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* Golden light falls over his hands, cool and gentle, painting newfound ridges and valleys across his skin- gifts from Time and too many years spent battling Death.He watches the shadows they cast on the countertop, the dancing, spectral shifts of grey, exaggerated mimicries of ephemeral light.He feels like a shadow.One sudden flash of light could usurp his tentative, fleeting hold on this realm, banishing him into nihility.Nothingness.A wisp of a man, easily forgotten.Yet he's tethered to this place, grounded by the small hesitation of his inhales through a deviated septum, the familiar- almost forgotten- sound of Tommy's snores, echoing down from the loft. The air is warm, weaving around him, carrying the sweet scent of pumpkin, the earthy fragrance of coffee, and the subtle spark of cinnamon.He casts a long shadow of his own; it spills over onto the floor, trails of darkness curving and pooling across the tile.The shades dancing on the countertop fidget with each restless tap of his fingers, phantoms trailing after flesh in the naive hope that one day they might become one.In a dream, in a nightmare, he leaves no trace of himself behind.In his dreams, in his nightmares-He huffs, dispels the memories with familiar agitation, hauling himself away from the darkness still desperately trying to drag him under.Despair and distrust are old adversaries, foes he's faced and fought for decades.But the exhaustion- it’s bone deep; it's bound itself to his very foundations and plays a perfect accomplice to shame.The shame...It’s suffocating and bitter, gnawing at him from the inside out.He shouldn't have come here, shouldn't be burdening the kid with his struggles- not when Buck's been contending with his own demons, chasing the monsters lurking in his mind.But the silence of his apar-No.The apartment.Not his.Not theirs.Just a place they're passing through.But that silence upon waking, the stillness, and the complete absence of self?It stole something from him, twisted and settled itself deep inside his chest, shaping a newfound desperation that had him crossing the city in a daze, drawn to the one person who might have some clue, some guidance, some clarity, some trick to-He drags his gaze from the countertop, watches as Buck dances confidently around his space.There's a pot on the stove- Monsieur Cocoa Pot, as Buck’s christened it. Lazy trails of steam curl in the atmosphere, dispersing into nothingness the further they drift from the warmth, disappearing as they fade from the light.He frowns, fears renewed and refreshed.The kid is oblivious, lost in the familiar rhythm of drink prep, sprinkling extra cinnamon into Bobby’s mug, throwing an additional handful of mini-marshmallows into his own.The coffeepot putters nearby, nearly ready, enough brew for just a few cups.It’s a comfort, seeing his confidence.The present stratifies with the past, and nostalgia flickers warm and bright- memories of a slightly younger man stumbling through the kitchen, unsure and uncertain, armed with an armada of inquiries Bobby was only too happy to address.The feeling fades, fleeting felicity falling away in a soft sigh.He hasn't fully convinced himself this isn't another dream.The lines have blurred since his latest dance with Death, Reality warped and strained at the edges, the fabric pulled taut, on the cusp of tearing, and-He's slipping, surely.One tug, and he'll fall apart, disappear entirely, his fears made manifest.He misses the sound of the stove being clicked off, the pouring of liquid from both stainless steel and glass, the shuffling of socked feet and the soft rumble of Buck’s voice as he sets the mug in front of him.What draws him back, what reassures him, is the way the kid brushes a gentle hand to his shoulder, squeezing softly before sitting down at the matching stool, his own mug steaming on the counter.He can't find the courage to face him.Not yet.Not when he's still so unsure of his own stability, still shaped by shadows, a mere mimicry of a man.But his name is a summons, layered with warmth and concern, spoken so softly Bobby has to strain himself to catch the shape of it.“What's going on, Bobby?”No exordium, no embellishment. No essay or evasion.Just the enigma Bobby's brought to Buck's front door.Bobby inhales, his voice barely above a whisper, rasping roughly after hours of disuse. “Do you ever wake up sometimes, wondering?”
Do you ever lose track of what’s real and what’s not?
Buck freezes, stills; he knows in an instant that he needn't bother with elaboration or explanation.Buck sighs, posture falling forward, and he hunches over his mug, watching marshmallows melt into the dark liquid. “Sometimes I do."He pauses, the smallest flicker of a smile fluttering to life, before it falls again, brows drawing together in its place. "It's been getting better, though. Slowly.”Bobby has no doubt Tommy’s helped with that.Something warm flickers to life at the thought. It's fondness, pure and simple, and a little bit of pride. He’s watched both of these boys grow into good men, better people, witnessed the love and care they have for each other.Buck's voice hums out again, soft and pensive. "'s kind of why I still text you every morning. Just… Just in case.”The confession is a soft-spoken thing, and Bobby lacks the sturdiness to shoulder the weight of it.He falls forward, rests his elbows against the counter, buries his hands in his hair, eyes drawn to the new patterns bending together from the shifting of the light.It’s not the first time he's been reminded of his role in Buck's life, but every time it resurfaces, every time it’s brought back into their awareness- shared like a secret, spoken with certainty- it always sends him reeling."Buck..."There's a hum from his right, and he can feel the warmth radiating from here, the kid like a walking, talking space heater."This is... This is real, right?"He hates how it hangs in the air, how hollow he sounds.He's not felt this uncertain of anything in a long time, and speaking the worries aloud, giving them shape and substance-He's given Buck the means to rip him apart entirely, to cut apart every thread, watch him fall apart at the seams."Bobby..." He flinches at the pity, the pain-filled tone. "Of course this is real.""How can I trust that?"For a man who's found God in broken bottles and lead-stained windowpanes, faith is a surprisingly tremulous thing to grasp while hunched beneath his chosen's vaulted ceiling.Silence settles between them, soft and peaceful, before Buck breathes, shifts, draws closer. "You find something to hold on to."He feels the contradiction concaving his features, turns to Buck to convey his confusion.But Buck is watching him, intently, as if he's-Slow, still unsure, he reaches out, grounds himself in the thinning fabric of the hoodie Buck had stolen from him ages ago, centers himself around the warmth bleeding through, the firm solidity of the kid’s presence.Buck’s voice is quiet, but resolute. “This is real."God, he wants it to be.Wants to believe in this life so badly.He can’t imagine a world where this isn’t the life he's found, where he's-He doesn't need to imagine.He’s seen the world where this isn’t real, where he fell to shade and shadow and darkness, a void left in his wake. He fought for days to escape it, and the thought that it may have all been futile effort-His breath stutters.The air goes heavy.Buck shifts, leaning forward even more, before he guides Bobby’s fingers to his pulse, never breaking the eye contact. There's a fierceness to his features, as if daring him to question it.Bobby never told him the details of his own dream, never dared speak of its existence before tonight, but Buck- He should have known he'd figure him out; the kid's always had a knack for seeing through his bullshit.The thrum of Buck’s pulse is steady and sure beneath Bobby’s fingertips, a quiet rhythm grounding him in the here and now, in a world that feels increasingly like it might slip away at any moment.Buck’s eyes are locked on his, unwavering, sincere, filled with a warmth that Bobby barely dares to meet. It's warmth, it's truth, it's the solid assuredness of reality, and it's the tether Bobby’s been silently begging for.“Your name is Bobby Nash,” Buck says, the words like a lifeline tossed out to a man drowning in doubt.There's no hesitation, no question, just the simple, irrefutable fact.He has a name, an identity, a place in the messy tapestry of life.He exists.Buck lifts a brow, expression teetering on the cusp of playful, even now, in the heaviness of this moment. “It’s 4:53 a.m.”The hour feels irrelevant, but it’s the small detail that trips Bobby up.The specificity of it, the mundane fact of time marching on, slams into him.He winces.How long has he been spiraling?How long has he been untethered from himself?When did the hours blend together so fluidly that he missed the shifting of Witching into Blue?The room feels too quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock somewhere, the faint creaks of the old apartment settling around them, and the distant hum of the city outside.Yet in this moment, the silence roars in his ears, amplifying every heartbeat, every breath, every ounce of anxiety pulsing through his veins.“This is real, Bobby,” Buck says softly, his voice breaking through the fog like a beacon.The kid leans in just slightly, the distance between them shrinking, but the space is heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.Bobby’s throat tightens. He wants to believe it, needs to. But the shadows are still clinging to him, the uncertainty curling like smoke around his thoughts.“Kiddo-” His voice cracks, the one word holding more than he can say.But Buck is already there, reaching for him- physically, emotionally, spiritually- in that way he always does for the people he loves.Buck taps the back of his hand, a gentle reminder of presence, of connection, of grounding.“I’m right here, Pops,” Buck says, a smile tugging at his lips.He isn’t asking anything of him, isn’t demanding an explanation or forcing him to speak of the fears still clawing at the edges of his mind. He’s simply offering himself, unconditionally, as he always does.Bobby crumbles.His chest caves in on itself, the weight of all his fears, his doubts, his regrets pressing down so hard that he feels like he might shatter. His breath stutters, and his eyes burn.Buck doesn’t flinch or pull away or try to fix what’s broken.Buck catches him, offers him salvation and sanctuary with effortless grace."It's okay; I’ve got you." *