Chapter Text
Maybe if he'd been a better Sentinel, Buck could've saved more people; known ahead of time and got everyone off the pier. Maybe he would've realized the heavy, swooping wrongness that suddenly hit him like a baseball bat to the stomach wasn't just useless envy of that other firehouse or too much junk food. Hell, he was sitting right over the ocean, feeling like his guts were still careening around on the Shark Frenzy ride, and it'd taken Christopher literally turning his head towards the water before Buck caught a clue what was really wrong.
Then again, if Buck was a better Sentinel, he would've had a Guide. And if he'd had a Guide, he would've known there was a bomb in the ladder truck. Instead, he'd assumed his senses were just glitching out on him again.
They did that a lot: just kind of…flickered, every so often. Like, he'd get a sudden whiff of scent out of nowhere, or hear a noise nobody else did he couldn't place. Or he'd touch something and his skin would suddenly be so sensitive it'd hurt.
It hadn't even bothered him at first, because they'd happened before, though it'd been years since they'd become a nuisance like this. But then they got worse instead of going away, and when he'd looked it up he found out they were called "Pre-Spikes," and it was definitely a Guideless Sentinel thing. That was a little scary, but his weren't nearly as bad as the Medline article said. They weren't incapacitating, or anything. The little flickers only ever lasted a few seconds, didn't hurt that much, and went away on their own. They were like background noise. Definitely nothing worth bugging Chim for, and especially not Eddie.
Problem was, he'd got so used to ignoring weird, out-of-place sensory info, it never occurred to him that this once it might actually mean something. Not until the truck blew up and he'd been trapped underneath it.
Hell, the whole reason Buck and Christopher were even at Pacific Park was Buck's crushed leg, courtesy of him being a lousy Sentinel. Because since he didn't have a Guide, he didn't heal fast. And since he didn't heal fast, he needed metal pins in his leg. And the metal pins in his leg threw blood clots unless he took blood thinners. And since he was on blood thinners, Bobby wouldn't let him back to work, in case Buck cut himself and bled out.
Hen and even Chim had advocated for Buck to stay with the 118, because they both knew making Buck leave would tear him apart. But Eddie had agreed with Bobby. And since Eddie was Buck's Guide, he was the one Bobby listened to.
Eddie had told Buck he didn't want him in danger while he was still healing. He'd talked about the Sentinel-Guide pairs he'd worked with in Afghanistan, who'd been pushed back into the field too soon and been hurt or killed because of it. And Eddie had explained over and over again how Buck really wasn't being exiled from his pack; he just needed some downtime.
Buck knew all that. It didn't change anything. He still staggered out of the firehouse feeling like he was leaving his shredded heart behind. Weeks later he still felt pinned down by a despair heavier than the truck that had done this to him.
Well, no. Not the truck. He was a bad Sentinel. He'd done it to himself.
And then that morning Eddie had come in, dropped off Christopher, "suggested" Buck could take him to the movies, and left. Because he was an asshole who knew Buck would do anything for that kid, including shoving down the sorrow that made it hard to even breathe.
And since he'd do anything for Christopher, Buck had taken him to Pacific Park. Because Christopher wanted to go to the pier more than seeing a film.
So now they were both going to die, because Buck was such a bad Sentinel he couldn't even notice a fucking tsunami until it was just about literally on top of them.
He heard the siren, and he knew he needed to grab Christopher and run. But he'd been watching the wave rush towards them like a foaming wall, roaring so loudly it was like he could hear it in his bones. And the salt bit his eyes and skin and stung like glass in his lungs, and suddenly it was as if he'd become the water. Or, the water was inside of him. Everywhere. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He was nothing but salt and noise and bright, deadly churning—
"Sentinel! Sentinel! Baseline! Drop to baseline!" someone yelled. A woman. A Guide. Her voice, her presence, sliced through the water in his head, helped him push his senses back. Let him pull himself to the surface when he hadn't even known he was drowning.
Buck gasped in a breath that wasn't water but air, and he was a person again, standing stupidly on the pier about to die.
He threw Christopher over his shoulder and ran.
Baseline. Baseline. Baseline. The Guide's command beat in his head like the shock and slap of the waves as they rolled and shoved him like a toy. Drop to baseline! Because if Buck didn't, he and Christopher would drown.
Buck couldn't zone here. He couldn't allow himself to be overwhelmed any more than he already was: tossed and churned in the water with no idea where the sky was and his lungs acid with the need for air.
Baseline. Drop to baseline. He chanted it like a mantra as he fought in the direction he hoped was up; pulled his senses in tight; stayed separate from the water. Until he finally breached the surface and could breathe, then managed to snag a line of lights overhead.
"CHRISTOPHER!" he screamed, winced at how loud his voice sounded, then yanked his senses back in. Baseline, baseline. He screamed Christopher's name again, tried to raise his hearing, find the boy by his heartbeat if he (God, oh God) wasn't able to talk. But when he tried the noise of the water hit him like an explosion. He almost let go of the cord to slap his hands over his ears. And then in his panic he pulled his hearing in too far, and for a terrifying moment he couldn't remember how to reverse it.
Ease it up, Buck. You just need it at baseline. Not too high or low, just right. Like Goldilocks. You're good. It's good. Buck clung to the memory of Eddie's voice like he clung to the light cord, opening his hearing by increments until the world came back. And then he heard Christopher screaming for him.
Buck had no memory of how he managed to grab Christopher when the boy lost his grip on the light pole, or how he got them both onto the roof of the semi-submerged ladder truck. He was only really aware of the need to protect the child.
And then when they were safe, all he could do was lie prone on the cab roof and breathe, gritting his teeth as his senses flickered like fireflies. The truck roof was too hot, then the water was too loud, then the sun was too bright, then the smell of the debris was nauseating. Baseline, baseline, baseline, he chanted, and this time it was the Guide woman's voice again, not Eddie's.
He wished she were with him now. He really wished Eddie was with him, filling the empty, cold places in his head. But that wouldn't happen even if Eddie was right next to him. Eddie had made it very clear how much he didn't want a bond, and Buck would never force himself on anyone.
But it was alright. He didn't need a Guide. He lay there and breathed until the water, the air, the light and the truck under him gradually settled into place and he could finally open his eyes.
"Buck?" Christopher asked, still panting a little, "you okay?"
"Yeah, buddy." Buck hid his wince, then lowered his hearing a little more before he climbed to his hands and knees. "I'm great."
Clara Williams would be damned if she drowned in a tsunami barely a day after arriving in Los Angeles. If only to keep her son from crowing, "I told you so!" to her waterlogged corpse.
Danny had been shocked and appalled his mother had wanted to spend two whole days in a "bourgeois-infested, burning hellhole about to sink into the ocean." Her son had strong opinions, one of the many things she loved about him. But Clara had been back and forth from New Jersey to Hawaii twice a year for ages, and she'd never seen any part of California besides the airport. She wasn't much for amusement park rides these days, but the Pacific Park pier, with all the lights, colors, and lovely view, seemed like a perfect way to spend an afternoon.
She was regretting that decision now. The airport was much farther inland.
But she'd managed to clutch a broken piece of the game stall she'd seen the Sentinel run to with the boy, and she might have lost her purse and her favorite earrings, but she was still alive and planned on staying that way. And if she could just catch the firehose someone had strung up like a people-net between the fire truck and a pile of cars, it'd make her plan that much easier.
She'd become one of a throng of swimmers, bobbing haplessly along like bedraggled rubber ducks. She was a little concerned there'd be a pileup against the hose when they all hit it, and maybe it'd come loose or someone would lose their grip and drown. Except there was a young man in red and white like a beacon, snatching whoever came close and aiming them towards the truck like beads on a string.
It was the Sentinel from the pier. She remembered that hoodie, and especially his shields: rough and porous as an old sack. She'd been stalking towards him right before the tsunami hit, so concerned for him and furious at his Guide, she'd completely ignored what the forming crowd was looking at until she heard the blare of the alarm.
She'd shouted for him to lower his senses, because with shields that fragile he'd never be able to protect himself from the multi-sensory onrush otherwise. But the water had come down before she knew if he'd even heard her. And then she could only worry about herself.
But he was here, and he'd saved all of them. And even though Clara was close enough now to feel his exhaustion and fear, he was still grabbing everyone he could and helping them get to the fire truck and climb out. And he'd managed it with shields so poor they were almost useless.
This Sentinel, whoever he was, was magnificent. Clara just wanted to know where the hell his Guide was, so she could kick their ass. But first she had to get out of the water.
He turned towards her, and the delighted wonder that lit up his cut and battered face was humbling. She'd barely done anything to help him, and now she was just another person in need of rescue, adding to his exhaustion and stress. But even in the chaos, she didn't miss the fear that flashed through his eyes before he extended his hand.
She didn't understand it though, until she clasped his forearm and then she absolutely did. And, oh. Oh, dear. Oh fucking hell.
He didn't have a useless, negligent Guide. He didn't have a Guide at all. But he could, and it could be her. It could be her so, so easily. It would be just like sliding a key into a lock. Like taking a step. Like breathing. All she had to do was let it happen, and they'd be bonded.
Clara was sixty-five years old. She'd been an active Guide since she was sixteen. She had never, ever been compatible with a Sentinel. Some Guides weren't. She'd shed her tears decades ago, become a Guide counselor and helped distressed Sentinels for nearly forty years. She'd loved her job, been at peace with never bonding for a long, long time. And now this Sentinel could be hers.
She was so shocked she almost let it happen: bonded with a complete stranger in the middle of a tsunami. But then she remembered they were in California, and he was probably less than half her age, and she retreated from him so fast she made herself dizzy.
She nearly lost her grip, but his was unshakable. "I got you. I got you," he said, loud enough for her to hear over the water.
She nodded numbly, too rocked to speak, barely helping as he dragged her over to the truck. But she still caught his sorrow, as there-and-gone as his fear had been. And the bitter resignation that replaced it.
She only partially understood the sorrow—why would he want a Guide nearly old enough to be his grandmother?—and had no idea where the resignation came from. But this wasn't the place or time to ask. Clara promised herself she'd find out later, along with who this Sentinel even was, and why on Earth he didn't have a Guide. And she'd fix his shields and make them as strong as she could for him, since he had nobody else. And find him a Guide too, if she could. Someone his age who'd deserve him.
Right now though, it was all she could do to climb onto the roof of the truck when she was shaking this badly from the barely-averted bonding. The Sentinel gave her a boost, made sure she was safe, then immediately looked around for the next person.
He was amazing. He reminded her of Steve McGarrett and Bucky Barnes. The kind of Sentinels who reinforced the legends. And if she were even twenty years younger she would have been honored to be his Guide, even without knowing so much as his name.
But she wasn't twenty years younger. She couldn't be his Guide; not if there was another choice. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.
She just hoped to God there was another choice. Because he needed one very, very badly.
Eddie hauled himself up to the next spoke of the swamped Ferris wheel, wrapping his arms and legs around it like a monkey. At least it'd make a great story to tell Christopher. His son had cerebral palsy, so even walking was difficult for him. He'd love hearing about his dad's "adventure", especially since he'd never be able to do anything like it himself.
Eddie would be entirely focused on his job the moment he reached the trapped people waiting for his help. Right now, though, he had nothing to do but climb. It wasn't quite difficult enough to keep his mind from wandering, one of the reasons Eddie hated this repetitive, monotonous crap. He tended not to like the stuff he ended up thinking about.
Case in point: He was wishing Buck was with him so badly it was stupid. Especially since he was so damn happy Buck was nowhere near this mess at the same time.
And he was also feeling like an asshole. But he wasn't sure if it was for wanting Buck with him when it might mean he bled to death…Or for having been the guy who got him put on indefinite leave to make sure he wouldn't.
Worse, he also felt like an asshole for even worrying about it. He hadn't fucked up with Sentinel Buckley; he'd done exactly what he was supposed to do. A Guide protected their Sentinel no matter what, even from themselves. And Buck's health and safety were a lot more important than his emotional wellbeing. You couldn't get therapy if you were dead.
Eddie had seen what happened when a Guide didn't try hard enough to keep their Sentinel safe. He'd lived it. Twice, even if what happened to Kemper wasn't technically his fault. But with Greggs…
No question Greggs would be alive now, if Eddie had followed his instincts. But Greggs had said he was all right, and he'd wanted to go on the mission. So they went.
Eddie still felt it sometimes, nearly four years later: a cold, empty ache where his bond with Ryan had been. It was a constant, brutal reminder of how badly he'd let his Sentinel down. He'd never, ever do that again. He didn't give a damn if it cost him Chim's hatred or Hen's pity, or even the loss of Bobby's trust. Because it was inevitable their captain would eventually realize his S-G pair had never made a surface bond, despite saying they had. Hell, Eddie would probably be transferred, if he wasn't fired outright. After all, the only reason he'd been assigned to the 118 was because they had a Sentinel in need of a Guide. There was no point in him staying if the Sentinel didn't want him. And Buck didn't.
Eddie just wished he knew why. He'd agreed to bond with Buck. Fully bond. He'd wanted to. He'd wanted it, wanted Buck, from the moment he'd met him. He'd wanted Buck so badly it'd scared him. It'd been all he could do to give Buck his space, just be his friend, when he'd been pulled to him like a tide.
When Buck had agreed to bond with him, it'd been one of the best days of Eddie's life. Even if he was scared as hell. He was terrified he'd let Buck down the way he had his other Sentinels. And Eddie couldn't lose a Sentinel again. He couldn't lose Evan Buckley.
Losing Anne had gutted him for years. Losing Ryan had destroyed him. Losing Buck…
Losing Buck would obliterate him. Eddie couldn't even think about it.
But he was a soldier; he was used to fear. And he'd wanted the bond so, so much more than it'd scared him.
Only for Buck to break their kiss and push Eddie and his bond away. And then he'd told Eddie he'd changed his mind, he didn't want to bond anymore. Not even a lousy surface one. He'd begged Eddie to tell Bobby they had a surface bond, promised he and Eddie would still be friends. And then he'd all but ran out of Eddie's house while Eddie was still reeling.
And that was it. They'd let Bobby assume they had a surface bond, and Buck had never mentioned bonding to Eddie again. Eddie hadn't brought it up either, because part of him was sure Buck had somehow realized he was a bad Guide. But Eddie couldn't bear to ask, so he didn't.
And he also hadn't told Bobby the truth, despite how badly he knew he should. It wasn't only because he'd promised Buck he wouldn't; it was because this way, he could still be Buck's friend. And that was enough. It had to be enough, because it was all Eddie would get.
And if lying to Bobby meant Eddie could still have Buck in his life? He'd do it. He'd do anything. And maybe, if he was patient enough, he'd be able to change his mind.
And then Buck got trapped under a tipped ladder truck and Eddie nearly lost him anyway. And he decided he'd be okay with breaking Buck's heart, as long as that meant it kept beating.
Buck had to be safe, that was all. Eddie had failed Anne Kemper and Ryan Greggs. He wouldn't fail another Sentinel again.
But he still felt like an asshole about it, and he still missed Buck so fiercely it hurt.