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Buck doesn’t see it coming.
To be fair, Buck rarely sees anything coming: the earthquake; the tsunami; his parentage to Chris; the truck bombing; his crush on Eddie; being denied returning to the 118; being denied returning to the 118 because of Bobby; the teams’ easy acceptance of Buck not returning to the 118; Maddie’s continued silence because of her caution about picking sides between him and Chimney; Eddie’s anger and almost-hatred….
And the baseball bat. Or maybe it was a crowbar.
The thing was, Buck doesn’t see it coming, mainly because it was swung at the back of his head.
He certainly feels it though, when he wakes up some indetermined time later; head throbbing with a headache fierce enough he’s genuinely surprised his skull isn’t cracked open, even though it fucking feels like it, fuck that hurts—
“Aah, he returns to the land of the living,” comes a voice from somewhere beside Buck, muffled slightly by the pain and the disorientation that Buck wakes up to; his right-side aching and cold, and it takes too long for him to register that he’s lying on his side, on the ground, cheek pressed into the ground hard enough that it makes it hard to catch his breath. Except, no, the reason that he can’t catch his breath properly is because his mouth has been gagged with duct tape. His hands are and ankles are similarly bound; tape twisted to make it impossible to break or tear; the tape wrapping up his forearms enough that Buck can’t get any leverage and it’s already hard to breathe with the tape but now he’s panicking—now he’s fucking terrified and confused and scared and—
“Oh, woah there. Easy, easy,” comes the voice again, and Buck feels a hand on his shoulder, patting lightly as if encouraging Buck to breath slow and not choke on the panic attack surging up and threatening to smother him. Buck blinks his eyes open, trying to understand, his words muffled where his lips are firmly sealed by the tape and trying to keep his mind thinking in a straight line, but the pain and confusion is making it hard.
It’s dark wherever he—they—are. There’s a single light in the ceiling above them, but Buck is too disorientated to be able to recognise anything more than white-painted walls and the silhouette of someone leaning over him, hand curled around his cheek in an offer of comfort Buck has been craving ever since he made the mistake of filing that fucking lawsuit—
Eddie, Buck thinks, because he can’t say it, not with duct tape pinching his lips together, but then Eddie is pawing lightly at his cheeks and Buck holds still long enough for Eddie’s fingers to pinch at the edge of the tape and peel it slowly, so painfully slowly, from Buck’s mouth. The skin left behind is tacky with glue and Buck smacks his lips, taking a huge gulp of air to try and steady the panic he’s forcefully shoved to the side, smothered by the dull pounding of his skull and his ears and his chest—
“Eddie,” Buck breathes, eyes slipping shut as he tries to settle his lungs. The air tastes like dust; old and forgotten like spaces behind the sofa or the backs of wardrobes. It makes Buck feel like he’s choking all over again; coughs punched from battered lungs that scrape his throat like barbed wire. Some mindless part of him sees him trying to cover his mouth with his hands, but the way his arms are taped together don’t allow the movement and he’s turning his mouth into his shoulder instead, breathing heavy through his nose, trying to take comfort from the cold ground underneath him.
“Eddie. Hurts,” Buck whines into the dust, when he can breathe easier and the pounding in his head has been sidelined enough that Buck is able of actual thoughts to weave inside of his mind. It takes him too long to be confused about Eddie being here, considering the lawsuit, his anger, his hatred, his “you’re exhausting”—
“I’ll bet,” Eddie says, in a voice that doesn’t sound remotely like Eddie. Buck furrows his brow in confusion, although just barely because the movement makes his head throb even worse and he doesn’t want to have another near-panic attack, so he lets his head rest against the ground and tries to understand. Turns the last things over in his mind and all he can remember was another trip to Mackey’s office with another settlement—a higher settlement—on the table and not the job position Buck’s been vying for, for the past god-knows how long. Then he’d gone grocery shopping, on the other side of the city, to both avoid any chance of running into the 118 and rehashing that argument as well as to eat up the time of his very empty day. Then it was returning home, unpacking groceries, getting too in his head about all the cooking and recipes that came attached with memories of Bobby and lessons on how to cook that saw Buck kicking himself out of his loft and onto the streets for a run because he’s been building back up his strength, speed, stamina, he’s fit to return to the job, they just won’t—
Then the baseball bat. Or, crowbar.
And now Buck is tied up, laid on the floor, there’s someone bowed over him that isn’t Eddie and Buck—
“Ah, ah, no screaming,” the man says; the touch on Buck’s cheek going from comforting to biting; hand suddenly grabbing Buck’s chin and turning him so that he’s looking up, but it’s not like the throbbing in his head is letting him see, nor the fact the bright lights are shining down deepening his silhouette and the lights themselves is making his brain burn—
“You must be disorientated,” the man continues, with false sympathy; his grip remaining tight and biting when Buck tries to turn away, not wanting to show tears as fear trips and stumbles his heart; lungs ice cold and the air burning like flames and smoke and acid—
“It’s not your fault you’re here,” the man says, over the sound of Buck’s hyperventilating, the grip on his chin vice-tight and Buck can’t catch his breath long enough to beg-to ask-to question why he’s here and what this stranger wants with him, as if understanding might be enough to conquer the fear in his chest and the way the darkness keeps crowding in at the corners of his vision.
It takes an effort, almost far more than anything he’s ever done before—even training and working towards his recertification—but Buck counts his breaths and forces himself to calm enough that he’s breathing in a steady pattern and not chasing black spots in his vision and lack of oxygen getting to his brain. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but the stranger is still crouched over him, still gripping his chin, like a hunter observing it’s prey and Buck hates the comparison but at least he’s got enough mind about himself to be able to think instead of just uselessly thinking, and enough strength to bully air into words.
“W-hy?” he asks, and hopes that encapsulates enough of his confusion.
The stranger cocks his head. It isn’t a malicious action, but it feels cruel and mocking all the same.
“I’m afraid it’s your mommy’s fault,” he says, words playful but altogether sharp, ignoring Buck’s furrowed brow and proceeding grimace. He tries to turn his head away from the bright light that’s shining down from the ceiling (a fitted fixture, not just a free-hanging bulb), but the grip on his chin is stone-strong and Buck isn’t weak enough to win that particular fight. “You see she took something important from me. And now it’s my turn to take something important from her.”
Buck blinks at the light halos imprinted on his eyes. He misses it when the man removes his grip, and his head falls quick, heavy enough to slam into the ground that resonates the pain in his skull like a gong being struck. It makes it harder to think; like wading through maple syrup, all his limbs suddenly lead and heavy, heavier than when he was shackled by the cast on his leg or the disorientation of waking up in a hospital bed after passing out underneath a fire truck.
He wants to tell the stranger he’s not important to Athena. Doesn’t have the mind-space to think why he thinks of Athena before he thinks of Margaret, or even Maddie. He just doesn’t think he’s important to Athena—has never really been important to Athena. She’s tolerated him in the past, even probably hated him when he was a young probie gung-ho about the world and ready to face it with two fists swinging, and yes, things improved greatly when she started dating and married Bobby—recognising that Bobby and Buck had their one-sided playful, other-sided playfully-serious father-son-relationship—but Buck has never been important to her.
Because sure, he’s an emergency-go-to for picking May up from her friends’ parties when Athena, Bobby or Micheal are otherwise engaged; and Harry has chosen to confide in him a few times, about hanging with friends and his first crush on a girl, citing that his Mom and Dad wouldn’t understand (and Buck was flattered to be considered that he would). And yes, maybe Athena has picked him up more than once when he tried to power-through a forty-eight-hour shift on the brink of a bad sickness and he’s made plenty excuses to hang out with her on empty weekends going grocery shopping or doing baking, or helping clean the barbeque before a 118 cookout because he needed to get out of his loft and she’s always got a level-head, a steady hand, and she’s never turned him away from Grant-Nash family dinners and even invited him a few times.
Or at least, he used to.
Before the lawsuit. Before the anger.
Before Buck “Bucked” everything up.
But that doesn’t mean Buck is important enough to Athena that he’s worth getting kidnapped over. Although, distantly, he’s kind of glad it is him over May or Harry, because they’d be far more terrified than he is right now, and he’s so close to curling up and bawling his eyes out, because Buck is scared and confused and his head fucking hurts.
“Well,” the stranger says, patting Buck’s arm lightly. “Princesses need their beauty sleep. You need plenty of rest before we talk with Mommy-Dearest.”
And then he’s standing, looming over Buck in a way that makes his breath catch and a whimper slip from his mouth that just makes the man laugh to himself. He’s reaching over him—Buck scrunches his eyes tight despite the pain—and then the light goes out.
Buck is abandoned to the darkness.