Chapter Text
Something pulls him from sleep, the kind that has him on his back and his blankets half forgotten to the side of the mattress and his shirt twisted around his torso, a deep sleep he wasn't a frequent visitor of as of late.
Blinking at the dark line where the wall furthest from his bed met the ceiling, he lays for a moment, listening.
A miserable sounding sniffle to his right. Then, "Dad?"
Eddie turns his head, squinting against the warm hallway light spilling through the crack in the door, nearly swallowing the small silhouette practically hugging his wall.
He immediately sits up. "Christopher?"
Christopher doesn't move.
Eddie shifts, swinging his legs off the bed and rubbing his eye to clear the fog. He freezes when Christopher sniffs again.
"I'm...m'sorry I woke you up, Dad," his son's soft voice comes out, scratchy and wobbly, yet still so matter-of-fact it makes Eddie let out a small huff with a sad smile.
"C'mere, mijo."
He holds his arms out, welcoming the rest of the light that pours in when Christopher finally moves, illuminating his blond bed head and blue pajama shirt shoulders. Eddie frowns when Christopher takes a few seconds longer than he usually did when covering the distance between the door and the bed.
It had become an unfortunate routine of theirs since the tsunami, and a well-learned path between their two bedrooms that Christopher had mastered even without his crutches. Once he started beating Eddie to the punch and making his own way to his fathers arms after another nightmare, Eddie had made sure to move any and everything that could get in his way. He'd even started leaving his bedroom door open at night, simply responding with "just cuttin' out the middle man, Little Man," when Christopher had asked about the furniture.
It also didn't hurt to not have anything to bruise his shins in his half-asleep, half-walk half-jog to the kids bedroom when Eddie had heard him gasping in his blankets.
Christopher stumbles this time, thankfully close enough to where Eddie is already reaching out to help him.
Eddie kneels to his carpet, easily steadying his son's balance. "Hey, heyyy, what's the matter, buddy?"
Christopher leans into his chest, heavily , burying his face into Eddie's shoulder as he takes a few shaky breaths.
"I-I couldn't make it to the bathroom. I...got sick. In the hallway."
Eddie strains to hear him almost whispering into his shoulder, congestion making his voice sound airy and weak.
"It's okay, buddy, I got you," he murmurs, rubbing circles into his small back once he feels how badly he's trembling. His shirt is cold, his hair, Eddie feels once he turns to press a kiss to his head, is damp.
Eddie slowly stands, bringing Christopher up with him to set him on the bed, raising the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling the heat through his sweaty curls. Definitely burning up.
"Not feelin' too good, huh?" Eddie mumbles quietly, trying to find that balance between being a medic and being a dad, knowing Christopher was likely only seeking out one over the other. Both were habitual, though depending on the day and the situation, Eddie found himself torn between the two.
Chills, congestion, possible fever.
He glances at his alarm clock. 2:48. "How's your stomach?"
"Hurts," Christopher whispers, hunching over as if being reminded. His arms knock into Eddie's chest as he starts coughing, wet and deep, leaning forward as if about to–
Eddie decides he'll worry about the carpet later, choosing not to reach for his small garbage tucked away by the dresser in favor of making sure Christopher doesn't pitch forward in his own puke.
Eddie grimaces, unfazed by the splatter on his leg –in his line of work, he's felt much worse– and more concerned over the shaking in Christopher's limbs. His muscles must be screaming right about now, he thinks, dropping his chin on top of Christopher's head as he shuts his eyes.
With one arm securely looped around his front, Eddie gently drags his palm up and down his son's spine, feeling his posture sporadically tighten and loosen with each uneven breath.
"What's the appointment even for? You said he's been sleeping better."
Even as he says it, it sounds hesitant leaving his tongue, like a blatant question mark was bound to reside at the end of all his sentences now. All the ones having to do with his son, at least.
"It's not about his sleep, Eddie, he's not walking yet! I already told you!"
Eddie watches as Christopher's fingers, tiny and soft and so tiny, limply drop the colorful plastic ring. Eddie goes to retrieve it from under the water, encouragingly handing it back. The boy's big blue eyes stare up at Eddie, unsure.
"That's not uncommon, though, right? I-I mean, what if he's just takin' it slower than normal?"
"Eddie," Shannon breathes, tiredly wiping away another trail of tears, forcing him to look at her.
"What if it's not? I'm-I–" she sobs, and now Eddie drops the bath toy.
"I'm scared there's something wrong."
"Dad?"
"Hmm?"
Christopher doesn't answer at first, sounding winded and trying to catch his breath. Eddie waits patiently.
Vomiting, cough.
"I kind of missed the floor, Dad."
Eddie tilts his head with a huff, pressing his cheek into his hair. This kid.
"S'that what you were aiming for?"
He hears Christopher let out a nasally giggle, the sound enough to loosen some of the tension in Eddie's shoulders. They stay like that for a moment, with Christopher partly swaying in his father's hold–
Eddie can't let go, not like this, not with the way his soft, slippery limbs seemed to lean every which way other than upright. It was fucking terrifying. People shot at him and this is what undoes his equanimity, these curious eyes and small clinging arms that knew no better than to hold onto this...stranger.
He swallows the growing lump in his throat as Christopher's head lolls against his wrist.
He refuses to tear his eyes away for even a second to check for Shannon, knowing she was quietly soaking her robe sleeve in tears on top of the toilet seat behind him.
He gently reaches for the washcloth, every inch of his other hand sprawled and supporting the delicate, squirming piece of him, of them , carefully squeezing out the excess water. He brings it into Christopher's view, where he just examines it for a minute, an uncoordinated hand reaching out to touch it before he evidently deems it worthy, judging from the bright grin that breaks out across his damp face, like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever touched.
Eddie hears Shannon let out a wet chuckle behind him, giving him the smallest bout of confidence.
"Alright, let's wash this 'do, huh, mijo?" Eddie asks, bringing the washcloth up to sparse strands of blond curls. "Dunno if you've looked in the mirror lately, but it's lookin' a little crazy, bud."
Christopher shyly flinches as the water trickles down his scalp, followed by an enthusiastic shriek as if he's in on the joke. It echoes in the small bathroom, causing Eddie's chest to swell. It feels warm.
"He's always liked the water," Shannon says fondly, voice still raspy from crying but with a renewed lilt to it that makes Eddie smile. Christopher lightly splashes Eddie's arm in response, eliciting an even bigger smile at Eddie's reaction.
"Woah! That how it's gonna be?" He exaggerates his surprise, taking in every giggle where he could get, too scared to splash back even though he knows the kid would probably love it.
Keeping his eyes trained back on the washcloth, Eddie turns his head. "My mother used this...bath seat for Adriana when she was little, we could try one of those?"
Eddie slowly, finally, leans away from Christopher's huddled form, trying to catch his eye in the dark room.
"How about we get you cleaned up and get you back in bed?"
Christopher just sniffles, avoiding his eyes, suddenly looking distracted. Then, he lazily gestures to Eddie's leg. "Who's gonna clean you up?"
"Oh, this? Should probably get that taken care of too."
Eddie helps him to the bathroom, deciding he'd clean up the hallway once he gets Christopher back to bed. Once they're set up in front of the sink and under better lighting, the silent list of symptoms confirms itself. He gently brushes the back of Christopher's neck once he drops his forehead against Eddie's chest, actively trying to suppress his coughs until the thermometer is finished. 100.6°f reads back at them after a low beep, to which Christopher leans closer to the screen in Eddie's hand, squinting without his glasses, asking if it was bad.
Eddie starts explaining different ranges of body temperatures, digging through their bathroom cabinet for the right medicine, tucking away a mental note to pick up some more when he gets the chance. Most of what they had was expired, which he figured was okay since that meant the need for it wasn't a regular occurrence.
"Doesn't...wouldn't that make someone feel worse?"
Eddie squats down and lifts this kids shirt up his arms and over his head, humming, a spare pajama shirt slung over his shoulder.
"If-if the medicine is expired. Isn't that bad? Wait, Dad? Dad."
"Hmm?"
Christopher ducks his head with a smile, rubbing his eye before holding his arm out for the first sleeve in his clean shirt.
"I...I remember this one time, once Buck ate a bagel, and it was a blueberry bagel, and...and he didn't realize it was moldy until after he ate it."
Eddie snorts, unable to stop the smile that takes over at the image of Buck promptly pulling his trash can out to dramatically expel bagel chunks from his mouth.
He shakes his head. "Sounds like something Buck would do."
"Yeah," Christopher agrees quietly, popping his head through the rest of his shirt. As if deep in thought, he barely registers as Eddie unscrews a jar of mentholated vaporizing ointment, simply holds his shirt up as Eddie begins to rub it on his bare chest.
"Dad, Buck probably has expired medicine too."
Eddie nods. " If he even owns any," he mutters. Christopher frowns, confused.
"Buck doesn't have any medicine?"
Eddie finally meets his son's gaze, placing a tissue on top of the rub and grabbing Christopher's hand from where it previously gripped the hem of his shirt, quickly kissing it before turning back towards the sink.
"Buck doesn't always take the best care of himself."
Christopher sits with that for a moment, sounding sad. "Why not?"
"Well," Eddie takes a deep breath, letting it out a little longer than needed as he cleans up the counter. "Sometimes people aren't taught how. Or just don't want to. It depends."
Christopher yawns, shakily hopping down from where he sat on the toilet.
"Were you taught how?"
Eddie stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, remembering the way his abuela would make a special soup that helped clear his sinuses and paletas that soothed his sore throat, and how she used the same rub he held in his palm now on his chest as she tucked him in, lightly kissing his hand before turning on his nightlight.
Somehow he doubts Buck ever had that.
Or, just judging from the man's sheer stubbornness during his recovery after he was pinned under the engine, the way he'd refuse pain meds despite white-knuckling his way through just simply making a cup of coffee.
Stubbornness, or something else.
The thought painfully pinches his chest.
"Better than he was, cielito," he sighs, letting himself sag against the bathroom vanity, letting the hour finally weigh on him. He glances down at his watch. Few hours until shift.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Can...can I sleep in your room? My stomach still hurts."
Eddie gently ruffles his hair, nodding once. "Sure thing, my little Superman."
---
"And that makes two days in a row you've been late!" Buck's voice breaks through the stagnant morning haze, filtering through the stale chill that Eddie hasn't been able to shake since pulling on his uniform this morning. He keeps up his rushed pace with dropping off his belongings in his locker, glancing over at Buck, eyes landing on a clipboard. He groans.
Buck plants his side into the locker next to Eddie's, reminding him of a magnet finding its opposite, tucking the clipboard under his arm.
"You stop by Starbucks, or something? Didn't even get me anything?"
Eddie scoffs. "You know I'd never pay that much."
"Can't argue that."
"Also, not being early doesn't make me late," Eddie says, closing his locker and turning to head to the kitchen.
"But it does mean you missed Bobby's cinnamon rolls."
And that...should've been more disappointing than it feels.
The idea of that much sugar leaves Eddie's stomach rolling. He stops halfway to the stairs, trying to loosen the knot in his back, swallowing down the sudden nausea. Fuck.
"Eddie?" Buck slows, giving him a once over, losing some of his unnatural morning spark. "You good?"
"It's nothin', just..." Eddie shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with both hands before running them through his hair. He immediately regrets it, remembering spending extra time in the mirror this morning to deliberately hide the fact he was severely low on sleep, making up for it with extra sculpting gel. He turns to one of the back windows of the ambulance, trying to fix the displaced hair. "Haven't been getting much sleep."
Buck watches him through the reflective glass. "Oh. Is it, uh, the well?"
Eddie tries repeating what he did to mess up his hair, just in the opposite direction, giving Buck a look. "Huh?"
"Th-the well," Buck stutters. "Y-you know, are you–I mean how're you doing with that? Umm," he pauses, giving a look around the firehouse before clearing his throat. When Eddie looks over again, even in his weird head fog, he sees Buck's eyes soften.
"I know a-after the bomber, with my leg and everything, sleeping wasn't exactly easy. Uh, before the medication they gave me, at least, but that was a whole other problem," Buck gestures vaguely, feigning a small smile even though Eddie knew he hated every prescription they gave him, both during his stay and after getting discharged.
Stubbornness, or something else, he recalls.
"A-and I know the well didn't really have anything to do with me but I was still–I mean I imagine you were pretty shaken, right?"
Eddie drops his hands to his hips and sighs at the perfectly polished floor, feeling that pinch in his chest again. First the bomber, then the tsunami, and now the well?
He drags a hand up to Buck's shoulder.
"Buck, you're not takin' what they gave you for sleep, are you?" he asks, genuinely concerned, unable to filter out the accusation. Buck's expression loses some of its seriousness as they both start heading up the stairs.
"Eddie, I-I'm not projecting, you really do look like shit!"
"Is that how we're greeting each other now?" Chimney asks, passing the pair as he picks himself up from the couch to head over to the kitchen, holding out his hand to catch the granola bar Hen tosses his way. He crouches to snatch the clipboard from Buck's arm, mumbling something about "before anyone gets hurt."
"Hey, Chim," Buck offers, nothing short of tepid.
Chimney gives an unimpressed look. "That was pretty lukewarm compared to Eddie's, Buck."
"Almost chilly," Hen teases, shivering as she picks through the bowl of energy bars sitting on the table.
Eddie follows Buck to the couches, plopping down right next to him and wasting no time to rest his head on the back cushion. "No, Buck, if I look like shit it's just because waking up to vomiting every forty minutes is not compatible with a REM cycle."
Every head turns to him.
"Woahh!"
"And you still came to work?"
"Eddie!"
Even Buck gives him a look, something between disgust and betrayal, making the smallest effort to scooch away. "Oh, Eddie ." Eddie deems it as disgust.
"Not me," he says, "Christopher."
"Ohh."
"Ah, okay."
"Aw, poor kid."
"And today, he decided last minute that he wanted to actually go to school."
Chimney chuckles, popping his gum. "What a rebel."
Buck winces. "Who'd pick that over staying home. Man, I loved staying home from school. Well, I wouldn't stay at home , but–"
Hen gives him a pointed look over her thick frames. "You mean playing hookie?"
Buck waves a hand. "Same difference."
Eddie blinks at the ceiling, feeling the nausea come back. Sometimes it was hard to follow conversations in the loft and that's without the low-hanging smog filling his head this morning.
He tilts his head to the side, squinting at the growing stiffness in his neck. "You know he likes school, Buck."
"Likes it so much he wants to go back to all the other little petri dishes and catch another bug," Chimney adds, peeling back the wrapper to his granola bar and shaking his head.
"Poor kid," Buck repeats, sounding even more sympathetic.
"Well, he's gonna know his body best," Hen says, shrugging in a might-as-well-accept-it way. "If he feels he can handle it, you just gotta trust him."
Eddie damn near groans as he tries to sit up, giving up halfway through. "Yeah, but do I though? I mean, I'm pretty sure half of our clothes are in the wash now just from the puke alone."
It's then that Bobby makes his way to the top of the stairs, giving Eddie a look.
"And that's not even half of it. Our bathroom? Forget about it. I'm gonna be cleaning it for a week. You know, it's almost makin' me miss the days of dirty diapers and burp cloths."
He finally brings his head up, finding Bobby staring at him
"Hey, Cap," he sighs, as if the older man just gets it.
"Hey Eddie," Bobby replies, reciprocating the tone. "Who's bug are we talkin' about?"
There's a chorus of mumbles of "Christopher," and "Chris," before Chimney turns to the Captain. "Christopher's been traumatizing Eddie with his projectile vomiting all week."
As if on cue, the bell begins to sound throughout the station, signaling everyone into action.
Bobby glances up, before smiling down at Eddie, reaching out a hand to help him up. "Well, keep the projectile vomiting strictly inside the Diaz house, please."
Eddie bounces his head in a nod as his captain claps his back. "Copy that, Cap."
---
The smell of burnt popcorn was maybe the last shove towards the inevitable.
Eddie watches as Hen and Chim attempt to calm the woman in the peach blazer smeared with black soot, glancing between their overly placating arms to the vacuum splint in his shaking hands.
Knowing Bobby was likely off somewhere purposely avoiding the growing agitation in her voice and her eyes that read 'point me to who's in charge' –over what sounded to be related to missing cupcakes– he smiles a little. The older man had a knack for treating any and all issues with the same level of care, even if they begged for a reality check. He'd keep a straight face for the most part, though there were instances where the shrillness in someone's voice was just too misplaced for his patience. He'd never admit it aloud but Eddie could see it, the little emergency list of tasks he pulled up while his two nearly just as forbearing mediating paramedics took over for him.
He tries to guess what task he's innocuously busying himself with at the moment as he finally manages to open the splint. Packing up the hose lines? Maybe. Mopping up with Buck? Probably.
"This kinda thing get you really wired or something?"
Eddie carefully begins to maneuver the man's wrist, hearing him hiss in pain as he positions the splint in his practiced way. He looks up at the man.
"What's that?"
"You know, this, uh, whole fighting fires thing." The man, on the younger side and possibly an intern, vaguely gestures to the office building behind them with his good hand. Even through his cracked glasses, he looks a little awed. He then tilts his head down at Eddie's arms. "You're shakin' like a leaf, man."
Eddie forces a smile in understanding. "Somethin' like that." He starts wrapping around the splint, willing the trembling to subside. "Not exactly a stress-free nine-to-five."
"I hear that, dude. This place has practically given me ulcers and my insurance hasn't even kicked in yet! And we don't do any of this heroic shit that you guys do. I just make sure the printers are stocked."
Eddie gives a genuine smile at that, shrugging. "Just tryin' to pay your bills like the rest of us. Nothin' wrong with that."
"Except there is," the man drops his voice, suddenly gripping Eddie's elbow with his free hand, giving him a serious look. He turns their attention to the woman by the other ambulance, now pointing her finger at Chim's chest. "Janet. She's the problem."
Eddie hums. "Yeah?"
" Yes. She's been not so subtly hinting at what desserts she likes for the last three weeks, trying to get one of us to buy the office her birthday treat. And it's like, at this point I was just gonna buy it myself to get her to shut up, but I'm, ya know, fucking broke."
Eddie nods, as if it was a given.
"Today was her birthday. Someone brought in cupcakes for her, but they were right next to the microwave."
Eddie hums again, knowing how this story ends. "Let me guess. She didn't even get to eat one, did she?"
"We weren't supposed to open them until lunch."
The man examines his broken wrist again, this time lowering his head enough to where Eddie could see blood in his dark hairline. He starts giving it a closer look when the man mumbles, still side-eyeing his coworker, like sharing a conspiracy.
"If I had to bet, it was her who left the popcorn in the microwave."
Eddie pauses, about to reassure him that it was likely due to faulty wiring or the age of the appliance before his stomach violently flips at the reminder of the horrid smell, leaving a series of tight cramps squeezing just under his ribcage.
Oblivious, the man goes on, tilting his head in a curious way. "Hey, man, you ever had an ulcer before?"
Eddie blinks, trying to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose before it starts to water. He shakes his head, suddenly searching for a nearby medic.
"Uh, n-no. Sir, if you're feeling symptoms of a burning sensation, excessive heartburn, or nausea–" Eddie stops, turning away as his throat involuntarily tenses up, waving someone over "--you're gonna need to get it checked out by your doctor or a gastroenterologist."
"Dude, with what insurance–"
Once one of the paramedics from the other station jogs over, Eddie stammers the young man's vitals to her, stuttering about a scalp laceration before he was briskly making his way into the building's lobby, ripping off a glove to wipe the sweat from his eye.
He doesn't get the chance to lock the stall door before he's doubled over, catching himself on the rim of the toilet.
Bile burns his throat as he gags, choking on it, already feeling his abdomen flare up in aches as he rides it out. His coughing, dredging up even more bitter stomach acid, and the splatter of it hitting the water, hitting his face , it all echoes off the bathroom tiles, bouncing off the walls in the small stall, making him feel slightly claustrophobic.
He'd been fine with small spaces his whole life. He had no problem crawling into the little blanket forts his sisters had made for them, with duros and books and pillows scattered around the small carpeted escapes. When Pepa dropped her ring between the baseboards of their porch, he'd reassured her he'd fit, pulling aside one of the looser boards and climbing underneath with a flashlight in his mouth. The first ever twinge of panic hit him during his CMSTC, about halfway through his 72-hour field training exercise when he'd had to work with three other people in the very new and very small existence of a helicopter, proving they'd be able to successfully perform the procedures they'd learned in their Whiskey phase, an emergency cricothyroidotomy on top of an IO. His vision had started swimming then, and not until his PA had reached out his calloused and calm hand and lightly squeezed the back of his neck was he able to zero in on their patient, feeling flushed but with a newfound confidence.
As he starts to dry heave, sweat soaking his skin and his gloved hand cramping from his death grip on the toilet, it all starts weighing on him, in the way he'd gotten pretty good about shoving down, for the most part.
After all, when his blanket got too tight at night, he'd taste dirt, every time.
He'd been freezing then, borderline hypothermic in his soaked and bulky gear, with his limbs painfully pinned in awkward angles in the heavy, heavy soil slowly but surely caving in on him. It wasn't gunfire raining down and keeping him in place this time, it was the Earth . It was in his hair, his gloves, his mouth, the water and the dirt, ceaselessly pressing in on him from all directions. There was no air, no room to move, no space to breathe, no promise of getting to shed the suffocating layers and hug Christopher in the way where he lingered a little longer and squeezed a little tighter. His desperation wasn't lost on his son, he could tell, like he could sense he needed it. Sometimes they both did. They'd take turns, or after really long shifts, though tired and slow, they'd both tightly hold onto each other, burying their faces in the missed presence of the other, struggling to let go a little more than the last time, a little more than they thought possible.
He had his layers on now, too many of them, locking in the mix between the heat flashes and the cold sweats he kept cycling through. He reaches an arm out to the side but it hits the wall, with barely any room to catch himself as his leg gives out from cramping.
The sudden movement only exacerbates instead of relieves his position, sending him lurching as far forward as he could to aim for the toilet again, burning bile blocking his throat, smothering, choking.
Somewhere underneath the echoes of his retching, he hears someone else's voice, hears his name. The familiar cadence, despite only the two syllables, doesn't leave him guessing as to who hits his back with the door of the stall.
Eddie tries to move once he catches his breath for a second, pushing himself around the toilet so the door can fully open without smacking him in the ass.
Buck's saying something, though the words sort of get muddled in Eddie's ears as he fights to stop his...everything from spasming.
Instead of listening, he has an idea of what Buck's asking, knows it because of course he'd be asking what he could do to help, to fix the problem, to make him feel better despite being just as awkwardly geared up and clothed as him.
Instead of replying, Eddie just drags up an arm, holding it up in the general direction of where he knew Buck was standing, or crouching, he wasn't sure with his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain and his eyes squeezed shut.
Buck catches on instantly, wordlessly, predictably , and before Eddie can properly compute his appreciation for their shared silent language, his arm is being freed from the torturous restricting fucking sleeve.
He lets out an involuntary wavering groan, feeling his body being guided to the left, pressed up against a leg, before his other sleeve is being shimmied off. His radio gets untangled and pulled away, the curly cord dangerously reminiscing a frayed and cut line once strategically twisted and tied around his harness not too long ago. His turnout is finally lifted from his back, eliciting another groan, this time coming out clipped from the way he continues to pant at the floor.
Over his loud shaky breaths, he hears the brush of the material along the wall of the stall, being put somewhere it can be forgotten for at least a few minutes. He flinches at the next touch, a hand, only slightly calloused, rests on the back of his sweaty neck, not heavy or smothering. Grounding.
He feels a small squeeze once he relaxes.
"You with me?"
Eddie nods, opening his eyes when a moment later, a clump of damp brown paper towels is being handed to him.
He finally raises his head, leaning it back against the wall of the bathroom stall as he brings the paper towel up to his face, wiping his mouth, shuddering at the taste of puke still on his tongue.
Buck watches him carefully from his crouched position half inside the stall, his brows pinching together. " Jesus , Eddie..."
"Thanks for that," Eddie croaks, lifting his chin towards his turnout now laying on the counter by the sinks. He gingerly rolls his shoulders, glad for the wiggle room, though he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet, judging from his sore throat and body chills still tingling his skin.
Buck gives a half hearted smile as he starts sliding up the wall in an effort to stand, holding out an arm without thinking. "Guessing this wasn't because of the sushi from break?"
Eddie shakes his head, trying to summon a chuckle. "Didn't eat any."
He weakly wipes away the soot staining the toilet seat, keeping his eyes distinctly up as he flushes away the putrid remnants of his already mostly-empty stomach. He finally exits the stall, walking towards the sinks and immediately reaches for the faucet once he sees the sweaty tear tracks on his pale, smoke tinted skin.
He glances at Buck through the mirror before leaning down to splash his face, seeing just as much if not more black smudges on his friend's skin, mixed with some dried blood smeared along his jaw, with sweat soaking his hair and red in his eyes. His eyes always were more sensitive than most, prone to watering even at a distance from the fire.
"You should be safe, though." He cups some water into his mouth, swirling it around before spitting it out. "You always did have a stronger stomach than me."
It was true, at least when it came to food. During one of Bobby's late lunches up in the loft, Buck had mentioned spending the first half of his twenties trying the most exotic foods he could while he was traveling, sometimes tempting fate and risking the dishes with the wrong mix of alcohol he'd been experimenting with, only rarely paying the price in the bathroom afterwards. Since then, he's made it his goal to gross out the second strongest tummy in the 118, Chimney, listing off names of drinks Eddie had never heard of with foods he's impressed Buck was even able to pronounce.
So far, he hasn't had any luck.
Buck, small smile still clinging to his lips, walks past Eddie, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the countertop, back facing the mirror as he peers down.
"It wasn't too bad, honestly. I mean, as far as not-so-reputable sushi establishments go. I've had worse."
Eddie brings a wet hand to the back of his neck, letting the cold water trickle down to the front of his neck, sighing.
"U-uh, Eddie," Buck starts, shifting in his spot in front of the sink. "I'm okay for the rest of the day. You know, I'm sure the calls will calm down after this one. Y-you shouldn't be working like this."
Eddie lightly shakes his hands out in the sink, running them through his hair before reaching for a paper towel. "I'm finishing my shift, Buck."
Buck gives him a look. "Y-you don't have to, though. Plus Cap's gonna notice and I don't wanna lie to him while you're sticking your head in toilets on every call, I think you should go home."
Eddie scoffs. "You're not exactly the poster boy for tapping out when you shouldn't be working, Buck."
"So you admit you're not fit?"
Eddie crosses his own arms, mirroring Buck's posture. "I'm not the one with a history of pulmonary embolisms, blood clots in the leg, blood thinners, and a titanium rod with four cobalt screws." Eddie lightly nudges Buck's left ankle as his face finally falters.
Buck gives him a serious look, one that breeds a tug of guilt that forces its way into Eddie's chest. It wasn't exactly fair, but neither was having to watch his partner cough and choke on his own blood before collapsing on the ground not a week after he was supposedly recovered from being crushed under a ladder truck. Neither event was enjoyable for Eddie to have to explain to Christopher who, as soon as they got home that night, immediately started making another card for the man, asking when the soonest they'd be able to see him was.
At first, distractedly, Eddie tries to stop from reaching a hand out to tilt Buck's chin up, craning his neck to further inspect the cut on his jaw. His fingers move anyway, gently brushing the faint stubble on the man's chin to tip it ever so slightly, met with little resistance as Buck wordlessly obeys the touch.
The skin is warm, though that wasn't a concern, as he knew Buck ran a little hotter. He concludes it probably looked worse than it was, the smoke and debris from the fire having done what the anticoagulants could not.
There's a muffled commotion outside the restroom, likely the passing of numerous units aiming to further determine the building's integrity, despite the popcorn fire being fairly isolated to just the third floor.
Buck's eyes, blue and clear save for the redness and shine from the smoke, follow him suspiciously, still holding disapproval.
As Eddie drops his hand, Buck's voice comes out gravelly then, the way it did when he wasn't in the mood for his usual enthusiasm. "At least call in tomorrow."
Eddie lets his gaze fall, shuffling over to grab his turnout before leveling with Buck.
"It's just a cold, Buck."
"A-and uh, i-if you need help with Christopher, then just text me. I know you said he was feeling better, but–"
"Yeah," Eddie cuts him off, smiling a smile he didn't really feel as he bites his cheek, suddenly thinking of small fingers trying to wrap around his own, of cries filling their bedroom for hours, of Shannon staring at him, weary and on the verge of something Eddie knew deep down he'd been unintentionally pushing her towards.
"Christopher needs you."
She saw through him, in moments like this. Saw his faceless fear that had no other outlet besides thousands of miles away from the person he was scared of not being enough for.
"Go get your son."
"Yeah," he repeats, sucking his teeth, nodding, avoiding Buck's eyes. "He's almost through it, I think, so..."
Buck probably clocks him. He's annoying and amazing like that. "And you?"
Eddie pretends to find something overly interesting in one of the pockets in his turnout. "Me...what?"
Buck lets him hide. He shouldn't , but he does.
"You, uh," he huffed a laugh. "You gonna make Christopher hold your hair back when you're puking your guts out this weekend?"
Eddie gives a genuine chuckle at that. "Kid's father is a medic, he knows his way around a first aid kit, Buck. I trust him."
"Okay..." he starts slowly, as if picking his words carefully, that cautious expression taking over his face. He narrows his eyes on a spot on the floor. "But you don't have to do it alone, either."
"Christopher needs you."
"I'm throwing myself out there, I can wipe runny noses if you need a break," Buck says, giving a grin, and Eddie knows he means it.
He knows he means it and it's too much, that he's not even bothered by it. Wants it, even. His stomach churns at the thought, threatening to send him right back into the tiny stall.
"I got it, Buck. Really, I, uh..."
"Christopher needs you. Go get your son."
"We'll be okay," he forces out, knowing how weak it sounded despite his best efforts.
He shakes out his turnout, folding it over his arm as he heads for the restroom door, stopping as Buck finally forces some volume in his voice, still stuttering in a way that was almost comforting for Eddie to hear at this point.
"E-Eddie, I, uh, I understand...if you don't want it to be me, alright?" Buck shakes his head like an afterthought. "I-I wouldn't either. Just...call Pepa or Carla at least. Please."
Eddie blinks at him, pulling in a slow breath.
He remembers the way Buck's hands shook as Christopher hobbled into him that morning, excitedly waiting for a hug. He'd carefully brushed the kids shoulders, severely lacking the eagerness he'd had before when helping and playing with his son, so obviously scared. Eddie had tried to ease some of that fear away, though still working through his own from almost having lost him.
"You want me ...to watch Christopher? After everything that happened?"
"No, hey, Buck, I–"
Just then the door to the restroom opens, causing them both to jump.
"There you two are," Chimney announces, popping his head in and tilting his head to the lobby. "Bobby's been lookin' for you, we're about to head out. You don't keep your radios on in the bathroom or something?"
"Chimney, it's the bathroom ," Buck says in an overly serious tone, though looking amused as he starts walking towards the door.
"Hey, whether it's on or not doesn't cause you to drop in in the shitter, Buckley–"
"Come on! That was one time!"
"One more time than I've done it–"
"They're waterproof , Chim–"
" Water-resistant , actually, and pretty sure that doesn't apply to toilet water–"
Eddie stands there, feeling a little numb, vaguely hearing their voices grow distant as the door slowly begins to shut. It's caught at the last minute.
"You comin', kid?" Chimney takes him in another second, frowning. "Hey, you look beat. That sushi disagree with you too?"
Eddie swallows, shaking his head. "Nah, I'm good. Right behind you."
Comparatively speaking, maybe being stuck in the stall wasn't so bad.
---
Eddie had started dozing, his eyelids growing heavier by the minute. It was only a little after noon when he'd heard a low buzz from the kitchen of the loft, pulling him from his daze from where he sat with his head on the back of the couch and his arms crossed over his chest.
He heard some shuffling, then Buck's quiet answer.
"H-hello?"
"U-uh, yes, that's me."
"About...wait, sorry, who is this?"
Eddie started letting the low mumble of his voice lull him back to sleep.
"Oh. U-um, is he okay?"
Eddie turned his head towards the kitchen, cracking an eye open, seeing Buck nodding along to the call, his brows pulled together. He quickly checks his watch.
"Yeah, I can be there in...fifteen minutes?"
"Yeah. No, that's fine."
"Yeah, tell him to hang in there. Alright, thank you."
"Bye."
Eddie watches Buck lower his phone, lips parted in the way that meant he was lost in thought, off somewhere else.
Eddie closes his eyes again, shifting. "Everything alright?"
Buck makes his way over to the couches, still pausing, pointing at his phone.
"Y-you made me Christopher's emergency contact."
Eddie sits up at that, not missing the way it sounded lost between a question and a statement. He rubs his eyes, already standing from the cushions.
"What happened? Is he hurt?"
Eddie had let his phone die, like an idiot. Surprised, and a little ashamed he hadn't noticed it sooner, he had immediately plugged it in once he got in his truck, insisting that it be him to go pick Christopher up and not Buck.
Even after the discussion in the restroom at the office fire, he still offered himself, fully willing to leave work, which is exactly why Eddie had given the school his name as Christopher's contact.
It’s also the reason he can’t seem to shake the incessant weight of guilt weighing down on him.
Eddie grimaces, glancing in the rearview mirror as he pulls onto his street, checking on a sleeping Christopher in the back. He would've had to actually say something back for it to be a discussion. Instead, he just stood there and let Buck believe in his own worthlessness, that he could ever be bad for his son.
He sits at the wheel for a long time after they park, holding his head.
Once he shuts the engine off, the cab starts to warm up, the afternoon sun streaming through the back tinted windows and landing on the carseat. It should feel nice, given the bone deep body chills he'd finally succumbed to, assuming Christopher had to be feeling about the same now. Instead it was stuffy.
He slowly pops his door open, gingerly sliding out of his seat to open the rear door.
Christopher is slumped over, breathing through what sounded like a chest full of mucus, his seatbelt acting as the only thing keeping him from laying down in the way he had been when Eddie had picked him up from the school. The front of his shirt was wet from where his teacher had tried washing out his puke, with a small bottle of water the nurse had given him that he'd barely touched sitting in his cup holder.
Reaching over to unbuckle the seatbelt, Eddie aches, inside and out.
"Come here, mijo," he mumbles softly, "I gotcha." Christopher stirs, sleepily half cooperating as Eddie gently brings him in his arms, kissing his cheek as he gets a better hold on him. The weight makes him wince, even if it was the most comforting weight he's ever felt, never getting tired of the way his small arms lightly wrapped around his neck and his head rested on his shoulder.
He slings his work bag with his free hand and grabs the crutches, tiredly carrying both of them up the stairs to the house.
His focus narrows, after that. Get medicine in them, get them comfortable, sleep. That was the plan.
It all shatters when he enters the bathroom.
Bottles of medicines sat around the counter, some tipped over, some laid out on the stool in front of the vanity, the one Eddie had bought so Christopher could actually see himself in the mirror, so they could share soft morning smiles as they brushed their teeth and hair together. Eddie had spent countless times adjusting his collar or his badge while blinking the sleep from his eyes, only to look down and see his son finding something on his own outfit to fix, giving a too-serious look at himself through his glasses, sending warmth through Eddie's chest without fail. Sometimes Eddie would pretend to struggle with getting his hair to lay flat or to straighten his name tag, to which he would then crouch down and give Christopher a chance to assist him, deep down trying to show him it's okay to ask for help. On days he'd successfully pulled on his socks in record timing, Eddie would offer him a button on his shirt or hold out his wrist with an unattached watch, watching with patience and ceaseless adoration as his son focused on fixing the strap or holding the material in just the right way.
They hadn't done any of that this morning, too focused on just getting out of the house on time. Eddie feels dread start to pool in his ribcage, weighing him down as if cement had been poured down his throat.
The cupboard door was half-shut, leaving various heating pads and medical wraps messily hanging out. Eddie takes it in, feeling his pulse spike as he sees different pain relievers fallen in the sink.
"Chris," Eddie calls out, though it's barely audible, sounding more strangled in his ears the longer the air remains silent without an answer.
He swallows hard, counting, double and triple and quadruple checking every child-resistant lid belonging to old prescriptions with numb fingers, holding his breath even after he finds them tightly screwed shut. For once, first time in his life, he's grateful for the dexterity impairment in his son's hands.
A week ago, Eddie couldn't wipe the smile off his face when he heard he'd been improving in his occupational therapy, specifically with his bilateral coordination, hence his recent obsession with Legos. But now, he looked at it completely differently.
"Christopher," he tries again, reaching for one of the stronger painkillers and rattling the bottle. He grabs the one sitting in a small red puddle next to a plastic medicine cup, the one he'd been giving Christopher the last couple of days, finding the outside to be coated in a sticky layer. Half of it seems to be dried in the sink, frozen in a trail caught dripping towards the drain.
He brings the bottle up to read, squinting, struggling to get his eyes to work on the fine print with the pounding in his head.
He curses under his breath, finally turning to the hallway.
"Did you get these out?" he asks as soon as he's in the living room, actively trying to keep the worry out of his voice as he looks down at his son.
Christopher flinches, peering up at him from his spot on the couch before his tired eyes land on the bottles in his father's hands, one orange with a white lid and the other red. They're trembling in his grip, making him suddenly fidget.
"Chris, which one of these did you take?" Eddie pleads, the list of ingredients and their effects if overdosed swirling in his head. Dextromethorphan, phenylephrine, acetaminophen, guaifenesin, chlorpheniramine–
"I'm sorry I made a mess," Christopher nearly whispers, looking away, his voice impossibly soft, even for him.
Eddie purses his lips, picking a spot on the furthest wall to focus on as a tightness wraps itself around his throat. Shannon never would've let this happen.
"Christopher," he tries again, this time calmer, more level, lowering himself on the edge of the coffee table. He waits, silently asking for his son's eyes, heart twisting at the discomfort evident in his small shoulders.
"Bud, I'm not mad at you, okay? You're not in trouble. I just need to know what you took and how much."
Christopher drags his gaze to the bottles, blinking and swaying for a long time before he guiltily points.
"Just-it was just the kind you kept giving me."
Eddie swallows hard, letting out a small breath of relief.
"It wasn't...a lot. Dad?"
"Hmm?"
"I-I'm sorry."
Eddie nods, letting out a wet laugh as he sets the bottles down on the table and moves to the couch, right next to Christopher. He can't remember a single apology from his son's lips that didn't sound purely genuine, always soft and sincere. It made Eddie's heart ache in the best way. It made him proud.
This was his fault, after all, keeping their medications out for small hands to reach. His fault, not Shannon's, his .
Urging the guilt to a quieter space for now, he turns.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, gently tucking the back of his hand under the boy's bangs to gauge a temperature with his other arm around him, checking his pupils, feeling for his pulse with his other. Christopher thinks for a minute, eyes wandering around Eddie's face as he leans into the touch.
"I just...wanted to go to school, even though I was feeling bad," he quietly confesses.
"Can you be more specific?"
As if on cue, Christopher coughs, wet and followed by a string of them, trying to catch them all in his elbow like Eddie had taught him. Eddie refuses to take his eyes off him, watching his face contort in pain as he swallows.
"Ay, pobrecito," Eddie murmurs, carefully pulling him into his chest. Unfortunately, he could feel the same congestion creeping its way through his own torso, already making his breaths come out with a hushed wheeze he keeps trying to clear, unable to ignore the way his voice has grown sore over the last couple of hours.
"My throat still hurts," Christopher admits in his own scratchy voice. Eddie can feel tremors in his small back, with spasms in his chest as if he's holding back more coughs. Eddie closes his burning eyes as he starts rubbing his palm in circles, starting between his shoulder blades.
"Dad?" It comes out muffled with his face pressed into Eddie's chest.
Eddie hums, continuing with the circles as they slowly lean back into the cushions.
"I-I wanted...I wanted to take care of myself."
Eddie's hand stops.
It's quiet in their living room, besides the distant hum of the refrigerator and the bubbler in Christopher's fish tank in his bedroom.
His fault. His fault, hisfaulthisfaulthis–
"How do you think that's good for him? Eddie, he barely knows you! You haven't been around for most of his life!"
Shannon had. Not him. He doesn't say it, instead snaps something about his parents stealing his child, feels their eyes burning into him as disapproval spills all over him the way it had the night he'd told them Shannon was pregnant. He'd just started his senior year, the Texas heat rolled mercilessly through the screen door, Sophia was making huaraches in the kitchen with Adriana. His father had never looked so close to hitting him before.
"Don't drag him down with you, Eddie."
Eddie slowly sits up, convinced if he turned towards the front door, he'd see it propped open with a screen door in its place, dry sun-bleached planks of wood making up the porch, blindingly white and hot to the touch. If he looked in the kitchen he'd see spots of flour on the floor from the masa, with the smell of cilantro and cotija cheese drifting through the heavy air. His fathers cologne would be stuck in the blanket they never used that sat on the arm of the couch, and if he listened, he'd hear the buzz of the overworked ceiling fan coated in sticky dust. The sweat that had dried throughout the day would return, clinging to his shirt that Shannon had run her hands along that morning when she told him they couldn't put it off any longer, that she'd planned on telling her mother that night.
He'd be pinned in the rocking chair by his parents' disappointed stares at his front and his sisters' in his back.
Except this time, nobody's eyes are on him, picking apart his every move, ready to snatch up his little person, his world.
Nobody except for his son's.
Eddie looks down at him as he wipes some snot from his nose, looking impossibly tired.
"That's what I'm here for, bud. I take care of you."
Christopher sits with this for a moment. "But...abuelita t-took care of you, and-and now you take care of yourself. By yourself."
Eddie frowns, twisting his mouth as he bites his cheek. He shakes his head.
"What do you mean?"
"Nobody takes care of you now, Dad. Is-is it because you already know how?"
Eddie tries to contain his sigh, swallowing around a growing knot in his throat as he gives a small smile, rubbing along Christopher's upper arm.
"That's not true, you take care of me, mijo." You saved me .
Christopher looks puzzled, and a little sad. "No I don't."
"The other day you poured my juice," Eddie says, raising his eyebrows accusingly. "And this morning you found my work shirt. Last week, you cleaned the living room as I was makin' dinner so I wouldn't have to do it before bed, you even picked up all your Legos off the table–"
Christopher sniffs frustratedly. "But...you do more. For-for me."
"Christopher," Eddie replies, watching his son's gaze wander helplessly around the floor. Eddie rests a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb along his hair, under his red retainer.
"They don't have to be big things, because even small things mean so much. And we take care of each other, don't we? Every day, it's you and me." Eddie huffs a laugh, half heartedly glancing down the hall by their bedrooms. "Pretty sure I wouldn't be able to find my way outta bed in the morning with you, kid."
Christopher ducks his head then, a small infectious smile growing on his flushed face. God, he loved this kid.
He lightly ruffles his hair. "Just 'cause somebody knows how to take care of themselves, it doesn't mean someone can't still help them sometimes. And there are things you can do to take care of yourself, but there are still some things you gotta let me take care of for you, okay?"
Christopher looks up at him. "Like the medicine?"
"Yeah. Like the medicine."
"Okay," he muses quietly, pausing for a minute before tiredly leaning back into Eddie's side.
Eddie holds him, thinking back to long nights when it didn't come as easily. Hours of refusing to hold him anywhere away from the bed, unsure on what else he could do to soothe his restless limbs. Christopher squirmed in his arms more than not, then, soaking the front of his shirt with tears every time Shannon insisted it be him to calm him down.
A life changing diagnosis and years of practice later left the boy clinging for Eddie, proving what he always wondered to be true; Christopher was a cuddler, he just didn't always know how.
He was grateful for it, not always trusting himself in saying the right thing as a father but knowing his son wouldn't have to reach very far for a hug like he had to.
Feeling the kids embrace now was beyond grounding, especially when paired with the way his body had started humming uncomfortably. Though despite the weight resting on his side no longer being due to a loss of balance, the sheer warmth from his skin was definitely stealing his concern.