It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

The Weight of the Truth

The quiet hum of the television filled the room, the low flicker of light casting soft shadows on the walls. Buck was sprawled out on Eddie's couch, a blanket draped over his legs and a steaming mug of tea on the table in front of him. The muted voices from the screen blurred into background noise as his thoughts drifted, looping back to the courtroom.

It had been two days since the trial. Two days since he'd stood in front of a judge, a jury, and his father, spilling the truths he'd buried so deeply they felt like they had become part of his DNA. Two days since he'd walked out of that courthouse feeling lighter and heavier all at once.

He couldn't stop replaying it in his head. The questions. The accusations. The looks from his father that cut deeper than words ever could.

"I'm proud of you," Eddie had said later that night, his voice soft but firm, the kind of reassurance Buck had always craved but never believed he deserved. And Buck wanted to believe it—wanted to feel that pride Eddie had seen in him—but the weight of it all was crushing.

"Buck?" Eddie's voice pulled him back to the present. He turned his head to find Eddie leaning against the doorway, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. "You okay?"

Buck hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

Eddie didn't buy it—Buck could tell by the way his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. But instead of pressing, Eddie moved into the room and settled on the other end of the couch.

"You've been quiet," Eddie said, his tone gentle. "That's not like you."

Buck huffed a weak laugh, shaking his head. "Guess I've had a lot on my mind."

Eddie gave him a knowing look. "Want to talk about it?"

Buck wanted to say no, wanted to keep it all locked up inside where it felt safer, less real. But this was Eddie, and Buck had learned that with Eddie, silence wasn't the answer.

"It's just... it doesn't feel like it's over," Buck admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I said everything, told them the truth, but it still feels like there's this... this hole in my chest. Like I lost something, but I don't know what."

Eddie was quiet for a moment, his gaze steady. "Maybe it's because you've been holding onto this for so long, and now that it's out, you don't know what to do without it."

The words hit Buck like a punch to the gut because they were true. For years, his pain, his anger, his shame—they had been constants, things he could rely on even when everything else felt like it was falling apart. Letting them go, even just a little, felt like losing a part of himself.

"I thought I'd feel better," Buck said, his voice cracking. "But I don't. I feel... lost."

"You're not lost," Eddie said firmly, leaning forward. "You're healing. And healing isn't easy, Buck. It's messy, and it hurts, and it takes time. But you're not doing it alone."

The sincerity in Eddie's voice brought tears to Buck's eyes, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. He hated crying, hated feeling vulnerable, but with Eddie, it was different. Eddie didn't judge him, didn't make him feel weak for breaking down.

"I'm scared," Buck admitted, his voice trembling. "Scared that no matter what I do, I'll never be enough. That I'll never get past this."

"You're more than enough," Eddie said, his voice strong and unwavering. "And you will get past this. It's going to take time, but you're already doing it, Buck. You're facing it. That's more than most people can say."

Buck nodded, the words sinking in even as doubt lingered in the corners of his mind. He wasn't sure he believed Eddie, but he wanted to. He wanted to believe that he could come out of this whole, that he could find a way to move forward.

"Thanks," Buck said softly, meeting Eddie's eyes. "For everything."

Eddie smiled, that small, reassuring smile that Buck had come to rely on. "Anytime, Buck. You know that."

As the two of them sat there, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a blanket, Buck felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Buck let himself hold onto it.