Chapter Text
Outside, the day is too much. Too bright, or too cold, or too normal - Buck can’t tell which. Only that it presses against him in a way the loft never did.
The street moves the way streets always do. Cars passing. Someone laughing somewhere too far away to matter. Liffe continuing at full volume without waiting for permission.
Buck stands beside Eddie’s car. Not far from it. Not making a point. Just enough distance that his body doesn’t have to decide anything yet.
Eddie opens the passenger door. He doesn’t say come on. He doesn’t ask if Buck’s ready. He doesn’t soften it with words that would require an answer. He just opens the space. And waits.
Buck looks at the seat. Getting in shouldn’t feel like a decision. Somehow it does. Then he moves. Slowly. Like movement has become something separate from choosing.
He gets in. The seat shifts slightly beneath his weight. A normal sound. A normal adjustment in the world.
Eddie closes the door. The click lands harder than it should. Not loud. Just final.
For a second, Buck doesn’t settle. His bag stays on his lap, then moves to the floor, then back again before he stills it without really noticing he’s doing it.
Eddie gets in. The car immediately feels smaller. Not physically. Just… contained. Like the world outside has been reduced to four doors and a windshield.
Eddie starts the engine. It turns over normally. That normality feels strangely uncomfortable. No radio. No music. No attempt to fill silence before it becomes noticeable.
They pull away from the curb. At first, Eddie drives exactly the way he always does. Steady hands. Familiar rhythm. Easy control.
Buck is already looking out the window. Not at anything. Just away. Buildings slide past. Traffic lights change. People cross roads carrying shopping bags or coffee or conversations that have nothing to do with him.
Buck watches all of it like it belongs to somebody else. Not because he’s trying to disconnect. Just because nothing is asking him to belong.
Eddie glances over once. Then again later. Quick enough Buck could pretend not to notice. Buck doesn’t turn. His expression isn’t blank. Just… paused. Like whatever normally sits on the surface of him hasn’t fully loaded back in.
The silence settles naturally. Not awkward. Not careful. Just there.
Eddie shifts his grip on the wheel. Drives for another few minutes. Then something in his pace changes. Barely. Not hesitation. Adjustment. Like the road itself has become something worth handling gently.
Buck hasn’t moved much, but Eddie notices things anyway. His shoulders never fully drop. His attention slides off things before it reaches them. He looks at a street sign and doesn’t read it. A red light reflects in his eyes without becoming instruction.
Eddie opens his mouth once. Nothing comes out. Later he almost tries again. Something simple. You okay? We’re almost there. Anything that confirms Buck is still in the car with him in a way that feels reachable. But none of it feels right.
Nothing about Buck looks unavailable exactly. Just… difficult to touch. So Eddie lets it go. The silence stays. Not as absence. As agreement.
They pass through parts of the city Buck knows. Familiar turns. Familiar intersections. Places that should carry weight. Instead they feel borrowed. Like memories from someone else’s life.
Buck shifts. Only slightly. But Eddie notices. His shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. Like something in him reacted before he did. Buck’s attention catches outside. Not on movement. Something still. A building. A stretch of ordinary road. Something that shouldn’t matter.
His expression changes. Not enough for someone else to notice. Enough for Eddie. Buck swallows. His throat moves once. Like a thought almost reached the surface.
Eddie’s hands tighten on the wheel. Not fear. Awareness.
Buck looks like he might speak. Like something is right there. Then - nothing. The moment passes. And somehow that feels bigger than if he’d said something at all.
Eddie keeps driving. Careful now in a way that has nothing to do with traffic. The silence deepens. Not heavier. More deliberate. Neither of them breaks it.
Eddie keeps his eyes on the road and Buck in the edge of his attention. Like looking too directly might make him pull further away.
Buck’s breathing stays even. Not relaxed. Just present.
Outside, the world keeps moving. Buck keeps watching it without stepping back into it.
Eddie feels his own restraint like something physical. Every instinct - check. Ask. fix. Reassure - presses forward in quiet waves. He keeps all of it still. Because nothing about Buck feels like it needs handling. It feels like it needs not being interrupted.
Buck isn’t absent. But he isn’t fully here either. And anything too sharp feels like it might disturb whatever balance he’s managing to hold.
So Eddie stays quiet. Not because he has nothing to say. Because right now, Buck staying beside him feels more important than conversation.
The roads begin to change. Quieter streets. Familiar territory. Buck doesn’t react consciously. But something in him does. His posture shifts. His attention slows. Less searching. More recognition.
Eddie turns onto the final street. Buck finally looks away from the window. Not toward Eddie. Just inward. The house appears gradually. No announcement. No significance. Just there. Like it’s been waiting for them to catch up.
Eddie eases off the accelerator. The car rolls to a stop. The engine keeps running. Neither of them speaks. Buck doesn’t move. His hands stay where they are. Like getting out would require a decision he doesn’t currently have access to.
Eddie keeps his hands on the wheel a second longer. Stopping feels different from arriving. The house sits ahead of them. Ordinary. Solid. Existing whether Buck gets out or not.
For a few seconds everything holds. Engine running. Street continuing. World unchanged. Inside the car - nothing is resolved. And somehow that makes this feel more important. Not arrival. Not escape. Just pause. The moment before stepping into whatever comes next.
Eddie reaches for the handle. Stops. Then gets out. Walks around. Opens Buck’s door. No words. No invitation shaped into language. Just space. Buck doesn’t move immediately. Eddie waits.
The house stands there. Front step. Door. Familiar shape. Nothing about it suggests anything has changed. But everything has. Buck looks at it for a long moment. Not studying. Checking. Like he needs to know it’ll still be there if he steps toward it.
Then he gets out. Slowly. Carefully. Like he isn’t fully convinced the ground will stay where he leaves it.
Eddie closes the car door behind him with a soft click. Buck flinches. Barely visible. Not away - just inward, like the sound lands somewhere it shouldn’t.
Eddie notices. He doesn’t say anything. He turns toward the house. Buck follows half a step behind. Not because he’s being led. Just because right now, staying close feels easier than deciding where to stand on his own.
Eddie unlocks the front door. The house greets them. Warmth first.
Not emotional warmth. Physical warmth - the kind that comes from heating systems and closed windows and a life being lived inside walls that don’t stop existing because something difficult happened somewhere else.
Then sound. The television playing quietly somewhere deeper in the house. Movement. A cupboard closing. The low rhythm of a home that’s never completely still.
And details. Christopher’s things are everywhere in the casual way children leave evidence of themselves. A chool bag dropped too close to the hallway. Trainers abandoned without commitment. A drawing taped to the wall slightly crooked in a way nobody had bothered to fix.
Colour. Paper. Life. Normal. That’s what makes it hit.
Buck stops just inside the doorway. Not abruptly. Not enough to draw attention. Just - pause. Like the house has asked him something and he doesn’t know the answer yet.
Eddie steps in fully before realising Buck hasn’t followed. He leaves the door open for another second. Cool air lingering at their backs.
Then closes it. The lock clicks. Quieter than the car. Buck still notices. He stands in the entryway. Not retreating. Not moving forward.
His eyes move slowly across the space. The hallway feels familiar in a way that doesn’t translate into comfort. Familiar like remembering a dream. Recognisable. But difficult to reach.
Eddie watches him. Not expecting him to break. Trying to understand what Buck is seeing that isn’t visible. Buck’s face doesn’t change. That’s the difficult part. No release. No reaction. Just stillness that feels deeper than it should.
Eddie shifts slightly. “I’ll -” He stops. Not because he doesn’t know what to say. Because nothing feels necessary. Instead he gestures down the hall. Not instruction. Not encouragement. Just information. “This way.”
Buck follows. Slowly. The house feels larger at this pace. Distance stretching because attention feels too heavy to move quickly.
Buck notices things without attaching to them. A mug near the sink. A folded blanket over the sofa. Laundry detergent underneath the smell of something cooked earlier and forgotten.
Life. Continuing. Uninterrupted. The contrast sits somewhere under his ribs. Not painful. Just enough to make everything feel faintly unreal.
Eddie leads him further inside. He doesn’t talk. Not because he’s avoiding Buck. Because saying something would make the silence visible. And right now the silence feels too fragile to look at directly.
They stop at a door. Eddie opens it. Buck remembers the room in pieces. Functional more than personal. A desk. A chair that never stayed in the same place. Books stacked in temporary systems. A room that belonged partly to Eddie and partly to whoever needed it.
Now - it’s different. There’s a bed. Not temporary. Not something pulled together for a few nights. A real bed. Made properly. Sheets clean. Pillows lined up. Nothing dramatic. Nothing performative. Which somehow makes it feel bigger.
Eddie didn’t prepare for Buck to visit. He prepared for him to stay.
Buck stands in the doorway. Not confused. Not surprised exactly. More like he’s trying to remember when this became real and can’t find the moment. He doesn’t remember being asked. He doesn’t remember agreeing.
Eddie stays behind him. Giving him room without trying to explain what he’s seeing. After a while he says - “I sorted it.” Not explanation. Just fact.
Buck nods once. Not agreement. Not understanding. Just acknowledgement that words happened and prabably deserved something back.
Eddie watches him. Buck doesn’t go in. He stays where he is. Like thresholds feel safer than rooms. Eddie waits. That waiting has become its own language.
Eventually Buck steps inside. Slowly. Like he’s checking whether the floor stays where he puts his weight. It does.
The room doesn’t react. It just exists. Buck stops near the bed. Looks at it. Doesn’t sit. The bedding is plain. Neutral. Nothing asking for attention. Which somehow makes it harder to ignore.
His hand flexes once at his side. Then stills. Behind him Eddie leans lightly against the doorway. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t leave. Just stays.
Buck looks around again. Slower this time. Checking. Like he expects things to change if he looks away. But nothing does. Nothing feels unfamiliar.
And strangely - that unsettles him more. Unfamiliar things require reaction. This just requires acceptance.
Buck exhales. Quiet. Not release. Just breathing because his body remembers how. Then - carefully - he sits. Still fully dressed. Like sitting here might require permission he isn’t sure he has. The mattress shifts beneath him.
He looks down at his hands once they settle in his lap. Doesn’t move them again.
Eddie stays in the doorway. Not staring. Just aware. Buck doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t ask anything.
The silence in the room feels different. Outside, silence was space. Here - it feels like presence.
Christopher’s voice carries faintly from somewhere else in the house. Not clear enough to understand. Just enough to remind them life is continuing beyond this room.
It doesn’t interrupt the moment. It holds it. Buck stays where he is. Not relaxing into the bed. Not settling. Just existing in one place while deciding how much of himself can stay there.
Eddie shifts once. Doesn’t interrupt. Because Buck’s silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels occupied. Like something is happening inside it. Something Eddie doesn’t have a name for yet.
Minutes pass. Neither of them marks them. Buck doesn’t move. Eddie doesn’t ask him to. He just stays. Watching bUck sit in a room that had already been made ready for him.
As if maybe, if they leave enough space around him - being here might eventually become enough.
Buck doesn’t know how long he sits there before he hears Christopher properly. Not just somewhere else in the house anymore. Closer.
The uneven rhythm of movement down the hallway. The scrape of something being dragged for a few seconds before being abandoned. Approaching.
Buck notices before he thinks about noticing. Not tension. Just awareness. From the doorway, Eddie straightens slightly. It’s subtle, but Buck catches it anyway. His attention sharpens. Prepared.
Not because Christopher is a problem. Because Eddie is waiting to see what happens.
A shadow crosses the hall. Then Christopher appears. Exactly the way he always does - like momentum arrives before the rest of him catches up. He stops when he sees Buck sitting on the bed.
Not startled. Not careful. Just a brief pause while his brain updates the location.
Then - “Hey, Buck.” Easy. No hesitation. Not How are you? Not Dad said - Not the careful tone adults have been using lately, like every sentence has to survive inspection before anyone lets it exist. Just Buck. Recognition.
Buck looks up a second too late. Like sound takes longer to reach him these days. His face doesn’t change much. But something in his shoulders eases.
“Hey.” His voice comes out rough. More unused than emotional.
Christopher doesn’t react. Doesn’t look concerned. Doesn’t slow down. He just accepts the answer and walks into the room like nothing fragile is happening.
Buck feels Eddie’s attention sharpen anyway. Watching. Not interfering. Just quietly checking - too much? too fast? is Buck still here?
Christopher drops onto the floor beside the bed. No hesitation. No uncertainty. The complete confidence of someone who has never learned to treat love like it can break.
“I had maths today,” he announces.
Buck blinks once.
Christopher keeps going before a response becomes necessary. “And Ms Flores said my graph was neat, but I think she only said that because Tyler’s looked really bad.”
Eddie makes a quiet sound that might be correction and might be amusement. “Christopher.”
“What?” Christopher looks genuinely confused. “It was bad.”
Buck looks at him. Not fully present. But listening.
Christopher notices and shifts more comfortably against the bed. “The lines were all crooked,” he continues seriusly. “And he forgot labels. Which is, like, the whole point of graphs.”
Buck’s mouth almost moves. Not a smile. Just something remembering one. Eddie notices immediately. Buck pretends not to.
Christopher keeps talking. School. Lunch. Someone falling asleep during reading. A science debate that apparently mattered deeply to exactly thirty twelve year olds. None of it matters. That’s what makes it matter.
Buck doesn’t say much. Small sounds. Tiny nods. Responses that arrive half a second late. But he listens. Not because he has energy for it.
Because Christopher talks like Buck being here is the least unusual thing in the world. No careful checking. No waiting for Buck to prove he’s okay enough to participate. Just - inclusion. Like it never occurred to him to do anything else.
Buck feels Eddie shift against the doorway. Doesn’t look. Can still feel it. Not panic. Something quieter. Fear held carefully enough not to spill.
And suddenly Buck understands. Eddie thought this might go badly. Maybe he thought Buck would disappear further. Maybe Christopher would say the wrong thing. Maybe normal would feel unbearable.
Instead - Christopher talks. Buck listens. The room stays standing.
Christopher eventually pushes himself up and climbs onto the bed beside him without asking. The mattress dips.
Buck stiffens automatically. Christopher notices. Pauses. Not hurt. Just recalibrates. Then settles again - slower this time. Shoulder brushing Buck’s arm briefly before going still.
“You’re really quiet.”
Eddie straightens. Buck feels the room tighten.
Christopher notices that too. Looks toward Eddie. “What?”
“Nothing,” Eddie says too quickly.
Buck looks down at his hands. The room waits. Then - “I’m just tired.” First full sentence since he got here.
Christopher nods immediately. “Oh.” Then, matter of fact - “Yeah. Hospitals are exhausting.” Like that explains everything. Like that’s enough. Maybe right now it is.
Something loosens in Buck. Not relief. Not healing. Just no pressure.
Christopher leans back against the headboard. “You can still watch the movie with us later if you want.”
Buck’s first instinct is no. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because wanting things feels complicated right now. Heavy. Easier to refuse before expectation starts forming around him.
But Christopher keeps talking before Buck can answer. “Dad said I could pick this time even though the last movie was ‘emotionally devastating.’” He does air quotes badly.
Eddie sighs. “It was a docummentary about mountain climbers dying.”
Christopher shrugs. “They only died at the end.”
“That does not improve it.”
Christopher looks unconvinced.
Buck feels something shift. Small. So small he almost misses it. Not amusement. Just the memory of amusement.
Christopher looks back at him. “This one’s animated.” A beat. “Nobody dies.”
“That you know of,” Eddie mutters.
“Dad.”
Buck’s mouth twitches. Tiny. Gone immediately. But Eddie sees it. Buck watches him notice. The way something changes in Eddie’s face for half a second before he smooths it back into neutral. Too quickly. Too carefully. Like reacting too much might scare the moment away.
Something strange settles in Buck’s chest. Christopher either doesn’t notice - or chooses not to.
“So,” he says again, quieter this time, “you can watch it if you want.” Not pushing. Just offering.
Buck looks at him. “I’ll see.”
Christopher brightens instantly. Apparently that means yes. “Cool. We’re ordering pizza.”
Eddie looks over. “Were we?”
“We are now.”
Eddie shakes his head. No real resistance. But his attention keeps drifting back to Buck. Quick checks. Almost involuntary. Like he’s reassuring himself Buck is still here.
Buck notices every one. The constant awareness. The restraint underneath it. Eddie hasn’t asked if he’s okay once. Somehow that feels louder than if he had.
Christopher slides lower against the headboard. Entirely settled now. Like Buck being here has already become part of the evening.
“You can have the good blanket too,” he says generously. “The soft one.”
Eddie nods solemnly. “The highest honour.”
Christopher ignores him. “Dad usually steals it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You literally do.”
Conversation keeps moving after that. Easy. Light. Christopher talking. Eddie responding.
And for the first time since leaving the hospital - Buck doesn’t feel like silence is swallowing him whole. He barely speaks. But listening doesn’t feel like work. And for now - that feels close enough.
The movie still happens. Christopher insists on it with the kind of certainty only children have - the belief that routine itself is non negotiable.
Pizza gets ordered. Blankets appear in the living room. The television casts warm light over the house as evening settles properly outside.
Buck doesn’t really join. He sits in the armchair furthest from the screen, angled slightly away from it like direct engagement with something loud and brightly animated requires more than he has.
Christopher talks through half the opening scene anyway. Narrates details nobody asked him to narrate. Buck listens in pieces. A joke that lands too far away to matter properly. The smell of cooling pizza. Christopher laughing too loudly at something harmless.
The room keeps moving around him while he stays still inside it. At some point Christopher stops checking whether Buck’s watching. That helps.
Eddie notices everything anyway. The slight flinch when the soundtrack swells. The way Buck’s attention drifts halfway through scenes. The way exhaustion settles deeper as the evening stretches on - not dramatic, just cumulative. But Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just keeps leaving Buck places to stay connected.
“Want another slice?”
Buck looks down at his plate. Like he forgot it existed. “Oh.” A pause. “Maybe later.”
Eddie nods once. Leaves it there. No encourgement. No correction. Just acceptance that Buck answered.
By the end of the movie Buck feels slow around the edges. Even reaching for his drink feels delayed, like the message has to travel further than it used to before his body obeys.
Christopher is somehow still full of energy. Talking over the ending like it personally offended him.
Eddie stands and starts gathering plates. “Okay,” he says. “Bedtime.”
“That’s fascism.”
“That’s nine o’clock.”
Christopher groans dramatically but gets up.
Buck watches the movement around him like it belongs to somebody else. The house shifts gears. Bathroom light. Cupboards opening. Christopher arguing about toothpaste like the outcome matters. Routine continues whether Buck participates or not.
He stays in the living room. Eddie disappears down the hall with Christopher, then comes back briefly. Looks at Buck once. Not a question. Just checking. Then disappears again.
Eventually Buck ends up in the kitchen without remembering deciding to move. There’s a plate in front of him. Cold pizza. He looks at it for a long time. Not avoiding it. Just unable to connect action to intention.
The kitchen light hums overhead. From the hallway - Christopher’s voice. Muffled through brushing teeth and bedtime negotiations. Eddie answers automatically. Steady. Easy.
Buck notices something underneath that. Eddie adjusting the shape of the evening around him without ever making it visible. Never too close. Never too far. Present in careful intervals.
Buck eats when prompted. Stops halfway through. Forgets to continue. By the time Eddie comes back, Buck is staring somewhere beyond the table.
Eddie notices the untouched plate. “You should eat a little more.” Quiet. Not instruction. Just something placed gently in the room.
Buck looks down. “Oh.” He takes another bite because deciding not to feels harder. Chewing feels strangely expensive.
Silence settles after that. Comfortable.
Christopher yells something unintelligible from his room. Eddie answers immediately. Buck’s mouth almost moves. Almost. Eddie notices. Of course he does.
The house quiets in stages. Doors closing. Television off. Light narrowing. Night settling.
Buck ends up back on the couch without remembering getting there. Eddie sits nearby. Not close enough to crowd him. Not far enough to disappear. A measured distance. Neither of them talks.
The silence feels different now. Less fragile. Shared.
Buck stares at the dark television. His body feels delayed at the edges. Like everything reaches him a few seconds late.
After a while Eddie says - “You want a shower?”
Buck blinks. The question takes time to arrive. Then he nods. Small. But he doesn’t move.
Eddie waits. Then stands. “Come on.”
Buck follows eventually. The hallway is dim now. Reduced to outlines and softer light. Buck stops in the bathroom doorway. Doesn’t go in. Light spills across the floor. Clean towels folded neatly. An ordinary room. Suddenly difficult to enter.
Eddie notices immediately. “You okay?”
Buck’s fingers curl once. Then loosen. He looks tired in a way that feels deeper than being tired.
Eddie steps closer. Careful. “I can help.”
Silence.
Shame arrives instantly. Too fast. Too familiar. Because he should be able to do this. It’s just a shower. Except right now it isn’t just anything. Not for him. Not for whatever version of himself he’s trying to catch back up to.
Buck closes his eyes briefly. Then nods. “Okay.”
Eddie doesn’t react. Doesn’t make it bigger. He shifts straight into action. Steady. “Sit for a second.” He guides Buck onto the closed toilet seat.
Buck sits. And suddenly he feels how tired he actually is. Eddie crouches in front of him. Pauses. Not hesitation. Looking. Up close, the injuries are harder to ignore. Bruises fading unevenly. Thin cuts. Scraped skin that’s technically healing but still looks recent.
But what Eddie notices first isn’t that. It’s the weight. The way Buck’s clothes sit differently. The sharper line of his collarbone. The way his arms seem narrower when he moves.
Eddie doesn’t react. But something in his focus tightens. Buck sees it. Humiliation rises immediately.
“Any dizziness?”
“A little.”
Eddie nods. “Okay.” Then - “Slow.”
He starts the shower. Tests the water. Steam begins to rise. Buck watches without really taking it in.
Eddie comes back. “Stand for me.”
Buck does. Too slowly. The room shifts. Eddie steadies him immediately with a hand at his forearm. Not holding. Just there. Buck hates how necessary it feels.
Eddie helps him out of his clothes with quiet efficiency. Nothing awkward. Nothing careful in a way that would make it embarrassing. Just practical. Buck looks anywhere except at him.
When he steps under the water - it should feel grounfding. Instead it feels distant. Like sensation has to cross too much space before it reaches him.
Eddie stays nearby. Close enough. His hands are steady when he washes Buck’s hair. No roughness. No rushing.
Buck barely responds. At one point Eddie notices the way Buck’s shoulders sink too easily between breaths. The way standing itself seems heavier than it should.
“You’ve lost weight.” Quiet. Not accusation. Just observation.
Buck doesn’t answer.
Eddie doesn’t ask again.
Eddie keeps going. Methodical. Present. Buck tries to wash himself. Gets halfway. Stops. The washcloth hangs loose in his hand. His arm doesn’t move.
Eddie takes it gently. No comment. No pity. Just - continuation.
The shower ends. Cold air hits immediately. Buck shivers harder than he expects. Eddie wraps a towel around his shoulders without hesitation. Then another around his hair. He dries him. Buck stays still through it. Too tired to pretend he doesn’t need help.
When Eddie reaches his wrists, he pauses. The bandages are damp. Carefully loosened by the water.
He looks at them for a second before asking quietly - “Can I change these?”
Buck hesitates. Then nods.
Eddie kneels. Removes the wet dressing carefully. Checks the healing skin underneath without reacting. Buck looks at the floor. Humiliation arrives automatically. But softer now. Less sharp.
Eddie cleans and rewraps his wrists and hand with steady hands. Fresh gauze. Fresh tape. No commentary. Then his legs. Replacing damp dressings over fading bruises and healing skin with the same quiet attention.
Halfway through, almost absent mindedly - “You’re okay.”
Buck doesn’t answer. But something in him loosens anyway.
When Eddie finishes, he stands and offers a hand. Buck looks at it. Then takes it. His grip feels weak. Eddie holds anyway. Buck sways. Eddie steadies him immediately. “Easy.”
Buck nods.
This time, when Eddie leads him back down the hallway - Buck doesn’t resist. The house feels different now. Quieter. Dimmer. Fully asleep.
Eddie walks him slowly to the room at the end of the hall. Buck pauses outside. Like stepping fully inside means admitting something he isn’t ready to name. Then he goes in.
Eddie stays just behind him. Not pushing. Not leaving. Just there.
Buck sits on the edge of the bed. Clean clothes. Clean bandages. The mattress shifts underneath him. Real. Solid.
Eddie steps forward long enough to pull the blanket around his shoulders. Buck doesn’t move again. Eddie doesn’t ask him to.
The room feels unfamiliar in a way that isn’t comforting yet. Buck notices pieces of it. Soft light. Neutral bedding. Nothing loud. Nothing demanding. He doesn’t experience any of it as comfort. Just difference.
Eddie shifts. “You should try and sleep.”
Buck nods once. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.
Eddie watches him another second. Then crosses the room. Not close enough to crowd. Close enough to help. “C’mon.”
Buck stands when prompted. His body feels separate from decision now. Moving because movement has been suggested. Eddie helps him lie down. Buck doesn’t resist. Doesn’t settle either. Just folds into the mattress in a way that makes exhaustion look heavier than sleep.
Eddie pulls the blanket up. Careful. Precise. Like all night he’s been working inside margins he can’t see. Buck’s eyes stay open. Not focused. Just open. Eddie hesitates beside the bed. Only for a second. But Buck notices. Like leaving takes effort. Like maybe it always does.
Then - “You’re okay.” Soft. Not a question. Not reassurance exactly. Just something placed gently between them.
Buck doesn’t answer.
Eddie nods once anyway. Then turns.
At the door he pauses. Hand on the frame. Checks one last time. Buck is still there. Still awake. Still here. Eddie leaves the door open. Not wide. Not closed. Just enough.
Then he goes. The house changes after that. Not in sound. Everything is already quiet. In weight. Stillness becomes something physical. Buck lies there.
The ceiling is unfamiliar. His mind catches on that first. Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar quiet. His body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
Sleep doesn’t come. Instead - awareness. His breathing. Sheets against his skin. Fresh bandages. The fact that he’s here. Alive. Not in the hospital. Not somewhere he knows how to be.
Time stops behaving normally. Minutes pass without shape. Thoughts drift. Hospital lights. Hands. Machines. Voices that sounded detached from reality. That strange feeling of existing between states. Not gone. Not fully returned.
Then - Eddie’s house. Christopher’s voice. Pizza. The movie. The way Christopher looked at him like there wasn’t something wrong with him. That lands strangely. Not painful. Not comforting. Just… too many things existing together.
And underneath all of it - the attempt. Not as memory. Not replaying. Just there. A fact. A point in time that still exists.
Buck waits for something to happen. Fear. Grief. Shock. Something. Nothing comes. That feels wrong. Not the absence of emotion. The awareness of it.
He stares harder at the ceiling. Like effort might force feeling into place. Nothing changes. And suddenly that absence becomes its own discomfort. Because shouldn’t he feel something? Shouldn’t there be edges?
Instead - tired. Confused.
Why isn’t it bigger? Why isn’t it anything? The thoughts circle. Never land.
Buck turns into the pillow. The room stays quiet. He tries to make himself feel something. That doesn’t work either. What comes instead is worse.
Observation. He’s here. People are helping him. Eddie changed his bandages like it wasn’t strange. Christopher talked to him like he still belonged. That should mean something. Shouldn’t it?
And when the feeling doesn’t arrive - something sharp catches. Then - guilt. Not for what happened. For not feeling enough about what happened. That lands.
Buck exhales quietly. The sound disappears. He shifts. Stops. Still.
Somewhere in the house - a creak. His chest tightens. Not fear. Just awareness. Without meaning to - he listens for Eddie. Nothing follows.
The room doesn’t comfort him. But it doesn’t threaten him either. That feels closer to safety than anything else. Though even that word feels difficult. Safety from what?
Buck turns onto one side. Then the other. Nothing feels right. Every position feels temporary. He closes his eyes. Opens them again. Sleep isn’t interested. Time continues.
After a while - a sound. Soft movemewnt in the hallway. The door opens slightly wider. Eddie. Only enough to look in. Not entering. Just checking. Buck is awake. Eddie sees it. Doesn’t speak. Buck doesn’t either.
The silence feels familiar now. Different from easy. But familiar. Eddie gives one small nod. Still here. Then leaves again. Thedoor stays open. Buck watches the gap after he’s gone.
Eventually - he sits up. Slowly. His feet touch the floor. Barely. He looks toward the hallway. For a second - he thinks about leaving the room. Not panic. Not urgency. Just the vague sense that somewhere else might feel easier.
He sits like that. Hands in his lap. Not moving. Not deciding. Then - he doesn’t go. The decision barely feels like one. More absence than action. But it happens. Buck leans back. The mattress shifts. The ceiling returns. Still there. Still unchanged.
His eyes feel heavier now. Not comfort. Just exhaustion finally overtaking everything else. Thoughts continue. Hospital. Eddie. Christopher. The attempt. The absence. The guilt about the absence. Everything slowly loses shape. Until even thinking feels too heavy.
His breathing evens out. The room stays quiet. The door stays open. And eventually - Buck sleeps. Not peacefully. Not safely. But completely.
For the first time since leaving the hospital - he stops holding himself awake. For tonight - that’s enough.
Eddie makes it to his bedoom before he breaks. Barely. The door closes behind him with a soft click and suddenly the entire day catches up all at once.
His knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sits hard. Leans forward. Elbows on his thighs. Breathing too fast. The room is dark. The house is quiet.
Buck is down the hall. Alive. And somehow that makes everything hit harder. Because Eddie can still see it.
Not the hospital. Not discharge paperwork or medication instructions or doctors speaking in calm voices over something that never felt calm.
Before that. The loft. Rain. The moment his brain understood before the rest of him did. The cold rush of fear. The certainty that something was wrong. The feeling of moving before thought caught up.
Eddie presses his hands into his eyes. It doesn’t help. He found him. That thought keeps returning. Not someone else. Him. Buck not moving. Buck too still. Buck not answering. And the sound of his own voice - calling Buck’s name - won’t leave.
His chest tightens so sharply it turns breathing into something mechanical. For a second he thinks he might be sick. “How did I miss it?” The words come out rough. They break halfway through.
Because underneath the fear - there’s something worse. He should’ve noticed. Should’ve seen something. Asked different questions. Asked the same questions harder. Pushed past the jokes. Pushed past I’m fine.
Eddie believed him. Or maybe - maybe he wanted to. Because the alternative felt impossible.
A breath catches. Then another. And suddenly he’s crying. He doesn’t notice it starting. One second breathing. The next - not.
He folds forward. One hand gripping the back of his neck. The other pressed hard over his mouth. The feeling isn’t clean. Not sadness. Panic. Guilt. Anger. Mostly at himself. Because Buck is here now. Sleeping - or trying to. And Eddie still doesn’t know if he knows how to help.
Buck stays. Eddie takes care of him. Simple. Except it doesn’t feel simple at all. What if he misses something again? What if Buck gets worse right in front of him - and Eddie still doesn’t see it? The thought makes his stomach turn.
He drags in a breath. Forces himself upright. His face hurts. His eyes burn. He wipes at them hard. Trying to get himself under control. The house stays quiet. Too quiet.
And underneath everything - one thought presses harder. What if Buck leaves? Not emotionally. Physically. Gets up. Walks out the front door. And Eddie sleeps through it. That thought gets him moving immediately.
He stands too fast. Swipes at his face once more. Heads into the hallway. The floor creaks. He pauses outside Buck’s room. The light through the partly open door tells him enough. Still awake.
Eddie pushes the door gently. Buck is sitting up. Back against the headboard. Looking at nothing. His eyes shift toward Eddie after a second. Slow. Distant. Still here. Relief hits Eddie so suddenly his knees almost give.
Buck either doesn’t notice the red eyes - or doesn’t have the energy to process them. Eddie is grateful for that. Because he cannot survive Buck seeing him come apart right now. Not when Buck already looks like he’s carrying enough.
Eddie stays near the door. Doesn’t step further in. Doesn’t speak. Just looks. Buck looks exhausted. Not tired. Exhausted. Bandages visible against the blankets. The sight twists something in Eddie’s chest again.
After a moment - he nods. Small. Then leaves. Back in his room, he sits on the bed. Breathing steadier. Fear unchanged. Maybe worse. Because Buck hadn’t looked upset. Or frightened.
Just - distant. Like parts of him still hadn’t come back yet. And Eddie doesn’t know how to reach someone like that. That terrifies him.
Eventually he lies down. Doesn’t sleep. Every sound in the house pulls him awake. Pipes. Christopher turning over. The refrigerator humming. He checks the clock. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
Eventually he stops pretending. Gets up again. The hallway feels colder. His thoughts narrower now. Less chaos. One fear. What if Buck is gone?
By the time he reaches the room his chest hurts. He opens the door immediately. And stops. Buck is asleep. Actually asleep. Not staring. Not awake in the dark. Asleep.
The room is quiet except for breathing. Slow. Even. Buck’s face is turned into the pillow. Some of the tension gone. He looks younger somehow. Like exhaustion finally dragged him under.
Eddie stands completely still. Something in him breaks open all over again. Relief arrives too fast. Too big. Because Buck stayed. Because he’s still here. Because for tonight - sleep won.
Eddie presses his hand over his mouth. Emotion catches anyway. One tear. Then another. He wipes them away immediately. It doesn’t help.
Buck shifts slightly. Settles again. Still breathing. Alive. Safe. Here.
Eddie watches him. The fear is still there. Maybe it will stay for a while. But underneath it - something else. Buck made it through the first night. Messily. Barely. But he did.
Eddie exhales. Quiet. Then steps back into the hallway. Leaves the door open. Not fully. Never fully. And this time - when Eddie goes back to bed - exhaustion finally catches him too.
Morning arrives gradually. Not gently. Just inevitably. The house begins waking before the sun fully clears the horizon.
Small sounds thread through the quiet one at a time until silence stops being possible. Pipes shifting. A cupboard opening. Christopher’s footsteps - quick, uneven, physically incapable of being quiet even when he tries.
Buck hears all of it from somewhere deep beneath sleep. For a while - he doesn’t move. The room stays dim. Early light filters through the curtains in pale blue.
His body feels heavy. Not tired. Weighted. Like gravity increased overnight and settled separately into every limb.
He stares at the ceiling. Different ceiling. Still unfamiliar. The thought arrives blankly. No feeling attached to it.
His wrist aches beneath fresh bandages. The bruises along his ribs feel deeper this morning. Hospital medication has worn off. Adrenaline too. Even breathing feels stiff.
Down the hall - Christopher laughs. Loud. Buck flinches before he can stop himself. Not because the sound is bad. Because it’s alive. Bright. Sharp around the edges in a way his brain still doesn’t know what to do with.
Then Eddie’s voice. Lower. Rougher than yesterday. “Inside voice, buddy.”
“I am using my inside voice.”
“You absolutely are not.”
A pause. Then Chistopher again - slightly quieter for approximately two seconds.
Buck closes his eyes. The world keeps continuing. That feels strange. For a moment he considers staying where he is. Not forever. Just longer. Long enough for the house to continue without needing him to join it. But eventually the awareness of himself becomes uncomfortable.
Still here. Still in the bed. Still being accounted for. So he moves. Slowly. Sitting up takes more effort than it should. His ribs pull. His legs ache. His head swims briefly. He waits. Then stands.
The hallway is brighter than expected. Morning light stretches across the floor in pale gold. The smell reaches him first. Coffee. Toast. Something sweet Christopher probably negotiated into breakfast.
Buck pauses halfway down the hall. The kitchen comes into view. Christopher is already dressed for school. Talking fast enough that half his words blur together.
His backpack hangs from the chair beside him - unzipped. Papers spilling out. Eddie stands at the counter holding coffee like it’s the only thing currently keeping him vertical.
Buck stops. Eddie looks exhausted. Not ordinary tired. Something deeper. His shirt is wrinkled. Shadows under his eyes. His movements steady - but a fraction slower than usual. Like his body is functioning mostly through habit.
Buck watches him for a second too long. Eddie notices. Their eyes meet. Something flashes across Eddie’s face first. Relief. Gone almost immediately. Smoothed carefully into something softer.
“Morning.”
Buck nods. His voice feels too unused to trust.
Christopher turns in his chair so quickly he nearly launches his orange juice. “Buck!” Bright. Immediate. Like Buck disappearing overnight never crossed his mind. “You missed the pancake disaster.”
“There wasn’t a disaster,” Eddie says.
“There was smoke.”
“That was one pancake.”
“It was very smoky.”
Something pulls faintly at the corner of Buck’s chest. Not amusement. Just recognition. The shape of amusement.
Christopher beams anyway. Apparently satisfied Buck exists within conversation range.
“You want breakfast?” Eddie asks. The question lands strangely. Because Eddie says it carefully. Carefully on purpose. Like he’s trying to make every interaction feel ordinary.
Buck looks toward the counter. Two plates. One Christopher’s. One - already made. Prepared before Buck came out. Something settles heavily in his chest.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Eddie nods once. Like that answer matters more than it should.
Buck moves to the table. Slowly. Hyperaware of being watched without Eddie making it obvious. Subtle. Constant. Every movement noticed. Every pause registered. Buck sits.
Christopher immediately resumes where he apparently left off. “And then Dad tried to flip it too early -”
“I did not.”
“You literally dropped it.”
“It folded.”
“It exploded.”
Buck looks down at his plate. Pancake. Eggs. Toast. Fruit cut unevenly. Christopher’s work. The food feels far away. Like something intended for someone else. He picks up the fork anyway.
Conversation continues. School. A spelling test. Detention. A very serious debate involving sharks and impossible distances. Eddie answers automatically. But Buck can still feel the attention underneath it. Watching. Waiting. Not for conversation. For signs.
Buck understands suddenly - Eddie is checking constantly. For withdrawal. For panic. For something getting worse. But Buck doesn’t have anything to give him. No collapse. No dramatic feeling. Just this strange suspended emptiness that makes everything feel dulled at the edges.
He cuts into the pancake. Eats because people are noticing whether he does. It tastes like almost nothing.
Christopher keeps talking. And somehow - that helps.
Buck catches Eddie looking over whenever he thinks Buck won’t notice. Checking the plate. Checking his posture. Checking if he’s still there. Buck wants to tell him to stop. Except - he understands why he can’t.
Christopher finally pauses long enough to inhale half a glass of orange juice. The kitchen goes briefly quiet. And in that quiet - Buck notices something else.
Eddie’s exhaustion isn’t physical. Or not only physical. It’s vigilance. Like he hasn’t fully unclenched since the loft. Like every second Buck stays in sight is something Eddie is actively maintaining. The realisation hurts more than Buck expects.
Eddie catches him looking. “What?”
Buck shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Eddie doesn’t push. But something shifts anyway.
Christopher suddenly slides off his chair. “I forgot my science sheet.”
“You forgot it yesterday too.”
“That was a different science sheet.”
Christopher disappears down the hallway. The kitchen changes immediately. Quieter. More fragile. Buck looks down at his plate. Eddie doesn’t look away this time. No pretending. No hiding it.
Buck can practically see the restraint in him - all the questions being held back. All the fear compressed into manageable pieces.
Finally, Eddie exhales softly and drags a hand over his face. “You sleep at all?”
Buck thinks about the ceiling. The silence. The doorway opening briefly during the night. “Some.”
Eddie nods slowly. Like he’s translating the answer into something larger. Another pause. “You feeling okay?”
Buck almost laughs. Okay how? Physically. Mentally. Generally. Existentially. Instead he settles on the only honest answer he has. “I don’t know.”
The words sit between them. Eddie doesnt correct them. Doesn’t reassure him. Just lets them exist. And somehow that feels steadier than comfort would.
Christopher barrels back into the kitchen carrying three loose papers and a pencil. “Found it.”
“You’re gonna lose it again before first lesson,” Eddie says.
“No I’m not.”
“If you say so.”
Buck watches them move around each other. Easy. Practised. Alive. The house feels full in a way his loft never did. Not quieter. Not calmer. Just - inhabited. Messy with people existing inside it.
Christopher eventually finishes breakfast and starts gathering everything for school. Eddie stands automatically to help. Buck watches. And slowly - without fully noticing - he picks up his fork again. Another bite. Then another.
Eddie glances over while helping Christopher search for a missing book. His eyes flick to Buck’s plate. Then immediately away. No comment. But Buck catches it anyway. Relief. Small. Careful. Too significant for something this ordinary.
Christopher shoulders his backpack. “Ready.”
“You said that last week and then forgot shoes.”
“I have shoes.”
“Miracle.”
Christopher rolls his eyes dramatically and heads toward the door.
Eddie follows. Then pauses. Looks back. Buck sees it immediately. The hesitation. The calculation. Leaving him alone. Even briefly. Eddie tries to hide it. But exhaustion has worn through some of the control.
“You gonna be okay here for a bit?” The question isn’t casual enough to pretend otherwise. Guilt rises instantly. Because Eddie looks exhausted. Because Buck did this. Because now even school drop off feels complicated.
Buck nods. “Yeah.”
Eddie studies him. A second too long. Like trust feels difficult right now. Finally - he nods. “Okay.” But he still doesn’t move.
Christopher appears again. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Eddie grabs his keys. Looks at Buck one more time. Still worrried. Still watching.
And Buck realises suddenly - Eddie doesn’t think this is something he can fix. Not quickly. Maybe not at all. This isn’t waiting for the right thing to say. It’s endurance. Staying. Waiting long enough for Buck to come back to himself.
Eddie opens the front door. “I’ll be back soon.”
Buck nods again.
Christopher waves dramatically. “Don’t let Dad buy weird healthy cereal while I’m gone.”
“I’m literally standing right here.”
The door closes. And suddenly - the house is quiet again. Not empty. Paused.
Buck stays at the table. Morning light stretches across the counters. The coffee machine hums softly. Outside, a car passes.
Eventually he looks down. His plate is empty. That feels strangely significant. Not accomplishment. Evidence.
His hands rest loosely in his lap. He stares at the sunlight. Coffee. Syrup. Laundry detergent somewhere deeper in the house. Normal house smells. Normal morning smells. Everything suggests ordinary life.
The problem is - Buck still feels separate from it. Like he’s watching someone else’s existence from slightly too far away.
Then - his stomach twists. Sharp enough to cut through everything. Buck blinks. The nausea had been there during breakfast. Quiet. Background noise. He ignored it. Ignoring things feels automatic now. But this rises fast. Hard.
He stands too quickly. The room shifts immediately. His hand catches the counter. Waits for the dizziness. Moves. The bathroom is halfway down the hall. He barely makes it. The door hits the wall behind him. He drops to his knees.
And then - everything comes back up. His ribs protest immediately. His wrist aches where he braces himself. There isn’t much. Coffee. Breakfast. Too little to justify how awful it feels.
When it stops - his body trembles. Not dramatically. Just suddenly emptied.
He stays there. Breathing too hard. Tile cold under his knees. His throat burns. And underneath all of it - shame. Immediate. Automatic. Because Eddie watched him eat. Because Eddie looked relieved. Because Buck couldn’t even keep breakfast.
His stomach twists again. Nothing else comes.
Eventually he forces himself upright. Flushes. Looks up. The mirror catches him. He looks worse than he expected. Paler. Thinner. Eyes darker. Hair uneven across his forehead. Shoulders curved inward. Like his body still hasn’t reembered how to take up space.
He stares too long. Then looks away. Rinses his mouth. Washes his hands. Everything feels mechanical. Like following instructions someone else left behind.
When he leaves the bathroom - the house feels too quiet again. He drifts into the living room because it requires less decision making than anything else.
The couch is exactly where it was last night. Blankets folded badly over one arm. Christopher’s abandoned sock by the coffee table.
Buck sits. And stays there. Time stretches strangely. Not measured. Just passing.
Eventually he realises - he’s listening for Eddie’s car. Without meaning to. The thought unsettles him. Because it feels too close to wanting something. Wanting company. Wanting someone there. Wanting -
Buck cuts the thought off before it finishes.
The front door opens earlier than expected. Buck looks up before he means to. Eddie steps inside. Stops the second he sees him. And Buck watches something loosen in him. Relief. Again. Immediate. Visible.
Buck hates how obvious it’s becoming.
“You okay?” The question lands softly this time.
Buck opens his mouth. Nothing comes out immdeily. Because the truthful answer changes every few minutes. “I think so.”
Eddie studies him before slowly walking further into the living room. Buck becomes aware again of how careful Eddie moves around him now. Eddie sits in the armchair across from the couch. Not too close. Not too far.
Buck recognises the deliberate distance. For a while neither of them say anything. The quiet settles between them. Not comfortable but famialri now.
Edie rubs tiredly at one eyes before leaning back slightly. “You want coffee or something?
Buck shakes his head.
Another silence.
Then Eddie tries again. “You hurting anywhere worse today?”
Buck thinks about it. Everywhere. “Not really.”
Eddie nods slowly. Accepts the answer even though neither of them fully believer it.
The conversation moves strangely after that. Not natural exactly. More like Eddie trying to keep a thread connected between them no matter how little Buck gives back.
Talking about random things. Christopher forgetting homework twice last week. The tumble dryer making weird noises again. Traffic near the station. Buck answers when required. Small responses. Delayed. Eddie keeps going anywa.
And slowly Buck realises something unfomtable. Eddie is talkign because silence scares him not. Not ordinary silence. Buck silence. The kind that didn’t exist before the cliffe.
Edie pasues eventually halfway through a sentence about food shopping. His expression changes lsightly. Focus sharpiing. Buck sees it happen in real time.
“What?” Buck asks quietly.
Eddie doesn’t answer immdely. Instead he tiltes his head slightly. Lile he’s listening for something. “Did you throw up?”
Buck freezes. Not visibly at first. Just internally.
Eddie’s expression tightens instantly at the reaction alone. Then he exhales slowly. “You smell like it,” he says gently.
Buck looks away immediately. Shame hits so hard. “I’m sorry.” The apology slips out.
Eddie’s face changes at that. Not anger. Something more complicated. Frustration tnaglied tightly with guilt and fear. “At what point,” Eddie asks quietly, “did I make you think you need to apologise for being sick?”
Buck doesn’t know how to answer. Because logically he understand Eddie mean it. Emotionally it still feels like failure.
Eddie leans forward slightly in the chair, elbows resting against his knees now. “When?”
Buck stares at the floor. “I just -” His throat tightens unexpectedly. “I couldn;t keep it down.”
Eddie closes his eyes breielfy. Buck watches exhaustion move visily across his face. Not irritation at Buck. at hismelf. At the situation. At the terrifying reality that care alone doesne’t fix anything.
“You should’ve told me.”
Buck almost laughs at the simplicity of that sentence. Told him what exactly? That eating feels wrong? That existing physically inside a body still feels unbearable? That shames arrives faster than though now? Instead Buck just syas quietly: “I didn’t want you to worry more.”
Edide’s expression breaks slightly. “Buck,” he says softly, sounding genuinely lost for the first time since the hsotpail, “I don’t know how not to.”
The honestly in it lands heavily. Not dramatic. Ust exhausted truth. Buck looks down at his bandages. The room stays quiet for a moment too long.
Then Eddie asks, “Do you know why you threw up?”
Buck thinks about it. The food sitting heavy in his stomach. The nausea. The panci that arrived halfway through breakfast for no identifiable reason. The feeling of ebing watchign while eating. The overwhelming awareness of taking up space at Eddie’s table.
“I don’t know,” he admits fianlly.
Eddie nods once.
But Buck can see him thinking too hard behind the silence now. Calculating. Assessing. Trying to determine risk. Trying to determine what kind of damage still exists inside Buck and how visible it actually is.
Eddie rubs both hands over his face hard. Then asks the question carefully enough that Buck knows he’s been building toward it all day. “Do you think you still want to hurt yourself?”
Buck stops breathing for a second. The question doesn’t shock him. But he genuinely doesn’t know how to answer. The silence stretches. Eddie waits. Buck stares at the floor so hard his vision blurs slightly.
“I don’t know.” The words sound terrible spoken aloud. Too uncertain. Too honest.
Eddie’s face tightens. Not at Buck. at the answer itself. At the impossibility of knowing what to do with it. Buck sees the panic flicker briefly beneath Eddie’s control before he forces it back down again.
Eddie leans back slowly in the chair. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Okay,” he says quietly, though it clearly isn’t okay at all.
Another silence.
Eddie looks toward the kitchen unconsciously. Buck follows the flance. Knife vlock on the counter. Medication cabinet nearby. Normal household objects suddenly transformed into question neither of them know how to answer.
Eddie exhales shakily, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” he admits finally.
Buck looks back at him.
Eddie laughs once softly without humour. “Do I hide the knives?” he asks quietly. “Lock up medication? Watch you every second you’re awake?”
Each options sounds impossible spoken aloud. Buck’s chest tightens painfully. Because Eddie sounds terrified. And Buck still doesn’t know what the correct answer is either.
“I don’t know,” Buck says again. The helplessness in the room feels enormous. Eddie looks away bareilly. Toward the hallway. Toward the front door. Anywhere except directly at Buck for a second. Then back again.
And underneath the exhaustion, underneath the fear and frustration and uncertaitniyt, Buck sees something else there too. Detemiantion. Not confidence. Not certaitny. Just refusal. Eddie still doesn’t know how to help him. But he isn;t leaving anyway.
Neither of them speaks after that. The house remains still around them. Morning light stretches slowly across the living room floor. And for now - that is enough.