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The warehouse burns like the mouth of hell itself.
Buck can feel the heat even through his turnout gear, waves of it rolling off the building in shimmering distortions that make the air itself seem to writhe. Flames lick out of shattered windows on the second floor, orange and red and hungry, consuming everything in their path. The smoke is thick—so thick it's almost solid, a churning black mass that pours from every opening and blots out the afternoon sun.
"Engine 118, we need another line on the east side!" Bobby's voice crackles through the radio, steady despite the chaos. "Buck, Chimney, I need you inside. Reports of possible squatters in the back offices."
"Copy that, Cap." Buck's voice comes out rougher than he intends, his throat already raw from the smoke. He adjusts his SCBA mask and exchanges a quick glance with Chimney, who nods once, sharp and focused.
Buck glances around instinctively, looking for Eddie—but Eddie's not here. He took a personal day, a meeting with Christopher's school. It feels wrong somehow, going into a fire without Eddie watching his back, but Buck shakes off the thought.
They move in together.
The interior of the warehouse is a nightmare landscape. The smoke is so dense that Buck's flashlight beam barely penetrates three feet ahead. He can hear the fire above them, a living thing that roars and crackles, timber groaning as the structure weakens. The heat is oppressive, pressing down on him like a physical weight. Sweat streams down his face inside his mask, stinging his eyes.
His legs feel heavy. Too heavy.
Buck pushes the thought away and forces himself forward, sweeping his light across the debris-strewn floor. This is the fourth call today—or is it the fifth? They'd started at six AM with a three-car pileup on the 101, then a medical emergency at a construction site, then that apartment fire in Los Feliz that had taken hours to fully extinguish. He'd grabbed maybe half a protein bar between calls, downed some water, but there'd been no real break. No time to catch his breath.
No time to admit that he's running on fumes.
"LAFD! Call out if you can hear us!" Chimney's voice is muffled through his mask, but the urgency carries.
They push deeper into the building, checking rooms, overturning debris. Buck's muscles burn with every movement. His shoulders ache from carrying equipment, from hauling hose lines, from pulling victims to safety on the previous calls. His lungs work overtime even with the SCBA providing clean air—his body is just *tired*, pushed past its limits and still being asked for more.
He stumbles slightly over a fallen beam and catches himself against the wall. The metal is hot even through his glove.
"You good?" Chimney asks, pausing.
"Yeah. I'm good." The lie comes automatically. Buck straightens, rolls his shoulders, keeps moving.
They find the first squatter in what used to be an office—a young guy, maybe early twenties, unconscious from smoke inhalation but alive. Chimney gets him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and Buck takes point, leading them back toward the exit. The smoke seems even thicker now, if that's possible. The fire is spreading faster than they anticipated.
"We need to move!" Buck shouts over the roar of flames. Above them, something crashes—part of the ceiling giving way. Embers rain down like deadly snow.
They get the victim outside, hand him off to Hen and the paramedics. Buck barely registers the fresh air before Bobby's voice cuts through again.
"Buck, we've got one more. Thermal imaging picked up a heat signature in the northwest corner, ground floor. Could be another person."
Buck's vision swims for just a second. He blinks hard, forcing focus. "On it, Cap."
"Buck—" Bobby starts, and there's something in his voice, a note of concern.
"I got it." Buck is already moving, grabbing a fresh SCBA tank, checking his gear. His hands are shaking slightly, but he clenches them into fists and the tremor stops. Mind over matter. He's done harder things than this. He's fine.
He's *fine*.
Back into the smoke. Back into the heat.
This time he goes alone—Chimney is helping establish a defensive perimeter, and they can't spare anyone else. Buck moves on autopilot, his training carrying him forward even as his body screams for rest. The northwest corner. He counts doorways, uses the wall as a guide, his light cutting through the murk.
The heat is worse here. So much worse. He can feel it through his gear now, can feel the way the air itself seems to burn. The fire is directly above him, eating through the second floor. He doesn't have much time.
There—a shape, huddled against the far wall. Buck's heart kicks up. He crosses the space in seconds, drops to his knees beside the figure. It's a woman, older, clutching a backpack to her chest. She's conscious but disoriented, coughing violently.
"I've got you," Buck says, his voice hoarse. "I've got you. We're getting out of here."
He gets her arm over his shoulders, hauls her up. She's deadweight, can't support herself. Buck takes her full weight and starts back the way he came. Every step is an effort. His legs are shaking now, his vision tunneling at the edges. The smoke seems to press in from all sides, suffocating, endless.
*Just keep moving. One foot in front of the other.*
The exit seems impossibly far away. Buck's lungs are burning despite the mask—or maybe that's just his imagination, his body's way of telling him it's done, it can't do this anymore. He ignores it. The woman in his arms needs him. His team needs him. He can rest when this is over.
A beam crashes down behind them, sending up a shower of sparks. Buck flinches but doesn't stop, doesn't slow down. His heart is hammering against his ribs, too fast, irregular. Adrenaline, he tells himself. Just adrenaline.
Light ahead. The exit. Fresh air.
Buck staggers through the doorway and into the afternoon sun. The contrast is shocking—from darkness to light, from heat to relative cool. He can hear voices, his team calling out, but they sound distant, like he's underwater.
He gets the woman to the paramedics, makes sure she's in Hen's capable hands. Someone is talking to him—Bobby, maybe—but Buck can't quite make out the words. There's a ringing in his ears, high-pitched and insistent.
"Everyone out?" he manages to ask. His voice sounds strange.
"Everyone's out, Buck. You did good."
Everyone's out. They're safe. The thought brings a wave of relief so intense it nearly buckles his knees.
Actually, it does buckle his knees.
Buck takes a step back from the ambulance and the world tilts sideways. His legs give out completely, no warning, just suddenly there's nothing holding him up anymore. He has a brief, disconnected moment of awareness—the pavement rushing up to meet him, the shouts of alarm from his team—and then he's down, his body hitting the concrete hard.
He tries to push himself up, but his arms won't cooperate. Everything feels wrong—too hot, too cold, too heavy, too light all at once. His vision is graying out at the edges, darkness creeping in.
"Buck!"
Hen's voice, sharp with fear. He feels hands on him, rolling him onto his back. His mask is pulled off and suddenly he can see faces above him—Hen and Chimney, both of them looking scared in a way that sends a spike of anxiety through his chest.
"I'm okay," he tries to say, but it comes out as barely a whisper.
"The hell you are." Chimney's hands are on his wrist, checking his pulse. "Hen, he's tachycardic. Pulse is running a marathon."
"Get me the monitor. Now." Hen's in full paramedic mode, her hands already working to open his turnout coat. "Buck, stay with me. Keep your eyes open."
He wants to tell them he's fine, that he just needs a minute, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth. The darkness at the edges of his vision is spreading, creeping inward. He can hear more voices now—Bobby, the rest of the team—all of them converging.
"Buck, look at me." Hen's face fills his vision, her eyes intense and focused. "Stay awake. Do you hear me? Stay awake."
He's trying. He really is. But his body has other ideas, and the darkness is so inviting, promising rest, promising an end to the exhaustion that's been dogging him all day.
"He's crashing—"
`The words fade out as Buck's eyes roll back, and the world goes black.`
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Eddie stares at the shelf of protein bars, trying to remember which flavor Buck had complained about last week. Peanut butter chocolate? Or was that the one he'd actually liked?
The meeting with Christopher's principal still sits heavy in his chest—not bad, exactly, just... a lot. The kind of conversation that requires him to be present and focused and *on*, and he'd managed it, but now he feels wrung out. He grabs two boxes of the protein bars—one of each flavor, because why not—and tosses them in the cart with the rest of the groceries.
His phone is already in his hand, thumb hovering over Buck's name in his messages. He types out a quick text: *Got your weird protein bars. You're welcome. Also Chris says hi and wants to know if you're coming for dinner tomorrow.*
He waits a beat, watching for the three dots that usually appear almost immediately. Nothing. But Buck's on shift, probably elbow-deep in some call or doing inventory or—knowing Buck—reorganizing the entire ambulance because he got bored. Eddie pockets his phone and pushes the cart toward the checkout.
The store is quiet for a weekday afternoon, just a handful of people scattered through the aisles. Eddie loads his groceries onto the belt, mind already moving ahead to what he needs to do when he gets home. Laundry. Maybe start prepping something for dinner. Check if Chris finished his homework before he dropped him off at Abuela's.
His phone rings as he's loading bags into the cart.
Bobby's name lights up the screen.
Eddie answers with a smile in his voice, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he grabs the last bag. "Hey, Cap. Buck finally burn down the kitchen? I told him not to try making that soufflé thing—"
"Eddie." Bobby's voice cuts through, and it's wrong. All wrong. Tight and strained and *scared* in a way that makes Eddie's hands freeze on the grocery bag. "There's been an incident."
The world narrows to the sound of Bobby's breathing on the other end of the line.
"What—" Eddie's voice doesn't sound like his own. "What happened?"
"It's Buck. He collapsed on scene. Smoke inhalation, exhaustion—Eddie, he coded. Chimney's doing CPR right now in the ambulance."
The grocery bag slips from Eddie's fingers. He doesn't hear it hit the ground.
CPR.
Chimney is doing CPR.
On Buck.
"No." The word comes out strangled, barely audible. Eddie's legs feel like they might give out. He grabs the edge of the cart, knuckles white. "No, that's—he was fine this morning. He was *fine*."
"I know." Bobby's voice cracks, just slightly, and that's what makes it real. Bobby doesn't crack. "We're heading to Presbyterian. I—Eddie, I'm calling you because you're listed as his emergency contact."
Emergency contact.
Not as a firefighter. Not as backup. As the person they call when Buck—when Buck—
Eddie can't breathe. The fluorescent lights of the grocery store are too bright, the muzak playing overhead too loud, and somewhere behind him a kid is crying and a cashier is asking if someone needs help and none of it matters because Buck is—
"Is he—" Eddie can't finish the question. Can't say the words.
"Chimney's still working on him. They're five minutes out from Presbyterian."
Five minutes. Buck has been without a pulse for—how long? How long has Chimney been doing compressions? Two minutes? Five? Ten?
Eddie's already moving, abandoning the cart in the middle of the aisle, groceries forgotten. His keys are in his hand though he doesn't remember pulling them out. People are staring but he doesn't care, can't care, because Buck is in an ambulance and Chimney is doing CPR and Eddie needs to—
He needs to—
"I'm on my way." His voice sounds distant, like it's coming from underwater. "Bobby, I'm—"
"Drive safe," Bobby says, and there's a weight to those words that makes Eddie's stomach drop even further. "I'll meet you there."
The call ends.
Eddie stands in the parking lot, phone still pressed to his ear, and for a moment he can't move. Can't think. The sun is too bright and the air is too thin and Buck is—
Buck.
His feet finally remember how to work. He runs to his truck, fumbles with the keys, drops them, picks them up with shaking hands. The engine roars to life and he's pulling out of the parking lot before he's fully processed what he's doing, before his brain has caught up to the fact that everything—*everything*—has just shattered.
Buck's favorite protein bars are still sitting in a cart in aisle seven.
Eddie drives, and prays to a God he's not sure he believes in anymore that he won't be too late.
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The hospital parking lot is a blur. Eddie doesn't remember pulling in, doesn't remember turning off the engine. He's just suddenly there, running through the automatic doors, the antiseptic smell hitting him like a physical force.
The ER is chaos—it always is—but Eddie tunnels through it, zeroing in on the desk where a nurse is typing something into a computer.
"Evan Buckley," Eddie says, and his voice cracks on the name. "He—they just brought him in. Ambulance. I'm his—" He swallows hard. "I'm his emergency contact. Edmundo Diaz."
The nurse looks up, takes in whatever she sees on Eddie's face, and her expression softens. Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "Let me just verify—yes, I have you listed here."
Something about hearing it out loud makes it real in a way it hasn't been before. Eddie is the person Buck chose. The person Buck trusted with this.
"Where is he?" Eddie's hands are gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles have gone white. "Is he—"
"He's being treated right now. The doctors are working to stabilize him." She stands, gestures toward a hallway. "I'll take you to the waiting area. Someone will update you as soon as they can."
Waiting.
The word lodges in Eddie's chest like shrapnel.
The waiting area is too bright, too quiet. There's a TV mounted in the corner playing some daytime talk show with the sound off. Eddie can't sit. He tries—drops into one of the plastic chairs—but he's up again within seconds, pacing the length of the room.
His hands won't stop shaking.
He keeps seeing it—not what actually happened, because he wasn't there, but what his mind conjures anyway. Buck collapsing. Buck's eyes rolling back. Chimney's hands on Buck's chest, counting compressions, breathing for him because Buck couldn't breathe for himself.
Eddie's phone buzzes. A text from Carla asking if he needs her to pick up Christopher from school. He stares at it for a long moment before he can make his fingers work enough to type back a response. *Yes please. Something came up.*
Something came up.
Like that covers it. Like that explains the way Eddie's entire world has just tilted sideways.
He should call his abuela. Should probably call Pepa. But he can't—can't say the words out loud, can't make this more real than it already is.
Did Buck seem off this morning?
Eddie tries to remember. They'd had coffee together before shift—they always do, either at Eddie's place or Buck's, depending on who's running late. Buck had been... Buck. Smiling, making some dumb joke Eddie can't even remember now, stealing the last of Christopher's cereal because he'd run out of his own.
Had he looked tired? Maybe. But they all look tired. It's the job.
Should Eddie have noticed?
He paces. Five steps one way, turn, five steps back. His boots squeak against the linoleum.
The thing is—and Eddie's brain keeps circling back to this, can't seem to let it go—Buck is everywhere. In Eddie's life, in Christopher's life, woven so thoroughly into the fabric of their days that Eddie doesn't know how to separate it anymore. Buck's toothbrush in Eddie's bathroom because he crashes there so often it just made sense. Buck's Netflix profile on Eddie's TV. Buck's name on Christopher's emergency contact list at school, right below Eddie's.
Eddie buys Buck's favorite protein bars without thinking about it. Keeps Buck's preferred beer in the fridge. Knows how Buck takes his coffee, what makes him laugh, what nightmares wake him up at 3 AM.
And Buck knows the same about Eddie. Knows about the panic attacks Eddie doesn't talk about. Knows how to handle Christopher's bad days. Knows that Eddie can't sleep when it storms because it reminds him of Afghanistan.
They're emergency contacts for each other. Have been for years now.
But this—
This feeling in Eddie's chest, this terror that's threatening to crack him open—
When Bobby called, Eddie's first thought wasn't about the team losing someone. Wasn't about Christopher losing his Buck. It was just—
*No. Not him. Anyone but him.*
Eddie's paced this waiting room enough times for other people. For strangers they've pulled from wrecks, for victims they've tried to save. He's felt the weight of it, the hoping and the dread.
This is different.
This is—
Eddie stops walking. Stands in the middle of the room with his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
He can't lose Buck.
Not can't as in it would be hard, or sad, or a blow to the team.
Can't as in Eddie doesn't know how to exist in a world where Buck isn't in it.
Can't as in the thought of Buck not being there—not being at Eddie's kitchen table, not being sprawled on Eddie's couch, not being the first person Eddie wants to call when something happens—makes Eddie want to tear his own chest open just to make the pain stop.
That's not—
That's not how you feel about your best friend.
Eddie knows how he felt about his best friends in the Army. Knows how he feels about Hen, about Chimney. He'd take a bullet for any of them. He loves them.
But he doesn't buy their favorite foods without thinking. Doesn't structure his days around seeing them. Doesn't feel like the ground has been ripped out from under him at the thought of losing them.
"Mr. Diaz?"
Eddie spins around so fast he nearly loses his balance.
A doctor stands in the doorway, still in scrubs, and Eddie can't breathe, can't think, because the expression on her face is going to tell him everything and he's not ready—
He's not ready—
But he's never been ready for Buck. Not from the beginning. Not ever.
The hallway tilts.
Eddie doesn't realize he's swaying until a hand grabs his arm—solid, real, grounding. He blinks hard, trying to focus, and Bobby's face swims into view. Bobby, who's looking at him with an expression Eddie recognizes: the same one Bobby wears when he's assessing a scene, calculating risk, deciding who needs help first.
"There you are." Bobby's voice is quiet, steady. His grip on Eddie's arm tightens when Eddie's knees threaten to buckle. "I've been looking for you."
Eddie stares at him, uncomprehending. The protein bars are still clutched in his hand—Buck's favorites, the ones Eddie picked up without thinking. "You—what?"
"Come on." Bobby's other hand comes up to Eddie's shoulder, anchoring him, keeping him upright. "Sit down before you fall down."
Eddie lets himself be guided to a nearby chair, his legs folding beneath him like they're made of paper. He can't seem to catch his breath. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the protein bars.
Bobby sits down beside him, not letting go of his shoulder. There's something in his expression—not pity, but understanding. The kind of understanding that comes from seeing too much, knowing too much. "I called you," Bobby says quietly. "And then I came to find you. Because I knew—"
He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to.
Eddie's throat closes. "Is he—"
"He's stable," Bobby says, and the words hit Eddie like a physical blow. Relief and terror all at once. "Eddie, listen to me. He's stable. He's breathing on his own. Hen and Chimney got him back at the scene—they did good work. Real good work."
Eddie's eyes burn. He can't seem to blink. "He's—"
"He's going to be okay," Bobby says, and it's not a promise—Bobby doesn't make promises he can't keep—but it's close enough. It's enough to keep Eddie from shattering completely. "Smoke inhalation, exhaustion. He pushed too hard, like he always does. But he's strong. You know he's strong."
Eddie does know. Eddie knows Buck better than he knows himself sometimes. Knows the way Buck laughs, the way he moves through the world like he's trying to prove something. Knows that Buck would run into a burning building a hundred times over if it meant saving someone.
Knows that Eddie would follow him into that fire without hesitation.
Bobby squeezes his shoulder once, twice. A father's touch. A captain's reassurance. And something else—something that says *I know what this is, and it's okay*.
"Come on," Bobby says, standing and offering Eddie his hand. "Let's get you to him."
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The room is too quiet. That's the first thing Buck notices when consciousness starts to claw its way back—the absence of sound. No roar of flames, no crackle of burning wood, no shouting voices cutting through smoke. Just the steady beep of a heart monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen.
His chest aches. His throat feels like he swallowed glass.
He tries to move, and his body protests immediately, every muscle screaming. The oxygen mask over his face feels suffocating even as it helps him breathe. He blinks against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to orient himself, trying to remember—
The warehouse. The woman. The smoke.
The ground rushing up to meet him.
"Easy."
The voice cuts through the fog, low and steady, and Buck's eyes finally focus enough to see Bobby sitting in the chair beside his bed. His captain looks tired—more tired than Buck's seen him in a while—but his expression is calm, controlled. The way it always is when things have gone sideways.
"Bobby?" Buck's voice comes out rough, barely more than a rasp. He tries to sit up, and Bobby's hand is immediately on his shoulder, firm but gentle.
"Stay down," Bobby says. It's not a suggestion. "You collapsed on scene. Smoke inhalation, exhaustion."
Buck closes his eyes, the shame hitting him harder than the smoke ever did. "The woman—"
"She's fine. You got her out." Bobby's voice softens just slightly. "You did your job, Buck. But you pushed yourself too hard doing it."
"I'm fine," Buck says automatically, even though his body is screaming the opposite. Even though he can barely keep his eyes open. "I just—I didn't—"
"You didn't what?" Bobby leans forward, elbows on his knees, and there's something in his expression that makes Buck's chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke. "Didn't think you needed to take care of yourself? Didn't think anyone would notice you've been running on fumes for days?"
Buck looks away, focusing on the IV in his arm instead of Bobby's too-knowing gaze. "I had it under control."
"You collapsed, Buck." Bobby's voice is still gentle, but there's steel underneath it now. The captain, the father, the man who's pulled Buck back from the edge more times than either of them can count. "Chimney had to do CPR in the ambulance. Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what that—" He stops, takes a breath. "What that does to the people who care about you?"
The guilt sits heavy in Buck's stomach. He thinks about Hen and Chimney working on him, about Bobby watching him go down, about—
"Eddie," Buck says suddenly, his heart rate picking up enough that the monitor beeps faster. "Does Eddie—"
"Eddie's here," Bobby says, and something in his expression shifts. Softens. "He's been here since I called him. He's just outside—I asked for a few minutes alone with you first."
Buck's throat tightens. "You called him."
"I did." Bobby holds his gaze, steady and unflinching. "He's your- best friend Buck. Of course I called him."
There's something in the way Bobby says it—something that makes Buck feel like Bobby sees right through him, sees all the things Buck hasn't said, hasn't let himself think about. The way Eddie's name is the first thing on his lips. The way his apartment is full of Eddie's things, Eddie's presence, Eddie's life tangled up so completely with his own that Buck doesn't know where one ends and the other begins.
Bobby watches him for a long moment, and then he reaches out and squeezes Buck's hand. "You're going to be okay," he says quietly. "But you need to let people take care of you. You need to let *him* take care of you."
Buck's eyes burn. He wants to say something, wants to deflect or joke or do anything to break the weight of this moment, but he can't. He just nods, barely, and Bobby squeezes his hand once more before standing.
"I'll send him in," Bobby says, moving toward the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, glances back. "Buck? Whatever you need to say to him—say it. Life's too short, and we both know how fast things can change."
And then he's gone, and Buck is left alone with his racing heart and the oxygen mask and the terrifying knowledge that Eddie is about to walk through that door.
The door opens thirty seconds later—Buck counts every one of them—and Eddie steps inside.
He stops just past the threshold, one hand still on the door handle like he needs it to stay upright. His eyes find Buck's, and something in his expression cracks wide open. Relief, raw and overwhelming, floods his face, followed immediately by something that looks like pain.
"Hey," Buck tries, but his voice comes out muffled behind the oxygen mask, weak and scratchy.
Eddie doesn't say anything. He just stands there, staring, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes are red-rimmed, and there's a wildness to him that Buck has only seen a handful of times—after the tsunami, after the shooting, after Christopher ran away. Moments when Eddie's control slips and Buck can see straight through to the terror underneath.
"Eddie," Buck says, and this time he reaches up and pulls the oxygen mask down to his chin. His lungs protest, but he needs Eddie to hear him clearly. "I'm okay. I'm—"
"Don't." Eddie's voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He finally moves, letting the door close behind him, but he only makes it two steps before he stops again. His hands are shaking. "Don't say you're okay. Don't—" He breaks off, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Jesus, Buck."
Buck's throat tightens. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Bobby called me." Eddie drops his hands, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "He called me and said you collapsed. That Chim was doing CPR in the ambulance. And I—" His voice breaks. "I left everything. The groceries, the cart, I just—I left it all in the middle of the store and I drove here and the whole time I kept thinking—"
He stops, his jaw working, and Buck can see him fighting for control. Losing.
"I kept thinking that I never told you," Eddie says, and now his voice is raw, stripped bare. "That if you—if I lost you—you would never know that I—" He stops again, shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "Buck, I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend that you're just—that we're just—"
"Eddie." Buck's heart is hammering so hard it hurts. He tries to sit up straighter, but his body won't cooperate, still heavy and uncoordinated. "What are you—"
"I'm in love with you." The words come out in a rush, like Eddie's been holding them back so long they've built up pressure. "I'm in love with you, and I have been for—I don't even know how long. Maybe always. Maybe since the first day, I don't—" He drags a hand through his hair, and he looks wrecked, completely undone. "When Bobby called, when he said you collapsed, I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die right there in the cereal aisle because the idea of a world without you in it—"
His voice breaks completely, and he covers his mouth with his hand, turning away.
Buck's vision blurs. His chest is too tight, and it has nothing to do with the smoke inhalation. "Eddie, I—"
"I know." Eddie's shoulders hunch. "I know this isn't—I know you don't—" He takes a shuddering breath. "But I had to tell you. Because Bobby was right. Life's too short, and I can't—I can't keep pretending that you're not the most important person in my life. That you're not—" He turns back, and the look on his face is devastating. "You're everything, Buck. You're everything, and I almost lost you without ever telling you."
Buck can't breathe. Can't think. The oxygen mask dangles forgotten at his chin, and his hands are trembling where they grip the thin hospital blanket. "You didn't lose me," he manages, and his voice is wrecked. "Eddie, you didn't—"
"But I could have." Eddie moves closer now, finally, like Buck's voice is pulling him in. "I could have, and you would never have known that I—that every time you walk out the door I'm terrified you won't come back. That I buy your favorite snacks without thinking about it because I want you in my space, in my life, in every part of my day. That Christopher asks about you before he asks about me half the time and I love it because it means you're ours, you're—" He stops at the side of the bed, close enough to touch now, and his eyes are desperate. "You're ours, Buck. You've been ours for so long, and I've been too scared to say it, but I can't—I can't anymore."
Buck's face is wet. He doesn't remember starting to cry, but tears are streaming down his cheeks and his chest is heaving and he can't get enough air. "I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought it was just me. I thought I was the only one who—"
Eddie goes very still. "What?"
"I love you." The words tumble out, clumsy and desperate. "Eddie, I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it feels like not to love you. Every time I come home, I'm coming home to you. Every time something good happens, you're the first person I want to tell. My emergency contact, my—" He has to stop, has to breathe, and it hurts. "You're my person, Eddie. You and Christopher, you're my family, and I've been so scared that if I said anything, if I told you, I'd lose you both."
"Buck." Eddie's voice is broken, reverent. His hand comes up, hovering over Buck's like he's afraid to touch, afraid this isn't real.
Buck reaches for him, his fingers clumsy and weak but determined. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I—"
"Stop apologizing." Eddie catches his hand, grips it tight, and then he's leaning down, pressing his forehead to Buck's, careful of the IV line and the monitors and all the machinery keeping track of Buck's battered body. "Just—stop. You're here. You're alive. That's all that matters."
Buck's free hand comes up to cup the back of Eddie's neck, holding him close. They're breathing the same air, and Buck can feel Eddie trembling, can feel the dampness of tears on Eddie's face pressed against his own.
"I love you," Buck whispers again, because now that he's said it once, he can't stop. "I love you, Eddie."
"I love you too." Eddie's voice is thick, muffled. "God, Buck, I love you so much."
They stay like that, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped tight, breathing each other in. The monitors beep steadily. The oxygen hisses. And Buck thinks that maybe Bobby was right—maybe life is too short to keep pretending, to keep hiding from the truth.
Maybe almost dying is worth it, if it means he gets this. If it means he gets Eddie, finally, after all this time.
"Stay," Buck whispers. "Please stay."
Eddie pulls back just enough to look at him, and his smile is watery and beautiful and everything Buck has ever wanted. "I'm not going anywhere," he says. "I'm right here. I'm always right here."
And Buck believes him.