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Before Eddie can regret his decision, Buck opens the door.
He stands in shocked silence at the sight of Eddie standing on his porch at half-past midnight with a black eye.
"Eddie?" Buck asks.
His voice is thick with sleep and he blinks a few times as if to make sure he's not dreaming.
Eddie presses his lips together and bites back his anger. "Can I come in?"
Buck quickly stumbles aside and lets Eddie inside, shutting the door behind him.
"What are you doing here?"
There's an unspoken "why" in the question. Buck doesn't expect Eddie to show up here unprompted. Not anymore.
Eddie makes his way over to the kitchen. He ignores the dull ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the bruised rib.
“Doesn’t matter.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit.
He remembers asking why Buck keeps it there instead of in the bathroom. Buck had shrugged and simply said, “because I get more injured while cooking than brushing my teeth. I have one in my bathroom in case I forget to stock this one up.”
Eddie quickly rinses his bleeding knuckles under the cold tap water, ignoring the sharp stinging. It helps. Physical pain and anger are enough to distract Eddie from the aching sadness in his bones and the crushing pain in his chest.
Buck is silent when Eddie shuts the water off.
He reaches for Eddie’s hand and he pulls away with a scowl. Buck looks at Eddie with a resigned look and somehow it makes his heart squeeze painfully. He quashes the feeling down. Buck deserves Eddie’s anger. The world deserves Eddie’s anger. It keeps pushing and pushing, taking from Eddie, breaking his heart over and over. It shouldn’t be surprising that Eddie lashes back.
“I won’t ask why you’re here,” Buck says, “but you have to let me help you.”
It’s not like Eddie has a choice. His eyes flicker down to Buck’s hand and sees that he’s holding the small white kit.
Eddie’s anger is already ebbing away. He’s clinging to it desperately, but he can’t stop the numbness and exhaustion from sinking its claws and poisoning his heart and head. He’s been spinning in an endless cycle of anger and numbness and he’s bound to fall apart soon enough.
Buck takes his silence as an agreement and gestures towards the kitchen table before pulling out a chair.
Eddie sits across from Buck who has to scoot forward to access Eddie’s injuries.
He works in silence, applying arnica gel on Eddie’s bruised knuckles-- he hadn’t broken skin this time, which he supposes he’s grateful for; it hurts more than bruises and lasts longer-- and wiping blood from cuts on Eddie’s face and applying Avengers-themed band-aids over them.
Eddie can almost hear the questions hanging in the air, and doesn’t miss how stiff Buck is holding himself, as if he’s afraid of breathing wrong and setting off a bomb. At least that means he knows he fucked up.
Eddie heaves a breath. “I couldn’t let Chris see me like this,” he says.
Normally, he can avoid getting cuts on his face. Now he has a black eye, a bleeding nose, and a split lip. From how tender his jaw is, he suspects a bruise is forming there.
He mentally drafts an excuse for Bobby tomorrow, but doesn’t have the heart to come up with a lie for Chris. He can’t tell him the truth, but Eddie’s never lied to him.
Buck meets Eddie’s eyes. There’s something he doesn’t recognize in them, something soft and understanding. Something Eddie doesn’t want.
He looks away.
“You’re gonna have impressive bruises in the morning,” Buck says instead.
Eddie winces internally. His face is going to feel so sore for days to come.
“Thanks,” he bites out grudgingly.
The chair scrapes across the floor as Buck pushes himself back. “I never meant for any of this to happen,” he says, almost pleading. “I just wanted to go back to work. To the 118. To--”
He cuts himself off, wringing his hands together, a painful look in his eyes.
The anger resurfaces despite the exhaustion pulling at Eddie’s muscles.
“Well you did,” he says, icily. “Your actions have consequences, Buck. I understand wanting to come back to us, but I don’t understand the rest.” He meets Buck’s eyes and holds his stare for the first time since he showed up here. “Did you really think we wouldn’t have begged and convinced Bobby to bring you back?”
Because they would have. Eddie and Chimney and Hen and the whole 118. No one brought as much noise and energy to the 118 as Buck did. They would have fought tooth and nail to get Bobby to allow Buck back to work. They wouldn’t have given up, so why had Buck given up so easily? Why didn’t Buck realize he had people in his corner who would always be there for him? Why did Buck give up on them?
His hands are shaking. He stands up and stumbles, one hand flying to his ribs.
Buck catches him and Eddie pulls away. He doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes across Buck’s face or the way he seems to wilt. He wishes he did.
“I’m fine.”
Buck glares. “Clearly you’re not. If you’re gonna show up here at midnight unannounced and injured, the very least you could do is let me help.”
Eddie turns to face Buck so fast his ribs twinge painfully. He shoves his finger in Buck’s face, shaking with anger. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. You’ve already been helpful enough these past few weeks, I’m fine, thank you.”
Buck swats his hand away, regret and frustration clear on his face and in the hard set of his mouth. “Let me check your chest and you’re free to go. You wouldn't be here if you really didn't want my help.”
They stay like this for several moments, glaring at each other with heaving chests and a grand canyon of tension and hurt between them.
“Fine,” Eddie finally bites out.
He angrily unzips his green hoodie and pulls off his sweat-stained and grimy white shirt. He’s so angry he barely feels the sharp tug of pain lacing up his chest. He sits back down in the chair and glares at Buck with smug satisfaction.
Buck’s face goes pale as he takes in Eddie’s chest.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, voice weak and guilty.
Eddie almost scoffs. For once, this isn’t Buck’s fault. He feels the bitter taste of regret at the thought, but pushes it away. Buck’s been nothing but problem after problem piling up on top of each other lately, and he's sure Buck knows it.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eddie replies. “He was big and angry and had one hell of a god complex.”
And Eddie had put him in his place. He regrets letting himself get addicted to the pain and blood and sweat and rage, but he doesn’t regret knocking a few scumbags down a peg or two.
Buck presses gentle fingers against Eddie’s ribcage, the ghost of a touch, hesitant to hurt Eddie more. Eddie shivers at the touch. He presses down harder and Eddie groans. Buck barely falters, feeling alongside Eddie’s ribs for any breaks.
“Good news,” Buck finally says, pulling away and reaching from the arnica gel again. “They’re not broken. No hospital for you tonight.”
Eddie doesn’t tell Buck he broke ribs fighting in the past. He doesn’t make a joke about it. He wants to, but the anger drowns out everything else.
So he just sits in silence, not saying a word of anything he wants to tell Buck, and it just might be the hardest thing he’s done lately.
“There,” Buck says softly. “You can go now.”
Eddie doesn’t waste any time pulling his shirt carefully back over his head and grabs his jacket. It’s Buck's, he remembers. He loaned it to him at some point, probably during one of their many game nights at his apartment.
“It’s yours,” he says, handing the jacket to Buck.
Buck mutely grabs it, an unreadable expression on his face. Probably guilt. Anytime Eddie has seen Buck these past few weeks, he always looks at them with guilt.
“Eddie--”
“This doesn't fix anything,” Eddie snaps, cutting him off.
Buck is clenching the jacket tightly in his hands. “I’m being reinstated.”
Eddie pauses, happiness sparking in his chest. Anger quickly extinguishes it.
He smiles sharply at Buck, something cold and vindictive in his chest. “Looks like you got what you wanted, then.”
Buck’s expression crumbles apart and Eddie suddenly can’t stand being here anymore. Surrounded by Buck. his apartment, his empty mug sitting on the marble counter, a bag of instant ramen on the kitchen table, a book laying on the couch, the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee that was so unique to Buck’s apartment, that made Eddie feel at home.
Eddie isn’t home. Home is with Chris. It’s not here, and Buck sealed his own fate.
He shoves past Buck and storms towards the front door. He pauses for half a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind him.
Buck doesn’t go after him.
Eddie doesn’t know if it’s what he wants or if he wants Buck to run after him and-- and do what? What can Buck do to make things better?
Eddie doesn’t know.
He wishes he did.
Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and makes his way towards the elevator and back to his house.