Archive of Our Own

The first thing Buck registers is his head screaming at him. 

It's the kind of pain that feels like a knife dragging itself through his brain, tearing at his nerve fibres and flaying open the ends, leaving them frayed and raw. 

He has the visceral urge to bring his hands up to where the pain is concentrated, press his fingers into his scalp, maybe he can reach inside his brain, stitch his nerves back together. Anything to stop the relentless tidal wave of pounding. 

He tries, but the messages don't quite make the connection between impulse, brain, communication, and move because all he manages is to scrape one arm up halfway up where it's pressed up against concrete? Like some pathetic half attempt at a snowman. 

A groan, low and rumbling, snakes its way out from his chest; with it, pain radiates up and down his body. It leaves him dizzy and breathless. 

He takes one, two more, shallow and shaky breaths in. He needs to orient himself, at least try, maybe then he can figure out how to make the pain better. 

Slowly, he cracks his eyes open, the light that floods past his lids is immediately assaulting, and he slams them back shut. Tries to steady himself through the nausea. It's better with his eyes closed, at least a little. 

He stays like that for a while, trying to remain as still as possible. He can't really tell if he's sitting or lying down; his right side is pressed into something cold and unforgiving, feels like pavement; his left side is pressed against nothing. 

His head hurts. 

His head hurts so bad he's worried it's going to explode, that his brain will spatter around him, blood and fluid, bone, and all. He tries to move his arms to cradle himself, anything to get some reprieve, but he can't coordinate himself enough to do so. His right arm scrapes on the way up, and his left flails, untethered and heavy. He can't tell if he's sitting or lying down. The surface he's pressed against is cold. 

He tries to open his eyes; he needs to orient himself, but he's not sure why they are still closed.

Pain is immediate and blinding, but he blinks through it, until the spots clear from his eyes, the world is too bright, like it's been dialled up to eleven. Nausea presses at him, insistent but not urgent; he tamps it down. 

The first thing he notices is the pavement he's lying on, the second is the fire engine. 

He's on his side, correction, the fire engine is on its side, and Buck, along with it, is caught in some kind of unfortunate collateral. 

He's not sure why the fire engine is on its side; there's metal around him twisted and bent beyond recognition. The window beside him is missing, its glass shattered, glinting in the low light. 

Buck is on his side; he can't move.

A glimpse of a memory tries to worm its way to the surface. He can't make sense of the fragmented signals; they come up in flashes of trapped, heat, pain, Bobby, danger.

Confusion pulses through him in time with his aching head, unable to categorize the flashes as a now memory, or a not now memory. It all slips away like his brain is a sieve, rushes out before he has the time to make sense of anything. 

He frantically tries to get an arm underneath him to push himself up, but he's shaky and weak and stuck and he can't move and there's a firetruck and it's turned on its side and Bobby might be out there in danger–

He tries to take a deep breath, but it trips somewhere in his chest, stumbles before he can get it all the way in and leaves a sharp ache in its wake. 

For a while, everything fades. Buck is consumed by pain, pulled into its endless tide. 

Noise slamming into him brings him back to shore. It's an assault to all his senses; he swears he can feel it right down to his fingertips and toes. Like his ears hit a reset switch after being offline. Maybe they did. 

There are sirens, metal screeches violently around him, and there are too many voices speaking too loudly and fast to make out any words. 

Buck opens his eyes, squints past the pain; he's on his side, in a firetruck on its side. 

There's a nauseating sensation of familiarity in these realizations. 

His head pounds, and he has half a mind to close his eyes again for some reprieve. Still, before he gets a chance, there's a set of hands cradling his face, coming up underneath his jaw and behind his ears, gentle but commanding. 

Buck tries to adjust his gaze towards them, it's slow going, and the world tips on its axis, like he's zero gravity on a carousel from hell, but when he finally manages to focus, he's met with–

"Eddie," His name falls clumsily from his mouth, teeth feeling too big for the space they encompass, knocking against each other uncoordinated. His tongue feels like cotton. 

"Hey, Buck," Eddie says, but it sounds jagged and fragile, like one wrong move and he will shatter along with the glass that's glinting in low light across the pavement. His eyes are red-rimmed and teary, but the corner of his mouth is ticked downwards, set in determined concentration, like it is when they are responding to a bad call.

That's good, Buck rationalizes; Eddie is here, and he will figure out whatever is going on. Maybe he can help alleviate the pounding in Buck's head and the hitching in his chest. He lets his body relax as much as it will allow; his eyelids feel thick as molasses now, protesting every blink to keep them open. Pain pulses through him, like it's being circulated through his veins and arteries, leaking through his capillaries and bleeding into his tissues. 

There's an insistent tapping on Buck's face, and Buck's eyes drift open back up towards-

"Eddie," he says, maybe slurring through his name. It doesn't feel right, as if the words are buffering somewhere between his brain and mouth. 

"Eyes on me," Eddie says, except it splits somewhere down the middle. 

He has a determined look on his face, the one he wears when he's trying to make sense of a bad call, mouth set and ticked down at the corner. Buck knows that look as surely as he knows how to breathe, the same way his heart knows how to beat. Eddie is gravity, the pull at the center of Buck's world, and even now, when Buck can't find his footing, he can't help but be drawn toward him. 

Behind Eddie's eyes, Buck sees fear. 

Buck's breath hitches in his chest a couple more times, be it from pain, panic, or something else entirely, he can't tell. Everything feels off-kilter, as if the world has rotated a few too many times and left Buck one step behind; his brain can't keep up. 

Eddie is kneeling in front of him, but he's sideways, or maybe Buck is sideways. Behind him is the interior of a firetruck their firetruck. But it's wrong; the metal has bent and broken. Buck is lying on the pavement, trying to move, to push himself up. 

Eddie shushes him, "Buck," it sounds like he's said his name a few times, and it demands his attention. The world spins and spins and spins as Buck's eyes find Eddie's. It's as nauseating as it is relieving. 

Eddie’s here

"Hm?" All Buck manages to get out in return is that his throat is dry. 

"I need you to stay very still for me, okay?" 

"Mm," Buck hums in affirmation and hopes it will suffice. He can stay still for Eddie; he will do anything for Eddie. 

"Can you tell me your name?" Eddie asks, his hands are warm where they are pressed against his jaw and neck. 

”Eddie,” he whines in response. He's really not in a talking mood; his head is foggy, there's a distant whine of sirens in the background that is unreasonably loud, tearing through his skull. 

Eddie huffs out a breath like it's punched from his lungs. 

"That's my name, bud, try again."

Buck wishes he trusted his eyes enough to roll them without the fear that they'd fall right out of his skull and skitter across the ground. Eddie is looking at him, expectant, like he's waiting for Buck to say something. Is he waiting for Buck to say something? They were having a conversation, at least he's pretty sure they were having a conversation. Like ninety percent sure. Probably. 

Except Buck can't really remember what their conversation was about, and this isn't a very nice place to have a conversation anyway. He's sideways, Eddie is sideways, they are in a firetruck, but that is sideways too. 

"Hey!" Eddie shouts, pain lances across Buck's head, and he focuses his gaze back on Eddie.

"What's your name?" Eddie asks, and Buck thinks that's a bit of a weird question, seeing as they've known each other for… Well, it's been a long time now. But Eddie says it frantically, like he's grasping desperately at a ledge, not quite able to find purchase. 

"Buck," he grounds out, trying his best to walk Eddie back. 

"Okay," Eddie heaves out a sigh, looks up for a few seconds, blinking rapidly. "Good, that's really good, Buck. Can you tell me where you are right now?"

Where he is. Buck can do that; he tries to turn his head to get a better view of his surroundings, but something stops him. Hands. Eddie’s hands.

"Just use your eyes, Buck, I need you to stay still for me, remember?" Eddie tells him. 

Buck doesn't know if he remembers; he can't really recall much of what they have talked about. He doesn't know when Eddie arrived or where he is.

That's right, he's supposed to be telling Eddie where he is. 

He's pressed into the pavement - the road- his brain supplies. It's cold and unforgiving along his shoulder and down his side. The firetruck surrounds him. It doesn't look right; everything is sideways. He doesn't know why he's here, but that's more words than he can manage right now, so he settles on, 

"Road."

Eddie nods in acknowledgment, but he doesn't look satisfied with his answer. Buck feels the urge to apologize. He doesn't want to disappoint Eddie, tears spring to his eyes suddenly and without permission.

"Okay, Buck, that's okay." Eddie gently says, and it works like a balm against Buck's frayed nerves. "Can you tell me how you got onto the road?"

Buck's stomach bottoms out; if he has disappointed Eddie with his last answer, he can barely bring himself to think about what will happen after this one, because this time, Buck doesn't know. 

A few tears slip down Buck's face, sliding down his cheeks, and getting caught on his nose before falling onto the pavement. "Don't know," he chokes out around a sob. Everything hurts so much. "Sorry," He tacks on for good measure. 

"It's okay, Buck," Eddie says, but now he's crying too, silent tears creating tracks down his face. "You don't have to know, okay? I've got you; we're going to help you out. Do you know what month it is?" Buck groans in protest. "Shh," Eddie soothes, "I know, I know, last question."

He tries, he really does, but the more he thinks, the more his head aches in protest, the dizzier he gets, and the nausea is back tenfold. Then he's swallowing convulsively around a "No."

Buck wants to give him a warning as much as he doesn't want to throw up on Eddie. Still, he is one step behind even his own body. His stomach is worming its way past his esophagus before he has time to process it's going to happen. Eddie is quickly shifting out of Buck's way as much as he can, but he stays firm on his face and neck, even as his hands, sleeves, and boots are soiled. 

The heaving eventually ceases around the same time a different pair of hands cradles his head to replace Eddie's.

"Just Hen," Eddie supplies, pulling a different pair of gloves from his pocket and discarding his old ones on the ground. "She's here to help out."
Buck hums a weak affirmation, his energy spent, unable to even breathe through the aftermath, his breath caught in shallow inhales. 

"He's A and O by one, tracking sluggishly, with shallow and rapid resps. Not retaining any information for more than a minute or two at a time. We need to move him right after I finish the trauma assessment. I'm worried about neuro and blood loss." Eddie is turned away from Buck now, towards someone at his side. It must be whoever is holding his head. 

Buck can't make out a response, too far and complex to parse out the words. Eddie nods at whoever he's talking to. Hen, he thinks and that feels correct. 

Eddie is crouching in front of him again. Right in his line of sight. Big brown eyes are swimming in front of them, like pools of honey or fresh browned butter. A stray hair is caught in front of his forehead. There's worry spread wide across his features, but even like this, he still looks pretty. 

So pretty.

Buck should tell Eddie that he's pretty; he's not sure why he's never done that before. 

"--Gonna have to touch you, Buck, okay?" Oh, Eddie has been talking to him. Buck isn't sure for how long. 

"Mhm," Buck hums, suddenly desperate to have Eddie's hands on him. There's something familiar about this song and dance, the questions, the process, like Buck should be able to tell what step is coming next, but he can't quite get his feet underneath him. 

There are two sets of fingers, one tucked flush against his neck and the next nestled against his wrist. Buck's skin burns all the way down from the contact. For a second, he swears he can't feel pain; his universe narrows down to two focal points of contact between them. Buck goes cold when the contact is withdrawn. 

Things get a little blurry after that, Eddie moving too fast for Buck's brain to keep up, like he's moving through molasses. 

There's a bright light suddenly and intrusively in his eyes, and Buck tries to squirm away from the assault. 

"It's okay, Buck, almost done. Just stay as still as you can for us, yeah?" A voice that isn't Eddie's but one that feels just as familiar says low beside his ear. 

"Pupils sluggish at four," he hears Eddie mutter. Just as fast as the light came, it's gone. Buck squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, sharp and bright, and tries to reboot.

Hands press down, practiced and calculated, as they run through his hair, down his cheekbones. When they meet his temple, the world goes white for a second, like a cattle prod to his skull. When Buck finds his way back into his skin, choked sobs and moans are making their way out from his chest. Everything tips sideways; maybe he's already sideways. There's a queasiness squeezing his stomach tight. Buck really hopes he doesn't throw up. 

"I'm sorry, Buck, I know, I know, I'm sorry." Buck cracks an eye open to see Eddie, skirting his hands gently down his body. 

Eddie’s here.

”Eddie,” Buck whines out. He tries to gather himself. Everything hurts, his head especially. He's lying down. It's cold. There's a firetruck around him. Eddie's here. These findings seem important, like clues to a puzzle trapped behind a plexiglass wall, just out of reach. "What–" Bucks pants.

"You're okay, Buck," Eddie says as his hands move down to his neck, pulling his collar away from his skin. His voice falters on a sharp intake of breath. "We were on our way to a call, and a semi jackknifed into the engine. Hen and I were following in the ambulance. You hit your head pretty good, but we got you now, okay?" He says it like he's trying to convince himself just as much as Buck. 

Buck hums back his acknowledgement, but his thoughts falter once more when Eddie's hands squeeze his sides, and his whole body is enveloped in one single pulse of pain, beating in time with his fluttering heart. 

"Crepitus at the ribs, no flail segments." Eddie rattles off, to where Buck isn't sure. 

There's a lighter pressure on his chest next; it moves across him from top to bottom. Stops somewhere in the middle for a while before it retreats. 

"Muffled heart tones and JVD. Hen, I think we are looking at Beck's here. How far is extrication?" Eddie says as he continues feeling down on Buck's body. 

Hen is behind him; she's holding his head. She must be. Buck thinks he can hear her say something on the radio. "They are working on getting to us," She says, her voice wavering. 

Once Eddie reaches his feet and hands, he asks Buck to wiggle his feet and fingers, and has him push and squeeze his hands. Buck grunts in effort but complies. 

"Good Buck, you're doing great. We're gonna get you out of here real soon, okay? The 136 is here; they're working on getting a backboard down to us. Just hold on a little longer."

"'Kay," Buck slurs, his eyes are heavy; he's starting to feel very tired. He lets himself drift, just a few minutes, he tells himself, then he'll be okay. 

A sharp squeeze on his shoulder jolts him back, and Buck grunts his displeasure. 

"Eyes open, Buck." 

Buck squints forward and Oh, Eddie’s here.

"Eddie," he mumbles, and he wonders if it's the first time he's said it. Everything feels a little light and floaty, and he's not too sure where he is or how he got here. His head is hurting, his chest is hurting, and he's scared, he realizes. He's terrified. 

In a moment that he's not entirely sure is rational, Buck reaches his left hand towards Eddie, it's uncoordinated and heavy, tethered to nothing, and for a second, he isn't sure that he's moved at all. 

Eddie's hand meets him halfway, and he laces their fingers together, squeezes once, and mumbles, "I've got you." 

And this is not– This isn't a way that friends usually hold hands. Belatedly, Buck realizes that friends probably don't usually hold hands at all. But this is Eddie, the pole that turns Buck's compass to north, keeping him steady and grounded. Who knows what he needs before he even voices his thoughts.

Eddie knows Buck just as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. He's the tide that tethers him back to earth. Buck squeezes back, letting Eddie ground him. Letting the contact slip past his skin, working its way into his tissues, willing it to offset some of the pain and confusion. 

"How are you holding up?" Eddie asks him, and a wild part of Buck's brain wants to say Good if you never let me go again. Good if you find a way to staple our bodies together. If you find a way to slide into my skin and exist behind my rib cage. I'll be good if we can exist in this moment forever, with you holding me like it's keeping me alive.

What comes out of his mouth is "Thirsty," and as soon as it's past his lips, he realizes how true it is. Like all his other senses have been shut off, past the haze of pain, the confusion, Eddie's touch is an animalistic thirst. One that he's not sure any amount of water could quench. 

He's shaking and lightheaded, and it's an all-consuming sensation. How long has he been working? When was the last time he had a drink of water? Does Eddie have some? Where is he?

"Please," he begs, hoping Eddie understands the words he cannot get out. He needs water or he might die. He might literally die. 

"Shit," Eddie curses, in the quiet way he does when he doesn't want Christopher to notice, and he rubs a thumb across the back of Buck's hand. 

Oh. 

They're holding hands. 

That's nice. 

Eddie looks past him wildly, "What's the ETA on extrication? He's decompensating."

"Next minute or so, they are bringing the ambulance around now." That's Hen, she must be here too. That's nice as well. 

A hand works its way into Buck's hair, combs through it gently, and a thumb skirts across his forehead. It might be the most comforting touch Buck has ever felt. 

Eddie's face comes close to his, so close he can feel his breath dust against his nose, so close he could tilt his head forward and bump their foreheads together. 

"We've gotta get ready to move you, okay, Buck? I'm going to undo your seatbelt. Hen's got you, and I'm right here, we just need you to stay still, okay?"

Buck can stay still for Eddie. He will do anything for Eddie. 

Pressure around his chest and waist dissipates suddenly, and Eddie disappears from his view. Still, his hand never leaves where their fingers are interlocked. 

Buck catches a glimpse of his surroundings. It's a firetruck, he's on his side, the firetruck is on his side, Eddie's hand is firm in his. 

Something bubbles to the surface of Bucke's mind. He can't tell if they are memories or emotions. They come up in flashes of trapped, heat, pain, Eddie, Bobby, danger.

"Okay, ready to start moving on your count, Hen." Someone says, and Buck is rolling, being pulled away from the scene. 

"No!" Buck shouts, like it's being torn from his chest, something instinctual and feral gnashing its teeth within him.  

The movement stops, and Eddie is there. "What, Buck?"

The world washes around him like a hurricane. "My leg," he yells, as it tears its way through his chest. 

"My leg, my leg." He thinks he might be sobbing, and is almost definitely panicking. 

A hand is in his hair; the movement resumes. It's violent and jarring. The tears won't stop. A thumb brushes against his forehead, and there's a gentle voice in his ear. 

Eddie's voice is gentle in his ear. 

"Your leg is okay, Buck. You were in an accident. Hen and I were following behind in the ambulance. You took a nasty hit to the head, but your leg is just fine."

And that's –that's good, Buck thinks. Except a different thought, white-hot and visceral, sounds alarm bells in his brain. 

He squeezes Eddie's hand hard, trying to convey his urgency. "Bobby," he says. And he's on something hard now, and he's being pulled up and away, but they can't take him away yet, not when Bobby is out there and in danger, and Buck can't help but feel the dread pool deeper in his stomach. 

He tries to thrash, but then there are hands on him, keeping him still. He can't see Eddie anymore, but the weight in his hand remains constant and heavy, his fingers locked together. 

But they can't – he needs to get to – "Bobby!" He yells, and it sounds terrified and raw. He tries kicking and flailing his arms. Anything to escape. 

"--Need you to listen to me, Buck." Eddie's voice is just as broken and tear-streaked, and when his face floats in front of Buck, there's a look stuck somewhere between desperation and devastation. 

"There you are, hey," Eddie adjusts his gaze so they are eye to eye. "Focus on you right now, okay? That's all you have to do. Just keep still for us, we'll take care of the rest."

Buck's nerves are still on fire, but he trusts Eddie; he trusts Eddie with his whole life, and he can't stand the wrecked look on his face. "Promise?" He asks, just to make sure. 

"I promise, Buck," Eddie says, and it sounds like a vow. 

Their hands are still interlocked together, and it feels like a confession. 

"Okay," Buck says, and it feels like love.  

He loses himself a bit after that. He's transferred from a hard surface to a softer one; the hands cradling his head are replaced with something sturdy coming up by his ears. Something runs over his forehead, under his chin. 

He's staring up at the sky; the world swirls together along with the stars that are starting to glint through the Los Angeles streetlights. Eddie and Hen are at his side. There are two sets of fingers, one tucked flush against his neck, the other nestled against his wrist. Something wraps around his arm. 

"Pressure's low," Hen says, her face hovering to his side. "Tachycardic and Tachypneic with shallow resps, definitely Beck's. We're likely looking at a tamponade with a severe concussion at the very least, possible TBI with ICP at the worst. He's decompensating fast." 

Buck could try to make sense of that, but the ground under him abruptly starts to move, and it's all he can do to try to grit through the dizziness and nausea that swirls around him. He squeezes his eyes shut as the world continues to spin, spin, spin. 

The lighting around him shifts, and even with his eyes closed, it feels bright and violent. Buck is really not feeling well. 

New sounds surround him; there's a wooshing by his ears and a roar like an engine starting up somewhere above his head. His shirt is on him, then it's not. Several things are placed on his chest, wrists, and ankles. There's a pinch on both his hands that he tries his best not to flinch away from. A blanket is laid on top of him, and someone tucks it in at the sides. 

Something is placed in his nose next; it's stiff and uncomfortable, causing tears to well up in his eyes. Then, what feels like a mask is placed on top of that and wraps around the back of his head. It feels suffocating, the pressure too much with too many things happening at once. Tears are running down his face uncontrollably, and he tries to bat at whatever is covering his face, but his hand is preoccupied.

The first thing he sees when he squints his eyes open is the roof of an ambulance; the second is Eddie's face. He thinks he can hear the wail of sirens, but it's starting to feel like everything is underwater. There are other faces here too, ones he can't quite recognize; they are flitting around him, messing with different tubes and wires. 

There's a tap on his cheekbone, a thumb that rubs across his forehead and down the arch of his nose. Buck scrunches his face and turns to Eddie.

Eddie

"What-," Buck says, and he has a sickening feeling that Eddie has already answered this question for him. Maybe multiple times.

"Shh," Eddie says, "Don't worry, I'm right here. Just stay awake for me, okay? Can you tell me what your name is?"

And that feels like a very tall order right now for Buck because the world around him is fading fast. He tries to answer, but all he can manage is a grunt that shudders all the way out.

Eddie immediately stiffens his hold, "Hey! Open your eyes, Buck."

Open his…? He hadn't even realized they were closed.

“No, no, no, no. Buck, c'mon, you're doing so well. Please, stay with me. Stay right here with me."

Buck hates this, he hates the way Eddie sounds, he hates that he's the reason Eddie sounds like that. He tries, he really does, he fights against the universe trying to pull him under. Claws against its cavernous maw. 

In the end, it pulls him under anyway. 

—

Contrary to popular belief, hospital monitors don't wail or beep in a constant rhythm. Buck has woken up in enough hospitals to know.

So it's not the sounds that cue him to his waking environment but the distinct, sterile, antiseptic smell that settles deep in his sinuses.

Warm blankets envelop him from his chest down his legs, and there's something settled in his hands and pressed to his sides.

It takes a monumental effort to blink his eyes open, past the drowsy weight his eyelids carry that only exceptionally strong painkillers can facilitate.

When he's managed to blink a few times, letting the world come into focus around him, the first thing he feels is admiration as he takes in Eddie's sleeping form. Despite the bags under his eyes and the stress lines that crinkle at his cheeks, he looks impossibly sleep-worn and soft, leaning over his chair and squished into Buck's bed. One of his hands is interlaced with Buck's, and soft sighs escape his lips with every exhale. 

The second, more unfortunate thing that Buck feels is his dry and irritated throat as coughs escape him and bring Eddie back into the waking world.

Eddie's face crinkles as he blinks a few times. Buck can see the gears turning in his brain as he processes his current location. Their eyes meet, and he can see the second the pieces click into place. Whatever sleep-soft bubble that once existed in the quiet of his hospital room quickly shatters. 

Eddie sits up abruptly, extricates himself from Buck's bedside. Buck blinks, and there's a straw in front of him. He gratefully takes it in his mouth and pulls back water faster than he ever has in his life. 

Too quickly, the cup is snatched away from him, and Buck whines at the loss. 

Eddie laughs under his breath. "Take it easy, can't have you throwing up on me again, Buckley." 

Buck blanches at that, he feels heat rise to the tips of his ears because he, " What"

Eddie must see the embarrassment and confusion rise on his face. He smiles lopsidedly as he puts the cup down. It doesn't quite make it to his eyes, "Relax, it's okay. Not your fault."

It is almost enough to satiate Buck, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he doesn't actually know why he's in the hospital or how he got there. 

Buck leans back into his pillows, a synthetic drowsiness settling over him, heavy and demanding. There's a prodding in his chest and pressure in his head that he's sure would be excruciating if not for the aid of whatever drugs they've got him on. 

God, he hates when they put him on drugs. It makes his brain feel all bendy and cottony, with thoughts morphing and fading before they have a chance to fully form. He forces himself past it, pushes his body to stay awake for two distinct causes. 

The first being he really does need to know what put him in the hospital this time, what his prognosis is, the recovery, and if anyone else was involved. Normal, everyday, regular things that someone needs to know post presumed near-death experience. 

The second, he tries not to examine too hard, being that Eddie's here, that Eddie has been here. Sitting by his hospital bed for long enough to fall asleep, dressed in his civvies looking devastatingly beautiful. Eddie is awake, and Buck is awake; they are both alive and breathing. Buck wants to spend the rest of his life alive and breathing, next to Eddie. 

He finds Eddie's eyes, or maybe Eddie finds his, or maybe, like most things in their lives, they find each other. 

For a wild moment, Buck isn't sure what he's going to say; the pain meds are just strong enough to suppress his impulses so that he cannot trust his traitorous mouth or cottony brain. 

Thankfully, Eddie makes the decision for him. "There was an accident," he starts, settling back into his chair, his hands smoothing over Buck's bedsheets compulsively. He finds loose threads and picks them over with his fingers. His face is torn down the middle, somewhere between anxious and exhausted. Buck wishes that Mr. Clean could make some kind of magic eraser for emotions; he wishes he could absorb the heaviness from Eddie's face with one calculated swipe and –focus Buckley. 

Buck nods see, he can do everyday and regular things while heavily medicated.

Eddie clears his throat and continues. "We were on our way to a call when a semi jackknifed and hit the engine. The lateral impact on the side where you were seated missed the cab, thank God, but it hit the body and rolled a few times. Hen and I were following behind in the ambulance, saw the whole thing."

Buck drags air sharply through his teeth. As far as things go, that's bad. "Everyone else?" He asks, dread settling quickly and deeply in his gut. He can't afford any more carnage or loss. 

"They're okay," Eddie reassures, and Buck can breathe again. "Ravi has a concussion and broke his wrist. Cap has some pretty nasty whiplash and some good bruising and scrapes, but he'll be just fine."

"And me?" Buck asks. 

Eddie swallows like he'd rather not get into it, but continues all the same. "It was a bit of a complex extrication. The cab was pretty deformed, so we had some trouble getting to you. The engine was flipped on its side, so figuring out an assessment was a bit more complicated as well. When I got there, you were already pretty out of it and starting to decompensate."

Trapped, Heat, Pain, Eddie, Bobby, Danger.

It comes to him in stilted memories, like a dream that dissipates like smoke through fingers upon waking up. 

"Eddie," he says, and he hates the way his voice thickens. "I thought that I was–"

"Yeah," Eddie says, and it's shaky too.

"I thought Bobby was alive, didn't I?" And he hates having to ask.

Eddie nods, lets out a soft "Mhm."

Buck can't stop the tidal wave of emotion that crashes over him. He blames it on the drugs. 

Because look, he's been good about keeping it together since Bobby died, okay? He's kept it in, put his best foot forward. He is trying to be the person Bobby wanted him to be, that Bobby taught him to be. He's mentoring Harry, cooking for the team, and taking the job seriously, trying to take care of his team both on and off the job. 

He hasn't allowed himself to fall apart because he doesn't need to fall apart. There's no time to fall apart. 

If he allows himself to fall apart, it's suddenly–

Real

The tears burst up from his eyes before he can tamp them down. One sob, then two, a third, and then it's a slippery slope down because he's properly crying –outright bawling– for the first time since Bobby died. 

Grief strikes him with the blunt, unforgiving force of a body hurled against a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour. It's almost comical in its cruelty because he was wounded, failing, moments from death. Still, he wishes he could claw his way backward in time, begging for just one more chance so that he could believe wholeheartedly that Bobby was alive.

Arms wrap around him, warm and secure, and a weight settles beside him on the bed. Eddie murmurs a never-ending stream of consolations as he tucks Buck's head into his chest, rests his chin on top of his curls. 

Eventually, the tears cease. More from exhaustion, rather than closure, but it quiets nonetheless. 

"Sorry," Buck murmurs as he sniffles through an absurd amount of snot. He crinkles his nose against the damp spot he's left on Eddie's shirt. 

"None of that," Eddie says, and he reaches over to grab a box of tissues from his bedside table. Buck scrubs his face unceremoniously. They stay like that for a few moments, Buck's eyes growing heavier with every passing exhale.

"I should let you get some sleep," Eddie says, pulling back and away from Buck. It feels like the equivalent of threatening to pull his life support. Buck's hands grasp his T-shirt quickly. A confused sound is ripped from Eddie's throat.

"Stay," Buck whispers, tiny and desperate. "Please."

He feels Eddie go stiff under his touch for a second, and he's worried that he's going to refuse. Still, he relaxes into Buck's hold, swings his feet onto the bed, and readjusts Buck against his chest. 

"Okay," He says, impossibly soft, "Yeah, I'll stay."

–

Buck is lying in bed Eddie's bed. 

He was discharged from the hospital a few days ago into Eddie's care. Maddie had put up a valiant fight for him, made a pretty good case for it too, but in the end lost in the case of a toddler and newborn in the house and a husband who just got a promotion. 

If there were any other reasons, like the knowing look she gave both of them as they loaded Buck into Eddie's car, they haven't unpacked it yet. 

Eddie bumps the door open with his hip and sets a tray down with lunch and meds ready for him. Buck's heart swells at the notion. 

"Eat with me?" Buck asks, and Eddie nods as he settles beside him in bed. Buck pulls up a documentary and puts it on low on the tablet in between them. 

A while passes in silence, not uncomfortable exactly. Still, Buck can tell it's a bit loaded, as if there's something Eddie has been working himself up to say. 

He lets whatever is between them swell, lets the monotonous drone of the narrator swim through the air. He trusts Eddie to tell him in his own time. 

"I started going back to church."

And that's– not what Buck was expecting, "Oh-kay?" He says, waiting for Eddie to expand. 

"Shannon and I got married in a church, it was stuffy, small and the kind of claustrophobic that made my skin itch. The priest read our vows; we said all the right prayers, stood at the altar before God, and proclaimed our covenant. And through all that, I never felt him."

Buck frowns, shuts off the tablet screen.

"I didn't think about God much after Shannon. I had no reason to. Ever since I was a kid, it has always felt wrong and broken. Our marriage ending, her dying solidified it for me, either he wasn't real or he made me messed up enough that he never cared to pay me a visit."

Buck makes a pained hum from his throat; he holds back his thoughts, giving space for him to speak. 

"I didn't feel him when Bobby died either," His eyes go glassy with unshed tears, "I have played that night in my head a million times over. It wasn't extraordinary; I had no premonitions, no visions, no dreams. I wasn't even there. I was asleep, and then he was gone."

Buck's heart squeezes, his eyes filling with tears as well. Involuntarily, his hand moves closer. Hovers just out of reach, Buck doesn't know if he can touch or if he should. 

"And then I tried, yeah? I tried going to church, I tried to pray. I tried to connect with God, and I felt nothing still, and my abuela died. Same thing, I was asleep one moment and the next? Gone."

Eddie's nose scrunches in the way it does when he's trying not to let his emotions get away from him.

"And there's been this tension between us, maybe before I moved to El Paso, certainly after Bobby died, and I can't speak it or name it because you haven't invited me in and if I bring it up, that makes this all real. So I let it settle, I let myself get bitter and distant, and then I would go home at the end of the day and wonder how we felt closer when I lived three states away than fifteen minutes."

Eddie turns to face him, Brown eyes sparkling in the lamplight. 

"And then the firetruck flipped, and it felt like my life went with it. And it feels like God has it out for me because it didn't matter that I was trying to be better, that I was praying, going to church. In the end, it didn't even matter because I was right there and I almost lost you anyway."

The last word breaks on the way out, and Eddie with it. He dissolves into heaving sobs, his whole body shaking. 

Buck moves on instinct, sliding as close to Eddie as his stiff body will allow and enveloping him in his arms. 

“Hey, hey,” He soothes. "But I'm here, Eddie, I'm okay. You got me out; you were there. Not God. You." 

Eddie shudders in his arms; he's not really sure how much he's taking in right now. "I really think he hates me, Buck. I'm broken, he made me broken."

Buck rubs his arms as far up and down Eddie's back as his range of motion will allow for. "Eddie, you are not broken for not being able to feel God, okay? Faith is different for everyone."

"No!" Eddie says vehemently, shaking his head and pulling back from Buck's arms. He gives Buck a tear-stained, incredulous look like he's missing the point entirely. 

"I'm not broken because I can't feel him, I can't feel him because he made me broken."

"Eddie, what could possibly be broken about you?"

The tears increase insurmountably, and Eddie sobs, falling apart in front of Buck. "I'm gay!" he practically yells. "And I'm in love with you."

The world rushes forward to meet Buck, the universe coming to greet him like it's been waiting for him to arrive at his doorstep. Pieces that Buck didn't even know he was missing slot into place. 

He grabs Eddie by the arms and makes sure their eyes meet. "I'm in love with you, too." He says, and he knows it's the single most sincere phrase he's ever uttered. 

He finds Eddie's lips, or maybe Eddie finds his, or maybe, like most things in their lives, they find each other. It's messy and harsh, it strains all of Buck's injuries in the best way, and he would gladly live in this moment forever. 

Eventually, Eddie pulls back, and Buck tries to follow him, but Eddie puts one hand on his chest, gently holding him in place. "You're supposed to be on bed rest, Buckley." He says through a laugh that's soft at the edges. 

Buck whines, trying to tug at Eddie's shirt. "Last time I checked, this is a bed, and I am resting. It's really your fault coming in here looking like that professing your undying love for me."

Eddie pulls a face like he's not impressed, but doesn't miss the way the tips of his ears and cheeks go red. "Don't get too ahead of yourself there. It's time to eat anyway, and you're past your next dose of meds."

Buck grumbles but slides the tray across his lap anyway and starts to eat. 

"I'm sorry," Buck says against the silence that's lapsed between them. "For not inviting you in, I didn't want to put anything else on your plate, and I think for me talking about it -about Bobby, made it all real. I wasn't ready to feel that yet. Most days I'm still not."

Eddie rests a hand against his leg, hesitant at first, then claiming. "I forgive you. I mean, I get it, I felt like if you were okay, I also had to be okay. I guess I didn't want to put anything else on your plate either."

Buck frowns at that as he takes a spoonful of soup, "We can share that weight, Eddie." He says, laying his hand over Eddie's, where it rests on his leg. 

Eddie's hand squeezes once, whispers, "I'm worried my weight will poison you."

"Then I'll find the antidote, make it if I have to, take it every day even if it has something really gross in it like hookworms."

Eddie huffs a laugh out of his nose at that.

"I'm serious, Eddie, I'd do anything for you, I'll do anything for you, if it means that I can help share the load. If it means I get to be closer to you. You're not broken, okay? You're the furthest thing I have ever seen to be broken, and the closest I have ever felt to home. Any God that makes you feel otherwise is no God of mine."

Eddie sniffles again, blinks a few tears out of his eyes and nods, like he doesn't quite believe Buck. That's okay, they've got time, and Buck will gladly remind Eddie as many times as it takes, for the rest of their lives if he has to. 

Once Buck is done eating and the weight of his painkillers has settled in his bones, he and Eddie lie down together, intertwined with each other, the bedside lamps turned off and a documentary playing softly. Buck is cuddled into Eddie's chest. He's losing his grip on the world quickly. 

"Eddie," he mumbles before sleep takes him. 

"Mm?" Eddie hums back.

"One day I'm going to figure out how to Mr. Clean your brain."

Eddie barks out a surprised laugh at that. " Sorry?" He says. 

"Magic erase it, a-all the bad things, I'll wipe them away. You'll never have to feel bad again."

Buck can feel the rumble of Eddie's chest beneath his ear, warm and soft. "Thank you, Buck," he chuckles. "That's very kind of you."

"S'rry," Buck slurs out. "Brain is cotton-y."

He feels a dusting of kisses pressed into the crown of his head, and Eddie's hand runs up and down his back. "Get some sleep, Buck, I'll be right here when you wake up."

So he lets himself drift for the first time in his life. When Buck hears those words, he knows them to be unequivocally true.