Eddie blinks, eyes blearily roaming over his surroundings. The space sways, or he does, but he's alert enough to make it out. The elevator is still dark, and the doors are still sealed. There's an eery silence around them, not even the droning of the emergency light can be heard, and yet it’s still on, crowning Buck in a glacial halo that has Eddie squinting from its intensity. How is Buck here?
“Eddie,” he says again, and it is his voice.
It’s his intonation, it’s his timber, it’s the same way Eddie’s heard his name come from this mouth hundreds, thousands of times. The sound of it pulls a sob from deep within his chest. It’s like a salve to his injuries, permeating relief into every interstice in his mind.
His reprieve is swept away by heartrending clarity, because he shouldn’t be hearing it. He can’t be hearing it because Buck can’t be here. Buck is somewhere in the building, a few floors away from Eddie who’s still suspended mid-air in a dark echoing shaft, stuck in-between.
The hand that shouldn’t exist grips tighter around his wrist, and Eddie resists its pull. The touch is uncanny through the layer of sweat and gore.
Every detail feels real, the slight tremor of the grasp, the calloused palms, the blunt and bitten nails pinching lightly where the circle of his hand closes. If it weren’t for the grime covering his skin, Eddie thinks he might recognize the ridges of his fingerprints.
“Eddie, please, let me help.”
He sounds frantic, red-rimmed eyes fixed on Eddie’s face. How long has he been trying to get Eddie to respond?
“You can’t,” he breathes, wincing when the movement of his ribs shifts his torn skin. “You can’t be here, you shouldn’t be here.”
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