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Eddie’s trained himself not to flinch at the sound of cars backfiring. Yeah, it sounds like guns, and yeah, he’s reminded of things he’d rather forget, but it’s just a car. That’s what he tells himself—it’s just a car. It’s not a gun. You are fine , so act like it.
This is L.A. Sometimes they respond to calls about shootings, or where there’s an armed assailant still running around. People get shot, but he doesn’t let himself think about it except in the most professional of senses. He has the most experience patching up bullet holes in the human body, so when they get to those scenes, Hen and Chimney will let him take a bit of a lead. And if sometimes, his hands shake after, no one says anything— Buck will slip his arm around his back, so they can lean against each other like puppies, but that’s all.
He’s pathetically grateful most of the shootings they’ve had to respond to have been of the nail or BB gun variety, and that even those are blessedly few and far between.
Eddie’s trained himself not to react. But sometimes a loud bang will shatter the air around him while he’s not expecting it, when he’s relaxed or distracted, and he can’t help the way his heart will jump into his throat.
That day, when his shift hasn’t even technically started, on a not-so-simple medical call, with Buck right there in front of him, out of uniform but a comforting presence nonetheless—he doesn’t flinch. Downtown L.A. is loud, and it’s not a gun, it’s a car, he’s fine so he’s going to act like it.
He says something to Buck, to Captain Mehta, his attention caught between the child they rescued and the mother who twists his stomach with disgust and guilt.
Then there’s the bang; he doesn’t flinch. A few seconds later, the world jerks on its axis.
The worst heat-blood-pain-hurt-burning- fucking -pain he’s ever felt— has felt since the last time this happened— it rips through his shoulder, back to front, and even once the object— the bullet, was it a bullet? Was he just fucking shot?— even once it’s gone, the pain doesn’t go away, it gets worse, he’s—
Buck is standing in front of him, covered in blood. He looks like a nightmare, something out of a horror movie, there’s drops on his face and chest and Eddie’s eyes trail down, an almost familiar gesture, and stop on his leg because— because— red is seeping through the fabric of his pants, blood blooming terrifyingly fast. There’s a hole in his pants, and underneath, Eddie can just barely make out the gore of a bullet wound.
Eddie’s head pounds with some primal need to protect and rescue and not him, not Buck —
Around them, people erupt into screams, panicked shouts to get down overtaking the sound of running feet.
He looks up and meets Buck’s eyes.
And then, like puppets with their strings cut, they fall as one to the bloody pavement.
He gets flashes, after that—
Blood seeping sticky and hot all around him.
The sound of more gunshots echoing through the air.
Buck trying to drag himself over to Eddie, clenching his teeth and tears streaming from his eyes.
(He thinks, maybe, there’s sand. In his sweat and in his tears, soaking up his blood, infecting his wounds. But maybe there’s not.)
Excruciating pain as asphalt scrapes underneath him.
The inside of a fire engine, unfamiliar faces. Someone keeps saying, “Firefighters down.”
Buck, smeared with drying flecks of blood, and his own voice asking, “Are you hurt?” and Buck saying, “Just hold on, Eds, please , just hold on.”
Bright sunlight as hands lift him up.
—then he slips under, welcoming the soothing, painless dark of unconsciousness.
Eddie isn't awake when he first hears the beeping. He can't remember what he's dreaming about even as he's still in it, but the beeping invades and distracts him. Some part of his mind whispers to ignore it, that he doesn’t want to know what it is, but another tells him he needs to wake up now .
The urgency rouses him, but it’s not like nights when he hears Christopher crying and can jump right up out of bed. He tries to, but all that happens is he twitches, pain shooting through his side, and can't help the hurt whimper that comes out of his mouth.
For a long moment, he just tries to breathe through it, the beeping fading to the background as he attempts to gain his bearings.
That's when he hears some noise, some voice he thinks? It takes far too long to understand what they're saying, what those syllables string together to make—his name.
Haze clings to him, thick and syrupy. Suddenly, he's not sure if he's still asleep or not. He can't make sense of the beeping or where he is, or why it doesn't smell like home, or why someone would be standing beside his bed saying Eddie instead of Daddy .
He can't remember where he was when he went to bed. ...Did he go to bed? Why does that thought feel like it's wrong?
Where is he?
"Eddie?"
It takes herculean effort to open his eyes, which are heavy and crusted. They aren't the only part of him that feels weighed down—his legs are like cinder blocks, his chest aching as if someone had set Buck's huge barbells on his shoulders and ribs. His head pounds in tune with his heart.
There’s a black hole where his right shoulder should be. He turns his head slightly, his field of vision so small that when he looks, all he sees is the white of bandages. He can’t make sense of what that means; his heart skips a beat at the thought of whatever’s under there, whatever it is he can’t feel at all.
" Eddie? "
"Is he waking up?"
"I think so, maybe...."
"Eddie, can you hear us?"
He mumbles something, nonsense words as his eyes slip closed again. Not because he's falling back asleep—he's reasonably sure he is awake, right now—but because it's all just so much. So bright. So heavy. Terrifying. He feels like he's going to throw up, or faint, or cry. Maybe all three, if he had any energy at all.
Someone takes his hand. The shape of their fingers isn't familiar even to his sluggish mind.
Shannon?
No. Shannon never held his hand at any bedside, it can’t be her.
He wants Buck, but he knows it’s not him either—he’s come to before with his best friend right there, his big warm hands clasping one of Eddie’s between them, a lifeline and an anchor. This isn’t him; Eddie would know. Though it exhausts him, he cracks his eyes open just enough to see who it is.
Maddie, teary eyed and drained and more devastated than he thinks he’s ever seen, is peering down at him. When their eyes meet, her fingers squeeze gently around his own. Other voices in the room pick up briefly before falling silent.
He stares up at her, part of him relaxing to know he’s not alone here, wherever he is.
Wait. Maddie?
"Whuh?" He manages to get out, his mouth hardly responding enough for any recognizable word to form, "Wh-"
Why is she here? They aren't—he doesn't think they're close. They aren't, right? He's confused, but he's pretty sure it's weird she's at his bedside. They’ve never done that before.
"Oh, thank god, you're okay," she says, and breaks down crying.