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Something is wrong.
The first thing Eddie notices is the bone-deep cold, pervasive and harsh. He almost expects his breath to cloud on the way out of his mouth, it doesn't. He can't hear anything outside of the frantic beat of his heart, the single sound echoing loud within the naves of the church he's in.
When he went to mass as a kid, the building was nothing like the mega churches of LA, just theatres for worship, and also completely different from the small-town chapels, wooden and familiar.
He remembers white stone on the outside and colorful artwork covering the inside, walls and ceilings full of depictions of suffering and forgiveness and endless shame. Weeping saints and martyrs and the idea that some souls could be saved from themselves. He used to sit with his back straight and his hands folded neatly in his lap. His mom had told him off for fidgeting twice already, her eyes never losing the disapproving tint, like he had committed some carnal sin he was unaware of, made some mistake that could not be undone.
That church was warm, faintly scented with votives, as kid-Eddie and teenager-Eddie used to imagine angels swinging on the chandeliers to pass the time. The space he's in now is dark, the windows shadowed and devoid of any life. He is prey with the jaws of the predator closing slowly over his head.
There is a crawling, creeping feeling clawing up Eddie's spine. He felt it moments before he found Shannon sprawled across hot asphalt, her life quickly running out with each labored breath, then again, when he looked up through solid sheets of rain and saw Buck hanging limply in his harness. He wants to say a prayer just to push the dread away, but all the candles are burned down to stumps, rivers of wax running down the stands like tears frozen in time. Instead, he swallows the lump of fear choking his throat, steps forward into more darkness, ink-thick and unforgiving.
As he explores, Eddie's shoes echo on the tile floor, dark beige tile stained with something ruddy. His dress shoes. The same shoes he has worn to Bobby's funeral. The shoes he pulls out of their box only on those cursed days where he has to say goodbye to someone he's loved and has lost. One glance down at himself confirms he's wearing the same simple black suit as well.
But it's already done, isn't it?
Their entire team has already said their goodbyes, they carried the coffin with the patriarch of their patchwork family in it, they buried him far far far away from home. Why is he here again?
Maybe this is his penance - to relive the moment he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Maybe the universe decided it was fair to take a life for a life wasted due to selfish reasons. Maybe he was always supposed to be the one to say his goodbyes with his face covered in his own blood instead of Bobby. Sometimes, he wishes for it, to turn the tide of time, but the universe laughs in his face and pushes him forward.
He always ruins it all, doesn't he?
Eddie takes a step, heavy with sleep-like gravity. Another then another, wading through the sea of shadows until he is close to the altar. It's dark grey stone and decorated with ruby cloth, rich like summer ripe cherries. There are large bouquets of flowers everywhere, piled haplessly into the shape of a shrine. White lilies and red chrysanthemums pour onto the floor, flanked by carnations in the exact shade of Buck’s birthmark, peppered with forget-me-nots the blue of Buck's eyes. A coffin sits on top of it, unassuming, with its lacquered wood and brass accents. Eddie knows he should pay his respects. Somehow, intrinsically, he knows he's responsible for this.
Behind him, the pews fill with faceless people, their dark figures vaguely displeased and somber, almost all wearing their dress blues. Just like for Bobby. Still, there is no murmur of voices, just the judging silence when he turns to look. They're wolves in rescuers’ clothing, a jury meant to punish.
This can't be real, can it? Eddie asks himself as he forces his feet to conquer the last few steps.
It's… Buck?
That can't be.
Yet, when Eddie leans close to look inside the forever-bed, his heart in his throat, it's his best friend's slack face that meets him. He's in his turnouts, every visible surface caked with white concrete dust and small pieces of debris, as if he's just escaped a crumbling building. Though if Eddie didn't know better, he'd say Buck was just asleep. Maybe they're both asleep and this is just his brain's fucked up way of reliving his trauma from the recent days.
Yet, Eddie's eyes are burning, the sensation familiar and uncomfortable. He refuses to let the tears fall - it will be real then. His trembling hands grip the edge of the coffin, as his legs threaten to give out. He wants to scream.
Buck's face is dirty with the same kind of dust as his city-issued uniform, and his curls are matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. How has Eddie not noticed the blood? There is a nasty scrape on Buck's chin, a dark red-purple bruise trailing up his cheek, and a sluggishly bleeding cut high up on his forehead, the skin split to reveal white cracked bone. Eddie can see Buck's fucking skull.
The red of the injuries, the slowly seeping blood are the color of the altar cloth, but Buck's face is pale, lacking that peachy, sun-kissed brightness he always carries. His lips and eyelids are blueish like a slowly healing bruise.
But Buck is supposed to be safe in LA, isn't he? Gripping his hair, Eddie tries to focus. He needs to remember what is real. The last thing Eddie recalls is going to sleep in the same house as Buck, saying his goodnights after an evening spent comfortably together, doing chores to the background noise of the TV. Buck is probably snoring away on his couch and not squished into an uncomfortable coffin, right?
Buck can't be dead. He can't be, because if he is, then what is the point of it all? What is Eddie to do now? Who is he supposed to turn to for warmth and guidance and reassurance that he's not a total fuck-up?
Shame bubbles up Eddie's throat, hot and acidic, and he grits his teeth until his jaw aches, until the panic abates enough that he can take half a breath, still bent over the body. The body.
There is a painful void in his chest, expanding like a black hole and devouring all of his insides like disease. It's a perfect metaphor really, this massive thing that's heavy and unstoppable, like anger or grief. Or both.
Eddie distantly remembers they don't reflect any light, are inescapable, swallowing anything close enough, even brightly shining stars.
He knows this because of Buck. Bright star Buck to Eddie's black hole. Buck, who told him these facts as they washed the dishes, any chore a two-man job, made infinitely more fun by default.
The church, the unnatural hush of it all, impersonal and so dull, feels offensive, stifling. The flowers surround him, petals pressing close like fingertips on his skin, their rotten-sweet scent filling Eddie's nose. He wants to scream, to tear through this pensive veil around him. His throat feels raw. Has he been yelling after all?
He wants to tell Buck to get up, to bitch at him until he dusts himself off with a boyish grin and a lame joke aimed only at Eddie. He wants to kiss his pink mouth, to kneel before him in devotion, to press his forehead into his warm hands to be blessed.
The elegant suit feels wrong on his body, rubbing him raw around his ribs as he stands and stares and stares and stares.
“How does it feel?” Bobby says from next to him, his hands in his pockets. Eddie startles violently, swiveling to face the man that's supposed to be buried back in Minnesota. He looks tired. Maybe the eternal rest isn't everything they sold it out to be. Bobby's smile is disingenuous and empty when he aims it at Eddie, head tilting to nod at Buck's still figure, like a Holy Mary statue but unequivocally male and a sinner’s paradise. “To see him like this? To know you're too late?”
Words stick to Eddie's tongue like hard candy. Has he turned his back to all of them after all? He was supposed to make his return quietly, without much fanfare, not that he deserved any. LA has always been home, it doesn't matter how long he'd be running for, he'd always make his way back to South Bedford Street, to Buck, who would welcome him with open arms no matter what.
Buck, who is always so stubbornly alive, somehow strong enough to overcome it all and still come out tender and gentle, holding Eddie's battered and beaten heart carefully like something fragile. His beautiful, lovely best friend Buck.
He was supposed to have Buck's back. He failed.
Had he been brave enough, he could've maybe held his hand too, sidled up to his heart, curled into his lap like a faithful dog.
It's not a secret to him, not anymore. He can sense the endlessness of his love for Buck, the honey-sticky sweetness of his fondness for this silly, intelligent, brave, big-hearted idiot of a man. The physical distance between them has put it all into a frankly non-platonic perspective, one in which he wants Buck all to himself, preferably all the time.
The church smells like burning incense, like soot and a home going down in flames, like wet earth and something rotten.
Bobby is still by Eddie's side, gazing down at Buck with measured disinterest, a man observing a specimen in a glass cage instead of a father looking at his eldest son, his pride and joy and the biggest source of early grey hairs.
Buck's eyes flutter open, then lock onto Eddie's.
Eddie gasps, surprise and electric terror filling his veins in a split second. They're trained right on him, two dull pools of murky water. Usually, they're shiny, sea-colored, and glittering under the kitchen lights, but now, everything in them is just… gone, snuffed out like a candle.
“Eddie.”
When Buck calls his name, Eddie can see his bloodied teeth. The word echoes like they're both underwater, like a slow-motion gunshot, like an old movie reel played in reverse.
The way Buck sits up slowly is reminiscent of a marionette led by invisible strings - his torso first, the bulk of it moving sluggishly, followed by his head, rolling over Buck's shoulders until it rights itself. Buck's eyes are still trained on Eddie, unblinking.
Terror fills Eddie's lungs.
He stumbles back as his survival instinct screams danger. Dread pools low in Eddie's guts as his foot catches on something and he almost falls, arms pinwheeling through the heavy, cold air.
The eyes never leave him.
“I'm sorry,” he starts, startled by the sound of his own voice, rough and painful like a mourner's. “I wish I could have saved you. Please forgive me.”
Buck regards him for an extended moment. “You left. Will you even remember I existed?”
A hot knife of regret twists itself through Eddie at that, as reassurances press against the backs of his teeth, eager to get out. He swallows them all down, fingers curling into fists.
There's a tickle on his upper lip before he tastes copper, bittersweet and metallic like pennies; his nose bleeds and bleeds, he chokes on it like a drowning man.
Eddie wants to remember everything about Buck from his blood type and the way he takes his coffee in the mornings, to the shape of his fingers and the way he laughs at a joke he hasn't expected. He wants to study Buck down to his bones, break open his ribs and crawl inside for shelter, to be close enough that nobody can tell them apart.
Maybe he's a little insane about all of it, but he has loved Buck for a long time, so long in fact that he does not remember life before Buck, in the same foggy way one forgets their childhood, vague and present just enough to trigger nostalgia.
He's been a coward for most of his life, running away, always away.
“I love you.” Eddie reasons, somehow braver here in this hellish dreamrealitymemory than in his own life.
This dead-Buck, not-Buck, smiles indulgently, the expression 3 degrees off from what it should be. His eyes are more glassy than before and the breath he takes rattles against his insides when he speaks. “Go back then. Tell him. I'm already dead here.”
Eddie wakes up.
He's plunged into consciousness, immediately aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of his shirt and beading along his hairline. His breathing is ragged, fingers white-knuckled around the duvet tangled in his lap. Eddie remembers swimming to the surface after escaping the collapsed well, sucking that first breath of night air into his screaming lungs; this is the same.
He almost falls on his ass trying to get out from between the sheets and stumbles to the door in the dark. There is only one need, above everything else, that is driving his movement. To find Buck, press fingers to his skin to check his pulse and find a breathing, living, tender man instead of an unforgiving corpse with eyes he will never forget.
Eddie manages to wrench the bedroom door open in less than three tries and makes his way over to the living room on unsteady feet, not really caring about any noise he might make.
Spilling out of the open doorway, he can spot the flickering light of the TV showing some preview or other, a mirage of shadows moving across the walls. However, there is no sound of the well-known, somewhat-loved, habitual snoring that's a mix between a chainsaw and a revving motorcycle. Eddie almost swears to God he will never again complain about the noise or threaten Buck with a CPAP machine if he can get to hear it again.
Resting his shoulder against the wall, he takes everything in, breath stuck halfway out of his lungs. Buck is sprawled like a starfish all across the couch, his long limbs each choosing a different direction to head into. Halfway up to a sitting position, his long legs disappear under the coffee table, while his torso is slumped awkwardly against a small mountain of pillows stacked in the corner of the couch cushions. The soft blanket from Pepa is tangled over Buck's lap, like he's fallen asleep watching something, just like Eddie warned him he would.
Buck's head is tilted back at an awkward angle (it's most likely going to give him a crick in the neck he's going to complain about all next day, Eddie's fine with that), his messy curls like a halo in the dim lights, the line of his nose stark and elegant despite his half-open mouth. And his chest is-
Eddie moves before he even thinks, his baser instincts making him clumsy and desperate. In three steps, he's planting a palm against Buck's sternum, right where he pressed during CPR when the lightning strike took Buck away for three minutes and seventeen seconds. As soon as it connects, Eddie can feel the steady and strong thrum of Buck's heartbeat, unrelentingly human and alive.
It's real enough to sap all of the anxious strength from Eddie's body. His legs are almost 100% lime Jell-O at this point so he sinks to the floor, knees thudding painfully against hardwood. The adrenaline fueling his previous movements leaves him reeling, a car going from 100 to 0 in a second, a stop so abrupt it makes his stomach twist itself upside-down.
All the ruckus Eddie makes must wake Buck, as he hums low in his chest, the sound shifting into a displeased rumble as he pats around for whatever might have woken him hours before dawn. Coming across Eddie's cold hand still planted firmly on his chest, he covers it with his own, fingers curling in to hold on. “Eddie, what…” He mumbles with no heat, but then reality apparently snaps into place and his eyes fly open.
Out of the corner of his eye from where he's staring intently into nothing, Eddie can see Buck take everything in, trail his gaze down Eddie's forearm to the rest of him only for his eyes to widen in shock or maybe fear. “Your nose is bleeding, shit.”
And- oh. Oh yeah, it really is.
That wasn't just a dream then; Eddie can feel the blood flowing out of his nose and down his throat in a startlingly clear sensation, the tickle in his nostrils turning to a sticky-slippery rivulet over his lips and down his chin, droplets both splattering on the floor and soaking into his sleep-shirt. He slowly curls into himself, down on all fours, fighting the sudden onslaught of nausea.
Eddie feels so out of control he could laugh, if that wasn't coming with a risk of his dinner making a reappearance. What's important is that Buck's alive and awake, and here. With Eddie, on South Bedford Street, on his navy velvet couch.
But then, Eddie's hand is ripped away from Buck, even though his fingers try to hang onto the shirt followed by the echo of bare feet stomping down the hallway. The shush of the bathroom faucet running is next, a cabinet door slamming shut, loud like a gunshot, before the steps make their way back. Buck's hands rest gently on Eddie's curled back, running a few soothing circles across the taut muscle before moving under his armpits and easily pulling Eddie's unresponsive body onto the couch.
He keeps forgetting how strong Buck actually is. It's a fluttering thought in the middle of his internal crisis, like a late butterfly blustering through a tornado. While Eddie has assuaged the immediate need to confirm Buck's continued existence, the urgency and the sharp dread pooling in his gut are persistent, twisting and stabbing their way through him. Eddie needs to do something, to make sure that Buck is there and that he will stay by Eddie's side, not just tonight or tomorrow when he's worried Eddie's gonna have another breakdown, but also every new day after until the end of their time.
Meanwhile, Buck manhandles Eddie into the best position to deal with the nosebleed: sitting, elbows resting on knees, head bent forward, the damp towel pressed to his face to staunch the blood flow. His own heart is still hammering wildly - he's woken up out of dead sleep by his best friend covered in his own blood and he's supposed to not freak out?
But the knee-jerk panic is taken over by firefighter mode - first he fixes whatever he can see is wrong and when Eddie can get a full sentence out, then they'll talk. Absentmindedly, Buck considers the luck of Chris being over at the Wilson's for the night, that kid does not need to see his dad like this again.
Perched next to Eddie on the couch, Buck takes a deep, grounding breath, and places the hand not holding the towel on the back of Eddie's neck, sees the tension there melt immediately. It draws a small pleased hum out of him as he rubs his fingers gently through the short hair at the nape, before sliding them down to follow the path of Eddie's spine and then back up, repeating the pattern. He talks too, just whatever comes to mind, reassurances and observations, praises when Eddie's breathing starts to resemble something normal.
Buck assumes Eddie must have had a nightmare, like those he had after the shooting. Buck has witnessed a big chunk of them while he was keeping watch over Eddie during recovery. Sometimes, Eddie would wake up with a cut-off scream, other times he'd just cry silently, his face turned away in shame while Buck tried to reassure him it's okay.
However, this is different, somehow. Buck just can't put his finger on it.
Instead, he checks on the bleeding again, but it seems to have stopped. Carefully, he tips Eddie's face towards himself and his body instinctually follows, one trembling hand landing on Buck's sweats-clad knee. Maybe it's fucked up in a psychological way, but Buck is glad that Eddie seeks him out like this, even after they've been apart by hundreds of miles and after every tragedy that has befallen them. Call him codependent, but Buck's honestly okay with it; if he can be a safe person for Eddie, the best friend he turns to for comfort and help, then he's happy.
Eddie's doe eyes are shiny and bitter-chocolate-dark while his long eyelashes are in pointy clumps, almost as if he has mascara on. This Eddie before him, wide-eyed and feral with fear, but still trusting Buck with his vulnerable edges is Buck's favorite, in a selfish, indulgent kind of way. The blood stains Eddie's skin, sticks in the crevices of his lips, but Buck does his best as he wipes the skin clean, taking care to be gentle.
It’s a surprisingly intimate moment, all things considered.
Eddie doesn't stop staring even when Buck drops the towel to the floor. From the furrow of his brows, Buck can tell he's thinking hard, trying to make a decision, determination tightening the corners of his lips. Fresh tears gather on his waterline and Buck's palm shifts against his cheek to thumb them away before they have a chance to fall. It's easy, too easy.
“You back with me, bud? Any dizziness or difficulty breathing?”
Suddenly embarrassed at Buck's words, Eddie drops his eyes to the scant space between their bodies and nods once, a dip of his chin as he attempts to clear his throat.
“I'm okay. Buck, I'm sorry, I-”
He means to say more, explain everything like he made a mistake, but Buck cuts him off, “Nuh-uh, none of that. You don't need to apologize for having a nightmare, Eds. Cause that's what it was, right?”
Rubbing a hand across his forehead to iron out the stressed wrinkles, Eddie nods again hesitantly.
Their legs are pressed together like usual, knees poking into thighs as they're sat half-turned to each other, limbs pulled underneath themselves to fit and both of them take comfort in it. It's quiet for a moment, just their breathing barely audible between them. If Eddie wanted to, he could easily climb into Buck's lap like this, an oversized street cat seeking affection.
Buck doesn't press the issue immediately, which Eddie is glad for, because he has no idea how to tell him not only about details of the dream, but also the preceding feelings and subsequent realizations. It's a mess of emotions: fondness, trust, hope, worry, fear, love.
He feels it all and it's overwhelming.
Eddie shivers, all the sweat on his body drying, and he feels gross, but Buck gathers him close with an arm around his back, lets him rest his forehead in the crook of his shoulder and hide away for a moment, every breath scented with the smell of Buck's skin and their laundry detergent.
Buck's hand finds its way into Eddie's hair, first carding the messy strands away from his face, then just soothingly running through, following the shape of Eddie's skull with calloused fingers.
“It was a church, and you were in a coffin, dead from that last building collapse. It was your funeral, I think. We chatted. Bobby popped in for a moment.”
The click of Buck's throat as he swallows is especially loud from where Eddie is. The name of their captain invokes a fraught tension, full of unresolved grief, but then Buck rests his chin on top of Eddie's head and breathes out, shaky and quiet. “Did I say anything interesting?”
“He- you told me to tell you the truth.”
That vague statement causes Buck to sit up again, eyeing Eddie with wary curiosity. “And what’s that?”
One of the irrevocable truths of life is that Eddie knows Buck like the back of his own hand. He can read Buck's tells, guess what he's thinking about or what he'll play in rock-paper-scissors. Eddie also knows that Buck needs someone who will give him a home, who will make him feel loved, accepted, cherished. Eddie wants to be that person, not just as a best friend fulfilling only some of that need, but also as a romantic partner, one that will proudly claim Buck as his.
Untangling their limbs, Eddie places his right hand on the spot he rested his forehead before, just where Buck's shoulder meets his neck. Now or never, Edmundo Diaz.
“That I– I love you. I'm in love with you.”
It's out there now, Eddie's soul, bare and pitiful and ripe for the taking.
He doesn't even know what reaction he expects from Buck, hasn't stopped long enough to consider that, but he has hope it's reciprocated. In the end, they'll be okay either way, but Eddie has a hunch that Buck might feel more too; they've never been normal about each other, whether they knew the other one a day or seven years - the twisted ankle speaks for itself.
However, the expression on Buck's face is… complicated. A smile is threatening to spill out onto his lips, at the same time as his eyebrows are scrunched, making the combination resemble pain, or maybe disbelief. Like he's being played for a joke, or told something too good to be true.
It spurs Eddie on to try to hurriedly explain himself as his thumb rubs over the tendons in Buck's neck. “Seeing you like that again, it was a wake up call. When I realized I didn't get to be happy with you, because you were taken from me, from everyone too early,” Eddie pauses briefly, remembering that endless pit in his stomach, the horror of seeing Buck's mangled body presented before him like a trophy. He swallows, then smiles when Buck squeezes his knee encouragingly. “I couldn't stop feeling like I lost the love of my life. And then I woke up and you're here, with me. I don't want to make the same mistake.”
He watches that beautiful smile bloom in real time, wider and more sure with each of Eddie's words until Buck is glowing with it, despite the darkness surrounding them. As his tawny eyelashes flutter, a tear races down Buck's cheek and he wipes it away hastily. “I feel like I'm the one that's dreaming now,” he says with a sigh that transforms into an infectious giggle, bubbly with happiness.
“A good dream?”
“The best dream,” Buck answers easily. It unfurls the last knot of anxiety in Eddie's chest. Buck's hands are warm and steady when they cup Eddie's cheeks, handling him like something precious, but not fragile.
“You're the love of my life too,” Buck states softly, each word enunciated with pride as he looks into Eddie's eyes. Eddie bites his lip, but he can't stop the happiness from taking over, corners of his eyes crinkling from the wide smile, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty pink shade.
Champagne is fizzing in Eddie's veins, the joy big enough to be drunk with it, but he's also settled in a way he hasn't been in a long while. His body is present in every sensation of fingers against skin, his centre of gravity steady as Eddie leans in to nose against Buck's cheek.
They bask in the novelty of the touch, something they've never allowed themselves before with each other. Still, it feels safe and comfortable, a warm bath on a cold day they can now slip into.
Buck responds by pressing their foreheads together, his next words a whisper. “Can I kiss you?”
“Please,” Eddie whispers back, tongue darting out to wet his lip, but then he recoils with a realization. “I'm gonna taste like blood.”
Buck's alarmed expression softens, his thumb moving to press against the corner of Eddie's lips. His eyes drop to where he's touching, but they're far away, recalling a memory. However, it's only a handful of seconds before he's catching Eddie's gaze again, oddly serious.
“I don't mind. I already tasted your blood, long before I even thought I had a chance to kiss you. So, let me, please.”
How can Eddie refuse him?
The first brush of their mouths is gentle and exploratory, tinged with the metallic tang of blood, but when Buck uses his hold to tip Eddie's head and align them better, it blooms into something ravenous and possessive - claiming and being claimed simultaneously.
They kiss until they're both out of breath, until they can't taste anything other than each other. The hand Eddie previously had on Buck's shoulder migrates down to his chest, slipping over the curve of his pectoral to rest over his wildly beating heart. He presses another peck to Buck's pretty pink mouth, “Come to bed with me and stay.” Another kiss, Buck chasing his mouth, catching Eddie's lower lip between his. ”Stay. Don't move out, don't leave my side ever again, okay?”
Stay with me forever, please? He’s really saying, but Buck hears it all anyways, nodding before all the words are out. “Yeah, yes. I promise.”
Eddie still can't believe this night isn't a dream when they slip under the covers together in the bedroom, cuddled close like cats in a patch of sunlight, Eddie's head pillowed on Buck's chest. And if he's still dreaming, he hopes he never wakes up.