Work Text:
Buck can’t sleep in fear the next time he opens his eyes it will be with the involuntary urge to throw up. It’s stupid. He feels like a kid again but he can’t stop it. The feeling of nausea transports him back to the nights when his stomach hurt and his parents didn’t believe him. When he knocked on their bedroom door, seeking parental comfort, cried at the end of their bed before he was routinely he was turned away. Until he eventually got sick on the floor and then he was something of a momentary matter – one out of obligation.
He rolls over on the couch, hand resting on his lower stomach. It doesn’t help like it used to but it’s a small relief nonetheless. The TV in front of him flashes with a show; The Great British Bake Off. Usually, this kind of entertainment can calm Buck down when he doesn't feel well but it's not getting through to him tonight. He can’t keep his anxiety at bay about feeling sick and what that could entail which is making him feel more nauseous which is amplifying his anxiety. It’s a vicious cycle Buck is aware of but one he still can’t pull himself out of.
Holding back a nervous whine, he sits up on the couch and places his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He starts to bounce his leg. Buck is scared. Plain and simple. And he feels so stupid for it – a grown adult tearing up over the slight possibility of having to throw up. But it’s not just that. It’s the memories that accompany it and it’s hard to keep reminding himself that he’s in his best friend's living room, not the desolate one of his childhood home.
Another wave of nausea rises in his throat.
He stands up abruptly, searching for something he can use to throw up if he needs to but can’t make it to the bathroom in time. He rushes into the kitchen and grabs a grocery bag before returning to the living room.
He paces at the end of the couch, the light from the show flashing at his feet. He tries to take a deep breath but they just make him even more aware of his body and it feels impossible to stop his mind from running now. God. He just wants to be normal. He wants to be somebody who can be sick and feel fine knowing it’s gonna pass. Not someone who can’t think outside of the exact sensations shifting in him at the moment.
And Buck wants someone to be here with him. He doesn’t want to feel like this by himself. Out of old instinct, he looks down the hallway at the door that hides the only other person in this house. Eddie. He has the most childish urge to knock on that door and ask if he can sleep with him. He just wants the warmth of Eddie’s body and the gentle rumble of his voice. But Buck can’t be sure if he would even give that to him. Or if he even wants to ask that of Eddie.
He sits down again and rubs at his chest, hoping the bile that likely isn’t even there goes away. He’s exhausted and just wants to let himself rest.
Buck isn’t sure of his reaction when he hears the creak of Eddie's bedroom door and then the soft padding of his feet. He thinks he might want to hide. To keep this silly part of himself locked away where only he can access it.
“Buck?”
He swallows a big lump before looking over his shoulder at him. “Sorry. Was the TV too loud?”
“Oh, no,” Eddie says. As he rounds the couch, coming to stand at Buck’s side, Buck feels like he might break at any second. “I was thirsty." Eddie looks down at him, as perceptive as always. “Are you okay?”
“I – yeah,” Buck stammers. He keeps his gaze aimed at the carpet between his toes and tries to breathe evenly. His palms are sweaty and he wants to scratch at his arms, to do something to ease this nervousness coursing throughout him. “Just, um. Can’t sleep.”
“Okay,” he hears Eddie say before he feels his weight land softly on the cushion next to him. “Do you want to tell me what’s really wrong?”
Damn it. His voice is gentle and Buck just knows if he looked over at him he’d have that furrow of concern on his forehead and his eyes would be wide in that imploring way. He shakes his head in response. Buck hates it but he knows it would be easier if Eddie just accepted his answer and went back to his bed so he could let this pass on his own. He doesn't want to embarrass himself.
A warm hand touches Buck's shoulder. He holds himself back from leaning into it, from asking it to rub his back and soothe him like a mother would. “Buck. Bud, will you look at me?”
Buck can’t resist the ask. It’s hard to find the strength when he’s so tired. And when it’s Eddie. He moves his gaze to Eddies and almost immediately cracks upon that. His bottom lip wobbles and he tries to bite the action back but it’s useless as he can feel tears rise again.
“Hey, hey. What's wrong?”
“Um,” his voice cracks, small and helpless. “I don’t feel good,” he whispers.
The tears start to fall and he forces himself to look away once again. Finally saying it out loud makes it feel officially real and his heart skips a beat at the thought that he might actually be sick. He hasn’t been sick in years, what if it’s bad because his immune system hasn’t had to defend itself from the stomach flu in so long? Tremors travel through his limbs and his belly turns. He can feel his panic building.
The hand on Buck's shoulder moves to his upper back. “Alright,” Eddie says. “What do you need?”
“I just – I don’t want to throw up. I can’t.” Buck can taste the salt of his fear on his lips. He licks it away, takes his index finger and thumb up to his earlobe and pulls frantically on it. A hiccup escapes him. “I can’t, Eds.”
“I hear you,” he says. Buck recognizes the cadence in his best friend's voice. It’s the same one he gets on the job when helping a patient; understanding and warm. Eddie purses his lips in thought. Then, “I’ll be right back, okay?”
Buck nods, feeling pathetic. He fidgets with the plastic grocery bag in his hands. It’s not long before he hears Eddie come back. “So,” he begins, “I’m gonna take your temp, if that’s okay? And then I got you some sprite, saltines and tums. They should help if you feel up to it.” He lowers himself to his haunches at Bucks knees. “How does that sound?”
Sniffling, Buck clears his throat and wipes his face. “Good. Thank you.”
He doesn't look at Eddie as he hands him the thermometer. He takes it and places it under his tongue and turns his head in the opposite direction. He wishes it was tomorrow already. He wishes that the hours would pass and the sun would rise. He can’t do this at night when everything feels so much more oppressive – why does it always happen at night? It's ridiculous but he can’t stop himself from crying. It’s like something inside of him is trying to release itself, to find some relief through his tear ducts.
The thermometer beeps and he lets Eddie take it out of his mouth. He looks at it, pinched face relaxing. Buck waits for the answer. “It’s 98.7,” he smiles. “No fever.”
Buck clears the tears off his face again. “So – so that means I most likely won’t throw up, right? Even if my stomach hurts?”
“Right,” Eddie says, putting his hand on Buck's knee. He rubs circles into it with his thumb. “You got overheated today at work, so this is most likely just the small side effects from that. If it was going to make you sick, that would’ve happened by now.”
Eddie's words wash over him and it feels slightly easier to breathe. Buck has never had someone offer him understanding this gentle when he trips into these spirals. “Oh, yeah. You’re right,” he says quietly, rationale breaking through his anxiety. Still, he won’t let himself relax completely yet, not until he feels entirely better. He doesn’t want to let his guard down and jinx it.
He thinks Eddie can see this. “But we can still take precautions, just in case. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“Of course.” He hands him two tums. Banana flavored, his favorite. “Here.” Hesitant, Buck takes them and chews on them slowly before swallowing the crushed tablets. Eddie waits for him to finish patiently and then offers him the sprite, a green straw bobbing gently in it. “Chris has always liked sprite on his tummy when he doesn’t feel too hot. Wanna try a sip?”
“Um. Yeah, sure.” He grabs the glass but refrains from taking a drink yet. “If I was going to, uh – you know, then sprite wouldn’t make me, right? If anything, it should help me?”
Buck is looking for irrational reassurance, he knows this. But he can’t help the need for it and he’s starting to feel that with Eddie he doesn’t have to.
Eddie nods at him. The colors from the TV screen showcasing the care in his eyes. “Yeah, bud. It should help reduce the acidity in your stomach and so should the saltines.”
Gingerly, Buck takes a sip and then when he finds that it doesn't immediately come back up, he takes two more. Eddie sets the glass back on the coffee table for him when he’s done and then he gets on the couch, shoulder tucked into the back cushion so he’s facing Buck. “Anything else?”
Buck looks sideways at him and shrugs.
“Is there anything else that you need? Or would make you feel better?”
He considers this and very quickly knows his answer but doesn’t want to push. Still, because it’s Eddie, he stammers, “can we, um, have the light on? It just makes it ea…”
The lamp is turned on before he can even finish. Buck can feel the effect almost immediately, how the tension in his muscles reduce some and how his spine relaxes. He doesn’t feel so much like he’s on a brink. He lets himself sit back against the couch, angling his body towards Eddie. “Thanks,” he murmurs, fiddling with the bag between his clammy palms.
“No need for that,” he says.
Buck twitches out a nod, still trying to ease himself back from his trepidation. He blinks over at the coffee table, eyeing the unopened package of saltines. Reluctant, he reaches across to grab them while keeping the bag balled up in one hand. He opens the line of crackers and plucks one out, nibbling on it experimentally. In a quick passing of panic, Buck can feel his body almost refuse to swallow but he squeezes his eyes shut, takes a breath and forces the munched bite down.
“Is it okay?”
He hums an affirmative and takes another tiny bite. Buck is turned towards Eddie but he’s not looking at him. Now that the worst of everything is beginning to hopefully pass and he can think a little clearer besides what his emetophobia strikes up in him, he feels ridiculous.
“Buck.” Eddie removes a hand from his lap and brings it to cover his, the one curled in a fist with the plastic bag in it. His palm is heavy but comforting, a secure weight Buck wants to wrap the rest of himself in until this horrible night passes. He looks at Eddie, eyes surely bloodshot and swollen. “You could have woken me up, you know?”
The tone of Eddie's voice sparks something guilty in him. “I know,” he says, trying to smile.
Eddie frowns, disbelieving. He squeezes Buck’s hand. “This is your home, Buck. I want you to feel safe and comfortable here, no matter what. You can always come to me, okay?”
Buck chews on his lip. He’ll try to make himself believe that, to remember it because he knows Eddie isn’t anything but honest with him. “Okay,” he whispers.
He finishes the cracker with Eddie sitting silently next to him, watching Paul and Prue judge some good and not so good pastries. Buck watches his blinking start to slow. “You can go back to bed now, Eds. I’ll try to go to sleep.”
No, he won’t. Buck will go as long as he can with keeping his eyes open until he physically has no choice in the matter.
“No, you won’t,” Eddie says.
Buck sighs. He doesn’t really have anything to say to that. He’s disappointed in himself but he can’t break the habit that has allowed him to avoid throwing up. At least that’s what he tells himself in his head. In the back of his mind he’s aware that it’s most likely just chance, the simple fact that he just hasn’t caught a virus. But, well, whatever gets you through it.
“But, hey, that’s okay. Like I said, whatever you need, bud.”
For a moment, a large wave of appreciation overrules anything else that Buck is feeling or thinking. God. Maybe being sick with Eddie there to take care of him wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it could rewrite the associations Buck has with the whole idea.
Maybe he can try. Let himself relinquish control to the inevitably of not knowing. “Um. Well, I think…I can try to go to sleep. I-I know I should.”
He peeks over at Eddie who just lets Buck look for a moment before he breaks it with a question that makes a sting of tears hit his eyes once again. “Do you want me to stay?”
Suddenly, the fatigue weighing him down doesn’t seem like the end of the world, not if he can get rid of it with Eddie next to him. “Please,” he mumbles. “Just until I-I fall asleep.”
“Of course,” Eddie promises. He gathers his limbs up and moves over to the sectional part of the couch that allows him to sit up with his legs stretched out. Once he’s settled he grabs the pillow Buck was using and places it on his thighs, then gestures over at Buck, who has just been him, puppy dog-eyed and a little lost. “C’mon,” Eddie says, patting the pillow.
It takes a second for Buck's brain to kick into gear but once it does he clears his throat and crawls over to his best friend. Any other night, Buck may have hesitated with this. He might have wondered if this is what best friends do – what they do. But Buck doesn’t worry about that right now. Eddie said whatever he needed, which is the warm proximity of someone who wishes to take care of him as much as he wishes to be cared for.
In truth, though, he’s glad that someone is Eddie. He always wants it to be Eddie.
It’s easy to finally allow his head to rest. He lays down curled up on his side so his feet don’t jam into the arm of the couch and lets Eddie’s thigh bear the weight of his fatigue. Eddie throws Buck’s blanket over his frame once he stops moving and tucks it around him with diligence. “There you go. Rest now,” he says, hand beginning to rub a soothing path up and down his back.
It's hard to keep his lids open after that. Buck tucks his hands under his chin, the
in-case-I-can’t-make-it-to-the-bathroom-in-time grocery bag still claimed in one of them. With the comforting palm of his best friend, the familiarity of their favorite baking show and the orange light coming from the table side lamp, he quickly falls asleep with a strong sense of safety.
💤
Buck groans and stretches out his legs. He cracks his eyes open slowly when they hit the end of the couch and is met with the sight of the Diaz’s living room. The sun is peeking through the blinds and he can barely tell alongside the brightness of it that the lamp at the other end of the couch is turned on and the TV is silent with a ‘Are You Still Watching?’ message. It all comes back to him then. He also realizes a second later that his head is still perched on something undeniably warm.
Eddie never left.
He turns his upper body so he can look up at the man and frowns at what he sees. Eddie is asleep, his neck turned uncomfortably against the back of the couch, positioned as if he were looking down at Buck until he got too tired to keep doing so. Buck knows he’s going to have the worst sore neck for the rest of the week, which will inevitably spread down to his bad shoulder. He knows Eddie knew this too. But he’s still here.
Buck promises himself that he’ll help Eddie feel better the same way he did with Buck last night. It’s only right, after all. He will do what Eddie always does for him when his leg is acing up and give him a gentle massage then rub arnica cream into the sore muscle until Eddie is lax with relief.
If that doesn’t work, he’ll just have to kiss it better.