Chapter Text
Prologue
There are losses that arrive all at once. An accident. A fire. A phone call in the middle of the night.
And then there are the others: the ones that last a lifetime. The ones that force you to wake up every morning searching for something you know will never return.
Bobby Nash knew both. He lost a son. He lost a wife. He lost two more children. And yet... there were days when he swore the worst loss was not knowing. Not knowing where he was. What had become of him. If he had ever stopped looking for him.
Los Angeles. A few months after the lawsuit.
Station 118 functioned just the same. Sirens wailed, Hen complained about the coffee, Chimney talked too much, and Ravi tried to keep up. Eddie watched Buck with that quiet concern that had settled between them for months.
Everything looked the same, but it wasn't.
Buck had returned. He got his job back, his uniform, the truck. But never his place. He no longer had breakfast with Bobby or discussed recipes in the kitchen. Everything was professional, correct... and painfully distant.
"Captain."
"Buck."
Enough to work. Not enough to heal.
Buck closed the door of his loft with an exhausted sigh. He dropped his keys on the counter and emptied his pockets: his pocketknife, his wallet, his phone, and finally... a small metal fire truck.
The red paint was worn out, and one wheel barely spun. He always did the same thing: he looked at it before putting it away. He didn't remember who gave it to him or when it came into his hands, but that toy had always been there.
He turned it over slowly. Two letters were still engraved on the base: R. N.
When he was a boy, he asked Margaret, who swore she knew nothing. Phillip said they must be the manufacturer's initials. He never insisted, but he never stopped wondering about it. He felt those letters were important. As if they belonged to someone... or to something he had forgotten.
Several miles away, Bobby sat on the porch. Athena watched him from the kitchen before coming out with two cups of coffee.
"It's going to get cold," she said, handing him one.
"Thanks," he smiled faintly.
Silence enveloped them.
"Nightmares?" Athena asked.
"Memories," Bobby shook his head slowly. "It's been a long time since I said Robin's name out loud. But today... I saw Buck pull a kid out of a burning car. He hugged him the exact same way..." his voice cracked. "I know they're coincidences, Athena. But there are more and more of them."
"You can't do this to Buck."
"I know," Bobby closed his eyes. "I can't look at him searching for Robin. Buck deserves to be loved for who he is, not for the son I lost."
That night, Buck dreamed again.
The same sunlit kitchen, the smell of fresh bread, a woman's humming, and a warm, familiar male voice: "Where is my little firefighter?" Then, his own childish laughter, strong hands lifting him... and suddenly, darkness. A park, a red balloon getting lost among the trees, a hand letting go of his, and a fear that made it impossible to breathe.
He woke up with a start. 3:12 a.m.
He walked to the kitchen and picked up the metal truck. He ran his thumb over the initials.
"Who are you...?" he whispered to the toy.
He thought he was asking about the original owner, without knowing that, in reality, he was asking about himself.
At the same hour, Bobby opened an old drawer in his office. He pulled out a worn blue folder.
On the first page, a poster: a photograph of a four-year-old blonde boy smiling with a red truck in his hand.
MISSING
Robin Nash
Bobby caressed the image. More than twenty years had passed, and he still remembered his laugh. He closed the folder and, for the first time in years, allowed himself the forbidden thought: What would have become of Robin if he had survived?
Pennsylvania, late 1995
Margaret held a little Robin on her lap while the boy cried inconsolably.
"I want my dad! I want to go with my dad!"
Margaret closed her eyes and placed a photograph of a baby in front of him.
"Look at him. He needs your help. Now you are Evan."
"No!" Robin denied strongly. "I'm Robin!"
Margaret gripped his small shoulders firmly.
"Listen to me very carefully: your name is Evan Buckley. And if you ever say that other name again... you will never see your family again."
"Dad..." the boy sobbed.
Margaret hugged him with a cold calmness.
"No. Forget everything. Because now... you are my son."