Evan "Buck" Buckley

The scream of the alarm shattered the relative calm of the 118’s firehouse, jolting Buck upright from where he’d been half-dozing on the couch. The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the speakers, sharp and urgent.

"All available units, respond to a five-alarm fire at the Avalon Apartments, downtown LA. Reports of multiple trapped civilians, including a child on the fifth floor. Structure is unstable—proceed with extreme caution."

Buck was already moving before the message finished, adrenaline surging through him as he yanked on his turnout gear. Around him, the rest of the team sprang into action—Bobby barking orders, Hen and Chim grabbing medical kits, Eddie securing his helmet with that focused, unshakable calm Buck had always admired.

"Child trapped on the fifth floor?" Buck muttered under his breath, heart hammering against his ribs. He could already picture it—thick smoke, crumbling drywall, the terrified face of a kid who didn’t understand why no one had gotten to them yet.

"Buck." Bobby’s voice cut through his thoughts as they piled into the rig. "You and Eddie take lead on search and rescue. Hen, Chim—be ready for triage. This thing’s spreading fast, and we don’t know how many people are still in there."

Buck nodded, jaw tight. "We’ll find the kid."

The drive was a blur of sirens and tense silence. When they arrived, the scene was chaos—flames licking up the sides of the high-rise, smoke billowing into the night sky, panicked residents stumbling out onto the street. A woman in a soot-streaked bathrobe broke away from the crowd, her voice raw with terror as she grabbed Buck’s arm.

"My son—he’s still inside! Apartment 507, he was in his room—please, you have to get him out!"

Buck met Eddie’s gaze for half a second—we’ve got this—before turning back to her. "We’re going in right now. What’s his name?"

"Liam," she choked out.

"Liam’s gonna be okay," Buck promised, already moving toward the building, mask secured, axe in hand. The heat hit him like a wall as they breached the lobby, the roar of the fire drowning out everything else.

Eddie’s voice came through the comms, steady as ever. "Stairs are clear for now, but this whole place could go. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before it’s unsalvageable."

"Then let’s move," Buck shot back, taking the steps two at a time.

The fifth floor was a nightmare—hallway choked with smoke, ceiling tiles collapsing in bursts of sparks. Apartment 507’s door was locked, but one well-placed kick from Buck sent it flying open. "Liam!" he shouted, sweeping his flashlight through the haze. "Liam, it’s the fire department—we’re here to help!"

A whimper came from the back bedroom. Buck didn’t hesitate, plunging deeper inside, Eddie right behind him.

And then he saw him—a small boy, maybe six years old, curled under his bed, eyes wide with terror.

"Hey, buddy," Buck said, dropping to his knees, voice softening despite the urgency. "I’m Buck. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?"

Liam didn’t move, frozen in fear.

Eddie crouched beside him. "Your mom’s waiting for you downstairs. You wanna see her?"

A shaky nod. Buck reached out, and this time, Liam let himself be pulled free.

"Alright, let’s go—now," Eddie urged as the ceiling above them groaned ominously.

Buck scooped Liam into his arms, shielding him with his body as they bolted for the exit. The building was coming apart around them, flames eating through the walls, but Buck didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—not until they were outside, not until he could hand Liam back to his sobbing mother.

"Thank you," she wept, clutching her son to her chest. "Thank you, thank you—"

Buck just nodded, breathless, adrenaline still singing in his veins. Beside him, Eddie clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Good job, Buckley."

Buck grinned, wiping soot from his face. "All in a day’s work, Diaz."

But as he turned back to the burning building, Bobby’s voice crackled over the radio again.

"118, we’ve got another call—gas leak two blocks over. Possible explosion risk. Move out."

Buck exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

"Guess we’re not done yet."

The bar was loud—too loud, really—but Buck didn’t mind. The hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—it all blurred together into a kind of white noise, something he could lose himself in. He wasn’t here to think. He wasn’t here to replay the last call in his head—the one where the firetruck had nearly tipped, where for one heart-stopping second, he’d thought Eddie was going to be crushed under the weight of it. No. Tonight, he just wanted to not think.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass before knocking it back, the burn of whiskey sharp down his throat. Around him, the world kept moving. A group of college girls at the next table giggled over something on one of their phones, their voices bright and carefree.

"Oh my God, if I have to read one more thesis on post-modernist literature, I’m dropping out," one groaned, tossing her hair.

"You’re just mad because Professor Hayes hates you," another teased.

Buck smirked into his drink. College felt like a lifetime ago.

A few stools down, a couple of guys in Lakers jerseys were deep in debate, voices rising over the din.

"Man, if LeBron doesn’t get another ring this year, it’s over. You can’t tell me he’s still in his prime."

"Bro, you’re delusional. Dude’s carrying the team on his back!"

Buck tuned them out, flagging down the bartender for another round.

And then—there it was. The one conversation he didn’t want to hear.

"Did you see that shit on the news? That firetruck almost flipped yesterday. Crazy."

Buck’s fingers tightened around his glass.

"Yeah, man, I heard some kid was trapped under it or something. Wild."

"Nah, nah, it was one of the firefighters—dude almost got crushed. My cousin’s a paramedic, said the whole thing was a clusterf—"

"Hey." Buck’s voice cut through the chatter before he could stop himself, sharp enough that the guys turned to look at him. He forced a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Maybe don’t talk about shit you weren’t there for, yeah?"

One of the guys raised an eyebrow. "You a firefighter or something?"

Buck knocked back his fresh drink. "Or something."

The guy held up his hands. "Hey, no disrespect, man. Just saying it looked intense."

"Yeah," Buck muttered, turning back to the bar. "It was."

The bartender—a woman with dark hair and a smirk that said she’d seen a hundred guys like him tonight—leaned in. "You want another, or are you just gonna glare at strangers all night?"

Buck huffed a laugh. "Depends. You gonna cut me off?"

"Not unless you start a fight." She poured him another shot. "You look like you’ve had a week."

"Try a year," he muttered, but he threw her a grateful half-smile before downing it.

The alcohol was starting to do its job—dulling the edges, blurring the memories. But it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed to not see Eddie’s face when the truck tilted, needed to not hear the scream of metal, needed to not feel that split second of pure terror before they’d all gotten clear.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. Eddie had texted him three times already.

You good?

Where’d you disappear to?

Buck. Answer me.

Buck ignored it.

Instead, he scanned the room. There were options—a brunette at the end of the bar who’d been glancing his way, a guy in a leather jacket who definitely wasn’t just here for the drinks. Any of them would do. Anyone who could help him forget for a few hours.