Chapter Text
She’s here.
The witch is at his door.
Buck flinches at the faintest scrape on chipped wood, the sound traveling up his spine. It’s a memory etched in years—those brittle, yellow nails on spindly, paper-white fingers. He slams the frying pan down a little too hard on the stove, slanting a narrow glare towards the entrance to his apartment.
He’s not afraid of her. He’s not. The unsteady way in which he pours his drink is just clumsiness. He’s not afraid of her.
Wet dirt and decaying roses is a sickly, cloying stench that clogs his throat and clings to his nostrils despite the distance and hollow-core barrier between them. He abruptly leaves the kitchen, finding himself scowling at his front door. Eyes tracking back and forth as though he can see through it before flicking to the painted sigils traveling the expanse of his wall.
He’s safe in here. He made sure. It had taken time. Years and decades, but his defense is perfect. There’s no way she’s getting in here. No. Fucking. Way. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say.
He never understands it anyway.
Heaving a sigh under his breath, he returns to the kitchen and finishes making breakfast, even though his appetite is gone.
He scowls down at his plate, unable to help but listen to the back and forth shuffling, a pause every so often when she stops to try and peer in. Can’t tell if he’s actually hearing the slow thunk thunk of clogs on hardwood and the drag of a heavy tattered skirt behind it or if he just—remembers it, all too clearly.
He definitely doesn't need to look through the peephole to confirm who it is. He knows what he’ll find. She hasn’t changed at all. She’ll never change. A white head of hair, neatly coiffed but frayed all the same. A thin, too-pale face sunken with death, and the pure whites of pupil-less eyes that seem to see regardless of obstacle.
She’ll never change, and she’ll never leave him.
The morning suddenly seems insurmountable.
He chews slowly, only managing to count to twenty each time before he gives in and swallows, having to work twice as hard to force it down. The bacon is perfectly crisp. The eggs are fluffy and expertly seasoned and it all tastes like rubber and goes down just as well. He takes tiny sips of his coffee, rolling the hazelnut creamer and savoring it on his tongue until it's all cold and gross, until the sounds out in the hall have faded.
For a moment he considers calling out and makes a face at himself. It's been...a while, since he saw her, and years since she actually scared him. He'd—maybe been hoping, but no—he sighs again. Foolish optimism. He can still smell the roses. He pushes to his feet and gets ready to go.
When it's actually time to go he dithers, just for another moment, taking deep breaths in preparation for—in preparation. He opens the door slowly, just a peek, ready to slam it shut should she pop up. When he doesn't see her hunched, black-clad figure he quickly steps out, locks it behind him and darts for the stairs at the end of the hall.
He almost takes a header, twice, but momentum keeps him going all the way to the bottom, footsteps and heartbeats echoing in his wake and panting breaths in his ears. He bursts out into the lobby in a flurry, cutting off a conversation between the concierge and one of his neighbors. He shoots them a tight smile and a wave, but doesn't stop as he blows out the front door.
His breath explodes out of him now that he's out in the open, sunshine warm on his face and smoggy Los Angeles air buffeting against his skin. The tightness in his chest immediately eases. The door man side eyes him, but doesn't say anything even when Buck smiles cheerily at him. He basks for just a moment in the presence of others, beaming nonsensically at the pedestrians passing him by on the sidewalk.
Turning, he heads for work and doesn't look back.
It's not a thing he does. Really. He's not Cole Sear or Melinda Gordon: he doesn't see horrifically maimed dead people everywhere he looks and he's not haunted by their shades until he helps them move on, but the witch has been his one terrifying constant for as long as he can remember.
He doesn't know what she wants and has tried only exactly once to find out...to his detriment and her inarticulate, shrieking rage, but she has always followed him. Always, no matter where or how far he tries to go, and try he has.
He's not truly terrified of her anymore, not really, but there's always some level of dread and unease when she's around—and always something wrong.
Because that's a constant too.
If the witch appears, then something bad is going to happen soon.
It's immediately apparent what it is when he gets into the office building that houses the Nash-Grant Foundation. He glares down at the bear claw and coffee in his hands that Bobby does not deserve, because Bobby is busy hugging an incredibly photogenic stranger like he's some long lost son and listen, Buck knows Bobby's not his dad, he doesn't need or want one, but he's never gotten a hug like that and he's been here for almost two years. They’ve been through stuff together, okay? And just—
Buck turns away, cramming the donut into his mouth and chewing indignantly, slipping away downstairs and into Archives. He leans back against the door, closing his eyes and breathing in deep the hints of age old ink and slowly decaying paper intertwined with coffee, tea, and chocolate, oddly enough, that permeate the room. Already he feels calmer, lighter, more settled.
The Archives are his very favorite place in the entire world. For one, it houses both the physical files of the Nash-Grant Foundation and the digital database from its parent branch, the American Paranormal Society. If nothing else, the decades of absolutely fascinating casework is alone worth spending time down here.
But there are also multitudes and schemas of books in foreign languages—some that are so dead none of them can read—on the various obscure topics and occult secrets they’ve come across. He's barely allowed to touch a good number without gloves or supervision or both. Interspersed all around are mysterious objects, displayed like whimsical tchotchkes even if they are definitely not harmless. He's also definitely never allowed to touch those. Some are so fragile that they sit on their own pedestal, back lit like a precious object and encased in environmentally controlled casings.
It's a veritable museum of oddities, for sure, and he loves every single bit of it.
Rumor has it that APS has an even bigger collection and he can’t wait to go one day. Some day. Maybe. With a sigh, he pushes off and heads deeper into the Archives. The path is well lit, if purposely kept dim for sake of preservation.
May is already at one of the large oak desks, typing away. The other one is still overflowing with books and old case files from yesterday's research.
She pauses and looks over when he settles into his cluttered mess. "Did you see the new guy yet?" Her voice is hushed and her eyes shine with excitement. "He's so hot!"
He's got no argument there. What little he'd seen of the man upstairs was undeniably attractive, but he's not going to admit that out loud and especially not to a barely-not-a-teenager who's practically his sibling. He shoots her a lopsided smile. "Don't let your mom hear you say that. He's probably twice your age, Baby Grant."
She laughs, pouting, but resumes typing as he stares around his workspace in dismay. It surely hadn't been this messy yesterday. Where the heck did he even leave off? He picks up a folder from one of the bigger stacks and flips it open, face twisting when he realizes it's the one he still has to go through.
He really wishes May had been hired on a lot sooner. She's in month two of the official Nash-Grant Foundation migration to the twenty-first century—that is, digitizing all the case files—but it's definitely not going fast enough because Bobby is a dinosaur who has been operating for decades—and that was before he met May's mother, and Chim, and Hen. They've all been operating for a very long time and there's a paper trail the size of the Pacific to prove it.
On days when he doesn't actually have to search through them and squint at cramped and crabbed writing—sometimes under mysterious stains, he'll readily admit that he doesn't actually mind the physical feel of paper beneath his fingers. But having to decipher the different writing styles and recording methods—or lack thereof—is a chore and a half.
But this week has not been a good week, and so he yearns for the digital index. He drains the rest of the coffee and gets to work. One of the upcoming cases is a clusterfuck of supposedly very specific poltergeisting activity and he hasn't found anything yet with a matching Modus Operandi. He almost wants the threat level raised so that they can just go there and see it firsthand instead of all this. Witness testimonies are so very unreliable.
He hadn't quite known what to expect, when he'd first signed on to the NGF, but the fact that he spends the majority of his days researching was not at the top of possible things. It's rather surprising, by the size of the combined archives at his fingertips, but there aren't actually a lot of legitimate cases. He's only been on about a hundred in the last year of actual on-site investigation, and less than half were something. The rest of the time he's weeding through requests for viability.
By the time he looks up again, May is gone, probably for lunch, and Bobby appears around the corner as he's rising to go get his own.
"Hey, kid, didn't see you come in. I wanted to introduce Eddie to you. He's going to be working with us."
His research zen immediately evaporates.
"Why do we need him for?" He tries, and probably fails, to keep his voice even.
Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Were you or were you not complaining last month about needing more help with the equipment?"
"Yeah, but I—but—!"
Bobby's smirk widens, because there's no answer he can give that won't be shooting his own foot. He huffs and turns to drop back onto his chair and ignore his boss, fighting the urge to spin or jiggle his leg or get up and rearrange the reference books for the second time this month.
"He'll be back later, so please, be nice."
Bobby claps him on the shoulder, and he would die before admitting it, but it eases something inside him. He sags into his chair and silently watches Bobby leave.
When he comes back from lunch, there's still no sign of Eddie, which is both a relief and disappointing. He doesn't examine this too closely.
And okay, so maybe he's being a little (a lot) dramatic. The witch isn't exactly a harbinger of doom. Her appearance does mean great change for him. Upheaval. It's just that it's always, in his limited experience, especially unpleasant for him. When Maddie left home. When he was expelled from college. His first girlfriend. The near fatal incident in Peru. His first boyfriend. His second girlfriend. That murder/suicide situation in BUD/S. His parents. He's got lots of anecdotal evidence to back it up. Maybe it's just confirmation bias, but it’s enough for accurate inference, he thinks.
Eddie Diaz working with them is certainly change and isn't necessarily a bad thing, and definitely not worth the witch's warning. Hopefully. He doesn't even know why he feels so thrown. Their little team hasn't exactly been stable for the past year and a half, what with Kinard finally bailing for greener pastures and that whole Deluca lawsuit. That guy had it coming anyway. Buck hopes his knees always ache when the weather changes.
It's probably the coffee—his third one for the day.
"Hey."
He looks up to meet warm, puppy brown eyes and immediately feels his face heat. And look, Buck knows what he looks like. He's definitely not shy and he's dated plenty of striking men and women before, but Eddie Diaz. Wow.
"Uh—h-hey! Evan Buckley—Buck."
Eddie laughs and shakes the hand offered.
"It's nice to meet you, Buck. Eddie Diaz."
"Y-yeah, Bobby told me. So, uh, we're working together now, huh? I gotta ask, why here?"
This time, it's Eddie's turn to flush. Buck follows the spread of that flush with interest before his eyes flick back up.
"Ah, my Abuela mentioned that you guys had done her a favor, and then I don't know...Bobby was calling the next day with an offer." There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes, which is...also interesting. Why did Bobby really hire Eddie?
There's the briefest stirring of jealousy and irritation in his chest; the ease with which Bobby had sought and accepted Eddie, when it had taken Buck long enough to even—anyway, that's not Eddie's fault.
"Well…welcome! Let me give you a tour."
Eddie lets his hand go, and Buck mourns the loss of contact before ignoring it.
"I appreciate it."
Oh, that lopsided smile leaves Buck feeling sort of faint. He's definitely in trouble.
Eddie is surprisingly easy to get along with, despite Buck’s very minor reservations, and even then, most of those are about Bobby’s motivations. But really, how can you get the measure of a man if you haven’t been through life and death with them? He’ll have to see.
Eventually. Someday.
Because Eddie's first case is baby soft.
It doesn't seem like a haunting at all, but Bobby takes them to check it out anyway. The few witness testimonies they've managed to collect are vague enough to be easily dismissed as imagination. He suspects Bobby is just easing Eddie into it, and, well, he doesn't exactly disagree. His introduction to this world had been fairly sink or swim at the tender young age of six and he really doesn't recommend it to anyone.
"Why did you really hire him, Bobby?" Because he still doesn't buy it. He might complain, but he loves his job and he's diligent and they all know it. Another set of muscles is nice, but they don’t really need Eddie.
Bobby slowly untangles the mess of wires in his hands, laying them neatly to be connected up.
"What do you mean, Buck?"
He pushes down the irritation at the sight of that raised brow. He doesn't have time to fight before Eddie gets back. While he doesn’t quite like that Eddie is here, he still likes Eddie. It's an important distinction.
"You don't usually trust people so fast. You didn't even believe me when I—" He cuts off when that cool blue gaze lifts to look at him.
"I told you already. We need the help." A soft smile he doesn't believe at all. "I'm an old man, Buck. My knees can't handle all the labor." A tone that invites him to join in on the joke.
His lips tighten and tremble. There are accusations crowding behind his teeth, but the majority are his insecurities speaking and he knows it. Just then, Eddie steps back into the room, another large monitor in his hands. Buck exhales slowly and then turns away.
There's an ache in his chest. The lack of trust is galling. But he's been here long enough to know that Bobby probably won't fold no matter how he presses. Hasn't he earned his place by now? His trust?
They do witness interviews before the sun can set. Six in total, the lot of them clearly nervous and clear in their belief of what they witnessed. He's barely listening though, watching the expressions play across Eddie's face. It's all very fascinatingly minute. A tic of a jaw here and the slightest pinch of narrowed eyes there. He would have just thought that face remained perfectly stoic if he hadn't been watching so closely. But he is and so he can tell, Eddie's a non-believer. There's a vague look of contempt in those eyes by the third witness.
He grins to himself, because it'll be fun, the day that changes.
The three of them spend the rest of the evening taking ambient readings and baseline measurements. As suspected, because they hadn't even called in Chim or Hen, nothing out of the ordinary happens and they quickly debunk the few things that do. Bobby patiently walks Eddie through all their processes.
And Buck, well, he spends his time trying not to stare so blatantly at the both of them, trying to figure out what the former is thinking and what the latter possesses that prompted a near immediate job offer.
He doesn't remember helping any old ladies, so it had to be before he joined NGF, which doesn't help at all.
And Bobby, he seems nice at first glance, and he is! Truly. If Buck ever needs a shoulder to cry on he’d probably go to Bobby first because Bobby just has a way of staring into your soul and pretty much understanding anything you might be trying to say and then giving the most obvious yet profound advice.
But Bobby doesn’t trust people.
It had taken six long months to clear whatever checks both Bobby and Athena had before he could even step into the NGF offices.
He still doesn’t really trust Buck, even after the incident last summer, and Buck doesn’t think he lets anyone close; that he holds everything so close to his chest that even Chim, who’s apparently been working with him the longest, sometimes doesn’t even know why he makes the choices he makes.
Buck huffs, slouching further into his seat.
Anyway, it actually is nice not being the only one carrying all the gear in. Buck likes working out as much as the next guy, but...they have a lot of equipment. It's even nicer having someone to chat with as they set up sensors and surveillance in supposed hot spots. It's a small consolation, anyway.
Maybe he can let this go.
He has to learn to sometime.
He does his best anyway. It helps that Eddie is just so nice to look at. And so fun to poke at. Every tiny little grin or half-aborted eye-roll fills Buck with an unholy amount of glee that he’ll never admit to.
By the time midnight rolls around, Eddie is still keen eyed and wide awake, staring intently at the monitors as if hoping something will happen. Bobby's been out since before midnight, an old man indeed.
Buck yawns and Eddie glances over at him. He smiles sleepily and slouches enough down into his seat for his head to rest comfortably on the backrest.
"Wake me if anything happens, or when you get tired," he says. He hesitates, and then adds, just in case. "Do not go anywhere by yourself. No matter if you think you hear or see anything." Another hard learned lesson that maybe Eddie won't have to learn.
Eddie blinks, shooting Buck a look he can't quite decipher yet, but he ultimately nods, so Buck tips his head back on the seat and closes his eyes.
He doesn't dream.
They pack up after two days.
And Eddie's second case is also soft. Ish. He picks things up fast, and together they work seamlessly to set up base. It's nice. He likes it. Appreciates it. Still no thanks to Bobby, who is still pretending he doesn't feel the suspicious weight of Buck's gaze.
He'd appreciate it more if there wasn't unease pebbling his skin as he steps through the front door. The way the hairs on his arms raise and stay that way tells him that there's definitely something here.
Nothing serious happens while they're present other than a few dropped temperatures. Not enough to shock Eddie or change him into a believer. The cabin was built almost one hundred and seventy years ago, with zero reported deaths. Records before that are lost or beyond his or May’s ability to find.
Buck would almost be disappointed, if his dreams weren't so desperately sad; choking in their grief and blue until they're black.
There's a lake behind the house and his breath hitches, hooking in his chest, every time he catches sight of it through the window.
He lets things go for another day, and then, without looking at Eddie, says quietly, "We should check the lake, maybe."
He pretends not to see Eddie's ongoing confusion when Bobby, without question, calls in divers to trawl the lake. He doesn't feel like explaining, just yet; can't open his mouth less all that comes pouring out is dirty lake water.
He doesn't manage to draw breath until they leave the house, leaving behind police tape and crime scene forensics crawling the grounds.
Even then, he doesn't have the words yet to answer the uncertain question in Eddie's gaze.
By the third case, Buck is just a little bit annoyed and a lot impatient, because these are softball cases that bore the heck out of Bobby, much less Buck, and he'd never choose them otherwise.
He knows this because it's usually him that has to clear out these cases, by himself, exactly because they're too boring for the likes of Bobby and Athena, Chim and Hen.
True to form, this time, Bobby doesn't even bother showing up. It's a little nerve wracking, just Eddie and Buck and a softly glowing room, humming with electronics. He ignores the butterflies in his stomach that refuse to settle and concentrates on doing everything properly. He really doesn’t mean to, but—
"Is it me?"
"What?" Buck looks over, startled out of his not sulk.
"Are you in a bad mood because of me? I know that sounds vain, but you're kind of hard to read, man. Do we have a problem?" Eddie’s face is blank, but Buck’s learning to read it, just a little, by now, and Eddie is—frustrated, maybe even hurt.
Buck grimaces, then smiles apologetically. He considers a moment, but decides honesty is the best policy. "It's not you, but it's partially because of you. Bobby is picking these cases so you can adjust to the procedure without shit fucking us up."
Eddie is quiet at that. The skepticism is clear on his face. "Is that...an actual concern?"
He grins. "I know you're a skeptic, and that's fine. It's literally what we're here for, to separate fact from fiction. But man, these cases are pretty mundane. We normally wouldn't even take them after preliminaries."
Eddie frowns. "Training wheels?"
He laughs. "Yeah, pretty much."
They fall into silence again. Eddie diligently watches the monitors for movement, but Buck is scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
"How long have you worked with the NGF?"
He pauses, leaning back as he thinks back.
"A little under two years. It hasn't been that long, really."
"You seem pretty comfortable with it, though."
Buck snorts. Comfortable isn’t quite the word he would use. Maybe acclimated. Stock-holmed.
"Have you...seen things, then?"
At that, he looks up at Eddie. There's no trace of disdain or mockery or contempt. Eddie is genuinely asking, and he looks almost like he would actually believe the things Buck would say. Huh. It still takes effort to shape his mouth around words.
"Well, yeah,” he pauses, and doesn't quite manage to keep going, adding lightly, “Even a broken clock is right twice and all, right?”
The furrow between Eddie's eyes grows deeper as he contemplates this. As though he’s struggling between his skepticism and his belief in Buck. It's adorable. This man is adorable.
A thump above them.
Buck’s gaze zooms back onto the monitors, a frown forming on his face. "Do we even have cameras there?"
"No, that wasn't a designated hot spot."
They glance at each other.
Buck grins. "Wanna check it out?"
Eddie pales a little, but nods.
Buck laughs. "We'll move Cam 6 into the area and see."
The two men troop upstairs and set up.
He doesn't think it's serious. There are no uneasy feelings and usually those are good pre-cursors to dreams. But it's a tiny bit satisfying to see Eddie just a tiny bit more hesitant, his surveillance of the room extremely obvious as they spend time placing the equipment.
Eddie is attentive for the rest of the night on that singular monitor.
Buck doesn't dream.
"I guess it was nothing."
Buck ducks his head, hiding a grin at the faint disappointment lining Eddie’s voice.
It’s seven going on six and there’s not enough coffee to make up for Eddie staying up the entire night. Nothing else happens as the sun rises, of course, and Buck concludes the investigation as an extremely low level poltergeisting and pretty much closes the case with a flag—even if those only very rarely ramp up to actual, potentially dangerous poltergeisting activity.
As a result, Eddie is tired and cranky and Buck can’t help laughing because Eddie’s lower lip isn’t quite pouting, but it’s almost there and it is so, so adorable. He thinks he can forgive Bobby for this. Maybe.
Once they pack up all the gear he claps Eddie on the shoulder, shaking him a little and laughing some more as he gets a dirty look for it.
"Come on, night owl, let's get you some real coffee, and maybe a nap."
And it’s nice. Really nice to sit outside in the daytime with Eddie. He can’t tell if the warmth suffusing his body is more of the coffee or the sun but as he tilts his face towards the sky he decides it doesn’t really matter.
"Can I ask you something? At the lake house..."
He blinks open slowly, more so to buy himself time, and looks at Eddie.
He likes Eddie. He does, but he’s liked a lot of people in his life, and Buck honestly doesn’t think he has the best judge of character. At least, not when it comes to this.
But Eddie is watching him. Quiet and solemn and maybe even just the slightest hint of nervousness pinching the corners of his eyes. Just waiting and seemingly ready to accept whatever and whether Buck even answers or not.
It goes a long way to easing the nervous flutter in his chest. His gaze drops to where his hands are wrapped around his coffee cup. His mouth opens and closes a few times, wondering where to even start; marvels at the part of him that even wants to, quails at the part of him that can’t.
"It was a hunch," he settles on, at last. "Let's just leave it at that." He peeks at Eddie from beneath his lashes, gauging.
Eddie looks like he wants to keep asking, but his mouth shuts. He takes a long sip of his coffee and finally, he nods. There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes that makes Buck want to avert his in guilt.
Instead Buck smiles, grateful. He holds up his coffee cup. "Welcome to NGF, Eddie."
Eddie taps his own coffee against Buck’s and smiles. "Thanks, Buck. Glad to be here."