Work Text:
In the moments after he takes the water glass from Buck's hand and sets it back down, Eddie aches for something else to do.
Maddie washed the sheets that afternoon, like she does every afternoon, the stale stench of sweat whisked away and replaced with clean cotton. The fridge is full, the dishes already put away. Chimney took the trash out with him when he left for the night. This is Eddie's second night shift—his first was four nights ago—and they have things down to a science now, working like a well-oiled machine to ensure that—well, that Eddie has absolutely no way to occupy himself.
Nothing to do but settle on the edge of the mattress, hike his leg up, look at Buck's face. Pale skin, dark circles, but he's still—he's still Buck.
"You don't have to stay," Buck says, letting his head fall back against the mound of pillows behind him.
Eddie sighs, shaking his head. "Yeah, I do, bud."
"No, I-I know you have to stay, but. You can go watch TV or something." His eyes close. "I'm just gonna pass out anyway."
And that makes him ache, too: the implication that he's only here to play babysitter. Eddie does have to stay, but not because he's worried about what Buck would do, or worried about him taking a turn for the worse. He has to stay, because he almost lost Buck, and then he almost lost him again. He has to stay, because he should have known, he should have seen, it's all his fucking fault. He has to stay, because he realized somewhere between Bumfuck, New Mexico, and here at Buck's bedside, that there's a very simple explanation for why he jumped off a bridge and jumped out a window and almost got himself shot.
And that's why he needs something to do with his hands right now. Something to keep them from smoothing across Buck's brow or lacing their fingers together. Something to keep him from giving himself away.
"I'll stay until you fall asleep," Eddie says, "in case you need something." He clears his throat. "Do you need anything now?" Anything, anything. Anything at all.
"Huh-uh," Buck hums. Of course, he wouldn't say if he did need something. He hasn't taken well to all the fussing, and really, Eddie doesn't blame him. He knows how it is to not want your loved ones to see you suffering, to struggle to ask for help, to feel like you have to carry it all yourself.
"You sure? Another blanket?"
"What, you think the three and a hoodie isn't enough?" Buck says, the corner of his mouth tilting up. His eyes are still shut, his face half in shadow. He's still Buck. And—Eddie lets himself think it: He's still beautiful.
"Something to eat?" Eddie asks. If he sounds a little hoarse, hopefully Buck is too tired to notice.
Buck half-opens one eye, squinting, incredulous. "Seriously?"
Eddie lifts his hands in surrender. "Hey, just checking. Someday you will want to eat again."
"No, Eddie." Buck closes his eyes again, lets himself relax into the pillows with a sigh. "But if...if you want to sit here with me for a while, you can."
"Got nothing better to do." Even if offered the whole realm of human experience, he'd still have nothing better to do than sit here and watch Buck's chest rise and fall, watch his pulse flutter at his neck.
"Hmm. Liar."
Eddie does reach out then, but only to lay his hand over Buck's wrist, give it a squeeze. "I mean it," he says.
Buck is already most of the way to sleep, so maybe that's why he does it, why he shakes out of Eddie's grip and turns his arm over, palm up as if in invitation. Eddie stares down at it, at the lines there. One of them is the life line, right? One of them is the heart line. He wishes he could read any of it now, figure out where all of this is headed, when it'll get easier.
He slides his hand into Buck's, palm against palm, fingers threading together. Buck visibly relaxes, and something in Eddie unwinds too. Buck's still here. Buck's still Buck.
Eddie loves him so much he aches.