Chapter Text
Buck knew the numbers by heart.
Oxygen saturation: steady.
Pulmonary function: within operational limits.
Cardiac response: normal under sustained exertion.
The cobalt screws were gone now — surgically removed after the pulmonary embolism nearly killed him — but the memory of them lingered. The blood thinners were still part of his daily routine, a small, measured risk signed off by every medical professional who mattered.
He took them exactly as prescribed.
He did everything right.
The recertification exam had been almost laughably thorough. Buck passed with a score that made the examiner pause, then scroll back through the data like he expected to find a mistake.
“You broke two departmental benchmarks,” the man said finally. “One of them hasn’t been touched in over a decade.”
Buck only nodded. He wasn’t there to show off. He was there to come back.
The stair climb left other candidates bent over, hands on knees, lungs burning. Buck hit the top and stood there, breathing evenly, heart hammering but controlled.
The obstacle course record fell by twelve seconds.
When it was over, the department physician looked at him across a cluttered desk, eyebrows raised.
“You’re cleared for full active duty,” she said. “No restrictions.”
Buck felt the words settle into his bones, heavy and real. He’d been holding himself together with sheer stubbornness for months, and now — finally — something solid snapped into place.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough with more than exertion.
She slid the paperwork toward him. “You earned this.”
He believed her.
The station smelled the same when he walked in for his first shift back — oil, coffee, something faintly metallic that had always meant home. His turnout gear was waiting in his locker, freshly cleaned, inspected, ready.
That should have been enough to tell him something was wrong.
Bobby didn’t look up right away.
“Buck,” Bobby said eventually, rubbing a hand over his beard. “You’re not on the board.”
Buck blinked. “I’m cleared.”
“I know.”
“I passed recertification. I passed everything. You’ve got the paperwork.”
“I know,” Bobby said again, and this time it landed heavier.
Buck glanced around. Chimney was reorganizing the same shelf for the third time. Hen paused mid-step, then deliberately turned toward the ambulance bay. Eddie wasn’t there.
“Then why am I not riding?” Buck asked.
Bobby finally met his eyes.
There was fear there — naked and unguarded in a way Buck wasn’t used to seeing on his captain.
“We’re easing you back,” Bobby said. “Administrative duty for now.”
Buck stared at him. “Admin?”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
“So has everyone,” Buck said, the words sharp despite his effort to keep them even. “That’s the job.”
Bobby’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t about your performance.”
“It sure as hell isn’t about my health,” Buck shot back. “My doctors cleared me. The department cleared me. What exactly are you waiting for?”
Bobby hesitated.
“That you won’t get hurt again,” he said quietly.
The words hit harder than any explosion ever had.
Buck felt something go cold in his chest. “You don’t get that guarantee,” he said. “Not with me. Not with anyone.”
“I’m the captain,” Bobby replied. “I don’t gamble with my people.”
Buck laughed once — a short, disbelieving sound. “You think this is protecting me?”
“I think,” Bobby said, voice low, “that I already almost lost you.”
Buck thought of the truck bombing. The ICU. The blood clots. The tsunami — Christopher’s small hands fisted in his shirt while the world tried to tear them apart.
“I survived,” Buck said. “I survived because I know how to do this job.”
Bobby looked away.
Days turned into weeks.
Buck filled out forms. Sat through safety meetings. Answered phones. He watched the engine roll out without him, felt the absence like a physical ache every time the bay doors opened.
He cornered Bobby after a briefing one morning.
“Just tell me what else you need,” Buck said. “Another test? Another eval? I’ll do it.”
Bobby exhaled slowly. “I’m waiting for certainty.”
Buck’s hands clenched at his sides. “That I won’t get hurt?”
“That you won’t die.”
Buck stared at him.
“I could die on my day off,” Buck said. “I could die crossing the street. That’s not how this works.”
Bobby didn’t argue.
And that was when Buck understood.
This wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t caution.
This was a wall.
The paperwork for the lawsuit sat untouched on Buck’s kitchen table for three days.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to fight the man who had pulled him out of hell more than once. He didn’t want to put his family on opposite sides of a courtroom.
But the alternative was smaller. Quieter. Erasure by delay.
On the fourth day, Buck signed his name.
Not in anger.
In certainty.