Chapter Text
Buck stood in front of his open locker, staring blankly at the familiar navy blue LAFD t shirt hanging inside. He had been back on shift for exactly twenty one days, and every single one of them had felt like breathing underwater. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cotton fabric, trying to summon the spark of joy that used to live permanently in his chest whenever he put this uniform on.
Nothing. Just a flat, muted ache.
He pulled the shirt over his head, wincing slightly, not from lingering physical stiffness of his injuries, but from the sheer exhaustion of existing in this firehouse.
"Hey, Buckley, watch your step," a voice called out as the locker room door swung open. Chimney walked in, tossing his duffel bag onto a bench. He flashed a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Floors were just mopped. Don't want you slipping and slapping the city with another lawsuit. My pension can't take the hit."
Buck froze, his hands gripping the edges of his locker door so hard his knuckles turned white. It was a joke. Chimney was a joker. It was supposed to be funny. But the words landed like acid on raw skin.
Buck forced a tight, plastic smile onto his face, turning around. "Yeah. Right. I'll be careful, Chim."
Chimney clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past, but the touch was brief, almost passing. There was no lingering warmth, no brotherly shove. Maddie was playing neutral, supposedly. But Buck wasn't stupid. He knew Chimney was spending almost every night at Maddie’s apartment. His sister had picked a side, and it wasn't his.
Buck swallowed the lump in his throat and closed his locker. He made his way down to the bay floor. The bell hadn't rung yet, but the morning lineup was imminent.
Bobby was standing by his office, when he saw Buck approaching, Bobby's posture stiffened slightly. The paternal warmth that used to radiate from the man was entirely gone, replaced by the rigid, solid wall of Captain Nash.
"Morning, Cap," Buck said, his voice quiet. He hated how small he sounded. He hated that he was practically begging for a scrap of validation with just two words.
"Buckley," Bobby said curtly, not looking up from his clipboard. "We're doing inventory on the rigs today between calls. Check the expiry dates on the jump bags. When the bell rings, you're the man behind. You stay on the floor, clean the hoses."
Buck felt a familiar flush of humiliation creep up his neck. Man behind again. The designated benchwarmer. He was fully cleared by the department, fully reinstated, but Bobby was treating him like a fragile liability made of glass. "Cap, I’m fully cleared for the field. I can,"
"You have your orders, Buckley," Bobby interrupted, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that commanded instant obedience. He finally looked up, and his eyes were completely shuttered. "You wanted to be back here. You sued to be back here. So here you are. But I decide who goes into the field."
Buck’s jaw clicked shut. "Copy that, Captain."
Bobby walked away without another word. Buck let out a shaky breath, turning toward the engines. That’s when he saw him.
Eddie was walking around, holding a mug of coffee. Looking exactly like the man Buck used to trust with his life, his secrets, and his heart. Buck’s pulse jumped. Despite everything, despite the icy freeze out of the last three weeks, a pathetic, desperate part of Buck still sought Eddie out like a plant leaning toward the sun.
"Hey, Eddie," Buck said, taking a step forward. He forced his voice to sound casual, light. Like they were still best friends. Like everything wasn't completely broken. "How's, uh... how's Christopher? Is he liking the new science teacher? I know he was nervous about the transition."
Eddie stopped. He didn't turn his body toward Buck, he just turned his head. His dark eyes were flat, devoid of any of the fond exasperation or deep affection that used to reside there.
"Christopher is fine," Eddie said, his voice perfectly level, completely devoid of emotion.
"Yeah? That's good," Buck babbled, desperate to keep the conversation going, desperate for Eddie to look at him like he mattered. "If he ever needs help with his science projects, you know I’m always around. I'd love to see him,"
"He doesn't need your help, Buck," Eddie cut in, his tone dropping several degrees. It was a verbal door slamming in Buck's face. "We've got it handled. Don't worry about my son."
My son. Not the boy Buck had dragged out of a tsunami. My son.
Eddie broke eye contact and walked away, joining Hen by the ambulances. Hen gave Buck a brief, sympathetic look, but she quickly looked away, busying herself with the medical supplies. She was nice enough to him, she didn't make cutting jokes like Chimney, but she didn't defend him either. She just let the silence drown him.
Buck stood alone in the middle of the bay floor, surrounded by the family he had fought so hard to get back to, feeling completely, utterly invisible. The realization hit him, cold and sharp.
It’s a mistake. You forced your way back into a house where you are no longer wanted.
The breaking point didn't come from Bobby, or Eddie, or Chimney. It came from James and Patrick.
It was 8am the next morning. Shift change. Buck was utterly exhausted, having spent a 24 hour shift scrubbing toilets, checking inventory, and listening to the engine roar out into the city without him. He was at his locker, throwing his civilian clothes into his duffel bag, when the B shift crew swaggered in.
James and Patrick were textbook frat boy firefighters. Loud, arrogant, and mean. They had never liked Buck, even before the lawsuit, jealous of his golden boy status and high save count. Now? Now he was fresh meat.
"Well, if it isn't the million dollar crybaby," James sneered, slamming his locker shut loudly.
Buck kept his head down, shoving his LAFD shirt into his bag.
Ignore them. Just go home.
"Hey, Buckley, I'm talking to you," James said, stepping into Buck’s personal space.
Buck zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Excuse me, James. I'm going home."
He tried to step around the bigger man, but James moved into his path, and Patrick stepped up right behind him. Before Buck could brace himself, James shoved him hard in the center of his chest.
Buck stumbled backward, his bad leg twinging sharply as it took his awkward, sudden weight. He hit the row of lockers behind him with a loud metallic crash, his duffel bag dropping to the floor.
"Watch your feet, liability," Patrick laughed cruelly.
"You're a joke, Buckley," James hissed, stepping closer, his voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. "You sued the department because you couldn't handle getting benched for being a screw up. Now you're just taking up space. Every time the bell rings, I pray I don't have to roll out with you, because I know you'd get one of us killed just to play hero."
Buck’s blood boiled. His hands curled into fists. He looked up, fire finally lighting in his eyes. He opened his mouth to tell James to back the fuck up, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
Eddie and Chimney were standing by the doorway. They had seen the whole thing. They saw the shove. They saw Buck hit the lockers.
Buck waited for it. He waited for Eddie to step forward, eyes blazing, to tear James apart for touching him. He waited for Chimney to say something sharp and cutting to put B shift in their place. He waited for his family to have his back.
Eddie just looked at him, his expression completely blank, and then turned around and walked out. Chimney followed him a second later.
The silence that followed was deafening. James smirked, stepping back. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Nobody wants you here, Buckley."
They laughed and walked away, leaving Buck pressed against the cold metal of the lockers.
He didn't cry. He was too hollowed out to cry. He just picked up his bag, walked out to his Jeep, and sat in the driver's seat for twenty minutes, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
They don't want me.
It wasn't just a fear anymore. It was a concrete fact. He was shrinking himself, making himself small, staying quiet and submissive, just to be tolerated in the same room as them. And it still wasn't enough.
Buck pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his personal email. He stared at a drafted email he had written three nights ago at 3:00 AM during a panic attack.
To: Chief Alonzo
Subject: Transfer Request - Station 186
Station 186 was a busy house out near the valley. Far from the 118. Far from Bobby's disappointed sighs and Eddie's cold shoulder.
Buck’s thumb hovered over the send button. His chest physically ached. Sending this meant giving up. It meant the family was truly broken. But staying... staying was killing him. It was destroying whatever was left of Evan Buckley.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed Send.
Two days later, Buck was sitting on the edge of his bed in the loft. It was his 48 hours off. He was staring at his laptop screen.
From: Chief Alonzo
To: Firefighter Evan Buckley
Subject: RE: Transfer Request - Station 186
Firefighter Buckley, your transfer request has been reviewed and approved. Given the circumstances surrounding your reinstatement, the department agrees a fresh start is appropriate. Your transfer is effective in exactly seven days. I will forward the final paperwork to Captain Nash for his signature once Captain Lenovo at the 186 processes you in.
Buck let out a breath he felt like he had been holding forever.
It was done. In a week, he would walk out of the 118 for the last time. He wouldn't have to see the back of Eddie’s head when he walked away from him. He wouldn't have to listen to Chimney’s hidden insults. He wouldn't have to feel Bobby’s guilt and anger smothering him.
A massive, overwhelming weight lifted off his shoulders. This was the first time since the fire truck crushed his leg, Buck felt like he could breathe. He was going to start over. He would be the new guy, sure, but he would be a firefighter. He would be out in the field, saving lives, doing what he was born to do.
He pulled out his phone and opened his personnel file app. He scrolled down to the Emergency Contacts section.
Primary: Robert Nash. Secondary: Maddie Kendall. Tertiary: Edmundo Diaz.
He stared at the names for a long time. Maddie hadn't texted him in a week. Bobby hadn't looked him in the eye in almost a month. Eddie wouldn't even let him ask about Christopher.
With a steady, deliberate hand, Buck hit Edit. He deleted Bobby. He deleted Maddie. He deleted Eddie.
He typed in: None.
He saved the profile. He went to his Health app and did the same.
He was officially on his own. And honestly? It felt incredibly freeing.
He looked out the window of his loft. It was a beautiful, clear morning in Los Angeles. The sun was shining. He had 48 hours to kill before his shift at the 118, and he suddenly felt a surge of restless, vibrant energy. He needed to get out. He needed to sweat, to move, to feel his body working.
There was a trail up in the Angeles National Forest he had been meaning to do for years. Mount Waterman via the Twin Peaks saddle. It was notoriously steep, completely isolated, and boasted the best views in the county. He kept putting it off because he wanted to take Eddie, but it never happened.
Fuck it, Buck thought, standing up. I'm going today.
He grabbed his sturdy, tactical backpack. He tossed in a massive Nalgene water bottle, a small first aid kit, a flashlight, a wrapped turkey sandwich he had made the night before, and a protein bar. He laced up his hiking boots, threw on a pair of comfortable, breathable hiking shorts and a light grey t shirt, and grabbed his keys.
As he drove out to the forest, the windows down, the wind whipping, Buck turned the music up loud. He sang along to classic rock, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He felt good. He felt really, good. The suffocating depression of the last few weeks was breaking apart, letting the light back in. He was going to be okay. He didn't need the 118 to be whole. He just needed himself.
The drive took a little over an hour, winding up the steep mountain roads until he hit the remote trailhead. There were only two other cars in the dirt parking lot. Perfect. He wanted isolation. He wanted peace.
Buck locked the Jeep, slung his pack over his shoulders, and hit the trail.
The first mile was brutal, a steep, punishing incline that immediately got his heart rate spiking. His left leg, still harboring the deep aches of multiple surgeries and titanium screws, protested loudly. But it was a good ache. It was the ache of a body working, not a body broken. Buck pushed through it, finding a steady, regular pace.
The air smelled like pine needles and dry earth. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots on the gravel and the distant calls of scrub jays. The higher he climbed, the more the haze of the city faded away, revealing crystal clear blue skies.
It took him three hours of grueling, sweaty work to reach the peak. When he broke through the tree line and stepped out onto the granite peak, the view literally stole his breath away.
Miles of untouched forest stretched out beneath him, cascading down the mountains in waves of deep green and brown. The silence was absolute. It was majestic. It was completely removed from the chaos of Los Angeles, the lawsuits, the betrayal, and the heartbreak.
Buck walked over to a large, flat boulder that jutted out over the edge of the slope. He dropped his backpack with a heavy thump and sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The stone was warm from the sun. He pulled out his water bottle, chugging half of it in one go, the cool liquid a massive relief to his parched throat.
He unwrapped his turkey sandwich and took a huge bite. He sat there, chewing slowly, letting the mountain breeze dry the sweat on his forehead.
He closed his eyes. I did it, he thought. I survived. I got crushed by a truck, I survived a pulmonary embolism, I survived the tsunami, and I survived the 118 breaking my heart. And I'm still here.
He opened his eyes, looking out at the horizon. He felt a intense, overwhelming sense of relief. He was going to miss them. God, he was going to miss them. He would miss Bobby's cooking. He would miss Chimney's ridiculous trivia. He would miss Maddie's hugs. And Eddie... his heart physically twinged... he would miss Eddie so much it felt like a fatal wound. But he was going to survive it.
He finished the sandwich, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed contentedly. He leaned back on his hands, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face.
Then, he heard it.
A sharp, dry rustling sound. Like dead leaves scraping together very, very fast.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.
Buck’s eyes snapped open. He knew that sound. Any hiker in Southern California knew that sound. It was the primal, terrifying warning of a rattlesnake.
He didn't even have time to locate the source of the noise. It happened in a fraction of a second.
A sudden, violent blur of brown and diamond patterned scales lashed out from the deep crevice beneath the boulder he was sitting on.
Pain sharp, white hot, and blinding exploded in Buck's left leg, just above his ankle where his hiking shoe ended and the bare skin of his calf began.
"FUCK!" Buck screamed, instinctively violently kicking his leg out.
He caught a glimpse of a massive Southern Pacific Rattlesnake, at least four feet long, recoiling from the strike and rapidly slithering away into the dense brush, disappearing like a ghost.
Buck scrambled backward across the boulder, his heart instantly redlining, hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Adrenaline dumped into his system, cold and electric.
"No, no, no, no," he chanted, pulling his left leg toward him.
Right above his ankle bone, there were two distinct, deep puncture wounds. Blood was already welling up from the strikes, trickling down into his sock. But it wasn't just blood. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt. It wasn't the dull, crushing agony of the fire truck. It was a searing, chemical fire. It felt like someone had injected boiling acid directly into his veins, and the fire was already beginning to crawl up his shin.
Panic, dark and suffocating, threatened to pull him under. He was miles from the trailhead. He was completely alone. He had just been bitten by one of the most venomous snakes in North America.
Focus, Buckley, the firefighter voice in his head commanded. Protocol. Follow protocol.
He forced himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. Heart rate. He had to keep his heart rate down, or the venom would pump through his system faster. He lay back flat against the warm granite, elevating his head slightly, trying to force his breathing to slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
His hands were shaking violently. He grabbed his backpack, dragging it over to him. He unzipped it and pulled out the small first aid kit. He didn't have antivenom, nobody carried that, but he had a tourniquet.
The pain was rapidly intensifying. The skin around the puncture wounds was already swelling, turning an angry, bruised purple. It felt tight, like his skin was going to split open.
With trembling fingers, Buck pulled the nylon strap of the tourniquet out. He wrapped it around his lower calf, a few inches above the bite. He pulled it tight, not enough to cut off arterial blood flow and lose the limb to ischemia, but tight enough to restrict the lymphatic spread of the venom.
He gritted his teeth as the pressure aggravated the burning agony in his leg. Sweat was pouring down his face now, stinging his eyes. The world around him seemed to tilt dangerously. The venom was systemic. It was moving.
Phone. Call for an air evac.
He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His vision was starting to blur at the edges, a dizzying nausea swirling in his gut. He brought the screen up to his face, his thumb hovering over the dial pad to punch in 9-1-1.
He froze.
The screen glowed brightly in the afternoon sun. In the top right corner, where the little signal bars should have been, there was an 'X'.
No Service.
Buck stared at the words. He stared at them until they stopped making sense. He shook the phone, holding it up high in the air, desperate, praying to a god he wasn't sure he believed in for just one bar. Just a single bar to send a text with his GPS coordinates.
No Service.
The reality of his situation crashed down on him, heavier than the fire truck, colder than the tsunami.
He was at the peak of Mount Waterman. There was almost no foot traffic. He hadn't told anyone where he was going. He hadn't left a note.
And yesterday, he had deleted all his emergency contacts.
A wave of terrifying isolation washed over him. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody was coming for him. If he didn't get down this mountain, he was going to die here. Alone. On a rock.
The venom was working terrifyingly fast. A wave of violent nausea hit him, and Buck rolled onto his side, violently throwing up the sandwich he had just eaten onto the rocks. He dry heaved until his ribs ached, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
His leg felt like it was trapped in a furnace. The swelling had completely consumed his ankle, the flesh hot to the touch and distended. He tried to push himself up to a sitting position, a desperate thought of trying to crawl down the mountain forming in his mind, but his arms gave out. He collapsed back onto the stone.
The blue sky above him began to grey out at the edges. His heart was fluttering erratically in his chest, fighting a losing battle against the hemotoxic poison attacking his blood cells.
Tears, hot and unbidden, slipped out of the corners of his eyes, tracking through the dirt and sweat on his face.
He thought about Maddie. He hoped she and Chimney would be happy. He hoped she would forgive him for not calling.
He thought about Bobby. He hoped Bobby would find peace, and realize that Buck's death wasn't his fault. It was just bad luck.
And he thought about Eddie.
A phantom ache, separate from the snake bite, bloomed in his chest. He saw Eddie’s dark eyes, Chris’s messy curls, the warmth of the Diaz kitchen that used to be his safe harbor. He was never going to see them again. He was never going to get the chance to earn his way back to them. He was dying.
"Eddie," Buck whispered to the empty mountain, his voice a broken, wet rasp. "I'm sorry."
The grey edges of his vision encroached faster, tunneling his sight down to a pinprick. The burning in his leg faded into a strange, terrifying numbness. His breathing slowed. The fight was leaving his body, replaced by a dark, heavy exhaustion.
He let his eyes slip shut. The darkness was surprisingly warm.
Just as his consciousness began to slip beneath the black water, he thought he heard something.
A voice. Not in his head. Real.
"...oh my god, David, look! Over there!"
Footsteps crunching rapidly on the granite.
"Hey! Hey buddy, can you hear me? Shit, Sarah, he's barely breathing. Look at his leg! Call 911, right now!"
Buck felt a hand press against his neck, checking for a pulse. He wanted to open his eyes, wanted to tell them there was no service, wanted to beg them not to leave him, but his body had completely disconnected from his brain.
"Hold on, man, just hold on," the voice said, sounding incredibly far away.
Buck couldn't hold on anymore. He let go and let the darkness take him completely.
The transition from the mountain to the hospital was not a linear memory. It was a jagged, kaleidoscopic nightmare of noise, pain, and blinding light.
Buck’s consciousness fractured into agonizing little pieces.
He remembered the deafening, recurring thwack thwack thwack of helicopter rotors shaking him down to his teeth. He remembered a stranger’s hands, rough and frantic pressing down on his chest. He remembered someone shouting over the engine noise, words like tachycardia, anaphylaxis, and compartment syndrome floating in the chaotic air, though they felt completely disconnected from his own body.
Mostly, he remembered the fire.
The venom had transformed the blood in his left leg into boiling battery acid. It was a searing, consuming agony that defied logic. He couldn’t scream because his throat was too dry, his airway swelling as his body went into systemic shock. He could only writhe against the tight canvas straps holding him to the backboard, his fingers curling into claws as he rode wave after wave of pure, white hot torture.
"Stay with us, man! Come on, keep your eyes open!" a paramedic yelled, a penlight flashing into Buck’s blown pupils.
Buck tried to blink, tried to say I’m a firefighter, I know the drill, but all that came out was a wet, choking gasp.
Then, the world went blessedly, completely dark again.
When he finally surfaced, the environment had changed. The chaotic noise of the helicopter was gone, replaced by the sanitary, frantic energy of a trauma bay.
Bright lights stabbed at his eyes as he peeled them open. A chorus of machines beeped in rapid, panicked tempos around him. People in blue scrubs were swarming his bed like ants, shouting orders, hanging IV bags, and cutting away his clothes.
"BP is tanking, 70 over 40! Heart rate is 140!"
"Push another epi, get that second line in his right AC!"
"I need six vials of CroFab antivenom, stat! Have the pharmacy run it down!"
Buck tried to move, but his limbs felt like they were cast in lead. He weakly rolled his head to the side. The trauma doctor, a stern looking woman with greying hair and blood splattered on the front of her gown was standing at the foot of his bed, staring down at his left leg.
Buck forced his heavy eyes to follow her gaze.
What he saw didn't even look human anymore.
His left leg, from the knee down to the toes, was swollen to three times its normal size. The skin was stretched so incredibly tight it looked shiny, split in places where the pressure was too immense. It wasn't the angry red of an infection, it was a horrifying, bruised mosaic of deep purple, sickly yellow, and necrotic black. Blisters the size of golf balls had bubbled up along his calf.
He stared at it, his brain short circuiting. It looked like a rotting log. It didn't look like something that belonged to him.
"F…fasciotomy..." Buck rasped, the word tearing up his raw throat. He knew the protocol. The swelling was cutting off blood flow. They needed to slice the leg open to relieve the pressure. "Cut it..."
The doctor’s head snapped up. She looked surprised he was conscious. She stepped up to the head of the bed, her face grim. "Mr. Buckley? I'm Dr. Margi. Can you hear me?"
Buck gave a tiny nod.
"You were bitten by a large Southern Pacific Rattlesnake," Dr. Margi said, her voice fast and clinical, completely devoid of false hope. "The venom load you took was catastrophic. You have severe compartment syndrome, and the hemotoxins have already caused widespread tissue necrosis. We are pumping you full of antivenom, but..." She hesitated, her eyes flickering with a deep, heavy sympathy.
"Cut it open," Buck pleaded, his voice a pathetic, reedy whisper. "Relieve... pressure."
Dr. Margi shook her head slowly. "Evan. It's too late for a fasciotomy. The muscle tissue in your lower leg is already dead. The venom has caused irreversible necrosis, and the infection is spreading to your bloodstream. Your kidneys are starting to fail. If we don't act immediately, you are going to go into septic shock, and you will die on this table."
The words hung in the frigid air of the trauma bay. The frantic movements of the nurses seemed to slow down, the room plunging into an eerie, underwater silence.
Too late.
Dead.
Irreversible.
Die on this table.
Buck’s heart monitor hitched, the tempo spiking wildly. "No," he whispered, tears instantly flooding his eyes. "No, you can fix it. I'm... I'm a firefighter. I need it. Please. Fix it."
Dr. Margi reached out, placing a firm, warm hand on his shoulder. "I am so sorry, Evan. But there is nothing left to fix. The only way to stop the spread of the necrosis and save your life is to amputate the leg. We need to take it from just below the knee."
Amputate.
The word felt like a physical blow to the chest. It knocked all the air out of his lungs.
He had survived a bombing. He had survived a ladder truck crushing this exact leg. He had fought through months of agonizing physical therapy, through blood clots, through lawsuits and the hatred of his family, just to earn the right to walk into a burning building again.
And now, a snake on a random hike was going to take it all away.
He thought about the 118. He thought about James shoving him in the locker room. You're a liability. You're just taking up space. He thought about Bobby's cold, disappointed eyes. He thought about Eddie walking away. He thought about Christopher.
If he didn't have his leg, he couldn't be a firefighter. And if he wasn't a firefighter, he was absolutely nothing. He was no one.
"Let me die," Buck choked out, a sob finally breaking free, tearing violently from his chest. "Just let it... let it spread."
Dr. Margi’s grip on his shoulder tightened until it was almost painful. Her eyes were fierce. "No. I am not letting a healthy twenty six year old die in my ER because he's scared. You are going to live, Mr. Buckley. But you must give me permission to save you. Nod your head. Tell me to do it."
Buck squeezed his eyes shut. Tears spilled hot and fast down his temples, tangling in his hair.
He was so tired. He was so incredibly tired of fighting. But underneath the exhaustion, underneath the crushing, suffocating grief... there was a tiny, stubborn spark. The same spark that had kept him treading water in the tsunami. The same spark that had pulled him out from under the fire truck.
Evan Buckley did not know how to quit. Even when he wanted to.
He opened his eyes, looking up at the bright, blinding surgical lights on the ceiling. He took a ragged, shuddering breath, and gave a single, tiny nod.
"Do it," he whispered.
Dr. Margi immediately turned to the nurses. "Prep the OR! Page ortho and general surgery, tell them we have a below knee amputation, right now!"
The room exploded into motion again. Someone was pushing a clipboard into Buck's line of sight, a pen pressed clumsily into his trembling hand. He couldn't even read the consent form, the letters swam in a blurry sea of tears. He just scratched a jagged, unrecognizable line at the bottom of the page. He was signing away a piece of his body. He was signing away his career.
A nurse with kind, tired brown eyes leaned over him as they unlocked the brakes on his bed. "Mr. Buckley, we can call someone. Your family. We can have someone waiting for you when you wake up."
Buck dropped the pen. The adrenaline was fading, being rapidly replaced by the heavy, dark pull of the surgical anesthetics they were pushing through his IV.
Family.
He saw Maddie, sitting on the couch with Chimney, laughing at something on the TV while ignoring his texts.
He saw Bobby, walking away from him on the bay floor.
He saw Eddie, completely blank and devoid of love, walking out of the locker room while Buck was shoved into the metal.
He had changed his contacts yesterday. He had cut the cord.
"No," Buck slurred, his eyelids drooping, feeling like they weighed a thousand pounds. "There's no one. Just... just me."
The nurse’s face crumpled with pity, but Buck was already drifting away. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want anyone's pity. As they wheeled him rapidly down the stark white hallways toward the operating room, he embraced the cold, echoing silence in his own head.
He was entirely alone. But for the first time in weeks, no one was disappointed in him. No one was angry. No one was pushing him away.
As the anesthesia mask was placed over his face, he breathed in the bitter gas and let the darkness swallow him whole.
Waking up was worse than the bite.
It wasn't a sudden return to consciousness. It was a slow, agonizing crawl through thick, suffocating mud. Buck became aware of his senses one by one. First, the smell. Antiseptic, bleach, and the distinct, metallic tang of his own sweat.
Then, the sound. The steady beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor. The soft whine of an air conditioner.
Then, the feeling.
He felt incredibly heavy, his brain clouded with a thick fog of Dilaudid and fentanyl. But as the fog began to thin, a bizarre, terrifying sensation took hold.
His left foot itched.
It was a deep, bone deep itch right on the sole of his left foot, right near the arch. It was annoying, persistent. Instinctively, Buck shifted in the hospital bed, trying to rub his left foot against his right calf to scratch it.
His right leg moved. But his left foot... his left foot didn't respond.
Buck’s eyes flew open. The room was shadowy, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds of a private ICU room.
Panic, icy and absolute, seized his throat. He tried to sit up, but his abdominal muscles were weak, his body violently protesting the movement. He propped himself up on his elbows, his breath coming in short, panicked pants.
He looked down at the end of the bed.
The thin hospital blanket over his legs. His right leg created a long, familiar silhouette, ending in the peak of his foot pointing toward the ceiling.
Beside it, the blanket was completely flat.
The silhouette stopped abruptly, halfway down the shin. There was nothing there. Just empty air.
"No," Buck breathed. The sound was so small, so fragile, it broke in the quiet room.
His trembling right hand reached down, pulling the blanket back.
His left leg was wrapped in thick, white, bulky bandages from the knee down. It ended in a blunt, rounded stump. His calf was gone. His ankle was gone. His foot was gone.
The itch was still there. He could feel his toes. He could swear to god he could feel his toes, but he was staring at empty space.
The reality of what he had agreed to, the reality of what his life was now, crashed over him like a collapsing building. It was so vast, so horrifying, that his brain simply couldn't process it.
Buck threw his head back against the pillows and let out a raw, guttural scream.
It wasn't a scream of physical pain, the painkillers were masking the worst of the surgical trauma. It was a scream of pure grief. He screamed until his throat tore, until the heart monitor beside him began to blare a frantic alarm, matching the violent, terrified racing of his heart.
He grabbed the stump of his leg with both hands, his fingers digging into the thick bandages, sobbing so hard he started to hyperventilate.
It's gone. Oh my god, it's gone.
The ICU door burst open, and a nurse rushed in, closely followed by a resident doctor.
"Mr. Buckley! Evan, hey, look at me," the nurse said, her voice firm but gentle. She grabbed his hands, trying to pull them away from the surgical site so he wouldn't damage the stitches. "You're okay. You're safe. You're in the hospital."
"My leg!" Buck sobbed, thrashing against her grip, his eyes wild and completely unmoored. "It's gone! I can feel it, why can I feel it?!"
"It's phantom pain, Evan, it's a normal neurological response," the doctor said quickly, checking the IV line. "We're going to push some more medication to help you calm down. You need to breathe. You just had major surgery."
"I don't want it! I want it back!" Buck choked, practically completely delirious with grief. He fell back against the pillows, turning his face away from them, curling in on himself as much as the wires and tubes would allow.
He wept. He wept for the boy who just wanted to run into burning buildings. He wept for the man who had fought so hard to prove he was worthy of a family, only to end up completely alone in a hospital bed with pieces of himself missing.
The medication hit his bloodstream cold and fast, dragging him forcefully back down into the dark, but it couldn't touch the gaping, bleeding hole in his soul.
Two days passed in a blur of narcotic haze, agonizing dressing changes, and visits from doctors explaining his new reality.
He had a below the knee amputation (BKA). But he was a prime candidate for a prosthetic once the stump healed. The phantom pain was excruciating, treating him to sensations of his missing foot burning, cramping, or twisting.
But worst of all was the silence.
His cell phone sat on the rolling tray table beside his bed. He had charged it, turning it on briefly.
There were no missed calls. No texts.
It had been four days since his shift ended. Four days since he had been shoved into a locker. And not a single person from the 118 had checked in on him. Maddie hadn't called. Eddie hadn't texted. Bobby hadn't checked where he is.
The silence was the final, definitive answer he needed. They truly did not care if he lived or died.
That afternoon a nurse helped him sit up and propped a pillow behind his back. The pain was manageable, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the bandages.
Buck picked up his phone. His hand was remarkably steady. He had spent the last days grieving, crying until he was completely hollowed out. Now, there was nothing left but a cold, hard resolve.
He didn't call Bobby. He didn't call Maddie.
He found the number in his directory and hit dial.
It rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Chief Alonzo."
"Chief. It's Evan Buckley," Buck said. His voice was raspy, still recovering, and not talking alot, but his tone was dead flat.
There was a pause on the line. "Buckley. Good timing. I'm looking at your transfer paperwork right now. The 186 is ready for you. I just need to send this over to Captain Nash for his final sign off, and you'll be starting at the 186 on Monday."
Buck looked down at the flat space beneath the blanket. "I'm not going to the 186, Chief."
Alonzo sighed, the sound crackling over the speaker. "Listen, son. I know the situation at the 118 has been... tense. But running away entirely isn't the answer. You fought hard to get your badge back. Station 186 is a good house. Give it a chance."
"I'm not running away, sir," Buck said quietly. "I'm resigning. Effectively immediately."
The silence on the line was thick and heavy. When Alonzo finally spoke, all the gruffness was gone, replaced by genuine shock. "Buckley... you can't be serious? You are an amazing firefighter. But you're just... quitting?"
"Yes, sir."
"Buck, what is going on? Did something happen with Nash? Did someone at the 118 cross a line?" Alonzo pressed, his voice hardening into the tone of a protective commander. "If someone is forcing you out, you tell me right now, and I will have Internal Affairs down there in an hour."
Buck closed his eyes. He thought about James and Patrick. He thought about Bobby's quiet cruelty. But he didn't have it in him to fight anymore. He didn't want to burn down the 118 on his way out. He just wanted to disappear.
"No one forced me out, Chief," Buck lied smoothly. "I just... I realized it isn't for me anymore. My heart isn't in it. I don't want to be a firefighter."
"I don't believe that for a second," Alonzo said bluntly. "I've read your file. I know your save count. Being a firefighter is who you are."
"Not anymore." Buck gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. "Chief, I appreciate everything you've done. But I'm done. I'm officially submitting my resignation. I'll send an email for your records."
Alonzo was quiet for a long moment. He sounded incredibly tired when he finally replied. "I can put you on desk duty, Buckley. Fire inspector. Training. You have a brilliant mind for logistics. You don't have to throw the whole career away."
"No desk duty," Buck said firmly. "I'm done. But... I have one request."
"Name it."
"When you process the paperwork, and you notify Captain Nash... you just tell him I quit. And if anyone from the LAFD asks, my file is sealed. Please?"
"Buckley, you're scaring me. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"I'm fine, Chief. I just need a clean break." Buck swallowed hard. "Please. Just process the resignation and let me go."
Alonzo let out a heavy breath. "Alright, Buckley. If that's what you really want. I'll process it today. I'll notify Nash this afternoon. The department wishes you the best of luck."
"Thank you, sir."
Buck hung up the phone. He dropped it onto the mattress beside him and stared out the hospital window at the smoggy Los Angeles skyline.
It was over. The LAFD, the 118, the firefam. It was all officially, permanently over. He had cut the tether, and now he was just floating in space.
Discharge day came a week later.
Buck had learned how to use crutches, though the process was humiliating and exhausting. His center of gravity was entirely ruined. His arms ached, his armpits were bruised, and every time he swung his body forward, the blood rushed to the stump of his leg, causing a throbbing, sickening ache.
He had arranged for a medical transport van to take him back to his loft. He sat in the back of the van, staring blankly at the passing streets, wearing a pair of loose grey sweatpants he had asked a nurse to buy for him from the hospital gift shop. He had pinned the left pant leg up, folding it neatly so it didn't flap around his missing calf.
When he finally hobbled into his loft, the silence of the apartment was suffocating.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the morning of the hike. His coffee mug was in the sink. His LAFD bag was sitting by the door. A photo of him, Eddie, and Christopher was pinned to the fridge.
Buck stood in the entryway, leaning heavily on his crutches, and looked at the life he was leaving behind.
He didn't have a plan. He didn't know where he was going, or how he was going to pay for it. He just knew he couldn't stay here. If he stayed here, in this loft, surrounded by the ghosts of the people he loved, he would drown. And what if they came looking for him? What if Bobby came to yell at him for quitting? What if Eddie showed up to tell him what a disappointment, he was?
There was also the fact that the stairs are an issue.
Buck couldn't handle seeing the pity or worse, the disgust in their eyes when they looked at his leg. He would rather they think he was a coward who ran away than know he was a broken, defective amputee.
He spent the next three hours moving methodically through the loft. It was exhausting work, forcing him to take frequent breaks to elevate his leg and swallow painkillers, but the physical labor kept his mind from spiraling.
He packed two large duffel bags. Clothes. Essential documents. His laptop. A few books.
He threw his LAFD uniform into the dumpster in the alley behind the building. He took the photo of him, Eddie, and Chris off the fridge. He stared at it for a long time, tracing his thumb over Christopher's smiling face, a fresh wave of tears burning his eyes. He carefully tucked the photo into his wallet. It was the only piece of the 118 he allowed himself to keep.
Eventually, the loft looked stripped. Sterile. Devoid of Evan Buckley's loud, chaotic energy.
He pulled out his cell phone. He opened his banking app, transferred all his savings into a new account, and then opened his contacts.
He just popped the back off the phone, pulled the SIM card out, and snapped it in half. He tossed the broken plastic into the trash can, dropping the useless phone beside it.
He was a ghost.
Buck slung the duffel bags over his shoulders, the weight pulling painfully at his bruised underarms as he adjusted his grip on the crutches. He hobbled out the front door, leaving the key on the kitchen counter.
He didn't look back as the door clicked shut behind him.
He made his way down to the parking garage, loading his bags into the back of his Jeep. Climbing into the driver's seat was an ordeal, but his Jeep was an automatic, and his right leg was perfectly fine. He could drive.
He started the engine. The radio flared to life, but Buck immediately reached out and snapped it off. He needed the silence.
He pulled out of the parking garage and merged onto the highway, heading away from the city center.