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Chris once asked him what it felt like to die. Eddie wouldn’t know, he’d said, but Buck knew Chris chose to ask him because it’s the type of question that would make his father cry. Chris hates it when Eddie cries. Buck hates it when Eddie cries, too, and he knows Eddie cried when he’d thought Buck was dead. He also knows that right before he died, the last thing he remembered was Eddie screaming his name. He remembers thinking, of all the ways to go, that’s probably the best one.
Buck doesn’t tell that to Chris. Instead, Buck tells him the truth: it felt like nothing. He was weightless, floating in a void of black, until he came to in the hospital and the doctor was his dead brother. Buck tells Chris that he’s always been the type of guy to feel too much: too much anger, too much pain, too much fear. Too much joy, too much excitement. But in death, Buck remembers, it was the first time he’d ever felt nothing. And this he didn’t tell Chris, but he’d wondered, for a moment, if he would have been loved the whole time if he’d always been like this.
What Eddie tells Buck about depression is that it feels like walking around as a cardboard cutout of yourself. That’s what Buck remembers from death: he was nothing but the ripped off flap of a cardboard box: floating in the wind and plummeting to the ground. There is truly nothing in death, and there is so much in life. That, Buck tells Chris when he asks, is why he knew he had to come back. Life is too much, but Buck is too much. His blood thrums with it, his heart beats with it. He doesn’t know how to do anything but live.
When Buck goes to Chimney and tells him he needs help, this conversation with Chris is what runs through his mind. At his core, Buck wants to live. It’s contradictory to the way his muscles tug with adrenaline, the way he seeks the pain of a scrape on the concrete or a crash on the side of the road, the way he’s always been a little too okay with brazen recklessness, with being the one who disappears to keep his loved ones safe. It’s contradictory, but to Buck it makes sense. When he’s at the precipice, moments away from the greatest fall of his life, the pinnacle of a roller coaster’s ascension, that is when he feels most alive. He was chasing the high of wanting to live by trying to die.
It took a lightning strike and two Diaz boys to convince him otherwise.
The drugs didn’t make Buck high in the traditional sense. They gave Buck a new experience, that of wanting to take the pain away. To forget the pain of the car crash, the feeling of being replaced for another son by another mother, the look on Eddie’s face when Buck wouldn’t open the door. And it worked, it really did, until he began withdrawal. All he could think about, during those days of undergoing the symptoms on his own, was I’m going to die. I’m going to die, and it’s all going to feel like nothing again, and I want to feel everything.
If Buck could go back in time and answer Chris’ question, not what it felt like to die, but the subsequent one, Why did you come back?, he would have a different answer.
I want to feel everything.
A part of Buck will always be that kid who is terrified of being left behind, the one who refuses to ask for help because he thinks nobody will come to save him. But when he takes the stairs one at a time instead of skipping every other one like usual, when his breaths drag out of his lungs and weigh him down as he trudges to the table where Chimney is doing paperwork, Buck knows he’s different now.
For the better, in some ways, for the worse in others. But he has changed enough to know that he needs help and to know he needs to ask for it. And when he does he can see the pride in Chimney’s eyes, even as it mixes with the shock, the grief, the disappointment, the pride stays prominent because Buck has changed. Buck asked.
Chris never asked, but there was another question Buck needed to answer for himself after dying for three minutes and seventeen seconds. What did it feel like to come back?
“Sometimes,” Buck says to Eddie, “it feels like I died and came back wrong.”
They’re in Buck’s new house, far too big for one person. With everyone he loves in it, staying through the night to take care of him, it finally feels like it’s the right size. Eddie’s finished giving Buck his painkillers, sitting on the arm of the bedside armchair instead of the actual seat so he can pull himself closer to Buck, listen to him talk until he falls asleep.
Eddie tucks his socked feet up on Buck’s bed, leaning forward. He’s happier, these days, in a way Buck isn’t used to seeing from him, but he knows Eddie better than anyone else. There’s happiness, but the bottomless pit of grief in Eddie Diaz’ stomach has only grown. Buck hates that he almost added to it. He’s always wanted to die after Eddie.
Still, the bit of happiness Eddie’s gained looks good on him. Buck knows it’s what comes with recovery, because that’s what Eddie told him. That’s going to be you, too, Eddie had said, and Buck believed him. He always does. You’ll get there soon, Buck.
Buck wants so badly to get there.
Now, Eddie barely reacts. His eyes shift imperceptibly to concern, a change so miniscule only Buck would notice it because he’s always looking into Eddie Diaz’s eyes. But he hardly reacts otherwise. One strand of his hair falls into his face. If Buck had the strength to reach out his arms, he’d push it to the side. He imagines doing so another time instead.
“How so?” Eddie asks him, like Buck had said it looks like it’s going to rain.
“I don’t know,” Buck responds, honest. “I feel like I lost a part of myself to the lightning. And to the lab, with—with Bobby, and to New Mexico. But it started with the lightning. Some days I don’t feel like myself anymore, and some days I feel more like myself than ever. But I don’t think I even know what feeling like myself is anymore.”
Eddie thinks for a moment. Buck like that about him, that he thinks. He’s not like Buck, saying the first thing on his mind without a moment’s consideration. Eddie’s rarely impulsive with his words, even the ones that sting are carefully constructed. Buck also likes to watch Eddie think. It’s the most patient he’ll ever be in his life, waiting for Eddie to come up with the words he wants to say. He’d wait forever, really. With Eddie, it’s never in vain.
“I don’t want to compare,” Eddie says finally, “because the experiences are different. But I think I understand what you’re feeling. To an extent, at least.”
Buck perks up. “You do?”
Eddie nods. “The loss of identity? I’ve been there. After the war, after losing Shannon, after getting shot, after Chris left. Each time, I forgot who I was. I sunk so far into my own sadness that it consumed me. It became the only thing I was, and I lost every other part of myself. And each time I had to come back to myself, I found out that I didn’t know who myself was anymore, either. Getting yourself back is the hardest part, Buck.”
Something in Buck settles. He knew Eddie would get it, somehow. He always does. Eddie never uses the word depressed, but that’s what he is. They both know it. Buck likes to ask him about it, the way Chris asks Buck about death. Eddie is surprisingly willing to talk. Or maybe not so surprising, if Buck really thinks about it. Eddie would bare his entire heart to Buck, if he asked. Because Buck would keep it safe.
“Do you…” Buck fidgets with the ends of his sheets. “Do you think I can do it?”
The clock in Buck’s room ticks. Eddie’s St. Christopher necklace slips out of his shirt as he leans forward, swings like a pendulum between them. Buck watches it, mesmerized, until his eyes naturally fall on the edge of Eddie’s collarbone instead, the way it rises and falls as Eddie breathes, the tip of the bullet wound scar poking out from below. Buck winces.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. His hand twitches by his side for a moment, where it's gripping onto the arm of the chair. It’s as if he wants to reach out, but as Eddie always does, he holds back at the last second. His fingers turn white where they clutch the chair. He’s looking away, he can’t see that Buck noticed, but he did. You can, Buck wants to tell him. You can reach for me. It’s okay. I’ll be here to grab on. But Buck can barely move without nausea roiling in his stomach, so he has to save it for another time. He lets Eddie hold back, for now.
“I do,” Eddie continues as Buck lifts his gaze to Eddie’s face. His eyes are so familiar, the same warm brown Buck’s grown so used to. It’s reassuring, now, to sink into the gaze. “You’ve already started. I’ve seen it over the past few years. Even from Texas, I saw it.”
Buck frowns. He’s never felt less like himself. “Even now?”
“Even now,” Eddie says. His fingers twitch again. “You asked for help when it got bad, Buck. You went to Chim because you knew he’d help you. Because you know he cares about you. The Buck I knew before the lighting strike never would’ve done that.”
Buck sits with that for a moment. He thinks about the thrill that went through him when he rifled through the meds drawer in the firetruck, the way it reminded him of the sparks of adrenaline he used to get riding his motorcycle far past the speed limit on the highway. The way it felt like those days when he wanted to experience living by almost dying, and how the sensation of being under the influence was so close to the same thing. But that time, Buck remembers, he closed the drawer because it felt wrong. This wasn’t him.
This isn’t him.
Buck got a second chance at life, and he wants to really live in it. He wants to live and know how it feels to be alive. He doesn’t want to lead the rest of his life on the precipice of death, at least not further than the precipice of his job. Buck has people to live for now. Athena and May, the 118, his sister, his niece and nephew, Eddie and Chris. And more than anything, those people taught him to live for himself. Buck won’t let that go to waste.
So Buck closed the drawer.
“I was going to steal from the firehouse,” Buck tells Eddie.
Eddie visibly swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “Did you?”
“No.” Buck shakes his head. “That’s when I went to Chim. So … so I guess you’re right. If this is who the new Buck really is, maybe he’s not so bad. Maybe I’m not so bad.”
Eddie does this thing, Buck’s noticed throughout their years together, where he tilts Buck’s world entirely off his axis with a simple string of words. There’s no one I trust with my son more than you. Because, Evan. You matter to me. And each time, he’s left Buck stunned, going from a boat unmoored and lost at sea to having an anchor softly tugging him to shore. Eddie tethers Buck to something solid, because as much as his words shock him, change his perspective, make him realize something new about himself, they are always exactly what he needs to hear. And now, under the dim bulb of Buck’s bedside lamp, Eddie does it again.
“You were never bad,” Eddie says.
The anchor tugs.
Buck thinks about the day Eddie and Chris showed up at his door. How he’d just taken two white pills. How he knew, as much as it hurt, he could never open that door.
“I—,” Buck doubts. “Maybe not before, but after this—”
“There are no buts,” Eddie cuts him off. “You aren’t bad, Buck. You’re good. You’re the best person I know. This doesn’t change the way I see you. It doesn’t for Chris either.”
The anchor tugs again. Buck holds on to the rope for dear life. He pulls.
“Eddie,” Buck says, urgent. He leans forward for this, even when it makes his stomach twist, because Eddie needs to know. He reaches his hand out, places it next to Eddie’s on the arm of the chair.
“Eddie,” Buck says again, desperation lacing his voice the way it so often is with Eddie, not because he’s afraid Eddie will leave him but because the love seeps out of every cell in his body. “I need you to know–I was never–around Chris–”
Finally, Eddie’s hand moves. He places it over Buck’s, their fingers finally slotting together, matched like puzzle pieces. Buck’s hand shakes under Eddie’s palm, but his grip is solid and his strength wedges its way into Buck’s skin, and he feels strong, too.
“I know, Buck.” Eddie squeezes his hand. “I know why you didn't open the door. I know you didn’t use around Chris, or any of the kids. I trust you, now and always.”
Buck’s heart stutters in his chest. It really is that simple for Eddie, isn’t it?
Buck should know better by now. It’s that simple for him, too. It’s been that simple since the day they got a live grenade out of a man’s leg and promised to have each other’s backs for the rest of time. This is just yet another iteration of that promise.
“Okay,” Buck says, letting out a breath. “Okay. Good.”
“Good,” Eddie repeats, squeezes Buck’s hand again. “You know, I’ve known a lot of versions of you. Hen and Chim have known even more. Maddie’s known the most. And we’re all still here. We’ve all loved every single one of them. No matter which version of yourself is the one you become at the end, we’ll all still be here.”
If Buck’s being honest, there is a piece of him lodged into every person he’s ever loved. He’s clung onto them like a dog with a shoe, infused them with a reminder that he was there, that he loved them, that he is trying his best to make sure they don’t leave him. And inevitably, they do, and with them goes a piece of Buck he’ll never get back.
He thinks about Bobby, who died carrying so many pieces of Buck with him. Buck may never get those back, but he took with him a million little pieces of Bobby, too. In the end, he’s glad Bobby had reminders of Buck to take with him to wherever he is now. And finally, after a year, Buck can close his eyes and accept that Bobby won’t be coming back. And he can be okay with it.
In his life, the only two people who have ever come back are Maddie and Eddie. With Maddie, Buck sees himself in her eyes, her smile, the way she fixes her posture the same way she taught Buck to sit up straight. The way she kisses his birthmark the same way Buck kisses Chris’s cheek when he gathers him in his arms. Chris has a piece of Buck, too.
And then there’s Eddie.
Eddie has that look on his face again, the one that screams three words Buck’s been too afraid to say for the last year at least. But now isn’t the time, not for either of them. For once in his life, Buck doesn’t need the words said out loud. He sees them in the way Eddie’s thumb strokes his knuckles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he offers Buck that small half–smile, the one Buck knows means Eddie is letting himself be soft.
The anchor sets itself on the sand. Buck docks at shore.
Buck has left pieces of himself with Eddie, but Eddie always gives them back. Cleans them up first, polishes them and organizes them neatly before he deposits them back in Buck’s arms, as if to say I don’t need reminders of you. I’ll always be with you. And he is. When Buck is with Eddie, making pancakes in his kitchen while Eddie leans against the counter and watches, the adrenaline in his blood slows down, becomes languid, lets him live in the moment. Lets him take a breath and let the love pass through the air and envelope itself around Eddie, until Buck becomes brave enough to say it aloud.
Buck does it again, here, with Eddie looking at him, waiting patiently for him to come up with a response. Buck lets himself feel it all, the way he wants to live by Eddie’s side the way he has been for the rest of his life, the way home has never been 4995 South Bedford Street the way it has been Eddie and Chris Diaz. The way he bought this house with a guest room he always meant for Chris to occupy, a bed big enough to fit another person if Eddie ever wanted to claim his rightful place. The way Buck thinks, if Eddie wanted to, he’d grab the crumpled up paper in his nightstand drawer and go down to the courthouse right now.
It’s extreme, but Buck lives in extremes. And Eddie meets him right where he’s at.
“I know,” is what Buck decides to say in the end. He means it, too, and he can tell by the way Eddie lights up that it was the right thing to say. “Thank you.”
Eddie’s brow furrows, the way it does at compliments. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to,” Buck replies, earnest. “Thank you for being here for me.”
Eddie’s lips twitch up into another one of his smiles, the ones Buck associates with comfort and laughter. The same one he’d had on his face when Buck mentioned chain of command, the one he’d worn after rescuing Buck in New Mexico, breathing I know into the air and letting the love pass through it. Eddie pats Buck’s hand, grips it tight again.
“Hey,” Eddie says, still smiling, so beautiful. “I got you.”
You can have my back any day.
It really is that simple.
What did it feel like to come back? It feels like this. Eddie’s face swimming into his vision, Eddie’s hand tucked into his own, tugging him back into reality. Eddie’s eyes filled with concern, with reassurance, with warmth. Eddie’s smile pressing into his cheeks. One day, Buck thinks, he will lean forward and kiss Eddie there, feel that smile for himself.
What does it feel like to come back? It feels like seeing the rest of your life right in front of you. It feels like love, and laughter, and comfort, and home. It feels like giving the worst of yourself to the person you love, and having them love you anyway. It feels like living.
It feels like everything.
As soon as I get myself back, Buck promises Eddie in his head, I’m going to tell you I love you.
For now, Buck flips his hand over so they’re palm to palm, properly lacing their fingers together. Smiles at Eddie, the easiest thing he’s ever done. Speaks, easier still.
Or, you know … you could have mine.
“And I got you.”