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“Stay with me, man. Come on.”
Buck can’t open his eyes. Why the fuck can’t he open his eyes?
“Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand.”
There’s someone here, someone speaking. It feels like it’s coming from below water. Buck is distantly aware that they’re holding his hand, but his fingers don’t feel like they belong to him anymore. He has lost control of them.
He tries to open his mouth to respond and instead swallows water. Everything goes black.
*
When he next comes to, his first thought is ow.
His eyes are still closed; everything is still dark. But when he experimentally moves his eyes behind his lids they obey, and when he wills one of his fingers to twitch, they do. Relief rushes through his body.
Fuck. Okay. He’s okay.
He takes a deep breath to settle himself – panic gets him nowhere, it’s been drilled into him a dozen times – and tries to open his eyes; finds he can’t. Takes another deep breath at that. Stay calm, he thinks, like that will help. His senses come back in fragments: a spreading, discomfiting numbness throughout his whole body, the soreness of his muscles, the feel of jagged cold stone against his back. He’s lying down flat on his back, arms by his sides, legs straight. He tries to move them, but they don’t respond.
The panic hits at the same time as the pain.
“Whoa, whoa,” says a voice, which scares him nearly as much as the total agony. He tries to open his eyes again but it’s almost as if they’re stuck together, which also doesn’t help with the total blinding panic. “Whoa, calm down. Breathe, man.”
“My eyes,” Buck whispers, “my eyes, I can’t open—”
“Okay, okay—” And then there are gentle fingers touching his wrist, bringing his own arm up to his face. “I don’t want to hurt you any more than you already are, so you gotta do this yourself—”
Distantly, Buck registers already are, but he’s too concerned with carefully peeling his eyelids open one by one. It doesn’t hurt, so he’s at least not blind, but when he blearily blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness, the first thing he sees is his own hands, which are covered in blood.
Huh, he thinks inanely. Maybe that explains the headache.
“Are you okay?”
And, oh yeah, his companion. He carefully turns his head to see a dark-haired man sat next to him, similarly dressed in LAFD uniform. His face is covered in soot and blood, a nasty-looking cut above his eyebrow and a bloody chin, but he looks otherwise uninjured.
(He’s also very handsome, but that’s neither here nor there. Buck decides that getting on his feet only marginally takes precedence over asking this very attractive person out for dinner.)
“I think so,” Buck whispers. “Um, what…”
His voice gives out before he can finish his question, but the man’s softly curve upwards like he knows what he’s about to ask. “You cut your forehead pretty bad. I think the blood dried your eyes closed.”
“Gross,” Buck mumbles. His voice rasps a little, and he coughs. Sawdust flies from his mouth, which, ew. “Where… where are we? What happened?”
He tries to sit up, pushing himself up on his elbows, but he’s not anticipating the sudden roaring pain in his legs and drops back down, hard. Immediately, his companion is by his side, hands hovering over his shoulder.
“Whoa, whoa,” he says, “you need to take it easy—”
“My legs,” Buck rasps, “I can’t—I can’t move my legs—”
He tries to push himself back up again, but this time the man gently pushes down on his shoulder, keeping him flat. His face is troubled. “Do you remember what happened?”
Does he remember? Buck tries to cast his mind back. There’d been an earthquake – nearly a whole hotel had come down. The 118 had been one of many fire departments that had been called in to help retrieve survivors. Buck remembers getting out of the fire truck with the squad; he remembers he, Hen, Chimney and Bobby going to the basement for triages. He remembers—
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes. He looks up at the man, eyes wide. “There was… there was a second quake, wasn’t there?”
The man looks relieved that he knows this. “Yeah,” he says. “We were—we were all in the basement when it hit. We fell.”
Buck doesn’t recognise him; he must be from another department, also searching for survivors down there. He looks straight up at the ceiling instead: finds it’s barely a ceiling, more of a sloping rock surface, like a felled wall or pillar, and it’s only maybe four or five feet above them. Next to him, the man is hunched over a little to avoid hitting his head.
“Is there anyone else?” Buck says.
“I don’t know. We’re secured pretty tightly in here.”
Buck glances around. Their crawlspace is small and completely surrounded by sheets of huge rock. He can’t say how far down they are; he can’t even say what day it is. Panic seizes his throat, but he tries to smile through it.
“Well,” he says. “I’ve had worst first dates.”
The man looks unimpressed. “We fell fifty feet, got trapped beneath a building, your legs are pinned and you’re telling me you’ve had worse?”
Buck thinks about this. “Well, Veronica liked the Red Sox,” he says, and then, “Wait, what?”
He pushes himself to a sitting position, and this time the man can’t hold him down in time. To his horror, he realises why he can’t move his legs – they’ve been completely pinned, slammed down by a fallen pillar. Panic spikes his chest, and this time takes his lungs with it: he tries to suck in air, but finds he can’t. “Oh fuck, fuck—”
“Hey, hey, stay with me, man, come on.” And now the man is crowding around him, blocking the sight of his legs from view, linking their hands together. Buck stares dazedly at their joined hands, both smeared with dirt and dust and blood, and then in slow-motion raises his gaze to the man. Like this, he can properly see his eyes below the brim of his helmet, which are a deep dusky brown, and achingly gentle on him. “Can you breathe for me? Come on, in, out, in, out, like this.”
He demonstrates, noisily, and Buck tries to copy. The first one comes in paper-thin, and the exhale tastes of dust, but the second one finally reaches his lungs, and when he breathes out he feels the tension knitted tight in his abdomen and shoulders leave as well.
“There you go,” the man says. He sits back, keeping a hand on his shoulder, and appraises him. “You good?”
Buck waves him off. “Never better.”
The man looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but instead he nods, like it’s a good enough answer. “Can you feel your legs?”
Buck nods.
“And?”
“What do you think, man?” Buck tries to sit up again, but must accidentally jar one of his legs because he collapses again with a half-sob. Fuck. He doesn’t think he’s been in this much pain, probably ever. “Ow, fuck—”
The man looks concerned. “Okay, okay,” he says, and pulls himself to his knees, half crawling, half-hobbling to the pillar. “Okay, on three, I’m gonna try lift this, okay?”
“I don’t know, dude,” Buck manages. “It feels pretty fucking heavy to me, and I think I hold a pretty informed opinion right about now.”
The man doesn’t listen to him; tucks his shoulder up against the pillar and heaves. Like this, Buck can see the back of his jacket – Diaz. The pillar itself doesn’t budge, though the weight of Diaz against it has Buck’s legs crying out in even more pain. “Ow, ow—”
Immediately, Diaz backs away, and the pressing pain subsides, though aftershocks still ripple through Buck’s legs. He grits his teeth so he doesn’t bite down on his tongue instead.
“Fuck,” Diaz says, defeated. “It’s stuck.”
“I coulda told you that myself.”
Diaz ignores him. “We need a lever of sorts, anything—” He looks around, searching, and then his eyes fall on something just out of Buck’s periphery. His face lights in relief, and he leans and reaches for it. Buck strains his neck as far as he can to see.
“Is that—”
“My pack,” Diaz says. He slides it towards him, unzipping it, and then empties the contents onto the floor. Out come several things: bandages, rope, an oxygen mask, bottled water, a pack of cards and, most importantly, a radio. Diaz seems to completely miss it, too concerned with the bandages and ropes, but Buck strains himself and seizes it, switching it on.
“Captain Nash?” he demands, and Diaz glances up at him. “Bobby, this is Buck, can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Captain Nash, come in,” Buck says again. His voice wavers. His throat becomes thick. “Captain Nash, this is Evan Buckley from the 118. Come in, Captain Nash.”
Nothing.
“There must not be any service down here,” Diaz says.
Buck swallows the lump that has formed in his throat. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, trying to sound more confident than he really feels. “They’ll find us. They’re LA’s finest.”
Another of those amused, exasperated looks. “No bias there, I’m sure.”
“Well, you have yet to prove yourself to me,” Buck says. “If I die in your hands then that’s a bit embarrassing for your station.”
He tries to keep his voice light, but he can’t help the way that it falters. If I die. As a firefighter, Buck has always known that death is a risk – he encounters it almost daily, as he scales buildings and runs headfirst into burning houses, always the first to volunteer himself for the craziest deadliest stunts. But he knows he’s gotten cocky with it, knows that as time and time again as he emerges from shift after shift in one piece he’s grown less afraid.
For the first time he is directly confronted with it. He really could die down here.
It’s as if Diaz can read his thoughts. “No one’s dying down here,” he promises, and when Buck glances up to meet his eyes his face is firm and reassuring. “Not on my watch.”
Buck’s answering smile is probably a little wobbly, but Diaz’s eyes soften at the sight of it anyway.
“Okay, I need to check whether your legs are broken or not,” he says. “This is probably gonna hurt.”
A flare of panic flickers in Buck’s chest. “Can’t I just tell you? I reckon I could make a pretty good guess.”
“The fact that you’re feeling pain is promising; means that you haven’t completely lost circulation and gone numb. But I don’t know if we’re talking about a clean break or a compound fracture, and I need to know if I’m going to get you out of here in one place. Okay?”
“Okay,” Buck says, a little breathlessly. As he watches Diaz pull a pair of small medical scissors from his pack he says, “You’re really good at this.”
Diaz glances over his shoulder at him. “Yeah, almost like it’s my job or something.”
“No, not at that. Though you are,” Buck hastens to add, when Diaz smiles. “I mean, at keeping me calm. Being reassuring.”
Diaz shrugs modestly, turning back to his leg, though his ears are a little pink. Buck can’t be sure if that’s just the light or if he’s maybe a little pleased by the compliment. “Well, when you’re a dad I guess it comes easy.”
“You’re a dad?” Diaz nods. Buck has to remind himself that this is really not the time to be latching onto that, though a little deliriously he can’t stop the images flashing across his mind of Diaz holding babies in his strong muscular arms. “How many?”
“Just the one. Christopher.”
Christopher, Buck mouths to himself. “How old?”
“Eight.”
“Good age?”
“The best age,” Diaz says, softly. “Though every age has been the best, with him.” He pauses, and briefly fumbles in his jacket pocket; produces a small, creased piece of paper, and hands it over to Buck, eyes inscrutable as he does. Buck takes it carefully, smooths a fold in the corner with his thumb; it must have been taken a while ago, because the paper is beginning to fur at the sides with use. It’s a photograph of a man Buck recognises as Diaz himself sat on the edge of a porch, a small boy stood next to him, an arm slung around his shoulders, beaming at the camera, showing off his two missing front teeth. One of Diaz’s arms is carefully linked around his waist to keep him upright.
Buck touches the kid’s face with the tip of his finger. “He’s so smiley.”
“He’s the happiest kid,” Diaz says. “Always smiling. Always laughing. Life hasn’t always been good to him, but he’s been… so brave, through it all.”
“He doesn’t look much like you,” Buck says.
“He takes after his mom.”
Taken. Of course. “What’s she like?”
There’s a beat. “She, uh. Passed away, last year.”
Oh, fuck. “Oh, dude, I’m so…”
Diaz shrugs, and takes the photo back. His face is carefully nonchalant, but Buck can see the tension in his shoulders as he tucks it carefully back in his pocket. “Don’t worry about it. It was a while ago.”
Buck watches him. “That must have been hard.”
“Not as hard as getting your legs crushed, that’s for sure.”
Buck may be a little slow sometimes, but he also knows an intentional conversation segue when he spots one. He accepts it without question. “Well, I have been told I’m pretty brave.”
“I’ve finished cutting through your pants. You need something to bite down on while I feel around?”
“No. I’m brave, remember?”
Diaz makes a sound that sounds almost like it could be a snort. “Suit yourself,” he says, and then carefully rolls Buck’s pants away from his leg. Buck is hurting so badly at this point that even just the gentle whisper of fabric against his skin has him biting his cheek so hard he feels it split between his teeth, mouth pooling with blood. Still, he watches, rapt with a mixture of horror and anticipation, teeth gritted, as Diaz carefully cuts away the fabric away from his legs as best as he can, until all that’s left are his bare legs, stripped from mid-thigh, glowing almost white in the darkness of the crawlspace. Everything down to his knees looks relatively unharmed, just grubby with sawdust, but the skin above his upper calves, where his legs disappear beneath the pillar, is flushed almost purple. There’s no blood, but Buck doesn’t let himself get relieved.
This is just everything they can see.
“Okay,” Diaz says, sounding comfortingly reassured. “This is better than I was expecting.” He gently prods at Buck’s thighs, down to his knees. “This all feel okay?”
“Kinda tingly,” Buck admits, “though I think that might just be because you’re really hot and near my dick.”
Diaz actually chokes a laugh at that, which Buck is grateful for, because he had definitely not been meaning to say that. “Okay, well, noted,” he says. “But you can feel my hands? No numbness?”
“No numbness.”
“Okay,” and then they both slowly look over to Buck’s calves.
In a small voice, Buck says, “I don’t suppose that’s also better than you were expecting?”
Diaz doesn’t respond. He leans forward, bracing himself on one hand, and, achingly gentle, lowers his hand to just below Buck’s knee. Even just the faint contact has Buck doubling over; on instinct, he tries to pull his leg up, jarring it even further. “Ow—”
Diaz doesn’t back away, though; just shoots him an apologetic look as he continues gently prodding his legs. By the time he sits back on his haunches, satisfied with his findings, or perhaps just revelling in the pain he’s caused, Buck’s mouth tastes of iron and he’s clenched his abs so hard that he doesn’t think he needs to hit a gym again for the next month.
“You doing okay?” Diaz says.
“Never better,” Buck manages, through gritted teeth. He thinks he bit his lip open. “Are you done? Couldn’t even feel a thing.”
Diaz’s lips twitch upwards. “Mm,” he says, and then reaches forward, thumbing at something just below Buck’s lower lip. Buck can only stare at him, a little struck, until Diaz holds up his thumb and Buck sees it’s covered in blood.
“That is… unrelated,” Buck says lamely. Diaz’s smile becomes a little too smug for his liking, and he hastily changes the subject. “So, Doctor, what’s the verdict?”
The amused look falls off Diaz’s face. He looks a little troubled. “Well,” he says, “it’s… not good.”
“Hit me.”
“As far as I can see, there’s been no punctured skin, which is good, but your legs have been broken from the knee down. I don’t know what your feet are looking like under that pillar but I wouldn’t be surprised if the bones were completely shattered.”
Buck’s gut roils. “So what does that mean for me now?”
Diaz is silent for a long moment, and then he pastes on a reassuring smile. “Help will come,” he says. “And then we’ll be okay.”
It’s not an answer. But Buck needs all the hope he can get right now, even if it’s paper-thin. So he nods.
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “We’ll be okay.”
*
Buck has been dozing in and out, so he doesn’t know how long it’s been when Diaz says, “I’m Eddie, by the way.”
Buck smiles a little in the darkness. “Nice to meet you, Eddie. I’m Buck.”
*
It’s maybe another hour later that Buck begins to go stir-crazy.
“Can we play something?” he says. “I’m going insane sitting here in silence.”
He hears rather than sees Eddie look over at him. “By insane you mean antsy and not delirious, right?”
Buck rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dr Diaz. No hallucinations for me.”
His legs are beginning to go a little cold, but he decides not to mention it. It’s probably nothing; just the temperature dropping as day turns into night. He tries not to think about the amount of time that must have passed since they fell, and how, at night, rescues become recoveries.
Eddie makes a put-about sound that Buck thinks is mostly for show, which he has quickly learned is more of that fond exasperation. “What do you propose we play, then?”
Buck pushes himself up on one elbow, and squints at him through the darkness. “You have a pack of cards, right?”
Eddie does have a pack of cards, which he pulls out from his bag, and he shuffles back over. Buck switches on the torch, their only light source, and accidentally nearly blinds himself as he shines the beam straight into his eyes.
“Okay, cowboy,” Eddie says, with a laugh, reaching for the torch. “Let’s not get you any more injured than you already are.”
Buck scowls at him, which makes Eddie laugh again. Carefully, the torch propped up against one of the walls, they lay out the cards on the ground in front of them, Buck carefully twisting his torso so he can reach. They start with Go Fish, which Buck wins all three times, and then graduate to gin rummy, which Eddie kicks his ass at. They’ve just started an attempt at a two-player round of blackjack when the torch flickers, once, twice – and then goes dead.
Buck looks disappointedly at his cards. He can’t see a thing. “Aw, and I was winning too.”
Eddie’s laugh comes disembodied in the darkness. “No you weren’t.”
“I so was!”
“What cards did you have? We’ll see who was closer.”
For a moment there is silence.
And then: “I can’t see them.”
They both start laughing.
“Oh, man,” Eddie says. There’s the gentle of slap of card against stone, like he’s just thrown the cards down. “That puts a pretty abrupt pin in our games. I guess we’ll never know who the true winner was.”
“I won four rounds in total,” Buck says.
“I won seven.”
It’s probably telling, of how long they’ve been stuck together like this, that Eddie starts to laugh at Buck’s petulant silence, like he can tell exactly what look is on his face. “Okay, well,” Buck says, probably not unsulkily, “maybe this was our tie-breaker. All or nothing round.”
Buck can almost feel Eddie’s genial smile across the space. “Well, I guess it’s good we don’t know who won, then.”
They lapse into comfortable silence, the only sound their breaths. Buck’s back is beginning to hurt from lying down for so long, and he shuffles a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. In doing so, he accidentally jars one of his legs, sending a rush of nausea through his body, which – that’s new, he thinks. Probably nothing, though. He cringes at the pain anyway, bites his lip as to not make a noise to alert Eddie.
He doesn’t need him worrying.
It must work, because Eddie says, “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you become a firefighter?”
Despite the nausea, Buck cracks a grin at the ceiling. “What are you implying, 136?”
Eddie laughs. “No, nothing. Just consider me curious.”
It’s an innocent enough question, is the thing, and it’s not like they can do anything except talk now that they have no light. For a brief moment, Buck considers lying, if only to make himself seem like less of an aimless bum, but ultimately decides not to. “I just… needed something to do. And I’d done everything else.”
He can almost hear Eddie’s smile. “Yeah? Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Chef?”
“Of course.”
“Skydiver?”
“Top of the class.”
“Astronaut?”
“Discovered a whole planet.”
Eddie laughs.
“No, I’m joking,” Buck says. “I did do a lot of things, though. I left home when I was, like, nineteen. Just took my sister’s car and drove. I didn’t really have much of a plan; just kind of bounced around between jobs, bartending and construction and customer service. Tried out for the Navy SEALS, and didn’t get in. Eventually I ended up in LA, and… well. Saw that the fire academy was looking for applicants, and thought why not?”
“Just one more thing to add to the resume,” Eddie says.
Buck grins. “Exactly.” He sobers a little, debating sharing this next part. “Also, my… my sister, Maddie. Her husband was a real piece of shit. She was meant to come with me, when I left home, but didn’t. I was really pissed at her for that, and then I later found out it was because he found out and—” He cuts himself off. “Well. It doesn’t matter. But knowing she was stuck in that marriage for so long and I couldn’t do anything about it… It really fucking pissed me off, but I also always felt… kind of responsible. For knowing that he was such a piece of shit and never doing anything to help her. So I thought that maybe if I saved lives and helped people get out of situations like that then maybe it would… maybe it would help.”
As soon as he’s finished speaking he regrets it. He’s never shared that with anyone: never told a soul about his reasons involving Maddie for joining the force. It was always, Buck trying something new. Big dumb Buck finally putting his big dumb body to use. Something about the sanctity the dark crawlspace provides, cut-off not only from the world but from his own body, unable to move his legs or see past his nose, made the words less daunting coming out. Now, though, something like discomfort snakes up his spine.
Why did he say that? To a virtual stranger, no less? To Eddie, who’s probably judging him right now for not looking after his sister, not having a noble reason, being selfish—
“I signed up for a similar reason.”
The breath leaves Buck’s lungs. “You did?”
He hears Eddie nod. “I enrolled in the army, a couple of years back. Mostly for financial reasons, to support our family, because Shannon had just fallen pregnant with Christopher and we were barely making ends, but also… I liked the idea of saving people. I liked knowing that I was protecting our country.”
“Then what happened?”
Eddie exhales a wry laugh. “Then we had Christopher. Then I nearly died. Then I realised that saving lives meant nothing if I was doing it by taking others. It all just felt… so insignificant.”
“So you signed up to be a firefighter?”
“I would feel uncomfortable, having done everything I’d done, if I didn’t remedy it somehow. My life didn’t feel meaningful unless it was going towards helping people. And Christopher needed his dad at home.”
Buck thinks of his own father, how there were some days he’d just look through him, like he was searching for someone else. Like whatever he saw in Buck disappointed him. “That was probably a good call.”
Eddie exhales a laugh, and then coughs a little when dust collects in his throat. “Yeah, unless we die in here.”
“Hey, what did you say to me earlier? That no one was dying in here under your watch?”
“I think you may have too much faith in me.”
“You need to prove that the 136 is LA’s finest, not the 118. The fate of your station rests in your hands.”
“Big shoes to fill.”
“You can do it.” And Buck means it. Inexplicably, he trusts Eddie – trusts him not only to get them out of here in one piece, but also with the fate of his life. The 118 may be LA’s finest, but Buck reckons Eddie probably ranks up there, too. “I believe in you.”
There is a long pause, so long that for a second Buck is worried that Eddie’s fallen asleep. And then Eddie says softly, “Okay.”
Buck smiles in the darkness, even though Eddie can’t see, only to be suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. This one is worse than the first one; hits him so badly that he doubles over, vision spinning. He grits his teeth, tries to just breathe through it, but even as the seconds pass the nausea doesn’t; if anything it only gets worse.
This one he has no chance of hiding. Immediately, Eddie can tell something’s wrong. “Buck? Buck, what’s going on?”
Buck tries to open his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Tears spring to his eyes; his head pounds. Instead of comforting, the darkness suddenly grows fingers. He can’t see or feel his hands, his legs won’t move. “I…”
“Buck?” And then the same gentle hands that cupped his own when he first fell are back, curving around his wrist. There’s a blind fumble, and another hand on his face. “Buck, stay with me, buddy, are you okay?”
“Eddie…”
“I got you, buddy, I got, you, just—” There’s another fumble, the sound of peeling Velcro, and the snick of a lighter. All at once a flame appears inches away from Buck’s nose, and behind it he can see Eddie’s dark eyes, concerned, worriedly searching his. “Buck, talk to me, what’s going on?”
Buck can barely respond. “Don’t… feel so good…”
Eddie’s eyes are troubled. He reaches forward, the lighter still flickering between them, gently presses the back of his hand against Buck’s forehead; hisses at what he feels. “Fuck, you’re burning up.”
“That’s weird,” Buck manages, “I actually feel kinda chilly.”
“Oh, no,” Eddie says, “no, you’re not going like this. Stay with me, man, come on.” He starts unbuttoning his jacket, shucks it off. Buck barely even registers the smooth tanned skin of his forearms, the black script tattoo on his wrist before Eddie is draping the jacket around him. “We need to keep you warm, come on.”
Eddie’s jacket smells really nice. “What cologne do you use?”
“I’ll give you recommendations later,” Eddie says. He takes one of Buck’s hands between his own and gently blows hot air on them, cupping his hands around it. “For now, we need to try and get the blood moving back around your body.”
“I’m fine, honestly,” Buck says, because though the headache and now the incessant shivering hasn’t stopped, the bulk of the nausea has passed. “Eddie. Hey. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Eddie says, roughly.
His hands are still almost frantically trying to scrub feeling back into Buck. Gently, Buck catches them between his own, looks Eddie right in the eyes. In the flame of the lighter, his brown eyes look almost amber. “Eddie.”
“No one is dying down here,” Eddie repeats. He sounds almost upset. “Not under my watch.”
“And I believe in you,” Buck tells him, “and I trust you. But I’m okay.”
“Buck, you’ve lost a lot of blood—”
“It was just a bout of nausea.”
“That’s a symptom of hypovolemic shock.”
Something like panic seizes Buck’s chest, but he doesn’t let it show. “Well, we Buckleys never really followed the rules anyway,” he jokes, but Eddie’s face still looks troubled. Buck throws all caution to the wind, puts his other hand on top of his, and finally, Eddie exhales. “Hey. We’re gonna be okay. Help is coming.”
“Help is coming,” Eddie echoes.
Buck squeezes his hand. It’s only then that he notices that they’re trembling between his own. “Eddie, you’re shaking.”
Eddie glances up at him. “No, I’m not?”
Buck frowns, but before he can say anything further he notices that it’s not Eddie who’s shaking, but the whole ground beneath him. The panic in his chest turns to full-blown fear, and he meets Eddie’s eyes, which are wide and terrified.
“Eddie—” he begins.
And then the ceiling drops.
*
The quake one is shorter than the first two, which had both felt like they lasted minutes. This one couldn’t have been longer than ten seconds, but it’s big.
Once the dust clears, Buck is sure of three things:
One, the pillar has dislodged enough that he can slide free.
Two, the crawlspace has split open at the top, revealing a glittering night sky.
And three – Eddie is nowhere to be seen.
Buck’s chest constricts. He tries to push himself to a sitting position, but his arms are shaky from carrying his weight all afternoon, still trembling with adrenaline, and he can’t. He grits his teeth, eyes filling with angry, pained tears, and instead forcibly drags himself across the ground with his hands. The rubble cuts at his chest; every rock his legs catch on has another wave of nausea rocketing through his body.
“Eddie?” he shouts. “Eddie, where are you?”
There is nothing. Dread rises in his throat; it tastes like bile. His eyes sting.
“Eddie?” he shouts again, louder. His throat feels raw, ripped with screaming and dust. “Eddie?”
And then:
“Buck?”
It’s small but sure, and Buck almost collapses in relief. It’s coming from behind the mound of rocks that fell when the ceiling caved in, and with every last ounce of energy he has, he drags himself over, sobbing with effort. His arms and shoulders are killing him; his legs have never been in this much pain in his life. When he finally reaches it, he hauls himself to a sitting position, almost sobbing with pain, and then starts scrabbling at the rocks.
“Eddie?” he cries. “Eddie, where are you?”
“Buck…”
Closer, now. Frantic, Buck claws at the rubble, tossing the moveable slabs over his shoulder and rolling the heavier ones off to the side. When he first catches sight of Eddie’s blue shirt, he almost sobs in relief, reaching his hand through the gaps just to touch his skin and make sure he’s okay. “Eddie? Eddie, I’m here, can you hear me?”
Eddie only groans in response. Emboldened, Buck starts pulling the rocks away even faster, desperate to get to him and make sure he’s okay, though when he does his heart sinks to the bottom of his fucking boots.
Eddie’s bleeding. A lot.
“Eddie!” He drags himself over, and then hovers his hands frantically over Eddie’s prone body, unsure what to do. He looks relatively unharmed aside from the huge gash in his thigh, caused by something sharp enough to rip through even his heavy-duty work trousers, the fabric already soaked in blood. It’s bad enough as it is, only when Buck properly registers where exactly Eddie’s been injured does his blood go cold.
The femoral artery.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Buck can only stare at him, horrified. There’s a reason he’s not a paramedic, but he’s assisted Chimney and Hen enough to know that a femoral artery puncture is almost always bad news. Depending on how badly he’s been cut, Eddie could have minutes.
“Eddie, buddy, can you hear me?” His voice has gone thin with panic. He shakes Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie, wake up, please.”
Thank fuck, Eddie’s eyes blearily blink open. His gaze is cloudy, unfocused. “Buck?”
“It’s me, I’m here,” Buck says. His eyes sting with tears; he rapidly blinks them away. “Buddy, you need to help me, I don’t know what to do.”
Eddie’s words are slurred. “What happened?”
“There was another quake. You’ve—you’ve been hurt.” Eddie’s eyebrows draw together, and he makes a move as if to sit up, but Buck gently pushes down on his shoulder. “Hey, no, buddy, it’s okay, it’s just—it’s just a little scratch, okay? But you need to tell me what to do, I don’t—I don’t know how to help you otherwise.”
“Hurts,” Eddie says, after a long pause.
Buck almost sobs. “I know, bud. Please stay with me.”
“Did I hurt my leg?”
“Yeah, your thigh.” Eddie nods slowly, eyes unfocused. Buck shakes him. “Hey, no, stay with me, okay? Your pack, where’s your pack?”
Eddie’s eyes distantly trace his face. “My… pack?”
“The bag you had. With the rope, the bandages. Your pack.”
“I… I don’t…”
Buck wants to scream. He frantically looks around the crawlspace, in search of something, anything, to stem the bleeding – and then his eyes fall on Eddie’s belt, still looped snugly around his waist.
It’s better than nothing.
“Okay, buddy, you’re just gonna have to work with me on this one,” Buck says, and unbuckles it. Eddie makes a confused, disoriented nose, hands belatedly going down to it, but Buck catches them with one hand before he can make contact. “Just trust me, okay? Can you—wait, here—”
With some effort, he pulls the belt through the loops from around Eddie’s waist. Half of it is trapped beneath Eddie’s body, and Buck’s arms scream in pain as he tugs hard to dislodge it, but finally it slips out, and he almost keels over in exhaustion. It would be so easy to just close his eyes right now, he thinks. Just lie down next to Eddie and fall asleep. But he knows that the fate of both of their lives are in his hands right now. He needs to do this.
“All right, you piece of shit,” he says. “Let’s tourniquet you up.”
Up close, the wound on Eddie’s thigh is only uglier. It’s probably an inch wide and several long, the blood almost pouring out. Buck rips Eddie’s jacket off and presses it against the wound, if only to stem the bleeding for a moment, whilst with his other hand he detangles the belt, smoothing it flat.
“Okay, bud,” he says to Eddie. “This is probably gonna hurt both of us.”
He carefully links the belt beneath Eddie’s thigh, pushes hard enough that it appears the other end. He tugs it up until both lengths on the side of his leg are identical, and then threads one end through the buckle, and secures it tight just above the wound. Blood spurts out even faster as he does, but Buck steadfastly tries to ignore it, just focuses on getting the belt as tight as it can be.
“You’re not dying on me,” he chants, as he pushes the buckle through one of the holes. “We are not leaving it like this.”
“Buck?”
Buck’s chest stutters in relief, and he immediately is back at Eddie’s side, grabbing his hand when Eddie reaches for him. His hands are blood-soaked; he thinks he’s trembling. “I’m here, buddy,” he whispers. “I’m here.”
He realises his whole body is shaking; with either sobs or shivers, he’s not sure. The nausea is back. The only thing that is keeping him grounded is Eddie’s hand linked with his own, and they’re both gripping each other so tightly it’s almost painful.
“It hurts,” Eddie whispers.
Buck cries, at that. “I know, buddy. Just hold on for a few more minutes, okay? Stay with me.” He looks around for the radio, but it’s nowhere to be seen, probably crushed in the quake. He swallows, painful and dry, and then starts to shout. “HELP! SOMEONE, HELP US!”
He doesn’t know how long he’s there for. In between shouting for help, so loudly he can feel his vocal cords rip, he’s whispering reassurances to Eddie, who is now drifting in and out of consciousness. Despite the tourniquet, Eddie’s wound is still weeping blood at an alarming rate, his entire pant leg almost completely soaked, and as the minutes tick past with no help he only grows paler and paler, lips turning white and then blue.
Through it all, Buck never stops talking to him, trying to keep him awake and lucid. He has him recite the alphabet and then the pledge of allegiance and as many different colours as he can, desperate not to let him fall deeply unconscious. It’s only midway through his listing of the fifty states that his voice begins to falter, answers becoming slower and quieter, longer and longer pauses between each one.
“Eddie?” Buck says, when Eddie falls completely silent. He doesn’t respond; his eyes slip closed. “No, no, Eddie, stay with me, come on.”
He shakes him, which every time so far has had Eddie jolting back to consciousness, but this time his eyes stay closed. Buck’s heartrate begins to pick up.
“No, no,” he mutters frantically, “come on, man, work with me.” Eddie still doesn’t move. Panicked, Buck jams his blood-slicked fingers against his pulse, buried in the junction of the neck and jaw so hard Eddie will probably wake up with bruises, and for one dizzying second doesn’t feel anything. His heart lifts to his throat.
And then – a flicker.
It’s there, but it’s faint, and worryingly slow.
“Eddie, please,” he begs. His voice cracks. His throat is thick with unshed tears; his eyes are heavy. He’s fucking exhausted, and he’s in so much pain he doesn’t think he can lift another finger. Desperately, he tightens his grip around Eddie’s hand. “Eddie, please, stay with me. Open your eyes.”
Eddie doesn’t move.
A sob builds in Buck’s throat. He ducks his head over Eddie’s prone body, eyes stinging with tears, bringing their clasped hands up to his mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so—” He cuts off when the lump in his throat grows too big to talk, and he squeezes his eyes shut as for the first time tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He thinks of Eddie, his gentle hands and his warm eyes, his reassuring, steadfast presence; my life didn’t feel meaningful unless it was going towards helping people; the beautiful son he has waiting for him to come home. And now he’s barely breathing buried at the bottom of a carpark of a felled hotel, probably minutes away from bleeding out.
Buck has no one waiting for him if he gets out. But Eddie has a whole life. And Buck couldn’t even honour that.
“I’m so sorry, Eddie,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”
He doesn’t have the energy to even sit up. He just hunches down over Eddie’s body, over the shallow rise and fall of chest, and squeezes his eyes shut, silently praying that every breath he feels him take isn’t the last.
And then:
“Buck?”
It’s so faint that at first Buck doesn’t even register it. Then it comes again, “Buck?” louder and closer this time, and Buck’s ears prick. His heartrate picks up, but for a wholly different reason.
That can’t possibly be—
“Bobby?” he whispers.
“Buck?” Louder, again. As if it’s coming from above him. “Where are you, Buck?”
Buck goes limp with relief. With the last of his energy, he throws his head back. “Down here!” he shouts. “Bobby, we’re here!”
Like a miracle from above, Bobby’s head appears at the top, face dusted with soot, helmet gleaming yellow in the night. His eyes go wide when he sees them, and he glances back at something behind him. “I found him!” he shouts. To Buck, he says, “Are you hurt? What happened?”
“I, uh,” Buck begins, but he finds that his relief is so great he can’t even speak, completely drained of energy. Instead, he just begins to cry. “I—”
Bobby’s face twists. “We got you, kid, just hold on.” He looks back over his shoulder. “Chim, Hen, quick! He’s down here!”
There’s a blur of faces. Buck stops counting the seconds; they swim past him like water. He blinks, and suddenly Chimney and Hen are next to him, Bobby gripping his shoulder, asking if he’s okay, what hurts, what happened, but Buck can’t respond; is so overwhelmed all he can do is cry. It’s only when Hen makes a move to lift him onto the spinal board does he finally snap back into reality.
“No!” he blurts, and they glance at him sharply. “No, please—take him first, he’s got—he’s got a kid—”
“Buck,” Hen says gently, “your legs need serious medical attention—”
“No, I know, but please, he’s—I think it got his artery, he’s bleeding out—” He grips her jacket when she looks dubious. “Hen, please, he’s—he’s got a kid, Christopher, he needs to get out first—”
He sees Hen and Bobby exchange a long look, but finally, Bobby nods. “Fine,” he says. “Get him on the board. Buck, you hold on for me, okay?”
Buck nods dazedly.
Chimney and Hen carefully lift Eddie onto the board. Buck sees them conduct a preliminary, fingers against his pulse in the bruise where Buck’s were, checking his leg, his heart rate, his pupils, but Buck doesn’t process any of it: it all just turns to white noise, something like relief and exhaustion, vision going weak and hazy around the edges. His spine aches from keeping him together, and he feels himself begin to slump, only Bobby is there, strong arms around his shoulder, keeping him upright. Buck grasps at his hand.
“You did good, kid,” Bobby is murmuring in his ear. “You did good.”
And Buck – Buck buries his face in his jacket, and cries.
*
He doesn’t remember passing out, but the next time he wakes up it’s with both legs in slings, a throbbing in his head, and Chimney scrolling through his phone in a chair by his bed.
He doesn’t say anything, but, as though he has a sixth sense, Chimney glances over his phone and meets his gaze, and something like relief fills his eyes. “Buck,” he breathes. He puts his phone down, takes his hand. “Hey, buddy. How are you doing?”
Buck tries for a tremulous smile. “Getting pretty fucking sick of hospitals, to be honest.”
Chimney smiles back at him. His eyes are a little misty. “Yeah, well. I can’t say we’re all that fond of seeing you in them, bud.”
He’s soon ushered out the room as a doctor comes in instead, explains to Buck to extent of his injuries and that he needs to take it easy for the next month while his legs heal. Broken, of course, but cleanly, and no infection. “Whatever was pinning your legs must have been propped up by something,” she says. “It could have been much, much worse.”
Buck wants to be grateful – but truthfully, all he can think about is Eddie.
No one can give him any information. When Buck tries to ask one of the nurses who comes in to clean his bandages about an Eddie Diaz she smiles at him, a little sympathetically, and explains she can’t give out information about patients to people who aren’t their family. The 118 can’t tell him much more than that: just that he made it through surgery.
It’s not enough for Buck. He needs to see him alive and well for himself, to believe that he’s really okay. But with his legs strung up in casts from the ceiling, he’s not moving from this bed anytime soon.
“I’m just so bored,” he laments to Maddie one day.
Maddie gives him an arch look over the magazine she’s reading. “Was the life-or-death situation you were in three days ago not enough for you?”
Buck rolls his eyes. “Okay, but that was three days ago.”
“You are incorrigible,” she says, but not without affection. Buck doesn’t even know what that means. “Do you want me to get you something from the vending machine?”
He grins at her, a little sheepishly. “Yes, please. Just a—”
“Bag of Cheetos and some peanut M&Ms, I know the drill,” Maddie recites drolly as she closes her magazine. “Do you want me to get you a drink?”
“Just a Cola. But not the cherry one, that always tastes—”
“Like piss, I know, we’ve done this a dozen times.” Despite her words, when she stands, she briefly cups the side of his face with her hand. “You doing okay, Evan?”
He nudges his face against her hand. Whenever she uses his first name like that he always feels thirteen again, lying on her bed while she patched up his bloody knees. “I’m okay.”
She smiles at him. “That’s good.” She steps away, allowing her hand to fall. “I’ll only be a few minutes, try not to injure yourself any further.”
“Real funny, Maddie,” he calls after her, but she’s already disappeared around the doorframe before she can respond. He collapses back into his pillows, staring up at the white tiled ceiling.
Being injured is never fun, but he always forgot how excruciating this part was. Just the endless waiting around, waiting for something to change, a scan to come back different, like his legs will miraculously heal in the week he has to lie here strapped to the ceiling and unable to piss by himself. Growing up, Maddie always used to say to him a watched pot never boils whenever they’d make dinner and Buck would park himself in front of the oven, nose pressed against the glass, as he watched a lasagne or tray or cookies bake, and it’s never rung so true now.
He knows that healing takes time. But he’s never been good at keeping himself mentally stimulated. He needs to be moving, needs to be getting back out there with his team. And instead, he’s just lying here, pathetically.
He’s so busy with his pity party that he barely registers the gentle knock on the door, though he does hear it squeak open. He doesn’t even bother lifting his head. “That was fast, did they run out of Cheetos again?”
“Last time I checked, they were still stocked.”
Buck’s head shoots up.
Eddie stands carefully in the doorway, an awkward, gentle smile on his face. There’s a bandage on his chin, a few brick-red scrapes on the side of his face, and a crutch tucked beneath one of his arms. Buck barely dares glance downwards at his thigh, half-expecting it to have been amputated straight off, but to his immense relief it’s still all in one piece, covered by a pair of soft cotton sweatpants, that if anything is a little bulkier than the other, probably with bandages.
Buck can scarcely believe he’s here.
“Eddie,” he breathes, and he’s aware of how relieved his voice is even to his own ears. “Uh. Hi.”
Eddie’s mouth tips up in a small smile. “Hey.” For a few long moments they both just stare at each other. Buck is so overwhelmed with relief that he’s okay he doesn’t even know how to respond, other than just watch him wordlessly. “I hope it’s okay that I stopped by?”
Buck jerks himself out of his reverie. Get it together, Buckley, Jesus. “Yeah, yeah, of course! Here, um, do you wanna—” And he’s leaning out of his bed as far as his ribs and casts allow him to nudge the magazine off Maddie’s discarded chair. “You can sit, if you want.”
He nearly kicks himself as soon as the words are out – if you want? The man’s on fucking crutches, of course he’d rather sit than stand. Still, Eddie doesn’t comment, just carefully hobbles in the room and lowers himself in the chair. His eyes fall on the magazine, now tossed onto the floor, and his lips quirk upwards.
“People Magazine,” he reads. “Wow.”
“It’s not mine,” Buck hurries to clarify. “My sister’s.”
Eddie glances at him. “Maddie, right?”
Something inexplicable rises in Buck’s chest. He remembered. “Yeah, Maddie. She’s been keeping me company. Reading me the news.”
“People Magazine does have the breaking news,” Eddie agrees.
Buck cracks a grin. “Okay, maybe not the news news, but it’s actually kind of interesting. Like did you know there was all this drama with Kate Middleton’s sister Pippa?” Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, looking amused, and Buck realises what he just said. “I’ve been here too long, haven’t I?”
“I don’t think long enough,” Eddie says.
“Hey, fuck you! I’ve been going crazy sitting cooped up in here for so long.”
“Trust me, I can imagine. Your poor sister.”
“Fuck you, man,” Buck says, but they’re both laughing now. In the back of his head, he marvels at how easy it is to fall into a rhythm with Eddie, as though they’ve been friends for years. “I don’t know how to sit still.”
“You think I don’t know that? What was it, two hours, before you scratching at the walls?”
Buck feels his ears go pink. “Okay, it was definitely not two hours, probably like six or something. And even that would be preferable to this.” He gestures sadly to himself. “Though I guess I can’t move in either.”
Eddie smiles. “Guess we’ll never know if your card skills were affected by your injury, then.”
“Affected!” Buck parrots, indignantly, and Eddie laughs. “We still need that rematch, by the way.”
“Rematch?” Eddie grins. “Are you admitting I won?”
“No, I’m admitting that we never found out the real winner—”
“I think you just admitted that I won—”
“You so didn’t!”
“Seven-four, Buck.”
“Yeah, but all or nothing round, remember?” Eddie laughs. “I’m bummed Chimney’s not still here, he’s been playing cards with me since I woke up. We could have settled this right now.”
“I guess we’ll just have to schedule a date, then,” Eddie says, and Buck’s heart stutters in his chest. Deep down, he rationally knows that by date Eddie’s referring to an actual calendar date, but he can’t help the way his heartbeat quickens at the other meaning. Before he can say anything, though, there’s the squeak of hinges, and then:
“Daddy?”
In tandem, they both turn their heads towards the door.
There’s a small boy loitering almost shyly in the doorway, in a stripy orange and blue shirt, similarly balanced on crutches. He looks so familiar, but Buck can’t place where until next to him Eddie says, “Hey, Chris.”
Chris. Christopher.
This is Eddie’s kid.
Christopher shyly spins one of his crutches. “Um, Carla wanted to know what you wanted from the vending machine,” he says. His eyes keep flicking to Buck behind his glasses, like he wants to ask about him but doesn’t have the courage. Buck glances at Eddie, whose gaze is soft.
“Just a sandwich, bud,” he says. “Thank you.” He glances back at Buck, and their eyes meet briefly before he turns back to Christopher. “Hey, you want to say hi to my friend Buck?”
Christopher makes his way across the room up to his dad’s side, wrapping an arm around his neck, one of Eddie’s naturally making its way around his back to support him. Buck has to smile a little at the genuine open expression of paternal love.
“Chris, this is Buck,” Eddie says. “He’s the man who saved my life when I got hurt.”
“He saved mine, too,” Buck has to cut in. “It was a mutual life-saving.”
Eddie gives him another of those fond exasperated looks, but Christopher is watching him in a mixture of shyness and awe. “Like Superman?”
“Uh,” Buck says. Eddie widens his eyes above Christopher’s head. “Well, I won’t argue with that nickname.”
“He’s a firefighter like me,” Eddie says.
“Cool,” Christopher breathes. “You’re like a real-life superhero.”
Buck would feel a little uncomfortable with all this praise if Christopher wasn’t so cute. “Well, your dad was also pretty heroic. He saved my life too.”
“We saved each other’s,” Eddie corrects, and then they exchange a brief look that has Buck’s heart pounding again. He considers asking the doctor on his next X-ray if they can check him out for a heart arrhythmia too.
Christopher points to his casts. “What happened to you?”
“I broke both my legs,” Buck explains.
Christopher’s eyes go wide. “Did it hurt?”
Buck glances at Eddie, unsure of how much he can share, but Eddie is watching him so fondly he decides he’s okay. “A little, but I’m all better now. The doctors patched me up real good.”
“Will you have to walk on crutches?”
“Probably,” Buck says. “But then I can match you and your dad.”
Christopher looks thrilled by this.
Before anyone can say anything further, there’s another knock at the door, and this time an unfamiliar woman pops her head around. “Christopher, you know you shouldn’t go into other people’s rooms,” she says, and then her eyes fall on the three of them by the bed. “Oh. Hello.”
She’s watching the three of them with something like poorly concealed glee in her eyes. Buck is extremely confused, but Eddie seems to know who she is, because his ears go pink. “Carla,” he says. “I was just… um. Catching up.”
“I can see that,” Carla says delightedly.
There is a short pause.
“Chris, do you wanna go with Carla to get us some food?” Eddie says.
Christopher pouts. “I wanna stay here.”
Eddie’s face melts a little, but Carla is striding forward before he can say anything. “I think we should give your dad and his friend some time alone,” she says, after which she sends Eddie an eyebrow wiggle that has him pointedly avoiding eye contact. Buck would like to once again reiterate how lost he is. “And, hey, we can even get you some chocolate too, how’s that?”
“Not too much,” Eddie calls weakly after them as they shuffle out. “He gets—”
“Hyper, I know, Eddie,” Carla says. She glances over her shoulder and winks. “Have fun, boys.”
And then they’re gone.
Buck doesn’t even really know where to begin with this one. “She…”
“Is something,” Eddie finishes, which, yeah, is pretty much where Buck was going.
He tries to find a way to politely phrase what he wants to say next. “Is she…”
The wording doesn’t come to him, leaving him staring sheepishly at Eddie. Thankfully, Eddie seems to get where he was going, because he raises an eyebrow, amused. “She’s a friend. And Chris’s babysitter.”
“Oh, right.” Now Buck’s the one with red ears. “Well. She seems cool.”
“She is,” Eddie agrees. “She’s been a lifesaver.” He glances at Buck at that, like he’s just remembered something. “Which… You know I meant it, by the way?”
“Meant what?”
“You saved my life.”
For some reason, Buck can’t meet his eyes. “I mean, it was nothing.”
“No, Buck.” There is something in Eddie’s voice, something about the way he says his name, Buck, that has him looking up and meeting his eyes. “I mean it. They—they told me, about what you did. Not just the tourniquet, but you… you letting me be pulled out first. Apparently it was… pretty touch and go for a while, during surgery. I nearly lost too much blood. They say ten more minutes and I wouldn’t have made it.”
Buck doesn’t know what to say.
“If you hadn’t done that I don’t know if I’d be alive,” Eddie says softly. “And for that I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“I mean, I’d take dinner and a movie.”
Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Buck literally wants to bite the words back in.
The silence that ensues feels like it lasts three hundred years. Eddie stares at him, his cheeks pink. “Uh,” he says finally. “That—”
“Was so inappropriate, I’m so sorry,” Buck rushes all at once. Jesus fuck, he knew one day his lack of filter would get him into trouble, but why did that time have to be now? “Um, please—feel free to just ignore that.”
“Ignore… it?”
There’s something in Eddie’s voice. Buck rushes to cover his ass. “I mean, you nearly bled out in my lap three days ago and we met in probably the most traumatising moment of our lives, but you seem like a really nice guy—”
“Buck—”
“And I guess I thought that I should at least try shooting my shot, though now I kinda feel like shooting myself—”
“Buck.”
Buck stops talking. His ears are red-hot. “You can tell me to fuck off. I probably deserve that.”
“Buck, will you look at me?”
Eddie’s voice doesn’t sound mad or disgusted – in fact, he sounds sort of amused. Buck internally corsses his fingers and risks a glance upwards.
Eddie doesn’t look upset. Eddie’s… Eddie’s smiling.
“Can I answer now?” he says. “Or are you gonna keep talking?”
“If the answer’s no I’d prefer if maybe you didn’t,” Buck says. “Just, you know. I’ve already broken both my legs, I don’t need my heart broken, too.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Has anyone told you that you’re kind of dramatic?”
“Once or twice.” Eddie’s still watching him with that same fond-exasperated look. “I… I mean, it by the way. That you can tell me to fuck off. I know that was… really inappropriate of me to ask and I don’t to put you in an uncomfortable situation.”
“You’re not putting me in any uncomfortable situation,” Eddie says, which makes Buck’s heart skip a beat in his chest. Does this mean—? “And why is it inappropriate?”
Buck stares at him. “Uh, because we met under the world’s shittiest circumstance? Because we both nearly died only a few days ago?”
Eddie gives him a soft look. “Buck, we’re firefighters. If we weren’t okay with shitty situations we wouldn’t be in this line of work.”
“I know, but it’s a bit different when I’m asking you on a date, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
Buck flounders. “It was… traumatic?”
Another one of those amused looks. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling?” Buck says, though he still phrases it like a question, which makes Eddie laugh. “I don’t know. Even though I’m kind of a PTSD expert.”
“Weird flex.”
“You should see me do yoga.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. I just… don’t want to, like, force you into going on a date with me if the last thing you wanna do is see my face. I probably only remind you of that time you nearly died.”
“I nearly die every week, Buck.” Buck still must look unconvinced, because Eddie reaches for his hand. “Hey. Look at me. You know what I’m reminded of when I look at you?”
“Broken legs?”
“How we played cards for hours. How we told each other why we became firefighters in the first place. How you saved my life.” Buck smiles at him, a little damply. “You are all the good things, Buck. I could never look at you and feel afraid.”
Buck sniffs, a little. “In your memory who won at cards?”
Eddie snorts, and the tension eases. “Not you, that’s for sure.”
“Then it’s probably not all that reliable,” Buck says, but when Eddie adjusts their joined hands he tightens his grip. Sort of stupidly, he admires how nice their joined hands look together when not covered in grime and blood. “You really mean it?”
Eddie nods. “I mean it.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Besides, didn’t you say something about a first date, anyway?”
Buck’s ears burn. He was hoping he wouldn’t remember that. “Well, I have a high bar now for the second,” he says, to hide his blush. “I don’t know how to upstage an earthquake.”
“Maybe we’ll do without the earthquake this time.”
“What about a tsunami?” Eddie’s face is unimpressed. “No?”
“How about just dinner and a movie,” Eddie says. “No natural disasters.”
“That works too, I guess.” They’re both smiling now. Buck feels like he could float to the ceiling, only he’s still strapped into the bed. Which reminds him – “Um, we might need to raincheck, though.”
“Why?”
Buck gestures down to his broken legs.
“Ah, right,” Eddie says. The blush high on his cheekbones tells Buck he’d sort of forgotten about that part too. Buck wants to kiss his handsome face so bad. “Yeah, that might be a good idea.”
“But maybe we could do lunch?”
“When are you thinking?”
“Um, now?”
A slow smile spreads across Eddie’s face. “Yeah?”
“I mean, it’s no fancy dinner,” Buck says. “But then again we did meet buried under a hotel, so I don’t know if we’re exactly following the rules here.”
“Our first lunch together, vending machine food,” Eddie says. “You know how treat a man.”
Buck is already digging out his phone to text Maddie. “Only the best for you.” He pings her off a text, asking if he can also get a sandwich and for her to bring them to his room, and when he looks back up Eddie’s watching him with a fond look. “What?”
“Nothing,” Eddie says; reaches up, and gently thumbs at his cheek. “I’m just glad that we met.”
Buck can only smile back. Yeah, it sucks ass that he’s broken both his legs and he’ll be out of commission for at least two months – but if he at least gets this out of the whole ordeal, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”