Archive of Our Own ^beta

Buck doesn’t hate being a Guide.

He never has, even if he hasn’t spoken to his parents in almost fifteen years—not since coming online.

It wasn’t a traumatic experience. It wasn’t even upsetting. He’d simply woken up one day with extra senses and abilities and his life had changed, for better or worse.

He doesn’t regret leaving, then; had never blamed them for their disappointment. It’s a thing that happens a lot, in the Guide community. The various S&G Centers offer support groups for that very reason: that Guides, perceived to be the ‘weaker’ of a bond, are often discriminated against.

So no, he doesn’t hate being a Guide. He actually really appreciates them, because his first stop as a newly emancipated minor had been to a S&G Center, and it was a Guide who had helped him, who had ultimately shaped him into who he is today.

And no, he doesn’t blame his parents for their ignorance. Well, maybe he did for a few years there, but he’s past that. Really.

He’s proud to be a Guide, proud to be able to help people with his meager abilities. Any discrimination he’s ever run up against slides right off his back.

It’s never affected him.

He’s never hated being a Guide.

But right now, in this moment, Buck wants to carve that part of himself out and toss it far, far away. He’s never hated being a Guide, but hatred is welling hand in hand with anguish and it’s taking everything he has to keep standing—to keep it contained so that he doesn’t cause an Empathic Event of some kind.

Because right now, in this moment, he’s standing in his firehouse, in his home, in the safest, most comfortable place he knows and appreciates—being rejected by his Sentinel.

Initial misgivings aside, insecure thoughts of replacements thrown out—he almost misses that singular moment of hilarious naivety; before he’d known that Eddie Diaz wasn’t just another regular firefighter with an impressive resume that Bobby had poached away from another Station to maybe replace him.

Because Eddie Diaz isn’t another regular firefighter.

Eddie Diaz is a Sentinel.

His Sentinel.

He’d never really thought about what he wanted in a Sentinel. The odds of meeting his perfect match were so minuscule it didn’t really register, most days. The thought of settling for something less seemed…sacrilege. The ache of longing is something they all get used to, anyway. And he is, used to it.

But if he had imagined a Sentinel, it might have been someone like Eddie Diaz. At least, on paper. An impeccable military career. Top grades at the Academy. Peak health, if the way that toned skin and those mouth-watering abs stirred something else in his gut before it was hidden by an LAFD t-shirt.

But he could never have imagined this.

Because Eddie Diaz, his Sentinel, his soulmate, his perfect match, is standing in front of him, in the flesh, and he’s not—he doesn’t—

Buck is used to the ache of longing in his chest but it doesn’t prepare him at all for, for--

For Eddie Diaz, his Sentinel, shaking his head and the expression on his face—disbelief and slight distaste and—

It hurts.

It’s a rending tear and a fatal stab and he’s bleeding and his Sentinel doesn’t care because he looks like he’s trying to get away from Buck as fast as he can and Feels like he hates the very sight of Buck. It’s a soul deep wound that is so much more agonizing than Buck could ever imagine anything could hurt.

"I really can't do this."

There's a distant shattering sound and the collision of a tiny, million pieces of his heart. Of hope. He’s never hated being a Guide, but he hates it more than anything, right now. He’s used to aching, but he’s never known what it’s like to hurt.

“There is no this. No us. There can’t be.”

He watches Eddie gesture between them with blank eyes. His chest feels hollow, like every word had scooped out his insides and left him gutted and bare. The aching, yearning, longing grows exponentially for something standing in front of him yet now forever out of reach. A black hole of despair.

"I'm married."

There are black spots crowding his vision because his lungs are frozen, locked.

"I have a son."

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.

He wants to have never laid eyes on Eddie Diaz.

He should be used to this.

He should be used to this.

All this time and all these years, and for what?

In this world, even Evan Buckley's Sentinel doesn't want him.

And Evan Buckley, for the first time in his life, and maybe for the rest of it, hates being a Guide.

"It's fine," he hears himself say in an even, friendly tone. "I get it, man. It’s cool." A smile stretches across his face, but it just seems to make his Sentinel uneasier. Wrong, not his Sentinel. Not ever.

Eddie Diaz shuffles as though he wants to step back but is only just managing not to. His eyes narrow and study Buck almost suspiciously, head slightly tilted as though listening.

You have no right, Buck doesn't say. It doesn't even matter. What does anything matter, anymore? This man doesn’t want him and he’s going to have to deal with that, just—just not here.

"It's really nice to meet you, though, and listen, I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta run."

And he does.

He ends up in the furthest corner of the turnout room and curls up in the dark, trying to contain his hemorrhaging insides; has to contain it, because otherwise he’ll not only drag Eddie down into an Empathic Zone, but anyone even remotely latent or psi-sensitive will probably also come along for the ride and then they’ll all know that Evan Buckley’s Sentinel doesn’t want him. He’s only a mid-level Guide, but he’s answered enough S&G calls to know the damage he’ll cause if he doesn’t. get. a. grip.

So he takes the shaking, shattered shards of himself, jabs them deep inside with everything else broken and wraps them up to hide them away. It’s a thin veneer. A shallow band aid on a gushing wound, but it’ll hold. It’s duct tape and saran wrap in an emergency field triage but it will. fucking. hold.

He finally manages to take his first breath in what feels like forever.

He should go to the Center. He knows this.

Rejection is…not rare. It happens, it’s happened, it will keep happening.

S&G Centers have Guides that specifically deal with this issue. He’s escorted a couple patients himself; had reassured them in so many words that it wasn’t the end of the world and that they could and would recover. He wants to go back in time and throttle himself, because it is, he’s wrong, and he’s done them such an injustice.

He should go. He needs to go.

He doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to see or Feel the seeping sympathy or worse, indignant anger. It’s not Eddie’s fault that he doesn’t want Buck–that he has a life that has no space for Buck.

It's fine. Everything's fine.

He slumps into the comforting dark of the turnout room and blinks away the last of the tears.

He’ll manage. He'll be fine.

It's not fine.

Because it’s amazing, working with Eddie.

Eddie saves his goddamn life like the goddamn super Sentinel he is.

They’re only on their second call together and it’s an active freaking explosive. The silence between them is so thick he can barely stand how smothering it feels, like there’s just not enough space for any air in his lungs because there’s only choking grief and regret. The cloying fear and elevated stress of their current patient is battering against his defenses, compounding on the pulsing headache he has trying to maintain his shields and keep his Empathy down at nothing because otherwise he’ll grab right onto Eddie and not let go. Almost two decades and he has to unlearn a reflex that’s become as easy to him as breathing while in the presence of the one person he shouldn’t have to.

They come out unscathed. Mostly.

The bomb still explodes, and the ambulance is lost as collateral, but the patient is being safely transported to the hospital and neither he nor Eddie are injured. He just watches the shift of Eddie’s back striding quickly away from Buck and silently bleeds.

It’s tragic, because he already trusts Eddie Diaz, this man who doesn’t want him.

And he knows Eddie Diaz, on some level, trusts him, even if he doesn’t want him.

He's honestly not sure how Eddie is even functioning, but it must be top notch military training or something. He’s always heard about how Sentinels tend to fixate on their Guides, has witnessed it time and time again, but Eddie seems fine.

They go out again and again, call after call and rescue after fire after medical, and maybe Buck doesn’t know Eddie, but he knows, can literally see, is experiencing first hand, how well Eddie meshes with the team like a fine tooth comb. He's cool under literal fire and quick to action.

A Sentinel of pure competence, through and through.

And Buck. Working with Eddie is like prodding a damaged tooth. He likes watching Eddie, period, whether he’s joking around with Chim or learning how to cook with Bobby or discussing some random issue with Hen. It’s pain that’s almost good and he keeps poking at it like the masochist he is because he doesn’t want to know what the absence of it would feel like.

Because it’s here, in the space and around the people he loves the most, that he can maybe carve out a tiny place for himself in Eddie’s life.

He's managed to mostly smother the agonizing fire of his longing and function semi-normally for the most part. His Empathy has all been turned off, but he's not blind to the increasingly worried looks his team keeps giving him every time he fumbles.

He’s really, really trying his best not to fumble.

They settle in a rhythm that’s—almost manageable. They get the job done, and then Eddie avoids him like the plague the rest of the time and Buck is okay with this because at least Eddie is in his life and he’ll probably keep prodding at that damage until the day he dies.

They’re perfect.

Because Eddie is just that good and Buck is trying his best, except—

It’s a single finger on a bare arm that shatters the uneasy, tenuous truce. Between the carefully maintained distance and exaggerated personal boundaries, the safety gloves and the long sleeves and the turnout coats, he’s been…optimistic, of it working out long term.

That he can have his cake, even if he can’t eat it, or even be near it, or look at it for very long.

Even if it still always sort of feels like he's dying, like an addict going back for the very thing that kills him; an alcoholic at an open bar. Even if he keeps getting cut by the pieces of his shattered heart, by Eddie, with every averted glance or stiff interaction.

It’s extra dumb, because it’s not even a desperate hand grab during a heroic rescue, or an injured, ill-fated swoon into manly, muscular arms. Just…an accidental brush.

The day is a slow one. The calls have been mild and Buck, he isn’t necessarily lurking, but Eddie’s on the phone in the locker room and Buck needs to get his out of his locker.

He takes a deep breath and decides to go for it.

But just as he passes Eddie, the shower room door slams open and Buck has to swerve to avoid a laughing Chim, who skids past him, followed shortly by a yelling Marcus.

He doesn’t even feel it, doesn’t know what happens because—

The world just—stops. The world stops and lights up and things are oh so right and yet oh so wrong. He feels the most alive he’s ever been and yet he’s still dying. The sudden ferocity of his psyche trying to latch onto Eddie leaves him struggling; reeling with the effort to not.

And Eddie, he zones.

Evan Buckley, mid-level Guide, has actually caused his Sentinel to fucking zone. He’s officially the worst Guide ever.

Luckily, the majority of their teammates are mundanes. They’re alone in the locker room and Eddie's shoulders are scorching through his shirt, burning into Buck’s hands as he whispers desperately for Eddie to dial it back and down.

It takes way too long, but luckily Eddie’s fantastic at control and Buck can literally see it as distant brown eyes swim back into focus.

Can see it as Eddie abruptly pales.

As Eddie stares at him in horror, shaken and terrified—vulnerable like he’s never been since they’ve met—before it morphs into anger—into such actual, visceral hatred that Buck lets go of his shoulders, hurt and stunned.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, backing away. “I’m so sorry—“

Eddie lurches off the bench and storms out of the locker room, his phone clattering to the ground.

Buck’s face crumples. His legs suddenly feel weak, enough that he has to lean against the lockers so he doesn’t end up on the ground. He exhales shakily, a hand creeping up to press at his chest as he stares down at Eddie’s forgotten, discarded phone.

He thought he knew what hurt was. He thought he could get used to this sort of pain, this sort of agony.

But he can’t get Eddie’s expression out of his head.

He tries his best to move past it, but now…now, the longing ache in his chest increases to actual, physical chest pain that has yet to subside, accompanied by a headache every time he’s in Eddie’s vicinity.

Eddie, who has yet to look at him.

Buck persists, because if he stops…if he stops—

It has to fade eventually, right?

Like amputation. The pain would maybe be there, always, but phantom and fake and endurable. He just has to get there.

He’ll get there if it kills him.

Bobby notices enough of the strain between them that he stops pairing Buck with Eddie, stops trying to encourage the relationship, the partnership, that should have rightfully been between them. It’s...both a relief and extremely not good.

Worse, he meets Christopher the following week, and Shannon along with him and he completely understands why Eddie doesn't want him, why there’s no space. They're both lovely beyond words and it hurts, it hurts to see the happy little family and yet he understands.

He can only be thankful that he's not the Sentinel in this non-relationship because he can only imagine how out of control he'd be.

And it gets easier. There’s a new addition to the House by the name of Lena Bosko and Eddie has relaxed some, with time, with distance, with this new additional barrier between them, but Buck has learned; can’t let it happen again. Doesn’t want to see that again.

The smile on his face is practiced from childhood but it’s perfected now, under the heaviest of strains. Under the harshest of tests. Under Eddie Diaz’s superior senses and sometimes weirdly scrutinizing gaze and Bobby’s and Hen’s and Chim’s experience in all things Buck.

He’s Evan Buckley and he won’t bow to this.

Neither will he bow to the Center, who has somehow picked up on his situation. They’re “concerned” and vague threats are made, but what does it matter now? They can't make Eddie want him and they definitely can't make him bond with anyone else.

Their team still works flawlessly, because Buck is trying his best, and Buck is great, but apparently Eddie is just that much better because he somehow gets over the touch sense and operates as normal and just who the hell is Eddie Diaz anyway.

Buck's maybe just not worthy. He's definitely not worth his patients, not when he comes up against sobbing, panicked, hurting victims and he feels like a selfish monster every time for not opening up his Empathy and comforting them, but he can’t—

Eddie’s right there. Still here, and he just…can’t. He won't recover. This he knows with absolute certainty.

It's all he can do. He watches and wants and—he'll be fine. There are plenty of guides who have to live with this rejection. Plenty of mundanes who save people without extraneous senses. They all manage fine. He’ll manage fine.

He manages absolutely fine until the Center throws him a curveball named Taylor Kelly.

She appears suspiciously out of the blue, and if he wasn’t so keen on avoiding the Center altogether he’d go down there and accuse them of trying to meddle.

Taylor is in a Sentinel class of her own. She's forceful and arrogant and best, or worst, of all she's...she's attracted to him. She wants him.

They're a slightly uneven match, in the scheme of things. They get along well, there's no doubt. He enjoys drinking with her. His Empathy just doesn't mesh well sometimes with her ruthless pragmatism and caustic ambition. But Buck, on his worst days and to his utter horror, is—is maybe considering it.

And he knows. He knows. This is a good second chance, a great alternative. Bond rejection is not exactly common, but it's far from rare. No one has ever actually died from it...they just feel like it.

They go on a single date–and that’s the end of it for him.

He can’t say the same for the Center.

"You have to let go. It's getting a bit pathetic, isn't it?" He ignores the taunting voice, more than used to the insults over the past few weeks. Guide Calina Telford is a supposed mid-level S&G Guide that seems to have been assigned to him since he turned down Taylor. He doesn't know exactly what her issue is, but he's pretty damn sure no Guide should be acting this way. Then again, she's low enough to barely even register to him, an actual mid-level guide, so really, he doesn’t know what the Center thinks they’re doing.

As it is, he walks away from her because being around her always serves as an instant headache horse pill—tough to swallow and definitely not good for him. She dogs his footsteps but leaves him once he reaches the station, which is always a relief, but only until shift is over, because he knows she’ll still be here.

She's right, though. It is pathetic. His Sentinel doesn't want him. He should move on. He should go dangle his insides in Taylor's face maybe and get on with it.

He wants to. He tries, when another suspiciously convenient Sentinel by the name of Ali runs into him at the grocery store. She’s extremely nice, and even more compatible than Taylor, maybe. He really, really tries; spends a long weekend actually drunk off his socks and thinks about the inherent selfishness of lingering, of haunting Eddie like an unwanted ghost. Only, the barb wire coiling in his chest is a piercing garotte that tightens at the mere thought, its teeth biting deep into his already bruised, bleeding heart; gushing unchecked into apathy and obsession until he's choking with it.

He's bound to Eddie, for better or worse. To Christopher. To Shannon. To this tiny family who are entirely necessary to him like oxygen, like air. Even if he means nothing to them. Less than nothing.

He’s not hurting anyone but himself anyway.

The S&G Center can't make him actually do anything, which is why he's still at the 118, working with his soul mate, his Sentinel, his perfect match and bleeding out for it. He’s perfectly fine and fuck them—fuck Calina Telford—for thinking otherwise.

He’s at the bar after a particularly bad shift when he runs into Taylor again. He should really know better. He feels ugly, right now, never mind what kind of chemo-signals he’s leaking. But having to watch Eddie dive headfirst into danger, to nearly give up on him, and then do nothing but grit his teeth and clench his fists when he reappears safe and sound because it’s not his place. Well, it would put anyone in a mood.

“Buck? What happened? Who did this to you?”

He stiffens under the deceptively delicate hand on his shoulder. Taylor sounds alarmed, Feels concerned, but there's an ugly current of possession and impatience under it.

He gently slides out from under her touch.

Her eyes narrow just the slightest, but she doesn't pursue it.

"I'm still here, Buck. All you have to do is take my hand."

He presses his lips together to stave off the burn behind his eyes. He clears his throat.

"I know, Taylor. Thank you."

"Oh, honey. Don't thank me."

She backs away from him as he stands from the bar.

"Don't do this to yourself. I'm here, when you change your mind. I'm here, Evan. Unlike some other people."

He swallows hard, watching her walk away before averting his gaze and wiping at his eyes.

There's something wrong with him, he decides, to first be rejected by a Sentinel and to reject another who actually wants him.

The worst part is the smallest part of him that wants to go with her is still there and he can’t smother it. In fact, the part that yearns for this connection, for any connection, honestly, is growing larger.

It's telling him to accept his fate.

He does like Taylor for the most part. And she seems to still be pursuing him, unlike Ali, who had gracefully accepted his rejection and moved on.

Taylor is vibrant and fierce, like the unforgiving sun on a long day at the beach, but there's a cutting edge that if he's not careful—and let's face it, when is he ever careful?—he'll cut himself on.

But isn't that what any relationship is? Learning each other’s edges and avoiding them or even softening them? Maybe he doesn't like the caustic, ruthless ambition, but people can change, right? People learn.

Like he's learning.

He's learning that even in this. Even in Sentinel and Guide matters, there is no fairy tale ending.

And maybe he should just accept it.

And then.

And then Shannon dies.

He hears it through the grapevine, through the water cooler, and...does nothing. Does less than nothing. Has to sit and stare at the wall of his apartment and forcefully not think about Eddie at all.

Work is grim. Hushed whispers and pitying stares and Buck hurts for Eddie, but he stays in his lane. He continues to keep his distance. Keeps his senses dialed to nothing. To less than nothing.

From a distance, Eddie seems curiously unchanged by his wife's death. He's maybe a little more quiet, a little more solemn, but it's not like Buck had the pleasure of hearing his laughter anyway. Those few moments he managed to steal are courtesy of the rest of the team, hoarded in his heart like bits of gold, rare and precious.

Despite his best efforts, he itches with the urge to come closer and even finds himself doing it multiple times throughout the day—to open up a little bit just to see if Eddie is okay, because it's concerning, okay? Sure, people deal with their grief in different ways, but Eddie...it's Eddie.

He’s watched this man operate for almost a year; has saved him, and been saved by him. There isn’t a part of Buck that isn’t hyper aware of every part of Eddie, and every single part right now wants to tune in and see what’s changed.

He doesn't give into that temptation, and keeps to himself. Keeps away as much as possible. Everyone who knows Buck should be proud of this accomplishment, would probably be, if it wasn’t a little like a planet orbiting a dying star—there’s zero chance of him escaping, and eventually, he’ll be pulled into the collapse whether he wants to or not. Or like a starfish, caught by a predator. It’s been almost three hundred and fifty six days and he’s still trying to amputate what should already be dead.

The first time Eddie shows up with a bruise, it's on his chin. He strolls into the station all loose limbs and relaxed shoulders, with a little smile on his face. Buck stares at him so hard it actually draws Eddie's gaze.

He looks away then, because the sight of that smile disappearing cuts further into the hole in his chest.

He keeps his gaze averted. Clearly Eddie is doing better, recovering a little. Something in him relaxes at that. He never should have had any doubts. He’s never met a more disciplined person than Eddie Diaz.

The second time he sees Eddie with a bruise, well.

Bruises by themselves are no big deal. They come part and parcel with the job.

But he can't help staring at the sheer size of the one stretching across Eddie's back and curling around his side, a violent canvas of bright red and dark purple. He looks around to see if anyone else is witnessing this atrocity, but there’s no one else in the room with them.

"What the hell happened," he blurts, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth. It's the first he's spoken to Eddie outside of call outs since his wife died.

Eddie's glance is unreadable as he pulls on a shirt, hiding his battered torso.

"It's none of your business."

His lips clamp shut as the terse words cut into him. He should know better, by now. He doesn't know why he does these things to himself. Eddie clearly knows that if he gives an inch then Buck will take a mile, and so he never gives any inches.

"My apologies," he says through stiff lips, and then gets the hell out of there while the burn in his eyes can stay contained.

But it gets worse, and Buck can't help noticing; can’t help noticing that no one else is noticing.

Bruises in the shape of fingerprints hidden just beneath one sleeve. A black eye. A fucking limp at one point.

Worse, worse, Buck has finally given in and cracked open his Empathy just a little, and what he can Feel from Eddie is a vicious little tangle of unchecked rage, smug satisfaction, and that gushing well of grief.

It’s bewildering. He’s fucking bewildered. How has no one noticed? There are other Sentinel and Guide pairs in their station, even if his team are purely mundane. Oh, oh no, Riley transferred out earlier this year and Jackson did too. It happens, when they find a soulmate that doesn’t reject them. He's not bitter about that at all, of course not.

He watches Eddie blow off the others, watches them let him, despite the lingering concern, and steels himself before diving in again. He watches, and waits, for the entirety of their current twenty-four shift, and then makes his move.

Eddie doesn’t appreciate being cornered, the way his jaw stiffens and his eyes narrow when he turns to find Buck.

Buck licks his lips, suddenly less confident now that he’s pinned beneath that dark gaze. "Look, I know you don't...want anything to do with me, but we work together. We're a team, even if we're not always partners. and I...I care about you, so I'm concerned."

Eddie turns back away from him and pulls something else from his locker. "You don't need to be. I'm fine."

Buck eyes the tense line of that broad back before dropping his gaze to ground.

"Don't lie to me, Eddie," he says softly. "I can Feel you."

He hides a flinch as Eddie whirls to face him again, swallows at the clench of those fists. Has to bury the shame at the tiny tendril of thought that wonders if Eddie could. If he would.

"I already told you, Buck. You and I have nothing to do with each other. You need to leave me alone."

And sure, he came prepared to hear these words, but actually hearing them is another thing altogether. It takes him a moment to stabilize the fresh well of hurt, the renewed wailing why in the hollow depths of his soul. He swallows again and carefully lifts his gaze to meet Eddie's angry eyes.

"I care about you, anyway," he repeats, stubbornly. "And if you don't want to talk to me. Please, just talk to someone."

“And I told you, I’m fine. You need to leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough? Do I need to take out a restraining order?”

The words hit hard enough for Buck to stumble back a step; to be blinking sudden tears from his eyes. How could he? There’s bitterness curling in his chest, because why wouldn’t he. He’s been told time and time again, and yet here he is, still bashing his head on this wall.

Eddie’s expression flickers, but stays hard.

Buck averts his gaze. Swallows. He fights against the hurt scaling beneath his skin, settling in like tiny knives and shredding every little bit of him.

He should be used to it, by now.

“I know it’s difficult for you,” he starts again, voice thick.

“You know what’s difficult? It's difficult, not to ground on you."

Buck’s eyes are burning again, and he keeps blinking, because he can’t break here. If he breaks here, they’ll both be lost.

“Then don't,” Buck whispers. Or he wants to, but those are words that he can’t force past his lips for the life of him. And he can Feel the edges of Eddie's grief, his rage and his helpless despair and it cuts into Buck, now that he lets himself Feel it. He doesn't want to become another thing on top of it; the possible straw that breaks everything, even if Eddie seems to be breaking already anyway.

He presses his lips together, takes a long slow inhale and exhale through his nose. "Tell me what you need, then,” he says finally. “If it's for me to walk away from this, from you, so you can stop worrying—I can do that. Consider it done. I'll put in a transfer tomorrow. Otherwise, otherwise, Eddie, I am here. You can crash against me. I won't break, and neither will you.”

He looks up, determination surging even though he’s losing the battle against tears.

“You’re one of the strongest men, I know, Eddie. I’ve watched you work. I know how you work. But you don’t have to always be strong, and it’s okay not to be. Don't—don’t think of it as losing control, think of it as—as mitigating the loss. You’ve suffered a major loss and if you don’t deal with it, then you might—you might—”

Eddie looks at him sharply, and Buck looks away.

“Or, if it's really so intolerable, then request a Guide from the Center. Just please, stop hurting yourself. I can Feel you, and that’s even when I'm trying my damnedest not to. If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for your son. Please, Eddie. You shouldn’t—if you keep doing what you’re doing you might even go Dorm—” He breaks off, the horror of the thought sealing his lips.

“Maybe I should.” The words are said lowly, quietly.

Buck’s eyes widen, shooting back to Eddie. Denial is thick on Buck’s tongue—in the very marrow of his bones—but he bites it to keep it still. He doesn’t want this conversation. He doesn’t want them to be here. How did they get here and why did he not see it coming?

“Maybe I should go Dormant.” Eddie’s eyes are clear, opaque as they stare at Buck.

Silence.

Buck drops his eyes and ducks his head, grief swirling heavily in his chest and tears dripping to the floor. Why is it like this? Why? Where does he go from here, when his a Sentinel he cares about wants to go Dormant?

He blinks until his vision clears and lifts his head.

Eddie’s eyes are wet, now, and his lips are pressed tightly together and he’s staring at Buck with an unreadable expression. Buck shuts off everything because he doesn’t want to know what kind of conviction is behind those words. And—Buck should leave. He’s said his piece. He’s done his best. Yet his feet stay rooted. He stares at Eddie until it’s Eddie who breaks their stare, Eddie who looks away, something unreadable flickering on his face and that finally lets Buck unglue his feet and force himself to walk away.

Buck walks away from Eddie and it feels like the end of something. Of everything.

And life, somehow, goes on.

He tries not to think about that conversation; can’t help but obsess over it. He’s said his piece. He’s done his best. What else can he do here—except maybe call the Center down on the both of them, and for what?

Eddie is making his choice, has made his choice, from day one, and who exactly is Buck to interfere? He’d be the worst sort of hypocrite, and it feels a little too close to betrayal.

It seems unreal. It seems unfair. He feels like he’s endlessly holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop; for Eddie to finally fall. The helplessness takes its toll in sleepless nights and restless days where it’s all he can do to not watch Eddie self-destruct; to keep to himself, far away and to trust in his teammates, trust Bosko, to watch Eddie’s back.

Their team who, as usual, operates flawlessly. They save lives; put out fires and go on rescues. Where Buck watches Eddie and Eddie watches everything but Buck and together they fade.

But the trouble is, no one is watching Buck’s back.

No one is there to push Buck out of the way when the building collapses on them. When the dust clears, he’s aware of a few important things: Thank god. Thank god Eddie is not here, but the rest of his family is in danger and he’s stuck—he can’t help them—and no one…no one can help him.

Buck blinks at the ceiling only a few unfortunate inches from his face and lets that sink in. Concrete is already sucking at his body heat, but there’s a large, too hot and increasingly wet portion of his lower torso that throbs in time with his heartbeat and he doesn’t have to shift to know it’s nothing good; in fact, goes out of his way to keep as still as possible other than wiggling his toes just to see if he can.

The building is still groaning above him and there’s panicked chatter in his ear that has him tensing in effort to go help, an ingrained response that causes his vision to white out and he can’t—he can’t—

When the call finally goes out and replies start rolling in, he just listens, gasping wetly in the dark. He's not sure he can answer anyway, the way wetness is creeping up his throat and threatening to spew what he's sure is blood he can't afford to lose. So he presses his lips shut and clenches his teeth and closes his eyes and strains his senses to track his teammates despite his throbbing head.

Bobby is Priority One, with a probable TBI. He’s slurring words and stringing broken, trailing, nonsensical sentences over the radio. He Feels vaguely afraid and distinctly confused, two things not generally associated with the Captain he knows.

Hen is Priority Two. She can't feel her legs. The shaking in her voice is crystal clear as she reports this. It vibrates through the rest of them. The way she’s fighting off her panic is admirable. It bolsters his decision to remain quiet, because Hen is many things—brave and bold and true, but she’s still only human and she’s at the very threshold of her limit.

Chim only has a gash on his arm, but even though the bleeding has slowed, he hasn't managed to stop it, which means a major vein might have been nicked. Normally he'd be a Priority, but he's with the Captain, anyway. Chim has nearly buried all his emotions beneath a thin veneer of focus—on his bleeding arm, on his Captain, on getting his entire team out, somehow.

And Buck, he’s fine. He'll hang out for a bit. It’s…probably a good thing Eddie had the day off today.

Sentinels just don’t do very well when a Guide—any Guide—is in danger. The ones digging them out are probably going crazy right now, but they wouldn’t zone the way Eddie would. Well, in the way Eddie should. He’s never seen Eddie with anything less than impeccable control; never witnessed him with any emotion that wasn’t negative towards Buck. So, maybe. Maybe not.

He’s mostly learned to accept that. It doesn’t hurt so much. Well, nothing hurts much, right now. Not anymore. He can’t tell if the numbness is from the cold or the rapid blood loss or an unfortunate combination of both.

He’s tired.

And maybe…maybe this is for the best, anyway. There’s no real choice to be made, here. It will always be him on the line, the eternal bachelor, with nothing and no one at home, and definitely not dependents. If his Sentinel wants to go Dormant, to effectively die, then maybe…

He flexes his fingers, but he can’t quite feel them. A torpid sluggishness settles into him that should alarm him more than it actually does. There's a curious, numb disconnect spreading slowly through him, and it feels...nice, to not be so hurt by everything.

Maybe it’s better this way.

He closes his eyes.

Buck wakes up in a hospital room.

He’s…significantly less dead than expected. There’s a vague disappointment at this realization.

The room is extremely quiet but for the low beeping next to him. The sound beyond the walls is completely muffled. A S&G room, then. Threadbare amusement shoots through him. They finally got him where they wanted him, after all.

Buck stares at the ceiling. He’s thirsty, his head is pounding, and he can’t quite feel his limbs beneath the weight of exhaustion; can barely keep his eyes open with how heavy his lids feel.

He can’t get past the fact that he’s alive.

He can’t get past how disappointed he is by this.

It’s probably a bad thing, and the Center Guides are never going to let him go now, never mind how bad his mental landscape probably is.

The door opens, and he flinches as the emotional noise from outside slams through his nonexistent shields. Grief and anger, worry and fear. It barely registers beneath the still crushing weight of disappointment and when it disappears behind the closed door, disappointment is all that remains.

He doesn’t look, because his shields are in tatters. It’s all he can do to wrap the remnants around himself and try half-heartedly to rebuild them and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stand the pity of whoever they’ve sent to deal with him.

“You’re an idiot.”

He blinks over in surprise at the sound of Eddie’s voice. His body is a taut line and his hands are fisted at his side.

Eddie looks angry, which is normal.

Eddie is also here, voluntarily, which is not normal.

“You should have said something! They would have evacuated you first. You nearly bled out. Your heart stopped, twice!”

Buck swallows, trying to clear the dryness in his throat. It comes out hoarse anyway. His mouth feels clumsy, his tongue slightly too big and unwieldy. “What’s it…t’you?”

Eddie flinches, anger giving way to uncertainty before he looks away.

It’s novel, this new, slightly out of control Eddie that’s standing in here with him. Which, still--

“Why’re…here?”

He’s tired.

So tired.

He doesn’t want to deal with Eddie Diaz right now, even if a tiny part of him notes just how bad Eddie looks—pale, with deep shadows under his eyes, greasy hair and the more-than-a-shadow of a beard growing–and is concerned.

Buck closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to deal with anything or anyone.

“M’fine. Can…leave.”

His eyes open again, shooting over to Eddie, who, for the first time since their less than stellar first meeting, is shifting on his feet, looking uncomfortable.

“Everyone…ok?”

Eddie blinks. “Uh—yes. They’ll all recover.”

He lets his eyes slide shut again, exhaling in relief as a weight is lifted off his chest and letting the exhaustion sink in a little more. If everyone is fine, then he’s fine.

“‘Kay. Thanks. C’n go.”

Go, before this gaping hole in his chest that appears every time Eddie is around devours the rest of him. Before the tears that are burning for release break free and he’s sobbing pathetically in front of someone who doesn’t want him.

Just go, so he can pull some semblance of control together before the Center Guides get here.

Instead, he hears Eddies shuffle closer.

His eyes shoot wide open when there’s a tentative touch of warm fingers on the blanket covering his leg. He stares up at Eddie, whose gaze is lidded and low, focused on their point of contact.

“What—what?”

Eddie is touching him. Eddie is voluntarily touching him. The feel of those fingers burns through the blanket. What the hell is happening?

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, hoarse.

His fingers grip Buck’s knee and squeeze just a little.

“I haven’t been very fair to you. I Zoned, when they told me. And again, when…. The thought…the thought of losing you—Buck, I’m so sorry.”

Ah.

Something cracks inside him. Bewilderment dies into grief, and he shoves the pieces into apathy.

Eddie doesn’t really want him. Hadn’t changed his mind. He’s just suffering from a traumatic Zone.

That explains a lot.

The gentle beeping beside his bed picks up speed.

He blinks, eyes watering. He can’t—

“I can’t—,” Buck says, voice breaking. The dam breaks. Everything breaks. Buck breaks. “I can’t…do this. Not—not with you.” He’s hiccuping, sobbing, gasping for breath that won’t come.

The beeping becomes a shrill warning.

“Buck—!” Eddie sounds anguished, sounds horrified, but Buck can no longer see him through his tears. Hands are gripping hard at his shoulders, but he can’t—he can’t—

“Buck—!”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Guide Telford is standing in the open doorway. The psionic noise slams into him this time, tossing him into a maelstrom of anger and panic, grief and worry, happiness and excitement, and over it all, Guide Telford’s own disdain and contempt—an entire spectrum of emotions that obliterates his tattered shields until he can’t tell heads from tails anymore.

The shrill warning grows louder and louder until it cuts off in an endless echo.

He lands on his hands and knees in a blue jungle, gasping and choking and then there’s fur in his face. A warm bulk pushes into him, pushes him over and he automatically brings his arms up around it and buries his face in it, soaks in the absolute love and concern surrounding him and cries.

When the hurt in his chest subsides and he can finally breathe again, he pulls back a little and—a rough tongue licks up the side of his face and he can’t help but laugh.

“They’ll never let me live you down,” he complains as his Great Pyreness spirit guide nudges him with her nose before flopping down half on him, cleaning the rest of his face of tears.

His spirit guide. Huh. He’s never seen her before.

“What’s your name, hm? What’s your name, girl?”

He laughs again, tickled pink by the tongue lavishing attention on him. The stress of the past day, hell, the past year, melts away like ice in the scorching sun. He’s not quite relaxed, but there’s a clarity he seems to have been missing for a while now.

Another wet nose nudges at his hand, and he lifts his face to look, curious. There’s…a jungle cat nosing at him. It sits back on its haunches when it gets his attention, tail swishing happily.

“Hello there, who are you?” He asks. He already knows, though, can Feel Eddie as keenly as though he were actually here, instead of just the man’s spirit guide. The fading hurt throbs in his chest, a wound that never heals.

Buck reaches out, hesitantly, and the jungle cat thrusts its head into his palm. The ragged edges of the hole inside him are soothed at the velvet ears beneath his fingers. The jungle cat is beautiful. Dark, distinctive markings decorate all the way down a sleek tan coat. Large, liquid eyes stare at him.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmurs, forlorn, eyes wet and spilling over as the jungle cat purrs. “He doesn’t want me.” The jungle cat just pushes its head harder into Buck’s hand and purrs louder. The Pyreness licks him again until he starts petting her too, and Buck laughs, relaxing into the two needy spirit guides.

Between the two spirit guides, he’s settled in a way he hasn’t been in a while; can distinctly feel the difference—the absence of the heavy, cumbersome grief he’s been carrying around this past year.

“I haven’t exactly been in a good place, have I?” Both guides press in harder, head-butting him gently as though in reprimand. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah.” It’s not like he could have done anything—well, that’s not true. He wouldn’t have done anything different. Because Eddie…it would have meant losing even that little piece he’d been granted and that would be unacceptable.

He really shouldn't have let himself get to this point though. And who the hell authorized a traumatized Sentinel a visit to his source of trauma? Eddie can't be that good an actor. He really needs to have words with the Center.

With another heavy sigh, Buck looks up and around, frowning.

“We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

He had an impression of brightness, when he’d landed, and now. The jungle is silent in a way that makes the hair on his arms rise and…it’s growing darker.

He glances at the spirit guides. “Probably not a good thing, huh?”

They answer with head nudges, nearly bowling him over with the force of it.

“Alright! Alright, alright. I’m getting up. I’m going.”

He climbs to his feet and starts walking. The jungle grows darker behind him. He frowns, watching it over his shoulder even as he moves with the spirit guides. He’s only a mid-level Guide, so he doesn’t really have much to do with the psionic plane aside from knowing of its existence, but this really can’t be good. What does it mean?

He’s startled when he actually seems to clear the jungle. Between one step and the next he’s in clear open space and there’s a woman standing in front of him. He tilts his head; not just any woman—an Alpha Guide, if he’s not mistaken. Possibly…of the region? Her presence is massive, pressing on him, rather like a weighted blanket. It’s comforting, somehow.

She’s pretty, in an unconventional way. Her jaw is a rather masculine square, but it absolutely works on her and she’s almost as tall as he is. Dark hair and dark, observant eyes are fixed on him. A large otter drapes over her shoulders like a squirming fur stole.

He glances behind him at the still darkening jungle that’s now some distance away from them.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?”

She smiles. “Not quite, but you’re having a little bit of difficulty, yes.”

He sets a palm on his spirit guide’s head as the Pyreness starts to growl low in her throat. The jungle cat pads a little past him and sits, back straight and ears flat and tail swishing in agitation.

The Alpha Guide glances down at them. “I’m glad you’re feeling a little better.”

“I had a little help.”

She smiles. “I’ll say.” She crouches. The otter still perched on her shoulder chitters once, but otherwise just watches with intelligent eyes.

“Hello there, lovelies. You’re taking good care of him. I see that. What are their names, if I may ask? My name is Tess. This is Ares.” She tweaks the otter’s nose and it chitters back at her, offended. “My spirit guide.”

“We uh—we haven’t talked about it yet. And uh—I only just met Eddie’s.”

She rises smoothly to her feet. “I see. And how are you doing, Evan?”

He looks back at the jungle. “Not good, I guess? What does that mean, anyway?”

“You’re…not in a very good place right now. We’re at near complete psionic shut down. I believe I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it is to a Guide if it’s not treated.”

He purses his lips, trying to think back on his Guide patients. “No one’s ever died from it, though,” he says, uncertain.

“No,” she agrees, “but they could have. We’re fortunate to not have experienced that just yet.” She fixes him with a stern gaze. “And you definitely won’t be the first.”

“That’s…good,” he says, glancing back at the now fully dark jungle. He squints, chilled to see that the leafy palms are drooping, shedding; the rich ground flora he’d waded through looks shriveled.

“That’s the confidence I like to hear.” Tess teases gently. She settles onto the ground, legs folded beneath her. Ares slides off her shoulders and into her lap in a single, impressively fluid movement.

“Have a seat, Guide Buckley. We have some work to do before we head back to the real world. Are you ready?”

Buck sighs, plopping down next to her. He buries his face into his spirit guide’s fur again, and then he pulls back and looks determinedly at Tess.

“I’m ready.”

The underlying peace follows him into the real world, and so does his spirit guide, apparently. Buck buries his fingers into her fur, grateful, but still feeling the loss of Eddie’s jungle cat keenly. He takes what seems like his first deep breath in the longest time and smiles over at Tess.

“Thanks,” he croaks. “Thanks a lot.”

Tess smiles briefly before her expression goes solemn.

“I do apologize, Guide Buckley. Guide Telford is a lot of things, but she should definitely know better.”

Buck licks his lips. “I don’t, uh—I don’t have to see her again, do I?”

Tess shakes her head.

And then, because he can’t help it. “Why does she…why is she like that?”

“It’s no excuse, and I’m not at liberty to say, but Guide Telford suffered her very own loss not so long ago. It’s…made her harder, and less sympathetic.”

“Okay,” Buck says, dubious, and then lets it go. It’s none of his business anyway, as long as he never has to see her again.

Tess makes a face, as though she’s aware of exactly how unhelpful her explanation is, and then her expression firms.

“We added unnecessary stress to your situation, and I promise you, we’re re-evaluating…a lot of things at the moment. We never want this to happen again."

"Thank you."

His shields are tenuous, but holding, and what little clarity and distance he’s gained from the entire clusterfuck is just making him depressed.

“Now the question is. Do you want to see your Sentinel? He hasn’t Zoned again, and he’s not quite Feral, but I’m not going to lie—it’s not looking good right now. And before you answer me, your well-being is important, too. I understand you both have been having difficulties.”

Buck looks down at his spirit guide. She nudges one of his hands until he lets go of the stranglehold on her fur and scratches behind her ears, a soft smile curving his lips.

It fades when he looks up again. The hurt that he’s been living with for so long is bubbling to the surface like an old friend.

“Is he my Sentinel? I don’t know. He spent the entire year rejecting me. He only thinks he’s changed his mind because I got hurt pretty seriously. What if I say yes and he changes his mind again?”

Tess hesitates, lips twisting. “While I will admit that trauma is not generally a good foundation for a relationship, and nor is it a good measure for compatibility, I will say that you were perfectly compatible, before all of it, and still are. You had what seemed like a functional working relationship, even if it was a dysfunctional personal relationship. And that’s not testament to a perfect match compatibility, it speaks to the kind of people you both are and what you’ve been willing to do to make things work—what you can do to make it work.”

Buck stares at the ceiling. “Perfect matches are rare, right?”

“They are,” Tess agrees, “but that matters little, in the end. What matters is that you’re happy, and healthy, and that you want this.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Buck confesses, vision swimming with tears. “I just—have you ever loved someone who didn’t love you back? Because—because I do. A lot, it seems,” he adds with a laugh. “And Eddie. I love him, without even really knowing him. He’s my soulmate. My other half. My Sentinel. I don’t even really know him and I love him this much. I love his kid. What do I do with that? What do I do?” He giggles, helplessly, and then he’s sobbing.

Tess takes his hand and squeezes it, her expression sympathetic, and lets him cry.

“The question I suppose you have to ask yourself is whether you want to give this a chance. Give him a chance. Sentinel Diaz did have an episode the first time we lost you at the hospital. He recovered suspiciously fast, which should have alerted someone, but I digress. The connection is there, if you want to give it a chance. You can take it slow, just like any other mundane relationship, if you feel unsure. Just because it’s a perfect match doesn’t mean he’s a perfect man, or a perfect Sentinel, and neither does that mean you have to be. Sometimes, the people we care about can hurt us the most, but it’s up to us to decide whether we can forgive. We are all stronger than we know and I know you are.

What matters in a relationship is intent, and it certainly seems like Sentinel Diaz is resolute in his intent to fix this with you. As far as we can tell, he’s been sincere in his remorse and absolutely inconsolable with worry and near apoplectic with rage at Guide Telford for seemingly pushing you over the precipice you were already standing on.”

Silence settles as she lets him absorb that.

“What would you do?”

Tess blinks, gaze flickering. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” she says, soft, with something like regret in her dark gaze. “Even if not everyone gets one.”

His head tilts with curiosity, but her shields are impeccable and her expression impenetrable. “You think I should give him a second chance.”

“I think,” Tess says, a small smile back on her face, “you should do what you want and damn what happens to anyone else.”

It takes another sixteen hours until they actually let Eddie back in. Sixteen hours where he thinks about everything and nothing and comes to absolutely zero conclusions. Sixteen hours until both Tess and his mundane doctors are sure of Buck’s stability and Buck is sure that he won’t burst into tears at the sight of Eddie’s face.

Eddie looks tired. More haggard in a way Buck hasn’t ever seen since their last disastrous meeting, or even in their roughest shifts. He closes the door and stays by it this time, leaning against it and just staring at Buck for a long moment. Another blink, and Buck is relieved to see the jungle cat sitting by his heels. She looks small next to her Sentinel, only something like three or four feet, but her spots are pretty distinctive, like a miniature leopard or something.

“What’s her name? This is Duchess.” Buck says softly, sympathetic for Eddie’s increasingly morose expression and covering his own anxiety. The Pyreness watches Eddie steadily but makes no indication of moving from her position from on top of Buck’s legs. “She’s a Great Pyreness. What kind of cat is your guide? We met on the psionic plane. She was nice.”

Eddie glances down.

“She’s an Ocelot.” His lips twist, a little rueful. “I haven’t seen her since—well, since I met you. She’s always been extremely fond of Christopher, but she’s been unhappy with my decisions for–a while. Christopher named her Felix.”

Eddie reaches down tentatively to pet his spirit guide.

“That’s-that's nice. I’m glad she forgave you.”

“Me too.” Eddie looks up at him again. “But it’s not her forgiveness I’m seeking, right now.” He straightens, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry,” he starts, clasping his hands in front of him but keeping his gaze steadily locked on Buck. “I know I keep saying that, and the words feel like they mean less every time, but I really am sorry, Buck.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, gaze faltering.

“I’m not…the best, at expressing things–" he makes a face, "--emotions. I know this. It’s not a thing we do, in my family. When I first met you, I—“ Eddie falters again, swallowing. "In the military, there's a course that they offer Sentinels."

Buck blinks at the non-sequitur.

“It's not mandatory, but it's strongly recommended, to the detriment of a Sentinel’s career, if you know what I mean.”

Buck frowns. “Is that…legal?”

Eddie's lips twist, wry. “In any case, it's a six month training course that teaches a Sentinel to stay in control of their senses, no matter what's happening.” Eddie pauses to look at Buck, something like shame in his face. “I had to take it twice.”

The confessions sits between them and Buck makes a confused face, because what does this have to do with–

“I managed it, though, in the end. And it—it helped immensely. You have to understand, I never believed that I would actually meet my Guide in the first place. And Shannon, we were so young. We didn’t know—And Christopher,“ Eddie’s voice steadies out. “I’ll never regret my son. I love him more than anything, but, you—” he wavers again, “You took away my control, just like that, and I just—didn’t know how to handle it. It was—“

Eddie’s mouth clicks shut, lips pressing so tightly together they’re white, frustration crossing his face. He sags back against the door, shame and sorrow edging in as he stares at the floor.

“I maybe hated you, just a little bit, but I also wanted you,” he admits helplessly. “I wanted you from that first moment I saw you. I've tried. And I can forget about you—“

A pang in Buck’s chest. The first tiny crack in his newly rebuilt armor.

“For about three minutes, when I’m in a cage and there’s no time to think of anything except the violence coming my way. I—it’s not an excuse, but I am sorry, for the way everything went down.”

Buck droops. The silence settles between them for a bit, tense and unhappy. He mulls over everything he's just heard and just–aches for his Sentinel. Buck clears his throat, looking down at Duchess and drawing strength from her.

“I—thank you for your apology. I know…I know you really mean it." He takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily, trying to order his thoughts so that they come out coherently. "But…I’m not in a good place right now. The past year has not been very good for me, and I’m—in a place I never thought I’d be. I’m not saying—it’s not completely your fault, but…you were a huge part of it.”

“We were going to get divorced,” Eddie blurts.

Buck blinks, stunned.

“We weren’t in a good place either. Not because of you, but…you were a part of it, too.”

Eddie looks away, jaw clenching, and then down at Felix.

“I was holding on so tightly to her. To this perfect idea of marriage, of a family, to control, that I—I hurt you. And when it was ripped away from me anyway, I was—spiraling. It felt like everything I had worked for was just–gone.”

“I loved her, once, until I ruined it. And here you were, my perfect match,” Eddie’s tone is more than a little bitter. “I’d ruined it before I even met you, somehow.” His lips twisted. “I’m…just not a good person.”

Buck blows out a slow breath and thinks about Tess’ words. About chances and intent and—it was just…poor timing and bad choices. They can still fix this, right? He looks up at his the Sentinel.

He lets himself Feel just a little of what Eddie is feeling.

And Eddie. He’s a mass of conflicted emotions underlying guilt and yearning, a longing that can’t be mistaken. Instead of reassuring him, however, it only serves to make him that much more terrified. Because how can it be true? It’s been such a long fucking year.

But Buck has never been a coward, and fear has never stopped him before.

“I really won’t recover, if you…change your mind. If you decide this isn’t for you. It wasn’t fair. It’s still not fair. It’s extremely unfair, that you wanted to let yourself go Dormant. It’s…it’s going to take me a while to get over that. And…I know it’s definitely unfair that I—that I maybe wanted to let myself die down there.”

Eddie flinches, loose hands by his sides curling back into fists.

“But,” he takes another deep breath, staring down at his hand before tentatively extending it, mind made up. His heart feels like it wants to pound out of his chest, but the faintest stirrings of hope and disbelief in the man standing before him bolsters him and he holds firm. “Maybe we can—maybe we can try to be fair from now on, to each other. Maybe we can both try to be better, for each other. Tess said to me that just because we’re perfect matches, it doesn’t mean we’re perfect people. Do you want to try, Eddie?”

Eddie stares down at it for a long moment.

“And I’ll be with you, this time. I’ve always been with you. I am with you, every step of the way,” Buck adds, voice shaking and vision blurring. “Will you be with me?”

When Eddie looks back up, his lips are still trembling even pressed together and his eyes are wet, but there’s determination in the way he strides across the room and slips his hand into Buck’s. The world rights itself, just a little bit. Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand and nods once, decisively.

“I am. I will. Always to at least try. This I swear,” he whispers. Eddie looks back down at their hands as Buck lets that hurt, damaged part of himself finally latch onto Eddie and wrap around him and into him. Intent.

“Guide,” Eddie says, soft and thankful and choked. He squeezes Buck’s hand again and exhales shakily.

“Sentinel,” Buck returns, just as quietly, and finally lets himself hope.