Chapter Text
Buck blinked as he stared through his visor at the glass door. His turnouts weighed him down, every inch of fabric and gear pressing him deeper into the floor, as though the world itself wanted to swallow him whole. His mind tried to catch up to the sight in front of him, sluggish and tangled, like he was stuck in a fog he couldn’t quite clear. Everything felt wrong, off-kilter, like reality itself was slipping through his fingers. Why was he here again? They had won, hadn’t they? There had been an explosion...Chimney was dying, a mutated virus was coursing through his veins...but they got the cure! Athena and himself, had outrun the goddamn military around the streets of LA, commandeering an LAFD helicopter with the help of his ex-boyfriend, like they were in some kind of action film. They got to Chimney in time, the man being rushed out of the building as they spoke. The nightmare was over... so why was there a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, cold and relentless, drawing him back to that door? Why did his hands shake? Why did his heart feel like it was splintering all over again?
“It’s going to be okay, kid.”
Bobby? Why is Bobby behind the door? He should have left...it was over, why was he still here? The man he saw as his father in all but blood reached for his mask, and Buck just knew it was a mistake. His heart hammered in his ears, panic rising like bile. He wanted to run to Bobby, to drag him away from the danger, to beg him not to do this. He couldn’t understand why, but he knew that removing his mask would be like destroying his whole world.
A thousand frantic thoughts tumbled through his mind: Why can’t I reach him? Why am I so slow? I should have stopped this. I should have saved him. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms, desperate to do something—anything—but all he could do was watch in horror, paralysed by terror and the certainty that he was about to lose everything.
“Bobby....” Buck tried to speak to stop him, but it was like he was talking underwater.
The mask lifted, and the pale, sunken face of his Captain looked back at him, dried blood running tracks down his face.
No...no...no....this wasn’t right. Bobby was okay, he had to be!
“Bobby!” Buck tried to choke out the name.
“You’ll be okay, Buck. They’re going to need you.”
No! The desperate, terror-striking thought coursed through his mind. He was pounding at the glass like he could break through the door through sheer will. But no matter how hard he tried, the hits wouldn’t land, the door stood firm, and Bobby’s blood-stained face remained still behind the glass.
“I love you, kid.”
The words struck like a dagger through his heart.
No! I love you, too! Bobby! Don’t leave me! You can’t leave! Pops!
The words tore at his throat, ripped at his heart, but never left his lips. His body froze, helpless, paralysed by an agony so sharp it felt like glass inside his chest. Time seemed to slow as Bobby appeared to drop to the floor, fresh blood pouring from every visible crevice. The sound of flesh hitting tile echoed like a gunshot, reverberating through Buck’s bones. He could only watch, powerless, as Bobby’s eyes—once warm and full of life—became vacant, reflecting only pain and betrayal. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to do something, to save Bobby, but he was trapped behind the glass, forced to witness the brutal unravelling of the only father that had ever truly loved him.
His mouth opened in a silent scream, his fists pounding the glass until his knuckles ached, desperate to break the barrier between them. He begged, pleaded, and sobbed, but his voice was lost in the suffocating silence. Guilt crashed over him in waves—if he’d been faster, smarter, braver, Bobby would still be alive. The shame was so intense it felt like his skin was burning, a punishment for every mistake, every hesitation, every failure to protect the people he loved. Desperation clawed at his insides, threatening to consume him whole.
Bobby! No!!
He continued to pound at the door.
“You failed me, kid!”
He whirled around to find Bobby standing behind. No, not Bobby. Not the Bobby that was family but one he recognised all the same. Coma Bobby.
“I thought you being Buck was supposedly enough...that you reminded me how to live...didn’t do much good in the end though, did you Kid?”
“Bobby?” His name finally broke free in a broken sob, head shaking in denial.
“You were never enough, kid. You didn’t save me.” Not mocking, just speaking the facts.
“I tried...” Buck sobbed.
“Did you?” Eddie’s voice echoed to the side of him. His glare burning holes into Buck.
“You didn’t do enough, Buck! You’re no saviour...you’re just exhausting!” Eddie’s cold words cut him at his core.
“Eddie!” Buck gasped in horror as blood started flowing from Eddie’s eyes.
“You failed us, Buck.” Chim’s voice added.
“Why were you not with us?” Hen asked, blood soaking through her shirt.
No...No...No....Buck sobbed, his entire body wracked with convulsions, grief clawing up his throat until he was choking on it. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, hands pressed to the cold floor, the sharp sting of loss radiating through his limbs. Each breath was a struggle, shallow and ragged, as if the very air was too heavy for his lungs. Hot tears blurred his vision, but no matter how much he wept, it would never be enough to cleanse the ache gnawing at his soul.
“You think of me like a father, but you couldn’t even say you love me in my dying moments?” Bobby spoke up again as Buck continued to sob. “Why would I want a son like you?”
“Bobby!” He half sobbed, half begged.
The pain and heartbreak were choking him; he couldn’t breathe...the darkness was closing in.
“Bobby!” The name cut off with a gasp as Buck startled into consciousness.
‘Just a nightmare,’ he tried to assure himself, but the words tasted bitter, sharp as broken glass in his mouth. His heart thundered, threatening to shake him apart from the inside, every frantic beat a reminder of what he’d lost. Sweat chilled his skin, mixing with the tears he couldn’t seem to stop, the sheets twisted around him like restraints. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could force the images away, but all he saw was blood, Bobby’s vacant eyes, the unmoving bodies of his friends—all blaming him.
It had been 6 months. 6 months since he watched Bobby seal himself inside that lab and take his last breaths. 6 months since Buck’s entire world imploded, the centre of his universe collapsing in on itself. The grief had settled in his bones, an ache that never dulled, a spectre that haunted every waking moment and haunted his sleep. Every day since, he moved through life like a ghost, carrying a hollow ache in his chest, pretending the world hadn’t ended. He’d learned to plaster on a smile, to nod along when people said he was strong, but inside, he was still trapped behind that glass, pounding on the door, screaming for someone he could never save.
Some mornings, he woke with his face wet and his throat raw, the taste of panic clinging to his tongue. Other nights, he jolted upright, gasping for air, clutching at his chest as if he could dig the pain out with his bare hands. The nightmares never faded—they bled into daylight, colouring every interaction, every moment of stillness. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a stranger: haggard, hollow-eyed, a man unravelling at the seams. He was terrified that if anyone looked too closely, they’d see the truth—that he was broken, and no amount of pretending could hide it.
Life, for everyone else, seemed to continue on. The station found its rhythm again, calls came in and were answered, laughter filtered through the kitchen, and birthdays were celebrated as though nothing in their world had shifted at all. Buck tried to move with them, tried to match their pace. On the outside, he was steady, reliable, a source of comfort for others. He made sure to check in on Hen after her shifts, sending her texts that asked just a little too specifically about how she was coping. He offered to do activities that Ravi might actually enjoy—bowling, hiking, trivia nights—rather than just dragging him along to listen to Buck drunkenly ramble about Eddie. He regularly helped out with Jee and Baby Han so Chim and Maddie could have precious time for themselves. He had The Bachelor Monday’s with May and Harry, something he cherished as a way to assure himself that the two were coping with the loss of their stepfather. He tried his best to make sure the fridge was always well stocked at the Grant-Nash’s new home whenever he could, the only way he could keep looking after Athena in Bobby’s place. Despite starting on the wrong foot, Athena had slowly come to be the only maternal figure he truly had in his life, and Buck couldn’t help but feel he lost both of his pseudo-parents the night Bobby died. Athena had barely spoken to him since that night, and Buck could barely bring himself to look her in the eye whenever they were in the same room. It was his fault her husband died after all; he hadn’t done enough to save him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if a part of her hated him now for it, so he continued to care for her in silence, helping from the shadows.
He tried to be there for Eddie and Chris without being overbearing, always texting and calling to see if they wanted him there instead of just showing up at their home like he used to feel welcome to, careful never to intrude. But the longer time went by, the more Buck felt himself on the outskirts of the group, orbiting around lives that were moving on without him. The others had their own families, their own rhythms, and it became clear they didn’t really need him in their space all the time. Eddie, especially, had grown distant since their argument in the kitchen. Buck thought things would heal—Eddie had brought Chris home as a wordless apology for taking his grief out on Buck—but somehow he felt further away than ever, like there was an invisible wall between them. Eddie had grown even closer to Hen since his return, the two now working as partners since Eddie had moved to fill Chim’s old spot as paramedic, with Chim now taking on the Captain’s badge, following in Bobby’s footsteps. Buck tried his hardest not to feel jealous, but every time he saw Eddie and Hen sharing a joke or heard that they were watching documentaries without even thinking to invite him, the dagger in his heart twisted deeper. Every attempt Buck made to close the gap, every tentative suggestion for a movie night or a beer after shift, was met with polite excuses and busy schedules. Nights that used to be filled with Buckley-Diaz movie marathons or just kicking back with a beer were now too crowded for Buck to even get five minutes alone with Eddie. And Buck tried not to let it show, desperate not to make it all about him again—not another “trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley,” as Eddie had accused him during their last fight—but every time he was left out, every time he heard about Eddie and Hen hanging out without him, it was just another reminder that maybe Bobby had been wrong. Maybe they didn’t need him. Maybe he was the one who needed them, and that was exactly why he could never ask for help. He didn’t think he deserved it.
So he pretended to be okay. It worked, or at least it seemed to. But inside, Buck’s world was unravelling, thread by fragile thread. He became an expert at camouflage—summoning the old, easy grin on command, forcing brightness into his voice, masking the ache in his chest behind practised words. But his eyes betrayed him. In the rare moments he caught his reflection, he hardly recognised the haunted look staring back.
He moved through the station like a ghost—always present, never truly there. Sometimes, he would catch his hands trembling as he poured coffee, or realise he’d been standing in the kitchen for minutes with no memory of how he got there. On calls, he was hypervigilant, adrenaline spiking at the slightest sign of danger, but the moment things calmed down, the emptiness rushed back in, leaving him dizzy and cold.
No one noticed that his smiles never quite reached his eyes anymore, or that his laugh always sounded a little forced. No one asked about the way his hands sometimes shook or why he never lingered in the kitchen after a call. When Eddie snapped at him—sharp words slicing through the tension in the Diaz kitchen—Buck just swallowed it down, nodded, and let Chris’s cheerful presence paper over the cracks. Their fights never lasted long, apologies passed in glances rather than words, always buried by the weight of unspoken grief.
But the words still haunted Buck, replaying in his nightmares where he was always too late, constantly not enough. He couldn’t outrun the voices that accused him—Eddie’s, Hen’s, Chimney’s, Bobby’s, and worst of all, his own. Each one was an echo chamber of blame and regret, each one chiselling away at whatever scraps of hope or self-worth he had left. Maybe Eddie was right. Perhaps he hadn’t done enough to save Bobby. Maybe he’d fooled himself into thinking that everyone understood just how much Bobby meant to him, that they saw he was mourning not just a friend or a captain, but the only father he’d ever truly loved.
It was easier for others to move forward, to see Bobby’s sacrifice as heroic and necessary, albeit devastating. But for Buck, that sacrifice was a wound that refused to heal—a gaping loss that left him stranded in that lab, pounding on the glass, begging for just one more chance to say goodbye. He was haunted by the memory of Bobby’s last words—"I love you, Kid"—words that should have been a comfort, a balm for the wound tearing his heart apart. But Buck hadn’t said it back. He’d been too choked, too desperate, the words stuck in his throat while the world came crashing down. That failure gnawed at him, a relentless ache. He’d never get the chance now. That truth haunted him more than anything—the knowledge that Bobby died not knowing how much Buck loved him, that the one person who truly saw him as a son left this world without hearing those words spoken back. The shame and sorrow fused inside him, a grief so sharp it sometimes felt like he was dissolving from the inside out.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, Buck would whisper, "I love you, too," into the darkness, voice raw with longing and regret. Sometimes he’d sob until his chest ached, clutching a pillow to his chest as if it could hold him together. Some nights he’d rock himself, curled up on the cold bathroom floor, just trying to breathe through the tidal wave of pain until the sobs faded into numbness. Sometimes he would find himself texting Bobby just like he did every morning for months after the lightening strike, when he needed him to confirm that he was alright and that Buck wasn’t still stuck in that coma dream where his biological parents loved him for the first time in his life but the only man who truly showed him the paternal love he craved was dead. Now, those texts remained unanswered, and Buck would find himself staring at the phone, sometimes wishing he was still in that dream... at least he could see Bobby there.
~~~
Buck showed up to work that morning running on little more than stubbornness and caffeine, the nightmare still clawing at the edges of his consciousness. He hadn’t slept after waking, had stared at the ceiling in the dark, replaying every terrible detail until dawn broke and he forced himself to get up. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual, his movements heavy, and he struggled to find that easy grin the team expected from him. Every step felt twice as much effort, his limbs sluggish and uncooperative. Even the familiar comfort of the firehouse—the chatter, the smell of fresh coffee, the camaraderie—couldn’t quite reach him through the fog of exhaustion and grief.
The others noticed, of course—they always did. Hen’s eyes would linger on him a little too long as he poured his coffee, her voice softer when she asked if he wanted cream. Chimney offered a donut with a searching look, then quietly shouldered more chores than usual. Ravi hovered nearby, awkward but present, as if waiting for Buck to say something first. Eddie found small ways to look out for him, too, like quietly packing away Buck’s gear at the end of the shift or swapping chores so Buck could take the quieter jobs, but never drawing attention to it. Athena would occasionally stop by the station with lunch under the guise of “checking on paperwork,” lingering just a little longer in the kitchen, eyes following Buck as he did his best to avoid her gaze, convinced she wouldn’t want to see him. Even Maddie texted him more than usual, her messages casual but always perfectly timed for when the insomnia was at its worst.
What Buck missed, caught in his own grief and guilt, was the web of worry the 118 and their extended family wove around him. He didn’t see how Hen and Chimney whispered in the hallway, voices thick with concern. Or how Athena and Maddie exchanged worried texts late at night, trying to figure out how to reach him. Eddie lingered nearby more than he used to, checking on Buck’s paperwork or even just standing next to him in companionable silence, unsure how to help but desperate to try. They all watched for cracks, hoping he might finally open up, but they were afraid to push too hard, scared to trigger something fragile inside him. Buck, meanwhile, only saw the growing distance, missing the gentle gestures and silent support—mistaking their carefulness for indifference. He didn’t see the safety net they quietly wove around him, just waiting for him to fall—or maybe, finally, to reach out and let them catch him.
The shift was quiet—unusually so. Buck thought maybe he was finally getting away with it, convincing everyone the exhaustion was just a run of sleepless nights and too much coffee, that the slower, quieter version of himself was nothing to worry about. The others seemed to accept his excuses, or at least pretended to, and Buck tried to keep his head down, keeping his answers brief and his smiles tight. If anyone noticed that his golden retriever energy was missing, they didn’t say a word. It wasn’t until the last few hours of the shift that things changed. The tones dropped for a multi-vehicle pileup on the highway, and as the engine bay echoed with boots and shouts, Buck felt his muscles coil with the familiar adrenaline.
Chimney was quick to take charge as they arrived on scene—his voice calm and steady as he started assigning roles. “Hen, you’re with Eddie on triage. Ravi, you and Buck take the sedan up front. Let’s keep it moving.”
Buck fell into step beside Ravi, grabbing the jump bag. There was a moment—a flash of grief and something hollow—when he realised, again, that he wasn’t heading into the chaos with Eddie at his side. He glanced over, caught Eddie’s eye across the scene, and for a split second, both of them hesitated. Eddie gave him a little nod, forced and tight, before turning away to join Hen.
“Let’s go, Buck,” Ravi prompted gently.
“Yeah,” Buck said, shaking off the ache. “Let’s get to work.”
The highway was chaos: twisted metal, panicked voices, the urgent rhythm of triage and rescue. Buck crouched beside a teenage girl, voice softening as he reassured her, “Hey, you’re okay. I’m Buck. This is Ravi. We’re going to get you out, alright?”
Ravi moved efficiently, following Buck’s lead but always glancing over, making sure Buck was really alright. “Vitals are stable,” Ravi reported, tone pitched low. “You good?”
Buck nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I got her.”
For a while, Buck lost himself in the work, moving from car to car, offering comfort and steady hands. In those moments, he almost felt normal again. Almost like himself. But every now and then, he’d look up and see Eddie across the wreckage, working with Hen, their heads bent in quiet conversation, and the loneliness would hit him all over again.
Eddie, meanwhile, kept glancing back at Buck, worry etched into every line of his face. He trusted Ravi—knew he was a solid partner—but there was a gnawing ache in his chest at not being the one to have Buck’s back in the field. He’d told himself, told everyone, that he was fine with the change, but in moments like this, he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore. As Hen finished splinting a patient’s arm, Eddie leaned in, dropping his voice.
“You been watching Buck?” Eddie asked, eyes still flicking over to where Buck worked with Ravi.
Hen sighed, her gaze following Eddie’s. “We all have. He’s doing the job, but that spark—he’s running on fumes.”
“Feels wrong not being over there with him,” Eddie admitted, worry threading through his words. “Like I should be the one watching his back.”
Hen offered a gentle, steady look. “You still are, Eddie. Just… in a different way. Ravi’s good, and Buck trusts him. Give it time. Buck’ll find his way back to us.”
Eddie nodded, but it didn’t quite ease the tightness in his chest. “Yeah. I just—wish I knew how to help.”
Hen squeezed his arm before moving on to the next patient. “Just keep showing up. That’s all any of us can do.”
Athena was there, too, working the police side of things—her presence steady, her voice clear as she directed officers and comforted shaken drivers. The 118 noticed her weaving through the controlled chaos, as much a part of their extended family as anyone on the rig. Buck kept his distance, focusing on a vehicle extraction to avoid even catching her eye, convinced she wouldn’t want to see him.
It was Chimney who noticed first when two official-looking people approached Athena. Their crisp suits and badges stood out starkly against the chaos. Chimney’s brow furrowed as he caught the interaction out of the corner of his eye. “That’s weird,” he muttered, more to himself, but Eddie and Hen both glanced over, following his gaze. They all watched as Athena was quietly pulled aside. She stood tall but tense, exchanging hushed words before glancing back toward the 118. Her eyes lingered for a moment—moving from Chimney, to Hen, to Eddie, and finally, briefly, to Buck—her expression unreadable but intent, as if willing them to understand something she couldn’t say aloud. Then, with a measured breath, she let the officials lead her away, disappearing past the cluster of emergency vehicles and flashing lights.
An uneasy tension settled over the rest of the team. Hen pressed her lips together, giving Chimney a questioning look, while Eddie instinctively took a step toward where Athena had vanished before stopping himself. “You think she’s alright?” Ravi asked quietly, voice pitched so only the team could hear.
“Whatever it is, Athena can handle herself,” Chimney said, trying to sound confident, but even he couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice.
“We’ll check in as soon as we’re clear here,” Hen promised, squeezing Eddie’s arm again for reassurance. For now, though, all they could do was finish the job, each of them carrying a flicker of concern for Athena alongside the worries they already held for Buck.
~~~
A couple of hours later, the team made their way back to the station, the buzz of exhaustion and adrenaline fading into a heavy, uneasy silence. Typically, the ride back after a big call would be filled with tired jokes or quiet satisfaction, but tonight, all anyone could think about was Athena’s strange and abrupt departure.
In the engine, the speculation started almost immediately.
“Those suits that took Athena…” Hen murmured, glancing at the others, “That didn’t feel like any kind of routine thing.”
Chimney shook his head, jaw tense. “If it were IA, they would’ve called her in. FBI, maybe, but why now? She looked… unsettled.”
Ravi frowned, “She looked right at us. Like she was trying to warn us about something.”
Eddie’s fingers drummed anxiously on his knee. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I just hope she’s okay.”
Buck barely heard them, his heart thudding, anxiety ratcheting up with every theory, his hands pressed tight to his knees to keep from shaking.
When they arrived, B-shift was already waiting to take over. But what stopped them all in their tracks was Chief Simpson waiting just inside the bay, pacing, looking pale and rattled beneath his mask of professionalism. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them behind his back.
“Chief?” Chimney called, concern threading through his voice as the team gathered, instinctively clustering together.
Simpson cleared his throat, trying for composure, but his voice wavered. “I—I need to talk to you all. It’s… It’s about Bobby.”
Time seemed to freeze. Every member of the 118 stiffened, caution and dread mixing in their chests.
“What do you mean, about Bobby?” Hen asked quietly, her voice brittle.
Simpson’s gaze flickered around the group, and for a moment, he looked truly lost. “The FBI contacted me this morning,” he managed. “They said… they found Bobby.”
The words hung in the air, electric and incomprehensible.
Eddie’s brow furrowed. “Found… what? His—his remains?” The word tasted like poison. “Did someone… take them?”
“Is this some kind of… sick prank?” Chimney muttered, voice sharp with anger and confusion.
“Or did they find something belonging to him?” Ravi offered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Buck’s mind reeled, flashes of horror and outrage—grave robbing, conspiracy, someone trying to profit off Bobby’s name. His vision narrowed, breath coming short and fast.
Simpson shook his head, his composure finally fracturing. “No. No, it’s not that.” He swallowed hard, voice raw and trembling. “There was a raid this morning. The FBI… they found Bobby alive. He’s in the hospital. Athena’s with him.”
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The team stared at Simpson, disbelief, hope, grief, and confusion warring across their faces.
Hen was the first to recover, her voice trembling, “Alive? Are you sure?”
Simpson nodded, eyes shining. “I’ve already arranged coverage for your next week of shifts. Go. Be with Athena. Be with Bobby. Take all the time you need.”
No one said a word as they gathered their things—too afraid to speak, as if words might shatter the fragile, impossible hope. Chimney quietly handed over command to B-shift, his hands visibly shaking, before leading the others to his SUV. Ravi slid into the passenger seat, silent and pale, while Hen and Eddie sandwiched Buck in the back—a sight that would have been comical on any other day, all elbows and knees in the cramped space, but now felt desperately necessary.
Buck barely seemed to notice. Every muscle in his body trembled with cold, unspent adrenaline; his hands fisted in his lap, white-knuckled and unresponsive to Hen’s gentle touch or Eddie’s firm, grounding grip on his shoulder. Their voices, when they tried to speak to him—"Buck, you with us?" "Hey, buddy, look at me"—was met with nothing but blank, wide-eyed silence. He was locked somewhere unreachable, lost in the storm of his own mind: terror, hope, guilt, dread, all colliding so violently that he felt hollowed out and weightless, like a ghost haunting the back seat.
Hen exchanged a worried look with Eddie, her own voice breaking as she tried again, “Buck, we’re right here, okay? We’re not letting go.”
But inside, Eddie was coming apart. Since Bobby died and he’d come back to LA, Eddie had been drowning in his own grief and guilt—guilt for not being with his team when they needed him most, for letting his own mess drive him and Chris to Texas and leave everyone else behind. Bobby’s death had shattered him, opened wounds he’d tried to ignore for a lifetime.
The time away, the loneliness, and the horror of losing Bobby had forced Eddie to look at himself in a way he never had before. He’d spent years suppressing everything—his grief, his fears, even the truth about who he was. Only after Chris, in his blunt, honest way, pointed out how Eddie had been a better boyfriend to Buck than to any girlfriend, had Eddie started to accept that what he felt for Buck was more than just friendship. But admitting it to himself was one thing. Admitting it to Buck? Sharing his pain and letting Buck share his? That was a mountain he still hadn’t climbed. Instead, he’d let his fear twist into anger, projecting it onto Buck, keeping his distance, convincing himself Buck deserved better than his mess. But all the distance had done was make things worse, for both of them.
Now, in the back seat, with Buck shaking and locked down beside him, Eddie’s desperation was palpable. The shock of Simpson’s words mingled with terror—because if this hope was snatched away, if Bobby was lost to them all over again, Eddie wasn’t sure Buck would survive it. He wasn’t sure he would, either. He could feel the urge to wrap Buck into the biggest hug of his life, to beg forgiveness for pushing him away, to promise he’d never leave his side again. But he kept those feelings locked up tight, steeled himself, and just tightened his hold on Buck’s arm, silently vowing not to let go, not this time. “It’s going to be okay, Buck,” he muttered softly, not sure if he believed his own words, voice rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “We’ve got you.”
Up front, Chimney and Ravi were just as shaken—each glance in the rearview mirror revealing the way Buck stared into nothing, his friends flanking him like sentinels.
“You guys… do you think it’s really him? Alive?” Ravi’s hands twisted in his lap, voice hoarse when he finally spoke.
Hen shook her head, tears prickling at her eyes. “I want to believe, I really do. But it feels impossible. Like saying it out loud will jinx it.”
“I keep thinking it’s a mistake, or… someone’s idea of a sick joke,” Ravi replied, barely above a whisper.
Chimney shot him a look, then flicked his gaze quickly to the backseat. “No one would joke about this. Not with us. Not with Buck, and definitely not with Athena.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, every muscle in his body taut with worry.
Hen leaned forward, her hand never leaving Buck’s arm. “We’re together, whatever it is. I want to believe, but… God, it feels like tempting fate just thinking it could be true.”
Eddie’s jaw tightened as he looked between Hen and Buck, his own hope and fear warring behind his eyes. “What if it isn’t real? What if it’s just another way the Universe has decided to fuck with us?” He swallowed hard, voice thick. “Buck… he can’t take much more.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in the Universe?” Ravi made a weak attempt to joke and lighten the mood, receiving a half-hearted glare from Eddie for his troubles.
Chimney’s reply was rough but steady, the anchor they all needed. “We’ll get through it. We always do. We don’t let go of each other. Not now.”
Their eyes kept drifting to Buck, worry etched into every glance, united in their determination: whatever waited at the hospital, they would meet it as one. The car was silent except for the hum of the road and the shaky breaths they all tried to steady. None of them could bring themselves to hope too loudly, as if the universe might hear and snatch it away. Instead, they held onto each other—physically and emotionally—clinging to the only truth they had left: they would face whatever came next, together.