Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sound of a mop squeezing into a plastic bucket shouldn’t have been the loudest thing in the firehouse, but lately, it was the only sound Buck heard.

Squeak. Squish. Drip.

He pushed the mop across the floor of the bay, the water swirling over the tire tracks left by the engines. Upstairs, the loft was alive. He could hear the low voices of conversation, the distinct clatter of silverware against ceramic plates, and the occasional burst of laughter, usually Chimney’s high pitched cackle or Hen’s warm chuckle.

Every time the laughter drifted down through the glass railings, Buck’s grip on the mop handle tightened until his knuckles turned white.

It had been three weeks since the lawsuit was dropped. Three weeks since he had walked back into the 118, reinstated, recertified, and completely, utterly alone.

Technically, he was part of the team. He had his locker back. He had his turnouts. He rode in the truck. But that was where the similarities to his old life ended. The family he had fought so hard to return to had closed ranks, and he was on the outside looking in.

"Buckley."

Buck straightened immediately, snapping his attention to his Captain, as Captain Nash descended the stairs. Bobby didn't look at him; his eyes were fixed on a clipboard in his hand.

"Cap," Buck said, his voice rusty. He hadn't spoken since he clocked in three hours ago.

"When you’re done with the bay, the inventory in the ambulance needs to be cross checked. Again. I found a discrepancy in the saline count from B Shift."

"I did it this morning, Cap, but I can check it again," Buck said, eager to be helpful, to show he was thorough.

Bobby finally looked up. The gaze wasn't angry; it was worse. It was indifferent. It was the look you gave a stranger who was in your way. "Then do it again. And make sure it’s right."

"Yes, sir."

Bobby turned and walked back up the stairs, disappearing into the warmth of the loft where the smell of Bobby’s famous chili was wafting down. 

Buck’s stomach rumbled, a traitorous sound in the empty bay. He wasn't invited to lunch. He knew the drill. He would eat a protein bar in the locker room, sitting on the bench alone, staring at the metal grate of his locker.

He went back to mopping. Dig the hole, he thought, the old mantra surfacing from the deep recesses of his memory where he tried to keep it buried. Dig the hole, don’t complain, don’t stop until you’re done. 

He was good at this. He was good at hard labor and silence. He was good at being the one everyone was mad at. It felt terrifyingly familiar, like slipping into a pair of boots he hadn't worn in a decade but that still molded perfectly to his calloused feet.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He propped the mop against the wall and wiped his hands on his pants before pulling it out.

Maddie.

He stared at the screen, a pang of guilt shooting through his chest. Maddie was the only tether he had left. She called, she texted, she came over with takeout. She was the only person in Los Angeles who looked at him without disappointment. And because of that, he couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her that he was a ghost in his own firehouse. If she knew, she would go to Bobby, or Chimney, and she would scream and fight for him, and that would only make it worse.

He slid his thumb across the screen. "Hey, Mads."

"Hey! I’m just on my break," Maddie’s voice was bright, a stark contrast to the gloom of the station. "I wanted to check in. How’s the shift?"

Buck leaned against the cold metal of the ladder truck, forcing a smile into his voice. "Yeah, it’s good. Busy. You know how it is."

"I bet. Listen, I was talking to Chimney this morning..."

Buck stiffened.

"...and he mentioned everyone is going to Bobby and Athena’s on Saturday for a barbecue. Celebrating getting through everything lately, finally having a weekend off together."

Buck closed his eyes. He hadn't heard a whisper about a barbecue. Not a word. The invite must have gone out in the group chat he was no longer a part of, or whispered in the bunk room when he was cleaning the toilets.

"Oh," Buck said, his voice straining to stay casual. "Yeah. The barbecue."

"I was thinking we could drive together?" Maddie suggested. "Since my car is making that weird noise again, maybe you could pick me up? Chim is with the Lee's before the barbeque, so he can just go straight there instead?"

Panic flared in his chest. He couldn't show up uninvited. The thought of walking into Bobby’s backyard, seeing the confusion and annoyance on their faces, seeing Eddie turn his back... it made him feel like he couldn't breathe.

"I... I actually can’t make it, Mads," Buck lied. The lie tasted like ash.

"What? Why?" Maddie’s disappointment was palpable. "Buck, it’s the team. It's our family. Everyone’s going to be there."

"I know," he said quickly. "It’s just... I have plans. A date, actually."

"A date?" Maddie sounded skeptical but intrigued. "With who?"

"Just... someone I met. At the grocery store. It’s a second date, actually, and I really don't want to cancel. She’s... great." He was rambling. He was a terrible liar, but Maddie wanted him to be happy so badly that she usually bought it.

"Oh! Well, that’s... that’s great, Buck! I’m sorry you’ll miss the party, but I’m glad you’re getting back out there."

"Yeah," Buck swallowed the lump in his throat. "Have fun, though. Tell everyone I said hi."

"I will. Love you, Buck."

"Love you too."

He hung up and dropped his head back against the truck, letting out a shaky breath. He felt hollowed out. He wasn't getting back out there. Saturday night would consist of him sitting in his empty apartment, researching new workout routines or staring at the wall, wondering how long he had to dig this hole before they forgave him.

"Buckley!"

Eddie’s voice cracked like a whip from the top of the stairs. Buck jumped.

"Let’s go! House fire. Move your ass!"

The alarm bells finally caught up to Eddie’s shouting, the sirens blaring through the station. The spell of silence broke. The heavy, oppressive quiet shattered into controlled chaos. This was the only time the team functioned like a unit, and for a few minutes, Buck was allowed to be part of it.

He scrambled into his turnouts, sliding his legs into the boots and pulling the suspenders up in one fluid motion. He climbed into the back of the engine.

Eddie was already there, buckling his belt. He didn't look at Buck. He didn't make the usual joke about who was buying the first round after shift. He just stared straight ahead, his jaw set in a hard line. Hen and Chimney were in the ambulance following behind.

The drive was silent. Usually, Buck would be twisting in his seat, asking questions, theorizing about the call. Ranting about a recent deep dive he had gone on. 

Today, he sat with his hands clasped between his knees, staring at the floor mat.

Just do the job, he told himself. Do the job, save lives, don’t screw up.

"We have a multi story residential structure fire," Bobby’s voice came over the headset, calm and authoritative. "Hydrant is on the northwest corner. Buck, I want you on the hydrant, then assist with perimeter check. Eddie, you’re with me on search and rescue. Hen, Chim, triage is set up at the gate."

"Copy that," they chorused.

Buck felt the familiar sting of being relegated to the hydrant, the rookie job but he swallowed it down. "Copy, Cap."

They arrived at the scene, and it was chaos. A massive, modern mansion was belching black smoke into the pristine blue California sky. Flames were licking up the side of the stucco walls. It was a big property, expansive and gated, the kind of place owned by people who had more money than they knew what to do with.

Buck jumped out, grabbing the hydrant wrench and the supply line. He moved on autopilot, his muscle memory taking over. He connected the line, charged it, and signaled the engineer.

"Line is charged!" he yelled over the roar of the fire.

"Good. Buckley, check the east side!" Bobby ordered over the radio. "Make sure the fire isn't jumping the fence line to the neighbors."

Buck jogged toward the east side of the house, his helmet heavy on his head. The heat was intense, radiating off the structure in waves. It reminded him of the desert. The dry, cracking heat that seemed to suck the moisture right out of your skin. He shook the thought away.

He cleared the perimeter, checking for spot fires in the meticulously landscaped bushes. It was clear. 

As he rounded back toward the front of the house, the front doors burst open.

Bobby and Eddie stumbled out, guiding two figures through the smoke.

"Triage!" Bobby shouted.

Buck sprinted forward to help, grabbing the arm of one of the victims to steady him.

"I got him, Cap!" Buck said.

They moved away from the inferno, toward the waiting ambulance where Hen and Chimney were ready with oxygen masks and monitors.

The victims were two men. They were covered in soot, coughing violently, their expensive clothes ruined by smoke and ash. But they were walking. 

They were alive.

"Sit down, take deep breaths," Hen instructed, guiding them to the bumper of the ambulance.

Buck stepped back, removing his helmet to wipe the sweat and soot from his eyes. He took a deep breath of the cooler air, his chest heaving. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the exhaustion.

One of the victims, a man with dark skin and a sharp, intelligent face, pushed the oxygen mask away. He was coughing, his eyes watering as he looked around the chaotic scene. His gaze swept over the fire engine, the flashing lights, and then landed on Buck.

The man froze.

Buck was wiping his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, smearing soot across his brow, right over the pink birthmark above his eye.

The man’s eyes widened. He grabbed the arm of the other victim a taller, broader man with brown hair who was busy trying to clean his glasses.

"Caveman," the dark skinned man rasped, his voice rough from smoke.

The taller man looked up. "What? Hector, you okay?"

"Look," Hector pointed a shaking finger.

Buck, hearing the commotion, turned to look at them. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight. 

He saw two men in their late twenties. One tall and sturdy, the other smaller but with a quiet intensity. 

They looked wealthy, wearing tailored shirts (now ruined) and watches that probably cost more than Buck’s Jeep.

But Buck didn't see the money. He didn't see the age.

He saw the dirt. He saw orange jumpsuits. He saw a dry lake bed.

He stopped breathing.

The taller man, 'Caveman', squinted through his smudged glasses. He looked at Buck, really looked at him. He looked at the birthmark. He looked at the blue eyes.

"Splotch?"

The nickname hit Buck like a physical blow to the chest. He hadn't heard that name in over ten years. 

Not since the ambulance away from hell. Not since he had signed the papers that erased his juvenile record and sealed his trauma in a file no one would ever open.

The 118 froze. Eddie, who had been packing up gear a few feet away, stopped dead. Hen looked up from her medical bag. Even Bobby turned from the command post.

Splotch?

Buck dropped his helmet. It hit the pavement with a dull clunk.

"Zero?" Buck whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it. "Caveman?"

Stanley Yelnats 'Caveman' let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He ignored Hen’s protests to stay seated. He scrambled up, stumbling slightly, and ran at Buck.

"Buck, watch out!" Eddie shouted, stepping forward, thinking the victim was delirious or attacking.

But Buck didn't defend himself. He opened his arms.
Stanley collided with him, wrapping him in a bear hug so tight Buck’s ribs creaked. A second later, Hector 'Zero' was there too, burying his face in Buck’s turnout coat, gripping him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

"You're alive," Hector was saying, his voice breaking. 

"We thought the venom got you. We thought you died."

"I made it," Buck choked out, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his face. He wrapped his arms around both of them, burying his face in Stanley’s shoulder. "I made it. I tried to find you guys, but... I didn't know how."

"We looked," Stanley said, pulling back just enough to look at Buck, his hands gripping Buck’s shoulders tightly. "We looked everywhere, man. But Evan Buckley was a hard one to find, we did look for the first few years."

"I... I," Buck stammered. "It got complicated after."

"Splotch," Hector said again, smiling, a genuine, blinding smile that transformed his face. "You grew into your feet."

Buck let out a wet laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I finally did."

The reunion was intense, visceral, and completely baffling to everyone watching.

Bobby stood next to the engine, his mouth slightly open. He had known Evan Buckley for years. He knew about the SEALs washout. He knew about the bartending in Peru. He knew about the impulsive streak and the daddy issues.

He had never heard the name Splotch. He had never seen Buck look at anyone the way he was looking at these two strangers, with a mixture of desperate relief and profound, shared pain.

Eddie walked up to them, his protective instincts warring with his confusion. He looked at the two men clinging to Buck, men who looked like tech millionaires, not the kind of people Buck usually hung out with.

"Buck?" Eddie asked, his voice sharp.

The bubble burst. Buck flinched, pulling back from the hug slightly, though Stanley kept an arm draped protectively around his shoulders. Buck looked at the team. He saw their confusion, their interest.

He wiped his eyes quickly, reverting instantly to the submissive, apologetic stance he had adopted since his return.

"Sorry," Buck mumbled, looking down. "Sorry, I just... I know them."

"You know them?" Hen asked, walking over with the blood pressure cuff still in her hand. "Buck, these guys just lost their house. They need to be checked out for smoke inhalation."

"We're fine," Hector said, his voice instantly cold as he looked at Hen. The warmth he had shown Buck vanished, replaced by a guarded, sharp edge. "We don't need a check up."

"You inhaled a lot of smoke," Chimney added. 

"Protocol says,"

"I don't care about protocol," Stanley snapped, standing taller. He had a presence to him now, a confidence that hadn't been there when he was a kid in the desert. "We aren't going anywhere without Splotch."

"Splotch?" Eddie repeated, the word tasting weird in his mouth. He looked at Buck, searching for an explanation. "Why are they calling you that?"

Buck looked at Eddie, and for a second, the mask slipped. There was a terror in Buck’s eyes that Eddie had never seen before. Not during the tsunami, not under the ladder truck. It was the terror of a secret being exposed.

"It’s... it’s just a nickname," Buck said, his voice trembling. "From camp."

"Camp?" Bobby stepped in, crossing his arms. "You never mentioned going to camp with friends."

"We weren't just friends," Hector said quietly, stepping closer to Buck, placing a hand on Buck’s arm as if to reassure himself that he was real. "We were row mates. Tent D."

"Tent D?" Hen asked, confused.

"Camp Green Lake," Buck whispered, the words barely audible.

Stanley looked around at the firefighters, sensing the tension. He looked at the way they stood apart from Buck, the way Buck wouldn't meet their eyes. Stanley had spent months digging holes in the hot sun; he knew what punishment looked like.

He looked at Bobby, then at Eddie. His eyes narrowed.

"We need a ride," Stanley announced, turning his back on the Captain. He looked at Buck. "You drove the big truck, right? Can we ride with you?"

"That’s against regulations," Bobby started automatically. "Civilians aren't allowed in the fire engine."

"Our car burned up in the driveway," Hector pointed out calmly. "And we aren't getting in the ambulance."

"I'll take them," Buck said suddenly. He looked at Bobby, and for the first time in three weeks, there was a spark of defiance in his eyes. It wasn't 'Buck 1.0' defiance. It was something older. Something harder. "Cap, I'm taking them. They can... they can sit in the back. They will behave."

Bobby looked at Buck. He saw the soot stained tears, the trembling hands, and the two men who looked ready to fight the entire LAFD if anyone tried to separate them from Buck.

Bobby sighed. "Fine. But straight to the hospital for a check up, then you drop them at a hotel."

"No hotel," Stanley said, tightening his grip on Buck’s shoulder. "We're staying with you, Splotch. You got room?"

Buck thought of his empty, silent loft. The place where he spent his nights staring at the ceiling.

"Yeah," Buck breathed, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "Yeah, Caveman. I got room, got a couch, but it's more comfty then the beds at camp." They laughed at that. 

As they climbed into the truck, Stanley and Hector flanking Buck like bodyguards. Eddie watched them go. He felt a cold knot of unease tighten in his stomach. He thought he knew everything about his best friend. He thought he knew every scar.

But as he watched Buck laugh at something the small guy, Hector whispered to him, Eddie realized he didn't know him at all. And for some reason, that terrified him more than the fire ever could.

Eddie and Bobby joined Hen and Chim in the ambulance and headed back to the 118. 

--

The silence of Buck’s loft was usually a heavy, suffocating thing. It was the sound of a life paused, of a man waiting for a phone to ring that never did. 

But tonight, the silence was different. It was the comfortable, exhausted silence of survival.

Buck sat on the edge of his bed, watching his two oldest friends move through his space. Hector 'Zero' was sitting cross legged on the floor, going through the duffel bag Buck had dug out of his closet. 

Stanley 'Caveman' was standing by the window, looking out at the LA, wearing one of Buck’s hoodies that swallowed him, though not as much as it would have ten years ago.

"It's a nice view," Stanley commented, turning from the glass. "Nice apartment."

"Yeah," Buck croaked. He cleared his throat. "It’s... it’s okay. It’s quiet."

"Quiet is good," Hector murmured, pulling out a pair of basketball shorts. "Quiet is safe. But you don't like quiet, Splotch. You used to talk until Mr. Sir threatened to gag you."

Buck huffed a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. I learned to shut up. Eventually."

The mood in the room shifted. The playful nostalgia of the reunion at the fire scene had faded into something sharper. Now that the adrenaline was gone, they were just three men with a shared history that felt more like a scar than a memory.

"We looked for you," Stanley said again, moving to sit on the chair in the corner. "After the lawyers got us out. After they found the suitcase."

"The suitcase," Buck repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "I thought that was a myth. A heat delirium dream."

"It was real," Hector said, his eyes serious. "Stanley Yelnats the First’s treasure. It was in the hole. The one you helped us dig before you... before the lizard."

Buck flinched involuntarily at the word. He looked down at his ankle. The scar was faint now, a jagged white line amidst the other scars of his job, but he could still feel the phantom burn of the venom. The paralysis. The terrifying realization that he was going to die in a hole in the middle of nowhere, and his parents wouldn't even care.

"We got rich," Stanley said bluntly. "Split it fifty, fifty. Hector hired private investigators. We wanted to find you, give you your share. You dug as much as we did."

"I don't want your money," Buck said quickly, instinctively.
"We know, you wouldn't, you never did," Hector said. "But when we looked for Evan Buckley... he was gone. No record. Just a kid who went to camp and vanished."

"They hide everything about me, and I left," Buck whispered. "As soon as the settlement money from the state came through, for the wrongful imprisonment... I got out and I ran. Starting going as Buck, paying Cash, kept my head low. Went to Peru. Went everywhere. I just wanted to be... not him. Not the son, the son of the father who did that..."

"You were never that," Stanley said fiercely. "We heard what happened, the PI told us about it, we are sorry..."

Buck looked up, his eyes wet. "Yeah."

Stanley and Hector exchanged a look. A look that said they knew exactly what kind of man Phillip Buckley was. What he had done. They had heard the story.

"You're not happy here," Hector observed quietly. It wasn't a question. He was looking around the loft, at the lack of personal photos, the sterile cleanliness, the way Buck held himself like he was expecting a blow. "Those guys at the fire... your team. They look at you like you’re contagious."

Buck looked away. "It’s complicated. I sued the department. I sued my Captain. I just wanted my job back, but... I broke the family."

"Family doesn't break that easy," Stanley said, his voice hardening. "Not if it's real. We didn't break. And we were dehydrated, starving, and surrounded by lizards that could kill."

"It’s different," Buck insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. "I deserve it. I pushed too hard. I’m just... I’m working my way back. Paying my dues."

"Paying dues is one thing," Hector said, standing up and walking over to place a hand on Buck’s knee. 
"Digging holes for people who don't appreciate the work is another."

Buck closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. It was grounding. "I don't know how to do anything else."

The next shift at the 118 started with a heaviness that felt like humidity before a storm.

Word had spread. It always did. The B Shift was told that Buck had friends, rich friends who called him weird names and hugged him like he was a war hero.

When Buck walked into the locker room, the chatter died instantly. He kept his head down, opening his locker. He could feel eyes on him.

"So," Eddie’s voice broke the silence. He was leaning against the row of lockers, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look angry, just... tight. Confused. "Are they still at your place?"

Buck pulled his uniform shirt over his head, smoothing it down. "Yeah. Until they sort out their insurance and get a new place."

"They seem... intense," Chimney piped up from the bench, tying his shoes. "The little guy? Hector? He stared at me like he was trying to figure out how to dismantle me with his mind."

"He’s protective," Buck mumbled.

"And 'Splotch'?" Eddie pressed, stepping closer. "You never answered me yesterday. What kind of nickname is that?"

Buck grabbed his belt, threading it through the loops with shaking fingers. He could feel the panic rising, the old shame of D Tent. Splotch. It wasn't just a nickname. It was what the counselors called him when they saw the birthmark. It was what the other boys called him until Stanley and Hector made them stop, Hector, and Stanley only had that right. It was the name of the boy who dug the holes.

"It’s just stupid camp stuff," Buck deflected, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "You know how kids are. I had a birthmark, I got messy. Splotch."

"You said you went to boarding school," Eddie said, his voice lowering. "In Pennsylvania."

Buck froze. He had said that. When Maddie came back and mentioned boarding school, It was the lie his parents had constructed. Evan is away at school.

"It was... a summer camp," Buck lied, grabbing his turnout boots. "Look, Cap wants the trucks washed before inspection. I gotta go."

He fled the locker room before Eddie could ask the question that was clearly burning in his eyes.

Why were you crying?

The morning dragged. The calls were routine, a fender bender, a stuck elevator. But the tension in the station remained. Buck moved like a ghost, cleaning, restocking, avoiding eye contact.

Around 1:00 PM, Bobby found him in the kitchen, wiping down counters that were already spotless.

"Buckley," Bobby said.

"Cap." Buck stopped, cloth in hand.

"The drainage ditch out back," Bobby said, gesturing toward the rear of the station where the landscaping met the concrete lot. "The storm last week clogged it up with mud and debris. With the rain coming tomorrow, it needs to be cleared out."

It was a grunt job. A rookie job. Or... a punishment job.

"On it, Cap," Buck said immediately. He didn't complain. He didn't ask for help. He just nodded.

"There’s a shovel in the storage room," Bobby added, already turning back to his cooking.

Buck went to the shed. The air in Los Angeles was hot today, a dry, dusty heat that baked the asphalt. 

He found the shovel, a long handled, square point spade.

He weighed it in his hands. It was heavier than the ones at Camp Green Lake. Those had been lighter, with rusted blades. But the balance was the same.

He walked to the ditch. It was a narrow trench running along the back fence, choked with dried mud, dead leaves, and trash.

He stepped into the shallow depression and drove the shovel into the earth.

Thunk.

The sound vibrated up his arms.

He lifted the dirt and tossed it to the side.

One.

He drove the shovel down again.

Thunk.

Two.

He needed to establish a rhythm. That was the only way to survive. You didn't think about the heat. You didn't think about the water truck that wasn't coming for another two hours. You just thought about the hole.

Five feet deep. Five feet wide.

Buck’s breathing settled into a cadence.

In. Dig. Out. Toss.

The sun beat down on the back of his neck. Sweat began to trickle down his spine, soaking his uniform shirt. It felt like the orange jumpsuit. The fabric scratched at his skin.

Thunk. Toss.

"Buckley!" someone called from the distance.

Buck didn't hear them. He was listening for the sound of the shovel hitting something hard. Not a rock. A chest. A tube of lipstick. Something that would get him a day off. Something that would make the Warden happy so she wouldn't scratch him with her venom nails.

He dug faster. The ditch was clearing, but it wasn't deep enough. It had to be five feet. If it wasn't five feet, he had to stay out here.

Thunk. Toss.

His muscles burned. The blisters on his palms, which had long since calloused over from firefighting, felt like they were reopening. He welcomed the pain. The pain was real. The pain meant he was paying for his crimes. For the lawsuit. For being born.

The world narrowed down to the blade of the shovel and the dirt. The station faded. The sound of traffic on the highway became the wind howling across the flat, cracked earth.

He wasn't Buck anymore. He was Splotch. And he had to finish digging his hole.

"Buck?"

The voice was closer now.

Buck swung the shovel down with terrifying force, sparks flying as it hit a rock. He groaned, a guttural sound, and scooped the debris away. Faster. You have to be faster. X Ray is already done.

"Buck, hey! Woah!"

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Buck reacted on instinct. He spun around, brandishing the shovel like a weapon, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"I'm not done!" he screamed, his voice raw, cracking with terror. "I'm not done! Don't punish me! I’ll finish it, I swear!"

Eddie stumbled back, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide with shock. "Buck! It’s me! It’s Eddie!"

Buck was panting, his chest heaving violently. Sweat was dripping off his nose. He looked at Eddie, but he didn't see his best friend. He saw Mr. Sir. He saw the sunflower seeds. He saw the gun in the holster.

"I didn't steal them," Buck gasped, backing up until he hit the fence. He dropped the shovel, his hands shaking so hard they were blurring. "I didn't steal anything. I swear. Please."

The bay doors were open. Bobby, Hen, and Chimney were running over, alerted by the shouting.

"Buck?" Bobby called out, slowing down as he saw the scene. "Buck, put the shovel down."

"He’s... he’s not here, Cap," Eddie said, his voice trembling. He kept his eyes on Buck, keeping his movements slow and non threatening. "Buck, look at me. You're in Los Angeles. You're at the 118."

Buck blinked rapidly. The white hot panic was starting to recede, replaced by a cold, crushing confusion. The dry lake bed flickered and vanished, replaced by the station parking lot. The orange jumpsuit turned back into his navy blue uniform.

He looked at the shovel at his feet. He looked at the shallow ditch he had turned into a jagged, frantic trench. He looked at Eddie, who looked terrified.

"Eddie?" Buck whispered.

"Yeah, Buck. It’s Eddie."

Buck looked at his hands. They were covered in dirt. 

He felt the phantom itch of the red ants. He felt the ghost of the venom in his blood.

"I..." Buck choked. He looked at Bobby. Bobby looked horrified.

"I'm sorry," Buck stammered, backing away further. 

"I'm sorry, Cap. I just... I was digging. I just wanted to finish."

"It’s okay," Bobby said gently, stepping forward. "The ditch is clear, Buck. You're done. You can stop."

"I..." Buck’s knees gave out.

Eddie caught him before he hit the ground, grunting as he took Buck’s weight. They sank to the asphalt together. Buck was hyperventilating now, the panic attack fully taking hold.

"Breathe," Eddie commanded, pulling Buck against his chest, ignoring the dirt and sweat. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like that."

"I thought I was back," Buck sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "I thought I was back there."

"Back where, Buck?" Hen asked softly, kneeling beside them with her medical kit. She reached out to check his pulse.

"Camp," Buck gasped. "Camp Green Lake."

Bobby stood over them, casting a shadow that blocked out the sun. He looked at the trench Buck had dug, it was frantic, jagged, and deep. It wasn't the work of a firefighter clearing a drain. It was the work of someone digging for their life.

"Get him inside," Bobby ordered, his voice tight. "Get him water. I'll get Athena, to get his friends."

"Cap?" Chimney asked.

"Hector and Stanley," Bobby said, watching Buck shake in Eddie’s arms. "I think they’re the only ones who know what the hell is going on."

Half an hour later, Buck was sitting on the cot in the bunk room. He had showered, scrubbing his skin until it was red, trying to get the feeling of the dust off him. He was wearing clean sweats, a towel draped around his neck.

He held a bottle of water in both hands, staring at the label.

The team was gathered in the loft, speaking in hushed tones, but Eddie hadn't left Buck’s side. He sat on the bunk opposite, elbows on his knees, watching Buck with an intensity that made Buck’s skin prickle.

"You going to tell me what happened out there?" Eddie asked softly.
Buck gripped the bottle tighter. "Flashback. PTSD. I... I didn't know I still had it."

"That wasn't just a flashback, Buck. You begged me not to punish you. You said you didn't steal anything."

Buck closed his eyes. 

"I didn't do it," Buck whispered. "It was... a misunderstanding. A set up."

"Who set you up?"

"It doesn't matter," Buck said, opening his eyes. "I served my time. Two years. Well... almost."

"Almost?"

"I got let out early," Buck said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Because I almost died."

Eddie was silent for a long moment. "The venom?"

Buck nodded.

"Stanley and Hector... they were there?"

"We were in the same tent. D Tent. Mr.Sir... he liked to pit us against each other. Dig the hole, find something, get the day off. Find something interesting, get a double shower also." Buck let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I never found anything. I just dug."

"Buck," Eddie said, leaning forward. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because look at me!" Buck snapped, his voice rising. "Look at me, Eddie. I’m a mess. I sued the department. I’m the guy who breaks everything. If I told you I was a... a juvie kid who was sent to spend two years in a labor camp, do you think Bobby would trust me? Do you think you would trust me with Christopher?"

"Yes," Eddie said immediately. "Yes, Evan. I would."

Buck stared at him, stunned by the use of his first name.

Before he could respond, footsteps thundered nearby. The heavy, frantic tread of people who were running.

"Splotch!"

Hector burst into the bunk room, Stanley right behind him. They looked wild, Hector was still wearing the clothes he’d borrowed from Buck, Stanley was flushed.

They ignored Eddie. Hector went straight to Buck, grabbing his face with both hands, tilting his head up to check his eyes, checking for dilation, checking for shock.

"Bobby called an officer, she got us." Stanley panted, bracing his hands on his knees. "Said you had an episode. Said you were digging."

"I'm fine," Buck tried to push Hector away, but Hector held firm.

"You dug a hole?" Hector demanded, his eyes searching Buck’s. "Did you measure it?"

Buck crumpled. The question was so specific, so rooted in their shared trauma. "Yeah. Yeah, Zero. I measured it with the shovel."

Hector pulled Buck into a hug, rocking him slightly. "It’s okay. You aren't there. The Warden is gone. Mr. Sir is gone. The lake is full. You aren't there."

Stanley stood over them, looking at Eddie. The hostility from the day before was gone, replaced by a weary gratitude.

"Thanks for staying with him," Stanley said to Eddie.

"He thought he was back in prison," Eddie said, the word heavy in the air.

Stanley winced. "It wasn't a prison. It was a camp. For bad boys." He made air quotes around 'bad boys'. "But yeah. It was a sort of prison."

"He was digging for something," Eddie said. "He said he wasn't done."

Stanley looked at Buck, who was clinging to Hector. Stanley’s face softened, a profound sadness settling in his eyes.

"He never finishes the hole," Stanley said quietly. "In his nightmares, he never finishes. He just keeps digging until the lizards come." He had those nightmares, alot at camp. Stanley and Hector had to calm in down many times.

Eddie looked at Buck strong, capable Buck, who ran into burning buildings without flinching and saw the terrified boy beneath the muscle. And he realized that the lawsuit, the acting out, the desperation to be part of the team... it wasn't arrogance. It was a kid desperately trying to prove he was worth more than the dirt he’d been forced to move.

"We need to take him home," Hector said, pulling back. "He can't be here right now."

"I have a shift," Buck protested weakly.

"You're done for the day, Buck," Bobby said from the doorway. He had been listening. His face was pale, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and authority that usually made Buck straighten up and fall in line. "I'm putting you on sick leave. Go home."

Buck looked at Bobby. For weeks, all he had wanted was for Bobby to look at him with something other than cold indifference. Now, he finally had his Captain’s attention, but it was wrapped in pity. It was the look you gave a broken tool before you threw it out.

"Go," Bobby repeated gently.

Stanley and Hector moved to help Buck up, flanking him like guards protecting a high value asset. But as Buck stood, his legs trembling from the adrenaline crash, Eddie stepped forward.

"I’ll drive you," Eddie said, his voice soft, reaching for his car keys. "You shouldn't be alone right now."

Something inside Buck snapped.

It was a sharp, violent fracture, louder in his head than the shovel hitting the rock. The weeks of silence, the isolation, the heavy sighs when he entered a room, the way they looked through him like he was made of glass, it all rushed to the surface, fueled by the raw, exposed nerve of his PTSD.

"No," Buck said.

The word hung in the air, sharp and absolute.

Eddie froze, his hand halfway to his pocket. "Buck, I’m just trying to help. We're worried about you."

Buck laughed. It was a jagged, wet sound that scraped his throat. He pushed Hector’s supporting arm away, standing on his own two feet, swaying slightly but vibrating with sudden, explosive rage.

"Worried?" Buck spat the word out like it was poison. "Now you’re worried? Now that I was on the floor hyperventilating? Now that I’m broken enough for you to pity?"

"Buck, that’s not fair," Chimney started, stepping forward. "We’ve been,"

"You've been what?" Buck shouted, his voice cracking, spinning to face them all. The 118 flinched at the volume. "You've been punishing me. That’s what this is, right? The silence. The chores. Making me clean the floors while you all eat upstairs. It’s solitary confinement. You’re trying to break me so I’ll leave on my own."

"We were trying to navigate a difficult situation," Bobby said, his voice steady but his eyes wide. "The lawsuit created a lot of tension, Buck. We needed time."

"Time?" Buck stepped toward Bobby, and for the first time, Stanley didn't hold him back. Stanley stood watching, his dark eyes judging every single firefighter in the room. "I dropped the lawsuit! I came back! I fought to be here! And you treat me like a disease, to stay away from."

"We don't treat you like a disease," Hen said, hurt flashing across her face.

"Don't you?" Buck’s eyes were wild, blue fire burning through the tears. "I know about the barbecue, Hen."

The room went dead silent. The air was sucked out of the loft. Hen’s mouth clamped shut. Bobby looked down at his boots.

"I know about the 'family' barbecue at Bobby’s last weekend, and the one coming up, Buck continued, his voice trembling with the force of his betrayal. "I know about the karaoke night at the bar on Tuesday. I know you all went, and I didn't get invited."

Eddie looked like he’d been slapped. "Buck... we thought..."

"You thought what? That I wouldn't want to come?" Buck stepped into Eddie’s space, the betrayal radiating off him in waves. "Or did you just not want the traitor there to ruin the vibe?"

"We didn't know how to ask you," Eddie whispered, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

"You just ask!" Buck screamed, tears finally spilling over. "You just ask me! But you didn't. You left me alone in that apartment, again. You let me come into work every day and treated me like a ghost. And you know what the worst part is?"

Buck looked around at them, his chest heaving, the dirt from the ditch still smeared on his uniform, marking him as the one who does the digging.

"I still lied to Maddie for you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "She asked if I was going to the next barbeque. She wanted to know why I wasn't at the last get together. And I lied. I told her I had other plans. I told her I had a date. I made up a whole life so she wouldn't know that her brother is a pariah in the only family he has left. I protected you from her anger because I was stupid enough to think that if I just dug enough holes, if I just cleaned enough trucks, you might eventually forgive me."

The shame in the room was palpable. It was thick and choking. Bobby looked physically ill. Hen had a hand over her mouth. Eddie was staring at Buck with devastation written in every line of his face, realizing the depth of the cruelty they had accidentally, or perhaps purposefully inflicted.

They had been so focused on their own hurt, their own feelings of betrayal regarding the lawsuit, that they hadn't noticed they were actively traumatizing a man who was already drowning.

"I was wrong," Buck said, his voice hollow now, the anger burning out into exhaustion. He looked at Bobby. "This isn't a family. Families don't do this. Even at Camp Green Lake... even in that prison... The boys in D Tent didn't do this to each other."

He turned his back on them. He turned to the only two people in the room who hadn't flinched.

"Let's go, Caveman, Zero," Buck murmured. "I want to go."

Stanley stepped forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Buck’s shoulder. He looked at Eddie, his expression cold and hard as flint.

"When you carry a friend up a mountain," Stanley said to Eddie, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't drop them."

Hector grabbed Buck’s other arm. "Come on, Splotch. We’re leaving."

"Buck, wait," Bobby called out, taking a step forward. "We need to talk about this. We need to fix this."

Buck stopped. He didn't turn around.

"There’s nothing to fix, Cap," Buck said quietly. "I’m on sick leave. Isn't that what you wanted?"

He walked down the stairs, flanked by the only brothers who had never let him down. He hasn't seen them in over ten years, but they always had his back. Both now, and then.

The 118 stood in the silence. But this time, it wasn't the silence of excluding Buck. It was the silence of a house that had just realized it was empty.

Eddie looked at the spot where Buck had been standing. He thought about the karaoke night, how they had laughed and drank, assuming Buck was fine, assuming Buck was just giving them space. He thought about the lie to Maddie. How it was true, they never invited him.

"We broke him," Eddie whispered, the realization crashing over him.

"Yeah," Hen said, her voice thick with tears. "I think we did."

Down in the parking lot, the heavy metal car doors slammed shut, sealing the firehouse in its shame.