Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room smelled of sex and was quiet, save for the steady sound of Eddie’s breathing and the occasional creak of the bed from Evan’s restlessness. The world outside was still wrapped in darkness, the kind that made it feel like time had stopped, like they had more than just two hours before everything changed again.

Evan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of it all settle over him like a lead blanket. Eddie was curled against his side, his body warm and solid, one arm draped lazily across Evan’s stomach. His fingers traced slow, deliberate lines over the scars littering Evan’s skin, following them like well-worn paths. Evan swallowed, fighting the instinct to shift away. He still wasn’t used to this, the way Eddie touched his scars like they weren’t something to be hidden.

It had been a year since his discharge, but some nights, it still felt like he was straddling the line between his old life and the one he was trying to build.

A soft sigh left Eddie’s lips, his voice thick with sleep. “You’re buzzing.”

Evan huffed a breath, barely turning his head. “Am not.”

Eddie cracked one eye open, smirking faintly. “Liar.”

Evan exhaled sharply through his nose, gaze flicking to the nightstand. His clipboard sat there, papers neatly stacked, lists carefully organized. Christopher’s schedule, Rook’s therapy appointments, the grocery list he’d started earlier that day. He’d checked it all before coming to bed, but he still felt like there was something he was forgetting.

He made sure Chris’s alarm was set. He’d checked it twice.

His eyes drifted toward the bedroom door, listening for any sound of movement down the hall. Christopher was asleep in his room, curled up with his blankets in a way that always made Evan smile. He slept through almost anything, but there was still a chance he’d wake up before Eddie left.

And Evan wasn’t sure if that would make things easier or harder.

Eddie must have caught the shift in his expression, because his smirk faded. He reached up, brushing his knuckles against Evan’s jaw. “Echo.”

Evan closed his eyes for a beat. The name was like a balm, grounding him in a way nothing else did. There had been four other Evan’s in the fire academy when he went through, and Buck, had stuck. Eddie had snorted at his newest nickname.

“I should be going with you.” Evan hated the way his voice cracked on the last word.

Eddie sighed, shifting just enough to press his forehead to his shoulder. “We’ve had this conversation.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still feel it.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He just traced another line along Evan’s ribs, pressing into the scar that still ached when the weather turned cold. “You’ve got Chris. You’ve got Rook. You’ve got a new team that still doesn’t know what to make of you.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “They think I’m an arrogant, reckless idiot.”

Eddie smirked. “Yeah? They’ll figure out the truth soon enough.”

Evan wasn’t so sure. Keeping the 118 at arm’s length had been easy enough. They saw what they wanted to see—a cocky adrenaline junkie who didn’t know when to quit. And that was fine. The last thing he needed was another team digging too deep, asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

But none of that mattered right now. Right now, Eddie was still here.

Eddie shifted, pressing a lingering kiss to Evan’s shoulder before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Evan nodded, but he didn’t say it back. Because he wasn’t sure if it was true. He rolled them until Eddie was under him. He pressed his lips to the bare skin of Eddie’s spine, murmuring against it. “No matter what, you’re not reenlisting.” His fingers tightened around Eddie’s waist. “I don’t care what kind of money they throw your way. This is your last tour.”

Eddie exhaled, his muscles tensing beneath Evan’s hands. “Evan…”

“Promise me, Patch.” The name came out rough, almost pleading. “I’m not there to watch your back. Neither is Rook, Hawk, or Mace.”

Eddie let out a quiet, tired laugh, pushing Evan’s wandering hand away as he settled between his sore thighs. “I don’t think I can go again, Ev.”

Evan’s lips twitched, “we’re getting old, if four times is a no.” He muttered as he pressed a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder before rolling off him.

“You’re gonna have to work out your anxiety another way.” Eddie’s voice was quiet but firm.

Evan nodded, shifting to sit up. “I’ll recheck your bag.”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Echo, you’ve already checked it twice.”

Evan ignored him, slipping out from beneath the covers and crossing the room. He crouched by Eddie’s duffel, methodically unzipping compartments, double-checking what he already knew was inside.

Eddie watched him from the bed, exasperation clear in his expression. “You packed it yourself.”

Evan’s hands stilled, gripping the zipper. He stared at the bag for a long moment before letting out a slow breath.

Eddie sat up, reaching for him. “Come here.”

Evan hesitated before abandoning the bag and kneeling between Eddie’s legs.

Eddie framed his face, thumbs tracing the tension in his jaw. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t like not being able to control this.” Evan exhaled sharply.

Eddie’s grip tightened. “I know.”

Evan swallowed. “I’m not gonna be there this time.” His voice broke slightly. “And I know you can take care of yourself, but it doesn’t make this easier.”

Eddie searched his face, then nodded. “I get it. But I need you to trust me, just like I trust you to run into burning fucking buildings.” He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

Evan sighed softly. “I still wish…”

When Eddie pulled back, he rested their foreheads together, voice quiet and firm. “If you had been going with me, we would’ve had to leave Chris with my parents.” He pressed a kiss to the nearest scar, lingering there for a beat. “In some ways, your discharge has been a blessing. Fuck, that’s selfish to say.”

Evan stiffened slightly at the words, his grip on Eddie’s wrists tightening. His mind immediately ran through worst-case scenarios, the possible legal battle, drawn-out court hearings, the way Ramon and Helena Díaz looked at him like he had ruined their son’s life. “I didn’t think about that,” Evan admitted.

He had been so focused on his guilt of not going, it hadn’t occurred to him what it might have cost them had he still been active too.  His fingers flexed against Eddie’s skin. “What if they try while you’re gone?”

Eddie exhaled, tilting his head against the pillow to look at him. “They don’t know I’m deploying, and you have guardianship. Plus, they’d have to fight us in California, not Texas thankfully.”

Evan let that sink in, but his stomach still twisted uncomfortably. “That doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

Eddie reached up, threading his fingers through Evan’s hair. “They won’t, Echo.”

Evan wasn’t convinced. “They already don’t accept us. They don’t see me as Chris’s dad, Eddie.” His throat tightened as he spoke the words, because they weren’t just assumptions, they were the truth. “I’ve been in Chris’s life for years, and they still act like I’m just…” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Eddie sighed. “Like you’re temporary. Like you ruined my life.”

Evan swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Eddie shifted, sitting up slightly and propping himself on his elbow, his free hand still resting at the nape of Evan’s neck. “Listen to me.” His voice was firm, steady in the way that always grounded Evan when things felt like they were spiraling. “You are Christopher’s dad. No matter what my parents think, no matter what anyone says, there will never be anything that changes that.”

Evan pressed his lips together, shaking his head.

Eddie hesitated before letting out a breath.  “My parents still think this is a phase. That I’m… lost.” He ran a hand down Evan’s side. “They don’t understand how I could love you. How I could betray everything I was raised to believe to create this life with you.”

Evan let the words settle between them before speaking again. “If they don’t even accept our relationship, why wouldn’t they try to take Chris?”

Eddie’s expression tightened, but he shook his head. “Because they can’t.”

Evan wasn’t sure about that. “They’ve got money. Lawyers. The Church.”

Eddie scoffed. “The Church doesn’t dictate California law.”

“That won’t stop them from trying.”

Eddie let out another sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They don’t have a leg to stand on, Evan. You’re his legal guardian. Even if they did try, they’d have to prove we’re unfit parents, and they can’t do that. You alone are a decorated war veteran and a god damn fire fighter for the LAFD.”

Evan studied him, searching his face for any doubt. “What if they try and use Shannon?”

Eddie’s lips pressed together before he shook his head. “She wouldn’t help them.” His tone was confident and absolute.

Evan narrowed his eyes slightly, still skeptical. “You sure?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Shannon’s not bitter. She’s hurting. She gave up her rights to Christopher so she could take care of her mom back east. Not because she didn’t love him.”

Evan hesitated, but he knew Eddie was right. Shannon hadn’t fought them, they hadn’t argued when she left Christopher with them eight months ago. She had cried, had kissed her son goodbye, but she hadn’t tried to keep in touch. That ate at Evan more than Eddie.

“She wouldn’t do that to him.” Eddie continued, softer now. “She wouldn’t do that to us. She wouldn’t want to disturb his life. His school, his activities, his therapies. We’re giving him the life she always wanted him to live.”

Evan let out a slow breath, nodding. “Okay.”

Eddie watched him for a moment before pulling him in again, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Echo.”

Evan wasn’t sure he believed that, but he let Eddie hold him there, just for a beat longer. The warmth of Eddie’s touch, the steady cadence of his breathing, all of it was something Evan wanted to burn into his memory.

Then, Eddie pulled back and tilted his head toward the door. “Come on,” he whispered.

Evan furrowed his brow. “Where?”

Eddie smirked, tugging gently on his wrist. “I wanna check on Chris.”

Evan didn’t argue. They stepped quietly into the hallway, their bare feet padding lightly across the hardwood. The faint blue glow from Christopher’s fish tank illuminated his room as they approached the doorway.

Evan hesitated at the threshold. Christopher was fast asleep, his body curled slightly on his side, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other gripping his stuffed dolphin, the one Eddie had bought him from the aquarium on his last leave. His Spiderman comforter was kicked halfway off, and Evan could already hear him complaining about being cold when he woke up in the morning.

Eddie exhaled quietly beside him, his eyes softening as he took in his son. He stepped inside, carefully pulling the blanket back over Christopher’s small frame. Christopher sighed in his sleep, shifting slightly before settling again, his fingers still gripping the stuffed animal.

Evan leaned against the doorframe, watching Eddie with a quiet ache in his chest.

Eddie smoothed his hand lightly over Christopher’s hair before stepping back. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Evan wasn’t sure if Eddie was telling him that or trying to convince himself. Eddie turned back, offering Evan a small, tired smile. “We’re giving him a good life, Ev.”

Evan swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

Before either of them could say anything else, Eddie’s phone buzzed against his hip, the notification lighting up the dark hallway.

Your ride is on its way.

The moment shattered around them.

Evan stood still, his chest tightening as he watched Eddie adjust the strap of his duffel bag. The Uber was minutes away now, and Evan hated how quickly time had slipped through his fingers. He had spent so much time dreading this moment, and now that it was here, he didn’t know how to let go.

Eddie sighed, squeezing Evan’s hand before stepping back. The loss of his touch sent a sharp pang through Evan’s chest, an emptiness settling between them before Eddie had even left.

Evan reached out, placing a firm hand over Eddie’s heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm. “I can send them away and drive you,” he offered. They both knew Evan was stalling.

Eddie gave him a small, knowing smile. “Echo…”

Evan pressed his lips together, jaw tensing. “I just…”

Eddie shook his head, gently covering Evan’s hand with his own. “I know.”

The sound of a car rolling to a stop outside made Evan’s stomach clench. Headlights cut through the window, a stark reminder that the clock had run out.

“If you come with me,” Eddie murmured, “you’ll just end up glaring at my CO on the tarmac.”

Evan huffed. A breath that was half a laugh, half grief. Fuck Gabe,” he said. “If he wasn’t in those stupid fatigues, I’d punch him.”

Eddie chuckled, but the sound was soft. Fragile.

He leaned in, resting their foreheads together. Evan closed his eyes and breathed him in, warm skin, soap, the faint scent of coffee on his breath. He didn’t want to let go. Not yet.

Evan lifted his hand; his fingers curled into the front of Eddie’s shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow and deep, something to hold onto.

A promise.

Eddie sighed into it, one hand slipping to the back of Evan’s neck, holding him there for just a second longer before he pulled back, pressing one last, lingering kiss to Evan’s forehead. “I love you,” Eddie murmured.

Evan swallowed hard. “I love you, too.”

Eddie’s fingers traced along his jaw one last time, and then he stepped back and was gone.

Evan stayed by the window, watching until the taillights disappeared down the street. Then he exhaled, rubbing a tired hand over his face, and turned toward the hallway, toward the life they’d built, and the one he’d carry alone until Patch came home.

Chapter Text

Buck’s alarm had gone off an hour ago. So had the second one. And the third.

Now, he was standing in the hallway in his socks, holding a cereal bowl in one hand and Christopher’s shoes in the other while the kid was firmly planted on the floor, arms crossed and lower lip trembling. “I don’t want to go to school,” Christopher declared, voice thick and stubborn.

“I know, buddy,” Buck said, crouching in front of him. “But we have to go. I’ve got work, and Rook can’t watch you all day. He’s got PT and…”

“I don’t care!” The words came out sharp, and Buck winced. Christopher wasn’t yelling at him. He was just... hurting. Small shoulders heaving, face blotchy, trying so hard not to cry. 

Buck set the cereal bowl on the floor next to them and placed a hand on Christopher’s knee. “You miss him.”

Christopher’s nod was immediate, tearful. “Yeah, and Papa walks me in.”

Buck swallowed. “Alright. Okay.”

They stayed there for a moment, quiet in the hallway, the soft sound of the kitchen clock ticking behind them. Buck glanced at the time. Shit. Late.

But this, this was more important.

“Okay,” Buck said softly. “How about I walk you in this morning, yeah? All the way to your classroom. We’ll tell Ms. Ruiz that today’s a hard day. She’ll understand.”

Christopher sniffled. “You’ll really walk me in?”

“Of course.” Buck reached out. “C’mon, let’s get those shoes on. Tomorrow, we’ll make pancakes. Chocolate chip. I swear.” Their fingers hooked together in a silent promise as they traded smiles.

A few minutes later, Buck was half-jogging out the front door, Christopher’s lunchbox in one hand, his own bag slung across his shoulder. Drop-off had taken longer than expected, even with anticipated walk-in, the extra hug, and quiet word with his teacher and now he was racing the clock.

Traffic sucked. His coffee was cold. His shift started ten minutes ago.

Smoke clung to the inside of Buck’s nose like it belonged there, thick and acrid, but he barely registered it anymore. His gloved hands gripped the edge of the window frame as he hoisted himself up and through, landing with a hard thud on the second-floor landing.

“Probie, status,” Bobby’s voice crackled through his radio. Calm. Steady.

“Second floor. Making my way to the back bedroom,” Buck responded, already moving. The smoke was denser up here, low visibility, but he kept low, counted the steps, trusted the layout.

He heard coughing before he saw the kid. Probably ten or eleven, curled in a ball behind a dresser, soot smudging his face. Buck dropped to his knees beside him. “Hey, I got you. You okay?”

The boy nodded mutely, eyes wide with fear.

“Okay, we’re getting out of here. You good to walk?”

Another nod.

Buck grabbed his radio. “Got one minor. Conscious, alert. Bringing him out.”

The floorboards groaned beneath them, wood warping from heat. Buck slung the kid over his shoulder in a practiced hold and turned toward the stairs. That’s when the text buzzed in his pocket.

Buck’s jaw tensed. He didn’t pause. Couldn’t. He moved fast, steady.

The team didn’t know what to make of him yet. Hell, they barely knew anything about him at all. Bobby knew he was ex-Navy. Hen had a habit of clocking his deflections, but she never pressed. Chimney often jokingly called him a “walking Red Bull.”

Cocky. Reckless. Adrenaline junkie. That’s what they saw.

And he let them.

He hit the stairs, boots thudding against scorched wood, the kid still clutching the back of his turnout jacket.

Outside, sunlight broke through the smoke. Hen met him at the porch with a blanket and a water bottle, her brow furrowed but her voice even. “You good?”

Buck nodded, handing the kid off carefully to Hen to check out. “All yours.”

Bobby was already walking toward him, steady and unreadable as always. “Nice work, Buck.”

Buck gave a half-nod in acknowledgment, barely meeting his eyes, and turned away before anything more could be said.

He slipped his glove off, eyes scanning the message. HAWK: Acquired the kid. Dropping him with Rook.

Buck’s thumbs moved fast over the screen. Thanks. Tell him I’ll call him before bed and that I’ll be home before he wakes. He slid the phone away, slipping the glove back on like it never happened.

“No texting on scene, Probie,” Chimney’s voice came from somewhere behind him, laced with teasing judgment.

Buck didn’t turn around. “Noted.”

“Must be a hot date,” Chimney added, needling. “Tell her we say hi.”

Hen shot Chim a look but raised an eyebrow toward Buck, curious.

Buck rolled his shoulders and started toward the engine. “Yeah, Hawk always gets weirdly romantic when their armed and unsupervised.”

Chimney blinked. “Wait… what?”

Hen frowned. “Hawk?”

 “Yeah, they once proposed marriage over a half-eaten protein bar.” There was a beat of silence. “Don’t worry,” Buck said dryly, hoisting himself into the truck. “They weren't serious. We were under fire. They were low on sugar.”

He climbed into the rig that explained anything.

The debrief was routine, clipped and clean, just the way Bobby liked it.

“Good work,” the captain said, glancing down at his notes. “Victim’s stable, no injuries on the team. Containment was tight. No surprises. I like that.”

Hen tossed her water bottle onto the table and leaned back in her chair. “Smelled like a damn tire fire in there.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Chimney grimaced. “I’ve got smoke in places smoke should not be.”

Buck didn’t speak. He stood off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched. The fire was out. The kid was safe. His job was done.

So why did his lungs still feel full of ash?

He could feel it sticking to his skin, the scent of charred wood and melted plastic and beneath that, old memories trying to claw their way back. The pressure of heat, the deafening crack of walls collapsing, the bang that came out of nowhere.

Stop.                                  

“Buck.”

He blinked, Bobby’s voice cutting through the haze.

“You good?”

Buck gave a tight nod. “Yeah, Cap. Just want to get this crap off me.”

Bobby held his gaze a beat longer, then added, voice low but firm, “And Buck, don’t make being late a habit. This team runs on trust. The clock matters.”

The words landed heavier than a scolding. Buck’s jaw ticked, but he nodded. “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Alright. Shower up. We’re off rotation the rest of the afternoon. Training facility’s expecting us, annual certs are due.”

Buck didn’t need to be told twice. He moved fast, heading straight for the showers.

The tile floor was damp, steam curling from the open showers. Chimney and Hen were already there, Hen pulling her hair into a bun, Chim slapping deodorant on like the world was ending.

Buck dropped his gear and stepped into the spray without a word. He let the scalding water run down his spine, tried to scrub the smoke from his skin, the static from his thoughts.

Behind him, Chimney’s voice cut through the sound of rushing water.

“So, what do we think? Buck late because of a secret girlfriend? Or just couldn’t tear himself away from his mirror this morning?”

Hen snorted. “I’m voting mirror. He’s got main character energy.”

“I bet he sings to himself,” Chim added. “All those abs and nowhere to be.”

Buck stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his hair, steam still curling around him. He didn’t say a word as he moved toward his locker, his back to them as he reached for his clean LAFD shirt.

“Jesus,” Chimney muttered behind him.

But the silence that followed was too pointed. Too loaded.

“Buck…” Hen’s voice this time, quieter, more careful. Her eyes full of concern.

He turned slowly, shirt still clutched in one hand.

Chimney wasn’t smirking. Hen looked like she was trying to fit the new pieces together for a clearer picture.

The shrapnel scars down his side, across his ribs, over his chest, bright pink and unmistakable. The pale, puckered line of an old bullet wound near his collarbone. The ghost of belt marks laced across his back, faded but vivid in implication.

Buck pulled the shirt on, movements tight. “Something you want to say?”

Chimney opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Just didn’t expecting...”

Buck shrugged. “Yeah. Well me either. But hey, life's full of surprises.”

Hen didn’t look away. “You ever want to talk.”

“I don’t.” He shut it down. Final. Controlled. He turned away and finished dressing. He shoved his towel into the laundry bin and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.

Chimney looked at Hen. “So… definitely not just a pretty face.”

Hen stared at the door, still frowning. “No. And those weren’t from a bar fight, either.”

When they arrived at the training yard, hoses were already, hoses coiled, ladders ready, the training tower looming like a half-finished skeleton of a building. Buck stood at attention with the rest of the crew, his jaw tight, arms crossed as Bobby explained the scenario.

Building fire. Simulated room rescue. Get in, locate the “victim,” get out.

Bobby paced in front of them, steady and deliberate. “Treat this like the real thing. I want clean entries and tighter exits than last time. Buck, you’re running lead today.”

There was a beat of silence.

Hen blinked. Chimney raised an eyebrow.

Buck just nodded. “Copy that, Cap.”

He was already moving before anyone could say a word.

The tower was built to test instincts, tight corners, fake smoke, time pressure. For Buck, it felt like muscle memory. Like a switch being flipped.

He moved fast, sweeping the lower level, calling out positions, directing Chimney and Hen through the upper floors. His voice stayed calm, clipped.

“Two left. Door’s hot, go low.”

“Victim’s down. I’ve got 'em.”

“Hen, anchor the window line. Chim, we’re going out the east side.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was precision. Controlled intensity. Muscle memory.

Bobby stood outside, arms crossed as he watched the team work. His eyes narrowed slightly every time Buck’s voice cut through the radio, sure, steady, commanding.

By the time they cleared the tower, dragging the training dummy out through the side access point, Buck was already peeling off his gloves. He was barely winded.

Bobby checked his watch. “Six minutes flat.”

Hen let out a low whistle. “That a record?”

Chimney leaned over, catching his breath. “If it isn’t, it should be.”

Buck didn’t say anything. He stared past the tower, his focus still locked in.

“Nice work,” Bobby said after a moment, wrapping his mind around the skills Buck had revealed. “That’s how it’s done.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Buck finally exhaled, but it didn’t sound like relief.

Hen stepped closer, nudging him with her elbow. “You ever run drills like that in the Navy?”

Buck paused for a beat too long, pulling himself away from the memories her words invoked. “Yeah,” he said eventually.

The table was loud, as always. Forks scraped plates, stories from the day were tossed around like fireballs, and Chimney was halfway through a ridiculous reenactment of earlier and how he was going to use the story to impress his girlfriend.

Buck sat at the far end, barely touching his food. His shoulders were hunched, back to the wall, fingers tight around his phone. The burn of sweat from the drill still clung to him, but it wasn’t what made his skin itch.

Hen’s eyes flicked toward him once, twice. She didn’t say anything, but she noticed.

So did Bobby.

Buck didn’t meet their gazes. Didn’t look up when Chimney laughed too loud or when someone called his name to ask if he wanted another roll. He just stared at the email glowing in his hand.

Subject: Deployment Update — Extension Confirmed
From: Lt. Cmdr. Gabriel Torres
To: Evan Buckley
CC: Edmundo Díaz

We’ve been held in the AO another four weeks. No confirmed timetable for return. More to follow.
– G

Under that, Eddie’s brief message:

Sorry, Echo. We’ll get through this. Tell Chris I love him. I’ll call when I can.

Buck’s chest ached.

The tight coil of worry bloomed again, spreading like a slow fuse under his skin. He clenched his jaw. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer before he locked the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

“Fucking Gabe,” he snarled under his breath and pushed back from the table hard enough that the chair scraped against the tile.

He didn’t wait for anyone to respond. Just stalked out of the kitchen and headed straight for the weight room, shoulders tight, jaw locked.

The rhythmic clang of iron filled the air as Buck dropped another set of deadlifts. The bar hit the floor with a dull thud, echoing through the concrete space.

His phone buzzed against the bench. He swiped it up without checking the screen.

“Mace,” he said, voice tight.

“Figured you’d be pissed,” Mace’s voice crackled in response. “Gabe send the update?”

Buck let out a harsh breath, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Yeah. Four more weeks. You believe that shit?”

“Yeah. I do. So do you.”

Buck didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, flatly, “Chris cried himself to sleep two nights ago.”

Silence stretched across the line.

“I know, Echo. Rook told me.” Mace’s voice softened. “Hawk leaves in forty-eight. He’s flying out to rendezvous with Five. Decided to finish out his contract.”

Buck froze, barbell mid-lift. The silence that followed was deafening.

“What?” he asked finally, the word rough and low. “I thought he was gung-ho about SWAT.”

“He was. Still is,” Mace said. “But… SWAT will be here when he gets back. He wants to see it through.”

Buck dropped the bar. Hard. The crash echoed like a gunshot in the weight room, but he didn’t flinch.

“Why?”

There was a pause. Then Mace spoke, softer this time. “Diesel. Patch. Out of the four of us sent home, Hawk’s the only one eligible to go back.”

Buck’s stomach twisted.

“He knows it’s killing you,” Mace continued, “only having Diesel watching Patch’s six. To be frank, it's driving us all mad, so Hawk, going back."

Buck closed his eyes. The guilt hit hard, coiling in his gut and twisting tight. He could almost feel it climbing up his throat like smoke. Like he was choking on it.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest. The room felt too small. The air too tight.

“I should be there,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Echo,” Mace said firmly. “You almost died. You and Rook both. But you’re still here. You clawed your way back. Passed the physical. Took on a new badge. Your raising Christopher, and your taking care of our brother.”

Buck let out a shaky breath. “It’s not fair, he’s still over there. Alone.”

“He’s not,” Mace said. “He’s got Diesel. He’ll have Hawk. And he’s got you, holding it down. For his son. For his brother. For him.”

“I don’t feel like I’m holding anything,” Buck whispered. “I feel like I’m unraveling.”

“You’re not,” Mace said gently. “You’re adapting. It just looks different now.”

Buck didn’t answer.

There was a long silence before Mace spoke again, quiet and sincere. “They’re all going to come home.”

Buck nodded, though Mace couldn’t see it. His voice came out low, worn. “They better. I can’t do that, again.”

The call ended, and the weight room fell into silence again, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights and Buck’s own breathing.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He didn’t feel steady. He didn’t feel strong. He stood up. Walked to the heavy bag.

And punched it, once, hard. Just enough to make his knuckles ache. Just enough to remind himself he was still here.

“Did that bag deserve it?”

Buck turned fast, shoulders squared, ready to defend, ready to fight, until he saw Bobby leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze steady and without judgment.

Buck straightened, wiping his hands on his sweats. “Just blowing off steam.”

Bobby nodded once. “Rough day?”

“Yeah.” Buck looked away.

Bobby stepped into the room but kept his distance, not crowding him. “You were sharp on call. Ran a tight drill. That kid’s parents couldn’t stop thanking us.”

Buck offered a quick, tight smile. “Just doing my job.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Bobby added, “I meant what I said earlier. You’ve got good instincts, but you’ve also got to show up. The crew doesn’t work right if we’re down a body.”

Buck stiffened, but he didn’t argue. “Understood.”

“I’m not on your case, Buck,” Bobby said, voice gentler now. “Just making sure you know the standards. You’ve got what it takes. But I need to be able to count on you. The team does too.”

Buck nodded slowly. “Yeah. I got it.”

Bobby let the quiet settle for a moment, then added, “You ever need to talk, my door’s open. And Buck, it doesn’t have to be about fire.”

Buck’s jaw ticked. He met Bobby’s gaze briefly. “Thanks, Cap,” he said. “I’m good.”

Bobby gave a faint nod. “Alright. Get some sleep, Buck.”

The weight room door had barely settled shut behind Bobby when Buck’s phone buzzed again.

Rook

Buck didn’t hesitate. He swiped to answer and stepped outside into the cool night air. Behind him, the firehouse hummed with distant voices and the soft clatter of dishes. But out here, everything was still. Quiet.

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

There was a pause on the line, then Christopher’s voice came through, soft and scratchy on the edge of sleep. “Dad?”

Buck smiled, some of the tension in his chest loosening just hearing that word. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry I missed our call earlier. Work ran late.”

“It’s okay,” Christopher mumbled. “Rook let me stay up a little.”

Buck leaned against the brick wall, letting out a breath. “Did he now? You causing trouble?”

Christopher giggled, “Nah. We did our exercises, and I beat him at Uno.”

From somewhere in the background, Rook’s voice chimed in, “tell your dad, you owe me a rematch tomorrow. And that you're going to sleep in five. Can't let him think I'm not responsible or he'll hire us a babysitter."

Buck chuckled. “Remind me not to challenge you when I get home.”

“I’m undefeated,” Christopher said proudly, then yawned. “But Rook says I cheat.”

Buck grinned. “You? Never. You’re just that good.”

“I am,” Christopher agreed, the smile clear in his voice. Then, after a pause, it softened. “But... it’s more fun when Papa plays too.”  His voice dropped a little, quieter now. “Did you talk to Papa today?”

Buck’s smile faltered. He looked up at the night sky, the stars hidden behind city haze. “Yeah. I did.”

“Rook says he still gonna be gone a long time?”

Buck closed his eyes. “Yeah, kiddo. A little while longer. But he’s okay. And he misses you so much.”

“I know,” Christopher whispered. “Can we make a countdown calendar for Papa’s R&R?”

Buck’s throat tightened. “Yeah, we’ll do that this weekend – but you know that date can sometimes move around.”

Silence stretched between them, soft and heavy.

“I wish you were home,” Christopher said quietly.

Buck pressed a hand against his chest, grounding himself. “I’ll be back before you wake up,” he promised. “And tomorrow pancakes?”

“With chocolate chips?”

Buck smiled again, even if it ached. “Just as promised.”

A rustle came through the phone blankets shifting, probably Rook gently tucking him in. 

“Night, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Christopher. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Evan’s kitchen smelled like coffee, bacon, and buzzed of an energy just shy of peace.

He stood barefoot at the stove, spatula in one hand, steady and deliberate as he flipped pancakes. He was wearing Eddie’s faded NAVY PT shirt and sweats, hair still damp from the shower. Beside him, Christopher sat on the counter cross-legged, cradling a small bowl of chocolate chips, his Spiderman pajama pants hiked up over one ankle brace.

“You sure this is how you make pancakes?” Christopher asked, skeptical. “Because Papa…”

Evan shot him a look, amusement coiling in the pit of his belly. “Do you question my authority in this kitchen, cadet?”

Christopher raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “You burned toast, yesterday.”

“Betrayal in my own kitchen,” Evan muttered, flipping a pancake onto a growing stack.

Across the room, Rook sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open and already cluttered with lines of code. He had one leg hooked over the side of his chair, his wheelchair parked beside him. “Hey, Chris,” Rook called without looking up, tapping keys with precision. “You know your dad once tried to heat up a burrito using a blow dryer and a hotplate?”

“That was Mace’s idea,” Evan said without looking away from the stove.

“Bullshit,” Mace barked from the hallway, dragging himself into the room with the energy of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. He was still wearing his LAPD academy hoodie, face unshaven. “That was your gourmet phase, Echo. Right after you read that Bon Appétit article in Kandahar.”

“I was trying to boost morale,” Evan said, flipping another pancake as he winked at Christopher who giggled.

“You were trying to burn down the safehouse,” Mace grumbled. He slumped into the chair across from Rook and snagged the cereal bowl without asking. “God, this tastes like wet cardboard.”

“That’s because it is wet cardboard,” Rook muttered. “It was for the compost bin.”

“Explains why it’s still better than station chow,” Hawk said, leaning against the fridge and sipping black coffee. He was barefoot, shirtless, and looked alarmingly well-rested for someone who usually to function on five hours of sleep and caffeine tabs. “What’s for breakfast, Buckley?”

“Pancakes,” Evan replied.

Mace rubbed his face. “Do we have bacon?”

“We do,” Rook chimed in, glancing toward the counter. “Along with eggs.”

Hawk didn’t even blink. “Combat stress. I require protein.” He snatched three slices of bacon from the plate next to Echo.

“You haven’t been in combat in over a year,” Mace pointed out.

“Neither have you,” Hawk fired back. “Yet here you are, grumpy as hell over a bowl of recycled oat sludge.”

“That’s because I got benched,” Mace growled, glaring into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him. “A month of PT, cleared for light fieldwork, and they still won’t let me near a fucking battering ram.”

“Maybe because the last time you got cleared for ‘light duty,’ you tackled a guy through a wall and had to go back to PT for another month,” Evan offered mildly.

“He had a knife.”

“He had a toothpick,” Rook muttered.

“Semantics.”

Christopher was giggling now, quietly munching on chocolate chips Evan had snuck him while the others argued.

Evan handed him a pancake directly onto his napkin and gave him a quick, one-armed squeeze. “Eat up, Superman.”

Christopher beamed. “Uncle Mace is mad ‘cause he has to wear desk pants.”

Mace blinked. “Desk pants?”

“Slacks, like my uniform” Christopher clarified with seven-year-old gravity. “But the sad kind.”

Rook nearly choked on his coffee.  Hawk grinned over his mug. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Mace flipped him off without looking. “You all laugh now, but when I’m back in action, I’m not saving any of your asses.”

“You never saved mine,” Hawk said breezily.

“I carried your unconscious body out of a building in Syria.”

“Allegedly.”

Rook leaned over and bumped Mace’s mug with his own. “We love you, Deskpants.”

“Burn in hell,” Mace replied, but his voice was softener, a smile now ghosting his lips.

Evan glanced around the room, his eyes going to Rook, who was always awake before sunrise, just to watch it rise, was working on his foundation, at Hawk, who was still half feral but softer, gentler around the kid. A grin on his face, ready to go back, to feel the sand on his face and the bump of Diesel knuckles against his. Then to Mace, who sat with his arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t already tracking everyone’s movements like he was still their Ops Chief. His jaw tight, eyes sharp, but there was something in the set of his shoulders, like he didn’t quite know how to relax. He hadn’t shaved yet, his shirt rumpled from sleep or maybe just from not caring, and Evan knew he’d been up late again, probably rereading SWAT manuals as he listened for trouble to breach their homefront.

Evan held his gaze a second longer. Mace had saved him more times than he could count on the field, in the aftermath, and in the middle of long, silent nights when the only thing keeping Evan from slipping too far was Mace's voice, steady as a lifeline. And now, here he was, trying to act like this morning was just another normal day. Like Hawk wasn’t deploying.

Christopher bumped his shoulder and handed over a napkin folded like a triangle. “Here Daddy, a pancake medal,” he explained. “For best chef.”

Evan laughed, genuinely. “Thanks, buddy.”

Mace snorted, and Rook smiled without looking up.  Mace grunted as he stood, stretching out a shoulder still stiff from a torn rotator cuff that never quite healed right. He reached for another piece of bacon and pointed it at Evan like a weapon. “A year ago, we were organizing top secret ops. Now we’re coordinating carpool and school drop-off schedules.”

Evan didn’t flinch. “And yet somehow this is more exhausting.”

Christopher snorted into his chocolate milk. “You forgot my backpack once and now you act like you went to war.”

“I did go to war,” Evan said dryly. “And no one in Kandahar ever asked me to pack a bear themed lunch while searching for a missing library book before 7 a.m.”

Rook didn’t look up from his laptop. “That’s because no one trusted you with paperwork.”

“Or books,” Hawk added, leaning his hip against the counter. “You tried to file a mission log once and misspelled ‘reconnaissance’ so bad our CO thought it was code.”

“Look, I’m a man of action,” Evan muttered.

“You’re a man who color-codes snack bins,” Mace shot back, then softened just a fraction as his eyes rolled over Christopher. “Not that it’s a bad thing.”

Evan caught the shift, subtle as it was, and let it pass without comment. Because that was the thing about Mace, he’d never say it outright. Not the pride. Not the softness. But it was there, tucked between the sarcasm and his scowl. He looked at Evan now with the same eyes that used to scan alley’s for insurgents. Steady. Sharp. And just a little worried. “You’re doing good, Echo,” Mace said after a beat. “Even if you do use oat milk.”

“Hey,” Rook piped up, raising a finger. “Gastrointestinal health matters.”

Christopher blinked and his question came out slow and he stuttered his way through the big word. “What’s gastrointestinal?”

Hawk smirked, mouth full of bacon. “Butt science.”

“Language,” Evan and Mace said in unison, then exchanged a look that cracked into reluctant grins.

“Booty science,” Christopher laughed, arms jolting in delight as he nearly knocked over his milk. “Uncle Hawk, you’re gross.”

“Accurate,” Hawk replied with zero shame, reaching for another strip of bacon. “And underappreciated.”

“You’re both,” Rook said, typing something without looking up. “Gross and underappreciated. Congrats.”

“Echo, control your gremlins,” Mace muttered, rubbing at his temple as Evan slid him two ibuprofens.

“They’re our gremlins,” Evan shot back, pouring the last of the batter into the pan. “You moved into this chaos willingly.”

“I moved across the street,” Mace corrected. “There’s a difference between living in the blast zone and being the idiot who pulls the pin.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you’ve done both.”

Mace didn’t argue. Just grunted and leaned back in his chair, “Still,” Mace said quietly, breaking the silence like a thread pulled taut, “better this chaos than the quiet we had after the blast.” That shut them all up for half a beat.

Hawk was the one who finally moved, stepping away from the counter to refill everyone’s mugs like it wasn’t a tactical maneuver to redirect the mood. “Refuel, ladies,” he said. “Before I start waxing poetic about the time Echo saved my ass by throwing a wrench at a guy with a grenade.”

“That was not a sanctioned tactic,” Evan muttered to Christopher.

“Saved my life.”

“Also gave you a concussion.”

“Still counts.”

Christopher watched them with big, curious eyes, and Evan nudge him with his elbow gently. “Eat your pancake, Superman. This crew runs on caffeine, trauma, and nostalgia.”

“And booty science,” Christopher added cheerfully.

“God help me,” Mace muttered, but he was smiling now. Just barely.

“You ready for school?” Hawk asked as he poured his second cup of coffee, elbowing the cabinet closed with practiced ease.

Christopher’s face fell. “Do I have to?”

Evan’s shoulders tensed instantly. He turned off the burner without looking. “You love school,” he said gently, drying his hands on a dish towel. “What’s up?”

Christopher hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of his pancake. “Davey,” he muttered, nose wrinkling. “He says I’m weird.”

Evan crouched so they were eye level, his voice calm but sharp around the edges. “What kind of weird?”

The answer came out slow with a small shrug, but it hit like a gut punch. “He told Aldric he’ll catch my disease if he plays with me.”

The kitchen went still. Hawk’s mug paused mid-air. Mace froze halfway through a bite. Rook stopped typing. Evan’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw flexed. Mace was the first to speak. “You want me to have a word with this kid’s dad?”

“Mace,” Evan warned.

“Hey,” Mace held up both hands. “I said word. I can be professional.”

“That’s a lie,” Hawk muttered, eyes hard.

“Okay, like sixty percent professional.”

Rook leaned forward, voice quieter but steel underneath. “Does your teacher know what he said?”

Christopher shrugged again, lower now, shoulders curling slightly inward. “She said ‘we don’t use mean words’ and then made me move seats.”

Evan’s face didn’t twitch, but Mace knew him better than most saw the shift, the way he blinked once, slow and tight, like he was cataloging names and weighing consequences. Evan reached out and placed a hand gently on Christopher’s knee. “Come here.”

Christopher slid off the counter with his Hawk’s help, his crutches clacking softly as Evan knelt and looked him in the eyes. “Listen to me, kiddo. You are not weird. You are brave. You are smart. You are stronger than anyone who talks shit behind your back.”

“Language,” Rook murmured.

“Not now,” Evan snapped, eyes never leaving Christopher’s. “There is nothing wrong with you. Got it?”

Christopher’s lip trembled. He nodded. “But what if they don’t believe that?”

“Then they’re fucking cowards,” Hawk said flatly. “And cowards only get loud when they’re scared of something they don’t understand.”

Christopher looked between them, brow furrowed. “So… they’re scared of me?”

“Damn right they are,” Mace said. “You walk taller than half the people I worked with in the field. Anyone who thinks your CP makes you less is an idiot.”

“Straight-up dumbass,” Rook added. “And that’s the clinical term.”

That got a small smile from Christopher, and Evan exhaled quietly, resting his forehead against his son’s for a second before pulling back. “You don’t have to prove anything to them,” Evan said. “But if it happens again, if your teacher doesn’t do something, I will.”

Mace leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Might have to show up for career day.”

“Please don’t,” Evan said automatically.

Hawk took a sip of coffee. “I’m showing up either way.”

Christopher giggled.

“You feel okay going in today?” Evan asked gently.

Christopher hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. As long as I can wear my Navy hoodie.”

“Deal, you can even wear my pin,” Evan said, standing and brushing his hands on his sweats. “And we’ll talk to the principal this afternoon. This doesn’t get to happen, twice.”

Christopher’s chin lifted. “Okay.”

Rook offered him a fist bump. “You want me to build you a soundboard that plays fart noises whenever Davey talks?”

Hawk grinned. “Or just a laser pointer to distract him mid-sentence. Pavlovian revenge.”

“Both of you,” Evan warned, pointing his spatula like a blade, “do not get my kid suspended.”

“No promises,” they said in unison.

“Want us all to take you to drop-off today?” Rook asked, casually spinning a pen between his fingers. “Show that little shit Davey your six is covered.”

“Language,” Evan said automatically, even as the corner of his mouth twitched.

Christopher looked up, eyes wide. “Really? All of you?”

Mace leaned forward, grinning like a wolf. “You show up with three SEALs and a guy in a battle chair, that playground becomes ours.”

“‘Battle chair,’ Jesus,” Rook muttered. “Now I need to mount nerf cannons.”

“Please do,” Hawk said. “We’ll flank the jungle gym and secure the monkey bars.”

“Operation LZ Lollipop,” Mace added, deadly serious.

Christopher was giggling so hard now he had to lean into Evan to keep from toppling sideways. “You guys are so weird.”

“Damn right we are,” Hawk said, tossing him a wink. “And we’re yours.”

Evan placed a hand on Christopher’s back. His voice dropped a little, softer, tuning in his Dad voice. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone today, Chris. But if it helps to see us there… we’ll go.”

Christopher looked around at all of them, his voice came small but sure. “Yeah. I want you there.”

Evan nodded once. “Then we ride out in ten.”

“Hell yes,” Mace muttered, standing. “I’ve got my camo somewhere.”

“You’re not wearing tactical anything,” Evan said, already stacking dishes. “You’re going as a civilian.”

“Fine,” Mace grumbled. “But I’m still wearing my boots.”

Rook rolled toward the hallway. “Gonna grab the good wheels.”

Christopher leaned into Evan’s side again, softer this time. “Thanks, Dad.”

Evan kissed the top of his curls. “Always, bud.”

And somewhere between the breakfast mess and the mission prep, Evan looked around and felt it: This was his unit, his family that would follow him into war. Or into a second-grade drop-off.

The school parking lot buzzed with early-morning chaos—minivans idling, kids scrambling with half-zipped backpacks. But everything stilled for a moment when Hawk stepped out of Evan’s truck in full confidence and casual menace, aviators on, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, walking around to open the door for Christopher like he was guarding a diplomat.

Evan, Mace, and Rook hung back near the sidewalk. No one said a word, but their presence was loud enough.

Christopher climbed out, crutches ago, hoodie zipped up to his chin. Evan had pinned the SEAL trident to the chest, just above the logo. It glinted in the sun like a quiet promise. His eyes trailed after Hawk and Chris as they headed up to the front doors.

Hawk knelt to his level, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into his shirt. “Alright, champ. You got this?”

Christopher nodded, but there was a tremor under it.

Hawk’s voice gentled. “I’ll be back in nine months. You’ll be eight and getting ready for third grade.”

Christopher laughed, but it caught at the end. “You’ll really be back?”

“You know I will,” Hawk said, serious now. “And until then, I’ll be watching your Papa’s six. Every step. You keep an eye on your Dad for me, yeah?”

Christopher held out his fist. “Yeah. And my Papa will watch yours.”

Hawk bumped knuckles, then pulled him into a hug, one hand cradling the back of Christopher’s head, the other tightening around his small frame like he didn’t want to let go.

“I love you, Uncle Hawk,” he whispered into his shoulder.

“Love you too, C-man,” Hawk murmured back. “Now go kick the day in the teeth.”

Hawk turned toward the Ana Flores, heels clicking in quick rhythm, a clipboard clutched against her chest like armor. She looked like she was bracing to redirect a wandering parent or handle a fire drill—but the moment she saw him, she slowed.

Surprise flickered across her face, softening the steel in her expression.

“Ty,” she said, voice lower than usual. Less vice principal. More woman trying not to let emotion slip through cracks.

He offered a small smile, the kind only she ever saw. “Morning, Ms. Flores.”

She stepped closer, eyes scanning him like she had to see for herself. “You’re still here.”

“I’m wheels-up in three hours.” He tilted his head toward Christopher. “But I needed to stop by.”

Ana followed his gaze to Christopher, who was tugging at the hem of his Navy hoodie.

“What happened?” she asked, already sharp again, professional reflex clicking into place.

“Kid named Davey,” Hawk said flatly. “Telling other students they’ll ‘catch’ CP from playing with Chris.”

Ana’s eyes darkened. “Jesus.”

“I know you’ll handle it,” he said, quiet but firm. “I just… needed to see your face when I asked.”

She met his gaze, and there was fire there now. “It’ll be dealt with. Today. You have my word.”

“Good,” Hawk said. “Because I can’t do anything from the other side of the world. And this kid means the world to me.” Christopher beamed up at him, leaning heavy on his crutches.

Her mouth tightened. “It won’t happen again, I’ll make sure of it.”

They stood there in the early light, the school buzzing around them with morning chatter, cars pulling in and doors slamming shut. But for a moment, it was just the two of them.

Ana eyes flashed towards the men waiting by his truck. “We said goodbye last night.”

“I know.” Hawk shrugged one shoulder. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to seeing you.”

Ana glanced down, a tight breath escaping her.

He took a step closer. “I bought a ring.”

Her eyes snapped up to his.

“When I get back,” he added. “If you're still interested in tolerating me.”

Ana’s voice almost caught. “Tyler.” She stared at him for a beat, “come home safe.”

Hawk stepped back, slipping his sunglasses on, the soldier’s mask settling back into place. “Watch my boy?”

“Always.”

He hesitated, like there was more to say but instead, he simply turned, walking back toward the truck where Evan waited. Evan clapped a hand to Hawk’s shoulder when he got close. “Thanks for that.”

“She’s got it,” Hawk said. “You just make sure he knows who’s got his six every day.”

“I will.”

Christopher looked back once, waving as he moved toward the doors. Hawk raised two fingers in a lazy salute.

…

The California sun had barely crested the rooftops, casting long slants of gold across the quiet residential street. The driveway of the small, sand-colored house was scattered with shadows—tree branches, a garden hose, and Mace, loading Hawk’s rucksack into the trunk of an idling Uber like it was a live weapon.

He moved with practiced efficiency, but Evan didn’t miss the way his jaw was tight, or how he paused an extra second before closing the trunk.

Hawk stood on the curb beside Evan, watching Mace with unreadable eyes until he finally spoke. “Keep an eye on her for me?”

Evan didn’t need clarification. “Ana?”

Hawk nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture almost shy. “Not in a weird way. Just… she doesn’t let a lot of people close, doesn’t have a lot of people. But she’s good. And she’s sweet.”  Hawk turned slightly, eyes flicking toward the house behind them, the front porch light still on. “The kind of woman who sees through my bullshit. Got more backbone than half the brass I’ve ever served under.”

“You’re serious about her.”

“Yeah.” Hawk hesitated, then added, “Bought a ring a few weeks ago. Just… haven’t figured out when. Or how. Thought I’d wait until I’m back. Make sure this isn’t just adrenaline and proximity.”

Evan let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think you were the ‘ring’ type.”

“Neither did I,” Hawk muttered. “But she makes me want to stay. Makes me dream and want the kind of shit you and Patch have.”

Evan nodded, voice quieter. “You want me to invite her over? Barbecue and whatever.”

“Yeah. Let her get used to the mess she’s signing up for.” Hawk cracked a smile. “If she can handle Rook’s movie rants and Mace’s obsession with military history, she’ll be fine.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the early morning breeze stirring the edges of Hawk’s shirt. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and fell quiet. The Uber’s engine ticked softly, the only sound between them. Then Hawk turned to him, more serious now. “You hold it down.”

“You know I will.”

They moved at the same time, hands locking into their old handshake, palm slap, twist, shoulder bump, knuckles tapped. Fast. Muscle memory. Clean. Then Hawk pulled Evan into a quick, fierce hug. No words. Just impact. One warrior to another. When they stepped back, Hawk’s voice was rough. “Tell Chris I’ll write. I’ll send him photos. Make sure Mace stays in touch with my Ma.”

Evan nodded, throat tight. “Course.”

Behind them, Mace leaned against the mailbox, arms crossed, saying nothing. But his eyes tracked every movement.

The Uber driver shifted in his seat and glanced back at them through the mirror.

Time.

Hawk slung his duffel over one shoulder, gave Mace a salute, and climbed into the back seat. The door shut with a solid thunk, and the car rolled forward a few feet, pausing at the end of the driveway.

Evan stood with Mace as the taillights blinked once and turned the corner. And then they turned toward the house. Evan’s accepted the cup of coffee Rook pushed into his hand as Mace went to work out. Evan lingered by the wall, gaze caught on the weight of years framed in glass—snapshots layered like armor, each one holding more than just memory.

- Flashback – 

The rec room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of a paused loading screen. Somewhere down the hall, someone was snoring like a chainsaw, but here there was nothing but the soft click of buttons and the occasional trash talk.

“Eat it, Hawkins,” Evan grinned, leaning forward on the couch, mashing buttons with intense focus. “I told you I was better at this.”

“You literally grenaded yourself last round,” Hawk muttered, thumbs flying over the controller. “I’m not sure that counts as a win.”

“Strategic sacrifice,” Evan shot back, smug. “Sun Tzu said it builds morale.”

Hawk snorted. “Sun Tzu didn’t play Call of Duty, Evan.”

“His loss.” They were both laughing, real, and unguarded for a second, Hawk forgot that this kid had only been with their unit a week. He moved like he belonged. Talked like he’d always been part of the team. Swaggered like he wasn’t a week away from turning eighteen and running on bravado and peanut butter protein bars. Evan jerked excitedly, getting another kill, his elbow hitting the notebook resting on the armrest, knocking it to the floor.

“Got you, loser,” Evan cackled.

“Shut the fuck up, kid.” He grunted, turned his attention back to the screen.

Mace was yawning, still in PT gear, towel slung around his neck. He stopped mid-step, eyes landing on the notebook and the photo between Hawk’s boots.

“What are you two idiots still doing up?” he started, then frowned, stepping closer.

Evan glanced down. Hawk bent to pick up the notebook, but Mace beat him to it, snatching them up. “God damn, kid,” Mace muttered, flipping it over. “We look like your mommy. Keep your shit picked up.”

He didn’t even look at Evan. Just went to toss it toward the trash without looking.

And Evan went still.

Hawk didn’t even register the photo before he saw Evan’s face. The way the grin had vanished. The light in his eyes? Gone. Shoulders tense, spine straight, mouth slightly open like he was trying to breathe through a punch to the gut. And he didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask for it back. Didn’t move. Like he’d already accepted it was gone.

“Wait,” he said sharply, stepping forward, intercepting Mace’s hand before he could follow through.

Mace blinked. “What?”

Hawk took the photo and looked at it. It was old. Edges frayed. A ten-year-old Evan, grinning wide, gap-toothed and flushed, hospital bracelets just visible beneath his sleeves. A teenage girl arm wrapped tight around his shoulder, smiling soft and tired like someone trying to hold the world together. And behind them, a sixteen-year-old boy, tall and bald, hugging them both from behind, controller in one hand, matching hospital bracelets, captured in a half-laugh. They were all piled onto a hospital bed.

Hawk’s jaw tightened. “You were gonna toss this?”

Mace hesitated. “I didn’t know it was…”

“Yeah,” Hawk said flatly. “Exactly. Stop being a dick, Mac.”

He turned the photo over, smoothing the creased edges, then looked at Evan still frozen.

“Kid,” Hawk said, quieter now, crouching so they were level. “You want it back?”

Evan blinked once. Swallowed. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t speak. That was the tell. He wanted it back more than anything. He just wasn’t sure if he could risk the exposure.

“Jesus,” Mace muttered.  The photo. The silence. The kid didn’t ask because he didn’t expect kindness to come without strings. “Fuck,” Mace added, softer now. “Sorry, kid.”

So, Hawk stood, turned, and crossed to the little corkboard above his own bunk, half-covered in polaroids, deployment shots, letters from home. He pinned the photo there, right in the center. He turned back. “It’s safe there. Until you want it back.”

Evan nodded, letting out a slow controlled breath.

--

Evan stood motionless in the living room, one hand curled around a now-cold mug of coffee he hadn’t touched since it was handed to him. His eyes were locked on the collage, familiar, but still hit every time he paused long enough to appreciate it. Photographs arranged with care and absolutely no sense of symmetry.

They called it The Archive.

Not officially, no one had ever said it out loud with ceremony but somewhere along the way, the name stuck. It was where the team’s history lived. Not the medals or the mission logs, but the real record. The moments in between. The people they were when the guns were down and the helmets came off.

There were snapshots from every phase of their team’s history: childhood photos, dusty field ops, drenched rescue dives, blurry jump landings. A black-and-white photo of Dogman sleeping next to his K9, Zues. Diesel and Patch, shirtless and grinning, mid-high five on a tarmac somewhere in the Middle East. Mace holding up a breaching ram like a trophy, mid-laugh, half-covered in ash.

Gabe was there too, stoic, eyes calm, arm slung casually around Evan’s shoulders after his BUD/S graduation.

Near the edge, a photo of Eddie’s abuela, standing proudly in front of her kitchen in Juárez, wooden spoon in hand, Christopher barely toddler-aged on her hip, smearing masa on her cheek.

Another: Dogman’s daughter, leaning against a dock railing, a fishing pole in her hand and Dogman’s navy shirt hung over her thin frame.

Mace’s parents in another, his mother grinning wide, holding a birthday cake, his dad awkwardly giving a thumbs-up like he hadn’t smiled in years. And between them, a Mace halfway through rolling his eyes.

Hawk appeared more than anyone else, sometimes with the team, sometimes surrounded by five much younger sisters in matching hoodies. One of the girls had her arms around Christopher, both of them covered in paint, laughing like siblings who didn’t share blood but shared everything else.

There were dozens of photos of Christopher, on shoulders, curled in laps, passed between operators like the squad’s unofficial mascot over the years. Christopher and Rook building a Lego castle. Christopher asleep on Mace’s chest. Christopher mid-splash at a beach with Diesel. Christopher holding Patch’s hand on a runway, waving at a transport plane. A selfie of Christopher and Gabe giving identical unimpressed stares. Christopher in NICU.

The photos were layered and tight, edges overlapping like overlapping years, like they were all still holding each other up. And at the center was his photo. The one of him, Daniel, and Maddie.

“Hey.” Mace’s voice broke softly into the silence.

Evan didn’t turn. Just blinked once, slow, like surfacing from deep water. “Didn’t know you still had it up.”

Mace stepped beside him, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes scanning the photos with something too soft to be casual. “Hawk had Rook clean it up. Said it deserved to be part of the story.”

Evan blinked and turned his gaze away. “It was just a photo.”

“It was your first photo to his collection,” Mace said. “The first time we saw you as something other than the new recruit with a death wish

Evan exhaled, slow and shallow. “I didn’t ask you to hang it.”

“I know.” Mace’s voice softened more. “You wouldn’t have.”

Evan’s gaze drifted now to another photo, tucked in the lower corner. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

It was him and Eddie, lounged on the couch at home. Christopher was out of frame, probably asleep. Eddie had his arms wrapped around Evan from behind, chin tucked into the curve of his shoulder, both of them half-smiling at the camera. The kind of photo that only happens when someone catches you relaxed. Safe.

Evan reached out, brushing his fingertips along the edge of the frame. “He added us,” he said quietly.

Mace’s response was simple. “Of course he did.”

Chapter Text

Buck’s hands hovered, tense and ready, as he stood beside Bobby, Chimney, and Hen, all of them silent, ears straining.

Then it came the faintest sound. Muffled. Wet. Fragile.

A baby crying.

They froze.

“It’s behind the wall,” Bobby said tightly, already kneeling to check the structure.

“We need to open it up,” Hen confirmed, her voice clipped and already prepping supplies.

Buck tossed a pen toward Chimney. “Start marking. I’ll get the saw.”

Chimney caught the pen with one hand, uncapping it and quickly outlining the section of drywall Bobby indicated. Buck grabbed the rotary saw and goggles, his movements fast but measured.

“We do this clean,” Bobby instructed. “Minimal damage. Controlled cuts.”

Buck nodded. The blade whirred to life, dust curling as he sliced through the drywall with surgical precision. One panel. Then another. They opened the wall.

“There,” Hen breathed, taping the pipe. Buck nodded, marking the pipe and he held steady as Bobby cut and removed it from the wall. Bobby reached in and a moment later, he pulled free the smallest body any of them had ever seen.

The baby wasn’t moving.

“She’s not breathing,” Bobby said, urgently but calmly.

“She will,” Buck said, stepping forward without hesitation. “Hand her here.”

He knelt beside the wall and took her with surprising ease, cradling her gently in his hands. The newborn was blue, limp, and terrifyingly quiet.

“Two fingers on the sternum,” Buck murmured, mostly to himself. “Thirty compressions. One breath. Again.”

Chimney blinked. “You know infant CPR?”

Buck didn’t look up. “Yeah. Stay with me.” Time narrowed. One breath. Two fingers. “Come on, baby girl,” Buck whispered. “Come on…”

The baby gave a wet, gurgled cry. Weak but there. Alive.

Hen was already by his side with a warming blanket. Bobby wrapped the infant against his chest, securing the blanket as the radio crackled with the dispatcher asking for a status update.

“Elevator’s taking too long,” Bobby said, checking his watch. “We need her downstairs now.”

Buck was already moving, unbuttoning his uniform top. “I’ll run her down to the 133. I’m the fastest. Give her to me.”

"Buck, what?" Bobby raised an eyebrow.

“She’ll be warmer against my chest. We don’t have time for the elevator. Trust me.”

Bobby hesitated a beat, then nodded. Buck turned and bolted, taking the stairs two at a time, the baby held tight to his warm chest.

He burst through the front door, boots hitting the pavement with urgency just as the ambulance from the 133 back up and tossed their doors open.

 A police officer's voice rang out across the lawn. “Make way! Hold up, hold up! I got another one coming!”

Buck spotted her immediately. A teenage girl, barely fourteen, staggered beside her, wrapped in a blanket, legs smeared with blood, eyes vacant. His face hardened. “Yo, is that the mother?”

Athena nodded. “She is.”

Buck stopped short. “No. Abuser doesn’t ride with victims.”

“She’s a child,” Athena said sharply. “And she’s in shock.”

Buck froze for a beat before he gave her curt nod and stepped to the side. “Fine. But I’m staying with the baby.”

“You planning to break another rule?” she asked, not unkindly.

He didn’t look at her. Just adjusted the baby so her skin was flush against his beating heart as he covered her with a blanket. “If I have to.”

The girl faltered as she approached the ambulance, legs giving out. Buck caught her elbow instinctively, steadying her. She flinched at his touch but didn’t pull away. “Easy,” he murmured. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Athena helped her into the back. Buck followed, curling into the jump seat, holding the infant oxygen mask up to the preemie's face.

“Kangaroo hold,” he said to the medic across from him. “She needs body heat. She was pulled her from a pipe and we barely got her breathing.”

The medic nodded, not arguing. Athena met Buck’s eyes one last time before stepping back. “We’ll follow behind. I'm going to need her statement.”

As the ambulance doors swung closed with a firm metallic click, Buck caught the muffled echo of Athena’s voice through the glass. “Your probie did good today.”

Bobby didn’t respond immediately not that Buck could hear if he had but the words landed like a steadying hand on Buck’s spine. Not praise. Not absolution. Just truth.

The medic worked quickly beside him, checking vitals, adjusting the infant’s oxygen, and prepping a warmer pad. Buck didn’t flinch. He held the baby with practiced care, her tiny form curled against his bare chest under the shift blanket. “BP’s low but climbing,” the medic muttered. “Respiratory is still shallow, but she’s hanging in.”

Buck nodded once, barely breathing. “She’s a fighter.”

The teenager sat across from him, pale and shaking. There was blood on her thighs and dirt streaked across her arms, and she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes not even the medic’s. But she kept glancing, just barely, toward the bundle in Buck’s arms.

“She’s okay,” he said softly, voice cutting through the hum of the road. “You're both going to be safe now."

The girl blinked. Once. Twice. Then nodded, barely.

The medic from glanced at Buck, something like respect flashing in his eyes. “You a medic before this?”

“Nah, just field training,” Buck said without looking up and he hesitated before adding. “But, I'm marrying one."

He remembered doing the same thing with Christopher. Seven years ago, in the NICU, when Eddie had asked, “Do you want to try holding him?” and Evan had said yes, settling next to the incubator.

Chr—

The ambulance door swung open, and Buck followed the medic from the 133 out.

A nurse startled as she took in the in front of her, his bare chest cradling a tiny infant to it.  “Sir—”

“She’s hypothermic,” Buck said without missing a step. “We pulled her from a toilet pipe fifteen minutes. She’s stable but fragile. I’ve got her in a kangaroo hold.”

“We don’t go past the glass doors,” Bobby said from behind him, voice low. “Our work’s done.”

Buck didn’t look at him. “Yeah, fuck that."

The air inside the ER was sharp with antiseptic and urgency, voices clipped and fast-moving around him. Buck ignored them. He kept walking, kept holding the baby tight to his chest, her tiny fingers curled against his skin. The warming blanket had slipped slightly, and he adjusted it carefully with one hand.

The nurse blinked, recovering fast. “Trauma bay two, this way.”

Buck followed without hesitation. As he passed a cluster of medical staff, someone reached out to take the baby from him, but he held on for a second longer.

“She needs skin-to-skin until she’s warm enough for the incubator. She’s breathing, but shallow.” He looked them in the eye. “Don’t let her crash.”

A nod. Then gentle hands took her from him, careful and quick, disappearing behind a curtain of nurses and IV carts. The second she was gone, Buck’s arms felt strangely empty.

His hand drifted to his chest, to the damp spot left by her tiny body.

Evan turned off his radio. He didn’t care if Bobby yelled. Didn’t care if it went in his file or if he caught a write-up later, his hand curled into his chest like she still belonged there.

Because tonight, he wasn’t walking out of this hospital until he knew that tiny baby and the scared little girl who brought her into the world would be okay. The trauma bay bustled behind the curtain, a flurry of motion and clipped medical orders. Buck stood outside it for a beat longer, the hospital lights stark against his chest covered in afterbirth. He buttoned up his uniform.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through the contacts he collected and kept over the years. Names the 118 didn’t know about, passed a few even his unit didn't know about.

“Mrs. Rachel,” he said when the line picked up.

There was a pause, then the familiar, warm voice answered, a smile floating through the line. “Evan? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, too fast. Then slower, “I’m okay. I just… I need a favor. Do you have any contacts in Los Angeles?”

“Hold on, let me look,” She murmured, Buck could hear her fingers clicking against her keyboard. He could almost see her sitting forward, switching into her advocate voice. “Actually, yes. Rebecca Kent. She’s based out there now. Works in emergency placement, trauma response for minors. Why? What’s going on?”

Buck leaned back against the wall, knuckles white around his phone. “I’m at Mattel Children’s. I’ve got a preemie and an underage mother. Girl’s maybe fourteen. Still bleeding. Scared out of her mind. No guardian on site. She said she lives with her uncle, but I…” His jaw clenched. “I don’t like the way she flinched when the cops asked about him.”

Mrs. Rachel’s voice softened. “Okay. Say no more. You need someone to intervene before CPS routes it through standard channels.”

“Yeah. I need someone who’ll see her. Not just the file.”

Another pause, Buck listened to her take a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “You think she’s been hurt?”

“I’m thinking the situation feels like Becca.”

The silence on the line turned heavy.

Buck closed his eyes, picturing Rebecca’s face, almost sixteen and stubborn, a foster sister who used to snap at him for stealing her Pop-Tarts and scowl when he cracked jokes. He’d judged her. Thought she was reckless, selfish. Until one night, he had found her in the laundry room, teeth clamped around a towel as she bore down, giving birth. He had caught the boy as she sobbed as she told him what their foster father had been doing.

He had called 9-1-1 and stood between them and Mr. Callwell. Buck had woke in the hospital. Rachel, Rebecca and her baby boy at his bedside. His last home before he shipped out for the Navy a week after his high school graduation.

"Becca’s out here..." The words tasted strange after all this time. Guilt coiled low in his gut. Life had gotten away from both of them. Too many deployments. Too many missed calls. Too many promises to catch up that never made it past the next mission. Still, she’d come. And that meant something. Buck exhaled slowly. “I’ll talk to her when she gets here,” he said, quieter now.

 “You’re sure?” Rachel asked softly.

“I am,” he said, quietly. “They need someone in their corner and for the moment that’s me and who better to pass the torch too than Bec.” He ended the call before she could say anything else.

The hallway outside the trauma bays was quieter now, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. Nurses moved past him, quick but calm, a practiced kind of urgency. No one stopped him. No one asked questions. Buck didn’t sit. He stood by the wall, arms folded, watching the curtain where they’d taken the baby. Behind it, he could hear faint voices, terms he didn’t fully understand, and quick decisions being made.

And besides that, the girl. Just a kid. Pale. Shaking. Alone.

He didn’t approach her. Not yet. She didn’t need a stranger hovering. But he stayed close enough that she might see him if she looked for him. Close enough that if anyone tried to remove her before Rebecca arrived, he could step in. He wouldn’t let Athena question her without a child advocate.

He glanced down at his smudged turnout pants, at the patch of LAFD across his thigh. He thought about Chris, seven years old, all heart and light. Thought about Eddie handing that tiny, wrinkled newborn into his arms seven years ago, whispering, “You’re gonna be his uncle, Echo. Might as well start now.”

The baby in the pipe hadn’t cried right away. And for one terrifying moment, Buck thought she never would. But then she gasped, tiny and wet and angry at the world and it hit him square in the chest. So, he waited. And when a tall, dark-haired woman arrived at the nurse’s station twenty minutes later with a child services badge clipped to her hip and a backpack over one shoulder, Buck stepped forward a smile slowing forming across his face as he took her in, eyes going soft with pride. “Rebecca Kent?” he asked, voice low.

Her eyes met his. It took a second before recognition flickered in them, then they widened. “Evan?”

He gave a nod, his smile widening. “Didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

Rebecca stared for a beat longer, her mouth softening into something between disbelief and warmth. “Shit,” she murmured, stepping closer. “Look at you. Goodness, Ev, you really grew up.”

Buck gave her a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Been a long time.”

“Since you flew off to bootcamp,” she said, her voice quiet. “But you're not military anymore?”

“No, Career change, firefighter now.”  he replied with half a smile, almost sheepish.

Rebecca huffed a quiet laugh and stepped forward, gripping his shoulder for a second. “Didn’t expect to find you in turnout gear. What’s next, monster truck driver? Astronaut? You really took that first grade ‘when I grow up’ assignment seriously, huh?”

Buck snorted, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Still working my way down the list.”

“Firefighter suits you,” she said, voice softening.

“Well. I didn’t expect to see you carrying a case folder and saving kids.” They both fell quiet, the weight of too much history passing between them in a single glance.

Buck cleared his throat, his voice dropping again. “She’s scared. Barely said two words. But she flinched when the cops mentioned her uncle. She wouldn’t tell us a name. I didn’t want her shuffled into the system.”

Rebecca nodded, all warmth gone now, her face settling into a quiet, focused determination. “You did the right thing. She’s lucky you were the one to find her.”

“She’s just a kid,” Buck said, voice low. His throat ached with the weight of it. “She shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Rebecca’s face softened, the advocate fading into the foster kid she used to be. “She won’t. Not on my watch.”

Buck looked away for a moment, nodding, the breath that left him slow and heavy like a weight settling. “The baby’s in Trauma Two. They’ve stabilized her. She’s strong, but tiny. She’s gonna need NICU care. Weeks, maybe longer.”

Rebecca followed his glance toward the curtained hallway leading to the NICU. Then she looked back at him. “Are you thinking about stepping in?”

“Shit, no.” Buck laughed once, too fast, taking a step back. “My partner’s deployed. I’ve already got a kid and a half at home. And a probie slot I’m barely surviving.”

But the hesitation hung between them. Rebecca tilted her head, reading him like an open file. “Doesn’t mean you’re not thinking about it.”

He didn’t deny it.

“She’ll most likely be here for weeks,” she said gently. “Maybe longer. I’ll keep you posted.”

Buck nodded once, jaw tightening. “Appreciate it. Call me. We'll get lunch.”

Rebecca gave his arm one last squeeze before turning toward the trauma bay, already shifting into action. He watched her go, a quiet swell of gratitude and pride blooming in his chest. He didn’t know what would happen to that girl. To her baby. But he knew one thing, he’d made damn sure someone saw them.

Buck barely had time to drop his gear by his locker before Bobby’s voice rang out across the bay. “Buck. Office. Now.”

The rest of the team froze, Hen halfway through unzipping her turnout jacket, Chimney pausing with a water bottle halfway to his mouth. Even Mark looked up from the rig, eyebrows lifting in warning.

Buck wiped his hand down his face, jaw already tightening. He said nothing as he followed Bobby, each step echoing through the garage like a countdown.

The door barely clicked shut behind them before Bobby turned on him, eyes sharp and unreadable. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Buck didn’t flinch. “She was fourteen. The baby was barely clinging to life. There wasn’t time.”

“You went against a direct order.” Bobby’s voice was low, but it carried the weight of thunder. “You walked into a hospital, turned off your radio, and disappeared. I had no idea where you were for twenty-five minutes, Buck. On a scene. You broke protocol.”

Buck’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t disappear. I was with the girl and the baby. Making sure they got help. That’s the job.”

“No,” Bobby snapped. “That’s not the job. Our job ends at the glass doors. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, our role is to get them there alive, and then we step back. You don’t get to decide when the rules stop applying to you.”

“Someone had to care.” Buck’s voice sharpened. “She didn’t have anyone, Bobby. You want me to stand there and wait while she bleeds out and her baby freezes to death because no one wants to cut through red tape?”

Bobby stepped closer, his expression hard. “I want you to do your damn job and not risk your badge over a moment of emotional impulse.”

That was the moment. Buck recoiled, just slightly, but enough. Emotional impulse. The words slammed into him like a backdraft. Heat and shame and something else burning in his chest. “Is that what you think this is?” Buck snapped, his voice rising for the first time. “You think I ran in there because I was too emotional? Like I haven’t been trained to handle worse?”

Bobby blinked at the vehemence in his tone. “You were Navy. I know you’ve seen hard things. But this is different. This is structure. Chain of command.”

“You have no idea what I’ve seen,” Buck growled, stepping forward. “You think I joined the Navy to fold laundry on a fucking ship? You think you know what I’ve done just because you read one line on my file?”

Bobby’s posture stiffened. “Watch your tone.”

Buck laughed once, bitter. “Yeah. That’s the problem, right? My tone. Not the fact that a fourteen-year-old gave birth alone and no one gave a shit except me.”

A long silence stretched between them, heavy and tense. When Bobby finally spoke again, his voice was colder. “You pulled that stunt again, Buckley, and I will recommend termination. You might be good, but you are not untouchable.”

Buck nodded once, sharp and controlled. “Noted, Captain.”

Just as his hand hit the doorknob, Bobby added, “And you’re the man behind for the rest of the shift.”

Buck froze for half a beat, then nodded again, sharper this time. “Copy that.”

Then he walked out of the office without saying another word. Hen looked up first looking away as Chimney winced like they had overheard too much. Buck didn’t stop. He walked straight past them, back rigid, fists clenched at his sides. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the back door, slamming it shut behind him.

Chim flinched. “Guess that’s his way of saying ‘screw dinner.’”

Hen frowned. “He’s spiraling.”

“Or just pissed he got benched.”

The firehouse gym was mostly dark, save for the low gleam of one overhead light above the weight bench. Buck stood alone, shirtless, his sweat-damp skin gleaming as he threw another punch into the heavy bag. The leather snapped under the force, his knuckles aching even through the wraps. Metal music thudded in his ears, a steady, grounding rhythm against the static of his thoughts.

Punch. Breathe. Punch. Breathe.

He didn’t hear the door open until it creaked.

“Buck.”

He spun, breath catching in his throat, yanking one earbud out as he went on alert until he saw Bobby in the doorway. “Jesus, Cap.” Buck let out a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Bobby stepped inside, gaze scanning the room then settling on Buck. On his bare back. On the latticework of old scars, some faint and others still raised. On the black ink that wrapped over his shoulder and down his arm.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” Bobby asked, voice low.

Buck grabbed a towel off the bench and wiped at his face. “No. Not really.”

“You always come in here after midnight?”

Buck shrugged. “Beats lying in bed staring at the ceiling.”

“I meant what I said earlier,” Bobby said. “About the girl. And the baby. That was a call most guys wouldn’t have handled half as well.”

Buck didn’t answer.

“You went too far,” Bobby added, softer. “But you did it for the right reasons.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and tense. Then, Buck sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, towel draped over his shoulders.

“I was twelve the first time a firefighter sat with me in a hospital,” Buck said quietly.

Bobby blinked. “Yeah?”

Buck didn’t look at him. Just stared at the floor. “My brother died when I was ten. He’d been sick my whole life. Anything he needed, I gave. The last thing was a liver. I was the match. I was literally created to be his match.” His voice tightened. “They did the surgery. Thought it went okay. But his body started rejecting it. And once they realized there was nothing else to do…” He trailed off for a second, swallowing. “It broke something in my mom.”

Bobby stayed quiet, listening.

“She checked out, mentally. Just… faded. A few months after he died, my grandmother came and took her. Said she needed care. Left me with my dad.”

Buck’s jaw flexed. “And he, he got angry. Real angry at everything. He always had it in him, he disowned Maddie for marrying Doug. But once they were gone, it came out full force. Drank a lot. Meaner when he did.”

He rubbed his hands together slowly, voice flattening.

“One night, he came into my room, blackout drunk, belt in hand. I’d already caught it earlier in the week. Still nursing the cuts, bruises. I knew what was coming.” He paused, jaw working. “I was doing my homework by candlelight, trying not to draw his attention to my existence. I shoved it toward the curtain covering my window.”

Bobby’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

Buck let out a low sigh. “I didn’t mean to burn the whole place down. Just wanted him to stop. Firefighters got there before the roof collapsed. Pulled me out. My dad was still screaming. Said he was gonna finish what he started.”

His shoulders hunched slightly. “I ended up in the ER. Broken arm, smoke inhalation, bloody fucking back. And there was this one firefighter, Nathan. He sat with me was the first person to ever tell me. It wasn’t my fault.” Buck finally looked up. “I don’t even know his last name. But I remember how he talked to me. Like I mattered. He made sure I landed somewhere safe. He sponsored me every school year, made sure I had clothes and new shoes.”

Bobby nodded, slow. “Sounds like he left a mark.”

“He did,” Buck said. “That girl today… she reminded me of me. And I wasn’t gonna leave her to figure it out on her own. I had to make sure she wouldn’t get lost in the cracks.”

There was silence as Buck wiped his face and pulled on a shirt.  “You ever think about looking him up?” Bobby asked.

Buck gave a small, tired smile. “Every year on the anniversary.”

“Where did this happen?”

Buck’s voice was low. “Hershey, Pennsylvania.”

Bobby nodded slowly, eyes soft. No judgment. No probing. Just a long, quiet understanding between them. “C’mon, kid,” Bobby said, voice gentler than Buck had ever heard it. “Let’s go have some hot chocolate and find an old movie to fall asleep to.”

Buck blinked at him, startled but the offer warmed something in his chest. It didn’t erase anything or the ache still humming through his muscles, but it eased the edge off. He nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind him, soft against the early Saturday quiet. Evan exhaled as he stepped into the house, the scent of coffee greeting him. 

Rook sat at the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His wheelchair was nearby, abandoned for the moment. A section of the morning paper was draped over his knee, and a half-eaten protein bar rested on the edge of a plate.

Across from him, Christopher clutched a plastic cup of orange juice with both hands, pajama shirt buttoned crooked, hair sticking out in every direction. He looked up first. “Dad!” he called, twisting in his seat. “You’re home!”

Evan smiled, weary but soft around the edges. “Hey, Superman.” He crossed the kitchen in three strides and kissed the top of Christopher’s head before setting the pink bakery box on the table between Chris and Rook.

“Peace offering,” he said, flipping the lid open. “Donuts. Still warm.”

“Is that a maple bar?” Rook asked, already opening the box.

Evan nodded. “Two. And one of those weird jelly-filled ones you pretend to hate but eat every time.”

“Rude,” Rook muttered, snatching a napkin and a donut without denying it.

Christopher peered into the box, eyes lighting up. “Chocolate sprinkles!”

“Only the best for my crew,” Evan said, toeing off his boots. He was still in his uniform pants, but his LAFD T-shirt had been traded for one of Eddie’s old basic Navy tees, worn soft with age and threadbare at the collar.

“Did you have any fires?” Christopher asked between bites.

Evan nodded slowly, reaching for a mug. “One small kitchen fire. Everyone’s okay.”

Rook gave him a once-over. “You good?”

“Tired.” Evan took a long sip of lukewarm coffee and looked away. “It was a long shift. We’ll talk later.”

He leaned a back against the counter, reaching for the coffee pot. Then he glanced at them, Christopher licking sugar from his fingers, Rook reaching for hist second donut and tilted his head. “What do you guys think about the zoo this afternoon?”

Christopher perked up immediately, halfway through sliding onto one of the barstools. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Buck handed over the syrup. “You’ve been good all week, Rook hasn’t left the house in a few days, and I haven’t seen a giraffe in at least six months. We’re overdue.”

Christopher grinned. “Can we see the reptiles?”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Even the snakes?”

“Especially the snakes.”

Rook made a face, setting his mug down. “Ugh. Why do kids always love the creepy stuff?”

“Because it freaks you out,” Buck said, smirking as his plain donut. “Which, honestly, is just a bonus.”

Rook rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “I’ll go if we don’t end up in the insect house again. I’m still traumatized from last time.”

“That butterfly didn’t even touch you.” Buck snorted, adding a few scoops of sugar to his coffee.

Rook grunted and rolled away from the table. “It dive-bombed me.”

“That giraffe tried to lick my face, right… Rook?” Christopher said proudly.

“Yeah,” Rook lips twisted in a grin, eyes brightening, “and you tried to lick it back.”

Evan barked a laugh, ruffling Christopher’s curls as he passed. “You’re definitely my kid.”

Christopher grinned around a mouthful of chocolate sprinkles while Rook reached for the coffee Evan held out towards him.

Evan sipped his coffee, letting the warmth take hold before he set the mug down with a soft clink. “Alright, here’s the deal. We’re hitting the zoo after everyone does their stretches, medicine and morning exercises.”

Rook groaned dramatically. “You’re killing me.”

“You’ve been sitting in front of that laptop for two straight days,” Evan said, pointing at him with the donut tongs. “You’re doing arm and core today, minimum. And you,” he added, turning to Christopher, “need to finish your leg stretches before we even think about reptiles.”

Christopher sighed, but it was more theatrical than reluctant. “Fiiiine.”

Evan crouched down beside him, tapping his knee brace gently. “We’re taking the chair today. It’s gonna be a long walk, and I want you to actually enjoy it, not be exhausted halfway through.”

Christopher nodded, letting out a slow sigh. “Okay, Dad.”

Evan smiled, soft and proud. “Good man. We’ll load it up a little before lunch. I’ll do your hair while Rook grumbles through his resistance bands.”

“I hate you both,” Rook muttered around a bite of jelly donut.

“You love us,” Evan shot back. “Now finish that donut, drink your water, and then get moving. The giraffes aren’t going anywhere, but this zoo trip is still a go, if you’re both ready.”

Christopher wiped his hands and mouth clean. “Can I wear my snake shirt?”

Evan pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Only if you promise not to hiss at the docents this time.”

“No promises.” Christopher snorted, already halfway off his chair and clicking toward the hallway. “I gotta find my snake shirt!”

“Teeth first!” Evan called after him, earning a dramatic groan and the soft thump of crutches retreating toward the bathroom.

Evan turned back to the kitchen, collecting plates and sliding the bakery box closed. Rook was still sitting at the table, chewing the last of his donut in deliberate silence.
“You alright?” Evan asked, tilting his head slightly.

Rook shrugged, casual, but the way he avoided Evan’s gaze gave him pause. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Evan leaned back against the counter, drying his hands on a towel. “About?”

Rook exhaled through his nose. “I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been putting off my shower. I didn’t wanna ask Mace again.”

Evan frowned, brows knitting. He could already feel his fist clenching. “He give you shit?”

“No, no. He’s fine. He’s just…” Rook waved vaguely. “Big. And weird about the whole thing. Tries too hard to act like it’s normal, which makes it more awkward.”

Evan’s expression softened. “And I don’t?”

Rook cracked a small smile. “You don’t pretend. You just do.”

Steam fogged the mirror. The air smelled like eucalyptus and soap, the soft hiss of the whirlpool jets blending with the rhythmic hum of the bathroom fan. Evan crouched near the tub, helping Rook ease into the warm water. The tub was deep, specially installed months ago, complete with jets for circulation therapy and a bench built into the wall. It took up nearly half the bathroom, but Evan hadn’t hesitated. Rook needed it, hell it had been good for Chris and even him. That was enough for him to spend nearly a week fighting the VA and other insurance companies.

“Watch the… yeah, I got it,” Rook muttered, gripping Evan’s shoulder as he slid into place.

Evan didn’t flinch. He just steadied Rook with one hand under the arm and the other at his back. Rook exhaled when he finally sank into the water, the jets bubbling to life around him. “God, that’s good. You sure you don’t want to trade places? You look haunted this morning.”

Evan smirked, grabbing a folded towel to sit on. “Tempting, but someone’s gotta make sure you don’t drown in three feet of water.”

“Please,” Rook scoffed, eyes closed. “If I go out, I want it on record I died doing something thrilling. Not bubbling like a lobster.”

“Noted,” Evan said dryly. “Heroic end only. Maybe I’ll toss in a rubber ducky next time.”

The jets shifted behind Rook’s shoulder blades, working the knots loose. His breath hitched for half a second before melting into a groan. “Oh hell. That’s the spot. You install this thing for me or for you?”

Evan rolled his eyes, but his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “For your circulation and recovery, according to the discharge paperwork you still haven’t read.”

“Big words, Echo. You ever think about using your GI Bill to go to med school?”

Evan snorted. “Nah. I think firefighting’s where I’m supposed to be. Make up for some of the blood on my hands. Plus, I’m not trying to memorize bones I’ve already broken.”

Rook chuckled, eyes still closed, steam rising around him like a cocoon. But Evan’s gaze lingered on his hands trembling under the water. The weakness he had noticed in Rook’s body that hadn’t been there last week. The shaking was new. Not enough to panic over, but enough that Evan’s stomach twisted.

Rook cracked one eye open and caught him looking. “It’s the meds,” he murmured. “It’ll go away when I’m off them next week.”

Evan nodded, not pressing. Not yet. “You need anything adjusted?”

“No. This is... actually kind of perfect.” Rook leaned back against the tile, breathing slow, letting the jets work their magic. “I don’t even hate you right now.”

Evan grinned. They sat like that for a beat, the silence easy rather than heavy, the kind that came from shared years and a thousand unspoken moments.

Rook let out a breath, one hand bracing against the cool tile. Evan knew the bathroom was where Rook struggled most with regaining his independence. No matter how many adjustments Evan had made, grab bars, extra space, cushioned bench, the lift, there were still moments that felt like defeat.

“You ever think about talking to someone?” Rook asked, voice quiet but intentional.

Evan didn’t look at him. Just reached for the shampoo. “I talk to you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you meant.” Evan’s voice was sharper than he intended. He swallowed it down. “I’m fine.”

“I know you have nightmares,” Rook said quietly.

Evan’s hands stilled, fingers going rigid around the edge of the tub.

“I know you carry guilt.”

Evan’s jaw worked. “How the fuck would you know that?”

“Because I do too, you dumb fuck.”

The silence that followed pulsed, alive with memory. The hiss of the jets filled the space between them like white noise over radio comms. Steam curled around Evan’s shoulders, clinging to the tension in his frame.

“You think I don’t see it?” Rook asked, softer now. “The way you wake up already on edge? The pacing at one in the morning? Or the gym, when you think the house is quiet? The way you flinch when Mace claps your shoulder or when Eddie misses a call?”

Evan’s eyes stayed on the tile, unmoving.

“I’ve watched you hold it together with duct tape and adrenaline since the second you were discharged,” Rook said. “And man, I get it. But that doesn't mean it’s working.”

Evan set the shampoo down with deliberate care. His voice was low. “You think therapy’s going to fix that?”

“No,” Rook said honestly. “But I think it might help you not drown in it.”

Evan let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I don’t have time to drown.”

Rook snorted, but there was no amusement in it. “No. You just throw yourself into every fire, every shift, every decision like it’ll pay off some kind of debt you think you owe the universe.”

Evan finally looked up, and his eyes, those clear, hurricane-blue eyes were raw. “I left him.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” His voice cracked, low and ragged. “He was bleeding out, and I left him in the sand.”

Rook’s jaw tightened. “He was gone, Echo. There wasn’t anything you could do.”

Evan’s teeth ground together.

“You were bleeding out,” Rook snapped, voice rising with the weight of everything unspoken between them, everything that had festered for over a year. “You were half-conscious and still carried me out of that building. Then you went back for Mace. You covered Hawk so he could retreat. Dogman was gone, but you made sure they could bring him home. You wrapped him in your fucking kit and flagged the clearing so the CSAR boys could find him. You got the fucking medal for a reason.”

“But I didn’t,” Evan whispered, shaking his head.

“And you still fucking tried.” Rook’s voice cracked, raw and burning. “You tried, Evan. You were torn open. Even when your side was soaked in blood and your ears were ringing like hell. You dragged all of us out with nothing but spite and that fucked-up belief that if you had even sixty percent left to give, you had to give it. If Hawk hadn’t physically stopped you, you would’ve bled out trying to retrieve Dogman out too.”

Evan eyes were glassy, unblinking. “He wouldn’t have left me.”

“No,” Rook said, quiet but steady. “He wouldn’t have. But you didn’t leave him either.”

Evan blinked, trying to breath through the pain the washed over him.

Rook leaned forward, not letting him look away. “We couldn’t have save him. But he wasn’t alone, Evan. You stayed with him until the end. You told him he wasn’t gonna die out there, even though you both knew. You comforted him in his final moments. He knew he was fucking loved. He knew we’d take care of his daughter. You gave him peace, Echo.”

Evan closed his eyes, and for a second, the tension in his chest cracked open. Just enough to breathe. “You really think therapy’s gonna fix that?” he asked finally, voice low and wrecked.

“No,” Rook said, just as softly. “But I think it’ll keep me from losing another brother.”

“Start with the dreams,” Rook said softly. “The ones you don’t talk about. The ones you still wake up from and can still feel the rumble on your skin, the dust in your nose, the sand pelleting into your wound or even the belt of your father.”

Evan nodded once, slow. Barely. But it was something. Rook offered him a faint, tired smile. “It’s a start.”

Evan grabbed the towel off the bench and stood. His voice was steadier, if only slightly. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get you moving. I promised Chris we’d hit the zoo this afternoon.”

Rook groaned. “You’re really gonna make me look at snakes for three hours?”

Evan smirked but it didn’t reach his eyes as he tossed the towel over his shoulder. “Absolutely. And you’re buying the churros.

…

The sun was high, pouring through the scattered clouds as Evan maneuvered Christopher’s wheelchair through the front gates of the LA Zoo, one hand on the backrest, the other holding a folded map he had no intention of using.
Rook rolled up beside them, sunglasses perched on his nose, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. “So what I’m hearing is, you brought both your disabled dependents to the zoo with no plan?”

Evan smirked. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who once thought a trail map in Kandahar was ‘just a suggestion.’”

Christopher snorted from his seat. “Uncle Rook, that means we’re gonna get lost.”

“We won’t get lost,” Evan promised, steering toward the shaded path that led to the elephants. “We’ll just take the scenic route.”

Rook muttered something about recon failures under his breath, but he didn’t argue. They rolled at a steady pace, Christopher grinning as he pointed out animals from the guidebook he’d studied in his lap. “I want to see the giraffes first. They have really long tongues.”

“They also pee on their own legs,” Rook chimed in.

Christopher blinked as he looked up at Evan. “Is that true?”

Evan grimaced. “Unfortunately, yeah. It cools them down.”

“Gross,” Christopher said, delighted.

They stopped for frozen lemonades near the reptile house. Rook handed over cash before Evan could protest and parked himself in the shade while Evan adjusted Christopher’s leg rests and tucked a napkin into his collar.

“I feel like a baby,” Christopher grumbled.

“You look badass,” Evan said, tapping the tip of his nose. “Now drink your sugar water and prepare yourself. We’re going into the lizard cave.”

“Uncle Rook, c’mon snakes,” Christopher waved him over with a large, infectious grin.

“Bold of you to assume I’ll actually enter the snake pit,” Rook said, sipping his drink. “I’ll be right here, judging you from afar.”

Evan chuckled, and the tension that had sat heavy in his shoulders since the hospital eased. “Snakes are where you draw the line?”

“I’ll spill all the government secrets,” Rook confirmed, his lips twitching.

Inside the reptile house, it was cool and dim. Christopher leaned forward, face close to the glass, eyes wide as a massive boa slithered lazily across its enclosure. “They don’t blink,” he whispered, like it was a secret.

Evan crouched beside him, their shoulders brushing. “Nope. Always watching.”

“Like you,” Christopher said suddenly, turning his head. “You’re always watching me and Papa.”

Evan’s breath caught. He gave a soft smile, a little crooked at the edges. “Yeah, buddy. That’s my job.”

“Who watches you?”

Evan didn’t answer right away. He reached out, gently adjusted the brim of Christopher’s hat while giving the question a second of thought before answering softly, “Rook does. Mace does. Your Papa does even when he’s not here.”

Christopher nodded like that was enough. “Good.”

They left the reptile house and found Rook surrounded by pigeons, one perched on the armrest of his chair. “I hate this zoo.”

Christopher cackled, and Evan felt it again, that warmth in his chest that came when laughter overpowered the noise in his head. “Okay, next up, giraffes or churros?” Evan asked.

“Churros,” both Rook and Christopher said in unison, their knuckles bumping together.

Evan sighed dramatically, eyeing the half-eaten churro in his hand. “I have created monsters.”

Christopher shot him a mischievous grin, hands already gripping the wheels of his chair. “Race ya?”

Rook angled his own chair with a smooth pivot, the corners of his mouth lifting as he met Christopher’s gaze. “You’re on, kid.”

In the next instant, Christopher pushed off, and Rook followed, both of them rolling forward. Evan’s eyes went wide; he scrambled to catch up, the crowd parting around them like a current around rocks. “Hey—excuse us, sorry—just—sorry!” Evan offered apologetic nods to startled onlookers who hopped aside.

Christopher let out a triumphant whoop, leaning forward in his chair like that extra inch might give him more speed. Rook kept pace, expression determined beneath his sunglasses. They navigated the winding zoo path with surprising deftness.

Evan, breathless more from laughter than exertion, jogged behind. “This is not how normal families do churro breaks,” he muttered under his breath, though the fond smile on his face said otherwise.

Rook peeled to a stop near a wooden bench, spinning his chair in a victory flourish. Christopher came to a slower halt, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “I won,” he declared, half-panting, half-laughing.

“Because you cheated,” Rook shot back, though there was zero heat behind it. “You took the inside corner.”

Christopher just stuck out his tongue, still giggling. “If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.”

“Who taught you that?” Evan huffed out a surprised laugh.

Chris grinned, wide and proud. “Mace. He said sometimes winning means bending the rules a little. ’Cause having CP makes some stuff harder, so I gotta be clever. Find my own way to win.”

Evan blinked, the breath catching a little in his chest.

“He said people won’t always think I can do stuff,” Christopher added, more seriously now. “So it’s okay if I don’t play fair… long as I play smart.”

Evan ruffled his hair gently. “That sounds exactly like Mace.”

They strolled back through the zoo’s exit at an easier pace. Christopher was still flushed with victory, occasionally shooting Rook a smug smile, while Evan did a final sweep of the gift shop in case Christopher wanted a small souvenir. One plush giraffe and a handful of jokes later, they loaded themselves into the van, Rook hoisting both wheelchairs like a pro.

By the time Evan pulled away from the parking lot, Christopher was yawning through every other sentence, eyes drifting shut even as he tried to recount his favorite parts of the day.

The house smelled like carne asada and cilantro, the kind of comforting scent that wrapped around them as they walked through the front door. Christopher was slightly dozing, his head tilted to the side, sun-flushed and worn out from the zoo as Evan carried him into the house. Rook trailed behind, expertly balancing the drink tray on his lap.

Evan kicked the door shut behind them and dropped the takeout bags on the kitchen counter. “Alright, gentlemen, tacos are served.”

“I want three,” Rook called, wheeling past him into the living room.

“Too bad,” Evan replied, already unpacking foil-wrapped bundles. “You’re getting two and a fistful of chips like the rest of us.”

Chris perked up at the sound of food. “Do I get extra guac?”

“You always get extra guac,” Evan said with a fond smile, setting a little container of it aside for him.

They settled in easily, Evan sitting cross-legged on the floor while Chris curled up in the corner of the couch, a blanket tucked over his lap, Rook perched sideways in his chair so he could reach the coffee table. The TV played some old cartoon rerun in the background, but no one was really watching.

Evan had just taken a bite of his taco when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

EDDIE DIAZ – Incoming Call

“Chris,” he said, rising from his seat, “guess who’s calling?”

Christopher’s face lit up. “Papa?!”

Evan tapped the answer icon and switched to video. Seconds later, Eddie’s face flickered onto the screen—warm, familiar features tinted by a grainy feed. Chris leaned in to grab the phone with both hands, practically bouncing in place.

“Hey, mijo,” Eddie greeted, dark eyes crinkling in a smile despite the haze of poor lighting and spotty connection behind him.

“Hi, Papa!” Christopher beamed. “We saw flamingos today! And Rook said he’d rather fight insurgents than go into the snake cave.”

“I stand by that,” Rook called from the couch, rolling closer to eavesdrop. He pretended not to look too interested, but Evan caught the tiny upturn of his mouth.

Evan chuckled, propping himself against the counter. He observed Chris animatedly bringing Eddie up to speed on the past week—complete with sound effects for the zoo race and exaggerated arm flails for Rook’s near-run-in with a butterfly. Even through the flickering pixels, Eddie’s laugh was enough to ease the jagged knot in Evan’s chest.

Eventually, Christopher yawned, the day’s excitement finally catching up to him. Evan nodded toward Rook.

“C’mon, kid,” Rook coaxed, wheeling up beside him. “Bedtime.”

Christopher handed the phone back, eyelids heavy but still smiling. “Tell Papa I love him.”

“I will, bud.” Evan ruffled his hair, exchanging a quiet look of thanks with Rook as they headed down the hallway, Christopher’s crutches leaning against the wall, ready for tomorrow’s chaos.

Evan settled onto the edge of the couch, lifting the phone so he could see Eddie’s face more clearly on the small screen. Eddie’s background was dim—a generic prefab room on base, fluorescent lights casting hard shadows. He looked tired but alert, jaw set, the hint of a scuffed bruise near one temple. Evan’s heart squeezed at the sight.

“Hey,” Evan said softly.

“Hey,” Eddie echoed, letting the warmth in his voice fill the distance between them. “Thanks for that. You have no idea how much I needed to see you guys.”

Evan released a breath, glancing toward the hallway one last time. “Chris needed it too. He’s good, just misses you like hell.”

They shared a moment of quiet across thousands of miles, Eddie waiting, Evan gathering himself.

“And you?” Eddie prompted, leaning closer to the screen. A bit of static crawled across the image, but Evan could still make out the worry etched on Eddie’s brow.

Evan tilted his head back against the cushions, the phone angled to capture a glimpse of his own exhaustion. “I’m… functioning.”

“Echo.”

Evan huffed. “I’m fine.”

“Evan.” His real name, gentle and insistent, cut through any facade. Evan exhaled, letting his shoulders ease a fraction. He spoke in a low tone; aware Rook might still overhear.

“I had a call yesterday. A girl, fourteen, gave birth in a bathroom and…” He swallowed, the memory closing his throat. “Flushed the baby.”

Eddie’s face flickered on the screen as he inhaled sharply. “Shit.”

“It was insane, Eds. We tore apart this poor guy’s bathroom, cutting pipes to reach her. She was so fucking tiny.” Evan scrubbed a hand over his mouth, half-laughing, half-dazed. “Bobby told me to step back once we’d handed her off, but you know me…”

“Of course you didn’t listen.”

Evan’s short laugh cracked. “I ended up walking the mom and baby into the ER, doing kangaroo care in the ambulance because I remembered how it worked for Chris. And then I called Rachel, my old foster mom. She sent Becca—Becca, of all people. She’s a CPS worker now. All these years, and suddenly we’re side by side, saving a kid, fucking wild.”

Eddie was quiet, his brow furrowed on the small screen. The hum of background noise in his environment, distant machinery, low voices, faded as he focused on Evan. “They okay?”

Evan inhaled shakily. “The baby’s stable, for now. Mom’s… traumatized, obviously, but Becca’s got her. Could be a long haul, but at least they’re not alone.”

“That’s good,” Eddie murmured, voice nearly lost in a wave of static, but the relief was clear in his expression.

Evan steeled himself. “She was so small, Ed. The baby, I mean. And for a second, it felt like, like she was ours, which is stupid, right?” He forced a bitter laugh. “We can’t just take in a newborn. We’ve already got Chris, plus Rook, and you’re…”

“Deployed,” Eddie finished, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. The feed distorted momentarily, fracturing his face into pixelated shards before it resolved again.

Evan sighed. “Yeah. And I’m barely holding it together with the 118, plus everything else. It’s insane.”

“It’s not insane,” Eddie said quietly. The raw longing in his eyes was impossible to hide, even beneath the poor resolution. “We’ve talked about fostering, or adopting, or...”

Evan’s voice caught. “That was always a ‘someday’ plan, after we got out. But when I held her… I want it, Ed. Still do. It’s just so damn impossible right now. I’m a mess.”

“You’re not,” Eddie countered, gaze warm despite the flickering screen. “You’ve got a big heart, Echo. And a touch of baby fever.”

Evan barked a humorless laugh. “I can’t fix everything. I can’t just swoop in and adopt her because my emotions are high.”

“Maybe not,” Eddie agreed softly. “And maybe this exact situation isn’t right. But that doesn’t make how you feel wrong.”

Evan’s shoulders eased, the tightness in his chest loosening a fraction. “I could’ve lost her, Ed. She was barely breathing, so cold. When she grabbed my finger, it was like Chris all over again. That protective surge. I can’t shake it, it’s like a constant ache in my ribs.”

“Because you care,” Eddie said simply. His image flickered again, but the sincerity in his eyes remained steady. “And caring isn’t a weakness.”

“Feels like one.”

Eddie shifted, leaning so close his face nearly filled the screen. His jaw flexed, eyes brimming with something close to pride. “It’s not, though. You’re just… you. And that’s why I love you.”

Evan let out a shaky breath, letting the words settle in the spaces worry had left behind. “Alright,” he whispered, voice thick. “Alright.” He closed his eyes, letting the quiet linger for a moment before speaking again. “You still good over there? Heard your last mission was rough.”

Eddie exhaled, sounding tired but steady. “Yeah, we’re pulling out in a couple days. Gabe’s still stomping around like his boots alone can scare the brass into speeding things up. Hawk is itching to be stateside, back to Ana. Might punch if I have to listen to him wax poetry about her. Let’s just say he has a picture in his bunk, I certainly didn’t need to see of our child’s principal. Diesel’s just daydreaming out loud about beer, supermodels, and a big fancy steak.”

Evan’s lips twitched with amused affection. “Remind me to stock up on Diesel’s favorite beer before you guys land.”

“Do that…” Eddie started, but before he could continue, there was a shuffling noise on his end and muffled voices. Evan glimpsed some movement behind Eddie, familiar silhouettes jostling for space in what looked like a narrow hallway.

“Hey, speak of the devil,” Eddie said, shifting the phone so more of the backdrop came into view.

A moment later, Evan heard the distinct low rumble of Diesel’s greeting. “Echo, my man,” Diesel boomed. “You ready with those IPAs or what?”

Evan laughed softly. “I’ve got a shopping list. You just let me know which brand is fancy enough for your delicate palate, big guy.”

Diesel snorted. “Don’t you worry. I’ll text you the specifics and the steak marinade recipe I expect you to have waiting. I want the works when we get home.”

Before Evan could reply, Hawk’s voice slid in, casual and teasing. “Yo, Echo, how’s Rook doing?” He paused, then added in a lower tone, “Also, any news on Ana? I’m missing her like crazy.”

Evan grinned, glancing over his shoulder as if Rook might still be lingering nearby. “Rook’s doing okay, we’re going through a rocky patch. New meds are giving some complications. As for Ana, she’s good. I saw her, on Monday. Brought her a coffee, she’s missing your sorry ass.”

Hawk let out a soft exhale that might have been relief. “Thanks, E.”

An irritated grunt sounded, and Evan caught a glimpse of Gabe stepping through. The camera jostled as Eddie tried to hold it steady. Gabe’s silhouette hovered, arms crossed, but he didn’t say anything beyond a low, flat, “Buck. You look good.”

“Gabe,” Evan offered, as diplomatically as he could. Gabe responded with another grunt before moving away.

Eddie's face flickered back onto the blurry screen. “Sorry,” he said, sounding both frustrated and affectionate. “They’re pestering me to join the nightly briefing.”

Evan chuckled, leaning toward the camera. “Need anything before you head out? More gear? Another care package?”

Eddie let out a soft laugh, though his eyes were full of warmth. “I’ve got enough wet wipes and protein bars to last forever. But I wouldn’t say no to a new video of you. Something to, you know… keep me motivated.” He winked slowly, ensuring Evan caught it, and lifted an eyebrow just enough to make Evan’s stomach flutter.

Evan felt warmth rising in his cheeks. “Yeah? Think that might boost morale, Corpsman Díaz?”

“Definitely,” Eddie replied, his tone suggestive enough that Evan knew he was only half-joking.

Evan laughed and put on a show of being annoyed, though his grin gave him away. “Sure, sure. Because obviously what you really need out there are thirst traps from your fiancé.”

“Shut up,” Eddie quipped back, the fondness in his voice unmistakable. “Send pictures too. Christopher, you, the family. They don’t all have to be… well, you know.” He cleared his throat, adding with a mischievous smirk, “But I wouldn’t mind a thirst trap or two.”

Evan arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I should just plan an entire calendar shoot.”

“I hear motor oil and fire hoses make good props,” Eddie teased, leaning closer as if he could somehow bridge the miles between them with his smirk alone.

Evan threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine! I’ll make it happen. And I’ll swing by your abuela’s to get more pictures of Christopher, maybe the rest of the clan, too.”

Eddie’s eyes softened at the mention of his abuela. He was about to say more when a clang sounded in the background, and someone appeared behind him, waving frantically for him to hurry. Eddie turned back to the camera, expression shifting to apology.

“I gotta go, babe. They’re calling me.”

Evan let out a shaky breath, the warmth in his chest a reminder of everything waiting for them once Eddie was home. “I will. Chris is probably asleep by now, but I’ll give him an extra hug from you.”

“Thanks,” Eddie said, papers rustling again as the sounds of deployment life pressed in around him. “And, Ev?”

Evan’s chest tightened at the familiar pang of longing. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Evan smiled slow, deep, so real it made his ribs ache in the best way. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

The scent of bacon drifted through the firehouse kitchen, mingling with fresh coffee and the low murmur of morning radio. “Ham, cheese and peppers,” Hen said passing her bowl to Bobby, as he started on her omelet. Chimney hovered nearby with suspiciously too-much energy for 8 a.m.

“I’m telling you,” Chimney said, practically vibrating as he filled mugs with coffee, passing them out. “Tonight’s the night.”

Hen arched a brow. “You mean tonight’s the night you finally finish watching get caught up on Supernatural like you’ve been promising?”

Chim grinned. “Better. Bigger. I’m proposing.”

The kitchen stilled.

Even the radio seemed to pause.

Buck, halfway through a bite of scrambled eggs, blinked. “Proposing… like, with a ring? Down-on-one-knee kind of thing?”

“Yes, that kind of proposing.” Chimney rolled his eyes, retrieving a small velvet box from his pocket and flipping it open for them to see.

Hen whistled low. “Okay, that’s... wow. That’s actually really pretty. But, you’re sure you are ready for this?”

“Yeah,” Chim said, carefully slipping the box back into his pocket. “She’s the one. I know it.”

“Bold,” Hen said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I mean, we’ve all seen the Tatiana Show. Just want to make sure you’re not getting swept up in the sparkle.”

Chimney scoffed. “It’s not sparkle. It’s love.”

Buck muttered into his mug, “Sparkle and delusion are neighbors.” Hen shot him a sharp look, but Chimney didn’t catch it.

“What was that?” Chim asked, still riding the high.

Buck set his mug down and shrugged. “Nothing. Just… she’s got a thing for the fantasy version of you. The guy who makes gourmet dinners and writes her name in latte foam.”

Chim stilled for a beat. “So?”

Buck met his gaze. “So… just make sure she wants you, not some Hallmark special you’re playing on loop.” The tension hovered and Hen opened her mouth, ready to intercept. But Buck beat her to it. “Look, I don’t mean that like a jerk.” He exhaled, pushing his plate away. “I’ve seen worse reasons to get married. Hell, I’ve seen people marry for convenience, benefits, loneliness. If she makes you feel like there’s something worth holding onto then hell yeah. I hope it works out.”

Bobby, flipping Hen’s omelet, broke the silence. “Relationships aren’t about being perfect. They’re about being real. Just make sure she sees you, Chim.”

Buck stood, grabbing his coffee to-go cup. “And if she does? Then go get her.”

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. “Engine 118, respond to a traffic collision. Multiple vehicles, possible entrapment. Corner of Fairfax and 6th.”

Bobby was already moving. “Let’s go!”

Chairs scraped back. Coffee mugs clinked. Buck groaned as he downed the rest of his cup and grabbed his turnout coat. “Of course. Because God forbid we finish a meal.”

Hen smirked. “You jinxed it.”

Chimney tossed Bobby the keys. “Still taking bets on how many Prius drivers lose their minds over a fender bender.”

“Let’s find out,” Bobby called as the bay doors opened.

The call was chaotic. Three cars, one T-boned into a light pole. Mostly shock and sore necks, but Buck and Hen had to cut one driver out while Chim patched up a kid with a split forehead.

By the time they rolled back into the station a few hours later, Chim let out a low whistle as he spotted the large brown paper bags on the kitchen table upstairs. “Yes. Is that Thai?”

“It was Thai,” Hen said, already unbuckling. “Let’s hope it’s still warm.”

They were halfway to the table when the next alarm sounded. 

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. “Engine 118, respond to a medical rescue. Griffith Park. Reports of adult male down, possible traumatic injury. Additional info—children involved. Repeat, children involved.”

“Come on!” Bobby shouted, already pivoting back toward the trucks.

Buck let his head thunk back against his locker for a second before jogging after the team. “Why is it always at mealtime?” he grumbled. “I’m starving!”

The rigs rolled to a stop at the edge of a winding service road, sirens fading as the team spilled out into motion.

From their vantage point at the ridge, they could just make out the splash of bright primary colors halfway down the hillside—a deflated bounce house crumpled like a wounded creature, caught on the scrub and rocks below. A man lay motionless beside it, twisted awkwardly in the dirt.

Hen raised her binoculars. “Adult male, down. Looks like blunt trauma. We got three kids still inside the bouncy house, moving but clearly scared.”

Bobby was already grabbing ropes and gear. “Stage the trucks up here. Hen, Buck—rappel down, anchor the house, check vitals on the kids, start bringing them up one at a time.”

Hen nodded, grabbing her harness. “Got it.”

“I’ll take care of the dad,” Bobby continued. “Chim, you’re on the winch.”

Chimney groaned. “Why do I never get the fun stuff?”

“Working the winch is fun,” Hen called over her shoulder as she clipped in.

Buck smirked, pulling on his gloves. “Especially when you’ve got someone trained to triage mid-air.”

Hen shot him a sideways glance. “Remind me to ask you about that field medic cert you keep dodging questions about.”

“Later,” he said, already stepping over the ridge. “Rescues first. Humblebrags later.”

Buck descended first, boots crunching on loose rock as he rappelled smoothly down the slope, Hen right behind him. The bright plastic of the bounce house had collapsed in on itself but still shifted with the kids’ movement inside.

“Hey! Hey, guys?” Buck called as he reached the edge. “We’re L.A. Fire and Rescue. We’re gonna get you out, okay? Just stay calm, stay still.”

“Help!” one of the kids cried, voice muffled and panicked.

Hen pulled back the flap and ducked inside. “Hey, boys. Can you tell if your friend here is okay? Is he awake? Breathing?”

The kids shook their heads. One had tears streaking his cheeks. The other clung to a younger boy, maybe five or six, who lay very still.

“Chim,” Buck called up. “Lower the basket. We’ve got three minors, one unresponsive.”

“Copy,” came the reply through the radio, followed by the low whirr of the descending basket.

As the metal frame neared them, Buck glanced over to the man on the ground, unconscious, blood matting one side of his head. Bobby was crouched beside him already, checking his neck for stability.

“Is my dad okay?” one of the boys asked, voice high with fear.

Buck turned, crouching low beside them. “He’s gonna be alright. But I need you to be brave for me, okay? You’re gonna go up first.”

The boy nodded, clutching his little brother tighter.

Buck helped guide the first child into the rescue basket while Hen steadied the line. “Nice and easy,” he murmured. “You’re doing great.”

The basket rose. Buck turned to Hen. “Kid’s stable. Second one next?”

Hen gave a short nod and signaled Chimney. “Basket coming back down.”

Minutes passed in tense rhythm, lower, load, lift. The boys were quiet but responsive, holding hands as long as they could. The youngest stirred slightly, a faint whimper escaping him.

“We’ve got a pulse,” Hen said, relief flickering across her face. “Low, but there. We need him up fast.”

Buck nodded. “Let’s go.”

The final lift was smooth, Chim carefully guiding the youngest up in the basket as Bobby called for transport and a trauma alert for the father.

Hen exhaled. “That’s the last of them.”

Buck turned to follow her up, but paused just long enough to look back at the crushed, deflated bounce house. A breeze tugged at one corner, the bright fabric flapping like a flag of surrender.

For a second, the sound of screaming children ghosted through his memory, another time, another place. The little body in his arms.

“Buck,” Hen said gently, already halfway up the rope. “You coming?”

He blinked, snapping out of it. “Yeah. Right behind you.” He climbed in silence.

…

The flicker of video game explosions cast playful shadows across the common room. Hen leaned forward, elbows on her knees, laser-focused on the screen. Buck sat beside her, squinting at the controls, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth like it would help him drive straighter.

“Right here, right here, right here,” Hen barked. “Turn left!”

“I’m trying!” Buck countered, jerking the controller like it would steer harder.

“Oh, oh, so you’re fleeing the scene now?” Hen teased. “You do realize that you lose points for murdering people on the way to a fire?”

“It should be fine,” Buck deadpanned. “It’s a flesh wound. Obamacare.”

Hen snorted and wrestled the controller from his hands, laughing as Buck made a dramatic sound of betrayal. “What? Hen! Please—someone call HR! No—Hen!”

She cackled as Buck ducked away from her playful swat. “Ridic… Chimney! Here.” She tossed the spare controller across the couch. “You’re up. Keep the sailor from killing everyone.”

“Aww, man,” Buck grumbled. “I was finally getting the hang of it.”

But neither of them were really paying attention to Chimney until Hen looked up and caught the expression on his face. “Hey,” she said, softening. “What’s… what’s wrong? You okay? Look, Chim, if there’s something you want to talk about…”

Chimney didn’t answer right away. He dropped into the chair opposite them, fidgeting with the controller. “I’m a good-looking guy, right?”

Hen blinked, her gaze jumping from Chimney to Buck back to Chim. “Uh. Sure?”

He turned his gaze away from Buck’s and landed on Hen. “I mean, like, you can do a lot worse than me, yeah?”

Hen smirked. “Chimney, I’ve done a whole lot worse than you.”

He turned to Buck. “Buck. You think I’d be a good father?”

Buck’s brow furrowed. “Of course, Chim. What is this about?”

Chim’s voice dropped. “I asked Tatiana to marry me.”

Hen nearly dropped her water bottle. “What?”

Buck looked up, startled. “Are you serious?”

Chimney let out a breath. “First she said she cheated on a fiancé I didn’t even know existed. Then she said we needed to break up. Then she said… she didn’t know and backtracked up on breaking up.”

Buck, without missing a beat, “Did you offer her the option of an open marriage? It’s super modern.”

Hen swatted his arm. “Buck.”

He held up his hands. “Sorry. That may not have been the response you hoped for. But hey… it’s not a no.”

Chimney stared at the floor. “Might as well be.”

From the kitchen, Bobby’s voice drifted in, quiet but pointed. “Probably for the best.”

Chimney’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

Bobby didn’t look up from the stove. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean anything by that. You doing, okay?”

Chim turned toward him, disbelief on his face. “Of course you meant something by it. ‘Probably for the best?’ There’s a lot of meaning behind that. What—you don’t like her?”

Bobby set down the spatula. “I never said I don’t like her. I don’t like her for you.”

Chim’s voice rose. “And what does that even mean? No, come on, come on with it, wise man. Just say what you want to say. I’m getting real tired of you standing there, just silently judging me with that—yeah, right there, with that smirk on your face.”

“Chim…” Hen started, trying to calm him.

“No, I’m serious!” Chimney snapped. “You’re always so quick to comment on everybody’s life, but you completely shut down whenever we ask about yours. Why is that, huh? I mean, how long have we worked together, Bobby? I know nothing about you. I’ve never even met your wife and your kids.”

“You know why?” Chim continued, voice rising. “’Cause all you do is brood in that little book of yours. You think it makes you deep. All-knowing. Better than us.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “You’re upset. Let’s drop it.”

“Oh, my God. Come on, Bobby. Just say it. What is it? Say it!”

Buck's voice cut through the room. “Alright. Since Cap doesn't want to say it. You’re living a lie.”

Silence fell like a dropped weight.

“You let her manipulate you,” Buck went on. “You act like someone else around her. Making up stories to feed some hero fantasy she craves.” Buck didn’t flinch. His tone stayed even and cool, but not cruel. “And maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to lie if someone actually saw you and not just the guy who plays house.”

Chim shot to his feet. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this coming from you?”

Hen stood too her hand out like she could physically hold the moment together. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“No, let him talk,” Chim snapped. “Because this guy sits in the corner acting like he’s above it all, but I’ve never met anyone who works harder to make sure no one knows a damn thing about them. You think I’m fake? At least I’m not a black hole.”

Buck’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“You lecture me on being real, but no one even knows where you’re from,” Chim went on, voice shaking. “

“That’s enough,” Bobby said sharply. “Both of you.”

But Buck just shook his head. “You asked her to marry someone she doesn’t actually know, and she gave you the truth. Maybe it hurts. But it’s better than the lie you were building your life on.”

Chim’s mouth twisted like he might shout again—but then he stopped. His face crumpled. “I really thought she was it man,” he said quietly, barely a whisper. “I really thought…”

Hen stepped forward, but he held up a hand. “I’m good. I just, I need some air.”

He turned and walked out, the door closing gently behind him this time.

The firehouse was quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled deep in your chest and made you aware of every breath.

Dinner had made it to the table Bobby’s grilled chicken and roasted vegetables, now lukewarm but none of them moved for it at first. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The sounds of the city felt far away.

Hen was the first to sit. She picked up her fork more out of habit than hunger.

Buck hovered awkwardly near the end of the table, his hands in his pockets, head ducked. Eventually, he slid into the seat beside her, not touching his plate.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said finally, voice low. “Should’ve stayed out of it.”

Hen didn’t look up right away. She chewed slowly, then set her fork down and leaned back.

“No,” she said, soft but firm. “You told him what he needed to hear.”

Buck let out a dry breath. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“We all knew how this was going to play out,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “You just had the guts to say it out loud.” She sighed, quieter now. “I’ve been trying to hold the middle ground for so long, I didn’t even realize how tired I was. Maybe we all needed the truth to land a little rough.”

Buck frowned. “Doesn’t mean it had to come from me.”

Hen gave him a pointed look. “You were honest. That matters. Maybe not in the moment. Maybe not to him. But it matters.”

Bobby moved quietly behind them, plating the food in silence. He placed a dish in front of Buck, one in front of Hen, then sat down across from them.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the clink of forks against plates the only sound between them.

Hen finally added, “We just wished it hadn’t gone down like that.”

Buck’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Me too.”

Bobby reached for the pepper grinder but didn’t say anything.

Buck pushed his food around his plate. “He’s gonna come back, right?”

Hen looked at him gently. “He’s Chim. Of course he will.”

The clatter of dishes and hum of rinse water filled the kitchen. Buck moved with easy efficiency, drying the last plate before sliding it into the cabinet, every movement practiced, clean. Hen scrubbed the stove with slow, meditative circles. The radio murmured soft jazz. It should’ve felt peaceful.

It didn’t.

Not after the fight.

Not with the empty space Chimney had left behind.

Buck leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at nothing. “You ever think about walking away from it all?”

Hen quirked a brow. “Like… quitting the job?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, just… vanish. Buy a cabin in Montana. Make bad coffee. Fix your own roof. Be left alone.”

Hen gave a short laugh. “You’d last two weeks. Tops. Then you’d start rescuing squirrels or chasing down forest fires.”

Buck tilted his head. “Still sounds better than scrubbing Thai curry off plates.”

She grinned. “You say that now.”

Bobby’s voice cut through the air from the hall. Sharper than usual. “Who is this?”

Hen froze. Buck straightened immediately. His instincts narrowed.

Bobby's voice cut through the air, his tone steel. “Okay. All right, everybody, let’s gear up! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Buck was already grabbing his jacket. “For what? We didn’t get a tone.”

Bobby rounded the corner fast, coat in hand. “It’s Chimney.”

Hen’s towel hit the floor. “What?”

Buck’s stomach dropped as the alarms blared through the station. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. “Engine 118, respond to 10-36 auto emergency. One LAFD firefighter involved. Code red.”

Chim.

They ran.

The truck roared down the streets with urgency that lived in Buck’s bones. He braced himself between radio and window, eyes sharp, brain already parsing scenarios, MOI, blunt force trauma, entrapment.

When they arrived, floodlights and flashing reds lit the intersection like a war zone.

Buck’s breath caught when he saw the car.

White sedan, front end folded like wet cardboard into a cement barrier. Shattered windshield. Driver’s side door punctured by a jagged length of rebar, straight through the glass. The kind of wound that didn’t leave survivors.

He was already moving, not waiting for instructions.

A paramedic met them. “Captain Nash?”

Bobby nodded.

The medic’s eyes flicked toward Buck, then Hen. “He wouldn’t let anyone else near him. Said to wait for you.”

Buck stepped forward, his voice calm, command threaded through every word. “Vitals?”

“BP’s holding. Weak. Heart rate’s elevated. He’s lucid, for now.”

“You might want to prepare yourselves,” the medic added quietly.

Buck’s voice didn’t rise. “Take me in.”

The moment he reached the wreck, his brain clicked over SEAL mode. Assess. Triage. Control. “Chim,” he said low, crouching beside the window. “It’s Buck. I’m here.”

Chimney turned, dazed. “I can’t move my neck.”

“You’re pinned, but stable,” Buck said, scanning him quickly. “You’ve got a piece of rebar through the left frontal lobe. We think it missed anything vital.”

“How is that even possible?” Hen muttered behind him.

Buck answered first, a quiet but unwavering voice. “Brain tissue has no nociceptors. That’s why you can’t feel it.”

Chim tried to move. His fingers twitched.

“Don’t,” Buck and Hen said together.

Bobby knelt beside him. “Just stay still, okay? We’ve got you.”

Chim’s breathing hitched. “Why aren’t you cutting me out?”

“Because we don’t want to kill you doing it,” Buck answered bluntly, but not unkind. “You’re stable. We’re gonna keep you that way.”

He leaned in, anchoring Chim’s gaze as he took his hand, Chim’s blood coating his fingers. His grip was firm not for comfort, but for connection, from another life where holding on meant someone lived. “But you’ve gotta stay with me, okay? Don’t panic. Don’t move. Just breathe and listen to my voice.”

Chim blinked slowly. “How bad is it?”

Bobby hesitated. Buck didn’t. “It’s serious. But we’ve seen worse. And you’re tougher than you look.”

Chim’s throat bobbed. “I want to see it.”

“No, you don’t,” Hen said gently.

“Yeah,” Chim whispered. “Yeah, I do.”

Buck reached for the mirror in his medic kit without being asked just like he’d done before, desert sand or city asphalt, always the same grip, the same weight. He held it steady as Bobby shone the flashlight.

Chim looked. His lips parted, eyes wide. “Holy fuck. How am I not dead?”

“Because,” Buck said evenly, “you’re the luckiest unlucky bastard I’ve ever met.”

“Feels… weird.”

“You’re in shock,” Hen confirmed. “It hasn’t hit yet.”

Buck tapped the frame around Chim’s head brace, double-checking the locks. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re gonna lift you slow and level. No sudden angles. Hen’s gonna stay on your C-spine. I’ll control the traction. You don’t move unless told by someone more trained than Hen or me, got it?”

Buck gave the tiniest squeeze to Chim’s hand.  “We’ve got you, Chim. That’s what brothers do.”

Chim blinked at him slow and steady, eyes full of understanding.

“Good,” Buck said. He looked at Hen. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“On three. One… two…”

They lifted. Buck adjusted instantly when Chim twitched, stabilizing without pause. His hands were precise. This wasn’t his first impalement. It wasn’t even his worst, but it was close.

They slid the backboard into place, locking everything down.

“Hey, Buck?” Chim mumbled as they secured him.

“Yeah?”

“How’s the car? Is it totaled?”

Buck let out the faintest breath of a laugh. “Nah, man. You’ll probably buff most of that out.”

“Good…” Chim muttered as his eyes drifted closed.

They loaded him into the ambulance as sirens screamed back to life.

“Let’s get OR 3 prepped,” someone barked over the radio. “Neurosurgical team on standby.”

At the hospital, they pushed through swinging doors until a nurse stopped them.

“We’ll take him from here.”

Buck stepped forward on instinct.

The nurse blocked his path. “Are you family?”

He opened his mouth. Hesitated.

Hen answered for him, steady and sure. “Yeah. We are.”

Buck blinked once. A slow, quiet thing. His jaw tightened, then eased as he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

And with it, something shifted.

Just like the night Hawk pinned his photo to his collage, a small, quiet gesture that said you belong, this was one of those moments.

With that nod, his family grew again.

Hen. Bobby. Chimney. They weren’t just crewmates. Not just the job. They were his. Part of the brotherhood he had built his life around, one piece at a time, through blood, grief, and fire.

But just before the doors could shut, Bobby laid a hand on Buck’s chest and Hen’s shoulder. “This is where we stop. Like always.”

The station was quiet in the hours that followed. Too quiet. Lights dimmed. Radios low. The clink of dishes sounded too loud; the scrape of a chair too sharp. Nobody said much, but nobody really sat still either.

Buck stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, scrubbing beneath his fingernails with the stiff station brush. Again. And again. And again. The soap had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

Hen watched him from the corner of her eye as she passed, wiping down a counter that didn’t need it. “Still nothing?” she asked softly, not stopping.

Buck didn’t look up. “No news is good news, right?” He finally turned off the tap, but didn’t move from the sink. His hands hovered in the air like he didn’t trust them to be clean. Or still.

She didn’t answer, just moved closer and gently nudged his shoulder with hers. "It's going to be alright."

As B shift floated into the station.

Bobby’s voice rang through the locker room, firm and final. “Load up.”

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale light through the haze hanging over the city. The 118 moved like a single unit down the quiet hallways of the hospital, turnout coats long since shed, but the weight of the night still clinging to their shoulders.

They didn’t speak much on the ride over. There wasn’t anything to say that hadn’t already been said with glances and breath held just a second too long.

Bobby stopped at the nurses’ station. “Howard Han. Brought in about eight hours ago. LAFD.” The nurse didn’t even ask for ID. She just nodded. “ICU, third floor. You can wait outside the glass. Surgical team hasn’t updated yet.”

They took the stairs.

Hen peeled off first, her boots whispering across the sterile tile as she crossed to the windows. The blinds were half-closed, but she could just make out the rise and fall of a chest, the tangle of monitors, tubes, machines breathing for him. She pressed a hand to the glass.

Buck stood a few paces back. He flexed his fingers once, twice. Like he was trying to keep them from twitching.

“This isn’t Yemen,” he muttered under his breath. It wasn’t meant to be heard. Just a memory slipping past his lips before he could cage it. Hen turned slightly. So did Bobby. Buck didn’t look at either of them. His eyes were locked on the bed beyond the glass.

On the man inside it.

“He’s got the best of the best,” Buck said, murmured. He nodded, once to himself and crossed his arms over his chest, planting his boots shoulder-width apart.

The SEAL in him slipping free. The shadows of his past licking against his skin. He didn’t say anything else.

Because for all his distance, for all the walls he’d kept up around his new crew the last five months, Evan Buckley was still standing outside that ICU door. As if standing there, watching hard enough, hurting hard enough, might somehow be enough to keep Chimney alive.

Because for all the ways he’d held them at arm’s length, he had still come to love them.

And Chimney was his brother now. And Echo didn’t leave anyone behind. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

The front door clicked softly behind him. Evan exhaled, low and controlled, the kind of breath that belonged to a man who hadn’t taken a real one in almost forty-eight hours. The warm, familiar scent of pasta filled the air, washing away the lingering sterile scent of hospital halls still clinging to his nose.

The house was dim the TV buzzed faintly from the living room, some cartoon Evan couldn’t place. 

He toed off his boots and didn’t bother with the overheads. Just the small lamp in the hallway, so light spilling across the hardwood like the day had finally surrendered.

From the living room came the muffled thump of wheels rolling across the rug. “You eat?” Rook’s voice, low and steady, but he didn’t need the answer to know he hadn't. “There’s lasagna. Chris made garlic bread. Kind of.”

Evan smirked faintly, dropping his jacket onto the hook by the stairs. “Oh yeah?"

“Charred on the bottom. Soft in the middle. Ten out of ten would suffer again.”

A small giggle echoed from the couch. “Hey,” Christopher called, voice a little groggy from the kind of early evening nap only kids could bounce back from. “Daddy, you’re home.”

“I’m home,” Evan echoed. He padded over, crouched beside the couch, and pressed a kiss to the top of Christopher’s hair. “Smells like you’ve been using the good shampoo.”

“It’s Rook’s,” Chris said proudly, hugging his dad a bit tighter. “I smell like eucalyptus and battle.”

Evan huffed a soft laugh, resting his forehead against Chris’s temple, breathing in the boy’s scent, letting it soothe him. His eyes drifting shut for a quiet minute.

“Long day?” Rook asked, reading Evan’s body language. 

Evan didn’t answer right away. He stood, grabbing the folded blanket off the back of the couch and draping it across Christopher. “Yeah.”

Rook’s voice was soft when it came next. “You good?” He asked. \

Evan should've been home fourteen hours ago. He didn’t answer. He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his side like the weight of the last day still lived in his bones. "I think I just need to be Evan for a while.”

Rook nodded once, no judgment as understanding fluttered across his face. “Then be Evan.”

Christopher pushing himself upright, “Are you okay, Dad?”

Evan turned, offering him smile. “Yeah, Superman. Just tired.”

Christopher slid off the couch and scooted his way over to him, pajamas a size too big and socks mismatched. He wrapped his arms around Evan’s waist without a word. Evan crouched to hug him back, burying his face in his son’s hair.

“I saved you a piece of garlic bread,” Chris mumbled, “The good corner.”

Evan smiled into his curls. “Thanks kid.”

Rook rolled forward and dropped a plate on the coffee table. “Eat. Then shower. Then crash. Everything else can wait.”

The next morning, the house woke slow.

Evan padded barefoot into the kitchen while the sun was dragging itself over the horizon. Rook was already at the table, laptop open, fingers tapping absently as he drew up his request for more funding for his foundation. “Coffee’s ready,” Rook muttered without looking.

“Thanks fucker,” Evan croaked, grabbing a mug.

The day slipped by like that. Easy. Uncomplicated.

They hit the park for fresh air. They built a lopsided pillow fort in the living. They ate too much takeout. They watched a Pixar movie. Tackled a grocery run that felt a lot like a field mission.

And somewhere between the caffeine, the cartoons, and the laundry pile, Evan started to breathe again.

He didn’t answer every call from the 118. Bobby texted a few times, giving them updates on Chimney, and how he was improving steadily, awake more hours than asleep. Hen sent a thumbs-up emoji. Evan copied it, but didn't expand on it. His shoulder relaxing as he tucked his phone away.

By Tuesday evening, the to-do list started catching up with him.

Evan sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, appointment screens pulled up. Christopher hummed to himself from where he was finishing his homework at the table. 

Rook wheeled by with a Monster and a suspicious glance. “You look like you’re choosing between root canals.”

“Feels like it.” Evan scrubbed a hand over his face. “Scheduling stuff.”

“For me?” Rook asked, arching a brow.

“For both of us,” Evan admitted.

Rook quirked a small smile. “Well, I do enjoy being a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Evan said automatically, voice sharp enough that Christopher glanced up. He softened his tone. “You’re family. Cut out the self-deprivation shit around the kid." He turned the screen toward Rook. “PT evaluation and we’re going to adjust your chair fittings while we’re there. You’re still off alignment and it’s destroying your back.”

Rook grunted. “Fine. Nag me into wellness, see if I care.”

Evan smirked. “I plan to.”

Evan didn’t blink. He reached out, snatched the can clean out of Rook’s hand before he could take a sip.

“Hey!” Rook barked, scandalized.

“No more of this shit until your strength’s back,” Evan said flatly, setting the can on the far counter like it was contraband. “You’re running on fumes, and caffeine’s not a substitute for energy deprivation.”

Rook opened his mouth to argue.

“Don’t,” Evan warned, he finished booking Rook’s appointment, made a mental note to pick up more resistance bands, then hesitated over the last tab on his browser.

Therapy.

He tapped his fingers once, twice, against the table. Before he could talk himself out of it, Evan clicked the link and scheduled the intake. He let out a small sigh as he signed his name, Evan Buckley. And with that his first appointment was booked for next Tuesday, early afternoon, before school pickup.

He closed the laptop with a quiet snap.

Rook bumped Evan’s foot with the side of his chair. “Proud of you, Echo,” he said simply.

Evan shook his head, smiling into his coffee. “Takes one to know one.” Their eyes met understanding volleying between them.

He's already moving back to the table, lining out Rook’s and Christopher's medication organizers with efficiency. Pain meds. Muscle relaxers. Multivitamins. Acid reducers. Evan checked each bottle, fingers quick and steady.

“After dinner,” Evan said, voice casual but leaving no room for debate, “you and Chris are doing PT together.”

Rook’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Evan glanced at him, arching a brow. “You need core work. He needs stretches. I know you don’t let him skip out on his when you're on watch, so I’m not gonna let you flake on your own. You two already built half a damn ninja course in the living room, use it.”

Dinner was leftover lasagna and garlic bread that Chris proudly insisted he had perfected with his dad’s help. Afterward, Rook stretched out on the floor with Christopher, both working through a set of stretches, followed by light resistance band exercises and army crawls, Evan talked them through. When the exercises were done, Rook barely made it back up into his chair.

“C’mon, Rookie,” he said, voice light and he adjusted him with steady hand. “Bedtime.” With Rook’s nod of agreement, he steered him towards his room too tired to argue. He was leaning more into Evan’s strength than usual. It made Evan’s chest ache in a quiet way he didn’t let show. He got him settled, his extra meds on the nightstand, water, remote and cell within reach. “Don’t be a hero,” Evan said, adjusting the pillow behind his back. “Call if you need anything.”

“I’m good,” Rook rasped, already half-asleep.

Christopher had burrowed deep into the couch cushions, the worn copy of Percy Jackson and the Olympians open and upside-down on his lap. Evan chuckled under his breath, as he scooped him up, earning a drowsy protest and a giggle.

“We're reading upstairs tonight, Superman.”

Christopher’s room was dim the nightlight casting slow-moving stars across the ceiling. Evan nudged the door open with his foot and set Chris gently down on the bed, helping him get settled.

Chris blinked up at him, still fighting sleep, but determined. “Story.”

Evan smiled, grabbing the book from the nightstand where a few other half-finished chapter books were stacked. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He climbed onto the bed beside him, stretching out carefully, the worn paperback balanced between them. Christopher wiggled closer until he was tucked under Evan’s arm, head resting against his chest.

Evan opened the book, found the dog-eared page they left off on, and started to read aloud.

His voice was low and even, threading through the room as he wove them back into the story, Percy running as the Minotaur closed in. Chris’s breathing evened out quickly, the words of the story slipping into his dreams. Evan kept reading until Chris was well and truly asleep

He tucked him in and crossed the hall and collapsed into his own bed with a groan.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:37 AM when Evan’s phone buzzed against his pillow, soft and insistent.

He blinked awake, heart thudding once hard before he caught the caller ID.

Eddie Diaz.

He was answering before the second buzz faded. “Hey.”

There was static at first, a shuffle of movement, then Eddie’s voice, low and warm like a hand sliding across his skin. “Hey, baby.”

Evan exhaled, sinking back against the pillows. His voice was rough with sleep, but he didn’t care. “You’re calling late.”

“Missed you,” Eddie said simply, like it wasn’t a weapon. Like it wasn’t going to crack Evan open from the inside.

“You good?” Evan asked, already hearing the fatigue under Eddie’s words.

“Yeah. Long week. Shitty comms, shitty intel. Got your last email though.” A pause, softer now. “Made my fucking week.”

Evan chuckled into the darkness. “I didn’t even say anything important.”

“You said you loved me. That counts.” Eddie’s voice was soft, curling around the space between them. “Plus, we got a stand down order this morning. Twenty-four hours to unwind.”

Neither of them spoke, just breathing into the connection like it mattered, like it kept their world from splitting apart.

Evan shifted under the sheets, voice dropping into teasing. “So… you callin’ just to be sentimental, Diaz? Or you got something else in mind?”

The rough sound Eddie made on the other end went straight to Evan’s spine.

“Miss the way you sound when you’re wrecked,” Eddie muttered, low and filthy.

Evan bit back a groan, dragging a hand through his hair. He was already moving, shifting the sheets lower, craving a touch he couldn’t have.

“Yeah?” Evan whispered, sliding his free hand across his stomach.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathed. “Miss your hands. Your mouth. The way you look when you’re trying so hard to stay quiet but can’t. That wild look in your eye when your control snaps.”

Evan let out a soft, shuddering breath. His fingers sliding lower.

“What are you wearing?” Eddie asked, rough and low.

“Boxers. T-shirt. You.”

Eddie chuckled, a low, strained sound. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Evan smiled into the dark, eyes fluttering shut. “Not my fault you’re horny a thousand miles away, Patch.”

“Touch yourself for me, Echo,” Eddie rasped.

Evan obeyed without thinking, his hand sliding under the waistband, the first brush of skin against skin making him gasp. He bit his lip, swallowing the sound.

“That’s it,” Eddie whispered. “Nice and slow. Wanna hear you.”

Evan stroked himself slowly, dragging it out, breathing getting ragged. He could hear Eddie’s too, shaky, desperate and it fucked him up in the best way.

“I need you,” Evan gasped, head falling back against the pillows. “Fuck, Eds.”

He came with a soft, broken gasp, Eddie’s voice in his ear, his name swallowed down like a prayer. Evan curled into himself for a moment, breathing hard, his hand loose against his stomach, sheets twisted around his legs.

On the other end, Eddie was breathing just as gone, a low groan slipping through the connection like static.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of two men who needed each other more than air filling the spaces distance had carved out.

Finally, Evan wiped himself clean with the towel by the bed. He tossed it in the direction of his dirty clothes and dragged the phone close again, voice rough. “Still there?”

“Yeah,” Eddie whispered, so fiercely it punched the air out of Evan’s lungs.

Evan exhaled slowly, letting the heat bleed away. He closed his eyes, “needed that babe, it's been a rough week.”

Eddie hummed, something gentle and listening.

“One of my guys… got hurt, bad.” Evan swallowed, throat thick. “Had to cut him outta his car. Rebar straight through him. We didn’t know if he was gonna make it.”

Eddie’s voice sharpened, protective even from across an ocean. “Shit. Is he…?”

“He’s stable now,” Evan said quickly, reassuring him. “Woke up. Gonna be a long road, but he’s alive.”

There was silence, but not the bad kind. Just Eddie giving him space to finish putting his thoughts together. “It shook me, Eds,” Evan admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “More than it should’ve.”

“Not more than it should’ve,” Eddie said immediately, steady as stone. “You care, Evan. That’s not a flaw.”

Evan scrubbed a hand over his face, chest tight. “I’ve been carrying a lot stuff from before and now.” He hesitated, he didn't want to worry his partner but knew the words needed to be said. “It’s getting heavy.”

Eddie’s voice softened the way it did when his words were meant only for him. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

Evan swallowed, almost embarrassed, but forced the words out. “I made an appointment with a Therapist, Dr. Miles. First session next Thursday.”

Static crackled over the line, then Eddie’s voice thick and proud cut through, relief flooding his tone, “I’m so fucking proud of you, baby.”

Evan smiled, something breaking loose. “You mean that?”

“Yeah. Christ, Evan. That’s… everything. You’re fighting for yourself.” Eddie paused, his voice hitching as the thread of worry that had been tightening around his heart since the Op that split Evan’s life into before and after pulling taut before it finally started to loosen.

Evan stared up at the dark ceiling, letting the words settle over the places inside him that still flinched from kindness. Letting them stay this time.

“Miss you,” Evan whispered, “so much it hurts. I wasn’t built to be your SOF wife, Eds.” The words scraped out of him. He’d spent his whole life fighting beside the people he loved, flanking their six, not waiting safely behind.

“I know, baby.” Eddie’s voice cracked around the edges, faint with amusement and ache. “But I’m coming home. We’ve got eight more weeks until R&R. Unit got the news with the stand down order this morning.”

Evan let the words soak in, a tether pulling tight around the places inside him he hadn’t even realized were still fraying. “We’ll be here,” he promised, barely more than a breath. “Be safe.”

“Always,” Eddie said.

They stayed on the line after that, breathing together across the distance, tethered by words and promises and all the things they hadn’t said yet.

Evan didn’t hang up, not until he heard Eddie snore fill the line.

The house smelled like burnt toast when Evan woke up.

He staggered into the kitchen still pulling his sweatshirt over his head, hair sticking up in about three different directions.

Rook was already posted at the kitchen table, in his electric chair today, spinning a butter knife between his fingers. Mace was at the stove, poking half-heartedly at a frying pan that might’ve once contained eggs.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Rook chirped, way too loud for someone who didn’t need to be awake yet.

Evan grunted something that might’ve been words and reached for the coffee pot.

Mace turned from the stove with a shit-eating grin. “So,” he drawled. “Late-night booty call, huh?”

Evan froze mid-pour. “What?”

Rook leaned back in his chair, smirking like the devil. “You should really put your phone on silent, Echo. Some of us were trying to sleep.”

Mace widened his eyes in mock horror. “Poor Rook. Scarred for life. Listening to Evan ‘oh fuck, Eddie’ Buckley whisper sweet nothings at three in the morning.”

“I hate you both,” Evan muttered into his mug.

“You love us,” Rook said easily.

Mace elbowed him. “I dunno, man. You said he sounded pretty gone. ‘Touch yourself for me, Echo,’” he parroted, pitching his voice into a terrible impression of Eddie. “‘Miss your mouth. Miss your…’”

Evan slammed his mug down on the counter, a rough breath rattling out of him. “Enough. Both of you.” His voice cracked sharp across the room. “Jesus Christ. I haven’t said shit about you and Hawk tag-teaming Ana and whatever weird-ass threesome bullshit you’ve got going on across the street.”

The room snapped quiet.

Evan didn’t yell again. He didn’t have to. He just gave Mace a long, pointed look, letting him know exactly how far he’d stepped. Letting him feel it. He had touched an exposed nerve, and they all knew it.

Mace had the good sense to look sheepish.

Rook, on the other hand, gaped like a fish, then grinned in dawning, delighted realization “Wait — wait, wait…” he sputtered, sitting bolt upright. “You’re telling me Ana isn’t cheating on Hawk with Mace?”

Evan arched a brow, sipping his coffee with deliberate pettiness.

Rook practically sagged with relief, collapsing back into his chair. “Oh, thank God. I seriously had no fucking clue how I was supposed to handle that.” Rook scrubbed both hands over his face. “I was thinking about moving back in with my parents, Evan.” He stressed it, shooting Mace a look at Mace who frowned. “I had a whole exit plan. So, your like in a throuple?”

Mace dragged his hand down his face. “It’s not a throuple, you idiot.”

“Sounds like a throuple,” Evan said mildly.

“Definitely sounds like a throuple,” Rook agreed, folding his arms behind his head, smug. “Makes sense, you two have always been insanely tight and a little too into the whole sharing thing. And your roommate situation? Sketchy at best.”

Mace stabbed the spatula in his direction like he might commit violence with it. “We’re not. Ana’s just…”

“…getting railed by both of you depending on whose boots are by the bed?” Evan deadpanned.

Mace groaned loudly as he let his forehead bang against the kitchen cabinets. “Jesus Christ, Echo.”

“What happens when they’re both home?” Rook asked, head tilting, pure curiosity lighting up his face. His gaze flicked over to Evan looking for answers.

Evan didn’t even blink. He just made a crude, unmistakable gesture with his hand two fingers pointed, rotating with shameless enthusiasm.

Rook’s eyes widened as he jerked back in his chair, wheezing out a laugh. “You’re in a throuple, Mace. Full send. No take-backs.”

Mace dropped his face into one hand, defeated. “You’re all fucking degenerates.”

“Better than being in denial,” Evan said, grabbing an apple off the counter and tossing it in the air like a grenade.

“Seriously, it’s not like that,” Mace insisted weakly, but even he sounded like he didn’t believe it anymore.

Evan smile turned dangerous. “You planning on moving out when Hawk gets home?”

“No,” Mace muttered.

“You planning on stopping whatever’s going on between all three of you?”

“No.” Mace pointed the spatula at them again, dead serious. “But if you so much as mention this at family dinner. I'm going to beat your asses.  We don't, we're not ready to name whatever the fuck it is we are doing.”

Evan nodded, as he slung his gear bag over his shoulder, snagged his keys, and headed for the door.

At the last second, Mace’s voice called after him. “We’ve got Chris. I’ll text you after drop off.”

Evan didn’t look back. Just gave a small salute with his hand and stepped into the cold morning air.

Chapter Text

Buck leaned against the counter, sipping coffee and checking his messages. The morning briefing would start in a few minutes, but no one was rushing. There hadn’t been a call yet. The stillness felt borrowed.

Hen flipped through the logbook with one hand and held a protein bar in the other. Chimney’s name was still scratched off the active roster. Three weeks had passed, but Buck still felt the shape of the crash in the air like smog.

Bobby walked in just as the shift bell rang, dressed down in his usual black with a clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Morning,” he said, voice steady as always. “Before we get into assignments, quick update on Chim.”

Buck straightened, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“He’s home,” Bobby continued. “Cleared for light movement. PT starts on Monday. He’s open to visitors, but no surprises. Hen, I told him you’d come by with lunch, not the whole damn crew.”

Hen arched a brow without looking up. “Speaking of Chim. Buck, you still owe me twenty. Don’t think I forgot.”

Buck blinked. “For what?”

“The cookie bouquet,” she said dryly. “The one I delivered to Chim. With the glittery get-well card you made me get, the one that I personally watched you sign.”

“Oh, right. I forgot, thanks for the reminder.” A sheepish grin spread across his face as he dug into his back pocket and slid a bill into her outstretched hand. “Worth every cent.”

Hen pocketed the bill with a satisfied nod and turned back to the logbook but paused mid-page flip, her gaze catching on something just beyond Buck’s shoulder.

He followed her line of sight.

Bobby had settled at the small table in the corner of the common room. He was staring down at the little black notebook he kept tucked inside his chest pocket. The one full of names they weren’t supposed to see, people long gone but never really let go. Bobby’s thumb brushed the notebook’s edge, the leather worn smoothly from years of the same hesitation. Buck knew that gesture the weight of names unspoken. His own ghosts lived in a lockbox under his bed: dog tags, a folded flag, the citation he’d never framed. Bobby’s grief was carried in a little black book. Buck’s were sewn into shrapnel scars down his side, across his ribs, over his chest.

Hen’s voice dropped, “He does that sometimes. When the station is... qui.. slow.”

Buck didn’t answer. He just watched Bobby, the way grief flickered over his face without ever fully taking hold. It was practiced, this kind of mourning. Worn into the man like callouses. Bobby blinked and looked up, clearing his throat. “Alright. Assignments.”

The moment passed like a tide going out.

Hen nudged Buck with her elbow as they moved to the table. “You ever ask him what’s in the book?”

Buck’s gaze lingered on Bobby, then he shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, his mind drifting to Dogman and Rodney. “I don’t need to.”

The first call came mid-morning. False alarm, an elderly woman whose smoke alarm had shorted out while she was making toast. Bobby knocked politely, talked her through it while Buck and Hen replaced the battery and double-checked the wiring.

“Back in my day,” the woman muttered, shaking her head, “firemen didn’t look like him.” She jabbed a finger toward Buck, who smiled coyly as Hen cackled under her breath.

“Oh, honey,” she added, “if you ever get tired of saving people, you’d look just fine on one of those calendars.”

“He’s shy,” Hen told her, biting back a grin. “But he’s flattered.”

“Extremely,” Buck deadpanned, handing over a fresh smoke detector just to change the subject.

They left with a platter of cookies she insisted on giving them and a reminder to stop by if they were ever in the neighborhood again.

Back at the station, the lull didn’t last long.

A midday call sent them to a strip mall where a locked restroom had sparked a minor panic. Buck ended up crawling through a drop ceiling to unlock it from the inside only to find a teenage boy hiding with a vape pen and the worst excuse Hen had ever heard.

“He said he thought it was an oxygen diffuser,” she recapped later, handing Buck a bottled water as they climbed back into the truck. “A diffuser, Buck.”

“I mean, technically…” he started with a wide grin. “It really wasn't the worst excuse. When I was fifteen, I told my foster mom I was practicing mouth-to-mouth CPR.”

Hen choked on her sip of water. “You did not.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. She walked in on me kissing the neighbor’s kid.” He tossed her a smirk. “I panicked. Improvisation was my only weapon.”

“And how’d that work out for you?”

“She signed me up for a lifeguard course the next week.”

Hen doubled over laughing. “That’s the most you story I’ve ever heard.”

“What can I say?” Buck shrugged, grabbing the hose to rinse down their equipment. “Destined for the uniform.”

“More like destined to be caught with your pants down,” she shot back, slapping the side of the engine with a grin.

Bobby passed them on his way out of the bay, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Glad to see morale’s intact.”

Buck gave him a lazy salute. “Always, Cap.”

After dinner the crew had scattered into their rhythm of evening chores and maintenance. Buck was up on the engine’s ladder, checking hose couplings when Hen wandered over with a clipboard and a suspiciously amused look on her face.

“You do realize,” she called up, “that lifeguard training story just made me picture you in red swim trunks running down a beach in slow motion.”

Buck snorted. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Hen leaned against the rig. “Tell me something, Buck. That story about your foster mom was that your only placement?”

He tensed slightly. It was subtle, but Bobby caught it from where he was crouched near the truck, swapping out the backup batteries on the radios. He looked up, his hands stilled.

“Nah,” Buck said lightly. “There were a few. I think I averaged two a year. When I was fifteen, I went through three families and two group homes.”

Hen didn’t push, but her voice softened. “Rough time?”

Buck shrugged, stepping down off the ladder and wiping his hands on a rag. “It was what it was. Some good, some bad. Some I don’t remember much at all.”

Bobby stepped closer, quiet in his approach. “You ever stay with anyone long?”

“I stayed a year with my last family, Mrs. Rachel and her foster daughter Becca,” Buck said, his tone matter of fact. “I graduated early and joined the Navy.”

Hen’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t speak.

Buck busied himself with coiling a line, but his voice was softer when he added, “The one with the CPR story wasn’t too bad, honestly. She tried, but she had a lot going on. Most of them did.”

Bobby leaned his broom against the wall. “You ever talk to anyone from back then?”

Buck shook his head, “I send Mrs. Rachel a birthday card every year. But beyond that, rarely. Becca in LA too, she works for children services.” He smile turns almost soft with pride.

Hen didn’t push. She just handed him a fresh towel for the rig. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you landed here.”

Buck looked up at her, something real flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Me too.”

“Dispatch to Station 118. Multiple reports, plane down just off of Dockweiler Beach in the ocean. Smoke visible. Units enroute. Respond Code 3, Possible 10-33.”

The station snapped to life. Gear was grabbed, boots hit pavement, and engines roared awake.

When the 118 arrived, the sky was black, the air was thick with smoke and screams.  A passenger jet lay broken in the water. Lifeguards were already in motion, pulling survivors from the shallows and directing panicked civilians away and roping off the scene.

Buck was off the rig before it stopped moving, sprinting towards the beach. His boots sank into sand, sirens bleeding into the rhythmic crash of the waves. The smell hit him like a punch, jet fuel, smoke, burning plastic. It curled in his nose, coated his tongue.

Not here. Not now.

“I’m Captain Nash,” Bobby called, approaching a windburned lifeguard coordinating rescues. “Who’s got incident command?”

An older lifeguard deeply tan tanned turned briefly from where he was directing incoming boats with fast, clipped hand signals. “You are now, Captain, I'm Wally Walkins, Head Lifeguard.” he introduced himself before pointing out to the water. “Looks like the plane split in two on impact.

Bobby nodded crisp and controlled. “All right. You’re point man on the beach. Coordinate with incoming units and lifeguards. Hen, check with the Coast Guard chopper, get me airlift capacity.”

“On it,” she said, already jogging off.

“Buck connect with the dive team. I want eyes underwater five minutes ago!” Bobby instructed and Buck took off across sand and wreckage-slick rocks, boots kicking up water and soot. Helicopter rotors thundered overhead, each rotation a violent thump in his chest.

The water was on fire. Orange flames danced across the surface. Smoke coiled skyward, thick and choking.

“That’s jet fuel,” Bobby said grimly behind him.

Buck didn’t respond. His eyes were on the wreckage.

The plane had cracked like a shell, People clung to the broken wings, their screams barely registering over the roar of surf and sirens. Dozens more thrashed in open water. Blood, oil and salt tangled in the wind.

“I count 12 to 15 on the wing. At least 30 in the water,” Bobby called. “How long until it sinks?”

"Four sets of swells.” The words left his mouth before he could lock them down. Bobby’s stare pricked at his neck. Shit. Civilians didn’t clock wave intervals, but the calculation lived in his bones: the suck of tide against a Zodiac raft, the five-second window to extract before the next surge. He flexed his fingers, willing the tremor away.

Bobby turned. “What?”

“Based on wave intervals,” Buck said tightly. “The plane will go down in under seven minutes.” The words tasted wrong, his fingers twitched at his sides. “Cap where are we gonna evacuate them to?” he asked, his breathing starting to quicken.

Bobby turned, lifting an eyebrow of surprise. “How do you know that?’”

“I just know.” Buck’s voice cracked. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where do we evac?”

“The lifeguards are setting up triage by the parking lot.” Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve got this, but we need to get inside that plane.”

Another wave hit the plane. A woman screamed. A flare ignited on the far wing. The sky was dark; the fire was too close. The noise pressed in on him.

Orange flames licked at the sinking aircraft, jet fuel painting the waves in shiny streaks. Buck’s boots sank into the sand as he sprinted toward the wreck, the screams of survivors clawing through the rotor of Coast Guard’s helicopters as they shined light on the black water below.

"Buck!" Hen voice cut through the chaos. "Let’s those people off the wing."

The wing tilted under the weight of a dozen-soaked passengers, their knuckles white where they clung to torn metal and seatbacks. Buck moved fast, calm, direct lifting an elderly man with a bloodied scalp into a lifeguard’s grip. Two more passengers followed, then another, coughing up water.

“Take everyone up to the beach,” Buck instructed to Hen. He jerked his chin toward the triage zone. “I’m going to help Bobby finish sweeping the cabin.”

She nodded, helping Wally pull another survivor up into the small boat from the water.

Buck turned back toward the shattered plane.

The cabin was half-submerged, metal groaning with every wave. Inside, dim light cut in and out through smoke and seawater. A boy, seven, maybe eight clung to a woman still strapped into her seat. Her legs were pinned under a twisted frame, water lapping at her waist.

"Mom!" the boy sobbed, saltwater and snot streaking his face.

The woman eyes locked with Buck's. "Take him," she gasped. "Please."

Bobby was already beside her, assessing with a crowbar. "Seat’s twisted. I’ll need time…"

"We don’t have time," Buck snapped. The plane groaned, sinking another inch. Four minutes. Maybe less.

He hauled the boy into his arms, the child’s limbs flailing. "No! I won’t leave her!"

"Listen to me." Buck gently gripped the boy’s chin, forcing his gaze away from his mother. "Your mom’s got the best fire captain in L.A. with her. But I need you to be brave, can you do that?"

The boy nodded, trembling. Buck passed him to a lifeguard, then waded back to Bobby.

"Go!" Bobby barked. 

Buck didn’t move. The cabin shuddered, metal screaming. He knew that sound, the roar of a Black Hawk. His vision blurred for a heartbeat. The same pitch, the same shudder like the universe was replaying his worst moments on loop. He could almost hear Patch’s voice. "Echo, stay with me..."

Not here. Not now.

"Buck!" Bobby’s voice yanked him back. "That’s an order!"

"Fuck your order." Buck's voice dropped into the register of a man who'd breached doors in countries most people didn’t know existed. He unsnapped his belt with a practiced twist, revealing a hydraulic cutter. It fit his palm like it was made for him. Hawk had ground the jaws to a sharper angle after Mosul, and he had rewrapped the handle in 550 cord after his gloves slipped in the rain. The 118 thought it was just ‘Buck being extra’. They didn’t know every modification had experience attached to it.

Bobby’s eyebrows lifted, surprise. He opened his mouth then closed it, biting back the instinct to reprimand. He watched Buck wade through the wreckage, the water like he’d done before.

"Cap, you'll drown without backup," he grunted, already moving. The water was chest-high, its cold bite sharpening his focus.

Buck submerged completely, the world narrowing to the steel trap of Tammy's legs. Through the murk, he saw what Bobby couldn't, the seat's weak point. He'd seen this before in a downed Humvee. Same physics. "Listen to me," he told Tammy as he surfaced, gripping her chin with blood-slick fingers. His voice carried that impossible calm Eddie called his OP voice. "This will hurt like hell, but you’ll walk your kid to school again. Hang onto that."

He didn't wait for acknowledgment. One deep breath. Back under. 

The hydraulic cutter bit through metal, sparks dancing in the dark water. Three precise cuts and the seat groaned.  Tammy's screams vibrated through the water as one of her shattered leg came loose, knocking him back. Buck surfaced gasping, tasting jet fuel and copper.

"Got you!" Bobby heaved the bulkhead upward with a firefighter's strength.

"Left side!" Buck barked. His boot found purchase on a bent strut. The metal gave as Tammy came free in a swirl of blood and seawater. "Move!" Buck shoved her into Bobby’s arms, “go. Move.”

Not losing another one. Not today.

As they reached shore, the boy broke free from a responder and sprinted across the sand. “Mommy!”

Tammy’s head lifted, voice raw but unbroken. “Thank you,” she gasped as Buck helped Bobby lower her onto a stretcher. Her son flung himself into her arms, sobbing. Her hand curled around Buck’s wrist as they started to wheel her away. “You saved us.”

Buck didn’t answer. He stepped back, heart pounding. He turned, scanning the scene. Blood slicked his palm, warm and metallic. Too much like the night he’d pressed both hands into Dogman’s gut, begging him to hold on. He wiped his hand against his chest.

‘Echo, give me a sitrep.’ Patch’s voice, clear as day cut through the static on Buck’s comm. His brow narrowed, didn’t Eddie have five weeks left?

He whipped his head toward the water, toward the triage tent, toward the smoking wreckage. Bodies moved all around him lifeguards, medics, firefighters but none of them were Eddie.

His mouth was dry. “Eddie?” he said aloud, too quiet for anyone to hear.

“Patch?” he barked louder this time, eyes darting between figures blurred by smoke and panic. A man with short dark hair bent over a gurney and Buck’s chest seized then his heart dropped into freefall.

Wrong gait. Wrong build.

He kept moving, weaving through responders, ignoring the ache in his arm. He needed to see him. Just see him. Confirm he was here, breathing, alive. The smell of jet fuel coated his tongue. Blood. Salt. Ash.

He stumbled. A medic reached to steady him. “Sir, you’re bleeding let me…”

Buck recoiled. His mind had already filled in the gaps Eddie slumped in a corridor of a bombed hospital, red spilling fast; a medic with the wrong hands trying to pull Buck away before he could stop the bleeding. He shook his head, it had been a simple head wound, thirteen stitches.

No.

“Where the hell is Diaz?” Buck’s hands trembled. He turned in a slow, panicked circle, the world a blur of smoke and salt. “I heard him. He was right here.”

“Buck.” A firm voice cut through the noise. Real. Familiar. Hen.

He shook his head once, sharp. “I can’t, he was right there.”

Hen stepped closer, slow and careful, her eyes scanning Buck’s face. His chest was rising too fast and his gaze kept skittering. “Buck,” she said softly, her voice lower now, gentler.

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was locked somewhere past the wreckage. “He was right there,” he whispered,. “I heard him. He was on comms.”

“Who?” she asked gently, stepping into his space. “Who did you hear?”

“Diaz.”

Hen’s heart clenched. There was no Diaz on scene. No Diaz in the LAFD that she knew of. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Okay, Buck… listen to me.”

She reached for him then, one hand brushing his forearm, the other settling lightly over his chest. His heart was racing beneath her fingers. “You’re here. With me. At Dockweiler.”

Buck’s eyes darted toward her like he barely recognized her.

“I need you to tell me something,” Hen said, keeping her voice steady. “Are you seeing it right now? Whatever this is… is it in front of you, or behind you?”

He shook his head once. “I don’t know.” The words came rough, like gravel in his throat.

“That’s okay.” She crouched slightly, guiding him down toward the edge of the rig. “We’re gonna sit. Just for a minute, and I’m going to look at your arm, you’re bleeding.” She explained, pulling back his sleeve. “Jesus, Buck, this is deep. When did you…?”

“Seat frame,” he muttered.

“Of course.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared past her, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Hen pressed the gauze harder against Buck’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding. “I need a wrap,” she muttered, glancing toward the med bag then froze. Her eyes met his, and his pupils were blown wide.

Her chest twisted. “Cap!” she called, raising her voice above the noise. “Bobby over here!”

Bobby was directing traffic near the triage tent, but the urgency in her tone had him tossing the baton to the nearest first responder. He jogged over, his eyes already scanning Buck. “Talk to me.”

Hen leaned back just enough to give Bobby a clear view. “He’s got a deep laceration, really deep, he said from the seat frame and he’s in shock. Came out of the water wired, but he’s crashing. He started calling for someone who’s not here. Said the name Diaz.”

Bobby frowned, his voice low and careful. “Buck. You with us?”

Buck’s eyes found him, but didn’t focus. “Where is he?” he rasped. “He was right there. I heard him on comms.”

“Buck,” Bobby said gently. “Hen, Wally and I have been the only people on your channel tonight.”

Buck shook his head, his jaw clenched like it was the only thing holding him together. “He was right there, Cap. I heard him say ‘Echo, give me a sitrep.’ That’s what he says when I freeze.”

Hen went still.

Bobby’s brow furrowed. “Echo.”

Buck blinked hard. The name had slipped out before he could shove it back. He looked between them. Hen crouched close, concern furrowing her brow.

He didn’t say anything else.

Bobby exhaled slowly and nodded once, just enough. “Okay. We’ll talk about it later.”

He looked to Hen. “We need to get him to ER. I’ll ride with.”

Hen already had the medkit open. “I’ll wrap him for transport, but we need to move. Stitches, maybe a tetanus booster.”

Bobby stood and reached for the radio. “118, we’re transporting one of our own for medical.”

Buck didn’t protest. Didn’t crack a joke or downplay the pain. He just sat there, bleeding and shaking and too quiet.

Bobby didn’t flinch at the words. He didn’t fill the silence with reassurances or quick platitudes. He just kept his hand firm on Buck’s shoulder, grounding him.

“You didn’t lose it,” Bobby said, voice low and steady. “You got people out. You kept your team safe. You did the job.” He paused. “Shock doesn’t make you weak.”

Buck didn’t answer. His jaw trembled.

Hen crouched beside him, securing the last of the gauze. “We’re taking you to Centinela Medical Center, we’re ten minutes out. You need stitches, probably a lot of them and checked for a concussion.”

Bobby straightened, already radioing it in. Hen rose to grab the med kit, leaving Buck alone.

He shifted slightly, fumbling his phone from his pocket with fingers still shaking. His thumbs hovered, then he scrolled through his recent contacts.

MACE: Centinela ER.

He hit send.
No reply.

Ten minutes later, the engine pulled into the emergency bay. Bobby was mid-sentence, muttering something about using Buck’s full name at check-in, when Hen’s voice cut across the quiet like a flare.

“Who is that?”

A man kicked off the wall near the front entrance and moved towards them. Civilian clothes, aviators, broad shoulders, deep frown. He moved like someone who didn’t need to bluff confidence.  “Jesus, Echo,” the man said, his voice low and tight as he crossed to Buck in three quick strides. “You okay, kid?”

Buck’s mouth twitched at the corner. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it tried. “Little underwater turbulence. Nothing serious. You beat us here.”

Mace didn’t even acknowledge the attempt at humor. His jaw clenched as his eyes dropped Buck’s blood soaked arm. “You bled through the damn bandage. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Hen glanced between them. Her brow furrowed. “Echo?”

Mace didn’t respond. He stepped in close, cupping Buck’s jaw with one hand, tilting his face toward the light. His fingers moved lightly over Buck’s skin, checking for tension, blood loss, disorientation.

“Vitals,” he said, already searching Buck’s eyes.

Buck didn’t answer right away. His head tipped slightly to the side, jaw working like he was trying to catch a thought that wouldn’t settle. “I heard him.”

That one sentence pulled something taut across Mace’s expression. His fingers stilled, “E,” he said, voice sharper now, more urgent. “I need you with me. Vitals. Talk to me.”

Buck blinked hard, like he was trying to surface from underwater. “Seventy-two before you showed up. Might’ve spiked to a hundred.”

“Smartass,” Mace muttered, but his voice cracked at the edge. “Are you fully here?”

Buck didn’t answer. His gaze drifted sideways. His jaw locked, throat working.

Mace leaned in just a little, his free hand hovering like he was waiting to catch him again. “Come on, Echo. Eyes on me.”

Buck blinked once. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused. His jaw flexed tight, breath catching like he couldn’t quite get enough air in. His fingers twitched at his sides. He looked like a man trying to outrun something that wasn’t there.

“Hey,” Mace said again, voice dropping to something low and sharp. “Focus up.”

Mace’s hand shifted. He squeezed Buck’s jaw firm. His other hand braced at the nape of Buck’s neck. “Evan,” he said, voice tight with worry now. “Look at me. You with me.”

Buck flinched slightly at the name. His lips parted, but nothing came out.

Mace dipped his forehead to Buck’s, their brows touching. His voice stayed low but cut through like a blade. “I need you to come back to me. Right now.”

Buck made a pained sound in the back of his throat. Mace shifted to catch more of his weight, cradling the back of Buck’s skull like it was second nature.

“I need you here, Echo,” he said softly. “I need your eyes. Just give me your goddamn eyes.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Buck blinked once, slow. His gaze cleared just enough to find Mace’s. “I’m here,” he rasped.

Mace let out a breath, he closed his eyes for a second and let go of the tension in his gut. “Good,” he murmured. “Good. I’ve got you.” His voice dropped, quiet, just for him. “What’s that Diaz always says? Good boy.”

Buck made a low, guttural sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t buried under exhaustion and pain. His response came on a breath, dry and hoarse. “Fuck you.”

Mace huffed. “There he is.”

Buck shuddered as he let out a low groan, sudden and sharp. His eyes slammed shut like someone had flipped a switch and the whole world had gone white-hot. He staggered, knees giving out just as the pain hit in a brutal wave.

Mace caught him, arms locking around him. He crouched slightly under the weight, one hand steadying Buck’s waist, the other still firm at the back of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Mace muttered, voice cracking now. “Jesus, E, breathe. I’ve got you.”

Hen was already moving, alarm in her voice. “Buck, what’s going on?”

“Concussion,” Mace snapped. Buck slumped against him, breathing ragged, hands curled into the fabric of Mace’s hoodie like he wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.

“I didn’t mean to lose it,” he whispered.

Mace didn’t let go. “You didn’t lose anything. You’re here.” He shifted Buck’s arm over his shoulders, guiding him toward the entrance. Buck’s steps were unsteady, but he followed, leaned into the man holding him up.

Hen moved to follow, voice full of questions, but Bobby stopped her with a glance.

They watched as the doors slid shut behind Buck and the man who called him by a name no one at the 118 had ever heard.

Echo.

Bobby exhaled slowly. Hen couldn’t shake the feeling they’d only just started seeing Evan Buckley.

Chapter Text

It had been four days since Dockweiler.

The stitches itched more than they hurt now, and the bruises had gone soft at the edges, turning that dull, mottled yellow that always made him look worse before he got better. His doctor had ordered him off the line for at least a week, maybe two, and light duty after that. Nothing that risked reopening what they’d just stitched back together.

The house smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon, normal things. Safe things.

Evan sat outside on the back patio, blanket draped across his shoulders, stitches pulling whenever he shifted too fast. His tablet was propped on the table beside an untouched sandwich, the faint reflection of his own face staring back at him from the dark screen.

Inside, the low murmur of Rook’s voice drifted through the cracked door.

“Core tight, not shoulders, kid. You cheat and you’ll feel it tomorrow.”

Christopher groaned in protest, the kind that came with laughter beneath it. “You sound like Dad.”

“Yeah, well,” Rook said with a small grin. “Somebody’s gotta pick up the slack while your dad’s healing up.”

Mace snorted from the counter. “Says the guy who swore he could ‘optimize’ the ramp and almost flipped his chair.”

Rook’s grin widened. “Fine-tuning, not failure.”

Evan smiled to himself, the sound of them calming him in a way sleep and rest hadn’t managed. His chest still felt hollow, heavy with the echo of surf and sirens. The smell of smoke lingered in his hair no matter how many showers he took.

He tapped the tablet. The screen flickered alive, the connection stabilizing after a brief glitch.

Eddie’s face filled the frame, tired eyes but his smile soft, the one he saved for Christopher and Evan.

“Hey,” Eddie murmured through the static.

Evan exhaled like the air had been waiting in his lungs all day. “Hey, Patch.”

“You’re looking better,” Eddie said, like he needed to convince himself.

Evan huffed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Liar.”

“Maybe,” Eddie admitted softly. “Arm holding up?”

Evan flexed his fingers. “Mostly.”

“You’re not wearing your sling.”

“I hate the sling.”

“You sleeping at all?”

“Not really.”

Eddie nodded and didn’t push just sat there, screen light flickering over his face, watching him the way he always had, like Evan might vanish if he blinked too long.

From inside, Christopher’s laugh carried through the open door, bright and sudden. Eddie smiled at the sound. “He sounds good,” he said quietly.

“He is,” Evan answered, glancing back through the doorway. Rook was showing Christopher how to stretch his hamstrings properly, both of them arguing about form. “They both are.”

“And you?”

Evan hesitated, thumb running over the edge of the tablet. “Trying to be.”

Eddie studied him, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way he hadn’t taken a full breath since the call started.

“You don’t have to be fine for me, Echo.”

“I know,” Evan agreed a little too quickly.

Eddie’s brow softened. “Then don’t.”

The silence stretched, filled with the quiet buzz of the backyard and the faint hum of traffic. Evan traced a finger down the condensation on his water glass, eyes unfocused.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Listen,” he started, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I was gonna wait until tomorrow to tell you, when things were a little more certain but we just got word a few hours ago.”

Evan’s head snapped up, heartbeat tripping. “What word?”

“They’re rotating us home,” Eddie said. “Mission’s wrapped. Wheels up Thursday. We should be back stateside by the weekend.”

“You’re coming home.”

Eddie’s grin went crooked, boyish in a way that still made Evan’s stomach twist. “As of two hours ago, yeah.” He hesitated, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You know I wanna promise you that, baby but you know how these things can go.”

Evan nodded too quickly, fingers tightening around the edge of the tablet. “I know.”

Eddie’s smile gentled. “Still. It’s real enough to hold onto. Just… let’s not say anything to Chris.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Evan blinked hard, eyes wet. “You and Hawk can plan your surprise. My mouth is closed.”

“Good man.” Eddie’s tone went soft, affectionate in a way that always seemed to slip past Evan’s armor. “God, I can’t wait to touch your face.”

Evan huffed a shaky laugh, rubbing at his temple. “You and me both. Feels like I’ve been holding my breath for months.”

“Then exhale,” Eddie said. “Start practicing. I’m coming home, Echo.”

The words steadied something inside him as if Eddie had reached through the screen and laid his hand against Evan’s chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Copy that,” Evan murmured. “I’ll keep the light on.”

Christopher popped up behind him, waving wildly at the camera. “Papa! I beat Uncle Rook’s time!”

Eddie laughed, the sound crackling through the speaker. “That’s my boy.”

Rook shouted from offscreen, “Tell him it was a tie!”

“Sorry, Rook,” Eddie called back, grinning. “I know you cheat.”

Evan laughed, and something in Eddie’s expression eased. “That’s better,” Eddie murmured. “Keep breathing like that. Mijo, you take care of your daddy for me, okay?”

Christopher tilted his head, smile spreading wide. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call tomorrow,” Eddie said. “Try to rest. Goodnight, Chris.”

Christopher giggled, eyes bright. “Silly, Papa… it’s afternoon!”

Evan smiled, brushing a hand through his son’s curls. “It’s nighttime where Papa is, bud. He’s getting ready for bed on the other side of the world.”

“Oh,” Christopher said, eyes going wide. “Then… buenas noches, Papa.”

Eddie’s grin softened, the kind that always made Evan’s chest ache. “Buenas noches, mijo.”

“Love you, Eddie.”

“Love you too, Echo.”

The call ended. The screen dimmed to black, and for a long moment Evan just sat there, breathing in the quiet. Then Christopher slid off his lap, trailing after Rook toward the house, his crutches tapping against the patio.

Mace appeared in the doorway, beers in hand, “Movie time for the kids,” he said and nodded towards the yard. “Firepit’s calling.”

Evan glanced back through the glass. Rook was already settling Christopher to the couch, with M&M's and popcorn. “They’ve got the right idea,” Evan said.

“Yeah, well.” Mace stepped onto the patio, the sun catching on the silver of his dog tags. “You look like you could use something stronger than root beer.”

He held out the beer.

Evan hesitated for half a second before taking it. “One.”

Mace clapped him on his uninjured shoulder. “Good man. Come on. Let’s talk before you start thinking too deeply.”

Evan stayed where he was for a minute, watching Mace crouch near the pit, coaxing the flame to life. The string lights over the patio hadn’t been turned on yet, but the flicker from the firepit was enough.

“Come on, E,” Mace called without looking up. “I didn’t light this thing just so you could sit there and brood all night. Get your ass over here.”

Evan pushed back from the table and crossed the patio. The first hit of heat met him, rich with cherry wood smoke and the simple, solid smell of home. “Didn’t realize I was brooding,” he grunted.

Mace settled back into the other chair with a grunt. “You get quiet like that, it’s either brooding or plotting something stupid. Figured I’d figure out which."

Evan dropped into the chair across from him. The fire popped. Smoke drifted between them.

“I’m fine,” Evan said finally.

“Sure,” Mace replied, tone flat. He took a long drink from his bottle, then nodded toward the bruises still fading along Evan’s jaw. “Looks it.”

Evan’s mouth twisted. “You sound like Rook.”

“Yeah, well, the difference is Rook still thinks you listen when people tell you to take it easy.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter, but it didn’t last. Evan’s gaze fell back to the flames.

“You doing alright?” Mace pushed the conversation when the quiet got to heavy.

Evan huffed a humorless laugh. “Define alright.”

“Not bleeding, not crying, not punching walls.” Mace tipped his bottle toward him. “Start there.”

Evan took a long breath, the kind that burned on the way out. “Two out of three.”

Mace’s mouth twitched. “Progress.”

The fire crackled, snapping softly in the dusk. Somewhere inside, the sound of Christopher’s laughter filtered through the open door, muffled by whatever movie Rook had queued up. The normalcy of it hurt a little.

“It got bad out there,” he said after a while. “That plane crash.”

Mace didn’t move, didn’t prod, just waited. Like he had the night Evan had confessed to him about his brother, his family.

Evan’s hand tightened around the bottle. “It was the smell. Jet fuel, salt, the heat coming off the water. I blinked, and it wasn’t L.A. anymore. My brain just… filled in the blanks.” His voice dropped. “He was there.”

Mace’s jaw worked. “Eddie.”

“Yeah.” Evan’s throat went tight. “Slumped in a corridor, just like before. Blood everywhere. Only this time, I couldn’t tell which was memory and which was real. The medic’s hands were wrong. They were always wrong.”

He shook his head, trying to breathe through it. “It was a head wound. Thirteen stitches. I know that. But in my head, it wasn’t his temple… it was his chest. The sand, the pressure, the blood just… everywhere.”

The words came out hoarse, pulled from somewhere deeper than he wanted to look. “One second it was Eddie on the ground, and the next.” His chest ached, like someone was trying to claw his heart out, "the next, it was Dogman.”

Mace’s eyes flicked up, grief crashing through his cloak of controlled calm. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, the motion rough. “Jesus, E…”

“I could smell everything. The diesel. Hear the radio screaming. I was back there,” Evan murmured. “He was still breathing.” He stopped, the rest caught in his throat. His fingers clenched around the bottle, knuckles white. “And then he wasn’t. I tried so hard…”

The fire cracked softly between them.

“I keep telling myself it was just the heat, or the way the smoke hit me,” Evan said, voice hollow now. “But I saw him. Both of them but I knew Dogman was gone, so I called for Eddie.”

He pressed the heel of his palm against his chest, like he could seal the memory back in. “Doesn’t matter how much time passes. It’s like my brain’s still waiting for that extraction.”

Mace watched Evan, not with judgment, but with understanding of a man who’d also carried his dead out of the wreckage. He didn't offer a platitude or a lie. He just reached out, his hand resting on the stone between their chairs.

“I know,” Mace agreed, voice rough as he tried for gentle. “It doesn’t matter if you know the truth with your head. The back of your mind still operates. It still thinks the mission’s active. Until you hear the chopper or the medic tells you they’re stable.”

Evan nodded. “The extraction never came for us. Not for Dogman. Not for Rodney.” He closed his eyes briefly. “And for a second out there, I thought it was happening to Patch.”

He took a sharp breath and forced himself to look at Mace. “But I swear, that's the worst it’s been since the discharge. I barely held it together until you showed up.”

“You did more than hold it together, Echo,” Mace countered, firm. “You pulled people out of the water. You got that woman freed from the wreckage. You locked onto the job even while your head was screaming lies at you. You kept your six, and you kept theirs.”

Mace paused, his gaze hardening. “But it was too close. Way too close. Nash and Hen saw it, Evan.”

“I know,” Evan muttered, running his thumb over his stitches. The shame of his vulnerability was a sharper pain than the wound. “I’ll fix it. I’ll go back, and I’ll tell Bobby it was just shock.”

“Don’t,” Mace warned. “Don’t you dare go back there and lie to them. They’re not idiots. They see things. And if they’re your team now, they deserve the truth, we need them to have your six, Evan."

Evan stared into the fire. “They think I’m a joke, Mace. A reckless idiot. If they know how broken I am…”

Mace leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, the firelight cutting grooves across his face. “They don’t think that, and you damn well know it."

That earned the smallest smile. The fire snapped, throwing sparks up into the deepening blue.

“I booked an appointment. Outside the VA. A real trauma therapist, Dr. Miles.”

Mace’s head came up, surprise breaking through. “For real?”

“Yeah.” Evan shrugged, eyes still on the flames. “Next Tuesday. I can’t keep pretending breathing exercises are cutting it.”

Mace nodded like he didn’t want to spook the admission. “Proud of you, kid. About damn time.”

Evan huffed. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Too late."

They sat in that easy quiet again, the kind born of shared history. Somewhere inside, Christopher’s laughter spilled into the backyard, Rook’s deeper voice following. The sound drew a small smile from Evan.

Mace noticed. “There it is.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“The part of you that’s still here.” Mace tipped his bottle toward the house. “That’s your extraction, E. Your people. Stop fighting it.” He paused, voice softening. “You’re allowed to have this. You earned it.”

Evan didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the beer in his hand, then at the soft glow behind the curtains. “Patch told me tonight they’re coming home,” he said finally, voice low. “Mission’s wrapped. Wheels up Thursday.”

Mace’s brows lifted. “No shit.”

“Yeah.” Evan’s mouth curved, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hawk’s with him. They wanna surprise Chris.”

Mace let out a quiet whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Guess I’ll keep my damn mouth shut, then. Ana’s gonna lose it.”

Evan blinked, realization dawning slow. “Ah, hell… maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell you that yet.”

Mace’s grin went crooked. “Too late. Cat’s already halfway down the street.”

Evan narrowed his eyes, reading between the lines. “You knew they were coming home, didn’t you?”

Mace didn’t answer right away just took another drink, dark eyes glinting over the rim of his bottle. “Hawk wanted to do the big reveal together. You know how he gets about grand gestures.”

Evan huffed, something like amusement breaking through. “That why you didn’t say anything?”

Mace’s grin turned guilty and unrepentant all at once.

Evan tilted his head. “You and Hawk really gonna keep pretending that situation’s not weird?”

Mace let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Ain’t weird, kid. We’re just like you and Diaz, only difference is, we like something soft between us.”

Evan snorted, nearly choking on his beer. “Jesus, Mace.”

Mace grinned, utterly shameless. “What? You think love’s gotta come in standard issue? We just figured out ours comes with curves and attitude between us.”

Evan laughed, small and real, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Mace agreed. “But I’m a happy one.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from Evan, small and startled. It broke the tension in the air, left room for something lighter to settle between them. The fire had burned down to a soft glow. Evan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at Mace across the flicker of coals.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Mace tipped his chin. “For what?”

“For sitting in it with me.”

Mace shrugged. “Someone’s gotta keep you from disappearing into the noise little brother.”

They let the old rock stretch over the quiet. The hum of the city was distant. A moth circled lazily through the smoke, the wings catching light as the flames dipped low.

They let the old rock stretch over the quiet. The hum of the city was distant. A moth circled lazily through the smoke, wings catching light as the flames dipped low.

One beer turned into two.

Evan leaned forward, absently feeding a small stick into the coals, watching sparks rise and vanish into the dark. Mace started to say something half a laugh already in his voice when the doorbell rang.

It startled both of them, the sound loud and unexpected.

Mace frowned, glancing toward the house. “You expecting someone?”

Evan shook his head. “No.”

The bell rang again, followed by muffled movement, Rook’s chair creaking and Christopher’s small voice echoing through the living room: “I got it!”

Evan was already moving. “He’s not supposed to…”

“Relax,” Mace said from behind him, the smile audible in his voice. “Rook’s with him.”

By the time Evan reached the front hallway, the door was already open.

Christopher stood there in pajama pants, one sock off, his hand still on the knob. Rook waited just behind him. And on the porch, under the soft glow of the porch light, stood Captain Bobby Nash, slightly out of place in jeans and a dark LAFD sweatshirt.

“Hey, Buck,” Bobby said. “Sorry to just show up. You weren’t answering your phone, and, well… I figured I’d do a quick check-in.”

Before Evan could answer, Christopher blinked up at him, grinning. “Hi! Um… are you my daddy’s captain?”

Bobby’s brows lifted. “Your… dad?”

Christopher nodded earnestly. “Yeah. My daddy’s a firefighter with the 118.” He leaned on one crutch so he could point at Bobby’s sweatshirt.

Evan cleared his throat. “Chris, buddy, why don’t you go with Rook and get ready for bed, okay? I’ll be right there.”

Christopher hesitated, eyes flicking between them. “You’re not in trouble, right?”

“No, Superman. Promise.”

Christopher’s eyes lingered a moment longer, then he nodded and turned carefully on his crutches toward the living room.

Rook gave Bobby a polite nod as he wheeled back to follow, muttering, “Come on, kid, let’s let the grown-ups talk before you tattle on your dad for having beer.”

“Wasn’t gonna!” Christopher protested, giggling.

Evan broke first, stepping aside and motioning toward the back. “You can come in. Fire’s still going.”

“Appreciate it,” Bobby nodded, though his eyes were taking in everything, the blanket draped on the couch, the line of pill bottles on the counter, Christopher's wheelchair by the garage door, the faint hum of laughter from the other room.

He followed Evan through the kitchen and out to the patio. The house still smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon, domestic and warm, Bobby's gaze drifted over the calendar.

This wasn't the moldy rent-share he had imagined he would find.

Mace was still half-slouched in his chair by the firepit, the bottle dangling from his fingers. He looked up when the door slid open, assessing the newcomer as he pushed himself to his feet. “Evening,” he grunted.

Bobby nodded once. “Evening.”

Mace’s gaze flicked to Evan, a question unspoken but clear. “It’s fine,” Evan assured. “Work."

Mace didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, tossing his bottle empty bottle in trash before heading inside. “Don’t let the fire die. I’ll put the kids to bed.”

Evan gave him a grateful look. Mace returned it with a short nod, the kind that said I’ve got this and he slipped inside, the sliding door clicking softly shut behind him.

Bobby took the chair Mace had vacated, his expression unreadable in the shifting light. He glanced toward the house, then back at Evan. “You have a kid?”

Evan froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. For a second, he didn’t seem to know what to do with the question. “Yeah,” he said finally, careful. “Something like that.”

Bobby blinked, processing. “You never mentioned…”

“I don’t… talk about my home life much.” Evan set the bottle down. “It’s complicated.”

Bobby’s brows pulled together. “Complicated how?”

Evan gave a small, tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “In a good way. Mostly.” He nodded toward the house. “Christopher. He’s… he’s not mine, exactly. But he’s my responsibility when his dad’s deployed.”

Something shifted in Bobby’s face. “So that’s the Diaz you called for.”

Evan exhaled slowly. “Yeah.” He hesitated, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I never meant to keep my lives separate. Not really. At first, it was … easier to step into the 118 without unspoken exceptions on my back.”

His gaze drifted past Bobby’s shoulder, toward the soft light behind the curtains. “And I needed to protect my family. I wasn’t sure who’d have my six if they knew what my personal life looked like. You all made it easy, no questions, no pressure. I just… let the assumptions stand.”

The firelight made Bobby look less like a captain and more like a man who knew what it was to live in the before and the after. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to start over when you don’t have to explain the pieces that came before.”

Evan huffed. “Yeah. But the pieces follow you anyway.”

“Yeah kid,” Bobby murmured. “They always do.”