Remember when Picard kept asking Data follow up questions at dinner because he was trying to cock block Lwaxana and when they cut back Data has opened a PowerPoint presentation.
He was truly living the infodump dream in this episode.
the problem is that many people want buddie to be like destiel. it's like. guy who has only ever watched supernatural: wow this is like destiel. Well no. not even a little bit. have you considered branching out and watching more television. and this is where many grave mischaracterisations come from also like every time someone tries to make eddie diaz dean winchester the rest of us should be compensated
Look. i had an idea for this one BUT THEN i thought that it would actually fit for this recovery fic i had started and wanted to write for AGES and then i had 1.4k words and i still did not get to the point of the prompt but I PROMISE IT'S THERE. i am sorry for the wait and for the lack of book reading and the slight angst of this one djksjksa
darling, open your eyes (let me show you the light) | pre-buddie + hurt/comfort, 9x15 recovery fic | 1.8k words | ao3
“Scooch over.”
Buck slightly lowers the blankets pulled up to his ears and blinks his eyes open at Eddie.
“Why?” he croaks.
“Because this chair is less comfortable than it looks,” Eddie says and adds with a chuckle. “And you have a whole-ass queen-size bed to yourself.”
It is mostly dark in the room, the light of the bedside lamp basking Eddie in a soft glow. The door is shut but Buck is sure he would hear the faint sounds of his family buzzing around his house, if it wasn’t for the constant pounding in his head. Eddie holds his gaze, steady and calm, and raises an eyebrow when Buck does not move or speak after a while.
“Eddie, I have sweat through my hoodie and I smell like vomit,” Buck points out weakly.
At that, Eddie gets up from his perch on the chair and walks out of Buck’s line of sight. Buck is too tired to try and check where he’s going. Closing his eyes again, Buck tries to ignore the slight pang of disappointment that tries to take a hold in his heart. He does not deserve any of the kindness he is getting lately, anyway.
“Come on, bud,” Eddie’s voice comes back, this time from the other side of the bed. Buck glances over his shoulder and sees him hold a clean shirt and hoodie in each hand.
For a brief moment he wants to ignore him. Buck’s body is tired and hurting as it is, the last thing he wants right now is to move. But the material of his shirt is drenched and heavy on his body, clinging uncomfortably to his chest and making him shiver even more. Plus he knows that if he doesn't cooperate, Eddie will do it for him.
It takes him an embarrassing amount of effort to pull himself into a sitting position. Buck starts to peel off his clothes, the whole process taking way longer than it should with how hard his hands are shaking. Eddie just waits for him patiently and once the dirty shirt is discarded somewhere next to the bed, he holds out the fresh one and helps Buck to pull on the hoodie.
Once he's changed, Eddie rests his knee on the edge of the mattress, ready to climb up and he looks expectantly at Buck.
“The ‘I smell like vomit’ argument still stands,” Buck points out but he shuffles back, leaving one side of the bed free for Eddie to lay down.
“Do I look like I care, Buckley?” Eddie asks, making himself comfortable. “I've been around you when you're gassy. And I have a kid. I've smelt worse.”
Buck watches as Eddie fluffs up the pillows on his side, straightens the second blanket over Buck that has shifted when he moved and finally settles with a content sigh. Only then, he turns towards Buck, a gentle smile on his face as he opens his arms with a quiet “Come here.”
“Eddie-”
“I told you, I don't care. You're shivering with two blankets and a hoodie. Just come here.”
And Buck does not have the will nor the energy to argue anymore. He lets Eddie's strong arms wrap around his back, pull him in until his head is resting on Eddie's chest. With all the layers he has on him, it should be impossible to even feel the touch, but Eddie squeezes him closer as if he can stop the shivers if he holds Buck tight enough, as if he can physically push the warmth inside Buck's body, right into his bones that feel like they are made of ice. Buck sighs and closes his eyes, trying to keep still but his body has been betraying him lately and it does not seem as if will stop doing that soon. He swallows, trying to push down the disgust he feels for himself.
“I think Maddie and Athena are on dinner duty today,” Eddie says, his voice calm and quiet. “I wanted to help but got chased away from there. And frankly, I think it might be for the best.”
Buck does not answer and he knows Eddie does not really expect him to do so. Instead, Buck focuses on his stuttering breathing, trying to force at least his lungs to work properly. His cheek, resting on Eddie's chest raises and falls rhytmically, in sync with Eddie's overly deep, deliberate breaths. It helps, a bit.
“Chris called,” Eddie continues, his left arm worming under the blankets to rest on Buck's back without the additional layers in between them. “He wanted to come in and lend you his switch - which I think you should be honoured by, he barely lets me touch it. But I told him that you might not be up for it yet and we should wait a day or two more.”
Tensing, Buck feels a new wave of nausea raise in him. It does not seem to have anything to do with withdrawal, though.
Chris has to be kept away from him.
He fucked up so bad and it is best not to drag Christopher into this. To see the state Buck is in now. When he was here earlier, when the team was searching Buck's place, it was still early, the worst of the symptoms came later. Christopher cannot see him like that. Buck has disappointed himself, his friends and family and Christopher, too. But maybe if he does not see the worst parts, maybe then he won't think–
"I'm so sorry,” Buck whispers.
His words are quiet, mumbled right into Eddie's chest and Buck almost thinks – hopes? – that he will not be heard. Panic raises in him, making his body shake even more and he feels as if it's never gonna stop.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Buck,” Eddie says.
Eddie moves, tugging Buck even closer, his arms holding him even tighter. It should be uncomfortable, really. But right now it feels like the press of Eddie's arms around him is the only thing keeping Buck together.
“He must've–,” Buck tries, but the word hate gets stuck in his throat like bile.
“He misses you,” Eddie finishes instead. “He wants to help you.”
Buck shakes his head weakly, as if he wants to argue, wants to say that Eddie is wrong, but he is too tired for that now. Gently, Eddie untangles Buck's fingers from where they are gripping the covers and he squeezes his hand, bringing their clasped hands to his chest, over his heart.
“I told him not to come, not because I don't think he should or because you are something to be ashamed of. I told him to wait, because I knew you wouldn't want him to see you like this. Because you'd be scared that this would make him think less of you. It won't. Not this, not anything. No matter what happens, Christopher loves you. And so do I. And you might not believe us right now, but we will be here to tell you that once you are better. And any other day after that.”
A shuddering breath escapes Buck's lips as he turns his head, forehead pressing into the solid plane of Eddie's chest. Buck wants to crawl inside and wait until the world starts to make sense again. To pull the covers over their heads and wait until he is ready to believe Eddie’s words. He squeezes Eddie’s hand tighter, as if it was an anchor, keeping him whole and in place.
They lay like that, letting the relative quiet wash over them. After a moment Eddie starts to shift from side to side, jostling Buck’s head in the process. With a hint of sadness, Buck thinks that is it. That whatever the moment was, it has passed and now Eddie will move away. That he does not feel comfortable with this, with Buck anymore.
Eddie gently untangles their fingers and gently flattens Back palm on his own chest, covering it with his own hand for a second, “Sorry, I just–”
Instead of moving away, Eddie cradles Buck closer and he rolls them both slightly to the side, reaching with his free hand somewhere under the pillow he was laying on. He gropes blindly for a moment and eventually pulls out a book. With a satisfied groan, he falls back against the pillows.
“This thing has been digging into my back for the past 10 minutes,” Eddie complains. “Was driving me insane.”
“Oh, sorry,” Buck says, glancing at the book in Eddie’s hand. “Was trying to read earlier but it was hard with the whole–,” Buck raises the hand resting on Eddie’s chest, showing the way it shakes. “–and the headache.”
“Well, this is your lucky day then,” Eddie moves, pulling one of his legs up and resting the book against his thigh. “I have a vast experience in bedtime stories. I have it on good authority that I am great at doing the voices.”
“It is a non-fiction about literal mad scientists. Like people who committed literal murder and other crimes in the name of discovery.”
“I do love a challenge,” Eddie says, finding the bookmarked page.
Buck chuckles. It feels like the first time in ages. He closes his eyes again as Eddie starts to read. The low murmur of his voice fills the room and Buck can feel its vibration from where his head is pressed close to Eddie’s chest. He feels Eddie’s chin come to rest on top of his head.
Buck still feels horrible, his muscles are aching and he feels the awful pressure in his head, his heart rate is still too fast but at least, it does not feel like he is dying anymore and the shivers have calmed down and are not so violent anymore.
The darkness is still there – Buck did not expect it to go away so easily. But at least now, with Eddie next to him, reading him a book just because he wants to and the rest of his family bustling around his house, preparing dinner that he probably won’t be able to stomach, he starts to believe that maybe another dawn will come and the sun will seep through the clouds.
Eddie does the silly voices. It seems inappropriate, as he is currently reading about two men who robbed graves and then murdered people to sell the bodies to an anatomist in XIX-century Scotland. When he tries to do a – frankly horrible and probably slightly offensive – Scottish accent, Buck laughs a loud, genuine laugh that strains his aching muscles. But this time, he does not even mind the twinge of pain.
I love star trek because it says that humans are good, but not innocent. Because it frequently acknowledges how much blood we've shed to get to their version of the future. Because it doesn't use that fact against us. If anything, it makes the message more powerful.
Humans have killed and enslaved and colonized each other for centuries—and still we have grown past it.
What we are is not what we will always be. What is happening now is not an indication that their future is unobtainable. It's simply proof that we have more work to do to get there.
That's the hope star trek gives us.
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