The question doesn't surprise Buck in the slightest; it stings a lot, but there is no shock. After all, he's seen things unraveling for days and had expected it for even longer, the aftermath of the shooting leaving everyone predictably unsteady. Plus, it wasn't the first time Eddie had handled trauma poorly, and Buck wasn't dumb enough to deny he'd done the same too many times. Still, something about Christopher reaching out to him makes his heart fracture and there is nothing he wouldn't do to put all of them back together again.
He's at Eddie's place, sitting on the sofa and playing video games with Christopher while Carla puts away groceries in the kitchen and Eddie is at physical therapy. As has happened so many times before, Christopher confides in Buck in the middle of battle, the noise of the game countering the softness of the always-inquisitive voice next to him.
"Why is my dad so angry all the time?"
Buck fends off an on-screen attack and tries to keep his tone steady as he responds. "Angry how? He hasn't been angry at you, has he?"
"No, I guess not." A moment's hesitation is followed by punch, punch, parry. "He's mostly tired with me and his smile doesn't work right. But when he thinks I'm not looking, I see him get angry. Did you have a fight with him again? You haven't been home with us very much."
"No, we aren't—I haven't been—" He shakes his head and finally pauses the game to give the conversation his full attention. "Your dad and I aren't fighting. I don't think he's fighting with anyone actually. But he's probably still really mad at the man who shot him and since he can't do anything about that, I think he's just kind of acting mad at everyone else instead."
"Does being mad make him tired, too?" Christopher wonders.
"Being hurt probably makes him tired," Buck replies. "It's like when you're feeling really sick and don't want to get out of bed or even play video games. Your dad's body is working so hard on getting better that he doesn't have the energy to do the things he's normally excited to do."
"Like play with me and hang out with you?"
The kid hits as hard in real life as he does in the game and hope springs eternal. "Yeah, buddy. Just like that."
"In the meantime, don't you think maybe you should talk to Eddie about how his behavior is affecting the people he loves?" Carla asks from next to them. Buck hadn't noticed her sudden appearance, but chokes a bit at her choice of words. "Or are you too busy elsewhere to have that conversation?"
"Isn't Ana in a better position for that?" he bites back.
The raised eyebrow and pursed lips she offers him are enough of an answer. Buck puts his controller down and says, "Hey, buddy, I'm gonna go grab a snack for us. How about you get even more practice at kicking my butt until I get back?"
"You're going to talk about adult things I'm not supposed to hear," Christopher mutters.
Buck reaches down to ruffle the kid's hair. "Just for a few minutes."
He and Carla make their way into the kitchen, and he leans against the counter to brace himself for the many ways she's about to see right through him. It's one of the few things to remain unchanged in his world.
"Has he been that bad?" he asks. "I mean, I've seen some of it, but figured it's always easy to be mad at me. Is he really that awful around everyone else, too?"
Carla sighs. "He tries to keep it together when he's around Christopher, but I know he's struggling. It's a lot to deal with – physically and emotionally – and he's raging at the world instead of taking the time to recover. He needs someone to point that out."
"And you really think I'm too busy with Taylor to be a good friend to Eddie?"
"I think she's a convenient reason to be too busy to be a good friend to Eddie," she clarifies. "But I also think you want to be here far more than you are and it's not Taylor in your way."
He scoffs. "Well, Ana is the one taking him to and from his doctor appointments and physical therapy. Maybe she doesn't make him angry. He's obviously keeping her close."
"And you're the one in his home and taking care of his son."
"Great, so I'm a babysitter."
"Great, so she's an Uber," Carla retorts. "Look, I know you're being obtuse because it's easier that way, but stop worrying about where you think everyone belongs. It's not the competition you think it is."
"Okay, so I'm really the best one to confront him about his anger? To tell him that he's hurting his kid? To convince him to actually rest and take care of himself so he's not tired all the time?"
She stares at him for several seconds before she responds. "I think it's what a good friend would do."
That evening, Buck finds himself back at Eddie's door, a deep breath doing little to settle him down. He wants to be past this – whatever distance and confusion and awkwardness and pain has left him nervous about talking to someone he's been to hell and back with. They've faced death more times than he'd like to remember, but he knows some fears come from within, as steady as the heartbeats that remind them they've survived everything so far.
"Buck." The harsh snap of his name brings him back. "What are you doing here?"
For a moment, he wonders if Carla was wrong about Ana being busy with some work thing tonight. Or whether Eddie hadn't let Christopher spend the night at Carla's as planned. He looks over Eddie's shoulder, but can't tell what awaits him on the other side. "Um, I just wanted to see what you were up to. Or whether you wanted to do something."
"I can't do much of anything these days, in case you haven't noticed. Oh, wait, I guess you'd have to be here a little more often to notice anything." Eddie walks away from the door, but leaves it wide open. Buck accepts the silent invitation to follow and makes it known when he kicks the door shut behind him.
"Wow, Christopher wasn't kidding about you being angry, but I guess I was wrong when I told him you and I aren't fighting."
Eddie winces as he spins around, and Buck can't tell whether it's the abrupt movement or his son's accusation that bothers him more. "Excuse me?"
"When I was here earlier, he mentioned that you're angry all the time and too tired to spend time with him," he answers. "And he was worried about us – whether something had happened between us that was keeping me from being here."
"Did you let him know it's nothing between us that's keeping you away?"
He's wrong, and Buck thinks he knows that, but they both startle at the sound of boiling water spilling onto the stove and Buck pushes past him to get to the kitchen. He sees the dried pasta on the counter and adds it to the pot, then stirs the sauce simmering nearby. Eddie looks anything but grateful for the help, so Buck slowly backs away and keeps a safe distance between them.
"I told him that you were still angry at the man who shot you, but that you're taking it out on everyone else because you suck at handling your own frustration and fear. And I told him you're too tired to play with him because you're supposed to be taking care of yourself while you recover, but you're doing a shit job of it and won't be getting better any time soon."
"Fuck you."
Buck wants to apologize or punch something or run home, but he stands there and waits as though their friendship isn't teetering on the edge of everything they want and nothing at all. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, but he is still until Eddie speaks again.
"It's not like you didn't royally screw everything up after you got hurt."
"You're right," Buck admits, "and that's exactly how I know what you're doing. You're pushing yourself too hard, you're pushing everyone else away—"
"Is that really why you haven't been around?" Eddie interrupts. "Because you think I've pushed you away?"
"No, I—I just think there's a lot going on right now. We've both been distracted by other things."
"Distracted, huh? By other things? And how much longer do you think those distractions are gonna last?"
Buck can't manage anything but a tired shrug – he's spent too many nights wondering the same thing – and Eddie narrows his eyes before finally turning back to his dinner. He's able to remove the pasta from the heat and drain it in the sink, but that seems to take all the strength he has in him; when he tries to move the sauce aside, his arm gives out and marinara splashes everywhere as the pot comes crashing down.
Angry. Hot. Blood-red.
It's splattered across Eddie's face, his neck, his white t-shirt, and Buck is frozen by the memory of his own reflection after the shooting. The sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, the desperate need to get clean, the pain not his to feel. The two of them become intertwined in his mind and it isn't until he finds the unspoken plea in Eddie's eyes that he can shake himself free.
"Hey, I got this. I can finish getting everything ready here while you change into a new shirt."
But Eddie doesn't move and Buck can't figure out why he isn't going anywhere. He doesn't seem hurt, not even stunned in the same way Buck had been. He just shakes his head slowly and looks toward the ceiling as he sighs.
"I'm not going to be able to change my shirt by myself, Buck. I couldn't even lift a fucking pot of sauce."
Shit.
"Okay, no problem. I got you." He hurries to return everything to the stove and dumps the sauce and pasta together. The burners are off, the food can wait.
They are quiet as they enter Eddie's bedroom and Buck fights the inclination to fill the silence with an unending string of reassuring words. He understands the unspoken direction when Eddie tilts his head toward the dresser, so he quickly grabs a clean shirt, tosses it onto the bed, and then steps forward with a question.
"Do you always need help with this stuff—I mean, getting dressed or whatever?"
Eddie snorts derisively. "I'm not a total waste all the time, no. It's just after PT that I'm stupid and weak and helpless."
"Hey, no, I wasn't trying to be a dick," Buck argues. "I get it, remember? I was stupid and weak and helpless and PT kicked my ass, too. My body needed time and so does yours. You'll get better, I just want to make sure you have whatever help you need until then."
"Just need a new shirt for now."
So Buck nods and faces him, careful as he grips the hem of the shirt and drags it upward. He knows it's Eddie's upper body strength that has failed him, muscles so easily taken for granted when it comes to the most basic of tasks. Getting up from a chair, reaching to pull a dish from the cupboard, combing hair – god forbid taking a full shower – it's all much more difficult than expected, so he helps ease each of Eddie's arms free before finally tugging the material over his head.
It's only after setting the shirt aside that he realizes there's more help to give, mumbling an apology before he leaves the room. He comes back a minute later with a warm, wet washcloth.
"The sauce—" he explains, his voice barely above a whisper. He brings the washcloth toward Eddie's neck first, captivated by the trust offered when Eddie tilts his head and give him even more access. Then his hand slides downward, carefully coasting over the areas across Eddie's torso where the liquid seems to have seeped through the fabric to his skin. He swallows against the emotion that rises each time he nears the gunshot wound or incision site, grateful for how well they are healing and furious they exist at all. And while he can't ignore the way Eddie's breath hitches at each press of the warm cloth against his skin, it wouldn't be fair to call attention to it either. Not when he knows that same ache all too well.
He traces the lines of Eddie's ribs, more visible than they should be, then glances up to see Eddie's eyes fall closed. "You're not eating enough," he says gently.
In the silence that follows, Buck raises the washcloth to Eddie's face, cautious when he first makes contact there, afraid to spook either of them with a touch. He brushes away the sauce along Eddie's jaw, then sweeps the cloth over his cheek and forehead, taking the time to drag his gaze side to side to make sure he's managed to clean it all. When he's satisfied, he leaves the washcloth on top of the dirty shirt and lifts his hand once more. The swipe of his thumb just beneath Eddie's eye – or perhaps the way his palm grazes the stubble on the side of his face – causes Eddie to look at him again, darkness inexplicably ablaze.
"Buck."
"You're not sleeping enough either," Buck murmurs.
He's afraid to move, unsure whether they'll ever find themselves here again, but eventually he drops his hand to Eddie's waist to steady himself while he leans past him to grab the clean shirt. They work together to put it on, some of Eddie's strength returning just as Buck's has begun to fade. Everything appears to be back to normal when they finally step away from each other, but the moment has become too much for Buck and he turns toward the bedroom door.
"Being distracted is a terrible excuse," Eddie says, his voice rough. "For both of us."
Buck can only nod, unwilling to trust any of the words fighting for the chance to be heard. He points toward the kitchen, the dinner that needs to be reheated, and another mess he will help clean. Everything else will have to wait.
A/N: This is my first 9-1-1 fic, but I am hoping to write more in the coming months. I love these guys.