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"Buck's being weird."
Eddie looks over at Chris in the passenger's seat, his son meeting his worried glance.
"I know," he admits. His hands on the wheel are steady, because his son is in the car with him, but it takes work to keep them that way, to not glance into the rearview mirror at every turn looking for a truck or bright lights or pain.
Chris frowns at him. "You told him he wasn't."
"I know, mijo." Eddie sighs. "...sometimes, people can't be pushed into things that they haven't worked through yet. Sometimes, you just have to be there for them."
"Then why aren't we staying over?" Chris demands. For a moment, he is almost eight again, begging to stay over at Buck's house after being spoiled rotten at the zoo. Eddie remembers the saltwater taste of fear and the copper tang of grief from those days. He would do anything to have them back.
"Because--" Eddie begins, then stops. There are a thousand reasons. The tremor in Buck's capable hands when he opened the doors. The way his smile was not the dimpled delight that he usually gave when he sees Chris. The even tone of his voice, the way he looked at Eddie, too-earnest, pleading, when he told Eddie that he was okay.
The fact that Eddie doesn't know what he'd do if Buck wasn't okay. The fact that he didn't think that Buck's not-okay was something that he would let Eddie touch, and Eddie didn't know how to wade in without drowning himself.
The fact that Eddie couldn't quite look at Buck without imagining his face covered in blood.
"Because Buck needs some space right now, bud," he sighs finally, the words falling flat between them. Christopher doesn't seem particularly impressed either, going by the way he crosses his arms.
"We should be there for Buck," he mutters, looking out the window. "He's always there for us."
Eddie presses his lips together, holds the wheel tighter, drives further away from Buck.
Buck is alone again.
This is good, this is what he wanted, this is what he asked for. He looks at the pill bottle in his hands, smiles in a way that is more sardonic than anything he would've allowed Christopher to see.
"Sorry, Bobby," he says to nobody, to a home so new it doesn't even give him the grace of a ghost to haunt him. "Guess you didn't manage to teach me everything after all."
He tries to imagine the quiet disapproval on Bobby's face, the steady way he would talk Buck through. Maybe if he'd been here, Buck wouldn't have started at all. Maybe he would've seen right through Buck, seen the fracture lines throughout his body. Maybe he would've realized that this wasn't Buck at all. Maybe he would've asked for this new person's name, this person who chased Christopher away and sat alone and silent and sometimes almost signed Derek, or maybe Daniel, on hospital forms.
Or maybe Bobby wouldn't have changed anything at all. It's not like there's any way for Buck to know.
He closes his eyes, the plasticky-smooth texture of the pills lingering in his throat. That's the only reason he can't quite breathe. That's the only reason he can't bring himself to stand on his own quite yet.
He doesn't know how long he sits there before a knock comes from the front door. He frowns, hesitates, pushes himself up. His knee wobbles. He forces himself steady. He stuffs the pill bottle back into his duffel. He peeks out the window first. It's become a habit. He doesn't know who could be out there. He doesn't know who could be inside, either.
It's Eddie. Buck exhales, slow and frustrated. There's no pretending. Eddie knows he's still here.
"Eddie!" He throws the door open with a wide grin. "Did'ja leave something here? Where's Chris?"
"Dropped him off at home," Eddie says, not quite looking at him. He hesitates on the steps, and when was it that they stopped being able to walk right into each other's spaces?
Buck lets his smile fall slightly, because it'll look more natural. "Oh," he replies. "So, uh, what's going on, Eddie? Why come back?"
Eddie hesitates, then looks up at him. "I was wrong."
Buck blinks. "Eddie, I told you, it's--"
"Not about that," Eddie interrupts. "Actually, I'm-- I'm not sorry about that. I rescind my apology."
That startles something in Buck, makes his smile almost real. "What?"
"I'm not sorry for wanting you to be okay," Eddie pushes on, voice barreling forth like he has to get it out now. Buck wants to stop him, suddenly, doesn't know if he can take what'll come out next. Eddie always knows exactly what to say, for better and for worse. "I'm sorry about what I said. About being afraid that the guy I knew didn't make it out from New Mexico."
The breath stutters out from Buck. He looks down at himself, for a moment, makes sure that he's not in a striped shirt. "Eddie," he says, and he hates immediately how weak his voice sounds.
Eddie looks at him, and there is something defiant in his eyes. Something that almost makes Buck flinch back. "I don't care," Eddie tells him, stubborn and bathed in sunlight. "Even if it's not the Buck I know that made it out of New Mexico-- it doesn't matter. You made it out, Buck. Whatever-- whatever this is, whatever you are. I don't care. You're still-- I still have your back. And I still trust you to have mine."
Something clenches in Buck's chest. He wants to scream. He wants to slam the door. He wants a pill. His fingers are frozen.
Eddie takes a step forward. His hand lands on Buck's shoulder. His thumb traces over the line of Buck's pulse. If Buck kissed him right now, Eddie would taste bitter-smooth medicine on Buck's lips, the lies on his tongue. He can't.
"So-- whenever you're ready," Eddie says. "I'm right here."
Buck watches, stunned, as Eddie smooths his thumb over Buck's collar one last time, like a reminder, like a promise, before dropping his arm. Buck watches Eddie step back, quirk a smile at Buck. Buck watches Eddie walk away. Buck watches as Eddie waves at him from his car, and Buck waves back. Looks at Eddie's car slowly rev, drive down the street.
Only then does Buck close the door, look down at his trembling hands, and let out one heaving, helpless sob.