Chapter Text
Buck is fine.
He’s okay. He doesn’t panic at the sound of any loud bang anymore or any time there’s a severe weather warning. He’s fine.
Well, sort of.
He’s fine except for the fact that any time Eddie could possibly be in danger his heart starts going a few beats faster. He’s fine except for the fact that when there’s a natural disaster of any kind the first thing he does is grab his phone to call Eddie and make sure that Chris is okay. He’s fine except for the fact that he texts Bobby first thing every morning to make sure that he’s alive.
So, Buck is…not fine, but relatively, given all the shit he’s been through, he is. Fine, that is.
Except he isn’t. He isn’t, because every time that he eats or cooks meat and he sees a blood vessel, he has to leave the room to puke. He isn’t, because any time he’s at Bobby and Athena’s and Athena offers him a glass of red wine, he declines and gets all queasy. He isn’t, because he hasn’t been able to have ketchup in over two years because of what it reminds him of. He isn’t, because the taste of the blood of someone you love isn’t something you forget.
Or, it’s not something you forget when it’s associated with one of your greatest traumas.
Because Eddie got shot.
Eddie and Buck were standing in the middle of a four-way intersection, and Eddie got shot. He got shot, and the blood splattered onto Buck’s white shirt. He got shot, and the blood splattered onto Buck’s face. He got shot, and the blood splattered into Buck’s mouth. And Buck dealt with it. Buck didn’t even realize it until they were already in the rig on their way to the hospital and Eddie was asking if Buck had gotten hurt. But Buck didn’t let it sink in. He was so goddamn focused on Eddie that he didn’t register being soaked in Eddie’s blood until Bobby arrived with a change of clothes, and so Buck went and found the closest bathroom, and when he looked at himself in the mirror…
Buck counted each individual splotch of blood on him. Every. Single. One. Which, of course, was dumb, but it led to him focusing on the blood on his lips, and—
“Fuck,” Buck breathes, chest heaving as he tries to compose himself even the slightest bit. His hand comes up to his face, fingers grazing against his lip, but the blood doesn’t come off. His tongue darts out, a move he immediately regrets when he clocks the taste. It is one that is horrid, and brutal, and gruesome, and—
Buck pukes. Right into the bathroom sink, Buck empties the contents of his stomach, watching as some of Eddie’s blood washes down with it. But, at least the blood is gone. It’s gone from his lips, for good. That’s good.
The problem was, the blood wasn’t gone for good. Not in memory. Because even after Buck turned on the faucet, and cupped his hands under the water before bringing his hands to his lips, swishing the water around, then spitting it out again, it was still there. Because even after he stripped down to his underwear and socks, using his hand and the bathroom soap to wash away any potential blood on his body, it was still there. Because Even after he spent ample amounts of time on his face, scrubbing and scrubbing away, it was still there. Because even after he washed his lips, his eyelids, his hair, behind his ears– any spot with the potential for blood– it was still there. Because even after he drank an entire bottle of water, it was still there. His mind couldn’t forget the taste.
And Buck, with the taste of Eddie’s blood still on his tongue, after hours of pacing around the hospital waiting room, went home and showered and changed once again, and went to Eddie’s house to deliver news he never wants to have to deliver ever again. He went into Christopher’s room, where Chris was sitting on his bed in a green plaid shirt and wearing his glasses, and Buck had to tell him that his father wasn’t coming home that night. That he wouldn’t be for at least a few nights in a row. And then he broke down. Here he was, in the room of the son of the person who got shot, having a fucking breakdown, even though he was supposed to be the strong one.
Then Buck ordered a pizza. He ordered a pizza, and he served Chris a few slices before grabbing a few for himself. He was shaking again. He sat down at the table next to Christopher, and his hand stopped midway from grabbing the slice. It took him several minutes after that to pick it up, trying his best to engage in a conversation with Christopher about school, but—
Buck took a single bite and dropped the slice of pizza immediately, quickly scooting the chair back and rushing to the bathroom. He threw up. Again. The red sauce was reminiscent of Eddie’s blood, and Buck’s mind made it so he could feel the taste on his tongue again, and he couldn’t do it. He ended up having a few tortilla chips he found in the cabinet after he put Chris to bed instead. And in the morning, after dropping Chris off at school, having 24-hours to himself, Buck went to his loft to pack up some clothes for while he was staying at Eddie’s and grabbed his tablet along the way. When he got back to Eddie’s, he stayed with his Jeep parked on the side of the road, staring at the front door before grabbing his tablet and starting a video call with Dr. Copeland.
“Evan Buckley? Well, this is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today,” Dr. Copeland says, and Buck has to smile. She’s too smiley not to.
“Hey Dr. Copeland. I’m sorry for calling on such short notice, it’s just—” Buck was going to explain, but Dr. Copeland beats him to it.
“Buck, are you shaking?” Dr. Copeland asks. Telehealth be damned. “What’s going on?”
“Uh, Eddie– Eddie got shot,” Buck chokes out, a tear falling from one of his eyes. Whatever Dr. Copeland was doing, she stops, suddenly becoming very still. Buck swallows, a wave of guilt washing over him that she immediately shakes away.
“Eddie…that’s your friend, right? Your co-worker?” She asks, her voice soft and kind, and if Buck knows himself at all, he’s going to end up in full fledged tears by the end of this call.
“Yes,” Buck says, nodding his head. “I’m actually sitting outside of his house right now. I took his son, Christopher, to school this morning.” Buck pauses, trying to keep himself steadied as he says his next words. “Last night I had to tell him that his father wasn’t coming home.”
And Dr. Copeland, for all things good in the world, doesn’t miss a single fucking beat.
“And how does that make you feel?”
“How would anyone feel?” Buck asks, but he shakes his head and relents. “It makes me feel like the worst fucking friend in the world.”
Buck knows that’s not fair. He knows that Dr. Copeland is going to tell him he’s wrong, that it makes him a good friend, that it makes him better than some of the friends she has herself. She’ll tell him that Eddie will be thankful he was there to watch over his son when he couldn’t. Buck knows this because he knows that if the roles were reversed, that if it was Buck with a kid and Buck who had been shot and Eddie who had been splattered with blood, Eddie would do the exact same thing. But still, he feels like the worst fucking friend in the world.
Despite Buck’s thoughts, Dr. Copeland still manages to surprise him. “Do you think this relates back to your fear of abandonment?”
Which, for all the things Buck could have thought about, he’s not sure how that’s one thing he didn’t.
“I mean, may– maybe. I mean, yeah. Yeah, that’s a possibility,” Buck says, his voice shaky and wavering with every word spoken.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Buck?” Dr. Copeland asks, and Buck swallows hard as images of the day before flash through his brain.
“I was standing right across from him.”
As far as therapy sessions go, it was one of great profound. Buck’s not sure he’s ever gotten so much out of a single session before. They talked about everything, and they talked about how everything made Buck feel. They even talked about Buck not being able to forget the taste of Eddie’s blood, how it was engraved into his brain. Since then, she’s tried getting him to drink and eat things that, to him, are reminiscent of blood in some form or fashion, and really, Buck has tried to eat and drink them, but it doesn’t fucking work. It doesn’t work, because every single time his mind brings the taste of Eddie’s blood right back to the tip of his tongue, and Buck can’t fucking take it. It makes him sick to his stomach sometimes to even think about it.
So, Buck is fine, and none of his less recent traumas affect him every day or are debilitating, except for the trauma that comes with knowing the taste of the love of your life’s blood.
Even worse, Eddie doesn’t even know.
Eddie, as Buck has found out, doesn’t remember anything after falling to the ground. He doesn’t remember reaching his arm out for Buck when he was lying on the ground. He doesn’t remember locking eyes with Buck as his eyes fluttered shut. He doesn’t remember his moment of lucidity when Buck pulled him to the other side of the fire truck and he screamed in pain into the air, or Buck by himself picking Eddie up by his thighs and hoisting him into the rig, or seeing the blood on Buck’s face and shirt and asking Buck if he was hurt before losing consciousness again. He remembers none of that, but Buck does, and it’s making the taste of Eddie’s blood on his tongue that much more prominent any time a food or drink reminds him of it, and Buck is about to lose it.
Buck is about to lose it because he’s at Eddie’s house, on Eddie’s couch, a beer in his hand from Eddie’s fridge, as Eddie spews to him too many fucking emotions, with a big fucking grin on his face because of course Eddie would be grinning at a time like this, and really, Buck should be too, but—
“Loving you is one of the greatest things I have ever done,” Eddie says, like it’s some honor that’s been gifted to him, bestowed upon him by the gods, and Buck seriously has reached his limit.
And it’s not Eddie’s fault. Eddie doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that the reason Buck is wearing a red t-shirt is because his subconscious mind picked it after he had dropped a ladle full of spaghetti sauce on the floor because his mind kept on reminding him of the taste of Eddie’s blood. He doesn’t know that the reason Buck turned down sharing a bag of cherry sours was because it was red and round, just like the splotches of blood that had been on his face, lips, and clothes. He doesn’t know how hard it has been for Buck to keep all of this from him so he doesn’t cause Eddie to lose his mind over it too.
But at this point in the night, a bitter tension has grown inside of Buck that he can’t keep in any longer, and he lets it spill out all over Eddie’s love confession.
“Don’t,” Buck says, gripping onto his beer tighter. “Don’t fucking say that.”
“Say what?” Eddie asks, like he hasn’t been telling Buck a love story for the last five minutes.
“This,” Buck says, waving a hand between them. “This love confession. This admission of feelings. You can’t—” There’s a pause, because Buck can barely think. “Don’t fucking tell me that you’re in love with me,” Buck hisses. This isn’t how he ever imagined this would go.
“Well it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Eddie asks in a mock tone. He’s picked up on Buck’s anger, no question.
“Eddie—”
“No, I get it. You’re weirded out by the fact that your best friend is– not gay, that you’re completely fine with– but in love with you. You can’t handle that, and that’s just fine,” Eddie seethes, causing a crack in Buck’s heart.
“You think that’s the problem? Really?” Buck scoffs, shaking his head. “If that’s what you think, then you haven’t been paying attention at all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I can’t do this, Eddie. No matter how much I might want to, I can’t do this. I can’t do us.”
“Who said that I’m asking you to?” Eddie asks, and it’s as accusatory as it can be, and Buck is fuming. “Buck, I’m not asking for you to share in this love that I have for you. I just want you to fucking acknowledge that things aren’t platonic for me. Can’t you at least do that?”
“You think I don’t know that?” Buck snaps, standing up from the couch. “You think I don’t realize that you’re in love with me? Eddie, you being in love with me is something that I have only dreamed about for– for years, and tried to move on from, and failed.”
“So then why are you being such an asshole about it?” Eddie asks, standing up now too.
“Because I tasted your blood before I ever got to taste your lips, Eddie! I know the taste of your blood more closely than any other taste in the world!” Buck shouts, anger dripping from his words. There’s a fury inside of him that he can’t control, one directed at the universe for causing him to know such a thing. It is infuriating. How could it not be? He’s tasted the blood of the love of his life, and has the taste embedded into his brain for all of eternity, and all because of a fucking sniper. What the hell kind of a love is that?
“W-what?” Eddie stutters, and Buck thinks that’s the only proper reaction to something like that.
“When you got shot?” Buck references, setting the stage. “When you got shot, your blood splattered onto me– all over. It seeped into my clothes. It seeped into the pores on my face. And it seeped into my lips. I sat with your blood touching my mouth for far too long. And when I registered it? When I went to get cleaned up and I licked my lips and I got your blood in my mouth, I fucking puked, Eddie. I puked in the bathroom sink of a hospital because suddenly the taste of your blood was embedded into my brain, and I have not been able to get rid of it since.
“So go ahead. You can love me. You can want me. Hell, you can even want to kiss me. But Eddie, if my lips touch yours I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to recover, because my only thought will be that your lips are touching a place that knows not only the taste of your blood, but the feel of it, the color, how it feels when it’s wet and how it feels when it’s dried, the feeling of it drying, and how it looks sitting there, like I’d been picking at dry skin. That is what I will be thinking about the very first time that my lips touch yours. That is why I can’t hear you tell me that you love me.”