Chapter Text
Hands. Hands. Jostling, shoving, hurting –
It’s too much.
The black is calm. Quiet. Peaceful. It’s warm and it doesn’t hurt. There are no hands poking and prodding, no yelling and sirens, nobody squeezing his hand so tightly it feels like it’s about to crack.
Squeezing. Whose hand is that? Who’s holding my hand?
“Buck,” a voice drifts into the black, like a beacon to wade towards. “Buck. Stay with me. Buck, listen, you – you gotta stay with me. You can’t go, Buck. I need you.”
I need you. Who needs me? Nobody needs me. I’m just Buck.
Nobody wants just Buck. Nobody needs just Buck.
I’m tired.
And then there’s something searing — it burns, it hurts, it aches —
“Rhythm is stable!”
There’s a shout, and Buck’s head throbs at the sound of it. He feels like he’s stuck underwater, but he doesn’t want to claw his way to the surface. The deep dark below is warm. Nothing hurts there.
He doesn’t want to come back up for air.
There’s a distant feeling of hands on skin, tugging at his eyelids, and there’s a bright light aimed at his pupils. Buck doesn’t know what’s happening. Why is there light in his eyeballs? Where’d the black go?
But then, a lighthouse illuminates Buck’s black hole.
Eyes.
There’s eyes hovering overhead, gazing right at him.
Eyes. Eyes? Am I awake? Where’d the black go? I don’t — I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to come back —
“Please,” a voice overhead begs. “Please, Buck. Please. I need you to stay with me. Okay? I need you to hang on for me. I can’t lose you. We can’t lose you, okay? You gotta hang on for me.”
The voice is familiar. Warm. Comforting. If Buck could wrap himself in the sound, roll around in rich baritone, he would. He’d live forever in that sound if he could.
“That’s it,” the voice encourages, and the eyes overhead begin to glisten. They’re big, brown, soft. Like a rich, dark chocolate, the color of fresh-ground espresso and the bark of his favorite tree. Brown. Buck likes brown.
“That’s it, Buck. Eyes on me. Just focus on me. Don’t look at anything else, okay? Just keep your eyes on me.”
Seems doable enough.
The voice is familiar. Buck knows he’s heard it before. A hundred times, a thousand times, too many times to count —
It hits him like a bullet train going full speed.
Eddie.
Eddie’s eyes. Eddie’s voice.
Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.
Eddie’s here.
Eddie comes into focus a bit more when another light bursts into view. “Pupils reactive,” someone hollers from elsewhere, and the sound rattles Buck’s ears. Buck feels his eyebrows pinch together — he doesn’t want to see a bright light. He wants to see Eddie.
Buck wants to see Eddie. Eddie makes sense. Eddie’s good and familiar and safe and home.
If Buck can’t have the comfort of the black, he’ll take the comfort of Eddie’s eyes.
He feels himself twitching, trying to move, trying to get to Eddie, but he can’t. He can’t move. Buck can’t get to Eddie. Buck needs to get to Eddie, needs to look up at him, needs to touch him —
“Don’t move,” Eddie cuts in, big brown eyes filling the expanse of Buck’s view again. That baritone is rich, smooth like a good espresso shot, and Buck wants to bury himself in it. He wants to make a home in the sound; would live in it forever if he could.
Don’t move. Don’t move. Why? Why can’t I move?
Buck’s fingers twitch, and he knows he should be still, and he knows something in his brain isn’t working right, but he can’t help it. Nothing makes sense right now except his best friend leaning over him.
“I know,” Eddie says quietly. “I know. There’s a lot happening. Just trust me, okay? Just stay still. You’ll be okay.”
Just trust me.
Sure. Buck can do that. He already trusts Eddie with everything. Trusting Eddie now is as easy and unintentional as breathing. It’s a mutual exchange — Eddie trusts Buck with everything. Even Chris.
Chris.
Fuck. Fuck. Chris. Where’s Chris? Why isn’t he here?
Buck knows his eyes must go a bit wild because Eddie’s there again, filling his peripherals. Eddie’s hand is on Buck again, curled around his bicep, gentle and big and warm.
“Chris is okay. I know. I know he’s not here. He’ll be here in a little bit, okay? You’ll see him in a little bit. He’s okay. I promise, Buck. Chris is okay.”
Buck knows Eddie wouldn’t dare lie to him. Not when he’s looking at Buck with that much worry – things must be well and truly fucked up if Eddie’s got that look in his eyes. Buck’s only witnessed it a few times, and it always makes his gut twist. He just always wants to fix the problem so Eddie doesn’t worry more.
But Buck has to confirm it. He needs the certainty. He and Eddie aren’t together – they're just best friends – but Buck feels paternal over the kid. Chris might not be Buck’s by blood, but ancestry and DNA aren't the only things that make up a family.
Buck would know. He does know. Eddie and Chris are family.
Buck blinks up at Eddie again, mustering every little ounce of strength he has. There isn’t much. Most of it’s just sheer willpower. He’s got to make sure his boy is okay.
“P-promise?”
It’s hoarse, barely a whisper, and that’s all Buck can manage. He’s tired. He’s tired, everything feels heavy, and his eyelids keep drooping like they’ve got a mind of their own. Buck wants to succumb. It’d be so easy, and nothing would hurt, and maybe he’d finally get that rest he’s always chased. But he can’t do it. Not until he hears it from Eddie’s mouth.
There’s a hand in Buck’s hair. Big and warm and gentle. Long fingers card through Buck’s curls, and he peels his eyes open again to look up.
“I promise, Buck,” Eddie murmurs. It feels like an oath. Eddie swears Chris is okay the same way he swears Buck will be okay; big espresso eyes filling Buck’s field of view and big hands holding him like he’s a piece of precious crystal. “I promise. Let me worry about Chris, okay? You’ll see him so soon, I promise.”
I promise. You’ll see him so soon. I promise.
Buck drifts.
He’s back in the black again. It’s not like last time, not like the coma dream. He’s just somewhere in between – not quite awake, not quite asleep. It’s muffled, hazy, but Buck can make out voices. They’re quiet. But he’s not ready yet.
Buck’s not ready for real life. He’s not ready to look at his friends and see the anxiety in their eyes. He’s not ready to look at Maddie and see a mother’s worry. He’s not ready to look at Bobby and see fatherly love.
He’s not ready to look at Chris and feel the guilt clawing up his throat for putting his boy in danger when he should’ve been enjoying the observatory.
He’s not ready to look at Eddie and see the fear running rampant through every fibre of Eddie’s frame. He’s not ready to see the way Eddie takes on the responsibility and lets it settle across his shoulders. Buck knows he will – Eddie will blame himself for not speaking up sooner, for not grabbing the wheel as if he could’ve avoided it with his own two hands.
Buck doesn’t know how long he spends there, aimless and weightless and painless. He knows he can’t stay here forever. The voices surround him in a gentle hum, but they grow louder and louder and he can feel more hands on him and right when something starts beeping –
“Buck?”
He’d know that little voice anywhere. That sweet, precious, perfect little voice that loves to go on about space and make witty little quips when Buck teases.
When Buck pries his eyes open, he sees glasses and curly hair and big hazel eyes.
“Hey, buddy.” The words feel like sandpaper in Buck’s mouth, but he forces them out anyway. He has to. Buck needs to speak, because Chris will respond, and if he’s talking, he’s okay. Buck can’t stomach the thought of Chris not being okay.
“They snuck me in.” Chris gives Buck a proud, toothy grin, and it hits him just how much he loves the kid. It drowns everything else out, suffocating the guilt tearing through Buck’s heart and settling it to ashes. Chris is light and joy and it’s hard to wallow when Chris looks like the Cheshire cat.
“Dad went to go get food or something from the vending machine. He wouldn’t eat, so I told him to go before he got dizzy.” Smart, too. Chris has always been so smart. “We’ve been taking turns. Except me ‘cause I’m not supposed to be here but I am anyway.”
Buck hums, squinting his eyes shut to digest what’s going on. Hospital. That’s where I am. Eddie’s here. Chris is here. Little stowaway.
“Snuck in?” Buck asks.
The hospital room blurs. Buck can feel the lump growing in his throat, heavy and hot, like he’s swallowed a stone. The lump sits, festers, makes his eyes water and his nose run. It claws its way up, choking him, absorbing all the energy he has.
Eddie snuck Chris in. Eddie, knowing Buck would want to know Chris is okay, snuck his son into the hospital room. Just so Buck could see him. Not because Eddie couldn’t find anyone to watch Chris, not because it was just a quick visit, not because he didn’t want Chris to sit in the car.
It hits Buck like a bullet train. Eddie brought Chris because he knows how much Buck loves the kid.
Buck can’t remember the last time someone did something just for him. Just because it’d make him feel better.
The room spins as a sob wrenches its way from Buck’s mouth.
It’s too much. It’s too much to think about.
Buck was driving. Buck was the one who should’ve been responsible. He should’ve seen it, should’ve reacted sooner, should’ve kept them safe.
He didn’t.
He failed.
Buck should be alone. He should be here in this bed, by himself, left to cry all alone. Chris should be angry. Chris should hate Buck just as much as Buck hates himself. Chris should want Buck to suffer because Buck deserves it.
He doesn’t deserve this. He failed, he messed up, and he hurt Eddie and Chris in the process. Buck doesn’t deserve to have anyone worrying about him, anybody visiting him, anybody caring about him.
The lump in Buck’s throat spreads, tearing through his chest, burning like hot iron. It clogs his lungs like tar, permeates every inch of him, reminding him that he had one job and he failed.
You’ll never be good enough, Buckley.
Just had one job. Drive the fucking car and don’t wreck it.
And you couldn’t even do that.
Is there anything you can do correctly?
Or is that too much to ask?
There’s hands again, warm and gentle, but they’re not big. Not Eddie. Not small enough to be Chris. Someone else, then. A nurse? Someone tasked with dealing with him until he’s deemed healthy enough to be discharged?
“Oh, Buck. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay, Buck.”
Not Eddie. Not Chris. Too high-pitched, too loving. Too much like a mother to be either of them. But there’s no way Eddie got Margaret to fly to LA for this.
Margaret wouldn’t fly to LA for Buck. Ever. He’s not that important to her, and he knows it. While she seems to have made her peace with it, it’s always lingered in the back of his mind, whispering ugly things during the night when nobody else can see the magnitude of its effects.
“I’ve got you, Buck. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
The voice registers then, as Buck’s gathered into a pair of arms and tucked against the speaker’s chest. He’s been here a thousand times before and he’ll be here a thousand times again.
Maddie’s fingers curl through Buck’s hair, and she cradles him like she cradles her own babies. She always has, even before Jee and Baby Bobby came along. Maddie’s always been the mother Buck never had and always needed.
Buck’s her first baby. Always has been, always will be.
“You’re safe, Buck. I’m right here. I know it hurts, I know it’s scary, but you’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe for me, okay? That’s all you need to do right now. Just breathe.” Maddie’s voice is gentle, that rhythmic melody she uses when she’s calming a fussy baby, and Buck laps it up like a dehydrated dog.
He curls his hands into her jacket. Buck knows it’s probably too tight and he can hear the ugly little voice in his head telling him he’s too much, that he needs to relax, he’s going to hurt her too — but Maddie doesn’t tell him to stop. She doesn’t untangle Buck’s hands or swat him away.
She just lets him do it.
Maddie lets Buck do it because her hands and her arms and her warmth is the only solace Buck knew for the first thirteen years of his life. Now he’s got other sources for comfort, but sometimes he just needs her. Buck just needs his big sister.
“Good job,” Maddie hums, resting her chin atop Buck’s curls as he forces himself to shudder through deep breaths. “You’re doing so good, Buck. That’s it. Just keep breathing for me.”
Coming back down to Earth isn’t easy.
It never has been. Even when Buck was small and he still believed he deserved to be consoled, he never could handle it easily. His brain is just wired wrong somewhere deep inside, and he can’t stop himself from heaving and crying and being generally pathetic.
Pathetic. Jesus, Buckley. Pull yourself together.
Cut it out. Pull yourself together.
Pull yourself together.
I can’t.
It’s loud and it’s messy and it’s embarrassing. Buck Buckley isn’t a public crier. Even though he can burst into tears over anything if he thinks too hard, Buck does that in the privacy and comfort of his own space.
Never in front of Maddie and Bobby and Eddie and Chris, who are all just sitting there.
Nobody’s angry. Nobody’s frustrated. Phillip and Margaret aren’t there to rub Buck’s nose in his mistake like a puppy that isn’t housebroken yet. They just sit there and they watch and they whisper, murmuring a collection of gentle words to draw him out of his spiral.
They’re not angry because they love him.
Maddie, Bobby, Chris, Eddie —
They love him.
And not just a little bit of him, either. If they loved Buck a little bit, they wouldn’t sit by his bedside. They wouldn’t wait for him to wake up. They wouldn’t take their precious time and spend it on him.
They love him.
Buck loves all his friends. Everyone he holds dear is tucked into a little pocket of his heart that overflows every day. Something about those crossed wires in his brain — Buck just has a lot of love to give and a lot of friends to bestow it onto.
He’s always been that way. As a kid, he’d hand out his lunch money to all his friends, even if they used it to get shitty candy bars from the vending machine and Buck went hungry. His heart is too big, too deep, too generous, and he can’t change it.
Someone loving him, though? Just as much as he loves them, if not more?
It’s scary.
Buck doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know how to react to it. Receiving love is never as easy as giving it — Buck shrugs off compliments as easily as a jacket on a warm day. The concept of another human being taking time and affection out of their day to give it to him — it just doesn’t compute.
Maybe it’s because Buck was never loved properly as a child. Maybe it’s because Buck never loved himself enough.
And now it overwhelms him. It crawls from his stomach, winds up his throat, gathers in a knot there as his tears stain fabric and skin alike.
“We’re gonna take you home,” Eddie murmurs, and a big hand rests on the nape of Buck’s neck. It takes Buck a moment to register the contact. It’s definitely not Maddie’s hand, and it’s not Bobby’s. Not Chris’s, either.
By process of elimination —
Eddie.
“You’re gonna come home.” Another big hand brushes Buck’s tears away. It’s tender, almost reverent, and Buck can’t help the way he leans into it. It’s safe, and it feels like home.
It feels like Eddie.
It is Eddie.
“All you have to do is rest,” Eddie continues, brushing a few stray curls off of Buck’s forehead. “And you’ll come home and I’ll take care of you.”