vision in a cone

Thinking about the prompt "no, you’ll get an infection." since I just saw a gifset of our beloved firemen ripping open packages with their teeth. 😄

thank you! have a bit of established-relationship dorks on a very serious rescue mission.

-

"Buck," Eddie says, in the deeply patient tone that means he's refraining from adding, what the fuck is wrong with you. Buck's found that most people have a version of that tone, at least around him. Eddie doesn't employ his all that often; most of the time, Eddie is on board with pretty much anything Buck suggests. Digging around in storm drains for a missing stuffed animal is the limit, apparently.

"I've almost got it," Buck says, twisting slightly to wedge his shoulder against the grate. His fingers just brush the soggy synthetic fur of the small purple stuffed rabbit a few feet down.

"Isn't this how that kid lost his arm in that movie?"

He twists back to stare up at Eddie, who is backlit by the midday sun with the carnival spread out behind him. His hands are on his hips and his expression is half-amused, half-exasperated. "What?"

"Pennywise? Evil clown monster that lives in the sewers and eats children? It's based on a Stephen King novel."

"I repeat," Buck says. "What?"

"Right, I forgot that you don't watch anything other than nature documentaries and whatever Christopher adds to your Netflix queue."

"Bold words for a guy who's memorized every single telenovela from the past twenty years."

Eddie scoffs. "Come on. Who knows what's down there, you're not even wearing gloves, you're going to slice your hand open on some grimy piece of metal and get an infection."

"I'm being careful." Buck turns his head to squint down into the storm drain. It's too dark to see much of anything other than the faintly oily glimmer of water. There are cigarette butts and greasy fast food wrappers floating in it, and it doesn't smell great, but he's definitely dealt with grosser over the course of his career. Besides. He's so close. If he just stretches—

His fingers brush the rabbit's ear again. It topples over into the grimy water with a splash, and Buck swears under his breath. The toy is now half-submerged and several inches out of reach no matter how much he stretches.

"Buck," Eddie says again, softer. "Come on. It's just a stuffed animal."

"That Christopher won."

A sigh. "He's thirteen. I don't think this is going to break his heart, sweetheart."

Buck knows that this is probably objectively true. Chris was gleefully triumphant about winning at balloon darts even after Eddie grumbled about rigged games, but the stuffed rabbit itself seemed like an afterthought. He shoved it into Buck's hands with a quick grin before going off with his friends twenty minutes ago, and Buck is—stupid, probably, for the fact that this is sort of breaking his heart.

He hasn't thought about that giant stuffed bear that they won at the pier, the one that must have washed out to sea along with half of the Los Angeles coastline, in years. He doesn't even know if Christopher remembers it. He was little. And it wasn't exactly the most memorable part of the day. The little stuffed rabbit, which fits in the palm of Buck's hand—and incidentally, between the holes of a storm drain grate—makes a much more convenient souvenir. And it felt kind of—nice, having a sort of redo on that, even if Chris doesn't remember.

But Eddie's right. Short of trying to pry up the grate cover—which he could absolutely do, if he had a halligan handy—there's no way he's going to reach it. He sighs, resting his forehead on the metal frame, then wriggles his arm out of the grate and sits back on his heels, defeated. "Okay, fine. You win."

There's no response. When he turns around, Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Feeling more than a little put-out, Buck straightens up and looks around. It's not that crowded here, but there are enough passers-by that Buck's been getting a few strange looks, which he's been ignoring. The two streets to his left are closed-off for the carnival; to his right is a black-and-white parked across the median with a bored-looking beat cop directing traffic, and a couple of sanitation workers in hi-vis vests. Eddie is talking to one of them, but he glances back like he can tell Buck is watching him.

Buck spreads his hands in question, and Eddie holds up a finger, turning back toward the guy he was just talking to. Buck slumps, then sits down on the curb, staring forlornly at the storm drain.

A moment later, footsteps approach.

"Come on, stop pouting, scoot over," Eddie says as his shadow falls across Buck.

"I'm not pouting," Buck grumbles, but he scoots over.

"Sure you're not," Eddie says agreeably, sitting down next to him. "Here. You think this'll work?"

Buck blinks at him, then looks down at the trash picker Eddie is holding out to him, which has LA - DPW scrawled down one side in Sharpie. "Did you…"

"I mean, I had to give them a whole sob story, so you might as well try it," Eddie says, wrapping his hand around Buck's knee and jostling him gently. Buck takes the picker, then laughs, dropping his forehead to Eddie's shoulder.

"Sob story, huh?"

"Just saying. Probably more sanitary than trying to stick your bare hand down a storm drain."

"I love you," Buck tells him, and he feels Eddie's shoulder shake slightly with laughter before he straightens up.

"Love you too," he says. "Now come on, let's get started on this rescue operation. Though I think our patient is gonna need a thorough hose-down before we can transport him."

Buck snickers into Eddie's shirt. His eyes aren't wet, because that would be dumb. He rubs his cheek against the warm cotton anyway before lifting his head. "You're such a dork."

Eddie grins at him, ruffled and lovely in the afternoon sunlight. "Just trying to follow proper triage protocol here."

"Dork," Buck repeats, but he leans in to steal a brief kiss before they get the rescue operation underway.