TW: implied suicidal ideation, internalized homophobia, religious trauma

Lane talked Buck into moving in with him. It made sense financially, they’d agreed. Two disabled military vets didn’t have a lot of spare cash, and Lane was helping Buck recover. They spent their days like retired old people, despite both only being in their early thirties. They went for slow walks. They made it down the street for coffee now and again, or to a doctor’s appointment. At night they watched TV, though Lane knew nothing about Football. Buck would finally energize a little bit as he explained all the rules and plays. When he felt his best, he would pick a team to root for. They caught every Cowboys game. Then they’d retreat to separate rooms and sleep, or try to. Lane would lie awake, listening to Buck toss and turn in the other room.

Buck struggled to sleep due to his pain, but Lane stayed awake because of fear, paranoia gripping him. Phantom images flickered across his vision, leaving him wondering if he was hallucinating. Maybe he was gaslighting himself, imagination just too vivid. Or maybe these things were real. He could never tell. No one was there to ask, was there something at the edge of the bed? Am I seeing things?

He feared Buck going silent, or missing the moment a window might rattle open. They were on the fifth story. Buck insisted that wasn’t a problem anymore. Lane wanted to believe him. He feared the doorknob might turn. An intruder could enter at any moment, and if he was asleep, he might miss a knife driving towards his throat. He slept lightly, when he did manage to drift off, but never lightly enough to buy him confidence. He would have kept a gun by his bed if he hadn’t been too afraid to have one in the house. Buck might find it.

Sometimes they meet in the kitchen, usually between five and six am, both commenting falsehoods about how well they’d slept. The lies kept them sane to some degree. If they both said it, it must be true. Other times Lane had to go help Buck out of bed. They’d hobble to the bathroom where they would spend hours applying lidocaine patches and pressing heated cloths onto aching joints until Buck's medication kicked in. It hurt to see his best friend, this six foot ten, once elite soldier, slumped over on the ground in utter defeat as again and again the pain refused to fade.

***

Lane wanted to believe the closeness he shared with Buck was whole and complete, but it wasn’t. They didn’t have the comfort of constant danger to encourage the sort of interactions they’d once found easy. Buck hadn’t hugged him in months, only letting Lane touch him if he couldn't support himself. Their conversations stayed surface level. Affectionate, but lacking philosophy. On the field, they’d known each conversation could be their last. They’d treasured the words, making sure they were important. Now Lane couldn’t bring himself to talk about the one thing weighing on his mind. It hung heavy between them, a misty memory he was too afraid to ask about. Maybe it had been a dream. Lane could certainly believe it. He’d been in critical condition and barely conscious when Buck had carried him out of the burning wreckage of his jet. His memories of their capture were blurry at best: a fog of numbness, Buck’s shaky voice, and a sense that he was badly, badly broken. But he remembered one part just vividly enough to let himself believe it was real.

“I love you,” Buck told him, fierce and genuine, and gripped by a nonphysical agony, the kind given to a man accepting eternal damnation. The silver cross hanging from the chain around his neck like a symbol of judgment. It was all Lane could see if he tried to picture the scene, shining in the light, right above him as Buck leaned over. Buck had held Lane’s hand like nothing else mattered, repeating the phrase again as he tried to keep Lane awake and alive.

“I love you,” Lane thought he’d replied, but he could never be sure if he’d said it out loud or not. He wanted Buck to know it, to hear it, so maybe he wouldn’t hate himself for speaking the unforgivable.

The scene hung tantalizingly out of reach. He couldn’t summon the courage to ask Buck about it. He wanted to believe he’d seen Buck remember it the day they were reunited, as they stared at each other. Lane, fresh from the wilderness after a year behind enemy lines, Buck fresh out of the hospital. He’d been found drenched in his own blood by the officers who’d come to tell him Lane had been rescued. All that time between them, and Lane hadn’t gone a day without thinking of Buck. The look in Buck’s stricken face told him his friend had been the same. All they had been able to do at the time was hold each other as tightly as possible.

***

Lane woke up to his door opening slowly. He threw himself out of bed, before he fully understood what was happening, his body reacting on its own. Scrambling to his feet, he dove towards the shadowy figure creeping through the doorway. He didn’t have a gun, but he did keep a knife on the bedside table, and in a second he had it and tackled the figure to the ground. The man fell with a pained grunt, folding like a card under the attack. Lane met no resistance as he pinned the intruder and buried the tip of the knife just under the man’s jaw, right at the jugular.

“Ow, fuck, Lane, stop,” Buck gasped, weakly clawing at Lane’s arm.

Lane’s heart had been thundering in his ears, but as soon as Buck spoke, it went dead still, dropping in horror.

“Oh, God,” he said, leaping off his friend and throwing the knife aside as if it had burned him. A different panic built in his chest as Buck failed to immediately rise.

Fuck, Lane, you idiot.

“Easy buddy, stay down. I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

For a long moment neither of them moved, Buck tense and pained, Lane paralyzed with the knowledge he had caused that pain, but then Buck let out a long breath. He gingerly relaxed and opened his eyes for a moment before reaching out for Lane’s hand. Lane helped him to sit up, letting Buck lean against him.

“Are you okay, Buck, ol’ boy?” he asked, and Buck nodded wearily. Lane shook his head. “You scared the shit out of me. What did you need?”

“I..” Buck trailed off, slumping in exhaustion. “I was worried about you.”

“Testing my defense system, huh?” Lane joked, softly circling his palm over Buck’s shoulders. “Happy to report it's in good enough shape to take on a brute like you.”

“Not like that.” Buck didn’t laugh, staring at the ground. He hugged his knees, twisting his fingers together. “I had a dream, and it reminded me that it’s my fault you almost died, and I just…I got worried that something bad was going to happen to you.”

"Woah, woah, what do you mean?" Lane asked, baffled and suddenly concerned. He tilted his head, trying to catch Buck’s eye. “Buck, you’re the only reason I’m alive right now. I would never have survived that crash if you hadn’t dragged me out. You negotiated with the enemy to save my life, Buck, I don’t think it’s your fault our army didn’t know we were in the camp they called an airstrike on. All that matters is we both survived. And we're back together now."

“No,” Buck muttered, refusing to meet Lane’s gaze. There was a long silence where neither of them spoke, Lane helplessly staring at his friend. Then Buck began talking, each word coming out faster and faster. “Lane, I made a mistake when we were in that prison, and I’ve been punished for it ever since. I don’t think you remember, you were still hurt so badly. I admitted something I shouldn’t have, and then we were separated, and I thought you died, and-”

At that moment, it all made sense. Buck, forever haunted by the threats of some fiery Hell waiting for the unwantable, unlovable, unacceptable sinners. Of course he thought every bad turn of events was his fault. For a moment Lane was staring at the cross necklace again, hearing the crack in his friend’s voice as he swore over and over again, I love you, I love you.

“Enough. That's enough, big guy," Lane interrupted, his voice echoing his heartbreak. Any doubt he might have felt about the misty memory vanished with sudden certainty. "You said ‘I love you.' I remember. I never stopped thinking about it.”

Though Buck’s only reply was a sharp exhale, to Lane it was as good as an agreement. A great weight was lifted off his shoulders, and he realized he finally had permission to talk about that moment.

“Buck…” He drew the cross necklace out from under Buck’s shirt, letting it fall against his chest. “You’re not being punished. I know you know that. You can’t let this old religious nonsense control you, hey? You’ve been a good Christian boy long enough, it’s only ever brought you pain. Can’t you see how much unnecessary guilt you’re carrying?”

He paused, but Buck didn’t reply, his head bowed. Lane wrapped his arm around Buck’s shoulders, pressing in close to him, offering comfort if Buck wanted it. His friend didn’t pull away.

“Let it go. I know you meant it when you told me you loved me. I wanted to tell you I loved you. I always have. I haven’t been struck down by lightning yet, and I’ve been openly gay since I was twelve. Why do you think this only matters if it’s you?”

When Buck still failed to reply, Lane sighed and pushed himself up, taking Buck’s hand and helping him find his feet.

“Stay with me, okay?” Lane said, gently pushing Buck towards the bed. “I don’t think I’m getting back to sleep now, but you should. I’ll stay up and make sure nothing bad happens. To either of us.”

“Okay,” Buck finally muttered, and Lane helped him settle down before retreating to his armchair and drawing his knees to his chest. He stared into the darkness, listening to Buck’s breathing, tracking the rhythm over the two hours it took his friend to fall back asleep. The exchange left him heavy. Life left him heavy. He didn’t know how to help Buck physically or emotionally, and he wondered if both of them were past help. Two ruined soldiers abandoned by the military once they wore out their usefulness. All they had was each other, and he wasn’t sure that would be enough.

***

Lane shook himself awake, realizing he’d fallen asleep in the chair, slumped into himself. He rose with difficulty, wincing as his sleep-stiffened joints creaked in protest. Buck was already awake, laying in the bed half propped up on his elbow, facing away. Lane made his way around the bed, resting a hand on Buck’s shoulder as he sat down.

“How are you doing?” Lane asked. Buck looked up with a dull expression Lane had come to recognize meant his friend wasn’t able to get up by himself. Lane wordlessly offered his hand, and Buck wordlessly took it, pulling himself up so they sat facing each other. Both avoided eye-contact.

“Can we talk about it?” Lane finally asked. Buck didn’t reply right away, and Lane pressed forward through the silence. “Come on. You already said it once, right? You know I feel the same. If you just say it again, maybe-”

“I can’t,” Buck said with such vehemence Lane flinched. Buck was staring at him with an expression so torn with anger and grief Lane felt like he’d been punched.

“I just can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Buck shook his head helplessly. “I just…can’t.”

“Do you want to?” Lane asked, cautiously placing his hand over Buck’s. Buck hesitated for only a moment, then nodded once, abruptly, immediately dropping his gaze in shame. He didn’t draw his hand away.

“Then don’t say anything,” Lane told him. “It’s okay. I can say it. I love you, Buck. You don’t have to push yourself. You don’t have to be sorry. I’ll wait.”

Lane looked away self-consciously as he caught sight of the tears pooling in Buck’s lashes. Then Buck reached out and hugged Lane fully, arms wrapped around shoulders, face buried in Lane’s neck. Lane stiffened for a heartbeat, then fiercely returned the embrace, his heart soaring with sudden relief. He let Buck pull him closer, very aware of how tiny he was in Buck’s arms. For a moment he was back on the field, held in perfect safety no matter what was going on around them. He’d spent so much time caring for Buck, he’d forgotten what it was like to be cared for.

“Thank-you,” was all Buck said, and it was all either of them needed to say.