Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

He woke to light. Not sunlight, not the soft wash of morning through his blinds — too sharp, too white, too clean. The kind of light that seared edges into everything. This light was humming with electricity. He tried to squint, but the effort scraped against the inside of his skull. His brain felt like it had been dropped down a flight of stairs and rattled around in its casing.

For a moment, he thought maybe he was underwater again, the way brightness blurred, filtered through glass, pressing against his skull until it ached. There was water, salt in his lungs, and pressure crushing down on his chest—

But then someone spoke.

“Sir?”

No, not Maddie’s voice. Not Eddie’s. Not Bobby’s. A nurse, clipboard in hand, pen poised mid stroke, leaning over. He wanted to sit up, but fire bloomed in his ribs, pulling him back down. His side screamed with a tearing heat, and when he glanced down, there was fresh gauze taped across his torso. His chest felt sewn shut.

“Don’t move,” the nurse said quickly. “You’ve got broken ribs, and we had to re-suture your incision.”

He blinked at her, sluggish. “…what?”

“You’re in the ER. You were in an accident. You’ll be okay. I just need you to answer some questions for me. What’s your name?”

“Buck.” His tongue felt like cotton.

“And where are you?”

His eyes slid past the ceiling tiles, the harsh fluorescent hum. “Hospital?”

“Good.” She made a note. “ You’ve got a concussion. We’ll keep checking, okay? Just rest.”

Rest. That word kept circling him, dragging him down.

He fell again.

The world blinked in and out. Time didn’t run in a straight line anymore; it fractured, melted, turned slippery.

When he surfaced again it was dark outside the windows. His clothes were gone, replaced by scratchy fabric that clung to his skin. A clear plastic bag sat on the table by the bed, the life he’d walked in with folded into it: hoodie, jeans, wallet. On top of it was his phone, the screen a spiderweb of cracks. Someone had turned it face-up, maybe so he’d see it if it lit up.

It did.

A faint glow, blue against the white sheets. An alarm. They don’t want you.

His stomach dropped. He fumbled for it, but his fingers wouldn’t obey. Numb, clumsy, trembling. The nurse was there before he could grasp it, lifting it carefully, brows knitting together.

Her stomach sank. She wasn’t supposed to look. Boundaries. Professional distance. But it was impossible not to see, not to understand.

She adjusted his IV tubing slowly, giving herself an excuse to linger. He stirred under her touch, fever-flushed, eyes glassy, and she thought—who told him that lie so many times he believed it enough to write it down as gospel?

“What’s this?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes. “Reminder.”

“Of what?”

He turned his face into the pillow. “Truth.”

Her sigh was soft—not pitying, not unkind, just weary. She set the phone down again, the cracked screen dimming back to black. “You should tell me who we can call. You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped. He bit down on the rest. Names crowded his throat, choked each other out.

He thought of Eddie. Of Bobby. Of Maddie. Of Hen and Chim.

He thought of the silence after the lawsuit, the way conversations bent away from him. How rooms seemed to shift to keep him on the outside.

“No one,” he whispered.

And every time the concussion checks dragged him half-awake, she asked again. Out of duty, out of hope. And every time he gave her the same answer. Stubborn, final.

Each repetition carved something deeper in her chest. Most patients offered someone —a friend, a neighbor, anyone. But not him. Not the man who seemed more startled by his own solitude than by the IV lines anchoring him in place.

The night fractured into pieces.

Someone shook his shoulder — too rough. “Hey, Buckley, open your eyes.” A flashlight, pupils shrinking. Numbers he couldn’t hold onto.

Later, a cold cloth against his forehead, the sting of antibiotics pushing through the IV. He asked again why his chest hurt so much, and the nurse answered with the same words: “Ribs broken. Incision re-stitched. Infection. You’re on medication.”

He must have asked that a dozen times. Each time, her answer wore thinner.

At some point, he woke convinced Maddie was sitting in the chair across from him. Hair pulled back, arms folded. He blinked and it was only the bag with his clothes. The cracked phone stared up at him like an unblinking eye.

“Why am I alone?”

The question slipped out unguarded, half in dream, as though his body asked it for him.

The nurse had just been checking his pulse, two fingers pressed lightly against his wrist. She pulled her hand back, pausing for a beat. “You listed no emergency contacts. Who should I call?”

His mouth was sandpaper, lips cracked. He stared at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. Finally, he forced the word out, raw and jagged.

“No one.”

Her brow furrowed. She waited, hoping he might change his mind, add a name—any name—but the silence stretched. It was clear this was the answer he had given before, the one he would give again.

With a quiet exhale, she reached for the blanket and adjusted it carefully over him, smoothing the edge at his shoulder. The gesture was gentle, though her face showed the tired resignation of someone who had asked this same question too many times, heard too many lonely answers.

The nurse sat back on her stool, exhaustion pressing at her shoulders. She had seen soldiers come home missing limbs, teenagers whose friends swarmed the waiting room in noisy clusters, mothers with families who refused to leave their bedside.

But this man—broken, burning with infection, stitched and bruised—faced the night with no one but strangers in scrubs. And what undid her most was how he seemed to expect it.

She didn’t push, didn’t press, but in her chest there was a small ache, a flicker of pity she couldn’t quite extinguish. Whatever had driven him to cut himself off from everyone—family, friends, whoever—they weren’t here to see the way his eyes kept drifting to the empty chair by the bed. They weren’t here to hear him ask that question like it was a prayer.

Why am I alone?

And she knew, as she leaned back to chart his vitals, that he believed it.

He dreamed of firetrucks rushing past without stopping. He dreamed of Eddie looking through him like he wasn’t there. He dreamed of Maddie reaching for his phone, reading the words on the cracked screen, and saying: finally, you understand.

Morning bled in gray through the high windows. By then, he was too tired to keep track of how many times they’d woken him.  His fever painted everything in gold-edged blur. Every question felt the same, answers scraping raw on his throat and tripping out over his teeth. His phone lit again. Don’t be exhausting,

The reminder blinked up at him, feeling bigger and bigger until it was the only thing his eyes could see. He turned his face away.

At the firehouse, the world moved forward without him.

The coffee machine hissed and sputtered its usual morning offering. Bobby sat at the table with a paper in hand, though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Chim was scrolling through his phone. Eddie sat stiff, his arms folded, staring into the middle distance. Hen was the only one moving, making sure the first-aid restock was in order.

The morning quiet was broken by a voice that didn’t belong there anymore.

“Captain.”

They all looked up. Lena Bosko stood on the top step, still in her 133 uniform, helmet tucked under one arm. Surprise flickered across their faces — surprise, and something like discomfort. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Lena,” Bobby said slowly, the words weighed down, almost cautious. “What brings you by?”

She arched a brow, leaning against the doorway with a mix of impatience and disbelief that made everyone pause. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

The room shifted for a heartbeat—suspended in confused surprise. Nobody had expected her, and her presence was like a sudden crack of light in the dim firehouse lounge.

Bobby blinked. “Shouldn’t I?”

Her mouth pressed into a line. The room went quiet, heavy in the way silence presses against your chest. Slowly, one by one, the threads of comprehension started to unravel across her face. 

“You mean to tell me none of you know?”

Eddie straightened in his chair. “Know what?”

“About Buck.” Her gaze swept over them, sharp and incredulous. “He was brought in last night. Car accident. Broken ribs, concussion, a post-op incision that had to be re-stitched. Clear infection—they’ve got him on IV antibiotics. He looked wrecked. Not one of you has been by?”

The words landed like stones in a still pond. 

Bobby’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, closed it again, as if trying to swallow the growing panic.

“No…hold on,” Chim said, voice tight, eyes narrowing. “You’re saying—”

“Wait,” Hen said carefully. “We didn’t hear anything.”

“That’s my point.” Lena’s eyes narrowed. “He’s alone in the ER. I only knew because my unit got the call. We were first in, and I—” She hesitated, shaking her head. “I stayed until he was stable enough for transfer, but I didn’t see anyone come in while I was there.”

Chim tried to shake off his stupor with logic. “Maybe the hospital messed up his chart. He’s had Maddie listed as an emergency forever, hasn’t he? We would have known!”

“Actually,” Eddie cut in. “His emergency contact has been me for the last year.” Eddie finally breathed, voice hollow.

Hen sank into the edge of the couch, burying her face in her hands. “But how—why wouldn’t he… we would have been there. He knows we would’ve been there.”

Lena didn’t move from the stairs. She leaned slightly, letting the weight of the truth settle over them, the edges of her eyes softening with concern. “I don’t know how he’s holding it together, to be honest. From what I’ve heard, he’s been through so much this year, and he still went through another surgery. How the hell did he get cleared for that?”

Eddie shook his head slowly, disbelief twisting his features. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t have… Bobby…” His eyes locked on Bobby’s, wide and accusing, and for the first time, some of the pieces clicked into place in his mind. Chim’s growing horror mirrored his own realization, and Eddie’s chest tightened as he watched it spread.

Hen’s expression was sharp, like she’d already caught the thread Lena was weaving. “Wait,” she said, voice taut, “Lena, what surgery are you talking about?”

Lena let out a slow breath, hesitant but firm. “I didn’t get a full look at his chart, but it was obvious from the glance I snuck that he’s post-op. And… it looks like it was from an organ donation surgery.” Her voice softened slightly, the edges of awe and disbelief bleeding in. She paused, considering. “He told me he couldn’t go to County… I think he didn’t want anyone there to see him, not after everything. Too many people would’ve recognized him, and maybe he was afraid of being benched again.”

The room sank into silence, each of them grappling with the scope of it. The firehouse, the smells of now burnt coffee and linoleum, the mundane rhythm of morning—it all felt wrong. Every missed call, every unanswered message, every empty chair at the dinner table came back to haunt them.

Chim surprisingly spoke first, turning slowly to level his gaze at Bobby, having finally slotted the last pieces into place, ‘You didn’t tell us he was cleared by the docs and the brass because…why?? You didn’t want him back? You didn't trust him?”  

Bobby’s eyes dropped, jaw tight, and he leaned heavily on the table, head in his hands.

“No that’s” -Bobby’s face hardened, a mix of guilt and defensiveness, but no more words came.

Chimney’s phone buzzed on the counter. He grabbed it, fumbling with the screen. “I… I need to call Maddie. She’s got to know.” His voice was low and tight. Stretched thin with the anger simmering under the surface. He scrolled through the contacts quickly, thumb hovering over her name. “She’s gonna freak,” he muttered, already dialing and walking a few paces away into the kitchen.

Eddie pushed back from the table hard enough that his chair scraped. His pulse hammered in his ears. Buck had been fighting through the wreckage for weeks, maybe months, maybe since the whole incident happened with the fire truck. Alone.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Eddie’s voice cracked, the anger cutting into disbelief. “We could’ve been there, Bobby! He needed us! You let us believe the lawsuit came out of nowhere! You let us believe he was just being impatient, acting out! You—”

Hen’s hand shot up, sharp, cutting through the spiraling tension. “This isn’t helping right now,” she said, voice tight.

“I… I thought I was protecting him,” Bobby said finally, voice low, almost strangled. “I thought if he just slowed down. I couldn’t - I couldn’t let him get hurt again.”

Hen shook her head, frustration radiating off her. Her voice sharpened, slicing into the protective bubble Bobby had wrapped himself in. “Bobby, he isn’t some fragile thing to hide in a closet. He’s Buck. He can make his own choices. And this—you took that away from him. You decided for him what he could and couldn’t do. You made a decision for him, and it turned him into a pariah, cut off from the people who care about him most. And we—” she gestured around the room, encompassing all of them, “we went along with it. We trusted your judgment instead of checking in. We let it happen!” 

Silence stretched between the trio, punctuated only by Chim’s muted muttering to Maddie on the phone in the kitchen and the quiet shuffling of Lena taking her leave to allow them privacy. Bobby’s hands dropped to the table, trembling slightly. His voice, when it came, was small, almost broken. “I thought I was doing the right thing…”

Hen’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but her tone didn’t waver. “The right thing? The right thing would have been to let him choose. Buck is not someone you save by locking him away. We almost broke him in the process.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists on the table. “Almost? He is broken right now, Bobby. He’s lying in a hospital bed, alone. You don’t get to frame it like it’s fine because you think you were protecting him.”

Hen’s gaze snapped to Eddie, steel in her eyes. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, either. That blowup at Howie’s? You can’t scold Bobby for trying to protect Buck when you’ve been reckless with your own temper.”

Hen leaned against the counter, shaking her head. “This isn’t about blame. It’s about Buck. And right now, the only thing that matters is getting to him. All the rest—the mistakes, the frustrations, the fights—they’ll have to wait. Buck can’t,” she gestured toward the floor as if Buck’s absence was a tangible thing pressing down on them, “he can’t wait any longer.”

“I’m going,” he said, voice tight, raw. “I don’t care about the last two hours of my shift. I need to be there. Now.”

Bobby remained frozen, guilt etched into every line of his face. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to stop Eddie. He just nodded, barely perceptible.

Hen stepped closer, placing a hand briefly on his arm. Her eyes were sharp with a threat Eddie knew she would make good on. “Good. But hear me, Eddie. You get there, you make it right. Don’t just sit there feeling guilty. Don’t be an ass.“

Chimney returned from the kitchen. “We’ll stagger out. Maddie will be there as soon as she can leave. The rest of us can cover the station until your shift officially ends.”

Eddie grabbed his keys and jacket, the exit door swinging open with a scrape that felt far too loud. His pulse hammered in his ears, every second dragging him toward the hospital, toward Buck. He didn’t think about traffic lights or street rules; he thought only of the man lying alone under fluorescent white light, stitched, broken, and waiting for someone—anyone—to show up.

Eddie’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. The hum of the engine was a low, constant drone beneath the storm in his chest, the truck idling in the quiet of the station lot as the streetlights blurred across the windshield. Every thought bounced, fractured, looping. He should have been at Buck’s side hours ago. He should have known. He should have—

Every stoplight was a hammer striking his chest. Red, green, yellow—each one a reminder that time had been slipping through his fingers while Buck lay alone. Every turn of the wheel was a small, humiliating confession: he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen when Buck needed him. He hadn’t protected him at all—only added to the distance, the isolation.

Images kept colliding in his mind. The grocery store again, that word— exhausting —scraping over him like sandpaper, lodged under his skin. 

The words felt abrasive now, jagged against his own skin. He’d walked away thinking he was right, thinking the lesson was about Buck needing boundaries, about control, about… what? What excuse could possibly erase the memory of those eyes following him, trusting him and getting only judgment and anger in return?

That word tasted bitter now. Because what had that control cost? How many times had Buck needed him and he had walked out, stormed off, pulled himself out of the picture as though he could protect himself with his absence? He thought of every time he’d let frustration dictate his actions, when he’d pulled himself out of the moment instead of pulling Buck into it.

The guilt coiled around him, thick and suffocating, a snake tightening with every beat of his heart. He pictured Buck in the ER bed again, tracing the contours of his own words across his mind: exhausting. Useless. Alone. How could he have thought that was okay to say? How could he have –

It hit him then-  the argument last night. The one he’d replayed dozens of times in his mind already. Buck had leaned against the counter, voice soft, trying to reason with him, and Eddie had snapped. He had hurled words like weapons. He heard Buck’s silence after, louder than any argument could have been. Saw the way his friend’s mouth had closed, lips pressed together as though swallowing the hurt. And Eddie had let him drive away. He had seen the way Buck’s jaw had tightened last night, the way he had pressed a hand to his chest while they were arguing as though trying to hold himself together. The way he had ushered Chris into his room so he wouldn’t be caught up in the carnage. The way he swayed into the counter on his way out. Had he been sick already and Eddie hadn’t noticed because he was too busy needing to be angry, needing to be right ?

Eddie slammed his fist against the steering wheel, teeth bared, a growl catching in his throat. The horn blared, sharp and useless, echoing down the empty street. “It’s my fault!” The words tore out of him crushed and raw. 

“It’s my fault,” he whispered, voice rough. “I didn’t—he didn’t—he shouldn’t have been alone.”

The streets stretched out ahead, anonymous and indifferent. Every stoplight, every turn, every stretch of empty road felt like punishment and penance. The city felt bigger in front of him like a mirage, hazy and distorted, headlights and taillights bending into ribbons of red and white that smeared across his vision. His pulse hammered so loudly in his ears he could hardly hear the engine anymore, just the blood rushing, the frantic drum that reminded him with every beat: too late, too late, too late.

The hospital loomed closer, but it didn’t quiet the endless mantra in his head.

The hospital’s glowing sign cut through the night like a beacon, like judgment. Eddie’s stomach twisted as he swung the truck into the lot, the tires biting gravel. He barely threw it into park before the door was open, his boots hitting pavement, keys clattering uselessly to the floorboard behind him. He didn’t care.

The air outside was cold, sharp, biting at his skin, but inside he was burning. His legs carried him forward without thought, without breath, just momentum. The automatic doors slid apart too slow, far too slow, their whirring hum taunting him as if the universe was conspiring to keep him away a second longer.

Too late. Too late. Too late.

The ER hit him all at once—fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets, antiseptic sharp in his throat, the low thrum of voices, phones, footsteps. Too much. Not enough.His eyes swept the waiting area, the triage desk, the endless rows of curtained bays. He didn’t see Buck. He didn’t see anything except a hundred faces that weren’t him.

A nurse at the desk glanced up, offered a polite smile, but Eddie was already moving, palms flat against the counter, his voice hoarse. “Evan Buckley. Where is he? Please.”

The words cracked on the edges, roughened by the drive, by the guilt that had been clawing through his chest the entire way here.

The nurse’s eyes narrowed, her professionalism kicking in. “Are you family?”

The question stopped him cold, breath hitching. His mouth went dry. He wasn’t. Not really. Not in the way the hospital meant. He thought of Maddie—that was family. Of Buck’s parents, absent and cruel, but still technically family. And then he thought of himself: the man who had shouted Buck down in a grocery store, who had turned his back when Buck needed someone to lean on. What right did he have to claim—

“Yes,” he said, the word tearing its way free before he could stop it. “He’s my partner.”

The nurse’s eyebrows lifted, assessing him. Eddie’s chest heaved like he’d just run full tilt into a wall, the truth of the word and the lie of it burning together. His partner. The only thing he could call Buck that would both open doors and fit what he meant.

The nurse studied him for a beat longer, then nodded, her tone softening. “All right. Give me one second to check.” She typed quickly, eyes scanning the screen. “He’s not here.” 

Eddie’s breath caught for one horrifying moment, believing he had been too late. 

“He is in post-op recovery. I’ll take you back, but you’ll need to keep calm. The staff won’t tolerate disruption.”

Eddie almost laughed—calm? His pulse was a freight train. But he forced a jerky nod, his throat tight.

The nurse stood, leading him down the corridor. Eddie’s eyes darted to every half-open curtain they passed, expecting, dreading. He thought again of that word—partner—and wondered if Buck would even let him sit at his side. If Buck would wake up and look at him with that same bruised expression from the grocery store. If Buck would believe him at all.

The hallway stretched on forever, white walls and sterile floors swallowing every sound except the click of the nurse’s shoes and the pounding in Eddie’s ears.

Finally, the nurse stopped at a closed door, pushing it gently open with her shoulder. Another nurse sat just inside, perched on a stool with a clipboard balanced on her knees. Her dark hair was tied back neatly, but loose strands framed a face softened by fatigue and quiet vigilance.

“Daya,” the first nurse said, “this is… Mr. Buckley’s partner. He’s here for him.”

The word hung in the air again, heavy, truer than Eddie could stand. He gripped the doorframe to steady himself.

Nurse Daya blinked, then looked from Eddie to the bed behind her. Something in her expression shifted—relief, maybe, or approval. She stood, setting the clipboard aside. “Good,” she murmured, her voice low but certain. “I’m glad. He’s been alone since he came out of surgery. I was starting to wonder if anyone would come.”

Eddie flinched like she’d struck him, shame surging hot in his veins. Alone. Since surgery. He had been out there stewing in his anger, picking fights, while Buck—Buck who gave everything—had been here, unconscious and unguarded.

Nurse Daya’s gaze lingered on him, reading more than he wanted her to. But she didn’t scold, didn’t question. She just nodded toward the bed. “He needs someone here. And you—” her tone softened into something almost kind, “you look like you need to be here too.”

Eddie’s throat closed around a reply. All he could do was nod, the motion jerky, his hand tightening on the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Daya stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the bed. “Sit with him. Talk to him, if you can. Even if he doesn’t wake up, it helps.”

Eddie’s eyes followed her gesture—and then landed on Buck.

The air punched out of him.

Eddie stepped in like he was entering holy ground.

The world narrowed to the bed. To Buck.

He looked smaller somehow, swallowed by the sheets, the sterile lines of the monitors framing him in harsh, mechanical precision. His skin was pale, lips tinged with the faintest gray-blue, and stark against the white bandages that disappeared beneath his gown. Tubes and IVs branched out like cruel extensions of him, hissing softly, reminding Eddie with every sound how close they had come to losing him.

Eddie’s knees nearly buckled. He stumbled forward, dragging the chair close enough to collapse into it. His hand hovered in the space between them—wanting to touch, terrified to. What if Buck pulled away, even in his sleep? What if he knew, even now, how Eddie had failed him?

But then Buck shifted, just barely, a faint twitch of his fingers on the blanket as if reaching out, and Eddie broke. He caught that hand—cool, heavy—and folded it between both of his, bowing his head over their joined skin.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice raw, barely audible. “I should’ve been here sooner, Buck. I should’ve—” His throat seized, words splintering. “I’m sorry.”

The monitors beeped steadily, indifferent to Eddie’s unraveling. Buck’s chest rose and fell under the thin blanket, shallow but steady. Alive. That was something. That was everything.

Minutes bled into each other, Eddie’s grip never loosening. His thumb traced over Buck’s knuckles, a quiet, desperate motion, as though he could will his apology into the skin, sink it deep enough to heal what he’d broken with his words, with his absence.

Somewhere in the quiet, Eddie’s gaze drifted to the small table by the bed. Buck’s phone sat there, screen dark. Eddie stared at it, drawn by the absurd familiarity of it amidst all the hospital machinery. Something normal. Something Buck.

Almost without thinking, he reached out and brushed the screen awake.

A single notification glowed back at him. An alarm.

Medication – 8:00 PM.

The words blurred as Eddie’s stomach dropped. He glanced at the wall clock. 8:42.

The meaning hit like a sledgehammer. Buck had set this. For himself. Because no one else was watching. No one else was keeping track. He had been managing alone after making an incredible sacrifice, after giving away a piece of himself because that’s what Buck did—quiet, selfless, impossible things—and they hadn’t even seen it. Hadn’t been there.

Buck had always been a constant, a quiet anchor in the chaos of their lives. He was the first to show up when someone needed him, never pausing to measure the weight of the task. When Hen needed a sitter, Buck didn’t hesitate; he carved out time without complaint. When Chim needed a lift, Buck took the long route, turning a simple drive into a chance for conversation. When Bobby wavered, teetering too close to the bottle, Buck was there to steady him, a gentle nudge toward help. Colleagues facing family emergencies found Buck covering shifts without hesitation, quietly shouldering the burden. When Chris came home from a rough day at school, Buck appeared with ice cream in hand and that unmistakable goofy grin, determined to coax even a small spark of joy. Ordinary afternoons became adventures in his presence; he had an uncanny ability to find laughter, to embrace the moment fully, and to make everyone around him feel lighter just by being there.

His thumb trembled as he canceled the alarm. “Not anymore,” he whispered under his breath, throat raw. “I’ll be here for next time.”

But his hand didn’t move away. Something gnawed at him, sharp and insistent, pulling him deeper. Before he could stop himself, Eddie swiped up, pulling open the list of alarms.

And the air in his lungs turned to glass.

They weren’t just reminders. They were confessions, carved into the silence of his phone, words Buck had lived with alone.

Alarm: Don’t be exhausting.
Alarm: They don’t want you.
Alarm: Don’t overstep.
Alarm: Don’t call them.

Eddie’s heart cracked so violently it felt physical, a jagged tear splitting down his chest. His breath came shallow, uneven, as his thumb hovered over the screen, terrified to scroll but unable to look away.

This was what Buck had been carrying. Alone and broken— still dragging himself through every pill, every step of his recovery, even before this surgery, while the echoes of their anger were loud enough in his head that he had carved them into alarms. Not reminders but orders.

Eddie’s grip on Buck’s phone faltered, and he set it back down with the reverence of something cursed. He would gladly have shattered it into more pieces, but he didn’t want to take one more thing from Buck. 

His hand immediately found Buck’s again, clutching tight, grounding himself in the faint heat of Buck’s skin.

“God, Buck,” Eddie rasped, voice wrecked. “What did we do to you?”

A bitter laugh cracked out of him, “You scare the hell out of me in so many ways, you know that? Not just with this.” He gestured helplessly toward the IV, the monitors, the lines threading into Buck’s body. “Not just the fact that you’re lying here after nearly killing yourself to save someone you didn’t even know. It’s everything. You—” Eddie swallowed hard, the words catching. “You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t breathe right. And instead of figuring that out, I just—I lash out. I push. I hurt you.”

His thumb rubbed small, nervous circles against Buck’s knuckles. Eddie’s words tumbled out faster than he could stop them, a torrent he couldn’t dam. He didn’t pause to organize, didn’t try to make sense or sound brave—he just poured himself onto the quiet, sterile air of the hospital room.

He dragged a shaking hand down his face, the words spilling, unfiltered. 

“I’m not good with words. You know that. Half the time I say nothing at all because I don’t know how. But with you—” Eddie’s throat worked, dry, raw. “With you, I’ve got too many. I say the wrong ones. The cruel ones. Things like exhausting, when the truth is you only wear me out because I care too much. Because you’re always throwing yourself into the fire, and I can’t stand watching you burn. But instead of saying that, instead of admitting it, I made you feel like—like a burden.”

He let out a shaky exhale, eyes burning. “I don’t even know if you can hear me right now. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m just… talking to myself like an idiot. But I swear to you, Buck—” His grip tightened, desperate. “If you give me another chance, if you let me in, I’ll do it right this time.”

His voice fell to a whisper, so soft it could have been mistaken for a prayer. “Please, Buck. Come back to me.”

Buck’s fingers twitched, brushing against Eddie’s. A shallow breath drew in, then out, uneven but deliberate. Eddie’s heart slammed in his chest.

“I—I never left,” came a low, rasping voice, almost swallowed by the machines, but clear enough to make Eddie’s chest seize. Eddie froze, every muscle tensing as if the world itself had stopped spinning. The faint, ragged movement of Buck’s fingers was enough to make his chest tighten with relief and guilt at once.

“I was fighting… fighting to get back… to my family… with the lawsuit. I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, as if every word had taken more from him than the accident, the surgery, the infection, everything combined. 

“I was just… trying to fix it,” Buck murmured, voice cracking, and for a moment, it was all Eddie could do not to collapse onto him, to hold him and never let go.

“You—you don’t have to explain anymore,” Eddie choked out, voice breaking. “I get it. I get all of it. I’m here now. I swear, I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his lips twitching as he tried for a small, tentative smile. He let out a trembling breath, finally sinking back into the pillow, just enough to let Eddie’s words wash over him. The storm of guilt, fear, and pain was still there, but now it was tethered, if only slightly, by the knowledge that someone—finally—was at his side.

“I—I never left,” came a low, rasping voice, almost swallowed by the machines, but clear enough to make Eddie’s chest seize. Eddie froze, every muscle tensing as if the world itself had stopped spinning. The faint, ragged movement of Buck’s fingers was enough to make his chest tighten with relief and guilt at once.

“I was fighting… fighting to get back… to my family… with the lawsuit. I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, as if every word had taken more from him than the accident, the surgery, the infection, everything combined. 

“I was just… trying to fix it,” Buck murmured, voice cracking, and for a moment, it was all Eddie could do not to collapse onto him, to hold him and never let go.

“You—you don’t have to explain anymore,” Eddie choked out, voice breaking. “I get it. I get all of it. I’m here now. I swear, I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie’s hand stayed pressed against Buck’s, holding him steady as if his own heartbeat could somehow anchor the other man. He wanted to say a thousand things at once, to apologize, to make it right, to erase every hour Buck had spent alone with fear and pain. But words felt flimsy, inadequate. All he could do was stay. Breathe. Be there.

Buck’s eyes, half-lidded and glimmering with exhaustion, found his. There was a flicker of something in them—relief, maybe, or the tiniest hint of trust—but it was fragile, like a candle flickering in the wind.

“I… I need some time,” Buck murmured, each word deliberate, weighted. “To… forgive you. It’s… always been too easy for people to hurt me, Eddie. And you…” He coughed, breath catching, voice trembling. “…you’ve been the hardest.”

Eddie swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it almost impossible to speak. He nodded once, slow, reverent, understanding. “I know. I’ll wait. As long as it takes. I’m not leaving.”

Buck’s hand twitched slightly in response, just enough to let Eddie know that he had been heard.

Buck’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his lips trying for a small, tentative smile. He let out a trembling breath, finally sinking back into the pillow, just enough to let Eddie’s words wash over him. The storm of guilt, fear, and pain was still there, but now it was tethered, if only slightly, by the knowledge that someone—finally—was at his side.