Fics like all your letters in the sand (cannot heal me like your hand)

Buck almost doesn’t wake up in time to answer the call. He swims back to consciousness still exhausted and emotionally drained. Buck scrambles out of Tommy’s arms and to the bedside table, almost falling out of bed in the process. Whatever reason Eddie’s calling him can’t be good—it’s still dark out. A million things race through his mind—Chris, Bobby, Eddie, someone’s hurt, someone’s dying, someone’s— Eddie’s ragged breath when Buck answers the phone confirms the rabid paranoia gnawing at his gut. Behind him, Tommy stirs. “Eddie? E—Eddie, what’s—what’s wrong?” Buck stammers, already hurriedly throwing on jeans (his) and a t-shirt (Tommy’s, probably, the fit is a little weird). “Evan,” Eddie and Tommy say at the same time. Eddie says it like a sigh, like a comfort. Tommy just sounds worried. “Eddie,” Buck repeats, “Eddie, tell—tell me what’s wrong.”

Fics like all your letters in the sand (cannot heal me like your hand)

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