Chapter Text
It all started with Maddie, as most things do.
"You should try journaling," she suggested innocently, unaware of the can of worms she was about to open.
Maddie isn't the first person to suggest journaling to Buck. It was actually Eddie, of course, who brought it up only days after meeting the other.
Buck wrote Eddie's proposition off as a dig to his character and got a little offended—which was a common occurrence in Buck 1.0 days; he was so self-conscious to the point it manifested as paranoia. Anything someone said was an innuendo about how Buck was their least favorite person ever and all things about him sucked.
Obviously, he knows now that was selfish and not the case whatsoever, but that was neither here nor there.
Then, it was Dr. Copeland. By then he knew that most people had good intentions when they said these things, but he again didn't take the comment seriously. Buck was told he was dyslexic by almost all teachers he had (not that his parents cared enough to ever get him a diagnosis), and it's not like Buck dropped out because he was stupid, necessarily, he just didn't really like school. He didn't like writing, or reading, or math, or science. He learned by doing things, life experiences and shit. School never taught him that way, so he was naturally drawn away.
So yeah, Buck didn't take action to any of the journaling suggestions. He just figured it wasn't for him, it's whatever. Most things aren't for Buck and he had accepted that a long time ago.
But for some reason, Buck has always taken Maddie's word as the Gospel.
Sure, he ignored her constant "Buck don't do that," Or, "Buck that's dumb," And, "so why exactly would you think like that, Buck?" But again, neither here nor there.
But when she made earnest attempts to shove her words into Buck's brain, he tried his very best to take it seriously.
Maybe it was also the way Maddie suggested it that drew Buck in. Probably because it included Eddie. Definitely because it included Eddie.
See, Maddie—the genius that she was—suggested Buck take the common, centuries long tradition of journaling and 'Buck-A-Fy' it, whatever that means. She said instead of writing in a notebook, he could write it blog-style under a pseudonym.
Buck took this recommendation and thought, "hey, I've been pining over my best friend ever since I realized while getting fucked by my ex in his bed, why don't I write letters to him instead?"
Because Buck is Eddie. Everything about Buck is Eddie. Buck doesn't know where he begins and Eddie ends. His life began when he met Eddie. It began when Eddie introduced Chris to him. Eddie taught Buck that he is capable of being loved even after seeing the inmost thoughts and feelings he thought made him incapable.
Buck is kind of like a parasite, he thinks. Eddie is his host.
Buck knows this isn't normal—and he probably should get psychologically evaluated by a professional—but no amount or type of therapy could make Buck normal about Eddie.
So anything Buck would journal about, would probably be about Eddie, and it's not like Eddie would ever see the letters. Of course, Buck writes under a pseudonym to be extra careful. This really had no purpose—since the letters would contain details that would be literally impossible in every way to be anyone else—but it silenced the intrusive thoughts in his head telling him Eddie would somehow telepathically read it if Buck signed his name.
Currently, Buck sat perched on his office chair, planted in front of his mac book, wondering where to start.
Dear Eddie,
I've sat here for the last 20 minutes wondering what to write. And this was probably a pretty lame start after waiting so long.
It's currently 10:55 P.M., I last spoke to you at 8:23 P.M., and I've wanted to talk to you for every minute since then.
I wanted to talk to you about how the constant hum of the dishwasher even when it's not running was making me lose my mind, which made me want to tell you I should probably buy a new one. Then, I was gonna say how I was hungry and about to heat up the leftovers from yesterday, the food I ate when I face-timed you and Chris over dinner. Which would remind me to ask you if we could make yesterday a regular thing, maybe bi-weekly? And I would say "what would I cook this time? Pasta, or will I get too hungry to wait and just order pizza?" which then you would most likely laugh, and we would ramble on about pizza toppings or something else to fill the silence.
I think I miss you more than I've missed anyone that has left me.
I know I can't blame you. It was for Chris, and I would never in a million years ask you to choose him over me. I know it's a losing battle, and that's one of many things I love about you (getting pretty vulnerable here), but it does sting a little, y'know?
I think I live for you. I don't know how I can exist without you beside me—which is really pathetic, I know—but it's true.
I've spent every day the exact same way ever since you left. I wake up 30-minutes late purposely so I don't have time to think while leaving for work. Because if I let my mind drift I would visualize our mornings together, you dropping off Chris then coming to pick me up with my coffee order in your hand. Or me picking you and Chris up and dropping him off together on the way to work. We would almost always walk in side-by-side.
I don't falter during work, I never did. I never will. Work is the one place I can liberate what's pent up. But before, you would notice. And you would stop me, from beating too hard or too much at the punching bag, rub ointment you stole from "Hen's" ambulance on my bruised knuckles and shake your head disapprovingly. Or you would be there next to me in a burning building when I've gone in over my head; and it wouldn't be to pull me out or stop me, but to help.
Now, I punch the bag until my knuckles bleed and I stay in fires till Bobby threatens to bench me.
This whole things is coming off more accusatory than I wanted, because I could never be angry at you.
I don't think I could feel anything but love for you, Eddie.
From,
Freddie Fakeman