Chapter Text
The morning sun filtering through the blinds of Eddie’s bedroom was a soft, bruised purple, painting the tangled sheets in a warm, forgiving light.
Buck laid on his stomach, his face buried deep in the pillow that smelled distinctly of Eddie. The world outside this room didn’t exist yet. Here, in the quiet space, there were no lawsuits, no crushed legs, no tsunami waves, and no cold, averted gazes. Here, there was only the steady rise and fall of the chest pressed flush against his back, and the warm hand resting heavily on his hip.
Buck let out a long, slow exhale, letting his heavy eyelids flutter shut again. He shifted, just a fraction, and the hand on his hip tightened instinctively, pulling him back flush against a solid chest.
"Mmph. Stop moving," Eddie mumbled, his voice thick and raspy with sleep. He buried his face in the crook of Buck’s neck, his morning stubble scratching delightfully against Buck’s skin. "M'not ready to be awake."
Buck smiled into the pillow, a genuine, soft thing. "You have to get up, babe. Chris has that history project due today, remember?"
Eddie groaned, a deeply dramatic, put upon sound, and rolled onto his back, dragging Buck with him until Buck was half sprawled across his chest. Eddie’s eyes blinked open, heavy and warm as they locked onto Buck’s. The adoration in them was so blatant, so completely unshielded, that it made Buck’s chest ache with a tightness that had nothing to do with blood clots.
"I remember," Eddie sighed, bringing a hand up to lazily comb his fingers through Buck’s sleep ruined curls. "I just don't want to leave this bed. Can we just call in sick? Tell them my boyfriend is too warm and comfortable to move?"
Boyfriend. The word still sent a tiny, electric thrill down Buck’s spine. It had been months since the tsunami, months of whispered confessions in the dark, of desperate, grounding touches, of building something beautiful and entirely their own amidst the wreckage of Buck's professional life. They had kept it a secret, partly out of a desire to protect the fragile, new thing between them, and mostly because the 118 was no longer a safe space for Buck to share his heart.
"You're terrible," Buck murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth. "Come on. I’ll make pancakes."
That was the magic phrase. Ten minutes later, the house was alive with the soft, domestic symphony of their morning routine. The smell of coffee brewing permeated the kitchen, mingling with the sweet scent of vanilla and batter.
Christopher came thundering down the hallway on his crutches, his backpack looking entirely too large for him. "Buck!" he cheered, abandoning his crutches to grab onto Buck’s waist as Buck flipped a pancake.
"Morning, Chris," Buck grinned, turning off the burner to wrap his arms around the boy, lifting him up slightly. "You ready to show the best California Gold Rush diorama this school has ever seen?"
"It has real dirt," Christopher said solemnly, as if this was a highly classified state secret. "And dad helped me paint the river, but you made the little gold nuggets out of clay, so it's the best."
"Team effort, Mijo," Eddie said, walking into the kitchen fully dressed in his LAFD uniform. He pressed a kiss to the top of Chris's head, and then, smoothly, without a second of hesitation, leaned over and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to Buck’s temple. "Thanks for cooking, baby."
Buck’s breath hitched. He would never, ever get used to this. To being wanted. To being kept. He plated the pancakes, setting them in front of Chris, and handed Eddie a travel mug of black coffee. For a beautiful, suspended hour, they were just a family. They laughed over sticky syrup, double checked backpacks, and existed in a bubble of absolute, impenetrable safety.
But as the clock on the microwave ticked closer to 7:30 AM, the air in the kitchen began to change.
Buck walked into the bedroom to change into his own uniform. He pulled the navy blue LAFD t shirt over his head, and as the fabric settled over his shoulders, it felt less like a uniform and more like a heavy, suffocating lead vest. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. The shadows under his eyes were prominent, a testament to the fact that while his nights were safe, his days were a battleground.
He reached down, instinctively rubbing his calf where the titanium rod ached with a dull, constant throb.
Eddie appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. The soft, relaxed posture from the kitchen was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce intensity. He walked over, stepping up behind Buck, and met his eyes in the mirror. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't say 'It'll be a good day.' Instead, Eddie wrapped his arms around Buck’s waist. "I've got your back today. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow."
Buck swallowed hard, nodding once. "I know. Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for doing my job, Buck," Eddie said softly.
They drove to the station in separate cars. They had to. As much as Buck wanted to ride shotgun in Eddie’s truck, resting his hand on Eddie's thigh, they couldn't risk the 118 finding out. Not right now. Not when Buck was already the pariah of the firehouse.
The second Buck parked his Jeep in the 118 lot, the temperature of the world seemed to drop ten degrees.
He grabbed his duffel bag, forced his shoulders back, and pasted on a carefully blank expression. Armor up, he told himself. Just get through the shift.
Walking into the firehouse felt like walking into a ghost town where the ghosts were still alive and explicitly ignoring him. The bay was loud with the sounds of shift change lockers slamming, boots thudding against the concrete, the hiss of the air brakes on the engine. But as Buck walked past the rigs and toward the stairs, the ambient chatter noticeably dipped.
He walked into the loft kitchen. Hen and Chimney were at the island, laughing about something on Chimney’s phone. Bobby was at the stove, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"Morning," Buck said, forcing his voice to remain steady and bright.
Hen glanced up. Her eyes were not unkind, but they were guarded. Professional. A thick, impenetrable wall where her warmth used to be. "Morning, Buck."
Chimney didn't look up from his phone. "Buckley."
Bobby turned around, clipboard in hand. He didn't smile. He didn't ask how Buck was feeling, or if his leg was aching in the damp morning air. Bobby looked at him with the detached, weary expression of a manager dealing with a problematic employee.
"Buckley. Good. You're on inventory for the medical bags in the ambulance today. When you're done with that, the bay floors need to be power washed, and all the hoses need to be unrolled, inspected for micro tears."
It was a mountain of busywork. It was hours of bending, kneeling, and hauling heavy equipment on concrete floors a deliberate, grueling punishment disguised as protocol. It was Bobby’s way of saying, You sued to come back to work? Fine. Work.
Buck swallowed the lump of hurt in his throat. He refused to let them see him bleed. "Copy that, Cap. I'll get right on it."
He didn't stay in the loft. He couldn't. He turned and headed straight back down the stairs to the ambulance.
For the next four hours, Buck existed in agonizing isolation, aside from Eddie helping when he could. He worked with focus, counting every gauze pad, every vial of epinephrine, every IV kit. He ignored the throbbing in his leg. When the alarm went off for a multi vehicle pileup, Buck’s heart leapt, only for Bobby to sideline him.
"Buckley, you stay back. Perimeter control and equipment running only. I don't want you in the hot zone," Bobby ordered over the headset.
Buck had stood on the blistering asphalt, holding a triage kit like a glorified delivery boy, watching his team work together seamlessly without him. He watched Eddie pry a door off a sedan, his muscles straining, looking completely in his element. He watched Hen and Chimney stabilize a patient. They were a well oiled machine, and Buck was just a rusted cog they had violently removed.
By the time they returned to the station, it was mid afternoon. Buck’s leg was screaming at him, sharp, stabbing pains shooting up from his calf to his hip. He limped slightly on his way to the locker room, leaning heavily against the concrete wall in the hallway to catch his breath before pushing the door open.
The locker room was crowded. Shift change was approaching for some of the guys, and Chimney and Hen were changing out of their sweat soaked undershirts.
Buck walked to his locker in silence, the combination lock feeling cold under his fingers. He just needed a shower. He just needed to sit down for ten minutes before Bobby found another floor for him to scrub.
"Man, that extrication was a beast," Chimney was saying to Hen, tossing his towel into his locker. "My back is killing me. Hey, maybe I should call a lawyer, claim workplace distress. I hear it's a great way to get a fat settlement and a guaranteed spot on the roster."
The locker room went dead silent.
Buck froze. His hand, which had been reaching for his clean t shirt, stopped mid air. The words felt like a physical slap across the face. Chimney wasn't looking at him, but he didn't need to. The barb was perfectly aimed, dipped in poison, and fired at point blank range.
Hen sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Chim..."
"What?" Chimney deflected, slamming his locker shut. "I'm just saying. Why do the actual work of proving you're fit for duty when you can just sue the department and force them to take you back? Seems a lot easier than actual physical therapy."
Buck closed his eyes. The tsunami water rushed in his ears. The feeling of the fire engine crushing his leg. The terrifying, agonizing months of bleeding, throwing up from pain, pushing himself until he blacked out just to pass the physical, only for Bobby to look him in the eye and say no.
He opened his mouth to defend himself, but before a single sound could leave his throat, the door to the showers banged open.
Eddie stepped out into the main area. He was half dressed, a towel slung over his shoulder, but the look on his face was absolute, terrifying murder.
Eddie didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He walked slowly down the row of lockers, his dark eyes locked onto Chimney with the precise, chilling focus of a sniper finding his mark.
"Say another word, Han," Eddie said. His voice was low, vibrating with a deadly calm that made the hairs on the back of Buck’s neck stand up. "I dare you."
Chimney blinked, taking a half step back, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable. "Eddie, come on, it was just a joke,"
"I fail to see the punchline," Eddie interrupted, stopping directly between Chimney and Buck. He used his body as a physical shield, completely blocking Buck from Chimney’s view. "Explain it to me. Explain what's funny about a man having his leg crushed by a twenty ton fire engine. Explain the humor in him coughing up blood from a pulmonary embolism. Go ahead, Howard. Make me laugh."
The locker room was so quiet that Buck could hear the voices outside the firehouse, the bright lights overhead flickered. Hen was staring at Eddie, wide eyed, recognizing that this wasn't just a spat. This was a line being drawn in the sand.
Chimney swallowed hard, his bravado entirely evaporating. "Look, man, I'm just saying he went about it the wrong way. He sued his Captain, the department."
"He sued because that Captain blocked his return after he passed every single physical and mental evaluation the LAFD required," Eddie fired back, his voice dropping a level, it was razor sharp. "He sued because this department wouldn’t help him. And the fact that you stand here, cracking jokes while he's out there scrubbing floors with a titanium rod in his leg because you all are too petty to treat him like a human being? It makes me sick."
"Eddie," Bobby’s voice rang out from the doorway.
No one had seen the Captain walk in. Bobby stood there, his jaw clenched, surveying the scene. "That's enough. Both of you."
Eddie didn't back down. He turned his head just enough to look Bobby in the eye, his spine rigid. "No, Captain Nash. It's not enough. Because for the last month, I have watched this team treat a man who is supposed to be family, like he’s just the worse person alive. You want to give him chores? Fine. But the disrespect ends today. If anyone in this house has a problem with Buck, you can bring it to me."
Bobby held Eddie’s gaze for a long, tense moment. Bobby looked tired, defensive, and deeply conflicted, but he didn't argue. "Get dressed, Diaz. Shift is over."
Bobby turned and walked away. Chimney grabbed his bag, avoiding eye contact with everyone, and hurried out the door. Hen gave Buck a complicated, heavy look before quietly following suit.
Suddenly, the locker room was empty, leaving only the two of them in the heavy silence.
Buck let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against the cool metal of his locker. His hands were trembling. He felt entirely exposed, stripped raw by Chimney’s words, yet fiercely, overwhelmingly anchored by the man he loves standing next to him.
"You didn't have to do that," Buck whispered, his voice cracking. "They're gonna turn on you next, Eddie. You can't alienate them for me."
Eddie turned around. The terrifying, hardened soldier vanished the second he looked at Buck. He stepped into Buck’s space, crowding him in against the lockers, hidden from the doorway. Eddie reached up, his warm fingers gently wrapping around the nape of Buck’s neck, a secret, desperate touch.
"I don't give a damn about them," Eddie whispered fiercely, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at Buck’s hairline. "I give a damn about you. You hear me? You don't deserve how they're treating you."
Buck closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "They hate me, Eddie. They look at me and they just... they wish I hadn't come back."
"I don't," Eddie said instantly. He leaned his forehead against Buck’s, his breath warm ghosting over Buck’s lips. "I am so glad you came back. You're the bravest man I know, baby. And I am not going to let them break you down."
Buck opened his eyes, looking into the dark, steady gaze of the man who had pulled him out of the darkness repeatedly. The ache in his leg was still there, the coldness of the firehouse still pressed in on them from all sides, but right here, in the small space between them, it was warm.
I love you so much it terrifies me, Buck thought.
He couldn't say it here. Not in this building. But he brought his hand up, gripping Eddie’s forearm where it rested against his neck, and squeezed tightly.
"Come on," Eddie whispered, stepping back just enough to restore a professional distance, though his eyes remained soft. "Let's go home."
Home.
Buck took a full, deep breath. He grabbed his bag, shut his locker, and followed Eddie out of the cold, stepping back toward the warmth.
The next shift was a grueling exercise in endurance. Buck kept his head down, scrubbed the bay floors until his hands were raw and pruning, and ignored the way his leg pulsed against his titanium rod. When Bobby finally dismissed them the next morning, he practically bolted for his Jeep, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the 118 as possible.
He didn't go straight home. Instead, he pulled into the parking lot of his local grocery store. He was making dinner for Eddie and Chris tonight chicken parmesan, Christopher's favorite, and focusing on the mundane task of picking out the perfect tomatoes and fresh basil was exactly the kind of grounding he needed. Cooking for his boys was a safe, quiet domesticity that kept the dark thoughts at bay.
He had just tossed a wedge of parmesan into his basket and was turning the corner into the pasta aisle when he froze.
"Buck."
Buck gripped the plastic handle of his shopping basket until his knuckles turned white. Maddie stood a few feet away, clutching a reusable canvas bag. She looked exhausted, dressed in her dispatcher uniform, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. She hadn’t called him in weeks. Not since the lawsuit officially dropped and the battle lines had been drawn.
"Maddie. Hey," Buck said, his voice coming out flatter than he intended.
She offered a small, hesitant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around her chest defensively in the chilly air of the grocery store. "I didn't expect to see you here. Doing some shopping?"
"Making dinner," Buck muttered, shifting his weight off his bad leg. "Just picking up some supplies."
"Right." Maddie looked down at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the scuff marks. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, so entirely unlike the easy banter they used to share when she first arrived in L.A.
"How are you?" she finally asked.
"I'm fine," Buck lied smoothly. "Leg is holding up. Passed all my certs. You know how it is."
"I do. Howie... he mentioned you were back on shift." She winced slightly at her own words, catching her mistake a second too late.
Buck’s jaw tightened. Howie. Of course Chimney had mentioned him. He wondered exactly what version of the locker room incident Chimney had brought home to her. Did he tell her about the jokes? Did he tell her that Eddie had almost ripped his head off?
Probably not.
"Yeah, well, I'm just keeping my head down," Buck said carefully. He looked at his sister, the woman who had practically raised him, the woman he had idolized, the woman who was currently dating one of the people making his life a living hell. "Look, Maddie, I know it's awkward with you and Chimney. You don't have to pick a side."
Maddie’s eyes filled with sudden, defensive tears. "I'm not picking sides, Buck. I just... I want everyone to get along. You sued the department. You sued Bobby. Howie is just loyal to his captain, and you know that. If you just gave them time, apologized…"
"Apologized?" Buck cut in, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his chest. "For what? For not dying under a ladder truck? For wanting my job back?"
"For making them feel like you betrayed them!" Maddie shot back, her voice raising slightly before she caught herself, glancing around at the other shoppers. She lowered her voice, pleading. "Buck, please. They are my family too now. It’s hard being in the middle."
They are my family too. The words echoed in Buck’s head, ringing like a death knell. It wasn't the first time Maddie had chosen a different family over him. It wasn't the first time she had packed her bags and left him standing alone.
"I have to go finish shopping," Buck said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. He turned his back on her, the basket feeling incredibly heavy in his hand. "I'll see you around, Maddie."
"Evan, Buck wait…"
He didn't stop walking.
The drive to his loft was a blur. Buck didn't remember paying for his groceries. He didn't remember unlocking his door. He just knew that suddenly he was standing in the middle of his empty, quiet apartment, leaving the grocery bags forgotten on the counter, and he couldn't breathe.
Maddie’s words had unlocked a door in his mind he usually kept heavily deadbolted.
The Ghosts of Hershey. Buck sank onto his couch, burying his face in his hands as the memories violently pulled him under.
He was twelve years old again. It was the night Maddie left with Doug. He remembered the sickening silence of the house the next morning, the way the air felt thin and cold. But the real nightmare hadn't been Maddie leaving, it had been what Margaret and Phillip Buckley did the second she was gone.
With Maddie out of the house, there was no buffer left. There was no one to shield him from the cold, clinical resentment his parents held for him. He was the spare parts baby who had failed. He was the living, breathing reminder of Daniel's death. And without Maddie there to pretend they were a normal family, Margaret and Phillip simply stopped trying.
A month after his thirteenth birthday, they told him they were going on a trip. They packed a single duffel bag for him. They drove him across state lines into Washington D.C., pulled up to a crowded child services building, and told him to get out.
“We just can't do this anymore, Evan,” his mother had said, staring blankly at the dashboard, refusing to look at him. “It’s too hard seeing you all the time. Maddie can’t look after you anymore, and we just can’t. It's time you figure things out on your own.”
They didn't even look back as they drove away.
The foster system in D.C. had been a meat grinder. He was a terrified, deeply traumatized thirteen year old with a chip on his shoulder and a desperate, bleeding need for approval. He had bounced through three group homes in six months.
And then, he saw a murder.
It had been a stupid accident. He had snuck out of his group home to wander the D.C. streets, looking for a quiet place to hide, wanting just some peace and quiet, when he stumbled across a body being dumped in an alleyway.
The next day, he was sitting in an interrogation room at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building, shivering in a thin jacket, refusing to speak to the local cops.
That was the day the door opened, and a man in a sharp suit and a brightly colored tie walked in, carrying a box of takeout fries. Special Agent Seeley Booth hadn't looked at him like a suspect, or a nuisance, or a broken foster kid. He had just looked at him like a kid who needed lunch.
"I hear you're the guy who saw something," Booth had said, sliding the fries across the metal table. "I'm Booth. Eat up. We're gonna be here a while."
Ten minutes later, a woman walked in. She was stunningly beautiful, with piercing blue eyes and an air of absolute, hyper rational authority. Dr. Temperance Brennan hadn't offered him a warm, fuzzy smile. Instead, she had sat down, analyzed his defensive posture, and spoken to him like an equal.
"You are exhibiting protective guarding," Brennan had noted, her eyes cataloging the way Buck was holding his arms over his chest. "Your file says you were abandoned by your biological parents due to a perceived failure on your part regarding a sibling's illness. That is highly illogical. Genetics are a lottery, Evan. You cannot be blamed for the failure of a biological imperative. You are an intelligent boy who has been discarded by irrational people."
Buck had stared at her, utterly floored. No adult had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever told him it wasn't his fault using science and absolute certainty.
Over the course of the three week investigation, Buck had become a fixture at the Jeffersonian and the FBI building. Booth bought him dinner. Bones let him look at non gruesome x rays. When the case was closed, Buck was supposed to be sent to a new group home.
He remembered standing in the FBI lobby, clutching his duffel bag, trying not to cry as the social worker signed the paperwork. He wasn’t going to see these people again.
Booth had looked at Brennan. They had been together for three years at that point. Parker was a toddler. They hadn't planned on another kid so soon, let alone a teenage boy with a mountain of trauma.
But Bones had looked at Evan a lost, discarded child of the system, just like she had been, and she had simply turned to the social worker and said, "Stop writing. He is coming home with us. I’m a foster parent, so is Booth, we are taking him."
Booth hadn't even blinked. He just smiled, a massive, brilliant thing, and walked over to take Buck’s bag. "Come on, buddy. Let's go home."
By the time he was officially adopted, he was Evan Buckley Booth. And he had never, ever felt like spare parts again.
Sitting in his dark loft in Los Angeles, Buck pulled his phone from his pocket. The silence of the apartment was ringing in his ears. Maddie’s voice, They are my family too was a fresh, bleeding cut.
He didn't call Eddie. Eddie was already doing too much, fighting his battles at the station, holding him together in the dark. Eddie needed rest, and Buck still had to pull himself together enough to cook the chicken parmesan before his boys came over.
But he needed something to ground him first. Buck opened FaceTime and tapped the contact photo of a very blurry, smiling selfie Booth had taken of the two of them at Buck's fire academy graduation.
It rang twice before the screen lit up.
"Evan!" Dr. Temperance Brennan's face filled the screen. She was in the kitchen of their beautiful D.C. home, wearing a silk blouse, a tablet in one hand and the phone in the other.
"Hey, Mom," Buck breathed out. Just saying the word felt like a physical weight lifting off his chest.
"You look fatigued," Bones noted immediately, her blue eyes narrowing as she scanned his face through the screen. "Your orbital region is exhibiting minor discoloration, and the micro expressions around your mouth suggest acute emotional distress. Is it your leg? I told that L.A. orthopedist his post operative physical therapy timeline was statistically flawed."
Buck let out a wet, genuine laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, Mom, the leg is fine. The bone graft took perfectly, just like you said it would."
"Of course it did. I vetted the surgeon," Bones said matter of factly.
"Dad!" a shrill voice shrieked in the background. "Hank stole my triceratops!"
"I am a T Rex! Rawr!" The camera shook as Booth walked into the frame, a four year old boy hanging off his left leg while a seven year old girl chased them with a plastic dinosaur. Booth looked the same as he always did, handsome, slightly exasperated, but utterly thrilled with the chaos of his life.
"Hank, give your sister back the dinosaur or I'm arresting you for grand theft dino," Booth ordered playfully, scooping the boy up and tickling his ribs until Hank shrieked with laughter and dropped the toy.
Booth stepped up behind Bones, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist and resting his chin on her shoulder to look at the phone. His eyes immediately softened when he saw Buck.
"Hey, buddy. You okay? You look like you went ten rounds with a heavyweight."
"Just a long shift," Buck deflected gently. He leaned back against his couch, soaking in the sight of them. The loud, chaotic, brilliant family that had chosen him. "I just... wanted to see you guys. Hear your voices."
Booth’s FBI honed instincts kicked in. His smile faded slightly, replaced by the sharp, protective gaze of a father who knew his kid was hurting. "Is it the firehouse? Are they still giving you hell about the lawsuit?"
Buck looked away from the camera. "It's fine. It's just busywork. Cap has me on chore duty. Chimney made a few comments last shift, but... Eddie shut it down."
"Eddie," Bones repeated, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Your boyfriend. His protective instincts over you are a statistically positive indicator of long term relationship."
Buck blushed furiously, the heat rising to the tips of his ears. They had only told his parents about Eddie a few weeks ago, and Bones treated the information like a fascinating, highly agreeable scientific discovery.
"I like him," Booth declared definitively. "Any guy who stands up to a whole firehouse for you is good in my book. But seriously, Ev. If this Captain of yours keeps treating you like dirt, you don't have to stay there. You passed your certs. You can transfer. Hell, you can come back to D.C. The firehouses here would kill to have you."
"I can't run away, Dad," Buck sighed. "I have to prove I belong there."
"Evan," Bones said, her voice dropping the analytical edge, becoming purely, fiercely maternal. She looked directly into the camera, demanding his full attention. "You do not have to prove your worth to people who willfully ignore it. You are an exceptional firefighter. You are highly intelligent, deeply empathetic, and physically resilient. If they cannot see that, it is a flaw in their cognitive processing, not a defect in you."
Buck felt a tear slip down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. "Thanks, Mom."
"She's right, kiddo," Booth said softly. "Trust your gut. But know that you don't have to take their crap. You're a Booth. You fight for what's yours, but you also know when a battle isn't worth your time anymore."
"I know," Buck whispered.
"Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?" Christine yelled, suddenly popping her head into the frame, her pigtails slightly askew. "Parker is coming from college! You have to come!"
"I'm gonna try, Chrissy," Buck smiled, the heavy ache in his chest finally beginning to dissolve. "I promise I'll try."
They talked for another twenty minutes, about Hank's preschool, about his mom’s latest book release, about a hockey game Booth had watched. By the time Buck finally hung up, the loft didn't feel so empty anymore.
Maddie had chosen the 118. The 118 had chosen their pride.
But Buck wasn't an abandoned thirteen year old boy in a D.C. group home anymore. He was Evan Buckley Booth. He had a father who would take a bullet for him, a mother who could dismantle his enemies with her brain, three siblings who adored him, and a man across town who loved him enough to take on the world.
He pushed himself off the couch and headed into the kitchen to unpack the groceries. He had a boys to feed.