Chapter Text
I know I could have loved you but you would not let me, was I just a fool?
I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you, give me just a chance.
-
The sound of sirens split through downtown. LAFD 118 rolled in behind the LAPD cruisers, lights flickering off the glass walls of a half-ruined bank. The night air reeked of gasoline and smoke, thick and suffocating, a cocktail of fear and adrenaline. Shattered glass littered the asphalt, glinting like stars under flashing red and blue.
They’d seen scenes like this before—too many times to count. But even after all these years, it never got easier.
“Multiple injured,” Bobby’s voice came through the comms, steady but sharp with urgency. “SWAT’s still negotiating. We hang back till they give the go.”
Eddie’s boots crunched over debris as he surveyed the scene. Police barricades held back a growing crowd, their whispers blending into the static hum of radios. Somewhere inside that bank, a desperate man was making all the wrong choices. Eddie could feel it—the kind of tension that crawled under your skin and stayed there.
He turned his head, eyes landing on Buck.
Buck was crouched beside the rig, adjusting his turnout coat, hands steady despite the chaos. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed in focus. That look—Eddie had seen it a hundred times. It was Buck’s way of shutting out the noise, building that wall of calm before the world inevitably caught fire.
Eddie found himself watching a second too long. The way Buck’s fingers worked the straps on his gear. The way his jaw flexed when he took a deep breath. The kind of small, human details Eddie had no business noticing in the middle of a crisis.
“Another day, huh?” Buck said, glancing up with that crooked half-smile that didn’t belong in a war zone but somehow made it easier to breathe.
Eddie exhaled, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Just another day.”
But it wasn’t. Not this one.
Something about the air felt heavier—like the universe was holding its breath.
Eddie couldn’t name it, but it pressed down on him all the same. Maybe it was the quiet before the storm, or maybe it was the way Buck’s hand brushed his shoulder as they prepared to move.
The radio crackled. “118, you’re clear. Proceed with caution.”
They moved as one—trained, synchronized. Hen and Chim handled the victims outside while Buck and Eddie followed the tactical team through the shattered entrance.
The interior was chaos frozen in time.
A woman sobbed behind an overturned desk, clutching her bleeding arm. The floor was littered with dollar bills, blood stains, and panic. The air was hot, stale, filled with the metallic tang of fear.
Eddie’s eyes darted to the center of the room where a man stood, shaking, gun in hand. A kid, eight—maybe nine, was pressed to his side, terrified and silent.
“Hey,” Eddie said softly, stepping forward with his hands up. “You don’t have to do this.”
The man’s eyes were red-rimmed, desperate. “Stay back! You don’t know what it’s like! They took everything from me!”
Buck hovered a few feet behind Eddie, eyes locked on the gun, ready to move. His breath came slow, shallow—measured. Eddie could feel the tension radiating off him, like static before lightning strikes.
And for some reason, Eddie thought about Christopher.
He thought about what it would mean to lose him. To lose everything.
The man’s voice cracked. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose your kid.”
Eddie’s throat tightened, “I do.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward him, “What?”
“I know what it’s like,” Eddie said, voice low, steady. “To be so scared of losing someone that it feels like dying.” His hands shook, just barely. “But this isn’t the way. You’re not bringing him back by destroying what’s left of you.”
For a second—just one—the man’s gun lowered. His breath hitched. Hope, fragile and fleeting, flickered in the air.
And then, like a match catching flame, it all went wrong.
The gun jerked up—straight at Eddie.
“Eddie—!”
The shot tore through the air.
Eddie flinched—too late. But he didn’t feel the bullet.
He felt impact.
Buck slamming into him, hard, sending them both crashing to the ground.
His ears rang.
For a moment, everything slowed down—too slow, like the world had been knocked off its axis.
He could see the kid make a run for it, a blur of movement in the haze of smoke and gunpowder. The officers rushed in, shouts echoing through the broken glass and concrete. The robber was tackled to the ground, the weapon skidding across the floor—but Eddie didn’t move. He couldn’t.
He just laid there, chest heaving, his heart pounding somewhere distant and muffled under the ringing in his ears.
Hen and Chim were running toward him. Their lips were moving—frantic, urgent, but Eddie couldn’t hear a damn thing. The sound was gone. The world was muted.
He felt the static of Bobby’s voice crackle through the radio clipped to his shoulder. “—ddie, report! Diaz, Buckley, do you copy?”
Nothing.
It was like being underwater.
He turned his head, slowly—and the air punched out of his lungs.
Buck.
Lying on top of him.
Eyes closed, skin pale beneath the harsh red-and-blue strobe of the lights.
“...ddie?”
It was faint—distant—or maybe it was just his mind replaying the way Buck said his name. The way he always said it—too soft for a man who ran into burning buildings.
“Eddie!”
Hen’s voice broke through the noise, sharp enough to crack the fog around him. She and Chim were already there, dropping to their knees beside Buck.
Eddie’s body finally remembered how to move. With a heave of air, he felt the weight on his body disappear as Hen and Chim carefully rolled Buck onto his back. Eddie’s hands trembled, hovering uselessly over him—afraid to touch, afraid to see how bad it was.
The front of Buck’s jacket was torn, dark with blood.
“No, no, no—” Eddie’s voice came out raw, choked. He pressed his hand against the wound, feeling the warmth seeping through his gloves. “Buck, hey—hey, stay with me, man. You hear me? You—”
Hen was already working, shouting for supplies, her tone tight but controlled. Chim was pressing gauze, counting Buck’s pulse under his breath.
Eddie couldn’t hear any of it. All he could hear was the blood roaring in his own ears and the sound of his own voice breaking.
“Pulse is weak, no exit wound." Chim checks him over, his hands shaking but moving to apply pressure on the wound. "He must've passed out because of the shock—hey, Eddie, you okay? You hurt?"
He shakes his head.
"He’s coding,” Hen breathes, and even through the chaos and practiced professionalism, Eddie could hear the fear in her voice. It cuts through everything, sharper than the sirens and louder than the shouting. Because now it's different, it wasn't just someone who they had to help—now it was one of theirs.
“Starting CPR.”
But Eddie beats her to it.
His body moves before his mind can. He’s already over Buck, hands trembling as he locks them together and presses down on his chest. Hard. Fast. Too desperate to be clinical.
“Come on,” Eddie mutters through gritted teeth, his breath shaking as his palms push against Buck’s sternum. The rhythmic thud of his hands fills the air, rough and uneven, as if his heart is trying to restart alongside Buck’s. “Come on, Buck. Don’t—don’t do this to me.”
He counts under his breath—one, two, three—his voice cracking halfway through, chest tightening with every press. The sirens fade again, and all that exists is Buck’s still face and the dull thump of his own pulse in his ears.
Hen is beside him, ready with the bag valve mask, but she doesn’t stop him. She knows that look in his eyes—wild, raw, pleading.
“Buck, c'mon,” Eddie gasps, his voice breaking as he leans over him, sweat and rain mixing on his forehead. “You don’t get to—you can’t just—” His voice falters, words dissolving into a breathless cry. “I will never forgive you if you do this.”
His hands press harder, the sound of each compression echoing through the wrecked silence of the bank.
“Come on, Buck,” Eddie whispers, almost begging now. “Just breathe.”
Then Buck takes a deep, ragged breath—the kind that sounds more like a gasp than air—and his eyes flutter open. His hand shoots up instinctively, grasping at his side where crimson is seeping through his turnout coat.
“Whoa, hey, no,” Chim says quickly, one hand pressing against Buck’s shoulder to stop him from moving. “No touching, buddy. Gonna get you to the hospital, alright? You just chill out for me.”
Buck’s lips tremble as he tries to focus, eyes glassy and confused. "Wha happ'n? Hurts." His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
"Hey, Buck. Look at me—Evan. Focus on me." Eddie snaps out of his haze, his tone shaking with both fear and relief. "You're alright, okay?"
“Chim? Hen?” Bobby's voice cuts through the radio, also worried. “Talk to me.”
“Yeah, hey, Cap,” Chim answers into the radio, exhaling a shaky laugh that’s half relief, half disbelief. “Looks like your kid wanted to play hero again. He’s fine. Get the ambulance ready. We just got Bucked.”
There’s a faint snort from Hen, but her hands don’t stop working as she stabilizes the wound and straps the oxygen mask over Buck’s mouth.
Eddie stands frozen for a second, the world tilting back into motion around him, but his chest refuses to unclench. Buck’s eyes that were hazy and unfocused finds his, and even with the mask, he flashes him the smallest hint of a smile.
Eddie wants to smile back. He really does. But all he can feel is the weight of that bullet that could’ve been his.
Hen looks up, her tone gentle but firm. “Need you to keep our little troublemaker awake, Diaz.” She offers a quick nod, a silent promise that Buck’s stable. For now.
So Eddie kneels beside him, one hand gripping Buck’s shoulder like he’s anchoring himself more than the other way around.
“I hate you,” he mutters, voice breaking as he gives Buck’s leg a weak slap—more a tremor than a hit. “Why the hell would you do that?”
Buck’s head tilts toward him, eyelids heavy. Through the mask comes a muffled whisper, soft but clear enough to shatter something in Eddie.
“Because I… couldn’t watch it happen again.”
Eddie's face breaks, and the grip on his hand tightens. Hen and Chim shares a quick glance, something unspoken passing between them—concern, understanding, maybe both.
Then Bobby’s voice cuts through the chaos, distant at first, then closer. “Move! Let’s get him up!”
He rushes in with the stretcher, barking calm but urgent orders as Eddie steps back, his hands trembling, his heart pounding with something that feels too much like fear—and something else he’s not ready to name.
x
From the moment Buck was wheeled into the ambulance, Eddie refused to leave his side. He sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Hen on the narrow bench, eyes glued to the faint movement of Buck’s chest. The rise and fall. The proof that he was still there.
Hen kept repeating, “He’s okay, Eddie. He’s stable.” Her voice was calm, professional—but it didn’t reach him. It sounded far away.
He didn’t even realize he was bleeding until Chim noticed. “Hey, man, your hand.” Eddie looked down. His palm was sliced open, glass still glinting faintly in the wound, his knuckles crusted with red. His breath hitched. The blood wasn’t just his. It was Buck’s too.
When they arrived, the paramedics pulled Buck away, their voices blurring together—“BP’s dropping.” “Watch the line.” “We’ve got him.”
Eddie stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, the world spinning past him in blurs of red and white.
He looked at his hands. Red. Sticky. Trembling. He couldn’t tell where his skin ended and Buck’s blood began.
Buck's heart stopped for 1 minute and 46 seconds this time.
Bobby’s voice barely cut through the haze. “Eddie, sit down.”
He did, eventually. Or maybe someone guided him down. He wasn’t sure. The weight in his chest made it hard to breathe. His heart was still in the back of that ambulance.
Chim sat beside him quietly, hand resting on his shoulder. The steady, grounding kind of touch that usually worked. But not this time.
The silence stretched. Too long. Too loud. Then Eddie’s hands started shaking. He tried to clench them, to stop the tremor, but the harder he pressed, the more they trembled. His throat burned. His vision blurred. Then—
“Hey, Eddie,” Chim murmured, soft and careful. “He’s gonna be fine. You need to calm down—”
Eddie’s head snapped up. “Calm down?” The words cracked in his throat.
Chim blinked, startled. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Buck died, Chim!” The words came out like they’d been buried too long. His voice broke halfway through, ragged and hoarse. “He died—again! Right in front of me!”
He stood up, breath shuddering, tears streaking down his face before he could stop them. “I was right there! I was right there and I couldn’t do a damn thing—” He hit his chest once, a weak, helpless motion. “I couldn’t—”
Chim reached for him, but Eddie pulled back, shaking his head like he was trying to physically push the moment away.
“I’m supposed to protect people,” Eddie’s voice fell to a whisper. “That’s my job. That’s what I do. And I couldn’t even protect him.”
His shoulders shook, a low sob catching in his throat. “He took that bullet for me, Chim. It was meant for me. You get that? It should’ve been me on that gurney.”
The words hung there; heavy, final, and painfully honest.
Chim didn’t argue. He just stood with him, silent, hand still hovering in case Eddie let him in.
Then Hen appeared beside them, her eyes soft but firm. She placed a gentle hand on Eddie’s arm, grounding him in a way that didn’t demand anything.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “Let me take a look at your hand, okay?”
Eddie exhaled shakily. The anger drained out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion. He looked at her, eyes glassy, and finally nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Yeah, okay.”
He followed her down the hall with slow and heavy steps, leaving faint drops of blood on the hospital floor.
x
Three days.
That’s how long it had been since the call, since the sirens, since the gunshot that kept replaying in his head every time he closed his eyes.
And Buck still hadn’t woken up.
Eddie sat in the dim corner of the hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor the only sound breaking through the silence. The blinds were half-drawn, streaks of morning light cutting across the sterile walls.
He’d tried not to come. Told himself Buck needed rest. Told himself the doctors and nurses knew what they were doing. Told himself he’d just get in the way. But by the second night, he couldn’t stand it anymore. The empty house, the stillness—it all pressed on him until he couldn’t breathe.
The surgery had lasted almost two hours. Bobby said the bullet went deep—too close to the lung. Complications, they’d said. Stable, but critical.
Eddie hated those words. They were the kind that sounded like comfort but felt like a threat.
Christopher had asked about him that morning, sitting at the breakfast table with a hopeful smile.“Is Buck okay, Dad? Why isn’t he answering my calls?”
Eddie hadn’t known what to say. His throat had locked up, his mind blank.
He’d only managed a weak, “He’s resting, buddy,” before excusing himself to the bathroom so his son wouldn’t see his tears.
Now, sitting beside Buck’s bed, all the things he’d wanted to say over the years pressed against his chest—sharp and heavy.
Buck looked peaceful. Too peaceful. His lashes rested against his cheeks, lips pale, chest rising and falling under the thin hospital sheet. Eddie reached out, fingers brushing over Buck’s forearm before his hand stilled, resting there.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice small in the quiet room. “You’ve been sleeping long enough, man.”
Silence. Only the faint hum of the machines answered him.
Eddie swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to move. He leaned forward, forehead dropping gently onto Buck’s arm. His eyes stung, but he didn’t fight it this time.
“Come back to me,” he whispered, barely audible, like the words were too fragile to exist out loud.
His fingers curled slightly, gripping Buck’s wrist, as if holding on tighter could somehow pull him back.
But Buck didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t give him that stupid, easy grin that made everything lighter.
So Eddie just sat there, listening to the soft rhythm of Buck’s breathing; slow, steady, alive... and prayed it would be enough to keep him tethered.
x
By the fourth day, Buck finally opened his eyes.
Bobby and Athena were the first to see it—Bobby clutching his rosary so tightly it left marks on his palm, his quiet prayers breaking into a stunned laugh of relief. Athena called for the nurses, her voice trembling despite how steady she tried to sound.
Soon, the rest of the 118 filled the room. Hen, Chim, Maddie, and even little Jee in her mom's arms—all hovered around the bed, relief flooding their faces as Buck blinked against the light.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Chim joked softly, though his eyes were wet.
Eddie and Christopher were the last to arrive. Mostly because Eddie couldn’t get himself to move that morning as if something heavy sat on his chest, pinning him down.
But the second he heard Buck’s voice, that faint, raspy, “Eddie? Chris?”— his heart stopped.
He blinked, and the tears came fast, uninvited.
“Hey, Buck!” Christopher grinned, stepping forward, small sneakers squeaking against the floor. The others moved aside to give him space. “Dad said you were sick, that’s why you didn’t answer my calls. Are you okay now?”
“Feeling better now that I see you, buddy.” Buck ruffled his curls and pulled him close, pressing a weak kiss to the top of his head.
And Eddie—Eddie couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at the face he’d thought he’d lost, the man who kept haunting every nightmare he’d had these past few nights. His throat closed up just trying to breathe the same air.
Maddie crouched down beside Christopher, her voice gentle. “Hey, Chris, how about we grab a drink from the vending machine, yeah? Let your dad and Buck talk for a bit.”
The boy nodded and followed her, glancing back once before the door clicked softly shut.
Soon, it was just the two of them.
Eddie sat down on the same chair he’d barely left for the last three days. It felt like the seat had molded to his shape, like it belonged to him now.
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on Buck’s arm where the IV line disappeared under the tape.
“I’m… okay.” Buck’s voice cracked, then steadied. He exhaled, studying Eddie carefully. “Look at me.”
Eddie didn’t move.
“Eddie,” Buck said again, softer this time, almost pleading. “Look at me. Please.”
And Eddie did.
The sight undid him—those blue eyes, tired but alive, looking right at him. His breath hitched, and his tears spilled before he could stop them.
“You died,” Eddie said, the words breaking out of him, quiet but raw.
Buck’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. “Hey, man. You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
Eddie shook his head, letting out something between a laugh and a sob. He wiped at his eyes, sniffled, then smiled... really smiled—for the first time in days.
After that, they talked. About everything and nothing. Eddie told him what he missed—about the team, about Christopher’s new obsession with chess, about how the house felt too quiet without him.
And for a while, it almost felt normal again. Like the world had stopped spinning just to give them this; a quiet room, a second chance, and the space between them that neither of them quite knew how to name.
x
Eddie insisted on driving him home. Buck didn’t argue—mostly because he was still sore, a bit pale, and moving like every step cost him effort. The air between them was heavy but not awkward, just… full. Quiet in a way that made Eddie’s throat tighten.
When they reached Buck’s apartment, Eddie helped him out of the car. His hand lingered at Buck’s back, steadying him when he wobbled slightly. Buck tried to make a joke—“Guess I won’t be winning any marathons soon”—but his voice came out thin, like he was forcing it to sound lighter than he felt.
Inside, the familiar space felt strange. The same books, the same cluttered coffee table, the same framed photos... except everything felt quieter, almost sacred. Eddie helped him sit on the couch, then busied himself with adjusting the pillows, refilling the water glass, checking his meds, and just about anything to keep him from looking at Buck for too long.
“You don’t have to fuss,” Buck said, smiling faintly. “I can manage.”
Eddie gave a small laugh, short and strained. “Yeah, right. You say that now, then I’ll get a call saying you passed out halfway to the kitchen.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Buck teased, but the attempt at humor only made Eddie’s chest ache.
When he finally sat down beside him, Eddie felt the silence crawl back. His hand flexed uselessly on his knee, wanting to reach out but not daring to. Buck looked at him then, really looked, and Eddie almost had to look away. There was too much relief in those blue eyes, too much warmth that Eddie didn’t feel he deserved.
“You okay?” Buck asked softly.
Eddie huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re the one who got shot, man.”
“Yeah,” Buck murmured. “But you look worse than me.”
He bit the inside of his lip, a habit that didn't go unnoticed. Buck's words stung more than it should’ve. Eddie’s gaze fell to the rosary in his pocket—the one he hadn’t let go of since that night.
He swallowed hard. “Just… trying to make sense of it all,” he said quietly. “You almost—” His voice cracked. “I thought God was going to take you.” from me.
Buck blinked, startled. Before he could say anything, Eddie stood up, pacing toward the window.
“I prayed, Buck." I begged. "And you came back, but I—” His voice faltered again. “I keep thinking… maybe He’s testing me—us." Maybe I don’t get to keep you without paying for it somehow.
“Eds…” Buck’s voice was a whisper, soft, steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Eddie turned to him, finally meeting his gaze—eyes wet, jaw trembling. “Then why does it feel like I did?”
For a moment, Buck looked like he wanted to reach out, but the bandage on his side stopped him. So he just said, “Because you care.”
Eddie let out a shaky laugh, more like a breath breaking apart. Maybe a little too much.