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The tile was unforgiving under him, cold and making his tailbone ache. The bathroom cabinet Buck had propped himself against did little for his back, though he couldn’t summon the will to move. Beside him, the dark outline of his phone on the floor was sharp, even in the faint light.
Only a tiny nightlight, vanilla scented warmer plugged into an outlet, lit the room. However, he could still see Christopher’s socks beside the hamper, having missed their target.
Thankfully, Christopher had already crashed for the night, a little under the weather, and Eddie wasn’t home—still helping Hen and Karen move some things in their living room.
And, unfortunately, Eddie wouldn’t be back for a few hours still, and Buck didn’t want to bother him—even though he’d promised once that he would reach out if he ever found himself struggling like this again.
In truth, it scared him how easily this had sneaked up on him, sliding over him, into him, taking control.
As the whole insanity of him ending up here, on the floor of their bathroom instead of being anywhere else, had a wet-sounding laugh bubbling up his throat, making the hairs on his neck stand on end with its wrongness.
It hadn’t been since finding out about Daniel that he’d last had a moment like this, and even then, he’d resisted the worst of it, calling Eddie in his moment of need, but now? He didn’t know what was happening, but it felt like the need was chewing at his skin, making him want to slice it away.
He hadn’t cut in so long, and yet, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, he was sitting in the dark with a head full of thoughts and scissors in his hand.
It had happened so suddenly—he’d come to grab a washcloth as they’d run out of paper towels, needing something to clean up the sticky bottle of cough medicine in the kitchen. The dark burgundy liquid had dribbled down the side when he’d poured Christopher a dose before he went to lie down.
And he’d gotten as far as picking up the cloth, but it didn’t stay in his hand long as his gaze caught the outline of the scissors someone had left by the sink. The glitch it caused in his brain had his hand physically jerking away from them at first.
But then, something else started to happen; jaded shards of insidious thoughts began to cut into the happiness he’d created, making him want to bleed.
The initial temptation of it felt more like a thrill, a dare from his subconscious than anything else. Still, the more he stared at the metal of the blades, the itching need began to butt against all the ways he knew better, against the things he’d learned in therapy—because he didn’t want to do this anymore.
He didn’t—especially for no reason, which, right now, he couldn’t even name one thing wrong in his life. Everything had been going so well.
But the urge had still ensnared him, however.
Then, suddenly, the cloth slipped from his fingers as he picked up the scissors, testing their weight, his index finger holding them by the larger of the looped handles.
And standing there, he’d almost entered a trance as he naively let those thoughts roam and multiply, indulging the possibilities when he should have taken steps right then to halt them, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty.
A heaviness had begun to overtake him, which eventually folded him to the floor, so he sat with his back to the cabinet, his knees drawn close to his chest.
Then, not even realizing he still held it, he’d set his phone on the tile and focused on the weight of the shears in his hand.
Time got lost in his too-noisy breaths and the thump of his heart against his ribs, but he couldn’t set the scissors down, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he didn’t want to fuck things up like he always did.
The truth was undeniable, though, that cutting and disappointing everyone, himself and especially Eddie, for no reason, when life was sunshine and rainbows, was just so on brand for him, a genuinely epic Buck Special—a classic failure that only he could pull off.
So yeah, maybe this was part of what his therapist had been trying to get at lately. The self-sabotage he did at times out of fear when things seemed to be going too right, triggering him to fuck things up on his terms rather than allowing it to crumble painfully outside of his control.
His gaze flicked to his phone, and he had to swallow the flood of saliva, the sour guilt pooling in his stomach, almost forcing him to turn and heave into the toilet.
But instead of taking his churning stomach, that guilt, for the warning it was, he gripped the scissors tighter, feeling the textured rubber grips press into his palm as he glanced between them and his phone.
Meanwhile, all the things his therapist had told him to do faded as the itch under his skin grew, his mind chanting for him to do it just this once. What could one time hurt?
And it was at that point, not before this had all started, that he began to revisit his failures mentally, all the ways he wasn’t enough, his old demons that Eddie normally warded back became outlined in the shadow the scissors cast across the floor, oddly enough, one that reached toward his phone.
His connection to Eddie—if he were only able to reach out.
Something else had ahold of him, though, keeping him from doing that.
Because it should be easy to set the scissors down, but he couldn’t. Instead, his fingers gripped them tighter, to the point where his hand shook and forearm ached.
Just one cut.
The non-stop chanting of that phrase, the dare and challenge, the promise of an indulgence that would feel like nothing else could, surrounded Buck from the inside out, whispering and brushing against him, more a feeling than actual words, though maybe they were one and the same.
And desperately, he glanced at his phone one more time, lashes already wet and clumped because Eddie was going to be so disappointed—Buck had promised—he’d promised himself—but that didn’t stop his clumsy fingers from prying the handles open and bringing a blade to his arm, intending to cut, knowing it would be seen, though hoping to explain it away as an accident.
If he did it someplace else, such as high on his leg, under the cover of his boxer briefs, Eddie would eventually see it, knowing instantly that it had been meant to stay concealed, which would speak volumes about its nature.
But, he also didn’t want to lie to him, and no matter where he cut—if he did this—part of him knew that he’d have to fess up, as hurting himself he could do, but hurting Eddie? The thought of breaking his trust made him feel flushed, skin prickly and cold as sweat gathered on his neck.
The sour ache in his stomach had him swallowing again, his emotions, his guilt, acting more and more as a poison the longer he tried to ignore their warning.
A spiral had begun, one he couldn’t rally a fight against.
Just keep swimming, he thought idly, thinking of Christopher, another person he’d be letting down, but everything already felt too big and far gone.
Even to himself—he felt like a lost cause, and suddenly he couldn’t remember why it mattered if he followed through when he’d already come so close to the line.
And with that, something broken and mended too many times in the past snapped at an all too familiar weak point again. So instead of falling back to everything he'd learned to ease the intensity of the urge, he pressed the blade to his forearm, just holding it there, letting it bite into his skin as he sipped the air.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, his hand trembling, not wanting to follow through but unable to stop.
Then, just as he started to drag the sharp edge, feeling the first sting of his skin parting, the sounds of Eddie’s ringtone began to blare, echoing in the bathroom, the absurdity of the lyrics “I’m too sexy for my shirt—too sexy for my shirt—so sexy it hurts” crashing into the tension around him.
It caused him to pause, a bittersweet ache as he remembered choosing it for him, simply because it made the tips of Eddie’s ears turn pink when other people heard it and found out it was for him, undoubtedly prompting Buck to explain the first time he’d laid eyes on Eddie, looking far too sexy and shirtless in the station.
Though, right now, no matter how much he wanted to think of Eddie laughing and blushing, all he could picture was the sadness he’d see—the disappointment—when Eddie came home and saw the cut he’d just made on his arm.
The constant repetition of the lyrics was painfully comical in the darkness of the bathroom as a trickle of blood curled around his forearm, heading for his wrist. Still, he couldn’t force himself to move, let alone answer.
His eyes were too fixated on the cut and the swelling river of blood on his arm.
It looked black in the dim light, lending too much to his imagination in his overwhelmed state, momentarily leaving him to wonder if it looked that way because of the sickness inside him, whatever he had hidden behind his heart that crept out sometimes to tempt him—to hurt him—leaking out like a toxin.
Ordinary people weren’t like this—they didn’t bleed black in the darkness under their own doing.
His chest felt tighter than before, and the suddenness with which the room fell silent when the phone stopped ringing a moment later had the scissors clattering to the floor, the sound deafening in its own right.
Blood dripped from the knobby part of his wrist, hitting his gray sweats.
Then, startling him, the phone began ringing again. And it seemed silly to think, but somehow it sounded more insistent, even with the ridiculous ringtone.
So, keeping his bleeding arm resting on his knee, he reached with his other hand, picked up the phone, and swiped to answer, immediately hitting the speaker button—as he didn’t think he could hold it to his ear even if he wanted to right now, not with as severely as his hands were shaking.
Eddie’s voice filled the bathroom, cheerful and light, sounding like he was in the truck—possibly on his way home—and earlier than planned, which made the chambers of his heart feel full of nails, stabbing into the muscle with every beat that followed.
He held his breath as Eddie spoke, wise enough to keep his tongue between his teeth, ensuring he didn’t try to talk, as he had no doubt his voice would betray him—and he didn’t want Eddie to worry. Not while he was driving.
“Hey, so, Hen's all set, and I know you’ve probably eaten, but I was thinking of stopping for something at that shitty Mexican place—you know the one—just didn’t know if you wanted one of those weird veggie burrito things you like so much.”
His lungs burned, teeth hurting from how tight he clenched his jaw. Another drop of blood fell, landing on his white sock this time. His gaze fixated on it, watching as the cotton drew it in; the red splotch growing as it was absorbed.
“Buck? You there?”
And unable to wait any longer, needing air, even if he didn’t deserve it, he exhaled just to gulp another lungful, his throat hurting, feeling thick; pressure seemed to be building everywhere, and it started to fracture him in only seconds, in only the time it took to breathe, alerting Eddie—his perfect, deserved so much better than him, Eddie—that something was very wrong.
Eddie repeated his name, concern barely padding the sharp edge of his panic. “Buck, talk to me, babe—what’s going on?”
He flexed his forearm, fingers balling into a tight fist, as he watched the trickle of blood slow, turning tacky and thick already, clotting, but that did little to temper his emotions or stem his tears; his face was wet with them, dripping from his chin, runny snot threatening to reach his mouth.
“Need you,” he rasped, still holding the phone in a white-knuckled grip, as he wiped his nose and mouth with the side of his thumb and hand, breathing wet and heavy through parted lips while he did.
“Buck, I need to know if you’ve hurt yourself—if you’re okay.”
He dropped his head against the vanity, hitting the hard edge of the counter, his breaths coming too fast and shallow, leaving him feeling helpless and unable to wrangle them back under his control.
The only answer he could manage to Eddie’s question was a throaty hum that probably could be better described as a gravelly whimper.
“Dammit,” Eddie snapped, then softened. “Sorry, just trying to get to you and hitting every light, but, baby, you’ve got to tell me what you did. How bad is it?”
Another noise broke from his throat—because, of course, Eddie could read his broken breaths for what they were—and then, weirdly, his hearing started to become muffled, overridden by the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
“Buck, I need an answer, or I’m calling nine-one-one.”
A stuttered breath dragged into his chest, straining against whatever invisible bindings were wrapped around it. “Just one—just, uh, one cut—it’s stopped bleeding.”
The controlled exhale from Eddie was loud even over the speaker. “Good, that’s good. Can you tell me where you are? Where Christopher is?”
He let his head fall forward, forearms resting on his knees, smearing blood on his pants, and trying to pull himself together for Eddie and maybe for himself, too. “Uh, I’m in the bathroom—on the floor—and, um, Chris is sleeping—cold medicine knocked him out early.”
“I’m less than three minutes out,” Eddie said, something purposeful in his tone that Buck couldn’t place or understand—almost like speaking of a quiet tragedy—which was fitting. “Just stay on the line with me until then, okay?”
And despite Eddie not seeing it, Buck still nodded, sniffling wetly, before realizing and saying quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“No, none of that—we aren’t doing that shit.” Eddie paused, then a beat later asked, “I just need to check—but you don’t have anything with you right now, do you? I need to know you’re safe.”
And Buck’s gaze flicked to the discarded scissors. “Not in my hand—but next to me.” Then for some reason he didn’t know, he added, “I stole your socks, but I got blood on them.”
“Hey, it’s fine—they’ll wash, right? I’m literally pulling onto our street right now, so just hang tight a little longer,” Eddie said. “Maybe just close your eyes—don’t look at the blood or whatever you used—just focus on me, or maybe you can tell me about your night before this. Did you and Christopher get to watch that documentary about penguins?”
The saddest, most barely-there laugh caused his next exhale to stutter. “Uh, yeah, it wasn’t that bad, though we really just wanted to hear Benedict Cumberbatch say penguin wrong—so, uh, don’t be surprised if Chris calls them Penwings from now on. The kid giggled himself into a coughing fit over it.”
A breathy noise, then a rustle, and the tell-tale sound of the truck door slamming, a chirp after that Buck heard through the window, signaling he’d locked it and finally home.
“I’m here,” Eddie said, as Buck could distantly hear the front door closing, then footsteps in the hall, but before he could muster more panic, the door handle turned, then warm light slanted across the floor as Eddie stepped inside.
He heard the call disconnect, then the room was bright, hurting his eyes, shocking, assaulting, and all too revealing.
Eyes barely open, he squinted at Eddie, still gripping his phone, taking in the pallor of his skin, the shine to his eyes, the strained downturn of his lips. Either he wasn’t bothering to hide his emotions or simply couldn’t contain them.
Swallowing, Buck croaked lamely, “Hey.”
And the breath Eddie dragged in through flared nostrils, jaw bunched, seemed to take force, betraying just how shaken the sight of Buck on the floor had made him.
“Hey, yourself.” Then letting his gaze sweep the room, expression still showing everything and nothing, Eddie’s eyes fell on the cut and blood, which had Buck shifting to conceal it, even though the damage was done. “Pengwings, huh?”
Buck huffed dryly, tears gathering in his lashes again. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Yeah, fucking pengwings,” he said wetly, fracturing just a little more, knowing the blood on his arm was still visible, unable to be hidden in the light, not that he wanted to hide anything from Eddie, not now, not ever. “I can’t believe I fucked everything up like this, Eds—I don’t even know what happened.”
He sniffled and wiped the snot leaking from his nose onto his shirt, ducking his head, only to glance over when he heard a heavy exhale—seeing Eddie kicking the scissors and sending them skittering across the floor, colliding with a thump against the baseboard.
Shame washed over him, multiplied by how disgust seemed to pinch Eddie’s face as he eyed the scissors before shaking himself from their hold and kneeling beside Buck.
Then, Eddie’s oddly steady hands—probably only that way from so many years on the job, learning to compartmentalize—reached out, finding places to rest, one touching a knee and the other his shoulder. Neither reached to examine the cut, though it was only a matter of time before he did.
A squeeze to his shoulder. “I need you to be honest with me here—where are we? Are you still feeling the urge—or was it just a little hiccup?”
He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, taking a moment, owing it to Eddie, to be honest. “No, definitely not—just an accident. I swear. Fuck, you’re not telling Bobby, are you? I’ll end up benched, and I can’t go through that again—I can’t.”
“Woah, woah, hey.” Eddie ducked into his line of sight. “I never said I was going to Bobby, and you should know I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t, Buck. Not unless we talked about it first, or I thought you were in danger, okay? Do you hear me? We’ve got a plan for this, remember?”
He hugged his middle with his injured arm, slowing his panicked breaths.
“You with me?” Eddie’s hand moved from Buck’s knee to his elbow, then slid down toward his wrist a bit, his fingers curling around the meaty part of his forearm, near but still above the dried blood and cut.
Buck nodded, cleared his throat, then said, “Sorry—just keep messing everything up tonight—pretty on brand for me, huh?”
“Nuh-uh, don’t do that—we talked about that—putting yourself down,” Eddie said. “Isn’t that what you tell me? Spiral up, not down.”
He swallowed, then wet his lips. “Uh, yeah—yeah, you’re right.”
“Eh, I have my moments.” And it was probably meant to lighten the mood, but neither laughed. Then Eddie exhaled, eyes falling on the visible blood. “So you promise—no deeper intent I should know about? You haven’t been suffering in silence again, have you?”
He shook his head. “I promise—this was just… I don’t know what this was. I mean, things have been great. I'm so happy with you and Chris, and work’s going well. It’s just… something just… I don’t know, Eds.” His jaw clenched as he averted his gaze, taking careful breaths. “I just know that I hate I fucking let you down—that I let me down.”
And by the time he finished, tears were spilling down his cheeks, pissing him off because he did not want to cry about this. His scruff felt gross as it collected them, moisture spreading to under his chin, just irritating the fuck out of him.
He did not want to cry—he didn’t.
Frustrated, he swiped at his tears. First with the back of his hand, then the heel of it, followed by his arm, but they refused to slow, and it had his face flaming and wanting to hide, be anywhere but so visible and present, though there was nowhere to go.
Then fingers caught his wrist, smudging the tacky blood, tainting Eddie with it, and Buck cleared his throat harshly, trying to bank the floodwaters of emotions crashing through him with whatever meager efforts he could muster.
And Buck tried to yank away, but no one could argue the determination of one Eddie Diaz when he set his mind to something, and right now, it couldn’t be more evident that he wasn't about to let Buck escape and deal with it alone.
“Buck—settle for me.” Eddie’s tone was firm but not unkind, giving Buck something to latch onto, something to ground him. “Settle for me, babe.”
The wet, congested breaths through his nose, the near-hiccupping sobs that he refused to give space to in his chest, had Buck sounding more pathetic than he ever wanted, and he hated it. He felt embarrassed and ashamed for ruining what should have been a great night.
“You don’t need to hide,” Eddie said as if reading his mind. “Just take your time, okay? I’m right here, whatever you need—I’m not going anywhere.” And he punctuated that by sliding the hand on his shoulder up to Buck’s neck, squeezing the nape of it.
And where Eddie could be determined, so could Buck, especially when feeling like he was burdening others. He used every ounce of willpower to contain the fallout—not letting the shards fall in a way that would inconvenience Eddie, trying to hold it all inside.
Though, almost annoyingly, his self-awareness had increased since attending therapy, helping him to realize the fallacy in that thinking. Yet, he struggled to recall any techniques for backing out of the spiral he’d begun.
Eddie’s hand slid down to his wrist, fingers finding his pulse, pressing and holding there—Buck more than aware of how fast it beat.
After longer than needed, Eddie sighed and adjusted to hold his wrist loosely. “Just like we practiced—I want you to start with your forehead, then your jaw, and relax each little muscle group, one at a time, and while you do that, we’re both going to breathe, nice and slow—and cheesy or not, you’re gonna imagine taking in the good, and pushing out the bad.”
And yeah, that was something they’d done before—something he’d even used to coach Eddie through the panicked aftermath of a nightmare—so it was familiar—something they’d learned in therapy.
That didn’t make it easier, but he trusted Eddie, so he did as he asked, nodding, then breathing in through his nose, trying to pretend it was some rainbow bullshit he was taking in each time before exhaling storm clouds of negativity through his mouth. If anything, the absurdity of it had him feeling slightly lighter.
Eddie squeezed his neck. “You need to relax for this to work.”
Another, sharper nod, and then Buck let his jaw relax as he closed his eyes, releasing each bunched point of tension down his neck to his abs, posture sagging as he went, even uncurling his toes that had somehow bunched tightly.
Beside him, Eddie continued to breathe loud enough for Buck to hear. Then, after a few minutes, his fingers moved back to Buck’s pulse, lingering for a few moments before saying, “There we go—I’m liking that a whole lot better.”
Buck hummed, blinking and looking through damp lashes, feeling exhausted now. “Feeling a little better.”
And it wasn’t a lie—he did—and now that he could think more clearly, he didn’t feel so out of control, the brakes within his reach again.
Eddie kneaded his neck. “So, we can hang out by the toilet if you want, but I’m betting your ass has to be numb by now, and the bed would be a hell of a lot more comfortable. What do you think?”
A stuttered inhale, and then Buck wiped his eyes. “I’m not even sure my legs work.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I had to haul your ass around, so just let me get up first, then we’ll work on you.”
And so they did.
Eddie got to his feet, took Buck’s phone from him, pocketed it, and nearly deadlifted him from the floor, not even giving Buck a chance to help.
Then, once the pins and needles subsided, he followed Eddie to their bedroom, making conscious efforts to keep the tension in his muscles from getting too tight again.
Eddie sat him on the edge of the mattress, then left with a promise to return in a moment, which he did, carrying their smaller first aid kit, though what they called small, most people called huge.
It seemed a bit much for what Buck felt was a glorified scratch at this point, already softly scabbed over. Not much could be done for it now other than a cleaning.
And as Eddie sat crookedly beside him, taking his arm over his thigh, Buck couldn’t help but feel like a burden again, a failure, an embarrassment. Not what Eddie deserved.
It felt like he’d swallowed a lump of hot coal, leaving his throat swollen and clogged.
Eddie paused, holding the wet gauze, stained pink by his blood, above the cut, seeming to sense his turmoil. “Buck,” he prompted. “Whatever you’re thinking—unless it’s all the ways I love you—or all the ways you make me proud—then it’s just your brain being an asshole, and you need to fight it.”
And Buck nodded, silent tears dripping from his chin but not hating it as much this time—maybe because he knew Eddie had him and that he was telling the truth.
Eddie cupped his jaw, thumb sweeping the tears away it could reach. “Challenge those thoughts—push back—because you’re always worth it, you’re not a fuck up or whatever else you might be thinking, and that brain of yours better be listening,” he warned. “Because I don’t take kindly to people talking shit about someone I love, you hear me? Not even you.”
And Eddie’s eyes were glossy as he smiled in a melancholic way, adding, “I’m not afraid to throw hands.”
And that had Buck half-laughing, half-sobbing, wiping his face with his free hand. “You’re such a—such a dork,” he choked, “but, uh, thanks—my brain really was being a bit of a dick.”
Eddie wiped away a few more tears, then leaned close to kiss him, just a reassurance, a reminder, and a promise. Funny how much fit in that little brush of lips.
Then, drawing back, Eddie smiled, a little lighter, and resumed tending to his cut, probably more for his well-being than Buck’s—or perhaps, equally so.
“Well, just let me know if it gets out of line again, and I’ll knock some sense back into it—because no one gets to put you down, okay? You know I’ll find a way.”
His throat clicked from all the mucus as he laughed. “Not sure this is what the therapist meant by thought restructuring.”
Eddie shrugged. “Eh, well, my brain kinda blanked there, forgot some steps, but we’re gonna talk this stuff out tomorrow, okay? Use the workbooks, work through what’s going on.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” he agreed quietly.
Then, later, once Buck’s arm was bandaged and they’d changed, having crawled into bed. Eddie pressed himself to his back, his arms around him, seeming to know the darkness’s dangers as he recounted his evening at Hen and Karen’s quietly, then moved on to work and stories of his childhood. Seemed to be anything, just filling the space.
And then a thought hit him, one that caused a watery smile to curl the corner of Buck’s lips.
It made so much sense once he'd realized.
Because Eddie really could be so fucking determined, so thoughtful, and stubborn to the core, the type who always found a way, which meant he wasn’t just talking to lull him to sleep or mindlessly fill the space.
No, what he was doing was so Eddie it hurt.
This was him protecting Buck—fighting his asshole thoughts, pushing back, in the only way he could, with his words instead of fists, keeping Buck’s mind too occupied, too filled with his voice and stories of his life that there wasn’t room to dwell or wander down darker paths.
And dammit, Buck couldn't love him more.