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For as long as Buck can remember, his brain has dealt with bad shit primarily through nightmares.
As a child, he would wake up screaming, tangled in his sheets. Sometimes, Maddie would try to comfort him, though she was still a child herself.
As a teenager, he learned to waken silently, muting his distress in his pillow, wary for the sounds of irritated footsteps outside his door.
As an adult, Buck keeps his nightmares to himself. Adults don’t have nightmares, right? They just deal with shit, in the daytime, with therapists or whatever.
All Buck ever wanted—as a cowering child, as a furious teenager—was to be an adult. To be big and powerful enough to protect himself, to protect Maddie, to protect everyone. And he got what he asked for, mostly—he’s tall, he’s strong, he can bench-press two hundred fifty pounds, for Christ’s sake.
But he’s still working on the feeling like an adult of it all.
After all, adults don’t wake up in the middle of the night thinking that they’re drowning.
Water. Dirty water, full of grit and oil and human remains. It’s over his head, cascading into his eyes and down his nose. He flails anyway, body tumbling, looking for any glimmers of light among the waves.
He breaks the surface, but before he can gasp for more than a single lungful of air, the current rips him under again, battering his already-ruined body against the spinning debris.
Christopher. He needs to find Christopher.
But his chest is full of water, heavy and messing with his body’s natural buoyancy. The water’s everywhere he looks, up and down and left and right. Why is it all water?
And where is Christopher?
Buck startles awake on half a breath, lungs seizing, scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. He just needs to get on dry land, then he’ll be able to breathe—
He tumbles out of bed and hits the floor hard, the shock knocking the remainder of the nightmare off his shoulders. He lays there, panting, in the darkness, relishing in the burn of the air rushing into his lungs, unencumbered by any water.
The loft is very quiet and very empty, his breaths echoing harshly against the bare walls. There’s no one to tell him to be quiet, and he could give in to the scream building in his chest, but he’s learned too well for too many years not to do that.
So he just tries to breathe and forget the feeling of his lungs filling with silt and waves, of each breath coming shallower and shallower until he couldn’t breathe at all.
It didn’t really end that way. He needs to get a fucking grip.
Buck drags himself to his feet, haphazardly straightens the twisted sheets until the bed is semi-presentable. Not that there’s anyone to present it to. No one else lives here. This big, echoey apartment that his ex-girlfriend picked out is all his.
He shakes himself. A shower. A warm shower will do him some good, knock that ocean cold out of his bones. Then he can start his day, even though it’s—
He checks his phone.
Even though it’s three-thirty a.m.
Fuck.
At least now Eddie can’t get after him for sleeping in.
The hot shower feels good at first, washing the cold sweat from his skin, edging him back towards sleep. Then Buck tilts his head back to rinse out his hair, and some of the water slips into his nose—
He’s bolting out from under the showerhead before he even knows what he’s doing, sliding across the bathroom floor until he’s leaning over the sink, coughing and spluttering, trying to get the nonexistent water out of his lungs.
When he’s regained his breath, heart still racing, he slams a hand down on the sink, frustration bubbling over. Is it just going to be like this from now on? He can’t even shower now?
Shampoo is dripping down his neck, but Buck can’t stomach the idea of getting back in the shower. He turns the water off and rinses his hair out under the sink faucet instead. If bits of soap are still sticking to his body here or there, well, he’ll just have to deal with it.
He dries off thoroughly before getting dressed, hating the feeling of clothes sticking to his wet skin after wandering around drenched all day after the tsunami.
And then he just stands there in his big, empty bedroom, hands twitching, trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do, alone, at four a.m.
He goes for a drive. It doesn’t feel like four in the morning when he’s out on the streets of LA. The streetlights are bright, and while there’s less traffic than during the day, the number of cars on the road is still considerable.
It’s unexpectedly comforting, the normalcy of it.
Buck purposely avoids going anywhere close to Santa Monica, but otherwise drives randomly, letting his whims take him where they will, trying to stay out of his head.
Which is why he’s surprised to find himself parked in front of the 118, staring up at the station house entrance, hands clenched around the steering wheel. He’s not supposed to be here, he’s not—
You quit, Buck reminds himself. If you’re not supposed to be here, it’s your own fault.
He gets out of the car anyway, drawn inexorably forward, feet moving of their own volition just as they’d done when he’d been wandering the streets looking for Christopher, constantly moving despite being beyond the point of utter exhaustion.
The station is quiet in the early morning, most of the on-duty crew still asleep. Morning light falls in pink swathes over the ladder truck, and Buck runs his hand over several scratches in the paint that are definitely new, remnants of the disaster.
With his other hand, he reaches up to touch the still-healing scars on his face.
“Buck?”
Buck jumps away from the truck as Bobby’s voice echoes across the station. He looks up to find his captain leaning over the balcony, an apron wrapped around his waist.
“Bobby,” Buck says, feeling strangely caught out, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Cooking breakfast for the team. Figured they could use a pick-me-up.” He gestures for Buck to join him, and Buck reluctantly climbs the stairs up to the kitchen.
When he reaches it, Bobby’s got his back turned again, flipping pancakes on the range. There’s… quite an array of food laid out already on the table.
“There’s coffee if you want it,” Bobby says.
“Is this… just a pick-me-up?” Buck asks, leaning against the counter.
Bobby shrugs. “Eh, couldn’t sleep that well last night. Was worrying about the team, that tsunami was a rough call.” He looks carefully at Buck as he says it, and Buck feels like he’s missing something important in the gaze, though he’s not sure what.
“Yeah, I— I couldn’t sleep too well, either,” Buck admits.
“I figured. You’ve never woken up this early voluntarily.” Bobby finishes his last pancake and switches off the heat, turning to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know, just— y’know—” Buck starts, fully intending to slide right past it, but Bobby’s looking at him like he knows what Buck’s going to say before he says it, and the word slips out against Buck’s volition. “Nightmares.”
He feels stripped bare by the admission, but Bobby just nods. “It’s to be expected after a traumatic event. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Buck’s not sure he believes that. He is— was— a firefighter, for Christ’s sake. He’s seen way worse than a little water.
But he just shrugs.
“You’re welcome to stay and join us for breakfast,” Bobby continues, thankfully not pressing him on the issue. “Though it’ll probably be a few hours before everyone’s up.” He carefully meets Buck’s eyes. “This is still your house, Buck.”
Buck rubs the back of his neck, warmth at the tips of his ears. “Yeah, that— that would be nice.”
Bobby wanders over to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. “Maybe get some sleep first. You look exhausted. Your bunk’s still free.”
Sleeping in the firehouse again sounds so nice. Buck honestly can’t remember how long it’s been. “Thanks, Cap. I will.”
If Bobby sees him cringe as he calls this man who’s technically no longer his captain “Cap,” he thankfully doesn’t mention it.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t see, either, but breathing seems the more pressing issue. Water is pouring down his throat, filling his spasming lungs, and h e flails for the surface, but he doesn’t even know which way is up, every direction is the same darkness, the same oppressive weight of the water. His clothes drag on his skin, catching in the current, but he kicks anyway.
He’s got to find air. He’s got to find Christopher.
Christopher’s voice echoes from somewhere far off. “Buck!”
“Christopher!” Buck tries to yell, but all his desperate voice finds is the water rushing in.
“Buck. Buck. Hey.”
Buck flings himself upright, gasping for breath, throwing someone’s hand off his shoulder.
He looks around: firehouse. Empty bunks around him. No water.
So why is his heart beating so wildly in his chest? Why can he still not breathe?
“Buck,” Bobby says from where he’s crouched beside the bed. “Hey. Look at me, kid.”
Buck heaves for breath. He still can’t get any air. There’s only one explanation for that.
“Bobby, I—” he tries, tugging at his shirt collar, “I— I’m drowning, I—”
“You’re not drowning, you’re—”
“No, no, no,” Buck insists, panting, “se-secondary drowning, the water—”
“You’re not drowning, hey, listen to me”—Bobby clamps a hand on Buck’s shoulder when Buck starts to shake his head again—“Buck, listen to me. You’re not drowning. You’re having a panic attack.”
Oh.
Buck’s never had a panic attack before. Or maybe— maybe he has. Now that he recognizes the symptoms for what they are, he thinks maybe he’s had panic attacks lots of times.
That’s a fun thing to learn about yourself.
“I’m—” he tries to say, still having a hard time getting air, “I’m—”
“You’re okay. I want you to look around and tell me five things you see.”
Buck tries to comply, pushing aside the tremors running up his arms. “Um, uh— Chim— Chimney’s jacket. He left it over there. And, um— Hen’s picture of Denny. Christopher’s coloring book, he must have been hanging out here earlier. And my shoes—I know, you told me a million times not to leave them in the middle of the hallway. And your shirt—you have a stain on it.”
Bobby glances down at the stain—probably from his cooking binge this morning—then back up at Buck, fond amusement in his gaze. “Good, now four things you can hear.”
Buck strains to hear over the phantom water rushing in his ears. “Um, traffic. Outside. And— dishes clinking in the kitchen.” He huffs out a tiny laugh. “They must be eating all your pancakes. Um— and someone’s showering, I can hear the water—”
And oh, that’s not a good sound. It reminds him of—
“Hey,” Bobby taps his shoulder, “in here.” He gestures to the immediate room they’re sitting in.
“Um…” Buck strains to hear. “The A/C.”
He manages to take his first full breath of cool air as he says it.
“Three things you feel.”
Buck clenches his hands in the sheets. “Sheets. They’re pretty shitty, you know. Kind of scratchy.”
Bobby’s lips quirk up.
“Um… the air from the vent. And— my arm, where it’s cut. It kind of hurts a bit.”
Bobby looks down at his bandaged arm but doesn’t move to touch it.
“Two things you smell.”
“Can’t you just give me a shot of something?”
“Finish the exercise, Buck.”
“Okay, um… coffee. And… wax. Someone’s polishing the truck.”
“Good. One thing you taste.”
“Blood. I think I bit my lip.”
Bobby pats him on the shoulder. “Good job. How’s your breathing?”
Buck takes a few deep, experimental breaths. “Good. Better. Thank you.”
Bobby stands up from where he was crouched on the floor, and for a moment Buck thinks he’ll leave, which sends a jolt through him, but Bobby just sits on the edge of the bed instead.
“This was about the tsunami, I’ll bet.”
Buck nods, avoiding his gaze. “I keep thinking I’m back in that water, and I can’t— I can’t find Christopher—”
“But you did find him. You both survived that day, Buck.”
“Yeah, but we almost didn’t. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“It’s natural to need some time to process after a traumatic event.”
“But you all went through it, too!” Buck doesn't like feeling different. Weaker.
But Bobby shakes his head. “There’s a difference between being in the middle of it and responding after the fact.”
“So how do you stop it?” Buck asks, voice wavering, because if anyone could help it would be Bobby, right? “The nightmares?”
“If I knew that I’d have told you a long time ago, kiddo.”
Buck scrubs his hands over his face, trying to get it together. “I just— it was only like a month ago that I stopped having nightmares about the explosion.”
Bobby pats his shoulder. “I know. It’ll get better eventually, I promise. Has Frank helped at all?”
“I don’t know—a little, maybe.”
“You’re not alone, lots of people are still struggling with this. Didn’t Eddie say Christopher was having nightmares, too?”
“Christopher’s a little kid!” Buck exclaims, hands splaying uselessly over his knees. “I shouldn’t still be having nightmares!”
Bobby frowns. “Being an adult doesn’t exempt you from nightmares, Buck.”
“Shouldn’t it?” Buck insists, alarmed to find tears pricking at his eyes. “Shouldn’t it, though? Am I ever going to be free of this?”
Bobby watches him carefully. Buck thinks Bobby can probably tell that he’s not just talking about the tsunami now, but he doesn’t press it. Instead, he says, “Sometimes, asking yourself when you’re going to get past something isn’t the most productive question. Sometimes, you have to learn to build your life around something that’s here to stay.”
Buck shakes his head, though he knows Bobby’s probably right. “I don’t know how.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out on your own.” He hands Buck a bottle of water that he must have brought with him from the kitchen.
Buck drinks half of it in one go before placing it down. “Thanks, Bobby.”
“Anytime.” Bobby looks him over, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “By the way, is there a problem with your bunk?”
“What?” Buck startles at the change of topic, and Bobby’s mischievous tone. “Uh— no, why?”
“Because you’re in Eddie’s.”
Buck looks around. Oh God, he is. Eddie’s jacket is slung over the bedpost, and there’s a photo of Christopher on the shelf behind his head. He almost jumps off the bed, but Bobby stills him with a hand on his arm.
“Bobby, I—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me. But, uh—” he looks up over Buck’s shoulder. “You might have to with him.”
Buck turns to find Eddie striding into the room, Christopher beside him, both making a beeline for Buck’s—well, Eddie’s—bunk.
When he turns back, Bobby’s disappeared.
“Buck!” Christopher calls as he hustles over and reaches the bed.
Buck feels his face split into a grin despite himself. “Hey, buddy! You coming to work today?”
“Yeah. Did we wake you up from a nap?”
Buck looks down at himself still tangled in the sheets. “Yeah, I didn’t sleep too good last night.”
He immediately feels bad for telling that to Christopher, who’s just a child and shouldn’t have to deal with this, but Christopher just tilts his head and says, “Me neither.”
“Yeah? How come?”
Christopher ducks his head and speaks softly. “Nightmares.”
Buck’s throat gets a little tight. “Nightmares about the tsunami?”
Christopher nods. “I couldn’t find you in the water.”
“Oh, buddy.” Buck leans forward to pull him into a hug, and Christopher clings to his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Christopher whispers.
“No, no, don’t be sorry! There’s nothing to be sorry about, you hear me?”
As Christopher steps away, Buck can’t tell if he believes him or not. But he says, “Okay.”
“Hey, Chris,” Eddie says, finally approaching from where he’d been standing a little off to the side. “Why don’t you go see if Bobby’ll make you some pancakes? I bet he’ll even put chocolate chips in them if you ask real nice.”
“Okay!” Christopher says, grinning again, and makes his way out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, “love you, Buck!”
Buck stares after him, throat working. “Love you, too, Christopher,” he finally manages.
“You know that’s the first time he’s talked about it,” Eddie says, stepping closer, once Christopher is gone. “He must have figured you’d get it.”
Buck laughs wetly, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Oh, I get it,” he says, more bitterly than he intends.
Eddie crouches down in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. His touch is like a brand, hot and permanent even through the blankets. “Evan.”
Buck flinches at his tone, something soft and knowing. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
Buck looks up into his knowing eyes, tries to speak. Can’t. Tries again. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s okay. It’ll get back to normal soon enough.”
“Bobby thinks ‘normal’ might have to change.”
“Well, he would know, I guess,” Eddie says. “Doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be worse, though.”
“Yeah.” It’s not that Buck doesn’t believe it, on an objective level. He just doesn’t like feeling stuck. So he tries to change the subject. “Where’s all this—what’s it called? Emotional intelligence?—coming from, anyway? That’s not like you.”
Eddie punches his arm half-heartedly. “Shut up, you. You’re the one who crawled into my bed.”
He did, didn’t he.
Eddie catches the shift in his expression and leans back out of Buck’s space. Before Buck even knows what’s hit him, Eddie’s stood up, a hesitancy falling back over his posture.
“Hey, listen,” he says, “I’m thinking of having everyone over tomorrow after shift. Eat snacks, watch the game. Think it’d be good for Christopher to have some normalcy. I think he’d like it if you came.”
And then, before Buck can question what kind of invitation that is or make excuses for himself—oh, you know, I don’t know if I can make it, lots of wallowing to do—Eddie’s throwing him a smile and heading off for the kitchen.
And Buck— Buck still doesn’t really know what to do with any of this at all.
As it turns out, trying to figure out how to help your friend’s nine-year-old with his trauma while trying to figure out how to explain to said friend why you were sleeping in his bed doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for wallowing. But Buck’s head is cluttered to hell as he parks in front of Eddie’s house and gathers his contribution for the evening from the trunk: lots and lots and lots of beer.
He rings the doorbell, as if he hasn’t been treating this place like his own house for ages prior to this day.
Oh, yeah, about me sleeping in your bunk, that doesn’t mean anything, I’m pretty sure I have a concussion actually, you know from the tsunami? That I was in? Actually at this point it might just be a chronic condition, have you read about CTE? It’s when you get so many head injuries that it actually starts to affect the structure of your brain—
“Buck!”
It’s Hen who opens the door, and she immediately pulls him into her arms, his armful of beer cases aside.
“It’s so good to see you up and about.”
Right. Because he’s been through several “traumatic events.” He’s traumatized now.
“It’s good to see you too, Hen. How’s Karen? And Denny?”
“Oh, same old. Denny’s glued to the videogames with Christopher. Karen’s trying to get them to play outside, but you know that’s a losing battle.”
Buck laughs, nodding, and for a moment it all feels so pleasantly normal. If only it were.
Hen takes one of the beer cases from him and leads him inside.
“So how was the shift?” Buck asks as they make their way into the kitchen. He had made a swift exit from the firehouse after the bunk incident and hasn't talked to anyone since.
Hen sighs, clearly exhausted. “Still lots of cleanup to do for the tsunami. I don’t know when it’s going to be even close to normal again.”
It’s counterintuitive—who the hell would want to be anywhere close to the aftermath of a tsunami?—but Buck longs to be out there with them. To be solving things instead of just lingering, full of damage.
“I’m sure they’ll be able to get more help in soon,” he says.
They find the rest of the crowd, and Hen passes out beers, and Buck takes one, and drinks and laughs with everyone, but it all feels off, like there’s an invisible wall between him and everyone else. His head is all scattered, weighed down by unhelpful collisions of thoughts, and he feels like a fundamentally different creature than any of his friends, even though he knows that it’s not true.
Eventually, he just ends up playing with the kids instead. Sometimes it feels easier to just be around kids, instead of people his own age. It’s easier to be the person he wants to be when all he has to focus on is making a kid laugh, it’s easier to feel like he’s done something right.
Besides, playing Mario Kart with kids is way more fun than playing it with adults, that’s just an objective fact. And it’s a lot easier to forget the confusion his life is spiraling into when he’s focusing on not being taken out by Christopher and Denny’s merciless blue shells every five seconds.
They’re halfway through their fourth race when Christopher gets up and leaves.
Buck doesn’t follow him at first. He doesn’t want to make him feel chased. But when several minutes go by and Christopher doesn’t return, Buck puts down his controller and follows him.
Damn him, but he feels responsible for this kid. Especially after almost losing him once.
He finds Christopher holed up in his bedroom, playing fixedly with Legos at his desk. Buck kneels tentatively beside him.
“Hey, buddy, you left Toad defenseless. He needs his driver.”
Christopher doesn’t respond, so Buck tries again—
“Did you not like the game?”
“It’s not the game,” Christopher says. “There’s too many people.”
“You usually like it when everyone comes by the house,” Buck says, but then again, so does he, and he isn’t exactly having an easy time integrating, either. “Is something bothering you?”
Christopher doesn’t look at him, just keeps playing with his Legos. Buck can’t tell what he’s building, if anything. “They don’t get it.”
“What don’t they get?”
“It’s still scary.”
Then Buck knows what he’s getting at. Of course. He doesn’t know why he didn’t understand immediately. “You mean the tsunami?”
Christopher nods.
“Hey, that’s okay. You know,” Buck feels his cheeks heat, but he pushes through, “it’s still scary for me, too.”
“But you’re a firefighter.”
“Firefighters get scared, too,” Buck tells him. “Actually, firefighters get scared all the time, can you believe it?”
Christopher shakes his head. “But you guys run into fires,” he whispers.
“Yeah, we do, and to be honest it’s still pretty scary sometimes. But we go anyway, cuz we want to help the people who are inside. It’s okay to be scared, buddy.”
“Do you get nightmares too?” Christopher asks. He’s finally looking at Buck, instead of at his Legos.
“Yeah,” Buck says, and it’s still kind of hard to say. “I do.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Sometimes I get scared that I won’t find you. But guess what?” he pokes Christopher’s belly, which gets him a laugh. It’s so relieving to see a little bit of his personality coming back. “We did find each other. And you know what? No matter what happens, I’ll always keep looking for you until I find you.”
Christopher falls into his chest for a hug, and Buck squeezes his shoulders.
“You should have some Legos,” Christopher says once he’s turned back to his desk. “I like to build them when I’m scared.” He pushes some Legos across the desk towards Buck. “You can take them home.”
Buck picks up the Legos gingerly. “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it. And hey, what do you say we try to get back out there, huh? We can go make ice cream sundaes.”
“Okay,” Christopher agrees readily, and Buck turns around to stand up—
—and Eddie’s leaning in the doorway.
“Oh,” Buck says, dumbly, “you’re… here.”
“I went to find Chris when he didn’t come back to the living room,” Eddie explains. He’s looking at Buck kind of strangely. “But it looks like you’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah, we’re just— we’re just going to—”
“Ice cream, Dad!” Christopher exclaims before Buck can finish his stuttering explanation.
“Ice cream?” Eddie says, eyes lighting up as he looks at Christopher. “That sounds great. Why don’t you head over to the kitchen to get it started? Maybe Denny wants some, too.”
Once Christopher’s out of the room, Eddie comes in and sits on the edge of his bed. Oh God, Buck thinks, he’s going to ask me about the bunk thing. He doesn’t even know why he did that, himself.
He sits in Christopher’s desk chair so he at least won’t be on the floor, and says, before Eddie can speak, “Christopher’s okay. Well, he’s still shaken up about the tsunami. But he will be okay, I think.”
“I’m glad you talked to him,” Eddie says. “I was hoping he might talk to you. He doesn’t really want to talk about it with me.”
“It might take him a while to feel less scared about it,” Buck says.
“Relatedly…” Eddie starts, and damn, why did Buck leave that opening? “How are you doing?”
“Oh, good,” Buck says, looking down. “Just acclimating to…” almost drowning. Leaving the firehouse. “Everything.”
“I bet.”
Eddie shifts where he’s leaning against the doorframe, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t quite know what, and Buck thinks suddenly, damn, we are really fucking bad at this.
“I wasn’t stealing your bunk!” The words come out in a rush, and Buck curses each one as it passes his lips.
Eddie rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I honestly wasn’t even going to ask.”
“It was just a— a mistake. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Though Buck’s not entirely sure that it was a mistake. Not that he knows what it was.
“Okay. I mean… what’s mine is yours.”
They stare in each other’s general direction for a moment.
“I’ve got this scar on my wrist,” Buck finally says, rubbing his thumb over it. “Cut my arm on something while I was swimming.”
“I see that. It looks pretty gnarly.”
Buck chuckles. “Yeah.” It reminds him of the scrapes he used to get as a kid, when he’d crash his skateboard into a wall just to get somebody to look at him. “So, scar tissue is kind of interesting. Bones usually heal back stronger, but tendons and skin, not so much.” He was finally able to take the bandage off last night, and he pokes at the still-healing gash. It's starting to knit back together, and the scar tissue looks kind of translucent, fragile and visible.
“Yeah? Is it ever the same?” Eddie has medical training, he surely knows this, but it seems he’s indulging Buck anyway.
“Not really.” Buck stops pressing on the scar, and looks at Eddie instead, at the way he’s leaning in the doorway, half tense, half loose. In, and out. “Do you think it’s possible to be drowning and not drowning at the same time?”
“I don’t know.” Eddie unfolds his arms and tucks his hands into his pockets, and it makes Buck feel a bit closer, somehow. “I guess it depends what you mean by ‘drowning.’”
“I don’t know exactly.”
There’s still so much space between them. Buck really doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Hey, you should take your own advice,” Eddie says, and now he actually is meeting Buck’s gaze, and hell if Buck knows what to do with that. “You’ve been telling Christopher that it’s all okay, whatever he’s feeling. Maybe you should try that, too. Talking about it.”
Isn’t Buck already trying? And besides, Eddie sure is one to talk.
Buck lets out a strangled laugh, looking down at his hands. There are still bruises on his knuckles. “Maybe. Sometimes I think that, just— that when I do it’s just like, the child version of Buck, looking for someone to take care of him since he never got that.”
When Buck peeks back up again, the look on Eddie’s face seems to say, so?
“I—” Buck tries. There’s something bubbling up in his throat, salt water that’s been sitting in his lungs for days looking for a chance to pour from between his lips. It burns in his chest. “I—”
“Dad! Buck!” Christopher yells from the kitchen. “Ice cream!”
Buck lets out a huge breath. He pushes himself up. “We should—”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, that strange look back on his face. “Right.”