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Eddie’s in the kitchen, his old kitchen, or, Buck's kitchen. His real kitchen. He’s staring into the refrigerator like it might hold any kind of answer, when his phone starts ringing. Chris is in his room- his real room, or. His old room. Eddie’s in his kitchen. Tommy’s name pops up on his phone screen, calling.
For half a second, he has half an instinct to screen the call out of sheer habit. The couple of times Tommy tried to reach out to him after everything, Eddie hadn’t even let it ring twice. Felt a little bad but. There hadn’t been anything left to say. Now, though. The instinct is only half an instinct, for half a second. Because of the over-riding instinct. How Eddie has kept note, without conscious decision, of Bucks current whereabouts and who-with-ness from the moment he got off the phone with him a week ago. The call where Buck told him that Bobby was dead. So, he answers the phone immediately.
“What’s wrong?” Eddie asks.
“Hey, Eddie,” Tommy starts, harried and stumbling and weird.
“What’s wrong?” Eddie asks again.
“Look, um, it’s Buck…” Tommy says. Of course it’s Buck. What else would it be?
“Is he hurt? Where are you? What’s-“
“No, he’s not hurt, God, I’m sorry. It’s just. He’s… he’s upset,” Tommy gets it out quick, all in a rush, which Eddie appreciates. Wishes he’d go faster.
“You’re at your place?”
“My place. Listen, I can text you the address if-“
“I remember,” Eddie says, and hangs up the phone, already walking towards Chris’ room where he knows he isn’t asleep. “Buddy,” he knocks, tries to keep his voice calm.
“Yeah, Dad? Come in-“
Eddie cracks the door open. Steady breathing. “I’m just going to pick up Buck, okay? Can you promise me you’ll call me if you need anything-“
“Yeah, I promise. Is he okay?” Chris sits up where he was hunched over his phone, drops it on the bed even.
Eddie nods quickly. “He’s upset. So I’m gonna go get him, and then everything’s gonna be fine. Okay?”
“Okay. Um. Tell him I love him.”
Eddie could cry. As it stands he takes a couple of quick steps to kiss Chris’ head. “‘Course I will. He knows that. Okay, please call me if you need anything I won’t be long.”
He keeps to the speed limit. Nobody is in physical danger. Buck is upset. He’s upset. He’d seemed okay. He’s been acting so horribly okay. All week. Picking Chris and Eddie up from the airport. Getting them all set up at the house. Always half an ear on the phone. Making arrangements and carting off meals to Athena and Chimney and Hen. He had seemed okay. Every time Eddie tried to talk to him, to find him in a corner, Buck had just told him. He was okay. As okay as he could be. It was awful, it was awful but he was okay. Said Eddie should get some rest. Picked up his phone again.
And Tommy. Tommy had been around. Eddie knew he’d been the one to drive Buck home, after the lab, after everything. He’d been there. It was good for someone to be there for Buck who hadn’t just had their own limb detached. Someone who’s heart hadn’t been ripped out so completely by this. He had seemed okay.
And at the funeral, Buck had spoken so beautifully. It had seemed normal, after the wake, when he’d slipped out with Tommy. Eddie'd figured it made sense.
Tommys place looks exactly the same. The whole of L.A looks exactly the same. Nothing is.
Tommy answers the door looking pale, disturbed.
“I’m sorry, he-“
“Where is he?” Eddie asks. Hears his own voice like it sounds on a call, how it used to sound on a call, calm and direct. He doesn’t have to wait for Tommy to answer because he hears him. Buck. This sound. Down the hallway. He doesn’t register himself crossing the space, to the bedroom. He’s never heard Buck make anything like this sound.
He’s curled in on himself, on top of the sheets. For a second Eddie thinks Tommy lied, that he is hurt. He’s completely stiff, clutching his own chest. His shirt half-off. He’s red. He’s shaking. The sounds are long, drawn and loud. There’s no spluttering breath between them, just quick, quick gasps. Much too quick. Eddie kneels on the floor by his head. “Okay. Hey. Hey, Buck,” he puts his hand in his hair. “Hey, Buck.”
Buck says “Eddie.” He says “Eddie.” He says, “Eddie.” He says “Eddie.”
“Hey, buddy, can you look at me please?”
Buck looks at him.
“We need to breathe, okay?”
Buck says “Eddie.”
“It’s okay. We just need to breathe, okay? In.” He breathes in. Buck breathes in. Eddie holds it for a moment. Holds Buck's eyes. Breathes out, loud. Long. Buck mades a sound like before but choked off. Choking.
“Okay. Let’s do that again,” Eddie says.
Buck says “Eddie.”
It takes a little while to get him regulated, in and out, back in the room, back on earth. Eddie gets him sitting up. He gets his arm through the hole of his shirt. He takes a glass of water off the nightstand and brings it to Buck's mouth. Buck drinks. When Eddie takes the glass away and sets it back down Buck says “Sorry.”
“Yeah, okay, well, you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Eddie says. He wipes at Buck's face with his sleeve. He takes his pulse. It’s fast but it’s alright.
“I’m sorry,” Buck says again, miserable and spluttering. “I’m okay,” he takes a deep breath. “I’m okay.”
“No you’re not,” Eddie says. He moves to sit on the bed in front of him. He rights the shirt a little better. “Of course you’re not okay.”
“I have to be,” Buck says. “Bobby told me. I’d be okay.”
Eddie feels like someone’s punched him, in the stomach, hard. Bobby. Bobby. He could never stop owing him. For everything. He loves him. He was his friend, he misses him. He wishes he wasn’t dead. “Buck,” Eddie runs his sleeve over his ruddy cheeks again. “you will be okay. Eventually. You’ll be some kind of okay, some day, but of course you’re not okay right now. How could you be? I’m not okay, nobody is, Buck-”
“I have to be. I have to be okay,” Buck insists.
“Okay,” Eddie says, “Okay but it’s me. You’re with me. You don’t have to be okay with me. That’s the deal.”
Buck looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are puffy. He hasn’t stopped crying, still, and there’s a steady stream of snot coming out of his nostrils which he’s wiping on the pillowcase. “Okay.”
Eddie nods. “Okay.”
“Bobby’s dead,” Buck says, completely baffled. Completely shocked, perturbed, like he doesn’t understand it at all. Like he doesn’t even understand what the words mean. Like someone’s told him a lie. A ridiculous, absurd lie, that could almost be funny if it wasn’t so offensive. He says it a little like he’s asking. Like he’s pleading. Like he’s desperate to comprehend it. Like he’s begging, for something. Like he’s hit. Like he tripped. Like he’s falling.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m really sorry.”
Buck looks offended. “It’s not your fault.”
Eddie knows now’s not the time to point out how that feels debatable. How they could never know, if there was something, something he could have done. If he’d been there. He wasn’t there.
“I didn’t mean sorry like that,” he says instead. “I meant I’m sorry like. I love you, and I wish I could take your pain away.” He can hear himself crying. He doesn’t mean to.
“Me too,” Buck says. “I’m sorry like that too.” He’s still shaking. Eddie touches his arm. He’s cold and sweaty. Eddie takes his hoodie off, puts it on Buck, pulls his arms through the holes, zips it up. He pulls the hood up over Buck's head and pulls the strings so it’s snug around his face. He holds Buck's head through the material, firmly.
“Chris-“ Buck says suddenly, panicked.
“He’s okay. He’s at home, he’s okay,” Eddie says. “He told me to tell you he loves you.”
“He shouldn’t be by himself,” Buck says miserably.
“No. Well, let’s go home, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Buck sniffs.
Eddie pulls Buck's legs over the edge of the bed. He finds Buck's shoes, in the corner. He kneels down and puts them on Buck's feet. Ties the laces. Double knots. He stands up again, takes Buck's phone off the nightstand and puts it in his own pocket. Takes Buck's arms and pulls him up. He’s still shaking. He’s not steady.
Tommy’s in the front room, sitting on the edge of the couch. He stands up when they come in.
“Hey,” he says. He looks terrible. Buck's looking at the door.
“Hey. We’re gonna go home,” Eddie says.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “Shit, I just. I thought he was okay-“
“You’re good, man,” Eddie says. “Thank you for calling me.”
“Of course,” Tommy says.
“Sorry, Tommy,” Buck says. “That was really… intense.”
“No,” Tommy says. “Don’t, I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have. I-“
Buck just shakes his head. “No, It’s okay. Really. Thank you for calling Eddie.”
Tommy sighs, and looks so sad. He hands Eddie Buck's jacket. Eddie puts it onto Buck, zips it up to his chin.
“Get home safe, okay?” Tommy says.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, already moving to the door.
Buck’s quiet on the drive home, collapsed against the window. His eyes are closed but Eddie knows he’s awake. He’s still not breathing quite right.
“I’m not leaving again,” Eddie says. Buck’s eyes blink open.
“Chris,” Buck says.
“We’re gonna figure it out. We can. Or you come to Texas with us, for a bit. Or. I don’t know. I mean that I’m not leaving you again.” He wants to say ‘ever.’ That feels too big for the car. And what matters most is that Buck knows Eddie means ‘now.’ He’s not going to leave him alone, now.
“Okay,” Buck says. He sniffs and closes his eyes again.
Chris is awake. He’s sitting on the couch, biting his nails, watching Family Feud. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, as Eddie and Buck shuffle in- Eddie still holding Buck around the elbows, despite how he’s walking okay now. Eddie helps Buck onto the sofa, sits the other side of him. Chris pulls Buck into a hug.
“Hey, buddy,” Buck says, quiet. Eddie keeps a hand on his back, rubs it, catches Chris’ arm where it’s wrapped around him.
“You okay?” Chris whispers.
“I’ll be okay,” Buck says. “I’m sorry I worried you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Chris says. Then, “It’s so sad.”
Eddie leans forward, puts his arms around both of them.
“Yeah,” Buck says.
Eddie can feel him squeeze Chris’ shoulder. He finds Buck's wrist and squeezes it. He puts a hand in Chris’ hair. Canned laughter on the T.V. The smell of Eddie’s laundry detergent, where his face is pressed to Buck’s shoulder. The hum of the kitchen light. Chris’ socked foot propped up on the coffee table. Buck’s breath evening out. The telenovela box sets lined up on the shelf. One of Chris’ drawings, framed, propped up next to the radio. The smell of Buck’s shampoo. Eddie closes his eyes. Chris guesses an answer. The T.V show. He gets it right. Buck says, “you’re so good at that.”