Chapter Text
Buck had expected the dinner invitation from Bobby and Athena to be a turning point, he just never imagined it’d be like this. When he pulled up to the Grant-Nash home earlier that evening, he’d rehearsed what he wanted to say: that he missed the station, that the fire marshal’s office was suffocating him, that he wasn’t built for an office job, that he wanted Bobby to vouch for him with the brass. He thought Bobby would understand, support him, fight for him, the way Buck had always fought for everyone else.
Instead, he’d been blindsided.
The memory pressed in with unwelcome clarity: the clink of cutlery against plates, Athena’s quiet watchfulness, the weight of expectation sitting heavy in his chest. Bobby’s voice had been steady, almost gentle, which had made the words land harder. He hadn’t even looked away when he said it, just held Buck’s gaze across the table, hands folded neatly in front of him like this was something already decided. He’d said Buck wasn’t ready, not yet, that he needed more time, that returning now would be a mistake. He’d said it like a certainty, like a decision already made without even asking Buck about it. And Buck had known, right then, before the conversation even finished, that nothing he said was going to change it.
Bobby, the man Buck trusted more than his own father, the man he once would have followed into a burning building without hesitation, had looked across the table and told him he wasn’t ready to come back. Not the chiefs. Not the department. Bobby.
The betrayal landed like a punch he hadn’t braced for. At least when he was living at home with his parents, he expected them to let him down.
Buck had passed his recertifications with scores far higher than the first time around, breaking his own records. He’d been cleared twice by his surgeon and physical therapist, declared mentally fit by both his departmental and trauma therapists, and had even survived a tsunami while saving countless civilians, including Christopher, injured and bleeding for hours while on blood thinners, conditions that should have stopped him if he was as much a liability as Bobby said, but hadn’t. He’d done everything asked of him; he’d done more than was asked of him.
So why was Bobby acting as though Buck were still some reckless rookie with something to prove?
Chimney hadn’t been treated this way after the rebar, or even after being stabbed. No one hovered over him or second-guessed his ability to return to the field. Buck could still picture it, the way Chimney had been welcomed back, clapped on the shoulder, trusted without question to step right back into place. Fuck, Buck wasn’t even sure if Chimney had gotten as many professionals to sign him off to return to duty as Buck did. His jaw tightened, a restless energy building under his skin that had nowhere to go. There was a constant double standard when it came to Buck, one rule for him, another for everyone else.
He couldn’t keep asking why. The question only sharpened the ache.
Buck sat in his car outside the house he shared with Eddie and Christopher, the engine off, the keys clutched so tightly they left crescents in his palm. The metal bit into his skin until his grip faltered slightly, the edge of one key slipping against his fingers as though even his hands couldn’t maintain the same rigid control his thoughts demanded. He stared at the porch light glowing through the gathering dusk. Somewhere down the street a car passed, tyres humming against the road, a dog barking faintly in the distance. The world kept moving, steady and indifferent, while he sat frozen in place. The thought of walking inside, carrying all this anger, this hurt, made his chest constrict. Inside was warmth, safety, and family. Outside was the only place he could fall apart without risking any of that.
Chris didn’t deserve to absorb that kind of tension before bed. He was sensitive to shifts in the emotional weather. He always had been. He and Eddie loved that about him, even if it meant he noticed everything they tried to hide. Buck squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled shakily. Moments like this made him miss his old place, not the space, but the ability to retreat instead of bringing storm clouds through the front door, somewhere he could decompress. Somewhere he could let everything unravel without worrying who might see it.
They say planning a wedding should be the easiest source of joy in his life outside of Christopher. Instead, he and Eddie barely saw each other; the tsunami cleanup had swallowed Eddie’s time, and Buck’s early morning routines with Chris left him drained before the day even started. They were scraping together minutes, not hours. And now, without being on shift at the 118, even their shared downtime had vanished. The only thing they’ve managed to even discuss about their wedding is that they want it outside, but Buck doesn’t even want to look at venues without Eddie.
Ten minutes. He gave himself ten minutes to breathe, to settle, before story time ended and Eddie came looking for him. He never made it through the full ten. The hallway light inside flicked off, Christopher down, the evening routine complete. A moment later the front door opened, and Eddie leaned against the doorframe, the silhouette of quiet understanding.
Buck stepped out of the car, and Eddie opened his arms without being asked. For half a second, Buck hesitated, something tight in his chest resisting, like if he stepped into that space everything he was holding together would finally break. Then it did anyway. Everything inside Buck’s chest seemed to crumple at once. He folded himself into Eddie, into the warmth of his shirt, the familiar smell of smoke and soap and comfort. Eddie held him firmly, one hand at the back of his neck, the way he always did when he felt Buck trembling, his grip tightening just enough to anchor him there, to keep him from slipping under. This was the place he was allowed to fall apart.
By the time Eddie guided him inside and onto the sofa, Buck’s breathing had begun to steady. Eddie pressed a cold soda into his hand. Buck missed beer, missed the simple ritual of sharing one after long days, but the blood thinners still forbade it. Eddie didn’t ask him to speak, didn’t push, didn’t pry. He simply sat beside him, one knee touching Buck’s, grounding him through presence alone.
That was the thing about Eddie Diaz. He never demanded Buck get his emotions under control; he simply helped him do it. Buck took one breath, then another, and then, because he knew the dam would break anyway, he began talking.
“It’s Bobby,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “It’s him keeping me off work. Not the brass. Him.” Eddie’s eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt, he always let Buck finish speaking before saying what he needed to.
“I asked him to help me talk to the chiefs. I even suggested getting statements from everyone saying I’m not a liability.” Buck’s throat tightened. “And he just said it. To my face. Like I’m an idiot for even asking.” His voice cracked. “I don’t understand, Eds. What did I do? The clots weren’t my fault. I didn’t put a bomb under the ladder truck. I didn’t ask for any of this. I’ve been cleared by everyone, everyone, but he still says I’m not ready.”
The tears came then, hot, sharp, unstoppable, the same ones he’d barely held back at Bobby’s dinner table.
Eddie shifted closer, his hands gentle but firm as he cupped the sides of Buck’s face, wiping the tears that fell too fast to catch. “Mi amor,” Eddie murmured, soft but commanding, telling him to breathe with him, to follow his rhythm, to stay with him, his voice steady in both English and Spanish, grounding Buck through each instruction. Buck’s hand was guided to Eddie’s chest, where Eddie inhaled slow and deep. Buck followed. Again. Again. Slowly, the sobs softened from violent tremors into uneven breaths. Eddie kissed his forehead, then stood to fetch tissues and a glass of water. When he returned, he carried a notepad and pen as well. The scratch of the pen against the paper as he clicked it open felt oddly loud in the quiet room, something tangible, something real.
Of course he did, Buck might be the one in the relationship that likes order, but his fiance had been in the army from the age of eighteen, that doesn’t just leave someone. Eddie understood that Buck’s mind required structure when emotions threatened to overwhelm him, the same way they’d begun planning their wedding, not with colours or flowers or seating charts yet, but with timelines and checklists, something solid to hold onto.
“We make a plan,” Eddie said simply as he settled beside him again. “You don’t have to solve everything tonight. But we can take the first steps.”
Buck hesitated for a second, staring at the blank page, at the expectation of movement, of action. Part of him wanted to shut down, to stay right where he was, but another part, quieter and steadier, knew he couldn’t stay stuck. Then he nodded. Together, they wrote.
Step One: Visit every member of Buck’s medical team and obtain copies of every letter, recommendation, and clearance issued since the bombing, including any sent after the tsunami. Verify whether Bobby was copied on all correspondence; if not, he might not have the full picture.
Step Two: Deliver those documents personally to both the Chief’s Office and the firefighters’ union. Confirm whether they recognise Buck as cleared for active duty, not light duty. Request a joint meeting if necessary.
Step Three: If obstacles remain, consult an employment lawyer.
Buck balked at that one. “I don’t want to sue Bobby,” he muttered. “We’re not suing him,” Eddie clarified gently. “We’re understanding your rights. If the department has sidelined you without cause, if they’ve allowed you to lose pay, seniority, and fair treatment, that matters.” Buck frowned down at the page. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way.
Eddie continued, his voice calm but firm, though his hand moved slightly as he spoke, tapping the pen once against the paper. “You aren’t receiving disability anymore. And the fire marshal salary isn’t even close to what you should be getting paid if you weren’t being blocked from returning to work. You’re certified in heavy rescue. You’re swift water rescue. For goodness’ sake, I can’t tell you if anyone else in the station has a bachelor’s in fire science, and don’t think I don’t know you’ve been working on your master’s. That carries weight, and losing access to it isn’t nothing. You being unable to do your job when you’ve been cleared doesn’t just impact you, it also impacts the people of Los Angeles that need someone like you to be there to help them. And Buck, don’t even try to tell me that, had you not moved in with me, you wouldn’t be struggling right now.”
Buck exhaled slowly, some of the tightness in his chest easing, not gone, but no longer suffocating.
“And the last step,” Eddie murmured after calming down from his rant, turning the page so Buck could see the clean sheet beneath, “is documenting everything. Every attempt. Every conversation. So no one can say you didn’t try every possible avenue before considering legal action. We both know that if we do have to take legal action, everyone will try to make you feel guilty for standing up for yourself.”
The list sat between them on the table, ink still fresh, each line a small assertion of control against everything that had felt immovable only an hour before. Buck closed his eyes. Eddie’s hand found his. Their fingers intertwined.
“Eds?” he whispered. “Yeah, Corazón?” “Thank you.” Eddie pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “Always.”
And for the first time since leaving Bobby’s dinner table, Buck felt something loosen inside him, the sharp edge of anger dulling, the fear no longer sitting quite so heavy in his chest. The weight was still there, but it wasn’t crushing him anymore.
He wasn’t doing this alone.
Not anymore.