Chapter Text
Buck 7
Hands are in his hair.
Buck hums softly, tipping his head back into the tender hands that scrub gently at his aching scalp. There’s a deep laugh, a rumbling that comes straight from someone's chest, and it makes Buck’s head rumble in turn too, lifting lightly as the person behind him inhales and then exhales in a rhythmic motion.
Buck’s always been a fan of sleeping on someone’s chest or shoulders; he’s fallen asleep on Hen and Eddie’s shoulders before, either at work or at home, has ended up snoozing against even Bobby’s chest for a brief spell after the Truck Bombing and when physical therapy had been hell. He and Chim have ended up propping one another up after a long shift and they'd sat down on the too comfortable sofa.
His favourite place to fall asleep is Tommy’s chest.
Broad and warm and lightly haired, Tommy’s chest was an amazing pillow that Buck had drooled and slept on more than enough times, tucked tightly against Tommy’s side, the heavy weight of a comforting arm wrapped around his waist or sweeping up and down Buck’s back. Sometimes, Buck will wake still sprawled out on Tommy’s chest, sometimes right on top of him, and will wonder at the fact that he gets to have this.
Maybe Buck’s favourite place is just Tommy.
“Don’t fall asleep on me yet, baby.” A soft voice says, the chest at his back vibrating with the words.
Buck can’t find the shape of words that crowd at the front of his mouth, and so simply hums, sinking further against that warm chest and the almost too hot water of the bath he and Tommy are cradled in. Bubbly bath water lap at his chest, his knees chilled and goose pimpled from where he’s had to bend his legs to properly fit into the tub, bracketed by Tommy’s own
Warm water drips down Buck’s nape, and he hums again, head tilting further onto the large bicep Tommy props onto the bathside, resting it there as Tommy presses a kiss behind Buck’s ear. Another whiskery kiss is pressed against his neck, Tommy nuzzling his nose in right behind Buck’s ear lobe, breath warm against water damp skin. Buck smiles, tilts his head just enough to nip at Tommy’s damp forearm, laughing when it makes Tommy jolt a little.
The bath water ripples, slopping over the bath rim.
“Brat.” Tommy giggles, nipping at Buck’s ear lobe, pulling lightly.
Buck tucks his shoulder up, laughing quietly even as he squirms in Tommy’s hold. The water ripples around them, bubbles undulating with each movement. Tommy slaps bubbles out of his hand before Buck can launch them at him, a heavy arm wrapping around Buck’s waist beneath the water and caging him back against that broad, wet chest.
“Next time, I’m gonna drown you in bubbles.” Tommy tells him fondly.
Tommy always sounds like that with him; fond, happy, in love with.
It’s something that Buck has always craved, wanted like an addiction and he’d been using the wrong sort of drugs. He has it now, with gentle touches and being someone’s first priority and in the house keys that dangle next to the extra set of car keys. In the kitchen where two matching mugs sit, in the bathroom where two toothbrushes sit bristle to bristle together, like they’re kissing and Buck had laughed when he’d caught Tommy positioning them purposefully. In the bedroom where their clothes are mixed and they share drawers and pictures of them litter almost every surface and their chosen sides of the bed. In the living room with their favourite movies and favourite books, Buck’s Netflix login and Tommy’s Amazon Prime login on the same telly, both of their names attached to each profile. Even in the garage, a jeep next to a truck, matching keys on one another's keyrings.
Like this, in the bath; in love and bathing together, Buck’s hair damp with bubbles and mussed with Tommy washing his hair. Buck rests against Tommy because it’s his turn to be in front in the bathtub and it means he can run tender fingers down Tommy’s thighs and see how the man shivers and pulls him close.
“You wouldn’t,” Buck says, instead of all of this. “Next time is your turn in front, you wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
Tommy pauses. The chart had been drawn up because they’d both liked sharing baths and showers, but both liked being the little spoon and had nearly come to playful blows about it that had ended in sex and Buck’s clipboard being only slightly desecrated. The chart is kept even when they’re in Vista on holiday and sharing a bath they’d been delighted to see.
“I do like being in front,” Tommy concedes. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give you an absolutely magnificent bubble beard if I had too.”
Buck laughs until he snorts, which makes Tommy snort in turn. Something fizzles up in the pit of Buck’s belly, leaves his love welling up and then welling over until Buck wishes he could fully hand it over to Tommy; just show him how he makes Buck feel. Buck’s always been described as overly emotional, over dramatic with himself and his feelings, but how could he not be when Tommy makes him feel like this ?
The words crowd at the front of his teeth, but something stops him, like this isn’t quite the time and even as disappointment curdles in the pit of his belly, Buck still turns.
His aim is off, softly kissing at Tommy’s cleft chin. The hair there - more full beard than stubble now after just over three days off - is whiskery, tickling at Buck’s lips, sharp pricks over his sensitive jaw.
“What was that for?” Tommy asks quietly. A hand comes up, damp with bubbles and bathwater, and blunt nails scratch tenderly over Buck’s scalp. Buck’s helpless against it, head tipping back until Tommy cradles his head in his palm, still scratching softly at the back of his skull, threaded through damp curls.
“Just for being you,” Buck murmurs. The bathwater slops over the edge a little as he turns, just enough that he can comfortably press a thumb against the cleft of Tommy’s chin, pressing against the beard hairs in the rift after. “You make me so happy, love, you really do.”
Tommy pauses for a moment. He stares at Buck, eyes searching him for a long second. Tommy’s always been able to do this, in a way; able to look at Buck and see the truth of him. It hadn’t started out like that, not at first, but now Buck wouldn’t have it any other way.
Tommy swallows, and Buck can feel the heavy bob of his Adam's apple against the backs of his fingers. He leans in close, enough to feel the skitter of his damp breathe. Tommy’s hand tightens just a little in his curls, a little zing of pleasure that has a flush rising in Buck’s cheeks that Tommy’s other hand covers.
Tommy’s hands are big, massive almost, matching his considerable size and width. Regardless of that though, Tommy has always been gentle with him; a soft tenderness that Buck hadn’t realized he’d ever properly craved. From chin to jaw to temple, Tommy’s hand brackets his face until Buck can nuzzle into it, pressing a kiss to the calloused palm of it.
“You make me happy, too.” Tommy says softly.
Tommy’s thumb sweeps across the apple of his cheek, pressing gently against the thin skin of his eye before tracing the slope and jut of his nose. It presses against the bow of Buck’s mouth, thumbing his bottom lip down until Tommy must be able to see teeth. Buck’s helpless against the way he leans into it, kissing breathlessly at the fat of Tommy’s thumb, catching it with his lips and sucking gently. Tommy makes a gut wrenching noise, soft and beneath his breath. His thumb pins Buck’s tongue to the bottom of his mouth, a string of saliva collecting between mouth and thumb when Tommy withdraws. Buck sucks at that too, making sure Tommy can see him swallowing
Tommy’s eyes, already dark and piercing, blow wider; colour eaten up by pupils. With the strange angle they’re at, Buck can’t get the leverage to tilt his head back fully, not without pain or strain. That doesn’t stop Tommy from pressing that still spit slick thumb against Buck’s mouth once more, petting over the flesh of Buck’s tongue, fingers curled awkwardly around the jut of Buck’s chin and jaw. The hand still in his curls tilts his head back, sparks fireworking down his spine with each pull. Soft, gentle, Tommy’s thumb is a relentless press into his mouth, an almost invasion if it hadn’t been for how fervent Buck was in sucking at it like he would Tommy’s erection. Tommy’s own mouth falls open just a little, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing.
Buck wonders if Tommy would spit in his mouth if he asked.
Buck makes a noise in the back of his throat he doesn’t think he’s ever made before.
Water sloshes over the bath rim when Buck tries to turn further, but he can’t quite get the right leverage and huffs a laugh into Tommy’s hand when he slips a little.
Tommy laughs too, and though his eyes are still dark with lust, there’s a sense of love and adoration just tucked into the dimples of his smile. His invading thumb presses against the flat of Buck’s tongue before it’s gone, smeared against the fat of Buck’s bottom lip, as close to a kiss as they can manage right now. Buck has to resist the urge to suck at it again, arousal sparking in the pit of his groin as Tommy licks at his own thumb, tasting Buck’s spit and his own flesh. One last past of a spit slick thumb against his lip, and then Tommy is pulling back from his hunched position, kept from going too far with one of Buck’s hands at the jut of his jaw, thumb pressed to the underside of it, stroking to and fro.
“I don’t know how I ever thought I could let you go.” Tommy confesses quietly.
A thousand words crowd behind Buck’s teeth; teetering on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Buck leans backwards and upwards, presses a sweet kiss to the tender underside of Tommy’s jaw, and feels the whiskery itch of beard hair. He rubs against it for a moment, smelling Tommy’s favourite scent of sandalwood and pear body wash and Buck’s preferred lavender bubble bath that helps with his muscles.
“We found one another not long after.” Buck murmurs, damp hand pressing against the underside of Tommy’s jaw before he lets it fall into the water, shivering at the warmth there.
“I’m never leaving you again.” Tommy whispers.
The jut of his nose pressed against the back of Buck’s ear, and Buck leans into it, smiling when Tommy presses a kiss to the thin skin there.
“Now, c’mon, lemme finish washing your hair before we turn into prunes.”
A well built arm reaches past Buck’s head to grab the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and Buck can’t resist the urge to bite . He leans forward, kissing at the thick bulge of tricep muscle on the underside of Tommy’s arm, laving a quick tongue between the slope of it before he -
“Ow!” Tommy laughs loudly, rubbing his spit damp arm with his free hand. “What was that for?”
Buck tilts his head back, grinning widely enough his cheeks almost hurt.
“You always look so tasty,” Buck grins. “Had to make sure you tasted as good as you look.”
“You’re a menace, Evan,” Tommy laughs, pressing a kiss to Buck’s damp hair line. “I’d say I’d get you back, but that’ll just lead to sex and I want to wash your hair, so stop distracting me.”
“I have never - in my life - ever distracted you.” Buck lies, like a liar.
Tommy pauses, a small blob of pale coloured shampoo in the middle of his palm. He raises his eyebrows incredulously. He looks down at where Buck is petting at the thick trunks of Tommy’s thighs, scratching with his short nails.
Buck grins, unashamed.
Tommy laughs, smacking his palms together and slathering his hands with the shampoo before he slides a hand into Buck’s curls, using them as a hand hold to tilt Buck’s head back softly.
Shivers run down Buck’s spine, settling like carbonation at the small of his back but instead of letting it keep fizzing, he leans back into the broad warm chest behind him, humming softly as Tommy’s calloused fingertips scrub gently at the soaked curls, scratching lightly over his scalp.
Three words linger on the tip of his tongue, words that have become increasingly harder to choke back, to swallow down, the longer Buck goes without saying them. It’s not that he doesn't want to say then; thinks he would scream it from the very mountain tops if he was able to, but Tommy deserves better. Tommy deserves to be wined and dined, showed how beautiful and lovable he is, just how in love with him Buck truly is, and there never seems to be the right time.
Tommy presses tender fingertips to the thin skin just by his temple and Buck hums, shoulder relaxing from where they’d slowly tensed. Shampoo has leaked down to his nape, sinking down to his aching collarbone.
Tommy’s unfairly good with his hands, Buck thinks. He lets out a soft moan when a thumb presses at the base of his skull, tight circles that apply just enough pressure. Head massages are supposed to be good for migraines, he’s heard, maybe he’ll have to ask Tommy to do one when he’s got a migraine or headache brewing.
“Head back, baby,” Tommy murmurs. Buck does so with Tommy’s fingers on the underside of his jaw. “That’s it, watch your eyes, good boy.”
It seems reflexive, but the good boy still has Buck shivering, doing whatever Tommy asks with little question as pleasure and happiness fizzles to life in the pit of his belly.
Warm water sloshes over his head, sluicing over his scalp and down his nape, kept from his face by a hand cupped around his hairline. Buck sinks further into the warm water, eyes closed, leaning heavily against the broad chest behind him as Tommy takes care of him.
Tommy’s always took such good care of him, and has never not made him feel safe or loved or happy. If he could stay like this, warm and loved and cared for, Buck thinks he’d never leave. Buck sighs, wishing he could turn properly to kiss Tommy, but the tender fingers cleansing his hair of shampoo stops him. Those fingers disappear, before warm water sluices over his hair again, washing down his chest, the bath water rippling with it.
He can feel some dripping down from his forehead, where it must have snuck past Tommy’s guarding hand.
“Baby?” A soft voice asks. “Baby - you - me?”
“Why are you doing your fake mouth static, love?” Buck laughs.
“Baby- Evan?”
Water drips into his ears this time, collecting in the curves of them. More drips into his eyes and Buck blinks reflexively, eyes tearing as he tries to use his hands to wipe the water from them. His arms are heavy though, tired and exhausted, as he tries to pull them from the warm bed they’re pressed into.
“Take it easy, baby.” A familiar voice murmurs, breaking through the fog bank.
“T’-”
His throat burns, dry and sore, as though someone has reached down and throttled him. Pain blooms with every word he tries to speak, every movement he makes.
He blinks again and again, and the darkness recedes with every moment. Light, bright and just this side of blinding, breaks through and Buck flinches back, a murmur at the back of his aching throat. A large hand, just as warm as the bath water from only a few minutes again, comes up to cover his eyes. His eyelashes catch on the tender palm when his eyes flinch close again.
“Evan?” A soft voice says.
Buck turns towards that familiar name in that familiar voice.
Each blink of bleary eyes makes things clearer, details coming into definition.
“Press the call button.” Someone says from far away.
His hair is wet, and for a moment, he thinks back to being in a bathtub with Tommy and water sloshing over the rim. A large hand, damp against his skin, rests against his face, a thumb stroking over the delicate skin of his cheek.
A bleary face - dark hair shot through with grey - blue eyes crinkled - a wide hesitant smile -
“T’mmy?” More of a rasp, but Buck tries to breathe through the pain.
“You with us, baby?” Tommy asks. He sounds gutted, scooped out.
He sounds exhausted.
A slow beeping comes into hearing, soft enough that Buck would have missed it at first. It keeps time with his heart in his chest, and something tugs at his arm and opposite hand. His neck doesn’t support his head, heavy and weak, as he tries to look around. His right clavicle burns for a moment, before a hand slips beneath his head, big enough to cradle it entirely, and lowers his head back.
“Watch yourself, kid,” Tommy whispers. “Gotta be careful, alright.”
Buck tries to turn his head, but the base of his throat tears, hot and painful, and he lets his neck go limp. Tommy’s hand is gone from beneath his head, but he’s closer, a hand resting against his cheek, the other stroking Buck’s aching head.
“Tommy ?”
“Hey, baby.” Tommy smiles through his tears.
Buck lifts a heavy arm, but he can’t quite lift it; it’s as if he’s disconnected from his body, static where feeling should be.
Instead;
“Cryin’?” Buck tries to question, tongue numb and fat, clumsy in his mouth. “You - okay?”
Tommy’s eyes blur with tears, red rimmed; his eyelashes tent in the welter of his misery. He scoffs; that fond, bitchy sound he always makes.
“I’m better now, Evan,” Tommy says. His thumb pets to and fro over the thin skin beneath Buck’s right eye. “So much better.”
Tommy simply stares at him for a long moment - as if he can’t quite believe his eyes - before he presses a tender kiss to Buck’s aching temple.
“D’you want some water?” Tommy asks softly.
Buck tries to clear his voice, but it makes him cough; something cracks deep in his chest and sides, hoarse and hurting, he can’t quite catch his breath before he forces a deep breath through his nose at Tommy’s patient prompting. Deep breaths hurt, like a weight is sitting on the middle of his chest.
“Try this, sweetheart,” Tommy says, and a glass is pressed to his dried mouth. "Slowly, slowly.”
Buck has to force himself not to gulp it down, not that Tommy allows it with how he only lets a thin stream in drips and drabs.
“Thanks.” Buck tries to croak; it’s a little lost in translation but Tommy only smiles, wipes away a drop of water spilled onto Buck’s chin.
A soft sound, and then another voice.
“Mr. Buckley?” A woman asks softly.
Buck tries to lift his head again, but Tommy’s hand is enough to stop him, tender in its weight against his face.
“Hi?” Buck rasps, confused. Fog lingers in the very corners of his memory, confusion lingering in every question he isn’t sure how to ask.
A short woman dressed in uniform comes forward, opposite Tommy. She smiles warmly down at him, though her eyes dart around the room. When her eyes stop just over his shoulder, Buck tries to turn around before Tommy presses his hand against his right shoulder, encouraging him to lie back again.
“Try not to get up, alright, Evan,” Tommy asks, pleading almost. “Let the nurse make sure you’re okay and we’ll explain alright?”
It’s only because of how - distraught Tommy looks; as if he’s been gutted, scooped out hollow of everything he’s ever loved and he isn’t quite sure what to do now that his hands are emptied that Buck acquiesces. Those beautiful eyes that Buck has so easily fallen in love with are blue and red rimmed, wide and pleading. Buck doesn’t know what’s happened, why Tommy looks as if his heart has fallen from his chest but he so badly wants to help, scoop up that heart and place it back where it belongs because Tommy shouldn’t be hurt, shouldn’t be looking like that .
“Okay,” Buck says. “Okay.”
He’d do anything for Tommy; would do anything for the crinkled eyed dimpled smile Tommy gives him in that very second.
He shifts, trying to get comfortable, tries to use his right arm; pain blossoms in his chest, deep in his sternum that seems to crackle with every breath. Something stops his right arm from moving, strapped across his side and chest.
He blinks up at the patiently waiting woman - the patiently waiting nurse.
She gives a smile, jotting something down on a heavy duty protected phone.
“Hi, Mr. Buckley,” The nurse says. “I’m just going to quickly take your blood pressure whilst we chat, if that’s okay?”
“That's... fine?”
The nurse smiles down at him, and then at Tommy, before she turns to the side and there’s a click before a sudden pressure against his left upper arm. Buck winces, and Tommy makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, thumb stroking back and forth over the pounding of Buck’s temple once more, resting softly against the width of his birthmark above his eyebrow.
“Can I ask what you remember?” The nurse asks as the machine quietly ticks up and up.
Buck would dearly love to say that he knows exactly what’s going on, but there’s a massive blank spot, an empty collection of moments right in the centre of his memories that no matter how hard he tries to reach for, he can’t quite touch.
He looks up at Tommy in mute appeal.
“You don’t remember anything?” Tommy queries softly. He’s resting on the edge of the hospital bed, as if he can’t quite bear to move any further. Buck goes to nod his head, before Tommy stops him, a tender hand on his face. “Not yet, baby, you’re gonna be in pain if you do that.”
For a moment, Buck tries to think properly, tries to reach past the fog.
He remembers…
Not a lot, honestly. He remembers it being night time, and remembers being on shift with everyone. He remembers flashes, piecemeal bits and pieces that don’t quite make up the entire puzzle that his mosaic memories should be completing effortlessly. He remembers talking with Tommy over a quiet breakfast, tangled in bed before work and checking things off a clipboard as Tommy laughed into his throat. He remembers -
“- trying to get away into the night, and then you put your arms around me -”
But they’ve never done that; Buck has always wanted to, but a shyness he’s never thought he’d feel with Tommy, a bashful embarrassment that had stopped him from making that last move when they were in the kitchen, or sitting in the living room.
“I don’t-” Buck stares at Tommy, begging. “What’s- what happened?”
His heart pounds, numbness encroaches; he doesn’t know how long it’s been, only that he has been asleep. The fog of a coma is familiar, a half forgotten memory that he can’t quite capture.
“Mr. Buckley, you need to calm down-”
The blood pressure cuff has long been deflated, and it’s only stiff muscles and exhaustion that have Buck struggling to lift his left arm. He manages it though, catching weakly at Tommy’s wrist. His fingers shake, weak with their own weight.
“Tom, please.”
Tommy looks down at him, face breaking in the few seconds where he looks at Buck.
“It’s okay, Evan, everyone is okay, you’re the only one hurt,” Tommy says. “I promise you, you were the only one hurt.”
Buck looks at him, wavers between his calm, red rimmed eyes. Tommy has - maybe not always - learned to read him, and Buck has done the same in turn; they’ve learned tells and ticks, and when the other is lying.
Tommy isn’t lying, and there’s a frisson of relief that further pushes back the brain fog that weighs him down.
“Okay,” Buck says. “Okay, but what did happen?”
Tommy’s mouth immediately thins. Fuck .
“You were shot, Mr. Buckley.” The nurse says, quite literally ripping the bandaid off.
“What ?” Buck croaks.
“You were shot, baby,” Tommy says softly. When he lifts a hand to smooth Buck’s hair from his forehead, it’s shaking. Tommy’s hands are shaking. “Twice.”
“Did-why was I shot?”
Tommy closes his eyes for a moment, before those eyes open again.
Oh.
His eyes are wide, wet. Tommy’s crying.
Wait, wait -
“- you’ve got shit to tell us, okay? Chris- and Tommy -”
One of the strongest men Buck knows is weeping.
Oh.
“Chris?” Buck gasps, he turns to the nurse, whose eyes dart from Buck to Tommy to the side of the room Buck can’t see. “Chris- was Chris there?”
Buck turns urgently towards Tommy, tries to lift himself up onto his elbows.
Rapid beeping, faster and faster.
“You and Chris - why were you - you were there,” Something catches in his chest, burning and tearing. A hand on his left shoulder, a heavy weight that Buck tries to fight against but can’t quite gather the strength. “Don’t, don’t - y-you told me no one else was hurt.”
“Baby, baby please.” Tommy begs.
Rapid beeping, faster and faster.
“A-a-are you okay? You didn’t get hurt? Tommy-”
Those massive hands cup Buck’s cheeks, rubbing free the tears that Buck hadn’t even known he’d shed. Buck’s free hand curls around Tommy’s elbow, uses it as a hand hold so he can wrap trembling fingers back around Tommy' s wrist, feeling the flex of tendons and muscles as those thumbs move.
“Tommy .” Buck begs.
“Listen to me, Evan,” Tommy orders. “Chris and I weren’t there. Only you were hurt, okay? It was an accident on the job and you were caught in the middle. No one else was hurt, I promise, so you need to breathe.”
Those blue eyes are unwavering, steady and sure. Tommy’s thumbs still brush beneath his eyes, soothing movements. He can feel the steady beat of Tommy’s heart beneath his index finger.
“Okay,” Buck says. “O-o-okay, I trust you. I trust you.”
“I know, kid, you’re alright, I’ve got you.”
Deep breaths unsettle him, his ribs hurting and the movement making his right shoulder and side of his throat hurt, but the action makes something balance inside of his chest as he mimics Tommy’s exaggerated breaths.
The nurse coughs politely, a small smile on her face.
“It’s nice to see you fully awake, Mr. Buckley,” The nurse tells him. “I’m Alicia and I’ve been looking after you for the past few days.”
There’s a note of repetition to her voice, as if she’s said this a few times already.
“Hi, Alicia.” Buck croaks. “I’m Buck.”
“Hi, Buck,” Alicia grins. “Like Mr. Kinard - Tommy has already said, you were shot twice; once in the right clavicle and once near the right jugular, just on the side of your neck.”
Oh shit, Buck thinks faintly. His hands tighten on Tommy’s wrist, fingers climbing up until they tangle with Tommy’s. Dry and calloused, they’re a familiar feel that settles the roiling of Buck’s stomach.
“The bullet that hit your right clavicle sheared off the bone and ricocheted into your ribs, causing a traumatic pneumothorax. That has been resolved, and the chest drain was taken out three days ago, the ventilator was taken out the day after the drain removal.”
For a moment, Buck is back, all those years ago. He’s staring at a man in a hospital bed with an endotracheal tube in his throat and a gunshot wound from a sniper in his shoulder, not knowing whether he was going to wake up. He thinks of how - empty he’d felt then, unmoored and devastated.
He turns wide eyes towards Tommy. Thinks of Tommy in his place, staring at the man he loves, with a ventilator and wound drains and two gunshot wounds and feels his heart wrench.
God, fuck, Tommy.
“The ricochet did fracture the bone enough that we’ve had to stabilize it with a small one inch plate and two small screws; you’ve been placed onto anticoagulants both because of your temporary coma and your history of blood clots and your PE.”
“An-and they’re temp-temporary, right?” Buck asks, heart in his throat. His hand tightens around Tommy’s.
Nurse Alicia smiles sympathetically.
“They are temporary, Buck, it’s policy when someone is in a coma to place them on anticoagulants and with your history and the use of hemostatic bandages whilst keeping pressure on your wounds, we wanted to make sure that we kept on top of things.”
There’s a flash of relief that sparks up Bucks spine despite the nervousness and terror that had flashed through him. He and Bobby have talked the pulmonary embolism and the blood thinners and the resulting lawsuit to death; he knows he can trust Bobby and that they’ve both grown from that dark time in Buck’s life, but there’s still a part of Buck where he’s ten - eleven - twelve - twenty something - just begging for his parents to look at him, to love him and Bobby’s actions had triggered every button of that ten-eleven-twelve-twenty something crying for someone to love him, anyway they can.
“And- the screws? It-it was the hardware before that caused the problems in the first place.”
“They were cobalt and chrome plated screws,” Alicia explains. “The ones in your shoulder are made of titanium - your surgeon thought about using stainless steel, but with your reactive history against the previous screws, she thought it best to go hypoallergenic as a preventive.”
“Other than your GSW’s and the new hardware in your clavicle,” Here, Alicia hesitates. “You’ve got multiple fractured ribs and a deep crack in your sternum from repeated cycles of CPR.”
Oh.
Tommy makes a noise, fractured, wounded.
Oh .
He thinks of three minutes and seventeen seconds.
It’s like an album of his greatest hits in a single traumatic moment.
“How-how many-?” His tongue is numb, fat and clumsy in his mouth once more.
“...four rounds of CPR,” Alicia says quietly. “Equalling roughly to a time of three minutes thirty one seconds.”
Fuck.
Brain death after your heart stops occurs at four to six minutes. Immediate CPR would lessen the severity of brain damage, but brain damage occurs as soon as the heart stops, regardless of how quickly it was administered.
In his life Evan Buckley’s heart has stopped five times. Evan Buckley, in his thirty four years of life, has clinically been dead for six minutes and forty eight seconds. Almost seven minutes.
His eyes burn.
He chokes back his tears, feels the burn in the back of his throat, how his chest spasms.
He wonders who’d administered CPR; after the lightning strike, Chimney had apologised, in tears, because he’d been the one to start CPR and hadn’t been able to get him back. It had been Eddie who’d taken over as the ambulance had arrived at the hospital and who’d got his heart beating again.
Chimney had apologised, as if there was a fundamental defect in him that had made him fail in bringing Buck back. Buck had hugged him, both of them in tears, and had said that’s stupid, had had we’re brothers, had said it wasn’t your fault because there wasn’t a world where Buck wouldn’t forgive Chimney when there wasn’t anything to forgive.
Rapid beeping, faster and faster.
Chimney had said it should have been me, and Buck had said it shouldn’t have been anyone, because he remembers sitting at Eddie’s bedside and choking out it should have been me and the empty pit that his heart and stomach had been in, and never wanted for Chimney to feel like that. Had said it took me a long while to realize the tsunami wasn’t my fault and Chimney had said that was a natural disaster, you couldn’t have predicted tha- and Chimney had said oh, oh and Buck had said yeah, yeah because he’d know exactly what Chimney was feeling and wished that Chimney didn’t know.
“Tommy.” Buck gasps.
Hands, big and strong and warm, touch at his face, cradle his cheeks. From chin to jaw to temple, Tommy’s hands bracket his face, wiping desperate tears away.
“Tommy-”
His arms refused to cooperate; one strapped down across his chest and the other feeling like a weight is wrapped around it, but he tightens his grip around Tommy’s wrist, until he’s sure he can burrow into it, wants to crawl inside of his partner until all of this just seems like a bad dream.
Rapid beeping, getting faster and faster.
“I know, Evan,” Tommy whispers, mouth damp against his temple. “I know, baby.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what, Buck doesn’t know; it seems to be the only words that come out of his mouth. His heartbeat bounds in his ears in unison, both in blood rushing and the rapid beeping of the heart monitor. Tommy’s face wavers in front of his own, tears threatening - threatening - having already fallen.
A forehead presses against his, brow to brow, nose tip to nose tip. His breath keeps hitching, catching in each painful cry. Tommy’s blue eyes are just as red rimmed, just as damp with tears. When he blinks reflexively, their eyelashes catch.
“Look at me, Evan.” Tommy asks.
Buck shakes his head, barely able to move through the pain. He clenches his eyes shut, grasps at Tommy’s chest with his remaining free hand. A sob rattles free.
“Evan, please.”
It’s the please that does it; breaking and desperate.
Their eyelashes catch when Buck opens tear damp eyes. Tommy is still there, still blessedly alive with his own tear wet eyes. Forehead to forehead, brow to brow, nose tip to nose tip. From heel to palm to fingertip, Tommy’s hands are large and warm and trembling against his face.
“You’re okay, Evan,” Tommy tells him. Those large thumbs brush tears away. “You’re alive, baby, and that’s all that matters right now.”
“I’m alive.” Buck repeats, voice trembling. He can’t quite believe it.
Six minutes and forty eight seconds.
Fuck.
“I’m alive.” Buck cries.
He doesn’t quite feel it.