Cutie In A Suit[ie]

edit of all time

been reading world's finest comics and fell in love with superbat co-parenting robin dynamic. that's litcherally their son

10 years ago today, [June 29, 2014] HBO aired TRUE BLOOD episode 7.02 ‘I Found You’ which was the first episode of the season with Eric Northman (Alexander Skarsgård) in it. This is my tribute to my favorite TV show of all time, True Blood and it’s final season with clips, audio and some of the blu-ray extras of (or about) my favorite character ever, Eric Northman.

Nightwing by Nick Robles

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 3

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,323 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty, Canon blood and gore Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him.

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A week later, she gets her first call from Fangtasia—but it’s Eric's colleague Pam, not Eric, who makes the call. She says it’s urgent, but that she can’t give any details, so Cam throws on a pair of jeans and boots, a black high-neck tank, and drives to the bar. When she gets out of her car, Eric is standing there, waiting in the parking lot. 

“Camila. Come with me,” he murmurs, taking her arm; instead of guiding her toward the front door, his long legs head for the sidewalk, and he walks her down the block—away from the bar and, she guesses, prying vampire ears.

“What’s going on?” she whispers, curious, and he moves his hand to her back casually, like he’s hoping they’ll look more like any couple walking down the street and less like he’s abducted her or something. He leans in so she can hear him better.

“There is a group of nomads visiting from Florida, and they passed through another area on the way here. The sheriff of that area has reason to believe they’re holding a human against his will.”

Cam nods. Kidnapping a human is not a mortal offense in most areas, but it is frowned upon by those who wish to assimilate, live semi-normal lives. It’s certainly punishable here, if they can prove it.

“And if they are—what will you do?” Her eyes flick up to his face, and he appears bored by her question, maybe even a little irritated.

“We will glamour the human and send him home, then arrange for the sheriff to come and collect his prisoners. You can drive the human personally, if that would make you feel better,” he says, looking down at her; his tone borders on condescending, and she rolls her eyes.

“I just wanted to make sure justice will be served for the crime. You’ll have to get used to my inquisitive nature, if you plan to utilize my gift,” she reminds him, and he exhales slowly. He turns them around and they head down the street, back toward the bar. 

“In time, you’ll find I’m a very effective sheriff. You don’t have to be worried about whether or not I punish those who deserve it.”

Despite her previous question, she has no doubts about that—but she remembers from experience that vampires tend to leave humans in the dark by default, and she needs to know what she’s getting into if she’s going to be such a powerful sheriff’s pawn.

“Who will I be listening to?” she asks, because he already knows vampires are pretty much a no-go, but he clearly thinks she’s going to be up to this challenge.

“There is an entourage made up of vampires and human companions alike. I’m hoping the humans will give it away.”

“And how will I let you know if I discover something? We haven’t discussed that part, and I like to be prepared,” she tells him, trying to keep up with his steps. It feels like they’re on The West Wing, or something dramatic like that. “Code word? Text message?”

“Let’s say text message, for now,” he decides. She can see the neon lights of the club as they approach the parking lot, and Eric removes his hand from her back and looks down at her. “I’m going to be walking around, so if you sense danger…” 

“I’ll let you know. Telepath’s honor,” she says with a satirical tip of her head, and he opens the door, his expression unchanging. She walks a few feet inside the club, past bouncers who already know her as some kind of employee, and when she turns back to thank him for the briefing, Eric is gone.

Unconcerned by his swift and mysterious disappearance, she makes her way to the bar and orders a drink, perching on a stool as she waits for it. After the bartender slides it toward her, she makes a show of sipping it, tipping her head back so her throat is exposed, and a vampire beside her growls low. He’s got a shaved head and soft, pillowy lips, and if she were here for pleasure, she’d seriously consider it.  

Since she’s not, she stands and heads toward the back of the bar, where Pam is playing hostess to the group of nomads. She takes stock of them—three men, two women, all supernaturally gorgeous—and infers from the way they’re watching over a group of half-naked, dancing humans that those are the companions she’s expected to listen to. She weaves her way into the crowd and sidles up to a young man with soft looking brown hair and clear green eyes, then hip-checks him. It’s not hard, but it gets him to look back, and she smiles apologetically. 

“Sorry, hon!” she says, and he mouths no problem and reaches a hand out to her. She takes it, letting him spin her around, and when he releases his hold she leans in, her voice slightly raised so he can hear her over the music. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new in town?” He smiles and shakes his head. 

“Not from here, just passing through. I’m Shane.” 

“Cam,” she replies, and she glances around at the others, raises her eyebrows. “These your friends?”

“More like family,” he says, and his smile grows wide, fond. “We travel together, you know? We’re the family we chose.” 

“That sounds awesome, actually,” she replies, adding a bit of wistfulness to her voice. “I’ve always been jealous of people like you—people who are brave enough to lay their own path, make their own choices.” Shane ducks his head like he’s embarrassed about what he plans to share next. 

“It wasn’t easy. I had to completely cut ties with my homophobic parents, work two, sometimes three shit jobs to make enough money just to live. I was exhausted, depressed… and then I met Clive, and everything just kind of fell into place.” His gaze drifts to one of the vampires, a short, blond man with warm brown eyes, and the devotion he has for him is clear. And real, no glamouring or threatening or fear poisoning Shane’s thoughts. 

“I can tell you really love him,” she says aloud. She scans the minds of the other humans surrounding him, and none of them are glamoured, either. They think a lot about blood and sex, but they’re here of their own free will, hedonism aside. More than that, they’re happy, well taken care of. Content.

“Yeah,” Shane says, something like yearning in his voice, and then he looks back at her, his eyes soft. “Do you want to come with us? We’re heading to Tennessee next. There’s always room for one more, and you seem really nice.” Surprised, she looks away from the group and tilts her head, shows him a gentle smile. 

“No, I don’t think so, but it’s kind of you to offer. There might be more for me here than I think.” Cam reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it, just to be sure—and everything he’s said is true, from the pain to the pleasure. As she sifts through his memories more carefully, she’s hit with a warm rush of pride for this man she barely even knows. “Take care of yourself, Shane.”

“You too, Cam—good luck!” he calls out as she walks away.

She makes it to the bar, orders another drink, but she doesn't have a chance to pull out her phone to text Eric: he just shows up, arms folded in front of him, leaning against the stool beside her.

“You think the human wants to be here? That he’s… in love?” he asks, looking out over the crowd, at the visiting clan. Cam turns toward him, nods softly.

“Yeah, seems like it. I didn’t talk to that one directly, but from what I gathered, it’s his ex who's causing trouble with the sheriff. She wasn’t being kind to him, and the vampire in the red dress?” She takes a sip of her drink and gestures to a statuesque brunette, standing with a dark haired man she knows to be the human in question. “She convinced him to leave, to join them. It’s been six months, and he’s never been happier.”

“Interesting,” Eric murmurs, almost under his breath. “Humans never cease to surprise me, even after all this time.”

“What do you mean?” He looks over at her for the first time, and she raises her eyebrow, puzzled. “You didn’t think humans were capable of loving vampires?” He clears his throat.

“I knew they claimed it, but I assumed it had more to do with the high, the pleasure, than anything else. The way you describe it, their feelings seem deeper. Genuine.” 

She’s not sure what he’s getting at—does he think humans are inferior, incapable of such emotion, or that vampires are simply unworthy of receiving it? Rather than start that kind of debate, with her employer, in a packed nightclub, she takes a deep breath and exhales long.

“That’s what I felt when I read their minds, and I’ve read love before. I know when it’s genuine.” She takes another sip of her martini, and slowly, like he’s carefully considering her words, Eric nods. 

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks, and again, not really a topic she wants to discuss with anyone, but especially not him… 

So she’s not quite sure why she answers. “In hindsight, I’d have to say no. It’s not that I haven’t had relationships—I have, and I’ve been… infatuated, lustful, frenzied… but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.” He looks into her eyes, almost through them, like he’s trying to determine if she’s being honest with him—and she is, she really is. “Have you ever been in love?” she asks in return, but Eric straightens then, rests his hand on the bar, and looks back at the crowd.

“You did very well tonight. Thank you,” he says with just a glance in her direction before he strides over to the group of nomads. Because she can take a hint, she finishes her drink, pays her tab, and goes home. 

When she checks her banking app the next morning, there is a $500 transfer from the Fangtasia account. 

Not too bad for an hour of her time.

Cam goes to see Tara at work later in the week, sidling up to the bar in a leather jacket and jeans, a contented smile on her face. Even though Merlotte’s wasn’t around the last time she lived in Bon Temps, it still provides nostalgic, homey comfort somewhere in her mind. Sam nods at her and smiles.

“Well hey there, Cam. What can I get ya?” he asks, tossing a bar towel over his flannel-clad shoulder. Tara doesn’t turn at his greeting, because she’s concentrating on pouring a line of even shots, so Cam slides onto a stool and sets her phone down on the bar.

“Hi, Sam. I’ll take a Stella, please, and that hot bartender’s phone number.” 

Her teasing tone finally gets Tara to look at her over her shoulder, her answering grin bright. 

“I hear you over there, you little creature of the night,” Tara jokes back, “and if Sam would take these over to table four for me, I can get that beer for one of my best friends in the world, who I missed very much.” 

She lays it on thick, clearly trying to guilt trip him, and Sam doesn’t need to be asked twice, just chuckles and takes the tray of shots from her hands. There’s a little bit of lingering eye contact there that Cam doesn’t think she’s imagining—and she’s definitely not imagining the way Tara checks out his ass as he goes. 

Cam clears her throat.

“So, Cami Reyes, as I live and breathe,” Tara says when that moment is broken and her gaze returns to Cam’s. If she noticed Cam watching her, she doesn’t say. “You finally get a break from all that vampire business?”

“This week has been pretty light, actually. I took care of some daytime administrative stuff for the club, listened to a few minds, the usual,” she says with a smile. Tara grabs a glass and pours her a golden lager from the tap, capped off with a thick, white head of foam. Cam takes the glass appreciatively and sips it long and slow. “Mmm. Thank you. Have you been busy here?” she asks, looking around at the booming bar. 

“Busier than I’d like to be, some nights,” Tara says with a sigh of exasperation. “We’re still lookin' for another bartender to cover Thursdays and Fridays—I’ve been workin' overtime as a favor to Sam.” Tara looks over at her boss, her eyes tracking him as he wipes his hands on a towel and walks back into the office area. Cam hums.

“That’s good of you. He seems like a great guy,” she says lightly, leading, and takes another sip of her beer. Tara purses her lips like she’s trying to hold back a smirk. 

“Yeah, he’s real nice. Good guy to work for,” she responds; Cam narrows her eyes at her, and after a moment, Tara narrows hers back. “What, are you readin’ my mind or somethin’?” Cam’s palms go up instinctively.

“You know I would never… but asking me that question means there’s something in your mind to read.” She lowers her hands and raises her eyebrows, takes another drink. “Just saying.”

“Just sayin’ nothin’, Cami. I’m allowed to have secrets too; I mean, I’m not the one who up and left Louisiana and didn’t come back for ten whole years,” she says, hands moving to her hips. Her tone is wounded, and a little accusatory, and Cam sighs, guilt climbing up her throat.

“I know, and I’m sorry, Tara. I missed it here, I really did—but work got crazy, and I got sucked into some shit, and I’m finally out of it. I’m here now,” she reminds her, tone lightening, and she reaches out her hands to take one of Tara’s. Thankfully, her friend doesn’t pull away. “And I’m not leaving Louisiana any time soon, I promise.” 

It hurts Cam to say it, even though she has no intentions of leaving the area again—enough people have failed Tara, disappointed her, and the last thing she wants is to be added to that list. She couldn’t bear it. 

Tara nods slowly, then puts her other hand on top of Cam’s and squeezes. 

“I’m not mad, I’m just glad you’re back, is all. It wasn’t the same without you. Charlie’s Angels with only two just isn’t right,” she adds, calling back to the old nickname Gran used for the three of them. Cam fondly remembers the summers when they’d get up at dawn and run around town all day together, eating penny candy and popsicles from the ice cream truck until their teeth were sore and their tongues were blue. 

Tara squeezes her hands again, then releases them and grabs a bowl of potato chips, places it next to Cam’s glass.

“So… vampire rights attorney,” Tara drawls as Cam plucks a couple of chips from the bowl, crunching on them. Cam raises her brow, chews, and Tara shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, I think Bill’s okay and all, but do you really think they need our help? They can snap anyone’s neck they feel like; maybe you should be lookin’ out for the little guy.” 

“Oh, I do that too,” Cam assures her, washing the salt down with another sip of beer. “But you might be surprised at how often vampires are falsely accused of crimes—then again, maybe you wouldn’t be,” she says pointedly, and Tara sighs, nodding like she gets it. Cam continues on. “They’re people too, and they need someone looking out for them. Not many of us are willing to stick out our necks—no pun intended,” she adds with a grin. Tara rolls her eyes, but it’s all in good fun, and then Cam’s phone buzzes on the table beside her. 

“I know you don’t have a boyfriend, or I’d be hearin’ about him, so… vampire business?” Tara asks as Cam reaches for the phone. Her eyes flick over the screen.

“Vampire business,” she confirms as she reads over the text—it’s a set of coordinates, and clicking the link automatically opens her Maps app, its pin located in what appears to be the middle of the woods not far from Sam’s bar. She finishes the last glug of her beer and stands up, pulls a $20 bill from her pocket and lays it on the counter. Tara opens her mouth to protest, but Cam just raises a finger. “You’re the best bartender in the world, you deserve it—and you can use it to take me to dinner next week, somewhere you don’t work.” 

“Alright, alright, it’s a date. But you better get goin',” Tara replies, waving a hand in her friend’s direction. “I’ll text you my schedule. Don’t get yourself eaten!” 

Cam waves back and slips out the front door, holding her phone up in front of her so she can follow the app’s projected path. Her eyes quickly adjust to the dark, the soles of her boots making soft sounds against damp earth and foliage, but she stops in surprise about a mile in, when she sees a bright white beam of light, and then the repetitive flashing of police blue-and-reds. 

Eric appears next to her, like always, and she grabs the sleeve of his jacket. “What are we doing here?” she hisses under her breath as she scans the area, clocks at least 10 officials who actually belong at what is clearly an active crime scene. Eric places his palm against the middle of her back and slowly guides her toward a plain-clothes cop. 

“Detective Graham and I have an agreement. When he comes across an unusual death, he calls me.” As they approach the detective, a man in his fifties with sandy hair and late-night stubble, Cam notices a white sheet draped over an oddly shaped mound—a vaguely human-shaped mound, which leaves bright red splotches that soak and bleed into the sheet near the bottom hem. “Camila,” Eric says suddenly, which causes her to look up from the unknown mass like a spell broken, “I have to warn you: the victim here has been cut in half, and the police have only located the top half of her body. If you think you can’t handle it–”

“I can handle it,” she responds, her voice soft but sure, and he nods and reaches out his hand when he’s close enough to shake the detective’s. 

“Mr. Northman, pleasure,” Detective Graham greets roughly, though he doesn’t sound as if he means it. His eyes move from Eric’s to Cam’s, and he scrutinizes her face. “This your psychic?” 

“She is,” Eric replies coolly. “Her name is Camila Reyes… And, unfortunately, with the victim in this state, I’m afraid she’s going to need to touch the body.”

The detective heaves a deep, unhappy breath. 

“You gotta know how this looks to the rest of the guys already, me bringin' in a vampire and a psychic,” Graham says, shaking his head. “But sure, why not. Let’s tamper with evidence while we’re at it.” 

“I don’t intend to alter the scene in any way, Detective,” Cam assures, stepping forward and letting her eyes roam over the clearing, “and I assume your techs have already taken fingerprints, trace samples, if they found any.” Her gaze flicks over to a small group of tired looking officers wearing Crime Scene jackets and sipping coffee from a thermos; they clearly have nothing better to do at the moment, which means all that can be done has been completed already. “You can take mine to rule me out, if you’d like.”

“You a cop?” Graham asks gruffly, watching her as she appraises the scene, the unsettled earth around the body, the trail of blood that tells them she was cut in half elsewhere and dragged to this spot. Cam shakes her head, then crouches down and lifts a corner of the sheet to look at their victim’s face.

“Lawyer,” she answers, and she does her best to school her expression; the dead woman looks to be in her forties, white, with jet black hair and a set of golden eyes that are wide and unmoving. She’s naked, and her body is shredded at the torso—not a clean incision like she’d expect from a serial killer, someone with practice severing limbs. There are no marks on her face or arms, just ragged cuts along her weeping, empty midsection. “Imprecise, savage bisection, teeth marks, organs have been removed,” she notes, and she looks up at Eric, wondering if he’ll attribute this to the same killer she’s picturing. 

“Werewolf,” he answers seriously, and she nods once, glad they’re on the same page. Graham splutters. 

“I’m sorry, werewolf?” he asks, incredulous. “Don’t tell me those things are real too.” Cam just shrugs—she’s been on this end of many a supernatural revelation before, nothing you can say really helps—and presses her hand to the cold skin of the victim’s arm. 

Memories flash through her mind, some older, though the more recent ones are what she’s looking for. A man frequents those, someone tall and tan with copper-colored hair and a sweet smile, but he dissolves quickly into feelings of rage and sadness, loss, heartbreak. There is vindication, elation, and then abruptly, nothing. Cam pulls her hand away, covers the woman’s face, and stands. 

“Her mate was killed, and she went after the pack for revenge. It seems like she killed one of theirs and they returned the favor. You’re going to want to rule this an accident,” she tells the detective as she walks toward them, and he crosses his arms in front of him, his expression closed off and irritated.

“Like hell—we have trace evidence.”

“And I can tell you exactly what your lab will find when they process it: no fingerprints, no fibers,” she lists, ticking off her fingers as she goes. “Saliva will be canine, hair will be canine. You won’t be able to match a weapon to the wounds, and either the DA will drop your case right there, or,” she adds, pausing for effect, “if you flip a coin and decide to go the dental impression route, the teeth will be canine, too. The ME will consult the Department of Wildlife and determine that your attacker is something larger than the local coyote population, but slightly smaller than a black bear.”

“We could interview her known acquaintances, find someone with a motive,” Graham counters, and though Eric looks like he’s about to step in, Cam continues, her tone more sympathetic.

“No offense, Detective, but you didn’t know werewolves existed five minutes ago. How do you plan to locate a pack, infiltrate it, and arrest whoever is responsible? And even if you did find the pack, any good defense attorney would destroy you in court if all you have is evidence of an animal attack.” She doesn’t need to use her ability to know that his resolve is waning, so she does decide to pull Eric in for backup, and she gestures to him. “Eric has power here, as sheriff. He can appeal to the werewolf council, provide them with the evidence. If they determine a crime has been committed, they’ll punish the offending parties themselves.”

“If they determine a crime has been committed?” the detective asks, pointing to the half a body. “I think it’s pretty goddamn clear that’s what happened here.”

“Werewolf law is more eye-for-an-eye than human justice,” Eric explains. “If they can defend the killing because she eliminated one of their own, everyone involved just moves on.”

“And as for getting answers for her family,” Cam adds, stepping back in, “believe me, they already know. I’d guess they already found the other half of her body, and they’ll take it up with the council too.”

Graham exhales, raises his eyes to the sky, and then drops them back to Cam’s face.

“You know a lot about werewolves for a big-city lawyer,” he says eventually, and then he looks to Eric and back to the victim. “I’m going to run those samples, and if you’re right, we’ll rule it an animal attack. I’ll keep you updated, Mr. Northman,” he says, reaching out a hand, and the two of them shake before parting. “And I appreciate your expertise, Ms. Reyes, even if I’m not too fond of the outcome.” He reaches a hand out for her as well, and she shakes it before watching him walk back to the bank of squad cars across the clearing. 

Eric reaches out to touch Cam’s shoulder, and they turn, start walking back the way she came. 

“Well done,” he tells her as they traipse through the underbrush. She looks up at him through the corner of her eye. 

“Thanks… although, I know you were testing me,” she says. Eric hums, a thoughtful noise, and nods his head. 

“I figured you’d catch on to that. I need to know I can count on you,” he admits, reaching out to lift a low-hanging branch so it doesn’t smack her in the face. “And because it seems that this area is in the middle of some kind of lycanthropic territory dispute, I wanted to see what you knew about creatures other than vampires.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” she acquiesces, taking the path in front of them. “For the record, I’ve dealt with vampires, werewolves, witches, shifters, druids, fairies… anything else we run across, you’ll have to give me the CliffsNotes version.” 

Eric pauses and looks over at her, and she stops too, nearly holding in her breath; having his full attention on her, even in the dark, makes her head buzz and her stomach flip. She wets her lips.

“I’m not familiar with Cliff,” he says after a moment of scrutinizing her face, “but I am happy to give you anything you need.”

Just here to share the Italian judo winner kissing her girlfriend after the match, in front of our fascist, homophobic, disgusting prime minister.

We won this one🏳️‍🌈

Credits to: @apriteilcervello on instagram

no reason for this. just testing out alcohol markers i bought like two years ago

Top 20 True Blood Characters voted by the fandom: 

      #16 - Nora Gainesborough: Eric loves you, you know? The only reason he never told you he had a sister inside the authority is because that knowledge could have gotten you killed but I knew of you. He spoke of you often and fondly. You’re what he’s most proud of.

And in the end, I'd do it all again

Fandom: 9-1-1 Pairings: Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz Word Count: 3314 Tags: First kiss, Canon violence/injury, Little bit of panic, Episode related: 4x14 Survivors Summary: It should have been Buck.

It should have been me. 

It’s all Buck can think and he lays in the street, his best friend’s blood splattered across his face, dripping down the bridge of his nose. It wets his eyelashes, stains his shoes, the striped shirt he’s wearing. 

Huh. Factor in a quick change of clothes, and it could have been him. 

He’s pressing his palms so hard into the pavement that pebbles imbed themselves in his hands, and he can faintly feel the sting, but he can’t worry about that now. He has a second, half a second, to decide what to do next. 

If he stays down, stays hidden, that’s smart. But it’s not what he wants to do.

If he runs out to grab Eddie, that’s what he wants to do. But it’s not smart. 

If he hides under the truck and pulls Eddie beneath it too, that’s smart. And it’s what he wants to do. Mostly. 

(He’d like to say he doesn’t waste a millisecond flashing back to being trapped under that engine, his leg snapping beneath its weight, the agony of those long minutes when he waited to be rescued, but he does, and it makes him uneasy.

But that’s bravery, right? Be afraid, but do it anyway?)

What he does next is roll under the truck, and scream for Eddie.

“Stay down, I’m coming! I got you!” he says, because he can’t see that Eddie looks half dead already. He army-crawls across the length of the truck, doing his best to keep from smacking his head off of automotive parts that are inconveniently low; when he can see light, he reaches out his arm, grabs Eddie’s wrist, and pulls. “I got you—I got you!” 

Eddie is, almost literally, dead weight, and the angle is bad, but Buck pulls because that’s all he can do, the only way he can keep him out of harm’s way.

(He thinks that it’s probably what he’d do for anyone, but this is Eddie… beyond the limits of his bravery, his kindness, his compassion, are all the things he would do for Eddie.)

“Almost there, almost there,” he pants, gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the pale lack of expression on Eddie’s face. He’s not dead, can’t be dead, because Buck hasn’t even—because he doesn’t know what he means to Buck. What he means to the world. 

He grunts, using all of the strength he can gather, the memory of every repetition in the weight room leading up to this moment—because he needs to use this strength to take care of his best friend. In this moment, it's all that he has.

He drags Eddie away from where he’d fallen, too much blood leaving a heavy trail behind his body—behind him—and when Buck pulls him out from under the truck Eddie cries out in pain. It’s the best goddamn sound he’s heard in his life, because it means he’s not dead, not yet, that there’s still time for everything. 

Buck stands, lifts Eddie up as easily as he’d lift Christopher and hands him to the paramedic that boarded the rig ahead of him. Buck’s climbing in, Mehta behind him when another shot rings out, but it only shatters the window, covering them in sparkling shards of glass. It doesn’t matter—Eddie. 

“Go go go,” he calls to whoever is in the driver’s seat, and another bullet hits the truck, this time the windshield. The door is still wide open behind him, and everyone is screaming, and then tires are screeching and there’s fire whooshing past them like they’re approaching Hell’s gates, but he leans down and puts his hand behind Eddie’s head, resting it gently on the floor of the cabin. 

He rips open Eddie’s shirt, tacky with blood, and when the paramedic hands him a compress he tears it open with his teeth, his hands shaking. “I got you, it’s okay,” he breathes, pressing it against the gaping wound splitting Eddie’s skin, and Eddie gasps soundlessly, tries to wet his cracked lips. “Don’t say anything, Eddie, just stay with me,” Buck pleads, but Eddie’s eyes are wide as he rakes them over Buck for the first time. 

“Are you hurt?” he rasps, voice sandy and raw, and Buck aches in that moment as he wonders at Eddie's caring mind, his loving heart, even now. Tears prick at his eyes and he frowns, shakes his head. 

“No, no, I’m good, buddy. I’m okay. Just stay with me. Eddie!” he begs as Eddie’s eyes roll back, his head lolling to one side like he’s lost the strength to hold it up. “Come on, come on,” he says to the driver, the paramedic, anyone who will listen, and he reaches down and holds Eddie’s face in his hands, shushing the soft gurgle that rises to his lips. “We’re almost there, Eddie, please. We’re so close, please.” 

The paramedic tries to put an oxygen mask over Eddie’s mouth and nose, but Buck takes it from him, holds the plastic for him so he can breathe, then leans in to press his lips to Eddie’s slick forehead—just in case it’s the last time he gets to do it. The only time.

From the very moment they arrive at the hospital, it’s mayhem, firefighters shouting, medical personnel brushing past him in scrubs of green and blue and purple. They lay Eddie back on a stretcher and push him away, their white sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as they roll him to an operating room, and Buck can do nothing but stand there, frozen in his desperation, his confusion. Mehta puts a hand on his shoulder, but he can’t feel it, says something, but he can’t hear it. 

Some time passes, and he is scrubbed by a nice nurse whose face he can’t remember; someone brings him a new shirt, and he pulls it over his head, his formerly blood-drenched hair wet and clean, his hands red and raw. He drinks a glass of water, tries to give a detective a statement, but the panic of the unknown rises from his lungs to his throat and he’s sorry, but he really needs air.

When he steps outside the glass doors of the ER, he’s met with the last person he expects to see. 

“No comment, Taylor,” he says as she pushes past the barricade and hurries toward him. How can he give her a sound bite when his voice is as hollow as he’s ever heard it, when his chest may as well be ripped open too? 

“That’s not why I’m here, Buck,” she says, reaching for him, and when he turns, her eyes are soft and kind. “I heard that a firefighter was shot, and you weren’t answering my calls. I got worried.” 

He blinks, frowns, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone like it’s a foreign object he’d forgotten he’d been carrying. “Sorry… I wasn’t checking my phone,” he explains, his eyes barely registering the black screen, and when she looks down at the device in his hand, her eyes grow wide. 

“Is that blood?” she asks, and he glances down at his pants—he hadn’t thought to ask for new pants—and back up at her face. He nods, feels like a bobble-head when he does it, like his brain is no longer even attached to his body, like it’s a balloon floating above him where he stands on the sidewalk.

“Uh, yeah, but it’s not mine, it’s–it’s Eddie’s.” 

At that, her expression changes from worried to heartbroken, on his behalf. She rests a hand on his arm and tilts her head, and her clear blue eyes cloud with moisture and sadness. 

“Eddie’s the one who got shot? Buck, I’m so sorry. I know what he means to you,” she murmurs, and she actually does. She’s the only one who does. She wasn’t even mad when Buck told her, because she had a feeling about that already. Apparently he’s unsubtle, and Eddie is as stubborn as an ox, or something, he forgets the metaphor. 

“Yeah, I–I need to talk to Christopher,” he says, swallowing back a sob at the thought of telling him that his dad’s been mortally wounded and might not make it home, that he wasn’t caught in a fire but targeted standing in broad daylight in the middle of the street. That Buck was right there and he couldn’t stop it. 

Taylor brings her hand to his face, soft and gentle, like something Maddie would do to comfort him, and when she speaks, the tone of her voice is even and so calm.

“I know, but you can’t talk to him like this.” Whether she means the bloody pants or the shaking hands or the feeling that he’s been run down by a freight train that’s backing up and coming for him again, he’s not sure, but she’s probably right. He takes a deep breath and nods, presses his lips together and nods again like he’s fortifying himself. 

“Yeah, yeah. I should go home first,” he says, because it makes sense and it’s what she wants to hear, and she shoots him a concerned smile and reaches into her pocket for her keys. 

“I’ll drive.”

The weight of the bulletproof vest he’s required to wear is nothing compared to the heaviness he feels when he walks into Eddie’s house and Eddie isn’t there. The heaviness he feels when he eats frozen pizza across from Christopher and has to tell him again that he can’t talk to his dad on the phone. Carla’s presence helps, her warmth, her positivity, but each day that goes by without Eddie is a chisel to Buck’s chest, threatening to crack it open irreparably. He wants to hear his voice, he wants him to come home, but mostly he just wants him to wake up. 

Buck wakes with a start from another nightmare, one where the light bled out of Eddie’s eyes the instant he hit the ground, and no amount of strength or surgery could bring him back; one where Christopher has nobody. Where he has nobody. 

He eats Cheerios across from Christopher and laughs good-naturedly when he calls him out for snoring, like the action doesn’t claw at his throat from the inside. He hasn’t laughed since Eddie got shot, but he has to, for Christopher. Christopher, who understands pain, understands death, far younger than he should have to. Who has shown so much resilience and bravery since Eddie’s been in the hospital.

Climbing up the crane is not bravery. It’s selfishness, it’s guilt, it’s anger. He makes himself a target, a bullseye in the sky, ready for the sniping, because it should have been him and he knows it. He’s not important like Eddie, doesn’t have a child, a home, a legacy of doing what’s right despite the cost. Climbing up the crane isn’t doing what’s right; it’s doing what’s easy. It’s making himself a martyr and letting the poison of Eddie’s near-death seep into his bones and make a home there. Buck couldn’t protect Eddie, so he’ll lay down his life to protect the others, if that’s what it takes. 

(It all makes sense, in his reckless, self-righteous, big, stupid head.)

It all makes sense when he gets the call that Eddie is awake. 

Eddie’s smile is… the most beautiful thing Buck has ever seen. He can’t even see Ana, and he knows that’s messed up, but once Eddie says his name it’s game over, it’s a wrap: no one exists but him. He’s so worn down, so tired, but he looks so alive, and Buck gets choked up when he looks at him.

“Do you think he’s doing okay?” Eddie asks of Christopher after the Zoom call. Buck shifts in his seat.

“Better than me,” he says with a sad, self-deprecating smile. He tilts his head, feels embarrassment rush over him; it’s better than the guilt, for a change. “Uh… I kind of lost it, when I told him you got shot. I’m sorry—I–I should have held it together.” 

He’s barely doing that now, as warm tears flood his eyes, as his words catch in his throat. Eddie shakes his head, a slight, weak motion. 

“Nah, you were there for him when I couldn’t be.” His eyes find Buck’s, and Buck sees wetness there too. “That’s what matters.” 

Buck nods even though he doesn’t agree, wrings his hands where they rest in his lap. 

“Still. I think it would have been better for him if I was the one who got shot,” he says, hating how the words sound the second they come out of his mouth; he’s not looking for pity, or to make this about him, he’s just… so, so sorry this happened to Eddie, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Eddie huffs a rough breath, and Buck shoots up from his chair, alarmed. He looks over Eddie carefully, but there’s no gasping or wheezing or wince of pain that follows, just a look, a softness in his eyes Buck’s not sure he’s seen before. 

“I’ll call the nurse,” he says, just in case, but Eddie reaches out a hand and places it carefully on Buck’s forearm. He sighs and shakes his head. 

“It’s not me. It’s you, you idiot.” 

Buck blinks, and then the corners of his mouth turn down and his brow wrinkles. 

“Did–did you just call me an idiot?” Despite the circumstances, the Eddie gives him the ghost of a smile. 

“Yes, I did. You really think—” he begins, but he’s interrupted by the rapping of knuckles against the metal frame of the door. They both turn to look and see a nurse with gray hair, in her sixties, maybe, with a stern look on her face. 

“Visiting hours are over, and he needs his rest,” the nurse tells them, and when she sees that Buck is already standing, she comes over and gently takes his arm, guides him toward the door. “You can come back and see him tomorrow—he should be discharged then, if everything looks good.”

“But I…” Buck starts, glancing back toward Eddie where he lays in the bed; his eyes are closed, but he waves his hand in Buck’s direction. 

“It’s okay, go home. She’s right, I should sleep.” 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Buck promises, as the nurse reaches around him to pull the door closed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, but it’s already shut and all he sees is a door number and Diaz written in blue dry-erase marker.

He doesn’t go home. Or, he does, but it’s Eddie’s home. Christopher wakes after Carla leaves, and they share a pop-tart before Buck tucks him back into bed. 

Eddie is discharged the next day, and because Buck is already planning to be at his house, he offers to drive him home. They’re sitting on the uncomfortable rollaway bed, the plastic-covered mattress crinkling beneath them, while they wait for his meds; Eddie clears his throat, and it brings Buck’s gaze up from his hands to Eddie’s eyes. They look concerned, maybe… conflicted. He can’t be sure.

“Hey, since we got a minute,” Eddie begins, and Buck takes a deep, careful breath. 

“Is everything all right?” He wonders off-hand if Eddie will thank him for taking care of Christopher but tell him they’ll need their space, or if he’ll want his first night back home to be with Ana, and not him. Both of those would be fair conversations to have. 

Eddie nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just… I've been meaning to talk to you about something.” It’s his turn to look down at his hands—or, arm. The one in the sling. “So, you might have noticed I almost died. Again,” he adds, and Buck exhales, moves closer to him. The last thing he should be thinking about is death, when they’re actually on the other side of this, when he gets to go home.

“Eddie,” Buck starts, but Eddie makes eye contact again, and Buck can see tenderness there, and struggle. Like it’s hard enough to get the words out without Buck interrupting him. He pauses, nods, and Eddie swallows and faces forward.

“After the last time, when that well collapsed on top of me, it got me thinking—you know, what would happen to Christopher if I did die?” Buck doesn’t even want to think about it, has had almost as many nightmares about the well as he has about the bullet. Eddie continues. “So, I went to my attorney and changed my will. So, someday, if I, uh... didn’t make it,” he decides with a solemn nod, “Christopher would be taken care of. By you.”

Those two words knock the wind out of him, and he wets his lips, confused.

“What?” Buck asks, just in case he didn’t hear him right. Eddie looks him in the eye. 

“It's in my will that, if I die, you become Christopher's legal guardian,” he explains, and he is so sure about it… Buck’s head fills with questions that he can’t help but ask, rapid-fire.

“I mean, wow. How does that even work? Don't–don't you need my consent? He has grandparents, other family; if it came to that, wouldn’t they fight for him?” 

Eddie chuckles softly and shrugs his shoulders. 

“My attorney said you could refuse, but I knew you wouldn’t,” he says, and again, he’s so sure, his eyes so deep and dark and determined. “And they’d probably fight for him,” he adds, and then he reaches across his body with his good hand to cover Buck’s where it rests on the bed. His fingertips are soft as they curl around his. “But no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you, and that is what I want for him. You are what I want for him.”

“Why are you just telling me now?” Buck asks, and his voice feels barely there; to hear him say that Buck is who he wants to care for Christopher in the event he can’t, it’s… it’s the most highly anyone has ever regarded him, the most incredible responsibility that’s ever been given to him, and he just can’t figure out how he could have ever become such a dependable person in Eddie’s eyes. Like Eddie knows this, he laughs softly and squeezes his hand.

“Because, Evan,” he says, and it’s affectionately sarcastic, makes him smile, “you came in here the other day and you said you thought it would have been better if it had been you who was shot. You act like you're expendable. But you're wrong,” he tells him, and he says it with so much conviction, such certainty, that it scares Buck a little. He’s afraid he’ll never be able to live up to the version of himself Eddie sees, that he’ll never be the man Eddie would feel comfortable leaving his child to. He’s afraid of how much it would hurt to lose them now, if he made the wrong move, how a foolish misstep could cost him this family.

(But that’s bravery, right? Be afraid, but do it anyway?)

Buck leans in, looks from Eddie’s eyes to his lips, and when Eddie doesn’t move away, he kisses him, sweet and slow and easy. The press of their mouths together is gentle, almost chaste, but Buck is overtaken by emotion, and he brings his hand up to cradle Eddie’s face the way he did in the cabin of the truck. Eddie tilts his head into it, kisses Buck once, twice, and when he pulls back Buck can feel that his cheeks are flushed and his eyelids have grown heavy. He opens them, and Eddie looks reverent. His lips are pink.

“Idiot,” he teases softly, and he initiates a kiss that doesn’t end until the nurse brings in his medicine.