Chapter Text
Eddie carries Chris into the medical tent ahead of them.
Buck tries to follow, but his legs are boneless beneath him. His teammates are all that hold him together—Chimney behind him, bracing a hand on his back; Hen beside him, a strong arm wrapped around his chest; Bobby kneeling in front of him, repeating his name like a holy rite. The shapes of the syllables feel strange in his ears.
“—uck? Buck?” Bobby claps a hand on his knee, squeezes, drags Buck back into his own aching body. “Kid, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m—I’m fine,” Buck says. “What about Chris? Christopher?”
“He’s getting checked out now, and you need to get checked, too. Hen? Chim?”
“We’ve got him, Cap,” Hen says.
Chimney eases off of the cot, trying to pull Buck’s shoulders back with him. “Here, lay down.”
Buck balks. “No, I need to see Chris.”
“You can see him in a minute, Buck, you’re bleeding. Lay down and let them look at you.”
“No! No, Bobby, I need to see him, I need to—” Buck feels like he can’t catch his breath. Static fuzzes at the edges of his eyesight. His chest heaves. “You don’t understand, I lost him. I have to make sure he’s okay. Please. Please, I have to make sure he’s okay.”
A muscle in Bobby’s jaw knots as he thinks. Finally, he says, “Alright. Let’s get you inside. But you do whatever Hen and Chimney tell you after that, got it?”
“Yes sir,” Buck gasps, the relief overwhelming him almost as much as the panic.
“C’mere.” Bobby helps him up, dragging one of Buck’s arms over his shoulders. “You tell me if you need to sit down.”
Hen ducks her head towards Chimney, says something that Buck can’t hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears. Then she slides in under his other arm, rubs a warm palm over his spine. Supported by the two of them, Buck staggers his way into the medical tent. They find Chris near the back, held tightly in Eddie’s lap as a nurse speaks to them. Only Eddie seems to be listening—Chris’ eyes are wide, wandering.
Then they land on Buck.
“Buck!” he shouts, stretching an arm towards him. “Buck, over here!”
Eddie’s head snaps around, his own eyes widening. He shuffles over on the cot, leaving an empty space beside him. “Hey, here, sit down. We have room.”
Bobby and Hen deposit Buck beside him, and Chris begins the valiant struggle to escape his father’s arms. Eddie gently wrestles him back into place, saying, “Easy, buddy. Buck’s hurt. He doesn’t need you climbing all over him.”
“I’m not hurt,” Buck protests.
Eddie levels him with a flat look. “I’ll believe it when the paramedics say it.”
“I agree,” Bobby says, nodding at Hen.
“Shirt off, Buckaroo,” Hen instructs, sliding her stethoscope off of her shoulders.
Buck groans but sheds his shirt, letting the fabric pool on the floor. It’s a lost cause, anyway; no amount of laundry detergent is going to get those stains out. Hen snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves before she touches him, running her hands over his ribs and shoulders to feel for breaks. At the same time, Eddie looks him over with a critical eye. But Buck got off easy—a smattering of bruises and scrapes is the only thing he’ll take home with him.
“How’s Chris?” he asks, as Hen strokes through his hair to check for hidden gashes or lumps.
“I’m good,” Chris says, reaching out for Buck again.
Buck settles for holding his hand. It’s small and chilly, but strong where it grips his fingers. “Yeah? I’m glad. I was really worried about you.”
“I was worried about you too,” Chris says. “Where did you go?”
“All over. I was looking for you everywhere, buddy.”
“I’m glad you found me.”
But it wasn’t Buck who found him, was it? If it hadn’t been for that woman—god, he doesn’t even know her name—Chris could be laying dead somewhere in the city. The thought makes Buck feel sick and breathless again, so he wills it away. “Yeah, me too.”
“The nurses say he’s okay,” Eddie adds, pressing a kiss to the top of Chris’ head. “He’s got some bruising, but nothing major. We’re headed home as soon as Carla can get here. You should come with us.”
“I’d like that,” Buck admits. He doesn’t want to be separated from Chris—not today, not again.
“A sleepover?” Chris asks, clearly trying for enthusiasm but falling short in his exhaustion.
“Probably a good idea for you to be with someone tonight,” agrees Hen, shining her penlight across his pupils.
“Why? Is something wrong?” Eddie asks.
“Well, I’m not seeing anything emergent,” Hen says, “but I’d just as soon have someone with him to be on the safe side.”
Eddie exhales, the hard line of his shoulders softening slightly. “Right. Well, I can keep an eye on the both of them tonight.”
“Good. Here, look this way, baby,” Hen says, waggling her penlight to get Buck’s attention again. “Follow the pen with your eyes, not your head.”
Hen runs Buck through a few more tests before pressing her stethoscope to his back. He winces at the cold bite of metal on bruised skin, then catches Chris watching him with worry. Playing up his distress, he complains, “Jeez, Hen, you store that in an icebox or something? I’ll have frostbite by the time you’re done.”
As he’d hoped, Chris giggles. “It’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, well, the paramedic who listened to you must’ve microwaved theirs first,” Buck says. “This one’s really cold!”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh—”
“Buck,” Hen says, leaning around him and arching her eyebrows. “The longer you talk, the longer I have to listen.”
Buck juts his lower lip out in a fake pout, glad to hear Chris giggle again.
“I’ll warm you up when we get home,” Eddie says idly.
Buck opens his mouth, and then tactfully closes it again.
At the same time, Chris rubs Buck’s hand between his, chafing warmth into his fingers. “Yeah,” he says. “You can have some of my blankets if you want.”
“Que amable, mijo,” Eddie murmurs, “but I think we have plenty of blankets for Buck.”
“Uh-huh,” Hen says, flicking her eyes between them. She slides her stethoscope down Buck’s back, dragging the chill with it. “I think—”
There’s a sudden cacophony of noise across the tent as a new crowd of victims stumbles inside. Hen tugs her stethoscope from her ears, a frown flickering across her face. Chimney is across the tent with Bobby already, and the incident commander is calling for more paramedics.
“Go, Hen,” Buck urges. “I’m fine, seriously.”
Hen loops her stethoscope around her neck, leveling him with an unimpressed look. “If anything changes—and I mean anything—you call me, got it? I’ll be back to finish with you once we get everyone triaged.”
“Ma’am,” Buck agrees, offering her a tired salute.
“You wanna lay down?” Eddie offers, once she’s gone. “I can move.”
Buck shakes his head. “I’m okay. I don’t want you to wake up Chris.”
Eddie looks down at his arms, where Chris finally seems to have lapsed into sleep. He’s wrapped in a thin fleece blanket, his hair drying into tangled curls. Dirt still smudges his face, and his glasses hang loosely around his neck. Gently, Eddie shifts to support his head. “Poor guy,” he murmurs.
Buck hesitates, wringing his hands together. “I’m—really sorry, Eddie.”
“What? What are you sorry for?”
“I lost him.”
“There was a tsunami, Buck,” Eddie points out. “It’s a miracle you were with him as long as you were. Chris told me you saved him.”
Buck shrugs, rapidly realizing that he’s too tired to argue the way he wants to. He gives in to the exhaustion dragging him down and leans over, resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t want to lay down?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie sighs, then tips his head to rest it against Buck’s. “Testarudo.”
Buck manages a fitful doze for almost an hour, until Eddie nudges him awake again. He sits up straight, grimacing when the movement pulls at all his stiff muscles. Even breathing hurts as it jostles the tender stretch of bruised skin on his side. Looking around, he can’t quite figure out why Eddie has woken him.
“Carla texted,” Eddie explains. “She’s parked a couple of blocks away. She can’t get any closer with the roadblocks and the traffic.”
“Okay,” Buck says, surprised by how hoarse his own voice sounds. His throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. “Are you gonna go meet her?”
“Yeah. I’ll drop Chris off with her and come back.”
“What? No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll just come with you.”
“Hen will kill me if I sneak you out before she’s finished her check-up.”
“She did most of it already,” Buck argues, rubbing his eyes. He can feel a headache forming behind his temples, and he wants nothing more than to collapse and sleep for several hours. “Besides, you’re a medic. You can finish what she didn’t.”
“Buck—”
“Please?” Buck says, looking up at him. “Please. I’m tired, Eddie. I just wanna go home.”
Eddie takes a deep breath before deflating all at once, his shoulders sagging. “If Hen asks, you conned me into this.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Can you even walk?”
“I’m injured, not invalid.” Buck heaves himself to his feet, relieved to find that his legs will hold him up again. “See?”
“Uh-huh.” Eddie still looks skeptical. He stands more slowly, carefully rearranging Chris in his arms. “Just take it easy.”
“Do you want me to carry him?”
“What part of take it easy didn’t translate?”
Buck holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, jeez.”
“Besides,” Eddie says, pressing his face to Chris’ hair, “you’ve already carried him farther than me today.”
Buck falters. He wants to explain, again, all of the reasons Eddie should be furious with him. He lost his son in a tsunami, for Christ’s sake. He could have gotten Chris killed. But looking at Eddie then—looking at him clutching his son, face downturned, edges softened by the dull yellow of the emergency lights—Buck can’t bring himself to argue.
There will be time for that later, he’s sure.
Buck shrugs back into his shirt—mercifully dry, now, if still disgusting—and follows Eddie out of the medical tent. He looks for any sign of his team, but they must be scattered and working. That makes it easier to avoid Hen, at least. The crowd thins the farther they get from the tent, until they’re walking alone on the deserted streets of the disaster’s epicenter. It’s all unfamiliar in the dark: shattered windows and lopsided cars, flickering streetlights and the distant chirp of a fire alarm.
“Here,” Eddie says, nodding towards a familiar black truck parked at the side of the road.
Carla leaves the truck running as she climbs out, crossing swiftly to them. “Oh, my boys,” she says, reaching up to cup Eddie’s face in one hand and Buck’s in the other. “Are you alright? And Christopher?”
“We’re alright,” Buck assures her, placing his hand over hers. “Just tired.”
“Well I should think so. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Buck climbs into the back seat and helps Eddie to arrange Chris next to him. Chris squirms, mumbling unhappily, as Buck reaches across him to buckle his seatbelt. “You’re alright,” Buck says softly. “We’re going home, kiddo.”
Eddie closes the rear door quietly before sliding into the passenger’s seat beside Carla. “Thanks for coming to get us.”
“Anytime, you know that,” Carla says.
Buck listens to the low murmur of their voices and the radio as they make the drive back to Eddie’s house. It’s a longer drive than usual—the streets are still clogged with debris and traffic. By the time they pull into the driveway, he’s halfway to sleep again. But he rouses himself enough to unbuckle Chris.
“I got him,” Eddie says, when Buck goes to scoop Chris out of the truck. “Seriously, Buck. Take it easy.”
A little adrift with his arms empty, Buck follows Eddie and Carla inside. He toes off his shoes and socks—all of which are caked in mud and rimed with sea salt—before stepping into the living room. The floorboards are smooth and cool beneath his aching feet. He stands for a moment, blinking in bemused exhaustion. He’s grateful when Eddie snaps at him and points towards the bathroom, giving him some sort of direction.
“Shower,” he says. “I’ll bring you clean clothes.”
“What about Chris?”
“He’s already out like a light,” Eddie says. “I’ll wipe him down tonight and let him shower when he wakes up tomorrow.”
“I’ll get some washcloths ready,” Carla offers, stepping into the kitchen.
Buck steps into the bathroom, shedding his ruined shirt and sweats. He tosses them into the wastebasket instead of the laundry, then cranks on the hot water. It stings when he steps underneath the spray, irritating the raw skin of his scrapes. He endures it anyway—the heat reminds him he’s not in the ocean again—and for the first minute the water runs like rust around his feet. When the worst of the filth has sluiced off, Buck reaches for Eddie’s body wash.
A soft rap at the door interrupts him mid-wash. “Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
Buck checks the curtain is pulled, then says, “Sure.”
The door clicks open as Eddie steps inside. “I brought pajamas. Put the boxers on but leave everything else off. I want to make sure your scrapes are cleaned before you get dressed.”
Buck makes a noise of assent, lathering his hair with shampoo. The door clicks again as Eddie steps out. The steam builds, and it knocks something loose in Buck’s lungs—before he knows it he’s coughing, pressing his mouth to the crook of his elbow. The force of it tears at his throat, and when he swallows he tastes blood.
“Buck?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Buck calls, his voice ragged but his breath settling.
“You sound like shit.”
“A real charmer, you.”
Buck hurries through the rest of his shower and steps out, scrubbing himself off with one of the towels Eddie had left him. He feels like he’ll never be dry again, but hey, at least he’s clean now. He tugs on the boxers folded on the counter before padding out of the bathroom and finding Eddie in the living room with the first aid kit.
“Where’s Carla?”
“She went home a few minutes ago,” Eddie says, gesturing for Buck to sit beside him. "She said to tell you goodbye.”
Buck holds still as Eddie dabs his scrapes with cold saline and gauze, making sure they’re clean. A few of the larger cuts earn themselves a layer of antibiotic ointment and a bandage. Buck thinks it’s overkill, but it seems to make Eddie feel useful and so he doesn’t protest. It only takes a handful of minutes, anyway.
“Good as new, Corporal Medic Diaz?” Buck asks wryly.
Eddie rolls his eyes, bullying Buck back off of the couch. “Go get dressed. I’ll get you some blankets.”
Buck returns to the bathroom to pull on the rest of his pajamas. When he returns to the living room, he’s surprised to find the couch bereft of both blankets and Eddie. He hears the soft shuffle of footsteps down the hall and follows the noise to Eddie’s bedroom. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” Eddie snags a bottle of water from his bedside table, pressing it into Buck’s hand alongside a pair of pills. The bottle is still cold, and the condensation pools on his palm. “Ibuprofen. You’ll be sore as hell tomorrow.”
“I’m sore as hell now.”
“Yeah, I bet. Here, lay down.”
Buck swallows the pills, then blinks at Eddie’s bed. “Eddie, I’m not taking your bed.”
“The ocean tried to kill you today,” Eddie says bluntly. “Take the damn bed, Buckley.”
Some niggling, worried thing in the back of Buck’s head insists that he should worry more—but he’s too tired to pay it any mind. He collapses on Eddie’s bed, burying his face against the pillows and inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and shampoo and Eddie. Eddie tugs the blankets up around his shoulders, tucking them in at his sides.
“Warm enough?” he asks.
“Mm-hm,” Buck says, rolling onto his side to look expectantly at Eddie. “Sleep with me?”
“Buck.”
“Like, totally platonically.”
Eddie looks towards the ceiling, as though begging a higher power for patience.
“No homo, bromo,” Buck says.
“You’re delirious.”
That is definitely the excuse Buck is going to be using when he’s mortified by this conversation tomorrow. He lifts the blankets on one side and whines, “Eddie, come on.”
With one final, aggrieved sigh, Eddie slips into the bed beside Buck. Buck snuffles happily against his shoulder, eyes sliding shut. He knows he’s doing it again—being too clingy, too needy, too much—but he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s tired and he hurts and he wants Eddie beside him, even if it’s just for a little while.
“G’night, Eds,” Buck murmurs.
“Night, cariño,” Eddie whispers, brushing his fingers through Buck’s damp hair. “Feel better.”
The day after the tsunami, Buck wakes up drowning.
He lurches upright in the bed, clutching his chest—unable to catch his breath. For the first several seconds he convinces himself it’s a panic attack. He must have been having a nightmare and woke up feeling breathless, adrift, like he was under the ocean and choking on saltwater all over again. But the tightness in his chest persists despite the slow, deep breaths he tries to coach himself through. His heart hammers wildly, demanding the oxygen he can’t seem to provide it with.
Fuck. Fuck, is he dying?
Wildly, he glances over for Eddie—only to find the bed empty and the sheets cold. He’s been gone for a while. That’s fine. That’s fine, right? Buck can handle this himself. He can. It’s just a particularly nasty panic attack. He’s dealt with these before.
Buck climbs out of bed, tipping his chin up to open his throat and taking greedy gulps of air. The tightness in his chest seems to be easing now that he’s upright, but it doesn’t vanish. He can feel an odd, wet crackle every time he inhales. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. His legs feel like jelly beneath him as he pads out of the bedroom, seeking Eddie.
When he reaches the hallway outside of Chris’ room, he pauses. He can hear low voices murmuring inside—can see Eddie’s shadow cast by the lamplight. Chris’ voice is nasally and wet, as though he’s been crying, and Eddie’s voice has taken on the gentling cadence it always does when he’s trying to soothe his son. Buck backs away before he can interrupt them, retreating to the bedroom.
There, he practices box breathing until the panic starts to ease. He lays down again, curling into the blankets. It’s just a panic attack, he thinks, desperately ignoring the rattle in his lungs. You’re not having a heart attack. You’re not dying. You can breathe.
For a few minutes, he almost believes himself.
Then it gets harder to breathe again, and he scrambles upright. His vision blurs and darkens for several seconds before it returns. His heart skips a beat, still racing. His eyes burn with the threat of tears. What the hell is wrong with him? Why can’t he breathe? He presses the heel of his hand to his chest, rubbing along his sternum as he tries to slow his breathing again.
Then his breath catches just the wrong way, throwing him into a coughing fit.
God, it hurts.
He wraps an arm around his ribs, trying desperately to splint them as pain ricochets through his chest with each lurching cough. When it finally stops he scrabbles for a tissue, spitting up frothy pink phlegm. He may not be a paramedic, but even he can tell that’s not good. It’s almost a relief—to know that the issue is with his body and not his brain, this time.
“Buck?” Eddie lurches into the room, slapping the light switch on the wall.
Buck cringes as the light strikes his eyes, intensifying his headache. He crumples the tissue in his hand, still panting for breath, and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have the breath to respond.
“Buck?” Eddie says again, quieter now. “Are you okay?”
Buck glances up, meets his eye, and shakes his head.
“Dad?” Chris calls from down the hall. “What’s wrong? Is Buck sick?”
“Just a second, Chris,” Eddie calls over his shoulder, swiftly crossing the room to sit next to Buck. His eyes are dark and serious. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”
“Can’t—can’t breathe,” Buck manages, the muscles of his chest and back straining with the effort of opening his lungs.
Eddie swears, resting a hand on Buck’s back. “Okay. Okay, stay here a second.”
Buck doesn’t think he could do much else, even if he wanted to. Breathing is taking all of his effort right now. Eddie darts back out of the room, and Buck blinks away the static in his vision long enough to see his hands—to see that the beds of his nails are a faded blue-gray. So that’s not ideal, he thinks, a touch hysterically.
When Eddie returns, he has his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. He’s talking rapidly to someone as he unwinds his stethoscope, pressing it to Buck’s back. He drops the phone just long enough to listen, biting his lip so hard it blanches. He must not like what he hears, because he swears again and tosses the stethoscope aside.
“Eddie?” Buck says, his voice cracking.
“Hey, Buck,” Eddie says, kneeling beside him on the bed. He clips their first aid kit’s pulse ox onto Buck’s finger. “I’m on with 911, okay? They’re sending an ambulance.”
“What’s—why—?”
“Shh, don’t talk,” Eddie says, scruffing a hand through Buck’s hair and holding him still just long enough to press a hard kiss to his forehead. “Just focus on breathing. You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you some oxygen and you’ll feel a lot better.”
Buck manages a tiny nod, glancing down at the pulse ox. He probably shouldn’t have. It reads an alarming 82%, and Buck doesn’t have to be a doctor to know that bodes ill. His next staggered inhale catches on a whine, and Eddie hushes him.
“You’re okay,” he says, squeezing Buck’s shoulder. “You’re doing great, sunshine. Deep, slow breathes, that’s it.”
The ambulance arrives within ten minutes, and before Buck knows it he’s surrounded by unfamiliar paramedics and EMTs. Eddie steps back to talk with one of them, and Buck does his best to keep an eye on him. He doesn’t want Eddie to leave. He knows he’s not Eddie’s responsibility, not really, but—surely Eddie wouldn’t leave him alone like this?
One of the paramedics straps an oxygen mask to his face, and Buck immediately feels the cool, dry prickle of oxygen in his nostrils. He focuses on taking deep breaths, watching with relief as the numbers on the pulse ox tick slowly higher. The buzzing panic in the back of his head eases. His lungs still ache and rattle, but he’s no longer fighting for air.
“Yeah, that’s better, huh?” Eddie says, kneeling next to him again. He checks the pulse ox and makes an approving noise, rubbing Buck’s free hand between his own. “They’re gonna take you to the hospital, Buck. It sounds like secondary drowning. But they can fix that, okay? No biggie. You’re gonna be fine.”
Buck isn’t sure who Eddie is trying to convince more—Buck or himself.
The paramedics load Buck into the back of the ambulance, and Eddie hops in with him. He takes a seat beside Buck, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on his leg.
“Chris?” Buck asks.
“Carla’s got him,” Eddie assures him, squeezing his knee.
God bless Carla. Buck’s going to have to find a way to make it up to her.
“How are you feeling?” Eddie asks.
“Better,” Buck says, truthfully. He’s never been happier to have an oxygen mask. “A lot better.”
“Good. I called Maddie. She and Chimney are going to meet us at the hospital.”
Buck nods, lapsing into silence as they make the drive to the hospital. He feels better, but he’s still far from good. A few minutes after they arrive in the ER, a radiology technician comes to take an x-ray of his chest. Eddie looks over the tech’s shoulder at the image, after, talking quietly to her.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?” Buck asks when Eddie slumps into the plastic chair beside his bed.
“It looks like pulmonary edema to me,” Eddie explains. “You probably got a little bit of water in your lungs during the tsunami, and then your body freaked out about it.”
“And put more water in my lungs?”
“Hey, I didn’t design the human pulmonary system. Don’t blame me.”
Buck laughs, which only serves to trigger another miserable coughing fit. Eddie stands beside him, rubbing his back in slow circles, until Buck can spit out another mouthful of bloody phlegm and breathe.
“Ugh, gross,” Buck mutters. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Here, lean back. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? It’ll probably be a while before the doctor comes to see you.”
Buck hesitates, then asks, “Are you gonna stay?”
Eddie looks at him, as though surprised Buck would even ask the question. “Yeah,” he says, reaching over to take Buck’s hand. “Yeah, Buck. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”