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Bobby doesn’t think about Minnesota much anymore, at least, not as much as he used to when he’d first moved to Los Angeles.
Of course, he has his moments where he mourns the loss of his family and the one-hundred and forty-eight lives that were lost in the apartment fire itself. Every once and a while, when he’s alone, he’ll sit down in the living room or the loft of his firehouse, and he’ll pray and reminisce on all the good that happened, rather than the bad he couldn’t control. As much as he yearns to think over the countless what-if situations, it isn’t healthy, and he’ll only keep destroying himself and the bonds he’d forged here.
So, he prays and fumbles with his rosary beads and looks toward the brighter future.
Bobby isn’t sure what the brighter, better future looks like quite yet. He knows Athena is there, helping to build their dream home with enough bedrooms for each of their children. May and Harry are grown and out of college, visiting every weekend and sharing horror stories over Sunday dinner. And, the one-eighteen is there for every barbecue they host, filling their backyard with earned laughter from rough calls.
The future isn’t much, but Bobby hopes it looks something like that.
For now, he stays steady in the present, cooking up one of his famous lasagna recipes for another one-eighteen meal together. It goes without saying that Bobby always encourages his firefighters to share these meals together at the table, something that’s grown as routine in the firehouse. Each meal together is a healthy moment shared, a calm after some of the worst calls they handle on the job.
Sometimes, however, the calm is shattered before he can even present it.
“Bobby—!”
And suddenly, every alarm is ringing in a shrill, eerie melody.
Hen and Chimney, who had been battling against each other in a virtual game, stare at each other before Hen looks back at Bobby. “Was that Buck?”
Bobby places the knife down carefully, leaving the vegetables he was chopping unattended. “I think so,” he agrees. “Stay here,” he commands, already heading toward the stairs.
In hindsight, he’ll regret later not taking the kitchen knife with him.
Statistically, there’s not a lot that can go wrong in a firehouse. Personally, they’ve only had the odd occasion where a bomb was planted in one of their trucks, resulting in Buck’s crush injury. The bay doors usually prevent outsiders from walking in and the side doors should be locked unless one of his firefighters is doing chores like taking the bins out back. So, really, he doesn’t expect a whole lot when he walks downstairs.
The most he expects is Buck has gotten stuck in the locker room, like that one time he’d been locked in there after saying the q-word minutes after he’d started a twenty-four hour shift. Or, he’s gotten stuck in an awkward position in the gym, lifting a weight he realised half-way through he couldn’t exactly lift without a spotter.
What he doesn’t expect is a man in his mid-forties holding a gun to Buck’s head, one arm practically draped across his chest.
Bobby takes a few careful steps forward, raising his hands slowly as he does so. “Alright. Let’s take a breath. No one needs to get hurt.” he states calmly, still taking careful steps forward as if he’s on a tightrope. The man in front of him is agitated, and he isn’t quite so sure what he wants yet. One wrong move, one wrong change of tone, and he could be the indirect cause of another death. Another kid he’d have to bury. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
The man gestures wildly, digging the butt of the gun harder into the side of Buck’s head. The kid winces, eyes darting between the perpetrator and his captain. His eyes are wide as saucers, stuck in shock and processing the reality, as if he can’t believe what’s happening is really happening at all.
Bobby can’t blame him. The firehouse is supposed to be a sanctuary, safe from the dangers of the outside world. It’s always been a safe haven, a place for private conversations and quiet moments spent in comfort. It wasn’t supposed to be shattered, not like this, never like this.
The One-Eighteen is a home, a safety-net to fall back on, not a greenhouse to be shattered by a gathering storm.
The man grunts, glancing at Buck before refocusing his attention on Bobby. “You destroyed my life, Bobby Nash.” he spits the name out like a curse, stepping forward with jagged movements. “You destroyed everything I had.”
“Okay—okay. Look, I’m right here.” Bobby tries to redirect, taking small steps forward. “You’ve got my attention. Just keep talking to me. No one needs to get hurt today.”
The man scoffs. “It isn’t fair,” he mutters. “My family died in that fire and you’re here playing captain as if nothing’s happened. How is that fair? It isn’t fair!” He’s shouting now, that raspy, hoarse voice echoing around the bay like a drumbeat in a silent cathedral.
“It isn’t.” Bobby agrees, taking a risk.
As the fire captain, he’s responded to lots of fires and emergencies over the years. Ranging from two-alarms to five-alarm fires, the lines become blurred as shifts drag on. As much as he hates it, there are casualties in the fires he responds to, either dead before he arrives or a victim not found in time. It’s part of the job, the uniform, and what makes it such a hard career.
It’s why he decides to take a leap of faith with this man. There are hundreds of incidents he could be referencing but without more information, he wouldn’t be sure with where to start.
That, and the fact that Buck is still being held in the man’s tight grasp.
The kid is pale, paler than usual, almost ghost-like beneath the bright bay lights. Gooseflesh dominates his skin like a second layer, a bruise beginning to bloom where the man rammed the butt of the gun harder into the side of his head like that’d prove his deranged point any better. And, God, he’s trembling. It’s subtle, but Buck is trembling, barely standing on unsteady feet as he continues to shift his glance between the perpetrator and Bobby wildly.
“So, you agree?” he asks, staring incredulously at Bobby as if he’d just stated that the sky is green.
Bobby nods. Any hesitation would only make things worse. “Nothing’s ever completely fair. Life isn’t fair as a whole. But there’s ways to move past it without threatening someone.” He gestures toward Buck. “What did he do to you? He has a sister, parents, friends who love him, who are waiting for him to come home. What is he to you in all this?” The man doesn’t respond, only stares, so Bobby digs deeper. “Whatever you want, we can work it out. But you need to let him go.”
He stares between Buck, scared and pale against the harsh bay lights, and Bobby, a calm figure in the chaos.
“He’s your kid.”
Bobby’s heart stops. “What?”
The man jostles Buck carelessly. “He’s your kid. I see it now.”
Footsteps pound down the stairs behind him, hurried and heavy-footed. They carry the sense of urgency Bobby would usually be grateful for, but now they only fill him with more dread.
“Cap, is every—” Hen begins, before taking in the scene. “What’s going on?”
Chimney stands beside her, but relents from asking any questions.
The man chuckles, jostling Buck further. “This—this was a set-up. You ambushed me. This—this was planned, an ambush.” he continues to mutter, fingers fumbling around the safety.
Bobby takes another small, careful step forward. “Easy, you don’t want to do this. Let’s talk.” His voice is soothing and gentle in the way that usually calms Buck in late-night conversations, but now only worries him because it means Bobby’s pulling at straws that might not even be there.
“No–” the man immediately brushes off, taking shaky steps backward and dragging Buck with him. “No, this—this was all an ambush. You set this up. You’ve already destroyed my life, my family, but now, you want me arrested.” he shakes his head, chuckling weakly. “This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair…” he mutters, an endless chorus that gets quieter as the seconds tick by.
Another small step forward. “I promise you, none of this was planned. Just, let my firefighter go, and we can talk about this.”
“You mean your kid?” He jostles Buck again, almost completely knocking him off-balance. “You took my family, why shouldn’t I take yours?”
It hits Bobby then.
“You destroyed my life, Bobby Nash.”
“My family died in that fire and you’re here playing captain as if nothing’s happened.”
“You’ve already destroyed my life, my family, but now, you want me arrested.”
“You took my family, why shouldn’t I take yours?”
St. Paul, Minnesota, 2012.
The night is a blur of violent flames and hoarse screams.
The fierce tongues of bright orange fire licks the walls and it touches the ceiling with its fingertips, taunting before it caves the upper level in whole. It paints everything in its haunting orange glow, producing thick black smoke that makes even the toughest men cry and the brightest beacon squint as it tries to brighten the path through. It crackles and pops in an eerie melody, a soundtrack that’d play on loop despite how you might try to skip the track or break the record.
He remembers reaching that door. Marcy and Brooke and Robert were just beyond that door, so close yet so far out of reach. It was like a test, a trial before the Gods and heavens above. He needed to reach that door, pull the handle regardless of how the metal might burn his palm, and bring his family to safety.
Then, the floor collapsed, and he remembers hanging there, palms sweating as he tried and failed and tried again to pull himself up.
It wasn’t fair. They were right there.
“If this is about me, then talk to me. Don’t drag him into something he had no part in.” He gestures toward Buck, who still barely stands in the man’s tight grasp, gun still aimed at his head. “Hurting him won’t bring your family back. It won’t make anything fair again. It’ll just make another family grieve the way you did. He has a sister, parents, colleagues who’ll grieve just as hard as you did if you pull that trigger.”
The man pulls Buck closer abruptly, staring at him before returning his focus to Buck. “He’s still your kid, your family. I can see it in your eyes. You're so worried about what’ll happen to him that you’re risking yourself getting hurt.” He narrows his eyes, briefly loosening his grip on the gun. “Why are you so desperate to save him?”
“Look at me, not him. I am right here.” he tries to redirect, keeping his hands up and visible. “I know what it’s like to lose someone. I know what it’s like to reach for someone you love and care for and still not get there in time. Let him go, and talk to me.”
The man glances at Buck. “You want me to let him go?”
Bobby nods. “He has no part in this. There’s no reason to keep hurting him. Let’s just talk, you and me.”
He shrugs. “Fine. I’ll let him go.”
Without warning, the man releases his tight grip and shoves Buck away from him in a burst of panic and force. Buck’s feet skid on the smooth bay floor, but his balance fails him and momentum carries him helplessly backward until he collides hard with the side of one of their trucks. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, his body crumpling in on itself as the world tilts and fades through fluttered eyes.
✮✮✮✮✮
The world is a watercolour painting that hasn’t quite yet dried.
Colours shift and run down canvas walls, reds and yellows and greys blurring into a faded palette. It runs and swirls like rain racing down a window pane, the world outside a blur as raindrops splash against the glass and join the already racing streams. There’s no raindrops here, he doesn’t hear the soft rhythm of rain pattering against his windows like it’d be at the loft, nor the downpours he’d usually dread at the station.
It isn’t raining, but colours continue to wash over each other like waves, mixing into a dull palette he’d only see growing up.
It isn’t raining, and he’s in the station, and nothing quite makes sense.
It isn’t raining. He’s in the station. He’s somewhere in the station. The world is tilted on its side, which probably explains why everything is at such a weird angle. It’s as if someone physically picked up the earth with their bare hands and set it back down at an angle, leaving it circulating the wrong way in the solar system.
Buck loves discussing the solar system with Christopher whenever he hangs around the Diaz household. Especially lately, the topic has come up a lot as Buck’s been helping around the house, shouldering Eddie’s burdens as he helps the man get his life back on track, rather than leaving him to mourn his comrades alone.
Christopher asks the most interesting questions. Buck’s surprised each time by how direct and specific some of his inquiries are, but he’s happy to indulge in a research rabbit hole with him either way. Sometimes, Eddie walks in on them debating whether Pluto still counts as a planet or what even counts as a planet anyway. The debates are always minor, some misconception or research section they want to discuss, but Eddie engages regardless, always asking his own questions about the topic.
He hasn’t seen Eddie in a few days. He misses him.
“...think he’s awake.” someone says, almost a whisper.
He tries to sit up then, needing stable ground beneath his feet, but it…it doesn’t work. It’s not numb, he isn’t exactly paralyzed, but nothing’s working like it should.
“‘ddie,” he slurs, whimpering. He can’t move his arms, not as much as he could before. Nor his legs. Nothing’s working.
Someone bumps their knee against his. “You’re okay, Buck.” they say, and now he’s a little more focused, a little more awake, he finds he sort of recognises that voice.
He blinks vigorously, trying to clear the blur filtering his worldview. “H’n?”
Hen shifts just enough that her shoulder brushes his. “Buck, hey,” Her voice stays low and controlled, that medic tone the same she uses for someone who’s half-conscious and scared on a scene. The same she’d used when Buck had been trapped beneath a firetruck. “Don’t fight it. You’re okay. Just…breathe for me, okay?”
He doesn’t respond, instead trying to move again despite the small of his brain attempting to remind him that he can’t. He wants his hands beneath him but his wrists physically won’t budge, as if stuck in place. The sharpened edge of plastic digs into his skin, tearing at the surface without remorse. His ankles won’t separate either. Panic begins to spike, coursing through his veins like a relentless wave.
He’s tied up.
He’s tied up with what feels like zip-ties. It only makes it that much more painful, the plastic edges digging into his skin whenever he moves the slightest.
A broken sound slips past his lips, more breathy than voice at all. “Wha—?” He asks, staring up at Hen a little dumbfounded. “H’n…I–I c’n’t—”
Hen leans as close as the restraints allow, her voice firm but gentle. “I know, I know, Buck.” She soothes, sitting as close as possible so her shoulder brushes against his comfortably. “He zip-tied all of us. Don’t strain yourself. You’re safe for now, just stay still. Moving will only make the pain worse.”
However, every slight rustle of his movements and scrape of his boots against the linoleum floors as he struggled to come to terms with the fact he’s tied-up in the firehouse were like jet engines in the silence. Each faint hitch of his breath as he panicked only contributed to it, and really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the man heard them.
But he still panicked.
The man, once pacing and now completely still, turned toward them. Keen eyes scan over their close positions, as if committing each detail to memory for an ulterior motive, something they hadn’t paid any mind to before. Then, he speaks, his words cutting through the air like a sharp blade. “He’s awake.”
If the room could become any quieter, it would’ve if not for the silence already lingering like a fog.
Hurriedly, he pulls his gun out from the holster once more, pointing it straight at Buck and Hen. “Don’t move. Nobody moves.” he snaps, hand trembling as he keeps the gun raised in Buck’s direction. Buck’s breath hitches, more so when the man then turns to Bobby, scoffing. “You didn’t tell me he’d wake up. You think this changes anything? You think that I’ll stop?”
Bobby lifts his hands a little higher, palms open, and Buck eyes his free hands. You’d think, logically, the man—whom Buck is still unsure of who exactly he is—would tie him up especially. He’d known he had a vendetta against Bobby the moment he’d waltzed into the firehouse, staggering and clearly favouring one leg over the other, asking persistently to see the captain. He’d been fumbling with his hands a lot, fidgety and restless, and for a moment Buck thought he’d just walked here fresh from a bar. However, he didn’t reek the slightest bit from alcohol, so Buck concluded the man was just normally restless. They’d seen stranger behaviours on calls.
Vaguely, he remembers agreeing to show the man to the captain’s office, planning to go grab Bobby from the loft. It was nearing noon and Bobby had planned his famous lasagna recipe for the team, something Buck would absolutely give everything for.
Then—it’s mostly a blur.
There was a glint of metal, a reflection. A gun hidden in the man’s belt, resting in some flimsy holster.
Buck’d seen it. The man panicked. He’d retrieved his gun, shaky hands gripping the weapon as if his life depended on it. Forgetting anything he’d ever been trained, despite his SEALs background and the brief training they get in the Fire Academy, Buck wrestled for the gun. Chimney and Hen and Bobby were upstairs, oblivious to the danger below. He couldn’t let them get hurt. He’d rather sacrifice his own life before letting this deranged man get even close to them. Contrary to what they may believe, he has no one to go home to. No children, no partners, no family to go back to at that empty loft. Only the lingering silence and the muffled soundtrack of cars occasionally speeding down the road outside his building.
He’d shouted for Bobby at one point. It was a losing battle. The man, his opponent, obviously had a better build and more muscle over him. He needed to warn them. Nevermind what might come after, he needed to warn them.
Then—pain. Just white, blinding pain, and the man clamped his hand over Buck’s mouth, halting his warning, before draping an arm tightly around his chest.
None of this would’ve happened if he’d paid more attention, or even warned Bobby earlier.
“Hey. Look at me,” he says, voice steady in a way that should be impossible in the face of a gun barrel. “Buck waking up doesn’t change anything. He’s concussed and disoriented, that is all. You still have the high ground here. Just keep the gun down and talk to me.”
Hen adds gently, “he’s not a threat to you.” Her tone is soft enough not to challenge but clear enough to cut through the panic and chaos. “None of us are. He’s confused and scared, he didn’t know where he was. That is all this is.”
The man—Buck really wants to know his name now—tightens his grip on the weapon, the gun jerking slightly as fear spikes like a drug. “Do not lie to me.” he snaps, voice cracking at the edges. “You think I don’t see exactly what you’re doing? You think I don’t see that you’re just trying to distract me?” He steps closer, boots scraping sharply against the floor and footfalls interrupting the silence harshly. His eyes dart between Bobby and Buck like he’s waiting for one of them to crack beneath the pressure.
Buck can’t move or sit up or even lift his head without the world tilting on its side again. But he can see the gun in his peripheral vision and hear the panic clear as day in the man’s voice. He can feel his own heartbeat slamming against his ribs like it wants to physically escape his body. It’s too fast and too loud and the rational part of his brain tries to remind him that it’s his panic fuelling its speed, but he isn’t listening.
His thoughts scatter like office papers in a natural disaster, swirling and disappearing in the chaos in seconds.
Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Don’t hurt Bobby. Please, please, don’t hurt Bobby.
That one thought is a constant, a single sentence that continues to loop until it consumes and takes over every thought he’s ever had in the minutes he’s been awake.
His breath stutters in its pattern. A thin, broken sound that slips past his lips before he can keep it stationary in his throat.
The man whips toward him at the noise, eyes wide and wild. “I said, don’t move!”
Buck freezes, hand numb and shaky beneath him. Hen stills beside him, gaze locked onto the deranged man before them. Chimney sits nearby, gaze shifting between Buck who lies in a disorganized pile on the floor and the man who’s still pointing the gun in their direction with a shaking grip. And, Bobby’s jaw tightens in worry and the need to help.
Bobby takes the risk, lifting his hands once more. “He is injured, concussed because of your actions earlier. There was no reason to drag him into this. You wanted me, you got me right here, so leave him alone.”
He chuckles, a deep, guttural laugh that’ll haunt the back of Buck’s mind for months to come. It’s a bitter sound, the laugh of someone who’s been living alone with his own pain for so long it’s curdled. “What don’t you understand, Nash?” he asks, stalking over to stand by Buck. “He’s your kid, family if you must. You took mine. You took mine and have moved on like nothing even happened that night, so it’s only right I take yours. And as I see it, taking the kid is only fair.”
“You think I’ve moved on?” Bobby’s tone is neutral and calm, but Buck can see in his movements there’s nothing settled about him. His eyes are darting toward Buck too fast to even count the seconds, but that may be the concussion messing up his cognitive skills, and he’s itching to do something other than sit on the floor and talk. “I barely have. I still have nightmares where I see that door, where I run down an endless corridor and never even brush the door handle. I have days where I can only think of my family, and the one-hundred and forty-five others that died with them. The only reason I’ve even grazed the surface of moving on is because of my firefighters and my wife.”
He scoffs. “Don’t you dare pretend you understand.”
“You’re right.” the captain says simply. “I don’t understand. I only understand my pain. The pain of losing a wife and two kids, and having to try and move on in life after that even when all you really want to do is join them. It hurts, and it will hurt for a long time, maybe even forever. You don’t know until you try. I asked for help. I made that leap of faith, and I’m still hurting, but it isn’t as bad as it used to be. You could try too, if you ask.”
“Shut up.” He warns, glaring at Bobby. “Shut up!” He’s shouting now, pacing beside the rigs as if that’d give him the answers. The gun shakes in his hand, the safety still on. It’s a positive, the only one Buck can make sense of in this situation. “You!” He stops pacing, staring at Bobby with enough hatred to spark a raging flame. “You do not get to say that to me.” In three quick strides, he’s in front of Bobby, practically dangling the gun in his face. “You think your pain excuses what you did? I was on my way home from a night shift while they were dying in a smoke-filled apartment.” The man’s breath stutters, fury and grief tangling in his throat. “You think asking for help fixes anything?” he spits, voice cracking painfully. “You think talking will make the nightmares stop?”
He steps even closer, the muzzle of the gun brushing Bobby’s cheekbone now. It isn’t intentional, only a by-product of a trembling hand. Bobby doesn’t move nor blink, he doesn’t do anything besides sit there and meet the man’s eyes.
“No,” Bobby admits quietly, “but it keeps me alive.”
The man recoils like he’s been struck hard. Not because of the words, but more because Bobby’s calm is unbearable. He stumbles back a step, then another, shaking his head vigorously.
“Stop it.” he mutters, grip tightening on the gun again. “Stop talking.” he demands, taking another step backwards. “Stop acting like you know me at all.”
He turns away sharply, pacing again and muttering under his breath, the gun swinging dangerously with each step. They’re broken fragments of words Buck can’t quite stitch together, his brain too muddled to comprehend half of the speech the man is saying. Every step is too loud and close and wildly unpredictable. Each time the gun swings with his movements, it catches the overhead lights in flashes that make Buck’s stomach perform somersaults.
He turns sharply, slamming his palm against the side of the rig in frustration, clearly agitated.
The impact jolts something.
A clipped-on radio Buck hadn’t even realised the man had taken from his own utility belt.
It chirps in response.
At first, it’s a tiny burst of static, barely even a sound or anything at all. But Buck hears it above the heavy footfalls and muttered fragments of speech.
Or, at least, he thinks he does. His head is swimming in molasses and his vision doubles and blurs at the edges. Noise feels like it cuts straight through the thick fog inhabiting his skull. For a mere second, he thinks someone said something. It’s distant and warped, and he’s pretty sure he hallucinated it and the faded voice that accompanies it. It’s like he’s underwater, barely registering the sounds above the surface.
Then, it’s all gone.
The man doesn’t notice. Hen doesn’t react and Chimney doesn’t even spare a glance from where he sits rigid against the glass walls of the locker room.
Maybe Buck really did imagine it. His brain is misfiring constantly, replaying sounds that aren’t there and inventing things to fill the gaps in his memory. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying so, so hard to steady the spinning in his head.
Bobby sits up a little straighter, glancing at the man before focusing his attention on Buck. “Buck.” His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible above everything else. “Can you hear me?”
Buck’s breath hitches, the small puff of air slipping past his dry, aching lips. But, he manages the smallest nod.
Bobby’s jaw tightens once again, relief and fear warring in his eyes. “Stay with me, kid.” he says, urgency leaking into his otherwise controlled tone. “We’ve got you.”
✮✮✮✮✮
Despite how much he may try to deny it, Eddie is well and truly panicking.
Buck hasn’t answered his texts since noon. Normally, it wouldn’t be such an alarming sign. It could be one of those shifts where they have call after call and not even time to have even ten minutes of rest. Or, Buck’s phone might’ve died at some point during the day and he hasn’t had time to charge it. But even then, Eddie knows something’s off, because Buck always remembers to charge his device, even if he’s on a busy shift. If it was truly low on power, he would’ve left it on charge at the start of his shift.
Something is wrong and Eddie can feel it deep in his bones.
He sits at the table, knee bumping the table as his leg bounces anxiously. He isn’t sure how long he’s sat there just staring at the screen, waiting for a reply. It’s been an hour since he sent his first text. Buck should’ve responded by now, whether it be with a smiley emoji or a short response. He’d learned early into their relationship that Buck loved his emojis.
Christopher slinks around the kitchen wall, crutches clanking against the tiles. “Is Buck coming over tonight?”
Eddie clears his throat. “He should be.”
He should be but Eddie isn’t sure because Buck is currently M.I.A.
After much debate and discussion, they’d planned a movie marathon tonight, considering it’s a Friday night and both him and Buck had the next forty-eight hours off. The movies in question hadn’t been decided yet, but Christopher was focused all day on making sure they had plenty of options to choose from. Dinner would probably be some takeout company. They’d been ordering in a lot lately, even if Buck had tried to encourage them to start cooking again.
“Are you okay, Dad?” Chris asks, making his way over to the table. A gentle hand pats Eddie’s back, and he nods his head hesitantly.
“Everything is okay.” he says, trying to convince himself of the same truth. “Buck might just be a little busy. Why don’t we, uh…” he gazes toward the kitchen counters, “why don’t we try that recipe Buck made for us last time?”
Chris’s face lights up. “The snickerdoodle cookies?”
Eddie nods, chuckling weakly. “Yeah, the snickerdoodle cookies. I’m sure he left the recipe card here last night. Why don’t we have a crack at it, surprise him when he gets home?”
He isn’t sure when he’d started referring to his home as Buck’s too, but it feels natural. Buck and Christopher are both his home, the cores of his universe, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Ever since his breakdown and Buck’s eventual confession, he’d spent more nights at Eddie’s than he’d spent at his loft in a year. He keeps telling him to sell the loft and just move in, but Buck insists the only reason he hasn’t is because he would have so much to sort out if he’d headed in that direction. Not that Eddie wouldn’t help out with that. Worst comes to worst, he’s sure Buck wouldn’t mind if Christopher and him moved into the loft instead.
Christopher makes his way into the kitchen, already shuffling through the cupboards searching for the recipe cards. Whilst he’s distracted, Eddie bites the bullet and tries to call Buck.
It rings once, twice, a third time before the voicemail message greets him.
“Hey! You’ve reached Buck. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—”
He cuts it short. Buck not answering his texts is one thing, but not answering his calls is another, worse occurrence and Eddie isn’t quite sure what to make of it.
He tries again, letting it ring once, twice, a third time before the voicemail plays again.
Sparing a glance at Christopher, who’s still distracted fumbling with a stack of recipe cards, he navigates to Bobby’s number.
It rings once, twice, a third time before an automated voicemail plays.
“The person you are trying to call is not available. Please try again later.”
He calls Hen.
“This is Hen. I currently cannot answer the phone, please—”
He calls Chimney.
“Chimney here, I can’t answer the phone right now but—”
Something is most definitely wrong.
He’s known Buck for a while. He’s seen his fears and felt him trembling, whether through injury or panic attacks. With steady hands, he’s helped guide Buck through the worst of his recovery after every incident they’ve faced this year. When he was being stubborn about his crush injury and even refused Maddie’s help wrapping his leg, Eddie sauntered into the loft and helped him with the bandages. When he’d admitted to still experiencing nightmares following the tsunami, Eddie offered for Buck to come over and sleep in the comfort of the apartment for a few days. Seeing Christopher helped him sleep easier.
And, he’ll never feel he’s thanked Buck enough for caring for Christopher when he was in the hospital recovering from a bullet wound. He’d never asked Buck to, never initiated it, Buck just went ahead and made sure Christopher was okay and knew what’d happened. If Buck wasn’t there that day, if it were him who’d gotten shot instead of him, he isn’t sure what he’d do.
Maybe this is the universe’s sick version of showing him.
“Hey, Chris,” he calls, grabbing his son’s attention. “I’m going to go check if Buck left the recipe card in the living room.”
Christopher nods, blissfully unaware of what exactly is going on in Eddie’s head. “Okay!”
Eddie doesn’t panic. That’s his golden rule.
But right now, when he can’t reach anyone at the one-eighteen, he’s panicking.
Making his way over to the living room, he holds his phone steady as he scrolls through his contacts. Athena’s is near enough at the top, the number burned into memory.
Glancing back at the kitchen and seeing Christopher rifling through the cupboards, he clicks the call button.
It rings once, twice, then—
“Sergeant Grant speaking.”
“Gracias a Dios,” Eddie mutters. “Athena, something’s wrong.”
He can practically see her brow twitch. “How wrong are we talking?”
He leans against the armrest of the couch as he begins to speak. “I’m not sure. Really, it’s just—I don’t know, something feels off, Athena. Buck hasn’t answered his phone since noon, no one at the station is answering their phones.” He explains in a rush, running a nervous hand through his bedraggled hair. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“You aren’t.” Athena immediately validates. “That’s two alerts now.”
That catches Eddie off-guard. “Two?”
Athena sighs. “I got an alert from dispatch about ten minutes ago. There was a strange transmission reported from the one-eighteen. There wasn’t much, but we heard clear signs of someone hitting something, possibly the rig or a table of some sort. Other than that, silence.”
“No..” Eddie whispers, more a broken sound than any word. “No, it can’t—”
“It was.” She breathes in deeply. “Rick and I were already going to have a look, a welfare check if you like, only to make sure it was accidental and nothing more sinister. But…if you’ve been having issues reaching anyone at the station, then we might have a bigger situation on our hands.”
Eddie stands up straight, running a hand through his coarse hair roughly. “So, you’re saying?”
“What I’m saying, Eddie,” Athena begins on a lower note, “is that someone might be at the station preventing them from responding. Now, if it’s violent or not, we won’t know until we investigate, but for now, we have our suspicions someone is preventing them from reaching the outside.”
A shaky sigh passes Eddie’s lips, and he glances back at the kitchen where Christopher is still happily rummaging through their spices cabinet. “What am I going to tell Chris?” He whispers, more a question to himself than the sergeant.
“Don’t tell him the full truth. Not yet. Until I’ve figured out what exactly has happened, don’t tell him anything except that Buck can’t be reached, okay? No need to cause panic when it might be nothing.” Athena advises.
Eddie can already picture it. How devastated and scared Christopher might be the moment his dad gets any sort of update on what’s happened. How he’ll beg to see Buck, even if it breaks hospital laws and goes against everything Eddie had stood for. How he’ll curl up to Buck and refuse to leave his side the moment they see him, refusing to leave at all until his Bucky wakes up.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of screaming at him and finally making him listen.
✮✮✮✮✮
Bobby never liked the colour red.
It always attracted the bad and repelled the good. 2012, ferocious scarlet flames engulfed his apartment building and ate away at whoever and whatever remained inside, leaving no trace of what it’d bitten. 2018, a bomb exploded on one of his rigs, and vicious flames licked at the asphalt as a bomber walked free, speaking verses no one could make sense of whilst Buck struggled to stay conscious on the ground. 2020, a sniper took the opportunity to attack and shot Eddie in the shoulder. Then, now, the present, a deranged man angry at his past mistakes waltzes in here dangling a gun in their faces, throwing his firefighters around as if they’re collateral damage.
But as he looks at Buck now, on the brink of passing out and bleeding profusely from a head abrasion (Bobby has to remind himself the man isn’t on blood thinners any more), he can’t help but hate the colour red more.
“Buck,” he calls, keeping his voice low as his eyes trail the man pacing by the rigs. Buck hums, hardly moving besides a twitch of his fingers and a slight, subtle nod. “How’s your head feeling?”
Buck doesn’t respond for a few minutes beside staring straight at Bobby with a glazed over, glassy look in his eyes. There’s no sense of understanding, no indication he’s processed the words at all besides a small shake of the head. Hen’s watching him with a medical viewpoint, one he knows is calculating the risks and the lengths of Buck’s injuries. They’d all panicked when the man—who has still not told Bobby his name—threw Buck toward that rig carelessly, especially when the firefighter just crumpled to the floor following it, blood trickling sluggishly from a new head abrasion.
Buck lifts his head again, strained breaths puffing against the linoleum with the effort. “‘m ok’y.” he slurs. “Ev’ryth’ng’s sp’nning. It’s like…” he breathes harshly, regaining his bearings, “it’s l’ke ‘m on one of th’se m’rry-go-rounds. Y’know, M’ddie hated th’se.”
Bobby raises a brow. “She did?”
“Mhm,” Buck rests his head back against the linoleum. “I l’ved them. They were so f’n.”
If Bobby thought he couldn’t get any more worried, the universe found a way to prove him wrong.
“Cap,” Chimney whispers, “we need to get him medical attention in the next hour at least. It doesn't look good.”
He heaves in a heavy sigh. “I’ll try, but, he isn’t listening to anything I try to say, so I can’t guarantee—”
“I know,” Chimney cuts him off. “But it’s worth trying. That’s what you always say to us, right?”
Nodding, he agrees. “Right.”
Bobby inhales slowly, steadying himself. Chimney’s words echo in his head like an eerie melody. No matter how troubling or scary the path ahead may seem, it’s always worth trying anyway.
One last glance at Buck told him so much. His ragged breathing is getting worse by the second, whether stemming from panic or the actual restriction of his breathing from how he lays across the floor. Each inhale is a little thinner than the last, as if the air itself is reducing in quality with each puff he takes in. They’re running dangerously out of time.
Bobby can’t bury another child.
He lifts his hands slightly, palms open like before and voice low and even. “Hey,” he calls gently toward the frantic man pacing near the rigs. “Can we talk for a second?”
The man freezes mid-stride, hands fumbling for something that isn’t physically there. His shoulders twitch in annoyance or routine, he isn’t sure which. His fingers tighten around the handle of the gun, index tapping the trigger nervously. However, he doesn’t turn around.
Bobby keeps pressing, careful and measured despite the bubble of frustration growing. “I’m not here to judge you nor make things worse. I just want to understand what you need.”
A sharp, humourless laugh bursts from the man like an explosion. “You? Understand?” He stops fumbling, index firm on the trigger now. “You seriously believe you can even begin to understand me?”
Hen’s eyes flick to Bobby, a warning in one look. Buck groans softly beside her, head turning to stare at Bobby with glassy, fluttering eyes, desperate to just take death’s welcoming hand and walk into the darkness where he can rest for a second instead of feeling so intensely. Chimney shifts closer, trying to keep Buck upright and awake without drawing attention.
Bobby swallows against the nerves. “I think that you’ve been carrying something heavy for a long time. And, maybe, you don’t want to carry it alone anymore. Maybe it’s become too much, or—”
The man whirls around so fast Bobby can’t hold back his flinch. The gun comes up, shaking violently in his jerking grip. “Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me!” he screams, voice ricocheting around the bay like bullets. “You don’t know anything about me! You don’t know what I’ve done! You don’t know what I’m capable of, Nash!”
Buck startles at the shout, a soft whimper escaping his throat. His hand twitches, as if to shield his ears from the noise, before pulling against the zip-ties uselessly. All that results in is the hard plastic digging deeper into already forming bruises, red littering his wrists as the plastic cuts with each desperate tug.
Bobby’s heart lurches in his chest. Within moments, he’s going against previous orders and stepping between the gun and Buck. It’s instinct, a force he can’t go against.
“Okay, okay,” Bobby says all too quickly, voice still calm, “no analyzing. No assumptions. Just—just talk to me. Tell me what exactly you want.”
The man jerks his hand uselessly before replying in a chorus of shouts and shaky movements. “What I want?” the man spits, staring at Buck with distaste written all over his face before refocusing on Bobby. “I want you to stop lying! You are all liars! Pretending to help people and save people, but you never helped me! You didn’t help her!” His voice cracks painfully and he white-knuckles the gun. He’s seconds away from firing the bloody thing at the ground.
Hen’s breath catches, eyes darting between the two standing men. Chimney shuffles closer to Buck, hand brushing against the man’s back accidentally. Bobby raises both hands higher in a show of good faith, pulse hammering in his chest.
“Listen to me,” Bobby says, softer now and almost pleading. “No one here wants to hurt you. But someone here is hurt and needs help. Let me—”
“NO!” the man roars, stepping forward, the gun now aimed directly at Bobby’s chest. “You do not get to tell me what to do! You don’t get to—”
A voice slices through the chaos like a blade.
“LAPD! Drop the weapon!”
The man jerks violently, spinning toward the apparatus bay doors with surprise.
Athena Grant stands in the flesh, framed in the open doorway in a way where the sunlight shines on her concentrated expression, eyes narrowed locked on the suspect with lethal precision, her gun trained on the man in front of her. Her stance is wide and confident, one Bobby is thankfully familiar with.
“Put it down.” Her voice is a force of steel and eerily calm at the same time. “Now.”
Behind her, Rick moves in with his weapon drawn too, gaze sharp and unblinking as he narrows in on the suspect standing like a deer in headlights right in the middle of the bay. Then, there’s more. Officers slamming cruiser doors and forming behind Athena with their own weapons drawn, waiting for further instructions to go in and arrest the bastard.
The man freezes for the first time since he entered the station.
Bobby exhales shakily, relief flooding his veins like an addictive drug. Hen’s shoulders sag in relief, too, though her gaze is still weary as she glances at her friend still hanging onto consciousness on the floor. Chimney bumps his own shoulder against Buck’s, a poor attempt to keep him alert, all whilst whispering something soft and clearly urgent.
Buck blinks lethargically toward the doorway, eyes unfocused. “Th’t’s…’th’na?” he slurs.
Bobby’s chest aches, watching as his wife clips handcuffs around the man’s wrists. “Yeah, kid,” he murmurs. “It’s Athena.”
And, for the first time since this nightmare began, hope begins to crack through the dark edges of fear.
✮✮✮✮✮
Buck has been in a lot of hospitals to know when he’s in one the moment he even begins to grasp consciousness.
Contrary to popular belief, it’s not always the beeping of the heart monitor that wakes you up. Sometimes, it’s the distinct smell of antiseptic that always lingers in hospital rooms and sticks to your clothes no matter how much you wash them. Other times, the bright fluorescent lights push through your eyelids, too eager to be seen. Some small, curious part of him wonders if nurses switch the lights up that bright to test a patient’s patience, or their overall consciousness. It’d make sense, in a twisted sense of logic. The lights have woken him up on occasion, shafts peering through and blinding him momentarily as he tries to find his footing.
This time, it’s not the lights, nor the beeping of the heart monitor. No, he hears voices first.
A familiar, strong voice speaks softly beside his bed, worry seeping into his steady tone and betraying the mask he’d worked so hard to wear. “Dios,” And, God, he knows he recognises that accent. “You know,” he begins, a coarse hand enveloping his, “Chris has been begging to see you. He was so worried when he heard you were hurt, cariño.”
Eddie.
If that isn’t relief, Buck doesn’t know what is.
For three years, Buck has known his relationship with Eddie went beyond platonic. As the first few months had flown by, he’d gotten to know Eddie well. One of their very first shifts (funnily enough the same shift where Bobby told Buck he needed to bond with Eddie more) the other had removed a live grenade from someone’s leg and from then on, they’d promised to have each other’s backs on every occasion following.
After Buck had his leg crushed by a firetruck and Eddie had completed his probationary year, Buck began to hang around more, especially after Eddie had sauntered into Buck’s loft, insisting he help the man bandage his leg properly. That’s when they’d really begun to grow. Buck still remembers visiting the Diaz house for the first time and looking around starry-eyed at how neat and organised Eddie kept it. There was a fresh crayon drawing of Eddie in turnouts on the fridge when he’d first gone round, something Christopher probably drew after Eddie became an official firefighter. It only made Buck’s eyes sparkle more.
Then Eddie had entrusted Christopher to Buck for one day and things ran downhill. The tsunami hit, the rushing waves crashed into the side of his body hard, dragging him beneath the deep waters and pushing him toward heavy, sharp debris. It was okay for a while, sure he was shaking and freezing and his sense of time was lost, but he had Christopher in his tight embrace so it was okay.
The universe didn’t like that and in the blink of an eye, Christopher was lost to the waves. Regardless of his own injuries and his trembling body, he searched in every field hospital and every debris-littered street for any sign of his best-friend’s son. He’ll never be able to forget the sunken, devastated expression carved into his features.
Even after that, even after Christopher was found alive and safe without a single scratch, Eddie still trusted him and for the longest time, Buck hadn’t exactly understood why.
That’s when Eddie had told him about his will in a hospital room, and everything began to fall into place.
Buck squeezes Eddie’s hand. It isn't firm, it isn’t strong, but it’s enough.
“Buck?”
His eyes flutter open, blurry vision clearing to reveal plain old white tiles and now dimmed overhead lights. “Hey, Eds,” he says, throat uncomfortably dry.
Eddie lifts a half-filled plastic cup of water from the bedside table, a sad, red-striped straw accompanying it. With care, he helps Buck drink small sips through the not-so-stable paper straw. It’s cool and soothes his aching throat.
“What happened?” he asks, sitting up a little more in bed. The mountainous amount of pillows cushion his back, his hand never leaving Eddie’s grip.
One firm squeeze, as if afraid letting go would mean his boyfriend would disappear with it. “You don’t remember?” Buck shakes his head, the only vivid memories blurred into one, non-linear sequence of events. “The station was taken hostage. This guy, Matt Larson, was grieving his wife and children and decided to blame Bobby for a Minnesota apartment fire. He lived in the same building as Bobby. Matt decided to use you as bait because you were the first downstairs to greet him, then as far as I’ve been told, he kept everyone hostage because Bobby is a villain in his story.” Eddie heaves a heavy sigh, sitting forward nervously. “You hadn’t answered my calls or my texts. That’s why I called Athena and I’m glad I did. You could’ve died, Evan.”
“But, I didn’t. I’m still here, aren’t I?” His poor attempt at a light-hearted joke went unnoticed.
Eddie ran a hand through his hair, tousled with bad sleep and uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs. “You could’ve. You run into danger and sacrifice yourself again and again. You have people to go home to, Buck. You have us, Christopher and I. You have Bobby and Athena, Chimney and Maddie, Hen and Karen, Denny and May, the list can go on. You act like you’re expendable, and I’ll keep saying it, you’re wrong.” He holds Buck’s hand with both hands now. “You matter. If you don’t want to live for yourself, then please, live for me?”
Buck hangs his head low. “I didn’t want to die. Not really.” He looks up, meeting Eddie’s eye. “I wanted to protect Bobby. If I’d have just seen him earlier—”
“Then what?” He cuts him off. “Buck, you couldn’t have. I will say this over and over until it gets through that thick skull of yours, but it is not your fault. It never will be. Bobby doesn’t blame you, I don’t blame you. The only one to blame is that bastard for walking into a firehouse with a weapon and deciding to take things further.”
He sighs. “It wasn’t his fault. He was grieving, he’d lost people, family members—”
“We all have.” Eddie argues, exasperated. “That doesn’t give him the right to threaten your life, Buck!”
Buck flinches at the outburst, guilt bubbling up immediately and eyes widening in genuine surprise. “Eddie…” he says softly, lost for words. It’s not a common occurrence. Buck is usually the one to spout off fun facts about practically any topic, rattling off statistics and explanations like they’re going out of date. “I’m sorry that I scared you.” he apologises quietly, staring at the paper-thin duvet, its scratchy material uncomfortable against his skin.
Squeezing Eddie’s hand once, twice for reassurance, he meets his gaze.
Eddie freezes. His face falls and his shoulders drop the weights they’d been bearing. He runs a hand over his face, sighing softly. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just…” He returns to enveloping Buck’s hand with both of his, “I thought I was going to lose you. And that scared me more than anything.”
Buck pulls him forward into a tight, awkward hug. He separates their hands, only to wrap his arms around Eddie as comfortably as he can in their positions. Eddie’s stiff, silent for a moment before he returns the sentiment, burying his face in Buck’s neck.
“Dad?”
Both men startle, turning to face the open doorway.
Christopher stands there in those comfortable, casual clothes he always insists on wearing at least three times before washing. His hair is sticking up in all the wrong places, curls smoothed in places where it looks like someone tried to brush his hair the slightest bit and didn’t get to finish. And, those beautiful blues are tired, sunken at the corners with the familiar teenage exhaustion Buck saw before with the tsunami and the shooting.
“Is…everything okay?” he asks slowly, carefully, groggy with lost sleep.
Eddie takes a moment before replying. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s okay. We’re okay.” Christopher doesn’t seem the slightest bit convinced. “What’s going on?”
Christopher takes an uneasy step into the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “I heard you two fighting. You were mad.” Buck shares a look with Eddie. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Smiling softly, Eddie gestures for Christopher to move closer. “I was only worried about Buck. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry if I scared you, Chris.” He pulls Christopher into a side-hug, setting his crutches against the side of the bed.
Buck gives him a weaker smile of his own. “Hey, buddy, I’m okay.”
The boy tilts his head to the side. “Are you sure? Dad was really worried about you.” He stands up properly, already making his way over to sit on the bed. “We were going to make snickerdoodle cookies and surprise you. I was so excited to bake them.”
“Well,” Buck begins, helping the boy clamber onto the bed, “if you want, when I get discharged we could negotiate with your dad and see if we can make those cookies together. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Christopher lights up, eyes sparkling. “Really?”
Buck sneaks a glance at Eddie, a smirk playing on his lips. “Really.”
Later on, Eddie will regret not staying awake long enough to take a photo of Christopher and Buck curled together on the bed, lost in sleep and dreaming peacefully for the first time in weeks. And, if Eddie proceeded to fall asleep with his hands tangled in Buck’s, nobody needs to know.