Chapter Text
Three weeks ago
The promise had been made three weeks ago, solemnly and with hands stacked in the center of Eddie’s kitchen table.
Christopher’s hand on the bottom.
Buck’s large one covering his.
Eddie’s steady palm sealing it.
“All three of us,” Christopher had insisted. “No excuses.”
“No excuses,” Buck had repeated, grinning wide and easy, because there was no universe in which he would willingly miss something that made Christopher look at him like that — like he hung the stars.
Eddie had rolled his eyes, but fondly. “We’ll both be there.”
And that had been that.
Day of the Science Fair - 6:12 a.m.
Buck wakes up feeling like he has been dragged backward through gravel.
It is not subtle.
His throat burns.
His sinuses feel packed with wet cement.
His body aches in a deep, bone-level way that suggests something unpleasant is happening under the surface.
His skin feels too tight and too hot, yet a shiver crawls down his spine at the same time.
He blinks at the ceiling of his apartment.
He knows this feeling.
He lies there for a moment, bargaining with it.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s just exhaustion from shift.
Maybe—
His breath hitches without warning.
“Hh—huh—”
He clamps a hand over his mouth too late.
“AITCH! AITCH! AITCH! AITCH! AITCH!”
The sneezes rip out of him in a violent, breathless cluster, his entire body jerking with each one.
His sinuses flare painfully and his eyes flood.
He groans.
“God… no…”
He reaches blindly for the tissue box on his nightstand — something he’d placed there preemptively last night because he’d started feeling sniffly near the end of shift.
Three tissues.
He doesn’t even try to be gentle.
He blows hard.
The sound is thick and wet and undeniably sick.
He coughs afterward, throat raw, and presses the back of his wrist to his forehead.
Too warm.
He pushes himself upright slowly, the room tilting just slightly enough to be concerning. He sits still until it stabilizes.
Christopher’s science fair.
He’d stayed at his own place last night for this exact reason — the tickle in his nose, the creeping congestion.
Eddie had said it would be fine.
Chris had said he didn’t care if Buck sneezed a little.
But Buck had cared.
He’d spent too many years learning the hard way that carelessness spreads things.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for the thermometer in the drawer.
He already knows.
Still.
The wait feels endless.
The beep is sharp and final.
102.1°F
Buck exhales slowly.
“Great.”
He scrubs both hands down his face and immediately regrets it when his sinuses throb.
Another hitch.
“HHH—HAH—”
He barely gets a tissue up in time.
“HA-HA-HAITSHOO! HAHHH-HE’TCHIEW! HE’TCHIIEEWWW!”
The last sneeze explodes out of him so forcefully his head snaps forward and pain streaks behind his eyes.
He groans again, softer this time.
Christopher’s science fair.
He reaches for his phone.
His thumb hovers over Eddie’s contact for several long seconds.
He types:
Morning.
I’m so sorry but I woke up with a 102 fever and I feel like garbage.
I don’t think I should come today.
I don’t want to risk getting you or Chris sick.
Tell him I’m proud of him.
I’ll make it up to him.
I promise.
He stares at it.
Then he hits send.
The guilt is immediate.
6:47 a.m. — Diaz House
Eddie is supervising cereal distribution with the vigilance of a man who has been banned from pancake duty ever since Buck entered their lives and set a standard no one else could meet.
Christopher is vibrating with excitement.
“The judges come by at nine, Dad. Nine. We have to be there early.”
“We will,” Eddie promises, steady and calm, pouring milk with the kind of precision usually reserved for bomb defusal.
His phone buzzes.
He checks it automatically.
He frowns.
Christopher notices instantly.
“What?”
Eddie reads the message twice.
His mouth presses into a thin line.
“Buck’s sick,” he says carefully.
Christopher’s entire body deflates.
“What?”
“He has a fever.”
Christopher stares at his cereal like it personally betrayed him.
“But he promised.”
The words aren’t angry.
They’re small.
Eddie’s heart squeezes painfully.
“I know he did.”
Christopher’s jaw tightens.
“He said no excuses.”
Eddie crouches beside him.
“Chris. He didn’t choose to be sick.”
Christopher looks up at him with wounded eyes.
“He always comes.”
Eddie has no good answer for that.
His phone buzzes again.
Buck:
I can wear a mask if you want me to.
I just don’t want to make things worse.
Eddie types back immediately.
Absolutely not. You stay home. After the fair I can come by. Or I can pick you up and bring you here.
Buck replies quickly.
No.
Please don’t.
I don’t want to risk getting you two sick.
Eddie exhales slowly.
Before he can think too much about that, Christopher’s milk tilts dangerously toward catastrophe.
Eddie grabs the carton just in time.
“Okay,” he says, forcing brightness into his tone. “Let’s finish breakfast. We’ve got a big day.”
Christopher nods.
But his excitement is no longer shining.
7:18 a.m. — Buck’s Apartment
Buck is sitting on the edge of his bed, shivering despite the hoodie he’s pulled on over his T-shirt.
His head feels heavy.
His sinuses are relentless.
He blows his nose again.
He is trying to be responsible.
Trying to be better.
Trying not to bulldoze through illness the way he used to.
He swallows two Tylenol with water and tells himself it’s the right thing.
His phone rings.
Christopher.
Buck’s heart lurches.
He answers immediately.
“Hey, buddy—”
“Buck,” Christopher interrupts. His voice is tight. “You promised.”
Buck closes his eyes.
“I know.”
“You said no excuses.”
Buck swallows hard.
“I woke up with a fever, Superman.”
“You can wear a mask,” Christopher insists quickly. “You said masks work. You said that.”
Buck did say that.
Several times.
He presses a fist lightly against his sternum when a cough rattles up.
“I don’t want to get you sick.”
“I don’t care.”
The words are immediate and fierce.
“Chris—”
“Please.”
That one word does it.
Buck has never, not once, successfully denied Christopher when he says please like that.
He looks at the thermometer again on his nightstand.
102.1.
He thinks about Eddie’s face if he shows up like this.
He thinks about Christopher’s face if he doesn’t.
There has never been a fair fight between those two outcomes.
Buck sighs.
“I’ll be there.”
Christopher’s breath whooshes out in relief.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Another tickle surges up his nose.
“Hh—hang on—”
He scrambles for tissues.
“HAH—HAH—HAH—HE’ITCHOOO! AITCH! AITCH! CHOO! CHOO! CHOO!”
Christopher giggles faintly on the other end.
“You sound gross.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Buck mutters thickly, blowing his nose hard again. “I’ll wear a mask. I won’t touch anything. I promise.”
“Okay,” Christopher says, satisfied. “See you soon.”
The call ends.
Buck stares at the phone.
He knows Eddie is going to kill him.
He also knows he would make this choice again.
8:41 a.m. — Elementary School Gymnasium
The gym smells like poster board, glue, and ambition.
Christopher’s diorama — a carefully constructed volcanic eruption model complete with labeled tectonic plates and a baking soda chamber — sits proudly on his assigned table.
Eddie adjusts one corner of the poster.
“There. Perfect.”
Christopher beams.
They are not alone for long.
From the far end of the gym, near the entrance doors, a familiar series of sounds echoes.
“Hh—HHH—”
Eddie freezes.
“HA-HA-HAITSHOO! HAHHH-HE’TCHIEW! HE’TCHIIEEWWW! AITCH! AITCH!”
The sneezes are loud.
Unmistakable.
Eddie’s head snaps toward the entrance.
Buck stands just inside the doorway.
He looks like he dressed for a blizzard and then lost a fight with it.
Hoodie.
Jacket.
Coat.
Scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.
A tissue box tucked under one arm.
One mask on his face and another sticking out of his pocket.
He’s bent slightly forward, fumbling to replace the mask after another nose blow.
Even from across the gym, Eddie can see it.
The sheen of sweat on his forehead.
The flushed cheeks.
The glassy, fever-bright eyes.
The pink, irritated tip of his nose.
Christopher sees him next.
“BUCK!”
Eddie is moving before he thinks better of it.
Buck looks up at the shout.
His eyes light up.
And then immediately water again.
“Hh—”
He tries to turn away.
Too late.
“AITCH! AITCH! AITCH! AITCH! AITCH!”
The force of them nearly doubles him over.
He yanks the mask down just in time, buries his face in tissues, and blows hard — long and miserable.
Eddie reaches him in three strides.
“What are you doing here?”
Buck blinks at him, eyes swimming.
“I—hh—I said I’d come.”
“You have a 102 fever.”
Buck shrugs weakly.
“I took something.”
Christopher barrels into Buck’s side carefully, hugging around the layers.
“I knew you’d come!”
Buck softens instantly.
“Of course I did.”
Another hitch.
He turns sharply away from both of them.
“HAH—HE’ITCHOOO! CHOO! CHOO!”
He sways.
Eddie’s hand shoots out automatically to steady him.
Up close, the heat radiating off Buck is undeniable.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Eddie says quietly.
Buck meets his eyes.
“I couldn’t not be.”
Christopher is already tugging on Buck’s sleeve.
“Come see! They put the lava higher than we practiced but I fixed it!”
Buck smiles — tired, aching, but real.
“Lead the way, Super—hh—”
He clamps his hand over his mask too late.
“HAH—HAH—HAH—HAH—HAH—HAH—HE’TCHIIEEWWW!”
The sneeze tears through him violently enough that he has to brace a hand against the wall.
The tissue box slips.
Eddie catches it.
Buck coughs hard afterward, shoulders shaking.
“Buck,” Eddie says again, firmer this time.
Buck wipes his nose, replaces his mask with careful hands.
“I’m okay.”
He isn’t.
But he’s here.
And Christopher is smiling again.