These Clouds Never Cease To Find Me
“Hey,” Eddie breathes. He pulls his hands away and Buck wishes he hadn’t. He meets Eddie’s gaze, and this might be the only thing keeping him from shattering. “Tell me what happened?” And Buck would be sick again if he had anything left to give. “You’ll hate me.” “You know that I won’t,” Eddie says simply as if this is the clearest truth that he has ever spoken. He shifts to sit back against the open door, his feet coming to rest by Buck. “Will you tell me?” ------------ Or Buck calls Tommy and they land in the same place they always do. And Eddie is there to hold Buck together.
Buck paces and paces and paces. He’s sure that his watch has buzzed against his wrist by now, celebrating his victory over his step goal.
He paces and paces and paces. His mind is running everywhere and nowhere, stuck in a loop, stuck in everything and nothing. The blood in his hands runs cold and his fingers are numb; he can’t do anything but hold them close to his body.
Maybe, if no one else sees it, no one else will say it.
So, he paces and paces and paces.
“Buck.” Eddie says his name so softly, nudging him to alert him to the steaming mug he had brought. When Buck makes no effort to take it, Eddie sets it on a nearby table against the wall.
Buck doesn’t look up, can’t look up, won’t look up at anything other than that dark spot on the floor, from—
He paces and paces and—
He runs into a hand, pressed firmly on his shoulder. He’s face to face with Eddie now, who is chasing and fighting to meet his eyes. When he closes his eyes against the fight, refusing to see the broken and accusatory look that he knows he’ll find in Eddie’s eyes, Eddie only sighs. His hand slides down Buck’s arm, wrapping carefully around his wrist as if he’ll crumble into sand if he is held too tightly. Eddie turns his hand skyward and runs a damp cloth over his palm, certainly staining the paper towel a faded red.
They stand like this for several minutes: Buck’s eyes closed tightly against the world and the fluorescents, while Eddie carefully cleans his bloody hands with a gentleness usually reserved for—
“Chris?” His own voice scares him, gravel under boots. He opens his eyes as Eddie’s hand pauses at the crook of his thumb. He sees it more than feels it; his hands are still not quite his own.
“Don’t worry about him,” Eddie assures him, tightening his grip on Buck’s wrist when he tries to pull away at the vague answer and continuing his work. Eddie glances up at him, and, realizing he can finally meet his gaze, looks him full in the face. “He’s okay. I promise. Chris is not the reason we’re here.”
And Buck’s not naïve enough to misunderstand what Eddie is saying. Chris did not land them here. This was, as it usually is, Buck’s fault. Buck’s reckless behavior, overprotective nature, unhealthy attachment styles— whatever Dr. Copeland will want to call it.
This trip is, as so many of their other visits were, his fault.
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