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Eddie’s eyes are gritty, lids lowered, lethargically blinking—heavy, like the sorrow in his heart. He stares blankly at his silver star through damp lashes. It’s a symbol of his achievement—the lives that he'd saved.
Only, it’s all a lie.
He picks it up, cradles it in shaking hands—and hurls it against the far wall. It doesn't even dent the drywall; doesn't even detach from itself, embedded so snugly in velvet. The sound of impact is muffled, not even a meaty thump. It gleams from its place on the ground–the biggest fucking lie that fuels the maelstrom in his heart.
He doesn’t even know what it was all for.
(It was all for nothing.)
He’s not sure when he picks up the bat, only that it’s solid in his hands like nothing else is; that it's not splintered and slipping through his fingers, broken, shattered, gone like the lives of his team. Like his wife.
Fury is a jagged shard of molten glass lodged in his chest, twisting and twining with the grief; an entirely new creature clawing its way out and shredding everything in its wake.
He welcomes the rage like an old friend—apparently the only one still thriving. The violence following hand in hand is a familiar song, and he's happy to sing it. Only, there's no catharsis. No rush of adrenaline and primal thrill. Just a raw, relentless, wildness erupting from the plundered, hollow depths of him.
The more he screams the more the chasm in his chest yawns, wider and endlessly deep. A gaping, laughing maw at the futility of it all–like he's careening down a too steep incline with no breaks and no notion of how to stop; like the helicopter is still on its way down and certain death is rapidly approaching at less than a hundred feet and the count is up.
The more he destroys the more it feels like it’s him that's breaking. All that's left of control unspooling in tattered ribbons of agony, of despair, a dying creature finally come to grips with fate.
Because none of them had escaped.
Because he’s still here but maybe it’s his turn to die and then it’ll be done.
He’s tried nearly all his life to be the best that he could possibly be. From impossibly stifling, horribly rigid standards–straight into what’s essentially more of the same, trading one kind of chain for another.
He’s tried to be a good man, even though he knows he isn’t, and yet. Yet. Is it truly all for nothing?
Almost everything he touches seems to die.
It’s only right, then. It’s only right that he dies. Before he takes anyone else out. Before it catches up to him. To those he loves still. To his team, now. His child–the best of all of him.
There’s a part of him that knows. A voice of reason. Voices, plural, that sound like Buck and Bobby. Chim. Hen. Frank. It’s not about him. That Mills took her life when not even the Valley of Death phased her is on her. That Binder would rather escape this reality permanently instead of facing it when he’d barely flinched at ambushing insurgents, that’s on him.
But regret is thick in Eddie’s throat. Strangling. Suffocating. And right now, Eddie can’t remember how to breathe.
Christopher almost doesn't hear it. Explosions and rapid gunfire are forefront, elation and smug satisfaction at perfect kills.
He'll never be able to say why he pauses, muting his headphones until he hears it.
The sound sends chills up his spine, traveling along his skin and spreading goosebumps in its wake. He sits frozen with indecision and possibly fear. He's never heard the sound before. He shifts uneasily. No, that’s a lie. Jonathan Shirley showed him a video of a dying rabbit before. He tries not to think about it, doesn't want to remember, but he does. The awful sounds it had made before it went silent is etched into memory. The rawness of it is burned in his brain.
He doesn't watch the videos Jonathan Shirley wants to show him anymore.
But there's something similar now. Something screaming like it's dying, vocal chords higher pitched and peeling like an orange. And it sort if sounds like his dad.
He pulls his headphones off, shivering as the sound continues, accompanied by crashing. What should he do? Swallowing, he gets to his feet and goes to investigate, because everyone he knows is a hero and so he can do no less. He has no choice. His dad might be dying. Why else would he be screaming like that? What if they’re being attacked?
He hastily wipes away the tears edging his eyes, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and leaves the safety of his room. Because whatever the case, he has to help: his dad needs him.
His steps are slow, hesitant even as he draws nearer to his dad's door, dread curling in a squirming, wriggling pit in his stomach, like the ball of snakes in that one video.
A surge of some unnamed fear has him slamming his hand against the door.
“Dad! Dad!”
His dad doesn't answer. Tears slip down his cheeks and he sniffles hard to try and stop them. Even though his dad says it’s alright to cry. Even though Buck cries all the time. Because they won’t help him now. They won’t make his dad answer. His dad always answers. He has no reason not to. But he's not answering and something that sounds like him is screaming like it’s dying. Like the rabbit that had been eviscerated and all it knew was agony. And as much as it sends the hair on Christopher’s arms standing, he's terrified of what it means if it stops.
He slams a few more times, calling, to no avail. He leans against the door, soft hiccups and heaving breaths as he tries to think. Tries not to panic. What should he do? What can he do?
His dad needs help, and Christopher can’t help him.
It’s clear what he needs to do.
He pushes away and hurries back to his bedroom, nearly tripping and sprawling over the door jamb before he manages to catch himself. Toe throbbing, he tosses his desk, eyes darting around frantically. Pencils and pens and worksheets scatter on the floor before he spots what he’s looking for.
Grabbing his cell phone, Christopher hurries back to his dad’s door.
Buck is laughing as he picks up the phone, but there’s a jolt of apprehension when he recognizes who exactly is calling.
It’s never a good thing when Christopher is calling this late at night. At the very least, Chris had called this time instead of just shown up via Uber. Kid’s precocious as hell. Buck is still mad at that driver for accepting the ride from someone who was clearly a child.
“Hey, Chris.”
The smile fades as he listens to Christopher screaming for his dad.
“Chris?” He calls more urgently, phone gripped tight.
“Buck! Something is wrong with dad!”
He doesn’t get much more out of Chris, who is still screaming for his father, but at least he manages to get across that he’s on his way.
And he is.
Already out the door with barely a word to Taylor. He’s not even sure how he gets from his apartment to Eddie’s house, but he’s sure several traffic laws were broken. He barely parks properly, almost half on the curb and has to fumble for a moment to properly turn the car off.
“Chris?”
The sight of Chris’ tears is a direct shot to his heart. He goes to his knees before him, only half distracted by the sounds of destruction on the other side of a closed door. Eddie’s door.
“Hey. Hey. Hey, buddy. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t know where to touch. His hands flutter nervously over Christopher’s tiny form. He’s growing, he is, but he’s still so small, so frail, in comparison to Buck. The fact that he’s red-faced and crying is just an additional layer of stress.
“He won’t come out,” Chris says, breath hitching. “I keep calling him, but he won’t answer.”
Buck stares at the door, as though if he tries hard enough, he’ll be able to see just what the hell is going on. Eddie would never ignore Christopher—has never ignored his son. Something is horribly wrong.
“Um, okay. Well, y-you just wai—“ He stops, considers. He doesn’t know what he’s going to find in there. Whatever he finds, he definitely doesn’t want Chris to see it. Knows Eddie wouldn’t, even if Eddie wouldn’t—but then Eddie currently is, and man, what the hell is going on, what can he even do here—
Stop. Panic later.
He takes a deep breath and smiles what has to be the world’s smallest smile. It seems to help anyway. Christopher takes another shuddering breath before it evens out, hastily reaching up to wipe more tears away. Tiny shoulders relax just the tiniest bit as he stares up at Buck. The faith shining in those eyes, even to this day, even now, is humbling.
Buck takes those tiny shoulders and squeezes.
“Thank you for calling me, Chris. It was a good idea to get some help, and I’m here to help, okay? I’ll take care of your dad, I promise. But it’s getting late, so…so let me take care of your dad, while you get ready for bed. Ah,” he forestalls the argument he sees building in that cherubic face. “I promise, I’ll try to get your dad to come see you and apologize for scaring you, but he may not be feeling like himself, okay? Right now, I need to you take care of yourself as best as you can and leave your dad to me. Can you do that? Do you trust me?” He lets his hands slide down to Christopher’s elbows, peering intently at him.
Chris mulls over this, then sighs, head drooping and clearly unhappy. “Okay, Buck.”
Buck smiles in relief. “So what are we doing?” What is he doing?
“Going to bed.”
“Atta boy.” Buck pulls Chris in for a hug and drops a kiss on the crown of his head, breathing deep the hints of kid shampoo, as though he can draw strength from him. “We’re okay, Chris. Your dad’s okay. I promise.” He tightens the hug in extra reassurance before letting go. He silently hopes he’s not lying.
Another brief, faltering smile as he sends Chris off. Because he really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but it can’t be anything good. He is more than aware that Eddie has a temper, has darkness he carries around like a shroud, sometimes, but this? This ignoring his son is entirely uncharacteristic behavior and truthfully, a possibly out of control Eddie is something terrifying because Buck’s never met him.
But terrifying things have never stopped Buck before. It’s practically in his job description, and the other half of his bravery is inside this room. There’s nothing that will keep from going to face whatever this is. Together, hopefully.
It’s silent, now.
He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.
“Uh, hey. Hey, Eddie. It’s uh…It’s me. Can I come in?” He tries the door even though it’s locked, as expected. “All right, Eddie, I-I’m gonna come in, okay? Stay away from the door.”
He doesn’t think about the things he usually finds on the other side of locked doors, because Eddie has no reason to, would never…would he?
He glances back to make sure Christopher isn’t still lurking and then shoulders his way in. The door gives easily.
Buck barely catches his balance, hanging on tight to the doorknob, distracted by the sheer amount of damage he’s seeing. He ducks the flicker of movement, a quick glimpse of Eddie’s wet and startled face and the—freaking bat?? flying past.
“Eddie, what the hell? It’s Buck! It’s Buck!”
He grabs at the bat and yanks, stumbling in surprise when it comes easily. He tosses it away with a clatter. Neither of them look to see where it lands because Buck is already in Eddie’s face.
Eddie, who is now screaming incoherently at him, eyes utterly dark with an anguish that makes his own water in sympathy. All Buck can do is hang on, fingers wrapped tight around straining arms. Eddie yanks away, but Buck follows, wrapping both arms around him. He pulls them back and brings them both down, bouncing on the bed and sliding to the ground as he struggles to keep his best friend contained even as his heart is breaking.
Because Eddie is weeping. Loud and hopeless. Like his world has ended somewhere between yesterday and now and his pain is gushing unchecked. Buck squeezes, trying to anchor him, as though it will be enough to keep Eddie from breaking even further apart.
“Eddie! Eddie, calm down! Eddie, please! Please calm down.” Panic is fizzling in his veins and worry has ratcheted into fear; a pounding pulse in his ear and gasping breaths that aren’t enough air. He still doesn’t know what’s going on and that's the worst thing of all. What the hell happened between yesterday and today?
But Eddie is still straining against his hold, eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears.
Buck pushes his legs out, knees bracketing Eddie on both sides and ankles half locked together, arms in a vise across Eddie’s chest—Eddie’s back a line of too much heat against his own.
He strokes at sweat soaked hair and whispers softly into Eddie's ear, temple pressed against tear and sweat soaked skin.
“Shhhh. Shhhh. I'm with you.”
Everything will be okay, I promise.
He knows better than to say those words out loud. Eddie probably doesn’t even want him here. They’ve come a long way, but rare is the Eddie that completely exposes himself like this, that just comes completely undone. And Buck, he doesn’t know how to navigate this minefield. Is afraid to, lest he step in something that makes everything worse.
His hands have settled right over Eddie’s heart, and he takes comfort in the beat found beneath his fingertips. Even if the rhythm is still furious. Even if it’s accompanied by quiet and miserable sniffling and intermittent shuddering and still too many hitched breaths.
Eventually, the tense line of Eddie's body relaxes against him, slumped like a bag of spilled grain. His head drops back onto Buck’s shoulder.
He forces his own muscles to relax, to not hang on so tightly now that Eddie's calmer. They ache from the strain, shaking now that the adrenaline is draining. His heart is still pounding too hard, but it at last feels like he has room to breathe.
They’ll get through this, whatever this is.
Whatever Eddie needs, Buck will give it to him. Anything to stop Eddie from feeling like he's still shaking to pieces in Buck’s arms, would have, still can, if Buck doesn't hold on tighter.
He holds on tighter.
It's well into the gray early morning by the time Eddie shifts. Buck loosens his hold, wincing as various joints pop from being locked all night.
“Why are you here?”
“Christopher called me.”
A wounded noise.
“I have to–“
“Hey, hey. Relax. You can talk to him later. I asked him to go to bed when I got here. He was fine.”
“Is he really fine?”
“I mean, he was scared out of his mind, but he’s—he’s probably sleeping fine.” Buck adds, softly, “I was worried, too.”
“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare him. You.” Eddie’s voice cracks. “Just kind of…lost it.”
“It’s okay,” Buck whispers. He lets out a long, quiet breath and tries not to worry. Eddie is talking. This is progress. He hopes.
He gives it another long moment, loathe to pull away from that heartbeat, but eventually has to force himself to shift away.
Eddie tenses.
“I'm not going far,” Buck reassures. Unease, and a tiny bit of hurt, flit through him as Eddie lets go all at once. He sits up and leans away, enough that they’re no longer touching. Buck immediately hates the hunched line of those shoulders.
“Eddie?” He lays a gentle hand on Eddie’s back, unsure of the welcome.
Eddie is unresponsive.
He tries again, softer. “Eddie?”
A shaky, hiccuping sob.
Oh no.
Buck hastily scrambles to his knees and over next to Eddie.
Eddie only hunches even further, almost cowering, hand covering his eyes.
“Hey, hey, Eddie” he pleads, rubbing at the rigid line of Eddie’s spine, “tell me what’s going on.”
Eddie continues weeping.
Buck exhales shakily, about to start crying himself. This is entirely unlike Eddie and he’s at a loss. He settles back down and waits, struggling to breath evenly against Eddie’s hitching breaths. He’s no use if he starts crying too. He just has to be patient. Eddie will speak when he’s ready, when he can. Buck hopes, anyway. It’s entirely possible that Eddie may still decide to shut him out and that would just—
“They’re all dead.” Comes the strangled, choked reply.
The uncontrollable hitches make Buck’s heart hurt. Then the words register and it sinks even further.
“Who-who’s all dead?”
“Everybody that I saved.”
Eddie twists around to glare at him, devastation shining in his eyes and streaming down his face.
“They’re all dead!”
“They’re all dead.”
Buck is unsure if he should keep asking, but Eddie keeps going anyway, the words rushing from him as though he can’t help it.
“I was supposed to…reach out to some of the people I served with. Part of my therapy.”
Oh no. He almost doesn’t want Eddie to keep going. “Okay. I, uh, I-I didn't know you still kept in touch with any of them.”
“Truth is I didn’t. I haven’t talked to any of them since I moved out here. I pulled four people out of that chopper alive. Chief died in-country a couple years later. Rest of us made it home safe.”
He doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway, because Eddie’s staring at him like he needs Buck to ask. “And uh wh-what happened to the others?”
“Norwahl died in a car crash. Binder OD’d, and Mills…shot herself last August.” Eddie looks away. “I pulled them out. But I didn’t save them.” A shuddering breath.
“So, that’s why you took a baseball bat to everything you own?” Small mercies, that it had been a bat and not Eddie's fists. That it had been inanimate objects and not…people.
And that’s just—this is worse than he’d possibly imagined. There’s just no—what does he do now? What can he do?
“I’m afraid,” Eddie admits.
“Okay. Okay. Well, what are you afraid of?”
"That I’m never gonna feel normal again."
Buck’s lips twist. He wants to say that there is no normal. That Eddie is strong and he'll get through this. But what if he doesn’t? What if he can’t? Buck doesn't know what to do about the blatant shadows lurking in Eddie's eyes; how far he'll sink into them, and if he'll manage to climb back out. Half of it is probably exhaustion, but the other half is a grief Buck doesn’t think he’s ever experienced.
What can he do here? That’s the worst part about all of this. He doesn’t think he can help at all. He wishes–selfishly, arrogantly, desperately–that he had the magic words to fix this, to ease Eddie's pain, maybe even take it away.
But he knows with absolute certainty that every action he takes, all the things he wants to suggest, can and will make it that much worse.
Because Eddie’s people are dead. A final, irreversible end.
And Buck, he can barely solve his own problems, so minuscule in comparison; hasn't examined too closely the why of it all. A tangled ball of what the fuck am I doing that he hasn’t yet figured out and doesn’t think about. He hasn't even called her yet, knows she’s probably worried out of her mind and that he only just patched one of the cracks in their relationship–only to put yet another one in.
Buck exhales, squeezing Eddie's shoulder and climbs to his feet. He holds out a hand, but doesn’t say anything, just waits.
Eddie stares at his hand and then up at his face, eyes tired and swollen and so fucking lost. They grow damp with tears and drop, lashes lowering.
Buck falters, lips pressed into thin worried lines, but reaches down with both hands this time, sliding into Eddie’s and pulling, levering him up and into a proper hug.
He doesn’t say anything, even though the words are there. There’s no consolation in grief. Less in despair. He squeezes tight and lets it anchor Eddie. Hopes it does. At least for a little.
When he finally lets go, it’s reluctantly.
"The first part to being normal is getting a good night's sleep," Buck says, treads, lightly. Eddie’s gaze stays lowered, but he doesn’t resist when Buck takes his hand and leads him out of the bedroom, away from despair. He guides Eddie into the living room and down onto the couch; wraps him up in a throw and sits down on the coffee table next to him, keeping at least one hand grasped firmly in his.
“Get some rest, Eddie. I’ll be here.” Things will look better in the morning, he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t know if they actually will be. He hopes, though.
Eddie watches him through lowered lashes, still wet but thankfully not overflowing, gaze distant and already fading.
And Buck, he just sits there, watching, until they close completely.
He lets out another slow, unsteady breath. The lump in his throat doesn’t dissipate at all.
What even is normal? He definitely doesn't know.
It's so unfair, really. Can't a guy catch a break? Because if anyone deserves it, it’s definitely Eddie. How many more hits can he take? How many setbacks? Everyone has a breaking point, but Buck wants to go his entire life without finding out where Eddie’s is.
"I’m still here," he says quietly, earnestly. "Christopher is here. Your team is still here, Eddie, and we’ll help you back up every single time, man. It sucks that they died. Really, really sucks. But we’re still here and we’ll carry you, always, if you need it, until you feel like yourself again. Whatever given definition of normal you can live with. So don’t give up on me. On us. Don't you dare give up."
And Buck, he won’t give up either. Because even if he doesn’t know exactly how to help Eddie with this, the team is still here.
He pulls out his phone; considers, for all of half a second, but there's only one choice in the end.
"Hey, Bobby?" He says quietly, when the call connects. "I'm sorry to call so late…or early, depending on how you look at—uh, uh no. I-I'm fine." He exhales. "I'm fine," he repeats, voice cracking slightly, "b-but I need your help. Eddie needs your help."