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Buck doesn’t leave Eddie's side. From the moment he drags Eddie to relative safety under the firetruck, Buck is practically glued to him. He tries to help, he tries to do something, anything , because he needs Eddie to stay alive. But his hands are shaking too much to be of any use.
Buck stays with Eddie in the ambulance, clutching his hand in a death grip - maybe if he holds tight enough Eddie will stay with them. Eddie codes on the way to the hospital, and Buck only lets go long enough for them to get his heart beating again.
The ride to the hospital either takes an eternity, or a few seconds - he can’t tell. Everything is happening all at once, it’s moving too fast around him but Buck feels like he’s swimming in molasses. He watches the heart monitor, the space between beats stretching out; he freezes every time, unable to breathe until Eddie’s heart beats again.
They get to the hospital and wheel Eddie out of the ambulance and the paramedics are rattling off information to the waiting nurses and Buck is still holding on to Eddie because he can’t let go and people are talking around him but he can’t understand them and-
A firm hand plants itself in the middle of Buck's chest, stopping him in his tracks. Eddie’s hand slips out of his grip, and Buck watches mutely as Eddie is wheeled through a set of doors that swing shut behind him.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, gaze fixed on where Eddie disappeared. Something touches his arm and he jumps, eyes snapping over to see Captain Mehta looking at him.
“You alright Buckley?” Mehta asks.
Buck wants to laugh because-
Physically? He’s fine. Emotionally?
It feels like someone carved his heart out of his chest and is dangling a knife over it, suspended by the thinnest thread. One wrong move and it would snap, the knife plunging deep into Buck’s heart.
“Buck,” Mehta’s voice echoes in his ears, and it takes him a long second to refocus on the man in front of him. Buck opens his mouth to say- something, anything. But all he can do is take a shaky breath.
Mehta frowns at him. “Go get cleaned up, I’ll inform your crew.”
Buck blinks, then looks down at himself, his chest stuttering when he realizes he’s covered in blood.
Eddie’s blood.
A wave of nausea rolls through him that Buck forcibly swallows back. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the dried blood encrusted on him - hands, arms, face. Every drop is burning into his skin, and it makes him want to be sick.
Mehta says something else but the words don’t register. He lets himself be pointed to the nearest bathroom and stumbles in, hands reaching forward to grip the edge of the sink and keep himself upright.
The blood on his hands stands out starkly against the white sink. He barely has time to locate the nearest trash can before he doubles over it, throwing up once, twice, three times.
It leaves him shaky, and he forces himself to take a few deep breaths before he staggers back to the sink, slamming the faucet on with a little too much force. He sticks his hands under the spray and watches as the water runs red.
He scrubs furiously but the blood won’t go away; it sticks to him, taunting him with all the evidence of how he couldn’t keep Eddie safe. The blood reaches all the way up to his elbows, and every time he washes some off there’s more, there’s always more.
Buck catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and freezes. Blood is splattered across his face and neck and all the way down his shirt. There’s a large red smear on his forehead, and even some encrusted in his hair.
The sight leaves him dizzy and he blindly reaches for the trash can again. The only thing left in his stomach is bile, but it comes up anyway. He barely has time to breathe as he retches.
His entire body is shaking now - he isn’t sure if it’s from exertion, or adrenaline, or fear. His legs give out from under him and he slowly slides down the wall, landing on the ground with a dull thud; his knees pulled up to his chest and arms resting on top.
Distantly, Buck recognizes the fact that the floor of a hospital bathroom is not a good place to sit, but he can’t bring himself to care. Everything is numb, and all Buck can do is stare blankly ahead at the wall.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Buck? Are you in here?” It’s Chimney. When did Chimney get here? Mehta said he’d inform the 118 but- has it really been that long?
“Unless you tell me not to, I’m coming in.” Buck can’t bring himself to respond one way or another. A few seconds later the door gently creaks open.
“Hey Buckaroo,” Chimney’s voice is soft, and he moves to crouch beside him. Buck's eyes are still fixed on a point on the opposite wall, he can’t find the will to even blink.
“I grabbed you a clean shirt,” Chimney shifts, moving into Buck’s line of sight. It takes a long moment for Buck to refocus on Chim, then down at the shirt in his grip. It’s a gray LAFD t-shirt, one of the ones Buck keeps in his locker. He wants to reach out and grab it, but his hands are still stained with blood and he can’t make himself move.
Chimney mutters something and stands up, stepping over Buck to get to the sink. He barely registers the sound of the faucet turning on, can’t bring himself to do much more than idly wonder what Chimney is up to.
Chim crouches next to him again and says something, but the words don’t register. A hand reaches out and grabs Buck’s chin, turning it so he’s looking at Chimney who is holding up a damp paper towel with a worried frown on his face.
“I’m gonna clean you up a bit, ok?” It takes a second but Buck manages the barest nod. Chimney moves in, carefully but firmly wiping off Buck’s face.
It takes a long time - at least Buck thinks it does. Time has been moving in weird fits and bursts ever since Eddie got shot. Some moments stretch out forever, while others seem to whiz by so fast he wonders how anyone around him absorbs anything.
Chimney has to stand up a few times to retrieve fresh paper towels, but Buck can’t bring himself to react in any way. He’s like a puppet whose strings have all been cut, unable to move or think for himself. Completely useless.
Like how he was useless when Eddie got shot. He didn’t do anything . Just stood there and watched Eddie collapse. It keeps replaying in Buck’s mind - the way Eddie’s eyes rolled back into his head, the giant pool of blood that stained the pavement, the flatline of the monitor in the ambulance as Eddie’s heart stopped beating.
It takes Buck a second to realize the wetness on his face isn’t only from the paper towels. Chimney doesn’t comment, wiping away the tears as easily as he wipes away the blood.
He isn’t sure how much time passes. He’s too numb to keep track of that. But eventually Chimney throws away the last paper towel and pulls Buck to his feet.
“Here, wash your hands again and then you can put on a clean shirt.” Buck does as instructed. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, but he can still see the blood coating thm. He scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs, but the blood won’t go away. He doesn’t realize how much his hands are shaking until he accidentally splashes water on himself.
Chimney reaches forward to turn off the water, and gently presses a few dry paper towels into Buck’s hands. The blood isn’t gone yet, but Buck doesn’t have it in himself to argue.
Buck stands still as Chimney unbuttons his shirt, his eyes staring sightlessly ahead. He’s pliant as Chimney helps him out of his dirty shirt and into a clean one.
Seeing the bloodied shirt in Chimney’s hands pierces something deep in Buck’s chest. His breath catches in his throat as his vision tunnels focuses on the shirt. That’s… a lot of blood.
His eyes well up with tears, blurring the scene in front of him. Before, Buck’s mind was moving at a snail's pace, now it’s racing. What if Eddie doesn’t make it? What if he dies on the operating table? Or what if he makes it out of surgery only to never wake up? What is he supposed to tell Christopher?
Oh god, Christopher . Ever since the first second Buck registered that Eddie was hurt, Chris had been a constant thought in the back of his head. Yet another reason for why Eddie had to be ok. But he hadn’t thought about it yet and fuck , what was he supposed to tell Christopher?
His chest is heaving, suddenly unable to take a proper breath. The world is spinning now and the lights are too bright and his sobs are too loud and everything is too much-
A pair of arms wrap around Buck, pulling him down, and Buck can’t find the will to fight it. He tilts his head forward to rest on Chimney’s shoulders - blocking out the rest of the world. The sobs tear their way out of Buck’s throat, ragged and uneven.
Chimney is rubbing circles on his back, murmuring words of comfort that Buck only half understands.
“It’s ok,” Chim’s voice is gentle. “It’s ok, you’re ok.” Another sob rips its way out of Buck’s chest, loud and insistent and ugly . Because- that’s the problem, isn’t it? Buck is fine , doesn’t have a single scratch on him. Meanwhile Eddie is lying on some surgery table and he might not make it out.
It should’ve been him. He should’ve been the one that was shot, not Eddie. Eddie has Chris, and- it should’ve been him .
“No,” Chimneys’ voice is loud in Buck's ear, and he pulls back to stare at Buck. “It shouldn’t be you either,” Buck can’t bring himself to meet Chim’s gaze. “ Buck ,” his voice is insistent, and Buck blinks through his tears to focus on Chimney. “It shouldn’t have been either of you. Just because it was Eddie-” Chimney cuts himself off and stares at Buck for a moment longer. “You’re important too,” his voice is soft again, and Buck’s breath hitches.
He nods miserably because he knows that, he does. But he also knows that if given the chance he would switch places with Eddie in a heartbeat.