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The AC struggles, blowing hotter than the air outside, but it’s only March and barely approaching mid morning, so the heat isn’t boiling them yet, even under the cloudless sky. Eddie cracks the windows and thinks about grabbing some refrigerant the next time they stop. He glances at Buck again, unable to help himself from stealing quick glimpses whenever he can.
The radio plays a song that is recognizable through the static, one that they listened to several times in the beginning of this trip, but Buck is quiet. He sits still and stiff in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. Eddie entertains the idea of singing along, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if Buck didn’t join in, so he stays quiet too.
Eddie doesn’t think about how it felt waking up in that hospital and Buck being gone. He doesn’t think about that unsent message, the dozens of missed calls that went unanswered, and how no one there fucking listened when Eddie said Buck was in danger, just pointed fingers and acted like it was one big joke.
Eddie had spent that entire day thinking that they had been targeted for– by those fucking assholes in the diner. It’s good in the end, Eddie guesses, that it wasn’t a hate crime. Something much weirder, scarier, instead. Something that Buck hasn’t told him all the details of, that Eddie’s struggling to piece together from hints.
The truth is Eddie has no idea what Buck went through. He knows the physical injuries: most from the wreck, all worsened from the exertion of… well, everything, but Buck doesn’t seem to be willing to offer up any other details. That sheriff had said Buck wasn’t the first, in the aftermath at the hospital.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the road, but he’s really picturing Buck in that hospital room, with an IV of the finest opioids, stripped of that stupid striped shirt to get examined. Eddie had hovered nearby the entire stay, refusing anything stronger than an extra-strength ibuprofen. Bruises, scratches, and even some burns littered Buck’s body. The worst, at least as far as they could tell, were his three broken ribs from the accident.
“Wow, I feel so much better already,” Buck said, clearly doped up enough to feel nothing but good. His pupils were huge, nearly swallowing the blue whole as he appraised the doctor with awe. “Are you a miracle worker?”
“That’d be the drugs, Buck,” Eddie said, resisting the urge to run a hand through Buck’s curls, to get out more of the lingering dirt still caked in there.
“Seems like your–” The doctor paused, glancing between them, “Friend here worked very hard to get you back safe.” Eddie almost winced, because what the hell is it with this town? How could they all– What are they seeing–
And, fine. Eddie knows. Even if he can’t explain it, even if he tries not to look at it directly. Doesn’t know how he’d string the words together, what words would even fit, what words he even deserves to use. But he knows. It’s something deeply embedded in his body, inseparable from his very being. No matter how hard he’s tried to fight it, it always comes back to Buck.
“That’s such classic Eddie. He’s always playing the hero,” Buck said. He grinned lazily at the doctor, then up at Eddie with those dilated pupils. “Comes naturally to him. Hey, did you know he has a silver star?”
“Alright,” Eddie cut in, because the doctor was giving him this look, and he could already feel his cheeks burning.
There was a brief rap on the door at that point, and Eddie looked up to see Sheriff Woodson standing sheepishly outside the room.
Buck was pretty out of it, but Eddie didn’t want to risk him overhearing anything from this asshole, so he squeezed Buck’s arm and towed his own banana bag outside to meet the sheriff.
“Back to arrest me?” Eddie asked, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. The sheriff shook his head, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
“We searched Bonnie and Earl’s property,” the sheriff said, voice somber. “It looks like your boy wasn’t the first.”
“How many?”
“At least four,” he said, "Maybe more. It’s hard to tell, when you get to those levels of decomp. Some might’ve been from over ten years ago.”
“So you had a serial killer right under your nose for over a decade?” Eddie said, setting his jaw. He tried not the think about Buck, buried there with four other anonymous men until his body decays beyond recognition, until it’s impossible to separate out. It’s still all he can see when he blinks.
“I just wanted to let you know that we’re dropping the charges. Y’all are free to go, once you’re cleared here, of course.”
“Great,” Eddie said, tone flat. The sheriff opened his mouth, maybe to say something else, but ultimately thought better of it. He left Eddie with a nod.
“If I never come to this part of the country again, it’ll be too soon,” Eddie grumbled once he plopped down in the empty bed. He’d pulled it closer earlier, just so he’d be able to read Buck’s vitals. It’s practical to be only about six inches from Buck. He’s right there if anything goes wrong.
Buck grinned at him, teeth smeared with the hospital pudding that he was happily wolfing down.
“Alright, remember, you both need to rest,” The doctor said, and there was no mistaking her meaning. Eddie didn’t even have the energy to react, even when she made it more obvious by adding, “Stay in your own beds.” Buck made a surprised whine that was not unlike a startled puppy, getting a laugh from the doctor before she left.
“People keep clocking me here,” Buck said, bashful. “Sorry about that.” For a minute, Eddie didn’t realize what he was talking about, still picturing Buck’s burned and bruised torso, until his brain caught back up.
“Eh, me too,” Eddie said without thinking. Buck cocked his head, squinting up at Eddie, but before his drug-addled brain could think any deeper about what that meant, Eddie added, “You think they’ll let us out soon so we can get the hell outta dodge?”
“I really want to go home,” Buck said, eyes wide and honest and shining.
“We’ll stay tonight and wait for those blood tests to come back,” Eddie said, “Then in the morning, we pick up your prescriptions and bounce?”
Buck had nodded eagerly, shoveling more pudding into his mouth, and that was that. They’re heading home, both more or less in one piece, in a car that might be in worse shape than they are.
Their first stop is a gas station somewhere in the middle of the Sonoran desert, flanked by looming saguaros and scattered prickly pear. A couple of cactus wrens sing unseen, and a breeze keeps the air cool despite the steadily rising sun. A woman, cashier by the looks of her vest, takes her break out by the dumpster, lighting up a cigarette.
“Alright, Buckley, let’s do this,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Buck says, grunting as he pulls himself out of the car. Eddie takes a deep breath and follows him, popping the gas cap as he goes. They could’ve filled up in New Mexico this morning, but they had half a tank and no desire to extend their stay even a second longer.
“Alright, guess I’ll–” Buck starts when Eddie inserts his card into the machine, jabbing his thumb towards somewhere behind him in the desert.
Eddie looks down at the screen, which rudely reads: DO NOT REMOVE CARD. Eddie doesn’t know what to do with the overwhelming panic that hits him then, at the thought of Buck leaving his sight, while he’s trapped here, held hostage by his stupid credit card.
“Wait, wait,” Eddie says, trying to school his voice into something casual. Buck does wait, and the screen finally gives the okay to remove his card. Eddie selects the unleaded and says, “Give me a second, and I’ll go with you.”
Buck raises an eyebrow.
“I need to stretch out too,” Eddie explains, starting the pump. It takes him three tries to get the handle locked and the gas flowing. While the numbers tick up to a truly alarming amount at an incredibly slow pace, Eddie keeps an eye on Buck. He groans as he stretches, his movements ginger and cautious and severely limited.
“How’s your ribs?” Eddie asks.
“Sore,” Buck groans, “How about you?”
“Stiff, mainly,” Eddie says. His headache is really the worst of it, and it’s easy to ignore. The pump clicks, and Eddie winces at the total before redocking the pump and nodding at Buck.
They do a couple laps around the gas station in silence. Eddie doesn’t really have the same risk for blood clots, but he’s not willing to let him wander off out of sight. It’s good for his stiffness, anyway.
Eddie wonders if the woman smoking by the dumpster thinks they’re a couple too.
Before they leave, they stop inside to grab the refrigerant and some snacks, and a pair of sunglasses for Eddie. Buck needs to pee, and Eddie follows him into the bathroom and pretends he does too.
It takes only a couple minutes for Eddie to pop the hood and replace the refrigerant. It was low, like he suspected. Buck watches him, quiet in a way that’s disconcerting, eyes on the engine but not taking much in. Far away. Eddie swallows, and closes the hood.
“Hang on, let me–” Eddie says, stopping Buck before he can get back in the car.
When Christopher was younger and sick, Eddie would check for a fever by kissing him on the forehead, a quick press of his lips that served dual purposes of temperature gauging and providing comfort. He hadn’t been able to get away with that open affection for a couple years now, not since Chris became too cool for it, and he’s never done it with anyone else, but he has the urge to do that to Buck right now, to gently pull at his collar and lean up and place his lips right on his forehead. He wonders if he could sell it as practical, as normal, even in his own head. Eddie uses his hand instead.
“Fever’s still gone,” Buck says, with a long-suffering roll of his eyes.
“Can’t hurt to check,” Eddie says. While his hand is up there, he takes the moment to tilt Buck’s head, inspecting the many bruises and scratches that mar his face. Well, mar isn’t the right word. Marring implies disfigurement, ugliness. Buck is a lot of things, but it really seems out of his wheelhouse to be ugly. “I don’t trust those doctors.”
“Alright,” Buck says impatiently, “I’m fine.”
“Maybe this is for me, not you,” Eddie says with a touch of too much honesty. He doesn’t back up, not yet, just trails his fingers down, brushing over his stubbled jaw and the thin skin covering his pulse point. Buck’s breath catches a little bit when he presses two fingers there, and Eddie focuses on the thumpthumpthump before pulling away.
“And you say I’m dramatic,” Buck says, voice quiet. “What about you? How’s your head?”
“Doing great,” Eddie says. Sure his head hurts, but. He wasn’t the one kidnapped and nearly serial killed; he wasn’t tied to a post or chained up in a room; he hadn’t gotten fucking tased with a cattle prod. Eddie got treatment right away, the quality of the healthcare notwithstanding. His lingering headache just reminds him of everything that happened after. He wants to check Buck’s torso, his ribs, see if the skin has turned purple from internal bleeding the hospital missed. He’s a paramedic; maybe he could get away with it. His hands nearly twitch towards Buck’s shirt, but he holds them steady by his side. “Let’s get back in this shitty excuse for a car.”
Buck hums and lets it go.
“Alright, ninety minutes down, five hundred and ten to go,” Eddie says, patting Buck’s shoulder. Brief. Casual. “Ready?”
“Are you, old man?” Buck says, when Eddie groans as he climbs back in the car. He then makes a valiant effort to enter the car with no noise, which requires moving so slowly that Eddie has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
They both hold their breath as Eddie starts the ignition. The engine sputters, but starts. Air blows out of the vents, and, after a couple minutes, starts to cool down. Both sigh in relief. Eddie puts on the sunglasses, thanking a god that’s not listening when it brings reprieve from the already too bright sun.
Whenever he thinks he can get away with it, Eddie watches Buck and resists the urge to ask him again how he’s feeling. He knows he’ll get the same non-answer, the same artful dodging, the same playacting like he’s already brushed it off. Like this won’t affect him. Like he wasn’t hurt and kidnapped and tortured.
Eddie’s affected. He knows he needs to compartmentalize, needs to get the two of them home safely first and foremost. And he is. He’s driving safer than he probably ever has, hyper aware of any other cars on the road, in the rare instances that they pass one of them.
But long stretches of highway through the desert make the mind wander.
When Eddie was a teenager, he heard about a kid a couple towns over that was murdered. His body was brutalized and left right off the side of a main road. It wasn’t a random attack or a cartel hit or a wrong place wrong time situation or whatever other bullshit the local news tried to sell so they didn’t have to deal with the truth. This kid was targeted, and everyone knew why, and no one bothered to get justice.
The kid was the only openly gay kid at that high school, so instead of a tragedy, his death became the butt of the joke in every locker room. A way for kids to posture and feel powerful, to keep everyone in line. Eddie heard someone graffitied a slur on the grave. He heard the family moved away because they kept getting harassed.
For a few hours, a few horrible, terrible hours, Eddie had been terrified he’d find Buck like that kid. Just the body that held him, beaten and broken and beyond saving, because of Eddie, who couldn’t let a smartass remark go.
Don’t drag him down with you, Eddie.
The closer they get to home, the further away Buck feels, like he’s closing in on himself. His answers become shorter, he silences longer. Eddie tries not to feel like he’s leaving Buck back in New Mexico.
The next few hours follow a similar pattern. They drive the long stretch of highway. They stop at least every ninety minutes. They walk around. They purchase refreshments. They make small talk but mostly keep quiet, and Eddie tries not to be overbearing. They pray the car starts up again. One of those stops is in some Arizona almost-suburb, taking their walk through a park next to a gas station. Eddie sips his large black coffee as they limp down a short trail. Buck opted for a YooHoo, which he opens now with a satisfying pop. There’s a particularly nasty bruise peaking past his sleeve, turning his wrist a mottled purple.
“Maybe we should stop for the night,” Eddie says. Maybe if they stop, Buck will stop getting further away.
“What?” Buck lowers his drink, wiping the excess chocolate milk with the back of his hand. “Eddie, I’m doing fine. It’s barely afternoon. We’re already halfway there.”
“I just think it’d be a good idea to get off your feet, that’s all. Get a good night’s sleep.” They can pick up some arnica gel at CVS, some take out from a local joint that will ultimately be disappointing, and book a room in a moderately expensive hotel. Something maybe on the second floor, quiet, private but not isolated. He can lock the doors behind them. He can herd Buck into the shower, take inventory of every wound and mark and wash the day off their bodies with warm water and lavender scented soap.
And after he could settle Buck on the bed, clean and gentle, and his hands could rub the arnica over the bruises on his wrists, to the ones littering his chest, his stomach, on his face, gently massaging away the pain, and then Eddie could hold him as he fell asleep, safe.
“And I can, tonight, in my own bed,” Buck says, and Eddie feels stupid, feels guilty for what was just in his head. “I really just want to be home as soon as possible.”
Eddie nods. His stomach turns. His head pounds. He takes the sunglasses from where they’re tucked in his shirt and puts them back on.
“Are you doing okay? Do you need to stop?” Buck asks.
“No, you’re right. Sorry,” Eddie says, “Dumb idea.”
“We can if you–”
“No, let’s just get home,” Eddie says. Eddie wants to pick another fight. Eddie wants to wrap Buck up in his arms until he’s shielded from the outside world entirely. He’s not sure either would be welcome. “We should go home.”
“You sure I can’t drive?” Buck asks when they get back to the car.
“Nice try,” Eddie says. “You just relax. I did this professionally, remember?”
His head hurts, so he pops a couple ibuprofen before he starts the engine. Just enough to soften the edge of the pain. A little is good, keeps him focused, keeps him grounded in the now.
Buck feeds Eddie jerky, since Eddie only has one and half working arms right now, but he doesn’t tease, or make a game of it like he did during the first part of the trip. That Kansas song they heard a million times plays on the radio and Buck switches the station.
They both wince when they drive over a particularly nasty pothole. Buck digs through his backpack and grabs the bottle of painkillers the doctors prescribed. Not the acetaminophen, the oxycodone. They gave him just a few days worth of a low dose.
“Has it been four hours already?” Eddie asks, glancing at the clock on the dashboard that he thinks is only accurate to the hour.
“Five actually,” Buck says, tossing a pill in his mouth and using the last of his chocolate milk to wash it down. “Five long hours.”
“You sure you don’t want to stop off somewhere for the night?” Eddie asks, ready to pull off and pay an obscene amount of money for a stay somewhere with a feathertop mattress. "If you're hurting..." Buck shakes his head.
“We’re so close. I just want to get home,” Buck says, “I promise, I’m fine. The roads are just bumpy.”
“They sure are,” Eddie says, grimacing when they drive over another rough patch.
I Shot The Sheriff starts playing on the radio as they pass further into scrublands. Eddie snorts, and this draws Buck’s attention from where he was zoning out, watching the scenery pass them by.
“Am I making this up, or did the cops try and arrest you?” Buck asks, as Bob Marley sings If I am guilty I will pay.
“Oh, no that’s right. That sheriff thought I murdered you,” Eddie says. It’s a little funny, now that they’ve got some 500 miles between them and that house and that sheriff and his stupid little town. It’s just such a ridiculous notion to anyone that knows them, Eddie killing Buck. As unlikely as Eddie clawing out his own heart from his chest and stomping on it.
Here, here’s a fork! Put it in my neck!
“What, and your master plan was a car accident?” Buck asks. “And then my body disappeared while you were unconscious?”
“Could’ve been an attempted murder-suicide,” Eddie suggests, “And maybe you escaped.”
“Yeah, but you’d probably pick a much more airtight method,” Buck says. “Like, poison. Or a gun.”
Put me out of my misery! Kill me, Eddie! Kill me now! Why not?
“Or a fork?” Eddie suggests. Buck snorts.
“Exactly,” Buck says.
Eddie continues, “I’m not sure this guy thought through any of the logistics very much. One of those small minded folk you get around here.”
“Still,” Buck says. “Weird theory.”
Not that weird, actually. They always investigate the spouse first. The partner. Eddie doesn’t say this, just hums something like an affirmation.
“You, uh, didn’t kill me, though. You did the opposite,” Buck says. “You saved my life.”
“Athena would’ve had my head if I didn’t,” Eddie deflects, because he can’t say there was no other option.
“Oh, should I thank her instead?” Buck asks, cocking his head to the side. He’s teasing, and he sounds on the way back to normal. Something stupid in Eddie wants to cry about that.
“Hey, I escaped out the hospital window and rode a horse to find you,” Eddie says, taking the bait easily.
“A regular knight in shining armor,” Buck says, sounding a little bit more like himself, cupping both his hands to his heart with a false swoon.
“You saved me, too,” Eddie adds, eyes fixed back on the road. “My hands were shaky, don’t know if I could’ve made that shot. That was good thinking with that cattle prod.”
“Well, we have each others’ backs,” Buck says after a moment of quiet.
“Always,” Eddie says.
“You were killer with your timing, though,” Buck says, casually, “Bonnie was pretty close to losing it.”
Eddie grunts in affirmation, trying not to think about how if he’d been a little bit slower getting that car started or a little more successful in finding the jackasses he’d originally suspected, he could’ve been too late.
“How’d you even figure out it was her?” Buck asks.
“I, uh, didn’t,” Eddie says. “Just got lucky. I was trying to find those jackasses from the diner. I almost left once she talked to me, but I saw the truck in front of her house.” Something in his gut made him hesitate, made him give the property one more look before he drove off. And thank god it did.
“Oh, right,” Buck says, and he swallows, not commenting on the unsaid why Eddie thought it would be the jerks from the diner. “And that's when she pulled a gun on you?”
“That really solidified it for me,” Eddie says, trying for something lighthearted. He can tell it doesn’t stick the landing even before he finishes saying it. Buck falls silent once again, and it’s not the comfortable kind they usually find themselves in. He thinks about how Buck had broken out of his restraints, had crawled through the desert despite broken ribs to save Eddie.
You were dead once, Eddie doesn't say, And it was one of the worst weeks of my entire life.
“I would’ve–” Eddie clears his throat, cause he needs to get some words out, needs Buck to know that– that he– “I would’ve kept looking.”
“I know, Eddie,” Buck says, but he huffs when he says it, like he thinks Eddie’s just placating him.
I thought you were dead, again. I thought they’d killed you. I thought it was my fault.
“I never would’ve stopped,” Eddie says, because there’s no option where Buck is buried in an unmarked grave, namelessly waiting years for closure. Not if Eddie is still alive. “I’m not– You can’t get away from me that easy.”
I was ready to kill them. I almost did. I wouldn’t have regretted it.
“I mean,” Buck says, “You would’ve had to go home to Chris eventually.”
“We’d move to Los Nietos,” Eddie says. “I’d homeschool him by day, and by night we’d track you down, Scooby-Doo style.”
“I think you’d need more of an ensemble to be The Mystery Gang,” Buck says.
“Well, Maddie would’ve come too, and you know Chimney would follow,” Eddie says, “And then they’ve got their kids, and Athena wouldn’t be able to sleep with that case unsolved, and at that point Hen and Karen would just feel left out, especially once they realize how much they missed during their sexcation–”
“Alright, I get it,” Buck says softly, but when Eddie looks over he’s got a small smile on his face.
“Good,” Eddie says, tearing his eyes away from Buck to focus on the road. “We–uh. We love you, man.”
“I know,” Buck says, quiet and honest.
The next time Eddie glances over, only a couple minutes later, Buck is slumped against the window, head tilted back and mouth slightly agape. Without really deciding to, Eddie reaches out and delicately touches two fingers to his throat, pushing steady on his pulse point. Still alive. He exhales. He lingers longer than he should, letting a few mile markers go by with his fingers pressed against Buck’s warm skin.
Buck shifts a little in his sleep, and only then Eddie yanks back his hand like he was burned. The sudden movement hurts, but it’s fine. Eddie’s fine. Buck’s fine. They treated him, scanned him and checked him out thoroughly, and there were no hidden clots, no internal bleeding that could sneak up on them. He quickly regrips the steering wheel, clearing his throat and keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.
There’s no reason his heart should be pounding. He can hear Buck’s snoring, for god’s sake. It’s quieter than it usually is, but enough to be a clear indication of breathing, a clear sign of life. He turns the radio off, letting the snores fill the car instead of the fiftieth uninspired ad for car insurance or diamonds.
He checks Buck’s pulse six more times over the next hour. Buck slumbers peacefully, until the clock hits that next 90 minute mark, and Eddie pulls the car off at a scenic viewpoint somewhere near Indio, overlooking palm groves that Buck would enjoy. The engine quiets down, and the stillness rouses Buck from slumber.
Buck groans, rubbing at his eyes. Eddie doesn’t think about how vulnerable he looks right now.
“We there yet?” he asks, voice a low rumble that Eddie can feel in his chest. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and squints out the window.
“Couple hours out,” Eddie says. “But we should make it home before the sun gets too low. You ready to walk?
“Aye, aye,” Buck says, saluting as he climbs out of the car. The stiffness settles back in every time, making each exit nearly agonizing, but walking helps. He hopes it’s helping Buck too. They both have doctor’s appointments tomorrow, where Buck will get checked again to make sure there hasn’t been any clot development. Physically, he’s going to be okay. His ribs will heal. The bruises will fade. Buck’s come back from worse. Eddie just wishes he would stop having to.
“Can I ask you what happened?” Eddie asks, trying his best to sound casual. His voice dips an octave lower than normal and he keeps a careful eye on Buck, clocking his reactions.
“Oh, with Bonnie?” Buck says, carefully, eyes fixed on the dirt below instead of up at the groves.
“Yeah. She didn’t seem like she was the same breed as those assholes from the diner,” Eddie says.
“Something much weirder,” Buck says, forcing out a laugh.
Eddie hums, waiting for Buck to keep going. Buck makes a lot of faces in succession, like he’s not sure what to say next. Eddie waits him out.
“She had this son, Dan–” Buck coughs, then continues quickly, “Derek, who was in a motorcycle accident fourteen years ago. Braindead.”
Eddie doesn’t mention the slip up that Buck just barreled past, but he remembers it. It burns in his brain, a little bit. Eddie feels sick to his stomach as he nods, hoping Buck will continue. He forces himself to unclench his fists, to relax his jaw. Anger won’t help anyone here, no matter how righteous.
“They kept him on life support in the guest room. I guess I kind of looked like him. She wanted me to be her replacement son. To be Derek.” Eddie battles back the bile rising in his throat.
“That why you were all dressed up?” Eddie asks.
“Oh, yeah,” Buck says, laughing like it’s funny. “I was trying to play along. It worked, right up until it didn’t.”
Eddie nods, again, like this is something that makes sense, even when it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense how often people try to strip Buck for his parts, or force him into being something he’s not, when the reality is that Buck in his entirety is irreplaceable. Priceless. Perfect.
“People get up to some crazy shit that far out in the desert,” Eddie says. Buck nods in agreement. Eddie wants to say something else, but he doesn’t know how to word it. Or maybe just doesn’t know how to let himself say it. They walk the rest of the way back to the car in silence, and Eddie doesn’t know what to say, what he can do, what he’s allowed to do.
“I am so ready to get home,” Eddie says once they’re on the road again, just to say something. Buck won’t – or can’t – fill the silence, so he should. He can do that.
“Me too. I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed,” Buck says, and Eddie thinks about dropping Buck off and going back home, hugging Chris, and then trying to fall asleep in his own bed. With Buck miles away, all alone in his big house, where there already was a squatter in the attic, and, jesus, Buck doesn’t even have a working phone, what if something happens? What if he throws another clot, and is all alone, coughing up blood–
Eddie pulls off at the next exit, barely ten minutes since their last stop, before he can fully think it through.
“You good?” Buck asks. Eddie glances at a motel right off the exit, before realizing staying in a motel less than an hour from home would be a difficult sell, and pulls into the parking lot of a fast food place instead.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, “Just need to– gotta take a shit.”
Buck laughs, wincing a little bit as the motion irritates his ribs. “I told you to take it easy on the coffee.”
Eddie nods jerkily. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time," Buck says, and Eddie rushes inside.
He knows Buck. Really, he does. He knows Buck doesn’t like to face his issues head on, or drag anyone into a mess he’s decided is his own. He’ll try and deal with this by himself. But there’s a difference between getting someone out of danger and actually saving them. Eddie knows that better than anyone. And while Buck might duck any offer Eddie has, there’s a face he knows Buck has a much harder time brushing off. He quickly calls that face.
“Dad?” Chris’ voice comes through, warming Eddie’s chest.
“Hey, bud,” Eddie whispers down the phone, peeking through the window to see Buck still safe and sound in the car.
“Why are you whispering?” Chris says, immediately, “Did something happen again? Did you guys get lost?”
“No, sorry, everything is fine. We’re almost home. I just called to ask if you would want to stay at Buck’s tonight?” Eddie asks, hoping his voice isn’t shaking as bad as it feels like it is.
“Is Buck okay?” Chris asks. “Seriously, you guys have been so weird about what happened. Can you just tell me?”
“We’ll tell you in person,” Eddie says, but he’s not sure how the hell he can explain any of this to a 15 year old without traumatizing him further. At least they’re both alive. And conscious. “But I think he could use the company. You still got your key?”
“Yeah,” Chris says.
“Great. I’ll send you money for an Uber. We’re less than an hour out,” Eddie says. “Want to order some takeout too?”
“Okay,” Chris says. He pauses, then asks, “Are you guys okay? Seriously?”
“We will be, mijo,” Eddie says. He thinks it’s the truth. It has to be the truth.
Buck has fallen back asleep when Eddie gets back to the car, and he stays that way the last hour home. His heart rate is slower than normal, but that’s not unexpected with oxycodone. It still beats steady.
It’s a weird feeling, pulling that shitty car in front of Buck’s house. It’s still the same as when they left, unaware of everything that happened. Buck stirs when Eddie parks, blearily blinking his eyes open.
“Home sweet home,” Eddie says, even if the words sting for some reason.
“Thank god,” Buck says.
Eddie follows him right up to the door.
“Oh, you don’t need to–” Buck starts, but he’s interrupted by the door opening, and Chris standing in the entryway of his home, a sight for sore eyes.
“Wow, you guys look like shit,” Chris says, eyes widening. Eddie can’t help himself, pulling his kid into a hug.
“Language,” Eddie says, even though it’s accurate. “Food here yet?”
“Charlie is two minutes away,” Chris says, holding up his phone. Buck sets his jaw, shooting Eddie a look he can’t really decipher.
“Is that your overnight bag?” Buck asks, looking in the living where Chris has clearly already made himself at home. He even got his switch hooked up to the tv already.
“Yep,” Chris says, “Can’t wait to try out the guest room.” Buck shoots Eddie another look, but any anger melts away as Chris pulls Buck into a hug of his own. It’s extremely quick, with the cool detachment of a teenager, but Eddie’s eyes sting watching it anyway.
“He insisted,” Eddie says, clearing his throat, and he only feels a little bit guilty about using his son as a shield. If it works, it works. “And besides, you still need a new phone. We can get you a new one tomorrow, before everyone bombards us with that surprise welcome back party that they couldn’t be more obvious about.”
“I really just–” Buck starts.
“Let’s just have dinner, and a shower, and then we can get you to bed,” Eddie says, desperately. He thinks if Buck kicks them out he might curl up on the porch and refuse to leave. “Please.”
“Okay,” Buck gives in. “Fine.” Eddie almost cries in relief, the feeling similar to when he saw Buck that first time after the crash, alive under the desert sun.
Tomorrow, Eddie will broach the subject of Buck going to therapy, and get him a new phone, and take him to the doctor to get checked out again. Buck can try and hide how bad it gets all he wants, can try to crawl inside himself and let everything pile up until it explodes. Eddie’s going to be right there with him.