Chapter Text
Buck had buried Eddie years ago. Not in the earth — there was no grave, no body, no stone, nothing to mark the absence — but in the quiet, hollowed-out corners of his heart, where memories clung like stubborn cobwebs hided in the shadows he tries to forget. Every laugh, every glance, every whispered promise was carefully folded away, tucked behind walls he told himself would keep him safe. Eddie had been gone, vanished from his life in a way Buck never thought he could survive.
And then... the ghost from his past stepped through the bay doors. Just a figure at first, easy to dismiss, until the light caught the man's face. His brown eyes the same brown eyes Eddie has. His neatly gelled hair the same neatly gelled hair Ed-. Eddie. Alive. Standing there, calm and impossibly real. Buck's stomach dropped, a hollow ache swallowing him whole. His knees felt weak. His chest tightened. The world shrank down to this impossible, breathtaking moment: Eddie — alive — was in front of him. Not a dream. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Standing there. It doesn't seem real.
Buck's hands trembled at his sides. His throat felt tight, words trapped behind it like caged birds. He opened his mouth to call his name, but no sound came. Every heartbeat felt too loud, too fast, echoing in the sudden, terrifying, exquisite silence. He wanted to move, to run, to collapse, to grab him — but he couldn't. He could only stare, each second stretching into eternity. The man he had thought was dead, the man he had mourned, imagined, and loved all these years... was here.
And then, a single, terrifying thought pierced through the disbelief: What if he was gone again? What if this was all a dream?
His knees gave way, and Buck stumbled back a step. The world seemed impossibly loud — the laughs of the team, the clanging of lockers, all distant. He tried to speak, tried to call out a name, but nothing came out. His chest tightened, and he felt the room tilt around him.
"Hey... buck are you ok?" Bobbys voice echoed from what seemed like miles away. Buck blinked, trying to focus, but the world felt unreal, as if it had tilted sideways. The firehouse noises — the distant clang of lockers, the chatter of the team — faded into static. All that mattered was the man standing in front of him, alive.
"Eddie?" Buck finally managed to whispered the name of the man he loved. The sound of it cracked in his throat, fragile and desperate, like saying it too loudly might make the vision shatter into nothing.
Eddie froze in shock. For years, he had imagined this moment — thought about what it would be like if he ever stood in front of Buck again. But nothing had prepared him for the sound of his own name leaving Buck's lips, fragile and desperate, filled with so much grief it nearly brought Eddie to his knees.
His chest tightened, his throat working as he tried to breathe. He wanted to reach out, to pull Buck into his arms and tell him it was real, that he was here, that he'd never leave again. But his body wouldn't move. He stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering, frozen between the past he couldn't change and the future he didn't know if he deserved.
"Evan?" He whispered quietly, steadying his shaking voice. All the things he imagined he would feel when he saw Evan again were non existent. There was no relief, no joy, no rush of warmth flooding his chest like he'd always told himself there would be. Instead, what felt like a painful punch of regret filled his chest as he took a step closer into buck's orbit.
His body locked up, his heart thundering against his ribs, and for a terrifying moment he thought he might break apart under the weight of Buck's eyes on him.
"Evan!" Eddie's voice cracked, raw panic surging through him as Buck fell to the floor. The sound of his body hitting the concrete echoed in Eddie's ears. His heart stopped as he ran over and dropped to his knees, hands frantic, catching Buck's head before it could strike the ground.
"No, no, no— Evan, stay with me." His fingers hovered, shaking as if he wasn't sure whether to grip his shoulders or his face, terrified that even touching him might break the fragile reality that Buck was here at all. Buck's eyes fluttered closed, his breaths shallow and uneven.
"Buck!!" Bobby's voice cut through the stunned silence, but Eddie barely heard it. The world had narrowed to this — to the weight of Buck in his arms, the terror clawing at his chest, and the name that still burned on his lips.
And then, as if the universe itself couldn't let him have a single second, the firehouse alarm blared to life. The shrill tone cut through the stunned silence, lights flashing red across the bay. The team jolted into motion on instinct, torn between the fallen firefighter on the floor and the call demanding their response.
Bobby's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. "Hen, Chim, get the rig! Eddie—" He hesitated, eyes flicking between Buck unconscious in Eddie's arms and the urgency of the alarm. "...stay with him. We'll handle the call."
"Yeh I've got him" Eddie swallowed hard, tightening his grip on Buck, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out the sirens. He pressed his forehead against Buck's for the briefest second, whispering into the storm of noise, "I've got you, Evan. I've got you."
_____
Buck's lashes fluttered, the world swimming back into focus in uneven patches of light and shadow. His body felt heavy, his chest tight, but there was warmth beneath him — a blanket, or a couch, the familiar hum of the firehouse around him. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.
Eddie was there. Sitting so close Buck could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped together like he always does when he's nervous, but his eyes never left Buck's face. He looked tired, older, like the years had pressed their weight into the lines around his mouth, but he was there. Alive. Watching him like he was afraid to blink and lose him again.
Buck swallowed hard, his voice raw and unsteady "This feels too real to be a dream" he whispered, his words trembling into the quiet as he slowly pushed himself upright. Every muscle in his body protested, shaky and uncoordinated, but he didn't care — he needed to be closer, needed to prove to himself that Eddie was really there.
Eddie's hand twitched, like he wanted to steady him but wasn't sure if he had the right anymore. His eyes tracked every movement, worry etched deep into his face, but he stayed still, letting Buck set the pace.
Buck sat forward, chest heaving with the weight of years of grief, staring at Eddie like the world might dissolve if he blinked. His lips parted, a broken laugh slipping out, sharp and disbelieving. "If I wake up, I don't think I'll survive it this time."
Eddie finally reached out, fingers resting against Buck's chest, grounding him with the gentlest touch. "You're not dreaming, Evan," he said quietly, his voice cracking under the strain of all the words he hadn't said. "Now lie back down" Eddie instructed moving his hand to bucks shoulder and gently pushing him back into the couch. "You just fainted you shouldn't be sitting up just yet" Eddie's voice was low, careful. He held out a cup of water, steadying it in Buck's hands.
Buck took a sip of the water and lay back dawn as Eddie busied himself with the couch cushions, fussing over nothing to avoiding his eyes.
"A-Aren't you... meant to be dead?" Buck finally asked, his voice cracking on the last word. The question hung in the air like smoke, bitter and impossible to ignore.
Eddie froze for a second, one hand gripping the cushion too tightly. Then, slowly, he set it down and turned just enough to meet Buck's gaze. "Well... technically, yeah." His mouth twisted in that half-smile he wore when he was trying to make the unbearable lighter. "Physically... not so much."
Buck let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh that caught halfway between anger and disbelief. He shook his head. "Well what was that memorial for? and your funeral? What about your medals I was given by your commander? And the helicopter crash? Was there even a helicopter crash?"
Eddie's chest tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, searching for words that could undo years of hurt but knowing there were none that could. His fingers drummed nervously against his knee. "Buck... it wasn't supposed to happen like that. None of it... I—"
"You lied to me! You let me bury you, Eddie! I grieved for you! I... I had to live without you!" Buck's voice cracked as tears pricked at his eyes. "Do you even know how that felt?"
Eddie swallowed hard, guilt pressing so heavy it felt like it would crush him. "I do," he said quietly, each word deliberate. "Every single day. I thought... I thought you'd be better off thinking I was gone. But I never wanted to hurt you, Evan."
The sudden roar of the returning fire truck tore through the firehouse, sirens fading but lights flashing, pulling them back into reality. Eddie's words froze on his lips as the world seemed to snap sharply back into focus. Buck's chest heaved, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
He stood up and drew a deep, shuddering breath and finally met Eddie's gaze. "Eddie... leave me alone... just forget." His voice was low, but every word cut like a knife. "Forget it. Forget everything. I won't let you hurt me again. Not now."
Eddie's eyes widened, his mouth opening, closing, trying to form a response that wouldn't come. Buck stepped back, each movement deliberate, the weight of years of grief and betrayal pressing him forward. "I can't... I won't let myself go through that again. Not with you."
For a moment, they just stared at each other — Eddie's face pale, heart pounding, and Buck rigid, trembling with the force of the emotions he refused to give voice to. Without another word, Buck turned toward the truck bay, each step echoing like a drumbeat against Eddie's chest. The space between them felt endless, and Eddie felt it all collapse in the silence left behind.
As Bobby, Hen, and Chim climbed up the stairs to the firehouse loft, Buck's head snapped around, eyes blazing, voice cutting through the noise of the returning crew.
"And Stop calling me Evan!" he shouted, every word sharp and tremulous. "My name... my names Buck!"
Eddie froze, chest tightening, guilt and longing warring in his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but Buck's words struck like lightning, commanding attention not just from him but from the entire 118. The team watched in silence, sensing the raw weight of years compressed into that single, jagged moment.
For a heartbeat, time hung suspended — Buck's stare burning into Eddie, Eddie's gaze pleading, and the names that carried love, grief, and history echoing across the bay.
Bobby stepped forward, concern etched across his face. "Buck... you alright, buddy?" he asked gently, resting a hand on Buck's shoulder. The warmth of the touch was grounding, but Buck stiffened slightly, the tension in his body not easing.
He blinked, swallowing hard, trying to steady his racing heart. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine," he muttered, voice tight. But the set of his jaw and the way his hands clenched at his sides told a different story.
Bobby gave a small, knowing nod, his hand lingering just a moment before pulling back. "Alright," he said softly. "Eddie why don't you go put on your uniform"
Eddie's eyes flicked to Buck, hesitant, but he nodded silently, understanding Bobby's gentle nudge to step away from the tension. As Eddie moved toward the locker room, Bobby turned back to Buck with a faint smile. "Hey... why don't you help me cook dinner? Give your mind a break?"
Buck blinked, caught between the storm of emotions still coursing through him and the simple, grounding suggestion. After a long pause, he managed a small nod, letting Bobby guide him toward the kitchen. The firehouse buzzed around them, but for a moment, Buck felt a thread of normalcy he hadn't realised he'd missed — even if the memory of Eddie still lingered, unshakable.
_____
Buck reached for the milk to pour into the sauce, but his hand froze mid-motion. His eyes lingered on the bottle, and suddenly he was somewhere else — the small kitchen he'd shared with Eddie years ago, the sunlight spilling across the counter. He remembered how Eddie could never cook anything properly, how every attempt at breakfast ended in a ended in a battlefield of dirty pans and flour on the counter, like he'd gone to war with breakfast itself. Except for one thing: coffee. That damn coffee — rich, strong, and somehow perfect every time — was the only thing Eddie ever got right in the kitchen.
"Is that coffee?" Buck sniffed as he stumbled into the kitchen one early morning before Eddie had to leave to work, his crazy bed hair falling in his face, He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, still half-asleep, and squinted at the counter. Eddie stood there, in the beautiful morning sun, mug in hand, steam curling up in lazy tendrils, looking far too hot in pyjamas then anyone should this early in the morning.
Buck walked over slowly, cupping Eddie cheeks in his hands, eyes fixed on Eddie. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, the space between charged and fragile.
Buck leaned in, pressing a soft, careful kiss to Eddie's lips. slow and unhurried, tasting the faint sweetness of cream and warmth on his lips. Eddie's hand rose, resting at the back of Buck's neck, holding him close, and Buck let himself melt into it, savoring the moment.
Eddie's eyes closed briefly, then opened, searching Buck's face, a small smile tugging at his lips."Only thing I can make without burning the place down," Eddie said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
Buck let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, well, considering last time you set the toaster on fire, I think the world thanks you." He reached for the mug, his fingers brushing Eddie's as he stole a sip, eyes closing at the rich taste. "God... it's unfair you can't cook to save your life, but you make the best coffee I've ever had."
Eddie shook his head, pretending to grumble, but Buck could see the flicker of pride in his eyes. "Guess we all have our talents."
Buck smiled into the mug, holding on to the warmth, the taste, the comfort of Eddie standing there with him—
—and then it was gone. The sunlight, the kitchen, the smell of coffee. In its place was the bright firehouse kitchen, the hum of voices, the weight of the milk still clutched in his hand. Buck blinked hard, realizing he hadn't moved, his knuckles white against the bottle.
"Buck?" Bobby's voice cut in, steady but edged with concern. "You good, kid?"
Buck cleared his throat quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded thinner than he'd intended. "Yeah—fine. Just thinking maybe I should've been a barista instead of a firefighter. At least then no one would yell at me for burning toast."
Bobby's knife paused mid-slice, his eyes lifting to study Buck. He didn't smile. "That so?" he said slowly, like he was weighing every word. "'Cause it looked like you were somewhere else entirely."
Buck froze, his hand tightening on the counter. He felt the urge to deflect again, to brush it off with another joke—but Bobby's gaze was too steady, too knowing. He dropped his eyes instead, muttering, "Guess I just... remembered something. Someone."
For a beat, Bobby didn't answer. Then he set down the knife and gave Buck's shoulder a firm squeeze. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know." His voice was low, meant only for Buck. "Not here."
Buck swallowed, forcing himself to nod. "Yeh... thanks, Bobby." His voice was rougher than he wanted, the words catching like gravel in his throat. He turned quickly back to the counter, grabbing for the spoon and began staring the salad to give his hands something to do. But the truth clung to him like smoke — he wasn't sure if he was thanking Bobby for the comfort, or apologizing for not being able to take it.
Buck forced a smile, let the moment pass, and busied himself with stirring the salad as if nothing had happened. But his hands moved on autopilot, his mind trapped somewhere far away. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, the memory refused to let go. Inside, the ghost of Eddie's coffee still clung to him, warm and bitter all at once.
Gradually, the firehouse began to settle. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen softened, the radios went quiet, and the hum of conversation faded into easy chatter. Buck wiped his hands on a towel, glancing around as the team started gathering their things, exchanging goodbyes and plans for the evening. Eddie was leaning against the counter, casually tidying up, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he joked quietly with Chimney. That sight—so casual, so present—twisted something tight in Buck's chest.
As the last of the firefighters left, Eddie's gaze found Buck's. He approached cautiously, as if testing the waters. "Hey... you okay?" he asked quietly, stopping a few steps away, careful but persistent.
Buck felt it all at once—the anger at Eddie for leaving, the ache of lost time, the surge of longing he refused to admit even to himself. Every word, every step Eddie took closer made the weight in his chest heavier. "Eddie," he snapped, voice sharper than intended, "don't."
"Don't what?" Eddie asked, frowning.
"Don't... talk to me like everything's normal," Buck said, jaw tight. "I don't... I don't want this. I don't want you hovering over me, pretending nothing happened. I don't want you in my space, in my head... unless you need me for work. Nothing else."
Eddie blinked, hurt flashing across his face, but he tried to step closer. "Buck, I—"
"No! Don't," Buck cut him off, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I can't do this. I can't deal with you smiling at me and joking with me, like we're friends. We're not. Not anymore. If you need me for the job, fine. But don't—don't try to fix what's broken, don't try to make me feel like I'm supposed to forget."
Eddie's lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Buck's chest heaved, the ache of seeing Eddie alive and knowing how much he still wanted him clashing violently with the anger at being abandoned. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to step back. "I... I have to go," he muttered, voice tight. Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his jacket and stormed out, leaving Eddie frozen mid-step, hurt and confused, watching the man he loved vanish into the night.
Eddie watched Buck disappear, his jacket flapping around him like a shield. His chest felt tight, and for the first time in years, he was at a loss for what to do. Buck's words echoed in his mind—"I don't want you in my space... unless you need me for work." They weren't just boundaries; they were a wall, and Eddie had just slammed into it.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration prickling at his skin. He knew why Buck was angry. He knew he had every right to be. Eddie had left, disappeared from Buck's life, and then—when he came back—pretended that nothing had changed. But hearing Buck say it out loud, the rawness in his voice, made Eddie realize just how deep the hurt went.
Still, Eddie's gut tightened with longing. Seeing Buck today, even for a few minutes, had reignited the part of him he'd tried to bury. He wanted to reach out, to make it right, to explain -but some part of him was still terrified what buck would think about him if he found out what really happened.
Instead, he stood there, taking in the quiet of the firehouse as it emptied, replaying every interaction, every look, every silent moment. He could feel the tension coiling in his chest, the ache of wanting someone who refused to be reached. He wasn't giving up. Not on Buck. Not on what they had.
Eddie let out a slow breath, the kind that carries both regret and resolve. Tomorrow, he decided, he'd find a way to breach that wall. Slowly. Carefully. Respectfully. But he would find a way. Because letting Buck go again—after all these years—was never going to be an option.
_____
Buck pushed open the front door, the silence of his apartment hitting him like a physical blow. No laughter, no footsteps, no faint smell of Eddie's coffee lingering in the air. Just emptiness. The quiet pressed against him, amplifying every memory, every ache he had tried to bury.
He dropped his jacket onto the couch without care and froze. His eyes landed on the wall—a shrine he had tried to avoid, a gallery of everything that had haunted him for years. Pictures of Eddie: smiling in sunlight, messy hair falling across his forehead, holding medals, laughing like life had never hurt him, some of them of bothering of them: kissing, sitting at the beach, smiling at each other. Each picture, framed and staring back at Buck. Every image pierced him with a mixture of longing and fury.
Buck's chest constricted, the weight of all the years of grief, betrayal, and lost moments coiling tight inside him. His hands trembled as he moved toward the wall, his fingers found something he had kept hidden in the corner of the room: the folded American flag he had been given when Eddie was declared dead. The sharp, official folds of the fabric felt heavy in his hands, a physical reminder of the lie, the void, the finality he had mourned.
He sank to his knees, clutching the flag to his chest as the tears he had been holding back for so long finally spilled. Hot, unstoppable, streaking down his face, mixing with the sweat of frustration and rage. His sobs shook him, the sound raw and unrestrained in the empty apartment. "You're supposed to be dead... you're supposed to be dead!" he whispered, the words cracking under the weight of grief and anger.
Then, blinded by the mix of pain and fury, Buck lashed out. His fist collided with the wall, hard, over and over, each strike echoing through the apartment. Pain shot up his arm, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, the void of years spent believing Eddie was gone forever. The pictures wobbled, a few frames tipping dangerously, but he didn't care. The wall, the medals, the smiling photographs—they were all part of the life he had been forced to mourn, a life that suddenly didn't match reality.
Collapsing back against the wall, Buck clutched the flag tighter, pressing it to his face as he let the tears fall freely. The sobs came in ragged gasps, each one carrying the weight of everything he had lost and everything he still wanted. And through it all, one truth burned brighter than the rage or grief: Eddie was alive. He was here, and that realization both shattered him and tore him open in ways he wasn't ready to face.
Buck pressed the folded flag tighter to his chest, tears streaming down his face, his body trembling with a mixture of anger, sorrow, and disbelief. The apartment felt smaller somehow, every shadow echoing the memories he had tried so desperately to bury. He couldn't stop the sobs, couldn't stop the shaking. The years of forced composure, of pretending he was fine, of stuffing the ache deep inside, all came crashing down in one brutal wave.
And then, unbidden, his mind was pulled back to that day—the day that had shattered him completely.
The sharp knock on his apartment door. The commanding voice of Captain "Holster, open up." The way his heart had lurched, a premonition he couldn't shake. And then the words he would never forget: "Buck... it's Eddie. He... he didn't make it."
He remembered dropping to the floor, the world tilting, the air leaving his lungs in a ragged gasp. He had cried like he never thought he could—sobbing, wailing, feeling every ounce of his heart break into pieces. He remembered clutching at the space where Eddie should have been, shaking his head, whispering through the tears: "No... no, this can't be real... not him... not Eddie... Eddie."
The memory was raw, unrelenting, a mirror of the grief he still carried. His tears fell faster, his sobs growing louder, the flag pressed to his face like the only thing keeping him tethered to the man he thought he had lost forever. He could still feel the ache, the disbelief, the emptiness that had hollowed him out that day. And now, seeing Eddie alive—here, real, breathing—his heart twisted in ways he couldn't name.
Buck buried his face deeper into the flag, the fabric pressed against his cheek like the only tether to a world that had once made sense. He wanted to feel Eddie's arms around him, to feel the warmth, the steady heartbeat, the gentle press of hands that had once grounded him. Every fiber of his being ached for that touch—but alongside it roared another, sharper force: the betrayal, the abandonment, the years of being left to grieve alone.
He tried to steady his breathing, willing himself to calm down. It's just memories. Just the past. You can get through this. But the thought of Eddie alive, just beyond reach, twisted inside him like a knife. His hands pressed against the wall, knuckles trembling, as if touching something solid could anchor him to sanity.
The calm didn't last. The images on the wall—the smiling Eddie in every frame, the medals gleaming like cruel reminders—cut through him, sparking a storm of grief, longing, and anger that coiled tighter and tighter in his chest. He wanted to scream, to grab Eddie, to feel him close and never let go—but the fury burned too brightly, fusing with his ache until it became unbearable.
Then the punch landed. Hard. Knuckles smashed into plaster, a photo frame rattling violently. Pain shot up his arm, sharp, but insignificant compared to the storm inside him. Another punch, and another, as the medals tumbled, glass shattered, and the frames splintered. He wanted to feel Eddie here, right now, to drown in the warmth of him—but he hated him too, hated that he'd been left alone to crumble.
He kicked at the corner table, sending papers, photos, and small mementos flying. The flag slipped from his grasp, landing amid the wreckage, but he barely noticed. Nothing mattered except the hollow ache of wanting Eddie and the burning fury of betrayal. His sobs ripped from him, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls, a collision of pain, longing, and fury he could no longer contain.
Finally, he collapsed among the debris, gasping, trembling, clutching his knees to his chest. He imagined Eddie's hands on him, steadying him, brushing hair from his forehead, pressing warmth into the storm—but they weren't there. The room was chaos, fragments of the life he'd built in Eddie's absence scattered around him. He closed his eyes, letting the impossible truth press in: Eddie was alive. And that fact, more than anything, shredded him from the inside out—every ounce of love he still held warring with the anger, every yearning touch weighed down by years of loss.
_____
Buck walked into the firehouse like a man on autopilot. His shoulders were tense, his hair damp, but nothing about him looked put together. His eyes were hollowed out, dark circles beneath them, and his hands—his hands told the truth. His knuckles were split open, skin raw and angry red, faint smudges of dried blood still caught under his nails. Every flex of his fingers betrayed the sting that burned across them.
The sound of the locker room filled the air—Hen and Chim chatting idly as they pulled gear from their lockers. Their words stumbled to a halt the moment they caught sight of him.
Hen's sharp eyes dropped to his hands instantly, her brow furrowing. "Rough night?" she asked carefully, the edge of concern threading her voice.
Buck tugged open his locker door, letting the metal clang echo louder than it needed to. "Didn't sleep much," he muttered.
Chim leaned around his locker door, gaze landing on Buck's bruised knuckles. "Yeah, well, insomnia usually doesn't end with your hands looking like you went twelve rounds with a wall." He tried to lace it with humor, but his tone wavered, his concern slipping through.
Buck's mouth twitched like he might smile, but it never made it that far. "Guess the wall had it coming," he said, the words flat, hollow.
Hen shot Chim a look—sharp, uneasy—but neither of them pressed further. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that made the air feel too tight in your chest.
Then, from the doorway: "Buck."
Eddie's voice. Low, careful, weighted with something only Buck could hear.
Buck froze, his shoulders stiffening, his bruised hands curling tighter around the edges of his locker. He didn't turn, didn't look—he could feel Eddie's eyes on him.
"Don't." The word cracked out of him like a whip. He slammed his locker shut, the sound ricocheting through the room. His voice was sharp, raw, brittle. "Just... don't."
The weight of it dropped like a storm cloud. Hen's lips pressed tight, Chim busied himself with gear that didn't need sorting, and Eddie just stood there, silent, watching him.
Buck shoved past Eddie, Hen, and Chim, his footsteps hammering across the tile until he broke into the apparatus bay. The open air felt cooler, sharper, but it didn't stop the pressure building inside him, burning like a fuse. His fists kept clenching and unclenching, torn knuckles splitting deeper with every movement.
By the truck, Bobby stood with a clipboard in hand, though he wasn't reading a single line. His gaze had already fixed on Buck the moment he appeared. He took in the raw hands, the hollow eyes, the storm carved into his features. Slowly, Bobby lowered the clipboard, his face tightening with concern.
"Buck," Bobby called, voice calm but firm.
Buck didn't slow. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, he walked like he could outpace the weight behind his name.
"Buck," Bobby said again, sharper this time. It wasn't a request—it was a line drawn.
Buck stopped. His back was to Bobby, chest rising and falling too quickly, fists trembling at his sides. He didn't turn, but the hesitation was there. Bobby closed the space between them, not crowding him, but close enough to anchor the moment.
"You want to tell me what's going on?" Bobby asked, his tone softer now. He wasn't prying; he was opening a door.
Buck's eyes dropped to the concrete floor. "It's nothing, Cap. Just... had a night."
Bobby's gaze flicked to his hands—bruised, bloody, shaking. "That doesn't look like nothing."
For a heartbeat, Buck's armor slipped. His throat bobbed, eyes glinting with something heavy and raw, but he crushed it down with a sharp shake of his head. "Drop it, Bobby," he muttered, his voice breaking at the edges. "Please."
The plea landed heavier than the anger had. Bobby studied him for a long moment, weighing whether to press. Finally, he gave a small nod, stepping back just enough. "Alright," he said gently. "But you know this—this isn't going away just because you ignore it."
Buck swallowed hard, his chest tight, then brushed past Bobby, heading for the rig without another word. His silence carried the weight of a scream.
And Bobby... Bobby didn't follow. He turned his head just slightly, his eyes catching the figure lingering in the doorway of the locker room. Eddie.
Eddie hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. His gaze was locked on Buck, pained, regret carved deep into every line of his face. He looked like he wanted to chase after him, to fix it, but his feet stayed rooted where they were.
Bobby's gaze lingered on Eddie for a moment longer, then shifted back toward the rig where Buck had disappeared. He didn't need details to see it—the weight between them, unspoken but heavy. Buck wasn't the only one carrying something, and Bobby could tell Eddie had his share of it too.
_____
Every time buck saw Eddie, Buck felt a mix of something he couldn't name—anger, hurt, longing. He forced himself to act normal when the alarms blared, when the calls came in, when lives depended on him. On the job, they were a flawless team, moving in perfect sync, anticipating each other's moves, reading each other's eyes without speaking. No one could deny it: Buck and Eddie worked better than anyone else on the floor.
But the moment the chaos died down, Buck shut down. He refused to meet Eddie's eyes, ignored the small jokes and attempts at casual conversation, and retreated into the rhythm of his own work. He spoke only when necessary, his answers clipped, leaving Eddie with nothing to latch onto. He hated himself for it, hated how much his chest ached when Eddie laughed near him, but he refused to give in. He wasn't ready to forgive, and he wasn't ready to feel vulnerable again.
The rest of the 118 noticed immediately. Chimney raised an eyebrow over his coffee one morning, Hen nudged him during breakfast, and even Bobby shot him the occasional "what's going on with you two?" glance. Buck said nothing. He just clenched his jaw, silently daring anyone to question him further. The team, used to reading him, knew enough to let it slide for now—but the tension in the room was palpable.
Eddie, for his part, tried to break through. A hand on the shoulder, a teasing comment, a smirk across the kitchen—but Buck would turn away or pretend not to notice. Each failed attempt only deepened the unspoken anger between them, making their professional synchronization on calls even more jarring in contrast to their silent standoff off duty.
And yet, no matter how hard he tried to wall himself off, Buck couldn't ignore the way his heart leapt during a perfectly timed maneuver, or the adrenaline rush when Eddie was right beside him saving a life. It was infuriating. He hated that he still needed Eddie as much as he wanted to strangle him.
Every day was a battle of wills. Buck kept up his silence, a wall Eddie couldn't break through no matter how hard he tried. Eddie would push—small words, careful looks—and Buck would shut him down, colder each time. The rest of the 118 watched from the sidelines, uneasy, sensing the storm brewing just beneath the surface. Everyone could see it—how naturally the two fit together, and how much it was costing Buck to pretend otherwise.
By the time the next call came in, the pressure inside Buck felt like a live wire, sparking just beneath his skin. The scene they arrived at was chaos—twisted metal, shattered glass, the acrid stench of fuel hanging thick in the air. Buck's boots crunched over debris as he stalked toward the crumpled car, every sound amplified by the anger already burning in his chest. Sirens wailed in the distance, radios buzzed with clipped instructions, and smoke rose in heavy curls, as if the world itself mirrored the storm Buck had been carrying for weeks.
Inside the mangled vehicle, a woman sat slumped, panic written across her face, blood streaking down her arm and dripping onto the seat beneath her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic bursts. Eddie was already kneeling beside her, leaning into the wreck with calm steadiness, his gloved hands gentle but precise as he checked her pulse and airway.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice low, grounding, eyes locking with hers. "I've got you. I'm Eddie" he introduced himself. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
The woman's lip trembled, her hand clutching at his wrist. "Y-yeah... I don't want to die." Her voice cracked on the last word, raw terror spilling out in shaky breaths.
Eddie leaned closer, brushing a hand reassuringly over her shoulder, the picture of calm under pressure. "Listen to me. You're not going to die, alright? I promise you—I'm getting you out of here. You're going to be okay." His voice carried weight, the kind that could convince someone to believe in hope even when it felt impossible.
Buck froze. His chest tightened at the sound of that word. Promise. It hit harder than anything else could. Memories he'd tried to bury — the flags, the funeral, the grief — surged back all at once. To that Monday morning years ago.
They were on there porch, the air thick with summer heat, Eddie standing close, his hands brushing against bucks cheeks, there eyes locked, neither wanted to let go. "Buck..." Eddie said softly, his voice steady despite the tension in his own chest. "I'll come back. I promise you—I'll come back."
Buck had swallowed hard, gripping Eddie's jacket like it was a lifeline. "You better," he said, his voice rough, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "You better come back... because when you do, you're marrying me. You hear me?"
Eddie had smiled, the kind of smile that lit up everything around them even in the fading light. He squeezing Buck's hands. "I promise you Buck. I'll be back. And then where getting married."
The memory crashed into him now, bitter and searing. Every sleepless night, every hollow day he'd spent imagining Eddie gone forever, every tear shed alone—they all surged through him like fire. The echo of that promise, once a lifeline, now twisted into raw, unbearable ache.
His hands curled into fists around the equipment he carried. Anger, sorrow, longing—all tangled together—rose up and twisted in his chest. He wanted to scream, to grab Eddie and shake him, to make him understand the weight of what he'd said, what he'd done all those years ago. But instead, the words tore from his mouth before he even thought.
The last stretcher was secured, and the ambulance doors slammed shut, carrying the victim away from the wreckage. The roar of sirens began to fade, replaced by the low murmur of firefighters coordinating the final checks and the hiss of steam rising from the twisted metal. Slowly, the tension in the air began to ease, the immediate danger receding like a tide.
With the scene winding down, Bobby stepped closer to Eddie, his expression firm but measured. He placed a hand lightly on Eddie's shoulder and lowered his voice. "Diaz, you know you can't make promises like that. You can reassure them, calm them down—but don't promise what you can't control. It puts you and them at risk."
Eddie nodded stiffly, rubbing the back of his neck, the weight of the warning sinking in as the adrenaline of the call began to fade.
Eddie nodded stiffly, rubbing the back of his neck, shame flickering in his eyes. Before he could respond, Buck strode past with a piece of equipment in hand, his voice sharp and cutting as he tossed the words over his shoulder.
"It's fine, Cap. Eddie doesn't keep his promises anyway."
The words hung heavy in the air, laced with venom, and Eddie froze, his chest tightening. Bobby's gaze flicked between the two men, brows furrowing in confusion.
Buck's words cut like a blade, but he didn't look back. He kept walking, jaw set, fists clenched around the equipment he carried.
"Buck!" Eddie's voice cracked across the crash site, sharp with frustration. He stepped toward him, chest tight. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Buck froze. For a moment, it looked like he might keep going—but then he turned, slowly, his face half-lit by the strobes of red and blue. His eyes burned with something Eddie hadn't seen in years: grief, anger, and betrayal tangled together.
"It means..." Buck's voice caught, raw and trembling, before he forced it louder. "It means you don't get to stand there and promise people things, Eddie. Because I know what it's like when you break them." His chest heaved, his throat tightening as the words ripped out of him. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to something sharper, almost a whisper, but it hit like a punch to the gut. "I lived it."
The words hit harder than Eddie expected, knocking the air right out of him. He opened his mouth, but Buck wasn't done.
"You think you can just walk back into my life like nothing happened?" Buck's voice cracked, his anger rising with each syllable. "You left! And you promised me you wouldn't" His chest heaved, his hands shaking around the equipment. "So yeah, maybe don't talk to me about promises. Because you already broke the only one that ever mattered."
The silence after was deafening. Eddie stood frozen, stunned, staring at him, the weight of Buck's words pressing heavy in the space between them. Bobby's gaze flicked their way, sharp and wary, but he didn't intervene. Not yet.
Buck shook his head, his throat tight, and turned back toward the engine, leaving Eddie rooted in place with the echo of his name still hanging in the air.
"Buck, wait!" Eddie pushed after him, weaving between the scattered debris of the scene. His voice was tight, urgent. "I didn't—look, I shouldn't have—"
Buck didn't slow. His boots hit the concrete, every step carrying more force than necessary as he strode toward the engine. Eddie caught up, reaching out like he wanted to grab his arm, but Buck jerked away before he could touch him.
"Don't," Buck snapped, climbing up onto the truck. His voice was sharp, final. "Don't try to explain. Don't try to fix it. Just... don't."
Eddie froze at the base of the truck, his chest rising and falling in quick, frustrated breaths. The apology he'd been ready to spill died on his tongue as Buck hauled himself onto the rig without a backward glance.
The rest of the 118 were already sitting inside—Hen scrolling on her phone, Chim fiddling with a medical kit, Bobby quite climbed up and sat behind the wheel. But the moment Buck swung himself up and dropped heavily into his seat, the air shifted. Everyone felt it. The weight. The storm.
Eddie climbed in a beat later, sliding into his spot with forced composure, but the silence that followed was suffocating. No one said anything, but no one needed to. The tension between Buck and Eddie was a living thing, thick enough to choke the cab, each unspoken word pressing against the walls of the truck.
Hen's eyes flicked between them, Chim glanced up with a frown, Bobby's jaw tightened—but still, no one broke the silence. The ride back to the station stretched long and heavy, Buck staring straight ahead, refusing to even acknowledge Eddie's presence.