Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house is quiet when they get home—too quiet for how loud the world’s been lately. No voices murmuring condolences, no shuffle of dress shoes on church floors or car doors slamming. Just the low hum of the fridge, the distant creak of pipes, the soft sigh of the front door closing behind them.

Buck shrugs out of his jacket like it weighs too much, shoulders slumped as he lets it fall where it may. He toes off his shoes without looking, one hand bracing against the wall like he's dizzy or maybe just unsteady. Every movement is slow, heavy, as if he’s underwater. He moves like someone running on fumes, like a man who’s kept going long past the point of empty.

Eddie watches him, heart twisting.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Eddie knows. He’s seen the signs: the quiet, the hollow under Buck’s eyes, the coffee cups piling up beside the sink. The restless pacing when he thinks no one’s watching. The way his hands have started to shake.

Buck didn’t cry at the funeral.

He didn’t cry when Athena read the eulogy, her voice breaking like waves against stone. He didn’t cry when the flag was folded into crisp, trembling lines and handed over to Athena with shaking hands. He didn’t cry when May wrapped her arms around him outside the chapel and whispered, It’s okay to cry, Buck, voice small and hopeful and brave.

He stood there, unflinching. Stoic. The good one. The strong one.

But the second the door clicks shut behind them—when it’s just them and no one else looking, no cameras or colleagues or family members watching him stand tall, when there’s no one left who needs him to be the strong one, to hold it all in like grief is something he can outlast if he just clenches his jaw hard enough—

Buck shatters.

It’s not loud. It’s not sudden. It’s worse than that.

It’s a soft collapse. A quiet, helpless undoing, like a building that’s been hollowed out from the inside finally giving way. His shoulders cave first, then his spine folds in on itself, knees buckling like the weight of it all—the funeral, the speeches, the silence that followed—has finally dragged him to the ground.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. He moves before he even thinks, muscle memory and instinct, the kind that only comes from years of knowing someone bone-deep. He’s there to catch him, arms wrapping tight around Buck’s middle, lowering them both gently to the floor like it’s not the first time he's held Buck together with nothing but his hands.

Buck’s breath hitches against Eddie’s shoulder—once, twice—and then the sob finally breaks free. Raw. Guttural. Torn from somewhere deep.

It sounds like mourning. Like guilt. Like love and helplessness twisted into a sound no one should ever have to make.

Eddie’s heart breaks right alongside him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, words spoken into the curve of Buck’s neck, steady and sure. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it in.”

Buck clutches at him like a lifeline, fists tangled in the fabric of Eddie’s shirt, like if he lets go, he’ll fall through the floor and never come back up. Eddie just holds on tighter.

He doesn’t try to stop the crying. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just sits on the hardwood floor with Buck in his arms, letting the grief come in waves—hard and messy and long overdue.

He rocks them a little, not even meaning to, like he would with Chris when he was small and overwhelmed. The same rhythm. The same safety.

“It’s okay,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re home.”

And maybe it isn’t okay. Not yet. Maybe it won’t be for a while.

But here, in the hush of their house and the quiet comfort of Eddie’s embrace—in the absence of expectation or judgment—Buck can finally let it not be okay.

He doesn’t have to be the strong one tonight.

He just has to be held.

Eventually, the sobs taper off into hiccuped breaths and the kind of silence that only comes after a storm—hollowed out, tender. Buck stays pressed against Eddie’s chest like he’s forgotten how to be upright on his own. Eddie doesn’t rush him.

When Buck finally shifts, wiping at his face with the back of one trembling hand, Eddie leans back just enough to look at him.

“Come on,” he says, voice gentle, fingertips brushing under Buck’s chin. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Buck nods, barely. He lets Eddie help him up—hands steadying his elbows, one palm warm against the small of his back—and follows him down the hallway without a word. He hasn’t been sleeping. Eddie knows. He’s seen the signs: the quiet, the hollow under Buck’s eyes, the coffee cups piling up beside the sink. The restless pacing when he thinks no one’s watching. The way his hands have started to shake. Eddie's been watching it over facetime, they've been on for hours at a time while Eddie gets the Texas house ready to sell.

The bedroom is dim and a little stale, blinds still open to the too-bright afternoon light, bed half-made like Buck tried and then gave up halfway through. Eddie moves quietly, pulling the curtains closed, letting the room fall into a soft, golden dusk. He grabs a glass from the kitchen, fills it with cool water, and presses it into Buck’s hands.

“Drink,” he says, not unkindly. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t.”

Buck does, slow and obedient, like his limbs aren’t quite syncing with his brain yet. He finishes the glass in a few sips and hands it back without meeting Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie doesn’t mind.

He sets the glass on the nightstand and nudges Buck toward the bed, tugging back the rumpled covers. “Shoes off,” he murmurs, crouching to help when Buck doesn’t move fast enough. “Pants too.”

Buck lets him. There’s something unguarded in it—something soft. He leans into Eddie’s touch as he’s coaxed out of his hoodie, pliant as he sinks down into the mattress, curling onto his side like his body remembers how to rest even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet.

Eddie pulls the blanket up over him. Smooths a hand down his back once. Lingers.

“You don’t have to stay,” Buck mumbles, eyes already slipping shut.

Eddie exhales through his nose, something like a laugh. “Where else would I go?”

Buck doesn’t answer. He’s already halfway asleep.

Eddie waits a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall—slower now, steadier. He dims the bedside light, lets the quiet settle in again.

Eddie doesn’t leave the room right away.

He should. There are things he could do—things that need doing. The kind of mindless, necessary work that might ease the ache pressing heavy against his ribs. But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

The light in the bedroom has softened, dipped into dusk. He drew the blinds earlier, but gold still filters in around the edges, casting a warm haze over the bed. Buck lies there on his side, facing Eddie, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other curled close to his chest. His breathing is steady, measured. Not quite the looseness of sleep, but close.

His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting shadows against the faint bruises of grief beneath. He’s still. Calm in a way Eddie hasn’t seen him in weeks. But there's a tension in his jaw, a barely-there awareness in the way his fingers twitch against the blanket. Eddie thinks—no, knows—Buck isn’t fully asleep.

It doesn’t matter. He kneels anyway.

The hardwood floor is cool beneath him, sharp and grounding. He settles beside the bed and pulls the rosary from his pocket, the beads sliding easily into the cradle of his palm. Bobby had given it to him without ceremony, just pressed it into his hand with a quiet, steady look. “Here,” he’d said. “When I can't find the words, sometimes this helps me remember how to start.”

Eddie swallows.

He bows his head, the cross catching the last of the light, and starts to pray.

He prays for Bobby. For peace, for light, for rest.

He prays for the 118—for Athena’s steadiness, for May’s grief, for the way Hen looked hollow at the cemetery, and Chim was too quiet. For Maddie, holding her daughter with one hand and her heart in the other. For Karen, who didn’t let go of Hen once.

He prays for Buck. For the storm in him to quiet. For the shaking to stop. For the night to hold him gently. For sleep, real sleep, the kind that doesn’t end in tears and gasping dreams.

And then, quiet, almost voiceless, he prays for forgiveness.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Bobby. I should’ve—”

The words fall apart in his mouth. He presses the cross to his lips, eyes closed tight, throat burning.

It’s not just guilt. It’s love. It’s the ache of distance. The helplessness of being too far when it mattered most.

He feels Buck watching him.

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. It’s in the way the air shifts. The awareness that curls in the space between them. The warmth of Buck’s gaze, even if his eyes are only half-open. Eddie doesn’t disturb it. Doesn’t ask for anything more.

When the words run out, he tucks the rosary back into his pocket and rises, slow and stiff. His legs ache from kneeling. His chest aches more.

Buck’s eyes are pretty much completely closed now—but Eddie knows he’s awake. There’s a softness there, a quiet tension. Buck’s hand has shifted, open now, palm up beside him, just barely brushing the edge of the mattress. He brushes his fingers over Buck's palm, letting their hands tangle together for just a moment before he pulls away.

There's so much to do.

He slips from the room, leaving the door cracked open just enough to hear if Buck calls for him. The house feels heavier now, quieter in a way that presses in around the edges. Like it’s been holding its breath since Bobby died.

Eddie moves through it on muscle memory. His sleeves are already pushed up, so he starts in the kitchen.

The sink is full. Not dramatically—Buck hasn’t been eating much, that much is obvious—but there’s a couple of bowls stacked like forgotten intentions and a frying pan with cold grease congealed at the edges. He rolls up his sleeves higher, turns on the tap, and starts to wash.

The water’s too hot. He doesn’t mind.

It gives his hands something to do. Gives his brain something to follow. Soap, scrub, rinse. Plate, cup, pan. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t have to. The rhythm is enough.

Once the dishes are done, he wipes down the counters. Clears the takeout menus off the dining table. There’s mail piled by the door—bills, ads, something that looks like a sympathy card he hasn’t opened. Eddie gathers it all up and places it in a neat stack.

In the living room, he folds the laundry Buck left half-done on the couch. T-shirts, socks, a hoodie that still smells faintly like him. He smooths the fabric with steady hands, not rushing, not letting himself slip into grief. This isn’t about grief. This is about care. About showing up in the way he can.

When the basket is full, he carries it to the bedroom but doesn’t go in—just sets it down quietly outside the door and heads back into the kitchen.

The floor needs sweeping. The trash needs taking out. The coffee table is cluttered. He moves from task to task like he’s on autopilot, like if he stops moving, he might fall apart. It’s not about keeping busy—it’s about reclaiming some kind of order. About making the space feel like someone lives here again. Like someone is loved here.

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and takes a breath.

The house is cleaner now. Calmer.

And that’s when the knock comes.

Not loud, but not tentative either.

A sharp rap of knuckles against the front door, breaking through the quiet like a stone through glass.

Eddie stills.

He glances down the hallway, just once, toward the bedroom where Buck is hopefully still asleep. Then he turns toward the door, already bracing himself.

He opens the door.

And there he is.

Tommy.

Still annoyingly put together in a way that feels too intentional—like he dressed for this, like he practiced his expression in the mirror beforehand. Casual, concerned. A little sad. Just enough to look like he belongs here, like this grief is his to carry too.

Eddie leans against the doorframe, blocking the entrance with his body.

Tommy blinks, clearly surprised to see him. “Oh,” he says, tone tilting toward vaguely offended. “You’re still here?”

Eddie arches a brow. “Yeah. Where else would I be?”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for the tension to stretch between them. Tommy recovers with a tight smile. “Right. I just thought, you know, with the funeral over…”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink.

Tommy shifts his weight, trying again. “Is Evan in?”

“He’s sleeping,” Eddie says, flat.

Tommy tilts his head, like he might try to peer past Eddie into the house. “Can I see him?”

“No.”

It’s not said with anger. It doesn’t need to be. Just a single syllable, final and immovable, like stone dropping into water.

Tommy scoffs—quiet, incredulous. “Seriously?”

Eddie shrugs, slow and deliberate. “He finally got some sleep. I’m not letting you take that from him.”

Tommy opens his mouth like he might argue—might say something petty or dramatic or self-serving—but whatever it is, Eddie doesn’t care to hear it. He steps forward and starts to close the door.

“Wait, I just—”

“No,” Eddie says again, voice low. Firm. “Not tonight.”

And then he shuts the door.

It doesn’t slam.

It clicks. Soft. Certain. Done.

Eddie exhales through his nose and locks it with a quiet snick. He doesn’t look out the window to see if Tommy’s still there. He doesn’t care.

There’s a moment of silence. The kind that settles deep.

Then he hears Buck from the hallway, where he's already halfway to the bedroom.

“Who was that?” Buck asks, voice hoarse, sleep-rough.

Eddie steps into the room, leans on the doorframe like he hasn’t already cleaned half the house. “Tommy.”

Buck groans. “What did he want?”

“You.”

Buck blinks up at him, squinting. “Seriously?”

Eddie shrugs. “He looked surprised I was still here.”

Buck makes a face. “He always thought you were the reason we broke up.”

“I know,” Eddie says, crossing the room, his voice warm but edged with something drier. “You told me.”

Buck watches him, quiet. There’s something tentative in his expression, like he’s wondering if Eddie’s going to bring it up—what he said, what he didn’t say.

Eddie sits on the edge of the bed, not looking at him right away. Then, casually: “So… I guess it’s not a really much of a joke anymore. Me being the competition.”

Buck’s breath catches.

Eddie looks at him, finally. “Though I gotta say… if that was a competition, I don’t think he ever had a shot.”

That pulls a sound out of Buck—a real one this time. A short, startled huff of laughter. He smiles. It’s small, barely there, but it’s the first time Eddie’s seen it since the world fell out from under them.

He shakes his head a little, not in denial, but in disbelief. In something like relief.

Then Buck shifts. Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself up on one elbow, sitting up just enough to meet Eddie’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to. Eddie sees the question in his face, quiet and open.

And he leans in.

The kiss is soft. Chaste. Just once. A brush of lips, nothing more.

Just enough.

Buck exhales against his lips, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like he’s letting himself feel it, really feel it, for the first time.

When they part, Eddie rests his forehead gently against Buck’s.

“We can wait,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Until you’re feeling more okay. Until I’m home. For good.”

Buck nods, eyes still closed.

Eddie pulls back, brushes a hand through Buck’s curls once, then rises.

“Get some more sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here.”