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It was near the end of June now. Usually a time where Buck would be spending his time out on the beach, catching some waves or just lying in the sun. That was the funny thing about the beach; no matter how down he was, it never failed to make him happy.
However, he hadn’t seen it all summer. No, instead he was cooped up inside, just like he has been for the past month and a half. This time around, though, the change of scenery was nice. Instead of staring at the same four walls of his new loft—and only the bottom ones, as he couldn’t climb the stairs to the second level—he was now recovering in Bobby and Athena’s house.
While Maddie had cared for him after the first two surgeries, the original repair and then the rod replacement and first bone graft, her PTO had run dry. Not that she had much banked up in the first place, as she had just started working at dispatch less than a year prior.
Bobby, on the other hand, had accrued a substantial amount of PTO since he began working with the LAFD back in 2016, almost never taking a day off. Work helped him momentarily forget, especially at the beginning when there was much that he needed to. So, while he’d already used a few days at the beginning of Buck’s recovery, he managed to set aside a week and a half for his most recent surgery—another bone graft, one in the lower part of his fibula and one midway up his tibia.
So, here Buck sat, leg fully cast and propped up on a mountain of pillows as he lay in the Grant’s guest room, two days post-op and in a considerable amount of pain. So much so that he couldn’t really sleep much; whenever he closed his eyes, the throbbing and bone-deep ache set in. Instead, Buck just stared at the ceiling, counting down the minutes until his next dose of medication. Three hours. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes. Fifteen minutes. Ten minutes. Five minutes. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes. One minute. Repeat. Three hours. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes. Fifteen minutes. Ten minutes. Five minutes. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds. Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Five seconds. One second—
“Hey, kid.” A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door as Bobby pushed it open with his foot. He was balancing a foldable tray in his hands, bringing it over cautiously and setting it on the nightstand. “How are we feeling?”
“Crap,” Buck grunted out, not even attempting to hide his displeasure. He’d tried at first, he really had, but this whole situation was just getting to be too much, even with the sertraline they’d prescribed him after Maddie and Bobby first noticed the tank in his mood about a week after the initial injury.
“Physically or emotionally?” Bobby asked softly but firmly, as if he were demanding an answer.
“It’s fine,” Buck grumbled.
“Buck, you’ve gotta tell me what’s going on, kid. I can help.” Bobby sat on the bed next to Buck, running his hand over Buck’s uninjured leg.
“I’m just… I’m tired of feeling like this. Helpless, and bored, and… and it hurts. So bad,” Buck managed to let out, tears threatening to slip past his eyes. “What if I can never be a firefighter again? What if I can’t walk again?”
“Hey, hey,” Bobby hurried out, hands finding Buck’s face and wiping the tears away with his calloused thumbs, “you will walk again. It’s just gonna take a little bit of work and some effort. As for firefighting… we’ll see… but, Buck,” Bobby tightened his grip on Buck’s face, forcing his drifting and avoiding eyes to stare into his and truly feel his words. “I will always love you. No matter what. I don’t care if you’re a firefighter or not; you are still my Buck. I know there isn’t much I can say to help convince you of that, to get you out of your head, but it’s true. And I just need you to hear that. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” Buck sniffled, trying desperately to hold it together, “I don’t know why it’s like this… why I’m like this. I just feel like I finally found the one thing I was good at. That I finally mattered.”
At a loss for words, because really there wasn’t much more he could say, Bobby sighed and wrung his hands together. “Hey, come here, kid.” Bobby helped Buck pull himself up into a more seated position, fluffing the pillows behind his back. Welcoming the kid into a hug, Bobby pulled back as soon as a grunt of discomfort left Buck’s mouth.
“Agh,” Buck groaned as Bobby whipped his eyes around, searching for any sight out of the ordinary. “L’g,” Buck grunted, hands coming down to grasp around his thigh as he attempted to pick it up and shift it back onto the pillow from which it had slipped.
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, Buck,” Bobby inhaled, helping to lift Buck’s leg and rearranging the pillow underneath it. “Here, let me help.” Bobby removed the old, now warm, ice packs that had fallen to the side and replaced them with the new ones that he had carried in on the tray. He placed one, wrapped in a towel, on top of Buck’s lower leg, which, while the doctors had said the cold penetrated the cast, Buck didn’t feel much relief from. The other was painful to place, as Buck and Bobby had to work together to lift Buck’s heavy, aching leg and place it under the upper part of Buck’s thigh, right above where the cast ended, but it was worth it, as it offered much more relief against his throbbing leg.
Buck sighed with relief as Bobby placed his long-awaited medication in his hand, along with a glass of water. Buck had been on a rotating schedule of ibuprofen and acetaminophen every three hours, with oxycodone prescribed as needed, although he usually tried to avoid taking it too often, instead saving it for the most intense and unbearable moments of pain. “You ran me out of ibuprofen, so I had to resort to Aleve.”
“What’s the difference?” Buck asked before throwing back the pills with a gulp of water. He knew there was a difference and should probably understand it more deeply as an EMT, but as far as he was concerned, they were practically the same thing.
“Well, both are NSAIDs. Basically work the same way, but I think ibuprofen works faster and is for more acute pain instead of chronic. Also, you can’t have naproxen as often. Ever had it before?”
“I don’t think so,” Buck replied, “but it’s like the same thing, right?”
“Yeah, basically,” Bobby supplied. Yeah, sure, ibuprofen would probably work a little better for the acute pain Buck was undergoing currently, but the naproxen would work until he could run out to the store again, hopefully soon, as Athena should be getting home within the hour. “Brought you some dinner, too.” Bobby stood from where he sat on the bed next to Buck, grabbing the tray he had set aside and moving it to Buck’s lap.
Buck greedily ate the mac and cheese in about five minutes, leaving Bobby laughing as he took the tray to clear it and wash the dishes. Before he left, Bobby helped Buck pull the blanket over himself, ready for a nap after his big meal.
Just as Bobby was drying the dishes, he heard a small cough coming from the guest room as it got louder and louder.
“You okay, Buck?” Bobby asked, raising his voice a few notches so that Buck could hear him across the living room and down the hallway.
“Uh…yeah?” Buck answered softly and confused. Truthfully, he didn’t know. A few minutes ago, he started to feel a little fuzzy. The pain in his leg had begun to recede, but at that same moment, he felt tighter everywhere else. His chest, his skin, his throat. All of it just felt…off. Then, the twinge in his throat had progressed into a cough, nagging him until he suddenly felt his breath slipping away from him as everything around him blurred and lightened.
The next thing Buck was aware of was the itching in and around his mouth. Reaching his hand up to scratch at his face, Buck was met by a rough and raised surface. Not his stubble—he was sure—Bobby had helped him just that morning by providing him with a razor, knowing how Buck preferred to keep his face clean-shaven. No, instead it felt like something different, warm to the touch. As Buck pulled his hand away and looked down at himself, he saw on his forearm what he presumed was mirrored on his face. A red, raised, patchy mess that one would medically describe as ‘hives’. And, on top of that, his fingers looked a tad blue. And it was getting harder and harder to breathe.
As each cough erupted from his throat, he felt his chest getting tighter, wheezes beginning to escape in between coughs and hurried breaths. His stomach began cramping and threatening to revolt as he shifted upright, attempting to move and get out before something terrible happened. The colours around him began blurring together, but he could tell—he knew—something wasn’t right. The last thing he was aware of was the rushed sound of Bobby’s footsteps before the world faded into blackness.
It wasn’t until Bobby heard the first wheeze that he dropped the bowl he was drying and began making his way toward the guest room. It was with the gagging that his walk turned into a run, arriving in the doorway just as the macaroni and cheese Buck had finished just a few minutes ago made a reappearance on his lap.
“Shit,” Bobby cursed, grabbing the small trashcan from where it sat beside the bed and pushing it up to Buck’s face as he messily threw the soiled blanket aside and plopped down next to him. “Shh, you’re okay,” Bobby coaxed, rubbing Buck’s back. It wasn’t until Buck spit again and pulled his heavy, swelling head from the can that Bobby really got a proper look at him. And it was frightening. Buck’s face and neck were covered with hives, while his cheeks, lips, and eyes swelled with warm redness. Breath came harder with each passing second as he held his stomach in agony with one hand and motioned to his chest and throat in panic with the other.
“Buck, what’s wrong?” Bobby blurted out, even though he had a pretty good idea of what was happening. The only missing piece was why.
“C–can’t b–br–breathe…” Buck wheezed, the air whistling in his throat as he reached for Bobby’s hand. “S’m’th’n’s wr’ng…”
“Hey, hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Bobby calmed, even though he could feel his own breathing picking up as well. “Just stay with me.” Bobby reached out with his index and middle fingers and placed them on Buck’s neck, pushing them gently into his carotid. “Shit,” Bobby muttered. Rapid and weak. “You’re gonna be okay, Buck,” Bobby lied, patting his hand around, hoping it would land on a phone that could call for help.
Fortunately, it was just then that a key turned in the lock, the familiar sound of the front door swinging open echoed through the house.
“Athena?” Bobby called. It was around seven, and she was expected home soon. “May?” It could also be May; however, it was a Thursday night, and she was working, although she usually got home later than this. It couldn’t possibly be Harry, as he didn’t have a car—or a license on account of him being twelve years old—and he was supposed to be spending the week at Michael’s anyway. Regardless of who it was at the front door, he needed help. And he needed it now. “Help!”
“Bobby, honey?” Athena called. “What’s going on?” She toed off her shoes, carefully making her way into the house.
“Help!” He called again, this time louder.
It was with this call that Athena woke up. Previously half-dead on her feet after a long shift, Bobby’s call sprung her into first-responder mode. He sounded like a civilian in need of help, and even though Athena’s call was done, her guard was back up. She rushed into the guest room, face paling slightly as she saw a greyish Buck struggling to breathe in Bobby’s arms. On a closer look, his skin was also breaking out in some sort of hive-like rash, and it seemed as though he was barely conscious.
“Athena, call 9-1-1!” Bobby demanded.
“On it,” she answered, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and typing in the all-too-familiar three numbers. “What happened?” she asked Bobby as the phone rang.
“I… I don’t know…” he replied, sounding more like a scared father than a seasoned emergency responder. “Help me get him on the ground.”
With Athena’s help, soon Buck was lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling with his legs propped up on the bed in front of him. Bobby sat by his side, holding his hand and monitoring his breathing as Athena began speaking to the operator.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“Hello, I am at 1810 Fallsgrove Street and need an ambulance at my location immediately. Twenty-eight year-old male, appears to be suffering from anaphylactic shock.” She and Bobby locked eyes, an unspoken nod shared between the two of them. Although neither of them had named it, they both knew what was going on.
“A unit is on the way, ma’am,” the dispatcher confirmed. “What are the symptoms that are making you think this is an allergic reaction?”
“He’s breaking out in hives, he’s swelling, he can’t breathe, he’s grabbing at his chest and stomach—”
“—He threw up,” Bobby interrupted.
“Do you have any idea what is causing the allergic reaction? Does the patient have a history of anaphylactic responses or any other known allergies?”
Just as the sound of a keyboard clicking filled the line, Athena realised she was out of her depth. Her hands shook, and her mind stalled up for just a moment before she looked to Bobby, who was still monitoring Buck while whispering quiet reassurances that he probably couldn’t hear. “What’s he allergic to?” she asked.
“Uh…” Bobby hesitated, feeling Buck’s pulse grow weaker and breathing become more strained. “He’s not getting enough air, Athena,” Bobby choked out. “We need to sit him up.” Athena rushed over, helping Bobby shift Buck into a sitting position against the wall. He grasped shallowly, and Athena took over speaking while Bobby grabbed Athena’s phone. “No known allergies. So we don’t have epinephrine or anything. He– he can’t breathe! Hurry!”
“Help is on the way, sir, just stay calm for me.”
“Stay calm?” Bobby repeated, rage starting to seep through his voice. “How am I supposed to stay calm when my… my kid can’t breathe? He’s having an allergic reaction for no apparent reason, and you’re telling me to stay calm?”
“Paramedics are a few minutes out,” the dispatcher simply responded. “Can you place your index and middle finger on his pulse point and count with me? Either the inside of the wrist or on his neck. Let me know when you’re ready to count—”
“For God’s sake! I know how to take a pulse, I’m a firefighter, Jesus!” Buck grabbed Bobby’s hand, squeezing it weakly. This was enough to let Bobby forget his anger. Right now, there were more important things to focus on. “Sorry,” he responded to the dispatcher. He hadn’t meant to get snappy with her; he hated it when civilians did that with him. “Pulse is rapid and weak.”
“Around 138 BPM,” Athena reported, loud enough for the operator to hear.
“Is he still conscious?” the dispatcher asked.
“Barely,” Bobby sighed, hanging his head low. Buck’s eyes kept threatening to slip shut, and whether it was from the dizziness and confusion or the swelling in his eyes, one thing was for sure: he was losing consciousness and he was losing it fast. At this point, he was barely responding to any stimuli from Athena or Bobby, focusing instead on his aborted effort of breathing. “Hey, hey, Buck,” Bobby urged, shaking his face roughly. “Stay with me, kid.”
“Any new foods, medications? Any insect stings?”
“No, he’s been taking it real easy lately,” Bobby began to explain. “He’s currently two days post-op from an autograft for his leg, so he’s been stuck inside, and he’s only eating known, easy things. Just had a bowl of macaroni and cheese, actually, but he’s always had that. He’s on a rotating schedule of ibuprofen and tylenol, with oxycodone as needed, but, again, all stuff he’s tolerated before—”
“No changes at all to this routine?” the paramedic asked, finishing up her typing.
“No, not at all—wait—” Bobby stilled. Went silent, letting only Buck’s wheezing gasps fill the space. There was something that changed. “We… we ran out of ibuprofen… I gave him some Aleve—naproxen—instead. He– he said he’d never had it be–before. I– I didn’t think…” Athena placed a hand on Bobby’s back, soothing him slightly, and the phone fell from his hands. This couldn’t be happening right now. Not after almost losing Buck—which was his fault in the first place—Bobby couldn’t lose him again. Was everyone he ever loved doomed to die at his hands?
“LAFD! Open up!” The long-awaited call rang through the house, Athena jumping up to get the door.
Bobby urged Buck to stay with him, watching intently as his eyes slipped shut for the last time.
And Bobby kept his eyes there.
Until they opened again with a jab in the thigh from a helpful paramedic.
“Epiniphrine’s in,” the man now kneeling beside Bobby reported, “and it looks like he’s comin’ back ‘round.”
“Buck,” Bobby folded with a gasp, taking Buck’s hands in his own and fighting—and losing—against a tear that came when the cold hands weakly squeezed back. “Hey, kid.”
“Oxygen,” a female paramedic interrupted, placing a non-rebreather mask over Buck’s head.
“Sorry, sir,” the man next to Bobby spoke again, “we’ve gotta get him to the hospital. Could you move out of the way for a moment?”
“Uh, yeah,” Bobby stumbled over his words, only retreating when Athena pulled him back and into her arms.
Bobby watched with bated breath as the paramedics got Buck hooked up to the monitor and eventually transferred onto the stretcher. His blood pressure was pretty low, but his heart rate was trending toward normal, and his oxygen saturation was improving slowly but surely.
When they wheeled him out of the bedroom and started toward the front door, Bobby interrupted, “Uh, where are you taking him?”
“Presby,” one of the paramedics responded. “One of you coming along?”
“Uh, yeah,” Bobby stepped forward, awkwardly raising his hand. “That would be me.”
“I’ll get things cleaned up, and then I’ll meet you there,” Athena told her husband, pulling him in for a quick peck before letting him go.
“Love you, honey,” Bobby called back, hurrying after the paramedics as they began to load Buck into the back of the ambulance.
Bobby held Buck’s hand the entire way to the hospital, updating the paramedics on his recent medical history as Buck focused mainly on the ceiling—still seeming very out of it. He had yet to respond with anything other than a noncommittal groan. About halfway through the fifteen-minute ride, Buck briefly started decompensating, but another shot of epinephrine seemed to shut him—and the beeping monitors—up for the remainder of the ride.
After arriving at the ER, Bobby was immediately shuffled into the waiting room, checking in and taking a seat for about six minutes before a nurse called him back.
“He’s just coming around now,” she explained as she led Bobby down the corridor and to the curtained bay in which Buck lay. “A little groggy and confused, but I’m sure a familiar face will help. He’s responding well to the epinephrine given by emergency services, and a doctor should be in soon to speak with you both about next steps. In the meantime, if anything changes at all, or if you have any questions, feel free to hit the call button or just come on up to the nurses’ station.”
“Thank you…”
“Delilah,” she provided, pulling the curtain open to reveal Buck, hooked up to a monitor showing a strong heart rhythm and respiratory rate and with an oxygen cannula snaking out of his nostrils. An IV had been placed in the crook of his arm on transport by paramedics, but there was currently nothing hooked up to it. He was still dressed in the t-shirt and sweatpants (with one leg chopped off for his massive cast) he had come in with as he lay atop the bed with his hair scruffed up and messy. “Need a blanket or anything?”
“Uh,” Bobby considered it, deciding eventually to accept it because he knew how cold Buck would get without it. “Yeah, a blanket would be great.” He thought back to the last time he’d seen Buck in a hospital bed—two days prior, post-surgery—and remembered he still had a job to do, asking, “Could we get a pillow or something to elevate his leg? And some ice? He’s two days post-op for a bone graft.”
“Of course,” Delilah said, smiling kindly and dismissing herself for a minute until she reappeared with a pillow, a blanket, and a few ice packs.
As she was helping Bobby prop up Buck’s leg, a small moan gave from his mouth. “I’m here, Buck,” Bobby began to soothe, patting Buck’s uninjured leg as he hurried to get him settled. “Just stay with me, kid. I’ll be right there.”
Thanking Delilah softly, Bobby pulled the blanket up to Buck’s chest, settling beside him in the empty chair, which seemed like it had his name on it. “Hey, kid,” Bobby sighed, taking Buck’s hand in his. “How we doin’?”
Buck peeled his eyes open for a moment before shutting them again with a groan. This time, however, Bobby could tell it wasn’t from the pull of unconsciousness but rather the pain of his situation.
Buck groaned as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. The white lights, the white walls. The beeping monitors. The flow of oxygen through his nostrils. The scratchy itch of the blanket tucked under his arms. And, of course, the constant throb of his leg. Maybe, just maybe, if he closed his eyes, Buck could escape this reality for a little longer.
“I’m here, Buck,” Bobby’s voice filled his ears as he squeezed his warm hand in his. “Whenever you’re ready.” Buck could hear the worry laced in his voice, so he really had no choice but to open his weary lids and meet his father figure’s anxious eyes. “Hey. You with me, kid?”
“Unfortunately,” Buck grumbled, although it came out slightly strangled. His throat was scratchy and felt as though it was swollen to the size of a softball. He couldn’t really speak properly—or breathe—and, now that he thought of it, his chest kinda hurt like hell. He just felt like complete shit. His lungs definitely agreed with him, as they protested his attempted speech by producing a sad-sounding, feeble cough.
“Woah, take it easy,” Bobby shot up straight, hand placed on Buck’s back, rubbing softly. “Are you having trouble breathing?”
“No…” Yeah, it took a little effort, but Buck felt stable enough and as though he were slowly improving. That didn’t explain how he got here, though. “Wh’t h’ppened?”
Bobby crumpled. “Oh, God, Buck.” His hands pulled back from Buck’s as he dropped his head into them, rubbing at his temples with guilt and regret. “You had an allergic reaction.”
“I—” Buck cleared his throat, still evidently very hoarse. “I d–don’t h’ve any allergies. I– I m–mean, I didn’t th’nk so.”
Bobby huffed a laugh. “Me neither. But apparently you’re allergic to naproxen.”
“Anaphylaxis?” Buck confirmed. However, by the state he found himself in, he was already pretty certain. Bobby nodded. “Yea, feel l’ sh’t.”
“Mister Buckley?” The curtain pulled open with that metal woosh, revealing a young doctor, probably not much older than Buck himself. “Hi, I’m Doctor Davey,” she smiled, reaching out her hand to shake Bobby’s. “So, it says here that you’re two days post-op from a bone graft and you were using over-the-counter medication for pain management when you had an anaphylactic allergic reaction to naproxen. Is that correct?”
She looked directly at Buck, prompting him to respond. Seeing as he’d only become aware of the situation a minute ago, he shrugged and simply answered, “I mean, yea, that’s wh’t I hear,” before breaking off into another coughing fit.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” she asked immediately, attention flicking to the monitor before pulling out her stethoscope and approaching his bedside.
“No, it’s j’ a little h’rd,” he explained.
“Mind if I take a listen?” Buck nodded because, really, what choice did he have? “Deep breath in for me… And out…” After a minute of a few more standard tests, Doctor Davey clasped her hands together and stepped back. “Alright, I’m not loving the sound of your breathing—or that cough—, but your numbers seem to be doing okay. I’m going to go ahead and order a breathing treatment as well as some intravenous antihistamines, and we will monitor you for a few hours in case of a biphasic reaction—”
“Is that likely?” Bobby interrupted. “A biphasic reaction?”
“I mean, not very. It’s a possibility, sure, but it is more often seen with food allergies, like peanut or tree nut allergies, and even then it is around 20%. Protocol is to keep you here and observe, regardless.”
“And the naproxen allergy? How common is that?” Bobby continued questioning.
“I mean,” she started this sentence the same as the previous one, however, this time with more reluctance, “anaphylactic reactions to naproxen are pretty rare. And he’s—” she turned her attention to Buck, trying to include him as best as possible, “you’ve never had a problem with other NSAIDs? Ibuprofen, aspirin?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Bobby responded, not even giving Buck a chance to respond.
“Yeah, that’s pretty rare, especially if he can tolerate other NSAIDs. And you’re sure nothing else could have triggered this reaction?”
“I mean… no?” That shouldn’t have been a question. Bobby was sure about this. “No. The only thing in his routine that had changed was the naproxen.”
“Well, okay,” Doctor Davey nodded, mulling this over in her head. “Going forward, I’d avoid all NSAIDs. Stick to acetaminophen. We can see about some other painkillers if necessary, but I’d refer you to your surgical team for that. I’ll also go ahead and stick in a referral to an allergist. I’m not sure what they can do, but maybe they can do some testing to confirm the naproxen allergy and test for similar substances? In the meantime, we’ll prescribe and send you home with an Epi-Pen once you’re done here.”
“Wh’n can I g’t outta here?” Buck finally spoke up.
“I’ll check in after the bronchodilator and antihistamines are finished. Probably stick some fluids in there, too. For now, just hang around, and let a nurse know if you need anything or have any worsening symptoms like you had before your attack.”
After a nod from both Buck and Bobby, Doctor Davey excused herself.
“I’m t’red of h’spitals,” Buck grumbled, crossing his arms, which still sported some hives.
“I know,” Bobby told him, placing his hand on Buck’s arm. “Just a little bit longer.”
“I wish—”
“—I’m sorry!” Bobby blurted out before Buck could even begin his sentence.
“What?”
“This is my fault. I did this!”
“You couldn’t have known I was allergic,” Buck explained. “Hell, I didn’t even know.”
“No, Buck! You don’t understand! This is all my fault!”
Bobby’s gaze drifted slowly down to Buck’s leg, and it was almost as though Buck could see the orange flames of the bomb explosion in the black reflection of his pupils.
“No, Cap,” Buck shifted, wincing slightly at how it pulled at his leg but overcoming it so he could face Bobby and look him in the eyes. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t—”
“Both of these situations— what’s the common thread? Me. You were under my care. My responsibility.”
“That’s crazy,” Buck said, attempting to reach out and grab Bobby’s arm, although he failed due to his limited mobility in ‘hospital-jail’. “You weren’t even captain when that bomb went off.”
“Buck, I’m the reason why that bomb went off.”
“And you’re also the reason why that kid let go of that trigger and the whole block didn’t blow up. The reason why I’m still alive. It–” Buck took a deep breath in, “it isn’t your fault, Bobby. I don’t blame you.” And, while that was true, it hadn’t been something that Buck was able to say until right now. Because, maybe, he didn’t fully believe it. The whole situation, well, it ‘sucked’—according to Buck—and maybe it felt good for a while to have a reason why. Logically, Buck knew Bobby was never to blame, but inside, Buck had always wondered if this would have happened if it weren't for Bobby. That bomb was meant for him after all. Buck was…collateral damage.
Bobby gulped as if that was all he’d been waiting to hear. And instead of offering up more excuses, or insisting that at least the allergic reaction was his fault, Bobby stilled. He took Buck’s hand in his and squeezed it. Firmly. “Glad you’re still here with me, kid.”
“Me too, Bobby,” Buck smiled, squeezing his hand back.
A few minutes passed, and eventually a nurse came in with the medications that Doctor Davey had ordered. Soon enough, a line was running through Buck’s arm, and a mask was placed over his head as he inhaled the medication deeply, satisfied at the relief it was bringing to his lungs. He started to nod off a little, so Bobby shifted in his seat, fixing Buck’s blanket and whispering to him, “It’s okay if you’re tired. You can go to sleep if you want.”
“You’ll b’ h’re wh’n I w’ke up?” Buck slurred, his voice not only thick with tiredness but also being obscured by the mask.
“Yes, Buck. I’ll always stay with you, kid.”