Chapter Text
inferno (noun)
: a place or a state that resembles or suggests hell
: an intense fire
As Buck walks alone down an empty side street in Los Angeles, the sounds of the city—honking, the bass from a nearby club, and distant chatter—do nothing to ease the screaming in his mind. Ants are crawling underneath his skin, making his fingers twitch and curl, and he wants nothing more than to simply run. As far away as he can, from everything that happened today, from the 118, from Eddie.
He hates how angry he feels, and he had hoped that going for a walk around the city would help calm him down, but so far, all it's done is make it worse. He can't escape from his own thoughts here, not like he usually does. Instead of doing his normal route, Buck keeps walking. He doesn't go down this street often—probably once a week, or more if his leg still bothers him—but ever since the lawsuit, his trips have become more frequent.
Buck walks until he hears a familiar voice call from somewhere to his right, within one of the alleys.
"Hey, kid. Watcha doing out here this late?"
Buck tilts his head, squinting against the darkness to make out who it is. "Pete?"
"The one and only."
He moves further into the alley, because as much as he'd like to keep going until everything from these last few months is miles behind him, he can't just turn away from one of the only people who still seems to like him.
When he gets to where Pete is standing, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, the man gives him a once-over and a raised eyebrow. "You doing alright, kid?"
Buck tries to smile, and fails. "Just dandy." He quickly changes the subject before Pete can start to question him about it, because there is no way Buck is having a heart-to-heart right now—not when it might end with him crying or throwing a fist. "How are you doing tonight?" He glances around and notices the empty spot beside Pete. "And how's James?"
"Okay, ignoring that blatant lie—James is fine. Probably high again, but he's toned it down ever since."
Buck winces. "Yeah."
Anytime Buck goes for a stroll around the city, he keeps Narcan in his pocket. He's seen enough overdoses on the job to know how a few seconds can be the difference between life and death, and if Buck can help, he will. A few months ago, during one of the nights when he could swear he felt the screws in his leg, he went for one of his required walks and came across Pete leaning over a prone body, trying to shake them awake.
His reaction was immediate and instinctual, and he'd administered the nasal spray while ordering Pete to call 9-1-1. At that point, the lawsuit had just begun, and Buck still had a naive hope that everything would go back to normal, that he could be back to helping people before the week was over.
Ever since, when Buck would stray from his route and make his way down the quieter side streets, he'd occasionally find Pete and James and strike up a conversation. Ever since, the three had become a sort of unlikely friend group.
Tonight, though, Buck is not in the mood to chat. Just a check-up, and then I can keep going. Away, away, away.
Pete stares at him for a few long seconds, then says, "Seriously, you look like you're about to explode. Still trying to find a job? Cause the market is hell, and I don't blame you."
Buck wishes that were the issue. But the reminder of work and his job makes his hands clench once more. A fire is bubbling within him, ready to burst through the cracks of his very being, and he isn't sure if this is one he can contain. He looks up at the sky, which is starless and foreboding, and tries not to take it out on Pete.
"Yeah, something like that," he responds.
He hears rather than sees the man drop his cigarette to the ground and put it out. Buck then glances back down, towards Pete, who's looking at him like he is a very complicated math equation.
"Alright, I'm gonna tell you about something, kid, but you gotta give me a promise first. Got it?"
Buck doesn't trust promises anymore, but this is one he can make—his curiosity is enough to force him to give a jerky nod.
"Alright," Pete says, before leaning onto his heels. "First off, you're not a cop, right?"
An unexpected laugh bursts out of him. It's sharp and jagged, and it probably scares Pete off from saying anything else. But then it hits him that his friend is being serious, and he shakes his head, mouth twisting. "Nah, Pete. I'm not. I don't have much of a job at all."
"Thought so, but I had to make sure. Come on, I wanna show you something."
This wasn't how he anticipated his night to go, and the switch-up in conversation leaves Buck with whiplash. Show me something? After asking if I'm a cop? It occurs to him, suddenly, that he doesn't really know Pete. While they converse like long-time friends, and Buck has come to care for the guy, he's realised that Pete isn't exactly high on the list of good people. He doesn't judge, though, because Buck also realises how much a person's situation can affect their decisions, and Pete's been given the short end of the stick one too many times for him to feel anything other than sympathy.
And if Buck doesn't do something, anything, to get his mind off today…
Whatever this leads to, illegal or not, Buck finds that he doesn't really care. So he nods and gestures for Pete to lead the way, thinking that if it's really bad, he'll tell Athena. There is a part of him that almost hopes it is bad, and he hates the thought—maybe he'll be led into a situation where he can finally prove himself to the 118, to Bobby, that he should be back in the field and not relegated to handing out candy and smoke detectors.
But then he shakes his head and forces himself to follow, pretending as though he isn't infinitely intrigued instead.
"Listen, kid, I don't know everything about you," Pete says as they move away from the alley and further into the decrepit parts of the city, "but I know that look on your face. You want to have a go at something, right? Maybe a brick wall or someone's nose? Well, I get that way, too. You got money on you?"
Buck tries to pay attention to Pete's words, deciphering them in his mind to no avail, and decides it's easier to just roll with it. "Not a lot, no."
"Okay, well, don't worry about it. You don't seem like the kind to bet all your life savings in one night, anyway. I'll at least get you in the door." Pete stops in front of him, and Buck nearly trips at the suddenness of it. At the way Pete's posture changes, he takes a cautious step back. "Now, if you tell anyone, anyone at all, I will find you. You got that? If the police come, either this night or two months from now, you are the first I'll look for, and you'll be the first dead. Do you understand?"
And Buck thinks, what the hell have I agreed to? Ignores the part of him that begins to pump adrenaline through his veins—the part that begins to feel excited.
"Um yeah, Pete. I got it."
His friend stares at him, filleting him open with his eyes, before he turns around and brings him thirty paces to an innocuous-looking building with a door Buck thinks hasn't been opened in years. "Good," he says, then he knocks on the wood, thrice in succession with a pause in between before doing it again. It swings open. Down below, somewhere in the building, Buck hears the distant echoes of a crowd.
It isn't until they've made it down a set of stairs after Pete handed some money to some burly guy at the entrance, and Buck is being asked for his bets, that he realises what he's just walked into. A surge of energy speeds through him, erasing every thought about work, or the blood-thinners, or today.
It's an underground fight ring.
Buck cannot think of anything he'd rather do at the moment than watch someone else get out their frustrations like he wants to do right now. He looks at Pete and truly grins for the first time in what feels like months.
Yes, he thinks, reverting back to the conversation he'd had earlier that day. The memory, which had been soured with hurt and frustration beforehand, now makes him vindictively happy. It makes me want to punch something.
"There's two already fighting, but I'll take your bets for the next one," the guy leading them to the ring says. He glances over to Pete, who must give some sort of signal that Buck can't see, because then he makes a face and points a finger at him. "Fine. But next time he pays."
"Yeah, yeah," Pete mutters behind him before he pushes a hand onto Buck's back and urges him forward.
Buck gives his thanks to the man—it never hurts to be polite—and finds himself joining the fray of people crowded around the center of the room, slightly unsure of how he ended up here but not yet wanting to leave all the same.
Shoulders push and shove against his own, and there is an electric nature to the atmosphere. His breathing quickens in the commotion. People are shouting and calling out for whoever is in the middle to beat the other down. Someone beside him yells, "that fucker better win, or I'll go over there and knock him out myself!"
Buck should feel out of place here. He should want to get out, find Athena, and have this thing shut down.
Still, His heartbeat begins to work in tandem with the pulsing of the crowd. It's like they are one collective mass, working together to motivate the fighters in the middle, and he's been welcomed in with open arms.
Buck hasn't felt like he belongs anywhere lately. Hasn't for over a month, not since he made that stupid decision to sue the city. But here? He can't admit it aloud, but something about the crowd pulls him in and makes him want to stay. To fight.
He wants to see who's in the middle, who to cheer for, already thinking of the next time he comes in in case he decides to bet on someone. The fight is still going, the mass of people moving and responding to every punch and kick that's thrown, and Buck suddenly desires to watch it and participate in the reaction.
So he pushes forward, twisting around and through whatever open spaces he can find until he has a good enough view of the ring.
And freezes.
Because there, in the center of the human-made circle, with his hands up and blood running rivulets down his cheek, is a face Buck recognises all too well. A face that has haunted him all day and left him wanting to, well, punch something. A person Buck can't seem to let go of.
Because there, in the middle of the fight ring, is Eddie.
Fourteen hours earlier
Buck wakes up on the morning of Halloween, already dreading the day ahead of him. Yesterday had probably been the worst shift of his life, and it had all started with five words that play in his head on repeat while he throws on his shoes and shoves cereal in his mouth.
Buck, you're man behind today.
When he closes his apartment door and makes his way outside, he thinks, Buck, you're man behind today.
Had Bobby meant for that to only apply once? Buck doesn't think so. He desperately wants to walk into work with the knowledge that he'll be helping people, finally putting his best foot forward and going out there again, but—
Buck, you're man behind today.
Yeah, that will probably be the case for this shift, too.
The cold shoulder he's been on the receiving end of hasn't alleviated, even after everyone's gotten a solid night's sleep. When he gets to the station, he doesn't receive a good morning nod from anyone, which is just ridiculous because Buck has never missed giving a welcome to the other firefighters when they get there.
Chivalry is dead, he supposes, and he tells Hen exactly that once he makes his way into the kitchen.
"They'll get over it," she advises, which really doesn't make him feel better, because what if they can't? What if Buck has ruined everything all in one fell swoop just because he wanted to go back to helping people?
Hen must sense his unease because she sends a sympathetic look his way and stops wiping down the kitchen table in order to give him her full attention. "They will, Buck. They just…they need a little time. No one really appreciated having all of their personal stuff used against them, and the effects of that kind of trickled down. Once they see how much you care about this job, they'll go back to their normal selves, and then" —she does air quotes, an amused smile on her face— "chivalry will return once more."
"It should get here faster," Buck mutters, but Hen's words have succeeded in partially soothing him. When he'd sued the city, he thought it would fix everything; he had been wronged, so he had to make it right, and that was it.
He hadn't expected his friends to get caught in the crossfire.
"Speaking of," Buck starts slowly, and he makes sure to look Hen in the eyes when he speaks next. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to say all of that, and I never wanted you guys to be hurt because of me."
"I know, Buck. So does everyone else, in their own way. They—"
"They just need time. Yeah, I get it," he finishes for her, and as Hen hands him the cloth so he can wipe down the rest of the table while she works on cleaning the kitchen, Buck has never been more grateful for her. Out of everyone, she was the first, and really only one, to truly welcome him back. Even after everything that happened, she has stayed by his side.
The rest of the team, however…
Buck doesn't know what to say to them to make it right—so far, all of his other attempts at fixing things only made it worse.
Chimney, at least, is talking to him like things are back to normal, even if some of their conversations are strained. But Buck can't help but feel like Bobby will never get over what happened. Or at least, he's using Buck's return as some sort of twisted punishment, a way to prove that there was nothing he could have done to make everything go back to the way it was—even though getting crushed under a firetruck wasn't Buck's fault in the first place.
And Eddie? Buck doesn't blame Eddie for hating him. Buck abandoned him and Christopher, made it so that they couldn't communicate—to the point where Buck had to actively corner him in the grocery just so they could—and then used his private life against him to get what he wanted. You're exhausting, Buck's mind supplies unhelpfully, and isn't that the truth of it all. He couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut or try to think things through for once.
"Is Buck stewing again?" Chimney asks as he stalks over to where they've mostly cleaned everything up, and Buck tries to push everything away so that his emotions don't appear on his face.
"Big time," Hen huffs, and Buck glares at them both.
"I'm not stewing, I'm…thinking."
Hen and Chimney share a meaningful glance—which only serves to irk Buck further—and Chimney turns to grin at him. "Right, well, don't think too hard. I don't feel like having a call for our own station because your head exploded."
Hen snorts, as if in agreement. As if needling Buck about his stupidity is fun.
The Buck of four months ago would have let that slide. He would have laughed it off, and the rest of the team would have smiled before going about the rest of the day, together. Except they aren't. Bobby hasn't come out to say good morning to anyone—probably because Buck is there—and Eddie…
Eddie is ignoring Buck, like he should. Like he has a right to. And none of this is okay. They aren't together anymore; they aren't a team. Buck's been out of the job for four months, and the realisation of just how much has changed around him is beginning to rear its head.
Buck, you're man behind today.
He stands up from his comfortable spot at the table. "Yeah?" Buck challenges, moving from the kitchen and towards the stairwell, away, away, away. "Well, sorry, I don't want to be a bother. I'll go think somewhere else." He tilts his head. "I wouldn't want to mess with the, uh, family dynamics here."
"C'mon, Buck—"
"No, no, it's fine. I'll just be…cleaning the truck."
They don't chase him down the stairs, which is probably for the best. He wouldn't have known what to do if they forced an answer out of him, or another apology. Buck wants his apologies to mean something, and they won't if they come out when he's angry.
Which doesn't bode well for him at all, considering Bobby is at the bottom of the steps.
"Oh, Buck, hey," Bobby says, not looking him in the eyes, just sidestepping him to go upstairs. Ignoring him, again.
"Bobby!" he greets back with so much false cheer that it makes his teeth ache. That, thankfully, is enough to get Bobby to finally pay attention. "How's it going?"
He squints, then smiles slightly. "I'm doing good. Just going to go make some breakfast for the troops."
Ask me how I am, Buck thinks. Just ask, once.
"...Right," Buck responds, then he panics and gives him a thumbs up. "Good luck."
"Yeah, thanks." Bobby continues up the steps, slipping past Buck, and he doesn't give him another glance.
Thirty minutes later, Buck is standing behind a table full of candy and handing out smoke detectors, a smile plastered onto his face like glue.
Buck truly believes that handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters could have ended well—perhaps even great—if it hadn't been for that kid. He can take a few harsh comments towards his character, okay? Even Chimney's dumb joke, while not being something Buck needed to hear at the moment, could be brushed off.
It's the kid, though, that makes something within him snap in two. The break isn't audible, and he doesn't feel the effects right away, but it's like Buck was being held together by rubber bands and tape, and this kid pulled him apart in just the right way to break him.
Mom, look, the real firefighters are here.
And the kid is right—here they are. The 118, pulling into the station in their turnout coats. As the mom pulls the devil-child away from the table, Buck tries not to stare at the team as they debrief and take off their gear. Eddie is coming towards him, near the bed of the truck, and Buck just has to call out to him because, as this day has proved to him, he's an idiot.
See, Buck honestly believes that this could have gone okay, maybe even good, if he hadn't opened his stupid mouth.
"Hey, Eddie. Want to help me hand out candy to children?"
For a few seconds, Buck worries that Eddie didn't hear him. But then Eddie turns, striding over to the table and appraising the situation with a raised eyebrow. He looks severely unimpressed with what he sees. "Seems like you're doing an alright job without me."
"Well, it would probably go even better if there were two of us. Maybe if you kept your gear on, show the kids what a real firefighter looks like?" He wants his tone to come across as playful goading, like the way they used to talk. It does not.
"Oh yeah? Not feeling like one already, Buckley?" Eddie says back, and his inflection is just as biting. "I thought that lawsuit of yours proved otherwise. Or was that not the whole point, the reason for all of this."
This.
He won't even say it. Won't give mention to the tension that saturates the station every time Buck simply enters a room.
It's just another stark reminder of how badly Buck messed everything up, and by the time he thinks to formulate a response, Eddie has already backed away from him and towards the gear rack to take off his uniform.
"Eddie, wait—" Buck starts, and this time, he doesn't know whether he wants Eddie to have heard him or not.
Either way, Eddie never turns back around.
Buck mans the candy station for another hour, until Hen comes down to check on him and relieve him of his duties. Hen wants to talk, at first, about that morning with Chimney in the kitchen. After she sees the look on his face, she switches topics to the call they were just on. Which isn't better, not in the least, but Buck can safely tune her out without feeling confrontational. His shift is over in a few hours, anyway—he can deal with this for a little while longer.
(But can he deal with this for a week? A month? Will he be stuck in this limbo forever, of being man behind for a team that will never fully trust him again?)
"I'm going to take a break," he interrupts Hen in what was probably an interesting story that Buck does not care to hear about one bit.
"Oh, sure. I don't mind taking care of this for a while." Unless there's a call, Buck finishes for her, but he doesn't say that one aloud.
On his way to the bathrooms, however, he runs into Bobby, who gestures for him to come over. It's almost like he was waiting for Buck to be off his guard, and he wonders sharply if Bobby even meant to talk to him, or if Buck just stumbled in his path and Bobby thought, right, I have another member on my team; let's have some small talk.
They don't have small talk, though—Buck jokes about how well he did at handing out candy, then Bobby says, very simply and with the same intonation as Buck, you're man behind today, "Why don't you go home?"
And Buck doesn't hear the rest of the statement, because everything around him has come screeching to a halt.
"Home?"
"Yes. You've done a good job here today, and I don't want to hold you up. Take the night off, you've earned it."
"Earned it?" he repeats, like a damn parrot.
"You handed out more smoke detectors than I could have," Bobby chuckles, and there's nothing on his face, nothing to imply that he knows how deeply he's twisting the knife into Buck's very being. "I'd say that earns you a night off."
I didn't do anything, Buck wants to plead, while another part of him almost wants to accept the praise for what it is—as a sign that he's being noticed.
Bobby sighs. "Hey, if you don't want to, I can't force you to leave. Just think on it," he says before he begins to walk away again, through the path of least resistance now that Buck is behind him and out of his way.
Why don't you go home?
For once, Buck wants to. He never thought that leaving the station would sound so tempting, not after all he did to get back to it, but he's no longer sure if he can take this anymore. He can't laugh with Hen and Chim without freaking out. Bobby talks to him like he's some fucking stranger that walked off the street. Eddie barely talks to him at all.
Maybe he should go.
The urge to run out of this place sends pins and needles down his spine, as though his own skin is trying to disappear from the station, with or without him.
But he can't leave like this.
There is one person he has yet to apologise to—or at least attempt to, because his sloughed off words to Chimney this morning don’t exactly count—and Buck doesn’t think he can just walk out without saying something. Doesn’t think he’ll be able to come back in tomorrow, because if Buck doesn’t fix things with Eddie, he won’t be able to stand working here for another minute.
They had been a team once; they might never be one again, but if Buck can at least make amends…
Despite everything in him telling him not to risk ruining their relationship further, Buck steels himself and searches for Eddie before he can change his mind.
He finds him a few minutes later, sitting on one of the bunks with his phone out. Eddie is solely focused on whoever he's texting that he doesn't notice Buck's presence until Buck actively clears his throat. Which is just awkward on so many levels, and he already wants this conversation to be over.
Eddie flicks his gaze up, then back down at his phone, until he finally closes it and gives Buck his full attention. "Yeah?"
Oh, shit. I didn't think this through.
"I…" Buck latches onto the nearest topic and waves a hand wildly in Eddie's direction. "Texting someone important?"
Wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say—
"Christopher," Eddie allows slowly. "He was telling me about all the trick-or-treaters coming to the door. He and Carla are having fun, at least."
"Oh, right. How's, uh, how is he doing?" It isn't until Buck is asking the question that he realises how long it’s been since he’s actually seen Chris, and a wave of longing for what once was slams into his chest with such unsuspecting ferocity that he finds himself holding his breath.
Something twitches on Eddie's face, there and then gone. "Fine. Doing pretty good, all things considered—he's a little disappointed about not going out for Halloween, but we dressed up yesterday for the costume party at his school."
Buck breathes out, and thinks: small talk. Aloud, he blurts, "I'm sorry."
Which—good going, Buckley. Real smooth.
Eddie blinks, then leans back on the cot. Buck can't decipher what the expression on his face alludes to—disinterest? Curiosity? Forgiveness? His inability to figure out exactly what his friend is feeling is just another nail on the coffin, another reminder of how far gone everything is now. When combined with the ache of missing Christopher and the anger over how his day has been going, it's enough to send the words he's been holding in for weeks tumbling over the edge of his tongue.
"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for it to end up like this. I wasn't thinking of how wanting to get my job back would lead to this…this tension between everyone—I thought it would be simple. Just, prove to the city and to Bobby that they couldn't do this to me, and—and I'm sorry."
The bunk creaks as Eddie stands up and takes a step towards him with that unreadable look on his face. It makes Buck's insides squirm, and his mouth continues to run away from him because now that he's started talking, he can't seem to stop.
"And now everything's weird. I can't walk into work without being shunned like I'm some sort of criminal, just for simply wanting what I should have gotten in the first place. It's all wrong, and it just makes me want to, I don't even know—"
"Punch someone?"
It's the first thing Eddie has said to him all day that sounds like a concession. An olive branch, maybe, or perhaps Buck is coming to realise just how right Eddie is.
He huffs. "Yeah, a little."
Eddie smiles back at him, but it isn't happy. Buck can read this expression, as it's one his parents have directed his way more times he can count. It's the "Buck's being Buck again. We better calm him down before he does something else reckless" face.
It's still there when Eddie says, "Look, I forgive you, Buck."
And there again when he continues with, "But let me give you some advice about apologising—avoid having so many "I"s in the statement, y'know? Because you talk about how you only did this to—what, right a wrong? Get back the job that was stolen from you? You had weeks to think about what suing us might entail, but I don't hear you mentioning that part, because that would mean taking too much responsibility. The thing is, I forgive you, because that's what teams do. But trust? That needs to be earned, and so far you've done a pretty shitty job at that."
During his speech, Eddie had gotten closer to Buck, stepping forward into his space and punctuating his words with each step. Now that he's done, he pulls away with a sigh that seems to take everything out of him in one fell swoop.
"Eddie…" Buck starts, and he doesn't even know where to begin, only knowing that he has to say something—except he never gets the chance to figure it out. As he starts to speak, the blaring alarm of a fire call rings through the station, swiftly cutting him off.
"Attention engine one-eighteen: medical assistance is needed at the intersection of Vermont Ave and Normandie Ave. A man was found embedded in the windshield of a golden sedan. Suspected head injury for the female driver. The current condition of the man is unknown."
As the details continue to pour out, firefighters around them burst into movement, throwing on gear and starting up the truck.
"Eddie, you coming?" Chimney calls out as he runs past where the two are standing. But Eddie hasn't moved yet—he's still staring at Buck, as though daring him to finish his sentence.
But then Bobby echoes out a sharp, "Eddie!" and it finally spurs him into action. Buck is spared one last disappointed look before the team rushes onto the truck and peels out of the station, leaving Buck as man behind once more. It only takes a few moments for the station to go from its regular bustle of noise and commotion to something empty, the silence broken only by the alarm that continues blaring on and on and on.
Buck stands there, still.
Then, slowly, he begins to pack up the table and the smoke detectors. He throws them back in the supply closet with more force than is necessary, immensely satisfied when they tumble onto the floor in disarray. He shuts the door behind him, doesn't bother to clean up the rest, and then he does what Bobby asked him to all those minutes ago:
He goes home.
And that night, Buck finds himself walking down an empty side street in Los Angeles, hands curling into a fist.