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One shot.
The bullet slices through the air. It splits open the sky like thunder, crackling and unpredictable. It ricochets and moves as if wielding a mind of its own.
Buck can only watch as Eddie jolts forward, the bullet burying itself within the bone of his shoulder.
He doesn’t register the second shot that follows, nor the fire that blooms in his abdomen. He’s too focused on Eddie.
Eddie, who’s been shot. Right in front of him.
He’s bleeding through his navy blue uniform—his shoulder—the same uniform Buck should’ve been wearing when answering this call. He’s bleeding and Buck needs to get him to the hospital. He’s bleeding and the blood paints constellations on Buck’s face and shirt. The same pristine white shirt Eddie’d given him after the tsunami, his own clothes drenched in seawater and the unforgettable odor of death and seasalt.
Eddie has someone to go home to. He has Christopher, who’s probably waiting for his dad to get home and begin on dinner, even if that means eating slightly charred food. That, or Buck imagines some nights Christopher is successful in his begging for a takeaway. He has Carla, who promises each night to call and check in on her boys, the quarantine not stopping her from seeing those she considers family.
Eddie has people to go home to. Buck has none.
Buck needs to make sure Eddie goes home today. Alive.
Someone shouts out orders, and suddenly he’s behind a firetruck (though he can’t read the numbers painted on the side due to his current position). He’s lying flat on the ground, right on his stomach, and the fire blooms. It spreads like mold, a virus, the fire licking at his exposed skin.
All he can focus on, all he can see, is Eddie.
Eddie’s reaching out towards him, palm facing the sky. His heart aches to envelop Eddie’s hand in his, whether to pull him beneath the firetruck towards him or to provide simple comfort, he isn’t sure. His heart just aches and aches, like a vice is physically squeezing his heart and making it hurt more.
He’s aware it’s a dumb idea. More than dumb, probably life-threatening, reckless, and extremely, idiotically risky.
But he does it anyway.
The moment the weight is lifted off his back, he scrambles to crawl beneath the firetruck, ignoring the fire that follows. He army crawls, remembering all the training he did whilst in the SEALs and putting it to good use. Training he never thought he’d have to use before today. He crawls and crawls, blocking out all the sounds of civilians screaming and first responders shouting as bullets continue to fly through the air.
He crawls and crawls until he’s stretching out his arm for Eddie, successfully grabbing on firmly to his hand.
He blocks out the agonising screams of agony as he pulls Eddie back towards him. Eddie, who’s still bleeding profusely from his shoulder and looks half-dead with how pale he’s become already. His skin is like a ghost’s or a corpse, not quite as cold as a dead body but pale enough that the blood coursing through his veins surely isn’t doing its job. His breaths are coming in short, as if he isn’t receiving enough air, the panic Eddie’s expressing palpable.
Eddie doesn’t panic. Not usually. He’s always worn this tough exterior like a shield, hiding his emotions behind a fortress of walls he’s built up over his tours in Afghanistan and the devastation that followed after. The shield’s barely cracked. It has the usual scuffs and minor fixable scratches you’d expect, however the surface itself refuses to crack. His walls are made of bricks of steel, and Eddie would never let them fall. He’s the calm guy of the one-eighteen, the one who (on their first shift) handled a live grenade with unbroken focus even when their lives were at the mercy of a ticking time bomb. Through all that, he still flashed Buck a calm, determined smile, as if hoping to dissolve all his worries with one expression.
No one has to know that it made Buck feel safer, or that that one smile kickstarted their entire friendship.
“You’re deadass under pressure, brother.”
“Me?”
Buck can’t panic.
The radio crackles, static echoing in the small cabin of the firetruck. Then, fire. Everything explodes. Someone, or many people, scream. Buck’s side slams against the driver side door, his head clashing painfully with the window. Something (glass, he thinks) shatters nearby. He’s lying on the asphalt. Something’s weighing down on his leg, refusing to give way. Car alarms are going off like wailing banshees in the dead of night. All he can feel, all he can see, is fire.
He can’t panic. Not now. Not when Eddie needs him to be strong.
He reverses his direction, crawling backwards in the same army style whilst dragging Eddie with him. The blood leaves a thin trail, staining the asphalt a deep red. It’s a stark contrast to the dull grey of the concrete roads, attacking Eddie’s exposed skin each time Buck drags him further beneath the firetruck. The textured path acts like spikes, sharp and unrelenting. They scrape and scratch and don’t let up.
“Yeah. You can have my back any day.”
“Yeah. Or, you know, you could—you could have mine.”
Buck remembers his short time in the SEALs. He’d been travelling around the country, hopping from place to place and searching for a part-time job. He’d found the SEALs somewhere along his travels, about a year before he’d joined the fire department, and instantly signed up. He’d like the concept of it. Maddie still has the postcard he’d sent her, excitedly writing to her about how he’d signed up to be a Navy SEAL and how it felt as if he’d finally found the career he’d been chasing after.
A few weeks, or maybe it’d been a month after, he quit the Navy SEALs. It was emotionally challenging. Buck is an expressive guy. And he feels pretty immensely. He can’t help the way his eyebrows furrow when he’s mad or upset or confused, or the way his dimples show when he grins all big and wide when he’s happy. It’s part of his nature, his character.
It’s how he knew the Navy SEALs weren’t for him. They wanted machines, people who could easily turn off their emotions. Robots who’d take commands at face value and complete their tasks without showing any feelings. That’s not him. So he quit and never looked back.
He’s glad to have found the one-eighteen.
Eddie’s screaming long since ceased, his shoulder still leaking deep red, thick blood. It’s not gushing as quickly now, no longer creating its own shadows on the street, but the wound is still bleeding. Blood is still escaping, trickling down his chest and staining the once clean navy uniform a dark shade of red. The fabric sticks to his chest, acting as gauze on the bullet wound in some twisted way, almost stopping the bleed but not quite. It’s too thin, too short of layers.
Buck successfully drags Eddie all the way beneath the firetruck. The blazing sun beams down at them, rays hot and burning into the small of his back. It’s the scorching heat of the summer, its flames burning into Buck’s back as he stands and hauls Eddie over his shoulder.
“Get him in the cabin!” Captain Mehta, leader of the one-thirty-three (who were also on the scene), shouts in Buck’s direction. “Get him in the cabin!” he repeats.
Buck wastes no time. With Eddie hauled over his shoulder like a weighted potato sack, he climbs aboard the firetruck. A few of the one-thirty-three’s firefighters and paramedics are already seated beside him, equipped with the basics. He quickly lays Eddie down, ignoring how his friend groans and shifts in pain. Blood coats his hands like a veil, translucent and dripping off his palms like silk. Its iron scent infects the cabin, lingering in the air like a spirit that won’t leave.
Buck can’t stop staring at the accursed blood tainting his fair skin. He wishes and ponders and wonders if there was any way he could’ve stopped this entire attack happening. He wishes and wonders if there was anything he could’ve done to stop Eddie getting shot. He wishes there was something he could’ve done to stop him getting hurt again.
But wishful thoughts never do any good, so Buck stops, and focuses.
“Get to the truck!” Captain Mehta is shouting outside, directing other firefighters to safety.
Mehta jumps in the driver’s seat. A paramedic to Buck’s left, a nice fellow wearing that same navy uniform Buck should’ve been wearing today, hands him some gauze. It’s a thick wad, rolled up nice and neatly. Without hesitation, Buck rips open Eddie’s shirt and swaps the thin uniform with the gauze, pressing down hard on the bullet wound. Eddie groans again, shifting his head to the left and staring at the back of a passenger seat.
Buck’s head perks up, finding Mehta’s panicked gaze. “Come on!” He shouts, eager to get going so Eddie would make it to a damn hospital.
Buck presses down harder, begging some God out there that the bleeding ceases. “Hey, we gotcha,” he mutters, more to himself than to Eddie. “We gotcha,”
Eddie’s eyes are glazed over, gaze switching between the plain grey passenger seat to the metal-panelled ceiling of the cabin.
“I gotcha,” Buck mutters again, almost a whisper. His breaths are coming in short, but he brushes it off, concluding it’s probably because he just army crawled underneath a firetruck and dragged his best friend back underneath it.
Eddie’s eyes continue to switch slowly between the passenger seat and the ceiling. He isn’t focused. He’s here, he’s alive, but he’s not all there. Buck’s eyes are crazed, staring at Eddie as if his gaze alone will compel him to actually focus and come back with a little more clarity. “You stay with me, okay?”
Eddie’s glazed eyes find his worried blues, focusing for just a second. “Are you h’rt?” It’s barely audible, not even a whisper, but Buck hears it.
He looks down, following Eddie’s gaze. Blood splatters his shirt like splashed acrylic paint on a canvas, the smaller dots alike to stars, creating tiny clusters of constellations across the white striped fabric. He can see why Eddie worried.
He shakes his head, focusing back on Eddie. “No, no, no, I’m good,” His voice sounds raspy, scratched, his throat feeling like sandpaper each time he speaks. Eddie’s glance shifts, staring at the ceiling again, focus lost. “Hey,” Buck tries to draw Eddie’s attention back. “You just hang on.”
Eddie’s not listening. He’s not focusing. Buck’s losing him.
He lifts his head again, staring ahead at the road. They’re not driving fast enough. Eddie will die before they make it to a damn hospital and it’ll be his fault no doubt. And the sniper’s. Definitely the sniper’s.
Oh, what Buck would do if he knew where that sniper was right now—
The firetruck swerves sharply around a corner. “Come on!” Buck shouts, more than eager to get to the hospital and get Eddie into the right hands. His throat protests, air scraping against the surface each time he speaks. “Come on!” he shouts again, voice rasping further. “Come on!” he shouts a third time, pressing down on the wound with enough pressure to stem the blood flow even for a few minutes.
Eddie’s eyelids are fluttering. “Hang on,” Buck pleads, begs, for Eddie to stay. “We’re just a few minutes away. You’re so close.” Eddie’s eyes are beginning to slip shut. The paramedic to his left places an oxygen mask over Eddie’s mouth, holding it in place. The radio crackles with various demands and statements. “We’re so close, that’s—I need you to hang on.” His voice cracks, and he winces, tears springing to his eyes. He’s always been so expressive. His breath catches, coming in short and shallow, but he continues to speak in hopes Eddie will stay. “I need you to hang on.”
He scrunches up his face, willing the tears to subside and save their downpour for another day, another hour, another time where he’s not trying to keep his best friend alive.
Buck has only ever felt this way for Eddie twice. The first was the well incident. The heavens bore down torrential rains and storm clouds, turning the grass into mush and blurring what little vision they had on cameras. Their boots would dig into the mud and emerge covered in a thick layer of earth. Buck still remembers how his heart had been ripped out of his ribcage when Hen had told everyone Eddie had cut the line.
For a few agonising minutes, he dug at the mud with his bare hands, trying and wishing and failing for Eddie to miraculously appear under the thin layer of mud he was managing to scrape the surface of. Bobby had pulled him back, a gloved hand firmly gripping his shoulder and politely telling him where else he could help.
Then, just as hope was beginning to dwindle, Eddie appeared, stumbling through the crowds drenched and pale and shivering out of his skin. Buck had immediately rushed forward, supporting him with his entire being and grinning like an idiot. No one, especially not Eddie, needed to know how he’d originally taken the situation.
This sniper attack, this shooting, is the second time. Except Eddie has not been out of Buck’s sight once, and yet Buck still feels as if he’s losing him.
The firetruck swerves once more, and Buck recognises the First Presbyterian Hospital outside the window. His heart dances with joy, his eyes sparkling at the recognition of where they’ve arrived. Eddie will be okay. He’ll be fine. He won’t die today.
As soon as they pull up, Buck jumps out, allowing another paramedic to take over. There’s trauma nurses rushing over towards the truck with a gurney in hand, making their way swiftly over the driveway. Buck waves them over. “Come on!” He spares a look at Eddie. He’s pale, unconscious, eyes closed. “Come on!” he shouts again. He steps aside. “Come on!” His throat hurts, chest tight with each rasping breath he takes. He can’t stop now.
Everything passes in a blur after that. He helps get Eddie on the gurney. He listens to the medical jargon they call out, describing his injury. He stands on the side as they take Eddie away towards the ER doors.
Captain Mehta strides up beside him. He looks him up and down, noting the way Buck is breathing and staring at the glass doors. “Are you okay, Buckley?”
Buck stares longingly at the glass ER doors. “No.” he mutters, pulling his gaze away.
“Buckley,” he addresses, stepping closer. “Are you injured?”
That takes Buck off-guard.
The first shot.
The bullet slices through the air. It splits open the sky like thunder, crackling and unpredictable. It ricochets and moves as if wielding a mind of its own.
Eddie jolts forward, his shoulder exploding with pain as the foreign object embeds itself in his shoulder. The blood splatters, painting Buck with an array of stars.
A second shot follows. Fire ignites in his abdomen, flames growing like a match thrown to gasoline. It licks at the exposed skin and sets his body alight in an exhibit of pain and suffering. His heart beats viciously against his ribcage as if yearning to escape, ears ringing like you’d expect after an explosion or a bomb has gone off.
But no bomb has exploded. It’s not like the Freddie Costas incident. He’s not trapped underneath the firetruck, leg trapped beneath the 20,000 tonne vehicle. It’s not the Freddie Costas incident.
“I–I don’t…” Buck trails off, struggling to make sense of his words.
Mehta places a steady hand on his shoulder. “Are you injured?” he asks once more. It’s insistent, but his tone is calm enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s pressing.
Buck doesn’t know the one-thirty-three. He’s never met Mehta before this, nor assisted the one-thirty-three on a scene before. He doesn’t know how their captain acts, or reacts, or does things around there. He’s clueless.
“I–I think…” he stammers, staring down at his once-pristine shirt. A patch of dark red is steadily growing, unlike the blood splatters he’d originally worn. “I th’nk,” he mutters, turning to stare at the captain with furrowed brows as he tries to focus on Mehta’s face.
Like an unstable structure taking on the pressures of another floor, Buck’s legs collapse beneath him without warning. He crumples to the floor, the world itself too blurred and spinning too quickly to make sense of what he’s seeing. The asphalt here is smoother, a few pebbles and tiny stones here and there but not rough enough to scrape his skin. The ringing returns, a muffled alarm vibrating in the distance somewhere.
Mehta stays standing besides him, hand clasping his shoulder as if to keep him upright. He grabs his radio before bending down beside Buck. “Firefighter down!” Buck can see the worry clear as day on his face, hiding beneath a cracking professional mask. “I repeat, firefighter down!”
“Another?” Someone—he recognises the voice but can’t put a name to it—asks.
Mehta’s hand leaves and Buck feels himself fall. He floats for a few mere seconds, like an untethered balloon. It’s nice. It’s freeing. He can float here in the void and wait until Eddie’s okay to return (he ignores the spiralling thoughts that ask if he’ll even be okay, Eddie should be okay). That’d be better than going to Eddie’s home and being the one to tell Christopher his dad got hurt on the job.
His head meets the asphalt harshly, staring at the ER doors once more.
“Firefighter down!” Mehta repeats urgently. “Assistance required at First Presbyterians’ ER,” he radios. He grips Buck’s shoulder, keeping him steady on the ground.
“What’s the nature of the injury?” that same person asks. God, why can’t Buck just remember who they are?
Mehta curses. “Bullet wound to the abdomen. I think he got caught in the sniper attack.”
“The one-eighteen is on its way.” they report. “You reported a firefighter down at the entrance? Can you explain why your access to the ER is delayed?”
“The trauma team is engaged with Diaz currently. Buckley is bleeding out here from a bullet wound to the abdomen. What’s the next available option?” Mehta asks, slipping on the professionalism again.
“The one-eighteen is five minutes away with a new paramedic team.” the voice reports. “How is Buck’s status?”
Mehta feels for his pulse. “Pulse is thready. The wound is still steadily bleeding. We used our gauze supply on Diaz.”
Mehta is silent after that. The radio’s quiet, the only sounds being the traffic outside on the street and Buck’s shallow breathing.
Buck’s thoughts are swimming in thick molasses. He’s lying on the asphalt. Ironic, considering only minutes ago, Eddie had been in this exact position. Is this how he’d felt? Powerless, weighed down by the exhaustion of the day and the white-hot flames igniting in his abdomen.
It reminds him vaguely of the tsunami. The moment he’d been swept underneath the brutal, crashing waves, unable to break the surface. The seawater had thrashed him this way and that, trying to keep him trapped below. Debris had passed him by, scratching at his clothes and scraping at his exposed skin with its sharp edges. For a moment, struggling to swim through the monstrous waves, he thought he was going to die.
Just as he’d accepted his fate, a reprieve came. The waves calmed and ceased, the debris slowed its course, and the force he’d not been able to fight before dissipated. Kicking his legs, he’d been able to break the surface and grasp some precious air.
Buck blinks slowly. The world is a kaleidoscope of dull colours, blurred together into a palette of greys and dull blues, a bright neon red slithering through the canvas like a stray line of paint. Voices fade in and out, the ringing in his ears blocking everything else out.
Footsteps. Hard, heavy footfalls running towards him.
“Twenty-nine year old male—” Hands pressing down on the wound. “...unresponsive—thready pulse—”
The radio crackles to life again. “Station one-eighteen…one minute away.”
The watercolour paints blur together further, as if trying to create a smooth gradient with paints that are already half-way dry. The pain flares, tendrils attacking his veins and wrapping around his wound with a vice-like grip. His eyes flutter. The darkness beckons and Buck succumbs to it.
✮✮✮
“Firefighter down!” Captain Mehta’s voice echoes on the radio. “I repeat, firefighter down!”
Bobby has lost children before. He still remembers that cold winter night, where he’d fallen asleep in his private apartment with the electric heater on. He’d been drinking again, drowning in the depressing calls they’d received on shift. The drinks and drugs were a tidal wave, dragging him under and dragging the awful memories with him. They were a temporary solution, a strategy he could fall back on if it ever got too much.
Marcy had disagreed. After he’d returned late from his “walk” that night, she’d kicked him out. Said she’d had had enough of Bobby and his late night adventures and couldn’t deal with it for one more night. Said she couldn’t deal with his drinking problems that night. The revelations were too much.
“I don’t want you here tonight.”
“I’ll forgive you for this, just…just not tonight.”
Past is prologue, sure, but Bobby’ll never forgive himself truly for leaving that space heater on, nor for the drinking that had him kicked out in the first place.
Perhaps that’s why he confided in Hen and Buck about his addiction, or why he confided in a priest about his past.
He grabs the radio swiftly, keeping one hand on the wheel as he presses down on the PTT button. “Another?” he asks.
They’d only just gotten the news of Eddie getting shot after he’d attended a rescue scene. It’s all over the news now, every news channel showcasing various pieces of footage from bystanders either on the street or in surrounding apartments. A sniper attack, they’d called it. A through and through, bullet buried straight in the shoulder.
Bobby’d seen Buck on the scene from some of the footage. He wasn’t in uniform, dressed in a plain white shirt and his everyday jeans. He’d seen the blood splatter and how it covered his shirt and face.
If he knew anything about Buck, his best guess is that he’s pacing the waiting room right now, unable to sit still as he awaits news.
“Firefighter down!” Mehta repeats urgently. There's rustling over the mic. “Assistance required at First Presbyterians’ ER,”
“What’s the nature of the injury?” Bobby asks, directing the firetruck through an intersection.
“Bullet wound to the abdomen. I think he got caught in the sniper attack.” The captain responds calmly.
“The one-eighteen is on its way.” Bobby reports, turning on the sirens. “You reported a firefighter down at the entrance? Can you explain why your access to the ER is delayed?” He turns the corner abruptly.
“The trauma team is engaged with Diaz currently. Buckley is bleeding out here from a bullet wound to the abdomen. What’s the next available option?”
Ravi shifts nervously beside him, staring ahead at the road. “Cap, he doesn’t mean—” It’s framed as a question, but they both know who Mehta is referring to.
Bobby nods gravely. “You know he does.”
Ever since Evan Buckley joined the one-eighteen four years ago in the core of the summer, Bobby has never known anyone else to give him so many grey hairs. Despite the way he’d filled the hole in his heart, the one that’d stayed empty ever since he’d lost his family, Bobby’d never known anyone else so reckless and so selfless at the same time. Buck had properly wormed himself into Bobby’s heart the moment he’d checked up on him after the plane crash, though.
When Buck and Hen had found him passed out with an empty bottle of alcohol, when they’d wrapped their arms around him as he muttered that singular word, “help”. When Buck had sent him follow-up texts days apart afterwards, checking up after particularly rough calls alike to the plane crash, Bobby knew.
It wasn’t a quick discovery. It had started slow, with misunderstandings and one too many strikes. It’d started with quiet conversations and Buck confiding in his captain about the SEALs and then about how his first loss on the job was affecting him more than he’d been letting on. It started with strict orders and a kid who clearly didn’t know how to listen.
Bobby has lost children before. He can’t lose another.
“The one-eighteen is five minutes away with a new paramedic team.” Bobby reports, drifting around a sharp corner. “How is Buck’s status?”
Static rings for a moment, filling the tense silence within the cab. Within a few moments, Mehta’s voice echoes on the radio. “Pulse is thready. The wound is still steadily bleeding. We used our gauze supply on Diaz.”
Bobby’s pretty sure he just ran through a red light. “Is he responsive?”
Mehta curses over the radio. “No. He’s awake, conscious, but he’s not responding. Pupils are slightly dilated.”
Bobby’s the one who curses under his breath this time. “Station one-eighteen is one minute away.”
“When we got married, I accepted the idea that when you went to work, you might not come home.”
Bobby really can’t lose another child. “God damn it, Buck,” he mutters, speeding down the street, sirens blaring like a wailing banshee in the middle of the night.
“He’ll be okay, Cap,” Ravi reassures. “It’s Buck, right? He’s a fighter, not a quitter.”
Bobby nods. “Let’s hope he’s being Buck today.”
It’s not long before they reach First Presbyterian’s Hospital. The one-thirty-three’s truck stands stationary in the entrance lane of the ER, its crew cab door torn off at the hinges. The red paint was singed around the edges of the doorframe, patches of black soot sticking to the side of the truck.
Bobby parks up behind, jumping out and taking the keys out of ignition. Quickly, he makes his way toward the scene.
There are many thoughts running through his mind. Many possibilities and scenes he’d hope not to see. He hopes, and hopes hard, that he got here in time.
When he turns the corner, he sees it.
Buck’s laying on the ground. He’s unconscious, still dressed in his civilian clothes. Today he’d dressed casual, a plain white shirt and one of his favourite pairs of jeans. Blood now decorated that shirt, splatters painting the fabric, the skin of his neck, his face. The worst of all is the large patch of blood originating from his abdomen. It’s dark, and steadily drying, a contrast to the rest of his clothes.
“Buckley is bleeding out here from a bullet wound to the abdomen.”
Some paramedics from the one-thirty-three sit back on their haunches around Buck, handling all kinds of supplies. One is checking his pulse, another is starting to set up an ECG machine. The captain of the one-thirty-three, Mehta, stands nearby, hand still gripping the radio.
Bobby strides up to him, professionalism an act he can easily slip into. “Mehta, where do you need us?”
Mehta turns to him. “We’re out of stock. Our gauze, fluids, everything went to Diaz. Buckley requires urgent intervention. I don’t know how long he’s been hiding that injury, nor how long he’s been bleeding for. I’d guess around ten-fifteen minutes, given that he was caught up in the sniper attack. Your paramedics need to attend to him now.” Mehta advises urgency and concern bleeding into his tone.
Bobby spins, facing his team. Chimney and Hen stand beside Ravi, holding their own field med bags. Hen’s brows are knitted tightly, eyes scanning Buck’s body with her signature sharp focus. Her stance is firm, concern etched into every line of her face as she awaits orders. Chimney holds his med bag with a white-knuckled grip, fingers tense as if physically keeping the panic below the surface. His eyes flicker between Buck and Hen, silently communicating something Bobby couldn’t quite decipher from their secret language. His lips are pressed into a thin line that screams worry.
The flashing red lights of the ER entrance reflect off their bags, painting them in veils of harsh reds and blues, mirroring the tension in their faces.
Bobby nods towards Buck. “Chimney, Hen, take over for the one-thirty-three. Ravi, secure the gurney.”
Hen performs a sternum rub, attempting to wake Buck up. “C’mon, Buck, show us those pretty blues.” She rubs his chest harder with her fist. “C’mon, Buck, c’mon.”
“C’mon, Buck,” Chimney mutters, setting up the ECG machine. His brows knit together, mirroring the storm of worry raging inside.
Buck’s eyes flutter, glassy and far-away. It’s half-lidded, but he manages to glance around, catching sight of the paramedics working on him. “Hen?”
She smiles softly. “There’s those pretty blues,” she comments. “How are we feeling, Buck?”
He groans. “H’rts,” he slurs, staring up at the greying sky. “Where’s ‘ddie?”
“Eddie’s inside.” Chimney tells him.
Buck decides that’s when to try and sit up. Regret hits immediately as the pain flares and the flames ignite through his veins. Hen carefully, gently, pushes his chest down.
“Stay still and stay lying down. Can you do that for me, Buckaroo?” Hen asks, grabbing gauze out of her med bag.
Buck nods, throwing his head back to look at the sky again. “‘m glad ‘ddie’s okay.” he mutters, flashing his lop-sided grin. His eyes begin to flutter again, darkness beckoning his presence once more.
“No–” Hen rushes forward. “No, no, Buck, keep your eyes open!” She commands, concern beginning to leak into her voice. “Show us those pretty blues again, Buckaroo.” When she receives no response and Buck’s eyes remain closed, she turns back to Bobby. “We need to move, now!”
✮✮✮
Buck hates hospitals.
He hates visiting them and is the worst patient when he stays there. The infectious odor of antiseptic always feels too strong and follows him home, lingering on his clothes like an invisible cloud. The sounds of the machines always annoys him when he stays, whether it be the incessant beeping of the ECG machine or the consistent muffled conversations passing by his room door.
Buck doesn’t like hospitals.
The hospital was overflowing when the one-eighteen brought him in, every trauma bay already occupied. They’d wheeled Buck in just as Eddie was being stabilized. The nurses had exchanged quick glances, then pushed his gurney into the same room. It wasn’t ideal, but there was no time to argue.
Police had secured the entrance, and suddenly Buck found himself staring across the space at Eddie, both of them tethered to machines, both of them survivors of the same attack. Two victims of the same sniper attack, side by side, guarded by officers at the door. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron, but all Buck could focus on was Eddie’s pale figure across the bed.
Eddie’s awake, sitting up in bed and supported by an unnecessary amount of pillows. His shoulder is in a sling, wrapped in layers of bandages and gauze.
Buck chuckles weakly. “Guess fate brought us together again.”
Eddie smiles. “You’re awake,” he breathes.
“I am,” Buck says with mock surprise, looking at himself.
Eddie rolls his eyes playfully. “Shush,” he sighs, laying back into the mountain of pillows. “How does it feel?”
“Like I got shot.”
Eddie levels him with a look, brows furrowed.
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? I did get shot.”
“Yes, but—” Eddie begins, lifting his head. “You shouldn’t have been.”
Buck shrugs. “Blame the sniper.”
“Obviously.” Eddie replies. “You know that’s not what I’m getting at.” Buck stays silent, staring at a corner of the room. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t know I had been shot.” Buck supplies quickly, meeting Eddie’s eyes again.
“And after?”
“I can’t remember.”
It’s true. Buck can’t remember anything clearly after he’d seen Eddie off into the ER. He can vaguely recall bits and pieces, like collapsing onto the street, the one-eighteen arriving and Hen’s insistence on keeping awake.
He’ll apologise later for going against that command.
Buck focuses back on Eddie. “Are you okay?” he asks, eyeing the sling with concern.
Eddie nods. “I’ll be fine. Nothing that’s held me back before.”
Buck begins to fiddle with the scratchy hospital blankets. God knows why they make it such an unbearable texture. “I was really scared when you went down. For a moment, I really thought you were dead. There was so much blood, and, and—” he inhales sharply, “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell Chris you got hurt on the job.” His head perks up. “Wait, Chris? Is he okay? What happen—”
“Calm down, Buck. Chris is fine, too.” Eddie reassures, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Hen’s been looking after him for me. He was asking about you, actually. You gave us all quite a scare.”
Buck lifts his head, then. “I’m okay, now, though. Right?”
Eddie nods. “Right.”