Chapter Text
The rain had been hammering against the metal roof of the firehouse all day, a relentless, grey drone that usually made the loft feel cozy in the evenings. Usually, the smell of Bobby’s dinner simmering on the stove and the low hum of post-shift chatter were enough to ward off the gloom outside.
Today, however, the gloom was coming from inside the house.
Bobby stood at the kitchen island, a dishtowel in hand, watching the two men who currently occupied the living area. Or rather, the two storm fronts that had stalled over the 118.
It was nearly 6:00 PM, and the tension hadn't broken once since roll call.
Eddie was at the sink, scrubbing a cast-iron skillet. He wasn’t just cleaning it; he was attacking it. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the muscles in his forearms cording with unnecessary tension as he scoured steel against iron. Every movement was sharp, jagged. He had found yet another chore that required him to turn his back on the room, just as he had been doing for the last ten hours.
Buck was no better. He was sprawled on the leather sofa, but there was none of his usual boneless relaxation. His posture was rigid, a leg bouncing with restless, irritated energy. He held a book in his hands—some biography Chimney had left lying around—but Bobby had been watching him for twenty minutes, and Buck hadn’t turned a single page. His jaw was set so hard Bobby worried he might crack a molar. He was staring at the text with a glare that suggested the words had personally offended him.
It was unnatural.
Ever since the lawsuit—and the chaotic months that followed—the dynamic between Buck and Eddie had shifted into something impenetrable. Bobby remembered vividly how it had started. When Buck had first returned to the 118, Bobby had been the one to create the friction. He had been so angry back then, hurt by the betrayal, and he had let that anger dictate his leadership. He’d tried to sideline Buck, burying him in menial chores, keeping him behind while the team rolled out. He had expected the team to follow his lead, or at least stay out of it.
Instead, he had found a fortress. Eddie had stood by Buck’s side like a guard dog, his loyalty absolute and terrifyingly fierce. Bobby still flinched at the memory of Eddie’s voice ringing out across the loft one afternoon, loud and scathing: "Did everyone else quit, Cap? Or did we hire a janitor instead of a firefighter?" It had been a public chastisement, humiliating and entirely deserved, and it had marked the moment Bobby realized he wasn't just fighting Buck; he was fighting them both.
Bobby still felt a pang of sharp guilt when he thought about those days. He had been wrong—about Buck’s readiness, about the rules—and while Buck, with his heart of gold, had accepted Bobby's apologies readily enough, Eddie had been different. For a long time, Eddie had looked at Bobby with eyes like ice. They were polite now, professional, and the tension had mostly faded into a respectful distance, but Bobby knew Eddie hadn't forgotten. Eddie had chosen Buck’s side back then, and he hadn’t wavered since.
They were a binary star system now. You couldn’t find one without the other. They moved around the kitchen in a synchronized dance, sharing space, sharing jokes, communicating in a shorthand of raised eyebrows and half-smirks that no one else could decipher. They were loud, chaotic, and inseparable.
But today? They had spent the entire shift pretending the other didn't exist. The silence between them was so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the room. It wasn't just a lack of noise; it was a wall.
Hen walked up the stairs, shaking rain off her umbrella from a quick trip to the supply closet. She paused at the top of the landing, her eyes darting from Eddie’s stiff back to Buck’s scowling face. She raised an eyebrow at Bobby, mouthing, Still?
Bobby just shook his head slightly, drying a mug. Don't ask.
But Hen, being Hen, couldn’t leave a puzzle unsolved. She walked over to the kitchen, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee, purposefully stepping into Eddie’s periphery.
"Hey, Sunshine," she said, leaning a hip against the counter. "You trying to scrub the seasoning off that pan, or did it owe you money?"
Eddie didn’t look up. He rinsed the skillet with a burst of water that splashed over the rim. "It was dirty," he clipped out. His voice was rough, tight with exhaustion and anger. "Now it's not."
"Right," Hen drawled, blowing on her coffee. She turned her gaze to the couch. "And you, Buckaroo? You look like you’re plotting a murder. Everything okay?"
Buck didn’t look up from the unread book. "Peachy," he snapped. The word dripped with sarcasm. He shifted, turning his shoulder aggressively away from the kitchen—and away from Eddie.
Eddie slammed the skillet onto the drying rack with a clang that made Chimney, who was dozing in the armchair before the night properly set in, jump in his sleep.
"I’m going to check the resupply on the truck again," Eddie announced to the room at large, though his eyes were fixed on the floor. He stormed past the couch without glancing at Buck, practically vibrating with frustration.
Buck finally looked up, his blue eyes icy and hard, tracking Eddie’s exit with a look that was equal parts fury and wounded pride. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Unbelievable," before tossing the book onto the coffee table and stalking off toward the bunk room.
The silence they left behind was deafening.
"Yikes," Chimney whispered, fully awake now. "Did I miss a civil war?"
"Mom and Dad are fighting," Hen sighed, shaking her head. "And they've been at it all day, Cap. It looks bad this time. Like, real bad."
Bobby stared at the empty space where his two best men had just been. He felt a prickle of unease at the base of his neck. He had seen them bicker before, but usually, it was Buck pushing and Eddie grounding him. This felt different. This felt intimate. It felt like the kind of anger that only comes when you care about someone so much that they are the only person on earth who can truly destroy you.
"They’ll work it out," Bobby said, though he didn't feel as confident as he sounded. He set the mug down. "They always do."
But the memory of Eddie’s cold stare from the lawsuit days flickered in his mind. Eddie was slow to anger, but he was implacable when he got there. And Buck... Buck wore his heart on his sleeve, and right now, it looked like someone had stomped on it.
It made them liabilities.
Thunder rumbled low in the distance, shaking the windowpanes as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, taking the last of the light with it.
"Let's just hope the bell doesn't ring until they cool off," Bobby murmured.
Almost as if the universe was listening—and laughing—the klaxon blared to life overhead, shattering the tension with urgency.
Structural Collapse. Person Trapped.
Bobby sighed, grabbing his radio. "Let's go."
***
The drive to the scene was a gauntlet of rain and silence.
Usually, the back of the engine was a hive of strategizing. Buck would be reviewing the map, Eddie would be checking stats, Hen and Chimney would be speculating on the call. Tonight, the only sound was the rhythmic thud-hiss of the wipers fighting a losing battle against the storm and the roar of the siren cutting through the night.
Bobby glanced in the rearview mirror. Buck and Eddie sat opposite each other, knees almost touching in the cramped space, but they might as well have been on different planets. Eddie was staring out the window at the blurred streaks of streetlights, his jaw tight. Buck was staring at his boots, picking at a loose thread on his turnout pants with a manic intensity.
They arrived at a rural property on the outskirts of the city—a muddy, sodden field that smelled of wet earth and panic.
"LAFD!" Bobby shouted as he jumped down, his boots sinking immediately into the slurry.
A woman came running towards them, soaked to the bone, her face pale in the strobe of the emergency lights. "He’s in there! Oh god, please, he’s in the well!"
Bobby caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. "Ma’am, I need you to breathe. Who is in the well?"
"My son! Hayden!" she sobbed, pointing toward an old, rusted pipe jutting out of the ground near an old farmhouse. "He was playing... the ground just gave way... I heard him scream and then..."
Bobby signaled the team. "Let’s move! Hen, get a medical baseline from the mother. Buck, Eddie, Chimney—assess the access point!"
The team moved with practiced efficiency, but the friction was still there, grinding in the gears. They gathered around the pipe. It was old agricultural casing, barely eighteen inches across, surrounded by unstable, liquefied mud.
"It’s too narrow for a ladder," Chimney shouted over the wind, shining his flashlight down the black hole. "We can’t get a basket down there."
"We need a line man," Bobby said, grimly assessing the width. It was tight. dangerously tight.
"I’ll go," Eddie said instantly.
He didn't look at the team. He didn't look at the pipe. And he certainly didn't look at Buck. He just stepped forward, already reaching for his harness. "I fit. I’ve done confined space training. It’s me."
"Eddie, hold on," Buck started, his voice cracking with a mixture of professional concern and personal frustration. He took a step toward him. "The ground is saturated. If you go down there and the walls shift—"
"Then we better move fast," Eddie cut him off, his voice sharp and cold. He finally looked at Buck, but there was no warmth in it, no 'I trust you'. It was a challenge. "Unless you have a better idea, Buckley?"
Buck’s jaw tightened at the use of his last name. He didn't flinch this time; he bristled, his own anger flaring up to meet Eddie’s. "Yeah, I have an idea," Buck snapped back, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't be reckless just to prove a point."
"I'm doing my job," Eddie retorted, already turning away to grab the gear. "Maybe you should do yours."
Buck stared at the back of Eddie’s head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. For a second, Bobby thought Buck might actually shove him. Instead, Buck let out a harsh, angry breath through his nose.
"Fine," Buck spat out. "Get in the hole."
"Alright. Buck, you’re on the winch. Chim, you’re secondary. Eddie, gear up. We do this by the book. In and out," Bobby ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The preparation was agonizing to watch, stripped of all its usual care. Mandatory safety protocols required a buddy check, but tonight, it looked more like a pat-down before a fight.
Buck checked Eddie’s harness with aggressive, sharp movements. He yanked the chest webbing tight—hard enough to make Eddie stumble a step forward. Eddie grunted, shooting a glare over his shoulder, but didn't say anything. Buck didn't apologize. He checked the carabiners with a loud snap, testing the locks with unnecessary force.
There was no double-tap of helmets. No shared look of reassurance. Buck slapped the back of Eddie’s harness to signal he was done, the gesture rough and dismissive.
"You're clear," Buck said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"Radio check," Eddie said into his comms, staring straight ahead into the rain.
Buck grabbed the control unit for the winch. He stared at the back of Eddie’s helmet, his eyes hard, masking the fear underneath with layers of unresolved anger. "Loud and clear," he clipped into the mic.
Eddie didn't respond. He just sat on the edge of the pipe, swung his legs into the void, and vanished.
Bobby stood near the edge of the muddy crater, watching the monitor screen Chimney had set up. The camera feed from Eddie’s helmet was grainy, a claustrophobic tunnel of rust and mud, but Bobby could hear everything.
"I’ve got eyes on him," Eddie’s voice came through the speaker, distorted by static but calm. "Hey, Hayden. My name is Eddie. I’m going to get you out of here."
It was jarring to hear the shift in his tone. The sharp, angry edge he’d used with Buck just minutes ago was gone, replaced by the gentle, steady reassurance of a father.
"Buck, give me two more feet," Eddie requested.
Buck stood at the winch controls, his body rigid. He didn't acknowledge the request verbally. He just manipulated the lever, feeding the line with precise, jerky movements. He was doing his job perfectly, but his eyes were fixed on the winch drum, refusing to look at the monitor where Eddie’s face was occasionally visible.
"Contact," Eddie reported. "I’m securing the harness now. It’s tight down here, Cap. The mud is pressing against the casing."
"Copy that, Eddie," Bobby said, pressing his headset to his ear. "Let's make this quick. The storm is picking up."
Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the field in a stark, white glare. The thunder that followed was immediate and bone-rattling.
"Harness is secure," Eddie said. "Hayden, buddy, you’re going for a ride, okay? My friend Buck up there is going to pull you up. He’s the strongest guy I know."
Buck flinched. Bobby saw it—a small, almost imperceptible tighten of his shoulders. Even in the middle of their cold war, Eddie couldn't help but praise him to a victim. It was a reflex, a ghost of the partnership that was currently on life support.
"Buck, bring him up," Bobby ordered.
"Hauling," Buck said, his voice flat.
The winch whined. Slowly, the small, mud-caked figure of the boy emerged from the pipe. As soon as Hayden was within reach, Chimney and Hen grabbed him, pulling him onto the solid ground of the backboard. The mother’s sob of relief was audible even over the wind.
"Kid is clear," Bobby radioed down. "Good work, Eddie. You’re next. Buck, send the line back down."
Buck reversed the winch immediately. The empty hook disappeared back into the darkness.
"Line is coming down," Buck said into the comms. It was the first time he’d spoken directly to Eddie since the descent. "Clip in and get out of there."
"Copy," Eddie replied. "Waiting on the hook."
And then, the world turned white.
A massive bolt of lightning struck the ground less than fifty yards away. The impact was visceral, a physical blow that knocked the wind out of them. But it wasn't just the sound. The ground beneath their boots lurched.
The saturated earth, already unstable, liquefied instantly under the shockwave.
"Cap!" Chimney shouted, pointing at the pipe.
Bobby watched in horror as the metal casing of the well shifted. It didn't just bend; it crumpled. The mud around it collapsed inward like a sinkhole opening its maw.
"Eddie!" Buck shouted, abandoning the winch controls and lunging toward the hole.
"Buck, wait!" Bobby yelled, but it was too late.
The winch cable, which had been feeding down slack, suddenly snapped taut with a sickening twang that vibrated through the air. And then, just as quickly, it went completely slack.
"Eddie!" Buck screamed again, dropping to his knees at the edge of the crater. He grabbed the cable with both hands, pulling frantically. It came up effortlessly, coiling in the mud at his feet.
The end of the cable was frayed. Snapped.
The radio was silent.
"Eddie?" Buck whispered, his voice trembling. He scrambled forward, his hands clawing at the mud that was now filling the space where the pipe had been. "Eddie, answer me!"
Static. And then, nothing.
The pipe was gone. The hole was gone. There was only mud, churned and heavy, sealing the earth shut.
"No," Buck gasped, the anger from the morning completely vaporized, replaced by a pure, unadulterated terror. He dug his fingers into the slop, tearing at the earth as if he could fight the planet itself. "No, no, no! EDDIE!"
The scream that tore out of his throat wasn't human. It was the sound of a heart being ripped out of a chest without anesthesia. It echoed across the rain-soaked field, louder than the thunder, a raw, animal noise of absolute agony.
Bobby froze, the horror of the situation crashing down on him. The silence between them had been broken in the worst possible way.
For a second, the team was paralyzed by the scale of the disaster. The earth had simply swallowed one of their own.
But Buck wasn't paralyzed. He was moving with a manic, terrifying energy. He was already waist-deep in the slurry, his large hands scooping up armfuls of mud and flinging them aside. It was futile—completely, devastatingly futile. The mud flowed back into the hole as fast as he could clear it, a liquid grave that refused to yield.
"I'm coming, Eds! I'm coming!" Buck was chanting, his voice cracking. He wasn't wearing gloves. His fingernails were already tearing against unseen rocks in the muck. "Hang on! Just hang on!"
"Buck!" Bobby shouted, snapping out of his shock. "Buck, get back!"
"I can't leave him!" Buck screamed back, not stopping. He looked wild, his eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the spot where the pipe used to be. "He's right there! He's right there!"
"The ground is unstable!" Chimney yelled, rushing forward but stopping short of the edge as the mud shifted under his boots. "Buck, if you keep digging, you're going to bring the rest of it down on top of him!"
That stopped him.
Buck froze, his hands buried deep in the cold mud. He looked up at Chimney, his face streaked with rain and dirt, an expression of absolute devastation crumbling his features. "I... I can't..."
"Get him out of there," Bobby ordered, his voice shifting into the cold, hard command of an Incident Commander. He couldn't be a friend right now. He had to be a Captain.
Hen and Chimney moved in. They grabbed Buck by the harness, pulling him backward. Buck didn't fight them at first; he just let himself be dragged out of the pit, his legs leaving deep furrows in the sludge. But as soon as his feet hit solid ground, the reality seemed to hit him again.
"No, no, let me go!" Buck thrashed, twisting in their grip. He was a big man, fueled by adrenaline and panic, and it took both of them to hold him back. "He’s drowning! Can’t you see? He’s drowning down there!"
"We know, Buck! We know!" Hen shouted, her own voice thick with tears. She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "But you can't dig him out with your hands! We need the truck! We need the heavy rescue!"
Bobby turned his back on the heartbreaking scene, forcing himself to focus on the radio. "Dispatch, this is Captain Nash, 118. We have a firefighter down. Repeat, firefighter down. Structural collapse. I need Urban Search and Rescue, heavy machinery, and a vacuum truck at my location now."
"Copy, 118," the dispatcher’s voice came back, calm but urgent. "Units are en route. ETA ten minutes."
"Ten minutes is too long," Bobby hissed to himself. He switched channels. "Eddie? Eddie, do you copy? Report."
Silence. Just the hiss of static and the pounding rain.
Bobby looked at the monitor screen. It was black. "Chimney, check the feed! Can we get a visual?"
Chimney let go of Buck—who had stopped fighting and was now just staring at the mud, his chest heaving—and scrambled to the equipment. "Camera is offline, Cap. The cable snap must have severed the connection. I'm trying to boost the radio signal."
"Eddie!" Bobby shouted into his mic, desperation leaking into his tone. "Eddie, if you can hear me, give us a sign. Tap the line. Anything."
Nothing.
Buck let out a low, keen sound, sinking to his knees in the mud. He looked small suddenly, stripped of all his strength. "He... he didn't have his tank," Buck whispered.
The words hit Bobby like a physical blow.
They had been doing a quick extraction. Eddie had gone down with a harness and a helmet, but no SCBA tank because the pipe was too narrow. He had ambient air.
But if the pipe had collapsed...
"He's buried," Buck choked out, his hands trembling as he reached for his own radio, clutching it like a lifeline. "He's buried and he can't breathe."
"Buck," Bobby started, walking over to him, but Buck wasn't listening.
Buck brought the radio to his lips, his voice breaking. "Eddie? Eds? Please. I know you're mad. I know I was a jerk. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just... just answer me. Tell me you're okay and I'll... I'll never ask for anything again. Please, Eddie."
The silence from the radio was louder than the storm. It stretched on, seconds turning into agonizing minutes, while the rain continued to pour into the grave they were standing on.
The heavy rescue units arrived in a blaze of lights and diesel engines, turning the muddy field into a construction site of tragedy. The vacuum truck deployed its massive hose, sucking up the sludge that had swallowed Eddie, but it was slow. Excruciatingly slow.
Buck hadn't moved from the edge of the collapse zone. He was pacing like a caged animal, vibrating with a manic energy that was terrifying to watch. Every time the hose clogged, every time the operators paused to adjust the angle, Buck would lurch forward, ready to dive back in, only to be held back by Hen or Chimney. He wasn't speaking anymore. He was just breathing—short, sharp gasps that sounded like he was suffocating in sympathy.
Bobby stood with the Battalion Chief, staring at the growing pit. He felt hollowed out. He knew the math. He knew the survival window for a burial without air supply. That window had closed ten minutes ago.
"We've got something!" one of the operators shouted, signaling the crane. "Helmet visible!"
Buck let out a sound that was half-sob, half-shout, and surged forward. This time, no one could stop him. He slid down the embankment, ignoring the safety warnings, scrambling toward the spot where a patch of yellow helmet was breaking the surface of the mud.
"Eddie!" Buck screamed, falling to his knees and digging frantically. "I've got you! I'm here!"
Bobby slid down after him, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Please, he prayed, a silent, desperate plea to a God he wasn't sure was listening. Please let him be okay.
They pulled him free.
It took three of them to lift him out of the suction of the mud. Eddie was heavy, dead weight in their arms. His turnout gear was slick with clay, his face...
Bobby felt his knees almost buckle.
Eddie’s face was caked in mud, eyes closed, lips blue. There was no rise and fall of his chest. He looked small, broken, and terrifyingly still.
"No!" Buck roared, grabbing Eddie by the straps of his harness and dragging him onto the backboard they had laid out in the muck. "No, no, no! Don't you dare!"
"Buck, let us—" Hen started, reaching for her bag.
"I've got it!" Buck shoved her hand away, his movements wild and uncoordinated. He ripped Eddie’s jacket open, buttons popping off and flying into the mud. He interlaced his fingers and slammed them onto Eddie’s chest, starting compressions with a violence that made Bobby wince. "Come on! Breathe! BREATHE!"
"One, two, three, four..." Buck counted, his voice cracking on every number. He was sobbing openly now, tears cutting tracks through the mud on his face. "You don't get to do this! You hear me? You don't get to leave me like this!"
"Buck," Bobby said gently, kneeling beside him. He reached for Eddie’s neck, searching for a pulse.
His fingers pressed against cold, wet skin. He waited. He pressed harder.
Nothing.
"Buck, stop," Bobby whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Buck, he's gone."
"NO!" Buck screamed, shoving Bobby away with his shoulder, never stopping the rhythm. Pump. Pump. Pump. "He's not gone! He's just... he's just holding his breath! Come on, Eddie! Wake up! Wake up, you stubborn bastard!"
"Buck!" Hen tried to grab his shoulders. "He's been down too long! His airway is occluded!"
"I don't care!" Buck wailed, bending down to breathe into Eddie’s mouth, disregarding the mud, disregarding everything. He pulled back, resumed compressions, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. "I love you! I love you so much! I'm so sorry, Eds. I'm so, so sorry. Don't leave me. Please. Please, Eddie."
The confession hung in the air, raw and undeniable. It wasn't the plea of a partner; it was the plea of a soulmate watching his other half die.
Bobby watched, helpless, as Buck unraveled. The strong, capable firefighter was gone. In his place was a broken man, begging the universe to rewrite the last hour.
"Please, Eddie," Buck mumbled, his rhythm faltering as exhaustion set in. He collapsed forward, his forehead resting against Eddie’s still chest, his hands still clutching Eddie’s jacket. "Please... I can't... I can't do this without you."
His voice dropped to incoherent mumblings, a stream of broken apologies and prayers that made no sense. He was rocking slightly, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing.
"He's gone, Buck," Chimney said, his voice breaking as he put a hand on Buck’s back. "He's gone."
But Buck didn't hear him. He just kept whispering to the dead man in his arms, while the rain washed the mud from Eddie’s pale, lifeless face.
Hen knelt in the mud, her hands trembling as she reached for her radio. She looked at Bobby, her eyes brimming with tears, asking for permission she didn't need but couldn't bring herself to take.
Bobby nodded, a single, sharp dip of his chin that felt like it cracked something in his neck.
"Dispatch," Hen’s voice was hollow, stripped of its usual warmth. "This is Paramedic Wilson, 118. We have a... we have a code black at the scene."
She paused, swallowing hard, her gaze fixed on Buck’s shaking shoulders.
"Time of death," she checked her watch, blinking away rain. "21:42 hours."
The radio crackled with a sterile acknowledgement, marking the end of Edmundo Diaz’s life in a logbook somewhere in a dry, warm call center.
Buck didn't scream this time. He didn't fight. The fight had drained out of him the moment the official words were spoken. He simply stopped moving. His hands, which had been clutching Eddie’s jacket so tightly his knuckles were white, went slack. He slumped sideways, not away from the body, but into it, as if gravity had suddenly doubled.
"Come on, Buck," Chimney whispered, his voice thick. He reached out, gently prying Buck’s fingers away from Eddie’s turnout gear. "We have to... we have to let them take him."
Buck didn't respond. He didn't even blink. He let Chimney pull him up, his limbs loose and uncoordinated, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He stood there, swaying in the mud, staring at a fixed point on Eddie’s chest, his eyes wide and terrifyingly empty.
The coroner’s team moved in. They were respectful, efficient, but to Bobby, their movements looked like a violation. They zipped the bag. They covered the face of a father who would never make it home to his son.
Buck made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat when the zipper closed, but he didn't move. He was gone. The Buck they knew—the loud, heart-on-his-sleeve, unstoppable force of nature—had vanished into the bag with Eddie.
***
The ride back to the station was a funeral procession without the dignity of ceremony.
Bobby drove. He kept his hands at ten and two, staring at the road through the blur of the wipers, focusing on the mechanics of driving because if he thought about the empty seat in the back, he would crash.
The silence in the engine was suffocating. Usually, after a bad call, there would be debriefing. Reassurance. Quiet support.
Tonight, there was nothing. Just the hum of the engine and the sound of rain.
Bobby glanced in the rearview mirror.
Hen and Chimney were sitting close together, heads bowed, silent tears streaming down their faces. But Buck...
Buck was sitting in his jump seat, still covered in mud. It was drying on his skin, cracking like a second, broken skin. He was staring straight ahead, but his eyes weren't focusing on anything in the truck. He looked hollowed out. A shell.
They pulled into the station. The bay doors opened with a groan. The lights were harsh and bright, reflecting off the wet concrete.
The engine stopped.
"We're home," Bobby said, his voice raspy.
No one moved for a long moment. Then, slowly, mechanically, Buck unbuckled his seatbelt. The click was loud in the quiet bay. He opened the door and stepped down, his movements stiff, like an old man.
He didn't look at Bobby. He didn't look at Hen or Chimney. He didn't even look at the lockers where Eddie’s civilian clothes were waiting. He just started walking toward the showers, trailing dried mud and silence in his wake.
Bobby watched him go, a heavy stone settling in his gut. He should go after him. He should say something—anything. But what was there to say?
His mind drifted to Christopher. The boy was undoubtedly asleep, resting up for the morning when he’d expect his dad to walk through the door, tired but smiling, ready to hear about school. He didn't know yet that the door would never open. He didn't know that his dad wasn't coming home.
And Buck... Buck loved that kid like his own.
Bobby gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He had seen grief before. He had lived it. But looking at the empty space Buck had left behind, Bobby felt a flicker of genuine fear. He wasn't sure if the man walking toward the showers was just grieving, or if he was already gone.
He debated following him, intervening, pulling him into a hug. But looking at the rigidity of Buck's back, the way he held himself together by sheer, brittle will, Bobby hesitated. If he touched him now, Buck might shatter completely.
And Bobby wasn't sure he—or anyone else—could put him back together this time.