Archive of Our Own

After he's discharged from the hospital, cleared by his doctors to return home as long as there's someone there with him to help manage his entire medicine cabinet of new prescriptions and to keep an eye out for any of the many symptoms he could experience after coming back from the dead— his parents step forward much to everyone's surprise. If Buck is being entirely honest, he thinks his parents were surprised by it as well.

They last nearly an entire week. Buck is honestly impressed they made it that long.

His parents make it six full days. Then, on the morning of the seventh day since Buck left the hospital, they’re done. Bags packed and tucked neatly at his door, ready to be loaded into the back of an Uber on its way to the airport.

Buck wishes he had been surprised, wishes that his parents’ flimsy excuses and hollow apologies weren’t all echoes of what he’s heard before —

“You know I don’t do well far from home.”

Buck's heart had stopped.

“And your father has an important meeting.”

He had been in a coma.

“We would stay if we could, but you know how it is.”

A machine had pumped his blood for him and forced air into his lungs.

“We’ve already spent so much time here.”

He died.

Six days. Buck had died and he still only managed to get his parents’ attention for six days.

They tell him over dinner on the evening of the sixth day that their flight is booked for the next morning. And Buck feels — Buck is five years old with skinned knees, he’s seven years old with a broken arm, he’s ten with the flu and desperately wishing his mom would cross the safe distance she’s always keeping and just hold him.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth as he chokes down his dinner. It has nothing to do with the handful of pills he swallowed before sitting down. The ache in his chest is something that runs far deeper than his broken ribs.

He fell for it again. He thought— he doesn’t know what he thought, but he had hoped it would be different. Buck had hoped their love wouldn’t have an expiration date this time around.

His mother made…something. Buck thinks it's a last ditch effort to soothe the sting of her leaving him, again. Buck is too tired to identify what he’s eating. It tastes like ash in his mouth anyway — turning to glue as he tries to swallow it down past the lump in his throat. It settles in his stomach like a brick, rolling together with shame and embarrassment until he can’t stand to take another bite.

He should have known better.

Margaret appears at his elbow, a careful barrier of empty air between them. Buck barely reacts, listlessly tracking the movement as she whisks away his barely half eaten plate.

In the time it takes to blink, Margaret is across the room rinsing his plate in the sink. It makes him feel like a child. Dirty face and scraped palms, his mother cleaning up his mess.

She’s never been able to stand any kind of mess.

It makes sense she’s trying to get away, practically fleeing the state to put space between them. Buck is pretty messy right now. Can’t stand long enough to shower himself, his clothing and skin going rank with stale sweat as he cycles through hot flashes and feeling so cold he thinks he could die. He has a whole pharmacy of medications to take daily and he’s lost count of how many times he’s gagged on his pills and nearly thrown them back up.

Not to mention the nightmares that leave him screaming loud enough to wake the entire apartment complex. The first time one happened with his parents there to witness it, they had stood over him with pinched expressions and unsure, hovering hands. His mother’s attempts at comfort had felt stiff and unfamiliar like the starched fabric of a dress shirt that doesn’t fit quite right.

It had been the first and the last time she tried to offer comfort, trading it for politely pretending not to hear the pathetic sounds of Buck scaring himself awake.

“—Evan?”

Buck blinks, the spot on the table he had been staring at coming into focus. With energy he doesn't have, he drags his gaze up to his mother’s face. She looks tired, and old. Buck doesn’t remember the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes being that deep.

“The car is on its way— will you be alright by yourself? We can call your sister and have her—”

Buck cuts his mother off, “No, no— I–I’m okay, mom. You don’t— you don’t have to call Maddie.”

He watches as the tight lines of her face smooth out with relief, an expression he can see echoed on his father’s face. Buck’s stomach hurts, guilt and shame and disappointment twisting it in knots as he wonders how long they’ve had their escape planned. When did they decide it had become too much? When had he become too much?

Had they had their escape route planned from the very beginning? Caring for Buck with one foot out the door the entire time.

The tension in their shoulders melt away, his parent’s smiles grateful as they make their way to the door and their waiting luggage. Steps light, their guilt absolved.

Buck wonders if they even had any to begin with.

He immediately feels guilty thinking it.

At the door, his mother pauses, bag in hand. She looks small.

Buck thinks about standing up and going over to say goodbye. He imagines pulling his mother in for a hug, wonders if she would hug him back. Would she bring her arms around him? Would her hands be warm? He’d been so bogged down in the fog of mood swings and aching joints and blinding headaches that he can’t remember if Margaret still wears her signature lavender perfume from his childhood. He remembers smelling it in his…dream — the idealized version of his mother wore it. But he has no clue if the woman standing in front of him does, never got close enough to check.

But he’s so tired. He’s tired down to the marrow of his bones — skeleton made of lead and keeping him weighed down to his chair. Why should he be the one to go to them? He’s always chasing and clinging and trying desperately to make them stay.

He still hasn’t perfected the act. Why would it be any different now?

But… a part of him still aches for their attention while another part roils with shame over wanting it.

Maybe this time will be different.

“Take care of yourself, son.”

“Goodbye, Evan.”

There’s a sense of finality in his parent’s overlapping voices punctuated by the click of the door shutting behind them.

Buck stares at the empty space, chest feeling hollow.

Nothing ever changes. He should know this by now.

There's the soft plink plink of water droplets hitting the metal basin of his kitchen sink— the sink faucet still wet from his mother's use. It's the only sign of his parents left in his loft. There's nothing else, no mark to signify that his parents had been living in the same space as him for nearly a week.

The silence is loud, the air in the loft stifling with its stillness.

Even though it's still light out and Buck is well overdue for a shower, he drags his aching body up the stairs to his unmade bed. He swears he can still see the outline of his body in his rumpled sheets from where he had only woken up a handful of hours ago.

Lying down, curled on his side with his comforter wrapped as tightly around himself as he can manage on his own, Buck can almost pretend it feels like an embrace when he closes his eyes and his heavy body settles into the worn out groove in his mattress.

The silence continues to press oppressively against his eardrums, and like a child, Buck covers his head with his blankets in an attempt to hide from it.

Somehow, sleep manages to find him where he's buried himself alive in his bed. Or maybe he just fell into unconsciousness— body too tired to remain awake. Either way, the next time Buck opens his eyes, he's jolting awake in the cool blue light of early morning. His ragged breathing so loud it feels like it's echoing through the entire loft.

Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and the back of his neck, the hoodie he fell asleep in damp with it. Grimacing, Buck blinks hard, trying to clear the crusty remnants of sleep from his eyes.

It feels like he swallowed sand, mouth dry and throat rough. He automatically reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand that his mother puts out for him to take his pills with. Except— his nightstand is empty, just a ring of discoloration where the glass usually sits. Buck has never been one to use a coaster, something his mother always clucks her tongue over.

But the glass isn't there, and his mother isn't clucking her tongue, and Buck is confused.

Leveraging himself up in bed, ribs aching and protesting every moment, Buck rubs clammy palms over his face to try and clear the lingering fog from his dream, nightmare…something. Whatever it was, it's left a cloying wrongness under his skin that leaves him feeling vaguely sick and like he's been covered in a layer of grime.

After a moment, he notices the silence. A kind of silence so loud it must mean he's the only one in the loft. He rubs at his temples, a headache already building between them and making thinking hard.

Why is he alone?

A dawning disappointment washes over him before he remembers— his parents aren't here. They left.

He looks out into empty space, the same sinking sadness he felt every time he looked up into a crowd, spectators sitting in bleachers lining the football field, only to see two missing faces— spills into the pit of his stomach. But it's a melancholic ache now, doesn't have the same cutting edge it did when he was seven, ten, fifteen.

Well, he still needs water.

It's a slow journey down the stairs, the hard wood slippery and almost unbearably cold under his feet even through his socks. The whole loft feels too cold, even though moments ago Buck had felt like he had been roasting under his covers. The film of sweat on his skin surely isn't helping, rapidly cooling and raising goosebumps in it's wake.

He checks the thermostat, but it's still at a balmy 70 degrees, no reason Buck should be shivering in his hoodie and sweatpants. With a frown, he bumps it up a couple more degrees, hoping that it will help but knowing it won't.

Dying is just the gift that keeps on giving.

The smell of something floral lingers in the air as he pulls a clean cup down from the cupboard and fills it to the brim with water. The scent makes something in the back of his mind squirm, but he can't quite place it as he gulps down the water, proud of himself for not spilling any despite the way his hand trembles holding the glass.

The smell continues to hang in the air, faint enough that Buck thinks he might be imagining it. But it's making something in the back of his mind ping with recognition — it smells so familiar…

Lavender. It's the sent of lavender hanging in the air, fading away as the morning sun begins to warm the light inside the loft. Buck swallows, water heavy in his stomach as he sets his half empty glass down with a clink.

It's the smell of his mother's perfume, or it's what he remembers his mother's perfume smelling like. But she— she hadn't been wearing it when she was staying with him…right? He doesn't remember smelling it on her. But maybe she was wearing it and he didn't notice, that would make sense.

But he had noticed the scent while in the coma. Buck chews on the side of his nail, the skin there already ragged and red. Maybe he's just remembering the smell like some kind of sense memory…or maybe…maybe he's confused?

Was it the dream Margaret that hadn't smelled like perfume? Had the Margaret that just packed her bags and left was the one that carried the scent of lavender on her skin?

The harder he tries to focus— to make himself remember, the more the memories seem to twist and fade away, gossamer and disintegrating between his fingers.

With an uncomfortable flip of his stomach, he realizes he can't remember.

Fighting the instinctual panic threatening to rise up his throat, Buck pulls out his phone. He'll text Bobby— Bobby will know, he always knows. He is always able to help calm the rising tide when Buck can't tell if he ever woke up from the coma or not.

Bobby will help. He will. Buck just has to be patient even though every fiber of his being is vibrating for an answer now. Bobby always responds. Buck just has to wait.

Buck waits, staring down at his phone, his message sitting innocently in its little blue bubble. He waits for the three little dots to appear.

He waits.

And waits.

There's still no response from Bobby.

Buck tries not to panic, or at least, he tries to not let it consume him. He’s doing a poor job of it, panic prickling at the back of his neck and filling him with a nervous energy he can feel jittering in his limbs. With his phone clenched in his fist, he beats a staccato rhythm across his floorboards with his feet like pacing will bring him any closer to an answer.

He thinks he should sit down, he’s still supposed to be resting and recovering. His mother probably would have told him to sit down— if she was still here. She would tell him to sit on his brand new couch she paid all that money for. But he takes one look at his new couch and turns the other way, back toward his kitchen. His parents left, there's no one here to tell him to sit down.

With a clatter, his phone drops against the top of the kitchen island as he braces his hands on the edge, leaning into the bite of the stone against his palms. 

Despite how hard he stares at it, his phone screen stays black. A dull reflection of the ceiling is the only thing he can see in the fingerprint smudged glass. 

It’s fine. He’s okay…his pulse feels like a sledgehammer in his throat, but that’s fine. He can ignore that, almost.

It’s fine. He’s fine. 

He’s not fine.

His heart is lodged in his throat, but Buck thinks it never really left from when he woke up. The way his heart is tripping over itself in his chest would probably make his cardiologist frown. He puts a hand to his sternum, feeling the rapid thump against his palm. He also feels the uncomfortable tackiness of stale sweat sticking his clothes to his skin, making it itch and crawl. But he’s freezing, goosebumps breaking out across his arms — the dregs of his nightmare like shards of ice in his veins. 

He’s not there. He’s not trapped in that world where his parents loved him right and his brother is still alive. He’s not there. He’s not there. He’s not there because in that world Bobby isn’t alive. That’s not a world Buck wants to be in. And he’s not there. Because Bobby is alive. 

He is. 

Then why hasn’t he texted Buck back yet? 

Bobby is probably just busy at work. Maybe he’s busy at a scene, or maybe he’s just caught up in some paperwork and not looking at his phone. Yeah…yeah. That has to be it, that’s why Bobby isn’t texting him back. 

Buck stares at the black screen, chewing on his lip. Bobby is busy and he doesn’t need Buck bothering him. 

He picks up his phone, swiping it open — the screen still filled with his text message thread with Bobby. The string of unanswered texts makes an uncomfortable feeling prickle in the back of his throat. 

Buck deliberates for all of ten seconds before pressing the call button and bringing his phone to his ear. He picks a spot on the floor to stare at as the phone rings, and rings. Buck’s mouth tastes metallic as he chews on the side of his thumb, a knot of tension forming between his shoulders as the ringing stretches on. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. Bobby’s fine. It’s okay, he’s just away from his phone. Bobby’s probably cursing under his breath right now, searching for where his phone got buried under all his paperwork, or maybe where it slipped between the cushions of the couch in the station's loft. 

Yeah, yeah that must be it. Nothing is wrong, Buck is just being paranoid and Bobby is going to pick up any second now— 

“You’ve reached Bobby Nash. I’m not available to answer the phone right now, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Buck sucks in a breath at the familiar sound of Bobby’s voicemail. Belatedly, he realizes the tone has already gone off and he rips his thumb away from his teeth, taking a shred of skin with it. 

“H-hey, Bobby! Uh-um, s-sorry to bug you I just, um— could you give me a call as soon as you get this? It’s just…I, uh, I’d really appreciate it. I know you’re probably just busy. O-okay, um, b-bye.” 

Cringing, Buck ends his stumbling mess of a voicemail. Bobby is going to listen to that and think Buck has a screw loose. But at least maybe it will make him call Buck back faster. 

Buck forces himself to put his phone face down on the kitchen table. He needs to take a breath — reign himself in. 

Bobby is going to call Buck back any minute. He will. 

Buck wishes he could make himself believe it. 

Taking a deep breath and shaking out his clammy hands, he forces himself to step away from his phone. Then another step, and another. With every ounce of willpower he has, Buck walks away and only looks back once. 

It’s fine. Buck’s fine. Bobby’s fine. 

The mantra keeps repeating in his head, twisting and warping until it’s a constant buzz of white noise as he splashes cold water from the bathroom sink on his face. His cheeks feel hot with too much emotion, and the water feels nice against his skin. It does nothing to ease the snarled knots of anxiety in his stomach, and he forgoes using his hands, bracing them on the edge of the counter and ducking his head under the stream. 

Cold water spreads from the crown of his head, dripping from his curls and the tip of his nose. A rivulet gathers at the nape of his neck, drawing out a shudder that dislodges water droplets from his eyelashes. The pounding in his head that he woke up with loses some of its bite, making him feel more settled in his skin. Less like it’s been stretched too tight and ill-fitting. 

If anyone were to walk in on him right now he’s sure he’d make quite a sight hunched over with his head shoved in the sink. They would think he’s crazy. Buck feels crazy. 

Holding his breath, Buck listens to his thundering pulse and the still running water. Over the sounds he thinks he can hear…

His phone!

Buck whips his head out of the sink, spraying an arc of water droplets on the mirror from his wet hair. He scrambles from the bathroom, shoulder connecting with the door jam with a dull thud that Buck barely registers it as he trips over himself to lunge for his phone on the table. 

The device nearly slips through his wet fingers multiple times, but he manages to turn it over— the screen is dark. 

A lump forms in Buck’s throat. “No.” A croak. Buck unlocks his phone, frantically scrolling to his missed calls. It takes a couple of tries, fingers clumsy with the numbness of dread. 

There are no new calls, no matter how many times Buck blinks. 

An animal sound vibrates in his chest. “No– no, no…” The lump in his throat sinks into his stomach like a brick. 

He swears he heard his phone ringing…he did! But— he has no new messages, his texts to Bobby are still unread…

The sick feeling in his stomach grows. A clammy chill prickles across his skin, making the damp hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Maybe…maybe the call got dropped and then— then his phone glitched out. Or maybe it’s the service? That has to be it. The service is bad on Bobby’s end and Buck needs to be the one to call so it will actually go through. 

Buck’s phone is pressed to his ear before he even forms a conscious thought of doing so. 

His renewed sense of conviction dies quickly. The phone doesn’t even ring this time, sending Buck straight to voicemail. 

The animal sound from before is back, and it’s louder— getting stuck in the back of his throat as he draws in a shaky inhale. He forces himself to swallow it down. 

"Bobby— h-hi, um, I-I," Buck's words sputter out, throat going tight and choking him. "C-can you— could, could you call me back? Please? Just w–want to make sure you're okay."

He blows out a noisy breath, running a hand through his hair and gripping it tight at the root until pain prickles across his scalp. There's a current of restless energy humming through his veins. A live wire sparking against wet pavement, or like lightning burning through vital organs.

Buck's stomach clenches uncomfortably. He closes his eyes, turning away like he can physically ignore the thought. He needs to distract himself, he needs something to keep his mind occupied until Bobby calls him back.

Bobby is going to call him back.

Distraction comes in the form of pacing. Buck walks his tired body back and forth over the same short path. It's not a very good distraction, Buck's mind still going in circles.

He's not there. He woke up. Bobby is alive.

It's hard to catch his breath. There's a dull ache in his chest that he absently rubs his palm over as air wheezes through his lips too fast for him to fill his lungs.

He's not there. He woke up. Bobby is alive.

The edge of the counter bites into his palm as he braces himself against it. There's a loud clattering noise, Buck's phone hitting the counter top, his numb fingers loosening their grip against his will. He stares at it, shiny dark surface reflecting dull light back at him as he blinks.

He should pick his phone up. In case Bobby calls him back, he should have his phone in his hand so he can answer as quickly as possible. His fingers twitch, but his hand doesn't move. It feels far away like it belongs to someone else.

There's a rushing noise in his ears like water…or wind— no. It's like the mechanical breaths of a ventilator.

Buck frowns, clenching both hands into slow fists. The press of his nails into the soft flesh of his palms is muted, no bite to it. He presses harder.

He looks at his phone again. Still dark. No Bobby.

There's a steel band around his chest, breath whistling between his lips. Distantly, he knows he's having a panic attack, but even as he has the thought, his awareness is already fading— washed away by the rush of blood in his ears and the lump in his throat tasting too much like plastic.

Bobby groans, stiff joints popping as he stands up from his perch on the edge of a hospital bed. He knows it's only been a couple of hours since he arrived at the emergency room, but he feels an ache in his back as if he's been here all day.

Even after all that, he doesn't even have any smoke inhalation and there was no reason for him to be here in the first place. He had tried to impress upon Hen and Chimney that he was fine, but they wouldn't hear it — insisting Bobby get checked out after his mask malfunctioned at a house fire.

It's not lost on Bobby that his team has been jumpier than usual. They have been quicker to send each other to get checked out over injuries on calls instead of patching each other up and calling it a day. The reason why isn't unknown to him. Bobby sees it every time there's a loud crash on a scene, several pairs of wide, panicked eyes skittering to the top of the aerial ladder.

He thinks they all must permanently have the image of Buck hanging there, lifeless, seared to the inside of their eyelids. At least, it is for Bobby. A haunting negative of one of the worst days of his life shown to him every time he closes his eyes.

Bobby knows— he can't blame his team for their hypervigilance, not when his own gaze snaps in the same frantic direction. He can't pass judgment on them when his heart never feels settled in his chest, his pulse hummingbird fast in his throat every time he seeks out Buck during a shift and is met with glaringly empty space instead.

Still, he knew he was fine! He had known that their worry had been misplaced this time around.

With a sigh, Bobby goes about collecting his belongings and shuffling his way to the exit with a handful of his discharge paperwork. He pulls his phone from his pocket, only to mutter a quiet curse under his breath.

Dead.

He looks down at his watch, another curse slipping from his mouth. It's not very Catholic of him, but he can't find it in himself to care at this moment— of all the things he should be damned to hell for, swearing is at the bottom of the list.

It's well past the time Buck usually texts Bobby after waking up. Bobby hasn't missed one of Buck's texts since he left the hospital. He's tried so hard to be available, but part of him wonders if it's been unnecessary. Buck's parents have been sticking around, something Bobby had been surprised about.

A small, selfish part of him maybe even feels resentful about it. After all these years of them being nowhere in sight at Buck's bedside, Bobby haunting the space in their stead— they now decide to fill the space. Bobby will never voice this out loud, he has no right to. As much as he wishes he could change it, he's not Buck's flesh and blood.

Buck should be fine, he has his parents with him— he doesn't need Bobby constantly checking on him.

A sliver of unease snakes its way into his stomach as frustration prickles under his skin, unable to believe himself.

Hopefully Buck slept in today.

"Hey there, stranger."

Bobby immediately feels his shoulders lose some of their tension. "Athena–"

A smile spreads across his wife's face and Bobby can't help turning his face into the warmth of her cupped palm as she guides him in for a chaste kiss.

"What are you doing here?" He's surprised, but still pleased to see her. He's always pleased to see her.

"Oh, well a little birdy may have told me you were here." She cocks her hip, a playful smile on her face. "I was in the area and thought it pertinent to check on one of the esteemed fire captains of the LAFD."

A helpless smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but something else must show on his face because Athena steps back with an assessing gaze. Some of the levity leaves her face.

"Did the doctors say something? Are you alright?"

Bobby shakes his head, "no, no– I'm alright. Clean bill of health." He holds out his phone, the screen useless and dark no matter many times he clicks the power button. "My phone died."

Athena arches a brow, "I didn't take you for that kind of social butterfly— you sound like May and Harry."

A huffed breath of laughter leaves his mouth. Athena smiles in response as she puts a warm hand on his back, shepherding him toward the exit and her waiting cruiser.

"I'm trying to get a hold of Buck."

Athena hums in understanding. "Well, lucky for you, I've got a charger in my car."

"Lead the way."

Once they're on the road navigating through typical LA traffic and Bobby's turnouts have been thrown in the back, Bobby fishes Athena's phone charger out of the glove compartment.

"Back to the station?"

Bobby hums, nodding. "Yeah— I need to relieve Hen." He's distracted, focus split between his wife and rebooting phone.

Between one blink and the next, his phone screen lights up, letting him know his phone is 2% charged. For a moment, Bobby breathes a sigh of relief, his phone screen free and clear of notifications.

A split second later, when Bobby unlocks his phone, he realizes it was a false sense of calm. The number of notifications that suddenly flood his screen, missed calls and texts, is truly alarming. The red dots flash like a fire alarm in his mind, klaxons deafening him as cold dread washes through him in a powerful wave.

With a sense of urgency, he pulls up his text thread with Buck.

A sound of dismay leaves him as he scrolls through the messages too rapidly to read them all, but not fast enough he doesn't catch the way Buck's messages devolve into panicked single word pleas for Bobby to respond.

"What? What's wrong, Bobby?"

Bobby doesn't respond, he can't. He's too focused on pulling up his phone notifications. The amount of voicemails he has from Buck is staggering. Bobby clicks on the first one Buck left, bringing his phone to his ear with a vice grip.

Buck sounds…normal. There is a shaky tremble of anxiety in his voice, but nothing that would ring any alarm bells in another situation. With a knot of anxiety twisting tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach, Bobby selects the most recent voicemail sent just under half an hour ago.

Silence.

The first second of the voicemail is filled with a silence that chills Bobby to his very core. Bobby holds his breath, straining to hear anything over the thundering of his pulse.

The silence breaks with a whine — gut wrenching and wounded. It's the sound of an animal in pain and it raises the hair on the back of Bobby's neck. Then—

"Bobby— pl–please." Buck sounds distraught and desperate — leagues away from the voice Bobby heard in the first voicemail.

"We have to go to Buck's loft," Bobby chokes out. He feels sick to his stomach, the seatbelt going tight across his chest as he unconsciously strains forward in his seat.

Athena for her part accepts the command wordlessly. She even flips on her lights and sirens as she flies down the road, expertly navigating through the congested traffic.

Later, Bobby will be able to appreciate how quickly his wife reacted with so little information. But for now, the gratitude thrums muted in his chest as panic threatens to steal his ability to think from him. He fumbles with his phone, hands trembling as he tries to call Buck back.

It's not like Bobby is expecting Buck to answer, but his heart still manages to drop even further into the pit of his stomach when his call goes to voicemail.

Clenching his jaw, he hangs up and tries again. It rings and rings and—

Voicemail.

A curse sits heavy on his tongue. He tries again. Voicemail, again.

"Buck, it's Bobby— I'm okay, you're okay… call me back, please."

In the driver's seat, Athena's grip tightens on the steering wheel, her face pulled taught with concern. "Should I have an RA unit dispatched?"

Bobby wants to say no — he wants so badly for the dread sitting heavy in his stomach to be misplaced. His brain plays in rapid succession all the things that could be wrong— another blood cot, something wrong with Buck's heart. Buck was so fragile lying in the hospital bed, so weak. It doesn't take a stretch of his imagination to picture Buck trying to push himself too hard too soon and accidentally hurting himself or— ice floods Bobby's veins. Buck could have hurt himself on purpose.

Everything in Bobby wants to believe that's not a possibility, but Bobby knows Buck. He knows how hard the ladder truck bombing was for Buck. He knows the looks that had been in Buck's eyes, the look that had left his face drawn and haggard. Bobby used to see that same look everyday when he looked in the mirror.

He wants to believe that he's being paranoid. But the part of him that smells smoke before anyone else on his team, the part of him that's a fire captain in a long line of fire captains, knows that he needs to be prepared.

Bobby looks to his wife. "Yes."

Athena gives him a tight nod, mouth drawn into a serious line as she grabs her radio. "Dispatch, this is 727 L-30 calling for immediate medical assistance at—"

The sound of Athena relaying Buck's address to dispatch fades to the back of Bobby's mind as he pulls up his messages with Buck, sending a last ditch effort text begging Buck to respond. Bobby's hope is low that Buck will see the message and respond to him, but he still has to try.

Faster than he expected, but still slower than he needs, Athena skids into the parking lot of Buck's apartment complex. Bobby is out of the cruiser before it's even come to a full stop. Athena calls after him with a shout of his name before jogging to catch up.

Athena gets them through the front door with her badge, a startled woman nodding mutely as she holds the door open for them. Bobby barely spares the breath the thank her before he's sprinting for the stairs.

Any other time, Bobby would feel horrible about leaving his wife behind, but right now his biggest concern is getting to Buck as fast as humanly possible.

It's been a while since he's moved this fast, and he's no Buck, but his legs eat up the distance to the stairwell and send him barrelling through the door. It bangs loudly against the wall as it swings wide, the sound of it clanging and echoing up the stairs ahead of him.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Bobby barely feels the strain in his muscles as he practically throws himself to Buck's floor. Heart in his throat, Bobby clears the length of the hallway and comes to a skidding stop in front of a familiar front door.

"Buck!" Bobby shouts through the door, banging on the surface so hard his fist immediately aches.

A few neighbors poke their heads out of their doors with curiosity that quickly turns to alarm when they spot Bobby. He ignores them, backing up to get enough space to kick the door in. He's not waiting around for someone with a key or a rig with a battering ram to get this door open.

He's getting to Buck now.

The force rattles through Bobby's entire skeleton as his heel connects with the door and bounces off. Some kind of inhuman noise leaves him — animalistic frustration born of desperation bubbling up in his chest.

He winds up and tries again.

Bang!

The shiny metal of the doorplate dents under his heel.

Bang!

Bobby is pretty sure at least one of the neighbors is calling the police. He spares a split second to pray that Maddie isn't on shift at dispatch.

Bang!

The sound of wood splintering fractures through the air and then Bobby is shoving his way through the door, leaving it swinging nearly off its hinges as he calls to Buck.

Silence — that's what greets him. The eerie kind of silence that's thick and stifling, making the hair on the back of Bobby's neck stand on end and goosebumps erupt across his skin.

"Buck?" He calls again, frantically looking around for any sign of the man.

The apartment is still like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Bobby holds his along with them, stepping further into the apartment, head on a swivel and footsteps light. He strains to hear anything, to see any sign of Buck — but the lights are off and there's nothing that looks glaringly out of place.

He spins in a frantic circle. What if Buck is unconscious and can't call out? What if Buck isn't even here? Bobby hadn't even thought to look for his Jeep parked outside. Panic threatens to claw its way out of his chest, its sharp barbs hooking in his throat and choking him.

Stop! Stop it! He can't lose it— he has to keep a level head. He can't afford to let himself spiral. Buck can't afford for him to spiral.

Bobby forces himself to take a deep breath. He can do this — it's like responding to any other scene (it isn't). He has an unaccounted for victim (it's Buck). His first step should be locating him. Bobby has been doing this for years — he knows all the places people go to hide when driven by instinct.

Bathrooms and bedrooms, those are the usual places. He's lost count of the amount of children he's found curled in the corners of bathtubs and closets, or cowering under the bed.

There's a sound, so quiet Bobby almost misses it over the sound of his pulse.

He turns toward the bathroom, where he thinks he heard the sound come from. The door is ajar, but the lights are off. The wood of the door is smooth and cool under his palm as he cautiously pushes it open. A sick feeling twists in Bobby's stomach.

The bathroom is dark. That's the first thing Bobby notices. The second thing he notices is the glass on the floor. It crunches under his boot when he takes a tentative step forward, eyes sweeping over every square inch of the bathroom before sticking in the corner where bathtub meets the wall.

There's movement, a dark formless shape coming into focus as Bobby's eyes adjust to the dark. It's Buck— curled up and rocking back and forth with sharp jerky movements. Relief doesn't find Bobby quite yet, especially not when a whine spills from the corner, filling the air — pained, grief stricken.

It raises the hair on the back of his neck. His brain automatically supplies the image of a wounded dog, but he knows it's not a dog.

"Buck?" Bobby calls tentatively, casting his gaze around the bathroom, brain cycling through all the possible scenarios that could have sent Buck cowering in the corner.

The rocking doesn't stop, Buck either ignoring or unaware of Bobby's presence. The whine continues too, worming under Bobby's skin and piercing through his heart.

Flashes of too many little pills, empty orange bottles on the floor — panic seizes Bobby's lungs and only the trained act of assessing a scene keeps him level headed enough to sweep his gaze over the counter top, the floor. No empty orange bottles. But there is blood, drops of it hidden in the glass, smears of it in the bowl of the sink and on the lip of the counter. Shards sparkle on the counter tops and lay in the sink, tinged pink and red, the broken bathroom mirror reflecting a distorted version of the dark bathroom.

The sight of blood make's Bobby's heart trip over itself in his chest. Where is it coming from? It could just be from glass, but what if…

Bobby looks for a knife on the floor or in Buck's hand, squinting into the darkness to see if it's hiding somewhere in the shadowed corners of the bathroom.

With a sense of urgency, Bobby tries drawing his attention again, closing the gap of space between them. The bulk of Bobby's body casts a dark shadow over Buck's tightly curled form. Shifting, Bobby sweeps the worst of the glass away with his foot before dropping down into a crouch in front of Buck.

There's still no reaction, Buck doesn't even so much as flinch. It looks like he's trying to curl himself so small he'll simply melt away into the corner he's forcing himself into. It looks like he wants to disappear.

Fear squeezes Bobby's heart so forcefully, he feels momentarily lightheaded. He braces a steadying hand against the wall, blinking rapidly to clear his vision before reaching for Buck.

"Let— Buck, let me see—" Bobby doesn't recognize the sound of his voice, it feels far away as he tries to gently pry Buck's hands away from his face. "Please— just let me see, please." Bobby pleads, voice breaking just as he manages to pull Buck's hands away from his face and toward him.

Chest aching, Bobby holds his breath as he frantically pushes up the sleeves of Buck's sweatshirt exposing his forearms. Bobby's hands shake as he holds on too tight, Buck's skin dimpling under the pressure of his fingertips.

There's nothing— not even a nick. Bobby pushes Buck's sleeves even higher, all the way to the crooks of his elbows.

Bobby sags, breath exploding out of him when all there continues to be is pale unmarked skin.

As if to reassure himself, Bobby rubs his thumbs over the blue vein visible under Buck's nearly translucent skin, following it to Buck's wrists, inner arms — feeling his hummingbird fast pulse under his intact skin. "It's okay— you're okay."

Buck whines one of his wounded sounds, shivering under Bobby's touch, eyes far away and vacant, focused on a small square of tile on the floor.

There's blood on Bobby's hands now, dark in the dim light of the bathroom. He gathers Buck's hands and gently turns them over.

"Oh, sweetheart," the endearment gusts out of him with a sad sigh. "What happened?" Buck doesn't respond, but Bobby doesn't need him to. He's pretty sure he can figure out on his own what happened to make Buck's hand bleed.

His knuckles are a mess of scrapes and cuts — little shards of glass reflecting pinpoints of light embedded in the ruined skin of Buck's hand.

Bobby gently rubs a thumb over the edge of a still weeping gash between two swollen knuckles. Buck flinches, a tiny movement not nearly strong enough to pull his hand out of Bobby's loose hold, but movement nonetheless

"Shh— I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Buck." Bobby moves his hands to cup Buck's face, his heart breaking when he encounters tacky tear tracks down his cheeks. As gently as he can, he turns Buck's face to him. Buck blinks like he's staring straight through Bobby.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

Buck blinks again, and Bobby is terrified that the vacant haze in his eyes is going to remain, but Bobby keeps holding him, keeps filling his field of vision as he gently coaxes Buck into coming back to him. He's rewarded with a small flicker of recognition, Buck's blue eyes sparking to life.

Relief floods through Bobby, making his voice shake with the sheer force of it. "There you go— you've got it, kid."

Bobby can hear the dry click of Buck's throat as he swallows, watches as he struggles to focus on Bobby. "B–bobby?"

It's hardly more than a whisper, a rush of air in the shape of his name as Buck's lips barely move. But he hears him all the same, a tremulous smile pulling at his mouth. "Yeah, kid— it's me. It's Bobby— I've got you now, it's okay."

A wrinkle of confusion…concern— Bobby isn't entirely sure what it is, but it twists the lines of Buck's face and forms a deep furrow in the center of his brow as his eyes shine a bright, devastating blue.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Buck takes a second, smacking his dry lips together as he tries to work moisture back into his mouth. Bloody hands rise into the space between them, shaking and unsure as Buck makes an attempt to grab onto Bobby's arms. Instead, he ends up pawing at the front of Bobby's shirt, fingers stiff and clumsy as they tangle in the fabric.

"Real— you're real? A–alive?"

Bobby's heart shatters and falls to the bathroom floor, glistening among the shards of broken mirror. He gathers up Buck's hands, presses them over the ache of his beating heart, praying that Buck can feel the way it's straining against his ribcage.

"Yes— yes, Buck. I'm real, I'm alive," he frees one hand to cup the side of Buck's face, "your name is Evan Buckley. You are a firefighter for the LAFD. Your station is the 118 and I am your fire captain. You're okay, I'm okay— you woke up."

Buck crumples with a sob, desperate hands clutching at any part of Bobby he can reach. Bobby's feet skid out from underneath him, sending him to his knees with a sharp crack against the tile. He can feel the jagged edges of broken glass digging into his skin through his uniform pants, but he ignores it, keeping his tight hold on Buck like he's going to disappear.

Bobby thinks Buck must be afraid of something similar with the way the kid is pressing so close it's like he's trying to crawl inside of Bobby's ribcage. Bobby would let him— he would peel back skin and muscle and crack open his own chest in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Buck safe.

There's a commotion in the hallway, the sounds of heavy boots and overlapping voices. Among them, Bobby hears his wife's voice before it's covered up by the bang of the splintered front door hitting the wall and the boom of a voice, "LAFD!"

In his arms, Buck jolts. Bobby cups a hand to the back of his head, keeping him close as Bobby calls back, "in the bathroom!"

The noise only gets louder, the clatter of gear and the chatter of radios filling the space of Buck's loft rapidly. Buck shrinks further into Bobby, tucking his face tightly into the junction of Bobby's neck and shoulder, the skin there growing wet and clammy.

Buck flinches when the bathroom suddenly floods with light, the paramedics opening the door wider and flicking on the lights. Bobby blinks against the sudden onslaught and tries to identify the responding house through watering eyes.

Bobby can't help the pang of disappointment it's not his team. Logically, he knows that the 133 is a good team. They're solid on calls they've worked alongside the 118, and he owes Captain Mehta Eddie and Buck's life. But he can feel his hackles raising, the urge to shield Buck from view, keeping him tucked safe and close to his side. He doesn't want to hand Buck over to strangers.

The vaguely familiar paramedic seems to draw up short for a second, surprised to see Bobby sitting on the bathroom floor. "Captain Nash—" She catches herself, schooling her expression of shock into one of professional compassion and shifts her attention to where Buck is still trembling in his arms.

She crouches down, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. The snap of the elastic around her wrists makes Buck jump. "Hi, my name is Nina, and that's my partner Erin," she turns to briefly glance over shoulder at the other paramedic standing in the doorway with a med kit. "We're paramedics, and we're hear to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

When Buck stays silent, she flicks her gaze back up to Bobby. "It's Buck."

"Okay, Buck. It's nice to meet you." She turns and grabs the proffered med kit from her partner. "I'm just going to get some vitals from you."

At the sound of his name, Buck slowly untucks his face from Bobby's neck, cautiously peeking at Nina. She smiles at him warmly, "do you think you could tell me what's going on?"

Buck's wet eyes darted over the faces of the paramedics before skittering to the corners of the bathroom and then finally to Bobby's face. Bobby returns his gaze with what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but it feels too tremulous, the corners wobbling. He's not sure how he does it, but Buck somehow always manages to worm his way through Bobby's defenses and steal away his ability to mask his emotions.

Bobby prepares himself to explain what happened even though he's not entirely sure himself. But Buck surprises him, sitting up more. "I…" Buck stops, licking his lips as his eyes continue to dart around the room, never resting in one place for long. "I-I got…confused."

Bobby's heart breaks all over again. He knows that Buck still struggles with figuring out what is real or not at times — it's why Bobby tries so hard to always respond to Buck's texts and calls. This time, it looks like Buck got a little bit more than just confused.

Nina and Erin wait patiently, hands busy as they pass equipment back and forth and Nina works on taking Buck's vitals. But Buck offers no other information, his face wan and exhausted. Bobby rubs his thumb in soothing circular motions on the back of Buck's neck as he tries to fill in the blanks.

"Buck was…he was in a coma. He was only discharged from the hospital last week and sometimes…" Bobby chews on his words as he tries to find the best way to explain. "Sometimes he has a hard time remembering he woke up."

Nina hums sympathetically, "That sounds pretty scary. I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm glad you're awake now, Buck" —she tilts her head "—can you tell me what happened to your hands?" There's no judgment in her tone as she gingerly reaches for one of Buck's ruined hands. Hesitantly, Buck allows her to take it.

Buck blanches, looking at his hand in Nina's grasp like it's his first time seeing it. His eyes fall to the bloody knuckles of the hand still curled between his body and Bobby's before blowing wide with shock —liquid blue standing out in stark contrast to his red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks.

"I don't…" His eyes travel further, gaze slipping to the bathroom floor, over the scattered glass, and then up to what remains of the bathroom mirror. "I-I think —I punched…my mirror?" His voice rises with a question at the end, uncertainty radiating off of him in waves.

Bobby can feel the uptick in Buck's breathing before Nina frowns slightly at the pulse ox she just clipped to his finger. She briefly meets Bobby's gaze before smiling reassuringly at Buck. "That's okay, Buck. We're going to get you all patched up." She pats the back of his hand, mindful of his knuckles. "I want to give you something to help you stay calm on the way to the hospital, your heart rate is still pretty high, and I want you to feel comfortable."

Buck looks at her, alarmed, before shrinking back into Bobby's chest. Erin notices, Nina momentarily turned away as she rummages through her kit— and she smiles down at Buck. Bobby thinks she meant for it to come off as reassuring, but he can still see the nervous energy of a paramedic still green behind the ears peeking through.

"Don't worry. It's just a mild sedative—" She misread Buck's reaction earlier, assuming his trepidation was about the medication instead of the fact he's only now realized that a trip to the hospital is in his near future.

Bobby realizes her mistake a beat before she does, her eyes going wide as Buck rears back, ripping his hand out of Nina's grip and forcing a grunt out of Bobby. Nina rocks forward, hands outstretched and hovering in open space— ready to catch Buck. But Buck is trying to get away, feet pushing against the tile, palms scrabbling through glass and leaving behind smears of blood. His back hits the cupboards under the sink with a dull thud, hands coming up in a defensive gesture.

Bobby is dismayed to see fresh blood beading up on his skin.

Erin and Nina both move like they're going to reach for Buck, and it sends Buck shrinking further back against the sink, legs curled up tight. Bobby throws out an arm, stopping them in their tracks. "Wait!"

Drawn by the commotion, Athena appears in the doorway. "C'mon, give them some space." There's the sound of the paramedics and his wife retreating, but Bobby doesn't turn to watch them go, his focus solely on Buck.

The kid's eyes roll in his skull like that of a frightened horse, wild and wide.

Palms out, Bobby moves closer to Buck, keeping his body language slow and open. His knees and back protest the movement, and he knows he's going to be paying for kneeling on the hard tile for days to come. But it doesn't matter, he doesn't care about that. He cares about the way Buck tracks his every move like a life line. Gently, Bobby rests a hand on Buck's ankle and when there is no adverse reaction, he settles a hand on his knee, then both hands on Buck's cheeks.

"Look at me, kid."

"Bob-Bobby— I don't— I don't want to sleep— please— I-I—"

"Sweetheart, I promise you're not going to sleep. No one is going to make you," Buck squirms, a protest forming on his lips, "No— look at me. No one is going to make you sleep."

A hiccuped noise gets caught in the space between them, Buck's chest expanding and contracting like bellows. It's too fast, feeding the flames of his fear that Bobby can see flickering in his panic bright eyes.

Buck is teetering on the precipice of a panic attack, or rather he's at risk of being swept away in another wave of a panic attack that hasn't ended yet. Bobby wonders if that's what sent Buck to the bathroom floor before Bobby found him. It would make sense. The cocktail of medications Buck is on along with the general unease that must come along with waking up from a coma has had him on edge since he woke up. Bobby had been present for several panic attacks when Buck was still in the hospital and they had left him feeling shaken and useless. But how Bobby had found him in the bathroom…he can only begin to imagine the severity of the panic attack that had caused that kind of reaction.

He has no way of knowing how long Buck was on the floor or what else may have happened beside bloody knuckles.

That's why Buck wasn't supposed to be left alone for too long. But Bobby had found him alone, the Buckley parents no where to be seen and no sign that they had been there recently. The swell of anger tightens Bobby's lungs and turns the corners of his vision red. He forces himself to breathe through it, there are more pressing matters at hand. Like getting Buck off the bathroom floor and to the hospital.

Bobby changes tactic. "You don't have to go to sleep," he reiterates, Buck hanging on his every word. "You can walk, okay? I'll go with you. We'll go together. Nice and slow. How's that sound?"

Buck stares with glassy eyes, chin trembling. Bobby is afraid Buck is going to refuse aid again, but slowly, he nods with his lower lip trapped between his teeth. "O-okay," he says so quietly that if Bobby wasn't watching him, he wouldn't have caught the word.

"Okay," Bobby echoes, trying to instill has much conviction into his voice as he can muster. "How about we get start with getting off the floor, yeah?" Buck nods, slowly unfurling his legs from their tight curl.

Bobby smiles encouragingly, shifting into a crouch and offers his hands. Buck grabs them, skin clammy and cold against Bobby's. "There we go," Bobby praises, standing with Buck and ignoring the way his knees pop loudly. "Feel like you can take a little walk?"

Buck's lip is blanched white from how hard he's biting it, but his grip on Bobby's hands doesn't falter and he nods. Carefully, Bobby guides Buck around the worst of the glass and out of the bathroom.

There's a gurney by the front door, Nina and Erin hovering nearby and watching as Bobby leads Buck over to it. "Here, hop up here." Bobby pats the empty expanse of the gurney and is grateful that the paramedics are holding back and letting him handle Buck.

Buck looks exhausted, dark purple half moons under his eyes, but he listens, clambering onto the gurney with Bobby's assistance. When Bobby steps back, Buck shoots up with wide eyes like he's going to try and bolt.

"W-wait—" his voice cracks and Bobby is quick to step back into his space, cupping the side of his neck so his thumb just barely grazes Buck's ear. "Don't— please don't leave."

Swiping his thumb back and forth, Bobby reassures, "I've got you kid— it's okay, I'm not going anywhere." He looks up to meet Nina's eye, making sure she understands the truth to his statement. She nods.

"Don't worry, Buck. Captain Nash can ride in the ambulance with you."

Relief passes over Buck's face and fatigue pulls him down onto the gurney, but he still doesn't look away from Bobby, eyes glued to him like he's afraid Bobby will go up in a cloud of smoke. His eyes stay on Bobby as Nina and Erin flit about getting Buck ready to travel.

Hazy blue sticks to Bobby all the way to the elevator, through the lobby, and into the back of the ambulance. Buck's gaze doesn't falter on the way to the hospital, except when the prick of a needle and the cool rush of IV fluid makes him grimace in discomfort.

Bobby does his best to meet Buck's eye. If it was anyone else staring at him, he doesn't think he would be able to stand it. As it is, he feels stripped bare and laid open in front of Buck like somehow his searching gaze can see straight through to Bobby's core, where all the dark parts of him are buried. But Buck is looking at Bobby with so much trust, so he forces himself to bear it. He hopes that Buck will find something on his face that reassures him that Bobby isn't going anywhere.

In the hospital, everything passes by in a blur of fluorescent lighting and the sickeningly familiar smell of antiseptic. Bobby hates that he's back in this place with Buck so soon— but he's glad that he's here and Buck isn't alone. A small, dark part of Bobby is selfishly glad that it's him who gets to hold Buck's hand and murmur reassurances to him, even thought another part of him is seething over the fact that the people who should be in his place are nowhere in sight.

After his hands are cleaned of all the blood and glass, Buck gets settled in a room. His doctor wants to keep him over night to make sure that the panic attack wasn't a side effect of Buck's medications or a symptom of a deeper problem related to the lightning strike. Bobby knows that Buck is beyond the point of exhaustion when he doesn't even protest the announcement. He just turns to look at Bobby with the blind trust of a child expecting their parent to do all the talking and remember all the important things. It makes a painful lump form in Bobby's throat, but it's exactly what he does. He talks with the doctor, relays Buck's pertinent medical history, answers questions about what happened, takes note of the important things— and not once does anyone question if it's his place to do so.

In the hospital bed, with fresh white bandages concealing the neat stitches holding the split skin of his knuckles together, Buck looks small. The harsh hospital lighting and the white starchy sheets make him look paper thin, blue veins like rivers under his skin. Bobby thinks that if he squints, it's almost as if Buck is translucent and it scares him. He tightens his grip on Buck's wrist so he doesn't float away.

Buck makes a sound in the back of his throat, a question. He looks at Bobby through drooping eyelids, exhaustion weighing then down and pulling the rest of his features slack. Bobby shushes him with a hand through his curls, pausing to brush a finger over the strawberry pink of his birthmark. His skin is warm now, the chill from the bathroom chased away by the warming blanket wrapped around Buck. Eyelashes fluttering, Buck turns his face into Bobby's touch almost like it's second nature for him to seek out more of it.

"Shh, it's okay— I'm not going anywhere." Bobby rearranges the tubing of the IV, making sure it's not pulling at the tape keeping it secure in the crook of Buck's arm. He glances up at the half empty bag— poor kid had been dehydrated on top of everything else.

Tiredly, Buck nods, his head barely moving against the pillow as his eyes slide shut. He jerks, eyes snapping back open as he mumbles something unintelligible. Just as quickly as they had opened, Buck's eyes began losing the fight against gravity and his exhaustion again. Bobby brushed a hand through his curls again, unable to help himself.

"You can rest, kid. You're okay— I'm not going anywhere. I promise I'll be here when you wake up."

Buck stares at him through slits of hazy blue for a moment longer, before relaxing against the pillows with a great gusting sigh, eyes slipping shut and long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Bobby thinks Buck finally falling asleep has more to do with his body forcing him unconscious than anything else. Regardless, Bobby is relieved that he's resting now.

A corner of the blanket has come loose. With a sigh, Bobby automatically reaches out to carefully tuck the fabric more securely around Buck. The action is familiar, painfully so. A lump lodges itself in his throat as he smooths out wrinkles in the blanket, memories of tucking in bodies much smaller than Buck's fill his chest with a familiar ache.

Bobby blinks away the stinging haze from his eyes. He wonders who has memories of tucking in a much smaller Buck— he doubts it's the Buckley parents. It makes his heart hurt for the man in front of him, for the child he used to be. He wishes he could have been there— wishes he could have had the chance to hold little hands before they were toughened by years of hard work.

It's a familiar pit of longing, one that Bobby has always been afraid of looking at head on. Bobby suspects that it's something he will never be rid of, and over time he's found that he doesn't want to be.

For what it's worth, Bobby is grateful he gets the chance to hold Buck now.

Buck swims back to consciousness slowly, brain full of fog. First, he notices the bone deep ache permeating his body, then he becomes aware of the throb of his pulse in his knuckles. He shifts, body slow to respond— but then the feeling of starched sheets drag over his skin and the rhythmic beeping of monitors fill his ears. Sleep leaves him all at once as his heart lurches into his throat, sending him bolt upright.

There's a pulse ox on his finger, white bandages wrapped around his hands. His gaze skitters over the rest of his body, hands patting over his hospital gown covered chest— there's an IV in his arm and— nothing else. There are no leads glued to his chest, the rigid plastic of a ventilator tube isn't shoved down his throat and––

Bobby is sitting next to his bed.

Buck stares, frozen in place. Bobby's head is bowed, almost as if he's in prayer. As if sensing Buck's eyes on him, Bobby's head jerks upright. He looks exhausted, deep bags under his eyes, but his face goes soft when he meets Buck's eyes.

"Hey, kid— how're you feeling?" Bobby's voice is rough with sleep and he pauses to clear his throat.

A prickling sting spreads behind Buck's eyes, moisture gathering in the corners as his chin wobbles. He tries to answer, but all that comes out of his mouth is a small and croaked, "B-Bobby."

Bobby's eyes widen and then he's moving, gathering Buck into his arms at the same time Buck reaches over the bedrail for him. "Oh, sweetheart," Bobby murmurs into his hair, broad hand coming up to rub along the notches of Buck's spine.

"It's okay— I'm here, you're okay." Bobby cradles the back of his head. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got you, kid."

It smells warm and familiar in the crook of Bobby's neck, soap and sweat and the faint smell of smoke that never quite fades. Buck buries his face deeper, clinging to Bobby like he can fuse the two of them together. He doesn't have to ask for Bobby to hold him tighter, warm palms sliding up his spine before spanning across his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

Buck cries. He feels like a little kid, he feels five, seven, ten years old, waking up from a nightmare that leaves the world feeling too big and too dark and all he wants is to be comforted.

Buck feels held.