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After Eddie chokes out what he can of a tragedy nearly a decade in the making, and after they go together to make sure Christopher is okay — the kid's eyes are wide where they meet Buck's over his father's shoulder, Eddie still trembling as he holds him — they sit back down at the kitchen table and Buck cleans Eddie's knuckles. There are at least three first aid kits present in the Diaz house at all times. Chris has one that lives in his backpack, and Eddie's gone over it with him enough times to make him comfortable should he ever have to use anything in it. There's one under the bathroom sink, fully stocked in a way only a medic would make sure of, overkill for most mild household emergencies. The one in the kitchen is more geared towards slip ups with knives or graters, or minor burns from a stray hot pan; lots of disinfectant, gauze, bandages, lidocaine. Buck goes for this one now, though the ones in either of their duffle bags would have worked, too. Except Buck doesn't know where Eddie's bag is, doesn't know if he even has it packed anymore, if he bothers bringing first aid with him to the call center. And Buck's is all the way out at the Jeep, and Eddie's hands are shaking, and he's not going to go any further away than he absolutely has to right now.
Visual inspection first, to assess what the next steps should be. The wounds don't look too bad, just shallow splits in the skin. A little puffiness, but not the major swelling that would indicate he broke anything. Still, step two, physical inspection. Moving slow, Buck carefully takes Eddie’s hand and feels along his fingers, searching for anything out of place or any particularly painful spots. Eddie doesn’t react much, but he looks kind of far away right now.
“Can you make a fist for me?”
It takes Eddie a few seconds to comply, but he does so smoothly. They both look down at the way it pulls at the scrapes, a small bit of fresh blood shining up at them when he releases the tension.
Buck clears his throat. Step three, clean the wounds. He tears open a disinfectant wipe and bends in close. “I don't think anything's broken.”
“Anything in my hand, anyway.” It should be one of Eddie’s sharp jokes, but his voice just sounds weak. He sighs, harsh, and rubs his face with the hand Buck isn’t tending to. “I should clean up, you don’t have to-“
“No, Eddie.” Pointer, middle, index, pinkie, wrap around to the thumb. “I think you should get some sleep. I'll take care of the rest, it's okay, I promise.”
Eddie looks like he's going to argue for a moment but then all the fight visibly flees right out of him, shoulder slumping, eyes far away again as he nods. It makes Buck feel a little sick as unwraps bandages one by one and smoothes them over each finger. He feels like he should be begging. Please don't give up. The words are tapping painfully at the backs of his teeth.
“Okay,” he says instead, running a thumb over the last bandage one more time. “Uh- let's get you- you'll have to take the couch.”
Eddie moves like he's half asleep already, Buck’s guiding hand on his back the only thing keeping him from knocking into walls and furniture. He goes straight down onto the blue fabric, giving Buck no time even to just pull the back cushions off so he'll have more room to stretch out. His eyes are shut already, and the way he's huddling in on himself makes him look small even as he has to curve so his feet aren't crushed against the far armrest. Buck swallows his stuttering breaths and wipes his eyes and grabs the fluffiest blanket he can find in the basket beside the couch, the purple one they found on a trip to Costco awhile ago that Eddie always regretted not buying a few of. Buck had been all smug I told you so-s about it, because he'd stood there next to the big cardboard pit of them trying to put more in their basket.
“Can you check on Chris?” Eddie mumbles, barely audible.
“Yeah, in a minute,” Buck whispers back, settling down onto the arm chair. “I’m just gonna be right here for a minute.” He wants to wait till Eddie’s asleep. He doesn’t want to leave him alone. Eddie sighs through his nose and nods, and his body relaxes into the couch in increments, breathing slowly evening out. Buck waits for it to happen, and then waits a few minutes more to ease the irrational fear that his breathing will get so slow it stops. He’s pretty sure Eddie’s asleep now, though he doesn’t look particularly calm in it, face still clinging onto unhappiness. Buck wishes he could do something, anything, that would guarantee that nightmares stay away, just for one night. He scrubs at his face, and goes to Chris.
The kid is in bed where Buck and Eddie left him, but his bedside light is still on and he’s awake, toying with the frayed tail of a tiger stuffed animal they got at the zoo the year they met. His head snaps up to look at Buck immediately, eyes drifting over his shoulder to the empty space there.
“Hey, kid,” Buck whispers, coming to kneel down by the bed. “It’s late, you’ve got school tomorrow.” It’s almost midnight, way past his bedtime, he’s going to be wiped out all day.
“Do I have to go?” Chris frowns, hugging the tiger close.
Buck almost says no, gives into some prey animal instinct to keep both Diaz boys close, but it's probably good to not interrupt Chris' routine by more than it already has been, and the hours while he's at school will give Buck time to- he doesn't know what. Help Eddie, somehow. He almost laughs at how completely clueless he feels. He clears his throat. “Sorry kid, you should really go. You had that science experiment you were looking forward to, remember? You can come home and tell your dad all about elephant toothpaste. I'll call Carla to-”
“She's in San Diego,” Chris frowns deeper. Buck frowns, too. It's been awhile since he knew the day to day schedule of this house. Even a few months ago he would have known that.
“Okay- okay. I'll take you to school, then. We'll figure it out.” He doesn't want to leave Eddie alone. He'll have to call someone. Or bring him with them? No, he probably won't be up for that. Fuck. He'll call someone.
“Is Dad gonna be okay?” Chris looks right into his eyes, determined, a plea for truth. It knocks the air out of Buck a little.
“Yeah, Chris. He… sometimes people need to be taken care of, and that's okay. We're all gonna take real good care of your dad, alright? You and me, and- and everybody.” And I fucking hope it works. It has to work. Your dad’s a fighter. Buck blinks hard, eyes itching. I wish he didn’t have to fight so hard. We’re gonna try to make it so he doesn’t have to fight so hard.
“Okay,” Chris nods, trusting Buck so completely it makes him ache. “We can make him pancakes tomorrow.”
Buck actually smiles. “I think he might sleep in tomorrow, bud. But maybe the next day? And we can make him dinner for sure.”
“Alright. I love you, Buck.” Chris settles under the covers, sleepiness hitting fast now that there’s something like a game plan and the world is just a little less frightening for him. Buck leans down to kiss his forehead.
“Night, Chris. Love you, too.” Chris is snoring gently before Buck even gets to the door.
The night stretches out endlessly ahead. Buck thinks about the armchair, about trying to snatch a few hours of sleep twisted up in it. He heads to Eddie’s room.
It’s a disaster in here. A one man hurricane tore through the place, leaving no corner unmarred. It looks like just about every breakable thing in here has been broken, even the treadmill’s fucked. The window is still intact, thank god, but there’s still glass scattered throughout. Buck hadn’t checked Eddie’s feet, he hopes he didn’t step in any of it. He wants to cry. He goes to get the broom.
Buck starts with the glass, and thinks about how long it takes to clean a room. He wonders if he’s spent more of his life thinking about that than the average person. Margaret and Phillip generally didn’t give much of a shit about where he was or what he was doing — a latchkey kid in the 2000s when that was method of child rearing was fading out amidst stranger danger paranoia and helicopter parenting — but their one stipulation for his lonely freedom was that his room had to be clean before he went. If asked he’d say he was a pretty messy kid, even with the uncomfortably contradictory evidence of how much worse any of his friend’s rooms were when he got invited over. It’s comparative, maybe. The rest of the Buckley house was always showroom perfect, his dirty laundry and left out sports equipment were malignant growths that spoiled the whole thing even locked away behind a single door. So he was always estimating how long it would take to get the floor clean, put his shit away. He always knew, roughly, how many minutes stood between him and getting outside. Eventually he just started keeping his room neat in the first place, when the five minutes it would take to get clothes in drawers started to become suffocating. Even now, the loft is always clean. He can leave any time.
There’s a lot to do in Eddie’s room, and he has to work quietly which adds more time. He can’t run the vacuum, he doesn’t want to wake anyone up, so the glass is swept carefully into double layered trash bags and he keeps his shoes on in case he missed any. It takes fifteen minutes. Moving the unsalvageable treadmill outside will also be too loud, it will have to wait until morning. He at least piles the stray pieces of it together for easy transportation. Five minutes. He moves on to generally picking up the detritus spread across the room, sorting it into three piles: things that aren’t broken, things that are broken but should still be saved, and things to throw away. He tries very carefully to not think about it metaphorically. It takes about 40 minutes, with the quiet trips back and forth to the outside trash bin (two minutes each). Next, clothes. He takes a lot of time with this one, thoroughly shaking out each discarded t-shirt and sock to be entirely sure there’s no hiding shard of glass that could hide and wait and hurt Eddie later. He can’t run the washer, but he sets up the load for tomorrow, and puts whatever doesn’t fit into the appropriate laundry bins. A full hour, because Eddie’s drawers had been torn open, and it probably would have been okay to just shut them and move on but thinking about missing anything harmful by doing so made the breath choke up in Buck’s chest so bad he had to stand there with his hands shaking for a little while. He’d emptied it all, shook it, sorted it. Only one half of the closet door got torn off, so whatever’s hanging on the other side should be okay to wear tomorrow, even if it’s not the more comfortable clothes from the dresser.
It’s 2 AM. Buck turns to the bed. He pushes the mattress back onto the frame, and takes the time to sweep the bit of floor it had been covering up. Then, fuck it, he lays out flat and sweeps under frame, pulling out the storage boxes Eddie had there to make sure nothing flew between them to be lost until he next needed something from them. IMPORTANT one is labeled, in Eddie’s neat capital letters. SHANNON, another one says. CHRISTOPHER. It’s a plastic tub, none of the pomp and circumstance of Maddie’s heavy wooden baby box, but it’s full to almost bursting. Buck kneels there with it on his lap, knuckles white where he grips its edges. He puts them all back in as exactly the same location as he can manage. He strips the bed, bundling up the sheets and pillow cases, again fearful of glass. He runs his hands all over the bare mattress, waiting for his palm to come away bloody. It never does. The spare sheets are in the hallway closet, and he has to pause and choke again for a moment, because there's a whole shelf just for the ones Buck uses when he sleeps on the couch. Still there, even if he hasn’t spent the night in months, not since the more immediate aftermath of the shooting when Eddie needed help getting around and was having trouble navigating daily tasks one handed and in pain, when Buck had the flimsy excuse of EMT training to get to be the one to change his bandages instead of Ana even though really it was a simple enough task anyone could have done it. Eddie’s asleep on the couch now and Buck didn’t even put sheets down for him. He grabs a set and flees back to Eddie’s room, because he’s not crying exactly, he’s not weeping, but- whatever’s happening is loud, and ragged. Better to contain the noise.
He makes the bed, fluffs the pillows, sweeps the floor again. He arranges the little piles neatly, over under the window. He takes down the torn off blinds, getting a screwdriver from under the kitchen sink to carefully take down the bent pole they were hanging on. He stands by the trash outside for a minute after he’s tipped them in, gasping in the night air. Not for too long — it's the middle of the night, this isn’t his house, if somebody saw him they might get a wrong idea — but the cold air is sharp and bracing, and makes his body remember that it’s his. Back in the room he straightens what picture frames he can, taking down and stacking any that seem about to fall on top of the dresser. There’s holes in the wall. It’s hard to tell with some of them if they were made by the bat or Eddie’s hands. There’s nothing he can do about them. He doesn’t have the materials to fix them, and there aren’t any stores open this time of night he could get any from, and in any case he can’t leave. Eddie is asleep on the couch and Buck doesn’t know what would happen if he left. He has a funny, panicky idea that the glass might spread, fly all the way out to the living room and bleed him dry if Buck goes out the front door. He didn’t clean good enough, he guesses. He’s not supposed to leave if he didn’t clean good enough, and this mess is- he’s scared it’s too big to fix. He doesn’t know how much time it will take, couldn’t begin to guess.
Except he told Chris he’d figure out how to get him to school in the morning. He could probably beg one of the other parents at Durand to swing by and get him on the way, but Chris went to bed frightened tonight, and Buck can’t bear the thought of just handing him over to someone else when he wakes up. He, Buck, has to take him to school, has to make sure Chris is okay and knows he’s cared for and will never be left for someone else to deal with. But-
But Buck got his phone call at 8:36 last night, and in the twelve minutes it took to drive from the loft to the Diaz house he didn’t know what he’d find behind Eddie’s door. He doesn’t know how long it takes to get from his Jeep to the porch, seconds probably, less than usual with how fast he was moving. Another handful of seconds as he ran through the house and reassured Christopher and told him to stay in his room because- because he didn’t know what would be behind Eddie’s door. So he was at Eddie’s bedroom probably around 8:50. He doesn’t know exactly how long it takes to break down a door, how long the swing from shut to open lasts. 8:50:05? 8:50:10? A person can do a lot of imagining in ten seconds. The room was silent. Buck didn’t know what he’d find inside. He was so fucking scared of what he’d find inside. The drive from here to Durand is fifteen minutes, maybe more with morning traffic. He’d be gone for half an hour at least. He doesn’t know he can go that long without knowing where Eddie is, without knowing that he’s whole and breathing. He doesn’t want to be on the other side of that door again.
So, Carla is in San Diego. Maddie only just got home, and as much as Buck’s racing rabbit heart is desperate to call her and beg for comfort, she and Eddie really barely know each other. He’s not sure Eddie would want a friendly acquaintance to be witness to any part of this. He could call Hen, or even Chimney who’s maybe still pissed at Buck but surely would come for Eddie. But Hen will also be getting Denny to school, and Chimney just drove across the country, they’re not really in the position where they could drop everything in the early morning, as much as they would be willing to to help a friend.
Five years ago, another door that Buck didn’t know what was behind. Hen had the key, that time. Buck thinks… he didn’t really know anything back then. He didn’t know what Bobby was going through, not really. He didn’t know how he felt about Bobby, his desperation to be liked and kept not necessarily whittled down into the specifics of knowing what a good father looks like and wanting one for himself. He’s willing to bet Bobby didn’t quite know what to make of him, yet, either. What he knew at the time was that Bobby had given him a second chance when he might not have really deserved one, and he knew he felt kind of sick-scared sitting with him on the couch as he cried. And he knows Bobby got through it, got help, got better. He knows he feels sick-scared again now, and he wants-
He’ll call Bobby in the morning. It’s almost 3 AM, he can’t call now, and the thought of writing any of this down in text where he might accidentally look at it again makes him feel jittery. Maybe… five. 5 AM is an almost reasonable time to be woken for an emergency. Bobby is usually first up at the station anyway, though Buck doesn’t really know if that translates to his days off. Maybe he likes to sleep in. Buck thinks he won’t mind being woken for this.
Eddie’s room is as clean as it’s going to get, he has a plan for the morning, there’s nothing else Buck can do. The idea of sleep is laughable, though, so he heads to the kitchen and tries to make the quietest cup of coffee he’s ever prepared. He leaves it on the counter to let it cool and heads down the hall to Chris’ room, gently opening the door. He’s still sound asleep, curled up sort of sideways on the bed, pillow pulled down away from the headboard. Buck sleeps kind of like that, Maddie used to make fun of him for it. Drifted part way down the bed, his feet hanging off the edge. He does it less when someone’s sleeping beside him. He needs an anchor, maybe. Chris’ breathing is calm, even. His hand is curled around the edge of the blanket but isn’t clinging onto it. Buck goes back to the kitchen for his coffee.
He goes back to the armchair. Eddie is also sleeping soundly, his arms crossed over his chest for protection, or to keep himself together. He’s frowning, face half turned into his pillow. It’s not even a real pillow, it’s a decorative one just for the couch, his neck’s going to be stiff in the morning. The bed is in good enough shape for Eddie to sleep in, but Buck doesn’t want to wake him. He thinks the pain he’s in now is probably worse than a sore scapulae. Buck drinks the coffee, even though it’s been awhile since dinner and the bitter liquid sits uncomfortably in his gut. He tries not to watch the clock, because he knows that just makes the time pass slower, but he can’t help glancing at it. 3:07. God, five is so far away. 3:18. His eyes ache, and he’s not sure if it’s from the exhaustion or because he hasn’t really cried yet. He tries to relax enough for one of those to happen, sleep or tears, he’s not picky. Neither come. He just sits in the dark and waits, and waits, watching Eddie’s quiet form.
3:30. 4:10. 4:26. 4:45. Buck heads into Eddie’s bedroom again. He pulls up Bobby’s contact on his phone. The battery is low, he’s only now realizing. Usually he charges it overnight, he didn’t get the chance. He thinks it will last him through school drop off. He tries to remember if there was a charger in the mess and if so which of the three piles it made it into. It’s starting to get light in here, just a little bit. Not true sunrise yet, but that kind of murky blue of the lead up.
5:02. He hits dial.
“Hello?” Bobby asks on the fourth ring. “Buck? What’s happening?” Urgent, no niceties. It’s a call at 5 AM, it can’t be about anything good.
“Bobby-” his own voice startles him, echoing in the empty room. Too loud. Another disruption to this already overturned space. “Bobby. Uh, s-sorry it’s so early, I, uh- sorry. I need- w-we need-” he stops, clears his throat, hopes the action will shake his thoughts into a straight line. “Can you come to Eddie’s?”
“Yes, I’ll be there in-” a pause, movement. “Fifteen minutes. Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“Um.” There wasn’t that much blood on the wipes. Eddie’s knuckles were just scraped, really, and the bones felt okay, there wasn’t much swelling. And. And the hurt is so deep and bad it went off like a bomb, and Buck still can’t quite believe it didn’t take Eddie with it. Feels like he should run back out to the living room to check. “No. N- no. Can you just get here- I’ll explain- can you just get here, please?”
“I’m on my way.” Front door, movement, car door. “You want me to stay on the line?”
“No.” Buck’s eyes sting. “I’ll be okay. See you.”
Seatbelt, breathing. “I’ll be right there, Buck.” Click.
Buck stands — when did his knee start hurting? — and walks down the hall again. He hadn’t quite shut Christopher’s door last time, so it’s easy to look in and check on him. Still sleeping. He shuts the door, quiet as he can, and goes to the living room. Eddie, too, still sleeping. His blanket has fallen or been kicked off in the few minutes Buck was gone. Careful, careful, he picks it back up and lays it over top of him again. Then Buck waits by the front door, huddled close against the wood, laying his forehead on the cool polished surface of it. He shuts his eyes for longer than he’s dared to all night, and waits, and listens. He feels kind of drifty with exhaustion, but fifteen minutes must pass because he hears a car pull up out on the street. Buck opens the door and slips out onto the porch.
Bobby is parked a little haphazardly behind the Jeep, which is parked very haphazardly in the driveway next to Eddie’s truck. He almost runs up to the house, doing that measured jog he does at a scene when he needs to get someplace quick without scaring anybody.
“Hey,” he says, coming to a stop in front of Buck with hands raised and hovering, moving the same path his eyes take as they check Buck for any obvious injury. “Are you okay? What happened?” He looks at the shut door like he can see right through it. If anybody had x-ray powers, Buck would believe it’d be Bobby. “Is everyone alright?”
“I-” Buck nods, and then shakes his head. “Everybody’s- they’re o- they’re not hurt. Uh. S-sorry, I-” he uncrosses his arms from where they’d been tight over his chest and digs his palms into his eyes. “I didn’t sleep.”
“Okay,” Bobby says, calm and reasonable. “Take a minute, Buck, it's alright.” One of Bobby's hands finds Buck's elbow and sticks there, a point of warmth in the chilly dawn. They stand together and breathe until Buck can uncover his face.
“Chris called me last night. Eddie was, uh- Eddie was locked in his room, he was screaming a-and- there was a lot of noise- I got here fast as I…” Buck hands are a little numb. He flexes his fingers a few times. “He wasn't making noise anymore when I got here. I had to- I broke down his door. He-” Buck makes a half gesture, glancing in the vague direction of Eddie's room. “It was bad, Bobby, he trashed the place, and I-I-I’ve never seen him cry like that. Like- helpless. Uh. I don't- I'm not sure what he'd want me to- to share. It was about his team, in Afghanistan. He, uh- I don't know. It was bad- it was bad.” Bobby squeezes his elbow as Buck catches his breath again. “He calmed down eventually. Sort of, I guess. I don't- he's sleeping on the couch. I- I have to take Chris to school, but I-” his throat is almost too tight to get the words out. “I don't know if he can be alone right now.”
Bobby looks so sad, his whole face pulling down with it. “Alright. I’ll stay here with him, Buck, we’ll figure this out.”
“I wasn’t here. I wasn’t- and he’s not okay-” Eddie always fights so hard. He hit his bedroom wall hard enough to break himself open, and Buck had to clean the blood from his hands. He wasn’t here the last time Eddie had fought to the point of bloody knuckles, when the world had weighed so heavy and angry on him he’d found a cage in a fucking parking lot somewhere to break other people open instead. Who cleaned his hands then? Buck wasn't there to help him, to see that he needed help. And this time, too, Buck wasn't here. He hasn't been here. Carla is in San Diego and he had no idea because the tangle of their lives has been unraveling and he hadn’t done anything to tie those knots back together. “Bobby- I thought- I thought I was going to open that door and find him dead-”
Bobby pulls him in, holds him tight as the tears finally come. He sobs into Bobby’s shirt — loose and soft, pajamas probably, though he took the time to put real pants on — and doesn’t try so hard to be quiet because they’re outside and there’s several walls between him and anybody sleeping and he thinks he tastes blood in his mouth because this is the second time in less than a year that he’s been feet away from Eddie Diaz and been sure he’s dying or already dead. “It’s alright,” Bobby murmurs. “You’re okay.” It’s not, he isn’t. But it’s nice to be held until he can breathe right again, and stand up straight.
“I don’t know what to do,” Buck says, voice horrible and croaky. “I don’t know how to help him.”
”We’re just going to be there,” Bobby says, sure and confident. “We’ll be here with him, make sure he knows he’s not alone. And I don’t mean to- this isn’t your fault, Buck. I saw he was struggling, too, I could have reached out more, but- it isn’t my fault either, as much as it feels it right now.” He smiles, twisty, rueful, eyes still pools of sadness. “Sometimes… it all just comes crashing down. We’re gonna be there for him while he builds it back up. Lend him some power tools, maybe.”
Buck laughs, just a tiny bit, and wipes his face with the collar of his shirt. “Okay. You want some coffee? It’s, uh, it’s early.”
“Yeah,” Bobby chuckles softly, squeezing Buck’s arm one last time. “Cold out here, too. Let’s head inside.”
On the other side of the door, Eddie is sleeping on the couch, and Christopher, too, down the hall. The glass is cleaned away, everyone inside is safe. Buck knows this. Right at this moment, he’s sure of it. He takes a deep breath and turns the knob.