Tucker has, from the beginning, been the best of them at dressing wounds.
That doesn't mean he's been their go-to first aid guy, though. He's always cringed at the sight of blood and gauze; even his own too-deep scrapes he's had Sam treat. It's only when push comes to shove that he sucks it up and threads the needle, steadiest hand among them, despite the revulsion that threatens to make him hurl.
It isn't that Tucker is afraid of hospitals, really. It's the wounds, the injury and illness that make him sick to his stomach. The metallic scent of blood sets his teeth on edge, the smell of antiseptic even more so—the texture of bandages, the sight of a needle. It all unsettles something deep within him, some primal instinct that sees weakness in wound, death in injury.
He just hates the fact that any of them, at any moment, can go down. In red or green, they can all fall, and Tucker will put each of them back together, if he has to.
He'd just rather it not be necessary at all.
The house is quiet.
Danny never notices the noise when it's present, but without it, FentonWorks is liminal. He sits on his bed, Tucker knelt before him, stitch by stitch sewing together a gash that runs down the length of his calf. The only sounds are the scrape of Tucker's sleeve against his shirt and the mild creak of the bed as Danny shifts. Neither of them speak.
Sam is out of town with her parents, visiting relatives in Nevada. Jazz is away at college. Their parents are out on a self-proclaimed 'spectral expedition,' and all the house's ghost equipment is powered down, even the portal. The near-tangible hum that Danny had grown up in is gone, if just for now, and it's so strange, not being able to feel his parents at work. The lack of them makes FentonWorks feel almost cold.
Danny hasn't been bothered by the cold for years, now.
"That's the last one," Tucker says, sighing a little as he pulls the last stitch and snips away the excess thread. "Feel okay?"
Danny flexes his toes. "Yeah. Thanks, Tuck."
Tucker gets to his feet, gathering all the medical supplies he'd used and putting it back in the first aid kit on the bed. "I'm going to go wash off the needle," he mutters, and leaves the room, heading for the bathroom across the hall.
When he's gone, Danny brings his leg up, bracing his heel on the edge of the bed as he examines the stitches. Tucker did a good job—Sam's are always a tad crooked, and Jazz can't even bring herself to break the skin. Tucker's go down straight and even. His hands never shake.
Tucker's always quiet when he dresses wounds. Today is no exception. The silence between them has made the house seem even more foreboding, and with Tucker across the hall the distance between them seems yawning.
Danny turns to watch the doorway, listening to the sink run. It shuts off, and he hears the soft fold of a towel before Tucker reappears, eyes cast downward. Danny tracks him as he crosses the room, replacing the needle in the kit and shutting it with a soft plastic click.
There's a short, silent moment before Danny speaks.
"Tucker?" he says, and his voice seems small, even to his own ears.
"Yeah?"
"Do you…" he trails off, unsure.
"What?"
Danny looks away, playing with his hands in his lap. "You just always seem unhappy whenever you're patching one of us up."
Tucker sighs, then sits down on the bed next to Danny, their sides pressed together. "Well, duh. I'm not gonna be happy that you guys got hurt."
"No, I mean—" Danny huffs out a sigh of his own "—you just… Do you not want to do this anymore?" Tucker stills, and Danny bites his lip, squeezing his hands together.
"Danny," Tucker starts. Danny keeps his gaze trained firmly on the place where the carpet meets the trim. "Danny, look at me." Reluctantly, he turns to meet Tucker's eyes.
There is a steel, there, that nearly takes Danny's breath away. Tucker—for all his fickleness, for all the funnyman front leads his steps—has always been the steadiest of them. Sam gets riled up too easy, and Danny can't keep himself from butting in. Tucker is their level head, and it's so easy to forget when Danny's the one forging the path ahead, Sam on his heels, Tucker carefully picking his way along behind them.
When did he learn that resolve? Danny wonders, seeing those eyes. Tucker reaches out and takes one of Danny's hands. Why didn't I notice?
"Danny," Tucker says, in a way both loving and admonishing. "I don't want you to get hurt."
"You're avoiding the question," Danny mutters petulantly, and Tucker cracks a small grin, squeezing Danny's hand.
"I want to be by your side, and if that means this, then I'll be here," Tucker tells him, simply, plainly, like nothing else could be more true or real.
"Then why are you so quiet?" Danny asks, leaning into Tucker's side, feeling his reassuring warmth creep into icy skin.
"I already told you, dude. I hate seeing you hurt." Tucker laces their fingers together. "Got it?"
"Got it."
They stay like that, squished against each other, for a while, soaking in each other's presence. The tension that eases in Danny's chest seems to ease the house, too, and when he takes a new breath it doesn't feel so unnerving. The hum doesn't return, but there's a buzz in his chest that warms him from the inside out, not quite physical.
Danny looks at the first aid kit, still sitting innocently on the bed. Then he glances over at Tucker, at their hands intertwined, feeling how relaxed Tucker is.
"You've changed," Danny says suddenly, and Tucker tenses a little.
"Have I?"
"Yeah. You seem older, I guess. More mature." Danny feels him relax.
"Hard not to change. We're growing up." Tucker's quiet for a moment. "You've grown, too. You're a lot different than you were when the accident first happened."
"Am I?" Danny asks, surprised. Tucker turns to meet his eyes.
"Yeah. More confident."
Danny grins. "We've both grown, I guess."
Tucker smiles back, and somehow it's different than every time he's smiled before. It's real, loving, mature, and Danny wants to drink it in—this person that his best friend has become alongside him, one that's so much greater than the little kid he'd befriended in kindergarten, and yet holds his hand like they're both still that young. Ten, twelve years and counting, and they're still this close.
"Yeah, we have," Tucker murmurs, and leans his head on Danny's shoulder.