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“Evan, it doesn’t have to be you.” Buck’s heard Tommy’s voice rough and ragged before, but never like this. Never like something’s cracked inside him, never like the broken fragments of it are clawing up his throat.
“Of course it does,” the short huff of breath sends tears and snot dripping down Buck’s nose. He’s been trying to stop for going on twenty minutes now, phone clenched hot and sweaty in one hand while the other chafes his philtrum over and over. “He should hear it from someone who loves him. Who loves both of them.”
Tommy sighs. The weight of his hands barely registers on Buck’s shoulders; he only reacts when Tommy moves one to tilt his chin up. “At least let me take you home first. Get you changed.” They’re still in the parking lot of the lab, tucked away from the military’s setup while Buck hyperventilates on the sidewalk, turnouts tacky against his skin. He's finally catching his breath, but it doesn't stop him from feeling like he's being suffocated, even with the cool night breeze drying tears as soon as they appear.
“No.” Buck insists, pushing sweat off his forehead to slick his hair back. “I-I appreciate it, Tommy. I appreciate you, but I can’t…I can’t…”
“Hey, hey,” Tommy squeezes his shoulder, swallowing down something heavy. It only makes Buck feel worse. He's still too much, and he feels himself growing out of his skin, heavy and unruly as it tries to make sense of a world without his captain, his dad, his Bobby. “You have to keep breathing.”
“I have to tell him,” Buck snaps back, finally finding the courage to unlock his phone.
Eddie is beaming when he answers, and fresh tears spill over before Buck can stop them. “Buck, hey! You’ll never guess what— woah, Buck?”
That’s all it takes.
Tommy catches him just in time to keep his knees from slamming into the pavement. “Eddie.” Buck cries into the microphone, sounding even more of a wreck than Tommy.
And Eddie knows, somehow; his eyes are already glossing up. Buck hates himself for feeling some feeble comfort as they bore into him from two states away. “Who?” He asks, gentle as a touch.
“It’s—“ Buck sniffs. “There was a fire at a lab that works with viruses and— and there was only one cure so he just—“
“Buck,” Eddie tries again, firmer. Buck watches him steel himself brick by brick, a necessary wall crowding him deeper into his body. Not for the first time since meeting Eddie, he wishes he could do the same. Anything to get away from what’s coming. “Who died?”
The sound Buck makes, twisted and sobbing and whimpering, will stay with Eddie forever. It stabs a chink into his heart, preparing it for the clean break of:
“It’s Cap, Eddie.” Something keening leaks between Buck’s lips, a release valve on the deafening pain weighing down his body.
Eddie can’t blame him. His next inhale is sharp as glass and jabs deep in his core; his own tears free fall in seconds. "Bobby?" He gets another choked sob in response. “No,” he whispers to himself immediately, denial racing through him sharp as a bullet. “You’re— you’re joking, right? Trying to fake me out with some new Covid shit? You’re not funny, Buck.”
“Diaz,” Tommy (when did he get there? And what does that mean?) clears his throat and steps into the frame behind Buck. They watch Eddie pale as he takes in Tommy’s matching reddened eyes and puffy cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry. He’s not joking.”
The phone falls, but Eddie keeps breathing. Each breath is harder than the one before, like that glass inside is cutting into his carotid, widening the wound with every heartbeat. Someone's calling his name — two someones, "Eddie"s and "Diaz"s blending together in a cacophony of misery. He hates himself for not responding, but he can barely remember how to move, at the moment. Half of his brain is chanting lies, lies, lies, please be lies. The other half has drifted five years into the past, clenching clothes in shaking hands as the eyes of two widowers meet across a hospital lobby.
Eddie wonders if Athena is doing the same thing now, holding close remnants of a partner she'll never see again, and swallows down thick, sticky bile. He's not there, either, can't even pass on the grace Bobby once afforded him, the quiet understanding that comes from losing part of your soul so cruelly and needlessly.
It's only when he hears his other name that he manages to pull himself back into his body.
"Dad."
Chris has made his way around the couch, their movie paused and ice cream melting as he grabs the phone off the ground while Eddie hurriedly brushes away tears. "Buck?" he frowns at the sight, even though Eddie's sure Buck's trying to pull himself together, too. They haven't seen each other since Chris left, as far as Eddie knows.
How come it was never nice things that broke streaks like this?
"C-Chris. Hey. How are you?" Buck tries, even though the attempted levity only makes him sound more desolate.
"Bobby's dead?" he asks bluntly, and Eddie wishes he would have had the foresight to go into the other room to answer. God, just minutes ago he'd been bursting with excitement, ready to tell Buck that Chris was home and that they should schedule a FaceTime movie night soon. He'd been trying to get ahold of Buck for a couple of days now, but Eddie knew he was on shift, so he hadn't been worried. That was always his downfall. When Eddie stopped worrying...that was when everything tended to fall apart. Back when he was in therapy, Frank had told him a dozen times that his anxiety wasn't a superpower. It still sounds like fucking bullshit.
"—really, Chris, if I'd known you were there I—" Buck's saying, voice breaking on every other word.
"It's okay, Buck," Chris murmurs, his tone surprisingly even. "I'm sorry, too."
Buck whimpers again, the end of it buried in Tommy's chest. "W-Would you mind passing us back to your dad, Christopher?" Tommy speaks up.
Chris frowns, but obliges. He doesn't leave as Eddie lifts the phone back up to his face; he just curls an arm around Eddie's back and holds him close. "Appreciate you calling," Eddie says. It sounds stilted and monotonous to his ears.
Tommy nods solemnly as Buck shifts just enough to peek at Eddie with one eye — the one with the birthmark. Eddie doesn't think he's ever seen an eye so blue, swimming in an ocean of itself and contrasting against splotchy, swollen red. As he sniffs and burrows a little further into Tommy's chest, Eddie sucks in a viscous breath as a rush of longing nearly takes him out at the knees. He should be there. Should never have left, and if he had a choice, he wouldn't have. Then he'd be there, checking over Chim and holding Hen up strong. He'd be arm-in-arm with Ravi and holding Buck so close that their breaths would become a closed circuit. And maybe together, they could have done something, anything to save Bobby.
And yet he's here, running in the same old circles he swore he'd get out of. He's driving asshole after sorority girls after handsy couples after student around his least favorite city — and for what? Chris is back with Eddie, his parents firmly in place as Chris's grandparents, and they should both be back where they belong.
What good was all that training, all that pain and gunshots and burns and war, if he wasn't around to use it when it really mattered?
Tommy clears his throat in the lengthy silence, only punctuated by increasingly frequent sniffles muffled in his shirt. "We should get home; Buck hasn't slept in days." he murmurs, running a hand over Buck's sweaty curls. "I'll make sure he calls you tomorrow, okay?"
"Whenever," Eddie chokes. "You hear me, Buck? Anytime you need me, call."
Buck doesn't answer right away; even through the phone, Eddie can see how Tommy stiffens at the words. "Thanks, Eddie." he whispers eventually. "We'll talk soon."
Eddie and Chris stay there long after the screen goes blank. Eddie doesn't know what to say, but Chris doesn't seem to mind. He just grabs a little tighter on the back of Eddie's shirt every few minutes, a reminder that they're still here. That they're in this together. And Eddie hugs back, a firm hand on Chris's shoulder, so much higher than the last time they did something like this. That, more than anything else, burns tears under his eyelids; he's missed so much here in the last few months, and now that he's here, he's missing everything back home.
He feels split in two, and after this, he's not convinced he can find his way back to whole. What hope does he have, if Bobby made it this far just to die like a goddamn lab rat? The depression and the PTSD and the losing his wife and everyone dying...how's he supposed to live in the after without Bobby as his guide? This, a few good moments, and a mistake disguised as a hero's death — is that all he has to look forward to?
At some point, he lets Chris urge him back towards the couch. It's the first time since Chris started walking that he's firmer on his feet than Eddie is, navigating his father's shaky legs like he's been doing it all his life until they collapse together on the couch. Despite everything, a bolt of pride settles in his chest. Maybe nothing else is okay, but Chris continues to be the best thing he's ever done, and his heart squeezes its uneven, wonky beat even faster. "It's alright, Dad."
Nothing really registers after that. Chris stays beside him, arm around his back as he offers a semblance of privacy and scrolls on his phone. Even in the silence, Eddie's too wired to break down — that won't come until later, until Chris is far away at school or his grandparents and he can let himself lose it without retraumatizing his son. Maybe he can call Buck, then, too. Even if they can't be together in person, Buck's the only one Eddie would trust to see him like that. And even from 800 miles away, just as shattered as Eddie himself, Buck would find a way to make him feel okay, at least for a few blessed seconds.
His son has other ideas, though, Eddie realizes when Chris shoves his phone in Eddie's face. He's on the checkout page of the El Paso bus station, two tickets to LA secured for tomorrow morning and Eddie's credit card information entered. All he has to do is press "Buy Now."
"What— Chris, what—" he tries around the heavy lump in his throat. Going back was never an option without Chris, but now it feels even more impossible. Even if they could teleport back there right now, screw the house and packing and Uber, it's never going to feel like it was. Nothing, not Bedford Street nor the firehouse nor Buck nor life, is ever going to feel the same again.
Chris just pushes the phone firmer into Eddie's hand, unflinching in his gaze. "It's time to go home, Dad."