Work Text:
It starts with the lone pop of a single firework somewhere in the distance. It’s almost funny, how Buck used to love fireworks, and how it only took one moment, just one to ruin that love. Now, the noise, too close to the distant sound of a gunshot, makes his shoulders tense, and his breath hitch, and it would be easier to pass off as just a reaction to the initial surprise from the sudden sound, if his face didn’t so clearly present an expression of panic.
He knows Eddie can tell somethings wrong almost immediately, his jaw clenching and furrowed brows hiding nothing.
He can’t focus on anything but the static in his head… And Eddie. Eddie’s breathing, clearly, he’s breathing normally, and there’s no wound in his shoulder, there’s no blood.
It’s easier to blink and shake away the dull buzz when Eddie is sitting next to him, alive and talking. It takes a notably longer time to calm himself down when he’s alone at night, shaking, almost crying, because the blood on his skin in his nightmare felt too fucking real.
He has a habit of scrubbing his skin raw on nights like those. More often than not, he scrubs until his cuticles bleed. The first time, he didn’t notice until Eddie gently grabbed at his fingers and asked what had happened. Buck had just shrugged, mumbling something about how the skin had been dry.
“Buck,” Eddie tries, probably for the millionth time in the last few minutes.
He finally allows himself to breathe out harshly, and Eddie’s grip on his sweater shifts. His breathing comes out a little shallow, and he knows it’s just his body trying to make up for the fact that he almost stopped breathing, but it makes him uncomfortable nonetheless.
He feels Eddie’s hand creep from the fabric of his sweater to under the sleeve to gently hold Buck’s wrist instead, and his touch is grounding.
He finally looks at Eddie, and he looks so concerned it’s painful.
He shouldn’t have to look like that over Buck, because Buck shouldn't still be having issues like this. He should be over it. He’s told everyone he’s over it, he’s spent the last two years telling people he was over it.
Buck stands up, and for a moment he thinks Eddie is going to keep clinging to his wrist, but his hand falls away and back onto his own leg. He turns towards Eddie again, staring over the top of his right shoulder, avoiding his overly watchful gaze.
“Sorry,” he says, shifting his weight off of his left leg and onto the right. Edde opens his mouth and Buck can almost already hear what he’s going to say. “I’m gonna go get a drink, do you want anything?” And he’s walking away immediately after he hears Eddie’s confused mumble of “No-”
His bones feel heavier, he feels heavier, like there's extra weight on top of his shoulders that wasn’t there 10 minutes ago.
He and Eddie have never really been the best at confrontation, at least concerning their past and shared trauma.
They haven’t talked about it, the shooting, the aftermath.
Maybe it’s Buck’s own fault for not saying something in the beginning. But it was hard and painful. Everything back then had been painful.
Eddie had been tired and hurt and then tired and recovering and then just tired. It never seemed like the right time. Or maybe it just never seemed right at all, for Buck to bring it up. It was a shared trauma, yes, but Eddie was the one that was shot, the one that almost died in the middle of a Los Angeles street in an act of violence that had nothing to do with him in the first place.
Buck wasn’t the one that had almost bled to death, he wasn’t the one that had gone through the recovery. He never wanted to even try and make it about himself.
It felt too late now, it’s probably not, logically he knows that, but it feels like it.
Eddie follows him into the kitchen after a moment and Buck nearly plasters himself to the back corner of the room.
He’s facing Eddie, arms crossed and face hopefully rigidly set.
Eddie leans against the doorway, he’s holding his arms, almost mirroring Buck’s positions, but he’s more relaxed, more open, head cocked to the side in concern. The more you stare into his eyes the clearer the sadness and apprehension are.
Buck is trying to ignore the way he knows Eddie can’t tell if Buck will make a run for it, like a wounded animal that’s so stubbornly trying to survive without drawing attention to the fact that it’s dying.
“Buck,” and Eddie’s reaching out, not physically, but the sound of his own name on Eddie’s lips feels like a sort of prompt. “Can we talk about it?”
He taps his fingers against his arms, two of his fingers looping into the edge of his t-shirt sleeve. “Eddie, it’s fine,” he points at himself, “I’m fine, okay, I’m over it.” It sounds like a lie, and it hurts.
“That,” Eddie moves one of his hands to point at the living room, “was not you being ‘over it.’” It’s not an accusation, rather an honest, painful observation.
Buck breathes out, short and stubborn, shaking his head he says, “It’s PTSD, Eddie, it’s-”
“Yeah and we haven’t talked about it,” Eddie rushes out, losing a bit of the composure he had before. “We went through all of that and we just haven't said anything about it,” Eddie grounds out, breaking off slightly at the end. He squeezes his arms tighter for a moment before unfurling to stand up straighter, letting his arms drop.
Buck tries to reason, tries to get Eddie to see the logic that probably isn’t even there. “It wasn’t my thing to say anything about, Eddie. You were the one that got shot, that almost died, not me.”
Eddie lets his composure completely slip, “You were the one that watched me get shot, you were standing 6 feet away from me, you were the one that said it would have been better if you were shot instead of me,” he says, looking slightly stricken.
Buck takes a too big, shuddering breath in, “I didn’t-” and nothing else comes out. Because it’s true, and part of him still believes those words.
Eddie moves closer to Buck, hands still at his side, not yet reaching out, probably not sure if he can. “It’s not your fault,” and he sounds so damn sure of himself that Buck physically trembles and he’s sure Eddie tracks the movement.
Buck almost laughs, something broken and pained, “What?”
“It’s not your fault,” Eddie says, in the same tone as before, with the same sad and comforting expression.
“I know,” he doesn’t, and even the small movements of his nods feel dishonest.
“It’s not your fault,” he wonders how long Eddie would be willing to repeat the same phrase.
“I know,” and he wants to scream.
Eddie tilts his head down to catch Buck’s gaze. “No, Evan…” Oh, “Evan, it’s not your fault.” He reaches out, tentatively laying a hand on Buck’s forearm and squeezing, and it’s like a silent plea to let go.
“Don’t do this to me, Eds,” he feels too far gone to pretend he isn’t begging.
Eddie moves impossibly closer, laying his other hand on Buck’s other forearm, “It’s not your fault.”
“Screw you,” he whispers, “don’t do this to me.”
Eddie searches Buck’s eyes, tugs on his arms, and says, “It’s not your fault,” and Buck lets go.
He unravels. The wire he was trying to balance on swings and he falls, and he sobs, and it hurts. He feels desperate. Desperate to hide this from Eddie and desperate to let it out.
“Why is this so hard?” He mumbles between sobs, falling into Eddie’s waiting arms. “I didn’t know it would be this hard,” he tries to say as he takes large gasping breaths, falling down to the ground and more into Eddie’s hold, because Eddie just sinks to the ground with him.
He didn’t know, not in the typical sense, because he knew it would affect him, but he didn’t how it would affect him. Watching Eddie get shot, wasn’t just the equivalent of almost losing his best friend. It was the feeling of almost losing your person. Like, your forever person.
And he didn’t know then, what it felt like. He didn’t know it a year before that when the well collapsed. But he knew after, and he wasn’t prepared.
Eddie’s hold on him is like the gentle grasp he had on Buck’s wrist earlier, grounding in a way that doesn’t suffocate him, doesn’t overwhelm him to the point of no return.
Eddie doesn’t say anything, but somewhere in his mind Buck thinks that Eddie is humming into his curls as he trails a hand up and down Buck’s back, the other warm and solid on the back of his neck.
“I couldn’t-” another labored breath, “I couldn’t protect you.”
He feels Eddie sigh into his hair. “You couldn’t have,” and that’s the logical answer, that’s the truth, but it makes him cry more, dangerously close to just wailing.
“I wanted to,” he mumbles through the tears, despite the logic.
He almost feels silly, curled up against Eddie on the kitchen floor, Eddie whispering, ‘I’ve got you,’ over and over again, his lips brushing Buck’s forehead.
But he’s not okay, and he knew that all along, he just didn’t want to accept it. Part of him still doesn’t, and Eddie’s on the floor too, so how silly could it really be.
“Buck,” he whispers, once Buck’s tears were only silent and slow. Buck hums, sounding rough to his own ears. Eddie squeezes the back of Buck’s neck, and he leans back into the touch, “We’ll get through this, okay? We’ll talk to someone about it, we’ll figure things out. Together,” he smiles, just ever so slightly, the corners of his lips barely even twitch up.
He might cry again if he opens his mouth and talks, so he nods and lets Eddie maneuver him into standing up. He also thinks he might cry again when Eddie puts both of his hands on Buck’s waist, so really, he might just end up crying again before the night is over, no matter what.
Eddie ducks his gaze once again. “Hey,” he murmurs, “stay.”
Buck leans more into Eddie’s figure, and Eddie takes his weight easily, “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Then, because he feels over-emotional and wrung out, he says, “Unless I’m sleeping on the couch again.”
“Dick,” Eddie mumbles and presses his lips to Buck’s forehead in earnest this time. “No,” he whispers, “no, Evan, you wouldn’t be.”
He’s definitely going to cry again.