Chapter Text
It wasn’t a slow realization, Buck thinks. It came full force, before he even fully understood what was going on and who he is now.
It hit him then, staring at his lifeless body in a hospital bed, hearing a blaring alarm and listening to it flatline. Watching his family realize he isn’t coming back.
At one point, he realized he couldn’t cry. His eyes burn, but no tears can fall.
It hit him full force then, and it hasn’t stopped since.
The thing is, he knows about grief. He understands it, has seen it, lived it. But never like this.
His eyes burn now, the sting grounding in an absurd way that makes him laugh. Floating above the bar stool looking into Bobby and Athena’s kitchen, he can almost feel the seat beneath him. The funeral plans are laid out on the counter, his family crowded around it. They haven’t made much progress.
There are moments where he thinks he can feel heat. Perhaps it’s being able to smell a fresh pot of coffee and intuitively associating it with warmth against cold hands. He imagines it would wash away the taste of death in his mouth, stale and dehydrated.
The coffee maker whirs off to the side, jarring in the mournful atmosphere. It doesn’t mask the sounds of Maddie sniffling into Chimney’s shoulder, or detract from the bags under Bobby and Athena’s eyes. It can’t hide how Hen and Karen have their hands clasped together, knuckles white, noses red, eyes puffy. It doesn’t unhunch Eddie’s shoulders or pull him out of his shell or erase the look on his face.
He can’t feel warmth.
His father in all but fucking blood refills the mugs that sit half empty by the papers. Buck has never seen the man’s hands so dry, and he can picture it so clearly: a week and a half of cooking anything and everything he could, tubs of food there isn’t space for. A harsh clack of the knife against a cutting board. Boiling water and sizzling from the stove. Anything to keep his hands busy. There’s a band-aid on one of his fingers and Buck can imagine red on the knife.
They sip at it between sniffles and hushed words.
Buck watches his best friend. He’s standing against the walls, arms crossed, mug ignored. It’s then he realizes Eddie hasn’t said a word the entire time he’s been there. He’s always been a quiet man, but not like this.
Eddie pushes off the wall, and Buck hovers at his side, watches as he rubs his arms. Buck can see as goosebumps start to erupt over his tan skin.
“I can’t do this.” Eddie doesn’t wait for anyone’s response, already grabbing his keys.
A voice calls out for him.
The front door clicks shut.
For the the smallest moment, Buck feels like he’s being pulled in every different direction.
He follows Eddie. Watches as the man shuts the door with great care, buckles his seat belt and drives the speed limit, knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. They go inside the house together, Buck on Eddie’s heels in the same way he has done hundreds of times before.
Eddie drops his keys on the counter, body already in motion and heading towards his bedroom.
Buck hesitates.
The door slams. The force jars him, pain licking up his bad leg as if it was being crushed all over again. And isn’t that ironic? Being a ghost of yourself and still being reminded of every single time your body was torn apart.
He slips into the room and watches as another part of his worlds fall apart. Books thud to the floor, glass shatters. The curtain rod clatters against the floor and fists break drywall. Then there’s a bat, and more plaster settles on the ground.
Eddie ends up on the ground, back against his bed. He flings the bat away, hands instead pulling at his hair. Sobs fall from his throat. His knuckles are ripped and bloody, and Bucks fingers twitch towards them, wanting and needing to heal the cracks.
“I can’t,” Eddie says again. “I’m so mad at you. I can’t do this without you.”
Buck wants to say I know. Instead, he sits next to Eddie, close enough that, in another world, their shoulders would be flush. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. He wants to toss his arm over Eddie’s shoulder, rest the sides of their heads together.
What Buck would do to feel warm again.
“I remember once, after a bad call, you said that you would die for us. That you would die for me.” Eddie brushes the back of his hand against his face, a rough brush against wet skin. “I’m so mad. I wish you would have lived for us, Buck.”
Oh, Buck thinks. It was then and there, sitting in rubble, the remnants of heartbreak and agony scattered around him. He realized it was sudden, thrown onto the weight of your shoulders.
He realized that it lags too; it builds and builds like a fucking pressure cooker until the dam finally just breaks.
He was there to watch his family learn he was never coming back, firmly planted in stage one of five.
Now he’s there to watch as they shatter, piece by piece. It was then he realized that nothing would ever be the same again.
And he’s never been so cold.