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Night-time. The streets are unusually empty, and the air is still. It holds its breath, it seems, like it knows that on the underbelly of a gentle metal beast, something else is binding its time, counting the minutes ticking by, waiting in silence.
The sirens of several emergency vehicles cut through the silence as they speed to their destination. Smoke detectors going off in a closed apartment. No flames sighted yet. No casualty reported yet.
That changes, from one second to the next.
The engine's leading the way as it takes a left turn. The ladder truck tries to follows.
It blows up before it can.
—
Buck should be sitting in the back of the engine, as he usually does, with his team. Instead, he's sitting in the front of the ladder truck. He's here because of a joke: they all love to tease Chimney about it—if Chim can sit in the captain's chair, then anybody can.
He doesn't know yet that joke is going to taste like ash in the back of his throat. Soon.
The radio comes to life.
"118, 118, this is dispatch," it says. "I've got Bobby Nash on the line. He says it's important."
That takes Buck by surprise. He shares a look with Reese, who's driving on his left, whishes he could share a look with Eddie, or Chim, or Hen. Why is Bobby on the line with dispatch? Has something happened? Is he okay?
Chimney's voice rises through the radio from up ahead in the engine, his confusion echoing Buck's.
"Wait, what? Dispatch, please repeat—"
It's all Buck has time to hear.
An earsplitting blast shakes right through him, through his entire body. It's loud, so loud, and Buck's heart jumps right into his throat even as his whole center of gravity shifts to the side. He doesn't have time to brace or make himself small before a force picks him up, grabs him through the navel to yank on his stomach, shoves him sideways.
He's weightless, no up, no down. His brain scrambles–
Heat washes over him, suffocating, hot as a flashover. Wait, he only has a split second to think, awashed with biting cold fear, I'm not–not in my turnout yet, not ready–
His brain scrambles, tries to make sense of what's happening, sends panicked signals to every nerve endings. He's weightless, for all of one second, until he's not.
Something hard and unforgiving slams into his side, his shoulder, his
head—
Static.
White noise overtakes every one of his senses—a relief, after the overwhelming cacophony that just ripped him apart.
Buck doesn't try to move, just lets dizzying wave after dizzying wave wash over him as he lets himself sink to the metaphorical bottom. He lays there, submerged, lungs frozen, wrapped in cottony shock. His mind struggles to come back online, but his body knows before it does: something's wrong. Something's wrong.
His lungs unlock. He breathes, and it's an effort, the sting of it sharp and dry. A cough stays trapped in his chest. His throat won't work. Too soon, he becomes aware of more sensations squirming and waking inside of him.
His stomach contorts in nauseating twists and turns, writhing, too big for his insides. His heart's beating a mile a minute, high up in his throat. He swallows convulsively around it, can't cough through the obstruction, feels like throwing it up.
He focuses on his heart beating through his throat, lets it act as a dam to the sickness trying to rise up from his belly.
It's beating fast, his heart, so fast. In time with a pain he only notices now, spearing through his head. It cuts through the static in his brain, like a beacon through the night flashing red and dark and red, again and again and again. His hair feels damp. His face too.
His hands spasm, scrape against something hard, warm, smooth and uneven at the same time. His fingers try to grab at it, find no purchase.
The pain keeps flashing red through his head, over and over. It's making him sick.
He can taste fire before he can smell it. Smoke. Exhaust fumes. It's heavy in the air and on his tongue, thick, makes him gag. Flashing red, even through closed eyelids. His head pounds.
This is wrong. This is wrong.
Something's happened. He has to move. He doesn't know what's going on, if it's still happening, but he knows he's going to die if he stays lying there like roadkill.
Roadkill. Exhaust fumes. His brain scrambles and his fingers find no purchase on warm asphalt–
He pries his eyes open, and it's hard. His sight doesn't come to him right away. It's in fits and starts, blurry, his eyes and his brain too slow for the input they're trying to receive.
He feels like throwing up, swallows hard. The light flashes red.
In front of his eyes is nothing but black asphalt. It looks solid under his fingers, but it keeps dipping, left and right, as if somebody's shaking the street like it's a snow globe. His heart stumbles in time with it; he feels like he's gonna fall. His fingers find no purchase.
Flashing red, and his head pounds, and his stomach writhes.
His hands slide across the asphalt, try to find purchase on something, anything.
Move!
He tries. He tries. He can't even keep his eyes open.
Move!
He tries, feels like he's moving through mud, drags his fingers and hands and arms along asphalt. He tries to move his legs, means to curl up, just for a second, just until the nausea settles.
The sound of shattering glass splits the air, so loud in the dead quiet. So loud, but something else takes his breath away. It comes along so fast, so sudden.
The shock is blindsiding.
He flashes hot, he flashes cold. Can't feel the ground under his hands anymore. Can't feel his hands. There's a rushing echoing in his ears and there's a scream trapped in his belly—it's deafening, almost, but he still hears his own guttural breaths like it's coming from outside of him as he gasps and struggles through the shock.
Not shock—pain. It's pain. It's raw, trapped, feral, so overwhelming he can't give it more voice than little aborted cries of agony. His mind immediately retreats from it.
He feels his eyes roll back into his head, and he tries to hold on, fingers reflexively clutching at the asphalt. He feels it list to the side under him again, and the vertigo it causes is almost enough to send him into oblivion. He concentrates on holding himself very still, terrified he's about to fall off the face of the earth, tries to find a shaky equilibrium between it, his rolling stomach, and the monstrous pain that came with the sound of shattering glass.
The balance is precarious, and it's all he can do to hold on.
A shuffling sound. Buck feels his eyelids flutter, tries with everything he has to see through them.
A pair of feet appear just on the edge of his blurry vision and despite the 180° of his every instinct now screaming don't move! don't move! he turns his head towards it. The world lurches again and his fingers spasm with terror.
Help. He needs help.
Buck squints up, can just make out dark hair, young features, and a clunky vest.
"Huh," the figure says. "You're new."
New? Buck's brain can't make sense of it. He's not–
The figure retreats.
Wait, he wants to plead. Wait–help–
He can't keep his eyes open, can't call—he opens his mouth and feels like throwing up. There's still a cough trapped in his lungs and it hurts.
He tries to find that precarious balance again, desperate to escape the nausea churning in his guts and his stomach and his throat. That other, ominous pain lies in wait, at the edge of his consciousness; he refuses to look back, refuses to face it.
He lets his head drop to the ground. It smells like coolant, exhaust, burnt rubber, and smoke, and fire—
Red flashes through his eyelids. His head pounds in rhythm. His heart, too.
He doesn't know where he is.
It should worry him. He should try to figure this out, find a way to help himself, to help others.
He's just—tired. He hurts. Can't keep his eyes open.
He just needs to rest for a minute.
He keeps his head on the asphalt, feels the warmth of black concrete releasing the heat of the day seep into his forehead. It feels nice. His body feels cold, shaky.
Raised voices around him, distant, lull him to an almost sleep.
He hums to himself. He thinks he just found it again, that precious equilibrium where it doesn't hurt as bad, where it doesn't feel like he's about to hurl his whole fifteen feets of intestines, where the world has the grace to slow its dizzying spinning. The light keeps flashing red and dark above him, but he ignores it. It's comforting too, if a bit annoying. Constant.
The street stops moving under him and—that's good. He appreciates that.
He wonders if an earthquake just happened.
There's shouting, over his head. With his eyes closed and the rolling of the world quieting, whole words make it through the fog, just barely.
Stay back!
He opens his eyes to mere slits. If an earthquake happened, he has to help. That's his job.
Just off to the side of him, black on black bitumen, there's a headset. He drags his hand to it, lets his fingers brush against it. His fingers are tingling. His palms are scratched to hell.
It's—that's—He wears one of those, when he's in the truck.
Where's the captain?
Bobby.
Help–
Don't! You stay back or I kill us all!
Buck's heart starts beating faster and faster again, a new dose of adrenaline rushing through his veins. He doesn't understand what's happening.
Okay–
That's Chim's voice. Because–wait, Chim's–Chimney's captain now. And he's here. They love to tease him but Chim's a good captain. He's obnoxious, but he cares. He cares so much.
–okay.
Chim's a good man.
The sound of a groan, not too far from him. Someone's in pain.
Stay back!
His vision's swimming as Buck carefully raises his head again, feels the weight of his brain fall to the back of his skull. Saliva floods his mouth. He blinks and blinks through dark spots and the wetness seeping into his eye. That entire side of his face feels wet.
God, his head hurts.
You, get out. All of you, out of the truck!
The voice feels closer and he jumps then gasps at the pain lurking just behind him. It feels so big, right there at his feet. His heart beats faster, faster, faster.
His breathing picks up, too, but once again he refuses to look back. Instead, he blinks and squints up ahead, discerns another pair of shoes through the fog. They're the wrong way, toes pointed up, soles vertical. Not moving. Like someone's lying down in the street.
Where's the captain?
Bobby—please, help—
Why isn't he here?
No, right—Chimney—
Out!
Help—
He stares at the boots not far from him, lets his eyes follow along a pair of legs, recognises the uniform before he recognises the person.
Someone's down. Firefighter's down.
Out of the truck!
Movements, behind him. Shifting. Groans. Aborted sounds of pain.
He tries to drag himself to his coworker, can't. Something's—something's got him, has taken hold of him. The pain, it's lurking, so close, right there at his feet.
Everybody out, or I blow us all to hell!
Movements. More groans, more yelling, more shattering glass.
Movements. Shattering glass. The weight that's taken hold of him shifts, just a little, barely at all, and Buck flashes hot and cold again just like before, but it takes a moment for his brain to catch up that—
God, his leg. It's his leg.
The pain, it's got him, it's bitten down onto his leg and it's trying to shake him like a dog with a toy. Except he's stuck, he's stuck right where he is. The road rolls under him again, side to side, and it's stealing his breath. There's a scream trapped in his belly, but he can't breathe and all he can hear come up and out are ragged and pathetic whimpers. His leg.
It's his leg.
More noise, more movements rattling whatever's holding him down, and the rattling transfers into his leg, his body, all the way up to his teeth. They'll shatter.
He doesn't have the breath to scream.
The pain. The pain.
The lights are flashing red, right above his head.
This pain's too big for him. He claws at black concrete underneath his body, presses his face into it, hard, as hard as he can until he sees stars. Pain to escape pain.
He blinks tears and blood out of his eyes. His headset's lying on the ground, right there beside him.
The truck. He was on the ladder truck. On his way to a call.
The lights flash red.
That's John, lying a few feet away from him. He was—he was on the truck, too. Sitting right behind him. He's got a head wound, looks like. He's moving now, feebly, groaning.
Red.
None of you move!
Buck tries to—tries to move. To get to John, to get away from—
He can't get a grip on the asphalt, can't drag himself forward because–
Something's—something's on his leg.
Red.
His breathing comes fast, ragged, noisy, uneven. Stay calm, he tells himself. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.
He was on the truck.
The lights flash red, just above his head.
Please.
Please.
Let us help them.
Chimney?
We'll stay right here,
Chimney's here.
We won't get in your way, just—
Chim's a paramedic. A damn good one. And a captain now, too. He'll know what to do.
Let us help them.
Please.
Please.
He needs Chim, and the others. Hen, and Eddie. He can't do this on his own, can't even wrap his head around what's happening.
Stay calm, he tells himself, and pull yourself together. He's not a paramedic, but he's a first responder. He's trained. He's a professional. He can help. He just needs to pull himself together.
Just a second. He needs—just—
NO!
Buck jumps, and the pain, the pain—
He blinks, lets his mind flee the pain, concentrates on anything else he can feel. He's breathing in warm bitumen and acrid smoke and hot coolant and exhaust gas. The tang of metal. Burnt rubber. He knows those smells. Vehicular accident.
He was on the truck. He's on the asphalt now, and he can't move.
He's hurt. He's hurt. It's more—more than the blood he feels running down his face. Head wound. Probable concussion. It's more than that.
His whole body thrums, skin tight, insides tender and pulsing, the ache deep. Blunt force trauma. It's more than that.
His leg.
I said stay back!
He turns his head, slowly, feels the ache throughout his body with every minute move. His body's twisted at the waist, his hip's jutting out, the other's pressed into the ground. His legs—
His peripheral vision catches something big, and red, right there at his feet.
He closes his eyes and turns his head back so fast the asphalt slants under him like the deck of a boat. He holds onto the cement, presses his forehead into the ground.
The truck.
He opens his eyes again, and his vision swims. The nausea's back in his guts, stirs them all about as fear grabs him by the throat.
He forces himself to breathe through his nose, tries to swallow, fails, feels a ragged gasp punch out his throat instead.
He twists his neck, feels it twinge and resist as he looks up above him. His head shakes, trembles, like he can't support its weight. Cervicals and spinal integrity possibly compromised. He should stop moving around.
The ladder hangs just above him, going sideways, long and steely and precarious—like a Damocles sword, dread made solid and tangible and threatening. If it falls it'll decapitate him.
Buck gulps, and his fear tastes acidic.
Between the ladder and the roof of the truck, the siren's lights flash red, over and over and over.
The roof of the truck. He's lying on asphalt, but he's looking at it. Shouldn't be possible. Roof is supposed to face the sky. Smooth red expense, facing him, lying on the ground. Above him, the ladder hangs, sideways. The truck's on its side.
The truck's on his leg.
A panicked sob rips out from his throat. He scrambled and tries to pull himself forward, but the weight, the weight is too great.
The pain—
It's blindsiding, the pain. Sharp pulses splitting his leg in half. He hears a sob, two, three, and there's no force or breath to them. The pain's got him one foot out of his mind, the other—the other's under—
The truck.
He steps back inside his mind, forces himself to slow his breathing, and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. Hysteria's closing in on the edges. He pushes it away, concentrates on his lungs. Imagines them inflating and expending as he breathes in, slowly, deliberately, then deflating and shrivelling as he breathes out, slower still.
His lungs feel healthy. Once he makes it through the panic, breathing's easy enough, unimpeded. His ribs feel battered, but his chest doesn't feel compromised. He'd know. He's broken enough ribs in his life.
His leg, though—
He shuts the thought down. Nothing he can do about that.
But the pain. The pain—
He closes his eyes against it.
Head down, breathing through his nose, the nausea's not as bad as before. The road's stopped tanking left to right. He's grateful for that. He still hasn't stopped shaking himself.
He doesn't think it was an earthquake.
The voices he heard, arguing, yelling. He can't remember what they were saying.
He opens his eyes, looks around as much as he can, deliberately ignores the truck that's sitting on his—
There are more bodies on the ground than before, now. Not bodies. They're all moving weakly, hesitantly. All wearing uniforms. Firefighters. His coworkers. All coworkers that were with him, on the ladder truck, before it—
Vehicular accident.
He didn't see it coming. He was sitting up front, but he didn't see the accident coming.
Through the thinning smoke, in the distance, he can make out the engine, to the left of him, all four wheels firmly on the road. Can't see any other damaged vehicle close by.
He squints, eyes watering, and he can just make out Chimney. Then Hen, and Eddie. They're huddled close to the engine. They're not coming over.
Buck wants to call out to them, but he's not sure he can find his voice. The pain, the pain—
They look like they're hiding. Chim, Hen and Eddie.
Dread, dread threatens to swallow him whole, crush him in its mouth and eat him alive and digest him, and Buck feels the strongest urge to hide from it, too.
Just then, a figure walks from around the ladder truck and back into his field of vision.
Dark hair, young features, a clunky vest. The figure's hand is raised, fist closed, holding something. Buck's head pounds, and pounds, and pounds.
Sirens, in the distance.
They bring no relief to the dread crushing him into the pavement.
Not the dread, the—
The truck.
The truck's crushing him into the pavement.
Calm down, he tells himself. Calm down, calm down, calm down, please, calm down—
In through his nose. Hold it in. Out, slowly, carefully. He can do this.
You're not the captain.
He can do this. In, hold, out. He's fine, he's fine.
Why were you in his seat?
Buck blinks through tears. Two boots, right there, right in front of him. He blinks again, looks up. His vision's still swimming. It won't ever stop, feels like. Concussion.
His ears pop.
"Hey."
Buck blinks.
Dark hair's waving at him, hand closed in a fist around—something. Clunky vest.
"Where's your captain?" He looks—frustrated, maybe. Annoyed. Anxious, maybe.
Buck's throat works, but he can't make much more than a questioning little noise. Pathetic.
Dark hair makes an impatient noise of his own, turns back around. "You!" he screams at someone else. "I said don't move!"
And suddenly, Buck is acutely aware how noisy the world is. Groans and moans, from figures lying all over the asphalt. He recognises John, and Ahmed, and Reese. More, further away. All of them were on the truck with him.
Even further away, he hears Chimney's voice. It's indistinct, his tone of voice stressed, the words clipped, sentences short. Garbled voices answer. Talking on the radio, sounds like.
Further away still, sirens. Coming closer, closer, closer.
"This is not what was supposed to happen," dark hair clunky vest is saying, a chuckle in his voice. Anxious. Nervous.
Above him, the truck keeps creaking, grinding, weight settling,
settling onto his—
He slams his eyes shut, breathes in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in, in—holds. It's hard, and his lungs strain in fear, ribcage too tight around them.
He presses his forehead into the asphalt. Listens to the sirens, closer still, to the crackling of Chim's radio. They're coming. They're coming, they're coming to get him—
He breathes out, shaky. Feels the strongest urge to cry.
Please, get him out. Get him out. Get him out.
He grabs onto the ground, fails to find purchase. Tries to drag himself away anyway, fails to do anything but set the pain in his leg alight, red and dark, red and dark, pulsing and gnawing.
The truck's eating his leg, he thinks hysterically.
Get me out!
Sirens, louder, louder still.
Calm down, he tells himself, tries to calm his breathing too. In, hold, out. Help is coming. Stay calm. Stay calm.
The sirens are becoming so loud. There's more than one, more than two. Stabbing pains into his ears, into his brain. That pain he embraces. It's a pain that means comfort soon. They're coming.
He lays his forehead back again onto the asphalt, lets the sounds of sirens and screeching tires melt his brain.
They're coming.
He keeps his eyes closed, doesn't have it in him to try and open them again. They're coming. They'll see his pain, they'll feel sorry, they'll come get him, they'll fix him.
He hums to himself. Lets the wold narrow to the sounds of help coming, to the feel of asphalt under his forehead, to the pulsing pain pressing into his skull in tempo with his heart. He's alive.
More sirens, more screeching tires. Doors opening and slamming shut. Boots running across pavement. Yelling.
They're coming. Any second now.
Buck hums to himself. The asphalt hums right back at him, constant vibrations running under its thick skin minutely.
Sirens. Running. Yelling.
It's all getting overwhelming, his ears shying away from the assault. He blocks it all out, waits for the warm pressure of a hand in his. A gentle palm on his forehead, a brush of fingers in his hair.
He waits, and waits, and waits. Any second now.
He lets the imagined sensations comfort him. Feels his heartbeat slow, and slow, and slow, his breathing quieting. There's a rhythm to the pounding in his head, and it hurts, but it helps. The rhythm is constant, and measured. He feels heavy as it lulls him further down, down through the cement, leaving his body and the stress and his pain behind. He feels himself slide right into sleep's comforting embrace, feels himself sink into unconsciousness, feels himself
f
a
l
l
He startles awake with a jolt and a shot of adrenaline.
—and pain, the pain—
He pushes it away with all his might, lets it fester at the very edge of his perception, makes his mind flee far from it.
It's so noisy.
He blinks his eyes open, dread thudding painfully against his ribs.
He doesn't know where he is. He feels sluggish, queasy. He's shivering. Thinks he was about to doze off. Knows with absolute certainty he cannot move his leg.
Yelling.
He blinks, squints through grimy crusty eyes and the glare of bright lights. Wasn't it dark just now? Wasn't it night? Wasn't he just trying to sleep? He feels lost. Like he lost time, too. Like he was just thrown down wholly unprepared in the middle of—something.
Adrenaline's souring inside his veins, because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with it. He grips onto the asphalt with cold fingers, and that's all he can do.
Maddie. He needs—
There are so many cars around, emergency vehicles that came out of nowhere, their doors slamming shut left and right, their lights flashing red and blue and red and blue. So many people seem to materialize, just a distance away, talking, shouting, yelling.
He doesn't know where he is.
Give me the captain!
Buck's heart jumps inside his throat, bile rising to escape it. Buck moans, chokes on it, swallows, and it tastes like acid, and it burns, it burns all the way down. There's a tacky feeling on his forehead, all down the side of his face.
Coolant, exhaust, smoke, ash.
Where's the captain?!
Bobby, please—
"Hey!"
Buck startles. The pain—
"I told you not to move."
A figure in a clunky vest, fist raised menacingly over another prone figure on the ground.
No. He tries to drag himself forward, up, wants to intervene. The pain—
He blinks through the white and black spots floating across his vision. His eyelids keep trying to shut, his eyes keep trying to roll back. His head feels too hot, sharply contrasted by the cold claws digging into and creeping up along his spine.
That's John on the ground. He's got his arms up in surrender. He was sitting right behind Buck. On—on the truck.
The truck.
I'm the captain!
Fear almost overwhelms him. He feels it, absolute panic flaring through every nerve endings for all of one second. Just as fast, his mind slams the door on it.
Okay?
Buck rests his forehead back on the ground, lets cooling asphalt tame the flames raging under his skin. Forces himself to stay present, to listen.
"—I'm the captain." That's Chim—Chimney. Chimney's captain? Where's Bobby? "So please just let me help them, okay? Please."
Chim's begging. He sounds so serious. So genuine. Scared, even. Must be bad.
"No," says an unfamiliar voice. "No I don't want you."
Buck keeps his eyes closed. The truck, his mind keeps repeating. The truck. The truck.
"I want captain Nash."
Bobby. God, he wants Bobby too. He wants Bobby.
The pain lurking at his feet feels so big, so bad, so monstrous. He needs Bobby. Maddie. He needs to be held through it. He can't do this alone. Please.
More yelling surges, far away, voices raised and urgent and angry. His neck pulls on his spine in a series of painful twinges as he lifts his head. The flashing lights keep punching through his eye sockets like lasers into the back of his skull. Shapes and colors. He can't see anything.
"Freddie!"
Eddie, he wants Eddie, too. Eddie's always so calm, so composed. Buck admires him so much. Aches for his calming presence, right now. He's never had a best friend before. Thinks maybe Eddie could be it.
"Thought you'd be on the truck."
The truck.
His heart pounds pounds pounds. That voice, though. The voice that shouted Eddie's name, just before. It sounded like—
"I'm here now."
Buck's heart stops in his chest. It takes so much effort to lift his head, but he has to, because that's Bobby, that's Bobby's voice, Bobby's here, he's here—
"What's next? It's what you wanted."
Buck can't make sense of what Bobby's saying. Thinks he's missing precious context clues. Half believes he's hallucinating. Brain bleed, maybe. His injured brain materialising Buck's wishes to soothe his dying mind.
"Wanted you dead."
God, he never wants Bobby to die. Never, never, never, never—
"I get that—" Buck hopes he does get it because he can't lose Bobby ever. "—what about them?" And Buck doesn't want to die either. Not like this. Not like this. He's too scared. He's not ready. "What about him?" Bobby's apparition adds, a sudden edge to his voice, and points straights at Buck. Buck quints right up at him, and doubt creeps into his confused mind. Is this real? Is Bobby here?
"He's got parents," Bobby's saying, and that doesn't feel right. His parents, he aches for them but they don't care, they don't care— "a sister," —Maddie Maddie— "a girlfriend, and he never did anything to you."
Yes, he wants to live. He wants to try and build a future with Ali. He wants Maddie. He wants Eddie. Hen. Chim. He wants to live.
He misses the rest of what Bobby's saying. A tingling sensation takes advantage of his renewed desperation like ants crawling all over him, makes him tense and squirm. He wants to live. He wants to get out, get out, get out—
"—Collateral damage."
He's damaged. His hip's hurting, too, he's noticing now. Acute restlessness seizes him out of nowhere, his body begging him to move, shift, change position. His whole weight's resting on his hip at an angle, compressing nerves, blood pooling in wrong places. He needs to move—
But there's a whole other weight on his leg and it's heavy and crushing and it won't let him move.
Panic, bubbling up, like water overflowing out of him.
Bobby's voice.
He can't make out the words anymore. There's a buzzing in his ears, in his blood, the overwhelming urge to move maddening, drowning him in claustrophobia-inducing waves of despair. Pins and needles keep shooting up and down his leg, into his hip, his back.
Pain, there's supposed to be pain there, in his leg. He can't really feel that anymore, just the weight, the crushing
weight—
Please, get him out.
They're talking, Bobby and the kid with the raised fist. He can't understand what they're saying, the rushing in his ears too overpowering. He tries to concentrate instead on the cadence of Bobby's timber. So calm, Bobby's always so calm. So composed. Buck admires him. He loves him, so much, and he hopes Bobby loves him too, even just a little.
The urge to cry comes back strong, clogs his throat. Buck closes his eyes, breathes through the lump in his throat, through the unbearable, jittering sizzle that roams through his body now that pain's abandoned him. He shivers with it, feels like butter or oil at the bottom of a frying pan, and it should burn and hurt but the sizzle of it all has fried his nerves.
He grits his teeth and holds back his sobs until abruptly, the sizzle dies down to a simmer. The pins' and needles' pointy ends become rounder, softer, gentler.
He breathes out in relief.
It's bad, he knows. Pain means live tissue, live nerve endings, live body. The numbness creeping up is bad, really bad. He can't feel his leg. The truck's still there, though, glaring, red, heavy, heavy, heavy.
He tries to open his eyes, but the lids have become almost just as heavy. The rest of the world is too dizzying anyway, as is the conversation happening right above him.
He wants to live. He's just—so tired. He's cold, but his shivers are dying down, too.
Bad, bad, this is bad. He's gotta get out, soon.
The asphalt isn't warm anymore. It just feels hard. It's leeching the body heat right out of him, and he barely shivers in response.
He needs out.
Wasn't Bobby just here?
Movement, brusque, sudden. Adrenaline snaps through Buck once more, reignites the restlessness.
Tension seems to mount and crackle through the air, but Buck can't keep up. He squints, can just make out two bodies pressed together, stumbling, fighting over something.
He can't keep his head up.
The sound of rustling clothing, shuffling steps, grunting men.
Just as soon, a lot more steps, running steps, coming from a distance and approaching fast. People yelling all over, and they're suddenly so loud, so close, shouting "FREEZE!" and "DON'T MOVE!" and Buck couldn't move if he wanted to, and he wants to, so, so bad.
He's not sure the voices are even talking to him. He's not sure he's even here anymore. He feels stretched so thin, like he's seeping and disappearing into the pavement.
He raises his head out of sheer stubbornness, neck grinding and snapping electric pulses down his spine. He catches a glimpse of many shoes and boots through the red haze fogging his vision. A forest of legs. They came out of nowhere. Just sprouted up out of this wasteland of empty concrete. Buck wishes his own leg—
There was—
His leg—
His brain feels too heavy for his head. He lets it fall back down with a thud.
So many feet beating at the ground, and Buck feels it vibrate with every hit. Feels it in his bones. It doesn't hurt, really, but it pulls on his insides, his tissues, pulls until he feels stretched, too thin, strung out, left to dry, left alone, left—
Still with us, Buck?
Where did Bobby go? Wasn't he just here? Is he sleeping, dreaming?
Buck!
Buck, that's him. He's here. He's here. Hasn't moved, he swears.
"Buck—" the touch of a hand, and Buck would startle if his body still could. It snaps him right back to himself, though. The truck. "How're we doing?"
Hen. That's Hen. Her voice is always so warm, so calm, so composed. But there's an edge to it just now. Shaky.
The truck. The truck.
She's expecting a response. He tries to figure out how he feels, tries to find his own voice, but it's hard. He has to reach so deep in his last reserves to find it.
How is he doing? Not sure. Can't feel much of anything anymore. There's a thrumming pounding inside his skull, but it's dull. Kinda—
"Kinda numb."
His voice is rough, like he's had to drag gravel all over his trachea. He's so thirsty, but he's not hot, he's cold, and it feels like his body's trying and failing to shiver.
That's bad, he thinks.
Except. Hands are touching him, warm, scalding points of contact on chilled skin. They're touching his hands, his shoulders, his neck, his head, and if Buck had any energy, he'd lean into them.
Yes. Yes. This is everything he wanted. He's so glad.
"I'm gonna run two lines."
Exhaustion settles over him, keeping the world muffled and soft, like a weighted blanket. This weight is comforting, not like—
"Skin is cold and pale."
His mind flees from upsetting thoughts.
He feels Eddie's presence right there, right beside him, two scalding fingers resting on his pulse point. He lets himself be lulled by the soothing rhythm of familiar voices. Listens to the sound of Hen rummaging through her bag.
"Push sodium bicarbonate."
Chim's there too, he thinks distantly.
One of them is always touching him, and Buck could melt. He lets himself be manhandled and rests a cheek on the asphalt as he watches a needle slide into the skin and into the vein of his hand with absolute detachment. Watches goosebumps break out all over his hand, his arm. He feels cold. Eddie's touch is hot on Buck's wrist and fingers.
"Little prick," Eddie warned, just before the needle went in. Buck's mind only comprehends the words now, after the fact.
This is bad.
"Sodium bicarbonate on board."
But—they found him, they're here. He's so glad. It'll be over soon.
"Administering fentanyl."
"Just hang in there, Buckaroo."
That's him. He's here, with them. He likes being called Buckaroo. Relishes the affection nestled into that little nickname of a nickname.
Mom and dad always hated nicknames.
"Hang on, Buck."
He can't see his hand anymore, or the needle in it, or the asphalt under it. It's all dark.
He opens his eyes because he knows they're about to tell him to, blinks slowly. His vision swims, tilts, blurs. He grips the asphalt convulsively, suddenly feels afraid again he'll fall off the face of the earth.
Eddie's hand slides under his, mindful of the line, so warm, and Buck holds on tight.
"Pain medication's on board."
Buck tries to nod, can't. The c-collar won't let him. Can't find it in himself to repeat he's feeling numb, not in pain, not anymore.
"You're gonna feel better soon. Hang on."
Hang on. He can do that. Hang on.
He tries very hard to stay present, to ignore the creeping numbness, to focus on his over senses. Stay present, stay awake. Stay calm. Hang on. It'll be over soon.
"This is Captain 118," Chimney's saying, above him and behind him, an edge of urgency in his voice. Chimney's captain, now. He's a good captain. He's a good man. "We've got a probable crush injury—" No. No. Don't say that. Don't say that. "—I need all hands on deck to move this truck and clear a path to the nearest trauma center."
Reality slams into him, frigid and unforgiving. The truck. The truck that's crushing his leg.
"You with me, Buck?" Hen. He wants to be with her, yes. He suddenly and overwhelmingly doesn't want to be here. "Putting a collar on you now—Don't lift your head, let us do the work." He lets her do just that, her motions gentle, steady, efficient. Forces himself to not feel trapped by the collar. It's tight. It's so tight. He can't move. He forces himself to breathe through the fear. His cervicals were hurting, earlier. When he tried to look back at—
The truck's crushed him into the pavement. Dread swells behind his ribs, up his throat. They'll need to lift the truck off him. They'll need to take him to the hospital. Stabilise him. They'll need to operate, certainly. He'll need to recover, to rehab, to relearn to stand and walk and run. It's never going to be over.
The rounded bell of a stethoscope sliding under his shirt, followed by the brush of Eddie's fingers across his skin, interrupts his train of thought. It settles on one side of his upper back, then further down. Buck tracks the movement, all thoughts suspended. After a pause, the bell travels all the way to his other lung, pauses again. Buck has to stop himself from holding his breath. His mind's been running a mile a minute, but he doesn't think he was breathing too fast. Shallow maybe. Because there's a weight, pressing him down into the pavement—
The bell disappears.
What if he can't relearn? What if his leg can't be operated on, or saved, what if it's gone already? What if it's nothing but a gooey mess of ground meat and powdered bone and liquefied tissue under the monstrous weight of the truck?
The collar's not helping. It's trapping him, too, won't let him turn his head. Won't let him move, or look back to try and find his leg. His skin's crawling again. He can't keep his train of thought. Thinks he was spiralling, probably. He's feeling dizzy again, overwhelmed.
There's a hand in his, its grip firm and solid. It's not making the claustrophobia worse, though. It's helping. Comforting. Buck squeezes back with everything he has.
Please, just get him out.
"How's he doing, Chimney?"
Bobby's here. Bobby—I'm scared.
It's a strange kind of terror. He knows it's there inside him, beating panicked fists into his skull and into his sternum. It's distant, too. Muted. Numb.
The bell of the stethoscope finds him again. His front this time, Eddie's hand squeezed between his chest and the pavement. Buck sucks his stomach in to make room, presses his chin into the c-collar. It doesn't give him an inch. Just like—
"We're out of time, Cap."
Don't. Don't say that.
"All right," louder, urgent, "let's try to lift this off him, yeah? Try to lift this off him!"
Yes please. Please.
The cool bell of the stethoscope leaves his chest. "Lungs sound clear," Eddie says, right beside him. "Respiration holding at 11 and shallow."
"Okay, okay, we got to try to lift this!"
Get him out. Get him out.
"Pulse at 75," Hen responds. "You're doing good, Buck, hang on."
Buck hums. He's trying. He really wants out, though.
Another flurry of movement. The concrete's constantly humming with vibrations under him until he's sure his heart's not pumping blood anymore, just the echo of everyone's footsteps.
"Come on!" they're all screaming. "Come on! Come on!"
More movements, more screaming.
"Get some hands in here!" they're shouting, and "Let's lift this!" and "Ready?"
Eddie and Hen suddenly both grip his hands with renewed fervor. Bracing him. Buck's brain can't catch up, can't understand what he should brace for, just knows he wants this off, wants out—
"Ready!"
The apprehensive anticipation and sudden manic energy all around him leave him feeling off-kilter. His body knows, though, and Buck feels his respiration shoot way over 11 in real time.
Calm down, he tells himself. Calm down, calm down, be ready, hang—
"Hang in there, Buck."
"LIFT!"
Buck forgets to brace. Metal groans, people groan. A rush of adrenaline floods Buck's body, and he breathes in shock, before the pain—
the pain–
floods his body right on the heels of adrenaline in a tidal wave of unbridled agony. It knocks the breath right out of him, and the breath that leaves his lungs burns a trail of fire through his trachea, past his vocal cords, past his teeth. It burns right through him like flash fire, bright and incinerating.
It stops. Smothered, the pain goes back under. The relief is so intense Buck almost blacks out. It's there, though, Buck can feel it, just there, right under the surface, so close. Like a phantom pain in a phantom limb.
He can't lose it, please, he can't lose it.
There's a hand on his pulse point. He feels it, his pulse, trying to punch and tear its way right through his skin to fall into Hen's waiting hand.
His throat hurts.
His ears are ringing with the absence of pain. Muffled, he still hears:
"One more time, guys."
No—wait.
"Ready?"
Wait—
"Hang in there, hang in there!" That's Hen, and her hand finds his again. On the other side, Eddie squeezes so tight their bones grind and crack together.
"One—" they're counting,
Nausea swarms his insides. He'll throw up.
"Two—"
His vision's blurry, his eyes wet. He squeezes back, hard as he can.
"Three—"
He braces this time. (It doesn't matter.)
"LIFT!"
The pain lurches right out of the shallow depths. It snaps shut onto his ankle, snaps snaps snaps all the way up his leg, all up his body. It's eating him alive, and it'll devour his heart, his throat, it'll consume him until there's nothing left of him, it's consuming him right now, engulfing him right in front of everyone—
It stops.
He's still inside its hungry mouth, but its teeth are gone. Maybe he's in its belly. Waiting to be digested.
A rush of weakness overwhelms him, and Buck tries so hard to give into it, chases the bliss of oblivion. He wants this to be over.
"Hang on, Buck."
His throat hurts.
"She's too heavy."
He can still feel its weight. It's crushing his bones into dust. It'll never go, never let him go.
"—got anything on the truck— "
The words float above him. He hears them, but can't make sense of them. Can't figure out who's speaking. If they're even talking at him. He desperately wants to pass out. Wants to wake up when this is all over. Wants to wake up in his bed, wants this to be a nightmare.
"—need more people——radio again."
The click of a radio.
"Dispatch, this is the captain—"
The words stop coming. There's a beat of silence, and then, the whole pavement rumbles under Buck's hands, his cheeks, his lungs, his leg, his leg
Earthquake, he thinks.
No.
Feet slamming onto pavement, so many more than before; a whole stampede, running, heading straight for him.
His heart pumps wildly. It takes every last bit of energy he can muster to raise his head one last time and face this head-on.
He can barely see anything, his sight completely obscured with tears and blood and pain.
People.
Looks like people. So many. They're not wearing turnouts, or uniforms, but blurry patches of varying colors.
The air above him seems to crackle and charge. More shouts echo all around him as dozens and dozens of people he doesn't know surround him.
Eddie and Hen stay close to him. Buck feels safe with them so close, like they're his own little bubble. For a moment, he forgets why they're here, what's happening, why he's in pain.
Too soon, the bubble bursts.
"Come on, come on!"
The bombs. The truck. The truck.
"We can do this!"
He can't do this.
"Come on! Get in here!"
Right beside him, Hen is yelling too, "Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry!" over and over.
"Everybody—"
Stop.
"—put a hand in where you can!"
Please.
"On three."
Eddie and Hen's hands are still in his.
"One—"
He gathers all the courage he can find inside him.
"Two—"
He wants this, he tries to convince himself. He can't stay here forever. He can't rot in the middle of the street in Downton Los Angeles under an overturned ladder truck. He wants out.
"Three—"
He wants out. He's not afraid of pain. Pain's his oldest ally. He's known it all his life.
"LIFT!"
They do, so many many hands, and this time, they really do lift.
Reluctantly, the jaws let go of his mangled leg and—
This is not pain Buck has ever known.
It explodes in his leg like another bomb. Like a volcanic eruption, maybe, like a plinian eruption, like an ultra-plinian eruption even, he thinks hysterically, and it swallows him up like Vesuvius swallowed Pompeii, and then he doesn't think at all anymore.
Agony rushes all through his leg like lava, up his thigh, past his hip, into his belly. He can't breathe through it, all the air in his body snuffed out by searing heat and molten magma. It burns all the way up his trachea again, past his vocal chords, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and he opens his mouth because he has to let the lava out before it kills him.
He opens his mouth, but it's only screams that come out, and he hears himself this time, he hears himself scream and scream, but the lava stays inside him, and burns, and burns, and burns. His insides melt until there's nothing left of him but boiling blood and molten agony. He can't stop the screaming coming out of him.
He's not the only one. Screaming echoes all around him, shouts and groans of exertion thrown over his head, Hen’s and Eddie's voices close to his ear, but he can't make out what they're saying, he can't understand them, can't hear past the rush of fire and blood pounding in his head.
"We got him!" he doesn't hear. "We got him! We got him!"
He's consumed, and he screams and screams and screams.
"He's almost clear! Hold it! Keep pulling!"
Hands grip onto his body, his sides, under his armpits. The asphalt moves under him and his leg drags behind him, and he thought it was gone, that it was gone and flattened onto the pavement and crushed into dust—
"All right, we got him out!"
People are screaming and cheering, and Buck is screaming and can't make himself stop.
He means to stop screaming. His entire insides must be shredded, torn apart, just like his leg—
He thinks he must stop because his throat is inside out and the scream stays trapped inside of him.
They drop the truck back down, and he entirely expects to feel the weight of it settle back in its place onto his leg. Instead, he feels the shockwave of truck and asphalt finally meeting rattle inside the very marrow of his bones.
"Alright, you're out, you're out," is whispered so close to his ear the tickle of a warm breath brushes his temple, but Buck struggles to make out the words.
They dropped the truck back down, and with it, the world fizzled out, like a can of coke expelling its pressured contents through the teeniest hole in a powerful jet. It's disorienting, the ground wobbly beneath him. The ants take advantage of his confusion and crawl back all over him, their tiny feet setting his skin alight, the windex-and-gasoline-like smell of them invading his nostrils. He lays there as they swarm him completely, cut him off from the rest of the world.
The weight's gone. It's gone. Agony's here, now, and it's not letting go. It's never letting him go, but Buck's good with agony. He can endure. If he had the energy, Buck thinks he'd still be screaming anyway.
He never used to hide his pain. As a little boy, he'd scream and scream. He could have screamed every minute and every second of every day his pain was so big, but only screams drenched in blood would get him what he wanted: mom and dad, running towards him, worried for him, reaching for him.
He feels hands reaching for him now too, more than mom and dad and Maddie could ever have combined. He hums his confusion, but gets no answer.
He's closed his eyes. His eyeballs ache with burning relief, throbbing in rhythm with a pounding that's drilling into them, but that doesn't matter. All that matters now is falling asleep. He wants out, desperately. He wants out.
They don't give him a minute.
"Stay–
–awake."
Hands on him, all over him. His neck, his side, his head, his back. His leg, too. Buck tries to flinch away, but he's used up every last drop of adrenaline. He can do nothing but lay there and endure, feels his blood recoils inside his shrinking veins like rats hiding in damp shadows.
"You hear me, Buck? You stay awake."
Eddie's voice's right in his ear. He hums, feels one of the hands go hard and firm and grinding up and down his sternum. It hurts. His eyes flutter, but he can't get them open.
"Alright, prepare to roll him."
Buck's ears are buzzing, his entire body trembling in rhythm. Hands grip tighter, firmer, and Buck's breath hitches.
"Careful, careful."
"All right—"
The voices are rolling above him, words tumbling in and washing away before Buck can grasp them. He blocks it all out.
"—gonna lift him onto the board on—"
It's dark. His eyes are blessedly closed, ears deaf to anything that isn't buzzing buzzing buzzing, so he's taken by surprise as the ground falls away from under him. His heart drops down into his stomach as he's lifted and rolled over. His stomach doesn't appreciate the new tenant, sends blaring warnings to flush it out.
The absence of hard asphalt after he's spent so long relying on it is unsettling. Makes him feel lightheaded, despite his tightly closed lids. He can't tell up from down and hums out a low whine as nausea churns inside his guts. His heart beats in his belly, fighting for dominance with his stomach.
He feels sick.
"Again. One, two, three!"
He's lifted again. His head and his heart pound with the change in altitude, his stomach swells. He can't tell up from down. Anxiety takes advantage of his disorientation to nestle its way back inside his bones. Some of the many hands have left his body, but some have stayed. Buck grips back convulsively.
He feels like he's gonna fall.
"Stay with us, Buck."
He tries to hum out a response, terrified that opening his mouth will mean opening the gate to the volatile sickness trapped inside him.
He keeps his eyes closed. The world falls away, just barely, before he feels himself deposited onto a softer surface. He can't find relief in that. The asphalt was grounding—this feels like it can't hold him, this feels like free fall waiting to happen and he hasn't got his harness on—
"Just stay with us, kid."
Bobby.
Buck tries to respond, but he can't figure out where Bobby is. He's close, so close. His presence warm and comforting. There's a continuous shiver wracking his body, jostling his leg and Buck can't concentrate, his thoughts jumbled—
"Hospital's four minutes away, okay? Come on."
Hen. He's on a gurney, he thinks. The sound of wheels scraping across pavement so familiar—
"Hang in there, buddy."
Eddie.
He doesn't know what he's supposed to hang on to. There's a hand in his, so he grips tight.
"Buck." His name, said like a warning as he's jostled, and the hand he's holding lets go.
One second he's in blissfull darkness, ignoring the world around him. The next, bright light stabs right through his lids, through his retina, right into his cowering brain like twin lasers.
Buck groans and it hurts his throat as his lids seem to glow orange.
The gurney under him comes to a stop. More jostling around him, and the entire world seems to rock with the movements, like the deck of a boat.
Buck pretends there's no boat. Pretends he's lying flat in the water, weightless and rocked by its currents, and it's the sun above him that blinds him. Far away, twin doors slam shut. The noisy outside shuts off, instantly, like Buck's just dipped his ears underwater. The sudden quiet makes the sharp light easier to handle, too, softer, kinder. With nothing to hold onto, he's set adrift—but the ocean embraces him fully. Immensely grateful, Buck embraces it back as he lets his mind float, wonders if he should try and sink, too—
"BUCK."
He startles as he's yanked from the water and thrust right back into the inferno. One of his eyelids is forced open as Hen swims into view, blurry, like the picture can't load properly inside his brain.
Before he can get frustrated, another light plunges into his eyes. His stomach twists as he tries to turn away, but the collar and Hen's hand won't let him. He tries to focus on that, the expense of Hen's hand. It's soft and rough at the same time, spanning the entire left side of his face, fingers splayed behind and above his ear, palm gently pressed into his cheek, thumb rubbing little circles on his temple. It's soothing, relaxing, but—
"Eyes open, Buck," —she won't let him close his eyes. "Stay with us."
Above her voice, the sound of an engine rumbles. Immediately, the whine of a siren starts her crescendo before dropping and rising again in a familiar loop.
Buck whines with it, and shame curdles in his guts. But it's loud. It's so much. It's too much. More hands descend on his body, featherlight. There's the cool edge of a trauma sheer gliding along the length of his torso, his skin erupting with goosebumps in its wake. The lapels of his shirts are pulled away, leaving his chest vulnerable to chilled air. His trembling picks up.
He bites off another whine, feels like his stomach is slowly climbing up along his esophagus. He feels sick.
"Buck."
Buck hums.
Hen's hands move, now both on the right side of his head, where the pain is pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, in time with his heartbeat. With every beat, his stomach climbs another inch. Hen's hands are gentle, carding through his hair, hunting for the source of his pain. She finds it, her expert fingers barely there, but he still twitches as her touch reignites a sharp flare of agony. It explodes through his skull in a series of concussions, stabs into his right eye from behind. The collar won't let him go anywhere.
He squeezes his eyes shut instead, desperate to escape the pain.
"Pupils are equal and reactive," she's told the room before. Buck's only making sense of the words now. "But this head wound's a bleeder." Her fingers are still in his hair, hurting, soothing. "I don't feel any skull fracture."
Not his skull. His mind. His mind's fractured, he can't keep a thought—
The sound of an electrocardiogram starts to echo around the space. Buck concentrates on it, anything to forget the pulsing pain or the claustrophobic sensation of the c-collar suffocating him. He's trying to lose himself in the regular beeping when he realises with a start it's him he's listening to. He never noticed the electrodes being applied, but he feels them now, pulling slightly on the skin and hair of his chest.
He wonders if he lost time. Didn't think he'd passed out. Hen wouldn't let him.
"Buck," she's calling him, "look at me, Buck."
Her voice is loud, he can tell. He can barely hear her. Her face is right above his but it's so hard to focus on her. His vision keeps blurring. Tears? Blood? Concussion?
Hen's speaking at him, carefully detaching every word: "Did you lose consciousness at any point?"
He didn't think he'd passed out. He's not sure. He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He tries to tell her that, doesn't know if he manages. His throat hurts, but his eyes and ears keep smudging everything up.
There's a strong pressure on his upper arm. Not a hand, too tight, too firm, too oppressive. His fingers tingle. He breathes through his nose, slowly, deliberately, until the pressure lets up.
It's too much.
"BP's 110/70." That's Eddie's voice, right there to his left. He's close. "Heart rate is 85."
Chilled air caresses his left tigh, and his brain sends down a full body shiver in response. They cut away his pant's leg too and he—he never noticed that either.
"Okay, you're doing good, Buck," Hen's saying, so close, voice distorted and distant.
He doesn't feel good.
He's shaking, can hear more than feel the gurney vibrate under him. The lights are bright above him. The beeping of the monitor picks up, the siren a constant wail above him.
It's too much.
His leg—
He feels sick. Swallows, over and over, convulsively. Hen notices. "Administering zofran," she says.
It's too late.
His leg. His leg. There was—
God he'd—
He'd forgotten about his leg.
The truck.
His stomach bursts, halfway up his trachea. Nausea surges and rushes his airway before he can give any kind of warning. His body tries to jack-knife but can't, he can't move, he can't save himself.
"Roll him!"
Every hand that's on him turns firm in a single movement. The world tips to the side just as vomit erupts from his mouth, from his nose, burning all the way up. His abdomen clenches, his diaphragm seizes, and Buck chokes.
Tears squeeze through tightly shut eyes and his head seems to split in two, in three, in four. Out of nowhere, a tube slides through the mess into his mouth. He flinches, desperate to get away.
He tries to reach up and push it away but his hands are stopped halfway there. He whines, chokes, throws up.
"Hang on." Hen's voice, right in his ear, cuts through the panic like a knife through the head. "It's suction. I got you."
Suction. He knows, he knows that will help, tries to relax into the sensations and let Hen and her suction tube save him from this nightmare. A calloused hand is holding his own, a thumb rubbing circles into his scratched palm. It stings, and it's distracting.
"We got you, Buck." That's Eddie. He's so close Buck can feel his breath on his skin, even though Buck himself must reek.
Above him, the electrocardiogram beeps faster. "Heart rate is 105," Eddie warns.
Buck feels Hen's nod in response, she's leaning so close. "You're okay," she assures him. "Zofran is already on board. You'll feel better in a minute."
A minute is an eternity, but she's right, and after an eternity his stomach does stop convulsing. But he's not okay, he's not. He coughs, spits, and it's taking everything out of him. His abdominal muscles are spent, a diffuse pain spreading through them. His ribs ache, chest heaving as they get him back flat on his back.
There are two more hands on his leg, holding it steady and immobile.
His leg—
You're doing good, Buck—
Hen's voice floats above him.
—three minutes to the hospital.
There's no pain there, in his leg, just the feeling of two hands on his skin and a gaping void in between. There's no pain, but his mind keeps screaming WRONG. WRONG.
The truck.
"Mh–," he can't help but moan. His throat is gravel on raw flesh. "M-my leg." He's gasping, terror seizing his lungs in its own icy grip, chilling him to the core. "My leg."
The truck crushed his leg.
"Your leg's in good hands, Buckaroo." That's Chimney's voice rising from the black hole where his leg used to be, and when Buck blinks through tears to meets his gaze, Chim's face splits into a grin. "Mine."
Buck, though, he knows him too well by now, and he doesn't miss the tension bracketing Chim's easy smile. Chimney's worried, and he's trying to hide it. Because–
The truck crushed my leg!
and Buck tries to rise, to see, but three sets of hands won't let him.
"Nh–" he resists, grips Hen and Eddie's wrists, the IV lines nestled in the back of his hands pulling on his skin. He doesn't care, he doesn't care about that. He cares about—
"My leg." The beeping is faster and faster, getting close to frantic. It only ratchets Buck's anxiety even more. "My leg—"
He's trying to think. It's hard, his brain pulsing and swelling and crushing his thoughts—
The truck crushed his leg. Crush injury first aid. The 5 P's.
Paralysis!
"You let me worry about your leg, okay?"
There's a lump in his throat and it won't let him breathe. He was right! Chim's worried, he's worried about his leg. Because the truck crushed it! and Buck tries to shake his head at Chim, can't because of the grip the collar has on his neck. He can't not worry about his leg, can't even see his leg, can only imagine—
No! He's trying—trying to think. 5 P's.
1. Pain.
Paralysis!
"Heart rate is 115."
Buck grips the hand in his. "Eddie—"
1. Pain. There's no pain there. Just a black hole of wrongness.
2 .—he can't—cant remember the others, except
PARALYSIS!
LOSS OF FUNCTION
LOSS OF LIMB
AMPUTATION!!
"Eddie—" Buck gasps, desperate to be heard, "don't—don't—" He swallows around the lump that won't let him breathe, fights to speak through suffocating fear, desperate to be heard. "Don't let them take it! Don't let them—"
Eddie squeezes Buck's hand harder, the palm he's pressed into Buck's sternum spasming in time with Buck's racing heart.
It's Hen that answers him. "Let's not worry about that yet, Buck," But they're worried, and they can't ask him not to worry. He can't not worry, he can't not worry. Can't they see that?
His teeth are shattering. He's scared, he's cold, he's shaking. The hand that's holding onto Eddie's is white as a sheet (and that's—that's 2. Pallor).
His blood feels like it's trudging down his veins, heavy and weighting him down, pooling in all the wrong places. He's probably already lost his pulse in all extremities (which–3, that's 3. Pulselessness)—
"I can still feel your pulse in the posterior tibial, Buck," Chimney interrupts his rushing thoughts like he's read his mind; his voice still coming from where the soundless inferno is raging, but there's the ghost of a touch, shifting the pins and needles around (because he's numb, his leg's numb, skin crawling and tingling and Chim has to be wrong because that means 4. Paraesthesia)— "Dorsalis pedis as well."
"That's good, Buck," Hen tells him, and there's a voice in Buck's fractured mind telling him that's good, he knows that's good, but he's still trying to shake his head.
"No," he pants, "no I can't—can't feel—"
Buck's bloodless fingers are curling into Eddie's hands so hard and he can't feel them either—
Chimney's next words cut right through the sludge in his brain. "You're moving your toes, Buck. All good signs."
(5. PARALYSIS!!)
"But—" Buck murmurs, "can't feel—"
"You're on good painkillers, too," Hen says, and it makes sense, it does.
But he's still trying to shake his head. He can barely comprehend what they're telling him. Can't accept it, can't face their optimism, because—
The truck—
"Can you feel my hands, Buck?" Chim's asking.
Buck tries to shake his head no, even though he can, he can feel Chimney's hands, but he can't give himself false hope, can't they see—
He tries to shake his head, but the collar won't let him. All he can do is shake apart, the gurney trembling beneath him.
Hen notices. She shakes a foil blanket free from its packaging, draps it over his torso. "Let's not borrow trouble yet," she murmurs close to his ear, gloved hand splayed warm over his chilled chest.
"Nh—" he mumbles, "no–"
To his left, Eddie got a hold of the bag of saline hanging near Buck's hip. His hand's not in Buck's anymore. "Pushing warm IV fluid," he says.
Buck's still trying to shake his head. He doesn't know why he's being so combative. Doesn't think he'll ever feel warm again. The blanket doesn't bring him relief. Can't escape the pain or the thoughts pulsing in his head.
It's too much.
The other's voices are floating above him. They're losing they false calmness, getting urgent.
"Blunt force trauma to the abdomen," he hears Eddie say, distantly. "Could be some internal bleeding."
There's a weight inside his belly, but he stills feels shaky, unmoored. Like he's about to fall off his own body.
The beeping's faster.
His breathing is getting shorter, he can tell, his lungs straining. His ribcage feels like it's about to crumble into pieces inside his chest cavity.
His leg—
His leg feels like it's about to fall right off his hip.
God his hip—his hip hurts. He's twisted it wrong, must have—
Beeping, faster, faster. The siren's wailing.
"Heart rate is 132."
It's too much.
"Widening QRS and sharply peaked T waves–
There's a scalding hand on his cheek, before a clear mask is fitted over his mouth and nose.
"N-no–" Can't they see he can't breathe? He tries to turn his head but they won't let him, they won't let him—
O2 flowing—
It's too much.
"Hang on, Buck, we're two minutes out."
The constant crackle of a radio, voices fast and raised. The siren's weeping, over and over and over, and the beeping won't stop, it's getting on his nerves—
—suspecting hyperkalemia—
He flushes hot, the clammy kind that doesn't warm him at all, that leaves him even colder after it's rushed through him.
Stay with us, Buck—
His eyes keep rolling back and he can't stop them. He wants to sleep, he wants this to stop—
—stay awake—
He can still feel the weight of the truck on his—
—administering calcium chloride, albuterol, D50 and insulin in consult with medical control—
The words float above him. He can't understand them. Can't they see? The truck's crushing him and his thoughts into mush. His brain feels swollen, too big for his skull, he swears he can feel it leaking out of his ears and nose and eyes.
One hand is so warm against his cheek. Another rubs into his sternum, hard, like it doesn't care his chest is about to cave in.
It hurts.
He blinks, sluggish, blinded by blood and tears and the dizzying turn of kaleidoscopic colors. There's a disorienting rushing in his ears that leaves him lightheaded.
He tries to grab onto asphalt, finds warm hands instead.