911/911 Lone Star One Shots

You Came...You Called

TW: Self harm

He was powerless. That's how he felt compared to the urge. He didn't want to want to cut himself, but some days he couldn't not do it. Today was one of those days.

He'd gotten home from a 24 hour shift and, even though his body was begging for sleep, his brain was begging for something else.

With his mind a tornado of spiraling thoughts, he trudged to the loft. He took the razor blade out of its resting spot under his mattress and sat down on his bed. He only kept it hidden for the times people would come over, he didn't want to risk someone finding out.

He pulled his clothes off until he was just in his boxers. The first pull across his left thigh shut his mind off, silence overtaking his previous internal screaming. The next four kept that euphoric feeling going as he watched the blood reach the surface and begin dripping down the sides of his leg.

He switched to his right leg, quickly pulling the blade across that thigh six times before watching the blood from each surface and start to puddle on his skin before sliding off.

He looked at his self-destruction with a sick sense of pride, watching as the blood continued to drip off his legs and puddle on his blanket beneath him.

It wasn't more than a few seconds before his brain kicked back on in a panic. The blood was pooling beneath him. It was pooling beneath him. There was too much blood. He'd never cut so bad before, one must've been too deep.

He looked at both legs and determined the six cuts on his right leg were the source of the major bleeding. He clamped his hands over it as his heart rate picked up, he was full-on panicking now.

If he hit an artery, he needed help sooner rather than later. He didn't want to die, not like this. Not alone. But nobody would understand that he wasn't doing it to kill himself, he just couldn't stop himself from doing it. It was just a sick hobby, not a suicide mission. Almost like an addiction.

Bobby.

Buck fumbled for his phone, his hand slick with blood. He dropped it beside him on the bed, unlocked by his Face ID. "H-Hey Siri, call Bobby."

"Calling Bobby 'Pops' Nash." The phone spoke before the line began to ring.

Bobby picked up on the first ring, the ringtone startling him awake immediately. "Hello? Buck?"

Buck didn't even know what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as he looked for words. "I-... Bobby, I-I think- I think I really messed up." He stumbled over the words, lifting his hands to look at the wounds and widening his eyes before clamping his hands back down again. They looked worse now that his first-responder instincts had kicked in.

Bobby was out of bed in an instant, rushing to grab his keys and get out the door. "Where are you? Are you at home?"

Buck whimpered, a helpless feeling filling him as the blood seeped through his fingers. What did he do?

"Buck, are you at home?" Bobby asked again, already driving that direction.

"Yeah." He whispered, tears falling onto his hands. He hadn't even noticed he'd started to cry.

"Okay, I'm coming. I'm coming to you, kid. Can you tell me what happened?" He did his best to keep his cool despite his heart hammering in his chest.

"I- no, no, I wasn't trying to kill myself. You have-please, you have to believe me. I just-it got out of hand. There's too much blood, Bobby. There's, it's too much but I didn't mean for it to happen! I just needed the-I needed to do it. It's never been this bad, I lost control, I- Bobby, please. I'm sorry. I don't- I don't wanna die!" He practically sobbed as he started to feel lightheaded and fuzzy.