Crisis City: Act 2

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9-1-1 abc, stephen king's It, x-men, bbc ghosts, bbc sherlock, flight rising

open, blink, shatter Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier | M | 9.1k

"Richie," Eddie pants. "How many more times?" Three doors stand in front of them. The tunnel's shaking. What’s your choice? - Or, in the depths of Derry during their confrontation against It, Richie and Eddie arrive at 3 doors. Again, and again, and again.

Head Over Heels / Broken (pre-relationship reddie | Rated T | 1.1k words)

It’s late. Everyone’s winding down in Ben’s huge living room, and Richie's gone out for a smoke.

Or, during a Losers reunion, Eddie tries to bridge the chasm that's been deepening between him and Richie.

don't want to let you go ('til you see the light) (reddie | Rated T | 6.7k words)

Ever since Eddie got divorced and flew across the country less than a year after killing the clown, moving in with Richie and starting therapy, it’s been—great. So fucking great it leaves Richie flailing internally sometimes, not knowing how to act, how to keep his stupid impulses and his stupid brain from blurting out stupid declarations of love or doing majorly stupid things like sweeping Eddie off his feet and kissing him til the world ends. That, or kissing him until Eddie has to leave the house again to go to his office job, blergh, or until Eddie pushes him off and says, dude, what the fuck are you doing? and the fantasy shatters once and for all, and Richie realizes he has just monumentally fucked up. Because that's the real crux of the matter. Eddie doesn't like him back. He couldn't possibly, because that would be the stupidest idea of them all. Except– There is one thing to consider.

Or, Richie and Eddie are roommates, and Richie's head over heels. It just takes a couple phone calls for him to understand Eddie is too.

(tags/warnings: post 9-1-1 s08e08 Wannabes, buck pov, pining, unhealthy coping mechanisms, hurt no comfort)

-

"Yeah, actually." Buck fiddles with the ring on his finger, all his weight melting onto the bar top. "I have a husband."

Drunk, sweaty and overwhelmed, he finds himself laughing. It's not just the alcohol, but the lights and the swirling room and the masses of people moving on the dance floor behind him, behind him and the stranger next to him that tips a smile in his direction. "Nice," the guy says. It sounds distant. Buck finds himself nodding along, lifting his Appletini in a swoop that sends some of it sloshing over the rim. Oops, he goes, the stranger laughing with him, and he takes a sip and smacks his lips loudly at the sweetness. Nods at the glint in the guy—Thomas, he introduces himself—'s hand, on his ring finger.

"You guys got any kids?"

"She's pregnant, actually." Thomas lights up, in that slow, three-drinks-in way. Buck does too, clinking their glasses together. The music changes, something slower, something that makes him think of Eddie.

"Congratulations," Buck says. "I love kids."

Thomas laughs, nods, me too, and gushes about his wife and family, Buck humming in all the right places, and Thomas returns the question. The next five to ten minutes go by with a refill set down in front of them and Buck gushing about Chris, he's so cool, we're so lucky to have him, and Eddie doesn't think he's a good dad sometimes, but he is, he really is, and yeah, we've been partners for seven years. I've never been happier in my life. Thomas grins, congratulating him, and he doesn't know.

That Buck's stealing these moments, fragments from a life that will never be his.

That he's inhabiting them for the night like the broken specter he is, stuck and forever left behind.

And Thomas will remain oblivious. Buck's laugh thrums with it all, a fire fueled and flashing over at this moment, until Thomas taps out with an empty glass hitting the countertop, speaking of rejoining his brother's birthday group and waving Buck goodbye with a cheers, man, great talk, and Buck is alone again.

Not for long.

He's wearing the ring when he flirts with the hot drunk brunette that grabs his ass, winding up with against a wall with her mouth pressed to his and fingers curled into his hair, tugging hard, harder, and he's wearing the ring when he sucks off a beautiful dark-eyed man with a Prince Albert in a cramped toilet stall, moaning and taking him deeper than he should, enough that it'll leave his throat hoarse the next day, sore and fucking hurting.

The end of the night finds him in an Uber home, buzzing all over, his heart worn down, shattered, and stomped to pieces. Can't get his eyes off his hand, the stupid prop ring, the whole ride. He stumbles his way into his apartment, the gaping maw in his chest aching with loneliness.

He doesn’t deserve to leave a glass of water and Tylenol in his nightstand. He walks straight up the stairs to his room and drops on the side of his bed, tugging the ring off.

It leaves an indent on his skin, a brand at the base of his finger. The mark goes white when he presses a thumb down on it, then fades back into view.

He tugs the closest nightstand drawer open. In his pocket, a buzz. A text from Eddie.

You doing anything right now?

He doesn't wait—his hand's already tapping the call icon.

Eddie picks up within one ring, and there he is, Buck thinks, aching some more. Eight hundred miles away, Eddie—cheeks rosy and his beautiful dark eyes a little warm, a little sleepy—grants him a smile. "Hey, Buck."

he wants to be with Bev, of course he does. this is his first love, the girl of his dreams, one of his best friends - except they dont know each other at all. except Bev is getting out of an abusive relationship. except Ben is… Ben.

alone, for too damn long. charming, in that earnest, Nebraska boy way that's never left him, but still awkward, still unused to long conversations, grown used to people never genuinely caring about him for long enough to have said conversations. getting used to guiltily icing people out - why should they bother with my problems? it doesn't matter that much. it doesn't matter at all. I've got my work. I've got my buildings. I've got the recognition. that's enough. it has to be enough.

because if it isn't, what is he left with?

an empty shell of a boy who never grew up, the lonely boy that moved and found the best friends in the world only to wind up alone again. the lonely boy that took that shell and made it his. the lonely boy that got older but stayed stuck, and doesn't know how to take the shell off anymore.

it tears your chest, your throat to shreds, but you yell out his name anyway, like maybe he'll answer, the way he always does - Buck? Buck!

nothing.

you race up the ladder, untethered, your life for his - a shot ringing, blood splatter, pain a jolt through your shoulder and you have to reach him, you try, reach your hand out and grasp - but he's too far away, rain crashing all around you, and you look down at him and stretch your fingers towards him and the water touches you then him but you can't, can't reach him no matter how hard you stretch or pull, you cannot get him back up.

it takes an endless moment - your team in a coordinated frenzy - but you lower him down. first aid, cardiac arrest.

his pulse, always beating for you and your son, is gone.

3 minutes. 17 seconds. each and every single one ticking in your mind with every inch the ambulance travels to the hospital.

of course it's you who drives him all the way.

the ambulance doors open. rain crashes in the bay, over him, over you - right this moment, he's dead.

of course it's your hands that bring him back to life.

the emergency room personnel takes over. you yell at them - Do more!

no one will ever do enough. not like you've done for him. not like he's done for you.

if he makes it, you'll tell him- something. you haven't figured out the exact words yet, but that's okay. he'll wake up, you hope, know that he will, that he'll try his damnedest to get back to you.

after that - then you'll figure it out.