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Buck had been living with pain for years. It wasn't easy, exactly — but it had become familiar. He had learned how to deal with it. He had learned the routines and maintenance of living in his body, a penance for the shit he'd put it through in his first two decades.
He bought ice packs and heating pads, compression socks and muscle rollers, braces for his knee and ankle joints. And he didn't complain about it; if it had been years ago when he was still pulling stunts for a glimpse of his parents attention maybe he would have. But this wasn't then and Buck had learned that he'd rather be treated as reliable than have people pay too close attention to his pain.
Even after years he didn't learn how to fix anything — he just managed to get by without too much fuss
It was all about what could make it easier to get through the day? It wasn't going to go away and Buck had accepted that a long time ago.
Buck had believed his time under the ladder truck would always be his undisputed rock bottom — but at least it gave him a high pain threshold — the crush injury felt indescribable and everyone had been there to witness it. It had to be the worst pain he would ever be in because it was the most noticeable pain he'd ever — ever — be in. He'd thought that event, as the crux of his issues, meant it couldn't really get worse.
But when the pain flared hot through his calf muscle and the carefully recrafted bone, in the middle of the lawsuit when he wasn't sure he'd ever be allowed back in the firehouse, he’d found himself researching elective amputation late at night. Not seriously. Not really. Just…something to imagine when he needed an escape.
It was harder to manage after Bobby died. The grief pushed him past a threshold he didn't even know existed.
Everything was harder.
Living.
The grief settled in his chest, constant and inescapable, and alongside it came a new kind of pain — something that spread across his back, diffuse and impossible to isolate. He couldn’t box it up, couldn’t pretend it belonged to just one limb. There wasn't one traumatic event that Buck could blame — he didn't fall off a roof or crash into a car. It just started creeping up on him at some point. One day it was a normal pain day, the next it got so bad his hands would shake.
He didn't even bother going to the doctor.
Not until he literally couldn't avoid it.
But he supposed the car accident — followed by kidnapping and cattle prodding and playing at being a perfect son — was just another form of pain in his life. He couldn't exactly ignore the small town hospital or the quick fixes that they'd offered to get him and Eddie out of town.
It shocked him how much the pain killers helped after the car accident in New Mexico.
He’d been prescribed opioids before — after surgeries, during recovery — but it had never felt like this. Back then, they dulled the edge. Took the worst of it off.
Now it felt like someone had lifted a weight off his entire body.
It wasn’t euphoria. It wasn’t even relief, not exactly.
It was quiet.
It was standing on a threshold he'd forgotten was there, looking into a room where people lived without pain.
Moving was easier. Breathing was easier. Existing was easier.
In a way he was just still managing.
He hadn't really considered he was doing anything wrong until that doctor refused to prescribe him anything. It felt so harsh; he offered no help with withdrawals or alternatives just the statement that the system had caught him and he was flagging his name. Cut off.
Other people get to live without pain. That's normal for them. Expected. But when he was just trying to do the same thing, he was the problem — a liability, drug-seeking.
He did try to wean himself off the drugs, out of necessity more than any particular sense of wrongdoing; he only had fifteen pills left.
Two pills meant no pain for seven hours.
One pill meant tolerable pain for four hours.
Half a pill just barely scraped away at his pain for two hours.
So he rationed.
And it's hard to call it avoiding a dependency when being off the medication felt unbearable.
But he was still able to do it. He slowed down until he stopped, until there was nothing left.
It was days after his final half pill when, in a moment of weakness, he considered taking one of the fentanyl vials from the ambulance.
No, not a moment. Because it wasn't a passing thought he had considered it, when and how and who he could follow into the bus while they were restocking.
He'd planned it out like it was an old routine. Apply ice, heat and hold the bones together with tape or cloth or Velcro — avoid the pain. That had turned into: wait for Eddie to be on the restock, hope he gets distracted, hope he doesn't notice, hope you get the chance to slide a vial out of the draw before they're locked up. Maybe two vials.
It scared him in hindsight.
Like actually terrified him because he felt so clear of mind when he started up the conversation while Eddie was on restock. The food poisoning lie came out easy, when Eddie noticed he looked sick and Buck was practically excited when Hen called him away for a call from Chris — it felt like his chance to stretch his relief another day or two.
BRINNNNNNNG!
Suddenly the alarm was blaring and it was like a fog evaporated around him — What was he thinking?
He could lose his job.
Go to prison.
What was he doing?
What if Eddie could be implicated in this ill-conceived plan? Whose life is he ruining for seven hours of avoidance? To escape a pain that will return anyway — this isn't fixing anything and management isn't enough anymore.
One more step and he'd have crossed something he couldn't uncross.
He put the bottles back and jumped out of the ambulance into Chimney's path.
He was shocked Chim doesn't see it all over his face, not only the immediate aftermath of his guilt but the sickness that had infected his bones as the pain returned. But Buck never let anyone notice. He's felt like crap for days, going through a brutal withdrawal and of course he's trying to hide it — obviously — but even Eddie said he looked like crap. But they didn't know somehow.
How were they not catching on? Catching him? He needed to be caught.
He wants to be yelled at for being so stupid.
But there was a call and Chimney was standing in front of him and saying, "Move it, Buckley."
And Buck couldn't trust himself in the field right now.
"I— " Buck started, the word catching in his throat. "Can I be man behind?"
Chimney's expression flickered with concern, for a second, before nodding and rushing along with the rest of the team onto the rig.
Buck didn’t follow.
He went straight to the locker room. Stripped. Stood under the shower until the water ran cold, then stood there longer. The shame was a physical weight. When he finally dressed again, his uniform hung off him like it belonged to someone else. Buck felt like he didn't deserve it anymore.
He started the laundry, and started making a new plan. A better plan — the one he should have made right after the doctor told him off.
By the time he'd made his final decision it's 2 AM, the firehouse is quiet, the emergency call has long since ended and almost all of the team has taken to the bunk room for some well earned rest.
Everyone is asleep except for Buck and Chimney who was finishing his reports at the same table they have family meals at just like Bobby had, never quit liking the idea of a closed office door even when there was paperwork to get done.
Buck stood on the stairs, just out of sight.
One step and he'd be in the loft. One more and he'd say the words. Help or fire me. Or I am so scared of what I could turn into tomorrow after what I almost let myself do today.
It all meant the same thing. He remembered telling Bobby once that it was okay to ask for help and Buck honestly didn't appreciate how much effort it must have taken him to let that plea pass through him. To admit it not only to himself but to his team.
This was hard.
He'd spent years learning where his thresholds were. He'd just never stood at one and chosen to cross. He didn't believe he'd ever come back from this one.
He took his final step up the stairs, ducking his head as Chimney looked up.
"Hey Cap."