Chapter Text
The heavy door of the 118 fire station had always felt like the gateway to a sanctuary. For Buck, walking through those doors used to mean coming home. The scent of diesel fumes, industrial cleaner, sweat, ash and whatever Bobby had simmering on the industrial stove upstairs used to be the perfume of his belonging.
Now, two weeks after his official reinstatement following the lawsuit, those same doors felt like the entrance to a courtroom where he was perpetually on trial.
Buck stood near the rear bumper of the ladder truck, a damp cloth gripped in his hand, mindlessly buffing a patch of chrome that had been spotless for twenty minutes. The bay was echoing with the familiar sounds of a shift winding down, the clatter of gear being stowed, the low hush of voices, the sounds of boots on the concrete. But the sounds were all wrong. The symphony was missing its harmony. Or rather, the harmony was there. Buck was just no longer part of the orchestra.
"Hey, Buckley."
Buck’s spine snapped straight, his shoulder blades pinching together as he turned. Bobby was standing near his office, a clipboard tucked under his arm.
Not 'Buck’ but ‘Buckley’
"Yes, Cap?" Buck answered, his voice a little too loud, a little too eager. He hated how desperate he sounded, like a stray dog begging for a scrap under the dinner table.
"When you're done with the bright work, make sure the supply closet on the second floor is locked up. B shift complained about missing medical tape last week," Bobby said. His voice was perfectly even. It wasn't angry, it wasn't cruel, and it certainly wasn't loud. It was professional. It was the exact tone Bobby used with the probies who cycled through from the academy.
"You got it, Cap. On it right now," Buck said, offering a tight, forced smile.
Bobby gave a single, curt nod, his eyes flat, and turned back to his office, shutting the door with a soft, dismissive click.
Buck swallowed the thick, familiar lump of ash in his throat. He tossed the rag into the laundry bin with a little more force than necessary. He looked across the bay. Hen was leaning against the side of the ambulance, filling out a digital chart on the tablet. She was singing softly to herself. Before the lawsuit, Buck would have walked up, bumped his shoulder against hers, and annoyed her into telling him what song it was. He would have asked about Denny, about Karen.
He took a half step toward her. Hen’s eyes flicked up, meeting his for a fraction of a second. She offered a polite, closed mouth smile, the kind you give to a stranger who holds the door open for you at a coffee shop, before looking right back down at her screen. The singing stopped.
Buck’s chest tightened, the air suddenly feeling too thin to breathe. He turned away, his gaze accidentally catching Eddie across the floor.
Eddie was organizing the hoses, his back muscles shifting under his LAFD tee. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent even from a distance. Buck’s heart gave that pathetic, traitorous little flutter it always did whenever he looked at his best friend. His former best friend.
"Hey, Eddie," Buck called out softly, taking a tentative step forward. "You, uh... you want a hand with that? I finished my chores, I can help you finish those."
Eddie didn't stop moving. He didn't look up. His jaw flexed, a hard line of tension working beneath his skin. "I got it," Eddie said, his voice clipped, devoid of the warm, teasing edge that used to define their entire relationship. "Just wrapping up."
"Okay," Buck breathed out, his hands sliding uselessly into his pockets. "How's Christopher? I haven't seen him since... well, since before."
Eddie paused. His hands tightened on the hose, his knuckles turning white. "He's fine, Buck. He's busy with school."
He's busy. The universal translation for you are not welcome in his life right now. "Right," Buck whispered, forcing his gaze to the concrete floor. "That's... that's good. Tell him I said hi."
Eddie didn't answer. He just went back to the hoses.
The rest of the shift bled out in a torturous drip of polite professionalism. No one was rude to him. No one iced him out of calls. When the bell rang, they operated like a flawless, well oiled machine. They passed him tools, they gave him clear directives, they acknowledged his reports. But the second the adrenaline faded and the rig was parked back in the bay, the invisible glass wall dropped back down.
He was a colleague. A coworker. He was a staff member drawing a city paycheck, nothing more, nothing less. He had sued the department, sued them, because he was so terrified of losing his family, and in doing so, he had ensured they would never look at him as family again.
By the time Buck changed into his civilian clothes, the station was already emptying out. He walked toward the parking lot, his duffel bag heavy against his side. Up ahead, he saw Hen, Chimney, and Eddie standing by their cars, laughing at something Chimney was saying. The sound of their genuine, easy laughter felt like a knife twisting between Buck's ribs.
He slowed his pace, hoping, praying, that one of them would turn around. That Chimney would wave him over and say, Hey man, we're grabbing a beer at that place down the street, you in? They didn't. Chimney slapped Eddie on the back, Hen got into her car, and they all drove off. No one even looked back.
Buck stood alone in the darkening asphalt lot, the LA smog settling low and heavy around him. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Maddie’s contact. He just needed to hear a friendly voice. He needed his big sister. He hit the call button and pressed the phone to his ear.
It rang three times before going to voicemail.
"Hey, this is Maddie. I can't get to the phone right now, leave a message!" Buck sighed, hanging up without leaving one. He opened their text thread.
Buck [7:14 PM]: Hey Mads. Just got off shift. You free for dinner tonight? I can bring takeout over?
He sat in the driver's seat of his Jeep, staring at the screen, waiting for the little typing bubbles. Two minutes later, a response popped up.
Maddie [7:16 PM]: Hey! So sorry, I can't tonight. Exhausted from work and the baby is making me so nauseous today. Chim is coming over and we're just going to crash. Let's catch up soon, promise! Love you!
Buck let his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes. Let's catch up soon. It was the third time she had used that exact phrase this week. Ever since she got pregnant with her and Chimney's baby, she had been pulling away. Or maybe she was pulling away because of Chimney. Chimney was furious about the lawsuit, and Maddie was caught in the middle. Naturally, she chose the father of her child over her screw up of a little brother. It made logical sense, but logic did absolutely nothing to dull the sharp, aching throb of rejection in his chest.
"Just you and me, Jeep," Buck muttered to the empty vehicle, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. He put the car in gear and drove home.
The loft was dead quiet.
Buck hated the silence. Before the fire truck crushed his leg, before the embolisms, being the tsunami, before the lawsuit, this loft used to be a hub of noise. Eddie would bring Christopher over to play video games on the couch, the TV blaring the sounds of digital explosions. Maddie would come over and drink wine while he cooked. Even Bobby had been here, leaning against the kitchen island, offering quiet advice.
Now, the only sound was the low, electric sound of the refrigerator, and the wind rattling the blind.
Buck threw his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. The loud clatter made him wince. He didn't bother turning on the main overhead lights, opting instead for the dim, yellow glow of the lamp by the stairs. He felt utterly drained, a bone deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with fighting fires and everything to do with the suffocating emotional labor of existing in a space where he wasn't wanted.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was depressing. Half a carton of milk, some sad looking wilting spinach, and a plastic container of leftover Pad Thai he had ordered two nights ago. He grabbed the takeout container, didn't bother heating it up, and grabbed a fork.
He collapsed onto the center of his large, empty couch, pulling his knees up, making himself as small as possible. He ate a forkful of cold, clumpy noodles, tasting absolutely nothing.
To distract himself from the oppressive silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Muscle memory had his thumb opening Instagram. He mindlessly scrolled past targeted ads for workout gear, random travel accounts he followed, and news updates.
And then, his thumb froze.
The breath was knocked out of his lungs so violently he actually gasped.
It was a photo posted by Athena. The caption read: Nothing better than a Sunday afternoon with the family.
Buck stared at the screen, his vision blurring slightly around the edges as his brain desperately tried to process what he was seeing.
It was the backyard of the Grant Nash house. The string lights were twinkling against the twilight sky. The massive grill was open in the background, smoke curling up into the air. And gathered around the long, wooden patio table, smiling brightly into the camera, was everyone.
Everyone.
Bobby was standing at the head of the table, his arm wrapped warmly around Athena's waist. Hen and Karen were sitting next to each other, Karen laughing at something with a beer in her hand. Chimney was seated across from them, one arm thrown over the back of Maddie's chair. Maddie, who had texted him not two hours ago saying she was exhausted and nauseous and just crashing at home was glowing, laughing, a plate of ribs in front of her.
And at the far end of the table was Eddie. Eddie, who had barely been able to look Buck in the eye for two weeks. Eddie was smiling, a genuine, relaxed smile that reached his eyes, his hand resting on Christopher’s shoulder, who was grinning wildly with barbecue sauce smeared on his cheek.
They looked so happy. They looked perfect. They looked like a family.
A family that didn't include him.
Buck dropped his phone onto the couch cushion as if the device had physically burned him. He scrambled backward, pulling his knees tightly against his chest, his breathing turning shallow and erratic.
We're just going to crash. Maddie had lied to him. His own sister had lied to his face so she wouldn't have to invite him to the family barbecue.
The realization washed over him in a cold, suffocating wave. They hadn't just forgotten to text him. This wasn't an oversight. This was an active, coordinated exclusion. They had all gathered together, the entire 118 family, and they had collectively decided that Evan Buckley was not welcome at the table.
They had taken him back at work because the city mandated it, because Bobby was a professional who followed protocol. But the family? The family was gone. He had burned that bridge to the ground, and no amount of shining fire engines or locking up supply closets was going to rebuild it. To them, he was just a staff member. A liability.
A heavy, jagged sob tore its way out of Buck's throat, shattering the silence of the loft. He pressed the heels of his hands aggressively against his eyes, trying to stem the hot tide of tears, but it was useless. He cried, his shoulders shaking with the violent force of it. He cried for the loss of his family. He cried for Christopher, whom he missed so fiercely it felt like a missing limb. He cried for Eddie, the man he was hopelessly, secretly in love with, who now looked at him like he was a stranger.
He was entirely, utterly alone.
After what felt like hours, the tears eventually ran dry, leaving behind a hollow, scraping numbness in his chest. Buck lowered his hands, staring blankly at the exposed brick wall of his apartment.
The silence in the loft was no longer just annoying, it was deafening. It was aggressive. It was closing in on him, the walls physically shrinking, pressing the reality of his isolation into his skin. He couldn't stay here. If he stayed in this empty apartment, looking at that photo on his phone, he was going to lose his mind. He needed noise. He needed a distraction. He needed to be anywhere but here, with anyone but himself.
He stood up, his legs feeling heavy and mechanical. He walked into his bedroom, stripped off his LAFD issued sweatpants, and pulled on a pair of dark, fitted jeans and a soft maroon henley. He ran a wet hand through his curls, not caring how it looked, grabbed his wallet, and walked out the door.
The neon sign above the entrance buzzed with a frantic, electric energy, casting violent splashes of pink and blue across the dark pavement. The Cobalt Room was a downtown bar known for being loud, crowded, and unapologetically messy. It was the exact opposite of a quiet backyard barbecue. It was exactly what Buck needed.
Buck pushed through the heavy padded doors, immediately assaulted by a wall of heavy bass that vibrated straight through the soles of his boots and up into his teeth. The air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne, spilled vodka, and sweat. Bodies were packed tightly together on the dance floor, moving in a hypnotic, writhing mass beneath the strobe lights.
He kept his head down, weaving his massive frame through the throng of people, ignoring the wandering eyes and occasional hands that brushed against his arms. He made a beeline for the long, polished oak bar at the back of the room.
He finally managed to wedge himself into a narrow space between two stools. He caught the bartender’s eye and held up two fingers. "Whiskey! Double! Neat!" he shouted over the pounding music.
The bartender nodded, slamming a heavy glass down a moment later. Buck didn't hesitate. He picked it up and threw the amber liquid back in one go. The burn was immediate and vicious, scorching down his throat and pooling with a heavy, fiery heat in his stomach. It didn't numb the pain in his chest, but it gave him something else to focus on.
"Hit me again," Buck said, pushing the empty glass forward.
By his third double, the sharp, agonizing edges of the evening were beginning to blur. The image of the Instagram photo was still there, stamped into the back of his eyelids, but the alcohol had wrapped it in a thick layer of cotton. He was leaning heavily against the bar, tracing the condensation rings on the wood with his index finger, lost in the miserable labyrinth of his own mind.
"You look like you're trying to figure out the secrets of the universe in that spilled beer."
The voice was smooth, deep, and close enough to Buck’s ear to cut through the heavy thud of the bass.
Buck blinked heavily, turning his head slowly to the left.
Standing next to him, having slipped into the previously empty space, was a man. A very, very attractive man. He had thick, dark hair swept back effortlessly, sharp jawline covered in a neat shadow of scruff, and warm, crinkling hazel eyes that were looking at Buck with open, unabashed interest. He was wearing a dark button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle.
Buck stared for a second too long, his alcohol slowed brain struggling to switch gears from despair to flirting. "Uh. No," Buck mumbled, his voice gravelly. "Just trying to figure out how to stop thinking."
The man smiled, a genuinely kind expression that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "That’s a tough game to play. Usually, the harder you try to stop thinking, the louder your brain gets. I'm Lucas, by the way."
Lucas held out a hand.
Buck looked at the hand. It had been weeks since someone had touched him with anything other than clinical necessity or accidental brushing. The absolute, pathetic desperation for human contact clawed at the back of Buck's throat.
He reached out, his large hand wrapping around Lucas's. "Evan," Buck said softly. He didn't use 'Buck'. 'Buck' was the firefighter. 'Buck' was the guy who sued his family. Evan was just a guy in a bar.
"Evan," Lucas repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue. He didn't let go of Buck's hand immediately. His thumb stroked a brief, casual line across Buck's knuckles before he pulled away. "Well, Evan. It's a loud place to be hiding inside your own head. Can I buy you your next round?"
Buck looked at Lucas. Really looked at him. Lucas’s eyes were kind. There was no judgment in them, no history, no disappointment, no anger over a lawsuit. Lucas didn't know that Evan Buckley was a failure. Lucas just saw a guy at a bar, and he wanted to buy him a drink.
"Yeah," Buck breathed out, the tension in his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "Yeah, I'd like that."
They spent the next hour talking over the deafening music. Lucas was easy to talk to. He was an architect, he told Buck, working on a new commercial development downtown. He was funny, self deprecating, and incredibly observant. He didn't push when Buck gave vague answers about his job "I work for the city", and he didn't pry into why Buck looked like his dog had just died.
Instead, Lucas just paid attention to him. When Lucas spoke, he leaned in close, his shoulder brushing against Buck’s arm. Every time they touched, a jolt of static electricity ran straight down Buck's spine. It was a lifeline. Buck felt like a man drowning in a freezing ocean, and Lucas was handing him a warm towel.
The drinks kept coming, loosening Buck’s heavy tongue and dissolving his inhibitions. For the first time in two weeks, he wasn't overthinking every word he said. He wasn't terrified of making a wrong move.
"So," Lucas said, his voice dropping as he leaned in, his lips hovering dangerously close to Buck’s ear. "I'm going to be honest with you, Evan. You're amazing, and I am enjoying talking to you, but it is way too loud in here, and I can't hear half of what you're saying."
Buck shivered as Lucas’s breath ghosted over his ear. He turned his head, their faces now mere inches apart. "Where do you suggest we go?"
Lucas's gaze dropped to Buck's lips, lingering there heavily before coming back up to meet his eyes. "My place isn't far from here. It's quiet. I have better whiskey. And," he paused, a slow, heated smile spreading across his face, "we won't have to yell to hear each other."
The invitation was clear. It hung in the heavy, humid air between them.
Buck didn't have to think about it. The idea of going back to his dark, silent loft, to the cold takeout and the ghosts of his family, made him feel physically sick. He didn't want to be alone. He wanted this. He wanted the heat radiating from Lucas’s body, he wanted the validation in Lucas’s eyes, he wanted to be touched and held and reminded that he was a physical being who existed and mattered to someone, even if only for one night. He was touch starved, lonely, and desperate for any form of connection that didn't come with strings or conditions, and Lucas was attractive and nice.
"Yeah," Buck said, his voice raspy, his heart suddenly hammering a frantic, eager rhythm against his ribs. "Yeah, let's go."
Lucas’s eyes darkened with raw desire. He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around Buck’s wrist. The skin on skin contact felt like a spark touching a powder keg. "Come on," Lucas murmured.
Buck let himself be pulled away from the bar, following Lucas through the crowded dance floor toward the neon exit signs. As they stepped out into the cool, dark Los Angeles night, the heavy bass of the club fading behind them, Buck took a deep breath.
For the first time all day, the crushing weight on his chest had lifted. He was going home with a beautiful, kind stranger. He was going to feel good tonight. He was going to forget about the firehouse, forget about the lawsuit, forget about Eddie’s cold eyes, and forget about the barbecue.
He followed Lucas to a sleek, dark sedan parked down the street. As Lucas unlocked the doors, he turned and gave Buck a warm, lingering smile.
"You okay?" Lucas asked softly, sensing the slight hesitation in Buck's step.
"Yeah," Buck said, forcing a smile to his own lips, hoping it looked more genuine than the one he gave Bobby earlier. "I'm good. Just... glad I met you tonight."
"Me too, Evan," Lucas said, opening the passenger door for him. "Me too."
Buck climbed into the car, completely unaware that he was stepping out of the frying pan of his own loneliness, and straight into a fire that would change the course of his entire life.