Chapter Text
By the time Buck’s jeep turns onto their street, his body has already crossed the invisible line between functioning and sheer momentum.
Forty-eight hours on shift does that.
You don’t decide to keep going; you simply do, because stopping requires energy you no longer have.
Buck’s hands ache faintly on the steering wheel, fingers stiff and swollen with dehydration he’s ignored for hours.
His shoulders feel like they’ve been poured full of wet cement.
There’s a headache brewing behind his eyes that he knows, with the dull certainty of experience, will turn vicious the moment he lies down.
But the plan is solid.
He repeats it to himself as he parks.
Go inside.
Kiss Eddie.
Make breakfast.
Get Chris fed and out the door.
Come home.
Sleep. Six hours, minimum.
Enough to reset his nervous system before pickup.
Simple.
Achievable.
Safe.
The front door opens to the sharp, unmistakable sound of retching.
Buck freezes, one hand still on the doorframe.
“Chris?” Eddie’s voice comes from the hallway, tight and already moving.
“Hey—hey, I’ve got you, mijo—”
Buck drops his bag where he stands and moves on instinct, boots thudding down the hall just in time to see Christopher hunched over the bathroom sink, small hands gripping porcelain, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Eddie is there, one arm around his shoulders, the other bracing him as another wave hits.
Buck doesn’t think.
He just reaches in, swaps places without a word, presses his palm flat between Chris’s shoulder blades.
“It’s okay,” Buck says softly, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion. “I’ve got you.”
Christopher whimpers, a thin, miserable sound that goes straight through Buck’s chest. His whole body trembles as he throws up again, the heave wringing something desperate out of him.
Eddie straightens slowly, eyes flicking over Buck with concern that sharpens when he really looks—the dark circles, the slack posture, the way Buck’s shoulders sag as though gravity has doubled.
“You just got home,” Eddie says.
Buck nods, rubbing Chris’s back in slow, steady circles.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Chris shakes his head weakly.
The clock on the microwave clicks over in Buck’s peripheral vision.
Eddie exhales, runs a hand through his hair, already calculating.
“I have to leave in ten,” Eddie says quietly. “I can call—”
“No,” Buck says immediately.
Too fast.
He swallows, gentles his tone.
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got him.”
Eddie hesitates. “Buck—”
“I’m here,” Buck repeats. “You’ve got a 24. I can handle a sick day.”
It sounds reasonable.
Logical.
The kind of thing they’ve both said a hundred times in different configurations.
Eddie searches Buck’s face, weighing something invisible.
Christopher gags again, and Buck leans closer, murmuring reassurances, holding him through it.
When it passes, Chris sags against Buck’s chest, boneless and burning.
“He’s really warm,” Buck murmurs.
Eddie presses a kiss into Chris’s hair.
“I’ll grab the thermometer. And towels. And—God.”
Buck huffs a tired breath that’s almost a laugh.
“Yeah.”
The next hour erases the rest of the morning.
School is immediately canceled.
Breakfast is abandoned entirely.
Christopher vomits again, this time all over Buck’s shirt, and Buck barely registers the sensation beyond the wet warmth soaking into his skin.
Eddie apologizes three times while Buck strips off the ruined fabric and replaces it with one of Eddie’s old station tees without thinking.
Eddie leaves late, guilt written into every line of him.
Buck presses a kiss to his cheek, promises they’ll be fine, shoos him out the door with practiced ease.
The door closes.
The house goes quiet except for Christopher’s labored breathing.
Buck stands there for a moment, swaying slightly, then looks down at his son.
“Okay, kiddo,” he murmurs. “Looks like it’s you and me.”
Christopher doesn’t respond.
His head lolls against Buck’s shoulder, fever-hot and heavy.
Buck carries him to the couch and settles them both under a blanket.
He texts Eddie a brief update—He’s sick sick. I’ve got it. Drive safe.—then silences his phone.
Sleep is already gone.
Buck knows it in the same way you know when a bone is broken.
There’s no fixing it now.
The day becomes an exercise in controlled chaos.
Christopher throws up again within the hour, this time on the living room rug.
Buck gets him into the bathroom in time for the next wave, rubs his back, cleans him up, changes his pajamas.
The washing machine becomes a constant presence, humming and sloshing as Buck cycles through towels, clothes, blankets, anything that gets caught in the crossfire.
Chris clings to him like a lifeline.
Every time Buck tries to set him down, small hands fist into his shirt, panic flashing through fever-glazed eyes.
“Don’t go,” Chris whispers hoarsely.
“I’m not,” Buck promises, again and again. “I’m right here.”
He keeps a bucket beside the couch.
He measures sips of electrolyte solution with monk-like precision, waiting between each one, watching Chris’s face for signs of nausea.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
When Chris throws up all over Buck for the third time, Buck doesn’t even flinch.
He just murmurs soothing nonsense, holds his son through the shaking aftermath, then reaches for fresh clothes with the other hand.
He doesn’t notice that he hasn’t eaten.
He notices the sneezes first.
They start mid-afternoon, sharp and wet, tearing out of Chris with no warning.
Buck barely has time to grab tissues before Chris’s nose is running freely, eyes watering as his body betrays him again.
“Sorry,” Chris mumbles miserably.
Buck’s chest tightens.
“Hey. No. You don’t apologize for being sick.”
He wipes Chris’s nose, presses a cool cloth to his forehead.
The fever is stubborn, hovering just below the line that would send them to urgent care, then spiking again without warning.
Buck times doses of antipyretics, counts minutes, watches the clock with growing unease.
Chris finally falls asleep in the late afternoon, heavy and limp against Buck’s chest.
Buck doesn’t move.
He sits there, back aching, arms numb, staring at the wall.
His eyes burn.
His head throbs.
His phone buzzes with a text from Eddie.
Eddie: How’s my guy?
Buck answers with one hand, minimal words.
Buck: Sleeping. Fever still there.
Buck closes his eyes for what he tells himself will be just a moment.
He wakes to the sound of gagging.
The evening passes in fragments—more vomiting, a half-hearted attempt at toast that comes back up almost immediately, a single bite of a granola bar Buck shoves into his mouth while Chris sleeps before abandoning it to sprint for the bathroom again.
By nightfall, Buck’s nerves feel flayed.
Chris won’t settle.
He’s restless and overheated, alternating between chills and sweating through his sheets, and looks close to tears even though he’s too old to be crying just because he doesn’t feel well.
Buck strips the bed, remakes it, rocks him, hums softly even as his own voice wobbles with exhaustion.
Every time Buck thinks Chris has finally drifted off, another cough shakes him awake, deep and phlegmy, rattling in his chest.
Buck sits up, rubs his back, murmurs reassurance until the coughing eases.
Buck doesn’t sleep.
He sits.
He watches.
He listens.
By the time dawn breaks, Buck’s hands are trembling.