Chapter Text
Buck had expected it to be awkward when he returned to the 118. He had expected anger, disappointment, maybe even a few uncomfortable conversations. What he hadn't expected was silence.
The first thing he noticed when he walked through the doors that morning was that nobody looked up. It was early, barely seven, and the station was already filled with the familiar sounds of another shift beginning—the coffee machine running, dishes clattering against the counter, quiet conversations drifting through the kitchen. It should have felt like coming home. Instead, Buck stood there for a moment with his duffel bag hanging from one hand, feeling like he'd walked into a room where everyone had silently agreed that he wasn't there. "Morning." Hen glanced up briefly before returning her attention to the tablet in her hands. Chimney gave him a quick nod but didn't say anything. Bobby was standing at the counter, looking through something on his phone. Eddie didn't look up at all. Buck swallowed. "Morning," he tried again, quieter this time. "Morning," Ravi called from somewhere behind him. Buck turned and gave him a small smile. "Hey." Ravi smiled back, but there was something hesitant in his expression that Buck couldn't quite place. He didn't ask. He didn't want to know. Instead, he walked over to his locker and started changing. He told himself this was fine. He'd known coming back wouldn't be easy. After everything that had happened—the lawsuit, the arguments, the things he'd said, the things they'd said—he hadn't expected anyone to welcome him with open arms. He hadn't expected forgiveness. He hadn't even expected things to be normal. But maybe, somewhere deep down, he'd hoped for something. A smile. A joke. Chimney asking him where he'd been. Bobby telling him it was good to have him back. Eddie looking at him. Anything. Instead, he felt like an extra chair in a room nobody needed. Buck pushed the thought away. They were angry. They were hurt. They needed time. He could give them time. Buck had always been good at giving people what they needed, even when they didn't ask. Especially when they didn't ask.
By the end of his first week back, Buck had taken four extra shifts. It wasn't a big deal. At least, that's what he told himself. Someone called in sick? "I can stay." Someone needed a shift covered? "Yeah, no problem." Someone wanted to leave early? "Go. I've got it." He volunteered before anyone could ask. It became almost automatic. If there was something nobody wanted to do, Buck did it. If there was an extra task, Buck took it. If someone needed something from the supply room, Buck was already halfway there. He cleaned. He restocked. He checked the equipment twice. He made coffee. He washed dishes. He took the shifts nobody wanted. He stopped complaining about being tired. Because if he was useful, he wasn't a problem. If he was useful, maybe they wouldn't mind having him around. Maybe eventually they'd stop looking through him. Maybe eventually they'd stop being angry. Maybe eventually Eddie would look at him again. That was the part Buck tried hardest not to think about. Eddie. It shouldn't have mattered this much. They'd fought before. They'd been angry with each other before. They'd said things they didn't mean. But this was different. Buck couldn't stop replaying the supermarket conversation in his head. Every word. Every look. The anger in Eddie's voice. The way Eddie had looked at him like Buck was a stranger. Buck had deserved some of it. He knew that. He'd hurt people. He'd made choices without thinking about the consequences. He'd filed the lawsuit. He'd dragged Bobby and the department into something that had hurt everyone. He understood why they were angry. He just hadn't expected Eddie to be the one who hurt the most.
So Buck tried. He tried in small ways at first. The first morning, he brought Eddie coffee. Black. Two sugars. Exactly the way Eddie liked it. He placed the cup beside him while Eddie was looking over a report. "I got you this." Eddie glanced at the coffee, then at Buck. "I didn't ask for one." Buck's smile faltered. "I know." Eddie picked up the cup anyway. Buck waited for a thank you, for anything, but nothing came. So he nodded. "Right." He walked away. The next day, he tried again. Not coffee this time. A question. "How's Chris?" Eddie didn't look up from his phone. "Fine." Buck waited, but there was nothing else. "That's good." Eddie nodded, and Buck walked away. The third time, Buck didn't try. He just sat down at the table during breakfast. There was an empty chair beside Eddie. Buck hesitated before taking it, but nobody said anything when he sat. For a few minutes, he ate quietly. Then Chimney started telling Hen something about a call from the previous shift. Hen laughed. Bobby joined in. Eddie said something that made Chimney roll his eyes. Buck smiled. He even laughed once. Nobody looked at him. Eventually, he put his fork down. "I'm gonna go check the rig." Bobby looked up. "Again?" Buck forced a smile. "Can't hurt to make sure everything's ready." Bobby nodded. "All right." Buck stood and walked away before anyone could see that his smile had disappeared. After that, he stopped trying to sit with them. It was easier. He could tell himself he preferred eating alone. He could tell himself he had things to do. He could tell himself he didn't care. The problem was that the more he told himself he didn't care, the more it hurt.
His appetite disappeared slowly. At first, he simply wasn't hungry in the mornings. Then lunch became difficult. Then dinner. He could drink coffee. Coffee didn't ask questions. Coffee didn't make him feel like he was taking up space. He told himself he'd eat later. He always did. Except later became lunch, and lunch became dinner, and dinner became something he'd forgotten to have because he was too tired. The first time he realized he'd gone almost twenty-four hours without eating, he was sitting in the driver's seat of the engine between calls. His stomach twisted, and Buck pressed a hand against it. "Okay." He reached for the protein bar he'd left in the center console, unwrapped it and took a bite. His stomach turned violently. Buck froze and swallowed hard. The nausea passed. "Stress," he whispered. That was all it was. Stress. He took another bite, and this time he managed to swallow. He didn't notice Ravi watching him from across the bay.
"You're not eating." Buck looked up. Ravi stood beside him, holding two cups of coffee. Buck smiled. "Sure I am." Ravi raised an eyebrow. "You've had coffee." "Coffee counts." "No, it doesn't." Buck laughed. "Since when are you a nutritionist?" "Since I've watched you survive on caffeine and spite for the last two weeks." Buck's smile remained in place. "Two weeks?" "Give or take." Ravi handed him the second coffee. Buck accepted it. "Thanks." Ravi didn't move. Buck looked at him. "What?" "You okay?" There it was. The question he'd been avoiding. Buck smiled again. "I'm fine." Ravi studied him. "You sure?" "Yeah." "Because—" "I'm good, Ravi." The words came out sharper than Buck intended. Ravi immediately backed off. "Okay." Buck's stomach twisted again. He hated that. He hated being noticed. He hated that someone had seen through him. "Sorry." Ravi shrugged. "It's fine." Buck looked down at his coffee. "I'm just tired." "I get it." Ravi walked away. Buck watched him go. He wanted to call him back. Tell him the truth. Tell him he didn't know what was wrong. Tell him that every morning he woke up feeling like he'd spent the entire night running. Tell him that his hands had started shaking sometimes. Tell him that he'd been getting headaches. Tell him that food made him nauseous. Tell him that sometimes his heart seemed to race for no reason. But he couldn't. Because saying something was wrong meant admitting that he wasn't handling things. And Buck was handling things. He had to be.
The first time he threw up at the station, nobody noticed. At least, he thought nobody did. It was after lunch. Everyone was sitting around the table. Buck had taken a plate because not eating was starting to look suspicious. He put some food on it and sat down. Two bites. His stomach rolled. He tried to ignore it. Three bites. He swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly filled with saliva. Buck stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. "I'll be right back." Nobody asked where he was going. He made it to the bathroom, locked the door, and barely got to the sink before he vomited. Afterward, he stayed there, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands. His entire body trembled. "Fuck." He wiped his mouth and looked into the mirror. His face was pale. Too pale. He turned on the water and rinsed his mouth. It was fine. He was fine. He'd eaten too fast. That was all. Buck stared at his reflection. "You are fine." His voice sounded unconvincing. He splashed water on his face and waited until the dizziness passed. When he returned to the kitchen, nobody looked up. Nobody asked. Nobody noticed that his plate was still sitting on the table, untouched.
A few days later, Buck stopped pretending to himself. Something was wrong. He was exhausted all the time. Not normal tired. Not the kind of tired that came after a twenty-four-hour shift. This was different. He woke up tired. He went to sleep tired. Sometimes he could barely remember the last time he'd felt rested. His headaches were getting worse. His appetite was almost gone. There were moments when his body felt strangely heavy, as if every movement required more effort than it should. He started getting dizzy, too. The first time it happened during a call, he almost stumbled. Nobody noticed, at least he thought they didn't. He recovered quickly and kept moving. Later, while sitting in the ambulance, he stared down at his hands. They were trembling. He curled them into fists. "Come on." He breathed slowly. This was ridiculous. He was a firefighter. He was healthy. He worked out. He ate—well. He used to eat. That thought stopped him. Buck frowned. When was the last time he'd actually felt hungry? He couldn't remember.
The shift that finally broke something in him was a Tuesday. It had been a long day. Three calls. One fire. A traffic accident. A medical emergency. Nothing unusual. But by the time they returned to the station, Buck could barely keep his eyes open. He leaned against the rig for a moment, just for a second. Then Eddie walked past him. Buck straightened immediately. "Hey." Eddie stopped. For one hopeful second, Buck thought maybe this was it. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Eddie would finally talk to him. Eddie looked at him. "What?" Buck swallowed. "Nothing." Eddie waited. Buck forced a smile. "Never mind." Eddie nodded, then walked away. Buck watched him disappear inside. Something inside his chest cracked. He looked down at the concrete. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't. But he did. God, he did. He missed Eddie. He missed Chris. He missed sitting at Eddie's kitchen table. He missed stealing food from Eddie's fridge. He missed Christopher yelling his name when Buck walked through the door. He missed feeling like he belonged somewhere. Buck rubbed his face. Maybe this was his fault. Maybe this was what happened when you ruined something good. Maybe you didn't get to ask for it back.
That night, Buck couldn't sleep. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His stomach hurt. His head hurt. His entire body hurt. He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again. He checked the clock. 2:17 a.m. He closed his eyes. For a moment, everything was quiet. Then his heart started racing. Buck sat up and pressed a hand against his chest. "Easy." His breathing quickened. He waited. Eventually, his heart slowed. Buck stared into the darkness. This wasn't normal. He knew that. He knew it in the same way he knew when something was wrong on a call. You didn't ignore a strange smell. You didn't ignore a sound your equipment shouldn't make. You didn't ignore a warning sign because you hoped it would disappear. So why was he doing exactly that with himself? Buck reached for his phone and opened his contacts. His thumb hovered over Maddie's name. He stared at it. He could call her. She'd answer. She always answered. He almost pressed it. Then he remembered the look on her face the last time they'd spoken. He locked the phone. Maybe tomorrow. He put it back on the nightstand. Tomorrow he'd make an appointment. He would. He had to.
The next morning, Buck walked into the station and nobody noticed that he'd barely slept. He made coffee. He cleaned the kitchen. He checked the equipment. He volunteered for another shift. He smiled when someone spoke to him. He laughed at something Chimney said. He kept pretending. But when he caught his reflection in the window, he stopped. His face looked pale. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted. Older. Like someone who had been carrying something too heavy for too long. Buck stared at himself for a long moment before quietly saying the words he'd been avoiding for weeks. "I need to see a doctor." And for the first time since he'd returned to the 118, Buck admitted something to himself that he wasn't ready to admit to anyone else.
Something was seriously wrong.
He just didn't know yet how much his life was about to change.