Work Text:
The firehouse had never felt colder.
After the lawsuit, Buck became a shadow in his own station. The camaraderie that once wrapped around him like a second skin had vanished. No one spoke to him unless they had to. No one laughed with him anymore. He was always the last one in line, always the one left behind to clean up the mess. The man behind.
Bobby didn’t look at him the same way. His voice, once steady and warm, now cracked like a whip.
“Lazy,” he’d bark. “Slacking off again, Buck?” Even when Buck had just finished scrubbing the floors until his knuckles bled. Even when he’d stayed late to restock the med kits, reorganize the gear, polish the trucks. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.
The bills piled up at home—hospital fees from the accident, lawyer costs from the lawsuit, rent notices with red ink screaming “FINAL WARNING.” Buck couldn’t afford to lose this job. He couldn’t afford anything.
Hen, Chim and Eddie barely looked at him and neither of them talked to him. Eddie‘s absence in Buck‘s life was the worst of all but Buck had learned to stop begging. He was too much anyway and didn‘t need a reminder of it.
B-shift knew it. Bobby had put Buck with B-shift more regularly lately. He never explained why but the reason was obvious.
Rivas, Dorsey, and Kellan made it their mission to break him. They waited until A-shift was out on calls, then cornered him in the supply closet, the locker room, the garage. They shoved him, called him names, spilled coffee on the floors he’d just cleaned.
“Pretty boy,” they sneered. “You think you’re still one of us?”
Buck didn’t fight back. He couldn’t. His leg—still healing, still weak—sent sharp jolts of pain through him when he moved too fast or stood too long. He was always hungry, always tired. He skipped meals to pay bills, skipped sleep to finish chores. His clothes hung loose on his frame, his cheeks hollowed out. He was withering, and no one seemed to notice.
Then came the worst of it.
One night, after a long shift with no calls and too much time, Rivas and the others cornered him in the engine bay. The lights were low. The station quiet. They pressed him against the wall, made crude jokes about how “soft” he looked, how “pretty” he’d be if he just stopped pretending to be a firefighter. One of them ground against him, laughing when Buck flinched, when his breath hitched in his throat.
Still, Buck didn’t break.
He went home to an empty fridge, a stack of unpaid bills, and a silence so loud it made his ears ring. He sat on the floor, legs aching, chest tight, and stared at the ceiling. He thought about ending it. About how easy it would be to just stop. To let go.
But Christmas was coming.
And Buck still loved them.
He loved Hen, who used to bring him soup when he was sick. Chim, who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to. Bobby, who had once been a father to him. Eddie, who had held him through nightmares. And Chris—sweet, bright Chris—who used to point at the firetruck in the shop window and say, “Someday, I’ll drive one just like you, Buck.”
So Buck scraped together every last dollar. He skipped meals, sold his old guitar, returned his winter coat for store credit. He bought gifts—small ones, thoughtful ones. A book for Hen. A mug for Chim. A framed photo for Bobby. And for Chris, the firetruck. The one he’d always wanted.
Christmas morning, Buck was assigned to B-shift. A-shift had the day off. It had been a tradition of the 118 that they spent Christmas at Bobby’s place but - of course - Buck hadn’t been invited and letting Buck work was way easier than pretending that they weren‘t celebrating together.
The station was quiet. No calls. Just hours of harassment. They knocked over his cleaning supplies, locked him out of the kitchen, laughed when he tried to sit down and rest his leg. By the end of the shift, Buck’s body was covered in bruises, handprints, even hickeys where they’d grabbed him too hard, too close.
He drove to Bobby’s house with the last of his gas. The dashboard blinked red. His clothes didn’t fit anymore. His jacket was thin. His fingers shook as he clutched the bag of gifts.
He didn’t expect anyone to answer.
He didn’t expect Eddie.
The door opened, and there he was—Eddie, in a soft sweater, eyes wide with surprise. Behind him, Buck could hear laughter, smell warm food, see the glow of Christmas lights.
Eddie’s gaze landed on Buck and froze.
Buck looked like a ghost. Pale. Hollow. His eyes sunken, his lips cracked. His hands trembled as he held out the bag. “I just… I wanted to drop these off,” he whispered. “For Chris. For everyone.”
Eddie reached out, but Buck had already turned to leave.
“Buck,” Eddie said, voice low, urgent.
Buck stopped, shoulders hunched, breath shallow.
“Buck,” Eddie repeated, stepping forward.
And Buck collapsed.
His knees buckled. The bag fell. Eddie caught him before he hit the ground, arms wrapping around him as Buck sobbed into his chest. The pain, the exhaustion, the shame—it all poured out in broken gasps and silent tears.
Eddie held him. Held him like he used to. Like Buck was something precious. Something worth saving.
Inside, Athena came to the door. Bobby followed. Hen and Chim peeked out from the living room. Chris ran forward, eyes lighting up when he saw Buck.
But Eddie didn’t let go.
He just held Buck tighter, too shocked to move.
*
Eddie’s POV
The doorbell rang just as Athena was setting down the last tray of tamales. Laughter echoed from the living room—Hen and Karen teasing Chim about his wrapping skills, Bobby carving the roast, Chris bouncing in place with excitement over his new books.
Eddie opened the door expecting a neighbor, maybe a delivery.
He wasn’t expecting Buck.
The cold hit first. Then the silence.
Buck stood on the porch like he didn’t belong anywhere. His jacket was thin, barely clinging to his frame. His jeans hung loose on his hips. His cheeks were hollow, lips cracked, eyes sunken and rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe longer.
In his shaking hands was a bag—wrinkled, reused, the kind you fold and refold when you can’t afford a new one. Inside, Eddie saw the edge of wrapping paper. Gifts.
“Buck,” Eddie breathed.
Buck didn’t meet his eyes. “I just wanted to drop these off,” he said, voice barely audible. “For Chris. For everyone.”
Eddie reached out instinctively, but Buck flinched. Not dramatically—just a subtle shift, like he was bracing for impact.
Then he turned to leave.
“Buck,” Eddie said, stepping forward.
Buck stopped, shoulders hunched, breath shallow.
Eddie moved closer, and Buck’s knees buckled.
He caught him before he hit the ground.
Buck collapsed into Eddie’s arms like a man who had been holding himself together with string and tape and sheer willpower. His body was cold, bruised, trembling. Eddie could feel the ridges of bone through his shirt, the heat of fever under his skin, the rawness of broken pride.
He held Buck tighter.
Behind him, Athena gasped. Bobby stepped forward. Chris ran to the door, eyes wide.
But Buck didn’t look at any of them.
He clung to Eddie.
His fingers curled into Eddie’s sweater, desperate, silent. Eddie tried to guide him inside, but Buck resisted, shaking his head, pressing his face into Eddie’s shoulder.
“I can’t,” Buck whispered. “Please. Not in there.”
Eddie understood.
The firehouse. Bobby. The silence. The shame.
He cupped Buck’s face gently, thumb brushing a bruise near his temple. “Okay,” he said. “Not here.”
Buck’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and red.
“Come home with me,” Eddie said, voice low, steady.
Buck didn’t speak. He just nodded.
Eddie turned to Chris. “Buddy, grab Buck’s bag, okay?”
Chris nodded solemnly, picking up the gifts with careful hands.
Eddie helped Buck to the car, one arm around his waist, the other shielding him from the cold. Buck leaned into him, every step a struggle, every breath a quiet plea.
They drove in silence.
Chris sat in the back, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes.
Buck sat beside Eddie, eyes closed, head resting against the window. His fingers still trembled. His leg twitched with pain. His lips moved silently, like he was reciting something to himself—maybe a list of bills, maybe a prayer.
When they reached Eddie’s house, Buck didn’t move.
Eddie opened the door, stepped out, then turned back. “Buck,” he said gently. “We’re home.”
Buck opened his eyes and looked as if he was about to cry. He hadn’t been to this place in weeks. Months even.
He stepped out of the car, leaned into Eddie’s side, and walked inside.
Chris held the door open.
The lights were warm. The air smelled like cinnamon and pine. There was soup on the stove. A blanket on the couch.
Buck didn’t speak.
He just sank into the cushions, curled up like a man who had finally stopped running.
Eddie knelt beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
“You’re safe,” he whispered.
Buck closed his eyes and believed it.