite the fact that the room spins when he does. 

It smells like Buck. He closes his eyes against the sudden sting, and for a moment, just - breathes. 

Maybe this can be a good thing. Maybe he can finally start sleeping in here again a few nights a week, if not all the time. If not for his mental health, at least for his physical well being. A night or two off from the couch would do wonders for his back. 

He sighs, opening his eyes again. It’s dark, and as far as he knows, this room doesn’t have blackout curtains so it must still be night or very early morning. A glance at the clock tells him he’s right - it’s a quarter ‘til five. 

He’s in the middle of wondering again just how much he ended up drinking when he realizes he’s not wearing a shirt. In fact - he only has underwear on. Which, while not entirely weird, is a bit surprising considering how drunk he must have been.

Then he thinks, How did I get home?

It’s these two main thoughts that clash together to form a third and final realization, and that is the fact that there is an arm across his chest - an arm that is decidedly not his own. 

Suddenly frozen, he follows the arm with his gaze to where it ultimately leads. 

It leads to the very naked, very blond, very male person in his bed. 

Chapter Text

Eddie’s only a little embarrassed to say he falls out of bed. 

The pain that erupts in his skull when he does kills any humiliation he might feel. He groans and clutches at his forehead, feeling for all the world that someone is using a hammer to pound a nail straight into it to the beat of his heart. His eyes shoot back open, though, when the lamp next to his bed clicks on. 

“You okay, man?” a deep voice asks from above. 

Eddie cautiously sits up, careful to keep his movements slow and his stomach contents inside his body. Although he’s pretty sure part of that struggle has nothing to do with the hangover. 

He looks, and the man is sitting up, blanket now covering his lower half.

Eddie can’t keep his mouth from hanging open.

He’s a dirty blond, hair close-cropped on the sides and slightly curly. His eyes - now open - are a vibrant blue, and he seems to be built like a truck. And he’s - well. He’s handsome. Eddie’s not blind. The guy is very clearly attractive. He would be, at least, to someone attracted to guys. 

Eddie’s mouth still hangs open, refusing to work, which would be more of a problem if he had any idea of what to say. 

The guy smiles. Eddie might go into cardiac arrest. “You gonna just sit there on the ground? Weird, but okay.”

Eddie still can’t get his mouth to work. 

The guy’s grin falters a bit. “Seriously man, you okay?”

“Who are you?” Eddie’s voice sounds rough, even to his own ears. “How did you get in my house?”

The smile is back, and there’s a devil-may-care air about it this time. “Damn, you really were wasted.” He holds out his hand - probably to help Eddie, who can’t seem to do anything more than stare at it. 

The guy takes it in stride, pulling the hand back smoothly. “Name’s Owen. We got an Uber from the bar, you put your address in. Or at least, I assume this is your house.” He smirks and tilts his head. “Eddie, right?”

Eddie distantly feels himself nod.

“Well, Eddie,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and grabbing his pants from the floor. “This was fun, but I’ve got a shift in a couple of hours.”

This “Owen” starts gathering his things and getting dressed right in front of Eddie, who remains totally and unquestionably frozen. 

Slowly, flashes of the night before start coming back. Enough to let him know that, one, this guy didn’t break in just to crash here and lie about it, and two, Eddie was definitely the one to hit on the guy first. 

His brain still feels like it’s been thrown into a hangover-style meat grinder, and this doesn’t help his current crisis in the slightest. It definitely doesn’t help when Owen gives him another smile from the bed as he threads his belt, still shirtless and sporting way too many tattoos. “You know,” he says playfully, “usually when I hook up with guys who are rebounding, they’re only trying to get over one guy, not two. 

“Not that I’m not into that,” he’s quick to say, like that’s the main problem here. “I’m down to hook up more, if you want.”

“Two guys?” Eddie asks, still dazed. 

Owen shrugs. “I mean, I get it. Love is weird. I will say though,” he adds with a laugh, “I get heartache over a guy named Evan, but Buck? Really?”  

He laughs again, like Eddie isn’t spiraling on the floor in his underwear. 

A lot of things run through his head, in that moment. 

Things most people would call existential, not the least of which being that he’s definitely not straight. And - without a doubt - head over heels, so far gone there can never be anyone else, deeply and completely in love with his best friend. 

His best friend that died over three months ago. 

But for some reason, none of that really registers for more than a handful of seconds. Instead, he laughs - a bit hysterically - and says the main thought that’s sticking out to him like it’s lit up with neon. “I can’t believe I did it again.”

And by “it,” he means had a relationship with a doppelgänger of his dead partner. 

(Okay, not quite a literal doppelgänger this time, but close enough.)

(At least he’s not actively dating someone this time. At least Christopher isn’t going to walk in, this time.)

“That’s how it goes sometimes,” Owen says, with no clue how Eddie’s situation is going. He’s fully dressed now, grabbing his keys and wallet from the side table. “Could you show me the way out? I was, uh—“ He grins sheepishly. “Also pretty wasted.”

Again, Eddie vaguely registers himself nodding. He feels around for his shirt, slips it over his shoulders. Thankfully his head has stopped spinning so much by the time he’s ready to stand. 

He leads Owen out to the front door, and declines when the man offers to exchange numbers. He seems slightly disappointed but ultimately unaffected by this, smiling all the same as the Uber he ordered pulls into the driveway. 

“Thanks again for last night,” he says with a wink as he heads out the door. “Hope you figure everything out.”

And then he’s gone. The sound of the car pulling out echoes through the early morning air, and Eddie is alone. 

Eddie is alone. 

He stands at the closed door, staring at nothing. Part of it is because the hangover is still pounding against his skull and threatening to make him lose everything in his stomach. The nausea curls in his gut, sending chills through his body to the tips of his fingers as he realizes—

It’s not just a feeling.

He rushes and barely makes it to the kitchen sink in time to begin throwing up mostly bile. It burns in his throat and tears sting his eyes as his stomach clenches again and again. His hands tremble where they grip the cool porcelain, his hold slipping on cold sweat.

He turns on the water to flush out the basin, and as he does he tries to breathe in through his mouth and out his nose to both steady himself and avoid smelling anything. The taste still lingers - he needs to brush his teeth. Needs to take a shower, to get dressed. Maybe he should try to get a bit more sleep, first. 

He doesn’t move. 

(He wishes with everything in him that it was the hangover that did this.)

(He knows that’s part of it, but this sickness curling in his gut - it isn’t the kind caused by something physical. If that were the case, he should at least feel a little better after losing whatever was left of yesterday’s lunch. As it stands, he remains horribly flushed and nauseated and rotten from the inside out.)

The sound of water swirling in the sink filters into his ears, a wash of white noise in the dark. 

He turns it off, all of a sudden finding it far too loud. For a moment, he breathes in the silence. Feels his shoulders go up and down with the motion of his lungs. 

He breathes in. Breathes out. 

He grabs a glass from the drying rack and throws it at the wall with all the strength he has. It shatters into a million pieces on impact, and so does Eddie. 

He can’t see anything through the tears as he turns back to the sink, hunched over it with a grip so strong he’s not sure what will break first - him, or the stone. He wants to break more, break everything - but he can’t.

He can’t, because the everything of it all is not his to break. 

Every broken piece of glass, every plate and bowl and appliance, every piece of furniture is left from someone who’s not fucking here anymore. Even now he wants to go and glue every fragment of that cup back together. The idea of tearing this house apart now, like he did all those years ago, makes him nearly sick all over again. 

The silent sobs that rip through him make his shoulders shake like the earth at Poseidon’s rage, but instead of buildings and highways collapsing, he does. He crumples to the floor, arms coming up to his head to pull at his hair like he can tear out everything that makes him incomplete and completely broken. 

The sobs don’t stop until the barest hints of light start filtering in through the windows. Even then, hiccups still mark his every breath as he tries to want to get off the floor. 

Maybe he can stay down here forever. Maybe he can die, right here and now, and never have to deal with being alone ever again. 

Except he’s not alone. He has a son - a son who needs him and depends on him and fuck Eddie wishes he didn’t. He’s never thought that before in his life, but it’s true. He wishes with everything in him that Chris didn’t need him. If he could he’d trade his life for Buck’s in a second, just so Chris could have someone with the ability to hold this weight without it crushing everything that matters. 

But Eddie can’t trade anything. So he has to get up - has to get up for Chris. Chris, who needs to be picked up and come home, who needs that home to not smell like sweat and vomit and cheap tequila, or have broken glass all over its kitchen floor. 

He takes a deep breath, and stands. 

When the world doesn’t end, he starts moving. 

He cleans up the glass first. Any hopes of salvaging the pieces are gone - it’s practically dust. Eddie should definitely be wearing shoes for this, but he does his best to keep his distance and thankfully nothing cuts him as he sweeps up every last speck. 

He heads to the living room next, because apparently on his joy ride last night several items were knocked over. Thankfully again, nothing is broken. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if the picture frame lying face down on the floor had been cracked, but he never has to find out. He avoids looking at it, though, as he puts it back on the side table - it’s from the day Chris tried skateboarding, and if he thinks about that right now, things that weren’t broken might not stay that way. 

Laundry. He should do at least his clothes, maybe the sheets. 

(A piece of him wants to wail in grief at the idea of washing away some of the scent Buck left behind, but he feels even worse about leaving them the way they are. He’s pretty sure the untouched box of detergent on the back shelf of the laundry room will smell close enough, though. And he’d have to wash them eventually, anyway.)

So, sheets and clothes. He can do that. He glances out of the living room window, where it’s still mostly dark out. No lights are on in the house, either, so it shouldn’t matter if he takes his shirt off right here. 

Except when he goes to pull it off, it’s not the blue one he was wearing yesterday. 

He stares down at his torso, stares down at what he only now recognizes as Buck’s favorite T-shirt. The one he left on the floor the final time he left this house. Just left it, with no care in the world, as if he planned on putting it right back on once he got home. 

Eddie’s knees give out, and he’s vaguely grateful that he was right in front of the couch because his joints can’t take much more of this.

He stares more at the shirt. His hand, as if it has a mind of its own, slowly reaches upward to grasp at it - it’s soft to the touch. Buck always did use fabric softener. 

He’s not sure how long he sits.

At some point - through the haze, the fog - he realizes he’s sitting on something hard. Reluctantly, he moves to get it.

It’s his phone. He must have dropped it here on his way to the bedroom. 

He’s dialing the number before his conscious mind can catch up to his body’s decision. 

The voicemail message plays quietly from where he holds it in front of him, and then the clock starts ticking. Again, before he can think, he’s putting it on speaker and throwing it down on the table in front of him. 

The morning is filled with silence. He’s the one to break it. 

“Why’d you do it?”

His voice rasps as a broken melody in his ears. His throat burns with every word, and his gut turns and turns and turns. 

“Why?” He doesn’t understand. Desperately wants to, knows he never will. “Did you even stop to think? Think of what it would do to us? Think of how much shit you were leaving behind, of who you were leaving behind?”

His nails carve a sharp sting into his palm. “I thought you would always have my back. You said you would. You said you’d be there and I - I trusted you.” He stands up and starts pacing, knees twinging slightly from the speed of his ascent. “Said you’d always tell me everything, too. Great job doing that. Where was the call when you realized you were infected with the fucking plague, huh? When you decided you’d just lay down and - and die like nothing in your life mattered.”

He wants to pick up something - anything - and throw it again. Wants to take a knife and dig it into the couch, to light the pillows on fire and smash every frame that holds a picture. 

“Because Evan Buckley knows best.” He can’t control the way his voice has started growing in speed and volume with every word, with every step he takes. “Nobody needs him, right? He’s fine to just call it quits and not say shit. Never mind that there’s people it might affect. 

“Because all you cared about - all you fucking cared about - was your stupid— heroic sacrifice, and - and god, I hate you!” The words scrape along his throat and echo through the house. He slams the side of his fist into the wall, and it hurts and it feels good that it hurts. “You left. You left just like she did and I can’t fucking fix any of it!”

His breathing is heavy. Labored. Every bit of oxygen fuels the fire burning quick and hot in his heart. 

“Am I cursed? Is that it? The only way people can get out of being with me is to die? Is this the universe’s idea of a joke?”

He laughs a bit through the salty tears, because the universe has a sick sense of humor and it might just be getting to him. “I better send Chris back to his grandparents, then! Before the curse gets him - a stupid curse I don’t even believe in, but I do, because nothing else makes sense!”

He runs his fingers through his hair and stops mid step. Light is filtering in through the window before him, still blue without the sun’s warmth. Each breath he takes is too much and not enough. Each breath burns like it’s fighting against every force trying to extinguish it. 

It burns, it burns, and it burns. 

“Why do I lose everyone I love?” The whispers are ashes on his tongue. “Is this how you felt? When… when I left? When I decided to just - pack up and go? When I said that nothing here mattered?

“Well, I guess the joke’s on me.” He doesn’t laugh this time. The light keeps coming in through the window, ignorant to what it’s interrupting and the fact that it can’t reach the black hole where his soul should be. That it’ll be sucked in and destroyed along with everything else. “I was the one in another state when it mattered. I was the one that didn’t have your back. I was the one that got the call at twelve something that you were - that you were—“

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I found out the day after you were gone. It wasn’t even the same day. Because I wasn’t there. I was - you wanna know what I was doing? I was dropping off a couple at a Holiday Inn. The love of my life dies, and I’m at a fucking Holiday Inn.”

He sits on the edge of the coffee table. The phone sits next to him, cold and dark. In the distance, he can hear the birds begin to wake up and sing. 

Listening for the birds was always one of Buck’s favorite things about early mornings. That, and coffee - always two creams, three sugars. 

Two creams, three sugars. 

Eddie will remember this until the day he dies. 

“I love you.” It should be past tense, but it isn’t. And it never will be, because he’s never going to stop, even when he’s gone from this world and has forgotten how Evan Buckley took his coffee. “I think I always have. But it took you leaving for me to figure it out. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?”

The light has turned a golden shade. He looks down again, and sees the light shining on Buck’s favorite shirt. It’s still soft when he grabs at the edge. 

“And I’m just supposed to - to keep going.” He breathes deeply to push down the rising screams that want to claw their way out of his throat. “I love you, and I have to keep living. I love you, and I’m never going to see you again. Or hug you or hear you or - or kiss you. I love you, and I’ll never know if you loved me back.”

The pressure in his chest is so great that he doesn’t know how he’s still breathing around it. He wants to let it consume him - he wants the overwhelming tide to pull him deep beneath the waves where he won’t be able to feel anything but a mind numbing chill. It would be so easy - to let the water rush and destroy and kill everything in its path. 

He can’t let this dam inside him break, though. If it does, he doesn’t think the floods will ever recede. 

Still, he can’t help but choke on air as silent tears fall. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps between the slight hitches in his breath. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t cry quite as long as he did in the kitchen. Which probably has more to do with a lack of energy than anything. Still, he sits on Buck’s coffee table as he stares out the window into a world without his partner, intermittent with broken apologies to someone that’s—

Someone that’s gone. 

Someone that’s gone, no matter—

No matter how hard Eddie tries to pretend otherwise.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispers. “I can’t keep - pretending.”

He needs to stop - all of this. 

More than that, Buck would want him to stop. He’d look at Eddie with that sad but understanding smile, and Eddie would be a goner, ready to listen no matter how impossible it felt.

In retrospect, he doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it. 

How in love he was with his own best friend. 

His best friend who would sit him down and say, I appreciate the thought, but Eddie. He’d put a hand on his shoulder, and smile with that little head tilt Eddie will never see again. You gotta let me go.

A wave of sudden understanding and heartbreak washes over him. If he keeps doing this, he can never move on. He doesn’t want to - god, he wants nothing less. If he could have it his way, he’d spend the rest of his life on the phone, spend the rest of his days acting like he still has his person right by his side. 

But if he gets stuck like this, he can never be what Chris needs. And that’s enough to convince him, and to make him die inside all over again.  

You need to let me go. 

Even though his last words to Buck can never be changed, he still freezes at the idea of whatever he says next being - it. No more calls, no more words, no more anything at all. 

It might be ridiculous, but it feels like Buck is the one dying all over again. 

He picks up the phone. He needs to leave soon, needs to go get Chris.

“Thank you.” Somehow, in some way, he manages to get the words out, even though each one pulls something irreplaceable from his very soul. “Thank you for loving me. Even if it wasn’t - I know you loved me. I don’t know how, but I know that much. Sorry I couldn’t do better. Couldn’t be better, for you. 

“I was never good at goodbyes. You knew that already. Still. Thank you… for being in my life.”

The light has shifted from gold. He recalls a poem from grade school that said it was nature’s hardest color to hold onto. 

The gold slipped right through his fingers, just like the tears still slipping down his chin.

The gold was never his to hold in the first place. 

“Bye, Buck.” His finger hovers over the screen. “I love you.”

Let me go. 

He hangs up. 

He lasts almost a whole week before calling again. 

He puts the phone to his ear, and—

“We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is an error, please—”

He ends up buying a new phone the next day, and tells Chris his got destroyed on a call. He also says he’s not sure where the new dent in the living room wall came from. 

To his credit, he does call off - switches with someone on C Shift, in fact - and schedules an emergency therapy appointment instead. Even if he has no intention of divulging why to anyone, including Frank. He tries to look on the bright side, at least, looking at the forecast for tomorrow. He’s always hated working in bad weather. 

The chirping of crickets in the nearby trees is the only sound Athena hears once she cuts off her engine. The night is dark as clouds block the light of the moon - strange, since summer is normally a time marked only by clear skies. She’s not superstitious by any means, but the lack of light and low pressure in the air sets her teeth on edge. 

Out here, there is no artificial light from street lamps or billboards; no roaring highways, no distant sirens. Just a beat down road, Athena herself, and another lone car parked right in front of her own. 

She draws her gun before stepping outside. She might’ve been enough of a fool to come out here alone, but she’s not and has never been completely stupid. She’s sure to do checks in all directions before putting it back down at an angle, hopefully ready for anything as she approaches the other car’s door. 

A flash of red through the window stands out, and then the door is opening. Athena’s mouth can’t help but fall open in surprise, even as her gun makes its way back to the holster under her blazer. 

“Taylor Kelly,” she says, crossing her arms. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The reporter doesn’t seem to hear. Now that she’s out of the car, Athena realizes the girl’s eyes are wide as she clicks her way past in black heels, pulling a gun out from beneath her own jacket. 

Athena gapes as the redhead stares down the long stretch of road before turning back. 

“You weren’t followed, right?” She’s whispering like something might jump right out of the forest and attack her. “No one knows you’re here?”

Athena stares for a moment before letting out a scoff. “Honey, I’d know if that were the case.” She eyes the out-of-place object in the girl’s hand. “I assume you have a concealed carry?”

Taylor rolls her eyes as she puts it away. “I got one a while back. Can’t be too careful.”

Athena hums, neither in agreement nor disagreement. “Is that why I’m here at an unholy hour, ‘out of uniform and not in the cop car?’”

“I’m sorry for being cryptic,” Taylor hisses, eyes still darting around wildly. “I had to make sure—“ She seems to go still for a moment, and then— “We should get away from the cars. They might be bugged.”

Athena really can’t hide her befuddlement, now. “Excuse me?”

“Just—“ Taylor is already walking, waving a hand to beckon her forward. “Come on.”

Athena remains unmoving for a moment, but ultimately sighs and heads after her. There’s a lot in this world she’s dealt with, so if meeting up with Taylor Kelly in the dead of night is what finally does her in, she’ll probably have deserved it just for how dumb it’ll be. 

Once they’re an acceptable distance away (by Taylor’s apparent standards), the girl starts pacing back and forth in the street, running her fingers through now-wild hair.

Athena watches silently, crossing her arms back over her chest. “Is there a point to this?”

Taylor stops and puts her head in her hands, before turning around to face Athena head on. “Yeah, I just—“ She sighs and then pushes her hair back. “Give me a minute.”

She keeps pacing, and Athena does give her a minute. More than a minute. She doesn’t mean to start tapping her foot, but it’s late, and Bobby’s shift might not start for another few hours but she still wants to get home at a decent time. “Taylor, I don’t have all night to—“

“Mark Usher.” She stops dead as she says this, whirling around to look back at Athena, who can’t help but simply stare. 

“Okay?” Athena says. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“Mark Usher is a coroner that works for the state of California.” Taylor has started to slowly walk forward, yet a visible buzz remains beneath her skin. “He graduated from CSU with a degree in Biological Science. Athena…” She stops only a few feet away. “He’s the one that did Buck’s autopsy.”

All the air leaves Athena’s lungs, but she does her best to keep her composure. There’s an ever-present ache in her chest that flares at the words, and she masks that, too. “Okay,” she says. “And?”

Taylor looks at her more intensely than Athena ever thought possible. “And he doesn’t exist.” 

At Athena’s blank stare, she continues. “He doesn’t have a birth certificate, or an age. No social security number. No family, no ties, nothing.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not real,” Athena says, because she’s not sure what else there is to say. “He could be on the run, or an identity thief, or - any number of things.”

“I looked into that. If that were the case, the hospital would have record of his employment, at least. There would be a paper trail or - some indication that this guy doesn’t exist in a vacuum.” She presses her hands together, like she’s pleading with Athena to understand. The problem is - Athena doesn’t know what she’s supposed to understand. 

“But there was nothing,” she continues. “The assistants, too - they don’t exist either. And the ID tags for the case, labeled in the files? They weren’t consistent with what I was given by other agencies. None of them were consistent with each other, in their own systems, as a matter of fact.”

Athena still doesn’t follow. “Are you saying - they mishandled things? Messed up the paperwork?”

“I didn’t understand it,” she says, shaking her head a bit like she’s lost in the memories. “All this research, and I kept hitting roadblocks. Nothing was making any sense. I tried to get some firsthand accounts, but they didn’t add up either. Inconsistency on top of inconsistency, dead end after dead end, but then—“ She meets Athena’s eyes now with a sudden urgency. “Then I got a call.”

She pulls out her phone, and opens up the call log. She shows it to Athena, pointing out one from an unknown caller that was - holy shit, three hours long. 

“It all made sense, after that.” She puts the phone away and takes another half step forward. “The caller was an employee that on paper works for a branch of the CDC. Her facility is up in eastern California. Now, according to the CDC’s website, nothing exists out there, but Google Earth has—“

“Hang on,” Athena interrupts, trying to keep up with the information being thrown at her. “Some - ‘government’ person just, what? Called you out of the blue?”

“Have you ever heard of Operation Whitecoat? MKUltra?” Taylor asks instead of answering. At the slight shake of Athena’s head, she continues. “They were biodefense research programs that operated in the sixties, and they weren’t the only ones. According to the Department of Defense, Whitecoat was shut down in ‘73, and the rest ended around the same time. 

“The US denies any non-consensual experimentation still exists. But - that’s the thing.” For the first time, a trace of a smile plays on her lips. She doesn’t seem to be talking about just research anymore when she says, “It was all a lie.”

Athena feels an itch in her brain, like something is starting to make sense - though she’s not sure what that “something” truly is. So she asks, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying these research programs never stopped - that they only became more hidden, more unethical. I’m saying she called to tell me—“ She sucks in a deep breath. “She called to tell me I was right. That I wasn’t crazy for seeing what I did.”

Athena is rooted to the ground where she stands. “And what did you see?”

She grabs Athena’s hand tightly, like she’s going to pass on the information through touch alone. “Athena,” she whispers like the trees could be listening, smile finally wide. “Buck is alive.”

Chapter Text

For the length of a single breath, Athena does not move.

Then she’s ripping her hand from Taylor’s grasp.

The smile slips from the girl’s face. “Athena, listen—“

“Do you have any idea,” she spits, already turning and leaving all of - this - in the dust, “what losing that boy has done to the people in my life? My husband, our friends, our whole family—“

“Look, I know—“

“Do you have any idea what it’s done to me?” She whirls back around, a sick satisfaction overtaking her as Taylor flinches under her gaze. “I loved him like he was my own. If you’re going to chase conspiracy theories, be my guest - but leave me and what’s left of my family out of it.”

She turns and quickens her pace.

For a moment, no footsteps follow. She has a fleeting moment of hope that Taylor has given up - that she’ll listen and leave well enough alone.

She holds in a sigh when the clicking of heels rises to her ears.

“It’s not a conspiracy,” Taylor snaps, catching up and walking right alongside her. “And I can prove it, if you just give me—“

“Oh, I don’t think I’m interested in giving you anything,” Athena says, relieved when their cars come into view around the bend. She starts walking even faster. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut your mouth and drive away.”

Unfortunately, Taylor keeps up the pace. “Listen, I just need you to—“

“Goodbye, Miss Kelly,” she says, getting her keys out now that she’s an only few feet away from escaping this madness. Taylor stops next to her car, but Athena doesn’t even glance her way as she marches right by to her own vehicle. “Good luck with your story.”

She spits the last word as she opens the door, ready to leave and never see the redhead ever again.

“Was there a body?”

Athena stops, grip still on the handle. She has half a mind to just get in the car and go, but the question makes her blood boil even more. “What?”

“Was there a body? Did you see it?”

Athena slams the door shut and whirls back to the woman she thought had at least some shred of decency. “My husband was there when he died. So yes. There was a goddamn body.”

Taylor puts her hands up placatingly, the gesture having the opposite of the intended effect. “Okay, I understand that. But at the funeral - was there a body?”

Athena crosses her arms. This conversation can’t possibly be real. “It was closed casket, since they wouldn’t release his body for two weeks. If you must know.”

“And why is that?” Taylor asks, stepping forward a bit. “If contamination was an issue, they could’ve cremated him. Doesn’t matter what he wanted, he was a biohazard. But they didn’t - and they were pretty cryptic on why it took so long, from what I could tell.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” she says through gritted teeth. “Amazing evidence - I can see why you’re so successful in your field.”

“When Bobby saw him die,” Taylor continues, and Athena has to suppress a flinch, “he was on the other side of a glass wall, right? He wasn’t the one to check his vitals. That was someone else.”

“He had already stopped breathing. For too long.” She clears her throat, which has suddenly become tight. “I watched them take his body away.”

“Away to where?”

Athena shuts her eyes. This might break her, reliving it all in this way. She has enough self respect to not indulge either of them. “Goodbye, Miss Kelly,” she says again, hand back on the door, but—

There is a low rumbling in the dark. Her head snaps to the side, in the direction of the sound and of what she now recognizes as headlights piercing through the night.

Another car is pulling up behind Athena’s own.

Someone is stepping out onto the road.

Athena stares as Taylor walks forward, meeting a woman with dark hair right in the middle of their two vehicles - which happens to be right where Athena has found herself rooted to the pavement.

The stranger seems nervous, shifting on her feet and reaching up to adjust her glasses with fidgety hands. “Sorry I’m late.”

“And who is this?” Athena asks, looking back to Taylor, whose face is unreadable.

“My name is Julia Parker,” the woman says as she finally meets Athena’s eyes. “I was the one that called Taylor.”

Athena looks back and forth between the two women. “And you called her because…?”

“Because she was close enough to the truth that I knew she’d believe me.” Julia glances Taylor’s way and gives her a small smile. “I knew she’d be able to help me.”

Athena feels a bit faint when she asks, “And that truth was?”

Julia glances around. Athena recalls how worried Taylor was about bugs. It doesn’t seem so crazy, now. “I think you know.”

Athena can’t find a hint of a lie in her voice.

She glances between them again, knees even weaker now as dizziness overwhelms her. She vaguely wishes she had a chair to sit in.

There has to be a mistake. Even if this mysterious woman has good intentions, she can’t be right - she just can’t.

“I don’t know why you think that,” Athena starts, doing her best to keep calm, “but I’m sorry to tell you there must have been a misunderstanding, somewhere—“

“He has a birthmark above his eyebrow.” The words slice right to Athena’s core. “Dirty blond hair, blue eyes, longest legs I’ve ever seen.”

Part of her wants to laugh at the description of Buck, part of her wants to cry. But this - this can’t mean anything. “You could have gotten that information anywhere.”

“He’s kind. Never says a bad word against anyone, even if they deserve it.” She smiles, and it’s sad, and Athena doesn’t want to think about what that could mean. Or worse still, of a world where it means nothing at all. “He prefers nonfiction books if he has the option.”

Athena can’t help it - she leans on her car to keep herself from falling straight to the pavement.

Because Julia is describing Buck.

It can’t be true.

Except - except maybe—

Athena thinks of everything she’s learned in the last ten minutes, and compares it to what she’s known these past few months. The entire world shifts on its axis as she realizes—

It all makes a sick amount of sense.

Everything snaps into place. Each puzzle piece clicks to form a final picture that makes her faint from both relief and horror.

Evan Buckley is alive.

(Overwhelming, white-hot relief.)

Has been, this whole time.

(Complete and utter horror.)

The word is quiet, yet so loud as it escapes her. “How?”

Taylor rapidly mimes for them to keep quiet - and then she’s beckoning them forward and back down the road.

Athena gives no protest, this time. But once they’re far enough away, she can’t help but say it again.

“How?”

And Julia tells her.

Tells her about how he was stabilized after they took him away from the cameras, about how they made sure to keep everyone at the lab away from what was truly happening right under their noses. Tells her about those in charge that day transferring him to her facility, about the rush job that was faking his death certificate. The empty casket that had weights inside, why they waited two weeks.

“It was touch and go until then,” she says, an unmistakable lilt of regret in her voice. “They said he was dead that night because they thought he would be in a matter of hours. It was the best way to keep everyone away. After that… they decided it would be - easier, to keep up that lie.”

Easier.

Athena thinks of her family, of Buck’s family, of everything they’ve been through, and it makes her want to take that “easier” and shove it down the throat of whoever dared to say it. She thinks of Bobby nearly relapsing, Maddie losing a second brother, Chimney losing himself to survivor’s guilt, and she wants to kill. She thinks of Eddie and that sweet boy of his and she just might actually do it.

“I see,” is all she says.

Her chin is high as she takes a calming breath. While this rage can help motivate her on some level - and Lord, is it a good motivator right now - years of police work and cases have taught her a cool head is what she truly needs. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

They both stare at her for a moment, so she reiterates. “The plan to get him out of there - to get him home.”

“That’s why we contacted you,” Julia says, crossing her arms uncomfortably. “Neither of us are exactly… good, at this sort of thing.”

“Right,” Athena huffs. Taylor is only a reporter - not really the type to make rescue plans.

Athena runs her fingers through her hair and decides to give into the sudden urge to pace. As she begins to do so, she feels an odd deja vu from earlier in the night. “Give me a minute.”

A plan. She can come up with a plan, she’s great at coming up with plans. She just needs to ask some clarifying questions, needs to find something to work with. Where they’re going, what access they need, how large of an operation it should be.

It’s impossible to focus on that right now, no matter how hard she tries. The thought she’s been pushing back won’t be ignored any longer.

Buck is alive.

Alive. Has been, this whole time. Locked away in some secret bunker. Away from his family, away from everyone.

People - ordinary, honest-to-God human beings - have kept him away from them, away from her. All this grief they’ve been feeling - all the grief Athena has been pushing down - has been nothing but a lie. All this pain, all this agony, built off of nothing but a fabrication.

She runs her fingers through her hair again as she suppresses the urge to break something. She can break things later, when she shows these assholes just who they decided to mess with.

“Okay,” she says, stopping right in front of them. “I need you to tell me everything you know.”

Bobby has nearly fallen completely into sleep when his phone chimes and illuminates the bedside table.

He reaches around to grasp at it, finding himself face to face with a text that makes his heart sink and his eyebrows lift.

Athena:
I won’t be home tonight. I might not be home when you get off your shift, either.

Bobby has a twenty-four starting in only a few hours. That’s a long time for her to be gone. Still, his wife disappearing for large stretches isn’t exactly unheard of.

Bobby:
Okay <3. I won’t wait up for you. I hope whatever case you are working goes well.

Bobby:
I love you.

It takes a few minutes for her response to come in.

Athena:
I love you too baby. So much.

It’s not until Bobby is already nearly fully drifted off that he realizes how much that last text could have read as a goodbye, and by then he’s too far gone to assign much weight to it.

Athena and Julia arrive as the sun meets the horizon.

The building is small and tucked away in the wilderness, a tall chain link fence surrounding it and a tiny parking lot. The golden hue of the sky sets the whole place seemingly aflame, reds and oranges blazing the building and the sand as far as the eye can see. It’s the most inconspicuous building she’s possibly ever seen, concrete and metal and low. Anyone driving by would probably miss it entirely if they weren’t looking for it, wouldn’t see it amidst the miles of nothing stretching in all directions.

The most inconsequential building, and Buck is somewhere inside.

Athena sits in the back seat as Julia drives toward the entrance booth. She scans a card and places her hand on a scanner pad, and a green light blinks three times. There’s a loud metal groaning as the fence inches out of their way.

“You’re sure night wouldn’t have been better?” Athena asks, checking that her gun is loaded and the safety is off.

Julia shakes her head, pulling into a parking space. “At this point, it doesn’t matter. They have night vision cameras out here anyway. What we really want is darkness when we start driving away.”

“Right,” she says dryly. She can’t wait to be in a car chase again, she thinks with an internal eye roll. She shoves the gun under her jacket - black, just like everything else she has on, while Julia dons a simple pair of blue scrubs.

Athena picks up her coffee and downs the last few sips. She’s been awake since yesterday morning, and has been planning this insane break in for the better part of the last twelve hours, not including the two and a half it took to drive here. The caffeine and adrenaline pumping through her blood should be enough to get her through this.

Lord help her.

“Okay,” she says, giving Julia a nod that the woman returns. “Let’s do this.”

They get out of the car, not bothering to cover their faces as they approach the front. Julia goes in first, scanning her badge and hand once more. Athena sticks her foot in the door, and listens.

When it opens again, Athena strikes.

The butt of her gun connects with the man’s temple, and he crumples like a rag doll. She glances around to check for witnesses, and when there are none, helps Julia drag him back inside so the door can finally close them all in.

“Leave him,” Julia says, already on the other side of a counter and typing rapidly into a computer. “No one ever comes up here.” She hits some button under the desk, and there is a ding as doors previously blended with the wall slide open.

Athena is sure to tighten one cuff around his wrist and the other to one of the chairs bolted to the floor, leaving him to lie next to some cactus growing out of a large pot before stepping away.

As the doors close, she gets a good look at the space. It reminds her of reception at a dentist’s office. She feels a small shiver break through her mental shield when she realizes just how normal everything seems.

Then the doors shut, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Everything is sleek steel and silent - silent enough that the blood pumping in her own ears becomes deafening. The buttons lining the wall show that there’s only one way to go, and that’s down.

Deep, deep down.

She’s pulled out of her observations as a security card is thrust into her hands. She looks and sees a picture of the man they left on the ground floor, as well as indication that Julia’s intel was correct: this man has almost full access to the facility, with a level four out of five clearance. It should be enough.

Julia presses two buttons - seven and sixteen. “My stop is first. I can’t say how quickly I’ll be able to get the cameras off, so be careful. Everything should take about fifteen minutes, so try to meet me at level one in twenty. That card will get you back into the elevator.”

Athena nods and hangs it around her neck before wiping her palms on her thighs. The number above ticks upward as they plunge below the earth’s surface, away from the sun that probably won’t be there when they return. “Room 1634?”

“Yeah.” The elevator dings, and the doors open to sub level seven. The hallway is long and sparsely lit - it’s past eight, the time after-hours lighting begins in the facility, and when fewer people are to be found roaming the hallways. “Oh,” Julia says, hitting the “doors open” button, “You’ll need these.” She pulls something from her scrub pocket and tosses it her way.

It’s cool to the touch, small and metal - Athena realizes it’s a ring with two silver keys. One is a typical key one would use on a door, but the other is smaller - like the kind used on a bike lock. “What are these?”

“One’s for the room,” she says, and Athena wonders why she didn’t mention this earlier, but then something agonized overtakes Julia’s eyes. “The other is for him.”

Athena knows, she knows she’s been avoiding the other side of this coin. And she can’t think about it right now, either - focus is crucial and she can’t afford distraction.

That doesn’t stop her stomach from dropping below even this place’s deepest floor at the woman’s words.

(On one hand, Buck is alive. On the other, he has been the whole time.)

(Sixteen stories beneath the earth.)

(Alone.)

Focus, Athena. She breathes deep. Focus.

She slips the keys into her own jacket pocket and nods. “Got it.”

Julia takes a deep breath, too. “Good luck,” she says with an anxious smile. “See you in twenty.”

The “hopefully” is left unsaid.

Then the doors close, and Athena is alone with numbers that have started ticking up once more.

She breathes. In and out. It’s as simple as that.

She has maybe a minute before the doors open again to a hallway she must step into. She pulls her gun back out, keeping her aim low and double checking once more that the silencer is tight enough over the barrel. The plan is to not fire at all - they can’t afford to lose whatever element of stealth they still have - but there’s no way in hell she walking into this unarmed.

She can do this. She has to be able to do this.

The doors slide open.

The hallway is just like the one Julia went down - long, metal, dim. Her heart is in her throat as she puts one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. That’s all she focuses on.

One foot after the other.

There’s a fork in the road. She goes left, recalling the floor plan she burned into her brain. The new hallway is more of the same, more of the infinite expanse of sterile stillness.

And maybe it was her nerves, maybe it was her tunnel vision, but the reason doesn’t matter - all that matters is that she didn’t check both ways before making the turn.

“Hey!” she hears in a deep voice, and pain explodes at the back of her head.

She gasps, whipping around and striking randomly with her own weapon, a breath of relief escaping her when it makes sudden contact. Both her and her assailant grip their heads as they stagger back a few feet, while Athena is sure to keep her gun raised at this threat despite not wanting to risk firing.

A large man glares at her, extended baton in one hand and a radio in the other. Before she can even think, she aims and shoots. He gasps as he drops the shattered plastic remains, showing off a missing front tooth. She’s not sure if she’s glad or not that he wasn’t even grazed.

He lunges at her, but she ducks under his arm to swing around behind him, bringing the gun back down on his head. He gives a shout of frustration and pain before dropping his baton and pulling something from his belt - thankfully, it’s not a gun.

It is a taser, though.

He turns it on and spins around, jabbing wildly towards her, and she manages to dodge once but not a second time. It barely brushes her arm but fire enters her nervous system all the same, metal filling her mouth and teeth and bloodstream. She stumbles back a bit and tries to shake away the pain-filled jitters as he rounds on her again.

She looks up just in time to see him charging her. Unfortunately for him, perps have tried to do the same far too many times. She sidesteps at the last second and brings her gun back down on his lowered head, and he topples.

He’s on the ground and trying to get back on his feet. Athena puts her boot down on his back, and his forehead ricochets off the floor, a low groan rising to her ears.

“That was for my family,” she hisses into his ear, pulling out another pair of cuffs and pinning his hands behind his back. “This,” she says as she tightens them far too much and he gasps, “is for sneaking up on me. And this—“

She hits him once more as hard as she can. “Is for Buck.”

He lies still, still breathing. She ignores the urge to change that and keeps moving.

Once she reorients herself, she continues down the hall. She’s sure to check at the next corner, sees that the way is clear. At the next one, though, she sees another figure walking away from where she’s currently hidden.

With footsteps silent as snow, she comes up behind him and places her muzzle in his hair. “Don’t move.” He freezes at her whisper, at the feeling of cold metal pressing against him. “Touch that radio if you want a bullet in your skull.”

“Okay,” he breathes, and Athena is disgusted with how cowardly everyone here seems to be. Isn’t surprised, though. “I - I won’t say anything.”

“Good.” She pushes forward. “Any closets nearby?”

She cuffs him to a rusty pipe in a nearby mechanical room and takes his radio. She’s sure to turn off the light and lock the door from the inside before stepping back into the hall.

With the still-quiet device clipped to her shirt, she continues forward. It seems no word of any intruders has emerged, even with gap-tooth lying in the middle of the hallway. She knows that won’t last, so she picks up the pace as she rounds what should be one final corner.

Room sixteen thirty-four comes into view, and her heart stutters in her chest.

Doubt settles like an unwanted fog.

What if she was wrong to trust Julia? What if she walks through this door and nobody is on the other side? What if this is all a trap, an illusion or - or deception created to lure her into someone else’s hands? What if - Buck is gone and there’s nothing she or anyone else can do about it?

The thought makes her heart seize. She’s mourned before - mourned for decades, even - but she’s never been on such a precipice of losing hope quite like this. The only other times she can think of were when both her children’s lives hung in the balance, May with her suicide attempt and Harry when he was kidnapped and hidden from her in the dark. And both of those times weren’t preceded by months of grief.

If she opens this door and Buck’s not there, something inside her might break in a way she can’t fix. And she can’t allow that to happen, because if Buck really is gone for good - she needs to be strong. Strong for everyone that can’t be.

If she opens the door and Buck is there, then everything will have been worth it. The lack of sleep, the fear of losing him all over again, this teetering on the edge of hope and despair - he would be worth all of it. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do, nothing she wouldn’t risk feeling, to see him behind this door. The fact that she’s here at all is proof enough.

There’s a keyhole in the metal handle and a card reader on the wall. She scans the key card, and the small light turns from red to green.

She slips in the key next, hand trembling almost imperceptibly, a shiver traveling down her spine in time with a drop of sweat trailing the back of her neck. The key turns without any issues, and before she knows it, the door is open and she is stepping across the threshold.

The room is cold and grey and square. It is filled with machines that Athena has never seen before and has seen in every hospital she’s ever been in. In the center is a single bed, and in it, a single figure that turns as soon as she is inside.

The figure is smaller than it should be, with blue scrubs and hair longer than it should be, too. There is a book that must be an encyclopedia of some sort, and the eyes that were just reading it have dark bags under them. Eyes that are wide and blue and the most wonderful thing she has ever seen.

Athena’s knees go weak as her own eyesight becomes blurry and obscured. She takes a hesitant step forward, afraid that if she moves too fast he’ll disappear.

He doesn’t. He is right here, right in front of her. He’s looked better, and she’ll probably cry about that later, but—

But he’s alive.

(I’ll fall apart later, she kept telling herself these past few months - she’s realizing that later is fast approaching, and she’s not sure how much longer she can hold it off.)

He’s alive. Right now, that’s enough. In fact - it’s everything.

“Hey, Buck.”

Buck blinks, and nothing changes.

He has to be dreaming. He’s certain he’s had this dream before, actually. Except - the sheets are rough against his skin, the pages of the book beneath his fingers smooth. The leftover pain from whatever he’s currently recovering from sits in his chest, and—

And this is real.

This is real.

“Hey, Buck.”

The words are an arrow straight through his heart, lightning fast and agonizing, ripping right through him and stealing all the air from his lungs. It’s his name - nothing but his name, and it shouldn’t matter this much. It shouldn’t matter how tenderly it’s said, shouldn’t matter how long it’s been since he’s heard it aloud, shouldn’t stop his thoughts like a brick wall.

Athena is walking forward slowly, not going anywhere, not disappearing into thin air, and if he could he’d rub his eyes to be sure he hasn’t lost his mind.

“You with me?”

He opens his mouth. Can’t make a single sound.

She’s close, now, as close as the people in suits get to him but - but she’s actually looking at him, seeing him, her eyes the most beautiful thing in the world. Her hand inches towards his face, slow and hesitant, an emotion he can’t even begin to name lining her every move.

His vision begins to swim dangerously, his chest tightening into something heavy and screaming to be let out, because - Athena is here. She’s here. How is she here? Where did she come from, how did she even find him? God, his stomach is in knots - he needs to calm down, needs to slow the heart that’s jumped straight to his throat, needs to—

Warm fingers brush his cheek.

A sharp gasp is ripped from his lips at the sensation of skin on his. Tears instantly fall - she wipes them away easily. Even as they keep coming. She’s warm and soft and his chest is going to tear right in two.

“I’m here,” she whispers, her other hand coming up to run through his hair and he sucks in another trembling lungful at the touch. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.”

“Athena?” His mouth finally catches up with the rest of him. He hardly recognizes the sound of his own voice - the way it rasps and scrapes along his throat.

“We don’t have much time,” she says as she pulls back, and he hates the noise that escapes him at the loss of contact but can’t bring himself to care. She doesn’t go far - he gapes at the key she pulls from her pocket, feels practically lightheaded at the sight. “We have to…”

Her words trail off as she looks down, and he follows her eyes to the hands at his sides.

For the length of several heartbeats, neither of them speak.

“Oh, Buck,” she breathes. His eyes snap back up to see tears reflecting back at him. “I’m getting you out of here. I promise.”

He distantly notices himself nodding as she grabs his wrist, and he hates the small flinch he can’t push down when the cuff presses into his skin. He watches as she inserts the key, twists, and does the same again on the other, and—

He’s free.

Free.

The word feels unmistakably foreign.

He instinctively rubs at his bare arms as soon as he can move, grips them close to his chest as fire twinges through his forearms and elbows and shoulders. Tries his best to not cry harder than he already is because he needs to be able to see and breathe.

“Can you walk?” she asks, and he nods again even though he’s not actually sure.

She steps back a bit but doesn’t let go of where her hands now rest on his forearms - he’s not sure what he would do, if she did - allowing him to pull his legs over the side of the bed. She helps him pull off the tubes and wires hanging from his body, and he wipes away his own tears for the first time in who knows how long.

The drop to the floor seems further than it ever has.

For a moment, he hesitates. He hasn’t stepped out of this bed since—

Hey, what are you doing out of—

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—

(Nope. Not going there.)

The ground is cool beneath his feet. His knees nearly give out and whether it’s from weakness or relief he’s not sure but he couldn’t care less.

Athena nods at him and turns back to the open - open - door. “Okay, let’s get you—“

A strangled sound is torn from his chest against his will, the same way he can’t help but grab her hand before she can move any farther away. She looks back at him with wide eyes, his own anything but dry. “I—“

His throat closes up and he can’t get anymore words out, but she seems to understand. She turns back around and—

She pulls him to her chest, arms wrapping around him tight.

He freezes as she tucks herself firmly against him, his body seemingly forgetting what it’s supposed to do in this situation. But then—

His own arms latch around her. She’s warm, and doesn’t smell like antiseptic. She smells like laundry detergent, and - and Bobby’s cooking. He tucks his face down and almost feels bad about the tears that must be getting in her hair.

“It’s okay,” she whispers as she runs her hand up and down his back. He shudders and can barely keep himself upright, can barely keep himself from losing it completely. “I got you, kid. I got you.”

She pulls back, and everything inside him cries out, screams don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me but she doesn’t go far, still has a hand on his arm. It’s going to have to be enough, even if the distance leaves him torn apart at the seams.

He pulls back all the way before it can become impossible. He looks at her, and hopes his eyes can convey everything he isn’t able to say.

“Come on,” she says, taking his hand to lead him out of this room, this place. “Let’s get you home.”

He nearly falls again at the word, but manages to keep it together long enough to step through the doorway.

Yeah, he thinks dazedly, the room behind him. Let’s go home.

“We need to move,” Julia is calling as soon as the doors open, a shrillness in her voice that makes Athena’s stomach drop. “The alarm was tripped - we gotta go. Now.”

The world outside the fluorescent space is a nearly impenetrable layer of darkness. They spent too long underground, and now it’s a matter of - well, minutes, if they’re lucky - before the elevator is opening again. Still, Athena would change nothing, if given the chance; she would still hold Buck for as long as he needed, though to say it was only him clinging would be a lie.

She nods as she steps out into the facade of a lobby, her hand still grasping Buck’s tightly. There’s no time to waste. “Let’s get a move on, then.”

He follows her through the metal doors easily, and even though she half expects him to ask a million and one questions, to be Buck, he remains silent at her side. She doesn’t have to fully turn, though, to see he’s looking at everything with eyes the size of dinner plates.

Her stomach instantly rolls at the implication that he’s never been up here, that he hasn’t seen the sun in - God, in over three months.

She knew this going in. It was a likely outcome, a probable result of a hypothetical situation. Seeing it, seeing the effects of those three and a half months right in front of her, is a different kind of demon. All she can do to fight it is squeeze his hand in hers and hope it brings him even the smallest amount of comfort.

Julia reaches the front door, but when she pushes against it nothing moves. “Damn it,” she hisses, shoving at it uselessly once more in a bout of frustration.

Shit. This was a possibility, but one they hoped to outrun. But since the lock was activated remotely there’s no way to open it with Julia’s key card, or the high access one they stole from the man who still lies dazedly in the corner, vomit on the ground by his head.

They’ll have to go to Plan B. Athena hates Plan B. Not as much as what she has to do now, though, which is that—

She has to let go.

She tightens her grip on Buck’s hand one more time, and prays it and her tone are apologetic enough. “I’ve gotta let go, Buck.” She looks over at him, and his eyes have only gotten wider. “You’ll be okay.” Before he can protest, she does.

The little sound he makes in response hurts in ways she didn’t know could hurt, and will probably haunt her just like the rest of this night will. But they need to get out of here, Buck needs to get out of here, and that’s the only thing that matters.

She pulls her gun from its holster, eyeing the floor-to ceiling window next to the door. Without a doubt it’s going to be bullet proof, and not the drugstore kind of bulletproof either.

“Move,” she says in a low voice, pointing her head toward the counter behind her. Both of them scramble to follow her instructions as she takes aim, being sure to go at an angle to minimize any shrapnel that might fly her way. It hopefully won’t be a problem, as theoretically - hopefully - the glass will stop the bullets in their tracks.

With the others out of the way and relatively safe, she inches as close as she dares. Military strength glass and a nine millimeter handgun - this will be close. She prays the five bullets she has left in the chamber will be enough.

She aims. Fires.

Even with the silencer, the shot echoes through the small space. Predictably, the glass stops the bullet right in its tracks, but small cracks now spread like a web from the impact zone.

Another bullet - another bang and flash, another burst of cracks spreading from the same point. A third follows and her ears begin to ring, but the fractures now nearly reach the edge.

The fourth shot is echoed by the deafening sound of shattering, the floor-length window now fragments scattered at her feet. Bucks and Julia begin to come out from behind the desk to follow her into the night, and—

The elevator dings.

She reaches behind herself blindly to grab ahold of Buck, interlocking their fingers and wrenching him forward and not stopping at all to see if Julia is following. He’s all that matters. Not anyone else here - certainly not Athena, not the heart that’s leapt straight to her throat or the blood screaming in her veins.

They manage to get outside and halfway to the car before the metal doors slide open and all hell breaks loose.

Bullets fly. She instinctively ducks her head as they bounce off the fence in front of her and the concrete walls behind her. The windows not attached to the one she just broke begin to shred like paper as she dives behind the car, pulling Buck down with her. Bullets ricochet loudly against the vehicle and Athena has half a mind to think glad we didn’t take my car as Julia slides down next to them.

“They can only fit so many people in one elevator,” the girl rasps over the clash of metal on metal. “And there are only so many guns. We just have to wait for—“

But Athena is already moving, because the sound has stopped and the time they have is already half gone. She lets go once more of Buck and throws the back door open. “Both of you, in the back!” she barks, hushed. “Heads down!”

Julia grabs the hand Athena just let go of, pulling Buck into the car behind her and keeping both of them low, away from where the windows used to be only seconds ago. Athena pulls the passenger door open, takes a fraction of a second to wish she had half a second to breathe, and crawls through to the drivers seat as a few more rounds come their way.

Julia passes her the keys, and not a moment later Athena’s foot is on the gas. They definitely don’t have the time or ability to stop at the gate, so she thinks screw it and sends a quick prayer upward. Lord, please let this work.

She hits the accelerator as hard as she can and aims right for the center of the fence.

By some miracle from heaven, the people that designed this facility must’ve cared more about how the rusty metal would look from the outside rather than it being an actual way to keep people out, more than likely trusting that the security inside would be enough. It doesn’t matter why - all that matters is that the car takes the fence down like a piñata at a six year old’s birthday party.

She flips the automatic headlights off as they rocket towards the road. The car swerves in the dust for a moment before finding the pavement, and once the road is before her she puts the pedal to the metal like her life depends on it.

She stares through the cracked windshield, into the pitch black void ahead of her, counting the heartbeats that echo in her ears. The nerves in her hands might as well be shot for all she can feel the wheel under them.

She waits for the lights of hell to disappear completely from view before hitting the breaks and pulling off the road, pulling around a low, shrub-covered hill.

As soon as the car stops moving, the keys are out and the engine is silenced.

In that silence, she breathes.

In and out, Athena, she thinks methodically for the hundredth time. In and out.

She’s been on countless intense cases, has been in car chases almost as many times. She can’t recall the last time she was this wired, this shaken.

She slowly turns around to see Buck and Julia rising just as carefully, sees that he still has a death grip on the girl’s hand.

Athena just keeps on breathing. “You two okay?”

A few cars shoot by on the road. The blood freezes in her veins - but when it becomes clear they aren’t turning around, her shoulders finally begin to settle.

“We’re good,” Julia murmurs in the now quiet night, brushing the hair from her face and readjusting her glasses with her free hand. “Just - that was a lot.”

Athena can’t help but huff a laugh. “Honey, never become a cop if the whole secret lab thing falls through.”

The eyes behind her glasses crinkle with amusement. “Noted.”

“You,” Buck suddenly breathes, and Athena turns, but he’s not looking at her.

Julia just nods.

He licks his lips the way he does when he’s thinking hard about something. The center of Athena’s chest aches - aches because she never realized how much she missed something so simple. So Buck.

He opens his mouth, but can’t seem to find the words.

“I’m sorry.” And to her credit, Julia does sound sorry. Practically heartbroken. “I tried to help you. Any way I could.”

Buck nods and blinks rapidly.

A tear falls. Athena wants to wipe it away, knows she can’t interrupt.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. She’s the one to reach forward and brush away the tear. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“Without her we never would’ve found you,” Athena says. He has to know it, because it’s true. She can’t let Julia be equal to everyone else in that lab, can’t let her take no credit for him sitting here now.

Buck turns to Athena, a question in his gaze, but he turns back to Julia all the same. “I—“

His words stop short. He shakes his head and blinks harshly. When it becomes clear he’s not going to continue, that he’s lost in his own head, Athena shifts.

No rumbling of rubber on asphalt can be heard anywhere nearby. It should be safe to assume they’re in the clear. They need to leave quickly, though, if they want to avoid any search parties - on foot, helicopter or otherwise.

She restarts the car, headlights still off, and slowly pulls back onto the road in the direction they just came from. She then continues off the road even further so that there’s a good football field’s distance between her and the pavement.

She drives the car back towards the facility, wind whipping through where glass should be.

“You scrubbed the cameras?”

Julia nods in the mirror. “Every last one.”

“Good.” Athena looks and sees the little drop of light in the sand distantly pass by. “Hope they enjoy searching Nevada.”

Once the lights fade into nothing, she pulls back around and onto the road. She flicks the headlights back on and adjusts her grip on the wheel.

“We can’t go home.” It’s not a question. It’s only a matter of time before they put two and two together and realize Buck isn’t in Vegas.

“You’re on the watchlist, yeah.” Julia meets her eyes in the mirror. “And I definitely will be soon, if I wasn’t before. Do you have a family friend we could call? Anywhere they wouldn’t think to look?”

One day to plan an elaborate break-in and escape. Some things must have slipped through the cracks - she’s not sure how they missed this one, though.

Athena huffs and looks back down into the darkness. “Everyone in my circle would probably be on their list, hun.” Taylor briefly flashes through her mind before she realizes that girl is definitely on several government watch lists. “You got anyone to call?”

Athena watches as Julia shakes her head in the mirror, and ignores the sadness in her eyes because it’s not a problem for the here and now.

“They’re watching everyone that was at the lab that day,” Julia says over the wind. That means the firehouse is out of the question, too. “Is there no one else you trust?”

The answer to that is a resounding no, thank you very much - but that’s not the point that sticks out to her.

An idea is forming in her mind. A dangerous, probably reckless, certainly insane idea, but an idea nonetheless.

“This list - you know everyone that’s on it?”

“Yeah,” Julia says. “I knew the basics of the case.”

“Would Buck be on that list?”

“What?” She sounds incredibly confused, now. “No. Why would he be?”

“Not the point,” Athena says with a wave of her hand. “His house, though - you’re sure it’s not being watched, even now?”

“I’m sure,” she says slowly. “He was renting and the contract ended, so it’s not flagged as—”

“Everyone that was at the lab that day,” Athena repeats. “No one else, not his parents or any other family? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.“ She leans back, seemingly giving up on trying to understand. “You have a plan, then?”

Athena adjusts her grip on the wheel. “Let’s hope.”

The car falls silent. Athena can’t help but mutter “this better work” under her breath.

The ringing in her ears has just finally stopped when another soft voice comes from the back.

“Thank you.”

He’s barely audible above the wind. She looks, sees him staring out the window and up at the endless sky.

Her eyes can’t help but remain on him when they should be on the road. His curls are wild and free and long. His face isn’t clean shaven, but it’s not as scruffy as it should be - there’s barely a five o’ clock shadow. Meaning someone has been maintaining it, maintaining him. There are bags under his eyes, eyes that she would expect to be lost and distraught.

They’re not, though. They’re full of hope and light and are just a bit shiny as they stare into the night sky. From where they are now, light pollution isn’t a problem like it is on the coast, and neither are sudden clouds on the horizon.

Out here, he can see the stars.

Athena isn’t normally one to cry. But the fact that he’s still okay, still Buck, after everything that’s happened to him would be enough to bring anyone close to tears.

“Of course,” she whispers, not sure if he can even hear.

Please let this work. For him. For all of us.

The sink is full of soap suds, but Eddie doesn’t really see them as he finishes up the last of the dishes. His mind is caught somewhere between here and the clouds that have suddenly rolled in - though at least he can see some of the kitchen around him, this time. At least each minute seems to be passing normally, this time.

He sighs as he looks at the clock hanging on the far wall. There’s something slightly ridiculous to be found in washing dishes so late, but - who the fuck cares. Certainly not him.

He could try going in the bedroom again, when he’s done. Third time’s the charm. Except - the very thought leaves him nauseated, flushed. Ironic, since he tried to tackle just that in therapy only hours ago. Which, predictably, means he’s going to have to spend even more of the night staring at the living room ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing on earth.

His mind finds the dishes to be of the same nature. He keeps slipping in and out between each pan, slipping like the water in his hands, like the fog time has become.

Therapy, he decides, is a load of shit.

He looks back down at the dishes, then looks out the window above them where raindrops have splattered against the glass. It’s pitch black outside, but he can hear steady drops still hitting the roof overhead. It’s been such a dry summer - they always are - that the light rain is a welcome if not odd change. He’s grateful enough simply because his grass had been starting to turn an ugly shade of yellow.

Still, the difference is strange. It’s a pretty rare event, rain in the summer. Probably caused by some tropical storm in the Pacific. He ignores the slight sting in his throat as he also ignores why he knows where such rain comes from, shoves aside the sudden lurch of his gut as he washes the cup in his hands for the fifth time.

He’s just finishing the last dish and is about to move onto drying when a knock sounds at the front door. He sighs, bringing his soapy arms up out of the water to search for a hand towel. He’d call out that he’d be a minute, but he doesn’t want to wake Chris.

A few moments later, hands freshly dry, he’s opening the door to a figure he never would have expected or guessed to see. It’s only then he realizes how late it is for someone to be knocking on his door at all.

“Athena,” he says, and can hear confusion permeate his voice. “This is - an odd surprise.”

But then - then he really looks at her, and feels his confusion multiply and concern begin to grow right alongside it. Her hair is frazzled and littered with raindrops, her eyes wild with apprehension - she’s not in uniform, either, or in anything he’s ever really seen her in. And on top of all that, she’s looking around like she’s afraid something will jump straight out of the night and attack her. “You okay?”

“Eddie.” His spine stiffens at her tone - she’s never sounded more serious, and that’s saying something. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

He nods dumbly as he steps outside, closing the door a bit behind him. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he can’t let it get too loud, can’t let it wake Chris.

Regardless, she’s almost starting to scare him.

She nods back, glancing once more behind her before taking a deep breath. “I just broke into a hidden government research facility,” she starts, and what. “I think we lost them, but the feds might be after us and we need a place to hide. The thing is, they probably won’t check this house, so we need to stay here and lie low for a bit.”

Again: what.

He’s not sure when his mouth fell open, but he can’t help but gape at her in a way he’s certain resembles a fish. He wants to ask many, many things - such as why they won’t check this house, of all places - but one word sticks out to him. Because as far as he can tell, Athena is alone on his porch.

“Okay?” he asks more than agrees. “And who is ‘we?’”

He feels like he just stepped on a landmine, the way her shoulders tense just the slightest bit. “There’s someone from the facility - she’s on our side, don’t worry. And…” Her gaze pierces into his soul, but then she’s looking away, seemingly unable to meet his eyes. “Eddie, there’s something you should…”

He doesn’t hear the rest of what she says, because something is moving in the yard behind her.

His mind flashes to secret government agents (which isn’t crazy at all), so he pushes her to the side so he can be at the front. She’ll probably be mad at him for that later, but they’re after her, not him. Allegedly. Hopefully.

He looks out into the dark, into the soft rain. The light from his home illuminates a pretty good portion of the space, almost all the way to the street. At the edge of that light is a figure that—

Eddie stops.

Blinks.

Blinks again, and the image at the end of the tunnel his vision has become stays the same.

The air is cool on his skin. The fabric of his shirt is soft, the scent of rain strong. All in a way that tells him this is reality, and not a conjuring of his sleeping mind.

This is real.

Despite all logic and reason and everything he knows to be true, this is real.

(Part of him should be confused, dumbfounded, alarmed even - and he is, he is and fuck is there a part deep inside of him desperately clawing for answers but it can’t be heard over the ringing in his ears and the sound of gravity itself shifting from the earth to what’s right in front of him. Gravity that’s pulling and tugging and screaming at him to enter its orbit.)

For a moment, there are no thoughts because he can’t think - anything. His dissociation reaches a peak, in which he can’t feel any part of his own body including the breath stuck in his lungs.

Then, somehow, somewhere, some invisible string snaps.

He’s moving - both of them are moving. A distant piece of him registers tripping on the stairs, and the way the rain is electric across his skin as the roof disappears from above him, but none of it, none of it matters, because—

Because Buck meets him right in the middle, crashing into Eddie who’s never cared less about having the air ripped straight from his lungs.

The lack of oxygen barely registers - he’s too busy collapsing into Buck, too busy tightening his own arms around Buck - because everything in him needs Buck close, closer than this, closer than anything - so close he doesn’t know where one begins and the other ends, needs it in a way breathing can never compare because—

Buck is in his arms. Nothing else matters.

Buck is warm against his body - warm, breathing, alive, and nothing else matters.

(Alive, alive, alive, alive—)

Hot tears mix with cold rain - he probably started crying before they even made contact. He doesn’t care. Can’t care. His lungs are going to shred apart from the force of his ragged breaths and he doesn’t care at all.

Scalding tears land on his neck, Buck’s face pressed there like the goodbye Eddie thought - thought - was their last. He finds himself tucked into the space against Buck’s pulse point, Buck’s heartbeat thrumming against his cheek and Eddie never wants to be anywhere but right here ever again.

(Warm, breathing, alive.)

He’s not sure which one of them is shaking harder, and he’s not quite sure when his trembling hand makes its way to Buck’s hair - long, too long, fuck why is it so long - but he keeps it there all the same, holding Buck like something infinitely precious because he is, he is.

He’s not sure when his knees give out, either, and usually Buck can hold his weight but tonight they fall right to the ground and Eddie doesn’t care in the slightest.

He ends up practically in Buck’s lap, still holding on for dear life but that life isn’t even his, it’s Buck’s. Their hair and clothes are soaked, even though the rain is gentle, and both their clothes are definitely going to get muddy. Eddie’s sobs are deafening, right against Buck’s collarbone, and they echo to the street for anybody and everybody to hear.

None of it matters. The only thing that matters is Buck. Buck, here. Buck, warm and breathing. Buck, alive and in Eddie’s arms.

Chapter Text

Morning light breaks through dusty curtains into a broken living room. Tools litter the ground; rolls of fresh wallpaper sit without care in the far corner. Life still exists here, from before. Still exists like anything that happened in here, in the before, ever really mattered.

From where Eddie sits, he can see most of the kitchen, some of the hallway. Can hear the clicking of crutches as his son enters that same field of vision, curls wild, clothing wrinkled.

He doesn’t notice Eddie. Not right away. He heads for the cabinet, grabs a glass. He’s between the counter and the fridge when he realizes he’s being watched.

“Morning,” he says, voice as groggy as any teenager’s in the early hours of the day.

He keeps going to the fridge and gets as far as opening the door before turning back. He must see it, must belatedly register the image in front of him - the way Eddie sits, sits beneath the immeasurable weight on his shoulders. Must realize his father hasn’t said a word to him, a father who always tells his son good morning.

“Dad?”

His voice is young. Apprehensive.

Eddie hates it.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Words won’t come, and he doesn’t know what to do. Even if they were to come, which ones would he use? How is he supposed to do this? How does he use only words to convey something like this?

Chris walks over. Slowly. Sits like Eddie is a bomb, timer already ticking down to zero.

“Dad,” Christopher says. Eddie won’t - can’t - look him in the eye. “Is everything okay?”

He breathes out through his nose. Breathes in, breathes out. He has to do this. Has to tell him. There’s no getting around it, no avoiding it.

He has to be the one to break his kid’s heart.

“Something happened.” He finally allows his gaze to slide up to his son’s eyes. His son’s eyes that are wide. Fearful. “Last night. There was - an accident.”

For moment, Christopher says nothing. Eddie has to say it, has to keep going, but— “An accident?”

And - oh. Eddie knows that voice. It’s the voice of a kid who’s far too used to losing people. The voice of a child who expects disappointment. Expects death.

“Y-yeah, buddy.” Eddie looks down, takes Chris’ hand and squeezes. He’s not sure which of them it’s meant to comfort. “There was a call - there was this lab, and—“

“Who?” The word is broken. Defeated. “Who was it?”

God, Eddie can’t do this. Can’t do this to Christopher, who’s as used to losing people as a teenager as Eddie is after years of being a medic and firefighter. Can’t do this to his kid, his whole world, who doesn’t deserve any more pain.

“Dad?” There’s a new layer of fear, now. Like puzzle pieces that should never have existed are sliding into place. “Dad, is—“

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “Chris, I—“

“Dad.”

Chris is too smart. He knows why Eddie can’t say it - knows that if it were anyone else, it wouldn’t be this hard.

He’s too smart. Too used to heartbreak.

“I’m sorry—“

“No.” He pulls his hand out of Eddie’s grasp, who looks back up to see tears in Christopher’s eyes. “Dad, tell me it’s not.”

Eddie opens his mouth. No words come.

“Dad.” The tears start falling, and Chris pushes weakly against Eddie’s chest. “Tell me— it’s not him. Please. Tell me - tell me he’s not—“

“Christopher—“

“No.” He’s nearly yelling now, practically punching with his still too small fists. Eddie barely feels the impacts. “No. Please, please, Dad - Buck’s not—“

He catches Christopher’s hands with his own, pulls him close as words devolve into sobs. He wraps his arms around Chris’ shaking frame as sobs turn to wails, keeps them there as wails turn to hiccups and hiccups turn to silent, shivering tears.

And then Chris is pushing him away. Is getting up, is shutting the door to his room.

Eddie sits in the silent house.

Alone.

He pulls out his phone to buy two plane tickets. He manages to get all the way to checkout before his shaking fingers lose their grip and the screen falls to the floor.

Nothing feels real.

Stars fade into the pitch black sky as low mountains roll by. At first, Buck thinks it’s because of the lights of the city, the lights that should drown the stars out the same way they always have. The stars disappear into the intangible hills and valleys, and he doesn’t question it.

It’s not until the first few drops of rain hit the windshield that he realizes the sky is actually covered by a dark facade of cloud. The sound of it makes the blood in his veins run frigid - Athena said they were still in California, and it doesn’t - it doesn’t rain in the summer in southern California. Especially coming in from the desert.

Then another line of panic - if they are in LA, if that is where they’re headed, just how long has it been?

How much of his life did he lose to that room, to those needles and wires and tubes? Has the dry season already come and gone? How many months, how many seasons and holidays and milestones has he missed?

The questions try to spill out of him, but the words catch on his tongue just like the last dozen or so times he’s opened his mouth.

It’s because of the wind. With the wind, they won’t be able to hear him.

(They would answer him if he asked. They would. He knows they would. It’s not even a question.)

The intangible city is around him before he has a chance to register that the mountains are gone. He stares at the buildings as they go by, stares at all the colors to be seen even in the dark of the night, even as the rain hits him where he sits too close to where glass should be. Glass that’s beneath him in fragments and leaving small cuts on his fingers when he forgets and puts his hand down on the leather.

The suburbs come with another blink.

The car isn’t moving. Athena isn’t in the driver’s seat. He looks back up, away from the tiny bead of blood on his thumb. They’re still in the suburbs, parked on the road, the streetlights dim and widely scattered.

He looks ahead. His heart skips another beat when he’s met with the sight of a Texas plate on an unfamiliar car.

They’re in California, in LA - Athena told him as much. So why is this - why is there a Texas plate? Athena said they were going home. She wouldn’t take him so far away. She’s not like that. She wouldn’t lie to him.

She’s not like that.

He looks up, looks up at where Athena went, sees—

Oh. That’s - that’s home.

Or, at the very least, the place that’s been home to him for far longer than he wants to admit. The sight is an instant rush of dizziness. He glances around again - this is his neighborhood, the neighborhood he’s been visiting and surrounding himself with for nearly a decade.

Athena isn’t in the car but she is on the porch. She’s - talking to someone? Someone stepping outside, someone—

The world that doesn’t feel real melts.

Buck looks at the porch, looks back at the license plate. Remembers a FaceTime call from a lifetime ago.

Do you think Chris will like it?

Of course he will. He’ll like anything you buy for him. Well, not for him, he’s way too young to drive, but - you know—

I get it, Buck. Thanks.

“Where are you going?”

The nurse’s voice barely registers as he opens the door and walks into the darkness, into the rain, into the yard of the only home he’s ever really known. The grass is wet beneath him and the mud is slippery but it’s nothing that can pull his attention away from the warm halo of light, from the man at its very center. The rest of the distant world might as well be nothing, for all that he sees it.

Warm brown eyes lock on his own. An eternity of a handful of seconds pass where the rain could suspend in midair and Buck would never have a clue.

They surge forward in the exact same instant. Buck nearly slips on the stupid lawn from how fast he’s going, from just how much every piece of him needs, needs, needs, and—

Eddie collides with him like a bullet from a shotgun.

The touch burns and burns and burns and his skin is being lit on fire and he can’t ever get enough. He clenches his fist in the back of Eddie’s shirt, like this will keep them both from drifting away, will keep them both right here. The night and the rain are cold but Buck is on fire and Eddie is warm and in his arms.

Eddie is in his arms. He is in Eddie’s arms. He’s free and out of that room and he is in Eddie’s arms.

He buries himself into Eddie’s hair as they cling to each other and he can’t care at all about the way sobs are ripping through him like sharp knives. He just holds Eddie, holds him in his arms, and catches him when they both inevitably fall - when Eddie’s knees buckle with a choked-off cry. It’s all he can do, lowering them both to the ground as gently as he can.

He tries to control his ragged breaths, but he was always going to fail. Because - because the one thing he wanted the whole goddamn time is here and it only makes him cry all the harder.

Eddie’s hand is in his hair. He nearly passes out from the way it brings an overwhelming sense of I’m safe now. He threads his own fingers through Eddie’s hair, who shudders violently in response.

His time in the room went by quicker, easier, when he left his body behind. He did the same during his escape and subsequent ride here. But now - now every single breath in Eddie’s lungs is a moment in time he wants engraved in his soul. Every hitch in his breath is a song, every brush of his hand needs to be branded into his skin.

Yet he has no idea how long they stay on the ground. There’s no clock he’s watching to gauge when he should stop gripping Eddie with too much strength, no mechanical beeping to count along with his heartbeats. It’s long enough that he can feel his paper-like top stick to his skin, but he hardly feels it. All he knows is that Eddie is here in his arms, and—

That’s enough.

The already gentle rain has slowed ever so slightly when he senses Eddie trying to pull back. Buck wants to protest, to kick and scream and beg for him not to leave, but Eddie only goes far enough to look into Buck’s eyes.

Eddie’s own eyes are wide and red, his tear tracks indistinguishable from the rain. His lips are parted slightly as what can only be described as an incredulous smile slowly begins to light up his face.

“Buck.”

The word is barely audible, but it somehow makes Buck smile, too. He didn’t even know he could still do that. He nods and moves his thumb up and down Eddie’s back, who trembles in his lap, and Buck’s not sure if it’s from the gesture or if Eddie is about to burst into tears all over again.

“Buck.” It’s a little louder, now. More tears slip down his chin to land between them. “Buck.”

He can only nod. His eyes flick down to Eddie’s lips, his name the only thing they can seemingly form.

Both of them lean their foreheads together at the same time, the contact making their gazes flick back up. Buck smiles again and can’t help but produce a sound that might even be a laugh.

Eddie echoes him and softly, reverently calls his name again. And again and again. He brings the hand that was in his curls forward to brush moisture from Buck’s cheeks, and keeps his hand there. It burns, burns like fire in the best way, in a way that he knows will leave him addicted even after months of withdrawal.

Eddie unglues their foreheads and Buck actually, honest-to-god whines in the back of his throat, but then Eddie is tilting Buck’s head down and - and kissing his hairline, and then turning him and doing the same to his birthmark, each of which is accompanied by a spike in Buck’s already skyrocketed heart rate.

(That, and a single coherent thought, which is that he’s grateful to not be hooked up to a heart monitor anymore.)

Eddie pulls Buck’s head right to his neck, just like before. All Buck can do is exhale as steadily as he can and wrap his arms around Eddie even tighter.

Because this is real. God, this - being here, being here with Eddie - is real.

Another hand lands on his shoulder. He realizes belatedly how relaxed he’d become when he instinctively tenses.

“It’s just me, kid.” That’s Athena’s voice, Athena’s hand. The tension in his shoulders loosens ever so slightly. “We’ve gotta get inside.”

No, part of him hisses, I’m not letting go. Another part of him just wants to run away and hide. An odd thought, since he’s already where he’d want to run to.

“You’ll get sick out here, Buck,” Eddie whispers against his hair.

Buck shakes his head. He doesn’t care, can handle being sick. A head cold is pretty laughable, actually.

“We’ll all get sick,” Athena murmurs as she kneels down next to them.

Oh. She could get sick. Eddie could sick. He might rather die than be the reason either of them are infected with anything, no matter how trivial.

He nods against the warm skin of Eddie’s chin. Forces himself to let Eddie stand, but keeps his own hands firmly on his forearms as he slips away from Buck’s hold. He follows on only slightly unstable legs as soon as he’s able, then presses himself into Eddie’s side like they’re opposite magnetic poles. They stay just like that - glued together - as they make the walk up to the house.

He shivers as he walks through the front door, but Athena is somehow already holding out a pair of towels. He takes one gratefully and does his best to dry off with only one arm.

He looks down at the filth caking both of their legs. He cleans his own as well as he can, but he’s still going to track mud all over the house if he walks any farther.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, pulling the ruined towel from his hands and throwing it without care on the floor. “I don’t give a shit about a little dirt, Buck.”

Buck’s lip quirks upward at the way he says it like an obvious fact, like he hasn’t cared a lot more about the state of his house in the past. Under different circumstances, Eddie might’ve hit him with a pillow if he tried to walk inside covered in mud like this.

(So he’s really saying Buck is more important to him than a clean home. It makes his insides feel warm, heats up his chilled bones.)

Athena guides them both to the couch. It’s soft - he realizes it’s his own, not Eddie’s. Actually, the TV is his, the coffee table is his - everything in here is his. Maybe he hasn’t been gone long at all, he thinks as Athena wraps his shoulders in another dry towel.

He turns from looking around the room and can’t help but jump when he comes nose to nose with Eddie, who is still staring at him like—

Almost like a ghost, if Buck didn’t know any better.

“Sorry - sorry,” Eddie hisses, pulling back.

Buck latches onto his forearms without really meaning to in response. He doesn’t want Eddie to move away. Needs him to not move away. If he does, Buck might just fall apart.

Eddie stills before slowly pulling his arms free, but only so he can grasp Buck’s hands with his own. They’re practically one on top of the other, now; facing each other and knee to knee, their calf’s linked together so tightly Buck’s foot barely brushes the floor.

Eddie is still staring at him. Like - like that. Like Buck is the first drop of water he’s seen after years of living in the desert. Buck is sure he isn’t much better, but there’s something about Eddie doing it too that rings one too many alarm bells in his head.

Buck licks his lips. They’re dry and cracked, and his throat feels like he’s swallowed glass, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to know. “Are you okay?”

Eddie flinches. Hard. Buck’s about to try to ask what’s wrong when Eddie’s face splits into the biggest, saddest grin he’s ever seen.

“Am - am I okay?” His voice is wet even as he laughs and it would be a beautiful sound if it didn’t make Buck’s heart snap in two. “I’m—“ He squeezes Buck’s hands and a tear falls from his crinkling eyes. “I’ve never been better.”

Something is wrong. The way Eddie’s looking at him - it’s exactly the same way Athena did, back in the room. Something is going on here, and he doesn’t know what, but there’s pain in Eddie’s eyes and that just might be the thing to kill him.

“Eddie,” he chokes out, and the smile fractures along the edges.

A shaky exhale. It’s painful to watch. Their gazes are still locked together, same as their legs, and tears still slip intermittently from Eddie’s eyes.

“I’m—“ Eddie’s head tilts, like he’s trying to convince himself of something. But then he’s shaking it. “No. No, I can’t do this. Buck, where the hell have you been?”

Buck opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Shouldn’t Eddie know? If Athena came and got him, got him out, shouldn’t Eddie know where he was? And why was Eddie clinging to Buck so - so strongly, so desperately? Why is he looking at him like - like—

“You know what?” Eddie says with another shake of his head. The smile is back in the tiniest of ways. “I don’t care. Forget it. I just—“ He sniffs and blinks rapidly. “Are you okay?”

That’s… certainly a question. He’s here, he’s out of that place, he’s right next to Eddie - the answer should be a resounding yes. It should be that he’s never been better, just as Eddie said.

Buck tries to answer. His vocal cords don’t want to listen. The words get stuck in his throat leaving him to do nothing but choke.

“I rescued him a couple hours ago,” Athena says from nearby.

Buck honestly forgot she was here. She’s still standing a few feet away, arms crossed and face blank. He turns his head a bit to see Jules here too, fidgeting with her hands by the closed front door. Seeing the nurse again after so long - much less without her suit - is throwing him more than it probably should. Then again, everything is throwing him more than it should right now.

Eddie finally looks away from Buck to glance at Athena, but it’s not long before his gaze slowly shifts back.

Something else shifts, too.

“Rescued.” There’s a dangerous edge to the word.

Buck has heard that tone before. It’s the same tone Eddie used when escaped convicts tried to threaten Christopher.

Athena moves closer out of the corner of his eye. “Eddie—“

“You said - a government lab.” The grip on Buck’s hands is cutting off his circulation. “You said they could be after you.”

“I did.”

Eddie’s jaw ticks. He pulls back the slightest bit to fully look at Buck, probably noticing his blue scrubs for the first time.

Buck looks over at Athena, who doesn’t meet his eyes. He guesses this means none of them knew where he was being kept or what was being done to him. It’s a small comfort, knowing they at least didn’t leave him there willingly.

A wounded, animal-like sound rings in his ears and he whips his head towards it. It takes him a second to realize that the noise came from Eddie, who’s seemingly frozen, mouth agape and eyes full of pure horror.

Buck follows his gaze. Eddie is staring at his wrists - or rather, the rainbow of dark bruises and scabbed-over skin lining both of them in a thick ring.

Buck stares, too. He didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. That probably explains why they hurt so much, though.

Eddie tries to pull away, no doubt out of fear of hurting the wounds. Buck doesn’t let him. Instead, he twists their hands to waffle their fingers together. The only thing that could hurt him right now is Eddie leaving. He couldn’t care less about some marks on his skin.

“All this time.” Eddie’s voice is a mix between a growl and an agonized cry. “He’s been - you’ve been—“ He breaks off, like he doesn’t want to voice the truth.

“They lied to us, Eddie.” Athena’s tone is ice. “From the very beginning.”

“I can see that,” Eddie snaps with no real bite. He looks back down and shakes his head. “God - what did they do to you?”

“What’d they tell you?” Buck finally manages, asking the question that’s been burning in his chest since Athena opened that metal door.

The air is sucked out of the room as Eddie locks eyes with him. He slowly untangles one of his hands, slowly brings it up to Buck’s birthmark. Almost like—

Almost like he needs a reminder that this is real, just as much as Buck does.

Maybe even more.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s not sure why it took so long to click, not sure why he didn’t think of it in the first place when Jules told him his family wasn’t coming. It would be the perfect cover - the perfect reason to keep him in that room. Forever.

He would’ve been there for - forever. The rest of his life. Regardless of whether or not they killed him, regardless of the things they did to him, he would’ve died in that room. It’s no longer a hypothetical to keep him up at night, keep him spiraling - it’s what would’ve happened. Nobody would have ever known where he was and he would have died alone, handcuffed to that paper-thin mattress.

“Buck.” Eddie’s grip on his shoulder pulls him out of the room and back onto the soft fabric of the couch. “Breathe.”

As if the words gave his lungs permission, he sucks in air so fast his head spins. It takes him a few tries to get the rhythm back, of breathing in and out while his pulse is in the stratosphere.

Eddie moves his hand to Buck’s chest to help guide it up and down, though the warm weight of his touch probably helps more than anything else. But now that he has access to important things - like oxygen - he can’t stop what he knows is a spiral.

They told everyone he was dead.

God, Buck can’t even imagine what it would’ve done to him - to find out Eddie died, much less from so far away. Learning any of his family died would’ve destroyed him. He imagines losing Hen, Chim, Bobby, Maddie the same way they “lost” him and he can’t breathe all over again.

“Hey - hey,” Eddie whispers, sliding his hand back up to Buck’s shoulder in a way that burns from how familiar and unfamiliar it is. “You didn’t do this. It’s not on you, okay? It’s not on you.”

Buck’s neck jerks into something that’s close enough to a nod as he stares at Eddie, whose thumb is tracing circles on Buck’s collarbone. Grounding him. He reaches up to grab ahold of that same hand, ignoring the way Eddie’s gaze follows his wrist.

“You’re okay,” Eddie breathes, and Buck can see his eyes are glassy again. “You’re okay.”

He’s not saying it for Buck. Well, maybe he is, on some level - but it’s clear he’s really saying it for himself. Like a mantra that will help him believe Buck is actually right in front of him.

Buck looks down again. There’s an overwhelming sensation building in him - that he’s intruding on Eddie’s grief. Which is incredibly strange, considering the grief is about him. It just - feels like something he was never supposed to see.

He supposes no one should ever have to see other people grieving them.

He blinks out of his thoughts as he looks at Eddie’s chest again. He realizes with a start what he’s looking at.

He reaches up to grasp at the edge of the fabric, just as soft as he remembers.

Eddie goes still against him and looks down, and then back up. Then he laughs - this time it’s real and only a little hysteric. “Sorry?”

Buck just shakes his head, because he doesn’t mind at all.

It’s one of the two he bought at the zoo, a matching set for him and Chris who grew out of his a while ago but still loves when Buck wears his. It’s why Buck wears it as much as he can around the Diaz house.

Eddie looks down at it again, then looks up at Buck’s papery top. He tilts his head suddenly, grasping Buck’s shoulders with both hands. “You’re shaking.”

Oh. Buck realizes he’s right - he’s shivering under the towel in his damp clothes. Eddie always has his air conditioning on in the summer, even though he grew up somewhere quite a bit warmer than California - always running hot, Buck often says fondly. It would make the room cold for someone not soaked to the bone. The minor panic attack probably didn’t help things along, either.

“Do you want a blanket?” Eddie asks him, trying to rub some warmth back into his arms. “Or - I have clothes you can wear. You can take a shower and get warm and I can be right there, if you want.”

Eddie’s face turns bright red and Buck knows his isn’t much better.

“I mean - outside. I’ll be right outside.”

There’s an insane part of Buck that almost blurts out that he does want Eddie to shower with him. For the first time, he’s glad his voice is failing him.

Instead of saying all that and sounding crazy, he just nods. Like a normal person that did not realize their feelings for their straight best friend in a secret government lab. He can shower by himself, because that’s a normal person thing to do. Even if he’s been getting nothing but sponge baths for what feels like forever, he’s still a normal human being.

(Right?)

He can’t bring himself to move.

The idea of removing himself from Eddie’s side is something he doesn’t ever want to consider. He can stay right here, shivering and miserable, because Eddie is here. It’s more than he can say for a lot of recent history.

“Buck,” Athena murmurs, placing a hand on his shoulder again. He leans into the touch an embarrassing amount. “You’ve gotta get warm. You’ll get sick.”

He shrugs and manages to get a word out, even if it rasps along the edges. “So?”

“So we care and don’t want that to happen,” Athena says before Eddie can even open his mouth - which he definitely does do, but closes it as Athena continues. “You also need to get some sleep, baby. You’re barely staying awake as it is. We can deal with - everything in the morning.”

Something inside his chest expands at the name he knows is reserved only for her family. Does this mean he’s part of that? Or does he just look that much like a puppy left out in the rain?

The thought both saddens and amuses him.

“I’ll go first, if you want,” Eddie says. He’s shivering too, Buck realizes. “I’ll be quick so I can get you clothes to change into right after. That sound okay?”

“Eddie needs to get warm, too,” Athena says with a squeeze to his shoulder. “We don’t want you boys catching a cold.”

He sees what they’re doing. It’s the same thing they did in the yard. They’re trying to make him care about himself by using Eddie’s needs as bait.

Unfortunately, it’s working.

He nods, but instead of letting go he pulls Eddie in for another hug. He’s not exactly expecting to be pushed back, but he isn’t ready for Eddie to tighten his arms around him quite as much as he does, either.

“You can come sit in the bathroom with me,” he says softly against his ear. “If you want.”

Shame bursts inside of him. He can’t be this - clingy, no matter how hard it is it let go. He shakes his head and forces himself to pull back completely, even as it leaves his skin burning in a different and awful way.

When Eddie stands it feels like a limb is being torn off, but he is not going to latch back on. He’s going to stay right here, on this couch, and he’s going to be a normal, functioning adult that has no issues with a lack of touch.

But then Athena sits right where Eddie had been, pulling him against her side even though she’s only slightly damp and he’s still pretty much soaked, and he realizes that being normal is overrated.

He must look like a puddle, the way he melts against her.

“I’ll be right back,” Eddie says, and he hesitates to walk away. Like this is just as painful for him, like he also feels like he’s being torn in two. When he does, it’s fast, as if he needs to be back as quickly as possible.

Buck understands the sentiment.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Athena says after a moment or two, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “We’re gonna figure it out.“

He nods and leans his head on her shoulder. She reaches up to run her fingers through his hair and he sighs into the touch.

Eddie comes back into the room not four minutes later in a dry set of clothes, hair damp and fluffy. Buck stands and almost goes straight for him, but then remembers he’s still muddy and gross and hugging him now would only set them back several steps.

He follows Eddie to the bathroom, overly aware of the mud he tracks down the hall and onto the cream-colored tile. Still, his eyes track everything in sight, because - well. He never thought he’d see this place again.

And right there, laid out by the sink are a fresh towel and a pair of clean pajamas Buck knows are his own. It’s probably ridiculous, how much the sight leaves him weak at the knees.

“I’ll be right outside,” Eddie says, and Buck can tell he also wants to lean into him and is just barely holding himself back. “If you need anything, let me know. Please.”

Buck nods like he can do this - “this” being, of course, existing alone for five minutes. Athena and Eddie might have a point though. He’s starting to feel numb instead of cold.

Eddie goes to leave, and before Buck even realizes what he’s doing he’s latching onto his hand.

Eddie’s gaze snaps to the contact. Buck swallows the lump in his throat as he gives a slight squeeze that hopefully says thank you.

He pretends to not see Eddie’s eyes turn glassy as he squeezes back. “Y-yeah. Don’t mention it.”

Then he's letting go. The door clicks shut, and Buck pretends that it doesn’t sound like the lid closing on a coffin.

The door clicks shut and Eddie hates the soft sound more than he should. The wood is cool and smooth as he leans his head against it, as he does his best to take even, non-gasping breaths.

He can be separated from Buck for… however long it takes for him to get warm, to not go hypothermic. His soul isn’t going to rip apart if there’s space between them; he’s not going to fall to pieces if they aren’t touching for a few mere minutes. Especially after months of nothing.

When he was the one showering, it was easy to not think about that space. Showering quickly was second nature in the army, and it was all too easy to turn off his brain and use that skill to get back to Buck.

But he has no control, now. He has to wait. Wait and not lose his what’s left of his mind.

The shower kicks on and he lets out a shaking breath. Buck will be fine. He’s not going to - to die in the shower. Eddie’s nervous system seriously needs to get the memo.

He pulls away from the door even as every inch of distance seems to pull something from his very soul. He can hear the water running as he heads to the living room, knows he’ll hear it shut off when Buck is done. It’s the only reason he can walk away at all.

Athena sits on the couch, still as a statue. She stares at nothing, but turns ever so slightly when the echo of Eddie’s steps reaches her ears.

She seems guarded. He supposes it’s well warranted as he crosses his arms to fight the urge to throw something.

“How long.”

She raises a single brow, but says nothing.

He nearly growls in his throat, has to tell himself to be a normal person. If she wants to play dumb - fine. “How long have you known.”

“I found out yesterday,” she says. Glances at the clock. “Or two days ago now, I suppose.”

“You suppose.” And Eddie shouldn’t be taking this out on her. He knows that. But under all the joy and relief and gratitude is a fire that’s slowly building and refusing to be extinguished. “Loved the heads up, by the way.”

“As soon as I found out, I was already moving,” she says with clearly fading patience. “Getting him out was more important than this conversation.”

And - and he hates to admit she has a point. He’d rather be having this conversation with Buck safely in his bathroom than - wherever the hell he was.

Knowing will kill him.

He also knows not knowing will eat him alive, so - before he can think any better of it— “Where.”

Athena shifts, almost uncomfortably. “Eastern California, a ways off of I-15. About an hour from Las—“

“Athena.”

“It was a military base.” Her eyes are pained, haunted. He’s not afraid to admit it terrifies him. “About two hundred feet in the ground. A little deeper than the six they told us.”

Eddie can’t help his flinch, but tries his best to mask it. “What—“ He sucks in air as steadily as he can. “What did they do to him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Eddie runs shaking hands through his hair. That’s - he can’t accept that. He can’t handle not knowing why Buck’s wrists look like a fucking Monet painting. Can’t handle not knowing why Buck’s barely spoken three words in the past hour. He doesn’t care if it makes him physically sick, doesn’t care if the knowledge is as heavy as the sky. If Buck has to know, has to live with it, so can Eddie.

There are things he does know, though. Buck is alive. Buck is in the next room, lungs breathing and heart pumping.

He knows he was in some lab run by the government, almost certainly stuck as someone’s specimen, experiment, test subject, whatever - and that’s enough to make his vision turn a deep shade of crimson.

Words from earlier ring through his head.

There’s someone from the facility.

“You.” The word is out before he can even fully turn to her, but he sees her flinch at his iron tone all the same. “What did you do to him?”

“She was the whistleblower, Diaz.” Athena is standing now, seemingly unafraid of getting between them. “She got him out. She’s the reason he’s here.”

The words are a punch to the gut.

It might be because he doesn’t want to hear them - might be because he wants someone, anyone, to scream at. Maybe he doesn’t want to believe there was somewhere to be rescued from at all.

But maybe it’s because they mean he’s not the reason Buck is here.

Buck’s been alive this whole time, and Eddie didn’t know, couldn’t do - anything about it. He wasn’t the one to rescue him, wasn’t the one to realize something was wrong. He can’t lay claim to any part of getting Buck home.

(Even if Eddie is that home.)

(He desperately hopes he is.)

He looks at her again. She’s short, clearly terrified. And young. Young like she signed up for something she didn’t understand. But instead of going along with it, she did the right thing. Because of her, Buck is out of there. Buck is home.

He still feels a burning rage, but it’s not directed at her anymore. If anything, he has the insane desire to hug her for doing what he couldn’t do.

He’s barely able to choke out, “Thank you.” And he’s never meant the words more in his entire life. 

She doesn’t look happy at the thanks. If anything, she only folds in on herself even more. “I’m sorry I took so long,” she whispers, not meeting either of their eyes. “I tried - I tried to help him. I tried to get him out, but—“

“You did the right thing,” Athena says, standing and coming around the couch to put a hand on her arm. “We can’t thank you enough.”

“I just told the right people,” she says with a shrug, eyes still on the floor. “We’ve gotta make sure he stays safe.”

Athena nods, fingers tightening over her forearm. “I know. I’ll call Taylor in a minute, make sure she’s ready for tomorrow.”

Eddie has had a lot of shocking information thrown at him tonight, many things that have made him question his sanity and perception. This, however, is the thing that makes him actually reach up to rub his ear like he needs to unclog it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, unapologetic to interrupting the moment. “You’ll call who?”

It can’t possibly be—

“Taylor Kelly,” Athena says like the words are a positive thing. “She’s the one Julia called.”

Hm.

“Hm,” he says, knowing his face is very blank. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.”

He opens the front door, and steps onto the porch. Closes it, breathes.

“Motherfucker,” he does not yell, because it’s one in the morning and that would be - ridiculous. So would another long, long list of choice words that would make him ground Chris for a year for saying.

When he steps back through the door, he ignores the way the other two stare at him. For the first time, he’s almost relieved to hear the shower still running.

“Why did you call Taylor?” he asks, voice casual and very, very calm.

“She was looking into his death,” Athena says after a moment, and he’s struck by the memory of getting wasted and nearly smashing a glass bottle in anger. “She got close enough that she would believe the truth.”

Right. Taylor Kelly was the one to notice something was wrong. Not Eddie. So much so that she was able to do something about it, was able to grab the attention of someone else more capable of getting Buck home than him.

Right.

“And you’re calling her again for…” He crosses his arms to hide the way his fists are curling. “What, exactly?”

“We’re gonna blow this case wide open,” Athena says. “Let the public know the truth.”

Eddie feels his mouth fall open. That’s their plan? That was the best they could come up with?

“Is that really the best thing for Buck?” he can’t help but ask. Because honestly— “Does he need that kind of attention?”

“If we want justice, yes.” Athena steps toward him, face hard but not unkind. “And it’s the only way to guarantee his safety. They won’t dare take him again if the truth is out. That’s why they were so panicked when we all escaped - they knew it was only a matter of time before their lies came crashing down.”

It makes sense. It makes sense and he hates it. He hates it so, so much that this is what needs to happen, that in order to keep Buck safe they need to turn him into a - a spectacle. A show. Something for people to watch on the morning news and say wow, that’s messed up. Can you pass the syrup?

“The team,” he says, reaching for straws and finding nothing but open air. “Are they going to find out like that? Is his sister going to find out like that?”

“A Shift ends in seven hours,” she says. “I’ll call Bobby, have everyone come over here when it’s over. The news won’t break until nine.”

He can see it now - the whole house full of people still grieving someone who’s not actually dead. There’s a little joy to be found in the thought, in both that Buck is alive and that everyone will soon know it.

“They’ll be okay though, right?” The sudden and insane image of men in tactical gear storming the firehouse fills his mind. “Their families, our family?”

Athena’s lip twitches and he’s not sure why. “Too public. And it doesn’t matter, since they won’t go somewhere unless they’re absolutely sure he’s there. Not without raising a lot of unwanted questions.”

“They can’t ask where he is without revealing the truth,” he realizes. “And since I’m a renter, this house isn’t in my name. They won’t look for him here.”

The woman - Julia - nods. “That, and they only cared to monitor people there that day.”

He’s not sure if he outwardly flinches or if it’s only inside that he feels like he’s been shot again.

“Right,” he says.

Distantly, the water shuts off.

He doesn’t move.

Julia doesn’t have any real idea of what her words have done, but Athena, to her credit, looks at him with a pinched brow. “Eddie—“

“I’m gonna go check on him,” he says instead of letting her continue.

His feet remain right where they are.

People there that day. People there when Buck got infected with that goddamn virus. People that knew something was wrong, knew to look into what happened. People that were there for Buck, were able to help him and get him home.

People that were not Eddie.

There’s a crash from down the hall.

“Buck!”

He’s moving before he can think, door open before he can think better of it. Buck is out of the shower and in clean clothes, thankfully, but—

Eddie has to turn his head down to see him against the counter beneath the sink, several hygiene products sprawled around him that were clearly knocked over on his way to the floor.

“Buck,” he chokes out, not even half caring about avoiding a shampoo bottle as he kneels beside him. “Hey, hey - you’re okay, yeah?”

He lifts Buck’s chin as gently as he can. His pupils are normal, Eddie notes. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, though, meaning they had to have been shed after he got out of the shower.

Eddie, he mouths with no sound. His eyes flick to the now open door, and then back to him. His voice is back, but only slightly, when he says, “Oh.”

At first, Eddie doesn’t understand.

And then he does.

He thought he knew heartbreak, these past few months. Maybe he needs to reevaluate what heartbreak actually means.

“It’s okay,” he says slowly, pushing any lingering feelings of inadequacy down. They’re not what Buck needs right now. “No more locked doors.” He blinks rapidly to get rid of the rising sting in his eyes. “I promise.”

Buck nods and unceremoniously falls into Eddie’s chest.

Eddie brushes a few stray products away so he can sit down properly, can wrap his arms around Buck tightly. He can’t help but run his fingers through damp hair, once again surprised by the length he finds. Whoever was shaving and bathing Buck clearly didn’t care about his curls getting messy.

He almost misses it.

He’s busy holding Buck in his arms, focused on the feeling of the chest against his own rising and falling and the tickle of hair beneath his chin. He’s nearly too focused on pressing a kiss to the top of Buck’s head to hear it - another hallway door creaking open, the pitch of which he knows by heart.

Again, before he can even think he’s sticking his foot out and kicking the door to the bathroom shut. Buck flinches hard in his arms at the sound and Eddie would feel guilty if he wasn’t so preoccupied with his stomach plummeting to the center of the earth.

“Sorry,” he whispers, tightening his hold in a way that’s hopefully comforting. “Sorry, I just—“

“Dad?”

Buck goes still.

“Dad, you okay?”

“Hang on,” he calls, beginning to untangle himself from Buck. “Give me - just give me one second, Chris—“

Buck’s staring straight ahead.

The wheels in his head are visibly turning, the realization clearly sinking in as to why Eddie was so quick to close the door. Because if Eddie was under the impression Buck was gone—

Christopher was, too.

Still is.

“I’m gonna talk to him,” he breathes. “You can see him in a second, I swear, just let me—“

“Go,” Buck says, just as quiet, eyes still on the door.

Considering what just happened, Eddie feels even more uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Buck nods, and Eddie is overcome with a deep sense of relief when his lips turn upward the slightest bit. “Just don’t lock the door.”

He’s.

He’s joking about it.

Most of him is concerned - deeply concerned - that Buck is already dancing around his own trauma. But the rest of him - well. It’s a straight shot of relief, right to his bloodstream. Buck is still Buck. Still wonderful and perfect and loving despite it all. Still his best friend.

He’s in love with his best friend.

It hits him all at once. He’s in love with his best friend, who is alive. Not dead. And he can’t even figure how he never knew. How he never realized just how in love he was, now that he’s in Buck’s presence again - now that he can feel that love without the inescapable shadow of grief hanging over it.

There won’t ever be anyone else for him. His heart is always going to belong to the man on his bathroom floor.

It hits him, then, in the next split second.

Buck is sprawled on the ground because he fell. Because he panicked over the mere idea of a door being locked. Because he lived through something no person should ever even have to think about or imagine.

A scuff reaches his ears from beyond the door, bringing him back to the moment at hand.

He stands up and can see Buck smiling up at him, not as toothy as usual but still equally radiant, and Eddie knows.

Knows he can’t tell him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’s sure to open the door just enough to slip around its edge, and he’s careful to not shut it all the way even as he rushes to do so. He takes another moment in front of it to breathe, to accept that he’ll be fine away from Buck for a few more minutes.

He turns around to find himself face to face with his son, hair wild from sleep and eyes barely open. The lights from the living room and bathroom filter into the space to reveal plaid pants and an oversized T-shirt.

When did his kid get too big for pajamas? When did Eddie stop noticing these kinds of changes, how… how long has he been completely numb?

He shakes his head a bit. Now is not the time.

“Are you okay?” Chris repeats, voice gravely from sleep. His eyebrows pinch, though, like he’s noticing how erratic Eddie’s behavior is. “You’re acting… weird.”

He inhales slowly, exhales even more so. “Chris,” he says, putting a hand on his back to guide him to Eddie’s room. That should be as good of a place as any to have this conversation, right? Since the living room is - otherwise occupied. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” Chris says slowly as he follows, drawing the word out enough for Eddie to almost roll his eyes.

As they sit on the bed, Athena appears in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in worry. For a second his heart stops, believing for the briefest of moments that it’s one of the other two people in his house. People whose presence would be much harder to explain right now. “You two okay?”

He’s not sure if she’s referring to Eddie and Chris or Eddie and Buck, but figures it doesn’t matter. “Uh, yeah. We’re fine.”

“Hi?” Christopher sounds even more confused than before as he turns back to Eddie in a hushed tone. “Dad, it’s like, one in the morning.”

Maybe Athena being here isn’t all that easy to explain either. He’ll deal with it in a minute, while he’s explaining - everything else.

Eddie turns to her, wiping his hands on his thighs to get rid of at least some of the sweat on them. “Athena, can you get - someone when I tell you to, please?”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “You got it.”

“When I said weird, I didn’t think it would be this weird.”

“Chris,” he says, slightly exasperated as he turns back to him. “This is serious, bud.”

Something shifts in his kid’s eyes. Eddie can tell he’s realizing this is much bigger than their normal talks, realizing Eddie wouldn’t pull him out of bed for just anything.

“Okay,” he says slowly. Asks again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, only slightly brushing off the question. There are a lot of emotions running through him right now, mostly good, some bad, others extremes in both directions, but - sure. If he had to put a label on it, fine is good enough, considering whatever is sitting in his chest doesn’t exactly have a name.

He puts a hand on Christopher’s arm and rubs his thumb along the shirt seam. “I…”

Chris looks at him expectantly, and Eddie’s mouth is as dry as a desert.

There are no guidelines for this. There are no parenting books that could have prepared him for this. There are normal talks you have with your kid, some abnormal talks. None of them involve explaining a father figure is back from the dead because they were actually trapped in a secret bunker.

He can’t just come out and say it - he has to explain it, has to prepare Chris so his soul doesn’t leave his body when he sees another loved one supposedly back from the grave.

The face Chris made when he saw Kim will forever be burned in his mind. He has to be sure this isn’t a repeat of that, that he isn’t scarring Christopher for life by making him think Eddie’s found another lookalike.

(Eddie can’t help but wonder when their life became so damn complicated.)

“Sometimes,” he starts. Has no idea where he’s going with it. “Sometimes people tell you things. Things that seem - true. People that you should be able to trust.”

“I guess.”

“But sometimes those things aren’t true. People - you know. They lie.”

“I know, Dad,” Chris says. “I’m not nine.”

“Sorry, I know, I just—“ He winces and drops his arm. “There’s lying like cheating on a test, and then there’s things like government coverups, and—”

“What?” Christopher exclaims, and yeah, Eddie deserves that one. “Dad, what are you talking about?”

“Athena learned something,” he says before he can change his mind and try another strategy. Chris’ eyes flick to where she still stands. “She found out that someone lied. Lied about something… pretty big.”

Eddie nods to her. She nods back and slides through the door, leaving it cracked behind her.

Chris watches her go before looking back to Eddie. His eyes are wide. Concerned. “Is everyone okay?”

Eddie can’t help it - he laughs.

Christopher’s eyebrows shoot up. If anything, he looks even more worried than before. He probably thinks his dad has finally lost it.

“Everyone’s okay,” he’s quick to say through his laughter, placing a hand against his son’s head like he can transmit his joy through physical contact alone. “That’s just it. Everyone is okay.”

“…you’re freaking me out, Dad.”

He sobers himself but can’t completely get rid of his grin, even as a tear traces cool path down his cheek. “Chris… everyone is okay because everyone is alive.”

“Okay?” he says, still clearly worried for his father’s sanity. “Good?”

He moves to grip Chris’ shoulders, to look him right in the eye. “Remember when I said there was a coverup? And that Athena learned about it?”

Chris nods slowly.

“They lied to us. They said—“ He sniffs a bit and tilts his head. He manages to keep speaking even though his throat is rapidly tightening. “They told us someone was gone. That someone died.”

Eddie can see the exact instant it clicks.

He tightens his grip and whispers, “It was a lie.”

Chris opens his mouth, and the door opens.

Eddie feels it - the sharp inhale beneath his hands. Hears the air rushing. But he only has eyes for the man who still fills most of the doorframe, but has never seemed smaller.

His hair is still a bit damp, curling wildly and Eddie wants to run his fingers through it again. The shirt he wears hangs off of his frame in a way it didn’t before. His eyes are only a little red rimmed now, when before Eddie could hardly see the edges of his birthmark.

Eddie pulls his gaze away to look at Chris - who, since his sharp intake of air, has ceased to breathe at all.

Buck kneels down right in front of their kid. Eddie slowly lowers his arms from Chris’ shoulders, hardly daring to shift anything at all, but it doesn’t matter. Chris is as still as a statue, petrified in stone.

But then - then he moves.

He moves to slowly lift his hand, to gently push at Buck’s birthmark with the pad of his thumb. Christopher’s palm brushes Buck’s cheek as he does, fingers tickling the edges of curls.

Chris still hasn’t breathed. None of them have.

Then Buck, who’s been unable to speak like he always has for reasons Eddie is certain are horrific, takes the leap. “Hey, Superman.”

With nothing more than a strangled cry, Chris falls right off the bed, falls right into waiting arms.

Buck catches him, because Buck was always going to catch him.

His son is immediately lost in the embrace. Buck lands back on his heels, holding Chris like he always has, holding him close and tight and just like he did when Chris was no more than three apples tall.

Eddie slides off the bed and onto the floor, barely registering the dull pain of wood hitting his knees. His hand hovers and he can feel the very air trembling above Chris - Chris, who is sounding just as broken as that day in Texas; Chris, who is hanging on for dear life.

Eddie and Buck look to each other at the same moment. His eyes are glassy and puffy and so, so overwhelmed with the miracle only Christopher can be as gives a small, shaky nod.

That one little nod is all it takes for Eddie to put one arm around Christopher and the other around Buck, holding both of them to his chest and surrounding them as much as his limited, finite body will allow. He can feel them both breathe, can feel the tension bleed out of them as they cling to each other, can feel the warmth of the two people he loves most in this world finally, finally together.

The entire world, all in his arms.

Eddie will never let go again.

Chapter Text

When Maddie was nine, her brother died.

She wasn’t allowed to talk about it.

To her parents, to the rest of the world, it was as if Daniel never existed in the first place. They packed up and moved to a new town, a new house, new people that didn’t know of the baggage they carried or the weight of her parents’ sins. Everything left of her brother was gone. There was no trace of him - in their home and outside of it; nothing but the ghosts of laughter and tears Maddie alone could seemingly hear. Her brother was gone - from the world, from conversation, from memory.

Gone, in every sense of the word.

She was left with nothing but a baby she barely knew, a crippling fear of losing people, and a mother and father that couldn’t be bothered to step out of their own grief to raise their living children.

The baby was small, and pink, and even more pink just above his eyebrow, and Maddie didn’t know this person at all. He was a stranger in her home. Someone that appeared with the disappearance of the brother she knew but couldn’t talk about, and she really couldn’t talk about this one, either. He would cry for a mother that wouldn’t come and Maddie did her best, she did, but she couldn’t figure out how to be enough for him.

Then - she’s not quite sure when the moment was, when that switch flipped - on some random, seemingly unimportant day - Evan was taking his first steps, and they weren’t towards Margaret.

Maddie still remembers holding out her arms for him to stumble into, his frame barely two feet tall - still remembers picking him up and swinging him around easily. She still remembers the way his little laugh echoed through the room, a soft thing that filled her heart with more joy than she had felt in months.

She remembers her father telling them to be quiet. She remembers keeping him as far from their parents as possible, after that.

From those first steps, it wasn’t long before he was using those same legs to scrape himself up for nothing but the attention of those who couldn’t - wouldn’t - give it. It was around then that Maddie, too, was so desperate for love that she inevitably did the same.

When it all came crashing down, there was nowhere to run to but the one safe space she had left in the world. He’d always been her safe space, from the moment he took his first steps towards her waiting arms.

When Maddie is forty one, her brother dies again.

Everyone wants to talk about it.

(Everyone but the man he died for, the man she pledged to spend her whole life with. She loves him, loves him more than life itself, but he won’t talk about it. There are no words to be said and Maddie has none to say in return.)

Everyone wants to talk about it and Maddie has never wanted to do anything less.

The firehouse is always dark in the early hours of the morning.

There’s something about the silence permeating the air in the hour or so before the sun rises, something that feels detached from the living world. The loft lies dark, save for a few scarce lights. There is one above the stove, soft and yellow, one in the locker room, harsh and florescent. These lights are the only company souls plagued by sleeplessness are privy to during such hours.

As it so often happens, Bobby is one of those unfortunate souls.

It’s quiet enough that he’s not even afraid to say the word in his mind. Almost everyone is in the bunk room, passed out from the exhaustion only back-to-back calls can bring. Hopefully his team can catch up on the rest that they so desperately need.

He’s brought out of thoughts by a buzzing in his back pocket. Mild surprise flashes through him at the caller ID.

“Hey,” he mumbles into the receiver. “Your case go okay?”

It’s not unheard of for Athena to disappear on work-related escapades. She usually calls beforehand, but he didn’t think much of it when she didn’t yesterday. It is odd, then, that she’s only calling now.

“Baby, I need you to listen to me.”

His spine instantly straightens. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” His wife’s voice is short. Clipped. “Are you listening?”

“‘Course,” he says, looking around to find nobody awake, same as the last hour or so. “Are you—“

“Bobby, if anyone comes by the station to ask for me, tell them I told you I’m at the house.”

He decides, for the time being, to ignore the fact that people are supposedly looking for his wife. Because it’s always something with her, he’s learned. “Okay… I take it you’re not in bed, then?”

“According to you, I am. Got it?”

“Got it,” he says, trying his best to keep up. He’ll just need to hold onto the fact that she’ll fill him in later.

(Hopefully, at least.)

(He probably shouldn’t hold his breath.)

“Good.” And then— “You need to get everyone to Eddie’s house as soon as your shift is over. Tell Chimney to call Maddie and Hen to call Karen, too.”

If he was confused before, it’s nothing compared to the way every new word is now compounding his bewilderment. “Get everyone to - Athena, do I need to be worried?”

“As long as you don’t tell anyone where I am and get here as soon as you can, no. Probably not.”

“Probably.” He shakes his head a bit. “I see. Very reassuring.”

“Baby, there’s something else.”

Maybe she’ll actually shed some light on the situation. “I’m all ears.”

“Everyone needs to stay off their phones. Off social media. No checking the news. And whatever you do, do not turn on the TV.”

Instinctively, he turns to look at the screen on the far end of the room. It lies dark, innocent. He pushes down the purely curious urge to go and turn it on. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” she repeats. “And Bobby - listen. You can’t take a direct route here. You need to get here quick, but take backroads. Don’t stop for anything. And you need to be absolutely sure no one is following you. Understand?”

His mouth has gone bone dry.

“Bobby. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he says, dazed. “I understand. But not about the fact that you apparently don’t need help.”

“I’ll tell you everything in person. I promise.” He sincerely hopes so. “Now repeat everything back to me.”

He does. He can hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth, but he does.

“Okay. Good. I love you.”

The call ends with no further warning.

“Love you too,” he mutters before sliding the phone back in his pocket.

The firehouse is silent, but Bobby’s mind is anything but quiet.

Eddie wakes up to warmth.

It’s a kind of warm that pulls and tugs and is still, somehow, never enough once you leave it. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to exist in the world. Not yet. Right now, he’s somewhere warm. Somewhere almost happy.

The pillow is soft and inviting and Eddie wants it to lull him back down into sleep, into a world that isn’t this one, into wherever he was just moments ago. That’s where he wants to be - wherever he was, someplace not here. It must have been better than being awake. He wouldn’t be this content, otherwise.

Years of waking early have made such a thing impossible. He has to face the world - has to leave this bubble of warm.

The light coming through the half-shaded window is gold and almost falls into his eyelashes, but stops a couple inches short. Something tickles at his arm, and he looks down to see Chris tucked into his side, hair wild and brushing his skin. There’s a momentary flicker of confusion - why is Chris here? - before he looks beyond to see—

It takes everything in him to not shoot upward, to not jerk and wake his sleeping son.

It takes even more effort to make himself breathe again, to calm the heart doing laps around the room. Life is still warm but in a completely different way, and all he can think is, it wasn’t a dream.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he shifts his hand currently resting by Christopher's side to brush against skin shining gold in the sun. It’s warm to the touch as Eddie sets his hand there, as he forces himself to keep breathing. It helps that the chest by the arm he’s now holding is going up and down, up and down. He can match his own breaths to the motion easily, knowing that the motion indicates life.

Definitely not a dream.

Buck inhales sharply when Eddie’s thumb shifts, and Eddie feels awful because it was on purpose and it was supposed to be - comforting, though he now realizes the only one comforted was himself. But Buck’s eyes - they don’t open. Eddie holds his breath, hoping he didn’t wake him, knows he probably did.

Then Buck blinks, blue eyes squinting in the sun. He turns his head toward Eddie to hide in the pillow, face scrunching adorably in annoyance at the brightness.

All at once, Buck is rigid beneath his hand. Then his eyes are opening, are locking onto Eddie’s in an instant.

They hold eye contact, in the gold of the morning. For Eddie, at least, that gold world has completely fallen away. Nothing save for the two people beside him are worth ever acknowledging again.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, thumb rubbing up and down Buck’s arm once more.

Buck’s eyebrows pinch together. Eddie almost isn’t expecting anything, but then— “Thought you were a dream.”

Eddie’s lip twitches up, and then he’s—

Eddie doesn’t giggle. He’s a grown man. A Diaz man. But - well, maybe he does now. Because the sun is golden and Buck is here and neither of them were dreaming. “Me too.”

Buck relaxes and begins laughing with him, soft and gentle.

(Eddie can’t help but still a bit at the sound. He never thought he’d get to hear his real voice again, much less his laugh.)

A quiet groan rises from between them. Their eyes flick down to see a head of curls shifting as Chris blinks against the morning sun.

“Morning, bud,” Eddie whispers, grin still pulling at his lips.

Chris gives a noncommittal hum, twisting his head to land back on the pillow.

Eddie and Buck look back to each other, biting their lips. They’re silent for maybe a second or two before they’re both shaking with barely restrained laughter all over again.

Chris grumbles into the bed before he completely freezes.

He slowly turns back over. Slowly opens his eyes to see Buck smiling down at him. For a heartbeat, Chris says nothing, doesn’t shift an inch. Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking the moment, but can’t stop the smile on his face from growing even wider.

Chris rolls over the rest of the way, straight into Buck’s chest, throwing a gangly arm over his torso and tucking right beneath his chin. Buck, on his part, doesn’t hesitate before turning on his side and wrapping his own arm around Chris, pulling him close.

Eddie, whose hand has shifted to the arm now wrapped around Chris, pulls himself closer to both of them. He rests his other arm behind his head so he can fully face Buck, a fiery ring behind his curls glowing in the sun. Eddie takes in the sight, soaks in the moment like a sponge finally reaching water.

His eye catches on the hand now resting between himself and Chris. Or rather, the wrist attached to it.

The effect is immediate - a bucket of ice water on an otherwise perfect cocoon of warmth.

It’s glaringly worse, in the light of day. Purples and blacks and blue-greens make Eddie’s stomach turn and his throat sting sharply. Small scabs that are in various stages of healing make him taste acid on the back of his tongue.

He forces his eyes back up, back to the blue that actually matters. “We’re gonna get through today,” he says, voice no louder than before. “You’ll see everyone again. It’ll be—“ His voice catches. “They’ll be so happy.”

Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it, actually.

Buck smiles - Eddie waits, holds his breath, prays that hopefully there will be more words, but the silence continues all the same. His heart falls, but only for a moment, because there’s nothing that could make him truly sad with Buck right in front of him, after all.

“You don’t have to worry anymore.” He slides his hand down to gently grasp at that same wrist, never glancing from Buck’s eyes. Even when they go wide, even when Buck sucks in a breath at the touch. “They can’t hurt you anymore. Can’t touch you.”

He moves his hand to interlock Buck’s fingers with his own. The weight that now rests against his palm is a blanket over any remaining chill.

“I won’t let them.” He rubs his thumb up and down smooth skin. “Got that? You’re stuck with me, Buckley. No way out of it.”

Buck’s face twitches into a soft smile as he nods.

Oh, that’s - Eddie never thought his heart could sing so much from such a simple gesture. “Well.” He squeezes the hand in his own. “I’m glad you agree.”

Buck hums, still saying nothing. Then his eyes are finally straying from Eddie’s, looking him up and down, looking at Chris between them.

Then - he seems to freeze.

He doesn’t move. He keeps his gaze locked on a small piece of Eddie’s chest, still as a statue, breaths completely ceased.

“Buck?” he asks, trying to not let worry creep into his tone. “You okay?”

Buck slowly nods, but it doesn’t seem conscious. Then he’s—

He’s pulling away.

Chris makes an unhappy sound and Eddie almost makes the same one as Buck begins to sit up, to detach himself from the two of them. It feels wrong, and damaging, and like tearing off a limb, and Eddie wants to yank him back down and onto the mattress forever. Maybe - maybe he’s just stretching. Maybe he’s about to lay back down.

But Buck doesn’t lay back down. If anything he’s actually - turning away.

“Buck?” he asks again. Because Buck looks lost and in pain, and it hurts. It hurts something deep inside of him, knowing Buck is lost, is in pain, and Eddie can’t do anything about it.

There’s no answer.

Instead, Buck slowly puts his legs over the side of the bed. Slowly stands. And—

Oh.

Buck was never staring at Eddie’s chest.

Something is reeling and turning in Eddie’s gut as he sits up, too. He rubs a hand up and down Christopher’s arm as he pushes himself to the edge of the mattress, trying his best to blink away the intense heat behind his eyes.

Buck, with a hand shaking so badly Eddie can see it from the bed, pulls the blinds open completely.

The view outside of Eddie’s window is nothing special. The side yard has turned a truly horrific shade of yellow in the Californian sun, and his neighbor’s paint is peeling at an HOA-violating level. The sun is barely above the horizon, leaving gangly shadows across what must be an obscene amount of mud from the storm. And yet—

And yet.

Buck is staring at it like it’s the Grand Canyon.

Eddie gets up - leaves the sunbeam that caught Buck’s attention in the first place. He steps around the bed, comes up from behind to place a tentative hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Buck’s own hand comes up to latch overtop of his instantly, exhaling so hard his entire frame shudders, squeezing the hand back with a force that might cut off just a bit of circulation.

“You’re okay,” Eddie whispers. “You’re here. I’m here.”

Buck nods, eyes only for the tiny patch of yellow-green grass and a sky that’s rapidly turning blue. The storm must have passed in the night - there are no clouds. Only sun.

Buck eventually leaves to go to the bathroom. Eddie almost tells him to leave the door open, but realizes Buck will probably do so anyway. It doesn’t occur to him until Buck is gone that it would’ve been a weird thing to say, regardless.

He can’t care all that much, as they passed “weird” several mind-blowing revelations ago.

He sits on the edge of the bed and breathes deeply, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. It doesn’t feel quite so much like dying anymore, Buck being apart from him. Even if it still doesn’t feel right, even if it still feels like getting stabbed. It’s slightly less painful than shot, though, so - he can do stabbed.

A soft voice calls from behind him. “Dad?”

Eddie turns and does his best to smile at Chris, who’s still sitting against the headboard. “Hey bud.”

For several breaths, Chris is quiet. “Who…” His fists curl hesitantly around the blanket. “Who hurt Buck?”

Eddie’s stomach drops.

He should never have said all that in front of Christopher. In the moment, reassuring Buck had been the only thing to matter. In doing so, though, he had been the opposite of comforting to his own son.

Then again, his son’s never been unobservant. And he’s not really a kid anymore, either. There’s only so much Eddie could’ve done to hide any part of the truth from him.

“I’ll… we’ll talk about it later,” he says, knowing he can’t get into it right now. Both because the man is coming back any minute, and because telling Chris requires Eddie to actually know who hurt Buck, and how.

Which he doesn’t.

“Let’s just be there for him, yeah?”

Chris nods. “Is he gonna be okay?”

His voice is small, unsure. Eddie’s heart snaps a bit down the center.

“You know Buck,” Eddie says, blinking rapidly even as he faces the door again. “He can handle anything.”

God, does Eddie hope so. Buck has to bounce back, just like he always does, because if he doesn’t—

Eddie’s not sure what he’ll do.

“We have to do what?”

“I already told Chim,” Bobby says, rubbing his face tiredly. He wishes it made sense to him, too. “You’ll probably want to call Karen, get her on the same page.”

“The same page as what?” Hen asks, throwing her hands up. “That your wife’s gone off the deep end?”

“I don’t know what Athena’s mixed up in this time, but I know to trust her regardless.” He shrugs. “Just be sure to—“

The alarm unapologetically cuts through his words.

Hen groans as she stands up from the couch. She sounds even more annoyed than before as she repeats, “Just be sure to what?”

“We’ll talk when we get back.” He looks to the kitchen. “Ravi, you’re man behind.”

The kid - who’s currently elbow deep in breakfast prep - looks disappointed but not surprised. “Copy that, Cap.”

Bobby nods to him, hoping they won’t have another fire to deal with once they get back.

(He doesn’t say this out loud, of course.)

“I called Maddie,” Chim says to Bobby as soon as he steps into the engine. “Still don’t get why.”

“When I know, I’ll tell you.”

“Cap’s as in the dark as us,” Hen says, and Bobby can hear the smirk in her voice.

“That right?” Great. Chimney is audibly smirking now, too. “Were there ever a man so unknowing of his wife’s whereabouts?”

“I know where she is,” he defends.

“Right,” Chim says. “And she’s at Eddie’s house on his day off because he makes the best scrambled eggs this side of the Mississippi.”

“The point,” Bobby says, fighting a smile, “is that I trust her. She’ll tell us why, don’t worry.”

“So what’s the situation for us, Cap?” Hen says, ever the mediator.

He sighs, grateful for the subject change. “Cars are piled up a near eighth of a mile on the 405. Road’s probably slick from the storm last night.” He turns his head to face his crew, who are all entirely engaged now. “Stations are coming from all over - it’s not pretty.”

Chimney whistles low. “Damn.”

“Hen, Chim, you’re on eval,” he says, and they nod. “Sanchez, you’re on jaws of life, Jones and Cooper, you’re on extraction. I’ll check in with the IC when we get there but don’t hesitate to go where you see the need.”

“Copy that, Cap,” Hen says, already looking out the window like the rest of them as they reach the end of the on-ramp, and Bobby was certainly right about one thing.

It isn’t pretty.

The sound of the front door opening echoes through the house, echoes to where Buck currently sits - on his bed. He can hardly believe it, that he got to sleep in his own bed. For the first time in - who knows how long. He got to actually turn on his side when he wanted to, and get up when he wanted to, and - do anything else he wanted to, with nothing and no one there to stop him.

(It’s incredible, what he used to take for granted, and Buck’s not going to to examine that, because it’s not—)

(For now, he’ll settle for being grateful. Existentialism can attack him later.)

Eddie’s hand rubs up and down his arm, allowing the lingering tension from being on his own to leave his muscles. On his other side, Chris leans on his shoulder, curls tickling his neck.

Buck glances at Eddie, sees him nod. There’s a resolve in his eyes, but also a glow that refuses to disappear.

Buck nods back, albeit a bit more shakily.

“It’ll be okay,” Eddie whispers, quiet so that the sound won’t travel.

Buck can only do his best to nod again in response.

The bedroom door is halfway open, and in the small Diaz home, sound always travels well. He can hear Athena’s muffled voice welcoming - whoever just arrived. Their voice is also muffled and unclear, not loud enough to be distinguishable from this far into the house.

Then a restrained laugh reaches his ears, and all the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

The sound wraps around him, both a blanket and a vice. It’s a sound that haunted him in the dead of night, a sound he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear again. And maybe he hasn’t been sure about a lot of things, lately, but—

Well.

Besides Eddie, there was one other person he wanted to see so badly in that place it nearly killed him.

And her words aren’t clear, but—

It’s clearly her.

She’s here, only a dozen or so feet away from him. The two of them are separated by nothing but a few mere layers of drywall.

He doesn’t realize he’s trying to stand before the grip on his own hand tightens. He refocuses on Eddie’s face, whose gaze is heavy and far too understanding. “Let Athena explain.” He smiles sadly. “You’ll see her. I promise.”

Again, all Buck can do is nod.

Buck is supposed to wait here - wait with Eddie and Chris - until Athena comes in to get him. They decided it would be better to ease everyone into it, to not shock them with an overload of information or sudden view of the walking dead.

He has no idea exactly how Athena is breaking the news - what is she even supposed to say? Hey everyone, remember Buck, that guy we all knew and had that really nice funeral for? Turns out he’s alive and the government stole him to keep in an underground lab! Also he doesn’t talk as much anymore, isn’t that great?

Eddie’s hand is in his own, and the fingers of Eddie’s other hand are wrapped gently around his wrist. On his other side, Christopher’s weight pulls him the rest of the way down to earth. They’re both somehow enough to ground him here, barely enough to keep him from leaving the room.

“Hey Buck,” Chris whispers, and Buck hums a bit in acknowledgement. “Wanna get pizza later?”

A smile fights its way onto his face. God, I love this kid. He nods, which he knows Chris can’t really see but will feel against his curly head.

“Sounds good to me, bud,” Eddie says. Then he laughs softly. “But that’s only if Bobby doesn’t insist on making a five course meal.”

The idea makes something in his chest explode.

Just - seeing Bobby, and Bobby in turn wanting to cook for him. The comfort of Bobby’s cooking after so long. It’s been…

Buck doesn’t know how long it’s been.

He could ask. It wouldn’t be hard, to just open his mouth and ask a question. Eddie would answer him. He always has - there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t. There’s no reason to be afraid of Eddie turning away, of Eddie looking right through him and—

“Uncle Buck!”

“Sorry for bringing Jee,” Maddie says softly, pushing in the dining room chair. Child-sized pink headphones sit over her daughter’s ears, kid-tablet in hand. Every few seconds her other little hand reaches forward to grab another few goldfish from a tupperware on the table. “We couldn’t get a sitter so last minute, and—“

“It’s no problem.”

Maddie nods, turning back to where Athena is sat on the coffee table, gesturing for her to join.

She’s careful to avoid a bit of mud on the couch as she sits. Odd, since Eddie usually keeps a fairly clean home.

And still, somehow, the mud is the least strange thing about this morning.

She’s had odd mornings - life has only been one crazy day after another, since she moved to LA. But waking to her husband calling, telling her to come here of all places? The instructions to take backroads? Not to mention Athena’s defensive posture, and Eddie nowhere to be seen in his own house.

This might not take the cake - might not even be in the top five - but it’s certainly moving up on the weirdness scale as the morning wears on, and it’s not even nine.

“Where’s Eddie?” She glances around again, like he’ll pop out from behind some corner and explain - all of this.

“He’s around,” Athena says vaguely, looking anywhere but at Maddie’s eyes.

Athena always looks people in the eye.

There’s a visible line of tension in her shoulders. But that contrasts with - Maddie hardly dares to say it, but a light in her eyes, one that wasn’t there the last time they spoke. Her lips are thin, her arms crossed, and her leg keeps shifting in a way that might not be a nervous tick, but very well could be.

If there’s one thing Maddie is good at, it’s reading people, but—

But the woman in front of her, as of right now, is a complete and utter mystery.

“Chimney message you yet?” Athena says, voice as unreadable as everything else. “They should be off any time now.”

Maddie glances at her phone. Athena’s right - A Shift supposedly ended their twenty four hour twelve minutes ago.

“Not yet,” Maddie says, putting it back in her pocket. “I know he’ll want to sleep for a week once it’s over, though.”

“Him and Bobby both,” she says, and Maddie laughs politely as Athena checks her own phone. Her lips purse almost imperceptibly as she puts it away, clearly coming up empty. “They must be out on a call.”

“It shouldn’t be long,” Maddie’s quick to say in response to the worried edge in Athena’s voice. Though part of her wants to latch onto that worry and not let go, to not let it get brushed away like it’s nothing.

Howie was undeniably clear about Athena’s insistence that everyone drop everything and come here. Even more clear about strange instructions to take a long, alternate route - the word followed still rings around in her ears, refusing to die out. The panic still rattles in her chest - from that moment where she could do nothing but take Jee and run.

Why, though, is the only question. She can’t help but look to her daughter in the dining room, oblivious to any threat that might be hanging over her head.

And really, it’s the sight of her daughter that drives her to say screw it and ask.

“Athena, excuse me for being blunt,” she says, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward. “But are we in danger?”

Athena doesn’t answer.

Ice pours into her bloodstream.

The fear must be visible on her face, because Athena sits up straighter. “Maddie, all of you should be fine. I’m not worried for your safety, or for the safety of anyone coming here later.”

Okay. Okay, that’s good. Her daughter will be safe. Her husband, her family will be safe. But—

“But you are worried about someone,” she says, because she’s not an idiot, she hears what’s not being said.

She hears even more in the silence that follows.

“Athena… are you in danger?”

“If I am, it’s not important right now.”

If. It’s a strange word, for a woman usually so sure. Especially considering Athena’s worry is apparently for something other than her own safety.

Still, Maddie disagrees with the notion that Athena being in danger is something to call unimportant.

“Bobby won’t let anything happen to you,” she says. It’s a silly consolation, considering he’s not the one with the gun and badge. “But Athena… I have to ask. What’s going on?”

The woman wrings her hands. Maddie doesn’t think she’s ever seen her do that. Then she glances over her shoulder, out through the window. Like she’s afraid someone might be out there. Watching. Listening.

Whatever level of seriousness Maddie imagined for this morning, she undershot it by a mile.

“Two nights ago,” Athena begins. Her gaze has yet to meet Maddie’s own. “I was approached by two individuals asking for help on a case.”

Maddie nods along. Any apprehension creeping in, she pushes down, is sure to keep off of her face.

“I didn’t believe them at first. In fact, I was ready to walk away.” Athena purses her lips, smiling bitterly. “I was a fool.”

“Are you sure you’re not in danger?”

“Who knows,” Athena says with a dismissive shake of her head. She continues before Maddie can interject. “The case was federal. Low life military types, coverups, the whole nine yards. I knew I’d have to go it alone. And the case…”

Maddie waits, but Athena has trailed off. Whatever she’s seeing right now, it’s definitely not anything in Eddie’s living room. “The case?”

Athena clears her throat, gaze sharpening minutely. “The first client that contacted me knew - they knew someone that had been legally declared dead, but had found evidence it wasn’t true. That there had been a coverup. And the second client was able to back that claim.”

“Oh,” Maddie says, eyes wide. For a moment, she doesn’t even know what to say. “This person, were they in witness protection, then?”

Athena hums. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

And then she becomes lost in thought all over again, gaze a million miles away.

When she finally continues, her voice is barely audible. “No - they were being held hostage in a government facility. All alone. And no one outside of that facility knew the truth.”

Maddie stares.

Because that’s - well, it’s insane.

“I know.” Athena finally looks up then, understanding leeching her words as she confirms Maddie’s not crazy for thinking it’s crazy. “This client, and the witness, they wanted me to help break this person out. I knew I couldn’t ask anyone for help - contacting law enforcement would only alert the wrong people.”

“Oh,” Maddie says, because her heart hurts just thinking about it - of someone so desperate that they would turn to a complete stranger for help. Especially for such a hopeless cause. “Are they both after you, now?”

“What?”

“The clients,” Maddie clarifies. “Are they the reason you’re in danger? They’re angry with you?”

Athena stares. “Maddie,“ she says slowly, “I did it.”

Maddie can only stare now, too. “You what?”

“Last night.” Athena crosses her arms. “I broke into the facility and got the supposedly dead person out.”

“You—“ Her words stop, because her brain can’t come up with anything more to say.

Maddie always knew, on some level, that Athena wasn’t afraid of going above the law. But this - this is a whole new level of absolute insanity.

“You broke into a - what, a government bunker,” she says, trying to not raise her voice, “just because some random people asked you to?”

“The rogue agents certainly broke the law first,” Athena says defensively. “I see no future where a court sides against me.”

“That’s not the point,” Maddie says, shifting forward. “Athena - you could have been killed. You didn’t think to at least try for backup? Or to go through a more legal channel, one where you didn’t paint a target on your—“

“What happened,” Athena says with a decisive hand motion, “or whatever’s going to happen, isn’t the point. The point is—“

“This is why you’re in danger, isn’t it? Are they going to our homes? Do we need to—“

“Maddie,” Athena says, pulling herself forward to grip her shoulders tight. “I will deal with whatever - with whoever - comes our way. I promise you that.

“What I need you to understand,” she practically pleads, squeezing her shoulders, “is that someone was declared legally dead. But I found that person, alive. I need you to understand that’s - that it’s possible.”

Maddie opens her mouth, probably to ask why that would be important, why that would matter, given - everything, and—

“Uncle Buck!”

There is a ringing coming from somewhere.

It’s high pitched and loud and Maddie can’t hear anything else except for it and the roll of the waves she has plunged into. Waves that are cold and sharp and leave her careening into the deepest depths of the ocean.

She’s moving, following bits of dried mud and goldfish crumbs. The water is receding, not by much, but enough for her to hear giggling from the end of the hall.

The door is slightly ajar, but not enough to see into the room before her. For an imperceptible second, Maddie’s hand stops an inch away from the wood. She can feel each beat of her heart in her fingertips as they brush along its cool edge.

Another little laugh pierces through the static—

“Where were you, Uncle Buck?”

—and each word carves a knife deeper into her chest.

“He was on vacation,” Eddie’s voice says, slightly choked, and Maddie is distantly surprised when the floor doesn’t rush up to meet her.

“You didn’t tell me that!” Jee sounds cross, the kind only a five year old can be. “I wanted to go with you!”

Silence, and then—

A voice.

“Next time. I promise.”

The air in her throat, in her lungs - it ceases all movement before a noise she barely recognizes as herself escapes in its place.

She pushes on the door, has to grip the knob once it’s open. If she didn’t, she’d collapse completely because all she sees is—

Blue.

Blue eyes, blond curls.

She only sees them for a fraction of second before her vision blurs into oblivion.

“Come here, Jee,” Eddie says from somewhere, some place, and the tiny head that was partially blocking her gaze is gone, pink birthmark now in perfect view.

Maddie is dead. There is no other explanation for the sight before her. Nothing short of Maddie leaving earth behind could explain this.

Except for the story she just heard. Except for the knowledge that - this is real.

Buck rises as she falls, right into waiting arms.

The water is back, and she can’t hear anything over the rushing of the waves. But it’s not the cold, harsh water of the sea she walked into all those years ago - the tide has taken her under but it’s okay because she doesn’t need to hear anything else, least of all her own cries.

Well - maybe she does need to hear a few things. Her brother’s breathes, ragged against her hair. His heartbeat, right by her ear.

“Maddie.”

His broken, strained voice.

“You’re alive.” Maddie can barely hear the words through the water, through the sobs they have to fight against to get out at all. “You’re alive - you’re alive—“

He shakes in her arms and Maddie is going to fall apart.

“Oh my God, you’re—“ Her throat is on fire and her heart is going to burst and she might throw up and— “You’re—“

His arms are tightening around her. The feeling would bring her to her knees if she wasn’t already there, would send her to the ground if those same arms weren’t there to hold her safe and close.

At some point, Eddie finds himself at the dining room table.

Jee-Yun sits in his lap. In her little hand is a plastic container of goldfish, which she slowly eats in between grabbing different colored markers.

“Red there would be good,” he says, pointing.

“Mhm,” Jee hums, tossing the green marker aside before grabbing the one Eddie is handing to her. Chris takes that one and caps it so it won’t stain the table.

They’re facing away from the living room. Facing away from Athena and the girl he can’t remember the name of, who speak in low, hushed voices. Voices that barely mask the sound of crying still coming from the bedroom.

Eddie doesn’t blame Maddie for her continued tears. He knows he cried for at least as long, though he couldn’t put an exact time on it. Actually, there’s still a part of him that remains close to losing it in every second that goes by - but he can hold it together for Buck and his sister. Especially considering his only consolation for not being with them is that they are together.

The whispering behind him gets louder. He gives Jee a quick squeeze before standing up and setting her back on the chair. “And who’s that?” he asks, pointing at one of the stick figures.

“Grandpa Bobby,” she says, tongue sticking out at the corner. “You can tell because his hair is the most short.”

“Ah,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Keep up the good work.”

He steps away as she continues her project, moving toward the two adults that cease their whispering as soon as he’s near.

“You guys good?” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

They avoid his eyes. For a moment, worry begins to claw at the back of his mind, but then Athena says, “We haven’t heard from anyone, yet. They could be on a call, but…”

“I’m sure that’s it,” he says, trying not to think about a scenario where that’s not true. “Happens all the time. Or - they got stuck in traffic.”

“But that’s not the only issue.” She glances over at the table to make sure neither of the kids are listening. Chris definitely is, but he’s not about to tell her that. “I told Bobby to stay away from the news, and it shouldn’t have been an issue, but - it’s almost nine. That kind of story…”

“It’ll get around.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to not let his thoughts get out of hand. If only they didn’t have a mind of their own. “Fast.”

Hen barely sees the world outside of the truck go by.

No casualties. It’s the only good thing about this last call. A call that came in at - what, six? She’s not even sure how long they were out there. That’s a new level of exhaustion, even for her. Her legs are sore from all the crouching, her fingers already in the early stages of complete numbness.

“Good work this morning,” Bobby says over the headset. They’re pulling back onto their own street, the fire station finally in view like a literal beacon of hope for sleep to come. “Head home, get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

She glances at Chimney, who in turn gives her a meaningful look. Bobby is only talking to the rest of the team - not them. They’re both heading somewhere that’s not home, even though Hen wants to do nothing but fall into bed for the next several business days.

At least she can take a shower before heading out, she thinks as she steps off of the truck.

It’s only then that she notices her phone vibrating in her pocket.

She pulls it out just as it stops. She didn’t realize how numb all that running around made her - she has three missed calls, all from Karen, and she felt none of them.

Her stomach has already dropped to the floor by the time she’s dialing back out.

The phone barely rings for a single second before getting picked up. Hen breathes out a sigh of minute relief. “Hey, everything—“

“How could you not tell me?”

Hen freezes on the way to her locker. Chimney, who was walking alongside her, stops too and raises an eyebrow. Hen can do nothing but shrug, just as clueless as him.

“Um,” Hen says, walking forward again and shrugging off her turnouts, “Gonna have to be more specific, babe.”

She’s able to get all her gear off with no response. And maybe she’s just that tired, but she doesn’t think anything of the lack of sound coming through the speaker for so long.

“Hen.”

Her heart is in her throat, pounding against her rib cage. “What’s wrong?”

That tone - it’s a tone that makes Hen’s blood run cold, one that means whatever this is is beyond serious.

“I care about him too, you know.” And - Karen sounds close tears. Hen desperately wishes she knew what to say, knew how to fix this - though she has no clue what “this” even is. “You didn’t think I’d want to know? I get that you guys are all a family, I get it, but—“

“Karen,” she interrupts, because honestly—“What are you talking about?”

No response - only a long stretch of silence.

Then an almost inaudible gasp.

“You don’t know.”

“Know what?” she says, heading towards the locker room. “Can you—“

“Holy shit.”

Hen blanches at the shout. That was - was that Johnson from C Shift? Now that she’s listening, it seems like she’s the only one still down on the first floor - aside from Chimney, who’s still looking at her like she’s grown a second head.

Everyone else is on the loft, and - something is happening. That much, at least, is clear.

“I’m gonna have to call you back,” she murmurs.

“Hen, wait—“

The phone is already in her pocket as she and Chimney race up the stairs.

The first thing she sees is smoke coming from the toaster oven. Part of her collapses in relief, knowing this was all just because Ravi burnt breakfast again and not because someone is bleeding out on the firehouse floor.

But then she realizes.

Nobody is in the kitchen. Everybody - from both this shift and the next - they’re on the other side of the loft. And before, Hen could hear a lot of yelling, and cursing, and plain old noise, but now—

Now everything is still, save for the speakers on the TV.

Hen’s stomach drops again as she remembers Athena’s warning to stay away from all things technology. Hen - and Bobby, too, apparently - thought the warning was only for the three of them.

Maybe that was a bad assumption.

At the back of the sea of bodies is Ravi. A mug lies in pieces at his feet, dark liquid staining both the ground and his shoes.

Hen slowly puts a hand on his shoulder. “Rav? You with me?”

No response. He keeps staring straight ahead, as if she said nothing at all.

She follows his gaze, and—

“Ugh,” she can’t help but say at the sight of Taylor Kelly’s face. Understanding washes over her. “What’d she do this time?”

Ravi doesn’t answer.

Hen’s brow furrows.

Now that she thinks about it, what could Taylor possibly be throwing their way to make everyone react like this? If it’s something like last time - like with that book - then all the yelling and cursing would make sense, but—

But not the way everyone is now completely still.

“…were some very disturbing scenes,” the man interviewing her is saying. “And it is authentic?”

“I’m afraid so,” Taylor says, voice and face professional to the untrained eye. Hen knows her, though. She can see the nerves from a mile away. “I’ve been in contact with the one wearing the body cam. Every second of that was real, unedited, non-generated footage.”

“I see,” he says. “And you knew this person before the case, correct?”

“Correct. That prior relationship is why I approached them in the first place.” Athena, Hen’s mind supplies, filling in the gaps. “It took nearly two months of digging before I was able to do so, though.”

“Tell me, what made you question things? What was it about this particular case that caught your eye?”

Taylor smiles politely. “Well, it’s no secret I used to be in a relationship with a firefighter. Fewer people know he was that firefighter.”

Something violently lurches in Hen’s gut as the interviewer nods. “I see.”

“That automatically drew me in. Beyond that, the whole situation reeked of a coverup. I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing.”

“Turn it off,” Hen finds herself saying through an intense wave of vertigo.

No one moves.

“Fascinating. And where did you go from there?”

“Paper trails, mostly.”

“Did no one hear her?” Chimney says, voice unnaturally harsh. “Turn this off before—“

“Everyone okay?”

“Bobby,” Hen says, spinning around to try and shove her captain back downstairs before he can see - any of this. “You need to—“

“—were what led you to believe he was alive?”

Hen’s hands - inches away from her captain’s chest - go still.

“Actually, no.”

Somehow, she turns around. At the end of a long, dark tunnel, Taylor’s lips are pulled into a sad smile.

“Really?”

“Yes. I found evidence of tampering within the case, and I knew something wasn’t right. But it wasn’t until I got a call from the facility itself that everything clicked.”

“What’s all this about?”

Bobby’s voice barely registers over the blood roaring in her ears. Blood that has seemingly left all other parts of her body behind.

“Ah, so the call came from inside the house.”

“Yes, Jim,” Taylor says with a little laugh, like every word isn’t punch to the gut. “An employee, whose identity will remain anonymous, contacted me with proof of life. From there, it was all about extraction.”

Proof of—

“Which is where our body-cam wearer comes in.”

“Exactly. I knew I could never pull off such a daring rescue, so a law enforcement contact of mine was the obvious first choice.”

“I have to say I’m surprised someone in such a position would assist you with this kind of task.”

“If you knew them, you wouldn’t even question it.”

“Guess we know where Athena was last night.”

If Hen were in her right mind, she might smack a hand over Bobby’s mouth to get him to shut up. As it is, she can’t feel anything but the tips of her fingers.

“I’m sure.” The man laughs lightly. “I must say though, I’m impressed by their work. Getting in and out of such a dangerous, obviously rogue place is no easy feat.”

“Well, the jury’s still out on how ‘rogue’ it was, but the escape was the easy part of the equation. What comes after - legally, emotionally? That’s the real fight.”

“Of course. So - may I ask: where is Evan Buckley now?”

Hen wasn’t sure it was possible, but the weakness in her knees nearly doubles. Somewhere behind her, there is a noise that doesn’t sound quite human.

“Jim, you know you won’t get anymore out of me on that one. As I told you before: he’s at a safe, undisclosed location.”

“Ah, you know I had to try. But that’s only for now, at least?”

Taylor shrugs. “We’ll see. As far as I’m aware, agents are more than likely still looking for him, and the officer that helped him escape. Until those people are brought to justice, he’ll need to lay low.”

“How awful. To think of being ripped from your family like that, only to have to go into hiding to escape a government that should only protect you.”

“My thoughts exactly. Hopefully he can return to a normal life soon.”

“Well said. As you’ve said before, his job is extremely important to him. Do you think he’ll go back to work, once it’s all said and done?”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

“That certainly is good to hear.” The camera angle changes, and now it’s only the man on the screen. “Coming up next, we have a local story of a food stand gone bananas. We’ll be right back, after—“

Someone turns off the TV. Or maybe no one does, and Hen’s ears have stopped functioning completely.

“Cap?” That’s Sanches. Her ears still work. “Is it true?”

She turns around. And Bobby—

Bobby stares at the dark screen, face completely blank.

Hen is halfway into wondering where the nearest trash can is, in case last night’s dinner decides to suddenly make a reappearance, but then—

“Captain Martinson, call dispatch and tell them to take this station off rotation.” Each and every one of them, including Hen, is locked onto Bobby’s every word. “Everyone else, you can leave if you wish but do not speak to anyone you don’t know. Do not speak to the media; do not speak to any officers, federal or otherwise.”

He turns around, already walking away as Martinson begins to address the crowd.

“Wilson, Han, Panikkar.” His voice is much softer now, but no less intense. “With me.”

And those are the last words Hen hears him say. She doesn’t have to ask where they’re going as they escape to the parking lot. She doesn’t have to ask why they’re getting in the captain’s car, or why the lights immediately flick on as they pull onto the road.

It’s not until they get off of the busy streets that he turns them off, and still, no one says a word, and Hen doesn’t need to ask.

Buck can tell Eddie is staring at him.

He can feel the eyes of several adults on the back of his head, actually, as he grabs the orange marker for Jee. He ignores it, because on one hand, maybe they’ve earned that right, given everything. To simply - look at him. And on the other, he really can’t say he minds people actually seeing him. People not looking right through him.

“I don’t really care if I get a sister or a brother,” Jee is saying, drawing a crib that probably wouldn’t be structurally sound in real life. “They’re coming to my tea parties both ways, so it doesn’t matter.”

He nods, smiling lightly and doing his best to hum through the roughness in his throat. And maybe it is a bit easier, being around Jee. Jee, who still looks at him like he hung all the stars in sky. Like he isn’t completely broken.

“You’re invited, too,” she says, voice so bright that he can’t help but grin wider. “We need someone to bring the cupcakes - you need to promise you’ll bring cupcakes.”

He nods at her serious tone, holding out his pinky.

“You’re silly, Uncle Buck.” She locks her pinky around his, regardless of how silly she finds it. “Bring chocolate ones.”

He hums in amusement and agreement as she turns her focus back to the kitchen table, where her art projects have migrated since Maddie stole some of Eddie’s cereal to make her daughter and brother breakfast.

Maddie, who Buck hears whispering in the doorway, and pretends not to. “Hey Eddie?”

Eddie hums, the sound barely reaching Buck’s ears.

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

There’s a small pause. Buck can almost see the raised eyebrow. “Bathroom. Why?”

“Does it have bruise cream?”

His heart pangs in his chest at the soft words, eyes instinctively falling to the wrist lying on the table, even though he’s been trying to look anywhere else.

“Maddie…”

“I can go out and buy some, or—“

Eddie interjects before Buck can even think about trying to say anything. “He needs you here right now.”

“I know, but—“

Buck turns to the doorway. Both of their eyes widen, but it’s only a second before they, too, realize what he’s reacting to, and that’s the sound of car doors slamming shut.

“It’ll be okay,” Eddie says quickly, coming over to place a warm hand on his shoulder. “Athena will handle it.”

Buck does his best to nod through the lump in his throat. From where he sits, no one in the living room can see him. It nearly drives him crazy, then, hearing the front door open. Because he can’t see whoever it is, either.

(The frustration that comes from being unable to see through walls isn’t new, at least.)

He is somehow driven even more mad by the lack of voices to be heard. When there is a voice, and it’s Athena’s, it should be muffled. At least the slightest bit, with the number of corners and walls between them.

It’s not. It rings clear in his ears like a crystal bell. “You know.”

Buck swallows thickly. Eddie squeezes his shoulder, but even that warmth doesn’t stop his heart from pounding so hard that it might fly out of his chest. There’s a simple process of elimination, here - he knows who this could be, knows their shift just ended because everyone isn’t as good at whispering as they think they are.

His heart rate only gets faster and faster, more and more painful, with each wordless second that goes by.

(It’s strange, not hearing it as a series of beeps, constant in a sea of nothing. It’s funny to think that the silences he found so unbearably oppressive weren’t ever really silent at all.)

“We’re coming in,” Athena calls, and he looks up - there she is, stepping through the door, and—

Right behind her is Ravi.

And Hen.

And Chimney.

Hen, with a hand over her mouth. Ravi, whose eyes have never been wider. Chimney, who looks seconds away from falling into the wall.

The sight of them - it reopens a gaping wound. Seeing them, seeing them after so, so long - it’s an overwhelming ache. It hurts even more, seeing them in such shock. Knowing he was the reason for all their pain.

He stands up slowly, vision blurred but not overly so, and he’ll take it as a win, even as his legs go numb beneath him and the weight of Eddie’s hand falls away.

All of their eyes are on him, and they’ve yet to make any move at all.

He coughs a bit on his first try, but he knows they deserve - at least something. Some greeting, something to break this crushing silence. “H-hey.”

“Buck.”

Hen is the first to speak, the first to break her feet away from their roots in the floor. She’s on the move and, before he even knows it, right on top of him, clinging so tightly his ribs might start to bruise.

For a split second, he freezes - arms up at his sides, like his body doesn’t really remember what it’s supposed to do. He recalls the same thing happening in - in the room, with Athena, and he pushes the image of that place back with everything in him.

Then he hugs her back.

He hugs her back, burying his face down and into her neck, the scent of sweat and firehouse hitting him like a ladder truck. Her shoulders shake in his hold, hot tears falling on his shirt as she envelopes his whole being in her arms.

“You’re real.” She’s laughing now, and the sound is - beautiful - and she’s pulling back to hold his face in her hands, eyes glassy and smile pained yet radiant. “You’re here and real and - oh my god, you’re really here.”

He breathes, and nods, and reaches up to brush away a single tear from her cheek. Her skin is soft. She smiles wider at the touch, reaching to grasp his hand with her own.

He notices Ravi then, who hasn’t said a word but is now mere inches away. He looks wrecked, and glaringly so next to Hen who still hasn’t stopped beaming.

Ravi barely waits long enough for her to let go, not wasting a single second before throwing himself into Buck’s embrace. Buck holds Ravi close as he silently cries, and breathes deeply to keep his own feelings at least somewhat under control.

Years later, when Ravi finally lets go, Buck turns.

Chimney is still. His mouth is a firm line, and he’s close enough that Buck could reach out and touch him.

Buck opens his mouth. But even if he could bring himself to speak, he has no idea what he could say. God, what can he even say? Should he apologize, beg for forgiveness, reassure him? Can he get himself to say those things at all?

It doesn’t end up mattering.

Before he can blink again Chimney is rushing forward, is crashing into him like a demolition car aimed straight for the wall.

The sensation of his brother hugging him undoes something deep inside Buck’s chest. Because - well. Because Buck missed a lot of things in that place, and Chimney was always one of them. God, did Buck miss him. Missed his hugs, most of all.

He’s not expecting it though, when Chim pulls back sharply to grip his shoulders. “If you ever—“

The words cut off as he chokes on a sobbing inhale that comes back out in stutters. Buck blinks as tears fall from his own eyes, vision even more skewed than before.

“If you ever pull that shit again,” Chimney barely chokes out, “I’ll kill you myself. You hear me, Buckley?”

Buck can’t help the way his breath catches on a laugh, one that’s only somewhat truly amused. He hums in agreement, not trusting his voice to not crumble into nothing.

“Shut up.” Chim pulls him back in, even tighter than before. “This is a threat. I’m threatening you.”

Buck can only laugh again through the tears.

Hen comes back around to hug him from the side, and Ravi comes around to do the same on the other. All three of them hold him safe, hold him close. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the warmth hugs bring, and he doesn’t want to. He can’t help the slight tremble of his frame between them - the weight of them all makes him feel loved, makes him feel cherished, makes him feel seen.

Buck blinks and looks up, because he feels especially seen under the clear weight of an unknown gaze. He sees Athena, right where she was before, but next to her is—

Someone that reaches out to grasp the wooden doorframe as soon as they lock eyes. As if he needs the support, needs it to not collapse straight to the ground.

The arms around Buck disappear as he begins to step forward.

And - Buck’s not afraid to admit he also feels pretty damn close to falling over, too, as he moves closer and closer.

He doesn’t move as Buck approaches. Doesn’t move as Buck puts a hand on his arm, or as Buck tilts his head without really meaning to.

The face before him is stretched thin. Sheer force of will is radiating from every fiber of his being, like keeping each individual cell from crumpling to dust is a battle that requires all his strength.

Buck barely registers it. This is - oh, who is he kidding? This isn’t his captain. This isn’t even his mentor. This is his dad. He’s not afraid to admit it anymore. And Bobby might be holding himself together through nothing but threads but Buck can’t comment on any of it, even if he wanted to, because there’s something far more important that needs to be said.

Because there’s one thing Buck has been wanting to say, needing to say, ever since that awful day they said goodbye.

And if he’s learned one thing, it’s that you can’t take a single second of freedom for granted. “I love you, too.”

The glass that is Bobby Nash shatters, and it’s right into Buck’s arms.

As Athena makes her way through the Diaz home, the laughter of children echoes.

Chris sits on the couch, the most quiet of the kids, between Buck and Eddie. Jee is racing around the coffee table, Denny and Mara close behind. Any other day someone would probably try to stop them, but not today. Today Chimney and Ravi both try to tag the kids from their chairs as they go by, a game made up entirely in the past ten minutes.

Julia is gone. She left - maybe around an hour or two ago, though Athena hasn’t been paying attention to any clocks. The girl took her car with her - helping them all avoid suspicion as the sun rose higher in the sky. It would be hard to explain away a car littered with bullet holes in the suburbs of LA, even for Athena.

The girl promised to call later and check in, to let them know she was safe. Athena counts her blessings in that she has one less thing to worry about, now - one less person to keep track of.

Maddie, Karen, and Hen are all sitting in front of the entrance to the dining room, their chairs pulled from the table, talking as Athena passes. They smile at her as she goes by, and she appreciates it - really, she does.

But they’re not who she’s looking for right now.

“Hey,” Bobby says from the stove, an apron somehow tied around his waist even though she’s never known Eddie to own one. “Can you come taste this?”

She puts the offered spoon in her mouth and hums in appreciation. “Could use a pinch more salt.”

“I thought so, too.” He smiles as he leans down to press a kiss against her cheek, but not before whispering, “It has to be perfect.”

“He’s going to love it no matter what,” she murmurs, smelling more of the red sauce on him. “You’ve got no reason to worry.”

“Well maybe I want it to be perfect for my perfect wife,” he says, hand curling around her waist. “My wonderful, competent wife that broke into a government lab.”

She groans and puts her head on his chest, and she can feel the rumble of his laugh beneath her. “You’re never going to let me live that down.”

“Nope.”

“Fantastic.”

“I’m not upset,” he says, pushing her back up to look her in the eye. “In fact, I’ve never been more proud.”

She hums, shoulders falling as they lose their final bit of tension. “Good.”

With that last bit of stress gone, she can’t keep up the fight any longer.

A sob escapes, nothing left to hold it back.

“Hey - hey,” Bobby breathes, setting the spoon down and instantly pulling her to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, grateful everyone else is happy and loud enough that they won’t hear. “There’s - no reason for this, I should be—“

“None of that,” he says, hand coming up to rest on the back of her neck. “When was the last time you slept?”

Athena almost laughs. She has no idea. “Whenever you last saw me in bed, I suppose.”

“You - Athena. That was two days ago.”

“I’ve done worse on stakeouts,” she mutters. “Never broke down then.”

“But you’ve seen things, in those two days.” He pulls back, looks at her softly as he brushes a hair from her cheek. “Things you don’t want to talk about.”

That’s the understatement of the century, in every way. She’s seen so much she wants to bleach her mind, and she doesn’t think anyone could ever pay her enough to divulge the details.

But she knows she’s barely seen the surface of an ocean of details.

And more still, she doesn’t know how much of this Bobby knows. She doesn’t know when he tuned into that stupid news report, doesn’t know how much of her own experiences have already been made known to him.

“How much of the interview did you see?”

“Only the end. Only enough to learn the truth.” He shrugs. He’s seen plenty enough to haunt him, simply from looking at Buck. But nothing more, then. “There will be time for me to find out later. This isn’t about me, though. This is about you.”

She huffs, but it turns into another hitch in her breath without her wanting it to. Bobby simply pulls her in again, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of head.

“You’ve held me up for so long,” he whispers. “Let me do the same for you.”

It’s all she needs to hear, to allow herself to wrap her arms around him and let it all wash over her. She can’t help but laugh weakly, though, when he slowly moves to turn down the stove. “Can’t burn the perfect lunch.”

“Of course not,” he says lightly, holding her close.

She sniffs and she hates it. Hates feeling like she can’t stand on her own two feet. But maybe, just for today, she’ll allow it.

She’ll allow the memory of seeing Buck chained to a bed to crash into her. The image of his face when she opened that door, the feeling of his arms latched around her like she was the last living soul on the planet.

She’ll allow the sorrow she never processed to come out, even though there’s no need for it, now, and maybe that just makes it worse. Because she never needed to shove down her grief at all. Every moment of barely treading water these past few months was nothing but an orchestration of someone sick with power.

Against all her convictions, she lets herself cry. She also tries to not feel embarrassed through it all, but she’s slightly less successful on that front. Her only saving grace is Bobby. Bobby, who will never judge her, will always love her, no matter what may come to pass.

“I’ve got you,” Bobby whispers into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

“Hey, did you - oh.” Maddie stops short in the doorway, eyes wide as Athena lifts her head. “I’m sorry, I—“

“You’re perfectly fine,” she says, standing up straight and wiping away any remaining evidence of the last five minutes. “I was just about to be done.”

She nearly holds up a finger at Bobby - to tell him to keep whatever it is he’s going to say to himself, thank you very much - but Maddie continues before the thought can fully form.

“You didn’t tell anyone else about where we were, right? Not even Taylor?”

The words are buckets of ice, and they’ve been poured straight into Athena’s veins.

She glances back at Bobby, who is frozen where he stands.

“Baby,” she says slowly, “did anyone follow you here?”

“I… I have no idea.” His voice is barely audible. “We were… we just needed to get here.”

Athena pulls her gun from its holster without another word.

On her way to the window, all eyes are on her. Everyone has gone silent, even the kids.

“Do you know who they are?” Eddie hisses as she looks behind the curtain. He’s right by her side now, eyes blazing. “How they found us?”

“No, and it’s not important.” She moves the far too transparent blue fabric back quickly. She’ll need to have a serious talk with Diaz later about picking appropriate drape materials. “Everyone - stay here. Get him,” she says, gesturing to Buck, “away from the windows.”

Eddie nods sharply. Not for the first time, Athena is reminded of his time in the army as he snaps into a completely different resolve. He goes back to Buck - who is practically catatonic on the couch - which, if the circumstances were different, would make her feel something other than dread - and pulls him into the dining room to join Bobby and his sister.

The moment he’s safe - relatively - and before she can think better of it, she opens the front door and steps entirely out of the house.

Three black vehicles. All of various sizes, all parked in front of Eddie’s home. No one has gotten out yet, but there are curious neighbors out on a few front porches.

A passenger door opens. A man in a crisp suit steps outside, green eyes behind spectacles sitting on the edge of his nose. His forehead is lined with wrinkles - the kind earned from only half a life of worrying, not a full life of living.

Athena has her gun trained on him in an instant.

“Calm yourself, Sergeant,” he says, putting his hands up. “We just want to talk.”

“You can take your ‘talk’ and shove it up your ass.”

“We just want what’s ours,” he says civilly, like they’re talking about a piece of equipment or evidence. Not a living, breathing person. “We have a warrant to search this property. Understood?”

“What I understand,” she spits, knowing her voice is getting louder with every word, and that more and more people are leaving their homes to hear, but she can’t bring herself to care, “is that you’re all sick in the head. I understand you have no concept of human rights. I also know whatever warrant you have is probably as trustworthy as you.”

“Why don’t we all calm down, and try to grasp the investment here,” he says, and another car door shuts. Her eyes flick over to another man in a suit, hand trailing towards his waistband. “This is bigger than only one person.”

“How about two people?”

Athena’s stomach drops. “Eddie, what the hell are you—“

“You didn’t think I’d sit inside and do nothing,” he snaps, and—

Goddamnit.

“Please tell me, sir,” Eddie says, voice wrecked, eyes sharp as knives and deadly as poison, but his hands do not waver. Which is good, because he’s holding a gun. “Exactly how did you only affect one person?”

“You’re right.” Suit’s hands are still raised, but he remains unshaken in the face of an added threat. “Our work has been bigger than one person. With our research, the number of people we could be saving is countless.”

Eddie’s voice has never been more full of vitriol. “All for the greater good, then.”

“Exactly. No one person should stand in the way of saving so many. You’re a first responder - you have to see my side of this.”

Another person has gotten out of the leftmost car. So far, there are no guns pointed their way, but that’s not going to last.

“Even if I agreed with you,” Eddie says, inching forward, eyes never wavering from his target, “which - considering I’d rather die, I’m not inclined to - you picked the wrong damn people to mess with.”

Fear shoots down her spine. “Eddie—“

“I just wanna know how.” His voice is completely gutted, and eerily calm. “I wanna know how you could take someone so kind - so loving, so good, and keep him locked away like you did. I wanna know how you sleep at night, knowing you’re the reason he doesn’t talk anymore.

“And you know what?” He moves forward a single step, barrel never dropping even as his voice reaches a level that can only be described as gently thunderous. “I want to know why I shouldn’t put every single one of these bullets in your chest, and watch you bleed out on the fucking asphalt like you deserve.”

For the first time, there is a flash of fear in the suited man’s eyes. Probably because he finally realizes the man before him won’t hesitate to shoot him where he stands. He opens his mouth, and Athena’s grip tightens around her own weapon, and—

“Are y’all the ones that took that firefighter?”

All of them slowly turn to the middle of the road, where a middle aged woman is standing, hands on her hips.

She’s wearing basketball shorts, a graphic tee shirt, and a fake gold chain. A baseball cap sits slightly skewed on a mess of dark chestnut curls.

“Downright un-American, is what you are,” she says, spitting on the ground. “Oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Leave the poor people be.”

Athena hasn’t gotten much sleep, and the caffeine in her system is rapidly depleting, but that’s not the reason her vision is suddenly turning sideways. “Ma’am, you need to—“

“Get the fuck off our street!” a man on a nearby porch yells. “No one wants to see your ugly faces!”

More and more people begin to cry obscenities at the men getting out of the cars, a proper heckling crowd forming. Athena can only stare with her mouth open, unsure of what she should do or what she’s even witnessing.

“Rot in hell!” a teenage boy shouts, running up in throwing an egg at one of the cars. Another kid from another house throws another, and it lands right in the center of one of the windshields, egg shell flying and hitting the center man, right on his crisp black suit.

In turn, he looks disgusted, yet unnerved. “Contain this.”

Athena has no idea what that means, but her stomach drops even further at the words all the same.

Before anyone can do anything, though, she watches as one of the kids runs out of the street as a car goes by. She doesn’t think anything of it until its breaks are screeching a few houses down, another four cars following close behind.

She certainly thinks something of it when they all start flashing red and blue.

“Hands where we can see them,” an amplified voice calls. “Step out of the vehicles, and put your hands where we can see them.”

Athena slowly puts her gun down and does as she’s told. Thankfully, so do the other men. Eddie is slower on the uptake, but eventually he too slowly drops to the ground before raising his hands above his head.

Officers begin to flood the scene. Her heart pounds in her chest, but there is an instant wave of relief when they start cuffing everyone wearing a black suit. The relief doubles when she catches sight of one of the men stepping out an undercover squad car. “Detective!”

Romero turns his head at her call. “Athena!” He wastes no time before jogging over to the yard. “No worries - you’re both clear.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, dropping her arms.

“Officer,” Eddie says, and Athena turns to him sharply. “With these - extenuating circumstances, would you be able to look the other way on a minor assault?”

“Diaz, I swear to—“

“You’re lucky I asked.”

“I’m afraid not,” Romero says, and Athena might be imagining it, but he seems almost apologetic. “The whole country is watching this case. In fact, that’s how we got here so fast - one of your neighbors called 9-1-1.”

“So what’s gonna happen here?” Athena asks before she can commit a minor assault of her own. On who is anyone’s guess.

“Well, first off, you’re in the clear for that stunt you pulled last night,” he says with a grin. “A judge has already ruled in your favor on that one. You’re not off the hook with me, though. I want in next time.”

“Bold of you to assume there’s gonna be a next time.”

“As for these guys?” he continues, not even bothering to refute her claim, gesturing to the men being violently pulled from the cars. “All of them have a warrant out for their arrest, both on the military and civil side of the law. Double jeopardy doesn’t apply for these kinds of cases, so they’ll be seeing a lot of court time in the near future. And then hopefully—“

“Jail time,” Athena finished with a nod. “Serves them right. Did you know they tried claiming they had a warrant?”

“Desperate words of desperate men,” he sighs. “I’m sure they don’t even know this house’s address.”

Athena huffs, amused by the thought. “True. They followed my husband here, so maybe add stalking to the list of charges.” She tilts her head. “These can’t be the only ones. How many have hits out for their arrest?”

“As of right now? Anyone associated with the underground project. We’ve barely scratched the surface, but there’s actually a raid happening right now out by the border. That’s out of our jurisdiction, though.”

She hums. “What about the one that blew the whistle?”

“You know something I don’t?” he says, side eyeing her with a playful grin.

“When don’t I?”

He laughs. “I’ll keep you up to date on the details. You just enjoy this minute of peace.”

“Will do, Detective.”

She waves as he walks away, and when he’s gone, she can no longer keep herself from completely losing it - in a much different way than before.

“Look—“

“Have you lost your mind?” She doesn't yell, but it's a near thing. “What if they had shot you? Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to—“

“They weren’t going to,” Eddie hisses, leaning forward and gesturing to the mess on the street. “Not with the whole country breathing down their necks over everything else. Not in the middle of the day, surrounded by witnesses.”

“Let’s say you’re right. You’re not, but let’s say you are. Fine. What if you had shot him?” She’s not naive, and she certainly wasn’t born yesterday. “I saw that look in your eye. You wanted him dead.”

“Of course I wanted him dead,” he says, dropping his hands in disgust. “But I was never going to shoot him.”

“We all do crazy things for love, Diaz.”

He blanches, but doesn’t comment. Instead he picks his gun back up from the pavement, and without a word, cocks it and pulls the trigger.

Except there’s no bang, only a click.

“You think I’d be dumb enough to come out here with a loaded gun?” He tosses it to her, and she barely catches it in suddenly numb hands. “I’m not interested in spending the next forty to life in jail, thanks.”

Athena’s brain isn’t really working. She’ll blame it on the sleep deprivation. “So - wait. You—“

“I needed to keep them out. See some fear in their eyes. And maybe get the chance to punch one of them, but I figured that was a long shot.”

And say all the shit you did, too, she thinks, knowing he’ll never admit it.

She sighs. Heavily. “Fine. Whatever - fine. Can we just get back inside?”

He sighs too, and nods. “After you.”

She shakes her head as she turns back to the house, shoving his gun in her waistband and picking up her own. As they walk, she can’t help but mutter, “Since when do you even own a gun?”

He turns and smirks, and it’s a good thing he’s family because she might’ve slapped it off of him otherwise. “You’re asking the guy from Texas that question? Who was also in the army?”

“Laugh it up, Diaz,” she says, stepping onto the porch. “See where that gets you.”

Bobby has to hold Buck back when Eddie steps out the front door.

“They’re after you,” he says, arms locked around shoulders that used to be wider, containing a force that should be much stronger than it is. “You’re exactly what they want. Not him. They want you.”

Buck breathes raggedly in his arms, but starts giving up the fight much quicker than Bobby predicted.

“He’ll be fine,” he whispers, because if he’s not Bobby will kill Eddie himself. Though he’s certain his wife won’t hesitate to rip into the kid first. “He’s gonna be just fine.”

Buck leans back into him, finally done trying to claw his way to the line of fire. After a moment he nods, long curls bobbing up and down with the motion.

He doesn’t fight it as Bobby pulls them back and away from the window, to the corner by the TV. If anything he leans right into Bobby’s side like he’s melting.

Bobby doesn’t complain. Here, he can feel the kid’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips, can feel his chest rise and fall with each of his living breaths. He shifts them so Buck can fully tuck into his side, Bobby’s arm wrapped around him tight.

I love you, too.

The words ring in his ears over and over again, replacing I’m sorry with a passion. He hasn’t heard Buck’s voice since, but for now - that’s okay. Bobby will be here no matter what - whether Buck talks his ear off or never speaks to him again.

Would that break something inside of him? Maybe. Probably. But the fact that Buck is currently pressed to his side makes up for any worry he can borrow from tomorrow.

It’s not long before the front door opens, and one slightly amused and one extremely unamused person are stepping inside. Buck immediately tries to move forward - towards the window. He only stops when Bobby pulls him back.

“What’s the situation?” he says, words as level and direct as he can make them.

“All clear,” Athena says, holstering her gun. “They won’t be bothering us anymore.”

He does his best to temper his expectations, but it’s a hard thing. “So, that means…”

“They were all arrested by the LAPD, and the rest are being hunted down as we speak.”

“So we’re okay?” Hen asks, eyes wide and knuckles pale around the edge of the couch. “It’s over?”

“For now,” Athena says. “It’s gonna be one long road to justice, but yes. It’s over.”

The relief is instantaneous. Bobby sighs into it, and into the collective release of tension throughout the whole room. He takes a moment to thank God that his moment of stupidity didn’t lead to something much more serious, or - heaven forbid - deadly.

He squeezes Buck’s shoulder. The kid is still tucked into his side, eyes wide and locked on Eddie, but Bobby does his best to smile and catch his eye. “On that note, I think lunch is just about ready.”

The final bits of stress drain from everyone at the words. A few people let out relieved laughs, others begin walking towards the kitchen and dining room, commenting on how relaxing eating will be after such a terrifying ordeal. Hen begins heading to the back bedroom, where Karen took the children at the beginning of - this whole mess. They’ll all certainly be happy to rejoin everyone over a good meal.

Bobby turns to go and finds himself unable to move forward.

That’s when he realizes Buck is completely rooted to the floor.

“Son?” he asks, coming around Buck’s front to grasp at his shoulders, alarm spiking when the kid doesn’t even look at him. “You okay?”

Buck stares at nothing for a moment before he blinks, gaze flickering to Bobby’s own. “They’re gone?”

In a split second, all the air in Bobby’s lungs disappears. He has to hide it, can’t let any heartbreak show on his face. Even as the soft words hit him right in the chest, harder than any assault ever could.

“Yeah, kid,” he whispers. “They’re gone.”

Buck blinks some more, like he doesn’t quite understand.

“It’s over.” Bobby tightens his grip on the kid’s shoulders. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Buck slowly nods, eyes unfocusing again.

Behind him, Bobby can’t hear a single person breathe.

“Well,” he says after a moment. He needs to fix this, has to try in the only way he feels like he knows how. “Are you hungry?”

Buck almost looks at him again, and manages to move his head enough to count as a nod.

Bobby smiles, and he doesn’t know if it’s strained. He does manage to speak normally, though. Somehow. “I made your favorite.”

Buck’s head bobs up and down, gaze a million miles away.

Bobby turns, and everyone else is pretending to look elsewhere but it doesn’t even matter, because Buck’s seeing none of it. Bobby pushes gently, and Buck takes a step forward, and then another, and then another.

Bobby sighs in minute relief. “I can get you a plate, and—“

“Oh,” Buck says, stopping dead. “It’s over.”

Bobby turns back to him, vision only slightly blurred. “Yeah, kid. It is.”

Buck hums.

Bobby catches him before he can hit the ground.

Distantly, he notices dull pain in his knees. Somewhere, he can see other people kneeling down around them, Maddie and Eddie and so many others who only want to help. Even more distantly are the sirens of squad cars getting further and further away, full of people that won’t touch them ever again.

Right in front of him, right in his arms is his kid that’s sobbing so hard he might throw up.

Bobby wouldn’t care at all, if he did.

“It’s over,” Bobby whispers. His joints ache from being on the floor and he doesn’t care. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

Buck hears him. By some miracle, Buck hears him. His head jerks against Bobby’s chest, the motion as violent as the cries that tear through the air.

Bobby watches, then, as Eddie comes around to grasp Buck’s hand, as Maddie does the same on his other side. Athena, from behind Bobby, puts a hand in his curls, and Hen, Chim, and Ravi all place hands on his shoulders.

Bobby’s own arms hold Buck up, hold him close. “You’re safe.” Buck shudders on the floor, shakes under every loving hand. “You’re home.”

Chapter Text

White sunlight cuts through green leaves. The path is made of tiny, silver stones, thousands upon thousands of them. Yellow golden patches of sun illuminate brown bark; dandelions and violets poke through emerald grass.

The sky hasn’t stopped being blue.

“So she says she’s never even owned a first aid kit. Which, crazy. Can you imagine not owning a first aid kit? Never mind, not important. We ask her where the bandage came from, and she says her ex boyfriend ‘happened’ to be there and had some in his car. Given the state of the room, we weren’t sure how ‘ex’ he was, but I digress.”

Eddie’s voice is golden, even more so than the early morning light.

“We ask where her pet is, right? And she says she doesn’t own a pet, either. We start wondering if we’re gonna need to find this guy and have him arrested for assault - then we realized: this was nothing but an elaborate form of foreplay gone wrong. Not that she’d admit to it.”

Buck laughs quietly, steps soft on the pebbled path. Eddie’s shoulder keeps brushing his, and the warmth of it eases the overstimulation.

“And that’s when the guy literally fell out of the closet, in nothing but his underwear. Said he tripped on something, but I think he just wanted to ride with her to the hospital. He got his wish, I guess, since the fall gave him a grade two concussion.”

The sky is still blue. A bright red California fuchsia patch grows on the edge of the next bend.

“And that wasn’t even the craziest call of the day. Not five minutes after we pulled back into the station, a call comes in about a dentist office on fire - but get this. It was a patient’s mouth on fire. And that’s how we found out methane got in the city water supply.”

Buck reaches out to touch one particularly tall white yarrow flower, and a cyclist passes by on their left.

“You can imagine how the rest of that day went.”

He hums, because yeah, he can. It would be a nightmare, and he can’t imagine anything better.

Eddie’s face brightens the slightest bit at his hum, and Buck does his best to not think about why.

He leans into the touch as fingers gently wrap around his wrist. They remain there, chasing away the ghost of something now gone, a silent and steady reminder that he’s not alone.

“Your sister really came through that day. I still haven’t properly thanked her.”

A dahlia flower sprouts at the base of a white birch tree, its petals a soft pink in the morning sun.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

Buck tries not to notice the immediate shift in tone - the intense way Eddie leans in, like he wants to hear every word Buck has to say. He doesn’t think about it, because it can only remind him of what’s different, what’s changed.

(What he can’t give.)

“When was this?”

Eddie blinks a few times, possibly thrown by the question, and shrugs. “Few months ago, maybe. Why?”

Fuchsia, yarrow, dahlia. All bloomers in the mid to late summer season.

He hasn’t asked. He hasn’t wanted to ask.

He didn’t notice before now. The flowers. The first few times they both came out here in the early hours of the day, Buck was too overwhelmed to notice any flowers. Nothing in him was even asking himself the question, much less trying to voice it.

Eddie hasn’t had a calendar up in his house since Chris was in grade school. Buck hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at any technology that could tell him what he wants to know, because - well. He doesn’t want to know.

But today is Monday. Today is Monday, and Eddie has to go back to work.

Maddie is still pregnant, late summer flowers are in bloom, and it’s Monday.

It’s Monday, and the last time he knew what day it was, it was a Tuesday.

“The date?”

“I - don’t remember, sorry. I’d have to—“

“No, I… today. The date.“

The crunch of pebbles crescendos in his ears as Eddie stops in the middle of the park trail. Buck stills next to him, unable to meet his eyes.

Something bobs up and down in Eddie’s throat. Buck recognizes the sight - the sight of Eddie trying to shove his emotions to the back burner. And as much as Buck wishes he wouldn’t do that - he gets it.

“Nobody—“ Eddie clears his throat sharply, and the loose grip around Buck’s wrist tightens almost imperceptibly. “No one’s told you yet?”

Buck shakes his head. He still can’t seem to meet Eddie’s eyes no matter how much he wants to.

It’s a fair question - Buck hasn’t really been keeping track, but if he had to guess, Athena walked through that door maybe a little over a week ago. Based on the sun rising and setting, and the consistent meals - breakfast, lunch, dinner. It’s been incredibly easy, keeping track of the days when he knows which meals are which and can see the sun.

Maybe he knows it’s been exactly eleven days.

Either way, it’s a long time to avoid learning the truth.

“It’s August fourth.”

August fourth. Eleven days ago. And the last day he remembers knowing the date was—

(Buck remembers being good at math. Having “superpowers.”)

(He can recall the way it filled him with wonder. And maybe it was never something meant to last, but - maybe some part of it did. He was never good at math growing up, then became freakishly good at it after he died - the real time, not the fake time - and somewhere along the line it must have evened out.)

(It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to do the math on this one.)

Three months. He was gone for three and a half months.

Eddie’s hand disappears from around his wrist, and before he can even miss the warmth arms are wrapping around him tightly.

“You’re here now,” Eddie whispers by his ear. “You’re here. With me.”

Buck nods, arms coming up to return the embrace. The green of nature spreads out before him, and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

The path leads back to where they started - the empty children’s park that slowly comes into view around the bend. It’s too early for kids to be out. For anyone to be out.

That’s the point. To avoid people that would recognize him on sight.

Buck hates the point.

He’s - he’s never wanted to be famous. Much less for something - like this.

But he wanted this choice. He should be able to decide, I want to go outside today. And not just out on the front porch, but - out. He would come here in the dead of night, if that’s what it took. It helps, though, that Eddie would probably follow him no matter what. Even if Buck wanted to go outside at three in the morning instead of six.

Part of him aches because he can’t live like he always has, free to exist in a crowd of people without being seen as a walking testament to what’s been done to him. Just - all of those horrible things, and nothing more, like he’s not even a person.

(Again.)

Another part of him aches because he can’t reach out and interlock his fingers with Eddie’s. The rest of him aches because of everything else.

“Maddie’ll be over in about an hour?” Eddie asks, hands in his pockets to grab the car keys.

Buck nods. Another car has pulled up beside theirs, a mother and daughter getting out and heading to the swing set. Buck quickens his pace without really meaning to.

“I’ll see you when you come by, then. We won’t have to wait the full twelve. That’s good news, right?”

Buck hums, pulling his eyes from the small family to open the passenger door.

As he looks up from buckling the seatbelt, his eye catches on the mother. She’s staring at him. Heat rushes to his cheeks. If Eddie notices, he doesn’t comment.

The woman’s eyes follow him. It doesn’t register much over the guilt still bubbling in his chest.

Buck sits at the table as Eddie fiddles with the coffee maker.

Eddie talks. Buck listens.

It’s strange. Eddie has never been one to ramble, but Buck doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it. To him there is nothing better than the sound of Eddie’s voice filling the soft silence of the kitchen. Eddie could talk about anything, everything, and Buck would be content to listen for hours.

Sometimes, though, Eddie says things that stick in his ear like a fly in honey. He knows Eddie doesn’t mean it - doesn’t mean to set anything off in him. It’s not his fault that Buck is a walking trigger board now, full of infinitely many buttons to press.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the Hildy you got me. I only had to press like, two buttons. I’ve been trying to figure out this fancy one for months - I still don’t get how you put up with all these steps every morning.”

He’s been trying to figure it out for months. Because Buck was gone for months. Three and a half of them, to be exact. Buck was gone for three and a half months and he left Eddie to deal with his vintage espresso machine alone.

He breathes in. Breathes out. Listens to the sound of Eddie’s voice.

“The amount of googling I had to do to work this thing was kind of ridiculous, I won’t lie. I usually ended up just waiting ‘til I got to the station. This coffee is miles better, though, so I guess you do know what you’re doing. Appliance-wise.”

Eddie turns a bit at the words, a teasing grin on his face. Buck can’t help but smile in return. He’ll admit it: he knows how to pick a coffee maker.

Eddie turns around fully then, travel cup in one hand and mug in the other.

Buck hums softly in thanks, taking the mug and sipping carefully. Still hot, but at least it has two creams and three sugars. Just the right amount of sweet, and the dark roast flavor shines through without being overbearing.

“No problem,” Eddie says, sipping on his own. One cream, no sugar. “You’ll have to help me figure out the more complicated stuff later.”

Buck nods, and the doorbell rings.

Maddie’s face is bright when he opens the door. Just like every other time he’s seen her. Her grin grows as she immediately moves forward to hug him despite her overly pregnant belly.

“Good morning,” she sings, squeezing him tight. “How was your walk?”

“It was good,” Eddie says, coming around the corner with his coffee. “Not too many people out.”

“Good, that’s good,” Maddie says as she lets go, smile still wide and a light air about her, one that’s been slowly returning each time Buck sees her. She never fully lets go, though, a burning hand remaining on his forearm. “Christopher still in bed?”

“You know teenagers,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Can’t get ‘em up before noon, most of the time.”

“I can’t wait.” Maddie and Eddie laugh, and Buck tries his best to join in. “Oh, I almost forgot!”

She pulls a small white box from her purse, and it takes Buck a moment to realize that she’s holding it out for him. It takes another moment for him to realize what the object actually is.

Buck glances up at her, the question hopefully clear on his face.

“It’s the new one.” He looks up, and her smile isn’t any less wide, but it’s turning more apprehensive with each passing second. “Is that… okay?”

He gently takes the phone package from her hands. It’s heavier than he thought it’d be.

She’s asking if it was okay, buying him something like this, something nicer than he needs or deserves. It’s shiny and new - something he hasn’t been in a long time - and she’s asking if she did something wrong. If gifting him this, on top of everything else she’s done for him, is okay.

He nods, not trusting himself to even try to speak.

“That’s good.” Buck glances over to where Eddie is staring at the small box, expression and tone unreadable. “We can set it up tomorrow, get you a new number and everything.”

Buck nods again, eyes flicking back down. It’s probably a good idea, giving him a way to contact people. If for some reason—

If for some reason he’s separated from the people he knows.

He shoves the thought back abruptly. This is just in case he needs it. That doesn’t mean he will.

“You ready?” Maddie says, taking a step back towards the door.

He nods, still not looking up from the little white box in his hands.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, slowly taking it from him and setting it on a side table. “I’ll see you at the station later, right? You can stay for lunch if you want?”

Buck nods again, blinking rapidly and doing his best to swallow the fire in his throat.

Eddie’s hand reaches out to grasp gently at his wrist. Buck can’t help but look down and see what lies under his fingers - a ring of greens and yellows, small splotches of healing pink. A few spots where dark blue still shines through.

“I’ll see you later,” Eddie says. “Promise.”

Buck swallows. He wants to reach out and hug Eddie, but forces himself to nod, and to walk out the front door without turning around like a lost puppy.

Clearly, though, he doesn’t do a good enough job. Maddie sees right through him, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

And - okay. Maybe it’s slightly on him for dismissing what she saw all those months ago. She’s his sister, so maybe it’s her job to know him better than he knows himself.

Still. He doesn’t exactly say “shut up,” but he knows his face might as well be screaming it.

She laughs as she opens her own door. “I didn’t say anything!”

Buck hums, annoyed.

“My lips are sealed. They’ve never been more sealed.”

Buck hums again, this time more skeptical.

“Honest. There’s nothing for me to say.” Her shit-eating grin says otherwise, but she gracefully changes the subject as they pull out of the driveway. When she’s done using her right hand for turning, it comes to rest across the dash and on his forearm. “Jee keeps asking about you, by the way. I told her you would be up for a play date sometime this week, but we can wait if you want. I’m sure she’d love to color with you, or have you listen as she explains the intricate lives of her barbies.”

Buck listens. Maddie talks. The world goes by.

It’s summer. Already August.

“She’s starting kindergarten soon,” Maddie is saying. Which makes sense, given school starts in September. “If you want you can come back to school shopping with us. Give Jee her favorite uncle’s opinion.”

Buck nods as a sudden thought occurs to him. Chimney is on A Shift with Eddie, and Maddie is here, so—

He motions to the back, unspoken question on his tongue like Jee will pop out from behind the seat.

“May and Harry are babysitting,” she says, squeezing his arm. Her hand lingers there, even as she continues. “And before you even think it, you’re not inconveniencing me, or anyone. They’ll be just fine.”

He hates that Maddie knows him so well, and also hates that he can’t even argue with her. Mostly because she’s right, but also because he physically can’t.

(It’s not like he truly can’t. He can talk, he’s just - not talking much, right now. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.)

The office is as crisp and clean as the first time Buck walked in. Still the same cream walls, still the same minimalist decor that screams modern and practicality.

His eyes flick between each of the small pieces of decoration - a splotch of interesting in a sea of dull, their existence probably a little too effective in keeping him calm.

(Not that he’ll admit it.)

“The first line of paperwork just went through last night,” Venessa Carmen says from the other side of her expansive desk. Every crisp line of her clothes and carefully crafted hair on her head matches the polished message of her office. “As of right now, you are officially alive in the eyes of the law.”

“That’s great news,” Maddie says, reaching out to grasp his hand from the seat next to him. “How are the other things coming along?”

“The LAFD is still working on processing his reemployment status.” She consults a few pieces of paper before her, glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “So his health insurance, dental, and W forms aren’t entirely through the system yet, and neither is his 401k. It shouldn’t take long for those to process, though.”

“What about his will?”

“Well, considering he’s sharing a house with his main beneficiaries, I don’t think we’ll see any issues down the line. Mr. Buckley, do you foresee Mr. Diaz not complying with returning your property?”

Buck is already shaking his head, coughing a bit as he does.

Buck is sure if he asked right now, Eddie would help him find a new place and buy himself all new furniture. As it is, Buck would rather die for real than move out, and he’s pretty sure Eddie feels the same.

His things are now Eddie’s things. Eddie’s things are now his things. Buck’s will doesn’t have to be in place for that to be true.

“And how long until you talk with your former captain?”

“We’re actually going by the station today.” Maddie squeezes his hand. “As for when he’ll return to work…”

“There’s no rush. With all the support around you, I’m not worried about financials,” Carmen says, tone a bit gentler than her usual professional air. “But speaking of financials, there was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

She presses a button on her desk phone, and a small buzz fills the room. “Can you send him in, please?” She takes her finger off and looks back at them. “Have you thought at all about seeking financial compensation for what happened? Or pursuing any form of legal action?”

Buck’s mouth goes dry, and he tries his best not to visibly blanch. “I…”

Has he thought about it? Honestly - no. Absolutely not. If there’s one thing he’s been pushing from his mind, it’s anything to do with that place, those people. Usually he’s not very successful, but he hasn’t been - trying to think about it all. Like, on purpose.

The idea of dragging it all back up, just for something as trivial as money…

Buck’s had enough trouble with seeking retribution through lawyers for one lifetime. He’s not interested in doing it again.

The office door opens, and a man in a grey suit walks through.

Carmen stands, gesturing to the newcomer. “This is Attorney Nelson.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Nelson says, reaching out to shake both his and Maddie’s hands. Buck almost hesitates, but forces himself to not be rude. “I’m the representative for the state of California in the case against the Center for Disease Control.”

Oh.

Oh hell no.

“Mr. Buckley,” his attorney says, voice even gentler than before. “Please hear him out.”

He realizes he’s already shaking his head. He stops, face flushing in embarrassment.

“Your apprehension is completely understandable,” Nelson says, sitting in the chair on his other side. “If you don’t want to take any legal action yourself, that’s perfectly fine.”

That’s good. That’s - a relief, honestly.

“That doesn’t change the fact that criminal trials are taking place.” His face is grim. “The people responsible for what happened to you are going to jail for a long time, if I have anything to say about it. You deserve that much.”

Does he? Buck doesn’t feel like he deserves much of anything. Whether that feeling is new or old - he’s not going to examine it.

“Do you know—“ Maddie’s voice breaks, and Buck looks over to see her blinking rapidly. The grip on his own hand remains tight. “Do you know how deep it went?”

Buck doesn’t want to know. The conversation continues before he can blink.

“It’s difficult to give a straight answer.” The man sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “On one hand, most of what occurred was completely below the radar. Most of the CDC was entirely unaware of what was happening in that facility, but anyone affiliated with the project is now under investigation, no matter their level.”

“What about Jules?” he asks without meaning to. His heart immediately leaps to his throat as soon as the words leave his mouth, everyone turning to stare at him.

Did he just expose her? Was she safe, and now she won’t be? Why is it that he can only speak when it’s the absolute worst times to open his—

“If you’re referring to Julia Parker, she’s accepted a deal.” Nelson smiles. It’s an odd expression to see on his face, like it usually doesn’t fit there. “After a couple hours of community service, she’ll be free and clear.”

Oh - thank god. He didn’t just ruin the life of the one person to help him while he was in hell.

“But everyone else is being tried for multiple felonies. Those in the military will be prosecuted in both civil and martial court, but everyone else will be tried normally.” He leans forward. “That’s where you come in.”

Buck’s mouth is dry. He should probably say something. Because - what does this guy even mean?

“What that means,” he continues after Buck opens his mouth like a fish for longer than socially appropriate, “is that you would stand as a witness before a jury.”

Everyone is looking at him. Which - he wanted everyone to see him, and suddenly, he’s never wanted anything less. The weights of their gazes are heavy, too heavy for him to handle, pressing in on him, suffocating him, they’re—

Maddie’s hand squeezes his own, bringing him back to the clean office.

“Like—“ He sucks in air. “Talk. In front of—“

In front of everyone.

Like - actually everyone. In front of complete strangers. In front of the whole courtroom - anyone listening to the proceedings. That means - probably in front of his family, too.

And court transcripts are available to the public. He’d talk about what happened, and the whole world would hear.

“You don’t have to say yes.” Nelson’s voice never wavers from calm and collected. Buck isn’t in the right headspace to appreciate it, but he tries anyway. “We have a compelling case even without your testimony. But what I can say is that a jury always responds best to emotional evidence, rather than clinical.”

Right. So the whole point would be to show off how messed up he is. To demonstrate to everyone just how much the past few months screwed him over.

Maddie’s voice reaches him through several layers of water. “What would he have to do?”

“Nothing but answer the questions presented. He would have the legal right to refuse cross examination under victim protection safeguards.” He turns back to Buck, pulling a small white object from his pocket. “Again, you don’t have to say yes, but it would help the case immensely. I can give you my card if you’d prefer to think it over.”

“How, um.” Buck shifts back in his chair, trying his best to not get up and run. “How much…?”

How much of what happened does he need to pull from his chest, how much of his soul does he need to bare? Do they need every little detail laid out for examination? Are they going to pull him apart and study him under a microscope, leaving no stone unturned? Would the basics be enough, or do they want—

Hands, holding, pushing, trapping, he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t—

Hunger, panging, his throat, bleeding, aching, tearing and—

Cold on his feet and hands on his back and nothing but—

“Buck.”

Maddie’s hand is in his hair. Her face swims into his vision, and she’s smiling. But - the smile is sad.

“Hey there,” she whispers, fingers gently brushing through his curls. “You with me?”

He nods, tongue sandpaper and head full of cotton.

More words are said. He doesn’t hear them. The hand on the clock over Carmen’s head ticks with every passing second. It’s slower than the heartbeat in his ears.

He blinks, and holds his hand out to the lawyer.

Everyone stops talking.

“Buck, you don’t have to,” Maddie says slowly. “No one will think any less of you.”

He wonders if she’s been trying to say no for him. He appreciates it, somewhere in his heart underneath the numbness.

There is something trying to break through the nothingness in his chest. It’s pounding on the glass bubble encircling him, fists deafening and incessant.

He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. He knows no one will think less of him, but still, he’ll take the stupid card if it will make everyone get off his back and stop talking about this.

He holds out his hand, and no one speaks. The ticking clock echoes like a drum, and Buck hates nothing more than the fact that he finds comfort in the rhythm.

“Okay,” Nelson says after an eternity. He reaches back into his pocket and hands Buck the small card. “Call me if you make up your mind.”

“Buck!” Cooper says with a smile as soon as he walks through the large doors, dropping his polishing cloth to the ground. “Great to see you, man!”

Buck gives a little wave before the man’s arms are suddenly around him.

Cooper pulls back after a moment, grinning as he claps Buck on the shoulder. “Don’t let anyone know I told you,” he whispers, “but everyone’s done a little something for you.”

“Is that so?” Maddie says from his other side. Buck looks back at her, and her smile is sweet and innocent. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Buck raises an eyebrow at her, and she laughs. They all walk around the ladder truck, and—

Buck’s heart is going to fly out of his chest - there’s an explosion of noise, it’s deafening, something’s gone horribly, completely wrong, and—

Everyone is here, and everyone is clapping.

And right there, right in the center of the station, is a huge banner that says Welcome Home Buck!

Oh. So - no one is dying. Nothing is wrong. He shakes his head slightly as he picks his jaw up from the ground, but not before people start coming forward - people he missed so much, people from A and B and C Shift. People he honestly thought he’d never see again.

He won’t cry. He won’t. He blinks very rapidly, and swallows the lump in his throat, but he won’t cry. It’s - it’s simply nice.

Nothing to cry over. That would be - ridiculous.

“Hey, kid,” Bobby says, stepping forward and pulling Buck into his arms. “You didn’t think we’d do nothing, did you?”

And that does get a bit of a laugh from him, even if it’s slightly choked.

He doesn’t force himself to let go, just this once. And for just this one moment, he only holds on tighter. His face presses into Bobby’s neck, like he could hide there forever if he wanted to. “Thank you.”

Bobby’s arms don’t disappear, either. He holds Buck to his chest - he’s warm in a way that Buck doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. “Of course, kid,” he says, tone equally soft.

When they do eventually part ways, the sight he’s met with doesn’t surprise him at all. Because who else would it be, besides the two people he loves most in the world?

Damn it, Buck isn’t going to cry.

He pulls Chris in for a hug, hoping that it’ll maybe make him look like less of a mess. Or at least hide the mess. Over the wild curls on the kid’s head, he shoots Eddie a look that hopefully says you knew and not I’m about to burst into tears.

Eddie shrugs, arms crossed as he leans against the side of the truck, but the smirk on his face says it all. Thankfully he doesn’t mention the way Buck is more than likely falling to pieces. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Someone brings out cake. It’s half chocolate half vanilla, with whipped icing. His favorite. When they eventually make their way upstairs, Buck sees a full meal laid out on several tables - salad, chicken, mashed potatoes, pasta, and that’s just half of one table - so much that he doesn’t know how they prepared it all in only one morning.

Buck doesn’t cry - not when he sits in his old seat, not when Bobby begins filling his plate. Not when the food isn’t completely flavorless and gross, not when he doesn’t have to position himself painfully to eat it. But if he reaches up to wipe the corner of his eye, then, well - that’s nobody’s business but his own.

He’s always liked Bobby’s office. It’s just the right amount of organized while leaving a bit of room for chaos. It’s warm in a way that probably shouldn’t make sense, but nonetheless always has.

Bobby’s office has remained more or less the same.

Except - before Buck sits down, he catches a glimpse of a new book on the desk, only partially hidden by a stack of papers. And Buck doesn’t mean to read the title, he really doesn’t, but—

During one of his “boredom bouts” (the name he so lovingly called the periods of time in which he was so bored he genuinely thought of trying to stab himself with one of his IV’s - not to be confused with existential episodes, depression durations, or Eddie epochs) (the thesaurus was a real page turner), he decided to try and practice reading upside down. Because - why not, right? A great skill to have for someone who would never read anything aside from a book ever again.

(Straining to catch a glimpse of what the charts say, of the words on the numerous vials that are passed between the gloved hands above, hoping to get some sort of warning for what’s coming and—)

It makes reading the title and subtitle easy, even from a distance.

A Parent’s Guide: Helping your adult child understand their trauma.

“How’d your appointment go this morning?” Bobby asks from across the desk. “Everything still going okay?”

Buck sits, and the words leave his view. He has to blink several times to appear somewhat normal, after reading - that.

He can’t let Bobby know what he just saw. It wouldn’t be fair to him, invading his privacy like that. He’ll just - pretend he doesn’t feel gutted from the inside out. Easy enough.

He nods, doing his best to shift his thoughts away from - that - because he’s not going to unpack all of that right now - and to the question Bobby expects him to be answering with his nods.

What was the question? Right, his appointment. The nodding is probably good then - his attorney has been great. Buck is well on the way to having his knot of legal troubles untangled, all thanks to her.

Have you thought at all about seeking financial compensation?

“That’s good,” Bobby says, a soft smile on his face. “That’ll be nice, having everything figured out.”

Buck nods, forcing down the urge to shrug. It will be nice, he supposes. Especially not having to worry about things like not having a social security number. Or being dead.

“Has she talked to you at all about the LAFD?”

Buck hesitates before nodding again.

Bobby seems to hesitate, too. “Buck, I…”

Buck watches as Bobby’s face flicks through a series of expressions, most of them going by too fast for him to name, but—

The underlying anxiety and unsureness is impossible to miss.

When Bobby does speak - eventually - those emotions are even more clear. “You know I only want what’s best for you, right?”

The words send an immediate pang through his chest. They only make him think of all times in his life when he didn’t know that, and he kind of wants to go back and hit past him over the head. Not too hard, but enough to slap some sense into him.

At his nod, Bobby only hesitates more.

“I want nothing more than to see you succeed. You belong here, and I’ve - we’ve all missed having you.” He fidgets with a paper on the desk. “But you have to know you can’t come back right now.”

Buck nods, looking down.

Bobby’s shoulders fall. “Kid, I’m not trying to—“ He cuts himself off as Buck sharply shakes his head. “I’m… wrong?”

Buck shakes his head again.

“I’m right?”

Buck nods.

It’s almost comical, the way Bobby’s frame has stopped like someone physically hit pause. Any other day Buck might laugh at the way he clearly doesn’t know what to say.

“I…” He opens his mouth a few times. “I am?”

Buck shrugs, licking his lips without really thinking about it. It’s always been a nervous tick of his, but it’s somehow gotten worse in the past week or so. He clears his throat and nods again, looking around the office, at anything but his captain.

Buck might be an idiot, but he’s not that far gone from reality. All of his issues right now, everything that’s keeping him from being a first responder - they’re problems even he can’t talk his way around.

Especially considering - yeah.

“Okay,” Bobby says slowly. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then?”

It really is almost comical how unsure he sounds.

Buck leans forward. The edge of the book still sits in his field of vision, light blue and loud, and he’s going to ignore it as he tries to find the words, tries to fight the stupid cat latched around his tongue.

Bobby keeps looking at him expectantly. Buck can’t even fight a tongue cat, so he really shouldn’t even think about fighting fires.

He licks his lips and, before he can talk himself out of it, pulls a random scrap of paper and pen from the desk.

And writes.

I want to come back, but I know I shouldn’t, it says, and his face burns as Bobby reads it. And I know that it’s okay.

He needs to be able to say more than a sentence at a time without his heart rate going above one hundred. He needs to be able to lift more than twenty pounds without getting winded. And—

He doesn’t need to mention the fear that shot through him when he caught a view of the inside of the ambulance. Of the needles, of the monitors and wires. Of the rolling bed with straps attached to it - straps designed for safety, and nothing more.

Bobby has a look in his eyes. Buck’s not going to dissect it.

“Okay.” He folds his hands and places them on the desk, perhaps to try to appear in control. “I’m glad you want to focus on your recovery, Buck. We’re all here for you.”

Again, the words send an immediate pang through his chest, and he knows he doesn’t do a good job of keeping it off his face. He’s not had a lot practice at it, lately - at keeping his feelings hidden. He’s going to have to work on that. Because - well, people keep on saying shit like that to him, and doing things like throwing parties, and - and buying books and phones just to help him, and he’s just supposed to act like that doesn’t gut him from the inside out?

Sure. He’ll start reciting Shakespeare at Bobby, too. Maybe apply for a job as a rocket scientist with Karen.

“I will say,” Bobby continues, thankfully not commenting on Buck’s complete lack of self control, “I did have an idea - from when I was planning on how to talk you down from jumping straight back in.”

That’s - yeah, that’s fair. Bobby had no way of knowing this would be the time Buck could be capable of sanity.

He gestures for Bobby to continue.

“…do you remember when Brad Torrence was here?”

The cake is sweet. Eddie has a vanilla piece, even though he probably would have preferred chocolate. The icing isn’t overly sweet, which is good because he has a corner piece.

Eddie tries to focus on this, instead of staring across the loft at the half-open door.

“You okay over there?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says a bit too quickly, turning around far too sharply. “Fine. Why?”

Hen raises a single eyebrow, but graciously doesn’t comment on his lack of subtlety. She follows his previous line of sight, and no amount of surprise colors her features when that leads her to Bobby’s office. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Eddie says, shoulders dropping. “I just—“ It’s impossible to explain this feeling in his chest, the one that makes him want to crawl out of his own skin when Buck isn’t within five feet of him. At least, not in a way that won’t reveal several things he’s not yet ready to name. “I worry. That’s all.”

“We all do.” Her sigh is deep. “How has he been? You know, the rest of the time.”

Eddie knows what she means.

It’s obvious to everyone. The way Buck puts on a happy face - one that isn’t even all that convincing to begin with - when he’s around other people. One that Eddie sees slip once it’s just the two of them. And - part of him is glad that Buck isn’t afraid to display his true feelings when they’re alone.

The other part worries about what Buck is still hiding. Even from Eddie.

He thinks of walking side by side with Buck, shoulders brushing; of eating across the table from him, having nights in. Just the two of them and Chris - who’s more chatty than ever, even for a teenager. Eddie has been trying to fill the voids in conversation, too, but Buck has been—

Quiet.

Except Chim is nearby, and he’ll never hear the end of it if he utters that word, so he goes for the next best thing.

“Silent.”

He never thought—

He never thought he would describe Buck as silent. He’s never wanted to describe Buck as silent. Buck’s always been the one to talk everyone’s ear off, so much so that one of the main things Eddie missed when he was - gone - was simply the sound of his voice.

(Missed it far too much. But what everyone else doesn’t know - what Buck will never know - won’t hurt them.)

“He’s sad,” Hen whispers, eyes still on the door. “Isn’t he.”

And - god, that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? The overwhelming air of despair that follows Buck like a cloud. If Eddie thinks about it all too hard, for too long, he can barely push down his own sorrow.

(And anger. But that’s - not something he’s going to focus on.)

So he worries. He worries about the depression, about the partial muteness, about - everything. And then he thinks more, thinks about how anyone would be reacting to the same circumstances, and he can’t blame Buck at all.

So he can’t help but answer, “Who wouldn’t be?”

Eddie doesn’t know the half of it all, barely a scratch of the surface. And he’s certain that he wouldn’t be faring any better.

None of them would be.

Hen’s eyes shine in the light. “I guess you’re right.”

“Hey Diaz?”

The call from below is only slightly jarring. If he weren’t used to the alarm blaring at any given moment, he’s certain he would’ve jumped. As it is, he can only sigh tiredly.

“Yeah?” he yells back, not taking his eyes off of Hen.

“You’ve got a visitor down here.”

Hen can do nothing but give him a look - one that tells him she’s okay, that she doesn’t mind him leaving. That she’ll be there to watch Bobby’s office while he can’t. He gives her a tight smile in return before heading for the stairs.

He passes Chris on his way over, who’s sat at the couch talking to Chim. He presses a quick hand to the kid’s shoulder as he does, trying his best to not look behind at the still-open door. He checks his watch on the way to the stairs - Pepa should be here pretty soon to take Chris home.

Eddie is barely at the bottom of those same stairs before realizing he might head right back up them, actually.

“Love the decor,” Taylor says, heels clicking as she tilts her head up toward the banner.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is tired, same as his bones, and he can’t really bring himself to care.

“I—“ She crosses her arms. Uncrosses them. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Buck’s upstairs,” he says, crossing his own arms. “You’ll have to wait.”

“No, I—“ She shifts a bit on her feet before firmly planting them, like the Taylor he’s always known her to be. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

He can’t for the life of him hide his surprise, in both his face and tone. “Me?”

“I shouldn’t have ambushed you the way I did.” She shifts more on her feet, eyes still trailing the banner. “You were - it was clear how much you were grieving. And I tried to take advantage of that. So - I’m sorry.”

He opens his mouth, and can’t find any words to say, so he closes it.

That night plays still in his mind, sometimes. Against his will, of course. Always against his will. The way he tried to drown his sorrows in alcohol - to smother them in drink after drink, like that could make it all disappear.

(If it weren’t for the morning after, he’s scared to think of what could’ve happened. If he could have fallen into an addiction - a way to shut out all the pain. He likes to think Chris would’ve kept him from doing anything of the sort, but—

He’s not naive. He’s not a fool, either. He wasn’t able to stop the real addiction until the supply was cut off from the source. And losing that supply made him quite literally break his phone, so—

He doesn’t think about it.)

He thinks of what he remembers from that night, that conversation. He can recall most of it, but it’s fuzzy along the edges, almost intangible. The most pressing memory is white hot anger - enough that simply running through the night in his mind makes the blood heat dangerously in his veins.

Then again, the time since has been crystal clear.

“You got him out.” Eddie tries not to shift back as her gaze snaps to his own. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re good.”

“‘Good?’” She crosses her arms again, distrust and disbelief coloring her every move. “I don’t think we’ve ever been ‘good.’”

“Well, I say we are.” He holds out his hand. “More than good, actually.”

She stares at his palm like it might be laced with something. He honestly can’t blame her. Years of petty animosity - that he can only now recognize as jealousy - lie between them. He never liked her, she never liked him.

But it was only because of her digging - because of her insatiable desire for truth, that same desire that once tore through the firehouse with reckless abandon - that the ultimate truth came to light. She is the reason Buck is home. She is the reason Buck is by his side.

And for that, he’ll never be able to repay her.

Her hand is cool as she grasps his own, and he doesn’t know if it’s because she runs cold or he runs hot. He stamps down the vindication that Buck also runs cold. That Eddie can be the one to keep him warm.

(Maybe that’s all he’s good for.)

Seeing Taylor again is a bit like a fever dream.

Not quite like one, though. Now that Buck has had legitimate fever dreams - and he would not recommend them to anyone, for the record - he’s hesitant to compare them to anything based in reality.

It’s still the closest analogy he can make.

“Hey Buck,” she says. It’s strange - not only being near her again, but seeing her stand and speak so… awkwardly. She was never one to be awkward - always so sure of herself. “Long time.”

They’re alone. He would feel nervous about it, about not being around any of his family, but - he can hear them scattered throughout the firehouse. And maybe - her presence is enough, for the time being.

He nods, rubbing a hand along his forearm.

He’s suddenly self conscious of his short sleeved shirt. Of what it reveals. Except - he knows that she knows. She probably knows more than the rest of his family combined, excluding maybe Athena. She’s the one that dug so deep that the truth came out. Her search for the truth, once again, caused a complete uproar in his own life.

It’s almost amusing how much the two of them have come full circle.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” she says, because she’s Taylor and she’s never been able to do anything less. “I’m sorry I took so long to find you. I’m sorry I put your face on national television. And—“ She purses her lips, the way she always does when she wants to be honest but isn’t really sure how. “I’m sorry for the way we ended things.”

He waves a hand, brushing aside her apologies before he can consciously decide on an answer. Because - well, it is okay. It’s not her fault. Any of it. She’s not the one that locked him up, and she’s not the reason his story had to be put on display for the whole world to see.

And as for how they ended things… they were never meant to last. Somewhere in his mind - and he’s certain in hers, too - this was always known.

They were fun. They liked each other. And he knows they both loved each other, on some level. They were never in love, but - that’s okay. He can see that now. They both wanted different things, and they were different people. The end of it all made that irrefutably clear.

But as much as he hated what she did, he could never hate her.

“‘M sorry, too,” he manages, leaning back against the ladder truck.

“You don’t have to—“ She cuts herself off, and only resumes once she seems to find herself again. “I’m still sorry.” She fights an awkward smile, and he’s confused, but then - “Sorry I used you for my stupid book.”

He blinks, and—

He can’t stop the laugh that bursts from his chest.

That book feels a million lifetimes apart from where he now stands. He thinks back to when he first learned about it, and - he can’t lie. Everyone else was probably more upset than him, all those years ago. Had he been annoyed? Sure. But—

Perspective changes things. And he’s gotten a lot of that, these past three and a half months and eleven days.

(Not to mention that it would be great if he could simply be known as the firefighter himbo boyfriend.)

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still laughing. “I might even have you sign my copy later.”

“You—“ She tilts her head, and then a grin splits her face as she playfully smacks at his crossed arms. “Oh, ha ha. You’re hilarious.”

He laughs a bit more, and it honestly feels so good that he might actually go out and buy the book if it’ll amuse him further. This is probably the most normal he’s felt in - a long, long time. Taylor chuckles with him, and for a moment, nothing between them has changed.

When the laughing stops - when the air stills, and he settles into the quiet breaths between them - he looks at her. She looks at him. He can see respect in her eyes - a respect he feels, too.

Then - “I’m glad you’re alive.” The words hit like a punch. “In case you were wondering.”

And suddenly, his jaw is glued shut.

(Like always, these days.)

“I visited your grave,” she continues. His chest is no less assaulted as she does. “While I was researching. I - I got you those blue flowers you always eyed in the window by our coffee place. Figured you would like them.”

He remembers.

The way they sat so nicely right next to their usual table. Blue hydrangeas - one of his favorites, after sunflowers and plumerias.

Words from a different book flash before his eyes, not for the first time and probably not the last. The average adult male blinks about fifteen to twenty times a minute. He’s certain that he’s rapidly exceeding that number.

“Friends?” she says, holding out her hand.

He takes it without hesitation. It’s still soft, still so different from his own calloused palms and fingers. Friends, he mouths, voice still somewhere lost.

Maddie fills the silence of the car as she drives him back to her house. He tries to protest, to say that he’ll be fine back at Eddie’s, but between the way he can’t get two words out and her overprotective streak, she hears none of it. And maybe he’s even grateful. May and Harry are happy as they arrive, at least, hugging him before Jee begins to use him as her own personal jungle gym.

He can’t get enough of their hugs. Even when Jee’s little fingers and nails dig into his calf a bit too sharply.

He listens, and she narrates a tea party. He sits at her little pink table and wears the little pink crown she places on his head, which for some reason is filled with feathers. She talks for him the same way she does her two dolls and stuffed cat, Mr. Whiskers. He’s even sure to put out his pinkie as he drinks.

Jee goes to bed around eight, and Eddie knocks on the door around nine.

“Sorry,” he says, coming over to where Buck and Maddie are sat on the couch. “Wellness check took longer than expected. I’ll tell you in the car.”

“It’s no problem,” Maddie says. “I might steal him from you if you don’t mind, actually.”

Eddie laughs, and Buck is a bit bewildered by the sharp edge his smile takes. “I’m sure Chris would fight you for him before I could.”

Eddie does end up telling him about the wellness check in the car - about the man with a clearly broken leg who refused to be taken to the hospital, even under threat of death.

“I’m telling you, we had no idea just how long this guy had been couch-ridden.” He shakes his head a bit in clear exasperation. “You know the twang in his voice gave him away - from the south, and I’m sure he was a farmer. The number of farmers I knew in Texas that would rather cut off their own limbs than see a doctor - you’d think they were allergic or something.”

The streets go by, and it’s all familiar. He’s taken this route countless times in his life.

“Bobby told me what you guys talked about today.”

Buck lifts his head from where he has it propped up on his hand, looking over at Eddie, who is - smiling. Softly, fondly. Eddie, whose warm brown eyes remain on the road but crinkle ever so slightly at the edges.

“I think shadowing is a great idea.”

Buck clears his throat a bit in surprise, and can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed when his voice cracks. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” Eddie says, grinning wider. “I know it won’t be right away, but - getting back out there, joining us on calls? It’ll be good, letting your feet get wet without jumping in head first.”

So Eddie doesn’t think it’s a bad idea. Buck hadn’t exactly been worried, but—

Everyone has been so overprotective. Eddie maybe most of all.

And rightfully so, he’ll admit.

So Eddie’s reaction, him being perfectly okay with the idea? It wasn’t exactly predictable. Still - it settles something in his bones that Eddie wants him back at the 118. That he thinks Buck is okay enough to at least join in on a few calls.

That, and this means Eddie can schedule himself for more than twelve hour shifts at a time soon. Buck’s not an idiot. Well - not that much of an idiot. He knows Eddie can’t keep ditching work just to exist next to him. Whatever money they both have saved up for a rainy day has to be depleting fast.

(Have you thought at all about seeking financial compensation?)

(Shut up, he hisses at the voice, shoving it back with everything in him.)

Eddie’s eyes remain on the road, but his smile is no less soft. “I can’t wait to be partners again.”

Buck’s coughs roughly into his fist, heart slamming against his ribcage.

Is it hot in this car? It might be slightly warm, at least. It’s still summer after all, so it has to be hot. Or - Eddie has the air conditioning blasting. So maybe - no. Eddie always runs hot, Buck always runs cold. That means the car must be warm, if the air conditioning is running.

Right.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Buck chokes out, and for once his inability to form English words has nothing to do with complex PTSD.

Buck is in love with Eddie.

Buck is head over heels in love with his straight best friend.

It’s funny. Back when his life was literal hell on earth, that was the one thing he didn’t have to worry about. He could be in love with Eddie and it didn’t make any difference. Being in love didn’t change anything. It didn’t make the door open up any more than begging ever did.

He could love Eddie, and it didn’t get in the way of anything. He could love his best friend, and it was nothing but a quiet comfort, or - more often than not - a gaping wound. But Buck didn’t have to look him in the eye and lie, didn’t have to pretend to be something he wasn’t.

So it’s funny. Being in love with Eddie was the one thing that was okay, back in that place, and it’s the one thing that’s not okay about them now.

Everything between them is perfect. Eddie knows what Buck wants before he does. Eddie knows what he wants to say before he can fail to say it. Eddie keeps the demons at bay, helps calm him when he wakes in the night to nothing but a pounding heart and the ghost of a scream on his lips.

Eddie is the first thing he wants to see in the morning and the last thing he wants to see at night. Nothing is more comforting than the gentle weight of Eddie’s fingers around his wrist. In an endless sea of agony and terror and grief and despair—

Eddie is the reason he’s okay.

Because Eddie is everything.

And that’s the reason Buck will never be okay again.

The call comes on Friday at 3:47 AM, and it comes through on the phone Buck set up just days before.

Buck groans against the incessant buzzing next to his ear. He blinks open his eyes despite the way sleep still pulls at him, even as he wants to do nothing but curl back up under the covers. But the phone is buzzing, and it’s on the table right by his head. So, like an idiot, he grabs it and brings it right to his face.

He hisses as he puts it down. Nice going, Buckley, he thinks, because only he could manage to be this dumb. He slowly brings it back up, mindful of the shooting pain between his temples. He looks at the time, and can’t help but groan at how early it is.

His eyebrows raise as he sees the caller ID. He answers and grumbles something unintelligible into the receiver, fighting a yawn.

“Buck, it’s happening.”

He hums, and can’t stop a real yawn from breaching the air. It’s happening. Something is happening. Which - sounds nice.

“The baby is coming.” There’s a note of panic in Chimney’s voice, some rustling in the background. “Like, right now.”

The baby is coming. That - means something. It… it means—

Buck shoots straight up in bed. “Cedars?”

“Yeah, we’re on our way now. We’ll see you there.”

He nods, and realizes Chim can’t see it, but he’s pretty sure the message was received regardless.

The mattress next to him shifts as he hangs up and starts pulling a random pair of jeans from the closest drawer. “Everything okay?” Eddie asks, voice groggy and eyes wide.

It’s fair for him to be worried - all he heard was a hospital name. For all he knows someone could be dying.

Buck grabs the T-shirt at the end of the bed and pulls it over his head. “Baby.”

Even in the dark, understanding lights Eddie’s face. He moves without hesitation. “I’ll call Pepa.”

Pepa, for one, isn’t exactly happy to be woken at four in the morning - but as soon as she finds out why, she’s more than willing to come over and stay with Chris. She even gives Buck a tight hug as she steps inside the door. Though they seem to get tighter each new time he sees her, these days.

The waiting room is empty and silent as more and more people come through the sliding glass doors. Hen and Karen arrive not too long after they do, eyes tired yet hopeful. Bobby and Athena aren’t much further behind. Ravi actually ends up arriving right as Chimney comes around the corner, exhausted yet overwhelmingly happy.

The hospital waiting room is colorful. It lacks any medical supplies.

The minute Buck steps behind the double doors, following close behind his new nephew’s father - because for some reason he was chosen to see Maddie and the baby first - that is no longer the case.

It should probably be more of an issue. Hell, it is an issue. A very immediate, pressing issue that is demanding his attention like a bullet wound. But it stops being an issue as soon as the small bundle of cloth is placed in his arms. Because—

The room, every piece of equipment, the beeping coming from down the hall—

It all disappears.

The baby is tiny.

Tiny.

“Say hi,” Maddie whispers, hair plastered to her forehead with dried sweat.

“Hi,” Buck breathes.

The little life in his arms is - tiny. Did he mention tiny?

“Say hello to Daniel Kevin Han,” Chimney murmurs, placing a soft hand on his shoulder from behind.

Buck cradles the little baby in his arms, but - distant beeping grows sharper. Harsher. He pushes it away and manages to look at Maddie with a pinched brow, question unvoiced yet clear.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling through her exhaustion. “We’ll probably call him Danny.”

He looks back down at the bundle of infant. He feels heat growing behind his eyes, but he shouldn’t be crying all over his new nephew like this.

He sniffs, blinking rapidly. Hi Danny, he wants to say. I’ll be your Uncle Buck.

He wasn’t gone long enough to miss this. He’s alive, and here, and he’s meeting his nephew who’s not even a few hours old.

“Thanks for coming back when you did,” Chim says, knocking their shoulders together, eyes wet. Like he can read Buck’s mind. “This guy would’ve been called Evan Kevin. Can you imagine?”

Buck can’t help but laugh, a tear trailing its way down his face despite his efforts. What a ridiculous name.

Chim pats his back a few times. He comes over to kiss Maddie, and asks her softly if she’d be okay with more visitors. She nods, and Chim quietly steps outside to go find more of their family to bring in, probably on rotation.

Logically, he knows he’s Maddie’s brother - little Danny’s uncle - so of course he gets to stay. Logically, he’s an important person in both their lives, the closest blood relative they have.

Logic hasn’t seemed to matter much to him or anyone else, lately.

“Mom and Dad are flying in next week to meet him,” Maddie says from the bed, tilting her head back against the pillow. “You’ll get to see them - that’s good, right?”

The beeping grows louder, like a shift from low to high tide on the sea. He shoves it back, looks at the tiny round face in his arms.

He’ll see his parents, then. The ones that couldn’t be bothered to buy plane tickets when he suddenly wasn’t dead anymore. But they are now, for their daughter and grandson. But - can he blame them? This baby is much cuter than he probably ever was. Quieter, too.

(Maybe they’ll like him more, now, after all this time.)

(Maybe they just wanted to save on airfare.)

He nods, not looking away from Danny.

“We can make a day of it,” she says, ever the mediator, trying so hard to get all of the members of her family to love each other. He wishes he could help make it a reality. “Maybe we could have a party? Some kind of cookout at Bobby and Athena’s, or—“

She stops mid word.

Buck is so close to asking what’s wrong when her head tilts once more.

“Oh,” Maddie says, and she’s bringing a hand to her mouth, breaths hitching on a sob.

Panic shoots through him as he stands, placing Danny is his small tray bed - gently, carefully, despite the sudden need to be at his sister’s side.

“‘M fine,” she mumbles as he sits on the edge of the bed. And not very convincingly, as she’s still crying - still rapidly devolving into deeper and deeper sobs. “Just - pregnancy hormones. You know how it is.”

He most certainly does not know how it is, but he nods nonetheless, reaching forward to take her hand.

She snatches it in her own a bit too fast, a bit too desperately for it to be believable when she says, “I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow. It doesn’t take long for her to break.

“Buck,” she whispers, thumb tracing along the side of his palm. “We missed your birthday.”

The smell of antiseptic hits his nose like a freight train. The beeping is loud, and steady, except it doesn’t match his heart rate, which doesn’t make much sense but he’ll ignore it. He has to ignore it. Because Maddie is in front of him, and she’s crying about his birthday.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly, only feeling a little like he’s been eating glass, trying his best to smile in a way that’s comforting.

Her lips pull up a little in response, but at the same time her chest hitches up in another heaving sob. She squeezes his hand even harder. “Evan - they stole part of your life—“

“I’m right here.” He shakes his head, leaning forward and grasping at the back of her neck even as the beeping screams, as the monitors blind him out of the corner of his eye. As each word feels like fighting an endless war. “They didn’t take me.”

She uses the hand in her own to yank him forward into her arms, her other one coming up to grasp at the back of his head, shoulders shaking under his chin with each new heaving breath.

It feels like an eternity before she speaks again, but it’s probably only a handful of seconds.

“But they did.” Her words are right by his ear, unsteady and fractured. “They took you. And I had to be okay with - with you gone. I had to wake up into a world where both my brothers were gone, and I had to keep being fine.”

Buck closes his eyes, bringing his own arms around her, even as the sheet scratches at his skin in a way that makes him want to crawl straight out of it.

“And you didn’t tell me.” Her fingers shake in his hair. “You decided to save Howie, and - and I love you, for doing that for me, but - you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell anyone.”

“I—“ His voice breaks, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Against the guilt, against the mechanical heartbeats.

“I found out from someone else.” She pulls back roughly, reaching up to grasp his face in her hands. His eyes open to find her own wide and glassy, yet painfully intense. “You didn’t tell me. You did it all on your own, and I was never going to see you again. You didn’t s-say goodbye.”

He tries to blink away the harsh burning, tries to swallow the sharp pain lacing the back of his throat, but it doesn’t work. Tears spill over onto her fingertips, and she doesn’t hesitate for a single moment before wiping them away.

“Sorry,” he rasps, the word sounding honestly more like a wheeze than anything else.

“Buck,” she breathes, fingers sliding upward to trace along the edge of his birthmark. “Do you - do you even know how much I love you?”

Her face blurs behind his tears, and in the blur, he can see every version of her - the one that hugged him as a child, the one that left him for the promise of Boston, the one that gave him freedom in a set of keys. The one that came and found him when she needed someone safe. The sister that’s been there for him ever since.

“Do you understand how much I would’ve rather known you were sick, known you weren’t coming home - known everything - if I got to talk to you again?” She presses their foreheads together, not caring at all about the state of her hair. “I need you to know that. Okay? I would’ve rather known. I would’ve rather - god, I would’ve rather said goodbye. I’d take every minute with you I can get. You’re worth it, Evan.”

Worth it.

The words don’t seem to align with what he is.

To her, then, he’s worth the pain of being left. A pain he knows all too well, a pain that follows him like a shadow wherever he goes. She’d have taken it on if it meant even one more minute with him.

He doesn’t even know what to do with that.

“I need you to know that I want you here. Not even that I need you - I want you, here, in my life.” Her hands still hold the sides of his face like she means every single word - almost like she’s saying it all as a—

“I promise, okay?”

She pulls back, and holds up nothing but her pinkie.

His hands shake, and the beeping echoes.

It’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. And he’s actually hearing it, and he doesn’t know how he’s not going to break apart at the seams.

“Okay,” he breathes, linking their fingers together.

Her smile is watery, and her pinkie holds his own tight. “Okay.”

Eddie isn’t unhappy.

This is a happy day. The sun is rising over the hospital walls, and there is a new life entering the world. The baby is healthy, is everything Maddie and Chimney could’ve ever hoped for. Maddie is doing well post-delivery, and everyone, including him, should be happy. So why would he have any reason to be anything other than joyful? It wouldn’t make any sense.

And yet.

He can’t stop hearing that ringtone.

It won’t stop running through his head. Buck, answering that damn phone in the dead of night. Over and over and over again, he’s picking it up, and he’s listening, and Eddie can’t help but think the worst and in the end it’s nothing but—

Good news.

Great news, even. And - Buck deserves it. Buck deserves everything good in the world. Eddie would give him the world, if he could.

That doesn’t stop the pitiable longing.

“You wanna hold him?”

Eddie blinks as Bobby’s voice reaches him. He stands stiffly and nods, holding out his arms, and—

The calming effect of this baby seriously needs to be studied.

He’s so - cute. Eddie hasn’t really thought a baby was cute since Christopher was born, but this tiny little round thing in his arms is ridiculously adorable in ways he didn’t know were possible.

He glances up with a smile, pushing down any leftover inner turmoil - he’s not about to explain why he’s feeling sad in the face of this tiny child. “Maddie, you’ve gotta stop making such cute kids.”

She laughs from the bed, eyes red and puffy. He doesn’t think much of it. She’s just had a baby, so of course she’s been crying. He doesn’t think much of it as he passes the baby back to his Grandpa Bobby again, either, or when he catches a glimpse of Buck’s eyes - the same color as his sister’s. It would make sense for him to cry, too.

(Right?)

The others in the room continue talking and fawning over the baby. Eddie slowly makes his way to the corner where Buck stands, grabbing at his wrist before he can think better of it.

The pulse below his fingers is far too fast.

He glances up at Buck, and realizes he’s not moving at all.

“Hey,” he whispers, grateful when no one else seems to notice. “You okay?”

It takes a second, but Buck nods a bit. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, ultimately staying quiet and still. Eddie turns to follow his line of sight - he seems to be looking at Maddie, but Eddie realizes with a drop of his stomach—

That’s not it.

He follows the line of sight to the monitors, to the charts and equipment and needles, and Eddie is the biggest fucking idiot to walk the earth. “You want to leave?”

Buck nods without hesitation, this time.

Eddie exhales shakily, nodding back. He moves his hand from Buck’s wrist and places it on the small of his back. “We’re gonna get some fresh air,” he tells the rest of the room.

Bobby, Maddie, and Chimney don’t protest. Or at least, he doesn’t think they do. He doesn’t really care to see their expressions as they head out, either. All he can care about is getting Buck out of this building as fast as he possibly can.

As soon as they step outside the main doors, Buck takes in a huge lungful of air. Like he was deep underwater and is only now breaching the surface. The rigidness in his body disappears, only to heed to barely perceptible trembling.

Eddie rubs his hand up and down Buck’s back, trying his best to ignore the ache in his own heart. “Silence or talking?”

“Talk,” Buck chokes out, eyes fluttering closed. “Please.”

So Eddie talks.

As he does, he guides them both over to a bench facing the parking lot, which is for the most part sunny except for where a few trees block the light. He hopes the light and greenery and sky can help more than his voice, at the very least.

He talks about the baby, and the weather, and everything and nothing at all. Buck slowly sinks into his side, eyes still closed when his head falls on Eddie’s shoulder.

His curls shine gold in the sun.

God, he’s beautiful.

He pushes the thought away, but he’s unable to stop it from returning with a vengeance. Because Buck is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The baby might be cute, and the world before them might be pleasing enough to the eye, but Buck has never been short of absolutely stunning.

It’s becoming more and more real every day, as the bags under his eyes slowly disappear and color returns to his skin. And it hasn’t been all that long, and Eddie might just be imagining it, but Buck might’ve even started to gain a little bit of weight.

Buck is simply - beautiful. That might not even be enough, the word beautiful. Buck is light. He is joy. He is the source of everything good in life. He is…

Everything.

Buck is everything.

I love you.

The words he spoke to an answering machine - not even all that long ago - ring in his ears.

It would be so easy. I love you. It would be as easy as breathing. I love you. The words would take no effort because it takes all the effort in the world to keep them inside. I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Buck shudders and shakes at his side, and it hits Eddie all at once.

It hits him, that—

That he’s done nothing for Buck.

He had no part in getting Buck home. He was completely and utterly useless, while Buck’s ex of all people searched and dug and scoured until the truth was finally laid bare for all the world to see. He’s grateful to her, of course he is, and he always will be, but that doesn’t change the fact that Eddie did—

Nothing.

Well - not nothing.

He left.

He left Buck when it mattered most. Buck, who has never had someone stay, has never had someone choose him, has never had someone there for him when it really and truly mattered. Buck who, more than anything, has always just wanted someone to stay, and Eddie—

Left.

He said it was about his son, and that was true, but - Eddie was the reason Christopher was gone in the first place. If he hadn’t been chasing long dead ghosts - if his inability to process his own grief hadn’t been too much to handle then—

Things could have been different.

And maybe, just maybe, if Eddie hadn’t been so - so caught up in doing it again, he could’ve noticed it, too.

He could have noticed what Taylor did. He could’ve looked and realized, something’s not right here. He was so busy wallowing in his own self pity, too busy reaching for something he thought he would never have again that—

He almost didn’t.

If Taylor never started digging. If that nurse had never recognized how close someone was to the truth. If she never reached out, never chose to do the right thing. Then Buck—

Buck never would have made it home.

Buck, alone. In that - place. Forever. Forever separated from everyone that loves him. Forever separated from Eddie, who would think him dead for the rest of their lives.

He can’t quite hold in his own stuttering breath at the thought.

Buck glances up at him with worried eyes. Eddie smiles and brushes off his concern, because Buck shouldn’t be worrying about him of all people right now. Not when he’s pushing down his own panic attack just from being in a hospital room. Not when he’s so traumatized that he can’t even respond to Eddie’s endless rambling.

Regret swims in his chest. It’s more familiar than air.

It was only a few hours ago, now. That call. When Buck got that call in the dead of night, and Eddie felt nothing but grief.

Grief that Buck got good news, while Eddie only received news that ruined his life. Grief at the fact that Buck supposedly breathed his last - and didn’t tell anyone, didn’t think to reach out for any sort of help - and Eddie had to find out over the goddamn phone.

He found out over the phone, and - and fuck, it was a day late. Some asshole decides to fake Buck’s death - forge a damn death certificate, jump through a million and one legal loops, fill an empty coffin with dead weight - all for the end goal of lying to them, and Eddie didn’t even have the decency to learn about that lie until the day was already over.

And all Buck gets is—

Good news.

Well, that emptiness is long gone, and he feels nothing but guilt in its place. Buck experienced something awful, and Eddie could only find it in himself to feel miserable in the face of Buck’s happiness. Which - it doesn’t even make sense. Eddie did receive good news, the greatest news, in the form of a living, breathing person on his front lawn.

His heart won’t shut up no matter how many times his brain tells it otherwise.

And still, Buck is sitting at his side, trying to control his breathing. Taking comfort from someone he doesn’t know is harboring all these hidden feelings. Oblivious to his so-called best friend’s thoughts.

Eddie sits on the wooden bench, and thinks back to it all - to leaving, to being of no use to anyone, to failing the love of his life when it really, truly mattered, and—

And knows.

Knows he’s never had any right to love Evan Buckley.

Chapter Text

“Come on, you can do it!"

“Let’s go, Buckley!”

“You’ve got this!”

Buck’s muscles scream as he pushes them further and further, as he forces the bar up and off of his chest once, twice, three more times and - can’t manage a fourth.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” Eddie calls with a grin as Buck slides the bar back to its resting position, reaching forward to shake Buck’s sweaty fist in solidarity. “That’s already one more set than last time.”

Buck huffs, unable to stop a smile from crossing his own face.

“Good match, Buck,” Hen says, proud and also incredibly sweaty as she gives him a firm handshake. “Guess you’ll have to hit the gym some more.”

“He’s only gonna get stronger,” Eddie says, pulling Buck in for a side hug as he slowly sits up on the bench. “He almost beat me the other day. Might wanna cut your losses here soon.”

“We’ll see,” she says, raising an eyebrow playfully. “How about a match with Chim?”

Buck begins to shake his head, because his muscles are already pretty much dead after the set he just did, but—

Chimney beats him to the punch.

“Wouldn’t want to hurt him,” he mutters, throwing a towel over his shoulder and not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Maybe some other time.”

Buck could swear he hears “or never” under the other man’s breath, but Chim is already out of sight.

Buck wishes he could feel an ounce of surprise.

He looks back up. Eddie and Hen are avoiding each other’s eyes, too. Everyone else has awkwardly gone back to their own workouts or chores nearby.

For the briefest of moments, he manages to catch Eddie’s gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still not meeting Buck’s eyes as he passes him a water bottle. “He’ll be fine.”

Buck’s not sure if he’s inclined to believe that, given… well, everything. Thankfully - or maybe not so thankfully - the alarm decides the end of Eddie’s sentence is the best time to cut through the gentle hum of the station.

Buck stands as everyone else heads towards their turnouts. He sees Chim doing the same, and can’t hold in his sigh. They’re usually - fine. And that’s fine. Buck has no issues with it at all, actually.

Bobby comes down the stairs and gives Buck a quick nod, which he returns before heading over. The gear slips on easily - not as quickly as he’d like but quick enough for the time being. He’s been down on the simulation times, yet still taking longer when it actually counts.

Good thing his slow is still everyone else’s average.

Buck can’t keep his leg from bouncing as Bobby gives the rundown. There’s a man that fell into a construction pit at a public park, who seems to be alert and talking according to dispatch but certainly won’t be able to escape on his own.

Buck pictures a guy hopping up and down in a hole, fingertips barely visible as he reaches the peaks of his jumps. He bites his lip at the amusement bubbling in his chest - he’s not about to be that guy.

“So Karen just told me Denny’s grounded,” Hen says once they get on the main road. “Apparently he deleted his sister’s game file all because he was mad at her.”

“Man, that’s tough,” Ravi says. “I remember how much those things meant as a kid.”

“That’s not even half of it,” Eddie says from Buck’s side, fingers wrapped around his wrist as usual. “Save files meant a lot back then, but they’re a whole new breed now. You can have so much work saved on one little file, especially for open-world games. Chris won’t shut up about Horizon Dawns or - whatever it’s called.”

Horizon Zero Dawn, but close enough.

Ravi laughs and says, “Dude, do you even know how old you sound?”

“Well this was the new Zelda game,” Hen says with a small chuckle. “We almost had to ground Mara too, with how close she came to killing him.”

Buck laughs with the rest of the truck as they pull up to the scene. He still remembers the time he accidentally giving away one of Maddie’s Game Boy cartridges at school. She was livid, but ran to his defense the minute their parents began berating him - even back then, she was always on his side.

He steps out of the truck, bouncing on the balls of his feet a bit as he does. The sun has just gone down and the streetlights are beginning to turn on, bathing the sidewalk in a yellow-orange glow.

Even on initial assessment, the man appears to be mostly okay. The hole was apparently dug by a group of city workers as part of a plan to redo some of the piping, only wires were somehow crossed when it came to putting up a proper fence.

Buck hums as he looks down into the pit. It looks like galvanized steel, which is one of the worst pipes in terms of longevity. Hopefully they end up replacing it with regular steel, which can last up to a hundred years.

Buck stands off to the side as Eddie and Ravi hold the ladder for Hen. She gives the all clear that the patient is good to come up - he seems to have only a minor concussion and a couple small lacerations.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it,” the guy is mumbling as Chim wraps one of his arms in a bandage. “One minute I’m walking, the next—“

“It’s not your fault, sir,” Bobby says, offering water to the man, who takes it gratefully. “The workers should have put up some sort of barrier. In dark like this - anyone could have fallen.”

The guy seems a little less embarrassed after Cap’s words, but his face remains flushed. Buck feels a bit bad for the guy, knowing how easy that hole could have blended with the surrounding grass.

“Reminds me of the time you had to go down in that sewer,” Eddie whispers from next to him, hiding a laugh when Buck shoulder checks him on the way back to the truck.

“Hold up, guys,” Bobby says, still by the hole. He has one hand on his radio, expression unreadable.

“Everything good?” someone asks, and Bobby holds up a hand as he listens to something indistinguishable from their current distance.

Buck shifts on his feet, straining to hear the low hum of whatever channel Bobby is currently on, but then—

He feels it in the air before he hears it. That shift, that moment of silence that comes right before a storm.

From that quiet comes the ring of sirens getting closer and closer with each passing second.

“118 en route,” Bobby says over the radio, gesturing for the team to head to the truck.

Fast.

No one wastes any time following the nonverbal instruction, swiftly packing up the ladder and med bags without a word. They’re in the truck and on the road within thirty seconds, heading in the direction of the ever-growing sounds piercing the night, tension thick enough to cut with a plastic butter knife.

“We have a structure fire five blocks from our current location,” Bobby says over the headset, their own alarm blaring outside as the engine continues to gain speed. “Appears to be a type three construction townhouse, and it’s spreading.”

That doesn’t make sense. Structures like that - the fire separation walls are supposed to have at least a two hour rating.

“Aren’t those things supposed to have firewalls?” Eddie asks.

“Contractors might’ve cut corners,” Hen says, face grim. “Or it’s older than the current building code.”

“In this area? Could be either,” Chim says with a low voice, eyes on the world rushing by. “It’s not exactly Beverly Hills.”

“We’re not the first on scene,” Bobby says as they turn a corner. Clearly, considering the ever-growing ring of other sirens. “I’ll check in with the IC, but for now - Eddie, Riley, I want you on hoses. Cooper, you’re on hydrants - Hen and Chim, check to see who’s already made it out of the house.

“Buck,” he says, who straightens. “Stay in the engine.”

Buck tries to not let his shoulders fall, but it’s a hard thing.

Especially as they pull up to the scene.

There’s already one ladder truck and two engines, three regular squad cars forming a civilian barrier. The blues and reds light up the dark street, the sirens filling the crisp night air.

All of their lights are nothing compared to the bright orange inferno. All of the sirens are nothing compared to the deafening roar of the flames.

There are at least five units on fire, and Buck can easily see how that’s not going to last, even from the truck. There are three on one end still untouched, and two on the other - but even now fire licks at the edges of the windows, like it can sense what’s yet unconsumed. The roofs of the units already engulfed are also ablaze - and that fire, too, is doing its damndest to spread like a cancer.

Buck watches from a distance as people stumble out of the untouched doors, coughing from smoke that must have spread through a shoddy ventilation system. One such woman collapses in Chimney’s arms, who stumbles a bit under her sudden weight.

Buck doesn’t realize he’s getting out of the truck until - well, until he’s out of the truck.

He grabs the woman’s arm opposite Chimney, lifting half of her weight off of his body. Chimney doesn’t waist a single second before shooting him an incredulous, disapproving look.

“Buck,” he hisses, but doesn’t try to shrug him off as they move towards the curb and out of the perimeter. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the engine?”

Buck shrugs as innocently as he can, gesturing lamely at the woman still coughing violently on the side of the road.

Chim sighs like he doesn’t expect much else. Which is probably fair. “Look, just - get back inside before Bobby sees you.”

He nods, wiping his hands awkwardly on the fabric of his turnouts in surrender.

“Wait!” the woman suddenly screeches, lurching back off of the concrete. She doesn’t stop clawing to turn around even as Buck and Chimney hold her down. “My daughter - you have to get my—“

“It’s alright, ma’am,” Chim says softly even as her motions grow more and more frantic. “We have men inside your unit right now, and the fire hasn’t even—“

“She’s not there!” she cries, foot catching on the concrete curb roughly from her wild movements. “She - she was at a sleepover, with her friend Amanda who lives in - I don’t see - Payton! Can you hear me?!”

Buck looks up sharply, trying his best to see if there are any kids out on the yellow-orange lawn. He spots one - a small girl with curly blond hair - though most of it is black with soot - in front of the third unit on their right.

He gestures with his head towards her, and Chimney nods. “Ma’am, is that her?”

The woman turns, and her face crumples. “No, that’s - that’s Amanda—“

“It’s okay,” Chimney says, reaching for his radio as Buck continues to hold her back. “Cap, I’ve got an underage female that could still be in the fourth apartment, copy?”

“Copy that,” Bobby says over the tinny speaker.

“They’re looking for her now,” Chimney says, placing a hopefully calming hand on the now sobbing mother’s shoulder. “We’re going to do everything we can for her, okay?”

“Okay,” she chokes out, still fighting weakly in Buck’s hold.

“Chim, it’s not looking good.” The static voice of their captain makes Buck’s blood turn to ice. “The IC says the structure’s unstable. Same problem with the rapid spreading - all cheap materials and unknown longevity.”

“Well that’s not good enough,” Chim snaps, walking a few steps away.

Buck stares up at the flames as they lick at the walls, bright and beautiful and deadly. He looks at the spread of people around their homes, people that were ripped from their beds in the night all because someone cut corners long before they were ever even here.

“Please,” the woman in his arms cries weakly, still reaching for the same set of windows and doors, the ones that have flames practically raining down from them. “Payton, please—“

Buck’s legs are moving before he can even think.

Buck, stupidly, did not grab any oxygen. Or mask, or equipment of any kind. He doesn’t even have a radio.

He seriously needs to start thinking these things through.

“LAFD!” he yells through the roar of the flames. “LAFD, call out!”

Thankfully, this is only a one-story townhouse, so there are only so many places to look. Unfortunately, this is only a one-story townhouse, so there are only so many places for the fire to spread before everything is covered with flames.

Buck’s just lucky he happened to be wearing turnouts.

“LAFD!” he calls again, coughing into his arm. He kicks open a closet door and hisses when it does nothing but make scalding embers fly onto his hands.

He coughs roughly again, moving further and further into the house. He can’t hear anything - nothing but the deafening roar of the fire and the angry creaking of roof beams above.

One of those beams falls. It lands right where he was standing not seconds ago, crashing quite spectacularly and sending flaming sparks flying in all directions. He hunches over to protect his face, coughing all the while.

“Payton!” he yells, and can barely hear it. “LAFD!”

He stumbles into a bedroom, and there are flames covering every inch of this room, too. He does his best to hide his hands in his coat to avoid burns, but flying bits of debris land on his fingers all the same. The flames roar, and the ceiling groans, and—

He doesn’t know how he hears it. A miracle, maybe.

Tiny coughs pierce through the air.

He stumbles towards the back closet, and pulls his coat further over his hand before turning the metal doorknob. He doesn’t know how deep this closet goes, and kicking it in could very well possibly hurt the girl he’s trying to save.

He’s glad he didn’t kick it in when the charred wood gently collides with a small foot.

“Hey,” he rasps, kneeling down into the closet that is still untouched by the inferno, but is black from smoke over nearly every inch. He carefully takes the barely conscious girl into his arms as she continues to cough weakly. “I gotcha.”

He stands quickly but not too quickly, painfully aware of the life he’s now responsible for carrying. His mind flashes to holding his nephew, and his hold tightens.

He turns around to head back out the door, but then - the roof beams creak again, and something shrieks. He turns sharply, hiding the tiny body from the spray of debris.

He looks back up when the crashing stops, and his stomach drops when he sees that the doorway is completely cut off from the rest of the building.

For a moment, panic wins.

No doorway. No way out. Nothing has changed. He’s going to die in a stupid, tiny room with no people, no doors, no windows because he was only ever living on borrowed time, and—

The thoughts pitter to a stop.

No doors. No windows. Except—

He turns, and realizes he must be at the end of the unit, because right there in the middle of the wall is—

A window.

He could laugh, he could cry. But he can’t right now, because the only thing that matters is getting this little girl back to her mom.

He breaks the glass with his elbow, making sure to brush away every shard before sliding both himself and Payton outside, pushing them both up and over the windowsill and into the fresh, smoke-free air.

He gasps as soon as his feet hit the grass, as soon as the air is no longer full of death. He coughs roughly into the cool night - so cool compared to the scorching air of what was once a townhouse. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes, because he’s not going to die in that room. He breathes, because he can.

The wonderful sound of tiny coughing fills his ears. Coughing means breathing. Breathing means alive.

There’s a thundering crash from behind him, and he slowly turns to see more and more structural beams collapsing in a fiery burst of light and destruction. Not even just in the unit he was in, but the ones on either side of it, too. The entire roof is practically caving in, and a shiver goes up Buck’s spine knowing that if he had been any slower—

He’s not going to think about it.

He exhales slowly, carefully, doing his best to not cough again. He looks down at Payton, whose chest continues to rise and fall.

He looks back up at the fire, and at the long line of units in both directions. He sighs, realizing this is going to suck, because he’s only now realizing he definitely pulled something in his bad calf.

The walk back is slow, and he takes care to not disturb the girl in his arms. He wishes he had a backboard - or better yet, an oxygen mask - to pass her way. This is what he gets, then, for not stopping to think.

(He’s gonna get a whole lot more.)

(He’ll blame the smoke for his absolute lack of intelligence and sensibility, not realizing that.)

He comes around the far end of the house, and the scene looks more or less the same. There are people still covered in inky smoke in various places on the lawn, outside of the perimeter the responding unit initially set up. Still paramedics checking them over, still firefighters from multiple stations with hoses aimed at the windows. Except—

There is a small group of people in front of the unit he just was in. And from this angle, that part of the building looks to be completely flattened, like it finally succumbed to the weight of the heat during his long walk around the side.

There is a small group of people, and his heart violently drops and seizes all at the same time.

He sends the girl off with the nearest paramedic. She’ll be okay, and so will her mom, who has come over from nearby. The sight should fill him with joy, but he can’t—

He can’t avoid turning back to the scene before him. And - he would run, but his leg won’t allow it.

The closer he gets, the worse it is.

There is something wrapping around his chest, and at the same time, there is a bubble forming around him, cutting off all sounds and sensations. Each step hurts less than the one before, and it’s only because all feeling is slowly draining out of him, bit by bit. And even still, he can hear everything around him, can see everything around him. The building, now rubble; the fire, still burning beneath the streams of water. He can still see Bobby. Who is holding it together, face unreadable, but only because he’s holding Eddie back.

Eddie, who is screaming so loud the fire barely compares.

Buck is rooted to the lawn, unable to move forward any more. He recalls thinking, in the past, about how he felt he was intruding on everyone’s grief.

That thought has never been more loud, and it still doesn’t compare to the screams.

He forces himself to move forward, if only because he can’t let this continue.

They’re facing slightly away from him. This allows - forces - Buck to place a hesitant hand on Bobby’s shoulder, coughing slightly as he does.

Bobby somehow manages to turn - with the thrashing body in his arms - and completely loses his grip when they finally lock eyes.

Eddie falls forward, probably because he wasn’t expecting Bobby to let go so easily. Buck’s heart seizes for a split second, thinking Eddie is about to run straight into the flames, but he turns around before he can - probably out of pure bewilderment as to why Bobby would let go at all.

And that gets Hen and Chim’s attention, and soon enough, all eyes are on him.

No one moves. The fire roars right next them, and the world has never been more silent.

Something shifts in Eddie’s eyes. The same ones that have an uncountable number tear tracks under them. Something cold overtakes warm brown, frigid in the face of intense heat.

He’s moving forward. Buck braces himself, flinches back like his body is expecting—

He’s not sure what, exactly, he was expecting. But it wasn’t getting pulled into a hug so tight he can hardly breathe.

Eddie is rigid, but his arms are locked around him. He can’t even feel Eddie breathe, that’s how still he is, the embrace a solid wall of steel. Even if Buck wanted to escape - if for some reason he wanted to be apart from Eddie - he wouldn’t be able to, even at full strength.

And then—

Eddie is letting go.

Eddie is walking away.

There would be a fog. There would be no connection to the physical world, if Buck were left to his own devices. He would be floating without any tethers, oblivious to the mess he’d left behind.

As it is, his good leg is bouncing as fast as it’s physically able.

Buck’s leg bounces, and a paramedic checks him over at the back of an ambulance.

He keeps his back to it all, taking deep breaths as they pull out more and more equipment to use on him. His soul all but leaves his body when a strange tube is placed near his mouth, but they want nothing more than for him to breathe into it.

Their ruling is that he should be fine, but that he should take it easy for the next couple of days. They put ice on his leg for a little while during his assessment, and send him away with instructions to do fifteen minutes on, forty five minutes off when he gets back home. He nods at their words; shakes his head too fast at the offered IV.

His heart is still hammering as the scene clears, as the fire is finally put out, as each of the necessary victims gets placed in an ambulance for transport. Far too soon, he’s being sent back to his own people after refusing to go to the hospital even under threat of death.

It looks like everyone is in the truck but Bobby. Who stands silently, arms crossed, looking at the smoldering ashes of what was once a standing structure.

Bobby looks at the building.

Not at him.

“In the truck,” he says, not giving him a second glance as he turns to open his own door.

Buck swallows a cough and he does what he’s told.

He sits in his seat, and nobody is looking at him. Not even Eddie, who stares straight ahead at nothing but the silver wall.

Buck sniffs lightly, eyes burning. Which doesn’t make much sense, since he’s not surrounded by smoke anymore. Logically, his eyes should be functioning just fine.

He inhales sharply when trembling fingers wrap around his wrist. He looks over, and Eddie is still staring strictly forward.

Buck looks down slowly. His wrist has been clear of bruises for a while, now, but he often experiences the phantom pain and sensation of what’s long gone. The gentle weight of Eddie’s hand has always been a calming balm to that ghost, even at the worst of times.

Eddie’s fingertips sit on the inside of his wrist. Just like always. But - they press just a bit firmer than usual. Almost like—

Oh.

Buck really is a fool, to not realize what Eddie has been doing this whole time.

His pulse. Eddie is checking his pulse. Checking to make sure Buck’s heart is still beating, affirming that there is still blood flowing through his veins.

Buck’s mouth is dry, and it has nothing to do with the smoke.

The ride is dead silent. It’s silent as they pull away from the scene, and it’s silent as they head back to the firehouse, as they pull into the open garage doors. No one speaks as they get out of the truck, either, and through it all, no one looks his way.

His throat is burning. The smoke probably had something to do with it. It probably - aggravated his trachea, or something.

Someone brushes his shoulder as they go by and Buck realizes he hasn’t moved forward at all since climbing out. He looks up, sees that it was Bobby.

Buck opens his mouth, and no sound escapes. All too familiar frustration breaks through the static, but not enough to force any words. He does manage to reach forward and grab the other man’s arm, who stops in his tracks. The sound of scuffing shoes makes everyone else slow, too.

Bobby turns, and Buck doesn’t think he’s ever seen such ice in another person’s gaze.

“Not now.” His jaw ticks. “I think you’ve done enough.”

Buck chokes on something, and still, it makes no sound.

Bobby stares at him a little bit longer before turning back to the showers.

“I’m sorry,” he finally gets out. “But that girl—“

“We had it handled.”

And that’s not Bobby. That’s—

“We were talking it over on the radio.” Chimney is taking off his helmet, still by the truck but slowly beginning to approach. “A radio you did not have.”

Chimney stops right in front of him. Buck thinks back the fire, to the blaze, and realizes that all the heat from that scene was nothing compared to the rage now present in the other man’s eyes.

“What right do you have,” he breathes, voice echoing through the silence and dripping with venom, “throwing yourself away like that?”

Buck does his best to not flinch violently.

“Do you have some sort of claim to self sacrifice?” Chimney’s voice only grows in absolute vitriol. “Are you the only one that’s allowed to run into the goddamn fire?”

Buck can’t hide his flinch, now, as the voice gets louder and louder.

That’s - that’s not true. That’s not what he thinks, it’s not what—

“You don’t stop to think at all, do you?” No one interrupts, and Chimney can do nothing but continue. “You don’t stop to consider what your actions do to the people around you. You don’t care about anything but yourself, how you can make the next rescue. Is it—“

Chimney’s voice breaks mid word, and Buck wants to claw his ears off, claw his eyes out, because - he is the reason Chimney is in this much pain.

The words continue to claw themselves from Chimney’s throat.

“Is it all just some game to you? Gotta save that next person, gotta pull off this next rescue? Can’t rely on any of your so-called teammates?”

The teammates that Chimney speaks of don’t move at all, and neither can Buck.

“And then it’s your teammates that have to clean up your mess. Your teammates have to be the ones to live with your mistakes. You just want to run into the fucking fire, and you don’t give a damn about the guy you pushed out of the way to do it!”

Buck doesn’t realize that his vision has turned watery until a single tear is landing on his cheek.

Something in the cloud of rage in Chimney’s eyes dies the slightest bit. The man exhales unsteadily as he takes a step back, shaking his head minutely as he does.

“And you’re never going to change, are you?” Buck flinches again at the words, at the way Chimney is turning away completely. “I don’t know why I ever thought you would.”

Bobby isn’t letting him come back.

Okay, that’s dramatic. It’s not like Bobby is firing him or anything, or forbidding him from firefighting forever.

Buck feels like being dramatic.

Everyone else is being dramatic as shit, so he might as well be, too. Bobby is never going to let him back at the 118 again. Buck is going to die alone doing a job he hates all because he couldn’t sit by and watch a little girl burn to death. Perfectly reasonable and not dramatic at all, actually.

Even in his own head - where everything is currently being held together by wires and threads - he can’t convince himself.

He went in with no backup, no radio, no oxygen. Nothing.

It’s a new low, even for him.

He just - he just couldn’t think over the need to go in and save that kid. He doesn’t care how absolutely stupid it was - he’d do it again a hundred times over if it meant the same result.

Including his not-even-real suspension. It can’t be real because he doesn’t even work here in the first place. So - no harm done.

Including the way Chimney let it all out on him. It was probably a long time coming, anyway. Buck can live with it. He’ll be perfectly fine.

Including the way no one is looking at him.

He—

He’s happy the girl is safe.

But he can’t kid himself.

It feels like he’s dying. For real, this time. No one is looking at him. No one is seeing him. It’s like he’s nothing but a fly on the wall - a wall on the most tense, silent room imaginable, a room where everybody hates the fly on the wall with a burning passion.

Eddie won’t look at him.

Buck hasn’t even seen him since they were both in the truck. He disappeared into the bunk room, and Buck hasn’t tried to find him.

The team is sent on a few more calls before the sun rises, and Buck isn’t allowed on any of them. He does his best to prepare some omelettes for everyone around seven while they’re out, but even as they come to get them he’s just as invisible as before.

Once upon a time, Buck might have been reminded of when he sued the department. There’s a small piece of him that finds that hysterical. Those times were practically sunshine and rainbows compared to what he knows now.

The shift ends, and Buck’s stomach drops, because—

Eddie is his ride home.

No words are said.

They pull into the driveway, and the engine cuts off, and the world is silent save for the birds chirping in the morning air. They walk into the house and there is nothing to hear but the creak of the door and the jangling of keys.

The house lies still, and Eddie walks around the corner and into the kitchen, leaving Buck where he’s still taking off his shoes. Christopher’s shoes are gone. He’s already off at school.

Buck walks around the corner as softly as the floorboards will allow.

Eddie is making coffee, and his hands are braced on either side of the counter as it brews. He only makes coffee after a shift when he’s far too wired to even hope for sleep.

Buck can’t hold in a cough.

Eddie’s shoulders tense, and they remain that way as the room fills with the steady sound of brewing liquid.

When the coffee is finally done, neither of them move. Not Buck from the doorway, and not Eddie from the counter. The island lies between them, and an entire ocean does, too.

The bubble of nothingness is inescapable. He’s stuck inside of it, everything on the outside pressing in on him, demanding his attention, pounding on the impenetrable glass. Everything around him is filled with cotton, making the screaming emotions on the outside unclear and muffled.

His throat aches and burns through the fog, from the damage, from the things that are trying so hard to claw their way to the surface.

He can’t just stand here, though. Not when Eddie hasn’t looked at him since they were outside of the smoldering rubble.

“Eddie—” His voice cracks, and he clears the roughness in his throat as softly as he can. “I’m…”

I’m what - sorry? Not sorry? Going out of my mind with need? Need for you to look at me, see me, know me? I’m losing it and can’t handle losing you?

(I’m in love with you?)

“Chris blamed himself.”

Something inside Buck shatters.

“You didn’t know that. Did you.”

Buck says nothing. Can’t say anything. Because Eddie knows full well Buck had no idea, because no one ever told him. Can’t say anything because he might as well be dead, knowing that now.

“He told me it was all his fault.” Every muscle in Eddie’s back is taught like a metal wire. “He pulled me away from you, and I wasn’t able to protect you, so he was the one to blame.”

The idea is - ridiculous. Buck knows it, Eddie knows it. The idea that in the long line of people at fault, Chris is somewhere to be found.

“I thought it was my fault, too.” The words are a punch, and they shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be any surprise that Eddie found some way to blame himself despite - everything. “If I hadn’t left, I could’ve protected you. I could’ve stopped it.”

Buck curls in on himself, opens his mouth, because Eddie had nothing to do with it. Eddie wasn’t the one that created the virus. Eddie wasn’t the one to let Chimney live.

You can have my back any day.

Or you could have mine.

If Eddie had been the one to die, Buck would’ve found a way to blame himself, come hell or high water.

Eddie still faces the counter. Like he can’t bear the weight of looking at him.

But then - Eddie throws up an arm, and bitterness flies off his tongue. “There’s nothing I could’ve done, though. Right?” He shakes his head as he puts the hand back down, as he seems to collapse in on himself, even from behind. “Why should I have ever thought you’d listen to me? It’s insane - the idea of you stopping to think about what could’ve happened for one second.”

Eddie breathes out slowly, but the tension remains, and Buck can’t breathe at all.

“Why should I have made a difference then, if I had been there? You clearly don’t stop to think about me - whether I’m there or not.”

It’s not true. Eddie - Eddie has to know that. He’s just - being Eddie. He’s saying things he doesn’t mean because he’s hurt. He has to know that Buck thought of him - every second. Every second since he realized he was infected. Every second since he woke up in that room. Every second since he watched that U-Haul drive off into the rain.

“If you had you would have - told me.” Eddie’s voice is strained. Weak. “You would’ve called, you would’ve - you would’ve said goodbye.”

Buck chokes on a cough that turns into a hitching sob, and it ends up coming out of his mouth as nothing more than a soft wheeze.

Eddie finally turns, softly, wildly, looking forward but down at the island between them, eyes shining in the early morning light. Even then, though, even through the shine there is a firmness - a harshness that comes out clear as day when he says, “But you didn’t, did you?”

Eddie’s hands shake at his sides, his jaw ticking. Buck’s recognizes the look, realizes Eddie probably wants to pick up one of the glasses and throw it at the wall.

When he finally speaks again, he spits the words like they’re poison. “You didn’t call. You made up your mind - to die alone. No one made you do that. No one forced you to lie. And it - it all could’ve been—”

His words break apart, voice cracking on the edges as a tear submits itself to gravity despite his efforts.

Eddie finally looks up then, glaring daggers through the tears, mouth twisted into something unrecognizable. “You could’ve been honest. You could’ve gotten help. But you lied, and look what happened.”

The floor is swaying. There… there might be an earthquake. That’s just what they need right now, isn’t it?

The floor is swaying, and the air is gone, and his body is no longer attached to whatever’s left of him.

“You didn’t tell me.” Eddie - through a thousand feet of water - looks back down. “You were dead. You knew it. And you didn’t tell me.”

Buck can’t see Eddie anymore. Maybe Eddie can’t see him, either.

“You never even asked what it was like.” But Buck can still hear him. God, can he still hear him. “I was eight hundred miles away, and I had to find out from Bobby - not you - that you were—“ Buck can still hear Eddie, and the way his voice crumples. “I had to learn through the phone that I’d never see you again.

“And I couldn’t even cry!” The fuzzy shape before him jerks. “Chris was right down the hall, and I had to keep it together, because I had to be the one to tell him that—“

His voice breaks again. Buck can hear every breath he takes, every shaking inhale and stuttering exhale.

“I almost had to tell him again.” The venom is back, more potent and painful than before. “Do you get that? Do you understand? Do you understand how much losing you hurt him the first time?

“You don’t, do you? Who cares what happens to Chris, right? Who cares what happens to the rest of your family? We can just suck it up and deal.”

It’s not true. It’s not true, it’s—

Buck has to say something. He has to stop Eddie, because Buck can’t let him go on thinking he doesn’t care. He does, he does care, he cares so much, about Eddie and Chris and—

“Because you’re expendable.” The word is a slap, harsh and cold and cruel. And they both know it. “Of course you can be replaced. Your life doesn't matter 'cause it’s all temporary, right? You don’t care about - any of it. It’s all about you and how you can throw your life away this time around.”

“I care,” Buck finally, finally chokes out, and—

“Do you?” Eddie’s face snaps towards him, hissing and spitting the words with desperation. “Do you, Buck? Because to me it seems like—“ He sniffs, eyes nothing but steel, and then he’s turning back towards the untouched mug under Buck’s fancy coffee machine.

“You don’t care about anything,” he says. “Least of all your own life.”

The clock ticks on the far wall. It’s soft, something Buck can usually tune out. But here, now, in the silence of the kitchen, the calm rhythm taunts him.

The clock is steady, and his heart rate flies.

“I can’t do this.”

Buck’s head snaps back to Eddie. He - what did he just—

“I can’t do this anymore, Buck.”

Buck’s never been shot before.

He’s seen it happen, though, and this is probably pretty damn close.

(He shouldn’t be surprised. It always happens. Eventually. No one has ever stuck around long enough to tolerate him, and now—)

(Eddie is no exception.)

He nods, though it’s probably more of a twitch of his neck. He can’t open his mouth. If he does he won’t be able to predict the sounds that will escape.

Eddie can’t do this anymore.

Fine.

Somehow his legs move him away from the kitchen. Somehow his fingers grab ahold of car keys inside of the little white dish on the side table, and somehow he opens the door, steps outside, and gets into his jeep.

He’s at the end of the road when he realizes how long it’s been since he’s driven.

He’s somewhere he’s never seen before in his life when he pulls over to keep himself from crashing.

He’d sleep in his jeep, but being alone right now might truly be the death of him.

I wouldn’t have to be dealing with this, with any of this, if they’d left me with that virus to just—

He chokes on another ragged sob, and his chest spasms from the force.

He can’t go back. He - he can’t. He knows that, that he can’t go back, and - and it hurts, stabs in the worst of ways, but—

He’ll suck it up and deal.

He can’t go to Maddie’s.

Chim is there. Chim, who’s pissed to all hell with him, and rightfully so, and is going to tell Maddie what he did, and she’s going to be pissed, too. And disappointed. And he can’t bear to look at her, at the face she’ll make when she knows, so - he can’t go to Maddie’s.

Bobby’s place is out of the question, too. For a brief moment his mind flashes to Athena, to her warm embrace after sitting alone in the cold for so long, but - she’s with Bobby. And Buck will run into the same problem, because Bobby will tell Athena, and she’ll be just as upset as him, if not more.

Hen is livid. She didn’t look at him once, didn’t speak to him for the rest of shift. She didn’t even do that when he sued Bobby. And - she has two kids. A wife. He has no right to barge in on her life just because his own is falling apart.

Ravi wasn’t on shift. Ravi doesn’t know what happened. But - he’ll ask. Of course he will, since he knows Buck is supposed to be with - someone else. But Buck can’t lie. And even if he could, Ravi would find out from everyone else. And - he’ll be just as furious, will kick him out even faster than Eddie.

Taylor flashes through his mind. He shoves the thought aside as quickly as it comes. She never put up with his self sacrificing bullshit, and she’s not going to start now. And—

And—

It doesn’t matter.

All these names, all these faces - it’s never going to fucking matter.

None of them can fix what’s broken inside of him. That’s the crux of it all. Something is shattered, irreparably so, and he just wants someone to fix it, and—

It’s impossible.

All the glue in the world couldn’t help him, so. He’s stuck like this. A sobbing mess in his own jeep, alone like he was always meant to be.

And he just wants—

Someone that understands.

He wants someone to look at him, to see him. No one is seeing him. He might as well be a piece of glass, because he can only be looked through. Just like the room. Just like that place. Just like the people that saw him as nothing but a number, a subject. All the people at the firehouse needed were some suits and vials and tubes and they’d have been the spitting image.

He needs someone that will see him, and understand. Understand what’s broken inside of him. And that’s - no one does. Not even Athena and Taylor.

He needs someone to understand.

He’s putting the address in his phone and pulling back onto the road.

He arrives at the apartment he’s been to exactly one time with the sun high in the sky and fog settling into his bones. He should probably be hungry, tired, all the things he usually feels after a twenty four.

His numb hand knocks, and it’s only when he does that he realizes she might not even be here. He has no idea what her schedule is, if she’s working again - no clue if he’s going to have to wait or start his mental search all over again to—

The door opens.

She’s in warm pajamas, fuzzy socks. Even though the temperature outside is around seventy degrees. Her glasses sit on the edge of her nose, just like always, but her hair is up in a messy bun instead of a neat one.

She’s looking at him. Just like she did before.

“Buck?” Jules says, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He can only shake his head.

A mug of green tea warms his hands. It’s cold in her apartment, and he gets why she’s wearing fuzzy socks.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here,” she says, holding her own cup and standing awkwardly against a window covered by light pink curtains. “Not even Eddie.”

He snorts lightly through his lingering tears. He shouldn’t be surprised at how transparent he is, but - it doesn’t matter anymore. Eddie wouldn’t care either way.

“You can stay as long as you want,” she says, gesturing to the puffy couch he’s currently sitting on. It seems like it’d be way more comfortable to sleep on than his or Eddie’s. “It’s the least I can do.”

He nods. Even writes thanks for doing this in his notes app and shows it to her, though the gesture only makes her eyes even sadder.

When night falls, he can’t sleep. No matter how comfortable the stupid couch is.

He stares through the darkness at the coffee table. At his phone. The phone that’s been silent ever since Maddie texted him - to make sure he was alive - and he gave the message a thumbs up. It makes sense, that they would care if he’s alive and nothing more.

He stares, and stares, and stares, like if he does, it will light up with a text. Or FaceTime. Or call. From anyone, like Maddie or Bobby or Chimney or—

Or Eddie, who wouldn’t call him right now if it would cure cancer. It’s a good thing cancer isn’t contagious, actually. They would’ve found a way to stick him with it.

He sits up abruptly, anger overtaking him even as the shift gives him slight vertigo.

His family doesn’t - they don’t get it. They don’t know what he’s been through, so they don’t have any right to dictate what he should and shouldn’t do. He deserves free will. He’s had enough sporadic virtual therapy appointments to know at least that much. His family, as well as they mean, don’t have any right to tell him what he can and can’t do with his life.

He should be allowed to do what he wants. Every day, every minute, every second. There shouldn’t be - anyone making him do otherwise.

The anger takes a nosedive into fury, only directed at another target. And the target isn’t new. Not by a long shot.

Buck knows he got mad, those three and a half months. Fuck, did he get mad. There were points when he yelled until he was blue in the face, screamed obscenities that would make even a sailor blush, but those times were few and far between when—

Well.

Fear, despair, pain. Those were the ghosts that never left his bedside.

And - and why was that? Why were those his emotions? What could have possibly caused all that to consume him?

They took away his freedom. They stole his dignity, stole every last scrap of his life. They stripped pieces of him away until he was nothing, beat him down until he couldn’t exist, couldn’t breathe without wanting to die, and left—

Whatever he is now its place.

He’s not Buck.

Not anymore.

He wishes his family could see that. That they could see - he might as well have died. That the Buck they knew and somehow loved did die. He’s just some hollow shell walking around in a corpse’s place.

Those people stole his life. They killed him and left - this. This thing that can’t talk or act normally or do the one thing he was put on this earth to do. He was dead before he ever closed that lab door on Bobby.

He stands up and begins to pace. He wants to crawl out of his skin, wants to rip all his clothes off. Because he was dumb enough to not grab something to change into on his way out. Fuck, why is he wearing jeans? Maybe that’s why he can’t sleep - because he’s that stupid, so stupid that he’s actually trying to sleep with—

His toe collides with something hard as his fingers curl around an object in his pocket.

He curses lowly in the dark, because apparently his brain will let him speak in this scenario. He hops on one foot, hissing as he looks back up at the desk sitting in the corner of the room, the two-monitor computer rattling from the force of his kick. For a moment he freezes, listening to see if he woke up Jules.

Thankfully, the rest of the house remains still.

His other hand - the one that didn’t fly to his now throbbing foot - which does not help the pain still flaring in his calf - is still in his pocket.

He slowly takes it out, fingers curled around the object he grabbed while he was frantically trying to pull his skin up by the roots.

He holds it up to a sliver in the soft pink curtains. He can read it, even in the pale moonlight.

It should scare him.

He should throw it away, shred it, never look at it again. Because when he took it, he wasn’t going to use it. He took it to be polite, to get the pressure off of his back.

The anger simmers. The anger burns. He doesn’t even know who it’s directed at anymore. He reaches for his phone, still sitting silently on the coffee table.

He really needs to stop calling lawyers when he can’t go back to work.

Chapter Text

Eddie doesn’t have Buck’s number. 

That’s not entirely true. He has a number in his phone, but it’s the number he put in eight years ago. He never got around to changing it. Couldn’t bring himself to change it. So - it’s the same number that’s been there this whole time. 

It wasn’t a problem before. He and Buck were so glued together that they were practically living in each other’s pockets, so it wasn’t a problem before. 

It’s a problem now. 

“Come on,” he mutters, pacing back and forth in the too-bright kitchen, heartbeat slamming against his eardrums so loud he can hardly hear the ringing. Pick up.

A click, and then— “Eddie?”

“Maddie,” he rasps, stopping dead and running a hand through his hair. “Is Buck with you?”

“No, why?” Her tone, which was casual, is now frantic with worry. “Is he not with you?”

“No, he—“ Eddie’s breath catches, and he has to force down the rising panic in his throat before he can speak again. “He left.”

Maddeningly, her voice ever so slightly loses its panicked edge. “Left? What do you mean, left?”

God, he fucked up. He fucked up - so bad. “He just - left!” Fuck, this isn’t important right now. What’s important is— “Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t, no.” She’s still worried, but he can hear the fear seeping out of her tone as she takes calming breaths. She’s maybe even starting to sound pissed, now, and he’ll admit it’s completely justified. “Why did he leave?”

He forces his breaths to slow, too. It might as well be impossible - with this gnawing sensation in his chest and the way he wants to crawl out of his own skin - but he forces it anyway. 

“We need to find him. Call him, have Chim call Bobby, we can—“

She interrupts to once again ask, “Why did he leave?”

“Because I’m an asshole, that’s why!” This couldn’t possibly matter less right now— “Can you call him, please?”

“I’ll check in with him,” she says slowly. Too slowly. He needs her to check now. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

She sounds even more pissed, now. And rightfully so. She doesn’t know a fraction of how deserved it is, actually. 

“I didn’t—“ He chokes on something. Maybe air, maybe nothing at all. “I didn’t realize.”

Didn’t realize until it was too late - until Buck was already gone. Didn’t notice that he’d left the room until the jeep’s engine was starting, and Eddie was running out of the still-open door to find nothing but clouds of dust. 

The line is consumed only by silence, but eventually Maddie speaks. “I texted him. I’ll see if he replies.”

“But—“ Eddie can’t do that. He needs - needs to know where he is. “We need to find—“

“Buck is a grown adult that can make his own choices.” That’s rich coming from her, but he won’t tell her that. “Especially if you were ‘being an asshole.’”

There’s a knife that rips through his chest at the words, but he can’t deny the truth behind them. 

She’s silent again for a moment, but when she does speak, she’s a bit calmer. Less completely ticked off. “What happened?”

An involuntary breath rushes to his lungs as images flash across closed eyelids. 

Chimney running past him, screaming for a figure that had already disappeared into the flames. The way the doors were already blocked by the time Eddie realized, by the time any of them realized - the way the rest of the roof just kept falling further and further in on itself, the way he could only watch as the world collapsed before him all over again and—

He exhales as steadily as he can. “Did Chim tell you?”

“About last night?” she asks, to which he hums weakly. “He did, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as furious as you guys, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to yell at him.”

Eddie swallows thickly. 

“I - I know,” he croaks, sitting down at the table when his legs become a little too numb. He wonders, briefly, if Maddie knows what to say because she’s already said all of it to Chimney. “Just—“

He breathes in, trying to remain calm, to not go over to her house and call Buck from her phone himself. 

“I need to know he’s okay,” he whispers. He needs to know - because if he’s not - if for some reason Buck’s not okay, if Eddie is the reason something does happen— “Shit, I don’t - I don’t know what I would do if—“

“Hey,” Maddie says softly, cutting off his spiral before it can really begin. “I’m sure he’s fine. This is Buck we’re talking about.”

“And you’re not worried?” he says, only slightly kidding as a single tear escapes his defenses. 

She gently chuckles in his ear. He tries to be comforted by the sound. “I’ll let you know when he gets back to me. If he hasn’t in an hour or two, we can start the search. Okay?”

“Thank you,” he breathes, resting his head in the hand not holding the phone. 

The words he said are mostly a blur. 

A blur of fury and terror and desperation; born of an incessant need for Buck to understand, how - how reckless he can be. How insane it was to run into a collapsing building with no backup, into a goddamn fire with no oxygen mask. How damn lucky he was, to not need to go to the hospital.

(But if Buck did need it - if he turned down any medical attention because of the trauma still living in his veins - if he takes a turn for the worse somewhere he won’t be able to get help, all because Eddie drove him away, drove him to isolating himself—)

Eddie just doesn’t get it. How Buck doesn’t see how important he is, why he’s so eager to throw his life away on nothing but a whim. Just - why Buck always has to put himself dead fucking last every chance he gets. Eddie just can’t do it anymore, pretending that fact doesn’t wreck him from the inside out. He can’t handle watching him run headfirst into life threatening danger when he knows with unquestionable certainty what that could lead to.

The words he does remember loop themselves in his head, vile and pathetic and taunting and—

You could’ve gotten help. But you lied.

And look what happened.

He can hardly hear his own voice over the memories. “What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

Eddie wouldn’t forgive himself, if he were Buck. Hell, he doesn’t. There’s no way he can take back all the horrible things he said - the way he used Chris as a shield for his own emotions, again, the way he threw words like expendable at him like a bullet from a sniper rifle. 

Look what happened. 

He might be sick into the sink again. 

“You are kidding, right?” He doesn’t know what to do with her disbelieving, almost deadpan tone of voice. “This is Buck we’re talking about.”

It is, isn’t it. Buck, who’s far too forgiving for his own good. Buck, who would forgive a bear for attacking him, or his parents after they lied to him for his entire life. 

The man Eddie drove away with nothing but his words. Buck, who couldn’t even use words to defend himself from the blindness driven by Eddie’s anger. Anger that made Eddie just - just keep going, even when he couldn’t handle looking at Buck without bursting into tears, even when every word had to have been slicing into Buck like a knife, and Eddie was all alone, all over again, and—

Maybe it was more than anger. 

The realization comes with the plummeting of his stomach. 

Of course he didn’t notice, in the moment. How could he? How was he supposed to realize it? His brain filled in the gaps all on its own, with no regard to reason or his conscious mind.

To him - in front of that rubble, in the soft, morning-lit kitchen - Buck was gone. Was dead, the way he had been for months. 

Buck ran into the fire the same way he ran away with the truth, and Eddie was left to do nothing but bury another coffin. Buck was as good as dead, so Eddie could only speak to a dark phone screen. 

(A dark phone screen, that couldn’t hear him - or react, or have its heart broken, or run away because Eddie doesn’t know how to hold something without shattering it or—)

He should’ve known his shit coping mechanisms would come back to haunt him. 

“Yeah,” he says, not believing it at all. Because try as he might—

Eddie is always going to be the one to push people away. 

Even someone like Buck, who clings so tightly that claw marks are left on everything he sinks his fingernails into. Even with someone like him, Eddie will always be the one to ruin it. He’ll always be the one to hurt the people he loves. He’s never going to lose the instinct to attack anything that makes him feel threatened, to lash out at anything that backs him into a corner.  

This is what Eddie is. 

“Trust me.” Maddie’s voice cuts through the fog. “If there’s one thing I know about my brother, it’s that he loves you.” The words are a punch to the gut, for - so many reasons, and he can’t help a sharp inhale at the force of it. “He’ll come around.”

Buck doesn’t come around. 

No one hears from him other than a measly thumbs up on Maddie’s check-in text. Everyone agrees to give him space, to not overwhelm him. To give him the time that he needs to choose what to do for himself. 

The guilt turning in Eddie’s gut isn’t lonely, at least. 

Days pass with nothing but radio silence. It’s only because of Eddie not having Buck’s new number that he’s not blowing up his phone, and - he’s going to keep it that way. Buck doesn’t deserve to be harassed when all he wants is space. Maddie still gets the occasional text, and it’s the only reason he hasn’t gone out of his mind with worry, but he still can’t stand the distance.

Even if there’s no one to blame but himself. 

Eddie wants to rip all of his hair out when he finds out Buck is staying with - whatever her goddamn name is. 

He knows he’s not exactly subtle - he’s extremely vocal about it, as a matter of fact - and in return, everyone looks at him with pity. He can’t stand it. He was the one that drove Buck away, so he has to live with the consequences. 

It still drives him insane. 

But not as insane as what Bobby tells everyone on their next shift. 

“He’s doing what?”

Buck isn’t freaking out. Why would he be? It’s not like he did something wildly stupid. Again. It’s not like he decided to say fuck you to his family by calling a lawyer who, at the end of the day, is just using him for their own agenda. 

Again. 

The room is too small. It’s - way too small. The walls might truly be getting closer and closer together with each beat of his heart. 

The door is closed. He doesn’t - it shouldn’t be closed. What if the door doesn’t open? What if it can’t open?

Shit, he needs to calm down. He’s going out into the courtroom in - he doesn’t know how many minutes. The clock on the wall is just as intangible and blurred as everything else in this microscopic room. 

The walls are blue. The couch he’s sitting on is brown. There is a painting on the wall by the door, and it has red and yellow and green brushstrokes. The door is made of wood, not metal, and it is not locked. He can leave if he wants to. He could get up and walk out the door right now. 

He stands up, maybe to fight off the nerves. Maybe to give into the incessant urge to pace. Maybe to prove to himself that he can. 

One way or another, he needs to calm down. 

He didn’t think - he didn’t think it would all be so fast. Didn’t know the paperwork for his testimony was already processed - already waiting for nothing but Buck’s own approval. It’s barely been a week. He thought—

He thought he’d have more time. 

More time for what, he’s not sure. 

Maybe to get over feeling like he’s a walking corpse. Maybe to become comfortable in his own skin. Or maybe even - it could’ve been only a few more days before he lost it and just completely skipped town. 

More time to get over his feelings for Eddie. More time for someone to reach out to him besides Maddie, to tell him they still care about him even though he can be such a—

He needed more time. 

At least more time to get over this damn block in his voice, one he doesn’t even understand himself. He knows he’s only going to be asked yes or no questions because of it, but what good is a witness that can’t even speak? 

That’s, like, the whole point of being a witness. 

Nelson has the case files, the security footage, the medical records. Everyone can see from a clinical perspective exactly what was done to him. Except - that’s not the point. The point is for him to be the opposite of clinical. His job is to get up there and be a hot mess. 

Yeah. He’ll do a great job, actually. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

His heart is going to rocket right out of his chest. He’s not ready. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. Can he still say no? Can he drive away, tell whoever it is to leave him alone? He’d call out, tell them to leave him be, maybe for five more minutes, maybe for forever, but—

He can’t seem to even manage that. 

The door creaks open, and instant relief floods through him. 

“Hey, kid,” Athena says, stepping into the small space and softly closing the door behind her. “You okay?”

He nods, looking down at his shoes. They’re way too shiny. He’s not sure where Jules got them, much less the rest of his new suit. 

Athena apparently isn’t here for measly platitudes. She wastes no time before crossing the room and pulling him into a tight hug. 

He fights off his surprise, melting against her warm frame - lets that warmth calm some of the nerves racing through his veins. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispers, gently pulling him back over to the couch and helping him sit. “You’re gonna do great, honey.”

He looks up at her, a question in his gaze, because - what? 

Why isn’t she mad at him? For doing all of this, for not moving on? For that stupid stunt he pulled - for throwing his life away over and over and—

“We’re all here for you,” she says, running a soft hand along his back and humming dryly at his confusion. “What, you thought we’d let you do this alone?”

His ears seem to be ringing. He’d reach up to rub at them, but he’s sure he didn’t mishear her twice. “We?”

“I don’t think the entire LAFD could have kept us away,” she says with a gentle smile. Her expression turns serious once more, though, as she continues to rub his back. “Unless you want it. Say the word, and we’ll all go. No questions asked.”

So he didn’t mishear. 

His family is here. 

It doesn’t make sense. They’re supposed to be mad at him. They - they are mad at him. He still hears their words every night when he tries to sleep, every morning when he wakes. They pound into his ears as guilt churns inside every vein. 

Athena is making it sound like everyone is here. And he can’t understand it. 

(And even if they weren’t incredibly pissed with him, why would they be so eager to join him in - any legal fight? The last time he did something like this, it was a nightmare for everyone. He gets that it’s different - that it’s not his fault this time, not really - but he doesn’t get why they would want to subject themselves to this again.)

(Especially when they’re already so furious.)

“I’ll take that as a no,” she says softly. “Buck - we all want to be here.” She stares into his eyes, like she’s imploring him to believe her with everything she has. “Trust me.”

He wants to believe it. Really, he does. 

Wanting to and actually believing it are two very different things. 

“‘Cause they were so happy last time,” he murmurs. His mouth is really keeping with its program, only deigning him with the ability to speak when it inconveniences him.

She stiffens ever so slightly at his side. 

“Buck,” she begins. “You deserve this. Okay? You deserve to have your voice heard. You’ve earned the right to be angry. And you’re allowed to want to do something about it.”

He shrugs. He supposes that on some level, he gets that. He’s not sure he would be here at all if he didn’t. 

Guilt still eats at him like a parasite. From dying, from almost dying. Leftover guilt still gnaws at him from when he sued Bobby all those years ago, guilt he buried so deep inside he thought he’d never have to face it again. Guilt for not being strong enough, for not being loud enough, for not being quiet enough, for not being good enough, for—

For not being enough. 

“You know, I always agreed with you,” Athena says suddenly.

He glances at her again, the words pulling him from the beginnings of a spiral. He’s not really sure what she’s talking about, though. 

“I think Bobby was wrong to keep you from work, all those years ago, and you were well within your legal rights.” Her chin straightens as his jaw drops. “He had no right to choose for you, and the fact that you won the case proves it.” She chuckles a bit, then, at his gaping expression. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

He nods mutely, unsure of what he’d even say if he could get his vocal cords to work. 

“My point,” she says, reaching up and brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, “is that no one is using what happened last week as an excuse to be angry - especially over something like this. We’re all on your side, baby.”

No matter how many times she uses that nickname, it’s always going to make his chest implode. 

He nods, trying his best to believe her. 

“And I’ll be the first to tell you - we’ve been on your side,” she continues, her thumb circling his shoulder blade. “Everyone’s been trying to give you space, but - well, to be blunt, they feel terrible about what happened.”

They’ve been—

“So go easy on them, will you?” she says with an amused smile. 

He can’t help but gape at her even more. 

Everyone has been giving him space, she said. Space. That’s what they’re calling it? The way no one has been calling him? That’s the reason for it?

He’d feel annoyed if he wasn’t so busy feeling overwhelmingly relieved. And maybe that’s a bit pathetic of him, maybe he shouldn’t be so eager to accept such any easy out to the way he feels abandoned, but—

He’s sick of that feeling. Has been, for a long, long time. Having the option to cling to it or not - he’ll always pick the latter. 

Another knock pierces the silence of the room. 

His nerves return tenfold, his heart once again trying to escape the narrow confines of his chest. 

Athena stands and offers him a hand. He exhales unsteadily and takes it. “You’re gonna do amazing, kid. Go show those assholes they picked the wrong family.”

The space was far too small. Now it’s far too big. 

He’s reminded of the last time he was in a courtroom, when they helped Hen clear her name and reestablish the Wilson’s custody of Mara. The buzz of the audience, the inescapable gaze of the jury. And just like then, there are cameras pointed right at the witness stand. 

Pointed right at Buck. 

Just like then, his family sits in the sea of spectators. This time, he is the one facing them. Athena said they were here for him. He tries his best to believe it. 

He also tries his best to look anywhere else. 

He manages to stammer out the few necessary words to swear in. His heart pounds in time with the gavel as he wipes his shaking palms on his too-nice pants. 

“Let the record show that Mr. Buckley might not be able to answer questions verbally,” Attorney Nelson is saying in the direction of a woman who appears to be typing the court transcript. “I will indicate any nonverbal answers for him.”

Buck exhales, attempting to make the stream of air steady and failing. His head is full of cotton, but the world remains sharp. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my notes will come directly from prior testimony and documentation. Please be aware that Mr. Buckley’s inability to properly take the stand bears witness in and of itself to the nature of this case.

“My. Buckley,” Nelson says, and Buck’s heart rate somehow doubles in his ears. “Let’s talk about Tuesday, April eighth.”

Buck nods, looking down at his sweaty hands, doing his best to simply breathe. 

He nods and shakes his head when he needs to. He listens more often than not, though. That night doesn’t pertain all that much to him. Funny, since it’s the night he supposedly died. 

Buck doesn’t really remember much of that day, even the things he personally experienced. He couldn’t say who disobeyed the military’s orders, or who was injured in the initial blast and how. It’s all one big blur of panic and agony. 

Guilt eats away at him all the same. Some friend he is, that he doesn’t remember which one of them had a punctured lung. 

“You didn’t tell anyone you were infected,” the attorney says. “You were under the assumption that you would succumb to the illness, correct?”

Someone flinches out of the corner of Buck’s eye. He shifts so that they’re no longer in his peripheral. He nods, and Nelson says as much for the transcript. 

“Yet you fell into a coma until April twentieth.” The lawyer faces the jury. “His funeral was on the twenty-second, after they ‘released’ his body. Is that correct, Mr. Buckley?”

He shrugs, and manages to glance up and see that Nelson is giving him a prompting look. “I - I don’t—“ He clears his throat roughly. “I didn’t…”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You don’t know any of the dates.”

Buck can only nod, and he’s not sure what to make of the gleam in Nelson’s eyes. “So you’re saying you had no concept of time - for the entire duration of your captivity?”

It sounds pretty bad, hearing it out loud like that.

Buck looks down after his affirming nod, and camera flashes illuminate the witness stand. 

He’s not sure how it gets worse, but it does. 

His lawyer continues chronologically, more and more dates spilling in one of Buck’s ears and out the other. He’s asked about how he was supposedly reinfected with CCHF, and he can only nod and ignore the responding buzz of the courtroom. He’s asked about the first time they drugged him, and he shrugs, because he’s not sure how else to answer. He’s never been sure of what actually happened, when they did something like that. 

“You woke up on May first,” Nelson says - sounding, for the first time, almost apologetic— “restrained to the bed.”

Buck can feel the way his entire body recoils at the words. At the way it seems as if the restraints are back - like they never left at all. They’re too tight, they’re cutting off his circulation, he can’t move or breathe or—

“Mr. Buckley?”

He nods, eyes squeezed shut, and he can still see flashes against his retinas. Who the hell still uses flash photography these days, anyway?

He manages to keep nodding when he needs to, pulling himself out of his head before he can disappear there completely. Nelson speaks mostly to the jury, only asking for Buck’s input and nods when it helps his case. 

Dates continue to fill his ears, but now they’re joined by the names of diseases he’s never heard before. He wonders how long it took Nelson to practice the pronunciations. They sound complicated. The complicated list continues on and on, the dates finally reaching up to around when Athena opened that metal door. 

What’s not complicated are the lists of symptoms that come with each and every new confusing name. Fevers. Vomiting. Aches, pains, tremors. Seizures. 

Buck nods along to every single one. Through it all, he doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Eleven PM, June twenty-seventh.”

And then they snap open. 

He has no idea what happened on the day in question. They already passed June a while ago - he’s pretty sure they got through the entire timeline of diseases, actually. Maybe - maybe this is just the order of business for Nelson. Dates, deadly diseases with dates, more dates. 

Buck didn’t think they would talk about his birthday, though. 

“You were asleep, Mr. Buckley,” his lawyer says, tone softer than before as Buck fails to mask his bewilderment. “It was at this time Julia Parker hacked the cameras, entered your cell, and removed your restraints.”

The words echo in his ears. Actually - there is a ringing coming from somewhere. It’s high pitched and inescapable, and the whole room flashes with sudden, intense heat, and he—

He ducks down and throws up mostly bile in the tiny trash can under the stand. 

His ears are still ringing. Someone brings him water. The bottle is slick with condensation, and he can’t manage to get it open with his shaking fingers. The judge - of all people - takes it from him and breaks the seal. 

He can’t even choke out a thanks. 

“We can take a recess if - let the record show Mr. Buckley is shaking his head.”

He can get through this. He has to be able to get through this. If he doesn’t, it might never happen at all. 

If he gets off this stand he’s not getting back on. 

“You woke up to an open door,” Nelson eventually continues as Buck wipes a slightly trembling sleeve across his lips. “And you attempted to leave.”

He remembers. 

He remembers the cool tile beneath his feet. The way his knees buckled when he put weight on them, the way adrenaline got him back off the ground. He remembers endless hallways, not knowing which way to turn, which way would lead to an exit or which one would lead to—

“I - I tried,” he rasps, and his fist curls around the bottle enough for a bit of water to splash up and over the side, onto the dark wood. 

“No one is blaming you.” It’s the softest Nelson’s voice has gotten, the least clinical and detached. “You were delirious with fever. There was no way for you to know which path led to freedom. Do you resent Ms. Parker at all for not assisting you further, or for everything she did to keep you there?”

Buck is already shaking his head before the words can finish leaving the man’s mouth. What kind of a question is that? Does he resent the woman that got him out? The only one to actually look at him the entire time he was there? The person that’s still letting him live on her couch after a week of avoiding everyone else in his life?

“So you could feel bitterness, and choose not to. That certainly speaks to your character.”

That’s - Buck doesn’t know what to do with that. He supposes it could say something - that he’s so desperate for human interaction that he’d overlook anything. Or that he can recognize when someone is more than the sum of their past mistakes. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you can see the moral character here as well as I can. I would like you to ask yourselves, what kind of people would take someone like Mr. Buckley and do the things I’ve so described?”

Buck opens his mouth, because that’s not fair. No one would deserve what was done to him. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy, or even on anyone that actually did those things. It’s not like - like it’s especially unfortunate because it’s him. 

“What kind of monster would lock someone like this away? What sort of person would see that kind of person trying to escape and only hurt them further?”

Nausea curls in his gut - he’s going to be sick again, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want them to bring up what—

“You were in the endless hallways,” Nelson says, back by the witness stand now, voice far too imploring and - maybe even eager— “when a security guard attacked you from behind.”

Buck’s head moves to agree against his will. The wood beneath the water bottle turns even darker as more and more liquid splashes over the side. 

“He struck you with a baton in the ribs.” Buck can feel it - the blow that landed there a lifetime ago. Landed there a single breath ago. He nearly gasps from the phantom pain the words seem to bring. “But it didn’t stop there, did it?”

A fist is in his hair, pulling and tugging to get his hands away from his face, and he’s trying, trying to get away, to get back up, and the pain and blows keep coming, keep—

“Let the record show Mr. Buckley is shaking his head.”

Buck takes in a shuddering breath. He’s not there. He’s right here, and the wood beneath his fingers is cool, and smooth, and the plastic bottle is cold, and—

“Your bruises were never documented. But you had already been knocked back down three times when they finally used a taser until you lost consciousness.”

The bottle of water in his hand jerks, spilling even more liquid onto the stand. He didn’t want this, didn’t think about - he didn’t know—

(What exactly did he not know? What did he expect? Sunshine and rainbows? Did he expect nothing but dates and the names of exotic diseases?)

“You were—“

“Attorney Nelson,” the judge says, her voice heavy. “Give the victim a moment.”

The cameras flash, and he stares at the stupid puddle of water. 

Nelson agrees, almost ashamed. As if he never meant to get so carried away. 

He turns to speak to the jury again, talking about - Buck’s character, of all things. Of his moral standing, his life as a firefighter, the life he chose to give up for the sake of others. It’s ironic that Buck has never felt more selfish as he contemplated the merits of leaving without another word. 

(Like he’s said that many to begin with.)

The urge to look up and into the crowd is overwhelming, but it doesn’t out-scream the need to pretend no one else is here. 

He needs to convince himself no one else is here. Ironic, since this whole thing started because he desperately wanted to feel seen. 

“You woke up in the same bed,” he hears eventually. Once he’s not about to pass out from hyperventilation.

“Buck,” the man says quietly, and Buck’s eyes snap up. “You don’t have to answer this.”

He should probably be worried. This man hasn’t seemed to give a damn about Buck’s feelings this entire time. Maybe - maybe it’s because of the judges words, that he suddenly feels the need to be discrete. 

“Did you give up?”

His mouth dries.

The man’s eyes grow regretful, but not so much that he leaves it alone. “You stopped eating.”

Buck flinches, and he can’t hide it. 

“When you woke up, you refused to eat no matter what was placed in front of you. You didn’t eat for four days.” The man sighs. “No one knows your motivation but you. Was this a bid for attention, an attempt to gain back control?”

He can’t get any air into his lungs. 

Despite the way Buck is visibly shaking, Nelson continues. “Or was it a different way to escape?”

There is no sound in the courtroom - no clicks or flashes, no murmuring of the jury. It seems - it seems like no one is even breathing. 

Buck can’t breathe.  

Hunger gnaws at his bones through an endless sea of fog. He wants to eat - needs to eat, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t need to. He can’t bring himself to contort his body down to eat the food so disgusting it makes him sick. The restraints are even tighter than usual, but they don’t sting nearly as much as the burning pain in his stomach. 

He’s still looking at the little puddle of water.

Nelson is talking, but not to him. Buck glances up from the stand, to where the man is pacing over by the jury. 

Through a thousand feet of water, Buck says, “I don’t know.”

Nelson stops, and turns back. “What?”

Buck swallows around the lump in his throat. “I…”

“You don’t know why you did it.” The man nods, like it makes sense. Of course it makes sense, why wouldn’t it make sense? 

Buck would like to be clued in on why it makes so much sense. 

“That’s completely understandable. Do you think you would have eaten again on your own without being forced?”

Something inside of him seizes at the words. “I—“

Would he have? He can’t say. The hunger was all consuming, yes, but - he hardly felt it through the overwhelming numbness. 

“It’s okay if you don’t know.”

Buck somehow manages to move, and even then it’s only a shrug. 

“Your captors weren’t so willing to let you go, though, were they?” Nelson paces between him and the jury again, like a predator circling its prey. Whether Buck himself or his words are the prey remains to be seen. “Because, ladies and gentlemen, the facility’s best idea to make Mr. Buckley eat was to force a feeding tube down his throat while he was awake.”

A single tear falls down his cheek, and through a wall of static, the courtroom is in disarray. 

The judge calls order. Buck flinches when the gavel hits the wood, eyes squeezing shut against his will. 

He can’t open them. Can’t risk looking into the crowd on accident. 

“You were awake when they took it out, too, weren’t you?”

Buck’s eyes remain closed, even as he nods. 

“You started eating again. Am I correct in assuming it’s because you wanted to avoid the same experience?”

Buck nods, and rests his forehead in his palm, elbow propped on the stand, breathing in through his nose and out his mouth. 

Nelson returns to the jury. Maybe it’s some gambit to give him reprieve, maybe he just wants to milk the moment for all it’s worth. Either way, Buck tunes him out and focuses on calming his heart, on pulling himself out of that room all over again. 

He lifts his head when he hears the crisp footsteps return. “Sergeant Grant assisted in your escape on Friday, July twenty-fifth.” Buck cracks open his eyes, squints against the light of the courtroom, against the flashes that still haven’t stopped. “On record, between the tube being removed and her entering your cell, you didn’t say a single word.”

He—

Oh. 

Oh. 

“Almost a whole month of muteness - almost a whole month of dissociation. Members of the jury, this is why my client cannot bear witness to you. He is still experiencing the trauma of this horrific ordeal.”

That sure is one way of putting it. 

“My fellow court members,” Nelson says, “This witness was held against his will for three months, two weeks, and three days - three months and seventeen days of pure mental and physical torment. During that time, he was stripped of all personhood, rights, and autonomy. I urge you to consider this going forward in the case. No further questions, Your Honor.”

Buck releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. 

The judge speaks from above him, shuffling a few papers around. “Whenever the defense is ready, you may begin cross examination.”

Something inside of Buck drops to the center of the earth as his eyes snap open.

“Your Honor,” Nelson is saying, already approaching the bench, “I was under the impression there would be no cross examination. I’m certain that I—“

“Your paperwork did go through,” she says, shuffling more items on her desk. “However, Attorney Smith put forth his own paperwork to overturn the request, which was approved. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

Buck’s heart is pounding in his ears, drowning out all sound but not enough to mask the camera clicks that still haven’t let up. 

“Thank you, Your Honor,” a man apparently named Smith says, dressed in a sharp looking navy blue suit and already next to Buck. 

Buck, who is trying very hard to not hyperventilate into unconsciousness. 

“I would also like to talk about the night of April eighth. Your team was called to contain a fire, correct?”

Buck can’t feel any part of his body. 

Fingers snap in front of his face, and he blinks dumbly. “Correct?”

Somehow, he manages to nod. 

“Yet your team directly defied government orders. They put the lives of countless others below their own, using the only known vaccine on a random man - who was more than likely going to be fine, based on the fact that you are sitting here today.”

That’s not fair. Just because Buck survived doesn’t mean Chimney would have. And Buck wasn’t even the one to do all of that stuff - he was too busy trying to keep his own secret. 

“Those at the scene warned your team of the consequences to their actions, and they still proceeded to go against direct orders. Do you not think it to be appropriate, then, that these warnings came to fruition?”

Buck’s stomach lurches. If he had more than water inside of it, he might reach for the trash can again. 

He shrugs. Maybe it is good that he took on that burden. That no one else had to. 

“You could have been left to die,” Smith says. “You were legally dead, with no heartbeat. No one was required to resuscitate you. It even took special equipment to keep you alive while you were infected. Without the intervention of the military, you would be dead right now.”

Isn’t that a thought. 

“Would you rather have been left to die, then? Would you prefer death to what happened?”

The lawyer is silent, seemingly waiting for Buck’s response even though the question seemed to be, for the most part, rhetorical. Maybe he’s just waiting for the words to fully impact the jury - a pause for dramatic effect. 

Buck listens and watches through several layers of white noise as Smith turns to pace in front of the stand. 

“During your escape attempt, you injured an employee - knocked out his front tooth, in fact, and—“

Buck can’t think, can’t hear, can’t see. The question rings in his ears as he speaks over whatever Smith is currently trying to say. “Yes.”

The man stops short, slowly glancing back at him. “What?”

The half-empty water bottle is still in his hands, though he’s barely actually had any of it to drink. Most of what’s missing sits on the poor wooden desk. 

“I wanted to be dead.” He looks up from the puddle, and wishes his vision wasn’t crystal clear. Wishes he could feel enough, still, for tears to form. “I’d prefer that."

Smith’s mouth hangs open and, for the first time, Buck allows himself to look behind him, to look at who is seated there. 

The green-eyed doctor, suit finely pressed. At the mercy of those around him. Unable to do anything to free himself or change his circumstances.

Buck tilts his head and speaks in a tone so even it should deserve some kind of award. “Rot in hell.”

Buck can’t help the vindication that someone else is silent for once. The whole courtroom, in fact. Even as his own throat tightens like someone is physically squeezing it in the palm of their hand. 

Smith gapes at him, but he’s the only one that can ultimately recover their voice. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Eddie doesn’t even make it to the trash can outside of the courtroom before losing all of the contents in his stomach. 

He almost feels bad for the janitor that will have to clean it up. As it is, he sits on the steps leading up the courthouse, shaking so hard he might cause LA’s next earthquake. 

The bathroom door slams open, and Buck barely makes it to the first sink in time to violently retch. 

Nothing comes up. The back of his throat burns all the same - still leaves a disgusting taste in his mouth. 

The air he sucks in between his teeth is cold enough to hurt. He keeps breathing anyway. Keeps doing so because if he stops now the lightheadedness will take over and the last thing he wants is to wake up on the floor of a public restroom. 

He turns on the faucet to wash out the little that made it into the basin. The white noise filters in through the haze, but it doesn’t help calm his overactive heart. The heart that’s trying to beat straight out of his chest, even as a thick rope keeps getting tighter and tighter around his—

He notices another pair of shoes in the first stall. He watches as they slowly turn, as the owner of the shoes approaches him from behind, as he looks to see who it is in the mirror. 

Chimney’s eyes are red. And still, he doesn’t hesitate to pull Buck straight into his arms.

“I’ve got you, kid,” Chimney whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Buck can’t even nod, hiccuping as he tries to get his breathing under control, as he tries to push all the swirling thoughts and memories back into the depths of his mind. 

It’s all so loud, so deafening in this silent bathroom, silence that only heeds to the hitches in his breath and the tiny fan in the far corner. The warm, tangible arms around him help to quiet the voices, though. Even as guilt consumes him, just like it has for the last hour, last week, last few months, last lifetime. 

“I’m sorry,” Chimney eventually rasps. “I - I never should have—“

Buck shakes his head, pulling back. 

He looks at Chim, and tries to say everything he needs to with only his eyes. There’s a vice around his throat, choking, strangling - but Chimney needs to know. He needs to know Buck’s not angry. He needs to know that Buck loves him, has always loved him, and doesn’t blame him. 

For any of it. 

“Not your fault,” he manages.

Chim scoffs - a broken sound, a sound that should be stronger and more amused but is instead ripped from him harshly. “I never should have said those things,” he insists roughly, shaking his head. “I never should have—“

But Buck is already shaking his head right back. That - all the things Chim said, whether he was right or not - it’s not what he’s talking about. 

Something seems to break further in Chimney’s eyes, yet no surprise colors them. “That’s not what you’re talking about.”

Buck nods.

Chimney’s head jerks to the side, like he’s trying to dislodge something from his mind. He sucks in a shaky breath and can’t seem to meet Buck’s gaze. 

“Why do you—“ Chim sighs deeply. Sadly. “Why do you think you’re so unimportant, Buck?”

Buck chokes on something and can’t cough it free. 

He’s not sure why. He’s not sure he’s ever known why. It’s all he can do every day, every morning, but wake up and try to believe he’s worth the trouble everyone gives him. 

Still - that’s not what this conversation is about. He shakes his head, firmer this time. “Chim.”

Chimney sighs again, fully letting go of Buck’s arm to step back, to look down at the tiled floor. “Can we talk about you?” he asks weakly. “Please?”

Buck shakes his head again, and Chimney purses his lips. 

He doesn’t know how to convey everything he needs to say - has no clue how to make Chimney understand he was never the one to blame. It wouldn’t even be easier if he could get any sound out. If he could talk Chim’s ear off, if he could spout a million and one words - could he find a way, even then, to make Chimney see the truth?

Buck doesn’t blame him. And the words from the firehouse still echo in his head, but - Buck knows Chimney doesn’t blame him, either. 

Chim never blamed him for what he went through. For the survivors guilt, the grief - even the times Buck scared everyone half to death with his recklessness. Buck might blame himself, but he knows Chimney doesn’t. 

Maybe he does know how to get through to him. 

“Would you blame me?” 

Chimney’s eyes snap to his own, because of course he understands. 

Would he blame Buck, if he took that vaccine. If Chimney was sick and didn’t tell anyone. If he ended up in that place, that room, with those people. 

Would Chimney blame Buck, then, for walking away free?

Chim’s breath hitches, a fracture in his otherwise almost-steady resolve. “That’s not fair.”

Buck can only raise an eyebrow in response. Because they both know damn well that it’s fair. It’s probably the most fair judgment they can possibly make. 

Chimney shakes his head and looks away, pursing his lips. “It’s not fair, you asshole. You stupid, self-sacrificing, hot-headed—“ 

Buck grasps Chim’s shoulders, whose words are killed instantly as tear-filled eyes meet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The fracture finally becomes a canyon. Or rather, the canyon finally enters the light of day.  

This time, Buck is the one to pull Chim into his arms. He’s the one to hold him close as he cries, even if he doesn’t whisper things like it’s okay or I’m here into his hair. He does rub a hand up and down his back, though. He does hold Chim as tight as he can. 

He holds Chim, and feels something between them heal. 

Buck has only taken a step or two outside of the bathroom when he’s nearly knocked right off his feet. 

It takes him a second to get his bearings, to look at see that it’s his sister that’s currently clinging to him like a koala bear, her hold so tight he might start to bruise. He threads his fingers through her hair - can feel the way she’s trembling almost imperceptibly. 

“I love you,” she says into his chest, and he does his best to not cry all over her expensive pantsuit. 

“Hey,” she says, pulling back. “I mean it. I love you.”

A shaky smile pulls at his lips, and he hopes that it says you too. He’s pretty sure the message gets across when her shoulders physically lose some of their tension, and she pulls him back into her embrace. 

He looks up over her head at the soft shuffle of shoes, and—

Everyone is here. And - and maybe he would’ve preferred anger. That would be an easier pill to swallow than - this. 

“Hey kid,” Bobby says, yanking him into an equally bone-crushing hug. 

Buck almost cries again as he melts into it, but he somehow swallows the sobs that rise in his throat. Though he can’t manage to restrain himself as he hugs the man back. They can handle a few bruises. 

“Athena and I were thinking,” Bobby says once he pulls away, yet does not let go, “We should have a get together tomorrow - our place. We haven’t had one in so long.” Buck nods, even as his throat continues to shrink. “I’ll make whatever you want. Just text it to me, I’ll pick it up tonight.”

Buck nods again, and he ignores the ever-rising lump in his throat at the true meaning behind a group get together. At the real reason Bobby wants to cook for him, to feed him.

Buck is on the receiving end of more and more hugs - Hen, Athena, Karen, Ravi. Even Jules. They’re all here. They all came. 

He glances around, looking for a face that doesn’t seem to be with the rest. 

“I’m not sure where he went,” Bobby murmurs as he rubs a hand along Buck’s back. 

Buck wishes he could say he doesn’t care. 

The couch is still ridiculously fluffy. 

It’s seriously like sitting on a cloud. Maybe Buck should ask Jules where she got it, if he ever makes his way off of it in the first place. 

She’s off in the kitchen, dishes clinking in the otherwise calm evening. Probably cooking. She’s decent enough at it, for someone who lives alone. Buck doesn’t really have any room to talk - at her age, he couldn’t boil water without burning it. 

Later, he sits across from her at the table. She’s quiet, like him, as she sips soup from a gold-colored spoon, though her stillness is more subdued than usual. He tries his best to not think about why. 

He sips his own, and doesn’t look up. He does grab his phone, though, when he’s almost done, typing thanks into the notes app and showing it to her. 

She smiles lightly as she collects the dishes. “Of course, Buck.”

He smiles, too, and pulls it back to type again. can you grab some ice?

“Sure,” she says, carrying the bowls to the kitchen and returning with a light blue ice pack wrapped in a green striped towel. 

He nods as he takes them, shifting his leg onto the chair next to his own and gently laying the ice on his calf. He shows her a new message. maybe you could look at it, if you don’t mind lol. 

She glances at the message. Then she does a double take, and her face does something - weird. “I—“ She clears her throat and smiles awkwardly. “Why would I look at your leg?”

He shifts under her gaze, suddenly self conscious. He’ll admit, the words sting a little - he’s never been one to ask for help, especially with things like this. At least, not since he moved out of his parent’s house. 

He waves a hand, trying to brush it off. It’s not even that big of a deal. It’s only twinging. It’s probably nothing but leftover tension from being so high strung all day, especially after he pulled it only a week ago. 

“No, it’s - it’s not a big deal,” she says quickly. “I’d be happy to, I just… I don’t get why my opinion would matter more than yours.”

He raises an eyebrow, trying to not appear overly concerned with her lack of self worth. Why on earth would his opinion matter more than hers?

He takes his phone back, and types again. I figured a nurse is better than a first responder haha. but seriously it’s fine, the ice is great. 

Her face shifts to something even weirder when she reads that one, even going so far as to actually take the phone into her hands. She glances around the room, which is odd since they’re definitely alone. 

“Buck, I…” She sits at the table, looking down at the polished wood. Not at him. She still has his phone in her hand, knuckles paler than they probably should be. “You—“

He waits, but she continues to say nothing. 

She looks up, then, after a long moment, and he startles at her shining eyes. “Buck, there’s - there’s something I should probably tell you.”

The only reason Eddie sleeps is because he hasn’t been. 

For a week straight, now, he’s been up practically all night. Staring at the dark ceiling, lucky to get two hours of fitful rest. So, when he gets to his house - his empty, silent house - he thanks whatever deity he still believes in that he had the foresight to make Chris sleep over at a friend’s place. The idea of trying to pretend nothing is wrong right now is—

Too much. 

He gets home with the sun dipping low in the sky, almost completely below the horizon. He doesn’t eat - he takes off his suit jacket and pants, takes off all the restricting, inching, searing fabric until he’s left with nothing but boxers and socks and a tank top. 

He sits on the couch. The same one that still has sheets and a pillow on it from the last however many unsuccessful night sleeps. 

He isn’t awake long enough to lay down. 

When he wakes up, the entire world is dark. 

His eyebrows scrunch together as he shoves his face into the pillow, realizing he must have slumped over some time in the night - his top half is horizontal, but his legs hang off the side of the couch. His left foot is somehow resting on the coffee table while the other barely brushes the floor. 

He groans as he shifts, spine aching from the awkward position. He pulls both legs up and onto the couch even as the sheet tangles around his ankles. The clock ticks in the corner, and his phone buzzes from somewhere around him. 

His eyes snap open. 

He sits up abruptly, ignoring the way blood rushes from his head and leaves half of his vision covered in tiny black dots. He blinks a couple of times to readjust himself, then manages to bend down and find his phone, still in the pocket of the dress pants sprawled on the floor. 

His eyebrows knit together as he looks at the screen. He has three calls, all from the same unknown number. 

The phone lights up again, and he stares at it for a few more blank seconds before answering. His voice is scratchy and rough, but he manages to blink through the haze and mumble, “Hello?”

There’s silence for a few seconds, and then—

“Did you know time zones started in America because of the railway system?”

Eddie’s blinks, and blinks some more. 

“They actually started in Greenwich, when the Royal Observatory there established Greenwich Mean Time in 1675. It was supposed to help sailors determine where they were, latitude-wise, since all the ports in Europe kept different times based on the sun.”

Eddie blinks. Dumbly. He pulls the phone away from his ear to check the lack of caller ID, and puts it back to his ear. “Buck?”

“Yeah?”

Eddie’s jaw works up and down, and he closes his eyes like that will make the world start to make sense. “Are you… okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, like nothing’s wrong at all. “So Greenwich did it first, and Britain followed in the nineteenth century because of their railways, and so did America. They wanted to make sure railway drivers were going and arriving accurately across the continents. The official time zones we still use today weren’t started until the twentieth century, though—“

“Buck,” Eddie says, reaching over and flicking on one of the lamps. “You - what are you talking about?”

What is he talking about, but more importantly, why is this what he’s talking about? After so long not talking about - anything?

“I’m talking about time zones, Eddie. Was that not clear?”

“No, it was perfectly clear,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Buck, it’s—“ He glances at the clock. “It’s two in the morning, you - are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sorry, I didn’t wake Chris or anything, did I?”

Eddie shakes his head, like that will make this conversation seem more real. “No, Chris - he’s not here, I—“ He coughs a bit to clear his throat and hopefully his absolute confusion. “I figured he shouldn’t have to deal with everything that happened today.”

He says it a bit pointedly, like his words will be a reminder of what did happen. He’s not sure how Buck could have possibly forgotten, but Eddie can’t for the life of him figure out why Buck is talking about - time zones, of all things.

“That’s probably good,” Buck says, not taking the bait at all. “Did you know that time zones also used to look super different?”

“No, Buck,” Eddie deadpans, giving up. “I did not.”

“It’s really cool. Actually, if you look at a map of time zones in 1913, El Paso was a convergence of three different time zones - Pacific, Mountain, and Central time.”

“That’s—“ Eddie’s mouth dries, and he’s not sure why. “Cool?”

“But then time zones were formalized in 1918, and El Paso was the only big city in Texas to be set in Mountain Time.”

Eddie shrugs dumbly, and can’t even care that Buck can’t see it, because he’s just that lost. “Buck, not that I’m not - happy, to hear your voice, but—“ 

Because he is. He’s overwhelmed with it - the sound of Buck’s words, his cadence, the way he’s lighting up because he’s talking about something he finds interesting. Eddie’s been wanting to hear Buck’s voice, his rambles, his everything for - far too long. His chest aches with familiarity and hope, but—

His main thought is honesty what the hell. 

He shakes his head, like that will clear away all of his racing thoughts. “What does this have to do with - anything?”

“El Paso is in Mountain Time.”

“Yes, Buck, I know,” he says. “I lived there for two decades.”

“Los Angeles is in Pacific Time.”

“Yes, Buck,” he says, trying his best to not sound patronizing. “I’ve lived here for almost a full decade. Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”

Buck’s breath hitches. 

Shit. Shit, he fucked up. Buck decided to talk again - finally - and Eddie has only succeeded in pushing him back into that shell and— “Buck - I’m sorry, I—“

“You got the call about me dying and everything after midnight, right?”

Everything stills. 

“Yeah,” he eventually gets out. 

Buck doesn’t seem to care about his sudden crisis. “But it was before one?”

“I think so,” he says with a shrug, blinking away the intense heat behind his eyes. “But why—“

It hits him, then, like a bullet to the chest. 

“Eddie,” Buck says after a long stretch of silence, and Eddie’s grip on the phone is so tight that he knows there will be pressure lines on his palm. “You didn’t find out a day late. You found out on the same day, just like everyone else.”

He can’t stop the way air rushes into his lungs, or the way it suddenly feels like all the air in the room is gone. “I—“

His breath catches again, and he actually puts a hand to his chest like that will stop the pain. 

“You didn’t fail me,” Buck says, and each word is another blow, and he doesn’t know how much more he can take. “You were hating yourself over something that wasn’t even true.”

He moves his hand to his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. No, this - this has to be a lie. He doesn’t deserve something like this - doesn’t deserve this kind of second chance. “Buck, I - you don’t know—“

He doesn’t know all the ways Eddie truly failed. 

“I know you,” he says, and it tears something straight from Eddie’s soul. “I know you took that failure and punished yourself for it, over and over and over again. I know that even if it was true, if that call had come any later, that I still wouldn’t blame you.

“But the call was on that day. You were there, Eddie. You were there, even when you thought you weren’t. 

“You were there for me. Just the sound of your voice, the memory of it, got me through hell.”

Eddie doesn’t know if it was Buck’s goal, getting him to cry. But if it was— 

He certainly succeeded. 

All this time, he’d been punishing himself for finding out a day late. Buck is right - he hated himself for it. He despised it, that he failed so horrifically that he didn’t even know his best friend was dead until the day after he was gone. 

But he never realized it. That, in all technicality, he learned the truth the same day as everyone else. All of that self hatred - based on nothing. 

And he’s not going to even try to dissect the rest of what Buck—

His thoughts slow.

I didn’t even know he was gone until the next day. My best friend, dead. And I didn’t even know until the day was already over.

There was exactly one person he ever talked to about this. 

That truth was a shame he held tight against his chest, so close only alcohol was able to rip it from him. He never even told Frank. That hardly matters, though, considering he’s pretty damn sure Buck and Taylor haven’t talked since she came to the firehouse. 

And even then - he never told Taylor when the call came through. Buck could have called Bobby, asked when the call happened, but—

None of that would explain why Buck knows how damaging it all truly was. Why Buck suddenly knows his exact thoughts, almost as if it were—

Word for word. 

I was the one that didn’t have your back. I was the one that got the call at twelve something that you were - that you were—

I found out the day after you were gone. It wasn’t even the same day. 

Because I wasn’t there.

“Buck,” he says, and has to work his jaw a few times to get the rest of the question out.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to sense the beginnings of a panic attack.

“How did you know that?”

Chapter Text

“There’s something I should probably tell you.”

Jules’ hands fidget with the bottom of her blouse. Nervous energy radiates from every twitch of her fingers, from the worrying of her lower lip. Buck’s not entirely sure what to expect but it certainly isn’t—

“I’m not a nurse.”

His mouth and brain work overtime as he tries to process the words. When he does speak, it’s in a voice so small he wouldn’t be shocked if she didn’t hear it at all. “What?”

“I’m not a nurse,” she repeats. “I’m a computer engineer.”

The words send his brain into a blue screen. Which he’d think was appropriate, ironically, if he wasn’t blue screening. 

She’s a nurse. Or at the very least, some kind of medical professional. He’s known this since the beginning, from when he first saw her enter that room. He - he saw her there, checking over the monitors. Except - monitors are a type of computer, aren’t they? Now that he thinks about it—

He never once saw her do any actual medical work. 

But she was wearing scrubs when they rescued him. Except - maybe that was a disguise? Or some kind of generic uniform? 

“I was able to hack the cameras and everything - you know, to try and get you out?” She crosses her arms awkwardly. “I didn’t think - I thought you knew I had at least some kind of tech job.”

He follows her pointed gaze, and it leads to the giant computer set up in the corner of the room. The same one he stubbed his toe on. 

It is kind of obvious, looking at it now. 

Maybe he really is an idiot. 

He doesn’t have his phone to type on. She’s still holding it. It’s made talking with her so easy, but - he can’t use it right now. He licks his lips and coughs a bit into his hand, hopefully enough to clear the tightness in his throat. “Why…?”

Why didn’t she just… tell him? He’s certain he’s referred to her as a nurse before, at least in the past few days. He knows he told Eddie she was a nurse, if nothing else. 

“Buck, I—“ She purses her lips and looks down. “I didn’t want you to think less of me. If - if you knew the truth.”

It shouldn’t matter, though. It doesn’t matter to him whether she’s a nurse or a doctor or - or a librarian or a sales representative. She still helped him escape, and that’s all that matters. 

“The truth,” she mumbles to herself, still unable to meet his eyes.

She rubs a hand up and down her arm, biting her lower lip before she blurts, “It was me.”

A moment passes, and he nearly shrugs to let her know he has no clue what she’s talking about. 

Her eyes are glassy, and she’s still avoiding his gaze. But then she’s plowing ahead, seemingly powerless to stop. “At least - on the technical side of things. I forged the certificate. I went through all the legal channels, fabricated documents, invented a damn mortician so no one could be questioned. Made sure on the mechanical side of things - you were as good as erased.”

…what?

His mouth is dry. So are his eyes. Nausea curls in his gut all the same. Because she - she can’t be saying that—

“It was me, Buck.” Her lip quirks up, almost ironically, almost apologetically as she finally looks at him. “I faked your death.”

White noise. As if he just plunged off a cliff into the ocean, gravity pulling him unfathomably deep beneath the waves. But the water - it doesn’t shield him from the rest of it. 

Someone has taken a red hot knife and plunged it straight into his back. 

He thought he understood it. Betrayal. When Bobby didn’t let him come back, when Chimney attacked him for upholding Maddie’s secret. Finding out he had a brother. Eddie leaving the 118 - and the state. 

None of those memories seem to even bother trying to compare. 

“Buck,” she says, her voice fracturing along the edges, once again looking anywhere but at him. “Please say something.”

Say something. 

How - how could he say something? What could he possibly try to say to that? What does she want him to say? That it’s all - that it’s all fine? That he forgives her?

Does he? 

Actually, forget that - can he forgive her? Can he reconcile this truth with the version of her that he’s known since the beginning?

He tries to imagine it - knowing from the start. If the truth would have clouded his judgment. If he would’ve looked at her the same way all those months ago, when she came into his room and handed him that first book. 

Because even then, that was what she was. 

“The whole time,” he somehow breathes around the fire in his chest. “Why—“

Why did she bother with it all? With - with being nice? Why did she bother giving him things, making his life easier, when she was the one to lie to his entire family? Why did she bother warning him that his family wasn’t coming if she was the ultimate cause?

“I never wanted to lie to you,” she says, and the words ring through the static. “I - god, I was never even supposed to talk to you. I was never supposed to leave the desk, to go into that room, but—“

Her voice breaks off, catching on maybe a sigh, maybe a sob, he doesn’t know or care. 

He turns the words over in his head. Tries to reconcile them with her first words to him - tries to control his breathing. And whether it’s anger or anxiety trying to take over, he’s not entirely sure. Either way his chest is sinking in on itself, is collapsing under the inescapable weight of it.

She breathes, too, closing her eyes and shaking her head so slightly it’s barely visible.

“There’s—” she starts, still looking at the floor, which is starting to drive him mad. “I have to - there’s something I’ve been keeping from you.”

Really, he wants to say, other than that last bombshell you dropped?

Even if he could say it, she’s already leaving the room. He barely has any time to stew in his thoughts before she’s returning, hand hidden behind her back. 

If that didn’t make him uneasy enough, she opens her mouth and says, “I need you to not freak out.”

He knows his face must be saying something along the lines of, That’s exactly what you should say to someone who’s on the verge of freaking out, Jules. Good job. 

“Just—“ She wilts and shoves a small object into his hands. “Here.”

He takes it numbly, not looking away from her, but when he does look down it takes him less than a second to realize what he’s just been given. He still recognizes the case, the background as it turns on. Oddly enough, it’s at full charge. No notifications, either, which makes sense given how long it has to have been out of service. 

He glances up at her again, and can’t help the way his eyebrow lifts. 

“After they - searched you,” she stammers, and he looks back down sharply. “They gave that to me. My jurisdiction, you know?” He stares at the tiny screen as she huffs a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “There’s something else, and - stay calm, please? Don’t be… upset.”

He’s already there - boarded that train a long while ago - and “upset” is a cute word compared to what he’s currently feeling - but she knows that already. So - the words make his muscles tighten even more with dread.  

She sighs, like she can’t take this tension either. “Go into the phone app. Please,” she tacks on, to which he rolls his eyes.

He unlocks it - actually it doesn’t even have a password anymore, which - thanks, Jules - and hesitantly clicks on the app. He can sense her eyes on him, apprehension radiating from her in thick waves. He’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be looking for, exactly, so he clicks around a bit, and still doesn’t—

It would’ve been less jarring if someone punched him square across the face. The realization sinks in, plunging his entire body into an icy sea. 

(And that realization - of what he’s seeing, what it implies—)

(If he wasn’t already sitting he’d be on the ground.)

It’s an eternity, and no time has passed at all when Jules speaks. “You need to listen to them.”

His head snaps up.

“Trust me,” she implores, voice tipping shockingly into a desperate tone. “You need to listen to - all of them.”

His jaw drops. 

Because seriously - what?

How can she even say that? How could she ever suggest such a thing?

What right does he have, listening to these? This grief - it doesn’t belong to him. It never has, and it never will. These messages - countless, countless messages that he can’t think about right now, can’t stop to think about the implications of right now - they were never meant for his ears. They were a way to - to process a loss. Nothing more. Not a way for him to learn what he was never meant to. 

More frigid water pours down his back as he realizes something else. 

His jaw ticks despite his efforts. “Did - did you—“

She looks away again, and he has his answer.

He didn’t think he could feel more betrayed, but his own emotional depth continues to surprise him. 

“You can be mad at me all you want,” she says after a long moment, sinking down into the chair next to him and grabbing his hand that’s still on the table. The touch is scalding, but for some reason - for some goddamn reason - he lets her. “But trust me when I say - you need to listen to those voicemails. If you think he hates you - if you’ve ever thought that, if- if you think he’s ever hated you - you have to. 

“Shit, I paid your phone bill three times to let them keep coming through!” she says incredulously, like she can hardly believe it herself. “If you ever trust me again, let it be with this. Please.”

He looks down, swallowing the rock that’s made its home in his throat. He scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls, and they just keep coming. Sometimes there are five for just one day. Some days are completely skipped. Some recordings are only a handful of seconds, and others—

He swallows again, like the rock will leave him alone if he does it enough times, like it will make his eyes stop burning. 

He can’t. Right? There’s no way. The privacy aspect alone should keep him far, far away from ever hitting the play button. He would have to be crazy to ever even consider it. 

(If you think he hates you—

You have to.)

He’s not going to do it. He’s not. He’s going to politely give the phone back, and go to bed, and never mention this again. 

He—

Fuck me.

(Maybe it’s out of fear, or desperation. Maybe he wants to understand why this - of all things - would make him see why Eddie could never hate him.)

He nods.

(God, he must be insane.)

She squeezes his hand and stands. Like she also knew this was inevitable. “I’ll give you some privacy, then.”

She leaves, and it’s just him, the phone, and the heartbeat thundering in his ears. 

He scrolls all the way to the bottom.

The first few - they’re from the twenty-eighth of April. Six days after his funeral. Each one of these lasts two seconds, at most. To be sure, he hits play on all of them. Like he expected, there’s nothing. 

The meaning isn’t lost on him. 

His finger hovers over the next one, frozen in midair. He said he would do this. And - and he understands, on some level, why he should.

But these words - countless, countless words—

They were never meant for him. 

Buck’s not sure he’ll be forgiven for this. For - listening to this. He was clearly never supposed to. They would’ve been - brought up, or found somehow, if he was. Buck’s never heard of these, and it’s for a reason. 

But he’s never been able to prevent himself from clinging so tightly he suffocates things. From finding something he loves, something he wants to keep, and - wanting it to stay. Shit, that’s all he’s ever really wanted, at the end of the day when the cards are laid bare for all to see. For someone to see him, want him, stay for him. 

So the idea of someone he loves being there like this - being there, even when Buck truly believed no one was - being there for him, even when it seemed he had been forgotten by the entire world—

The idea of someone he loves not leaving like he thought, but instead being the only one to truly stay—

Maybe a stronger man could resist such a thing. 

He’s always been weak. Whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen. 

His finger hits play on the next message - the one from three days later. He brings the phone up to his ear, and static fills his senses. Not a dissociative static, though. Real static. He almost wonders if the thing is broken, it fills the air for so long, but then he hears it. 

“Hey, Buck.”

Tears spill over, refusing to dissipate no matter how harshly he blinks. Still, he can’t do anything to stop a small smile from finding him as he hears the next few words. 

“I’m coming back to the 118.”

The silence on the other end of the line - silence Eddie has gotten so used to - is deafening. 

He works his mouth a bit more before he’s finally able to break that silence. And even then, he hardly manages to do so without his voice cracking. “Buck.”

More static, and Eddie is going to go into cardiac arrest, and then— “Okay, so - don’t get mad?”

Oh, yeah. Eddie is definitely having a panic attack. 

“Eddie,” he hears from somewhere, from a hundred miles away, “Breathe.”

“I’m breathing,” he snaps, lightheaded because he’s definitely not breathing. Because—

Buck listened to the messages. 

Buck heard—

Crying, grieving. Eddie attempting to hold together everything that was crumbling to pieces, a downward mental spiral that ended in a breakdown so destructive that it rivaled the one from only a few years ago. He heard Eddie say that he hated him, he heard—

Everything. 

Buck heard everything. 

Buck, who is telling him to breathe, and Eddie’s not entirely sure but air is probably the least of his worries right now. 

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” Buck says at some point, voice just as distant, but - but maybe it helps. Maybe it’s starting to pull Eddie away from the dark, starting to pull him back onto the soft fabric of the couch. “I would’ve called earlier, but—“

Eddie waits, but the line remains silent. He swallows against the heart that’s trying to creep up into his throat. “But?”

“But it just… it took a while to get through.”

The meaning hits him all at once, and his mouth dries. 

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back on the couch, because what else is he supposed to say? “I guess it would.”

He can hear Buck wince - can almost feel it, even over the phone. “Sorry - you said you wouldn’t get mad.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Well - maybe you should,” Buck bargains, and Eddie hates the way his heart melts. Because he’s supposed to be mad. He should be furious, and all he can think is, I missed this. “Maybe you should save all the ‘being mad’ for everything else.”

His mouth dries even more. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, and - and Eddie can’t stand it, the way Buck’s voice breaks, the way it’s becoming increasingly obvious he’s been crying. “I’m so, so sorry, okay? For all of it. For being reckless, for making you think I don’t care—“

“Buck, no.” Eddie leans forward, like that will somehow get him closer to where he needs to be. “You never—“

Eddie knows that he cares. It was never a doubt to be had. It’s the most important thing about Buck, the most obvious thing - he cares. He cares so damn much about everyone and everything. 

(Maybe he cares too much.)

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, because if anyone needs to apologize - if anyone said and did things that they can’t ever take back— “For pushing you away, for saying—“ 

Words ring in his ears, and he wants to apologize for every single one, wants to shove them all back into the depths where they belong. “All of it. For making you think I don’t want you here.”

“Eddie…” Buck trails off, because what is he supposed to do with all that? Eddie sure doesn’t know, so why should he expect Buck to?

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” he murmurs, because Buck doesn’t deserve to be subjected to this. He blinks up at the ceiling, like that will chase away the heat behind his eyes. “Sorry I’m such an asshole - that I made you think that I think you don’t think, or that you don’t care.”

Eddie doesn’t want Buck to think that. Eddie knows he cares, knows he’s not an idiot. Buck does think, he does care, and—

And he’s the most amazing thing in Eddie’s life after his son, and he would never forgive himself if Buck didn’t know it. 

The line is filled with only static, but then— “‘That I made you think that I think you don’t think?’”

Against all odds, a laugh bursts out of him. The sudden light feels so out of place, but so welcome, that only Buck could have put it there. “You—“ He shakes his head, unable to fight the upturn of his lips. “Shut up.”

Buck hums, and the sound is music. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Thank god for that.

“I won’t shut up,” Buck continues, “because I need you to know how much I care.”

Eddie opens his mouth, but his voice gets stuck somewhere between his throat and the open air. 

“Because I do,” Buck says without waiting for a response. “I care about you. I care about Christopher. I care about you both so - so much. And I care about my life because you’re in it.”

There is a coil, and it’s tightening and loosening around Eddie’s chest all at once.

“I’ll never stop trying to save people on calls, but - when I think about why I want to go home at night, I picture the two of you. I’m so lucky, knowing I have someone like you to call home. 

“You’re the reason I want to be alive. The reason I am alive. You’re—“ A soft laugh echoes down the line. “You’re it for me, Eddie.”

The couch is still soft, and the world doesn’t quite feel the same as it did thirty seconds ago. 

(Buck heard everything, a voice whispers through the night.)

Somehow, through the way the room is spinning, through the way his heart has migrated right to his throat, he manages to laugh wetly and say, “Okay, well - act like it, then.”

Buck laughs, too, and Eddie can hear the way his breath catches on it, because the entire world has fallen away except for his soft tone. 

“I will,” he says. “I promise, Eddie. I will.”

Eddie nods, even though Buck can’t see it. He nods, squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in - because maybe - maybe Buck is finally starting to see how much he means. 

How much he’s always meant. 

“God, I’m sorry for calling so late,” Buck says again, and Eddie doesn’t care, there’s nothing that matters less right— 

There’s a knock at the door. 

“I just couldn’t wait.”

“You couldn’t wait to call me?” he stammers out. Even as he stands up, as he clumsily detangles himself from the stupid sheets and heads right for the source of the sound he swears echoed faintly in his ear. 

“No, I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” he says, opening the door, heart pounding over every inch of his body. 

Under the soft porch light, Buck glows. 

He’s not wearing his suit anymore. He’s dressed in soft clothes, soft sweats, because everything about him is and always has been soft and warm. He’s beautiful, too, because he always is. 

Buck’s lips are curled up in a smile, just like his hair, and he says the words right into the receiver—

These messages might be the end of him. 

Buck never knew something so ordinary - so simple - could hurt like this. Could wound him like this.

He wishes he could’ve remained ignorant. 

He isn’t surprised, not at all, when the final message sounds far more like the last time he and Eddie talked. He’s not surprised, but that doesn’t stop the agony it brings. Doesn’t stop the tinny voice from being harsh and jagged as it echoes in his ears. 

Something is being violently torn from him. It hurt enough, hearing all of this in person. When Eddie knew he was alive. He couldn’t imagine it ever being worse, and yet—

And yet. 

I hate you rings in his ears, and he might just go find Jules and demand an explanation as to why this is supposed to make him feel better. He hears a loud bang on the other end of the line - like Eddie hit something, like a door or table or wall - and his chest flares. But not as much as when he hears—

“You left. You left just like she did and I can’t fucking fix any of it!”

The room tilts. 

That - that can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means. There’s another explanation, there’s some - other "she" Eddie is referring to.

Except he hears, “Why do I lose everyone I love?” and his heart falls apart, right down the middle, he hears “Is this how you felt when I left?” and whatever was leftover is taken out back and shot, and—

Then he hears it. 

For a moment, nothing else filters in beyond harsh static. 

He pulls the phone down, puts it on speaker, and goes back a few seconds. 

“The love of my life dies—“

He goes back again. 

“The love of my life dies—“

And again. 

“The love of my life dies, and I’m at a fucking Holiday Inn.”

A ragged sound escapes him, and he has to cover his mouth with his free hand as the message continues. 

Turns out, his ears are working fine. Eddie just stopped speaking for a moment, but when he does—

“I love you.”

A sob wrenches itself from the depths of his chest, the sound loud and ugly even in his own ears. He hits pause on the message, because he can’t hear anything more without absorbing - this. 

He goes back again. 

“I love you.”

And again. 

“I love you.”

And again.

“I love you.”

These words, in Eddie’s voice, and they’re - they’re for him. 

“I love you. I think I always have. But it took you leaving for me to figure it out. Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?” 

Each time he thinks the sobs might be starting to subside, he hears something else that makes them ramp up with a vengeance.

(It’s not pathetic. Not at all. It took Eddie leaving for Buck to figure it out, too.)

Any doubts he has are banished soon enough - doubts that- that maybe Eddie means platonically in love. Or that they’re just best bros for life, or something equally ridiculous. That Buck is the love of his life in - some other kind of way. 

All the doubts disappear as he continues to listen. As the words come back, over and over again, but he’s not hitting replay. “I love you, and I have to keep living. I love you, and I’m never going to see you again. Or hug you or hear you or—“

All the air is stolen from Buck’s lungs as he hears “or kiss you.”

Definitely not platonic.

He listens to Eddie dissolving into tears, and he’s crying, too, but it’s around a grin so wide he couldn’t get rid of it even if he tried. 

“Thank you,” Eddie’s distant voice eventually says, “for being in my life.”

It hurts like hell because it was a goodbye, and he can’t stop smiling because it doesn’t need to be. The smile widens when he hears one more “I love you,” even when the words have never sounded more broken. 

The message ends. He’s on his feet. The front door is open, and he’s stepping outside of it. 

He stops dead in his tracks as Jules appears from around the corner.

The knife from earlier is back, just a bit, but—

Maybe, in light of everything, he can forgive her. She did save his life, after all. In more ways than one. 

He turns to her, and her eyes are wide and red. Guilt gnaws at his gut. Jules - she never meant to hurt him. She’s still the one that got him out - still the only one that ever saw him. 

Then she says, “There’s one more thing,” and he might bite her head off. 

But then he goes from wanting to kill her to hugging her tight against his chest. He could laugh, he could cry - and he does. He hugs her and says “I forgive you” and laughs and cries and laughs. 

But not for long. He’s hugging her one moment, and the next—

He’s in his jeep hitting the call button. 

—and they echo not a second later, right against Eddie’s own ear. “I love you.”

The words are close enough to both phones that the sound reverberates between them. 

He’s not really sure which of them moves forward first, which one of them covers more ground before they meet right in the center of the doorway, in the center of the sound waves. Every sliver of space between them pulses with it, with an unseen magnetic field, but Eddie doesn’t have any amount of time to dwell on it before that space is nothing but a memory. His hand curls into Buck’s hair, and Buck’s hand is cupping his jaw, and—

Somewhere - somewhere there is a dull thudding sound. Somewhere two phones hit the floor, and Eddie wouldn’t care if they shattered on impact. Eddie wouldn’t care if everything around them burned. 

Soft pink lips meet his own, and everything does burn. 

The kiss deepens instantly. Somehow - through the mind-numbing explosion of fire in his veins, at every nerve ending - Eddie doesn’t trip over his two own feet. Not as Buck walks him backwards into the house, not as Buck curls his other arm around Eddie’s waist to spin him around. As he uses Eddie’s own back to close the front door - never once breaking the kiss. 

The move makes heat flood through Eddie’s whole body - a body that is trapped between Buck and the solid wood. He runs the hand still in Buck’s hair even deeper into the curls, brings his other hand up under Buck’s arm to grasp at his back, to pull him even closer, because he needs every piece of Buck under his hands. 

Buck takes it in stride, laughing a little bit against his mouth. The sound, the feeling, makes his heart ignite right there inside his chest. 

The kiss deepens further as Buck slides his tongue in his mouth, which Eddie allows without question, without hesitation. His heart pounds in time with the pulse beneath his fingertips, as the hand around his own waist finds the edge of his tank top - as it slides underneath the fabric, each inch of skin-on-skin sending pure electricity down to the tips of his toes. 

Buck’s other hand is still pressed against his jaw, holding Eddie’s face so, so gently. Like Eddie is something - precious. 

He understands the feeling. 

Eventually, even though he will never need anything else ever again, he needs to breathe - and for more than a couple stolen gasps at a time. He forces himself to slow down - to break the kiss, even though it breaks something in him, and leans his head back against the little metal grate in the door. 

Buck doesn’t seem to be experiencing the same issues with things like oxygen. One side of Eddie’s face is carefully cradled in Buck’s palm while the other is attacked with butterfly kisses. 

Eddie’s heart flutters as he continues to breathe heavily, threading his fingers through soft locks as his other hand slowly slides down and around Buck’s muscled waist. 

“Buck,” he mumbles, blinking in the soft light of the table lamp. It makes Buck’s curls glow from behind like a halo. He says it again, louder this time. “Buck.”

The kisses stop. Part of him is pained, but that part isn’t anymore when Buck’s wide-blown pupils meet his own, the crystal blue of them barely visible. “Eddie.”

His tone is playful, light. It makes it nearly impossible to push down the way his own lips want to twitch upward. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh?” he says, brushing his thumb across Eddie’s cheek while the other still sets fire to the skin under his shirt. “And why is that?”

Fuck, Eddie is such a goner. He can’t keep the grin off of his face for a single second. “You just had to say that for the first time over the phone.”

Buck scoffs, tilting his head back and giving Eddie a great view of his inflamed lips. “I think I was well within my rights,” he teases. “Seemed fair enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“I hardly think it’s fair,” Eddie says, leaning back again with his own sly grin. “I was working with what I had.”

Buck shrugs and Eddie feels every inch of it beneath his hands. “I still had to hear about how much you loved me while you were talking about a Holiday Inn, of all things, so. I think it’s more than fair.”

“Is that so?” Eddie says with a barely-contained laugh, because he honestly forgot he did that. “That was hardly my fault.”

Buck stares at him. Unblinking, unmoving. Then - then he leans in, so close both of their unshaved stubbles tickle at each other as he whispers, “I guess not.”

Eddie can’t move, can’t breathe - not with Buck’s mouth pressed right against his ear. 

“You know what is, though?” The words rumble low against Eddie’s chest, the heat of lips brushing over the flushed skin of his cheek. “I’ve still only heard it over the phone.”

Eddie exhales shakily as Buck pulls back, a gentle smirk playing on his lips. As Buck presses those same smiling lips into his own. 

They break apart, and Buck’s fingers ghost over his jawline, and Eddie says, “I love you.”

Buck’s breath hitches in his lungs - Eddie can still feel it beneath him. Can feel it as he pulls Buck in for another kiss, as they separate and he dazedly mumbles, “Didn’t quite catch that.”

Eddie’s tingling lips quirk up, because Buck can talk a big game and still all but melt under true affection. 

And Eddie is the one that gets to give him that affection.

“I love you.” He slowly moves to tenderly hold Buck’s head in his hands, smiling softly in the low light - in the face of wide, disbelieving eyes. He shifts Buck down to softly press his lips to his nose. “I love you.” He pulls him down more and gently kisses his birthmark, breathing the words right into his skin. “I love you.”

He circles his thumbs on Buck’s cheeks, eyes closed and lips still flush against the mark he wants to study every day for the rest of their lives. He holds him, for just a bit longer, before running his hands down to Buck’s neck, allowing them both to shift back to where they were before. 

Wide eyes come into view, and they shine bright with tears. One of them silently falls with a soft blink, and the sight instantly makes Eddie’s chest pang with a deep—

Something. 

“I love you, too,” Buck whispers. “So much.”

Eddie’s heart pounds as he’s kissed again, but this time—

It almost seems like it’s trying to flee. 

And here’s the thing. It shouldn’t - it shouldn’t scare him. The sight of Buck’s tears. 

But.

Eddie sees Buck’s tears, and he sees him on the witness stand. 

He sees the tears, and he sees a tiled bathroom, a panic attack over an unlocked door. He sees the tears, and he sees Buck flinching away from him, trembling under the weight of cruel words. He sees the tears, and he sees Buck crying because Eddie can’t hold something without breaking it. 

He pulls back, and Buck goes back in, and—

Eddie turns his head away. 

The silence is filled with only their breathing. 

Buck blinks at him, a clear question on his tongue, but Eddie opens his mouth first. Even if the words he ends up saying are barely audible, even to himself. “I’m sorry.”

Buck tilts his head a bit. Like he has no idea where this sudden shift came from. Which - he probably doesn’t. “Um. It’s okay?”

Eddie shakes his head, trying to swallow the sudden throbbing in his throat and failing. “No - no, it’s not. Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“Hey, I - I get it,” Buck says, even as Eddie continues to shake his head like it’s on a rusty swivel. “If you had done something that stupid, I probably would’ve reacted way worse than—“

“Buck,” he says, pulling away even when Buck tries to lean in again, even as hurt flashes across his face. Eddie turns them both, turns them to the side so that he can escape this corner he’s backed himself into, but—

But Buck won’t let go. 

“Can—“ Eddie licks his lips, can’t meet his gaze. “Can I—?”

Buck steps back, even as reluctance bleeds from his every move. 

Eddie stumbles to the side and finds himself still in front of the door, but closer to the hallway entrance. This is - he can breathe easier, here. 

(Maybe because he has a way to escape.)

“Eddie,” Buck says, standing a few feet from him now and raising his hands in surrender. There’s something so forcefully casual about his tone, like he’s trying to mask the desperation that continues to shine clear as day. “I’m not mad. I promise.”

“Well maybe I am,” he fires back, running a hand through already wild hair. 

Maybe Eddie’s furious, and doesn’t think that will ever change. Maybe there’s a never-ending stream of inadequacy on top of inadequacy playing in his head, a constant loop of everything he said to Buck in the heat of anger. 

(Maybe it’s all a mask to what he’s truly mad about - a facade to all the ways he sinned and can never take back.)

“Maybe I can’t forgive myself for the things I said.” He breathes out harshly through his nose, like he can push away all of his failures with just an exhale. “The things I did.”

Buck looks at him with grief stricken eyes. God, this is what Eddie does - he takes everything good, and he breaks it. He’s not sure why this ever would have been an exception.

Eddie can’t even look up anymore, can’t handle the weight of it all. So he doesn’t see it coming when Buck eventually breaks the silence, voice barely rising to his ears. “Do you think it was my fault?”

The words hit Eddie across the chest, and he honestly wants to check and see if any of his ribs were broken by the impact. 

He aches with regret, with the crushing need to take back everything and more as the heat behind his eyes becomes nearly unbearable. “No.” He shakes his head, and tries to push down the way his heart is tearing right in two, like that will make his voice come out less shattered. “God, no.”

“Then we’re fine,” Buck says, like - like it’s that easy. That simple. He tries to step forward and only stops when Eddie cringes back. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

“That’s just it,” Eddie croaks as his chest constricts painfully. God, he can’t - can’t do this. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“So tell me,” Buck urges, a reckless demand for answers written across his face. “Tell me about it, and I can tell you why you’re wrong, and—“

Eddie shakes his head again, throwing his hands up in exasperation because— “You can’t fix this, Buck!”

Eddie watches the flinch. 

And Eddie’s only proving his own point, that he’s never going to be good enough for this. 

Good enough for him. 

“I can’t do this,” he says, blinking harshly and trying to force his ragged breathing under control. “Can’t do this to you.”

He can’t do this. He can’t do this, can’t do this, can’t do this - not with his chest burning and flaring hotter and brighter every time Buck gets even an inch closer - not when everything he touches always crumbles, when he’s the reason for so much destruction - he can’t fucking do this knowing he’s the goddamn reason that—

“You don’t get to do that again,” Buck spits, and Eddie‘s eyes snap up only to be met with a steely gaze, and Eddie can’t escape it and— “You don’t get to run away and not tell me why, not explain why you—“

“I failed you!”

Buck’s mouth clicks closed, and for once, Eddie is grateful. 

“Don’t you get it?” Eddie is trapped against this door, open and exposed and free to do nothing but bare his soul. “You listened to those messages. You have to know it - that I wasn’t there.”

“Eddie, no,” Buck pleads, taking a step forward and bringing the fire with him. “We agreed - you know none of it was your fault. You being in Texas - it didn’t matter. It all would’ve happened no matter what, right? I don’t blame you. I don’t—“

“Fine,” he snaps, throwing his arms up again before reaching out, almost like he does in the field, almost like he can get Buck to see reason just like they do with callers. “Let’s ignore me not having your back for one goddamn day. Fantastic. What about all the others? When you were trapped, all alone? When you were tied down and beaten and left for dead?”

He can hear it - the way Buck’s breath catches. Can practically see the flinch even as his mind takes him somewhere else completely. 

Eddie is never going to be able to unhear it. All the things that lawyer said, everything Buck said. He’s going to have to live day after day with the knowledge around his neck like a noose, and—

And he deserves it. 

“You were in hell,” Eddie rasps, blinking open eyes he didn’t even realize were closed only to be met with Buck’s chest, because he can’t bring himself to look up. “You said so yourself. And - and where was I?” He leans his head back against the wood, even as Buck takes another agonizing step closer. “Chasing ghosts. Again.”

Buck is - too close. Eddie should get away. He doesn’t - doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve to have Buck anywhere near him. 

“All I did was make phone calls - ones that you couldn’t even hear.” He can feel a cool tear tracing a path down his cheek. He can’t handle looking up, not when it’s all about to crash and burn. Already crashing, already burning. “Not—“ His voice shakes weakly. Pathetically. ”Not when it mattered.”

Buck heard the calls. Months after they were recorded. 

Because Eddie didn’t see it. 

“Because I didn’t notice anything was wrong.” He can’t look Buck in the eye as he lays down these cards. As he explains his true failures. “I was so wrapped up in - in my own grief that I didn’t see the truth. I wasn't there when you - when you needed me."

He could’ve seen it. He doesn’t know how, but - somehow, in some way, he should have been able to see it. He should have been able to hear the way the universe was screaming, shrieking at him that his soulmate wasn’t truly gone. If any part of Eddie was ever worth something, he should have been able to see it. 

And - and to top it all off, so many damn people did see it. So many other people helped get Buck home - so many others were the reason Buck ultimately regained his freedom. Athena. Julia. Taylor fucking Kelly. 

Because apparently she was the best person to call. She was the one best equipped to help Buck. She noticed something, everything, was wrong, and Eddie—

Eddie wasn’t there. 

“So that’s why,” he barely gets out, back flush against the door because Buck is inches from him, now, and Eddie doesn’t have it in himself to push him away. Doesn’t have it in himself to look up and witness the end of everything he’s ever wanted. “You were all alone. You were going through literal fucking torture. And I—“ He chokes on nothing, chokes on everything. “I couldn’t do a single thing about it.”

Buck is so close that Eddie can feel his every breath. 

So maybe he feels it, before it starts. The way Buck’s inhale changes, that slight shift of contact, and then he’s—

He’s laughing. 

Eddie’s eyes snap up, his mouth falling open. 

He - why is Buck laughing? 

A deep pain consumes him, burning and searing. It’s a little ridiculous just how much it burns, but - he opened up, practically cracked open his ribcage, and— 

And Buck is practically cracking up. 

“Sorry,” Buck wheezes through his chopped breaths as he shakes his head, as he sees what must be raw hurt on Eddie’s face and apparently doesn’t care. “I’m - I’m not making f-fun of you. I - I promise—” 

Something actively stabs him in the heart as Buck’s words die off, as he doubles over in stitches. “Yeah, well—“ Eddie purses his lips to fight the sting in his eyes. At least they’ll be fucking matching, since Buck is nearly crying now, too. “The way you’re definitely not doing that is really convincing—“

“Eddie,” he softly chides, sobering himself and placing a soft hand along his jaw. 

Eddie does his best to not disintegrate to ash under the touch.

Buck is still smiling, the ghost of a laugh still on his lips, and - Eddie doesn’t know what to make of the fond look in his eyes. The gentleness that remains as Buck shakes his head ever so slightly. His barely audible voice as he says—

“God, you don’t even know, do you?”

Eddie tilts his head, trying to rack his brain for what Buck could possibly be talking about. In such a reverent tone, no less. 

Buck’s grin widens at his blank stare, and the hand not currently on Eddie’s face wraps around his upper arm in the most tender of ways. “Eddie, you—“ He giggles again, biting his lower lip. “You called me home.”

Eddie blinks, and—

“Pun intended,” Buck whispers, leaning in like it’s a secret. 

“What?” he says, unsure of what else to even say to that besides— “What ‘pun’ are you - what?”

Always making puns, you dork, he doesn’t say aloud, because he’s still mad. And - fucking confused. 

But Buck continues softly chuckling anyway, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, and then his nose, and Eddie is helpless to do anything but allow it when he presses a soft kiss to still-swollen lips. 

Buck pulls back after a thousand years. Eddie stares at him, a bit dazed as hands slowly trail over his body, finding their resting place at the base of his neck, heavy and warm. “Before I tell you,” he starts, “you have to promise to not get mad about something.”

He’s going to get whiplash from all of the shifts, here. Buck’s crying, then laughing, then kissing him and asking him to not be angry. And the last time Buck said that, it was because he listened to the voicemails. So - that bodes wonderfully well for whatever this could be preceding. 

For lack of any better ideas - or energy - he arches an eyebrow and hums. 

Buck, to his credit, has the decency to look half-apologetic as he says, “Jules listened to your calls, too.”

For a split second, anger floods him. 

It spikes - loud and hot. What right did she have - a total stranger - to listen in on something so private? Especially when he can barely stand the thought of Buck listening to them? Even when the words were always meant for him? 

So - yeah. He’s pissed, and glad he didn’t promise shit. But then the confusion returns with a vengeance. He’s at a loss all over again, possibly even worse than before because— “The hell does that have to do with anything?”

Buck smiles softly, gently, and rubs his thumbs in circles along his collarbone. Eddie’s arms wrap around Buck’s waist in response, probably on instinct, definitely not on purpose. 

Buck smiles softly, gently, and says, “You know, she was never supposed to go in my room at all. She was never even supposed to speak to me.”

Eddie nods, like he’s following along with something that makes sense, with a story that’s not bouncing all over the place. 

“Her job was technical, right? And her assignment was done. She was ready to move on.” Buck’s eyes shimmer, his smile fading like a dying ember. The ache in Eddie’s chest grows in time with the fall, but not enough to pull away. “There was no reason for her to ever think about me again.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers after a moment, because he can’t imagine never thinking of Buck. Couldn’t even fathom it. 

Buck shrugs beneath his hands, not meeting his eyes. “It’s the truth. Can’t change it now. Except—“ He sucks in a barely steady breath. “Something happened. Something made her want to meet me.” 

Eddie waits, and Buck’s still holding that breath, keeping it locked away like it will help him find the right words. 

Then Buck tilts his head up. The eyes that meet Eddie’s shine in the warm light, his frame sighing deeply into the hands holding his waist. “She was the one that had my phone, Eddie.”

It doesn’t click. 

At least—

Not right away. 

When it does, it slams into him harder than a bullet train, taking all the strength in his knees along with it. 

Buck keeps talking like the world hasn’t been completely flipped on its axis. 

“She didn’t know anything about me, but then - some random guy was missing me.” He chuckles wetly, and air won’t enter Eddie’s lungs even as Buck gently squeezes his shoulders. “And she couldn’t ignore that feeling in her gut anymore. The feeling that told her something was wrong.”

Something is tightening around his throat, his chest. Something thick and hot. It’s curling and constricting and strangling, and the words keep coming. 

“And then you kept calling.” Buck shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “You called, and she learned more and more about me. You called, and she didn’t know what to do, but - she knew she had to do something.”

The room is spinning, even with the anchor beneath his hands. Even as the small smile slides off of Buck’s face, as his gaze falls between them. “Then you called on my birthday.”

Everything - the spinning room, the heart flying in his chest, the thoughts that can’t seem to slow for anything - it all slams to a stop. Eddie’s breath catches on the blade in his throat, because - that can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means.

“I don’t know why that’s what did it, but - she tried to help me escape.” Buck glances up, the ghost of a sad smile crossing his face. “It didn’t go well.”

No shit it didn’t go well, Eddie wants to say, and there’s no air to say it with. 

“She lost hope.” Buck looks back down. “I - I guess I did, too.”

Did you give up?

I wanted to be dead. 

Eddie’s chest screams in a completely different way.

(Screams at the idea of Buck ever losing hope. At the memory of hearing it all in that damn courtroom.)

“But then,” Buck continues, voice catching on a sudden, incredulous laugh— “then you said you loved me.” He says it like nothing could ever compare, grin wide and eyes shimmering. “That was what convinced her to try again. She reached out for help, and - here we are.”

Eddie can’t think. 

(He thinks of Buck - Buck, who’s never had someone there for him. Not really. Buck, who is always clawing at what he loves because he’s just that desperate to keep it. Who doesn’t deserve to lose things like he has, who - more than anything - just wants—

To be held close. Just wants someone to stay.)

Eddie can’t breathe. 

(Buck has only ever wanted someone to stay.)

He can’t - can’t breathe. 

“It was always you, Eddie.” Buck’s hands tighten their hold, like he knows Eddie needs to be held up. “You’re the reason I’m home.”

Buck says these words like - like they’re the easiest thing. Like they’re not a punch to the sternum. Like this supposed truth is not in complete opposition to everything Eddie has ever known.

Eddie, who can’t fucking breathe. Can hardly see. Something heavy and searing is pressing into his chest, and he needs to reach inside his lungs and pull whatever it is out because he can’t breathe around it, can’t exist around it, which - doesn’t stop him from choking on the intangible air, doesn’t prevent a tear from escaping each of his eyes and—

Buck doesn’t hesitate to brush them away with scalding fingers. “You saved my life.”

You saved my life.

The words loop themselves in his head, like if he hears them enough times they’ll start to make sense, like the world he’s been thrust into will start to feel like reality.

“You saved my life, Eddie - your love saved my life.” Buck brings a hand to his hair and tilts their foreheads together, and Eddie squeezes his burning eyes shut at the contact, like that will keep everything inside— “And still, you have this - this idea in your head. That you’re no good for me. That you weren’t there for me.”

Because he isn’t. Wasn’t. He knows this - has always known this—

(Buck, more than anything, deserves someone who will stay. He deserves everything, but most of all, he - he deserves to have someone stay. To have someone - be there.)

“But don’t you get it?” The words from earlier return - words Eddie himself spoke - yet they’re said in joy, this time. Not grief. “You were there. Even when you thought you weren’t. Especially when you thought you weren’t.”

Eddie shakes his head even as it rests against Buck’s own, because - it can’t be true. It can’t.

“I wasn’t there.” The blood in his veins is frozen and screaming and on fire, leaving his entire body ice cold and flushed and shaking and - and his throat is closing in on itself, and still—

He has to tell him, has to work through the all consuming agony in his lungs and throat and heart to say— “I wasn’t there - I was never—“

“You were.” Buck says it softly. Easily. “You were there for me - the whole time. You were there.”

And Eddie—

(And maybe Eddie deserves to have that person, too. To be that person.)

Eddie—

(Maybe they both do.)

“You’ve always been there.” 

Eddie breaks. 

He breaks, piercing sobs ripping through him like blades as he lets his knees buckle. As strong arms wrap around him. As the embrace keeps him from falling to the floor, from joining the abandoned phones. 

Eddie breaks into a million pieces, and Buck catches every single one. 

Chapter Text

Later, Eddie will remember the way Buck held him. He’ll remember steadiness in the face of the fallout; the way Buck practically carried him to the couch.

In this moment, all he knows is a sudden softness beneath him, a gentle heartbeat right beneath his ear. He knows Buck’s arms are wrapped around him, and he knows his own fingers are curled into the back of a soft hoodie.

Through his tears, he feels the warmth of a kiss against the crown of his head, and he breaks even more under the weight of it.

Later, he’ll wake up and hate the crick in his neck, the way his muscles twinge. Now, though - now all he can think of, all that his world consists of is the gentle lull of the voice above him, whispering sweet nothings as they both fall asleep in the place that’s always been theirs. 

The warmth of the early morning sun and the smell of pancakes fills the kitchen, just like the sizzling of thick batter in the pan. Buck waits for the right number of bubbles to appear before flipping them, the golden brown perfect. 

Slow shuffling rises to his ears. He glances back, and smiles. “Morning.”

Eddie grunts something unintelligible, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck - a clear attempt to release unwanted tension. 

Buck chuckles a bit, turning to grab a mug of already made coffee, one cream and no sugar. “Here you are.”

Eddie looks down at the cup. After a moment, he wordlessly takes it into his hands, puts in back on the counter, and pulls Buck into a suffocating embrace. 

Buck nearly drops the spatula, but manages to blindly set it down on the counter behind him and turn down the burner a bit, too. Once he does, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his own arms around Eddie tight - to press Eddie’s face right to the curve of his neck.

“I’m here,” Buck breathes into his hair - an echo of the same words he whispered in the dark, now here in the light of day. “I’m here. We’re both here.”

Eddie nods against him, and Buck loves the way his hair tickles his cheek. He loves the way they fit in each other’s arms. 

More than anything, though, he loves his best friend. 

“I love you.” Buck presses a lingering kiss to the side of his temple. “So much.”

Eddie nods again, and Buck holds him even closer. 

He thought he’d never have this. This being Eddie, of course, but also - someone who would love him and would always be there for him, even when they think they aren’t. Because Eddie got him home, yes, but he was the reason for so much more. 

Because Eddie was always there - over the phone, in Buck’s memories. 

Eddie was there, in the form of a kind word or book, his love so unshakable that a total stranger was able to channel it. 

“So,” Eddie eventually says, voice muffled as he turns his head into Buck’s shoulder, “all that - and she called Taylor?”

Buck barks a laugh, loud and light and only slightly choked. “She, uh—“ He shakes his head and squeezes Eddie tighter, ignoring the light burn behind his eyes. “She figured you’d do something crazy. Like try and break in all on your own.”

Eddie does not sound impressed when he mutters, “Like Athena.”

“Hey,” he laughs, rubbing a hand along Eddie’s back. “Athena had a gun. And Jules.”

He scoffs. Quite adorably. “I have a gun.”

“Uh, yeah. I know.” Buck pulls back slightly, and isn’t afraid to make his disapproval clear. “Don’t think you got out of me yelling at you for that stunt in the yard. I’m the only one in this relationship that’s allowed to be an idiot.”

Eddie rolls his eyes despite the slight shine to them. 

“Admit it, though.” Buck has to smile. “You totally would have done something stupid.”

“Obviously,” Eddie says with a huff. “I would’ve—“ 

His words stop, and Buck holds his breath as a steady hand curls around the edge of his jaw, warm and present and right. 

Eddie’s eyes shine gold in the sun, and Buck could drown in the color. “I would’ve done anything.”

“I know,” Buck whispers, wrapping his own fingers around Eddie’s wrist. The pulse there is strong. Sturdy. 

God, does he know. Eddie would have walked through fire, through literal raining bullets and unrelenting storms to get to him. 

And maybe that’s what scares Buck the most. 

“Jules said—“ He sucks in a shaky breath as he recalls her words. “She said she knew I wouldn’t—“ 

His voice breaks, and Eddie’s fingers carefully brush along his cheek, the tips of them reaching the edge of where he knows his birthmark to be. Eddie holds Buck’s face, and it’s all he can do but focus on the feeling - focus on drawing air in and out of his lungs. 

Buck closes his eyes and tilts their foreheads together, breathing deeply at the contact. “I couldn’t handle anything happening to you. So - I’m glad. I’m glad she didn’t call you. Because if you got hurt or worse trying to save me, I—“

“Hey,” Eddie says, shifting his hand into Buck’s hair and his other further around his waist. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck swallows and nods. 

“But I mean it,” Eddie softly urges. “If I had believed for even a second that you could still be out there - I would’ve done anything. I would’ve done everything.”

“I - I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” Eddie’s tone is suddenly serious. Buck blinks open his eyes to find more of that deliberation staring right back at him. “I would have gone anywhere for you. I would’ve gone to - Antarctica, if you were there. I’d have gone to the moon.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, trying and failing to sound casual, normal. “How would you even get there?”

“Steal a spaceship. They’d never see me coming.” They both laugh, and Buck has to fight the way his chest burns more at the sight of Eddie’s smile. “I need you to know that’s how much I love you.”

Buck sniffs, casually. “I’ll tell NASA to watch out, then.”

“You do that,” Eddie breathes, leaning in to press a warm kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth. 

Because this is their life now, isn’t it? Morning kisses and making coffee for each other. It’s burning pancakes, hands tangled in each other’s hair, whispered “I love you”s. It’s waking up to each other and falling asleep with each other and all that comes in between. 

Buck’s not really sure what he did to deserve the in between. 

He’s not really sure why he - of all people - gets to have this. Someone to go home to, someone that loves him for who he is, rather than what he can give. Because - because Eddie loves him for who he is.

Ironic, that’s he’s only realizing that now. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Eddie murmurs against his lips, eyes still closed. 

Buck shakes his head, fighting the weak sting still plaguing his throat. “‘m fine.”

Eddie pulls back fully. It’s no shock when unimpressed eyes fill his vision. “Buck.”

And maybe it was easier to shove this all aside last night. 

Easier, to push his own feeling away when Eddie was the one that needed comfort. Perhaps it’s easier, still, for Buck to focus on the needs of other people, even after all this time. 

(Especially after all this time.)

“Just—“ He shrugs, and Eddie’s gaze never wavers. “I’m so lucky, you know? I - I love you.” He presses his own chaste kiss to Eddie’s slightly parted lips, just because he can. “And you love me.”

The words hang in the air between them. Buck could almost swear the syllables wrap around him like a vice. 

“But?” Eddie says, because of course he does.

“But what if—“ 

Buck licks his lips. Stamps down the rising nausea in his gut, too. “You love me. And - I believe that. Really,” he adds, when Eddie begins to raise an eyebrow. 

An eyebrow that doesn’t go back down. 

Buck has to hold back a sigh. This is what he gets, loving someone that knows him in every possible way. “But what if the me you love… isn’t really me?”

Eddie stares at him, blinking dumbly for a few moments. “Yeah,” he eventually says, defeated. “I’m tired of not knowing what you’re talking about.”

Buck finally gives in to the sigh. That’s - that’s probably fair. 

The hands on him shift, so that Eddie has both of them wrapped around his middle, pressing them both close. A lot of people in the past have mused that the two of them must be able to read each other’s minds - and Buck supposes that’s true, to some extent - but still. They’re only human. 

Maybe that would make things easier, knowing each other’s thoughts. Maybe it would make Eddie run for the hills. 

“I’ve always been so sure of - of who I am, you know?” He looks down, the brown-gold before him too much to stare into. “And you’ve always been such a big part of that. But—“

He licks his lips, finding them as dry as his tongue. The turning in his gut reminds him of why he’s saying these words in the first place - it makes it all too real, that he hasn’t felt like himself in—

In a long, long time. 

He’s not sure when it started. When Athena walked through that door, when his body and mind decided to give up on him in that hospital bed. When he woke up chained. When he realized there was a deadly disease hidden beneath the rubber of his suit and the stretch of his flesh, realized he would have to lie to save his brother’s life. 

When that truck drove off into the rain, taking the last remnants of the only family he had ever found with it. Showing up at a hospital to find nothing but a note - not his sister - and realizing he was going to have to fend for himself. The moment he looked at his parents and figured out that he was never going to be enough for them. 

Has he ever, really, truly been - anyone?

“I’m not that person, anymore.” He hates the roughness of the words. Hates the truth they carry even more. “Maybe - maybe I sound more like that person now, more than I have been, but—“

“What if you’ve changed.”

Buck nods, even as the words strike like a punch. Eddie said them softly, not accusatory or offensive in any way, yet Buck loathes them all the same. 

Because he did change. Somewhere between that first lab and the next, whatever he was and whatever he is now became disconnected in a way he can’t fix, in a way that won’t ever come undone. He’s - he knows he shouldn’t call himself broken. He gets that, somewhere in his brain. 

He desperately wishes knowing and believing could be the same. 

“Evan.” Eddie places a soft hand beneath his chin. “Look at me.”

He does. The warm brown eyes he meets with his own crinkle in both a soft smile and an undeniable fondness, one that makes the heart in his chest flare, one that nearly knocks him off his feet. 

“No part of you could ever be wrong for me.” 

The words steal his breath. He opens his mouth, maybe to find the air that was lost, maybe to protest, but it doesn’t end up mattering as the words continue. 

Eddie’s other thumb rubs up and down the skin between Buck’s shirt and sweats. His smile remains, even as it takes on a more serious undertone. “You told me I’m good for you, so you have to believe it, too. Okay?”

Buck inhales shakily, finally able to draw in needed air, before nodding. He - he guesses it makes sense. On - some level. He personally can’t see how Eddie could ever be anything other than perfect, so - would it be so crazy, then, to believe Eddie feels the same?

“I love you for who you are, yes. So that means I love you.” There’s no room for negotiation in Eddie’s tone. “Not for what you can say, not for what you can do. Not for how you act or don’t act. You could drive away in your car forever, right here and now, and - I’d still never stop loving you. Trust me.”

He says the last few words with an almost-playful squeeze to Buck’s side, and a slight breath of amusement that can only come from lived experience. Buck huffs a bit in response, knowing exactly what he means. Exactly why he knows these things with such certainty. 

“I love the way that you love.” Eddie’s quiet hand on his jaw does not waver, even as his thumb slides back and forth in a stable rhythm. “With everything in you. I love that you care more about Christopher than anything in this world. And I love that out of all the people on this planet, you’re the only one I want to grow old with.” 

“I want that, too,” Buck whispers, leaning forward and taking the hand on his chin in his own, interlocking their fingers and pressing a kiss to the side of Eddie’s palm. “You and Chris. You’re the only future I want.”

“Good,” Eddie says, impossibly certain. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Buckley - no way out of it.”

Buck clears his throat and softly as he can. “Good,” he repeats. “That’s - that’s good.” 

He swallows a few more times, nodding at the gentle, questioning look Eddie gives him. Because he really is okay. Better than okay. 

He has everything he’s ever wanted. And for once—

He finds himself able to believe it. 

What would really be great, though, is not crying this early in the morning. So he reaches back with his free hand to grasp the still-warm mug from the counter, lifting it between them and coughing lightly. “Good. Great. Coffee?”

Eddie blinks, unmoving. He’s still staring, almost into Buck’s soul, like he can find out through eye contact alone whether he’s truly okay. 

Okay is relative, Buck knows. Okay might not be the same on one day as it is on another. Sometimes okay is having the strength to get out of bed, to ask for help even while feeling like a burden. Sometimes okay looks like laughing with the two people he loves most in the world, sunlight warm on his skin. 

Sometimes being okay is just existing, in the here and now, with Eddie. And that’s the kind of okay Buck is. 

Eddie finally tilts his head, a seemingly satisfied smile crossing his face. He untangles their hands - which Buck kind of hates but also doesn’t hate, because Eddie’s other hand is still pressed to the skin on his side - so that he can grab the mug and take a small sip. 

He hums, pursing his lips, almost in a unsatisfied way. “Where’s the sugar?”

Buck opens his mouth a few times, certain he got the drink correct yet confused at the apparent evidence suggesting otherwise. “It’s, um - it’s over here, but…”

Without breaking eye contact, Eddie grabs a disposable packet from the side of the coffee maker, and slowly pulls back his arm. 

Buck is fully unable to move as Eddie opens the package with his teeth, the slow ripping sound echoing through the kitchen, before pouring it into the dark liquid. He stirs it in with the tip of his index finger - which he sticks in his mouth to taste once he’s apparently done, his tongue poking out just a hint between his lips. “Hm. Perfect.”

Buck’s brain might be fucking broken. 

Fully malfunctioned. Gone. For like, good this time. All those months of mental torment, and this is what did it. 

“I - I thought you didn’t take sugar,” Buck stammers in a way he hopes isn’t incredibly high-pitched. “In… in your coffee.” 

“Maybe I want to have sweet things.” Eddie smiles, and his canines become visible, and - Buck’s brain might never recover, truly. “What time is it?”

It takes a moment for the question to register, and another for him to realize he has to look away and at the wall behind Eddie’s head to answer. “It’s, uh - almost nine?”

“Hm,” he hums again, thoughtful. Buck watches as he takes another small sip, and puts the mug back down on the counter, their arms brushing in a way that sends shockwaves to Buck’s entire torso, and then some. “Chris is expecting us around eleven.”

The words come with a slight tightening of the hand on his waist. 

Buck’s breath stutters. “Is that right?”

“Mhm.” Buck has to hold back a full body shudder as Eddie’s other hand traces up the outside of his arm. “You know I love you.”

As of twenty four hours ago, he didn’t. And still, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. “I do.”

Eddie hums again, leaning in so close that Buck can feel every ounce of hot breath on his skin. “Mind if I show you how much?”

Buck closes the gap, mumbling a soft “please” into Eddie’s parted lips before the space between them fully disappears. 

Buck’s just happy he remembers to turn off the burner before they leave the room. So much for perfectly cooked pancakes - though he must admit, no surprise breakfast could ever come close to the sweetness of Eddie’s mouth. 

Eddie’s leg bounces, and the light is still red. 

“He’s gonna be happy for us,” Buck murmurs from the passenger seat, squeezing the hand in his own. “Nothing to worry about.”

Eddie’s neck jerks into a nod, every drop of effort going towards keeping up a calm exterior. 

An eternity passes, and he barely has time enough to blink before they’re pulling into the driveway. Not nearly enough time passes before the back door is opening, either. 

“Hey guys,” Christopher says, loading his crutches in before sliding down into the low seat. “Are we stopping at home or going straight there?”

“Straight there,” Eddie manages to get out around the knot in his throat, achieving a somewhat normal tone despite his racing heart. 

“Cool,” Chris says, already scrolling on his phone.

Eddie pulls out onto the road. He looks over at Buck, and - something in his chest loosens ever so slightly at the soft smile aimed his way. 

“Chris,” Buck says, and Eddie can’t help a quiet, somewhat-nervous chuckle when Chris’ head immediately pops back up in the mirror. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

They pull up to another light, and Eddie glances up to make brief eye contact with Chris. 

His kid’s eyes are wide, no small amount of shock coloring them. Eddie can’t blame him - this is probably the greatest number of words Buck has said to him in - well, a single day for—

A long, long time. 

“Yeah?” Chris says after several, definitely not terrifying moments.

“First, we - we want you to know nothing’s going to change,” Eddie starts, staring at the traffic light like it’ll tell him exactly how to come out to his son. “Neither of us are going to—“

“Oh my god.” 

Eddie turns his head and meets Buck’s equally wide eyes. 

“You’re together.”

Something uncoils itself from Eddie’s lungs, but something else wraps tighter around his heart. “Y-yeah, bud,” he says, calming slightly when Buck’s hand finds his own once more over the cup holders. “Is that… okay?”

Chris doesn’t seem to hear the question. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Buck chides softly, when Eddie can’t manage anything but another nervous laugh. 

“Is that okay,” Chris repeats. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, trying to not appear like he’s on the edge of a minor panic attack. Like everything isn’t riding on how this conversation ends. “Is it?”

“I can’t even - you’re both dumb. Like. So dumb. You know that, right?”

Buck is the one to laugh this time. “We are very well aware,” he says before Eddie can scold Chris for calling the people who are basically his parents dumb. 

“Actually, no,” Chris suddenly says. “I am mad.” 

Eddie has to pretend his heart doesn’t jolt at the words - has to put no small amount of effort into not accidentally crashing straight into the truck in front of them, to—

“That you told me in the car because I can’t even hug you.”

An unknowable weight instantly disappears from his shoulders. 

He lets out a shaky breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Maybe he’s been holding it his entire life. “So… it is okay?”

Chris doesn’t answer. There’s enough of a pause for the weight to return, for his pulse to start kicking back into overdrive, but—

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder from behind. “Of course it is.”

“Told you,” Buck whispers, not even giving him a chance to breathe or absorb the answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so smart,” he mutters, the remaining tension leaking out of him like air from a balloon.

“Smarter than you,” Chris says, and Buck lets go of Eddie’s hand to reach back and give Chris a high-five. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, even though they’re burning. Only slightly, of course. He’s - he’s completely fine. 

The two people he loves most in this world, together. 

(It really doesn’t get much better than this, does it?)

“But like we were saying before,” Buck says, “nothing is going to change. You’re still going to be the most important thing to us. Even if we were to break up, we’re never going to let you lose either of us. Okay?”

Eddie fully understands the way his son can’t seem to pick his jaw up from the ground. 

“Y-yeah,” Chris says eventually, voice barely audible. “Thanks, Buck.”

“No problem, kiddo,” he says, and Chris doesn’t even protest at the nickname. He’s still staring, open mouthed. “Wanna tell us about your sleepover?”

Eddie has to blink a bit faster as his son keeps staring at the back of Buck’s head. 

(Because he knows. He knows how much that voice means, how deeply it was missed both while Buck was gone and while he was right in front of them. He knows how much it means to see Buck truly, fully healing.)

“You okay?” Buck asks, turning around a bit in his seat. 

“I’m… great,” Chris says. “Never better.”

Eddie hasn’t been over to Bobby’s new place much. It’s jarringly different than the house that used to sit on the very same property. Yet as he steps through the front door, the feeling is the same. The walls might look different, and the furniture might have been replaced, but at the end of the day the inside is unchanged, the framework untouched. The people are still there. The love is still there. 

He spares a glance at Buck at his side, and has to blink rapidly to combat the emotions that don’t seem to want to leave him be. 

“Hey guys,” Maddie says from one of the couches, coming over to hug Buck as she always does. “We weren’t expecting the whole gang!”

“Yeah,” Eddie says awkwardly as he toes off his shoes. “Surprise?”

Everyone in the living room clearly seems to share Maddie’s sentiment, staring at the three of them coming into the house together as a unit. But while they might be surprised, they’re not unhappy. Everyone welcomes them warmly, a few raised glasses, a few hugs. 

“Good to see you walking free, Diaz,” Athena says dryly, on the nearby cream-colored sofa, sipping on a glass of red wine. A dangerous combination - for anyone else. 

His stomach drops, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Even as everyone turns to him, and he has to swallow, laughing stiffly. “Uh - yeah.”

“What’s she talking about?” Bobby asks, and Eddie smiles as non-guiltily as he can possibly manage. 

“Noth—“

“You would think this boy got it all out of his system,” she says with a shake of her head, turning back to him with heavily unimpressed eyes. “Shoving a gun in the guy’s face wasn’t enough?”

He cringes. “Listen—“

“Eddie,” Hen sighs. “What did you do?”

“I may have—“ Eddie shrugs. Innocently. “Punched him. Briefly.”

No one speaks. No one except Athena, who huffs after a moment of silence. “Broke his damn nose, more like.”

“Hey, the son of a bitch is lucky they dragged me away when they—“

“So that’s where you went!” Chimney exclaims, pointing and gaping. 

“Eddie.” Bobby sighs, in a way that is somehow equally disappointed as his wife yet infinitely more tired. “Am I going to have to fill out paperwork?”

“They didn’t even book me!” he defends, raising his hands by his head. “I was only in the holding cell for like, an hour or two at—“

Buck grabs him and crashes their lips together. 

Distantly, Eddie hears something shatter. 

He can’t really care over the mind-numbing bliss pumping through his veins. 

Buck pulls away, cupping Eddie’s face in his hands. “I am so in love with you right now.”

The smile is impossible to push down. Everyone else can stay mad - he has the approval of the only person whose opinion matters, so what does he care?

“…I’m not the only one seeing this, right?” Chimney’s voice says from somewhere nearby. “I’m not going nuts?”

Eddie forces himself to glance away from the deep blue before him, and to look at everyone else. Because this will probably be the most priceless moment he’s ever going to have the pleasure of witnessing. 

He’s correct. He would give anything for a camera. 

“Is this…” Hen begins, open mouthed. Her wife is no longer holding a wine glass, and Eddie is silently thankful there are no kids in the room to step on the fragments. “New?”

Eddie turns back to Buck, whose eyes are still sparkling with love and mischief, and he’s unable to stop his own smirk. “Not like, new new. But as of last night, yes.”

The clock ticks, and leaves rustle outside of the open patio doors. These are the only sounds to float through the air. 

Then Bobby says, “So I still have to fill out paperwork.”

Eddie laughs, and it’s like he’s floating on cloud nine.

The spell is broken, and everyone else is laughing, too. Everyone is coming forward to hug them, to congratulate them on something that’s been a long time coming. 

A long, long time coming. 

“Well,” Bobby eventually says, “Lunch is almost ready. Wanna help, Buck?”

“Absolutely! You went with pasta, right?” he says, walking forward - completely oblivious to the way the rest of the room has frozen for a second time. “What kind? Did you know there’s actually like, six hundred regional variations of pasta shapes?”

“No,” Eddie calls after him when no one else speaks. “Nobody knew that.”

“Um.” Bobby tilts his head a bit, still stuck staring at where Buck just was. “Penne.”

“Nice,” Buck says distantly, already in the kitchen. “I’ll chop if you stir.”

Everyone slowly turns to Eddie, who just smiles wider and shrugs. 

“Hey,” Buck says, poking his head out from around the corner, throwing Bobby a concerned glance. “You okay?”

Yeah. Eddie’s going to spend the rest of his life with this guy. 

Bobby’s lips curl up in a smile. It’s only slightly shaky, and he still hasn’t turned around. “Never better, kid.” 

Sunlight pours into the kitchen from the open windows, and the smell of warm food fills the air. Distant laughter filters into the space from the open patio doors. The kid chops vegetables, chattering away like he always has, like not a day has gone by. 

Bobby clamps down the feelings rising in him, like he can put a lid over them if he tries hard enough. It’s not going to hold - sooner or later, the pressure is going to be too much, and it’ll spill over the edges and rattle the entire stove. And the only consolation will be that the underlying reason for the breakdown will be a happy one, this time. 

Bobby dries his hands on a towel as he finishes the last of his own prep, stooping down to slide the stainless steel pan in the oven. 

Bobby’s back is turned, sliding that pan into the oven when Buck’s rambles pitter off. 

He stills, knees twinging from his position. Patient. Waiting. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“Hey, um—“ Buck clears his throat roughly. “I wanted to say thanks. For - for you know, showing up yesterday. I know something like that couldn’t have been… easy.”

Bobby’s heart spasms in his chest. But he swallows down the memories - closes the oven carefully, speaks even more carefully. “Of course, kid.”

The rhythm of the gentle chopping falters a bit, but resumes quickly enough. “I just know - seeing me again in like, a legal setting. That must’ve been awkward for you, so I just - I appreciate it.”

His knees don’t stop twinging. Not as he remains crouched in front of the oven, not as he slowly stands and turns. 

The kid is staring pointedly down at the vegetables on the cutting board, shoulders rigid as he slices, laser-focused on the task at hand. 

“Buck,” Bobby begins, working his jaw. “Is… is that why you think yesterday was hard?”

Buck stills for a few seconds before he shrugs, slicing again. “I mean, it was probably not great on a lot of fronts, but - I get it, you know? If seeing me in that context again, with all that - hey, what are you—“

His words cut off, knife clattering on the counter as Bobby turns him around to engulf him in a tight embrace. 

They’re both silent, for a long time. Bobby makes no move to let go, and neither does Buck. If anything, he buries himself deeper with every second that goes by. 

“Buck,” Bobby eventually whispers, not loosening his hold. “You had every right to be up on that stand.”

The kid’s throat constricts against his own neck at the words. “I - I know.”

“You also had every right to call me out, all those years ago,” he continues. “Even if I was too much of a coward to admit it.”

Buck pulls back then sharply, eyebrows pinched in clear distress. “Cap—“

“Just let me apologize with grace, here, okay?” he says with a small, painful smile. God, these words are too late. Years too late. “I’m sorry that I tried to protect you in a way that only ended up hurting you. And I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it.”

The kid purses his lips, but soon enough he’s slowly nodding his head. He leans further back, away from Bobby and into the counter, crossing his arms, looking down at the freshly tiled floor. 

“It’s okay,” Buck mumbles eventually, shrugging. “But I still - appreciate it. Yesterday I mean. Especially after - you know.”

His tone is so… matter-of-fact. Casual. Bobby takes a couple deep breaths, ones that should probably be more calming, and tries to not focus too much on his sinking gut. “No. I don’t know.”

“Last week, with the fire and all.” Buck sniffs lightly, shifting from foot to foot and dragging a sleeve across his lips. Bobby’s stomach turns. “So - thanks for showing up. Even though I can be such a - you know.”

Bobby is going to start ripping what’s left of his hair out. “No, Buck. I really don’t.”

The kid audibly swallows, still avoiding his gaze. 

(The next words are going to wreck him, aren’t they?)

“I can be a lot, okay?” His tone remains clear and blasé. “I know that. I know it’s hard to tell me not to do shit like that over and over again, and still watch me do it. I get it.”

Bobby’s jaw seems to be glued shut, for all that he can get it to work. 

(Wreck was an understatement.)

“So thanks for being there anyway,” Buck finishes, turning around and picking the knife back up, but he doesn’t raise it from the counter. 

Bobby stands there and watches the kid’s fingers flex around the wooden handle, white with tension he’s clearly trying to get rid of. His back isn’t moving up and down much, but Bobby knows this doesn’t reflect how he must be breathing.

Buck doesn’t continue chopping the vegetables, and Bobby doesn’t turn back to the stove. 

Neither of them speak. It seems Buck is either waiting for a response, or desperately hoping they never talk about this again. 

“It replays in my head,” Bobby finally decides on, crossing his arms and blinking a few harsh times. “That day.“

Buck doesn’t turn around. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. And he certainly doesn’t need to ask what Bobby is referring to. 

“Theres a lot that won’t leave me.” Bobby ignores the rising ache in his chest, the building pressure in his throat, as Buck remains still. “You, hitting that button. The door sliding down. Realizing you weren’t breathing.”

Ironically, it’s on these words that Buck’s breath hitches enough that Bobby can see it from behind. 

“But do you want to know,” Bobby continues, even as Buck begins to shake his head - maybe in answer, maybe as a reflex— “what I can’t stop hearing?”

Buck’s head stops with a jerk. His shoulders are tense as he carefully sets down the knife and turns slightly, eyes wide and avoiding. 

Bobby swallows thickly. 

He’s been comforted by the way his own voice has remained steady. That changes when he repeats the words that have haunted him since the day they were first spoken - spoken in that same matter-of-fact tone.

“‘No one needs me.’”

Buck flinches weakly at the words, fully facing him now, yet his eyes remain glued to the floor. “Bobby, I—“

“That’s what you said.” Bobby wishes he had the courage to grab Buck, the ability to force him to hear what’s being said. To grasp the kid’s chin and make him look up so he stops avoiding this truth. “Yesterday, you said you don’t remember much. But I know you remember that.”

Buck curls in on himself, just enough to be barely noticeable. “I - I know it was a dumb thing to say.” There’s no denial. About remembering it, at least. “But for what it’s worth - I’m sorry. For leaving you with - that.”

Bobby closes his eyes for a moment, sighing deeply enough that maybe his tired bones will finally settle. 

“Kid,” he begins, mouth dry. “Do you really think that’s the problem here?”

When Buck doesn’t answer - doesn’t even move - he has to swallow the lump forming in his throat to keep going. “I’ll admit it wasn’t great, the fact that that was my final moment with you. But do you honestly think - that’s the issue?”

Buck shrugs and doesn’t respond. 

If Bobby’s shoulders weren’t already low, they would have fallen. Behind him, he can hear the sizzle of the pan as something probably begins to spill over. But the heat’s not high enough to warrant worry - not with this right in front of him. The whole thing can burn, for all he cares. 

“Actually, I take it back.” Bobby still can’t catch Buck’s gaze, but he’s not going to let that stop him. “You said we wouldn’t need you. You left me with that. Then the universe decided to show everyone how dead wrong you were.”

Despite himself, Buck snorts wetly, finally looking up. “Dead wrong, huh?”

Bobby can’t help but roll his eyes with his own wobbly smile. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

Buck shrugs, but thankfully he doesn’t look away again. His eyes remain fixed on Bobby, wide and bright, the kitchen lights reflecting off their misty surface. 

“Ravi had his family. And his life ahead of him. Right?” Buck flinches a bit more at the words, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Hen had her family, too. But those families didn’t include you, of course.”

Buck glances away again. Yet somehow still, he shakes his head, continuing to deny what Bobby is trying so hard to show him. “Not—“ He swallows audibly. “Not in that way.”

“In what way, then? Are you saying Hen wouldn’t invite you into her home, let you watch her kids, do anything to save you in the field? That Ravi hasn’t looked up to you for years, that they both don’t see you as a part of their family?”

“Bobby, I - I meant—“

“Your death wouldn’t affect them the same way as losing someone that actually matters.” The grip Bobby has on his own crossed arms tightens. “That’s what you meant. Right?”

Buck doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Not for a long time. Bobby remains where he is, arms crossed, not afraid to let Buck answer in his own time. 

Eventually he does - with a weak, unsure voice, one that has Bobby’s heart fracturing just a bit deeper than before. “Yes. Maybe. I - I don’t know.”

“You’re right.” Another flinch, but this time it’s smaller. More subdued. Bobby wishes the truth didn’t hurt so much. “You don’t know.”

The kid shrugs again, and says nothing. 

“I learned a lot yesterday.” Bobby resists the urge to step forward, to pretend they can just go back to making lunch, but he knows this has to be said. Knows Buck needs to hear this. “And I still barely know a fraction of what you went through, of what you felt and experienced.”

“That’s not your fa—“

“I wasn’t there to see what you went through. But Buck,” he says, and has to stop as further pressure builds in his chest, pressure he has to force down.

He tilts his head, and takes a deep breath. “You weren’t here, either.”

Bobby almost feels guilty, the way Buck’s eyes instantly become more reflective. 

Almost. 

“You didn’t see the way the station went dark.” Bobby has to swallow again to keep his feelings in check. As the memories assault him from all sides - memories Buck doesn’t know about, shouldn’t know about. “You didn’t see us bury you.”

Buck shouldn’t have to know this - shouldn’t have to know how those he loves reacted to this loss. 

But it’s what he needs. 

“You weren’t there when Hen came to me for help with the guilt. Guilt that she was moving on, adopting Mara, all when you would never see it. You didn’t see Ravi burn breakfast half a dozen times because he was that desperate for a shred of normalcy.”

Buck crossed his arms at some point, during Bobby’s small tirade. Even so, it’s impossible to miss the way he’s shaking. The unsteadiness that becomes easier to see as Bobby begins to slowly step closer. 

“You said Maddie and Chim would have each other.” The trembling picks up a notch. Bobby can sense it, can feel it as he places a gentle hand on Buck’s upper arm. “And they did. Eventually. Once they could breathe again without drowning.”

“So - so they did lean on each other.” Buck looks almost hopeful, and it breaks something inside Bobby to see it, to know he’ll have to crush it. “That - that’s good, right?”

“Buck.” The fragile optimism slides off his face with just one word. “Their love was always going to be okay. But losing you? Both of them losing another brother?”

It’s sad, the way it all comes together in Buck’s eyes with a practically visible click. 

It’s more than sad. It’s downright heartbreaking. 

“You mean - infinitely more to them than you will ever know.” Bobby reaches out to grasp both of his shoulders, like he can physically force Buck to understand with the simple weight of his touch. “They need you. But more importantly, they love you.”

It takes Buck a moment, but soon enough his head jerks up and down. “I - I understand.”

Bobby doubts that. Yet he nods back nonetheless, rubbing a thumb along the kid’s shirt seam. “Good. Because I don’t think I need to tell you how wrong you were about Eddie.”

Miraculously, a wistful smile crosses Buck’s face. “Yeah, uh—“ He sniffs lightly. “I - I have a pretty good idea, on that front.”

There’s a story there. But Bobby’s not going to press. Not now. All that’s important now is that Buck knows how much he means. 

Now, and always. 

“So you know how much he needs you. How much Christopher needs you.”

The smile slips, replaced by something broken. Still, he nods, unable to deny it. 

Bobby returns the nod. He takes a small amount of comfort in the fact that Buck does seem to understand, at least when it comes to the Diaz’s. Again, Bobby feels as if there is some story he’s unaware of, and figures that could very well be the case. Something happened, at the very least, between yesterday and today. And it wasn’t just Buck and Eddie figuring everything out. 

He grips both of Buck’s shoulders. “We all need you, kid. We all love you. More than you will ever know.”

Buck’s shaking hard enough now that Bobby’s arms are, too. And while his face remains steady on the surface, the lines around his mouth and eyes tremble with the rest of him all the same. 

Bobby swallows, and continues. 

“I know I said it, back when that damn glass was between us, but—” Bobby’s own lips twitch upward as Buck’s eyes become too glassy for blinking to work, a stray tear spilling over. “You’re my kid.”

A soft sound escapes Buck’s throat, despite the obvious effort. 

“I’m never going to stop loving you.” He shifts his grip so that he’s holding Buck’s upper arms, because it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if Buck were to fall without the support. “You will never stop being important to me. No matter what happens, no matter what craziness comes our way. That will never change.”

He reaches up to brush away the single path of moisture on Bucks cheek. As he does, Buck finally looks back at him, eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears. 

Somehow, through the pain, Bobby manages to say the words that truly need to be heard. 

“So don’t you dare say no one needs you. Don’t ever say that you’re some kind of problem to be fixed.”

Buck nods, unmoving except for the ever-remaining tremor. 

Then he surges forward, arms coming up to wrap around Bobby tight, knocking the air right out of him. 

Bobby doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace, curling a hand over the nape of the kid’s neck, tucking his head right against his own shoulder. 

“I love you, too,” Buck whispers.

Bobby will hold those words in his heart for the rest of his life. 

The grass is a soft green, the sky a brilliant blue. It makes Buck’s eyes pop, even from all the way across the yard, as he plays some elaborate game with Mara and Jee. 

Eddie sips on his beer, unable to shove down a grin even when the bottle runs dry. 

With another glance across the grass, he heads inside to grab another. Though he’s going to limit himself to two, since he still has to drive home. 

He plucks a fresh bottle from the pack, cool to the touch, only slightly slick with condensation. As the bottles clink, Chimney comes around the corner. 

He gives Eddie an awkward nod, heading for the patio door. 

“Hey,” Eddie calls softly, stopping him in his tracks. 

Chimney looks back at him, a proverbial deer in headlights. “Hey.”

“I—“ Eddie swallows, shifting his gaze down to the drink in his hand. Everyone else is outside, loud and happy. Loud enough that no one should overhear. “You know I—“

He swallows. Gathers up the last of his nerves - he’s already used enough of them, these past twenty four hours, what’s a little bit more?

“I never blamed you.” He looks back up, steeling his resolve. “You know that, right?”

Chim’s gaze falls between them, and Eddie doesn’t know whether to be discouraged or not when he sighs. “Yeah.”

“I mean it,” he says, and Chimney’s eyes flick up at the conviction in his tone. “I thought I did, maybe, at one point. But I was blaming myself. Never you.”

Chimney begins to blink a bit more harshly. “Thanks, I - I appreciate it.”

“And—“ Eddie takes a step closer, and they’re only an arms length apart now. “And I’m sorry. For ever making you think I did.”

Chimney sniffs. “That’s, uh - a lot to take in during a barbecue.”

“Well,” Eddie huffs, smiling along with Chimney’s own smirk. “I’m feeling emotional, I guess. Better late than never?”

Next thing Eddie knows, he’s being pulled into a tight hug. He freezes for a moment before melting into the embrace. 

“Love you, Chim,” he whispers, because if there’s a single thing he’s learned through this whole mess, it’s that you can’t keep something like that inside. 

“Don’t let Buck hear you say that,” Chim says as they pull apart, and they both laugh wetly. “I love you, too.”

The drive home is okay. Hen and Karen will drop off Chris later, since he apparently wanted to hang out more with Denny.

The drive home is mostly okay.

(Eddie, for one, would like to say he’s perfectly reasonable about the whole thing, despite what others might say.)

“Eddie, maybe we should think this through a—“

“Why? What possible reason is there for keeping it?”

“Uh - we sleep there? And it’s a perfectly good—“

“Don’t care. I’m burning it.”

“C’mon, Eddie—“

“I will not allow that thing in our house.”

“Even though we both—“

“Ah!” Eddie holds up a finger. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m just saying—“

“That’s exactly why, Buck. I’m not sleeping there ever again, even if we both ultimately ‘realized our feelings’ because of - reasons.”

“…reasons.”

“Yes, Buck. Reasons.”

“So what’s your plan? We both sleep on the couch forever?”

“There’s a furniture store five minutes from here.”

“…did you seriously look that up before getting behind the wheel?”

(Eddie is spending the rest of his life with him.)

(The rest of his life isn’t long enough.)

3 months later.

Eddie is never going to get the hang of this new coffee maker.

“You have to lock it before you brew, but after you tamp,” Buck says, somehow already knowing what’s wrong even though he’s only just entered the room.

“I swear you’re just making up words,” Eddie grumbles, staring at the machine like he can force it to work through the weight of his glare alone. He doesn’t understand what was wrong with the last one - the one he spent so much time figuring out, only for the rug to be ripped from under him. 

“Here,” Buck says, coming up from behind. Except he doesn’t side-step him - he presses himself right into Eddie’s back, arms coming up around his sides.

“Buck.”

“What?” he says innocently, kissing the back of his neck. “I’m helping.”

Eddie leans his head back on Buck’s shoulder as he works on the dumb thing. Eddie is certain there is some piece of crucial information being kept from him when the machine begins whirring in less than a minute.

“What would I ever do without you,” he deadpans.

“You’d have to settle for station coffee, I guess,” Buck says, slowly turning him around as the soft hum fills the air. “Or deal with no caffeine at all.”

Eddie hums, sliding his hands around Buck’s waist, leaning in close. “A nightmare, I’m sure.”

Buck swallows the words with a kiss, the upturn of his lips impossible to miss.

“You know,” Buck murmurs, breath hot on his chin, “I’ve been wondering.”

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes, eyes still blissfully closed. “About what?”

“If I’m strong enough yet.”

“Strong enough for wh—“

His eyes fly open as he yelps, because Buck is picking him up by the thighs.

“Buck,” he cries as the man laughs, “Put me down—“

“No problemo,” he says in the world’s worst accent, dropping Eddie on the counter right next to the coffee maker, knowing damn well that’s not what Eddie meant. “Guess that answers my question.”

Eddie rolls his eyes as Buck steps right between his legs. And - he’s not going to admit it. But maybe he does like this. From here, he’s a good two inches taller, at least. Buck is the one tilting his head up to be gently kissed.

“You guys are disgusting.”

Eddie laughs as Buck pulls back sharply, sheepishly turning around while Eddie remains trapped away from the ground. “H-hey. Sorry, bud.”

Chris just continues walking towards the living room. “Whatever.”

Eddie hums in amusement as Buck coughs roughly into his hand. “Look at that,” he says with a smirk, leaning his chin down on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Guess you’ve graduated to the annoying parent stage. Congrats.”

Buck turns back to him, and - Eddie should’ve been able to predict the effect his words would have. 

“Buck—“

“I’m fine,” he says in a voice that’s only slightly choked, clearly trying his damndest to be convincing as he blinks very rapidly. “I’m completely cool.”

“The coolest.”

“Shut up.”

Eddie hums, leaning in for another kiss. It’s soft, just like the light that filters in through the kitchen windows. He pulls back eventually, staring into ocean blue as Buck’s crinkling eyes fall open. “No problemo, huh?”

Buck shrugs, even as a shit-eating grin crosses his face, like he knows how much of a menace he is. 

Eddie can only roll his eyes. “Tienes suerte de que te amo.”

“Realmente la tengo,” Buck says with no hesitation. 

Eddie blinks a few times before his face is overtaken by a wide grin. 

The only proper response, of course, is to kiss him again. 

The station bustles, and the skip in Buck’s step can probably be seen for miles as he steps into the locker room. The fact that the walls are glass probably helps with that, too. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Morning, Buck,” Hen says brightly from where she’s sat tying her shoes. “You ready?”

“Oh, I’ve been ready,” he says, beaming right back at her as he drops his bag to the bench. “Those callers won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Uh, not sure if that’s the phrase you want,” Chimney says, fastening his belt. “But loving the enthusiasm, big guy,” he quips, heading out and patting Buck on the shoulder as he does. 

“Fair enough,” Buck mutters as he sits next to his duffle, even with Chim long gone. 

Eddie steps in through the same doors not a few seconds later, his own bag in hand. He looks good. Happy. 

Buck smiles as Eddie leans down to peck him on the lips, saying, “Already driving everyone crazy, Buckley?”

“You know it.”

Hen stands and raises her hands. “Nope. I’m not witnessing any HR violations. Not today.”

“Well then,” Buck laughs, watching her retreating back. “I guess we’ll both drive them crazy.”

“Is that right?” Eddie says, smirking and cupping his face. “Good.”

Buck’s jaw hits the ground when he comes up the stairs. 

“You’re cooking?”

Ravi grins sheepishly from where he’s mincing vegetables for what appears to be omelettes. “That a problem?”

“Um.” Buck strides over, glancing around the kitchen. “Last I checked, you couldn’t boil water.”

“Well,” Ravi says, shrugging and glancing up from the peppers, “I’ve managed to not burn down the station yet, so.”

Hen snorts into her coffee on the barstool. “Do not let him fool you.”

“Is that right?” Buck grins. “What’d you do, Ravioli?”

“Nothing you can prove.”

“You’re not being mean to my sous chef, are you Buck?”

“Nope,” Buck says as he turns around, wide grin still in place as he gives Bobby a thumbs up. “All good here.”

Bobby hums, unimpressed. “So are you gonna berate the kid, or are you gonna help him?”

“Copy that, Cap!” Buck salutes, sliding around the counter and picking up one of the aprons. “Alright Rav, let’s get—“

The alarm blares through his words.

He glances around as everyone gets up, as they begin to head for the trucks. 

Bobby’s heading out, too, but he pauses and turns around, a somewhat surprised expression on his face. “You coming?”

Slight shock takes over, but Buck doesn’t let that stop him from beaming and throwing the apron on the nearest stool. “Absolutely, Cap.”

He fits right into the hustle like a glove, a routine he could complete in his sleep coming back with an unfair amount of ease. It would really be great if every aspect of his life could be this easy, this simple. 

The smile remains as he heads down the stairs, as he hoists himself into the truck. He’s done this countless times while shadowing, but the truth of this being real - it leaves a wonderful buzz beneath his skin that he hopes never leaves his side. 

The sirens come to life as he slips on his headset. Bobby sits in the captain’s chair, while Hen sits across from him and Chimney drops down on his left. They’re all laughing about something over the comms, smiles bright and eyes shining. 

Eddie sits to his right. Buck turns his way as warm fingers slide around his wrist. He knows what they’ll find - a strong, lively pulse, one that reflects the excitement running through his veins. 

Buck’s smile takes on a soft edge as he shifts his hand, grasping the one holding his wrist, knitting their fingers together as their knees gently lean into one another. 

Eddie smiles back at him, tightening his hold. 

On all sides, Buck is surrounded by love, surrounded by warmth. He’s certain there is nowhere else in the universe he would feel safer, no other place he would feel more like he belongs. 

The others are still laughing over the headset, and Buck overhears something that makes his head snap in their direction. 

“Sorry, the billionaire was swallowed by a what?”