Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He says it only once, a broken shattered gasp that rocks his body. Maddie’s eyes are immediately on him, a fury in her eyes he had never seen before. “This isn’t about you,” she spits so crossly that it hits him like a knife to the chest. “Not everything is about you! You’re just you! You couldn’t have done anything!” He physically recoils as she advances on him, scrambling backwards. “You’re just you, Buck.”

Just him. Useless. Vain. Selfish. He shrinks beneath her rage, tucking his head and clenching his jaw, and then he tucks tail and runs. He doesn’t say anything again.

He thinks about texting, but what would that accomplish? He couldn’t do anything then, he couldn’t do anything now. There was no point.

When a familiar name pops up on caller ID two days later, he sends it to voicemail, saying to himself that he’d text back later. He never gets around to it.

The next time that name pops up, he sends it to voicemail again. And then he throws his phone at the wall. He never hears the message. “Hey Kid, listen I heard what happened. I’m here in LA too, so just come by one night, alright? Have a beer, catch up.”

He never answers. Never calls back, even when he gets a new phone. He doesn’t know another call goes out, spanning across states and even countries.

“9-1-1, Kid. LA. Come now. Losing him.”

He sits alone in the dark, static on the tv illuminating his room, bottle in hand, pistol in the other. He wants to call for help, but his voice is strangled even to his own ears. He wants to cry, but his eyes are dry and he can’t quite breathe. He wants to put the bottle down, but he’s parched and the fridge is so far away. He wants to put the pistol down, but we’ll — he’s just him, he doesn’t matter. He’s just him, useless and stupid, too pathetic to fight the demons in his own head. The wrong brother died all those years ago. A failure from birth to now.

He presses the barrel to his head. It’ll be better this way, he whispers to the darkness.

Chapter Text

The firehouse is silent now, empty, solemn. They tried to keep the meals going and the chatter flowing, but it just isn’t the same. Or maybe it’s just him who notices it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t talk much anymore. Not since that night with the barrel pressed to his temple. If Eddie hadn’t arrived, asking him to stay the night, ‘No hotels have available rooms,’ his friend had explained, watching him warily as the giant swayed in place. Buck had just blinked, looked down at Chris, and then stepped aside. It was their home once, after all.

He makes sure Eddie doesn’t find the pistol, and tucks it back into its place in the locked safe in his closet. He makes sure they have clean sheets and pillows, but he doesn’t say a whole lot and Eddie doesn’t ask. He kind of hates that Eddie doesn’t ask. He goes to bed with a heavy head and a heavier heart.

But that was two days ago. And now he is back at work, forcing himself through each day. Forcing himself to breathe, to eat, to sleep, to exist. He started weight lifting again, his body aching every second of every day. He’s starting to notice the tremors again. He doesn’t tell anyone.

It was a quiet day, the few calls going out to other firehouses instead of them. The brass wants to wean them back into things again without… him. He turns his head from the stove where water is crawling into a boil, nausea clawing at his throat. It’s not about him, he reminds himself, repeating it like a mantra. Chimney hurts more than him, he should have been able to notice something was off because he got sick first. If he hadn’t been sick, they’d have had the cure. Hen hurts more than him, she knew him longer. Eddie hurts more than him, he’s struggling with the decision to move back and uproot Chris, or leave the 118 all over again. Maddie hurts more than him, she has to watch Chimney go through all of this while pregnant and caring for Jee.

He dumps the water in the sink and flicks off the stove and heads for the weight room. He’s three reps in to his fifth set of the day, his arms straining with each curl, when he hears voices. He thinks he might be hallucinating at first, but Eddie is there with a welcoming smile, talking to the voices. Buck moves slowly, dumbbell held precariously at his sides. The air rushes from his lungs.

“We’re looking for Evan Castle?” He’d know that voice anywhere, gravely and rough. One. Two. Three. Four. Four. Five. Six. Seven. He wheezes. Seven. They’re real. He jerks back around the side, hiding behind one of the machines, the dumbbells dropping with a clang. He stares at the spiderweb fractures on the concrete from where they hit. Seven. They’re here. Fuck they’re here.

“I’m afraid there’s no Evan Castle here, actually I don’t think we have any Castle.” He hears Hen chime in, moving to Eddie’s side no doubt. He hears a gravely hum.

“Only Evan we got is Buck. Evan Buckley.” Chimney adds, no doubt joining Hen at Eddie’s side. He can’t breathe, the air choked from his lungs. Trembling fingers claw at his throat, gasping like a fish out of water, darkness blurring his vision.

“He went back to his birth name? That little shit,” he hears the dangerous chuckle, the amusement hiding what the man is no doubt truly feeling.

“Where is he?” He clenches his eyes shut, the strained words leaving a bullst shaped hole in his chest. He should have just answered the phone, they didn’t have to drag everybody out, especially not him off all people.

“Who’s asking?” Eddie is on guard now, time a bit harsher.

He hears a snort and then the click of boots on the ground. “His family.” The twang of the accent, the confidence to the words. He can’t breathe. He clenches his eyes shut. Click. Click. Click.

Nearer and nearer the steps click, until the door to the weight room is opening. His eyes are open, easy grin slipping into place as he steps around the machine. “Hangman!” He cheers. Sharp blue eyes regard him. They take in everything, just as they always have. He moves quickly, draping an arm over the man’s shoulder and steering him right back out. “Hey guys! What’s going on?” Six pairs of eyes turn to him, watching. Silent now. He doesn’t squirm, doesn’t let himself falter. He’s just him, it isn’t about him. They don’t need to worry.

Chapter Text

It isn’t like in movies or on the television where a single look is all it takes to break down and admit everything. A hug doesn’t fix everything, though a part of him hadn’t realized just how starved for it he had become. Bradley was the first to split from the group, approaching him like one might a frightened animal. The easy smile never left his face, laughing at his friend’s antics.

“What are you doing?” He taunted the aviator, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned. The crew of 118 relaxed at the sight, the other seven tensed. Bradley’s arms were around him before long, calloused fingers digging into the back of his neck as their temples collided. Buck didn’t wince.

“You didn’t answer the call,” it’s Hondo who speaks, the navy colored shirt tight across his chest, S.W.A.T embroidered in black font glaring across at him. He knew his friend had been living close, but not that close.

“What’s this ‘Buckley’ nonsense?” It’s Billy who asks, eyes narrowing in calculation. Buck didn’t like being on the receiving end of that stare, as if all his secrets were laid out bare. He shrugged. He didn’t feel he deserved the other name, the name he fought like hell for once upon a time.

He didn’t have an excuse, and the dark look in the other’s eyes was answer enough that there was no excuse. “How do you know our Buck?” Hen asks, her tone hesitantly curious. It had startled her, momentarily, just how little she could recall knowing about the youngest of the squad. They knew surface level things, she determined — but they didn’t know any of his friends outside of the 118, even Eddie seemed at a loss and well those two were best friends, so how could he not know?

“What the fuck is a Buck?” His lips twitch, eyes flicking to the Texan. Jake’s brows were furrowed, disgust clear in the twist of his lips.

“I’m a Buck,” he challenges.

“No, you’re a Rocket.” Comes the response. A warmth hits his chest, and then is snuffed like a flame in the water. How long had it been since he’d been called by that? Two? Three years? He shoves his hands into his pockets, hiding the tremor. But perceptive eyes are locked on him and his hand is tugged back out and flipped over, palm up.

Pete was always a tactile person, perhaps that was who he got it from — well, him and Steve perhaps, because the Commander is right there beside his Captain, two sets of green baring down on him. He prides himself in not shrinking. “How long?” Sometimes it’s scary how harsh Pete could sound, even scarrier when that calm fury was narrowed down on him.

He waves his hand from their grip, shaking it out. “I was just working out, stop worrying,” he proclaims. His teeth make an audible clack as he snaps his jaw shut, shrinking in a way the 118 had never seen before as the final members of this bunch step forward. Eyes of steel narrow at him, and he swallows.

“Really, Ice, I’m fine. I was just lifti—“ Tom didn’t give him the chance to finish, arms folding across his chest.

“How many reps,” his voice is harsh and croaked and Buck finds himself clenching again, head dipping lower. How could he be so selfish? Tom had more important things to do than worry about him.

“A few,” he mutters back with the admiral doesn’t back down. Tom doesn’t have to say anything else, they all know what a few means. And then a broad chest is stepping toe to toe with him, boot tips kicking into his own.

There are few times in his life where he has ever felt small. Standing before the quiet rage of Frank Castle is one such moment. Despite standing taller than the other, Evan finds him shrinking, staring at the toes of their boots. Frank had always been a man of few words, “actions define a man, not his words.” He’d heard those words so often in his late teens and early twenties. And god what did his actions show? A coward? A burden? He turns his head away, unable to meet those dark eyes. How pathetic. He really was useless.

He wants to defend himself, wants to give some feeble explanation as to why he hadn’t kept his last name, as to why he hadn’t answer the phone calls. But he can’t bring himself to speak. Can’t bring himself to dishonor the man infront of him even more.

“How do you all know eachother?” Hen is trying to make sense of all of this, trying to understand how these strangers know their coworkers, why he seems so different with them. He can’t blame her for trying, he’d be doing the same in their position. It’s Tom who turns to her, steely gazing nearly driving her back a step.

“I apologize for the intrusion, we have known Evan for a several years due to our line of work.” A strong hand is held out, steady and scarred from years of hard work. It grasped Henrietta’s with a concealed strength. Most men like to force their dominance, they grip to hard or shake to firm — or they think women weak and hold back, a barely there graze of skin on skin. But the blonde holds her palm in his, firm and unyielding but not overpowering. “Admiral Tom Kazansky.” Admiral? Buck can see the wheels turning from the corner of his eye. Can see Eddie’s face grow pale.

“Captain Pete Mitchell-Kazansky.”

“Commander Steve McGarret.”

“Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, please call me Rooster.”

“Lieutenant Jake Serisen, Hangman if ya’ like.”

“Sergeant Harrelson, everyone calls me Hondo.”

“First Lieutenant Billy Russo,” god could Billy sound any more bored of the situation. How had they even managed to bribe him into coming out? He was a fancy new CEO these days wasn’t he? He definitely had more important things to worry about. “And the mute brute over there is First Lieu— why the fuck are we putting our ranks, we’re bloody fucking retired,” he grumbles under his breath, “First Lieutenant Frank Castle, aka papa bear of one Evan James Castle.”

“We’ve met Buck’s family before, his sister works as a 9-1-1 operator, we’ve met his mom and dad..” Hen offers hesitantly.

“Fuckin’ bastards ain’t Rocket’s family,” Hangman drawls. “They mighta popped ‘em out, which is a wonder anyways, but they ain’t ever been a family.”

Buck can’t even argue, can’t tell Jake to shut up, because he isn’t wrong. But also because speaking up means he has to look up, and he isn’t sure he can face those dark eyes boring down on him.

“You’re all military, Buck isn’t.” Eddie sounds even less convinced then Hen now, now doubt making the connection that you don’t have friends of such heavy hitters by serving them cocktails and mai-tais in some bar in Peru.

There’s a scuffle and a muffled shout, and then a yelp from Hangman. “What the fuck you over grown Duck,” the Aviator curses under his breath. There’s no answer Buck can give to his friends, not as the evidence piles up in mountains around him. No more hiding. No more brushing it under the rug. His hands tremble, fingers curling into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms.

“So, funny story,” he croaks. He isn’t ready for this.

Chapter Text

He won’t admit to how long it took him to finally meet Frank’s gaze, definitely won’t confess to the way he stumbled and stammered across how technically he isn’t a SEAL… anymore. He will, however, happily detail to anyone the disgruntled look and noise from Steve as he explains his tumultuous career change from SEAL to Aviator.

“It’s nothing crazy,” he tried to reason, “I passed BUDS with flying colors. Turning things off wasn’t hard, I just didn’t enjoy it. I ended up on Smooth Dog’s team for a few years, and one side ways mission lead to me flying for the first time.”

“Best I’d seen from a complete greenie,” Maverick had chipped in at that point, standing at his husband’s back while everyone had sat around the table in the loft of the firehouse. “So I poached him.”

Henrietta hadn’t seen Buck smile so softly before, this soft little twitch, almost shy and embarrassed by the praise. “And so I switched up. Ended up in Topgun. Af… well I ended up going reserves. Still am, technically, but it’d take a lot to get me called back in these days, I imagine.”

He won’t meet Eddie’s eyes this time, Hangman’s arm draped around his neck and monopolizing his focus, but he can feel the prick of those dark eyes on him. Calculating. Angry. Hurt. He gets it, he supposes. He hid a big thing from his best friend, and sure Eddie had hidden some stuff from him but this… this was big, and he knew that. He also never really meant to keep it a secret. “You miss a weekend every month, you take off. You never told me why, and you always turned us down if I asked if you wanted to come with me and Chris somewhere.” He can’t hide the wince from his best friend. Caught.

“Drill,” he confirms, picking at the grain in the table. “And then two weeks for training.”

“Were you ever going to tell us?” He glances up to his brother in law, fighting another wince at the betrayal openly there.

“No, not really. At first I tried to figure out how, but then Eddie came along and I didn’t want to bring it up then and risk you guys thinking I was jealous, you know? So I just kept it to myself and eventually I didn’t see the point in ever saying anything.

“These are the people in the photo album,” Eddie’s finally making the connections, the dots slowly coming together in his mind as he looks over the group again. Buck only nods. Buck had one singular photo album he kept within easy reach of anyone, and in it were photos of his youth, with Maddie. But then it began featuring other young men in all sorts of places. But their clothes had always been plain, standard civilian garb that Eddie never second guessed. Sure a few of the photos were very base or barrack like but there was no way — and now he wants to slap himself for being so oblivious.

Billy leans against the wall next to the window, dark eyes watching the street for several quiet moments before heaving a heavy, bored breath. “Now that we’ve played catch up,” those dark eyes drag to him and he shrinks into Hangman’s side. “Would someone like to explain why our social little butterfly went no contact without warning?”

For the a moment, Buck thinks this is what family is — unyielding support while not letting you get away with bullshit excuses. He rubs his jaw, scratching lightly at the stubble that had slowly begun to grow.

“Bobby… our Captain,” Hen starts. “There was an instance, and we lost him. I guess we’ve all been a little out of sorts since then.” His chest constricts, lungs refusing to give him oxygen. He can’t meet those eyes again, but he has to, he can’t keep his head tucked, can’t keep shying away from their presence. ’Not everything is about you, Evan.’

There’s a lump in his throat he can’t swallow, but he offers a wobbly smile. “And I broke my phone, so I didn’t see the initial calls,” he explains. The excuse is weak to his own ears.

“So your special brand of harm has nothing to do with not reaching out or answering?” Billy presses and Buck can’t help but visibly clench, hands flexing where they are curled against his thighs. Billy was the first one to figure out that he spent more time in the weights room, always the first there and the last to leave. When they were deployed, he had found Buck dripping in sweat, arms trembling as he continued his curls, tears mixed with sweat and tremors wrecking his body.

“Harm?” Chin asks, “Buck has always been a heavy lifter — nothing wrong with that.”

“There is something wrong with it when his body is pushed beyond its limits, when he doesn’t stop until he passes out or injures himself.” It’s the first time Frank has spoken, and Evan hadn’t realized just how much he missed that gravelly voice.

“Buck doesn’t self harm,” Eddie protests with a scoff, arms folded over his chest as he leans back on the couch.

“Rocket has a long history of self harm,” Hangman counters.

“Shut up,” he finally manages to croak out, shoving himself to his feet. “This doesn’t involve them, alright? They’re going through a tough time and don’t need my bu—“

“You are all going through a tough time,” Rooster corrects, dark eyes watching him.

“I’m fine,” he presses, “I can handle it, you guys didn’t ha—“

“Family comes, whether they are wanted or not. You were taught better than that,” his jaw ticks, Steve’s words cutting straight through him.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, voice softer. “And they don’t need a history lesson, alright?” He doesn’t wait for a response, legs carrying him from the trainwreck sitting around the table. He should have just answered the fucking calls.

Chapter Text

“Billy shouldn’t have brought that up infront of your team,” the low gravel of Frank’s voice greets him. He knew it wouldn’t be long before one of them tracked him down — the roof was always his solace, it wasn’t a hard guess to make. “And I should t have pushed it, but Kid you’re scarin’ us. This is just like before, and you’re pushin’ us out.”

He knew Frank was right, knew Billy was just trying to help in the only way he knew how. Out of everyone, Billy didn’t let him wallow in his shit, didn’t let him get away with bullshit excuses or easy smiles. Billy made him own up to his shit.

He stares down at his hands, fingers laced together and steepled between his knees. They trembled, the smallest of twitches, but he could see them plain as day. “I can’t break,” he finds himself admitting. “They have it worse, pop… they need me to be strong right now.” He can practically feel the disappointment radiating from the other.

“Did you care about this Captain of yours?”

His neck cracks with the force of momentum, rage blooming across the depths of blue. Frank doesn’t even balk, taking a seat beside him. “Of course I did! He… he made me feel like I was part of this team, he taught me so much, and yeah sure we had some issues, but he was a goo— no, he was a great man.” Frank nodded along.

“Then they don’t have it worse. Grief isn’t a competition, Kid, you’re all feeling this, all struggling. You don’t take that on by yourself.” But the man just didn’t get it.

“They’ve known him longer,” he mutters weakly, “and Chim — he feels so guilty because if he hadn’t been sick, we’d have had the antidote, and Eddie had to tell Chris that he lost another person and he had to do it alone a thousand miles away from all of us.”

“And that means you can’t feel that grief, too? Kid, you know better than that, you know grief doesn’t care how long you’ve known someone or if guilt is associated. Them struggling doesn’t mean you don’t feel it too.”

“It’s not about me,” he tries again, knuckles white as he folds his hands together, Maddie’s words striking to the core even days later. Frank watched him, silent and steady and searching.

“Is that what this is about? You think letting yourself feel this shit is making it about you? Are your teammates making it about them when they talk about their struggles?”

He shoots to his feet, pacing back and forth. “They aren’t talking about it!” He croaks out, throat constricting and eyes burning, fingers digging through blonde hair and grappling with the untamed locks. “They feel it at home, with the families and then they come back and act okay but they aren’t! None of this is okay, Pop! I should have been able to do something! If I… if I had still been Military I… I could have pulled rank or called in favors or something! Anything! But instead I was a civilian in the passenger seat of a car, thumb up my ass and letting everyone else shoulder the weight!” A sob breaks through, desperate and strangled, a hand moving from his hair to his throat, nails clawing at the sun kissed skin. “I should have been in that room! I could have figured something else out, rigged something else up! I would have noticed sooner!”

“You could have died with him,” Frank’s calm rationale is infuriating as tears burn down his cheeks. “Your captain knew what he was doing, are you going to dishonor him by second guessing everything?” He freezes, hand still tight against his throat. “Your Captain chose the life of those who follow him, he chose to save his men. It’s a decision I would have made — Steve would have made, Maverick or even Iceman. Any of us would have made that choice, to sacrifice ourself to get our man out. Would you have not done the same?”

There was no doubt that’s exactly what he would have done. If he had been in Bobby’s shoes, he’d have given Chim the antidote without a second thought. His head hangs. He hears the shuffle of clothes and then the slow click of boots on the ground before arms are engulfing him. He sinks into Frank without complaint, tears soaking the shoulder of the man’s shirt.

“You aren’t a burden, kid,” Frank whispers, hand knotted in the hair at the base of his skull. “You’re allowed to feel this pain, same as everyone else.”

Evan’s arms curled tight around his father, squeezing for all his worth, clinging to him like the lifeline he was. “You’ve become soft in your old age,” he croaks out, grunting under the force of the cuff to the back of his head. He probably deserved that. A watery smile twists at his lips and he squeezes once more, basking in the sanctuary of the other’s arms before carefully extracting himself.

“Now you wanna tell me why you changed back to Buckley?” Frank’s face is set in stone again and Evan groans, shoulders slumping, but Frank doesn’t seem to be backing down, so Evan flops back onto the chair, Frank taking the plastic lawn chair beside him, and he begins.

“After all the Punisher shit went down,” he explains softly, “I came out here after entering the reserves, and it was everywhere. Frank Castle this, Frank Castle that — and I was never disappointed by you, or ashamed,” he rushes to explain. “But it brought a lot of questions. ‘Do you know the Punisher? Is he a family member? Are you him!’ When I started applying places, I kept getting turned down.” He drags a hand through his hair again, rubbing at the back of his own neck. “So when I applied for the Fire academy, I used Buckley, and I got it. I figured down the line I would change it back to Castle — Pop you gotta know, being a Castle? It’s the one thing I’m proudest of,” he watches Frank now, eyes desperate for the other to understand. “Switching to Buckley was just slipping on a mask, like I was going under, you know? Only, it got harder to come clean. There were too many Evan’s in my class, so someone called me Buck, and then others started to do it too, and eventually I was… I’m just Buck…”

Frank doesn’t interrupt, dark eyes steady as he listens. “And then I joined the 118 and I made some really dumb choices, and I kept my military past under lock and key — I didn’t want the ‘have you killed anyone’ questions or the ‘what was it like over there?’ I didn’t want to be treated different. And then Eddie came along — a decorated Army Medic. Saying anything after that would have just been me being jealous, so I never said anything.”

“Jealous of what?”

He shrugs, “Eddie, of how easily everyone accepted him and how much better he was treated — how he wasn’t treated like a Probie like I was.” He can tell by Frank’s expression the words don’t make a lot of sense, but he forges on before the man can interrupt again.

“I thought about it a few times, especially to Eddie. He has PTSD, but he was really struggling to see it for a while, so I wanted him to have someone to talk to, but the time never seemed right. And then Bobby asked about seeing the Navy on my resume, after the lawsuit. He looked at me like I was a stranger, so I lied,” he admits softly. “I told him I flunked out. And he let it go.”

He feel’s Frank’s sigh more than sees it. “That was a dumb choice,” the veteran acknowledges, dragging a hand down his face, finger crooking over his hooked nose from one too many breaks. “Lies always come out, Kid.” He nods. He knew that, but he had held out hope for this one.

“Come on then,” Frank grunts, forcing himself back to his feet. “We’ve been up here long enough and they’ve been salavating to see you.” A calloused palm grips his own, pulling him to his feet as well. “No more hiding, Kid, got it?” Buck nods, offering a weary smile.

“No more hiding,” he promises.