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Buck’s doing fine. No, seriously. He is completely fine. He understands the doubt from everyone, the skepticism—he’s definitely been known to downplay things to stay on the job, or avoid awkward conversations, or in an effort not to be left behind. He gets it, really.
But he’s fine.
Even Buck barely understands it himself.
It wasn’t fun getting kidnapped by a psychotically grieving mother, electrocuted with a cattle prod, bashed in the head with the butt of a rifle, thinking Eddie was dead.
It sucked. He was hurt, and he’s still sore, and the whole thing was a huge nightmare. He can admit that, and he can feel every ounce of that pain; but he also can move on. It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. Maybe objectively it is, if you’re scaling things on some odd spectrum of level of violence and things most likely to traumatize. For Buck, though, the ladder truck crushing his leg was worse. Eddie moving to Texas was worse. Losing Bobby…was worse. Was unquantifiable in the level of pain. So truly, honestly, seriously—Buck is fine. The kidnapping is not the final straw that would break his precariously hovering-on-the-ledge mental health.
Everyone seemed to mostly accept his assurance. Eddie, not so much. Buck loves him for it. Buck also hates him for it.
He’s been in a constant, repeating loop of, “Eddie, I’m okay,” for the past three weeks, and it’s starting to get exhausting having to prove himself over and over.
He knows Eddie is just concerned; again, he loves him for it. Maybe loves him too much. But he doesn’t know what else he can do to let Eddie know he’s not just saving face this time.
“Thought you had therapy on Tuesday night?” Eddie asks when Buck gets caught in a lie, pointed in a way that makes Buck shiver—if he were hiding some massive breakdown, it would send chills down his spine knowing Eddie was so perceptive of him.
“I went to Maddie’s for dinner instead. Forgot she invited me, and I decided I could use friends and family more than a sterile therapy session.”
“Buck, you said you would talk to someone.”
It’s flat, a statement more than a plea. Like Eddie knows it doesn’t take him begging to convince Buck of anything. Eddie says the word, Buck usually concedes.
“I know, Eddie,” he practically groans. “I also know I told you I’m okay. Several times. Like probably more than I can count. And I meant it all of those times.”
“Buck, you can’t get kidnapped, locked up in a kid’s room, and dissociate to play along with a psychopath and just come away unscathed.”
When Eddie puts it like that, it’s much harder to dispute. Factually, it sounds horrific.
“I never said I came away unscathed,” Buck rolls his eyes. He’s starting to get desperate. “It was scary, and I thought I was gonna die, and I thought you did die. It was probably top five scariest days of my life. And I don’t think anyone who was repressing trauma and on the verge of a breakdown would be able to easily admit all of that.”
Buck can see the moment Eddie relents. Buck closes his locker, and it clicks loudly over Eddie’s silence. His shoulders fall—they’d been hiked since the second they crossed back over the California state line three weeks ago—and his eyebrows resume their normal position above his eyes, instead of floating inches too high, raised in incessant, worried question.
“Alright,” he sighs. His boot squeaks on the floor as he steps back, puts his hands up in surrender. “That’s a fair point. I…Buck, I’m just worried, okay? I’m sorry if I’m pushing too hard. I just want you to know it’s okay if you’re not fine. And I want to be the one to help you, remind you, make you do something if you’re not. That’s all.”
A rope uncoils in Buck’s stomach, one he’s fought hard to keep looped for months, probably years now. It burns and tingles, spreads warmth up to his face. He can feel his heart beating faster, racing quick enough to run straight through his chest.
“I know, Eddie.”
Eddie nods. It’s simple acceptance. Maybe the torment of constant, hypervigilant concern is finally over. It’s been eating Buck alive. Honestly, it’s been making the actual problem worse. Harder to keep up a mask when the one thing threatening to break it is cloaked in soft, gentle worry and the kind of beautiful Eddie is.
“I still want you to go to therapy,” he admits, testing the waters. Seeing if he can push a little bit further, now that the tension seemed to dissipate. “Even if you’re really okay, which I’m starting to believe. I really, really, think it would help. Just to sort it all out, leave no loose ends. PTSD can be delayed,” Eddie pauses, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. “I would know.”
Of course Buck knows that. Remembers it like the back of his hand, when it happened to Eddie.
Now Buck feels like an asshole. Obviously Eddie would be worried, would be looking out for the signs. More than just in a best friend way; in a been-there-before way.
“I know, Eddie,” Buck repeats again, chokes it out even as he’s picturing Eddie sobbing with a baseball bat, looking like he didn’t want to live anymore.
Maybe the kidnapping was really only top ten.
Almost losing Eddie took up too many spots on the list.
“Okay,” he sighs, a breath of relief and hope at the same time. “Will you go? Even if it’s just to get me to shut up. For me, Buck?”
Buck could never say no to that. Would never dream of it. Had no willpower to.
“I’ll go, Eddie. It is just to get you to shut up, though,” he laughs half-heartedly, letting the lightened tone skate through the air to cover up his complete undoing. Eddie can’t look at him with those eyes—dewy, round, big brown eyes that Buck swears can see into him. They make his head go blank and his heart ache to follow wherever Eddie leads.
“I appreciate it anyway.”
Eddie grins, rests a hand on Buck’s shoulder, then walks away like the touch is nothing more than ordinary care.
***
Buck bakes, in the meantime. Gets back into his usual habits. He calls a therapist who seems nice, but he can’t get an appointment in until the following week. So he placates Eddie by going through the motions of their old routines—cooking Eddie and Chris dinner and extra dessert, falling into the sarcastic banter of the Diaz boys, answering the door when they knock. Eddie still watches him, though slightly more carefully. Less overbearing.
But he’s still there. Always. He’s rubbing a circle on Buck’s shoulder with his thumb. He’s doing prep work for dinner so Buck doesn’t have to stand for too long. He’s mocking Buck’s movie choices, mocking Chris’ too when the kid takes Buck’s side. He’s there, sewn into the cuff of Buck’s sweater sleeve. So close to his pulse, usually just an inch above skin. Always right within reach. Buck wears his heart inside his sleeve, an embroidered Eddie soft against the veins of his wrist. The lettering scratches him sometimes, and it’s a sharper pain than anything in New Mexico had been. Buck knows he should seam-rip the name out. But it feels so good when it’s just washed—fresh, clean, smelling like sunshine and soap. And it’s comforting to know it’s always there. Eddie’s always there. Those seconds, though, when it pokes—they could kill him. Moments of doubt, pushed into the flesh of his forearm.
Eddie stays the night before Buck’s appointment. He makes coffee and his best effort at some semblance of breakfast. He wakes up with two-day stubble and sleep-tousled hair, and Buck knows it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Eddie sends him off with gratefulness for going and tentative encouragement. It’s too nice, and too much to give up. Buck decides to keep the heart sewn in his sleeve, but he’ll put a piece of tape over it for now. Stop it from rubbing the wrong way, take away the risk of the occasional pinch. Tape can always come off. Not a permanent removal, just a holding off for the moment. For protection.
***
“So, Mr. Buckley—”
“You can call me Buck,” he interjects, a bout of nervous energy he figured would be better coming out of his mouth than through the annoying way he’d been bouncing his leg on the therapist’s couch.
She smiles politely, takes it in tow.
“Buck, what brings you in today?”
He shuffles through the memories of New Mexico, of Bonnie, of Earl, of Harley and his idiot friends in the diner. Thinks of cattle prods and duct tape and loaded pistols. Thinks of all of it, and organizes it back into its neat little corner of his mind—the one labeled As Resolved As It’s Ever Gonna Be. All of it feels close enough to being fine. He could see some nightmares coming up every once in a while. Maybe some hesitation on a call if somehow they ever rescue a kidnapping victim; that one would definitely be difficult, but Buck doesn’t imagine that happening in the foreseeable future.
No, he’s fine. Seriously. Except for that one thing.
He swallows his pride, thinks of the tape covering the heart on his sleeve.
“I’m in love with my best friend.”