Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Buck's heart hammered against his ribs as he strode into the station. The familiar weight of his duffle bag against his shoulder felt like coming home. God, how he'd missed that weight. A grin stretched wide across his face, so broad his cheeks ached with it, but he couldn't help himself. The sensation bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest.
He was finally back home.
Sure, Buck had changed—the scars on his leg were testament to that—but he could ignore the dull ache as the enticing scent of smoke, engine grease, and—
Bacon?
Wafted through the air.
His stomach clenched with a hunger that went deeper than food. When had he last eaten a proper meal that wasn't microwaved or delivered in a take-away bag? When had he last shared breakfast with people who mattered to him? The normalcy of it—Bobby cooking, the team gathering around the table like a family—made his chest tight with longing.
He headed straight for the locker room, letting out an almost giddy laugh.
It wasn't just the promise of a home-cooked meal that had him light-headed with relief. It was the rightness of it all, the way the firehouse wrapped around him like a comforting hug. He'd been away for so long he'd forgotten how this place made him feel safe. Those long months of killing himself to get back was worth this.
Johnson was holding the door open as members of B-shift filtered out, their faces drawn with exhaustion but satisfied in that particular way that came after a job well done. Buck straightened, muscle memory kicking in as he prepared to slip into the easy camaraderie he remembered. He gave an eager nod as he approached.
One of them—Martinez, who’d never been chatty—tilted his head towards Buck, barely a recognition. Something cold flicked through Buck's chest, but he pushed it down. Before Buck could slip by Johnson with a “thanks!” already forming on his tongue, Johnson let go of the door.
It closed with a quiet click in Buck's face.
Buck stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass—and he felt that smile slip a little.
You might.
It was fine. It's fine. It didn’t feel as true as it did a second ago, but what else could he do? They were in a rush, probably exhausted after a long shift with families waiting for them at home.
Buck could relate to most of that. Except for the family part. The station was his family.
My house. My rules.
He wasn't naive—well, maybe he was, but he was trying not to be. He knew there might be lingering hostility from the lawsuit. Bobby hadn't needed to say it outright. The lawsuit had been an absolute shit-show, but Buck was ready to take the necessary actions towards earning their trust back.
He'd taken their conversation in stride, the way he always had. Because Bobby had given him a chance and that was something he could work with.
You can fix this, he told himself as he pushed through the glass door, moving toward his locker with renewed purpose. You always fix things. It's what you do.
The locker room was empty. His locker—no one had taped over his name this time—opened with the same familiar squeak. He sifted through his duffel, pulling out his work uniform, and got dressed. Once he looked the part again, everything would fall into place.
He'd be the same old Buck. The one from before everything went sideways—that Buck had been easy to love, hadn't he?
He'd fix it. Fix everything.
Because if you can't fix this, what else do you have?
It took all of two seconds for Buck's resolve to waver as he crested the stairs to the loft.
The scene before him was like stepping into a photograph of his old life—Bobby at the stove, the team gathered around the table, morning light streaming through the windows. For a heartbeat, it was perfect.
Then the laughter died.
The easy chatter ceased and four sets of eyes turned, boring into him. The silence stretched, elastic and suffocating, until it felt like the air itself had turned solid.
Buck stopped short—that big, cheesy grin still plastered on his face.
It felt wrong there now, out of place against their blank expressions. Heat crept up his neck in a familiar flush of shame, and his cheeks grew warm under their silence. Against the pallor of his skin, he imagined he looked ridiculous, like a clown who’d stumbled into a wake.
And to top it off, Buck brought his hand up in a wave, a quiet, "Hey," left his lips.
Smooth, Buckley. Real smooth.
No one moved or blinked.
Say something, he pleaded silently.
Bobby stood frozen, tongs hovering over the tray of bacon midway to Chimney’s plate. Hen held her knife and fork poised in midair, and Eddie’s hand still rested on the rim of his glass.
Eddie, who’d always read Buck’s mind, kept tellingly silent.
Buck shuffled his feet. He took a step forward, hyperaware that still, no one had spoken.
Break the tension, his mind supplied desperately. Lift the mood. Make them remember why they used to like having you around.
"Smells great, Cap!" The words burst out of him.
Maybe the best course of action was to act normal—fake it till you make it, right? If Buck kept it easy, they'd follow suit, pulling him back into the fold like nothing had ever happened.
What had he said about trying not to be naïve?
He reached for his usual chair and paused. His place at the table was bare, no place mat, or plate, or cutlery. Nothing to indicate that Evan Buckley had ever sat at this table. He stared at the empty space where his breakfast should have been, where he should have been, and felt something crack in his chest.
Maybe they didn't remember he was starting today? His mind scrambled for explanations.
But even as he thought it, he knew better, and he wasn’t sure what was worse—that they’d forgotten, or that they didn’t care. He hadn’t expected a fanfare, knew there wouldn’t be banners and cake and a big reunion despite that traitorous seed of hope. But Buck had thought he’d at least still have a place.
You don't belong here anymore, the thought whispered cruelly. Look around. Does this look like they missed you?
"Captain Nash."
Bobby's voice snapped Buck's attention back to the present.
Buck blinked. "Huh?"
"It's Captain Nash." Bobby corrected. "To you."
Buck stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, his hand still half-reaching for the chair that was no longer his. Nothing felt real.
"Uhh—" He needed to get a grip. "Yeah, n—no, of course."
He dropped his arm, letting it dangle uselessly at his side.
"Sorry, Captain Nash." He said lamely. And because Buck had apparently never met a hole he couldn't dig deeper: "Any left for me?"
The squeak of chair legs against wood made Buck wince as Eddie stood up abruptly. He didn’t meet Buck’s eyes, staring straight past him like he'd never existed at all.
His face was eerily blank, devoid of any emotion Buck might have been able to read before. But his hands—his hands gave him away. One was curled into a tight fist, skin stretched taut over the knuckles.
Buck's own hands itched to reach out and grasp Eddie's wrist, to stop him from walking away, to force him to look, to see Buck standing there.
But Eddie brushed past him without a word, so close Buck could feel the faint rush of air, close enough to touch if Buck had been brave or stupid enough to try.
And yet Buck had never felt so far away.
Eddie disappeared down the stairs, the clomping of his boots fading as he left.
Buck stared at the food spread across the table. Now that Eddie had gone, there was a rather large helping sitting right there.
"Sorry, Buckley." Chimney said. "Get here quicker next time."
At the sound of the tones, Buck let out a relieved breath.
Finally. The familiar wail cut through the tension that had been building in the station like pressure in a kettle. It had been a few hours since his shift had started and he was no closer to breaching the distance between himself and the team.
Bobby had handed him a list of chores. It was busy work, the kind of tasks usually reserved for probies—and yet Buck had taken it without complaint, eager to prove he was still dependable, still worth keeping around. The old Buck might have bristled, might’ve made a joke about being demoted to janitor. This Buck just nodded and got to work.
That left little time for him to talk to the others, though. He was starting to feel a little embarrassed by how desperate he was for a scrap of their attention.
Was it pathetic?
Maybe.
But Buck had never known when to leave well enough alone.
That’s how he’d gotten himself into this mess in the first place, and if grovelling was what got him out, Buck was all too happy to do it.
He jumped up from where he'd been scrubbing the bay floors, his brush clattering against the bucket in his haste. This was it—the chance he’d been waiting for. Even if they weren't particularly fond of his company at the moment, they couldn't deny he was good in the field. That had to count for something, right?
Anticipation made him bounce on the balls of his feet as he jogged toward the gear bay. It fit as snug as he remembered, and he was just donning his helmet when a voice called out from behind him.
"Buckley, you're man behind today."
Bobby's voice rang over the tones, and it took a moment for Buck to realise he was talking to him.
Buck startled, his hands freezing on his helmet strap. "Uh, wha—I'm not going with you guys? Cap—"
The protest died in his throat as he remembered himself. Captain Nash. It's Captain Nash to you now.
"My house, my rules, remember?" Bobby said as if he wasn't stripping away the one thing Buck had left. "You stay put."
The adrenaline that had surged through him when the tones went off curdled in his stomach, making him feel sick.
All he’d done for this moment…and they were benching him.
"How could I forget," he mumbled, the words bitter on his tongue.
He watched with longing as the others piled into the rig smoothly—like a well-oiled machine. Buck realized with nauseating clarity that they'd adapted to life without him, not one cog out of place.
It's just one shift, Buck told himself. You'll get your chance soon.
But the words felt like a lie. And if he wasn’t good for this, what was he good for?
Cleaning, apparently.
Buck stripped out of his turnouts.
For the rest of the day, Buck mopped, cleaned and scrubbed every last inch of the station until his back spasmed and his leg ached. Calls came and the rigs left like clockwork. Nobody spoke to him when they were there, and frankly, Buck was too scared to initiate any conversations.
They still flowed around him, though, and listening to them was torture. They were laughing around dinner, the smell of Bobby’s famous mac-and-cheese filling the station while he checked inventory downstairs.
Buck's stomach had been grumbling for hours, a steadfast reminder that he hadn’t had anything to eat since he’d started because he’d foolishly assumed he'd be eating with the team again. He was a child pressed against the window of a house where he used to live, watching strangers enjoy the life that had once been his.
Next shift he’d pack his own food.
Well into the early hours of the morning, Buck was finishing the last chore on Bobby's extensive list. The station was quiet for the most part, and shift change was approaching—soon he'd be able to escape to his apartment and lick his wounds in private.
The sound of footsteps made him look up, and his heart did something complicated in his chest when he saw Eddie walk into the locker room. Their shift was over—Hen and Chimney had just left without so much as a 'bye,' and Bobby was still holed up in his office, probably doing paperwork or avoiding Buck or both.
"Eddie!" Buck called out before he could lose his nerve. "Um...you wanna give me a hand with all this?"
He gestured to the windows he'd been cleaning (again), hoping his voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt. It was meant to be an olive branch; Eddie had always helped Buck clean the windows. Some of Buck’s favourite conversations had been when they were face to face through the glass, smiling and quipping back-and-forth.
Maybe we can work our way back to that.
"Nah, you got this." Eddie didn't slow his pace toward his locker, didn't even look at Buck as he dismissed him. "You're a hundred percent. Lawsuit proved that, right?"
There it is.
Buck looked away, heat flooding his cheeks. The casual cruelty of it—using his own words, his own legal argument against him—made his stomach clench. Which had been the point. Eddie had always known exactly how to cut straight to the heart of things. Apparently, that skill extended to inflicting wounds as well as healing them.
Eddie pulled out his gear, shoving everything into his duffle as he prepared to go home.
Without Buck.
He watched as Eddie made to leave, eager to put distance between them, and Buck couldn’t have that. He just couldn’t let it go, the chasm between them kept widening, and Buck was afraid that soon he wouldn’t be able to build a bridge big enough to cross it.
Maybe it was the same stubborn streak that had gotten him into this mess, but the thought of Eddie walking out of his life permanently made Buck feel like he was drowning again.
So he threw his arm out without thinking. His hand closed around Eddie's upper bicep, halting him mid-step, and the contact jolted through Buck like electricity.
It was the first time he'd touched Eddie in months—hell, it was the first human contact he'd had in longer than he cared to remember. Buck had always been a tactile person, and he’d been deprived of touch like a starved man wandering the desert.
Eddie's warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, muscles tensed beneath his hand. For a split second, something eased in Buck's chest.
Then Eddie shrugged him off.
"I don't know what you want from me, Buck."
Eddie's voice was dangerously low, and when he turned his full attention to Buck for the first time that day, it wasn't the reunion Buck had been desperately hoping for.
"Forgive you? Forget?" Eddie continued. "Make you feel better about what you did?"
Buck had wanted Eddie to look at him, to acknowledge that he still existed. This might actually be worse.
"I just want you to talk to me." Buck said, an edge creeping into his voice. "Even if it's just to say that you're still mad."
At least anger was something.
"I'm not mad."
“Then what?” Buck asked, hands spread out in front of him. “Cos I’m definitely catching a chill.”
"I'm done."
The finality in Eddie's tone sent shivers down Buck's spine, raising goose bumps along his arm. No. Buck's heart stuttered in his chest. He was wrong, that’s so much worse.
Buck had seen Eddie angry before—furious, even. Anger meant there was still something left to fight for, still something left to salvage. But Eddie was done with Buck, and he wasn’t sure if he could come back from that.
"When you decided to sue the department, make Cap the bad guy," Eddie continued, not missing a beat, "did you ever stop for a minute to think what that could do to us?"
This had been a mistake. The lawsuit was a mistake, trying to come back like nothing had happened was a mistake.
Dread pooled in his stomach, tying itself into knots that made it hard to breathe.
"Look, I just—I needed my job back." Buck was practically begging now; dignity shot to hell. "I missed being here, being part of the team. I never meant for anyone to get hurt."
Buck didn't know what to do with himself anymore. His hands felt too big, his body too awkward, like he was taking up too much space, and yet so, so small under Eddie’s gaze.
"Your choices, your actions, they affect all of us, Buck."
All of us. Bobby, Hen and Chimney, Christopher. Eddie, who'd had to explain to his son why Buck wasn't part of their lives anymore.
"I didn't think about what could happen," Buck replied desperately.
"You never think, that's the problem."
Problem?
The word echoed in Buck's head like a bell tolling. Yeah, Buck had always been the problem, hadn't he? He was starting to see that now. It should have been glaringly obvious; Eddie had told him, over and over again.
You're exhausting.
Suck it up.
And Buck hadn’t taken the hint, so now Eddie was spelling it out for him.
But still he kept pushing, because if Eddie thought he was the problem, Buck needed him to understand why he'd become one.
"I was mad at Bobby, for not letting me back," he said quickly, words tumbling out like dirt filling his grave. "I was mad at you guys for moving on without me, and there was nothing I could do about it."
Eddie crossed his arms, creating a physical barrier between them that might as well have been a brick wall.
"Yeah, well, we have—moved on." Eddie's expression didn’t soften. "You should too, Buck."
He deflated, the fight draining out of him.
For the first time since they met, Buck felt like he was staring at a stranger.
“Uh— yeah I get it,” he finally said. “And I really am sorry.”
He watched Eddie’s retreating figure.
If Buck had kept quiet, maybe he could have kept pretending that time would heal this wound. After that disaster of a conversation, Buck wasn't sure it ever would.
He stood there, windows forgotten, feeling something he’d known his whole life shift into place.
Buck never thought Eddie would be the one to show him he was right.