(Buck)
His head throbbed, bringing to mind the thwump-thwump of helicopter blades. And his mouth, dry as dust as if he'd been wandering the desert for days without a single drop of water, his tongue snaking out in an attempt to moisten his lips. Buck stirred, reaching out for his bedside table with the expectation of locating the bottle he recalled leaving there, wondering if he'd left the aspirin within reach as well. And why do I still have a headache? Why am I still feeling hungover? This should have passed by now. But movement brought with it a whole new level agony, sharp pain shooting up his right side.
The jolt was enough to chase away the lingering darkness, beckoning a cry from within, and Buck momentarily froze, afraid even the slightest twitch might send a fresh wave. He lay there in the gloom searching his mind, traipsing back through his memories in an effort to pinpoint what he'd done this time to warrant the burn currently dominating his side.
Wet.
Sticky.
Warm.
Gritting his teeth, Buck pushed himself into a sitting position, realizing two things almost instantly. He wasn't in his bed and he wasn't in his bedroom. One thing at a time. Reminiscing on how it felt to have his leg crushed by a firetruck, Buck accessed the level of pain he was experiencing somewhere well north of ten on the typical scale doctors preferred. As gently as he could manage he probed the area, reaching around with his left hand, his fingers touching upon blood soaked fabric. What the hell have I done this time? Were we on a call?
Buck pulled at the hem of his shirt, the fabric tugging at the skin where the blood had started drying. He hissed, a bit of drool passing overfishing lower lip. Much to his dismay, though not entirely to his shock, he found a puncture wound roughly in the vicinity of his right kidney. Had the organ taken any damage? Hard to say, damaging organs was surprisingly something he'd yet to do. The fact he was alive and breathing—definitely not kicking—surely meant good things.
For now.
He'd spent enough time on the job to know puncture wounds to the abdomen could quickly sour. Depending on the damage he could bleed out and there was always the risk of infection.
Buck let go of his shirt, wiping the tacky blood on his pant leg. By now the throb in his skull, momentarily overshadowed by the more concerning stabbing, burning in his side, had receded to a dull headache, the sort of thing he might get if he missed out on caffeine or slept like crap. A quick hand to his head discovered dried blood on his left temple.
What the…
Afraid he might find yet another new scrape, or worse, Buck turned his focus to his surroundings. Metal. He was surrounded by metal. The space was confined, small, perhaps the length of a standard sedan, and barren of most furnishings. There were no windows, not even a light in the ceiling. The only glow, what little there was of it, came from a camping lantern in one corner. Beside it he was happy to note the presence of bottles of water and what looked like a box of crackers. Not exactly eating at the Ritz—is that even still a place?—but anything was better than absolutely nothing.
With some effort Buck grasped one of the bottles, tearing off the cap. He brought it to his lips, hesitating as it began to come tumbling back.
He stood outside his Jeep in the lot of his apartment, phone in hand, debating on what to text Bobby, the sun sinking closer to the horizon. As much as he wanted to sit down with his mentor, his captain, he also wanted one more day to just be in his own existence, get his head screwed on right as Eddie might say. And of course, thinking of Eddie fouled his mood further, another complication in need of fixing. He'd figure it out. Eventually. Somehow.
He's so engrossed in his phone, in his thoughts, he didn't realize someone approached him until he heard the scuff of a sneaker on pavement. By then it's too late, pain exploding in his back, the edges of his vision blurring.
"You don't know me," a voice rasped in his ear, "but I know all about you Evan Buckley and what you mean to Bobby Nash. Shame you befriended him."
Buck reacted, elbowing his attacker, catching the man by surprise. He still had his keys in his hand, the door of his Jeep open so he made the attempt the get in, managing to get in the seat. There wasn't time to close the door, though, or even start the engine before his attacker, a man he realized looked vaguely familiar, stepped up to his side, grabbed him by the back of the head, and slammed him forward into the steering wheel.
After that, everything went blank, the world washed away in darkness until he awoke again in… Whatever this place is. It took another solid few minutes, in which he downed the entire bottle of water, for his brain to give up the identity of the man who stabbed him. Is this how Maddie felt after her fight with Doug?
The man in question happened to be a neighbor, one of those people Buck saw in passing, exchanging pleasantries here and there, but never really putting forth any effort in getting to know them. Like being his bestie would have saved me from this.
They weren't on a call. He didn't fall and get hurt on the job. He'd been taken from outside his own apartment while contemplating what to say to one person and on the way to have dinner with his sister. How long ago was that? How much time had he lost? Did they even know he was missing? Was anyone even looking for him?
