I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 2

I Can Handle Me A Dangerous Man - Ch 2

Fandom: True Blood (TV) Pairings: Eric Northman/Female Reader or Eric Northman/OFC Word Count: 4,441 Tags: 18+, NSFW in later chapters, it's gonna get real nasty Summary: Sookie's cousin returns to Bon Temps, and Eric wants her... to work for him. She says yes.

1 - 2 - 3

She finds herself at Fangtasia again a few days later—what else does she have to do, unemployed and ostracized as she is?—with another martini in her hand as she stares up at a surrealist painting hanging on the wall. It’s larger than life, with tigers and an elephant and a nude woman lounging in the sea, but she’s afraid she can make no emotional connection to it. Dali is weird.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Eric greets in a low, even tone as he seems to materialize beside her, his eyes also on the painting. This time he’s wearing a black v-neck sweater, and it makes the muscles of his arms look even better, if that’s possible.

“Teasing you?” she asks, looking up at him, and he turns to her and scans her body the way he seems to every time they meet. It would irritate her, if it were anyone else, but having Eric’s attention is hugely flattering, and she can’t bring herself to dismiss the way it makes her feel.

“Coming into my bar again… looking like that.” He says it like she’s a forbidden snack dangled in front of him, and she ponders it.

She is technically fully covered in a maroon turtleneck, black miniskirt, tights and boots, which doesn’t seem all that tempting… until she considers that he’s nearly fully covered too and has quite literally never been more attractive to her. He buzzes in her ear again—his mind, his aura, whatever the hell it is—and she finally remembers that he’s said something, wets her lips to speak.

“There’s no vampire bar in Bon Temps, or I’d probably be there,” she says with a sip of her drink. Okay, maybe not, she thinks as he leans into her space, tilting his body so that it’s him she’s looking up at instead of the art. No, either way she would probably find herself drawn here, to him.

“Why? Do you like vampire blood?” he asks seriously, almost like an interrogation, and she shakes her head, frowns.

“I don’t do drugs, and no vampire has ever offered it to me.” She wants to make sure she covers all her bases, is transparent in her knowledge of not only V as a commodity, but the ritual of bloodsharing that vampires sometimes perform with their companions. “Regardless, blood isn’t the reason I came.” 

“Did you come for me?” he asks, the tone of his voice the same but his expression more relaxed. She nods her head.

“Yes. I’ll do it – consult for you, work for you, whatever you want to call it.” It took her about two days to decide, then two more to get up the courage to come down to the bar and ask for what she believes she deserves—a problem she’s never had professionally before. Her answer earns her a change in posture, and Eric seems gratified by her response.

“You will? I’m pleased to hear that,” he says, and she nods her head, trying to ignore the way it warms her all over to know he’s happy with her choice.

“I have some stipulations,” she tells him directly, not intending to mince words, and he carefully takes the glass from her hand and sets it on a table behind them. The two middle aged humans who occupy it look absolutely thrilled at this sighting of a vampire in the wild, which makes Cam want to smile.

“I would expect no less. Let’s go into my office so we can be candid,” he suggests, gesturing toward the back of the bar, and he leads her through the crowd of bodies to the cluttered, unremarkable office with a hand hovering at her lower back.

“So what is it that you want from me? Explicitly,” she asks when he closes the door. “You know I’m a lawyer, so specific language is kind of my thing.” He pulls a chair out for her, then takes the seat on the other side of the desk and leans across it to speak.

“I would like to be able to call on you when I have a situation that could benefit from your gift—and I would like to be the only vampire who calls on you. That’s non-negotiable.” 

She’d expected the first part—not so much the second—but it’s nothing she’s unwilling to give.

“I can agree to exclusivity, but keep in mind that occasionally I will hear or see things whether I want to or not; if I come upon a vampire matter, I’ll inform you and let you decide how to proceed. If it’s not a vampire matter, I’ll provide the information to whomever I see fit.”

“Okay, yes,” Eric agrees easily, and then he backtracks for a moment, looking curious. “Hear or see?”

“Well, thoughts aren’t always just a string of words, you know? Often they include images, memories, even vague feelings. What I do, it’s kind of a mixture of all those things.”

“That’s… good to know,” he says, and he taps his fingers against the desk. “It’s also important to me that you make yourself available when I need you; as you know, I only do business between sunset and sunrise. If I’m calling upon you, I have deemed it important, and I expect to take priority over other things you may be doing—anything short of a life and death emergency.”

“That’s fair,” she says, though she wonders if they should take a moment to formally define life and death emergency in case it comes up in the future. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “See? No threats or manipulation necessary.” 

It’s playful, now, his tone of voice, and she answers it with a slightly skeptical smile.

“And what are you willing to give me in exchange?” 

“Anything,” he says, and it sounds earnest; he splays his arms wide like he’s gesturing not just to the room, but beyond it to the bar, the city, the world. “Anything. Money, blood, drugs, sex, protection, power—whatever you want.”

All of those things come with a hefty price tag, she thinks—and part of her has to wonder if her gift, as he called it, is actually worth it. The short list of demands she was fully prepared to fight for just an hour ago seems to pale in comparison to how important he thinks she will be.

“I would expect to be compensated in the event you come to me and I am involved in solving a problem, but I also need a retainer. Nothing outrageous, but if I’m going to be at your beck and call I won’t be able to commit to a regular job.”

“Of course,” he says easily, like the financials don’t matter to him in the slightest. She’s dealt with wealthy clients before, of course, even wealthy vampire clients, but his flippancy adds another layer of surrealism to the already surprising conversation. Should she ask for a luxury car, a yacht, season tickets to see the Saints? “What else?” 

She’d considered this next point, and then abruptly un-considered it, felt she was asking too much… but given his promise of anything, she feels bold again. Like she could actually have the upper hand.

“I want protection—your protection. If I’m in real danger, and I call for you, I want you to be the one who comes for me.”

Eric raises an eyebrow, looks over her face carefully. It’s like he’s regarding some part of her for the first time, his gaze lingering.

“Do you anticipate being in danger often?”

“No, but I made enemies in Chicago, and you know how word travels in those circles. There are certain groups who aren’t fond of what I’ve done—and it’s possible there will be people who don’t approve of my employment here. I’d just like to know I’ll be safe, if I’m going to make working for you my priority.” 

She exhales, feeling a bit less confident than when they started this, but Eric just makes a thoughtful sound and says, “It’s yours. Anything else?” he asks, and she considers that a win and stands up, feeling instantly intimidated when he stands too, tall and dark and strong. It’s so much easier to do business with him when they’re sitting down, when he’s on her level, or as close to her level as he will ever be.

“No, I think that’s it,” she says, and she sticks her hand out to shake, feeling oddly formal as she does. As a lawyer, she would have preferred the security of a contract, but that’s not the way most vampires operate and she knows better than to suggest it; that could be seen as an indication that she doesn’t find him trustworthy. A handshake, his word and hers, will have to do.

Looking into her eyes, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, shakes for a moment and then holds it there for just a beat too long before pulling away. She walks toward the door, and then, when the thought strikes her, she turns back to face him once more.

“Actually, there is one more thing,” she says, and as he walks closer she can’t help flashing back to his offer of sex—thank god she’s the one with the power of telepathy and not the other way around. “Could you help me find a decent apartment somewhere between here and Bon Temps? Sookie’s a great roommate, but I can’t stand that drafty old house.” And all of its memories. 

“Consider it done,” he tells her, and she nods her head and leaves the bar, climbs into her car, and definitely doesn’t pump her fist in the air when she stops at the red light at the end of the block.

Two days later, a FedEx driver actually drops off an employment contract—it was silly of her to assume he wouldn’t also want their terms in writing—along with a slip of paper, upon which is written an address and a phone number, and a key.

The first night she spends in her new apartment—which is truly perfect, bright and white and airy, with tons of nearby green space and amenities—there is a knock at the door. When she opens it, Eric is on the other side, in a leather jacket and jeans, holding a bottle of wine with an expensive French label. She looks him over, and he does the same, making her feel a little self conscious in her bike shorts and oversized t-shirt, ponytail, bare feet.

“Eric—what a nice surprise,” she says, and it really is nice, and surprising. She never would have anticipated him coming to her without needing something—assuming he doesn’t need something now. The wine would be an odd touch, but as always with vampires, nothing’s out of the question.

“I just wanted to officially welcome you to the neighborhood,” he replies. 

Cam had been slightly suspicious when the very first listing he sent her was a mere five miles from his bar, but when she considered his request for her exclusive availability, she figured it made enough sense not to question him any further.

“You did that when you paid my rent. For a year,” she tacks on, her tone admonishing, because that was not part of the employment contract. A faint smile lifts his lips. 

“Consider it a sign-on bonus.” The air between them feels oddly charged, and then she tunes into it, realizes it’s that static that seems to follow him around. He shifts where he stands. “I brought you a bottle of wine. A housewarming gift,” he explains, handing it to her, and she wraps her fingers around the neck and pulls it close with a smile of her own.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in and have a glass with me?” 

It’s clear by the look on his face he hadn’t been expecting that—probably didn’t expect to be invited into her home unless it was absolutely necessary for her protection in the future—but he nods, and when she takes a step back he crosses the threshold, closes the door behind him, and follows her to the kitchen.

“Are you sure this one is okay? The neighbors are so… close together,” he remarks of her new townhouse, and she bends to sort through a box full of kitchen gadgets, pulling out the corkscrew after a few seconds of rummaging.

“Oh, trust me, it’s great. My apartment in Chicago was little more than a shoebox with windows, and there’s a pool here, and a park nearby. I really appreciate everything you did.” 

She opens the bottle, pulls two glasses down from the cabinet—the only cabinet she’d managed to fully unpack—and carries them over to the table, where Eric has already settled into a dining chair. He looks uncomfortable, tall and stiff and alert, like this is all a little too human for his taste.

“Still, it seems like you miss things there,” he says as she pours them each a serving, and she shrugs, then sinks down into the seat next to his with her leg tucked beneath her. 

“Things haven’t been very good there for the last couple years, so I’m actually happy to have a fresh start.” She takes a sip of her wine, full-bodied and earthy with a peppery finish, and can’t help the sigh of pleasure she expels. “My god, that’s good.” She says it with the hint of a smile, something he casually reciprocates. 

“I had a feeling you would like it,” is all he says, but when he takes a sip his eyes fall closed, and he seems to let it sit on his tongue a moment before continuing the conversation. 

“So what kinds of things do you anticipate calling on me for?” she asks later, as they are finishing their second glass. Eric takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and she thinks it’s because he’s choosing his words intentionally, for her benefit.

“Mostly to confirm my suspicions if I think a human is being deceptive; I have some human employees, and I make business deals with others. Sometimes I need to know if my patrons are lying—if they’re underage, or looking for V, or conspiring against us. As sheriff, sometimes vampires come to me with human problems as well—it would be easier to deal with them if I had you available to me.” 

“That sounds fair,” she says, appreciating his careful explanation. She shifts in her seat. “At my old firm they called me the human lie detector… they just didn’t know quite how close they were to the truth.” 

“It must be difficult, to hear all the things you hear,” he says, and she nods her head in agreement.

“It can be, but I’ve gotten fairly used to it over time. Taught myself to control it instead of letting it bother me.” Things are quiet for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to say something that’s been on her mind since he arrived. “I feel a little uneasy about asking for your protection the other day. I think I may have asked too much of you,” she says with a frown. “I know you’re busy with the bar, and as sheriff, that a lot of people rely on you, and I’m not sure it’s fair of me to make such an extravagant request.”

It takes some effort for her to be able to look up at him instead of focusing on her glass, but when she does he seems thoughtful, his eyes serious but gentle.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I thought it would disrupt my other obligations. No harm will come to you while you’re under my employ, I promise.” She nods, placated by his reassurances, and he taps a finger against the tabletop. “You said you’ve taught yourself how to control your gift. Can you… hear vampires?” 

His tone is reserved, but hopeful, and she grimaces.

“No offense, but vampire minds are kind of empty. My guess it has to do with electrical impulses, or lack thereof. Technically, I can hear you, but it’s like white noise, sometimes, or tinnitus. I don’t get any actual thoughts.” She ponders his question for a moment, wonders if that unique buzzing she picks up when he’s around is his mind, or something different. “Touching helps with humans, though. I can rewind a little bit, see memories instead of just what’s playing live, if that makes sense; maybe it would help me hear something from you?” 

Eric stretches his arm across the table, his bare hand palm up, and she slides hers over it after a cautious moment. She presses their skin together and lets her eyes glance over his face, listening carefully, searching. It feels like a very, very long time passes, and a lot of static, but eventually she finds a moment, a phrase or sentence among the near silence.

“Ӓr du död?” she murmurs, and while she can’t see anything, she can feel the heat of flames nearby. It warms her hand where it turns to ice against Eric’s. His brow furrows in recognition, and she exhales, blinks. “I don’t know the language. What does it mean?”

“It’s Swedish. ‘Are you death?’ It’s the first thing I said to Godric, my Maker, before he turned me,” he admits, his voice serious and somber. Cam inhales sharply at that knowledge.

“Wow. I can’t imagine I’ve ever gone back further than a few days that way, let alone…” 

“A thousand years, give or take.” He answers her unspoken question with a deeply curious expression. “That was among the last of my human memories, so I suppose it makes sense that you can see it.”

“I can feel it, too,” she says, and she wraps her fingers around his, searching for more, for a deeper connection. She closes her eyes this time, in hopes it strengthens the memory. “I can feel the heat from a fire. And I can feel that you’re dying. You’re cold inside, but your skin is warm.” 

“Tell me more,” he says, his voice barely there. He tightens his grip on her hand.

“There’s a man there, a very young man, and you’re not happy with him… but you aren’t afraid of him, either. He has a strangely calming presence; you’re not sure if he’s an angel or the devil.”

“Godric.” His Maker. He looks strangely young for a vampire, vulnerable, and though he’s short, he towers over Eric in his memory, eyes deep and dark and full of possibility.

“Through your eyes, he looks larger than life,” she says softly, and his fingers flex. Even if she hadn’t known Godric was his Maker, the way this man makes him feel is as clear as any emotion she’s felt herself. He is death and life, the end and the beginning. 

“He is,” Eric says—not was, she takes note of that—and when he starts to pull back she releases his hand and lets hers drop to the tabletop. She feels tapped out after that, exhausted, and Eric nods his head once in her direction. “That is a remarkable gift you have.”

“It’s something,” she says casually, as if she didn’t just travel over a thousand years in her mind and pull out his last memory of human life, as if she didn’t feel like she was inside him, a part of him, his heart, his head, his hands. She sits there, speechless for a moment, and then Eric takes a deep, exaggerated breath.

“Well, I should get back to Fangtasia—I’m happy to see you’re settling in,” he tells her, and when he stands she stands, walks him to the door. It closes behind him, and she feels both strangely invigorated by his presence, and deeply conflicted by his departure.

At Fangtasia, Pam waits for Eric at the front door. 

“Where have you been?” she asks, her heels clicking on the floor as she follows him back to the office. The crowd naturally parts for them, and though Eric probably attributes it to his aura—he’s been acting strangely woo-woo lately, talking about witches and energy and vibrations and the like—it’s more likely his huge, hulking frame and the fact that his expression alone would kill, if such a thing were possible. “You know I find it distasteful to be left alone with the humans for so long.” 

“I had an errand to run,” he says, but he smells like wine and the girl, there’s no mistaking it. Errands, her perky ass. 

“How is she?” she asks as he slides into the chair behind the desk, stretching back so he can hook his ankles over the edge of the desk. It’s even worse than manspreading. He looks up at her like he’s not sure what she means, and she crosses her arms over her chest and blinks. “Our new employee. Camila. That’s who you were with, isn’t it?” 

“You don’t care how she is,” is all he says in response, and she leans over and smacks his boots so his feet fall to the floor. Pam knows that only happened because he let it, and she bites back a fond smile.

“No, I don’t, but apparently you do. I thought you were obsessed with Sookie when she came along, but this girl has you… buying apartment buildings, and promising your protection, and you’ve barely known her for a week.” 

She hopes he doesn’t take her tone for jealousy, because it’s not, not really; she’s just never seen him this infatuated, and it’s freaking her out a little, if she’s being honest. Like it or not, her life, her comfort, relies very heavily on Eric and his… happiness isn’t quite the right word, but when he is content, her nights tend to be much smoother, more enjoyable all around. She gets to drink from an endless supply of young, willing, rich-blooded partygoers instead of traipsing around the woods and ruining her favorite pumps, or trapping moronic anti-vampers and using them to set an example for their friends.

“You have no idea how important she is going to be. No idea,” he repeats, and his voice has that strangely mystical quality about it again, a faint undertone of magic that hovers around its edges. He’s been to see a witch, she thinks, or had his fortune told, something that’s led him to believe this girl and her gift are crucial to whatever he has planned. It sends a chill down her spine that she’s unable to fight. “Her gift is going to make us unconquerable.”

After a long pause, he pulls out his laptop from the top drawer, opens it, which she knows is equivalent to dismissing her, and she sighs softly and makes her way back out to the floor. 

“I cannot believe you’re working for Eric,” Sookie says as she hangs a handful of pressed skirts in Cam’s bedroom closet. Her typical uniform is very different from Sookie’s, the blonde notices. Across the room, Cam carefully arranges gold jewelry in a tiered acrylic box with satin lined drawers.

“It’s as close as I can get to my old job for now, and I’m not really in a position to be picky, or I wouldn’t have come back to Louisiana at all—no offense,” she throws over her shoulder. Sookie tuts and waves her hand.

“None taken. I know where my heart is,” she assures her cousin. Like all small town girls, Sookie sometimes kicks herself for never leaving Bon Temps, but more often than not she loves her hometown, its history, her family’s legacy. 

Gran’s, at least.

She grabs a pile of folded sweaters in cashmere and various knits, stacks them in the space above the closet rod. “Aren’t you at all worried he’s going to use you to hurt people?” 

Behind her, Cam takes a long, careful breath and turns to face Sookie.

“One thing you have to understand—especially if you and Bill are in it for the long haul—is that vampire justice is different. I know it shouldn’t be, but until now they've been non-existent in terms of conventional law. They have their own systems in place—hierarchies, rules, punishments—and we can’t step in and tell them how to behave overnight just because we think we know better.” 

Sookie shoots her a look—as pro-vamp as she is, she admits she’s not comfortable accepting their more violent tendencies, especially where humans are involved. Cam only shrugs. 

“I’m going to defer to Eric’s expertise as sheriff, but I’ll call it like I see it. If he’s being unnecessarily cruel or unjust, I’m not afraid to discuss it with him. If his actions seem to be aligned with the usual nature of his business, I’ll excuse myself.” She walks toward the bed, picks up a pile of panties, mostly black, and places them into the top drawer of a light-colored dresser. When she turns back to Sookie, it’s clear that Cam can read the expression on her face, one of thinly-veiled awe. “What?” she asks, and Sookie smiles, shakes her head. 

“I don't know, I guess… Just, when did you get so confident? So smart, so sure of yourself?” Cam had always been the leader, strong where Sookie was soft, sure where Tara was uncertain, and though Sookie feels like they’ve all come into their own in recent years, she is so pleasantly surprised at the absolute stunner her cousin has become—physically and intellectually. She feels as proud as Cam’s mom would if she were around, Sookie’s sure.

“It’s been a long ten years, Sookie,” is all Cam says, and though she can tell there is more to that statement, she can also sense that now isn’t the time to get into that. Later, someday. 

“Yeah, it has. I just wish I was half as comfortable as you in this new world… sometimes I think I stick out like a sore thumb,” Sookie admits, lifting a stack of shoe boxes and lining them up on the floor of the closet. Cam steps over to join her, adds a couple pairs of boots, and puts her hand on Sookie’s shoulder.

“You’re like a sunflower growing among dead grass. It’s not a bad thing to stick out,” she promises with a smile that crinkles the corner of her eyes, and Sookie pats her hand in gratitude continues to help her settle in.

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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. 

9 years ago

Give me Love baby

SLAMS FIST ON TABLE

SLAMS FIST ON TABLE

GIVE ME KISSYS

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figsandpomegranates - pomegranate
pomegranate

brazilian. likes to write and read f͟a͟n͟f͟i͟c͟s͟ on her spare time. 21

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