Chapter Text
Six months with Miller went by in a blink of an eye, but also seemed like a lifetime.
The Los Angeles sun beat down on the pavement of a wrecked freeway overpass. It was a four car pileup, metal twisted into sculptures of violence.
"Miller!" Buck’s voice cut through the noise of the saws and the sirens. He was standing by the incident command post, his weight resting on his cane, the clipboard in his hand. "Watch your footing on that oil slick. You’re drifting left."
Inside the wreckage, fifty feet away, Probationary Firefighter Miller corrected his stance instantly. He adjusted the spreaders, popping the door of the sedan with a metallic groan.
"Got it, Buck!" Miller shouted back.
"Good. Now stabilize the C spine before you try to move him. Ravi is coming in with the backboard," Buck directed, his eyes scanning the scene.
He wasn't running. He wasn't carrying the heavy tools. His left leg was aching a deep, throbbing reminder of the humidity and the fourteen hour shift, but his mind was sharper than it had ever been. The flares happened on occasion, but normally only when something triggered it.
From his vantage point, he saw everything. He saw the structural stress on the guardrail before it buckled. He saw the traffic backing up in the opposing lane. He saw the fatigue setting in on Chimney’s face.
"Chim, swap out with Hen on CPR," Buck ordered into the radio. "You’re gassing out." Bobby had made it clear, that he could command movements, changes, if he thought it was needed, Bobby, having to direct the scene, while being Captain, while Buck observed and watched, not only his Probie, but the team also.
"Copy that, OJT," Chimney wheezed, grateful.
Buck marked the time on his clipboard. He wasn't just a firefighter anymore. He was the conductor of a chaotic orchestra.
And to his absolute surprise, he loved it.
He loved the strategy. He loved the teaching. He loved watching Miller, who had been a terrified kid six months ago move with confidence and precision because Buck had drilled the protocols into his head until they were muscle memory.
When the call was over and the victims were loaded into the ambulances, Bobby walked over to the command post.
"Good work, Buck," Bobby said, wiping soot from his forehead. "You caught that guardrail issue before it became a problem."
"Miller’s getting fast," Buck said, pride swelling in his chest. "He beat his extrication time by thirty seconds."
"He had a good teacher," Bobby smiled. He looked at Buck’s leg. "You holding up?"
"Stump’s barking a bit," Buck admitted, tapping the cane. "But I’m good. I’m really good."
Two weeks later, the smell of sugar overwhelmed the smell of diesel in the 118 station.
"Okay, okay, settle down!" Hen shouted, herding the team toward the kitchen island.
Miller stood in the middle of the room, looking red faced and happy. He was no longer an Trainee On Job Probie.
As of this morning, his Trainee On Job status was changed to probationary firefighter for the next six months.
He had passed his final evaluation, administered by Buck with flying colors. And now would spend six months, still as a Probie but out on his own.
"Speech!" Chimney yelled.
"Uh," Miller stammered. "I just... I want to thank Captain Nash for the opportunity. And the team for not hazing me too bad."
He turned to Buck.
"And I want to thank you Buck," Miller said, his voice sincere. "For yelling at me. For making me do drills until my hands bled. And for saving my life that time in the warehouse. I wouldn't be here without you, man. Seriously."
Buck felt a lump form in his throat. He leaned on the counter, smiling. "You did the work, Miller. Just don't get cocky. I’m still watching you."
"Okay, cut the sentimental crap, let's eat!" Chimney announced.
He pulled a cover off a large sheet cake. In blue icing, it read: CONGRATS MILLER. TRY NOT TO DIE.
The team laughed and dug in. Buck grabbed a plate, feeling a warm sense of accomplishment. He had done it. He had taken a raw recruit and turned him into a firefighter who could be trusted with the lives of his family.
"Wait, wait!" Hen shouted. "We’re not done!"
Eddie stepped forward. He was holding a second box. He looked at Buck, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Since Miller is graduating," Eddie said, "that means our OJT program has officially survived its maiden voyage. And we think the captain of that ship deserves a little recognition."
He opened the box.
It was a custom cake. On it was a caricature of Buck drawn in icing. He had a headset on, and he was holding a clipboard that was bigger than his body.
The text read: TRAINING OFFICER BUCKLEY: I ONLY USE THE CLIPBOARD FOR GOOD (MOSTLY).
Buck burst out laughing. It was a deep, belly shaking laugh that felt incredibly good.
"It’s beautiful," Buck wiped a tear from his eye. "You guys are jerks."
"We love you too, Clipboard Buck," Hen grinned, hugging him.
Later that afternoon, a black sedan pulled up to the station. Chief Alonzo stepped out.
The loft went silent. Visits from the Chief were rarely social calls.
"Captain Nash," Alonzo nodded. " Training Officer Buckley. A word?"
They went into Bobby’s office. Buck felt a familiar twinge of anxiety the old fear that the other shoe was about to drop, that they were going to tell him the experiment failed.
"I’ve reviewed Miller’s files," Alonzo said, sitting down. "And I’ve reviewed the incident reports from the last six months where Training Officer Buckley was running support."
He looked at Buck.
"Mistakes done by a probationary firefighter at the 118 are down 15%," Alonzo said. "Equipment damage is down 20%. And Miller tested in the top 98th percentile of his class for field readiness."
Buck blinked. "Wow."
"It works," Alonzo said. "The OJT program works. You proved that having a dedicated training officer in the field saves lives."
He slid a file across the desk.
"We’re rolling it out city wide," the Chief announced. "Starting next month, five more stations are getting an OJT. I want you to run the orientation, Buckley. Show them how you do it. Show them how to balance the clipboard and the scene."
"You want me to... teach the teachers?" Buck asked.
"You’re the expert," Alonzo said. "You wrote the book on this, kid. Literally. I read your reports."
Buck looked at Bobby. Bobby was beaming with a pride so intense it lit up the room.
"I’d be honored, Chief," Buck said.
That night, the house was quiet.
Christopher was at a sleepover. It was just Buck and Eddie.
They were in the living room of the Diaz house. The TV was on low, playing a movie neither of them was watching. Buck was sitting on the couch, his prosthetic leg unstrapped and leaning against the coffee table. He was massaging the end of his stump with a grimace.
"Bad day?" Eddie asked, walking in with two mugs of tea.
"Weather’s changing," Buck murmured. "Pressure drops make the nerves go haywire. Feels like someone is sticking a needle in my heel."
"Here," Eddie sat down. He put the mugs on the table. Without asking, he lifted Buck’s leg and placed it in his lap.
His hands were warm and rough. He began to massage the scarred tissue, his thumbs working out the knots in the hamstring, his touch gentle over the sensitive end of the bone.
Buck sighed, his head falling back against the cushions. The relief was instant.
"Better?" Eddie asked softly.
"Much," Buck whispered. He opened his eyes and looked at Eddie.
Eddie was focused on his task, his face relaxed, his movements rhythmic. He treated Buck’s leg the scars, the stump, the missing piece not as a medical problem, but as a part of the man he loved.
"Eddie," Buck said.
"Yeah?"
"Are you sure?"
Eddie stopped massaging. He looked up. "Sure about what?"
"About this," Buck gestured between them. Buck swallowed hard, the old insecurity flaring up one last time. "Are you sure you can be with a with a guy who has one leg and a hell of a lot of trauma?"
Eddie looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then he picked up Buck’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.
"Evan," Eddie said, his voice steady and grounding. "I would love you with no legs. I would love you if you were blind. I would love you with a lot more trauma than this, although I’d prefer you catch a break for once."
He leaned forward, his eyes fierce.
"You think you’re less than you were? You’re more. You rebuilt yourself from nothing. You looked at the worst thing that could happen to a person, and you said, 'Not today.' That’s the man I want to grow old with. I don't want perfect. I want you."
Buck felt the tears prick his eyes, but they weren't sad tears. They were tears of release.
"I love you," Buck whispered.
"I know," Eddie smiled. "I love you too."
He leaned in and kissed him. It was slow, sweet, and full of promises. It was a kiss that said I’m staying.
The following Sunday, they went back to the beach.
It was a department barbecue. The whole 118 family was there. Bobby was manning the grill, Athena was holding court in a beach chair, Hen and Karen were chasing Denny and marauding foster kids, and Chimney was trying to convince Maddie that sunscreen was a conspiracy.
Buck stood at the water’s edge.
He was wearing his water leg. He had his board shorts on. He wasn't hiding.
He watched Christopher and Eddie playing in the surf. Christopher was laughing, splashing his dad, balancing on his own uneven legs against the push and pull of the tide.
Buck looked down at his prosthetic. It sank slightly into the wet sand.
For a long time, he had defined himself by what he did. I am a firefighter. I am a hero. I am the guy who fixes things.
When he lost the leg, he thought he had lost the definition. He thought he was a blank page.
But as he stood there, watching the sun glint off the ocean, he realized the list was longer than he thought.
I am a teacher.
I am a boyfriend.
I am a brother.
I am a son.
I am a dad.
I am a survivor.
I am Evan Buckley.
I am Buck.
And that was enough. It was more than enough.
"Hey!" Eddie called out from the water, waving. "You coming in?"
Buck smiled. He gripped his cane, took a step, and then planted his feet. He tossed the cane onto the dry sand.
He didn't need it right now. The water would hold him.
"Yeah," Buck shouted back, taking a step into the surf, feeling the cool shock of the ocean against his skin. "I’m coming in."
He walked toward his family, imperfect and whole, ready to catch the next wave.