Work Text:
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
It’s the first thing Buck registers.
Not the pale California sunlight slicing through the blinds, thin, sharp like a paper cut across his vision, not the subtle ache in his spine from the way he twisted in his sleep. Not even the tick of the clock on the wall. No. It’s the quiet that punches through first. Like a WWE punch. Hard and heavy.
It’s not peace. Not calm.
It’s absence. Full-blown absence.
He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just lies there, flat on his back, eyes half-lidded, lashes casting shaky shadows on his cheeks. The ceiling blurs above him. He can’t remember what day it is. Doesn’t want to. Can't be bothered to try and recall it. He just wants peace and quiet, doesn't want any bullshit at all. Not that anyone can blame him after what had just happened between him and the 118.
The silence has weight. Heavy weight.
Like lead pressing into the hollow of his chest.
Like it’s been waiting for him to wake up.
There’s a quiet, faint hum in the walls, the old apartment wiring vibrating faintly like a nervous breath. It always did that, but today it sounds louder. Or maybe everything else is quieter. Maybe the world’s been muted. He thinks it's the latter, and he can't lie, he wouldn't mind it. Everyone shutting up, not dictating his actions or emotions. He oftens falls for it, allowing himself to be controlled. It's easier, avoids arguments.
The sheets are cold. They smell like detergent and nothing else. Not lavender, not skin, not life. Just sterile. God he really needed to get some scenting into the house. It's ridiculous how it is.
Buck turns his head slowly, and his pillow gives a soft exhale beneath him. It’s still molded to the shape of his face in his sleep, like his body doesn’t want to let go yet. Like his mind knows there’s something it’s not ready to remember. But oh well, he ignores and looks up form his pillow, his eyes landing on his bedside table.
His phone is on the nightstand.
Face down.
Black screen.
Waiting.
The air is dry. It tastes like drywall (don't question how he knows what this tastes like.. He doesn't make the smartest decisions) and unfinished sentences. Like every breath gets caught somewhere in the back of his throat, he can't remember why but oh well. Nothing important. Right?
He stretches one arm out, muscles tight, tendons creaking, his arm feeling like it's about to drop off, and flips the phone over. Screen flashes to life, he looks away quickly. The white screen was too bright, he quickly turned his brightness down and checked his notifications and then the time.
6:02 AM.
No notifications.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Routine.
He doesn’t think. Doesn’t have to. His thumb unlocks the phone again, like it always does, muscle memory guiding him before thought catches up. Eyes unfocused, he pulls up Messages. Scrolls straight to the top to his pinned, he presses the first name on the list.
Bobby
He starts typing:
"Morning Cap!"
It’s automatic. Instinctive. As natural as breathing.
He hits send.
It’s only then that he blinks. His eyes were dry, he doesn't know how he didn't notice that. Oh well.
The bubble turns blue.
Delivered
He stares at the word. Watches it sit there, still. Not moving anywhere but he's watching it as if he was a kid trying to catch his toys move on there own because that's how his imagination ran back then, back when times where simpler.
His phone still cradled in one hand, he lets it rest on his chest like a stone. The text lingers on the screen, glowing soft blue in the dim room. Bobby’s name above it like a label he’s afraid to peel off. A label he doesn't want to peel off, it was no secret that Bobby was his dad. His real father alive or not. Bobby is his dad, and that was a label that could never be ripped from him.
The silence deepens. Sharpens. Fills in the cracks around him. He can't stand silence, usually there's birds outside flying past. Having a conversation of their own with their buddies, their chirps usually filling his silence but today those chirps were unheard off.
From the living room, the fridge cycles on a low hum that sounds too much like static. There’s a glass on the coffee table from last night, untouched. A crusted coffee ring stains the wood beneath it, he ignores it. Usually he would try and clean it as fast as possible because eurgh, those rings are horrible to look at.
Buck’s eyes flutter closed again. Allowing his mind to drift him to elsewhere, he didn't need to think. Not for now anyways, his shift was in an hour or so. That's when he'll think.
He tries to let the quiet pass through him. He tries to pretend it doesn’t itch under his skin, and he tells himself:
He’ll reply soon.
He always does.
He always
Buck moves like a ghost through his own apartment. His movements shallow, meaningless but heavy.
He's moving, not because he wants to, but because that’s how it always starts. Morning routines are muscle memory. Pre-programmed. He doesn’t think, he just moves. Puts one foot in front of the other, like sleepwalking in daylight. An awful comparison really, because he's awake, but that's just how he feels like it's happening.
The text still sits unread on his phone. He doesn’t check it yet. Doesn’t need to. Bobby always replies. He's never not replied, he always messages back. Never has he left him or anyone else on delivered, because that's not Bobby.
He carries the silence with him to the bathroom. The silence loud and overbearing, but nice and relaxing at the same time. How? He doesn't know, nor does he question it because it's his normal.
The door creaks when it closes behind him. The tiles are cold against his feet, almost startling but expected. The chill climbs up his legs like vines of frost. He twists the shower knob, and the pipes groan like they resent being woken, but still, they come pouring out because they have to. Not by choice, but by force. Like it's muscle memory for them.
Water sputters out in a spray, too cold at first because of course it was. Everything had to be cold before being warm, that's just the way of the world. And then it became scalding, not as hot as scalding sounds but it's hot, maybe the exaggeration wasn't necessary but what's life without exaggeration?
Steam begins to rise. The mirror fogs. The glass turns opaque, like it’s trying to hide the reflection it knows he won’t want to look at. He knows that if he looks into the mirror he'll see a truth that his head is keeping from him, and he's unsure if he wants to know what is being kept from him.
He steps under the water. The heat neutralising as he relaxes under it, letting Bobby slip from his mind for just a minute. The memory erasing from his mind, though the feeling of something being wrong still in his ribs, but his mind won't let up and remember.
It hits him in pieces, head, neck, chest, like being broken open one drip at a time. It should feel cleansing. But it doesn’t. It just feels like proof that he’s still here, something he doesn't want to believe, some would say it's depressing but it's not. Not to him anyway, he loves his life but with the recent events? He wished he was gone. It's like his skin still holds his insides together. That his body is functioning even though something else is clearly, violently not. And that something, he knows, is his mind.
He grabs the shampoo first, sandalwood and cedar, Bobby's favorite scent. Bobby. His mind drifted back to Bobby, back to how the message was unread. Back to many memories of the man, and for the first time that feels like many years. He smiles at the flooded memories.
It pours thick into his palm, pale amber like tree sap, sticky and slow. The smell hits him instantly. It lingers in the steam, rich, warm, familiar. Like firewood. Like fall. Like the scent that used to cling to Bobby’s jacket after a shift.
Buck hesitates.
His chest tightens. He rubs it between his palms, muscle memory, until it foams, trying not to think. Lathers it into his hair. His scalp tingles from the feel, but all he can think about is how this was Bobby’s brand. He started using it because Bobby once mentioned it in passing, said it was “clean without being fancy."
So Buck bought it. Used it every day. Still does. And it was, it was clean but it also wasn't fancy, it made him feel a whole lot better after each use, like he belonged in the world.
The shampoo trickles down his forehead and into his eyes. It stings. He doesn’t wipe it away. He likes the pain, reminds him of reality, brings him back to the real world.
He lets the water run it out of his head, allows it to completely remove the substance from his hair. The burn disappearing alongside the shampoo.
He moves on.
The conditioner is lighter, smoother. Eucalyptus and bergamot. It smells like expensive calm. Like a lie. He rubs it through the strands like he’s trying to anchor himself to the moment. Touch, smell, sensation. "You’re here. You’re fine." He thinks, because he wants to be.
But he's not.
He’s not fine.
He doesn’t feel clean.
He isn't clean.
He allows those thoughts to disappear alongside the conditioner. Old problems become his past.
The body wash is next, citrus and vetiver. Sharp. Zesty. It bites at his nose, overwhelms the space. Like sunlight forced into a wound. He rubs it across his arms, down his chest, over the curve of his ribs, the cold substance reminds him of the lightning strike. When he started to first text Bobby every morning because he wasn't sure of reality. He watches the lather slide off like it’s trying to escape. Like even soap can’t stay on him for long. Like it doesn't want to be on him for long, just like how nobody does.
There’s a moment, just one, where he tilts his head back and lets the water pour over his face. It drowns out everything. The noise. The silence. The thoughts. The world. It's all drowned. Blocking everything from internally killing him.
But still, beneath it, something buzzes. It buzzes and buzzes like there's a bee in his head constantly buzzing around brain to remind him that there's something he knows but can't remember. Like an alarm going off under the floorboards of his brain. Faint. Insistent. Wrong.
But he ignores it.
The shower turns off with a hollow clunk. The metal, once cold, now wet and warm.
He wraps a towel around his waist and stares into the foggy mirror. Swipes a palm across it. A smeared, half-silhouetted version of himself stares back. Unshaven. Pale. Shadows under his eyes like bruises made of memory. Memories he has but doesn't want, memories he has but can't remember. Memories.
He doesn’t want to recognize that guy. But the guy in front of him is familiar but unheard of, unseen, and unwanted. But he still can't see him.
Maybe he’s not supposed to? He ignores it.
He moves to his wardrobe and pulls some clothes out; a plain green t-shirt, navy blue pants, red boxers, black socks. It doesn't feel right to him, but it'll do. Clothes are clothes. Right?
The kitchen feels colder than the bathroom. Like, way colder than it should be. But warmer than he feels than it should be.
The windows leak light that doesn’t warm anything. It just exposes the dust motes floating in the air, like remnants of something once alive but now dead.
He grabs the box of cereal off the counter. Eats it dry, straight from the box. The flakes are stale, gross but they'll do. They scrape his throat on the way down, they taste like cardboard but feel like survival. Like going through the motions. Like routine as a weapon against grief.
He doesn’t notice when he finishes it. Doesn’t taste anything after the fourth bite. It's just.. Simple. Bland, nothing, tasteless. It's as simple as that, it's just nothing.
The coffee’s next.
He brews it strong. Dark roast. No sugar. No cream. He tells himself it’s because he likes the bitterness, but it’s not that. It’s that he needs it to bite. He needs it like it's his only way of surviving,
The smell hits first, heavy, earthy, rich. It clings to the air like smoke. Like it’s trying to cover up something rotting underneath. Like it's covering up a mystery. Much like what his mind is doing. Or maybe his mind is tricking him into smelling this.
The first sip scalds his tongue. It makes his eyes water. The burn tries to be horrible, unwanted, unwelcome. A sensation no one should have to feel.
But he welcomes it.
The bitterness curls down his throat like a curse. Like guilt made liquid. It pools in his stomach and spreads heat through his chest, but it doesn’t reach his hands. They’re still cold. Always cold lately. Never warm, always cold. Warm is for the deserving, the should-have not he could-have.
He leans against the counter. Mug clutched in both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet. Like if he lets go, he’ll float off, disappear like steam rising from the surface. The after taste is alright, tastes like normal coffee. It's not what he wants, what he wants is a normal life. Not a life where his 'family' shun him for his emotions.
He finally checks his phone. The device sat next to him, waiting. Waiting to be turned on. Waiting for his reaction to the response of either silence or a welcoming message.
He opens it to find nothing. Still nothing. No response from Bobby. No response at all. The message sits there.
Unread.
No response.
No three dots.
No Bobby.
A crack spiders through his chest.
At first, it’s subtle. A hairline fracture. Small. Easy to ignore if he doesn’t press on it. Like it isn't there to be acknowledged.
But it’s there.
His thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t type another message. Doesn’t call. Just stares. As if looking harder might summon Bobby from the void. As if sheer want could be enough. As if his needs could be enough to be met.
He expects a reply because he always replies.
He always replies.
He always replies.
He always replies.
Never has he not replied. Normally he's replied by now. Normally, he'd have a huge, wide, fat grin on his face because his Captain had greeted him like every other morning.
The mantra turns into a heartbeat. Steady. Desperate. Needy. Want. A beg.
He tells himself maybe Bobby’s busy. Maybe he left his phone in the other room. Maybe he’s sleeping in. Maybe the service is bad. Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe
Maybe
The coffee goes cold in his hand before he gets a chance to drink it. It's always cold, everything and everyone in his life his cold, always has been and always will be.
He doesn’t sit. Can’t. His legs won’t let him. They twitch with restless energy that feels too big for the room. Every time he thinks about calming down, about breathing, about logic, his heart gives a warning thud like a fault line shifting beneath a city. Like he shouldn't be thinking about himself, he doesn't blame himself for it. He blames everyone around him, they made him like this, they got him to stop thinking about himself because it was "selfish".
So he paces instead. The only thing he can think of doing simultaneously with thinking of possibilities of what happened.
Back and forth. Five steps across the living room. Turn. Five steps back and into the kitchen; where the same 5-Steps and turn back for the living room process takes place. The path wears into the floorboards like a groove. Like a track on repeat. Like a "you should sit down", but he ignores it. He has to.
The mug hovers dangerously close to sloshing. The ceramic’s gone lukewarm now, and his grip is too tight. His fingers ache. They hurt, but he's wracking his brain and staring at his phone. He needs a message. But still no message.
The phone’s screen stays dark. Silent. Motionless. Like it's playing dead. Like it is dead. And it's not dead because it's battery is at 97%, so why does it seem like a taunt.
Buck licks his lips. They taste like bitterness and old dread, they feel dry but they definitely aren't dry with the coffee constantly entering his mouth.
“He probably just got caught up,” he mutters to himself, low and rough, like saying it out loud will make it truer.
“He’s got a million things to do."
"Maybe the engine’s down again."
"Maybe Chim needed help with that new equipment."
"Maybe Hen called him for backup."
"Or maybe…"
"Maybe he left his phone in his truck again. He’s done that before. He always leaves it on silent.”
Millions of excuses flood his mind but he knows none of them are the right reason. So what exactly is it that's stopping a message from Bobby.
It hums.
Whispers.
Echoes.
It's all too loud for a whisper, for an echo, for a him. Way too loud, but that's definitely what it is.
He tightens his grip on the mug. Moves toward the kitchen window. Pulls the curtain back like the outside world might offer a clue. But it doesn't, but God the view is amazing.. It usually is, should be. But its just.. Sickly to look at.
The sun’s up now. Gold and sickly across the skyline. Too bright. It burns the edge of the world and makes everything look a little too crisp. The street below is empty. No sirens. No movement. Just that weird stillness that cities get right before they wake up to the absolute chaos that the day will bring forth to them because that's just how the world works.
The apartment feels wrong. Really wrong. Like there's someone there, not physically but mentally. Like there's a weighing scale and it's off-balance. Crooked. Like it’s leaning slightly, like one side of it sank in the night and he didn’t notice until now.
His brain won’t stop spinning with possiblities of why Bobby won't respond. About why Bobby couldn't respond.
“Maybe.. Maybe he left town? No. No, he would've said something. He always tells me.” he mutters, he paces faster.
“He would’ve said something. Definitely would've said something."
He sets the mug down. Tries again. Another text. Another 'Morning Cap!' as if the first one wasn't there. But still, no response.
“Maybe he turned off his phone to get some sleep. Yeah. Maybe he had a long night, maybe he didn’t want to be disturbed. That’s.. That’s smart. Self-care. He deserves that.” He can't convince himself of this, how could he? Something is up and he can't remember or figure out what.
He’s talking too fast. The words trip over each other. Begging the universe to get Bobby to send a message back.
His phone vibrates, just once. Once singular vibration and he snatches it off the counter like it might vanish, like it was someone on a call about to be a victim of a tragedy.
Spam mail.
"Fucking spam, always ruins people's days." Is his train of thought. He needs to trg and calm down so he exhales sharply. Too sharp. It punches through his ribs like a fist. He doesn’t even remember breathing in. Oh well. He tried.
He starts pacing again. The floors creak. The fridge clicks. Somewhere in the building, a dog barks. The world keeps moving. It wouldn't stop for one singular man, not at all. Though he wished it did.
Bobby doesn’t reply.
He always replies.
He always replies.
He always replies.
Buck rubs his hand down his face. Drags his nails across his scalp, restless and jittery and full of static. Panic arising from the worry he already has.
“Did I miss something. A meeting? A shift? Did I forget something? Shit. Maybe he told me and I spaced.” His voice cracks, like a radio picking up two stations at once. He knows talking to himself makes him seem like a lunatic but fuck societal standards for a hot minute because he needs to wrack his brain.
He stares at the phone again. Not the message this time. Not the ghost of Bobby’s name pinned at the top of the screen. Nothing, he's running through his messaging apps just in case. And then his eyes land on an app.
The calendar.
Of course.
Of course, Bobby would’ve scheduled something. Maybe there’s an event. Maybe he’s speaking at a department fundraiser. Maybe they moved training days and Buck just.. forgot. It'd be on his calendar, maybe he can still make it to whatever event that he forgot.
He opens the app. "Why the fuck is it so slow?" He thinks. It's ridiculous, he needs a new phone.
And before he can blink, before he can look at today's date, before he can even register what he’s seeing. It’s there. Bold. Centered. In black and white. Unmoving. Dated a few weeks ago.
Bobby’s Funeral.
It’s just words. That's it. That’s all. They're words, but these words cut deeper than any sharp object ever could. They could cut through his skin, making sure every fibre got to feel something. They could soak through his blood, making sure there's a mark left behind.
Two Words. Thirteen letters.
Simple. Plain font. Bolded.
Bobby’s Funeral.
It’s centered on the screen. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. Just.. there. A torment of what had happened weeks prior to this very moment. And the moment Buck’s eyes land on it, the world cracks.
The floor doesn’t fall away. Not exactly. Instead, time molasseses. It slows down too fast, he doesn't know what to do. It's too slow for his liking.
It's Thick. It's Slow. It's Sticky.
Everything slows down like someone pulled the gravity dial to max. His heart thuds once, loud and deep, and then refuses to beat again for a moment too long. Like it, too, is trying to make sense of what it just saw. Everything living fibre in him is trying to figure out and understand what he just saw.
Bobby’s Funeral.
His breath catches in his chest, sharp and jagged, a stuttered inhale that doesn’t come back out. It’s like looking at something through water. Unclear but there. The screen is still. His hand holding the phone trembles.
The room spins. But also doesn’t. He imagines it's because of the panic, the no sense of reality, the entire concept of vision becomes foreign to him. He can't remember what he's supposed to be seeing, his mind focused on running in "Bobby's Funeral". The light doesn’t change. The sun doesn’t move. But somehow the colors around him drain, fade, distort, like someone spilled bleach on a painting and left just enough behind to haunt the edges, to make sure it's presence is known. The walls stretch outward, pulling from their corners. The furniture grows distant. The air gets heavier, thicker, like it’s trying to choke him slowly but making sure that he's awake for every second.
And the words don’t go away.
They sit there.
Unmoved.
Unapologetic.
Bobby’s Funeral.
He blinks, and the letters don’t blur. They sharpen. They fucking sharpen. He feels water threatening to fall from them. The edges of the words slice through him like glass. They don’t scream. They don’t shout. They whisper in bold font that refuses to be misread.
No.
No, no, no, no.
That’s not right. That’s not.. That’s not real. It can't be real, Bobby can't be dead. Bobby cannot be dead.
His voice comes out and he doesn’t recognize it. Too thin, too cracked, like radio static wrapped around a scream. Whoever's voice that was? That was not him. That was too distorted, too broken to be him. And he's too happy, cheerful to be broken and distorted.
It’s a mistake. It’s a glitch. It’s a different Bobby. A calendar error. A fucking cruel joke. It has to be, he can't be in a world without Bobby Nash. A world like that doesn't exist, it can't exist. Bobby was the glue that held them all together, Bobby was the foundation that held him together.
In the midst of this, his hand lets go of the phone. It hits the floor with a dull sound, a thud that echoes too long. Like it dropped into a canyon instead of hardwood. But it's sounds distant, far away, like it's not there but it's loud enough to be heard.
It's gotten to a point where everything is too much, but it's also not enough. The walls are breathing. The air is too loud. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He can hear it. Feel it. Thumping inside him, banging to be let loose. Each one slamming into his chest like a wrecking ball that missed the memo.
He stumbles backward, eyes wide, vision tunneling, like the edges are being burned out of his skull. The room is bending. Colors shifting. Light flickering. Everything's spinning again, but now it has teeth. It's all changing toi fast for him, he doesn't understand what's going on anymore. Everything has become too much. It's too overwhelming.
The walls stretch further this time. They pulse. The shadows grow legs. His breath claws at his throat. Too sharp. Too fast. Then not at all. He grabs the counter. Cold marble. Too cold. Ice against his skin. It should ground him, but it feels fake. Like a movie set. Like if he presses too hard, it’ll fall apart behind him and reveal nothing but scaffolding. The icy cold turns into piping hot, he doesn't understand what the fuck is happening but it's too much for him to process.
He can still see it in his head. The text that read "Bobby’s Funeral." The date that had absolutely shattered today's hope of being a good day, the date that had absolutely ruined this mind. He clutches his head. His palms press to his temples like he can squeeze the memory out. Like if he holds hard enough, Bobby will answer this time. He blinks, too fast, too slow, and suddenly he smells something. Something burnt. Charred. Like smoke. Like… wood and flesh and blood.
His throat convulses. He tastes ashes. There’s nothing on fire. But his lungs think there is. It's all too much for him to process. There's too much going on despite there being so little around him. He wants it to stop. The memories of Bobby becoming visible around him.
Call it what you will. Sensory error. Emotional override. Grief-induced hallucination.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He just wants this bullshit to stop. He wants it all to stop spinning, but to continue moving. He wants the ash, the wood, the smokey taste in his mouth to disappear. He wants the smell of fire to disappear but he also doesn't want it to smell empty. He doesn't want to see these memories, they only make the big, empty Bobby shaped-hole in his heart bigger.
He stumbles again. Hits the wall. Slides down it. His chest is locking up. His arms won’t move right. His fingers are tingling. He can’t breathe. Not at all, he doesn't think. If he can, it's shallow. He needs to calm down but he can't. It's all too much.
It's like a curse. And his brain refuses to accept it. Refuses to accept Bobby's gone.
Denial is the last barrier between him and the fall, and it’s cracking. Splintering. Shaking. A sound builds in his ears, like metal scraping metal. Or maybe it's a scream. Maybe it’s his. He doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know anything. He only know sone thing right now.
Bobby’s gone.
Like drowning in molasses.
Like being shoved off a cliff.
Like both. At once.
He can’t breathe. He knows how to breathe. He’s done it every day of his life. Inhale, exhale. Air in. Air out. But it won’t come. It refuses to and he doesn't know why. His chest is locked. A vice clamp. His ribs feel like they’re folding inward, crushing his lungs. The oxygen refuses to listen. Or maybe his body just forgot how to live.
Bobby’s gone.
He’s gone.
He’s dead.
He’s dead.
He’s dead.
The thought repeats in loops, like a skipping vinyl track in his brain. Every time the words hit, it’s another blow to the sternum. It's a repetitive hell that he can't escape and he doesn't understand why.
He hits the floor hard. But doesn’t feel it. All the warmth has drained from his limbs, fingers gone numb, legs trembling, skin slick with cold sweat. His hands claw at his own shirt, yanking at the collar like he can rip it open wide enough to let air in. Like he can undo the panic if he just tears enough fabric. Whatever is happening to him, it's made him weak. Real fucking weak to the point where a firefighter can't rip a shirt.
The walls are closing in. No, wait. No, they’re stretching out again. The world won’t hold still. He squeezes his eyes shut. Praying that it'll open an escape from this personal hell the universe has created for him.
Bad choice. Behind his lids it’s worse. Images he didn’t ask for flashes him like they were everyday occurances.
Bobby’s final moments with him. Bobby’s casket.
The way the wood looked too expensive. The flowers, they were Bobby's favourite. The silence.
The silence.
The goddamn silence.
He should’ve texted back.
The thought comes twisted. Childlike. Illogical. Desperate. It's stupid, he knows. This entire thing being absolutely stupid. He's begging the universe to give him a sign that Bobby is alive.
He gasps, a choking, hollow noise, more sob than breath. His back arches off the ground. His lungs are on fire. Everything burns. His vision is tunneling again. Black eating the corners.
The light in the room flickers, or maybe that’s just him. Flickering. Dimming. Breaking. His head knocks against the cabinet as he curls in tighter.
Fetal. Heaves wracking his body like they want to break bone. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to rewind. Undo. Unknow. He doesn't want this, the suffering and the pain.
Just one text back. Just one. Just “Morning, kid.” Just a fucking emoji, Bobby, anything. Anything.
But there's nothing. Just the sound of his own panic clawing its way out of his throat, guttural, broken, raw. It's killing him slowly and he knows it.
The air tastes like metal now. His tongue is dry. His throat burns. His eyes sting. His heart pounds so loud it drowns everything else out. Because it's all too loud, too much. And somehow, not enough. He wants to scream. He wants to disappear. He wants this moment to stop. For it all to just leave him, for his senses to grow a backbone and regulate to the way they should be, for his mind to just reset.
He wants Bobby. But Bobby’s gone. Bobby’s dead. And Buck is breaking open in real time,
a human earthquake, waiting for the aftershocks, fault lines splitting wide, and no one left to hold him still. Because he's alone. Always has been, always will be.
It's basically muscle memory. He always ends up alone. No matter what.