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Buck wakes up in the trunk of a car.
At least— he thinks—
He doesn't make a habit of climbing into trunks—
It's dark and—
Buck wakes up in the trunk of a car.
At least he thinks it's the trunk of a car. It's dark, and he doesn't have a lot of experience of being trapped in a trunk to draw on.
It's—
Buck wakes.
Head pounding, he shifts, his feet knocking into sides of the trunk . His legs are too long to fit comfortably, and he’s lying in an awkward position, knees pulled up to his chest—
God, he feels like he's been hit by a car.
His chest hurts. There's a line of fire burning down his left side from shoulder to knee.
Buck’s stomach rolls with the motion of the car. Nausea churns in his stomach threatening to spill over with each corner and he braces his hands and feet against the sides to keep from being flung about.
They swerve around another corner and Buck slides, his feet slipping against the rubber mat. Pain flares, incandescent and all consuming, then there's nothing.
Buck wakes up in the trunk of a car.
Everything hurts and he's got no idea where he is, or how long he's been trapped. His last clear memory is of saying goodbye to Bobby and leaving work. After that everything is fragmented.
A sickening crack.
The burn of gravel on his skin.
Darkness.
He's still in his uniform.
Buck struggles through the thick fog in his head to remember.
He'd put off changing at the station in favour of getting home a little sooner for a nap before meeting up with Eddie.
Eddie.
Eddie's waiting for him.
They had plans to hang out and Buck was going to pick Chris up from school, take him out for a few hours when Eddie went to see Frank. Buck’s been spending most of his free time with them, preferring their place to his. His apartment these days feels empty. It’s a reminder of all the stupid mistakes he’s made. The Diaz house with Eddie and Chris feels like home.
Buck shifts, pushing through the exhaustion that clings, threatening to pull him back under and reaches for his pockets.
Empty.
No keys, no wallet, no phone.
Buck can already imagine how it might go. When he doesn’t show up, Eddie will call his phone (which he doesn't have). When no one answers, Eddie will call Bobby to confirm Buck hasn’t picked up any overtime (it wouldn’t be the first time). Bobby will call Athena and then hopefully someone will check the cameras in his apartment parking lot.
It's going to take hours.
Buck’s not sure he can wait that long.
Each breath burns in his lungs, sharp like the twist of a knife in his side. Each bump and pothole is a bright flare of agony.
He's lucky it's not worse. He's been to enough car versus pedestrian accident scenes to know he got off lightly.
It's hard to tell in the dark, but he doesn't think he's bleeding badly. He's taken some skin off his hands and arms, and his left hip and thigh aches in a way that suggests bruised rather than broken.
Buck still has no idea why he was shoved into the trunk and he doesn’t intend to stick around and find out.
Gritting his teeth, Buck rolls from his side to his back so he can feel the seal where the lid meets the car body. He knows for a fact that all cars built after 2002 are required to have an emergency trunk release, and while he doesn’t remember actually seeing the car that hit him, he’s hoping he’ll get lucky again.
The release is supposed to glow in the dark but as he searches there's nothing that's immediately obvious —
The car skids to a stop.
Metal hinges creak and a door slams.
“Get out.”
Blinking against the sudden glare, Buck recoils back and away from the gun being waved in his face.
“I said, get out of the fucking car.”
Someone grabs his arm, yanking him towards the lip of the trunk. It hurts. It hurts so bad, but his options are move or get shot so Buck raises his free hand and croaks, “Okay, okay. ”
His arms are a mess of gravel rash, but he manages to get them underneath him and climb out of the trunk.
“Move.”
Buck stumbles forward, his head spinning from the sudden change in elevation. He keeps one hand wrapped protectively around his stomach and follows the man into what appears to be an old abandoned warehouse.
“Over there.”
He gestures with his gun and Buck limps over.
“What—”
There’s another man, younger than the guy brandishing the gun, unconscious on the floor.
“Fix him.”
“I—” Buck stares down at the pale faced man, and as he studies him Buck realises he can’t be older than twenty. “He needs a hospital.”
“No hospitals.” The gun is waved in Buck’s face again. “I saw you last night. You can fix him.”
Buck’s head aches trying to recall the night before. They’d been called to a gunshot victim, a drug deal gone south. Buck had assisted Chim but—
“I’m not a paramedic,” he insists. “You need to call an ambulance.”
“No, I saw you.” He retrieves a bag from the floor. “Here, you’ve got what you need. Now fix him.” He swings the bag, tossing it over and Buck reacts on instinct, catching it against his chest.
His vision goes white as all the air punches out of his lungs and Buck stumbles onto his knees.
He drops the trauma pack, swallowing back the wave of nausea that rises in his throat.
“ Do something .”
With shaking hands, Buck reaches for the teenager's blood soaked shirt and lifts it, searching for the source.
The bullet hole is ragged, oozing with blood, and there’s not much more Buck can do other than stuff it with dressings from the trauma pack.
“Where did you get this?” Buck presses down, putting as much pressure as he can on the wound, but every time he rocks forward onto his knees, his head spins faster.
Something is wrong. The pain in his belly is sharp, robbing him of breath. Black shadows creep in around the edge of his vision and it would be so easy to just give in to it, but doing so would kill the teenager lying in front of him.
“What does it matter?” The gunman's voice washes in and out. “Just use it.”
Buck misses Eddie fiercely. He misses his partner. Eddie would know what to do, how to help
Buck puts his fingers to the pulse point in the teenager's neck but can’t feel anything over his own racing heart. He looks for the rise and fall of the kids chest, one hand on top to feel for any movement.
“Come on,” Buck mutters, his voice cracking. “Stay with me. Please stay with me.”
“What is it?” The gunman peers over Buck’s shoulder. “What happened?”
Buck searches through the trauma bag, pulling out the ambubag. He presses the mask to the kids face and squeezes, forcing air into his lungs.
“I can’t help him,” Buck chokes out, desperate for this guy to get it. “He’s going to die if he doesn’t go to the hospital. Let me call an ambulance, please. I’ll stay with him, you don’t have to be here when it arrives.”
“You don’t get it do you? He’s not going to the hosp—”
“LAPD!”
The gunman is there, and then he’s gone, bolting off through the warehouse. Several officers take off after him, chasing him through the building.
“Buck!”
He looks up at the familiar voice.
“Athena?”
The floor beneath Buck is moving, rolling, and he's tumbling, caught in the whitewash.
“Buck, baby.”
He breaks the surface, drawing in a gasping breath.
“Hey now, open your eyes.” Athena’s tone leaves no room for argument and Buck does as he’s told, blinking up at Athena. “There we go.” She turns, calling over her shoulder to someone Buck can't see.
“Buck.” Eddie swims into focus above him.
“Eddie?” He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be at home. They were going to pick up Chris. “‘s Chris okay?”
"Chris is fine. He's with my Abuela." Eddie’s hand is on the side of his face. The contact is grounding and Buck clings to keep from floating away.
“Buck, baby, you’re safe. Christopher’s safe.”
"Good," Buck mumbles, and he lets the ocean take him.
Buck wakes up in the—
"Hey.” A soft pressure, a finger, traces circles on the back of his hand. "You with us this time?"
“Eddie?” Buck shifts, his head rolling on the pillow. His whole body feels heavy and disconnected, like it doesn’t really belong to him.
"Right here."
The pressure on his hand increases and warm fingers wrap around his palm.
"What happened?”
The silence stretches on for just a beat too long, punctuated by the electronic beeping of the machine beside the bed.
“What do you remember?”
“Was gonna pick Chris from school.”
“Yeah, you got hung up on that one,” Eddie says, lips tugging up in a smile. “He’s fine by the way. He’s been staying with Bobby and Athena during the day.”
“I remember Athena,” Buck murmurs. “And you?”
“She made me stay in the car until they’d caught the guy that hit you.” Eddie’s got both hands clasped around Buck’s. “I was with Athena when she— God, the camera caught everything, Buck. He hit you with his car as you were coming around the Jeep and— you weren’t moving.”
“I’m okay.”
“But you weren’t!” Eddie stares at their joined hands. “You were bleeding internally, probably had been since the accident. Then right after we got to you, after I got you back, your blood pressure tanked and— you coded in the emergency room.”
“Eddie—”
“You know the whole time I was sitting in the waiting room, I was wondering if I missed my chance. I thought that maybe I waited too long to tell you how I felt.”
“How you—”
“I’m in love with you, Evan.” And finally Eddie looks at him. “I have been for a while, I just— I had to work some things out about myself before I could tell you.”
“I love you too.” The words tumble from his mouth in a rush. “I just—” he flushes. “I’m not one hundred percent convinced this isn’t a dream. Like maybe I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”
Eddie leans forward, his elbows braced on the edge of the bed.
"I'm not going anywhere."