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Eddie has always been a light sleeper.
Between the Army, Chris, and his job as a firefighter, the smallest noise or creak of a floorboard has him shooting out of bed on high alert. Usually, it’s nothing; a branch falling outside his window, a bird flapping its wings, or the floorboards settling back into place. Once or twice, he caught Chris sneaking around long after Eddie had put him to bed.
It’s something he’s come to recognise as a face of life.
The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Eddie Diaz can get woken up by a falling leaf.
***
He isn’t sure what wakes him.
The house is still in the darkness. There’s no creaking floorboards, no distant sound of Chris’s crutches, or his socked feet on the floor, and the L.A. summer has yet to grace them with so much as a light breeze. He should, in theory, still be asleep.
And yet, he’s wide-awake.
He pushes himself up against the pillows, the thin blanket slipping down his chest. Eddie runs a hand over his face and rakes his fingers through his hair, a single strand flopping against his forehead. He reaches over until his fingers brush against the warm plastic of his phone case, and he drags it towards him. The bright light blinds him the second he switches it on, and he has to turn his head until his eyes adjust.
3 am.
Eddie groans, letting his phone clatter to the nightstand. The silence settles over him, the house still, but Eddie remains on edge. His heart pounds against his ribcage, his blood turns to ice in his veins, and something at the back of his mind is screaming at him.
Something is wrong.
He kicks off the blanket and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold against the bottom of his feet, and despite the lingering heat, a shiver ripples through his body. Eddie quietly pads across the room to his partially open door — left open so he can listen out for Chris moving around. The hinges squeal when he pushes it open just wide enough for him to slip through, and he stares down the darkened hallway.
Silence greets him.
Moving quietly, Eddie creeps down the hallway with one hand resting on the wall, and his eyes trained on the darkness in front of him. The floorboards creak underfoot, his breathing the loudest thing in the house. His fingers gloss over the doorframe leading to Chris’s room, the door left ajar. Eddie pushes on the door, recoiling at the squeal of the hinges as it slowly opens.
Through the darkness flooding the room, Eddie can just make out Chris’ sleeping form. He’s curled up on his bed — where Eddie expects him to be — buried beneath his blankets with only a tuft of curly hair visible. Eddie watches him for a few seconds, tugging on his bottom lip. He focuses on the gentle rise and fall of the blankets with each breath, and on the small curls resting against the dark blue pillow case.
The anxiety in his chest grows.
Much like Eddie, Chris always ran hot. In the summer, neither of them can stand being covered over by too many blankets, and yet Chris has all but burrowed himself beneath three of them. His legs are drawn all the way into his stomach. A small shiver runs through Chris’ body, and he manages to bury himself even deeper beneath them, something Eddie didn’t think was possible.
He steps into the room, the floorboard to the left of the door creaking like it always did. Chris doesn’t stir. Eddie creeps towards the bed, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. He reaches out, his fingers brushing over the curls covering Chris’s forehead — the only part of him not buried beneath the blankets. Chris’s skin is hot to the touch, sweat building on his forehead despite the occasional shiver wracking through his small body.
“Chris?” Eddie whispers, pushing the curls off his son’s forehead. He perches himself on the edge of the bed, still carding his fingers through the sweat-soaked curls. “Can you wake up for me, buddy?”
“Dad?” Chris says, his voice barely above a whisper and slightly muffled by the blankets.
“Sorry for waking you up, but I need you to look at me.”
The blankets shift, dragging past Chris’ face, but his fingers remain tightly curled around the edges. He rolls himself towards Eddie. Chris blinks, his eyes cloudy and unfocused, and he draws his knees into his stomach again. His face is pale in the darkness, but his cheeks are flushed red, and his skin has a sweat-slick sheen to it. Eddie moves his hand from Chris’s forehead. His fingertips brush over his flushed cheeks, heat radiating off his skin.
“You’re warm,” he says, his thumb brushing over his son’s cheek. “Are you feeling okay?”
“My stomach hurts. And I’m cold-hot.”
“Cold-hot?”
“Cold and hot at the same time.” Chris’ voice is weak and quiet, even without the blankets to muffle it. He struggles to keep his eyes open.
Eddie’s heart clenches. “You have a fever, bud, that’s why. We need to get you out of all these blankets.”
“But I’m cold.” There’s a whine in his voice he hasn’t made in years, his grip on the blanket's edge tighter than before.
“That’s the fever talking, I’m afraid. We have to cool you down, and then you can go back to bed and get some more sleep, okay?”
Chris nods, but there’s little strength to the action — a slight jerk of his head is all he can offer. Eddie exhales slowly. He makes light work of the blankets Chris has burrowed under, peeling them back and exposing his body to the warm, summer air. Two of them get deposited on the floor, and the third is draped over Chris’s waist. A small shiver trickles through his body.
“Does anything else hurt other than your stomach?” Eddie asks, tucking the blanket around him.
“No.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”
He shrugs, his knees still drawn into his chest.
“Okay. I’m going to grab a cloth from the bathroom so we can cool you down. If you need anything, just yell. I’ll be right back.”
Brushing his thumb over Chris’ warm cheekbones, Eddie pushes himself off the bed. He maneuvers himself out of the room and into the darkened hallway. His footsteps echo over the floorboards, breaking through the early morning silence cloaking the house. Eddie steps into the bathroom and switches on the light; the fluorescent bulb flickers overhead.
He grabs a washcloth and runs it under the cold tap, water trickling up his arm and dripping off his elbow. Eddie’s mind spins a mile a minute, his paramedic skills and medical knowledge working overtime.
Chris’ symptoms match a lot of things — stomach flu, food poisoning, appendicitis, even kidney infections and pancreatitis come with stomach pain and a fever. He squeezes out some of the excess water, going through the list and ruling out the symptoms that don’t quite match. Food poisoning is the first since Chris mostly eats food from Buck, Pepa, and Carla. Eddie dismisses a kidney infection because he’s not showing signs of anything else, and warily throws out the idea of pancreatitis. Although it’s possible in children, the stomach pain Chris is complaining about isn’t severe enough.
That left appendicitis, and a plain old stomach flu, both of which were possible. Eddie prays it’s the latter.
A retching sound cuts through the darkness, promptly followed by something splattering against the floor. Eddie whips his head towards the bathroom door.
“Chris? You okay?”
A second retching sound replies.
Eddie rushes out of the bathroom and down the hall. He reaches Chris’s room and switches on the light, bathing it in a warm glow. Chris sits up in bed, leaning over the edge of the mattress as he vomits onto the floor, just missing the stack of blankets Eddie took from the bed. Vomit clings to Chris’s sweat-soaked shirt and covers a corner of the blanket still hanging over his waist. A strong stench begins to fill the room.
Chris looks up from the floor, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, and his eyes bloodshot. His bottom lip trembles. “‘M sorry,” he says, the tears falling thick and fast.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Eddie steps into the room and returns to his spot on the edge of the bed, mindful of the vomit splattered across the floor. He places his fingers on Chris’s chin and tilts his face towards him, using the cloth to wipe away some of the vomit still clinging to his skin. “You can’t help being sick, buddy.”
“But I made a mess.”
“And I’ll clean it. We’ll get you in the shower, get you in some new pajamas, and get you settled in my bed. Nothing to it.” Eddie smiles, wiping away the last of the vomit. “Come on, a shower will make you feel a whole lot better.”
He stands up, throwing the washcloth on the floor to deal with later. Moving around the vomit-covered blankets, Eddie scoops Chris up and draws him against his chest. Heat radiates off him from the fever. His right hand settles around his waist, keeping him pressed against him, whilst his left cradles the mop of curls, tangling through them the strands and scratching Chris’s scalp.
A small part of Eddie fractures with each small sniffle Chris lets out, his nose pressed into Eddie’s neck. Even after all these years, he hates seeing Chris sick. All he wants to do is take away the part that hurts, even if it means taking on the burden himself. Anything is better than seeing his son suffer.
When they reach the bathroom, Eddie lowers Chris onto the closed toilet lid. He places a light kiss on Chris’s forehead and turns to the shower, placing the shower chair inside and starting the water so it can warm up a little. Wisps of steam begin to fill the bathroom.
“I’ll be back in a second, I’m just going to grab you a towel and something clean to wear.”
Slipping out of the bathroom, Eddie returns to Chris’s bedroom. He ignores the vomit still covering the floor and the blankets and grabs a clean pair of space-ship pyjamas from his dresser. Eddie heads to his room, grabs something clean for himself, and then gathers some towels from the linen closet before he returns to the bathroom.
Chris is where he left him, hunched over on the toilet seat with small shivers still wracking his body.
“How are we doing?” Eddie says, draping the clothes over the radiator.
“Cold.”
“We’ll get you all sorted in a second.” He crosses to Chris and crouches in front of him. “Let’s get you out of these, shall we?”
Chris offers him a small sniff in response. Tear stains mark his cheeks, but he’s stopped crying.
“Arms up.”
Eddie seizes the bottom of Chris’s shirt and pulls it over his head, throwing it in the corner of the bathroom to wash along with the bedding. He removes the rest of Chris’s pajamas and carries him into the shower. Water immediately begins to soak through his shirt, but it’s already stained with vomit, and a little water won’t hurt. He settles Chris in the shower chair.
“How’s the temperature, bud?”
“It’s fine,” Chris says in a whisper. He shivers a little.
“We’ll make this quick,” Eddie says. “Get you cleaned up, into something dry, and then into my bed. How does that sound?”
“Good.”
“All right, then. Let’s do this.”
The water soaks through Eddie’s shirt and pajama pants, causing them to stick to his skin. Tendrils of steam curl through the air, but the water is colder than normal to aid in bringing Chris’ temperature down. Eddie makes light work of washing Chris's hair, combing his fingers through the curls and massaging his scalp with the special curly-haired shampoo.
Chris relaxes against Eddie’s hands.
“You doing okay, kiddo?”
Chris offers him a small grunt in response, causing Eddie to laugh. He already knows that Chris’s teenage years are going to be a nightmare. After finishing Chris’ hair, Eddie makes light work of scrubbing any traces of vomit from his skin.
“And we’re done!” Eddie says.
He turns off the water and maneuvers himself out of the shower. Water drips off him and onto the floor, but he’s past the point of caring. Eddie grabs one of the towels and wraps it around Chris’s shoulder. He moves him back onto the bathroom and starts to dry him off, gently dabbing the water from his skin. A little color has returned to Chris’s previously pale skin, but his cheeks are still flushed red.
Eddie dries Chris off and dresses him in the clean pajamas, before quickly drying and changing himself. The wet clothes stay on the floor as he gathers Chris into his arms once again and carries him down the hall and into his bedroom. He settles Chris against the stack of pillows. Pulling the blanket up over Chris, he rakes his fingers through the damp curls.
“How’s your stomach now?”
Chris shrugs. “A little better.”
“Good. Does it hurt all over or just in one spot?”
“All over.”
“Okay. I’ll grab you a bowl, just in case, and some water. Sit tight for me.”
Chris’ eyes are already starting to close, the exhaustion of the past hour catching up to him. Eddie moves through the house and into the kitchen. The clock on the wall says it’s approaching five, but Eddie ignores it. He digs out the designated Throw Up bowl from the cabinet and fills a glass with water.
Back in his bedroom, Chris has started to bury himself back beneath the blanket, curling in on himself again.
“Here you go,” Eddie says, handing Chris the bowl. “You need to drink some of this, and then you can go back to sleep, okay?”
“Okay.”
Chris takes the glass and drinks half of it before handing it back to his dad. He pulls the blanket up to his neck and rests his chin on the seam, his eyes closing. Eddie places the glass on the nightstand. He places a light kiss on Chris’s forehead and brushes his thumb across his warm cheek, somewhat relieved it’s not as hot as it had been.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he whispers. “Goodnight, bud.”
Giving Chris one last kiss on the forehead, Eddie creeps out of the room. He moves into the bathroom and grabs the wet towels and clothes, throwing them into the washer. Eddie returns to Chris’s bedroom and strips the bedding, adding it to the blankets on the floor. The smell burns his nose when he gathers it up and places it in the washer, adding detergent and turning it on.
He returns to the kitchen and fills a bucket with warm, soapy water. Returning to the bedroom, he opens the window that little bit wider to air it out and sets about scrubbing the vomit from the wooden floor. Luckily, most of it landed on the blankets, and the floor didn’t require too much of a scrub to clean it.
Eddie pours the water into the drain outside and throws the sponge he used away. He’s pretty certain Chris has stomach flu rather than appendicitis, and he’s not taking any risks if he can help it.
By the time everything’s done, and the washer is humming from the utility room, the sun has started to grace the L.A. skyline. Wisps of purple clouds cross a pale pink sky, sunlight beginning to peer over the houses and high-rise buildings, and Eddie can see from the windows. He sighs, running a hand through his drying hair, and heads back to his bedroom.
Chris is still asleep, curled up on his side with his face pressed into Eddie’s pillows. His chest rises and falls with each breath, the sweat-slick sheen from his skin gone, but his skin is still pale in the growing light. Eddie creeps around the bed and settles in beside him. He wraps an arm around Chris and draws him into his chest, running a hand up and down his arm.
Eddie’s phone chimes softly from the nightstand, and he reaches over.
Buck
We still on for the zoo?
Eddie swears under his breath. He’d completely forgotten. The two of them had arranged a trip to the zoo with Chris during their seventy-two hours off work. All three of them had been looking forward to it all week.
Eddie
Raincheck?
Chris is sick.
Buck
Poor guy.
Is he okay?
Eddie
He’s asleep right now.
Stomach flu.
Fever, vomiting, the usual.
Buck
Do you need anything?
Eddie
No, we should be all right.
Thanks, though.
Buck
If that changes, let me know.
We’ll reschedule the zoo trip.
Give him a big hug from me.
Eddie
I will.
See you soon.
He locks his phone and drops it back on the nightstand with a small sigh. Chris presses his face against the fabric of Eddie’s shirt, his small fingers reaching out and wrapping around his dad’s chest. Eddie smiles, his fingers carding through the curls.
***
Eddie’s not sure how long he sits there for.
He doesn’t sleep despite the exhaustion clinging to his body. It drapes off him like a second skin, the lack of sleep weighing his body down like a thick blanket. A small ache settles in the pit of his stomach. Even though he wants to sleep, he can’t.
Although he’s sure it’s stomach flu, the voice at the back of his head is telling him it’s something more than that. Appendicitis is still a possibility. He dismissed the idea of it being pancreatitis or a kidney infection, but what if dismissing them was a mistake? What if it is something serious and he just ignores it?
All he can do is watch the slow rise and fall of Chris’s chest, his fingers ghosting his son’s forehead every ten minutes or so to check his fever. He’s not as warm as he was when Eddie first woke him up, but that doesn’t stop the worry or the fear. He’ll only feel better once Chris starts to recover.
Chris wakes a few times and, each time, Eddie makes him drink to keep his fluid levels up. He throws up a handful of times, tears streaming down his face, and small whimpers escaping his lips whenever he does. Eddie’s heart clenches each time. He’s never felt more powerless as a parent than he does now, knowing there is little he can do to make it better. Each time Chris throws up, Eddie mutters reassurances and washes out the bowel, wiping Chris’ mouth and coaxing him back to sleep.
After Eddie coaxes him back to sleep for the fifth time, he heads to the bedroom to refill the glass of water. He rakes a hand through his hair, his fingers curling around the kitchen counter. Sweat beads on his forehead from the rising heat. Eddie sighs.
Afternoon light streams in through the window, the L.A. summer still refusing to offer them a breeze to chase away the lingering heat. The back of Eddie’s neck prickles with sweat, his skin warm in the sunlight.
The sound of a key in the lock startles him, the muscles in his shoulders tightening.
“Eddie?”
The tension leaks out of his body, his shoulders slumping forward. “In here.”
Footsteps echo through the house, and Buck appears in the doorway, a Tupperware container in his arm.
“Hey,” he says. “I know you said you had everything you needed, but nothing beats homemade soup.” Buck holds up the container. “How is he?”
“Sleeping now. He keeps throwing up, but he’s not as warm as he was anymore.” Eddie scratches his chin, his skin warm beneath his fingers.
“That’s good.” Buck nods. He places the Tupperware on the counter and looks at Eddie, a small frown settling into his features. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just tired. I haven’t been able to sleep yet.”
“Are you sure? You’re pale.”
Buck steps towards him until they’re toe to toe, his bright blue eyes searching Eddie’s face. He reaches out and places the back of his hand against Eddie’s forehead, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
“You have a fever.”
“No, I don’t. It’s the middle of summer, Buck.”
“Eddie, you have a fever.” Buck’s hand moves to Eddie’s cheek, his thumb brushing his skin. Eddie, embarrassingly, leans into it. “You must’ve caught whatever it is that Chris has. You need to go back to bed.”
“I can’t,” Eddie says. “What if Chris needs me?”
“You’re no use to him if you’re sick too.” His thumb continues to brush over his cheekbone. “If you take care of Chris, who takes care of you?”
Eddie’s shoulders slump forward. He drags his hand through his hair, noticing the sweat starting to cling to the strands. A single piece slips across his forehead and sticks to his skin. A small shiver ripples through his body.
“Come on, back to bed.”
“But—”
“—Whatever it is that needs doing, I’ll do it. I have nothing better to do. You need sleep.”
Buck’s hand falls away from Eddie’s cheek, and he almost whines at the loss of contact. Buck’s hand finds his, and tangles their fingers together, a burst of warmth spreading through Eddie’s body. He lets Buck drag him through the house to the bedroom.
Chris is still asleep, curled up tightly with soft snores escaping his chapped lips. His cheeks aren’t as flushed as before, more color settling into the skin. Buck releases Eddie’s hand and pulls back the covers.
“In you get.”
“You’re bossy,” Eddie says, but he does as he’s asked,
“And you're sick.” Buck tugs the blanket over Eddie, letting it settle against his chest. Chris stirs beside him.
“Dad?” he mumbles. “Is that Buck?”
“Yeah, bud. He dropped some soup over for later.”
“Your dad is sick too,” Buck says, leaning over Eddie to chase away a few loose curls from Chris’s forehead. “So, you’re both going to sleep here for a bit, and I’ll wake you in a few hours for something to eat, okay?”
He nods. Chris shuffles himself closer to his hand, burying his face in the fabric of his shirt again. It doesn’t take too long for his breathing to even out once again. Eddie wraps an arm around Chris’ body and settles himself against the pillows, looking up at Buck as sleep threatens to drag him under, too.
“Thanks,” Eddie says.
“Always.” Buck’s fingers brush Eddie’s cheek again. “Get some sleep.”
Eddie closes his eyes, feeling the warmth from Chris’s body against his own. Tendrils of sleep start to wrap themselves around him, and this time, he doesn’t fight them. Before they drag him into the depths, Eddie feels Buck press a light kiss to his sweat-soaked forehead, his fingers still dancing over his skin.
“Sleep well,” Buck mutters.
And Eddie does.