Chapter Text
It feels like a bad day from the moment Buck wakes up, tangled in sheets that don’t feel like his own. Abby’s apartment still smells faintly of her—a mix of lavender and coffee that makes him feel out of place and unmoored. He’s trying to move out, really, but between the end of his probation year, Maddie crashing on his couch, and an endless cycle of shifts, chaos has become the norm.
The day starts with burnt toast, progresses to a flat tire, and ends with a call that makes Bobby curse under his breath the entire drive.
An accident on the 405, one car obliterated on impact. It’s bad, but they’ve handled bad before. At least that’s what Buck tells himself as the siren screams and LA rushes past the windows of the rig.
Then they arrive.
The scene is chaos—squad cars and bystanders too close to the wreckage, fire engines parked at awkward angles, the air thick with acrid smoke and gasoline fumes. The car looks like it’s been folded in half, metal bent and crushed, but none of that prepares them for what comes next.
“He wouldn’t let anyone else touch him,” the captain of the 132 says grimly, pulling Bobby aside. “You should prepare yourselves.”
Buck feels his stomach twist as they approach the wreck, Hen stops dead in her tracks, her hand flying up to her mouth. Buck almost collides with her, muttering, “What—” before his words choke off.
Through the shattered windshield, he sees him. Chimney, slumped in the driver’s seat, his face pale and slick with blood. And the rebar—a jagged steel rod punching clean through his skull.
Buck doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he tastes bile in the back of his throat.
He’s going to be sick.
Bobby keeps his calm, collected demeanour as he kneels by Chimney’s side, grounding Buck and Hen in the chaos. His voice is steady as he speaks softly to Chim, offering reassurance, even as his eyes flicker with barely restrained worry. Buck and Hen hang back, stunned into silence.
“He’s alert and talking,” Bobby says quietly when he turns to them. “And he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.”
“He’s got a piece of rebar through his skull. How is that even possible?” Buck blurts, still fighting the bile rising in his throat.
“It’s possible,” Hen says, her voice calm but tinged with unmissable unease. “The brain doesn’t have pain receptors—it can’t feel pain.”
“What about the rest of his head?” Buck snaps. He doesn’t mean to sound so argumentative, but none of this makes sense. They saw Chim an hour ago. Now he’s here.
“He’s in shock,” Bobby says, turning his focus back to the wrecked car. His expression hardens, the look he always gets when he’s trying to formulate a plan.
“I just got off the phone with Cedars-Sinai,” The captain of the 132 interrupts, walking back over to them. “They’re sending a trauma surgeon to assist with the extraction.”
“Who?” Bobby asks.
“The new trauma fellow,” the 132 captain says with a shrug, as though it’s barely worth mentioning.
A fellow. Great. Buck swallows hard, his stomach twisting even further. A rookie surgeon? They can’t even send someone with experience?
It feels like hours before the surgeon arrives. Buck, Hen, and Bobby stay with Chim in the meantime, their presence the only comfort they can offer. It’s surreal, sitting there while Chim cracks jokes and Buck forces a laugh, but it feels hollow. Chim’s humor has always been a lifeline—one that’s gotten them through fires, disasters, and the worst kinds of calls.
And Buck knows he’ll never admit this to anyone, but Chim’s always been the brother he never had. A part of the family Buck built when he joined the 118.
Sure, Chim has a knack for getting under his skin like only Maddie can, teasing him mercilessly about his terrible taste in movies. But Chim’s also the one who sat through Buck’s first Thanksgiving alone in LA, who introduced him to Star Wars and didn’t make fun of him for mixing up Luke and Han.
And now, faced with the very real possibility of losing him, Buck doesn’t know how to deal with it. He doesn’t know how to be in a world where Chim isn’t.
His spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a firm pat on the shoulder. Buck startles, turning to find a stranger standing there. For a moment, he just stares.
The guy is wearing dark blue scrubs, his hair annoyingly perfect except for one loose strand that refuses to stay in place, and his eyes—warm, rich brown—seem impossibly calm.
“Hi,” the man says, offering a quick, professional smile. “I’m the trauma surgeon. And you’re in my way.”
~
“Hi,” Eddie says, offering a quick smile. “I’m the trauma surgeon. And you’re in my way.”
The words come out sharper than he intended, with an edge that sounds more cocky than confident. He almost winces, half-expecting to hear his abuela’s disapproving tsk in his head.
The blonde firefighter doesn’t bother hiding his reaction. He steps aside, glaring at Eddie with a look that could cut steel.
Eddie doesn’t flinch. He’s here to save a life, not win a popularity contest. Still, as he ducks into the car, he files the interaction away.
The wreck is worse up close. Twisted metal digs into every angle of the crumpled car, glass shards glittering like jagged ice across the dashboard. But it’s the rebar through the man’s skull that draws Eddie’s focus.
It’s brutal. Impossible, even. Yet somehow, the man is still breathing, still conscious.
Eddie crouches, taking a careful breath before speaking. “Hey,” he says, his tone softening as he assesses his patient. “Eddie Diaz. Trauma fellow.” He slips on gloves and presses his fingers to the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
“Chimney,” The man says, his voice steady despite everything. Alert, responsive. A small but solid victory.
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh. “Feels like there’s a story behind that name.” He keeps his voice light, conversational, even as he scans Chimney’s face for signs of swelling or asymmetry. “What year is it?”
“2019,” Chimney answers easily. Then he grins—actually grins—and adds, “Please don’t ask me about the president.”
Eddie chuckles, a small release of tension. Humor, even in the face of this? Another good sign. “Noted,” he says, his focus shifting as he continues his evaluation.
Apart from the obvious—rebar literally pinning him to the seat—there’s nothing immediately catastrophic. No external injuries to suggest major bleeding, no signs of paralysis, and his vitals seem stable. But they can’t rule out spinal or neck trauma without imaging, and the rebar complicates everything. One wrong move could cause a massive brain bleed.
They’re going to have to move him with the seat.
Eddie straightens, turning to the cluster of firefighters outside. “We need to transport him with the seat intact,” he explains, gesturing toward the rebar. “You’ll need to cut here…and here.” He points, ensuring they understand exactly where the cuts need to happen.
He locks eyes with the blonde firefighter, deliberately this time. “Can you do that?”
“It’s my job,” the guy—Buckley, according to his jacket—grumbles before spinning on his heel and heading toward the truck.
Eddie watches him go, frowning. He really needs to work on his tone, because he’s clearly rubbing this guy the wrong way. Not that it’s surprising—charm isn’t exactly Eddie’s strong suit these days.
And honestly? He’s got bigger things to worry about.
His ex-wife is dead.
He’s barely a year out of the army and still waking up from nightmares drenched in sweat.
And his son needs another surgery.
So, yeah. Maybe he’s not the friendliest guy in the room right now. Sue him, he thinks grimly as he turns back to the car.
Focus. One step at a time. Save the man’s life first. Then deal with everything else.
~
It’s a grueling task. Hours of painstaking work pass as they cut Chim free from the wreckage. Every movement feels like a gamble, a test of nerves, and Buck’s are stretched razor-thin. He’s hyper-aware of the weight of Chim’s life in the balance, and it doesn’t help that Diaz is right there, barking instructions like he’s running the show.
The guy barely lifts a finger, just stands there in his perfectly pressed scrubs, arms crossed, calling out orders like he knows their jobs better than they do. It sets Buck’s teeth on edge.
Sure, Eddie Diaz is a surgeon. Fine. But this is their domain—firefighters saving lives in impossible situations—and Buck can’t shake the feeling that Diaz doesn’t trust them to handle it. The arrogance practically radiates off him, rubbing Buck raw with every calm, clipped instruction.
Buck knows he’s being unfair. He does. Diaz hasn’t done anything wrong, not really. But this is Chim. His brother, his family. And Diaz? He’s just some stranger standing there telling Buck how to do his job like it’s another day at the office.
So, no, he’s not about to applaud the guy for doing what he’s supposed to do.
When they finally get Chim free, it feels like the first breath Buck’s taken all night. Chim is sedated now, the rebar still lodged in his skull, but at least he’s out of that mangled seat and lying on a gurney, his vitals steady for now.
They wheel him toward the ER doors, and Buck is right there, ready to follow. He’s not leaving Chim—not until he knows he’s going to make it.
But Diaz steps in front of him, turning with that same cool detachment. “We’ve got it from here,” he says, voice firm but somehow infuriatingly casual.
“What?” Buck stares at him, dumbfounded.
“You’re not needed anymore, Firefighter Buckley,” Diaz says, his tone maddeningly matter-of-fact. “This is our area of expertise.”
“Excuse me?” Buck snaps, harsher than he intends. He takes a step forward, fists clenched at his sides, but before he can say anything else, Bobby’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back.
Buck glares at Diaz, who doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the surgeon looks…bored. Like Buck’s reaction is just another problem to solve.
“You’ve done your part,” Diaz says evenly, meeting Buck’s eyes with an unreadable expression. “Now let us do ours.”
Buck’s jaw tightens, and he can feel the heat rising up his neck. “Chim’s not just some patient—”
“To me, he is,” Diaz interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind. “And that’s what he needs right now. Someone who can think clearly, without getting emotional.”
It’s a direct hit, and Buck feels the words like a slap. He opens his mouth to argue, but Bobby squeezes his shoulder, a silent warning to stand down.
Buck swallows hard, his jaw tightening as Diaz turns away, following the gurney into the ER without a second glance.
The doors swing shut behind him, and Buck is left standing there, chest tight with frustration and helplessness. Bobby’s hand stays on his shoulder, grounding him, but it doesn’t do much to ease the burning anger curling in his stomach.
Who does Diaz think he is?
~
Eddie doesn’t scrub in. He’s not a neurosurgeon, and the OR is already packed with specialists. Adding another pair of hands would only get in the way. Instead, he sits in the gallery, his elbows on his knees, watching the surgery through the glass.
The adrenaline that carried him through the rescue has all but drained away, leaving a hollow exhaustion in its place. His shoulders ache from tension, and his mind races with everything that could still go wrong.
“Is this the guy with the rebar?”
The voice startles him, and Eddie looks up to see Bosko, the chief resident, sliding into the seat beside him. She’s holding a crumpled bag of chips, which she offers without looking at him. He shakes his head, unable to imagine eating right now.
Bosko is one of the few people here he hasn’t managed to alienate in his first few weeks. She’s direct, efficient, and carries herself with a confidence that borders on arrogance—not unlike Eddie himself. He suspects that’s why they get along, though “get along” might be overstating it. They tolerate each other.
She crunches on a chip as her eyes flick to the surgery below. “I don’t know how he even survived that,” she says, leaning forward. “I mean, look at that—his brain’s practically a kebab. I doubt he’ll survive the surgery. Did you find out if he’s an organ donor?”
Eddie stiffens, his head snapping toward her. “Bosko, not the time,” he says sharply, his frown deepening.
“What? It’s a valid question,” she says, entirely unbothered by his tone. “If he doesn’t make it, someone else might get a shot. That’s how it works.”
“He’s still alive,” Eddie snaps, his voice low but edged with steel. “And while he’s alive, we don’t talk about him like he’s already gone.”
Bosko raises an eyebrow but doesn’t back down. “I’m just being practical, Diaz. You of all people should get that.”
Eddie opens his mouth to argue but stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose. Bosko doesn’t mean to sound callous—it’s just who she is. A surgeon through and through. Detached, pragmatic, efficient. The kind of person who can ask about organ donation while watching a man’s skull get cracked open.
Eddie should understand. He’s spent years training himself to compartmentalize, to separate the personal from the professional. It’s how he survived combat, how he survived the army. But here? Now? He can’t do it.
“Yeah? Try telling that to the firefighters who are camped out in the waiting room,” Eddie mutters, his tone sharper than intended.
Bosko glances at him, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face. “You know them?”
“No,” he admits, sinking back into his chair. “But I was there. I saw them work to save him. I saw how much he means to them. So maybe hold off on the ‘he’s not gonna make it’ talk for a while.”
Bosko tilts her head, studying him in a way that makes Eddie want to squirm. Then, to his surprise, she nods. “Fair enough,” she says simply, popping another chip into her mouth.
Eddie sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he adds after a beat, his voice softer now. “It was a rough situation.”
“Sounds like it,” Bosko says, her tone more neutral now. “You handled it, though. That’s what matters.”
Eddie doesn’t respond. He doesn’t feel like he handled anything. All he did was stand there, give orders, and hope he wasn’t making things worse.
Below, the surgeons move with precision, their instruments glinting under the harsh lights. Eddie leans forward again, his eyes fixed on the operating table. For a moment, he lets himself hope. Please let him make it.
But the longer Eddie watches, the harder it is to push Bosko’s words out of his mind.
By some miracle, the guy makes it. Eddie isn’t a religious person—hasn’t been since middle school, when life taught him how unfair it could be—but in moments like this, it’s hard not to wonder if something bigger is at play. Survival like this feels almost impossible, yet here they are.
He stays in the background, arms crossed, as Dr. Hale, the chief of neurosurgery, steps into the waiting room to break the news. From where Eddie stands, he can see the tension drain from the firefighters’ shoulders as relief crashes over them in waves.
One of them—the woman—actually tears up, pulling her colleagues into tight hugs. The rest follow, exchanging pats on the back and triumphant smiles, like soldiers after a successful mission.
The sight stirs something in Eddie, an ache he hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s a longing he can’t quite name, but it reminds him of the camaraderie he once had in the army. That unspoken bond forged in high-stakes moments, the kind that made you family whether you liked it or not.
When the captain steps forward, his expression one of sincere gratitude, Eddie straightens instinctively. The man extends a hand. “Thank you,” he says simply, his voice thick with relief.
Eddie hesitates for a moment before shaking his hand. “Just doing my job,” he says with a small shrug, his words automatic, practiced.
From somewhere behind the group, Eddie hears a scoff. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it’s coming from.
“I’m glad he’s okay,” Eddie adds, louder this time, as if to counter the unspoken accusation in that sound.
The captain nods, offering a faint smile before stepping back. The rest of the team filters forward, each offering some version of thanks. Eddie responds politely—“Of course,” “I’m glad we could help,” “Take care of him”—but he notices how one firefighter keeps his distance.
Buckley.
He’s standing off to the side, his arms crossed and his jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on Eddie, unreadable but sharp, as if he’s still deciding whether Eddie is worth acknowledging.
Not that Eddie cares. He doesn’t do this for thanks. And if Buckley wants to glare daggers at him, so be it.
As the firefighters start to leave, Eddie catches one last glimpse of Buckley, who doesn’t spare him another glance. It doesn’t bother him—not really. The odds of seeing Buckley again are slim.
And yet, as the door swings shut behind the group, Eddie finds himself replaying the moment in his head. The scoff. The look. The tension thick enough to cut through.
He shakes it off, telling himself it doesn’t matter. But as he turns back toward the OR, he can’t quite ignore the lingering edge of frustration curling in his gut—or the strange, fleeting thought that maybe their paths will cross again.
~
Buck doesn’t think about Diaz much after that day. The weeks blur together in the usual chaos of the job. Chim’s recovery is nothing short of miraculous—he’s already back home, though he’s driving Bobby up the wall with daily calls asking when he can return to work.
Maddie, meanwhile, has landed a nursing job at Cedars-Sinai, which means she’s consumed with finding an apartment closer to the hospital. Buck’s been helping her when he can, but between shifts, Chim’s updates, and being a man down at the station, free time isn’t exactly abundant.
So no, the arrogant surgeon from the rebar rescue hasn’t crossed his mind.
“Seriously, how does a guy even manage to lodge a bomb in his leg?” Buck asks as he trails behind Hen and Bobby into the house. The call they’re responding to is bizarre even by their standards.
“Buck,” Hen says, throwing a grin over her shoulder, “you’ll find this job a lot easier if you stop asking ‘why.’”
“I’m just saying!” Buck gestures emphatically, dodging a precariously stacked pile of newspapers by the door. “What was he doing? Taking a jog through a minefield?”
“Focus,” Bobby interjects, his tone patient but firm. “Save the commentary for later.”
Buck bites back a reply, falling in step behind them as they navigate the cluttered house. The air is heavy with dust, and there’s a faint chemical tang that makes his nose wrinkle. Hen gives him a pointed look, and he quickly schools his expression into something more professional.
They find the guy in the back room, sprawled on a faded couch with one leg propped awkwardly on the coffee table. His face is pale, shining with sweat, and even at a glance, Buck can see the telltale swelling and discoloration beneath the torn fabric of his jeans.
Hen kneels beside him, snapping on gloves. “Sir, I’m Hen. This is Bobby and Buck. What’s your name?”
“Charlie,” The man grits out.
“Okay, Charlie,” Hen says gently. “Tell us what happened.”
Buck winces as Hen carefully peels back the shredded denim to reveal a jagged piece of metal embedded deep in the man’s thigh.
“Damn grenade went off while I was taking it apart,” Charlie groans.
Hen freezes for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Why were you taking apart a grenade?”
“I was cleaning it. I’m a collector.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like having a grenade in his leg is perfectly normal.
“No kidding. You pulled the pin?” Buck asks, unable to help himself.
“Oh, it ain’t that kind of grenade,” Charlie explains. “It’s a 40-mike-mike. A practice round for an M203 grenade launcher. I picked it up at a flea market in Brea, part of my ’Nam collection…” He winces, gritting his teeth. “My screwdriver must’ve touched the propelling charge.”
Hen takes a deep breath. “Okay, I see metal. A lot of shrapnel. Looks like your femoral artery has been nicked. We need to transport you now.”
Buck helps load Charlie into the ambulance, sliding into the back with Hen—a setup that’s become more frequent with Chim out of commission. He watches Hen work with confident precision, something he’s always admired about her. But suddenly, she freezes, her gaze snapping to the wound.
“Wait a second,” Hen says, her voice tight. “I thought you said this was a practice round?”
“It is,” Charlie says, his voice uneasy now.
Hen’s eyes narrow. “Then why is the cap gold? Practice rounds have blue caps. Gold caps are live.” She looks up sharply. “Pull over!”
The ambulance screeches to a halt on the side of the road. Buck scrambles out with Hen, adrenaline spiking as they regroup with Bobby.
“Okay,” Hen says, forcing calm into her voice. “We need the bomb squad. This is beyond us.”
Bobby nods, already speaking into his radio.
“And we’ll need a surgeon on standby,” Hen adds, glancing at Buck.
Buck lets out a scoff before he can stop himself. “Why? You think they’re gonna operate in the middle of the street?”
Hen shoots him a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Did you forget my wife’s the chief of surgery?”
Before Buck can respond, sirens wail as the bomb squad arrives. The scene descends into chaos, the team working quickly to secure the area. Buck takes a deep breath, adrenaline sharpening his focus as he mentally prepares for whatever comes next.
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, a familiar voice calls out: “Where’s the patient?”
Buck freezes.
He turns, and there’s Diaz—Dr. Arrogant Himself—striding toward them in dark blue scrubs, exuding confidence like he owns the place.
“Why are you here?” Buck blurts out before he can stop himself.
Diaz doesn’t even glance at him. “Where’s the patient?” he repeats, addressing Bobby instead.
~
“Where’s the patient?” Eddie repeats, his voice steady and professional as he directs his question to the captain, deliberately ignoring Buckley.
He’s not in the mood for childish games. He’s here to do his job, not engage in a pissing contest with the firefighter who clearly has a chip on his shoulder.
As the captain begins explaining the situation to him and the bomb squad, Eddie stands a little straighter, focusing on the details. His gaze flickers to the ambulance, where the patient lies, pale and sweating, the tension of the scene thick enough to taste.
“So basically, the guy has a ticking time bomb in his leg,” The bomb squad officer says, his tone unnervingly casual for the gravity of the situation.
Eddie notices Buckley bristling slightly as he steps forward. “Uh, I thought this thing already went off?” Buckley asks, his tone skeptical.
“The launch grenade has two components,” Eddie interjects, keeping his voice calm and level. “Gunpowder, which makes it travel, and an explosive charge that makes it go boom.”
Buckley doesn’t even glance at him, which irks Eddie more than he’d like to admit.
“Okay, so why didn’t this one go boom?” Buckley scoffs, his skepticism cutting through the tense air.
Eddie suppresses a sigh, keeping his tone neutral as he continues. “It’s fitted with a proximity fuse. A smart sensor that tells the cap it’s traveled a safe enough distance from the shooter to detonate. From his hand to his leg? Probably wasn’t far enough.”
Eddie finishes his explanation and glances at Buckley, but the firefighter still doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, Buckley shifts his focus back to the bomb squad, his frustration simmering just below the surface.
“So, we can’t bring him into a hospital full of people, not with that still stuck inside him,” Eddie says, directing his statement to the bomb squad.
“We called the military for help,” one of the bomb techs explains, shrugging as if that’s all they can do.
“The military? Uh, can’t you do it? You’re the bomb squad,” Buckley snaps, his tone sharp with disbelief.
Eddie feels his jaw tighten but forces himself to stay composed.
“You can’t defuse a grenade,” the bomb tech says with a calm that borders on indifference. “We need someone who knows how to remove it without setting it off. The military’s sending someone up from Pendleton.”
“They should be here within the hour,” adds another officer.
“He doesn’t have an hour,” Buckley and Hen say in unison, their voices overlapping with urgency.
Eddie studies Buckley for a moment, seeing the raw frustration etched into his features. For all his bluster, the guy clearly cares, maybe a little too much.
“I can do it,” Eddie says firmly, his eyes locking with Buckley’s for the first time. “If he doesn’t go to surgery soon, he’ll die.”
The captain turns to Eddie, his brow raised. “You’ve done this before?”
Eddie nods once. “I was an Army surgeon in Afghanistan. None of the guys I served with were dumb enough to shoot a live round into themselves,” he says dryly, “but I’m familiar with the ordnance.”
The captain exchanges a glance with the bomb squad, a silent conversation passing between them before they both nod.
Eddie grabs his medical bag, his movements efficient and practiced.
“I’ll need an extra pair of hands,” he says, scanning the group.
“I’m in,” Buckley says immediately, stepping forward without hesitation.
Eddie raises an eyebrow, momentarily surprised. He expected resistance, maybe another snarky comment. Instead, he’s met with resolve, the same kind of determination he’s seen in soldiers preparing for battle.
~
“All right, listen, Buck,” Bobby says, his voice calm but heavy with concern as he helps secure the straps of Buck’s bomb vest. “You don’t have to do this.”
Buck forces a grin, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And let the surgeon have all the fun?”
Bobby studies him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and Buck shifts under the weight of that gaze. It’s like Bobby can see straight through him, past the bravado to the knot of tension coiled in his chest.
“Okay,” Bobby nods finally, his hand landing on Buck’s shoulder, firm and grounding. It’s a small gesture, but it steadies something in Buck. “But you listen to Diaz. I know you’ve got a problem…”
“I don’t have a problem,” Buck interrupts, frowning defensively. The words come out sharper than he intends, and he immediately regrets it. “The guy is just… arrogant.” His jaw tightens as he looks away. “I can handle that, Bobby.”
But even as he says it, Buck isn’t sure if he believes it. Diaz’s arrogance isn’t the real issue—it’s the way the guy seems to see straight through him, like Buck’s just another piece of equipment to manage. It grates on him, makes him feel small, like he’s back to being the kid no one took seriously.
“Still, you listen to what he says,” Bobby continues, his tone gentle but firm. “Be safe.”
Buck nods, but his stomach churns as he watches Bobby step back. The truth is, he doesn’t want to admit how nervous he is. Not about the bomb—that’s a calculated risk he can handle—but about working alongside Diaz again.
The guy gets under his skin, and Buck can’t figure out why. He tells himself it’s just Diaz’s arrogance, the way he talks like he knows everything and treats everyone else like they’re in his way. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s the way Diaz seems so calm, so composed, even when the stakes are sky-high. Buck can’t help but feel like he’s being silently judged, like Diaz is waiting for him to screw up.
And the worst part? Buck’s afraid he will.
He takes a deep breath, adjusting the straps of the vest one last time as if that’ll steady the jittery energy thrumming through him. Bobby trusts him to handle this. Hen trusts him. Even Diaz, in his own infuriating way, seems to think Buck can do it.
He squares his shoulders, forcing himself to focus. It’s not about Diaz, or the nerves clawing at the edge of his mind. It’s about Charlie, the guy with a literal grenade in his leg, counting on them to save his life.
“Okay,” Buck mutters to himself as he heads toward the ambulance. “You’ve got this. Just don’t let him get to you.”
But as he steps inside, catching Diaz’s calm, calculating gaze, Buck isn’t sure which is more dangerous: the bomb strapped to Charlie’s leg—or the tension simmering between him and Diaz
~
“How you feeling there, Charlie?” Eddie asks, his hands moving methodically as he sets up the equipment he needs.
Beside him, Buckley is quiet, but Eddie doesn’t miss the way his jaw is clenched, his shoulders squared. The focus in his eyes is unmistakable, and Eddie feels a flicker of respect for it. Buck might be a pain in his ass, but the guy clearly cares.
“Like a world-class idiot,” Charlie groans as Eddie administers a light sedative. “My wife, if she was still alive, she’d be here now saying, ‘I told you so.’”
“Well, maybe she’ll be able to tell me in person in about a minute,” Charlie grumbles, his voice tinged with regret.
“Well, that conversation's gonna have to wait,” Eddie says, offering a small smile as he meets Charlie’s gaze. “Nobody's leaving this life tonight.”
It’s a cheesy line, one he imagines might be on something like Grey’s Anatomy, but it seems to do the trick. Charlie’s breathing steadies, and some of the tension in his body eases. Eddie glances at Buckley, noticing the firefighter’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile of his own.
“Start the drip,” Eddie says, pulling his attention back to the task at hand. Buck nods and moves quickly, his hands steady despite the obvious strain in his posture.
“You ready?” Eddie asks, testing the waters.
“Yeah.” Buck’s voice is quiet but firm. “He’s losing a lot of blood.”
“Keep pressure on it,” Eddie instructs softly as he adjusts the retractors. He watches Buck’s movements carefully, noting the precision with which he follows instructions.
“Not-not too much pressure… there you go.” Eddie offers a small smile, an unspoken you’re doing good in his expression.
Buck glances up, meeting his eyes briefly, and Eddie sees something there—something vulnerable, almost raw. It catches him off guard for a moment.
“There it is,” Eddie says, his focus shifting back to the grenade as he grabs it with the forceps.
“All right, so-so pull it out,” Buck says, his voice trying for calm but faltering just slightly. Eddie doesn’t call attention to it.
“I got to... be careful,” Eddie explains, his tone measured as he braces himself. “The sensor measures the distance traveled based on how many rotations the shell made after the launch. The key is not to turn the shell while we pull it out.”
“Okay, yeah, so don’t turn it,” Buck says, his voice carrying an edge of nervous energy. Eddie catches the flicker of anxiety in the way Buck’s hand shifts slightly on Charlie’s leg, but it’s quickly replaced by a steadying calm. “You got this,” Buck adds, his words quiet but sincere.
Eddie’s surprised by how much those words settle him.
“Gonna have to just... a bit…” Eddie grits out, his focus narrowing as he maneuvers the grenade carefully. It takes a few tense moments, but finally, he feels it shift. Slowly, steadily, he pulls it free.
“Get the box,” Eddie directs, his voice steady now, and Buck moves instantly, bringing the containment box closer. Eddie places the grenade inside, the heavy click of the lid sealing echoing louder than it should.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The room seems to exhale with them as the tension bleeds away.
Buck lets out a relieved breath, and then he smiles—a full, unguarded grin that lights up his entire face. It’s a startling shift from the tightly wound focus Eddie’s seen until now. It’s genuine, open, and Eddie finds himself momentarily struck by it.
And then it clicks into place.
This isn’t arrogance, Eddie realizes. Not really. What he’d read as cockiness, the constant need to push back, isn’t about ego. It’s about proving himself. Buck isn’t trying to show off—he’s trying to make sure people see him as capable. Competent. Worthy of trust.
Eddie knows that feeling. Hell, it’s one he’s lived with his whole life—trying to prove himself as a soldier, as a father, as a doctor. The weight of needing to be seen as good enough, not just for others, but for himself.
Buck’s defenses aren’t so different from his own, Eddie thinks. And that understanding settles something in him, softens the sharp edges of his irritation.
“Good work,” Eddie says quietly, his gaze meeting Buck’s again. This time, there’s no frustration in it, just something close to respect
~
They wheel Charlie out of the blast zone, and Buck can feel the adrenaline thrumming in his veins, sharp and electric. It’s the kind of rush he’s found himself chasing since the moment he became a firefighter—the high of saving someone, of knowing that, for one brief moment, he made a difference.
The feeling doesn’t fade as they hand Charlie off to the waiting paramedics. If anything, it intensifies, bubbling up as he catches Diaz grinning wide beside him. There’s something infectious about the expression, something that makes Buck’s own grin stretch even wider despite the exhaustion settling into his muscles.
“Let’s get the robot in there,” one of the bomb squad guys yells, snapping Buck back to the present.
Someone takes the gurney from him and Diaz, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Buck lets himself breathe.
Diaz turns to him then, still smiling, and there’s a warmth in his expression that catches Buck off guard.
“You're a badass under pressure, brother,” Diaz says, his tone sincere.
“Uh—me?” Buck stammers, completely unprepared for the praise. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he curses the way his voice wavers.
“Hell yeah,” Diaz continues, unwavering. “You can have my back any day, Buckley.”
The words hit harder than they should. They sink past the bravado, past the adrenaline, and settle somewhere deep in Buck’s chest. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to process the easy confidence Diaz has in him.
“Yeah. Or, you know, you could... you could have mine. It’s, uh, Buck,” he finally manages, stumbling over the words in his attempt to play it cool.
Diaz's laugh is warm and bright, the kind of sound that seems to melt the tension from the air. “Deal,” he says, his hand extending toward Buck. “And it’s Eddie.”
They shake hands, and the gesture lingers just a second longer than necessary. Buck can’t help but notice the strength in Diaz’s —no, Eddie— grip, the way it steadies him in a way he hadn’t expected.
There’s something about Eddie that feels... grounding. Safe. Like the chaos of the last few hours is finally settling into something manageable. And that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Because the last thing Buck needs is to feel this drawn to someone he’s barely just met.
Before Buck can unpack the thought, Bobby steps forward, his voice cutting through the moment.
“Nice work, fellas. I’m glad you both made it out of there,” Bobby says, his eyes flicking between them, his expression full of quiet pride.
“The guy’s a professional, Cap,” Buck says, his grin slipping back into place. “I was never really worried.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when the ambulance explodes behind them. The force of the blast makes the ground shudder, and the noise is deafening.
They all freeze, turning to watch as flames and smoke billow into the sky.
The moment stretches into silence, broken only by the crackle of fire and the faint sound of someone cursing under their breath.
“Cancel the robot,” the bomb squad guy sighs into his radio, his tone resigned.
Buck exhales slowly, his heart still racing from the shock of the explosion. When he looks back, his eyes meet Eddie’s again. For a moment, neither of them says anything.
“I gotta go scrub in,” Eddie finally says, his tone light but his grin unmistakable.
Buck laughs, a sound that feels as much like relief as anything else. “Good luck with that.”
Eddie chuckles, clapping him on the shoulder before walking away.
Buck watches him go, something unspoken lingering in the space between them. It’s not just the adrenaline anymore, he realizes. It’s something else entirely.