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29 – Broken Dishes
The kid couldn’t have been more than ten.
Trapped in the backseat, upside down, blood in his hair and his little fingers scrabbling at the seatbelt that wouldn’t budge. Buck had crawled in through the shattered rear window, glass biting into his palms, the acrid stench of gasoline thick in his throat.
He’d braced himself against the roof, yanked at the belt with everything he had, voice hoarse from shouting reassurances he wasn’t sure he believed.
“I’ve got you, buddy. I’ve got you. Just hang on—”
But the fire had moved faster than they thought. A sudden whoosh of oxygen, a flare of orange, and Hen’s voice screaming in his ear to get out, get out now. He’d tried to shield the kid with his body, tried to stay one second longer—
But Bobby had dragged him out, arms locked around his chest, and Buck had fought him like a wild animal until the heat forced them both to the ground.
The car exploded before Buck could even scream.
Now, hours later, Buck stood in his apartment, still in his uniform, soot-streaked and stiff with dried sweat and blood that wasn’t his. The silence pressed in like a vice. No sirens. No shouting. No heartbeat under his hands.
Just the echo of a child’s last breath.
He moved on instinct. Opened the cabinet. Pulled out a mug—one of the ones Eddie gave him last Christmas, with a dumb cartoon of a firetruck and “World’s Okayest Firefighter” scrawled across it—and hurled it against the wall.
It shattered with a satisfying crack.
Another mug followed. Then a plate. Then another. Porcelain exploded across the floor like shrapnel. Buck didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His chest was too tight, his hands shaking, his throat raw from holding in the scream that wanted to tear him apart.
He grabbed a bowl and flung it so hard it left a dent in the drywall before it burst into pieces.
“Why didn’t you let me stay?” he shouted, voice cracking. “I could’ve—he was right there—”
He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t register anything until a hand closed around his wrist mid-throw, firm but not forceful.
“Buck.”
Eddie.
Buck froze. His breath hitched, and for a second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by the wreckage of his own making.
Eddie didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.
Buck’s knees buckled.
Eddie caught him before he hit the floor, guiding him down gently, arms wrapping around him like a shield. Buck collapsed into him, fists curled into Eddie’s shirt, sobs tearing out of him in broken, guttural gasps.
“I tried,” Buck choked. “I tried so hard, Eds. He was right there. I could feel his heartbeat. I could’ve—if I’d just had more time—”
Eddie held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of Buck’s head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.
“I know,” he murmured. “I know you did.”
Buck shook his head, tears soaking into Eddie’s shirt. “It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I keep losing them. I keep—”
“You didn’t lose him,” Eddie said, voice low and steady. “The fire did. The seatbelt. The goddamn laws of physics. Not you.”
Buck let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Tell that to his mom.”
“I would,” Eddie said. “I’d tell her you crawled into a burning car to try and save her son. That you didn’t stop until someone had to drag you out. That you would’ve died with him if we let you.”
Buck went still. Then, slowly, he pulled back, eyes red and wet, face streaked with ash and grief.
“I don’t know how to keep doing this,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to carry it. He was just a child.“
Eddie met his gaze, unwavering. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Buck blinked. “I don’t know how to let it go.”
“You don’t have to let it go,” Eddie said. “You just have to let me help you hold it.”
For a long moment, Buck stared at him. Then he sagged forward again, forehead resting against Eddie’s shoulder, and let himself be held.
The broken pieces of porcelain glittered around them like fallen stars. But in the quiet, in the wreckage, there was something else too.
A beginning.
*
Buck’s breathing had finally evened out.
Curled on the couch, still in his uniform, his face slack with exhaustion and grief, he looked younger somehow. Fragile. The kind of fragile that came from holding too much for too long. Eddie sat beside him for a while, one hand resting lightly on Buck’s shoulder, just in case he stirred. But Buck didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just slept, the kind of sleep that only comes after your body gives out.
Eddie stood slowly, careful not to wake him.
The apartment was a war zone. Shards of porcelain glittered across the floor, jagged and sharp. The dent in the drywall stared back at him like a wound. Eddie moved quietly, grabbing the broom from the closet, a dustpan, a trash bag. He didn’t rush. Didn’t make noise. Just started sweeping, piece by piece, gathering the fragments of Buck’s pain.
He found the cartoon firetruck mug in three separate corners. Picked up each piece with care.
The silence was thick, but Eddie didn’t mind. It gave him space to think—to feel. He’d seen Buck break before. Seen him bleed and scream and rage. But this was different. This was grief that had nowhere to go. No one to blame. Just a boy in a burning car and a man who couldn’t save him.
Eddie knelt to pick up a plate, the edge stained with something dark. He paused, thumb brushing over the mark. Blood? Maybe. Maybe Buck’s. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. He cleaned it anyway.
He moved through the apartment like he’d done it a hundred times. Tossed the broken pieces. Wiped down the counters. Picked up the overturned chair. Straightened the photos on the wall—one of Buck and Christopher at the beach, both grinning, sunburned and happy. Another of the whole team, arms slung around each other, soot-streaked and laughing after a long shift.
He paused at that one.
Buck had been smiling. Wide and open. The kind of smile Eddie hadn’t seen in weeks.
He sighed and turned back to the mess.
When the floor was clear and the trash bag full, Eddie grabbed a damp cloth and knelt by the wall. The dent was deep. He pressed his fingers into it, testing the give. Buck must’ve thrown that bowl hard. Eddie didn’t blame him.
He wiped the wall clean anyway.
By the time he finished, the apartment looked less like a battlefield. Still quiet. Still heavy. But cleaner. Safer.
Eddie glanced at Buck again. Still asleep. Still curled in on himself like he was trying to disappear.
Eddie walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and set it on the coffee table. Then he sat back down on the floor beside the couch, back against the wall, legs stretched out. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Just stayed.
Because Buck didn’t need words right now. He didn’t need advice or comfort or platitudes.
He needed someone to stay.
And Eddie always stayed.
*
Buck woke slowly, the kind of sleep that left his limbs heavy and his mouth dry. His eyes blinked open to the soft gray of early morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. Then the ache in his chest returned, sharp and familiar, and he saw Eddie sitting on the floor beside the couch, back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted back in quiet vigilance.
Buck shifted, and Eddie looked over immediately.
“Hey,” Eddie said softly. “You’re up.”
Buck sat up too fast, wincing as his muscles protested. His eyes darted around the room—clean. No broken porcelain. No shattered mugs. Just a glass of water on the coffee table and Eddie, still here.
He rubbed his face with both hands. “Shit,” he muttered. “I—God, I’m sorry.”
Eddie didn’t move. “You don’t have to be.”
Buck let out a bitter laugh. “I trashed my apartment. I cried all over you. I probably screamed. And you’re still here.”
Eddie shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Of course I’m still here.”
Buck looked away, jaw tight. “I lost it.”
“You broke,” Eddie said gently. “That’s not the same.”
Buck didn’t answer. He reached for the water, took a sip, then set it down with shaking hands. His voice was low when he spoke again.
“I keep thinking about his face. The way he looked at me. Like I was his last hope.”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You did everything you could.”
Buck’s throat worked around the lump rising there. “It wasn’t enough.”
Eddie didn’t argue. Just let the silence settle. Then, carefully: “You should talk to someone.”
Buck snorted. “Yeah. Sure. That went great last time.”
Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”
Buck hesitated. His fingers curled into the blanket draped over his lap. “Dr. Wells,” he said finally. “After my first loss on the job. Bobby set it up. Said I needed help processing everything.”
Eddie nodded slowly. “I remember you talking about it.“
“She—” Buck’s voice faltered. “She crossed a line. Made it about her. I didn’t say no. I didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late.”
Eddie’s expression darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I stopped going,” Buck said. “Told Bobby I was fine. Told myself I was fine. But I wasn’t. She cleared me for work and that was all I needed.“
Eddie shifted closer, voice low and steady. “Buck, that wasn’t therapy. That was abuse.”
Buck flinched. “Don’t—”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” Eddie said. “I’m saying it because you need to hear it. What she did was wrong. And it wasn’t your fault.”
Buck’s eyes burned. He looked down at his hands, at the faint scars on his knuckles from last night’s wreckage. “I don’t trust anyone with this,” he whispered. “Not after her.”
Eddie reached out, rested a hand over Buck’s. “Then start with me.”
Buck looked up, startled.
“I’m not a therapist,” Eddie said. “But I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll stay. And when you’re ready—really ready—we’ll find someone safe. Someone who sees you. Not what they want from you.”
Buck swallowed hard. “You’d do that?”
“I already am.”
Buck didn’t speak. Just stared at Eddie like he was trying to memorize the shape of safety. Then, slowly, he nodded.
And Eddie stayed.
*
Buck sat cross-legged on the couch, nursing the last of his coffee from a plain glass tumbler. The silence between him and Eddie was easy now, filled with the quiet hum of morning and the occasional creak of the building settling.
“I didn’t even realize it was wrong,” Buck said suddenly, voice low. “With Dr. Wells. I thought… I thought I was the problem. That I was too much. That maybe I’d led her on.”
Eddie didn’t look away. “You didn’t.”
Buck gave a small, bitter smile. “She made me feel like I owed her something. Like talking about my trauma meant I had to give her access to all of me. And when I tried to pull back, she made me feel guilty. Like I was abandoning her.”
Eddie’s jaw tightened. “That’s not therapy. That’s manipulation. You deserved better.”
Buck looked down at Eddie’s hand. “I couldn’t face her again so I never went back.“
“You didn’t owe her closure,” Eddie said. “She owed you safety.”
Buck blinked hard, then let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to trust someone again.”
Eddie squeezed gently. “Then we start small.”
Buck raised an eyebrow. “Small?”
Eddie stood, stretching. “Come on. You need plates. Mugs. Something that doesn’t remind you of last night.”
Buck hesitated. “You want to go shopping?”
Eddie grinned. “I want to help you pick out the ugliest mugs imaginable.”
Buck snorted. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. I’m talking neon colors, weird slogans, maybe one shaped like a cat.”
Buck laughed, the sound surprising even himself. “You’re a menace.”
Eddie grabbed his jacket. “And you need dishes. Let’s go.”
—
They ended up at a quirky little home goods store tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. Buck wandered the aisles, fingers trailing over ceramic and glass, while Eddie held up increasingly ridiculous options.
“This one says ‘Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my existential crisis.’”
Buck chuckled. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”
Eddie held up another. “This one’s just a mug shaped like a screaming possum.”
Buck burst out laughing. “Okay, that one’s coming home with me.”
They picked out mismatched plates—one with a cartoon avocado, another with a motivational quote in glittery cursive. Buck hesitated over a simple white bowl, then swapped it for one with tiny stars around the rim.
Eddie watched him quietly, letting Buck choose. Letting him reclaim something.
At checkout, Buck paid with a quiet kind of pride. His hands didn’t shake this time.
—
Back at the apartment, Eddie helped unpack. Buck lined the new mugs on the shelf, the screaming possum front and center. He turned to Eddie, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Thanks,” he said. “For staying. For… all of it.”
Eddie shrugged, but his eyes were warm. “You don’t have to thank me.”
Buck leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I know. But I want to.”
Eddie reached out, tapped the possum mug. “Next time you feel like throwing something, aim for this guy. He looks like he’d enjoy the drama.”
Buck laughed again, full and real.
And for the first time in days, the apartment felt like home.
*
The apartment smelled like garlic and butter.
Buck stood at the stove, stirring pasta with a wooden spoon, the new star-speckled bowl waiting on the counter beside him. Eddie sat at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, watching Buck move with a kind of quiet reverence—like this, too, was part of the healing. The clink of utensils. The steam rising from the pot. The way Buck’s shoulders had started to relax, just a little.
“You sure you don’t want help?” Eddie asked.
Buck glanced over, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I think I’ve got it. Besides, you cleaned up the whole apartment. Least I can do is feed you.”
Eddie shrugged. “I’d clean it again if it meant you’d laugh like you did in that store.”
Buck snorted. “The possum mug was a masterpiece.”
They ate at the table, mismatched plates between them—Buck with the avocado, Eddie with the glittery quote. The pasta was simple, buttery with a hint of lemon, but Buck had made it himself, and that made it sacred.
For a while, they just ate. No sirens. No grief. Just the scrape of forks and the occasional soft chuckle.
Then Buck set his fork down, fingers curling around the edge of his plate.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” he murmured. “About healing.”
Eddie looked up, patient. “Yeah?”
Buck nodded slowly. “I don’t know what that looks like. I thought it meant getting over things. Moving on. But I don’t think I can move on from some of it.”
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Healing isn’t forgetting. It’s learning how to carry it without it crushing you.”
Buck’s eyes flicked to his. “And if it still crushes you sometimes?”
Eddie’s voice was steady. “Then you let someone help you lift it.”
Buck swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to ask.”
“You don’t have to,” Eddie said. “You just have to let me stay.”
Buck looked down at his plate, then back at Eddie. “You always stay.”
Eddie smiled, soft and sure. “Always.”
They cleared the table together, Buck rinsing dishes while Eddie dried. The new mugs sat on the shelf like sentinels—bright, ridiculous, and perfect. Buck reached for the possum one, held it up with a grin.
“Think this guy’s ready for coffee?”
Eddie laughed. “He looks like he’s been through some things.”
Buck nodded, setting it gently back in place. “So have I.”
Eddie didn’t say anything. Just stepped closer, bumped Buck’s shoulder with his own.
“You’re still here,” he said.
Buck looked at him, eyes bright. “Yeah. I am.”
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
*