Chapter Text
Buck really shouldn’t be surprised that his day went to shit, seeing how the call started.
One moment, he had been waiting for his popcorn, lounging over the couch, relaxing to David Attenborough’s voice and then—
Chimney slammed the fire engine door shut. “This is all your fault, Buck.”
“How is it my fault the nature documentary decided to go on about how quiet the forest was?”
“Don’t say it again!” Chimney squawked.
“I didn’t even say it first! The TV did.”
“It so counts, and it’s your fault.”
“Maybe we should make Buck clean the utility room again so the fire suppression system goes off like the first time,” Hen said as she sat next to him.
Buck shuffled away from her. “Cap, did you catch that? Hen threatened me with foam. Get HR. I’ll call Susan.”
“Susie loves me.”
“Oh, c’mon, you are not on a nickname basis with HR.”
“Tell that to the Christmas cards I get every single year.”
“Alright, guys, that’s enough,” Bobby interrupted from the driver’s seat, amused. “Focus up, this is a weird one.”
“Oh yeah, did you hear that, Buckley? Your q-word triggered us all to a witch shop,” Chimney said.
Buck looked over at Eddie for help, who only shrugged.
He shook his head, mouth agape. “You didn’t even believe in this jinx crap!”
"I don't have to believe in it to be annoyed."
Huffing, Buck angled himself away from everyone else. He knocked his knees roughly against Eddie's and was definitely not pouting as he stared out the window on the drive over to the scene.
The so-called ‘witch shop’ looked different to the usual ones they were called to. It had fewer crystal stands and more books. Shelves stacked with vials and jars filled with substances Buck would rather not open or ingest. A weird chill seeped through his turnouts as he stepped inside. But he shook it off when someone from the back of the shop responded to Bobby's call out.
There was a woman on the floor, clutching at her chest. Another woman hovered over her, seemingly more panicked than the one who collapsed. Buck frowned at the smoke surrounding the room. It came from some weird cauldron-shaped burner, and it smelled like a frat house.
“Wilson, Han,” Bobby directed.
Hen immediately eased the woman to lean against the wall, taking her vitals.
“Did she fall? Hit her head on the way down?” Chimney asked as he opened the jump bag.
“No, Elise just collapsed. I’m a Pranic healer, I can’t touch her,” the other woman said, keeping her distance.
“Shortness of breath, rapid pulse, clutching at her left side. Cap, possible cardiac arrest,” Hen remarked.
“Did you give Elise anything?” Bobby asked.
“No, nothing, we only just started the sage burning,” the woman said, but then gasped out, “She has a stent in her heart, it was in her medical papers. She signed a waiver. I won’t get sued for this, right?”
Bobby stared blankly before completely ignoring her. “Buckley, Diaz, get the gurney and O2.”
“On it, Cap,” Buck affirmed and followed Eddie out.
The ambulance crew with the 133 drove in as they made their way outside. Buck motioned at them and opened the back of the ambulance. He heaved the gurney out with Eddie, smiling to himself as Eddie counted them down for lifting. He did this for even the smallest of tasks, and Buck loved the synchrony. The brushings of shoulders, stepping in line, and parallel movements.
As Eddie grabbed the oxygen tank and non-rebreather mask, Buck rolled the gurney back inside the shop.
“Administering aspirin.” Buck heard Hen announce when he re-entered.
It went routinely—passing without stress as Buck worked with the people he trusted more than himself on a bad day. Eddie rushed ahead with the oxygen, giving it to Chimney, and Buck swatted at the beaded curtain in the door entrance.
A scream rattled through the room. Buck jumped, on alert. But it didn't come from the patient, but from the shop owner.
“No, no, not him. That man can’t touch Elise!”
The woman almost stumbled over herself, hysterical and loud in her ramblings. Buck looked around at what could even cause this reaction, but the woman's eyes were set on him. He was the one who couldn't touch Elise.
Eddie sighed, “Ma’am, we need to get the patient on the gurney—”
“He can’t touch her! It’ll ruin all our progress," the woman persisted. “He’s got all the wrong energy. It’s lingering all over him, haunting him! Get him out of my shop. He’s unsettling everything. It’s contagious.”
Buck gestured to himself, confused. “Is she saying I have an STD?”
He pointedly ignored Bobby's scathing look.
“I can cleanse him and the negative energy, please, I’ll be quick, and then he can touch Elise.”
Staggering, the woman grabbed a bowl from the counter. Water poured over the edge as she moved. She picked up one of the jars from the shelf.
“Ma’am, put the salt down.” Bobby interfered, exasperated. “Eddie, help me with the gurney. Buck, wait outside.”
"Why should I—?" Buck cut himself off as Bobby gave him another look and huffed, leaving the shop.
He made sure to sigh loud enough that even the lady having a heart attack could probably hear it over her own… well, situation. Because, yeah, he had been dismissed from scenes before—either for his own sake or to de-escalate, but never because he apparently needed to be 'cleansed'.
He waited outside, glaring at the skulls in the shop window until someone tapped him on the shoulder. Eddie stepped closer, standing beside him.
"Ah, ah, Eddie, you've got Buck's contagion now," Chimney joked, very loudly. Too loud for a public space where that energy lady was probably waiting inside to either douse him with water or start spouting out some exorcism.
“Is this because I keep calling crystals ‘rocks’?” Buck asked. He received only blank expressions and no answers. “Like, is there anything about me that unsettles the universe?”
“How long do we have?" Buck went to shove Chimney, but he brought his fingers up into a cross sign. "Keep your distance!"
"Knock it off, we have another call in the area," Bobby said, though he sported his own grin. “Buck, just ignore it."
It was safe to say Buck didn’t ignore it.
Instead, it stuck to him like some invasive parasite. Any free moment he had, whether it be on the ride over to a call or the walk back to the engine after, Buck was glued to his phone. He avoided the others trying to take it off him and favoured reading articles and Wiki pages until his eyes blurred over.
“Okay, okay, so, Pranic healing is technically a therapy rather than scientific healing. It’s all about energy.”
Hen tried to snatch his phone again, so he raised it above his head. “And yours is apparently negative.”
“Allegedly negative!” Buck corrected sharply. “That lady, the healer, she can detach bad energy from the body and bring in new energy to basically keep your life force balanced.”
“Sounds invasive.”
“It’s a non-touching service.”
“So she wouldn’t approve of this?” Hen flicked his forehead.
"Ow, what the fuck?" he complained, rubbing it. “You guys just gonna watch this?”
Eddie tilted his head. “I don’t know, don’t two negatives make a positive?”
Buck glared at him, making Eddie grin knowingly. They had both stayed up last night trying to work out Christopher's physics homework, which Buck despised. He liked the whole space thing, not protons or atomic masses. Especially when Chris conveniently forgot to mention his homework until dinner time.
“How are none of you concerned over this? I’m apparently ‘dirty’ in Pranic healing terms. I'm unbalanced!"
“Buck, do me a favour and turn off your headset for a sec,” Chimney said.
He frowned. “But then you can’t hear me properly.”
“Oh, the horror.”
“And I’m the negative energy?”
The next free time he had to research was at lunch. Buck scrolled through his phone over his food.
“Look, there’s even quizzes for this shit!” he waved his screen at Eddie. “You’re so doing this after.”
“They're all nonsense. No one-minute quiz is gonna accurately tell you what animal you would be."
Buck scoffed, “No fun, and you’d totally be a deer.”
He clicked on the link, expecting to be eased into it. Like, the page was all pastel and spiritual. Yet, there it was, question one, asking if he'd ever felt overwhelmed and emotionally drained with no time for rest. Then, lucky number two: if he ever had pain in his body that hindered him from enjoying life. His leg decided to flare up at that.
The questions got worse, more specific and hitting. After ten minutes, the page refreshed and in bold text displayed the cause of his negative energy. Past Trauma.
“Oh.”
A tightness pulled in his chest, and he couldn't help but feel pissed off.
It wasted ten minutes of his time to basically tell him he had parental issues, like it wasn't obvious. He knew they were a cause of a lot of things he did. Subconsciously, of course, because he refused to open that box up. Buck knew that the moment he'd give it light, another family secret would probably jump out. Another Daniel, another reason he had empty seats in parent-teacher meetings and football games.
It wasn't the best quiz result to get when those parents were in town, either.
“What?” Eddie asked through a mouthful of Bobby’s salad.
Buck cleared his throat. “Nothing, stupid quiz, needed me to make an account for the answers, and I get enough spam as it is.”
“See, they’re stupid,” Eddie said, pointing his fork at him. “Now eat up before we get called to a cemetery next.”
The taunting that came with seeing Past Trauma in some fancy aesthetic font stayed with him for the rest of the week. Even when he was tasked with bringing takeout for another big Buckley-Han family dinner.
It lessened a bit as he heard Jee-Yun’s laughter. But then came back full force a second later when he noticed the source of his niece's happiness. His mother knelt on the floor with a stuffed toy. She kept waving it around, smile matching her granddaughter's. So amused and adoring over something as innocent as a child's enjoyment.
One of Buck’s first memories was being told to shut up. That his laughter was wrong, he had nothing to be happy about. He guessed that hearing a baby laughing was the last thing a grieving parent would want to hear. Especially when it was the wrong son's laughter. They’d rather hear the bell ring in a hospital than any reminder that Buck existed. Even when he had a band-aid over his arm from the needles.
Salt dug in the wound that Buck had solely for surviving past age seven.
Despite how warm the plates were from Maddie keeping them under the grill, they’d never beat the burns Buck had gained on his palms that one day. It didn't heal for weeks. When Maddie was over at a friend's house for a sleepover, one of her first—he remembered how excited she was to be out of the house, to be a kid. Nail polish, watching banned channels after hours, and no adults around.
It just meant that Buck didn’t have food that day. Or in the morning, either. Starved with scabs on his hands from learning how the stove worked at too young an age.
He shrugged it off, now that the power was back on from the storm, and continued handing out the plates.
“Oh, Evan, could you set the cutlery as well?” his mother asked.
The knives and forks on the counter were different. They weren't the usual ones Maddie had. These had a softer tint to them and weren't as shiny.
“They’re a gift for the new house."
Buck jumped, not expecting his mother to be so close to him. Her face was normally either so full of emotion or completely blank. Though now she stared with a different purpose. Calculating, almost. A mix in the middle that Buck didn’t want answers for. He could tell she was about to say something, seeing how she braced herself.
He excused himself before it could be spoken aloud. Maybe a critique of how he placed the cutlery out, how he should have washed his hands before touching everything (despite them being clean). Something, anything really.
Quietly, Buck allowed himself to be a witness. His father sat in a chair, a grin plastered on his face, as he chatted with everyone else. Maddie walked over next to Buck and rested on the wall beside him. She seemed relaxed, not at all as stressed as she was for the dinner earlier this week. She even looked happy. Buck gulped dryly. He couldn’t ruin this.
“It’s nice to watch them, isn’t it?” Maddie said, all reminiscent, yet Buck didn’t share the nostalgia. No recollection he had matched the scene in front of him.
He hummed in vague agreement.
“Is this what it would’ve been like if Daniel were still here?” he asked, breaking their silence.
But Maddie took it in stride. She didn't freeze up like their mother. Her jaw didn't clench or raise her hand, tempted, like Phillip.
“Maybe,” she said, wistfully. “He’d probably tag-team you with our parents on how dangerous your job is. He always wanted to be a doctor.”
“He knew from that age?”
“Danny always tried to steal medical equipment with each visit. Sometimes we’d find stethoscopes hidden in mum’s bag.”
He hummed again. His eyes stayed on his parents as they opened up a book, engaging in Jee's laughter and attention. He should feel satisfied seeing this—and he was. Partially. He was glad Maddie had this, for both herself and Jee. But that contentment didn't touch him directly. Only grazed the surface.
Maybe that healer was right, that something was wrong with him. His parents were always capable of playing with children, basking in their laughter. They probably did with Maddie and Daniel before. Just not with him.
All his research spoke of how energetic parasites attached themselves to people prone to negative thoughts, those with damaged centres. Maybe his weren't blocked or unbalanced. But severed. Defective.
Those thoughts didn’t leave as Buck settled back into his seat in the truck on their way to a second-floor building fire the next day.
“C’mon, Buck, you heard Cap, ladder duty.” Buck blinked everything back into focus. The chaos of the civilians around them, the rain and smoke coming from the apartment building fire.
He rushed out of the truck, acting on autopilot.
“Alright, cowboy, go get ‘em,” Eddie said with a slap to his shoulder.
The touch lingered through his turnouts as he climbed the ladder. Until a white light, and he didn't feel anything at all.
Buck had never experienced usual illnesses. Common colds, headaches that turned into migraines, chicken pox—even when his parents tried to encourage it at a young age. No coughing fits, flu, or ear infections.
He was vaccinated—at least his parents did something right. Probably for Daniel’s sake, but still.
Yes, he experienced all the broken bones, sprains and fractures. That was on purpose, though. No influences from airborne droplets and contamination.
So it was safe to say that getting struck by lightning fucking sucked.
Not because of his internal organs getting fried and lungs dying on him multiple times. But because he woke up with the worst pain ever. Right behind his eyes, in the back of his throat, his skin. Cold air hit his arms, and it burned. As if his goosebumps ripped hair out of his skin rather than standing on end.
This was different, though. Because he had woken up earlier, if it was earlier. He couldn’t trust the passing of time anymore. Not with that feeling of never-ending corridors, Maddie’s bruises and the dread of those closest to him gone.
He had woken up, still loopy, the IV lodged in his arm. Surrounded by people who were actually here, now happily married and alive. Not angry and childless, or in some grave in Minnesota.
There were rounds of hugging. They clutched at his hand, ruffled his hair. It didn't hurt then. His eyes blurred, but from tears, not from pain. Buck could smile without feeling like every single tooth was about to fall out.
Now though, hours later, someone had turned on every single light ever. Something was very wrong. He knew the lights were off. The switch faced downwards, but the ceiling was so bright.
He was alone, but his skin vibrated enough to mimic another's punch. Like nails dragging along his forearms and throat.
A snap from his left jolted him. The creaking sound rang in his eardrums. It was the door opening. It shouldn't have been that loud. A nurse stepped inside, head down, focused on the chart in her hands. The squeaking of her shoes against the floor scratched at the muscles in his ears. There was that rushing sound too, underlying but so noticeable. Thumping.
The nurse gasped when she looked up. “Oh, Mr Buckley, you’re awake. Are you in any pain? You should be resting.”
Buck opened his mouth to answer, but something strong hit him. Not physically, but it made him stop. It made everything stop. The thumping grew louder, overpowering the ringing in his ears.
It came from the nurse. The smell. Everything narrowed inwards. His tongue wet his cracked lips instinctively.
There was a bandage around the nurse's arm. A smidge of red ruined the white wrappings.
“Ah that, yeah," the nurse started, noticing his staring. "I learnt my lesson not to get in the way of a crash cart."
The thumping continued. Dulling in a pattern of something so normal to him, something innate. Hunger.
Aches stabbed in Buck's mouth. Like a knife pressing against the inner lining of his lips. A blade, sharp, scraping with each gulp. He winced, mouth opening, and that thumping exploded.
It pulled to him. This tether to the nurse, to that bandage, the redness directly in his eyesight.
He wasn't hungry like normal, or even thirsty for water. His mouth kept watering despite the dryness of his throat.
Buck hadn't even noticed he shifted forward, sitting up as close as he could to the nurse. A part of him wanted to lean towards her arm. He wanted it. Her arm, the bandages—
The nurse walked away, excusing herself quickly. Buck blinked. He hadn't even realised she was still talking to him.
Heaviness heaved in his stomach. The pit replaced that hunger momentarily as it bred into shame. He was a firefighter, for fuck's sake. He should see someone in pain, with a bloody bandage, and jump at the opportunity to fix it. Not to be the one to unwrap it and make it worse. Dread filled him, drilling into his teeth with unease, because something was wrong.
He had to get out of here.
Buck ripped the covers off him, jaw clenching as the cold air bit into his bare legs. He grabbed his phone from the charging port beside him and pressed 'call' before he could even comprehend what he was doing.
It rang. And kept ringing. The trill agitated him with every unanswered rhythm. His eyes drifted over to the clock, the hands reading back to him five a.m.
Maddie was probably asleep.
The automated voice sent him to voicemail.
"Maddie, something is wrong," Buck whispered, voice cracking. He knew he was whispering, he had to be, but every word he spoke punched into his temples.
He got up off the hospital bed, staggering. The world moved too quickly, or rather, he moved too quickly. Everything else around him stayed stagnant, nearly frozen as he moved.
The bathroom door slammed open hard. Buck winced at the sound, and then his wallet winced too at the hole in the wall. But he didn't even use much force. He just pressed on the door. And now it had basically broken off the hinges.
“I think I woke up wrong,” Buck said into the phone.
He couldn't shake that dread, now mixing with the hunger and sickness which came with it.
Buck could see the room clearly. The walk-in shower, grab bars, and emergency pull chords. But the lights were off.
There was no direct light in the bathroom.
He lurched forward, mouth watering. His hands gripped the sink. Slowly, Buck glanced up into the mirror, bracing himself. He should have some scrapes, burns on his chest, those lightning marks he'd heard about—Lichtenberg scars.
Yet, there was nothing.
Absolutely nothing. He looked fine. Like he hadn't just been struck by lightning and woken up from a coma.
His breathing wavered because none of this made fucking sense. There should be bruises, reasons why he was on pain medication. Open wounds or something indicating that he wasn't okay.
Tingling twitched along his gums. He opened his mouth and raised his hand, brushing a finger over his teeth. Buck flinched, jerked his hand back to his side. It hurt. Something pricked him.
He looked down. Blood.
Hand shaking, he peered into the mirror again. He recoiled backwards. His teeth weren't normal. His upper canines were sharp. Elongated and curved. Almost long enough to rest over his lips.
"What the fuck?" he whimpered, prying his mouth to open wider for a closer look because this couldn't be real. He had fangs.
Something touched his face. Buck jolted.
There was movement beneath his skin. With a trembling hand, he reached to graze under his eyes. Movement. Like bugs crawling inside of him, pulsing. Dark lines rushed across his cheeks, running towards his eyes. Veins. They were veins.
A tear rolled down his cheek, and his eyes shone black. Redness stained the hollow under his eyes, joining the bruising veins.
This wasn't normal. No coma or lightning could explain this. Not his teeth. Or the veins sticking out of his skin.
What if he was still in the coma? The hospital was full of doppelgängers, evil twin doctors, and had his dead brother in there. This had to be his subconscious fucking with him. But he had woken up, hadn't he? He was awake.
Flashing caught in the corner of his vision. It was his phone. He was still on voicemail with Maddie. Buck let go of the sink and squeezed the phone's sides to shut it off. It felt so small in his hands. The same hands that just touched his face, the same finger which he had cut open from just his teeth.
He scrambled back into the room. A bag lay on the chair by the window. It had books inside, headphones, another charger and clothes. He grabbed his hoodie and sweatpants, tugging them on once he ripped off the hospital gown. Chills struck through him, the cold hair hitting along his back.
There was no way Buck should be moving this ably. An IV drip had been attached to him as he slept, probably administering some sedative. But he couldn't waste time pondering all of this. He needed to leave. So, he did.
Leaving the hospital gown as a crumpled mess on the floor, Buck fled through the doors and hospital wings. Pounding on each door, his head fixed to the ground. He quickly made it to the reception. That thumping sound returned in full force. The rushing, pulsing and drumming. Across both eardrums, throbbing down to his shoulders and chest.
People. Almost every chair in the waiting room was occupied.
His jaw clenched, making his teeth pinch his bottom lip.
He needed to go to Eddie's. Eddie would figure this out. He might know what was wrong with him, help with the symptoms or just tell him it was all okay. That this was all a dream, he was still in a coma. Because if this was real, that house in South Bedford Street wouldn't be Eddie's home, no need for an extra room since Christopher would be in Texas and—
Christopher.
Buck stopped. He was outside. The sun had just started to make itself known in the sky. He couldn't go to Eddie's, not with Chris there. Buck wasn't in the right mind or body. There was no way he could go near Chris like this. He won't. Or even Maddie, not with Jee.
He hadn't felt this alone since the cold nights of sleeping in his jeep.
So his feet brought him elsewhere. The isolating path back to his loft, knowing no one would be there waiting for him.
The streets were worse than the hospital. Everything was just more. His skin itched—he couldn't stop rubbing at his arms, the scratching bringing no ease. It burned him, stung from just the open air, the creeping sunlight.
A morning runner breezed past him at a pace Buck could keep up with. He might even be faster, fast enough to take them, to grab and pull them into the nearest alleyway to—
He scratched himself harder.
Nails dragged across any open skin he could reach until he reached his loft. As soon as he opened the door, he cowered into himself. Pain hammered into his sinuses. Buck hurried to turn off the lights, to run across the room to roll down the shutter blinds.
But the lights were off, shutters sealed shut.
Buck glanced downwards, arms itching again. Nausea flooded through him.
His fingernails were bloody, caked in fresh and dried blood. His breath hitched. With bile rushing up his throat, he stumbled to grab tissues, anything to stop the bleeding. Frantic, he wiped at the blood, applying pressure in case the wounds were too deep. But, no open wounds wrecked his arms. No fingernail marks, no rubbed skin. It was just painted in blood.
Like it had healed already. The cut on his finger had closed up too.
Sweat soaked his hoodie. Sticking to his neck. And he couldn't fucking breathe. His lungs kept hitching, refusing to take a full breath.
Buck dug into his pocket for his phone. His fingers left blood all over the screen, making his hands twitch. He typed into the search engine and didn't stop. He needed to figure this out, panic attack or not. With his chest still squeezing tightly with each breath, he continued to search. To find out the side effects of a coma, if it could mess with the psyche, or if lightning could cause accelerated healing, weird teeth, and your eyes to suddenly become black.
It only talked about potential personality changes. On and on about the stress and damage to the central nervous system.
Nothing made sense. No searches matched this. Not the body changes or dark thoughts that wouldn't leave him alone.
He had to be hallucinating. Something fried his brain and wired it all wrong.
Buzzing shocked his hand. The phone was ringing. Maddie's name appeared on the screen. Each vibration shook him like thunder, he could feel the rain on him, pouring. It kept ringing, and Buck only stared until it stopped. But then it didn't stop—the ringtone drilling into him, another name burning across the screen. It was too loud, the vibration stabbing into his grip.
He needed to put it down.
A crack resonated throughout the loft, echoing and droning into his skull. He shrank into himself, shaking at the noise. Pieces of glass and plastic shattered across the floor.
Buck had thrown his phone.
He only meant to place it on the counter beside him—not to- not to do that.
He wanted to shrink further, to cradle himself into the ground. Somewhere away from this all, in the dark, alone. Nowhere near all the noise and that smell.
The smell was back. Then hunger followed. That wetness in his mouth, almost taunting the dryness of his throat, it was here. All that he had felt back at the hospital, with the nurse, with that bandage.
It pulled at him. His eyes ached as they narrowed towards his fridge. The source of this pulling.
With his hands still bloody, Buck yanked open the fridge door. Acting without thought and only feeling. Steaks sat on the second shelf, all wrapped up. Blood pooled in the corners of the packaging.
Before he could stop himself, he clawed at them. His fingernails tore through the plastic, hitting the meat. The withering in his throat screamed. So he stuffed himself. Anything to make it quieter, to sedate it.
The steak was raw, but that made it better. How he wasn't really eating it, but draining the meat. Any source of liquid, the blood, the residue. No part of him cared about the mess because he needed this. It only came back to him in flashes. How his jaw ached, teeth numb, the mess around his chin.
Nothing could have stopped him. Until he saw it. The teeth marks in the steak. They weren't normal bites. It looked like an animal had ripped a chunk straight out of it. Tore into it with no humanity, no thought.
It was him.
Spitting it out of his mouth, Buck gagged. His stomach churned, throat no longer strained but now burning.
Something was wrong with him.
He wanted that nurse’s arm, bloody bandage and all.
And now this.
Rumbling came from outside. The elevator. Buck froze. He shouldn't be able to hear that. He shouldn't be hearing every creek, every footstep—
Footsteps.
Someone walked down the corridor. Steps drew closer. Buck heard it all, the roughness of their shoes, how steady the steps were, with such force and focus. Then they stopped. Right outside his door.
The person didn't knock.
Buck crept closer, shifting towards the peephole.
But the scent hit him first.
Eddie.
He could smell him.
“Buck, I know you’re in there, man.”
He choked on his own breath. Buck lunged across the room. He didn't have enough time to fix this—the pieces scattered on the floor, the blood on his hands and arms, the meat still defrosting on the counter with bite marks in it. Non-human bite marks.
“You can’t just leave a hospital, there’s forms, y’know, a protocol.”
Buck fought to keep a whine from escaping his throat. He bit his cheek, wincing. His teeth were still like this. Some post-lightning-coma-modifications. He was a freak and he couldn't see Eddie like this. Because he was wrong. The hospital had to have done something to him. Maybe they saw an unconscious patient and did this. They didn't expect him to wake up yet, so it was unfinished and—
“Open the door, Buck.”
His hands flew to his hair and pulled. He tugged at the strands at his shirt collar. Everything was too much. The rattling sound, the keychain, the turning of metal, and... the door unlocked.
Buck scrambled backwards, putting as much distance between himself and Eddie.
“You need to get out," Buck warned.
“Not happening.”
A pained whimper left through his gritted teeth.
This wasn't something Eddie signed up for when he promised to have Buck's back. It was a partnership on the field, to have his back on calls, not when Buck was imagining his skin to heal in seconds.
He was sick.
“Eddie, please.”
“We can go back to the hospital and—”
“No!” he shouted, it tearing from his chest, rampant and raw. “No, no, I can’t go back there. I can’t leave this apartment. You- you need to leave.”
“I’m not gonna do that, Buck.”
His face itched, the skin under his eyes stinging. A drumming rhythm pounded through his head, constant and relentless as the silence dragged on. Buck froze, stomach dropping. He knew what it was.
Eddie's pulse. His heartbeat.
His eyes flickered across him, seeking out each different rhythm. Every major artery—his wrist, his neck. So loud.
“Stay away,” Buck stammered.
He had hurt Eddie before, emotionally, and it broke him. But if he ever hurt him physically? He couldn’t even bear that right now.
“Think of Christopher. Think of him and stay away from me.”
Eddie halted at that. Because it was Chris. Hesitation twitched all over him as his heartbeat raced.
“You’re the reason I still have him.”
Tears pricked in Buck's eyes. It wasn't even true. He lost Chris once, caused some of his nightmares and trauma that a thirteen-year-old shouldn't have. And this… the hallucinations, the thoughts, it would be more burdensome than a relief to be in his life, their life.
“Buck, alright, you’re clearly overwhelmed, we can get you help.”
He flinched, not even noticing how close Eddie had gotten. Close enough to see more than just those pulses. The tiredness in his face, the exhaustion and worry.
“No one can help me,” Buck choked out, and fuck, he was crying. “You- you can see that, right?” he grabbed the steak off the counter, erratic, the bite marks. "Look! Tell me this isn't real."
He practically shoved it in Eddie's face, but the other didn't even acknowledge it. Eddie's gaze stayed fixed on Buck. Brown stared straight into blue, unwavering.
Eddie stepped closer. The movement came to him in stills, all slowed down, and Buck let it happen. Because it was Eddie. With his shoulders all tensed, eyebrows drawn together, and eyes so earnest. Eddie took the steak off him, placing the wrapping away from them both. All steady and open, like he was approaching something feral. An animal.
“Do you trust me?”
Eddie's heartbeat slowed for a moment, dulling. And Buck just wanted to die. He regretted fighting in that coma, throwing the cabinets against the window to breathe on his own accord. He trusted Eddie more than anything, more than reality. But it hurt. He shouldn't have this, not with these thoughts and urges.
Buck squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bear it—Eddie being careful, as if something so minuscule would tick him off.
A sudden pressure collapsed all around him. Eddie's arms, Eddie was hugging him. Wetness dampened Eddie's shirt as Buck let everything go. Warmth surrounded him, scolding against his arms and back. Striking along his cold body—a heat that had avoided him since he woke up. He sank into Eddie's grip, relishing in the silence.
He needed this.
The familiarity of Eddie's touch, how grounding it was. The weight of Eddie's arms around his back, the way his head leaned on Buck's shoulder, chin digging into his collarbone, almost latching onto him. To keep him there. Buck hummed, lodging his face into the crook of Eddie's neck. His nose brushed against Eddie's skin, smooth and radiating warmth.
Strands of hair brushed against his face, and if he just- if he opened his mouth, he could—
Buck threw himself back. Eyes burning and gums howling.
“Get away from me,” he begged. “This- something is wrong. I could have brain damage. Comas can cause changes in behaviour and personality.” His breathing became jagged and unstable. “One guy woke up and hit his fucking wife! Snapped at loved ones and became an asshole.”
He choked on his words, but he had to spit them out.
“Maybe, maybe it caused disinhibition, and this is how I'm supposed to be. Always this fucked up and dangerous. Wanting to hurt people. It was always there, Eddie, please.”
Eddie's forehead scrunched up, looking so concerned that it drove Buck insane. That running heartbeat, the pulsing from different places.
“Buck, it’s only been a day, this is fine, whatever you’re feeling, it’s normal then," Eddie said, sounding so calm, but his heart yelled the opposite.
“Not when I want to fucking eat people!” He spat, and Eddie's head jerked back.
The itch flared beneath his eyes. It could only get worse, so Buck didn't stop. He welcomed it—he dug his own grave and fell into it.
“I wanted to attack the nurse because she had blood on her arm. And I freaked. And then- then on the way here, every person that walked past me, I had to stop myself from just…”
Ripping them apart.
Buck sobbed.
“Something is wrong with me.”
A short vibration ripped Buck out of his head. It came from Eddie's pocket. Before Eddie could stop him, Buck lunged, snatching the phone out of his hand. He declined the call and fumbled, typing into Eddie's contact list.
“Buck, what are you doing?”
“Calling Athena.”
“Why?”
“So she can arrest me.”
“For God's sake," Eddie cursed, taking his phone. “Let’s backtrack, why do you think you want to eat people?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I got bored with chicken,” Buck spat. “How should I fucking know? I wake up and all of a sudden, I want to put these in your neck.” He pointed at his mouth.
“Just my neck?”
“Eddie!”
“I’m just tryin’ to gather all the information here.”
“Great, you’re diagnosing me," Buck muttered, rubbing at his throbbing forehead. “Fine, lay it on me. Ask me what year it is, who the President is, which serial killer inspires me the most—?”
“Is the last one really necessary?”
“Yes when I want to kill people!”
Eddie's hand gripped his shoulder. He grazed over Buck's shoulder blades, fingers digging through his t-shirt. His head tilted to capture Buck's attention.
Buck knew he could stop this. He could shove Eddie off—this raw force coursed through his body. But he doesn't. It all softened when Eddie's palm rubbed over his nape.
“You said want,” Eddie repeated, slowly. “Do you want to do what the thoughts are telling you to do?”
“No!” he snapped. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. But it’s there. It’s there, in my head, like- like I can’t help it.”
Eddie nodded. “Then this is treatable. We can manage it.”
“Can I manage my face looking like some freak?”
“Well…” Eddie winced, then shrugged. “People get veneers all the time, we’re in LA.”
Buck groaned, all that loudness roaring back to him. Every squeak in the apartment building deafened him.
“Why is it different this time?” he asked, panic crawling up inside him. “I’ve gotten hurt before- my leg, they almost amputated it. And- and, I’ve choked on my own blood, been crushed in fires, and I got caught in a fucking tsunami. Why now?”
Eddie shifted, face grimacing.
“You didn’t just get hurt, Buck.”
“Okay, yeah, a coma is slightly different this time,” Buck said. But then it hit him. “This is Doug’s fault, or- or my parents’, or it’s mine, I was the evil doctor at some point and—”
“Buck, that wasn’t real,” Eddie said, all soft, and Buck hated it.
He usually loved this, the attention, how Eddie’s brown eyes got all steady and firm with such intensity. But he didn’t want to be comforted. He needed to be tied up, chained somewhere in a forest, behind bars, or six-feet-under.
“I know!” Buck yelled, panting.
“You died this time.”
“I kno—” Buck's throat closed up. “What?”
And then everything stopped. No more buzzing of the light above him, the rattling laundry machines in the communal basement ceased.
Eddie sighed heavily. “For three minutes and seventeen seconds. I felt your heart stop.”
Thumping returned to his ears. Eddie's heartbeat—almost mocking him, the uneven rhythm that kept jumping, no longer steady.
“So I don’t care whatever issues you’re having right now, all I care about is that you’re alive and not hanging like that,” Eddie continued, voice rising.
Buck swallowed down a whine, shaking his head. Because no, no, he couldn't have died. He knew he was dying, Bobby told him so in the coma, but if he died then…
His eyebrows furrowed.
“I’m still dead.”
“Buck, what?”
He gestured wildly, fists clenched. “I have to be dead. I’m- I’m in transition. I’m hungry, I can feel fucking everything, this is some purgatory I’m stuck in until it catches up to me." His fists clenched. "I’m hallucinating, I have to be.”
“Look, this isn’t normal. Did Reddit tell you they woke up from a coma with sharp teeth and those thoughts?” Eddie asked.
“Well, no, but this one guy said aliens—”
“Buck,” Eddie cut in loudly. “This is more than just a coma.”
He faltered. This was Eddie, the guy who was adamant in believing the explained, that bad luck and curses didn't exist. And yet, here Buck stood, who apparently died and came back to life wanting to eat people.
Buck's eyebrows pinched together. He glanced down at his skin, all healed—remembering how sensitive it was on the journey over, when the sun had just started to rise. He couldn't explain the teeth, how sharp they'd suddenly become. Then his eyes in the mirror… black, veins pulsing where they shouldn't be. And his weird reaction to blood, with the bandage and steaks. It all came building to one single thought.
“I’m a fucking vampire.”
Eddie choked on his own spit.
“Okay, that wasn’t what I meant—”
“You said it earlier. I died," Buck let out a shocked laugh, full of disbelief.
"I was more going down the allergy route, because this could be a rash, like some severe reaction—"
"I'm a vampire, I have to be."
One thought bounced to another, like static dislodging in his brain. Buck moved as if he were struck by lightning again, erratic with phantom pain of the initial shock.
"They’ll fire me, Bobby- would Bobby stake me?” Buck asked, tugging at his hair. “He’s Catholic, right? He believes in this demon shit. He’d set a priest on me or- or strangle me with that rosary he has!”
"My family's Catholic too," Eddie said, voice tinged with exasperation.
“But you almost got divorced, so I don’t think you’ll be the first to try to exorcise me. Bobby, Abuela and Pepa take the top three spots for that. Athena is a close contender, though.” Buck then gasped, horrified, “Your grandmother is going to hate me…”
“Why is your priority what my Abeula is going to think of you?”
“I don’t know!” Buck staggered on his feet, chest constricting. “I’m going to hell, aren’t I? Oh my God, wait- can I even say that anymore—”
“Calm down, you’re not going to hell.” Eddie tried to reassure him, but it came out as a wince. Buck froze, fixating on the stuttering pattern of his heartbeat.
“What was that?” Buck's eyes narrowed. Eddie's heart continued to stammer, jumping at intervals. “You just, you lied, you think I’m going to hell.”
Eddie threw his hands into the air. “What am I supposed say when you’ve got those veins under your eyes? That, yeah, you’ll fit into heaven nicely?”
Buck buried his face into his hoodie.
“Everyone is going to hate me, this is so bad. I’ll need to live underground or something, all isolated like those dystopia movies Chim keeps making me watch," he rambled, breath hitching.
He hated how his mind kept flickering—switching between Eddie's heartbeat and the pulse from his neck.
“It’s going to be fine,” Eddie said.
“Fine? Fine?” he scoffed. “What is fine about body modification and cannibalism?”
“Because I’m gonna help you.”
A tense silence settled between them. Buck studied Eddie, taking in how earnest he looked, his calm tone. Those could be faked, masked or acted out. But underneath it all, Eddie didn't smell afraid.
“How?”
“First, we make sure the police aren’t about to ram down your door.”
Yeah, fuck, he forgot about that. Buck groaned aloud. He was technically a missing person right now. Maybe that should stay that way—he could disappear into another state, or another country. Romania would be nice this time of the year, and he can catch up with his best friend Count fucking Dracula.
“Now, will you sit down?” Eddie gestured to the dining table.
He sat on the stool opposite Eddie. His knee bounced against the stool leg. This felt like some intervention—which, in a way, it kinda was. An intervention on how to convince your friend that you are not insane and undead. It wasn't working, clearly.
“Okay, what if we pretend I have amnesia?” Buck suggested, picking at the dried blood in his fingernails. “It could explain my sudden… departure. I wake up in an unfamiliar place and freak out. Memory is weird, so I can remember places, like my loft.”
“Then why am I here?” Eddie asked as he placed wet tissue paper in Buck's hands. He huffed and cleaned his skin.
“C’mon, Eddie, I’d never forget you,” he said. “You show up like a knight in shining armour."
Eddie pointedly looked down at his current sleepwear.
“And because I remember you, I imprint on you like a little duckling and don’t feel comfortable leaving this apartment, or you, or even meeting anyone else yet.”
“Maybe you’re on the right track about brain damage,” Eddie said, and Buck gaped at him. “No, I mean, what if we call this an episode?”
“An episode?”
“Well, I’d personally count you wanting to eat people as a jail sentencing, so is it okay to stick with this being a ‘mental breakdown’?”
Buck sighed, “Fine, let’s stick with that.”
"Good."
Eddie got up from the dining table, and Buck felt the immediate urge to follow him. This wasn't really out of the ordinary, but this time was different. It was more of a pull. Maybe he was on the right track about this imprinting thing.
Shortly, Eddie returned with a medicine bottle in his hands.
He dropped them in Buck's palm.
"Swallow," he ordered, and Buck's face reddened. "They're antihistamines. I'm not totally convinced this isn't an allergic reaction."
"Yeah, because allergies are known to give people fangs."
Eddie shoved the bottle of water into Buck's hands and didn't stop staring until Buck took the tablets.
"Now, amnesia boy—"
"Don't call me that—"
"—let's text your sister."
Buck bit at his inner cheek on instinct before wincing. He kept forgetting about his teeth. He put Eddie's password into the phone and hovered over Maddie's contact.
hey, this is Buck
Maddie's name flashed across the screen, ringing. Fuck, he hated being a double-texter sometimes. Buck chucked the phone at Eddie, who tossed it right back.
“This is your phone," Buck argued, pushing it towards him.
“Your sister.”
The phone continued to ring, and Buck huffed. He declined the call and continued texting.
i'm fine, i promise. just freaked out and forgot where i was, Eddie checked me over.
at the loft, you can come over later, need to rest for a bit x
"That doesn't look like taking a phone call," Eddie said, and Buck glared at him.
"I can't speak to her right now," he admitted softly. "She's probably mad and upset, like borderline crying, and if I hear her crying, I'll cry too and... can vampires even cry?"
Eddie cut him off. "You're not a confirmed vampire."
"So unconfirmed vampires exist?"
"Don't even go there," Eddie said.
Frustration rumbled inside of him.
"Look, sorry, okay, but I'm just..." Buck trailed off, hopeless.
He wasn't even sure how to put it into words. It was as if every emotion he'd felt had been thrown into a blender and spat out back at him. Not ingested, but instead sticking to his skin, seeping in slowly, clinging.
“You’re fine with me right now.”
Buck stayed silent.
Eddie frowned, forehead creasing. “Right?”
He hesitated before shaking his head weakly. “I almost bit you when you hugged me earlier.”
As soon as the words left his lips, Buck looked away. He braced himself—expecting Eddie to freak, for this all to bubble over. For Eddie to suddenly remember his Catholic roots and grab holy water or whatever to exorcise Buck right there and then. Maybe punch him a bit first, call him a monster, defective, to make him stay away from Chris and—
Eddie burst out laughing.
Buck blinked owlishly. Laughter. Eddie doubled, still laughing. Okay, this could be an unwanted reaction of his discomfort and disgust—
“Sorry, man, sorry, the way you worded that was fucking weird,” Eddie said, starting to laugh again.
“This is serious!” Buck squawked out. “I wanted to eat you! Like, teeth in skin, excessive biting at every single pulse point, draining you dry so nothing would be wasted."
“Alright, cool it, Hannibal."
His teeth ground together in frustration, fangs digging into his lip. His eyes flared—they were probably black again, but he didn't care anymore.
He breathed heavily and stared at Eddie.
“I wanted to hurt you,” he admitted, voice pained.
Eddie shrugged. “Those thoughts are still human. I’ve had the same when you’ve annoyed me before.”
“Punching me is not the same as what I wanted to do.”
Eddie's amused smirk faded and pressed into a thin line.
“But you didn’t.” Eddie stepped forward, towards him rather than miles away. He didn't run out the door, he stayed. “And you won’t.”
“You can’t know that, Eddie.”
“I said I’d help you," he said. "Frank went through all the possible treatments I could specialise in when I first saw him. He mentioned exposure therapy, and we immediately crossed it out. But it might help you."
Buck scoffed. “What, to take me to a steakhouse or something?”
“By trusting me that seeing everyone who cares about you won’t end in a bloodbath," Eddie said, so sure and certain that Buck almost believed him without a second thought.
He gritted his teeth, meeting Eddie's unwavering gaze. "Fine," he agreed. "But first, we need real answers."
"Who would be an expert on this?" Eddie asked, frowning.
Buck hummed to himself in thought.
Something nagged at him all week, even before the lightning. This taunting feeling that bled into his coma through his subconscious. His parents loved him there—even though that wasn't him. He wasn't a firefighter, but a teacher. And his big brother was alive, not forever stuck at seven. He could still feel Daniel's presence next to him on the couch, the cold realisation of how many sports games they could've watched together if it all had gone right.
It all stemmed back to refusing to question everything, to avoid opening the box. But now that box had been pried open and began to spill. All about his negative energy, how he needed to be cleansed and purified.
"The witch shop," Buck gasped. "The healer will know."
In a daze, he ran up the loft stairs. The world around him seemed to freeze, like time had become stationary, as he grabbed clothes from his drawers for Eddie to change into. He rushed back down, throwing them at an unsuspecting Eddie, who blinked at him in confusion. Eddie rubbed at his eyes and sighed, like the exhaustion of this entire situation had caught up to him.
"You know what? Fuck it," Eddie said, giving up with his reluctance. He unfolded the clothes Buck chucked at him. "You gonna leave or turn around at least?"
Buck's face flushed. "Oh, yeah, right, sorry."
He twisted around and could hear it in perfect detail. In too much detail, really. The brushing of clothes against Eddie's skin, Eddie tugging his shirt off, the fabric catching on his shoulders. Buck's shirt went smoother—the grunt Eddie made as he slid it on. Then the sound of clothes dropping on the floor. Buck's knees buckled. His jaw clenched as he kept his eyes forward. He tried to focus on anything other than Eddie putting on sweatpants, which were probably his own.
Like the humming of electricity, the footsteps of the people who lived below him, fucking anything but the sound of Eddie jumping to put his sweatpants on.
"I'm done now," Eddie announced, and Buck jumped, his ears twitching.
He turned back to see Eddie in his clothes, Eddie wearing his t-shirt. How loose it was around his shoulders. It filled him, but was a bit short due to their difference in torso length.
If it were just a bit shorter, it would be cropped, and he could see the hair on—
"Let's go then." Eddie grabbed his car keys.
Buck swallowed hard. These thoughts were louder than they usually were. More insistent with the dying desire to be heard. Circling his head in a faster motion.
It was also oddly comforting though, that despite everything—the lightning and coma, blackened eyes and sharp teeth—Buck's mind still lingered on Eddie.
At least that part of him remained unchanged.
"Wait, what if I burst into flames in the sun?"
"There's sunscreen in the car."