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Buck lies on the cot with his injured leg bent. A hand over his chest, the other extended and hung off the side. He can’t swallow his heart down the base of his throat. The hollow mass of it stuck, but he can’t feel it beat against his skin. He makes to fix his position and grimaces—back aching and the scabbed-over scratches pulling at his cheeks.
He rolls his grey eyes to the side, a dull pain in the sockets.
Chris is in another cot, ten feet away—an entire universe away.
The heat of Los Angeles has never felt so much like the cold of Pennsylvania. A few months ago, the phantom pain of the fire inside his childhood home rang when his brain exploded, a leg flat on the gravel and fresh blood down his chin.
Earlier today, the ocean barreled into his skull, forced him into the ground, and took the breath out his lungs. It fought dirty and vicious—cruel despite Buck’s love. The salt eroded at his strength, but still, he stood with the metal rod in his leg digging into his tendons—pushing to escape him. The will to live had a shape, had a giggle, had a little hand pressed against his face in tender care. The will to live had a name.
And when the sea came again, to return to her home, she took him with her.
Buck dived into the water—the cold a shock to his chest—because even if he never says it aloud, that’s his kid. His. And it feels wrong to even think it. His mother just died, and Eddie is the seed, but no one can tell him what to feel in the solitude of his thoughts. That’s his son.
He jumped to save Christopher—he jumped to die with him.
The hours dripped by. His vocal cords shredded. The black hole in his stomach expanded. Maddie’s voice held no comfort—it grated at him.
Eddie’s face was all Buck needed to want to die all over again.
The red glasses are back on Chris’ nose bridge. His shirt a muddy brown where it used to be a clear bright yellow. A few bruises, the littlest of things, muted in color, and it feels like falling off a tree at thirteen, crashing his motorcycle at nineteen, a hand letting go atop a roller-coaster, a red fire engine opening the door of death to him.
Eddie stands with arms crossed over his chest. Head down to look at Chris. His back is to Buck’s. He’s never seen something so pretty, so nauseating. Buck wants him to look at him, to come to him, to hold his hand and let him know he's safe. He hopes Eddie leaves and doesn’t spare him a second thought.
“Buck!” Chris sits up straight. “You’re awake!”
“Hey baby,” he says, sand on his tongue.
Chris jumps off the bed, shaky.
“Mijo!”
Chris pushes himself to a run.
Buck makes the valiant effort to catch him ten feet away, weak arm rising the tiniest distance. “Careful, buddy.”
“I was so scared, Buck.”
“I’m—I’m sorry.”
“I thought I lost you.”
“No,” Buck blinks, slow. “No, of—of course not.” A closed, half-smile. “I’m always here.”
“I missed you so much.” He puts his hand on the apple of Buck’s cheek. “But I kept swimming.”
Buck chuckles. “Just like we talked about, baby.”
Chris nods. “Yeah!”
Eddie walks towards the cot.
Buck looks up at him towering over. He can’t really read his face. He doesn’t know if it’s his own exhaustion or if Eddie’s being purposeful. It doesn’t matter anyway.
“Here, Chris.” Eddie drapes a towel over Chris’ shoulder. “So you can warm yourself up on the way.”
“Ok, daddy.”
Eddie takes a deep breath, bites the side of his cheek. He blinks a few times and settles wet brown eyes on him. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I—just—thank you.”
Buck frowns. “What for?”
Eddie barks a humorless laugh. “For saving Chris.”
“I didn’t do anything.” He shrugs and electricity travels down to his hip. “That woman is the one that took care of him.”
“Agree to disagree, then.” Eddie smiles, brittle. “Chris told me a lot of what happened while you were out.”
Buck hums, closes his eyes. “Kids believe their own lies, sometimes.”
“Buck...”
“Hey, Buckaroo,” whispers Hen.
A pinch to his inner elbow. Rustling of shoes. He opens his eyes to see Hen taking out the IV. Eddie leaves the tent behind her with Chris. “You’ll definitely be sore for a while. You’ll need a little extra time to heal. Isn't that great?” she laughs, forced. “Look at all the time you’re taking off.”
“I want to work.”
Hen swallows. “Need to clean your wounds consistently.”
He sighs. “Ok.”
The tent flap opens and Eddie walks back in. “How is he?”
“Fine, considering.” She pushes her glasses into place. “I don’t think he needs a transfusion, despite everything, but it’s something to be on the lookout for anyway. He can go home.”
“Great.” Eddie pats her shoulder as she walks out. He pushes his sleeves. “Let’s go.”
Buck blinks past the haziness. “Wh—where?”
“Home.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you with me.” Eddie’s hands shake as he reaches for Buck’s arms—careful not to touch open wounds. “C’mon corazón.”
Buck stands up on weak long legs. He places a hand on Eddies’ chest, leans his entire weight on him. “Heart?”
Eddie raises his brows, looks at him with a slow-born smile. “You know Spanish?”
Buck side-nods with a little smirk. “I lived in Peru.”
“Oh?” Eddie grins as he leads Buck out into the truck. “I want to hear all about it.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to hear everything about you.”
Buck gulps, sniffles, vision goes blurry. “I lost him.”
Eddie opens the door, Chris already asleep. “I won’t hear that.”
Buck sits beside Chris, brushes a curl off his forehead.
Eddie sits in front of them closes the door and looks out the window.
Buck rises his head, stares at Eddie’s side profile.
“Look, Buck, I wasn’t there. I can only imagine the nightmare you lived. I thought Chris was gone for a few seconds and then he was there and that was bad enough.”
Buck averts his eyes towards Chris, chest rising and falling rhythmically.
“You spent a whole day with him. From the moment everything was perfectly fine in your loft to now. I don’t want to tell you how to feel, but I can’t help it. You can’t go around blaming yourself for a natural disaster and then blame yourself because a wave took Chris.” Eddie scrubs a hand down his face and takes a deep breath. “I know you love him. I know you did everything you could possibly do, and I know you saved a bunch of other people too.”
“E-Eddie...”
“Can’t you let that be enough?”
“I just—”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” Buck straightens this back despite the pain, squeezes the edge of his cushion. “Eddie, of course!”
“Then listen to me.” Eddie twists on his seat, looks Buck in the eye. “You’ve done enough—you're enough.”
Tears fall down his face, hot on his skin. “Eds.”
“I don’t need anything else from you.” Eddie presses his knee to Buck’s. “You don’t need to do anything else.”
The driver’s door open and Bobby gets in. “Hey, guys, we’re going to be leaving soon. B-shift are on their way here to relieve us. We’ve been working since before the tsunami happened.”
The passenger door opens, Chimney gets in. “I’m so ready to sleep.”
“Don’t slam the door. Chris is in the back asleep.”
Chimney looks over his shoulder. “Oh, hey Buck.”
“Hey.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
Chimney side-eyes Eddie who shakes his head from Buck's peripheral. “That’s good.”
Hen gets in the truck and settles next to Eddie, a small smile at Buck.
“Alright,” Bobby says. “Eddie, I’m giving you a few days off to be with Chris. I’m going to drop you guys off at your house and tomorrow we can deal with your car, ok?”
“Sure thing, cap.”
The drive to South Bedford Street is filled with stops and starts. Traffic unbearable amidst the devastation, accidents, and a circus of LA’s finest rushing on the road. The truck is usually quite jumpy, even on smooth asphalt—Buck tries not to wince at every turn and bump. He can’t believe this is the first time in a fire truck since the bombing—another tragedy but in civilian clothes. This one’s a little more spacious between the seats, though a line of Eddie’s heat is still pressed against him. He looks up to Eddie already staring, love etched in the soft corners of his mouth. Chris’ pulse is steady under Buck’s finger.
His arm stings, face burns, leg throbs, back aches—the salt-dry clothes itch.
Buck doesn’t remember a time before this moment where he wanted to be alive as much as he does now.