i wish it was mine

Buck's been one of Eddie's emergency contacts for years and his medical proxy since Abuela's health scare early on in the pandemic, but he doesn't have a lot of faith that they'll actually keep him updated.

He's spent too much time in hospitals to expect that.

They whisked Eddie's too-pale, too-still body through the swinging double doors where Buck can't follow. They take him to an operating room.

In the operating room they will cut Eddie open and see inside of him and they won't know because they don't know Eddie. They don't know Eddie like Buck knows Eddie. They don't know that he will fight with every ounce of strength left in him to get back to his son. He's done it before.

Buck needs him to do it again.

Or maybe the doctors and nurses will know. Maybe they'll know when they see the scars on his other shoulder. The scars from the last time someone thought they could shoot Eddie Diaz and leave Christopher without his father.

Maybe they will look at Eddie and understand how important it is that he lives. And maybe if they are all very, very lucky and everyone has a really good day they will stitch Eddie back together.

Maybe Eddie's heart will keep beating and his lungs will keep filling with air and his hands, hands that hold his son and comfort victims and rest so gently on the curve of Buck's neck when he says, Buck, there's nobody in this world I trust with my son more than you, well then maybe his hands won't grow cold and stay that way.

Maybe.

Eddie's blood is still only half-dried where it covers Buck's face and neck. His shirt is warm and slick and tacky with it. There was so much blood. So much blood on Buck and on the road and in the ambulance, and not nearly enough in Eddie's body.

Buck has no idea how long he's been standing there before a steady, familiar hand curls around his shoulder.

"Captain Mehta called and told me what happened."

Bobby. Bobby's here. That's good.

Bobby's good at telling Buck what needs to be done. Buck isn't always good at following Bobby's orders, but he is good at listening to them. He tries so hard to do what Bobby wants.

"Buck? Buck, can you hear me?"

And Buck doesn't actually know when Bobby went from putting his hand on Buck's shoulder to standing in front of him with a familiar, worried expression. One hand is still on Buck's shoulder, but the other is lightly touching Buck's face.

There's still blood on Buck's face. Eddie's blood.

There was so much blood.

"Yeah."

The single syllable scrapes out of his throat so raw and quiet it sounds like he's been screaming.

He thinks maybe he was.

There are moments between Yeah, that'd be gre-- and Buck becoming fully aware of what was happening in the ambulance that are just flashes.

Eddie's eyes not leaving Buck's until he couldn't hold them open any longer, the pool of blood growing beneath his head.

Mehta losing his grip on Buck as he flailed and finally broke free to get to Eddie, uncaring if there was another bullet with Buck's name on it.

Buck without Eddie wouldn't make sense anyway.

Eddie's pained gasp as Buck apologized over and over, but never let up from keeping pressure on the wound.

In the US Army Field Manual, there is an entire section on basic survival medicine. Buck had found Eddie's beat up copy one night while he was babysitting Christopher.