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The worst part wasn’t losing the job. It wasn’t even the awkward silence at the station when people didn’t know what to say, or the subtle way Chim avoided eye contact those first few weeks.
It was the quiet.
After the lawsuit, after everything exploded—after Buck stood up for himself in the loudest, most legally binding way possible—he thought the noise would stop the ache in his chest. That maybe, if he just did something , people would understand why he felt so betrayed. Why he had to fight back.
Instead, when he won... it just got quiet.
Too quiet.
The nights stretched longer. The beer in the fridge stopped getting replaced. There were texts from Maddie, calls he let go to voicemail. Eddie tried. He always tried. But Buck had become a professional at dodging people who cared.
The cast was gone, but the limp still lingered. A phantom pain. A reminder.
Much like the lawsuit itself.
Sometimes he’d sit in the dark and stare at his hand, flexing his fingers, remembering the way his body betrayed him. The way the department seemed to agree.
“You’re a liability,” someone once whispered behind his back.
He’d heard it. Pretended he hadn’t.
It stuck.
He didn't know when the thoughts started getting darker. It wasn’t one big moment. No dramatic movie scene. Just… a slow sinking. Like quicksand. One day he caught himself sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at a razor for a bit too long.
He didn’t do it.
Not then.
But it scared him.
Scared him enough to call someone. Not Maddie. Not yet. Not Eddie.
He called Bobby.
Bobby showed up twenty-three minutes later. Buck didn’t even remember what he said on the phone. Just that it was enough.
He hadn’t cried in front of Bobby since the tsunami.
Tonight he did.
"I'm not okay," he finally whispered.
Bobby nodded, kneeling beside him in the dim apartment. “I know. You don't have to pretend.”
Buck looked down at his hands, fists trembling. “I thought... if I stood up for myself, I’d feel better. But I just feel worse. Like everyone hates me. Like I made everything worse.”
“You did what you thought was right,” Bobby said gently. “But healing isn't just about justice. Sometimes it’s about letting people in, too.”
Buck looked up, eyes red, expression crumbling. “I don’t know how.”
Bobby stayed that night.
Not because Buck asked. But because he needed someone to sit with him in the quiet.
The next morning, Bobby helped him call a therapist. He didn’t push. Just stayed close.
Weeks passed.
Therapy wasn’t a magic fix, but it helped. Talking helped. Even when it was hard. Even when Buck wanted to throw something across the room and storm out.
He told Maddie, eventually. She cried. Not because he was broken—but because he was finally letting her see.
Eddie came over with Christopher and a video game console, pretending like nothing had changed. That helped too. Buck didn’t want pity. He wanted normal.
Hen slipped a note into his locker one shift: “You’re stronger than you think. We’ve got you.”
It stayed in his wallet.
He started journaling.
Stopped drinking.
Started running again, slowly.
Some days were still hard. The thoughts didn't vanish. But he learned how to talk about them. How to stay above the water.
And every time the quiet threatened to drown him, he reminded himself:
He wasn’t alone anymore.
THE END