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Buck’s always been good at dealing with pain, and even better at hiding it from other people.
It’s gotten to the point where he’s used to it, where pain is the norm, and the absence of it is a noteworthy event.
He marches on as best he can, so used to it that he barely notices. But he also misses the concerned glances Maddie throws him when they hang out, and the worried tone in Eddie’s voice whenever he talks to Buck. He brushes off Chimney’s supportive hand on his shoulder, doesn’t let Hen linger when she hugs him. He tells Tommy he’s fine, and promises to talk to him if something is wrong.
It isn’t until Gerrard of all people threatens to put him on administrative leave if he doesn’t get help, that Buck considers something might be truly wrong.
He brings Gerrard’s comments to Bobby, looking for a good laugh, but Bobby’s face shifts into one of fatherly concern, and he tells Buck that even a broken clock is right twice a day.
So Buck finds himself filling in paperwork, answering questionnaires and having long conversations with more doctors than he can keep track of, until finally the solution arrives in the form of a yellow pill, about the size of a bean.
He’s hopeless yet full of hope, hating that it’s come to this but desperate for the so-called cure to work.
But, it doesn’t. Not at first, anyway. He’s still miserable and sluggish, still isolates himself, and there’s still something sitting heavy on his chest.
And then one morning, he wakes up, and tries to figure out how to get Tommy to bring him a cup of coffee. And the next morning, he wakes up, and his first move is to pull Tommy closer to him, the few inches of space between them too much for his liking.
He’s waking up every morning, and his first thoughts are full of life, instead of wishing that he hadn’t woken up at all.
His shoulders aren’t as heavy, his footsteps are lighter, and his smiles don’t feel fake. He’s interested in things again, and his surroundings are beginning to look brighter.
His scores on those annoying surveys show significant improvement; he celebrates what feels like the biggest accomplishment of his entire life, and all of his loved ones are there to cheer him on.
There are hard moments here and there, of course, but he does his best to push through them.
Until one day he can’t anymore.
He has some bad moments, which turn to several bad days, and like birds of a feather, they flock together, overwhelming him until they’re all he can see.
He’s dejected and worn out, his eyes are dull, and he can’t get any air to his lungs. He sleeps as a way to escape, but his dreams don’t offer any sense of relief, and he wakes up feeling worse than before he closed his eyes.
He ignores everyone’s pleas for him to get help, until Bobby (who’s finally been reinstated as captain) nearly follows through on Gerrard’s threat of administrative leave. So Buck finds himself back where he was before, with all the paperwork and questionnaires and conversations with doctors. This time, the solution is a little pink pill the size of a pea.
He has weeks of exhausting days and sleepless nights, going through the motions, living like it’s an unwanted obligation. He has no energy, and he drags himself along, doing no more than what is strictly necessary, and he even struggles with that.
Progress is slow, moving at a glacial pace. He doesn’t even notice it this time. Not until he’s opening his eyes one evening, unsure of when he fell asleep. His head is resting on Tommy’s chest when he hears it; the sound of rain pattering against his window.
His shoulders sag as the tension drains from his body, his chest finally loosens, and he takes in a greedy breath of air, relishing in the way it fills his lungs; unfamiliar and wonderful.
It’s been a long time, but he feels like he can finally breathe.