Chapter Text
Hen noticed first.
It wasn’t that she was looking for anything unusual—Buck had always been a little… Buck. He was impulsive, emotional, and forever caught between “hyper-competent firefighter” and “human golden retriever.” But lately, something about him was off.
Not bad-off. Not in the way he’d been after the lawsuit, or after the ladder truck accident, or any of the other times his world had collapsed on him. This was subtler. Like the edges of him had shifted just slightly out of focus.
She caught it one morning at the firehouse, two weeks into their shift rotation. Buck was at the kitchen counter, hair sticking up like he hadn’t bothered with a comb, wearing a T-shirt that had once been loose but now tugged around his chest and middle. He was… baking.
At seven in the morning.
“What are you making?” Hen asked cautiously, setting down her coffee mug.
“Pumpkin bread,” Buck answered, without looking up. He was whisking like his life depended on it, flour dusting across his forearms, jaw set in deep concentration.
Hen raised an eyebrow. “It’s… July.”
“Pumpkin bread isn’t seasonal,” Buck said flatly, then sighed like she just didn’t get it. “It’s comforting. Warm. Nostalgic. Who doesn’t like pumpkin bread?”
Chim wandered in just then, sniffing the air. “Ooh, smells like autumn in here.”
“See?” Buck said, pointing at Chim with his whisk like he’d just won an argument.
Hen narrowed her eyes. She’d been Buck’s friend too long not to know his tells. His body language was tight, like he was wound up inside, but he was also jittery in a way that wasn’t from caffeine. His cheeks were flushed, his movements too fast, too jerky.
“Everything okay, Buck?” she asked.
He shrugged, too quickly. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
That was clue number one.
xxx
Clue number two came later that afternoon, when Buck and Hen were restocking supplies after a run. Buck bent to pick up a box of gauze and let out a soft groan, hand pressed to the small of his back.
Hen frowned. “You good?”
“Yeah, just slept weird,” he muttered, trying to wave it off.
Hen tilted her head. “Uh-huh. You’ve said that three shifts in a row.”
Buck forced a grin. “Guess I’ve got a bad pillow.”
But the way he winced again when he straightened up told Hen that wasn’t the full story.
Clue number three was the bathroom.
“Buck, you’ve peed like six times today,” Chim remarked one evening, flopping onto the couch with his plate of pasta. “You’re gonna wear a groove in the floor between here and the toilet.”
Hen watched Buck’s ears turn red. “I’m hydrating!” he insisted.
“Hydrating doesn’t mean your bladder shrinks,” Chim shot back, smirking, head tilted towards him.
“Shut up,” Buck muttered, stabbing at his food, eyes a little too wide.
Hen let it slide in the moment, but she filed it away.
And then there was the nausea.
They’d just come back from a call, a nasty car accident on the freeway, and Bobby was grilling steaks for dinner. The smell wafted through the firehouse, rich and smoky. Everyone else crowded around the table, but Buck stopped short in the doorway, face pale.
“You okay?” Hen asked, watching him swallow hard.
“Yeah,” he said weakly. “Just… not hungry.”
Hen blinked. Buck? Not hungry? The man usually inhaled food like he had a second stomach.
She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “You’re pale, Buck.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
But Hen wasn’t convinced.
That night, when the dorms finally quieted, she found herself sitting across from him at the kitchen table. Buck had another baking project going—chocolate chip cookies this time, a mountain of them already piled on a plate. His fingers were twitching against the countertop, restless.
Hen folded her arms. “Talk to me.”
Buck blinked, caught off guard. “About what?”
“About why you’ve been acting like a—” she waved vaguely “—pregnant woman lately.”
He choked on air. “What?”
“You’re nauseous, moody, baking nonstop, peeing every five minutes, complaining about your back. I’m just saying, if you showed up with a sonogram right now, I wouldn’t be shocked.”
Buck laughed, too loud, too sharp. “Hen. I’m not a carrier. That’s—” he waved his hands “—not possible.”
Hen raised an eyebrow. “I know biology, Buck. I’m just saying your body’s throwing up red flags. Maybe stress? Maybe something else? But it’s not nothing.”
For a moment, the mask slipped. Buck’s shoulders hunched, his eyes flicking down to the cookies like they might explain something. “I’ve been tired,” he admitted quietly. “Since Tommy and I—” His voice caught, and he forced a shrug. “I just haven’t been myself.”
Hen’s expression softened. She reached across the table, squeezing his wrist. “Breakups take a toll. But listen—if something feels wrong, don’t just ignore it. Promise me you’ll check in with a doctor, okay?”
Buck nodded, though it felt like a lie in his chest. He didn’t want doctors, didn’t want tests or bloodwork or any reminder that his body might be as confusing as his heart.
Still, Hen’s gaze was steady, and he hated disappointing her.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ll get it checked out.”
Hen smiled faintly. “Good. Now pass me a cookie.”
Buck handed her the plate, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted—not from nerves this time, but from something deeper, something unnameable that he wasn’t ready to face.
xxx
Two days later, Buck found himself in the station bathroom again, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked… different. Softer around the edges. His T-shirt clung where it used to hang loose. He pressed a hand to his middle, frowning at the subtle swell there.
It was stress. It had to be. Stress and comfort food, and insomnia.
But Hen’s words echoed in his ears: You’ve been acting like a pregnant woman lately.
He laughed out loud, the sound hollow in the tiled room. “Not possible,” he muttered to himself. Neither he nor Tommy was a carrier. Sure, they spoke about kids when they were dating. Of course, they had. They were together for six months. They always spoke of surrogacy or adoption. They had a plan.
But the doubt lingered, curling tight in his chest. A small part of him did wonder what it would be like if he were carrying Tommy's baby.
xxx
By the time their shift ended, Buck had already baked two more loaves of pumpkin bread, a tray of brownies, and a half-dozen muffins. Hen just shook her head, watching him pack it all into Tupperware.
“Seriously,” she said, smirking now. “At this rate, you’re going to open a bakery.”
“Better than therapy,” Buck shot back, though the joke landed flat.
Hen didn’t push. She just gave him a look—the kind that said she was watching, that she wasn’t going to let this go forever.
And Buck, carrying his armful of baked goods out into the fading sunlight, felt both comforted and terrified by that.
xxx
That night, alone in his apartment, Buck set the last loaf of pumpkin bread on the counter. The silence pressed in again, the same silence that had haunted him since Tommy left.
He sliced a piece, butter melting into the warm bread, and tried not to think about the ache in his back or the nausea still curling faintly in his stomach.
It was fine. He was fine.
But deep down, Buck knew Hen was right. Something was happening. Something he didn’t understand yet.
And knowing was the scariest part of all. Knowing that something more IS wrong with him. Something incurable.