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On his first night home from the hospital, at approximately 2:00 AM, Buck is jolted from another attempt at falling asleep by the rumble of a truck below his windows.
It sounded like thunder.
He feels around in the dark for his phone, then squints against the brightness of the screen when he unlocks it. No storms anywhere in Southern California, according to his weather app. Frustrated, Buck kicks off the duvet and gets out of bed.
Get ahold of yourself, Buckley. Everything’s fine. You’re fine.
It’s weird. He didn’t have trouble sleeping at the hospital after he came out of his coma. The hushed voices of the nurses in the hallway at night and the faint beeping noises from nearby rooms were kind of soothing. As eager as he was to be discharged and get the hell out of there, the hospital felt… safe.
Maybe it was a mistake not to let his parents stay here with him. Sure, it was nice—if a little surreal—to be fussed over at first. After a while, though, their presence felt overwhelming, much like the cloying scent of the half dozen floral arrangements on his dining table.
So Buck told everyone he’d be okay alone. He walked his parents and Maddie to the door and promised to text if he needed anything; he put all the flowers out on the balcony. Then he sat at his table to relish the silence, read the get well cards people had sent him, and soak up the familiarity of home without someone asking how he was feeling every five minutes. It was peaceful. Nice.
Until he tried to go to sleep.
Buck has to wonder: Is this how it’s going to be? Long days of no strenuous activity, followed by endless nights of jumping at every loud noise and worrying about his lungs seizing up again or slipping back into that strange, purgatory-like version of his life if he falls asleep? He’d already been lying in bed for hours when that damn truck hit a bump outside, and now here he is, shoving things around in his refrigerator trying to find some water.
There’s so much food in there, more than Buck can possibly eat by himself. Who’s been cooking for him, anyway? When his 118 family wasn’t camped out in the ICU waiting room, they must have been working and taking care of their own families. Their lives didn’t stop just because he got hurt.
At long last, Buck locates the pitcher behind a tall container of what looks like Bobby’s chili and pours himself a glass. It tastes stale, like it was sitting in the fridge the entire time he was in the hospital. With a weary grunt, Buck gets off the stool and goes to the sink to refill the pitcher with fresh water. It’s then that the watering can on the windowsill catches his eye.
Shit. His houseplants. It’s been almost two weeks.
A quick poke at the calathea above the sink surprises Buck. The soil is cool and damp around his finger. Walking through the dim apartment, he finds the other plants in the same condition, which means someone was watering them while he was in the hospital.
Maddie is the first person who comes to mind, since she brought all the flowers and cards over from the firehouse. But Buck knows for a fact that every plant in her house is fake. He teases her about it regularly—how can someone so good at taking care of people not trust herself with houseplants? If she wasn’t the one keeping Buck’s plants alive, it can only be one other person.
Eddie. Eddie looked after his apartment for him.
Buck sets the watering can on his coffee table and drops into the armchair. It’s just the kind of thing Eddie would do (and not mention doing), so Buck shouldn’t be surprised. His throat tightens anyway as he thinks about Eddie letting himself in, tending to the plants, taking out the garbage, maybe tidying up a bit. He was here, in Buck’s space, which is unbearably quiet and dark now.
Grimacing, Buck reaches up to turn on the floor lamp. His left shoulder is still a bit sore, reminding him (along with the tightness of the newly-healed skin on his palms) that he still has some recovering to do. The light doesn’t help. If anything, it makes the place feel emptier.
He wants to call Eddie, but it’s two in the morning. He wants to hear Eddie’s voice, even if it’s only for a few minutes. With all the visitors in his hospital room, they haven’t had a real conversation since the accident. Buck could ask to talk for a little while—about normal things, everyday boring stuff, like what’s been going on at work since he’s been gone, or anything that happened with Chris lately.
But it’s two in the morning.
Buck turns off the lamp. He wanders back to the kitchen, picks out an apple from one of the fruit baskets, then lets it slip from his fingers again. God, he’s so tired. Everything’s starting to blur around the edges of his vision, and his body feels like it’s full of sand. The only thing to do is haul himself back upstairs and try again.
Gripping the edge of the duvet, Buck pulls it over himself as he lies back on the pillows. Outside, a siren wails in the distance—a lone police car, off to some emergency while most of the city sleeps. Tries to sleep. Should be asleep, dammit.
2:57 AM. Before he can think about it, Buck finds himself unlocking the phone and opening his contacts. He curls onto his side as it rings, then rings again. Two tugs on a lifeline, asking to be pulled to safety.
“Buck?” Eddie says groggily. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Hey, did you water my plants for me?”