Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"¡Bug Out!"

The wind howled like a raging beast, whipping up the sand in violent gusts. The horizon had vanished into a swirling mass of dust and shadows, swallowed by the storm's growing fury. Voices range out in every direction, frantic and desperate, as Evan shielded his face. Gunfire cracked through the chaos, mixed with distant screams, barely audible over the wind's roar.

The enemy had turned the storm to their advantage, using it as their greatest weapon. They moved like ghosts, slipping through the chaos unseen until it was too late. Every gunshot was a clap of thunder, every scream lost to the raging wind. The desert had turned into a deathtrap, a maze where seeing clearly or knowing which way to go was a luxury no one had. The storm should have been an obstacle—but instead, it was covering their advance, tipping the fight in their favor.

"Take cover! Rally to the humvee, move now!" someone shouted, but the wind swallowed the words almost instantly.

Evan yanked his scarf up over his mouth and nose, trying to keep from inhaling the sand cutting through the air like tiny blades. His vision was shot, but he held his ground, firing into the shifting figures ahead. The wind made every movement a battle, but he wasn't about to let up—not while his team was still trying to make it out.

Through the swirling dust, he caught sight of a lone figure staggering in the open, caught between the gunfire and the storm. A young soldier from the other squad—barely standing, swaying on his feet.

"Hey! Move! Get out of there!" Evan shouted, but the man didn't respond.

Cursing, he slung his submachine gun over his back and forced his way forward. Every step was a fight, the sand pulling at his boots, the wind shoving him back. When he finally reached the soldier, he grabbed him by the vest and shook him. The man's eyes fluttered open, barely registering what was happening—Then his body slumped, unconscious.

"Shit."

Evan ripped off his bandana and pulled it over the soldier's nose and mouth, shielding him from the choking sand. Then, without a second thought, he threw him over his shoulder and turned back.

Gunfire cracked through the storm, each shot spiking his adrenaline. The weight of the unconscious soldier dragged at him, but he didn't stop. Somewhere in the distance, a voice cut through the chaos—

"Stich"

It was faint, almost drowned out, but it was enough to orient him.

The storm clawed at him, trying to pull them both under. The air was thick, suffocating, every breath a battle. He couldn't hear anything anymore—not the gunfire, not the shouts of his team. Just the deafening howl of the wind.

There was no way he was making it to the Humvee.

His half-blinded eyes darted around desperately until—there. A jagged bluff, barely visible through the haze, jutting out like an island in a sea of ​​sand.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed toward it.

Under the shelter of the rock, he dropped to his knees, his back against the rough surface. He gently lowered the soldier to the ground, pulling him close and tucking his head under his chin to protect him from the storm's fury.

The wind shrieked, slamming against the rock like a living thing. Sand pushed into every crevice, clawing at his skin, his clothes, his lungs. Evan hunched over, shielding part of his face with his shirt collar to avoid swallowing sand, as he leaned against a rock, staying alert.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

Seconds stretched into eternity as the desert howled around them, an endless, merciless storm.

The sound of his boots echoed against the pavement at the entrance of the fire station. He stopped right in front of the main door, looking at the large building and the enormous red trucks lined up in front of what would now be his workplace. The conversation he had with Clay that morning still echoed in his head, filled with words of encouragement along with the typical jokes he always made.

"First jobs aren’t easy for us. Try not to dislocate anyone’s shoulder on your first day, rookie."

He knew that today would be different. Today, he wasn’t on his turf, he wasn’t wearing his badge or uniform, there was no mission to complete, no comrades to share an unspoken understanding with. There was a big difference between containing chaos and causing it.

Sweat still beaded on his forehead, despite the fact that the cool morning air had already given way to the stifling heat of the station. He wanted to make a good impression. He stood up straight and stepped into the fire station.

His footsteps echoed on the floor, and the scent of slightly burnt equipment immediately surrounded him. The buzz of the station, the laughter, and the casual greetings made it feel like a relaxed and familiar place.

A couple of firefighters glanced up when he walked through the door, but there were no inquisitive stares or uncomfortable questions, just a casual nod of welcome. It felt strange to him; usually, when someone knew his record, there were at least one or two extra looks.

He climbed the stairs, looking for the captain’s office, but stopped when he saw several firefighters sitting around a table, eating and chatting animatedly. He thought he might find the captain there, so he approached with a firm step, though a slight tension was noticeable in his posture.

Determined, he took a deep breath and walked up to the table, holding his duffel bag in one hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s get this over with,” he thought. As he got closer, he noticed how the conversations slowed, and a few eyes lifted toward him.

"Uh, excuse me, I’m looking for Captain Nash" he said.

"Captain Nash? Do you guys know him? " the man beside him asked casually.

Evan realized he was joking, trying to make him nervous. He took a deep breath, avoiding saying something he shouldn’t, and instead of getting defensive like he usually did, he adopted an expression of confusion and nervousness.

After a moment, the man smiled at him, as if noticing his discomfort, and with a friendly gesture, motioned for him to sit down. Evan pretended to be relieved and smiled at the others at the table, grateful that they didn’t seem too interested in his past.

"Welcome, Evan" said the captain.

"Buck" Stitch "There were a lot of Evans at the academy" he explained with a smile.

Evan started listening to the others, their stories, their jokes, and the camaraderie that seemed natural, a bond that went beyond just work. There was a rhythm to it that felt familiar, similar to his old team.

"Is it always like this?" he asked, looking at the firefighters with a smile, starting to think he might have found his place.

"All the time" replied a woman named Hen.

"At least when the captain is in charge" added a man with short hair and a relaxed expression, who had introduced himself as Chimney "I bet you haven’t had many moments like this, with all the parties you must go to, huh? Frat boy."

The others laughed at that, and Evan frowned in confusion, glancing at his captain, who was also laughing. He could feel the tension creeping back into his muscles, tightening his chest.

"What do you mean"

"Come on, you’re young. What else would you be doing on the weekends if not partying?"

The laughter continued, and Evan looked at his captain again. Then, realization hit him.

No one knew who he was because they hadn’t read his file.

He let out a bitter laugh without denying what Chimney had said, and the others carried on with their conversation.

What a fucked-up way to start his first day.

Chapter Text

He spent some time unable to see anything—the world had become a suffocating chaos of dust and wind. Hours passed as we sat there, shielding ourselves from the storm’s fury, waiting. Eventually, the wind’s howls began to fade, replaced by a gentler breeze. Evan never left his position, his left hand still tightly gripping his weapon. With the sandstorm, it was likely that many enemy combatants had taken cover—and just as many had gotten lost. Once the storm died down further, he’d have roughly five minutes to get himself and the soldier to safety.

He glanced at the man beside him; he hadn’t moved at all. Evan had already checked him over: just a few cuts and a probable concussion, which explained the soldier’s disorientation. He also noted his rank—a sergeant. “Díaz,” he read on the tag: Sgt. E. Díaz – Combat Medic.

Hours earlier, his team had been deployed after losing contact with an Army squad operating farther north. Command confirmed the missing group was Echo-Two-One, assigned to recon enemy bases in the area. Their last signal had cut out three hours after arrival. That’s when Evan’s unit—along with a support team—was sent to locate and extract survivors. And now, here was one of them.

He looked ahead. The sand was finally clearing. Adjusting the soldier’s weight, he reached for his radio. They didn’t have much time before they’d be in real danger.

“This is Stitch. I’m in the combat zone, on a steep ridge, with an unconscious sergeant from Echo-Two-One. Requesting confirmation—copy?” He paused, listening intently. “Anyone read me?” he pressed, tense.

The signal crackled but was clear enough: “Rep—ort received. Base ack—nowledges. Reinforcements en rou—te.” Fragmented, but the message was obvious. Backup was coming—ETA 10 minutes.

Evan was about to move when the soldier stirred. A low groan escaped his lips as he tried to sit up. Trembling hands fumbled at his mask, clawing it off with obvious discomfort.

“Don’t,” Evan warned. “The storm’s still going.”

The man lifted his head at the sound of Evan’s voice. He tried clumsily to pull away but barely managed to shift before a sharp gasp escaped him. He collapsed back against Evan.

“Try not to move,” Evan said, steadying him carefully to avoid further injury.

“Le—let go,” the soldier muttered, his voice weak, each word an effort. His dark eyes fluttered open, gaze lifting to Evan’s face—trying to seem defiant, but there was something fragile in his expression. Something that made Evan’s chest tighten.

They were caked in dust, nearly unrecognizable, but in that moment, Evan noticed every detail of the soldier’s face: his honey-brown eyes, the faint glow in them, a small mole—almost hidden by grime—just below his left eye. Evan had never been so captivated by a stare, even as the soldier’s eyes flickered with resistance, lethality, and something else he recognized as fear.

Those eyes.

“Easy,” Evan said, softening his tone to a near-whisper. “Special Forces. We were deployed from the northern base after your squad was declared MIA.”

The soldier blinked, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. This time, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his head dropped against Evan’s shoulder, yielding to the warmth beside him.

“The—the team that came… days ago,” he rasped, voice barely audible over the distant storm.

“Yeah,” Evan confirmed. He knew nearby bases had been briefed on the mission change. He felt the soldier’s shoulders relax, as if those words were all he needed to finally let go.

The soldier fell silent, his breathing slowing into a steady rhythm, his full weight now resting against Evan. Evan watched him, waiting for more—but just as he thought nothing else would come, the man spoke again.

“What’s your name?”

“Stitch.”

No sound followed. The soldier slipped back into unconsciousness. Evan looked ahead, ready to move him to safety.

Working at the 118 had been a bigger adjustment than he’d expected. He loved the job—his new nickname, his teammates’ humor and kindness. Good people, including their captain. Sometimes, they felt more like family than a crew, which reminded him of his old team. He still kept in touch with them, though they were all scattered across different assignments now. He was just waiting for the next deployment to reunite with them.

But none of that changed how little trust his captain and teammates had in his skills. During calls, he’d scan the environment, hunting for threats before they escalated, always the first to move if danger arose. To them, it came off as frat-boy impulsiveness—a rookie hungry to prove himself. Sometimes he leaned into the image, but when their exasperated glares followed his decisions, he wanted to scream that he knew exactly what he was doing.

He’d handled far riskier missions with real stakes. He was qualified. Yet Chimney ribbed him constantly, joking that when Buck skipped drinks, it was because he had "some frat party with people his age" and warning him not to show up hungover. He’d tried explaining he was just tired, but no one bought it. So when they asked about his life before firefighting, he shrugged: "Traveled right out of high school." No details.

He couldn’t share his truth with people who drew conclusions without asking.

It only cemented their perception of him. He swallowed his frustration.

Months passed. He met a 911 dispatcher named Abby, His captain called a therapist for him after a rough call—assuming it was his first loss. (The therapist later got suspended for hitting on him.) Chimney got hurt. A plane crashed into the ocean. He learned more about his captain’s past. He helped Abby search for her mom.

Through it all, he improved. Stopped going rogue. Started listening before acting. The reprimands dwindled.

The day Chimney returned, they threw a welcome-back party. The mood was light—until Abby arrived. Buck introduced her as his 911 dispatcher friend, but Hen’s smirk said she’d already drawn her own conclusions.

"Hello, I’m Hen" she said, popping up as Buck showed Abby the cake. Athena watched, amused.

"Hi, Hen. I’m Abby."

"Work with your boy here," Hen replied, grinning. "Glad you’re real. He talks about you nonstop."

He’d brought up Abby a few times – she was his first real friend in LA. But his whole crew seemed to get the wrong idea, like there was something more going on. Oblivious their discomfort, Hen just kept talking.

"So, where’s he taking you tomorrow? It’s Valentine’s." Abby flushed, stammering they hadn’t planned anything. Buck turned to her, stunned, as Bobby and Chimney jumped in with date ideas. Athena teased them to "enjoy the romance."

"C’mon, Buck," Chimney goaded. "You’ve been gushing about her for months. Take her somewhere nice."

The team’s expectant stares burned into him—especially Abby’s shy smile.

He faced her, kicking himself for not seeing it sooner.

"Abby, I’m sorry, but—"

"It’s just dinner," Chimney cut in, oblivious to the tension. "You talk about her like she's your 'really good friend'"

"Exactly like you just said, Chim. Friend. Never anything more." Buck bit out, turning back to Abby, who looked gutted. "I never meant to mislead you."

Abby ducked her head. "No, I—I misunderstood. I should go." She grabbed her purse and fled.

Guilt twisted in his chest. He’d fix this after shift.

"If you just wanted hookups, you didn’t have to string her along," Chimney muttered. "My girl just dumped me, and you’re out here breaking hearts?"

Buck saw red. Worse—Hen, Athena, and Bobby’s faces said they agreed.

"Being 27 doesn’t mean I’m some party-hard womanizer," he said, voice low but razor-sharp. "I don’t go out. I read. I sleep. I like my damn peace. And I talked about Abby because she’s my friend—the first I’ve made here. But you’d know that if you’d asked instead of assuming."

Silence.

"Your imaginary version of me doesn’t give you the right to meddle in my life," he finished, locking eyes with Bobby. "I’ll be downstairs, Cap."

Hen’s guilty stare followed him out.

Alone in the bay, Buck laughed bitterly. That was the most he’d ever spoken to them—and it took this to make it happen. God, he missed his old team.

A short while later, the alarm blared, and everyone sprang into action. Buck stayed strictly professional, avoiding the sidelong glances from the others.

When they returned to the station, Hen and Chimney approached him with apologies. They promised not to make assumptions about his life again. Buck accepted it, but kept his distance for the rest of the shift.

Over time, Hen and Chim proved they meant it. They started asking him questions directly, and he appreciated the effort—even if they still saw him as the immature frat boy.

Days turned into weeks. More emergency calls. Better teamwork. He made amends with Abby, met Carla, and survived a string of bizarre full-moon shifts. Then there were the random women slapping him on the street, accusing him of ghosting them—fueling the team’s misguided image of him.

Eventually, he uncovered the source of those rumors. Soon after, they found the man dead.

Abby left.

And in time, Buck was no longer a probie.

Being a full-fledged firefighter felt good. The 118 threw a small celebration, but his real party came when his SEAL team surprised him at his apartment on graduation day. They drank, laughed, and toasted his success. In a few months, he’d spend a whole week with them at base—no more fleeting monthly reunions.

During a lull at work, he remembered their jokes about the firefighter calendar. He teased Chimney, Bobby, and Hen about signing up (though he had no intention to). When he quipped they stood no chance, Bobby fired back.

“Well, damn. That’s one beautiful man,” Chimney announced suddenly.

Hen craned her neck. “Agreed. And I’m into women.”

Buck frowned and followed their gaze—just as the stranger tugged his shirt on. The world screeched to a halt.

“Who the hell is that?” Buck choked out.

The team laughed, assuming he was threatened by the guy’s looks.

“Eddie Díaz. Our new recruit,” Bobby said casually. “Top of his class. Combat medic with tours in Afghanistan.”

Buck didn’t need the recap. He knew.

Then Bobby added: “Silver Star recipient. Not some rookie.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Everyone but Buck.

Silver Star.

He has a goddamn Silver Star.

The words echoed like gunfire in his skull.

To most, it was a badge of honor. To those who knew, it meant you’d stared into hell and crawled back—never whole.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you,” Bobby said. “He goes by Eight-Pack.”

Those eyes.

Those fucking beautiful eyes.

That gaze - steady yet tender - and that nervous smile.

That damn mole.

He never thought he would see those eyes again—the ones that had remained etched in his memory all these years.

Chapter Text

Starting over after serving in the army wasn't easy. Having received an honorable discharge didn't open as many doors as he had imagined. Shannon had abandoned him and Chris, his parents were smothering him with advice that wasn't to help him but to control Chris's life, his wonderful son, whom he saw much less than he expected now that he was out of the army, since he needed to work a lot to pay the bills.

Joining the fire academy and moving to Los Angeles had undoubtedly been the most liberating decision of his life. Chris was excited, and so was he.

Meeting his new teammates was pleasant; they all seemed friendly and came over to greet him. Eddie smiled at them nervously, introducing himself before noticing another presence. A bit further back, in the middle of the fire station, a man was watching him silently, with an intensity in his eyes that made Eddie instinctively stand straighter, without looking away. He couldn't quite recognize the expression on that face, but it captivated him immediately.

"Buck, come over here and greet the new guy," ordered the captain.

That order seemed to break something in the air. The man's gaze changed in an instant, giving way to a more casual expression. Intrigued, Eddie watched him walk over.

"I'm Eddie, Eddie Diaz. A pleasure," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt as he extended his hand.

The man looked at him for a few seconds longer than Eddie considered normal and then shook his hand. The contact made him shiver. The man's hand was large, firm, rough, and his grip conveyed more strength than it should have.

"A pleasure," Buck replied, his voice deep.

Before Eddie could say anything else, the bell rang. The calm of the station turned into a whirlwind of movement. All the firefighters ran to get ready. Buck squeezed his hand once more before letting go and darting off to change.

Eddie stood for a few seconds, watching Buck head to the locker rooms, his mind blank. He barely reacted when the others were already ready to leave. There was something about Buck... not just in his gaze, but in his bearing, in the way he moved, in the handshake... Eddie didn't know for sure, but that kind of strength he had only seen in men who had served in the military.

And he was almost certain that Buck was one of them.