Work Text:
Part of Something
[BUCKLEY]
His conversation with Hen, before the alarm sounds, leaves him with a flicker of hope, Bobby’s face as he climbs into the engine and terse, “Locker cleaned out by the time we get back.” snuffs it for good.
Buck’s emptying his locker when his small sewing kit misses the gaping maw of his bag and lands on the floor. He picks it up, fingers running over the small collection of needles and thread. He shifts to toss it into the bin when he spies the reason for his owning it in the first place…
His turnout coat hangs in its cubby, the patch with his name, the one he’d so painstakingly sewn on, bending needles and jabbing himself countless times, just visible from the way it swings from its hook.
He clutches the seam-ripper in his hand and heads for the cubby that still bears his name. If this is his last day, he may as well take something to remember that there was at least one time where he was part of something that was bigger than himself before he fucked it all up.
Again.
[HAN]
Chimney’s coat hangs in his cubby. Buck’s been watching it for the better part of a week, waiting to see what’s going to happen.
The station’s silent, everyone bunked down for the night, like Buck should be, and yet…
He hurries across the empty app bay, seam-ripper clenched in one meaty fist.
Gotta be quick.
He flips Chim’s coat, reaching for the tail and the patch he knows has been haphazardly stitched into place.
It doesn’t take long, a few flicks of his wrist and the patch is coming away before he tucks it into the pocket of his LAFD-issued trousers.
[DIAZ]
He gets Eddie’s, only because he’s tasked with clearing out the cubby and boxing them up.
The seam where the patch is attached is starting to fray, and Christ, if that isn’t a fucking sign, Buck isn’t sure what is.
He worries at the thread, tugging and pulling under the guise of trying to snap a long, loose piece of cotton before wriggling his fingers under the edge. Before he knows it, the damn thing is coming away with a too-loud crackling snap of thread.
He bunches the patch and shoves it into his duffle before leaving the locker room.
[NASH]
The turnout jacket is carried into the station as though it’s made of the finest of silks.
Much to Gerrard’s dismay, someone (his money’s on Chimney) has set up a memorial space.
Buck, seam-ripper tucked into the pocket of his dress blues, watches now as Hen and Rosen hang the jacket from a hook stuck in the wall.
They’re blocking the patch.
That’s okay though, he can wait.
He volunteers to be Man Behind when the alarm sounds. Carefully, reverently, he unpicks each thread holding the patch to the coat, trembling fingers brush away lingering cotton before he carefully folds the patch and tucks it away.