Chapter Text
The locker room was too quiet.
Buck could hear the metallic echo of his own door as he swung it shut, the soft squeak of hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years, and the faint sound of Eddie’s laughter drifting in from the loft above. Once, that sound would’ve had Buck bounding up the stairs, inserting himself into whatever story Eddie was telling—half the time he wasn’t even invited, but that had never stopped him.
Now, it just reminded him of the silence that fell whenever he entered the room.
Two weeks. That was how long it had been since he had been back on to work. Since the paperwork cleared, since the department reinstated him after the lawsuit debacle. Two weeks of clocking in, clocking out, responding to calls, and trying to ignore the way every interaction with the 118 felt like a business meeting.
They weren’t cruel—not exactly. Nobody snapped at him or shut him down outright. But there was no warmth. No teasing. No “Buck, grab me a sandwich” or “Hey, you’re cooking with me today.” The only conversations were clipped, professional: “You take the hose.” “Cover the rear.” “Check vitals.”
And then silence.
The worst part was that Buck couldn’t blame them. He’d sued the city. Sued the department. Sued Bobby. Even though the suit hadn’t been personal—not really—it might as well have been. Buck had tried to convince himself, at the time, that it was about justice, about fairness, about protecting future firefighters from what had happened to him. But somewhere along the way, it had turned into a wedge driven straight into the middle of his family.
And they’d let the wedge stick.
Buck tied his boots a little too tight, then loosened them with a frustrated tug. He sat there for a moment, staring at the floor tiles, willing himself not to feel the ache in his chest. He could handle this. He was good at bouncing back, wasn’t he? That’s what Buck did. He bounced.
Except now, when he bounced, no one was there to catch him.
The first call of the day came in twenty minutes later. A two-car collision off the 101. Buck slid into his seat on the rig, across from Hen and Chim. Eddie sat beside him, scrolling through something on his phone.
Buck tried. He always tried.
“Anyone else think traffic’s been extra brutal this week?” he asked, aiming for casual.
Hen glanced up, then back down at the tablet in her lap. “That’s L.A. for you,” she said flatly.
Chim didn’t even look up.
Eddie gave him a brief nod, polite but distant.
And then silence.
Buck leaned back against the bench, forcing himself to shut his mouth. He’d learned quickly that every attempt at conversation landed like a pebble in a void—bouncing once, twice, then gone.
On scene, the work was seamless. It always was. Years of training and instinct had hardwired them to operate like a machine. Eddie took one car, Buck the other. Bobby barked orders, Hen stabilized vitals, Chim cracked a joke—only it wasn’t for Buck anymore.
Buck pulled a teenager out of the driver’s seat, murmuring reassurance as he fitted a C-collar around her neck. She clutched his hand, terrified, and he stayed with her until the second ambulance arrived. That part, at least, never changed. Out here, with strangers’ lives in his hands, Buck still felt like himself.
But when the girl was loaded into the ambulance and the adrenaline ebbed, he looked up to find his team already regrouping. No one called for him. No one looked back. He jogged over, falling into step a half-beat late, the outsider in his own family. Was it his family anymore?
Back at the station, Buck grabbed a protein bar from his bag and made for the loft. He hesitated halfway up the stairs when he heard voices—Hen, Chim, Eddie—all laughing about something.
“…and then Denny told him, ‘That’s not a monster, that’s just Chim!’”
Roaring laughter.
Buck’s chest squeezed. He remembered that story. He’d been there when Denny said it. Only now, they told it like he hadn’t existed.
He hovered too long on the stairs, because the laughter abruptly stopped. Hen glanced over. Eddie’s eyes flickered to him and away again. Chim cleared his throat.
Buck forced a grin. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Hen said smoothly, turning back to her coffee.
And just like that, the warmth vanished.
Later, in the apparatus bay, Buck found himself staring at the team. His team. He used to know every story, every reason why everyone laughed, every single inside joke that was made. Now, he just felt like an unwanted guest.
He leaned against the rig, arms folded, and wondered—not for the first time—if coming back had been a mistake. Maybe the 118 had moved on. Maybe there wasn’t room for him anymore. Maybe he should transfer, put everyone out of their misery.
The thought sliced deeper than he wanted to admit.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut it out. But in the quiet, the thoughts still crept in, unbidden, stubborn.
What if this is it?
What if they never forgive me?
Buck swallowed hard, pushing away from the rig. He couldn’t let himself spiral. Not here. Not now. He just had to hold it together, one shift at a time.
Maybe he should go with the alternative? Walking away? Leaving them behind for good?
But the problem? He wasn’t sure he had it in him.
So Buck did what he always did: he plastered on a smile, squared his shoulders, and walked back inside.
And no one noticed the way his heart sank a little further with every step.