Chapter Text
It's got an awful bite, it's gonna rise again, keeping track of everything we lose
The station still smelled the same—coffee, smoke, the faint metallic tang of engine oil—but everything else had changed.
Buck stepped through the bay doors for the first time in months, duffel slung over one shoulder, heart hammering like it was his first day all over again. He paused just inside, taking it all in. The rig gleamed under the overhead lights. The radios crackled softly in the background. Everything looked exactly the same.
But it felt different.
He made his way toward the lockers, boots echoing across the polished floor. Chimney glanced up from where he was tying his shoes. He gave a curt nod—acknowledgment, not greeting—and went right back to lacing up.
Buck nodded back, lips twitching into a polite half-smile. It disappeared just as fast.
Eddie was already at his locker, shirt halfway on, his back turned. Buck hesitated for a second. He almost said hey. Almost.
But Eddie didn’t turn around. Didn’t even flinch. He just kept dressing like Buck wasn’t even there.
That one hurt more than Buck was ready for.
He blinked, looked away, and walked past them both like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t taken every ounce of courage he had just to walk back through those doors.
When he reached his locker, he opened it slowly. The familiar clang of the door sounded hollow in the quiet. He changed fast and tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, the way his fingers trembled as he buttoned up his shirt.
Then came the soft voice behind him. “Hey.”
He turned and saw Hen leaning against the neighboring lockers, arms folded. Her expression was gentle, eyes full of something warm and steady.
“Hey,” Buck echoed, voice low.
She didn’t make a scene. Didn’t smile too wide or hug him or say finally. Just gave a slight nod, like she was saying I see you. I’ve got you.
And Buck—God, Buck wanted to fall into that comfort. But he couldn’t.
“I’m good,” he said quickly, pulling his jacket out of his bag. “Really.”
Hen’s eyes searched his face. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I know,” he said. And he did. But pretending was safer.
He glanced around to make sure no one was watching. “Just… don’t get caught in the crossfire, okay? I don’t want them turning on you too.”
Hen’s brow furrowed. “They wouldn’t—”
“They already are,” Buck said, a little too fast, a little too bitter. He took a deep breath, softening his tone. “I don’t want you stuck in the middle. Just… be careful.”
Hen didn’t like it—he could tell by the way she pressed her lips together—but she nodded. “Alright. But I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”
He gave her a grateful smile. This one felt real. “I know.”
She left him to finish getting ready, looking back at Buck once more to give any reassurance she could to the man.
Buck sat on the bench for a minute longer than necessary, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The buzz of voices behind him felt miles away.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe a second chance, maybe a few olive branches—but this wasn’t it.
And Eddie—Eddie not even looking at him? That was its own kind of heartbreak.
Buck stood, shrugged on his jacket, and grabbed his radio. Smile on. Back straight. Ready for whatever came next.
Because if this was going to be his new normal, he was going to survive it. Even if it killed him to do it.
“Morning,” Buck said brightly as he made his way up the stairs and stepped into the loft.
Chimney didn’t look up from his mug.
“You’re late,” came Bobby’s voice from the table, clipped and focused as he jotted something onto his clipboard.
Buck instinctively looked at the clock. Right on time.
“Yeah, well,” he said with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. “L.A. traffic. It’s the only place where it’s rush hour before sunrise.”
No one responded. Chimney took a long sip of his coffee. Bobby didn’t even acknowledge the comment.
Hen gave Buck a small glance—one he probably wasn’t meant to catch. Her eyes were full of warmth and quiet understanding. She reached across the counter and nudged a clean mug his way, as if to say you still belong here.
Before he could say thank you, Bobby slapped the clipboard onto the table with a sharp thwap.
“Since you're here,” Bobby said, tone cold and impersonal, “you can handle station maintenance for the day.”
He slid the clipboard across the counter like it was a formal charge sheet. “Windows, showers, gear inventory, kitchen floors, restock all the medical kits. No calls until it’s done.”
Buck blinked. “All of this? That’s going to take—”
“You’ve got a full shift,” Bobby interrupted, already standing. “Use it.”
Chimney let out a small, satisfied hum into his mug. “You missed a lot of time. Gotta pull your weight, right?”
Buck didn’t answer. He stared down at the clipboard. Half of these tasks weren’t even on the normal rotation. This wasn’t about maintenance—it was about making him small.
Hen shifted in her chair. “Cap—”
“It’s not up for debate,” Bobby cut in, already halfway to his office. “Let me know when it’s done.”
The door shut behind him with a finality that made Buck’s stomach sink.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the clipboard in his hands like it might morph into something manageable if he looked long enough.
It didn’t.
He let out a quiet breath and turned toward the sink, filling the mug Hen had given him with water instead of coffee. The bitterness already clinging to the back of his throat didn’t need company.
You’ve handled worse, he told himself. You’ve done hard things. You can do this too.
He eyed the list again—windows, showers, floors, gear, med kits—too much for one shift, but maybe if he started with the showers and worked backward, he could at least make a dent. Maybe that would keep Bobby off his back. Maybe if he just worked hard enough, stayed out of the way long enough, they’d eventually stop looking at him like a stranger in his own house.
Buck took another drink. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter, but he ignored it. No time for feelings. Just keep your head down, do the job. Prove you still belong here.
He had turned toward the fridge, bracing himself to start the day, when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Buck took a breath, heart thudding too loud in his chest as Eddie entered the kitchen.
He waited until Eddie had grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and closed the door before speaking.
“Hey,” Buck said, voice gentle. “How’s Chris doing?”
Eddie didn’t look at him. Just twisted the cap off and took a long drink. Buck waited, hoping. Hoping for something.
“Fine,” Eddie said shortly, without meeting his eyes.
Buck swallowed and tried again, keeping his voice light. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Thought maybe I could come by sometime? We could go to the zoo, or—”
“No.”
The word landed sharp. Flat. Final.
Buck blinked. “No?”
Eddie finally turned to face him, jaw tight. “I don’t want you around him right now.”
The words didn’t register at first. Buck stared at him, stunned. “Wait—Eddie, what are you talking about?”
Eddie crossed his arms, posture hardening like a wall going up. “What do you think I’m talking about?”
Buck's voice faltered. “He’s my friend. He misses me—I miss him.”
“That’s the problem,” Eddie said, voice low and clipped. “You act like it’s normal. Like it's fine that you want to spend time with an eight-year-old after—everything.”
Buck’s brows drew together. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s weird, Buck!” Eddie snapped, and for the first time, his voice cut through the room like a blade. “You sued the department. You turned your back on all of us. And now you want to play catch with my son like none of it ever happened?”
Buck opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Eddie kept going, his voice rising in frustration. “I don’t even know if I can trust you anymore. And I sure as hell don’t know if I want someone like you around Chris.”
Buck flinched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—but it was like the floor had dropped out beneath him.
There it was. The line Eddie had crossed. The thing Buck wasn’t sure he could come back from.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Hen stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor like a warning shot. “Jesus, Diaz. Are you hearing yourself?”
Eddie turned to her, startled.
“You think it’s weird that Buck cares about your son?” Her voice was deceptively calm, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. “You think that man would ever do anything to hurt Chris? After everything they’ve been through together? That kid looks at Buck like he hangs the damn moon.”
Eddie’s face faltered—guilt creeping in, eyes dropping.
“You don’t get to use your kid as a weapon,” Hen continued, steel in her voice. “And you don’t get to question Buck’s character just because you haven’t processed your own feelings about what happened.”
Eddie looked at Buck again, softer now. “Buck, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Buck said, his voice quiet but steady. Flat like the last wall going up.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t cry. He just looked down at the clipboard in his hands and breathed through the burn in his chest.
“Don’t walk back on it now.”
Eddie opened his mouth, but Buck was already turning away. “I’ve got work to do.”
Hen looked between them, jaw tight, fury still burning behind her eyes. But she didn’t say anything more. She just gently touched Buck’s arm as he passed her, and sat back down.
Buck kept walking.
And he didn’t let himself look back.