Chapter Text
Two months was a long time to be back at work and still feel like a ghost.
Buck had counted the days at first. He’d marked them off in his head with the same diligence he used to track shifts, training drills, recovery timelines.
Day one back at the 118.
Day three.
Day seven.
Day fourteen.
By the time the month mark rolled around, he’d stopped counting altogether. There didn’t seem to be a point.
He was back—but not really.
For thirty-one shifts, Buck had shown up on time, in uniform, boots polished, hair regulation-short, hands steady even when the rest of him wasn’t. For thirty-one shifts, he hadn’t been allowed on a single call.
Not medicals.
Not fires.
Not rescues.
Not even traffic control.
He cleaned.
He scrubbed.
He restocked.
He mopped floors already clean enough to eat off of. He took out trash no one else wanted to touch.
When they were probies, they’d done grunt work too—but never like this. Never with the weight of judgment pressing down on every movement. Never with silence so loud it made his ears ring.
Buck learned quickly not to sit at the table during meals.
The first day back, he’d made the mistake of grabbing a plate and approaching like nothing had changed. The moment he’d reached the table, conversation died mid-sentence. Chairs scraped—subtle, but unmistakable—as they shifted away from him.
No one said a word. No one told him to leave.
They didn’t have to.
Buck had stood there for a second too long, heart pounding, plate shaking in his hands, before quietly turning around and eating alone on the far bench outside the bay doors.
After that, he stopped trying.
He packed meals he could eat cold and fast.
Protein bars.
Sandwiches.
Things that didn’t require sitting down with people who refused to look at him.
He timed his breaks for when the others were busy or asleep.
He made himself small. Invisible.
He hadn’t spoken to Bobby, Hen, Chim, or Eddie in over four months—not really.
Not since the lawsuit.
Orders didn’t count.
Muted acknowledgements didn’t count.
Silence stretched too wide between them, filled with everything none of them were willing to say.
Maddie, too.
That hurt the most.
Buck told himself it was his fault.
That of course Chimney wouldn’t want him around.
Of course Maddie would feel awkward.
Of course he shouldn’t make things harder for them.
He’d said nothing, texted nothing, retreated completely.
Christopher might as well have been on the moon.
Buck didn’t ask to see him.
Didn’t ask for updates.
Didn’t ask for anything.
He’d learned, painfully, that asking only ever made things worse.
So he stayed alone.
And now, predictably, his body was betraying him.
If Buck’s being honest, he’s surprised he survived this long.
When the flu started sweeping it’s way methodically through the station, it was his job to wipe down surfaces after every cough, every sneeze, every miserable sniffle that echoed through the station as the flu tore through it.
Bobby had been hit first—feverish but stubborn, sent home only after Hen threatened him.
Chim next, pale and sweating, he’d ended up throwing up at the station before Bobby sent him home. Buck had been the one to clean it up.
Hen followed, toughing it out longer than she should have.
Eddie last, burning up and shaking badly enough that Bobby hadn’t trusted him to drive. They made Buck drive him home instead while the rest of them responded to a 911 call.
They had barely made it onto the main road before Eddie threw up.
In Buck’s Jeep.
Buck hadn’t said a word.
He’d helped Eddie inside, stayed with him till he was settled and he could get Tia Pepa to pick Chris up, then gone back outside with gloves, a mask, and cleaning supplies.
He scrubbed his car until the smell was gone, until his hands ached, until there was nothing left to do but sit behind the wheel and breathe through the tightness in his chest.
He had been late back to the station after that Bobby hadn’t wanted an explanation, and Buck had learnt that it was easier not to give one.
He stayed late that day, after everyone from A shift had left, finishing the chores, wiping down everything, disinfecting every surface.
He’d cleaned everything.
Every used tissue.
Every trash can.
Every surface they’d sneezed on—
every counter, every handle, every rail.
He’d been careful.
He knew the protocols.
Gloves. Masks. Sanitizer. Bleach wipes.
It hadn’t mattered.
Two days ago, Buck had started feeling off.
A little ache behind his eyes. A heaviness in his limbs. The kind of fatigue that sank deep into the bones and refused to let go.
He ignored it.
There was no one to tell, and nothing to be done anyway.
Yesterday, it got worse.
His throat burned. His nose ran constantly, raw and sore from the sheer number of times he had to blow it—hard, exhausted nose blows into tissues that barely held on. His head felt stuffed with cotton.
By this morning, there was no mistaking it.
Buck woke up two hours before shift, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, heart racing as his body burned and froze at the same time.
Every breath felt wrong.
His skin was too hot.
His sheets were damp with sweat.
His head throbbed viciously, vision swimming when he tried to sit up.
His stomach churned, nausea rolling dangerously high.
There was no way he could make it in.
The thought brought panic clawing up his throat.
Calling out sick had always been hard for Buck. Even before the lawsuit, it felt like failure. Now, it felt like confirmation of every terrible thing he already believed about himself.
Weak.
Undependable.
Disposable.
Still, his hands shook badly enough that dialing Bobby’s number took three tries.
The phone rang. Once. Twice.
“Buckley.” Bobby’s voice was clipped. Distant.
“I—” Buck swallowed hard, the motion triggering a sharp tickle in his nose. He barely had time to turn his head before it hit him full force.
“H’HAHH—AITCH! AITCH! AITCH! HA-HA-HAITSHOO!”
He gasped, chest aching, another violent “HAHH—HE’TCHIIEEWWW!” tearing out of him before he could finish.
He dragged a forearm across his nose, fumbled for a tissue, and blew hard—loud, wet, miserable.
“Sorry,” he croaked. “Cap—I’m—I don’t think I can—”
“Buckley,” Bobby cut in sharply, patience thin. “Get your shit together. You’re not running calls. You’re cleaning. You can mop floors with a cold.”
“It’s—it’s not just—” Buck squeezed his eyes shut as another sneeze built. “HAHHH—HE’ITCHOOO!—just a cold. I think I’ve got a fever.”
A pause.
Then, colder: “You come in, or you don’t come in at all. And if you don’t show, I write you up as AWOL. You know what that means.”
Buck went very still.
“…Yes, sir.”
“Be here in forty.”
The line went dead.
Buck sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, heart pounding painfully against his ribs.
Then he stood up—slowly, unsteadily—and got ready.
He didn’t take any medication. He didn’t risk it.
He’s pretty damn sure he has a fever, a decently high one, but he’s not sure what he can take.
Warfarin made everything complicated, the doctor and pharmacist had been clear, Warfarin interacts with a ton of drugs and he shouldn’t be self-medicating.
He’d thought about calling Hen and asking if Tylenol was ok when he’d first started coming down with this virus, but he was afraid she’d ignore him and honestly he wasn’t even sure he had the right to go to her for anything let alone free medical advice anymore.
He ordered an Uber. He knew better than to drive.
By the time he arrived at the station, it was obvious to everyone that something was wrong.
Buck’s face was ashen beneath the flush of fever. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. He swayed slightly where he stood, gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Eddie squints at him from across the room, he thinks, he doesn’t really dwell on it. Eddie hasn’t really looked at him at all over the last few months, except for that one day when he’d yelled at Buck in the supermarket.
Eddie says nothing.
Chim did.
“Dude,” he muttered, watching Buck wipe his nose and sniff wetly. “Should you even be here?”
Buck shook his head weakly.
He’s a little confused at why Chim cares, it’s not like Chim’s cared about him at all the past couple of months.
Another sniff. Another rough nose blow. He didn’t trust his voice.
Chim frowned. “You’re gonna make Maddie worry for no reason, you know that? Always reckless.”
Buck says nothing, doesn’t correct him.
His brain is way too mushy to come up with any explanation or excuse for why Bobby won’t approve his sick day that doesn’t sound like he’s bashing his captain and he doesn’t want to do that.
They already hate him enough as it is.
He just picks up the mop.