Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buck should have known their number was up on the docket, the way things were going for the rest of the 118 family. Eddie may have said he didn’t believe in signs from the universe, but Buck sure as hell did. 

Things were going less than great for the majority of the 118 family. Hen’s mom was in the hospital, Chimney and Maddie were soldiering through the stress of new parenthood, and there was tension in Bobby and Athena’s marriage. Eddie was seemingly the only member of their shift group who seemed to have everything going well at the moment.

Which was probably the reason for the thick line of tension Buck held in his shoulders when he followed Chim into the station that morning. 

The previous night had been yet another sleepless night for him. He was chalking it up to stress. He’d found himself texting Maddie (who had just gotten off work) volunteering himself for nighttime baby duty. On nights his insomnia refused to let him sleep, he and Albert both preferred if he was not in the apartment. Otherwise, neither of them would be getting much sleep and even if Albert had recovered enough to no longer require 24-hour care, he still tired faster than average and needed his full eight hours nightly. 

Post-work, Maddie was so exhausted she’d eventually allowed him to come over with minimal argument. This meant Buck had only gotten a couple of hours of sleep—not solely Jee-Yun’s fault—and he’d carpooled with Chimney to work.

“Guess B-shift’s still out on a call,” Chimney commented when they walked in to find the engine bay empty.

Eddie walked out from the locker rooms rubbing his eyes, already dressed in complete uniform despite their shift not starting for another 15 minutes. 

“Damn!” Buck exclaimed. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eddie shrugged, tiredness cloaking him like a blanket, obvious in the darker bags under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. “You remember that call from the other day? Shiela? With the sick kid?”

“Yeah,” he and Chim nodded.

It wasn’t a tough call or anything. Buck even thought it fun by his standards. There was just enough danger to get his adrenaline pumping, no close calls or fatalities, they got to break out the climbing equipment, and if he got to savour (just for a moment) the way Eddie’s fingers felt between his leg and harness as they got geared up, no one else knew that. 

Eddie had stayed back to watch the kid while they took the mom to the hospital for some stitches. He knew it was because he saw his own situation reflected back at him—a single parent with a sick kid needing an extra pair of hands. Buck admired his friend’s empathy and generosity and who knew, maybe Christopher would get a new friend out of the whole thing.

“Well he’s not sick,” Eddie asserted. “Not really. She’s making him sick. Probably for years.” 

No wonder Eddie hadn’t slept much after figuring that out. Buck couldn’t imagine doing that to a child. The thought filled him with dread. 

“Munchausen by proxy is a big accusation, Eddie,” Chim said seriously, glancing at Buck to see what he thought of the other man’s suspicions. Buck was still processing the information.

“I tracked down some people who knew them before. All signs point to it. The non-specific autoimmune disease, the revolving door of doctors. He's frail, he’s weak, he’s always throwing up. She’s poisoning him.”

“Poisoning him,” Buck repeated. “With what?”

Eddie shook his head but looked to be thinking hard about something. It only took a second for his eyes to widen. “Eye drops,” he revealed. “I saw them in the kitchen.” Definitely a strange place to keep eye drops. Not unexplainable, but suspicious when taken into account with everything else.

Chim nodded. “Tetrahydrozoline could cause the kid’s symptoms. It can be lethal if ingested, and doesn't show up on a standard toxicology test—you have to know to look for it to find it.” 

Buck spared half a thought to wonder how Chimney knew that information off the top of his head. It wasn’t something that they taught paramedics and there hadn’t been a case recently. He had been the one helping Hen study for med school, though, so maybe it came up there. 

“That has to be it. She’s dosing him. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him sick,” Eddie concluded. 

The thought that someone could do that to their child was abhorrent. He knew that there was usually a mental illness aspect to it, but that never excused child abuse. On top of that, it felt like an insult to those who had kids with genuine medical problems. While he knew Eddie wouldn’t trade Christopher for the world, there were struggles unique to raising a disabled child that nothing could prepare you for. It hurts to watch your kid struggle. To purposefully inflict those struggles on your kid was unimaginable.

“I called social services. They’re coming here to take a report,” Eddie said. 

While he could logically conceptualise it, Buck still found himself wondering aloud, “Why would she do that?” 

“Well sometimes it's to gain sympathy,” Chim theorised.

Eddie made a face and Buck knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “Or maybe to make a profit. I found multiple GoFundMe pages. She’s conning people out of their money.”

So not just maybe mentally ill, but abusive on the grounds of financial profit. Buck was disgusted and enraged. He definitely understood why Eddie hadn’t slept last night.

Eddie’s phone rang. “Hello?” he said upon answering. A pause, then, “Charlie? You okay?”

Charlie—the boy they had just been discussing. Talk about timing.

From the way Eddie’s face shifted, he knew something bad had happened even before he was saying in a forcibly calm voice, “Okay Charlie, just stay where you are. We’ll be right there.” Buck was already moving towards the vehicles before Eddie hung up the phone.

“Charlie’s mom collapsed,” he explained to Buck who had paused to grab the keys to one of the only station vehicles left behind.

“I’ll let Cap know where you went,” Chim called at their backs.

Buck followed Eddie out to the parking lot. “Seven,” he called out, reading it off the keychain and Eddie yanked open the respective car door.

Buck drove, cursing Los Angeles commuter traffic as Eddie took the radio and called into dispatch to redirect the 118 to Charlie’s address.

They pulled to a stop in front of the apartment complex at the same time as the 118 B-shift arrived, multiple fire vehicles practically blocking off the whole residential street in their hurry.

Eddie led the charge in, back on the phone with Charlie now, assuring him that help was coming. Buck was behind him with Captain Mehta following.

“Buckley, you get promoted to Captain when I wasn’t looking,” Mehta joked.

“Only vehicle available,” he explained.

“Diaz, you call this in,” the Captain checked.

Eddie held the phone away from his mouth and answered, “Yeah. Possible OD,” as they entered the apartment building.

They ran up the stairs and poured into the proper apartment. Charlie stood by his mother’s collapsed body looking scared. His mother had been pulled into the recovery position, an overturned bowl of what looked to be oatmeal on the rug not too far away.

“She’s over here,” Charlie called, sounding panicked and small. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”

Eddie grabbed the kid and led him away to allow the paramedics to work on Sheila, assuring Charlie, “We’re here now. We got her.” 

“Do we know what she took?” Mehta asked, looking to Buck and Eddie for answers as they were the ones leading this charge, though Buck was still in his street clothes.

Eddie was otherwise preoccupied with comforting and reassuring Charlie, so Buck stepped up. “Yeah, we think it's tetrahydrozoline poisoning. Eye drops.”

Luckily Sheila was still breathing, though it was a bit shallow and Buck could spot the beginnings of cyanosis on her lips. The paramedics were quick to begin to remedy that. 

Privately, Buck thought that maybe they should just… not be so good at their jobs? He felt guilty as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Athena had been quick to lecture him when he first started as a firefighter that he doesn’t get to choose who lives and dies. But old habits die hard; old thought patterns never really go away.

He had spent years taking and saving lives with the SEALs, the concept of playing God as familiar as the weight of a rifle in his hands. He’d gotten comfortable, too comfortable with following orders and while taking lives wasn’t something he ever took lightly, it was familiar. The ghosts of those lives he’d taken were a weight on his shoulders, blood on his hands, a guilt he had to live with.

He could justify it as following orders, as kill or be killed, as preventing the death of others. Justification was not absolution, but sometimes it let him get a couple of hours of sleep and the strength to make it to tomorrow.

In the way he had rationalized his actions in the military, he thought of Sheila. This mother was not a child, she was a full-grown adult and a bad mother, a bad person. If she were not to survive this, would Charlie be better off?

Buck had to shove away all of those thoughts, the ghosts of a previous life and the devil on his shoulder and the hatred for this woman. It was neither the time nor the place. 

“The kid’s gonna need treatment too,” Buck told Mehta, focussing on the important things. “Same kind of poisoning, just smaller doses for a really long time.”

A shadow crossed Mehta’s face. He nodded and radioed down for a second gurney to be brought up. It was a quick process—getting Sheila and Charlie both loaded up and back down to where the ambulances were waiting to take them to separate hospitals.

Sheila was coming around now that she was getting sufficient oxygen. 

Buck and Eddie walked by Charlie’s stretcher as they took him to the ambulance. 

“What about my mom? Will I see her at the hospital?” he asked. The situation hadn’t fully sunk in yet. It probably wouldn’t for a long time. It was a difficult pill to swallow that his mom had been poisoning him for the sake of financial gain.

“Your mom is a little more sick. She has to go to a different hospital,” Eddie explained kindly. “This is your ride.” Buck could see the worry in the other man’s face. He’d bonded with Charlie, his parental protectiveness triggered by a sick kid in need. Buck would be lying if he said he didn’t feel similarly.

From the other ambulance, they heard a distressed voice say, “M-my baby!” Sheila must have fully come around now. “Where are they taking my baby?” she cried, frantic.

Far away from you, Buck thought bitterly. 

“Should have gotten here sooner,” Eddie lamented. 

Buck knew he was going to be like this. He knew Eddie would blame himself for not noticing sooner when he’d been left alone with Charlie for hours; would feel responsible for not picking up on the subtle signs. Buck also knew he would blame himself too were he in Eddie’s position. That didn’t mean any of this was Eddie’s fault, though, nor did it mean he blamed Eddie. 

Sheila had been getting away with this for years. She knew how to hide everything and in the end, they had figured it out. Even if today’s call hadn’t happened, Eddie had been reporting them. In an ideal world, Charlie would have been saved either way.

“That kid is just lucky he met you,” Buck said by way of comfort, but it felt weak. Not enough for this awful situation. 

“Diaz, do you wanna ride with the kid to the hospital?” Mehta offered.

Eddie nodded. “Yeah.” He took a step forward towards the ambulance.

Bang!

The world paused for a moment, something warm, wet, and coppery splattering across Buck like a Jackson Pollock painting. It was on his shirt, his skin, his face. It was in his mouth—the taste of iron and vitality. Eddie and he stood only feet apart, eyes meeting.

It felt like a nanosecond. It felt like a year.

A million different thoughts raced through his head as he stared into familiar brown eyes, saw the shock, the disbelief, the panicked flash of fear. Then he watched Eddie fall to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

A gunshot in LA wasn’t uncommon, but they were in a nice part of town. It was broad daylight. It couldn’t have been gunfire. That didn’t make sense. He was in LA. Nowhere else. The air was smoggy with just a touch of salty ocean. The sun was bright. It was warm with a light breeze. They were in LA. They were supposed to be safe from that stuff here. They were supposed to be safe.

Eddie.

Things were moving around him.

Buck stood frozen.

Why wasn’t he moving?

Eddie.

Where were they?

Who was shooting?

Eddie.

Another shot rang out, sound harshly piercing his ears as Captain Mehta tackled Buck onto the asphalt, forcing his head down. It would have hit him otherwise. 

Eddie was shot. 

Blood, Eddie’s blood was staining the street and splattered across Buck and Buck had almost just gotten shot himself. The painful shock of asphalt scraping across his skin finally knocked him back into himself, kicking his thoughts into gear.

He’d never frozen at gunfire before.

It had never been Eddie who had been hit.

“Get down!” Mehta yelled over the screaming and scrambling that Buck was vaguely aware of around them. Mehta forced him behind the fire engine, away from the line of fire. Despite moving willingly out of the line of fire, Buck’s eyes were still fixed on Eddie’s collapsed form.

“Shots fired, shots fired!” the captain called into his radio.

Eddie was still lying there, the pool of blood under him growing by the second. Still in danger.

“Firefighter is down! I repeat: firefighter is down!”

He could barely hear the screams over his own heart thundering in his ears. 

Eddie .

He saw him trying to lift his head. Danger. Eddie was in Danger. He was still alive. Buck had to save him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Eddie’s hand twitched towards him like he was trying to reach out for Buck. He saw him blink once, twice. Then his eyelids started to flutter, eyes rolling back in his head.

No

No.

Nonononono.

Eddie could not do this to him. Fuck! He needed to move .

Eddie's eyes shut. Mehta was still calling for help into his radio. More shots cracked through the air, hitting the trucks, hitting the asphalt. 

Sniper. Bolt action rifle. Experienced, but probably not military. One victim. 

He needed to get to Eddie. Needed it like he needed air in his lungs and blood in his veins. 

Buck rolled under the fire engine, using it as cover and ignoring his own twinge of panic at being under the vehicle again.

Eddie was the only thing that mattered right now.

“Come on Eddie,” he yelled as he army-crawled, willing the other man to hang on for him. “Just hang on. I’m coming for you. Eddie, I’m coming!”

The asphalt bit into his forearms and cut through his pants, but he didn’t care. All he could taste was blood in his mouth and all he could see was Eddie’s prone form.

Eddie’s eyes blinked open and his chest stuttered as he gasped for air.

“Eddie!” he yelled again, voice desperate, rasping, scared.

He grabbed Eddie’s outstretched arm and dragged him across the pavement, under the engine, out of the line of fire. He was dead weight in Buck’s hands. 

Eddie cried out as Buck dragged him by his injured arm, but Buck couldn’t care right now. If he was yelling, he was breathing, he was awake, alive.

He hauled them out from under the engine. They were still taking fire. Someone had opened the engine door and Buck hefted Eddie up into his arms like a ragdoll.

“Come on, Eddie.” Buck hoisted them both up into the back of the engine as another shot rang out, shattering the window right above Buck’s head. Another firefighter pulled Eddie from his grasp, lying him on the floor of the engine. He scrambled in after them, leaning over Eddie as the engine roared to life.

Eddie blinked up at him unfocussed but conscious. Eddie’s blood was soaking through fabric, soaking Buck’s hands as he tried to apply direct pressure to the gunshot and the engine peeled backwards. 

The unclosed door behind Buck was smashed off its hinges as they rammed the flaming vehicle beside them. Buck didn’t know or care when that fire had started nor about the scorching heat pouring into the engine as they squealed past.

All he cared about was Eddie.

Eddie Eddie Eddie.

Eddie who was bleeding out and they weren’t moving fast enough and God there was blood everywhere.

He just kept rambling out a litany of, “I gotcha, I gotcha. Come on, Eddie,” as he tore open his shirt and accepted the trauma dressing handed to him, ripping it open, and packing the wound. His mind was operating purely on muscle memory as he finished packing the wound and accepted another trauma dressing placing it over top and applying direct pressure. He slipped the last dressing they had under him to cover the exit wound.

If anyone asked him if they were in LA or Afghanistan or Iraq he wouldn’t have an answer. All he knew was the feeling of Eddie’s blood on his skin and the unsteady rise and fall of the man’s chest with every breath.

Eddie blinked at him, only vaguely conscious.

“Hey, just stay with me,” he pleaded, leaning more pressure on the wound and accepting another dressing someone had dug up from somewhere as blood soaked through the first.

“Are you hurt?” Eddie groaned.

Buck glanced down at Eddie’s blood that covered him, incredulous and exasperated that Eddie was checking on him when he was the one who was actively bleeding out at the moment.

“No, no, no. I’m good,” he reassured. “You just hang on.” 

Eddie was worryingly cool and pale. Buck wished for their med packs, wished they were in an ambulance, wished that they were somewhere more supplied for emergency medical care and not in the back of the engine where they only had what people had in their pockets or had forgotten back there. That meant no O2, no shock blanket, no IV.

Fuck shock management, he could only try and stop the active bleeding and pray that they got to the hospital in time.

“Come on,” he yelled again, this time at Mehta.

“Three minutes away.”

Fuck.

Eddie was fading, he could tell. “You’re doing so good,” Buck told him. “We’re so close I just need you to hang on.” His voice was cracked and broken. All he could do was hold pressure and plead with Eddie and God that they would make it. 

Eddie lost consciousness as they pulled into the trauma bay where a medical team was waiting for them with a gurney. Buck was first out of the engine, jumping out to help pass off Eddie.

“31, Male. Large calibre GSW to the upper right chest. Single exit wound located posterior right. Through-and-through,” Buck told the trauma team as he helped manhandle Eddie onto the gurney. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Heart rate was 130 and thready, respiratory rate 32. He’s decompensating, lost consciousness a minute ago.”

“We’ve got a transfusion ready,” one of the team called out. “Did you say large calibre?”

“Sniper,” Mehta supplied.

With Eddie now on the stretcher, Buck could only watch as the trauma team yelled out instructions and vitals as they rushed him inside.

He felt numb.

Nothing.

“You okay, Buckley?” Mehta asked but didn’t stick around to hear the answer he didn’t give as Mehta and the rest of the engine crew ran inside.

Buck could only stare at the glass doors behind which Eddie had disappeared.

It was too long before he finally unfroze from where he stood. His hands were shaking. He could feel the cracking of dried blood across his knuckles as he drew his hands into fists.

Buck didn’t freeze. 

He’d been in active warzones. He’d seen his brothers shot, been shot, shot people himself. He’d treated critical patients. He’d seen Chimney with rebar through his skull, Clay with his leg half-blown off and Albert bleeding out hanging in his car upside down. This shouldn’t have his mind whirling into freefall the way it did right now. 

Eddie was different. Eddie had always been different.

The pull to Eddie was like a magnet, carrying him through the glass doors.

He drew stares from the staff as he broke into a run, but there was nowhere to run to. Eddie was no doubt being wheeled into surgery and the doctors needed time to work. There wouldn’t be any updates.

“Buck?” 

He met Hen’s worried gaze.

That's right. Hen had already been at the hospital for her mother.

Frantic blue met worried soft brown. Hen’s eyes weren’t Eddie’s. The shape, the shades of brown, the way they caught the light were all different. Still, he found a modicum of comfort in them all the same. She hurried up to him, disregarding the dried blood that soaked him to the skin and wrapped him in a hug.

Buck returned it stiffly, his mind not really online.

When she pulled back, she had tears in her eyes. Despite this, she told him, “It's going to be alright. The doctors are doing everything they can. He’s in surgery now.”

All Buck could do was nod. 

He was so scared. He couldn’t do this by himself. If Eddie-

Fuck.

He ran his hands through his hair, uncaring of the way dried blood flaked and fell to the ground. All he could hear was the gunshot, the ringing in his ears.

“Hey, Buck,” she said, making him focus on her. “You need to breathe.”

She was right, of course, but he didn’t know if he remembered how. How was he supposed to fucking breathe? 

Eddie was- Eddie was-

Shit.

Christopher.

He had to tell Christopher.

The thought alone almost had him on his knees. One of the worst parts of service had been casualty notifications; to look a brother’s wife or mother in the eye and tell them their loved one was dead. This was going to be infinitely worse.

The sniper should have shot him instead. Then Christopher wouldn’t be possibly losing another parent.

He was saying something and directing him somewhere. He moved like a ghost through the hall to the bathrooms. 

He ignored his reflection in the mirror. He didn't need to see the way blood encrusted his skin, his vacant gaze, or the pallor of his skin. Mechanically, he scrubbed the blood from his face, neck, hands. He watched the small sink swirl with coppery water and flecks of red. 

A knock like a gunshot had him whirling around.

“Hey,” Chimney said, poking his head in. He hadn’t locked the door. Chim took in Buck’s appearance, but didn’t comment, just held out a navy department shirt. “Thought you might need a change.”

Buck nodded and grabbed the shirt, setting it on the counter and tearing off his own bloodstained one. The fabric was stiff with blood. He threw it in the trash without a second thought.

Chim looked like he wanted to say something.

“What?” Buck croaked as he peeled off his undershirt, also splotched in crimson.

“I just…” Chim trailed off at a loss for words. "You're hurt," he said instead, gesturing at the scrapes that littered his knees and elbows, the gash on the right side of his forehead.

Buck ignored him and wet a cleaner part of the shirt in the sink and used it to scrub at his arms and his chest. Wherever he still felt the film of Eddie’s blood on him. Eddie was in critical condition somewhere in the building and Chimney was concerned about a couple of scrapes? What did it fucking matter? 

“I have to tell Christopher,” he muttered.

Chimney blinked. “Oh.” There was nothing he could say to that, nothing that could make this any better.

Buck tugged the clean shirt over his head and threw the undershirt to join his other shirt in the trash. He could still taste blood on his tongue. He spat into the sink.

“Buck?”

He knew what he looked like. The wild eyes with nothing behind them that looked back at him in the mirror were frighteningly familiar. 

He shook his head at Chim, pushing past him and out of the bathroom. “I have to go.”

<...>

Firefighters. The sniper was targeting fucking firefighters. It's a fact that Buck learns as he’s trying to leave the hospital when through the trauma bay comes running another set of desperate firefighters with one of their own strapped to the gurney before passing her off to the trauma team.

On the news report on the waiting room TV, the reporter is saying that today alone, three firefighters have been shot. Eddie was not an isolated incident, he wasn’t the designated target. 

It could have been him; it could have been any of them.

His thoughts white out as rage, disgust, and frustration overwhelm him. Somewhere in his subconscious, he’s still aware he’s at a hospital, that there's nothing he can do in this situation.

He storms out the door trekking it down the sidewalk. He has his phone out, dialling a number he hasn’t called in years before he even registers what he’s doing.

She picks up on the second ring. “Who is this?”

Just the sound of her voice has his brain falling into old rhythms, snapping back into rational thought. The alarm bells that haven’t stopped ringing since blood hit his lips fall silent. He pushes past the shock and panic, pushes it away into a neat box and stacks it atop the rest of them.

Right now, he needs a 3-foot world. Right now, he needs to focus.

“Mandy,” he breathes, something vulnerable in his tone. “It's Buck.”

Mandy’s voice makes him focus. Hearing her means he’s doing something, means he’s not fucking helpless.

Mandy sucks in a sharp breath on the other end of the line. “Buck? Why are you calling? Is everything okay?”

Because that's the thing, isn’t it? Buck only calls her when everything’s gone to hell in a handbasket and he needs someone with a speck of emotional intelligence to help him sort whatever shitshow he’s landed himself and those around him in.

“Are you stateside?” is what he asks her because he doesn’t know if he can say the words yet.

“Yeah. I’m actually in Coronado right now. Why?” 

God had a strange sense of humour.

He bites his lip, suddenly remembering the taste of Eddie's blood that was there an hour ago and fighting the urge to wretch. “That's-that's good.”

“What happened?” she asks again, more concerned this time.

“I need you to find someone. There was a shooting in LA. A sniper is targeting firefighters,” he says, voice devoid of emotion this time because that's the only way he can get through this conversation.

A beat, then, “Oh.” He knows this is a lot to ask of someone he hasn’t spoken to in years. That he’s technically asking her to break several rules of the Agency, jurisdiction, and maybe even some laws. Still, he hopes.

“Was it…” she trails off, hesitant to ask what she wants to.

He sighs and gives her an answer anyway. “A close friend of mine got shot. I’m on my way to tell his son.” He takes a deep breath again. All he can do right now is breathe. “I need to know that something is being done to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Mandy takes a minute, probably weighing the pros and cons or wondering if she should call the cops on him. Perhaps even debating calling someone or flying out herself to get Buck under control, to stop him from doing what he was planning. If she turns him down he’s not sure what he’ll do. Nothing good, that's for sure.

Eventually, she gives him an answer. “Okay. I’ll look into it,” she tells him. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything yet.”

“I have to go,” he tells her as his rideshare pulls up. He gets in with a nod to the driver.

“Alright. If you have any intel, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll call you. I can’t promise you anything.”

“I know.”

She sighs. “Alright. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Copy that,” he says and hangs up. Calling her was arguably a stupid thing to do, but that's neither here nor there. She just didn’t want him charging into a situation that would immediately land him in jail or the grave. 

Buck had other things to do before reaching either of those destinations. Sitting in the backseat, watching LA go by his window, he felt so alone. Maybe calling Mandy, maybe this whole plan he had forming in his head was a bad idea. Actually, there's no maybe about it. It's a horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad idea that might end up with him doing 25 to life and everyone he loves disowning him.

But all of his impulse control and rational thinking was currently laid up in an OR fighting for his life, so he was going to make bad decisions with his whole chest.

When the driver dropped him off outside the Diaz residence, he noticed his hands were shaking. Blood was crusted under his fingernail, somehow surviving the hospital sink. He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

Carla gave him one look when he walked in the door and immediately pulled him into a hug.

“Oh, Buckaroo, I was so worried,” she said, rubbing his back. “I heard on the news about the shooting.” Images of the 118 engine must have been plastered all over it. 

He pulled away and looked down at his feet. 

“Honey, what is it?”

“Eddie,” he confessed, still staring at the ground. “I just- I need to talk to Christopher. I’ve got him for the night. You can go home. I know you’re supposed to be here though tomorrow, but…”

She nodded and placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Is Eddie?”

“In surgery.”

It's as much as he could give her. 

Carla squeezed his shoulder before backing away. “Alright. I’m only a phone call away if you need me. Don’t hesitate,” she told him seriously.

“Thank you, Carla.”

He walked to Chris’s room like a prisoner to the gallows—a dead man walking.

Buck knocked quietly on the door frame. Even if Chris had the door open, he didn’t want to intrude without permission.

“Hey, Chris,” he said softly, poking his head in.

Chris looked up from his video game. “Buck. What are you doing here? Where’s Dad?” Because Christopher knew he was supposed to be working tonight. Working with Eddie.

“Can I come in?” he asked, trying to hide the guilt, worry, and fear that was choking him.

Chris nodded, concerned and set aside his switch to look at him expectantly. Buck moved to kneel in front of him.

Chris really looked at him then. “Did something happen?”

And ouch. That hurt Buck’s heart. This whole situation did. It felt like his heart had been ripped out of him, left riddled with bullets and bleeding in that damn street. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Something happened at work today and- and your Dad got hurt?” It came out almost as a question. He wished it wasn’t true, that this was a nightmare he would jerk awake from in a cold sweat.

Chris looked at him very seriously, thinking. “Was it a fire?”

Oh. He wanted to scream.

Buck moved from the floor to sit on the bed next to the kid. This was so different from doing notifications in the military. How did he explain to an 11-year-old kid that his father got shot while Buck was right there? That someone out there wanted firefighters dead and his dad was unfortunate enough to be the one on the wrong end of his rifle? That his dad was in surgery and they didn’t know if he’d make it out?

Eddie never lied to Chris. Buck never lied to Chris.

“No. Not a fire. He got hurt. Someone hurt him,” he fumbled out.

Christopher looked at him. “Like a bad guy?” he asked innocently. The comparison made the blatant differences in how they understood that world all the more glaring. It struck him just how young 11 was. How much he had been (rightfully) shielded from the horrors of the world.

Buck nodded, feeling completely unequipped for this conversation. “Yeah. Just like that. And we took him to the hospital so the doctors are working on him now.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

Buck didn’t lie to Christopher.

He reached an arm around the kid, pulling his small frame into his side. He didn’t know if it was more of a comfort to Chris or himself. 

He wished he could protect him from the world, from this reality. He wished he could tell him that Eddie was going to be fine. That the surgery went well and he would make a full recovery. He wished he had all the answers. But Eddie wasn’t out of the woods yet and he wasn’t there to know how the surgery went. 

They would call him if there was anything urgent—he was Eddie’s power of attorney in this situation—so nothing had gone horribly wrong yet because he would know if it had. That was only a minor comfort. 

Chris was looking at him expectantly for an answer he couldn’t truthfully give.

It would have been nicer to sucker punch him, to stab him between the ribs, to rip his heart from his body. It would have been nicer if he was the one who was shot. SERE training was better than this.

“The doctors are doing their best,” he told the boy shakily, feeling like all of his emotions from the day were dangling above him, threatening to crush him should his last thread of self-control snap.

It couldn’t though. Not right here, in front of Christopher. He needed to be strong for him, he thought, blinking back the tears that were filling his eyes.

Christopher tilted his head. “Well, the doctors fixed your leg. If they’re the same doctors, then Dad should be okay,” he asserted. 

“Chris,” he breathed, not wanting to scare him but not wanting him to get his hopes up. Where was the line between false hope and brutal truth?

His phone dinged. No one should be texting him so it had to be important.

He practically ripped the device from his pocket.

>>Bobby: out of surgery. Doctors say it went well.

Relief hit him like a drug, his head woozy with it. “Yeah, kid, I think so,” he said in a rush. “I think so.” The thread threatened to snap.

“Okay,” Christopher said, leaning into Buck and processing what he’d been told. It wasn’t unexpected when the tears started to fall.

<...>

Buck slept on the couch. Sometimes when he stayed over, Eddie would drag him to the bedroom and force him into the opposite side of the bed. Without Eddie here, it felt like a violation of his space. Too empty and cold without him.

He didn’t know who told Ana about Eddie, but it sure as hell wasn’t him. He didn’t hate Ana. He was aware that his feelings around her boiled down to jealousy. She was a threat to his place in the Diaz boys’ lives and he really hadn’t been dealing with that great. When she would replace him on movie nights or family dinners, when he would babysit for a date night, when she would try to parent Christopher, Buck could feel himself being replaced and everytime it hurt like the twist of a knife in his chest.

He was happy that Eddie seemed to be happy with her, at least most of the time. The relationship was still too new to really pass definitive judgment on it. 

That didn’t matter now when Eddie still hadn’t woken up from surgery. The doctors were relatively confident he should, but he had lost a lot of blood. All that mattered to Buck right now was taking care of Christopher, praying Eddie would wake up, and Mandy’s pending phone call. So how she found out, he didn’t fucking know and he really didn’t care. He had more than enough on his plate.

Ana took the job of sitting vigil at Eddie’s bedside.

Buck took care of Christopher.

He made sure they ate and Chris attended school which was still online and tried to keep him distracted while they waited for Eddie to wake up. He tried to keep the pain off his face everytime Chris asked if his dad had woken up and he had to tell him no.

The day after Eddie was shot, Buck went to the loft after Carla came over to watch Christopher while he did his Zoom classes (they had agreed to keep routine unless Eddie woke up) under the guise of picking up some stuff. He did that, packing a duffel with a few changes of clothes and anything else he might need for the next couple of days. 

Luckily, Albert was out of the apartment otherwise the conversation may have gotten awkward. No one besides Maddie and Eddie knew about his time on the teams. He’s pretty sure Bobby thought he was a Ringer and he didn’t particularly care what anyone else thought.

But it was good Albert was out because he used the rest of the time Chris would be in school to open his gun safe and clean every one of his weapons. With all of them in danger, he wished it was legal for him to carry while on duty but he wasn’t a cop.

He felt more prepared, though. For when Mandy would call.

Much to everyone’s apparent surprise, he walked into the station for his shift two days after the shooting. There had been two more incidents in that time and Eddie still hadn’t woken up. 

While changing in the locker room, Chim leaned over to him. “You know no one expects you to be here right now?” he told him.

Buck just shrugged. This was the job. This was where he was useful. He would take care of Chris and go to work and protect his team and wait for Mandy to call and for Eddie to wake up. He had to be at work, otherwise he would either be stuck in a hospital room with a woman he hated just by the nature of her position or interfering with a police investigation.

Or calling the entirety of his old team and asking them to go rogue with him.

So he went to work.

He hated the looks everyone was giving him. He felt it like fire against his skin. Pity, sympathy, and worry were all useless to him.

Bobby had called a shift meeting. Everyone stood in the loft as he debriefed them on the current situation. The tension in the air was palpable. Every shift was a risk to their lives, but it had never been like this. The majority of the people in the room had never been under direct fire before; it had never been something they had to worry about.

“This is something we haven’t faced before. I know it's scary that someone is targeting us,” Bobby said in his calm and collected ‘Captain’s voice’. 

The very sentiment made Buck want to scoff. It was pathetic how settled the idea of having a target on him made him feel. Sure, it would be a whole lot better if he was allowed the tools he wanted to defend himself or if he had his team by his side or even Eddie on his six. But the familiarity of danger was an old abusive lover that he kept crawling back to. It stung, but he found comfort in it. 

“We still have a job to do,” Bobby told them. “We’re just gonna have to do it a little differently now.”

Everyone exchanged looks but Chim was the one who spoke. “That's great, Cap, but we’re still sitting ducks,” he pointed out.

Cap inclined his head. “Well,” and he hefted up the vest that had been sitting at his feet. ‘LAFD’ was emblazoned on the front in big red letters. “Not entirely.”

Buck hadn’t worn a bulletproof vest or plate armour in years. Now he was really going to feel like he was back in an active warzone. Part of him knew that this was possibly one of the worst acts of fate to throw at his mental state, but the other part of him accepted the old routine. He knew how to deal with this—the danger, the fear, the violence, the loss. He just wished he knew how to deal with the loss being Eddie.

“What about our families?” Hen asked. “Are they in danger too?”

“We have no reason to think that”

“We had no reason to think that Eddie would get shot helping a kid, either,” Buck sniped because yeah, maybe this whole situation was putting him on edge and between dealing with his own sleepless nights and Christopher’s resurfacing nightmares, he hadn’t slept much in the past too many hours.

Bobby sighed. “Look, if we had the resources to put an officer at every door, we would, but we don’t”

Fuck, Buck might just call his team anyways and see if any of them wanted to spend some time in LA. Then he could have someone protecting his family at all times seeing as he couldn’t be everywhere at once. 

He was already juggling so much over the past couple of days between Christopher, calling the hospital multiple times a day, checking in on Maddie (who definitely wasn’t doing as well as she claimed), and practising all his self-control not to do something extra stupid.

There were no updates on Eddie and he knew that was what had him spiralling. Surgery had gone well, they said but it had been two days and he hadn’t woken up; was still intubated. And Buck had to see Chris’s face when he told him no, he couldn’t see his dad because it was better than him seeing Eddie’s comatose form in that hospital bed.

Bobby was still speaking. “Until they catch this guy, this is gonna be a stressful time. Not just for us, but for the people that love us. As scared as we are, it's going to be worse for them—the ones who have to watch us go to work and worry we might not come home.” 

Bobby was more than right on that front.

“We’ll lean on them, we’ll lean on each other, and that's how we’ll make it through this.”

“How do we know this guy’s still out there?” Ravi asked. “What if with all these new precautions, he just gave up?”

An interesting thought, but a killer like this didn’t just stop. He wasn’t only trying to incite fear and cause disruption. This killer had a vendetta.

Bobby fixed them all with a solemn look. “We won't give up. The SWAT team will protect us.” Which was at least a nice sentiment but Buck didn’t trust SWAT as far as he could throw them. These next hours, the next few shifts were going to be interesting.

He just wished his phone would ring.

<...>

As soon as he heard the call, Buck had a gut feeling about what would happen. An accident at a construction sight: a worker stuck on a crane, pinned by a cable.

“What's going on?” the construction site manager cried out when they arrived, emergency personnel pouring out of their vehicles. “We didn’t ask for cops, our buddy’s hurt.”

Bobby held out a calming hand. “Gentlemen, they’re here just as a precaution,” he explained.

“Sniper,” one of the guys said to his coworker, loud enough that they all could hear him. 

“You said you have a man pinned by a cable up there?” Bobby checked, gesturing to the crane. They all looked up at the machinery scaffolding towering above them, way out in the open. 

The manager was quick to defend. “I don’t know how the hell the cable came unseated but it has that on the end of it,” he pointed to what looked to be two steel beams dangling. “It's putting at least a thousand pounds of pressure on his arm. You can see it on the feed.”

They had cameras up at the top of the crane to monitor what was happening so high in the air. Probably with the intention of trying to prevent accidents like this.

“Alright, can you show us,” Bobby asked.

Buck squinted up at the crane again. There was no cover. They were in a downtown area surrounded by skyscrapers, plenty of places for a sniper to hide. Anyone who went up would be pasting a big red target on their backs, practically begging to get shot.

He was already scheming a way to get up there, be the only one to put himself in danger while simultaneously keeping himself as safe as possible.

On one hand, he was the one taking care of Christopher right now so he really shouldn’t be trying to get himself taken out of commission. Especially when there was no real timeline for when Eddie would wake up.

On the other hand, Carla and Eddie’s Abuela and Tia Pepa could take care of him temporarily should worse come to worst. Buck was the only one on the team that didn’t have immediate family that needed him home; a spouse and kids depending on him to stay safe. He should have been the one to get shot, not Eddie. And Buck was the most well-equipped to handle getting shot at, or actually getting shot, out of the people on this call.

While Bobby, Hen, and Chim headed over with the police sergeant and the site manager to check the feed and assess the patient, Buck headed to the senior officer who had been dispatched with them.

“Officer Nguyen,” he addressed the man. “Can I ask a massive favour?”

Which is how Buck found himself heading up the crane without telling Bobby—just to ensure he was the one to go up. The familiar weight of a rifle slung across his back alongside the coil of rope was a comfort second only to the knowledge that he was protecting his team by doing this.

“Buck, nobody cleared you to go up there,” Bobby’s voice snapped through his radio. “You are completely exposed and we don’t have any way to protect you.”

Buck just kept climbing. To pause while on the ladder meant he really couldn't protect himself. He had to keep moving. Time was of the essence.

“Buckley! Buckley respond,” Cap ordered.

He groaned but risked pausing to respond. “I’ve got this, Cap. I brought a tourniquet. Hen and Chim can walk me through anything else I need to do.”

Buck purposefully neglected to mention the gun and he doubted they could really see it from the ground. He was pretty sure that wouldn’t make them any more confident, seeing as they actually didn’t know anything about his past career endeavours.

As he climbed, he kept his eyes scanning the buildings around him, looking for anything that could be the flash of a sniper scope or the muzzle of a gun.

“Alright, Buck.” Hen was talking to him now, debriefing him as he climbed the last few ladders. “The guy’s name is Cliff and that cable that's got him pinned; you’ve got no way to move it. You’ve gotta cut it to drop the beam and release the pressure.” Her calm instructions were a balm on his prickling skin.

“You’ve gotta put the tourniquet on first,” Chimney chimed in. “We’ll walk you through it.”

Buck definitely knew how to put a tourniquet on but kept that to himself. The higher he got, the louder Cliff’s screaming got.

He spotted it just as he pulled himself onto the platform for the next ladder. It was the flash he’d been looking for—a scope. Well… possibly. Technically there were a hundred other things it could be. But still… Shit.

Buck paused for a minute. While he was on the ladders, he couldn’t shoot. The tube made manoeuvring impossible and he had no stability. There was no help down below, though, so radioing would make them needlessly worried. His rules of engagement currently meant he couldn’t shoot unless shot at. Especially considering it may not actually be the sniper.

So he climbed the next ladder, anticipating the crack of a gunshot with every rung.

The wind was strong at the top of the crane. It took a lot of concentration and strength not to plummet to his death.

“Hey, Cliff,” he called out. “My name is Buck, and I’m gonna get you down.” He shot a glance at the building of windows he’d seen the flash, but he couldn’t think about the danger when someone needed his help now.

“Get this off of me,” Cliff cried. The middle-aged construction worker lay flat on his back, thick steel cable pinning him to the platform by his right arm. It must have dragged through his skin when it dropped as the cable had cut deep into his upper arm. It looked like there would be just enough room between the wound and the shoulder joint to fit a tourniquet. 

The man was lucky, all things considered. It looked like the cable hadn’t broken fully through his bone. Under the blood, he could see the bone under the separated skin, fat, and muscle. The cable had hit his brachial artery, though, and blood was spurting brightly from the wound.

Buck secured himself to the crane as a precaution. “Deal,” he told the patient. “First, though, we get this tourniquet on you, okay?”

He pulled out said item and then to his radio he said, “Hen, Chim, I’m prepping the tourniquet.”

Then he tuned out whatever they were saying because he knew what he was doing but he was unsure if they knew he knew what he was doing. He was a firefighter so he had his EMT certification and also it was a tourniquet which was a really straightforward device (not to mention his years of combat experience and application of field medicine) so he really hoped Hen and Chim were only talking him through it for their own benefit. 

“Hey, Cliff,” he told the man who was still freaking out as Buck wrapped the tourniquet around his upper arm and ignored the arterial spray of blood that splashed in time with his heartbeat. “This is gonna hurt,” he warned before he tightened the device and secured it, successfully stopping the haemorrhage.

Then the next task. Buck kept an eye on his surroundings as he pulled out the power saw. “Okay,” he called into his radio. “Cutting the cable. Make sure the area is clear.”

“Copy that. All clear,” Bobby responded. 

Buck took the power tool to the cable, doing his best to keep the sparks away from Cliff. It creaked before finally snapping, sending multiple steel beams crashing to the ground.

He quickly packed and wrapped the deep wound the cable left and secured Cliff’s arm to his torso and then Cliff to the basket. The man was quiet the whole time, either aware of the tension of the situation or else, not feeling very talkative after losing so much blood and almost severing his arm.

“Alright, I’m gonna getcha down.”

He slowly lowered them to the ground with the rope system. This was the most vulnerable he felt the whole time. If he got shot at now, Cliff was likely to get caught in the crossfire. There wouldn’t be much he could do to protect the patient. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot where he’d seen the scope and dared the sniper to take a shot.

They reached the ground unharmed.

“Hang in there bud. You’ll be okay,” one of the construction crew said as Hen, Chimney, and Bobby got the basket unlatched from the ropes and onto the gurney.

Cliff, who was still panicked, did not take too kindly to that sentiment. “You sure about that? What about my arm?”

Chim, who was already assessing the damage as Buck got himself unclipped from the ropes, told them, “Probably be some nerve damage, but I think he’ll keep the arm.”

“Thank you,” the site manager said. 

Hen shook her head. “Don’t thank us. Thank the crazy guy.” She shot him a look that was fond exasperation, worry, and frustration all mixed into one.

Buck refused to feel guilty. He would much rather be the one in danger. It was a well-travelled place for him, unlike the rest of his family—all people he would take a bullet for without a second thought. He had a feeling that explaining that would not go over too well, though, and the look Bobby was giving him said he was in for an earful once they were back at the station. 

<...>

Bobby never got the chance to talk to Buck. First, he avoided him, beelining for the kitchen to start on dinner. He was a little surprised by that move but maybe the man just needed some time to cool off first. He knew Bobby was mad. Probably disappointed too. They still had several hours left on shift.

Then, Buck got a call.

“Mandy,” he said, heart already racing in his chest. “You got something?”

“That was stupid. Even for you,” she snapped. Obviously, she had somehow found out about his stunt with the crane. It looked like he would be getting lectured by a different someone tonight.

Hopefully, she had information in addition to the lecture. Maybe he should regret reopening a line of communication with her.

He groaned. “I know, but I was smart about my stupid and it had to be me.” It wasn’t much of a defense and they both knew it.

She scoffed. “Of course it did. You always did act before thinking. I think this time, though, you did both and it wasn’t coming from a place of brave stupidity.”

“Mandy-”

“No. Listen. You may have changed, sure, but that was still full-on self-sacrificing martyrdom. That was Bravo 7.” She sighed. “You can’t pull stunts like that without the rest of Bravo watching your back. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

He hated that she was right. It was a miracle he’d made it out of Bravo alive. The Buck beta version was even worse than Buck 1.0. More reckless to the point of suicidality, even if he’d never admit it. He was so desperate to hold on to whatever he felt he’d had, he’d blow himself up before he lost it.

“I can’t handle anyone else getting shot,” he confessed. “I could protect them today, so I did.”

“Buck-”

He shook his head. “No, Mandy. This isn't like Bravo. These people did not sign up to get shot at,” he countered. “They are not trained, they are not experienced. These are civilians . I cannot handle anyone else getting shot on my watch. I am supposed to protect them. Two days ago, I failed. I cannot fail again. I-I can’t.”

A beat.

“Okay,” she breathed. “I understand. But Buck?”

“Hm?”

“You need someone on your six. You can’t put all of that on yourself. I know you’ll never be the one who really thinks before he acts, never be the one who follows the rules. That's why Jason picked you off Green Team. All of your reckless, self-sacrificing, protective bullshit comes from the right place because you care about your team like family.

“But I think you need to take a good hard look at what you did today and ask yourself if that was what that was or if that was you making yourself a target for other means. For all that you love the people around you, they love and care about you right back,” she reminded him. “And you can’t protect anyone if you’re dead.”

“Mandy,” his voice broke. He knew she was right, but he didn’t feel it. All he felt was failure right now.

“If I tell you what I found, you won’t do something equally as risky?” she offered; an olive branch after tearing into some of his biggest faults, fears, and insecurities.

“I won’t,” he lied.

She turned his words over in her brain for a moment but spoke again anyway. “The man you’re looking for is Ethan Copeland. He’s ex-SWAT.”

“That explains the efficiency and insider knowledge,” he remarked, putting the pieces together. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Who do you think I am? He’s laying low in Van Nuys. There's a guest house on 521 Hazeltine Ave that he’s squatting in. He’s planning something, though.”

“What?”

She made a dissatisfied noise. “Not sure. There’s footage of him from yesterday purchasing an unusual amount of turpentine so he’s probably planning an arson of some kind—unsure where, though. Most likely he’s setting a trap.”

“Shit,” he swore, thinking of all the ways this could go horribly wrong. 

“Footage from the Hazeltine main house doorbell confirms he should still be there now and routine suggests he will be there until sundown. The other cameras on the block are at the gas station and by the northeast traffic light at the intersection of Hazeltine and Burbank,” she told him seriously.

“Thanks, Mandy. I owe you one,” he said fondly. Usually, he would be loath to owe a spook a favour, but Mandy was alright.

She chuckled softly. “How about we call it even for that time in Bolivia?” she countered. And yeah—Mandy was good.

A smile ghosted over his face. “Thanks again. Talk later.”

“Don’t get caught,” was the sentiment she left him with.

 Buck would feel worse about running out in the middle of his shift if his coworkers hadn’t already spent the day constantly surprised he was there in the first place. He at least shot Bobby a text making an excuse about Chris. He could beg for forgiveness (and sit through whatever lecture Bobby had been cooking up) later.

Mandy had put him on a timer. He had until sundown before Ethan would be laying his trap before more people would be killed. He had to act now.

He only had a few hours before he had to be home, as well. Carla was with Christopher until 18:00 and while she had assured him several times that she could stay longer, he didn’t want to put her out anymore than he already was. That meant he had five hours and change. Hopefully, it will be enough.

Buck’s first stop was to his apartment where he changed into casual clothes and the go bag he’d put together the last time he’d been in his apartment. He left his phone on the kitchen island. It was a risk to leave it when he had people depending on him to answer his phone, but more importantly, he had people depending on him to not go to prison. Therefore, the phone was left behind.

To avoid having to stash his car somewhere, he took public transportation most of the way and walked the rest. He kept his head down, face obscured by a baseball cap. No one spared him more than a glance.

He was careful to avoid the cameras when he ducked into the tall apartment building on the cross street of Burbank. It was the tallest building in the area, providing a decent eyeline into Copeland’s crash pad. 

Buck thought to himself as he pulled two pairs of nitrile gloves and got set up. To call that building anything other than a glorified shed was being generous. It was very small, fitting no more than three rooms: a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen/living area. A good deal for a squatter or guest but not a place for long-term residence.

While on Bravo, he had never been their go-to sniper. He was a good shot, phenomenal when compared to the average marksman, but he still fell after Ray and Clay. It was partially due to the fact that he didn’t enjoy it as much. Hours of not moving, staring down a scope waiting for the target to be in the prime window. It all took so much patience that Buck did not have.

Turns out the only thing he was lacking was the proper motivation. 

From his perch, he had an unobstructed view through the front window which revealed most of the main living space. It was sparsely furnished. The far wall had a mini fridge and kitchenette with minimal counter space. There was a couch against the west wall and a small table in front of it. There was something on the table, but he couldn’t identify it from this distance. The bedroom door was to the left of the kitchenette and closed.

He also had a view of the front door, but that was partially obstructed by tree branches and foliage that could interfere with a clean shot. He would have better luck shooting through the window.

It was also a relatively close shot—easy. He was approximately 100m out which made things easier. By comparison to previous experience, this was a walk in the park (discounting the personal connection).

Ethan wasn’t home.

While he had exactly 2 hours and 52 minutes to lie in wait, this would become a problem if he never showed face. On top of that, if Ethan wasn’t here, where was he? Out hunting firefighters for sport?

There was always plan B. But plan B was a lot messier and was about 300% more likely to end in arrest.

Waiting left too much room for idle thought. Anxiety crept in around the edges. What if he had left only for someone else at the 118 to get shot? What if Eddie had woken up and they couldn’t get a hold of him because his phone was abandoned? What if Eddie was dead?

The time ticked by. Cars rushed past on the streets below. 

He wondered about Ethan’s motive. Mandy hadn’t explained the ‘why’. He hadn’t asked, wasn’t trained to. As the tip of the spear, he’d never asked why he was pointed where he was, just focused on doing his job.

Now he wondered because he was no longer the tip of the spear and because he couldn’t fathom hating a group of people so much that you were driven to kill them indiscriminately. She had mentioned that he was ex-SWAT. There was definitely a story there.

Bobby said that SWAT was supposed to be the force out protecting the firefighters right now. It was ironic that it was someone who used to be one of their own that they were protecting them from. There was a well-worn rivalry between the red and blue, but it was never quite that serious. Maybe he needed to re-evaluate the seriousness of that rivalry. It most likely wasn’t the actual driver behind this spree, but there was no way it helped matters.

There were foundational idealistic differences between cops and firefighters. There was a reason he’d become a firefighter after leaving the SEALs and not a cop. He was done hurting people, taking lives. He wanted to try and balance that ledger, to save as many as he’d hurt while working as a tool of American imperialism.

The fact was, that was never something he could undo, never a scale he could balance. So he protected and saved everyone he could, at the risk of his own well-being. Yet, it came back to this.

It came back to something intrinsically wrong with him that drove him to protect his family by any means possible. It was the same force that had him joining the SEALs in the first place. The same thing that had motivated him all the way to Bravo. 

Everything came full circle, this broken thing inside of his chest that screamed and clawed at him, that told him he was worthless unless he was protecting, saving, serving. 

So he sat watch, lie in wait, eyes focussed down the end of his scope.

Buck waited.

Until… movement.

Ethan was home. He had just been in the bedroom, out of Buck’s sight.

He watched the man shuffle into the front room. He willed him to step into the shot. 

Move. Move. Move.

There.

Ethan stepped in plain view of the window, pulling on a dark jacket.

Two rapid twitches of his trigger finger. Slight adjustment. Two more shots. All movements done in practiced, rapid succession. Four bullets sent flying dead on target.

The suppressed shots were loud, but could hardly be heard over the sound of traffic rushing by. Louder was the shattering of glass metres away.

He checked his shots had made it home through the spotter scope. Sure enough, Ethan lay on the ground unmoving, blood sinking into the carpet from multiple gunshot wounds.

He’d never seen it coming. 

There wasn’t time to watch the blood stains grow, to watch the way the carpet would be stained crimson, soaked with the blood of a killer. With a speed and smoothness born of repetition, he broke down his set-up, disassembled his rifle, picked up the shell casings and shoved everything into his backpack. 

Dusk was falling around him. He pulled on a plain navy blue jacket and picked up his bag.

He casually walked down the stairs on the opposite side of the building, avoiding the cameras he was hyper-aware of and strolled west down Burbank to the bus stop, slipping off his gloves as he walked. He stowed them in his pants pocket.

Buck didn't let himself feel anything.

Not yet.

Ethan was dead, the threat eliminated. His family was safe. He’d taken another life, something he’d promised himself he’d never do again.

Still, he felt nothing.

He put everything away back in his empty apartment, locking the gun safe when he was done and changing clothes. He put his laundry basket by the front door to take with him to get done at Eddie’s. The casings were hidden until he could completely dispose of them. 

Before he could head out to take over from Carla, his phone rang from where it still lay on the kitchen island. The sound had his heart plummeting to his toes as he scrambled to pick it up. His pulse thundered in his ears, hands shaking so badly it took two tries to swipe across his screen to accept the call.

“Yes?”

<...>

It was a miracle he made it to the hospital in one piece. The nurses only spared him reproachful looks for the noise he made as he scrambled through the halls.

With every thud of his heart in his ears, he drew closer to him—to where his heart lay.

Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

He was awake. 

Ana stepped out of the way to reveal Eddie, tired but smiling softly at Buck from his hospital bed.

“Eddie,” he breathed out softly.

The crack of a shot. Blood—a dark puddle growing and seeping across asphalt. The taste of iron on his tongue. Those fingers, twitching in his direction.

“Hey, Buck.”

With those two small words, his mind snapped back to reality. To that hospital smell and the soft gaze Eddie had fixed on him.

Buck took a hesitant step forward. Eddie reached out a tentative hand. That was all the invitation he needed to be scrambling to his side, grabbing the proffered hand and holding it between both of his like a lifeline. Eddie gripped back in equal measure.

“Fucking hell. It's good to see you awake,” Buck mumbled into their hands, feeling the weight of the past few days trying to drag him under.

Eddie just squeezed his hands. They stood there, Buck revelling in the feel of Eddie, alive, warm, breathing, awake. God knows what was going through Eddie’s head but he didn’t protest how Buck held him like a prayer.

Finally, Buck raised his head and if his eyes were a little watery, neither of them mentioned it. “There's someone who’s been begging to talk to you if you don’t mind?” His phone was already out, pulling up the familiar contact.

He’d had the foresight to shoot Carla a text on his drive to the hospital.

Eddie’s smile was brighter now. “Of course.”

He held up his phone for Eddie, unwilling to let go of him yet.

Chris, who had been expecting their call, picked up on the first ring. “Dad! I miss you,” he immediately declared.

“I miss you too, mijo. I’m gonna see you real soon. I’ll be home before you know it,” Eddie comforted his son. 

Carla, who was standing behind Chris let out a huff. “Let yourself heal first, please. You don’t have anything to worry about. Buck and I have it all under control,” she told him with confidence.

Buck really appreciated it. Eddie would be chomping at the bit to get home to Christopher the moment he wasn’t mostly sedated. Even if he didn’t feel like he had it all under control, he also knew that Carla had his back. He loved Christopher so much and would watch him for as long as necessary.

“Thanks,” Eddie mumbled.

Buck could tell he was fading fast, still exhausted from the healing and the painkillers and probably some of the aftereffects of the anaesthesia. He felt guilty that he had taken so long to call Chris even though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes between him walking in and them calling Chris. Still, Chris deserved more of his father’s time, especially after something so traumatic.

Sensing his dad was tired, Chris said, “Love you, Dad,” as he and Carla waved goodbye at the camera.

“Love you too.”

After they hung up, Eddie turned to Buck. “‘Preciate you staying with them.”

“Of course.” Like there was anything else Buck would be doing. “Carla offered to bring him to her house, but I figured this was overwhelming enough without having to sleep in a strange bed,” he explained. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Christopher was going through. All he could do was try to make things easier, be there to support him and protect both him and his dad by making sure this didn’t happen again.

A different body lying on tan carpeting soaked crimson, staining like a Rorschach blot. The shape looked like smoke.

“He doing okay?” Eddie checked.

Buck let out a self-deprecating sound. “Better than me,” he admitted. “I just about lost it when I told him what happened. I really tried to keep it together for him, but I don’t know. Maybe I was too truthful? That kid’s been through a lot. He’s resilient, but I wish I could have been stronger for him. I’m sorry.”

Eddie shook his head weakly. “You were there for him when I couldn’t be,” and it was Eddie’s turn to sound self-deprecating. “ That's what matters.”

“Still. It would have been better for him if I was the one who got shot,” Buck said. He couldn’t disagree that it mattered to be there for Christopher, but it didn’t change that he felt it would have been better for Christopher to not have to go through almost losing his remaining parent. It would have been better for Eddie not to relive the trauma of being shot.

Eddie turned to him like he was going to say something, but Ana walked in. Buck wasn’t even aware that she had left and that made his skin itch. That someone was moving around him that he wasn’t aware of.

They both looked at her.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, sounding only politely apologetic. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Buck waved her off. It looked like Eddie was ready to go to sleep again anyway. “No, you’re fine. I was just about to head out.” Then to Eddie, he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow for you to talk to Chris. I’ll bring by that book you’ve been reading too. Rest, okay?”

Eddie nodded already almost lost to the world, but gave Buck’s hand one last little squeeze before he slipped away.

“Call me if he needs anything else,” he said to Ana needlessly. 

She nodded, taking to the chair she had been occupying for the majority of her vigil. “Good to see you, Buck.”

“Now that he’s awake, don’t forget to take a moment for yourself, too,” he advised. “The world won’t stop turning because you showered and slept in your own bed.”

He was only parroting the advice he’d gotten after Eddie’s and Maddie’s past hospital visits. It was never advice he’d taken himself, but that didn’t matter. He never claimed to not be a hypocrite. It was the only nice thing he could think to say to her.

“Good night, Buck,” she said, all polite tones and half-smiles that didn’t reach her eyes.

He nodded and slipped past her out of the room.

<...>

“In a statement given by the police this morning, it is reported that the sniper suspected to be responsible for the shooting of multiple Los Angeles firefighters, Ethan Copeland, was found dead last night. He was shot in his place of residence somewhere between 3 and 6 pm. While there are no suspects at this time, it seems to have been an act of vigilante justice.

“Ethan Copeland was a member of LAPD SWAT before he was relieved from duty six months ago. He was the partner of ex SWAT rifleman Kenneth Malone who was fired after shooting a hostage. The rounds used in the LAFD shootings had been issued to Malone, but they were found to have been fired by Copeland’s gun which was found near his body.”

Buck clicked off the news report. No suspects, no specific time of death, all good signs. He’d been clean and thorough. The shell casing had been melted down and disposed of last night in Eddie’s garage. 

“Buck!” Christopher said, wandering out of his bedroom to where Buck was laid out on the couch, sleep hanging off of him. “Can I talk to my dad again?”

Buck sat up and smiled tightly at him. “Not this morning, Superman, but how about after school, huh?” 

Chris didn’t look satisfied but agreed anyway. “Why are you up so early? The news was on for ever .” He was exaggerating in that endearing way kids do. Buck hadn’t really slept more than a couple of hours and had only turned the TV on to catch the early morning news segment just in case.

He smiled at Chris. “Sorry. Did it wake you up?”

The kid shrugged. “It's fine. You can make me pancakes to make up for it.”

Cheeky. It was good to see him in a better mood now that he’d gotten some peace of mind in seeing Eddie awake. He wished he could take him to go see Eddie in person—would probably do all of them some good—but Chris was too high risk to go to the hospital unless it was life or death. 

“Sure, kid,” he agreed, pulling himself to his feet. “Do you wanna help, or go get dressed for school? Carla should be here soon.” He started gathering the needed ingredients and made a mental note to put away the dishes on the drying rack after they finished up here.

“I wanna help,” Chris declared, shuffling into the kitchen after him. “Can we put chocolate chips in them?”

Buck raised an eyebrow, pulling out an apron to protect Chris’s dinosaur pyjamas from stray flour. “Didn’t we agree that chocolate chips were a weekend thing?”

Chris accepted the apron but fixed him with a look. “But we’re celebrating, Buck,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dad’s awake.”

And who was he to argue with that? 

They were halfway through their pancakes by the time Carla walked in, keys jingling loudly as she put them on her designated hook by the door.

“Good morning,” she called as she waltzed into the kitchen. “Oh, are we still in our pyjamas again? I thought you said this was a one-time thing.” There was no accusation in her voice, just playfulness mixed with a small amount of concern.

“That's my fault again. I owed him pancakes for waking him up too early,” Buck confessed.

“Not sleeping?” she asked, worry more prevalent in her tone.

“The news is boring,” Christopher contributed, enthusiastically stabbing his pancake. “And loud. But we’re celebrating, Carla.”

She turned her attention to Chris and Buck was relieved to no longer have her assessing stare on him. “Well, what are we celebrating?” 

“Dad woke up,” he explained, giving her the same ‘duh’ look he’d given Buck this morning.

She smiled. “Well, I guess Buck can be forgiven then.”

“Thanks, Carla. I would say it won’t happen again, but my track record is pretty poor lately,” he said sheepishly. “There’re extra pancakes if you want some.”

“We made some Mickey Mouse shapes and some planets,” Chris told her very seriously, stuffing what used to be a part of Saturn into his mouth.

She set her purse on the chair beside him and moved to the counter. “Creative and no doubt delicious. Thank you.”

Finished with his own breakfast, Buck moved from his seat, taking his plate to the sink and allowing Carla to take his spot at the table. “I’m gonna head out to grab some groceries and switch out some laundry at the loft,” he told both Chris and Carla as he worked on cleaning up the kitchen. “I also need to phone Maddie, but I should be home by lunch. After school, I can head over to the hospital so you can talk to Eddie. Does that sound alright?”

“All good,” Chris replied, swallowing down his last bite of pancake and bringing his plate to Buck to wash. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

“Okay,” Buck said, running his one dry hand through Chris’s curls. “I’ll help you with your hair when I’m done cleaning up.”

“He seems to be doing better,” Carla remarked as they heard Chris’s door shut. 

“Yeah. I think getting to see him awake, and talk to him helped. I mean, he was handling this all pretty well before, but,” he didn’t need to finish, Carla understanding what he was saying.

“And what about you?” she asked. 

He turned his back, putting dishes in the cabinet. “I’m fine. Just wish I could do more for them.”

“Mmm.” He could feel the sceptical look she was shooting him. “You are doing enough already. Chris mentioned the news so I assume you heard they got the guy who did it?”

“Yeah.”

“It makes me feel better knowing you are safe now. Y’know Chris needs you to come home just as much as he needs Eddie, right?”

Buck shook his head. That wasn’t true. Chris needed Eddie because Eddie was his father. Sure, right now Chris needed him to come home because right now he was providing some stability in his life. It wasn’t like Eddie—couldn’t be. It didn’t matter if he revelled in the warm burt of love Chris’s innocent smile sent straight to his heart. That kind of grounding, fatherly love was not something he was allowed to dwell on because Eddie was Chris’s father.

Buck was just a helpful family friend.

He turned back to Carla with a plastic smile. “I’m fine. I doubt grocery shopping will be what does me in.”

She raised an accusatory eyebrow. “You know that's not-”

“Bucky!” Chris calls from the bathroom.

Taking the out, Buck scurried away from the conversation to help manage Chris’s curls into less of a bird's nest.

<...>

“Maddie,” he said when the phone picked up, walking through the cereal aisle.

“Hey, Buck,” she greeted, but her tone lacked genuine cheer. He’d noticed it had been lacking after she had Jee-Yun. “What's up?”

He shrugged even though she couldn’t see him. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while. I wanted to check in on you.” It wasn’t a lie, but technically he did have ulterior motives.

“Jee-Yun is doing fine. She keeps crying, but the doctors say it’s colic.”

Buck frowned at the selection of Cheerios. “That can’t be easy, Mads. But I asked how you were. Not Jee. I want to know how my sister is holding up.”

“It's a lot,” she admitted. The defeat and exhaustion in her voice worried him. “I can’t help but feel like I’m doing something wrong. Just… the sound of her crying. I can’t-”

“What can I do to help?” he immediately asked. It had been a while since he’d helped with baby care. His thoughts went to Alana with Mikey, then Naima with Jameela and Junior, and finally to Sonny and Leanne. Mikey had technically been a toddler when Buck had met him so he only kind of counted. Clay and Stella also had a son now, Brian, but Buck had only met him once.

He had seen the toll baby-rearing took on the mothers, especially with semi-absent partners who were putting their lives in danger. He knew the situation with the LAFD, even over the past week, was different than having a SEAL husband, but the amount of stress Maddie was under had to be comparable.

That was a knife to the chest if ever there was one, that wound landing square next to the knife he’d gotten when he found his sister bleeding in the snow, Doug’s corpse not 100 feet from her. If there was one thing he never wanted for his sister, it was the life of a military spouse.

“Maddie, please let me help.”

She made a sound between a sigh and a whimper. “I can’t ask that of you, Buck. Christopher and Eddie need you right now.”

He waved her off. “I think my sister needs me just as much. I can take care of you too, you know? How about I come over this afternoon and hold Jee-Yun while you take some time to shower and maybe take a nap? Does that sound okay?”

He felt a little strange about inviting himself over, but he had the feeling that assertiveness was needed in this situation.

“Buck, I can’t-”

“I’m not asking. And I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it,” he insisted; finally, choosing the strawberry banana Cheerios.

“Okay,” she said small. “See you at 2:00?”

“See you then. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Buck,” she said before hanging up.

Moving deeper into the grocery store, it looked like he had yet another phone call to make. Apparently, grocery shopping was a multitasking time, despite the fact that trying to hold a conversation and pick up all the items on his list made the shopping take twice as long.

This time the phone rang so much that Buck was sure he wasn’t going to answer as he added soy milk, beans, and granola bars to the cart.

“Go for Chimney,” the man on the other end finally answered.

Buck headed off towards the jams, jellies, and fruit preserves. “Hey, Chim. I was just talking with Maddie.”

“Then why are you calling me?” Chim asked, confused.

Buck huffed. “Because you two aren’t the same person, duh.” Before that could get a smartass remark in response he powered on. “Anyways, I’m coming over after lunch-ish. Do you think I should bring something that you guys can heat up for dinner?”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugged, picking out a four-fruit preserve that looked good. “I know you can kind of cook, but what with the newborn and all, I’m just trying to ease some of your guys' stress. I’m concerned about Maddie.”

“Concerned about Maddie?”

“Yeah, man. She’s been off since the birth and I think everything has been a lot for her. I mean, going back to work, colic-y baby, us at risk of getting shot on the job, and you two were taking care of Albert’s recovery for the past month-ish. That's a lot for anyone,” he explained, moving to the next aisle.

Chimney took a moment, thinking over what Buck had said. Eventually, “You’re probably right. I don’t want you stressing over things, though. You have Eddie’s kid right now. I have Maddie. We’ll be okay.”

“Chim,” Buck said seriously. “Maddie is my sister. This is the least I can do. And like I told her, I want to help. So just accept it.” He added two different kinds of dried noodles to the cart. They were on sale.

Chim grumbled a bit but said, “Fine. I’m not off-shift until 9 so I bet Maddie would appreciate dinner. Tell my girls ‘hi’ from me.”

He smiled, self-satisfied. “Will-do. See ya Chim.”

“Thanks, Buck. Talk to you later.” He hung up with a click.

Phone duties complete, the rest of the shopping trip went a lot quicker. He only took the bag of perishables, the laundry basket, and his duffle up with him to the loft where he threw the groceries in his mostly empty refrigerator while he put away the laundry he’d done overnight and grabbed a few more outfits for the next couple of days.

The other thing he did, now in a bit of a hurry since he only had an hour and a half until he had to leave to be home in time for Christopher’s lunch break, was give the apartment a thorough scrub down. It was a paranoid precaution if anything, but he used his heavy-duty cleaning supplies to wipe down every door, floor, and surface in that place.

“Hey, Buck,” Albert said, walking in the front door. “Didn’t expect you to be here. Are you… cleaning?” He was dressed in a familiar outfit, the mandatory work pants and t-shirt of the Los Angeles Fire Academy. 

“I didn’t expect you here,” Buck admitted, sweeping the last of the dirt into the dustpan.

Albert gracefully ignored his odd behaviour. Somehow, this wasn’t the strangest thing he’d walked into the apartment to find Buck doing. 

“How’s Eddie?” he asked, kicking his boots off and heading to the fridge.

It felt weird, to make small talk again with Albert in the kitchen. Nothing like the whirlwind of the past week. “Awake. I’m gonna head over to the hospital this afternoon. Hopefully, the doctor will have an answer for when he’ll get to come home.” 

He tipped the dustpan into the waiting garbage bag and tied it off, then returned the broom and dustpan to the closet where they belonged. “Sorry, man, but I gotta go. I’m trying to get back before Christopher’s lunch.”

Albert waved him off. “No problem. Send Eddie my well-wishes.”

He grabbed his groceries from the fridge and his duffel off the counter. “‘Course,” he threw over his shoulder as he basically fled the apartment, taking the trash and recycling out with him.

Buck left a baffled Albert standing alone in the practically sterile loft. Part of him felt bad for how much time his might-as-well-be-brother-in-law spent alone in the apartment. He knew all too well how easily the sleek modern-designed space could feel cold and lonely. But Albert didn’t seem to mind the space.

Good thing, too, because Buck had the feeling he wasn’t going to be seeing much of the loft in the coming months. Not unless Eddie had other plans, or Ana got in the way. As it stood, Buck wasn’t planning on leaving the Diazes’ sides unless beaten back with a stick. 

As much as Eddie was going to want to just jump right back in after everything, he was going to need a lot of help around the house. Buck was more than willing to pick up that slack. Unless Eddie didn’t want him to but Buck might just about riot if Ana took his place.

Okay, it wouldn’t be much of a riot, more of a mope or depression spiral, but that was not the point. The point was that he was going to be there for Eddie and Chris in a very tangible way in the coming weeks.

<...>

Buck hadn’t heard much from Maddie or Chimney after the afternoon he had spent there. His texts were mainly left on ‘read’, but he made himself accept that that was fine (it really wasn’t but he already felt like a clown, the amount he was juggling). If they needed space, Buck could give them that. He spent his time focussing on Christopher, on Eddie, on the job. 

Eddie had been in the hospital for ten days total when he called Buck to tell him he was finally being discharged the next morning.

“That's great,” Buck breathed, struck with a combination of relief and anxiety. “Christopher will be ecstatic.”

“I bet he will. You’ll come get me, right?”

Oh.

He had been trying his best not to get his hopes up. Ana had gone back to work, but still spent a considerable amount of time there. Buck rarely got one-on-one time with Eddie. Between that and the way Back had already been getting squeezed out by her before the shooting, he hadn’t been sure Eddie would want him to pick him up. 

Wasn’t that customarily the responsibility of the significant other? Were there any rules for this?

But no. Eddie asked for him—wanted him to be there. Who was he to say no to him?

“Yeah, yeah, of course. What time?” He didn’t dare ask about Ana despite his confusion and curiosity.

“After morning rounds, I think sometime around 7:30,” he told him.

So here Buck was, bright and early at the hospital to come bring Eddie home. The nurse gave him the debrief for Eddie’s discharge and at-home care instructions. He scheduled the first physical therapy appointment (at the same time as Chris’s because it was in the same office) and accepted the list of prescriptions to pick up from the pharmacy before the nurse finally let him actually see the man.

“Hey,” he said. “The nurse is getting the discharge papers ready, then we can get out of here.” It was like a breath of fresh air to see Eddie sitting up, alert, and in street clothes, even if he was still looking a little worse for wear.

Eddie looked up at him from where he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. “Great,” he said. “Since we have a minute.”

The tone had him on edge. A million ‘what-ifs’ ran through his head on what Eddie would want to talk about. Everything from ‘Ana is gonna be staying with me through the recovery’ to ‘I know you shot the sniper’ and none of the speculative options was very good.

“Is everything alright?” he asked nervously.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie responded, trying to settle some of his nerves. “I’m just- uh… I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

That was not comforting. ‘Hey we need to talk’ was never a phrase a person wanted to hear because nine times out of ten it was followed up with something devastating.

Sensing this was going to be a big talk, Buck moved to sit next to him on the bed. “Okay.”

“So… You might have noticed I almost died. Again,” Eddie started, not looking at him. 

What a way to start. Buck could taste iron on his tongue, bile in the back of his throat. He looked at Eddie, concerned, studying.

“Yeah, I’ve had a lot of close calls. This one wasn’t even my closest.”

“Eddie,” Buck cut in. He didn’t even want to think about that, about the other, closer calls.

Eddie finally looked at him with wide earnest eyes. “Let me finish.” He took a breath and continued. “After the last time, when that well collapsed on top of me.”

“Which you survived,” Buck had to say, had to remind them both because he could still smell the rain, dirt, and ozone, feel the dirt under his nails and the scream of Eddie’s name in his throat. The time-freezing, gut-wrenching terror. 

Eddie chuckled softly and nodded. “After that, it got me thinking,” he admitted. “What would happen to Christopher if I hadn’t? So I went to my attorney and changed my will.”

Serious brown eyes fixed on concerned blue and Buck couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“So, someday, if I- if I didn’t make it…” Eddie explained, “Christopher would be taken care of. By you.”

“What?” It felt like all the oxygen was swept out of his lungs, out of the room. It was just him and Eddie and that bomb of information in his lap. Eddie handed him his heart, his life, his child and trusted Buck to keep it safe.

“It's in my will,” Eddie explained like Buck wasn’t hanging on every syllable, Eddie’s beating heart resting in bloody palms—held like a ticking time bomb. “If I die, you become Christopher’s legal guardian.”

He still didn’t, couldn’t understand. How could he trust Buck with that? Impulsive, irresponsible, emotionally unstable Buck who jumped in with both feet before checking the depth of the water. When all Buck felt he had ever done was fail both Eddie and Christopher time and time again? He lost Chris in a tsunami, he let Eddie go down that well, he watched Eddie get shot right in front of him; everytime unable to prevent the worst and only bearing witness to the loss.

“H-how does that even work?” he asked. “Don't you… I mean, don’t you need my consent?”

Eddie tilted his head. “My attorney said you could refuse.”

“You know I wouldn’t”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Eddie agreed softly.

Buck still wasn’t grasping it, his mind reeling. How could he be Eddie’s first choice in this? “I mean, he has grandparents, other family.” He knew Eddie had a strained relationship with his parents, but they were nothing like the Buckley parents. They loved Chris. And he had his sisters who would no doubt take Chris in a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “After Shannon left, my parents tried to guilt me into giving Christopher to them. Said it would be better for him.” Eddie shook his head. “It's not what I wanted then; it's not what I want now.”

If there was one thing Eddie was certain of, it was the kind of life he wanted for Chris, the kind of life he always strived to provide him. A life full of love, care, and opportunity.

“If it came to that, wouldn’t they fight for him?” Buck asked, already worried he would only cause more drama in Christopher’s life in this horrible hypothetical.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Eddie said, thinking it over. “Probably. But no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you. That is what I want for him.”

That left him momentarily speechless. Eddie gave him a moment to process his words. 

No one will ever fight for my son as hard as you.

Fuck.

It was almost too much for him to take, the words were bullets and a soothing balm all at once to the rubble of emotions he was being buried under.

“Well, you did this last year. Why are you just telling me now?” Because if this whole thing had gone a different way then that surprise would have been like being hit with a nuclear bomb, the fallout disastrous (instead of the RPG it felt like now). And it had been a year, so why finally tell him?

“Because, Evan ,” Eddie said seriously, drawing him out of the thought spiral. “You came in here the other day and you said you thought it would have been better if it had been you who was shot. You act like you’re expendable.” It was like the very thought of Buck’s lack of self-regard was a weight on Eddie’s shoulders. “But you’re wrong.”

 That was the only time anyone had ever said that in a way that actually made it through to him. He could feel the pain in Eddie’s voice, the way the thought of losing Buck hurt him. 

It had every protective instinct rearing its ugly head in his chest, unsure of how to do that when his instinct to protect was so thoroughly tangled in his own self-loathing. It was a Gordian knot in his chest that Eddie seemed dead set on untangling through sheer force.

Eddie had given Buck his own bleeding heart, trusted him to keep it safe, told him he was worthy of it. 

“Eddie-” he muttered brokenly.

Eddie just placed his good hand on top of Bucks and squeezed.

The nurse came bustling in with the discharge papers, cutting off anything else they would have said. “Well, Mr Diaz, it looks like you’re all set to go. I just need one more signature from you,” she said, holding up a tablet for him to sign, unaware of the emotional crisis Buck was having feet away.

Eddie signed (more or less. He was definitely not left-handed) and got up. Buck stayed frozen on the bed.

The nurse bustled out of the room, already on to her next patient.

“Buck?” Eddie said when he didn’t move.

Buck was having a crisis, sitting on that hospital bed where Eddie had nearly died, holding his heart in his hands. He trusted Buck. He valued Buck. 

His hands were stained with blood, his life a series of failures and broken promises.

But Eddie trusted him.

And Oh.

Oh.

He looked up to see Eddie standing patiently, waiting for him in the doorway. His right arm was in a sling and his left hand was outstretched, an offering just waiting for Buck to join him.

“I love you,” he whispered.

It was truth. It was an oath. 

He didn’t mean to say that right here, right now. In all honesty, he had planned to take that confession with him to the grave. He’d made his peace with the fact he would never get to have Eddie in the way in which he longed for. He’d just about made his peace with accepting just as much as Eddie would give him.

Then Eddie gave him his heart, gave him Christopher, and it was pouring out of his mouth before he could store it away, unrepentant for the damage it would leave in its wake.

“What?” Eddie faltered.

He was powerless against those imploring brown doe-eyes.

“I love you.”