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They're probably not going to die. 70/30. Maybe 60/40 if they get unlucky and the debris pile shifts, but there's nothing they can do about that. Neither of them got hurt, Eddie says oxygen shouldn't be a problem, and two floors above them there's got to be a whole crowd of first responders gathered around their transponders blinking on a screen right now. Their chances are good. Really, really good.
Buck's not going to be the one to say that, though.
He shifts closer so he can brace himself over Eddie on his elbows. It's cramped in their little safe pocket, but he could sit up if he wanted. He doesn't. Eddie hasn't said anything; his big hands are still at Buck's waist, under the turn-out coat, where they flew to steady him when the parking garage groaned and Buck knocked them both to the ground. Half-true. His hands returned there after they radioed for help without a response—their own voices echoing back to them like there wasn't anyone else left in the world.
"Eddie," Buck starts, low and raspy so the words fall only between the two of them. "This is..." he winces even though Eddie can't see it in the dark, "p-pretty bad, right? What—what if we don't..."
Their only light comes from the flickering headlamp laying next to them, casting strange shadows and catching on the concrete dust in the air. It's hard to see, but it doesn't matter; Buck can still feel the give of Eddie's exhale under him, the warm rush of it against his cheek.
"Hey," Eddie says, “we're not there yet, alright?" Steadily, or trying hard to be—there's this hitch to his voice that Buck wants to bottle up like a firefly. They're both breathing way too fast; if either of them was a patient he would have already told them to take slow breaths and try to calm down. But it's them, so he doesn't say anything.
"Yeah, but..." he trails off, then deliberately drops more of his weight onto Eddie, feeling the way he doesn't even flinch until their foreheads brush. "We... we have to be realistic, right?"
He counts the seconds as Eddie stays silent underneath him. Precious seconds, he knows in the back of his mind, and doesn't think harder about why.
Then Eddie's hands at his waist squeeze, once, then slowly, like they're barely even moving, splay out over Buck’s ribs, big and warm and real. Buck takes an inhale and holds it, so he knows what it feels like when his chest expands under Eddie’s touch.
"Yeah," Eddie says, practically voiceless, into the space between their mouths. "We—should be. Realistic."
Static obliterates the quiet, the radio crackling with Gerrard's stupid fucking voice, Firefighter Diaz. Buckley. Do you copy?
Eddie doesn't do anything like spring apart, but he does let go as he reaches for the radio and responds, their contact severing like pressure taken off a wound. Buck has to sit up and grit his teeth against the blinding urge to—what? Smash the fucking radio? Find a piece of rebar to start bleeding out on? He doesn't get to do any of that, because they're starting excavation efforts now, and Gerrard is signing off with something condescending, and then it's him and Eddie again, staring at each other with the real world right there with them. Buck is still panting, can't get enough air, but underneath him Eddie's breathing has gone steady, and even, and slow.
"Looks like we're gonna be okay," Eddie says. Smiles. And doesn't touch him again.