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Shadows stretch from the corners of the hospital parking lot, licking over concrete. Buck eyes them warily, inching closer to Chris as they walk. Their footsteps sound unnaturally loud, the click-clack of Chris’s crutches bouncing off the walls in arrhythmic echoes. Maybe it’s caution, or maybe it’s paranoia, that has Buck glancing over his shoulder every tenth step they take.
Just to be sure. Just in case.
Nobody follows them. The only people he’s seen since they left the building was a woman helping an elderly man to her car. She smiled when she caught Buck’s eye, strained but polite. The classic hospital smile. There’s been nothing out of the ordinary.
The LED lights on the ceiling flicker, bulbs audibly blinking. Buck’s arm twitches, his hand hovering behind Chris. Ready to catch him. Ready to pull him away, to pull him close.
“I’m parked just around the corner,” Buck says, because he has to say something. The quiet feels too eerie, too palpable. “We’re almost there.”
Chris sniffs. “Okay.”
The hospital-issued sweater the nurse gave him is far too big, hanging off his shoulders and bunching at his wrists. Buck’s chest tightens at the sight, and he blinks away the sudden tears welling in his eyes. Chris looks so small like this, so young and scared. The sharp, teenage attitude he’s been adopting as of late has crumbled completely.
Buck tries not to think about how he looked when they found him and Abigail that morning. How wide his eyes were, how his hand trembled when he reached for Eddie. With the rush of adrenaline ringing in Buck’s ears, and the bile rising up his throat, all he could see was seven year-old Chris clutching onto his shirt atop a floating fire truck.
He pulls out his car keys as soon as he spots the jeep, clutching them until they’re close enough. The metal ridge presses a dull mark across his palm, parallel to his heart line. Buck wonders if it means anything.
The jeep beeps as he unlocks it, brazenly loud. Chris flinches, startling at the abrupt noise. Murmuring an apology, Buck opens the door for him and then climbs in himself. He tells himself the way his eyes immediately fall to the back row, scanning for someone hidden, is just standard precaution.
Abigail is not here. No one is trying to take Chris.
“Do you want any music?” Buck asks as he messes with the air conditioning.
Chris leans his head against the window, glasses knocking wonkily on his nose. He stares at the vacant parking lot for so long that Buck’s not sure he heard him.
“Bobby’s old playlist,” he says eventually.
Buck navigates the AUX, pre-emptively turning the volume down to a low hum as Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire starts playing. The engine rumbles to life, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Buck doesn’t release a full breath until they’re merging onto the highway, Cedars-Sinai shrinking in the rear view mirror.
For a while, neither of them speak. Bobby’s playlist flits from Springsteen to Bob Dylan, The Beatles to Green Day, and then circles back again. When the fifth traffic light in a row turns red in front of them, Chris glances at him. The burnt streetlights reflect off his spare glasses, pockets of glare covering his pupils. His usual pair sits in Buck’s backpack, left lens cracked right down the middle.
“Buck?” Chris says.
Buck looks at him, offering a thin smile. “Yeah? What’s up, kid?”
“Are we going home?”
He blinks, the question throwing him off kilter. Home. Buck’s always grappled with what that means to him. Where, exactly, home is. It’s never really been a definitive place in his mind before.
But, fortunately, that’s not the case for Chris.
“I was going to drive us back to my house,” he says, sparing a quick look at the traffic light. Still red. “Is that okay? We can go home– to yours if you want to?”
“No,” Chris answers quickly. “No, I…I don’t want to go home without Dad.”
The confession is quiet, whispered under his breath, but Buck hears the plain rawness as loudly as if Chris shouted. Throat constricting, he curls and uncurls his fingers around the steering wheel, grounding himself in the repetitive motion.
Images flicker unabated behind his eyelids. Eddie’s shirt sticky with blood. The cream carpet underneath him staining crimson. Eddie only thinking of Chris’s safety, his eyes fluttering closed when Buck reassures him of it. The hospital bed he’s lying on right now –where Buck left him.
It makes sense that Chris doesn’t want to be at home without Eddie. It would make the whole thing feel too real, too fragile. Abigail would feel too present.
“Hey,” Buck says, trying to lighten his voice. “I know I’m not half as brave as your dad but I’m going to be staying with you the whole night, okay? You’re safe.”
“Okay,” Chris says. He huffs a noise, something that almost sounds like a laugh. “You're pretty brave.”
He manages a wobbly grin, ruffling Chris’s hair. “Nah. I’ve got nothing on you two.”
The car behind them beeps, and Buck looks up to see the traffic light sliding from amber to green. LA impatience. He shifts into the right lane, avoiding the automatic instinct to turn left towards South Bedford Street.
High in the sky, the moon beams its shining face down at them. It’s far too pretty for tonight, inappropriately perfect for the horrible day they’ve had. Buck focuses intently on the road ahead, all too aware of the anger beginning to swirl in his stomach. The last thing any of them need is misplaced frustration. Anguish turned sour.
“I didn’t want to leave him,” Chris says.
Buck’s tongue feels like lead, numb where it’s resting behind his teeth. “I know. Neither did I, but you need to get some rest. So does your dad. We can visit him in the morning, if you’d like? The bakery down the street does good to-go pastries.”
Chris ignores his attempt at placating. “It’s my fault he’s in there. It’s my fault he’s hurt.”
“No,” Buck says firmly. “Hey, no. It’s not your fault. Your dad…he’s hurt because of Abigail. She did that. It is not your fault.”
“It is,” Chris insists. He sounds close to tears, voice cracking. “If I hadn’t believed her then Dad never would’ve had to find me. He wouldn’t be hurt. I shouldn’t have believed her, it was so stupid."
“Chris–”
“I’m so stupid.”
Buck smacks his palm against the AUX button, Bob Dylan faltering mid-warble. They’re driving down a side terrace off the main road, and it’s quiet enough for Buck to pull over, parking haphazardly on a curb. Turning in his seat, he faces Chris.
“Christopher,” he says, a fist clenching around his heart at the sight of the boy’s flushed, tearful face. “You’re not stupid. It’s not stupid to believe in people. To trust people. It just shows that you’re kind, and loving, and you want to see good in everybody.”
“But I–”
“Chris,” Buck interrupts, and maybe his tone is a little hard, a little rough, but he needs Chris to hear him. He smoothes his hand over Chris’s curls, a gesture he’s seen Eddie do a thousand times before. “Listen to me. None of this is your fault. Should you have gone in that car with– with her? No. You shouldn’t have, and you made a mistake. People make mistakes. What Abigail did wasn’t a mistake she made. It was intentional. And that’s scary, that’s…it’s really scary. But she chose to do that. You didn’t cause it, you understand? Thinking that you did will only help to excuse her, and drive yourself crazy. Got it?”
Chris stares at him, eyes big and wet. There are damp stains on the cuff of his sleeve, like he’s been subtly wiping away tears before Buck can notice. A guilty weight settles in his gut. He doesn't want Chris to hide any of what he’s feeling.
“Got it,” Chris echoes shakily. This time, when a tear spills over his waterline, he lets it trickle down his cheek. “Love you, Buck.”
The words break the last of Buck’s resolve. He pulls Chris to him, tugging him into a tight hug. Chris sniffles wetly against his chest, and tucks his head under Buck’s chin.
“I love you, kid,” he says, rubbing gentle hands up and down Chris’s back. “And your dad – he loves you so much. So much. No matter what.”
“I know,” Chris says, voice muffled. “He says it all the time.”
Buck can’t help but laugh a little at that, croaky and ugly. “Good. He means it all the time. So do I.”
He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, hugging on the side of a small neighbourhood road. Buck doesn’t dare let go first. There’s nothing he won’t try and do for Chris, and if that means simply just being here, then he’ll simply be to the best of his ability. Eventually, however, Chris does draw back. His eyelashes are dark and clumped together, face red from crying.
“I feel gross,” he says, grimacing as he wipes his eyes. “I smell like hospital.”
Truthfully, they both do. Buck’s tired of eucalyptus soap and antiseptic constantly clinging to his clothes. Then again, if he’s thinking like that, he’s probably in the wrong profession.
“Lucky I have a shower and fresh jammies then, isn’t it?” Buck says.
Chris rolls his eyes, his exasperation clouded by the way his lips twitch upwards. “Jammies? I’m not five, Buck.”
“What?” Buck gasps with exaggerated surprise. “You’re not?”
“Jerk,” Chris mutters, but he’s giggling around the word.
Buck lets it slide without claiming a dollar for the swear jar. He makes another joke that has Chris laughing more certainly, head tipping back against his chair. Sue him. Eddie can get mad at him for it later, when he doesn’t have a stab wound in his side.
Before leaving for the hospital, Buck had the foresight to leave his hallway and kitchen light on, the house bright and welcoming when they walk inside. A poor choice for the environment and his electricity bill, but Buck is a sustainable man. He can take this hit – will gladly take it a thousand times over – if it means Chris doesn't feel on edge, or like something’s going to leap out from the misshapen shadow Buck’s fridge makes.
Buck drops their bags down on the couch and flicks on the coffee table lamp, its pink shade illuminating the room in a dusty glow. As he moves around the house, pulling down the blind shutters and drawing the curtains, peeking into the utilities closet just to check, Chris hovers behind him, never moving out of Buck’s eyeline. He’s not sure if Chris does it for his own reassurance or for Buck’s, but he’s grateful either way.
“Alright,” he says when he’s done checking every inch of the house. “You know where the bathroom is?”
Chris raises his eyebrows. “I’ve been here before, Buck.”
“Right.” He swings his arms uselessly. “Right, well you go have a shower, and I’ll find some fresh clothes for you. There’s a stool under the sink if you need it, but just holler if there’s anything else.”
“I’ll holler,” Chris says, a tinge of amusement lacing his tone. However, it dissipates entirely when he speaks again. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
The uncertainty slices through the air between them. Buck wants to be rid of it.
“No,” he says vehemently. “I meant it when I said I’m staying with you the whole night. I have spare clothes for you in the guest bedroom. I’ll just be out here, I’m– I’m not going anywhere.”
There must be something in his voice that he can’t hear, a sharp, honest determination, because Chris’s face immediately relaxes. He looks the most content he has all day, the stressed line between his eyebrows (that no fifteen year old should ever sport as much as he does) smoothing out. Tracing the yellow star sticker on his right crutch, Chris nods, his curls flopping like little springs at the movement. Buck wonders if his hair ever does the same.
“Do you still have that nice conditioner?” Chris asks, eyes imploring.
Buck laughs. “The vanilla one? Sure do, bud. Use as much as you want.”
After Chris leaves down the hallway, the obnoxiously loud whir of the bathroom fan soon following, Buck starts into action. He grabs his spare blankets from the wicker basket by the couch, dumping them all into the guest room. It’s colder on this side of the house, the window in the outer hallway prone to letting in a slight draft. So, he arranges the blankets like a cozy fort, plumping the feather-down pillows Eddie scoffed at the price of when they went to IKEA.
Secretly, Buck bought spare clothes for both Chris and Eddie after he moved, keeping them folded in the guest room chest of drawers. It made complete sense to him; they were the two people who visited him most often, spare Maddie. But his sister wasn’t having many spontaneous slumber parties with him, and she didn’t really need him to have spare pajamas for her.
He picks out some blue checked bottoms and a cotton top for Chris, carefully pulling out the tags with a seam ripper. Like Buck, Chris hates when clothing tags rub against his skin, and claims they still feel too jagged when they’re cut with scissors. Buck can attest to that. Now, he carries a seam ripper with him. He’s two sewing tools away from becoming his grandmother.
Leaving the pajamas right outside the bathroom door, Buck heads back to the kitchen. Neither of them have eaten since they were presented with gloopy, brown hospital food, and his stomach has begun to ache with something other than worry. He sticks a frozen pizza in the oven, and boils the kettle for a cup of coffee. He doesn’t think he’ll be sleeping much tonight.
As the kettle shakes, steam billowing out the top and dampening his face, Buck finally lets himself pause. He’s been moving ever since getting to the hospital, frantically busying himself with one task after another to stop his mind from straying. Now, he lets his thoughts slip. He’s been through this enough that he’s learnt, sometimes, the best thing to do is just let it happen.
Buck hasn’t felt the kind of fear that he felt that morning since Chris fell out of his grasp almost eight years ago. He feels it even now, even whilst hearing the slosh of water hitting the shower basin down the hallway. The spike in his blood, the thud of his heart, the tingling at the tips of his fingers. It’s all still there.
When he thinks of Eddie lying in his hospital bed, not able to at least hear Chris like Buck can, the feeling increases tenfold. He was so pale when Buck dropped down next to him on the floor. There was so much blood. It leaked out between his fingers when he clamped them over Eddie’s side, spilling in a hot, thick stream. The sight was horrifyingly familiar. If Buck were able to, he would’ve given his blood right then and there.
Maybe he should start carrying around a transfusion tube too.
Buck wishes they didn’t have to leave Eddie alone in there. He wishes he could’ve curled up next to him on the shitty hospital mattress, scraping Eddie’s hair back from his forehead so it wouldn’t get sweaty. He would hold Eddie whilst he slept, and would comfort him when the pain got bad. Buck’s done it all before. He’s done it all countless times.
But the hospital was already so busy, packed and overwhelming, and there just weren’t enough spare beds to go around. The nurses hurrying around Eddie’s room were stressed enough as it was, they didn’t need to be thinking about Buck and Christopher too. And, afterall, that’s what it came down to. Chris. He needed to sleep, to have some semblance of comfort despite how unimaginable that seemed. There was never really a decision to make.
Eddie grabbed his hand before they left, his fingers looping around Buck’s wrist. He was crashing rapidly, eyes so droopy they were barely open at all. He tugged Buck closer, thumb pressing into the thin skin over his pulse point.
“Look after him?” he said, groggy and slurred.
Buck brushed a fallen eyelash off his cheek. “Always, Eddie. You don’t need to ask.”
Letting sleep engulf him, Eddie only hummed in response. Buck left the hospital room with a kiss pressed to Eddie’s knuckles, and a hand settling on Chris’s shoulder.
The kettle clicks, it’s whistling slowly tapering. He pours himself a coffee, and then a herbal tea for Chris. Usually when Buck makes them, Chris wrinkles his nose at the taste, no matter the flavor. Buck doesn’t really want to give him something he thinks tastes like boiled sewage water, but it’ll help calm his anxiety, and make it a lot easier for him to fall asleep.
He’s carrying the mugs to the guest bedroom when Chris leaves the bathroom. The pajamas Buck gave him fit almost perfectly, the checked pants just slightly too short. The kid is constantly growing.
“Hey,” Buck says. “Feeling better?”
“A bit,” Chris says. He eyes the mugs suspiciously. “What are those?"
Buck takes a sip of his coffee to hide his smile at the predictability. “Coffee for me, and herbal tea for you.”
“Buck,” Chris groans.
“You don’t have to drink it if you really hate it,” Buck assures. “I just thought, well, it usually helps me when feeling anxious. It regulates the nervous system, and stuff. Helps you sleep.”
There's a moments pause, and then:
“Fine,” Chris says. “As long as it’s not that lemon one. That was so gross.”
“It’s not. It’s chamomile,” Buck laughs. “There’s a pizza in the oven if that helps.”
Eyes brightening, Chris takes a sip of his tea.
Hot mozzarella burns Buck’s fingertips, and he yelps, dropping the slice back on the plate. It lands upside down, sauce splatting up the side. Chris casts him a judgemental look, taking another mammoth bite of his own slice.
“Sorry,” Buck whispers under the noise of the TV. “It was hot.”
Chris doesn’t dignify him with a response, turning his attention back to The Devil Wears Prada. It was the only movie playing; Buck doesn’t have any streaming services downloaded to this TV. It’s just a laggy old brick he picked up second-hand, small enough to have atop the guest room’s chest of drawers. Nothing special enough to have more than the standard channels.
Carefully picking the slice up by the crust, Buck blows on the cheese and pops it into his mouth. They’ve already demolished one pizza, and he ran back into the kitchen half-way through that one to put another in. Adrenaline-filled days make for big appetites, apparently.
The brown alarm clock Eddie gifted him ticks loudly on the nightstand beside them, its hands inching past eleven o’clock. Buck knows he should probably wrap this up soon to make Chris try and get some sleep, but he can’t bring himself to disappoint the boy just yet. He looks so at ease, resting against the pillows with three separate blankets strewn over his legs. Buck doesn’t want to have to turn the lights off.
Anyway, if he’s being totally honest, Buck’s become kind of invested in the film. So he lets it run through, only forcing himself to turn the TV off when the credits come to an end, and all that’s left of the pizza is a burnt chip of crust.
“Okay,” he says. “Time to get some sleep, kid.”
Chris fiddles with the edge of a blanket, rolling and unrolling it multiple times. “What about you?”
“Hm?”
“Are you going to sleep now, too?” Chris asks.
He can’t quite decipher the tone of the question. “Honestly, Chris, I don’t think I’ll be able to get much sleep tonight.”
“Neither will I,” Chris tries.
“Yeah, but you’re fifteen, and I’m nearly thirty-five.”
“Old man.”
Buck pokes him in the side, tickling slightly. “Oi. Careful there, buddy.” He stands, stretching his arms. “I’m going to take all this back into the kitchen and then I’ll be back to say goodnight.”
Chris nods. He keeps playing with the blanket, folding and twisting it in mindless repetition. Buck can tell there’s something on his mind, something he hasn’t yet found the words to articulate.
Giving him a moment, Buck leaves to dump the plates and mugs in the sink to soak overnight. Soap sloshes up his sleeves, the material sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Shivering at the feeling, he passes by the guest room on his way back to get changed into his own pajamas. If it’s just so happens that the first hoodie he finds is one Eddie left here a few days ago, then no one needs to know. When he slips it over his head, the smell of Eddie’s cedary cologne clogs his nostrils. Tears spring to his eyes, burning hot. He waits until his breathing evens out before returning to Chris.
For a moment, Buck leans against the doorframe to watch him. Chris has submerged fully into the bed now, the duvet pulled up to his sternum. He's holding his phone in front of his face, tapping something slowly. It follows with a quiet ‘whoosh’ – the telltale sound of a text being sent. When he puts it down on the nightstand, he notices Buck standing there.
“Looking comfy,” Buck says, walking into the room.
“Your pillows are nice,” Chris says. He blinks blearily at Buck, squinting without his glasses. “Dad said they were very expensive.”
Buck huffs, crouching down by the bed. “He complained about that to you? He's such a snitch.”
Chris is quiet. “I miss him.”
“We’ll see him tomorrow morning. I promise,” Buck says softly, propping his chin up on the mattress.
“I wish he was here right now.”
He thinks of Eddie’s sleepy grin, the mess of his hair when he sleeps. The warm smell of him in the morning. Rumpled clothes.
“Me too,” Buck says, too choked up to say more. He reaches out, brushing Chris’s hair. “Try and get some sleep now, okay?”
Glancing away, Chris’s face flickers, tightening slightly. It's obvious he still wants to say something. Buck waits patiently.
“I'm not a baby,” he says eventually.
Buck frowns, tilting his head. The declaration doesn’t sound at all angry, nor upset. It feels deliberate, the words spoken slowly. Is this what he's been thinking over?
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I'm not a baby,” Chris repeats.
“I know that, Chris.”
“I– I just…” He watches the ceiling resolutely. “I don't want to be alone.”
“You won't be,” Buck says, still a little confused. He thought they’d already been over this. “I'm not going anywhere. I’ll probably be in the kitchen for a bit but then I’ll be right next door in my–”
“Can you just stay here?” Chris cuts in. He looks embarrassed, cheeks pink. “Just until I fall asleep?”
“Oh.” The word punches out of Buck, knocking from his lungs. The request is so shy, so vulnerable. He stares at Chris, and Chris stares at the ceiling. “Yes. Yeah– of course I can. I’ll stay here.”
“I’m not scared,” Chris says, rushing like he has to give a reason Buck deems ‘grown up’ enough. “I just…”
Buck squeezes his shoulder, hoping Chris can feel the love pressing from his fingers. Finally, Chris looks at him, and the breath catches in Buck’s throat. He’s so grown up. So brave.
“I’ll stay,” he reiterates. “I don’t mind, not at all.”
In the end, Buck sits on that bedroom floor long after Chris falls asleep. The bedframe digs into the back of his neck, his back arched to stop the wood from taking a chunk out of him. Twisted in his hoodie pocket, his fingers are frozen and stiff. His bad leg throbs, muscles tense and stretched out in front of him. But he doesn't dare move. Buck doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. The fear would catch up to him, the immobilizing panic that Chris was out of his reach.
So he sits, listening to Chris’s steady breathing and the sleepy grumbles he lets out that are so much like Eddie’s. Proof that he’s safe, that he’s okay. Buck lets it wash over him, rinsing and repeating until it finally sets in.
His phone buzzes.
Eds: Hey
Is everything okay over there?
Chris is alright?
1:07AM
Buckley: Everything’s okay, Chris fell asleep a little while ago
You should also be asleep
1:07AM
Eds hearted a message (Everything’s okay, Chris fell…)
Eds: I have been asleep
Just woke up so they could increase my drip
1:08AM
Buckley: Oh, so you’re high as a kite right now
1:08AM
Eds: Just a little :)
Feeling floaty
1:08AM
Buck snorts, shaking his head.
Buckley: The one benefit to being stabbed
1:08AM
Eds: That and the cool scar
1:08AM
Buckley: You don’t have me beat just yet
1:08AM
Eds: Ugh you know a lichberg scar trumps everything
1:08AM
Buckley: Lichtenberg
1:09AM
Eds: Shut up, I’m high and stabbed
1:09AM
Buckley: Excuses, excuses
Are you feeling any better?
1:09AM
Eds: The morphine is working wonders now
It hurt a bit before, when I was sleeping
Woke up because of it :(
1:09AM
Buckley: I’m sorry I’m not there
Chris and I are going to visit in the morning, if you’re up for it?
1:09AM
Eds: It IS the morning
1:09AM
Buckley: Hilarious
Usually I’m the one making those jokes
1:10AM
Eds: Eddie on morphine is just normal Buck
(replying to Chris and I are going to visit…) Yes, I'm up for it
Please come see me!
1:10AM
Buckley: Okay Eddie, we will
You should get some sleep now, okay?
So you’re all tip top for us
1:10AM
Eds: I am the tippest of the toppest
1:13AM
Buckley: Uh huh
Why’d it take you three minutes to type that then?
1:13AM
Eds: None of your beenado wax
Goodnight
1:13AM
Buckley: Night night, Eds :)
Sleep well
1:13AM
Eds: Gooooodnightttt
1:15AM
He turns his phone off and sets it down next to Chris’s on the nightstand. Somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00AM, Buck’s eyelids are simply too heavy to keep open, and he falls asleep.
The elevator rattles, jolting precariously as it stops on the fourth floor. Buck eyes the doors, the metal deathtrap shaking even more as they squeal open. Unfazed, Chris steps into the quiet hospital corridor with a one-track mind, already heading in the direction of Eddie’s room. Buck really does have to learn to be as brave as the Diaz boys.
He trails behind, the pink box of pastries crumpling slightly at the corners where he holds it tightly. They picked up a multitude of options for Eddie, and the smell of cinnamon and apple sauce is almost overwhelming. It’ll be lingering in his jeep for days.
“Next one along, I think,” he calls when Chris stops outside one room, hovering by the window to peek inside.
Chris waits another moment, which Buck tries not to take offense to. Then, upon seeing whoever is occupying the room and how they’re not his dad, he continues to the next one. This door, he opens immediately.
“Dad,” Buck hears him say excitedly from inside, followed by the rustle of sheets and a muted ‘oof’.
Buck peers his head around the door, his lips tugging into a pre-anticipatory smile. He is helpless to stop them stretching into a grin at the sight of Eddie propped up in his hospital bed. Chris is sitting on the side of the mattress, hugging his dad with a ferocity only born from pure relief. Eddie’s arm rests loosely around Chris in return, his hand still fixed up to the IV and unable to bend much further.
He catches Buck’s gaze over Chris’s shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His mouth moves with soundless words, but Buck gets the gist of it.
“Room for one more?” Buck says, holding up the pastries. “I come bearing gifts.”
Chris lets go of Eddie, face flushed with happiness. There’s a faint imprint of his shoulder against Eddie’s cheek.
“Aren’t I lucky?” Eddie says, his voice croaky and dry. “Hi.”
Buck stops at the other side of his bed, pulling up the armchair. Bravery rushes through him, and he grabs onto it, holding the rope of feeling fast. He runs a hand through the mess of Eddie’s hair, thumb stroking over his temple. The heart monitor beeps steadily.
“Hey,” he says. “Feeling okay?”
“Much better now,” Eddie hums. His arm is still around Chris, refusing to move from even the weak hold. “Lemme have a look at these pastries.”
“How’d you know that's what they are?”
Eddie fixes him with a disbelieving look. “Recognized the box.”
Of course. Buck shouldn’t have doubted Eddie’s insatiable sweet tooth. He passes Chris the box, who immediately starts describing each pastry with intense – and impressive – detail. Eddie oohs and ahhs at all of them, taking every bite offered to him. At one point, Buck wipes a smear of apple sauce from the corner of his mouth, and kindly ignores the pace of the heart monitor. There’s a time for that later, a conversation that can be put on hold. For now, just this is enough.