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It's bad.
He knows it's bad.
He's trapped, lying flat on his back (sort of) in the dark, with several tons of cement and cinder block balanced precariously above him.
So, yeah, he knows.
First things first, can he move? He goes through the checklist in his head, thinking loudly over the ringing in his ears.
Ringing? Beeping? Both.
It takes a moment to recognise the insistent beep of a PASS. There's a firefighter down. There's—
It's him.
Huh.
Okay. Checklist.
Toes? Wiggling.
Fingers? Finging. Heh.
There's not enough space to sit up, but Buck can flex his arms and legs and confirm that at the very least, he hasn't done any serious damage to his neck or back.
Which, considering he landed half across his air pack, is nothing short of a miracle.
Moving still hurts, but not in a way that suggests he's dying. That's good news at least.
His ankle hurts the worst— a building crushing pain that crests and breaks and builds again is time with his heartbeat. Broken probably, but Buck can't find his flashlight to look.
With extremities present and accounted for, he moves inward.
Concussion. Likely.
He's still got his face mask on, but his helmet is missing, lost in the rubble.
There's a high pitched ringing in his ears, and Buck can't help but think it's better than the crushing silence of his tomb. He'll take the ringing over that any day.
He's been skirting around the fact that he hasn't been able to take a full breath since he woke up. A broken rib or two is the most likely scenario here and Buck runs his hands across his chest to—
Huh.
"—kley, do you copy?"
"Cap?"
He remembers belatedly that he needs to hold down the button on the radio.
"Cap."
"Buck?" And even crackling with static, the relief in that one word is palpable. "Buck, we're coming to you. It's going to take some time to clear the rubble but we're coming."
Time. Buck's not sure he's got a lot of that.
"Buck, you still with me?"
"Not going anywhere." He almost laughs. "Can't." And it bubbles in his chest, a little hysterical, because honestly, what are the chances?
"Are you injured?" It comes after a beat of silence, like Bobby isn't ready for an answer.
"Yeah." It slips out of Buck like a sigh.
The last few weeks, Jee has been obsessed with Frozen. Buck's watched it so. many. times, because unlike Chim and Maddie, he can't say 'no' to his niece.
And as he cranes his neck to look down at his chest, the only thought that pops into his head is, oh look at that... I've been impaled.
"Buck?"
The rod shoots up from the around the bottom of his ribs and into the cement above, so no, he won't be going anywhere any time soon.
"Buck!"
"Yeah?"
"Where are you injured?"
"Uh— I—" he shifts, the shoulder he's half lying on cramping and— mistake. Mistake. Abort. "Fuck."
He lies there, panting through the pain, before toggling his radio back on.
"There's a— piece of rebar—" It's an effort to just get those words out. "It's gone right through—" the laughter bubbles back through him. "I've been skewered, I'm a—" it shouldn't be funny, but, "a shishka-buck."
"Jesus, kid."
The laugh becomes a cough, and every drag of air is agony around the metal pole in his belly.
And just like that it's no longer funny.
Buck's alone, buried beneath the ruins of the building they'd been sent to save. With a skewer through his— what— he pictures one of the diagrams from Hen's textbook.
He doesn't think it's hit his stomach, he'd be choking on blood if that were the case.
Lung? Spleen? Neither sound like a healthy option.
The radio crackles to life beside him.
"Hey Buckaroo, Bobby says you've got yourself into a tricky situation."
Hen sounds so calm and Buck chokes on a sob, because if anyone can fix this, it's Hen.
"Just a little," he replies, voice shaking. "Gotta keep you all— keep you on your toes."
"Did I ask, Buckley?" Her tone is teasing and the normalcy of it is grounding. "Chimney and Eddie are on their way down to you, but you need to tell us what to expect." Buck clings to her words like a lifeline, nodding even though he knows she can't see it. " Are you bleeding?"
Buck has no idea. He's terrified of putting his hands anywhere near that metal rod again.
"I need you to check." Hen's tone leaves no room for argument.
Reaching for his facemask, Buck pushes it up over his head. He grabs a fingertip of his glove between his teeth and pulls it off with a quick yank.
There's a hole in his jacket. Buck can feel exactly where skin gives way to cold hard metal, and when he pulls his hand away it's wet.
"'m bleeding."
"Okay, you know the drill. It's going to suck, but you gotta put pressure on it. Try not to shift the rebar."
There's exactly zero chance of that happening given how deeply it's embedded above him, but Buck does as he's told, wrapping his hand around it and pressing down.
"You putting pressure on it?
Buck can only grunt in response. It hurts, a bright stardust of pain that makes white spots dance in his vision.
Passing out would be a mercy, but he can't let that happen. He's scared that if he stops struggling against the exhaustion that weighs heavy against his bones, he might never wake up again.
"Hen—" the name catches in his throat. "I need you— tell Eddie—"
"You can tell me yourself, Buck," Eddie cuts in. "We're right beside you."
There's a scraping of rock on rock then Buck is blinking against the bright light shining down into his dark little cave.
"Hey."
Eddie crawls in through the gap to crouch beside Buck.
"I can't leave you alone for a second," he says, reaching to cover Buck's hand around the rebar. "I'm never going to hear the end of this from Chris."
There's another shuffle and Chim is on his other side.
"Just couldn't let me have all the glory, could you Buck?" Chim's opening up his bag, rifling through for supplies. "Though they say imitation is the greatest form of flattery. I'm touched Buck, truly touched." He hands a roll of gauze and shears to Eddie. "Start stabilising that, we don't want it to shift while we cut him out."
Eddie starts cutting away his jacket, and Buck stares up at him, watching, mesmerised as he works.
Buck loves Eddie's face. It's a nice face. Very expressive. There's a crease between his eyebrows. A deep V that Eddie gets when he's focusing really hard on something. He wants to reach up and smooth it out with his fingers.
"Buck, don't—"
Snatches of conversation drift around him.
There's a pinch on the back of his hand, and someone presses a mask to his face.
"—holding his weight, once we cut through the rebar—
He feels it when they make the cut. It feels like someone's shifting around his insides, stirring them all about. It punches a choked groan from his lungs.
"I know, we're almost done." Eddie talks the whole time. His words wash over Buck, settling over him like a calming blanket.
And Buck has words too, dancing on the tip of his tongue. Words he's wanted to say for so long, words he needs to say.
He's dying. There might not be another chance.
"You're not dying."
He is. He can feel it, his life draining out through the hole in his stomach.
"You're not going to die."
"Eddie— I need to tell you—"
"You can tell me later. I'm a little busy right now."
Fine. Later. But right now, Buck needs to sleep.
His ears are still ringing. Beeping?
It's not the same this time. It's slower, less insistent, but it's just as distracting.
Buck scrunches his eyes closed, trying to find that calm empty space he'd been floating in before the beeping had started. The longer he lies there, the more he notices the scratch of the blanket against his skin, the itch of tape on his hands and arms and face.
He shifts, trying to dislodge the thing on his face and when that doesn't work, he picks at it with his fingers.
"Leave it."
Warm callused fingers squeeze his, so he goes for his face with his other hand.
"They will tie you down if you go for it again."
Buck hums his discomfort, because now both hands are trapped and his face still itches.
"Are you awake in there?"
His hands are free and there's a finger tracing down the side of his face.
It's a struggle to crack just one eye open.
"Hey." Eddie's face swims into focus above him. "There you are."
And Buck was supposed to tell him something.
No.
He needs to tell him something.
"Hey." His throat feels like it's been filled with broken glass. "Love you."
A soft chuckle and, "I know," follows him back to sleep.
Light burning into the back of his eyelids pulls Buck back to the surface. That and the thirst clawing at his throat.
Head lolling on the pillow, Buck looks around the room, catching sight of the figure by the bed.
"Hey sleepyhead." Maddie leans forward in her chair. "How are you feeling, any pain?"
Shaking his head saps half his energy. "Thirsty."
Maddie stands, leaning against the bed railing. "I'll go ask if you're allowed anything."
She leaves, stopping to gently shake the person sleeping upright on a chair in the corner.
Eddie glances up sharply, his gaze meeting Buck's and the lines of concern smooth out.
"Hey," Buck says around a throat that feels like he's been gargling gravel.
"Hey." Eddie takes Maddie's seat by the bed. "How’re you feeling?"
Buck takes stock.
His chest and abdomen are sore, but it's a dulled ache like he's experiencing it from a distance.
"I'm okay. Is— everyone else okay?"
"No one else was injured," Eddie says, leaning forward. "Do you remember anything?"
"I remember being at the station," Buck says slowly, trying to piece it all together. "This morning?"
"The collapse was two days ago."
Buck blinks in surprise.
"You were deeper inside the building when the evacuation was called. You were almost out when it came down."
He doesn't remember any of it.
"The team will be glad to hear you're awake," Eddie continues. "Chim's been bragging about it. Something about how you look up to him so much, you had to go an copy him. He's mad he didn't come up with the name though."
Buck stares at him, brow furrowing in confusion.
"Shishka-buck." Eddie laughs, and it's more relief than humour.
"I didn't," Buck croaks.
"You did."
"He's never going to let me live this down."
"You will," Eddie says, reaching to squeeze Buck's hand. "Live, that is. You— Buck— you scared me, scared all of us, and I—"
He scrubs his free hand across his face and Buck wonders if he's slept in his own bed at any point in the last two days.
Buck would put good money on the answer being no.
Which reminds him.
"Eddie, I—" the words stick in his throat. "I've been wanting to talk to you. I just— needed to say—"
"You love me."
"I—"
What?
"You told me," Eddie confesses, and he's grinning like he's trying not to laugh. "The other day, in the ambulance. And then this morning, the first time you woke up, and the second time you woke up."
"How many times?"
"You've been in and out most of the day," Eddie tells him. "But we're probably getting into double digits."
Huh.
Well… okay. It's less than ideal, but at least it's out in the open now.
"And you keep falling asleep before I can say it back."
"You love me?" Buck hates the way his voice grates over the words.
"Always, Buck." Eddie glances away before returning to meet Buck's gaze. "There was a very real moment I thought I was going to lose you, and the only thought running through my head was that I hadn't told you." His tone turns teasing. "So, thanks for not dying."
"Anytime," Buck tells him, giving Eddie's hand a squeeze of his own. He can feel sleep creeping back in, dragging back under. "You might have to tell me again though, if I forget."
"I love you."
"I haven't forgotten yet," Buck says, sending Eddie a sleepy smile.
"I'll tell you anyway."
And Buck thinks he could get used to that.