Scratch and Burn

Christopher scratches Buck during the tsunami, but the rest of the debris hurts a lot more and Buck thinks nothing of it. The next day, however, Buck experiences a lot of changes that he doesn't know how to handle. Luckily, Eddie is there to help him through it.

…

…

One minute, Buck was holding on to Christopher while he looked out at the water. The next, he was carrying Christopher over his shoulder, running as fast as he could, trying to escape the largest tsunami he had ever seen. It wasn't fast enough. Of course it wasn't. The water hit him like a train, flipped and tossed him, jerked him around, like a giant washing machine on the spin cycle.

He tried to hold on to Chris, to protect him, but the water ripped him away. By the time Buck could stay above the surface long enough to catch his breath and look around, he had no idea where he was. He had no idea where Christopher was.

"Christopher! Christopher!"

Christopher wasn't far away, thank God. A few dozen feet further in the rushing water, holding on to a pole. Buck let the water pull him in that direction, reached for the child, but he was swept too far.

"Hold on, Chris! I'll get you! I'll—"

"I can't!" Christopher cried before he slipped into the waves.

Gasping, Buck ducked under the water, reaching, grasping, pulling Christopher toward him. Christopher flailed, panicked, trying to swim with limbs that wouldn't listen. He smacked Buck in the face, and must have cut him because the salt water burned. But Buck had scrapes and cuts all over from the initial surge. One more cut wouldn't kill him. And it meant nothing if at least Christopher was safe.

As soon as Christopher was above the water again, he recognized that Buck had him and clung to him like a koala. He only let go when Buck hefted him up onto the ladder truck. Once Buck was up there with him, he clung to him again. That was fine. Buck was clinging to him too.

"It's okay, Chris. We're gonna be okay." Buck panted into Christopher's hair, his fingers gripping tight to Christopher's shirt. "I got you. I got you."

…

…

Until he didn't.

Until the receding wave dragged him away.

Until he couldn't find Christopher in the water.

Until no one had seen him.

Until Buck's world ended.

…

…

Buck was covered in cuts and scrapes. Blood dripped down his arm and the side of his face. He couldn't feel any of it. It didn't hurt.

The paramedics wanted him to lie down but they didn't understand. He couldn't just sit there. He had to keep looking. He had to find Christopher.

He had to find Chris.

"Buck?"

Shit. Eddie had spotted him at the VA triage hospital.

"What are you doing here?" His eyes widened once he really took in Buck's appearance, the cuts on his face. "Oh no. Where's Chris?"

He sounded like a parent who knew their kid was going to be sad, not one who had just lost their kid. He didn't understand.

"Eddie." Buck's voice wavered, weak after all the yelling, the calling, the salt water, the sun. "Eddie, I—"

The truth was dawning on Eddie's face. Concern for Buck melting into horror as he realized what it must mean for Buck to be at the triage center. Alone.

"Why do you have his glasses?" he managed, voice strangled.

Buck stumbled through an explanation. They'd gone to the beach. The wave—it—Buck had him. Buck got him out of the water, but he—the last wave—it—and Christopher—

Eddie couldn't look at him. His eyes traveled over Buck's body, the glasses in his hands, the area around them, but he couldn't look Buck in the face. Buck knew, immediately, starkly, that Eddie would never speak to him again. And it hurt. The ladder truck had hurt. Realizing the department wouldn't let him be a firefighter again hurt. Buck had thought that was his lowest, that he had lost everything.

He was wrong. Losing Christopher. Losing Eddie. That was losing everything.

And it was his own fault. If he'd been watching Christopher closer, if he'd been faster, if he'd been better, Christopher would still be there. He wouldn't—

"Christopher?" The name ripped from Eddie like a dying breath. His eyes were over Buck's shoulder, and then he was moving passed him, ignoring him in favor of the miracle that had just walked up.

A lady had brought Christopher with her to the triage center. Christopher was there. Alive. Safe.

Part of Buck's brain recognized that he was surrounded, that someone was talking to him, but all he could see was Eddie hugging his son. All he could hear was Christopher's voice calling for his dad. All he knew was Eddie, clutching as Christopher while staring straight back at Buck with wide eyes.

…

…

That night, Buck's leg was screaming.

He tried every pain reliever in the apartment. He took so much that he probably should have been in the E.R. for an overdose. It didn't help. Nothing helped.

The stairs up to his loft were insurmountable. His leg wouldn't cooperate. It gave out as soon as he tried and he collapsed on the bottom step. The pain was so bad that tears poured from his eyes. He gripped the bottom rung of the railing beside the stairs so hard he felt it snap under his fingers, and then gripped it harder still.

At some point, he passed out.

…

…

For all the pain he'd been in the night before, Buck felt amazing the next day.

He had slept in the most uncomfortable position—sideways on the stairs, his bad leg straight out and his other to his chest, his torso twisted so he could grab at the railing—and yet he didn't have a single muscle ache anywhere. His leg felt fantastic, no hint of pain at all. Even post physical therapy his leg twinged a little, but not now.

When Buck had peed and was brushing his teeth, he had another surprise waiting in the mirror. The cuts on his face from the day before were gone. A quick look proved the one on his arm that had required him to get a blood transfusion was also gone.

"Huh," he mused around his toothbrush. "Guess it wasn't as bad as it looked." Blood thinners were whack.

Sadly, the rest of the day would not match his oddly good morning. He had still told Bobby he quit. He still had nothing to do all day. He still had nothing to look forward to in his life. Even though Christopher had survived, that didn't mean Eddie would ever forgive him for losing Christopher in the first place, for nearly getting his son killed.

Buck had barely made it downstairs when he heard a loud knocking on the door. Confused, he detoured to check the peep hole. No one. Scrunching up his face, Buck turned to walk away but heard the knocking again. This time, he opened the door completely, in case whomever it was just wasn't visible through the hole.

No one.

A glance both ways down the hall revealed a woman standing in front of the door at the end of the hall. While Buck watched, she lifted her hand to knock again. And the sound was so loud, sounded so close, that Buck jerked backward into his own apartment and slammed the door shut.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

Like his voice was a switch, suddenly everything was loud. The distant noise of traffic through the closed windows sounded like he was standing in the middle of the street. Someone was talking on the phone with a debt collector. Kids were laughing, their feet pounding on the floor. A dog yapped incessantly. A bird was singing pop music and imitating the radio.

Buck threw his hands over his ears, but it hardly helped. The sounds were so overwhelming they brought him to his knees in the middle of the apartment.

God, the floor reeked of sweat. He did his workout there every morning and it was obvious. How had he never smelled it before? Gross! Mixed with the smell of his minty toothpaste and the sea breeze detergent on his clothes, Buck might just vomit. Oh god, that would smell even worse. No. No. Don't do it.

Forcing his eyes open—when had they closed?—Buck caught one sight of his apartment and was assaulted by vertigo. The world was warped. Too vibrant. Too bright. Like a 4k HD TV. Better. Buck crammed his eyes shut to make the world stop spinning.

What was happening? What was wrong with him? Why? Why? Shit shit, he should call—9-1-1. He should call for help. But it was so loud, and so bright, and so much. He couldn't move or else be further overwhelmed. One motion felt like it would kill him. Where was his phone? Where was—

…

…

At some point, Eddie found him curled up on the kitchen floor, head between his knees, hands over his ears, eyes slammed shut. Buck had heard him come in—of course he had, he heard everything—but he honestly couldn't tell it was his own front door where the keys jangled, the knob turned, the door slid open and shut.

"Mierda."

Buck whimpered. Eddie was so loud, even through Buck's hands. But it was also Eddie, and Buck wanted to curl into him instead of the linoleum.

"Buck, listen to my voice. Buck."

Eddie had lowered his tone to something soft and gentle. He had never spoken like that to Buck before.

"Focus on me, Buck. Listen only to my voice. Block out everything else. Just me, Buck, okay?"

The more Eddie spoke, the easier it was to hear him. Buck's brain focused on the familiar cadence of his words and, slowly, slowly, the rest of the noise filtered out.

"I'm sorry I let you go home alone yesterday, Buck. That was stupid and reckless. I knew better. You hear me, Buck? I'm apologizing, Buck. Do you hear me?"

It felt like he would need the jaws of life to crack open his own jaw, but Buck managed, "I—I hear you."

"Good, Buck. Good. How's your hearing?"

Cautiously, Buck pulled one hand away from his ear. He swore he could hear the dust mites moving in his apartment, but more than that he could hear th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. Eyes still closed, Buck reached out for the noise. His hand pressed into the fabric of Eddie's shirt, then further still, to the hard muscle beneath, and there it was.

Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump

A calming rhythm. Eddie's heartbeat.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Buck breathed out. "Eddie—"

"Smells?"

Eddie smelled like pine trees and that odd but satisfying clean scent that skin had only when someone had just stepped out of the shower. A gentle but purposeful flow of air hit Buck's nose, like Eddie had blown on his face, and Buck smelled eggs, ketchup, orange juice.

"Detergent?" Buck asked, because he didn't smell anything on Eddie like he did on his own clothes. No cloying chemical smell or overwhelming 'sea breeze.'

"Unscented." A small huff. "I'm sure you've noticed, Buck, but too much smell can be overwhelming."

Buck hummed, his other hand falling from his ear and instead reaching out to grip Eddie's arm, so he had both hands on his friend. His own heart rate slowed to match Eddie's, his breathing mimicking Eddie's too.

"Good job, Buck. You're doing great," Eddie encouraged, as if he could hear Buck's heart and breathing as easily as Buck was hearing his. Considering he was walking Buck through whatever this was, he probably could. "Now all you have to do is open your eyes."

Buck shook his head. "I get dizzy."

Eddie lifted a hand to touch Buck's over his heart. "You've done the hard part already. The hearing. The smells. If you can focus those two, I know you can focus your eyes. Buck. You can do this. Open," he said, almost like a parent trying to get their kid to eat something.

First they were slits. Buck could see the light of the room, Eddie's shoes. Leather soles, the individual fibers covering his toes. As his eyes opened further, he lifted his gaze. Eddie's jeans, wearing a little thin at the knees, the lines of fabric crisscrossing each other. His shirt, light blue, the fibers a bit fuzzy, probably comfortable, collared. The warm tones of Eddie's skin, like the sun had personally reached down to kiss him. The stubble on his jaw, not just dark brown but half a dozen shades. His lips, pink, smooth, unbroken from biting or weather or wounds. His eyes. His eyes. Sparkling, endless, dark brown and yet somehow golden, amber, bronze.

"Eddie," Buck gasped out.

Eddie's lips curved up. "See? Fine, right? I knew you could do it."

Buck glanced around the room, hesitant, cautious. His eyes couldn't figure out what to concentrate on. It was like when he tried on his classmate's glasses back in school, and he eyes unfocused because the prescription was all wrong. But, with the steady th-thump, th-thump, th-thump of Eddie's heart both in his ears and under his palm, Buck acclimated. His eyes adjusted.

The apartment had been simply a room before, now it was an entire other world. He could see the grain of the wood floor, the linoleum. He could see the stain on the couch where he'd dropped a smoothie right after moving in, which he'd thought he'd completely cleared up. The paint was more vibrant, with new hues he hadn't seen. It really was like he had been living his life in low definition and suddenly he was seeing in ultra HD.

"Eddie, Eddie," Buck said, his voice faltering, his hands clutching at Eddie's shirt and arm. "What's happening to me? What is this?"

When he dragged his eyes back to Eddie, he found his best friend frowning and it made his own heart rate pick up.

"Ed—"

"Christopher scratched you," Eddie told him quietly, voice pitched low and solemn like he was telling Christopher his hamster had died.

Buck's eyebrows drew together. "I mean, yeah. During the first wave. What does that—" His voice cut out abruptly.

He might not be up to date on a lot of pop culture, but he knew what movies had changes happening after a scratch. Or a bite. Again his hear trate jumped up. Eddie's grip on his hand tightened, but it was comforting, not painful. It didn't help. Buck couldn't breathe, couldn't force his body to take a full breath, he couldn't—

"You're not serious," Buck managed to squeeze out. "No way."

Except Eddie's heart rate had also quickened, and there was a scent coming off him. Though Buck had never smelled anything like it, his brain supplied the answer: anxiety. Eddie was nervous.

When he spoke, Eddie's voice broke. "Buck, I'm so sorry. I never intended for this to happen. Chris—He didn't mean to. He was just—scared. He's just a kid, and he was scared, and he lost control."

A scratch. That probably mean werewolf, not vampire, but who knew what else was out there. Buck was jobless, listless, and now he wasn't even human. This was bigger than a ladder truck, bigger than a tsunami. Buck wasn't sure he could handle this.

A quick, deep breath, and Eddie's voice sounded wet. His eyes definitely were, and the smell coming off him— "There's…there's no cure, but Buck, I'll help you through it, okay? All the way. I've got your back."

I've got your back.

He's got my back. The thought hit Buck like a bullet and suddenly he could breathe. Buck heaved in deep, loud breaths, again, again. Eddie's eyebrows furrowed a moment before he pulled Buck in for a tight hug. His heartbeat thumped close to Buck's ears, louder than ever. His warmth and his smell were comforting. His arms held Buck together even while it felt like he was falling apart.

Once his breathing had calmed down, Buck could think clearer, or at least about something other than his immediate situation. "Christopher? How—Where's Chris?"

Eddie's voice rumbled through him. "I left him with Abuela. I didn't know what state you'd be in when I found you, and I could hardly let Christopher see his hero losing control, you know?"

With a frown, Buck asked, "Hero?" He tilted his head up but only managed to see part of Eddie's chin. "Eddie, I lost him."

"That's not how he remembers it," Eddie said, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. "He said you saved him, and a bunch of other people too. He thinks you're a superhero now."

A startled laugh escaped Buck. He held up a hand in front of his face. It looked normal, like nothing had changed in the past few hours. "I guess I got the powers to go with that now, at least?"

Eddie shook his head. "You don't need any powers to be a hero, Buck. You just need to be you."

How much of Buck was still Buck though? He didn't even know what exactly he was, or how much of pop culture was true vs how much was total crap. Eddie got through life just fine with this, whatever it was, but could Buck do it?

"Do you want to go see Chris?"

Buck nodded against Eddie's chest.

"Come on then. We'll take it slow."

Eddie stood, pulling Buck with him. They crossed to the front door and Buck hesitated. He was focused and stable here in his apartment, but the world outside was so much bigger, louder, definitely smellier. Buck didn't know if he could do this.

Then Eddie held out a hand, offered him an understanding smile. "I'll be right beside you," he said. "It'll be okay."

If there was one person Buck trusted with everything, it was Eddie. He had to. Out on a call, he couldn't afford to doubt his partner. Buck had always trusted Eddie implicitly, no matter the situation. So, with a deep breath, Buck reached out to take Eddie's hand—to trust him one more time.

Eddie nodded, face serious, heartbeat steady. Then he opened the door and they stepped into the world.

…

…

By the time they arrived at Abuela's house, Buck was clutching the grab handle in the truck so hard it had reformed to the shape of his palm. Eddie put the car in park but made no move to get out. Instead he reached over and placed a hand on Buck's shoulder, making him flinch.

"Buck. Focus. Breathe."

Someone had mowed their lawn that day. The smell was nauseating. Buck put his arm under his nose and breathed in the smell of his own skin, his own nervous sweat. It wasn't pleasant, but it was him. It was familiar. And he followed Eddie's prompts and breathed.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Lowering his arm, Buck inhaled again. The smell wasn't so bad. There was a stack of rubber tires somewhere, but the scent was muted. He glanced through the truck windows until he found the cute flower planters someone had made by painting old tires bright colors. God his nose was weird. Why the tires and not the flowers inside them?

"Buck?"

"Huh?" His eyes flicked back to Eddie. "I'm good, I'm good. I—It's…a lot."

Eddie gave him another understanding smile. "Yeah. You wanna go inside?"

With a nod, Buck stepped out of the truck. They hadn't even reached the door before Buck stumbled back. There was a smell—This place wasn't his. It belonged to someone else. This was wrong. He had to get away. He had to leave. He had to—

Eddie's hand on his arm snapped him out of it. "Buck," he said, harsh but not angry. Buck shrank back but Eddie held him in place. "It's just Abuela and Chris. Okay? That's what you're smelling. It's fine."

A woman's voice called from inside. "¿Quién está contigo, Edmundo?"

"Es Buck, Abuela. You know him," Eddie called back. His hand moved from Buck's arm, up his shoulder, and down to the small of his back. "Come on," he urged, gently pushing Buck forward with one hand while he opened the door with the other.

Isabel Diaz stood from her couch as soon as they were in the living room with her. Her eyes trailed over Buck from head to toe, an examination, before turning, wide, to her grandson. "Eddie," she breathed out. "Did you—?"

"No," Eddie answered with a single shake of his head. He nodded to where Chris was sitting at the coffee table with his Legos but didn't speak. Isabel understood anyway, her hands flying to her mouth as she looked back at Buck.

Every nerve in Buck's body was telling him to back out, to leave. It had to be something with Isabel's scent. She had marked this house as her territory, and even though she was old and weaker than him, he wanted to turn and run. He had no idea what she was really capable of.

Lowering her hands, Isabel asked, quiet, "Your name is Buck, yes?"

Finally, Christopher looked up from his Legos. He beamed when he saw Buck. "Buck!" he cheered. "Why are you here?" Even that question sounded pleased, and Buck couldn't help the little smile that grew on his face.

Christopher was the reason for his changes. The smile faltered. "I—uh—I wanted to—to check up on you. You know, after yesterday." His eyes flicked to Eddie. Was that right? Or was he supposed to tell Christopher about the scratch? About how Buck was, what, a were-something? But Eddie nodded at him, saying he'd answered correctly.

A heartbeat was moving too fast. Buck's head snapped down to Christopher, who wasn't smiling anymore. Before Eddie or Isabel reacted, Buck knelt down beside Christopher and put a hand on his cheek. Even just that point of contact had Christopher's heart rate slowing, the scent coming off him less scared.

"Hey. You okay, bud?" Buck asked.

Christopher nodded, shaky, and then pushed away from the table to reach out for Buck. Even though this eight-year-old was the reason Buck wasn't human anymore, Buck didn't hesitate to wrap Christopher up in his arms, as secure as he had on the ladder truck, between waves, when they had thought they were safe.

Over Christopher's head, Abuela wore a fond expression. She clapped her hands together softly. "I bet you are hungry, hm, Buck? Stay for lunch."

At the mention of food, Buck realized he'd never even had breakfast and his stomach rumbled like it was the were-creature and not Buck. In his arms, Christopher chortled.

"Bucky's hungry!" he called out, all signs of his anxiety gone.

Buck grinned. "Yeah I am. I could eat a horse."

Abuela smiled. "Well we'll fix that, won't we?"

And boy did she. Abuela kept cooking for what seemed to be hours. Every time Buck's plate emptied, she appeared at his shoulder to pile more food onto it, and then stared him down until he started eating again. She didn't need to though. As soon as Buck started eating, he couldn't stop. He was ravenous, and cleared four plates easily, with room for more. It was actually a little terrifying. Buck had always had a big appetite and adored carbs, but this was ridiculous.

"The change takes a toll," Eddie said when Buck looked up at him for an answer, and of course he already knew the question without Buck asking. "Your body used up a lot of energy last night and needs to refuel." He shrugged one shoulder. "It won't always be like that."

"I'm not sure about that, nieto," Isabel argued. She waved at Buck's entirety. "He's so big. You eat a lot anyway, don't you? A good, healthy appetite."

She was teasing him like he was her own grandchild and it threw Buck for a loop. His own grandparents had died when he was young, too young to really remember them. Why was Isabel—As if he were family?

Wait, Christopher had turned him. Did that make Buck…pack? Or something? He really needed to ask Eddie to clarify what, exactly, Buck was now. What they all were. There was no way he could organize his thoughts otherwise.

Isabel was just collecting the plates when suddenly Christopher sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "Daddy, why does it smell like—"

He looked across the table at Buck and, for three long seconds, no one spoke. No one even moved. Then Christopher's mouth dropped open with a pained gasp.

"No. No no," he muttered, shaking his head back and forth roughly.

All his anxiety was back but Buck was across a table and couldn't hug him. Instead, Eddie slid out of his own chair to kneel beside his son. Christopher gasped for air, like he might be having an asthma attack.

"Did—Did I—Daddy, I saw—I scratched him. I did it. You said never to do it but I did. I'm sorry." And he started to cry in earnest.

Eddie wrapped Christopher in his second tight hug of the day and made calming sounds. "Shh shh, I know, Chris. It'll be alright."

"Is Bucky angry at me?" Christopher asked, his voice muffled in his father's shoulder.

Buck and Eddie locked eyes. There were a lot of emotions rolling through Buck in that moment, but anger wasn't one of them. Maybe it was shock, or maybe some part of him still didn't understand what had happened to him because Eddie hadn't really explained it, but he wasn't mad. At that moment, he just wanted Christopher to stop crying.

"No," Eddie said, voice still soft and sure. "No, Buck's not mad at you, mijo."

A few minutes of hugging later—from both Eddie and Buck—Isabel took Christopher down the hall to the bathroom to wash his face of tears, giving Buck and Eddie a minute alone.

"So what exactly are you? We," Buck corrected.

Eddie lifted an eyebrow and, like it should be obvious, said, "Werewolves."

A nod. "Right. Obviously." Buck laid his arms on the table and leaned forward. His words came out rushed. "Please tell me how this all works, because I think I'm about ten seconds from a full meltdown if you don't start explaining things."

So Eddie did.

The Diaz family had been werewolves for nine generations. No one knew for sure anymore where or how it started, though the popular story was that Eddie's great great, many greats grandfather got turned while hunting a werewolf that was threatening the family way back in the day. It came with some perks, once you got used to them—heightened senses of smell, sight, hearing, and even taste. Abuela's food was really good, right?

"You'd better say yes, because she can hear you even from the bathroom," Eddie whispered with a wink.

Buck huffed out a laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, it was fantastic."

Werewolves also had more strength and stamina than normal humans, which came in handy as a firefighter. Eddie could work longer and harder than anyone else he knew. It also meant that Eddie would heal from most injuries within a few hours.

"Oh my god," Buck interrupted. He threw his hands onto his left leg. "Last night. My leg was on fire, man. There's a metal rod in my leg. Is that gonna be a problem?"

Eddie shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "Your body probably tried to heal it when the change first took over, but by now your body sort of thinks the rod is you, so it shouldn't cause any problems. It's not going to shove a metal pole out through your leg, if that's what you're worried about."

If Buck was being honest, yes. Yes, that horrific image had come to mind. Good to know it was unfounded.

"Wait," Buck said. "What about Chris?"

Even without a proper question, Eddie knew what he wanted to know. He frowned and explained that the curse, or gift, or whatever, that was lycanthropy would heal most physical injuries, but it didn't have much of an effect of the brain. At least as far as anyone knew. Since CP was, at its core, a neurological issue, it wasn't something that being a werewolf would change.

"But it does mean that, when he falls down, he'll get right back up," Eddie said reassuringly. He even looked a little proud. "Kid heals quick."

Drowning was definitely a way a werewolf could die, though, and Eddie couldn't thank Buck enough for saving his son during the tsunami. Even if he lost track of him for a bit, he still saved Chris. That's how Chris remembered it. Buck, the superhero, pulling him from the water, pulling a dozen people from the water, and keeping them safe. That's why he was so upset about turning Buck. Because Buck was his hero.

Buck didn't know what to do with that. He was going to let Christopher down. He wasn't a hero. Not anymore.

"What do you mean?" Eddie asked, mimicking Buck's position and leaning closer over the table.

"I'm not a firefighter anymore, Eddie," Buck croaked, the loss hitting him afresh. "I—I sit in my apartment and stare out the window all day. They won't let me go back to work unless it's a desk job and I can't—Eddie that's not who I am." He gulped. "I don't even know who I am anymore. Especially not now."

Without trying, Buck heard Isabel coax Christopher outside into the back yard instead of returning to the kitchen. And then it was the sound of a car driving by outside, and the T.V. on next door, and in the house beyond that, and someone playing music on their laptop somewhere else, and a plane flying overhead, and Buck grabbed at his ears, trying to block it all out. A whine slipped out of him, pained and drawn out, but he couldn't stop it. It was too much. Too much!

"Buck. Buck," Eddie called, over and over. "Focus, Buck. Just pick one sound. One. Focus on that one sound, alright? You can do it, Buck. You've done it before."

Eddie's hand was on his arm. When had that happened?

"Once you focus on that one sound, the rest should sort of fade out. Right? You got it? Good job, Buck," Eddie said as the whining stopped and Buck started to breathe properly again. "See? You've got this."

Eddie's voice had always been nice, but now it was more. It was like finally sleeping in his own bed after a twenty-four-hour shift. Or a drink of water on a sweltering day. It was soothing. Comforting. Listening to Eddie made everything else background noise.

When the world quieted down, Buck lowered his head to the table. "I do not 'got this' at all," he grumbled into the wood. It smelled nice. Old. Loved. Isabel must have owned it for a while. And how the heck could he smell 'loved'?

"You've been a werewolf for less than a day," Eddie reminded him, pulling out the chair beside Buck so he could sit next to him instead of across the table.

Buck didn't lift his head, but he also felt calmer, somehow. The smell of Isabel Diaz's house had scared him when they first arrived, but now it was comforting. Buck took deep breaths to get as much of that comfort as he could.

He was a werewolf now. Movies showed werewolves as bloodthirsty killers. Even the best characters, when they were changed, had trouble not attacking people they cared about. God, if being on blood thinners disqualified Buck from being a firefighter, this disqualified him from even a desk job.

Except Eddie was a firefighter. Eddie was by his side every day, running into danger and helping people. How did he do it?

"Here's the plan," Eddie said, breaking the silence. He rapped his fingers on the table once. "I'm gonna talk to Bobby. The department was worried about the blood thinners, right?"

"I'm a liability," Buck intoned dimly, then gave a wry huff. "Don't gotta worry about those anymore, huh?"

Eddie ignored his bitter words. "But you saved like a dozen people during the tsunami, without any gear or back up, while on those blood thinners," he reminded. "So, I'll talk to Bobby. He'll talk to the department. We'll get you reinstated with the one eighteen."

That had Buck sitting up and frowning at his friend. "Eddie, how am I gonna be a firefighter? I—I can't even—We were just sitting here talking and I had a complete meltdown. That can't happen on a call."

Eddie's hand was on his shoulder again. The weight grounded Buck, as did the level gaze Eddie wore. "And it won't. I swear to you, by the time you're back in the station, you'll be ready for anything."

"How can you know that?" Buck asked pessimistically, though hope was already starting to bloom in his chest.

He could be a firefighter again? Even though he'd quit? Even though he was a werewolf now?

There was a spark in Eddie's eyes, and the smirk on his face looked downright evil. "Because Tia Pepa is gonna kick your ass."

…

…

tbc