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It’s snowing outside. The sky is dark and the snow is a sharp, bright white in contrast.
This is the first floating thought that Buck is able to grasp onto. He’s been staring out this window for minutes, hours, could even be days…. An indefinite amount of time he’ll settle on, but he’s unsure how much.
The snow is the first thing he’s been able to focus on.
Buck’s been in L.A. for almost 9 years now and this is the first true snow fall he’s seen in years. But snow means cold. And cold reminds him of darkened, empty hallways, and stilted dinner conversations and being sent to his room when he was being “too much.”
Snow means Hershey. And well, maybe that’s where he is. He doesn’t have the faintest clue where he could be if not Hershey.
Buck’s vision has been wavering and his hearing has been fluctuating and this whole day, week, no day, has been confusing. There was work. It was an easy day. He went home, this doesn’t feel like his home.
And then there was a knock.
Sometimes having a window on your door is worth the money.
He doesn’t know why he’s still looking outside this specific window now. But he can’t seem to find the energy to move his head. He’s reclined back, almost lazily strewn across whatever he’s lying on. A wall to his back and something soft underneath him so there are worse places he could be.
It’s just him and the window.
And then, in the very next moment, there’s a blurry figure moving into his field of vision. Pale skin. White beard. Blue eyes. His features all blend and morph together but he can maybe see a hint of a smile. There are words forming from where his mouth should be but Buck must have hit the mute button on the remote because he can’t hear anything.
The Man. There’s another name for him but those thoughts are fleeting and Buck’s exhausted enough he doesn’t want to chase them, so he is The Man, is still speaking to him. There doesn’t seem to be an expectation for Buck to respond so he just keeps staring as The Man reaches behind him, and with a little flourish, reveals an antique, gold encrusted brush. The Man kneels near Buck and his hand soon moves out of his sight. There is pressure on his head and his head gets lightly yanked back. Back and forth. Back and forth. Brushing. The Man really should stop, Buck thinks slowly.
Buck blinks languidly and tries to grasp this rather odd situation. If The Man brushes his hair, it’s going to start frizzing up. And if he leaves his hair frizzy, his mom is going to call him ‘unkept’ and shake her head in disappointment and buy him gel and tell him he’s too lazy to manage his curls. He likes his curls. But The Man is ruining them. And he really doesn’t need mom to be upset with him right now.
So he needs to tell the man to stop.
Please stop.
From one blink to the next. The pressure on his head is absent. The figure at his side vanished. The lighting has changed as well. Shadows receded. The snow is almost invisible with the whitish-blue of the sky.
There’s a voice. Buck can almost make it out this time. His ears are stuffed with soft cotton and he wonders, if he could tip his head to the side, how much would fall out. There’s a muffled swaying voice in the background but the cotton is too compact to let it break through to distinguish what is being said.
And his eyes, when he goes to blink, are filled with Tetracraine. This isn’t an eye exam. But there’s something in his eyes, a film that makes his vision milky.
Buck should focus on this. It’s not normal for his ears to be stuffed and his vision to be blurry. There’s something dire happening. What, he’s a little unsure of. But there’s a sense of dread pooling in his stomach and filling him up to the brim he might choke on it and he really needs to know what’s going on.
His father would often huff and his mom would tsk when they spoke to his teachers, often throwing empathetic grimaces when they were told Bu-Evan wasn’t paying attention in class.That’s kind of what he’s feeling right now. Filled up with anxiety and insecurity. His skin is too tight. He tried…back then. When he was a kid. He tried so hard to sit still and keep his mouth shut. It's exhausting for Buck. Although he's learned on the flipside, he’s exhausting to others if he doesn’t pay attention. He wants to be good. He doesn’t want to get in trouble. So he should try this time to focus.
A deep exhale escapes his nose as Buck struggles to open his eyes. He doesn’t recall ever closing them. Prying them open this time, he can’t hold back the way they water and a groan of discomfort reverberates through his throat. The light, er- sun, maybe possibly a hydrogen bomb has gone off in the room since he last had his eyes open. It’s searing his skin and burning his retinas. But now that they’re open, they cannot be closed.
Buck opens his mouth to plead for The Man. His mom. The Man to turn the lights off. It’s too early, it’s the weekend and he’s allowed to sleep in.
But nothing comes out.
His mouth remains closed.
Oversight on Buck’s part, he really should open his mouth.
But the lilting tone cuts off abruptly which signals maybe someone is finally paying attention to him! Buck tries again. What did he need to say?
“Hello poppet,” a warm voice warps around his ear. Buck’s eyes are able to track the movement in the corner of his vision this time. The window no longer has him locked in a staring contest and he’s able to see The Man’s crinkled eyes and speckled hand as it rises into Buck’s vision. There’s pressure again, this time on his face, but he still can’t…feel it. There’s a whisper, a breath of movement under eyes and The Man’s fingers comes away wet.
Maybe the snow is on the inside too, the window wasn’t able to keep it out. It makes sense. Buck’s cold. If his body would move, he thinks it would be shivering out of its skin.
But none of that matters right now. The Man’s fingers are still glistening with liquid and after holding Buck’s gaze, he places his finger in his mouth.
Buck’s mouth stays shut.
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
There were times when Buck’s loneliness ate up his every waking moment. Depressing as that is, it was his normal as a child who recently lost his sibling to adulthood. So as a child who deeply missed his big sister, he often went into her room to wallow. Often to keep busy, he would rummage through her closet and investigate everything she left behind. On one of these occurrences, he found her bin of old dolls. Girl dolls were similar to boy dolls, otherwise known as action figures, in Buck’s head. They would often mingle, the G.I. Joe’s and Maddie’s Barbie dolls, and they would go on fun adventures together.
His mother found out. And mother Buckley was not pleased. She lectured him when she uncovered such a dastardly scheme.
“Boys don’t play with dolls,” she sniffed as she shoved the container on a higher shelf Buck couldn’t reach in his sister’s closet.
What a silly thought to come to mind.
The Man is across the room, gripping his pocket watch as he appears to contemplate something Buck’s not inclined enough to learn about. “Hnmh, you can be alone for a while, right?” He glanced over at Buck and then looked back down. “It’s only going to be for a little bit. I know I’ll miss you. And I would hate for you to leave me when I wasn’t here…” He’s biting his lip. The Man is nervous? Should Buck be nervous?
Without much of a warning, his heart ratchets up as if he started running a 5k. If The Man is nervous, Buck should be nervous too. But he needs to know why. However, he’s not allowed to ask questions. He’s forbidden. He’s meant to sit there. Be looked at. But shouldn’t be touched.
The Man told him…
He can’t ask what’s wrong and his vision starts growing spotty, grey creeping in along the edges. The air is whistling out his nose and not coming back in. Maybe if he gets down on his knees, The Man will see Buck is willing to beg to know why he should be anxious. Why is he anxious? The reasoning. But he still can’t get up.
The Man tuts and glides back towards Buck. His hand’s reaching up and over his shoulder.
Buck fades out.
The bed dips.
The shadows have moved again.
“I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d still be here, poppet,” Buck’s awareness fades back in.
His heart seems to have calmed down between then. Whenever then was. And now.
The window however, HIS window that shows the outside and the snow, isn't in his field of vision anymore. Now all he can see is what can only be the ceiling, and a piece of The Man’s chin. “My other dolls,” he continues on as if it’s normal for Buck to be torn away from his window, “they usually didn’t last long, but you’re strong aren’t you? I can keep you for a while?” There’s a hint of uncertainty and almost sadness in his tone as the man shifts his arm to wrap around Buck. But as The Man should know, Buck cannot respond, so he continues to stare at the little bit of water stain on the ceiling until it morphs into something else.
Something that isn’t here in this room. Something far away. There’s another something running down his face. Buck can’t feel but he knows it’s there. Maybe the snow turned into rain.
Last time it rained though, there was thunder. And lightning.
Buck couldn’t move or breathe then.
He can’t move now.
Can he breathe?
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
Buck’s been nauseous before. Probably more times he can count. In college, going too hard at a rager the day before he was kicked out. When he was blown up and crushed by a fire engine, he felt sick on the way to the hospital. Only a little bit of motion sickness on the drive back to Eddie's, after he was pistol whipped by inmates dressed as security guards.
He's had the not so pleasure of feeling nauseous throughout his adult life.
Possibly the worst occasion when he was coughing up his blood clots. The nausea was there, spreading like a sickness. He felt the urge to expel the copper tang that lined his throat and all he could think was ‘get it out!’
The feeling often comes in steps.
His salivary glands start overworking, flooding his mouth with saliva which is closely followed by ice shoots down his veins and then sweat trickling down his neck. The wave of dizziness assaults his senses and disorients him enough his body loses all semblance of self and he becomes off-balance.
And usually then, and only then, he would throw up.
He doesn’t want to throw up right now.
The Man shared that is how their time together ends. When he vomits. That was important. He clings to that information and kept it stuffed in the back of his mind. He shouldn’t throw up.
On the other hand, if Buck would throw up, there’s a high likelihood Bobby would stop by his house and drop off some homemade chicken noodle soup. And an even higher likelihood Eddie would let him curl up in the South Bedford couch, the home that actually does feel like home, and allow him the grace of spending time with his family to watch a spree of documentaries until he felt better. Eddie would even play with his hair and give him those silly looks when the narrator says something out of pocket. And those looks always make Buck’s heart melt and….
Well.
He's not at home. And he's definitely not at Eddie's. Come to think of it. Where is h-?
“Buck, wake up!” a stern, feminine voice commands him.
The tone bothers him as it pulls him from his drifting thoughts. He's finally reclaimed the window in his sight and he’s sitting, well more slumped over than fully sitting, and he’s not staring at the ceiling so he rather would stay content looking at the one consistent object he’s used to at the moment.
Apparently what Buck wants isn't a high priority right now.
He’s jolted out of his musing. His vision bobs, and the snow looks lighter, less heavy outside, but it’s still falling and Buck could easily fall too but apparently he’s not allowed to becau- “You need to focus on me, come on Buck, look at me.”
If he looks away from the window, the world will lose its color. Buck’s not certain why he knows that for a fact but it’s true. Chim says he never watches movies, which is pretty true, but he’s seen some. For whatever reason, his parents had many black and white movies on tape and those were the default ones he was forced to watch when he was allowed to sit with them in the living room.
Maddie would also turn on “It’s A Wonderful Life” at Christmas, another black and white movie. It's not his favorite holiday movie by far but the one portion that always caught his attention was George Bailey wishing he was never born. Was it bad if he related to that?
One more jerk and the color indeed faded. His eyes were torn from the window, and a new figure filled sight. A woman. Black and white. Features not in focus.
“Buck, are you with me? Can you nod if you understand me? C’mon” hands are moving in his vision again and sharp curses spill out of her mouth before they are held back. Pressure, possibly a soothing motion if Buck could feel anything. “It’s alright Buck. We found you. You’re safe now.”
An interesting development, that this woman may not know, is who she’s speaking to isn’t really Buck it turns out.
That’s just The Body. Buck’s not currently inhabiting it at the moment. There was a point where they separated when he looked away from the window and he’s kind of his own being now. Although he still hears The Body doing its best to communicate with her. There’s a sad little whimper groan coming out of its throat. The woman looks distraught and borderline furious. At The Body? Hands are on… its face.
The Body’s face. Her fingers come away wet, just like The Man’s. But she doesn’t place them in her mouth like he did. The woman pulls out a handkerchief and starts dabbing around it, his, its eyes.
The Body makes a cut off noise loud enough that the woman jerks back.
She’s back to its, his, its, HIS face. This time pulling and pressing. She’s whipping around and calling out, “I need some help. Now!” A commander. That’s what she must be.
There’s suddenly a strong pull deep within him.
Everything tilts.
“Let them through!”
From one moment to the next, Buck can finally feel! There’s a strong, bruising grip on his shoulders. Lines of wet are sliding down his face. His face! He’s back in his body. He can feel everything. Outside. And inside.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh my god.”
“####”
“Buck, can you look at me?”
“How are we getting this off him?”
“#####-stop and-###########”
Several voices are bombarding him, the noise disorienting. At some point the cotton must have been removed from his ears because the words are much louder but they’re also cutting in and out.
He really should start asking questions. Like, can anyone feel what he’s feeling? The icky feeling pulling up from his gut? It’s been a long time since he was fully in his body. He really really wants to ask about what’s going on. But his mouth has so much saliva and he can’t swallow it all down. There’s too much. And he doesn’t want it to fall in the pit of ickiness that’s sitting in him.
Spitting, though disgusting, is probably the best solution.
But he can’t.
His mouth is still shut.
“Hold on, Buck, hold on, kid,”
“Athena, go to the kitchen see #####”
“###-Move-##########”
“#######”
“#######-Help-######”
Words are hard to understand sometimes as much as they are to speak aloud.
He should use his words and let his mom know he drank at Eddie’s the other night. They were both tipsy and having fun. He knows he can’t do that. It’s not okay. He knows he shouldn’t drink on a school night and he’s too young. But sometimes if he’s being naughty, his parents have to correct him. They have to pay attention to him. They have to help him.
Hopefully someone can help him now.
“Get it off!”
“#######”
“Aspirating!”
“###Hurry-###”
“####”
The noises are blending together again, but there’s one that stands out.
A choking noise.
Something’s choking.
Someone’s choking.
And Buck.
Can’t breathe.
And his mouth won’t open, although he’s trying. He swears he’s trying!
The Man was right. He shouldn’t throw up.
More hands are on him. On his back, on his arms, turning him on his side. Multiple hand grabbing at this face. Wetting his face. Pulling at his face.
Pulling off his face.
The choking noise is there but it’s almost entirely covered by the high pitch whine in his ear.
What will he do when they pull off the plastic from his doll face?
Will there be anything left?
Pulling.
Wiping.
Ripping.
A sudden intrusive and blunt finger is shoved in his mouth, swiping side to side. Hopefully not The Man’s finger. He wouldn’t want that. Please. Stop. No. No. no. No. nononoonono.
He vomits.
“That’s it Buck. Get it out,” a soft voice murmurs near his ear, “you’re okay. You’ll be okay.” The soothing tone is greatly appreciated as more ick overflows from his lips. His parted lips. His mouth is finally open.
More voices filter in and out.
“He was gluing their mouths shut!?”
“All his victims choked on their vomit.”
“It doesn’t matter right now.”
Buck didn’t really care too much about this conversation as he let one last glob of spit dribble out of his mouth before it was quickly wiped away. With feeling in all his limbs now, he could sense the shivers make their home in his skin. And the hands that are still on him are like fire.
Touching is not as soothing as the voices. His urge to throw up has fully subsided and the hands must know that because they’re moving and dragging him away from the pool but he would rather they stop.
“Please, stop. Please.” Buck knows his mouth is open but the words are being drowned out by the shifting and talking of those around him. And they’re not stopping. His mouth is open. Can they not hear? His mouth isn’t shut.
There’s more words attempting to calm him. Comforting coaxing words as lasers are shined into his wavering vision. Hands that are holding his head steady. One in his hands. A couple on his shoulders.
So much touching.
Too much toughing.
And he can’t do this.
He can speak.
“Please!” the word rips out of him as he cowers and curls into himself. “Please stop, please stop. Please. Please stop.” He’s begging and shaking. The calm voices cease. The touching relents..
There’s one quiet voice, lilting in the background like before that he hones on .
Oh.
It’s music.
Christmas music.
And Buck allows himself to float away.
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
Someone must have hit the fast forward button because Buck is no longer on the bed. He’s currently swaying and moving but not of his own accord. He’s staring up, not the same ceiling from before, but shifting ceilings.
“Where am I?” Buck quietly asks, not expecting an answer. His lips are stinging. His eyes are roving. The ceilings warps to sky and suddenly there’s a whole face leaning over his own.
“Buck? Hey Buck, hey. You’re okay,” The man, not The Man, but another one is staring down at him with giant brown eyes, and a deep notch between his brows. If Buck had any control over his body, he thinks he would try to smooth out the crease. But his arms are rather preoccupied lying limp at his sides.
The man is waiting for a response as his brow furrows further and a gloved hand comes up to wipe flakes from his face. He’s outside. The sky is blue. The snow is still falling. And the brown eyed man is waiting for a response.
“You look like Eddie. Like, like my Eddie,” Buck murmurs back. His vision is warbling and maybe that’s why it looks like the brown eyes have unshed tears in it.
“I am Eddie,” there’s the makings of a reassuring smile on his face that doesn’t match this Eddie's eyes. “I- It’s, it’s going to be okay, Buck. I promise. I know everything is confusing and scary right now. But we’ll be alright.”
“Are we in Hershey?” Buck can’t stop the question from slipping out. Now that he has his mouth again, he would like to use it. The exhaustion is pulling him down, slurring his words, but he’d still like to know, even if when he fades back in he’ll be in the room. “There’s- there’s snow in your hair. Like Hershey.”
The sky swaps to the inside of a vehicle. Buck is still lying down. And maybe-his-Eddie sits near his head, running his fingers through Buck’s hair, while things are being moved and futzed with out of his field of view.
“God no,” the man, maybe Eddie, incredulously replies as he smooths down Buck’s hair from his forehead, “we’re in ‘Santa’s Village’ in L.A.. You were being held in the back of a Santa’s doll workshop.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense,” Buck nods, vision finally fading out.
❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️
This may have been one of the worst day of his life and Buck wasn’t even present for the majority of it.
He comes to, hopefully for the final time today, to hospital machinery beeping to his right, and the quiet murmurs of two people conversing to his right.
Buck’s attempts at opening his eyes are much easier than before. Whatever before is. He can identify immediately there are gaps. Memories that blur together, that feel out of order. Out of place. It’s like everything before waking up at this point in time was a dream and reality has finally come back to him.
Hopefully.
His eyes are a little pinched from the glaring fluorescent lights above him, but he can easily make out the figures of Bobby, Maddie, and Eddie sitting around his bed. His people. Tears well up in his eyes without his permission, and a slightly gaspy breath is released. All eyes are turn to him when sobs start to wrack his body.
“Oh Buck.” He’s not sure who says it but there are hands gripping his own hands, and a heavy pressure on his ankle.
He’s surrounded by people he loves and all are quick to jump to reassure him.
They tell him it’s okay if he’s still confused and overwhelmed. It’s the drugs in his system. Ketamine the doctors would later say. He was given multiple doses over a 12-16 hour time period and it’ll take some time for it to fully wear off.
He’s going to feel out of it for the next several days.
Buck is also informed his lips are torn in some spots as the first responders, his family, had to quickly remove the super glue that was adorning his lips. Normally the process can be safely removed with warm water or oil, but he started to choke and they had to get it off quickly.
That explains… a lot.
But he’s told he’s safe now.
He’s safe.
The Man is in custody- Buck abruptly pulls away and doesn’t want to hear any more about him and he’s instantly appeased. Doctors and nurses come in and out. Telling him things he can’t fully conceptualize but his family is around him and readily accepts the care team instructions and what to look out for. He’s not going to be hospitalized, but he will need to be monitored and stay with someone while he recovers.
After receiving the ‘good’ news, Bobby gets up to call Athena and text the 118 Buck’s status.
Maddie lightly says she can go hunt down a jell-o cup if he thinks he’s ready for something solid to eat. He’s not sure if she really thinks he’s able to eat while he has multiple IV’s running through his body but easily nods his head in agreement.
Eddie remains seated near the head of the bed, with his hands tangled with Buck’s own. They sit in relative quiet; Buck because he’s fatigued and Eddie because he’s deep in thought.
“You’ll be staying with me, I hope you know.” Eddie says mildly. Buck squeezes his hand and nods, gulping down the overwhelming feelings that want to flow out his mouth.
“I know,” Buck quietly agrees.
“And I don’t want you to put up a fight and push through any of the side effects you may be feeling. You tell me if something is wrong. You stay as long as you need,” Eddie goes on as if Buck didn’t just agree. Buck scoffs but it turns more into a choke. And then a dry sob. He doesn’t want to cry anymore. The doctors may have mentioned dehydration at some point during their visit and Buck would rather keep all fluids in him then out of him for now. But a few tears escaped anyway, despite his best efforts.
Eddie, for his part, doesn’t say anything more as he grabs a tissue and wipes them away. Another look of contemplation crosses Eddie’s eyes before he searches for something on Buck’s face,. “Can I sit with you, please?” Eddie imploringly requests, voice full of emotion. Buck can only nod mutely.
“You’ll be okay, Buck,” Eddie breathes as he slowly gets up and crawls onto the bed. Buck’s fine with the manhandling this time as Eddie gets an arm wrapped around his side and lets Buck head fall gently on Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re okay.”
“I know,” a sniffle breaks free and Buck releases a slow, controlled breath, “I was- I was just so scared.” Eddie hums and squeezes a little tighter. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t know where I was. And he. He kept touching me.” Eddie’s breath stutters.
“The doctor didn’t say-” Eddie cuts himself off but he’s grown tense. Buck’s quick to placate.
“I. Not like- that. I don’t think- I don’t remember a lot. It all blurs together. But he didn’t. He would touch my face. Or my hair. But he didn’t. He didn’t assa- hurt me- like that,” Buck has to swallow back the word. He wasn’t sexually assaulted. He wasn’t. But why does he still feel dirty? “I didn’t want it,” Buck quietly whispers, “I didn’t like it even when I was all drugged. He just kept repeating he was breaking his own rule, ‘He could look but he can’t touch,’ but he would do it anyway.” Buck chokes a little on that as Eddie hushes him. The room falls into silence as Buck gets a handle back on himself and Eddie’s quiet reassurances peter off.
After a while, Buck feels his time is up as his eyes and body grow more heavy. Multiple emotional outbursts on top of the after effects of ketamine apparently uses up all and any leftover energy his body may have been able to recuperate.
“I think I'm going to sleep again,” Buck admits reluctantly. There’s a residual piece of fear that if he is unconscious he’ll end up back in the room with The Man, but Eddie’s encouraging hum breaks through that thought.
“That’s okay,” Eddie settles more comfortably back on the bed, bracing Buck to his body, “I’ll be here when you wake up. You won’t be alone. I will be here as long as you’ll have me.”
“You promise?,” Buck’s words merge together as sleep calls for him, hopefully for the last time today. A subtle shift, and there’s a brief feeling of chapped lips on his birthmark before they are pulled away.
“Always.”