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The first time the guy comes in, it’s a slow night. The usual Thursday crowd is mingling around the karaoke, where a group of girls is performing a drunk rendition of an ABBA song. It’s not a bad karaoke night to be on shift, Buck thinks. Even after their fourth cocktail each, the girls still sound better than most of their karaoke aficionados. Buck’s busy drying some glasses, humming along to the music when the guy walks in. Buck barely manages to say “Welcome to The Little Dagger!” before the man is collapsing on the stool opposite him with a huff. With his shoulders drooping and downcast eyes the guy looks like a walking heartbreak. He has a red, angry scar in the middle of his forehead and he’s wearing a firefighter’s uniform. There’s something familiar about him, like a memory from a half-remembered dream.
“Give me a full glass of your strongest vodka. Straight. No ice.” the man says, staring into Buck’s eyes as if daring him to say anything.
Buck has been a bartender for long enough to know that sad, heartbroken patrons can be divvied up in two categories: those who want him to lend them his ear and possibly his shoulder, and those who just want to drown their sorrows in silence. This guy clearly belongs to the latter category, so he just nods and turns around, reaching for the Stolichnaya on the top shelf.
“How tall are you?”
Buck turns back around slowly, vodka in hand.
“Six foot two. Why?”
“Of course you’re six foot two. I walk into one bar to wallow in peace and the fucking bartender is six foot two. Of course.” The man laments, ignoring Buck’s question.
Buck almost takes offense, but then he notices the man’s hands lightly shaking where he’s laid them down on the bar. Maybe this guy belongs to the former category after all. Buck grabs a tumbler and pours him a generous amount of vodka, sliding it gently towards him. The man chugs one third of the glass and then he’s off again.
“This is why she left me, you know?” he says, hands tightening around the tumbler. “She wanted someone taller, more muscular, less nerdy. And I’m not making it up, she actually said those exact words. Can you believe her?”
“Uh…”
“And obviously I know that objectively she’s right, I’m five six and I tend to quote Lord of the Rings when I’m stressed, but I loved her so much. I mean, I always tried to organize fun dates, I gave her a key to my apartment, hell, I even proposed to her.” The guy pauses, taking a long sip of his drink. When he speaks again his voice is quieter, subdued. “I thought that would be good enough. That I would be good enough. I thought that if I was good enough, I would finally deserve it.”
“Deserve what?”
“Love.”
Buck feels for the guy. He might not know much about romantic relationships, but he does know what it’s like to feel like you will never be good enough to be loved. He sets down the bottle of vodka and leans forward on the bar, forearms propped on the edge, hands clasped together.
“Listen,” he starts, putting on his best bartender voice. “I don’t know you and I don’t know your situation but this much I do know: deserve and love never belong in the same sentence.” He lets the words sink in. “And hey, it sounds to me like she wasn’t right for you anyways. Lord of the Rings rocks.”
The guy just stares at him for what feels like forever.
“I’m Chimney.” he finally says, holding out a hand for Buck to shake.
“I’m Buck, pleasure to meet you… Chimney?” Buck asks, taking the proffered hand.
The man, Chimney, snorts. “It’s a long story for another time. My friends call me Chim. Besides, you’re one to talk, Buck.”
Buck can’t help but laugh.
“It’s short for Buckley, my last name. My given name reminds me too much of my parents.” He tells Chimney with a grimace, pushing himself off of the bar.
“I’ll toast to that.” Chimney says, holding up his glass.
Buck clinks it softly with the bottle of Stolichnaya.
“So, Buck,” Chim pauses, taking a sip of his vodka. “how did you become so wise at such a young age?”
Buck chuckles, ducking his head to scratch the back of his neck.
“I didn’t.” he admits, lifting his head to look Chim in the eye. “That’s just something my sister would always tell me when we were younger.”
A lump forms in Buck’s throat, like it always does when he thinks of Maddie. He sent her the last postcard around a month ago, a picture of the Santa Monica pier at sunset, but he never heard anything back, like usual. He wants to believe that she’s doing okay, that she’s not answering his postcards because she’s busy living a big and beautiful life, but deep down he knows that’s not the truth. One night, towards the end of his third week in LA, when he was running out of money faster than he’d expected and job hunting proved to be harder than his friends had promised, he’d thought about taking the Jeep and driving up to Boston to see her. He’d decided to sleep on it and the next day, on his way to get coffee, he passed The Little Dagger and saw the “seeking bartender with experience” sign posted outside. Hector, the owner, hired him on the spot, seeing potential Buck didn’t even know he had, and Boston became another rearview mirror dream.
“That’s some sister you got there.” Chim says softly, shaking Buck out of his reverie.
“Yeah. Yeah she is.” he sighs.
“So you’re a firefighter?” Buck asks, desperate for a new topic.
Thankfully, Chimney takes the subject change in stride.
“Yeah, going on fourteen years.”
Buck lets out a low whistle.
“Before I got hired here, I thought about applying to the fire academy.” he admits.
“There’s still time, kid!” Chim quips, pointing his index finger at Buck.
Buck laughs.
“Look.” Chim says, suddenly serious. “The pay isn’t great and neither are the hours, but it’s the best job in the world.”
A sharp pain courses through Buck’s chest.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He concedes.
Chimney smiles at him and Buck knows he’s missing something. He feels like there’s something he’s supposed to remember, something just beyond his grasp, something he wasn’t meant to forget. He shakes off the feeling, returning Chim’s smile.
“So, what’s the weirdest call you’ve ever answered?” he asks instead, trying to dissolve the knot in his chest.
And just like that, Chimney is off again. He tells Buck about the time him and his team had to free a woman who was being choked to death by her python and his captain had to chop the snake’s head off.
The knot in Buck’s chest tugs painfully against his ribcage.
He decides to ignore it, instead asking Chim to tell him another story.
The rest of the night goes like this: Chimney tells Buck crazy stories about his job while Buck cleans glasses and ignores the growing pain in his chest.
Chimney is mid-way through telling him about a crazy full-moon call when it happens. Buck is turned around, putting away the Stolichnaya, when he hears Chim’s voice in his head. Screaming.
Hold compressions!
“Why are you screaming? I can hear you just fine.” Buck snaps, turning back to stare at Chim.
“I wasn’t screaming.” Chim tells him, eyebrows scrunched up in a frown. “Buck, are you okay?”
The pain in Buck’s chest flares up and he feels dizzy. He braces himself on the counter, head spinning.
“I…” he tries, his voice failing him.
Checking for a pulse.
“Buck?” Chim asks, voice laced with concern.
Buck’s eyes blur and suddenly he’s falling. In the periphery of his vision he can see Chim jump the bar and catch his head just before it hits the ground.
“Someone call 911!” Buck hears him yell.
Check again!
Chim has his index and middle finger pressed to Buck’s carotid, one hand still cradling his head, but Buck is already drifting away.
“Buck, stay with me.”
Stay with me!
Buck, stay with me! Stay with me, kid! Stay with me!
-
Nothing gets Buck’s blood pumping like a Saturday night, the bar packed to the brim with people, his hands mixing drink after drink, hips swaying to the music. And to make things even better, it’s the first Saturday of pride month. While The Little Dagger is not officially a gay bar, the vast majority of both patrons and employees is queer, so June is always their busiest month. This particular night, Hector has decided to host a drag night so every queer in the Bay Area is either inside the bar or in the line that wraps around the block. For the occasion, Buck and his coworkers are all donning a white tank top and a leather harness, their faces and arms covered in glitter. They are all on shift and while it’s very fun to work all together for once, the place is so crowded none of them have had the time to take a break. So far, they’ve broken fifteen bottles, eight glasses, kicked out six different people, cleaned up two puke incidents in the bathroom and prevented three concussions. Buck counts the last one as an utter success.
“Hey Buck!”
Buck turns toward the general direction of the voice, barely recognizable over the music blaring from the speakers, and he sees Chimney waving at the end of the bar.
“Chim!” he yells. “It’s nice to see you man!”
Chimney says something back but his voice is drowned out by the music. Buck holds up a hand, gesturing for him to wait. He rings up the two girls he was serving and then, a few “behind!” after, he finally comes face to face with Chim.
“Busy night, huh?” Chim jokes.
Buck laughs.
“Understatement of the century.” he says. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a Moscow Mule. And–” Chim pauses, looking over his shoulder. “My friend is currently nowhere to be found, but she’ll have a Margarita.”
“A Moscow Mule and a Margarita, coming right up!”
Buck sets out to make the drinks while Chim updates him on all the weird calls he’s witnessed since the last time they saw each other. Buck is only half-listening, the noise drowning out most of Chimney’s words. Eventually, he loses himself in thought. Measure, pour, shake, garnish, repeat. As he lets his muscle memory take over, Buck realizes he can’t recall the last time he saw Chimney. He knows it happened, but it’s as if a curtain has been pulled in front of his eyes. The memory is there, just a little too fuzzy to make out.
“Here she is!” Chim yells.
Buck looks up just in time to see a woman sit on the stool next to Chim, a big smile on her face. He immediately feels warmer, like the sun has just walked into the bar. Something about the woman’s big glasses and her million-watt smile has Buck grinning so much it almost hurts.
“Buck, this is Hen. Hen, this is the bartender I told you about.”
“Do all your friends have weird nicknames?” Buck quips.
“Only the ones he really likes.” Hen jokes right back. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Buckaroo.”
Hey Buckaroo, how you holding up?
“Uh, I’m okay?” Buck stammers.
Behind her glasses, Hen gives him a confused look.
“I didn’t say anything.” she tells him.
Buck just stares at her.
“Are you having another episode?” Chim interjects, reaching out to grab Buck’s wrist.
“What episode?” he asks, growing more confused by the minute.
At that, Chim and Hen share a concerned look, silently communicating. Then they turn back towards Buck, Chim’s fingers still on Buck’s pulse.
Hen pierces him with a look.
“Tell your boss you’re taking your ten.” she says, with a tone that leaves no room for discussion.
Buck complies, yelling in Hector’s direction, who gives him a perfunctory nod. Hen and Chimney lead him outside the bar, never letting go of his arm. Once outside they drag him to the side, to a secluded spot where a group of smokers are leaning against a wall.
Before Buck can ask what’s going on, Hen is pulling out a tiny flashlight and shining it in his eyes. Buck jumps back a little.
“Guys, stop!” he yelps. “What’s going on?”
Hen lowers the flashlight and Chim finally lets go of his wrist.
“The last time I saw you, you passed out.” he explains. “I took care of you until the ambulance arrived and I came with you to the hospital. There they diagnosed you with heart arrhythmia.”
The curtain starts to lift from Buck’s memories.
“The reason we got worried is that you were showing the same symptoms you did the last time you collapsed.” Chim says.
“What exactly are those symptoms?” Buck asks, puzzled.
“From what Chim has told me,” Hen interjects. “it’s like you start hearing voices that are not there, followed by dizziness and heart palpitations, and eventually you pass out.”
“I hope you don’t mind that he told me about your condition.” she adds. “He hoped that as a fellow paramedic I might have some insight.”
Buck gives her a rueful smile, nodding in understanding.
If you have to go, that’s okay.
Buck clutches his head, a stabbing pain hitting him just behind his eyes.
“There it is again!” he exclaims. “I heard your voice.”
He looks up at Hen.
“My voice?” Hen’s eyebrows shoot up. “But we just met.”
For some reason that feels like a lie.
I know no one else will give you permission.
The pain behind his eyes intensifies, forcing him to a crouch.
“Buck!” Chim and Hen scream in unison.
So I will.
The pavement under Buck’s back is warm from the June sun. There’s a warm hand carding through his hair. Hen’s voice whispering to him in soft tones.
“You’re going to be okay, Buckaroo.”
That feels like a lie too.
If you have to go, go. I’ll make sure they’re all taken care of.
White dots start filling Buck’s vision. Hen’s voice grows muffled as if Buck were underwater.
Nurse!
The last thing Buck feels is Hen’s hand in his hair.
He’s coding!
-
Buck will never understand why Hector insists on opening the bar on Sunday mornings. Everyone in LA is either at brunch or at church and the only people who come into The Little Dagger are Catholic guilt kids and people still awake from the night before. Buck has had to clean vomit off the bathroom floor one too many times to still enjoy the quiet of the Sunday opening shift. The only positive aspect of the Death Shift, dubbed that by Buck and his coworkers, much to the dismay of Hector, is that it allows Buck to try his hand at new drinks. In the span of five shifts, he’s managed to perfect his entire repertoire of cocktails and to even add a few he’d never tried to make before.
By the sixth Sunday Buck has run out of drinks he can make with the ingredients he has, so he’s resorted to pacing behind the counter, cutting citrus slices, and restocking the ice drawer, impatiently staring at the door, willing it to open. He’d even take a tipsy brunch crowd over this silence.
Buck is cutting limes when the door finally opens. But it’s not businessmen in polos or women in sundresses who walk in, it’s just a man. White t-shirt, dark jeans, blue baseball cap. Taller than Buck. Probably in his early fifties. If Buck had to guess, he’d say that this guy is just looking for some hair of the dog before he collapses in bed and sleeps the day away.
The man makes his way to the bar, lowering himself down on one of the stools at the far end of the counter. Buck wipes his hands on a rag and throws it over his shoulder.
“Welcome to The Little Dagger, what can I get you?” he asks brightly as he walks over.
The guy lifts his head and suddenly Buck can’t breathe. He feels like he’s supposed to know the face staring back at him. The green but bloodshot eyes, the mouth pulled down in a sad frown, the fists so tight the man’s knuckles have turned white.
Buck has never seen this man before but he can’t help but feel like he’s forgetting something.
“Sir, are you okay?” he manages to blurt out.
The man’s chin trembles, his eyes welling up momentarily.
Before Buck can say anything else, the man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. When he looks at Buck again, his tears are gone and his eyes look dead.
“A whiskey neat if you have it, son.” he says, his voice unwavering.
“Uh… Yeah, of course.” Buck stammers. “Coming right up.”
Buck busies himself with the drink. As he’s grabbing the whiskey a shiver runs up his spine and he knows something’s wrong. He sneaks a glance at the man, who has closed his eyes again, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. Buck’s grip on the bottle tightens. He turns back, a dark, nagging feeling settling at the bottom of his stomach.
Buck.
Buck whips his head around, staring at the man, but the guy is still deep in prayer, his head bowed forward and his lips barely moving.
Please, kid.
Buck brings two fingers to his wrist, quietly counting his heartbeats. One, two, three, four. After the thirtieth count his heart is still beating steadily and he’s not having any chest or head pain, so he rules out another arrhythmic episode.
I can’t– I can’t lose–
If the voice in his head didn’t sound so sad, Buck would think that his coworkers were playing a prank on him. As it is, the only two options are that a) he’s going insane or b) he’s suddenly psychic. He’s only considering option b because the voice pleading in his head sounds a lot like the man’s.
Please, kid. Don’t.
Buck has never believed in the supernatural, probably never will, but on the off chance that what he’s hearing are the man’s actual thoughts, he makes a split-second decision.
He grabs the glass and the whiskey bottle, walks over to the man, and sets them down in front of him with a thump. The man looks up, startled.
“I can’t pour this for you.” Buck says, his voice unsteady.
The man narrows his eyes.
“I don’t understand.” he says lowly.
“I can’t pour this for you.” Buck reiterates, crossing his arms to hide the tremor in his hands. “If you want the drink, you’ll have to pour it yourself.”
The man’s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under his baseball cap. He looks down at the whiskey and back up at Buck a couple times before he sighs. Then, without a word, he gets up to leave. Buck breathes shakily.
“Wait!”
It’s only when the man turns around that Buck realizes what he’s done.
“What?” the man asks quietly, exhaustion seeping in his voice.
Buck doesn’t know how to say it, how to alleviate the weight the man is carrying, how to address the words at the tip of his tongue.
I wouldn’t bear it.
Buck looks the man in the eyes, truly looks at him, and he can’t bring himself to name the darkness looming over them.
“Nothing.” he amends. “Take care of yourself, sir.”
For a split second the corner of the man’s mouth lifts imperceptibly, before his face falls again. The man says nothing, just gives Buck a small nod and walks away.
I love you, son.
When the door closes behind him, Buck feels as if he’s lost something important.
-
The bar is unusually empty for a Friday night. Most of the students who come to The Little Dagger to unwind are busy with exams and the remaining patrons are all chatting quietly in their booths. The only noise comes from a group of bachelorettes who are celebrating their bride to be, all of them at least four drinks deep. One of them has been making eyes at Buck since they arrived, while another wrote her number on a folded napkin and left it on a tray for him to find. Buck’s flattered, as he always is when patrons are forward but respectful about their interest for him, but he’s never taken them up on their various offers and advances. Back in Peru he had never hesitated to jump in bed with every beautiful person who showed an interest in him, but since coming to LA no one has ever felt right. It’s like there’s an itch underneath his skin, a nameless yearning for someone he hasn’t met yet.
Buck is mixing the bachelorette party’s next round of cocktails, pornstar martinis with a twist, when he notices a man lingering in the doorway. The guy is around his height, his hair cropped short, hands buried in the front pockets of his dark wash jeans. He’s rooted to the spot, his eyes darting across the room. When his gaze finally meets Buck’s, the guy looks terrified. Handsome, too. Buck sends the man a reassuring smile and jerks his head towards the bar, inviting him to come sit. The man deflates, removing his hands from his pockets and letting his arms drop to his side, like an invisible weight has just been lifted off him. He makes his way to the bar slowly, as if ready to bolt at any moment.
Close up he looks even more handsome. He’s wearing a bright blue Henley that hugs his chest in all the right places, his eyes are a deep molten brown and his lips look soft even pulled in a frown as they are. Buck meets a lot of attractive people every day, it comes with the job description, but none of them have ever sent a shiver down his spine like this man does. There’s something about his gaze, now steadier, determined, which makes Buck feel as if his soul is being searched. He averts his eyes to slice four lemon peels and twist them in the martinis.
Buck drops the last lemon twist in the drinks and slides the tray across the counter for Emma to serve, before giving his full attention to the man.
“Hi, what can I get for you?” Buck greets him, putting on his cheeriest customer service voice.
“Just a beer, thanks.” the man answers.
Buck pours the beer and passes it to the man, who mumbles a quiet thank you.
“So what brings you here?” Buck asks.
The man blushes a bright red.
“A friend recommended it.” he says. “She said it would be a good place for me to spread my wings.” he adds with an eye roll, before taking a sip of his beer.
“Is that what they call coming out these days?” Buck quips.
The man chokes on his beer.
“How did you– How did you know?” he coughs.
“Well you’re not the first newly out person to walk in here looking like a deer in headlights.” Buck tells him.
The man winches.
“Ah. Got it.”
They lapse into an awkward silence.
Hi Buck!
Buck doesn’t know many kids, but he can recognize a kid’s voice.
Dad said that you can hear me.
Before his brain can catch up with his mouth, Buck clears his throat.
“You have a kid, don’t you?” he asks the man
“How the fuck do you know that?” the man retorts, defensive.
Buck holds up his hands.
“I didn’t. Not for sure, anyways. It’s just–“ he pauses, trying to find the right words to dig himself out of this hole. “You look like a dad. Sound like one too.”
The man snorts softly.
“At least someone thinks so.”
Buck sends him a puzzled look.
“Don’t get me wrong, the kid is my entire life.” the man explains. “I just don’t think anyone else believes I can be a good dad. Not even myself.”
Dad doesn’t want me to worry, you know how he is, always trying to protect me.
“A bad dad wouldn’t sit here worrying he’s doing a bad job.” Buck assures him, bending forward to wipe the counter. “Trust me. I know a thing or two about bad fathers.”
The man chuckles.
But I know it’s bad. When he was shot, he was only unconscious for a few days but you’ve been sleeping for two weeks.
Buck pauses mid-swipe.
I overheard the doctors say you might not wake up.
He thinks of a movie he saw a few years back at some dingy movie theater in nowhere Ohio, the story of a man who falls into a coma and dreams up a completely different life.
You need to wake up, Buck. You promised. You promised you wouldn’t leave.
Suddenly it all makes sense. The heart arrhythmia, the voices, Chimney, Hen, the man in the baseball hat. This isn’t real.
I have to go now, but I’ll see you soon. I know I will.
For a long moment, Buck stares blankly at the wall, his ears ringing.
Eventually the ringing subsides and he realizes the man is trying to get his attention.
Buck turns towards him, registering the look of concern on the man’s face.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?” he asks, not unkindly.
“I just wanted to thank you…” the man falters, unsure of what to call him.
“Buck.” he offers.
“Buck.”
It feels right, to hear the man say his name. Like a puzzle piece Buck never knew he was even missing.
Hey Buck.
The man’s voice fills Buck’s mind.
It’s good to see your face.
“I’m Eddie.” the man says.
And Buck knows. Of course he knows. He knows who Eddie is, would know him in any universe, real or not. Warmth fills his chest, his mouth curving up in a smile.
“Hi, Eddie.” he says softly.
Well. Not good exactly. Nothing’s been good since the accident.
Eddie smiles back but he looks uncertain, like there’s something he’s not quite grasping.
I’ve been a wreck without you.
Buck looks into Eddie’s eyes and he knows he’s the key to everything.
“Will you dance with me?” he blurts out.
I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t even do my job properly.
“What?”
“I know you don’t know me and I probably sound insane right now but will you dance with me?” Buck asks again.
I just keep replaying that night.
Eddie just looks at him, eyes wide.
“Please.” Buck says softly. “I need you to trust me.”
Over and over and over again.
“You are insane.” Eddie retorts.
The silence stretches between them.
“Okay.” he relents. “One song.”
Buck gives him a triumphant smile, dropping his rag and unhooking the tablet from the register. He fiddles with it while he walks around the counter, Eddie meeting him in the middle. Finally he finds the song he’s looking for and sets the tablet down on the counter.
It was the worst day of my life, you know.
Buck gives the tablet one last tap and a soft voice fills the bar. And so it is… just like you said it would be.
Eddie holds out his hand and when Buck takes it, he reels Buck in, guiding Buck’s other hand to his shoulder, settling his own free hand on Buck’s waist. Then they’re dancing, Eddie leading, Buck more than happy to follow.
When they wheeled you away, I felt this, this dread wash over me, like this deep awareness that I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. After they came out to tell us you were put into a coma, Cap forcibly sent me home. I can’t really remember how I got back to the station or how I drove home or how I got into the shower. I just remember standing there, frozen still under the water jet and suddenly I couldn’t do it anymore. I just burst out crying. I slid down the shower wall sobbing, my face buried in my hands. I don’t know how long I sat there, curled up with my knees to my chest, hot water streaming over my head.
Eddie’s voice grows louder in his head, almost drowning out the bachelorettes cheering for them in the background, but Buck keeps his focus on Eddie. On the way Eddie leads him into a spin and guides him around their improvised dance floor. The way he smiles every time he catches Buck staring at him. The way he starts staring back, his eyes softening at the edges.
I’ve never lost control like that before. Even during the tsunami, in that split second I thought Chris was lost, I just swallowed my fear, focused all my energy on finding him. I had a purpose. Something tangible I could do to save him. This time I’ve got nothing. I did all I could to save you and I’m terrified that it wasn’t enough.
As the song plays on, they are drawn closer together, their steps becoming more and more languid, their spins slow and tender. Even inches apart, Buck can’t take his eyes off Eddie’s. Blue drowns into brown drowns into blue.
I’m terrified that you will never wake up. That I will have to tell Chris you’re gone. That we’ll have to go on without you. I’m terrified because you are in everything I do. I picked up Chris from his friend’s house and you weren’t there to drive me. I took him to school and you weren’t there to fend off the PTA moms. I went grocery shopping and you weren’t there to tell me I was picking the wrong avocados. I’m terrified because I left my heart in that hospital waiting room and I haven’t been able to feel anything but fear ever since.
They slow down to a near-imperceptible sway, their noses brushing, mouths so close Buck can almost taste him. Eddie’s eyes dip to Buck’s lips, his hand tightening around Buck’s waist. Buck trails his hand up Eddie’s shoulder and rests it on the nape of his neck.
And I know the first rule of being a firefighter is to never cross the glass doors but I’d cross every glass door for you. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. Not even Chris. And not because I love him less, I’ve never loved anything as much as I love that kid. But because if anything happened to Chris, God forbid, I’d have you with me on the other side of the door. We’d worry together and we’d keep each other sane. We’d hold each other back, make each other better parents. But you’re lying here and I have no one to hold me back.
Buck kisses him.
You know, after Shannon I thought I knew what it was like to lose a partner. I really thought I did. But she was never half the partner you have been to me. And what I felt for her was but a speck of what I feel for you. Of what I think you feel for me too.
And kisses him.
And I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I never realized how much it must have hurt you to see me get shot. I get it now, Buck. I get it all too well. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I iced you out and I’m sorry we never talked about it. I’m sorry I never told you how I felt. I’m sorry I never told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with you since the day you saved my son from a tsunami. And you know me, I’m no good at asking for what I want. But I’m asking now.
And kisses him.
I’m asking you to wake up. I’m begging you to. Chris can’t lose another parent. And I can’t– I– Don’t make me lose you. Because I’ll survive it. I will have to. For Chris. But the life I can make without you will never be worth this one.
Buck kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and when he opens his eyes, he’s lying in a hospital bed, big brown eyes staring right back at him.
“Buck?”