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“Shouldn’t Chim or Hen be doing this?” Buck asks, voice nasally and wet.
“Chim and Hen are restocking the ambulance,” Eddie tells him. “I got you.”
With gentle consideration, Eddie wipes Buck’s face with a wet cloth, the still-drying blood that had been gushing less than an hour ago a sad, red mask over his nose, mouth, chin, and even a little bit down his neck. Buck sits dejectedly on the bunk and lets Eddie nurse him. He looks miserable: nose definitely broken, with two not-quite-yet black eyes that are going to be mean, purple monsters in the morning, and loud, heavy breaths rasping through his wrecked throat, his poor, swollen nose refusing to take in any air. Eddie goes through three cloths cleaning the blood before he’s satisfied, then he replaces the cloth with a cold compress, pressing it gently against the center of Buck’s face.
“Hold this,” Eddie instructs, and Buck takes it wordlessly.
Buck took a wild elbow to the face from a panicked-beyond-reason victim at their last call: an–honestly pretty mild–car crash. The guy was in no danger beyond a concussion and a few scrapes, but he was trapped in the car, passenger side crushed by an oncoming sedan. They had to pull out the jaws of life, which this guy interpreted to mean he was close to death. Eddie watched as–trying to calm the guy down and pull him out of the totaled vehicle–Buck’s head whipped back, taking the elbow hard to the nose. Buck reared back, blood already pouring between his fingers as he held his face. Hen and Chim took over then while Eddie took care of the driver, and Buck stood back, dazed, watching, unsure what to do with himself. Buck’s face already looked a mangled mess by the time they were back at the trucks. Hen and Chim took the two victims in the ambulance, and the rest of the team rode back to the station in the ladder truck. Buck seemed okay on the drive, albeit quiet as he held the huge wad of gauze to his face, head ducked to keep the blood from running down his throat.
He seems the same now, placid under Eddie’s hands, not talking much which Eddie can’t blame him for, but then Buck is slouching forward, pressing the top of his head against Eddie’s stomach. The intimacy surprises Eddie, and he has to make an effort not to jerk back. The warmth seeps in, settles, ends at a blush in Eddie’s cheeks.
“Buck, you alright?” Eddie asks, resisting the urge to put a comforting hand on Buck’s head–for some reason. Buck wouldn’t mind it; he might even find it nice, but still Eddie resists.
“‘M nauseous,” he mutters. “Swallowed some blood, I think.”
“Buck, look at me,” Eddie says. When Buck doesn’t move, Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing Buck back so he can look at him. Eddie ignores the icy loss of touch.
Buck still doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes, his own red and hazy. He looks absently through Eddie’s middle, ice pack still pressed to his face. “How are you feeling?” Eddie asks, concerned.
“Nauseous,” Buck says again, then after a long pause: “I don’t know.”
“Hey, Buck, can you follow my finger?” Eddie asks, holding up his pointer finger and dragging it to the left, and then to the right, in front of Buck’s face. If Buck attempts to follow it with his eyes, Eddie can’t tell. “Okay. I think you’re concussed.”
“Oh,” Buck says, his head slowly drooping to once more land on Eddie’s stomach. “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” Eddie agrees, thinking again of placing a hand on Buck’s head, of holding him against his torso and stroking the tension out of his neck with his thumb. “Stay right here, okay? I’m gonna talk to Cap.” He pulls away, again mourning the loss of contact, the intimacy that, for whatever reason, makes Eddie’s stomach quiver–but Buck doesn’t move, slumped over with his head down, ice pack held to his face. Eddie rushes out of the bunk room door before his anxiety can deepen.
He finds Bobby in the kitchen, cleaning up after their pre-call dinner: lasagna and homemade garlic bread. It’s almost eleven at night now; everyone will be heading for the bunks soon. “How’s he doing?” he asks.
“I think he’s got a concussion. He must have gotten whiplash when that guy elbowed him.” Eddie keeps his voice purposefully steady. There’s no reason to worry. It’s just a concussion and a broken nose.
Bobby nods, fist slightly clenching the rag he holds in his hand. It makes sense for Bobby to be tense: the paperwork, for one; Buck’s general reaction to being injured and out of work, another. “Hospital?” he asks.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Bobby grimaces and nods. “Alright. You wanna take him?”
“Okay. Uh–” Eddie nods, then hesitates.
Reading him, like Bobby always manages to do, he says, “We’re covered here. Don’t worry about hurrying back. Just make sure Buck’s alright. Keep me updated, alright?”
“Sure thing, Cap.”
He returns to the bunk room to find that other than dropping the hand that held the ice pack to his face, Buck hasn’t moved. He sits with his head down, eyes closed, both hands holding the cold compress between his knees. It freaks Eddie out, to be honest. Buck is the most physical person he knows; he’s not used to seeing him so still. It’s kind of unsettling.
“Alright, cowboy, we’re getting you to the hospital,” Eddie chirps, trying too hard to be chipper. “And you need to keep that ice pack on your nose.”
Buck looks up at him, confused. God, his face is so wrecked. Every time Eddie looks at him, he’s more purple than before. He looks like he lost a fight with a brick.
“Seriously? Hospital? I think I’m fine, Eddie.”
“You have a concussion, Buck. We need to get you checked out.”
Buck frowns. “I have a concussion?”
And, okay. That’s concerning. Eddie isn’t going to ask any more questions he doesn’t want the answer to. The doctor can ask him who the president is when they get to the emergency room; Eddie doesn’t need the worry.
He moves to Buck’s side, scoops his right arm under Buck’s left. He won’t be sure how much of his own weight Buck can support until he’s standing. “Up you get,” Eddie says, and heaves Buck to his feet. He takes a second to let Buck test his balance. He seems steady enough, like he’s not gonna keel over at the first step, so Eddie settles on leading Buck with just a hand on his arm. Buck still limply holds the cold compress at his side, and Eddie decides he’ll bother him about it once they’re in the car. One thing at a time.
They pass Bobby again in the kitchen, who winces when he catches sight of Buck’s swollen face. “Feel better, Buck,” he calls. Buck waves his hand in what Eddie can only assume is meant to be in acknowledgement, but comes across like he’s trying to swat a fruit fly buzzing in front of his face.
Buck grabs the railing on their way down the stairs without urging from Eddie, which Eddie finds comfort in. He still can’t decide how worried he should be about Buck. He’s never seen Buck with a concussion before; he’s seen him crushed and unconscious and bleeding and broken but never exactly like this: confused and quiet and slow, but still on his own two feet. It’s alarming, frankly.
“Hey, what’s this?” asks Chim, popping his head out of the back of the ambulance when he spots them passing.
“Buck here got himself a concussion,” Eddie says, again too chipper. “I already checked in with Cap. I’m taking him to the hospital.”
“What?” Hen coos, hopping out of the ambulance, pen light somehow already in hand. She stops them, places a soft hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Hey, Buckaroo, how you feeling?” she asks, flashing the light into one eye, and then the other.
“Don’t know,” Buck says, eyes barely open. “Head hurts. Nauseous.”
“Can you follow my finger with your eyes?” she asks, mimicking the same motion Eddie had attempted upstairs. It seems Buck tries a little harder than he had for Eddie, but he remains unsuccessful. “Definitely a concussion,” she confirms, frowning.
“That guy with the elbow really nailed you one, huh?” Chim quips. “Have fun at the hospital. Tell them we say hi!”
“Will do,” Eddie says, and he leads Buck the rest of the way out of the station and to his truck. Buck’s silence scratches at Eddie’s nerves, pretty sure he has only experienced a Buck this quiet when Buck has been unconscious. Eddie helps Buck into the passenger seat then rounds to the driver side and hops in. It’s only a fifteen minute drive to the nearest hospital.
“Put that ice pack back on your face,” Eddie orders. Buck obeys without a thought. He hisses as the pack touches his face, almost in surprise, like he forgot there was a broken nose in the middle of it.
“Thanks for taking me, by the way” Buck says, as they pull out of the station onto the main road. “I could have taken myself, but I appreciate the lift.”
Eddie laughs, incredulous. Buck, concussed, confused, and in pain, is trying to lighten the mood. Eddie’s relief flows through him like a drug. “You could have taken yourself to the hospital with a concussion?”
“Oh, yeah,” Buck says, with all the confidence his pathetic form can muster.
Eddie snorts. “Okay. And how many fingers am I holding up?”
Eddie doesn’t lift his hand; Buck doesn’t open his eyes.
“Exactly.” Even half-comatose with a bruised brain, it’s still fun to prove Buck wrong. “Buck, keep your eyes open.”
Buck groans. “Head hurts. Lights.”
It’s the middle of the night. The only lights are the passing headlights and the street lamps, but Eddie knows the flashing can sometimes be more painful than the solid light of a lit room.
“Okay, fine. Then just keep talking.”
Buck groans again. “Nothing to say.”
“Read any good Wikipedia articles lately?”
“No,” Buck replies shortly. Eddie can’t help but be endeared by this Buck, whiny and pathetic, can't help the smile that pulls at his lips, and Eddie’s not sure what that says about him, but, to be honest, he finds most versions of Buck pretty endearing. He’s seen Buck jealous, angry, insecure, impulsive, and God, irritatingly reckless, but Eddie’s fondness never wavers–he wears it in his smiles, his reassurances, knocking shoulders together: all things saved strictly for Buck.
“Fine. Count down from one hundred.”
“Eddie,” Buck whines. “It’s not 1950. I don’t have to stay awake for a concussion.”
“I want to keep you awake at least until we can get you checked out. Please. Indulge me.”
One more groan from Buck, but then he’s counting, slowly, quietly, but steady enough for Eddie to focus on and relax into. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…”
In the dark, he can pretend that Buck is fine, that his face and his head are in one piece as they were a few hours ago, but with every flash of light from an oncoming car or an overly-bright street lamp, Eddie can see Buck is obviously in pain. He leans forward, hunched, right hand holding the ice pack to his face, left arm wrapped around his stomach. He doesn’t risk leaning against the passenger door; one bump in the road would have him knocking his head or nose against the window. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched; the whiplash would have strained his neck, maybe his back too. Buck hasn’t said anything about it yet, but it’s obviously bothering him, the way he holds himself like a statue.
It would be bad enough if it was just a broken nose, but with a concussion, he could take weeks to recover. Buck hates being out of work. He’s not as insane about it as he used to be, but he still kind of loses his mind with weeks of nothing to do, recovery generally a boring process, especially for a pathologically restless guy like Buck. He still gets lonely and jealous, knowing the team is out there saving lives without him, and he still hates not being at one hundred percent, frustrated with himself for every setback and every limit, even those that are temporary.
He’s not sure Buck’s ever had a concussion before; he’s going to be insufferable. Eddie’s going to sit with him through it.
Buck makes it to one and then back up to fifty when he stops counting.
“Buck,” Eddie says. It’s more stern than he meant it. Concern courses cold through his veins faster than he can stop it. Buck’s fine; it’s just a concussion. He’s had worse and lived; God, they both have.
“Eddie, ‘m gonna throw up,” Buck moans, and yeah, Eddie can hear it in his voice, held in the back of his throat like he’s trying to keep it inside along with the contents of his stomach.
“Okay. Buck, I’m gonna find a place to pull over.” Eddie rolls down Buck’s window, an effort to get him some fresh air. “Take deep breaths.” He almost says in through your nose, out through your mouth before he remembers Buck can’t breathe through his nose at the moment–the poor guy.
He pulls into an alley between two brick buildings, somewhere he definitely isn’t supposed to park, and Buck opens the passenger door and vomits on the pavement before Eddie shifts the truck into park. Buck’s shoulders shake with the effort. God, it must be miserable, his head pounding, his nose swollen and throbbing, probably leaking bloody snot with the effort of his puking. Eddie mimics what he does when Christopher is sick, and he settles a hand on the middle of his back, rubs small circles. Buck shudders under his touch. Eddie takes the discarded cold compress, which at this point is nearly room temperature, and presses it to the back of Buck’s neck. He waits for Buck to pull away, to ask him to stop, but he doesn’t. He simply accepts the comfort.
Buck seems finished emptying his stomach, but he doesn’t move, his breaths huge and heaving and painful-sounding. Eddie doesn’t want to push him, but he really wants to get him to the hospital. It’s just a concussion; he’s fine. They happen. But he’s worried–more worried than he thought he would be, watching Buck like this: sick and sluggish and not like himself, with a purple, swollen face to boot. He wants Buck to be okay. He wants Buck to make another joke, to smile at him.
It’s just a concussion.
“Buck?” he says, timidly. “How are you feeling? You ready to keep going?”
“This sucks,” he says without moving.
“I know.”
Eventually, Buck pulls himself back into the truck and shuts his door. “I’m good,” he says. His eyes and nose are streaming, like Eddie suspected. He pulls a couple spare napkins out of the center console and hands it to Buck, who takes them gratefully. Eddie watches him wipe first his mouth, his eyes, then tenderly his nose, before shifting the truck into reverse.
Less than ten minutes later, they pull into the hospital parking lot. Buck looks green again by the time Eddie hauls him out of the passenger seat and towards the emergency room entrance.
The ER isn’t too busy, and in Buck’s condition, they don’t wait long before they’re called back to a room to wait in. They give Buck acetaminophen for the pain, an antiemetic for the nausea, and a fresh, new ice pack for his nose. There’s no telling how long they’ll be waiting before a doctor shows up, but Buck just seems relieved to be horizontal and medicated. He’s still obviously in pain, body stiff, head unmoving where it rests on a skimpy, paper-wrapped pillow. Acetaminophen can only take you so far. Eddie wishes desperately he could take him home to his own bed.
“You hanging in there, Buck?” Eddie asks, doubting whether he’s even awake.
“I’d rather be anywhere else,” Buck says, surprising him. He brings his hands to his face and then thinks better of it, letting them flop to his sides. “I’m getting sick of this, you know? How long am I gonna be out of work this time all because some guy couldn’t control his elbows?”
“You could sue him.” The joke is out of Eddie’s mouth before he can think better of it. He shoots Buck a look, hoping the concussion has rattled his brain enough that Buck won’t comprehend what he said.
“Hey. Not funny,” Buck says, no heat behind the words. He probably couldn’t muster anger if he tried to, to be fair.
“It’s just a concussion, Buck. You’ll be good as new in a few weeks. Now your nose, I'm not so sure. Might be a lost cause.”
“Stop teasing me,” Buck begs. “My brain is mush right now.”
Eddie sighs, tries for earnest. “I am sorry this happened. I’d much rather you were in one piece, and we were back at the station wrapping up shift right now.”
Eddie wishes he never had to worry about him. Buck is so reckless, so impulsive, Eddie worries about him every day. Today it was a stray elbow that did it. Nothing Buck–or Eddie–could have done to prevent it. He understands why maybe that’s more frustrating to Buck than an injury suffered while being an idiot.
“I got hurt all the time as a kid,” Buck says, interrupting Eddie’s thoughts. Eddie is surprised, albeit relieved, to hear him talking in full sentences, but his voice is raspy and soft and sleepy. “I was kind of reckless, if you can believe that.”
“I didn’t know that,” Eddie says. He finds it sad, but not surprising, that Buck has always been like this.
“But I didn’t really care back then. There wasn’t anything I really cared about, to stay healthy for. I played football, but I could take or leave it. It’s different now–and yet I still end up here.”
Eddie can’t see his face, but Buck sounds weepy. The concussion probably isn’t helping, but Eddie’s taken off guard at this sudden outpouring. Eddie knew he’d be upset about missing work, but he wasn’t expecting Buck to blame himself. And he certainly wasn’t expecting this revelation about Buck’s past. He doesn’t talk about his childhood much, really. With everything Eddie knows about it, he can’t really blame him. He hadn’t even known Buck played football–for some reason, that surprises him.
“Buck, you didn’t do anything to get yourself hurt. It was a random accident; it could have happened to any of us.”
“I know. I do know that. It just feels…” Buck seemingly can’t find the words to finish the thought. His hands lift and fall at his sides over and over, like he wishes desperately he could do something with them, maybe push the heels of his palms against his wet eyes. “I just hate being here.”
“I know,” Eddie coos, comforting.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Buck says easily, sincere. His tone changes abruptly, suddenly lighter. It gives Eddie his own case of whiplash. Still weepy, though, he says, “You always know how to talk me down, you know? Thank you for being here with me.”
Eddie can’t help his smile. He likes being there for Buck. He likes knowing Buck better than any other person. Even Maddie, who knows a version of Buck that Eddie doesn’t, the version of Buck who was frequently injured as a kid and played high school football. But this Buck, lying in an ER bed, pouring his heart out and taking in Eddie’s comfort–this Buck is Eddie’s. “Of course, Buck. Always.”
“Always,” Buck repeats, and in minutes, he’s asleep.
Eddie has dozed off himself when a doctor finally comes to examine Buck. She checks Buck’s heart, breathing, and blood pressure. She does the same tests Hen had back at the station, and orders a CT scan when Buck inevitably fails them. She even sets and splints Buck’s nose before leaving them again to wait.
Buck doesn’t fall back asleep–Eddie can tell by the rhythm of his breathing–but they don’t speak. Eddie just watches him, his long, sprawling body taking up most of the sad bed, his face still hidden under the cold compress. He wishes Buck would take it away, now, that Eddie could get a good look at him. He wishes Buck would say something, lend Eddie some comfort, but he can’t just keep asking Buck if he’s alright. Although, with his mind as cloudy as it is, Buck would probably forget Eddie had even asked from one time to the next. He wonders if Buck will remember any of tonight’s conversations twelve hours from now.
From his hard, plastic, lonely chair, Eddie wants to reach out. He wants to place a comforting hand on Buck’s knee; he wants to wipe the tension from Buck’s brow. That same strange resistance from earlier stops him. He knows, really knows, that Buck wouldn’t mind–they’re close like that. But still he’s halted, by the unnamed desire behind the desire, by what he himself wants to get out of Buck’s hand held in his. He tucks it away, keeps his hands in his lap, and watches Buck breathe and breathe and breathe.
Eventually a nurse comes and takes Buck away for his scan, leaving Eddie alone in the cold room, his uncomfortable chair. Crazily, he gets lonely sitting there, missing Buck, waiting for him to get back. He always misses Buck when he’s not around.
Eddie calls Bobby while he waits.
“Eddie, how’s he doing?” Bobby answers by way of greeting.
“The same. He’s back getting his CT scan, but I know what they’re gonna say. He’s really out of it.” Bobby hums in acknowledgement. “I’m sure they’re gonna want someone to keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four. I could take him to Maddie, but…”
He knows what he hopes Bobby will say. It’s almost four in the morning. At this point, there’s only a few hours left in their shift, and then it’s their twenty-four off. He can call Carla, tell her what’s going on. She’ll understand; she’ll keep Christopher for the day or take her to Pepa’s. Chris will understand, too; somehow, he always understands when Buck is sick. Eddie just needs to keep an eye on Buck, for himself. He needs to see him sleep, at home, safe, and wake up feeling more like himself. That’s all.
“We’re good here, Eddie,” Bobby says, reading him, as always, even over the phone. “Take him home.”
And Eddie was right. Buck is returned to him less than an hour later with an official concussion and whiplash diagnosis, and the nurse feeds Eddie instructions on how long to keep an eye on him, what medicine Buck can take and how often. They prescribe extra-strength acetaminophen for the pain and a muscle relaxant for the whiplash. Apparently Buck’s neck and shoulders really took the brunt of it.
Eddie gets Buck discharged, gets him back in the truck. Buck is even more pliant now than he’d been hours before, between the exhaustion of their long night and the muscle relaxers kicking in.
Eddie’s first thought is to bring Buck home, to Eddie’s house, but he thinks better of it. Buck will want to recuperate in his own place, of course, in his own bed, so he drives them to the loft.
The nausea seems to not be bothering Buck so much, thank God. He’s awake but pretty much completely zonked out throughout the drive. It’s early enough still to avoid morning rush hour traffic. The Los Angeles roads, while never completely barren, do grant them some peace. The sun has started to rise by the time they’re pulling up to the loft, pinks and oranges glowing through the cab. There’s a quiet respite to it all: the silent drive, the early morning chill.
Once again, Eddie leads Buck across a parking lot except now Buck leans most of his weight into Eddie, left arm slung over Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s right arm holding Buck up by the waist.
Eddie opens Buck’s apartment with his own spare key and drags Buck inside.
“Stairs or couch?” he asks.
“I need to sit,” is Buck’s answer, which Eddie takes to mean “couch.” He plops Buck down, and Buck settles easily, leaning back into one of his indulgently large throw pillows. Eddie sits on the other end of the couch and pulls Buck’s legs into his lap without thinking twice about it. Several inches longer than the sofa, Buck perches his feet on Eddie’s arm rest. He doesn’t look comfortable, really, but he doesn’t complain. Eddie should have asked if he needed anything before tucking himself in under Buck’s heavy legs–water, food, more Tylenol.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, regretfully. He doesn’t want to move.
“Nope,” Buck says sleepily. His eyes are closed. Eddie suspects he’s not long for the waking world. But then he says, “I just want you,” and his hand is reaching out towards Eddie, flexing his fingers in a grabbing motion.
Eddie laughs. “You just want me to what?”
“You,” Buck says. He tries to open his eyes and fails. “I want you.”
Eddie stupidly wants to ask the question again. You want me to what? but he knows he’ll get the same answer. He just doesn’t know what the answer means.
“What?”
Buck sighs dreamily. He looks utterly relaxed for the first time all night. His chest rises and falls easily with his breaths. “Thank you for watching out for me. I’m always getting hurt.”
And this Eddie knows how to respond to: “It wasn’t your fault, Buck. Just a risk of the job.” He pats a comforting hand against Buck’s leg, Buck’s left leg, which in the grand scheme of life, had been in pieces not that long ago. Eddie wonders if it ever still bothers him. Buck never complains about it. He’s probably afraid to.
Eddie had been so resistant to this intimacy earlier, but here, in Buck’s home, under the weight of a sleepless night, it comes to him freely.
“I want you,” Buck says again. “Aren’t you tired of pretending?”
“I’m–what? I’m not…” Eddie stops. He’s not what? Buck looks awful. His face is swollen and purple. He smells like stale sweat, blood, and hospital-grade sterility. He hasn’t brushed his teeth since he threw up hours ago. But still Eddie’s gaze lingers on his pink lips, and he wonders. He looks away, sharply.
“You’re lying. You are.”
“Buck, you’re concussed,” Eddie digs lightly. Buck’s voice is barely above a whisper, almost slurred with exhaustion and drugs and sickness. He can’t even keep his eyes open. He’ll be asleep in five minutes. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Do you even know where you are right now?”
Buck smiles a small, seemingly easy smile that might take all the effort in the world. “Of course. I’m at your house.” And he sounds so fond. Like he’s so happy to be in a house that he’s not, a house that’s not technically his.
Eddie can’t laugh. It’s not funny. “No, you’re at your loft.”
Buck huffs. “I’m just tired. I want you,” he whines. His hand still reaches out towards Eddie, limply. Acquiescing, Eddie takes it. Buck’s hand is warm and soft and dry. He’s only held Buck’s hand twice before: once when Buck was pinned under a ladder truck; once when Eddie climbed his way out of the mud. Neither of those times felt like this.
“Okay. Okay, you can have me.”
Pink lips; warm, heavy legs; soft voice and soft smile. Eddie wants him, too, but Buck won’t remember this conversation when he wakes. And it might be easier that way. What else are they supposed to do, is Eddie supposed to do, in a few hours, when Buck wakes up with his sad, swollen face and smiles at Eddie, and it makes Eddie run hot even under those hazy, red eyes, hot and confused with the concussion, if Buck remembers what he said?
What is Eddie supposed to do when he doesn’t?
But maybe Eddie can have him, just for now, this moment, even if he won’t have him later. And Buck can have him too. Eddie brushes his thumb over Buck’s knuckles, and Buck relaxes under it, finally satisfied. He lets sleep take him. Eddie watches him; he doesn’t know how long–for hours maybe. He watches the bruises under his eyes deepen, the tension behind his eyes tighten as the Tylenol and muscle relaxers wear off. He’ll be ready for another dose, when he wakes, but for now Eddie lets him sleep, and he doesn’t let go of his hand.
Buck doesn’t need to remember. Eddie is already his. He was yesterday, and he’ll still be tomorrow. And Buck belongs to him.
“You can have me,” he says, and he thinks maybe he can feel Buck’s fingers tighten in his.
“You can have me, too,” Buck mutters, blonde eyelashes fluttering, his voice so low the words are almost lost–but Eddie catches them, like he always does.
And it doesn’t matter if Buck remembers what he said before, or if he remembers what he just said now, because they already know. They’ve always known. They belong to each other.