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Another day, another visit to the hospital.
They should be used to this by now: sitting in the sterile space off the main hallway, waiting, waiting, waiting. It should feel routine, ordinary, typical with how often they find themselves in the situation. But Eddie doesn’t think it’s ever going to feel that way when it’s one of them behind the doors fighting for their life, the rest sitting anxious on the other side. He wishes the universe would stop adding instances, would cease trying to make it, force it to be, normal.
It’s the usual crew; they’re practically all there: Eddie, Bobby, Hen, Ravi, Maddie, Athena. Chim had taken Jee-Yun from Maddie and left with her about an hour after Maddie arrived — it’s getting late, past Jee’s bedtime. And Karen is at home with the baby and Denny. Eddie is lucky Marisol was supposed to be coming over for dinner anyway, that she offered to get Chris and stay with him till Eddie could leave. Athena showed up at the end of her shift with coffee and donuts for everyone, caffeine and sugar to keep them going. Eddie’s cup is sitting cold on the table, his donut already split between Chim and Ravi when he shook his head in a refusal of it. He’d struggle to eat or drink anything in his condition, plus the knot in his stomach is too large for anything else to fit. It’d come back up, and he’s afraid of what else might spill from him with it.
It’s the usual crew. Plus–
“Hey,” Tommy’s voice sounds. Eddie looks up to him crossing the floor towards them, not at a run, but not far off. “What happened? How’s he doing?” he asks, directed at Eddie, as his eyes sweep over him, take in the state of him.
“He’s– It was–” Eddie tries, but his mouth is dry and the lump in his stomach extends to his throat too, blocking it, making him choke on the words.
Hen, sitting in the chair next to him, takes over. “He’s in surgery,” she explains. “He was stable before they took him in. He has a puncture wound to the abdomen; they think his spleen is nicked. They need to close that up, stop the internal bleeding. But he should be fine and we should hear in the next hour or so.” She’s talking to Tommy, but Eddie can feel that last part is directed at him, knows her eyes have dropped to the side of his head, even though he doesn’t look at her. Purposely keeps his gaze fixed ahead, focused somewhere around Tommy’s neck, on the little spot of stubble that’s longer than the rest, missed when he last shaved.
Tommy’s shoulders relax, just enough, still tense, but reassured. For now. He sits in the spare seat on Eddie’s other side. “Are you okay?” he asks, eyes on Eddie’s shoulder, before flicking up to his face.
Eddie shakes his head, but not a no, a shaking off of the question. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” Tommy asks again.
Eddie inhales through his nose. Swallows the thick sticky saliva that sits on the back of his tongue, the consistency of blood, the taste of bile. “We were responding to a five-alarm.” Facts. He can do facts. He’ll have to later anyway, for Bobby’s incident report. “A paper factory.”
Tommy’s jaw tightens. He knows what that means, the kind of flammable materials and chemicals that were there, how easily, how completely, the whole place had gone up, even with all the safety measures in place.
“We got out two of the workers that were still inside. But there was one more unaccounted for. We went back to do a final sweep. Buck–” Eddie swallows again, then tries again. “Buck was ahead of me. The whole hallway was alight. We got the call to fall back. He turned towards me and–” Facts. It turns out, Eddie can’t do facts. He shakes his head again, and this time it is a no. A no, I can’t do this. No, I can’t speak about it while he’s on the other side of those doors getting cut into. No, I can’t cope when I don’t know if he’s going to be okay. No, I, his best friend, can’t sit here and break down while you, his boyfriend, are strong.
Eddie stands up so abruptly, Tommy reels back a little. Eddie fixes his eyes straight ahead, then allows his gaze to turn unfocused so he can hardly tell it’s those damn doors he’s looking at. He needs to get away. “I’m gonna get a coffee,” he states, then walks, forcing himself to take careful, even steps. Even though he wants to run, doesn’t want to hear Hen pick up where he left off, continue telling Tommy what happened: The ceiling came down on them both. A beam hit Buck, pinned him, and a broken off part of it pierced his stomach. Eddie pulled it off him. But it was on fire, that’s why–
The corridor where the coffee machine is located is blessedly empty and as quiet as anywhere in a hospital can get. Well, maybe aside from the morgue. Eddie pushes that thought firmly away. Buck was breathing when they pulled him out. He’d even been lucid, though very groggy, gaze unfocused, speech slurred and unintelligible, the blood loss and the hit to the back of his head as he fell rendering him so. But it’s like Hen said: he should be fine. Should.
Eddie lifts his hand to scrub it through his hair, then aborts the move, huffs a frustrated, fraught sigh. Stands in front of the coffee machine. What a stupid excuse to give. Getting a coffee. How’s it going to look when he doesn’t come back with one, when he can’t get himself one and has to wander back in obviously empty-handed?
“Hey.” It’s Tommy. He stops beside the coffee machine, leans back against the wall. “Are you alright?”
“I said I’m fine, man,” Eddie says, too impatient, too harsh. Especially when this is his friend, this is Buck’s boyfriend. Tommy has been both of those things for the past few months.
“No,” Tommy says. “I don’t mean that” — he waves a hand at Eddie — “I mean, how are you doing? This is hard for you.”
He doesn’t ask it as a question: Is this hard for you? Are you finding this difficult? So, Eddie can’t answer it with a lie. And, besides, Tommy knows. Everyone knows, because this is hard for them all, Buck injured, again. But Tommy knows in a way the others maybe don’t, the kind of trauma injured partners and hospitals bring back for Eddie.
It’d be hard without all that, though, because it’s Buck. And maybe Tommy doesn’t know that, doesn’t get that. He’s the one it should like that for, will be like that for. He’s the one who Buck is with.
Eddie wants to explain, wants to rationalize the depths, the strength, of his worry over Buck, in a way that isn’t telling. Everything about how he’s currently reacting is beyond telling. “It’s just too soon,” he says, but that’s wrong; it’d have been too soon if Buck had never been injured again. “I mean, it’s barely been a year since he died.” Eddie thinks he can be excused for the distress that fills his words, thinks anyone could be. “It’s… It’s a lot.”
Tommy nods, eyes full of sympathy, empathy. Eddie wants to flee from their understanding. He’s never wanted to before when they’ve spoken about difficult things: their experiences in the army, the hardships of the job, the pressures of a particular brand of father, the effects of a specific flavor of religious upbringing. All things they both have. But this is Buck. Tommy has him, not Eddie.
“He’s going to be okay,” Tommy says.
Eddie wishes he could say I know. But he can’t. He doesn’t believe in jinxes, but he won’t risk Buck’s life, even with something that doesn’t exist. He studies the coffee machine instead of providing a response.
“Do you want one?”
Eddie glances at Tommy, unsure what he’s asking.
Tommy nods towards the machine. “Did you actually want a coffee?”
If Tommy got him one, it would end up like Athena’s. The hospital coffee would be worse than hers anyway. Its taste would transport him back to the week they all spent camped out here, not knowing if Buck was going to pull through, to come back to them. Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.” The truth about the coffee, a lie about himself.
Tommy returns to the waiting room, Eddie promising he will too, in just a moment. He gives himself another sixty seconds to stand in the quiet hallway and breathe as best his lungs can manage, frozen as they are with terror, before he keeps his word.
He stays standing though, a little apart from the group, just behind the row of chairs they’ve taken up. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t shift his weight from foot to foot. Simply stands and waits.
He’s glad he’s standing when the doctor comes out.
“Family of Evan Buckley?” she asks, expression inscrutable. Eddie can’t tell what his heart is doing, it’s like his pulse is pounding and yet the blood is moving so slow, not enough oxygen reaching his brain, his extremities. He feels headlight and there is no sensation in his fingers, his toes, his hands, his feet.
Bobby and Hen nod. Maddie says, “Yes. How is he?” and Eddie can hear her controlled fear.
“The surgery went well,” the doctor states, and all at once Eddie can feel his feet, pressed into the floor, sweaty inside his shoes, can feel his hands, the pain in them. He inhales, shaky, but deeper than he’s managed so far. The blood rushes back to his brain, loud past his ears, and he barely makes out the doctor going on to explain what has been done, what Buck’s remaining injuries are: the spleen, the bleeding, the incision, the head wound, the concussion, the burns.
Maddie is nodding along, taking it all in. Everyone is listening, intent. Eddie can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat.
Sound comes back to him enough that he understands when the doctor says, “The anesthetic is wearing off and he’s starting to come around. He can have visitors, but only two at a time.”
Eddie is glad he’s standing because, if he wasn’t, he would have stood up. Along with Maddie, who gets to her feet as expected, eager to check on her little brother for herself. But also with Tommy, here for Buck for the first time, wanting to be at his boyfriend’s side. And Eddie’s not sure he could have made himself sit back down.
As it is, he remains rooted to the spot, as Maddie and Tommy walk away, walk towards Buck, and don’t look back.
Hen twists around in her seat. “Eddie,” she says, eyes creased in concern, care. Eddie doesn’t know if it’s a question of how he is, a plea for him to come sit down, or just a check-in to make sure he’s still there. He shakes his head anyway, and Hen doesn’t push, just gives him a long, considering look, and then moves over a few seats to talk to Athena.
Time moves syrupy slow. Even still, Eddie can tell Maddie comes back sooner than expected. She meets his eyes as she approaches. “He’s asking for you,” she tells him, gives him a soft smile.
Eddie doesn’t manage to return it. He’s moving before it hits him that he should try. He gets to Buck’s room on autopilot, not sure how he finds it. Did Maddie tell him the number? Or is he simply drawn to Buck like there is a tether connecting them, wound tight, anchored fast, around Eddie’s heart?
He pauses in the doorway. Buck’s alive. He’s propped up in bed, enough to minimize strain on his sutures, but not fully upright. His primary injury is hidden away under his bedsheets, his hospital gown. But there’s a bandage on his head, gauze packed against the back of his skull, and a dressing on the side of his chin, up part of his cheek, where the flaming beam had touched him, burned him. He’s pale, his skin looks clammy, and his hair is a mess. He’s alive. He’s never looked more beautiful.
Tommy is sat at the far side of his bed, Buck’s head turned to face him, and he’s holding his hand in his, gentle, careful of the IV-line protruding from the back of it.
Eddie doesn’t think he makes a sound, but Buck twists his head to look at the door anyway, the tether tugging, even if it’s not connected to Buck’s own heart.
“Eddie,” he gasps, and tries to sit up further.
Tommy tightens his grip on his fingers, places his other hand against his shoulder, firm enough to stay him, weak as he is. “Don’t move too much,” Tommy advises, low.
But Buck isn’t listening. “Eddie,” he says again, eyes darting all over him, “You’re hurt.”
Eddie approaches the bed. Part of him doesn’t want to, feels like he’s intruding on this intimate scene. But the rest of him can’t help it, the need to sway into Buck’s space strong enough when he’s well, overpowering now that he’s just out of surgery and asking for him. Eddie sits down in the second seat beside the bed, the opposite side from Tommy. “I’m fine,” he tells Buck, desperate to get the searching, fearful expression off Buck’s face.
That does it, Buck laughing at Eddie’s words, but the sound isn’t happy, not at all. “You don’t look fine.” Buck reaches out, gestures at the sling around Eddie’s left arm, then takes hold of Eddie’s right wrist, lifts his wrapped hand to rest on the bed. “What happened? I don’t–” Buck screws up his face, frustrated, “I can’t remember, not really.”
“My shoulder is sprained,” Eddie tells him, trying to do anything but think about the press of Buck’s fingertips to the thin skin on the inside of his wrist, the touch a soft echo of one from years before. “When the ceiling came down, I got hit too. You got the worst of it, though.”
Buck ignores the last part. Pushes the pads of his fingers into Eddie’s flesh, over his veins, asks, “And your hands?”
“I pulled the beam off you.”
Buck looks appalled. “By hand?”
“I had to get it off you,” Eddie says, more forceful than he means to be, less forceful than he feels. “I had to get to you.” Eddie looks away, but finds his eyes landing on Tommy, so turns back. “It’s not that bad, my gloves stopped the worst of it.”
“That was so stupid, Eddie,” Buck says.
Eddie huffs out something between a laugh and a sob, hopes it only sounds like the former. “I know,” he says, because he does, but it doesn’t change the fact he’d do it all over again, through the screaming pain in his shoulder, the creeping heat entering his palms. Would have done it even without his gloves to lessen the burn.
Maybe Buck can read that truth from his face, can hear it in his two words, feel it in the thrum of Eddie’s blood beneath his fingers. Because he tilts his head and his lips curl up, just the tiniest bit, the smallest of smiles, and he says, “I suppose I did try to dig you out of forty feet of mud with just my hands.”
Eddie blinks at him. He’s heard this before, heard Chim and Hen teasing Buck about it before. But, honestly, he thought it was a joke, hyperbole. “Really?”
Buck nods, head a little heavy in its movements, the drowsiness of the anesthetic still clinging to him. Would he be telling Eddie this if it wasn’t? “I guess we’re both stupid,” he says, smile widening.
“I– I tried to pull you up,” Eddie admits. Buck’s eyes squint in question. “After the– the lightning strike,” Eddie makes himself add, for context, hears himself stutter, stumble, over the words, and Buck’s expression changes from one of question to trepidation. “I tried to pull you up to me by hand. So stupid.”
Eddie tries to smile at Buck, watches Buck mirror it back, before it twists, turns down. There’s something there in his eyes, as they hold Eddie’s, and Eddie knows they’re both thinking of it, even if Buck is under the impression Eddie doesn’t remember. Thinking of Buck pressing his hands to Eddie’s chest with all his might, over the gunshot wound, trying to keep the blood inside Eddie’s body. And Eddie knows Buck can’t remember it, because he was dead, but he thinks of his hands locked one over the other, trying to pump the life back into Buck’s body.
“Who would ever have guessed you were both so stupid?”
Eddie jerks his head in Tommy’s direction, startled. Feels blood rushing to his cheeks at the realization he has been listening to this, heard all of it. Tommy doesn’t seem annoyed though, a fond expression on his face as he looks at Buck, who has yet to turn away from Eddie. His eyes flick over to meet Eddie’s and his expression turns thoughtful, knowing. Too knowing.
Eddie clears his throat, tugs his wrist out of Buck’s grip. “I’m fine.”
“So am I,” Buck says, like he doesn’t have fresh surgery incisions, a grade 3 concussion, and burns to his face.
“You’re going to be,” Eddie tells him, because he’s beginning to believe it now. “Once you heal up.”
Eddie doesn’t meet Buck’s eyes, but he can feel them on him, he still hasn’t turned back to his boyfriend.
“I should go.” Eddie stands from his chair. “Let Maddie come back in. Or one of the others.”
Buck reaches out again, touches his fingers to the back of Eddie’s hand, the feel of it like a brand even through the bandages, a deeper burn than those on his palms. “Just– Take care of yourself, Eds. You need to heal too.”
“I’ll be fine,” Eddie insists. Then adds, so Buck won’t worry, “Marisol is at mine, with Chris. She’ll help me out.” It’s a lie, because Eddie won’t let her, isn’t going to keep her around to look after him when he knows they’re going nowhere. If he’d ever had any hope that they were going to work, that’s gone now, burned up by this fiery night. Eddie’s as sure of it as he is sure that he wishes he was the one in Tommy’s seat, holding Buck’s hand.
The one that kisses Buck’s forehead, lips pressed to his birthmark — as Eddie sees Tommy’s are, when he glances back on his way out the door — the thing that finally gets Buck to look away from Eddie.
The one taking him home when he’s eventually discharged, if the first snatches of their conversation are anything to go on, the murmured words Eddie hears as he pauses outside the room, just out of view through the window, to get a hold on himself before he goes back to the waiting room.
He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just desperately needs the moment. Because the tether has pulled taught and he’s almost breathless with the pull to turn back, the pain in his chest so strong. He’s wounded by the wrongness of walking away, of going home to the girlfriend he knows he needs to break up with, of leaving behind the best friend he knows he’s in love with.
But Eddie’s been walking wounded his whole life — it’s what he’s best at, what he’s made for. So that’s what he does: he walks away. Walks away and leaves Buck to the care and keeping of another man.