Chapter Text
The road back to his house is quiet, familiar and still. Every curve and crack is recognizable, like muscle memory, etched into every piece of him. He’s driven this road so often that he could probably do it blindfolded.
His hands tighten around the steering wheel, jaw clenching as his mind unwillingly drifts back to that last mission. To the last time he saw Jack.
“You need to leave, Evan.”
His fiance rarely used his name. It was always Grimm. Always rank or call sign. A soldier struck in his way. Always stuck in the pattern that had been drilled into them. After all, they’re soldiers out here, not individuals.
But that time, he’d said Evan. That should’ve been the first clue.
Blood had streamed from a wound on Jack’s forehead, trailing down to his jaw, which hung slack.
All the words he said came out jagged, disjointed, mumbled.
But his eyes, those piercing green eyes Evan fell for, remained calm.
Not from shock. Not resigned, either. They were knowing. As if he knew what was about to happen.
Buck hadn’t allowed himself to give in. Believe it. He couldn’t. Not then. Barely now.
He had looked around, heart hammering in his chest as the world flowed slowly around him, coming to a striking stop, as if it was all moving in slow-motion.
They were crouched behind the wheel of their Humvee. Somewhere nearby, Carlsen barked into the radio, calling in the failed op.
Ambush.
Target Down.
One man critical.
Carlsen had said it calmly, like he was reading a grocery list.
But, those words still echo in Buck’s head, haunting, unshakable.
Jack had taken three rounds. The graze across his temple needed stitches if he made it back to camp.
But, in all of this hope, prayer and chaos, there had been a moment, brief, maybe imagined, when Buck believed they could all make it out. A moment he believed they would be fine, when the next time they met they’d be sitting around a fireplace, trading war stories. A belief, held closely to his heart. A lie. A hopeful lie.
He remembers Jack trying to sit up, groaning through gritted teeth, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage. Even then, Jack was trying to sit up, to protect Buck, to finish the mission, to finally get home
Finally stay home.
“We need to move, get to the evac point,” Jack had slurred, blinking rapidly as if he could will the dizziness away. As if it was just a cold, and not immediate, fatal, blood loss.
But there was no evac. Not anymore. Their position was compromised. They were under heavy fire.
And, they were alone.
Jack had finally drifted back down, lying down on the rough surface filled with rocks, as he grabbed around Buck’s shirt. He had finally given in, allowing himself to feel everything. A realisation dawning finally: it was over.
“It hurts, Evan.” It was the first time Buck had ever heard Jack admit pain. And it was also the last.
Jack was always the composed one, but now he had tears slowly rolling down his cheeks, faced twisted in pain. Buck remembers pushing down on his side, begging for him to keep his eyes open, begging for him to not give in.
Then Mac arrived, sliding in beside them. Gave Jack Morphine. An emergency band-aid.
There was no help on the way. No miracle extraction.
Jack wasn’t going to make it.
Buck remembers holding his fiance close, watching each breath drag in, sharp and shuddered, and then slowly leave. Watching the pain lift from his body as the morphine kicked in. Watched him melt into his arms. Watch his grip on the other man’s jacket loosen… and eventually fade.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the car stops outside the apartment. His cheeks are soaked, wiping the tears away roughly with his sleeve.
In all these memories, at least he can cling to one small mercy: Jack didn’t die in pain.
—
By the time Buck climbs the stairs to his apartment, his shirt is damp with sweat and his cheeks wet with tears.
But, then, something makes him stop short.
The door in front of him is closed, but also unlocked.
A twist of unease coils in his gut. His training, that he has tried so hard to push down, flickers to life.
Fight or Flight.
Before, voices drift out from the inside. Familiar ones.
“Pass the picture of Maya, Mac.”
Carlsen.
His voice cuts through the static in Buck's ears, and he’s back, feeling the ground under his feet. Anchored to reality.
He pushes the door of his apartment open, and steps into the chaos he has so openly welcomed into his life, again.
Noah, or Mac, is off to one side, sorting photos from a cardboard box. Simonsen is building what looks like a makeshift crime board, or a collage made in a weird art class. At the center is Carlsen, orchestrating the process with military precision, marking a large map of LA with pins and notes. A web of theories, spotting and suspicions that might match the profile they’ve put together. He looks calm, but Buck catches the tremble in his hands. This case means everything. Almost as much as it means to Buck.
After all, both Maya and Jack were his soldiers.
“Grimm,” Carlsen says, nodding to him, eyes only drifting once up to meet Bucks. As if he knew the other man was coming. After all, there was no surprise when it came to Carlsen. He always knew everything.
Simonsen and McDonald barely look up, too immersed in their own task. But Buck can see the tension in their shoulders. They know he’s there, but he knows this isn't a school reunion. It’s a war room. And Buck just joined the front line.
“Come here,” Carlsen says, waving him towards the table.
Buck steps in, locking the door behind him. He’s walking up to the table, which is covered in paperwork, photos, and intel. Leads and dead ends. A ridiculous game of Clue. The weight of it all makes his throat dry.
They’d been working.
So has Maya.
Carlsen doesn’t waste time, never has before and he wasn’t about to start doing it, with everything on the line.
“Do you remember our last mission together, kid?” His voice is firm, but there’s something else beneath it. A softness. Like he already knows the answer, but also, maybe, he doesn’t want to hear it.
“Yes,” Buck replies, locking eyes with him. He doesn’t want the disappointment or anger he’s feeling show, but the stern tone of his voice gives him away.
How could he forget? Act as if there wasn’t a dream Jack didn’t show up in every night he slept? “How could I forget?” Buck continues.
“We think Maya tipped them off. That’s why it went sideways. Why we weren’t prepared.” Carlsen’s voice is steady, but Buck can hear the fracture in it, the drip of sadness coating his tongue. “She gave them our position. Jack never had a chance.”
A beat passes. The air grows heavier. Smog infecting the throat of every member of the group.
Buck says nothing, choosing to stare right ahead instead. The weight in his lungs thickens, his thoughts clouding. There’s no right answer to this kind of betrayal. No clear path. Only fog. Only smoke.
Grieve? Blame? Hunt? Forget?
For the first time in a long time, Buck misses the Navy, where someone told him what to do. Where he didn’t have to choose what to feel, or how to choose what’s next.
The familiar ping of an iPhone shakes Buck from the haze.
His phone lights up: Chimney.
Your sister’s here. She’s asking questions about today that I can’t answer - and honestly I don’t think I should try. You need to talk to her, Buck. She’s on her way to you now, be ready,
Buck can’t help the sigh he lets out. He barely has time to finish reading the message before a knock echoes through the room. There’s no hesitation behind it, but also no aggression.
The room stills.
“Expecting someone, Grimm?” McDonald asks, lip between his teeth, biting softly. Buck clocks the tension in his voice, the slight way his hand drifts near the knife he always keeps on his hip. Old habits. A warning signal Buck is acutely aware of. Fear of someone coming in gets noted in Buck’s brain before he talks.
“My sister.” he says, letting a soft exhale leave his lips while rubbing the back of his neck. “And I wasn’t. But Chimney, my friend at the firehouse, has never been good at keeping secrets.” he continues, walking towards the door, opening it before he can overthink, or hide from the reality that’s right there in front of him.
Maddie.
She’s standing there with her arms crossed, but her expression is a messy combination of anger, relief and disbelief, as if she’s trying to understand how she feels. But, when she sees him, truly sees him, her arms drop.
She steps forward, pulling him into a tight hug. Buck holds her back, grounding himself in that moment, feeling the tension drain from her body into his. He can tell that she decided him being alive was more important than anything else. Any anger, relief or confusion drains away. He’s alive. That’s all that matters.
When she steps away, the room has shifted.
Every man stands, not casually, not leaning against anything, but sharply. The precision of their movement is unmistakable, at least to Buck. Military. Respect. Caution. All drilled into them, breathing in every moment of their body.
Carlsen’s jaw flexes, as if he’s about to give an order. But, instead, he gestures to the man closest to them. “This is Harry. Or, as we call him, Elsa.”
Harry groans in response, rolling his eyes softly towards Carlsen. A joke between them all. “Still not over that, are ya?”
The tension in the room cracks, the comment seemingly relieved it, lifting it to something almost funny, something that bonds the group to a level Maddie will never understand.
She lifts an eyebrow, glancing up and down at the other man. “Because of your… less than warm composure?”
Her instincts as a former nurse and as a dispatcher kick in. She’s seen men like this before. Those with eyes like cold stone, a smile that fades too quickly.
Dangerous men.
A man with a mask too thin. One good shove and the whole thing falls apart.
“No,” Buck cuts in, an amused smile on his lips. “Because the idiot fell into a frozen lake. We warned him. He thought he was walking on a patch of snow. It cracked immediately when he stepped out.”
“It looked solid,” Harry mutters, a soft scoff releasing from him.
Carlsen, the man with broad shoulders and a height that’s almost beating Buck’s, leans against the wall. “Still took us two hours to warm him back up,” he says. “I’m Carlsen.” he continues, nodding towards her.
His voice is direct, but there’s no ill-will or anger behind it. Just the truth. For a second Maddie considers if that represents him as a person. True. Honest. Direct.
Lastly, her eyes wander off to the one person she hadn’t been introduced to. “That’s McDonald, or Mac. The best hand-to-hand fighter I’ve ever seen. Don’t let the baby face fool you.” he says.
Mac nods politely, his arms busy uncrossing and crossing in front of his chest, as if that’s the only fidget he has when the uncomfortable feeling of not being safe settles in. The only giveaway that he’s constantly sizing up the room.
His smile is soft, but precise. Not for show. A signal. There’s recognition behind it. But, Maddie doesn’t feel threatened.
Strangely, she feels safer. Like she’s been measured and deemed worth protecting.