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Eddie is at an open house in El Paso, eating mini quiches and making awkward conversation with another prospective buyer—single mom, two kids in the school district Chris has been attending since September, pleasant and, in retrospect, kind of flirty—when the accident happens.
He doesn't know, though later that feels impossible. He should have felt the impact from eight hundred miles away.
In the moment, he wanders through the house trying to smile around the knot in his throat, looking for flaws. It's a three-bedroom ranch with a yellow brick exterior, a manicured little strip of grass out front, and an attached one-car garage that he might not be able to actually fit his truck in. Definitely not enough room for anything else, but it's not like he'll have Buck turning up at all hours of the day or night in El Paso. Any visits he has from Buck from now on out will involve plane tickets and planning. Eddie will pick him up from the airport, probably. The Jeep and where Buck will park it is not a concern here.
It's not in the same neighborhood as his parents' house, but it's not far. The layout is accessible. That was something Buck filtered for right away, when he sat on Eddie's couch scrolling through a dozen different listing sites while Eddie did the walk-through with the real estate agent. He presented his results to Eddie after the call ended with a bright-eyed, determined enthusiasm that Eddie knew better than to trust, but what could he do? What could either of them do?
"Is it just you?" the woman asks. Her name is Leanna, he's pretty sure. She definitely introduced herself, and Eddie smiled and introduced himself back, and now they're in a corner of the eat-in kitchen, which is staged with a little round table under the window. Eddie can imagine sitting at it with Chris, should Chris ever deign to visit him here. He tries not to imagine anyone else in that picture, and only half manages it.
"Just me and, uh," he stops before he can say my son. He doesn't want to explain any of this to a stranger. "Yeah. Just me for now."
"It's a lot of house for one person, don't you think?" She's smiling, brown eyes sparkling. She's pretty, Eddie thinks, but it's a detached observation. He feels a little like he's viewing this whole scene through glass, like someone named Edmundo Diaz is here on stage, saying his lines, and Eddie is just watching. "I've got two girls, and they cannot wait to have their own rooms. My oldest is almost fourteen, and I think she's ready for some privacy, you know?"
"Yeah, that makes sense," Eddie agrees, and doesn't say, My son just turned fourteen, I know how that goes. Parental commiseration can wait until his kid can stand to be under the same roof as him again, if that ever happens.
When his phone buzzes in his pocket, it's an awful kind of relief. He half expects it to be his mom, inventing an excuse for why tonight isn't a good night to meet up for dinner after all, but it's Bobby's name on the screen.
"Sorry," he says slowly, an inexplicable chill prickling at the base of his spine. "I, uh, I have to take this."
She says something back, but he doesn't hear it. He ducks out the side door—that's prescient, maybe, that part of him that knows, with a sense of sudden dread, that he doesn't want an audience for this call. It's a cool day, overcast, lending a sense of gray sameness to the rows upon rows of suburban houses spreading out around him. He brings the phone mechanically to his ear. His fingers feel faintly numb. "Hey, Bobby."
"Eddie," Bobby says, in the steady, controlled tone he always uses at the worst scenes. "Where are you?"
"I—El Paso," Eddie says. Bobby doesn't know. Nobody knows, other than Buck, and if he's honest the only reason Buck knows is because he literally caught him in the act, and there was no point in pretending after that. Buck drove him to the airport this morning and clapped his shoulder outside the doors, said, Say hi to Chris for me with the same bright, determined smile he's been wearing since he first caught Eddie looking at listings. They didn't hug.
Eddie didn't tell anyone else where he was going. There was no reason. He's got a forty-eight off; he'll be back in L.A. in plenty of time for his next shift.
"I see," Bobby says. He clears his throat, then hesitates for an agonizing moment. There's noise in the background, too muted for Eddie to make out. Sirens, maybe.
"Bobby, what happened?"
"It's Buck," Bobby says, and Eddie feels something go loose in his knees, a sudden weakness threatening to send him to the cold pavement in the heartbeat it takes Bobby to add, "he's alive."
The phrasing doesn't help. It's not, he's okay. Alive implies that it was a possibility that he wasn't. Eddie puts his hand on the brick pillar holding up the square roof over the step, and says, "What happened?"
"The 136 took the call," Bobby says. He's speaking slowly, and Eddie knows it's at least as much to keep himself calm as it is for his benefit, but he kind of wants to reach through the phone line and snatch an explanation out of Bobby's throat anyway. "There was a car accident in the grocery store parking lot. He was hit, and they're saying he was dragged for at least a few yards."
A car accident, he thinks blankly. Of course it was. Of course it was. Buck was hit by a car, and Eddie is in Texas. He should have been there.
It's a ridiculous thought; it's not like he generally does Buck's shopping with him. This would have happened just the same if he'd been at home in Los Angeles. But he should have been there.
"How bad?" he asks.
"Fractured collarbone and hip, two broken ribs, possible internal injuries. They're pretty sure he's got a punctured lung. He's in surgery right now, we're still waiting to hear more. Eddie, he was conscious and responding when they took him in. Okay?"
"Okay," Eddie says stupidly. "Okay."
"Everybody who was on shift already knows, but I thought—"
I thought someone should call you, because of course you'll want to be there as soon as possible.
"Yeah," Eddie says. The word feels thick; he clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll, uh. I should be able to get my ticket changed. I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep me updated?"
"Of course," Bobby says, with a gentleness he can barely stand. "Listen, Eddie—"
"Thanks, Cap," Eddie says quickly, and hangs up the phone.
The door behind him swings open, and a small clot of people spill out: a man and woman, chatting easily about price points and school districts, trailed by a teenager in a hoodie and headphones, bent over his phone. He doesn't look like Chris at all, but for a moment Eddie's eyes swim anyway. He blinks hard, rubs a hand over his mouth, and shoves his phone in his pocket.
He parked halfway down the street, and he's nearly to his truck when he hears heels on the pavement behind him. A bright cheerful voice. "Eddie, right? It was Eddie?"
"Yeah," he says automatically, as he turns. Leanna is smiling up at him, and for a moment all he can think is that she belongs in another world. This place belongs in another world, and half of his heart is here, but the other half is back in Los Angeles, maybe bleeding out right now under a surgeon's blade.
Buck was conscious and responding when they took him in, but Shannon was conscious in the back of the ambulance too, right up until that last rattling breath.
It's not the same. It's not, he knows that.
"Sorry, I just wanted to say—it was really nice to meet you. And maybe if we both end up in the same neighborhood we could grab coffee sometime?"
"Sure," Eddie says blankly. "That'd be, uh, that'd be great. I have to—" He hooks a thumb at his truck, then thumbs the keyfob and fumbles the door open. "Listen, I'm sorry, I have to go."
He pulls the door shut behind him before she can answer. Blinks a couple of times at the gray El Paso suburb that blurs together with his memories of that sunlit street in Los Angeles: Shannon sprawled on the hot pavement like a broken doll, Buck's hand catching his shoulder for a brief instant of futile protectiveness before Eddie shrugged him off.
He takes a deep breath, and drives.
His mom opens the door with a smile that's a few shades too stiff to be welcoming, but she does open it. "Eddie. We weren't expecting you so early."
"Yeah, I—" He can't do this. Not right now. "Something came up. Is Chris here?"
"He's doing his homework. What do you mean, something came up?"
"I need to talk to Chris," Eddie says, and steps past her into the house before she can think to block him. It doesn't look much different than the last time he was here, more than a year ago. His dad is installed in his easy chair with a tablet, squinting at what looks like CNN; he looks up when Eddie comes in.
"Eddie," he says.
"Chris is in his room?" Eddie asks him. He can practically smell the aggravation boiling off of his mom, and he doesn't turn to face her, because he's got a good idea that if he tries right now this is going to rapidly devolve into a screaming match, and that's not the first impression he wants to make on Chris after all these months.
"He's in his room," his dad confirms, pushing his glasses up, pushing himself slowly to his feet. He moves cautiously now, more cautiously than he used to. Eddie catalogs that automatically with a medic's eye, but he can't focus on it. "We put him in—"
"My old room, yeah." He's seen that much from Facetime. New paint, new posters, same room.
"Yeah," his dad says, and Eddie's moving—down the hall, past the bathroom and his parents' bedroom and Adriana's old room, which has been converted to a home office since she moved to New York two years ago for grad school. The door at the end of the hall is closed. It's been repainted, but there's still the deep dent near the handle from Eddie attempting a skateboard trick down the hall in seventh grade. He got a concussion and a month-long grounding for that one.
There's music playing inside. Chris is humming absently along, like he always does when he's concentrating, and Eddie is frozen for several long breaths, just listening.
"Eddie," his mom says from behind him, and Eddie takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.
"Yeah?" Chris says from within. His voice is getting deeper, starting to crack. Eddie's heard it, of course, on calls. It's different like this.
"Christopher."
There's a long, long silence. Then shuffling, the sound of a chair being pushed back. Crutches on the floor. The door swings open, and there's his son, close enough to touch for the first time in almost six months.
"Chris," Eddie says again. It comes out breathless and strange, and he curls his fingers against the urge to snatch Chris up into his arms.
"Dad," Chris says. He's frowning up at Eddie through his glasses. The last time they stood this close, he wouldn't look at him at all. "I thought you were going to be here for dinner."
"Yeah, um," Eddie clears his throat. "I was. That was the plan."
"It's not dinner time yet."
"No, bud," Eddie says. His parents don't speak, but he can sense them hanging back in the hallway behind him, the silent weight of their disapproval. He doesn't want to have this conversation in front of them. He doesn't want this to be the first conversation he has face to face with Chris since May. "I—listen. Something happened, back in Los Angeles."
"Are you not planning on staying for dinner after all this?" his mom asks from behind him, sharp and pointed, but Eddie doesn't turn to look at her. He hears his dad shush her quietly. Chris is still looking at him.
"Is it Buck?" he asks. Because he's a smart kid, after all, and he knows that there's really only one other person on the planet who could put the look Eddie knows he's wearing on his face.
Eddie swallows hard, nods. "There was a car accident. He was hurt—pretty badly."
"Is he gonna be okay?"
"We're not sure yet. Bobby just called me. He's in surgery right now. They're going to call me again when they know more. But he was awake and talking when they took him in, so…" he trails off. It feels like cheating somehow, repeating Bobby's words of reassurance to Chris, when he knows perfectly well how quickly awake and talking can turn south.
Chris is old enough now to know that too, but he doesn't point it out. He turns his head to the side, chewing his lip for a moment that stretches out agonizingly long, then nods. "I want to go with you."
"What?"
"Chris, sweetie," his mom says. "I don't think…"
"You're going back to L.A. to see Buck. Right?" Chris demands, sharp. He's looking at Eddie again, so Eddie nods. "Right. So I'm going with you. To see Buck."
To see Buck, pointedly not to come home. But what can Eddie say? Chris has at least as many rights to Buck as he does, after all this time. "Okay. Okay, bud, if that's what you want. I'll see about getting us both tickets, and make sure I can…"
"Christopher," his mom says, and then, sharply, "Eddie."
He finally turns. "What, Mom?"
"I don't think this is a good idea."
The anger simmering beneath his skin rises up, so close to the surface that he can feel it burning on the back of his tongue. "Oh? Why is that?"
"He has school on Monday."
"I'll write him a note, if we're not back before then," Eddie says flatly. "I'm his father. Remember?"
"Eddie, don't make this—"
"I'm going to pack," Chris interrupts. He retreats back into his room, pulling the door firmly shut behind him. Eddie stares at it helplessly, sick and angry and afraid—so fucking afraid of a dozen different things that they feel like they'll strangle him right where he stands.
"Eddie, we need to talk about this."
"Maybe in the living room?" his dad finally interjects, with a pointed nod at Chris's closed door.
Eddie bites down on the side of his tongue until it hurts. Then he nods, very deliberately. "Sure. Sounds good."
There's a chess set on the sideboard, a stack of YA library books next to the couch, a new picture frame with Chris's school picture—Eddie has a copy, too. His parents mailed it to him in October, after picture day. He's wearing a striped shirt and a solemn expression, but in the picture next to it he's smiling—swim trunks on, towel slung over his shoulders, beaming in the sunlight. Eddie's pretty sure it was taken at his birthday party, the one he got to experience briefly through a screen from the other side of the country.
"Would you like something to drink?" his mom asks.
"No," Eddie says. And then, grudgingly, "Thank you."
"Fine." She presses her lips together. "I don't think this is a good idea."
"Oh? Why is that, exactly?"
"He's got school on Monday. And this is—he's finally settling in here."
"Settling in?" Eddie repeats sharply. "Funny way of putting it, don't you think?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, you know exactly what it means."
"Edmundo," his dad interjects helplessly.
"What?" he hisses, gritting his teeth to keep from yelling it.
"You can go," his mom says, and it's pleading, her voice is pleading, and her eyes are wide and pleading, and when she puts a cool hand on his arm he feels it like a slap. He shrugs it off and takes a step back, and she doesn't follow. "You can go, and we'll do dinner another time. Your father and I will pay for your ticket, you can visit again. Chris can—we'll set up a video call so he can see Buck."
Eddie barks a laugh. "A video call? What, like you've been doing with me for the past few months? Thirty seconds here, thirty seconds there?"
"He called us," his mom says, her smile pinched at the edges like she's pinning it to her face with sheer force of will. "You remember that, don't you, Eddie? He asked to come live with us."
"To come stay with you, for a while. But you seem dead set on making sure it's permanent. And why wouldn't you?" he asks, flinging his hands out to the stuffy confines of his childhood home. He's smiling too, and it feels sharp and electric, because this all is just the world's funniest fucking joke, isn't it. "Why not? It's what you wanted, isn't it? Since he was born. Since Shannon left. You've just been waiting for me to fuck it all up. Hoping you'd get a chance to swoop in and take over."
"Language, Eddie!"
"I'm not twelve. And he's not your chance for a do-over. He's my son. Not yours."
"Maybe you should have remembered that before you brought that woman into his life. Hm? Into both your lives?"
"Helena—"
"No, it's fine," Eddie interrupts, without even looking at his dad. "It's fine. Go ahead, say it! Maybe then you can finally admit that you got what you wanted all along!"
He doesn't realize that he's shouting until he hears the ringing silence when he stops. A door swings shut at the far end of the house, and Chris moves down the hallway, his crutches muffled by the carpet. Eddie's hands are shaking. He draws a deep breath and turns to face his son, who stands in the doorway and doesn't meet his eyes.
He's never going to stop fucking this up, is he?
"Hey, Chris," he says. It comes out scratchy, almost raw.
"I'm ready to go now," Chris says. He's got his backpack on his shoulders, a red hoodie over his t-shirt. It must be new; Eddie doesn't recognize it.
His mom moves past him without a glance, her pinched, determined smile unwavering as she crosses over to Chris and speaks quietly, like she's trying not to be overhead even though they're all standing in the same damn room.
"Sweetheart, I really think it would be better if we just let your dad go now, and we can set up a video call for you to—"
"I'm ready," Chris repeats. It's something, Eddie guesses, that he's not looking his grandparents in the eye, either. It's something that he hasn't changed his mind.
It's for Buck, Eddie reminds himself. Not him. He glances over at his dad, who looks away.
"Okay," he says, rallying with an effort. "Okay. Chris, you have everything you need for a couple of days?"
"Your homework?" his mom asks, and Eddie doesn't want to bristle, but he does anyway.
Chris shrugs a little, jamming his elbows in tight to his body like he's trying to take up less space. It's something Buck does too, when he's feeling uncertain. With his hulking frame, it always looks a little ridiculous. Chris just looks small.
"Yeah, I guess," he says.
"Okay, well." Her hand lifts, hovers, then finally brushes Chris's short curls out of his face. Her shoulders sag, just a little, and then she straightens and hauls her smile back up. "We'll miss you. And we'll see you again soon."
Chris shrugs again, but he lets her fold him into a hug. "Bye, Abuelita."
She kisses his cheek and steps back. Eddie's dad moves past him to clap Chris on the shoulder, a jostling weight. It's the same shoulder clap he always gave Eddie, once he'd deemed him too old for hugs around the age of ten. Chris leans into it.
Then he steps back too. There's a moment when Eddie thinks that his mom might hug him, or his dad might clap his shoulder too, but they all stand rooted to the living room floor, not quite meeting each other's eyes. Eddie's words echo in his ears, harsh and angry, but he can't bring himself to apologize for any of them.
"I'll, um." He clears his throat. It's scratchy like he's been screaming for days. "I'll keep you updated."
They both nod like marionettes. Eddie nods back, just the same. And then he's retreating out of the house, into the cool gray afternoon, and Chris follows him back to the rental car.
Once inside, he pulls out his phone and books their tickets, then checks his messages; there's nothing from Bobby or anyone else. He resists the impulse to call. Bobby will tell him as soon as there's news, and they have a flight to catch.
"Seatbelt?" he asks, and Chris scoffs under his breath.
"I'm not five, Dad."
A wobbly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth; he looks over at Chris, already strapped in and staring out the side window, and he doesn't say anything, just puts the car in reverse and backs out into the street.
They make it five minutes of the twenty it'll take them to get to the airport in stifling silence before Eddie can't stand it anymore.
"Chris," he says, and Chris glances over at him briefly before looking back out the window. Eddie sighs, flexing his grip on the steering wheel. "Listen, mijo, I'm sorry. That's not how I wanted to handle any of this."
Chris snorts under his breath, and Eddie is sure they're both remembering another confrontation, months ago, that Eddie also didn't handle how he should have. But all he says is, "I know you guys fight. It's whatever."
"Still. I shouldn't have reacted like that."
"You're worried about Buck," Chris says, and something about his matter-of-fact tone makes it real in a way that it hasn't really felt before now. He's driving his son to the airport, he's bringing Chris home, and it's because Buck is in the hospital again. And Eddie wasn't there.
And Eddie's planning on not being there, for good.
One thing at a time. He takes a slow breath through his nose, and nods. "Yeah. I'm worried about Buck."
Chris nods. He doesn't look at Eddie. His hands stay in his lap, his face turned toward the window. His chin juts out a little, like he's holding something back, and that's another mannerism Eddie knows like breathing, but that one's not from Buck, or from Shannon. That one, that silent stubbornness, is all him.
"Me too," Chris says finally. He leans down to reach into his bag and pulls out his phone and a pair of headphones, which he slips over his ears with pointed finality.
They don't speak for the rest of the drive.
At the airport, he drops the rental car off, hauls their bags out of the trunk. Chris takes his backpack when Eddie hands it to him without a word. For himself, he can probably get away with gate-checking his luggage, if he has to. He packed light. This was supposed to be a short trip.
This was. Later—
He'll worry about later when it happens. For now, he hustles Chris toward the security line. They should have just enough time to make the flight that Eddie booked for them, but it'll be cutting it closer than he likes.
He checks his phone again. Still no word. He types out a message to Bobby, then deletes it, then looks up to find Chris watching him. Eddie tries to smile at him. Chris looks away.
They get through the checkpoint, and Eddie tucks away his wallet and phone while Chris puts his shoes back on, his curly head bent, his hands careful and deliberate. He still hasn't said anything, and a crowded airport probably isn't the place to have the fight Eddie suspects will happen if he pushes it.
But they were supposed to get dinner. That was supposed to be the thing today. Dinner together, as a family. A normal evening.
That's fucked to hell in a dozen different ways now, but Chris still has to eat. Eddie clears his throat. "You hungry?"
Chris shrugs, reaching for his crutches and pulling himself to his feet. "I guess."
"Burgers? Or there's that taco place over at the other end?"
"Burgers are fine."
So they get overpriced airport burgers at the little kiosk across from their gate. Eddie eats his without tasting it, watching out of the corner of his eye as Chris inhales his food in record time and then starts eyeing Eddie's untouched fries. Eddie pushes his plate across the table, sees Chris hesitate and then finally pop a french fry in his mouth.
It's probably kind of pathetic how much that feels like a victory right now.
His phone chimes as they're calling out the boarding sections, and he snatches it up so quickly that he almost drops it, but it's just a weather alert. Eddie sags back in his seat, rubbing his eyes, then finally gives in to the urge to text Bobby: Any news?
He's still in surgery, Bobby replies almost immediately. The minute we know anything, you'll know.
Thanks, Cap, Eddie sends. He rubs his hand over his face, then adds, At the airport. We're boarding now. Be there in a few hours.
We?
Eddie glances sidelong at Chris, who appears absorbed in his phone. There's a messaging app open, and Eddie avoids the temptation to peer over his shoulder to see who he's texting. Chris is coming with me.
Ah, Bobby says. The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. He doesn't send anything else.
"Did you hear anything about Buck?" Chris asks. It's the first time he's spoken since they sat down, and Eddie tries not to jump. He glances over, and Chris looks away. "You were texting."
"Just Bobby," Eddie says, clearing his throat. "He's still in surgery. No news yet. Probably won't hear anything until we land."
"Oh," Chris mumbles.
There's another long, aching silence broken only by the shuffle of their fellow passengers boarding, the gate calls on the loudspeaker, the distant bustle of the airport beyond their gate. Eddie doesn't know how to break it. He's never felt this incapable, this awkward, around his son. Not even in the early days after Shannon left and he barely knew how to look after Chris without his mother's overbearing and insistent involvement. At least then Chris was small enough to look at Eddie with stars in his eyes, easily distractible, forgiving of Eddie's many flaws as a parent.
Not so much now. But Eddie's the one who fucked this up, and Chris is here, so he has to try. He clears his throat, but before he can get the words out—before he can even decide what he was going to say—Chris says abruptly, "Why didn't you come earlier?"
"What?"
"To Texas. It's been six months." Chris's head is ducked, his lower lip pushed out. He's fiddling with his phone, but the screen is off. "Why didn't you come earlier?"
A new and horrible lump twists in the back of his throat. "I thought you wanted some space. From me."
"Not for six months."
"You…" He trails off. You seemed happy, you didn't want to talk to me, you had all these new friends and your grandparents were building a pool and you kept talking about chess club and you wanted me to send that autographed picture to Texas, and you never even said that you wanted to see me. It's all been building up behind his teeth for months, but it's not what Chris needs to hear. He'll talk to Buck about it. When—not if, when—Buck wakes up. "I didn't know, Chris. I'm sorry."
"You didn't ask. You just let me go."
"I thought that's what you wanted."
"So what? You're supposed to be my dad," Chris snaps.
"Okay," Eddie says, wrong-footed. "I'm sorry."
"You just said that."
"Well, what do you want me to say?" Eddie asks, sharper than he means to. It comes out sounding enough like his mother's aggrieved tones that he bites his tongue almost to the point of blood. He sees a few nearby heads turn toward him, then pointedly away, but the embarrassment of an audience barely even registers.
"Forget it," Christ mutters.
"Christopher—"
"I said forget it!"
"I'm moving back to El Paso," Eddie blurts. It's not how he wanted to say it, not even a little, but it's the only thing he can think of that might make Chris look at him. And it works, it does: Chris stiffens, then finally looks up and meets his eyes.
"What?" he asks.
Eddie takes a deep breath, steadying himself as well as he can. This is not how he would have chosen to have the conversation. Not at all. But now it's out there, so he says, "That's one of the reasons I was in town this weekend. I've been talking to a realtor. I'm looking at houses in El Paso. And—you don't have to come stay with me if you don't want to. But if you're in Texas, then that's where I want to be, okay? I don't—I can't miss out on any more of your life. And I'm sorry it took me so long."
There's a long silence in the wake of that. Then Chris slams his phone down on the bench next to him—Eddie winces—and says, "I don't want you to move to Texas! I don't want—why are you so dumb?"
"Chris," Eddie starts, but then the loudspeaker overhead is announcing their seats. The people around them start to stand, to gather up their things. Eddie's pretty sure he's not imagining the sidelong looks they're getting, and he can't even blame them—he'd be just as invested in this little public soap opera, if it weren't his soap opera.
Chris is talking again, low and quick and furious, the words pouring out of him like he's just been waiting for an opening to say them. "You always do this. You always do things and you never ask any of us what we want, you don't even tell people what you're doing. You went out with her and you never even said anything—and you never even talk about Mom anymore, but you went out with her because she just looked like her, and you let me go to Texas, and you never asked me to come home, and now you're moving to Texas without even asking if it's what I wanted, and you said I could come home! But I can't, because you're going to be living in fucking Texas!"
"Language," Eddie says weakly. Chris lifts his head to glare at him, wet-eyed, and he sags. "I'm sorry, Chris."
"I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to—"
"I should have talked to you. Okay? You're right. I should have talked to you."
"Yeah," Chris mutters.
"I was scared," Eddie admits, and it's maybe the first time he's admitted it so baldly. The line ahead of them moves, stragglers gathering at the gate. Eddie looks down at his hands, then over at Chris. "I was afraid that if I asked you to come home, you would have said no."
"You still should have asked."
"Yeah. I should have."
Chris nods. He looks away, picks up his phone, and shoves it in his pocket. The benches around them are empty, the gate agent looking at them impatiently.
Eddie's timing has always been terrible, and it looks like that's not about to change right now. As gently as he can, he says, "We should go."
"Yeah," Chris mutters again, and reaches for his crutches.
On the plane, he wedges himself against the inside seat and slips his headphones on without another word, turning himself pointedly toward the window, the sunset slipping across the tarmac, the bustling workers. Eddie folds himself into the aisle seat with a murmured apology when he bumps the seat in front of him. He tries to get exit row seats when he can, because he's a little too tall to comfortably wedge himself into the cramped economy seats. Still not as bad as Buck, with his long legs and arms and wide shoulders, the space he always takes up.
Buck, who is in a hospital bed eight hundred miles away from here, beyond Eddie's reach.
He checks his phone one last time—still no messages—before finally putting it on airplane mode. Then he puts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, trying to steady himself in the close, claustrophobic dimness of the cabin. Beneath them, the engine rumbles. Chris is still turned toward the window as the plane rolls toward the runway.
It takes them a while to get in the air, and Eddie tries not to count the minutes, tries not to wonder what's happening in an operating room on the other side of the country, tries not to watch Chris pointedly watching the darkening runway out the window. He looks so much older. It keeps catching at Eddie; the last time he was on a plane with Chris was only a couple of years ago, but at the time he could fit easily into the crook of Eddie's shoulder; at the time, he would have willingly put up with it.
He closes his eyes again for the takeoff. The rumbling of the engine is always disorienting, the earth falling away beneath them as the plane circles, gaining altitude, and aims itself in the direction of California, and home.
It's fully dark when they land. The shoreline is a stark line of brilliance as they circle out above the Pacific to come in toward LAX. Chris pulls his headphones off and tucks his phone away.
"How's your battery?" Eddie asks him. Chris gives him a mildly incredulous look, but at least he is looking at him now. "I have a car charger. If you need."
"Is your truck at the airport?"
"No, we'll have to get an Uber. Buck, uh." He stops, clears his throat. "Buck dropped me off this morning."
"Does Buck know you're planning on moving to Texas?" Chris asks, accusatory.
"Yeah," Eddie admits.
"Right," Chris mutters, folding his headphones with sharp motions and shoving them in the pocket of his hoodie. "Everybody but me."
"Just Buck. I didn't tell anyone else."
That makes Chris look at him again. He chews his lip for a moment, then says, quieter than Eddie was expecting, "Why?"
"I don't know," Eddie says. Then he stops, makes a face. It's a cowardly answer, and worse than that, it's a lie. "Okay, no, that's not true. I—I think I was afraid. Of how people would react. I was afraid of someone telling me it was a stupid idea."
"It is a stupid idea," Chris retorts, scowling. The scowl gets deeper when Eddie smiles helplessly at him, because—that's his kid, right there. Right here. That's Chris, entirely himself, not at all the icy, indifferent specter of Eddie's worst and guiltiest fears. He should have done this a lot sooner, probably. He should have noticed when giving Chris the space he needed turned into the same terrified paralysis he sank into when Shannon left. He should be better at this by now, but Chris is here all the same: righteously pissed off and entirely present. "Buck should have told you that."
"I think maybe he thought it wasn't his place."
"It is his place."
"Yeah," Eddie says. "Maybe I should tell him that."
"Maybe you should," Chris retorts, magnificently snide, and turns to watch the runway rise up to meet them, his curls shifting at the jolt as they touch down.
Eddie takes his phone out of airplane mode the instant the lights come up, his heart jolting in his chest as the text messages start coming in. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chris stiffen at the chimes, but he opens his messages anyway.
A breath of silence. Then Chris says, raw and tentative, "Dad."
"He's okay," Eddie says. His breath shudders out; he laughs, and it only feels a little hysterical. His fingers are numb, but there on the screen is the text from Bobby: Out of surgery now. Should make a full recovery. Then, beneath that, They're moving him to a room. Visiting hours are until 8:30.
It's almost seven now. Given Los Angeles traffic, they can make that, barely.
"He's okay," Chris repeats. Eddie nods, and Chris turns, shoves his face against Eddie's shoulder like he's a toddler again, a sudden shock of contact, the first time his son has touched him in months. His hand twitches, fingers curling in, and then carefully, carefully, he lets himself slide his fingers through Chris's mess of curls, soothing him the same way he used to after nightmares or rough PT sessions while Chris breathes quick and shuddery against his shirt. Damp seeps in; Eddie pretends not to notice. He types out a response to Bobby one handed—Just landed, be there ASAP—and lets Chris lean against him, rocking him slightly, as the cabin lights come on and the people in the rows ahead of them start to rise out of their seats and gather up their bags.
Bobby meets them outside Buck's room, still in his uniform, looking exhausted. He still manages a smile though, and Eddie smiles back, imagines his own must have that same shaky, cut-glass quality to it. Chris is quiet at his shoulder.
"Eddie, Chris—glad you made it in time, he's been asking."
"Sure," Chris mutters.
"He's awake?" Eddie asks.
"High as a kite, but yeah, he's awake." Bobby's smile creases, softens. "Maddie's in with him now."
"Should we—?"
"Go ahead. He'll be glad to see you."
"Okay," Eddie says. "Okay," but it takes him a moment to move. A moment of standing in that hallway, with the clock on the wall behind the nurses' station ticking toward eight, the gleaming white floor tiles and the smell of antiseptic and the beeping of distant machines. The memory of Shannon: her still white face before they pulled the sheet up, the weight of the ziplock bag in his hands, the chill in the morgue that seemed to linger in his bones for days afterward.
Then he steps forward, Chris a half-step behind him. Bobby claps his shoulder as he passes, a terrible kind of sympathy in his face, and then Eddie pushes the door open to Buck's hospital room.
There are balloons already, a little stuffed dalmatian on a side table, cards shoved against the window. Maddie is perched on a chair next to the bed; she turns as they come in, gives them a smile that's bright and a little teary, but Eddie only has eyes for Buck.
He looks smaller in the hospital bed; he always does. Eddie kind of hates that he's seen him in this position enough times to be able to say that for sure. His face is bruised, a scrape down the side of his jaw, lip split at the corner, but he still smiles when his hazy eyes land on Eddie.
"You're here," he says, slurring a little but clearly delighted. "Eddie! You're supposed to be in Texas."
"Bobby told you he was coming," Maddie says, in the patiently indulgent tone of a woman who has had this conversation several times already.
"Oh," Buck says. He blinks heavily a couple of times, then says, "I'm really high."
"Yeah, I see that, bud," Eddie manages.
"I'm glad you're here," Buck says, and it's so soft, so sincere, that Eddie aches. It's all on display, for anyone who knows to look for it: that thing that he and Buck haven't been talking about for weeks now, because Eddie was moving to Texas and Buck would never step in the way of that, and so there was no point.
But now, he thinks. Now.
"Yeah," he manages, just as soft, just as telling.
Chris shifts from behind him, pulling himself up, and Buck blinks at him for several long seconds like he thinks maybe he's hallucinating.
"Chris?" he asks finally, voice small.
Chris shrugs a little. "Hey, Buck."
"Hey, Superman." It wobbles a little. Chris rolls his eyes.
"I'll let you get away with that because you got hit by a car today," he says, crutching past Eddie and up to the bed.
"I did," Buck agrees, blinking several times. "I did get hit by a car today. I'm sorry."
"You didn't do it on purpose, did you?"
"Well, no, but."
"You and Dad both keep apologizing for dumb stuff," Chris says. He leans his crutches against the side of the bed, sinks into the chair next to it, and reaches for Buck's hand, squeezing tight. "You know that?"
On the other side of the bed, Maddie makes a stifled noise. When her eyes meet Eddie's, they're shining with unshed tears and amusement. Eddie rubs his eyebrow and smiles back, sheepish.
"Well, now I can't apologize for apologizing for dumb stuff, because that would be another apology for a dumb thing," Buck says, and then he stops and blinks at the ceiling several times before looking back at Chris. "Wait, did that make any sense?"
"You're so stoned," Chris says.
"Yeah. I'm, um." Buck pauses for a minute. "I'm really glad to see you."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't going to stay in Texas," Chris says, with a snippy little glance back at Eddie. Eddie winces, and that, astonishingly, makes Chris smile.
"Oh," Buck mumbles. His eyes slide shut; he blinks them open with an effort. Eddie moves closer to the bed. There are only two chairs, both of which are occupied, but before he can hover awkwardly for too long, Maddie gets abruptly to her feet, jamming a fist to the small of her back like it aches.
"Here, you can have my seat," she says to Eddie. "I'm going to go call Chim."
"Say good night to Jee for me," Buck mumbles.
"She's already in bed," Maddie says, leaning down to drop a kiss on his forehead. "It's almost eight-thirty. I'll be back in a minute."
She ruffles his hair fondly, then steps around Eddie and heads for the door, which means that Eddie has no reason not to sit in the chair on her side of the bed. Chris watches him while he does it, expression unreadable; Buck watches him too, with hazy fondness. His right arm is in a cast up to the knuckles, so Eddie can't hold his hand; he rests his palm on Buck's shoulder instead, feels the warmth of him through his hospital gown. The faint smell of iodine and surgical soap and even fainter, Buck's familiar cologne.
"Hi, Eddie," Buck murmurs.
"Hey," Eddie says.
"You had a—a really, really busy day," Buck mumbles, and Eddie laughs, jerky, raw.
"Yeah. I really did."
"He yelled at Abuela and Abuelo," Chris observes.
Eddie winces. "I did do that, yeah. Maybe not my finest moment."
Chris shrugs. Buck looks back and forth between them, the movements syrupy and uncoordinated from the drugs. Then, to Eddie, he says, "Did you look at the house? Wait, am I allowed to talk about that?"
"I looked at the house," Eddie admits. "And, uh. Yeah. Chris knows."
"Yeah, Chris knows," Chris repeats, in an intensely snide tone. "Now."
Eddie doesn't really want to relitigate this argument over Buck's hospital bed, but when he gives Chris a look to communicate that, Chris just stares coolly back.
"What happened?" Buck asks, guileless as only someone on medical grade narcotics can be. Though Buck is always like that, a little bit.
"Uh," Eddie says.
"I think it's a stupid idea, that's what happened," Chris says. "He didn't even ask. You didn't tell him how dumb it was?"
"Chris," Eddie says, warningly.
"Hey, hey, hey," Buck says, wide-eyed. He makes a move like he's going to try to sit up, then thinks better of it. "Chris, listen, your dad, he loves you so much, and he's missed you like crazy—"
"Yeah, I know that," Chris interrupts, fast and impatient.
"Oh," Buck says, subsiding a little. "Well, good. And I, um. I missed you a whole lot, too."
"Yeah," Chris says, a little softer. "I know."
"And I, um, I think maybe sometimes it's easy to start thinking—I think, I've, uh, I've had times where I thought maybe people didn't miss me when I wasn't there, and I did some dumb stuff because of it—"
"Like that time you sued the department?"
Buck laughs, sheepish. "You, uh, you remember that, huh?"
"I wasn't that little."
"Yeah," Buck says. Then, "Yeah, like that."
Chris nods. "That was pretty dumb."
"Yeah."
Eddie breathes in, unsure of what to say, unsure if there's anything he should say right now, but before he can make a decision, there's a light knock on the door, and a nurse ducks in, looking apologetic.
"I'm so sorry, visiting hours are just about up," she says.
"Right, um, we should—sorry," he says, half to her, half to Buck. She nods and steps back out. Reluctantly, he adds, "I guess we should get going."
"Yeah," Buck says, soft.
"You know when you're gonna be able to get out of here?"
"Should be tomorrow. They said."
"Right," Eddie says. His hands twitch at his sides; he wants to reach out, but he doesn't quite know how, right now. Chris is the one who moves, pushing himself up to his feet, and then leaning down to give Buck a very careful hug. Eddie can see Buck's face, can see the way his eyes squeeze shut and the wobbly edge of his smile, but he gets it somewhat in control by the time Chris pulls back.
"See you tomorrow, Buck."
"See you, bud."
Chris nods, then gives Eddie a look, then heads across the room toward the door. It swings shut behind him; Eddie can hear Bobby's quiet voice, and Maddie's. He takes a deep breath and turns back toward Buck, who is watching him with a very soft and hazy expression.
"You guys had a fight?" he asks.
Eddie sighs, then laughs unevenly, shoving a hand up into his hair. "In the middle of the airport. I think—I think maybe it was a little overdue. Some things we both needed to say."
"Yeah," Buck says. "I know how that goes."
Another laugh slips out, more ragged this time. Buck reaches carefully over with his good hand, and Eddie takes it, squeezes hard. Buck squeezes back, then cups his cheek gently. It's not a way he's ever touched Eddie before, and for a second Eddie feels like he can't breathe.
"I think…" He takes a deep breath, then lifts his head, careful not to dislodge Buck's hand. "Maybe there are some things I need to say to you, too."
"Yeah?" It's gentle. Too knowing, because of course Buck has always known him entirely too well. Seen him, in a way very few people ever have.
"Yeah." There's another knock at the door. The nurse is back, gesturing at him with a very impatient look. Eddie laughs, turning his face into Buck's palm. "My timing is for shit."
Buck hums, fingers twitching against Eddie's cheek, rasping in his stubble, sending a cascade of shivery warmth through him. "Maddie's picking me up tomorrow."
"Okay," Eddie says, trying not to be stung. He was supposed to be in Texas, after all. It makes sense that it would be Maddie.
"So you should come over. Tomorrow. You and Chris. I actually think she and Chim are dragging me back to their place because there's no way I'm getting up and down the stairs at the loft, but—"
"Yeah," Eddie agrees quickly. "Yeah, of course."
"And then you can tell me. The things you need to say."
The door swings open, and the nurse says, sounding tired, "I'm sorry, sir, but—"
"Yeah, I'm going, I'm going," Eddie says. Before he can overthink it too much, he turns to press a kiss to Buck's palm before standing. His cheeks are hot, but he can see an expression of stunned delight on Buck's face that makes it more than worth it. "See you tomorrow, Buck."
"Yeah," Buck says, breathless. "I'll, uh, I'll text you. Or, well, Maddie will. My phone kinda got run over."
"Jesus Christ," Eddie says, with feeling, and Buck starts laughing, bright and beautiful and alive.
The hallway feels quiet when he steps out. Bobby and Maddie duck their heads in to say their brief good nights under the night nurse's watchful eye, and then they're gone and it's just Eddie and Chris there.
Eddie spins his keys around on his fingers, then chances a look at Chris, who is staring at the door to Buck's room. After a moment, he looks up.
"Ready to head home, mijo?"
Chris nods, pushing himself upright. He hesitates, looking like he's chewing something over, then asks, "Is my room still…?"
"Of course," Eddie says, slightly winded. "I mean, I did eventually get around to washing the dirty laundry on the floor, but…"
Like he was desperately hoping, that gets him a smile.
"Okay," Chris says finally. "Let's go home."