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Before Eddie can retort, the lights flicker again. Then —click— they’re gone.
For a second, no one moves. The silence is thick, filled only by the distant hum of the city outside. Then, like dominoes, heads start to turn toward the ceiling.
“Backup’s about to kick in,” Hen says casually, not even looking up from her page.
One Mississippi. Two. Three.
Nothing.
Then the old generator finally groans awake —right before it gives one last heroic wheeze and dies with a bang so loud even Buck stops talking.
Bobby storms out of his office a moment later, flashlight in hand and the exact expression that says whatever happened, I already hate it. Instantly, the team falls into line behind him like obedient ducklings trailing their slightly exhausted mom.
Inside the electrical room, Bobby pokes around for a minute, mutters a few words that definitely aren’t in the firehouse handbook, and emerges with a grim expression.
“The emergency generator blew,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Probably an electrical fault. We’ll be fine for now since it’s still light out, but we don’t know how long this will last.”
Hen snaps her book shut with a sigh.
“So no coffee, then.”
“Hen, help me call maintenance. Chim, find the emergency batteries. Buck, Eddie —try not to damage anything while you guys set up the emergency lights. I’ll go get us offline and file the report.”
The “try not to damage anything” part is clearly directed at Buck, though Eddie’s grimace suggests he’s not exactly thrilled to be included in the same sentence.
Buck’s face falls into the picture of betrayal.
“Why does everyone always assume I’m the one who breaks things?”
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Because you are.”
“That was one time!”
Hen chuckles as she passes by. “You broke three things that one time, Buck.”
He turns to Eddie, indignant.
“You see how no one’s on my side?”
Eddie’s lips twitch, and for a second —just a second— he looks like he’s fighting a smile.
“I’d be on your side if you didn’t keep proving them right.”
Buck huffs, grinning despite himself, because that’s Eddie: calm, dry, maddeningly composed —the human equivalent of a perfectly sharpened pencil. Buck, meanwhile, is more like a highlighter: bright, messy, impossible to ignore.When the station lights start flickering, everyone assumes it’s the Santa Ana winds again —those chaotic gusts that always show up like uninvited guests and knock things over for attention.
Hen doesn’t even flinch; she just keeps reading her book, completely unbothered. Chimney, ever the multitasker, sighs and starts texting Maddie something dramatic like “If I die in a blackout, tell my daughter I loved her.”
Meanwhile, Buck and Eddie are deep in a heated game of Bullshit, the kind that started as a distraction an hour ago and has somehow turned into a matter of personal honor.
Buck’s sprawled across the table, grin wide and shameless, eyes glinting in the dim light. Eddie, on the other hand, sits perfectly straight, arms crossed, radiating the exact kind of judgment only a man who alphabetizes his spice rack could.
“Two sevens,” Buck declares, dropping his cards with a flourish.
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Bullshit.”
“Wow, you didn’t even think about it!”
“I don’t have to. You lie with your whole face, Buck.”
Buck clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.
“That’s not fair, my face is just expressive!”
Bobby disappears down the hall, the others scattering into motion, and Buck watches Eddie —steady, precise, infuriatingly competent— and can’t help but smile. Because for all their differences, somehow the world just makes a little more sense when they’re side by side.
While they’re rummaging through the supply closet for emergency light brackets, Buck hums something suspiciously upbeat under his breath —a mashup of Eye of the Tiger and another song he didn’t know the name— while Eddie methodically sorts through boxes like he’s defusing a bomb.
Buck is, as always, more hurricane than human. He’s opening drawers, tugging boxes out with unnecessary enthusiasm, and talking the entire time. Eddie’s half-listening, half-wondering if this is karmic punishment for something he did in a past life.
Then Buck lets out a triumphant “Aha!” that makes Eddie flinch.
“What now?” Eddie mutters, even though he already knows he’s going to regret asking.
Buck’s grin could power Los Angeles for a week.
“I found headlamps!”
Before Eddie can respond, Buck’s already strapped one onto his forehead and flicked it on, the beam slicing through the dim room like a miniature sun. Eddie squints —partly because of the blinding light, partly because, damn it, the sight in front of him is unfairly endearing.
“Look, Eds, I’m the Pixar lamp!” Buck says gleefully, bouncing in place as the headlamp’s light jiggles with him. “You know, the little guy that squashes the ‘I’?”
And then —of course— he starts jumping.
Eddie lets out a long, suffering sigh that does a terrible job of hiding the laugh bubbling up in his chest.
“You’re an idiot,” he says, but it comes out too soft to sound convincing.
“An adorable idiot,” Buck corrects, his grin widening.
“Sure. That’s one word for it.”
Eddie shakes his head and reaches for the box of brackets, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his face.
“Come on, lamp. We’ve got the rest of the station to light up.”
“Copy that, Sheriff!” Buck salutes dramatically, nearly knocking the box off the counter with his elbow.
Eddie catches it before it falls, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. Buck follows him out, carrying two boxes stacked in his arms —one wobbling dangerously as he walks.
As they work their way through the station, Eddie sets up the brackets with efficient precision while Buck checks each light, tapping batteries, humming, occasionally shining the beam directly in Eddie’s face just to see how long it takes him to react.
“You do realize you’re like a five-year-old with a new toy, right?” Eddie says without looking up.
“Yeah, but I’m a very helpful five-year-old,” Buck replies, adjusting the beam and flashing him a grin.
Eddie huffs, the corner of his mouth betraying him with a faint upward curve. He doesn’t understand how Buck can make even this —a blackout in the middle of their shift— feel like a field trip.
By the time they finish setting up the last flashlight, the afternoon light is streaming through the garage door, painting the whole station in that honey-gold glow that makes everything look softer than it should. The air smells faintly of metal and coffee that never got brewed, and for a heartbeat, the world feels suspended —warm, easy, too quiet.
Buck wipes his hands on his pants and looks around proudly.
“See? Technically this is kind of exciting, don’t you think?”
Eddie gives him a look. “Exciting?”
“Yeah! It’s like camping —only with fewer bugs and more fire trucks.”
Eddie snorts.
“And more idiots running around in the dark?”
Buck tilts his head, feigning confusion.
“You mean me?”
“Exactly you,” Eddie says without hesitation.
Buck laughs, that bright, infectious sound that fills the empty space between them, and Eddie —Eddie stays quiet, pretending to check the light angles, pretending he doesn’t notice how his chest feels lighter just hearing it.
Buck catches the faint smile that finally wins the battle for space on Eddie’s lips and grins even wider.
He thinks —no, knows— that if Eddie ever smiled like that on purpose, the blackout wouldn’t even matter. The whole damn station would light up anyway.
When night finally falls completely, the station glows faintly under the hum of the emergency lights. The air feels thick— quiet, but alive.
Bobby, ever the captain even in chaos, decides that cooking might “kill time,” though everyone suspects it’s his way of keeping the team grounded. The smell of something vaguely tomato-based starts drifting through the common area, mingling with the metallic scent of flashlights and warm cables.
Hen and Chimney hover near the technician who’s come to check the generator, though they already know it’s pointless. The city’s out cold —Los Angeles itself taking an unplanned nap.
Buck, on the other hand, has already been kicked out of the kitchen after his third failed attempt to stick a lamp to Bobby’s forehead. His argument? “It’ll help you cook hands-free!” His execution? Disastrous.
And Eddie —well, Eddie’s been put in charge of the impossible: keeping Buck distracted.
Buck is sprawled on the couch, tapping his fingers against his knees, his restless energy vibrating through the room. Eddie sips his coffee slowly, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Buck keeps glancing at the ceiling like he’s about to climb it.
Then, all at once, Buck jumps to his feet, his eyes bright with that familiar spark that usually ends in paperwork and minor burns.
“I’m going up to the roof,” he announces.
Eddie looks up from his mug. “Of course you are.”
Buck grins, the kind of grin that makes saying no feel like a crime. “Come on, Eds. The stars must look incredible right now.”
Eddie sighs, setting his mug on the table and stretching like a man who knows he’s about to regret this. “I’ll go, but only because I’m afraid you’ll fall off the roof.”
Buck’s grin grows impossibly wider, his heart doing something ridiculous in his chest. Because, sure, Eddie’s pretending it’s about safety, but Buck knows. He knows Eddie wants to see the stars, too.
“You know it’s pitch black up there, right?” Eddie mutters as they head for the stairs.
“That’s the idea, Eds,” Buck calls back, opening the door and motioning for Eddie to go first, mock chivalrous.
Eddie walks past with a quiet shake of his head, and Buck follows, the sound of their boots echoing softly on the steps. The station feels suspended in that strange, humming kind of silence —the kind that invites thought, or maybe trouble.
“Come on,” Buck says after a moment. “When was the last time you saw real stars?”
Eddie snorts, hidden by the shadows.
“I see stars every time you open your mouth after midnight.”
Buck laughs, and the sound rings warm in the stairwell.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
When they push open the rooftop door, the world unfolds before them. The city —usually loud, blinding, alive— is muted. Only a few distant pockets of light shimmer like lost fireflies, and above them stretches an endless black sky freckled with stars.
“Whoa,” Buck breathes.
The word hangs there, fragile, reverent.
Eddie doesn’t say anything, just watches as Buck walks to the center of the roof and collapses backward, arms spread wide, grinning up at the heavens like he built them himself. His headlamp —still on— casts a halo around him, ridiculous and holy all at once.
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh and sits beside him, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He tries to keep his eyes on the stars, but somehow, they keep drifting to Buck instead.
Minutes pass in easy silence before Buck finally whispers, “I used to hate this.”
Eddie glances sideways.
“The roof?”
“The silence,” Buck says, eyes fixed on the sky. His voice drops lower, thoughtful. “It used to make me feel like the world had stopped and just… forgot to take me with it.”
Eddie doesn’t move. He just lets his pinky brush against Buck’s arm —a small, silent invitation. Go on.
Buck exhales, the corners of his mouth curving up like he’s remembering something that used to hurt.
“But now, I don’t know. It feels different. Like the world’s still spinning, and maybe it’s okay that it’s quiet.”
Eddie hums softly, the sound almost lost in the wind.
“I love silence,” he admits after a moment. “I grew up in a house that was always noisy. Not the good kind of noise, either. Silence means… I can breathe for a second.”
Buck turns his head, eyes catching the faint glow of Eddie’s profile. He lifts his hand slightly, their pinkies linking halfway between them.
“I guess we’re quite opposites, huh?” Buck murmurs, his tone light but his gaze too soft to hide the weight of it.
“Complete opposites,” Eddie replies with a quiet laugh, his voice low enough that it feels like a secret.
“And yet,” Buck says, his smile crooked and tender, “here we are. Same roof, same stars.”
Eddie swallows, searching for words that don’t exist.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he says finally, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of Buck’s hand. “You talk so much that sometimes I think I’ll go insane —but when you’re quiet, I miss your voice.”
Buck’s laugh comes out shaky, somewhere between surprised and emotional. He squeezes Eddie’s hand, the warmth of it grounding him.
“And sometimes you say so much without speaking that the silence doesn’t bother me anymore.”
Neither of them says anything after that. They just stay there, fingers intertwined, shoulders brushing, the world around them holding still.
Somewhere below, the city sleeps in darkness. But up here, under a sky full of impossible stars, it feels like they’ve found their own kind of light.
Slowly, the city lights begin to flicker back to life —tentative, blinking, like the world itself isn’t quite ready to interrupt them. The hum of electricity returns in a wave, followed by the distant chorus of car engines, sirens, and human chatter that fills Los Angeles like a heartbeat restarting.
The quiet between them fades, but not the feeling. It lingers —heavy, electric, the kind of silence that hums under the skin long after it’s gone.
Buck blinks, his eyes adjusting to the light, a faint smile tugging at his lips as if he’s waking up from a dream he doesn’t quite want to end.
And then he looks at Eddie —who’s still sitting close enough that Buck can see the faint gold reflected in his irises. For a second, Buck forgets to breathe.
Eddie is the one who moves first —the corner of his mouth lifting in a quiet, tender smile—, brushing off his pants before standing and extending a hand toward Buck —steady, calloused, warm— the kind of gesture that says I’ve got you without needing words.
His voice, when it comes, is soft but steady, a little rough at the edges in a way that Buck always finds unfairly attractive.
"Come on," Eddie says, his voice soft but laced with that teasing edge that always gets Buck grinning. "Before you try roasting marshmallows with a defibrillator."
Buck freezes mid-movement, eyes widening with genuine curiosity, because of course he does.
"Wait. That might actually work, right?" he asks, tilting his head like a golden retriever who’s just discovered a new trick.
Eddie stares at him for a long moment —equal parts disbelief, affection, and resignation— before sighing.
“Buck…” Eddie’s tone drops lower, and there’s something in it —a warning, yes, but also something warm, something that makes Buck’s pulse jump.
"Okay, okay," Buck says quickly, standing up and brushing off his hands. “No experiments. Promise.”
Eddie gives him a look that says he’s heard that before, but lets it slide, because there’s something about the way Buck’s eyes still glimmer —the same kind of wild light that made him want to climb to the roof in the first place— that softens every ounce of resistance Eddie has.
Eddie shakes his head, fighting the smile tugging at his mouth, and Buck feels that tiny victory like a firework going off in his chest. The kind that lights up the dark just long enough to show how much he loves that smile.
They start descending the stairs, the air still heavy with the scent of rain and electricity. The hum of returning life echoes below, but here, in this narrow stairwell, it’s still just the two of them.
Buck’s hand brushes against Eddie’s —once, twice— until Eddie gives in and curls his fingers around Buck’s. The contact is small, almost imperceptible, but Buck feels it everywhere.
Halfway down, Buck lets out a soft laugh, quiet and a little shaky, like it’s too full of something he’s not ready to name.
Eddie looks over, eyebrow raised.
“What’s funny?”
“Now do you think the stars looked better?” Buck asks, his voice low, teasing, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it. He’s testing something —testing them.
Eddie’s eyes soften. He doesn’t answer right away; he just looks at Buck for a long moment, long enough for Buck’s smile to falter into something more uncertain. Then Eddie exhales, lips curving into a grin that’s small and real and wrecking.
“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “I guess they did.”
They reach the bottom of the stairs. The station lights have come back on, flooding the garage with harsh white brightness, but neither of them lets go.
Buck turns his head slightly, the movement subtle, deliberate. He looks at Eddie —at the soft curve of his jaw, the faint smile still hovering on his lips— and for once, he doesn’t say a word.
Eddie feels it —the stillness that exists only around Buck, the warmth of him pressed too close, too familiar. Maybe this is what it means to be opposites, he thinks. Not to pull away, but to find the balance between fire and gravity.
Eddie’s thumb brushes against Buck’s knuckles, a quiet, unconscious motion that feels like the start of something.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, so softly it almost disappears under the hum of returning power. “Maybe this is the point.”
Buck’s smile is small, his voice even smaller when he whispers back, “Same roof, same stars.”
And even though the city wakes around them —noisy, bright, impatient— for a few heartbeats, it feels like they’re still up there.
Just the two of them, and the silence that, somehow, doesn’t scare either of them anymore.