A dog runs into the street after a ball and gets hit by a car.
[[RUN|StoryInit]] The station always smells good like a kitchen smells good. Or like- how good kitchens smell good. Not good like fancy, but good like there are people in it, people who use it. His mom and dad didn’t really like cooking, though Buck kind of misses Margaret’s potato salad sometimes. She put the right amount of pickles in there. Anyway the first day Buck walks in there’s food on the table and he gets a big plate of it, doesn’t even have to beg for scraps. Pasta, and he asks what kinda sauce is on there so he could look for it at the grocery store and the captain says he made it, from scratch, and Buck didn’t even know you could //do// that. He talks with his mouth full mostly because he’s too busy thinking, awed, about a world where food doesn't come readymade in a jar or can or plastic sleeve. Henrietta Wilson laughs at him.
“You’re worse than my 7 year old,” she shakes her head, smile big and pretty.
“Sorry,” he says, but he can't stop smiling and there's probably sauce all over his mouth. He feels kind of too big inside himself, shaking with big noisy energy. “I'm just- I’m, uh, happy to be here.”
She laughs — friendly, not mean — and nods. “You're practically wagging your tail.”
Howard “Chimney” Han grins at him, then looks to the captain. “We don't need to get a dalmatian after all, Cap.”
Robert Nash smiles, a little thing, the right corner of his mouth curling gently upward. “Bunch of strays, the lot of you.”
Chimney claps him on the shoulder. “You can't keep leaving out food for us if you don't want us to keep coming back.”
A dog-
Some guy on a rollercoaster doesn’t take Buck’s hand. Lets go of Buck’s hand. He doesn’t really remember if they actually touched, if he felt the warmth of a palm or sweat on fingers. He hit the ground hard and very far away. It’s funny — not haha — that rollercoasters have cars.
They kept talking after they fucked. Him and the therapist. She asked him more stuff. His tongue felt all weird and numb as he talked. Where'd you grow up Pennsylvania, what did your parents do they were teachers, what was your childhood like it was fine I don't know I guess it was fine, did you have any traumatic experiences uh I don't know, any losses I had a brother, how did he die what, how did your brother die?
Buck blinks. “I didn't have a brother. I-” he blinks again. “I had a dog.” He swallows around his buzzing teeth, licks his dry lips. “He got hit by a car.”
This is when he thinks about the rollercoaster car thing. After the therapist, when he's in the bathroom naked but instead of getting in the shower he's just kind of standing there breathing weird. Laughing. Not really laughing. It's not really funny.
Eddie and him are joking around, all thrown elbows and big grins, Eddie’s hair so tall and face so young. Buck’s arms are smaller now than they will be. Eddie points at a surgical scar on his left elbow.
”Did you break it?”
It would have been a rude question, too forward to demand answers about a person’s body barely a week after you’ve met, except like maybe five minutes ago Buck had asked him what it’s like to be shot, so that’s just kind of the conversation they’re having. (“Shitty,” had been Eddie’s reply.)
”Yeah,” Buck says trying to twist his arm around to look at it.
“Here, or-”
“Nah, when I was a kid.” Buck frowns, trying to remember which time it was, what stupid thing. “I, uh… I chased a ball into the street. Car hit me.”
Eddie throws his head back in a big guffaw. “Man, I know why Hen calls you a golden retriever.”
Buck flops his head over, lolls his tongue out, pants.
He heard his parents talking in the living room and then went to school and Riley told him about his dog that got hit by a car. He was supposed to be out of the house already but he forgot his backpack so ran back in to get it, really quietly because he gets in trouble when he forgets stuff. They were talking in the living room and they were also really quiet, about… a dog, that got hit by a car. They were talking about Riley's dog, that got hit by a car and died. But that can't be right, can it? They didn't know Riley. Maybe he got it backwards, maybe he came home after school and told them about the dog and he heard them talking about it later, after dinner when he snuck down stairs to steal a snack.
The dog died. The dog’s name was Daniel.
“Do you remember- uh, Riley?”
Maddie raises her eyebrows, like, //context?// “Who? From where?”
“In first grade. He was in first grade with me.”
Maddie snorts. “No, Evan, I don't remember your first grade classmates' names.”
“Oh.” She's been calling him Evan more, even though their parents got back in their stupid RV and drove and drove and drove away three weeks ago now. It's fine. He guesses it's fine. It's usually fine, it just has a bad taste in his mouth right now. “I think he had a dog.”
She laughs again. “Do you want a dog? You're an adult, you can do that if you want.”
“What?” Does he want a dog? “No, that's not- I work bad hours for a dog. A-and I don't think my apartment allows them.”
“Then why are you thinking about it?”
Buck shrugs. “It got hit by a car.”
“Oh god,” Maddie says, face pinching up in distress, hand going to her belly to protect the baby against cars maybe, or the very concept of violent accidents. “Was it okay?”
“Um,” Buck says. “I don't know. I think it died. Or I broke- it broke its arm. I don't know.”
He looked in the book and wasn’t supposed to and his shoulders slam into the wall, bones feeling the concrete through his skin. Snap and snarl. Bobby’s hands are on him and his teeth are close and he’s so mad, shit, he’s so mad. More than the firetruck thing or the fucking on the roof thing. He doesn’t want to get fired again, he’s been good he swears, he was just being stupid, he just wanted to know. A girl in ColoradoCarolinaChiclayo told him he should keep a diary because he can never keep his stories straight. He always just wants to know and doesn’t understand when the wrong time for knowing is. If he wrote things down maybe he’d remember better. Maybe that’s what was in Bobby’s book. Things he can't forget. His dad got mad at him once — got mad at him lots of times but there was this one time — and he got scared and ran to the road outside their house. Right into the street. He wasn’t very good at listening or remembering and he forgot that was dangerous. And then something bad happened.
The bad thing that happened was a plane crashed and Bobby snapped and snarled again but like a dying thing this time, a thing that wants to be left to die. He’s a dog in the street, too. Passed out and he’s not really moving and Buck’s pretty scared but Hen looks more sad than anything, and they get him woken up and sitting on the couch. This is after the plane crash, this is at Bobby’s apartment. Hen has his key in case something bad happens. Buck doesn’t know who he should give his key to, in case something bad happens.
“Help,” Bobby gasps, voice too high and too wet, and he’s sinking in on himself, shriveling, shrinking. He’s really small. Buck usually thinks about how big he is. He and Hen hang on tight, so he doesn’t disappear entirely.
Aleve is a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID). Naproxen works by reducing hormones that cause inflammation and pain in the body.
Aleve is used to temporarily relieve minor aches and pains due to arthritis, muscular aches, backache, menstrual cramps, headache, toothache,and the common cold. Aleve is also used to temporarily reduce fever.
Aleve may also be used for purposes not listed in this medication guide. 1
--
1 “Aleve: Drug Uses, Dosage & Side Effects.” Drugs.com. Accessed August 22, 2024. https://www.drugs.com/aleve.html. This is not really a proper use of a citation. This whole section was copy pasted wholesale from this webpage. Buck got in trouble for this in the one full semester of college he actually completed. He got in trouble for it in high school, too, but this was a different teacher and he thought maybe it would be okay this time. He complained about it to his dad and his dad got pissed. He shoulda figured. His dad taught English classes. //Jesus, Evan, did I never teach you anything? You have to use proper quotations around direct quotes. Why are you writing a paper about Aleve, anyway? I thought this was a creative writing class?// This part doesn't have a dog in it, sorry.
If Buck is a dog he's a bad dog. Eddie took Christopher home because he's small and wet and exhausted and Buck cries on his cot as soon as they're out of sight. He fucked up, he fucked it all up so bad forever and he'll probably never see Christopher again, wouldn't blame Eddie at all for the choice, he can be okay with it, but watching them walk out the doors right now feels like someone took all the blood out of him in one sharp yank.
Maddie gets to the field hospital and fusses, because while it wasn't one sharp yank, he has been losing blood at a steady and frightening rate all day. He weeps in her arms, useless to respond to her questions, shaking with exhaustion.
“I'm sorry,” he says, over and over, louder than whatever reassurances she's trying to give him. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I want to go home.”
“Okay,” she says. “It's alright. Evan- Buck, I'll take you home, your apartment is more inland, the traffic shouldn’t be so bad now, we’ll be home soon.”
He cries more, because he's not talking about the loft.
The first time another man makes him cum it's this: grinding down on Tommy's thigh as they make out until he spills in his pants. He laughs a little sheepishly afterwards. “Sorry I humped your leg like a dog.” Tommy smirks and says “Who's a good boy?” and Buck shivers so hard it's like his spine came to life and is trying to get out of him. Tommy's eyebrows go up and up and up.
Aleve may also be used for purposes not listed in this medication guide.
Margaret had a headache and took some Aleve and Buck, very young, said “I have a headache, too,” because he wanted to be grown up like her and grown ups got headaches. She smiled at him, indulgent, amused.
“Do you really have a headache, Evan?”
“Yeah!” He said, smiling because she was smiling. “Yeah I really do!”
His mom didn't laugh a lot but she laughed right then and cut a pill in half after she reads the bottle because it's not really recommended for kids under 12 but a little can't hurt. And Buck swallows it and doesn't even choke and then he runs off to play and she laughs again.
Except it's not true, he did choke on it, it just took a little while. He coughed and gasped and gasped and got blood all over Bobby's patio and his mom came in and found him on the living room floor with his lips all blue. Except… is that right? He was playing outside, he's pretty sure. He ran a different direction. When he started to choke he ran out into the street. Was he older? Did he have a headache? Did she smile at him? He crashed his motorcycle in the street. He got into a motorcycle crash. He crashed his motorcycle. He took Aleve, but he didn't know he was allergic, so it had to have been a mistake.
They drive home together after the earthquake. To Eddie's house. It's not home yet at this point in time but it will be shortly, and it's so much his home it's like an infection, spreading back to this moment so it's true even then. Christopher talks about dinosaurs and dogs and how boy deers are called bucks.
“Boy rabbits, too,” Buck grins in the rear view at an adorable, astonished little face.
Chris is asleep by the time they reach the househome but Eddie nods Buck inside anyway, puts his kid to bed and brings a couple of beers out to the couch.
“Is LA always like this?” He laughs a little around the question, tired.
“Like what?”
Eddie shrugs. “Grenades and earthquakes.”
“I had to climb up a roller coaster, once,” Buck says. “And a plane crashed in the ocean.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows, laughs again, nervous this time. It's wild that he can be nervous. Buck didn't think he was capable of it. He's so human, suddenly, sitting here in a half dark living room, a real person who exists who could be Buck's friend.
“Do you want my house keys?” He asks, at the same time Eddie asks “How did those go?”
“What?” Eddie asks, and “People died. Bobby almost drowned,” Buck says.
“Jesus,” Eddie says. “Do I want your house keys?”
“In case something happens,” Buck says.
“Grenades and earthquakes,” Eddie says.
And car crashes. A boy dog is called a dog, as far as he knows. “Mhm.”
Eddie sighs. Not put upon, just, like, a heavy exhale. “Sure. I'll make you a spare.”
“I //asked// you if you were in love with him.” There's a devastated wrinkle to Tommy's mouth, a heartbroken furrow in his brow. //“Months// ago, I //asked// you-”
“I'm sorry,” the bad dog whines. “I'm //so// sorry, I didn't //know-”//
Bobby ties his tie for him, because Buck never learned from Philip. He only wore a real tie once in the whole time he lived at his parents house, sticking with clip ons when he was a little kid and too rebellious for ties when he got older. He wore it to Maddie's wedding, and she tied it for him and kissed his forehead and told him she was glad he was there. Bobby doesn't kiss his forehead or say he's glad Buck is there, but he teases him and laughs with him and Buck is real glad Bobby is there.
They're on a date and Tommy gets called in for an emergency so they kiss goodbye (Buck licks the inside of Tommy's cheek and it makes him grin so hard that's what breaks the kiss) and heads to Eddie's house, because it's the awful summer where Chris is gone and anytime Buck isn't anywhere else he's at Eddie's house, just making sure.
It's only 9:36 pm but the lights are all off so Buck's really quiet as he comes in, because Eddie goes to bed really early sometimes now, being unconscious preferable to having to keep living his life. It's dark in the house and Buck is quiet so Eddie doesn't notice him, Eddie and the man he's with don't notice him.
The man is a little taller than him and that's absolutely the only thing Buck could say about him, because his entire being focuses onto Eddie like a spotlight, the big kind they use in search and rescue operations, bright as all hell. His stuttered breathing and he's wearing the red henley that looks so nice on him and his hair is a mess and the way he's a little slumped like his bones are jelly. The man has him up against the wall and Buck thinks he might be licking the inside of Eddie's cheek, and Eddie is moaning-
Buck — silent — stumbles backwards, out the door, runs into the street though there aren't any cars around and he gets into his jeep and drives and drives and doesn't know where to go because he can't tell anyone about this and there’s barking and snapping trying to rip its way up out of his throat. He sees a movie theater and parks and three weeks later gets a stupidly expensive ticket for it because he probably shouldn’t even have been driving in the first place with how little he was thinking about worldly concerns like parking meters and he goes inside and buys a ticket and sits in the dark for two hours and thirty-five minutes and would never be able to tell you what movie he saw. He does not remember. He remembers laughing. Breathing weird. Not really laughing. It’s not really funny.
Eddie dies in the street. It’s Eddie’s blood that’s in the street and there’s a firetruck. Buck’s under the firetruck and wishes with everything in his entire heart and soul and stupid body that it was the last time he was under a firetruck. It hurt less.
Eddie’s in the hospital and if Buck were a dog he’d be a bad dog. Too dumb to warn his owner of danger in time, too slow in dragging him out of it. He pulled on Eddie’s hurt arm, he made it worse probably, he probably made it worse. He’s not allowed to go to the hospital because visitor hours are really strict and if he got Eddie sick it would kill him again but he keeps wanting to check, go in and check if he left bite marks in his flesh, see if somebody had to bandage them up and disinfect them.
He climbs that ladder thinking //please.//
Bobby’s pissed at him. He’s cutting vegetables in the kitchen, Buck can hear the crunchclick of it from down the stairs where he’s been wandering, a foul omen, the dark dog of death. Bobby’s been pissed at him for hours and Buck’s been waiting for the yelling, tension building in his body, five years old in Pennsylvania waiting for his father to yell and to get frightened and then what happened next. Waiting for the hospital to call and tell him it's gone wrong, the bite marks got infected and Eddie’s down in the morgue now, and Buck won't even get a little bag of his things to take home because the clothes they cut off him are filed away in an evidence locker.
He goes up the stairs. Let's get it over with. “Are you just not going to say anything?”
Bobby cuts a bell pepper into two neat halves. “What is there to say?”
Buck leans against the far counter, fingers curled bloodlessly tight around the edge of it. “What were you thinking? How could you be so reckless?” He shrugs, shoulders stiff. “My favorite: you could have been killed.”
Bobby sets down the knife. His hands are shaking, Buck hadn't noticed it before. “Seems like you know the lines already. Why waste oxygen actually having the conversation?”
“Bobby-”
“You //knew// what I would say and you did it anyway.” Snap and snarl. “There’s no convincing you. I’m not in the mood to //beg// you for safety and //know// you won’t even consider it.”
Run run run “That guy was //dying-”//
“And you would have followed him?” Bobby doesn’t ever really raise his voice. A few times, back when Buck was new and stupid, or sometimes when somebody on a call has done something particularly destructive to themselves or others, but he doesn't yell very often. His authority is softer, kinder, more forgiving. He's yelling now and Buck clings onto the counter, hangs on hangs on hangs on so he doesn't flinch and doesn't run. “You went full Buck. And- and that’s not a bad thing. You throw yourself in where angels fear to tread because you //care,// about this job and for every life we could possibly save.”
“Yeah,” Buck starts, head yanking to the right, muscles clumsy as he tries to nod, but Bobby can get his words out better and faster than Buck’s slow tongue.
“That’s //not// what that was. That was a //deliberate// choice to make yourself a target.”
Here’s where he flinches. Just a tiny bit, just for a millisecond, but he and Hen found Bobby in his bedroom with his lips notyetalmost turning blue and his eyes now widen because he understands. “I wasn't going to let any of you-” spit and words catch in his throat. He sucks in air around them, easier than bread or blood or swelling. “I //cannot// handle //anyone// else being hurt right now.” He's the bad dog. If someone has to die, then put him down.
“Buck,” Bobby says, and it sounds like he's choking, too. “What happened to Eddie wasn't your fault.” He takes half a step closer, half raises an arm. “There was nothing you could have-”
“I didn’t do //anything,”// Buck gasps, snaps not like a dog but like a taut wire snaps. “I- I froze- I was just //standing there,// Bobby, I-” he finally lets go of the counter but without the anchor point he deflates, collapses in on himself. “It should have been-”
The impact of Bobby’s arms around him cuts him off before he can fully say it. “Kid.” He's shaking, or Bobby’s shaking, or the whole world is. Grenades and earthquakes. “It’s not your fault. You got him on the truck, you kept him alive.”
Buck shakes his head into Bobby’s shoulder, and his hands clutch into Bobby’s shirt sleeves like a kid. “I wasn’t dressed yet. I wasn’t- maybe if I’d- I was //right// there, maybe if I’d been wearing- it wouldn’t have been //him.”//
Bobby holds on tight. “No. No, Buck. There were plenty of firefighters on that street. Eddie got unlucky.”
Buck shudders. “No,” he gasps. “No. It can’t- it can’t just be //chance-”//
Bobby’s hand flutters up for a moment, rests on the back of Buck’s head before going back to holding him tight. “Come over,” he says, words laden with desperation. “Come to my place, Buck. You can stay, we have the room, you don't have to be alone.”
'This is what let's Buck stop the shaking. Because he's a bad dog but there is one good thing in the world, one good thing he has to do. He's sorry, Eddie, he's so sorry he let himself forget. He stands up straight, steps backwards out of Bobby's safe arms. “Christopher.”
“He can come too-”
“No,” Buck says softly, shaking his head. “He’s going through enough, I- he should get to sleep in his own bed.”
There’s so much pain in Bobby’s eyes Buck wants to check him for physical wounds — a little early, he won’t get shot until the next day. “Alright,” he says. He closes the space between them again, puts his hand on Buck’s elbow. “Alright, just- call me if you need me- just- don't //do// that again.” His hand bites Buck's arm, a dog too. “No- no accidents, Buck.”
A boy a dog his dog someone's dog Buck the dog ran into the street after a ball after his father yelled at him and got hit by a car. “Yeah.” He puts his hands over Bobby's, feels his knuckle bones through his skin. “I- yeah. Promise.”
Aleve may also be used for purposes not listed in this medication guide.
Margaret had a headache. Buck is 121314 a child but Maddie's gone already. She had a headache, she was complaining about it. Buck remembers that.
He finds (the dog) her in the (street) living room. Her lips are turning blue. Buck is very frightened but he calls 911 like he learned in the school safety seminar in the 3rd grade. He gets yelled at. His dad yells at him. And he's scared and he runs stumbles backwards and then they told him it was an accident. In the hospital they say it was an accident. He’s a little kid and doesn’t know any better even though we’ve tried to tell him and he ran into the street, he was chasing a ball. She started a new medicine and didn't know she couldn't mix it with Aleve. He’s 14 and this is the first time he’s been in the hospital for somebody else. He got into a motorcycle crash and she mixed up her medication on accident.
“Hey, uh, Mom…” Albert’s taken Chimney’s dad and step-mom back to their hotel, and Maddie and Chimney are in the backyard, and Philip is who the fuck knows where. It’s calm in here now, Buck and Margaret quietly cleaning up the dishes from dinner. She’d tried to shoo him away, let her do it, but Eddie always tries to shoo him away and let him do it and that never works either.
“Yes?” She asks it because he went quiet for too long, chasing down his runaway trains of thought.
“Do you remember… uh, did you or… did one of us have an allergic reaction? Or-or you- when you mixed up the painkillers-”
“That was an accident, Evan,” she snaps, snaps and snarls, dog in the street. “Buck,” she amends, apologetic and human.
“Right, but-” Maddie left California and he doesn’t know for sure but he thinks she tried to leave more permanently than that, and Buck crashed his motorcycle, and he doesn’t want to be alone in this, he wants to know how deep and how far back the sadness goes, wants to know if it ends or at least gets lighter because it’s so fucking heavy sometimes. “I know but I- sorry, I just- did you want to die?”
A glass clatters into the sink but doesn’t break. Clinks against the bowl she’d served her potato salad in. There was only a little left and she put it in some tupperware for him to take home, and she smiled at him. He’s sorry he asked.
“That’s a terrible- that’s terrible. That’s a terrible thing to say.” She’s always been older than other kids' moms, but she looks really old right now. Her skin is so wrinkled and thin. “It was just an accident, Buck. Accidents happen.” Her eyes are wide and frightened and desperate and he understands that she’s scared of how heavy it is too.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” It’s the wrong time for knowing. If Buck was a dog he’d be a bad dog. The next day he climbs up a ladder and dies.
“Do you think werewolves are real?”
“What?” Bobby laughs as he stirs the big pot of knoephla. “No, Buck, I don’t think werewolves are real.”
“No, yeah, I know.” Buck grins and kind of rolls his head where he’s laid it on the counter so he can look up at him. It’s afternoon in the station and the lighting is nice, he doesn’t remember if summer afternoons in Pennsylvania got all pink like this, and he thinks Bobby looks beautiful. “I know, but, like, do you think a person can be a dog?”
His smile is kind and there’s a laugh in his eyes or in the air. “The golden retriever jokes getting to you, kid?”
Buck laughs. “Nah. I was just- I'm just thinking.”
Bobby smiles at him again, warm and so fond it makes Buck want to go to sleep or cry or hold him. He scoops a careful spoonful of the stew, sure to get a dumpling, and hands it over. “Here, try this.”
Buck does. “It's good, Bobby. It's real good.”
Maddie bleeds in the snow. Eddie got shot in the street and Christopher drowned in the street and Eddie drowned in the well, and Hen crashed the ambulance in the street and Bobby got irradiated in the street and Chimney got a steel rod right through his head in his car on the street, and a car crash happened right in Eddie’s bedroom violent and awful and Buck was so sure, was absolutely certain he’d open the door and find him with his lips turning blue, and Bobby’s house burned down and he was running outside down to the road to get help and dropped like a ton of bricks and his heart didn’t beat by itself for fourteen minutes, more than three times how long Buck was dead for, and he was in surgery for six hours, and he looks tiny and shrunken and pale on his hospital bed, and his mom was in the living room and her lips were all blue, and if Buck was a dog he’d be a bad dog because there was nothing he could ever do about any of it.
He told Chimney he had a dog who got hit by a car and he told Hen his friend in grade school had a dog that got hit by a car and he told Eddie he ran into the street and got hit by a car and he didn’t tell Bobby any of it but he remembers really clearly the time Bobby saw his x-rays, all the faint old fracture lines, and the way he gasped, the sharp inhale of air sucked through his teeth.
And at a party, the first party in Bobby’s new backyard, somebody says something about a dog, all the space out here for a dog.
“You should totally get one!” Buck bounces on his heels, excited excited excited. “Like- like- big and floppy! He can run around out here, like when I was a kid, our dog loved to run around!”
And Bobby laughs and says “I don’t think Athena’s forgiven me yet for the Hoover situation.”
And Maddie wrinkles her nose and says “Buck, we never had a dog.”
And Chimney raises his eyebrows to look between her and Buck and says “No, you did, right? He told me about him once. His name was, uh…”
“No, it was your- neighbor? Classmate?” Hen tilts her head, trying to remember a conversation from years and years ago, back when he was a little probie dickhead they all had to put up with.
”Ha,” Buck says. Laughs. Not really laughs. “Um. I- I don’t- Sorry.” He rubs his neck. “I- I- my memory’s not great, from when I was a kid. I got it mixed up, I guess. I //still// think you should get a dog, though.”
And everybody laughs and moves on, except Tommy with his big warm hand lovely on Buck’s back glances up at Eddie, who’s already looking at him with a startled frown.
“Evan.” Tommy's sitting on the edge of his bed later, one hand on his floral pattern comforter. Buck likes that about him, all the color in his house. His shirt is off, he looks handsome, but his voice is very very careful. “Have you ever talked to a therapist about PTSD? Or depression?”
Buck's frozen with his hands on his pants, poised to unzip. “What?”
“I… don’t want to pry, or assume anything, but the memory thing-”
“No,” Buck says. “I'm fine.” He’s been doing fine. He's dating Tommy and it's wonderful and most of the time he's so- “I'm happy now. I’m supposed to be- I’m happy now.”
“Evan,” Tommy says, sighs, Buck’s name coming out in a rush of air. He holds his hands out and Buck comes closer until he’s held in them. His button is undone but he never got the zipper down. Tommy kisses right in the middle of his chest and then rests his head there for a moment, and then looks up at him. “It’s disappointing, I know, but good dick doesn't actually cure all ills.”
Buck laughs, really, because Tommy is funny. That’s another thing he likes about him. “Speaking from experience?” Tommy gives a slow nod, and Buck has to blink up at the ceiling. “How did you-” his voice sticks in his throat so he coughs. He can breathe and no blood comes out. He looks down at Tommy again, touches his pretty cheek. “So how’d you fix it? How’d you get better?”
“Therapy helped,” Tommy murmurs, quiet because they’re so close together he doesn't need to be any louder. “And not having to choke down an entire part of myself anymore helped.” He raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, a look that says //I know you’ve seen the inside of my medicine cabinet.// “And the Sertraline.”
Buck’s choked on so much for so long he wouldn’t even know what to cough up first. “I don’t like taking medication.” Margaret’s lips turning blue. “My mom took that. It didn’t work.”
“There are a lot of antidepressants you could try. And- I’m not a doctor, Evan, I don’t know that they’ll actually give you anything. You just… seem miserable, sometimes, and I think it’s getting worse but you haven’t talked to me about it, and you haven’t talked to //Eddie// about it, and I just-” Tommy sighs again, puts his big warm hand on Buck’s face. “Baby, I just want you to feel okay.”
Buck swings his legs up onto the bed on either side of Tommy's and sinks into him, warm torso against warm torso. “I do feel okay. I mostly feel okay.” Tommy kisses his hair and his cheek and his ear and his shoulder and Buck feels small and safe and cared for, another thing he likes about Tommy. There is so much to like about Tommy. “Is that…” Tommy kisses his neck. “Is that what you and Eddie- you looked at each other.”
Tommy pulls back, just a tiny bit. Every exhale tickles Buck’s wet skin. “It’s….” He sighs, a warm rush of air. Buck shivers. “It was… a familiar experience. A shared experience. Not knowing exactly what- misplacing some things, in your life.”
His heart aches at the thought that Eddie's ever felt like this, adrift in his own history, missing parts of himself with no way to find them and patch them back in. Belatedly, he remembers to be heartbroken for Tommy, too.
“I thought- I thought maybe for a second-” the bad dog swallows. “You or Eddie- you maybe realized something else.
Tommy is frozen, a solid granite statue. “What else is there to realize?”
Buck flinches at the voicemail after the wedding. He’s not sure why. Philip never hit him. There was one time he yelled and Buck ran and got hurt but that was an accident, that wasn’t his fault.
When Buck wakes up from the coma and everyone is finally let into his room, Philip stands at the back, his arms around a crying Margaret. He looks equal parts happy and uncomfortable. There’s a lot of noise and its happy noise but Buck is so tired and he hurts so badly all over and he kind of wishes everyone would leave and Bobby would hold him again, close and safe like he did when Buck first woke up and didn’t know what was going on and he was so scared because he dreamed Bobby was gone, dead and gone, lips blue on his living room floor without Buck there to find him. He thinks Bobby would do it, if he asked him.
He’s supposed to be happy.
He's now the man who presses Eddie into the wall and tastes his cheek and makes him moan. Chris has been back for months and months and Buck's heart still beats with it, christopherchristopherchristopher. Bobby is captain again and Hen is more officially in training to replace him if he decides to retire for real or anything else happens so they won't have to live like they did under Gerrard ever again. He’s going to move out of the loft soon, probably, looks like things are headed that way, he’s going to get to live in the house that’s been his home since maybe the beginning and maybe before that. Sometimes he lays in Eddie’s bed and thinks he was waiting for this house in PennsylvaniaCarolinaCaloradoPeru, it was his home even then and he just needed to catch up to it.
He wakes up at 6:47 AM on a Thursday and is pretty sure he’s going to kill himself. There are a lot of ways to do it, he wouldn’t even have to leave the loft. Knives in the kitchen, belt in his closet, bleach in the cupboard, the Sertraline he’s been diligently taking sitting in a 2/3rds full bottle in his medicine cabinet. He could walk out to the balcony and keep walking, hit the street hard and very far away. The snarling snapping dog in his brain howls and howls and howls and begs him to leave and he’s afraid to move at all because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he moves at all, he’s afraid he’ll finally listen to it. He lays there choking and terrified, breath coming out weird, almost like he’s laughing but it’s not funny at all. He doesn’t know how long he’s frozen there like that, long enough that his muscles start to ache with how tense his whole body is, and then he finally moves, starts to move, he moves-
His phone almost slips out of his hand because his fingers are so sweaty, and if he drops it it would be over he knows it would be over and he’s choking, he’s shaking, don’t drop the phone, don’t drop the phone, don’t-
“Hey, kid,” Bobby says, cheerful, a morning person. “What’s going on?”
The sob tears his throat open, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s spitting blood on the sheets. “Bobby- Bobby- I-I-I need- I can’t-” gasp spit cough “I’m gonna- I think I- //help,// I need help, help me-”
“Hang on, hang on hang on,” Bobby is saying, “Hang on, hang on, hang on for me, Buck, hang on.”
He does, literally, fists his fingers in his sheets and holds on so tight he might tear them. He doesn’t remember hanging up and doesn't know if he’s imagining Bobby’s voice hang on hang on hang on hang on or if it’s coming from the little speakers, quiet wherever he dropped it, and he doesn’t know how much time passes, if Bobby was at his new house — 35 minute drive with no traffic — or anywhere else, he just keeps holding and choking and if he was a dog he’d be a bad dog, he’d be a bad dog, he’s a bad dog, he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he's a bad dog he's a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s a bad dog he’s Bobby’s hands are on his face, he’s pulled upright so he’s sitting and Bobby’s hands are warm.
“-okay, look at me, look at me, I’m right here, I’m right here, Buck.” Buck reaches up and wraps his fingers loosely around Bobby’s wrist, all his strength fled. “That’s it, I’m right here. Okay- okay, it’s okay, you’re okay- you- sweetheart, did you take anything? Did you hurt yourself?”
He tried not to move for so long that it’s hard to do so now, but slowly he manages to shake his head. “No- n-no, I- I’m sorry- I’m //sorry// I’m sorry, I’m trying to- I’m trying to //stay-”//
“I know, I know,” Bobby pulls him in tight and close, kisses the side of his head and is happy he’s here. “You did so good. Baby, you did so good, you’re okay, I’m right here, I’m not going to let you go.”
He doesn't, even though Buck clings and wails, snaps and snarls. His limbs hurt like his limbs hurt after the lightning, like when Bobby held him after the lightning, and he wonders if he didn't die after all. This time, that time, any of them. Your life flashes before your eyes, right? Maybe that's why he can never get things straight, it's all just been one long flash, a mixed up dying brain, blue lips car crash red ball brother dog mother self. It's exhausting. He clutches Bobby's arm and tries to stay awake but fails, falls, sleeps.
// is he? He- he wasn't answering my calls-
He's alright, Eddie, I've got him//
And we're going to give the story to Bobby now, just for a little while, because Buck needs to rest and his father is here to carry the weight for him.
Bobby sets down the phone. It had rung a few times while Buck was shaking to pieces in Bobby’s arms, so he’d raised his eyes to the ceiling and thought a silent apology to Eddie and let it ring, only answering when Buck had finally gone limp and quiet against him. He didn’t want to wake him up — wanted nothing more than to wake him up, just to make sure, but he was breathing deep and even and finally calm — so he talked as quietly as he could, muttered reassurances not that different than the ones he’d given Buck: //he’s okay, I’m right here.//
Buck’s fingers twitch against Bobby’s arm for a moment, but stills again. Bobby wishes he had tissues, the kid’s face is damp with tears and snot and drool, and he bit his lips to bleeding. He makes do with his shirtsleeve, wiping him clean as gently as he’s ever done anything in his life. It’s a nice dress shirt because Bobby had reached into his closet blind in his panicked haste to get out of the house and now it's stained slimy and red but that’s okay, it’s just a shirt. Buck seems like he’s pretty solidly out, so Bobby carefully lays them down, not letting go if he can at all help it. He feels strangely calm, now that the terror is done. He should be beating himself up — and will later, probably — that he didn’t see this coming, that he let himself believe that Buck was happy and well fed and that would always now be true, but in this moment Buck needs him to be put together, so he’ll be put together.
Buck sleeps and sleeps, stirring only slightly and only occasionally, and hours creep by and Bobby’s arm goes numb where Buck’s laying on it. His circulation is worse than it used to be, something he’ll absolutely not be telling Buck because the kid worries like all get out and he’s talked to his doctor about it, really he has, and the doctor had run some tests and done some exams and looked over his glasses at him and said “Robert, you’re 57, if your circulation was any better people would be writing papers on you. Your heart is fine.” Let his shirtsleeve be stained and let his arm go numb, all his fingers could fall off and that would be fine too if it means soothing the anguish Buck had been in when Bobby had run up the stairs. He’d been so scared. He should have called 911, probably, but he was terrified of hanging up the call and not being able to hear Buck making noises anymore, losing that proof of life. It worked out okay but what if it hadn’t? It so easily could have- Bobby rubs Buck’s back with his non-numb hand and takes a deep breath. It worked out okay. That’s what's important right now. It worked out okay.
It’s almost noon when Buck wakes up again, with a crunch of his nose and a curl of his fingers and a sudden jolt. There’s still red irritation around his eyes from his earlier crying, and it makes the blue seem almost alien, a chunk of sky uncanny in a face. His breathing speeds up almost immediately, and Bobby rubs his back again.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re okay.”
Buck holds on tighter to Bobby’s shirt, clears his throat. Bobby wishes he had water to give him, but he doesn’t know when he would have left his side to get it. “Bobby.”
“Yeah, kid, right here.”
Buck breathes in, and out, watery. “What do I do?”
God, his voice is so small. Bobby wishes he had a to-do list for him, three magic steps to happiness, but Bobby has never been very good at happiness either and doesn’t know what the hell they’d be. “You need to make an appointment, Buck, you need to see a therapist. I can't-” Bobby has to stop for a second, waiting for the crack in his voice to meld itself back together. He breathes in, wipes his face. “I love you, kid, and I'm not going anywhere, but I- I don't know everything. I don't know how to help you. You need someone who- who knows what they're doing.”
“I don't want to,” Buck says, almost a whine, like a child who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables, but Buck’s always been good about his Brussels sprouts and Bobby has always wondered at the timing of Buck’s therapy with Dr. Copeland. Started up in the middle of a global pandemic that kept her conveniently behind a screen, dropped with the excuse that his parents stopped showing up for their group sessions so why should bother right as restrictions lifted and he could have gone in person. He didn't even go back to get the antidepressants he's taking, he went to his PCP for the prescription. Virtual, safe, far away from an office and a couch and a person who could touch him. Far away from a danger that Bobby sent him into, all those years ago.
But what else is there? Bobby swallows, squeezes his arm and says “Please.”
And Buck says “Okay.” He says “If you come with me I'll go.”
And Bobby says “Alright. Alright, I'll come with you.”
They get sitting up in the bed, Bobby grabs Buck's phone where it fell to the floor at some point. He thinks about offering to leave, give him some privacy, but Buck slumps against him like his spine can’t hold him upright, so he stays sitting next to him, a solid wall to lean on.
“Hi, um, this is- my name is Evan Buckley,” his voice scratches like nails on rusty iron. “I- I, uh, used to see Dr. Copeland. I need- I need to-” his breath hitches and he's crying again, Bobby is rubbing his back. “I need to see her. I-it’s- yeah. Yes. N-no. No. No, I- I’m not alone. My dad’s with me.”
The conversation continues but Bobby finds it a little hard to pay attention after that, and anyway, after the phone call with a plan in place Buck comes back to himself a little and Bobby can hand the story back over.
As he hangs up the phone he finally has enough sensation in his fingertips that he can feel the crack on the screen where he dropped it right onto a rock getting a picture of Chris feeding some ducks at a park. He runs his thumb over it a few times. “I have a session at 2:30.”
“Alright,” Bobby says. He looks tired, and worried, and Buck wants to apologize for that but he also looks so caring that Buck just tears up again instead. “Oh- hey, it's alright. It's good, Buck, we're gonna figure this out.”
“Okay.” He kind of wants to go to sleep again, and then wonders if this is like a concussion. Be careful about wanting to go to sleep, because what if you want to go to sleep forever?
“That's a few hours from now,” Bobby says, his calm voice pulling Buck again back into his body. He smiles a little, surprising. “You want to go get pancakes?”
Buck feels his face scrunching up and laughs, unable to help it. “What?”
“I find I always feel a little better on a full stomach,” Bobby shrugs, squeezing his hand where they're still clasped together. And it’s all he wants, suddenly, to be sitting in a diner somewhere eating breakfast foods with Bobby Nash.
“Yeah. Yeah, I wanna. I want to.”
Bobby finds him clothes and holds his arm out to let Buck balance on it when he nearly falls over stepping into the fresh sweatpants, legs newborn clumsy. He shrugs into the softest hoodie he owns. It looks just like another one he has, he didn’t realize anyone else knew the difference.
“Bobby,” he says, crying again, and Bobby hugs him until he can turn and go down the stairs.
They’ve been to this diner before, one on one and with the rest of the 118. The coffee is crappy in a pleasant way, and the pancakes are stacked three high and big as your head. They sit in a booth opposite each other. The vinyl under Buck’s thigh is cracked. The waitress calls him honey and he starts crying again, and Bobby reassures her they’re alright as he hurries over to Buck’s side of the booth, gets him in his arms again.
“I don’t feel good,” he says, admits. It’s been true for a long time. Or, true a lot of times, since a long time ago.
“I know,” Bobby says, running his fingers through Buck’s hair, gentle so they don’t snag on the unbrushed curls. “I know, I’m sorry, I know. It won’t always be like this.” Buck closes his eyes, rests his cheek on the smooth material of Bobby’s shirtsleeve. He knows that’s true, too.
The pancakes come and they really should’ve just got one plate because Buck can barely finish half of one and Bobby just eats off of his, sipping black coffee and not taking his arm from around Buck the whole meal. They finish eating and the waitress just keeps bringing Bobby more coffee as they sit there quiet and then it’s 1:55 and Bobby says “Well. You ready?”
No, but what else is there? They get in the car, Bobby’s old truck that’s smaller than Eddie's and clanks a little sometimes but she runs okay, and they pull up to a medical facility Buck’s never been in before which feels kind of funny because he feels like he’s probably seen every doctor in the city at this point. They’re directed down a side hall and another receptionist who sounds maybe like the woman he talked to on the phone says “You can go right in, Mr. Buckley.”
“I-I- there’s no wait?” You have to wait at all doctor’s offices. He’s never been seen right in unless he was actively dying.
“No, she’s ready for you now.” The woman says it like it’s a kindness, but Buck had expected a wait, he’d expected a little more time.
“Can-” his palms are sweaty. “Can my- can my dad come with me?” He chews his lip. “Can he- can he sit outside with me?”
“Outside the room?” She asks, and Buck nods. “Yes, there are some chairs in the hallway.”
“Okay.” Buck nods. “Okay.”
The next hallway they walk down is short, and there’s the door, open, room 203. “You’re gonna stay out here?” Bobby’s holding his hand.
“Yeah, kid.” He doesn’t let go yet.
“If- if I shout, can you come in, please?”
Bobby squeezes tight. “Promise.”
“Okay.” Buck lets go.
Dr. Copeland is behind a desk and a little older than the last time they saw each other. “Hello, Buck,” she says. “It's good to see you. Would you like to tell me about your day?”
He does, and a couple of stories about a dog and a boy and a brother and a mom, a sister too, and a father. They go over the hour. Buck cries more but she doesn't come any closer so he doesn't have to shout. She says they're going to try a new medication, see if they can find something that works better for him, but tells him not to quit this one right away. He asks if she's gonna make him stay somewhere and she asks if he's going to hurt himself and he says he's going to stay with his dad, or with his boyfriend and they'll take care of him and he won't do anything and she says that's alright but he needs to come back on monday and he says okay and then that's the end of it and she lets him walk back out into the hallway. Bobby’s sitting on his chair with his hands clasped and his eyes closed and his mouth whispering, praying, which Buck isn't sure he believes in but thinks is nice anyway. He looks up when he hears Buck. His eyes are red and puffy.
“I'm tired,” is all Buck can manage.
“I'll take you back to mine,” Bobby says.
They go home and Bobby takes him to the guest room and lays down on the end with him and doesn't let go of his hand and Buck sleeps, out like a light.
He wakes up before Bobby this time. The bedside clock says it's after 7, a clarifying “PM” in the corner of the screen. Bobby's snoring a little. He's still holding Buck's hand. He wakes as soon as Buck moves, looks over at him, eyes wide and then calming down.
“What time’s it?”
“About dinner.”
Bobby nods, rubs his eyes. “You hungry? You wanna help me make something?”
Buck's not sure about the first thing but always sure about the second. “Yeah, okay.”
They both groan and stretch as they stand up, and Bobby rolls his eyes and Buck grins and it feels okay on his face. They go out to the kitchen and Buck is still tired in every bone and sinew of his body so mostly he lays his head down on the counter and watches Bobby work. It's his beef casserole, where he makes the cream of mushroom himself. Who does that? It's bubbling away on the stove and the smell makes him cry, and every stray touch Bobby brushes against his shoulders makes him cry, but it's okay. The street is outside and far away.
At some point the doorbell rings and Bobby glances up from his progress beating cheese. “You want to get that?” He says it soft, like it's okay if he doesn't, but Buck wants to stretch his legs so he goes.
He opens the door and Eddie's standing outside of it. It's dark out now and he's lit up by the porch light, a new bulb but one Michael found to be soft and warm and inviting. His hair’s a mess like it always is when he's worried, and Buck catches his face in the moment it goes from tighttighttight to relaxedrelief. He should apologize, probably, for the worry, for not calling, for not talking to him about this sooner, for anything and everything. But Eddie is here, and once the worry goes all he seems is glad to see him. Always, somehow, glad to see him.
“Hi, Buck.” And he smiles.
And he breathes. “Hi, Eddie.
This story hasn’t been about them much but you know them, you already know them, you know how they love. Eddie opens his arms and Buck falls into them and Eddie pulls him close and doesn't let go.
[[BUT IT'S NOT WHERE IT ENDS|The end]]
The first big fire Buck gets to work on after the lawsuit is an apartment fire in December, right before school holidays. Eddie lets him hang out with Christopher almost as much now as they did before Buck nearly ruined everything entirely, and he's been excitedly giving Buck the rundown of the approximately one million things he wants to do over the break. The list gets bigger every time they talk.
The fire’s still burning pretty hot, but the building was pretty empty to begin with, a lot of student housing. Everybody packed up, mostly. He helped a little old lady and her tiny little dog out to the street from the first floor awhile ago, but now they’re on the top floor and smoke is thick and there’s flames right at the end of the hallway and anybody still in here is dead or dying. They found a guy two apartments back, a boy half unconscious on a couch, waiting here to surprise his partner before a trip out of town. You can tell Eddie is smiling even under the mask, Buck is never sure how he manages that, the calm and kind look in his eyes that sets victims at ease, lets him lead them peaceful and safe out of danger.
So it’s just Buck and Bobby up here now, and things have been weird between them. Sometimes fine. Mostly weird. Bobby let him help with the mac n cheese the other day — just a little, just the broccoli and the bread crumbs — so maybe they’ll be okay. He feels like a fuck up every minute he’s in the station and every minute he’s at Eddie’s house and every minute he exists in his too big too small too much body, but maybe they’ll be okay. So it’s just Buck and Bobby and Buck doesn’t know what the hell happened, just that he was upright one minute and blinking awake on the floor the next, mask knocked off and head aching, and then Bobby’s hands are on his face and Buck knows later that he was wearing gloves but always imagines it was the warm skin of his palms.
“Kid- Buck- you alright?” Bobby’s voice is loud but hoarse, like he can’t quite force it out, and his eyes are wide and wild.
“Y-yeah.” He glances around. A cardboard box, blood that he thinks is his on the corner. “Fuckin - tripped. Stupid.”
“Alright.” Bobby looks around, at the advancing flames. “Alright- let’s get out of here.”
“The rest of the floor-” Buck tries to protest as he climbs to his feet, but dizziness whacks him upside the head like the box did, and he might fall over if Bobby wasn’t holding him steady.
“We have to get you outside.”
“But-”
//“Buck.”// One time a father yelled and a little boy ran into the street. His dad yelled and he ran into the street. Bobby saw the x-rays, after the firetruck, found old lines like the dots on the road. //It’s called white line fever,// Buck almost says. //When you’re driving so long you suddenly arrive at your destination and you can't remember how you got there. Just zoned right out, drove the whole way not thinking at all. I think I might be sick with it. I always end up places and don’t know how I got there.//
But Bobby is not his father, and his eyes get wider, like he surprised himself with the yelling. And when Buck says “Please,” Bobby listens, and they check the rest of the floor.
And it’s all of it — the warmth of Bobby’s hands on his face and the way he half carries him down the stairwell and stays with him as they check his concussion at the hospital and how they make dumplings at the station their next shift and Bobby lets him help with every part of it and every act of care in the last three years and the next five, ten, decades — but that moment when Buck says please and Bobby stops and listens to him is when maybe for the first time in his life he understands he can come back into the house, doesn’t have to wait around for the car to hit him. When maybe for the first time in his life he thinks:
[[YOU DON'T HAVE TO RUN ANYMORE|Start]]
[[THIS IS WHERE THE STORY ALWAYS ENDS UP|The breakdown]]<<set $remaining to ["The shooting", "Rollercoaster", "Broken arm", "Margaret", "Bad dog", "Plane crash", "Riley", "Dog named Daniel", "Allergic", "Memories", "Flinch", "Aleve", "Tie", "Good boy", "Loft", "Werewolves", "Hook up", "Grenades and earthquakes", "Heartbreak"]>>
<<run $remaining.shuffle()>><<if passage() isnot "Ends up" and passage() isnot "The breakdown" and passage() isnot "The end" and passage() isnot "Start">>\
<<link "RUN">>
<<if $remaining.length>>
<<goto $remaining.pop()>>
<<else>>
<<goto "Ends up">>
<</if>>
<</link>>
<</if>>