Chapter Text
***
“No one ever told
me that grief felt
so like fear.”
-C.S. Lewis
***
Buck
The lab’s security door slid down without a sound and split Buck’s world in two.
On Buck’s side there was clean air. Open doors — doors that led to freedom and safety.
On Bobby’s side, there was darkness. The virus still hung in the air, turning it toxic… so that breathing without a mask was still lethal. Flashes of light stuttered from the ceiling at irregular intervals, making Buck think of scenes from Stranger Things or films like Aliens, giving the whole scene an unreal, cinematic edge.
Two sides — and Buck was standing on the wrong one.
When Bobby peeled off his respirator and let it drop to the floor, Buck’s hands flew up, pounding the glass. Fear and desperation shaped his words, shredding his voice until it was raw and brittle. “No. Cap. No. No. Cap. Cap… Cap!”
Buck’s mind locked down the way the lab door had.
Refusing to understand the obvious. Refusing to accept the unimaginable.
Then Bobby started to talk, his voice too calm, too controlled for what was happening… or maybe exactly the calm Buck needed to hear so his brain could grasp what it didn’t want to accept. “You’re gonna be okay, Buck… Remember that… They’re gonna need you… I love you, kid.” There was that short pause between each sentence — speaking was already exhausting him.
Blood trickled from Bobby’s nose, a blunt, terrible sign that the virus was already ravaging his body. His face was pale… almost gray, his eyes hollow and glassy with fever. Even a layperson in that moment would have seen that death had already laid its cold hands on Bobby’s shoulders… then came his last command. A command that asked everything of Buck to obey. A command that shattered everything inside Buck and made his world collapse.
“Don’t send anyone else down here. I need you to leave. I want some time alone with my wife.”
🔗
Buck woke drenched in sweat. His face was wet with tears and his throat raw from the scream that had his inner pain an outlet. Bobby’s voice still hung in his head like an echo, and it took Buck a few seconds to register the time.
12:55 AM.
Buck rubbed his face with tired hands and sighed, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared blankly into the distance.
Ninety minutes of sleep… at least.
Nights had become his enemy. He hated dusk — the way it threw long shadows and announced another night. He hated when exhaustion outmatched the caffeine in his veins. He hated when sleep yanked him into dreams he didn’t want, because in every single one he stood on the wrong side of the safety glass.
His head throbbed. He rubbed the tension from his neck. Buck dragged himself into the kitchen, made coffee, and took a long swallow. The hot drink sat bitter on his tongue and helped speed his sluggish thoughts.
He hated nights.
1:23 AM.
It was still far too early… but at least the weight of sleep no longer pressed on his skull the way it had, threatening to crush him. Instead, Bobby’s voice gnawed at him louder, leaving a raspy emptiness.
Buck thought.
L.A.’s streets were quiet at that hour. He slipped into his workout gear, tied his running shoes, and left Eddie’s house — which, since Eddie had moved to El Paso, was no longer Eddie’s house but just a house Buck happened to live in. A house without meaning, without Eddie.
His muscles were cold and tight, but he started anyway — too fast, too hard… too much of everything.
L.A. flickered in the neon of nightclubs. Drunks stumbled home here and there, and sirens echoed in the distance. A street sweeper rolled down Los Feliz Boulevard and a garbage truck backed into a side street.
Buck picked up the pace and turned onto the Griffith Observatory trail. The climb toward the Hollywood signs made his legs heavy; little clouds of breath left his mouth and floated like mist. Downtown’s skyline rose bright beside him in the dark, streets lit like pulsing arteries through the city.
He ignored the beauty of the night and braced himself for the steep push up Mount Hollywood Drive. His body screamed with exhaustion and his lungs were struggling to get enough oxygen into his bloodstream. His muscles rebelled and reality blurred at the edges… wiped everything away — and Buck was back in front of that closed security door.
Flashes of light.
Smoke.
Bobby.
The wrong side.
Again and again the wrong side.
Buck sped up, running against the emptiness in his chest. Against the ache in his soul. Against being alone and against Bobby’s voice, lodged in his head like a nail, telling him he loved him — and then sending him away… so he wouldn’t have to watch the life drain from Bobby.
Memory overlaid reality, throwing the tremor from his muscles to the side, pushing the burn in his lungs into the background. The street he was crossing vanished from his perception.
He saw Bobby’s gray face.
His tired, fever-dulled eyes.
He felt the oxygen tanks on his back.
Felt the rough edge of turnout gear rubbing on his skin…
Then a shove ripped his body off balance and hurled him hard to the side. A bolt of pain shot through his head and clamped around his right leg. The sound of skidding tires hammered in his ears and an angry horn shoved Bobby from his thoughts. The street rose up like a demon and yanked his mind back to the present.
Nerve endings in his right leg screamed, sending a dull, spreading ache through his body.
Buck raised his arms in apology, gritted his teeth, and kept going. His calf burned and something warm trickled down it. He sped up and felt a small relief that a sliver of the pain had finally found somewhere outside his body to live.
The sun was already weakly laying its first rays over L.A. when Buck stumbled back into Eddie’s house — the house that wasn’t Eddie’s anymore. His muscles burned and sweat glued his shirt to his skin. The wound on his leg had stopped bleeding and the flesh showed up in bruised shades of blue.
Every breath hurt and fatigue gnawed through his bones. He glanced at his phone.
No new messages.
He swiped, breathing hard, and unlocked it. His eyes pinned to the small screen as if just looking would summon a push notification. His finger hovered over iMessage, then opened the app.
When had he last texted Eddie?
Or called?
Buck couldn’t remember.
At the very least, Eddie’s name had slid so far down the list he couldn’t see it anymore.
That had never happened since he’d known Eddie.
Buck took a shaky breath, pushed his sweaty curls from his forehead with trembling fingers, and, just to be sure, opened his messages.
[Buck — yesterday, 3:34 PM] hey Hen. Hope you’re okay. See you on shift?
[Buck — yesterday, 4:00 PM] I was gonna bake cookies later. Any special requests?
[Buck — yesterday, 7:51 PM] Have you ever tried yoga? I heard it’s great for calming your mind.
[Buck — yesterday, 1:32 PM] Chim, Maddie says you’re blaming yourself about Bobby. Let’s talk! I miss him too.
[Buck — yesterday, 3:55 PM] Want to bring Jee over for cookie baking?
[Buck — yesterday, 7:47 PM] Say goodnight to Jee for me.
[Buck — yesterday, 4:02 PM] hey Rav. Training at 7?
[Ravi — yesterday, 7:45 PM] Sorry. No practice right now.
Was this tug… this pang in his chest normal?
Was it disappointment?
Buck felt empty… and exhaustion chewed through his muscles until it made itself known again.
He set the phone on the counter, popped a waffle into the toaster, and stepped into the shower.
Steam filled the bathroom, making the air heavy and lazy.
The water was hot. Too hot…
So, just right.
The drops hammered down like a thousand tiny needles, scalding his skin and moving the pain to a place he could name. They rinsed dried blood from his calf and ran bright red down the drain. He ripped the towel from the hook, dried off, and looked into the mirror — straight into Bobby’s ashen face.
“They’re gonna need you.”
Buck’s stomach twisted and his throat tightened.
He had to do something.
He had to move.
He had to…
His chest constricted and he glanced at the clock. The shift started in an hour and a half, and the thought of fighting traffic made him jumpy.
His thoughts stuttered through his head.
Then his eyes fell on his bike hanging on the wall.
He had to move.
He had to get rid of this inner tension.
He had to find something loud enough to drown the hollowness inside him.
Riding would distract him. Buck took the bike down, reached for his work bag, and paused. For a second he looked at the helmet, then decided against it.
There was no room in his locker for a helmet.
He ignored the waffle in the toaster and headed for the firehouse that, without Bobby and without Eddie, meant nothing to him anymore.
*
Cars were glued together in long lines, inching their way through the streets of L.A. Rush-hour traffic was thick and sluggish. Buck steered his bike in sharp turns between vehicles.
Often way too close.
Way too risky.
Red lights didn’t mean anything. Stairways became shortcuts.
His muscles protested the renewed strain and the wind stung tears into his eyes.
“They’re gonna need you.”
He had to calm down.
Had to tame the chaos in his head.
He’d been given a job by Bobby, and he couldn’t let Bobby down…
He was supposed to take care of the others… they’d need him…
Buck swerved, cut across the street, and headed for a grocery store. His calves trembled with the effort and his breathing came in rattling pulls.
Because of Bobby, the 1-18 crew had become a family — and without him everything was falling apart. Maybe that’s what Bobby meant… maybe he was supposed to stop that.
But how?
Buck’s thoughts hit a loop.
This had to change.
They had to find each other again.
He bought everything he needed for a proper breakfast, stuffed it into his work bag, and rode on to the firehouse.
Buck went into the kitchen, made breakfast, and set everything out on the table… the way they used to when Bobby was still around… the way they hadn’t done since Bobby died. They didn’t eat together anymore… and, to be honest, they barely spoke. Everyone was trapped in their own grief.
Buck sat and waited.
Hen showed up first. She looked around, surprised, and Buck felt her study him with a quiet, puzzled look. She hesitated, took a biscuit, murmured something unintelligible, and went downstairs to check the ambulance.
Buck sat there.
Hands on the table.
An empty plate between them.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Hoping someone would sit down.
Chimney seemed tense; he grabbed a few strips of bacon and reached for a hash brown.
“I texted you. Mads is worried. She says—”
“It’s fine, Buck.” Chim’s voice was sharp and cut him off. “I talked to her.” His gaze swept over the food, then he took another strip of bacon. “Bobby shouldn’t have decided that alone. He had no right.” Chim’s eyes flashed with anger. He turned and walked away.
“They’re gonna need you.”
Bobby had no idea how wrong he was.
Ravi jogged up the stairs casual as ever and froze when he saw Buck, then gave an uncertain smile. “Hey man, that looks good.” He grabbed toast, slapped some butter on it and piled scrambled eggs on top, then went down the stairs and disappeared.
All the plates stayed clean.
Buck washed them anyway and put them back in the cupboard. His injured calf burned like fire and he could barely suppress a limp. He gritted his teeth and went down to the gym to lift some weights.
No one looked at him.
Each of them buried in their own grief.
Buck blinked, breathed, and wondered for the first time whether grief made people invisible… or whether grief could make a person disappear.
Hen and Chimney talked quietly together. Ravi checked the hoses. Buck smiled though he wanted to scream, then started loading plates onto the barbell.
Calls came and went. Buck ran into fires and came back out. He fought flames. He freed a trapped woman from her car. He rescued a cat from a tree. He smiled. He talked, but even his own words sounded stupid and useless in his ears. Dinner approached. The lasagna — Bobby’s lasagna — was in the oven, and for the first time that day Buck felt something that resembled hunger. He set the table and searched online for a grief-assessment questionnaire.
He wanted to go over the questions with Hen first. He clicked the file open and his eyes fixed on the first question.
1. Emotional level (on a scale from 1–5 → “never” to “always”)
What could it hurt… he was fine.
1.1 I feel empty or emotionally numb.
Buck marked 5.
Coincidence. He was fine.
1.2 Longing for the deceased person overwhelms me.
Well… okay. That was normal. Bobby was the father he’d always wanted.
Another 5.
1.3 I feel like a part of me is missing.
Yeah, exactly: Bobby is missing!
Another 5.
2. Cognitive level (on a scale from 1–5 → “never” to “always”)
2.1 I can hardly think of anything other than the loss.
Buck felt his heartbeat up in his throat.
5.
This next question will be easier…
2.2 I constantly ask myself what I could have done differently.
Buck turned nauseous. He should have done everything differently. He should have been on the other side of the glass… never Bobby. Tears burned his eyes and choked his throat. He had failed. On every level. The answer to that question would be a ten. But there was no ten. The test was shit.
2.3 The loss feels unreal to me.
He still texted Bobby every morning to make sure he was okay… and a lot of the time he stopped himself at the last second from hitting send.
5
3. Behavior & daily life (on a scale from 1–5 → “never” to “always”)
3.1 I avoid places or things that remind me of the person.
What kind of questions were these? He had to go to work… he had to check on Athena… he had to… Bobby had said they’d need him.
He moved on to the next question. The test obviously wasn’t meant for him…
3.2 I have trouble managing my daily life.
Nope… he baked, he worked out… he occasionally forgot to eat… and sleeping was… sleeping was a different topic. This wasn’t about sleep. His finger hovered over the five, then decided to skip that question too.
3.3 Social contact feels exhausting or pointless.
Which social contacts?
Eddie was in El Paso… Maddie had to look after Chim.
5.
4. Impulsivity & self-harm (on a scale from 1–5 → “never” to “always”)
4.1 I act without thinking about the consequences.
Yeah, that had always been his problem… so the question wasn’t relevant. Bobby had always complained about how impulsive he was. Bobby… Buck’s thoughts snagged on those five letters. B O B B Y.
5
4.2 I don’t care what happens to me.
These questions were pointless… they had nothing to do with grief. But, okay… screw it: 5.
4.3 I put myself deliberately in dangerous situations.
Now it was getting ridiculous… he hadn’t pulled up this test to wallow.
He had to take care of the others. Now!
That had been Bobby’s last order, his final mission, his last request.
He couldn’t mess it up.
5. Suicidal thoughts (on a scale from 1–5 → “never” to “always”)
Buck’s fingers started to tremble. The questions were dumb… he’d already realized that. Did he really want to keep going?
For what?
Okay… for these questions there probably wouldn’t be a five. He didn’t want to kill himself…
5.1 Have you had thoughts of not wanting to live anymore?
Yes. He should have died, not Bobby… and living with that guilt felt wrong. 5.
5.2 Have you intentionally put yourself in danger?
Do risky bike maneuvers count? Ignoring red lights, or crossing a street without watching traffic? Or does it only count if you run into burning buildings, even after the Cap ordered an evacuation?
Buck deleted his answers.
He had to help the others.
That was Bobby’s task for him.
That’s what he had to do.
That’s what Bobby wanted him to do.
The questions had sent another wave of nausea through his body. Still, he set the table, pulled the lasagna from the oven, and sat down.
Buck missed Eddie.
Eddie wouldn’t leave him alone.
Eddie would sit with him.
Eddie wouldn’t let grief eat him alive.
Buck sat there.
Hands on the table.
An empty plate between them.
Waiting.
Smiling.
Hoping someone would sit down.
Hen came into the kitchen; her eyes swept over the laid table — lasagna cooling on the counter. Then her gaze landed on him. He couldn’t wipe the emptiness from his face right away and needed a beat to settle into company, but then a smile forced itself onto his face. “I made lasagna.”
Hen returned the smile. “Smells amazing, Buck, but Chimney, Ravi and I ordered pizza.”
Pizza?
No one had talked to him about pizza.
The words lodged somewhere in his throat. Buck nodded and pushed his chair back. “It’s fine… I messed up the lasagna anyway… it didn’t turn out.” He hurried to clear the table, carried the pan to the trash and let it slide in.
“Buck…” Hen’s voice sounded upset. “Wait — don’t do that.” But it was too late. The lasagna was in the bin.
Bobby’s lasagna.
Buck remembered the questionnaire, spun around and looked at Hen with a wide, sudden smile. “I… uh… you got time to talk?”
Hen nodded. “Later. The pizza’ll be here soon.”
“Yeah… sure. Later.” Buck answered tiredly. The knot in his throat returned; the restlessness in his bones itched. He needed to move. He needed to clear his head. Buck pulled on his workout clothes and started jogging the stairs up and down. His knees cracked because he hadn’t warmed up and his right calf screamed.
Pain was good.
Pain proved you were still here.
He pushed the pace until his calf went numb. His head thudded, his heart hammered painfully against his ribs and his breathing huffed like an old steam engine.
Ravi suddenly stepped in front of him and looked at him intently. “Take a break, Buck. Hen and Chim are already betting on when you’ll collapse.”
Buck’s eyebrows drew together. He smiled defiantly… and then stared at Ravi, exhausted.
So that’s how it was now?
They talked about him behind his back?
“What happened to your leg?”
Buck blinked at Ravi, puzzled. His gaze dropped to the calf — half purple, almost black.
“Looks worse than it is.”
“That looks like a nasty bruise. What did the doctor say?” Ravi sounded genuinely concerned.
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t even really hurt. I bumped into something.”
The shift wound down. Buck didn’t want to go back to Eddie’s place. Not yet. Nobody waited for him there. Only empty rooms. Rooms with empty chairs, empty tables, no voices. No Eddie.
His phone buzzed. He fumbled it out, eager for a message, and found a reminder that he had to pick Eddie up at the airport.
He was looking forward to Eddie, even if the visit meant Bobby’s funeral was close. But Eddie would see him. Would talk to him and maybe ask how he was doing — maybe tell him not to push himself so hard.
Finally someone who understood him would be there.
***
Eddie
The flight had been calm, but inside Eddie churned with worry and chaos.
It felt strange to come back to L.A. without Bobby here. Eddie had lost people before, more than he ever wanted to — Shannon… his military unit… — but this was different.
Eddie should have been there. He should have been with his team in that lab. Side by side. They would have found a way out — like they always did.
Under all the grief for losing Bobby there was a small, ugly thread of gratitude. That gratitude felt wrong, like betrayal; it made Eddie sick.
The night the call came.
The night — and the call that changed everything — a voice (not Buck’s) speaking soft and tentative. “Eddie… I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but there was an incident…”
Eddie’s first thought was: Buck!
His throat went dry. His heart forgot to beat. His thoughts collided and he wanted to scream.
“Eddie, listen to me. The 1-18 was on a call at a lab. A deadly virus was released. I’m sorry… Bobby is dead.”
Eddie’s thoughts stuttered for a moment.
Buck’s okay.
Relief hit first.
Then reality collapsed over him — Buck lived, but Bobby was gone.
Eddie still didn’t know exactly what had happened. No one from his team could be reached… not even Buck. The last time he’d spoken to him was before Bobby’s death. Since then, silence. Buck wasn’t picking up; he wasn’t calling back.
Eddie knew Buck.
He knew Buck retreated when things got hard… but never, never had there been a loss like this in Buck’s life. Bobby had mattered to them all. Not just as a captain — a mentor, a role model — but as a friend and family. And to Buck, Bobby had been a father figure; Buck had been seen by Bobby in ways his own parents never had, and Athena had accepted “Bobby’s bonus son” without question.
Cold fear crawled up Eddie’s spine.
He was afraid to face Buck.
Afraid he wouldn’t find the words.
He’d been afraid Buck was somewhere that wasn’t good for him.
In truth, Buck’s appearance shocked him more than he’d expected. Eddie pushed through the sliding doors of the arrivals hall with the other passengers and went straight to Buck. The mask slid across Buck’s face the moment he saw Eddie. It pushed the grief aside and gave Eddie that kind of smile he hated — because everything about it felt fake and unhealthy. Buck moved on autopilot, and it tore Eddie’s heart to see him like that. Buck pulled him into a tight hug.
Eddie closed his eyes, breathed in Buck’s scent, and felt Buck’s breath press against his chest. Only then did he realize how much he’d missed him. He searched for words and couldn’t find them, broke the hug, and nodded at Buck without saying anything. They went to the car, stowed Eddie’s luggage, and drove off.
“How are you feeling, Eddie?” Buck took his eyes off the road and looked at him.
“Everything still feels unreal. I wasn’t there with you when it happened.” Eddie cracked his stiff neck. The light turned green and Buck drove on slowly.
“Do you ever feel emotionally numb? Dead inside?”
“Dead inside?! No, I… uh… I wouldn’t say that. But empty… yeah. I should’ve been there.”
“Would you say you take more risks since then…?” Buck trailed off and stared at the road.
Eddie furrowed his brow, confused. “Do you?”
Buck ignored the counterquestion. “Is it a no, sometimes, or yes?”
A no, sometimes, or yes? What was that supposed to mean?
“Buck…”
“Do you take more risks, Eddie, or not?”
Maybe Buck was just worried about him…
“I don’t know. I don’t think so… life in El Paso is different than in L.A. I drive for Uber — the biggest risk there is driving a little fast or missing a right-of-way.”
Buck’s eyes landed on him, worried. “Do you do that?”
“What? No, Buck!”
“Good.” Buck nodded. “Do you miss him?”
“Every second.” Eddie said it plainly.
“How are you with social stuff? Do you avoid people, or find socializing exhausting?”
“Okay, Buck — what is this? Are you running some kind of psych test?”
“Uh… I…” Buck looked odd. “Grief analysis.”
Eddie snorted, annoyed. “Seriously, Buck…” He took a deep breath. “So? Did I pass your test?”
“You’re grief level twelve.” Buck’s voice was flat.
“Great, so that’s settled. Right?” Eddie’s tone was sharper than he meant. “I’m really tired, Buck. Maybe we should drop this.”
Eddie braced himself for a fight, but instead Buck blinked almost imperceptibly and went quiet.
“Buck… I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. This must be hard for all of you.” Eddie’s gaze slid to Buck, but Buck stared listlessly at the road. “Buck? You okay?”
***
Buck
Eddie meant light.
Eddie was a feeling, a sound, a voice. Someone who showed up. Someone who saw Buck…
At least that was the Eddie who had left for El Paso.
The Eddie who came back was quieter. His eyes were swollen. He greeted Buck in silence. Buck wrapped his arms around him and felt relieved when Eddie wrapped him back. “Hey man, how was your flight?”
Eddie nodded, tired, and suddenly Buck didn’t know what to say. So he ran through the grief questionnaire with Eddie — question by question, each one stuck in his head, playing on auto-repeat. He weighed every answer carefully and hoped he’d asked the questions casually enough that Eddie wouldn’t notice he was analyzing his grief and filing it away. Eddie landed in category twelve. Hen scored a seventeen and Chimney refused to talk to him. Maddie’s sad eyes and Chimney’s breath told Buck that Chimney was drowning the pain in alcohol sometimes… nothing dramatic yet, but enough for Buck to note that he had to talk to Chimney.
His thoughts spun faster and faster, and then dropped him so abruptly that for a moment Buck didn’t know where he was. Eddie’s voice came to him like a distant echo, but the meaning of the words stayed lost on Buck.
He parked the car, blinked, and looked at Eddie questioningly.
“Are you getting enough sleep?” Eddie sounded like he’d asked that before.
“What? Yeah… yeah, sure. I—” Buck cut off. “No… not really. But it’s okay… I’m… it’s okay.”
“Buck…” Eddie looked at him intently. “Don’t do anything reckless. Promise me?”
Buck nodded.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile at Eddie. “I’ll make us something to eat. You must be hungry.”
Buck hurried into the kitchen, pressed his back to the wall, struggled to catch his breath, and had no idea how he was going to get through Bobby’s funeral.