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The muffled, scraping sound of a key in the lock is what finally catches his attention.
Buck can’t even find it in himself to react. He’s nauseous and in so much pain that, at this point, embarrassment isn’t even close to being on the menu. He can’t go anywhere anyway, so he simply waits to be found.
It’s Eddie, because of course it’s Eddie.
Buck can’t see him yet from where he’s perched on the stairs, but he can hear his soft humming amidst the quiet shuffling and gentle click of the door being closed with care. He must have been listening to the radio on his way over. Music has been sticking to him again, Buck’s noticed. It’s endearing. And relieving, to know he’s doing better after—
Buck closes his eyes on an inhale and lets his forehead roll against the wall. Breathes out harshly.
When he opens them, Eddie is in the kitchen, finally in line of sight, setting a paper grocery bag on the counter before turning towards the sofa. Because that’s where Buck is supposed to be.
The double take Eddie does would be comical if Buck weren’t so miserable. Can’t even muster a grimace-meant-to-be-a-smile when Eddie meets his eyes.
There’s a beat, then Eddie blinks. Scans over Buck, and across the stairs, clearly spots the crutches propped at the bottom, where Buck left them. He takes in Buck’s sweat stained t-shirt, the surely pathetic and drooping expression on his face, greasy curls, nausea-pale complexion, where he’s slumped halfway between the main floor and the lofted bedroom. Stuck. Couldn’t make it up the stairs. Couldn’t get himself back down.
Buck’s not sure what he expects. An eye roll. A chewing out, maybe. A frustrated sigh and a disappointed comment.
What were you thinking, Buck. How long have you been stuck sitting there, Buck. Why didn’t you call for help, Buck.
All easy contenders. All questions he doesn’t really have any answers to.
But what he surely doesn’t expect is for Eddie to… deflate, is the only way he can think to describe it.
His eyes go all sad and his shoulders fall, just a little. His mouth pinches in the way it does when he’s worried, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes or look irritated or disappointed. He just climbs the stairs—two at a time, the show-off—and gingerly sets himself on the step below where Buck is all but collapsed in a heap, head still resting against the wall under the railing.
Eddie’s careful when he presses the pads of his fingers against the inside of Buck’s wrist, careful when he examines the cast on his leg for damage or strain, careful when he feels for the pulse at the bottom of his useless foot, careful when he pulls out his phone light to check Buck’s pupils.
Careful, careful, careful.
He doesn’t say a word.
Neither does Buck.
After finishing his assessment, and apparently deeming Buck safe for transport back to the sofa—no C-collar required—Eddie simply rises to his feet and offers a hand. Like it’s that simple. Like Buck had just been lounging on the stairs of his own volition. Like he hasn’t been trapped there by his own injuries for the better part of an hour.
Buck feels a telltale burning in the back of his nose that he immediately elects to ignore, and belatedly drops his hand into Eddie’s.
By mostly Eddie’s strength, they’re able to get Buck’s near-dead weight upright with an arm thrown over Eddie’s shoulders, lowering himself one agonizing step at a time down to the floor. He’s heaving and sweating and shaking, but he’s once more on solid ground. Eddie maneuvers the bulky cast on Buck’s leg around the obstacles and disarray in the loft before finally, delicately depositing Buck onto the sofa. Buck immediately slumps into the cushions, head rolling back, trying to catch his breath and stave off the worst of the pain.
The next thing he knows, there’s a hand on his shoulder, rousing him gently. Buck opens his eyes to Eddie with his water bottle and the little orange container of pain meds. Pitifully, but gratefully, Buck accepts both.
As soon as he’s swallowed the pills and rehydrated a bit, he finds himself caught up in a whirlwind of touch and motion. Eddie bullying him into a clean shirt. Then there’s a warm, wet cloth wiping down his neck, his face, his arms, and embarrassingly, his armpits. He feels like a ragdoll, letting Eddie maneuver his limbs, his torso, his head.
The last thing Eddie does is tilt Buck’s head down, and absolutely goes to town on his greasy, wild hair with a canister of dry shampoo.
He has no idea if Eddie figured out that’s what Buck had been willing to risk life and limb for on the stairs to retrieve from the loft, or if it was just a lucky pull, but it makes his eyes start to water for real. By the time Eddie has finished his work, Buck is sniffling in earnest. Eddie kindly says nothing, just encourages Buck to rest his forehead against his stomach, just keeps up the charade of combing the powder through Buck’s hair with his fingers until the shaking stops—and then a little longer still.
After a while, Buck reaches up—eyes still closed, face still hidden in the fabric of Eddie’s shirt and the warmth of his stomach, hair still being brushed through by Eddie’s deft fingers—and grasps onto Eddie’s forearm. Squeezes. Releases.
Before he gets too far into untangling himself though, Eddie catches him. The arm Buck had grabbed, rotating and pushing back into Buck’s palm, Eddie’s hand finding its way to the soft swell of Buck’s forearm in kind. A facsimile of a warrior’s arm clasp. But not posturing, no show of strength, simply holding.
After a beat, the hand still in Buck’s hair slides around to the back of his head. Fingertips brushing the shell of his ear. Palm cradling. The charade of an act of service long forgotten.
They breathe.
And Buck lets himself be held.