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The pieces of the puzzle hadn’t just fallen into place, they had clicked together with the sickening, metallic resonance of a loading gun.
Eddie had spent the last forty eight hours with a cold, slithering dread coiled tightly in the pit of his stomach. It had started in the suffocating darkness of the hidden room in the apartment building’s walls.
He and the 118 had pulled Esteban, Inez, and their son, Hugo, from the hidden room. The signs of a human trafficking ring were undeniable, the sheer, hollow terror in their eyes. But what kept Eddie awake, staring at his bedroom ceiling while the rest of Los Angeles slept, wasn't just the horrors they had uncovered in that claustrophobic space.
It was the realization of who was covering it up.
Detective Ben Hooks. Hooks had been at the hospital, arriving shortly after the 118 made sure they all arrived to the hospital okay.
But Eddie had seen the subtle, damning exchanges. He had heard the clipped, frantic whisper Hooks had spoken into a phone while standing in the shadows of the hallway.
"We are in trouble,” and then Hooks continued talking about the immigrants.
Eddie had turned his head just an inch too far, and he had caught the detective's eye. In that fleeting, chilling second, the air between them had frozen.
Hooks knew that Eddie knew too much.
Eddie had planned to take it straight to Athena. He just needed to get through this shift they were about to start, he wanted to pull her aside where Hooks couldn't see, and blow the whole horrific operation wide open. He owed it to Esteban, to Inez, to Hugo and all the others.
But Eddie, in his desperate need to do the right thing, had critically underestimated the sheer desperation of a cornered man.
The bridge was a scene of utter, blazing chaos, a hellscape suspended over the concrete arteries of Los Angeles.
A boat, improperly secured, had ripped loose in the middle of afternoon traffic, skidding across three lanes of asphalt with a horrific screech before a heavy SUV had plowed squarely into it.
The resulting explosion had turned the bridge into an inferno.
Thick, oily black smoke billowed into the pale sky, blotting out the sun and casting an eerie, apocalyptic twilight over the scene. The heat was immense, a physical weight that pressed down on the 118 the moment they stepped off the truck.
"Ravi, Buck, get the primary hose line on the SUV!" Chimney's voice boomed over the radio. "Harry, I want you securing the perimeter before that fuel tank goes! Probie, keep your head on a swivel! Hen, Eddie, set up triage behind the engines, we have got multiple victims!"
"Copy that, Cap!" Buck yelled, his voice rough with smoke and adrenaline. He hauled a heavy length of the yellow hose line over his shoulder, the familiar weight grounding him. Ravi, was right behind him, anchoring the slack, their movements synchronized after months of working side by side.
"Harry, get that yellow tape across the dividing concrete barrier!" Ravi shouted over the roar of the flames, directing the young probie who was already scrambling to follow orders.
"On it!" Harry yelled back, his helmet slightly askew as he waved frantically at the bottlenecked, panicking civilian cars. "Back up! Everyone, back up your vehicles now!"
Eddie was on the opposite side of the blistering wreck, pulling the heavy trauma bags from the side compartments of the ambulance.
He moved with practiced efficiency alongside Hen, laying out the triage tarps on the hot asphalt. He wiped a streak of soot and sweat from his brow, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter. He looked over the dancing orange flames, through the distortion of the heat waves, to catch Buck’s eye. Buck was wrestling with the hose, the muscles in his back bunching beneath his turnout gear. Buck looked up, feeling the weight of the gaze, and offered a quick, reassuring nod. We’ve got this. Eddie smiled, a small, private thing, and turned back to the tarp.
Then, the world tore in half.
It wasn't a roar like the fire, or a screech like the twisting metal of the SUV. It was a sharp, singular, deafening crack. It was a sound that didn't belong on a rescue scene. It was a sound that echoed through the darkest, most terror filled canyons of Eddie’s nightmares from a desert half a world away, from the day in the street after Charlie.
Buck’s head snapped up. Buck saw it. A mist of red, sudden and brutally violent, bloomed in the air right where Eddie was standing.
Eddie’s body jerked forward with sickening force, as if struck in the chest by an invisible, massive sledgehammer. The heavy jump bag slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud. For a fraction of a second, as gravity took hold, his eyes met Buck’s. They were wide, shocked, and entirely vacant, the light within them already beginning to dim.
Buck had flashbacks to last time. Not again.
Then, Eddie crumpled. He didn't fall gracefully, he collapsed like a marionette with its strings brutally, suddenly slashed, his knees hitting the asphalt before his upper body followed, twisting unnaturally as he went down.
"EDDIE!"
The scream ripped its way out of Buck's throat, raw, agonizing, and entirely inhuman. It was a sound born of pure, primal terror, tearing his vocal cords to shreds. He would not, he could not bury the love of his life.
Crack.
Another shot echoed across the bridge, ricocheting off the heavy diamond plate side of the fire engine, throwing a shower of bright, lethal sparks into the air.
"Sniper! Take cover! Everyone get down!" Chimney roared, pure panic lacing the captain’s usually steady tone. It was a command that broke the spell of shock holding the scene hostage.
Firefighters, police officers, and civilians alike dove for the asphalt, scrambling behind the heavy metal of the trucks and the concrete barriers. But Buck didn't dive. He didn't take cover. He didn't hear Chimney’s orders or the screams of the trapped civilians. He saw nothing but his best friend, his partner in every way that mattered, lying motionless in a rapidly expanding, terrifyingly dark pool of blood.
Buck lunged forward, his heavy turnout gear feeling like nothing but paper against the force of his desperation. Before he could take three steps into the open kill zone, two sets of hands slammed into his shoulders from behind, dragging him backward with brute force. To other firefighters, throwing their combined weight against him to pull him behind the engine.
"Let me go!" Buck snarled, thrashing wildly, like a trapped, feral animal. He threw an elbow, catching one of the firefighters in the chest, but the firefighter held on with terrifying grip strength. "He's out there! He's bleeding! Let me go!"
"Buck, you can't! He’s got an angle on him!" The other firefighter shouted, his face pale as bone, his eyes wide with a terror he was desperately trying to suppress as he struggled to hold his massive frame.
"We gotta wait for Cap's call, Buck, please!" Harry pleaded, from the side, Buck hadn't even realised he was near, Harry's voice cracking, his probie helmet knocked entirely off his head to reveal terrified eyes. "You're gonna get killed!"
"I don't care!" Buck roared, the veins in his neck bulging, tears of pure fury and panic blurring his vision. He wasn't a firefighter right now. He wasn't a hero. He was a man watching his entire world bleed out on the dirty pavement.
Just like last time, Buck thought.
With a violent, adrenaline fueled twist that wrenched his own shoulder, Buck broke loose from their grasp.
He didn't run, he sprinted. He launched himself across the open gap, entirely exposed. A bullet pinged against the asphalt mere inches from his heavy boot, kicking up a spray of concrete dust that stung his face, but Buck didn't even flinch. He hit the ground sliding, his heavy turnout pants tearing against the rough ground, ignoring the burning friction as he slammed into Eddie's side.
"Eddie, hey, hey, I got you, I got you babe," Buck chanted, a frantic, breathless, broken mantra. His bare hands immediately found the source of the bleeding. The blood was hot, terrifyingly slick, and there was so much of it. He found the entry wound, high on the right side of the chest, dangerously close to the collarbone, bubbling with air and blood and pressed down with every ounce of his weight.
"Buck! Bring him here! Now!" Hen screamed from behind the heavy, armored shelter of the ambulance doors. Her voice was unrecognizable, stripped of all its warmth and calm, replaced by the sheer terror of a woman watching her partner, her friend, dying in front of her.
"I'm moving you! On three!" Buck screamed, his face inches from Eddie's gray, slack features. Eddie's lips were parting, a wet, terrible gasping sound coming from his throat. "One, two, three!"
With a strength born of absolute, mind shattering desperation, Buck hauled Eddie up by the thick straps of his turnout coat. He walked backward in a crab crawl, dragging Eddie's limp, dead weight across the asphalt. His boots slipped in the blood. He threw them both behind the heavy rear tires of the closest ambulance just as another bullet shattered the side mirror above them, showering them in glass.
Hen was there in an instant, her hands already slick with Eddie's blood as she grabbed his legs. Together, with a violent, frantic heave, they hauled Eddie up into the back of the rig. Buck scrambled in after them, his hands never leaving the wound, his pressure relentless, his own knees slamming brutally into the metal floorboards.
"Ravi! Harry! Get in the cab and drive!" Chimney ordered over the comms, his voice tight from his pinned position behind the engine.
"Get him the hell out of here! Now!"
Ravi and Harry didn't hesitate. They threw themselves into the front seats of the ambulance. The engine roared, the tires squealing and burning rubber as they tore away from the bridge, the sirens wailing a mournful, panicked shriek. Inside the back, it was a terrifying, organized chaos. The air was thick with the overpowering smell of iron and sweat.
"He’s tensioning, his trachea is deviating," Hen said, her voice tight, hands visibly shaking as she ripped open Eddie's uniform shirt, sending buttons flying. She was operating on pure, clinical adrenaline, fighting the panic that threatened to drown her. She grabbed a large bore needle from the trauma kit. "Buck, keep that pressure. Do not let up for a second."
"I won't," Buck sobbed, the tears finally falling freely, cutting clean tracks through the thick soot on his face. He stared down at Eddie, whose chest was barely moving, his skin taking on a terrifying, translucent pallor. "Come on, Eds. You fight this. Do you hear me? You fight it for Chris. You fight it for me. Don't you dare leave me."
The ambulance slammed to a violent halt outside the emergency bay of Los Angeles General. The rear doors burst open, and a swarm of trauma staff descended upon them, shouting medical shorthand. They hauled the gurney out, the wheels rattling violently over the concrete as they rushed him through the sliding doors. Buck ran alongside them, his bloody hands hovering over Eddie's chest, refusing to let go until a nurse physically shoved him back from the trauma bay doors.
"You can't come in here, sir! Let us work!" she yelled, the heavy doors swinging shut and locking Buck out in the cold, sterile hallway.
Buck collapsed against the wall, sliding down the smooth wall until he hit the floor. He brought his hands up to his face. They were stained a dark, rusty crimson. It was under his fingernails, in the creases of his palms. Eddie's blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was that mist of red in the air.
The waiting room lost all meaning. Every tick of the clock on the wall felt like a physical blow to Buck's skull. Chimney had arrived two hours later after finally securing the chaotic scene on the bridge. He walked in, his captain's turnout gear stained with ash and sweat, looking infinitely older.
Ravi and Harry sat together in the corner, shell shocked, staring blankly at the floor. Hen sat rigid in a plastic chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at nothing. Buck paced. He walked the length of the room, turned on his heel, and walked it back. He had scrubbed his hands raw in the hospital bathroom, using the harsh industrial soap until his skin was red and burning, but he swore he could still smell the copper. It was seared into his memory, he has tasted Eddies blood last time, this time the smell overpowered him.
Hours bled into one another. Outside, the sun set, casting long, dark shadows across the hospital floor. Finally, the heavy double doors pushed open. A surgeon stepped into the waiting area, her green scrubs rumpled, her surgical mask pulled down beneath her chin. She looked utterly exhausted. The entire team was on their feet in a fraction of a second, a unified front of terror.
"Family of Edmundo Diaz?" the doctor asked, her voice quiet.
"We're his family," Chimney said immediately, stepping forward, channeling every ounce of authority, desperate to hold his fractured team together. "How is he? Tell us he's alive."
The doctor hesitated, her eyes scanning the group. She looked down at the tablet in her hands. "I can only discuss detailed medical information with his next of kin or his legally appointed medical proxy. I have an Evan Buckley listed in his file?"
The room went dead silent. It was a heavy, profound quiet. Hen and Chimney exchanged a stunned, wide eyed look.
Buck stepped forward, his legs feeling like they were made of lead, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "That... that's me. I'm Evan Buckley."
The doctor looked at him, her expression softening with profound, heartbreaking sympathy. "Mr. Buckley. Edmundo made it through the surgery. He's alive."
A collective, shuddering breath left the team. Hen covered her mouth, a sob escaping her lips. But the doctor held up a hand, her expression remaining grave.
"He lost a massive amount of blood," she continued, her voice gentle but relentlessly factual. "The bullet shattered his clavicle and caused severe, catastrophic damage to his right lung and the surrounding vasculature. We had to remove the upper lobe of the lung entirely. Because of the trauma and the blood loss, his brain was deprived of oxygen for a period. We had to put him into a deep, medically induced coma to allow his body and his brain to heal. The next forty eight hours are incredibly critical."
Buck froze. The world tilted on its axis. The word coma echoed in his head, a hollow, terrifying, bottomless sound. Tears welled up hot and fast, spilling over his lower lashes. "But he... he will wake up, right? When the swelling goes down?"
The doctor looked at him, her eyes ancient and sad. "We are hopeful, Mr. Buckley. But the injuries are excessive. He is fighting for his life right now. You need to prepare yourselves."
She excused herself gently, leaving a devastating, crushing silence in her wake. Buck’s knees finally gave out. He stumbled backward, a harsh, broken sob tearing its way out of his chest, tearing at his throat. Maddie, who had rushed from the dispatch center hours ago and had been sitting quietly in the corner, was there in an instant. She wrapped her arms around his trembling, massive frame, pulling his head down to her shoulder. Buck broke down completely, burying his face in his sister’s neck, crying with an intensity that physically hurt, his large hands gripping her shirt like a drowning man holding a lifeline. He sobbed for Eddie. He sobbed for the unfairness of it all. He sobbed because he missed Bobby, and he didn't know how he could survive losing Eddie too. He allowed himself exactly two minutes. Two minutes to completely and utterly shatter into a million jagged pieces.
And then, a name flashed in his mind, sharp, urgent, and grounding. Christopher.
Buck pulled back from Maddie abruptly, wiping his face fiercely with the back of his soot stained sleeve. He took a shaky, deep, agonizing breath, forcing the pieces of himself back together, locking the panic away in a dark box. He had a job to do. "I need to talk to Chris."
Chimney stepped forward, his face pale, his eyes full of concern. "Buck, you're in absolutely no state to drive. You're shaking. I'll go. I'll go to the school. And I'll... I'll call Eddie's parents in El Paso. They have to come down, be Chris's legal guardians until Eddie wakes up."
"No," Buck said. The word wasn't shouted, but it was hard, forged in steel, cutting through the sterile air of the waiting room like a blade.
Everyone stopped. They looked at Buck, confused by the sudden, immovable resolve in his tone.
"What?" Chimney asked gently, reaching a hand out. "Buck, I know you love Chris, but the kid needs his family right now. If Eddie is,"
"I am his family," Buck stated, stepping forward, looking his Captain dead in the eye. He looked around at the shocked, grieving faces of his team. "I am. Chim, you are not calling them. Helena and Ramon are not taking that boy from his home. Not again."
"Buck, legally, we have to," Hen started, her voice breaking on the words.
"Legally, it's me," Buck interrupted, his voice dropping to a quiet, undeniable truth that settled heavily over the room. "Years ago. After the well accident. Eddie went to his lawyer. He changed his will. If anything were to ever happen to him... he made me Christopher's legal guardian."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the sound of a paradigm shifting. Hen covered her mouth with both hands, fresh tears springing to her eyes as the profound weight of Eddie's trust in Buck washed over her. Chimney stared at him, pride, sorrow, and awe warring in his dark eyes. He nodded once, slowly.
Buck didn't wait for any further responses. He turned on his heel and walked out of the hospital into the fading light of the evening.
He had a boy to protect.
Buck drove the speed limit, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles were bone white. He pulled up to Christopher's school just as the late afternoon extracurricular clubs were letting out. At fifteen, Christopher was tall, his shoulders broadening, his face losing the soft roundness of childhood and sharpening into a striking resemblance of his father.
He was standing by the main office, leaning casually on his crutches, laughing with a group of friends. When Chris saw Buck walking up the path instead of his dad, his face lit up with a brilliant smile. But as Buck got closer, the smile faltered, quickly morphing into the wary, guarded look of a teenager who had already seen too much tragedy in his short life.
He saw the red rimmed edges of Buck’s eyes, the soot still staining his hairline, the rigid set of his shoulders.
"Hey, guys, I gotta go," Chris muttered to his friends, turning his back on them and swinging his crutches forward to meet Buck halfway. "Buck? What happened? Why are you here?"
"Let's get home, Chris," Buck said softly, his voice thick. He managed a tight, fragile smile, reaching out to gently squeeze the back of Chris's neck, grounding himself in the warmth of the boy.
The drive to the Diaz house was agonizingly quiet. The radio was off. The silence felt heavy, suffocating. They walked into the house, and the quiet emptiness of it hit Buck like a physical blow. He guided Chris to the lounge room, sitting him down on the comfortable sofa, taking a seat close beside him. Buck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his shaking fingers together. He looked at Christopher this brave, beautiful, brilliant boy who was growing up too fast, who had already lost his mother, his grandfather figure in Bobby, and who now sat on the precipice of losing his father.
"Chris..." Buck started, his voice cracking immediately. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat. "There was... there was an incident at work today on a call."
Chris’s dark eyes widened behind his glasses. He sat up straighter, his knuckles turning white where he gripped his knees. "Is dad okay? Is he hurt?"
Buck reached out, taking Chris's hands in his own. "Your dad got hurt, Chris. He got shot."
Chris gasped, a sharp, ragged intake of air that tore at Buck's heart.
"He's in the hospital," Buck continued quickly, holding tight as Chris's hands began to shake violently. "He's out of surgery. The doctors fixed the bleeding. But... his body went through a massive trauma. His lungs need to heal. So the doctors put him in a coma to help him rest. They aren't sure exactly when he will wake up."
Tears instantly flooded Chris's eyes. At fifteen, he understood the clinical gravity of the word coma all too well. It wasn't just sleeping to him. It was machines breathing for you. It was a coin toss between life and death. He had seen it with Buck after the lighting strike. "He will, though? Wake up?"
Buck's heart shattered into a million irredeemable pieces. He wanted to promise. He wanted to swear on his own life, to bargain with whatever god was listening. But he couldn't lie to this boy. Not ever. "I don't know, Chris," Buck whispered, his own tears falling freely now. "The doctors are hopeful. He's incredibly strong. You know how strong he is. He fights for you."
Chris nodded, the tears spilling over, tracking down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw. He sniffled, looking down at his lap. "I don't want to go back to El Paso," Chris whispered, his voice trembling, breaking with the deep, rooted fear of a boy about to lose everything he knew. "I don't want to leave LA. I don't want to leave my school. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to live with them again"
"You don't have to," Buck said fiercely, shifting closer and wrapping a massive arm around Chris's shoulders, pulling the teenager flush against his side. "You stay with me. You are staying right here."
Chris looked up, his brow furrowed in confusion, scrubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. "But... they're my grandparents. I go to them if dad does... right?"
Buck offered a sad, tear soaked smile. "No. Actually." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "A long time ago, Chris. Right after the well accident. Your dad made it so that if anything ever happened to him... if he couldn't be here... I become your legal guardian. I have the papers. Nobody is taking you anywhere."
Chris stared at Buck, absolute shock radiating from his face. The tears stopped for a fraction of a second, replaced by sheer, unadulterated awe. "He did?"
"Yeah. He did."
"And... you would want that?" Chris asked, his voice incredibly small, sounding entirely like the terrified little boy Buck had met all those years ago. "To be stuck with me?"
"Never stuck Chris," Buck said, without a fraction of a second's hesitation, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "In a heartbeat, Chris. I love you like you're my own. But your dad is a fighter. He's going to wake up. We just have to hold down the fort and wait for him."
Chris threw his arms around Buck's neck, burying his face in Buck’s shoulder, sobbing openly, the heavy, heaving sobs of a teenager trying to process an impossible grief. Buck held him tight, burying his face in Chris's dark curls, letting his own tears soak into the boy's collar. They sat like that for a long, long time, anchoring each other in the center of the storm, the only two people in the world who understood the exact shape of the hole Eddie would leave behind.
Eventually, Chris pulled back, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, taking a deep, shaky breath. He looked at Buck, his expression suddenly much older, much wiser, stripping away the teenage angst to reveal the incredibly observant young man underneath.
"You're in love with my dad, aren't you, Buck?"
The question hung in the quiet air, heavy and profound. Buck froze completely. His breath hitched in his chest. He stared at Chris, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had hidden it so well, for so many years. He had pushed it down, buried it deep beneath the guise of 'best friends' and 'partners.' He had dated, he had smiled, he had played his part. But Chris, Chris saw everything.
Buck let out a wet, breathless, broken chuckle, his broad shoulders slumping in defeat and profound relief. There was no point in lying. Not today. Not when Eddie might never wake up. "Yeah, buddy. I am. Have been for a really long time."
Chris nodded slowly, as if confirming a long held theory. "I think he loves you too."
Buck offered a sad, fond, devastating smile. "Chris... your dad is straight. We're just... we're just best friends."
"He hasn't come out to me or anything," Chris said, shifting on the couch, his tone incredibly pragmatic, a hallmark of a fifteen year old who spent entirely too much time observing the adults in his life. "But you're the only one he is himself around. You're the only one who can pull him out of his head. He smiles whenever he sees you calling. When we were in El Paso, he was miserable without you. He paces the house waiting for you to text back. When you were going through withdrawals, dad was so worried about you. Dad isn't good with talking about his emotions, Buck. You know that. He shows love through actions. And giving you me... trusting you with me... I think that shows plenty."
Buck stopped breathing. The room spun slightly. He thought of the will. He thought of Eddie, all the times he had saved him. He thought of the quiet moments together, of Eddie looking at him across the firehouse table, of the trust between them. He looked at Chris, who was watching him with a sad, gentle, knowing smile.
"And... would you be okay if he did?" Buck asked, his voice barely a terrified whisper.
Chris rolled his eyes, a classic, exaggerated teenage gesture that brought a sudden, desperate, aching warmth to Buck's chest.
"Buck, we have been a family for a long time. You're basically my other dad already. I just want you both to be happy."
A fresh wave of tears hit Buck, harder than before. He pulled Chris back into a tight, crushing hug, burying his face in the boy's neck. "I love you, Chris."
"I love you, Buck," Chris mumbled into his shoulder.
Eddie was in a coma for seven excruciating days. They were the worst seven days of Evan Buckley's life. It was a terrifying blur of beeping monitors, hospital smells, making lunches with shaking hands, and trying to force a reassuring smile for Chris. Buck practically lived in the ICU. The Fire Fam rotated shifts seamlessly.
Hen sat by Eddie's bed for hours. Ravi and Harry brought terrible hospital cafeteria food that Buck forgot to eat, and Chim checked in constantly, standing at the foot of the bed with a heavy heart.
On day four, things escalated from a medical crisis to a tactical one. An orderly Buck didn't recognize had entered the room, his eyes lingering too long on Eddie's IV lines, his hand drifting toward his pocket. Buck had stood up, placing his massive frame entirely between the man and Eddie's bed, his posture rigid, his voice lethal as he ordered the man out. When Buck told Athena, all hell broke loose. Athena had been terrifying, a force of vengeance in an LAPD uniform. She had reviewed the security footage, confirmed the man was not hospital staff, and immediately stationed two armed, heavily vetted LAPD officers outside Eddie’s door twenty four seven. The hospital room became a fortress.
It was day seven. Buck had dropped Chris off at school that morning because the teenager adamantly refused to miss his science presentation, claiming his partner would fail without him.
Buck was entirely alone in the room. He sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, leaning forward, holding Eddie’s cold, calloused, bruised hand between both of his own. He was rubbing his thumb over Eddie's knuckles, staring blankly at the rise and fall of the ventilator pushing air into Eddie's remaining lung.
"You gotta come back, Eddie," Buck whispered into the quiet room, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Chris aced his project, I know he did. But he needs to tell you about it. He needs his dad. And I... I just need you. Please, Eddie. Please don't leave me here without you."
He rested his heavy forehead against the edge of the mattress, closing his exhausted eyes, praying to a god he wasn't sure he believed in.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor hitched. It grew slightly faster. Buck lifted his head sharply.
Eddie’s eyelids fluttered. It was a minuscule, agonizingly slow movement, but to Buck, it was an earthquake.
"Eddie?" Buck breathed, standing up so fast the plastic chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Eddie’s brow furrowed in pain. He groaned softly around the extubated throat, they had removed the tube yesterday, transitioning him to an oxygen mask, praying he would breathe on his own. His dark eyes cracked open, fighting against the harsh, unforgiving light. Slowly, agonizingly, they drifted across the ceiling until they found Buck. They were hazy with heavy narcotics and pain, but they were undeniably, miraculously awake. Eddie weakly lifted his uninjured left hand, his fingers trembling violently as he pulled the plastic oxygen mask down just an inch from his face.
"Hey, Buck," Eddie rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves crushing on gravel.
Buck burst into tears. It wasn't a graceful cry, it was a loud, ugly, full body sob of absolute, staggering relief that bowed him in half. He leaned over the bed, his hands hovering frantically, afraid to touch and hurt him, but desperately needing to ground himself in the reality that Eddie was alive.
"You're awake," Buck cried, wiping furiously at his face, laughing and sobbing simultaneously. "Oh my god, you're awake. Thank you, thank you for coming back to me."
Eddie gave a sad, incredibly small smile, his eyes tracing the deep, bruised bags under Buck's eyes, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. Buck started babbling frantically, the words spilling out of him like a dam breaking. "Chris is okay! He's okay, I promise. I've been looking after him. He's at school right now doing his presentation, but he'll be so relieved. Maddie is picking him up right now. I'm texting her." Buck fumbled blindly for his phone in his pocket. "I'm telling her to bring him straight here."
Eddie didn't look at the monitors, or the room, or his own extensive bandages. He just watched Buck. He watched the frantic, beautiful, desperate way Buck cared about him and his son. There was an intense, burning clarity in Eddie's gaze that made Buck freeze mid text.
"Buck," Eddie said, his voice stronger this time, though the effort caused a wince of pain to flash across his features.
Buck stopped. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, leaning closer, his heart in his throat. "Yeah? Yeah, Eddie, what is it? What do you need? Water? Pain meds?"
Eddie swallowed dryly, his eyes locked onto Buck's with an intensity that burned. "I nearly died."
Buck’s breath hitched. Fresh tears welled up, and he nodded frantically. "I know. I saw it happen. Please, please don't do that again. I can't survive it."
"I'll try not to," Eddie whispered. He reached out weakly, and Buck met him halfway, lacing their fingers together, gripping tight. Eddie squeezed back as hard as his atrophied muscles allowed. "But... lying there on the asphalt... when I couldn't breathe... I realized something."
"What?" Buck asked, his heart beginning to pound a frantic, terrifying rhythm.
Eddie’s eyes softened, stripped of all the walls, all the repression, all the fear he had carried like armor for a lifetime. "I don't want to wait anymore."
"Wait for what?"
"For you," Eddie said simply. The words hung in the air, heavy and world altering. "I'm in love with you, Evan Buckley. I don't want to deny it anymore. I'm so tired of denying it. We've had too many close calls. The well. The sniper. The lightning. New Mexico. Now this. I don't want to waste another second pretending you aren't one of the most important people in my life."
Buck stopped breathing entirely. The monitors beeped steadily in the background, but to Buck, the entire world had gone utterly silent. He looked into Eddie's eyes, searching for the concussion, the heavy painkillers, the confusion of waking up from a coma. But he found nothing but absolute, resolute truth.
Christopher was right. The kid had always been right.
"You're in love with me?" Buck choked out, a disbelieving laugh breaking through his tears, his chest aching with a joy so profound it was almost painful.
"Very much," Eddie smiled, his thumb brushing weakly over Buck's knuckles.
Buck crashed forward, resting his forehead gently against the mattress beside Eddie's shoulder, laughing and sobbing all at once.
"Oh, thank God. Thank God. I fucking love you so much, Eddie. So much."
Eddie’s smile widened, a true, genuine thing that reached his tired eyes. "Come here."
Buck lifted his head. He looked at the bruised, broken man in the bed, the love of his life. Mindful of the wires, the stitches, the chest tube, and the sheer trauma Eddie’s body had endured, Buck leaned down. He cupped Eddie's uninjured cheek with a hand that still trembled slightly. Eddie tilted his chin up, meeting him halfway. It was a gentle, quick, cautious kiss. Soft and tentative. But the moment their lips touched, a spark ignited in Buck's chest, a profound sense of finally, truly coming home after a lifetime of wandering in the dark. It tasted like saline, dry lips, and sterile hospital air, but to Buck, it was the absolute best thing he had ever felt.
They pulled back just an inch, lingering in each other's space, breathing the same air, the terror of the last week finally washing away, replaced by a tentative, beautiful hope.
"Okay," Buck whispered, pulling back slightly, his face hurting from how wide he was smiling. "I'll... I'll buzz the nurse. They need to check you."
"Do that," Eddie agreed. Then, his expression hardened, the softness vanishing instantly, replaced by the sharp, tactical, lethal edge of an army medic who had been wronged. "And tell Athena to come."
Buck paused, his hand hovering over the call button. "Athena? Why?"
Eddie’s eyes were cold, calculating. "Because I know who shot me. I know who did this. It was Hooks, or someone he works with."
Athena arrived in record time, sweeping into the ICU like a hurricane. She took Eddie's raspy, detailed statement, recording every detail about the trafficking ring and the phone call. She left the room with her jaw set, a tactical unit already mobilizing on her orders to tear the precinct apart until they found the dirty detective.
Ten minutes later, the door swung open again. Chris rushed through, abandoning his crutches at the door, practically throwing himself carefully into his father's good side. Maddie stood in the doorway, weeping happy tears.
"I'm so glad you're okay," Chris sobbed into Eddie's hospital gown. "Don't let it happen again."
"I'll try," Eddie promised, kissing his boy's curls.
Chris pulled back, wiping his glasses. "But...thank you for making Buck my guardian. I didn't want to go back to El Paso."
Eddie caught Buck’s eye over Chris's head, his heart full. "So you're happy for it to stay Buck?"
"Yes," Chris said immediately. Then, his teenage pragmatism, sharpened by years of observing these two oblivious men, returned in full force. "And you should know... I know you and Buck are finally together."
Eddie actually choked on a laugh, wincing as it pulled painfully at his shattered chest. "How did you know?"
"Please. I'm not stupid," the fifteen year old scoffed, rolling his eyes as if they were both incredibly dense. "But, when you guys eventually get married, we can just make it official and Buck can adopt me. That way we are legally a family, and going back to El Paso won't ever happen."
Chris shrugged, adjusting his glasses as if it were the most obvious, mundane logistical step in the world. Buck let out a loud, wet laugh, and Eddie stared at his son in awe.
Buck and Eddie looked at each other and smiled, the kind of smile that promised a future, and looking at each other, wrapped in the warmth of the hospital room, they knew the absolute truth.
They were already a family.