911/911 Lone Star One Shots

Late Nights and Stained Clothes

TW: self-harm

He'd been doing it for months: since the time he had been forced to stop street-fighting. It wasn't like he thought it was a healthy coping mechanism, no, he knew it wasn't. He knew that, if the roles were reversed with anybody he cared about, he'd freak out and make them stop. And maybe that made him a hypocrite but he had no intention of stopping, mostly because he literally couldn't stop now.

Nobody questioned the long sleeve uniform or the sweatshirts off shift, nobody questioned the excuses to delay showering or changing until nobody else was around. Eddie didn't fit the profile of somebody they'd seem high-risk for self-harm. And everyone's lack of suspicion made it easier for him to fly under the radar and the claws of the addiction sunk deeper.

He'd made it a habit now: every time he got home from shift, he'd cut. It released the tension of the day and he felt better afterwards so really, it wasn't that bad of a thing.

The problem was he wasn't really able to not cut anymore. And losing control over this particular activity was problematic.

"You think Chris will be mad we're having a movie night without him?" Buck wondered as Eddie unlocked his front door after a long shift.

"Probably." He chuckled, toeing off his shoes by the door and tossing his duffel bag aside. "But I bet he's riding a sugar high with Denny right now so it's a fair trade off."

Buck laughed, copying his actions and removing his shoes. "True. What movie do you want to watch?"

"You can pick, doesn't matter." He shrugged, feeling the buzz under his skin. He needed to cut. He needed the release. "I'm going to go grab a shower real quick, I'll be right back."

"Hey, why didn't you just shower at the station after that last call like everyone else? You never shower there anymore." Buck questioned curiously, not suspiciously.

Eddie played it off cool, even though he felt his heart rate rise. "Nothing beats my own water pressure."

"Fair enough." Buck chuckled, going into the living room and turning on the tv.

Eddie, seeing he was satisfied with the answer, made a beeline for the bathroom. He turned the shower on before taking off his shirt and jeans, discarding them in a pile on the floor.

He took the razor from its spot taped under the sink, looking at it with a sick sense of excitement. He looked over himself as he stood there in his boxers, studying the scars and cuts in various healing stages all over him.

There were some on his wrists, but not as many as the ones on his chest, stomach, and thighs. His body resembled some kind of twisted mentally-ill zebra, he thought with a silent laugh, before pushing the blade into the skin over his rib cage and pulling.

He repeated the action over and over again on his chest and stomach until his torso was covered in blood. But then, he didn't want to stop. Or rather, he couldn't stop. With his torso bloodied, he took to his wrists.

When his left forearm was covered and he was switching to his right, there was a knock on the bathroom door.

"Hey, you okay? You've been in there awhile." Buck sounded worried and a worried Buck was relentless.

Eddie jumped at his voice, but still found himself gripping the razor tight and pulling it across his wrist. "Y-yeah, all good."

Buck furrowed his brow at the response; Eddie's voice sounded close to the door. "Are you even in the shower yet?" He knelt down and looked under the door, able to just barely see his feet in front of the sink.