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The call itself had been routine chaos —sirens slicing through traffic, heat shimmering off asphalt, adrenaline turning the world sharp and metallic.
Eddie had moved like she always did —focused, fast, capable, despite being twelve weeks pregnant and still stubborn about heavy duty. She’d insisted she felt fine, being able to manage her symptoms while at work. And Buck has always been a little proud and little worried for her, so this is nothing new essentially.
It only takes one misstep.
Her boot catches on uneven pavement while they’re hauling equipment back toward the engine. The world tilts. There’s a split second where gravity bares its teeth.
Buck feels it before she sees it —the shift in Eddie’s balance, the way her shoulders pitch forward. She drops what she’s holding without hesitation and lunges, catching Eddie around the waist, bracing her own knees hard against the ground to absorb the impact. They go down together, but it’s more controlled. Buck twists, taking most of it on her hip and shoulder.
Eddie’s palm, instinctively outstretched, takes the worst of it —earning a scrape, a zingy sting of skin against concrete.
For a breathless second, Buck is all noise and panic. “Eds— Eddie— are you okay? Talk to me.”
Eddie blinks up at her, stunned, breath knocked thin but steady. “I’m okay,” she says quickly, almost automatically. “I’m okay.”
They run through the checks right there on the pavement. No abdominal pain. No dizziness beyond the shock. No cramping. Just a shallow scrape on her hand and pride bruised more than anything else.
Buck doesn’t let go of her waist until Eddie physically pries her fingers loose with a small, reassuring squeeze.
“I’m okay, baby,” she says under her breath, patting Buck’s hip.
Back at the station, the adrenaline drains away and leaves something colder behind.
Eddie disappears into the bathroom first. Buck thinks she’s just cleaning the scrape, running water over it, maybe catching her breath, or maybe she just needed to fucking pee. It takes longer than it should.
Then Buck’s phone buzzes.
Come to the bunk room.
Please.
The please is what does it.
Buck finds her sitting on the edge of the her usual bunk, shoulders hunched, hands braced on her knees. The overhead lights are off. The room is dim except for a thin stripe of afternoon sun cutting through the blinds.
Eddie looks up and Buck knows instantly this isn’t about a scraped palm.
“There’s blood,” Eddie says, voice already shaking. “Not a lot. Just— spotting. But, Buck— there’s blood.”
“Hey.” Buck moves to her immediately, kneeling between her knees, hands coming up to cup her face. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” she says, steady on purpose. “It’s okay. How much?”
“Just when I wiped,” Eddie whispers. “It’s light. It’s not—” Her breath stutters. “But I fell, Buck. What if I— what if I hurt them? What if I—”
Her composure fractures.
Buck has seen Eddie face burning buildings without flinching. She has watched her command scenes with calm authority when it was needed. But this— this is different. This is the soft underbelly of fear that lives beneath every heartbeat of a pregnancy after loss, after trauma.
Eddie presses her palms to her eyes like she can physically stop the spiral. “I should’ve been more careful. I shouldn’t be doing heavy duty. I shouldn’t— Christopher—” Her voice breaks on his name. “I already messed up once. What if my body just— what if I ruin this too?”
Buck’s heart aches at the way guilt still lives in her, coiled and venomous.
“Baby,” Buck says softly, thumbs brushing under Eddie’s eyes to make her look at her. “No. No, we are not doing that.”
Eddie’s breath comes shallow. “Buck—”
“Christopher’s cerebral palsy was not your fault,” Buck says, steady and unyielding. “We have been over this. Doctors have been over this. You did everything right. Sometimes things happen that no one controls. Not you. Not me. Not anyone.”
Eddie shakes her head, tears spilling anyway. “But what if I caused this?”
Buck leans closer, pressing their foreheads together. “Light spotting in the first trimester is common,” she says carefully. “Really common. I read the journals, remember? Twenty to thirty percent of pregnancies have some spotting. Every one in four women. Especially after physical exertion. Or stress. Or even nothing at all. It doesn’t automatically mean miscarriage.”
Eddie swallows hard. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure that spotting alone isn’t a verdict,” Buck replies. “You said it’s light. No cramping? No sharp pain?”
Eddie shakes her head.
“Okay,” Buck nods. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
She pulls her phone out immediately, fingers already moving. “I’m calling the clinic. We’ll get you in today. Right now if they can manage it. We’ll get an ultrasound. We’ll hear the heartbeat. And if they tell us to put you on desk duty for the rest of the pregnancy, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Eddie lets out a fragile laugh. “You’d love that. Bubble wrap me.”
“Absolutely,” Buck says without hesitation. “I will personally construct a protective force field. You will not lift anything heavier than a pillow.”
That earns a faint, watery smile.
Buck squeezes her hands. “You didn’t fall on your stomach. I caught you. It was minimal impact. You scraped your palm. That’s it. Your body is strong. It knows what it’s doing.”
Eddie’s hand drifts down to her lower abdomen, a little protective and a little apologetic. “I just— I can’t lose them,” she whispers.
Buck feels the weight of that. The quiet fear that has followed them since the positive test. The knowledge that joy and terror often arrive holding hands.
“We’re not losing this baby,” Buck says softly, not as a promise she can control, but as faith she chooses. “And if anything is even slightly off, we handle it. Together. You don’t carry that alone. Okay, baby?”
Eddie bites her lip and watches Buck quietly. Buck presses a kiss to her scraped palm first, gentle around the raw skin, then another to her knuckles, then to her lips.
“My brave, stubborn wife,” she murmurs. “You are not broken. Your body is not defective. You grew Christopher. You’re growing this little bean right now. And I am so, so proud of you.”
Eddie exhales, shaky but steadier than before. She leans forward and folds into Buck’s arms, face buried in her shoulder. Buck holds her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head.
The clinic receptionist answers. Buck keeps her voice calm as she explains —twelve weeks, minor fall, light spotting, no pain. She nods along to instructions, and books the earliest appointment available.
“They can see us in an hour,” she says when she hangs up. “We’re going now.”
Eddie nods, wiping at her cheeks. “Okay.”
Buck helps her stand slowly, watching for any sign of dizziness. There’s none. Just nerves and love and a thin thread of fear they will carry to the car and into that examination room.
“Whatever happens,” she says quietly, “we face it together.”
And Eddie squeezes back, “I love you, too.”
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