Archive of Our Own

Buck tells himself he’s fine. That’s the word everyone keeps using, anyway. Fine.

A week ago he was trapped in a stranger’s house, pretending to be someone’s dead kid, wondering if anyone would find him. But he’s back at the loft now, sleeping in his own bed, eating his own food, going back to the firehouse like nothing happened.

So yeah. Fine. Mostly.

The word keeps echoing in his head like something hollow.

Fine means everyone stops asking questions.
Fine means the team stops hovering.
Fine means he doesn't have to unpack the way the woman looked at him like he was someone else entirely.

Fine means pretending the moment he realised why they picked him - why he looked familiar to them - didn’t stick in his chest like a splinter.

So yeah. Fine works. At least until the quiet sets in. 

Sleep is the first thing that’s off.

Buck has been lying in bed staring at the ceiling long after midnight most nights, waiting for his brain to shut up long enough to drift off. When he does sleep, it’s shallow and restless. Every creak in the building yanks him halfway awake again.

The dreams aren’t always clear. Sometimes it’s just the sound of footsteps in another room. A door closing. The feeling of being watched. 

Other times he’s back in that house - walking down a hallway he doesn’t remember seeing before, every door already open like someone expects him to walk inside. And behind one of them, someone is always watching. 

Buck usually wakes before he sees who. 

He’s checked the locks three times tonight already. Front door. Deadbolt. Chain. Then the window latches. He tells himself it’s just habit now. That it’ll fade.

Still, when the fridge compressor kicks on suddenly, Buck jerks like someone fired a gun. “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

The loft feels too quiet.

It didn’t used to. 

The place normally hums with the kind of background life Buck never noticed before - pipes shifting in the walls, traffic outside, neighbours moving around upstairs. Little sounds that meant the world kept turning. 

Tonight every one of them feels amplified. Like his brain is waiting for the wrong one.

Usually he’d throw the TV on for background noise or scroll through his phone until he got bored enough to crash, but tonight he’s just pacing the length of the living room instead. Bare feet against the cool floor. Hands restless at his sides.

The movement helps a little. Standing still makes his skin crawl. 

For a few days after they found him, Buck kept expecting the door to burst open. Some part of his brain convinced him that the whole rescue had been temporary - that someone would realise the mistake and drag him right back.

It’s a stupid throught. He knows that. Still, everytime a car slows outside the building, his shoulders tense. Just in case.

The 118 has been hovering all week.

Chimney pulled him aside twice to ask if he needed more time before coming back on shift. Hen keeps giving him those careful looks like she’s checking for cracks. Ravi has been texting him dumb memes at random hours, which Buck’s pretty sure is his way of saying I’m here without actually saying it.

And Eddie -

Buck stops pacing. He doesn’t finish that thought.

Because Eddie has been the worst of it. Not in a bad way. Just… the most noticeable. He keeps showing up. Coffee in the morning. Food Buck didn’t ask for. Random excuses to stop by the loft like he was just in the neighbourhood. 

And everytime Buck tries to brush it off, Eddie just looks at him for a second longer than usual. Like he’s waiting for Buck to say something else. Something honest. Buck hasn’t figured out what that would even sound like yet.

Instead he grabs a glass from the counter and fills it with water, leaning against the sink while he drinks. He’s fine. That’s what he told everyone.

“Really, guys. I’m good.”
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve almost died.”

That last one had earned him a long look from Eddie. Not judgemental. Just quiet. The kind of look that says that’s not actually the point and you know it.

Buck had changed the subject before Eddie could say anything.

Buck exhales slowly and sets the empty glass in the sink.

The clock on the microwave reads 8:17 PM. Too early to justify how tired he feels. Too late to start anything useful.

He’s just about to give up and turn the TV on when someone knocks on the door. The sound is sharp in the quiet loft. 

Buck freezes.

His heart kicks hard once against his ribs before his brain catches up with reality. 

It’s just a knock.

Not pounding. Not someone breaking in. Just… a knock.

Still, his pulse doesn’t slow down right away. For a split second his brain flashes back to the sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door in that house. The pause. The quiet voice calling a different name. 

Buck forces himself to breathe out slowly. Different place. Different door. Not the same. 

He checks the peephole before opening it. Old habits. New ones too.

On the other side of the door stand three people. His stomach drops instantly.

Margaret Buckley looks tired, her hands clasped tight together in front of her. Phillip Buckley stands beside her with that same stiff posture Buck remembers from his childhood.

And between them -

“Hey, Buck.” Maddie gives him a small, hopeful smile. 

For a second, Buck considers pretending he’s not home. The thought flickers through his head so fast it almost surprises him.

Because if he opens the door, whatevr this is becomes real. A conversation he’s not prepared for. Emotions he’s not in the mood to untangle tonight. But Maddie’s standing there. And Maddie already knowns what he looks like when he shuts people out. 

Buck opens the door slowly. “Uh,” he says, because apparently his brain has decided words are optional now. “Hi.”

No one moves for a moment. His mom’s eyes sweep over him quickly, like she’s checking for injuries.

“We just -” she starts, then stops.

His dad clears his throat. “We were in town.”

Buck blinks. Of course they were. Because that makes total sense.

Maddie steps forward slightly, her voice gentle. “I thought it might help if they came by.”

Help. Buck grips the edge of the door a little tighter. Something uneasy twists in his chest, a quiet instinct telling him this is a bad idea. That whatever this visit is supposed to accomplish, it’s probably not going to end well.

But Maddie is watching him carefully, like she’s waiting to see if he’ll slam the door in their faces.

And Buck doesn’t actually want to fight tonight. So he steps back.

“Yeah,” he says, forcing something that almost resembles a smile. “Sure.”

His parents walk into the loft. Maddie follows.

Buck closes the door behind them, the click of the lock suddenly sounding very loud in the quiet apartment. And just like that, the space that had felt too empty a few minutes ago now feels a little too small.

For a few minutes, things almost feel normal. Almost.

Buck hovers near the kitchen counter while his parents settle stiffly onto the couch. Maddie takes the armchair like she’s deliberately placing herself between everyone, a quiet buffer. No one seems entirely sure where to look.

Buck ends up grabbing four glasses from the cabinet just to have something to do with his hands. “Water?” he asks.
His mom nods quickly. “Yes, thank you.”
His dad gives a short nod too.
Maddie offers him a small, grateful smile.

Buck fills the glasses at the sink, trying not to feel the way the loft suddenly seems too full. The sound of the tap running is loud in the silence, and he focuses on that instead of the way his parents’ eyes keep drifting toward him like they’re checking he’s really here.

He hands the glasses out and leans back against the counter instead of sitting down.

“So,” he says lightly, aiming for the same easy tone he’s used with the rest of the team all week. “This is… a surprise.”
His dad clears his throat. “We heard what happened.”
“Yeah,” Buck says. “News travels fast.”
Maddie shifts in her chair. “I told them.”

Buck nods once. That makes sense.

His mom hasn’t taken her eyes off him since she walked in.

“You look…” she starts, voice tight with emotion. Buck braces himself. “…better than I expected.”
He almost laughs at that. “High praise,” he says.

She doesn’t smile. Her fingers tighten around the glass in her hands. “When Maddie told us,” she continued quietly, “that you’d been taken -” Her voice wavers.

Buck feels something twist uncomfortably in his chest. “I’m okay,” he says quickly. “Really. They got caught, I’m back at work, everything’s - ”

“Daniel -” Margaret interjected.

The word slips out before anyone can stop it. Silence slams down across the room. Buck’s mom freezes. Her eyes widen slightly, like she didn’t even realize she said it until the sound was already hanging in the air.

Then she corrects herself quickly. “…Evan.”

But it’s too late. The damage is already done. Buck doesn’t move. He’s staring at her now, the word echoing in his head.

Daniel.

For a second, it feels like the room tilts slightly off its axis. His mom’s face has gone pale.

“I -” she starts, clearly scrambling for the right words.

Buck’s brain, meanwhile, is doing something strange. Something quiet and cold. Like a puzzle piece sliding into place. A realization he never wanted suddenly making perfect, horrible sense.

His dad clears his throat awkwardly. “Your mother just misspoke.”

The words land flat. Too quick. Too practiced. Buck knows that tone. It’s the same one his dad used when Buck was a kid and something uncomfortable needed to disappear as fast as possible.

Move on. Pretend it didn’t happen. But Buck can’t. Because now the word is stuck in his head.

Daniel. The son they actually wanted. The son they were supposed to have.

Across the room, Maddie looks stricken. “Buck - ”

He barely hears her. Everything feels muffled suddenly, like he’s underwater. He’s aware of his mom saying something else, her voice tight with panic. Aware of his dad shifting beside her. Aware of Maddie watching him carefully.

But the only thing Buck can actually hear is the echo of that name. And the quiet, awful certainty settling in his chest. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Oh.

That’s what this has always been. He just didn’t see it before.

The silence stretches too long. Buck can feel all three of them watching him now. Waiting. For what, he’s not sure.

An explanation, maybe. A reaction. Something that would smooth over the mistake and let everyone pretend it didn’t just happen.

Buck almost gives it to them. He can feel the familiar instinct rising - the same one that has smoothed over every awkward holiday dinner and every straiened phone call for years. 

Smile. Deflect. Make a joke. Pretend the thing everyone heard didn’t actually mean anything. His brain offers a dozen easy exits.

Wrong kid.
Freudian slip.
Guess I have one of those faces.

But the word Daniel is still sitting in the middle of the room like broken glass. And Buck suddenly realise he’s really, really tired of pretending it isn’t there.

His mom opens her mouth again. “Evan, I didn’t mean -”

Buck laughs. Just once. It’s short and sharp and completely humourless. The sound makes everyone in the room flinch a little. Buck notices it distantly. The way Maddie’s shoulders tense. The way his dad straightens slightly, like he’s bracing for an argument. The way his mum’s eyes fill with immediate panic. It’s almost surreal.

One word slipped out - one name - and suddenly everyone looks like the floor just cracked open beneath them. Buck presses his lips together afterward, shaking his head slightly like he’s trying to clear it.

“Right,” he says quietly. He pushes away from the counter. “You should go.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room goes even quieter. Buck half expects someone to laugh it off. To say don’t be ridiculous. To tell him he’s overreacting. But no one does. Because they all know exactly what just happened. 

Maddie blinks. “Buck -”

“I’m serious.” His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes right before something breaks. He recognises the tone himself. 

It’s the one he uses on bad calls. The voice firefighters use when everything is chaos but you need someone else to stay steady. Measured. Controlled. Like if he keeps his voice level enough, the crack spreading through his chest might not reach the surface.

His dad frowns slightly. “Evan, your mother already said it was a mistake.”

Buck nods once. “Yeah. I heard.” 

He heard it twice, actually. Once when she said Daniel. And again when she rushed to correct it. The second one sounded practised. Like a correction she’s made before. 

He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter again like he’s settling in for a conversation he doesn’t actually plan on having. 

“I’m fine,” he adds quickly. The words come out so autonmaticaly Buck almost doesn’t register saying them. Same script. Same defense. He wonders vaguely how many times he’s used that sentence in the last ten years. How many times people believed it.

“Really. You don’t have to worry about me.”

His mom looks unconvinced. “Sweetheart -”

“I just need some space.” What he actually needs is for the word Daniel to stop echoing in his head. But that doesn’t seem likely.

His dad exchanges a glance with his mom. For a second it looks like he might argue. But then his shoulders stiffen slightly instead. 

“Alright,” he says. Buck knows that tone. Conversation closed. The same one his dad used when Buck was a kid and asked too many questions. 

His mom sets her untouched glass on the coffee table. Her hands are trembling slightly. Buck notices the tremor and feels…nothing. 

No guilt. No urge to comfort her. Just a dull, distant awareness that this is probably the reaction she expected from him. And somehow that thought hurts worse than the mistake itself. 

“Evan,” she tries again, softer this time.

Buck doesn’t look at her. He stares at a spot on the floor instead.

“I said I’m fine.”

Another long pause.

Then chairs scrape quietly against the floor as his parents stand Maddie rises too, clearly reluctant. Buck finally looks up as they move toward the door. 

For a momnet he has a strange urge to stop them. Not because he wants them to stay - but because part of him wants to ask the question that’s suddenly burning in his chest. Did you ever actually want me? But he already knows the answer. 

His dad pauses beside him. “We only came because we were worried,” he says.

Buck gives a small shrug. “Mission accomplished.” The sarcasm lands flat between them. His dad doesn’t rise to it. He just studies Buck’s face for a second - like he’s trying to decide if pushing forward is worth the effort. 

Apparently it isn’t.

His mom lingers a moment longer. Buck can feel her eyes on him again, searching his face for something - hurt, maybe, or forgiveness. He gives her neither.

After a second, she turns and follows his dad out into the hallway. The door stays open. Maddie doesn’t move to leave yet.

Buck isn’t surprised. If anyone was going to stay behind, it was always going to be Maddie. She’s the only one who ever tried to fix things between them all. Even when the things themselves were never really acknowledged. 

The door stays open for a few seconds after their parents step into the hallway. Buck doesn’t move to close it. Part of him wonders if they’re still standing out there. Listening. Waiting to hear if he falls apart.

Maddie gently pushes the door shut. The soft click of the latch echoes through the loft.

When Buck finally looks at her, she’s watching him carefully. Concern written all over her face. Buck used to see that expression a lot whne they were younger. Usually right before Maddie told him everything was going to be okay. Back then, he believed her.

“Buck,” she says quietly.

He exhales through his nose. “What?”

Maddie steps a little closer, like she’s approaching a nervous animal. The comparison irritates him more than it probably should. He’s not the one who said the wrong name. “You know Mom didn’t mean it like that.”

Buck lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Didn’t she?” 

Because the more he thinks about it, the more the pieces line up. The distance. The disappointment. The way his parents always seemed to look past him instead of at him. Like they were waiting for someone else to show up.

“Buck -”

“She said his name.”

Her voice softens. “It was a slip.”

“A slip,” Buck repeats. Funny thing about slips. They usually happen when your brain stops filtering the truth. He nods slowly, like he’s considering that. Then he shakes his head.

“No. That actually makes a lot of sense.”

Maddie frowns. “What does?”

Buck looks at her fully now. For the first time since they walked in. Something raw is sitting just beneath the surface of his expression.

“You didn’t want me growing up, Maddie.” Buck hears the sentence after he says it and almost winces. Not because it isn’t true. But because it sounds like something a child would say. And he hates that a part of him still feels like that kid. 

Maddie freezes. Her eyes widen slightly. “What?”

“You wanted Daniel.”

“Buck - no.”

But he’s already shaking his head. Years of things he’s swallowed down suddenly pushing their way out.

“I get it now,” he says, voice tight but still weirdly controlled. “He was the one you were supposed to have. The one everyone wanted.”

“That’s not true.”

“You barely even looked at me when we were kids.” He remembers birthdays where Maddie stayed in her room. Family dinners where she barely spoke. The way she’d sometimes stare at him with an expression he couldn’t understand back then. Now he thinks maybe he does. 

“That’s not - ”

“You were always looking for him.” The words are sharper now. The calm is starting to crack.

Maddie’s face crumples slightly. “I was a kid too, Buck.”

He lets out another humorless laugh. “Yeah. And I was just the kid that showed up after he died.”

Silence crashes down between them.

Maddie looks like he just slapped her. “That’s not who you were,” she says softly.

But Buck can’t stop now. All the pieces in his head are clicking together, forming a picture he wishes he couldn’t see.

“That’s exactly who I was.” His voice drops quieter. “I was the replacement.”

Saying it out loud feels strangely relieving. Like finally naming something that’s been hovering just outside his understanding for years. 

Maddie shakes her head quickly. “No. Buck, listen to me -”

“Please go.” The words are calm again. Flat. Buck hates how easy it is to shut the door on people. Emotionally, anyway. Years of practice will do that. 

Maddie stops. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He gestures vaguely toward the door. “I just… need space right now.”

Her eyes search his face, clearly trying to figure out if there’s any room left to argue. There isn’t. Buck has already pulled the walls back up.

After a long moment, Maddie exhales shakily. “Okay.” She says it like she’s giving him what he asked for. Not like she believes it’s what he actually needs. 

She grabs her jacket from the back of the chair. When she reaches the door, she pauses. “Buck,” she says softly. He doesn’t respond. “I’m sorry.” 

For a split second Buck almost says her name. Almost tells her to stay. But the image of their mum saying Daniel flashes through his head again. And the moment passes. 

Then she opens the door and steps into the hallway. This time, Buck is the one who closes it. The lock clicks into place automatically beneath his hand. He doesn’t remember turning the deadbolt. His body just does it. One more lock. One more barrier between him and the rest of the world. 

The loft goes quiet again. Only now the silence feels different. Before, it felt empty. Not it feels heavy. Like the walls heard everything. 

He stands there for a moment, staring at the door. Then he slowly slides down the wall beside it until he’s sitting on the floor. Alone.

Buck presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. For a second he waits for teasr to come. They don’t. All he feels is the hollow certainty setting deeper in his chest. The kind that comes when something you;ve suspected for years finally gets confirmed. He wasn’t the son they wanted. He was just the one they got. 

For a while, Buck just sits there. Back against the wall. Legs stretched out across the floor. The quiet of the loft pressing in around him. He doesn’t know how much time passes. Minutes. Maybe longer.

Eventually he pushes himself up, restless energy buzzing under his skin again. Sitting still has never been his strong suit, and right now his thoughts feel like they’re circling faster and faster with nowhere to land.

It’s the same restless feeling he gets after a bad call. When the adrenaline is still flooding his system but there’s nothing left to do with it. 

Except this time there’s not engine to clean. No gear to stow. No crew nearby to joke the tension out of his shoulders. Just him. And the echo of names that doesn’t belong to him. 

He drifts toward the kitchen without really thinking about it. The sink still holds the glasses he handed out earlier. One half full. One barely touched.

Buck stares at them for a moment before turning away. His gaze lands on the fridge instead.

A magnet holds up an old photo from the firehouse - someone must have printed it during a shift and handed it to him at some point. The whole team crowded together after a call, still in turnout gear and laughing about something.

He reaches up and pulls it free. The magnet clacks softly against the fridge as it falls back into place. Buck barely notices. 

The photo feels thin between his gingers - the edges worn slightly from being handled too many times. He hadn’t realised he looked at it that often. 

His thumb brushes over one familiar face near the center. Bobby Nash. A memory hits him suddenly.

—

They’d just finished a call.

Nothing dramatic for once - just a small kitchen fire in an apartment building. The kind of thing that ends with open windows and a very embarrassed tenant instead of an ambulance ride.

The engine bay at the station had been quiet afterward. Gear half stowed. Everyone moving slower in that comfortable post call lull.

Buck had been leaning against the truck, still riding the leftover adrenaline. Bobby had been beside him, watching the rest of the crew drift back inside. For a while they’d just stood there in silence.

Buck remember thinking it felt…easy. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. 

Bobby had that effect soemthimes - a steady presence that made the world slow down for a second. Like standing near a fireplace after a long day. Warm. safe.

Then Bobby said, almost casually, “You remind me why I became a firefighter.”

Buck had blinked at him. “Uh… thank you, I must be pretty good at my job then.”

Bobby huffed out a small laugh. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Buck had waited for him to explain. But Bobby never did. He just gave Buck that small, thoughtful smile he sometimes got - the one that looked like he was remembering something far away. 

Buck had grinned, ducking his head a little. At the time it had felt like praise. Like approval. Like the kind of thing a captain says when he’s proud of someone on his team.

—

Buck stares down at the photo now.

The memory shifts. Changes shape. Because now he knows the whole story. About the apartment fire. About Bobby’s family. About the kids who never grew up. 

Buck remembers the look on Bobby’s face the day he told them. The quiet grief sitting behind his eyes.

Bobby didn’t just become a firefighter. He lost everything in between. His wife. His kids.

Buck’s chest tightens. The thought creeps in slowly, like something cold slipping under a door.

You remind me why I became a firefighter.

Of course he does. Buck’s the right age. Close enough, anyway. Young. Reckless.  Always running headfirst into danger. Always needing someone to pull him back out again. Just like someone else once did. Someone Bobby couldn’t save.

Buck presses the heel of his hand against his mouth as the thought settles deeper. Of course Bobby looked at him like that. Of course Bobby worried. Of course Bobby kept giving him second chances when anyone else would’ve benched him permanently.

Buck remembers the truck bombing. The lightning stike. Every reckless decision Bobby let him recover from. At the time Buck had thought it meant Bobby believed in him. Now he wonders if Bobby was just trying to keep history from repeating itself.

Because Bobby didn’t just see a firefighter when he looked at Buck. He saw someone he could still save. Someone he could keep alive. Someone the right age to stand where his kids should’ve been.

Buck sinks down onto the edge of the couch without realizing he’s moving. The room tilts slightly as he sits. Not physically - just that strange disorienting feeling when a thought rearranges something fundamental in your head.

The photo trembles slightly in his hands. The pieces in his head slide together again.

His parents. Now Bobby. Different people. Different losses. Same role.

His voice is barely more than a breath when the words finally slip out into the empty loft. “Dead kid replacement.”

The words sound ugly out loud. Like something that shouldn;t exist. But once they’re spoken, Buck can’t unhear them.

Buck stays slumped on the couch for a moment, staring at the photo in his hands, his thoughts still tangled in Bobby’s absence.

Then another memory surfaces.

—

It’s a late afternoon at the firehouse. Quiet for once.

Chimney is sitting across from Buck at the small table in the kitchen area, a mug of coffee steaming between them.

Chimney had started talking about Kevin.

Buck remembers the way Chim’s voice softened. The way his usual jokes faded into something quieter. Grief does that to people. Buck knows that now.

“Kevin… he was the best,” Chim had said softly, eyes far away. “Always looked out for me. Taught me what it meant to have someone in your corner, you know?”

Buck had listened, leaning back in his chair, trying to picture this version of Chimney - the one shaped by a brother he’d lost.

After a pause, Buck had shrugged and smiled lightly. “Guess you’ve got me now.”

Chimney had snorted into his coffee. The sound had been warm, amused. Not sad. Buck had taken that as a good sign.

Chimney smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, Buck. You’re a little different, but… I’ll take it.”

At the time, it had been a joke. Lighthearted. Reassuring.

—

Now, alone in the loft, the memory twists in Buck’s head. Because jokes have a funny way of sounding different when you hear them years later. Especially when you’re already looking for patterns.

His chest tightens.

He needed another brother.

Not a friend. Not a teammate. Not even a coworker he liked.

He needed me to fill the space Kevin left behind.

Another empty place. Another role Buck slipped into without even realising it. 

Buck drops his head into his hands. The words slip out in a whisper to the quiet room, to the shadows in the corners.

“Dead brother replacement. Again.” His voice sounds hollow. Like the air has been sucked out of the room.

And just like that, another piece of the puzzle falls into place. It’s all starting to feel like a pattern. Too many patterns. Too many places he’s just… filling in. Like a spare part. Useful when something else breaks.

Buck remains slouched on the couch, the shadows of the loft pressing close.

Another memory rises, softer this time, almost like a whisper.

—

Hen and Buck had been sitting outside the firehouse one evening, sharing a quiet smoke after a long shift.

“You’re family, Buck,” Hen had said casually, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Always have been. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Buck remembers the way she nudged his shoulder when she said it. The easy affection. The certainty. 

Buck had laughed it off at the time. “Family, huh? You sure you want me around that much?”

Hen had rolled her eyes and smirked. “Yeah. I do. Like it or not.”

It had felt easy back then. Warm, almost comforting.

—

Now, in the quiet loft, Buck replays it. He tries to hear the moment the way he did that ight. But his brain keeps twisting it into something else.

He also remembers Hen talking about her childhood - how lonely she’d felt, how empty the house seemed without someone to rely on.

His chest tightens.

She needed someone too.

Maybe not consciously. Maybe not intentionally. But the pattern is there now and Buck can’t stop seeing it.

Buck exhales slowly, a low, bitter laugh escaping him.

The words settle in his chest like something heavy and immovable. “Just another empty space to fill,” he murmurs to the quiet room. The sentence echoes faintly off the loft walls. And Buck suddenly hates how believable it sounds.

Each word feels heavier than the last, sinking into his chest, making the loft feel colder, smaller, suffocating.

And as the echo fades, Buck realizes - he’s beginning to see the pattern clearly now.

Everywhere he looks, there’s another gap someone needed filled. Another loss someone never recovered from. Another space Buck slipped into without noticing. And for the first time, a terrible question forms in his mind. If he isn’t someone’s replacement who is he supposed to be?

Buck slides the photo of Bobby off to the side and leans back against the couch, his legs pulled up slightly, arms resting on his knees. The loft is quiet around him, but his head is anything but. The quiet almost feels hostile now. 

One memory bleeds into the next.

His parents’ faces. That slip of a name - Daniel. The way it echoed like a cruel little bell.

He can still hear the hesitation in his mother’s voice. That tiny pause before she corrected herself. The kind of pause you make when you’ve said something too honest by accident.

Bobby’s words, the way they’d been twisted now in his mind.

Chimney, Kevin, and the laughter that no longer felt innocent.

Hen, her quiet loneliness, the warmth he thought he’d given her that now feels like a placeholder. Each memory shifts as he turns it over in his mind. What once felt like connection now looks like necessity. Like evry relationship started with a missing piece.

Maddie, frozen in the doorway, unsure how to reach him. Buck remembers the way she looked at him then. Like she wanted to say a hundred different things but couldn’t find the right palace to start. He wonders if she’s always looked at him like that. Like she was trying to make up for something. 

Every person. Every bond. Every laugh, every quiet moment, every word of comfort - all of it folding into the same shape in his head.

Someone dies. Something missing. And Buck… Buck fills the gap. Not because anyone asks him to. Not ebcaseu he’s chosen. Just because h happens to be there.

The realization hits like a punch to the chest. Sharp. Relentless. Unavoidable.

He presses his palms into his eyes, whispering into the empty loft, voice trembling just enough to sound raw. “Is that all I’ll ever be?”

The question lingers. Heavy. Cold.

And then - he freezes.

The thought that had been lurking beneath everything finally breaks through.

Eddie.

Eddie Diaz.

Shannon.

Buck’s stomach drops. Because suddenly the pattern he’s been tracing all night leads somewhere he really doesn’t want it to.

His chest tightens, muscles bunching without his control. He can barely breathe. The pieces snap into place, faster than he can fully process.

“Oh.” The sound barely makes it past his lips. But the realisation behind it crashes through him like a wave.

One small word, but it carries the weight of everything he’s been running from. Everything he’s just realized about himself.

Buck stays still for a long moment, staring at the floor, heart hammering, mind racing, the quiet loft suddenly feeling impossibly small.

The thought won’t stop formign now. Eddie lost Shannon. Christopher lost his mother. And Buck. Buck just kept showing up.

The city lights blur past Buck’s windshield, smeared streaks of yellow and red as he drives almost on autopilot. He doesn’t remember grabbing his keys. Doesn’t remember leaving his loft. One minute he was sitting on the couch staring at the floor. The next he was behind the wheel. 

The engine hums beneath him, but he barely hears it. It’s late. Later than he should be out. But he can’t stay in the apartment anymore - not tonight. Not with the walls echoing his own throughs back at him. Not with th realisation sitting in his chest like a weight.

By the time he pulls up in front of Eddie's house, the street is quiet, the world soft and dim under the amber glow of the streetlamps.

Buck leans back against the steering wheel for a moment, running a hand over his face. His hair is mussed, eyes bloodshot, the exhaustion written across every line of him. He probaby looks as bad as he feels. But the thought of going anywhere else never even crossed his mind.

He opens the car door and walks up the short path, boots clicking against the wooden steps.

The door swings open almost immediately. Eddie stands there, brow furrowed.

“Buck?” His voice is immediate, sharp with concern. “What happened?” Eddie’s eyes flick quickly over him. Taking in the rumpled clothes. The hollow look in his eyes. The way his shoulders atre tight like he’s bracing for something.

Buck shrugs, shoulders tight. “Nothing. Just… stuff.” Even as he says it, Buck knows how ridiculous it sounds. Like someone showing up at midnight looking like hell and claiming everything’s fine.

Eddie tilts his head, studying him like he’s trying to read the man before him. “You look exhausted.”

Buck swallows hard, unsure how much to admit. Too much of him wants to, but the other part - the part that always protects himself - hesitates. Because once he stars saying it out loud, he might not be able to stop.

“Can I come in?” he asks finally, voice low.

Eddie doesn’t answer immediately. He just steps aside and gestures toward the doorway. “Yeah, of course” Eddie says finally, concern softening his tone. “Come on in.”

Buck steps inside, feeling the warmth of the house wrap around him like a thin shield. The familiar smell of coffee and laundry detergent hands faintly in the air. Normal things. Safe things.

For the first time all evening, he feels a fraction of… safety. Not comfort. Not relief. But enough to let the door close behind him.

Eddie leads him into the kitchen. The house is quiet - Christopher must already be asleep. Buck glances briefly down the hallway. The door to Chris’s room is closed.

The soft yellow light over the table casts long shadows across the room, and Buck suddenly feels very aware of how late it is.

Eddie pulls out a stool. “Sit,” he says gently. There’s no command in the word. Just quiet concern.

Buck does, though the word sit might be generous. He perches on the edge of the stool instead, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s trying to hold himself still.

Eddie grabs two glasses and fills them with water, setting one on the counter in front of Buck before leaning back against the island across from him.

For a minute, neither of them talks.

Buck stares down at the counter, his leg bouncing restlessly beneath it. His fingers keep tightening and loosening against each other. Eddie watches him carefully.

Finally he asks, “You gonna tell me what’s going on?” His voice is quiet. Patient. Like he already knows the answer might take a while.

Buck exhales slowly. “I had visitors tonight.”

Eddie’s brow furrows. “Yeah?”

“My parents.”

Eddie’s posture shifts immediately. Concern sharpening into something more focused.

“And Maddie.”

Eddie waits, clearly sensing there’s more coming.

Buck laughs quietly, but there’s no humour in it. “Mom called me Daniel.” The name sounds strange in the kitchen. Like it doesn;t belong there.

Eddie’s expression shifts immediately. “What?”

“It was a slip,” Buck says quickly, voice flat. “She corrected herself right away. Evan. Like nothing happened.” He shrugs. “But it kind of… explained some things.” The things Buck never quiet understood before.

Eddie leans forward slightly. “Buck -”

“Do you remember something Bobby said once?”

Eddie stills at the name.

Buck pushes forward anyway. “He told me I reminded him why he became a firefighter.” At the time it had felt good. Now it doesn’t. Now it feels like something else entirely.

Buck keeps his eyes on the counter as he continues. “And Chim… he used to talk about Kevin sometimes. One time I joked that he had me now.”

Eddie says nothing.

“And Hen,” Buck goes on quietly. “She told me once that I’m family.” His voice drops a little more with each example. “But she used to talk about how lonely she was growing up.”

Silence fills the kitchen.

Buck finally looks up. His eyes are red, exhaustion sitting heavy in every line of his face.

“My parents wanted Daniel,” he says. “Bobby lost his kids. Chim lost his brother. Hen grew up alone.” He swallows hard. “And Maddie…” His voice tightens slightly. “She lost Daniel too.”

Eddie’s jaw sets.

Buck leans back in the stool slightly, staring at nothing for a moment before the words finally come out.

“I think I’m just…” He hesitates, struggling to say it out loud. Then he forces it out anyway. “…the person people use to fill the empty space.”

The words settle heavily between them. Like something fragile has ust been placed on the counter.

Eddie stares at him, completely thrown.

Buck meets his eyes again and asks quietly, “What do you see when you look at me?”

The question hangs between them. Because Buck isn’t just asking. He’s bracign for the answer.

Eddie stares at him for a long moment. Then he shakes his head, completely ignoring the question Buck had just asked. “Buck, that’s ridiculous.” The words land harder than Eddie probably means them to.

The frustration in Eddie’s voice isn’t just directed at Buck so much as the idea itself - the twisted logic Buck has built around himself. But Buck only hears the dismissal.

Buck’s head snaps up. “Is it?” His voice is sharp, defensive in a way Eddie rarely hears from him. Like Buck is already bracing for a fight he expects to lose.

Eddie pushes off the island, frustration creeping into his voice. “Yeah. It is.” 

He takes a step closer, hands braced on the counter like he;s trying to keep himself grounded. Because the way Buck is looking at him right now - hollow, convinced - scares the hell out of him.

Buck lets out a sharp breath, already shaking his head. “No, see, it actually makes a lot of sense when you start lining things up.” 

Buck gestures vaguely in the air like he’s physically arranging pieces of a puzzle. A puzzle has never even seen.

“Buck -”

“My parents wanted Daniel,” Buck cuts in quickly, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “That one’s pretty obvious.” The words sound bitter. Like Buck has been utnring them over in his head all night.

Eddie opens his mouth, but Buck keeps going before he can interrupt.

“Bobby lost his kids. Chim lost his brother. Hen grew up alone.” His voice gets tighter with every example. Each name feels heavier than the last. Each one another piece of the sotry Buck has convinced himself is true.

“And Maddie -”

“Buck,” Eddie says more firmly.

But Buck isn’t stopping now. “And Maddie lost Daniel too.” 

Eddie sees the way Buck flinches slightly when he says it.

Silence drops between them for half a second.

Then Buck looks straight at Eddie. “And you.” The words land differently.

Eddie feels his chest tighten before Buck even says the next part.

Buck swallows hard, forcing the words out even though they feel like glass in his throat. “You lost Shannon.”

The name hangs heavy in the kitchen. Even years later, it still has weight. Still carries grief. Still means something.

Eddie’s jaw tightens immediately.

Buck presses forward anyway. “You needed someone to help with Christopher.” The accusation isn’t loud. But it lands like a punch.

Eddie’s expression shifts, hurt flashing across his face. “That’s not -”

“Someone to step in,” Buck continues, his voice cracking slightly now. The words are coming faster, like he can’t stop them. “Someone who could show up whenever you needed, someone Christopher already liked, someone who was already around all the time -”

Someone convient. Someone available. Someone already halfway into the role. 

“Buck.”

“That’s me, right?” The question lands rough and raw between them. Buck doesn’t look angry when he says it. Just…exhausted. Like he’s finally saying something he’s been afraid to ask for years.

Eddie stares at him like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “That’s not what you are.”

Buck laughs. It’s bitter and hollow. “Then what am I?” For a second his voice cracks completely. The question isn’t rhetorical. He genuinely doesn’t know.

 The question hangs there, sharp and desperate all at once.

Eddie runs a hand over the back of his neck, pacing once across the small kitchen before stopping again. “You haven’t replaced anyone.” He says it slowly, deliberately. Like he needs Buck to hear every word.

Buck immediately shakes his head. “Eddie -”

“No.” Eddie steps closer, voice firmer now. “Listen to me.” There’s something urgent in his tone. Something almost desperate.

Buck looks up at him, eyes tired and raw, but the stubborn disbelief is still there.

“You’re completely different,” Eddie says. The words come out stronger than he expected. Because the truth behind them feels obvious.

Buck lets out a quiet scoff. “That’s not -”

“You are,” Eddie insists. He gestures toward Buck, frustration and something else tangled together in his voice. “You’re not like any friend I’ve ever had.” The admission hangs in the air. He hadn’t planned on saying that. 

Buck freezes slightly at that. For the first time since he walked into the house, the certainty in his expression cracks. 

Eddie exhales, trying to find the words and clearly struggling with it. “When I’m with you I feel -” 

He stops. Because the word sitting on the tip of his tongue changes everything.

Buck is staring at him now. Really staring. Waiting. The silence stretches.

Eddie looks down for a second, shaking his head like he’s annoyed at himself for not being able to finish the sentence. Because the truth sitting in his chest suddenly feels too big to ignore. Too obvious. Too late to pretend he hasn’t felt it for years.

He looks back up at Buck. Their eyes meet. And something finally clicks into place. Not a slow realisation. A sudden one. Like a light turning on.

Eddie crosses the small space between them before he can second-guess himself.

Buck barely has time to react before Eddie leans in and kisses him. It’s not planned. Not graceful. Just instinct. 

For a second, Buck doesn’t move. The kiss is brief - more instinct than anything else - but it still sends Buck’s brain completely offline. Everything stops. The argument. The spiral. The noise in his head. 

Then reality crashes back in. Buck jerks back like he’s been burned.

His stool scrapes loudly against the floor as he pushes away, breathing suddenly uneven. His hand comes up to his mouth without him really thinking about it. Like he’s checking if it actually happened.

“Buck -”

Buck shakes his head quickly, eyes wide. There are tears gathering there now, bright and sudden. “So I am replacing Shannon?” The fear in the question is immediate. Instinctive. Like that’s the only explanation his brain will accept. 

Eddie immediately shakes his head. “No.” His voice is soft, but firm in a way that stops Buck from spiraling any further for a second.

“No, Evan.” The name lands differently. Not a correction. A grounding.

Eddie steps closer again, slower this time, giving Buck space to pull away if he wants to.

“No one can replace her,” Eddie says quietly. There’s no hesitation in the statement. No doubt. Just truth. 

Buck’s throat tightens. Because Eddie doesn’t hesitate when he says it. There’s no guilt, no confusion - just simple certainty.

Eddie reaches up carefully and cups Buck’s face in both hands. Buck doesn’t pull away. “And no one can replace you either.” The words land like something breaking open. 

The words hit Buck harder than anything else tonight. His breath catches. The tight control he’s been holding onto all evening finally snaps. Buck’s shoulders shake as the tears spill over, relief and fear and something else all crashing together at once. Like a dam finally breaking.

He presses his hands against Eddie’s wrists like he needs something solid to hold onto while everything inside him finally breaks open.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Buck’s breathing is still uneven, tears slipping down his face as he clings to Eddie’s wrists. The kitchen is quiet around them, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and Buck trying to steady himself. Eddie stays exactly where he is. Like moving might scare Buck away.

Eddie doesn’t pull away. His thumbs brush lightly against Buck’s cheeks, wiping away some of the tears.

Buck looks wrecked. But he also looks like someone who’s finally stopped holding everything in.

Eddie watches him for a second longer, then leans in again. This time the kiss is slower. Careful. Not rushed or desperate like before - just deliberate, like Eddie’s giving Buck all the time in the world to decide what he wants to do. An invitation. Not a demdna.

For half a heartbeat Buck freezes. Then he leans forward and kisses Eddie back. The decision feels quiet. But monumental. 

It’s hesitant at first, like he’s still trying to understand what’s happening, but it quickly softens into something warmer. Something steadier.

When they finally pull apart, they don’t move far. Buck stays close, his forehead almost brushing Eddie’s.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “You really see me?” Not a joke. Not deflection. Just the most honest question Buck has asked all night. 

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” His answer is immediate, certain. “I always have.” The certainty in his voice leaves no room for doubt. 

Buck lets out a shaky breath, something fragile and hopeful settling in his chest where the panic had been before. And for the first time all night, the world feels a little less heavy. Like maybe the pattern he saw earlier isn’t the whole story. 

The kitchen stays quiet around them as they stand there, close enough to touch, the space between them no longer feeling like something that needs to be filled.

Just something they chose to share.