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It's been thirty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds since Eddie was shot.
Buck clearly remembers Eddie’s crumpling to the ground gracelessly. What happened after is already blurring around the edges, the details already blending together.
The firefighters from the 133 told him what happened-- how Buck was tackled to the ground, how he crawled under the fire engine and how he singlehandedly dragged Eddie back to the truck. How he saved Eddie’s life.
Buck only remembers the blood pooling like a crimson halo around Eddie, his eyes rolling back, his blood spraying over him.
There was screaming. He remembers that clearly enough.
Hospital staff walks past him. There are other people sitting in the waiting room, far from Buck and casting him either wary glances or concerned ones. Most of the firefighters who were with him on the ride to the hospital already left. Only a few remained, including the captain. No doubt he wants to talk to Bobby.
Buck doesn’t know what to do with himself other than obsessively checking the clock hanging on the wall across from him. Someone left an LAFD sweatshirt on the seat next to him after telling him he should probably go clean himself up and change.
Because he’s covered in blood. Eddie’s blood. It’s still smeared on his face, his shirt, his pants, his hands. It’s dry and flaking and probably not putting anyone around him at ease, but Buck doesn’t care.
He can’t bring himself to care.
He can’t bring himself to feel anything.
One of the remaining firefighters brings him a styrofoam cup filled with watery tea, muttering something about relaxing. Buck can’t really hear them over his own thoughts.
It’s like a toxic black cloud hanging over him and choking him.
At least holding the cup means Buck can’t wring his hands restlessly. He tears away at the styrofoam and wonders if it’s better that he can’t feel anything.
He doesn’t think he wants to break down in a hospital in front of complete strangers. Buck doesn’t feel anything.
He saw his best friend get shot and was now waiting for anyone to tell him if he was even still alive and Buck doesn’t feel anything.
He hates himself that much more for it. His best friend got shot in front of him and he doesn't even have the fucking decency to cry or scream or demand news. He doesn’t know if Eddie’s even alive, if Christopher is going to be left an orphan, and all Buck can do is sit here feel a gaping nothingness. He's seen concerned families screaming at poor nurses, begging and crying for any kind of news about their loved ones.
But you're not family.
He doesn’t know how he’ll survive if Eddie does die. He doesn’t think he can. He’s known Eddie for three years and he already can’t imagine ever not having him or Chris in his life.
Buck doesn't feel anything. It's wrong.
Eddie flatlined in that ambulance. He was heaving broken breaths, struggling to breathe and clawing weakly at Buck's arms while Buck begged him to hold on. Doctors had come in rushing and screaming, wheeling Eddie right into surgery.
And Buck is completely devoid of emotion.
He's trying to force the tears to come. Forcing the sadness, the grief, the rage, anything.
Anything a normal fucking person should feel.
“Buck.”
Buck drags his eyes up to meet Bobby. He looks terrible, his features pulled tight in worry, his posture stiff.
“Hi Bobby,” he croaks out.
Bobby sits heavily next to Buck and gently pries the styrofoam cup from his hands and sets it on the low table next to the stack of magazines.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Buck shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Bobby looks him over, the worry shifting to concern.
“You should get yourself cleaned up,” he says gently. “It--”
“How’s Eddie?” Buck asks.
Bobby sighs and locks his fingers together. “He’s still in surgery. Captain Mehta didn’t know more than that. Neither do the nurses.”
Buck keeps his gaze locked on the linoleum floor. He's wringing his hands almost painfully. The skin is stained red from the blood, some of it crusted under Buck’s fingernails. Most of the dried flecks are on the floor at his feet.
“Hen and Chimney are on their way,” Bobby continues. “We can call Maddie--”
“No,” Buck snaps. “No. Please. I don’t want her worrying.”
“Alright. You should still talk to someone about this. You can’t keep this kind of thing--”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Buck snaps, but there’s no real vitriol in his tone.
He doesn’t know how to articulate to Bobby just what is wrong with him. So he doesn’t. Buck isn’t fine. He can’t pretend he is. But in a situation like this, the only thing he should be feeling is worry for Eddie and rage for the sniper. He feels like the world’s been sucked of color and emotion.
Hen and Chimney arrive twenty minutes later and five minutes apart.
Eddie is still in surgery and Buck and Bobby haven’t spoken a word to each other. Bobby stood up only once to get himself a cup of lukewarm coffee that he barely touched.
He stands up and sets the cup down next to Buck’s when Hen and Chimney walk into the hospital. He explains what happens in a hushed voice. Hen goes to speak with a nurse, and Chimney sits near Buck.
“How are you feeling?” he asks Buck.
Buck only shrugs.
“How’s Maddie?” Buck asks quietly. “How’s--” the words get stuck in his throat-- “how’s Jee?”
“They’re doing alright,” Chimney says, but he’s frowning.
Buck’s about to ask, but Hen interrupts him.
“Hi Buck,” she says, ruffling his hair.
She’s looking at him with that same look of concern she gives traumatized patients she’s helping. Buck doesn’t want it. He doesn’t need it.
He doesn't have the energy to reply to her. He hopes she won't ask him how he's feeling.
"Let’s get you cleaned up," Hen says instead, voice gentle, laying a hand on Buck's shoulder.
Buck shakes his head and wraps his arms around his middle.
"No,” he replies firmly. “If Eddie wakes up and I’m-- if- I-- I need to be here. If we get news.”
He doesn't look at Hen, but he feels her sympathy from where he's sitting, even while staring hard into the scuffed floor.
"We're here, Buck," she says quietly, her voice soft as if Buck would break if it was any louder. "Let us in."
Bobby's pacing the length of the waiting room, face stormy. Chimney’s elbows are braced on his knees and his head in his hands.
Buck's throat closes up. "I don't feel anything," he whispers, not trusting his voice to not break if he spoke any louder.
"Buck--”
"I don't feel anything , Hen."
He meets her eyes and sees the soft kindness in them. Kindness he doesn't deserve. "My best friend got shot right in front of me and I don't feel anything. What the hell is wrong with me?"
He buries his face in his hands. The tears still won't come even though they burn in the back of his throat and in the corners of his eyes.
“Buck.” Hen grabs his hands firmly and looks at him, gaze fierce. “You’re in shock. There’s nothing wrong with you. This is a normal response to witnessing a traumatic event. You’re going to be okay, Buckaroo.”
Hot tears clog Buck’s throat and he doesn’t resist Hen when she guides him to his feet. She picks up the discarded LAFD sweatshirt and leads him out of the waiting room. Buck’s heart skips a beat and Hen’s hand clutches his tighter, but he doesn’t pull away despite his entire body screaming at him to run back to the waiting area to await any kind of news about Eddie’s condition.
She pulls Buck inside the women’s bathroom and guides him to the sink furthest from the door.
“Sit,” she says firmly.
Buck hoists himself up on the counter and watches Hen quietly. She rolls up the sleeves of her knitted sweater and starts ripping paper towels from the dispenser. She passes them under the water and grabs Buck’s arm.
“I’m not injured,” Buck says.
“You’re not,” Hen agrees. “But you’re not fine. And we’re here for you.”
Buck stays quiet as Hen gently wipes the dry blood from his skin. It takes a bit of scrubbing since it’s already dry, and it leaves his skin feeling slightly raw and still looking pinkish, though Hen assures him it’s because of how hard she scrubbed.
For his face, she has him get off the counter and is much more gentle. The paper towels are rough against his skin, but her hands are gentle and the water is now running warm so he doesn’t really mind. While she’s cleaning his face a few tears slip free and he sniffles pitifully, but Hen doesn’t comment on it.
When she’s done she orders him to take off his shirt and hands him the sweatshirt. She balls up his bloody shirt and throws it in the trash. Buck isn’t sad to see it go.
The soft moment is shattered the moment they step out of the bathroom. Whatever comfort Hen managed to provide for Buck, it’s gone now.
They return to the waiting area. Chimney is nowhere to be seen and Bobby’s gone from pacing to sitting in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs and staring at the cup of coffee in his hands.
“Hey, cap,” Hen says.
Bobby looks up at them and smiles at Buck. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Chim’s talking to Maddie,” Bobby tells them. “He’s giving her an update on… well, pretty much everything we know.”
Which is frustratingly too little. Buck’s getting restless and claustrophobic, waiting here and doing nothing.
“I need to tell Chris,” he says.
Bobby immediately snaps to attention. “Buck, let us handle it. It doesn’t have to be you.”
“Yes, it does, actually,” Buck replies hotly. “Because I was there. With Eddie. I have to be the one to tell Chris--”
‘That his father might not survive’ hangs unspoken but heavy over the trio.
Bobby doesn’t look happy, but he sighs in resignation. “I’ll text you the moment we get any news about Eddie,” he says.
He quickly sets his coffee down and wraps Buck in a quick hug. Buck doesn’t hug him back. When Bobby releases him, Buck makes his way towards the exit, his mind spinning and his heart heavy.