Chapter 1
His lungs burn and his back sweat is compounding the panic that has him launching upright. He presses the heels of his hands into his cheeks, his eyes, hard, harder. His chest feels like its ripping open. His limbs don’t feel like they belong to him at all. His hands are pressing but his arms feel detached from his body.
“You’re at home. You’re safe. I’m here. Eddie’s safe. Christopher’s safe. Maddie’s safe, and gonna be okay,” Taylor’s listing before she’s halfway vertical. “Just focus on breathing. I know it’s hard.”
She’s leaning against her own knees, giving him space to breathe but keeping a steady hard rubbing big circles on his back. She’s too tired to keep her eyes open. A bank robbery uptown had kept her on her feet and in the field for 14 hours. She was used to long days, but usually, at least some of it was in the studio researching. This is the third night this week they haven’t slept through the night.
Beside her, he’s trying to breathe, he really is. He can’t, though. Not when no amount of pressing is taking away the feeling of Eddie’s blood on his face. Not when the blood rushing in his head sounds like the water that day. Not when his brain is screaming over her that she doesn’t know for sure! Terrible things happen to the people he loves doesn’t she know that? Why doesn’t she know that? Why doesn’t she understand?
His breath is coming out in panting heaves, catching on the inhale and exhale. There’s about a fifty percent chance he’ll make himself vomit when his breathing gets this bad. Vomiting means the entire night is fucked. Between choking on it as it comes up, remembering how to breathe with wet heat settling on him, cleaning his body and bed, and settling back in they lose hours.
There are tears and snot pouring down his face. He’s wiping at them furiously, leaving red scratches where he’s too worked up to notice his nails. His hands are wet an slippery. He’s shaking, tipping over as he tries to stay upright on the bed. He’s pulling at his hair. Again.
“Okay, okay, babe, c’mon,” She’s moving as she talks. Holding onto his shoulder as she pulls on a pair of his dirty sweatpants off the floor. “Buck, c’mon.” She’s taking his hand and a clear thought makes it through- it's so small. Her fingers are short and narrow but she’s pulling him towards the stairs and he can’t breathe so there’s not enough oxygen in his brain to wonder where they’re going.
She loves his tall windows but curses his stairs out loud as she tries to guide him down without killing them both. She’s not a woman of prayer but she begs the universe to let him down safely. Her heart thuds in her chest when he stumbles halfway.
He squeezes her hand and she squeezes back, tugging him along. They’re in the elevator and she’s pushing the button. The lights are too bright. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. The skin of his face hurts. He pulls his hand back so he can rub at his cheeks. He needs to. Eddie’s blood got cold fast and the tears are hot but his brain won’t tell him the difference.
Her arms wrap around his waist. She’s pressing up against his back. It’s good. It’s pressure. It’s real. Even if her body’s not big enough to wrap around him. She’s strong.
She’s pushing him forward. He’s stumbling along as she guides him awkwardly from behind. Thank god she’s familiar with the parking garage or they’d have three skinned knees and a broken wrist by now.
Buck’s still not functioning, still not with her, with himself as they stumble their way. She hadn’t been positive when she’d hauled him out of bed, sometimes a minute or a cuddle or a shower or some night air was enough to bring him back. Not tonight. It was cold, LA cold, even in the windless garage.
His body’s still heaving with his tears as they make their way to his Jeep, careful with his bare feet.
Of course that bitch from the apartment above them is just getting home. Taylor stares her down from her place behind her man. They’re a sight to behold, bed-rumpled, half dressed, stricken with anguish. The brunette looks away quickly when they lock eyes.
She may be dead tired, braless in Buck’s sweatpants and Ugg slippers, but she was still Taylor-Fucking-Kelly channel 8 or not and if there’s one thing she’s perfected in life it her her daggered glare.
Buck lets himself be manhandled into the passenger seat of his Jeep. A red flag. He’s full on weeping again when she climbs in the driver's seat, body curled as tightly as it can get. She speaks softly, reminds him its just her as she climbs in and adjusts the seat. One of his hands reaches for her, squeezing just to know she's real.
She knows the way to Eddie’s. She’s not there a lot, but enough. She gets the key in the front door because Buck’s hands are still shaking, wet face pressed into the side of her head as she opens the door. He squeezes her hand tight before he moves down the hall like he’s possessed. She knows it means he loves her. She knows it means he loves him too.
The noise outside his room rouses Eddie. He’s never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a teenager. Morning upon morning he’d woken much earlier than necessary for school to the sound of Sophia and Adrianna fighting over the bathroom down the hall.
“Christopher?” He’s tangled in the sheets, trying to get out and turn on the light all at once. “Christo-” Except no, no. Those are footsteps. Irregular, but heavy footsteps. And the gasping sound- he clicks his phone instead. 2:27, Missed call from Buck- 2:13 am. Missed call from Buck- 2:18 am. He lets out a breath. “In here, Buck!” He calls out instead.
His bedroom door creaks when it opens. He likes it that way, like’s never being surprised. Carla thinks it’s creepy.
Buck looks wrecked as he stumbles through the door.
His whole face ruddies to match his mark when he cries. His right cheek is splotchy dark with broken capillaries. He’s been rubbing too hard. His shirt is sweat stuck to his chest.
“I gotcha,” Eddie aims for soft, but firm as he opens his arms and sets his feet on the floor. Buck pitches into them easily, wrapping his arms under Eddie’s and landing hard on his knees next to the bed. The bed shakes with the force of Buck’s arrival. His knees will be bruised tomorrow.
“Careful, mi amor, Dios,” He whispers into Buck’s curls. Buck push is pushing his head into his armpit. Eddie kind of hates that he knows exactly where his wound is, was, whatever. He’s so careful not to press into, even now. Eddie squeezes tighter. He scrubs his fingers into the base of Buck’s scull.
Relief and fear always mixed and bubbled in Buck when he finally got Eddie in his arms after a nightmare. Once the terror starts spinning thoughts, he can’t stop them. The lack of control scares him in itself.
The sharp pain of impending doom eases with the intrusive knowledge that their safety isn’t going to last. Eddie’s going to hold him now, but tomorrow, next Wednesday, he's going to die. Or leave.
Every. Single. Time. His brain lies and tells him that everything else has been a lie, that he’s delusional, in a dream. Eddie’s dead. Drowned underground. Died in the street. Supplies him with images of Eddies face on his lap in the ambulance staring at him with dead eyes. Sometimes it's gruesome, his body rotting, staring at him with glazed eyes. Sometimes it's outlandish. The Diaz house on fire. Sometimes it's Eddie, sometimes it's Christopher, fuck, it's still Maddie sometimes. The options just keep appearing.
Dr. Copeland told him once that trauma stirs up trauma. His brain hurt. He’d like to take it out of his skull. Just for a little while. Please.
Eddie squeezes him again, rocks a little, tries to remind Buck he’s still here. The hug earns Eddie another sob. All he can do is dig his fingers into Buck’s back and hold him.
“I gotcha, it’ll be okay, I gotcha,” He repeats like a prayer. Buck’s shirt is sweat soaked, clinging to his back. Drunkenly, vulnerable one night, Buck had told him that waking up damp sucks extra since the tsunami, that he’d felt damp for days after the water had receded. Trauma piles on trauma.
Eddie’ll strip him out of it when Buck’s breathing reaches an acceptable pace. He can’t bear the noise he knows Buck’ll make if he tries to pull him off now. Disentangling is too painful at this stage.
It must have been bad tonight. Buck hasn’t been this inconsolable in weeks. Demo on the building starts tomorrow. That can’t- no. Eddie can’t go there. Can’t go there and be here the way he needs to be here.
Buck’s chest heaves against Eddie. Eddie kisses his hair again, wraps an arm around his head and pulls him closer. Buck’s fingers are digging into his back. It's going to scratch, bruise. Eddie wishes that pain inflicted on himself would relieve some of Bucks.
All he can do is hold him and keep his own breathing as steady as possible, Buck will try to match him eventually.
It takes a long time for Buck’s body to go limp against him. His breathing still stutters, and he whimpers when Eddie’s grip gets too loose, but he seems to have cried himself to sleep again. His body is going to ache something awful in the morning from holding this position, but Eddie wants him to sleep for a few minutes before trying to move him. He can’t hoist him from this position without waking him, best let him be drowsy and pliable when he tries.
The door creaks again. It wouldn’t be the first time someone else’s nightmare has woken Christopher, but once again it’s the wrong footfalls that has Eddie’s head jerking up.
“Taylor?” He questions. Taylor Kelly is in his house. In his room. Wrapped in his Abuela's afghan.
“Hey, Eds,” She mumbles. She’s never called him that before. Not to his face. He’s never heard her sound like this either.
“What are you doing?” It’s not as if Taylor’s never been here. During that first chunk of recovery, when Buck was at work or here, she’d been around. His welcome home party, a handful of coffee drop-offs, dinner deliveries. She’s been here.
But now she’s padding across Eddie’s bedroom floor in bare feet like she belongs and Eddie sort of feels like he’s having one of those crazy med dreams.
“Got cold, too used to Buck,” She mutters as she rounds the bed. She’s lifting the duvet and crawling in the other side as Eddie is twisting as far as Buck’s grip allows to watch her.
“W-What is happening?” Is all he can manage to get out. He can feel her settling into the bed behind him. His bed. Buck’s dead weight dozing between his legs.
“He wasn’t gonna go back to sleep. I thought he was gonna throw up or hurt himself trying to pull it together so I brought him here.” She’s rolling over to face him. He’s managed to get one knee up on the bed, shifted his hips enough he can see her face when he turns. “I wasn’t gonna be able to help tonight. He was too wound and I’m too tired. He needed you so I brought ‘im here. Was gonna sleep on your couch but I’m so cold.”
“So you just,” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know,” he tries again. His brain won’t reconcile the image before him. Not with the Taylor he knows. Not with the relationship they have.
“Buck’s a weighted blanket and a heating pad. Sleep better with him. He’s not gonna sleep without you, room if we squish.” She explains nonsensically through a yawn. She’s tucked herself into the edge of the bed, duvet up to her chin.
“I-I,” He tries again, “What the fuck.” He settles with. Its mumbled more to himself than to her. She cracks her eyes open anyway.
“You were gonna tell him to stay in your bed.” She’s not asking. She has a certain lit to her voice when she asks questions she knows the answer to. This is a statement, they both know it's true.
“I-,” He starts, “If he has another nightmare.” He explains anyway. She’s looking at him too closely. Her gaze is always too scrutinizing for him. It doesn’t last long before a yawn overtakes her.
“He probably will. This way he couldn’t possibly be safer.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I guess if Bobby and Maddie and Athena were in the bed next to us. Christophers right down the hall. Pros, cons. We’ll slumber party later.” She mumbles into the blankets. Eddie tries to sort through her words and the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. His heart is beating too fast.
“Those aren’t sentences.” He counters.
“Tired, Eddie. Tuck him in. Safe in the middle.” She whispers back, body already settled and still, halfway to sleep again.
It only takes another two minutes before her breathing evens out. Cuddled small and quiet on the far side of the bed, Taylor Kelly is dead to the world. Eddie gives himself a minute to let his heart rate settle as he firmly does not think about any of the dynamics at play here.
“Buck,” Eddies says softly. The hand that he’s been rubbing through Buck’s hair begins to scratch at his scalp. “Buck buddy lets get you up so you can come to bed.” Buck whimpers against him as he loosens his grip.
Buck’s fingers grip the back of Eddie’s t-shirt as Eddie’s arms slide from around him.
“‘M not goin’ anywhere. Just want you off the floor. Gonna get you up so you can come to bed.” Eddie explains as he stands. Bucks fingers hold strong in his shirt, pulling it down.
“Come on up with me buddy.” Eddie’s voice is soft and encouraging as he slips his hands under Buck’s armpits. Buck’s head is pressed into his stomach, and he whimpers again at Eddie’s insistent hands. Buck’s ankle pops when weight is put on it. Eddie’s shoulder flares with pain. He holds in the wince. Its fine. It's getting better. This is just farther in PT than he is, an awkward angle.
He pulls Buck in for a hug when they're both standing. Three deep breaths and then Eddie’s turning them, depositing Buck on the bed with a bounce and a whine. He has every intention of retrieving Buck a clean shirt, maybe clean sweats. The hand thats come up like a magnet and gripped the fabric at his thigh stops him. Buck’s shirt is gross but his own is fine enough.
“Shh-shh its okay,” He soothes as he tugs Buck’s shirt up and off. His body gives a violent shake when its exposed to the air. His whole chest is red from crying, tacky with dried sweat.
His own shirt comes off easier. Buck’s eyes are closed when he pulls the skin warm fabric over his friends head. Buck breaths in as deep as he can before it stutters. He needs less coaxing to put his arms in.
Eddie tips him over with little effort. His body is exhausted. He lifts Buck’s long legs onto the bed and tucks them under the duvet. Taylor stirs with the cold air and jostling, hand reaching out for Buck’s. He holds her’s tight.
Eddie tries not to think too hard, or at all, as he turns off the light and slides back into his bed. Buck curls into his side, impossibly small and tucked. His fingers remain intertwined with Taylor’s, settling both hands on Eddie’s bare belly. His abs tighten below them. Buck lets out another stuttery sound that sounds more content than anything he’s gotten out of the taller man tonight.
Buck’s right hand finds his own, gripping against his hip. His own left arm tucks around Buck and narrowly avoids whacking Taylor. She sighs into his wrist. Buck’s face finds it’s place under Eddie’s arm again. It should’t feel so right to have him tucked up as it does.