Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buck had been back at the 118 for exactly thirty days.

He knew the number not because he was keeping some countdown, a ‘look, I made it back’ kind of tally, but because the days dragged like weights attached to his ankles, each one marked with the subtle ache of silence. Thirty days of walking into the station house and watching conversations collapse like sandcastles at high tide. Thirty days of reaching for conversations and finding nothing but thin air. Thirty days of pretending not to notice the stiffness in Bobby’s posture when their eyes met, the clipped replies from Hen, the distracted nods from Chim, the deliberate absence of Eddie’s gaze.

It was like being back in middle school, only worse. At least back then, Buck had been too young to know the word pariah.

Now he did.

He could feel it in every step, every pause, every time someone brushed past him with that forced politeness that said: we’re tolerating you, not welcoming you. He had thought—naïvely, maybe—that time would smooth it over. That the lawsuit, as ugly as it had been, would fade into the background once he put his helmet back on, once he showed up again on calls, once he reminded them who he was in the field.

But time hadn’t smoothed anything. Time had sharpened it.

The silence was worse than yelling. Worse than a lecture. Worse than Bobby’s disappointment, which used to be the one thing Buck couldn’t stand. At least disappointment meant they still cared enough to be invested. Now there was just absence.

Like he’d come back a ghost.

The first shift had been the most brutal. He’d walked in, uniform crisp, smile bright, trying to make it easy for them, trying to say without words: I know I screwed up, but I’m here, I’m still me, let’s move forward. He apologised, and received nothing in return.

Hen had looked right past him. Chim had muttered something under his breath that he didn’t quite catch, then turned back to his phone. Bobby had handed out assignments like Buck was just another name on the roster—no warmth, no recognition. Eddie—Eddie had glanced at him for half a second, jaw tight, then dropped his gaze and busied himself with checking the rig.

That was the first crack.

By day three, the jokes Buck tried to toss out over breakfast landed in silence. By day five, when Bobby paired people up for drills, no one volunteered to work with him. By day seven, he stopped bothering with jokes. By day ten, he stopped trying to sit at the table, choosing the corner single table instead.

Now, day thirty, the routine was carved into stone.

He came in. He nodded, tried to keep his smile small and unassuming. He found tasks that didn’t need volunteers and did them without being asked—mopping, wiping down the rig, organizing medical bags. He sat at the single corner table. He watched them laugh, talk, live in the warm circle of family he used to belong to, and he pretended the food in his mouth wasn’t tasteless.

The only time he felt like himself anymore was on calls.

Even then, it was tense.

They didn’t trust him. He could see it in how Hen double-checked his knots, how Chim hovered near his patients, how Bobby called him back sooner than necessary. And Eddie—God, Eddie—who used to be his other half out there, didn’t move in sync with him anymore. They used to anticipate each other like breathing: Eddie’s hand reaching exactly when Buck passed the tool, Buck covering Eddie’s blind side without a word. Now there were gaps, hesitations, sharp looks.

The worst was when they left him behind.

Twice, in the chaos of sirens and scrambling bodies, Buck had found himself running a step behind, reaching the scene only to realize the others had already moved in without him. Not forgotten exactly—because how could you forget a six-foot-tall firefighter in turnout gear—but deliberately cut out, as if he was more liability than help.

He told himself he understood. He told himself it was punishment, consequence, a kind of exile he had earned by turning on his own team with that lawsuit. But understanding didn’t make it sting less.

And every night, when he went home to his quiet apartment, he would lay on his couch and replayed the day in fragments: Hen’s cold shoulder, Bobby’s distance, Eddie’s silence. He tried to convince himself tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow they’d see he wasn’t the enemy. Tomorrow someone would laugh at his joke. Tomorrow Eddie would look at him the way he used to—like they shared something no one else knew about.

But tomorrow never came.

The call came just after sunrise on his 30th day back.

Car accident, multi-vehicle pile-up on the freeway.

Buck loved the adrenaline of calls like this—loved the way his body kicked into gear, muscle memory overriding hesitation. But today, the air was different. The freeway was chaos: smoke rising, horns blaring, glass everywhere. Civilians screamed for help, waving them over. Bobby barked orders, splitting them into teams.

“Hen, Chim, triage. Eddie, you’re with me on extraction. Buck—”

Buck straightened, waiting.

Bobby’s eyes slid past him. “Support. Keep the scene clear.”

Support.

It was the firefighter equivalent of being benched. Probie work. 

Still, Buck nodded, forcing his voice steady. “Got it.”

He directed panicked drivers and other people away from the wreck, pulled flares from the rig, laid them in a line to redirect traffic. He carried equipment when Bobby barked for it. But when he moved closer, offering tools, Eddie took them from Chim instead. When Buck reached for a victim’s stretcher, Hen’s hand brushed him off with a sharp, “We’ve got it.”

By the end of the call, Buck was sweating under his gear, heart pounding not from exertion but from the slow, crawling realization: they will never want him again. One month back and he now knows without a doubt he will never be wanted here again. 

Not really. Not here.

When they loaded up the rig, the others laughed about something Chim said. Buck climbed into his seat in silence, turned his face toward the window. His reflection looked pale, thinner than he remembered.

That afternoon, after the rig was cleaned and the reports filed, Buck signed out early for his doctor’s appointment.

It was supposed to be routine. Just one last scan, one last check before his doctor cleared him from blood thinners. He’d been waiting for this for months—the final hurdle since the leg injury, the thing that destroyed his entire life.

He sat in the sterile exam room, tapping his fingers against his knee. The nurse had smiled kindly, drawn blood, wheeled in the X-ray machine. When the doctor walked in Buck filled the silence. “So, doc, when do I get the all-clear to stop the blood thinners?”

Dr. Nguyen didn’t say anything.

She frowned at the screen, adjusted the machine to scan his leg, and frowned again.

Buck tried to make light of it. “Don’t tell me you found a spare parts in there.”

No smile. Just a quiet: “Let’s order some additional imaging. I want a clearer look at this area.”

Something in her tone made Buck’s stomach drop.

By the time she left to make the arrangements, Buck was staring at the monitor, at the blurry, shadowy shapes clustered like storm clouds across the scan. His throat was dry, his palms damp against his thighs.

When Dr. Nguyen came back, her voice was calm but firm. “We need to run more tests. It’s not what we hoped for.”

Buck blinked, the words echoing in his skull like a siren.

Not what we hoped for. What does she mean by that?

She left again, promising to return with details, and Buck was alone in the exam room. Alone with the hum of the machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the shadowy shapes still burned into his vision.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

The silence pressed in.

For the first time in thirty days, Buck wished someone—anyone—was there with him.

Chapter Text

The word cancer didn’t land all at once.

It hovered in the air of the exam room like smoke, something Buck could see curling around him but couldn’t quite breathe in. Dr. Nguyen’s lips were still moving, but her voice came in waves—sometimes sharp, sometimes muffled, as though the walls were underwater.

“—cells are aggressive.”

“—amputation is the only way forward.”

“—without it, three months at most.”

Three months.

That was the only phrase that stuck, like a nail hammered into his chest.

Three months.

He blinked, his body stock-still in the chair, hands clasped so tightly on his knees that his knuckles turned white. His first thought was irrational, almost childish: But I just got back. I just made it through the lawsuit, through the recovery, through the silence. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

He wanted to laugh, or scream, or pound his fists into the sterile walls until the whole building cracked. But he couldn’t move. His muscles felt locked, frozen, his throat glued shut.

Dr. Nguyen was looking at him with that careful, clinical sympathy doctors learned in medical school, the kind that didn’t soften anything but tried to cushion the blow.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” she said gently. “We’ll run more blood work, schedule a biopsy for confirmation, but the imaging is clear. It’s advanced, Evan. Waiting isn’t an option.”

Evan. The name felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

Advanced. Not an option.

Amputation.

The words spun in his head, colliding into a storm.

“What… what happens if I don’t?” His voice didn’t sound like his own, but something raw, scraped hollow.

Dr. Nguyen paused. “If you refuse treatment, the cancer will spread. Given the location and speed of growth, I would estimate… three months.”

Three months.

There it was again, the nail driven deeper.

“Three months,” he repeated numbly.

“Yes.”

“And with the surgery?”

Her eyes softened. “With the amputation and follow-up treatment, there’s an excellent chance of survival. It will be a major adjustment, of course, but many patients go on to live full, active lives. Especially someone as young and healthy as you.”

Young and healthy. The irony hit him like a cruel joke.

Buck stared at the monitor again, at the shadowy clusters that didn’t belong in his body. He thought of all the times he’d pushed through pain, convinced his body would never betray him. Firefighting had always been about muscle, motion, stamina—the certainty that his body would answer every call he demanded of it.

But now it was betraying him from the inside out.

His leg wasn’t bruised muscle or torn tendon this time. It was a bomb ticking down.

Dr. Nguyen kept talking, explaining referrals, next steps, resources for prosthetics. Buck nodded, barely hearing. When she finally left him with a stack of brochures and a kind but heavy look, he sat alone in the room, staring at his reflection in the black screen of the monitor.

His eyes looked too wide, his face too pale.

Three months.

The city felt wrong when he walked out of the hospital.

The sky was too bright, too blue. People walked past him with coffee cups and grocery bags, talking on their phones, living lives that made sense. Lives where the next three months weren’t a countdown.

Buck walked without direction. His boots slapped the pavement, one foot in front of the other, carrying him nowhere. His body felt heavy, but his mind was drifting, detaching, floating above him as though watching someone else’s tragedy unfold.

He thought about calling Maddie. For half a second, he even pulled out his phone. But then he pictured her voice on the other end, distant and brittle, already stretched thin by her own struggles. He imagined the silence when he said the words, I have cancer. Imagined the obligation in her tone, the way she would try to be strong but also keep her distance, because that was what Maddie did best—distance.

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

He thought about Bobby, about walking into the loft above the station and sitting across from his captain, confessing the truth. But Bobby had barely looked at him in a month. Bobby had made it clear, without ever saying it, that Buck was no longer the son he once claimed to be. What would Bobby do with this? Offer duty-bound pity? A hollow prayer?

No.

And Eddie. Eddie was the last person he could tell. Because Eddie’s disappointment already cut the deepest, and Buck couldn’t stand the thought of seeing it harden into pity.

He imagined Eddie’s face if he said it: They have to take my leg. Or I’ll be gone in three months. He couldn’t decide which expression would break him more—the pity, or the relief that maybe Eddie wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

His chest tightened until he could barely breathe.

So he kept walking.

Hours passed. He wandered through streets he barely registered, past families pushing strollers, teenagers laughing, couples leaning into each other. Each sight twisted inside him, reminders of lives moving forward while his own had been put on a ticking clock.

When his legs finally gave out, he found himself on a bench at the edge of Griffith Park. The city stretched below, sprawling and endless. He used to love this view—standing high above, seeing everything at once, feeling infinite.

Now it just made him feel small.

Three months.

He counted them out in his head. Ninety days. Thirteen weeks. A hundred thousand minutes, give or take.

And then nothing.

The thought was both terrifying and weirdly comforting. Terrifying because he didn’t want to die—not really, not like this. Comforting because maybe, finally, the rejection, the cold shoulders, the silence would be over.

He pictured his funeral. Who would come? Maddie, probably, though maybe more out of guilt than love. Bobby might stand stiffly at the back, offering platitudes. Hen and Chim would whisper about how tragic it was, how they never saw it coming. And Eddie—well, Eddie would be there for Christopher’s sake. But would he cry? Would he even care?

The idea of Eddie standing stone-faced at his funeral made something inside Buck shatter.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

The weight of silence pressed down harder than ever.

When he finally made it back to his apartment, the sun was dipping below the horizon. His body ached, his mind numb. He moved through the rooms like a stranger, flicking on lights he didn’t need, setting his keys on the counter too loudly just to hear sound.

The apartment looked exactly as it had yesterday—tidy, impersonal, sterile. No sign of the life he had dreamed of building.

On his bookshelf sat a row of journals he’d filled over the years—thoughts, facts to tell Chris, interesting stuff, scribbled quotes. He pulled one down, flipped through the pages. His younger self stared back at him in the handwriting, so eager, so sure he’d found his forever.

Now those words felt like relics from a life already ending.

One by one, he packed the journals into a box. His framed photo with the team after his first big fire. The mementos that once defined him now felt like lies.

When the box was full, he pushed it into the corner of the closet, out of sight.

On his kitchen table sat the stack of hospital brochures. Amputation. Prosthetics. Support groups. He spread them out, read them in fragments, then shoved them away.

His eyes caught on a form tucked inside the folder—Refusal of Treatment.

He stared at the blank lines, at the place where his name would go, at the space for a signature.

It was simple. Too simple.

A few strokes of a pen, and the choice would be made. No amputation. No prosthetic. No desperate attempt to claw back a life that no longer wanted him. Just… silence.

His hand trembled as he picked up a pen.

He whispered the words into the empty room, as if saying them aloud made them real.

“Three months. That’s it.”

The sound of his own voice, cracked and broken, was the loneliest sound he’d ever heard.

Chapter Text

A month slipped by, though for Buck it felt less like living and more like quietly drowning.

Thirty days of waking up and marking an invisible X in his head. Twenty-nine left. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Each morning, the calendar in his kitchen screamed in silence, its pages heavy with meaning no one else could see. He never circled the dates, never wrote the numbers down, but he carried them like stones in his chest—counting down each single month that would lead into the next.

He became an expert in pretending.

At the 118, he smiled when he had to, offered help where it wasn’t wanted, carried gear like a mule to avoid conversation. He cracked jokes occasionally, just enough to keep up the mask, though his timing faltered and his delivery fell flat. No one laughed—no one really listened—but he shrugged it off like he expected nothing more.

What they didn’t see was the way his body betrayed him more and more with each passing day.

The leg ached constantly now, a dull throb that sharpened at night until he curled on his couch clutching it, teeth clenched. He started carrying painkillers in his pockets, washing them down with coffee when no one was watching. Sometimes the pills dulled it; sometimes they just fogged his mind. Either way, they helped him keep the secret.

His appetite faded. Food turned to cardboard in his mouth. At the station, he picked at meals, pushing eggs around his plate until Hen’s sharp glance warned him she noticed. Then he forced down a bite or two, which only came back up later. At home, he often skipped dinner altogether, sitting in the dark instead, stomach gnawing while his mind whispered: Doesn’t matter. Not for long.

The weight dropped quickly. His clothes hung looser, his face hollowing out. He avoided mirrors.

Sleep fractured into jagged pieces. When he closed his eyes, he saw shadows blooming across scans, Dr. Nguyen’s calm face delivering the death sentence. He woke gasping, sheets tangled around his legs, whispering the number left on his invisible countdown.

Three months. Now only two.

On calls, he threw himself in harder than ever.

It was the only time he felt alive—when adrenaline surged and the world narrowed to smoke and fire, to screams and sirens. He charged into danger without hesitation, dragging victims out, climbing higher, running faster. But those moments were rare, usually only when Bobby didn’t have another choice. Most of the time, Buck was still stuck on probie duty.

When he did get to do his full job, he told himself it was proof. Proof he still belonged. Proof he should stay. But then the next shift would drag him right back to probie work, and that fleeting certainty would fade.

His effort wasn’t seen as admirable—it was seen as reckless. Not inspiring, not heroic. Just frustrating.

At a house fire, he climbed to the second floor before Bobby had given the order, shoving through smoke thick enough to choke. When Bobby’s voice finally roared through the radio—“Buck, get down now!”—he ignored it, carrying a child out the window onto the ladder.

The kid survived. The parents cried with gratitude. But back at the truck, Bobby’s jaw was steel, his eyes avoiding Buck altogether as he muttered, “You can’t keep doing this.”

Hen and Chim shook their heads, muttering to each other. Buck caught Chim saying, He’s trying too hard, and Hen replying, He’s just being Buck. The words cut deeper than the smoke ever could.

Eddie didn’t say anything. He just looked at Buck, a flicker of something—confusion? worry?—crossing his face before he turned away.

That flicker was almost worse than silence.

At home, Buck’s apartment became a graveyard.

The box of journals stayed shoved in the closet. The refusal-of-treatment form lay on his table, signed but unsent, like a loaded gun waiting for the right moment. Every night, he stared at it, tracing his name with trembling fingers.

His doctor’s office called daily, begging him to come in and start treatment. He ignored every message.

Sometimes he wondered if he was already dead, just waiting for his body to catch up.

The days blurred together: wake up, mark the mental countdown, plaster on a smile, survive the shift, collapse at home. He spoke less and less. He laughed almost never. The others noticed something was off—they had to—but no one asked outright.

Hen whispered to Chim once in the kitchen, her voice carrying more pity than annoyance: “He doesn’t look right.”

Buck had walked in then, catching the tail end, and they shut up instantly. The silence was louder than any accusation.

Eddie’s gaze lingered more often now. Buck felt it—sharp on his back during drills, heavy across the loft at meals. He wanted to snap, to say stop looking at me like that, but he also craved it, because it meant someone still saw him.

Still, Eddie didn’t ask.

Maybe that was worse.

The leg pain worsened in week six. Buck limped when no one was watching, dragging himself up his apartment stairs, gripping the railing until his knuckles hurt. At the station, he forced his stride steady, jaw tight, shoulders squared. If anyone noticed the stiffness, they didn’t say.

He upped the pills. Sometimes he doubled them, chasing relief that never lasted. The fog thickened in his head, slowing him down, but he told himself it was fine. Worth it. It bought him time to keep the secret.

The countdown whispered louder. Six weeks left. Five.

One night, exhaustion pinned him to the couch. He lay flat, staring at the ceiling, chest rising shallow. The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock. Each tick felt like a hammer.

He wondered what it would feel like to just stop fighting—to stop moving, stop pretending, stop existing. He imagined closing his eyes and never opening them, slipping under like water. No pain. No silence. No rejection. Just… nothing.

The thought terrified him. And it comforted him.

Nearly six weeks in, his body was cracking.

Dark circles ringed his eyes. His skin was pale, sweat slick on his forehead more often than not. On a call, he nearly dropped a piece of equipment when his grip faltered, his hands trembling. Hen shot him a sharp look, but said nothing.

At breakfast the next morning, Bobby watched him for a moment too long, guilt shadowing his features before he turned away.

And Eddie—Eddie noticed everything. Buck caught him staring across the loft, eyes narrowed like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Buck avoided the look, burying himself in coffee.

That night, the dam broke.

He came home late, body aching, leg throbbing so badly he could barely put weight on it. He tossed his gear aside, stumbled into the shower, let scalding water pound his back until his body threatened to give.

When he finally made it to bed, the pain didn’t ease. It sharpened, stabbing through muscle and bone, stealing his breath. He curled on his side, clutching his thigh, biting down on his lip to keep from screaming.

Minutes dragged. Hours. Sweat soaked the sheets.

He whispered to himself through gritted teeth, a mantra, a lifeline.

“Just over one month. I can do this. A little over a month.”

But when the words broke into sobs, his voice cracked open, raw and hollow.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he believed himself anymore. Wasn’t sure if he could hold on.

Chapter Text

Three months.

That was how long it had been since Buck walked back into the station after the lawsuit, and Eddie still wasn’t sure how to look at him.

At first, the anger had made it easy. Anger was sharp, simple. It told him to keep his distance, to fold his arms across his chest when Buck cracked a joke, to pretend he didn’t hear when Buck tried to start a conversation. Anger let him believe Buck had chosen the lawsuit over them—over him—over everything they’d built.

But anger had a half-life.

And lately, when Eddie watched Buck across the loft, across the rig, across the endless days of calls, something else had started creeping in. Something that kept him awake at night when the house was quiet and Christopher was asleep.

Guilt.

Because Buck didn’t look like Buck anymore.

At first, Eddie thought it was just in his head—projecting, maybe, or that Buck wasn’t sleeping. But the signs piled up: the way Buck’s uniform hung looser, the shadows under his eyes, the way his smiles didn’t quite reach. The reckless edge on calls that wasn’t bravery but desperation.

And then there were the little things.

The way Buck sometimes pushed food around on his plate without eating. The way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching. The way he stared off into nothing, eyes distant, like he was somewhere far away.

Eddie noticed. He always noticed. He couldn’t not. Buck was—Buck had always been—the person Eddie watched closest, the person he counted on without thinking. His person.

And yet, he said nothing.

Because guilt cut both ways.

Every time Eddie thought about asking, about reaching across the silence, another voice rose in his head, sharp and bitter: He sued us. He chose himself. Why should you care now?

So Eddie stayed quiet. And watched. And let the worry sharpen until it was almost unbearable.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday afternoon.

The station was quiet, the others scattered. Eddie was headed toward the lockers when he heard a voice from the bathroom—low, trembling.

Buck’s.

Eddie slowed, heart kicking harder. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the words slipped through the cracked door like knives. Buck clearly thought he was alone.

“I’m not doing the surgery.” A pause, a shaky breath. “You said three months. I have one left. I told you, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie froze.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of him. He stood rooted to the floor, pulse hammering in his ears. Surgery. Three months. Not doing it.

His brain scrambled to make sense of it, but the pieces only fit one way, and the picture they painted made his chest tighten until he could barely breathe.

When Buck’s voice faded—the sound of the sink running—Eddie backed away, forcing his steps quiet. His throat burned with the need to demand answers, to kick the door open and shake the truth out of him. But something stopped him—fear, maybe. Or the knowledge that whatever Buck was hiding, he wasn’t ready to share it.

Not with Eddie. Not with anyone.

But Eddie couldn’t unhear the words.

Three months. I’m not doing the surgery.

That night, Eddie lay awake long after Christopher had drifted off, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed every sign he’d brushed off, every hollow smile, every reckless move on a call. The pieces fit too perfectly now. Buck was sick. Buck was dying.

And Eddie had done nothing but look away.

The guilt pressed down until Eddie couldn’t breathe. He thought about Christopher—how much Chris adored Buck, how Buck was woven into their lives like family. What would happen to Chris if Buck was gone? What would happen to Eddie?

The thought twisted his insides until he sat up, shoving his hands through his hair, whispering into the dark:

“Goddammit, Buck.”

He couldn’t just sit here anymore.

The next shift, Buck called out sick.

The excuse was vague—“not feeling great, nothing serious”—but Eddie felt his stomach drop the second Bobby relayed it. Hen frowned, murmured, “Told you something was off,” and Chim nodded grimly. Bobby’s jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed with guilt Eddie recognized all too well.

None of them said anything more. None of them admitted they knew something was seriously wrong. But the air in the station grew heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Everyone was worried.

For Eddie, it was the final straw.

By the end of the day, he was driving across the city, knuckles white on the steering wheel, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Buck’s apartment felt wrong the second Eddie stepped inside.

It wasn’t messy, not exactly, but it carried the emptiness of a place abandoned in spirit if not in body. Papers were scattered across the counter, medical forms with words that made Eddie’s stomach lurch: Diagnosis. Biopsy. Treatment refusal. Prosthetics. Support groups. Leukemia.

And worse—an unfinished will.

Eddie’s throat closed as he scanned the words, Buck’s handwriting scrawled across the lines of the refusal of treatment form. His vision blurred, rage and fear crashing together in his chest.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him whip around.

Buck stood at the bottom of the stairs, hair damp, a towel slung around his shoulders. He froze, blue eyes wide, water dripping onto the floor.

“Eddie,” he said, voice cracking on the name.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Eddie’s hands clenched around the papers. “You weren’t going to tell me?” His voice was raw, shaking with fury and hurt. “You weren’t going to tell anyone?”

Buck flinched, shoulders curling inward. “Why do you care? You made it clear I don’t matter here.”

The words sliced through Eddie, sharp and unrelenting. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then forced the truth out before it drowned him.

“I care because you’re—” His voice broke, the admission burning its way out. “Because you’re Buck. Because you’ve been there for me, for Chris, for everything, and I—God, I’ve been an idiot. I’m the biggest jerk who deserves nothing, not forgiveness, nothing. I let my pride get in the way, and I should’ve seen. I should’ve asked. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. But don’t you dare think for a second that you don’t matter. That you can just give up. I won’t allow it, and you can hate me and want nothing to do with me after you get better, but I’m not going anywhere until you get treatment.”

Buck shook his head, tears brimming. “I’m tired, Eddie. I’m so tired. I can’t… I don’t want to fight anymore. Not when I’ve already lost everyone. Everything.”

“You haven’t,” Eddie said, voice cracking. “I know I’ve been the biggest asshole, but I’m here now, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t. Please, Evan, get treatment. Get better. You can’t die.” His voice broke into a plea.

The sight of him breaking, of Buck’s chest heaving with sobs, ripped Eddie open. Without thinking, he crossed the room, grabbed him, pulled him into his chest. Buck resisted for half a heartbeat, then collapsed, burying his face in Eddie’s shirt, shaking with the force of it.

“I don’t want to die,” Buck choked out. “But I don’t know how to keep going like this. I have nothing. I’m alone.”

Eddie held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder like he could anchor him to the earth. His own throat burned, tears stinging his eyes.

“You’re not alone,” Eddie whispered fiercely. “Not anymore. You hear me? I’ll be with you every step of the way. I will not leave you again—unless you tell me to.”

For a long moment, there was only Buck’s ragged breathing, the sound of their hearts pounding in sync.

Finally, Buck’s voice came, small and broken against Eddie’s chest.

“Okay… I’ll fight. If it’s not too late.” He exhaled sharply. “But I don’t know where we stand…” His voice wavered. “Us being okay is going to take time.” Buck glanced at him, eyes vulnerable.

Eddie closed his eyes, relief crashing over him, even as fear still twisted in his gut—praying to whatever god it wasn’t too late. He hoped he and Buck would be okay, but right now he just needed Buck to live.

This was just the beginning of Buck’s hard journey.

But at least Buck wasn’t alone anymore. And he never would be again.

Chapter Text

The night before Buck’s surgery, he couldn’t sleep. The hospital bed creaked every time he shifted; the sheets tangled around his legs—his leg, he kept reminding himself bitterly. For years his body had been the thing he trusted most: strong, capable, built to run into burning buildings and carry people out. Now it was betraying him.

Eddie sat in the recliner by his bed, stubbornly refusing to go home. He’d been there every single day, every visiting hour, sometimes sleeping upright in that chair when Buck drifted off. Now, in the silence of the night, his eyes were still awake, watching Buck with a steady calm Buck didn’t feel he deserved.

“You should get some rest,” Buck muttered. His voice was scratchy, worn from crying earlier when the surgeon had come in to explain, again, what tomorrow would look like. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

“I’ll rest when you do,” Eddie said simply.

Buck huffed, staring at the ceiling. “That’s not how this works, Eddie. I’ll probably stare at the tiles until morning.”

“Then I’ll stare at them with you.”

The words hit Buck in the chest, warm and heavy. He rolled onto his side, studying Eddie in the half-light. “Why are you doing this?”

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been here. Every second. You didn’t… you didn’t leave. You didn’t walk out. You didn’t treat me like I was—” His throat closed. “Like I was already gone.”

Eddie leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was steady. “Because you’re not gone, Buck. You’re right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck’s lip trembled. He wanted to believe him. He wanted desperately to cling to that certainty, but fear clawed at him. “What if I’m not me after this? I can’t be a firefighter. What if… what if I’m broken?”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. You will have a purpose. You will find something you love. No matter what you do, you’re never broken.”

Buck swallowed hard. Together. The word echoed in his chest until sleep finally claimed him.

The surgery was long and grueling. When Buck finally blinked awake, the world was blurry with pain and medication. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to confirm what he already knew. But Eddie was there, hand wrapped around his, grounding him.

“You’re okay,” Eddie whispered. “You made it through.”

Buck turned his head, tears already forming. “I don’t feel okay.”

“I know.” Eddie’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, gentle. “But you will.”

When Buck let his gaze drop, the sight hit him like a freight train. The blankets lay flat where his leg should have been. He gasped, choking on a sob, his chest heaving as panic climbed his throat.

“I can’t—Eddie, I can’t—”

Eddie climbed onto the edge of the bed without hesitation, pulling Buck into his arms as much as the wires and tubes allowed. “Shh. I’ve got you. Breathe with me, okay? In and out. Just like on a call.”

Buck buried his face in Eddie’s shoulder, sobbing. The loss hit him all at once — not just the leg, but the dreams that went with it: running with the team, scaling ladders, carrying victims. He wasn’t that man anymore.

But Eddie held on, whispering steady reassurances until Buck’s sobs quieted, leaving him raw and empty.

“You’re still Buck,” Eddie murmured. “You’re still the guy who runs headfirst into danger, who gives everything for everyone else. That hasn’t changed.”

Buck pulled back enough to look at him, eyes swollen and red. “But I can’t be a firefighter.”

“Maybe not the way you were before,” Eddie admitted. “But whatever you do, you will be great at it.” He smiled.

“Thanks for being here this whole time,” Buck said.

Eddie’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”

For the first time in weeks, something like hope flickered inside Buck.

The first time the rest of the 118 walked into Buck’s hospital room together, the silence that followed was suffocating. The soft beeping of the monitors, the faint smell of antiseptic, the mechanical hum of the IV pump — everything seemed louder than it should have been. Eddie sat at Buck’s bedside, a constant presence since the night everything came crashing down. Buck was propped against the pillows, pale and exhausted, dark circles etched under his eyes. His hair was messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat, but his gaze was sharp, bracing.

The sight of his so‑called family hesitating in the doorway was almost laughable. They had ignored him, pushed him away, left him to rot under the weight of their disappointment. Now they wanted to show up? Now that the choice had been ripped from his hands and the truth dragged into the open?

Bobby cleared his throat first, awkward and low. “Hey, Buck.”

Buck stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t reply.

Hen stepped forward, clutching the strap of her bag. “We… we didn’t know.” Her voice faltered with regret.

“Of course you didn’t,” Buck said, voice rough but steady. He shifted slightly, wincing as he moved his leg—what remained of it. His words came sharper now. “You never asked. You never wanted to know what was going on with me. Not once.”

Chim flinched at the accusation. “That’s not fair—”

“No?” Buck’s laugh was hollow. “You all froze me out. Every day. Every shift. Like I was the plague. Like I didn’t matter anymore. You think I didn’t notice the way conversations stopped when I walked in? The way Bobby refused to partner me on calls, the way you all looked right through me? That wasn’t fair either, Chim.”

The sting of truth left Chim speechless. He dropped his gaze.

Bobby took a tentative step forward, guilt written on his face. “You have to understand, Buck… we were angry. Hurt.”

“So was I,” Buck snapped. “But I didn’t throw you away.” His chest heaved, voice cracking. “I came back after the lawsuit because I wanted to make it right, and all I got was silence. Cold shoulders. Like I hadn’t bled with you. Like I hadn’t earned my place a thousand times over.”

Hen’s eyes brimmed with tears. “We should have done better. We failed you.”

“Yeah,” Buck said simply. “You did.”

The words hung heavy in the room.

Eddie reached out, brushing Buck’s arm, grounding him. Buck didn’t soften. He wasn’t going to hand out forgiveness because they had finally decided to show up. They hadn’t been there when he was drowning in silence, when he had decided it would be easier to let cancer kill him. Eddie showed up, eventually he showed up and since the day he decided to fight, Eddie had been at every appointment, every call, every breakdown. 

The door opened again. Athena entered with quiet confidence. Her eyes softened when they landed on Buck. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” she asked, voice warm and maternal in a way that cut through the heaviness.

Buck hadn’t realized how badly he needed that question asked with sincerity. “I’ve been better,” he admitted quietly.

She smiled and moved closer, brushing a hand over his hair like it was the most natural thing. “I can imagine.” Her gaze flicked to the others, sharp. “At least you’re not alone now.”

Her words hit like a reprimand though she never raised her voice. The 118 shifted under her look.

Buck closed his eyes briefly. Athena had never iced him out. She hadn’t condoned the lawsuit, but she hadn’t treated him like poison either. She’d kept her distance because it wasn’t her place to intervene in firehouse politics, but she’d always met his eyes, always greeted him kindly. That was more than the others had done.

Then another voice cracked something open. “Evan?”

Maddie stood in the doorway, hands trembling, tears streaming down her face. Buck’s chest tightened. He wanted to run to her, to promise he was okay. But the wall of betrayal held him still.

“Maddie,” he said, low.

Her lip quivered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He let out a sharp breath; anger spilled over. “Because you’ve been gone, Maddie. You left me. You didn’t answer my calls. You didn’t check in. You wanted distance, and I gave it to you. When I needed you most, when my life was about to change forever, I couldn’t bring myself to beg for your attention again.”

Her sob was immediate, ragged. “I thought you didn’t want me around after the lawsuit. I thought—”

“I’ve always wanted you around,” Buck cut her off, voice breaking. “You’re my sister, Maddie. But it felt like everyone I loved hated me. I couldn’t stand the thought of you looking at me like they did.” His eyes flicked toward the 118, still hovering. “Like I wasn’t worth the air I was breathing.”

Maddie crossed the room and fell to her knees by his bedside. “I’m so sorry, Evan. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. You shouldn’t have gone through this alone.”

Buck’s face twisted, torn between anger and the desperate longing for her comfort. He didn’t know how to forgive her yet, but her presence, her tears, felt real.

The room stayed tense. Finally Buck looked at Bobby, Hen, and Chim again. “You want forgiveness? You don’t just get to say sorry and expect me to smile and move on. You left me to rot. You made me feel like nothing. I nearly died because of it. So no, I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

Bobby flinched as if struck. Hen’s tears flowed freely; Chim’s jaw tightened. Eddie’s hand tightened on Buck’s arm, protective.

“But,” Buck continued, voice softer though resolute, “I’ll let you try to earn it. If you want to be in my life, if you actually give a damn about me, prove it. Show up. Be there. Words don’t mean anything anymore.”

The 118 nodded, humbled.

Athena squeezed Buck’s shoulder. “That’s fair. More than fair.”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Whatever happens with us, Buck, I’ve spoken with the chief. He wants to offer you a teaching job at the academy—train new recruits. Your record shows you’d be perfect for the job. He’ll reach out in a couple weeks if you’re interested.” Bobby smiled shyly.

Buck blinked, stunned. “They want me to teach?”

Bobby nodded. “Yes. They’ll pay for the course while you’re recovering, then you can continue with the LAFD as a recruit trainer. Firefighting as before might not be an option, but the chief doesn’t want to lose you. You have too much to give.”

Buck didn’t know what to say. He could teach and train new firefighters. Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. He nodded to Bobby in thanks.

Maddie pressed her forehead to his arm, whispering apologies over and over. Buck let her, tears sliding silently down his cheeks, unsure whether he was crying for what he’d lost or for the faint glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t have to go through the rest of this alone.

For the first time in months, the room was full. But Buck couldn’t ignore the ache in his chest: forgiveness was not something easily given. He’d been broken by the people he loved most, and piecing himself back together would take time.

Time was something he finally had now that he had chosen to fight.

Recovery wasn’t easy. Physical therapy pushed him harder than any fire ever had. Learning to use the prosthetic felt like starting from scratch—every step awkward and clumsy, his balance foreign. There were days he cursed the therapists, days he cried in frustration, days he wanted to quit.

Then came chemo: the nausea, the fatigue, the way food tasted like metal and water like ash. He hated it. Hated how weak it made him, how helpless.

But Eddie was always there. Sitting through every session, holding the bucket when Buck couldn’t stop vomiting, bringing Christopher by on weekends to brighten the room with laughter. Chris had been gentle and unsure at first, but Buck forced himself to push through because Chris deserved to see more than broken pieces.

One night, when the nausea was at its worst and Buck curled up on the couch in Eddie’s living room, shivering under a blanket, Eddie knelt beside him with a glass of water. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly.

Buck’s eyes fluttered open, exhaustion etched in every line of his face. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

“I know,” Eddie whispered. “But you’re not fighting alone.”

Tears spilled over. “Why do you care so much?” Buck asked, voice breaking.

Eddie froze. He’d wanted to say it a hundred times, but the timing never felt right. He looked into Buck’s watery blue eyes and suddenly holding it back felt impossible.

“Because I love you,” Eddie confessed, voice trembling but sure. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I just… didn’t know how to say it. And then everything happened, and I thought I’d lost my chance. But Buck, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care if you’re in uniform or on crutches or lying on this couch. You’re it for me.”

Buck’s breath caught, eyes wide. For a moment he thought his chemo-fogged brain had made up the words he’d always wanted. “You—Eddie—”

“I mean it,” Eddie pressed, his hand cupping Buck’s cheek. “You’re not broken. You’re not less. You’re everything. And I love you.”

Buck sobbed, half-laugh, half-cry, collapsing into Eddie’s chest. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he whispered. “I’m a mess. I’m angry and scared and I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again. I have one leg, Eddie.”

Eddie wrapped his arms around him, holding tight. “Then we’ll be messy together. Scared together. You don’t have to be whole for me to love you. You just have to be you. One less leg won’t change that.”

For the first time since the diagnosis, Buck let himself believe he wasn’t alone. That maybe, even without his leg, scars, chemo, and pain, he was still worthy of love.

When he finally drifted off against Eddie’s chest, he felt something he hadn’t in months: safe. Wanted. Home.

The day the oncologist told him he was in remission, Eddie was there, Christopher at his side, grinning. Buck cried, clutching both of them like lifelines. That night, when they got home, Eddie kissed him for the first time—slow, tender, certain.

“I told you,” Eddie whispered against his lips. “We’d figure it out. Together.”

Buck smiled through his tears, his heart full in a way it hadn’t been in years. He believed him now.

He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t alone. He was loved.

And for Buck, that was enough.