Chapter Text
the moment you think you're better, the tide
kisses the shore before returning to the ocean
and then you're drowning on dry land
the wet sand the only proof
that there was ever water there to begin with
Eddie Diaz is many things, but he would never have called himself a victim. The closest he’d ever gotten was being shot in the middle of the street in Los Angeles, but even that had felt cold and indifferent. It didn’t feel like he qualified – victimhood feels personal, impactful, intimate. ‘Patient’ always felt more accurate, and even then he never really referred to himself as one; he merely allowed others to name him as such.
He realizes he is a victim on a Tuesday. Or, that’s the day he’ll look back on as the first day. It’s sunny, and it begins like every other: a kiss to Buck’s lips before entering the station and beginning their shift. Having breakfast with the team, having a few easy calls that are wrapped up nice and quick. It’s three hours after the start of his shift that Eddie’s world is knocked off balance and the bright, sunny sky turns oppressive. The light, once warm and calming, is now too revealing, striking Eddie paralyzed; split open and carved out.
They’re out on a call, wrapping up the scene of a particularly nasty car accident. Everyone survived, thankfully, but one person had been transported to the hospital by Chim and Hen. Eddie and the rest of A shift were left with the engine to clear debris and hose down the street to clear it of gasoline.
They’re nearly done when it happens.
Eddie and Ravi are rolling hoses to store them back in the truck when the new probie, Sloane, trips over god knows what. Eddie doesn’t know, but he sprawls forward, slamming into Eddie’s back and sending them both to the ground. Sloane lands on top of him, and look, Eddie is a strong guy but Sloane has at least four inches and thirty pounds on him. So when he lands, all the breath is knocked out of his lungs. Then, the weight of the man on his back, the acrid smell of gasoline and dust, and the asphalt under his skin combine to shoot Eddie into what he can only assume is a flashback.
A solid weight over his body, harsh whispers in his ear, the smell of the Afghan desert under the backdrop of war.
And pain. A sharp and biting pain that shoots through him and leaves him breathless. The visceral panic is something he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. He’s been scared, terrified even. But this dread leaches into his bones and makes a home in his marrow. Stick him, and he’ll bleed fear.
The next thing he knows, he’s sitting with his back against the engine, his knees drawn to his chest, as he heaves in breaths. He knows he’d been at a scene, but the last few minutes are a complete blur so he’s not entirely sure how he got from point A to point B.
“Eddie?” Hands reach out and touch his knees and he recoils, fear and nausea rolling through him as he mumbles some sort of refusal. He shakes his head and finds he can’t really stop, a string of “no, no, no” leaving his mouth as he scoots away from whatever figure it is leaning over him. He lowers his head down to rest between his knees, clamping his eyes shut and relishing the darkness for a moment while he regains his composure. As the minutes go on, things slowly start coming back to him. The feeling of the street beneath him, the sounds of traffic in the near distance, Buck’s gentle reassurances next to him.
He raises his head, finally meeting his partner’s gaze. He finds his eyes shining, worry etched into every tiny wrinkle in his forehead. His hands are held in front of him, like he’s yearning to touch Eddie but he’s stopped just short.
“Hey,” his voice is hoarse, “Eddie, what… What’s wrong?”
“I don’t-” He shakes his head, his words getting cut off by a hitch in his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Buck.”
The desperation must be clear in his tone, because Buck, after asking silent permission, wraps his arms around Eddie and pulls him into a crushing hug. This pressure is so different than the one from before. This one is safe and secure, and it puts him back together instead of ripping him apart. Before Eddie knows it, he’s crying and then the tears don’t stop. They roll steadily down his cheeks, wetting the front of Buck’s uniform shirt. Meanwhile, Buck just grips Eddie’s back with one hand while the other is running gentle fingers through his hair.
“I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Eddie knows he does, so he slowly starts to relax in Buck’s arms as the tears peter out to an occasional sniffle.
“Think you can get in the truck?” Buck whispers, leaning his head back to peek at Eddie’s face. “It’s gonna be way more comfortable than the ground, I think we’re a little too old for this.”
Eddie attempts a grin, but he has a feeling it comes out as more of a grimace, but he nods either way. He allows Buck to help him to his feet, and for the first time he takes in his surroundings. The wreck had been totally cleared by now, and somehow his team had made sure there was no one standing there gawking at him. The only person he can see in their immediate vicinity is Bobby, who is standing about 20 feet away with his back to them as if he’s standing guard.
“Where’d everyone go?” Eddie forces the words out past the scratchiness in his throat as he leans into Buck’s side. They’re heading toward the battalion truck, which Eddie realizes is the only vehicle left parked at the curb.
“Hen made it back here, she’s in the truck, in case you needed her,” Buck tells him, almost hesitantly, “everyone else went back to the station in the ambo or the engine.”
Eddie can only nod. His mind is beginning to feel sluggish and if he didn’t have Buck propping him up, he’s pretty sure he’d fall over.
He is eternally grateful for his family and their quiet understanding and compassion. He’s fairly certain if he’d still been in the academy, or if he was at the garage he worked at in El Paso, or even at home with his dad, everyone would have barked at him to suck it up and get over it. He would not have received the love and care he’s received today, he’s sure of that.
“Hey, Eddie.” Hen’s soft voice greets him when Buck opens the door to the backseat. She’s twisted around in the passenger’s seat, watching them with concern swimming in her eyes. She doesn’t ask anything of him or offer any sort of platitude. She just waits for him to get seated, gives him a smile and a nod, and turns back to face forward.
He loves his family so much.
It’s later, when he’s being laid down into one of the bunks by Buck, that some of the memories and feelings from the flashback start coming back to him. The pain, the heavy weight on top of him. He’s not sure what they mean; what they add up to. It’s like the memories are floating somewhere in his mind, nebulous and untethered. They’re there, he can see them, but he can’t reach them.
“You with me, Babe?” Eddie blinks, his eyes focusing on the face in front of him. He’s lying on his side, head pillowed on his own arm. Buck is sitting on the floor beside the bed, one hand clutching Eddie’s and the other running gentle grazes down his cheek. They’re face-to-face like this, Buck resting his chin on the side of the bed and tilting just slightly to the side. The lights in the bunk room are off, but the door is cracked, letting a sliver of light into the space. The yellow glow illuminates Buck’s face enough for Eddie to see the distress carved into his features.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He unfolds his arm from under his head and reaches a weak, shaking hand to Buck’s face. He smooths his palm down his cheek and leaves it there, cupping the slope of his jaw. Buck leans into it, his eyes closing briefly as he soaks in the moment.
“Not your fault,” he says, a wry smile spreading across his face. “I just wish we knew what caused it.”
Eddie hums noncommittally, his battle with consciousness getting tougher and tougher.
“Get some sleep,” Buck whispers, turning his head to kiss into Eddie’s palm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
So he sleeps.
And while he sleeps, he dreams.
At first it’s vague. Flashes of light, a dark figure looming over him, an unfamiliar scent enveloping him. Things begin to clear up, and the image changes. He’s outside his barrack in Afghanistan, the last one he’d be in before being injured and getting shipped home. He’s laughing with a couple of his friends while they get ready to head to bed. And then just as quickly as he realizes where he is, he’s at the scene of the car accident with Sloane on his back and the familiar feeling of panic swelling in his chest. How did he get here?
“Help me.” The words are forced out of his chest with a grunt, barely audible over the sound of the traffic. The honking horns muddle together and become distant to Eddie’s ears and after a moment, they’re gone; replaced by far-off gunfire and the sound of the rattling air conditioning unit above the b-hut door.
“No one can help you, Diaz,” a voice hisses in his ear, familiar and foreign all at once, and his blood turns to ice in his veins. His heart pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know why, but he’s overtaken by sheer terror.
He awakes with a start, an attempt at a scream falling past his lips comes out sounding more like a choked off moan. The covers fly around him as they tangle in his flailing limbs, and he finds himself pressed against the wall with his legs curled under him. It feels like he’s falling apart. His whole body is shaking with tremors strong enough to rattle his teeth, and despite the sheen of sweat he can feel on his forehead, there’s a chill down to his bones.
“Eddie.” He’s more aware than he was earlier. That’s Buck, he knows that’s Buck. “Eddie, I’m here. You’re in the bunkroom at the station, you’re safe. I’m right here with you.”
“I know,” Eddie gasps out, putting the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing hard until he sees swirls of light dancing on his eyelids. “I know, I just-”
He cuts himself off, reaching a hand out blindly for Buck, who immediately grasps it and holds on tight. It’s a tether to reality, to the safety he feels in Buck’s presence. His mind is still dancing with incomplete images and sounds that are just distant enough that he can’t make them out, but Buck’s holding his hand, so he knows that he’s okay.
—
It’s later, when they’re at home, with Christopher herded off to school, that Buck brings it up. Eddie was waiting for it, of course. He knew he wouldn’t escape having to talk about what happened, what he’d dreamed. So, when Buck sits next to him on the couch, handing him a cup of tea, Eddie turns to meet his expectant gaze.
“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his hands around the mug. The chill that had worked its way under his skin earlier is still there and the tea and Buck presence both sent a feeling of warmth down to his core. “You want me to talk about it.”
“I’m not going to make you,” Buck assures him. He props his elbow on the back of the couch and threads his fingers through Eddie’s hair, still damp from his shower. He scratches his fingertips softly across his scalp and Eddie hums, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. “But I’m here if you do want to talk about it, you know.”
“I know.” Eddie inhales slowly before bringing the mug up to his mouth to take a sip. Tendrils of steam float in front of him and the liquid scalds his lips but he just hums and takes a sip anyway. The burn down his throat feels nice, the mint and honey – just the way he likes it – lingering on his tongue. “I just don’t know what to say, to be honest. I kept flashing back to Afghanistan, but it was choppy, and there was this weight on my back and this… This pain.”
His voice cuts off, his throat constricting at the memory while his fingers grip the mug tight enough to turn his fingertips white.
“Whatever it was, it felt real,” he chokes out, inhaling sharply before stuttering out a long breath. Buck’s hand has wrapped around the side of his neck, a heavy, grounding reminder of where he is. His thumb is absently rubbing at the space behind his ear and Eddie tries to focus on the gentle movement as he regains his composure.
“It felt real,” he repeats, “the fear. I was so afraid , Buck.”
Buck takes the mug from Eddie’s hands and places it on the coffee table softly – every movement is gentle, careful, soft– before turning back to him. He takes his hands and pulls him into his chest, and Eddie instinctively goes. His face lands in the crook of Buck’s neck while his legs curl between them, and Buck holds him tightly. He holds him with a surety that Eddie has only ever felt with him. Like in his arms is the only truly safe place he’s ever been.
“I think it would be a good idea to call Frank,” Buck mutters into Eddie’s hair before pressing a kiss to his head and letting his lips linger there. “What do you think?”
“Yeah,” Eddie relents, his voice muffled against Buck’s neck, “you’re probably right.”
Afghanistan 2015
Sergeant First Class Harrison Reilly knows a thing or two about making it in the Army. He knows that you have to be tough with a strong constitution, and you need to know when to shut up and take whatever your superior officer deals out. Sometimes it’s not fair; sometimes when you’re a Private in basic, you do the 100 push-ups (even though you usually can’t make it past 50) or you clean the head with a toothbrush until your drill instructor says it’s good enough. Regardless of what you did or did not do to deserve it.
It’s just the way things go.
So when Staff Sergeant Diaz decides to mouth off during a medical recert training, Reilly knows he has to do something about it.
It’s a late August morning when a platoon of about 30 soldiers are gathered in the med tent for the tactical combat casualty care recertification. Reilly, certified as an EMT and in TCCC, is leading the course with Diaz. They’ve never necessarily had any issues before, but it’s not like they were best friends either. The occasional morning greeting if they happened to pass each other in the mess hall was pretty much the extent of their interaction. But with Reilly being their highest ranking medical professional besides their doctors, and Diaz being the most experienced, they were paired together to lead the course.
“Diaz will demonstrate the next technique and I expect each of you to know how to do it by the time he’s finished.” Reilly’s voice is booming, authoritative, and leaves no room for questioning. The two of them are standing at the front of the room in front of a steel table, a training dummy on its surface. They’ve covered assessments and hemorrhaging and are moving on to airway control. Diaz is holding a nasopharyngeal airway tube, raising it up for everyone to see.
“The tube has a flange on one end, and a bevel on the other,” he says, indicating each end as he speaks, “before insertion, you will lubricate the tube with the lube provided. If there’s none available, you can use the casualty’s saliva or blood.”
Diaz takes out the small packet of lube, spreading the viscous liquid across the plastic before continuing.
“You insert the bevel end into the nostril oriented toward the septum,” he demonstrates, inserting the tube into the dummy’s nose.
“Which nostril?” A question comes from a Private near the front of the group, his head tilted as he watches Diaz insert the airway. “You’re supposed to use a specific one, right?”
“You typically want to use the left nostril,” Reilly answers him, his arms crossed as Diaz continues with the demonstration. “But you can use the right if circumstances require it.”
“Actually,” Diaz has finished inserting the airway to the flange and is putting together an ambu bag when he glances over at Reilly, “the bevel is usually oriented to the right, you want to use the right nostril.”
Reilly’s jaw stiffens, a wave of anger passing through him at Diaz’s correction. How dare he, his inferior, mouth off to him in front of all these people?
“Yes.” His voice is low, clipped, “thank you, Staff Sergeant Diaz.”
The rest of the training goes relatively quickly. They finish airway maintenance and respiration before calling it a day. They’re scheduled to finish the rest of the training checklist tomorrow, but Reilly has barely paid attention to what they’ve done. All he can focus on is the growing rage at Diaz and his audacity to correct him.
He never had a problem with him before, but he definitely does now.
Present Day
“That sounds very frightening.” Frank’s level voice is pretty much the only thing keeping Eddie from fully spiraling. “You can’t remember anything else from it, just those vague sounds and images?”
“Yeah,” Eddie nods, rubbing his sweaty palms down the front of his jeans. “It feels like… Those nightmares I used to get about the shooting. The ones that were basically just flashbacks?”
“So it felt real?”
“Yeah. Like whatever it was had actually happened.”
Frank hums, nodding his head like he’s thinking something over. Eddie can only sigh, his breath coming out shaky. The silence feels long. Eddie’s already keyed up, and the quiet of Frank’s office, interrupted only by the muffled sounds outside the door, does nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. He tries to focus on the staticky sound of the white noise machine in the hallway and the steady in-and-out of his own breaths
“What emotions are coming up in you right now?”
Eddie stares at him, eyes wide and mouth ajar. What emotions are coming up? How can he even begin to qualify what emotions he’s feeling? He feels anxiety at how severe things got so quickly. He feels terrified that he’s been thrust right back into the panic that he lived in for a year and barely clawed his way out of. He feels dread, for some reason that’s niggling away at the back of his mind that he can’t quite name.
“That’s a tough one, Frank,” Eddie swallows hard, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning on his knees, “I’m feeling a lot of things. Afraid, anxious, confused.”
“Why are you confused?”
“Because it feels real,” Eddie replies, throwing his arms out in front of him before interlocking his fingers again. “Because it feels real but I don’t know what’s happening in it.”
“Is it possible,” Frank begins, his words measured, like he’s thinking very hard on what he’s saying, “that there was something that happened while in Afghanistan that you have forgotten about?”
Eddie snorts, shaking his head. Of course something didn’t happen. Eddie doesn’t forget his traumas, he remembers them crystal fucking clear.
“I think I’d remember if something happened,” he snides, not quite able to mask his frustration. “Look, Frank, I would remember if it did. I just need you to figure out why this is happening to me now.”
Frank audibly exhales, a small smile gracing his face. He places his pen into his notebook, closing the pad and dropping it onto the desktop beside him before turning back to Eddie.
“You know that’s not what I do,” he tells him, “my job isn’t telling you what’s wrong and giving you a magic pill to fix it. It’s my job to-”
“I know, it’s your job to give me the tools I need to figure it out myself,” Eddie interrupts, falling against the couch and letting his head fall back into the cushion. “I’m getting real sick of having to figure things out.”
He pauses, his eyes sliding shut and an exhale slipping past his lips. As the breath leaves him he allows his body to relax into the couch and for a blissful moment it’s like he can forget for a second where he is and why he’s there. Like the events of the last few days didn’t happen and maybe he’s just napping on the couch at home.
But that’s interrupted as quickly as it started, because Frank is speaking and Eddie has to pay attention again and really? He just really wants to sleep and not see a single thing behind his eyelids.
—
There’s a hand over his mouth. That’s the first thing he’s aware of. It’s big, nearly covering his nose, and it’s hard to breathe. Eddie is lying on his stomach, one knee hitched up and a pillow tucked under his head and torso, when a firm weight blankets over his back. The hand over his mouth pulls his head back and suddenly there are lips against his ears.
“This will teach you to fucking disrespect me, Diaz.” Eddie knows the voice, but his sleep-addled, panicked brain can’t pinpoint why, all he can focus on is the way a hand is working its way down his body. Eddie is totally pinned, the weight of the other person bearing down on him like a vice. His right arm, which had been under his head, is now trapped beneath his chest while his left arm is planted on the surface of the threadbare mattress. He tries to reach back and push the person off of him, but the angle of their body on top of his makes it nearly impossible for him to get any leverage.
In other words, he’s completely stuck beneath this person who is now rutting against his ass and oh-
No, this can’t be happening.
He’d seen so many PSAs, heard so many talks, read so many briefs - he’s a man he shouldn’t have to worry about this. Except his once strong-held conviction that he would be able to stop something like that before it happened vanishes when the mystery person reaches a hand down the back of his pants. The struggling he’d been doing comes to a halt, his limbs freezing and eyes clamping shut.
“Please. Help me.” Eddie tries to speak from behind their hand, but it comes out soft and muffled. They laugh from above him, their chuckle reverberating through Eddie’s skin and tingling up his spine in a shivering crawl.
“No one can help you, Diaz.”