Chapter Text
The locker room felt colder than Buck remembered.
Maybe it was the lack of heating at home.
Maybe it was the way his nerves were buzzing.
When he pulled on his uniform shirt, the cotton clung damp against the back of his neck. He sat on the bench for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of detergent and aftershave and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger in the firehouse.
His hands stilled on the buttons.
He’d thought about this moment for weeks, ever since the department reinstated him.
Back on shift.
Back with his team.
Back where he belonged.
Except nothing about this felt like belonging.
The sound of voices carried down the row of lockers.
Bobby’s low baritone.
Hen’s lighter reply.
Chim chiming in with a quip that earned a laugh.
Buck froze, waiting.
When they passed by, Hen’s eyes flicked to him—once, quickly—before she looked away.
Bobby didn’t even glance in his direction.
Buck finished buttoning his shirt.
By the time he made it to the apparatus bay, everyone else was already gathered. He walked up, offered a tentative smile.
“Hey, guys.”
No one answered.
Bobby cleared his throat, eyes fixed on his clipboard.
“We’ll run equipment checks. Hen, Chim, you’ve got the rig. Eddie, ladder. Buck—hose and medical.”
The orders landed like weights.
Efficient.
Impersonal.
Not even a nod in his direction.
Buck swallowed hard and nodded.
“Got it.”
He threw himself into the checks with a kind of desperate precision, double- and triple-checking every length of hose, every nozzle, every kit in the medical bag.
If anyone noticed how fastidious he was, they didn’t comment.
If anyone appreciated it, they didn’t say.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Eddie hoisting the ladder, easy strength in every movement.
Their gazes met, just for a heartbeat. Eddie’s expression was flat, unreadable.
Then he looked away.
Buck turned back to the hoses.
The first call of the day was a car accident on the 405.
A sedan had flipped, trapping the driver.
Buck slid into his role like muscle memory, moving with steady hands, calm words, everything he’d been trained for.
“Pressure’s dropping,” he warned, holding the line as Hen checked vitals.
“On it,” Hen said shortly.
They got the driver out, stabilized, then taken to the hospital by Hen and Chim.
The job was done cleanly, efficiently.
No room for mistakes.
Buck exhaled slowly, chest tight with relief.
When they loaded back into the truck, Benson started talking about dinner plans with Richardson, and Bobby joined in, and Eddie chuckled faintly at something Bobby said. Buck sat in the cab opposite them, silent, staring at the floor.
He used to be part of that.
He used to be the one cracking jokes, filling silences.
Now he was just… invisible.
Back at the station, the smell of food drifted from the kitchen.
Bobby had cooked—something with garlic and herbs, rich and mouthwatering.
Buck’s stomach growled.
He hesitated in the doorway.
The others were already seated, plates piled high.
Laughter bubbled low between them, casual, easy.
“Hey,” Buck said softly.
Conversations stilled.
Bobby didn’t look up from his plate.
Hen nudged a serving spoon toward him, wordless.
Buck stepped forward, grabbed a plate, scooped food.
The weight of four pairs of eyes pressed heavy on his shoulders, though no one said anything.
His appetite shrank under the scrutiny, but hunger won.
He filled his plate, forced a smile.
“Thanks,” he murmured, sliding into an empty chair.
The silence that followed was sharp.
Hen cleared her throat, started talking to Chim again, too brightly.
Eddie kept his gaze on his food.
Bobby ate methodically.
Buck’s fork hovered.
His chest burned.
He couldn’t do it.
Not like this.
Quietly, he stood, lifted his plate, and slipped out.
Down the hall, into the bathroom.
He sat on the closed lid of a toilet, balancing the plate on his knees, and ate alone.
The food was good but it didn’t taste like anything except shame.
The rest of the shift passed in much the same way.
Calls came in, and Buck did his job—efficient, steady, dependable.
Between calls, he kept to himself.
No one stopped him.
When the alarm rang for a late-night fire, adrenaline surged through him, steadying his hands, sharpening his focus.
He climbed ladders, hauled hoses, dragged equipment like his life depended on it.
He told himself this was enough, that saving lives was what mattered.
But when the smoke cleared, and the family hugged Eddie and Hen, thanking them, Buck stood back, faceless in the crowd.
Invisible again.
Back in the dorm that night, Buck lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The others were asleep—or at least pretending.
He listened to the soft breaths, the occasional rustle of blankets.
His stomach was still hollow.
The food hadn’t been enough.
Or maybe it had been, and he was just so empty in other ways that nothing could fill it.
He rolled onto his side, clutching the thin blanket tighter.
He tried not to think about the bills piled on his counter, the eviction notice taped to his door, the way his lights had gone out weeks ago.
He tried not to think about the silence around the dinner table.
About Eddie’s flat gaze. About Bobby’s voice, clipped and cold.
He tried to believe that things would get better.
But in the dark, with the ache in his chest and the loneliness pressing down, Buck wasn’t sure he believed in much anymore.
The next morning, he showered, dressed, and forced a grin no one returned.
He drove home to his empty, dark apartment.
And told himself it was fine.
He could manage.
He had to.