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It’s a q-word shift; they all have been in a way while Buck has been on leave. He deserves it, if anyone deserves it it’s Buck, after this year, after Bobby and New Mexico, he deserved it— needed it. It makes sense when you think about it, well it made sense to Eddie and he did think about it, a lot.
Everyone was surprised when he asked for it, so unlike Buck to want even an hour away from work, for him to ask for a full month was jarring. Buck deserved it, Buck needed it. It was this sentiment that got Eddie through these shifts without him, through all the worry about Buck’s healing, physical and otherwise. Eddie has tried to be there as much as he can, whenever Buck lets him, which is to say not much.
Not much has Buck allowed Eddie in, allowed himself to be cared for in the way that buzzes under Eddie’s skin, that blares the alarm in his head that hasn’t stopped going off since he woke up in a hospital bed with no Buck and no answers. Never stopping only ever getting quieter the few times Eddie has been allowed in, to lay his eyes on Buck and even better, more preferred, his hands.
Eddie wishes it was more, is on the edge of begging even, desperate to feel Buck’s breathing under his palm, the rhythm of his heartbeat under Eddie’s fingertips. He wants to be there, to feed Buck, to give him his meds and a glass of water— Eddie wants to tuck him in to bed and keep him safe. To wrap him up in bubble wrap, or glue him to Eddie’s side, to never lose sight of him again. Never feel the fear of being unsure, uncertain, if Buck is somewhere on this planet alive.
But Buck is on leave.
Buck is on leave alone.
Going to therapy alone. Going to the doctors to get scanned for blood clots, somehow horrifyingly, again alone. Refusing Eddie, Chim, Hen, Maddie— Even Chris from being by his side. He’s responded only at minimum to texts, ignored calls, and even the few times Eddie tried bringing Chris by his house, hopeful he could use his son to secure that bridge as it’s worked before refused to open the door.
But Buck is alone.
And Eddie wants.
Eddie wants, wantswantswants.
Eddie is so tired of wanting; reaching for things just out of his grasp. Stuck watching his fingertips brush up against his wants, nails dragging across the surface and never getting a grip. Eddie is tired of holding himself back from his wants because he's convinced himself it's easier to want than to have.
A belief that is on shakier ground with each day he spends apart from Buck.
So Eddie is on q-word shifts and Buck is alone and this is somehow both the root of the problem and the breaking point for it. Eddie has decided he is done with the problem, done with the distance and today when he gets off work he is going to Buck’s house. And he will wait. Eddie will wait for hours, Eddie has even decided he will wait for days if that is what it takes.
He is going to see Buck, for longer than a few minutes. He is going to feel Buck under his hands and in his arms. Eddie is going to gorge himself on Buck until he’s had his fill, until the alarm in his head finally quiets and he is satisfied that Buck is alive and well, safe and his. Until he is Eddie’s Buck again.
It has been a long year. Longer than any Buck can previously recall, and anytime he's felt like he found his footing something new has come along to shake the foundations of his earth and knock him off balance.
New Mexico is just the newest thing in a line of many, many things. Including but certainly not limited to; losing his best friend, losing his dad, getting his best friend back, realizing or more accepting that it isn’t that crazy after all and he is in love with said best friend, needing to find a new home to get space from that very same best friend and then of course getting kidnapped and used as another fill in son for a woman so overcome with grief that she should honestly start a ‘my son is gone and I can’t handle it but I guess Buck can be a not very close second instead’ club with his own mother.
Suffice to say it has been a long year of many things and Buck is tired of things, done with them actually, would like to never experience a thing again thank you very much. Mostly, he’s just tired, a bone deep, aching kind of tired.
He doesn't know who he is anymore, the image of Buck in his mind fuzzy and out of focus, pixels glitching like the file has been corrupted. Not Daniel, Not Bobby’s son— not anymore at least, not even Derek on most days; that one is surprisingly easy to fight back against. He knows who he isn't, the problem is who he is.
He remembers the idea of an explanation from years before, “It means that you never give up.”
That doesn't feel accurate anymore. Buck is pretty sure he has given up more this last year than all the years before combined, is pretty confident that he has giving up still scheduled, marked down in the calendar for the year ahead of him too. This itself is giving up too if you really think about it, and Buck has, all he can do is think about things.
It’s what prompts the request. The need for more time to think is what it all boils down to, but in reality it's more that Buck needs time to search. To find if not the old Buck than a new one, a hopefully better one. His therapist thinks it’s normal to need time after everything, she says it’s understandable that he feels insecure, shaky and on unstable ground. His doctor said a break would be good, to give his body time to heal with his mind, to ensure no freak consequences of the accident which, when you think about it, and again Buck has, is all his life has been. Freak consequences.
Since everyone agrees for varied reasons it is the perfect excuse for Buck and he puts in the request for time off. A month. At least.
Buck is hopeful the time is what he needs, is what will help him “find” himself the way his therapist recommends, the way he thinks he might need. On his good days he is sure that is what he needs, to rebuild, rise from the ashes stronger and better than before. On the bad ones he’s worried all that time will just get him more lost, tangled up, the string of himself all tied into knots he can’t get loose. That in searching in the dark for a light switch or a path back home he will miss a ledge and step off into the abyss.
Buck is sure this is something he needs to do alone, that his messy brain is his problem and his alone, except of course, for the people he pays to bravely spelunk in all of his problems. In his mind if he lets anyone in, let anyone try to help he will just end up building himself around them.
So he's kept them all at a distance, which has been surprisingly easy when before this Buck’s biggest fear has been being alone. It helps that hours slip into days way too easy, that his nightmares bleed into the sunlight and only alarms remind him of his basic needs. Food, water, appointments, even his meds. At least at the beginning, his routine is liquid, slipping through his fingers while he tries to grasp at his life.
“Buck, are you still losing time?” Buck blinks, coming back to himself like swimming to the surface. That voice is Dr. Copeland, and Buck gets the impression this isn’t the first thing she’s said to him. He isn't sure if he’s been responding before this, he remembers somewhere vaguely that he had an appointment on Tuesday so that must be today.
It takes another moment for him to realize she’s waiting for an answer. “No, not losing— losing implies I want it, don’t you think? I’m not losing it, it’s just going and I’m watching it go, letting it go really I guess.”
“You don’t want it back?” Her voice is even, kind and comforting. A constant that Buck has come to rely on.
“I don't know what I want.” Buck sighs, looking down at his hands, at the gore he’s turned his nailbeds into. “I want— I want to be normal again. I don’t know what that is anymore, but I still want it. Is that stupid?”
Dr. Copeland shifts in her seat, leaning back slightly as she considers her response. “No, Buck that’s not stupid. It can be hard to find our way back to what feels like normal after a trauma, after what you have been through can be especially difficult.”
Buck cringes at the reminder, he doesn’t want to think about what he’s been through, would rather the miles from the actual place it happened, the miles away he is from that desert, the number he knows off the top of his head at any given moment, can recite if asked, he wishes it would work to give him more distance than just physical.
“It’s important we talk about what normal has felt like for you in the past and what you think it could look like in the future and then we can come up with a path together to try and help you get there. How does that sound?”
Buck sighs and looks up, gathers what strength he can and makes one final attempt to avoid things. “It sounds like a lot of work, and honestly really fucking awful.”
Dr. Copeland smiles, undeterred and Buck wants to roll his eyes. She knows he is going to keep talking, he shows up to these appointments for a reason and it isn't just to appease his friends. There is a part of him that wants to get better, that misses his life.
“Ugh, yes, fine, that sounds good,” He groans, “normal was I don't know, going to work and hanging out with Eddie and having dinners with Maddie and her family.”
“It’s interesting that for you, normal involves all the people in your life you are currently avoiding. Do you think it's possible to get back to normal if you continue avoiding your loved ones?”
It's a good question, albeit one he doesn't want to answer, or think about. “Probably not,” for all that he doesn't want to think about it, the answer is still easy. He does miss them, misses beer on the couch and late night movies, dinners, and going out to trivia night. Seeing his friends, making them laugh, and hearing about everything new in their lives outside of work.
“What step can you take today, Buck, to get you back on the path to normal?”
Fuck.
“I guess I could call Eddie later. He’s on shift right now, I think, but maybe I could call and ask about work and Chris.” Buck lifts his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks heat up. It sounds like he’s planning a play date just to call his best friend and what, talk? Hang out? It seems so silly and childish in his head.
Dr. Copeland’s smile widens, and it sets off a spark in Buck’s head, an emotion that is not dread or tired or empty. A spark of joy, that he has done something right, gotten a good grade in therapy; something that is totally achievable and very normal to want, thank you very much. That single spark is a blip, but it’s a blip of Buck. Of who he is, was, could be— can be.
“I think that is a great idea, Buck.” Her eyes leave his for a moment, quickly moving above his head and back. “That’s our time for today, but I’m proud of you, Buck. These are good steps, and on Friday we can talk about other steps you might want to take to get back to your normal. Your assignment will just be to think about it before then. Sound good?”
Buck stands, brushing imaginary dust off of his knees for something to do, and nods, hand already reaching into his pocket to get his keys. “Yup, sounds super duper even.”
He can’t help the little bit of snark, the small defense to sitting here for an hour and cutting himself open and spilling his guts for her to pick through with kind but clinical precision. It will tide him over through the drive home before the gravity of what he’s just agreed to hits him, and the crushing anxiety comes next.
“Bye, Buck!” Dr. Copeland calls on his way out, and he raises a hand over his back to wave, mind already placing items on the conveyor belt, ready to check out.
The good news is, Buck knows how to drive on autopilot, and how to swallow a panic attack for the exactly seventeen minutes and forty six seconds it takes to get from Dr. Copeland’s office to his home (traffic withstanding). He parks in his driveway, staring at the clock that reads a brutal 6:20 pm, and knows that if Eddie’s schedule hasn't changed he will be off in just a little over an hour and a half.
Just an hour and a half.
The knowledge that Buck will have to pick up the phone in ninety minutes, dial numbers he knows by heart, and somehow figure out how to string sentences together well enough to seem like he has been making progress these last two weeks and not just drowning while he tries to tread water is nearly crushing.
His breath catches in his chest, a wheeze half choked up in his throat, and with shaking, numb hands turns the key to off and climbs out of his car. Shuffling to the door, it takes what feels like hours to successfully unlock it and get inside, his back pressed to the inside as he bends over, hands on his knees, and tries to stop the ringing in his ears. These panic attacks, he understands now why Eddie thought he was having a heart attack.
Buck’s chest is tight, tingles shooting down his arms, and his brain is sending nothing but signals of dread and doom to the rest of him. It feels like he’s dying— he doesn't remember dying before, but it must have been like this in the split second between the lightning strike and his heart stopping. Surely it felt this dire, this scary, even for just a moment.
Buck doesn't remember feeling scared before. Maybe it was too fast, maybe his brain just never caught up in time to be scared before there was nothing.
He’s scared now, it’s an animal hindbrain thing that has lit up in his skull, a centuries-old instinct meant to save him from being hunted by mountain lions that is now repurposed to feeling like his world is collapsing over the mere idea of calling Eddie. Making the effort and reaching out, showing him a glimpse into just how dark things have actually been for him this whole time he’s been hiding.
Because really, that's all it actually has been, Buck thinks. A million excuses and reasons about why he had to rebuild alone, set himself right-side up without assistance or an audience. All of his justifications just slapping a poster over a hole in the wall, that he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to drag them down if he is just destined to drown.
And in this moment, in this panic attack, it feels like Buck is drowning.
He gets in one good breath and shakes himself off, pushing off of the door to stumble down the hallway to his bedroom in search of the one thing that can make this better— can make it all go away. So he doesn't spend the next hour and a half working himself up, ratcheting the gears of his mind until the tension snaps.
An orange bottle on his bedside table: A prescription for one Evan Buckley for Alprazolam, Take 1 to 2 for panic attacks and anxiety as needed.
Buck’s head swims, and a small logical voice in his head tells him the fun fact that this is because he is not properly oxygenating his body, that the gasps tearing themselves from his chest, too quick, too shallow, are doing nothing but making this worse. He props himself up on the side of the bed to avoid collapsing, the edges of his vision already starting to blur and darken. Shaking hands struggle with the cap, and he pours into his hand without discretion. They spill across his palm, little white dots dancing across his sight as his vision blurs too much for him to count, can only feel the weight of them burning into his skin. Calm so close, cradled in his hand.
The little voice in his head with fun facts and often scathing comments about him as a person should be reminding him that he needs to be careful, that benzodiazepines can be a dangerous medication if not taken correctly. That little voice is passed out from oxygen deprivation, and Buck doesn't feel very far behind and he just wants it to stop— needs it to stop. The animal fear has turned into animal desperation, a fight to survive that overrides good ideas and bad, only concerned with living.
He just needs quiet. He just needs a moment. He needs to not feel, and he needs to breathe, and he needs, he needs—
He needs the pills.
His mouth is already dry with anxiety, and the pill (pills? When did so many get in his hand?) only make it feel drier. They stick to his tongue, tiny and impossibly bitter, difficult to choke down with nothing but his spit, but he doesn't care. They'll help him. He knows they'll help him. They'll fix him.
He just needs to go back to empty. Empty is good, empty doesn't give him panic attacks, empty coasts him through his days and nights. Feelings are so overrated when this is what they get you, this is why he’s been running from them so long, he can't even remember what they once were, off in the distance and hazy like looking out on a hot day.
The last of his panic claws through his chest, gripping each beat of his heart in a vice, and Buck falls to his knees, hands on the rug he keeps so that his feet don’t hit cold wood when he first wakes up. He leans forward and lets his forehead rest on the wood now, as he can finally feel everything start to subside, to pull back out like the tide. One breath. Two. Three, until his vision is clear and he feels loose and heavy.
Buck thinks about the floor, thinks about the panic attack that led him here, all over a simple phone call. He believed in signs, never let it be said that Evan Buckley intentionally ignores the universe when it yells at him. He knows this is a sign, if things have gotten this bad that his panic is about calling his best friend and not Bobby dying, or waking up as Derek, being told Eddie is dead, or the horror of being stuck and hearing the gunshot outside and thinking just for a moment that Eddie really is dead— but for a phone call? It’s bad, he’s doing bad, and maybe Dr. Copeland has been right this whole time, maybe he can’t do better alone.
Dropping down to his elbows, drowsiness creeping up on him with every moment that passes. His thoughts drift away from him like feathers in the wind. He can’t seem to grab onto them long enough for them to be coherent, stretched out and disjointed. He's so relaxed, Buck can’t remember a time he last felt this peaceful, if ever. It’s nice until it isn’t.
It’s when he fully collapses to the floor, carpet pressed into his cheek, eyes heavier with each blink, that Buck realizes this might be a problem.
If it’s a problem, Buck only knows one person who can fix it, only one person he trusts to fix it. He fights the urge to sleep, digging into his pockets for his phone and scrambling to focus his eyes enough to unlock it and open his messages.
Clicking the one name he trusts above all, Buck makes a call.
The shift is finally starting to wind down, or it would be if they weren’t sitting outside of the hospital leaning up against the side of the engine. Chimney is inside somewhere trying to get their patient handed off, despite something, honestly Eddie isn’t sure what the hold up is, just knows he’s outside in the sun, counting down the minutes until he can leave and put his plan in motion. He’s ready, he texted Chris that he is going to be home late or maybe not at all, and Chris has been wanting more independence recently anyway, so Eddie supposes now is as good a time as any to give some. The sun hits his eyes and he squints, lifting a hand to cover his face as he sees Chimney finally coming out with their gurney dragging behind him.
His phone rings in his pocket. There are only a few people that can make his phone ring out loud when it’s on silent for work. The list is small and intimate. His son, sisters, aunt, and Buck.
Eddie pulls his phone from his pocket, tilting it so that he can see the name and picture against the glare of the sun still bearing down on him, and when that doesn’t work, he turns towards the engine and his breath catches.
Buck.
He can hear Chim talking with Hen, something about a power outage, it’s all background noise as he scrambles to answer the call and lift his phone to his ear. Buck hasn’t called him willingly since before New Mexico, and Eddie is sure he has to play this cool to not scare him off.
“Hey, Buck, I was just thinking about you.” Eddie is so cool; his voice is not at all strained or nervous.
Buck’s reply has him very much not cool, so quickly it makes his head spin, words slurred together and all tied together, “'Ddie, think somethins' wron… didn’ mean to, swear.”
“What’s wrong, bud? Tell me,” Eddie waves his hand around, sure one of his coworkers will notice. “I’m on the way, I can be there in a few minutes, but you gotta tell me what happened.”
“Took too many,” Buck says on a sigh, and Eddie can hear him slowing down. “Didn’ mean to, sorry.”
Eddie can feel his blood run cold. He knows Buck has been taking medication for his anxiety recently, weasled the tiniest information out of him over text a week ago, and he hadn’t considered this being a possibility, and God, he is so stupid. Of course, this was a possibility, one he should have been prepared for.
“Eddie?” Hen’s voice cuts through his panic, and he turns to her. His face must show something because she straightens up and starts waving everyone back into the engine rapidly. “What’s wrong?”
“Buck,” Eddie chokes on the name. It’s only one word and yet it is apparently all she needs. He feels his chest tear itself apart, the same desperate feeling he had in New Mexico, to find, save— protect. Hen whispers something to Chimney and he starts yelling, while the woman herself steps closer and guides Eddie up into the engine.
“Buck, it’s gonna be okay, we’re on the way, what did you take?”
He can hear Buck breathing, hear the small catch that usually precedes speaking, but it doesn’t. Buck has no more words, just breaths that are getting more labored with each one. Eddie can feel dread start up behind the engine as they start to move, can hear his coworkers whispering around him, but all he can focus on is counting Buck’s breaths, unwilling to hang up.
“Buck, Buck please, baby stay awake, I’m coming, I told you I’d always come,” Eddie whispers, and he can feel hot tears start a path down his cheeks but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he’s showing weakness in front of other people or whatever stupid thing he would tell himself in his fathers voice in a normal circumstance. This isn’t that, this is Buck. Who Eddie would die for, would kill for, there hadn’t been a doubt in his mind standing in that field holding the gun. Pulling the trigger for Buck would have been the easiest thing to him.
He’s talked about it with Frank and sure it would probably fuck him up a little to kill someone, in any context, but for Buck. For Buck he would do it.
Sirens break the silence, and Eddie wants to sob, God it all comes back to this. To wanting.
He wants Buck.
It occurs to him in stunning clarity, he wants Buck. Of course he wants Buck, of course he feels a little bit insane, of course these weeks without him have been miserable, of course Buck called him. Because if there is one thing Eddie knows about Buck it is that he wants too, Buck would want to be glued into Eddie’s side just as much as Eddie wants it. Buck who understands him better than anyone would understand this too in a way that would make Eddie feel flayed open and seen, known. Loved.
“Eddie,” Buck coughs and Eddie can hear shifting across the phone. “‘M so sorry.”
Eddie laughs, it is so Buck to apologize in this moment that it makes him sick. His tears are coming faster, and he swallows them down. “I know baby, it’s okay. I’m coming, and everything will be okay. I promise, Buck, I swear.”
Eddie spares a glance up and sees that they have turned into Buck’s neighborhood and his body tenses, readying up for a fight that isn’t real, no matter what his fear tells him. He’s out of the engine long before it comes to a stop, sprinting towards the front door and praying to a God that has never responded before that the door is unlocked, that, please just this one time answer him, he’ll never ask for anything again. Buck’s front door swings open and Eddie doesn’t even take the time to say his thanks, he’s darting inside and yelling, phone dropped onto the floor as he pushes himself towards Buck’s bedroom.
“Buck! Buck, where are you?” His words cut off when he gets to the doorway and looks in.
Buck is on the floor by his bed, surrounded by a few loose pills, a dropped bottle, and his own phone clutched to his chest like it’s something sacred. He’s pale, paler than normal, and his chest only rises every few seconds, but Eddie doesn’t care. Every breath is a reprieve, it’s relief, and his knees slam into the floor so he can get his hands on Buck.
“Buck. Buck, baby, open your eyes.” Eddie pleads, hands flitting from cradling Buck’s face to his pulse that is just as slow as his breathing. Buck cracks an eye open, and his next breath is a sigh, hand twitching like he wants to reach out. Eddie hears his coworkers come in, a small gasp behind him, and the familiar sound of a med bag hitting the floor beside him.
“I’ve got him, Eddie, it’s okay,” Hen whispers, already setting up an IV with practiced hands. Chimney reaches for the bottle and whispers into Hen’s ear before moving to place the heart monitor pads under Buck’s shirt.
“Hi,” Buck mumbles, still only looking at Eddie.
Eddie collapses, chest heaving as he sobs, dropping his forehead down to lay against Buck’s chest. His hands are gripping onto Buck’s shirt desperately, knuckles white with the force. There are no thoughts in his head, just that same ringing alarm and a mantra of BuckBuckBuckBuck in tune with every beat of his heart.
“Hi? You take a bunch of pills,” Eddie hiccups, unclenching one hand to hit against Buck’s chest before trying again. “You take a bunch of pills and say hi?”
He lifts his head to tearily glare down at Buck, who is somehow still looking at him, somehow finding enough strength to keep himself aware and study Eddie like he’s memorizing the lines of his face. Eddie’s stomach turns at the thought that Buck is memorizing him, unsure if he will get to see him again. As if Eddie would ever let him go. As if Eddie will ever let him go, at this moment, he isn’t sure he’s ever going to be willing to let Buck go far enough to be out of his reach, let alone out of sight. He will hold onto Buck, dig his claws in and fight anyone that comes for Buck; would argue with God if that’s what it took to keep Evan Buckley.
“Sorry,” Buck adds with a wince. He moves a hand from holding his phone and lays it over Eddie’s fist, weak fingers trying to uncurl the tension, and Eddie moves before he can even process it. He slams his lips into Buck’s, desperate to feel Buck under him in every way he can. None of them will ever be enough in this moment.
“Not good enough, you’re not allowed to leave me, never. Never, you hear me, Buck?” Eddie presses the words into Buck, waiting for Buck to open up and drink them down. So that Buck will know down to his bones that he is wanted and will be staying, no other options. “Never, never, never.”
Eddie repeats the words between kisses, he can feel Buck’s chest hitch on a breath under him and lifts his face enough to look at the man below him. Buck’s eyes are red-rimmed, a stark contrast to the sky blue and Eddie wants to devour him whole. Keep him safe tucked between his ribs and right next to his beating heart. Eddie feels sick with it, and for a moment, he thinks of the absurdity that it took him this long to figure things out when this sickness has been there for years, wherever Buck is concerned. Eddie never wants to get over it, will set a plate out at dinner for this feeling every night to keep it around.
“‘kay, never.” Buck says.
Eddie curls over him, tucking his face into the side of Buck’s neck and pressing his lips against Buck’s pulse, because he loves this place where Buck’s heart beats strongest and he swears that if he thinks about it, really focuses he can hear the blood rushing through Buck’s veins beneath the warm skin. All puzzle pieces that add up to Buck here, safe, alive. Alivealivealive. Eddie doesn’t need anything else, could sustain himself off of it, could swallow down the proof of Buck’s life and keep himself going for years off of it and nothing else.
Eddie’s voice breaks on his next words, fracturing like rotten wood under heavy footsteps. “I love you.”