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Buck knows he’s probably in the way, where he’s stood; basket at his feet kind of nearly overflowing while he’s stood in front of the freezer section of the grocery store, mint-choc-chip in one hand and some caramel-sundae ice-cream variation in the other, but he also really doesn’t care right now.
Eddie is letting him come round.
Since the law-suit—since the anger, since Buck’s repeated mistakes, since Bobby’s forgiveness—it’s the first time in a while that Eddie had invited him, back in the firehouse, casually leant against the engine with his thumbs in his pockets, looking as blasé as he can despite the line of tension that ran up his legs and through his shoulders and right up to way his eyes sharpened at the trailing B-shifters walking in for their twenty-four hour stint.
Buck had offered him an out, after he’d managed to fumble his words enough to admit he’d really like to come and crash on Eddie’s couch with take out and, hell, basketball or baseball on the TV and Chris bundled between them like the used to do. Buck offered so many outs, because he had seen the tension and hadn’t wanted to push, even if his door has been figuratively and literally unlocked since his first day back in the firehouse with an extended invitation to everyone, and not just because he’s grown to hate the echoey quiet of his own industrial loft apartment.
And yet Eddie still persisted, to the point that he was threatening to just pick up Buck’s favourite Chinese take out on his way home regardless, so it’s up to him if it’s goes to waste or not; Buck all but on his knees to thank Eddie for his graciousness, for his forgiveness, tripping and stumbling over himself because it’s the first night in months that it’s just going to be him and his—the, the Diaz boys.
(Buck can’t call them his anymore. Not after he did. Not after his own selfishness).
The ice cream is kind of an apology.
And a reward for a shift well done, for him and Eddie both. It hadn’t been too strenuous mentally, but physically they’d been called all over the city and stayed on scene for a handful of incidents both on the main roads and up in the hills and out near the pier leaving them all a little tired and a little worn out.
It had been another out Buck offered, but Eddie had ignored it, already thumbing through his phone for traffic updates and to call ahead to the Chinese with their order—and extra dim-sum for Buck—so that he won’t have to wait longer in the restaurant, leaving Buck to head back to the loft; shower, change, grab an overnight bag and then swing by the grocery store for on-sale ice cream.
As an apology. And a shift well done.
Buck decides on both in the end, because Eddie loves mint-choc-chip and Chris loves caramel—or at the least he did when Buck last went round and he hopes to every and any god imaginable that still holds true—and he’s heading to the checkout before he can really think twice. Heading to Eddies place about five minutes later and really trying not to pull up his hands-free to just, ring Eddie and check that Chris still likes caramel because he can always turn around, or pop into another grocery store, or any other place that does ice cream or cake of whatnot—
“Buck? What’s up?” comes Eddie’s voice over the loudspeaker of his jeep and Buck startles; having gone through the motions almost mindlessly. He’s called Eddie so many times on commute, off commute, on weekends he takes Chris to the zoo or to the beach or pier or planetarium—
“Ah—uh, Eddie. Hi. I… uh—” god he’s useless, “I didn’t realise I called you.”
There’s a pause.
“You car butt-dialled me?”
Buck can’t help but laugh. “What? No, no—I. Muscle memory. I wasn’t really thinking. Well, I was,” Buck amends, staring out the windscreen, following the red lights of cars up ahead, keeping speed and not really paying attention to the road when Eddie’s voice fills his jeep. He’s warm in his hoodie so he doesn’t turn the heating on.
“I bought ice cream,” he says, because Buck hates awkward silences and he always fills it himself, wanted or otherwise, and he also kind of wants to ask because he’s worried and—
“Let me guess. Mint and caramel.”
“This time, they’re in two separate tubs,” Buck says, smiling to himself as he matches Eddie’s pace. It’s easy. It’s familiar. It’s soothing in a way that nothing else ever is and he warms at the sound of Eddie’s echoed laughter. Nothing more is said about the flavours. Nothing more needs to be said, and Buck is grateful. It’s been months since he’s seen Chris, but not everything has changed and Buck can still catch up.
“I’m not far out,” Buck says, slipping onto a road that shaves off fifteen minutes of his drive. “If you still haven’t changed your mind,” he adds, when Eddie says nothing.
“What—No, Buck you’re coming. I’ve already grabbed the food; plates are in the over warming up. Besides, you’ve already bought the ice cream.”
“Sounds like you just want me for my dairy treats,” Buck says, internally wincing. Not that Eddie lets him second guess himself for too long because he’s laughing in that way that Buck can practically see him hanging his head, shaking it with disbelief.
“Just get your ass here Buck. Before the ice cream melts.”
“Yes sir,” Buck laughs, and then he’s thumbing the hang up option; the jeep falling into silence once more, but this time Buck isn’t getting caught up in his own head and instead he thumbs at the radio to get his driving playlist to come out over the speakers, skipping through the songs until he gets to one that he knows enough of the words and the base is quick enough to scratch an itch he didn’t know he had.
He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the third rendition of the chorus by the time he’s pulling onto Eddie’s road, automatically turning the volume down because of the late hour, pulling onto Eddie’s drive with practiced ease, like this is home instead of the loft that’s not far from the fire house.
The front of the house is darker than it should be, what with Eddie’s automatic security light. It’s the first warning sign, but Buck isn’t concentrating on that, juggling ice cream and his happiness, turning the jokes in his head as he jingles his keys to find the one that matches Eddie’s front door—
Something collides with the side of his face when he’s looking down, trying to find the front door key. He didn’t see it coming, with his hood up and the material acting like blinders, and it’s only been half a second but Buck has always been quick on his feet—has to be, to be a firefighter where anything can go wrong inside a burning building—and he’s jamming his elbow up, to the left before he’s even really thought about it. He’s rewarded with a shout of surprise, something angry and vicious and Buck is still trying to stand up straight where he’d been caught off guard when something is coming from the right and he realises that there is more than one person.
He's still reeling from that fact that he’s getting mugged, face burning like its freshly sunburnt beneath the sudden wetness of something running over his top lip to really pay attention to the hand fisted in the back of his shirt and he’s getting yanked back—which is no mean feat considering his size and weight and—
Buck is proud of his body. Like, sure, half of it is due to his firefighting and all the peak fitness he keeps his body in, not for show, so when he lashes out with a guttural snarl he feels the weight of his punch land in the gut one of the nameless fools trying to mug him outside Eddie’s house.
There’s insults being thrown over his head, followed by punches, too many for him to defend and he feels them snap his head forward, back, air slammed out his lungs, and when he loses his balance because someone shoves him hard, they start kicking him even when he can’t fight back and all he can throw out is pleas for them to stop.
It’s all he can do to get his arms up around his head and protect his skull even when he feels something slam heavy against the side of his head, knocking him into the concrete with such force he bounces back up and—
His limbs go all floppy after that.
Darkness sweeps in despite the scattered lampposts and the porch light that barely lights up the tiled driveway, and Buck feels like there is cotton in his ear when he hears voices he doesn’t recognise and—
“Shit, shit. This ain’t Diaz. Alan what the fuck—”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know‽ Sam said the fucker lived here. Followed him home after he won that last fucking fight!”
“Oh blame me,” someone says and Buck grapples with understanding between the sounds of his brain knocking around in his skull, saliva dripping off his tongue and iron choking him where he’s bit something.
Half his mind is soup. The other half is flooded with a sudden intense panic that is torn between the fear of being jumped and all the injuries his semi-conscious is listing off, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Hen’s, while another part is screaming that they’re outside Eddie’s house, practically on his doorstep and Buck needs help, he needs his partner, but if Eddie came outside right now he’d be in danger—
All of a sudden, there’s footsteps. They’re leaving, the three strangers, and it’s so relieving that Buck lets his head tip back onto the driveway, something cold pressing into his temple as his eyes flutter close.
His head is pounding, but luckily it’s no longer because of fists, but just the bruises and damage left behind. There’s blood mixed in with the sweat and tears pouring down his cheeks—Buck’s eyesight vision and blurred and watery because one of them punched him in the face, caught his nose and his eyes immediately began to water. His tongue feels fat in his mouth and its full of—ugh, blood. It comes dribbling out the side and Buck has enough awareness not to spit because it’s Eddie’s driveway.
Eddie’s in the house.
But Buck is dizzy and he’s—
His limbs are a little floppy and Hen’s voice is warning him about concussions and keeping still—Buck’s head got snapped about pretty rough, there might be spinal damage. Can he feel his feet? Shit are his toes wiggling?
At the very least he can still move his arms. He doesn’t know where his keys are, or the ice creams, he must’ve dropped them when he first got jumped, and Buck kind of wants to cry about it, but he also knows that Hen is right and he should be following protocols, even if he’s not on shift. There’s a reason they have them, a reason they stick to them as much as they’re able and although Buck has got a concussion or a migraine or his brain is currently soup sloshing around inside a cracked skull, he at least has the wherewithal to reach for his phone.
It’s in his hoodie pouch.
Face ID doesn’t work for one reason or another, and it takes Buck too many times to thumb at the fingerprint sensor that he locks himself out and has to thumb in a passcode, and even then it takes a moment, because punching in Christopher’s birthday takes him at least three tries. Luckily he’s still on Eddie’s contact from where they were on call earlier and Buck hits the phone as his eyes slide shut.
He should probably feel guilty about all the mess he’s making and the fact that Eddie is about to pick up his broken pieces again, but somewhere between the tiredness and the head trauma, Buck hopes that Eddie won’t hold this against him. They’ve been trying to get back to their normal, and Buck should really be calling Athena about this mugging—and Bobby because he’s going to need at least a day off to recover—but Hen’s voice is persistent about getting help and Buck… is being selfish.
He’ll beat himself up about it later.
“Buck?”
Ah. That’s Eddie’s voice.
Buck heaves his eyes open and glances at the still-closed front door. Looks towards his lit phone screen and the blood smeared over the picture of him, Eddie and Chris when they went to the zoo after the sloth exhibit opened almost a year ago.
“Buck? Did you actually butt-dial me this time?”
That’s the second time Eddie’s called for him.
Buck tries swallowing his tongue and tries to shape an apology and an explanation all at once. All he manages to get out a groan.
Eddie’s voice shifts immediately.
“Buck? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Where are you?” he asks in a rush, and Buck knows he’s jumping to a thousand conclusions, because Buck knows his partner better than he knows himself sometimes, and Eddie’s worst habit is his pessimism, that, while is very good from a cautious firefighting point-of-view, it’s less helpful in his day to day.
Buck unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“Outside. Don’t… don’t let Chris—”
“Outside? Like—Buck what do you mean?” Eddie asks, and Buck can almost hear an echo where Eddie has stepped away from the kitchen or the living room or whatever, and he’s coming to the front door. Or maybe it’s just Buck’s head because his head is still pounding and now Chim has joined Hen’s whispering as they try and triage him from his sub-conscious.
“Don’t—keep Chris—” away, Buck tries to say, because Chris wouldn’t understand this. Fuck, Buck hardly understands it and he was the one in the middle of it all, taking hits and punches and barely being able to dish much out in return where they’d caught him off guard. Some little thought in the corner of his brain is telling him they didn’t even mean to target him, but the pounding is a little too prominent to grab hold of that line of thinking.
Certainly not when Eddie is still asking questions and the front door is rattling and suddenly there’s a bright golden light spilling from the house and the hallway and—
“Buck!” Eddie and Buck’s phone cry at the same time; Eddie crashing to his knees and Buck really should apologise about the blood because he’d caught sight of it in the light, spilling out between him and the porch step, but now all he can see is Eddie: Eddie’s hands on his cheeks, Eddie’s face leaning in, Eddie’s eyes wide in worry and panic and fear—
“Buck—shit—what, what happened?” he asks, hands scrambling slightly where he’s caught off guard and the medic brain probably hasn’t kicked in yet. Buck doesn’t blame him. He’s struggling too, although that’s the head trauma. Hopefully it’s not too bad. He was looking forward to take out, movies and ice cream.
He’s gone and bucked things up again.
“Wha—no, no this isn’t—you haven’t done anything wrong, fuck Buck what happened?” Eddie asks again, while he’s grabbing at his phone, thumbing a number they both know off by heart and—
“This is firefighter Diaz, off duty. Buck’s been—Buck’s hurt,” he says, and god that word sounds like it hurts him. Buck tries to hold his hand. Squeeze his wrist. It’s not like words are easy right now, but Eddie is hurting and Buck promised to always have his back, even if he hasn’t been doing a very good job of that at the moment, and he’s got a lot to make up for, and bleeding out on his driveway isn’t really a good start.
“Hey, hey Buck stay with me,” Eddie is saying, tapping his cheeks very lightly, glancing between him and the phone he’s abandoned on the bloody tiles between them, talking to dispatch and—he thinks he hears Athena’s name, maybe Bobby’s—and Buck should really being doing more than laying here, grappling with his consciousness, but whoever jumped him got him good.
Buck squeezes Eddie’s wrist again.
Twice. As an apology.
And then, before he slips under entirely, three times.