Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd was electrifying on Buck’s skin.
The screams hit Buck like a wave, a surge of sound that vibrated straight through his chest and rattled his bones.
He lived for this moment. The stage. The floor vibrated under his boots. Somewhere out there, someone was already crying. Somewhere else, someone had climbed on someone else’s shoulders and was screaming his name.
Under the bright glare of the stage lights, Buck grinned– wide, reckless, completely uncontainable– as his fingers slid over the strings on his Les Paul guitar. His fingers moved without thinking, muscle memory layered over muscle memory, every note etched into his skin. Sweat slicked his blonde curls to his forehead, his ripped black tank clinging to his chest. To his left, Hen’s bass thrummed deep and constant—not flashy, just solid, like it had always been. She barely glanced at him, but he caught the way her eyebrow ticked up when he slid a little too close to the stage edge. A silent, Don't you dare.
Something he’s sure Bobby would yell at him later for.
Behind him, Chimney was already lost in it, head thrown back, mouth open in a wordless yell as his drumsticks flew. Ravi played the keys like nobody’s business, his soft features glowing in the lights.
The crowd roared again. Buck threw his arms out, soaking it in.
It was a packed house. Sold-out LA show, their hometown. Fans screamed his name, waving posters and handmade signs (he even caught one or two girls trying to flash him).
Maddie was at the side of the stage, camera in hand, her face alight with pride and a touch of exasperation as Buck flirted shamelessly with the front row. Josh barked cues into his headset, pacing near the lighting rig, making sure nothing went dark at the wrong moment.
And Buck… Buck was flying.
“Hello LA! How are we doing on this beautiful Saturday night?” Buck asked into his mic. The crowd screaming in response was, quite frankly, deafening.
“Yeah, okay, stupid question, I get it!” he chuckled, looking back at Hen and Chim. They just looked at him with raised eyebrows in enjoyment. Every night, they were amazed by the fan response, as if it were their first show all over again. Even people who weren’t directly in the band. Buck looked to Maddie, who snapped a quick picture of him grinning, giving a thumbs up (best sister ever by the way). After every show, she would show him every candid she took of the band and even the crowd. They loved gossiping about stand-out people in the crowd; they both noticed, even going as far as giving them silly backstories.
"LA, you have no idea what it’s like to be back home with you all.” Buck set his mic back down on the stand.
“Yeah, great to be back,” Chim said. “Never again with the Northeast. I almost became a popsicle.”
Hen didn’t miss a beat. “That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to bond with a squirrel. Shirtless. In a snowstorm.” Hen strummed mindlessly as she recounted the memory.
“Don’t you dare!” Chim gaped at her, threatening to throw one of his many drumsticks.
The crowd went crazy.
“Alright, alright, everyone, let's calm down for a moment. You can scream all you want to this next song. Everybody ready?!” Buck yelled down his mic. The crowd promptly screamed back.
They all readied themselves as Chim started counting down to start.
Ravi and Chim entered first, setting the tempo, then he and Hen came in, joining in to make the soundscape. They repeated the first couple of bars to give Hen time to set up. This is what made their band special: live looping. They had too much talent and too few members, so one night they tried looping themselves to add a few more elements. Hen was handed a violin by Josh as she finished the first loop.
She played any string instrument so beautifully it almost made Buck jealous, almost. Her elegant and graceful movements just added so much to the band; nothing could replicate it.
“Run past the rivers, run past all the light… Feel it crashing and burning, till it all collides… Strike a match, lit the fire, shining up the sky…” Buck’s voice was smoother than it had any right to be — his breath even, but threaded with that wild edge that always showed up when they played home shows.
It was melodic at first, but then everyone dropped out but Chim and took a sharp turn left. They all chanted as one as the chorus came in.
“The sound of the wind is whispering in your head… Can you feel it coming back? Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running till we're there… We're coming home now, we're coming home now…”
The chorus repeated as Buck took hold of the mic stand as he readied for the next part, his silver rings shining bright from the stage light. He absolutely adored this song, and it was the perfect place to sing it, at home.
“Hear the voices around us, hear them screaming out,” Buck pointed out towards the crowd as they screamed along in unison to them. That may have been his favourite part of performing. Besides the fact that his best friends were on stage with him, but also the fact that people enjoyed it with him. He loved it when the crowd would join them. He loved when they sang in unison, when he would harmonize while they sang the melody, when they chanted silly things between lyrics, when they clapped along to the beat, he just loved them.
And Buck just loved to show that too, perhaps a bit too much, as Bobby would put it. He had almost made it through the whole show without a mishap. But he liked this song too much.
It happened as they came off from the chorus and into the bridge. Throwing his guitar over his back, he got to the edge of the stage to tell the audience to join the quiet dynamic of the song and chant with them. “We are coming home, we are coming home…We are coming home, we are coming home…” He had started with small movements, mind you, he just got lost in the music, and as the song started building, so did his movements. “We are coming home, we are coming home…We are coming home, we are coming home…” And as the chorus came back, he rushed back to his mic stand, but… he tripped. Because, of course, he did. His converse hit a slick patch of water, and suddenly the world tilted. Buck's arms pinwheeled, his center of gravity slipping, until he just plopped right on his back.
It wasn't a big enough fall that he required any aid, but he was too tired after all that running to get up, so he instead just finished the song from there.
“Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running till we're there….We're coming home now, we're coming home now.”
A hand grabbed his hand, yanking him upright.
“Jesus, Buck,” Hen muttered, eyes sharp. “You’ve got one job. Stay vertical.”
Buck gave a crooked grin, brushing hair out of his eyes, “Didn’t quite plan the stage dive for tonight.”
Hen gave him a flat look. Behind them, Chim was still hammering the drums like nothing had happened, though Buck saw the side-eye he threw from behind his kit. Ravi, on keys, shook his head slightly — small smile, eyes sharp — as he shifted smoothly into the next transition, saving the flow of the set.
They were a unit. Buck reminded himself of that constantly. But sometimes it felt like he was the only one whose feet weren’t on the ground.
The dressing room smelled like sweat, stale Red Bull, and too many leather jackets.
Buck dropped onto the nearest couch like he’d been shot, legs spread wide, hair a damp mess of curls across his forehead. His black tank was practically glued to him with sweat. Someone — probably Chim — had tossed a towel at his head on the way in. He hadn’t used it.
Hen was perched on the arm of a chair, picking at a protein bar and pretending not to be watching him. Chim had gone hunting for snacks. Ravi was already half-asleep in a beanbag with his hoodie pulled over his face.
The adrenaline was still thrumming through Buck’s veins, like leftover static. His knee bounced restlessly.
That fall? Iconic. The crowd ate it up.
He was halfway through reliving the moment in his head when the door creaked open, and Bobby walked in.
No clipboard. No headset. Just his face — that particular tight-set expression that Buck had learned meant trouble was coming.
Buck slumped deeper into the couch. “Uh-oh. Am I in time-out?”
Bobby closed the door behind him. “Don’t start.”
Buck held up his hands, grinning. “Come on, it was one fall. I landed like a pro.”
“You landed like a sack of flour,” Bobby said flatly. “You’re lucky you didn’t crack your head open.”
Hen coughed behind her protein bar. Buck shot her a look; she just raised an eyebrow, unbothered.
“I didn’t,” Buck pointed out. “And the crowd loved it.”
“That’s not the point.” Bobby crossed his arms. “You were dehydrated before you went on. You skipped the pre-show meal again. And then you tried to launch yourself into the crowd without looking where you were going.”
“I didn’t try to launch myself,” Buck muttered. “I slipped.”
Bobby ignored that. “This is the third incident this tour. Denver? You nearly passed out mid-set. Philly, you jammed your wrist trying to climb scaffolding — why, I don’t know.”
Chim wandered through with a snack bag, stuffing chips in his mouth. “Dibs on Buck’s solos if he’s out for recovery,” he mumbled through a mouthful.
Buck kicked his foot against the edge of the couch. “It’s a rock show, Bobby. Not a church recital.”
“It’s a career,” Bobby snapped, sharper than usual. “And you’re burning through yours like you think you’ve got a dozen spares.”
That made Buck sit up.
“I’m fine,” he said, a little too loud.
“You’re not. And it’s not just about you.” Bobby’s voice didn’t rise, but it settled heavily in the room. “You’re part of a unit. When you go down, the whole band stumbles. Everyone’s got to adjust — reschedule, recover, cover for you.”
Buck opened his mouth, then closed it.
The silence stretched.
Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Look. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to make sure you make it to the end of this tour without ending up in a hospital or worse.”
“Okay?” Buck said cautiously.
“So,” Bobby continued, “I’m hiring someone. Private EMT.”
Buck blinked. “Wait — what?”
“On staff. Full time. Travels with us. Checks vitals before shows, during shows, handles emergencies, all of it.”
“Like a babysitter.”
“Like a professional,” Bobby said. “Who’s trained to deal with the kind of stunts you keep pulling?”
Buck scoffed, flopping back against the couch again. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No, I’m being practical,” Bobby said. “I already made the call. He’ll meet us in Phoenix.”
“He?”
Bobby gave him a look. “Yes. His name’s Eddie Diaz. Former Army medic. Runs hot and cold on people, but he’s the best at what he does. Discreet. Experienced. Doesn’t care about fame.”
Buck made a face. “Sounds fun at parties.”
“Good,” Bobby said. “Someone around here has to stop enabling your death wish.”
Buck crossed his arms, frowning. “What if I don’t want some guy hovering around me with a blood pressure cuff all tour?”
“You don’t have to want it,” Bobby said. “You just have to deal with it.”
With that, he turned and walked out — cool, calm, immovable.
Buck stared at the ceiling.
“Eddie Diaz,” he muttered. “Great.”
Hen snorted. “Better hydrate, Buckaroo. Sounds like he’ll be watching.”
Eddie Diaz did NOT take on just any client. Especially musicians
He found them to be… well, annoying, stuck up, arrogant, rude, the list could go on. So when Athena Grant-Nash called him up asking for a favor, this was not what he had in mind.
“Why?” He asked, deadpanning at Athena. Athena was the police and safety liaison for the 118, which worked perfectly, considering she was married to the band's manager.
“Because I asked Diaz,” She stared at him, giving him the same attitude she was receiving. Don’t mess with her, got it, “ and because it will be good pay.” She hiked her eyebrow up, staring at him.
Eddie really couldn’t argue with that logic; between taking care of house payments, Chris’ doctor appointments, and childcare, it piled up real fast. It wasn’t like he was necessarily struggling; being a private EMT was good work, with good pay. It's just that, well, it’d be nice to have a little extra money lying around in case of emergencies.
“You know I don’t take on those types of clients.” Eddie folded his arms across his broad chest, the crisp sleeves of his Henley pulling tight around his biceps. His expression was flat, unimpressed, the kind of look that had sent lesser men running in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for him, Athena Grant-Nash was not a lesser anything.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just tilted her head and said, “He’s not a type. He’s a walking liability.”
Eddie blinked. “And that’s better, how?”
“It means he needs someone competent. Someone who won’t fall for the ‘rockstar charm’ he's got going on, and forget they’re there to keep him alive,” Athena said, cool and crisp as ever. “I trust you. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t.”
Eddie sighed and leaned back against the counter in her office, letting his head drop against the wall for a moment. He stared at the ceiling like the plaster might hold some type of divine intervention. It didn’t—just a water stain in the shape of Texas.
“I just got off a contract with a Wall Street exec who thought Red Bull counted as hydration,” Eddie muttered. “I was looking forward to a quiet couple of weeks with Chris. Maybe do a puzzle. Maybe take a nap.”
Athena smiled at that. “You’ll still have downtime. The tour moves fast, but they rotate days off between cities. Plus, your kid can come out when school’s out.”
“Plus, need I remind you that the 118 is Chris’ favourite band right now.” She raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head slightly.
Eddie raised an eyebrow at that. “You’ve already thought this through.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t serious, Diaz.” Her voice softened just a little. “They’ve already had three incidents on this leg of the tour, and they’re barely halfway through. It’s a miracle Buck hasn’t broken something yet. Bobby’s worried.”
Eddie gave a humorless little huff. “So the golden boy’s a walking hazard.”
“I didn’t say that,” Athena said, though her smile said you’re not wrong.
Eddie scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved this morning. Too much paperwork, not enough patience. “One tour. That’s it.”
“One tour,” Athena confirmed. “Phoenix to LA. Then you’re free.”
Lord, please give me strength.
Eddie arrived at the Phoenix venue in the late evening, just as the sky shifted from blistering heat to burnt orange haze.
The asphalt was still warm under his boots as he made his way through the maze of tour buses, tech rigs, and humming generators. He passed crew members with headsets and wristbands, the thrum of bass vibrations pulsing underfoot. The music from the stage was muffled but growing louder as he got closer — not loud in the heart-pounding, chaotic way he’d expected, but... soft. Almost reverent.
He stepped through a side entrance and into the shadowy guts of the venue, where cables snaked like vines and gaff tape lined every visible edge. A security guard waved him through without a second glance — Athena had clearly made the arrangements.
A single acoustic guitar was carried through the speakers. A hush had fallen over the crowd, tens of thousands of people standing still, swaying, some even crying.
The song drifted through the walls like smoke — warm and slow, a little raw around the edges, like someone had sanded down a confession until it bled melody.
“Why can’t you love me like I need you to… such a simple task at hand…”
Eddie stood backstage in the low glow of safety lights, the scent of sawdust, sweat, and faintly burnt wires thick in the air. The venue’s guts were quieter here, but not silent. The music carried — not blasting, but filling. Like it had soaked into the concrete itself.
It was just a voice and a guitar. No fireworks, no synth, no backup dancers. And still, the crowd sounded reverent.
“... and I am still the same kid you fell for when we were young…”
He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d paused. Not because he was impressed — at least that’s what he told himself — but because it felt like walking in on something private. Like, whoever was singing had forgotten about the audience entirely.
“Eddie Diaz?”
He turned toward the voice and found a man standing a few feet away, hands in his back pockets, casual like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere.
“Yeah,” Eddie said cautiously.
The man stepped forward and offered a hand. “Bobby Nash. Band manager. Athena’s husband.”
They shook. Bobby’s grip was steady, his voice calm — the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. Or a band.
“You just get in?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Good. C’mon. It’s a maze back here.”
Bobby led him through a corridor of stacked crates and gear cases, weaving around cables and crew with the practiced ease of someone who knew every inch of the place. As they walked, the song continued to pour through the space behind them, a little louder now — the singer holding out a note that cracked just enough to feel real.
“So don’t call in the morning cause I’ll already be gone.”
“That’s Buck,” Bobby said without looking. “He wrote this one about six months ago. Said it ‘showed up in the middle of a breakdown,’ whatever that means.”
Eddie didn’t respond.
“Love is patient, love is kind, should not make you lose your mind.”
They rounded a corner and stopped near a rack of instruments waiting to be swapped in. A girl in her twenties stood nearby, tablet in hand, scribbling something out with her thumb. She looked up and offered a polite nod.
“May,” Bobby said. “This is Eddie. Athena’s favor.”
May huffed a laugh. “Figures. I heard her on speaker this morning threatening to storm the tour bus if you didn’t call her back.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Bobby murmured.
May turned her attention to Eddie. “You’re here to babysit the chaos tornado, right?”
Eddie raised an eyebrow.
“Buck,” she clarified, grinning faintly. “You’ll see.”
“I’ve heard a lot about him already,” Eddie said dryly. His eyes flicked toward the stage again.
Buck was still out there — sitting on a stool now, curled around the guitar like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The spotlight made him a silhouette. The kind you remember.
“Why can’t I love you like you need me to… it seems we juxtapose…”
“He’s not what you’re expecting,” Bobby said after a beat. “Most people think he’s this... party boy. Big smile, bigger ego, always performing.” He paused. “That version of him? It’s real. But it’s not the whole story.”
Eddie folded his arms, not quite ready to buy in. “You sound like you’ve given this speech before.”
May snorted. “You have no idea.”
“I’m not here to be impressed,” Eddie said, watching the stage. “I’m here to keep him breathing. That’s it.”
“Fair enough,” Bobby replied, his tone still even. “But since you’re going to be around him 24/7, you should know who you’re dealing with.”
There was a pause. Buck’s voice dropped low again, the kind of quiet that makes a stadium hush without anyone telling them to.
May softened. “He’s... a lot. You’ll probably hate him the first week.”
“Or the first hour,” Bobby added.
“But he grows on you,” she said, almost reluctantly. “Like mold. If mold had abandonment issues and a hero complex.”
Bobby chuckled under his breath. “He cares too much. That’s the real problem. For all the flash and flirtation and chaos, he gives a damn about people — even when they don’t want him to.”
Eddie said nothing.
He heard it in the song now — not just heartbreak, but hope. The kind that feels too heavy to carry alone. The voice cracked again, just a little, and something in Eddie’s chest shifted. Not much. Just enough to notice.
“So don’t call in the morning cause i’ll already be gone, oklahoma in the summertimes where my country ass belongs”
“I’ve seen a lot of musicians come and go,” Bobby went on. “Ones who only wanted the fame. The money. The high. But Buck? He’d be up there if no one showed. He needs it. Not the attention — the connection. It’s the only time he ever looks settled.”
“He’s not settled right now,” May murmured, mostly to herself.
“No,” Bobby agreed quietly. “But he’s trying.”
Eddie didn’t know what to do with that. He wasn’t here for soul-baring or personality deep-dives. He was here to keep Buckley from ODing, disappearing, or jumping off something tall for the adrenaline rush.
Still. The way they spoke — the mix of fondness and frustration, of worry laced into every word — it meant something. People didn’t talk about you like that unless you mattered.
“I’ll reserve judgment,” Eddie said finally.
“That’s all we ask,” Bobby said with a faint smile. “You’ll figure him out eventually. Just... give him room to be more than the headline.”
May gave him a side-glance. “And maybe don’t let him near tequila the first night.”
“Or any night,” Bobby said grimly.
“There’s got to me more to this than being pissed off, all the time”
The song ended. A long silence held in its place, like the world needed a second to breathe again. Then came the applause — thunderous, explosive, deafening.
Buck stood slowly and gave a half-bow, one hand pressed to his chest like he didn’t quite believe the crowd was real.
Eddie watched him with narrowed eyes.
This guy? This was the chaos tornado? This was the man Athena had warned him about?
Something didn’t add up. Not yet.
But Eddie Diaz knew better than to trust first impressions.