Archive of Our Own ^beta

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“This is off-duty firefighter Eddie Diaz from the 118, I have a 30 year old male with a gunshot wound to his left thigh. I’m trying to stem the blood flow, but I think it’s hit an artery. I need immediate medical assistance!”

“Help is coming, Firefighter Diaz. Can you tell me the victim’s name?”

“It’s Evan. Evan Buckley.”

The problem is that Eddie’s fine.

And it’s-

Well.

Buck doesn’t really understand how Eddie’s fine. Like, he’d actually been shot and nearly died in the street, and he’s just rolling out of bed and acting as though life is made out of sunshine and rainbows? What kind of person can just shake trauma off like that? Because Buck would like to sit down with them and take a copious amount of notes on just how that’s physically possible so he can apply it to his own life.

Which, you know, isn’t to say that this is about him right now. It just seems like he’s the only one who remembers exactly how much blood had been on the ground, on the rig, on him. Like he’s the only person in the whole wide world who feels like it’s a little fucked up that he had to hold Eddie together with a gauze pad and sheer panicked desperation, and then was just kind of discarded off to the side once they got to the hospital.

He’s not mad about it or anything. He’s just…confused. A little envious. A little tired, because he usually spends his night dreaming about his best friend getting fucking shot in front of him and always seems to wake up a few hours after he went to sleep with the taste of blood in his mouth.

So. It just doesn’t seem quite fair that Eddie gets to be fine and Buck gets to be whatever this is.

But it’s not about him, not this time, so he swallows it all down and gives Ana a mindless, pretty smile when she says something to him about how well Eddie’s doing in physical therapy. She’s been talking to him - at him, he corrects himself absently - for nearly ten minutes now without seeming to realise that he’s not exactly giving her his full attention.

Look. He’s not doing it to be a dick, except that he is, because he’s a petty, spiteful little thing whenever he thinks his position in people’s lives is being threatened.

“I think it’s a good sign,” Ana is saying to him, puttering around the kitchen and fixing herself another cup of tea while Buck sits at the table with his chin resting on his hand, watching blankly. “You don’t have to spend so much of your time here, now, you know? You can live your life again now that he’s out of the sling. And my leave has been approved, so I’m around for the next two weeks to help out with anything he needs.”

Buck snaps very painfully back into the moment. “Wait,” he says, blinking rapidly as his sluggish brain struggles to catch up with what she’s telling him. “You mean-”

Ana glances at him over her shoulder, looking confused and slightly pitying. “Eddie doesn’t really need you living out of his house now,” she explains, slowly, as though she’s talking to one of her school kids. Buck feels kind of insulted. “You’ve done a wonderful job helping out while he’s been in the sling, but that’s over now, and I’m here. You can go back to your home and start doing your own thing again.”

She doesn’t say it to be mean, Buck knows that. She doesn’t really have a mean bone in her body; it’s part of the reason he can’t stand to be around her. But every word that she says, no matter how kindly she says them, just twists the knife a little deeper into those sensitive little insecurities that are laying in shallow graves in his heart, and it gets a little harder to breathe.

He swallows thickly and tries very hard not to let his cheery expression fall away. “Of course,” he says, and pretends not to notice the way Ana’s shoulders relax a touch at his lack of an argument. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, you know.” He pushes away from the table and stumbles to his feet. “I’m glad he’s in good hands here.”

Ana turns around to face him, mouth pinched. She leaves her tea on the bench as she takes a step forward, hands part raised. “Oh, I didn’t mean you had to leave right now, Buck! Please don’t feel like I’m chasing you out. I just thought you might appreciate having a bit of time to yourself again-”

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting her off, even though it’s very much not okay. Ana stares at him with wide eyes as he gathers his car keys and checks his phone. “I would really hate to overstay my welcome. Do you mind if I say goodbye to Eddie and Christopher? Last time I snuck away without saying goodbye, he ended up springing me at the loft and scolding me for nearly an hour.”

Ana laughs politely, but she still looks unsure. “Better not risk it then,” she says, and doesn’t follow him when Buck disappears down the hallway to Christopher’s room.

It’s where Eddie’s been for most of the afternoon, helping his son with an essay about his family history. Chris’s class had to do presentations on Friday about what type of family members they had and what kind of heritage they were linked through. It’s a soft start to biology and social studies - there’s supposed to be an emphasis on ethnicities and physical traits in the presentation so that the kids started to get familiar with genetics.

Ana and Buck had both offered to help out, but Christopher had ultimately just wanted Eddie by his side because he wanted to talk about his mom. So the two of them had wandered out to the kitchen, leaving Eddie looking like he’d just been punched in the gut.

Buck knocks on the half-open door and waits for the acknowledging noises before he pushes his way in, taking in the image of Eddie sprawled on Christopher’s bed while Chris sits at his desk, pencil clutched tightly in hand. It’s….it’s just precious in a way that he can’t fully explain.

“Hey Buck,” Eddie greets contentedly, shifting his position slightly so he can peer up at Buck without hurting his neck or shoulder. “Come to offer your services again? I know you know all about genetics and sharing facial features. Help me out here buddy.”

“Dad doesn’t know anything,” Christopher says, exasperated. “Once we finished talking about Mom, he laid on the bed and hasn’t helped at all.”

Buck snickers at the offended expression settling across Eddie’s face, but he sobers before he can get drawn into the play-fighting. He has to make his break now, or he’ll be too tempted to stay and indulge his boys.

“Actually, uh, I just wanted to come and say bye.”

Eddie abruptly gives up on teasing his son, sitting up slowly and not even trying to hide the wince as his shoulder protests the movement. “You’re leaving already?” He asks, sounding lost. “But we were gonna do a taco night?”

“You love tacos,” Christopher agrees solemnly.

Buck shrugs, cramming his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid, like reach for Eddie. “Ana is staying - she’d love taco night! I just sort of realised that I haven’t spent a whole day at the loft for a while and if I don’t take the chance to do some cleaning, I might have a permanent family of spiders living in there with me.”

Eddie doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have the chance to challenge Buck’s admittedly bullshit excuse because Christopher is out of his seat and making his way over to Buck surprisingly quickly.

“You hate spiders,” the boy says with a bright laugh. “Don’t let them move in with you!”

Buck drops into a crouch and swoops Christopher into a tight hug, closing his eyes so he doesn’t accidentally look at Eddie when he says, “You know me so well, Superman. What would I do without you?”

Christopher, of course, doesn’t actually offer him an answer, but when Buck lets go of him and stands back up, he knows that Eddie is watching him too closely, the truth locked tightly away behind gritted teeth.

It’s just another thing they should say to each other. It’s just another thing that probably won’t ever be given a voice.

Buck nods at Eddie. “I’ll see you guys on Friday.” And then, as an afterthought, he adds, “If movie night is still going ahead?”

“Pending the end of the world,” Eddie says, a little too dryly.

And that’s it. That’s their goodbye. Buck chews on a smile before pasting it to his lips, so it’s not quite as shiny as it usually is, but Eddie doesn’t falter as he returns his attention to Christopher, who’s sliding back into his chair and returning to his presentation work. It’s a clear dismissal.

It never used to hurt like this.

But everything is so fucking fine, so Buck spins on his heels and doesn’t say anything more. He passes Ana on his way to the front door, and he offers her a quick wave, and then he’s tumbling out of the house and into his Jeep, and he’s putting it in gear and flooring it so that nobody can see when the first tear hits the steering wheel.

“Alright, I’ve got your location, Firefighter Diaz. The ambulance is seven minutes out. Is the shooter still an active threat?”

“Negative. It was some kid trying to rob the store. I don’t think he meant to pull the trigger. Once he saw that he’d actually hit someone, he dropped the weapon and ran. Listen, I don’t think Buck doesn’t have seven minutes. He hit his head on the way down, I don’t have much to use to stop the bleeding in his thigh- Buck!”

“Firefighter Diaz?”

“Shit. Buck, come on, keep your eyes open. Listen, you’ve gotta get the ambulance here quicker!”

“We’re doing what we can, sir. Just hang on.”

Buck is still thinking about it two days later when he’s on shift, stretched out across the upstairs couch, arm slung over his eyes. He knows that he’s being unusually mopey and that everyone’s noticed, but for some reason, he can’t shake the way Ana had said, ‘Eddie doesn’t need you.’ Maybe it’s the painfully gentle way she’d said it, or the way that she’s absolutely and undoubtedly correct. Eddie doesn’t need him - Buck’s the one who needs Eddie.

Which still doesn’t make sense, because Eddie is the one who got shot. Eddie is the one who has to suffer through rigorous physical therapy and build the strength back up in his arm. Eddie is the one who nearly died, right, but Buck is the one who’s struggling to remember how to live.

Eddie is fine, and Buck is not, and it just doesn’t make sense.

A cushion lands directly on his half-covered face, unexpected and impactful, and Buck yelps as he’s yanked out of his musings and brought abruptly back to reality. He swipes at the cushion, sending it crashing to the floor while he peers up at Chimney, who stands behind the couch with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised judgmentally.

“What happened to saying ‘Hello, how are you’?” Buck grumbles, pushing himself into a sitting position and scrubbing a hand over his face. He feels decidedly off-balance and wrong-footed, like something’s been yanked of alignment inside him.

Chimney huffs, throwing his arms up. “Don’t get churlish with us! We’ve been calling your name for like five minutes trying to get your attention - not our fault you were daydreaming.”

Buck wrinkles his nose. “Churlish?”

Chim sighs and hustles around the couch, settling into one of the chairs off to the side, folding himself into a comfortable little tangle of limbs. He’s got that patented Big Brother look on his face, the one that usually means he’s figured out there’s something wrong and he thinks Buck needs a pep talk.

Hen calls it the ‘Maddie-fication of Chimney Han’ whenever Buck complains about it to her, and then cackles to herself like a witch.

At least someone is enjoying themselves.

“Alright,” Chimney says briskly from the chair. “You gotta ‘fess up, Buckley. What’s eating at you, huh? You’re usually an eternal, annoying ball of energy, but today you're sulking around the place like some kind of little rain cloud.”

Buck sniffs and reaches for the cushion on the ground, brushing off some invisible specks of dirt and tangling his fingers in the tassels. “I’m not sulking,” he mutters.

Chim snorts. “Right, and I’m Mother Teresa.”

“You would look good with long, luscious hair and a pretty frock.”

“I would look fantastic with long hair and a frock, but that’s not the point. Don’t think you can wriggle out of this conversation with jokes, Buckley, I’ve got your tricks pinned down.”

Buck puts a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Would I do that to you?” He says. “Chim, you know how much I love our chats.”

Chim pulls a face. “Yeah, except that you don’t love them.”

Buck grins at him, all dim-witted childishness in an attempt to throw him off the scent. He's just not ready for them to bite down on him right now, no matter how soft their teeth are around his throat. “Hey, I didn’t say it, man. That’s all you.”

It’s stupid, mindless, entirely constructed to offend and drive off the imposing tension. Because Buck feels cornered and skittish and off-kilter, and Chimney is circling him like a carrion bird, and Buck is very much not okay and he doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s not about him. It’s not about any of them. It’s about Eddie getting shot and waking up and moving on.

It’s just…

You know.

It’s just about Eddie.

Because how the fuck can Eddie just get shot and wake up and move on?

How can he walk out on the street without looking at the rooftops, without cringing away from phantom cracks of gunfire that nobody else seems to hear? How does he do it? Because Buck can’t. He can’t. He’s trying - he swears that he’s really, really trying - but he just doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get through it this time.

“Buck.” Chimney sounds infinitely more serious now, and Buck throws his head back and groans theatrically. If he fakes a heart attack, will they finally leave him alone? “Buck. Hey, buddy, you have to talk to us. We’re worried about you. Maddie’s worried about you. Ever since Eddie got-”

“Yes,” Buck snaps, suddenly angry, suddenly so tired of them cramming it down his throat. He’s barely aware of clenching his fists and lifting his head fast enough that one of his muscles twinges like some kind of precursor to whiplash. “I get it, okay? Eddie got shot. Eddie almost died. Eddie hasn’t been at the 118 in weeks. Eddie isn’t sad about it. Eddie seems to be thriving after nearly bleeding out in my arms. Eddie doesn’t need me anymore. Eddie is doing just fucking fine so can we please stop talking about him now?!”

Oh.

It’s just that-

Oh fuck.

Where did that even come from?

The shocked silence that thickens the air around the loft seems to agree with his befuddlement. He’s startled them - he’s startled himself, too - with just how upset he actually is about what happened.

Bobby had tried to warn him, to soothe that festering pain in those days after Buck’s world fractured. And Buck had spun out at the hint of sympathy, of pity, that had stained his captain’s voice. Because Bobby had been talking to him, but Buck had only heard that blistering sound of the bullet tearing through Eddie’s flesh and tendons, and had only tasted Eddie’s hot blood in his mouth.

Everyone’s hands were so squeaky clean, all while Buck’s skin had been stained red since the moment Eddie hit the ground.

The whisper-quiet scrape of a chair moving across the floor is the only indication that Hen has left the table, and Buck tenses as her shadow falls over him and her hand settles on his shoulder. The touch is barely-there and gentle. It reminds him of Ana, standing in the kitchen, breaking his heart.

“Oh baby,” Hen murmurs sadly. “Why haven’t you come to us about this?”

(“You matter too, Buck,” Hen promises earnestly, all those months ago, because she’s always loved him so gently that it hurts.)

(It wasn’t supposed to go like this.)

Buck lets out a heavy breath and abruptly gives up on all of his pretences in one moment, sinking into himself like a sad, deflating balloon. “I didn’t want to make this about me. I always do that. It makes me-” Exhausting, he doesn’t say. It still hurts, somewhere deep down in the abyss of his chest.

Chimney’s face is infinitely sadder when Buck risks a glance at him - he looks unusually aged and worn down, with that pinched look of concern he usually only has when something’s wrong with Maddie.

It’s a variant of the Big Brother expression that Buck has never actually seen. And it-it actually kind of hurts to see it, because it means that something is actually wrong. That-That this is a problem, and not something that Buck can just sweep under the rug and pretend never happened, just like every other shitty thing that’s happened to him.

“Captain Mehta told us what happened that day,” Chimney says, very slowly and very carefully, in the type of voice he uses on victims who are standing too close to that dangerous edge. “You saved Eddie’s life. You literally kept him from bleeding out so that they could get him to the hospital. You held Christopher’s routine together single-handedly while he was in the hospital. You didn’t fail in any aspect of that situation, okay? So that guilt that you’re dragging around with you? You need to let it go before it kills you.”

And it’s everything that Bobby was trying to tell him that day in the kitchen, after Buck climbed that crane and didn’t know if he was happy to land safely back on the ground or not. He wasn’t ready to hear it then. He isn’t ready to hear it now.

He can’t do it. He doesn’t know how.

“He was right there,” Buck argues, because he’s always been a glutton for punishment, and he tries to pretend that this isn’t tearing him apart. “He was right in front of me- I mean, he-he has a kid, and he was right in front of me and he got shot. And when I had to tell Chris what happened, I-I fell apart. How messed up is that?”

“Buck-”

And it’s just that- like-

It has become a fundamental truth in his life that the universe screwed it all up. That day, when the sniper had come so close to taking Eddie away. Taking Eddie, instead of Buck. Buck who was standing there with him, who had no child depending on him, who only had a sister who’d already moved on, who had parents who didn’t love him.

Buck had been standing there, not even two feet away, and the universe had decided to take Eddie instead.

And somehow Eddie is fine. And Buck is not.

And it’s just not fucking fair.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he says - whines, maybe - and it’s definitely childish but he just has nothing more to give them at the moment. He feels stripped back, raw, exposed like a live wire. One twitch, one bright spark, and he’s going to take them all down with him.

Hen and Chimney seem to exchange meaningful looks over the top of his head, pretending that he can’t see them do it (or not caring that he can). It should be insulting, or demeaning, or patronising, but Buck just doesn’t care anymore.

Hen doesn’t move her hand from her shoulder as she settles more comfortably against the couch and Chimney’s eyes wander over Buck’s face like he’s looking for something, but neither of them say anything else.

He’s grateful. He’s so, so, so overwhelmingly grateful for these people who can still stand to touch him.

The quiet between the three of them stretches and stretches and stretches out, and is eventually only broken by the clanging of the alarm. Ravi and Bobby give them considering looks on the way to the rig, but Chim shakes his head ever so perceptibly and so they don’t say anything either.

So it goes.

Somehow, he makes it through another day.

“The ambulance is a minute out, Firefighter Diaz. How is Evan doing?”

“He’s- Fuck! He’s unresponsive. Breathing is shallow and intermittent. I’ve got pressure on the wound, but the bleeding isn’t stopping and-and he’s just not responding to me anymore! Buck! Come on, buddy, please. Help is coming. Dios mio, Buck, only you would get fucking shot in front of me.”

“Thirty seconds, Firefighter Diaz, can you hear the sirens?”

“Christopher is going to be so mad at you for missing the dinosaur exhibit. You know it was only at the museum for this weekend.”

“Firefighter Diaz?”

“You just wanted to show me what it’s like to watch someone you love bleed out in front of you. Asshole. I’m so-I’m so sorry, Buck. I never should’ve pushed you away. I should’ve just told you. That’s what you were waiting for, wasn’t it? Waiting for me to tell you, but I had my head up my ass, so I’ll-I’ll tell you now, okay?”

“Firefighter Diaz? Eddie? Can you hear the ambulance?”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Okay, so the irritating thing about the whole shitty situation is that when Eddie comes back to the 118, it’s like he never left. He shows no cracks. Has no screaming nightmares during their sleepy downtime between calls. He smiles easier, laughs louder. He’s freer with his touches and he eats well and he goes to his therapy session and tells everyone that Frank is really helping. He sits at the table whenever Buck bustles upstairs and cooks another of Bobby’s recipes, and just watches him with bright brown eyes, offering snide commentary and friendly jokes.

By all accounts, this is the best version of Eddie that Buck has seen.

Buck doesn’t understand.

He can’t wrap his head around the absurdity of it all. That Eddie is like this, that Eddie gets to bask in the glory of being alive while every part of Buck is withering and decaying.

Because he goes home and falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow only to scream himself awake an hour later. He drinks coffee only to spit it down the sink because it tastes like blood. He has to burn the shirt he was wearing because no matter how many times he washes it, it still has red stains on it. He sits in therapy with Doctor Copeland and can’t make the words come out properly when she asks how he’s doing.

It wasn’t even Buck that got shot.

It’s not

about

him.

“Hen says you aren’t sleeping,” Eddie says from behind him one afternoon when Buck has his head stuck in the fridge, hunting for the little container of rocky road fudge that he knows Bobby hid somewhere amongst the shelves.

And, like-

It’s a bit fucking rude to sabotage him like this, really. He’s not prepared, and he’s not protected, and when he pulls himself out of the fridge and turns to face his friend, his cheeks and nose are chilly and blushed pink.

“Um,” he says eloquently.

Eddie raises an eyebrow expectantly and leans against the counter, folding his arms across his broad chest. Buck’s mouth is simultaneously watering and bone-dry as he swallows and shuts the fridge door with his foot. It’s hot- no, it’s cold- it’s-

“I sleep,” he says to Eddie, except that it sounds feeble to his own ears and Eddie’s mouth flattens into an unimpressed line. “I do! I think it’s physically impossible for a human being to go without sleeping, so unless I’ve got some kind of superpower-”

Eddie sighs, short and shallow and sharp, and it’s like a fucking gut punch. Buck’s words cut out immediately. His shoulders straighten up. It gets a little harder to breathe.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

“You know,” Eddie says, quietly, expectantly, tiredly, “that’s not what I meant.”

Buck has never been able to live with disappointing Eddie. “It’s just a few nightmares,” his traitorous mouth reveals in some kind of desperate bid to wipe the frown away. “It’s fine. I can still do my job. I can still-”

“I don’t care about the job,” Eddie interrupts. “I don’t care about that. Buck, I care about you.”

“Aw, Diaz, I didn’t know-”

“Don’t.” It’s not mean, the way he says it, but Buck shrinks away from the word anyway. Eddie kind of winces in tandem, clearly so fine-tuned to Buck’s reactions that he knows he’s hit a sore spot by being so standoffish. “Just… No putting this off, okay? I’m worried about you. Everyone here is worried about you. Ever since I got shot, you’ve been in some kind of spiral, and none of us know how to pull you out of it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me right now,” Buck says helplessly, wringing his hands together as he tracks every twitch of Eddie’s muscles.

This has the potential to explode in his face if he makes the wrong move, says the wrong thing. The last time he’d seen Eddie like this - the both of them hurting, but unable to reach each other across the chasm that yawned between them - Eddie had ripped Buck’s heart out and stomped on it in front of the whole team.

Sue him for not being keen to repeat the experience.

Or don’t sue him. He hasn’t got a good track record with legal cases.

But anyways - Eddie.

Eddie, whose mouth has gotten all pinched and unhappy as he takes a long moment to just stare at Buck. It’s like he’s got lasers for eyes and they’re burning through Buck’s face in an attempt to peel back the layers he’s using to protect himself.

“Is that what the problem is?” Eddie asks, slightly too abruptly. “The shooting? Because I don’t know how many times I have to tell people that I’m fine. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

“Eddie-”

“Like, it makes sense that Ana doesn’t believe me, because she’s not used to me yet, but you should know better. You’re such a worrier, Buck. Don’t you think you would’ve noticed if I was horribly traumatised by the whole thing?”

He has no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to say about it.

How do you tell your best friend that him not being traumatised is what’s slowly killing you?

Buck twists the skin on his left wrist so much he gives himself friction burns and forces out through gritted teeth, “I know you’re not traumatised by it, Eddie. Why do you think I felt comfortable leaving you in Ana’s hands?” Sure, maybe it also has something to do with not trusting Ana too, but he doesn’t really want to talk about that either.

Eddie drops his hands back down to his side, body language opening back up, and it should be nice to see, but Buck feels a little bit like he’s just been stabbed by ten thousand knives and isn’t really in a position to revel in the easing of the tension. “Good,” Eddie says, more gently now. “Now that we’ve worked that out, you can stop letting me drag you down.”

“Okay,” Buck manages feebly, and manages a smile that must be convincing, because Eddie nods once and then sort of turns and drifts away.

It hurts, watching him go and knowing that he has no idea what hurt that he’s caused. Because Buck will never blame him for it, but being used to being invisible doesn’t make it ache any less.

He’s just…He’s just really tired, okay? He’s tired, and Ana kicked him out, and Eddie didn’t stop him from taking that step out the door, and he can’t stop dreaming about the hot spray of blood in his mouth and his hair and-

Look, he’s gonna get through it. He’s gonna be as fine as Eddie is. It just might take him a little while to get there.

He spares a glance for the fridge, just once, and sort of realises that he doesn’t want the rocky road fudge anymore.

He doesn’t even realise that Hen’s been there for the whole thing until he makes for the stairs and notices her sitting on the beanbag in front of the couch, her textbook closed on her lap and her eyes full of pity as she beholds him.

“Oh Buck,” she says sadly. “He has no idea, does he?”

Inexplicably, he’s on the brink of tears just at the sound of her voice, and it’s all he can do to stagger over to where she’s sitting and collapse on the spare bean bag beside her, hauling his legs up to his chest and curling into a tiny little ball at her side. His uniform tugs uncomfortably and his belt digs into his stomach, but he ignores it all in favour of pressing his forehead to her arm.

“It’s not fair,” he says, and the words crack right down the middle. “It’s not fair.”

Hen hums low in her throat, soothing and maternal, and fingers card through his hair just briefly as she considers her words. “Do you want advice or do you just want to sit here with me?”

“Can we just sit here? Please?”

He knows what she would tell him. Has heard the same advice and platitudes before. He’s going to be sick if he has to hear them again while he’s feeling like this - like his heart has been ripped, still beating, from his chest and devoured right there in the kitchen.

Hen twists her arm so that she can hold him a bit closer, tugging him to rest under the crook of her shoulder, and then opens her textbook again.

“Of course, baby,” she tells him, all fond and soft and loving. “I’m always here if you need me.”

He doesn’t quite cry, but it’s a close thing.

“Firefighter Diaz, the medics are on the scene. I’m going to hang up the phone now, okay?”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I can’t answer that question, sir. I’m sorry. Just let the medics do their job, okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Buck. I’m so fucking sorry. This never should’ve happened to us again. I’m so fucking sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

“Goodbye, Firefighter Diaz, and good luck.”

.

It’s almost like Ana never leaves. Which is normal, you know, because she’s Eddie's girlfriend and a massive part of his life and should totally, definitely be there, but…

Well. It’s just that it was Buck’s spot, once. Right by Eddie’s side, for whatever he needed or wanted, because Buck’s always wanted a family and Eddie offered him one within days of knowing him. Like, Buck is literally Christopher’s legal guardian if Eddie dies.

Yeah. Eddie dropped that fucking bombshell on him like it was nothing. It’s kind of only just now occurring to Buck what that means - that he would be a dad, even though he doesn’t know the first thing about how not to be his own father to a young boy who trusts Buck with the whole goddamned world. He’s the backup parent if Eddie dies - if - but if Ana is also in the picture now he doesn’t know…

He just doesn’t know, okay? He’s spent years building this little pocket of love and devotion in Eddie’s house, and Ana has popped it with her beautiful smiles and flawless Spanish, and if she stays around, she might end up taking Christopher away from him.

He wants to hate her. Wants his jealousy to turn him into an asshole, wants the sight of her to fill him with rage, wants to take it all out on Eddie like some messed up equivalent to wearing a giant neon sign saying, ‘I don’t want you to replace me just because we never talked about how I had your blood on my tongue like wine.’

Or something.

Instead, when she answers his knock at the door with a pleasant little chuckle and ushers him in with a sunny greeting and friendly hug, Buck can only swallow down his despair and reach for that torn and dirty mask he hasn’t really used since settling into the 118.

It’s a face he hasn’t worn around Eddie. Ever.

It’s the only way he knows how to keep from falling apart.

“Buck!” Christopher cheers as soon as Buck peeks his head around the corner to the living room, and Buck has just enough time to drop to his knees before the young boy is launching himself forward for a hug. “Are you here for movies?”

Buck swoops him up off the ground and buries his face in Chris’s shoulder for the few seconds it takes to choke back the sudden tears. “Yeah, superman,” he says when he’s sure his voice will hold, and pulls back, setting him back on his feet and ushering him over to the couch where Eddie is. “I, uh, I didn’t realise you already had plans with Ana, sorry. I should have texted-”

“Buck,” Eddie says, cutting him off easily with a fondly exasperated smile. “You’re fine. Ana stayed last night, and we lost track of time today. She’s heading out soon anyway, so it’s not like you’re intruding.”

“If you've got plans-”

Eddie gives him a droll look. “You’re my plans for this evening.”

Right.

He has to know how that sounds. Surely he’s not that dense.

Buck slaps mental hands at those troublesome, steamy thoughts just in time to watch Ana slip into the room, a pained grimace disappearing behind those pretty lips just a second too late. “I’m just going to say a quick goodbye,” she tells Eddie lightly, leaning down to press a kiss to his hairline. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt Boy Time.”

She wants to stay, Buck realises uncomfortably. She wants Eddie to tell her not to go, wants to wriggle into that little space on the couch and put her head on her shoulder and pretend for a little while longer that he loves her too.

But Eddie just nods, reaches out and squeezes her hand, and watches her say goodbye to Christopher without an ounce of recognition.

Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe he really is that dense.

Buck mumbles his own passing farewell as she brushes past him, which she returns with the same minimal level of enthusiasm, and then he chances the venture over to the couch, where Christopher very enthusiastically moves to make room for him, only to topple right across his lap.

“Prime movie-watching position,” he insists when Buck ruffles his hair.

Eddie’s grin, when Buck risks a look at him, is blinding and wonderful and entirely inappropriate for a situation without his girlfriend. It still makes Buck’s heart flutter uselessly in his chest. In the light of that smile, Buck thinks he could sleep without nightmares.

But that’s not a privilege he can indulge in. Because Eddie isn’t his. Eddie belongs to Ana and her soft hands and her floral perfume.

The only thing that Buck gets to keep from Eddie is the memory of that day and all the pain that’s followed.

“What movie are we watching tonight, Captain?” Buck asks Christopher, and his voice is too ragged. Eddie doesn’t even twitch at the sound of it. Doesn’t stop smiling like that.

“Dad says I’m old enough to watch The Mummy now. I want that one.”

So Buck puts it on, and sits there, and doesn’t hear a single fucking word that anybody on the screen says. He’s too aware of the line of heat that’s searing into his sides where Eddie is pressed against him. They’re shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Maybe if Eddie had been this close to him that day in the street, Buck might have been able to do something instead of just standing there uselessly.

He meant what he said to Bobby that afternoon. He’d gone up that ladder to protect the rest of his family. Because he’d still had some of Eddie’s blood in his hair and the only person who’d thought to prop him up had been Taylor and Buck just couldn’t risk that kind of trouble reaching the others.

But if he had died up there…

Christopher wouldn’t have had anyone left.

Fucking Eddie.

It’s like a twisted version of Parent Trap.

Almost like he’s heard his name in Buck’s thoughts, Eddie nudges him very, very gently and nods at Christopher, who’s actually fallen asleep on his lap and is snoring lightly in that endearing way kids do. There’s only twenty minutes left of the movie anyway. Must’ve been an exhausting day for him, the poor thing. Buck can relate.

“You’re good with him,” Eddie says quietly when Buck shuts off the movie and adjusts Chris so that he can stand up with the boy in his arms.

It’s hard, actually, taking the kid to bed with Eddie on his heels. It feels like this is something Eddie should be doing - like Buck should only be doing when Eddie isn’t around. It’s like some kind of new line has been drawn by Eddie putting Buck in his will, and Buck has been playing jump rope with it without realising. It’s dangerous.

He tucks Christopher into bed, presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, and wishes desperately that things weren’t this fucking hard.

Loving these Diaz boys used to be the easiest thing in his life.

Eddie, to his credit, doesn’t say anything more as he trails Buck back out the living room, fluttering around him as they tidy up the couch and clear the coffee table of the leftover coffee mugs Ana and Eddie must’ve left there at some point.

In fact, it’s not until they’ve migrated to the kitchen and Eddie is offering Buck a beer that anything else is said.

It’s Buck, because of course it is. He’s never known how not to hurt his own feelings. “So, you and Ana,” he says, and Eddie’s fingers tighten around his beer. “Eddie. She stayed last night.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Well, why not?”

Eddie offers him no answer, just takes another long pull from his beer. Buck absolutely does not watch his throat work and wonder what it would be like if that was his dick instead of a beer bottle.

Woah. Okay. Take a step back, Evan Buckley, and check yourself.

This is a taken man.

A taken man who is very, very straight.

“Eddie,” Buck says again when no answer is forthcoming. “Eddie. What’s wrong with Ana?”

Eddie sighs, long and heavy, and Buck wonders when it got so hard for them to talk to each other. “I don’t know,” Eddie finally confesses in a rush, setting his beer down and rubbing at his face instead. “There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s lovely. Chris loves her.”

“Do you?”

“I-”

“Eddie.”

Eddie throws his hands up. “Fine. Fine! You win, Buck.” He inhales deeply, takes a moment to savour it, and then says, “No. No, I don’t love her. I’m trying to, but she’s just… She’s trying so hard to fit in here, with us, and I just keep thinking that she shouldn’t have to try. She should just fit. Like you do.”

Buck is going to combust. Spontaneously. Maybe it’ll force Eddie to finally get a paint job in the kitchen like Buck’s been suggesting for months.

It’s just…

That sounded like some kind of admission.

And either Eddie really is denser than a rock, or this conversation is about to take a turn straight into something he’s dreamed about.

But, even then, how is it that Eddie can say things like that about something like this, but the minute Buck brings up the sniper, he shuts down?

How is it that Eddie can be fine enough to worry about feelings, and Buck’s left with everything else?

It’s just not fucking fair.

“You can’t lead her on, Eddie,” Buck tells him solemnly but gently, because Eddie has been hurt enough. Buck likes to think that he knows how to keep his pain isolated to himself.

Eddie looks down at the floor. His jaw ticks. He says, “I know,” like he’s giving a death sentence. Maybe, in a way, he is. Death to the ‘maybe something’ he had with Ana. It seems like an easy choice for him to make, and really, that should tell him something about the state of their relationship anyway. And Buck hates it, but he’s relieved.

Relieved that he can have his spot back without having to ask for it. Relieved that Eddie understands, on a fundamental level, that Ana isn’t right for him. Relieved that things might start trickling back to something almost-normal.

Relieved enough that one of his own secrets slips from his clumsy lips and makes a desperate bid for Eddie’s attention. “I dream about you getting shot every night, do you know that?”

It’s not-

He doesn’t mean-

Uh-

It all goes a bit…still. A bit too silent. Like the whole house is holding its breath as Eddie drags his attention up to Buck’s face, wide-eyed and horrified. He looks- He looks like he did when that bullet hit. Like he knows that something has happened but he’s just not sure what, and he’s looking at Buck like Buck has the answer for him. Like Buck can explain what’s happening. Like Buck can protect him from everything that’s about to follow.

It’s not really helpful when Buck is the thing that’s tearing through his heart.

“Sorry,” Buck blurts, once he’s done having a silent screaming fit in his head. He pushes away from the wall he’s been leaning on and abandons his half-empty beer bottle on the closest surface to him. His hands are clammy. He’s going to throw up. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “I just- I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m gonna go home.”

Eddie kind of lurches towards him. “Wait. Don’t-”

“Eddie, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Buck. Buck. Hey, you can’t just leave after saying something like that!”

Buck can, thank you very much, and he’s going to. He can’t believe he let it slip so easily, can’t believe that he made it about himself so soon after literally just swearing to the others that he wouldn’t do that. Eddie doesn’t deserve to have this tangled mess dumped on his shoulders. If he’s managed to escape the weight of those memories, Buck isn’t going to force him to suffer through them again for his sake.

Eddie is fine. Buck is not. But that’s not Eddie’s problem, nor is it his responsibility.

“Buck.” Eddie grabs his wrist, and Buck tugs but the grip doesn’t falter. He thinks there might be tears in both their eyes. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, you dream about me getting shot?”

Buck tugs harder, because he doesn’t want to do this. “What do you think it means? I was there when the bullet tore through your shoulder. I hauled you onto that truck. I held you together while we drove to the hospital. I’m sorry if it’s taking me a little longer to shake it off than you.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?” Eddie looks distraught, which might have meant something to Buck if he’d seen it weeks ago, back when he’d been so naive to the depth of Eddie’s indifference about the whole event.

He sighs. “I’ve tried. You told me you made me Christopher’s back up guardian, and then we brought you home and you were so focused on your recovery that I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Once I was out of the sling then,” Eddie insists.

Buck is- Buck is tired. So, so tired. Of everything. “Ana was here. All the time. And you-you seemed like you loved her. There wasn’t really an opportunity to tell you that I know what your blood tastes like and I wake up with it in my mouth every night.”

It’s more than he wanted to say - not that he’d really wanted to say anything about it at all, but hey, such is life - and it still somehow feels like it’s not enough. It’s insufficient for this moment. It’s less than what he needs to say. More than what Eddie needs to hear.

“I should go,” he tells Eddie when the quiet between them grows too big and too unfixable. He knows there’s resignation in his tone, pain too, but Eddie seems to be frozen, and doesn’t react to it.

It shouldn’t hurt. Buck knew this would happen.

It shouldn’t hurt.

But it does.

It does.

“I can’t-” Eddie manages, strangled, and then falls silent again.

And Buck doesn’t know why he does it - he might just end up blaming his complete inability to save himself from heart break - but he leans forward and presses the barest whisper of a kiss to the side of Eddie’s lips. “I know you can’t,” he breathes to Eddie. “That’s why I’m not going to make you. Bye, Eddie.”

He works his wrist out of the grip Eddie has on it, and then he gathers his keys and opens the door, and disappears into the night without looking back.

He doesn’t remember getting back to the loft. He doesn’t remember getting changed or getting into bed. He doesn’t remember texting Bobby and begging for a shift swap just so he doesn’t have to face Eddie tomorrow.

He remembers closing his eyes. Remembers hearing the crack of a gunshot. Remembers the way that Eddie’s blood had dripped off his chin like some kind of grotesque tears.

He remembers waking up, Eddie’s name locked behind his teeth and sobs heaving from his throat.

Whatever this is - he’s done.

He’s just…

He’s just done.

To: Bobby
‘Buck’s been shot. They’ve taken him in for surgery. I don’t know what to do.’

From: Bobby
‘I’m on my way. Hold yourself together, Eddie. He’s gonna need you.’

To: Bobby
‘I think I get it now. What he means about knowing what my blood tastes like. It’s everywhere, Cap. I don’t know what to do.’

From: Bobby
‘I’m coming, Eddie, just hold on.’

To: Bobby
‘Help.’

It all comes to a head in the grocery store that’s just down the street from the firehouse.

Incidentally, it’s the same grocery store they’d had their first fight in.

Maybe Buck should stop shopping here.

In his defence, right, he’s just looking at cereal. It’s the only thing he can be bothered to make for himself at the moment, so he’s just trying to decide whether he can justify the amount of sugar in the Rice Bubbles he has in his hand when a presence comes to settles beside him and Eddie says, very firmly, “There are three things I want to talk to you about.”

Buck puts back the Rice Bubbles mournfully and instead picks up some Wheat-Bran mix, keeping his focus on the little table of nutrient information instead of looking at his best friend. “I don’t want to talk, Eddie. I think we said everything we needed to say already, don’t you agree?”

“No, I don’t agree.” Eddie sounds pissed. “First thing: you are not Christopher’s back up parent. I don’t know how you got that idea in your head, but I’m not exactly surprised about it. My changing of the will was because you’re the only person I really trust with my son. I wasn’t lying after the tsunami. You’ve always been amazing with Christopher. And I know that you’ll die before you let anything happen to him. I need that kind of dedication for him if I’m gone.”

“You’re not going anywhere, though, Eds.”

“If I can get shot in the street, I would think that life isn’t exactly guaranteed, Buck.”

And something about that is just wrong

Because Eddie is fine. Eddie is so fucking fine. And Buck-Buck is angry at him because of it. Because Eddie has everything he wants and Buck doesn’t, and Buck wasn’t even the one who got shot.

“I get it,” he snaps a bit too harshly, slamming the box of cereal back on the shelf and turning away from Eddie entirely. “You’re fine with almost dying. Your life is cotton candy and fucking rainbows. Whoop-dee-doo, I’m so happy for you. But I don’t need you to keep shoving it in my face that I’m too slow to shake it off, okay? I already know that.”

“That’s not what this is, Buck. I’m just trying to get you to understand that you can’t let me drag you down like this-”

Buck walks away.

He’s only got a carton of milk and a loaf of bread in his basket, but if he stays here any longer, he’s going to have a complete meltdown and there’s honestly no need to make a scene like that. He’s going to be embarrassed enough without having the general public watch him cry like a baby.

The annoying thing is that Eddie follows him to the register.

“Buck,” he says, irritating like a mosquito. “Look, I’m sorry. I am. I’m trying to understand, okay? I’m not good with these things - you know that - but I’m trying.”

Buck ignores him, says hi the worker, pulls out his wallet. There’s some teenage boy lingering off to the side, looking like he wants to say something. Maybe he’s waiting for someone? Maybe he needs help?

Buck’s not really in the mood to be an off-duty firefighter right now.

Eddie is still desperately trying to get his attention while Buck hands over the cash for his items and turns from the register.

It’s the click of a gun that finally shuts him up.

And Buck wants to laugh when his sluggish mind finally puts all the pieces together, because how fucking ridiculous is it that their moments together always get tainted with bullets and blood and danger? Do they have some kind of tattoo that says ‘shoot me in front of my partner for kicks’?

“Hey kid,” Eddie says, stepping up to be against Buck’s back, peering at the young teenager over Buck’s shoulder. “Hey. Think about this.”

“I just want the money,” the boy says determinedly, even as his gun hand shakes. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Eddie’s body is tense and humming with energy. Army training maybe, or just first responder instincts. “You don’t need the weapon. I’m a firefighter, okay? Whatever’s going on, I can help. You don’t need to put anybody in danger.”

And it’s like-

It’s like watching Eddie get shot has heightened Buck’s senses, because he’s moving in the exact same breath he sees the gun tilt towards Eddie, the kid’s trigger finger tightening.

Buck sways right, to cover Eddie, just as the gun fires.

It’s-

He holds still, for a moment. Long enough to watch the kid drop the gun and run. And then the world tilts and he can’t quite breathe and-

There’s blood. He knows that.There’s blood around him. On him.

He hits something on the way down because his head hurts. He’s cold. Or-Or the ground is cold. Maybe both? There’s screaming. Hands on him. Red skin. Wide eyes. Eddie’s face, contorted with grief. He’s saying something, maybe Buck’s name, but Buck can’t hear him.

His leg is on fire. Why does it hurt so much? The rest of him is cold. It’s so cold.

It’s the firetruck again, he thinks. His leg is pinned. He can’t move it. He’s stuck and they’re all going to get blown up and-

Eddie is still speaking to him. A hand on his face. A red hand.

Eddie has blood on him. Eddie is bleeding?

“Are you hurt?” Buck slurs.

He doesn’t hear Eddie’s answer. He only has a second to watch pure anguish lash across Eddie’s beautiful features before he’s toppling headfirst into darkness.

And it’s…

It’s quiet.

Finally, it’s quiet.

“Mister Diaz, I’m Doctor Marcus.”

“Eddie. Please.”

“Of course. We’ve finished surgery on Evan - as I’m sure you’re aware, the wound was a through-and-through, so there was no need to go fishing for a bullet. We had to do a graft for the artery that the bullet hit to stop the bleeding, but because he’d already lost so much, he coded on the table.”

“Mierda.”

“We got a stable rhythm back through defib, but the blood loss means that he may be asleep for a long time. We’re planning to keep him under for a day or two to help with the graft healing, and then we’ll bring him back up to a natural sleep.”

“A coma?”

“We don’t expect natural sleep to last terribly long either. No long term damage should have occurred.”

“He-He hit his head on the way down-”

“A head CT shows no brain bleeds or cranial bruising. He might have a headache for a few days once we let him wake up, but it shouldn’t result in anything severe.”

“Thank you. God, just- Thank you.”

The only thing he can taste is the sour tang of morning breath.

There’s no blood. No desperate cry for Eddie. He hasn’t heard the gunshot. He’s clean, and tired, and laying under some really quite scratchy blankets. He’s sure he bought an extra soft quilt in some desperate attempt to improve his sleep - it shouldn’t really feel like this. It’s like God is mocking him by stripping away those meagre comforts in payment for blessing him with a dreamless sleep.

He’s got a shift coming up, hasn’t he? It’s only short - he’d taken Jensen’s 12-hour to pay back a favour that he owed - but he was going to get there early so he could lay into the punching bag.

But…there’s something he’s supposed to remember. Something about Eddie. About the way they’d left things after the movie. Buck had kissed him and stabbed him in the back at the same time, and Eddie had still chased him to the store-

The store. The kid. The gun. The shot.

My my my, how the tables turned.

Buck peels open his sore and gritty eyes and just kind of looks at the roof for a while.

“You scared the shit out of us, kid,” says Bobby, who is apparently sitting in the seat beside him. Buck doesn’t spook - his muscles are far too worn out for that - but can see his heart rate spike out of the corner of his eye, and Bobby’s expression melts into something appropriately contrite. “Sorry.”

“Bobby,” Buck rasps, feeling a little like he’s been called to the principal’s office only to find both his parents sitting there waiting for him. It’s that sick feeling of knowing you’re in trouble and having no idea how you’re supposed to talk yourself out of it. “Hi.”

Bobby softens into a tiny smile. “Hi, Buck. How are you feeling?”

Seriously, you can’t offer him the perfect set-up and expect him not to take the bait. So he grins tiredly and says, “Like I’ve been shot, Cap.”

Bobby doesn’t laugh - but then again, Buck didn’t expect him to. Nothing about this is funny in the slightest, but he knows that Bobby will want to talk about Eddie, or will send Eddie in himself, and Buck can’t do that. Not right now. Maybe not ever. There are too many things left unsaid between them. Some kind of invisible strain that Buck doesn’t know how to ease.

He’s used to fixing things. To mending bridges and repairing friendships.

But not this time. This time he thinks things might be too messy, even for his hands.

Without a word about it, Bobby leans over and presses the call button that’s hooked around the handle of Buck’s bed and then returns to his settled position, face falling into something pleasantly neutral. “Eddie’s gone to get coffee from the cafeteria. He’ll be back in about ten minutes, I would think. If you’d like, I can text him and tell him to wait.”

Right.

You’ve gotta look at things the way that Buck is to understand why he shakes his head.

He gets that it’s conflicting, alright? He knows that he’d literally run away from talking to Eddie about this, because vulnerability only ever creates more pain. He knows that he’s turned Eddie away at every corner since Ana sent him out of the house. He knows that.

But he also knows that he only picked that grocery store because he knew that Eddie would be coming off a shift at around the same time, just like he knew that Eddie would go in to buy some kind of cold drink like he does every time he works a shift without Buck.

Not wanting to start the conversation is not the same thing as not wanting to have the conversation.

That’s what he’s been running from, really. Having to be the one to crack open Pandora’s box and subject him and Eddie to whatever’s been trapped inside.

Bobby scrutinises him for a moment, but doesn’t pull his phone out, so he must’ve found whatever he was looking for. “Before you ask,” he says carefully, “your leg is fine. So is your head. You’ve sustained no long-term damage. The doctors have kept you asleep long enough for the artery graft to heal sufficiently, and you’ve had bags of blood infused over the past day. Eddie kept you alive long enough for the paramedics to get there. But it was touch and go, Buck. They nearly lost you on the table.”

It’s…It’s quite literally the same conversation they would’ve had about Eddie, if they hadn’t been distracted by the sniper.

This is not funny, he tells himself sternly, keenly aware of Bobby’s eyes on him, but hysterical laughter tickles his throat anyway.

How the tables fucking turn.

He clears his throat and winces at the shards-of-glass feeling. “How long am I in here for?”

Bobby shrugs, but it’s the doctor who steps through the door who answers. “It shouldn’t be more than a week, Mister Buckley. Artery grafts aren’t horribly debilitating, but your stitches will hold you back. Tell me, how are you feeling? Any unusually sharp pains anywhere? How’s your vision? You reportedly hit your head pretty hard, so we just want to make sure there’s nothing wrong.”

Buck dutifully answers her slew of questions - no he’s not in terrible amounts of pain, no he’s not seeing double, yes he can move his toes, no he isn’t confused, yes he recognises Bobby and knows what his own name is - and then sits patiently throughout her numerous tests until she hums to herself and flitters away, leaving him to bask in her absence with Bobby.

Or, that’s what he wants to happen, but instead, Bobby’s phone buzzes and he glances down at it. “Eddie’s outside,” he says to Buck, not looking up. “He wants to know if he can come in - he heard you talking to the doctor, so he knows you’re awake.”

Buck very carefully considers himself and his emotions-

(He takes less than a second to answer, because no matter how much suffering Eddie puts him through, Buck is so hopelessly in love with him that every moment they spend not-quite-fighting makes him feel nauseous.)

“Please,” Buck says to Bobby, sounding frightfully young, even to his own years. “Tell him to come here.”

Bobby’s mouth twitches, but his eyes remain sad as he thumbs out a quick response and slides his phone into his pocket as he stands. He seems to hesitate a moment, considering, and then his hand is slowly cupping Buck’s cheek and there’s a chaste, fatherly kiss pressed to the side of his head.

“My heart can’t take much more of this, kid,” Bobby murmurs lowly to him, and Buck reaches up to lock him in a hug. Bobby immediately hugs back, solid and sure and warm and every inch the dad that Buck never thought he could have. “I don’t know how many more times I can stand to see you in a hospital bed.”

“It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. These beds aren’t exactly comfortable.”

Bobby draws back, gives him a knowing look, and steps away just as Eddie slips through the closed curtains around Buck’s bed.

“Hi,” Buck says, a bit uselessly, and glances at Bobby.

Bobby waves a hand, clapping a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I have to go update Athena. Let me know when you’re ready for me to come back.”

It’s so transparent that Buck doesn’t even want to call him out on it. Eddie just gives him that kind of awkward smile and doesn’t say anything either. Instead, the two of them just watch as Bobby slips quietly away, the door closing with barely a sound behind him. And it’s-it’s-

It’s weird. The tension between him and Eddie. Buck doesn’t know how to go about addressing it.

So Eddie does it for him. “This shit always happens to you,” he says teasingly, settling into his seat a bit more and relaxing his posture into something less cagey and more familiar and friendly. “You don’t see Carla going out and getting shot buying groceries, hey.”

Buck huffs something that’s almost a laugh and fiddles with the calloused skin on his fingertips. “Uh, yeah. I think that’s just because Carla is untouchable. Nothing bad happens to Carla, period, you know?”

“It’s almost like the universe is afraid of messing with her.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in things like that.”

Eddie sort of looks at him, eyes dark and sad. “Well, I figured it’s been screaming at me a lot lately.” He makes an aborted gesture to Buck’s battered body lying hidden under the blanket. “I figured I should start listening before it does something drastic.”

Buck is so, so tired of this. So tired of everyone being fine but him.

“You think this is drastic?” He asks Eddie humourlessly, shaking his head. “Why? I mean, it’s not like you didn't also got shot. Too bad you just kinda…got over it, right?”

Now, Eddie is the type of person who holds his emotions in his wrists - if you watch him carefully on those days where the world sits a little too heavily on his shoulders, you can count each problem in the flutter of his veins, so much more noticeable and stark against his skin when he’s actively swallowing down those feelings. He carries his frustration in his jaw, too, sometimes, when he has to work to bite back that onslaught of anger and barbed wire words.

He does not usually let things bleed over into his eyes, his face. He went to war with nothing but the skin on his body, and he came back with the masterful ability to have an expression that reveals absolutely nothing.

And Buck has been fine with that. He’s learned to read Eddie’s body - the tilt of his head, the flex of a shoulder, the working of his throat - and he’s gotten ridiculously good at predicting how he’s going to react to things.

So he’s expecting something defensive from Eddie. Something that says, ‘I’m fine’ or ‘I don’t want to talk about this’ or ‘you’re being exhausting, Buck’ or something similar.

It doesn’t come.

Inexplicably, Eddie kind of…starts crying?

It’s a manly type of cry - which is an absurd way to describe it, Buck chides himself but ultimately ignores - with very little in the way of sobbing or sniffling. It’s just silent tears, slow to build and slower yet to fall to freedom down Eddie’s cheeks.

It’s…It’s startling.

“I don’t know what to do,” Eddie confesses, raw and cracking and lost. “I don’t know how to fix us. And I’m-I’m sorry if I’ve pushed you away, if I’ve replaced you with Ana. I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to-”

“Eddie,” Buck says, severely out of his depth.

“-I should’ve just talked to you. I know that. But I didn’t want to drag you down with me, not after everything you’ve already been through. My recovery isn’t your responsibility, and Ana was already filling up all the spaces so I thought I could spare you-”

“Eddie.”

“-but I should’ve seen the signs, you know? I bet the team knows that you aren’t okay. I bet they all think I’m an idiot for being so blind about it, and now you’ve been shot and I finally understand how awful it feels to be the one sitting here in this stupid chair-”

This is all very nice and all, but Buck literally forgave him for everything the minute Eddie walked through the door, so.

He clears his throat and says, with a bit more emphasis this time, “Eddie.”

Eddie stops and stares at him.

And if Buck weren’t tangled in wires and also sore as fuck, he would lean over the stupid hand rail thing and plant a big fat kiss on those pinched lips. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says instead, a little exasperated. “I shouldn’t have said anything about it. I wasn’t the one who got shot - it’s not my trauma to experience.”

“You told me that you know what my blood tastes like.”

I do, Buck doesn’t say. Instead, what comes out is, “What can I say, dramatics are in the Buckley genetics.”

Eddie doesn’t seem convinced. He’s still a little slick with tears. “Buck. Vicarious trauma is literally a thing. I forgot that. Something like that…it takes a toll. On everyone involved.” He leans forward. “It takes a toll on you. You were right to tell me that you weren’t doing okay. That’s what I’m here for. I'm just...I'm sorry that I froze.”

I love you, Buck thinks.

“I love you,” he says, a little wonderingly.

Eddie’s stopped crying by now, but his dark eyes are still brimming with emotions when he reaches out for Buck’s hand and rasps, “I love you, too. I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to realise.”

“Ana-”

“She’s gone.” It’s not said with any kind of sadness or regret. “I ended it before I came to find you at the grocery store. I’ve talked to Christopher about it - about the will too. Lots of talking. He’s a smart kid, you know. I’ve done well with him. He’s very excited to have you as a second dad.”

Buck…doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that.

He’s not going to cry, though. Because while Eddie sheds a few stoic tears, Buck knows that he’s bound to turn into a slobbery, weepy mess and that’s really just not on his agenda after getting shot in the leg.

So he clamps down tightly on the swell of feelings in his chest and manages to say, “I’d love to have him as my kid.”

And then neither he nor Eddie can really say anything else to each other for, like, a solid ten minutes. It’s kind of pathetic that they’re this gooey.

Nothing like getting shot to bring the family together.

From: Bobby
‘Chim and Maddie are on their way to Buck’s room. Make sure you’re decent.’

To: Bobby
‘I’m appalled by your implication, Bobby. Eddie and I would never do anything in a hospital room.’

From: Bobby
‘I don’t trust you to know the meaning of the word ‘propriety’, kid.

To: Bobby
‘I know lots of big words, so I resent that.’

From: Bobby
‘Just because Hen taught you ‘magnanimous’.’

To: Bobby
‘Maddie and Chimney are here. Gotta go, pops.’

So it turns out that Eddie isn’t fine, either.

Who would’ve thought.

So, like usual, Buck jumped to conclusions and caused a whole bunch of unnecessary angst in some desperate attempt to feel better. It’s pretty par for the course by now. Still as embarrassing as it used to be.

But…Buck isn’t fine. And Eddie finally baring his feelings doesn’t really make him any less not-fine. He can ignore that fact, hide it in a box and then cover that box with wrapping paper and pretty bows, but ultimately, it’s still a box filled with bad things that sits heavy in his chest. It weighs him down.

He’s not fine.

He’s so tired of not being fine.

He wakes up screaming.

It’s not something that he usually does - usually he wakes up paralysed and silent, a twelve-year-old boy trapped in a 30-year-old body and terrified. Tonight, though, the screams aren’t locked away in this throat; they’re ringing in the air when he comes to, and they don’t stop and they don’t stop and they don’t stop-

There’s blood on him, like he’s bathed in it. On his face. On his legs. In his mouth and his hair. Eddie is staring at him, but he’s a skeleton and blood is pouring from his mouth. Bullets are whistling in his ears. His leg is burning. His shoulder is burning.

There’s someone saying his name. There’s hands on his forearms, pinning him down, and they’re hot and damp and-

He’s still screaming.

Why can’t he stop screaming?

It should've been him. Should’ve been him that day.

It should’ve-

He just wants to be able to sleep through the night again.

His voice cuts out abruptly when lips crash against his, arms circling his spasming shoulders and holding his shaking body against a firm and unyielding torso. He struggles against the grip, whines into the mouth that had engulfed his screams. He’s too hot - and it’s either sweat or blood beading across his forehead, smeared along his chin.

“Buck,” someone says, strained and urgent. He spasms, but the awful whining stops. “Jesus, Buck, come on. It’s okay. I’m right here, it’s okay. Calm down. Buck, please.”

Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie Eddie-

Eddie’s dead, Eddie got shot, Eddie’s fine and Buck is not-

Except Eddie isn’t fine, is he? Not really. Not anymore. Not since Buck carved himself open and painted all of his ugliness on every surface of Eddie’s life and ruined the one good thing he had.

Buck opens his eyes, goes limp, looks up at the man he loves, and starts to cry.

Not manly. Not silent. His tears taste like metal when they trail across his face.

Eddie holds him and holds him and holds him.

“Where do you want to start, Buck?”

“Uh, can I-can I start from the shooting? Or do I have to start from the beginning?”

“You can start wherever you’d like. There’s no rush to unpack everything right away - we’re going to move at your pace. Therapy is a marathon, not a sprint.”

“Okay. Well, it kinda all starts with Eddie.”

It’s actually Chimney who brings it up, when it’s just the two of them upstairs at the station. Hen and Eddie are downstairs - Hen on the phone to Karen in the bunks and Eddie working out - and Bobby is in his office slogging through paperwork, which just leaves the two of them to entertain themselves until the next alarm goes off.

Buck’s quite content watching videos on his phone while munching on celery sticks, and Chim is quietly playing solitaire with the spare deck of cards opposite him; a rare moment of downtime.

“You’re happier,” Chim says without looking away from his game, like it’s not a completely random thing to say. Buck pauses his video, frowns, a celery stick dripping hummus halfway to his mouth. “Not all the way happy, we know that, but it’s just…” the edges of his mouth curl up, even as he admits defeat and disrupts his card spread. “It’s nice to hear you laugh again.”

Buck doesn’t quite know what to do with this. He and Chim don’t do mushy. They do talk seriously sometimes, but usually only when Maddie is involved, because they’re united in their love for her. It’s not to say that they don’t have their own bond, because they do and they always will, but this level of soppiness is foreign to both of them.

So to save face, Buck leans into the teasing. “Aww,” he coos. “Chimney. Didn’t know you loved me like that.”

“Of course I love you, idiot. You’re my pain in the ass little brother. Seeing you mope around here with that look on your face like your whole life just collapsed hasn’t really been the highlight of my year.”

Oh.

What’s he supposed to do with that?

Chimney still hasn’t looked up. There’s nothing to his expression that says he’s uncomfortable like this.

Buck swallows once, thickly, and can’t help the way he beams at his friend. “Uh, thanks, Chim. I love you too.”

Chimney nods and starts to reshuffle the desk. There’s a pause, not long and not uncomfortable, and then he says, “If you tell anyone about this, I’m poisoning you. I’ll get away with it - you know I will.”

Buck laughs, bright and clear and happy.

Maybe…

Maybe he can be fine too.

“Do you blame yourself for Eddie being shot?”

“How can I? I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“You were standing there when it happened. He’s supposed to be safe around you, right? You keep each other safe on calls, have each other’s backs. You’re in love with him. That’s supposed to make him invincible, right?”

“That’s not- What? That’s stupid, I-”

“That’s what you told Bobby, isn’t it? That day that you climbed up the crane without protection. You told him that you were the person standing there when it happened.”

“I just wanted to keep everyone safe.”

“Like you couldn’t keep Eddie safe.”

“This isn’t helping! I know that him getting shot wasn’t my fault! I know that I saved him by getting him onto that fire truck so we could bring him to hospital. I know that. I just- He left anyway. I saved him, and he still...went away. It’s almost like the sniper won in the end. That’s what I can’t forgive myself for. Driving him away.”

"Tell me about that."

It gets better, slowly.

He and Eddie talk about things now, which is literally the most unexpected fucking thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s nearly choked to death and been saved by his girlfriend, had a ladder truck pin him to the ground after an explosion, watched Eddie get shot, survived a tsunami, and it’s the fact that Eddie talks to him that shocks him the most.

Hen laughs herself sick when he tells her about it.

But it’s nice. Eddie has Frank and Buck has Doctor Copeland. It’s not perfect - they fight a lot, Buck yells but Eddie doesn’t, and sometimes poor Bobby has to run interference for a few shifts - but it’s better.

He dreams less, now. Stops waking up with blood in his teeth. He develops a sudden aversion to fireworks that seems to come out of nowhere, and Doctor Copeland says that they can talk about it in their next session. Eddie says that Frank has him doing journal entries, but that Buck can’t see them yet until Eddie feels totally safe.

Maybe, a few weeks ago, Buck would’ve fought back about that. Maybe he would’ve heard that in Ana’s voice, might have thought about it like Eddie doesn’t trust him.

But he knows, now, that Eddie trusts him with everything. With his life, with Christopher, with his heart.

It's not perfect - it’s not even nice sometimes - but it’s love, and it’s healing, and it’s happy.

Eddie is fine.

Eventually, finally, so is Buck.