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It wasn't supposed to go like this.
Buck's not stupid. He knows what he's doing. Knows what this looks like. But. It's not like that. It's not. He's getting help. It's helping.
Maybe Bobby would be disappointed. But he's not fucking here is he?
So what is he supposed to do? Roll the dice and see if this therapist will be like Dr Wells or Dr Copeland? She retired, by the way. Dr Copeland. Buck didn't realise she was that old. Or maybe she got tired of listening to everyone's demons. He couldn't go back to her anyway. And... he didn't want to risk anyone else.
Besides. The medication helps. Isn't that the whole point?
But it wasn't supposed to–
It stops working after a while.
Stops dulling his head the way it dulls the pain. Stops him from feeling softer around the edges. His thoughts slower and sluggish in a way that is so much more manageable than all the fucking hell that swirls around otherwise.
He's Derek in his dreams. Sometimes he's Daniel. His parents care about him. Look at him. But's it's not him. He doesn't know who that is.
The drugs are so nice.
That sounds dumb, doesn't it? He's not dumb though. It's just. They stop him from hurting, long after his body has healed from its wounds. They make his mind just stop. Make the ringing in his ears fade to a low hum. Make him sleep without dreaming. He can't stop dreaming.
Bobby isn't there to wake him up.
He wonders sometimes if this is all just a dream after all. Maybe he was just in that car accident, and this is what his brain conjured. He can't go to Bobby because he's not here. Why is he not here? He wants to text him, almost does in his drug-induced haze.
Is this real? He wants to ask. Am I real? Am I Buck or just someone else's replacement son? Was I just your replacement son?
He wouldn't ask that last one.
He thinks about it sometimes, though. When he wakes up and doesn't remember which name belongs to him. Derek. Daniel. Evan. Buck. Robert.
He's glad that his sister has settled on calling her son Nash. As selfish as that is.
He's always selfish. That's what people say. He's trying not to be. He's not going to burden anyone with his problem. Not that it's a problem.
It's helping.
It is.
It was.
Apparently, there's such a thing as tolerance. You take too much too often, and your body gets accustomed to it. Needs more because it's not so sensitive anymore. That's what wikipedia said.
His headaches have gotten worse. So, really, he's just doing it to stop the pain. That's what they're there for.
He cuts his pill in half. Takes just a little bit more.
A little bit more is okay. It's not a problem. Just enough to help.
His mind dulls. Just a little bit. The world becomes softer, more bearable. His head doesn't hurt when he talks to Eddie.
It's okay.
He gets lazy, and he doesn't want to cut his little pill in half. It's only small. He may as well take too. It's okay. His body can handle it. Needs it. It's not his fault his mind is so fucked up.
Eddie stops pestering him so much. He sees that Buck is okay. Buck bakes. He smiles. He laughs. It's just easier with the medication. It drains him a lot. But that's okay. It's working. Even Eddie tells him he looks better. He does.
He's tired more often. Maybe because his sleep is interupted with nightmares. Memories.
It's okay. He gets through it. He always does.
He doesn't remember if he took his afternoon dose.
Doesn't remember because Christopher and Eddie showed up, and he hadn't expected it, and he was trying to show that he was better. He is better.
But he doesn't remember, and his head is sort of pounding. And the lights are becoming a problem. And his hands are shaking, and he's not really sure why. And he doesn't remember if he took his medication because he can't remember a lot anymore. Can't remember what he had for dinner last night, can't remember half the calls of the last shift. Can't remember his own fucking name half the time.
He doesn't remember. But his body doesn't feel like his own and one more can't fucking hurt.
Except it hurts.
It wasn't supposed to–
Respiratory depression is a common effect of an opioid overdose.
The signal to breathe in your brain stops firing. Your body forgets to take a breath.
Normally, you'd start gasping at this point. Your body fighting for air.
The drugs turn that off too.
He doesn't remember what happens next. Not that that's all surprising. It happens fast. He doesn't have time to process that he's dying. Doesn't have time to contemplate if he wants to.
He's lucky. Stupidly lucky. Maybe unlucky. Depending how you look at it. Not that Buck wants to die or anything. But maybe that would be easier. His head would stop being so loud.
Bobby would definitely be pissed at this point. Buck almost laughs at the irony.
Maybe Philip was right. Bobby raised him in more ways than he'd realised. He's inherited a few things. Sue him.
He doesn't remember anything because he's not awake for it. Wasn't awake when they found him. He doesn't even know who it was. He's not awake when the paramedics administer Narcan. But he is awake minutes after.
He didn't even get a coma dream this time. Is it bad that he wished he could talk to Bobby?
Is it bad that his first thought upon waking is fear?
That, after all of this, he's more afraid of what his family will say. Than what could have– should have happened to him.
He struggles to get up. Pushes off the paramedics holding him down. He passes out again. It's probably better that way.
Maybe he is stupid. Maybe he can't do everything on his own.
But it was helping. It helps. It wasn't supposed to go this way.
He opens his eyes when he's in the hospital. His heart rate monitor beeps slowly. The lights are too bright. He shuts his eyes hard. His head hurts. Why does he always hurt?
He knows someone is sitting next to him. But he doesn't want to look their way. Doesn't want to see the disappointment on their face.
They realise he's awake anyway.
"I didn't understand Bobby's struggles," Athena starts. "I didn't understand it because I'd never been there. And I didn't see him at his worst."
Buck doesn't say anything.
"But he told me that some days were harder. Some days where nothing was different, and the world kept moving, he'd struggle."
Buck isn't sure where she's going. He's not struggling. He was getting help. That's the point.
That's the point.
The hospital bed begs to differ.
"'Thena," he gasps weakly, unable to conjure much more.
She raises a plastic cup to his mouth and lets him sip at the water.
"You're gonna get through this. Evan Buckley, listen to me."
He faces her, surprised by the tears building in her eyes.
"Because you're not alone. Bobby might not be here, but the rest of us are. And we'll get you through this."
He nods.
He doesn't want to hurt anymore.