Chapter Text
The sky is a clear, endless, beautiful blue. It wavers, just a little, on the edges of his vision—at the edges of awareness. Buck focuses on the blue, because he knows, he knows: something is terribly wrong beyond it. There's a wrong creeping in, despite everything. He tracks a passing seagull until his eyes roll back into his skull.
But he's not allowed to sink into oblivion. Light soaks into the darkness of his eyelids, piercing into his brain and highlighting an aching discomfort. A breeze tickles his nose, leaving behind salt and sea and sand and a profound confusion, because just where exactly is he? The rest of him is...distant—missing, maybe. He floats on the sea of dubious tranquility, aware on some level that surfacing will bring pain to the forefront.
Despite his best efforts to ignore the world at large, sound filters slowly through the cracks of his awareness. The ocean, a rasping rush of static that pulls away just as fast. A woman, screaming. Her voice is a wavering tinny, fading in and out like a badly tuned radio.
He shifts his head just enough to be able to see her through eyes cracked barely a peep. She's a vision; a halo of sun kissed blond and a lithe body in a red sundress. She seems unharmed aside from the screaming—the volume of which is steadily increasing.
He should ask her if she's alright. If she needs help. If maybe she could just...calm down, a little, because her shrill, screeching panic is sort of drilling into his brain. The resulting pain is a multiplying cascade of cause and effect, spreading through his body, awareness and pain hand in hand.
Buck squeezes his eyes shut, turning away. The surf drags him with it.
"Hey, man." The voice is decidedly male; a low and smooth baritone that seems to caress his spine and raise goosebumps on his arms.
Nice, he thinks. He opens his eyes and glances sideways. Hot, he amends. Deep brown eyes, as warm as they are kind, are accompanied by a soft smile and a killer jawline. Very hot.
"Hey." He returns the smile, watching as hot guy settles into the seat beside him. Seriously, really hot, to say the least. Military, by the close cut of hair and that easy, lethal grace. Probably straight, and definitely taken, if that slightly paler patch of skin on his ring finger says anything, which is just tragic. He turns and closes his eyes again when it seems the extent of their conversation, shutting out the sounds of steadily boarding passengers and cheerful greetings from the flight crew.
"Are you okay?" That voice again, jarring Buck to consciousness. Eddie, he remembers. Hot military guy had introduced himself as Eddie once the plane had taken off.
Eddie from El Paso. Yeehaw.
"Eddie," he says dumbly, eyes peeling open slowly as the man waves the hand with the mysteriously missing ring in front of his face. Maybe he’s newly divorced.
"Can you sit up?"
Maybe Buck has other things he should be focusing on.
Can he sit up? Where is he? What were they doing?
Everything hurts.
No, maybe he should go back to this mystery of possibly bachelor Eddie. Does he have terrible habits? Who would willingly divorce this man?
Buck flinches when Eddie touches him, which in turn causes his ribs to seize.
Once, when he was nine years old, an older kid in his neighborhood had shown him just what exactly an Indian burn was. He had cried, then, arm red and burning.
Now, it's a special sort of hell where the entirety of his body is raw and burning and probably red, if he were inclined to look. He struggles to breathe through it, too aware of the hovering hands and hoping Eddie doesn’t touch him but lacking the air to voice it.
The sand shifting on his tender skin is just, literally adding salt to wounds and he loves the sun, but he's going to have to reconsider, with the unforgiving way it's roasting every exposed inch of him.
He closes his eyes, ready to let himself sink beneath it all again, but Eddie has other ideas.
“Come on, buddy, up and at ‘em.”
And maybe that's exactly why Eddie is single.
He winces as Eddie helps him into sitting position and oh, something shifts inside his torso, a grinding sort of pain that steals all the air from his lungs and makes him want to puke. Vertigo hits at the same time, and only the hands on his shoulders and his own somewhat desperate grip on muscular forearms gives him any sort of ground against the way everything tilts sideways.
"I'm--I'm good," he gasps, forehead pressed into a hard shoulder. It’s a really nice shoulder. A lot of work probably went into shaping it. He probably shouldn’t puke on it.
"Hey, it's okay. Slow, deep breaths for me."
He breathes, and breathes and breathes—
"Hey," Eddie says, insistent, guiding him gently up and trying to catch Buck’s gaze. "Look at me, Buck. Evan. Evan! Look at me." An alarmed sound erupts from his throat as Eddie lets go of his shoulders but takes his hands instead. "Squeeze my hands. Can you squeeze them?"
He complies. They're nice hands. A little bit larger than his own. Calloused and rough in a way his aren't. Strong and steady as they squeeze in return. Really, why is everything about this man so nice? He wonders what the wife was like. Would she be military too? That makes sense. Completely out of Buck’s league. Not even in the running, honestly.
"Are you good? Are you with me?" Eddie asks again, pulling Buck’s attention back, tone daring him to lie (again).
"I don't know," Buck replies, stifling the strange laughter that wants to bubble out. "I don't think so." His head feels heavy, like his neck is not quite sturdy enough to hold it up and will actually wobble if he isn’t concentrating hard enough. He really wants to drop it back on Eddie’s shoulder. Maybe close his eyes. Sleep a little while. He manfully resists. He hardly knows Eddie, but something tells him the man will not let him. It's a surprisingly comforting thought.
The furrow between Eddie's brows deepens. "What hurts?"
Buck flexes his fingers slowly, mourning the loss of the hands that are now instead patting him down gently. He shies away from the pressure, wincing at the pain.
"Don't worry about me," he says, glancing over at the still screaming woman and…others spread out behind her that wander dazed and bloodied on the beach. "I'm fine." Are they fine? It looks like a disaster. Several things are even still on fire. What the hell happened? Did they freaking crash? How are they even alive?
Eddie looks fine, for a given measure. His clothes cling wetly to him in the most distracting way. He's sand and blood streaked, but he's still moving with an enviable ease that has Buck's torso twinging in warning. Some people have all the luck. But Eddie’s nice. He probably deserves it.
Eddie huffs, amused for some reason, but ceases his inspection and sits back on his heels. "Okay, I didn't feel any swelling, but your pupils are kind of uneven, buddy. Can you stay awake for me while I go check out the others?"
Buck blinks at that earnest, concerned face and really, truly, honestly thinks he's in love.
Eddie blinks too, and then smiles for some reason, cheeks tinged a slight pink.
Buck frowns in confusion. "Like I said, I'll be fine."
That pretty smile also morphs into a frown, and oh no, that's not good at all. Eddie scans his face again before exhaling. "Okay, I'll be back real soon. Sit here. Do not lie down. Do you understand me?"
"Sir, yessir," he quips with a lopsided smile.
"If anything starts hurting more, call out. If you start feeling sleepy, call out. Okay? Can you repeat that back to me?"
He huffs, wincing when that hurts his head. "Call you if I miss you in the slightest, I got it."
Eddie laughs and then he's gone.
Buck looks around, bewildered, because what? Where did he go? Then he wavers, because everything is starting to spin, just a little, and lying down seems like a really good idea, but no, that's not right. That's bad, right?
...right, he'd promised.
He exhales, staring down the length of the beach and registering the activity there but unable to process much beyond Eddie as he moves from person to person. After the third time he finds himself nearly pitching over, eyes closing without his input, he drags himself the singular foot to the nearest tree and leans against it, gasping shallow breaths through the bad-idea-what-the-fuck-shit-goddamn shifting in what he assumes is his rib cage.
He can’t believe they’re alive.
Well, mostly alive, he amends. For a given definition. His body still might give out. It hurts too much to be okay. But, well, he’s okay for now. He’ll take it.
And there he stays. Time passes nebulously as he drifts, the crash of waves on sandy shores capturing his attention again and dragging it out to sea with it. Eddie appears like magic in front of him every time he seems to lose the fight to keep his eyelids open, shaking him awake and asking after him, palms spread wide over his torso without so much as a by-your-leave. It's beyond endearing. Buck kind of really loves him.
By the time any sort of actual clarity returns, the sun has thankfully sunken over the horizon even if the breeze is just on this side of too cold. There's a small fire crackling cheerfully, near enough to keep the chill from leeching all his body heat, and a haphazard weave of palm leaves and branches overhead. He'd be more alarmed that he has no recollection of either of them being built if exhaustion didn't have such a firm grip on his bones, threatening to pull him back into unconsciousness.
He’s so tired he wants to cry. He wants to sleep. Can he sleep now? Where even is Eddie? He squints through the semi-dark.
More campfires dot down their stretch of beach, some with more elaborate, leafy lean-tos, and some without. He feels a pang to see his fellow survivors grouped in twos and threes around them, whereas he sits by his lonesome.
He can't move even if he wants to, however. He still feels particularly well tenderized and his head is even heavier and aching and there is no pain medication, why, God. At least he's lucid in a way that the day definitely hadn't been. It's fine. He'll be fine. He’s just tired. Abandonment issues can be examined at a later date.
Because it’s the first that he actually manages to register the severity of the situation that they’re in, inklings of worry threading through the exhaustion.
There are still faintly smoking pieces of wreckage scattered around and, in the very distant part of their camp, at the very edge of where light diffuses into shadow, he can make out vague, neatly lined shapes with leaves piled over them. He stares and stares, something heavy settling into his chest, before he looks back down, because at least he's alive. He's alive by some miracle and as long as he’s still breathing, it'll be okay.
It’ll be okay, but what the hell are they going to do?
He glances over at the other fires, anxiety easing, because they’re not totally helpless, at least. It looks like, anyway. Someone knows how to weave palm leaves, and gather coconuts. They’re fine. Probably.
Something bright and warm bursts in his chest when Eddie drops onto the sand next to him with a sigh and a groan and a crack of his neck. He offers him a shy, subdued smile and Eddie, he hands him—a coconut, cracked open.
Buck squints at it, wanting to laugh but lacking the energy. It’s real in his hand the way seeing it hadn’t been. Rough, rope-like texture is extra abrasive on his already tender skin. Are they really at coconut consumption already? He doesn't voice the nonsensical thought aloud. "Thanks," he finally mumbles, barely lifting his head, almost unable to fully open his eyes.
The quiet between them is disturbed by occasional slurping. The coconut juice is warm and a weird combination of sweet and not sweet. It goes down smooth, and is pretty much the best goddamn thing he’s ever drank, quenching a thirst he hadn’t noticed until he had it.
"Hey."
He startles, having drifted again without knowing. Eddie is hovering over him. He watches him under heavy lashes. There's that concern again. He's not used to this sort of attention. Especially by someone he doesn’t even know. It's nice yet unnerving and just—really nice. Even if the man is maybe taken. And probably still straight. He sounds less convincing every time he says it to himself.
"Let me check your torso again, and then we can sleep, okay?"
"You don't have to make excuses to feel me up, Eddie," he says sleepily, even as relief crashes into him.
The man laughs. "Okay, Buck."
Gentle fingers press against his stomach and he twitches, face twisting in discomfort. When it moves upwards, the dull pain turns sharp and he inhales with it, which sets off the throbbing in his head.
"Okay, okay," Eddie whispers. "You're fine. Still no swelling. Is your headache any worse? Feel any numbness? Tingling?"
His eyes have closed fully. The weight of the day is pressing back down.
"I'm fine," he grumbles. "Lemme sleep."
And somehow, he does.
The next day is a complete wash. He lays stretched fully out like a particularly large and extra limp and horribly overheated noodle. The sun is too bright even in the shade and his skin is too too hot and too too tender. It’s taken his top spot of most miserable experiences of all time. The aftermath of the three day bender in Belgium for Tomorrowland seems a pale memory, in comparison.
Then again, the festival had had a start and an end and he’d had a ride home and a place to crash. There doesn’t seem to be getting off this ride any time soon, or out, for that matter. He sets that brooding session aside for later, because he can only handle one miserable truth right now.
What little food or water he manages to consume comes right back up. The only reason he even keeps trying is because Eddie stares at him every single time with those damn eyes until he does and he can't think past the few jumbled thoughts enough to mount an argument. Resistance is futile, as they say, even though he’s not exactly sure who it is that says it. It’s true, nonetheless.
It’s a nice break, anyway, from the teeter-totter hell of the rest of him. Laying prone gives rise to the torturous spin of darkness and oil slick colors behind his eyelids—and that’s still better than opening them and exposing them to the absolutely aggressive shine of the world jabbing directly into his brain like the spines on a sea urchin. He alternates between both, vision smearing either way with so much as a tiny twitch of his neck, and absolutely hates everything.
He can’t even escape the sand. It trickles into everywhere until his skin is extra raw with it. He doesn't cry in misery (he might cry a little bit) because even the tears leaking down the sides of his overheated face are agonizing. Like the softest grit sandpaper on an already bruised peach.
(Him. He’s the damn peach that’s been thrown out of the high velocity vehicle and somehow managed to hang on to his skin.)
His bruises have deepened and spread across the whole of his torso; a violently dark color that has Eddie frowning with something like worry that gives Buck a twisted little sense of pleasure because he’s touched in the head like that.
Because mixed throughout all the torment are flashes of Eddie's face and Eddie's hands; Eddie's deep and steady voice that he tries and mostly fails to understand but is soothing nonetheless. But even that smears into meaningless blurs and lackadaisical memory after awhile and he ignores the mild tugs and gentle nudges in favor of curling up around his misery and shoving it deeper into the darkness of oblivion.
The morning after that is both better and worse.
Better, because he's actually aware again.
Worse, because everything still hurts like a bitch and oh yeah, they crashed on an island somewhere in the South Atlantic and he really didn't think this was a thing that was possible in this century. Oh god, what if they're in the Bermuda Triangle? No one is ever going to find them. No one’s going to even care that he’s missing. This is probably a different dimension isn't it? They are literally re-enacting Lost. They're probably all dead and this is just an illusion of purgatory. That's how that ended right? He doesn't know.
His one attempt to sit up is an embarrassing display of manly whimpers and squeaky groans, which his self-appointed island companion is kind enough not to laugh at him for. Is it purgatory though, if Eddie is here? He’s just so nice, trying to check up on and take care of Buck. Aside from his sister, no one’s ever really taken the time. Eddie is busy enough anyway, constantly up and about and floating from tiny group to tiny group. It's kind of exhausting, watching him.
Does this demonstration of competence and natural leadership make him Jack? Who does that make Buck? He kind of wants to be Hurley. Dude was chill. He should have watched more of that series...or maybe went camping more as a child—or learned survival skills in general. The sum total of his survival know-how is: no, urine does not actually help neutralize jellyfish stings and that shark feeding times are usually at dawn and dusk. At least Eddie, and some of others, seem to have things in hand from what little he can observe. Like seriously, who even knew palm weaving off the top of their head. One of these guys, apparently. Buck barely remembers how to do a bowline knot and he spent three summers yachting.
Yeah, he’s glad he’s got people here with him.
"Thanks for looking out for me," he tells Eddie the first chance he gets.
Eddie graces him with a tired smile. "My pleasure."
"I'll bet," he laughs, wincing as both his head and his ribs throb in protest. "So…what's the plan?" The busy bees of the camp have been buzzing all morning, enough that he hasn’t even been able to keep track of more than a few. And no one’s approached him beyond a few sympathetic smiles in passing. Of course, his plan is to not move for a while, still prone as he is on his back and feeling every bone deep throb.
Eddie looks out at the ocean. "I don't know. We just gotta take it one day at a time."
“That just means cannibalism, doesn’t it?”
Eddie laughs.
Buck smiles to himself, pleased.
One day at a time. He just hopes there aren’t too many days. And if there are, well, prospects don’t look too dire. The company is definitely not bad. Buck is so intent on admiring that profile—and really, the man is just so pretty—he clears his throat and tries to focus. "Survivors?"
Another long exhale. "Seventeen. We're all various levels of okay. You're the most seriously dinged."
Seventeen, out of what has to be several dozens on an international flight.
It's cold, all of a sudden. Sweat that has nothing to do with the heat and humidity prickles along his skin. A nausea that has nothing to do with his concussion rises. He blinks away the burn in his eyes, keenly aware once again that he's incredibly lucky. They all are. If the price for his life is some cracked ribs, severe contusions, a moderate concussion and a missing layer of skin, he's more than happy to pay it.
"Eddie."
They both look over.
The screaming blonde from the other day is shifting back and forth, hugging her torso and biting her lip with uncertainty. Vivid green eyes are wide and wet. She looks extra frail, extra vulnerable.
Laying it on thick, he thinks, and then blinks at how uncharitable that is. The woman is clearly traumatized. They all are.
Eddie shoots him a tight smile. "Excuse me."
He watches them walk off, noting how close she hovers and discarding the envy stirring.
Straight. Eddie is probably straight. Just because Eddie is a decent person—the first in a while that's actually concerned over his well-being—it doesn't have to mean anything.
He's not that lucky. Their plane just literally crashed a day or so ago.
It doesn't matter anyway, because priorities—he does know about them. She's definitely not the only one seeking comfort or stability, and Eddie just oozes that sort of strength. Buck doesn't blame her. He doesn't blame Eddie, either. He's capable of standing by himself, on his own....eventually. He's done so for years. This curve ball is no different, even if it’s, admittedly, really rather large. He'll be fine.
He closes his eyes.
And opens them when Eddie drops back down beside him.
"Hey, you're back," he says in sleepy surprise, resolutely ignoring the tiny curl of smug happiness in his chest. Yeah, Buck might be a terrible person.
Eddie exhales, staring pensively into the fire.
"I get wanting to feel safe," he says after a moment, "but I don't want anyone depending on just me for survival." Eddie's face is blank as he says this, and...there's probably a story there, something horrible and traumatizing that Buck definitely wants to know about, but doesn't ask because he also understands tact, sometimes.
"Clingy, huh?" He glances over where the blond is, studying her from beneath heavy lashes. There are two other women on either side of her, but she pays them no notice as she stares over at Eddie. There's a hollow, haunted blankness behind her eyes now, like she's checked out, like she's not here, that unnerves him. That sort of trauma can't mean good things in the long run. He's not really one to talk, though. He's still not thinking about the shadowed area on the far side of their camp.
It’s sad. He’s sad for her. For all of them.
Eddie grimaces. "Like you wouldn't believe."
"It's okay, Eddie. You can cling to me all you like," he jokes, sending a languid smile before closing his eyes again. He's still so tired; a bone deep exhaustion that doesn't seem to be relieved by sleep. "I'll save you," he murmurs. “No cannibalism, please.”
Eddie snorts, but doesn't reply. Buck can already so clearly imagine that amused expression. It follows him down into the darkness.
The next few days are much the same. He doesn't move much as his head slowly clears and his body recovers. There's only so much sand and sea and sky he can stand staring at though, so he watches Eddie instead, who is endlessly fascinating for reasons Buck barely admits to himself.
It's rather annoying, just how good Eddie is. They do have a doctor with them—who's already checked on Buck—and at least two outdoor enthusiasts with them that help immensely with the rough survival aspects. So, injuries are treated and supplies are scavenged and bodies are finally buried out of sight and a ways down. But Eddie is the one that makes the rounds. Eddie is the one that is making sure morale is up and any disputes are resolved and any chores are split evenly, that words are heard.
Eddie, who floats around the camp, but always returns to Buck's side.
He wisely doesn't question this, nor does he pay any attention to the warm flutter in his chest every time it happens. He just basks in the attention and coaxes Eddie's words out of him, makes sure he's heard, and soaks it in like a happy, if slightly battered, sponge.
Eddie has a son he's very glad wasn't on the flight.
Eddie was just medically discharged, not even half a year ago, from the army.
Eddie doesn't know what he's going to do now, aside from taking care of his son.
Eddie doesn't mention the mother of his son at all, and Buck doesn't ask. He can't quite stifle the hope that is slowly growing in his chest, though.
Instead, and in return, Buck talks about Maddie, about Europe, about Peru, and about his failed stint in BUD/S and his plans to join the LAFD. He tries to convince Eddie to join, too.
"Maybe," is all Eddie allows, laughing when Buck pouts.
It’s a dream within a dream; something that leaves an ache in Buck’s chest. What are the odds, that they’d end up on a plane together? That they’d survive the crash and end up on this island, together? That they’d be rescued? That the after would include the two of them, plus a child he desperately wants to meet, together?
He’s not an extraordinarily lucky person, he thinks, and he might have used it all up in the crash. But he can’t help but hope, can’t help but dream for this nebulous after-the-island; for a real life with Eddie and his son and wonder if it could actually work.
But he might be getting ahead of himself anyway.
Nearly a week in and his equilibrium has stabilized to where he’s finally able to walk, albeit slowly, inland to the river where he can finally rinse off layers of sweat and grime. Each step sends a throb that rebounds through his entire body and up into his head, which makes his vision both hazy and overly bright, but he stubbornly persists. His skin still feels incredibly raw, but he's no longer sure if it's from the sand or the sun, now. In any case, the itch in his scalp is not pleasant, and he doubts the smell is for anyone else, so, he has to go.
Eddie follows behind him, not quite hovering, but close all the same. His concern is a tangible thing that bolsters Buck when his knees shake. He is not the swooning maiden in this non-relationship, no sir. Eddie already does so much for everyone, Buck refuses to add to that. No, he’ll slow and steady this race, and he’ll win it too. The prize is definitely worth it.
The waterfall is a beautiful, tranquil little spot surrounded by mossy rocks and leafy foliage. He peers into the crystal clear water, appreciating the beauty of it while still wondering about crocodiles and snakes and piranhas. If Peru had taught him anything, it was that the prettiest waters could often hide the fiercest predators.
"It's safe," Eddie assures. "We've been using it pretty frequently and there hasn't been any sign of any larger predators on the island so far."
"So far," he mutters, because it would just be his luck to survive a plane crash only to get eaten. Well, there's nothing for it. He is going to get clean...ish, if it's the last thing he does. He searches for somewhere to set his clothes, and then quirks a smile at the odd assortment of bath products lined up near the edge of the water. It's incredibly comforting, these little bits of normalcy they had managed to salvage.
He hisses as he goes to lift his shirt over his arms.
Eddie laughs. "Need help?"
"No," he mutters petulantly, and then, "yes," he sighs when his torso twinges in warning again.
He shivers as warm, calloused hands brush the skin of his rib cage to pull his shirt off. They linger, sliding gently down his skin and leaving tingles in their wake. His eyes slide shut almost involuntarily as he basks in the attention. The roar of the falls recedes into the background until all that's left is the sluggish rush of blood in his ears and those gentle, questing fingers and the minute contraction of the muscles they graze. Something touches his face, knuckles that trace the curve of one cheek before sliding down to grip his jaw, coaxing his eyes back open and suddenly he's face to face with Eddie Diaz, who is staring intently, both concern and fondness and...a flare of something darker and deeper in his eyes.
He considers it over the nervous flutter of his heart and the arousal simmering low in his gut. So, okay, he's not a saint. Eddie is just, ridiculously attractive. He's been flirting, even half delirious, and while he hasn't been rebuffed, it isn't as though the man has been flirting back. Until now. The hand on his waist and the grip on his chin is anything but subtle.
"You're very attractive, you know," he says, trying for offhand and yet unable to break that gaze. "Distractingly so."
"Am I?" A corner of those plush pink lips quirks up, and Buck huffs. "Come on, Eddie. Don't play with me, man." He turns away, to remove himself from temptation, from whatever this is, but is stopped with tightening hands, searing like brands on his skin.
"Hey," Eddie says, and there's a full blown, absolutely gorgeous smile on that handsome face now. "I'm gonna kiss you."
"Yeah, okay," he says, breathless. "Good plan."