Chapter Text
Life after the lawsuit was a quieter, smaller thing.
Not quiet in the sense of peace — Buck hadn’t had peace in months — but quiet in the way an empty house was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in from the corners, filling the rooms he used to move through without thought, making the familiar feel alien. Voices didn’t reach for him anymore. Conversations didn’t pause to let him in. Laughter that once drew him like gravity now ricocheted off walls, out of reach, leaving only the hollow echo in his ribs of what used to be.
Even in the firehouse, surrounded by people he’d once called family, he felt the absence of connection like a physical weight on his chest. The smell of coffee, the clatter of dishes, the low hum of radios — all of it carried a sharp reminder that he no longer belonged in the rhythm of their lives.
It wasn’t just that they ignored him; it was the subtle gestures that stabbed at him more than words ever could. The way chairs weren’t pulled out, the way eyes flicked past him, conversations that continued just a heartbeat too long before they realized he was there. The jokes that weren’t meant for him, the smiles that didn’t reach him, the easy banter that folded over his shoulders like an invisible barrier that never touched his shoulders anymore.
He moved through it all like a ghost, taking careful steps so as not to disrupt a world that no longer made room for him. And every day, the quiet reminded him of the distance he’d created himself, and the distance they’d allowed — a gap that grew wider with every laugh he wasn’t part of, every glance he didn’t earn, every moment he felt the sting of being forgotten.
Once upon a time, he’d been invited to share dinner with them at the same table. Back then, Bobby would set a plate in front of him without asking, Hen would shove the salt closer, Chim would lean in to tell some ridiculous story, and Eddie… Eddie would meet his eyes across the table like they were in on the same joke.
But that was before.
After his first week back, Buck learned just how thoroughly “before” was gone.
It was a Tuesday — slow shift, lunch hour. He’d brought nothing special, just a sleeve of crackers and a handful of almonds he’d scrounged from his kitchen. Things had been pretty tight since the disability stopped paying when he got cleared for duty. He hadn’t expected Bobby to start cooking for him again so soon after the lawsuit. He understood why he wouldn’t.
Still, when the smell of grilled chicken drifted out of the kitchen, Buck’s feet had carried him toward the table out of habit. The others were already there, plates full, laughter soft but steady.
“Hey,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice light as he slid into the empty chair.
The effect was instant.
Forks stilled. Hen’s smile faltered mid-word. Chim glanced at Bobby, whose gaze dropped to his plate. Eddie kept his eyes fixed on the table. The conversation that had been flowing so easily just seconds ago stuttered into silence, replaced by an almost physical tension that prickled against Buck’s skin.
They didn’t look at him. Not really. Their eyes would pass over him like he really was a ghost haunting their space.
And Buck, who could read a room as well as he could read a rescue scene, heard the message even without words.
He tried to pretend it didn’t matter. Pulled his crackers from his pocket. “Don’t mind me,” he’d said, half-smiling. “Just here for the company.”
No one replied.
The silence stretched so tight it might snap.
He took one bite, realized his mouth had gone dry, and pushed the crackers away. A minute ticked by with no sound. “Actually, uh, I’ve got reports to finish.”
He stood too quickly, the legs of his chair scraping the floor. In his rush, he left the packet of crackers and the almonds sitting there — a small, pitiful offering to a meal he wasn’t part of anymore.
By the time he reached the locker room, the heat in his chest wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something sharper..
From then on, he ate alone. Sometimes in the truck bay, leaning against the side of Engine 118 with a granola bar. Sometimes in his Jeep, with the radio on low just to fill the silence.
The others didn’t ask why he wasn’t joining them, probably just relieved they wouldn't need to relive that awkward moment. And Buck didn’t offer an explanation.
If they noticed, they didn’t say.
If they cared… well. That was a dangerous question, and Buck had learned not to ask questions he didn’t want the answer to.
Two shifts later, he was leaning against the open bay door when Ravi wandered over, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if Buck was in the mood for company. Like he was some monstrous thing that could snap at any moment.
“Hey, Buck… you busy?”
Buck shook his head, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “What’s up?”
Ravi shifted on his feet, glancing toward the others inside. “I’ve got a family thing coming up next week, and I can’t get coverage for my shift. I’ve asked around, but… you’re the only one who hasn’t said no yet.”
Buck blinked. “The only one?”
Ravi grimaced, clearly regretting how that sounded. “I just mean—look, I know it’s short notice, but I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. You’ve always been the guy who steps up.”
Something in Buck’s chest piqued at that. Once, stepping up had been second nature—almost a point of pride. Lately, it felt like the only times people remembered him were when they needed something filled or something done. An inconvenience covered by the walking inconvenience of the 118.
Still, he didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’ll take it.”
Ravi’s relief was instant. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
Buck shrugged like it was no big deal, even as Ravi jogged off to answer a call from Hen.
The bay door was open, the late afternoon light spilling in. Buck stayed there for a moment, hands still in his pockets, staring at the street beyond.
Once, covering a shift would have meant more time with the team. Now it was just hours in the same building with people who didn’t see him anymore.
But it was something to do. Something useful. And maybe that was all he could ask for.
By the time the shift rolled around, Buck was already running on autopilot — gear stowed, turnout pants folded at the ready, and a mental list of calls he’d probably end up riding alone in the back of the truck for. The air in the bay carried the faint scent of oil and disinfectant, the kind of smell that clung to the station no matter how many times it was scrubbed.
It was Ravi’s slot he was filling, but the day didn’t feel any different. The tones still went off, the engines still rumbled to life, and the rest of the team still moved around him like he was just part of the background.
The station kitchen was alive with the low hum of voices, coffee mugs clinking faintly against the counter. Buck lingered in the hallway just outside the doorway, the brim of his baseball cap pulled low. He wasn’t hiding, exactly. Not really. But something in his chest tightened at the thought of stepping inside. He couldn’t make his feet move.
It had been weeks since the lawsuit ended — weeks since the papers were signed, the settlement discarded, and the meetings over. In theory, everything should have gone back to normal. In practice, it was like someone had taken the invisible cord that tied him to the team and quietly cut it.
The conversations were still there, the banter still floated over the firehouse floor… just never in his direction. Laughter seemed to break a beat too late when he joined in. No one was cruel, not since that first week at least, but no one reached for him either.
He could still see them, still hear them — Bobby pouring coffee for Hen, Chim telling some half-finished story, Eddie’s laugh low and warm. But he wasn’t in it. Not anymore.
And the thing about being left out was, no one told you when it happened. One day, you were part of the circle; the next, you were orbiting it, just far enough away to miss the warmth.
Buck shifted his weight, the urge to walk in warring with the certainty that the second he crossed the threshold, the conversation would stop. It always did now, and he wouldn't - couldn’t ruin another thing.
Buck tried to convince himself it was fine. This was just… transitional. Things took time to heal. He could wait. He’d been through worse.
He pivoted his feet in the other direction, intending to walk past the kitchen toward the locker rooms, when a familiar voice caught his ear.
“…it’s her kidneys,” Hen was saying, the softness in her tone unmistakable. “They’re failing faster than they thought. Dialysis isn’t cutting it anymore.”
Buck froze.
“How old?” Chimney’s voice this time.
“Seventeen,” Hen said quietly. “Ravi’s been taking on extra shifts just to help with the bills. He’d never say it, but—” She sighed. “She needs a transplant. Soon.”
Silence fell for a moment..
“Is there anyone in the family who’s a match?” Chimney asked.
“No. They’ve tested everyone. It’s… bad.”
Buck’s pulse had picked up without his permission, a steady drum in his ears. He stepped closer to the wall, half-hidden, listening.
Hen’s voice was softer now, but it carried. “We have to keep this between us. Ravi’s proud. If he knew we were talking about it, he’d bolt.”
Buck’s stomach turned. Proud or not, the kid’s sister was dying, and they were all standing here, coffee in hand, talking . He swallowed hard, a dozen thoughts slamming into each other in his mind.
He should walk in. He should say something. He should—
Footsteps sounded behind him, and Bobby’s voice cut through the air, easy and warm in that way Buck used to hear directed at him. “What are we keeping between us?”
Hen filled him in, and Buck waited — waited for someone to say his name, to look toward the door and invite him in. No one did.
Bobby’s voice was firm. “We’ll help how we can, but this isn’t something we can fix.”
The words landed like a stone in Buck’s chest.
Not something we can fix.
Maybe not. But maybe he could.
By the time the others filed out of the kitchen, Buck was already at the far end of the hall, his mind racing.
That night, alone in his loft, he opened his laptop and started looking up living donation programs, cross-matching requirements, and surgical recovery times. The logistics didn’t scare him — not the surgery, not the recovery, not the risk. What scared him was the idea of doing nothing while a kid barely out of high school had her life ticking down like a clock he could hear. Not when she was something good. He wasn’t good for much, but maybe he could be good enough for this.
He could do this anonymously. It was possible. He’d have to be careful — schedule the surgery during his vacation days, avoid County, and make sure no one connected the dots.
He’d done reckless things before, for strangers, for victims. This wasn’t reckless. This was… necessary. It gripped him in a vice. He had never even met this kid but he knew without needing to that this is what he was meant to do.
Buck closed the laptop, the decision already made.
The donor screening process was clinical, impersonal — exactly how Buck wanted it. Here, no one looked at him like they were still deciding whether or not to forgive him. No one remembered the lawsuit or muttered about the “guy who took the department to court.” The nurses at the transplant center saw him as a name on a chart, a set of vitals, a man willing to give a piece of himself to help someone he’d never meet.
That anonymity was a strange sort of comfort.
They drew blood, asked questions about his medical history, took scans, checked his heart, and checked his lungs. It felt like an obstacle course, but one where the finish line might actually matter.
He had been worried about his recent medical history interfering, but he’d been off the meds for weeks now, and by the end of the week, the coordinator called him in with a smile that was all professionalism and none of the personal warmth he was used to craving.
“You’re not just a match,” she told him. “You’re the best possible candidate we’ve tested.”
He’d driven home that day with the city blurring past, an odd sense of purpose curling through him. This — this was something he could do that didn’t require anyone’s permission. Nobody could bench him from it, nobody could tell him he wasn’t ready, nobody could take it away.
The next shift at the 118, Buck felt breathless before he even stepped inside. The place smelled the same — diesel, coffee, and faint traces of smoke embedded in the walls — but it didn’t feel the same.
It used to buzz for him. Even on slow days, there was an energy here that pulled him in, made him feel like he belonged to something solid. Now, there was just… distance. A space between him and everyone else, like he’d been shoved a few steps outside the circle and no one had noticed.
He went through the motions — checked his gear, topped off the medical bag, restocked the rig. He kept his head down, kept moving.
Later, he found himself leaning against Bobby’s office doorway, careful to sound casual. “Hey, Cap? I, uh… need to put in for a few days off next month.”
Bobby looked up from his paperwork, brows pulling together instantly. “You just got back to work, Buck. You know what kind of position that puts us in?”
“It’s just a couple of days,” he said, with a shrug that tried to sell this as nothing, “I’m uh..taking a camping trip.” His stomach was already knotting, the familiar prickle of being on the verge of disappointing someone creeping up his spine.
Before Bobby could respond, Chimney stepped into the doorway with a folder in hand. “Hold on — you fought tooth and nail to get your job back, and now you want time off? Man, you are something else.”
Hen’s voice floated in from the hall without her even stepping in. “Hope it’s worth it, Buck.”
They weren’t sharp in tone — it was meant to be banter, the easy ribbing that had always been part of the 118. But it didn’t land the same way anymore.
The words sliced on the way in, clean and quiet.
Buck swallowed, forcing the easy smile that had become muscle memory. “Yeah,” he said lightly. “It’s worth it.”
Bobby had already gone back to his paperwork. Chim was flipping through the folder. Hen’s voice was moving down the hall again.
And Buck… Buck stood there for a beat too long, the smile faltering once no one was looking.
He used to be in on the joke. Now he felt like the punchline.
He told himself it was fine — that they were busy, distracted, just living their lives. That it wasn’t personal. But that didn’t stop the sharp little ache from settling under his ribs.
Calls came and went. In the rig, they talked about weekend plans and family dinners. He sat in the corner seat, knees drawn in to avoid knocking against Eddie’s unwittingly, listening, adding a word or two when it seemed like he should. He missed the mark every time it seemed, though.
There was no malice in it. No one froze him out on purpose anymore. That had mercifully stopped after Bobby finally let him back on the rig. The intentional silence had been killing him. Sending him closer and closer to an edge he had not visited since living in Pennsylvania in a home that felt more like a mausoleum. There was no gravity pulling him in anymore, either. The station that once felt like home now felt like a place he visited, clocked in, and clocked out of.
By the time his shift ended, he realized he hadn’t had a single real conversation all day.
By the time Buck got home, the city felt quieter than usual.
Or maybe he just was. He couldn’t really remember the last full conversation he’d had in a while. In Bobby’s office earlier was the most he’d probably said in a few weeks.
His apartment door clicked shut behind him, and the silence was instant. No chatter from the station, no radios, no background hum of life. Just… stillness.
He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. The sound echoed like it belonged to someone else’s life.
The couch was still where he’d left it, cushions slightly sunken in from the nights he hadn’t made it to bed. He stepped around a small pile of laundry he hadn’t touched in days.
The fridge gave a weak hum when he opened it — a couple of bottles of water, a half-empty carton of eggs, and some takeout he didn’t remember ordering. He closed it again, stomach churning with something that wasn’t hunger.
On the counter sat a small stack of unopened envelopes.
Medical bills.
Attorney fees.
A notice from his landlord about his rent being late. Again .
He didn’t even have to open them to know they’d be worse than last month.
Buck grabbed the least dented can of soup from the cupboard and set it on the stove. The heat from the burner filled the room faster than the smell of the broth, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn on the A/C unit. That would jack his electricity more than he could afford right now.
The day kept replaying in his head — Bobby’s tight brow, Chimney’s smirk, Hen’s casual jab. The way no one lingered to see how he’d take it.
It was stupid to expect anything different. He was the one who’d messed up. He was the one who’d made them all put their guard up.
When he finally stretched out on the couch with his bowl of soup in hand, the city outside his window was moving — cars, lights, lives happening. But in here, the only thing moving was the red light blinking on his answering machine.
Spam call.The only kind he got nowadays.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.
Tomorrow, he’d do it again. The shift, the smiles, the quiet.
And no one would notice the difference.
The surgery date came faster than he expected. He didn’t tell Maddie — she’d just worry, and he didn’t need another lecture about self-preservation. He didn’t tell Eddie — not after “you’re exhausting” had been the last real thing Eddie said to him before their friendship fell into awkward silence. He didn’t tell anyone at the 118.
He scheduled the procedure at a private hospital across town, not County. County was too risky — too many familiar faces, too many chances for word to get back to the station.
When the nurse handed him the pre-op paperwork, she asked, “Any family or friends we should list as your emergency contact?”
Buck hesitated. For years, the answer would have been easy — Eddie, Bobby, Maddie. But now? The thought of one of them getting a call in the middle of the night, hearing his name, sighing like it was an inconvenience…
“No one,” he finally said, voice quiet.
The nurse nodded and scribbled something down, but Buck’s gaze stayed fixed on the bland hospital wall behind her.
Were they ever really that close?
He used to think so — in the way you believe in constants, in the way you trust the sun will rise. Eddie had been his partner, Bobby his mentor, Maddie his anchor. He’d built his whole life around those truths, leaning on them like a house leans on its beams.
But maybe that was just his version of things. Maybe the closeness he remembered was something he’d built in his own head — brick by brick, moment by moment — until it felt real enough to stand on.
Maybe they’d just been tolerating him, and he’d been too eager, too lonely, too desperate to notice.
The nurse left the room, and the silence that followed felt like confirmation.
Surgery was a haze of bright lights, antiseptic air, and the drifting nothing of anesthesia. He woke sore, tethered to IV lines, nurses bustling around with professional efficiency. The pain was bad, but so was the relief. Ravi’s sister — a kid without any of the darkness he carried— would get her shot.
It was not a sharp pain, but deep . Gnawing. Like something had been carved out of him—because it had.
His side felt hot, tight, wrapped in a thick pressure bandage. His throat burned from the intubation. The beeping from the monitors was too loud.
He blinked slowly. The nurse beside him smiled gently.
“Welcome back. Surgery went well.”
Buck didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
He drifted again, hazy from the anesthesia, and when he came to next, it was night.
The recovery room was dim. Quiet. No one waiting for him. No flowers. No cards.
No visitors.
He checked his phone. A text from Maddie—just checking in like usual. One from his landlord about the rent due next week. Nothing from anyone else.
He didn’t expect anything. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.
Three days later, they sent him home.
Not because he was well, exactly, but because the bed was needed for someone sicker, and Buck had proven he could walk to the bathroom on his own without setting off alarms. His steps were slow, careful — each one a reminder that he wasn’t anywhere near one hundred percent.
The apartment felt different now. Quieter. The fridge hummed too loud, the clock ticked like it was trying to get under his skin. He dropped his hospital bag by the couch and stood there for a long moment, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, not sure where to go next.
No one called.
No one knew to.
The first day home, he slept for hours at a time, drifting in and out.
By day two, he was shuffling around the apartment, doing small chores just to keep busy. He’d stand at the sink washing the same coffee mug three times in a row without realizing it. His stomach wasn’t great — the antibiotics didn’t help — so he mostly lived on toast and the occasional reheated frozen meal.
He went to bed that night, curling under the thin blanket like it could shield him from more than just the chill. His body ached in ways that weren’t entirely unfamiliar, but tonight the stiffness felt sharper, the soreness more persistent. He rubbed at his ribs, wincing when the movement reminded him of the incision still tender beneath the skin.
Sleep didn’t come easy. His chest felt warm, almost feverish, and a dull throb pulsed behind his temples. He reached for his phone to check the time — 2:17 a.m. — and frowned at the beads of sweat clinging to his hairline. That wasn’t normal. Not entirely.
He shifted under the blanket, trying to convince himself it was nothing. Maybe it was the antibiotics reacting with his stomach, or maybe it was just exhaustion finally catching up to him. Still, there was a subtle nausea that wouldn’t let go, a low-grade discomfort that settled into his bones like an uninvited guest.
By the time he finally drifted into a fitful sleep, his dreams were restless, colored with flashes of the hospital, the ocean, and a grocery store too far from his house to be reasonable. Somewhere beneath it all, a quiet alarm rang inside him, one he couldn’t quite name.
He woke several times that night, each time drenched in sweat, each time dragging a hand across his forehead and thinking, Maybe I should call someone…
But no one would come anyway, so he didn’t. Just rolled over and tried to fall back asleep.
By day three, the fever had started.
Low-grade at first. Then climbing. His surgeon chalked it up to a common post-op immune response and told him to rest, hydrate, and stay ahead of the pain.
But Buck was alone with two bottles of prescribed meds, no appetite, and a dull ache that never left.
He set an alarm every four hours to take the antibiotics.
Set another alarm every six to remind himself to drink water.
Then, somewhere between the shivering and the haze, he started setting new alarms. Not for his body.
For his brain.
Alarm: Don’t be exhausting.
Alarm: They don’t want you.
Alarm: Don’t overstep.
Alarm: Don’t call them.
Sometimes the alarms on his phone woke him — little reminders he’d set in the aftermath of the incident at Howie’s Grocery while still foggy from the emotional crash out he’d had that night. He hated looking at them, but he couldn’t bring himself to delete them either. It felt like they were keeping him from making another mistake.
He went over his finances with a legal pad and a dull pencil. The numbers weren’t great.
He’d already cut back — no more gym membership, no takeout except for the occasional cheap pizza, streaming services pared down to one. Even the Jeep needed work. He was just incredibly lucky that he chose to take an Uber the day of the tsunami, or he’d be without a car.
Still, the idea of calling someone for help made his skin crawl. He’d learned the hard way not to expect rescue.
He was in the middle of heating up more canned soup — the good kind, at least, not the off-brand stuff — when his phone buzzed.
Tía Pepa.
He answered instantly, even as a wave of dizziness hit him and he had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. His hand shook slightly, and his head throbbed at the edges.
A faint nausea curled in his stomach, but he ignored it. “Hey, Pepa,”
“Evan, mijo, I need a favor,” she said in a rush. “Can you watch Christopher for a few hours? Something’s come up and I can’t get a hold of Eddie.
Buck’s stomach twisted. He knew he shouldn’t be moving around so much, shouldn’t be taking on anything that required energy, but the thought of saying no was impossible.
“Of course,” Buck said immediately.
It wasn’t even a choice. It never was, not when it came to Chris or anyone in the Diaz family. He didn’t care if he still felt wrung out or if he should probably be resting. Some things you just didn’t say no to .His body was trying to tell him something, but the voice in his head — the one that never let him turn down a Diaz in need — drowned it out.
“It’s just a few hours, mijo,” Pepa continued, sensing his hesitation. “Just until Eddie’s home.”
Buck grabbed his keys and pulled on a hoodie over his thin tee, ignoring the chill that had settled deep in his bones. “No worries! I’ll be there in ten,” he said, already moving toward the door.
He grabbed his keys, threw on a hoodie, and sent Eddie a quick text on the drive: Pepa asked me to watch Chris. Just until you’re home.
He didn’t expect a reply and he didn’t get one.
Buck parked in front of Eddie’s building, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. The Jeep rattled beneath him, a reminder that even his car was barely holding itself together. His head throbbed steadily, and each step toward the door felt harder than the last, but he forced himself to move with purpose.
Chris answered the door with a grin that lit up the whole entryway.
“Evanito!” Pepa said behind him, relief flooding her voice. “Thank you, mijo.”
Buck knelt, setting a careful hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy. You and me for a little while. Sound good?”
“Buck!” he said, like it had been months instead of just a few weeks since they’d last hung out. He threw his arms around Buck’s legs clumsily.
Buck crouched to return the hug, ignoring the twinge in his side. “Hey, buddy. What are we doing first? Video games? Homework? Ice cream?”
“Video games and ice cream,” Chris said, already shuffling toward the living room.
They played Mario Kart until Chris was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch. Buck kept it gentle, letting Chris win more than usual, enjoying the sound of him happy. When they finally switched to a movie, Chris leaned against him, and Buck wrapped an arm around his shoulders, careful of his incision.
For a couple of hours, he let himself forget the cold silences at the station, the lawsuit, the muted text threads. In this living room, with Chris’s laughter and the smell of microwaved popcorn, he almost felt like he belonged again.
He let himself forget until the front door opened, and a cold pit opened up in his chest at what he knew was coming.
Buck had been halfway through helping Christopher with a tricky Lego build when the sound of boots on tile told him who it was before he even appeared. Eddie stepped inside, keys jingling — and the warmth in the room dropped instantly.
Eddie stepped inside, shoulders squared, eyes immediately locking onto Buck.
“What are you doing here?” His tone was low but laced with an edge that made Buck feel like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Pepa called,” Buck said, trying to keep his voice even. “She couldn’t get a hold of you, and she needed someone to watch—”
“That’s not the point,” Eddie cut in.
Buck glanced at Christopher, who was frozen mid-movement, eyes flicking between them. He forced a smile that felt brittle on his face and nudged Chris gently. “Hey, buddy? Why don’t you grab your tablet and head to your room for a minute?”
Chris tilted his head. “Why?”
Buck took a slow breath, trying to keep his voice calm even as his head throbbed and his side burned. “Because your dad and I need a minute, buddy. Go on ahead, okay?”
Chris gave him an unreadable look but went, crutches tapping softly against the hardwood and his tablet tucked haphazardly into his hoodie pocket, disappearing into the hallway.
“Look-” He started turning his head back to Eddie as Chris’ door closed.
“You can’t just…” Eddie cut in. “You can’t just insert yourself like this. Not anymore.”
Buck’s stomach tightened. “Chris needed someone—”
“That someone wasn’t supposed to be you,” Eddie snapped.
Buck’s heart stuttered, but he kept his expression neutral. “I texted you.” It was desperate.
“I muted you.” The words landed like stones in his ribcage. Eddie put a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You need to stop crossing boundaries, Buck.”
There was nothing left to say. Nothing that wouldn’t make it worse. So Buck just nodded, throat thick. “Right. Got it. I’ll just say good night to Chris if - if that’s ok? I don’t want him to think he did anything wrong.”
In Chris’s room, the light from his desk lamp was warm and steady. Buck leaned in the doorway, trying to keep his voice light.
“Hey, champ. I’ve gotta go.”
Chris frowned, lowering his tablet. “Already?”
“Yeah.” Buck forced a smile.
Chris studied him for a moment, his eyes sharper than most people gave him credit for. “You haven’t been around much.”
Buck hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. “I know. I’ve… I made a mistake. A big one. And your dad was pretty upset with me.”
Chris’s brow furrowed. “Did you guys have a fight?”
“Sort of.” Buck looked down at his hands. “But it was my fault. I crossed a line I shouldn’t have. You don’t need to be mad at your dad, okay? He’s just… looking out for the people he cares about.”
Chris was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re one of those people.”
Buck’s smile was small and tired. “Yeah. I hope so.” The words stayed, catching somewhere deep, like a burr snagged in fabric.
He ruffled Chris’s hair gently, careful not to let his hand shake, and stood. “I’ll see you around, buddy.”
By the time he stepped back into the living room, Eddie was standing with his arms crossed, eyes tracking him like a border guard ensuring no one slipped through uninvited.
“Alright, I should—” he started, but his voice caught. The room spun just slightly as he took a step toward the door. He gripped the edge of the counter for balance, forcing himself to focus.
Eddie was watching him, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Buck…”
“I know,” Buck said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “I got it. I'm going.”
Buck didn’t look back when he stepped outside.. He couldn’t when it would mean carving the beating heart out of his own chest if that is what would bring him home.
The night air was cool. The kind that slipped into your lungs, sharp and clean and carried the faint smell of rain on pavement. Buck walked the short path from Eddie’s front door to the street, his boots crunching softly over the same stretch of sidewalk he’d walked a thousand times before.
He’d done it carrying pizzas, birthday gifts, forgotten school projects, a bag of arts and crafts gear. He’d done it with Christopher’s laughter following him, or Eddie’s voice calling after him to grab a beer.
Now it was silent. Tonight, it felt different. The sidewalk seemed longer, his boots heavier.
Chris’s voice replayed in his head: You’re one of those people.
Was he?
What if I’d made it all up? What if I was never really family… just someone they let orbit close until I burned out my welcome?
Because lately, it didn’t feel like it. Lately, it felt like he’d been shifted out of that inner circle, replaced by newer, shinier people who didn’t have the baggage he carried. Maybe he’d been one of those people once — Eddie’s person, Christopher’s person, the team’s person — but things had changed.
And maybe that was the point.
He’d screwed up. Crossed a line . And he’d spent every day since trying to figure out if there was a way back, only to be reminded, again and again, that maybe the answer was no. The team kept him at arm’s length, Eddie muted his messages, and Maddie hardly called. The more he tried to fix things, the more he seemed to make them worse. Maybe he’d been that person once—the one people could count on—but now? Now he was just the guy who’d sued the department and didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
The Jeep came into view under the soft yellow halo of a streetlamp. Buck eased himself in, started the engine, and sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel. He wanted to believe Chris was right. That he was one of those people. But hope like that felt fragile and a lot like lying to himself.
He pulled away from the curb, the street rolling past in shadow and light. The fatigue hit harder than he expected, the post-op ache deep in his side flaring each time he shifted in his seat. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to ground himself. His head felt heavy, fog pressing in at the edges of his vision.
He wasn’t even halfway home when a set of headlights tore across the cross street. It was too fast. Too sudden.
The impact slammed him sideways, metal screeching and glass shattering like ice across the asphalt. The Jeep skidded, shuddered violently, and came to a jarring stop.
The airbag deployed with a sickening whump .
Everything went white for a moment.
When the 133 arrived—alerted by a neighbor who had seen the crash—Buck was slumped over the wheel. Pale, sweating, barely able to lift his head, each breath came shallow and ragged, his chest burning, pulse hammering in his skull.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his own uneven breathing. Then voices—urgent, familiar, insistent—cut through the ringing in his ears.
“Buckley!” Lena’s voice was close now, sharp but steady. “Hey—stay with me!”
He groaned, chest aching with each shallow breath, head pounding. Tiny fragments of glass crunched beneath him, catching faint light as he shifted. Ears ringing, a female voice cut through the haze—calm but firm.
“You with me?” she asked again, louder this time.
Buck croaked, throat dry. “Yeah…”
“You’ve got a nasty bump on your head, and you’re running a fever. Just hang tight, okay?”
He tried to lift his head, to protest, but all he managed was a weak shake. “Can’t… can’t go to County.”
“You don’t have a choice,” she said gently, guiding him with careful hands.
He let them lift him from the Jeep, the world tilting dangerously, each motion sending pain through his chest and ribs. The sounds of the street, the sirens, the voices—all blurred together, spinning in his foggy mind.
Then the world slipped away again, darkness creeping in at the edges as consciousness abandoned him.