Chapter Text
Buck didn't plan to run away.
He never really planned much of anything these days.
He tried to go back but it seemed the 118 made their decision. They forgave him - technically - but Buck could still feel the line they had drawn, quiet and sharp, between him and them. He fought so hard to come back, thinking it would fix everything, but standing in the firehouse surrounded by careful smiles and stiff nods, he realized: some things didn’t heal the way you wanted.
Maybe they didn’t heal at all.
So he left.
No big dramatic goodbye, no bags of his things from the loft. Just a duffle bag - a few clothes, his wallet, and the old, beat-up sketchbook he’d started using while stuck in bed after the blood clot scare. That, and his guitar, tucked into its soft case. A hobby that had started out of boredom that turned into something a little closer to survival. Quiet nights learning chord progressions, stumbling through some of the trickier songs he loved (much to the annoyance of his neighbours). If Buck was being honest, it was mostly Beatles songs.
He’d memorized almost their entire discography without even meaning to. But he never told anyone. Not even Eddie. Especially not Eddie.
Buck drove. Out of the city. Past the endless sprawl of freeways, the angry honking, the washed-out strip malls. Past the crowded beaches full of tourists, kids, surfers. He kept going until LA was just a blurry memory in the mirror.
After what must have been hours of driving with no destination, he found himself on a dusty, broken road somewhere east - where the sky stretched big and wide, and the land started feeling raw around the edges. His car coughed and sputtered as he slowed, pulling over near a narrow dirt path leading into a stretch of tall swaying grass.
He wasn’t sure why he stopped.
Maybe it was the music - faint, soft guitar drifting in the wind.
Maybe it was the low sounds of voices laughing without any bitterness in them.
Maybe it was the way the place felt - like nobody here expected anything from him.
He realised this was an odd first impression.
Following the music, Buck shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way down the path.
His boots kicked up little clouds of dust.
The clearing opened up like something out of a painting - not perfect, not staged, just real.
A small group sat scattered in the tall grass, worn blankets thrown down, baskets of food between them. Guitars leaned against tree stumps. Gentle acoustic music was being played by someone. A firepit off to the side slowly smoldered, smoke curling lazily upward.
It was just a cozy circle of people. Normal, sunburnt, barefoot people who looked like they were okay with the stillness.
A man with sandy blonde hair sat with his guitar across his lap, picking at the strings in a slow, meandering rhythm. He wore jeans rolled up to his ankles and a faded green shirt with sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There was a steadiness to him, like an old oak tree.
Nearby, a young woman with wild brown curls sat cross-legged, painting careful patterns onto a flat stone. She glanced up at Buck with curious, shy eyes, her brush stilled mid-stroke.
An older man, built broad and strong, sat whittling a chunk of wood into no particular shape. His hands were steady, his eyes focused but kind beneath the lines carved deep from the sun.
Someone around Buck’s age leaned against a battered cooler, staring at the fire and humming softly under their breath. They wore a threadbare hoodie and cargo pants, dirt smudged along the knees.
And just off to the side, half-sitting, half-sprawled on a worn plaid blanket, was a guy Buck had not noticed at first. Dark-haired, tan from the sun, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a battered notebook resting against his bent knee. His head was down as he scribbled something - words, maybe sketches.
For a second, Buck stood there, awkward and stupid, wondering if he had made a huge mistake.
Wondering if they were going to ask him what he wanted, tell him to leave.
Instead, the sandy blonde one looked up with an easy smile.
“Hey,” he called out, voice warm.
“You lost, or just wandering?”
Buck opened his mouth. Closed it again. The words jammed up inside his throat.
“I guess…” he managed, voice cracking from lack of use, “a little of both.”
The woman with wild brown curls shifted over, making space beside her on the grass.
“Good place for it,” she said. Her voice was soft but sure. “Come sit. We have food.”
Buck hesitated for just a second longer, then dropped down onto the grass. His duffel thudded against his side.
The ground was dry and warm beneath his jeans.
The air smelled like sage and woodsmoke and something sweeter he couldn’t name.
The man playing music - who introduced himself as River - set his guitar down and picked up a second one lying nearby and offered it to Buck without a word.
“Can you play?” Buck shrugged in response. River held up the guitar. “Play something if you want, or don’t. No rules here, man.”
Buck blinked down at the guitar. His fingers twitched.
He had never played for anyone before. Not even when Maddie found his guitar a few months ago and begged him to play her a song.
But something about the way River said it - no pressure, no expectation - made it feel safe.
Buck ran his fingers lightly across the strings, letting the familiar hum settle into his chest.
He didn’t play. Not yet.
He just sat there, breathing, feeling something loosen inside him for the first time in months.
Maybe he could breathe here.
Maybe he could be someone other than Firefighter Buckley, the idiot who sued his friends.
These people didn’t know him.
They didn’t know Evan Buckley, the liability. The guy who never quite got it right.
And that, somehow, made it easier to stay.
Across the circle, the man sketching in the notebook leaned back on his hands, notebook forgotten, and watched Buck with a small, unreadable smile.
Buck didn’t notice.
Not yet.
~~~
Buck stayed.
He didn’t really mean to, but when the sun dipped low and the sky bled gold and pink across the horizon, the group barely seemed to notice the passing of time. No one looked at phones or made excuses to leave.
It was just the crackle of low fire, the soft thrum of music and the cool evening air.
He had learnt everyone's names now. Buck found himself pulling his knees up, resting his arms on them, guitar forgotten beside him.
He hadn’t played anything yet. Maybe he never would.
But nobody seemed to mind.
River passed around slices of bread thick with honey.
Ash poured cups of something that tasted like weak, sweet tea.
Wren made some dry joke about Buck looking like a runaway accountant, whispering it in his ear, which pulled a chuckle from him, and earned him a grin in return.
It was easy.
It was weird how easy it was.
At some point, Luna slid a sketchbook towards Buck, a handful of pencils balanced on top.
“You can draw if you want,” she said, not looking up from her rock painting. “It helps sometimes.”
Buck stared at the offer for a moment. He doesn’t draw much except for the half-hearted sketches he’s made stuck in hospital or recovering in his flat, killing time between physical therapy and feeling sorry for himself.
Still, his fingers itched.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rough. He picked up a pencil and started idly scribbling - nothing important. Faces, patterns, objects all curling and flowing across the page.
Across the fire, Jesse sat cross-legged, notebook open, pencil moving slowly and carefully. He had yet to say a word to Buck who really hoped he hadn’t made a bad first impression.
He wasn’t writing - Buck realised after a second of totally not staring - he was drawing.
Sketching something with what seemed to be great detail, head tilted slightly, brow furrowed.
For a while, Buck just watched him.
The way Jesse’s hand moved, the way his whole body seemed to be somewhere else entirely.
Then Jesse caught him looking.
And instead of looking away, Jesse smiled, small and crooked with his eyes crinkling.
“You’re welcome to peek,” Jesse said, his voice low, a little rough around the edges. He held the notebook up halfway, inviting but not pushing.
Buck hesitated, then pushed himself up and crossed the clearing, sketchbook still balanced loosely in his hand. He dropped down beside Jesse, not too close, just enough to see.
The drawing was rough but beautiful - lines of the clearing itself. The grass bending in the breeze, the trees hunched like old men in the distance, the fire crackling low. In the corner of the page, tiny, detailed sketches of the others: River’s slouched frame, Luna’s curls, Wren’s sharp grin.
And Buck.
Perched awkwardly on the grass, a little hunched, a little lost-looking.
Buck flushed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I look like a lost puppy,” he muttered.
Jesse gave a low chuckle. “You have a beautiful face, Buck.”
He said it casually, but the words sat heavy between them for a second.
Buck opened his mouth to say something - he wasn’t even sure what - when River’s guitar picked up again across the fire, the familiar tune making Buck’s heart catch.
It was a Beatles song.
A simple one. “Mother Nature's Son.”
Buck knew every note.
His fingers twitched.
He didn’t think. Didn’t second-guess. He picked up the abandoned guitar beside him, tuned it quickly by ear - an old habit now - and began to strum along, quiet at first, matching River’s rhythm.
Nobody stared.
Nobody laughed.
River just grinned across the flames, giving him an encouraging nod.
Buck’s voice - rusty from disuse - started to sing quietly.
“Born a poor young country boy, Mother Nature’s Son…”
The melody twined between them, lazy and warm.
Buck didn’t realise until halfway through the second verse that Jesse had started humming along - soft, low, almost like he didn’t realise he was doing it.
Buck hadn’t performed for anyone before, let alone like this.
He felt amazing.
Here, under the darkening sky, with the smoke curling toward the stars and the firelight brushing against Jesse’s quiet, focused face - it didn’t feel scary at all.
It felt right.