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When Ravi finds out that Bobby resealed the contamination doors, his fingers tighten around the radio, the plastic feels cheap under his grip. First he thinks it’s a mistake — it has to be — Bobby was just talking to him, nothing was wrong half an hour ago. He got out of his bunker gear and had been through decontamination by the time the words Captain Nash was compromised came over the radio. By the time he understands that what they mean is he’s dead, Ravi has gotten dressed in the army-provided clean clothes as calmly as possible. He’s standing in a makeshift army tent on the night his Captain died — he’s out of uniform but he feels the weight of duty like a lead vest across his chest.
He could call his brother, Sunil. He had thought about it while they were all still trapped in the lab. But Ravi usually texted Sunil during downtime, he’d only called him during the prison escape and he worries when the phone rings now. Ravi is safe, he could text now — but it’s not downtime, he has a job to do. Ravi rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles — he needs to focus on what comes next.
He takes a mental inventory of his team and his breath steadies. Contain yourself. Just until you get them home. Just until you let everyone know. He’s built for this. Survivor's guilt is a companion he first met in the pediatric cancer wards and knows well after four years as a firefighter. He knows how to pack it up into a bottle and tuck it beneath his ribs. Hen, Chimney, Buck, Athena — they’re all carrying worse. He can shoulder the grief for tonight. Ravi has to be the one to tell the others.
Karen is first, mostly because she’s somehow already there. As he walks out into the lab parking lot she goes to meet him halfway, “Is Hen okay?”
It’s easy for him to answer, “Yeah, Hen’s okay.” And he tries not to be taken aback as she hugs him. Ravi doesn’t know her well, he knows her through Hen, but he knows that her relief at hearing her wife is okay must feel amazing. It’s not the full story. “She’s stable.”
“And Chimney?” she asks, pulling back for a second.
Her eyes are big and pleading and Ravi gets to say “Him, too.” He feels guilty for not just spitting it out. Letting her have this temporary relief that will start to curdle when she knows what he’s not saying. But how can he tell her?
“So, everyone’s okay?” she asks, desperate for the answer to be yes. His hesitation lets her face fall. He feels like a failure. “Ravi, who – who’s not okay?”
His hand covers his face as the name comes out on a sob, “Bobby. Bobby is dead.” Karen’s eyes go wide and she folds back into him, the embrace lingers this time and Ravi lets himself sag against her, taking comfort for a moment before he forces himself upright.
He nods his head towards an approaching ambulance. “They’ll be taking Hen to Presbyterian. You might be able to join her in the ambulance; I know you have your car though.”
Karen squeezes his arm and wipes at her eyes. He didn’t notice when they started watering. “Take care of yourself, Ravi.”
He nods at her and watches her walk away to comfort Hen.
Eddie is next. This time, he can’t fumble. He can’t hesitate like he did with Karen. He paces the parking lot going over his minute long script as he drags his feet along the blue paint around the handicapped spot.
The call rings and then — declined. Ravi hangs up, he can’t leave this as a voicemail. His thumb hits redial, the phone rings and rings. Eddie might not even have his number saved, he’s not exactly trusting of technology, Ravi begins to doubt he’ll answer. He’s mentally shuffling his list (adds steal Bucks phone) when Eddie answers. “Hey, Ravi — had people in the car. What's up?”
Ravi had a script, he thought about what he should say, he’d seen doctors inform loved ones about a death before but everything evaporates at the levity in his tone. This is worse than Karen, she was expecting news good or bad, Eddie has no clue any of this was even happening. The words tumble out of his mouth, jagged and too fast for Ravi to comprehend what he’s saying: “There was a call at a lab — we were stuck in there with a virus, a super strain. Chimney got it and Hen’s lung collapsed and Bobby died.”
Silence. Just Eddie’s ragged breathing through his phone speakers.
Ravi’s heart sinks. He shouldn't have called. Could’ve waited for someone, anyone else. But waiting meant Eddie would be going about his night not knowing and Ravi wouldn’t be forgiven for that either.
Then Eddie finally speaks, his voice brittle: “They’re all dead? They can't all — not again.”
“No, no—” Ravi realizes his mistake with a crashing clarity and he clutches his hand to his chest as if he could return the words there. “Bobby is. Chimney got the antiviral and Cap performed a pneumothorax on Hen and — she was walking by the time we got out. I'm so sorry, I’m fucking this up.”
The breath hitches. Ravi pictures Eddie white knuckling the wheel. He realizes Eddie might still be driving. He hopes he isn't. He wishes he'd had the foresight to ask, he wishes he had just waited.
“Buck?” Eddie asks, his voice small . “You haven't mentioned Buck.”
“He was locked out of the lab,” Ravi says. “I'm checking on him next, I'll get him home. Everyone else is heading to the hospital.”
“Do you have our address?”
Ravi nods, then remembers Eddie can't see him, “Yeah, Bedford Street, right?”
“4995 South Bedford Street,” A beat. Eddie’s exhale comes out shaky. “I'll get the next flight I can, okay? I'll… text everyone.”
“Great. See you soon then.”
The line dies. Ravi’s phone is shaking in his hand, his grief is palpable pain along his spine, sticking at the back of his neck. Two tasks left:
- Get the Engine back to the station.
- Get Buck to 4995 S Bedford Street.
This time he pulls out his phone and writes them down, the phone’s brightness cuts through the night but he needs the reminder. He's the one who's most put together right now, he can contain his grief for two more tasks, even if that doesn't feel possible when he feels himself falling apart at the seams.
He sees a glimpse of his brother's texts piling up in the notification bar.
Sunil
Tell me the firehouse on the news isn’t you.
Tell me you switched shifts or call me.
Ravi… (38 Unread Messages)
But checking his messages isn’t on the list.
Buck is.
Ravi turns on his heel and back into the makeshift army base. He doesn’t bother with the pathways; his boots, the last of his bunker gear, scuff against the concrete and sink into the grass as he walks. The air seems to buzz with electricity, as Ravi steps into the room suddenly surrounded by screens.
That’s where he sees Buck — on a monitor.
Buck is crumbled on the floor in the cold zone; Ravi can see where tears streamed down his face but they’re gone now. Buck seems empty, like someone scooped him out and left the shell.
And Tommy Kinard from the 217 is just standing there, his jaw is clenched, his fingers tap restlessly on his side, he looks pained and he’s just staring at Buck like he’s watching some tragic movie instead of his ex-boyfriend disintegrating in the building behind them.
Ravi’s stomach turns with resentment. He didn’t even try.
Sure Ravi has been fumbling all night — hesitating, choking on words and dropping the ball — but at least he’s moving. At least he’s carrying his share of the weight. Tommy, who hasn’t worked with Bobby in nearly a decade, has no excuse to stand still.
“Can’t get him out until he’s gone through decon,” Kinard mumbles, when he notices Ravi’s appeared beside him. His eyes are glued to the screen, his feet remain rooted to the spot. His voice is strained with something — guilt or grief. Ravi doesn’t care to decipher it.
Ravi’s eyebrows furrow. Kinard is the only one here now — had he just stood here, watching Buck break, instead of grabbing a hazmat suit?
He forces his voice level. He doesn’t care, being mad at Kinard isn’t on his list. “You gotta get the 217 chopper back to base, right?” Ravi asks. Translation: Get out if you're not here to help.
Kinard nods absently, still fixated on the screen. “Yeah, just want to make sure Evan makes it out,” But he doesn’t move.
“I got him,” Ravi says, voice sharper than it should be. Then because he knows it’ll cut: “And Eddie’s flying in.”
Kinard’s head snaps to him at that. A scoff escapes him — bitter, jagged. “Of course he is.” He stalks away, without a second glance at the monitor, towards the line of cars outside.
Ravi doesn’t bother watching him go.
Instead he finds himself a Class B Hazmat suit and returns to the hallway he’d escaped from barely half an hour earlier.
Up close, in the dark hallway with blinking lights Buck seems even more hollowed out than through the screens. His knees are drawn up to his chest, arms locked around them; he looks like he’s trying to fold in on himself, turning back time to when he was small. The flickering fluorescents carve shadows under his eyes, turning the tear tracks into jagged scars. He doesn't react when Ravi appears, or when his name is called. He just stares into the nothingness, unmoving.
It’s unsettling. Ravi gets an urge to check Buck's pulse - to see if the man left them through the sheer power of grief.
His own heartbeat thrums in his ears, Ravi resists, and gets to the task on the list - Get Buck. He crouches, the suit protests at the knees, and grips Buck’s shoulders. Once he’s in front of his friend, still not getting any reaction, Ravi wraps his arms around him and then tugs them both up as if it is the singular most important thing at the moment. Because it is. Ravi has to get them out. Not for protocol, not for the job — because he’s worried Buck would just stay here in the hall forever if he let him.
Buck’s weight nearly sends them both stumbling. Ravi grits his teeth, and slings one of Buck’s arms across his shoulders. Buck’s breath hitches — a wet ragged sound, like his lungs remember he needs air but his brain is fighting them. His feet don’t budge when Ravi goes to move them forward.
“Buck,” Ravi says. “You don’t have to say anything but I need you to walk.” If Ravi wasn’t standing right next to him he might believe Buck didn’t hear him, but his eyes focused for a split second in recognition. “You can lean on me, but I really need you to do the decon shower on your own.”
Buck nods, slow and mechanically. Soon enough they are moving towards the temporary decon station. Ravi helps Buck out of his bunker gear and finds a set of sweats for him while he’s in the shower. For a second he worries he’ll have to go in there to get him out but he doesn’t.
Buck returns glowing red and Ravi almost winces at the thought of how hard he must have scrubbed for his skin to look that raw but at least he looks more present in his body now.
“Sorry about that,” Buck says, pulling his LAFD jacket from one of the lockers instead of taking the generic clothes. His hands tremble as he zips it up, the motion too deliberate, taking effort at what should be second nature.
Ravi almost forgot that Buck had had a full day out here, he’d been through this area already.
“About what?” Ravi asks.
Buck’s throat works, his Adam's apple bobs. “Going quiet. Haven’t gotten like that since I was a kid.”
Ravi nearly flinches at the word. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Buck say it — too suspicious of the supposed jinx — and they were both technically still on duty until the engine was back at the station.
“It looked like pretty heavy dissociation,” Ravi said.
Buck’s jaw clenches. “My parents always said it wasn’t that serious.”
“Should you get behind a wheel? You’re the only one left who can drive the rig back. Everyone else is headed to the hospital.”
The engine keys were in Buck’s pocket apparently because he’s taken them out, staring at them like he’s never seen them before. His fingers tighten around them until the bite of the metal must sting. “Or dead,” Buck says, like he’s testing the word out, reminding himself it’s real. “I can drive.”
Ravi’s fingers itch to check his phone. He should probably call B-Shift’s Captain, get someone else with their engineer’s certifications here so it’s off of Bucks plate but… maybe he just needs a task.
Ravi was task motivated and based on the few months he’d had Buck as a work partner over the years it wouldn’t be a stretch to say the same about him.
“Let’s go,” Ravi nods, pretending not to see the imprint of the keys on Buck’s palm. The engine won’t drive itself and right now neither will Buck if Ravi’s not moving him.
The ride back to the station is silent, the streets unnervingly empty. Ravi only realizes they’re cutting through a containment zone at the third deserted intersection — no sirens, no voice, no team, just the intermediate clicking of the turn signal filling the engine. The street lights reflect off the empty house windows and Buck stops at every red light despite there being no signs of life. It’s fitting in a way — the world should go quiet when someone like Bobby Nash dies.
But Ravi knows better. Death doesn’t pause the world, it amplifies everything. He remembers Sandra’s funeral when he was nine — the merciless sun, the chatter of strangers who never visited her in the hospital, his brother kneeling too long at the open casket. Sunil had been closer with Sandra even though Ravi was the one in treatment with her. It all felt so mismatched — it was the first time Ravi had been out of the cancer ward in months — he didn't feel like mourning. But there he was dressed in black and waiting for the casket to be lowered into a grave. Tonight, the silence feels like a funeral. But Bobby’s body is probably still there in the lab, nowhere near peace, and grief swallows Ravi whole at the thought.
“Do you…” Ravi starts and then he realizes what he's about to ask, what he's about to say to who amounts to Bobby Nash's son, so he trails off. Buck's fingers flex on the wheel, but he tilts his head in acknowledgement, saying Go on. So, Ravi does: “Do you think it'll be an open casket?”
The truck jerks as Buck hits the breaks — another red light, still no traffic. The seatbelt bites at Ravi’s collarbone. Buck takes a deep, pained breath it looks like he’s been holding for blocks and the red carves shadows onto his face.
“I don't. Not with this kind of fever.” Buck's voice is empty, but his hands betray him, one of them leaving the wheel to rub harshly against his sternum, grounding but no doubt painful. “They might not even give Athena his body. Or he'll be buried in his gear.”
Ravi pictures Bobby preserved in amber for a second. Walking triumphant through fire, fixing Ravi’s fuck up with the baby in the backseat. He pictures that version of Bobby buried alive and wants to vomit.
“I - I don't know, Ravi.” Buck finishes, his hands returning to 10 and 2 gripping until his knuckles turn white.
Ravi winces. “Sorry. I was just thinking—”
“You're okay,” Buck cuts in, too quickly. His Adam’s apple bobs. “‘S not your fault.”
Ravi nods, staring at his hands. His gloves are off now, the calluses on his palms are built up after years of being a firefighter but for a second they look like they did twenty years ago, skinny and bruised. “I was just thinking about my friend Sandra — my brother's friend really —” He can’t remember the last time he said her name, it tastes like orange Jell-O and protein shakes. He swallows the memory but not the words:
“The casket was open and I don't think I looked. I don't remember.” The words just keep pouring out like a bubble popped and they can’t be held in anymore. His knee bounces against the side of the truck, stop talking, stop talking, stop—
“But I remember Sunil was kneeling up there talking to her and… I don't know, I said goodbye to Sandra the night she died. We were both in the hospital.” The scent of antiseptic and the sound of a code coming from the other room hits him. He rubs his face hard like he could scrub the memories out of his head.
“Sunil, he couldn't remember saying goodbye, and he knelt next to her for like fifteen minutes—” A jagged inhale leaves his mouth. The seatbelt feels like a noose. “I didn't say goodbye to Bobby.”
Buck’s breath hitches, just once.
The light turns green.
By the time they reach the station, Rosen is already waiting, she guides them into the truck bay even though usually one of them would jump out and do it. Ravi barely remembers being here hours earlier. Stepping out of the engine doesn’t feel like returning home, it feels like stepping out onto a new planet, gravity all wrong. He wonders if they announced it all yet — who died, who’s in the hospital — on the city wide channel. Ravi can feel the eyes follow them as the lone survivors. It’s too easy to forget Chimney and Hen made it out too.
Buck disappears into the showers and doesn’t come out. Ravi gets it. The decon showers don’t make you feel clean. Honestly, Ravi wouldn't blame him if Buck just needed an excuse to get away from him. He keeps putting his foot in his mouth, being insensitive as shit.
Ravi peels off the army-issued clothing and shoves it into the trash, the bag rustling echoes through the room. Ravi changes back into his civilian clothes, waiting to feel like he’s stripped off the wait of duty like he always does — the relief doesn’t come.
Half of B-Shift has retreated to the loft, giving them space but the new probie lingers by the engine, waxing it with unnecessary precision. He catches a flicker of curiosity or pity in her stray glances but for a breath he swears the look is annoyance.
It's a stupid thought. His Captain is dead, no one can deny him the right to grieve.
Ravi’s phone buzzes. Three missed calls from Sunil.
That should worry him. His brother hates talking on the phone.
Sunil
They’re saying someone died -- I don’t have anyone on your team's numbers but they would call me if it was you right?
Ravi, you're not allowed to die.
Ravi exhales, he should have texted him sooner. He never meant to scare his little brother, he just couldn’t handle any of it yet. He can’t handle being grieved himself while he’s grieving and that's the way it always goes in these conversations.
Since his cancer diagnosis 23 years ago — through treatment, remission, training to be a firefighter — every moment was a reminder of his mortality. Ravi could die tomorrow and they’d have his funeral planned. His whole family is so good at grief because they’ve been practicing forever while he’s been trying to be a person.
He barely talks to his parents anymore and even Sunil — living with him grates sometimes.
Ravi
Yeah, they’d call you if I was dead.
Or show up at our door,
My captain died.
Sunil
Oh, thank god!
Ravi knows he means well. He knows. He knows. He knows.
Ravi
Don’t wait up.
I’m gonna stay with a friend.
Sorry for worrying you
Sunil
Solid
I got class tomorrow but let me know if there’s funeral plans. I’ll pay my respects.
Ravi just turns off his phone.
He lies down on the bench, staring at the lockers. The ceiling. The floor. His annoyance at Sunil burns through him like acid but his grief for Bobby? It just sits there, a stone on his chest unmovable — he feels flayed open.
He hasn’t even cried yet.
When Buck emerges from the showers his hair is dry and his eyes are wet and red. “You’re still here.”
Ravi opens his mouth to say something. “I -” and then the tears come. No warning or build up. Just pouring down his face until he sounds sick. “My brother is being a little shit and,” he chokes out. “And I told Eddie I’d get you home and — fuck, I don’t want to do anything right now. But I especially can’t go home.”
Buck doesn’t answer, but his shoulders stiffen — like he’s shifting under a great weight, Atlas preparing to hold the sky. Ravi watches his fingers fumble once with the locker combination before he opens it, the metal squeaks like always. Buck grabs his keys, his grip tightly wound around them. “You can stay with me,” Buck finally says. He extends his hand out, palm up, fingers twitching slightly, after a long overdue adrenaline crash, to help Ravi up from the bench. “If you don’t mind my couch.”
It feels wrong — Buck deserves comfort more than Ravi does right now. But this is the first time since Ravi pulled him out of that hallway that Buck has looked remotely steady, his jaw set in a hard line that almost passes as composed.
Maybe it’s Ravi’s turn to go into autopilot.
He takes Buck’s hand.
Buck doesn’t seem to mind leading him into the parking lot by his wrist and dumping him into his passenger seat, so Ravi tries not to feel self conscious about how willingly he lets himself be maneuvered.
The truck radio blares to life the second the key turns — dad rock, Ravi can’t quite distinguish which artist — and neither of them bother turning it off. When Buck pulls out of the station his movements are so precise Ravi imagines he’s running binary commands: indicate, check mirror, accelerate in the strictly prescribed order.
“It doesn’t feel real,” Buck says, his voice carefully even. Ravi watches his fingers run against the steering wheels stitching before stilling. “Seven years ago, Bobby and I were listening to this song in a concert hall. Three months ago…” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “He went to the dealership with me, making plans to help me change the oil. Lecturing me about proper car maintenance.” The wheel creaks under his grip. “How am I supposed to… he’s supposed to be here. Everything reminds me of that.”
“He thought he’d be there,” Ravi offers quietly, as if that makes it better.
“Yeah, but he didn’t even fight,” Buck’s voice splinters. “He said goodbye to me, but he didn’t fucking wait for me to say—” The words die on a sharp inhale. They drive through three more intersections before he speaks again, forcibly calm: “What did your brother do? Why can’t you go home?”
Ravi exhales sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyelids until colors burst behind them. “Sunil means well. But the second he knows I’m not dead…. It all becomes about how I should be dealing.” Ravi pinches his eyes shut. “If my phone was on right now, he’d have sent me five studies on ‘healthy coping mechanisms’ before saying ‘sorry for your loss.’”
Buck’s quiet huff might have been a laugh yesterday. His right hand leaves the wheel for a second to rub at the back of his neck before returning to his death grip. “I get that, I think. My parents were always … managing my emotions instead of listening to them.”
“I just don’t want to be alone and…” Ravi’s knee bounces with nervous energy. “Sunil’s not exactly good company when it comes to grief.”
Buck turns into the driveway sharply, Ravi’s mental to-do list is complete, but neither of them move from the truck. The engine runs along to the beat of the radio. “Well, I - I have Eddie’s. I have my house and um…” His voice cracks slightly. “I probably have to tell him about all—”
“Eddie's on a plane.” Ravi interrupts. “Or at the airport. I - I called him.”
Buck’s shoulders drop an inch, a load lightened at the news though Ravi still cringes at the memory of the phone call. “Oh,” Buck says, he finally turns off the truck’s engine. “That’s good. None of us should have to be alone right now.” Ravi can see Buck’s hands are shaking now that he doesn’t have anything else to hold onto. “Well, I’m going to put on some laundry, change the sheets on Chris’s bed. He’s probably coming, too, right?”
“I-” Ravi’s mind blanks. “Maybe?”
“I’ll set you up on the couch first,” Buck says, already halfway out the door. “You look fried.”
“You’re one to talk,” Ravi mutters, trailing after him. He watches Buck’s shoulders hunch — like the air itself is too heavy — as he fumbles with the house keys. The metal jangles too loudly in the quiet of the early morning before the lock clicks open.
Ravi doesn’t bother arguing. Doesn’t try to micromanage Buck into resting, doesn’t turn on his phone to doomscroll through the news segments where an LAFD Fire Captain will be announced dead. He doesn’t have the chance because the second he sinks into Buck’s brown leather couch, the exhaustion hits him. His last thought before sleep drags him under is of a blanket being draped over him, one that feels warm, just out of the dryer but he’s not even awake enough to say thank you.
A knocking jolts Ravi awake, three sharp raps of knuckles against the door. Sunlight slants through unfamiliar blinds painting stripes across his face, practically blinding him. He blinks against the glare, disoriented by the space in the daylight. He’d seen the house when it was Eddie’s, he’d seen the furniture at Buck’s loft but seeing their belongings mixed in together feels right: the scuffed coffee table, the bike hanging on the wall, a framed photograph of the 118 at Hen and Karen’s vow renewal sitting on the mantel place.
Then — movement. The dining room chair scraps against the hardwood and Buck crosses the living room making a beeline to the door. It looks like he fell asleep sitting up in the dining room. “You have your keys,” he starts, his voice rough with sleep, but the rest is cut off as the door swings open.
Chris barrels into him first, the force nearly knocking Buck back a step but catches himself, arms locking tight around the kid's shoulders. Ravi is always shocked by how similar the two of them look, but now that Buck has embraced the curls and Chris has grown taller it’s almost impossible to believe they’re not related.
Then Eddie’s there, too. He looks wrecked. Jeans rumpled from the red-eye, stubble shadowing his jaw and the bags under his eyes dark enough to rival Buck’s own. But when Buck beckons him to join in the hug and he does. His hand finds Buck’s shoulder first, a grounding touch, and then he folds into the embrace. The way they slot together looks natural but not practiced, Eddie’s ear squishing beside Buck’s as Chris squirms between them. No one speaks. No one needs to.
From the couch Ravi watches and he has to wonder when his own breathing steadied.
This, Ravi realizes with sudden clarity, is why he’d fought so hard to get Buck home last night. Not for the roof and the walls but for this little family reunion. The quiet unshakable certainty that here, in this home, no one will be left to grieve alone.