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Eddie knew something was wrong. Buck could wear his heart on his sleeve, but he was scarily good at masking his distress when he thought he needed to. Though neither of their experiences in New Mexico had been pleasant, Eddie felt it was pretty clear that he’d had the less-worse day out of the two of them. And even so, he startled awake most nights, eyes scanning his spartan bedroom for Buck—
Buck who was missing, Buck who might be dead, Buck who was on his knees in the dirt and then collapsing in front of him, Buck who was so agonizingly slow to draw in a breath but he did and his pulse was thrumming beneath Eddie’s steady fingers and Buck alive, he was alive
—before remembering that they were safe and home in L.A. If Eddie wasn’t fine, Buck sure as hell wasn’t either. Nor should he be.
They’d agreed to reach out to their respective therapists somewhere after Flagstaff.
We’ve been down this road before, Eddie had reasoned. We know better than to go it alone.
The reminder had been as much for himself as it had been for Buck. Eddie followed through the first morning back in L.A., and he dutifully attended his weekly sessions. Some bigots and psychopaths in the desert would not undo the work he had already done. He would not lose Chris, or Buck, or himself. Not ever again.
Buck, on the other hand, was putting on the performance of a lifetime. In the weeks since their ordeal, the visual reminders of their trauma faded away one by one, and Buck seemed inclined to use this as proof that he was fine.
“Look, the bruise is basically gone.”
“Doctor said my ribs are fully healed.”
“I bet the burns won’t even scar. I’ve had worse.”
That’s not what I’m worried about, Eddie thought. Buck smiled and laughed. Buck made the rounds at dinners with the Wilsons and the Grants and the Hans. Buck did his job and he did it as competently as always. But he wouldn’t go to therapy. Every scheduled encounter ended in an excuse. Eddie grew exasperated and Buck grew defensive. Tuesday was the final straw. Eddie’s Buck-senses were screaming at him, an ever-growing list of red flags coming to mind every time he faced his partner.
He’d been at the doctor’s appointment when Buck received the all clear. Buck, perhaps infamously eager-to-work, had taken the news with a blank face.
Eddie caught a glimpse of Buck’s hands shaking a few days later when a car engine backfired on a call, and again after treating an elderly patient named Earl in a retirement home shuffleboard accident.
Two weeks ago, they’d bumped elbows while dropping down from the ladder truck and the resulting zap of static had sent Buck recoiling, then swiftly retreating to the locker room without even a glance at Eddie.
A few nights ago, with Christopher on the tail end of a cold, Eddie had made tomato soup and grilled cheese, cobbling together an extra serving for when Buck inevitably appeared around dinner time. Buck arrived a whirlwind of energy, energy which lasted only long enough to ask Chris about his day before he had taken his seat and registered the meal in front of him. He barely spoke the rest of the evening, and didn’t touch his food, only pretending to pick at it after Chris commented on his abnormal stillness.
So yes, something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
He won’t listen to Hen. He won’t listen to Maddie and Chim. He won’t listen to me. Fine. You leave me no other choice, Buckley.
So now Eddie’s standing on Buck’s front step, pizza in hand and Christopher alongside him. Not once in eight years had Buck turned Chris away. It was an established tactic at this point among the 118—when Buck is in that dark and twisty place, you give him a kid. Worked like a charm.
“Room service!” Chris calls.
“Hey Buck, it’s Eddie and Chris.” As if it wasn’t obvious.
“And our favorite pizza, Hawaiian style.”
“Even though fruit doesn’t belong on pizza,” Eddie finishes, unable to resist a jab at his boys and their disgustingly wrong opinions about pizza toppings. They wait a few seconds with no response. A weight begins to form deep within Eddie’s chest, a tiny knot of dread tugging at his heart.
“I don’t think he’s here, Dad,” Chris offers.
“His car is,” Eddie counters quickly, brain running through the reasons Buck might not be answering the door. In the bathroom? Maybe. Working out in the backyard? Always possible. Sitting in the living room and staring off into space because he refuses to acknowledge his trauma? Not out of the question.
“He probably Ubered somewhere,” Chris says as Eddie peers through the front door, searching for a hint that Buck might be inside. “Maybe call ahead next time.”
“Yeah,” Eddie starts, only to trail off. No. No, that’s never really been our thing, has it? Shifting the pizza boxes to one hand, Eddie fishes out his keys from this back pocket. “Well, it can’t hurt to check, huh?”
His fingers find Buck’s house key on the ring, nestled between his own and fob for his truck. Insert, clink, and Eddie nudges the door open.
“Buck?” He calls out.
The lights are off, and the blinds in the living room and hallway are drawn, leaving only the faintest beams of sun sprawling across the space. A pile of mail sits collected, but unopened, on the table in the entryway. In the living room, Eddie sees dishes from a few days worth of meals stacked on the coffee table, orderly but seemingly unable to make their way to the kitchen to be cleaned. Buck’s LAFD uniform is draped across the back of the nearest sofa, his boots upended a few feet away. A bouquet, a gift from Jee that Buck had gushed about a few days ago, wilted on a bookshelf next to the kitchen.
It’s just barely an incorrect shade of normal. If you didn’t know Buck, you’d think it was a perfectly fine room. But Buck was a contained chaos. Even when he forgot to do his dishes for a few days, they still stayed in the sink. Shoes were stored by the entryway, because if he kicked them off just anywhere, he’d inevitably trip on them later. He never shut the blinds because he relied on natural light to wake up. There was always the scent of something sweet in the air, whatever Buck had whipped up in his most recent baking spree filling the house with the smell of vanilla and charm.
There is something so glaringly not Buck about the scene in front of him. That knot of dread becomes a boulder, plunging into Eddie’s gut and nearly knocking the wind out of him.
“Hey, Chris, wait here a second, would you?” Eddie’s already crossing the threshold.
“But, it’s just Buck-”
“Chris,” Eddie turns around, scrambling to collect the worries that are slipping through his internal defenses like a sieve. He meets Christopher’s gaze, his son no longer a boy but a young man. He doesn’t ask or demand. He begs. “Please. Please just wait.”
It’s probably fine. All a misunderstanding. Eddie is jumping to conclusions. Even at his worst, Buck would never—but if Eddie’s worries are well-founded, he would never forgive himself for letting Chris see what’s inside that house.
Chris seems to sense the shift in his father’s tone, and nods, brow furrowing. Eddie sets the pizza boxes down on the nearest surface and sets off down the hallway to his left. The bathroom door is open, as is the spare bedroom. Both empty. Buck’s door, at the end of the hall, is closed.
Eddie reaches the door in a few strides and knocks once, twice.
“Buck? It’s me,” He calls, trying the handle. Locked. “Can I come in?”
“Hey, Eddie. It’s, it’s me. Can I come in?”
Only a beat of deafening silence, but that’s more than enough for Eddie.
“Buck. I’m coming in. Stand back.”
“Alright, Eddie, I’m gonna come in, okay? Stay away from the door.”
Eddie takes a deep breath, stealing a quick glance back down the hallway at the front door, then kicks out, heel digging in next to the lock until it swiftly caves under the force. Eddie stumbles forward, shirt catching on the now-shattered door frame.
He surveys the bedroom, eyes struggling to adjust to the almost complete blackness. He sees, for a moment, his own room, with holes punched into the drywall, glass shattered on the duvet, the curtain rod dangling from the wall. Then he’s back, staring into darkness. And oddly, terrifyingly, nothing seems out of place. He understands destruction; rage, frustration, a remarkable capacity for self-sabotage, a burning pit in your soul, a desire to scream at the unfair world. He’s not as familiar with this brand of sorrow, the one that steals the joy from every corner of your life and leaves you stranded in a void, lost with only your fractured echo to guide you.
Or maybe Buck simply isn’t home. And Eddie is completely blowing this out of proportion. Buck isn’t stupid. He knows he has a support system, a family, people he can rely on and that rely on him. Eddie shakes his head at his own theatrics, making to step back out of the door when he sees it. Feet, poking out from behind the far corner of the bed. Oh, God.
Eddie lunges forward, dropping to his knees beside Buck’s crumpled figure as he rounds the side of the bed. Buck’s eyes are closed, but puffy, his skin pale. Eddie’s mind strays again, to only a few weeks ago in that damn desert, one hand on Buck’s neck, the other cupping his bloodied face. Eddie finds himself repeating the motion, scrabbling to check Buck’s pulse with his left hand while his right brushes a stubbled cheek. Tear tracks, not yet fully dry, trace a path from the corner of Buck’s eye to his earlobe, where the hair at the nape of his neck and the hem of his hoodie are damp. It’s as if he’d cried himself to sleep, right here on the floor, succumbing to the weight of the shadows around him.
It’s only a beat before Buck startles, coming alive in Eddie’s grasp. Buck’s eyes dart between Eddie above him and the darkness engulfing them. The vice grip on his heart loosens just a little and Eddie releases a ghost of a breath. Not dead not dead not dead.
“Buck,” he whispers, both hands now trailing down to Buck’s chest, offering a gentle pressure as rapid breathing begins to slow. “Buck, what happened?”
Buck kneeling down, reaching out. “Eddie? Hey, hey, hey. What-what’s going on?”
Buck pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning heavily into the bed. Eddie backs up just enough to allow Buck space to maneuver his long legs, keeping one hand selfishly curled in the fabric of Buck’s sweatshirt.
“Buck?” Eddie tries again, and Buck finally meets his gaze. Eddie’s heart breaks at the sadness in his partner’s eyes. The shame. The guilt. “Oh, Buck-”
Buck breaks into full-body sobs, the tidal wave of emotion just beneath the surface welling up once more. Eddie pulls Buck against his chest, wrapping his arms around those broad shoulders and softly swirling his fingers through Buck’s hair. It’s the same way he’d hold Chris after a nightmare, sweeping him up and holding him close, as if his proximity and touch would be enough to scare the bad dreams away. Only Eddie knows that Buck’s demons are far more stubborn than those of a child.
“Eddie,” Buck mumbles, “Eds. I’m sorry.” The words are spoken against Eddie’s neck, Buck’s breath mingling with his warm tears on Eddie’s skin. Eddie doesn’t feel the warmth, only a chill that raises the hair on his arms.
“Sorry? For what?” Eddie replies, pulling back. Buck hangs his head against his own chest, ignoring the question. With a delicate hand, Eddie takes Buck’s chin and guides it upward, bringing Buck’s eyes to his once more. “Please, let me understand. Let me help you. You can ask for help, Buck.”
Eddie sees a flicker of recognition across Buck’s face, the tearful wrinkles on his forehead relaxing slightly as he seems to weigh the words. Eddie waits as Buck’s mind works. Then, defeated, the wrinkles return and Buck’s lip wobbles ever so slightly.
“Help,” he cries, collapsing in on himself.
“Dad?” They both freeze. Buck swallows his weeping with a sharp intake of breath. Eddie’s head snaps to the door—still open, obviously, because he damn near took it off the hinges—and there stands Christopher. “Buck? Are you okay?”
Buck chokes out a whimper, and Eddie feels a sudden need to protect him. From what, Chris? He pulls Buck closer anyway, gesturing for Chris to come join them.
“Hey, bud. Sorry if I scared you, I just-” Eddie pauses, resting his chin atop Buck’s trembling head for a moment. The implications of his sentence hang in the air as Chris drops his crutches and settles down on the floor. His eyebrows arch up, expecting Eddie to continue. “I just wasn’t sure what I’d find in here.”
“I understand,” Chris says, fingers creeping forward to meet Buck’s knee. He’s fifteen. He shouldn’t understand. I wish he didn’t understand.
“But we’re okay. We’re going to be okay.” Eddie drops one arm from around Buck’s frame and reaches out to take Christopher’s free hand. Buck, still sniffling and tucked delicately against Eddie’s chest, places a hand over the smaller fingers clutching his leg. They sit, a unit, a family, BuckandEddieandChris, for a while. Minutes. Hours. Doesn’t matter. What little sunlight that had managed to breach the blinds eventually peters out, but Eddie’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness. He watches his boys, grip never wavering, breath as steady as he can manage. He will not let them down.
A gurgle from Chris’ stomach interrupts the somber room.
“Sorry,” he hisses, wide eyes flickering between Eddie and Buck, as if worried he might have broken some kind of sacred silence. His fears are nullified as Buck lets out a breathy laugh.
“No, I’m sorry, Chris. You guys did say you had pizza,” Buck says, voice rough but no longer shaky.
“Hawaiian,” Chris adds, the smile stretching across his face enough to brighten the space between them.
“Buck,” Eddie starts, finally shifting enough to see Buck’s face. This time, he isn’t met with shame or guilt, but rather a weary appreciation. After eight years, Buck doesn’t need to say the words. Instead, a silent understanding passes between them.
I’m here, I’ll always be here.
I know.
“How about we move this party to the kitchen? Are you up for food?”
“Can’t hurt,” Buck replies.
“Chris, why don’t you go ahead. Start the oven up, we’ll be there in a minute,” Eddie says. Chris looks between Buck and Eddie again and nods. As he’s on his way out the door, he turns back.
“I’m raiding your freezer, Buck. It’s an ice cream before dinner kind of night.” Then he disappears down the hallway. Eddie smiles, listening to the familiar click of Christopher’s crutches grow fainter as he crosses the house.
“So,” Buck croaks, followed by a cough. Eddie huffs, stretching out his legs as he shifts, leaning back against the bed beside Buck. His tailbone is screaming at him and he knows his old-man knees will protest when they eventually try to get up, but he’s not quite ready to leave just yet.
“So,” Eddie echoes. Then the words start spilling out of Buck like a pot bubbling over.
“I didn’t-I didn’t think it would get this bad. Eddie, I really thought I had it handled. But by the time I realized it was worse, I was just so caught up in my own head-”
“Buck. Look at me.” Buck looks. “I don’t need an explanation or an apology. We’re here now. We move forward. Together, one step at a time.”
“Together, one step at a time,” Buck repeats, mulling over the words. “I think I can do that.”
“Good. Because I need you, Buckley. And so does Chris. I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine. That’s our deal, right?” Eddie holds out a hand, remembering a night in a parking lot a lifetime ago. Buck’s expression softens with the same memory. He takes Eddie’s hand with a shy smile and gentle grip.
“Deal.”
Before he can think too much of it, Eddie curls their fingers together and brings their interlaced hands up to his mouth. He presses a tender kiss into the back of Buck’s hand, brown eyes never leaving blue. It’s a promise, a confession, a prayer.
“I love you,” Eddie whispers.
“You matter to me.” “I know.”
“I am the other guy.” “I know”
“I know.”
A comfortable, long-awaited silence settles, only to swiftly be broken.
“Dad! Buck! Come on, I’m starving!”
Fingers still intertwined and battered joints complaining, Buck and Eddie heave themselves up off the floor and make for the kitchen, taking the first step together.