Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, their parents are gone. (Again.) Some kind of Educator’s Conference, or whatever, in Philly.

But this time, Maddie’s gone, too. Just for the night, and she told Evan when she’d be back. But still. She’s out. With stupid fucking Doug.

There’s money on the kitchen island. Groceries in the fridge. A persistent, droning buzz from the very old, very fragile lamp in the foyer that their parents got when their great-grandmother died. He only seems to hear it buzz when he’s home alone.

Something about tonight feels different. Worse. His parents hadn’t said they were leaving—or he’d forgotten that they had, which his dad insists is more likely—and he’d stayed up til, like, four last night, so he only got three hours of sleep, so he missed the bus, and breakfast, so he’d had to walk, and he was late to first period again, so he had lunch detention, and there wasn’t any money in his cafeteria account, and when you have lunch detention they don’t let you have the stupid free cheese sandwich, so he sat in the little room with the SRO and about five other kids who’d fucked up, and it was so quiet in there, and every thirty seconds his stomach would audibly growl and everybody would look at him but he couldn’t help it because he hadn’t eaten in over 16 hours.

And it wasn’t even anybody else’s fault except his.

And then he got home. And the house was empty. And he remembered that Maddie had left tonight, too.

So now he’s watching the local BMX channel, which seems more boring than it usually does, because he’s just thinking about being hungry. It’s stupid. It’s really stupid, because Maddie told him she was going out, and this time he actually remembered, but at some point during the day he’d forgotten, and he’s fourteen years old (not a little kid) and he can get his own food, but something in him was really, really looking forward to coming home and eating dinner with Maddie and complaining about everything.

And he doesn’t really know why it happens, is the thing. Other than being hungry, and bored, and kind of mad at the world—but none of those are logical reasons for doing what he does.

What he does is get up from the sofa, leaving the BMX channel on, turning the volume up to an almost-too-loud level before chucking the remote back onto the cushions, because who’s going to tell him not to?

What he does is head to the kitchen, and count the money on the island—the majority of it is from his parents, for the next few days, but a little of it is from Maddie, folded under a sticky note that says in her neat, round handwriting: Sorry to leave you hanging!! See you tomorrow! And then below that, she’s drawn a little smiley face with the tongue sticking out, because she refuses to accept that her little brother’s an actual teenager now.

What he does is open the cabinets, and the pantry, and the fridge, and take stock of the food inside—the staples, the freshly-bought groceries; what he’d have to cook, what he won’t.

What he does is stand and feel the hunger for a second. Feels the hunger and the pissed-offedness and the weird burning behind his nose that means he wants to cry. He’s being a baby. He’s being needy again. People go way longer without food than he has. Poverty’s a thing. Prisoners of war. People on hunger strikes. And he has food. Plenty of food.

He can’t really empathize with any of them right now. He feels the hungriest he’s ever been. He feels like he might be the hungriest anyone’s ever been.

Maddie’s coming back, but then she’ll leave again. When Evan was young—actually young, not fourteen, not officially in high school—she’d go see Doug for just a couple of hours, maybe. She still had a curfew then. Now she’s twenty-two, impossibly grown-up, and she can come and go as she pleases, and every time she goes the thought pops up in Evan’s head that one of these days it won’t please her to come back. Not to their usually-empty house with her too-much little brother and the boring BMX channel and the stupid fucking lamp buzzing in the foyer.

He doesn’t even fully register that he’s eating until he finishes the goldfish, one of those thick paper bags with the curled-down tops, one that a couple of minutes ago had been half-full.

His fingers curl against dusty, empty foil lining, and he swallows, and the feeling of a still jaw becomes excruciating. It feels better to be biting. He wants to gnaw through a rope. Or maybe his own hand.

So he keeps eating, rooting through the snack pantry for the medieval-looking package of Hydrox. Tears through it with methodical, out-of-body precision. When his jaw starts to hurt he finds something with a different texture—nothing he’ll have to cook; he’d have to stop, to think, to do that.

It feels like he’s done it a million times before. It feels like he’s not the one doing it at all. He eats cereal from the salad bowl, drinks orange juice from the carton, because no one’s there to stop him, and he’s going to finish it, anyway.

It was just before four when he got home. When his stomach starts to hurt, the clock reads 6:08.

The pain brings him back, a little bit, and his hands feel more like his own again, though his brain still needs to boot up. He flexes his fingers, noticing they’re a little sticky. If he breathes in deep enough, he feels a solid mass in his stomach, like he swallowed a rock, or has some sort of huge tumor. He can feel food in his throat, pushing up, tinged vile and sour after being partially digested.

Evan knows it suddenly and exactly, the way a body does, like reaching out to catch yourself before you really register that you’re falling. He’s already halfway to the bathroom before he realizes: I’m going to fucking puke.

She is leaving.

For real this time. Forever.

There’s a fight about it, and not even a passive-aggressive one. Real aggression. Nasty, cruel, cut-to-the-core type verbal puncture wounds, slashes of poorly thought out, and you’ll regret this, and childish and disappointing and impulsive.

It’s the type of stuff they usually say to Evan, honestly, when it finally gets too difficult to keep ignoring him.

Maddie ends the match in tears, heading out to her car but not driving off, and Evan wants to follow her for a little, but he stays at the dinner table. She doesn’t want him to trail after her. She would’ve looked at him if she did, when she walked out, instead of just wiping her knuckles over her eyes.

She doesn’t need a dumb kid right now. And God, he feels like a kid. He’s always trying to catch up with her, to beg a little bit of affection off her, and it’s only over the last year or so, when she hasn’t been around so often, that he’s realized that it must be fucking suffocating. That he’s suffocating.

So he sits at the dinner table and he doesn’t go after Maddie, and he finishes his food and watches his mother carefully pat her own cheekbones with her unused napkin.

Outside, Maddie audibly starts her car.

He’s starting to feel kind of sick.

Maddie’s headlights flash through the foyer window, slide across the dining room wall as she drives away down the street.

His mother clears her throat, pushing her plate a couple of inches away from her. She’s barely eaten anything, even though she’s the one who cooked. The fighting started pretty early into dinner. Evan’s the only one who cleared his plate. He didn’t know what to do, except shut the fuck up and eat.

“Not hungry?” His father asks conversationally, pleasantly, like Maddie didn’t just storm out sobbing, like Evan doesn’t have a thousand-yard stare trained on the staircase.

“Not anymore,” his mother answers, sounding almost like she’s making a joke. She’s officially put herself back together. “Wasn’t that just something?”

The only thing his father says is, “Mm.”

He definitely feels sick.

“May I be excused,” he says, and it’s a request, but it doesn’t come out that way, the inflection falling damp and quiet at the end of the sentence.

“Hm?” His mother asks, like she’d forgotten that he’s sitting diagonal to her. “Oh, yes, sure.”

He stands, pushes his chair back in. Napkin in the trashcan. Dishes, rinsed, filed into the dishwasher.

He’s going to throw up soon. He feels like he’s going to cry, and he can feel the rock in his stomach, and that means he’s going to throw up.

It’s not as violent as last time. It doesn’t catch him by surprise; he doesn’t even have to make a run to get to the bathroom in time, probably because this time he didn’t stuff himself until he felt like he was going to keel over and die. He feels the build, the vision-tilting acidic push in his throat, and he takes a decisive but unhurried walk to the bathroom he and Maddie have always shared, and he kneels.

It’s simple. Fast. When it’s done, he rests his cheek on his arm across the toilet seat and breathes in and out, deep, spit-choked, trying to ignore the taste.

It takes a lot out of the abs, puking. It feels like he’s been doing crunches, the same not-terrible ache as the first twenty minutes of gym class, that period of solitary, repetitive exercise. It has the same effect on his brain, too: quiet, breathless, calm, sore, empty.

Somewhere, Maddie’s crying in the front seat of her car, or maybe she’s already to Doug’s. Maybe she won’t ever even come back to really say goodbye. The thought comes into his head, and he turns it over and over in his brain, hearing only the bathroom fan, and feels almost nothing about it one way or the other. His cheek on his arm on the toilet, he reaches up to flush with his other hand, and closes his eyes.

Massachusetts is cold this time of year, and the whole state feels cramped. Or maybe it’s just that he’s miserable and wearing a tie.

He’d wanted to try and weasel out of it, but he’d already made Maddie a little sad by refusing to be ring-bearer (seriously, no one his age has ever been a ring-bearer, probably), so concessions had had to be made.

The wedding ceremony is… nice, he guesses, but he’s pretty sure he only thinks that because he overhears other people remarking on it. Mostly, it’s long, and kind of boring. But Maddie looks pretty, and she’s smiling, and stupid Doug’s stupid vows are relatively short, so it could definitely be worse.

He’s waiting ardently for the reception, honestly, so he can finally get up and walk around, and stop sitting in the front row next to his mother, who keeps clamping a hand down on his knee whenever he starts bouncing it. It’s not like he’s trying to.

He counts the pipes of the massive organ behind the pulpit. He counts the glittering ringlets of Maddie’s hair. He tries not to shake his knee.

Finally, finally, the ceremony ends, and he can stand.

—

Later, in the bathroom, he realizes that it’s different, this time. Because this time, he made himself do it. He’d waited for the sick feeling to come, for his body to clue him in: get going before shit gets embarrassing. He’d picked through the tables of food at the reception multiple times, waiting for the push in his throat, the dizzy slide of his eyes, but all he got was the rock in his stomach. His own body, abandoning him in his time of need.

So he ate until the rock hardened and hurt, solid and overbearing in his abdomen. And then he went to the bathroom and waited. And waited. For… nothing.

It was weirdly frustrating, more than anything. He leaned with his back against the locked door, tie already tugged loose, top button already undone, and kept thinking, and… now. But “now” never happened.

After the third person knocked on the door to the single-seater and Evan had answered a harried, “Just a sec!” he got tired of it. If his body refused to get with the program, he’d just make it. It’s his, anyway, and he has to get rid of the overfill somehow.

It’s another one of those tranquil, out-of-body moments, kind of like the first time, almost just as methodical: kneel, choke, release. Repeat last two steps ad nauseam, pun intended. Breathe. Reset. Feel, finally, empty. Calm. Ready.

After he stands, he checks himself in the mirror, making sure he doesn’t look like he’d just puked—or worse, like he’d just shut himself in the bathroom to cry.

He kind of does. Shit. His face is a little red, a little puffy. His lips look kind of raw. His eyes are watering.

He splashes his face with cold water from the sink, pats himself dry with thin brown paper towels. he leans back against the wall and breathes. It’s only when he checks his reflection for improvement that he notices it.

He got puke on his tie.

Chapter Text

It sort of becomes normal, after the wedding. 

Part of the new normal, at least. 

Evan starts his sophomore year, then progresses, sliding solitarily into January and the second semester with no big commotion. 

His grades are fine, but not noteworthy. He’s on the football team, but he’s JV. He’s friendly with a lot of people, but none of them are really his friends. 

He talks at Maddie on the phone, but not really to her. He hates registering the sound of his own voice while he does, whiny and pubescent; he feels like he can’t stop screaming out need, need, need , even when he’s trying to project the opposite. And she doesn’t sound like she wants to say much, really. So by now they mostly text. 

Most Mondays and Wednesdays go: School, call Maddie, then practice. If Maddie doesn’t answer his call, because sometimes the breaks in their days don’t line up, then it’s: School, then try and call Maddie, then the vending machine, then practice. Most days, though, she answers, and Evan adds his snack cash to the growing hoard for the next time she doesn’t. 

Practice—if he goes hard enough; if he does well—gives him almost the same feeling as throwing up. Almost indistinguishable from that empty, calm, coldness inside, and flushed, exerted, warmth outside. The exact opposite of needing anything. 

Most Tuesdays and Thursdays go: School, bus home, try and do homework before inevitably giving up, text Maddie, get out of the house before his mother and father get home at five and five-thirty respectively. 

Fridays, during the “on” season, are a sort of gift to himself. 

He doesn’t eat lunch on Fridays. Players, marching band, cheer team—anybody involved in the games, really—gets to leave sixth period half an hour early to get to their practices. 

Practice gets him dizzy and freezing on no fuel, better and sharper and more severe as the year ticks on, the sun setting earlier, the dusk getting colder. 

They eat dinner in the band room, divided into vague factions with significant overlap, over miscellaneous chairs and blankets on the tile floor. Dinner’s roughly similar every week—massive orders from the fast food restaurants on the high way, bulk boxes of cheap, chewy pastries and single-serve bags of chips from Costco, coolers of decaf soda, all of it bought with teamster checks and PTA moms’ play money. 

He only feels self-conscious the first time, before he realizes that there’s more than too much food for everybody; that about half of it gets packed up by the PTA volunteers after dinner, that a lot of it will just be added to the concessions booth if no one eats it. Before he realizes that nobody cares, or even notices, how many times he goes back to the table. How fast and by how far he outpaces everyone else’s consumption. 

Maybe they would notice if he was one of the cheerleaders—the group of four girls on the squad who always sit together with identical plates, none of them willing to have more than anybody else, but none of them wanting to look like a dieting try hard and have less, and all of them refusing to finish first. 

Or maybe someone would notice if he was that freshman from marching band, who sits with her friends and sometimes steals furtive, bird-size bites of their food, but more often than not pounds back a gold-skinned Diet Coke and picks at a home-packed plastic bag of cucumber slices. 

But he’s not any of those people. He’s a boy, first off, and he sits with the other boys, and he’s one of the athletes , and he can eat whatever the fuck he wants. 

He can make his way to the bathrooms in the science wing, because nobody uses the science wing on Friday evening, and that means that nobody notices if he forgets to swallow back the gagging sound and hacks loudly on accident, echoing wet and rough against the tile walls. 

He feels like shit when he’s hungry, and he plays better when he’s empty. The cold air doesn’t touch him as much. The floodlights turn silvery-soft. And he likes eating. Keeps his hands busy, mouth busy, mind busy. Something to chew through, putty in the ears. Go until you can’t anymore. Cycle it back out. Be ready. 

Days pass in an endless sludge—schoolcallmaddiepracticehomeworkgooutsleep—interspersed with games and group projects and injuries nobody has time to even try and care about anymore. 

He wants to try for As, mostly gets Bs, sometimes Cs. But a 2.8 GPA keeps him on the team, so he’s not too disappointed. He has a good shot at varsity next year, according to the coach, but he’ll obviously still have to work for it. He’s not a shoo-in. Usually acceptable, never exceptional—his parents might contest that last part, but never in a good way. 

“You have to remember to change the bandages,” Maddie says, for like, the third time that night. 

“I know,” Evan says, also for the third time. Then he says, “It’s not even that bad.” 

He even feels conniving as he says it, worse when it makes Maddie huff and go into a spiel: “Cuts and scrapes like that might not be that deep, but they need to stay clean , Evan, or they get infected. And you know what happens if something gets infected and you leave it?”  

He sighs, like he’s annoyed, but he’s not, because he likes being hurt, and likes hearing her talk about him being hurt, and honestly the whole reason he mentioned it in the first place is so he could hear her worry about him. “Sepsis.” 

“Septic shock,” Maddie corrects. “Which is even worse. So you have to clean it and change the bandages every day, and if you have to sit out of practice or whatever so it doesn’t get reopened—”  

“—Maddie—” 

“—I’m being serious!”  

“You’re being overprotective.” 

“That’s my job, dummy.”  

What he wants to say is, So why aren’t you here to do it, then? Why are you in Boston? He doesn’t even really like you.  

But if he said any of that, she’d tell him that, at fifteen, he still wasn’t old enough to understand, and if he pushed, she’d get annoyed, or sad, and maybe he’d make her cry. 

So instead, he says, “Don’t call me a dummy.” 

Football season ends, and with it, Evan’s treasured, focused Fridays. There’s still practice, once a week on Wednesdays, and an unofficial one on Sunday afternoons. Evan goes to both every week, because the other option is going home, and because the coach gives him a short nod of acknowledgment the first time he shows up to a Sunday practice, so he just keeps coming. If he wants to be more than marginally competent, he reminds himself, he has to actually work for it. 

Sticking out the season, proving himself a little even as a sophomore, gives him something close to an automatic group of friends. People to sit with at lunch, anyway, people who gesture to the empty seat next to them when he walks into class. Not people he can actually talk to about anything, not without the pounding headache of a refrain: shut up/too much/exhausting/too much/needy/too much/whiny/too much/clingy/too much/fucking suffocating — 

He gets invited places, though. And sometimes those places have girls there. And sometimes one of those girls will want to make out with him. So it’s okay, mostly. They sort of only have football in common at first, but Andy’s on Academic Challenge, wants to go to college for natural sciences, and that’s interesting to listen to. Matt L has good music taste, as far as Evan can tell. Justin skates, and there’s an open invitation for Evan to come with, but Evan’s eaten shit every time he’s tried (usually not even on purpose), so he mostly sits and watches. That’s how he meets Justin’s sister Kayla, sitting next to her on the edge of the bowl, cold concrete pressing through his jeans even in mid-March. 

He decides almost immediately that she’s kind of weird, but also kind of cool. Maybe the one is dependent on the other; maybe she’s kind of cool because she’s kind of weird. 

“Hey,” he says the first time he sees her there at the same time as him, sitting on the outskirts while Justin skates. 

She barely glances over at him from her DS. “Hi.” 

“I’m Evan.” 

“I know. Justin talks about you. He thinks you’re funny.” 

Evan lets that sit for a moment. “… Good funny?” 

Kayla shrugs. “Just funny, I guess.” She doesn’t say anything else.

“You go to our school, right? Ninth grade?” 

“Yep,” Kayla says, sounding like she’s getting kind of tired of him. “That’s why I’m here.” She gestures vaguely with her stylus hand at Justin on the other side of the bowl. “He drives me home.” 

“Oh. Cool.” 

“Not really.” 

Okay, then.  

After a while, Evan breaks the silence again: “What are you playing?” 

“Nintendogs.” 

— 

So now he and Kayla sit next to each other while she plays a game (usually Nintendogs, and she nudges Evan’s shoulder to make him watch her dogs run their agility courses, but sometimes Pokémon) and he watches Justin skate. She thinks it’s kind of weird and dumb that he watches with actual rapt attention, that if he wants to skate he should just learn how and do it, and Evan doesn’t know how to explain that that’s not even why he likes to watch. He doesn’t even know why. 

Sometimes him and Kayla are still talking by the time Justin decides it’s time to head home, and he’ll trail behind the siblings on the way to Justin’s car. Sometimes he gets in the passenger seat and ends up at their house, with their dad who cooks dinner and their mom who’s neck-deep in the early spring rush of managing a garden supply store, but who still asks them how school was that day. 

And sometimes he’ll eat dinner there with them, and feel a weird, alien ache as their conversation washes over him, and then him and Justin will watch a movie in the basement or something, and Evan will glance over every ten seconds at how the glow of the television falls over Justin’s face, and he’ll eat a shit load of snacks, and then night will fall and he’ll start the walk home feeling overfull and warm, and the closer he gets to his own house the more cancerous and rancid the feeling in his stomach becomes, until he gets to his street and he’s ducking around the side of his parent’s house, kneeling in the bushes with half a hand in his mouth. 

“I have to ask, Evan, how much are you eating?” 

It’s a few weeks before his birthday, and they’re at his sixteen-year checkup—him and his mom, that is—and apparently he’s fucking fat now, or whatever. 

“I don’t know,” he says, looking squarely at his knees as he sits on the edge of the exam table. They don’t look any different to him, really. No part of him does. It’s not like he pays that close of attention. 

But he’s outpaced his growth chart, whatever that means. Height has paused briefly at 5’10, weight hasn’t. 

Usually we see this type of height stall and weight increase right before a growth spurt , Doctor Chung had said, but you just had one a few months ago . 

“He eats like a horse ,” his mother says. She’s been paying shrewd attention ever since Doctor Chung had let out a quiet, oh , and flipped around an adolescent BMI chart to point to the number 27.5. “ I think it’s ridiculous—but he’s active; I thought that was normal, for boys.” 

“It is, mostly,” Doctor Chung says, and she sounds light-hearted. “But it’s also normal for teenage boys to not make the wisest nutritional choices.” 

His mother, who sounds decidedly less light-hearted, says, “I believe it. Last week, he cleared out an entire new jar of peanut butter in two days .” 

Evan wants to cut in, say that that was a one-time thing, that he’d learned his lesson with that one, because God , it was a bitch to get back up. It had become an immediate never again . 

Doctor Chung laughs politely, like his mom had been joking. She speaks right to his mother, like Evan’s not even in the room anymore. 

“It’s nothing to be too concerned about, especially considering that he’s got a good amount of muscle,” Doctor Chung says. “I just want him thinking about things like more brown grains, fish and poultry, fruits and vegetables, that sort of thing. These things sometimes even themselves out, especially in boys his age, but it’s best to tamp a problem early, if one’s getting started.” 

— 

When he was little, like really little, when his mother would take him to the doctor’s for a booster shot, if he was still tantruming by the time they got to the car, his mother would divert on the drive home to the ice cream place, buying his silence with two scoops of full-fat on a cake cone. 

Buckling into the passenger seat of the minivan now, pride still smarting a little bit, he just can’t help it. 

“I’m guessing no ice cream?” he asks, knowing even while he says it it’s probably a mistake. 

His mother jerks the car into Drive. “Don’t be smart , Evan.” 

 He goes into his junior year lean and tough and officially on varsity, which his mother is surprisingly receptive to being excited about (for a moment) and attributes almost entirely to Evan’s single-minded summer focus on paring down. 

It wasn’t even hard, really, is the thing. On the days he didn’t have practice, he went on runs. He almost always sleeps through breakfast in the summer anyway. One habit that sticks around even into the school year: he pays a little more attention after gorging himself, watching whatever he ate play back in acidic, pulpy reverse, making sure he gets everything up. 

He structures his weeks around practices and Fridays, around Justin and Kayla and the stretches of two or three days where his parents are barely around. 

Anticipating retirement, combined with the money from their great-grandmother (same one with the lamp), means his mother switches from full-time teaching to long-term substitution. She doesn’t tell Evan about her posts, probably mostly because he doesn’t ask and because they barely see each other, but it essentially means she’ll teach at one school in the county for a few weeks or months, then have stretches of time, sometimes equally long, with no work assigned on the day-to-day. She visits her sister in Altoona a lot when she’s not working. It’s too long of a drive to not at least stay the night. 

His father keeps the same hours he always has: early mornings, late nights, monitoring after-school clubs and volunteering for weekend sports meets, always willing to invest his time and effort in the American youth, as long as they’re not personally his. When he is home, he’s wading through grades, or phone banking for the Board of Ed. 

Evan marks time in games, in the rise, crest, and fall of stress and relief that comes with over-stuffing, puking, exerting. 

He takes the PSAT in October; his prospects remain mediocre. Privately, Evan wishes he could copy Matt L, who as of his senior year, drives out to a mechanics trade school in Harrisburg twice a week in exchange for a reduced course load. 

But that’s really not an option, not with his parents anyway, so the numbers are starting to look like community college. Which is fine. Maddie’s the one with two different GPAs, both impressive but one called weighted, who got her CNA certification three months after graduating, who’s already paid her own way halfway through nursing school. 

So he does fine at school and slightly better at football, and he goes to parties on Saturdays and sometimes spends the very early hours of Sunday morning in the emergency room, because he’s stupid, because he doesn’t look out for himself, because he wants attention but it doesn’t even work, and if it did work he would just feel annoyed that his parents had come back because then he couldn’t come and go as he wanted, so maybe it’s kind of better in the end that nobody cares. 

 Maddie comes home for Thanksgiving, and she doesn’t even bring Doug. 

She looks exhausted, and small, and brittle, and the first thing she does after hugging him hello is pull back and study his face before laying her hand across his forehead. 

“Quit it,” he says softly and halfheartedly. 

“No,” she says immediately, and holds his jaw, gentle but fast, in one hand, taking his temperature with the other. “Were you sick? You’re not warm now.” 

He shrugs, dumb and honest before he can even try thinking of a lie to get her to let it go. “No. Why?” 

“You don’t…” She’s still holding his chin, still studying him. “Look… good.” 

Now Evan does pull his face away, huffing. “ Thanks , Maddie.” 

The thing is, if he actually had been sick, he would have no problem launching into a diatribe of how much it had sucked, playing up his middling suffering to get Maddie to laugh and brush his hair back and press a kiss to his temple. 

But he hasn’t been sick. He just has a thing that he does sometimes—not even that often really, just a couple times a week, sometimes not even—and for some reason it feels imperative that nobody ever, ever finds out. 

Everybody has habits, or ways to manage stress, or whatever, and this just happens to be his. But it’s undeniably gross and weird and kind of fucked-up, and he’s never heard anybody else talk about it, so on the off-chance he’s not the only person in the world who does it (which sometimes he really believes), then it at least has to be the type of thing that nobody talks about. 

So he says, “I’m just tired.” 

Maddie sighs, put-upon and performative. “God, me too. Work and school are kicking my butt.” 

But Maddie’s been off school for a week now, and all that’s left are her practicals and exams, anyway, and stupid Doug got a stupid promotion, so she’s been able to reduce her job hours, so really she should be less tired now, not more. 

She’s lying to him, and he knows she’s lying to him, though he’s not sure in exactly what way, and she seems to notice that he knows, so she adds, flimsily, “And the drive down here was miserable .” 

— 

Thanksgiving dinner is… fine. 

Maddie doesn’t really mention Doug beyond a cursory confirmation that he’s doing well, that he got promoted. Evan gets the distinct impression that really, everything in Maddie’s life falls into one of two boxes: Doug and Nursing . The holes and self-censorship in her stories are obvious as she tries to leave out one of the two, but she’s doing it to avoid conflict, so nobody calls her on it. 

Their mom brought her sister back from Altoona, because both of her kids are at their respective spouses’ Thanksgiving this year. 

Aunt Beverly and uncle Rob are also… fine, he guesses. Evan barely knows them, despite having only lived a couple hours from them for his entire life. Seeing them on holidays, he always got the impression that they kind of didn’t… like kids. No clue why they decided to have multiple of them. Maybe that’s just a running theme in their family. 

For most of the morning on Thursday, Beverly and Maddie and their mom are in the kitchen, and Evan honestly would’ve tagged after Maddie if he could, but he’s been unofficially banned from getting in the way. His dad is double-tasking lesson plans and NPR in the office. He texts Justin who is, predictably, busy, and even Kayla, who takes a long time to answer, telling him when she does that she’s hiding from her relatives in her room playing games, which is probably exactly where she wants to be. 

Evan wishes he were more like her in that way, kind of, more into video games beyond watching with half-interest over her shoulder at the skate park. But he’s tried, and he’s not. Multiplayer stuff is okay, like the Xbox 360 in Justin and Kayla’s basement, but anything by himself is just… he needs to move, or run his mouth, and that’s just not conducive to Kayla’s solitary hours spent in Hyrule on the NES. 

So he’s stuck in the family room with Rob. Who asks him about three questions about school before falling silent, eyes trained on the game on the television. 

To be fair, Evan doesn’t really know shit about Rob, either. He thinks he was a lawyer at some point, or something? Or maybe something to do with life insurance. 

Maybe it’s weird, but Evan doesn’t really care about watching football. He cares about being on the team. He cares about moving . Slamming into other people isn’t bad either, when he gets to. But watching it kind of bores him out of his skull. 

“Do you ever stop doing that?” 

It takes a second for Evan’s brain to log back on, for him to realize that Rob’s talking to him . “Huh?” 

“That thing with your leg,” Rob says, and gestures to the leg in question. “You ever stop?” 

Evan looks at his leg. He’s bouncing it. He stops. “Not really. I guess. I don’t do it on purpose.” 

Later, at dinner, he makes a conscious effort to keep every part of his body still except for his hands and his mouth. Maddie keeps making sly eye contact with him whenever Beverly says something weird, which is pretty often—she has this habit of using the word anal to mean particular , which is technically fine, but she’s particular about a lot of things, apparently, and the first time he hears it, Evan almost chokes on an entire mouthful of sweet potatoes. 

“I tell you what, Margie—and I was always kind of anal about this, you know, so it might’ve been different—but I forgot how much boys eat !” 

His mother laughs, but Evan sees her face tighten, just a little. He wonders how her own sister can’t see it, too. But maybe she can see it, and she’s needling her on purpose, because she keeps going: “I mean, look at him, I think that’s his third plate—when Dylan still lived with us, in high school, he ate just about every second he was awake, and I was just so damn jealous of his metabolism. Where does it all go ?” 

His mother spears a brussels sprout from her perfectly divided plate: two or three bites of everything on offer, none of it touching. “I ask myself the same thing sometimes,” she says delicately, before looking up from the stabbed brussels sprout, directly at Evan. “But I think even Evan knows we have to be careful, right? About what we’re eating? Because that miracle metabolism does slow down, eventually.” 

There’s a moment, right there, where nobody’s saying anything, and his mom’s looking at him, and he honestly doesn’t know whether or not to put down his fork. 

And then Beverly’s steamrolling again, about how that’s so true , and how her daughter just can’t seem to lose this baby weight; you know, the last child you’ll have is always the hardest to recover from.  

— 

Maddie knocks. Again. Louder this time. 

“I really need to get in there, Evan,” she says through the door, and she sounds almost the exact same kind of insistent as she did when she was in high school, and a nine-year-old Evan had slipped into the bathroom between when she had taken a shower and came back to blow dry her hair. 

The knock startles him mid-gag reflex. Which is the worst time to be startled. His mouth floods with spit and acid and not much else. It feels like what he imagines drinking gasoline would feel like. 

He does his best to swallow, then swallow again, so his voice won’t come out totally fucked. “Just like, one second.” 

“What? I can’t hear you.”  

He raises his voice to be heard over the running faucet. “I said one second .” And this time his voice comes out pretty fucked. 

“…Are you okay?”  

He rolls his eyes. He really is almost done. He color-coded it. “Yeah. Just a second.” 

— 

Safely tucked away in her old bedroom, Maddie puts a green four card down on the carpet. “What’s up with you and mom?” 

Evan puts down a yellow four. “Nothing’s up with me, and mom’s just weird. What do you mean?” 

Yellow draw-two; she snickers as he sighs. “She was being extra weird. At dinner. To you.” 

He plays a yellow skip, then a yellow five. “It’s because I was fat over the summer, or whatever. She’s been on my ass about what I’m eating.” 

Yellow eight. “You weren’t fat over the summer.” 

Blue eight. “Just for like, a month. I lost it. Football does that.” 

Maddie says, “Red,” as she places her wildcard. “No, I mean, you don’t just become ‘fat’ in a month. And you weren’t, anyway.” 

Evan doesn’t have any reds. He draws a card. “Like I said, I’m not anymore. I fixed it.” 

Maddie plays a red three. “I saw you all summer on Facebook, though. You literally looked the same. How did this even come up?” 

Evan draws another card. “Wellness visit. Why do you care so much, anyway?” 

Red five. “Because mom’s weird about food. She always has been. And since I moved out she can’t be weird about it to me anymore, so.” 

Evan draws a wild card, places it down. “Blue. She always has been?” 

Maddie rolls her eyes at his color choice and draws a card. “Ever since I was like, twelve. But you’re a boy, so you probably never noticed.” 

Blue seven. “Guess not.” 

Chapter Text

His parents have always said Rehoboth Beach is gaudy and pretentious, so he’s never been. 

He doesn’t say that first part to Justin and Kayla and their parents, though. Just that it’s his first time. 

Kayla gets a little excited at that prospect, that she gets to show him around, in a way that he’s only used to seeing when she’s showing him something on a handheld device. 

— 

Rehoboth is decidedly not gaudy and pretentious, by the way. Evan comes to this conclusion as Justin’s dad eases the family’s minivan down slow-moving beach town streets, the edge of the sky silky purple and peach in the dusk, the road a cool blue-gray. 

— 

The asphalt’s been baked to softness in the prolonged heat of a mid-August day, even long after noon. Evan doesn’t know if it’s the time of evening, or the proximity to the ocean, or the lull of three hours in the car, or what, but he feels fine. Good, even. He can’t sense anything he ate today sitting inside him. He’s not hungry, either. 

— 

He’s sharing a room with Justin. Which shouldn’t feel weird, but does. He’s never slept in the same room as someone who isn’t Maddie. 

— 

It’s almost eleven at night, but Justin turned eighteen over a month ago, so even having parents who care where he ends up, all he has to do is tell them that he and Evan are headed out, and they’re gone, simple as that. 

— 

It’s dark, though not any darker than Hershey—the night sky still has that dark gray, TV-static, light pollution glow. The only time Evan remembers seeing a sky without it is in the Poconos. That amorphous glow is pretty much enough to see by, even over two hours after sunset, even after they veer far off from the boardwalk. It’s enough to track highlights and shadows on Justin’s bare shoulders, the plane of his back. When he’s close enough, the slope of abdominal muscle into hip bone. 

— 

He’s not supposed to be thinking about bodies this much. 

He doesn’t even care about this stuff. He really, actually doesn’t. 

Maybe his mom got to him more than he thought. 

Tanned and tired and with his muscles feeling coiled up with potential energy inside his limbs, Evan comes home eight days later to an empty house. 

There’s money on the island in the kitchen. A note, his mother’s handwriting: Answering machine . 

The answering machine has a voicemail from a Virginia number on it, but it’s his dad’s voice that comes through when he clicks the button. 

Hello, Evan. Hope you had a good time in Delaware. We’ve gone with your aunt and uncle to Virginia; your grandmother has a timeshare that Beverly’s somehow forgotten to mention for six years. Anyway, we left plenty of money, and I believe your mother—Margie, did you go to—? Alright. Your mother went grocery shopping. We’ll be back on the twenty-fifth, I believe. Lock the door when you leave, make sure—you’re seventeen years old. You know all this. Alright. Well, see you then. Margie, did you want to say anything—?  

The message beeps out. 

Evan stands, silently, in the kitchen. He puts his duffel bag down next to the island. 

He doesn’t think he’s having the reaction he’s supposed to have. He’s supposed to feel… free, he would guess. Or, like, independent, or whatever. At least a little happy. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. It’s not like it would be any better if they were here. 

He doesn’t feel any of that. He just kind of feels empty. 

— 

He guesses there was probably enough money for the six days between when he got back from Delaware and the twenty-fifth, but he can’t say for sure, because he spends it all on the first night. 

It’s an insane amount of food. Like, objectively. It’s more food than he’s ever eaten at one time in his life. It’s more food than he thought a person could eat at one time. More than the first time in freshman year, when his body gave up on him and he puked without even meaning to. 

It’s an eat-your-own-tail kind of loop, into him and out of him, full to bursting, expelled back down to a husk. He runs on fuel from eight in the evening to midnight, fumes from midnight to two, bile and little spots of blood until he finally falls into bed around three. 

He feels, physically, the worst he’s ever felt in his life. Every cut or burn or bruise or broken bone feels like a stupid, surface-level hurt in comparison to the bass-drum, twisted vision, fucked-balance headache he has right now. It feels like each of his organs has been wrung out like a washcloth and thrown back into the empty pit of his abdomen. It feels two out of every three cells in his body has gone necrotic. It feels like his mouth is one giant, open sore. It feels like his eyeballs are literally going to pop. 

He’d break his own elbow again with a stupid fucking dirt bike, right now , if it meant it would stop. 

But it doesn’t stop. 

He lays shirtless on his bed in the dark, after wrenching open the window and propping it open with Advanced Elements of Grammar: Volume IV . He lays in the dark and bakes in the stagnant August air. He lays in the dark and thinks he’s probably the stupidest person alive. 

Biked to the store for no god damn reason. Spent over seven hours doing worse-than-nothing. He’s broke now, until his parents come back. He’ll have to hope those fucking groceries stretch. That his brain doesn’t call it quits and betray him again—because that’s the thing. He was telling himself, the whole time, not to do it. To just fucking stop . But he might as well have been yelling through a screen at a character in a horror movie. 

And it felt like shit. Every go-around after the first one, after where he usually peters out, felt worse than the one before it. Grosser. Sicker. 

Usually, at least, it feels good . 

— 

It’s like having a hangover and the flu and a concussion at the same time. 

He regrets every choice he’s ever made in his life that has lead him to this point. 

When he finally, fully wakes up around two in the afternoon, he takes stock of his body, head to toe. 

His head has the worst of it, really. Every time his heart beats, he can feel it pulse through the blubbery gray matter of his brain; it feels like getting hit with a club. 

His eyes still ache, pinched under his eyelids like overlarge marbles packed into the sockets. 

The top of his throat, right at the back of his mouth, still feels shredded raw. He thinks if he moved his tongue back enough to feel, he might taste blood, but he doesn’t really want to try and find out. So he keeps his tongue where it is, in the front of his mouth, which tastes like he spent all of last night eating actual roadkill. 

There’s a sort of sick, heavy feeling in his chest, like those lead aprons you have to wear when you get an x-ray. He spends a couple of seconds worrying about it, before he realizes it’s probably just shame. 

The shame persists, perversely healthy and overgrown, in his stomach, which feels wilted and achy and hungry , somehow, which seems fucked up—mentally, Evan never wants to eat again. 

He’s almost surprised his knees don’t hurt. Although, thinking about it realistically, he didn’t actually spend that much time down on the ground. The puking is usually the fastest part. 

His calves do hurt, though. Weird aching, twitching spasms. The pain is constant but the movement is barely noticeable unless he’s laying perfectly still. He rolls his ankles, tries to stretch the muscles like rubber bands. It stings. He needs to move. 

He sits up, and the world shifts forty-five degrees. He feels his heart rate kick up, feels it in the pounding of his skull, and knows implicitly: I’m going to pass out . 

The camera angle of his vision tilts nauseously, the edges going vignette-dark. He looks down at his own hands, to make sure they’re steady, make sure he’s not seeing double, and little green and purple spots slide over his fingers. 

He closes his eyes, lets his body tilt, but doesn’t let it fall. He breathes, shallow, then deeper when he forces himself to. The dizziness passes and his heartbeat slows. Cautiously, he stands. 

He makes his way to the bathroom. The first few steps are tenuous; there’s a hot, liquid sensation inside him, like all his blood’s being pulled towards the floor. But he finds his footing. His body will walk because he’s told it to. It won’t fall because he’s told it it can’t. 

He flicks on the bathroom light, squinting his eyes shut for a moment against butter-yellow halogen. 

He turns on the water, cold, and fills cupped palms, leaning down to pass it over his face. It probably won’t do anything to help the headache, but in the dark behind his hands, in the split moment the water touches his skin, it feels perfect. 

He does it maybe five times, until his skin chills enough that it loses its novelty. He reaches blindly for the hand towel, rubs his face dry, and looks in the mirror. 

His stomach drops out of his body. 

He makes a noise, but he doesn’t know he’s going to make a noise until he’s already done it. It’s a pathetic, throaty, scared sound. A startled, prey-animal sort of yelp. 

He’s rushing closer to the mirror, holding his own eye open, trying to look closer, his mind entirely empty now except for an adrenaline-fueled what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck — 

The whites of his eyes are blooming a dark, angry red. 

It doesn’t hurt, really—well, his eyes hurt. They’re puffy and his headache feels like his brain is going to swell so much it’ll push his eyes out of their sockets. But if he closes his eyes, lightly taps on the eyelids, there’s no stinging or burning like he’s touching a wound. There are just inkblots of blood under the wet sheen of his sclerae, obscenely bright against the blue of his irises. 

It’s horrible to look at. He’s horrible to look at. 

This can never happen again. 

He makes eye contact with himself in the mirror. He looks gray and miserable and reanimated, even with his midsummer flush. He stops looking at his own skin, at his own face, stares directly at his own eyes, blue in red on blue in red. 

This can never, ever happen again. 

I’m serious , Evan tells himself. Fridays. Family dinners. Holidays. That’s it . 

Mostly into Evan’s mouth, barely audible over the music, Claire says, “Hey, something’s—” and pushes him back, just a little, more of a pause than a full-stop. Then— “Oh my God .” 

“What? What’s wrong?” Evan swipes his tongue over a bitten-sore bottom lip, and that’s when he tastes it. 

Hot and tangy and savory: blood, and lots of it. 

There’s blood on Claire, but it’s his blood; there’s no wound on the soft white skin of her face. Just a smear starting above her upper lip, one drop making its way down into her mouth. 

“Oh my God,” she says again when she tastes it too. She wipes her mouth against the back of her hand, tongue half-out. 

Evan uselessly pushes a knuckle through the flow of blood that’s made quick work of the bottom half of his face. “I’m so, so —” 

“—No, tilt your head back,” Claire cuts him off. “You’re gonna get blood on the carpet , shit. Come on.” 

She tugs him up the stairs, past other couples tucked into corners, through the relatively quiet upstairs hallway, to what he can safely assume is her own bathroom, with its open-face makeup organizer on the counter, its pale purple rug and gauzy shower curtain. 

“Keep your head back,” she says, and Evan complies wordlessly, even as he feels the tissue-thick ooze slide down his throat, making it kind of hard to breathe. 

Claire spins him so his back is against the sink, the counter just barely at hip-level, and for a second he forgets that they’re decidedly well-past the making out portion of their interaction tonight, with probably no hope of going back; helplessly, his stomach stirs. 

She pushes a wad of toilet paper into his right hand, directs the hand up to his face, presses it against his nose. He could do it himself. He lets her move his arm anyway. 

She pops the rest of the toilet paper roll off the holder, and stands and looks at him as she passes it back and forth between her hands kind of anxiously. 

“You can move your head now,” she says, sounding unsure. “I think. I can’t remember if it’s better to have it back or not.” 

Maddie would know , Evan’s mind supplies automatically, and he thinks that maybe he should call her. But he can’t. It’s almost midnight on a Saturday, and Maddie works a twelve-hour shift every Sunday. 

Evan stops tilting his head back, mostly because he’s tired of swallowing all the blood. It’s been a while since he threw up without meaning to, but a stomach full of blood just might do it. 

Claire’s bathroom has one of those little circular mirrors on a crane neck, to do your eye makeup or whatever. With the angle it’s at now, perpendicular to the wide mirror over the sink, Evan can only see his own reflection in profile. 

Claire reaches past his left side, down to the floor, and resurfaces with a little purple trashcan. She trades him the toilet paper roll for his wad of bloody paper, wrinkling her own nose a little as he drops it into the trashcan. 

He tears off another few squares, presses it up against his face again. He thinks it’s slowing down. That’s probably good. 

Claire leans back against the wall opposite him; given the size of the bathroom, the toes of their shoes are almost touching. 

“Sorry,” he says, after a minute. 

She shrugs. “It’s whatever. Honestly. It just freaked me out.” 

Evan laughs a little, but it’s one of those sardonic laughs that’s all in the nose, and it pushes out another pulse of blood. He sighs, goes to switch out his crumpled toilet paper. “I’ll bet.” 

“I don’t remember the last time I got an actual nosebleed,” she says. “I must’ve been, like, ten.” 

“This one’s been on and off for a couple days,” he says, trying to make it sound like that’s not weird at all. Like this happens to people all the time. “I breathe wrong and I start bleeding from my face. It was probably the—” he gestures between the two of their faces. 

She sniffs. “That makes sense, I guess.” She’s been looking at the floor, but she looks up at him then, scrutinizing him for a few seconds. She reaches out, softly taps the knuckles of his hand, the one holding the tissue to his face. “Your hand’s hurt, too. You get into a lot of fights, or something?” 

Evan watches his sideways reflection crack a smile, one with teeth. “Oh, yeah, all the time.” 

She can obviously tell he’s joking, because she actually starts to smile back. “Personally, I don’t think that’s hot, Evan Buckley. And you have blood on your teeth.” 

Chapter Text

His last year of high school passes in a roar of movement and sound, a wash so loud and constant and overwhelming that it’s almost comforting to not feel totally present . Every week that passes feels like a body slam he’s letting himself take, crashing hard into Friday nights and digging himself back up on Monday mornings. Interspersed, shoved into the cracks of the weekly cycle of games and class and fighting with his parents and calling Maddie, there are moments of stillness, sometimes pleasant, sometimes unnerving: eye contact with Kayla during the homecoming pep rally, in the split second she looks up from her DS in the bleachers; tucking himself into the basement of a house party with Claire on Halloween, splitting the entire please-take-one bowl of candy she’d grabbed from the back porch; watching movies with Justin when he comes home for Thanksgiving—Evan, somehow, for once in his life, not having a single word to say for multiple hours; inviting Claire over during the half-week stretches in which neither of his parents really make an appearance, frantically shoving dirty laundry into the closet after she texts him she’s on the way, so his room will actually be a place she wants to take her shirt off in. 

Maddie doesn’t answer his calls on the first or second try, most times. He’ll call her, and it’ll ring out. He’ll call a second time, and it’ll go straight to voicemail: Hi, you’ve reached Maddie Kendall. I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your call, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!  

Whatever she’s doing in Boston during those specific moments, it involves seeing Evan’s name pop up on her phone and choosing to deny the call. 

More often than not, he quits after two. He’ll leave a voicemail, just like the recording of her requests: It’s Evan. Call me back when you get a sec. Love you.  

It’s only on rare occasions that he tries a third time. Only during bleak, depressive evening hours, when he feels like, if not for Maddie, he’d be the only real, living person in the entire world. 

He’ll click call on Maddie’s contact page again. Third time’s the charm. 

Straight to voicemail. 

He’ll get a text from her instead, almost immediately, some variation of Can’t talk rn, sorry or, notably, one time, just Not now.  

She’ll call him back later, sometimes at absurd times—two, three, or four AM—though Evan’s always either already awake, or finely attuned to the chirping of his cell phone, even in his sleep. 

He’ll ask if he called while she was at work, or school, and sometimes she’ll say yes, and sometimes she’ll say no, and sometimes she’ll say one or the other but is obviously lying regardless. 

He never calls her on it, though. He just talks, endlessly, never able to shut up once someone’s actually listening to him, about nothing, about the same three or four tired topics over and over again. 

But it’s not bad. Nothing’s really bad , except for those three-phone-call times, those instances where he stays too still and too solitary for too long. 

He’s regimented now. Balanced. Predictable, except for when he isn’t. Most of the time, everything is fine. Better than fine, even. He exists in a perfectly Evan-sized space between the fear of being too out of line (too needy, too uncontrolled, too much), and being so aggressively, unrelentingly bored with everything that he could jump in front of a train. 

On a related note, he’s going to try living with roommates, next year. Which pissed off his mom, when he told her, though he’s not really sure why . She seems to like him best when she doesn’t remember that he lives in the same house as her. Maybe she’ll stop doing that thing where she cries every other time he talks to her (because she cries when she’s angry) (and when she’s annoyed) (and sometimes just when she’s surprised) if they don’t live together anymore. 

Maybe it’s just the cost of it all. Although really, rent and tuition its still a fuckton less than a four-year, and she has Evan’s very own mediocrity to credit that to, thank you very much. 

Evan shuts the passenger door behind him. “I still think it’s so stupid that you have a car and I don’t.” 

“Noted,” Kayla says, sounding like she totally doesn’t care. 

The car, actually, is Justin’s, but Justin has been living on-campus in Worcester, Massachusetts for this entire school year, so the car—a black, 2002 Pontiac Grand Am—has been left in Kayla’s provisional-license-wielding care. 

(Side note—Evan doesn’t get the fucking deal with Massachusetts. Boston, Worcester, whatever; they have cold weather and assholes here , too.) 

“Where are we going?” 

Kayla shrugs and pulls away from the curb. “I don’t know. Bookstore? Seat belt.” 

“Lame,” Evan says, both to the bookstore and to the seat belt, but he listens. 

“You don’t have to come.” 

Obviously, he’s going to come with her. He’ll probably even have a pretty good time. As always, when he’s around Kayla, Evan gets the distinct sense that if he didn’t hang out with her, he’d probably have basically no friends—Claire’s his girlfriend, Justin’s in Massachusetts, and Maddie’s his sister who is also in Massachusetts . He also gets the distinct sense that if he didn’t hang out with her, she’d also have basically no friends, and unlike him, she’d be just fine with that. She’d drive her brother’s car to the bookstore regardless, do what she was planning to do whether she’d brought Evan with her or not, have a great time on her own. 

Evan’s not like that. 

So he’s coming to the bookstore. 

“Can we stop at Price Rite? For snacks.” 

At a stop sign—because she actually is exceedingly conscientious behind the wheel—Kayla gives him a long, unimpressed look out of the corner of her eye and says, “Are you actually gonna buy snacks for us to eat while I read Discworld for free, or are you just going to harass poor Claire Trechsler at the deli counter?” 

“You act like I can’t do both.” 

“You’re annoying,” Kayla says plainly, but she takes the exit that will lead them to the Price Rite anyway. 

— 

Claire’s wearing her blue Price Rite polo—worn and over-sized, a hand-me-down from Assistant Deli Managers’ past—and a long-sleeved black shirt underneath. She used to wear white ones, she told Evan a few weeks ago, when she first started working here, because they went better with the rest of the uniform, but she stopped pretty quickly, because there are a lot of, like, meat-related fluids happening in the deli . And then she’d stopped talking, and looked kind of embarrassed, and said, Like blood and stuff, I mean . 

The deli area’s relatively deserted; kind of unusual for a Sunday, but it is the weekend after Thanksgiving, so maybe that explains it. Claire’s half-leaning against the front counter, staring down at her phone, texting someone with well-practiced speed. She jumps guiltily as Evan slides into her field of view, slides her phone closed and slips it into her apron pocket in less than a second. 

“Sorry,” she says automatically, looking up, and then her face changes. “Oh, it’s you.” 

Evan grins at her. “Hi.” He tilts the open bag in his hand towards her over the counter. “Twizzler?” 

“Did you pay for those?” She asks, but she’s already reaching for one. 

“I’m gonna. How are the meat-related fluids today?” 

She laughs, almost, abandoning it halfway through when she starts to choke on her bite of Twizzler. “I thought I asked you to please stop saying that.” 

“It’s insider knowledge. I just want to use the right terminology.” 

“Well, they’re fine , thanks for asking—oh my God, wait, let me tell you about Dave .” 

She lowers her voice when she says Dave, like she might summon the Dave in question if she says his name too loudly. 

“Oh, please tell me about Dave .” 

Claire gives him the most exaggerated eye roll he’s ever seen. 

“He’s on break right now, so he’s not back here, but oh my God . So, he’s a veteran—okay, well first things first, he started working here literally yesterday, so I’m training him right now—so he’s a veteran, which like, thanks for your service Dave, I guess, but he’s forty years old or something, and I’m in charge of training him, because”—she gestures to her circular badge that reads CLAIRE on one line, and then Deli Assist. Manager on the line below it. “And it pisses him off so bad . Like, every time I try to explain anything to him, he acts like it’s the most humiliating, insulting thing to ever happen to him. Which, if he knew anything about anything, fine by me, I’d just let him do his thing, but he doesn’t . He’s clueless. And he won’t even let me try to help him. 

“So earlier today I’m training him—I was trying to train him—on the slicer, and he basically waved me off the second I started talking and just started trying to use it. And I’m like, whatever, he’s not going to listen to me anyway. So I walk away to take the next customer. And literally five seconds after I turn away from him he starts screaming bloody fucking murder. 

“So I turn back around, and he’s holding his hands like this”—she cradles one hand to her chest with the other—”and he’s covered in blood, and so’s the slicer, and so’s the fucking ham in the slicer, and the lady I’m trying to cut cheese for is, like, terrified, and so I have to make a big show of throwing out the ham because she’s watching me now, and Dave bled all over it , and Dave’s freaking out, so I have to send him to the back office to talk to Tina, and if he mentions me in his dumb workman’s comp form, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, Evan.” 

Evan lets that all sink in for a moment. “So that sounds like a bad meat-related fluid, actually.” 

Claire groans. Evan offers her another Twizzler. 

“And he doesn’t wear gloves ,” she laments. “He like, refuses.” 

“Can he even do that?” 

“I don’t know! I’ve worked here for two years and no one’s ever tried before—who wants to touch raw meat? He says they’re ‘uncomfortable’.” 

Evan tilts his head. “Wasn’t he—?” 

“—Literally in a war zone before this? Yeah . I mean—I didn’t actually say this—but, like, I bet Iraq was uncomfortable too, Dave . Probably more than some dumb rubber gloves. You’ll live.” 

Kayla appears at his side, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. “You sound angry,” she says to Claire. “I told Evan not to bother you.” 

“He’s not bothering me,” Claire says, and then to Evan: “You’re not bothering me. God, I don’t know how I’m going to do four more hours of this. He’s gonna make me do everything now because of his fucked-up hand. I hope this traumatized him and he moves to produce.” 

Kayla elbows him again, a little harder this time, so he doesn’t bother commenting on the optics of wishing more trauma on a war veteran. Instead, he offers Claire a final Twizzler. “We’re headed out. Text me later?” 

Claire hums in the affirmative, glancing up at the wall clock and grimacing when she sees the time. Dave must be coming back from his break soon. “See you, Evan. And Kayla.” 

“Hope the rest of today’s meat-related fluids are all deli-approved,” Evan says, before turning to follow Kayla away from the counter. 

“Gross,” Kayla mutters, but she doesn’t say anything else on the matter. 

Maddie doesn’t come home for Christmas. 

It’s not like he wasn’t expecting it—she told him just after Thanksgiving, which she didn’t make it to either, but that was fine because it was just Thanksgiving, and this is Christmas , and Maddie loves Christmas, and for some reason, she’s spending it with stupid fucking Doug in Massachusetts instead of with Evan. 

It’s stupid. He’s acting like a little kid. Again . He knows he is. 

That doesn’t stop it from sucking. 

They don’t go anywhere, and they don’t have family over, so there’s no Christmas dinner (there was barely a Christmas morning) because there’s no one to show off to. 

He escapes the confines of the house around two in the afternoon; walks the abandoned, salt-crunchy sidewalks of Hershey with a levee of gray slush to his left and sparse, powder-white grass to his right. 

He thinks about calling Maddie. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t pick up. 

He sends her a text instead. 

Merry Christmas Mads. Miss you.  

She doesn’t get back to him while he’s walking around aimlessly outside, or while he’s hidden away in his room after he gets home, or during their middling, low-energy dinner; or in the too-quiet twilight stretch of time afterward, before his parents go to bed; or at eleven PM, when he’s standing in the kitchen in the dark, furtive and animalistic, cramming cold bread and butter from the refrigerator into his mouth. 

— 

Claire doesn’t want to tell her parents about him. 

Which—okay. It’s been almost four months. Evan doesn’t even know if that’s a long time. It feels long enough. 

She says it’s because if they knew, they’d be all over him, all the time, the way they wouldn’t be with a friend. Needing to know his intentions, asking him questions about his plans, that kind of thing. 

Evan had nodded like he understood when she said that, though privately, he thinks maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. 

The other reason, Claire said, is that they wouldn’t be allowed to be in her room alone if they knew— which is so stupid, she said vehemently, because I’ll literally be an adult in three months, and we both know how condoms work, but whatever —which Evan actually understands more implicitly. 

Case in point: It’s New Years Eve, and Evan is laying on Claire’s bed while she sits at her desk, holding an envelope. Downstairs, her parents, their friends, and their friends’ kids (all of them at least four years younger than Evan and Claire) talk and laugh. At least one TV is on, tuned to Times Square. Somewhere, a speaker is playing soft, unobtrusive jazz. 

It’s an unassuming, plain white envelope. She got it in the mail this afternoon. 

It’s the third of four white envelopes Claire will receive, but only the second Evan’s been around for the bated-breath, ritualized opening of. 

(The school counselor, during Evan’s required “college and career planning” meeting in March of last school year, had explained the concept, before it had become clear that none of it really applied to him: she recommended a “dream” school, a “reach” school, a “safe” school, and if all else fails, a “settle” school.) 

Claire’s “dream” school (RISD) sent their rejection letter extremely promptly, which Claire thought was kind of rude, though she did admit it was nice that they didn’t waste a lot of time. 

The “reach” school was Georgia Tech, because realistically, she wants to go to school in the South; she’s made that abundantly clear to Evan. She hates the cold winters north of the Mason-Dixon, and she’s fucking sick to death of field trips to Lancaster County. Wanting to leave at all, Evan can completely understand. He just wishes there wasn’t that sub-woofer thought in his mind, telling him that maybe the real reason he hasn’t had an actual conversation with Claire’s parents is because she’s already got one foot out the door. 

Claire opened Georgia Tech’s letter on her own—also a rejection. 

This particular letter, apparently, is the safe school. Savannah College of Art and Design. Relatively easy to get into, but still well-regarded. Still in Georgia. At this point, he feels like he has most of the pros and cons of each school memorized himself. 

In the light of Claire’s desk lamp, Evan watches her open the envelope, slide out the paper inside, unfold it, run her eyes over the page. 

She starts to smile. 

“Thank God ,” she says. 

“Yeah?” Evan asks, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“ Yeah ,” she says, emphatic, delighted, “I’m not going to fucking Penn State.” 

“It’s, like, actually official,” Evan says, throwing his backpack in the armchair opposite to Kayla. “I’m the most average person to ever live.” 

Kayla looks up from her notebook. Her lunch tray sits, semi-perilously, balanced on the overstuffed arm of the chair. 

She looks a little surprised to see him—they technically have the same lunch period, but she flits around from hiding place to hiding place in the building, and most of the time she doesn’t answer texts during the school day, so finding her during lunch is usually more trouble than it’s worth. 

Today she’s in the photography lab, tucked behind the library. Only place in the school with couches besides the green room in the theater, and even that only has furniture that Evan has heard deeply questionable things about. 

“Okay,” she says, and looks back down at her notebook, and she doesn’t leave an invitation for him to talk more, really, but she also doesn’t tell him to leave, which means she’s probably not all that mad that he found her. 

He slips the paper he got in second mod on top of her notebook. She scowls down at it before actually starting to read it. 

“I mean,” she says after a few seconds, “aren’t you going to community college anyway?” 

“Real supportive. Thanks.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” She lifts the paper in the air, flaps it around a little, like that might explain. “It’s not bad .” 

“It’s average ,” Evan corrects. “So average. Literally the number they give as an example of the fucking average.” 

“So you… meet expectations. Yay.” 

“Don’t pretend it’s not embarrassing.” 

“It’s not!” Kayla insists, and at least he knows she doesn’t think she’s lying to him, anyway. “I mean. Okay, I’d be embarrassed. But you don’t even really care about it. Right?” 

Well. 

He’s glad he’s giving off that impression. 

“No,” he says crossly, and throws himself into the armchair with about the same amount of tact that he threw his bag. “Not really.” 

Which is only partially true. 

He didn’t want a specific number. He doesn’t care about that. 

It’s more the fact that he tried. He like, really, actually tried. He did the test prep, he’s—for fuck’s sake, he already took it before . Last year. And got pretty much the same score. To try, pretty much his hardest, and still come out aggressively, objectively average is… 

It doesn’t feel awesome, honestly. 

At least he didn’t tell anyone he was planning to try. No one really except Claire, who helped him sometimes. 

— 

The last text Evan sent to Claire reads, I could come visit tho  

The last text Evan received from Claire reads, You don’t have a car.  

Which. She’s right. She’s usually right. What would he do, Amtrak to fucking Georgia? 

He could. 

She doesn’t want him to say that. He knows that she doesn’t want him to say that. He knows that she doesn’t want him to try and come up with any kind of solution, because she’s not looking for a solution, because she’s trying to break up with him. 

And yet. 

He types out, I’m kinda working on getting one  

She says, It’s an 11 hr drive, Evan  

Then, & it would be super expensive  

Then, and I just really don’t want to do that . 

He says, Well I’d be the one doing it so  

He gets an immediate text back from her. Just: Oml  

And then nothing for a while. 

Finally, a few hours later, another string of messages comes in from her, popping up one after the other. 

I’m not mad at you btw. You didn’t like do anything.  

Then, I rly do like you  

Then, I just kinda hate it here  

Then, That sounds mean. Not what I meant  

Then, I still want to talk and stuff if you do  

Evan sends back, OK . 

— 

He joins the cross-country team for second semester, because what the hell else is he supposed to do with his time? 

He sits in on Wednesday football practices, the only senior who still does—perpetually clinging on, terminally unable to be the one to leave—pretty much only helping out when they’re short someone for a scrimmage. 

But even he’s not lame enough to still show up to Sunday practices, so now his Fridays are unremarkable, his weekends are bereft, and his body is intolerant to staying still. 

Technically second semester try-outs were before winter break, but the coach for track and field is the same as JV football, so Evan just… shows up to the first practice in January, and that’s kind of that. 

He doesn’t really know anyone on the team, and he can tell that’s probably not going to change over the course of one semester, especially not when it’s two weeks shorter. They all already know each other, is the thing—he knows a lot of their names in a passing sort of sense, but they’ve all been hanging out with each other for at least two years, and some of them are really passionate about this, and Evan’s just a guy who showed up one day because he was looking for something to do. 

Not that it really matters. He shows up. He runs. His times are objectively decent, so at least no one’s pissed at him. 

He does feel a little bad when he gets chosen to compete at meets, if only because somebody else who cares more could’ve gone instead, if not for Evan’s marginally faster 5000-meter time. But he doesn’t feel bad enough to not go. Even though he sits alone at the front of the bus, behind the chaperons but ahead of the freshmen, even. A meet eats up a whole Saturday. He has to be in the school parking lot at seven in the morning, and most of the time they don’t get back until around six. There’s not really anything more he could ask for. 

So he runs before school twice a week, on Mondays and Wednesdays, and after school at practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and at meets on Saturdays, and everything’s… pretty much fine, really, except for the part where nothing feels like it means anything and everybody he talks to feels like a stranger and he doesn’t want to wake up and come here every day, but whatever. 

“We’re educators , Evan, it’s—it would be embarrassing .” 

Evan points out, “…Nursing is basically a trade.” 

Direct opposition. Mistake. 

His mother sputters. They’ve been standing on opposite sides of the kitchen for five minutes now, the island in between them, like they’re circling each other in a cage. “It is not . Your sister has a degree , that she got from an accredited university, that she studied very hard for, and because of that, she is working an esteemed job reserved for educated people.” 

She’s partially right, he guesses. Maddie did have to do a shitload of school. But it’s not like he’d waltz into a union somewhere with zero qualifications and just expect to have a job waiting for him. 

“And I’d have a certification that I got from an accredited trades program that I worked very hard for! I don’t see the problem—people need, like, plumbers.” 

She snorts. “You want to be a plumber ?” 

“Not… specifically.” 

Lack of conviction. Mistake. 

“That’s the problem! You don’t even know. You just think you want this because”—she trips over her words for a moment, pinching and then opening her hands in the air as she tries to get out the rest of her sentence—”because you think it’ll be easy. Because you’re not willing to try .” 

“I’ll try! I promise I’ll try.” (Over-investment. Mistake.) “I just… yeah, I think it’ll be easi er . Not easy . In the sense that I think I’d have a chance. I don’t think it would be a waste of time.” 

“Oh, and you think school would be a ‘waste of time’?” 

(Mistake.) 

“I mean…” (Hesitating. Mistake.) “For me …” 

“Let me tell you something.” 

Evan feels the proverbial blow before it lands. He stares at the beige stretch of laminate that forms the island counter top. Let me tell you something , from his mother, is as good a wind-up as any. 

“Look at me, Evan.” 

He stares at her mouth. 

“You think valuable, well-regarded things are a waste of time,” she says, “because you waste your own time. Chronically. I tried to raise you differently, I really did, and I don’t know where I went wrong, but you are… you’re just incapable of managing yourself normally.” 

Her eyes are getting teary. Evan doesn’t know specifically what he said to trigger it, but. Regardless. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. 

“I just don’t know why I’d try more school when I’m just not good at it.” 

She scoffs, drops her head back a little. “You’re not good at—” and cuts herself off. 

He hears it anyway. He already knows. 

Anything . 

She gets herself together again, apart from the fact that she’s really, actually crying now. Because what else would she be doing? 

“I don’t want you to attach yourself to the idea of something else that will be easy—or ‘easier’. Because nothing will be easier. Not if you’re the one doing it. And—honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to start trying to help you. I don’t even know if I can. It’s just the way you are . You’re explosive, Evan. Impulsive. Irresponsible. Inert. The real waste of time is trying to find something that will work for you. You have to work, or nothing does.” 

He knows that. He knows that. But she won’t believe him—she has evidence for her point of view, and he doesn’t want her to start fucking listing it. And besides, she’s headed towards the hallway now, and if he’s being cut loose, he’ll take it. 

His mother retreats, sniveling, to bed. He elbows through the screen door onto the back porch. 

The March night is thin-aired and cool. With the windchill, his fingertips go cold, but his core stays warm. He loops out of their backyard and onto the street, passing by the backdrops of innumerable childhood injuries before he reaches the stop sign and turns right. The neighborhood usually has a plain, underwhelming sort of warmth to it during the day: HOA-approved paneling and trim, well-kept lawns, splotches of color in the form of flower-beds or relatively uncontroversial political yard signs. 

At night, walking in the chill, the entire place looks blue-toned and dead. Hollowed-out. Hypothermic. 

Five more months here. Two years in Harrisburg, which isn’t much better. A transfer, then two additional years at a reasonable, noncompetitive, Pennsylvanian four-year. 

He realizes in an instant that really, he’d rather die. 

There was a guy a few years ago who got stuck in a canyon in the southwest for almost a week. His arm was getting crushed by a boulder, and he was just trapped, pressed against rock and more rock, closer with every passing day to dying of dehydration or exhaustion. 

He belted off his arm, sawed it off with a knife, and climbed out one-handed. He’s still alive, with a robotic arm. A team went back for the severed arm later. Evan saw it on Dateline. 

Not to be insensitive to that guy, whatever his name is, because cutting off your own arm is probably up there for the worst things… ever , actually. No hyperbole. 

But Evan almost wishes he were in that situation instead. 

One thing keeping you pinned. Get rid of it. Walk free. 

Evan might be stupid, but he knows he’s not stupid enough to think there’s just one thing keeping him in Pennsylvania. 

What would it even be, anyway? His parents? 

If he actually figured out how to not be so over-present, such a drain on resources, they’d probably be glad to see him disappear into independence. The only reason they were so mad about Maddie is because of the two things he actually agrees with them on: Doug sucks, and Maddie deserves better. 

So it’s not family. 

It’s not friends. People leave, because they don’t like him as much as he likes them—or they do, and they leave anyway. They have better, more promising, more exciting things to do than aging and rotting in a mediocre town, than listening to Evan whine about his prospect-less prospects. 

It’s not a job—he doesn’t have one. 

And that’s part of the actual problem, really. The only thing that is ready to go is him. 

If he was going to skip out, disappear, whatever, he could never backtrack. There would be no help waiting, except, maybe , for Maddie, if he could stomach crashing into her life like that. He would need cash. A car. Some sort of skill that would let him find work, prove he was valuable; or at least the ability to convince other people they should let him try. 

Evan’s never been good at plans, long-term or otherwise, and you can’t make that type of shit happen in just a couple months. 

There’s a moment, sometimes, usually about eight to ten seconds before he breaks a bone, where his steps will falter. There’s a split-second where his brain says, you’re being stupid again. This will hurt. Even if it’s not permanent, something in you will break.  

He usually pushes through it—because, obviously, he knows it will probably end badly. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s just an ancient, hind-brain instinct: don’t touch fire, stay away from deep water, high ledges, the dark. Most of the time he can get it to shut up. But only most. 

He listens to Maddie’s voicemail once, then twice. 

Three times. 

He walks back home. 

— 

It’s just past two in the morning when his phone rings. 

It wakes him up instantaneously; he’s reaching to the night stand to grab it before he opens his eyes, before he’s even registered that that’s the sound he’s hearing. 

He blinks blearily in the suburban pitch-black, the only light coming from the screen of his phone and the boxy red numbers of his alarm clock. The screen tells him it’s Maddie. Of course it’s Maddie—who else would it be? 

He answers the call, bringing the phone to his ear as he scrunches himself back into the corner of his bed, back pressed to the wall, skin cold through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Hi.” 

“Hi, Evan,” Maddie says, and she’s speaking even softer than him, which—he’s trying not to wake up their parents. She’s talking the way people talk to injured animals. “Is everything okay?”  

“Did you just get off work?” He’s pretty sure he can hear her footsteps in the background, her non-slip shoes briskly hitting concrete, and the sporadic, Doppler-effect sounds of late-night traffic. 

“Mmhm.”  

“Be careful.” 

“Always am.” She walks in silence for a few more seconds before asking, “What did you get up to today?”  

She’s trying to get him to unload, to dump all of his feelings onto her like he’d obviously, transparently, pathetically called her three times in a row trying to do. 

But that’s the problem with it, when she calls him back. He always calls when he’s caught in the thick of it, bursting with emotion, tied up in some suffocating spiral of loneliness. 

By the time she calls him back, he’s usually got it under control, and he just feels stupid and childish and always, unavoidably, oppressively, like he’s bothering her. 

He feels the click in his throat as he tries to form an answer. “Nothing, really. Went to school. Went to practice. Went home.” 

“Cross-country practice?”  

“Yeah.” 

“Fun,” Maddie says, sounding genuine, even though Evan knows she hates running. “How was school?”  

Evan shrugs, even though he knows she can’t see him. He hunches down against the wall, most of his back on the mattress, at this point. “Okay. I kind of can’t wait for it to be over.” 

“I get that.” Maddie’s voice is echoing now, just barely audible in the background, like she’s entered a tunnel, or more probably, a parking garage. 

But she doesn’t get it, is the thing, and a small part of Evan wants to point that out. She loved school—not just because she had friends, or extracurricular stuff; she loved the school part. She’s just humoring him again, or more accurately, babying him, and it fucks with his brain, because on the one hand that’s really all he wants—it feels nice, to be looked after, even over the phone—but on the other hand, it makes him feel like a useless, clingy, annoying piece of shit. 

How can someone want to be babied and not want to come off like a baby? 

It’s stupid . 

So he doesn’t point it out. 

“I just—I want it to be over, but I don’t even know what I’ll do. When it is.” 

“Sure you do,” Maddie says easily. There’s the sound of a car door opening, then shutting, and the echo leaves her voice completely. 

“You’re gonna go to Harrisburg, right?”  

“I guess. But for what ?” 

“It’s super normal to just do pre-reqs for your first semester without declaring anything. Take an English, take a Math, take a Science, you know.”  

“So more high school.” 

Maddie laughs softly. “Yeah, kinda.”  

“God, do you know what Mom said I should do?” 

“Oh, no. What?”  

“Business major. So I can go into real estate .” 

And that gets Maddie to laugh for real. But after she quiets down, she says, “I don’t think that’s a terrible idea, actually.”  

“You’re kidding.” When she doesn’t reassure him that she is, in fact, kidding, he hisses, “ Maddie !” 

“What? I’m being totally honest! You’re an optimist. You’re a people-person. You’re very persuasive. You could be really good at it.”  

“But I’d hate it.” 

“Okay, so what wouldn’t you hate?”  

She asks it genuinely, open-ended, but it still feels a little like an accusation. 

What wouldn’t he hate? 

What doesn’t he hate? 

Hanging out with Kayla—not a job. Not even a major. 

Football, and to a lesser extent, track—only a job if he’s really, really good. And he’s not. He’s… solid. But solid doesn’t even get you scholarships. 

“I thought about trade school,” he eventually admits. “But Mom lost her mind .” 

“I can imagine.”  

It had felt, in the week or so he’d considered it before bringing it up to his parents, like it might be a real solution: a shorter time in school, more practical exams than written, working with his hands, doing something a little bit different every day, helping people out. Leaving high school an idiot kid, but becoming a grown man with actual, testable skills, valuable knowledge. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Maddie says after a long stretch of Evan’s clueless silence. “I believe in you. You’re smart.”  

“…Okay,” Evan says, more than a little mocking. 

“You are ,” Maddie insists. “You wouldn’t be any fun to talk to if you weren’t.”  

So what does it say, then, that this is the first time they’ve talked in almost a week? 

He can’t say that, though. Not to Maddie, who calls him after her twelve-hour shifts, who probably really, actually believes it when she says he’ll figure it out. She’s the smart one, and yet somehow she still has some kind of faith in him. No clue how that slipped in. 

So he just says, “Okay,” again—acquiescing, this time. 

“Okay, ” she agrees. Then sighs. “I gotta drive home. And you should probably sleep.”  

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Evan defends automatically, then—”But, yeah. Okay. Drive safe.” 

“I love you. Talk soon.”  

“You, too.” 

Chapter Text

College sucks.

There's no other word for it. At least, not one that's even half as good.

His pre-reqs are boring as shit. Most of the people who just graduated with him are either at four-years, or are only at Harrisburg for some sort of certification program, so the majority of his classes seem to be made up of kids bussed over from the high school for early college credit, or actual, certifiable adults in continuing education.

Which is fine.

Really.

He just doesn't know anyone. Again.

It's good that he's already used to it.

The roommate thing didn't pan out—you kind of have to make friends and plan ahead for stuff like that. So he's living at home, and some days, if they didn't fight the night before, his mom will drive him to school, but most of the time he slips outside and walks to the stop for Dauphin County senior transport before the idea can come up.

But he does it. He goes to classes. On time, even. Mostly. He does the readings. He turns in his god damn homework. He gets a 78% in English 101, a quarter-long class set in 150-minute blocks, where more than half of the professor's time is spent going over a grammar textbook and telling the class how to cite sources in MLA format. More than half of Evan's time at his desk is spent gently pressing the eraser of his pencil to his right temple, thinking maybe if he just pushed one atom harder every few minutes, it would eventually snap right through the skin into his brain.

He has to take pre-calc, because he chose statistics last year, for some reason, and the class is held at four thirty, because literally ninety percent of the students are GT high school sophomores. Somehow, he gets a 62 at the end of the quarter. But apparently anything over a 60 passes at community college, so great fucking job, Evan.

Human Biology's significantly better. They don't get to dissect anything, but it's only in 80-minute blocks, spread out over the whole semester, and there's diagrams.

He feels kind of stupid, thinking of it like that. Juvenile. At least I don't have to sit still too long. And there's pictures. Jesus.

He softens his footfalls in carpeted hallways. He sits at tables outside made of rubbery green metal grates. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, every time. He avoids the library unless he has his headphones on him.

The color schemes of the bulletin boards and the fliers tacked to them change month to month—burgundy and white in August into September, with ads for the student food pantry and intramural sports; a spread about Columbus Day in early October, which keeps getting partially defaced and then re-made; a couple of weeks later, it's all orange, telling everyone there's indoor trick-or-treating in the early childhood education center, for students with kids; November brings an array of fiery colors and notice of a coat drive, with the dates of Thanksgiving break displayed prominently in the upper left hand quarter.

It's kind of the only tangible indication Evan has that time is actually passing. He's only taking three classes at a time (his parents were not, by any stretch of the imagination, happy when he proposed that, but they agreed that actually, he probably just couldn't handle the usual four or five, and that one of them would be a condensed quarter-length course, so really, it would have to be fine). As a result, there are these long, aimless stretches of time in uneven weekdays, where he could make his way promptly to the stop for the next bus back to Hershey, but he usually doesn't. He just walks around campus, then off-campus, then around town. It only takes, like, half an hour to walk to the river, if you're willing to cut across the emptier parts of the train yard. Whenever he sees pictures of the Susquehanna, it's usually blue. Up close and personal, though, it always looks kind of grayish-brown. There's a fuckton of E. Coli in it, apparently.

In December, Claire Trechsler friend-requests him on Facebook. It's sixty degrees right now in Savannah (he Googles it) and it looks like it, in her photos. Everything on her page looks yellow and orange and pink; she wears light-wash denim skirts with frayed hems, cut just above her knee, and she's embroidered little Georgia peaches right behind the ankles on a pair of white chucks. Her hair is still shoulder-length. Still mousy brown, shiny and soft-looking, straight.

It's thirty-four degrees right now in Hershey. She was so right to leave.

He accepts the request, likes the picture with the skirt and the chucks, then immediately hits the escape button and closes his laptop.

Justin's back in town for Christmas. Maddie's not. Evan spends another dismal, boring Christmas with his parents. It snows. He sends Maddie a grainy picture, because she knows that snowy Decembers in Pennsylvania aren't even close to a sure thing. She doesn't answer his text until Boxing Day, when he's already inserted himself into the warm, pleasant post-Christmas of Justin and Kayla's house.

Oh wow! Maddie's first text reads. It comes in at five in the morning. Her second text, sent a few minutes later, reads, Merry Christmas, Evan. Her third text, sent closer to noon, says, I love you.

Justin and Kayla's parents are still gushing over Evan and Kayla's prom photos from last year, one of which sits in a frame on the mantle. Evan wants to be embarrassed, like Kayla clearly is—she didn't even really want to go, just did it as a favor to Evan, who was originally supposed to go with Claire, but only remembered at the last minute that Claire breaking up with him had rendered him dateless. But he can't find the embarrassment in himself. It's nice, to be in something close to a family photo. Apart from the old black and white portraits of his great-grandparents and one photo from his parents' wedding, there aren't really many family pictures in the Buckley house. Definitely none of him and Maddie.

"Anybody know why it's even called Boxing Day?" Kayla asks. She's lying on her back on the carpeted basement floor, phone held up above her face, obviously texting someone. Which surprised Evan, when he first noticed her doing it. Him and Kayla don't really talk much anymore, so he guesses she went and made more friends. Not that he doesn't think she can, if she wants to. But he's never really been under the impression that she does want to.

But apparently she does, and she did, a whole hell of a lot easier than Evan.

"It's not just about boxing?" Justin asks, but he's saying it in that over-obvious tone he uses to let Kayla know he's messing with her. He's playing Halo: Reach, and Evan kind of has no idea what's happening, but he's watching the screen anyway. Evan had sat himself in the corner of the couch, and Justin had sat down literally right next to him about two minutes later. Apparently, Evan forgot that Justin just tends to sit close to people, because their thighs are pressed together at the side, and Evan can feel the heat of it through two layers of cloth.

Evan coughs, for some reason. "I know, actually."

" 'Course you do," Kayla says.

There's a beat of silence before Justin knocks their shoulders together softly. "Are you gonna tell her?"

"Yeah, it's—" Evan cuts himself off for a second, his shoulder buzzing where Justin just touched it. It wasn't like this, back when they saw each other every day. He doesn't know what it actually is, but it didn't used to throw him off like this.

Justin, for his part, seems totally normal. He breaks eye contact with the TV screen to look at Evan expectantly.

"—It's from Victorian times," Evan says. "Servants had to work Christmas, but they'd have off the day after instead. And the rich people they worked for would give them, like, boxes of extra Christmas stuff. Food and money and stuff."

"Oh," Kayla says, and then sniffs. "Kinda condescending, honestly."

"Well, I didn't invent it."

Kayla goes back to ignoring both of them and keeps texting whoever it is she's texting, and Justin stays relatively quiet, so the barely-audible clicking of the Xbox controller's buttons seems louder than usual. Evan's eyes are on the gameplay, until they're not, and he's looking at Justin's hands instead, at their competent quickness, at the solid jut of bone in his thumb.

"I'm going into Philly," Justin says eventually, quietly, just to Evan, though he's not even looking at him when he says it, "Friday night."

"Yeah?"

Justin nods. "You should come."

"Okay," Evan says, before he's even really processed the request. Then: "Wait—that's, like, two hours away."

"Uh huh," Jason answers, and does something complicated with his thumbs that causes a sound cue and the plastic-on-plastic rumble of the controller vibrating. "I drove six hours to get down here; it's not a big deal. We can spend the night."

And that seems reasonable, so Evan says, "Okay," again, even though he doesn't know why they're even going to Philadelphia. Friday is New Year's Eve, so there are some reasonable guesses, all of which involve Evan having an opportunity to get sickeningly, outrageously drunk, which he's almost always down for.

Justin drives on Friday, because it was his idea, and anyway, Evan still doesn't have a car.

They stop at a Sheetz off I-76 and get a shitload of food, and maybe he's just been trapped in the same house as his mother for way too long, but it's nice to be around someone who actually eats close to the amount that Evan does. He thinks about puking—a surprise thought, coming out of nowhere from his hind brain—but he's never actually done it in a public bathroom before, except the ones at school that he was always ninety-nine percent sure were empty for the rest of the night. And there's really no time, and Justin's with him, anyway, and apart from all of that, it's the first time he's thought about doing it in weeks, and the closest he's gotten to actually doing it since the school year started.

It's hard to recognize bodily urges when you don't really feel like you're in your body at all.

But the thought's here now. And it doesn't seem like it's going to leave.

They get back on the road, and apparently Justin's a stickler for seat belts like his sister, so he points to Evan when they shut their doors and says, "Seat belt."

Evan puts on his seat belt. It presses into his midsection, right where he'd imagine his stomach would be if someone sliced him open down the middle to label all the organs.

He can feel it. He can feel it.

He's an impulsive person. He knows that. It's gotta be at least part of why he's like this. And he overdoes everything. Hates feeling empty, so he eats until he feels physically ill. Hates that even more, so he gets rid of it.

He hasn't even done it in forever, so he doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it.

He can feel it.

He should've gotten rid of it at the fucking gas station.

They're going to be in the car for another hour and a half and he'll have the seat belt on him and he'll feel it and he should've already gotten rid of it—

—

The host is someone Justin knows from high school, though whoever it is, he wasn't on the football or cross country teams, and he wasn't in Evan's graduating class, so he's never even heard of him.

It doesn't really matter. He says hi to people when they make eye contact, and they say hi back, and it's New Year's Eve, so people are generally being peripherally nice and vaguely accommodating.

He's on the younger end of the people here, obviously, visibly, and he tries not to shrink into a corner about it. It's very clearly a college party, which is something Evan's never been to before, because he goes to community college (and he's not even very good at it), because nobody really does stuff like this in Harrisburg and if they did they wouldn't invite him, because he only has about three-fourths of a friend added all together.

But he fakes it, and eventually even makes it a little, because he ends up talking to a girl who's double majoring in Bio and Criminology for like, an hour—mostly about decomposition, but she doesn't seem too turned off by it. She disappears close to midnight.

Drinking helps. It's easier, too, if he keeps his hands busy. If he's holding a cup and a plate of food, he can practically say he's having fun.

He learns, and promptly forgets, about thirty-five different peoples' names. He says Evan so many times in introductions it starts to feel like a fake name. He lost Justin somewhere before Criminology Girl, probably around eleven. He gets drunk, and then drunker, pressing his face to a frosted windowpane in the kitchen when his cheeks start to feel like they're burning. Somebody's laughing at him, or maybe just next to him.

Things peter off gradually starting at around one in the morning: people start getting picked up, designated drivers start tapping peoples' shoulders impatiently, a group sets out to walk to the nearest SEPTA stop that's still in service this time of night. By two, it's become kind of universally anathema to be loud on the staircase; all the lights up there are off, most of the doors are closed. All the televisions were turned off over an hour ago. By three, the music's at a respectable volume, and most of everyone who's still awake is sitting down.

Evan feels completely untethered. He feels like there can't possibly be normal viscera inside his body. It all has to just be a massive, roiling pit cloaked in skin. He elbows out the kitchen door into the deserted backyard. The porch light isn't on, and it's as dark as Philadelphia can get, but that isn't really saying much. He still feels out in the open. Exposed. It's hard to care though, when he feels like he's not even really here.

He cuts across the yard to the edge, the skin of his face already stinging from a few seconds in the midnight cold. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He didn't see the point in bringing a coat.

He starts to taste the bile before he even really knows what's happening. He doesn't even crouch or kneel, just bends at the waist. He watches himself in third person, watches it all slide out smooth and easy; he doesn't even have to use his hands. It's translucent, his vomit, steaming in the snow. It's about half alcohol.

It's over quick, and when he's done he stands back up straight, stumbling a couple steps backward. He tucks his hands in his pockets, tilts his head back, closes his eyes. Any bit of exposed skin burns in the cold. He breathes frozen air through his mouth. He sways a little bit, balance thrown off.

He only has one coherent thought, repeating, circling, overlapping:

There. That's better.

He wakes up at eight in the morning.

The entire house is silent, and still, and frigid. From his spot on the living room couch, Evan surveys the main floor. The kitchen door is open, just the screen door latched. The outer door swings lazily, a slow back and forth in the cold wind.

There are a few other people in the living room, on the other pieces of furniture, but all of them seem pretty dead to the world. Nobody wakes up when he stands, or when he shifts his shoulders, stretches out his back, rolls his neck. Nobody wakes up as he picks his way through the living room to the kitchen, with its counters still a wreck of empty and half-empty cups and bottles and open bags and abandoned plates of food. He reaches for the screen door; thinks about pulling the outer door closed, but ends up slipping outside instead.

He stands on the porch and looks out over the backyard. It hasn't snowed since Christmas, but every night the temperature drops below thirty, so the old snow's stuck around, packed-down and icy.

There's a clear track of footprints in the snow, glaringly obvious in the gray morning light. Straight off the porch to the back right corner of the yard, where the taller bushes line the fence.

He could check the tread on his shoes, but he knows they're his.

He thinks about walking through the yard again and disturbing the prints, but he decides just a few seconds later that he doesn't really care. It's a good feeling, knowing he'll never be in this house ever again. Light in his chest.

Maybe that feeling is just that he's not hungover. He guesses that's what happens when most of the alcohol doesn't make it all the way through you.

When the cold finally starts to get to his nose, his cheeks, his lips, he makes his way back inside. Checks the clock on the microwave. 8:14.

He grabs a plastic cup from a mostly-dwindled stack and fills it with tap water. Drinks it in about eight seconds. Fills it again, drinks it slower this time. He picks over the food on the counter, finds a plastic tray of those puffy, crumbly iced sugar cookies. These ones alternate white and purple. No one closed the box last night. They're just sitting there, open, going stale exposed to the air.

There's five left. He eats them methodically, quickly, the purple ones, then the white, even though they're too dry, even though they just kind of taste like an expired sugary paste. He drinks more water. Goes over the counter again, eats indiscriminately. Drinks a Sprite for a change of pace, ears carefully attuned after he cracks open the tab, just to make sure he hasn't woken anyone.

Finishes around nine, and stands in the kitchen, still, alone, feeling the pit in his stomach. The mass of it. Lets the anxiety build, just for a few seconds, laps at it eagerly. He sifts through his memories last night for the rough floor plan of the house. He steps back through the living room, carefully, quietly, quickly. Upstairs bathroom in a dark hallway, slide in, door locked, fan on. Kneel.

It's seamless. Easy as breathing, easy as it was last night. No gagging, no choking. Just reach in, back—further back—until he feels it: the second when everything tenses. Pull out, fast, or it'll get on his hands. Don't cough. No gagging, no choking, just the whir of the fan and a foul, liquid-on-liquid sound, a smooth, rancid spill. He stops when he sees purple.

Breathe heavy. Like he just ran a mile. He stands in front the sink, makes sure he looks normal. He does. He rinses out his mouth, stretches back his lips, superficially checks his gums. Red, but not bleeding.

He checks the wall clock. 9:09. He'll wait a while before he goes to find Justin.

He tries to be normal, at first, for second semester.

He really does.

And not his normal, either. Real normal. Three meals a day that stay down, normal.

It was a thing he just did again on New Years, and then it was a thing that he was just going to do over the rest of winter break, and then it was something he was just going to do one more time in the first week back, and then—

—So he decides it'll just be on Fridays. Just like high school. Because nothing ever really changes for him, does it? Family dinners, holidays, Fridays. That's it.

But he usually lurks around Harrisburg as long as possible after class, so family dinners, if they can even be called that, are thankfully few and far between.

And there's nothing special about Fridays anymore, really. Nothing to ritualize. He'll do it still, because he wants to, because he's been saving up every negative emotion he's encountered all week for just this moment: burrowed in his bedroom with the desk chair shoved up under the doorknob, a basket under the bed that used to only hold compression socks and ACE bandages, but now also hosts a perpetually de- and replenished hoard of food, slipped into back pockets and waistbands and sweatshirt sleeves from convenience stores and the student café—but at the end of it all, he's left feeling lacking. He wants to get keyed up, crash, fall. He wants to be spent.

So he starts running again. Before class, after class, whenever, sometimes until it feels until he might puke anyway.

But it's not enough. Not really. He feels it like an itch under the skin of his shoulders.

He lets homework build up. Misses minor deadlines, appreciates the little zing of danger that goes through his stomach when he realizes. He makes his way to campus, before deciding that it's actually not the end of the world if he just doesn't go to his classes today. What are they going to do, call his mom? He's an adult; they don't even have her phone number.

When the bigger deadlines start to approach—major papers, presentations, midterm prep—he lets the stress build and build until it mutates into rabid fear, a need to bite, and he gorges himself straight past due dates, kneels and chokes and releases until the clock resets and he's sitting on a bathroom floor, out of breath and wrung out and almost perfectly at ease.

And then it doesn't matter, when he shows back up to class the next day with nothing to show for anything, and no reason why. You have to start applying yourself, three separate professors tell him in February. One of them adds, You seem like a good kid, Evan. I don't want to see you fail this class.

Well, I do, he thinks about saying back. I want to see myself fail. I want to see however bad this can possibly get. But he doesn't. He just nods, looking apologetic, because it really wouldn't mean anything no matter what he says. This whole place can go fuck itself anyway.

Evan's still holding the packet of discharge papers in his hand when he gets on the Greyhound. He's sixty-seven dollars broker and has about seven hours, sitting either in a bus seat or on a bench, to look forward to. His tailbone isn't even one of the broken ones, but it still hurts like hell.

His phone keeps buzzing. Fourteen missed calls from the house phone so far, ten from his mother's cell phone, and six from his dad's. He should really turn his phone off.

He leans back in his seat, hurting, and stares resolutely out the opposite side window across as all of Pennsylvania and most of New Jersey slip by, trying not to have a single real thought until the bus transfer just before New York.

He mostly succeeds. Keeps it to passing bullshit:

Ten weeks for the sling has to be overkill.

I really need turn off my phone.

It's been one hundred and fifty-four minutes since I got on this bus.

He tries to name the different kinds of trees that line the highway, except the bus is moving too fast, and they look like they're mostly the same two or three species, anyway, most of them still winter-naked and ugly, a week into March.

He tries to find every piece of signage and text in the bus that he can and read it, though it strains his eyes and hurts his brain. He's still technically concussed.

His left knee's fucking killing him. It's not even sprained, so why is that the thing he can't stop focusing on?

It's a good distraction, maybe. Especially from his phone. Which is still buzzing.

He stretches his leg out in front of him at red lights, presses down on his kneecap, appreciating the release of pressure and the pop back into place. When the bus starts moving again, he scrunches his leg back up, tries not to like it too much as it starts to ache again. He folds and unfolds his throbbing leg all the way until New York.

The city fades into upstate, beginning to blur into a mass of white and gray. Evan struggles to focus his eyes. He fights to stay awake. He finally starts to think.

I don't know who the fuck's gonna pay those hospital bills.

Potassium can't be that important, actually, right?

I seriously can't go home after this.

Twenty-two hours ago, he was blazing southeast into Philadelphia on a Kawasaki, going speeds that would get him five points on his license, if he had one for this beast.

Twenty hours ago, he was strapped to a gurney, unable to ignore the cop that was standing next to him, tearing him a new asshole.

Eighteen hours ago, after laying miserably on the gurney in the ambulance bay for over an hour, he was admitted to Temple University Hospital, with (in no particular order): a moderate concussion, an indeterminate number of bruised ribs, mild bradycardia, apparently-alarming hypotension, a shitload of mostly-superficial cuts, and an arm broken in two different places.

Seventeen hours ago, his blood pressure and heart rate really hadn't improved, so they called down the phlebotomist, who made a galaxy-shaped mess of bruises in the crook of his unbroken arm.

Fifteen hours ago, after the x-rays, a nurse came by with a bag of yellow IV fluid to poke his arm again, because apparently his blood was missing magnesium, and potassium, and iron, and about two hundred different incomprehensible vitamins.

("Is that why I feel like shit all the time?" He asked the nurse after she'd finished explaining. He tried to keep his tone light, like he was joking.

She didn't look at him, focused on placing the IV. When she spoke, she sounded dead serious. "Probably.")

Fourteen hours ago, another, different doctor came to ask him a crapton of questions about what he eats, to figure out if he's dying of some kind of nutrient-eating blood disease, or if he just needs to eat more fruit, and Evan technically only lied by omission.

Thirteen hours ago, he ate a shitty hospital dinner and tried to sleep, though he kept getting woken up by someone in scrubs wanting to monitor his concussion.

Six hours ago, he woke up feeling like he'd been run over by a truck, which felt unfair, because he'd barely even been run over by a motorcycle. Moreso flung by one. Maybe a little crushed. He requested more painkillers and pounded back an orange juice, then asked when he could leave. The answer was decidedly disappointing.

Five hours ago, he signed out AMA, taking the packet of paper detailing everything broken and burnt out and wrong about him, and refused to look at it. He walked to the nearest gas station ATM and withdrew everything in his account, which really wasn't much.

Four hours ago, he got a ticket to Boston at the Greyhound station, parked his ass on a bench, and waited for the bus.

Chapter Text

Find the thing that makes you happy.

The people that make you feel loved.

Well.

That's the whole fucking problem, isn't it?

He had a person who made him feel loved, and it was her. And yeah, sure, she left years ago, technically. But it had never felt like such a clear-cut rejection as it does now. She'd answered his calls, until she hadn't. And then she'd answered his texts. Until she hadn't.

This time is different. This time is take this and run, this time is I don't want to have to worry about you anymore.

So Maddie doesn't show up, because all she knows how to do is leave him, and Evan takes the car and the money, because all he knows how to do is need.

He doesn't call Maddie, because under his skin he's furious at her, and hidden under that, in his bones, he's afraid.

It didn't feel like the last time they'd ever speak, not while they were talking, but it feels like it now, looking back. He keeps picturing her face, just as it looked then, standing on the street. Brows drawn together, eyes soft and brown and glistening, the set of her shoulders worn out and cold. He can't forget it.

Find the people that make you feel loved.

He will never let himself forget it.

He won't ever go home, either.

The point, Maddie said, is to leave.

He wishes he'd said no, the point is to get out, together. Maybe if he'd convinced her, really convinced her, she would've meant it when she agreed.

Because sure—he can go anywhere, at least, anywhere on the continent. He has a license, a car, some money, a diploma. So he'll go… somewhere. And then what? Try and make money to live, and go somewhere else?

Okay.

If that's what she wants for him, okay. If she thinks he can somehow make a life out of everything, okay. He doesn't believe her; he's never believed her, when it comes to her faith in him.

But, okay.

He drives for hours without stopping to sleep, that first night. Stops for gas somewhere in Maryland, blows another tank's worth of money on convenience store food. Eats it while driving, high beams on, stone faced. Pulls over, keeps the hazards off, and gags into the grass on the side of 83. Ends up going south, cuts east and takes the Bay Bridge to avoid DC.

He doesn't really know where he's going. Georgia, maybe. Seems fucking lovely this time of year.

He spends time indiscriminately: weeks, then a month, then longer, crawling down the east coast. He spends money the same way: food that stays inside him, food that doesn't, motel rooms, admission fees to tourist traps, gas station beer if he can get away with it, museum tickets.

He doesn't text Kayla, but she doesn't text him, either.

He ignores his parents' calls, then blocks their numbers.

He doesn't go on Facebook; he doesn't check his email.

He resolutely does not call Maddie.

He finds himself looking at her contact page, sometimes. Scrolling through their text thread, a conversation heavily favoring the right side of the screen. But he doesn't click the call button.

That usually happens about two hours before he winds up on a motel bathroom floor.

—

The anger starts to dull, eventually. The wild, unkempt hurt burns itself out into a smoldering, persistent ache. It feels familiar again, finally: that same hungry pit of abandonment that he's known, to some extent, for as long as he can remember.

Which means it's tolerable now. Manageable. Settled. He goes until he can't anymore, until his brain finally registers the acuteness of his isolation, until his hands start to shake with it. Then he breaks, stuffs it down, eats it whole, and exorcises it from his body, so he can start over the next morning.

Northbound again, at the peak of summer, Evan officially runs out of the bones of his savings and the money Maddie gave him. He grinds to a stop in Virginia Beach.

Best time and place to be broke, honestly, if you ask him. The nights are brightly-lit close to the boardwalk, busy, and nobody really bothers him when he sleeps in the car.

He gets eaten alive by mosquitoes at night, sleeping near the water with the windows open, so the first thing he buys with his crap paycheck from the donut place on the boardwalk is a mosquito net from the camping section of Walmart. After that, it's really not so bad. He learns he can sleep through pretty much anything, as long as he can hear the ocean. He gets a shitload of free, slightly-malformed or overcooked donuts. Sometimes, if he comes away from a shift with enough of them, he doesn't even eat them. Sometimes he just takes the paper bag they came in, the bottom limp and damp with grease, and lines all the rejected donuts up on the passenger seat. Tears into them one by one with incisors and canines like a wild dog into flesh. Chews each bite into a fatty, sugary pulp, then lets it drop from his mouth into the paper bag. It's not as good as actually eating them. Not nearly as good. But it's good to chew. It's good to taste. If he actually swallowed them, he'd have to get them back out. And dry bread is always fucking awful the second time.

He hooks up periodically with a girl called Rhea, on break from William & Mary, who's running surfing lessons three times a week for money when she goes back to school. She thinks it's endearing that he sits and watches her lessons sometimes, rapt and attentive. She ruffles his hair about it. Offers to teach him to surf, too, among other things.

He's good at it. Picks it up pretty easily, despite not having grown up swimming very much.

"You should get a first aid cert," she says, a little breathless, settling next to him on her back on pale teal sheets. He hadn't known her parents were kinda-sorta rich when he met her, but it definitely doesn't hurt. Explains why she never asks to go back to his place, anyway. A cool, airy beach house bedroom is definitely better than the backseat of a Jeep.

Rhea stretches her arms above her head; something pops in her back with a sinewy click.

Evan watches the shift of ribs and muscle under her skin in a hazy, appreciative way, still a little turned on, mostly falling asleep. "Hm?"

She turns her head to look at him. She keeps her hair, shoulder-blade length and dark, braided back out of her face most of the time, but tightly curled flyaways stick to the sweat-sheen on her neck and cheek. "You could teach, if you passed a first aid class."

"Teach?" Evan asks. His brain feels honey-thick and stupid inside his skull. Rhea's bed is, with zero exaggeration, the most comfortable surface he's lain on in about a year. He continues, "Like, surfing?"

Her face breaks into a cat-like smile, but a genuine one, like she legitimately thinks his confusion is cute. She has full lips, and a gap between her two front teeth. "Yeah, man," she says. "You'd be good with the kids."

"For real? Like, actually?"

She nods, then adds, "Beats donut money."

He writes his first postcard to Maddie in early spring of 2012, standing in a fishing bait shop in southeastern Maine.

The back of the postcard is an old-looking watercolor painting of the harbor here, with a line of black typewriter-like text across the top: McCully Bait & Tackle - Proudly Serving Camden and Belfast since 1922!

The painting on the post card shows the port town in the full flush of summer: bright blue water framed by the docks, edged with hyper-green grass, the marina dotted with small boats in red and white.

It doesn't look much like that at all, out there. At least not right now. March in Maine looks pretty similar to February in Maine, which is mostly to say that there's still some snow on the ground.

The man behind the counter—only employee in the store—must catch Evan comparing the card to the view out the shop's grimy window. "You're too early," he says gruffly, like that explains anything.

Evan cuts his gaze to him. The man is kind of a walking stereotype: thick gray sweater, the knit all run-together with age, darker gray flannel draped over it. Bald head and light, wild facial hair. Deep set, watery blue eyes. The pale, wrinkly skin of his face and hands is covered in liver spots.

"Huh?"

"If you're looking for work on one of the boats," the man says, like he thinks that maybe Evan's a little stupid, but not like he's all that mad about it. He gestures out the window, to the dismally sparse marina, with his chin. "You're early."

"Oh," Evan says, then considers. "How early?"

The man shrugs. "About a month, I'd say. You go out there, oh, middle of April, probably find something on the first commercial vessel you see."

Evan searches around for a pen on the counter. There isn't one. The man roots around on the shelf below, out of Evan's reach, sighing heavily as he moves, and produces a tin mug full of ball points, sets it down about six inches from Evan's hand.

"You think so?" Evan asks.

The man snorts, just barely. "If you got a whole body and a half a brain, give or take, sure. Plenty of work on the boats."

"Sick," Evan says, mostly to himself. "I'm gonna…" he gestures to the post card.

The man waves him off, goes back to thinking about whatever he was thinking about before. Salmon runs, maybe. Or lobster.

Maddie.

I'm not mad anymore. I shouldn't have even been mad to start with. I'm sorry.

Thanks. Seriously thank you. I want to come + see you again but I don't think showing up in Mass in your car is a great idea. I'd just cause more problems than I could fix. I do miss you though. I hope stuff's good for you right now. I miss you. I already said that.

In Maine, obviously. Apparently gonna work on a fishing boat??? If I can find something to do for a month in the meantime. I'll let you know how it goes.

Love you.

-Evan

PS - Sending these to your work so Doug doesn't throw them in the trash. I know he would.

—

He heads into town, looking for something that can keep him fed for the next few weeks.

The problem with tourist towns: Nobody's hiring in March.

The problem with tourist towns in Maine: Nobody's hiring people who aren't from Maine.

The restaurant is the ninth place he tries over the span of two days.

"You're in luck," Rita says, slapping a stack of menus down on the table in front of him. Rita's maybe sixty years old, and talks like she's been the manager of Anglers Inn & Restaurant for every single one of them. "Mary-Anne just had her baby last week, she'll be out for a few more. I was gonna call in my nephew."

Evan doesn't actually know who Mary-Anne is, but he has a good guess that she's a waitress here—or was, and will be, but not right now. "Great," he says. "I mean, not great to the nephew. Don't call him. He's probably busy."

Rita gives him a kind of funny look. "Probably," she agrees. Then, "Pay's two-fifty an hour, and I gotta warn you, tips are shit right now. It's all local."

Evan doesn't tell her that that doesn't really matter, as long as he can secure the clincher:

"Can I take… half that," he asks, trying to sound like it's not a big deal so maybe Rita won't think it's a big deal, "and stay in one of the rooms?"

Rita pauses. Goes silent. Stares at him.

"I don't… manage the inn," she admits eventually. "Are you a felon?"

"…No?"

She raises a very thin, very black eyebrow. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Um. I'm telling you. I'm not a felon."

She just looks at him for a few more moments before shaking her head. "Then I'm sure Tim won't have a problem with it."

—

So he waits tables for a month, two PM to close, five days a week, and a sixth day if he can't find anything else to do, which he usually can't. Rita's right—the traffic is sparse, and overwhelmingly local, and about half the time, his tip is a couple of crumpled bills; the other half of the time, he doesn't get tipped at all.

It really doesn't matter. He tucks his measly cash tips into the yellow envelope that holds his high school diploma, spends the ten bucks he makes every day on stupid shit, relying on the idea that he'll make enough on the boats in the spring to do some maintenance on the Jeep—it's either that or he's stuck in New England until the fall, which was never the goal.

The inn is a ghost town in March, and Tim says it probably won't fill up until almost June. He thinks Tim comes into the room when Evan's at work, sometimes—it's not like housekeeping is coming around or anything (they're a skeleton crew from October to April; also, Evan's not paying nearly enough for that), but Tim's kind of neurotic, and sometimes when Evan comes back from a shift, small bits of trash that he left on the ground are missing.

Evan has no idea what Tim's doing in there. He seems awfully concerned that Evan will turn on the AC unit in the window, even after Tim explicitly forbade him from doing so on pain of eviction, so maybe he's checking on that, or looking for the drug paraphernalia he seems half-convinced Evan's hiding in his two duffel bags of worldly possessions.

He snatches up other people's side work when he can, stretching out his shifts as long past closing as possible, putting in earbuds that somehow, at some point, got a little waterlogged, and rolling up silverware in the half-dark of the abandoned kitchen. He steals a lot of food when he finally leaves each night, but he doesn't know if it really counts as stealing if it was just going to be thrown out before opening tomorrow morning. The waste write-off sheet is an incomprehensible mess. Nobody ever seems to notice. He keeps most of it down, too, at least until he has a night off and he has the urge to call Maddie before remembering that he can't call Maddie, because she hasn't even texted him since he sent that postcard; he doesn't know if she even got it yet, or if she did but she's already thrown it out.

—

The fishing days are shorter in April than they'll be in the height of summer, which is good, because they're still absolutely brutal.

He's up at three every morning, reporting to the docks by four. He spends two hours shoveling ice and checking over the ropes alongside other deckhands, trying not to fall asleep while doing it all by halogen lantern light.

Five o' clock brings the captain, who slouches into the room with the brick-shaped computer that monitors all the ship's systems, clicking around and checking over numbers that mean literally nothing to Evan. By six, they're on the water, where they'll stay until a couple hours after sunset.

He's paying for his room at Anglers for real now—at a reduced, off-season rate, but still—even though he's barely in it. He'd considered just going back to sleeping in his car (couch surfing is generally impossible here) now that it's a little warmer, but doing this job without regular access to a shower is a great way to get kicked out of literally any public establishment, so he bites the bullet and sinks half his wages into the motel room.

He doesn't have time for literally anything apart from working and sleeping, but honestly, the pay's better than he'd expected, and he's always liked collapsing into bed feeling completely exhausted. He treks from the docks to the gas station where he parks his car most Friday nights at around ten PM, withdraws the entirety of his checking account, stuffs the bills in his pocket and then later in the yellow envelope. May turns to June turns to July, and the town fills with tourists. The rate on the room at Anglers doubles, then doubles again. Evan wakes up one Tuesday morning at three, because his body's more than used to it by now, and grabs his things, hitting Route 1 instead of the docks.

A construction gig, then a stint at a car wash, followed by an exceptionally shitty warehouse job, leads to learning to tend bar in Ohio. He cleans the place around midday, then shadows the bartender in the evening. Cynthia's not an incredibly patient teacher, mostly ignores him a lot of the time, but she'll answer a question if he asks, and Evan's always learned best by watching and doing, so it goes pretty well.

He takes the new skill set with him through the Midwest, slotting seamlessly, empty-pocketed and All-American, behind the bars of dives and mid-tier restaurants in Illinois and South Dakota.

The land out here is flat and open and dry as hell, a lot of the time, but the speed limits are generous and lenient on top of it. There's a sign every few miles telling him to go eighty, but there's very little in place to stop him from going ninety, ninety-five, a hundred.

He loops around the region a few times, turning antsy and hungry in the open stretches of prairie, stopping for months at a time at a Great Lake to reset. When it gets to him—like really gets to him—the sameness of the landscape, the emptiness of all his interactions, he steps smoothly out of one cycle and into another, slipping out the back door of whatever daily grind he's found himself in with a no-call/no-show, spends the day in whatever motel room he's calling his own, turns up the volume on the universally-present QVC channel to cover the sound of retching. If he's short on cash and doesn't have a stash saved up, he just finds someone to fuck. It's usually not all that difficult.

Maddie receives, in theory, postcards from Akron, Indianapolis, Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul, though he doesn't actually know for sure, because she never answers. He opens a PO box in Cleveland, just in case, and writes the address at the bottom of his next card. He checks it every time he swings by Lake Erie. The box is always empty.

Montana feels like the wilder side of the region. He sticks to the southeast, near where Yellowstone pokes its left shoulder out from Wyoming.

Evan starts out at a brewery in Billings, but it doesn't take very long for him to get tired of answering the same rote questions about craft beer from thirty-year-old van lifers, mostly because it's boring, a little because he doesn't like how similar they are to him.

He drifts eastward to Colstrip, spends a couple months building up money in a mind-numbing transport job driving mining equipment along 39, with Forsyth as the northernmost stop and the Northern Cheyenne reservation at the southern end.

The man who almost always signs in his deliveries on the border of the reservation, Amos Killsback (a name Evan will probably remember in startling clarity forever, purely because of its sharpness), gives him extra work to do sometimes, pays him in cash.

He unloads the company truck with Amos in Lame Deer, signs the inventory paper, and then loads the truck back up with firewood, takes the couple of twenties that Amos proffers, and heads further east off-route to Ashland. There's a ranch out there, off-reservation but Cheyenne-owned, run by Amos' brother-in-law.

Evan assumes Amos calls them, because every time he pulls the truck up to the dusty, wide-open driveway in front of the trailer, Eileen's already sitting by the door in one of the rocking chairs in the scrub grass.

Eileen's about twenty-five, maybe a little older, and Evan's not too sure of the family tree, but he thinks maybe she's Amos' sister's granddaughter, whatever that makes her to Amos. She dresses like a rancher—leather boots, thick, worn jeans and thicker, faded flannels—but dark, expansive tattoos peek out from her collar and rolled-up sleeves, and she has wavy, honey-brown hair that hangs free all the way down to her lower back.

She helps him take the bundles of wood out of the back of the truck, walks alongside him as they carry them to the log rack. Sometimes, when they're done, she goes inside to get each of them a glass of water, and they lean against the truck and drink them together, usually in silence. Evan's usually the type of person that can never shut up, but Eileen's presence is a unique combination of intimidating and soothing. Standing next to her makes him feel like a cat being held by the scruff.

Today, he drinks half his glass in one go, and decides to actually say something.

"Do you know if your, uh—the ranchers here. Do you know if they're ever looking for help?"

Eileen raises her eyebrows and flicks her eyes over to him from where she'd been studying the harsh blue-meets-yellow horizon line of the plains. "They're always looking for help," she says, and Evan can sense the but lying in wait. "But probably not from you."

"Oh," he says. "Okay." It was kind of a long shot, anyway. He's just so unimaginably tired of driving the same stretch of highway every day, even if he gets marginally different stops along the route every couple of weeks. It's better than going back home. Anything's better than going back home. If he ever finds something permanent—if there even is something permanent for him, out there somewhere—there's no chance in hell it's an unlicensed trucking job.

"I mean," Eileen says, "you ever worked with horses?"

"No," Evan admits. "I'm a fast learner, though."

"I'll bet," Eileen says, and holds out her hand for his now-empty glass. "Tell you what. I'll ask them about it, let you know what they said next time you come down here."

"Thanks," Evan says, and he means it.

She shrugs. "Can't hurt. I mean, they hired Shane with no experience, and he's still shit at everything he does, five years later. But he's Cheyenne."

Evan nods, like he understands. "And I'm… not."

She snorts, just a little, not unkindly. "You'll stick out, you know. You go into town, you'll get overcharged for everything. Ashland's real different from Colstrip."

He recognizes something in her dark eyes as she says it. Not like she's joking with him, per se—she's telling the truth, as far as he can tell, anyway—but like she's doing something similar, something close to playing.

"You trying to scare me off?" he asks.

It makes her face crack into a smile. "Little bit," she admits. "Is it working?"

"Literally not at all," he says, and it makes her laugh, the very first time he's seen her do it, a loud, uninhibited thing. He gestures with his chin to the truck, parked at the edge of the driveway, waiting for him. "I hate this job."

Her laughter quiets down, though her eyes are still bright. "Okay," she says. "I'll ask, then. I'll ask."

—

Eileen evidently does ask, because she tells Evan on his next firewood delivery that her grandparents are open to it. He drives the Jeep instead of the truck from Colstrip down to Ashland a couple weeks later, and he doesn't drive back.

Most of what they have him do is grunt work, pretty common-sense stuff, but he's used to that. Anything more complicated than that, he can figure out because of his time spent in construction.

Liam owns the ranch—Amos' brother-in-law, presumably. He's about sixty-five, literally always wearing a Stetson, and almost never says more than two or three words at a time. When Evan shows up in the early morning, Liam's always standing outside the doors of the big barn, holding a massive steaming mug of coffee, waiting for him and Shane. Evan always beats Shane by half an hour, at least, though Liam doesn't seem too impressed by it. He's not impressed by much, really, delegating tasks by rattling off a short list of key words, checking over things when they're done and saying, Looks good, before hustling off to do something else, his gait rambling and uneven with age.

Eventually, Liam trusts him enough to let him do more than mucking stalls and fixing fences. He's first permitted to feed the horses, then to let them out into the pasture and bring them back. Eileen teaches him how to clean tack, then how to tack up, then eventually, vaguely, how to ride.

"You think I'm ever gonna do any ranching?" He asks her, late into September. She's leaning back against a wall in the tack shed, watching him separate and hang everything up, but not very shrewdly. He hasn't messed up in a pretty long while.

She snorts. It blows a stray strand of hair away from her mouth. "No," she says. "Not here, anyway."

"So I'm a horse janitor," Evan says, trying to sound put-out for the bit, but he doesn't really feel it. Liam's never asked him to ride any of the horses for any reason, ever. Eileen didn't have to decide to teach him. She's doing it for fun.

"Just about," Eileen agrees. She clicks the side of her tongue to her teeth and points at him. "You do all the stuff he pretends he's not too old to do anymore. Minimal responsibility, minimal risk."

It's a newly-minted 2015, and after a miserable, dry Montana winter, Evan decides he's sick to goddamn death of the Midwest.

He tells Liam before he leaves, but just gets kind of waved off. They'll find someone else. It's easy to hit the road, like it almost always is.

He wastes a languid stretch of months in northern California, soaking in the rain-lush clouds and the near-constant sound of the water, working food service in the winter, then landscaping in the spring.

Maddie

Hope you're good.

Obviously, I left Montana. Was fun being a cowboy while it lasted, though. Yeehaw, I guess.

I still miss you. Duh. And I kind of hope you miss me. I'm not anywhere near Cleveland right now, but I'm pretty sure I can call the post office and ask them to check my box. So write back whenever you want. I'll drive over and get it.

Or call, if that's easier! Or text. I just want to hear from you whenever.

I'm in Cali right now, which you probably already got from the card. Honestly I really, really like it here. Doing some landscaping stuff right now, but I'm thinking of going to Monterey soon, see if I can work at the aquarium. Hopefully in whatever position lets me feed the sea otters. Apparently I'm pretty good at talking myself into jobs???

Love you.

-Evan

Chapter Text

Maddie

This is my LAST postcard to you from Máncora!!

I am (drum roll please) moving to LA!

I met some really cool people down here that are gonna rent a house together there, and one of them said I should come with. If the other guys are cool with it, we'll be headed out in a couple weeks.

I like it down here, but it'll be good to be back in the states again. I'd say maybe we could meet up at some point but I know that's not gonna happen.

I just hope you're OK. And happy. And taking names doing badass emergency nursing. Though I guess you don't want to take names in an ER…

I still don't know what I'm doing in all honesty. I'm kind of just doing my best. But LA might be IT, you know?? I know I said that about Peru. And probably also other places. But everybody wants to go to LA, right? There's like a billion songs about it.

Love you.

-Evan

Evan's shifts start at five PM. Because of LA traffic, he usually wakes up around three. Three isn't a bad time to be bleary and tired in a house of four twenty-somethings (plus whatever indeterminate amount of friends, girlfriends, and/or hookups are present at any given moment)—the worst time would be around ten PM, probably. That's when things are at their most chaotic.

But three isn't a great time, either.

Mostly because of Connor.

Connor, who drinks more and sleeps less than Evan, but who somehow never seems hungover or exhausted. Connor, whose shifts start at four, and is usually sitting, punctually ready, in the kitchen by three-fifteen. Connor, who has never once hesitated before telling Evan that he probably just needs to eat better if he doesn't want to feel like shit all the time.

(Because it feels relevant: Connor is vegan.)

(This also feels relevant: Absolut is vegan, too.)

I'm just not a morning person, Evan told him, the first week they'd lived together with this specific routine, after he'd slouched down the stairs to the kitchen in search of something to eat before work, and Connor had told him he looked like he'd been run over by a car.

It hasn't been morning for a few hours, Connor quipped back, and if Evan didn't legitimately like the guy, the urge to punch him probably would've felt a lot stronger.

Today, Connor's sitting at one of the black plastic folding chairs crowded around the kitchen table. (Someone had picked them up from Walmart, their first night all together in the house. Every so often, a visitor would comment on it, and one of the more permanent residents would say yeah, we've been meaning to get real chairs. But nobody ever went out to get real chairs.)

"Whoa," Connor says as Evan enters the kitchen.

"Yeah?" Evan throws out expectantly, because he knows Connor's about to say something that he thinks is funny but is actually just kind of annoying, but Evan will let it go because Connor's basically his only (and therefore, by default, best) friend.

"Did you contract typhoid overnight, or something?" Connor asks, half into his mug. "Be honest with me, man."

"Ha ha," Evan says blandly, and opens the fridge. "Get fucked."

Connor's quiet for a second, and Evan thinks maybe Connor decided his response was fair enough. But then Connor says, "I'm kind of being for real, though. You look… Are you sure you're, like, good to work?"

"Yep," Evan mutters, "Positive." He digs further through the fridge, sorting through other peoples' fresh takeout and then, behind it, their decidedly less-fresh takeout. He groans. "Come on, who the hell finished the—"

"—So that would be you, actually," Connor says, like he's been waiting to say it. "You also finished my mini-wheats. Actually, I think it's more accurate to say you demolished them, seeing as I only bought them two days ago."

Evan keeps his face safely hidden by the fridge door when he answers. "Sorry."

"It's—" Connor cuts himself off. He sighs a very significant-sounding sigh. "Okay, so it's not fine. But could you just like, tell me? And pay me back? Because this is, like, the third or fourth time this has happened. You know if you ask I'll say yes. But I can't keep waking up and just… not having any food, man."

"Yeah," Evan says, and tries to sound casual, as not-mortified as possible. "Yeah. Of course. Sorry." He scans his eyes uselessly over the fridge one more time, finding absolutely nothing that he has a rightful claim to. Last Night Evan fucked him over. Again.

What he doesn't say to Connor is that he actually can't promise to ask. Or even tell him after the fact, at least not before Connor discovers his missing food for himself, because Evan doesn't even really remember doing it. Sure, he vaguely remembers feeling like absolute dogshit after work yesterday, remembers getting home around two-thirty in the morning, remembers eating, remembers puking, remembers crawling into bed, remembers waking up the next morning with a not-unusual pounding headache and a twinge in his jaw—but the specifics are all fuzzy and out of reach. Two AM Evan feels like a totally different person who makes totally different decisions. Three PM Evan wishes he could muzzle him.

He also doesn't tell Connor that he's probably good for the rest of the week, since he got it out of his system last night. Evan doesn't even remember what made him do it.

Instead of any of that, he just gets out his phone and sends twenty dollars to Connor's PayPal.

"Feel better, dude," Connor says, grabbing his sweatshirt off the back of the chair. He crosses behind Evan in the kitchen to deposit his mug in the sink. He gives Evan a firm, impersonal pat on the shoulder blade. "See you later."

Evan works at a bar with a pool table, where the music plays at a reasonable volume, and you can buy things that very closely resemble actual food.

That is to say, most of the people who pass through who are younger than forty are here to pregame.

Kiera, who shows up with three other girls of similar ages and outfits, is not here to pregame, but rather to ferry around her soon-to-be drunk friends—she tells him this conspiratorially, leaning a little closer so he can hear her, like if she says it at a normal volume it'll ruin the surprise. Evan tries to watch her eyes as she does it, but the piercing through her bottom lip keeps catching the light.

He has to check her ID even if she's not drinking, since she's sitting at the bar with her friends. She's twenty-three. Her last name is Tsai. You pronounce the "T", she tells him, same as tsunami.

She divides her attention between Evan and her friends—with priority given to the latter, obviously. It feels a little like a sunburn, her attention, and Evan preens under it.

Her four-person crew leaves around ten, with Evan's phone number safely tucked away in her contacts. He tells her he usually gets off at two. She tells him she might swing back, watch your phone.

—

His phone lights up with a text from his manager right after he starts his car.

The text reads, You know you're not supposed to screw patrons.

Another pops up a few seconds later: & if you MUST, please refrain from doing it IN THE PARKING LOT!!!!

Evan texts back, I'm not supposed to screw *drunk patrons.

Then, Which I didn't and don't. She was DD :)

Then, And she's not even really a patron anymore it was after close

Then, after he thinks about it for one more minute, Wait were you like watching????

He doesn't wait for an answer before he drives home.

—

The thing about Connor and the rest of the guys… Evan wasn't able to put his finger on it for the longest time.

But the thing about them is that sure, Evan's friends with them—mostly with Connor, since they met first, and their schedules are the most similar; but he's at least passing friends with all of them.

But to each other, specifically, they're family. He knows none of them hate him, but none of them know him, either, and he can't help but feel like to them, he might just be a guy who pays twenty percent of the rent.

(And eats all their food, apparently.)

Evan works until two AM, then meets Kiera right after, then pointedly does not go home with her around four, then gets back to the house around five.

There are no cars in the driveway when he pulls the Jeep in. Granted, one of the guys doesn't have a car, so he could be home, but given what Evan knows about the hours he keeps… it's unlikely.

He feels two conflicting cocktails of emotion, one feeding into the other.

On the one hand: Sleeping with Kiera was supposed to fix it. He really thought she would fix it. Most of the time, sex works—not the same, but almost as good.

(It didn't work this time. He doesn't know why.)

Usually he can sleep somewhere that isn't his own place, sated and spent, and he'll wake up feeling fine.

(Maybe it's because she didn't want him to come home with her. Because he couldn't hide out in somebody else's bedroom, somebody else's life, playing a confident, competent version of himself that's good with his mouth and his hands in a completely different way.)

(Or maybe it's the perceived rejection of it all. He doesn't really blame her. It's not like they're dating each other. Not like they ever will be. Not like that's what either of them wanted.)

On the other hand: It's almost exciting, to have nobody be home when he gets there.

The deserted two-story house feels like an empty stage, the dark kitchen like a cleared-out studio. Opportunity zings in his stomach. He's been given free reign to get to work.

—

In the aftermath, he lays in his bedroom, his hands folded over his sternum, breathing in (count, 1 2 3 4 5) and then out (count, 1 2 3 4 5), trying to trick himself into falling asleep. He feels stupid. He feels disappointed—in himself, maybe? In whatever makes him like this? Who knows. More than anything, he feels tired. A heavy, overwhelming, bone-splintering exhaustion that actually, the more he rolls it around in his mouth, tastes a lot like dread. Because, somewhere deep in his core, he knows that it maybe, possibly, has gotten a little bit out of control. That this isn't sustainable.

And somewhere, deeper than that, he knows he'll find a way to sustain it anyway.

Someone bangs a fist on Evan's bedroom door, five times, in rapid succession.

Connor's voice, from just outside the door: "Dude!"

Evan slouches further into bed, squints his eyes shut, like the midday sunlight isn't real and Connor isn't, in fact, hammering on Evan's door like the house is on fire.

But the banging continues.

"Come on, man, open up. I really need to fucking talk to you."

Okay, Connor sounds pissed. But not… furious. Not like, open-the-door-and-he'll-punch-Evan-in-the-face type furious. Not that Connor's that type of person. Evan's never known him to fight anyone. But he's never done this before, either.

The doorknob jiggles as Connor tries to just open the door. But it's locked. Evan would be stupid not to lock it; about half the people that hang out in this house are people he's never met before.

"I'm coming," Evan calls, tacking on, "chill out," before he can think better of it.

He grabs a pair of sweatpants off the floor, pulling them on as he half-rolls out of bed. He can't find a shirt fast enough. He opens the door, and there's Connor, already dressed for work, his arms crossed over his chest, face shut-down and stormy, doing the exact opposite of chilling out.

When his eyes focus on Evan, something in his expression shifts a little, not a lessening of anger but the addition of something else, although Evan can't really tell what it is.

"God," Connor mutters. "You look like roadkill. It's three-thirty, by the way. You not going to work?"

Evan shakes his head, sniffing. His throat still feels mucus-clogged. He still tastes a little bit of blood. "I'm sick."

Connor huffs quietly. "No shit. Look, I—" He cuts himself off and groans, a little dramatically. "You already know, man."

Evan steps aside a little bit to let Connor into the bedroom. He doesn't actually know, not for sure, but he has a pretty damn good guess. He gestures to the jacket tossed onto the bean bag in the corner. "Tips from last night are in the inside… left pocket, I think. Take what you need."

Connor does just that, squatting down and pulling out an unorganized wad of bills from the pocket, counting through them quickly before taking a portion for himself.

"You can't keep doing this," he says, though he sounds less immediately angry, now that he has cash for groceries. "It's actually getting fucking ridiculous."

"I know," Evan says miserably, because he does know. There's literally no part of this that Connor isn't right about.

"Okay, so if you already know, don't do it," Connor shoots back. He stands up, rolling up the bills he took and putting them in his back pocket. "I just—I don't know what to tell you, dude. I know you have, like, food issues, or whatever, but… I don't know what to tell you. You can't do this. This isn't a thing you can do."

Food issues, or whatever. It's the closest either of them have gotten to actually mentioning it out loud to each other.

. . .

They met Evan's second month on the job in Máncora. Sunset wasn't hitting until about seven PM, and Evan worked five til eleven.

By the time night fell, Evan was usually about as drunk as most of his patrons, though nobody ever really called him on it, not unless he started dropping things.

He didn't lose a ton of dexterity most of the time, but his brain became lax. Stupid. Hungry.

He took various sips and shots throughout his shift most evenings, called for extra portions of food when it was ordered. It was kind of fun, actually. A game he played against the bar patrons, against the guy making patacones in the back, against his own pisco-logged mind: How far can I take this secret, shameful thing that I do, right in front of them, without anyone noticing?

He did a lot of petty theft, that year he spent rotting away in community college. Mostly food from convenience stores, because he didn't have the cash to buy as much as he wanted, but sometimes just stupid shit, just to see if he could do it—pine tree air fresheners, Bic lighters, packs of Clorox wipes, whatever. Just to slip out the door with something in his pocket, to be the only one who knew. The fun type of alone.

His single-player bar game felt almost the same.

At the end of his shift, he'd cede control of the bar to the girl who did late nights and take his bin of dishes to the back, where he'd abandon them for a minute by the sink, stepping confidently to the grimy single-seater behind the kitchen, like he wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary at all. Most of the time, everything came up easy and alcohol-slick; he didn't even have to use his hands. He could just flex his throat in a certain way. Easy. Quiet. Perfect. Like hitting a well-practiced series of command keys on a computer. He'd come back, loose-limbed and empty and relaxed, to do his dishes before he went home, whenever home was that night.

The night he met Connor, the kitchen was empty. Patacones Guy had disappeared, and Evan didn't know where to until he tried to open the bathroom. Locked, or maybe just jammed.

He tried again.

"Ocupado," came Patacones Guy's voice from inside, half-overlapped by a distinctly more feminine voice saying, "Someone's in here!"

Okay, then.

He pushed through the side door instead, into the patch of grass on the side of the building, the center of the area dead and bare where Patacones Guy usually dumped the fry oil when it had cooled down.

Maybe it was the unexpected break in routine, or maybe he just hadn't drunk enough, but it was not a look Ma, no hands type of night. He spent about five minutes kneeling in the brown, oily grass, jamming the back of his throat, mentally cursing Patacones Guy and his mystery hookup. She deserved better, honestly. No one should get fucked in the bathroom the bartender puked in every night.

It was hard to color-code alcohol, especially at an under-stocked bar, so Evan always went until he was just getting acid and saliva.

Evan stood, a little shakily, and wiped his mouth on the back of the hand. He turned to go back inside to see a man standing in the doorway, watching him.

It was Connor, though Evan didn't know that yet. Connor had obviously seen the whole thing, and he was still staring, looking a little horrified, a little mystified.

"I needed to piss," Connor said in explanation, like that was what Evan cared about just then.

"Okay," Evan said. He was trying to act natural, but it was really fucking hard. He couldn't look at Connor in the face. He'd been narrowly almost-caught before, sure. Someone waiting outside a gas station bathroom when he exited, seeming a little suspicious. Residents of neighboring motel rooms who casually recommended home remedies for stomach bugs to him when they saw each other in the parking lot. But he'd never been observed, start to fucking finish.

Evan said, "Piss, then." He tried to shoulder past Connor back into the kitchen.

"Just—" Connor started, then shook his head like he was trying to clear it. His words were a little slurred. "Do you need to go to the doctor, or something? I don't think the doctor's open right now… maybe the hospital? I just mean, are you, like, okay?"

"No doctors," Evan said immediately. "Just. Drank too much. It's fine."

Connor, very clearly drunker than Evan—hammered, even—nodded. His whole body swayed with it. "Right, right. Just. Drunk people don't usually do the—" he mimed pushing two fingers into his mouth, complete with a cartoonish gagging sound.

"Yeah, well," Evan said, and then finally noticed how fucked-up his voice sounded, gritty and thick. He repeated, "It's fine."

He figured he'd never have to see the guy again, but Connor was back at the bar the next day, and then again a few days after that, and neither of them mentioned it again. Not even when Connor would wait for Evan to get off his shifts, watching him slip back past the kitchen into the bathroom, not even when he asked Evan to come to LA with him, not even when they started living together with the other guys.

Not until now, anyway.

There's a group of firemen in the bar tonight.

Okay, that's not right. Two of them are women.

There's a group of firefighters in the bar tonight.

There's six of them, crammed together at one of the tables, and they're not really in uniform, but a few of them are wearing the T-shirts.

Evan's eavesdropping. He can't really help it. No one else is talking to him right now, and even if they were, it probably wouldn't be even half as interesting.

I swear, one of the men says, I've never seen steel just crumple like that. He stretches his arm, bent behind his head, and uses his other hand to pull down on his elbow. It makes his shoulder pop loud enough that Evan hears it over four yards away behind the bar. The man jolts at the sound. The woman sitting next to him laughs at him, startled enough that she sprays out some of her drink.

Fucking Jesus, Nell! Shoulder Guy says. Watch where you're aiming that thing.

One of the other men stands—the one who's been in charge of ordering their drinks for the past ninety minutes—and reaches for Nell's now-empty cup. He starts making his way up to the bar. Evan gets the absurd urge to straighten his shirt.

Drink Order Guy sets the tumbler on the counter. He runs his now-free hand back through dark hair, a little damp, either from a shower or whatever they got up to on their shift.

"Gonna need another one of these," he says. "For, uh. Her." He smiles like him and Evan are in on the same joke.

Evan takes the tumbler, goes to rinse it. "You'll need to remind me what it was, man." He gestures around to the underwhelming crowd in the bar. "Swamped tonight."

Drink Order Guy tilts his head a little, following Evan's hands to look around the room at mostly empty chairs. "Oh," he says. Then, louder, over his shoulder, "Hey, Nell—?"

"—I'm kidding," Evan cuts in, suddenly embarrassed that his joke didn't seem to land. "I'm kidding. I remember. Hard not to, with the rest of you guys drinking beer."

Drink Order Guy smiles. His smile starts down-turned, but it tilts up when he shows his teeth. His canines are noticeably sharp, and one of them's a little crooked. His eyes are so dark they seem to glitter. "What, beer's too boring for you?"

Evan shrugs. "I don't think I'm weird for appreciating something a little more adventurous." He puts Nell's finished drink back up on the bar. Drink Order Guy looks at the drink, then Evan's hand around the tumbler, then all the way up Evan's arm to his face. Evan says, "I'll put that on the tab."

—

When Evan gets home from work, Connor's sitting in the dark living room, multi-colored light from the television washing over his face. He turns around a few seconds after Evan closes the front door behind him, and fixes wide, nocturnal eyes on Evan hanging up his keys.

Connor says something, clearly trying to be nighttime-quiet, but it ends up being softer than the noise from the TV—which, at the moment, is a weird, droning, horrific sort of sound, over footage of a woman in a grocery store.

"What?" Evan whispers back.

"I said," Connor whispers, louder but still not technically talking, "do you want to watch a movie with me?"

Evan gestures with his chin to the television, where the woman is drinking milk from the carton. The whole screen is a wash of grainy 80s footage. "Looks like you're already watching one."

Connor rolls his eyes. Evan only sees the whites of them flash. "It just started."

"Are you stoned?" Evan asks. "You have really shitty taste when you're stoned."

"Rude."

Evan makes his way to his room, sets down his jacket. He takes his tips from the pocket tonight, puts them in the back of his sock drawer. Connor won't need any of it this time. He won't. That has to be part of the sustaining. Evan will be self-sufficient. He'll buy his own food. He won't touch anyone else's. He won't lose track of himself again, because he can't afford to. He'll chip and collar himself if he has to. His body will listen because he demands it.

He leaves his room, crosses the hallway, settles on the opposite side of the couch.

"You came back," Connor half-whispers, sounding delighted.

Definitely stoned.

The woman on the screen is driving a car now. She's arguing with another woman who might be her mother. As the story progresses, she argues with her daughter, and then her husband. She argues with her mother again, this time about the husband, who may or may not be having an affair with his work partner.

During a party scene, where the colors of strawberries arranged on a cake look flat and unappetizing, Evan whispers, "I hate that they stopped using technicolor."

Connor blinks a few times at the screen, slowly, processing, then whispers back, "Technicolor's a real thing?"

Evan nods. The woman on the screen is presenting the cake at the party. She's overdressed. It's her mother's fault. "You know how The Wizard of Oz still looks, like, so colorful? It's technicolor. It's like, the camera recorded everything three times, and each one was red, green, or blue, and then they overlaid them all on top of each other and it made everything look really vibrant."

"Huh," Connor says. Everyone on screen is eating the bland-looking cake with the strawberries.

"Yeah. But they stopped doing it around the seventies. It took too long and it was too expensive."

"Wasn't The Wizard of Oz, like, super fucked up?"

Evan sighs. "I mean, yeah, but a lot of that's actually urban legend. But they did use asbestos as snow in…" He trails off. The woman on the screen is pecking at the platter of cheese and crackers like a carrion bird at a corpse. She's eating pasta salad with a serving spoon. Gulping down cups of water from the sink. She crouches down, safe under the cover of the cabinets. She stuffs fistfuls of cake into her mouth, then licks at her palms when her hands are empty.

She shuffles off-screen, followed moments later by the sound of retching. She returns, red-eyed, looking hollow and haunted, but calm. She starts to clean up.

What the fuck, Evan thinks. Because, really—What the fuck?

He slides his eyes to Connor, refusing to move his head to fully look at him.

Connor's already staring at him. Like, really staring, his high making him clumsy and unsubtle. The look on his face is downright mournful.

Evan keeps his face pinned forward, stoic, almost unblinking, for the rest of the movie. He doesn't process anything beyond the visuals. There's a doctor. A hospital. More 80s clothing. Somebody dies—it's a little bloody, but in a far-off, vintage, made-for-TV way. The credits roll.

"I wanted to tell you something," Evan says, when the director's name flashes across the screen. "It's kind of serious."

"Yeah, man," Connor says, way too quickly. "Anything."

"I think that I…" Evan swallows. Feels his throat click. "I'm thinking of becoming a firefighter."

Connor sighs. And then he's quiet for a very, very long time. So long that the credits end, and the screen shows the thumbnails of other suggested movies.

"You think it's dumb?" Evan hazards eventually.

"No," Connor says, though it comes out like it's just another sigh. "No, I don't think it's dumb. If… if you want to do that, then sure. Chase your bliss, or whatever."

"Thanks, man," Evan says. He looks squarely at his own knees while he stands. "Well. I'm gonna go to bed."

"Sure."

Evan keeps his voice light while he says, "That movie was fucked, by the way."

Maddie!!!

Big news. Exciting news. World-changing news.

I'm gonna join the LAFD.

Well. First I'm gonna go through Fire Academy. And get EMT certified. And before that I'm gonna change my driver's license. And start working out more I guess. It's gonna be crazy doing 80 hour weeks for almost 6 months, but I kinda love crazy. I'll live.

Side note- It's funny that it's called Fire Academy right??? I think it's kinda funny. Connor doesn't. They might as well call it Fireman School.

Hope you're still reading these, if you ever did. Sometimes I check the staff page for BWH, just to make sure You Know Who is still working in cardiology. I figure if he's there, you're still in the ER, and I can keep sending these. Kinda fucked messed up that they don't list all the nurses too, honestly. That I have to look for him to find you.

Miss you, like always. And love you. Also like always. I hope things are OK for you.

-Evan

PS - As you can definitely see, this is a normal letter instead of a post card. Sorry. I thought it would be kind of weird to send you a touristy post card from the place where I've been paying actual, legal rent for like 5 months and also am probably gonna stay in maybe forever. So. I'm like, basically an official Angeleno now (actual Angelenos would not agree.)

PPS - But it's not just a normal letter. I went to Staples and got some photos printed like it's 2007 or something. You probably already saw them but they're taped together on the back. Probably could've just put a lot of them on Facebook, but I kinda ghosted the entire internet like four years ago. I should probably start using it again if I'm gonna like have a real life here.

His days in the LAFD Academy hollow him out like termites eating a log. He wakes up at seven because he's taking the morning rotation—nine in the morning to one—gets home around two, showers, changes, eats, sometimes sleeps for an hour—leaves at four—works from five until two in the morning—gets home around three, sleeps til seven—on the weekends, the Academy runs eight-thirty to four, and he shows up to his shifts at the bar smelling like gasoline, or sweat, or partially splattered in whatever mud he couldn't scrub off in the Academy showers.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays are his days off from work at the bar, and he uses his last remaining bit of life-force after getting back from the Academy to make himself do laundry, or take out the trash, or what-the-fuck-ever, before collapsing, aching and unmoving, into bed for the next sixteen hours. Sometimes he takes a break in the middle of his hardcore unconsciousness sessions, waking up at one or two in the morning, ravenously hungry. In a real, physical way, even. He's too asleep to feel any real emotions, so he slinks down to the kitchen with his eyes still mostly closed, eats three peanut butter sandwiches, chugs a Gatorade in the dark. Getting rid of it doesn't even occur to him. It falls down into a seemingly endless deficit of energy, like dropping a coin in a deep, dark well, and he hurtles right back into effortless, stone-like sleep.

It's the best he's felt in a long, long time. Maybe as long as he can remember.

He's doing good, at the Academy. He knows it factually, in a real way, from his commanders, from his pre-final evaluation scores, but he also knows it intrinsically. He can feel it in his stretched-to-tearing ligaments, in his near-constant joint pain. It wouldn't hurt so much if he wasn't doing something right.

Five months later, he comes out of the Academy with a new name and a third-place ranking for perspective firehouses. It's not top of his class, but out of twenty-six people, it's pretty damn close. It's not fucking average, anyway.

—

If someone had asked him, Who's coming to your Academy Graduation? at any time leading up to the ceremony itself, Buck would've probably just shrugged.

Probably no one, would be his answer.

He'd taped the print-out with the date on it to the fridge, but nobody really looks at stuff like that, and even if they had, his roommates didn't really know him (nevermind like him) enough to show.

And he remains, as always, essentially family-less.

So he'd already known, really, is the point.

Doesn't stop it from hurting like a bitch.

He makes it through graduation like he makes it through everything else, keeps himself elastic and approachable, gives and receives the proper congrats.

And then he slides out the side door and drives himself to work.

"…You're not working today," is the first thing the bartender says when he walks in. "Don't you have your big, important fireman thingy?"

"Correct on both," Buck says while he snags a seat at the bar. "I'm here to get drunk."

—

(Later, after the Uber drops him off by the curb, Buck will stand in the midnight-dark driveway of the house next to his roommates' silent, sleeping cars, and stare down at his phone.)

(The call button will glare up at him—just a little gray box, unassuming most of the time, but at this particular moment, he will swear it feels malicious.)

(Buck will rock backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, the muted nighttime cityscape sliding, silky and swirling, past inebriated ears.)

(The phone will ring four, five, six times.)

Hi, you've reached Maddie Kendall. I'm sorry I couldn't answer your call, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!

(He will call again, then a third time.)

(He will not leave a message.)

—

Buck rinses out his mouth in the dark. He's quiet now, rote and well-practiced, and if everything goes the way it's supposed to—which it usually does—he doesn't need the light to see anymore. He gets by entirely on feeling.

It's easier, too, in the darkness. For some reason.

He steps, sock-footed and sure, into the hallway, latches the door behind him, quieter than his own breathing.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he looks up and sees a silhouette down the hall.

Connor's standing in his bedroom doorway.

It's always Connor.

"Tell me right now," Connor hisses, "that if I go down to the kitchen, my shit will still be there."

Buck, still pretty drunk, answers easily: "Your shit will still be there."

Connor falters, loses steam, but just for a moment. "You're lying. Are you lying to me?"

Buck answers this one easily, too. "Yep."

"Come on."

It's the kind of expression someone uses when they're playing beleaguered for the bit. But Connor's very clearly not joking. He says again, almost pleading, "Come on, man."

And Buck's not trying to laugh. He's really not. It's not even really funny. In the morning, he definitely won't think it was funny.

But right now, he's hammered, and one time he read that the brain hits the endorphins button when the body vomits, and it can almost be on par with an orgasm, though that's heavily debated. Personally, though, Buck thinks it's at least a little bit accurate.

So he's laughing, because he can't help it, and the more he laughs, and the more he tries to be quiet and stop laughing, the more hopeless and angry Connor looks.

"I'm sorry," Buck says, between escaping bits of laughter. "I'm really sorry, I promise, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"—Shut up," Connor says quietly. "Please just shut up."

Buck clamps his hands over his own mouth, but he's still silently laughing, and also maybe crying a little bit, but he doesn't know if that's because he's laughing too hard, or if it's unrelated.

Hungover in more ways than one, Buck hangs his bag and hat in the locker that bears his name in Station 118. The whole building that makes up the station is wide-open and airy. Every surface seems to be steel, concrete, or glass. It's all sharp-edged and spotless, polished to a near-perfect reflective sheen.

It's more than a little intimidating.

He wanders through the apparatus bay, which feels like something he shouldn't be allowed to do unsupervised, except he is allowed—he pushed himself to breaking for five straight months to prove it.

He looks around for signs of life. There aren't many. There are distant, echoing sounds from somewhere, maybe high up, maybe just far away, but there are about four different staircases in the immediate vicinity, and the only one where he can see where it leads goes to the loft directly overhead.

Report to Captain Nash, he repeats internally. Don't hesitate, don't stutter. Evan Buckley, new recruit, I was told to report to Captain Nash.

The loft is a lucky guess, apparently. He finds a group of five around a table up there, enthusiastically digging into a meal sourced from multiple serving bowls in the center of the table. It strikes Buck immediately as an almost unnerving facsimile of a family dinner.

Report to Captain Nash.

He takes stock of the food on the table. It all seems like pretty standard fare. Smells good. Everyone seems to be enjoying it.

He doesn't even have to say anything before people are turning to look at him. Buck stops in his tracks.

(Don't hesitate, don't stutter. Evan Buckley, new recruit, I was told to report to Captain Nash.)

"Can I help you?" The man at the head of the table asks. He doesn't ask it with any kind of malice, but Buck already feels off-kilter, and there's something about the man's resting expression—it's almost, almost a smile, like he just thought of something mildly funny, but he has no intention of telling anyone about it.

"Uh—" Fuck. "Evan Buckley, sir. New recruit? I was… I was told to report to Captain Nash?"

The man's expression turns bemused, but his quarter-smile grows, like he just thought of something a little bit funnier. He looks from Buck to the rest of the people sitting at the table. "Do you know a Captain Nash?" He asks one of them. At their negative response, he asks another: "You? You know a Captain Nash?"

Frantically, Buck scans their arm patches. All of them read 118.

But—God, what if he read the fucking email wrong? What if he's assigned to the 181, or the 119, or—

—The sound of a chair being pulled out, its legs groaning as they scrape over the concrete floor, snaps him out of it. The man at the head of the table is gesturing to it.

"Take a seat, Evan," he says. "I'm Captain Bobby Nash, though if I'm being honest, I'd prefer 'Bobby'."

Buck takes a seat. "It's, uh—it's Buck, for me. Everyone just calls me Buck."

"Well, Buck," Bobby says, and makes a gesture to one of the other firefighters sitting at the table that Buck can't quite interpret. The gesture leads to Bobby being handed an empty bowl, which he puts down close to the man on his left. Bobby looks up from the bowl and back to Buck. "Welcome to the 118."

Buck can't stop himself from grinning, half in genuine excitement, half in pure relief. The man across the table from him, the one Bobby had handed the bowl to, is busy scooping food in the bowl and sliding it back across the table to Buck, who asks, "Is it always like this?"

"Always," says the woman sitting diagonally from him. Her voice sounds warm and fond, and Buck gets the impression that she's absolutely telling the truth.

The man across from him adds, a little more cynically, "When Bobby's in the Captain's chair, anyway."

Buck looks down at the bowl of food in front of him. It's totally normal food. It's a totally normal situation. Everyone else is being totally normal about it.

It's just—

He can't remember the last time he ate a table with other people.

He can't remember the last family-style dinner he ate that stayed down.

The whole point of family dinners is that they don't have to stay down.

But.

He cannot fuck this up.

He can't.

If everyone else can be normal about it, so can he. It's a normal thing. There's no reason to be freaked out by it, and if he acts freaked out by it they're going to notice that he's freaked out and they know there's no reason to be freaked out by it so he just has to act normal.

So, new type of family dinner. No fucking problem.

He picks up the fork that was handed to him. Schools his expression. Smiles appreciatively.

"I think I might be in the right place."

Chapter Text

During Buck's first shift at the 118, he only goes out twice.

He's not really upset about it; he heard sometimes, a station won't let you go out at all, not until you've 'proven yourself', or whatever.

Captain Nash—Bobby—doesn't seem to be like that.

Buck doesn't have much to do on his first call. It's medical, and not terribly involved: an older diabetic woman hit dangerously low sugar, started acting in disturbing ways, and her daughter called 9-1-1.

Hen and Chimney, the paramedics, are quick and blazingly competent. Hen explains to the woman why they're there and calms her down in the exact amount of time it takes Chimney to get and setup everything they'll need (glucose monitor, orange juice, Oreos, insulin).

They administer everything, Bobby reminding Buck to watch (even though he was already watching) and stick around for half an hour for monitoring. Hen makes sure the daughter has a monitor there, too, and insulin, and that the monitor is charged and the insulin isn't expired. Then they pack up and leave.

—

His second call's a fender bender, only minor injuries to the people, though the cars look pretty bad—a rear-ending on an exit ramp; the front car's back bumper is hanging on by a thread, and the back car's face is crumpled.

Buck gets to check on the two kids in the back of the car with the crumpled face while Hen and Chimney tend to their more visibly injured mother. He essentially just screens them for concussions and asks if anything hurts, and it takes all of five minutes. He ends up doing more emotional first aid than physical.

She's in super good hands, he tells the older of the pair, a girl who's maybe ten or eleven. He gestures to Hen and Chimney. Those are the best paramedics I know.

He doesn't add that they're the only paramedics he knows, because that seems counter-productive. He does catch Chimney flashing a short grin in their direction, bright blue piece of gum clamped between his teeth. Buck can't tell if it's at him or the kids.

—

The rest of his first day, he's man behind. He gets left with a three-ring binder, packed with pages covered in highlighter and stuffed into page protectors, going over maintenance schedules and stock lists, trying to memorize the map of the station, the map of their station's boundaries in the city, the list of names of everyone else who works here.

—

He has twenty-four off after that, and he's not really sure what to do with himself. He goes for a run after work. He showers, then sleeps. He wakes up and eats and has a whole conversation with Connor where neither of them mentions groceries even once. He still has eleven hours left before work.

—

His second day sees him going out on every other call, and the calls where he doesn't come with see him back at the station with the chore list, trying to figure out where everything lives in various supply closets and filing cabinets and lock boxes. There are a lot of supply closets and filing cabinets and lock boxes.

—

On his third day, he realizes that the night of his graduation from the Academy evidently opened the dam again. Because he went for five whole months barely doing this. He was practically normal—that is, he was pushing his body so much that he didn't feel the itch.

But now he has empty, open stretches of twenty-four hours between shifts. He's gotten through two of them already. The schedule is designed that way so he can recuperate for the next twenty-four hours of work, and he knows that, so he's been carefully, for the past four days, so carefully, writing down everything he's going to eat in his notes app so that he doesn't forget and break and ruin the next shift for himself. He can wait til his ninety-six. He did it throughout most of high school; he doesn't know why it feels so much more difficult now. He can wait for his ninety-six.

He looks over his notes app, phone cradled in his lap with the brightness down, a list of acceptable food neatly divided into reasonably-sized meals and snacks.

Past Him wrote Present Him a very clear, detailed list of directions. He just has to follow them.

Color inside the lines, idiot, he thinks. It's not that fucking hard.

It's been like this all shift.

There's something that shifts in his brain, sometimes. Something that flips, off to on, and suddenly a buzzing, electric current lights up all of his neurons. At some point, he doesn't know exactly when—years and years ago, probably, at this point—Buck started referring to it as the "Fuck It" Switch.

Flipping the Fuck It Switch gets rid of any back-and-forth, any arbitration, any hint of dissonance in his thoughts at all. Flipping the Switch turns all of his what if I can't find the time—I'm supposed to wait for my ninety-six—there's nowhere to do it anyway I'd have to find a place to do it—I'm going to wait for my ninety-six—I don't actually know how much I have stocked at the bottom of my locker maybe probably definitely not enough—I can wait for my ninety-six—

—into, Fuck it.

Everything in his mind hums in simple, relaxed harmony.

Fuck it, he thinks, I'll just do it.

There's only about five hours left of the shift, a little over three until hand-off starts, but it doesn't really matter. If he hadn't flipped the Switch, he would've been borderline useless for those last three hours, anyway. Even now, his eyes slide, unfocused, over the swathes of dark city street visible from the engine window.

Now he can finally think.

The engine gets backed into the bay, and Buck's boots hit the ground before it's fully stopped—something that, on his first call, Bobby said he was not to do again under any circumstances, but hasn't mentioned since.

He's halfway to his locker—mentally flipping through a Rolodex of everywhere he has food stashed, calculating if, when added together, it can make a satisfying haul—when Bobby's voice finally makes it to his ears, muffled and far-away sounding, like Buck's head is underwater.

"Buckley," Bobby calls from across the bay, almost shouting, though he sounds more surprised than angry.

Buck freezes, pivots on his heels. Bobby's standing by the front passenger side of the engine, his hands splayed, his eyes a little wide, like this isn't the first, second, or even third time he's called Buck's name.

"Yeah, Cap?"

"Tires?" Bobby asks, though Buck has no idea how just tires could be a question.

"Tires…" Buck repeats, slowly, hoping maybe it'll click if he says it himself.

Bobby gestures to the engine's tires which, when Buck actually looks, are incredibly muddy. "Wash them, please? Like you agreed to less than three minutes ago?"

Buck stops himself from saying, I did? but just barely, and he can't stop the perplexed expression from taking over his face.

Bobby shakes his head and says, "Focus up, Buck." He sounds exasperated. He claps his hands lightly when he says it, like he's standing at the edge of the dugout and Buck's playing a very middling game of tee-ball. "Shift's not over yet."

So Buck washes the wheels, looking at his hands perform the actions like watching a pre-recorded video, mind spinning away elsewhere, gears smoothly clicking into each other, everything with perfect concentricity. If he does this fast enough, well enough, Hen and Chimney will still be restocking the ambulance, and Bobby will still be doing the call logs. Nobody else really watches him that closely. He'll be able to slip away and back again; he's good at that.

In the interim time between when he's full and when he's empty, there will be another flash of dissonance. Buck knows it like the back of his hand. There will be a second, more than a second, even, where his thoughts turn disorganized and chaotic and cruel, berating him for being weak-willed and abnormal and unable to wait even a few hours. But right now it isn't real. Right now, the switch is flipped, and he is pared-down and focused and more than that, genuinely excited.

He finishes the wheels. He assesses the apparatus bay, glances upward at the loft. Takes a few paces backwards before pivoting, keeping his eyes on his surroundings until the very last second while he makes his way to his locker.

Flipping the Switch answers any question he might have, or renders it redundant. So what if someone notices? He'll say he's sick, they'll send him home. He was about to have four days off anyway. What if he doesn't have enough at the bottom of his locker? There's a vending machine, and a kitchen. He spent years scrounging and shoplifting; he'll make it work. He'll make it work because he has to, because the only thing more shameful than doing this at work when he promised himself he wouldn't ever do this at work is doing it in the first week, and the only thing more shameful than that is having it not even be a good one.

There's a sweatshirt neatly folded up at the bottom of his locker. September in LA doesn't warrant it at all—a cold day is in the mid-sixties—but he doesn't have it to wear. Under the sweatshirt, there's an old gym bag. It's not his actual gym bag—his actual gym bag is newer and less shitty, for one, and he hasn't brought it into the station yet. It feels presumptuous. He needs to make sure he's not going to fuck this up first.

(Later, he'll demand of himself, What the fuck was that, if not fucking it up? But that isn't real yet.)

In the gym bag, there's a menagerie of food. Buck doesn't even know why or when or how they appear. He doesn't really do it consciously. Everywhere he goes, everywhere that feels even a little bit like a home—under his bed in his childhood bedroom, the top section of his locker in high school, the glove box of the Jeep, the top drawer of his dresser in the house he shares now, the decoy gym bag at the station—hoards start building, like he's some kind of wild animal preparing for hibernation. Thoughtless, automatic, practiced. Just in case of scarcity.

He slides aside the sweatshirt, swings the gym bag over his shoulder. There's a single accessible bathroom, somewhere, though he hasn't fully gotten the layout of the station down yet. The bunk room's probably mostly empty; most people use the last couple hours of their shift to get the stuff done that they put off earlier by sleeping. That's probably faster. He knows where it is, anyway. If it's not empty, he can be quiet.

He's just gotten into the bunk room, scanning his eyes over rows of empty pallets, and sat down, shifting the gym bag to his lap, when the bell rings. The sound of it blares, falls over him like a rush of cold water. The Switch flips off, and he thinks, what the fuck am I doing?

His ninety-six passes, and then the shifts after it, sliding together into weeks, and then months. The nine-day cycle repeats and repeats until it's routine, and suddenly it's December.

The station's decorated for Christmas—understated, old-fashioned types of things, fake pine garlands and red velvet ribbons. There's a plastic table set up at the edge of the bay boasting green-foil wrapped pots of poinsettias; the Toy Drive's in a couple days, and all the proceeds from the flower sales go to it.

Buck's reminded starkly, unpleasantly, walking into work on Christmas Eve, that he hasn't heard from his sister in years.

It's fine.

Well, it's not fine. It's a gaping crater in the center of his rib cage, letting a sloppy mess of organs sometimes slip out like a chronic hernia, and the crater festers and aches and sometimes makes it hard to stand up straight or sound normal when he talks. But it'll have to be fine, so it's fine.

He's keeping it locked down.

Family Dinner stays inside him, officially. Not that he ever managed to puke it (at least not in the station) but now there's an official edict, issued from himself and to himself, that under no circumstances does it ever exit his body before its time.

There's a sense at the 118 that eating Bobby's cooking together is something almost sacred. That it wasn't something that always existed here, so now that it does, everyone has to savor it.

Buck isn't used to savoring.

He eats too fast—even when he's not stuffing himself, this has always been true, because he does most things too fast. He eats too fast and then he's the first one to finish and then he just sits there at the table, feeling the absurd urge to sit on his hands, because if he eats more than one plate of food he's going to lose it, and if he loses it he'll have to get rid of it, and he gets rid of it he'll break the cardinal rule that Family Dinner stays in him now, actually, and that's final.

(That only lasts for a couple of weeks before Hen catches him at it. She's been watching him for a while, he assumes, when he breaks his long-held, almost lascivious eye-contact with the serving bowls on the table to look up and find her staring at him.)

("If you're still hungry, you can just eat more," she says, like it's totally obvious and simple and not at all potentially-catastrophic.)

("I know," Buck says, way too fast. She pushes the bowl of pasta closer to him, not like it's any big thing, just like she's nudging a bowl of pasta. Buck says again, staring at the pasta, "I know.")

So now he eats two servings when they all eat together, no more, no less, and he paces himself against everyone else so he doesn't finish first. He's never at risk of finishing last, but somehow that feels dangerous, too. He counts to three between each bite he takes. He counts how many times he chews. He looks intently at Chimney's jaw while the latter eats, because sure, Chimney chews fast, but like, normal fast. Buck tries to match his pace.

He's keeping it locked down.

He just fits himself into a new build-up-build-up-build-up-break-down schedule. He's good at those. He favors fucking over puking on his twenty-fours off, because the first one's easier to quickly recover from. He waits patiently, cyclically, for his ninety-sixes. He spends the first two days after he gets home in his bedroom and bathroom, then washes himself off, emerges scrubbed-clean and empty, to spend the rest of his days off doing absolutely nothing.

He won't puke anything in the station. If his brain starts to buzz with it, which it does every few days, he utilizes a new ritual, invented specifically for this purpose: He gets one thing from the vending machine, the one in the hallway right next to the bathrooms and the showers. The thing he gets should be about palm-sized, ideally. He checks that the bathroom is empty. He latches himself into a stall. He unwraps whatever he got. He shoves it into his mouth as quickly and violently as he can, teeth gnashing, all family dinner pretense forgotten, a micro-dose of animal aggression.

He does not swallow it. He leans over the toilet, lets it just fall from his mouth. Carefully spits out anything left. Flushes it all away. Tucks the empty wrapper first into his pocket, then into the gym bag at the bottom of his locker.

He's keeping it locked the fuck down.

"Okay," Bobby's voice crackles through the headphones on Buck's ears as soon as he puts them on. "Med call, no heavy rescue. Patient is a twenty-one year old woman, possible cardiac event. No known health conditions that would cause it—"

The channel shorts out as both Hen and Chim try to talk at the same time.

"Twenty-one?" Chim demands. "What even causes that?"

Hen cuts in, "She have a history of substance use, or—?"

"Not that dispatch knows," Bobby says. "She wasn't fully lucid on the call, but she answered a few questions. They're still on the line with her, trying to keep her talking. She's not going to get up to answer the door. Her name's Alicia Brionez."

They pull up to the apartment complex, and Buck takes the stairs three at a time, giving Hen and Chim time to grab whatever they think they'll need. They're looking for apartment 3L. He finds it pretty quickly. It's got a piece of white duct tape on the door with the number written in Sharpie, and a doormat that looks like a lily pad.

He bangs on the door three times with a closed fist. "LAFD!" Tries the doorknob, because he just got told off about remembering to do that last shift; it's locked, so he shouts, "Back away from the door, I'm coming in!"

The door gives pretty easily. The rest of the team's caught up to him at this point, and he pushes through the splintered-open door to hold it for Hen and Chimney.

"Gurney," Hen tosses over her shoulder to him. "Probably gonna need it."

—

By the time he gets back with the gurney, they've found Alicia Brionez (curled up on the floor in her bedroom) and Hen's finishing vitals (they're not looking great—fever and hypotension; something, somewhere, is infected) and Chim's pulled the neckline of her t-shirt down, carefully inspecting a nasty-looking swell of angry red skin on her center chest, feeling out the edges of it with deft, nitrile-gloved hands.

Probably not a cardiac event, Buck thinks, because even though he might have just gotten EMT certified, he knows that heart attacks don't usually look like that.

Chim must press down too hard on something on her chest, because Alicia groans.

"That hurts?" Chimney asks her.

"Everything fucking hurts," she snaps miserably, looking up from Chim's hand on her to his face. "Sorry," she says. "Sorry. It just—yes, it hurts. It hurts."

Her eyes look weirdly… dark and cloudy, though Buck isn't close enough to really see. Her face is flushed. She's sweating. Buck keeps one hand on the gurney and scrapes his thumbnail against his middle finger, scrutinizes her as discreetly as he can.

Drugs, maybe. She could've lied to dispatch. It's not uncommon; people are convinced the paramedics will call the cops en route to the hospital. Buck's never seen anyone do that unless the person they're treating literally just finished committing a violent crime, or if there's an active BOLO. When people just have addiction problems, he wishes they'd just speak up, for their own sakes.

Buck watches Alicia's eyes roll back in her head, watches the weak hold she had on keeping herself half-sitting up collapse, watches her slump backward, hears the clip-on oximeter start beeping in alarm. Hen and Chim spring into motion.

"Buck," Hen calls back to him. "We gotta move her now."

Buck's only been standing there with the gurney for about forty seconds, but that's long enough for things to shift in the direction of the undeniably dire.

He helps Hen get Alicia onto the gurney, trying to keep himself out of Chimney's way so he can climb up and start giving compressions. Bobby's calling the hospital from somewhere behind him, and all Buck catches is Twenty-one year old female—suspected severe infection, possibly septic—we don't know where—

They're in the parking lot when it starts: one second, Chim's pressing methodically down on her sternum, eyes flicking back and forth between his hands and the heart rate number on the oximeter, and the next, Alicia's slack mouth starts bubbling with dark, dark blood.

Buck gets a very specific, unsettled feeling, sort of like déjà vu, but not entirely.

Chim makes a surprised, aggrieved sound at the sight of the blood. Hen and Buck get ready to lift the gurney into the ambulance. Chim's arms stutter for only half a moment before he keeps up the compressions. More blood leaks from Alicia's lips.

Buck's seen something like this before. He swears he has.

All three of them are in the back of the ambulance when the doors shut and Buck hits them twice. Chimney's still on top of Alicia on the gurney. Alicia's still lifeless, still bleeding. Hen's hooking up the ambulance's monitors to Alicia's supine form. Buck's still thinking, I've seen this before, when Alicia's pulse comes back.

"Septic shock, from some kind of internal hemorrhage, I think, maybe an ulcer," Hen radios to Bobby so he can tell the hospital, at the same that Buck says, "It's her esophagus," which makes Hen whip to look at him.

Alicia's pulse comes back strong, and her eyes flutter open, her face screwing up as she tastes all the blood. "What's—" She cuts herself off with a gag. Hen's still staring at Buck, but she's already grabbed the vomit bag, reaching out to direct Alicia by the jaw, who starts retching about half a second later.

"Esophagus?" Hen asks. "Not impossible, but that's usually from some kind of intense trauma from the outside—I've only ever seen it in people we've pulled out of crumpled cars. Her outside looks mostly fine."

"It's her esophagus," Buck repeats. "I'm like, ninety-nine percent sure. Look at her eyes, when you can."

"Subconjunctival hemorrhage," Hen says. "Already saw it."

Buck nods. Hen and Chim are both paramedics; he knows it's rare, but he doesn't know why they can't get it—granted, the only reason he gets it because of Connor and his stupid LifeTime movie.

"She had a hell of a puke," Buck says, "last night or even yesterday, if she's this bad right now—and it tore her esophagus, and now it's infected—"

"—She didn't tell dispatch she was sick," Hen says, "though she could've been too—"

"—Not sick," Buck interrupts. "She's—well, it doesn't matter why. I don't know. Tell Bobby we think it's an esophageal rupture." When she just stares at him like she's never seen him before, he adds, "Please."

Hen clicks her radio, her eyes still boring into Buck's. "Cap, suspected esophageal rupture."

"Got it, I'll let 'em know."

Alicia fades in and out through the rest of the drive to the hospital, all eight minutes of it, but her pulse stays strong, and she keeps breathing.

They pull into the ambulance bay, and as they unload the gurney, Alicia looks right at Hen's face, dark brown eyes clouded with blood. In a rasping, congested voice, she asks, "Am I gonna die?"

"No, baby," Hen says immediately, because that's what you say when someone who might be dying asks you if they're going to die—it's not like they'll know if you're wrong. Hen continues, "You're gonna be just fine."

Buck keeps his own thoughts to himself, because Alicia didn't ask him. He doesn't tell her that it depends, that it all comes down to whether she's already septicemic. Whether her body's too fucked at this point to fight it off, even with antibiotics. He looks away from her face before she can make eye contact with him, lets her look at Chim instead. He works on getting the gurney to the ground, stares at her hand strapped to her side while he pushes it, at her first two knuckles, pink and ground-down like raw meat.

Matchy matchy, he thinks, handing her off at the glass doors.

One week later, Buck's bothering Bobby in the kitchen as the latter attempts to marinate chicken.

Attempts being an accurate description not because Bobby is unfamiliar with marinating chicken—it's obviously the opposite, actually: his hands move with the same quick competency as they do when he checks over the engines, and he barely glances at the recipe—but because Buck is making it pretty difficult for him to do anything.

"What's that?" Buck asks after bounding up the stairs and into the loft. It's the type of thing Hen would usually make some kind of joke about, where the punchline was usually comparing Buck to a dog, except Hen isn't up in the loft right now, so Buck bounds in, doglike, and no one says anything.

"Tandoori marinade," Bobby says pleasantly, not breaking eye contact with the marinade in question while he answers.

"Isn't that like a kind of jelly?"

That makes Bobby's eyes snap up to Buck's, going softly perturbed as he realizes Buck's probably joking.

"That would be marmalade," he says. "And I'm not much for canning."

"That's a shame." Buck pulls out a stool on the opposite side of the counter from where Bobby's working. He leans in closer over the counter to watch. He's probably a little in the way, but he can't really find it in him to care. "What are we supposed to eat when we all have to hide in here during the zombie apocalypse?"

"Well," Bobby says, "I assume in that case, if I had any forewarning, I'd try and meal-prep."

Buck continues like Bobby didn't say anything: "Actually, now that I think about it, home-canning is responsible for like, ninety percent of reported botulism cases. So we're probably better off just stockpiling Campbell's soup."

"I'll let you be in charge of that, Buck," Bobby says, the words magnanimous, the tone very dry. He puts the chicken into the container of marinade and closes it, moves to wash his hands.

"Jokes on you," Buck responds, "because I would love nothing more."

In the periphery of the conversation, someone clears their throat. Buck twists around, and it's Hen. She's standing at the edge of the loft holding her phone, her eyes trained on Buck. She makes a little waving motion with her hand, like she's calling Buck over.

"I'm being summoned," Buck says, and slides off the stool. "Have fun with your marmalade, looks delicious."

Bobby sighs but doesn't correct him, and Buck makes it to Hen, who keeps waving him closer until they're halfway down the stairs.

"Okay," she says, "I know we're not supposed to do this—do not follow my example, by the way—but I checked up on that girl."

Buck instantly knows which girl she's talking about, but he does his best to keep his face blank—because there are a lot of girls, in actuality; half the people they treat or rescue are women, and it would look weird, wouldn't it, if he immediately thought of this one?

"From last week?" Hen continues. She lowers her voice even more: "Alicia? Twenty-one, cardiac event that turned out to be a hemorrhage?"

"Oh," Buck says, "right, her. You did?"

Hen nods. "She was stable, last I checked. And it was her esophagus, so. Good work, Buck. You did really good. They’re, uh. She got referred to Renfrew. So, I think she's going to be okay."

That's a lot of information.

One, he was right. Connor's good-for-nothing LifeTime movie was, in fact, good for one thing. Even if the movie's depiction of a ruptured esophagus was only the vaguest, barest approximation of the reality of one.

Two, Alicia Brionez is not dead. Which is objectively good. Buck googled the ramifications of a ruptured esophagus—Boerhaave's Syndrome, in this specific case—immediately after that shift, and unless it's caught very early, the prospects aren't great.

Three, Hen knows enough about what specifically became of Alicia to know that she got referred out of Cedars-Sinai, and even to where.

So he settles on saying, "Renfrew?"

Hen nods again. "It's an eating disorder treatment center. I mean—I knew bulimia could do stuff like that, but it just. Didn’t occur to me at the moment. Never seen it so bad in person. It’s good you caught it."

She knocks her knuckles into his shoulder, very lightly, and stays quiet for a few moments, like she's waiting for him to enlighten her and explain how, exactly, he knew.

But all he does is look her as close to in the eyes as he can and say, "Thanks, Hen."

www.google.com

…

SEARCH: "renfrew eating disorders"

Your search returned over 100,000 results

…

LINK: https://renfrewcenter.com > "The Renfrew Center: Expert Eating Disorder Treatment"

…

About Us:

• Who we treat

• What we treat [OPEN]

Anorexia Nervosa, Bulimia Nervosa, OSFED (Formerly known as ED-NOS), Binge Eating Disorder, ARFID, Diabulimia, Orthorexia

• Nutrition and treatment approaches

• Our staff/Careers/Contact us

…

What We Treat > Bulimia Nervosa

Bulimia (clinically known as bulimia nervosa) is the repeated cycle of out-of-control eating followed by some form of compensatory behavior, often referred to as "purging"—i.e., getting rid of the food just consumed in some fashion. The purging associated with bulimia may take many forms: self-induced vomiting, use of laxatives or diuretics, or exercising. People with bulimia often feel out of control in many areas of their lives.

Emotional Characteristics of Bulimia

Classifying binge eating can be subjective. Some individuals may consider a "normal" amount of food a binge. Either way, the binge experience feels out of control to the individual and oftentimes leads to feelings of shame, regret, and guilt. While the behaviors often feel impulsive, at times they may be planned and well thought out as another way of avoiding strong emotions.

Bulimia Warning Signs

• Eating large quantities of food in short periods of time and feeling that you cannot voluntarily stop.

• Feeling out of control when it comes to food, eating, or exercise.

• Feelings of guilt, shame, or regret following episodes of binge eating.

• Negative body image.

• Reacting to negative emotions or stress by eating, purging, or exercising.

Bulimia can have serious medical consequences including dental and esophageal problems, intestinal damage, stomach damage, kidney damage, heart damage, chemical and hormonal imbalance, malnutrition, and an overall loss of energy and vitality. It is an extremely serious eating disorder and can be fatal.

Bulimia FAQ

Click on a question to expand it and see the answer.

• How common is bulimia? [OPEN]

The prevalence rate of bulimia nervosa is 0.1%-1.3% in males (an average of 7 out of 1,000 men) and 0.5%-2% among females (an average of 13 out of 1,000 women). Bulimia occurs worldwide in people of all ages, genders, sexualities, races, and ethnicities regardless of body size or socioeconomic status.

• What forms of treatment are most effective for bulimia?

• What causes bulimia?

• What can I do to support someone struggling?

• What is the long-term outlook for someone with bulimia? [OPEN]

Total, long-term recovery from bulimia is entirely possible, but early intervention and the appropriate level of care can make a significant difference in the recovery prospects of those with bulimia. Due to the complex nature of the disorder, it will not likely resolve on its own or with time. Seeking out the appropriate level of care as soon as possible is recommended for best outcomes.

If you or someone you know is struggling with bulimia, we believe it is of the utmost importance that you reach out for help, whether that be from us at Renfrew or from another treatment authority. Bulimia Nervosa is a critical, life-disrupting illness that can quickly turn catastrophic.

Reach Out to Us

Call 1-800-RENFREW or fill out a contact form to be connected with a specialist who will help you find the best level of care for you or your loved one.

—

Buck closes the tab on his phone. Plugs it back in, puts it face down on the nightstand. Rolls onto his back, reaches up to scrub his hands over his face. Stares, unblinking, at the black expanse of his bedroom ceiling in the dark. Well, he thinks, fuck.

Standing on top of the engine, phone pressed to his ear, telling the tinny, disembodied voice of the dispatcher that she's the real hero here, Buck's heart beats so fast in his chest that it physically hurts.

Four hours ago, he was telling Bobby this is all I have, and he meant it. That's the thing—he meant it, he was fully, truly honest for once, and it didn't even matter, because he'd messed up one too many times, or once too badly, and in less than thirty seconds, everything was over.

Three hours ago, he was grabbing all his shit from his locker, being half-pitied, half-judged by Hen. He wouldn't have wanted anything else from her. He opens the old gym bag right in front of her, because who cares anymore, and maybe because he's feeling a little masochistic, and pulls out a few handfuls of empty food wrappers and receipts, stuffs them into the locker room trash can in a brazen, careless way. She watches him do it and doesn't say anything. She pats his back once, twice. Says she'll miss having him around.

Two hours ago, Buck was in his blissfully-uninhabited house, its six PM emptiness like a balm on scorched skin. He didn't have to bother being careful. He didn't have to bother being quiet. He binged with complete reckless abandon, took to purging like an unrepentant, grotesque piece of self-mutilation performance art, then did it over again. It was a popped blood vessel kind of evening. It was a Doordashing Pedialyte tomorrow kind of evening. What did it matter? He didn't have anywhere to be anymore. He fucked it up. Officially, irrevocably. Impulsive. Explosive. It's what he fucking does.

It was his blood pressure dropping like a stone when he stands in the bathroom, leans over the sink to rinse out his mouth before another round. It was fresh pink crescents in his knuckles, a perfect fit for his incisors, beading up with red. Just like Alicia Brionez. He wonders if she's out of that treatment center yet. If she is, he wonders if she's dead.

One hour ago, he was no closer to stopping, but his phone started ringing, and he didn’t know why he clicked accept, because half of him was convinced that it would be someone from the brass calling him in for a hearing about misuse of city property, but it was Sergeant Athena Grant instead. 

Now, he stands on top of the engine in civ clothes, the hose dripping a puddle into existence around his feet, soaking into the plastic mesh of his sneakers. He's completely open to the wind up here, and it chafes against the scraped-raw ridges of his knuckles. He rinsed his hands. Obviously. He completely forgot to use Neosporin.

He should get down from here, probably. He should get down from here, but—he peers over the side of the engine, and it's not that tall, not really, not compared to plenty of other stuff he has to climb at work (not work) (not anymore) (Sergeant Grant was very clear; this is unofficial, this is not his job back). But he looks over the side of the engine and feels his body sway, a little bit. He has to prop his one foot out behind him so he doesn't fall.

The dispatcher says something in his ear, but he doesn't really, fully hear her, because he's too busy thinking that he should've drank water before he came, even though there wasn't time. He's too busy thinking that his heart is beating too fast, that he needs to sit down.

Devon dies, and Buck watches it happen.

Devon dies, and everybody says it's not his fault. Everybody says the first one is the hardest. That you have to learn not to pack it away, but to shuffle it off, eventually. Somehow.

Devon dies, and Buck watches it happen, and Buck can't stop watching it happen, even after Devon's in a body bag, even after they're back at the station, even when Buck's showered and changed and sitting in the driver's seat of his car, so it's like Devon doesn't die, actually. It's like Devon's dying, and dying, and dying, instead, forever and ever, amen.

He only has 24-off, but it doesn't matter. He drives, only half-dialed in to his own brain, and comes back alive in a grocery store parking lot.

This isn't part of the plan.

Sentience only comes in flashes. He watches himself like a character on a screen, stepping out of the car, locking the doors with the fob, clipping the keys to a belt loop. This version of himself walks without him telling it to, stops to twist its head both ways before crossing the small road between the parking lot and the sidewalk.

This version of him walks through the aisles of the grocery store with quick, light steps, like it knows exactly where it's going. Buck doesn't know where they're going, but it's not like he could tell himself to stop, so it doesn't really matter, in the end.

The version of himself currently calling the shots takes its spoils to self check-out. It uses Buck's credit card. It walks back across the road, the parking lot, unlocks the car, gets inside.

The house isn't safe, right now, not for this. They can agree on that, at least. There is no world where any iteration of him lets this get witnessed or interrupted.

So this version of him turns the key in the ignition, drives less than one hundred yards to the other, darker, emptier side of the parking lot. In the back, near the dumpsters, where the shopping carts that customers lose hold of roll to a stop at the curb. This version of him parks the car, but doesn't turn it off. It kills the headlights. It double-checks that all the doors are locked. Buck watches his own hand move as they reach in tandem for one of the bags.

—

"I want to be completely clear," Bobby says, and shuts the door behind them both, "that this is not a reprimand."

Buck sits in front of the desk in the Captain's office. He feels fourteen years old again, being told by the vice principal that if he's late just two more times this quarter, they're going to have to call in the county truancy officer.

But Buck isn't late. Well, sometimes he's late—but not without reason. Not chronically, not egregiously, not like in school. He wouldn't do that here.

He even managed to be on time today—sure, it's better to show up closer to 6:30, but he got here at 7:15, and his shift doesn't start until 8:00. Devon died less than forty-eight hours ago, and Buck feels like maybe he died at some point in the interim, but he was still on time this morning.

His brain feels soupy and useless, sliding around in his skull. Driving here this morning was a task, to say the least. Yesterday was one of those spin-cycle, endless repetition-type days. Needless to say, it wasn't over after the grocery store. Not even close.

He says, without meaning to, the space between his brain and his mouth a short, hard free fall: "It feels like a reprimand."

Bobby opens his mouth as if to speak, but snaps it shut a second later. He crosses the room and takes his own seat behind the desk. He interlocks the fingers of both his hands, braces his elbows on the desktop. "It's not," he says. "At least, not yet—I just wanted to check on you."

At least, not yet.

Not super promising.

Buck says, "Okay…"

Bobby gives a sharp intake of breath; it sounds like only half of a word, one of those Midwestern-type interjections, like "welp" or "ope". "I'm not gonna mince words," he starts eventually. "If you have a substance problem, for the sake of safety and our duty to this city, I need to know."

Buck's brain short-circuits.

There are a million things he was expecting, and this is literally none of them. Like, maybe showing up at 7:15 actually is a problem. Maybe Buck's getting blamed for Hen following up on Alicia Brionez. And not that Buck's done anything stupid like it again, not since the last time it blew up on his face, but maybe the higher-ups decided that no, actually, he should be permanently fired for the ladder truck incident.

"Substance problem…" Buck says. It's so unexpected that he's having a hard time comprehending it. He wants to take his brain out of his head and squish it back into its proper shape like air-dry clay.

Bobby sighs. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You come in off your ninety-sixes sleep-deprived, maybe a little hungover—that's none of my business. You're young. It's fine. But you come in today, right after you—right after the roller coaster, on Thursday, after just twenty-four off, and there's obviously something wrong."

"…There is?"

"Hen asked me if I should even let you work today while you were walking in," Bobby says.

The gravity of that isn't lost on Buck. Before he'd put his stuff in his locker, before he'd said a word to anyone, before he'd even gotten within thirty feet of Hen, she'd noticed something. But Hen does that—she notices things. Sometimes it feels like the bane of Buck's existence.

"So I need to know," Bobby says. "As of right now, you haven't done anything wrong. There are resources, there are avenues to take, but you need to be—"

"—I don't do drugs," Buck cuts in, his mind suddenly catching up with the conversation. "I don't. Never really have—except for, like, one time, like five years ago—that doesn't matter. You don't need to know that. I don't even drink that much. I don't think I've gotten really drunk since I started working here. I've never even smoked a cigarette."

"Kid," Bobby says, when Buck finally stops rambling. He says it patiently, a little sadly. "You look strung out. I mean that. I don't know if you know, but it… it's not good."

Buck feels himself cringe inward.

Sure, he could've guessed. He never looks good after episodes like yesterday. But he tends to avoid fully taking stock of himself in the mirror. He always assesses his features separately, skirts around assembling them altogether in his mind's eye. He knows the resulting picture probably won't sit well.

"I mean," he says, and he sounds kind of pathetic. He knows he sounds kind of pathetic, he can hear it in his own voice. "Last shift sucked. And I'm not doing great. Obviously. But, I mean—look, you can even send me for a test, if you want. I'm not going to jeopardize this job again. I wouldn't do that."

It feels like a lie even as he says it.

He wouldn't jeopardize this job again on purpose. But on some level, he knows he's doing it anyway. He knows he shouldn't be here today. His brain isn't working right. His body feels like it could quit on him at literally any second. He won't let it; he refuses to let it. But he's not in the state he should be in.

Bobby's just looking at him. Looking at him and looking at him and looking at him.

"I'm not gonna call for a test," he says eventually. "I believe you. As far as that goes. What I will say, is whatever's going on—" he pauses to open a drawer in the desk. Buck hears him sort through some papers. "—I meant what I said. You need to talk to somebody." He produces a white business card, hands it across the desk to Buck. "It's fully covered by the Department, and fully confidential, apart from mandatory reporting."

Buck takes the card. The last fucking thing he wants to do is see a therapist. He has a feeling they'd never let him back out of the room.

"Okay," he says. He puts the card in his pocket. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby kept asking Buck if he'd gone to see the department counselor, and Buck kept saying no, not yet, and Bobby kept half-gesturing to Buck's slouched, fucked-over appearance, as if to say, Well, do you want to fix this or not?

And Buck wishes he could tell Bobby that one measly therapist isn't going to fix whatever the Hell he's got going on, but he can't say that, because it's the type of thing that you can't take back once you've said it, and Bobby would ask what he means by that, exactly, and Buck would have to explain, and it would all—

—So he finds himself in the office of Dr. Wells, Psy.D.

He sits on the couch in her office, playing with a rip in the knee of his jeans, rubbing a soft, over-frayed piece of thread between his thumb and forefinger. The rip was there when he bought the pants.

He's telling her about Devon, because that's why he's here, really. He wouldn't have lost control like that if not for poor, dead Devon. He has to keep believing that.

He's telling her about Devon, and she's leaning closer to him in her chair in a way he's only seen from college girls while he's tending bar. Her hand's resting on top of his, the pad of her forefinger moving very slightly back and forth over one of his knuckles. Not the busted ones. It's the wrong hand. He's trying to tell her about Devon but there's something so familiar about her, that he can't really focus, which is fucked up because Devon died and he's supposed to be thinking about him, and—

"You friended me on Facebook, didn't you?"

Dr. Wells startles. Leans back in her chair, takes her hand off of his. "Um," she says, and clears her throat. Straightens out her blouse. "I did, yes. But that was before you were my patient."

"I mean," Buck says, "every LAFD member could become your patient, right?"

She seems a little taken aback by this, like she'd never really thought about it that way before. "I—I suppose so, yes."

Buck doesn't really have a problem with her friend request—he'd accepted it, even. Though he hadn't known who she was at the time. He just knew she was attractive and looked like a real person instead of a bot account.

"I'm not mad," he says reflexively, looking at her slightly chastened expression. He feels himself starting to smile, a little. "Did you—was it because you saw me on the news?"

—

He doesn't know he's going to say it before he says it. That happens a lot, it seems. He's leaning forward away from the couch, trying to slough off his jacket without breaking the kiss, as she sightlessly pops his fly with her thumb.

He knows that they're leading up to having sex in this office right now, and it's weird, because he wants to have sex with her—he has two things that really, truly work at getting his brain to shut the fuck up, and one of them is being presented to him on a silver platter right now, so of course he wants to have sex with her—but at the same time there's a foreign, almost nauseous-tasting sensation building behind his sternum, a base-level anxiety that feels like sinking into quicksand.

He doesn't know he's going to say it before he says it. Really, he doesn't, because it changes the tone of the interaction entirely. He kills any eroticism present in the room, any illicit excitement, in one half-mumbled sentence.

Dr. Wells tugs at the bottom of his shirt; they break apart for a moment for him to pull it up over his head. She's back on him in a second, with a slight scrape of teeth against the hinge of his jaw, the top his jugular.

Buck lets his head fall back against the back of the couch, says, quiet, ignorable if they weren't already pressed together into the same exact physical space, "Also, I think I might have an eating disorder."

Chapter Text

In some kind of weird, fucked-up way, Buck feels glad that Dr. Wells got promptly and quietly terminated by the city of Los Angeles. But he's glad for all the wrong reasons. He should be happy that it was decided that she was at fault instead of him, even if he still feels a little twisted up inside about it. He should be happy that she won't be able to twist her authority over people who would be more damaged by it than Buck was (or maybe is). He should be happy that the Department he works for is no longer paying someone with a doctorate to try and fuck patients on the clock.

But he really doesn't care about any of that.

He's just relieved she didn't have time to diagnose him.

That shit stays on your record—you can never erase it, just change it to in remission. He knows; he googled it.

And he's not. In remission, that is. Not even close.

He doesn't know why he fucking said anything in the first place. He does things without thinking all the time, and only sometimes can he look back on them and explain his own motivations.

Something in his id wanted to tell her, for some reason. Or maybe not her, specifically. Maybe something in his brain just wanted to say it to somebody. Anybody. Someone he'll never have to see again if he doesn't want to. Just to name the thing, to not have to be so totally alone in the specific, concrete knowledge of it.

You have to get a psych screening, to join the LAFD.

They asked him a bunch of shit—drug and alcohol-related mostly, stuff about suicide, a questionnaire he's pretty sure was supposed to screen for some kind of sociopathy.

They didn't ask about food at all, so he didn't even have to lie.

(The technicalities are the important part: In the last six months, have you ever hurt yourself on purpose? Not really. Not in the last six months. Fill out the "no" bubble. In the last six months, have you ever thought that you would be better off dead, or wished you could go to sleep and never wake up? Well, no. Not in those specific terms. Fill out the "no" bubble. Etcetera.)

He can't help but think that, even though they didn't screen for anything eating-related, it would still be a disqualifying factor if someone found out.

That's another thing.

He's still having a little bit of trouble saying it. Even in his own head.

He can get halfway through: he can say eating fill-in-the-blank. Eating problem. Eating issues. Eating-related whatever.

He can say disorder. Because clearly, there's some kind of disorder—something out of order. Something not right. That's what the word means, isn't it?

He's only managed to say them together the one time.

To Dr. Wells.

She froze when he said it. Immediately. Sat back on his lap, hands braced on his shoulders, and when he didn't look at her, just kept staring past her shoulder at where the far wall met the ceiling, she said, "I'm sorry?"

Which felt like a bit of a judgmental reaction from a therapist. But she'd already proven herself unconventional.

"Sorry," Buck had said, though he still doesn't really know why he apologized. Maybe for killing the mood?

"Um," Dr. Wells sputtered, "I'm—" She never finished her sentence, too busy maneuvering herself off of Buck's lap, frantically buttoning up her own blouse. She moved back to the ottoman, then, when she was done fixing her clothes, seemed to gauge the distance between them and deem it insufficient, because then she moved even farther away to the chair at her desk.

"I'm sorry," she said again, but that time it didn't sound like a question. It sounded like something close to an actual apology. "That—we shouldn't have done that." She closed her eyes for a second, rubbed her palms over her face, muttered something to herself. "It was deeply unprofessional," she said after a second, louder, clearer. "I'm sorry."

Buck just shrugged, a half-aborted motion that he didn't make it all the way through. He likes to fix things. He wasn't entirely sure how to go about trying to fix this, though. "It was kinda better than just talking," he said. "So."

Dr. Wells shook her head. "No, I—Okay. Alright." She leveled her gaze at Buck again, looking him in the eye for the first time she was sitting in his lap. "Talking is the whole point," she said. "Talk to me."

A few thoughts, tangentially related, sparked to life inside Buck's head simultaneously in that moment.

One: I can't let her tell anyone else about this.

Two: I can file a report, or whatever, and then she'll get suspended, and it won't matter if she tells anyone about this. I don't even have to be all that specific.

Three: I already told her.

Four: I already said it, so what the hell, right?

So, he talked.

He talked, and talked, and didn't shut up once for the remainder of his ninety-minute block, because somewhere in the back of his brain he knew he'd probably never get to talk about it to anyone ever again, not if he wants to keep his job, or even the respect of anyone he works with, which he only just managed to start getting.
—

And after, he goes home, and files a report, and feels like an asshole the entire time he's doing it, even though he doesn't write anything in it that isn't true, because he knows that he wouldn't even be doing this, wouldn't have even looked up how to do it, if he wasn't trying to cover his own ass because he'd opened his stupid mouth without thinking.

He'd just wanted to tell somebody about it. He doesn't want anybody to ever know, but he wants to tell somebody. Ever since he looked at the website—that list of information that put a concrete name to it, where criterion after criterion fit just a little too well—the knowledge of it, the truth of it, has felt like it's trying to claw its way out of his chest, bloody and sharp-taloned. Almost every night, whether he's at home or in the bunk room at the station, in the quiet, dark moments while he tries to fall asleep, he gets the urge to fucking scream.

The shifts cycle in patterns of nine days, and then nine more days, and work is good. Work is the only good thing, actually, which is okay, because it's also pretty much the only thing, full-stop.

Buck's always loved throwing himself into things completely, whether that thing is a person, or an injury—or, evidently, a disorder.

So really, historically speaking, as far as this whole job thing goes, he's doing pretty damn good for himself.

He's been talking to that dispatcher. Abby.

There's a couple of ground rules, stuff that Buck's said out-loud over the phone to her in a half-casual, mostly-confident sort of way, but that's laid out much more concretely inside his own head.

1. They will not meet in person.

Buck tends to fuck up actual relationships—romantic or otherwise. Case in point: he doesn't talk to a single friend he's ever made, apart from the one that has to live with him.

2. They will not have sex.

This one's pretty dependent on rule number one—if they never meet in person, they can't have sex (not actual, literal sex, anyway; Buck's a deeply subliminal person, a lot of the time. Maybe taking any kind of body language out of the equation will fix that.)

So he talks to her about stuff that doesn't really matter, because he's afraid to talk about anything that does, because there's this invisible line in front of him on the ground, and he can't see it but he can feel it, so he knows it's there, and he'd just stepped over it for the first time without meaning to in Dr. Wells' office, and doesn't know how many more times he can do that before he can't step backward again.

Or: If he starts talking, he'll never stop.

It's there, though. Right behind his teeth. All the time. It's a little bit too big to keep comfortably closed in his mouth. Part of it's sharp. It sticks into the backs of his gums.

One of these days he's gonna mess up.

—

He's helping Chim and Hen stock the ambulance, except that he's not being helpful. They've been doing it for years before he got here, and they'll keep doing it whether he's here or not. He's just kind of loitering around the ambulance, actually, trying to talk sparsely enough that they don't realize he's not actually doing anything.

The other option was cleaning the bathroom, so.

It's a text.

Abby sent, Good to call?

They do that now, send a little check-in before calling, then wait for a response. Buck has an almost irresistible, borderline-Pavlovian drive to answer her calls, which—surprise, surprise—gets him told off when he does it out on the job. And if he puts his phone on Do Not Disturb, he completely forgets to take it back off again, so he misses everything from her anyway.

He sends back, Yup :)

His phone starts buzzing a couple seconds later.

He slips out from between the ambulances as he answers, takes the long way around the bay to avoid walking across a large area of open floor visibly on his phone, and hugs the wall in the far corner of the room.

"Dispatch?" he says upon answering, voice playful.

"Firefighter Buckley," she responds, and even though he doesn't know what her smile looks like, he can hear it while she talks.

"What's up?"

"I met the most amazing woman in the world today."

"…Should I be worried?"

She half-laughs, quietly, sounding a little like it's been startled out of her. "Not unless you've secretly been planning on entering social work."

"Oh, I'm good, then." Buck leans back against the concrete wall, because he can sense a story coming. He crosses one ankle over the other. "I could never hack it."

"Apparently most people can't," Abby says. "You'd probably be better at it than most, honestly. Because you'd be surprised how many incompetent, downright careless people work in that field."

"That's… a bummer," Buck notes. "So, I'd make a good social worker by default of just having basic empathy?"

"Just about."

"Jesus."

"He'd be pretty good at it too, probably."

And that makes Buck laugh.

"Better than the most amazing woman in the world?" He asks.

"Okay," Abby says, "I was raised Catholic, so this feels kind of sacrilegious, but I think maybe Carla Price is better."

All three of them head back to the hospital the second they're able to, and Buck sits listlessly in a hard, uncomfortable chair in the too-bright waiting room of Cedars-Sinai Trauma Center as Bobby details that they got the rebar out but Chimney's still in surgery, and that he started hemorrhaging really badly but they stopped it, and that they expect him to live but he'll have to be put in a coma, and that he might wake up but—

—Well, that's really all there is to say.

Hen does crosswords in the chair next to him. They were already half-filled out when she picked them up, a lot of the answers incorrect. Whoever started it used pen, and they wrote in all caps. Hen sighs when she first looks over their work, starts methodically crossing out letters.

It's clearly not the first time one of her coworkers has been horribly injured, but if Buck has to guess, he'll say it's the first time it's been her best friend, or maybe the first time it's been this bad, or maybe the first time the outcome has been so uncertain. Whatever it is, Buck can see that her hands are still shaking.

"Did they say when he'd be out of surgery?" Buck asks, barely louder than the scrape of Hen's pencil against the crossword paper. It feels kind of wrong, to raise his voice too much in this waiting room. Like shouting in a church. Not that Buck's been in very many churches.

Bobby half-shrugs. His eyes are red, a little glassy, but his mouth is a steady, straight line. Buck never saw him cry, just picked up on the aftermath. "Could be as short as another hour," he says, "if everything goes right."

They fall into an uneasy, miserable silence after that. If everything goes right did a lot of the heavy lifting in that sentence.

Buck stares down at his own boots; the left one still has a streak of mud up the side, continuing onto the cuff of his pant leg. He stares at the tiles on the floor, tries to count the green ones. He watches the second hand on the clock click a full rotation, then a second one. Finally, he caves and gets out his phone. Thinks about calling Abby. Doesn't; she's probably asleep.

He thinks about other people he could call. He feels like he spent so long not telling anyone anything real, and now that the dam's cracked—just a little, just a hairline fracture, just the one time—he finds that he wants to spill his guts about everything terrible all the time, just so it stops feeling like he's being crushed under it all the goddamn time.

There's no one else he can call, he realizes, the more he thinks about it. Nobody who's not sitting in this waiting room with him.

God, he just really, really wants to talk to his sister. The thought slams into his body, concrete and perfectly distilled: I just wanna talk to Maddie. I just wanna talk to Maddie. I just wanna talk to Maddie.

He opens Facebook instead.

He doesn't have many people on there—he made a new one, since he hadn't opened his original account since he was nineteen. He has Connor, a few people from the Academy, Hen. He'd friend Abby, too, if he knew her last name.

There's a little bubble notification on the messenger icon, a little bright red circle reading 1, disrupting the color scheme of the page. He clicks on it without thinking.

New Message from: Lauren Wells .

[Accept] [Reject]

Jesus Christ.

He can't see what she said unless he accepts the message, and he feels sick to his stomach, but he wants to know what she said, because maybe she's mad that he got her fired and for some reason, he could really use someone being mad at him right now. Anger would feel better than this shudder-breathed, nail-biting fugue of sadness they've all found themselves in.

He clicks accept.

Firefighter Buckley.
I'm aware that this is also deeply unprofessional; don't worry, you won't be hearing from me again. Seeing as I was officially instructed to resign 3 days ago, I don't have any other avenue to reach you, nor can I issue an official referral.
Here's the information for an eating disorder specialist with whom I'm personally familiar. Last I checked he was in-network for your insurance, assuming you're getting it through work:
Leonid Aronov, MD.
[email protected]
+1 (213) 655 - 5182 (Office hours 9AM-12PM & 1PM-4PM Monday-Friday)
I just didn't feel right not doing it. Alright, wishing you the best.

Buck reads over the message, then reads over it again. His brain's fried. He's exhausted. He's been sitting in this chair for over an hour, but he can't stop feeling like his breathing is just starting to slow down after sprinting.

He stares at the words eating disorder specialist until they start to turn blurry. The letters go fuzzy and indistinct, but he still knows what they say. Eating disorder specialist. He feels fucking nauseous.

He doesn't say anything back. Just closes the conversation and blocks her.

It's just after eight-thirty in the morning, which means Abby's probably about to leave for work, if she hasn't already. It's one of those times that's up in the air.

Buck locks the door to the house behind him, pulls out his phone and shoots her a text: Can I call?

It takes her about ten minutes to see the text, and when she does, she just calls back instead of answering.

Buck, sprawled on his back on his bed, too lazy to hold the phone up to his ear, just punches the speaker button and lays the phone next to his head. "Dispatch," he says obligingly.

"Hi, Buck."

"How…" And suddenly he feels awkward. Because he's never met this woman, never even seen her, and that's part of why he's usually so comfortable around her, but then sometimes her voice just hits him and he registers how mature and competent she sounds and it freaks him out. He coughs, just once. "How are you?"

If Abby noticed his lapse in confidence, she doesn't mention it. "Eh," she says. "Same old. My mother is a withered husk her of her former self. I'm coping. I am waking up every morning and dispatching you to emergencies. I bought an orange wine a few days ago. Carla's a godsend."

"That's good," Buck says. "Minus the withered husk part."

Abby makes a sound of assent. "Oh, my brother came to visit, too. For Mom's birthday."

"Do you not like your brother?"

"What? No, why?"

"You just sound like you don't like him."

Abby sighs. "No, it's—he's fine, he just keeps trying to get me to put our mother in a home."

"And you don't want to do that," Buck guesses.

"Part of me wishes I could, honestly. But I can't. I just couldn't do it; I want her here with me. Until the very end."

"I get that."

And he does. Abby refuses to give up on taking care of her mom, even after her mom can no longer actually comprehend anything her daughter does for her. Buck respects it a lot. He thinks that maybe more people should be like her. That being said, he'd never want to be her.

"Anyway," she says. "How about you?"

"Chimney's still recovering from the whole—you remember. That thing."

"Of course," Abby says. "That thing."

"And Hen's been going kind of crazy while he hasn't been here. I'm not saying he should rush his recovery, but I am saying that another C-shift sub-in might officially make her snap."

"And how are you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, Buck"—and he can hear her smiling again as she says it—"you."

"I don't know. Haven't had any TBIs recently. Which not everyone can say. So. But my brain's kinda fucked right now." He winces as soon as he says it. "Poor choice of words. But you know what I meant. Just kind of doing my best."

"You're always saying stuff like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Abby says. "You're always saying stuff about your brain."

"Well, my brain's always being annoying."

On the other end of the line, Abby hums consideringly. "Can I ask you a question, and you promise you won't just hang up on me?"

"Oh no," Buck says, and he tries to make it sound like he's joking, but he's not. Really, oh no. "Shoot."

"…Do you have a therapist?"

Buck thinks about just giving her a platitude, but then he remembers it's Abby, so what the hell, right? He says, "So, I did go to a therapist, actually. Once. Like a couple weeks ago."

She makes a little noise of surprise. He kind of wishes he knew what she looks like, just so he could picture the face that goes along with that sound.

"Okay, well that's good," she says. "Why does it sound like there's a 'but'?"

"I kind of got her fired."

"How do you 'kind of' get a therapist fired?"

"Remember how I said I'm sort of… a magnet?"

"A sex magnet," Abby says agreeably. "Your inescapable sex magnetism, how could I forget?"

"Well. There you go."

There's the sound of a door closing on the other end of the line. Presumably, Abby's gone into a different room for more privacy. Buck doesn't know what scenario is worse—Abby calling him a self-described sex magnet at home, in front of Carla Price, Illustrious Home Care Aid that Buck Has Never Met, or Patricia, Abby's Mom With Alzheimer's, who Buck has Also Never Met; or her doing it at work.

"Your therapist had sex with you?" She hisses into the phone a moment later.

Buck feels his own face contort into a distasteful expression. "Okay, well, we didn't actually get that far, and anyway, I was going to have sex with her."

"Semantics, Buck," Abby says. "That's very, very illegal. For her—not for you, I don't think."

"Hence the firing," Buck says. "Actually, I think she technically resigned…"

"This is crazy. This is a crazy thing that happened to you."

"I don't really think it's a thing that 'happened to' me, I think it's just a thing that happened."

"Why are you doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Getting all picky with my subjects and predicates. You're showing your hand."

"Now you sound like a therapist."

"I should hope not. I thought the whole point is that you don't want to have sex with me."

"That is not what I said, I said—are you laughing at me?"

"No," Abby says. It's unconvincing. She clears her throat. "No, really, I'm not. I'm laughing at me."

—

He has to type it into his notes app, copy and paste it into iMessage, hit send with his eyes squinted shut.

He feels childish, embarrassed, even though he's sitting alone in the bunk room. He thinks about deleting the text right after he sees the little delivered icon, because it would only disappear from his own screen, and then he wouldn't have to look at it. It would still have sent.

But he doesn't end up deleting it, because once he actually presses the blue send arrow, a good portion of the anxiety dissipates from his chest. He stares at the message, then stares harder, like maybe if he focuses on it hard enough, he'll never have to suffer through getting a response. Watched pots and boiling, and all that.

He stares at Delivered so hard it starts to blur. When his eyes refocus, it's turned to Read 1:38AM.

God, he should've sent this at nine in the morning or something. At least then Connor would be asleep.

There's the typing bubble.

It disappears.

There's the typing bubble again.

Buck feels like he's standing on the edge of a thirty-story building.

The text comes through half a second later.

Connor's sent, All due respect like ik this is a vulnerable moment and like complete props for that

Another text: But like fucking obviously man.

Another: You've been bulimic literally the whole time I've known you

Buck fires off a response before he can think about it: If you knew why didn't you TELL ME?????

Connor types for a second, and then the bubble disappears again. When Buck sees him next, he swears to God, he's going to fight him.

Connor's next text comes in: I'M SORRY I thought you knew!!!!!

Then another: I mean ur the one barfing and shit??

Buck says, Don't say barf.

Connor says, Ok well what would u prefer Evan. Puking? Vomiting? Retching? You've been known to do all 3

Buck just sends, :/

Connor takes it in stride, his next text reading, Lol. Lmao, even.

When Buck just responds to that with another, :/ the typing bubble appears on Connor's end and stays there for a while.

The text pops up over two minutes later: Ok but actually for real I'm proud of you. Is that weird to say?? Whatever idc bc I am. Also v relieved this is like a thing we can actually acknowledge now.

Then another text immediately after: Are you gonna like see someone about it?

Buck doesn't respond to that one.

So, now a real-life person knows, someone who Buck actually talks to multiple times a week (and isn't just a therapist he's going to immediately report for inappropriate conduct).

And the world doesn't immediately end. In fact, a couple of weeks later, the world still hasn't ended. Time just keeps passing.

He hasn't purged since he told Connor, mostly because he feels like Connor's always fucking watching him, and he can't do it at work, so he'd have to do it in his car or a public bathroom or something, and—if he's being fully honest with himself, nothing bad enough has happened recently to make him do that.

Chimney's awake, and not in intensive care anymore. He should be coming home in a few days, and if his scans keep showing that he's healing, he'll probably even be able to come back to work in a few more weeks.

I'm a bona fide medical miracle, he said smugly the last time they'd visited him.

You're something, that's for sure, Hen had said, but she'd looked radiant while saying it.

It kinda feels like she's watching him, too. Hen. He keeps catching her kind of… studying him, almost? He'll be stuck in his head for some reason or another—something that happens to him literally all the time—and in the moment just after he comes back to himself, he'll feel a pair of eyes on him, and he'll look up just in time to find Hen looking away.

It doesn't matter that he told Connor, he tells himself, and it doesn't even matter that he told Dr. Wells. He's never telling anyone he works with. Not even Hen—especially not Hen, actually. He's smarter than that. He likes this job. Loves it, even. Wants to keep it.

(Internally, he knows that instead of lying by omission, he could, theoretically, just not do it at all, as in, not just a circumstantial phase where he just happens to not be doing it, but he could just never do it at all ever again.)

(The problem with that, though, is that it requires him to never want to do it ever again. Or at least to be mentally strong enough to never give in to doing it again.)

(Which he's not. He knows for a fact he's not. Sure, he's running more now, even got more into lifting so he could tire out his body enough without Connor calling fucking NEDA.)

(But it's probably not permanent. Because it's never permanent. And he's not even really the one in charge of when it changes.)

Buck swings around the top of the banister into the loft, almost runs into Hen. He stops short, looks her in the eyes, tells her, "It is a beautiful day, Henrietta, my love."

"Call me 'Henrietta' again," she says dryly, "and you're going over the balcony."

"Okay, then! Bobby: Oh Captain, my handsome captain—"

Bobby glances up from the counter where he's working, also looking deeply unimpressed. "What are you, high?"

"No, I'm not high." Buck grabs a stool on the other side of the counter. "We talked about that, even. God, you guys are buzzkills today. Is this what'll happen every time Chim's out? Will we all just be miserable until he comes back?"

"Yes," Hen says quietly, immediately, which is kind of earnest enough that it takes the fun out of pointing it out.

Buck acknowledges that admission by clearing his throat and changing the subject. "Well," he says to the two of them, "I met a woman—two, actually. A woman and her mother. And I didn't have sex with either of them."

Hen wrinkles her nose.

"What," Buck asks, "would you rather I did?"

"I would rather think of you as a celibate creature," she admits, "but that's never been remotely possible."

"Thank you."

Buck feels useless and stupid, sitting in his Captain's barren apartment, frozen—mostly in shock, a little bit in fear. After Bobby woke up, after they got him out of the shower, Buck let Hen do most of the talking.

Her voice is warm and low and quiet. Listening to it feels like sitting near a space heater; it's not even intended for him, but he feels something in his core crack and start to thaw.

It hurts, a little bit. He doesn't know why it hurts. Maybe it's that when Hen uses this tone, she's usually talking to patients. It feels realer, somehow, now that she's using it for Bobby.

He lets his eyes slide in and out of focus, casting attention over the apartment instead, turning Hen's ministrations to a soft background hum.

There's nothing in here. There's so much nothing that it feels like a statement. It doesn't feel like an empty room, it feels like a room filled with Nothing.

It's not, in any universe, what Buck would've pictured Bobby's place looking like.

Not Bobby, who makes them go to the specialty grocery store for about ninety percent of their produce, who specifically changed the dish towels in the kitchen to green on December first, who every couple of days gestures to one of the sides at a group meal and raises his eyebrows expectantly at Buck as if to say, that one's for you, because he remembers what people like. Because he keeps track of those types of things.

Bobby is real and down-to-earth and involved, and more than any of that, he is very, very much alive.

At least, Buck had thought so. But everything in here—or, all of the nothing in here, actually—is strictly utilitarian. Bare bones. Soulless.

Hen's saying something about redwood trees, and Buck's staring across the room at blank walls and blank walls and blank walls. It's a one-bedroom apartment, but it feels almost cavernous.

The table's set for four. Bobby had evidently never actually gotten around to cooking, but there's a pan on the stove, a cold smear of oil in the bottom of it, and the table's set for four.

And then Bobby's talking to him, something about being uptight, or Hen thinking he's uptight—Buck doesn't really know; he loses his staring contest with the wall in that moment purely because Bobby's cadence changes.

"Maybe ask for help once in a while?" Buck hears himself say, because it feels like what he's supposed to say. It feels like what he would want someone to say to him, if anyone ever saw him clear enough to say it.

And sure, Bobby's shaking like a child, or maybe like an old man, and crying, and his voice comes out weak and strangled when he speaks, even for just the one word. Just "help".

But Buck hears him say it, feels him shudder where their shoulders are pressed together, and has an immediate thought. He knows it like breathing: he will never be that brave.

—

In the stairwell, Hen bumps their shoulders together. "Thanks for coming with me," she says softly.

Buck pauses for a second before he answers. He listens. He can hear their breathing echoing just slightly in the long, narrow stairwell, all concrete and metal, but nothing from inside the apartment. Bobby had said he was going to finish cleaning himself up. Maybe, before they leave, they should wait for him to start.

Buck shrugs. "It's nothing," he says. "I was worried about him, too."

Hen hums. Not affirmative or negative. Just a hum.

Buck adds, "I mean, I'm still worried about him. After that, I'll probably be worried about him forever."

"Oh, that will definitely get on his nerves," Hen declares, and starts making her way down the stairs at a leisurely pace, keeping close to the left railing so Buck can fit beside her.

"Tough shit," Buck says. "If he doesn't want people to worry about him, he shouldn't do… worrying stuff."

"Don't worry," Hen tells him. "Just care."

They cross through the lobby, break out back onto the street. It's sunny, clear-skied, and loud, like LA is almost all of the time. It's a completely different world than Bobby's dismal, frigid apartment. Buck has a hard time accepting that they both exist on the same planet.

"Is there a difference?" He asks Hen. He lets her lead the way to the car—she drove, and he's just now realizing how good of a decision that was. Now that his brain is coming back to him, he comprehends just how checked out he's been since they realized Bobby was officially unaccounted for.

"Definitely," Hen says. "Worrying means you're—well, it means you're worried. You're always thinking about what could go wrong, what's gone wrong before… there's a lack of trust there, in a way."

"Okay…"

"Caring, on the other hand," she continues when they reach her car, "means keeping an eye out. Trusting the person until you notice the signs that something is wrong. And then you either wait for them to come to you, or…"

Buck opens the passenger side door. "Or you show up at their apartment and force them into a cold shower," he says.

Hen, climbing into the driver's seat, rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. "Or," she corrects, "you check in."

"Or that," Buck concedes.

Hen buckles her seat belt, double checks her mirrors. She fixes Buck with a look until he does his own seat belt, too. "You know," she says, pulling away from the curb, "part of why I went for this job was because I couldn't stop caring about people. I still can't, either, obviously."

Buck copies her hum. Not affirmative. Not negative. Just a hum.

He can feel her eyes on him. He almost wants to remind her to look at the road.

"Usually," she says, "when I say that, people ask why I'd want to be able to."

Buck shakes his head immediately. "No," he says. "I get it."

He does get it. He gets it. Viscerally.

People stop caring about other people all the time. People stop caring about Buck all the time. Plenty of people, maybe too many to count—when concern or investment or affection or whatever becomes too much, when he becomes too much, it's like people just… switch it off.

(There's a little trapdoor in the back of his mind, and there's some kind of small, pathetic, emaciated creature beaten to a pulp and shoved behind the trapdoor, and the creature is whispering in a horrible, scraping kind of voice, even Maddie, even Maddie, but luckily the trapdoor's pretty thick and the lock's pretty sturdy, so Buck can only barely hear it.)

Buck's never, ever been able to do that. Everybody takes a chunk out of him eventually. Everything leaves a pockmark in his skin forever.

Hen's still looking at him. She has these endless dark eyes, and he can feel them on the side of his face. They have the warmth of a computer running a heavy program—fast, calculating, intelligent, but never cold.

"Eyes on the road," Buck says, quiet, a little sing-song.

Hen looks back to the road. Her hands tighten almost imperceptibly on the wheel. She stays silent for a few moments as she navigates the traffic.

"So," she says eventually, carefully, "this is me checking in."

Buck has no clue what to say at first, so he just doesn't say anything. His mouth feels dry. He needs to do something with his hands, but there's nothing to do. He can feel his brain about to log off again.

"Buck?" Hen prompts. They're stopped at the last left turn before the station. The blinker's on. He trains his eye on the little green arrow on the dashboard. Blink-blink-blink-blink-blink.

"Yeah?"

"I'm being serious."

"Yeah."

He doesn't know what to say. If this is what someone caring is like, he doesn't think he wants it.

Honesty's out of the question. He doesn't want to lie. He just wants to talk, but he can't say the whole truth, but he's sick of lying.

The light turns green. Hen inches forward into the intersection. He can feel her eyes on him again. Gentle. Relentless.

"I'm," he says, and then stops. "I… wasn't doing great." He digs the nail of his forefinger into the cuticle of his thumb. Focuses on the sharpness of it. "For a long time. But I'm doing okay, right now. Best in a long time, kind of."

When she doesn't answer him for a long stretch of seconds, he adds, "Promise."

"Would you say anything?" She asks. "If that changed?"

He thumps his skull back against the headrest and lets out a small laugh that sounds more sad than anything. "Probably not."

"Okay," she says. The station's coming up on their left. She eases on the brakes, flips on the turn signal again. "I'll just keep caring about you, then."

Chapter Text

Abby leaves in spring.

It's—okay, it's not stupid, he knows it's not stupid, because apart from people he actually works with, Buck has talked more with Abby (both in terms of quantity and substance) than anybody else. By a pretty long shot.

And sure, it was just a few months. But he helped clear out the place after her mom died. By the end there, he was practically living with her. He went home to the house between twenty-fours, but spent the majority of his ninety-sixes at Abby's.

(There was nowhere to hide in Abby's apartment, and she paid a little more attention to him than his parents ever did, for sure. But it was fine. He just started running more. It's probably done fucking wonders for his potassium levels. He's not getting those annoying nighttime muscle spasms anymore, at least. They crop up whenever he's purging regularly. Feels like someone's trying to poke a push-pin out from the inside of his leg, right through the meat of his calf.)

Anyway, he jumped into everything with Abby. Stepped inside it with her, like Bobby said. Kept his canister of whey powder in the pantry. Kept a case of Propel in the fridge. Took up half the medicine cabinet—Abby has her iron supplement and her one little orange prescription bottle and her Centrum Silver (which she won't technically need for another couple of years, but she told Buck that under no circumstances is she ever neglecting her brain plasticity) and Buck has his iron supplement and his calcium supplement and his multivitamin and his B12 and his emergency bottle of electrolyte capsules that he hasn't had to use since he started being around the apartment more but can't hurt to have just in case, and—he's got a lot of supplements, is the point. He's lucky there was so much space in the cabinet.

More now, that Abby's taken hers with her. Because she's going to be gone for an indeterminate amount of time. A month, at least, but it could easily be longer.

An Eat, Pray, Love experience.

Buck's not sure how good he's ever been at any of those. He's definitely never been the praying type. He guesses it really depends on how generous you're being with your definition of eat. And your definition of love.

He dropped her off at the airport a couple of hours ago. Didn't follow her through the glass doors, both because there was no point, not when he wasn't getting on the plane—it's not like they're married, not like they're even long-term partners yet—and because he felt like he couldn't physically move his legs. He stood, rooted to the spot on the sidewalk, and watched her walk through the doors. Watched her not look back. Nighttime at the airport is dazzlingly bright. She even looked like someone out of a movie, at that moment. She looked mature and put-together and ready, more than anything else. Buck couldn't see her face (he couldn't see her face because she didn't look back at him) (she walked through the doors and he was watching after her and she didn't look back at him) but he could guess at the expression on it. Straight-mouthed, with her eyes wry and focused. She's never seemed like the type of person who would give Buck a first thought, much less a second: the age difference, the lifestyle difference, the personality difference. But for some reason she had. And now she's leaving.

He tells himself that he's going to be normal about it.

He's going to be normal about it.

He just has to remember that she's coming back.

—

He sends her a text when he gets back from the airport. Back to the apartment, which is emptier than he's ever seen it, because he's the only person in it. And more than that, a ton of Abby's stuff is gone, and even though the living room isn't barren anymore, most of Patricia's stuff is still gone, and all of Carla's stuff is gone.

The text reads, Hope the flight's chill! Lmk when you land.

He's not expecting a response any time soon. She managed to get a flight without any stops, but it's still about eleven hours in the air.

He still stares at the text for a couple minutes after he sends it. He put an exclamation point in it—why the hell did he put an exclamation point in it? Shit, it makes it sound like he's excited that she's gone.

He's not excited she's gone. He thinks she knows that. But he's not freaking out, either. At least, not yet. He can feel it under his skin: the potential to spiral like half a shoe over the precipice, like a finger poised on the Switch.

But he's not going to do it. He's not, he's not, he's not.

He's happy for her. He has to remember that he's happy for her. She's coming back, and they were only really together for a couple of months, and anyway, he's happy for her.

—

After Patricia died, Buck and Carla helped Abby to deep clean the entire place, ceiling to floor, foyer to linen closet. Carla did it as one final act as Patricia's home care aide, and Buck did it because he wanted to be helpful, and because he was just always around, during that time. It didn't feel right to leave Abby alone, really. Not when he's… whatever he is. Her boyfriend, probably? She hasn't ever actually called him that, not to his face, anyway, but that's gotta be the closest term, right?

Anyway, the apartment wasn't all that dirty to begin with. It was more that they were spiritually cleansing the place via the power of Lysol. Getting rid of any lingering sense of decay. It still took the pair of them almost the whole day. Abby sat on the floor in the center of the living room, surrounded by old shoe boxes filled with files and bottles of medication, went through expired prescriptions and sheaves of doctor's notes and itemized hospital bills.

Carla took it upon herself to the spend the day dusting and vacuuming, walking through the living room periodically to check on Abby, whose progress was slow, and looked torturous. She assigned the kitchen and the bathroom to Buck. He didn't say anything, obviously, but he couldn't help thinking that it felt apt.

All that to say, this is probably the cleanest bathroom Buck's ever been in. He remembers that, repeats it to himself as he curls his body up, half on the tile floor, half pressed back into the corner where the tub meets the wall.

He thinks that maybe something's really, really wrong with him. Like, physically, not just the fucking—the fucking eating disorder, or whatever. Something feels wrong with his body. He shouldn't be able to feel his heart beating this clearly, this hard, when he's just sitting here.

He knows he's out of practice. It's been over three months since he's done this, and even longer since it was this bad. His carefully-planned purges on his ninety-sixes felt docile and controlled in comparison.

He wants to stand up. He needs to rinse his mouth. He needs to wash his face. He needs to clean the toilet—it's Abby's fucking toilet, and he just—he needs to put the kitchen back together. Drink some water. Take out the trash.

He keeps thinking, I need to stand up, and then he just… doesn't.

He presses two fingers to his pulse, just like he would on a patient. He stares at the clock on the wall above the bathroom door. He watches the second hand make a full rotation, counts his heart beats while it does.

Okay. Not horrible. If a patient had these numbers… yeah, he'd be concerned. But it's been worse. He'll be fine. He's been doing fine for months. He just needs to get up off the bathroom floor.

Tomorrow, he'll go to the grocery store, the one he knows Abby's always liked to shop at, and he'll buy a replacement for everything he wasted to the best of his memory's ability. Tomorrow he'll come back from the grocery store and build back the pantry and the fridge so that it's barely noticeable that anything changed. Tomorrow, maybe he'll go for a run. Tomorrow, he'll take a shower. Tomorrow, he'll keep it together. He'll eat breakfast, and then lunch, and then dinner, and he'll text Abby or maybe call her and he'll do laundry so he's ready for his shift the day after and he'll stay on track this time and he'll act like a goddamn adult for once.

He just needs to stand up.

It's a grueling six months of barely hanging on.

He lives alone now, which doesn't help at all. The lease on the house with the other guys lapsed a couple of months ago, which takes Buck officially out of the roommate equation. Every time he gets the paid-rent receipt for Abby's apartment, he thinks about texting her, asking if she wants him to just start paying the rent until she gets back, because right now he's living here for free like some sort of house-sitter, except house-sitters don't usually live somewhere for months on end just to water the plants.

Anyway.

Living alone.

It's ruining his life.

Living half-out of his car for a few years taught Buck a few things. How to live compact, mostly. Neat. He's really not a messy type of person.

That kind of all goes out the window when it comes to binges. The eating is fast, the purging faster, and then he's left with the fucked-up remnants of the (Abby's) kitchen that he has to clean up. It doesn't feel like fixing anything. It just feels like resetting for next time.

He's averaging three times a week, maybe four if something pisses him off. He keeps track, because three "episodes" (a word he has decided he hates) keeps him in the mild diagnosis category. Four pushes him into moderate. Apparently, he'd have to do it at least once a day to be severe. Which seems messed up. Because this feels severe. He doesn't even feel like a real fucking person most of the time.

He brushes off Hen—and thankfully, he hasn't skipped a shift without calling out, because he doesn't doubt she'd show up to the apartment—and then he brushes off Bobby; pockets the new counselor's business card, doesn't call them. His last therapist tried to fuck him, so can anyone really blame him?

He talks to Connor, sometimes. Mostly texts, but sometimes the texts turn to them meeting up at Buck's old job for drinks.

(The first time, after they hadn't seen each other for almost two months, the first thing Connor said to him was, "Why do you already look hungover, man?"

Buck said, "I don't know. I'm not. So."

"I know. That's kinda the problem.")

And then Buck doesn't have time for that anymore, because he's too busy working, and if he's not working, he's too busy in the (Abby's) kitchen or the (Abby's) bathroom or he's passed out in the (Abby's) bed.

So he doesn't really talk to Connor anymore. It's whatever, except for when it doesn't feel like whatever. It's not like it was ever going to end any differently.

(They had a weird run of calls, a few months ago. One of them stuck with Buck more than the others, because when they got back to the station, Chim had explained the backstory to him.

"There was this call there a few years ago, same guy who called, his wife had tried to kill herself. Well. She didn't try. She died. It was—yeah. But there were all these signs of abuse, and Hen and I—it doesn't really matter now, I guess. But it's almost like she's the reason that tree started dying. Like she's haunting it. He killed her and she killed him right back. Very No Exit, 'Hell is other people'. I don't know. I'm probably not getting the deep French philosophy of it; I only saw the movie.")

Hell is other people. Maybe for that shithead guy's poor wife. Maybe for people who don't deserve it, who never did anything to deserve it—someone who's legally and emotionally bound to a terrible, cruel person.

Buck can't be given that credit, probably. He made Hell all on his own.

He decides to submit for the calendar for a couple of different reasons.

Reason number one is two-fold, and the reason that he tells anybody who asks: Why shouldn't he? He's hot, and it's for charity.

Reason number two was actually the reason he thought of first: If he has a concrete goal, some kind of deadline, something with numbers, maybe he'll be able to rein himself in a little bit. Act like a functional human being.

That one feels like the real reason, the true reason, and even though the money's going to go to charity anyway, it makes the whole thing feel like some kind of ill-intended lie, even though he's not lying. He is hot. Obviously—it's, like, one of two things he definitely has going for him. It is for charity. Everybody knows that. It still tastes sour and ashy every time he says it.

He gets the DXA scan, so now he has a starting point and a time frame.

"Do you think eight percent is crazy?" he asks Hen, laying on the couch in the station loft, phone held above his head. "Doctor Google says excellent, but also sometimes dangerous. So that's confusing."

"I think the whole thing's crazy," Hen says plainly from her spot at the nearest table. Her eyes keep scanning the pages of her books in quick, even lines as she talks. "And I don't think Doctor Google has a valid medical license. I don't even think Doctor Google is an EMT."

Buck continues like he didn't hear her, because she's not saying anything new: "It's only like a three and a half percent drop, so if I—"

"—Okay, then yes, I think that's crazy. Specifically that. Submissions are in two weeks, Buck."

Chimney springs up the stairs into the loft. "What's crazy?" he asks, setting a paper coffee cup on the table in front of Hen. He's holding one for himself, too. None for Buck. Not so much as a text. Rude.

"Buck's not eating enough and it's making him stupid," Hen says.

" 'Making'?"

"Okay, fuck you," Buck says, because Bobby's not in the loft, and also because he means it.

"And mean," Chimney adds, sounding delighted. "Very mean."

"You were literally mean to me first!"

—

Eddie Diaz, new recruit. Graduated top of his class just this week. Guys over at station 6 were dying to have him, but I convinced him to join us. He served multiple tours in Afghanistan as an army medic; guy's got a Silver Star. It's not like he's wet behind the ears.

Silver Star Army Medic New Recruit Eddie Diaz can go fuck himself, honestly. Buck knows that from the second he lays eyes on him. How does someone manage to look downright indecent while putting a shirt on? At least Buck has the sense to not bring that energy to the station.

Better lose some more body fat there, butch.

Chim can go fuck himself, too, now that he thinks about it.

—

"So, is your full name Eduardo?"

"No."

"People ever call you 'Diaz'?"

Eddie's voice crackles a little bit in the headset. He's not speaking very loudly. "Not if they want me to respond."

Someone, either Hen or Chim, has left their mic on, and Buck can just barely hear them laughing. He doesn't know why. It's not like what Eddie just said is funny.

"Something's gotta give," Buck says, "we got Cap, Hen, Chimney, Buck—we can't just call you Eddie."

Eddie looks at him for a couple of seconds like he thinks Buck's a complete idiot. " 'Eddie' is a nickname," he says, before turning his attention to Chim: "Is he being serious?"

—

Hen's looking at him over the rim her of her glasses. "You're seriously pissed off that he's pumping our gas right now?"

"No," Buck says. Even he knows it sounds unconvincing.

"He has to get good at it at some point," Hen says, and sure, it sounds logical when she says it, but that doesn't stop it from being fucking annoying. "It's as good a time as any."

"I know." He glances out the window, where Eddie's watching the fuel pump ticker go up, up, up. He did everything right without having to be told. Bobby's just been observing silently. "Hey, why'd you have to tell him about the calendar?"

Hen rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "It was a joke."

"Was it?"

"Why?" Chim demands, because he can never not butt into a conversation, apparently. "Worried he's gonna steal your spot?"

"No." It's even less convincing this time.

Chim continues like Buck hadn't said anything: "Because that would be the smartest idea you've had all week."

"I'm seriously getting so fucking sick of you—"

"—Buck." Bobby, from the front seat.

Buck leans his head back against his own seat. Closes his eyes. Considers taking his headset off so he doesn't have to hear any of them once the engine starts back up. "Sorry, Cap."

"I'm just messing with you," Chimney says.

"Well, stop."

"Usually you can take a joke a little better than this."

Buck flips him off.

Something small and light lands in his lap, like it had just been tossed there. It startles him enough to open his eyes, and when he looks down, there's a Snickers bar resting on his left thigh.

"You're not you when you're hungry," Chimney says.

—

"I'd go lower."

Buck looks up from where he's been feeling out the spaces between the patient's ribs. "What? No, second intercostal space—"

"—Chest wall's thinner at the fifth," Eddie interrupts, like it's obvious. "Less risk of damaging any vital organs."

Jesus, we don't have time for this, Buck thinks, and he looks to Bobby, but Bobby's looking at Eddie with rapt attention.

Eddie, who's now saying, "I treated guys with collapsed lungs in combat."

Of course you fucking have.

"Do it," Bobby says, and Eddie's already moving to take the angiocath from Buck's hands.

Buck gets home from his shift keyed-up and angry—and, yeah, fucking hungry, whatever—slamming around the apartment like it's actually his, earbuds blaring.

He can't work another shift with Eddie. He can't be trapped in close proximity with that man for over thirty percent of the time he spends alive on this earth. Just looking at him makes his stomach feel tight. Makes his skin feel like it's buzzing.

He's going to go in, twenty-four hours from now. Obviously. But he doesn't know how he's supposed to get through the shift without throttling Eddie Diaz.

Eddie's just so fucking—it's like he knows everything, and he does everything right, on the first try, which—Hen and Chim are both incredibly competent, and Buck's never had a problem with them, but they're not new. Eddie's new, and he's practically the same age as Buck, and he's just not supposed to be perfect right off the fucking bat.

First in his class. A bidding war between two different stations. Give him a fucking break.

He's about fifteen hundred calories deep, give or take, leaning carelessly against the kitchen counter, pantry gutted across the island in front of him, when his earbuds die.

…The shower's on.

—

Buck's trying to re-assemble the pantry and throw away evidence as nonchalantly as he can. He tosses out, mostly as a distraction, "How'd you even find where I live?"

"Well," Maddie says, "I went to the address the last Christmas card came from, and this very sweet boy—"

"—His name is Connor," Buck says, because Connor's the only person at that house who could even marginally be described as very sweet, and even that's highly suspect, "and he's twenty-eight years old."

Maddie rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "…This very sweet twenty-eight year old man said you were here."

"Wait, so you got my cards?" he asks, and he can't help that his voice sounds hopeful, and hurt, and childish. "Like, just that one, or—or all of them?"

Maddie hesitates. Just for a second. "All of them," she admits. "I still have most of them. I'm sorry I didn't… I read all of them. I took them with me, when I left."

"Left," Buck repeats, and waits.

"Left Doug," she says. She breaks eye contact with him. Adds, bitterly, "Finally."

"Holy shit. Maddie—holy shit, that's—are you guys like, divorced? Who knows?"

"No one knows." She takes a deep breath as she stands from the counter. She's fidgety. "And I want it to stay that way." She fixes Buck with a look that's reminiscent of when he was maybe nine or ten, and she was reminding him of the rules of being home alone for a few hours while she went to an AP test study group. "No one should know that I'm here."

"…Kinda sounds like you're hiding out."

"More like… laying low."

And Buck doesn't know if he fully believes her, but he decides in that moment that it really doesn't matter. Just the sight of her is as warm and bright as the sun. It doesn't feel real. How many times has he wished to just hear from Maddie? Just a call, or a letter, or even a text? He can't even count. Hoping for some kind of sign of life from her is the closest he's ever really gotten to praying. He doesn't know who he's praying to, in those instances. He just knows it's at the very core of him, and whenever he's cut to the quick, the refrain at the center of his being gets exposed: Everything would be okay if I could just talk to Maddie.

And she didn't call. She didn't send a letter, or a text. He can be hurt by that later. Because right now, it's better. It's impossibly, unimaginably, blindingly better. She's just here.

"Okay," he says, and feels himself nodding, feels a smile start to split his face, so harsh and true and unexpected that it almost hurts. "Okay, Mads. Whatever you need."

So, Eddie and Buck are cool now.

Sure, he's good at literally everything Buck's ever seen him do. They've worked together for 48 hours now, collectively, so Buck's seen him do a fair bit.

And sure, he apparently doesn't have a single physical flaw. But it's not like the guy can help that.

And sure, Eddie has this deadpan, wry sense of humor that Buck didn't realize probably isn't malicious until literally three seconds ago, but he's actually kind of funny, once you learn how to read his delivery.

All of that being said—and this is admirable—he's not loud about it. Any of it. Buck was, in hindsight, just being loud enough for the both of them.

Anyway, Eddie hooks a thumb into one of the shoulder straps of his bomb squad vest, looks at Buck, and asks if he wants breakfast. He smiles enough to show off just a few teeth, canine glinting.

So they're cool now.

They go to a diner Buck's never been to before, on Eddie's suggestion. He says it's good. Which—Eddie's been in LA, what, a couple of months, max? Apparently he went through the Academy in Texas. Anyway, Buck's lived here for almost two years, never heard of this place. Eddie managed to find it in a month, or whatever. Figures.

It's just past seven in the morning; the shift's not over, but Bobby let them off right when hand off started. The sun's still coming up, and everything that isn't still cast in darkness is streetlamp-yellow or rich, sunrise-orange. Buck doesn't feel like a real person, but not in a bad way. His adrenaline built and built and built, during the whole grenade debacle. When they got it out of the guy's leg, the adrenaline plummeted off into an open, empty pit, leaving him feeling fuzzy, disconnected, exhausted. It's good. It's really good. He just saw a fucking ambulance explode. He's sure when he leaves this weird, liminal space, he'll feel differently, but just now, he can't really find it in himself to worry about much at all.

He might as well eat.

"So, if your full name isn't Eduardo, what is it?" he asks in the booth across from Eddie while he waits for pancakes. "We're, like, brothers in arms now, so you should probably tell me."

Eddie doesn't look nearly as tired as Buck feels. Typical. He kind of smiles, but it's not really a smile. It's like he's laughing with his mouth closed. "Brothers in disarmament, maybe," he says. Then, "It's Edmundo."

"Huh," Buck says. "Never met anybody with that name before."

Eddie half-shrugs. "I'm named after my grandfather." He glances past Buck's shoulder, upwards, maybe at the clock on the wall near the entrance. His eyes, which are a distracting, discerning, warm kind of brown, flick back to Buck a second later. "And your full name's—"

"—Evan," Buck cuts in, and feels himself make a face, but he nods. "I'm not named after anybody."

Buck notices the phone before he notices the luggage.

It's tucked under Maddie's keys on the little table in the entryway.

He only notices because it's so out of character. Maddie got her first cell phone in her senior year of high school, a sky blue Nokia, compact and shaped like a gummy pink eraser. She went to the Sally Beauty in Harrisburg the day after she first bought it, and Buck knows because he went with her, because he was ten, and the fact that she could drive and text people was riveting even by mere association. She bought a pack of small white rhinestone gems and nail glue. She laid the phone face-down on the center console, instructing Evan not to jostle anything, and he did her one better, barely daring to breathe while she carefully affixed tiny fake diamonds to the back of the phone. She used seven to make the big dipper across the bottom third of the phone, then crafted the little dipper in the top right corner. They mirrored themselves, curled into each other like the two halves of the cancer sign.

Every time one of the gems fell off, Maddie replaced it with just as much care, at least until she got a new phone. But that was after she moved away.

This is an iPhone, pretty new-looking—rose gold, because it's Maddie, so of course it is—and the entire front screen is chipped and splintered to hell. Buck reaches out, pushes the ring of keys off of it with one knuckle, taps the screen. It doesn't light up. The battery could just be dead. But it seems a little too smashed for that. It doesn't bode… extremely well.

He's right to think that. Maddie's sitting on the couch, and it still doesn't look real, really, to see her in the flesh, in the same room as him. He reminds himself of the numerous indications that this isn't a dream: her hair's shorter now, for one, and she has a couple more lines etched lightly into the skin of her face. And she doesn't look happy. If this was something from Buck's subconscious mind, he'd at least project out a version of her that's happy.

She's real, he silently re-affirms. She's real, and she's here now. For real.

And then he sees the suitcases.

"Leaving already?" He asks, and he doesn't mean for it to come out as demanding as it does, but now he can't unsay it.

He's still standing in doorway, and she's still sitting on the couch, but even without the difference in vantage point, it's impossible to not notice how much smaller she is than him. The last time they spoke in person, he wasn't quite finished growing, and it feels like on top of that, Maddie's somehow gotten a little smaller.

"Road ahead awaits," Maddie says, and it's the type of sentence that should sound free-spirited. It's the type of shit Buck would say a few years ago, before packing all his stuff back into the Jeep in whatever state he'd found himself in, if he bothered to announce his exit. Maddie doesn't sound like that. She sounds miserable, but contained in her misery. Resigned.

"You ever read that book?" He asks, not bothering to explain the leap in logic, because it's Maddie, and even though they haven't talked in forever, it's Maddie, and she should still be able to follow. "That Stephen King book? Did they have you read it in high school?"

She doesn't look surprised by the pivot in topic, but she also doesn't look particularly like she understands. Her eyes are a little watery already, just barely glistening, and she takes a deep breath before asking, "Carrie? I read Carrie like twenty times in high school."

Buck shakes his head, starts making his way across the room. "No, assigned reading. It was summer reading for me, sophomore year. The Long Walk."

"It was summer reading and you actually read it?"

"It was Stephen King, Maddie. Anyway. It's, like, set in the future, and the government sucks, and people have to do this endless walk, for money, maybe, I think? And they have to keep walking and walking, and if they get below a certain speed for too long, or too many times, they get killed. And the only person who doesn't die is the one that walks faster and longer than anyone else."

He watches Maddie process this. She tilts her head back and forth while she does. Her eyebrows go up a little bit, then down. She looks like she thinks Buck's maybe being a bit silly. She sniffs. "That's morbid."

"It's Stephen King," Buck repeats. "Anyway, you're acting like that's you. You're acting like if you stop moving for even a second, someone's going to find you, and—and hurt you."

Maddie wasn't ever really dismissive of him when they were kids. She almost always heard him out, gave whatever he said consideration before she either affirmed it or told him I don't think so, actually, and here's why.

He can see her trying to figure out an I-don't-think-so. But he knows he's right. He knows he's right. He has to push a little further.

Before she can start a response, he sits across from her on the coffee table. Still about a foot away. So they don't have to look at each other unless they want to.

"What's really going on, Maddie?" He asks, and this time, he manages to stay gentle. "Why are you—?"

He was about to ask, Why are you running? but that's kind of a dumb question, so he stops himself. Of course she's running. She disappears, Buck stays. She leaves, Buck stays. She runs, Buck stays. There's no answer to that question, other than it's just how she was built.

So he asks instead, "What has you so scared?"

He knows the answer even as he asks it. Because if was something else, if it was something completely unexpected, something that Maddie didn't blame herself for at all, she would've already told him.

She shakes her head. "I'm not dragging you into this. You're—I know you're an adult, but you're still my little brother, and I'm not—"

"—Too late," Buck says softly.

She shudders, a little bit. "I'm sorry," she says, but Buck can't tell if she's responding to him, or if she's apologizing for almost crying. Buck doesn't mind if she's crying. It's better than her already being gone.

"Maddie," he says, and he wants to get closer to her, but he doesn't want to scare her off. So he just leans in, a little bit. Doesn't even really move. "Maddie, what did he do? I'm glad. I'm proud of you. But what—why now?"

She shakes her head again, harder this time.

"Maddie," he repeats. For the first time in his life, he feels older than her. Or—that's not right. For the first time, he feels like she's younger than him. He can feel the kid-gloves on his own hands, and he doesn't want to be patronizing, but he can't have her leave again, especially not if she's not going to be safe when she does. It was awful enough the first time, when he knew where she was, when he could check the staff register at the hospital.

"Are you in some kind of danger?" he gets out finally. "If you—if you're not safe, I want to be around. I need to be around, to—to help protect you. I'm asking you to tell me. I want to know."

Maddie puts her face in her hands. She exhales shakily, slowly, like she's trying to ward off more tears. "The stuff that Mom and Dad hated about him, that you picked up on even as a teenager… it all got worse." She takes her hands away from her face, but she doesn't look at him. She stares resolutely at the opposite wall. Buck does her a favor and looks at his own knees. She continues, "Much worse, over the last year or so, and when I threatened to leave… he threatened to kill me. And—and he meant it." She sniffs, laughs a little, wetly, though nothing's really funny. "You know, when women in abusive relationships used to come into the hospital, I have to be honest, I would pass judgment. Like, 'Why don't you just leave him?' Now… now I get it. It's like you can't even believe it's happening."

He knows it's not the same thing. Not even close to the same thing. But it did take him almost thirteen entire years to realize his "weird stress response" had a name and an ICD code, so even though they're not anything close to the same thing, he still knows that it's different, when it's yourself. It's clear-cut and obvious when it's other people, but it's not happening to you. You would know if it was happening to you, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?

"But you did get out," he says. "You got out, Maddie. And you shouldn't be alone right now, or—or ever again. So you should stay here. And—hey." He pauses long enough that she finally looks up at him. She's not actively crying anymore, even if her cheekbones are still wet. Buck does his best to smile, one just for her, close-mouthed and non-threatening. He continues, "If he comes looking… I know a pretty badass sergeant."

"It doesn't matter. You're still—you're a city employee, Evan. You have a Facebook, you have phone records, you—he might not start here, but he'd find me. Eventually." She's fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Her shoulders are shaking, just barely. "It would be stupid to stay here," she says. "Naïve. It wouldn't be safe."

She must see something on his face, some sort of crest fall, because she's quick to add, "Stupid of me. I know you want to help me. But you'd be in the crossfire, and I just can't let—"

"—Okay, so I need you to stay." He feels himself getting desperate. Feels the filter between his brain and his mouth eroding. "Not for you, then, for me."

"Evan, I…" She smiles at him then, but it's not a very happy one. She casts her eyes around the apartment. "Look at this place. Look at the life you've built for yourself. You don't need me."

"Yes, I do."

"I know you love me," she says. "I love you, too—more than anyone in the world—but you'll be okay."

"I'm telling you right now that I won't be, Maddie. I wasn't last time. Or the time before that."

Now, Maddie looks less sure of herself. Almost like she doesn't understand what Buck's saying.

"I know I'm an adult now," Buck says, "and that I'm supposed to be better at this, but I'm not. It's—I know I'm not your responsibility anymore, I know I'm supposed to be better at this, but I'm not even saying this because I want to protect you. I mean, I do, but—I'm saying that I can't handle you leaving again right now."

He's not shouting, not even close, but he is louder than he was before, and speaking faster, and there's a sort of edge to his voice that he can see is freaking Maddie out, but he can't find a way to dull it. He can't stop talking. Last time, she said she'd stay, and he believed her, and he was wrong to, because he ended up with a car and some cash instead of his sister. He has to push far enough to make it stick this time. For both of them.

Either it works, and she stays, so it was worth it, or it doesn't work, and she leaves again, and then it doesn't fucking matter at all.

"Evan, you're stronger than you—"

"—Last time, when you gave me the car, I drove nine hours straight to North Carolina."

"Okay," Maddie says, more breath than voice, a little wild-eyed, like she knows there's a 'but' coming.

"I was trying to get to Georgia. But I had to call it short, 'cause by the time I got to Charlotte, I kind of couldn't see right anymore and I was having, like, palpitations so bad I thought it might be a heart attack. And I googled it the day after and it was just really bad dehydration, because I was pulling over to fucking—to purge on the side of the road like every ninety minutes. But that night I got a motel room and I kinda just stayed in there for the night and thought that I was probably gonna die, and I didn't even want to die, it's not like I was trying to die, and I didn't even know yet that it could kill me, but I felt it. It felt like when animals know they're going to die. So they crawl away and hide somewhere.

"I was wrong. I woke up. Obviously. That's when I looked up the dehydration symptoms. And that's why I have, like, electrolytes and stuff now, but—it didn't even stop me that morning, Maddie. I literally walked to 7-Eleven and did it again right after turning off my phone.

"I'm not saying it's your fault. I don't want you to think it's your fault; it's not your fault. I'm saying—I'm saying I'm sick, and it's been this way for a long, long time, and sometimes it's better and sometimes it's worse and right now it's not good and if you leave again and I don't know if you're safe or not, I don't know what'll happen and I don't know if I can handle whatever does."

Maddie's just… staring at him. There's a layer to her expression that Buck can't quite parse, but most of it is just horror, and that he understands.

"...Sick?" she asks, very quietly, a little dangerously.

"Yeah, I…" He can't look at her anymore. He takes a fistful of the hem of his shirt, squeezes his hand so hard the joints twinge. He wants to get up and leave the room. He wants to leave the apartment. He wants to cut himself out of his own body from the inside and dissipate into mist.

None of that's an option, so he just answers her question. "Bulimia," he says, "or, probably. Seems kind of obvious to me now. On and off. Mostly on. Since I was… shit, almost thirteen years."

He still can't look at her, but he hears her sigh. And it sounds almost like relief.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know.  I’m glad she’s here.  I’m so glad she’s here.  But it’s... weird.”  

“Weird how?”  

Eddie’s voice hadn’t carried any judgement when he’d asked that, but it does when he continues, “Are you seriously eating leftover soup for breakfast?”  

Buck glances up from the Tupperware in question.  “Yeah, man.  Bobby and I made it; it’s actually really good.”  

Eddie eyes the soup.  “Okay.  Are you gonna eat it cold?”  

“It’s gazpacho ,” Buck says, with a little too much emphasis, which makes the corner of Eddie’s mouth tick down in his close-mouthed half-laugh.   

“My bad,” Eddie says lightly.  “I feel like I maybe should’ve known that.”  Then, again, “Weird how ?”  

Buck eats gazpacho and thinks.  It actually is good, which he maybe shouldn’t feel proud of, because most of the creation process was just cutting stuff up and using the food processor, but he wrote the recipe in his notes app, including all the herbs, so now he can make it without Bobby if he wants to, and it was nice to just make something, honestly.  So he’s proud of his cold soup.  Sue him.  

“Weird that she’s just, like, there .”  

Eddie just raises an eyebrow.  

“Like I get up in the morning and she’s just... on the couch.  Like, I haven’t seen her in years , and I haven’t lived with her since I was fourteen, and now I wake up and she’s on the couch .”  

“You’re making her sleep on the couch?”  

“Hey, I offered,” Buck defends.  “But she didn’t want the bed.  I’m thinking of asking again though, because I never see her sleep.  I mean, I’ve only had like three days off since she’s been here, but that’s kind of weird, right?  That she’s up before five-thirty every morning?  And she’s always still up at midnight, or whatever.”  

It’s easiest to talk to Eddie about this.  Probably because while they’ve become fast friends (first couple of shifts notwithstanding), they’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks.  To talk through Maddie’s arrival with anyone else would mean first talking through the fact that he worked with them for a year without ever once mentioning his deeply beloved but estranged sister.  

He doesn’t think he should really be blamed for keeping it to himself, really.  He’s chronically morose when it comes to Maddie.  He has enough emotionally fraught conversations with Hen and Bobby as it is.  

It didn’t go over great when he mentioned her to them for the first time.  

. . . 

He’d come into work two days after Maddie agreed to stay, quietly and on time.  He was wrung out, unsettled, mild-mannered.  He’d slept, after talking to Maddie that night, for almost eleven hours straight.  And it wasn’t like he’d done much to exhaust himself the day after, either.  But it didn’t matter.  He remained tired anyway.  

It wasn’t like Maddie had just let him off the hook that night.  She’d said sick? and he’d said bulimia and she’d said since high school? and he’d said yeah, basically .  And she’d asked, Right now, too?    

Well , Buck said.  Not right now .  Right now I’m sitting on the couch.   

And she just gave him a look.  The type of look that, when they were kids, was accompanied by a firm, calm, That’s not appropriate, Evan .  

Sorry , he said.  I know—I know what you mean.  Last time I, um.  Purged, I guess.  Was two days ago.   

I was here two days ago, Maddie argued, unless you—wait, do you do it at work ?   

He almost felt vindicated that she, too, seemed a little horrified by the prospect of Buck puking at the firehouse, even though she’d never been there, or met his team.   

No , Buck said vehemently.  Absolutely not.  I have it... I have it a little bit under control, at least.  I... It was after you got out of the shower.  While you got dressed.  Before I made us food .  

Maddie, if possible, looked even sadder.  Even more out of her depth.  So I was in the next room?  

I had to , he said simply.  And then shrugged.  And I’m pretty quiet, when I try .  

That’s not what I meant , Maddie says.  But she didn’t explain any further.  

Buck’s body, at that point, was feeling the same adrenaline crash that it did after a rope rescue, and he managed to extricate himself from the conversation to go to bed with only one swapping of promises.  One, Buck had Maddie promise that she would still be here when he woke up.  And two, Maddie had Buck promise that they would talk more about this later.  

Anyway.  

He went to work after all of that, and Chimney noticed that something was different immediately.   

“You’re...” He looked Buck up and down, scrutinizing.  “ Subdued .”  

Buck, who at this point still wanted nothing to do with Eddie Diaz, scanned his eyes around the bay to make sure that the man was nowhere in his vicinity.  “I’m tired,” he said.  “I’m not allowed to be tired?”  

“You’re usually tired,” Chim countered.  “This is different.  Hey—” Chimney threw the hey over his shoulder, finding Hen where she was standing about ten yards away, going over an inventory list.  “Hen,” Chim continued, “get over here.  Examine him.”  

“Do not examine me,” Buck said immediately.   

Hen was already making her way over, list tucked against her side.  “Do you think you have Chlamydia again?  Because that is still not, and has never been, my problem.”  

“How about you shout that even louder , next time.”  

“Okay,” Chim said, before cupping his hands around his mouth and projecting his voice, “ Hey, Buck, do you think you —I'm kidding.  I’m kidding .  But seriously, Hen.  Something’s wrong with him.”  

Hen looked at him with a more critical eye, then, and as always when Hen studied him, Buck felt like a bug stuck to a microscope slide.  

“You’re right,” Hen said, sounding a little surprised.  

Chim spread his hands.  “I do that, sometimes.”  

“There’s, like, some sort of air about you,” Hen told Buck.  When Buck looked offended, she added, “It’s not bad .  But something definitely happened.” 

“I’m going to figure out what it is,” Chim said, very seriously, then considered.  “Unless it’s actually sex stuff.  I don’t want to know if it’s sex stuff.”  

“Well, Chim, seeing as I have a girlfriend —”  

“— Okay ,” Chimney interrupted, exasperated.  “So, if it’s not sex stuff...” 

Both Hen and Chim looked at him expectantly.  Buck just stared back at them.  

“I could start guessing,” Chim offered.  

“I’m annoyed right now,” Buck said.  “You’re both being annoying.”  

Chim chose not to acknowledge that.  “First guess: you just—” 

“—My sister’s in town,” Buck said quickly, cutting Chimney off before the latter could mention something even worse than the Chlamydia Debacle of November 2017.   

It shut him up, at least.  Chimney blinked at him once, twice, three times.  Buck was surprised it didn’t come with a cartoon blink sound effect.  

Chim and Hen spoke at the same time: “You have a sister?”   

The rest of the shift wasn’t much better—Eddie was still pissing him off, and on top of that, Hen and Chim kept peppering in questions or comments about Buck’s Secret Sister (although Buck emphasized that she was not a secret sister, they just hadn’t seen each other in a long time so he’d never mentioned her.) 

Chimney’s questions tended toward the surface-level and more juvenile: Do you guys have matching birthmarks?  Do you talk about us to her?  Is she also like eight feet tall?   

Hen, on the other hand, stayed more practical: What’s her name?  She’s gotta be older than you, right?  Although sometimes there was a touch of passive aggression: ...Are there any more estranged siblings you’ve never mentioned?  Just asking preemptively.  It’s so weird, actually, because now that I think about it, you’ve worked here over a year and I basically know almost nothing about your actual life.  Isn’t that strange, Chim?    

. . . 

So. 

It’s easier to talk to Eddie about it.  

Eddie, who reacted to the news, when it finally got around to him, with, “Oh, that’s cool.  You excited?”   

“Yeah,” Buck said immediately.  It was startlingly easy to be honest.  “I missed her a lot.”   

Eddie nodded.  “I have two sisters.  Haven’t seen either of them since I moved out here.”   

And it wasn’t really the same, because Eddie is the one who moved out here, not his sisters, and that only happened a few months ago, but Buck definitely hadn’t wanted to talk about that, so he didn’t mention it.  

Now, Eddie sits at the counter while Buck eats gazpacho for breakfast, and considers.  

“It’s kind of weird,” he agrees.  “But didn’t you mention she just got divorced?”  

“Left her husband,” Buck corrects.  “Her shitty husband, I might add.  But I don’t think they’re actually split yet.”  

Eddie hums.  “I’d give her a couple days, still,” he says.  “Left her shitty husband, drove across the country... Sometimes people just need a little more time.”  

— 

It’s also weird for other reasons.  

But Buck doesn’t tell Eddie about those.  

Buck closes a cabinet too hard in the kitchen and Maddie flinches.  He unlocks the front door to the apartment and Maddie’s locked the deadbolt and put up the chain.  Luckily, she’s always sitting in the living room, perpetually alert, so all he has to do is call out a quiet, Maddie? and she comes to the entry to let him in.  Maddie gets a new phone, and listens to music out loud, and when Buck says she’s welcome to borrow a pair of headphones, she declines, because she needs to be able to hear if anything happens .  

He’s worried about her.  

He’s so worried about her.  

He can’t find a way to broach it.  What would he even say?  Hey, I know you clearly don’t want to talk about it, but what, specifically, did he do to you?    It wouldn’t just be useless to ask.  It would be cruel.  She’s here now, and that’s what matters.  

The bigger issue is that she seems just as worried about him.  

She watches him like a hawk when they eat together.  She never says anything, but he can almost see her making notes in her head.  It’s excruciating.  

So he tries not to eat around her.  But then she’ll ask, Hey, did you eat today?    

And he’ll say, overly-casual, Yep .   

And then there will be a moment of silence where Buck thinks that’s the end of it, but then Maddie will say, Is that true?    

And Buck will say, trying to keep his tone kind and only sometimes succeeding, I eat every day.  Multiple times, even.  I think you’re thinking of the wrong eating disorder.    

And she’ll say, That’s not funny, Evan, I’m just—   

And Buck will say, —Yeah, worried.  I know.   

He’s glad she’s here.  He’s glad she’s here.  He wouldn’t trade her for the fucking world.  He’s glad she’s here.  

But he’s also glad she had her job interview at Parker Center Dispatch a few days ago.  

— 

Bobby reaches out to take the handle of the pan from Buck’s grip, but visibly stops himself at the last second.  Instead, he just tells Buck, “You’re being too aggressive with it.”  

“Story of my life,” Buck says sullenly.  

Bobby hums, but not really in agreement.  “Definitely the story of your omelets.”  

“I’ve never made an omelet,” Buck counters.  “I’ve made one million scrambled eggs.”  

“You have to be a little more patient with them,” Bobby says.  “It’s a slow effort.  Wax on, wax off.”  

“...What?”  

“Never mind.  What’s going on with you, kid?”  After a few seconds, when Buck doesn’t give him an answer, Bobby prompts, “Is it Maddie?”  

Buck flicks the stove off, moves the pan to a cool burner.  His seven hundredth pan of lackluster scrambled eggs is done.  Hopefully someone will want to eat them.  Eddie ate at least one portion for the last two shifts, before confessing that he actually doesn’t like eggs all that much, and could Buck please stop foisting failed omelets onto him.   

Buck asks, “You heard about my sister?”  

Bobby smiles, a little wry.  “Almost everyone’s heard about your sister.”  

“ Chim ,” Buck mutters.  

“Actually, I heard about her from Hen.  Is it a secret?”  

“No.  Not really.”  

“Honestly, I was a little surprised you didn’t just tell me yourself.”  

Buck shrugs.  “I would’ve.  I just kind of got tired of talking about it.  Because some people don’t know how to mind their own business.”  

“Well,” Bobby says, “it’s good to actually let the people in your life know about your life.  Someone told me that a while ago.  Can’t for the life of me remember who.”  

“Ugh.  Let me be a hypocrite.”  

“You should bring her to the station.  Show her around, at least.  I know I’d like to meet her.”  

And that makes something seize in Buck’s chest—two conflicting desires coming in alarmingly fast, clashing against each other, resulting in something that feels like a palpitation.  

On the one hand: Of course he wants to show Maddie the firehouse.  He’s proud of Maddie.  He’s proud of the firehouse.  She’s here now, hopefully for good, so of course he wants her to fit into every part of his life possible.  

On the other hand: She knows too much.  It’s less her in the firehouse, but more the knowledge that she has in her brain in the firehouse that scares him.  Like carrying a knife through a metal detector, it makes an alarm start ringing in Buck’s head, sounding out danger, danger, danger .   

“Yeah,” he says.  “Maybe. I’ll ask her.”  

He doesn’t get to ask her, because it’s Buck’s ninety-six, and then she gets her start date at dispatch, and then it’s her first day of work, and then there’s a goddamn 7.1 earthquake.   

— 

“After Northridge,” Buck says, “FEMA spent two hundred million dollars retrofitting every school in the district.  Floors, walls, ceilings—your kid’s in the safest place he could be.”  

He says it because it’s true, and because Eddie’s clearly still on-edge, and who can blame him, because he has a child out there, which is something Buck’s still trying to make fit with the image of Eddie he has in his head.  It kind of explains why Buck had previously assumed Eddie was a few years older than him, though.  Being freshly twenty-seven with an almost-eight-year-old will do that to you, probably.  

Eddie, sweeping his eyes over the complete devastation of the hotel’s fourth floor, says rather darkly, “I thought that was a high-rise.”  

— 

Buck gives Ali his extra flashlight, seeing as her shoes fell eleven stories out a window, much like her boss, and she needs to be able to look where she’s going.  

“You’re doing great,” he says.  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”  

“Oh, yeah,” Ali laughs bitterly.  “They taught me all about this at the Rhode Island School of Design.”  
“You went to RISD?” he asks, genuinely interested.  “My girlfriend in high school really wanted to go there.”  

“I probably don’t know her,” Ali says immediately.  

“Nah, she ended up going to SCAD.  But she talked like it was the best school in the world.”  

Ali yelps as she narrowly avoids stepping on a piece of glass.  She stops for a second.  Collects herself, curses her life under her breath.  Says, “It was fine.”  

— 

Several aftershocks later, she presses her back to a corridor wall and heaves in a breath.  “Can’t your guys just get a ladder up to one of the windows?”  

“Too risky,” Eddie vetoes from a couple yards ahead of them.  “Building shifted too much.”  

“But we got this, Abby,” Buck adds.  “We’ll get you out of here.”  

“ Ali ,” Ali corrects.   

He squints his eyes shut for a few seconds, even though he can’t even really see her all that well in here, even though she doesn’t know the implications.  It’s still kind of mortifying.  “Sorry.” 

She shrugs.  “Would suck if you called me the wrong name and then I died, is all.”  

“No one’s dying,” Eddie calls back down the hall.  “Let’s keep it moving.”  

— 

Eddie doesn’t seem at all confident that Batari’s going to make it, but it’s not like they can just leave him.  So now they’ve got a guy with a spinal injury strapped to a hotel ironing board, and they’re trying to get him and another civilian down an elevator shaft.  

It’s great.  Buck loves his job.  He loves not-dying at his job.  He loves it when other people also don’t die while he’s doing his job.  This is fine.  It’s great .  

— 

“Fire and rescue personnel, this is IC Miranda Williams.  We’ve been warned of a possible complete collapse; this is a direct order to begin evacuating now with whoever remains in your custody.  Radio locations to your captains.  I repeat: this is incident command.  Fire and rescue personnel must evacuate now.”   

Hen still hasn’t checked in.  

“What floor are we on right now?” Ali whispers.  

“Do you want me to be honest?” Buck whispers back.  He’s looking at Eddie, who’s checking Batari, who’s been concerningly quieter and quieter as time goes on.  But evidently he’s still breathing, because Eddie nods to himself as he goes through vitals.  Eddie clicks his radio.  “Diaz, Buckley,” he says into the mic, “118.  Near the west elevator.  We have two civilians, one injured and immobile, needs immediate transport.”  

“Obviously,” Ali hisses back to Buck.   

“Okay.  Then, I don’t know.  Maybe the third?”  

Ali nods shakily.  “Do you think we’re actually gonna get out of here?” 

He tries to flash her a smile, but it probably comes out wan and strained.  “ Obviously .”  

— 

IC Miranda Williams actually isn’t a captain at a different station like Buck had assumed.  She’s actually battalion chief, which means she’s Bobby’s direct boss, which is not looking good for Buck’s next performance review, because he only realized that’s who she was halfway into his spiel about needing to find Hen in which he tried to appeal to Williams’ morals and sense of civic duty, but it doesn’t matter , because Hen’s stuck down there , and it doubly doesn’t matter, because in the end it works .  

Your people are very persuasive , she tells Bobby when she gets down to the garage.  And persistent .  

“What the hell did you even say to her?” Eddie asks.   

“I don’t remember,” Buck admits.  “I think I just kept talking until she agreed.”  

When service finally comes back and he has a chance to check his phone, Buck has a whole host of texts from Maddie, starting out a little worried, then growing more desperate.  Then there’s an hours-long gap, and a final pair of texts from a couple hours ago.  

The first one: Liaison says your people are accounted for.  Trusting you’re OK .  

The next: Shift is done + I’m home.  Be safe .  

He types back, I lived. 10 fingers 10 toes 2 eyes 28 teeth.   

Then, Proud of you Mads.   

— 

Eddie’s truck is completely blocked in the parking lot by B shift, and Buck, on his way to his own car, finds Eddie just standing there, looking lost and listless in the lot, bag slung over a drooping left shoulder, right arm hanging uselessly by his side.  

“All good?” Buck asks, mostly pretense, because everything is clearly not all good .  

Eddie just gestures at the cars.  

A shift was dismissed, and B shift’s been out for hours now, dealing with the aftermath of the last day and a half.  The tectonic plates might’ve calmed down, but there are still collapsed roads, ruined cars, crumbled buildings.  They’ll be out for a while yet.  There are a couple of people behind at the station, but even if they moved their own cars, Eddie would still be well and truly screwed.  

Eddie says, a little brokenly, “I... need to go get my kid.”  

Buck stands there for a second before spinning his keyring around his thumb and turning on his heel.  “Well, come on, then.”  

Eddie looks directly at Buck then, eyes a little wide, face a little awed.  “For real?  I wasn’t trying to—” 

“—Yeah, for real.”  Buck motions for Eddie to follow him.  “I park on the other side every day when it’s hot.  Stops my car from being a million degrees.  And saves me from B-shift entrapment, apparently.”  He unlocks the Jeep with the fob.  The taillights blink happily.  “I’m being serious. Come on.”  

Eddie’s already on the phone with someone when he climbs in the passenger seat.  Buck doesn’t hear most of what he says, just catches, is he awake?—on my way now—thank you so much— before Eddie hangs up and buckles his seatbelt.  

“Thanks,” he says.  “Seriously.  Thank you.”  

“No big.”  Buck hands Eddie his phone so the latter can put Christopher’s school into maps.  “I thought I was gonna have to go get Maddie, but she texted like, two hours ago to say she was already home.”  

Buck starts driving, thinks about turning on the radio, maybe, but decides not to.  Eddie’s looking out the window, biting lightly at the cuticle of his thumb.  If Buck hadn’t seen him checking his phone almost obsessively all day, he’d probably feel surprised to see him like this now.  It’s the first time he’s ever seen Eddie fidget.  

“Maps says there’s a clear route,” Buck says, apropos of Eddie’s cuticle-chewing.  “A lot of the newer roads are reinforced, so it’s not too bad around here.”  

“Tell that to the overpass,” Eddie mutters, but he moves his hand from his mouth. 

They get to Christopher’s school in about forty minutes, which (given the state of the roads) isn’t actually all that bad. The building is low to the ground and sprawling, like lots of buildings in Los Angeles are.  The sun set almost two hours ago, and pulling into a dark, practically-deserted elementary school parking lot feels a little unsettling.  Only the front entrance lights are on, so Buck pulls up there.  Eddie’s door is open before the car is technically in park, and since Buck is just idling by the curb, watching Eddie dart inside the front of the school, he punches on the hazard lights.  

He watches through two layers of glass, the smudgy car window and the dusty school doors, as Eddie drops to his shins on the floor, envelops Christopher’s entire body in his arms, complete and seamless.  Eddie tucks his chin into Christopher’s tiny shoulder for a moment; presses a kiss, then another, to the side of Christopher’s head.  

Buck keeps watching, and it makes something inside him hurt, sharp, like a tiny pin jabbed into the muscles of his core.  It’s a brief, small hurt, like eyes smarting as they look a little too directly at the sun.  

He’s glad that some kid, somewhere, has this.  

— 

Buck finally gets home around eleven at night with two hundred and six aching bones and a mess of buzzing, built-up stress in the pit of his stomach, an emptiness so concentrated it almost feels like nausea.  

Maddie’s sitting curled up in the corner of the couch, blanket already pulled up over her legs, still awake.  Her eyes are open, and she’s looking at her phone, but she’s visibly tired.  “Hey,” she says, perking up when he enters the room.  Her voice is a little laced with humor, but mostly fond when she asks, “Long shift?”  

Buck laughs soundlessly.  “My overtime’s about to be crazy.”  He pulls out his phone, clicks around on the calculator for a few seconds.  “I made, like... fourteen hundred dollars this shift.”  He taps some more.  “Okay, like a thousand after taxes.”  

Maddie huffs.  “They wouldn’t let me stay on the clock after the shift changed over,” she says.  “I just had to take a nap in the break room until there was a clear route back here.  But obviously I couldn’t sleep.” 

“How did you get back?  I was worried you were gonna be stuck until I could come get you.”  

She brightens a little.  “My supervisor.  He—well, he was supposed to train me all day today, but I kind of just got thrown to the wolves, for obvious reasons.  I think he felt bad for me.”  

“He shouldn’t,” Buck says.  “I’m sure you killed it.”  

Maddie pretends to dust off one of her shoulders, half-giggling.  “That seems to be the general consensus.”  

She pats the couch next to her, but Buck’s already moving through the room towards the kitchen.  “You hungry?” He calls softly, keeping his voice light, casual.  The emptiness in his stomach pinches like a limb that’s fallen asleep.  It feels urgent.  It feels unavoidable.   

“I ate a couple hours ago,” Maddie says.  “You know, at a normal dinner time.”  

“Well, excuse me,” Buck says, with no heat to it.   

“What are you having, though?  Maybe I’ll steal some.”  

“I...”  

And Buck doesn’t really know what to say, because the idea was actually that he’d make food for Maddie, and hopefully she’d just assume he was having the same, and it would give him free cover to get as much food to his bedroom as possible in an indiscriminate but covert fashion, where he’d be safe, and uninterrupted, and then he’d go into the bathroom and lock the door and turn on the shower even though he’d already showered at the station, because yes, he’s quiet, but Maddie’s perceptive, and more than that, she’s not stupid , and he doesn’t even really want to be doing this right now but he has to get rid of the roiling pit of anxiety in his stomach somehow , because even though he’s exhausted he has to fix it or he won’t be able to sleep, and he’s literally been thinking about it for the last twelve hours, so much that it’s making his jaw itch, and he wanted to just do it on the drive home so he didn’t have to do it in the same apartment as Maddie but he had Eddie in his car at first and then Christopher in his car and then almost everything was closed because of the fucking earthquake—    

“Evan?” Maddie calls.  

He startles.  “Yeah,” he says, just as an acknowledgement.  “I don’t know.  How do you feel about breakfast for dinner again?”  

One of the downsides of Bobby constantly cooking involved, cohesive, fresh meals is that he uses an absurd amount of produce.  Which is fine, in a fiscal sense.  Thank you, Los Angeles taxpayers.  

It’s the grocery trips that really add up.  

Grocery shopping is usually the type of thing you assign to a probie.  Give them the department card, set them loose for a couple hours, submit the receipt.  

Captain Bobby Nash of the 118 would literally never even consider such a thing. 

So they have to go grocery shopping once a week, sometimes twice, and they have to be offline for it, which means it has to get done in a timely manner, which means Bobby runs grocery trips like the goddamn navy.  

Hen and Chim are sent to the meat department and told to reference an email that Bobby had already sent the night before, which strikes Buck as particularly excessive.  Eddie gets a compact list of very clear spoken directions to guide him in non-perishables—Buck can sense the ghost of bitterness that Eddie, of course, is trusted to do that on his own; it’s not a real hurt, just the memory of one, and it dissipates quickly.  Bobby and Buck are relegated to produce, because Bobby always assigns himself to produce, because he’s, like, apparently a vegetable whisperer, and can sense the moral alignment of a bell pepper with his mind, or something.  

(Bobby also always assigns Buck to the same section of the store as himself, because Buck enters a grocery store and experiences an immediate, alien-feeling mindset shift, and if left to his own devices will arrive at the checkout with six or seven bulk items that he doesn’t really remember picking out but that he must’ve wanted, or else why would he be holding them?  And then he’ll tuck them into various hiding spots around the station like some kind of woodland mammal preparing for winter, and then he’ll forget about them for weeks or months, until he notices that someone else has found them and started eating them—because why wouldn’t they; the food’s just sitting there, hidden at the back of a filing cabinet, for some reason—at which point Buck will become exceptionally possessive and bitchy, and Bobby will say you just can’t do that if we’re using the department card to buy this stuff .) 

Anyway.  Bobby’s communing with the bundles of fresh cilantro, and Buck’s running his mouth.  

“She says she’s still gonna be around, but she just got here, and she’s said stuff like that before and it—it didn’t turn out to be true, so I guess I’m just kind of wary of that, and she’s treating it like I’m having this huge, ridiculous overreaction.”  

“It is an overreaction,” Bobby says, voice placid.  “It might not be completely unfounded, but... she’s only moving ten miles away, Buck.”  

“I guess ,” Buck bites out.  

Bobby puts some cilantro in the cart, evidently having deemed it suitable.  “You didn’t speak to anyone for thirty-five minutes this morning because you were so busy arguing with her over text.  I’ve never seen someone type that fast with just their thumbs.”  

“That’s because you’re from a bygone era,” Buck says reflexively.  Then sighs.  “She just keeps sending me links to Zillow Rentals listings.”  

“And that’s bad?  That she wants your opinion?”  

“ No ,” Buck says, like he’s going to explain why it does bother him, but he doesn’t say anything else.  “I just.  Don’t want her to leave again.”  

Bobby hums.  “Getting a lease tells me that she’s not planning on leaving.”  

“Yeah.”  

“You don’t sound convinced.”  Bobby hands him a honeydew melon.  “What do you think of this?”  

“I think that I don’t like honeydew,” Buck says, but he takes the melon.  “Is this a test?  It feels normal.  They’re still in season, right?”  

“Just until the end of the month,” Bobby says, sounding pleased that Buck knows that.  He puts the honeydew in the cart.  “Have you considered that it’s a good sign, that she’s putting down roots?  You can’t live in your ex-girlfriend’s apartment with your sister forever.”  

“She’s not my ex -girlfriend,” Buck says.  Bobby does not deign to respond.  

Buck sighs.  “I guess,” he says, and then, “thanks,” though he doesn’t feel much better.  

The truth , he thinks, the part that he doesn’t want to talk about with anybody because it makes him feel like he might be a bad person, is that when Maddie told him she was thinking of getting her own place nearby... yes, his first thought was pleasedon’tleaveagainyoucan’tleaveagain — 

—but his second thought, coming so close to the first that they almost overlapped in his mind, was, Finally .  Because, actually, he doesn’t know how much longer he can live like this.  

“Big sister moment,” she said as soon as he got home from work yesterday.  “Putting my foot down.”   

She was sitting on the couch, dressed for work and poised to move.  He tossed her the keys to the Jeep.  

“Can your foot stay up until after your shift?” he asked.  “I haven’t slept in thirty hours.”   

“Nope,” she said.  “Because you know what I’m gonna talk to you about, and if I gave you any warning, you’d find a way to put it off for the rest of time.”   

 He immediately thought, I need her out of this apartment .  Luckily, he didn’t say it, because he didn’t mean it, but when faced with the prospect of talking about this, it didn’t matter.   

“Honestly,” Buck said, “I really don’t think we have enough time.  You’ll be late.”   

Maddie gave him a look that said, I call bullshit so concisely that Buck felt actual, acute shame.  He can admit it was a weak excuse.  

“You promised,” Maddie said.  

“Didn’t pinky promise,” Buck responded, childish and a little desperate.   

“Is that because you knew you were going to break it?”  

She had him with that one.  

She already knows, a quiet, rational part of his brain whispered.   

He wanted to ask that part of his brain: Where the hell have you been?  

“Shoot,” he said instead, and sat down on the ottoman, an illusion of facing her, half-angled away.  

“Just practical stuff,” Maddie soothed, now that she had him where she wanted him.   

“Great,” Buck said flatly.  

“First,” Maddie said carefully, “I don’t know how subtle you’re trying to be, but.  I know.”  

Buck didn’t ask what Maddie knew (because he already knew what she knew), but his silence must have spurred her to elaborate anyway, because she said, “No one cleans the bathroom every two days like that, Evan.”  

He had to get around to asking her to call him Buck at some point.  

“Maybe I do.”  

“Because you’re throwing up in there whenever I’m not here.”  

At least I wait until you leave, Buck thought.  He didn’t purge at work and he didn’t purge when Maddie was home.  That was pretty goddamn responsible, if you asked him.  It was as tight a ship as he’d ever run.  
“Am I in trouble right now?” he asked, and it came out sharper than he meant it to, harsh, defensive.  “Is that what’s happening?”  

“No,” Maddie sighed.  “I just wanted to be up front.”  

“Why?” Buck demanded.  And Maddie didn’t answer for a few moments, just looked kind of put-out and a little bit hurt, so Buck kept on, “Seriously, Maddie, why say it?”  

“I just thought,” Maddie said, and stopped.  She tried again: “I thought maybe if you knew I knew, it might be easier to stop.”  

“I’m not trying to stop,” Buck said, almost without meaning to.  It felt like an automatic error response.  The input: easier to stop ; the automatic reply: that’s irrelevant .  

“Oh,” Maddie said.  The oh sounded like it carried an awful lot of weight.  Like it had just put some things into place for Maddie, even if she wasn’t saying what it was.  She said it again, maybe for emphasis.  “Oh.”  

“Yeah.”  

“Have you ever tried?”  

Buck felt himself make a noise that was close to a scoff.   “Not completely.”  

“What does that mean?”  

“I’ve tried to slow down,” he said.  “Or, like, made a schedule.”  

“A schedule?”  She wrinkled her nose when she said that, like the mere idea was off-putting, or a little gross.  

“Yeah,” Buck said, and he could hear his voice turn crass, feel himself getting a little mean, but he couldn’t seem to rein it in.  “ Like right now.  I wait for you to leave.”  

“Okay, but I know, so—”  

“—So you’d rather I do it when you’re here?  You’d prefer if—”  

“—I'd prefer if you didn’t do it at all.”  

“Yeah, well.  Kind of a little late for that.”  

“I don’t think it’s too late,” Maddie said quickly, insistently.  “Have you ever talked to somebody about it?”  

“I’m talking to you right now.”  

“I mean a professional.”  

“You’re a professional.”  

Maddie gave him a look.  “I mean a psych professional.  Like, for long-term treatment.”  

“ ‘Long-term treatment’,” Buck parroted.  “No.  Definitely no.”  

“Why not?”  

“Let’s start with the fact that I just got health insurance a year ago.”  

“Okay, so why not now?”  

“I don’t want to lose my job, Maddie.”  

“I don’t think you have to tell them.”  

“There’s a lot of things I don’t tell them that they just seem to know.”  

“Do they know about this?”  

“No,” Buck said, loudly, vehemently.  “ No.  And they’re never going to.  I don’t even know how I got the guts to tell you .”  

“Because you’re brave,” Maddie said, simple and soft, like it was obvious.  

“Not like that.”  

“I think you could if you wanted.”  

“Well, I don’t want.”  

“Okay, then don’t,” Maddie conceded.   “But at least see a professional.”  

“I don’t want that, either.”  

“Why not?”  

“It’s just,” and Buck felt whiny and immature even as he said it, “it would be so much effort.”

“Oh, and it’s so easy to be bulimic for thirteen years?”  

And that was the first time she had said it, the full word, the B Word, and it felt like a fucking slap to the face.  

“At this point?” he started, voice hard, “Yeah, it’s pretty goddamn easy.  Easier than not, anyway.  And, honestly, I have enough to worry about.  You, for one.”  

Maddie looked taken aback.   “...Me?”  

“Don’t look surprised.  Yeah, you.  I can’t close a cabinet, or—or talk too loud or whatever without you shutting down.  You act like a Nam vet, Maddie. If we’re talking about people who need therapy, we should really be starting with you.”  

Maddie took a deep breath, and then another, and then stood from the couch.   “I don’t want to be late for work,” she said, before letting herself quietly out the front door. 

— 

A few hours later, after looking back on the conversation and realizing that he really didn’t like what he saw, Buck sent Maddie a couple of texts.  

I’m sorry for going off on you. Got defensive.  

You do need to see someone tho I stand by that.  

She reacted to his first message with a heart, then texted him back about twenty minutes later: So do you.  

Buck calls Bobby while they’re still at the hospital.  Eddie’s aunt watches him do it.  

Buck asks as soon as the call connects, “Can Eddie bring his kid back to the station?”  

“Hi, Buck,” Bobby says at the exact same time that Buck speaks, and then, “What?”  

“Can Eddie bring his kid to the station?” Buck repeats.  “His aunt has to go to work.”  

“Why are you the one asking me about this?”  

“Eddie’s still talking with his grandmother.  So, can we bring Christopher?”  

Pepa is watching him with this closed, downturned smile on her face, and it kind of reminds Buck of Eddie so much that it blows his mind a little.  It makes him feel a little exposed, which is weird, because he’s not doing anything wrong.   

“I have to call Chief Alonzo,” Bobby says, “but I don’t see why not.”  

“Not Chief Williams?”  

“Not for this, why?”  

“I just don’t think she likes me very much.  But you think it’s okay?”  Buck shakes his hand in a so-so motion for Pepa, who’s still watching intently.  

“I don’t see why not,” Bobby says again.  “We run school tours.  People come to visit.  It should be fine.”  

“Great.  Thanks, Bobby!”  

“It’s—” Bobby starts, but Buck’s already hanging up, giving Pepa an enthusiastic thumbs-up. 

— 

“Whoa,” Buck says when Eddie sets Christopher down at the top of the stairs to the loft.  “Did you get taller since the last time I saw you?  I think you totally got taller.”  

Christopher laughs, round-edged and young, but more like he’s laughing at Buck than anything.  Fine by Buck.  “You saw me...” he says, and then stops, clearly unsure when Buck first met him, because he’s seven, and seven-year-olds really don’t tend to keep track of time in weeks.  

Buck counts out the days in his own head before Christopher can bother.  “Sixteen days,” he says.  “And it was awful.  I mean, your dad’s okay, but it’s good you’re here finally, because no one around here knows how to have a decent conversation.”  

That makes Christopher laugh again, louder this time.  One thing about when Christopher laughs: he does it all the time, like every five seconds, and most of the time it sounds like he’s laughing both at what was said to him in a direct, literal way, but it also sounds like he’s in on the joke overall—like he appreciates a kidified joke, but understands that it’s kidified, and finds that funny, too.  

He’s gonna turn out smart, like scary-smart, if he hasn’t already.  

Christopher holds out a fist for Buck to bump, a little tentatively.  

Sixteen days ago, when Buck twisted around in the front seat as Eddie helped Christopher into the back, Buck had held out a fist for Christopher, who had just kind of stared at it.  

“I’m Buck,” Buck had clarified, “I work with your dad.”  

Christopher was still just looking at his hand.  

“It’s a fist bump,” Buck explained.  He mimicked one with both of his own hands.  “Like that.  It’s a kind of way to say hello.”  

He held his hand out for Christopher again who, after a couple moments, made a fist of his own and knocked the knuckles very, very lightly against the back of Buck’s. 

“Yeah, man,” Buck said, “you’re a natural,” and Christopher’s face broke into a toothy smile.  

Now, Christopher holds out his hand first, and Buck taps his against it with no hesitation.  Over Christopher’s head, Eddie’s watching, having finished talking to Bobby.  He’s got that same family-trait smile on his face.  

Carla doesn’t answer his text until the next morning, right after he gets home.   

Buckaroo, why in God’s name did you text me out of the blue at 3 in the morning? No manners for you firefighters.  

Another text pops up right after: But of course I’d love to help how I can! Let’s set up a date.  

Chapter Text

Shit starts to really get weird when they get to the kids’ pageant.  

The concept of children’s beauty pageants is weird enough, honestly, but Buck was already feeling off on the drive over there, and by the time they get inside the building, he swears that the walls look like they’re pulsing.  

Maybe look is the wrong word.  He can see it, sure, but it’s more like he can feel it.  The whole building has a circulatory system, maybe the whole city, and there’s blood—or something like blood, because cities don’t have blood—rushing through it.  

Buck’s not a city; he’s a person in a city, and he has blood, lots of it, about six liters, and it’s not supposed to come out of him, because that means something bad has happened, even if he can’t remember it ever really scaring him, but it’s okay because he can look at the inside of his forearm and sense the blood pulsing there, too; he doesn’t even have to take any of it out to make sure.  

It moves too slowly, his blood.  His arteries are blown out like pupils in the dark, and his heart doesn’t usually beat fast enough to get everything up to speed, so his blood, dark and thick and maybe raspberry-flavored, now that he thinks about it, at least it looks like it might be, slowly drips through his veins like a snail down a sidewalk, like a leaky faucet, like kinetic energy depleting and depleting and depleting.  

“Your tattoo is moving,” Eddie says, and he’s speaking quietly, but his voice comes from so, so close to Buck’s ear that the latter startles.  When he moves, he feels Eddie’s chin bump his shoulder.  

Buck moves his eyes from his vibrating cephalic vein down to the bands of ink below his elbow.  He feels like he’s moving his eyes for a very, very long time, like it’s a real, physical effort to track them over empty skin, like in a nature documentary, when a drone flies over a desert. The tattoo stays stagnant and high-contrast, unmoving dark ink on light skin.  

“No, it’s not,” Buck says.  

“Oh,” Eddie says, flippant and unconcerned.  “Just me, then.”  

Buck turns his head to look at Eddie, their noses missing each other by a millimeter.  Eddie jolts back a little bit, and Buck can feel the surprised puff of air he lets out pass over his own mouth.  

They stare at each other, just for a couple seconds, and Buck knows it’s just for a couple of seconds, but if he had to count those seconds, each one would have a minute in-between.  He gets stuck on Eddie’s eyes for one of those minute-seconds, on the shifting, liquid warmth of them, on the tinge of amber-and-green he can sometimes catch in cooler-toned light.  They shrink, crinkle as he smiles, wider than usual, showing teeth.  His skin is vibrant and clear, cheeks high with citrus-sun undertones, everything peach-rust and bright-warm and very, very alive.  

Eddie’s blood probably moves in his veins the way it’s supposed to.  Everything about Eddie always seems to move the way it’s supposed to.  

Both of them start to laugh at the same time.  Buck can taste it, either his own laugh or Eddie’s; he can’t really tell.  Maple and sugar and black pepper.  It fills up his mouth, floods both sides of his tongue, makes it difficult to talk, makes his teeth feel like they’ll start sticking together.  

The time they spend laughing stretches out like pulling on chewing gum pinned between teeth.  Each second is longer than the one before it, becoming tensile and thin with how slow the milliseconds seem to come.  

“You have the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Eddie says when he finally stops laughing.  He sounds genuinely shocked to have discovered this.  “They’re the bluest blue I’ve ever seen, I think.”  

“I don’t think that’s true.”  

“Well, you can’t see them,” Eddie scoffs, like Buck’s never looked in a mirror before.  “I’m looking at you right now, and it’s—” he lifts a closed fist to the side of his own head, mimics it exploding as he breathes out a soft puff of air for emphasis.  “Really fucking blue, man.”  

“You can’t say fuck ,” Buck whispers.  “There are kids here.  You have one of those.  You should know this.”  

“You just said it.” 

“I’m telling you not to say it!”  

Eddie casts his eyes around the room, at all of the pageant kids milling around with minimal supervision.  It feels like there are more than there were before.  Like maybe they’ve been duplicating themselves while Buck wasn’t paying attention.  

“ Are they kids?” Eddie asks.   

“What are you talking about?”  Buck holds up a hand near Eddie’s face, to make sure he can really, really see it, with his forefinger and thumb held close together.  “They’re, like, this tall.”  

“But they look like adults.  Just.  Really, really tiny.  They look like... like newscasters .”  

“Oh my God,” Buck breathes.  “They do.  That’s it —FOX anchors.”  

“ My kid doesn’t look like that,” Eddie says, sounding like it’s mostly self-reassurance.  “My kid looks like a kid.”  

“Totally,” Buck soothes.  “He’s adorable.”  

“Hey.”  And that’s Chim’s voice, and there’s Chim, standing with his hands on his hips.  Usually, Buck thinks Chimney looks pretty small, actually, but standing around all these glammed-up mini newscasters, he looks downright like a giant.   
“You’re so tall,” Buck tells him, just in case he hasn’t found out yet.  “Congratulations!”  

Chim’s entire face contorts.  “What the hell is wrong with you two?”  

— 

They’re shepherded to Cedars-Sinai for an emergency tox screening, though Chim and the ER staff seem to all agree that it’s probably just your average LSD.   

“The only thing that threw me off a little is this one’s BP,” the ER nurse says, gesturing to Buck, who’s sitting on the exam table, still in uniform, hands tucked under his thighs, because if he looks at his hands, he swears he can hear his fingernails growing.  She adds, “Just on the low side of perfect.  LSD usually raises it.”  

“Buck?” Chimney asks, not bothering to ask the nurse, since Buck isn’t actually his patient, so she can’t technically tell him.  

“102/70,” Buck recites.  He remembers it, because it’s the first time he’s had a systolic in the triple digits for as long as he can recall.  He adds, “I run low.”   

“Other than that,” the nurse says, like Buck’s offered a sufficient explanation, “obviously we’ll send the screening results, but everything points to normal old acid.”  

“ Great ,” Chimney says.  

“It is great,” Buck agrees.  “Or it was.  It’s kind of worse now.”  

“I was being sarcastic.”  

— 

The earliest people from B-shift have already reported for handoff, and Athena’s already taken Bobby home, and the film crew’s already been kicked out, so their stop at the station is relatively quick and painless.   

“I need everyone’s phones,” Chim says, sounding haggard, walking with purpose holding an open trash bag.  He starts stuffing everything from the table of donated baked goods into the bag indiscriminately.  It kind of makes Buck want to cry.  

Hen hands her phone over without question, and Chimney apparently knows her password, because he unlocks it without thinking, clamps down on the home button for a second and says, “Call Karen Wilson,” to Siri.  

All Buck hears is Hen’s wife’s voice saying, tinny from the phone, “Hi, baby,” and Chim saying, “Not baby; it’s Chimney,” before walking back down the stairs with his now-full trash bag.  Buck gets out his own phone.  

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, his voice again very, very close to Buck’s ear.  Buck doesn’t startle this time, at least.  He already knew Eddie was sitting next to him at the dining table, already knew their shoulders were pressed together, so that helped.  

“Getting myself an Uber to Maddie’s place,” Buck says.  “I don’t want Chim calling her.  She already thinks he’s cute .”  

Eddie, honest to God, giggles.  He puts his hand over his mouth right after he does it, like the sound surprised him.  He says through his own palm, “You sister has a crush on Chimney?”  

“I guess ,” Buck says sourly.  “Which is—God, it’s so weird .  You remember when we helped her move all her shit?  It was two days ago.  Of course you remember.  You and Chim walk out of the room to get food or whatever and she just turns to me and goes, he is so cute .  I thought she was talking about you.”  

“You did?”  

Buck scrunches up his face.  “Well, the other option was Chim.”  

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, sounding a little miffed.  “ I think Chimney is handsome.”  

“...You do?”  

“You don’t ?”  

“How am I the weird one here, Eddie?  I don’t know.  I don’t think about whether my coworkers are handsome or not.”  

“You think I am.  You just said you did.”  

“No, I said you were cuter than Chim.  That’s different .” 

Eddie’s mouth is splitting into another smile, teeth front and center.  “I don’t really think it is.”  

“Whatever,” Buck says, but it’s heatless.  

“Shh,” Eddie says, because now Chimney’s walking back up the stairs.  As he does, Buck’s lucidity shifts again; he can feel it like a change in the humidity, like the air gets thicker and time stretches out.  “Shh,” Eddie repeats.  “Listen.  Listen to me.”  

“Okay.”  

“Are you listening?”   

Buck laughs, tries to keep himself quiet.  “I said okay. ”  

“I think we can say whatever we want,” Eddie whispers conspiratorially.  He gestures between their chests with one pointed finger.  “Because we’re both high on LSD.”   

“That’s true.  You’re really smart, did you know that?”  

“Cute and smart.  Guess I’ve got it all.”  

“Shut up, ” Buck says, but it doesn’t really matter, because Eddie’s already made himself laugh again.  

“Karen’s on her way,” Chim calls, having finally made it back up the stairs.  Hen’s already getting up to move past him.  “Eddie, Buck—phones?”  

“I already texted my aunt; she’s driving over,” Eddie says as he hands his phone over, Carla’s contact page already open.  Buck looks at Carla Price (childcare) on the screen and feels his entire core flood with warmth.  

He helped to make that happen.  Carla has a long-term, stable work placement with the world’s smartest, coolest kid, and Eddie’s abuela can stop overexerting herself and just see Christopher when it won’t be too much for her and Eddie can stop stressing about it all as much and some of that is because of Buck .  Some of it’s for sure attributable to Carla, and even part of it to Christopher, who’s easy to want to look after by virtue of being the best.  But maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe he’s just more mature now, spontaneously, or more confident, but he feels comfortable saying that most of it is because of him specifically.  That he did a good thing.  A good job, even.  

...It’s probably the drugs.  

“Buck.  Your phone.”   

Chimney’s looking at him, holding out an empty palm.   

Buck keeps his phone to his chest.  “I got an Uber.  It was like, fifteen minutes away, last I checked.”  

“When was that?”  

Buck hesitates.  Really tries to come up with the right answer.  “I don’t know.  ...Time is weird .  Doesn’t matter, though, when you think about it.  It’s gonna pass anyway.”  

Chimney sighs, closes his eyes, pinches his sinuses.  Like Buck’s the most exasperating person he’s ever met.   

Eddie’s phone starts vibrating, Pepa’s name and photo flashing up across the screen.  Buck guesses it makes sense that Carla wouldn’t want to come pick him up when she would have to bring Chris.  

“That’s my ride,” Eddie says, and stands.  He brushes his knuckles over Buck’s temple before stepping up to Chimney and putting a hand on either one of his shoulders.   

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says.  Deadly serious.  Looks Chim right in his eyes.  “I think you’re very handsome.”  

“ ...Okay ?” Chim says.  “Me too, I think?  Thank you?”  

Eddie nods gravely.  “You’re very, very welcome.  Well.  Bye.”  And he moves to walk down the loft stairs.   

Chim, still visibly perplexed, turns his attention back to Buck.  “Do you have someone to...” He flails a hand around for a moment, “I don’t know.  Trip-sit?”  

“Duh,” Buck says.  “ Maddie .  Uber’s taking me to her place.  You remember Maddie—you just met her.  God… I hope she’s not mad at me.  What if she’s mad at me?”  

Chimney heaves a sigh, but not like he’s personally exasperated by Buck this time.  He lowers himself into the chair next to Buck, right where Eddie used to be, but he scoots the chair back a couple of inches, because Buck and Eddie had kept theirs spaced absurdly close.  

“She’s not gonna be mad at you, Buck.  You got drugged.  By accident .  If anything, she’ll just be worried.”  

“She’s already worried,” Buck groans.  “She worries about me all the time .  And she’s probably right, even though most of the time I think she’s not, because it’s been...” he has to count out the years in his head.  Time is still weird.  He forgets how old he is, for a second, because he feels in his bones like he’s goddamn eighty-five.   

Buck continues, “It’s been almost fourteen years, and I’ve been doing it on my own, and it’s been fine —it’s been mostly fine, so I’m mostly fine, I think?  But maybe she’s right.  She’s usually right about stuff.”  He drops his face into his hands, elbows propped on the table.  “And I think I know she’s probably right, because I get fucking mean to her about it, and—and it makes me feel like shit, you know?  Because I don’t want to be mean to her, but it just happens, I feel fucking cornered and I—I don’t know why.  That’s a lie.  I know why.  I’m so scared, like all the time, now.  I just.  I wanted her to stick around so bad , and now I’m not even treating her like I... I just.  It’s just like.  I don’t know who I am without it.  I don’t know —I think of myself and there’s just— nothing .  Like it’s just an empty space.  Less than that.  Because I could make something in an empty space.  It’s more like a black hole.  And it’s—isn’t that terrifying?  Wouldn’t that scare you?”  

“Um,” Chimney says.  Quietly.  Very carefully.  “Yeah, Buck.  I can see that.  It would probably help if I knew what you were talking about, though.”  

Buck’s phone chimes, telling him the Uber’s arrived, and he almost, almost laughs.  “No,” he says, “it probably wouldn’t.”  

— 

Buck knocks on Maddie’s front door and waits for about ten minutes after the Uber drives away before he realizes that she’s not home.  

It’s nice out, a late-Autumn seventy degrees; the sun’s out, started rising a couple hours ago, but it’s not oppressive, and the courtyard at Maddie’s place has a few benches in it, and olive trees, even if they’re the kind that never fruit.   

Buck lays back on one of the benches, hands folded over his phone on his midsection, one leg trailing lazily on the ground, eyes closed.  He feels the splinters of early-morning sunlight on his eyelids.  He feels a warm, mild breeze run through his hair.  He feels tired and soupy inside his own body.  He feels miserable.  

He should probably call her.  He knows sometimes, when she can’t sleep, she gets ready for work at like, three or four in the morning, and then goes grocery shopping before Buck even wakes up.  Which is insane, to him, but he knows it’s something she does.   

He should definitely call her.  It would suck if she didn’t know he couldn’t drive her to work.  Because he can’t.  Because his car is still at the station and also he’s still pretty fucking high. He probably, now that he thinks about it, should have gone to someone else—because Maddie has a job, and she specifically moved to her own place this week , so clearly being in close proximity to Buck every moment neither of them was at work wasn’t working for her, and so showing up without warning and being like, surprise, you don’t have a ride to work, and also apparently I need to be babysat for six to ten more hours even though I’m a few years from thirty , is probably actually really annoying and inconvenient and— 

—Except there’s no one else to go to.  

And it’s Maddie .  If there’s one person who’s always going to put up with him, it’s her, right?  

He still doesn’t want to call her.  

— 

“Traffic was stupid on Colorado.  Still not used to it.  Have you been waiting long?” 

“What?” Buck mumbles.  His mouth tastes sticky and stale.  It feels like he’s been eating chalk.  

The burnt-orange wash of light through his eyelids fades to cool gray as something steps between him and the sun.  He blinks his eyes open.  It’s Maddie, silhouetted in high-sun gold, hair falling down around her face, features barely distinguishable.   

“What time is it?” Buck asks, but he fumbles for his phone while he does so, so he sees the clock before Maddie can answer.  Just before nine AM.  “Oh, shit.”  

“It’s okay.  Sue knows I just moved.  You wanna help me carry this stuff inside?”  

He sits up and peers around her legs, noticing the large laundry basket filled with paper Trader Joe’s bags.  

“About that,” Buck says.  “Um.”  He stands, hefts the laundry basket, starts following her to the front door.  “I kind of.  Accidentally dropped acid at work.  And got sent home.  So I can’t drive you in.  And also I’m supposed to have someone make sure I don’t do anything stupid, or whatever.  Although I think the high’s mostly gone now.  So if you want to Uber in, I’ll probably be fine.  I’ll even pay for it.”  

Maddie finishes putting the security code into the keypad before she turns, very slowly, to look at him.  “...What.”  

Buck nudges at the now-unlocked door with the toe of his sneaker.  Neither of them speaks as it creaks open, just an inch.  He uses the bulk of the basket in his arms to open it the rest of the way, slips inside and walks straight for the kitchen.  “Somebody gave brownies to the station, they had a crap-ton of LSD in them, everybody but Chim got high off their asses, we all got sent home, now I’m here.”  He sets the basket on the kitchen counter.  “I really, really can’t drive.  But if you go to the station, I have the...” he feels around in his pockets, first the ones of his pants, then his jacket.  He sighs.  “I left the keys in my locker.”  

Maddie doesn’t seem to be listening to most of this.  “Couldn’t someone have called me?”  

“I was supposed to.”  Buck starts looking through the bags in the laundry basket, trying to find something to do, trying to be helpful.  “Chim wanted to.”  

“Well, why didn’t that happen ?”  

He realizes that he actually has no idea where any of the stuff goes in her kitchen.  “I don’t know.  I just kept putting it off.  And then I fell asleep on a bench.  I didn’t want you to get mad at me.”  

“Why would I get mad at you?”  
“You’re mad at me right now.”  

“I’m not mad,” Maddie insists.  

“You sound mad.”  

“I’m not mad.”  Maddie takes the bag of brown sugar from Buck’s hands, tracks her eyes over the cabinets for a moment because apparently she’s not used to it yet, either, before seeming to remember where the sugar lives.  She opens the cabinet and tucks the bag into its spot.  “It’s not like you did drugs at work on purpose.  I just.  I would’ve liked to know a little earlier, because on the one hand, my brother got drugged at work and no one told me, and on the other, I could’ve called work and told them I can’t come in.  But now my shift starts in...” she looks at the wall clock above the sink and groans a little.  “Twenty-two minutes, and it’s a thirty-five minute drive, and part of that’s my fault, because I still don’t know how long it takes to drive here, really, but now I have to Uber .”  

“...I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t say sorry .”  

“Well, I am sorry, so.”  

“Then don’t be sorry.  You shouldn’t be sorry that you accidentally did drugs that you didn’t know were there.”   

“I’m sorry for not calling earlier, I mean.” 

“Okay.”  Maddie nods.  She puts a plastic container of grape tomatoes in the produce drawer of the fridge.  “That one I accept.”  

“You still seem mad.”  

“I’m not mad.”  

“It’s okay if you are, you know.” 

“I’m not mad!  Why do you—you seem like you want me to be mad at you.”  

Buck shrugs.  “I’d be mad at me.”  

“Okay, but I’m not you.  And you shouldn’t be mad at you, either.”  

Buck shakes his head.  Shakes it again, then again, then again.  His mouth is still dry.  His brain feels like it’s made of Styrofoam.  It’s not enjoyable anymore, if it ever was.  He wants to help with the groceries; he doesn’t know where any of them are supposed to go .  He puts one hand flat on the kitchen counter, forms the other into a fist, presses down repeatedly on the flat hand like he’s driving a nail through the palm.  “Not about this.  Not specifically.  Just.  I’ve been acting like an asshole to you.  And I don’t know how not to.”  

He’s looking at his own hands, not at Maddie, but it doesn’t matter.  He hears her soften, rather than seeing it.  

“I’m gonna call Sue,” she says.  “And tell her I’m having a family emergency, and that I can’t come in today.”  

He shakes his head again.  If he talks, he’s going to sound like a whiny little kid.  He hates sounding like a little kid.  “No.” 

“Yes,” Maddie says, specifically inflected, no room for argument.  “It’s fine.  She’ll understand.”  

“I’m not an—an emergency .”   

“Of course you’re not.”  

It feels stupid.  He feels stupid.  Because he’s sober enough now to know that he’s not actually sober, so tomorrow he’ll probably look back on this and feel like an even bigger idiot—for not calling earlier, for begging Maddie to stay and then feeling like a drain whenever she wants to be around him.  For having this idea in his head for a couple hours that he’d just show up to Maddie’s place unannounced and she’d take care of him like he was a kid without it causing any issues, because she’s an adult with a job and a life and apparently he’s too selfish and immature to actually remember that when it matters.  

“I’m mostly stable,” he says.  Feebly, even though he didn’t mean for it to sound that way.  He said, I’m mostly stable, but the words sound like, I want to walk it back.  I know I can’t, but I wish I could walk it back .  

“I know,” Maddie says, but it’s almost too gentle.  Almost like she’s humoring him.  

“I’d be fine,” Buck says.  

“Probably,” Maddie agrees.  Then adds, “I wouldn’t forgive myself if you weren’t, though.” She’s put away all the groceries.  She’s really good at multitasking, Buck notes, and feels like maybe he’ll start crying soon.  He lets himself be herded into the living room, be pushed down onto the couch he and Eddie spent over half an hour trying to figure out how to get into the front door.  Takes the glass of water she hands him.  

“Give me like, two minutes,” she says.  The living room curtains are closed, but she flicks on the corner lamp as she leaves the room.  The lampshade is translucent.  Tuscan yellow.  It almost looks like evening in here.   

Buck drinks his water.  

— 

A little after noon, with the curtains still closed, Buck’s finished the glass of water, and a second, and a third.  He’s splayed half-horizontally on the couch that a few hours ago, he was sitting upright on.  He’d had his head on a throw pillow until Maddie, changed back into her not-work clothes, squished up on the couch next to him, and now his head’s resting half on her lower thigh.  

“I’ve never been upset with you about this,” she says eventually, and it takes Buck a few seconds to actually process her words.  He doesn’t think he’s all that high anymore.  He’s just exhausted.  

“Weird emphasis,” Buck mumbles, not bothering to lift his head to make his voice not-muffled.  

Maddie hums.  “Okay,” she admits, “I mean, it’s not the most fun ever to talk to you when you’re being defensive.  But I get it.”  

Buck makes an unconvinced sort of noise.  

“Not like, get it , get it.  Just—I understand what’s happening.  I mean, you were a moody kid,” Maddie continues, “and a moody teenager.  And now you’re a moody adult.  I don’t know you very well if I don’t know that.”  

“ Moody ,” Buck repeats, unimpressed. 

“Not in a bad way, really.  You just... feel stuff.  And then you react to feeling stuff by feeling more stuff.”  He feels the movement of her shrug through his cheek on her knee.  “I’ve gotten really, really bad at feeling stuff, over the last decade.  Got really good at shutting down.  Trying to get better at it now.”  

“I think I’ve been trying to do the opposite for a long time,” Buck says quietly, and it’s easier to say, in the dim light.  When he can’t see her face.  “I think that might be the whole point, of... you know.”  

“Maybe,” Maddie says.  “And that’s part of what makes me upset.”  Her hand settles lightly, fingertips warm and dry, just above his ear.  She adds, “ Not at you,” before he can say anything.  “More at myself.”  

Buck makes a sound that’s half question, half dissent, not at all language.  

Maddie doesn’t need any interpretation.  “Mostly for never noticing.  Like, how could I not have expected some kind of—I don’t know.  Mom and Dad always said you were doing fine, when I asked.”  

“Yeah, well.  It’s not like I ever told them.”  

“But they should’ve noticed.  And I’ve known your whole life that anything they should notice was up to me .  And I missed it.  The whole time, I missed it.”  

“It had barely even started before you got married,” Buck says, and he tries to make it sound assuaging, but it kind of falls flat halfway out his mouth, comes out a little accusatory. 

“And that’s the other thing,” Maddie says.  “I’m always going to wonder, if I hadn’t—been conned, I guess, into getting married so fast like that, would any of it have even happened?”  

“Probably,” Buck says, because he can’t really stand to think of the alternative.  “It wasn’t because of you.”  

“Wasn’t it?”  

“ No , Maddie.  I don’t know why I’m like this, but I know whatever it is, it’s not your fault.”  

She sighs.  “I don’t think it was my fault—I don’t think it was your fault, either, before you say that.  I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.  I think it’s a fault of mine that I missed it. I kind of knew, deep down, that whatever was going on with you, Mom and Dad would tell me you were fine, and that you would tell me you were fine—” 

“—So, it’s on me, too, then,” Buck interjects.  “Even if you’d thought , even if you’d asked me outright, I wouldn’t have told you.”  

“You were a kid , Buck.”  

“Not a kid anymore,” Buck mutters.  “Permanently fucked up.”  

“Not permanently.  I’ve been doing some research.” 

Buck turns his head so more of his face is muffled by her knee.  “Oh, God.”  

“Whatever,” Maddie says, without heat.  “Anyway, they used to think less than five percent of people with bulimia were men.  Now they think it’s more than ten.”   

Buck snorts.  “Great.” 

“It kind of is great,” Maddie says, “because there’s no reason to believe the actual numbers have gone up.  They’re just getting better at recognizing and diagnosing it.”  

“You look at the long-term prognosis, in your research? That shit’s pretty dismal.”  

She pokes above his ear.  “Yeah, I did , actually.  Not as dismal as you think, probably.  Thirty to sixty percent odds of full recovery with consistent treatment.”  

Buck gets quiet for a moment.  They’re not phenomenal odds, but Maddie’s right, in that they’re better than he was envisioning.  Eventually, he gets out, “I don’t even know what that looks like.”  

“Consistent treatment?”  

“ ‘Full recovery’.”  

“Complete and permanent behavioral and cognitive remission,” Maddie says, like she remembers the phrase in full from a website.  “So, you eat normally and you don’t even have to think about it.”  

“Mm.”  He’s tired.  In general.  Of this, specifically.  “Sounds fake.”  

“It’s not, though,” Maddie says.  “Super real.  I think you have to want it, though.”  

She falls quiet, and this is the part, Buck knows, where he’s supposed to say that he does, in fact, want it.  Change his direction.  Choose health and stability, or whatever.  

It’s not that he doesn’t want to say it.  It’s that he literally can’t form the words in his mouth.  It would feel the same as saying he wants to meet the real, live Santa Claus.  Impossible to say in a genuine way, impossible to say without feeling like he’s playing an ignorant, unjaded, young version of himself.  Impossible to say without it being five, ten, thirteen years ago.  He’s missed this chance a million times over.  

So he doesn’t say anything at all.  

Maddie gives him the world’s softest facsimile of a noogie, maybe an inch above his ear.  “Well, I like your odds,” she says.  “You could be okay.” 

And she sounds so sure when she says it, and it all sounds so simple, that Buck can’t find any way to deflect.  

“Think so?” 

“Yep.” No hesitation.  “I think you just have to find a good reason to want to.”  

Buck just hums.  It feels nice, warm and syrupy and safe, to pretend he believes her.  He resettles his cheek on the denim above her knee.  This whole place feels like Maddie —light renter’s walls splayed with flashes of warm, Mediterranean color; rich fabrics paired with kind of kitschy art; the endearingly predictable array of scented candles she’s picked out: pumpkin loaf, brown sugar vanilla, log cabin .  

He gets why she wanted to move out so bad now.  It must be nice, to live in a place that feels like you actually live there.  

Practically already asleep, Maddie’s hand moving rhythmically through his hair, he murmurs, “I need to get the hell out of Abby’s apartment, don’t I?”    

A little over a week later, Buck asks Eddie a question via text, even though he knows what the answer will be.  

Do you think it would be crazy ill-advised of me to meet up w Taylor Kelly???   

The text doesn’t read delivered for more than a second before it switches to read , and the typing bubble doesn’t even have time to appear before Eddie’s text comes through.  

All it says is: Yes .  

OK damn , Buck sends.  Then: Aren’t you supposed to be at a school interview thing rn? With your wife??? That you apparently have????   

This time the bubble appears, but Eddie doesn’t say anything.  

Buck continues, Literally the whole reason I asked that NOW was because you’re busy. So you’d answer when I’d already made the bad decision and I could be like aw shucks too late!  

The bubble appears, then disappears, then reappears.  

Eddie says, I am not your impulse control Buck. I’m not even MY impulse control .  

Another message comes in a few seconds later: Anyway Shannon’s not here yet. Technically I’m early bc CARLA was early & she told me to get out of the house to clear my head because I was “harshing her mellow” which Chris thinks is the funniest phrase ever said & so before I left I had to hear “harshing my mellow” like 70 times & I was like yknow what maybe I will just go somewhere that isn’t here.   

Then I didn’t actually know where to go so I just went to the school. & now I’m sitting here. Early. Anyway what’s new w you.   

Buck types out, I already said. Taylor Kelly.   

Eddie’s response is almost immediate: She literally doesn’t like you. You TOLD ME that she said she wanted to air all that crap. She’s actually evil.  

Buck says, I think she’s just prickly  

Eddie’s typing bubble appears for five whole seconds, then blinks away.  Eventually, the text comes through, and it just reads: Lemming . 

So that’s a myth actually , Buck sends back, lemmings don’t jump off cliffs .  

Eddie says, You’re like the 1 lemming that does.  
The lemming to warn all the other lemmings. 
Anyway don’t you have a girlfriend 

Buck sends, You’re an asshole. And I’m single now.   

Eddie’s response is nearly instantaneous: You’ve been single since before I met you.   

Then, Shannon’s here gtg  

It would make the most sense to move back in with Maddie for a little while, because signing a lease for a decent apartment around here takes, like, at least a month (at least with his credit score), and he really doesn’t want to stick around in Abby’s desolate apartment longer than he has to.  

He drives Maddie to work every morning, because she spent most of her cash on the security deposit for her place, and she can’t touch her savings account because it’s technically also Doug’s, and she wants to wait until a legal authority neatly saws it in half.  Which Buck gets.  And she says she’s working on it.  And he doesn’t want to push her.  

So she doesn’t have money for a car.  So Buck drives her to work.  In an abstract way, it feels kind of restorative.  Buck got this car from her for free, so it’s not like he’s not happy to do it.  

All his stuff’s still at Abby’s, and it probably will be until he finds his own place—it’s not like Abby stopped paying the rent just because Buck sent her an extremely long, detailed text (on Cyber Monday, of all days, which will probably stick with him forever) and then turned off notifications from her number.  

Anyway, it would make the most sense to just stay with Maddie.  He can personally attest to her couch being pretty comfortable.  

He just... doesn’t want to.  

He’s been.  Trying, for lack a better word.  There are qualifiers that make it more accurate: kind of trying.  Trying part-time .  Trying, except for when he isn’t .  

And he wants nothing less than to talk about how he’s sort-of-sometimes trying, but it kind of seems like Maddie wants nothing more.  

Case in point.  

“So,” Maddie says, when they first pull into the parking lot—the parking lot’s huge, because Parker Center also hosts some offices relating to the Fire Marshal and the PD—and it takes forever to find a spot, so usually Buck just pulls up by the front with his hazards on and Maddie darts out.  But sometimes, like today, she waits until they get to the parking lot to bring something up, and Buck just has to circle around and around the edge of it until they’re done talking.  He suspects she does it for two reasons.  One: Buck can’t escape.  He’s stuck driving the car.  Two: She can escape, if she wants to.  They’re already at her work.  She just has to open the passenger side door.  

He can’t begrudge her for it, really.  It’s all very Maddie.  

“ So ,” he mimics, because he knows what that tone of voice means.  

“Any updates?”  

He pretends to think.  “I have a date on Thursday.”  

“Awesome.  Super cool.  Not really what I meant, though.”  

He sighs.  Tries to keep it humorous: the sigh is much too heavy to be genuine, obviously played up for the bit.  “Not really,” he says.  “Been doing some Googling.”  

“Okay,” Maddie says.  “Googling what?”  

He shrugs.  Starts his second loop around the parking lot.  “Just.  Stuff.  Statistics.  Research.” 

“Is any of it helpful?”  

He just shrugs again.  

It feels helpful.  He likes doing it, almost.  But he’s pretty sure the main reason he likes learning and categorizing new information about bulimia is that it allows him to feel like he’s doing something about the bulimia without actually having to do anything about the bulimia.  

But that’s way too self-aware to admit in the Parker Center dispatch parking lot at nine in the morning.  

“How about you?” he asks, watching the clock on the dash tick minute over minute, knowing that if he doesn’t change the topic, Maddie’s going to be late for work, and then he’s going to be late for work.  This is why he should just be staying with her right now.  Except he doesn’t know how many more times he can just answer her probing with research before she pushes further, before she says something like, Well, have you ‘researched’ an open spot in your calendar for an intake assessment?  

Maddie shrugs.  She has this little half-smile on her face.  “Been doing some Googling,” she says.  

“Yeah?” Buck asks, and he can’t stop himself from laughing, just a little, because she sounds so pleased with herself.  “Googling what?”  

“How exactly to afford a divorce attorney when I can’t safely get access to any of my money until I’m already divorced.”  

Buck lets that sink in for a second, then reaches over the gearshift to nudge her shoulder, says, “Much more productive than my Googling.  Props.”  

“I know why twenty-year-old me never thought of a pre-nup,” she says, a little despondently.  “She was twenty.  But God, I wish she had thought of a pre-nup.”  

“Would it have even mattered?”  

She lets her head fall back against the headrest, blows a harsh breath out of her lips.  Buck starts his third loop of the parking lot.  

“Probably not,” she admits.  “Probably would’ve gotten shot down.  I’m trying to find, like, a women’s resource center, maybe?  Who might have someone who could work on an advance, or maybe even pro-bono.  But every time I try to look into that I start feeling like I’m taking stuff away from people who actually need it, and it makes me feel so dramatic, or—or stupid , like I’m making something out of nothing.  Which I know is a me problem.  Because obviously it wasn’t nothing.  Isn’t nothing.”  

“ You actually need it,” Buck says.  “I know you know that, but just in case you forgot.  The help is there for you .”  

“Yeah,” Maddie says.  “ Mhm .”  

“Don’t Uno reverse me right now,” Buck says.  He turns on the hazard light, slows to a crawl in the parallel white lines in front of the sidewalk at the Parker Center entrance.  

Maddie gives him a scrunch-nosed smile.  “Don’t make it so easy, then.”  

“So, is this a date, or a consultation?”  

Buck slides into the seat across from Ali—Ali from the high-rise in September, Ali who went to RISD, Ali who does something to do with interior-design-condos-real-estate-something-or-other.  

“...Yes?” Buck answers, but he smiles while he says it, at least.  

Thankfully, it makes her crack a smile, too.  It’s a sharper type of smile; she’s not really impressed, just amused.  Which is fine by him.   

“Either way,” she says, “you’re paying.  And I guess choosing apartments is as good a way as any to get to know a person.”  

He hasn’t actually, if he thinks about it, ever really done the whole dating thing. Everyone he’s seen more than once can be sorted into three categories: high school (which seems irrelevant in this instance), repeated hookups, and Abby Clark.  

He also hasn’t, if he thinks about it, even chosen his own place to live , really, either.  He’s chosen climates, states, cities. But he’s always kind of just… ended up in whatever buildings he stayed in.  Up to and including Abby’s apartment.  He’s made nominal choices, but the choice was pretty much always, it’s this place, or a motel, or the Jeep , so he feels like maybe that doesn’t really count.  

For someone who’s lived in a huge array of places—and there’s probably more people he’s slept with than places he’s lived—he now finds himself doubly out of his depth.  

“So,” Ali says.  Fixes him with attentive brown eyes.  “What are you looking for?” 

Buck doesn’t think he’s imagining the double entendre. 

Chapter Text

“I literally can’t even pretend to understand her,” Buck says, and puts a stack of plates in the kitchen cabinet hard enough that they rattle.  He adds, “Sorry.”  He’s not sure if it’s to Eddie or the plates.  

Eddie doesn’t say anything, not even an it’s fine, presumably because it’s just generally understood.  He just keeps sorting silverware into the drawer and waits for Buck to continue talking.  

“She’s always been kind of crazy about Christmas,” Buck says eventually.  “I mean, she had Hallmark movie marathons every year when I was in elementary school.  I don’t know if you know this, but every Hallmark movie is the same exact movie, Eddie.”  

“You were in on the marathons?”  

“Obviously,” Buck says flippantly.  “She was my best friend.  Anyway—when she—uh, when she got married, she was so freaking excited to get to decorate her own house for Christmas, like she bought a star for her tree before she even moved out.  And she never mentioned not wanting to celebrate, so fu—freaking excuse me for assuming that she’d want to this year, too, right?”  

Eddie, again, visibly assesses Buck’s pause, figures he’s not quite done going yet, and waits for him to keep talking.  He slots a spatula into the canister of cooking utensils next to the stove.  

Christopher, though not technically in the room, is still within earshot (especially given Buck’s current volume) so Buck’s trying to live-censor himself, though it remains a struggle.  

 “It’s not even that she doesn’t want to, like, do Christmas,” Buck says, then amends, “I mean, it kind of is, because this is the first time she’s been around for Christmas since I was, like, fourteen, so maybe I wanted to do Christmas with her, but whatever— it’s more that she got so pis—ticked off with me about it.  Like I’m crazy for assuming that maybe she’d want some decorations for her favorite holiday.  That maybe it would be nice.  I wanted it to be nice.”  

This time, after tracking Buck’s pause, Eddie speaks.  “I think she knows you were trying to be nice.”  

Buck scoffs.  “You didn’t hear how freaked out she got.”  

Eddie closes the empty dishwasher.  “Yeah, freaked out.  Your words.  Not mad.”  

“Whatever,” Buck says, which makes the corner of Eddie’s mouth tick up, because Buck’s basically just admitted that Eddie’s probably right.  Buck adds, “She was kind of mad, though.”  

“Was that before or after you got mad?”  

“How do you know I got mad?”  

“You were mad when you walked in here.”  

(When Buck had walked in here, he hadn’t texted to say he was on the way.  So it’s good that they were home.  Buck just drove over from Maddie’s, the back seat of the Jeep still full of rejected Christmas decorations, and knocked on Eddie’s door, sharply, five times.)  

“Same time,” Buck says, then admits, “but actually, probably after.”  

Eddie tips his head, like he’s saying, well, then.  “And... how much stuff was it?  Was it a lot of stuff?”  

It would sting, probably, that Eddie could so easily and accurately peg Buck’s tendency to overdo, if Eddie wasn’t saying it with such obvious fondness.  It’s not like it’s something that Buck proudly advertises about himself: Hey, selling point about me—I never know what the appropriate reaction to a situation is, or how hard to commit to things!   But of course Eddie knows it about him.  Buck did it to him, after all.  

“It was... a decent amount of stuff.”  

“Define ‘decent’.”  

“ Okay, it was a lot of stuff.  I thought it would be nice!”  

“I know you thought it would be nice,” Eddie says, and he’s smiling while he says it, the one that’s downturned, the one that’s more in his eyes.  “But—hey, I mean, you came at it too strong and it didn’t land.  She doesn’t hate you.  I don’t even think she’s all that mad at you.  She’s probably just overwhelmed.  New state, new apartment, no crappy husband...”  

“Yeah,” Buck says, like he understands.  And he does, it’s just.  

Overwhelmed.   

It’s sticking with him.  

It’s sticking to him, like the gray, gummy back of a band-aid that’s been peeled off after too many days.  Overwhelmed.  He feels sixteen again, calling Maddie late at night, repeating the same cycle of boring, trite worries just to hear some form of reassurance from her, all while keeping the real stuff, the horrible stuff, the gross stuff, the overwhelming stuff, tucked under his tongue.     

“I’m being immature about it, probably,” Buck says, and Eddie doesn’t say anything, just shrugs, which means he mostly agrees.  

“Call her,” Eddie says.  “Communication, or whatever.”  

“Rich coming from you,” Buck says.  “When’s the last time you actually talked to you-know-who ?”  

Eddie rolls his eyes.  He gestures to the fridge, because Buck’s closer to it, and Buck takes it as his cue to get each of them a beer.   

“That’s different,” Eddie says.  He lowers his voice to almost inaudible levels.  “That’s my wife, and Maddie’s your sister, who is lovely, who you like, so—” 

Buck matches his volume.  He’s practically mouthing the words when he asks, “What, you don’t like your wife?”  

For a second, or just half a second, maybe, Eddie looks shocked.  Like he kind of can’t believe that could be what he said.  He schools his expression into sarcasm.  “Obviously I like my wife.  It’s—it’s just complicated.”  

“All that sex you’re having with her seems to be pretty complicated, at least.”  

“That’s kind of what’s making it—” Eddie cuts himself off, voice getting louder, “—we’re supposed to be talking about you.  Call your sister, man.”  

“I just,” Buck starts, and it sounds like a non-sequitur, but it doesn’t feel like one when he says it, “I just wanted to... like, do Christmas with her.”  

“So tell her that.”  

Buck grimaces.  “It would feel like... I don’t know.  Like guilt-tripping.”  

“Not if you’re not trying to guilt trip her.”  

“I’m not.”  

“I know that,” Eddie says, with a tinge of exasperation.  “So it won’t feel like you’re guilt-tripping her, because you’re not trying to make her feel guilty.  Just.  Call her and say you didn’t mean to overwhelm her.  Apologize if you want.  I would.” 

“ Would you?”  

Eddie gives him a capital-L Look, but doesn’t argue that specific point, so Buck figures that the answer is probably no.  But Eddie also probably wouldn’t get himself into this situation in the first place, so.   

“ Call her,” Eddie says a third, or maybe fourth, time.  “And say you’re sorry for springing it on her, and that you only did it because you wanted to spend Christmas with her for the first time in forever.  Hundred bucks she understands.”  

“Not taking that,” Buck says.  “Maddie’s the nicest person in the whole world.”  

Eddie throws up his hands. “Then why are we even having this conversation?”  

Buck, finally laughing a little, pulls out his phone.   

Living with Chimney is, to put it mildly, torturous, so Buck does his best to do it as little as possible.  

If he’s not at work, he’s at Maddie’s place, or Eddie and Christopher’s house, or the gym, or with Ali when she’s actually in town, or he’s back at work, lingering after handoff, showing up early, trying to beg an extra shift out of somebody.  

It’s just.  Living with someone who not only works at the same place as him, but works the same shifts... it feels, sometimes, like him and Chimney are the only two people in the world.  Which, as much as he likes the guy as a coworker and a friend (and maybe, hopefully, begrudgingly, his sister’s sort-of-boyfriend, if they ever decide to acknowledge that—seriously, who does Buffridays unless they’ve been dating for, like, a century?  Who even comes up with the concept of a Buffriday?  What the hell is a Buffriday?) the idea of being trapped with Chimney, last-man-on-earth style, has a distinct horror-movie taste to it.  

And sleeping on the couch is barely worth it.  Chim’s couch sucks.  

It’s not like Chim’s faring much better, couch/bed comparison notwithstanding.  But it is Chimney’s apartment, so even if they’re both trying to avoid each other when they’re not at work, Buck kind of has to be the one to stay out of the house.  It’s not like he can ask Chim to leave.   

And that’s the other part of it.  He’s never alone.  It’s like living with Maddie again, except so much worse, because at least when that was happening, no matter how much he itched to just have a second to himself, he was always at least a little more amazed that Maddie was still there, and present, and staying.  

And she’d never followed him to work.  

He can’t binge at work.  He can’t do it at Maddie’s apartment.  God forbid he ever did it at Eddie’s house.  He’s never alone at Chim’s place.  

Which leaves his car.  And he fucking hates doing it in his car.  It makes him feel like his life’s falling apart.  It reminds him of every worst that’s ever happened in his life.   

So he hasn’t purged since living with Chim.  Probably doing wonders for his teeth.  Sometimes, during a bad period—or, a worse period, maybe—he’ll wake up with this weird, tasteless grit in his mouth.  Took him a good amount of Googling to figure out it’s flakes of enamel.  And that shit doesn’t grow back.  It’s part of why he doesn’t go to the dentist.  

He seriously considers just going back to sleeping at Abby’s place, but just for a second.  On the one hand, he really, really just doesn’t want to, and on the other, it would be super awkward to explain to Ali.  

Ali, who’s in town sometimes, but most of the time she’s not.  When she is, Buck kind of jumps on the chance to hang out with someone who pretty much only knows him as Buck, who’s cool to talk to and also helped me out during a horrific earthquake that one time; also, he’s looking for an apartment, and isn’t that fun.   No deep-rooted issues baring their teeth tucked around any corners, barely any strings attached, just them meeting up to get food or go to her friends’ art galleries or have sex or watch a couple of the black-and-white horror movies she loves.  

She keeps track of places open for rent for him, occasionally sends him links for applications.  He gets denied for most of them, mostly because of his credit, but it doesn’t really faze her.  She says she’s working on it, and she always seems to be working on about seventeen different things, and she has a calendar on her phone where all seventeen of those things are laid out and color coded, so Buck thinks he believes her.  

— 

He’s at Eddie’s house when he gets the call.  Eddie’s cleaning the kitchen since Buck cooked, and Buck’s sitting on the living room floor with Chris.  Buck’s slotting blue Lego bricks into a disembodied staircase, and he’s not exactly sure what Chris is trying to build, it kind of just looks like a yellow blob, but he’s extremely focused on it, whatever it is.  

Then Buck’s phone starts buzzing. 

The contact name says LAFD MED, which is weird, because he hasn’t heard from them since he scheduled the appointment with Doctor Wells.  God, he hopes someone hasn’t dragged that back up.  It was only last year; it kind of feels like another lifetime.  

“Hello?”  

“Hello, this is Maureen Gladstone from the LA Fire Department’s health division.  I’m trying to reach Evan Buckley, house 118?”   

“...That’s me.”  

“Great!  Is now a good time to talk?”   

“Um, yeah,” Buck says, mostly automatically.  Then adds, “Depends what we’re talking about, though.”  

Maureen from the Health Division laughs politely.  Buck wasn’t joking.  

“I’m just calling to follow up on a wellness report that was filed concerning your safety.  Are you interested in scheduling a counseling session?”   

“Sorry?”  

“Were you interested in scheduling a counseling session?  There must either be a mandatory psychiatric re-evaluation, when a wellness report is filed, or if you’d rather, a minimum of three department counseling sessions.”  

“No, I mean, go back—there’s a report?”  

“Yes, a wellness report was filed in...”  There’s the sound of a keyboard clicking.  “October, 2018.”   

October of last year ?   

“October?  What kind of report?”  

“A wellness report specifying concerns for your safety.”  

“Well, who filed it?”  

“I’m sorry, Mr. Buckley.  The internal reports are anonymous.  I assume you’re going to want to get the re-evaluation first?  This seems to be surprising for you.”  

“Yeah, I’d say it’s pretty surprising for me.”  

Eddie walks in from the kitchen kind of quickly, like he knows something’s not right.  Even if Eddie can’t make out what Buck’s saying from over in the kitchen, it’s obviously a tone he wouldn’t use with Chris.   

When he sees Buck on the phone, he pauses in the archway, face all knit up, and leans silently against the frame.  Buck wants to walk outside, be alone for the rest of this conversation, but on some level, that feels like admitting that something’s wrong, like admitting that actually, he’s not okay with what’s happening right now, and he really, really doesn’t want to do that.  It’s been a nice night.  Chris is already looking at him sort of weird—he’s a perceptive kid—but he doesn’t look concerned, or even too confused.  Buck getting up and walking out the door would change that, though.  

So he keeps his expression neutral and keeps his voice as close to pleasant as he can make it.  “ ‘Internal reports’?” 

“Reports made between employees of the same rank or reports of superiors.”   

Well, Buck isn’t actually anybody’s superior, except for maybe Eddie?  He’s technically still a probie.  Which is laughable, by the way.  

So it has to be Hen or Chim.  

And it wouldn’t be Hen.  She checks in.  Famously.  She wouldn’t do this. 

That leaves Chimney.  

“Mr. Buckley?”   

“Yes,” Buck says.  “Still here.  Sorry.  Um.  Can you tell me the... nature, of the report?” 

“It’s a report concerned about your safety and requesting a psychological re-evaluation.”   

He wants to say, You already fucking said that, Maureen.  Can you give me something else, maybe?   

But Maureen didn’t ask for this.  Maureen is just doing her job.  Maureen didn’t report him to the health division behind his fucking back.  

So he says, “Right.  Right.  Uh, you said I have to do the evaluation?”  

“The re-evaluation is mandatory, yes, unless you go straight to scheduling the counseling sessions instead.”   

“I’ll...” he rubs a hand over his face.  “I’ll do the evaluation.”  

“Wonderful.  Behavioral health is open Monday through Friday, 9 to 3.  Do you have a preferred date?”  

— 

When he finally gets off the phone with Maureen, he texts Chimney, Hey so what’s the deal with the psych eval?????   

He drafts it out a few times.  He can feel Eddie watching him while he does it.  He can feel his own face burning.  He doesn’t want to look up at Eddie, doesn’t want to see if Eddie’s face reveals how much he actually knows, what he’s actually thinking right now.  

The first draft read, Why the fuck did you report me for a psych eval?   

Delete.  

The second draft read, Care to explain why healthcare dept just called me about a wellness report??  

Delete.  

He thinks the one he ends up sending is the least confrontational.  Not that he’s not trying to confront Chimney, but there is a chance, however small, that it wasn’t actually him—like when Chim claimed he wasn’t the one catfishing as Buck on that dating site.  Buck thought he was lying up until the very second they got to that dead guy’s trailer.  

He sees that Chimney’s read the text almost immediately, and the response comes in sooner than Buck thought it would.  

I totally forgot I did that.   

It was after the LSD clusterfuck. You said some kinda freaky-weird stuff to me.   

Buck thinks about typing something back, but Chimney’s texts keep rolling in.  

If you’re good though then you’re good.   

I can’t believe it took this long??? Useless health dept.  

Buck manages to send back, Ok but you could’ve talked to ME about it.  

Chimney types for a moment.  The bubble disappears.  Reappears.  Buck can feel Eddie watching him.  He can feel Eddie watching him.  Eddie’s going to want him to explain.  He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain.   

Chim’s text comes through: Yeah I could’ve.   

Then, I didn’t want to though. We weren’t as close then and I’m not really great with that type of stuff.   

Buck says, We were literally plenty close?? You’re my friend???   

He adds, I don’t get why you had to go above my head without telling me first  

Chimney’s text comes through very fast this time.  

I didn’t think it was going to take this long.   

I was legit worried about you. You seem to be doing better now but to be totally honest the way you were talking I thought maybe you were going to go home and try to do something you couldn’t undo.   

And Buck... pauses.  

He remembers what he said to Chim, sitting in the loft, waiting for his Uber.  

At least, he thinks he does.  

It wasn’t that weird, right? A little too much, maybe. A little too depressing, a little too whiny, a little too a lot. But not like, I can’t be trusted with my own life type stuff.  

Right?  

Another text buzzes through from Chimney.  

If you want me to apologize I’m not going to. Was just looking out. I AM sorry they just got around to filing it, that’s honestly rly disappointing from the dept.   

Buck doesn’t text back, because his first thought of what to say is, it’s nothing.  Or, it’s whatever.   

But it doesn’t feel like nothing, and it doesn’t feel like whatever.  He realizes that he’s actually more than a little pissed.  

He leaves Chim on read, turns his phone off and slips it back into his pocket.  Pointedly doesn’t make eye contact with Eddie.  Readjusts himself back across from Christopher, the bin of tiny colored bricks between them.  He resettles his face.  Gestures to the amorphous yellow blob that Chris is still working on.  Clears his throat.  “Tell me your vision with this one, bud.”  

“I think we should set some ground rules,” Maddie says.  They’re both sitting on the floor of her living room, legs crossed like little kids.  

“For what?”  

Buck’s bags are still in the corner.  He hasn’t unpacked anything yet, just grabs toiletries and clothes from the unzipped backpack.  It’s not like there’s very much to choose from; most of his stuff is still collecting dust in Abby’s apartment.  

He grabbed his shit from Chimney’s place two days ago, didn’t even say anything about it, just stopped there on the way from Eddie’s to Maddie’s, right after that stupid phone call.  Crashed on Maddie’s couch that same night.  She came back from work the next day with the air mattress.  Buck owes her thirty dollars now.  

Maddie says, “Living together again.”  

The electric air pump huffs and puffs and wheezes.  It doesn’t really seem up to the task of a full-size mattress, which Bucks thinks is a little embarrassing for it.  A full isn’t even that big, all things considered.  It still looks ugly and out of place in the middle of Maddie’s living room.  They had to push the coffee table up against the far wall to make room.  

“I don’t know,” Buck says.  He pulls one knee up, wraps his arm around his shin, rests his chin on top.  “We did okay last time.”  

Maddie scoffs, but not unkindly.  “Don’t pretend you weren’t going a little crazy.”  

“I’m doing good right now.”  

Maddie doesn’t say anything.  

“No, really,” Buck says.  “I—things were bad, when you first got here.  But it’s gotten better.”  

“Actually better?” Maddie asks.  “Or better until something else makes you spiral?”  

Buck tucks his chin down further.  Hides his mouth behind his knee.   

“Sorry,” Maddie says.   

“It’s fine.”  It’s not like she’s wrong, anyway.  “It’s not why I left Chimney’s, if that’s what you’re thinking.”  

Maddie makes a noise like that is, in fact, what she’d been thinking.  “Why’d you leave, then?”  

Shit.  He kinda walked right into that one.  

He shrugs.  “Disagreed with him about something.”  

They’re still not looking at each other, but out the corner of his eye, he can see her head tilt.  He can imagine her expression in perfect clarity: that, are you sure? face she sometimes makes, good-naturedly sarcastic, a little over-performed.  

“Like, what,” she prompts, “politically?”  

“About work,” Buck says, which isn’t technically a lie.  “I just couldn’t live with someone I was already seeing all the time at work.”  

That seems to be enough for Maddie.  Even if she doesn’t really believe him, she lets it go, at least. 

“So ground rules,” she says.  

The mattress looks like it’s almost done.  Buck shifts his head from side to side, tries to release a kink in the back right of his neck.  It won’t pop.  “Sure.”  

“Is it too much to ask for no…” she stumbles a little, “purging?”  

Buck keeps his eyes carefully trained on the air mattress.  “Yes.”  

“Okay,” Maddie says, and she doesn’t even sigh, so she must not be that surprised.  “How about no doing it here.”  

“Doable.”  

“Good,” Maddie affirms.  “Great.  Love it.  Okay.  Um.  Two.  Tell me if you need help, like, finding an apartment.”  

“I have Ali,” Buck says.  “She’s helping.”  

“I mean if you need a cosigner or something.”  

“...I’m twenty-seven, Maddie.”  

“Isn’t that also pretty close to your credit score?”  

It shocks a laugh out of him at the same time the air pump starts beeping to tell them it’s done.  Maddie shifts onto her knees, slides herself forward across the floorboards to plug up the port in the mattress.  “I love you,” she says, “but I don’t want you on my floor forever.”  

“I also don’t want to be on your floor forever,” Buck says, “if that helps.”  

“Noted and appreciated,” Maddie says.  She settles back to her old spot a couple feet away from Buck.  “Oh!  Also, you have to leave for Buffridays, unless you promise to be fun to hang out with.”  

“I am always fun to hang out with,” Buck says, knowing that’s a complete lie.  “And what the hell is a Buffriday ?”   

“Like that!” Maddie says, laughing.  “Like when you pretend you don’t know what Buffriday is!  You’re being a bad sport about it.”  

“I’m not pretending.”  

“You are.  I know you are because I told you what Buffriday is, and you said it was ‘just the kind of dumb thing Chim would come up with’.”  

“Well, I didn’t know you came up with it when I said that.”  

“You revealed your true thoughts in that moment, and I’m not going to forget it.”  

“Okay,” Buck concedes.  “Okay.  I’ll either be nice or I’ll leave.”  

“Thank you,” Maddie says primly.  “I think that’s it, apart from the obvious.  Don’t be a bathroom hog, etcetera.”  

“That feels targeted.”  

“It’s not, actually, because you’ll only be using my bathroom for the usual bathroom stuff.”  

And Buck can’t really argue with that.  

“Right,” he says.  “Okay.  First, if I’m following your first rule... just, don’t push me about it?”  

Maddie considers.  “What does pushing entail.”   

It’s a question, but it doesn’t really sound like a question when she asks it.  The sentence tilts down at the end, finishes flatly, a little suspicious.  

“Like,” Buck starts, “like, don’t ask me questions about it, or tell me that I look dehydrated or whatever, or remind me that I’m supposed to be looking for a therapist.  I promise I already know.”  He reaches out to poke at the air mattress, just to check.  It springs back easily.  “Like I said,” he adds.  “Twenty-seven.”  

“Alright,” Maddie concedes.  Then, like she’s physically fighting herself to say just these words and not any other words that she actually wants to say, “I can do that.”  

“Thanks.”   

When Maddie doesn’t say anything else for a while, he realizes it’s probably because she’s waiting for him to list out more rules.   

He can’t think of anything that would apply here.  Apart from the 118, it’s not like he ever has much going on.  There’s other stuff, sometimes, temporal, fleeting, backburner.  But at the end of the day, it’s his job, the extended 118, and this.   

So he says as much.  

“That’s it,” he says.  “Pretty sure that’s my only rule.”  

— 

A week passes, then two, then a month, then more.  Things are fine.  Buck flits from work to Maddie’s to Eddie’s to Ali’s and it’s all fine.  It would be good, except there’s almost always a thrum of agitation under his skin, slowly ramping up in intensity until he finally finds himself easing the Jeep through a drive through, eating in the car, puking in a gas station bathroom.  He hates doing it in the car.  He hates doing it in the car.  But it’s kind of the best option.  He’ll buy a Gatorade and an overpriced single dose of Tums on his way out.  Nurse them both in the parking lot, wishing he felt guilty, trying to feel guilty, but just finally feeling calm instead.   

He thinks it’s okay.  It wouldn’t be okay if he was doing it somewhere he promised himself he wouldn’t.  (The station, Maddie’s, Eddie’s.)  But he’s not doing that, because he can control himself.  Kind of.  As much as he’s ever been able to.  So, really, it’s okay.  

It’s only a couple times a week.  Three, max.  Mild severity.  Not particularly bad binges, either.  Just enough to cycle out the anxiety.  Doable.  Livable.  Fine.  

After those trips, he’ll come back to the apartment, and depending on the time of day or night, Maddie will be home, and maybe even awake.  And if she is home and awake, she’ll look at him, and then look at him a little longer, and Buck will get the impression that somehow, she knows.  Like she can sense it on him.  

But she doesn’t say anything.  Per the ground rules.  

He thinks it’s better than the alternative—he knows he’s better to be around, easier to talk to, if he’s not letting it build up and build up and build up to a point where he can’t control it.  At least, if he doesn’t try to fight it that much, it feels like he’s the one choosing to do it.  At least it’s not taking him by surprise.  He just... can’t deal with the regular tidal shifts of stress like a normal person.  Something’s always been a little wrong with him, he thinks, and he’s just not equipped.  So it’s fine.  He’s managing it and it’s not really that bad right now and Maddie isn’t asking questions, thankfully, so it’s fine.  

He goes to his psych eval in February.  Sits in an uneven, amorphous gray armchair across from a tiny, bald old man in egregiously large reading glasses.  Says all the right things.   

It feels like lying more than it did when he was evaluated during the hiring process.  He doesn’t know why.  He’s technically doing better now than he was back then—not that that’s very difficult.  Maybe it’s because now he actually knows he has a Certifiable Problem.  

He gets rubber-stamped regardless.  No counseling needed.  

Immediately after the evaluation, he feels a little lighter.  It’s still a couple of shifts before he can talk to Chimney completely normally again, but he gets there.  Chim, for his part, has been remarkably, aggravatingly levelheaded about the whole thing.  He just treats Buck like he always has.  Still acts like a snarky little asshat half the time.  Hasn’t even brought it up once.   

Chimney and Maddie still hang out every Friday evening that A-shift isn’t working.  Chimney, according to Maddie (because Chim isn’t the one to talk to Buck about it, thank God) is slowly working through the catalogue of The Best Movies Of All Time (In Howard Han’s Unhumble Opinion).  Apparently, the invitation is open for Maddie to suggest her own movies, but all she really has to offer are books.  (Chimney’s currently reading a Gillian Flynn book; Buck saw the copy of it in the ambulance, fresh from Barnes & Noble, spine newly cracked.)  

“This is literally a date night,” Buck tells Maddie.  “You guys have a weekly date night, like you’re forty-five years old and you’ve been married for twenty of them.”  

“It’s not a date night,” Maddie says, “because we are not dating.”  She takes the throw blanket off the couch, refolds it, drapes it back over.  Buck thinks it looks exactly the same.  

“It is a date night,” Buck says, “because you guys set up dates, and on those dates you do activities, like eat food together and watch movies.”  

“Okay, so you have date nights with Eddie.”  

“Ha ha,” Buck says, extremely flatly.  “That’s not even close to the same thing.”  

“Enlighten me, then,” Maddie says.  “What do you do when you go to Eddie’s?”  

“I’m not answering that question.  This is a dishonest argument.”  

“Would you say that you guys eat food?  Do you watch movies?”  

“Yeah, with Chris.”  

“I don’t think that’s particularly relevant,” Maddie says.  “If Chimney had a kid, they’d be welcome, too.”  

“It’s literally different, because you guys are—” 

—The security system sings a little jingle, which means Chim must be standing at the gate.   

That’s Buck’s cue to get the hell out of dodge.  

It would’ve been horrible anyway.  Buck tells himself that it would’ve been horrible anyway, it would’ve been the worst moment of his life anyway, it would’ve been the most afraid he’s ever been anyway—   

But he can’t help but think that maybe it wouldn’t have been quite as bad if he hadn’t come back to Maddie’s that night feeling good.  

It’s stupid.  He knows it’s stupid.  It wouldn’t have changed the low, just how hard he’d had to fall.  

It was the worst thing in the entire world anyway—he’d thought, for maybe three seconds at first, that Chimney was already dead.  He really did.  In those few seconds, nothing made any logical sense, but everything was crystal clear: Chimney was dead, torn open and bled out like roadkill in Maddie’s courtyard; inside, Maddie was dead too, and Buck thought maybe he couldn’t live anymore, if she was gone.   

But Chim wasn’t dead.  He was barely alive, but he wasn’t dead.  And that dickhead cop said there were signs of a struggle, but there wasn’t any blood inside (not until Buck tracked Chimney’s in, anyway, smeared half a red handprint on the front door, a streak up the banister, fingerprints on Maddie’s bedroom doorframe).  So whoever took Maddie (Buck knows who took Maddie) (he knows who took Maddie but that stupid fucking cop won’t listen to him until they have proof) didn’t want to kill her.  

Or, they didn’t want to just kill her.  

Now, Chimney’s hooked up to a litany of machines in a hospital bed, in a deep, medical sleep that renders him useless.  Buck, already fifty miles away in Athena’s cruiser, the distance growing greater by the minute, is trying really hard not to hate him for it.  The only person who actually saw anything, breathing deep and even, veins flooded with morphine.   

At least they have his phone.  

Jason Bailey is a fucking stupid fake name, if you ask Buck.  It sounds like some kind of D-list action movie hero.  It sounds like a James Patterson character.   

But he guesses that Doug’s always been full of himself, so maybe it makes sense.  

“Wherever she is,” Athena says, “she’s alive right now.  He’s got no reason to kill her.”  

Buck keeps digging into his cuticle.  He scoffs.  “Other than that he said he would, you mean?”  

“He doesn’t want to kill her,” Athena insists.  “He wants to keep her.  Own her.” 

“If she’s dead,” Buck says, his tone even and flat and lifeless, “he gets to keep her forever.”  

“I don’t know enough about his mind to tell you if he thinks like that or not,” Athena says.  She sighs, and it’s only the tiniest bit shaky.  She flexes her fingers on the wheel.  “I only know a few things.  One, Maddie’s a fighter.”  

Buck resists the urge to scoff again.  Or groan.  A fighter.  There’s never been a bigger cliché.  Of course she’s a fighter.  Of course she’s adaptable, and resilient, and tough.  If she wasn’t, she would’ve died before ever making it to California.  

She could’ve died before making it to LA anyway, even as strong as she is.  No matter how much you can endure, no matter how much you’ve honed yourself, it really doesn’t matter when the other guy’s got a gun.  

“Two,” Athena continues, “that woman has built herself anew by the molecule.  If you’re right about who took her—” 

“—I’m right.” 

“I’m not saying you’re not.  I’m saying if you are, then that man thinks he’s got an advantage.  He thinks he’s going after the same girl he always has, with the same fears and the same triggers and the same behavior.  He isn’t.  He does not know her anymore. ”  

And, look.  

Buck wants to believe her.  In fact, he does believe her.  Every word she’s been saying, he agrees is true.  

It doesn’t change that he doesn’t think any of that matters.  

It doesn’t matter that Maddie’s smart, and competent, and level-headed, and quick, and resilient, and strong.  

It doesn’t matter that Buck believes in her.  

Smart, strong people get killed all the god damn time.  

“Third,” Athena says, “ none of this falls on you.”  

“Sure,” Buck says, blatantly and miserably sarcastic.    

“I mean it,” Athena pushes.  “You saved Chimney’s life.” 

“If I got back half an hour earlier, he might not have gotten hurt at all.”  

“That isn’t helpful,” Athena says plainly.  “That isn’t reality.”  

What Buck specifically doesn’t say is that he was almost home even later.  What he doesn’t say is that he spent over twenty minutes with the car idling in a strip mall parking lot, going back and forth on whether or not he should blow sixty dollars on cheap, crappy food or not.  See if his day had been chaotic enough that puking in a grimy Exxon bathroom would fix it.  

He went with no, in the end.  Turned the car around, drove back to Maddie’s.  Felt almost proud of himself, for a few minutes.  Before he saw the slumped form on the concrete, just inside the gate.  

What he says instead is, “I’m the one who told her to stay.”   

“She’s grown,” Athena says, shaking her head.  “What you told her or didn’t tell her doesn’t change a damn thing.  She chose to stay here and start a new life.”  

“Because of me.”  

“Alright,” Athena says sternly. Like how a mother would, Buck thinks, if there are mothers who don’t burst into a performance of tears to try and blame their child for every emotion they’re feeling.  “Let’s play this farce out.  You don’t tell her to stay, what does she do?”  

“Keeps running,” Buck says, sure as breathing, because he knows Maddie like the back of his hand, “place to place.”  

“Does she stay in contact?” 

“Maybe,” Buck says.  “Probably, at first.  Then probably not.”  

Athena nods, like she expected that answer.  “So she stays in contact for a while, and then it stops.  And maybe she’s in Oregon, or Florida, or maybe she’s in Saskatchewan, of all places.  You don’t know.  And one day, he finds her, and he takes her.  And you don’t know.  You’d never know.  Not unless you were unlucky enough to get notified as her next of kin when—”  

“Okay, I get it,” Buck says.  “I get it.”  Anything to get her to stop talking like—like that.  “It’s… it’s better that she’s around.  I get it.  She’s…”  He stops.  Swallows.  “I still couldn’t stop it.”  

“If she wasn’t with you, she’d be alone.”  

And, yeah.  That’s true.  Buck can’t argue with that.   

Doesn’t change the other truth, which he can’t help but voice.  “She’s alone now.”  

— 

After —after the dead convenience store clerk; after Big Bear; after fourteen near-identical cabins; after blood spatter and staggered, circling footprints; after Maddie, cold-skinned and sloping to the side, had crumpled into his arms like her strings had all been cut—Buck sits in a hard plastic chair next to her hospital bed and picks at the cuticle of his thumb.  

Maddie makes a small, wounded sort of noise in her sleep, shuffles a little, readjusts her face against the rough polyester sheet.   

She’s sleeping for real.  Not like Chimney, ninety miles away at Cedars-Sinai, who’s been put under so his body can start to knit itself back together without pesky things like movement or conscious thought getting in the way.   

Buck still has Chim’s phone.  Burning a hole in his pocket.  It should probably go to evidence, but Buck doesn’t think it’ll be all that useful.  It’s not like anyone’s going to come to any other conclusion.  

Somebody zipped Doug Kendall up in a body bag today.  

Buck flicks his eyes to the digital wall clock.  Just past twelve-thirty. So, yesterday, actually.   

He’s probably in a morgue somewhere, by now.  Maybe they’ve already split him open.  Do they still need to check inside, when what managed to finally kill you is written all over your abdomen?  

Maddie shifts again, makes another noise.  She sounds scared. Buck reaches out to nudge her shoulder.  

“Hey,” he says, just louder than a whisper.  She’s a light sleeper.  “Mads.  I’m bored.”  

Her body twitches, clicking over from sleep to wakefulness in a seamless, near-invisible way.  He can see the moment it happens, though.  About half a second before her eyes open.  

“Hi,” she says, practically voiceless.  She frowns, coughs, tries again.  “ Hi.”  This time it comes out better. 

Buck lifts a hand off the plastic arm of his chair in a half-assed imitation of a wave.  

“What time is it?” Maddie asks.  

“About twelve-thirty,” Buck says.  Then clarifies, “Like, in the morning.”  

“Ugh,” Maddie says, and grimaces.  “So I got, like, three hours of sleep.”  

She’s not wrong.  Buck’s glad that she remembers that.  The last time she woke up, around nine, he’d had to explain to her that Chimney isn’t dead.  Which is objectively good news, but so much has happened today that he doesn’t know if he could keep it together through doing it a second time.  

“Just about,” he says. “How you feeling?”  

She makes a face.  “Like I could sleep for three more days, straight.”  

“Boring,” Buck says, too light-sounding and juvenile to be anything but a joke.  

He doesn’t know when it’s going to fully register with her.  That she killed somebody.   

Maybe it already has.  Maybe she’s just okay with it.  

He won’t tell her this, not unless he thinks it’s actually what she should hear, but he’s okay with it.  The worst part of it all, in his opinion, is that she had to be the one to do it.  

Maddie reaches for the large Styrofoam cup of water on her bedside tray.  She takes a very, very long drink through the straw.  She takes a deep breath when she’s done, and fixes her eyes on Buck.  

Her eyes look the same.  Steady and dark and shiny, even with the bruise-gray swathes underneath, the pockmark wounds on her browbone from falling down in the ice.   

He doesn’t think it’s registered quite yet.  

“Please don’t spiral about this,” she says.   

Buck sighs.  He should’ve known.  “Can you please just worry about you right now?  For once?”  

Maddie shakes her head.  “I’m not worried about me.  I’m gonna be okay.  I’m going to get Sue to refer me, and I’ll get a lawyer if I need one, and I’ll do the work but I’ll be okay because I’m--because I’m still alive.  But I am always going to care about you. Always.”  

“...Can I worry about you?”  

She shrugs, just with one shoulder.  “If you want.”   

“Always,” Buck says.  

She huffs out a fraction of a laugh.  “Copier.”  

“Duh,” he says.  “You’re the coolest person I know.  Actually, Athena—Sergeant Grant—and I are, like, tight now.  And she’s pretty damn cool.”  

Maddie’s eyes light up a little.  In the whole... everything of everything, Buck kind of forgot that Maddie had done her ride along with Athena.  “She is, isn’t she?”  

“Believed in you the whole time,” Buck says.  “I did too, for the record.  Obviously.”  

“I know,” Maddie says.  “About you, I mean.  Nice to hear about her, too, though.”  

They’re both silent for a long time before Maddie says, “I think my dying wish is for you to get a therapist.”   

“You’re not dying.”  

Maddie continues like Buck hadn’t said anything at all: “Like a specialist therapist.  Or even a specialist-specialist. I just—” She stops talking and her face screws itself up a little, like it always does before she starts to cry.  

“Come on,” Buck says, but it’s half-hearted.  “Maddie—” 

“—I just want you to be happy,” Maddie says.  “You’re my little brother and I know you’re an adult but you’re my little brother and I want you to be happy.  Not just in a good mood for a day, but actually happy.  Is that doable, do you think?  Have you ever been happy?”  

“I don’t know,” Buck says.  “Don’t ask me that.  I don’t want to cry, too.  Have you ?”  

“I don’t know,” Maddie says, a little overwrought.  “I don’t know, either.  God, we make a pair, huh.”    

“I think,” Buck says, after they both stew in that for a bit, “that at this point, I’d settle for okay.”  

“What’s ‘okay’?” Maddie asks.   

“ Okay is like... like I know what I’m doing,” Buck says.  “Like I’m not just hanging on all the time.”  

After a moment, Maddie nods.  “Yeah,” she agrees.  “I think I’d like that, too.”  

“For me or for you?”  

“Both of us,” she says, like it’s a given.  Then, “Are you going to honor my dying wish?”  

Buck repeats, “You’re not dying.  Stop acting like you’re dying; it’s stressing me out.”  

“So is that a no?”  

“Ugh.”  He rubs his hands over his eyes.  It’s so like his life that they’re having this conversation at one in the morning in a hospital room.  “No, it’s not a no.”  

Maddie brightens.  

“It’s not a yes, either,” Buck adds quickly.  “It’s a—I don’t know.  I’ll do it.  I’ll start.  Someday.  I don’t know when.”  

“Do you even want to?”  

“Yes,” Buck says, and it kind of surprises him how quickly it comes out.  And after all that hand-wringing.  His sister gets kidnapped and suddenly it’s not impossible to admit that maybe he doesn’t actually want to be bulimic every day until he dies.

At least in theory.

“Yeah, I want to.  Or—I want to be better, at some point.  I just... it doesn’t feel like a real thing.  And it feels stupid, to admit that I want it.”  

“Why?”  

“I think maybe you should just be my therapist.”  

Maddie smiles, but the smile’s more of a silent laugh.  “I’ll lay off,” she says.  Then, like she can’t believe she almost forgot, “But don’t spiral.”  

Buck holds up both hands.  “Okay,” he says.  “Promise.  No spiraling today, some kind of therapist... not tomorrow.  But at some point.”  

It’s an open-plan loft, nowhere to hide.  Except maybe the bathroom upstairs.  You can even kind of see into the bedroom if you’re standing by the front door.  

It’s steel-gray, black, and off-white, airy and industrial and empty, more than anything.  Though that’s possibly because it is, literally, almost completely empty.  

Buck’s gonna have to start owning more stuff, he guesses.  

The thing is, he doesn’t really... like it.  It just doesn’t really feel right.  He thinks maybe, deep in his chest, he’s actually some kind of burrowing animal.  

But how the hell is he supposed to explain that to Ali?    

(Ali, who took him to a showing for it three days ago, who did a self-satisfied little spin with her hands spread, perfectly centered in the emptiness of the main room, and asked, So, what do you think? )  

(And Buck said it was great, because—well, they’d already approved his application, somehow— thank you, Ali, again —and the rent isn’t unmanageable, especially compared to the square footage, and it’s in a decent location, and Maddie’s been home recovering for two whole weeks now and she hasn’t actually said it but he can tell she wants her own space to herself, so he doesn’t know why it kind of felt like he was just placating her when he said, It’s great.  Because it is great.  Like, objectively.)  

Anyway, he’s already signed a thirteen-month lease.  So that’s that.  

He’s not really doing a great job keeping his promise to Maddie.  

Honestly, though, he doesn’t know how much he can possibly be blamed.  

Shannon can’t be blamed either, he guesses.  But she is the one who’s dead.  

He closes the door to Eddie’s house behind him, stands in the front walkway in the dark, finally lets his breathing go a little ragged for the first time in hours, then settles it back out.  

It’s kind of just like him, he thinks.  To be making this about his own needs, even if only internally, when it has almost nothing to do with him.  To be using it as fuel.   

It’s perfectly excuse-shaped, when he looks at it from the outside.  Sure, he never really met Shannon; they never spoke to each other, and unless Buck came up in conversation, which he really, really doubts he did, she probably didn’t even know his name.  But he saw her dying.  He saw Eddie’s face, while she was dying.  It was kind of easier to look at her in that moment, actually. So it’s a great excuse.   

He slinks back home from Eddie’s house and he stands in the kitchen and if Maddie were there she’d look at him and know, but she’s not there, because they don’t live together anymore, because they’re both grown adults and Buck has his own place now and that’s good, actually, even if he’s somehow managing to fuck it up again it’s still a good thing —so there’s no one to stand there and look at him and know or say anything about it, and so he’ll take that freedom and he’ll take the last four or six or twelve hours of being a Good Friend, of being someone who Has It Together, and he’ll transmute them into sixty rushed, miserable minutes, followed by ten methodical minutes of rote, raw-throated penance.  

He can hate that he’s going to do it.  He can hate it while he’s doing it.  He can drink water in the open-plan kitchen after he’s done, most of the lights off, standing alone, hating it.  

It doesn’t change anything.   

Still feels good.  

It’s not supposed to feel good anymore, right?  He’s too old for this.  He feels like he’s supposed to be too old for this.  

It doesn’t matter—that he hates it, that he promised his sister to try and be better about it so that she could spend her care on her own recovery, that he doesn’t actually want to do it, that he’s supposed to be too old for it, that his body’s starting to show real and permanent wear, that none of this is fucking about him in the first place, he just doesn’t know how to handle something horrible happening in any other way—none of it matters.  He ends up in the same place.  He ends up in the same exact place every fucking time.   

He stands in the kitchen near-midnight and drinks his water.  He’s so goddamn sick of this.  

Shannon shouldn’t be dead.  Christopher’s mother shouldn’t be dead.  And he shouldn’t be standing here like this.  

He should be staying at Eddie’s.  Sure, Chris has Carla, to make sure he gets to school on time, to make sure he’s eating actual meals, to make sure he’s taking his meds.  And it’s not like Eddie’s completely fallen apart—he’s still managing most of everything himself, because that’s kind of just who he is.  

But Buck has this unrelenting feeling in his gut that somebody is supposed to be there, and it feels like that somebody is supposed to be him.  

But he can’t fucking seem to hack it.  He can stay there for a while.  Maybe get a load of laundry done or something before Eddie figures out what he’s up to and tells him to cut it out.   

He can sometimes make it through bedtime with Chris.  That’s where he’s the most useful—Christopher goes to sleep easier, actually, if it’s Buck doing it.  If Eddie does it, Chris won’t let him leave the room, at least not while he’s awake, because in the vulnerable nighttime quiet, Chris sees Eddie slip out of his sightline and starts panicking so hard he struggles to breathe.  

It’s too much.  It didn’t even happen to Buck, and it’s still too much.  

Even if he doesn’t plan on purging, he eats dinner with them, and by the time he leaves, he feels sick.  Kinda feels just like old times, even if the causes are different.  A family with a horrible, jagged tear down the middle, stained on the edges like ripped fabric over a slash wound.  Looking at the gash makes him nauseous.  

— 

Eddie only lasts three shifts on bereavement leave.  

He comes back in on a Thursday, and nobody calls him on it—apparently, Bobby already knew, tried to talk him out of it, the works—but Buck can’t help the stare he gives Eddie as the latter walks in, only about five minutes late, but looking like he hasn’t slept in maybe a week. 

Because he hasn’t, Buck’s brain supplies, largely unhelpfully.  Because he knows that.  Because Eddie’s been awake every time Buck’s come over to his house, even when he comes over at eight AM right after a shift, and nowhere near sleep by the time Buck leaves.  

He thinks about maybe going to someone about it—Bobby, maybe, but more likely Hen—and trying to explain that Buck’s been around, like a lot, and Eddie shouldn’t be here.  Especially not with the fucking— serial bomber, or whatever the hell it is they’re actually dealing with.  There’s been a lot of death trailing its fingertips along the firehouse, even compared to usual.   

And then he remembers that fucking psych eval.   

He’s not mad at Chim anymore.  He can’t be—the guy got fucking stabbed.  

But he figures that if Eddie wants to be here, that’s his own right, and maybe Buck will just keep it to himself.  

What Buck suspects he’ll remember for the rest of his life, what just might scare him every time he’s in the passenger seat of a car, or the truck, or the engine—or maybe not every time, maybe just sometimes, maybe just when he least expects it—isn’t the pain.  

It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt in his entire life.  Bar none.  No contest.   

It’s so excruciatingly, unbelievably concentrated, packed in so tightly to one area that that every nerve in his body sends frantic, messy electric signals to his brain, an onslaught of something’s-wrong-something’s-wrong-something’s-wrong that slides into a singular desire of get-it-off-of-me-i-need-it-off-cut-off-my-leg-i-really-don’t-fucking-care that eventually, after his higher-functioning cognition shuts off, mutilates his inner monologue until it’s just one continuous, animalistic wail.  

He wishes he could pass out.  Isn’t that what the body’s supposed to do, right now?  To save the mind the trauma?  He knows that if he were the EMT on scene instead of the victim, he’d be doing everything he could to keep him awake.  Letting the brain slip into sleep right now is horribly dangerous.  He knows that.  He doesn’t care.  He’s trying not to hate Eddie and Hen for it right now.  It’s not working.  He hates them and he hates this and he hates being awake and he hates breathing because every shallow inhale flushes the cells in his body with oxygen, unblurs his vision a little, sharpens the taste of motor oil and fire in the night air.  He wishes he could go unconscious.  He wishes he could die.  

Anyway.   

That’s not the worst part.  

The worst part is that, from the very beginning (that tiny note of anxiety and confusion in Chimney’s voice over the radio, that barely audible mechanical grinding noise followed by a rapid, half-second long tick-tick-tick from under his own seat that he’ll only recognize in hindsight, and maybe he doesn’t remember it at all; maybe he just imagined it) to the very end (the release of pressure, the second-long relief, the swell of blood and consequent agony that follows, the drag of asphalt, the dribbling slouch-slip-fall into morphine sleep, the lack of any coherent thought) he has no fucking idea what’s happening.  No clue what has happened: one second he’s sitting in the truck and he’s fine, the next he’s dying and dying and dying—and no clue what’s going to happen: he’s dying but he’s breathing, he’s already dead but he’s still here, somebody he can’t quite make out is holding his hand but any second they might let go—and no clue what’s happening right now: it’s dark.  It’s loud.  He can’t see very well.  It smells like plastic and smoke and blood.  It hurts.  It hurts.  It hurts.  Something deep in his stomach, some very old instinct he thought he’d successfully trained out of himself, screams out like an animal in a forest fire, somewhere has to be safe.  Find a small space.  Dig through wet earth.  Flatten to the floor, close your eyes, go by scent.  Curl into yourself.  Keep track of every limb; you’ll need them.  Move.  Move.  MOVE.   

He can’t move.  

Chapter Text

Time since the bombing: 12 days.   

The days pass like honey dripping down the side of a bottle. Like watching paint dry. Like the splintered, ground-down bones of his leg trying to piece themselves back together.  

His leg’s in orthopedic traction for a few days. Those are the days he mostly spends asleep, when he can. People appear in the hospital room, and then they disappear. Flit in and out, closer and then farther away, moths around a flickering lightbulb. Buck watches it all happen through an amber-colored haze, smoggy and orange-yellow-green, like the color of the evening sky before a heavy, east coast summer storm.  

And then he’s home, and it’s better, but not by much. Ali stops by. Called her current work trip as short as she could when she got the news. Apparently, it was extremely important that she tell him as soon as possible that she really does like him, but she needs to take a step back. She can’t handle knowing that, at any time, something like this could happen again, apparently.  

Happen again to me , you mean, Buck thinks, but doesn’t say, because he’s too tired, and he already used all his energy to explain how fucked-up it is that she’d even insinuate that maybe it would be better if he set his sights for recovery a little lower, a little safer. A little less potential for disappointment.  

There’s nothing else, really. There is no other goal. Nothing that’s worth it. It’s his job or nothing. It’s being in the field or perpetual, eternal uselessness.  

He says as much to Maddie, giving her the rundown on the situation while she putters around in his periphery since he’s beached on the couch, doing the menial tasks that he can’t. She pointedly doesn’t tell him if she agrees with him or not.  

He realizes, while summarizing the breakup, that it isn’t even really a breakup. Because they were never actually, really together. 

Somehow, even when things are casual, even when they’re low-stakes, even with no proverbial strings in his hands to attach, Buck still manages to tie people down.  

Actually, if he thinks about it, if he admits to himself that while he was Abby’s boyfriend, she definitely wasn’t his girlfriend, he hasn’t had an actual girlfriend since...  

God, since Claire Trechsler.   

And isn’t that just fucking depressing.  

Things keep happening around him. The sun slides across the main room every morning to evening. People enter. Do stuff. Talk. Leave. There’s a spare key getting passed around. Probably Maddie’s. Buck lends the original key to Eddie specifically, tells him to just make his own copy to keep.  

Bobby comes over first with an armful of Tupperware containers, then, later, just with bags of groceries. He cooks, mostly quietly, sometimes throwing out comments or questions, unless Buck’s fallen asleep. He fills up the fridge. Leaves foil-covered plates of baked goods on the counter. Keeps the kitchen from going stale and dusty.  

Hen and Chim drift through, sometimes, together more often than separately. Buck’s finally a captive audience for Chimney’s ever-growing list of movies that he can’t believe Buck’s never seen. Most of the time, Buck falls asleep during those, too. He’s either violently, excruciatingly antsy, or so drowsy and untethered that he can’t find it in himself to care about anything. The hours stumble and slip against each other, flowing into days that move about as fast as the river that carved out the Grand Canyon. Time inches by. Time withers. Time drags itself across the asphalt with its palms and fingers.  

Buck knows a thing or two about that.  

Time since the bombing: 3 weeks.    

He was only discharged a week and a half ago, and now Maddie’s driving him back.  

Not to be, like, readmitted. It’s just his first follow-up appointment.  

It still has a touch of the gallows to it anyway.  

She walks next to his chair as he wheels himself across the parking lot, and stands stagnant on the front entrance sidewalk, literally wrings her hands when he asks her not to come inside with him.  

“What if you need someone to... to take notes?” she asks, audibly distraught.  

He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie, shakes it back and forth in the air. “I can take notes.” He gives her his very best attempt at an unbothered smile.  

“Okay,” Maddie says. Then inhales sharply. “But what if you need—?” 

“—Then I promise I’ll text. Scout’s honor.”  

“...You were never a boy scout.”  

“Then pinky promise.” Still holding his phone, Buck extends his little finger.  

Maddie huffs, but smiles, like maybe he’s being silly, but she appreciates it. She links her pinky with his for a second before letting go.  

Buck puts his phone back in his pocket. Pushes back his shoulders. Reaches down to push the right-side wheel back and the left wheel forward, angling himself in the direction of the hospital doors.  

Over his shoulder, he tosses out casually, “It’s just a follow-up. It’s not even supposed to take that long.”  

— 

It takes such a fucking long time.  

His actual appointment is with the orthopedic specialist, but they also have to pull his files and test results from hematology, and endocrinology, and cardiology, and imaging, and Buck knows that hospitals are chaotic places where everybody’s exhausted and overworked, but this appointment’s been on the books since before his discharge date, so someone, at some point, had to have had an opportunity to print this shit out in advance, right?  

Anyway.  

All that to say, he’s sitting alone in the empty check-up room for about forty minutes by the time Dr. Okafor enters, seeming harried, holding a massive file folder, almost slamming the door behind himself and then wincing at the sound.  

“I know, I’m late, my apologies,” he says, very quickly, the words all running up against each other, like if he doesn’t say it fast enough, Buck will start yelling at him.  

“No big,” Buck says, and mostly means it. His phone isn’t dead yet, and he’s been texting Maddie updates—he finally convinced her to leave about fifteen minutes ago by transferring money for her to pick them up lunch. Mostly for him, but also a little bit for her. He knows that otherwise she’d just sit in the car in the parking lot.  

Speaking of, he swipes open his phone, texts a quick, Dr’s here, to Maddie.  

She responds immediately: Yay!! Finally!!! Tell me what they say please   

Which means wherever she is now, she’s not driving anymore.  

Dr. Okafor has raised the little kidney-bean-shaped desk attached to the computer monitor in the corner; he’s leafing through the overstuffed folder, so Buck figures he has a few more seconds.  

Doesn’t that violate HIPAA? He texts Maddie. Shouldn’t you know that as a former nurse???   

Maddie says, Not if YOU’RE the patient in question!!  

She sends him a rolling-eyes emoji. Then a heart emoji.  

Vitals are as fine as they ever are—pulse of forty-seven, which usually doesn’t concern anyone, given his job, but Dr. Okafor makes a quiet tsk sort of sound—and a blood pressure of 105/62.  

Which Buck thinks is pretty good, for him, but Dr. Okafor doesn’t seem too impressed with that, either.  

“Hm,” he says, like the numbers confound him, when he takes Buck’s blood pressure for the second time and gets the same reading. He scratches them onto his notepad. He keeps the cuff on Buck’s arm, but lets the pump fall out of his hand. He puts the buds of his stethoscope back in his ears.  

“Can you stand up? You don’t need to walk. Just stand.”  

Buck can stand up—just in one place unless he wants to hop around on one foot, but that’s all Dr. Okafor asked for—so he does, with one hand against the wall and the other on the arm of his wheelchair.  

Dr. Okafor immediately puts the chestpiece of the stethoscope back over Buck’s heart. He waits precisely fifteen seconds; Buck knows, because counting a pulse is ingrained in him, too. He knows the number the doctor got already, watches him write down 94bpm on the notepad.  

Dr. Okafor starts squeezing the pump again, and the blood pressure cuff constricts Buck’s arm for the third time. The black haze around the edge of his vision he gets sometimes when he stands has already faded, the loud wash of blood in his ears has already evened out, but he knows it’ll take his actual arteries a second to catch up.  

The dial on the cuff ticks down, down, down.  

Dr. Okafor writes 84/51 on the notepad. He takes the earpieces of the stethoscope out, lets it hang around his neck. He tucks his notepad back into the pocket of his white coat.  

He lets Buck sit back down, and doesn’t tell him what any of that was about.  

And Buck doesn’t ask.  

What’s he supposed to say? He’s an EMT; he knows his numbers are shit.  

They run through the rest of the check-up portion pretty fast. Buck starts physical therapy later this week, and as of right now, he’s just been doing the extremely barebones range-of-motion exercises (if they can even be called that, with how little he has to move) the nurses showed him before he was discharged. Dr. Okafor has him do most of them, watching silently, seeming satisfied. He checks Buck’s reflexes, makes sure his cast is all fine, makes sure his leg rests correctly in the chair. No problems there. Buck knew there wouldn’t be. Maddie wouldn’t let him make a mistake like that, and Buck’s not willing to fuck any part of this up.  

“Alright,” Dr. Okafor says when all that’s over with. “I have good news and bad news, Mr. Buckley. Which do you want first?”  

“Um. How bad’s the bad news?”  

Dr. Okafor really seems to consider. He’s a very large man with a very serious-looking face, and he looks even larger from Buck’s sitting-down perspective, and his face looks even more serious as he thinks.  

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I think it depends on how you receive it.”  

“Okay...” Buck says, because that doesn’t make any sense. “How good is the good news?”  

Dr. Okafor shrugs. “Middling.”  

“Good first, then, I guess.”  

“Alright.” Dr. Okafor pulls some printed x-rays from the packed file folder. “Your bones are properly aligned, and if you keep following the treatment outline, that should remain the case.”  

“Great,” Buck says, and waits for Dr. Okafor to keep going.  

Dr. Okafor does not keep going.  

“That’s the only good news?” Buck asks. “Do you have any... neutral news?”  

“Your pulse deficits have improved, somewhat,” the doctor admits.  

“That’s good.”  

Dr. Okafor hums. “The sitting-standing disparity is still alarming, however.”  

“Oh.”  

More silence.  

Buck sighs. “Hit me with the bad news, then, I guess.”  

— 

The bad news comes in a few different parts.  

Dr. Okafor is particularly concerned about Buck’s cardiology results. He says they indicate a weak heart. Combined with what’s come back from the lab—you’re lower than I’d like in almost everything: iron, potassium, calcium, essential vitamins.   

Buck’s never fathomed that. Never even considered it. Not the deficiencies—he’s been trying, with those, but it’s not surprising. The other part. Weak heart. Sure, it’s less reliable than he’d like, sometimes—the way his pulse spikes and drops, the weird tripped-up beats he feels occasionally—but weak? People with weak hearts can’t do what he does.  

Dr. Okafor seems relatively bemused by it, too, but not in the same way: Frankly, Mr. Buckley, I can’t explain how this is the medical event that landed you in the hospital. As far as the results I’m seeing go, you should’ve ended up here a long time ago, doing the work you do. I don’t want to cause a panic—it would require more extensive imaging, but I don’t see any indication of anything irreversible—but it is alarming.   

Buck’s always been fine to work, because he times out his shit. Controls it the best he can. He can’t tell Dr. Okafor that. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. So he settles on, I’ve never had medical issues at work.   

Well, Dr. Okafor says. His voice sounds like he’s humoring Buck, and it makes Buck want to bare his teeth a little. Our bodies can do extraordinary things, right up until the moment they can’t anymore.   

And then he doesn’t say anything else. Just looks over the papers in the folder and occasionally glances at Buck, like he’s waiting for him to speak.  

But what the hell can Buck say to that?   

So do you have a more concrete timeline? is what Buck ends up going with. For when I can start on training to get back to work?   

(Buck’s mind is a loop of weak heart—alarming—pulse deficits—what’s come back from the lab—panic—)  

When he asks about work, Dr. Okafor just looks at him. He has wide, dark, earnest eyes.  

(—up until they moment they can’t anymore—alarming—weak—concerned—panic—)  

“I think your first step, along with continuing your existing treatment plan,” Dr. Okafor says slowly, “would be getting evaluated for an eating disorder.” 

(Panic—panic—panic—panic—)  

And Buck’s brain turns white and empty and begins to buzz an endless, whining drone.  

He doesn’t actually fully remember what he ends up saying, but he thinks it’s something along the lines of, “It’s that obvious?”  

“This particular combination of deficiencies and low vital statistics is considered tell-tale, if you know what you’re looking for.” 

Almost fourteen years. Almost fourteen years of skating by and planning things out and learning how to lie and get quiet and stay quiet—almost fourteen years of practice, and he’s clocked after a singular week-long stay in the hospital.  

Thrown under the bus by a weak heart. Whatever the hell that means.  

He should be more worried about that. He’s freaked out by it in a distanced, third-person kind of way. Like, the term weak heart is concerning. The implications aren’t good. It should be the worst thing about this. 

So why is the thought at the forefront of his mind: he knows. You didn’t even decide to tell him and he knows. You don’t have it as together as you think you do. You’re falling apart. You can’t even try to play it cool, because you didn’t say a fucking thing and he knows all on his own.   

Your priorities, he tells himself, feeling a little disgusted, are so fucking screwed up.   

It’s work. The real issue is work. His brain is buzzing out of his skull with anxiety and his mouth doesn’t have a single atom of moisture in it right now, but he has to remember the real, true, important thing is work.  

“Okay,” he says, and his voice sounds like he’s having an out-of-body experience, like the version of him that’s talking is sitting in another room. “Okay, so—say I do that, then what?”  

‘Then,” Dr. Okafor says, and trails off. He rolls his hand through the air, as if to say, and then, and then, and then. “Then you work with a team of professionals, and hopefully, one day, it could be possible that you might work again as an active firefighter.”  

Buck barely bites back saying, that’s a lot of fucking qualifiers, man.   

Hopefully.  

One day.  

Could be possible.  

Might.  

Jesus Christ.  

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Dr. Okafor says, and it doesn’t sound like filler at the beginning of a longer sentence. It sounds like its very own statement. It sounds like an actual warning.  

Prepare yourself. I’m going to be honest.   

“Okay,” Buck says. He tries to keep his voice even, tries to sound like the warning didn’t scare him, but he doesn’t do a great job of it.  

“Eating disorders are deeply and remarkably physiological, for a psychiatric condition.” Dr. Okafor looks Buck right in the eyes, standing to sitting, ultra-dark to very light, still and confident to wavering and unsure. When he asks, “Do you understand what that means, Mr. Buckley?” he sounds like he truly wants to know.  

Buck says, slowly, “I think so.”  

The doctor nods. “Because of that, there is no path to working again—there is no return to physical health—without psychological intervention. You must understand that. I work in orthopedics, but I know how to name what I’m looking at. Your blood needs to circulate properly. It needs iron. Your muscles need potassium. That includes your heart. Your bones need calcium. You cannot be in a caloric deficit. You cannot inflict trauma on your digestive system. Your body will not repair itself if you won’t let it breathe long enough to try. It will not make new, healthy tissue with nothing to build it out of. It can’t .”  

— 

Twenty-five more minutes later, head still staticky and spinning, Buck texts Maddie.  

Done here whenever you get back.   

Then, When we get back to my place I need your help  

Then, Please hold me to that.  

Time since the bombing: 5 weeks.   

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride back? If you just call, I can turn around and—” 

“—Maddie’s getting me; it’s literally fine .”  

Buck’s not mad , per se, because Bobby’s just trying to be helpful. And Bobby’s been helpful the entire time. He’s driving Buck to physical therapy right now, but even two days after the injury, when Buck finally woke up long enough to have an actual conversation that he’d remember, Bobby had been right there, had pulled out a typed-up list of meticulous notes on everything the doctors had already said to Maddie. According to the notes, Bobby and Maddie had pre-empted every question Buck might have wanted to ask the doctors and asked it for him.  

One of the notes’ headers was just Projected recovery timeline, and subheadings under it included Standing, Walking, Walking unassisted, Exercise, and Return to work.   

Most of the dates on that timeline, Buck reminds himself, are dependent on him not only getting, but keeping his shit together.  

He doesn’t remind himself on purpose.  

He just can’t stop reminding himself.  

And now Bobby's driving Buck to PT, and he keeps offering to drive him back , too.  

But that’s not really an option.  

“Well, you know,” Bobby says, well-practiced, a little careful, “if Maddie doesn’t want to work half-shifts so much, I’m more than happy to play chauffeur when I’m off the clock.”  

Buck scoffs. “You sure your wife would be okay with you volunteering to spend all of your free time driving me around?”  

Bobby shrugs. “My wife has two working legs, so she can drive herself places. And she also wants you to make it to all of your appointments. And I don’t know if you remember this, but she’s extremely competent. There’s very little risk of her ever getting accidentally stranded at a Kinesio Club.”  

“Maddie is coming to get me. Do you think Maddie’s going to leave me stranded at the Kinesio Club? Should I tell her you think that?”  

And again—he’s not really mad when he asks that. He’s mostly joking. But the fact remains that Bobby can’t pick Buck up from PT, because Maddie must pick him up from PT, because after PT, Buck has his first-ever appointment with one Dr. Adamiak, who is a specialist in a field that Buck does not, under any circumstances, want to mention to Bobby. At least not yet, anyway. Maybe ever.  

He’ll go with ‘yet’.   

— 

Dr. Adamiak’s office is a nondescript building. Sandy yellow brick walls and a spotless, fresh-poured sidewalk, bleached concrete that almost glows in the sun. Suite D is in between an optometrist’s clinic and an accountant’s office. The strip of grass between the sidewalk and the building has tough-skinned palm trees in a straight line, one per suite, spaced just right between the doors. The doors are all dark, tinted glass, and the optometrist’s door says Suite C, Chapleau Eyecare , and the accountant’s door says Suite E, Jacobs & Associates , but the one in the middle just says Suite D and nothing else. A black hole in a stark, bright building.  

Maddie parks them in front of Jacobs & Associates, which Buck appreciates. He doesn’t want to stare at that blank, black door.  

“Did you know,” he asks, a few minutes after they park and sit there in silence, “there’s only one type of palm tree that’s actually native to California?”  

“Oh,” Maddie says. She tilts her head, scrunches up her nose. Asks, “Is that true?”  

“Why would I lie to you about trees? It’s true. California fan palm’s the only one. It’s not even from SoCal, either.”  

“It just feels like it shouldn’t be true.”  

Buck hums. “Like the thing about Cleopatra and the iPhone.”  

“Like the what?”   

“Google it. Right now. Google Cleopatra iPhone.”   

Maddie sighs, but it’s light, not too put-out. She takes her phone from the GPS cradle on the dash, quickly opens Google and types something out. Her eyes scan the screen for a few moments. “That’s stupid,” she says.  

Buck laughs. Flicks his eyes to the dashboard clock; it’s only one twenty-two, and his appointment isn’t until one-thirty.  

“You could go in now,” Maddie says, evidently seeing the thoughts play out on his face. “It’s not that early.”  

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “Really don’t want to, though.”  

“I mean, it’ll probably take you about seven minutes to get to the door, so...”  

“Okay, hey.” Buck gestures to the crutches in the backseat. “I’ll have you know I’ve gotten very speedy. Chris has been teaching me tricks. They don’t work very well, since I’m totally non-weight-bearing, but he’s definitely been trying.”  

Maddie laughs softly, and then they’re both silent for a few seconds. The clock reads one twenty-four now. He feels like he lost a valuable minute there, somehow.  

“Are these California fan palms?” Maddie asks eventually, motioning to the trees lining the sidewalk.  

Buck studies them for a second before deciding, “Yeah, think so.”  

Silent again.  

The clock says one twenty-five.  

Maddie turns off the car.  

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s get out.”  

“I still have five minutes,” Buck says immediately.  

“I didn’t say let’s go in , I said let’s get out .” She reaches over the gearshift and pops open the glovebox. There’s a gallon Ziplock in there, holding Buck’s insurance card, his wallet, the printed-out version of the new patient history forms he’s already filled out. Maddie takes the Ziplock, shuts the glovebox. She says, “We’re gonna take a lap around the car. I thought maybe there was another earthquake, for a second.”  

Buck glances past the glovebox to his uninjured leg and finds that he has, in fact, been shaking it like crazy.  

“Okay,” he says.  

— 

Maddie says she’s just going to drive around while he’s in the building, maybe see if there’s a Target nearby or something. It’s a ninety-minute appointment slot, and it feels momentous that Maddie groans at that specifically because it’s too short , like she’s finally lived in LA long enough to know that ninety minutes isn’t nearly enough time to drive home and have it be worth anything. 

Anyway. Buck saw her pull the Jeep away through the tinted door while he was still walking up to the front desk. It’s easier to see out than in.  

The waiting room’s empty, and the first thing Buck feels at that is relief. He doesn’t know why. At the end of the day, everyone who comes here has problems more similar than they are different.  

Maybe it’s because no matter how many times the Psychology Today profile stressed yes, I work with adults, and yes, I work with men, and yes, I work with people with demanding schedules —he knows statistics still aren’t on his side. At least as far as blending in.   

It’s not like the cast and crutches help him fade into the background that much, either.  

The waiting room’s kind of dim, but warmly lit. Cream-colored walls, slate gray carpet. Potted plants in all four corners. A neat row of thinly padded chairs lined up against the perimeter, all facing the center, where a low-down coffee table sits, a few small baskets of kid’s toys underneath, fliers and business cards splayed across the top, English on the left and their Spanish equivalents on the right. There’s a painting on each wall. They all look like they got looted directly from motel rooms.  

For a minute, while he stands there and just looks at everything, Buck thinks maybe he’s imagining sounds. His whole body feels snowy and unclear and disconnected, like the creak in his joints when he’s been sitting still for too long, or the zoned-out feeling of driving for hours down the same stretch of highway at night. And he can hear it—a medium-pitch, ceaseless garble, barely-there and cotton-fuzzy. He only realizes he’s not making it up in his head when the track ends, clicks, and repeats. It’s a white noise machine in the corner, tucked partially out of view behind one of the plants, right next to the door that leads out of the waiting room and, presumably, back to wherever the therapy occurs.  

There’s a clock above that same door. Buck watches it tick over to one-thirty.  

Okay, then.  

He pivots to face the front desk. Balances fully on his right leg for a second to get the Ziplock, props up his left crutch at an angle under his arm a moment later so he doesn’t fully fall over. Presses the pager button on the desktop.  

— 

Dr. Adamiak looks to be in her mid-sixties. She’s startlingly short—at least she appears that way to Buck, who stands at least fifteen inches taller than her—and she has a very sharp, short gray haircut and a severe facial expression.  

Her voice is unerringly low and calm and even.  

She doesn’t seem to have any sort of secretary or receptionist, so she goes through all of Buck’s paperwork herself. She pulls an opaque, blue plastic folder from a locked filing cabinet behind the desk in the lobby, stuffs most of his paperwork inside it, writes Buckley, E I on the filing tab in thick, black marker.  

No matter where he goes, even if he never comes back here, even if he moves to Canada tomorrow, somewhere in LA, a psychiatrist specializing in eating disorders will know his full name. First, middle, and last. She wrote it down, in permanent marker, with her hand, even if just the initials.  

She’s making photocopies of his insurance card when she seems to finally notice the crutches.  

“You can sit down in the office, if you’d like,” she says. Low. Calm. Even. “Right through that door, room on the left is my office. Right is the bathroom; straight back is the kitchen.”  

She has some kind of slight accent. Barely-there, really. So Buck can’t tell where it’s from. Eastern Europe, maybe? Surnames that end in ak are Polish, sometimes, he thinks?  

Wherever her voice originates from, it’s almost impossible not to listen to, and Buck finds himself shouldering through the door to the hallway without even really thinking about it. There is, in fact, one closed door on either side, and a small kitchen visible at the end of the hall.  

He doesn’t know if it’s her kitchen. Like if she lives here, or what. Is it a therapy kitchen? Is that even a thing?  

He tried to do some semblance of research, leading up to today. He likes research, and he’s had a lot of downtime at home. But nothing’s very conclusive. Most of the information available is vague, or specific to inpatient treatment, or too scholarly for Buck to ever hope to make actual sense of.  

So he still really has no idea what to expect.  

He goes into the office.  

It’s normal. Unsurprising. Neutral. A desk with a chair, a couple of bookshelves, an armchair, a couch. A rug on the floor with a little coffee table. A few coasters on the table. A box of tissues. A glass dish that should probably be holding some kind of candy, but is notably empty. A small wicker basket filled with tiny, individual pots of Play-Doh.  

Dr. Adamiak comes into the room a few minutes after Buck’s snooped through the titles of most of the books on the shelves, leaned his crutches up against one of them, and settled into the armchair. She takes her customary spot in the desk chair. She’s holding a notepad, now, and she’s still got that blue folder, Buckley, E I on the tab. Evan Isaac Buckley, chiseled into the surface of this place forever, however lightly.  

“To clarify,” she starts off, “you have a preferred name? It’s...” she flips open the folder, glances at the first page of paperwork. Buck registers his own handwriting on the page, feels a twinge when he does, though he doesn’t really know why. Dr. Adamiak continues, “...‘Buck’? Like a deer?”  

Buck nods. “Most people say like a dollar. Uh. It’s a work nickname. Just kind of stuck.” 

Dr. Adamiak nods, like this makes perfect sense. “Alright,” she says. “Well, how are you today, Buck?”  

And Buck straight-up laughs.  

Dr. Adamiak doesn’t seem surprised by this, either, though she does smile a bit, maybe only by association. It doesn’t soften her face so much as add another layer to it.  

“Sorry,” Buck says, and tries to stop laughing. It takes him a second. “I’m sorry. I just—I psyched myself out so much over this for the last, like, week, and I did all that intake paperwork and then googled everything mentioned in it like I was studying for some kind of test, and I finally walk in here and the first question is how are you today. It’s fine. Sorry. Um. I’m good, I guess?”  

“You’re nervous?” Dr. Adamiak notes.  

Which. Okay. Duh. Obviously.   

“Um.” Buck coughs. “Yeah. I mean. I kind of wasn’t planning to do this so—soon? That’s probably not a good word, I mean, it’s been...” 

“If I’m remembering your intake forms correctly, it’s been about fourteen years,” Dr. Adamiak says drily. “I think if anything, you’re a little overdue.”  

“Probably,” Buck admits. “Or, definitely. I just mean. A month ago, I had no idea this would be happening right now. I just...” he gestures to his leg, then the crutches. “This happened, and I basically got told that if I don’t figure the whole eating disorder thing out, I can forget ever going back to work. And I figured, I mean. I can’t really do that on my own. So. Here I am. Ta-da.”  

“You’re a firefighter?”  

“Was.” 

“You’re on medical leave, yes?”  

“For the foreseeable future,” Buck says darkly. “At least three more months.”  

“Then you are a firefighter,” Dr. Adamiak says. “You’re simply a firefighter on medical leave.”  

When she says it like that (low, calm, even) it seems inevitable, and more than that, just true.   

“Thanks,” he says, and he means it. “Everyone else is kind of treating it like an if, not a when. I know they’re doing it to not, like, pressure me into pushing myself, or whatever. But I want it to be—I kind of need it to be a sure thing.”  

“I can’t promise you that you’ll be working again in three months,” Dr. Adamiak says, “because I’m not an orthopedist. But it was your voice on the answering machine.” She holds up the blue folder. “And I’d assume it’s your handwriting on these forms.”  

Buck nods.  

“In eating disorder terms, those are very important things to acknowledge. Plenty of my patients are dragged in here kicking and screaming, sometimes literally. You walked in here on your own.”  

“I kind of... hobbled,” Buck corrects. “And my sister drove me.”  

“Your sister didn’t push you through the door, Buck. She didn’t stay to make sure you actually attended your appointment. No one has held you accountable for this yet apart from yourself. And yet,” she motions towards him in the chair, “here you are.”  

“Here I am,” Buck echoes. “And that’s... good.”  

“It’s fantastic,” Dr. Adamiak says, sounding genuine, even if her voice is flat while she says it. “So I can’t promise you anything. But I can say that I’m already more confident than not.”  

And that... is not what Buck expected.  

At all.  

Like, ever.  

She could, he figures, be playing some kind of mind game. Reverse-psychology, or reverse-reverse-psychology, maybe. Because every statistic says yeah, it’s not looking great. And then beyond that, most statistics kind of just... drop off after ten years. As if to say, nobody who’s like this for this long even really needs to bother with their odds. The odds don’t matter. The odds aren’t even there.   

Even having seen all of that, something in him settles anyway.  

“Thanks,” he manages. “That’s... thanks.”  

“Of course,” she says, like she didn’t just shift an entire part of his worldview on its head. She flips open the blue folder again, draws out Buck’s patient history forms. “Alright. Let’s talk behaviors.”  

— 

A little less than ninety minutes later, Buck’s appointment is over. He’s put five hundred dollars on his credit card (it’s supposed to be reimbursed by insurance in the next couple of weeks, but he still feels it, almost physically, when the square card reader at the front desk makes its kitschy little chiming sound) in exchange for a twice-weekly appointment schedule, a referral to a registered dietitian, another referral to a dentist, a third referral to a cardiologist, and a heavy-feeling, dingy diagnosis of Bulimia Nervosa.   

Technically, Dr. Adamiak had said, near the end of the session, if I were to go strictly by-the-book, I would diagnose you with OSFED.   At Buck’s blank expression, she continued, Other Specified Feeding or Eating Disorder.   

When Buck, presumably, still looked like that illuminated absolutely nothing for him, she added, It’s very vague, isn’t it? I know. It’s a grab-bag, essentially. It includes lots of different sub-threshold symptom presentations. None of them are any less medically significant; they simply don’t already fit perfectly into the prescribed diagnoses outlined in the Manual. There is a specific sub-threshold diagnosis for some eating disorders, but not for bulimia, except in the case of low frequency or duration.   

So all that means... Buck said.  

So, all that means, Dr. Adamiak said, that your lack of fixation on weight and shape means you do not technically meet every individual diagnostic criterion for Bulimia Nervosa. But —she splayed her hands at this, like she was about to say something like, ‘ but look at you, man’, and then thought better of it— I went to many years of school to be able to call the shots on these things. If I were to shunt you into the sub-threshold category just because of that, when all other criteria are met and it’s fairly obvious to me, I would not only be damaging your prospects of insurance coverage, I would also feel dishonest.   

Dishonest? Buck asked.  

To put it plainly, Dr. Adamiak said, I’d have to be dumb as rocks as a psychiatrist to look at your history and not diagnose you with bulimia.   

— 

Maddie’s already waiting for him on the other side of the lot when he steps back out onto the sidewalk. She starts pulling the car forward as soon as she sees him, slotting into the handicap spot a few seconds later.  

It only takes him about thirty seconds to get the crutches in the back seat and himself in the passenger seat. He’s getting better at this.  

He shuts the passenger side door. Buckles his seatbelt.  

“How was it?” Maddie asks. She reaches a hand out, only half-sure, index finger hovering about an inch from the radio button. Buck acquiesces with a nod; she presses the button and music crackles into the car at a low, semi-intelligible volume. A moment later, she starts backing out of the parking space.  

“Can we go get coffee, or something?”  

Maddie makes a small, sympathetic noise. “That bad?”  

Buck half shakes his head, half shrugs. “It wasn’t bad. It really wasn’t. She seems nice. Or. Really smart, at least. I just—can we go get coffee?”  

Maddie hums an affirmative, reaching to give Buck her phone, since he knows what makes the most geographic sense.  

“I got you a present, by the way,” she says. “From Target. It’s under your seat.”  

“Very Oprah of you.”  

“I did already give you a car.”  

Buck reaches under the passenger seat, pulls out a paper Target bag. The bag holds a selection of items: a rectangular dry-erase board, about a foot long, split into seven sections. A pack of colorful markers to go with it. A small box filled with translucent plastic rectangles and little tabs of paper.  

“They’re appointment magnets,” Maddie says, not really taking her eyes off the road. “I mean, the whiteboard’s a weekly fridge calendar, and then the little plastic thingies are appointment magnets. So you can just move them from day to day and don’t have to rewrite everything each week.”  

“I do have a lot of appointments now,” Buck says. “And soon to be even more, apparently, so, thanks, Mads.”  

She hums again, soft and upbeat. She drives for another quiet minute, just the indecipherable radio and the rumble of other engines, before she says, “Super proud of you, by the way.”  

Buck just groans, and it makes Maddie giggle, makes her reach her hand between their seats and scratch, a few times, lightly over his shoulder.  

After a battle through the Los Angeles streets that feels, with Maddie driving, both monotonous and harrowing, they stop at the coffee place nearest Buck’s apartment. Buck elects to stay in the car while Maddie runs in, which has her giving him kind of a weird look, but he just doesn’t want to move right now. He’s going to have to walk again soon anyway, when they get back to his place. And he wants to be alone, like truly alone, even for five minutes, before Maddie asks him to talk about it, because she’s going to ask him to talk about it, and he’ll either need to suck it up and talk about it or find a way to put it off, and regardless of which way that goes, he’ll need to find a way to stay collected while it happens.  

He can feel it, a little bit, in the bottom of his stomach. He’s hoping the caffeine will help. He doesn’t get jittery when he drinks caffeine. Just focused. Consuming helps, sometimes, too. Eating, technically, without biting, without chewing. Sometimes that abates the urge, a little.  

Sometimes it doesn’t.  

Maddie’s still in the café, and Buck gets out his phone to check his texts, and the first thing he sees is a message from a new number. Dr. Adamiak’s automated appointment reminders.  

His stomach hurts. He’s pretty sure he’s sweating. The car’s still running. It’s not even hot in here. He has another appointment in three days.  

There is no universe in which he’s ready to go back in three days. What the fuck’s gonna change in three days? Is something even supposed to have changed?  

The second thing he sees on his phone is a text from Eddie.  

Am I good to swing over with Chris later? Assuming yes but sometimes you’re maudlin  

Buck texts back, before even really considering it, feeling like he’s lying but not knowing why, Gotta pass :( Been in and out of Drs offices all day, probably gonna pass out when I get home lol. Won’t be great company.   

Then, Also wtf do you mean MAUDLIN????  

Eddie responds relatively quickly: Got it, rest up bud  

Then, I know words Buck. I mean maudlin.   

Are you telling me I’m wrong?  

I’m not wrong  

Buck feels like he lied. He has been at various doctors all day. He is tired. He wouldn’t be good company right now, especially not for Chris.  

But he feels that specific type of hunger that starts in the head and the mouth and claws its way down the esophagus until he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. A pressing, creaking, empty want.  

He feels like he lied. He’s not supposed to have to lie anymore.  

Maddie’s coming out of the café with their coffees.  

Buck texts back, No you’re not wrong, and shuts off his phone.  

Maddie gets into the car, hands him his straw first, debit card second, coffee last.  

“Thanks,” Buck says, and then doesn’t say anything else. Just jabs the straw into the plastic lid.  

Maddie buckles her seatbelt. “You look like you’re waiting for me to debrief you.”  

Buck takes a long draw of coffee, ice-cold, almost syrup-thick. Maddie definitely had thoughts when she saw the order ticket, but it has to have enough sugar to hit right, to make him feel like he’s actually eating something, to scratch the itch without tearing open the skin.  

“Aren’t you going to?” Buck asks.  

Maddie hesitates, like the real answer is yes, obviously, but she doesn’t want to say that. “You said it wasn’t bad. That she seems competent. It’s only the first appointment; I wasn’t planning on asking you what you talked about, specifically.”  

“Me, mostly.”  

“Duh,” Maddie says. And then she’s not talking anymore, and she keeps looking at him, just out of the corner her eyes, like she’s waiting for him to talk.  

He drinks more coffee. It falls, cold and insubstantial, into a raw, empty center. He wants to be home already.  

“Do you want to go back?” Maddie asks.  

He shrugs. “I think I kind of have to.”  

She doesn’t argue that point. “But do you want to?”  

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”  

He doesn’t think the coffee’s helping.  

“I got diagnosed,” he says, apropos of almost nothing. Waves his free hand around a little with false pageantry. “Officially bulimic. Yay. Wahoo.”  

Maddie sighs. “Buck...”  

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “It’s not—I knew already. I don’t know why it feels like a big deal.”  

“Maybe it just feels more real?”  

“It was already real.”  

His apartment complex is almost in sight. The coffee definitely isn’t helping. He knows what’s going to happen the second he gets in there. He knows what he’s going to do the moment he’s alone. He knew already, without even acknowledging it to himself, when he told Eddie and Chris not to come over. He knew when he asked to go for coffee. He knows, so he doesn’t know why he’s not doing anything to stop it. It feels inevitable. It feels like it’s already happened.  

It’s already official . Written down, black ink, white paper. He’s a canonized bulimic. On some level, he’ll just be doing what’s expected of him.  

“Brains aren’t always logical,” Maddie says patiently.  

Don’t I fucking know it, Buck thinks.  

Out loud, he says, “It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.”  

Time since the bombing: 2 months.   

After Eddie’s shield ceremony, people linger around for a couple hours, like they tend to do when they’re all happy in a room together with a massive sheet cake. Buck feels his energy, without his permission, begin to sap and dwindle until it starts circling the drain.  

It makes him anxious, when that happens. It’s been two months. He feels like he should be a little more ahead of it by now. He’s fucked up his bones more times than he can possibly hope to remember, and this time feels different. He should be more adjusted.  

If he’s trying to get back to work in the next three or four months, he’s got about two months before he really needs to start training again. Like actually training, not just PT. And from where he’s sitting right now—exhausted after walking from his apartment to the lobby to the car into another building and up two flights of stairs—that timeline of events seems about as real as the goddamn tooth fairy.  

Various people have been fawning over Chris for about forty-five minutes now, which is fine by Buck, because he’s probably not much fun right now. The sounds of laughter and talking are gummy and run-together. The fluorescent lights somehow feel both over-bright and indistinct. He feels like he’s fusing to his own chair.  

Someone gently pokes his cheek. Then again, a little less gently.  

“Ow,” Buck says, even though it really didn’t hurt.  

There’s the distinct sound of Christopher’s giggle.  

Buck cracks open one eye.  

“You were asleep,” Chris stage-whispers.  

“For real?” Buck asks.  

Christopher nods gravely.  

He shifts himself up in his seat, rubs at his eyes. He has no idea how long he was asleep. Hopefully not long enough for anyone to notice. “Shoot. Did your dad see?”  

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He’s still talking to tía. He said to ask if you want us to drive you home.”  

“That...” Buck tries to straighten himself up in his chair more. His left leg seems to weigh three thousand pounds. Everything feels impossible all of the time. “That sounds super awesome, actually. Can you tell him yes for me, please?”  

Chris nods, already shifting backwards, doing his best to navigate through people much taller than him. Buck salutes him before he turns, but Christopher’s pretty quick, and he’s already halfway gone. He’s got a confidence about him with how he moves, using his crutches as naturally as his own limbs. Buck knows they’re not in the same situation, like, at all. But he can’t help but feel a little envious.  

Which is stupid. Because Chris is barely eight.  

And yet.  

If Eddie told Chris to ask Buck if he wanted a ride home, that must mean that Eddie’s ready to leave. Which is great, because Bobby was Buck’s ride here, and Bobby, wherever he is, is definitely not ready to leave—he’s completely in his natural element, playing half-host, half proud Captain.  

Eddie, despite it technically being his party, has a notoriously limited battery for large crowds of people and even larger amounts of attention.  

So, in essence, thank God for the Diazes.  

— 

“There’s a PS4 here now,” Buck says, letting his bag fall from his shoulder next to the kitchen island. He goes to shut the front door with his crutch, but Eddie’s already doing it. “Feels like an important update.”  

He starts making his way towards the living section of the main room, Chris already following him. “You got a PlayStation?” Christopher asks, like Buck had just announced that he’d gotten a Mars rover, or his very own elephant.  

“Yeah, bud,” Buck says. He tosses both of the controllers from the coffee table to the couch before following them to collapse onto the cushions. He heaves out a massive sigh, waits a second for Chris to scramble up beside him. Two vastly different crutch-using experiences for the two of them, it seems. He adds, “Bought it for my birthday last month.”  

Eddie’s come over by this point, standing near the couch, and he’s got this baffled, fond look on his face.  

“What?” Buck asks. He takes one of the controllers in his own hands, gives the other to Chris.  

Eddie says, “You can’t get yourself stuff for your own birthday.”   

Buck makes an affronted noise. “I absolutely can, and I did.” He points at Chris, speaks directly to him. “You absolutely can, Chris. Don’t listen to your dad. He’s being a curmudgeon.”  

“A curmudgeon,” Eddie repeats, sounding vaguely scandalized.  

Christopher starts to laugh, even as he asks, “What’s a curmudgeon?”  

Eddie starts, “It’s like—” 

“—Stick in the mud,” Buck interrupts. “Killjoy. No fun. Your dad. Eddie Diaz. Curmudgeon.” 

“Now you’re just being mean,” Eddie says.  

“You were mean first.”  

“You don’t even really like video games.”  

“I like video games with Chris,” Buck says, gesturing to the other controller, already in Christopher’s hands.   

“So you got Chris a present for your birthday.”  

Buck shrugs. “Maybe.” He looks from Eddie to Chris, raises his eyebrows. “You complaining?”  

“Nope,” Christopher says, eyes on the screen. He’s perpetually working on his fine motor skills, and only has heavily restricted access to screens, so he’s not particularly good at using the controller, but his eyes still light up as he looks across the menu. “You have Minecraft?”  

“Duh,” Buck says. “I already started a new world a few days ago. My house is kind of crappy, though. You’ll have to teach me.” 

Chris makes a delighted, surprised sort of sound, and Buck boots up the save file.  

“So two presents,” Eddie says, and finally takes a seat on the far end of the couch. Presumably, he’s made peace with the fact that he’s going to be a spectator for a while. “You got him two presents for your birthday.”  

— 

“Nineteen,” Buck says, adding up his answers on the right-hand side of the page. He hands the paper over to Dr. Adamiak and huffs a joyless half-laugh. “Just under the wire. I’m cured.”  

It’s his sixth appointment. In theory, some things have changed. They don’t always play out in practice.  

He’s supposed to be practicing urge surfing at home. ‘Urge surfing’, in Buck’s (admittedly limited) experience, is just a more academic name for telling your brain to fuck off. Dr. Adamiak would probably disagree with that interpretation, which is why he hasn’t voiced it. He just takes the handouts she gives him and goes, Okay, I’ll do my best.   

He’s finding out that his best isn’t very good. Not when it comes to this, anyway. He does tell Dr. Adamiak that, at least. That he’s working with a maybe-fifty percent success rate. And that it’s kind of exhausting. Because he spends longer trying to resist the urge to binge than he would actually bingeing, and it’s not like he can double task while he does it, so he just spends a lot of time alone, sitting in his apartment with his eyes closed and his hands pressed to his temples, sometimes silently and sometimes muttering to himself, feeling stupid, and stressed, and incompetent, and then half the time it doesn’t even work and he binges anyway.  

Fifty percent success, Dr. Adamiak tells him, is a result of trying at least ninety percent harder than you were before. And I will remind you that it’s only been three weeks.   

She says annoyingly optimistic things, for someone who never really looks all that happy.  

She also has a habit of reminding him, when he complains about this to her, that a higher level of care is always an option, Buck.   

Every time, he manages to urge-surf his way out of saying no fucking way. But it’s a close thing.  

(Maddie, predictably enough—he doesn’t even know why he brought it up to her; it was stupid of him—is even more pro- ‘higher level of care’ than Dr. Adamiak. She keeps saying, You know, if you were going to do a day-treatment program or something, now would be the time to do it. And Buck keeps saying, If my actual, literal psychiatrist tells me I should, maybe I would do that. But she hasn’t said that yet, so. Which is true enough. Buck trusts that Dr. Adamiak would give it to him straight, if she thought he was actually doing an entirely shitty job. But somehow, impossibly, she seems to think he’s kind of doing good .)  

“Well, did you answer honestly?” She asks, scanning her eyes over the paper.  

Buck snorts lightly. “I don’t know why I’d lie to a piece of paper. Or you, for that matter. I already told you that I’ve eaten food out of the trash before.”  

The paper in question is the Eating Attitudes Test, a disordered eating assessment tool with twenty-six questions. It’s usually shortened to the EAT-26 . Which feels a little insensitive, if you ask Buck. 

Anyway, a score of twenty or above indicates clinical levels of disordered eating.  

Buck scores a nineteen, no matter which way he slices it.  

“It’s all the weight stuff,” Buck supplies, because he’d seen where his tallies were (or, more accurately, weren’t ) coming from when he added up his answers. “Like half the questions are about being afraid of gaining weight.”  

Dr. Adamiak hums. “And you’re not.” 

Buck shrugs. “Not really. Not more than anybody else is.”  

She’s still looking at the paper when she says, “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”  

“There’s really not a lot to talk about,” Buck says. He’s not even trying to avoid talking about it; there just really isn’t much there. “It’s.” He grimaces, and then decides to just keep going, because—like he said—Dr. Adamiak already knows some of the stuff about him that he actually finds embarrassing. “I think it’s more about the emotional release? Honestly, when I started, it was because I actually, literally felt nauseous. I mean, I was bingeing—couldn’t tell you why that started, specifically, but whatever—but I didn’t choose to purge. Not the first couple times. But it felt good. And it made me calm. So I just... kept doing it. I don’t know. It seems really... it seems like a really, really stupid decision, if I look back on it. But I got really attached to it. Am really attached to it. I don’t know why I’m talking in past-tense, like I didn’t do it...” he pauses to count in his head, “four days ago.”  

“We’ve established that the cause was never weight-related,” Dr. Adamiak says. “And I do believe you, before you insist. But I want to clarify—none of it’s ever been weight-related? Not even peripherally?” 

“I don’t think—” Buck stops himself. “What does that mean, exactly?”  

“A causal relationship to weight would be purging specifically to avoid weight gain. Oftentimes that focus on weight gets the blame for the underlying emotional distress the person is experiencing. You do experience that distress—hence why you binge and purge to relieve it—but you don’t project it onto your weight.”  

Buck thinks on it. He really does try and find a time. He comes up empty. “My weight’s fine,” he says. “It’s kind of always been fine—well, okay, technically I was like, a little overweight for one summer in high school? But I fixed it.”  

“You ‘fixed it’.”  

Buck nods. Dr. Adamiak’s expression is its usual level of inscrutable.  

Buck says, “My pediatrician told my mom that my weight had outpaced my height by maybe ten or fifteen pounds—bulimia, like, does that, sometimes. You know—and it embarrassed the shit out of my mom, so I just started skipping breakfast and running more and by the end of the summer it was fine.”  

Dr. Adamiak’s expression is no longer inscrutable. This is mainly due to the fact that Buck can’t see her face. He can’t see her face because she is writing very quickly and very prolifically on her notepad.  

When she finally looks up, Buck feels like maybe, in all of that, he said something he shouldn’t have. He doesn’t know what it would’ve been. All of that felt normal to him. It doesn’t even really feel related to the eating disorder stuff. It was easy. It was a blip. It was nothing.  

“So your weight’s always been ‘fine’.”  

“Why can I hear air-quotes when you say it like that?”  

Dr. Adamiak tilts her head. “Because I don’t think there’s necessarily such a thing as a weight that isn’t fine, medical extremes excluded. Do you mean your relationship to your weight has always been fine?”  

“I don’t have a ‘relationship’ to my weight, that’s what I’m trying to say.”  

She just hums again. Buck kind of hates it when she does that. It always happens before she starts a conversation that he’ll think about for the next forty-eight consecutive hours.  

“So,” she says, “you don’t have any insecurities about your body? Nothing you’d want to change?”

“You mean apart from the crush injury?”  

“I assumed that was implied, yes.”  

“I’m being so honest right now. Not really. Nothing major, anyway. Nothing I actually worry about. I—” he pauses. Tries to think of a way to say this that conveys how normal and not-a-problem it feels for him. “I kind of worked super hard, actually, to get my body how it is. Like, for my job and everything. I’m not saying I don’t want to look a certain way, like I’m not some kind of... some kind of saint who has no concept of vanity. Kind of the opposite. It’s that—God, I’m gonna sound like an asshole. It’s that I already know I’m hot.”  

“You’re hot,” Dr. Adamiak says, entirely an echo, not an assertion.  

“I mean.” Buck shrugs. “Yeah.”  

“And that’s important to you?”  

“I mean,” Buck says. And stops. Because he feels like the correct answer is no. The answer he’s supposed to give, in any other type of conversation, would be no.  

He says, “Relatively important. Not more important than, like, my job. Or my sister. But it’s kind of one of the only things I have going for me. I’m—I mean, I try to be nice. And I am good at my job. And I’m hot.”  

“Alright,” Dr. Adamiak says. She doesn’t write any more notes down. Just thinks. Visibly.  

Then she asks, “What if you weren’t?”  

“What?”  

“What if you weren’t ‘hot’?” This time, she does the air quotes with her fingers.  

“Like... what do you mean.”  

“Why do you think you’re attractive, Buck? I’m not commenting subjectively on the matter either way. I want to know what informed you .”  

“I mean. I’ve just.” Buck flounders, a little bit. “I don’t know. People told me? People acted like I was? And I know vaguely what’s normally considered attractive, and I mostly fit it?”  

“Okay,” Dr. Adamiak says. “So what if you didn’t? What if other people found you unattractive? What if they found no worth in how much they liked to look at you, or if they wanted to sleep with you or not?”  

Flatly, Buck says, “I think that would feel shitty, probably. I don’t think that’s disordered. I think most people would feel bad.”  

“Not most people,” Dr. Adamiak says. “You. Really think about it. If you woke up tomorrow—say you and your body didn’t change at all. Say everybody else’s standards and ideas of what is or isn’t ‘hot’ changed. And suddenly it’s not you anymore. Think about that.”  

Buck thinks about it. He thinks about it for maybe thirty seconds while Dr. Adamiak watches him, and he doesn’t meet her eyes even once.  

“One word,” she says. “Don’t think about it, just say it. First emotion you can identify.”  

Buck’s mouth moves before his brain can form a thought. He says, immediately, “Fear.”  

Time since the bombing: 3 months.  

His cast is officially off, replaced by a brace. He’s graduated from two crutches to one. Partial weight-bearing. Still not cleared to drive, but soon, according to Dr. Okafor. Maybe in a week. In physical therapy, they don’t want him to use the crutch at all. His bones are on track. He has another blood draw on Thursday.  

Today, however, is Tuesday, and Bobby has taken him to the grocery store.  

He had a virtual meeting with a Registered Dietitian a few days ago, personally recommended by Dr. Adamiak. Her name is Alex, and he almost verbally thanked whatever god is actually out there when she said there was no need for weekly appointments. They communicate mostly via an app she had him download—she uploaded the meal plan she drafted for him, and the majority of their conversations are one or two sentences.  

Which is so, so fantastic. Because—don’t get him wrong; she seems nice. But honestly, he’s kind of professional-ed out.  

“Your sister called me,” Bobby says, pushing Buck’s cart next to him in the bread aisle, “told me to try and talk some sense into you.”  

Buck, looking down at the grocery list, wrinkles his nose. Both at what Bobby said, and at the fact that Alex recommends whole-grain bread. “Maddie has your phone number?”  

“Maddie has everyone’s phone number,” Bobby says sagely. “We all traded when you were in the hospital.”  

“And talk some sense into me about what?” Buck asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows. He chucks a disappointingly nutritious-looking loaf of bread into the cart.  

“The surgery,” Bobby says. “She thinks you’re being rash.”  

“ She can tell me she thinks that,” Buck says, and then amends, “she has told me she thinks that. It’s my body. My doctor wouldn’t have brought it up if it was going to kill me. It’ll be fine.”  

Bobby takes his hands off the cart handle to hold them up in surrender as they make their way to dairy. The cart rolls free in front of him for a couple of seconds. “I’m just doing my due diligence.”  

“You’re being a betrayer, is what you’re doing.” 

“I’m not telling you not to do it,” Bobby says. “I’m asking you to be cautious.”  

Buck puts milk in the cart. Alex recommends against skimmed. Butter. Eggs. He huffs out, “ Cautious. I’ve been cautious for three months.”  

“Three months isn’t that long, in the grand scheme of things,” Bobby says. “Not when it comes to rebuilding a limb, anyway.”  

“Well, it feels like forever. Deli next, by the way.”  

“I know you want to get back to working, but—” 

“—No buts, Bobby. I need to get back to work.” He gestures out with his free arm at... everything, really. “This sucks. I’m going insane. If my doctor suggested it—which he did , so I don’t know why everyone’s acting like it was my idea—then my body can handle it. And if it’s going to help me get back on my feet sooner, why shouldn’t I take it?” 

Bobby opens his mouth to speak, but Buck cuts him off: “Don’t say anything about rabbits or tortoises, Cap. Just don’t.”  

Bobby laughs soundlessly, wryly. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to say, at the end of the day, yes, it’s your decision. But as your Captain, and as your—as your friend, I guess, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t remind you that even if you don’t take the fastest option, you will still have a place here when you’re ready. Everybody knows how committed you are to this, Buck. I know how hard you’ve worked. How hard you are working.”  

Buck manages to keep the ‘you don’t know the half of it’ behind his teeth. But just barely. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. Thanks, Bobby. I’m still doing it, though.” 

— 

On Monday, he’s back in Dr. Adamiak’s office. He feels like he’s never not back in Dr. Adamiak’s office.  

“You...” she says, when she first sees him, and he can tell the next word was going to be look— as in, you look unwell, or more accurately, you look like shit— but she’s been doing this job more than long enough to stop that from coming out of her mouth.  

Instead, she asks, low, calm, even: “How was your weekend, Buck?”  

Buck drops himself down into the armchair. He’s always dropping himself down into this stupid armchair. He leans his crutch against the bookshelf behind it. “Dogshit,” he says.  

“Colorful,” Dr. Adamiak remarks, closing the office door behind her and sitting down at the desk. “But not terribly specific.”  

“You know I have that surgery later this week? It’s why I had to shuffle this around to Monday?”  

“Of course.”  

“Maddie’s being—I don’t even know how to describe how she’s being. Neurotic, almost. I’m supposed to be the neurotic one.”  

Dr. Adamiak half-frowns. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be neurotic, per se. Neuroticism is usually seen as a personality trait; an eating disorder isn’t.”  

“I think I’d be neurotic without the eating disorder, too,” Buck says, then flaps his hands to dismiss the idea. “That’s not what I’m talking about right now, though. I think. I think I’m fucking this up.”  

Dr. Adamiak raises one gray eyebrow. “Telling me about your weekend?”  

“No—well, yeah, but—I mean the whole... the whole thing.” He doesn’t like saying recovery, even though that’s the word he means. Any time he says it out loud (and sometimes even when he just thinks it) it makes him feel optimistic to a delusional degree. Like he’s humoring himself: his own camp counselor patting himself on the back and saying sure, buddy, follow your dreams.   

“The surgery?” Dr. Adamiak clarifies. “Recovery? Life?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Alright. Tell me why you think that.”  

“I went grocery shopping less than a week ago,” Buck says. And he knows it sounds like a non-sequitur, but Dr. Adamiak doesn’t interrupt him to tell him so. “Got, like, two weeks worth of stuff.”  

“Your captain came with you,” Dr. Adamiak says. “The unofficial chef. I remember.”  

“Yeah. Bobby. And he dropped me off at home and helped me carry all the stuff inside, which is really nice of him, but he was talking to me about the surgery—about my sister about the surgery, and like I said, Maddie’s so freaked out about it, like she doesn’t trust me, which—I don’t know. I don’t know. I think I’m the most trustable I’ve ever been, right now. I don’t know. Anyway. Bobby left me alone with all the stuff, because I told him I wanted to put it away myself—good for my limbs, and stuff, or whatever. But really I just wanted him to get the hell out, because—and I had a blood draw on Thursday, you know? And this was Tuesday. So I knew I had a blood draw in two days, and I couldn’t fuck up my levels, so I sat down and I tried. I tried for, like—I don’t know; it felt like fucking hours. And it kind of worked. I ended up, like, chew-spitting a bunch of shit? Because puking would fuck up my blood draw. And. I mean. It worked. Blood draw came back the best it’s been. But I know it’s—and before you ask, no, I haven’t gone to the dentist yet. God. I don’t know. And then Maddie was over on Saturday, and I told her about my blood results, because those came back Friday evening. And she was like, ‘So, you’re really doing the new surgery then?’ and I was like, ‘Why do you sound surprised? You knew I was,’ and she got. She actually got kind of pissed off. At me. And we ended up actually, really arguing. And she left. And I was alone again. And. You know. I’d already done the blood draw. So there was nothing left to mess up if I just said fuck it . So. I said fuck it. For two whole days. And now I’m here, and I look like I died a week ago, and I feel like shit, and I’m totally out of groceries, and I think. I think I’m just fucking all of this up.”  

Dr. Adamiak is quiet for almost a full minute. Buck’s more than half-afraid she’s going to say, Well, you make a very convincing case. I can’t say I disagree.   

She doesn’t say that. Obviously.  

What she does say, tapping her still-capped pen lightly on her notepad, is, “I believe the only way to truly ‘fuck all of this up’ is to quit.”  

Buck rolls his eyes before he can help it. “Okay, sure. I basically quit, though.”  

“No, you didn’t,” Dr. Adamiak says. “You’re sitting right in front of me.”  

Buck leans forward in the chair. Scrubs his hands over his face. “Okay. Did I not accurately explain how much it sucked? Because it really sucked.”  

“I think you explained just fine. I know it sucked.”  

“Okay, so...”  

“So,” Dr. Adamiak starts, “we already know that negative emotions and stress trigger episodes. You still have the emotional triggers map, yes?”  

Buck nods, still covering his face.  

Dr. Adamiak continues, “You are in one of the most stressful periods of your life. And we know— you know, Buck, that one of your worst triggers is rejection or abandonment. Your lapses up until this point have, given your situation, been exceptionally tame. Almost to the point where it is pleasantly surprising, and I wondered, for a little while, if you were hiding worse things.”  

“I’m not,” Buck says, half into his hands. “I would’ve told you.”  

“I know that. I know you better now, so I know that. All that to say, it’s not surprising to me that this—added stress, Maddie getting angry, Maddie leaving your apartment—is the thing that finally triggered a worse lapse.”  

“It’s not—it’s not her fault.” 

“Of course not. Not unless she instructed you to binge and purge before she left.”  

Buck groans. “Obviously not.”  

“That was supposed to be a joke, Buck.”  

“Not very funny.”  

“Then I apologize. What I’m trying to say is: it would be deeply concerning to me if you only ever reported minor lapses, and even more concerning if you reported no lapses at all. I do still want to know if you’re experiencing physical symptoms as a result, of course, and if you ever feel like you can’t handle supervising yourself anymore, if you feel like you need a hi—” 

“—I don’t want a higher level of care unless you say I need it.”   

“Alright, well. I don’t think you need it yet.”  

“Yet,” Buck repeats.  

“Yes, yet. I’ll tell you if I think you do. But—I’m sorry to disappoint you, Buck. This is very normal. You’re acting very normally right now, for someone in your position. You didn’t ‘fuck everything up’. You were triggered, you lapsed, you regretted it, you came back here anyway, and you told me. We’ll talk about it, try to figure out specifically what went wrong. And then you will go home and you will try again and hopefully it’ll go better next time.”  

“And I just... keep doing that?”  

Dr. Adamiak shakes her hand in a so-so motion, but eventually just shrugs and nods. “Pretty much.”  

“ God. For how long?”  

“I can’t tell you that part with any sort of confidence.”  

Time since the bombing: 4 months.   

He walks into his second pre-employment physical with the LAFD with a letter of approval from Dr. Okafor and somewhere, deep in the recesses of his medical charts, a diagnosis of Bulimia Nervosa.  

His bloodwork is... passable. His vitals aren’t average, but they’re not concerning. His leg has healed better than almost everyone except Buck himself had thought it would. His three-mile time ticks down a little bit each day. It’s not anywhere near as good as it used to be, but if he carries on the way he has, if he pushes himself just a little bit further, maybe, in a month, he can get close.  

The LAFD health division physician that sees Buck doesn’t mention the bulimia scrawled into his charts. Buck has to wonder if he noticed. He has to wonder if he even read all the papers.  

Can’t rely on the health division for shit, seems like. Buck thanks God, a little bit.  

It’s not like he doesn’t think he could talk his way out of it, if he needed to. That he couldn’t downplay and obfuscate his way into a believable mask of remission.  

(It wouldn’t even be that much of a lie, because he is trying; it is the goal, after all.)  

It’s that he would hate to sit through explaining it.  

Dr. Okafor is a blatant exception to the rule, Buck figures. Most medical doctors don’t know jack about eating disorders, in reality, except that they happen in frail teenage girls. Buck suspects that’s how he ended up in so many emergency rooms over the years without anyone ever noticing a thing.  

But none of that matters, in the end. Because the health division is flicking through a pile of pre-employment physicals, ticking boxes, getting Buck in and out in a blink. Maybe that’s not that weird. It’s not like they can do much internal testing. They just do some range of motion tests, check reflexes. Take his pulse (slow, but normal rhythm after three months of Capital-T Trying, thank you very much) and his pressure (low, but stable between when he sits and stands).  

Ask him if he has any pain.  

He tells them his leg hurts, sometimes.  

The health division doctor chuckles, shakes his head. Well, I’d imagine, he says. Hell of a thing you went through.  

Buck laughs a little too, mostly just to be polite. Tries to explain that when his leg hurts now, it’s not quite like soreness, not quite like healing. Not like the stretching of scar tissue, or where the stitches used to be, or where the burn marks still show. It’s on the inside, almost. Maybe where the bones broke.  

The health division doctor hems and haws over this for a moment, before deciding that with all the training Buck’s doing for his recerts, it’s probably just cramps. He wishes Buck the best with his certifications. Shakes his hand and sends him out the door.  

So Buck makes it through the physical unscathed. Schedules his recertification for six weeks out—he can always reschedule later, but he won’t have to. Even thinking of that possibility in his own head feels a little bit like admitting failure.  

Time since the bombing: 5 months and 2 weeks.   

On the day he takes his re-certs, Buck is 32 days purge-free.

It's not the first time that's ever happened, but it is the first time it hasn't been by complete coincidence. 

In a physical sense, he feels the best he ever has.  

He barely registers being in his own body while he goes through the course. He’s not counting while he does it, so he only learns afterward that he apparently set a new record. He starts the first course, and five minutes later he’s finishing the last one, except the sun’s moved most of the way through the sky and the clock says it’s been six hours and the instructor is shaking his head and congratulating him and all Buck can think is, Holy shit—I did it—I actually did it, and all he can feel is that his leg is fucking killing him.  

He texts Eddie before he calls Maddie. He’ll never admit that to her, not that she’d ever ask.  

The text he sends only reads, Passed.  

By the time he’s made it back to his car, Eddie’s texted him back: Hell yeah  

Another text rolls in a second later, reading, Chris says quote ‘YAY’  

Buck types out, I also say YAY  

Then he calls Maddie.  

“So?” She asks as soon as she picks up, and it makes Buck laugh, a light, wild thing, surprising himself a little. Sitting alone in the car, finally with a second to just breathe, it all suddenly becomes very real. He did it. He worked, and he pushed himself, and he tried —and he’s going to have to keep trying, but that’s not the fun part right now, so whatever—and it meant something. It all meant something. He’s sitting here now, knowing it was worth it, knowing he’d do it all over again, because he gets to do the one thing he’s supposed to. The tunnel vision, it turns out, focused right on the light, like a telescope trained on a star.  

“We’re on for dinner,” he says into the phone. “I set a new record.”  

Maddie cheers, but it’s muffled, like she was conscientious enough to cover the microphone with her hand before she did it. That makes Buck laugh, too. It’s just so Maddie. He thinks this is maybe what being high might feel like. He thinks he could run twenty miles and never have to stop even once. If his leg wasn’t still throbbing.  
There are some rustling noises on the other end of the line as Maddie presumably settles her phone back to her cheek.  

“Are you sure it’ll be okay?” She asks. “Dinner, I mean? It won’t... today hasn’t been too much?”

Buck clears his throat. “I’ll be good. It’s just—I mean, it’s just dinner with Bobby and Athena and you. I eat dinner at the station all the time. I can handle, like, a normal meal, Mads. I’m relatively functional.”  

Maddie makes a noise that’s half-discomfort, half-disbelief.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Buck asks, trying not to feel offended.  

“No, no, it’s not—okay. I’m not supposed to tell you. But given the insider knowledge I have, I feel like I should tell you, so I’m going to, but you have to promise to act surprised when you get to Bobby and Athena’s place.”  

“...It’s a party, isn’t it?”  

When Maddie doesn’t immediately confirm, he continues, clearing his throat again, “It’s totally a party. God. Like with cake and everything?”  

Maddie just hums in the affirmative. “Two cakes, I think. Everyone’s invited.”  

Buck says, “Wow.”  

“Bad ‘wow’? I can’t see you. So I can’t tell.”  

“Not a bad ‘wow’. Just. Good to know. Surprised ‘wow’. Thanks for the heads up.” 

“Of course. So... it’ll be good? I can tell them you’re coming? Remember to be surprised.”  

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says. Tries to clear his throat again, reaches for the bottle of water in the cupholder. Means it when he says, “It’ll be awesome. Everything’s coming up Buckley.” 

Chapter Text

“Be surprised,” Maddie stresses for maybe the third or fourth time since Buck picked her up from work.  

“Sorry, didn’t really hear you,” Buck says, unbuckling his seatbelt, opening the driver’s side door, stepping out onto the curb. “I should be unimpressed? Is that what you said? Nonplussed? Bored?” 

Maddie comes around from the other side of the car, aims her pointer finger right at his chest. “If Chimney finds out I told you, he’ll be so annoying about it.”  

Buck presses the lock button on the fob. “Chimney won’t do shit. He’s lucky he’s always the one getting the, ‘Congrats—you didn’t die!’ parties, because he’s one to talk about keeping something on the down-low.”  

Maddie’s voice is very flat when she says, “Too soon.”  

Buck grimaces. “I was actually thinking of the rebar, when I said that.”  

As they start up the walkway together, he says, as a sort of peace offering: “I will be so, so surprised.”   

Maddie says, primly, “ Thank you.”  

— 

Bobby’s the first one to hug him, and it’s good that he is, because Buck feels grounded, compressed back together into himself, by the time Athena pulls him off to the corner of the dining room a few seconds later.  

She doesn’t move to hug him, but she does reach up to smooth out his collar, sets her hands on his shoulders for a second.  

“Everything looks super awesome,” he tells her, because it’s true, and he’s not really sure where else to start. “Thank you.”  

She smiles in that reserved, contained way she does—at first, Buck assumed that it wasn’t a genuine smile, but he’s come to realize that it is. Athena Grant just keeps a very light, firm metaphorical palm pressed on the back of her own neck. Buck’s never really seen her an inch out of place.  

Maybe it’s different for people that really, truly know her. Buck still feels like he doesn’t. He knows he trusts her; at this point, completely and implicitly. Helping him find Maddie cemented that for the rest of his life.  

He knows she exudes this steady, calm, competent type of energy, but maybe that’s more on Buck than it is on her. He gets it from a lot of people: Athena, for one; Maddie; Hen; Bobby; even Eddie, but only sometimes. Maybe Buck just operates on the frequency of a just-plucked catgut string, and he likes people that tend to temper it.  

He knows she’s good at reading people. Read him like a book as soon as he walked in the house. Gave him a bubble of quiet for a second before entering the fray. Buck likes people. He even likes some parties. He’s not even afraid to admit that a lot of the time, he loves attention.  

There’s still a lot going on right now after months of being at home, followed by quiet, still doctors’ offices, followed by weeks of solitary training.  

Athena pats his cheek, just for a second. “Coordination was all Bobby and your sister, and you’ll also have to thank Hen’s ‘cake guy’. But you are certainly welcome for the use of my house.”  

— 

Chimney’s standing with Buck’s sister, because of course he is. 

“Can’t believe you managed to keep all this a secret,” Buck says as he comes to a stop next to them. He almost slides between them—there’s maybe a two-foot gap—but decides he doesn’t want to be quite that annoying. He continues, glancing just past them to the table, “Oh, shit, there’s cake?”  

Maddie gives him a look that says something close to, You’re laying it on a little thick there.  

“ Two cakes,” Chim corrects. He hands Maddie a plate of cake and a fork. “Got another one on standby in case you crashed and burned that says, ‘ Better Buck Next Time!’”   

“Appreciate the faith,” Buck says, but he keeps his voice light.  

Maddie tsks. “We just... weren’t one hundred percent sure how today was going to go,” she says. She stabs her plastic fork into her piece of cake, takes a bite. It’s yellow, two layers, weirdly tall for a sheet cake. “It’s not that we didn’t believe in you.”  

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck says. He knocks their shoulders together. He has to bend his knees a little bit to do it evenly. His leg twinges as he does, right in the center of the muscle of his calf.  

Maddie must see something on his face, because she murmurs, “You good?”  

She speaks quietly, but it doesn’t really matter either way when Chim’s standing right there.  

“Yeah,” Buck says quickly, matching her volume. He doesn’t know how to completely indecipherable, so he settles for, “Need more potassium. You know.”  

“You can probably take the other cake home, if you wanted,” Chimney offers, evidently oblivious. “It’s yours, anyway. I think it’s in the freezer, just ask Athena.” 

“I...” Buck starts, and can’t think of anything to say after that. “I don’t—” 

Maddie swoops in: “What if you took it to the station? The fridges there are bigger, right?” She turns to Buck. “I don’t think you even have room for a forty-eight serving cake, do you?”  

“In my fridge?” Buck asks, “Or in the whole loft?”  

“Station sounds good,” Chim says. “Means more cake for me.” To Maddie: “You have such great ideas.”  

Maddie gets that dorky, half-joking, self-congratulatory smile that shows up when she’s proud of herself but choosing to stay humble about it. Buck tugs her into his side for a second, presses a kiss to the top of her head, whispers, “Thanks,” into the part of her hair.  

— 

After he manages to make Karen get teary-eyed two different times (first from accidentally insulting their sperm donor, then from purposefully complimenting him) Buck ends up on the patio with Eddie and Christopher.  

“I have to find Maddie,” he tells Chris. “So she can hold onto this for me, because she has a purse.”  

He’s talking about the card Christopher made him, of course, hand-drawn onto stark white cardstock, uneven crease down the middle pressed by a small, chewed-on thumbnail. Buck’s going to keep it forever, obviously, and probably look at it every day until he dies.  

“Pockets?” Eddie suggests, just the one word, without any hint of sarcasm, because it is always possible that Buck temporarily forgot that he has pockets.  

Buck makes an over-exaggerated sound of offense. Halfway through, it turns into a cough. He manages to get out, after a second, “Then I’d have to fold it.”  

— 

“They’re sending me the paperwork in the morning, and you will officially be back,” Bobby says, when Buck finally gets back around the circuit to talk to him. “How’s that feel?”  

Buck shrugs. The night air on the patio is typical of an autumn night in Los Angeles: almost entirely neutral in temperature, not sticky, not dry. There’s barely a breeze.  

In truth, Buck still feels like maybe not all of it’s real. There’s a weird, dreamlike quality that’s fallen over this whole day—his re-certs, the drive home afterward, picking up Maddie, this party.  

Buck clears his throat. “I’m just glad it’s over.” 

Even this very conversation, right now, feels like it’s happening inside a little room carved out in his imagination, with a sign on the door that says Best Case Scenario. He feels like he’s not really standing here right now. He can’t entirely register the ground under his own feet. All he feels is the complete lack of breeze on his cheek, a sticky film on the inside of his mouth from two pieces of yellow sheet cake, a pressure in his chest. The pumping of his own circulatory system, too loud, too noticeable to be normal.  

Weak heart, his brain hisses. A warbling, unwelcome PSA from somewhere outside the Best Case Scenario room.  

Blood results are fine, he reminds it. I passed my physical. I passed my re-certification. I’ll be back at work by the end of the week. I avoided the worst of it; it wasn’t too late. It’s fine.   

Buck continues, “I hated not being with you guys. And not just—not just working. I mean, everyone’s been great, what with... I don’t know how to explain it. Remembering I’m still here, I guess? It’s been good to have a... a network.” 

“A family,” Bobby corrects, with a small, private smile.  

“Yeah.” It makes Buck laugh, makes him choke on spit or something for a second. He clears his throat. “You know, you once specifically told me the opposite of that. ‘This is not a family’, and all.”  

“Well.” Bobby takes his hands from his pockets, splays them a little in surrender. “I’ve come to see the error of my ways. I can see it for what it is. We look out for each other like a family, we care about each other like a family, we’re a family.”  

“Having two step-kids now probably doesn’t hurt,” Buck says. 

Bobby shrugs. “Athena would say, ‘give or take, but mostly give’.”   

“And—and you,” Buck says, repeating the beginning of the sentence a few times, trying to string his thoughts together despite the weird, distant pressure behind his ribs, the twinging of over-exertion in his leg (it’s fine, I passed my re-certs, it’s fine, I passed my physical, it’s fine) , “I mean, you, specifically, have been so, so, just... Thank you, Cap. With the—with the surgeries, and the PT, and driving me—” 

“—It’s nothing,” Bobby interrupts. He shifts his head as he considers. “Well, it’s not nothing. But I was happy to do it.”  

Buck makes a noise of mostly-joking disbelief. “I know I wasn’t always the easiest person to be around.”  

Bobby half-rolls his eyes, claps a hand quickly on Buck’s upper arm. “You weren’t that bad.”  

“I don’t know,” Buck says. He clears his throat. Does it again. It doesn’t work. “You should tell that to my sister—” cuts himself off with a cough, another, a third, not even on purpose this time. Feels like he can’t breathe. Feels like he’s choking on spit, but too much of it, too fast, a thick rush of liquid in his throat where the air’s supposed to go. Vision goes a little gray at the edges. Feels like maybe he’s about to puke.  

He sees Bobby say his name more than he hears it, because all he can hear is a loud wash of blood in his ears, and—that’s what it is. Not saliva, not vomit. He looks down at his hand, at a palm stained dark, dark red. It glistens under the patio lights. It’s definitely blood.  

Maddie will be taking no prisoners in this emergency room.  

She hasn’t actually said anything yet, but Buck can see it on her face. She’s fiercely and unequivocally pissed.  

Buck doesn’t know why. Yeah, he’s mad, too—but more at, like, the universe, or fate, or God, or whatever. Maddie seems pissed at Buck. Even though he didn’t see this coming at all. Even though he didn’t choose it. Even though he literally just got cleared and passed his re-certs.  

He says as much to the ER doctor.  

“Re-certification?” the doctor asks.  

“For the LAFD,” Chimney cuts in. “Just earlier today, actually. We’re firefighters.”  

Chim’s here because, apparently, he saved Buck’s life. Buck will have to remember to thank him for that, at some point. If Maddie doesn’t disown Buck and take Chimney with her.  

The doctor nods in understanding at that, then turns his attention back to Buck. “And you didn’t notice any pain?” He asks. “Discoloration in the leg, swelling, anything?”  

Buck shakes his head. “Just... like, cramps.” Maddie lets out an audible scoff at that, so he says to her, a little pleading, “I really thought they were cramps. The department doctor told me they were probably just cramps.”  

“Fucking health division,” Chimney mutters, then adds, slightly louder, as if to excuse himself, “Sorry.”  

“I was just running a lot,” Buck tells the doctor. “And strength training. I thought it was from that.”  

“Well, that could explain part of it,” the doctor says. “A lot of exercise can cause dehydration, which lends itself to clots, especially with a history of poor circulation—which you do have, according to your chart.”  

Maddie speaks for the first time, then. She just says, “Dehydration?”  

Then she looks right at Buck.  

Maddie’s anger sucks, because it’s always so intimately entwined with her sadness, her disappointment, her fear. If he looks at her face too long, Buck feels like it might start to physically hurt him. But he can’t look away.  

Maddie asks, words very deliberate, the gaps between them obviously purposeful. “Have you been especially dehydrated , recently, Buck?”  

“No,” Buck says immediately. “Maddie, no, I—” His voice is coming out too nasally, too juvenile, too close to tears. “I wouldn’t—you know how bad I want this.”  

She doesn’t even look like she really believes him. She says, “I know how badly you want this, sure. Not sure how much that actually means in practice.”  

It would’ve hurt less if she’d slapped him across the face.  

Chimney’s watching them like he’s at the world’s saddest, most confusing tennis match. Which reminds Buck that Chimney is, in fact, still standing right there.  

He finally breaks Maddie’s gaze. “I’m not lying,” he says, because he can’t say anything else in present company. “I’m not lying.”   

“Okay,” Maddie says, sounding like she fully thinks he’s lying. She purses her lips, then flattens them back out again. “Okay.” She finally, finally looks away from him—but it doesn’t feel right, not when she thinks he’s lying to her, not when he can see that she thinks he’s lying to her—and directs her eyes back to the doctor. “You mentioned maybe trying anticoagulants?”  

Five days later, Buck sits in the armchair he now unofficially thinks of as his chair, and Dr. Adamiak asks him, “How are you finding light duty?”  

“God,” Buck says, and then groans. He lets his head fall against the back of the chair, dramatic and unnecessary, sure, but he doesn’t really care right now. “I’m not even on light duty.”  

Dr. Adamiak looks perplexed. “You said your captain never actually handed in your resignation.”  

“He didn’t,” Buck confirms. “Thankfully.”  

(At first, when Buck had called Bobby to say that, as long as it was all just due to the blood thinners, as long as there was an end date, he actually really, really doesn’t want to quit, and light duty will be fine for a little bit, and that yes, I know I said I quit, but I was just pissed, and I didn’t actually mean it, and I’m sorry, and can you still, like, retract the paperwork, Bobby?)   

(To which Bobby had said, I never even filled it out.)   

(Which is good , now, looking back. At the moment, for a breath, maybe less than a whole breath, it was aggravating all over again. It felt just like Maddie and Bobby reacting to the second surgery. It felt just like Maddie not believing him in the emergency room, even though she’d come around to believing him a couple days later, when emotions were running lower. It felt like just another undermining of his ownership over his own body.)  

(But, you know. In the end, he still has his fucking job. So it worked out.)  

“So...” Dr. Adamiak prompts.  

“So, I’m still on medical leave for the next two weeks,” Buck says. “To monitor how I’m reacting to the blood thinners.”  

“Ah,” she says. “And how are you reacting to the blood thinners?”  

“Like physically? Or, like, how do I feel about them?”  

Dr. Adamiak shrugs. “Either or.”  

“Um.” Buck thinks. “Mentally, it’s like, I don’t care. I mean, I care, but—I just want to not be on fucking leave anymore. I feel like everyone else is delusional, and I’m the only one that’s right. Which I know probably isn’t true, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like it is.” He tries to explain before Dr. Adamiak can ask: “Delusional, like, everyone else is looking at me and thinking I’m still so injured and sick and incapable when it’s—I don’t know. I feel good. I’m good.”   

Dr. Adamiak opens her mouth, but she’s said this a few times now, so Buck intercepts.  

“I know,” he says. “Not good as in, I’m letting my guard down. Good as in physically. Good as in my body’s finally working correctly again. Or, not again. Kind of for the first time that I remember, anyway.”  

She levels him with an extremely unamused expression. “You had a pulmonary embolism less than two weeks ago.”  

Buck waves a hand. “I didn’t die, though! And now I don’t have blood clots anymore, and yeah, I still have a shitload of damage I need to keep working on, like the cardiac issues, and—no, I still haven’t gone to the dentist, so don’t ask, I know I’m putting it off, I’ll get around to it—and the electrolyte stuff, and... but I had all of that before. And it’s at least a little better now. But nobody knows that, except for Maddie, so they all keep looking at me like this is the worst, when I kind of feel the best I have in years.”  

Dr. Adamiak’s been nodding along, not taking any notes. When Buck finally finishes, she asks, very neutrally, “Have you considered explaining any of this to the department?”  

Buck feels himself visibly balk at the idea. “They’d never let me back, then. I think I barely scraped by my physical because they didn’t ask me any questions about it.”  

“I don’t know about that. I could write a letter stating that I wouldn’t consider it harmful for you to return to work, given that your vascular specialist signs off on it as well. In a few more months, if all goes well, you could very well be considered in partial remission.”  

“Bobby doesn’t even know I see a psychiatrist,” Buck protests.  

“I’d imagine it might be reassuring to him to know that you do.”  

“I’m just...” Buck says, and then stops. Because he’s just a lot of things. He’s just antsy. He’s just ready to go back to work. He’s just tired of other people trying to make decisions for him. He’s just sick of not knowing what the fuck is going on in his own body.  

“I’m just going to keep doing my thing,” he says. “Desk duty is.” He stops again. It tastes bad while he says it, but he manages to say it anyway: “Desk duty is fine. Because I get that they can’t have me bleeding out on the job. Takes away time and resources from actual patients. And it’s only temporary. Just a few months. Just until I’m off the meds. And before that, I just have to”—he reaches up to scrub his hands over his face, grimacing—“make it through another fucking two weeks of medical leave first.” He levels an exhausted expression at Dr. Adamiak. “Did I mention that this is the first time I’ve left my apartment in three days?”  

Immediate, unrelenting, bright-white sunlight; a sudden rush of air from frigid-feeling climate-control; Eddie’s voice, a little smug, saying, “Get up.”  

Buck snatches the comforter back, tries to re-burrow, but Eddie rips it off again. “Why, man?”  

“Because it’s morning,” Eddie says, and Buck has his eyes squinted against the sunlight, but he can hear in his voice that Eddie just might be trying not to laugh at him. “You know, when people wake up.”  

Buck folds his arm over his face, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes. Flatly, he demands, “How did you even get in my house.”  

“You gave me a key.”  

He feels the edge of the bed dip as Eddie sits down. Eddie pushes a hand against Buck’s shoulder, more of a shove than anything. “Come on,” Eddie says. “You got stuff to do.”  

“I really, really don’t.”  

Eddie shoves Buck’s shoulder again. Buck tries to slap his hand away, but he’s still covering his own eyes, so it doesn’t really work.  

“Yeah, you do. Nobody’s even seen you since you went back on leave. I started thinking maybe you died in here.”  

“I’ve literally been texting everyone,” Buck says.  

“I could’ve been texting your ghost.”  

“You don’t even believe in ghosts.”  

Eddie pushes at Buck’s shoulder again.  

“I’m an adult and I can sleep until the second my leave’s over if I want to,” Buck says. “Fuck off.”  

“No F-bombs; my kid’s downstairs.”  

Buck takes his arm off his face. Opens one eye, looks up at Eddie, who’s still sitting on the edge of the bed.  

Buck tries to decipher if Eddie’s messing with him or not. Eddie, for his part, just has this small, inscrutable smile on his face. It makes him look like a bit of an asshole. It’s one of Buck’s favorite expressions on him.  

“Chris?” Buck calls loudly, just to check.  

There’s a distinctly Christopher-sounding response from down in the main room, echoing a little in the loft’s airy openness.  

“This is bribery,” Buck says, quietly, to Eddie.  

“‘Bribery’,” Eddie mimics, standing back up, “free babysitting—same thing. Come on. I gotta go to work soon. If you never get out of bed and move, you’ll get another blood clot, and then you’ll be on medical leave forever, which I don’t think is how that works, actually, so they’ll probably just fire you. And I’ll be late for work.”  

Buck sits up. “God forbid,” he says. He reaches forward, feels around the bottom of the bed for his sweatshirt. “You’re seriously leaving him here?”  

Eddie, already moving to the top of the stairs, gives Buck an unimpressed look. “Why do you sound like I’m abandoning him on a street corner? Yes, I’m leaving him here. With you. Because you will supervise him and feed him and you’ll both have fun and it’ll be fine.” 

“I’ve just. I’ve never been in charge of a kid for a whole day before.”  

“It’s Chris,” Eddie says. “Just—go to the movies, go to the park, go to the library—he’ll have a great day anywhere you could possibly take him. And you need to get out of the house. So, win-win.”  

— 

It’s sunny and the weather is mild and the pier isn’t too packed. Christopher’s full of energy, but not too hyper. For the first time in weeks, maybe for the first time since the bombing, Buck doesn’t feel the itch under his skin that he needs to be doing more, moving faster, being better. Right now is just fine, actually. Chris’ biggest smiles utilize almost every muscle in his face, and Buck’s been seeing a lot of them today, thrown out freely.  

So it is a great day, right up until it isn’t. 

The crew of the 136 is nowhere in sight—just their truck, and Buck and Chris and a few other lucky-unlucky people on top of it, and endless, sprawling carnage in every direction under a searing, inappropriately-golden midday sun.  

Christopher is half on Buck’s lap, half wedged between Buck’s hip and the railing on the side of the truck. Buck reaches an arm behind him, grabs the railing, keeps flexing and unflexing his fingers to double-triple check that his arm is there, that it’s around Chris, that it’s holding. The thirty seconds between the wave hitting and when he hauled Christopher onto the truck are up there on the leaderboard for Worst Moments in Buck’s Life. But Chris is here now. Small, but solid. Breathing. Tucked between Buck and the wall. Safe.  

He shifts his shoulder so Christopher falls further into the fence of Buck’s arm, so he can feel Chris’ breaths, in and out and in and out, against his side.  

He tucks his chin over the top of Christopher’s head, tries to breathe even half as sedately, says quietly, “Your dad’s never, ever gonna let me live this down.”  

Chris just laughs.  

— 

It’s just for a second. He swears to God he just looks away for a second. Less than a second, even. Just to try and help, just to try and—half a second, maybe. Less than that.  

It doesn’t matter.  

He makes a sound that he didn’t know he was capable of making, not until it comes out of him. It’s a horrible, wounded, wordless sound, all shock and subhuman terror; even amidst the clamor of the second surge, it makes other people on top of the truck turn their heads towards him.  

“Which direction—where did he go?”  

He’s asking the woman who was nearest to Chris, but she’s not giving him a real answer. She’s just shaking her head on an endless loop, feeble, muddy, tear-streaked.  

“No,” Buck says, “no, where did he go? You saw him, right? You saw him? Where the fuck did he go?”   

“I don’t—” she says, and cuts herself off. She’s crying. She’s been crying since the second surge, or maybe she was crying the whole time. This will probably be the worst day of her entire life, if she lives through it. Buck doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. She keeps half-speaking, half-sobbing, gesturing to her left side, off the edge of the truck: “All I saw was—” 

—Buck’s gone before she finishes the sentence. Someone tries to grab him before he goes, he thinks, tries to get a fistful of his shirt—they probably assume he’s falling, and why wouldn’t they? Jumping back in is suicide. But he’s not falling, he’s moving with purpose, over, down, and gravity’s on his side anyway. 

The water is freezing cold. Colder than he thinks it should be, under this knife-sharp sunlight. Buck’s got more mass than a slight, gangly eight-year-old. Leagues more. More muscle, more fat. More stamina. More strength. So when the water shocks his system all over again, like slamming into a freezing-cold wall, choking him, short-circuiting his brain for a second, pushing his limbs without his permission, it’s the worst omen he could ever get.  

— 

The first person to tell him he’s bleeding does so just a couple of seconds after he finds Christopher’s glasses, after he tugs them out of a soaking pile of debris and loops them, one lens cracked to hell, around his neck.  

“Sir?” 

The voice comes from behind him, and it sounds muffled and double-layered, like he’s still underwater. “Sir?”  

A hand on his shoulder.  

He startles and turns, almost losing his balance with the speed of the motion. The whole street seems to tilt, seems to slide, and for a second he thinks there’s a third surge coming, but it’s just dizziness, just disorientation, just nausea.  

Anticoagulants can cause that.  

The person who tapped him is a young woman, or maybe just a girl—everyone here looks child-young and pathetic, soaked and thrown around before being wrung-out again.  

He knows this girl. Or at least, he’s seen her before. His thoughts slip around in his head, dissolving, fragmented, impossible to grab hold of. When the hell did he see her?  

She glances down at the glasses around his neck. Grimaces.  

Right.  

He asked her, only about a minute ago, if she’d seen Chris.  

She gave him this look when she said no. Crushing, boundless pity.  

No kid could survive this, the look said, and Buck’s own mind repeated it and repeated it and repeated it, until it became a solid thing, a knot pressing against the back of his throat, so thick he couldn’t talk, horror compressed so tightly into his body that he went mute and glassy-eyed.   

“What?” He asks her. His voice comes out mangled, raspy and high and gutless. He’s been screaming a lot. Loud as he can.  

“You’re—you’re bleeding,” she says. She points to his arm. “Like, really bad.”  

He directs his eyes to where she points. His forearm is a shiny wash of bright red.  

He forces his eyes to focus on it, wills out the blur. It makes his head throb.  

All the blood seems to be coming from a cut above his elbow, slash-shaped, just about an inch long, not even that deep into his bicep.  

It doesn’t matter, on blood thinners, that it’s a relatively superficial wound. A handful more of these and he bleeds out in no time.  

He waits to feel panic.  

Panic doesn’t come.  

“Thanks,” he grates out. He’s already turning away to keep moving.  

— 

The next person to tell him he’s bleeding does so as he helps to dig that girl out of the debris.  

While he’s still trying to free her, pinned beneath a severed car door, he’s thinking the whole time that it could be Chris. When he sees that it’s not, there’s a sick, stomach-dropping slide of something down his entire nervous system. Disappointment, maybe. Disgust. Or even worse—maybe it’s apathy.  

She could be hurt. He doesn’t check. He helps pull her out by her arms, and then he starts to walk away. She has nothing to do with Christopher, so she has nothing to do with Buck, either. Maybe she is hurt. Maybe it’s drastic. He’ll never know, because he’s not sticking around. There are other people here who can help her, and actual disaster crews are around somewhere, made up of competent people deemed okay to work, people not on medical leave.  

He plows into someone as he turns away from the scene. He knocks into them hard enough that they fall backward in the scummy, knee-high water.  

His thoughts aren’t moving correctly. His head is throbbing with every sluggish pump of his heart; it makes his eyes shiver in and out of focus, tinges the edges of everything he looks at fuzzy white and dreamy.  

So by the time his brain catches up, by the time the word “Sorry” leaves his mouth and he reaches out a hand to help the person up, the guy’s already standing. Trying to dry his hands, silt-stained and grimy, on the hem of an equally-soaked shirt.  

“It’s fine, man,” he says, and then looks up from his hands to Buck’s face. “Holy shit.”   

Buck, cognition slowed to hibernation levels, doesn’t have time to ask what before the guy keeps going: “Your face is, like—are you okay?” He scrambles around his own pockets, pulls out a smartphone. Which is, of course, cracked and waterlogged beyond saving, but he holds the splintered, blackened screen up for Buck to use as a mirror.  

His face, he can see, is a mess of blood and bruises.  

Okay.  

“It’s fine,” Buck says after a stretch of seconds that feels almost like an hour. “It’s fine, it’s...” He can hear his own voice, can tell it sounds strange, stumbling, sloping. He can see the source cuts on his face, three little abrasion marks around his cheekbone. Not too bad, if it was anyone else.  

He can’t afford to be weaker than anyone else.  

Too late, a little voice calls from the base of his brainstem, a million lightyears away. Weak heart.   

The weak heart in question stutters and skips for a moment, then catches up. More blood drips down his arm, wells up on the skin of his face. He thinks maybe he can feel the pumping of his heart in the blood alone, in the little warm rushes over too-cool flesh.  

“It’s not that bad,” Buck tells the guy. He almost smiles to try and convince him, but the command doesn’t make it all the way from his brain to his mouth. “Hey—have you seen a boy? He’s eight, pale skin, light brown hair. Can’t—he can’t walk very well without crutches. Yellow striped shirt.”  

The guy’s shaking his head, and Buck says, okay, okay, and starts to keep moving, feeling nauseated, feeling unstable, feeling like maybe something in him will sputter to a stop soon and he’ll pass out and drown in two feet of floodwater. He’s thinking not of the girl, but of the door on top of her. Force powerful to wrench a door right off a fucking car. Force powerful enough to rend bone. He almost gags with the understanding of it.  

“Hey,” the guy calls, and Buck swings himself back around. The movement is terrible, sick-feeling, like he spun around in wild circles for a minute straight instead of just turning his head.  

Weak heart, he hears in his mind, though it doesn’t really sound like his own voice. Too much blood. You’re going to pass out soon.   

No, I’m not, he thinks, as patently and firmly as he can. My body. My goddamn body. It’ll keep moving if I tell it to.   

“There’s—there’s a VA hospital,” the guy says. “Couple miles that way.” He points down a perpendicular street. “They’re repurposing it for victims. You should really go get checked out.”  

Buck just stares at him. None of those words make any sense.  

As if to convince him, the guy says, “Maybe your kid’s there.”  

— 

The last person to tell him he’s bleeding does so as he’s trying to find his way back to Broadway.  The sun’s setting; a lot of the street lamps blink and fizzle, if they’re not totally out. The water’s down to his mid-calf, which is easier to wade through, but he’s stumbling and staggering anyway, the combination of darkness and overextension making it treacherous.  

Overextension probably isn’t the right word.  

He thinks maybe he just doesn’t want to call it exhaustion.   

If he’s exhausted, that means he’s close to quitting. And he’s not. He’s not. There are two possibilities: he gets Chris back, or he dies trying. There is no third option. There is no quitting.   

So he keeps moving.  

He keeps seeing people he thinks he knows. The set of a man’s shoulders that looks unnervingly like Bobby’s, until Buck double-takes and it’s just a stranger. A girl in a sweatshirt he swears he’s seen on May, except it turns out it’s just a girl in a sweatshirt. A dark-skinned woman with a buzzcut, who is in the end just a dark-skinned woman with a buzzcut.  

And Christopher. Christopher, everywhere. Chris in every flash of yellow, Chris in every child, Chris in every dead thing slumped in the water.  

He’s not sure if they’re real people he’s mistaking for his family, or if he’s making them up entirely. If they’re not there at all.  

It’s when he thinks he sees Eddie that really does him in.  

It’s just a man, he finds out—just a man dressed in blue with dark hair, warm coloring, and a sharp profile. But in the time before he finds out, in those pallid, stretched-out seconds, the fear and shame that fills him is enough to have him trying to duck out of the man’s sightline, dropping to a crouch in the water, retching with his head tucked between his knees.  

He’s just puking water. Just water and acid and salt. It doesn’t come with any kind of calm. No satisfaction. Just water, and then bile, and then spit, and then nothing. Just a roiling, apocalyptic pit inside him, just the stinging of his gums. He rubs the pad of a dirty thumb over his front teeth. It comes back tinged with red.  

“Are you—” a voice says, and then cuts itself off. “What’s happening to you? Are you hurt?”  

Buck looks up. A man, dressed in blue, with dark hair, warm coloring, a sharp profile.  

Not Eddie. Not Eddie. Not Eddie.  

Buck lets out one single, pathetic syllable of a laugh. It makes the man’s face twist up in concern, but a version of concern that shares a few of its features with fear.  

“Nothing’s happening to me,” Buck says, and tries to stand.  

Too fast. Way too fast.  

Sound cuts out. There’s only that distinct whooshing, rushing sound in his ears. A distant, high whine. His vision vignettes. Purple spots, blue spots, yellow spots. The horizon tilts. He feels his own eyes roll back.  

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.   

He doesn’t pass out. Or maybe he does, for half a breath, but not for long enough to fall.  

“You’re not... acting right,” the man says carefully, “and you’re covered in blood.” He sounds like he entered this conversation as a hero and has found himself now navigating it as a possible victim. He adds, “And you just dropped down and started vomiting in the middle of the street.”  

“It’s fine,” Buck says. “It’s fine. I didn’t even do it on purpose. I’m looking for—I’m trying to get to the VA hospital?” 

“Yeah,” the man says, starting to nod, like this, at least, makes sense. “You, uh. You definitely need it.”  

“No, my—there might be a kid there, that I’m looking for.”  

“Oh,” the man says, and his entire expression changes. Turns shuttered and tragic. “Shit.” 

Buck points over the man’s shoulder, in the direction the man was originally coming from. Buck should know this city like the back of his hand. He does know this city like the back of his hand. But something’s wrong in his brain, he thinks. He doesn’t care what it is—doesn’t have time to figure it out even if he did care—but it’s making it hard to figure out where he is, what the streets are called, where he’s going.  

He asks the man, “That the way to Broadway?”  

— 

Buck’s life fractures directly down the middle and knits itself back together in the span of four minutes.  

In the first minute, Buck ducks behind a wall and hisses over the phone to Maddie, voice torn-open up the belly, all the guts spilling out when he talks, How do I even tell him, Maddie? What the fuck do I tell him? Help. Please. Help me. How the fuck do I tell him?   

It doesn’t do any good, in the end. Maddie can’t help him, because nobody can fucking help him with this, not even her, and anyway—he’s already caught. The team’s here, flagged him down, called him out. If they know he’s here, Eddie knows he’s here. His mouth goes acidic, rancid, full. He should be empty, but he tastes it anyway. He swallows despite muscle memory, tries to settle, tries to breathe. He presses his head against the wall. It’s concrete. He thinks, maybe, if he didn’t have survival instincts holding him back, he could ram his head into this wall hard enough to break the skull, let his brain leak out of the cracks, die in this parking lot before anyone has the chance to find out what happened.  

In the second minute, Buck stands across from Eddie and stutters, useless and sniveling. He repeats and repeats and repeats and none of it means anything. Worse than nothing, worse than worthless.  

Why do you have his glasses?   

Buck sees Eddie—not so much die in front of him as... end. He sees Eddie start to end. Everything begins to lock up, shut down, permanent closing, everything must go.   

Buck has the sudden, absurd urge to lie to him. To tell him it’s all fine. To knock on the ground underneath his shoes like a door and speak to whoever’s on the other side, tell them hey, great nightmare, fucking sucked—could we all wake up now?   

In the third minute, Eddie sees Christopher before Buck does. Which makes sense, because Buck really isn’t seeing much: it’s dark, the middle of the night, and Buck’s eyes are still salt-scratched, freshly teary, and all the lights smear—blinking traffic lights, emergency vehicles, the battery-powered lamps illuminating the tents in the parking lot—watery and blown-out however he looks at them.  

From one instant to the next, Christopher goes from gone to alive. The world un-ends.  

It feels like what Buck imagines getting shot would feel like. Sudden and sharp and impossible. Straight through his core. He thinks maybe he’s panicking—real panic, breathless panic, palpitation panic. Why the hell is he panicking now? Chris is alive, and he’s right here, and Buck can see him now, and Eddie’s already run over to him and folded him up in his arms, and Christopher looks fine, and he’s talking to Eddie and he’s even laughing, and Buck wants to run to him too, but it’s not his place, and anyway, his legs won’t move—he should be able to move; he’s trying to move— 

In the fourth minute, Eddie looks back at him. Eddie looks back at Buck and Buck can’t see very well right now, but he can see this: a shattered, wide-open expression, one with too many layers to sift through. It turns Buck’s stomach. Digs up something from his chest, hands clawing through packed soil. It feels like a blunt force trauma. He hates it. He can’t look away.  

Hen’s here. He can hear a distorted, far-away version of her voice from beside him. The ghost of a hand over the scrapes on his cheek. Bobby’s here. Chim’s here. Everyone’s here. 

Chris is here. Chris is right here. Chris is right here and Eddie’s holding him and looking at Buck and Buck’s viscera is twisting and dissolving inside of him and his heart, the one with the lackluster pace and the thinned-out walls, keeps lying to him, hacking up a hundred one-last-beats.  

He’s telling his body to move, so it’ll move. And if it won’t move, it’ll at least calm down. And if it won’t calm down, it’ll at least stay upright. He’s telling it to stay standing, so it will stay standing.  

Don’t pass out, he tells himself. Eddie’s not looking at him anymore. But Buck will never be able to unsee it.  

Don’t pass out.   

Don’t pass out.   

One knee buckles, then the other.  

There’s an arm in front of him, a guardrail, and he grabs it without thinking, trying and failing to stay half-upright. Asphalt under his shoes under his knees under his spine, Hen’s arm across his chest, the back of his head guided to rest against her midsection.  

Breathe. You’re okay, just try to breathe.   

He’s not sure if someone else is saying that, or if he’s telling it to himself.   

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, just past seven.  

Disaster clean-up efforts are fully underway in the southwest corner of Los Angeles, and according to the news, huge progress has been made in just a couple of days, thanks to the tireless efforts of city employees along with countless volunteers.   

It’s inspiring. Allegedly. Three cheers for the human spirit.  

Buck is home from an overnight stay at the hospital, sitting at his kitchen table. Urge surfing.  

He tries to follow the train of thought from beginning to end.  

I lost Christopher.   

I had one job, and I lost Christopher.   

It would’ve ruined Eddie’s life. I would’ve ruined his life.   

And the only reason that didn’t happen was because of luck, because of empathy from a complete stranger who protected Christopher when I didn’t.   

And that had nothing at all to do with me.   

Everyone can see that. Everyone knows that.   

Eddie knows that.   

He will never not know that. How could he?   

And I can’t go back to work. Not after this.   

Everybody knows that.   

I couldn’t even keep track of one fucking kid.   

It was a crisis, it was go time, and I immediately failed.  

That’s all it is, at the end. It wasn’t some tragic thing that happened to me. I just... failed.   

Somebody’s bound to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That’s what you’re supposed say, right? Especially because Christopher came out of it alive. Irreparably traumatized, probably, but alive.  

Buck knows the truth.  

They’ll tell him it wasn’t his fault, but everybody knows it is. Everybody knows it is.  

The only person he can trust to truthfully hate him is Eddie. Seeing as he hasn’t heard from him since the VA hospital.  

You don’t walk off this kind of failure. People don’t heal from stuff like this. Even if they say they do, they really, really don’t. They grow new tissue around it, they scar, they warp.  

You don’t just slowly transition to full active duty like nothing happened.  

And so the train of thought continues:  

So, work’s a pipe dream.   

Which means most everyone will probably be gone, soon enough.   

No way he’s letting me see Chris again.   

Probably not seeing him again, either.   

So it’s me and Maddie again. It’s me and Maddie, tied to me, again.   

He knows he wouldn’t want to cut her loose, even if he was capable of it.  

She’d probably tell him she’s not tied down, if he ever voiced it to her.  

But he knows the truth about this, too.  

So it’ll just be him and Maddie again—he doesn’t know when it’ll all break down, leave him stranded, but soon, probably. When everyone’s settled in the aftermath. When they realize Buck’s still hanging around, fully steeped in his failure, long past his expiration, ready to be threshed.  

What’s the fucking point, then, really?   

Fifty-one days.   

For what.   

Seriously, for what?  

He tries to reason with his own thoughts. Not ruminate—although it’s too late for that; he is ruminating whether he’s trying to or not—just see if there are any obvious flaws in the logic. Anything to trip up the freight train of his self-hatred. A single wrench to throw in the gears.  

He can’t find one.  

Seriously. For what?   

It’s not like it matters now.  

Fuck it.   

Hand on the Switch. 

Hand on the Switch, ready to flip it, and—it would just feel better, wouldn’t it? There is so much in him. There’s so much shame and failure and anger. It’s surprising—he’s miserable so much more often than he’s angry.  

But it’s there. Anger strong enough that he wants to bite through the meat of his own hand.  

Hand on the Switch and— 

—a knock at the door— 

—hand flinching away from the Switch.  

He almost doesn’t answer it.  

It’s early. He could very well still be asleep. If it’s Maddie, which it probably is, she’ll call to check before she uses her key, so at least he’ll know.  

Knock at the door. Louder this time. More insistent. 

He sighs. Stands. Calls, flatly, “Coming.”  

— 

He makes Chris breakfast, takes him to the library.  

It feels like... not like a dream, per se.  

It feels like Buck might’ve never made it home from the VA hospital.  

Like maybe his heart gave out in the parking lot—maybe somebody tried to bring him back, but his system just wasn’t up for another go. It wasn’t beating very fast anyway. Hard to get the blood flowing again when so much of it’s lost in the floodwater.  

Maybe his actual self, his body and all, is in a concrete and stainless-steel room, carefully-disinfected with a very low thermostat, tucked under Wilshire.  

And maybe the good he’s tried so hard to do for so much of his life outweighed the bad (even if he suspects his motivations have always been kind of secretly selfish) and so his reward, in the end, is that it gets to be just this, forever: Buck takes Chris to the library, and they sit together in one of the study rooms on the first floor. You can check the rooms out on your library card just like books, only it’s by the hour instead of by the week. You can borrow puzzles, too. Board games. They sit together at the little round table in the study room and build high, spiraling courses for brightly-colored marbles. Most of the practical architectural prowess falls to Buck. Christopher seems to enjoy, more than anything, picking up the marbles, poising them at the very top of the rickety plastic roller coaster, letting them go.  

Buck’s being stupid. He knows the difference between asleep and awake. He knows the difference between dead and alive. He knows he’s the latter because he’s still winded two days later, but it’s getting better, and because the scrapes and slices into his flesh are still pink, but they’re healing.  

It doesn’t change the idyllic, impossible light that everything feels cast in.  

Eddie has to come to his senses eventually, right?  

Two nights ago, at the VA hospital, a nurse checked Christopher for a concussion. Took his temperature. Gently felt along his limbs for any broken bones. Connected his lungs to her ears with a stethoscope, listened for the crackle of water trapped inside.  

Christopher remained, bafflingly, insanely, fine.   

Eddie, now unofficially off-duty for the rest of the night, was never more than a few feet away from his son. Buck walked that razor’s edge as best he could: cast his eyes to Christopher as much as he felt he was allowed to, check that he was still there; never, ever accidentally look back at Eddie.  

Buck was doing all of that looking and avoiding from his own check-up, on his own cot, stuck fast and perpetually, irredeemably pointless.  

Don’t move your head, just follow the light with your eyes, said the EMT checking Buck over. Buck half-nodded, started to do it, kept his gaze as even and steady as he could. He thought, I’m never going to get to see this kid again.   

But here this kid is, right now. Sitting at a table in the library. Lining the marbles up by color, red to yellow to blue. Handed back over to Buck willingly—happily, even. Two days after Buck almost killed him. Placed back under Buck’s sole care with little more than a twenty-dollar bill and a firm hand on Buck’s shoulder, a thumb intersecting his clavicle, palms dry and warm and rough.  

Eddie has to be insane.  

“No one I trust with my son more than you”— he has to be fucking insane.   

Buck didn’t want to look at him at first, this morning. He didn’t really know what to expect. He figured, if he was going to get decimated, disowned, etcetera, that Eddie probably wouldn’t have brought Chris along to watch.  

No matter what, he definitely hadn’t been expecting Eddie to start listing potential activities that were, in his own words, inland. Wasn’t expecting Chris to already be settled on the couch, a couple of bags that Eddie had confidently and presumptuously dropped on the floor beside him.  

He wasn’t expecting, staring blurrily at the wall beyond Eddie’s shoulder, for Eddie to tap under Buck’s chin with the backs of his first two fingers. Lightly. Still sharp.  

Buck flicked his eyes up, tricked into direct contact.  

“Can you act like you’re listening, maybe?” Eddie asked, except it wasn’t really a question. It was more of a half-fond barb. He had that specific little smile on his face. The one that makes him look like an asshole. The one that’s always impossible not to stare at.  

“I’m—” Buck said, but his voice came out weird. It had a tone to it that was somehow both clueless and groveling. He tried again. “I heard you. Snacks in the blue bag. Legos in the brown one.”  

It made Eddie’s smile get a little bigger, a little more genuinely happy. “Great.” He clapped Buck on the bicep, once, twice, then let go. Called out, “Chris!”  

Christopher answered, easily and immediately, “Yeah?”  

“I’m headed to work. Wherever you go, if Buck says he doesn’t need to sit down and take a break, don’t listen to him. He’s being silly. Okay?”  

Chris made a very serious sound in the affirmative.  

Eddie told Christopher he loved him, grabbed his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter, pointed a finger at Buck on his way to the door, and repeated, “Inland.”  

And then he was gone.  

And Buck made Chris breakfast and took him to the library.  

Buck starts the session by saying, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this every day for the rest of my life.”    

“Do... what everyday, exactly?”  

Buck rolls his hands around each other in the air, a little frantically. “The fucking—trying not to freak out and relapse all the time.”  

Dr. Adamiak considers this for a moment. Then she says, “Couple of things.” She waits for Buck to settle a little bit before she keeps talking. “One: you won’t have to do it every single day for the rest of your life.”  

Buck just shrugs. “A lot of people say it never goes away.”  

“And maybe it doesn’t. But it doesn’t stay the same, either.” 
“I have to do it every single day now.”  

“And you’ll have to do it every day for a while,” Dr. Adamiak admits. “But then you won’t have to do it every day. And then you’ll only have to do it very rarely. And then, at some point, there may come a time when it’s the last time you ever have to do it, and you won’t even know it’s that time when it happens.”  

Buck listens to her. He absorbs her words. He really does. It doesn’t stop him from saying, completely aware that he sounds whiny, “But it’s exhausting.”   

“I know,” she says. And she does sound empathetic, just not particularly moved by Buck’s lamentations. “You’re working with extremely rigid neural pathways.”  

“So I just have to—what, keep pushing at them until they change?”  

She shakes her head. “You have to form new ones.”  

Buck drops his head back onto the chair, kind of violently, groaning while he does it. “I’m tired.”   

He wouldn’t complain to anyone else like this, except maybe Maddie—if he was willing to worry her with this right now, which he’s not.  

“Are you more tired than when you were actively ill?”  

Buck doesn’t pick his head up to look at her. “...Not physically.”   

Dr. Adamiak is silent for a moment. Then there’s the sound of ruffling paper. Buck still doesn’t lift his head.  

She asks, “If I say intrinsic versus extrinsic motivation, do you understand what I mean?”  

“Sort of.”  

“Explain the difference to me the best you can, if you don’t mind.”  

Buck looks up at the ceiling as he talks. The ceiling is painted a solid, pearly gray. There’s a fan up there, but it’s never on.  

“Extrinsic is like, external ,” he says, “right? So if it’s motivation, then it’s motivation that’s coming from outside of you. Like you’re motivated by another person, or—or a reward, or something. And I guess intrinsic would be the opposite. Motivated by yourself.”  

“Correct across the board,” Dr. Adamiak says, sounding pleased. “Which do you think I’d like you to find, over the course of recovery?”  

Buck shrugs.  

“I’ll warn you,” she adds, “it’s a bit of a trick question.”  

“You’re always saying it’s important to have a strong network,” Buck says.  

“I am.”  

“But you’re also always saying it’s important for me to have an identity outside of who I am to other people.”  

“I do say that quite a lot.”  

“So... I should have both?”  

Dr. Adamiak, when he lifts his head to finally look at her, has her patented very slight smile on her face. She says, “Right again.” She rifles through her notepad, flips back at least ten pages. “Second session, we talked about why you were here. You said, because I’m sick of not being able to function like a normal person. Is that still true?”  

“I mean. Yeah.”  

“I asked you what had finally been the thing that spurred you to realize this, and you just gestured to your, at the time, very broken leg.”  

Buck nods. He remembers.  

Dr. Adamiak continues, “An injury which was not due to a complication of bulimia.”  

She’s right, so Buck just nods again.  

“I clarified at the time,” she says, “that when you said ‘function like a normal person’, you weren’t specifically referring to normal patterns of behavior around food and eating; rather, you were referring to a normal person’s ability to heal from a broken leg.”  

Buck nods a third time. He was there for all of this. He doesn’t know why she’s rehashing it.  

“About a week later...” Dr. Adamiak pauses to flip forward a bit in her notepad, “we wrote out a recovery motivations list. It reads, from beginning to end, work, and Maddie.”   

“Not a lot to choose from,” Buck admits.  

“And that was okay, at the time. I wasn’t about to tell you that the things pushing you into my office were wrong, because they’re not. Anything that convinces you to seek help is not wrong. You could’ve told me you’d seen the face of Hilde Bruch in a tortilla and I wouldn’t have told you it was a tenuous motivation.”  

“I don’t know what that means.”  

“I’m sure you’ll spend a very long time Googling it later.”  

“Probably.”  

“These are not bad motivations,” Dr. Adamiak says. “It’s good that you love and care about your job, that you want to get back to working so badly. That’s a wonderful thing to have in your life. It’s good that you care so deeply for your sister. But these are both extrinsic motivations.”  

“...And I need both,” Buck finishes.  

“Yes, but more than that— why do you think it is that you need both?”  

And Buck... doesn’t know.  

Work should be enough, right? And work and Maddie should be more than enough. He guesses he could also put down Chris, and other people, but at the end of the day those are still other people. Something outside of him.  

“I don’t know,” Buck says after a minute of thinking.  

“It’s because intrinsic motivation,” Dr. Adamiak says, “and by that I mean something solely within you— wanting to get better because you want to experience life in a body and a mind that is healthy—cannot be dictated by outside forces. It can’t slip away from you the way other motivations can.”  

“...Okay.”  

Dr. Adamiak closes her notepad. “This last bout of conflict,” she says. “The one that’s tired you out so badly. What do you think triggered it?”  

“Why do you sound like you already know?”  

“I don’t know,” she corrects. “I have a guess. But I’d like to hear what you think first.”  

He already knows the answer, but he takes a second to think anyway. Has to gear himself up.  

“It was the morning after I got home from the VA hospital,” he says. “And I was in my apartment alone.”  

Dr. Adamiak nods.  

Buck continues, “And I thought—I thought I definitely wouldn’t get to work again, not after screwing up like I had. I figured I’d be lucky to even be allowed light duty. And I can’t do that forever. I can’t. And... and I thought that Eddie was going to hate me for the rest of his life. Or, that he already hated me, I guess. So I thought I’d lost my best friend. And that I’d never get to see Chris again. I wasn’t—I wasn’t even right. None of that was even true.”  

“Precisely,” Dr. Adamiak says. “Extrinsic motivation can disappear very easily. Even the perceived loss of whatever is motivating—just the idea that you wouldn’t ever be able to return to your job, even before you reached out to confirm, just the idea that you would lose your friend and his son, before you’d even spoken to them—is enough to be triggering, especially before new behavioral pathways are built and strengthened.”  

Buck nods like he understands, because he does, but internally, he’s starting to feel sort of empty and miserable. He doesn’t even know where to fucking start.  

“They’re not bad reasons to get better,” Dr. Adamiak reminds him. “Extrinsic motivation is important. Purely relying on the internal makes for a lonely life, even when you’re recovered.”  

“But I need more,” Buck guesses, voice flat and tired.  

Dr. Adamiak nods. “You’ve reached one of the hardest parts—after the easing-in, after the new skill worksheets. But before you’re actually comfortable with your coping skills. So, yes. We’ve reached a point where I think you need to come up with more. Which, knowing you—and I’m not saying this with any sort of judgment—might be difficult to do.”  

Buck laughs, shortly, half-heartedly. “I really, really do love my job.”  

“And your sister,” she adds. Her voice sounds legitimately, obviously kind. It’s not uncharacteristic of her so much as it is rare. “And your friend. And his son. But—it’s very easy for your mind to get tripped up. For you to start believing that you’re getting rejected or left behind again, even when the reality is that you aren’t. So I think it’s time for you to find something that remains constant even in those instances.”  

“A backup motivation,” Buck says.  

“If you want to call it that. An extra line of defense, maybe.”  

“I...” He trails off. Sighs. “I can definitely try.”  

“That’s all I can ask,” Dr. Adamiak says. She takes in his expression, which Buck can only assume looks defeated. She adds, “On the bright side—if you have more in your arsenal, I think you’ll find that you won’t have to fight quite as hard, at least with enough practice.”  

Almost two weeks later, Official Interim Fire Marshal of Los Angeles City Technician Evan Buckley hand-delivers the 118’s fire drill evaluation.  

He’s decided to go all-in, for the time being. Be super fucking good at it. Try and get as many points as possible, even though the points don’t technically exist.  

It was easy enough to do once he got started. 

He likes signing his name on things. Likes that it doesn’t really matter if most of the letters are legible, as long as the E and B are. He likes that he has an actual, physical stopwatch that he can click with his thumb. Likes that he clips a lanyard on an extendable cord to his belt loop. He likes holding a clipboard. He’s always liked having something to occupy his hands.  

Since he knows it’ll end in a couple of months, max, it kind of just feels like playing pretend.  

Which is something he never really did as a kid, apart from when he was really, really young. Exclusively with Maddie—he’s always been kind of weirdly friendless, for reasons he still can’t explain. Personally, he doesn’t really think he turned weird and fucked-up until he was at least, like, eleven.  

Actually, if he thinks about it, he never really played with Maddie. Because by the time he was old enough to be cognizant, she was far too grown-up to actually play. So he was playing. And she was mothering him. Which is probably the story of both of their lives.  

Anyway.  

He’s supposed to be having fun right now. He told himself he’d try to have fun.  

There’s no reason to drive the report over to the firehouse himself, except that he wants to. He’s not hand-delivering anyone else’s report. But it feels good to show up to the station with at least some semblance of a reason. An excuse. Something that isn’t just saying, Yeah, so I’m choosing to treat this like a game to stay sane—I mean, I’m taking it seriously, because it’s public safety, so obviously I’m taking it seriously, but it’s still kind of like playing some sort of character—but sometimes I forget that I’m supposed to be having fun and I remember that I only work eight hours at a time now and that I don’t really talk to anyone I work with because I’m not actually a permanent employee and also none of them are you guys and then I leave at five and I go home and I feel like maybe I’m the only real person in the world.  

So he drives the report over himself. Because he can.  

“So Fire Marshal Buck decides to drop off the report in person,” Bobby calls, as soon as Buck enters the apparatus bay. It’s like he sensed Buck crossing the threshold. He continues, “Is that a sign a maturity, or is it just revenge for all the times I’ve written you up?”  

“Money on maturity,” Hen says, breezing in from the locker room, and for a moment, Buck’s kind of touched by that, until she adds, “You saw him at the drill. He wears a tie now. And you’re not tying it for him, Cap, so that says something.”  

Buck makes a face at her. She smiles back, so sunny and wide that her cheeks push her eyes closed. He elects to keep it to himself that he’s only tied his tie once. On his first day. While watching a YouTube video on how to do it. And ever since then he just kind of loosens it to take it off and retightens it the next morning.  

“Actually,” he says very pointedly to Bobby, “definitely not revenge, because you passed.”  

Bobby makes an understated, amused sort of sound. “And how’d that work out?”  

Buck half-shrugs, cuts his eyes away. “Bumped up the numbers a little bit. Got fancy with the math.”  

“You don’t know math.”  

And that’s Eddie’s voice.  

Buck hasn’t seen Eddie since the latter’s last ninety-six. Which is fucking weird.  

It was good, when they hung out. Despite Buck’s lingering shame about the disaster (that seems to weigh more on him the less people there are in the room; sometimes, when he’s alone, he thinks it’ll start cracking his spine), Eddie seems determined to act as normal as humanly possible. He references the tsunami the way anyone else would: a terrible thing that happened with lasting consequences on the city and the people in it. Decidedly not like Buck is at fault for any of it.  

“Which will be a perfect excuse if somebody calls me out on it,” Buck says.  

Eddie finally comes into his sightline.  

He looks... kind of exhausted, actually.  

There’s a few drawn-out seconds while Bobby looks over the report. In the corner of his eye, Buck can see Chimney walking over. The majority of his attention, though, remains on Eddie.  

He shifts his micro expressions—they’re all Eddie ever needs, anyway—to ask, You good?  

Eddie tilts his head just a fraction of a degree. Makes a sort of half-grimacing expression, which settles into mild exasperation. He shrugs.  

So the answer’s, Not really, but we can talk about it later if we have to.  

Bobby unclips his copy of the report from the board, then signs Buck’s copy and hands it back. “Very impressive,” he says. “Thank you.”  

Chimney adds, “We thank God every day for your unwavering grace and leniency.”  

Buck asks Bobby, “Am I allowed to flip him off in the station if I don’t technically work here right now?”  

“No one’s allowed to flip anyone off in my station,” Bobby says, and then obviously pivots his entire body around for about three seconds for no discernible reason.  

Buck flips Chimney off.  

“We both still work for the Fire Department,” Chim says. “I could still call HR.”  

That reminds Buck: “Speaking of—did anyone get a call from that lawyer?”  

“The ambulance-chaser?” Hen asks, sounding incredulous.  

Chim tacks on, “The guy who kind of looks like a ferret?”  

“Yeah,” Buck says, to both of them. “He wants to talk to me about the building violations. Kinda sounds like he’s got a case against them, or something.”  

“Not surprising,” Chimney says. “He was passing out cards like candy.”  

Buck hums. “Hey, do you think—?” 

He stops short, startled into silence by an unfamiliar voice from all the way across the bay. Buck’s focused on trying to place the voice, loses track after they say Diaz, but he can’t recognize it. A second later, Eddie’s clapping him on the shoulder, saying, Good to see you, man, and peeling off from the group. Buck catches his eye as he goes, attention latched onto the purple-gray crescents underneath them, tries to remind Eddie with his face, You said later, remember?  

Eddie just gives him a half-downturned smile, a little shake of his head. Which is, functionally, the non-answer he gives when he doesn’t want to talk about something.  

Great. So Buck’s gonna have to drag it out of him.  

He tracks Eddie across the apparatus bay, watches him enter the gym area, where a woman’s sitting, waiting on the bench. Apparently, Eddie’s there to spot her.  

Which— okay. That’s fine. Eddie can spot whoever he wants. But— 

“Who’s that?” He asks, and he means it for the group at large, except Hen and Chim are giving each other a very uncomfortable, loaded look, and now they’re both walking away at a not-unsuspicious speed, so he guesses he just ends up asking Bobby.  

Bobby, who says, benevolently, “Lena Bosko, 136. Smack-dab in the middle of the floodzone, if you remember. Whole crew’s been temporarily reassigned, so I asked to have her over here for a while.”  

And that... Again: Okay. Except, it’s not really okay. Or at least it doesn’t feel like it’s okay.  

“So you... replaced me,” he says.  

“What? No,” Bobby says. Too quickly, if you ask Buck. “I need two people on rescue. I can’t just leave Eddie partnerless.”  

“I’m Eddie’s partner. Unless you forgot.”  

“Well, yes. I know that. We all know that.” Bobby says this next part rote, a little exasperated, like he’s practiced saying it to himself. “But you’re also not on active duty right now, Buck.”  

“I will be soon enough.”  

Bobby sighs. It’s a big sigh for him, given his usual reserved baseline. Buck’s pretty sure it means something. But he has no idea what.  

“No one’s replacing you, Buck,” he says. “We couldn’t replace you. We just—” 

“—So what’s that, then?”  

Buck’s looking over Bobby’s shoulder at the lockers. At his locker. At the nameplate—engraved as of the end of his probationary period, a way to signal permanence, which is just another word for acceptance—that’s read Buckley for every single day Buck has worked here.  

Only the B is left uncovered. The rest is obscured by a piece of masking tape, written-over, making the plate spell out Bosko.  

— 

Even though he called to say he was coming over, Carla still looks a little surprised when she opens the door to the Diaz house. Probably because it’s currently 6:42, and he called at 6:38. When he was already just a couple of streets away.  

“You better not have been speeding,” she says, before she steps aside to let him in, looping an arm around his waist in the same motion, hugging him into her side for a few seconds.  

“Hey, I’m allowed to go up to ten miles over the speed limit.”  

“Only when you’re in the fire truck, Buckaroo.”  

Buck laughs. “Don’t call it that around Bobby. It’s either the ladder truck or the fire engine, with him.”  

Carla starts heading toward the dining room. Buck hangs back in the living room. She asks over her shoulder, “But it doesn’t bother you?”  

“I’m just super chill and nice all the time and everyone likes me.”  

Carla lets out the first half of a laugh, ending it with, “I’m sure you are.” Then, more muffled: “Christopher?” She repeats herself, a little louder this time, voice now coming from the kitchen, “... Chris?”  

No response.  

She pokes her head out of the dining room. She seems very relaxed. “He’s been real into disappearing lately. I swear he moves at light-speed when I’m not looking.”  

Buck stands very, very still and tries valiantly not to have a heart attack.  

“Disappearing?” He echoes. Everything’s gone still and quiet. His hands feel cold. Like the circulation of his blood has instantaneously stopped.  

Carla’s expression changes very suddenly. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, no, baby, not disappearing like—nothing like that. I know just where he is. He’s in the yard, and if he’s not in the yard, he’s in his bedroom. Don’t even—what if I go check the yard, and you go knock on his door?”  

Buck nods, then nods again, willing himself to start breathing correctly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”  

He steps back out into the hall, takes a tentative few steps until he stands in front of Christopher’s bedroom door.  

He pauses for a second before he knocks.  

He’s not in there, so he won’t answer.  

I don’t have eyes on him. Carla says he likes to disappear. I don’t have eyes on him. Eddie’s still at work. He’s not in there. I don’t have eyes on him. He’s not in there, so he won’t answer.  

He knocks softly. One-two-three. “Chris?”  

There’s a thump from inside the room, then a few quick footsteps, carbon fiber clicking.  

The door swings open quickly, clumsily.  

Chris stares up at him. Says, very brightly, “Buck!”  

On a microcosmic scale, somewhere inside him—probably scratched into his DNA, at this point—the world unends again. Buck breathes.  

“Hi, Chris.”  

Distantly, Buck hears the kitchen door close, then footsteps drawing nearer. Carla knows he’s found Chris, then.  

Christopher shoulders past Buck’s hip, comes to stand across from him in the hallway. “What are you doing here?”  

Buck shrugs. Tries to seem like he didn’t just come down from a quarter of a panic attack. “You know how I’m working a different job right now, just for a little while?”  

Christopher nods. Gets an expression on his face like something tastes bad. “Dad called after school. He said you have to wear a tie.” 

Buck groans, over-performed, just to make Chris giggle. 

Christopher continues, “He said you look like you sell insurance now.”  

“He said that?”  

“Yeah. I don’t really know what that means. Sounds boring.”  

“It probably is boring. Luckily, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m a Fire Marshal.”  

“What’s a Fire Marshal?”  

“It’s like—” Buck pauses. Tries to think about how to explain it to Chris. He’s so, so smart. But he’s also eight. And honestly, it took Buck a couple of days to actually figure out what his temporary job entailed. “I basically give tests to the firefighters to make sure they’re doing their jobs correctly, and I check on buildings to make sure they’re safe, so there are less fires and accidents.”  

“That sounds like a good thing,” Christopher says. And he sounds, weirdly enough, confused by that.  

“Well, yeah.”  

“So you’re not a snitch.”  

“Did your dad call me a snitch?”  

Christopher sounds very somber when he says, “I wasn’t going to tell you, but now you’re here, so.”  

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says, and remembers the original question. “Anyway, because I’m not working as a firefighter right now, I have different hours. Instead of working all of Monday and then being home all of Tuesday, I just work a little bit every day. So, I finished work a couple of hours ago, and I figured I would come and see you and Carla.”  

Christopher’s eyes get a little wide. He looks tired too, now that Buck really studies him. As much as sleep deprivation can show on an eight-year-old. Buck has the sudden, unexpected impulse to fully scoop Chris, curl up with him on the couch, just let him sleep for a while where Buck can keep an eye on him.  

But Christopher probably wouldn’t appreciate that, because his voice holds a significant amount of excitement when he asks, “...So we can just hang out?”  

Buck’s voice has a little bit of a laugh in it when says, “Yeah, bud. I mean, as long as you still listen to Carla.”

Chris starts moving down the hallway, motioning with his head for Buck to follow. “I can just listen to you. You guys tell me the same stuff anyways.”  

As Chris turns away, continues down the hall, Buck settles, a bit. And also feels a little bit shitty. A little guilty. A little unstable.  

There’s a document sitting in his email from Dr. Adamiak. Resources on intrinsic motivation—what it is, how to start finding it. Buck’s opened the email. Clicked the links. Read the articles. Skimmed the templates. Laid in bed at night and thought about them. Looked at a white, wide-open page in his mind and thought, Tonight I’m going to figure something out. Tonight I’m going to think of something.  

He keeps coming up blank.  

He’s not getting replaced, except that he is getting replaced—because Eddie’s spotting Lena Bosko in the gym and her name is on Buck’s locker and they got sent out on a call before Buck left the firehouse and Lena got in the engine with the rest of them and Buck didn’t, and she probably sat in Buck’s spot, now that he thinks about it, and maybe her legs aren’t long enough for her knees to press against Eddie’s in the jumpseats, but maybe they are.  

It made Buck’s insides turn ugly and bitter and more than that, empty.  

And he just really, really didn’t have it in him to go back to his apartment alone after work and fucking urge surf again.  

So he came here instead.  

He’s lucky Chris was home from school. He’s lucky Carla said it was cool for him to come over. He’s lucky he kept it together on the way over, didn’t end up at a drive-through or a gas station.  

He just has to stay lucky forever.  

Chapter Text

Buck takes it as a win that he’s not nervous about dinner at all.  

He shows up on time—he went back and forth about bringing wine; went with no, in the end, because while he’d really be bringing it for Athena, Bobby also lives here, and what would Buck get him instead that wasn’t weird? Like, a really nice pastry? Buck doesn’t even know where to find really nice pastries. He’s always been fine with the more low-brow shit.  

So he shows up empty-handed. And when he stands on the step and rings the doorbell, flexing his empty hand, he kind of expects to feel anxious in some fashion, but he just... doesn’t.  

It’s Bobby and Athena. And he’s pretty good at dinner now, honestly. It’s been a while since he had one at the station, but he eats with Maddie sometimes. Or Eddie and Christopher. It’s literally fine.  

Bobby lets him in.  

And he looks off.   

Buck doesn’t say anything about it. He figures it’s the kind of thing you don’t point out, not when someone’s invited you over for dinner—although, actually, Athena’s the one who invited him.  Which feels kind of weird. He didn’t hear from Bobby about it at all. Buck honestly forgot she even had his phone number, seeing as the last time she actually texted him was a little after the bombing, and ever since, they’ve exclusively communicated either face-to-face or via Facebook wall.  

“Buck,” Bobby says in greeting. Just the one word. And his tone—again, off. And then again, for some reason, in the very same tone, “Buck.”  

“That’s my name,” Buck says. Bobby hasn’t moved out of the doorway, so Buck’s still standing on the porch. He adds, “Don’t wear it out.”  

It almost seems to startle Bobby into action, and he steps aside, waving Buck in. “Athena’s in the kitchen.”  

“You didn’t cook?”  

Bobby shrugs with just one shoulder, closes the door behind both of them. “I did. She just wanted me to let you in.”  

“...Okay.”  

And, seriously, what the hell?  

“We should go to the dining room,” Bobby says robotically, when they’ve both just been standing in the foyer for about ten straight seconds. Buck’s starting to suspect he might have been bodysnatched.  

“Why do I feel like I’m about to get grounded?”  

He’s going for levity.  

Bobby doesn’t laugh.  

When they make it to the dining room, Buck’s relieved to find that whatever strange, unsettling energy has taken over Bobby for some reason doesn’t seem to have touched Athena. She’s moving serving dishes from the kitchen to the table, looks up and smiles when she sees him.  

“Buck,” she says, but when she says it, it sounds normal, thankfully. She gestures casually at one of the chairs, meaning for him to sit. “You’re looking very well.”  

“I’m feeling very well.” Buck pulls out the chair, sits down. Casts his eyes over to Bobby. “Clean CT scan, decent ECG. Feeling great. Raring to go.”  

Athena gives Bobby, who’s still lingering at the edges of the dining room, a look when Buck says that, but it’s too quick for Buck to try and decipher. Bobby seems to studiously ignore the look, too, which doesn’t really help Buck figure anything out.  

“You’re not still feeling anything from the tsunami?” Bobby asks. “Nothing... lingering?”  

Buck feels his own face twist a little bit in confusion. “I didn’t really get hurt in the tsunami.”  

“You lost almost a quarter of your blood,” Bobby says flatly, because, of course, he had been right there at the VA hospital. Watched Buck get looked over, heard him get told to stay for observation. Most of the cots were being used for more severe cases, so for most of the night, Buck was curled up on the floor, leaning back against the wall, half-draped in a shock blanket. Bobby continues, “They took your pulse three separate times because they couldn’t believe it was so slow. You needed a transfusion.”  

“That was a month ago,” Buck says, kind of slowly. Trying not to be rude, but—it was a month ago. “And, I mean, I’m lucky I’m AB-positive, right? Pretty quick transfusion, all things considered, vitals were okay the next morning—”  

Bobby makes a face. It’s his unhappy, incredulous little half-smile. “I don’t know if I’d call them okay—”  

“—Dinner is served,” Athena says, brightly, loudly, punctuating the statement by putting a basket of rolls down on the table.  

“Great,” Bobby says, not aggressively, but not like he means it, either. He finally sits down at the table.  

Athena puts a roll on her plate, passes the basket to Buck like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Buck thinks that maybe, actually, he should’ve been nervous.  

“So,” Athena says, “how’s life as a Fire Marshal? Bobby says you’re very,” she falters the tiniest bit, “dedicated.”  

“I mean,” Buck says, “just because I’m not going to do it forever doesn’t mean it’s not important. It is pretty boring, though, at least most of the time. Just, like, doing paperwork alone in my office. Actually, I don’t even have an office. I have to do all my paperwork in the staff lounge, which kind of sucks. But if I remember that it’s actually real people represented by all the numbers then it’s better. And I do actually like the drills. Nice to be on the other side of them for once.”  

“Oh, I have heard about you at those drills,” Athena says, laughing a little bit. “Word is you’re extremely comfortable wielding that clipboard of yours.”  

Buck shrugs, feeling caught-out, but not particularly embarrassed. “I just… like that it feels so official.”  

“Well, I think it’s very impressive, on your part. Shows adaptability. Maturity.”  

“I just keep reminding myself that it’s not forever,” Buck says. “Because, like, if I don’t have drills that day, I wake up and it’s just, Oh, great. I get to sit in a chair for eight hours. Again.”   

Athena makes a sympathetic noise. “That must be torture. I’ve always hated getting benched.”  

“Right? Oh, God, and every time I’m stuck at the office, that lawyer keeps calling.”  

“Lawyer?”  

Bobby speaks up for the first time since they started eating: “From our drill,” he says. “Ambulance chaser. Personal injury lawyer. He’s called...” he trails off, grimacing. “I don’t remember. Something unpleasant.”  

“Chase Mackey,” Buck fills in. “I’ve heard that name, like, forty times this week. He says it at the beginning and end of every single voice mail. And it’s like—I know it’s you, dude. You’re the only lawyer who keeps calling me.”  

“Why on earth is he calling the Fire Marshal?” Athena asks.  

“There might’ve been a... small mishap, at the 118’s drill,” Buck answers.  

“Twenty-two people fell down multiple flights of stairs,” Bobby says darkly.  

“And Chase Mackey,” Buck says, taking special care to say the name with extra distaste, “keeps calling me to try and get me to throw the 118 under the bus. I’ve told him about five times now that none of this had anything to do with the house on-scene, some guy just had a seizure, and anyway, I work there—well, not currently, but I still work there, basically—so I’m not about to screw all of them over. But. Anyway. I’m pretty sure someone, or probably multiple someones, are suing the city now, and he wants my statement for that.”  

“The city?” Athena asks. “What does the city have to do with it? Was anyone even injured?”  

“Not grievously,” Buck says, waving a hand. “Seizure guy was fine, in the end. And I guess just because the Department’s owned by the city? Seems kind of weird to not just sue the Department, though. Speaking of— God, Bobby, do you know when those guys are going to stop dragging their feet?”  

Bobby pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”  

Athena sighs. Almost inaudibly. Buck only notices because he’s sitting right next to her.  

He says, “I mean, I got re-cleared after the embolism, and my certifications didn’t lapse; I checked. I’m going to be off the blood thinners in, like, a month, max. I even got my scans redone after the tsunami to be totally sure! And I haven’t heard anything from them. I mean, I get that the health division sucks, but it should be out of their hands at this point, right? Like, I’m just waiting for a rubber stamp and my start date now.”  

Athena sighs again. Audibly, this time. Visually, too. She casts her eyes up to the ceiling and everything. 

Bobby doesn’t make any sound or movement at all.  

So Buck keeps talking: “I was thinking, maybe we could send a statement of support or something. Like, you write a letter saying that since I’m medically cleared, nobody thinks I’m a liability. And if everyone else signs it and we send it in, then the higher-ups would have to listen, right? I mean, you’re house Captain, so ultimately, if you said that I was fine to work, that—that you weren’t uncomfortable with me working again, then what the hell could they say about it? I mean, these people aren’t on the ground, they don’t even know, they’re just dumbasses who—sorry, Athena—” 

“—I’m the dumbass,” Bobby cuts in. He’s staring directly at the shiny, clean wood of the table.  

Buck goes completely silent. 

— 

Buck’s been told before, more than once, that he’s overdramatic.  

He knows it’s true. But usually only once it’s already over.  

He never feels like he’s acting out of proportion. Not until he looks back after the fact and goes, There really wasn’t a need for all that, was there?   

He really, really doesn’t think he’s being too dramatic this time.  

Of course, that could mean nothing, and hindsight could eventually render him reactive and immature.  

But he really, really doesn’t think it will.  

He kind of blew up at Bobby, but he kept his voice level—he pretty much always keeps his voice level; he finds a way to embarrass himself and slip out of the confines of almost every other social grace, except for that one—and thanked Athena before he left. He drove home in silence. Obeyed the speed limit. 

He gets home, doesn't even bother to turn the lights on when he walks inside. Tosses his keys on the counter with a clean, metal-on-granite clink that echos through the emptiness of this place. Toes off his shoes next to the door.  

Stands there in the main room in the dark feeling completely unsure of what to do next. It feels like the moment between hearing a bone snap and feeling the pain.  

I know it’s gonna hit me. Any second now.   

It doesn't.  

He walks upstairs to the bedroom, shuffles off his button-up, falls forward onto his bed still in jeans and an undershirt.  

I know it’s gonna hit me.   

There's nothing in him.  

...Any second now.   

He's silent and empty as the surface of Mars.  

He sleeps for twelve straight hours, wakes up sweaty, feeling apocalyptic, desolate. There's a gap between his molars when his jaw sit at rest, and it feels like it's acres wide. He wants to bite into the ground, clamp into endless miles of sand and clay.  

There isn't even a question about it. There's no moment of deliberation. Actions all click into place. Easy as breathing. Easy as it's always been.  

Start in the kitchen but eat in his room, for some reason, with the new blackout blinds up just enough to let in a thin slice of early afternoon light. The main room's far too brightly-lit, airy and open with nowhere to hide.  

Hide from who?   

Seriously, nowhere to hide from fucking who?  

He lives alone. He is alone. It still feels better to be in the dim light, pressed against on all sides, hunkered down out of the sightline.  

Whose sightline? No one’s. Doesn’t matter, will never matter. It still feels better, hiding on the floor. And it’s not like he's thinking all that much. Every action is the answer to a binary choice: feels better or doesn’t.   

Time passes in uneven swathes— speed up, check out, check in, slow down, repeat, repeat, repeat.   

Walk from the kitchen to the bedroom, speed up.  

Sit on the floor, check out.  

Kneel, choke, release, check in.  

Rest his cheek on the cool skin of his arm on the toilet seat. Feel fourteen. Hate feeling fourteen.  

Slow down. Breathe.  

Breathe in, acid clogging his sinuses, making his eyes water.  

Breathe out. Listen to the bathroom fan.  

Feel fourteen. Never be able to stop feeling fourteen.  

Sit back, stand. After the third or fourth time, reach a hand out behind him, fingertips grazing the wall, just in case. Cells wrung out like sun-starched washcloths, dry and crumbling. Feel them inside his body. Feel six months of work undoing themselves, or getting undone. Feel the stretchy, tough segments of his body resign themselves to rotting. 

Do it all again.   

He wakes up again with the solid and sudden knowledge that his body is older now, and worse. It's never felt like this before. It's never felt like this before.  

He calls out of work, but he was already an hour late by the time he woke up, so they probably saw that one coming.  

Lays in bed and feels grimy and stupid and tired. Rubs his hands over his face, grinds his palms down into closed eyes, trying to force out the pounding headache. Some small part of the more lofty, logical section of his brain tells him, you’re too old for this, over and over and over. The rest of him decides that it really didn’t matter.  

Calls Dr. Adamiak next. He has an appointment at six this evening. Calls at noon, because that’s when she turns off the phone to eat lunch.  

Wait for the tone.  

“It’s Buck.” Voice comes out wet and sleep-clogged. Try again, “It’s Buck. I have to cancel for tonight. I’m sorry.” True. “Just kind of sick.” True enough. “Not really up to driving.” True; everywhere delivers. “Hopefully I’ll be back in shape by Thursday”—True while he says it, even if it feels like a lie—“so I’ll see you then. Okay. Thanks. Bye.”  

He hangs up and lets the phone drop into the sheets next to him.  

He knows it's going to happen before it even starts, knows there's nothing else that was possibly going to happen without even weighing the options.  

He hauls himself out of bed— too old for this— and walks downstairs to the kitchen. Starts to speed up.  

Does it again.  

The third night brings changes. Or at least variations on a theme.  

Same ground-up, stretched out, hungover morning. Same dizzy, timeless afternoon. Same exhausted waste of an evening.  

Bright red shock of blood in his vomit at night.  

It takes a second for his brain to process what he’s looking at, even after his stomach drops with the surprise of it.  

The gearshift between the calm, rote practice of purging into analysis mode is jarring, too fast, like stepping out from a dim, heated house into the kind of stinging winter morning he hasn’t felt in years.  

First question: Did he eat anything bright red?  

He can’t fully remember, but—he flicks through the last leg of his binge, skimming the highlights reel, searching for red, red, red, and... nothing.  

So, definitely blood.  

Second question: Is it another embolism?  

Definitively, after a few seconds of probing: No. His scans are clean. And more than that, by the time he saw blood last time, he was choking, just a few seconds away from being on the ground. Now, he stays kneeling on the ground and breathes. Heaving while he does it, but he breathes. Not an embolism. 

Third question: What is it from?  

God, he hopes it’s just a fucking tooth. He has a lot of those, could deal with losing one. If it’s a molar, then no one would even have to know.  

He feels around his mouth with his tongue, and finds that all his teeth remain intact, minus the usual grit-textured, hidden warping of the back of his top row.  

Fourth question: Is it a rupture?  

Every option is bad; it’s too much blood to not be evidence of something. It’s just—is that something a cut in the back of his throat, or is it a stomach ulcer, or is his esophagus torn?  

Because one of those options means a bad week. One means a rough couple of months. And one could have him septicemic in forty-eight hours.  

He tries to figure out specifically what hurts, to try and narrow it down, which is a pretty useless thought exercise when everything fucking hurts.  

Nothing jumps out at him. Just that slow, all-encompassing ache that comes with holistic self-abuse, woken up after a period of dormancy. Not even that long of a period, all things considered, but it still feels a little bit like he’s returned to a more natural state: a scraped-hollow throat, dry and burnt-feeling, a bass-drum headache, both temples in sync, a five-mile-run, overextended feeling in the muscles of his abdomen, in his lungs. Nothing new.  

So where the hell is he bleeding from?  

If he can’t figure it out, he has to get someone else to figure it out.  

He stands. Forgets to put out his just-in-case hand. Everything lurches sideways. He stumbles, tastes blood on the back of his tongue.  

He probably shouldn’t be driving.  

He could call 9-1-1 instead.  

...He’ll drive.  

— 

It’s just a cut.   

It’s a lot of blood, because of the meds, but it’s all just from a cut.  

He gets seen very, very fast at the emergency room, because he says the words esophageal rupture while he’s checking in, and that tends to scare people. But in the end, the nurse shines a pen-flashlight into Buck’s open mouth, and can very clearly see the mess of little jab-wounds at the back of his throat, all clustered together like darts on a board, bleeding less now, but still red and watery.  

She has the decency not to say anything more about it, probably because he already explained while she was taking his vitals, slipping into a more detached version of his voice, describing himself as Evan Buckley, Former EMT would: I saw a significant amount of blood in my vomit. Thought it might be from an esophageal tear, or maybe an ulcer.   

You’re throwing up? She asked him, like she couldn’t believe he didn’t lead with that. You’re sick? Buck shrugged, shook his head. Ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth again. They’ve felt that way for a very long time, but he only started worrying about it in the last few months. You can barely tell from the front, when you’re just looking at them. Out of sight, out of mind, sort of.  

Just bulimic, he said. On and off. ‘On’ right now, obviously.   

The words came out easier than they ever had before. He’s never going to see this person again. She stops meeting his eyes after he says it, loses most of her bedside manner, just keeps working. Feels around his stomach and asks if it hurts, trying to see if she can find an ulcer from the outside like pressing on an invisible bruise. Feels around his throat, dry hands skirting over swollen parotid glands. Buck hasn’t looked in a mirror these last few days, mostly on purpose. He knows it’s vain, but the chipmunk cheeks are one of his least favorite parts.  

Then she shines the light in his mouth, compresses his tongue with the little wooden stick, sees the herd of nail-shaped stab marks, and—well, that all checks out pretty neatly, doesn’t it?  

He gets put on fluids and mostly left alone. He gets discharged at two in the morning with a curt, typed-out list of instructions:  

1/2tsp salt + 1cup warm water, gargle 30 sec 3x day  

Stay hydrated  

Avoid irritants: very cold or very hot food/drink, spices/seasoning, acidic food/drink, smoking/being around smoke, crunchy or “sharp” foods   

And then, added onto the list of irritants, written in blue pen: + self-induced vomiting  

“Hello, Buck. This is Marta Adamiak. I’m leaving this message because it’s now six fifteen on Thursday, and your session was scheduled for six o’ clock. There is no cancellation fee before half an hour over, so if you are not just running late, please give me a call back in the next fifteen minutes to save yourself the trouble.”   

— 

Eddie first texted him at seven fifty-eight in the morning—so, just before his shift started.  

Cap’s being rly weird.  

Then again around one in the afternoon: Update, still weird. It sucks shit here today.    

Then again at four PM, a screen recording of a voicemail he’d gotten, followed by, This is the second time Chris’ teacher has called me abt the falling asleep in class thing. Why does she make it sound like I’M the one keeping him up. Ma’am if I could get him to sleep thru the night I WOULD.    

Then a final time close to midnight: Man did you drop your phone in the toilet again. It’s been 4 days.  

— 

“Hello, Buck. It’s Dr. Adamiak again. I’m leaving this message at seven thirty, so the session time has fully elapsed. This is both a reminder that your next session is scheduled for Monday, and a check-in. I must remind you of the emergency contact protocol outlined in the safety contract. I’ve emailed you an extra copy in case you’ve misplaced yours. Please call me back when you’re available to let me know that you’re alright.”   

— 

The next day, Maddie texts, Your therapist called me asking if I could confirm you were OK. I told her I was texting w/ you yesterday.   

Are you okay?   

Buck texts back, I’m alive  

Maddie says, Ok so why did your therapist have to ask ME that  

Buck says, You’re on my emergency form. Slept thru my appt. All good  

Maddie asks, Should I come over after work??   

Buck doesn’t just answer, No  

He also sends a thumbs-up emoji.  

— 

“Hey, Buck. It’s Eddie. Clearly. Thought I’d call, since you basically dropped off the grid. Assuming your phone’s broken or something. Haven’t heard your voicemail in months. Anyway. You up for dinner at mine some time this week, maybe stick around to get Chris into bed? He hasn’t been sleeping great lately, if I’m being totally honest. Also just because neither of us have seen you very much. Sucks not having you at work still. Okay. I’ll just hang up now, I guess. Text me back?”  

It’s been a week.  

He feels like shit.  

Obviously. 

But it’s a weird, disconnected kind of feeling like shit. Because it’s not like he’s thinking, This is gonna bite me in the ass tomorrow. Which is what he is—was—is again—used to thinking. Usually, tomorrow has work, or, after the bombing, a doctor’s appointment.  

But now tomorrow is today is tomorrow is yesterday—it’s been eight of the same goddamn day in a row; eight the day after dinner s, one after the other after the other. Same reused anger, same wild, empty betrayal, fresh every time he wakes, festered by the time he sleeps.  

And he doesn’t care.   

He can’t really foresee himself caring.  

He thinks, maybe, if he’d communicated with anyone other than Maddie starting a few days ago (and even she’s near-exclusively getting one-word answers) it wouldn’t feel so impossible to do now. But at this point, all he can do is watch texts roll in. Wait for calls to ring out, see the voicemail pop up. It doesn’t look like anybody knows how absolutely fucked he is. 

He has read receipts off for Eddie for the first time in over a year. 

He still hasn’t talked to Dr. Adamiak, not since that first voicemail, which doesn’t even feel like it really counts. He thinks about calling in the middle of the night, when she definitely won’t answer. At least if he leaves her a voicemail, she has actual confirmation of life and she won’t call for a welfare check.  

But he doesn’t call. He sits on top of his bed at night with his knees pulled up close to his chest and his window open. Thinks about calling. Looks at the phone. Thinks about calling.  

Doesn’t call. Can’t.  

It’s so stupid. He should just call. He should be able to just call. He’s twenty-eight. He can quit therapy if he wants to. He tried it for six months. It worked until it didn’t, like everything in his life seems to.  

The only way to fuck all of this up is to quit.   

Christ.  

Buck begs to differ.  

Stuff gets fucked up all the time. And he doesn’t remember the last time he quit something of his own volition. The only common denominator seems to be him, in general. His presence.  

He either calls and cancels all future sessions, or he doesn’t call and gets a welfare check in return, or he calls and doesn’t quit.  

Which, despite being his usual M.O., seems like the least possible option out of any of them.  

What’s he supposed to say?  

Yeah, I ghosted you for a week, so thoroughly that you had to call my sister, because I procrastinated in finding something to fucking live for that wasn’t my job, and, super awesome news, you were right, nothing’s permanent, so now I’m fucked, possibly beyond recognition.   

She’d probably just look at him and say, very evenly, Well, I think it’s time for a higher level of care, Buck.   

Like hell.  

It would take him away from the stuff he does have left. His entire life. Maddie. Chris. Eddie, Hen, Chim, when he can bear to face them again. If the whole family thing really does extend beyond the job.  

And it would be—he can’t really help but think it.  

It would kind of just be embarrassing.   

Not for other people.  

Just for him.  

He thinks, for the first time in a very long time, of Alicia Brionez. He wasn’t embarrassed for her, when he heard that she got referred for inpatient treatment. The first thing he felt, in fact, was relief. (At least, before he opened the door for a new spiral.)  

But if would be different, if it was him.  

Alicia Brionez is only twenty-one—or, twenty-three now, actually—and a woman, and she isn’t really real, to Buck, outside of the half-hour or so he spent watching blood dribble from her mouth.  

And hopefully that was enough for her. Hopefully she can look back at a split in the pipes of her throat—at an acid wash internal wound, at an emergency room bill, at an inpatient treatment stint, at a step-down program, at a continuing care team—and say, No matter what, I don’t want that to happen again. And hopefully that’ll be enough.  

Buck thought, maybe (hopefully, in some fucked-up way), that that might be him, too. A swathe of pulpy, watermelon-red blood, a delirious midnight drive to the ER. Reassuring himself with an IV in his arm, no, you’re not dying.   

But you could be.   

But it wasn’t any kind of revelatory experience. It was just another warning. He’s had handfuls and handfuls of those.  

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to parse out the right one when it comes down to it. He won’t know which one’s the last sign to turn back. It’ll be a close call, and then another one, over and over again until it’s the one he can’t fix: so sorry, you’re dead, better luck next time, bet you’d wish you’d found something to live for.   

It’s part of why he doesn’t journal. Dr. Adamiak’s recommended it. But he knows what it would look like. Pages and pages and pages of the same recycled worry and hurt: I need to want it, I don't—I don’t need to want it completely, I just need to want it enough, I don’t—  

He needs more time. He just needs more time. To dig into himself and find something and lock his hand around it.  

It’s not giving up. It’s finding a different avenue. That’s not giving up. It’s not. He doesn’t do that.  

But time’s ticking down, and he needs his job back.  

“Mr. Buckley!” Chase Mackey says only two days later, sounding excited, but it sort of sounds like the kind of excited a comic book villain gets when dangling someone over a vat of acid. “I was worried maybe you’d changed your mind.”  

Buck stands in the doorway to the office but doesn’t step over the threshold.  

He was kind of worried he’d change his mind, too.  

There’s still time, really, he figures. One step’s worth of time, anyway. 

Mackey’s stood up behind his desk. He’s gesturing to the already pulled-out office chair on the other side.  

Buck steps fully into the room.  

“Nope,” he says. He shuts the door behind him. “Just running late.”  

It’s where he’s supposed to apologize for his lateness, probably, if he were focusing on being polite.  

But he’s not. So he doesn’t. Just lets the end of his sentence fall limp and flat.  

“Now, I did get your memo,” Mackey says, sitting back down in his own chair when it becomes clear that Buck’s neither going to say anything else or shake his hand. “Took the liberty of printing both of us copies, as well as one for my records—take a seat; this will probably take a while, and I’m going to pull something in my neck if I keep having to stare all the way up at you. Jesus, you’re tall. Here.” He slides a small stack of papers to the other side of the desk, facing the pulled-out chair. “Pre-highlighted for your convenience.”  

Buck says, “Joy.”  

He takes a seat at the desk.  

“To cut to the chase—” 

“—Is that a pun?” Buck asks before he can stop himself.  

“Sorry?”  

“A pun. Because... you know.”  

Mackey blinks at him. He really does look a little bit like a ferret. “Oh,” he says, “ha ha.” He gives Buck a sharp-edged, corporate smile. “No, Mr. Buckley, it was not. I’m not in the business of making puns. …To get started, I really do think you have a fairly solid case. I know you originally said wrongful termination, but looking at the timeline, since you were transferred before, technically, quitting—I’m thinking we’ll have an easier time claiming discrimination. The amount of medical testing you went through—and this is just based on the records you’ve elected to share through Citrix—really makes for pretty cut-and-dry proof. We’d have to workshop it, of course, but if you’re amenable to that…?”  

Something about the way he throws it out there, kind of carelessly, gets on Buck’s nerves. Easier time. Cut-and-dry. Workshop it. Like it was all something they could pick off a menu.  

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t bother trying to keep his voice pleasant. “Let’s workshop it.”    

He keeps expecting texts about it.  

Well, really he’s expecting phone calls about it, but when the phone calls never come, he adjusts his expectations to texts instead. 

The texts never come, either.  

He guesses that Bobby must have done a pretty good job of explaining it to everybody, including the discouragement against any sort of contact. It’s all outlined in the demand letter that Mackey drafted up, that Buck drove to Bobby and Athena’s house himself, that he handed to Bobby on the front porch.  

The only way he knows that they know is because he gave the papers to Bobby last night, and as of eight this morning, his phone had gone completely and eerily silent.  

So either everybody had simultaneously come to the conclusion that whatever’s going on with Buck right now, he’s not going to answer, so maybe it’s better to just stop trying, or Bobby had told them.  

Hell, maybe he’d even made everyone their own copy of the demand letter. It would make sense, since most of them will probably get called on eventually.  

The first and only text from today lights up his phone at that exact moment.  

It’s Maddie.  

The text just reads, Coming over. ETA 3:20.   

It’s a little after two thirty now. Buck casts his gaze around the apartment, surveys the last almost-two-weeks of neglect.  

It’s way more than forty-five minutes worth of work.  

He sends back, What if you didn’t tho  

Her response pops up just a few seconds later: Too bad :)   

He heaves himself up from the couch.  

Doesn’t even know where to start.  

He pats past him on the back for showering. He managed to do it before the meeting with Mackey, then again before driving to Bobby and Athena’s place yesterday. He’s been brushing his teeth about once a day, trying to walk a fine line between brushing acid straight into the enamel and staving off the anxiety about fucking up every other part of his body.  

Most of the more egregious destruction is in the kitchen, the bedroom, the upstairs bathroom. All pretty predictable.  

There’s really no reason she’d want to go upstairs.  

So he’ll focus on putting his kitchen back together.  

He works quickly, trying to tune out shame, using the dregs that he can’t ignore to try and fuel productivity. By the time Maddie unlocks the door at three eighteen, he’s wiping off newly-emptied countertops.  

“Smells good in here,” she says, a little too casual. She hangs her bag on the hooks between the bike mount and the door, adds her jacket a moment later. “Like lemons.”  

He lifts up the bottle of all-purpose cleaner, shakes it gently.  

“Likely culprit,” Maddie says. She looks around the rest of the main room, eyes falling on the four trash bags lined up by the door. Buck filled all of them with assorted carnage from the last week about twenty minutes ago, tied them all very tightly so the contents aren’t visible. Nose a little wrinkled, Maddie asks, “How long have those been there?”  

There’s really no right answer to that question. Buck just says, “I’m about to take them out.” When Maddie just nods quietly, he adds, “And I still have to, like. Actually get dressed. Give me ten minutes, I guess.”  

Maddie ventures a little further from the doorway into the main room. She lifts her hands placatingly. “Take your time. I know I kind of sprung it on you. It is three thirty in the afternoon, though.”  

“Well, it’s not like I have anywhere to go.”  

He doesn’t say the rest of that train of thought out loud: Because I don’t have a job anymore, and I’m literally not allowed to talk to anyone I know, including you, technically, and you’re acting weird so I know you know that, and I don’t even have to meet with my annoying lawyer today, because I literally just did that a few days ago, so excuse me for having just woken up two hours ago.   

“About that,” Maddie says. “I really think someone needs to—” 

“—I’m gonna take these out,” Buck interrupts. He speed-walks out from behind the counter, grabs two of the trash bags in each hand, maneuvers his way past Maddie, out into the hallway. He stands still for a second and breathes.  

For the first time in over two weeks, he takes the stairs all the way down to the main level. He doesn’t know if he actually has energy now, or if it’s just because it knows it’ll take longer than the elevator.  

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Maddie.  

It’s that he doesn’t really want to see anyone.  

But it’s a weird kind of not-wanting. It’s a not-wanting that feels like wanting so much that it hurts. Six months ago, he felt that way about getting better. Now, he feels that way about talking to his sister. That’s gotta be some kind of heinous backtrack.  

He walks back up the stairs a lot slower than he walked down. Takes stock of his heart the whole time, checking in with each flight, mentally probing around for pain. At every single checkpoint, he finds nothing. It’s reassuring, if nothing else. He’s not doing this for nothing, even if he can’t trust himself anymore. He hasn’t completely reversed medical clearance in two weeks.  

He gets back to the apartment eventually, because there are only so many stairs.  

Pauses in front of the door.  

He can’t just... not go back in.  

Right?  

That would be crazy. He lives here.  

So he reaches for the doorknob, twists it, slowly re-enters.  

Maddie, for some reason, is vacuuming his couch.  

“Hey,” Buck says, and then a little louder, to be heard over the vacuum: “Hey.”  

Maddie glances up. Turns off the vacuum.  

“Don’t just—” he starts. Realizes that sounds aggressive. Stops. Tries again. “You don’t have to do that.”  

“I kind of do,” Maddie says. “At least I do if I want to sit here. It’s, like, crumb city.”  

“Okay, well, no one asked you to come over here, so.”  

Maddie doesn’t say anything.  

Buck’s still lingering by the door.  

“...Sorry,” he says after one too many beats.  

Maddie gently lays the vacuum on the floor next to the couch. Sits in the corner of the couch, the only part with vacuum-triangles on it. “Apology accepted,” she says. “I mean. I figured you’d be...” she shrugs. “I don’t know. Pointy.”  

“Pointy?” Buck asks. His own voice sounds incredulous.  

She nods, like it makes perfect sense. “Not mean,” she says. “Just. Pointy. So far, I’ve only heard about everything second hand”—and with that, she fixes Buck with a pretty sharp look of her own—“but I know you well enough to figure that you’re probably not feeling great.”  

“Understatement,” Buck says automatically, and then immediately wants to tell himself to shut the hell up.  

Maddie makes a bit of a face at that. She readjusts herself a bit on the couch, squishing further into the corner, and motions with her eyes to the empty spots next to her.  

“I still have to put on real clothes,” Buck says. Even though he’s probably going to change from a sweatshirt and pair of shorts into an almost identical sweatshirt and pair of shorts.  

“Okay,” Maddie says, but it sounds an awful lot like she knows stalling when she hears it.  

So Buck goes up to his bedroom and changes into a practical carbon copy of his sleep clothes, but they’re clean, which has to count for something. And then he sits on the edge of his bed and counts silently up to one hundred and down again. And then he walks back down the stairs. Sits down in the opposite corner of the couch. They can never have conversations facing each other. They do their best in parallel.  

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says after a full minute of silence. Because Maddie hasn’t said anything yet—hasn’t even inhaled like she’s about to start talking—but Buck can feel her winding up.  

“...Who are you talking to about it?”  

“My lawyer, I guess?” He shrugs. “I don’t think everything really needs to be talked about.”  

Maddie makes a noise, somewhere between disbelief and plain annoyance.  

“You’re not talking to your therapist about it?”  

And it’s not like she doesn’t already know, not like there’s a world where she hasn’t gleaned it herself yet, so Buck doesn’t really know why she bothered to ask. He can’t help but have a little cut to his voice when he says, “I’m not really talking to her at all.”  

“Buck.”  

“I’m handling it.”  

“Buck.”   

“What?” It springs out of him faster than he would’ve liked. A little louder, a little sharper. He tones himself down, reins himself in when he continues, “I can, like, live without reporting to a psychiatrist all the time. I’m handling it.”  

Maddie snorts lightly. “Except that you’re clearly not.”  

He asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Even though he knows that it’s probably pretty obvious. He’s just a glutton for embarrassment, apparently.  

“Come on,” Maddie says, and her voice is a little softer, but not by much. “You went completely radio silent two weeks ago, and I had to hear from Chimney that you’re involved in some kind of lawsuit?”  

“You guys are dating, so. Makes sense.”  

“I should’ve heard about it from you.”  

“I’m not even supposed to really be talking to you, either. You’re tangentially related to the LAFD.”  

Maddie sighs. “Well, I’m also regular related to you, so it was pretty weird when you just stopped talking to me.”  

“I’ve been talking to you.”  

“In two-word texts. Most of which are about you ghosting your therapist over and over.”  

“I’m handling it.”  

“Are you?” And she doesn’t even say it particularly forcefully. Which might be part of why it makes Buck’s sinuses start burning. He looks at his own knees while she keeps going: “Because I lived with you for months last year, Evan. I know what you look like when… right now, you look like a diagram of warning signs.”  

“Yeah,” Buck agrees, voice flat and gutless. “Yeah, probably.”  

“So...?” 

“So?” Buck repeats. “So, what?”  

“So what are you doing, Buck? What’s the plan here?” 

“The plan is to get my job back. What, Chim didn’t tell you that part?”  

She makes a noise that sounds like, all at once, she’s become a little fatigued with him. It makes his stomach twist; the backlash is immediate and all-encompassing: crossed a line, too far, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry— but none of the words come out.  

But she doesn’t stand up to leave. Just stays quiet for a few seconds before saying, “I meant the relapse. What’s the plan for getting through the relapse.”  

He... doesn’t have an answer to that one.  

Maddie picks up his slack: “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I think the whole suing the Department thing is bad. For everyone. But also, from what I know—and again, all second-hand information; and I really like Chimney, but it’s probably also biased—some weird stuff was going down. But...” She waves a hand, like she’s clearing the idea from the air. “But, honestly, none of that’s my problem. My problem’s you.”   

“Rude,” Buck says, and sniffs, but his voice comes out way too fragile for it to have any sting.  

Maddie laughs guilelessly. She clarifies, “As in, I’m worried about you.”  

“You’re always worried about me.”  

“Okay, well, this time, I’m for real worried.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her reach towards the coffee table. For the small stack of papers on it. The papers he completely forgot to move when she said she was coming over. 

Shit.   

“Like, you went to the emergency room,” Maddie says, holding up the papers. She’s already read them, then. “Were you ever going to tell anyone about that? Not even me, but anyone?”   

“Probably not,” Buck admits. Then, like it makes it any better, “I wasn’t actually dying. I just thought I was.”

“That’s exactly why I’m so worried. That. Your priorities are so—” she cuts herself off with a noise of frustration. “You don’t even know how messed up that sounds, do you?”  

“You’re acting like I’m crazy.”  

“Well,” Maddie says, and shrugs so violently the papers make a rustling sound in her hand. “I’m kind of just calling it like I see it.”  

If he were anywhere else right now, this would be the part where he would call it done and go home.  

But they’re in his apartment.  

So.  

He stands. Holds his hands out for the papers, waits for a moment until Maddie hands them to him.  

“I’m going back to sleep,” he says woodenly. He’s not looking at Maddie, so he doesn’t see the expression that crosses her face. Not like he wants to. “Hang out, or don’t. Whatever you want.”  

“Well,” Chase Mackey says, a few seconds after Hen—the last person they met with from the team—and the Department’s legal rep disappear out of the room, closing the door behind them, “I think that went pretty well.”  

Buck doesn’t bother responding.  

“Good thinking on your part, tipping me off to Nash’s AA meetings—” 

“—That is not why I brought that up,” Buck bites out, and it surprises him, how easy it is to say. He’s barely been able to talk throughout the entire interview gauntlet, just sat staring at the meeting room table, wood so polished he can almost see his reflection in it, pristine and completely devoid of smudges.  

“Sure it’s not,” Mackey says easily. “Still resourceful. I don’t think we can leverage that, though—not when you’re in therapy, too.”  

Buck swallows down the unpleasant taste of the word leverage. “I’m not in therapy.”  

Mackey makes a noise that Buck can’t really decipher, somewhere between disbelief and disrespect. He gestures to his laptop. “I have a bunch of Citrix files that say otherwise.”  

“I didn’t...” Buck almost moves to take the laptop. But it’s not like he could make sense of any of the legal jargon and organization of that thing. “I didn’t send you anything from my psychiatrist.”  

“There’s a Dr. Adamiak CC’d on all of your cardiology testing,” Mackey says, slowly, over-enunciating, like he thinks Buck is unimaginably stupid. “She’s an eating disorder specialist. Takes about two seconds on Google.”  

And, honestly, Buck kind of feels unimaginably stupid now.  

Because obviously.   

“Right,” he says. “Um. But I’m not technically seeing her anymore, so.”  

Mackey shrugs. “I don’t care. I’m just saying, if you want to play that specific kind of dirty, you have to be clean.”  

“I don’t—I don’t want to play any kind of dirty.”  

Mackey pats his shoulder, just twice. Buck feels an immediate urge to bite his hand. “Not really how any of this works, kid.”  

He doesn’t know why he startles, when he sees Hen and Chimney in the grocery store.  

It's literally why he drove out to this specific one. He's been here the past two days at the around the same time, since he wasn't sure what day the shift would be going. Which means that, for the past two days, he's spent a couple hours mindlessly wandering around the store, trying to look natural while holding an empty shopping basket. 

Luckily, the only person who knows that is him.  

“Buck,” Hen repeats, this time addressing him, instead of as an exclamation. “What are you doing here?”  

“You know,” he hefts his basket, realizing a second too late that he’s showing off just how empty it is. He grabs the nearest item on the shelf. “Grocery shopping.”  

“…Eight miles from your apartment?” Chimney asks, and then adds, “Cat laxative?”  

“What?”  

Chim takes a hand off the shopping cart handle. Gestures to Buck’s basket. “That’s cat laxative. You thinking about getting a cat?”  

“Maybe,” Buck says, very quickly.  

“Super well-played, Buckley.”  

At this point, the rest of the team’s found them. Bobby—who Buck glances at, trying to catch his eye for even a second, but Bobby is resolutely not looking at him.  

Lena Bosko. Who still doesn’t know how to mind her own business, apparently, because she is looking at Buck, and she’s leaning over to murmur something to— 

—Eddie, who Buck hasn’t seen since those godawful preliminary meetings with Mackey and the Department rep, which were six days ago, and now that he’s started looking at Eddie, he kind of can’t stop.  

He realizes that nobody’s talking.  

And that everybody’s looking at him. Except for Bobby, who’s looking past him instead, which is almost worse.  

“Yeah,” Buck says. He takes the little box out of his basket—it is , in fact, cat laxative, who knew—and slotting it back onto the shelf. “Got me. Was hoping I’d—you know, run into you guys. I just wanted to say—I mean, the interviews were... I never meant for things to get so—I don’t know, out of hand? Or to have stuff be dragged up like that, or—” 

“—Yeah? What’d you think was gonna happen?” 

It’s Eddie. His voice is hard. Each word enunciated. His shoulders are stiff. His arms move a little as he talks. His elbow keeps bumping into Lena Bosko, that’s how close they’re standing. Buck trains his eyes on the point of contact, until Eddie keeps going, which makes Buck’s attention snap right back to his face.  

“Did you think?” Eddie demands. “Or did you just kind of... Buck your way into it?  Just keep saying crap until, oh, shit, you’re suing the entire department because you don’t know how to think ahead, and you never know when to stop talking.”  

He’s not exactly yelling, but it’s getting kind of close. He’s not really pausing between sentences, making it impossible to interject.  

Eddie takes a step forward. It makes his arm stop touching Lena’s. Finally. 

Eddie’s still going: “What, you just text your clown of a lawyer every single thought that comes into your head? That was personal shit that you told him, Buck. Doesn’t have anything to do with you being cleared or not. If you wanted a—a smear campaign against your Captain, you didn’t have to pay a lawyer thousands of dollars to do it.” 

Buck takes a second to remember how to talk. When he does, he’s not even sure it’s anything worthwhile. “You’re supposed... you’re supposed to be truthful with your lawyer.” 

Eddie half-laughs, but it’s the caustic kind. Like he can’t believe Buck just said that.  

Buck adds, “And I barely even said anything about—why are you so pissed at me?”  

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He points directly at Buck’s chest. He does that, when he wants to make a point. “Because you’re exhausting.”  

Well.  

Point fucking made.  

He takes the air out of the room with that one.  

Or at least out of Buck.  

Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. “And you’re so, so desperate to make everything about you all of the time,” he says. He gestures around to the store at large. “Everybody in here has problems. I don’t think a single person would even consider handling them in the batshit, out-of-line way you’re trying to.” 

Buck bristles. “Out of line?”   

“Yeah. Honestly? Yeah. You’re thirty fucking years old and your tantrums have to come with a bailiff. Everybody else manages to suck it up. So why can’t you?”  

Hen warns, “Eddie—” at the same time that Chim says, “Okay, that’s kind of harsh. It’s not like the guy asked to get crushed by a ladder truck.”  

Eddie’s gotten so close that Buck could reach out and touch him if he wanted. And part of him does want to. He thinks maybe if he did he’d get an electric shock.  

He doesn’t, in the end, reach out to touch him.  

He feels a little charged anyway.   

Buck says, “You want to talk about tantrums? I’m not the one yelling in a grocery store right now.” 

Eddie scoffs. “No, but you are the one that filed some stupid lawsuit that means none of us can even talk to you.” He pauses. “Do you know how much Christopher misses you?” Pauses again, waits for it to hit Buck like a bullet. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You’re not around. You disappeared. Some day—some day soon he’s gonna learn to start expecting that.” 

Buck’s still reeling a little bit, still off-balance from the last blow. He doesn’t sound nearly as confident as he wants to when he says, “I—I mean. I could come visit. It’s not technically—I don’t care, though. I could come visit. I didn’t even think—” 

“—Exactly,” Eddie says, more of a snarl than normal speech. “You didn’t think. About anybody else but yourself. You just dropped off the face of the planet, made yourself totally unreachable”—this time, the finger Eddie points at him grazes his shoulder. It’s a barely-there touch, but Buck notices it. He could never, ever not notice it. Eddie says, “I couldn’t even call you to bail me out of jail.”   

Silence.  

Complete, total silence.  

Just the muted sound of unoffensive pop music over the grocery store’s PA system.   

Eddie coughs, just a little. “...If that... was something that happened...”  

“What are you even talking about?”  

At that, Lena grabs onto Eddie’s arm, fingers touching him right at the wrist, saying something that’s too quiet to really hear, but looks on her lips like, we should go.   

You should go, Buck thinks. Just you. Because this doesn’t have anything to do with you.    

His thoughts don’t seem to psychically reach her. Or Eddie, for that matter, who looks a little shocked at everything he just said, but still more angry than anything else. He lets her tug him towards the entrance.  

“You’ve reached Eddie Diaz. Sorry I couldn’t answer. Leave your name, number, and message after the beep.”   

Buck waits for the beep.  

“Hi, Eddie. Um. Totally get why you didn’t answer. Kind of glad you didn’t, honestly. Not that—I mean. You kind of can’t answer, even if you wanted to. Which you don’t. And I don’t want you to. So.  

“Anyway. I guess the reason I called is—I feel like crap, for forgetting about Chris. Not that I forgot about Chris; I’d never forget about Chris, I just. God, there was some stuff going on, I mean like more stuff than just... Okay, I definitely can’t tell you that. And you don’t want to hear it. Technically I shouldn’t even be—ugh. Okay.  
“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t. God, I don’t know. I should’ve written this down. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t... regret what I’m doing. I wish it wasn’t happening, but I don’t regret it. But I do regret agreeing not to talk to Chris. Because he shouldn’t have anything to do with this. 

“So, basically, you don’t have to call me back. Because I know the union is telling everybody to pretend I don’t exist, which. Fair. And my lawyer would probably tell me not to make this call, but I really, honest to God don’t like that guy, so I figured fuck it, I’ll do it anyway.  

“Um. End thesis. I want to see Chris if he wants to see me. I know things are hard right now, both because of... yeah. Things suck right now. For a lot of reasons. And I’m doing what I have to do. But I didn’t want to... Whatever.  

“So. I don’t know. Leave me a message back? Shoot a text? I’m trying to think of a way for it to not be on the record. But the more I think about it the more I realize I don’t really care. Apparently I’ve got a decent case, and—that sounds bad. I shouldn’t tell you that, either.  
“Okay. Um. Get back to me however. And I guess—well, I won’t talk to you later. I guess maybe I’ll talk to you when all of this is finally over.”  

Eddie must’ve been watching for Buck’s car through one of the windows or something, because he comes out of the front door and starts down the walkway as soon as Buck parks.  

While getting out of the car, Buck lifts his hand to wave before he can stop himself. He has to abort the motion halfway through, putting both hands on the car door instead.  

He settles on just nodding instead. 

Eddie, for his part, at least deigns to nod back.  

And Buck wasn’t going to say anything—really, he wasn’t, because they don’t really have anything to say to each other—except that Eddie has this giant bruise over the bone of his jaw, the kind of mark you only get from having your chin slammed into something stone-solid. It’s fresh, an obscenely saturated dark purple, still tinged a little bit with red. Which makes sense, because it was nowhere to be seen just three days ago in the grocery store.  

“You eat shit on a staircase, or something?” He asks, and then immediately wishes he could un-ask it, or phrase it a different way, when Eddie, all the way to his truck at this point, snaps his head over to look at him.  

“Maybe,” Eddie says. He opens the driver’s side door of the truck, tosses his duffle bag over to the passenger seat. “Maybe not. What do you care?”  

Stupid fucking question.  

Buck manages to not say that, at least.  

Instead, he says, “Because that thing looks nasty, man.”   

“Yeah, well.” Eddie leverages himself up on the step bar, well-practiced, one fluid motion. Perpetually, frustratingly competent, body moving like it didn’t just get beat to shit in the last few days, regardless of what his face advertises. “You’re not looking too great yourself.” He shuts the door to the truck.  

And maybe Buck should’ve seen that one coming.  

He’s not exactly happy about it, but it remains a fact that he purged less than two hours ago. The sun wasn’t even up yet, but he was. It was mostly just to soothe his nerves. He figured it would be better to do it then, rather than be thinking about doing it while he was with Chris, which would be borderline sacrilegious.  

The truck engine turns over, sputtering for a couple seconds before settling down. Eddie wastes no time before backing out of the driveway.  

Okay, then.  

That went super fucking well.  

Buck lets himself into the house.  

It’s dimly-lit, still early, especially for a Sunday morning, and Buck can’t really hear any noise that indicates there’s anyone awake around.  

Which—Buck knows for a fact that on weekends, when he works, Eddie goes into Christopher’s room before he leaves, and just barely, barely wakes him up to say goodbye. So he could’ve just fallen back asleep.  

Usually, though, the hand-off is to Carla, who has been given the morning off today. Buck’s not super familiar with the protocol after Eddie leaves.  

He sets his keys in the dish. Calls out, softly, “Chris?”  

No answer.  

And—he kind of figured he was over this, is the thing. He thought maybe, by now, he’d be over it: The immediate, cold thread of fear through his insides, the knowledge that, right now, he’s the one looking after Christopher, and that also, right now, he can’t see Christopher, and that those two things should never, ever be true at the same time.  

It’s so stupid. There’s literally every indication that he’s just asleep in his room. It’s six thirty in the morning on a goddamn Sunday.  

He makes his way to Christopher’s door, knocks on it very gently, pauses to listen.  

No answer.  

He opens it, just a little bit, peers silently inside.  

Lets out a long breath. 

Chris is exactly where he’s supposed to be: curled up, shifting just barely in recently-interrupted sleep, little more than the top of his head visible beyond the blankets.  

Okay.  

Okay.  

Okay.   

Buck shuts the door again, careful to let the latch click into place as quietly as possible.  

He steps backward through the hallway, slips back into the living room, drops himself down on the couch. Waits with a settled chest.  

— 

Christopher wakes up a little before ten.  

Buck’s been wading through Wikipedia articles on his phone—it’s not like any form of social media is at all fulfilling right now, when it’s full of either people he can’t talk to, or people that decidedly do not want to talk to him, or both. Actually, most of everyone seems to be both.  

He clicks his phone off when he starts hearing the noises of Chris moving around in his room, carefully attuned to the sound cue like a guard dog listening for a key in the latch.  

He sits up more fully on the couch. Makes sure to wipe off any lingering bitterness from his interaction with Eddie, even though it was three hours ago.  

Speaking of, he turns his phone back on, sends Eddie a text. 

He just woke up, gonna make breakfast  

Eddie responds almost immediately: Don’t need a play by play  

Then, sent so close together that they almost pop up at the same time, Still trust you with him.  

Buck can’t fully figure out the tone.  

On the one hand, Eddie still trusts him with Chris. Which—Buck doesn’t really know why that surprises him. It’s not like a lawsuit is anywhere near as bad as a tsunami. It still feels unbelievably warm and perfect to have as a fact anyway.  

On the other hand. Still trust you with him. ‘With him’, specifically.  

Buck thinks maybe that means that Eddie doesn’t trust him with Eddie, at this point.  

But whatever. Whatever.  

Chris is awake now, so.  

“Carla?” Christopher calls from the hallway.  

Which tells Buck a couple of things.  

One, Carla probably does wake Chris up at some point on Sunday mornings, since he sounds like he’s checking if anyone’s here at all. The fact that Buck chose not to stings a little like failure. But it’s not like Eddie told him to.  

Two, Eddie didn’t tell Christopher that Buck was going to be here today. Which means he’s been unwittingly made into a surprise.  

“Not Carla,” Buck calls back.  

There’s a moment’s pause.  

Then Chris calls, louder, “Buck?”  

He sounds surprised. So surprised that it makes Buck feel like maybe he’s going to cry. He tries to sound normal when he answers, “Yep. You hungry?”  

— 

A List of Things Buck Learns While Spending the Day with Christopher:  

1. Sundays are cereal days.  

Buck doesn’t actually know if this is fully true, or if he’s been conned. But Chris sounds very convincing when he says it, so the kid gets Cocoa Puffs.  

2. Buck should get place mats for the loft.  

The place mats at Eddie’s house are, in fact, not decorative. Chris likes to do things himself. That part Buck knows already. Chris’ milk-pouring skills are improving. They’re still not fantastic.  

3. Christopher doesn’t even know who Lena Bosko is.  

It only takes a few minutes into breakfast before Buck starts doing gentle recon about anything Eddie’s mentioned about work since Buck hasn’t been there. At the mention of Eddie’s interim partner (emphasis on interim, quotations around partner), Chris looks completely blank. Buck is instantly and ludicrously pleased. 

4. Whoever taught Chris how to play Uno did it wrong.  

He has no clue what stacking Draw 4s is. It’s tragic. Buck fixes that.  

5. Christopher is seeing a child psychologist.  

This one takes a little bit of careful word dissection. Chris just mentions going to the doctor tomorrow. And, to be fair, Chris goes to a crapload of doctors, so Buck doesn’t really think anything of it at first. He expresses what he thinks is the appropriate sentiment, which is, bummer. Christopher reassures him that, It’s okay. This is the doctor that just talks to me about my bad dreams. And he has a sandbox.   

Which. Good for him. Truly.

Good on Eddie, good for Chris. Christopher’s still so, so little, and he’s already been through enough for an entire lifetime. It’s good that he’s being taught to talk about it.  

It kind of makes Buck feel like a huge, embarrassing failure all over again, but that’s neither here nor there.  

He really does have a tendency to make everything about himself, even in his own head.  

After four days of radio silence, Mackey calls Buck while the latter is finally, finally changing his sheets.  

“Go for Buck,” he says, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear.  

It’s automatic for him to say, even if his voice hasn’t come out right while he says it for weeks, seeing as the only person he’s had to say it to has been Chase Mackey, which... yeah. Not much more to say about that.  

“Mr. Buckley,” Mackey starts, and he sounds like he’s in high spirits. But that doesn’t really mean much in reality, because he kind of always sounds like that. Buck thinks Mackey could watch three straight hours of car crash footage and come away with the same smug partial-smile on his face, and say, in the same tone he uses for everything else, Well, that was very interesting.   

Mackey continues, “Good news. We have a settlement offer.”   

“...Okay.”  

A settlement offer, in Buck’s opinion, isn’t automatically good news. A settlement offer covers everything from here, have your job back, just shut up about it, to would you be alright with receiving five million dollars and moving to Florida so no one has to deal with hearing from you again?   

“ ‘Okay’,” Mackey mimics, which strikes Buck as profoundly unprofessional. “This is good! Trust me, you do not want to have to duke this out in an actual courtroom. If you think this has been slow, then, dear Lord—”  

“—What’s the offer.”  

There’s the sound of flipping pages on the other end of the line.  

“Right, right,” Mackey says. “Alright. I have it printed here. It’s essentially an NDA concerning all proceedings—and that goes both ways, which, I was honestly expecting a blacklist, so this is a very pleasant surprise—and... there’s a very long list of math here, seems a little esoteric for you, I’ll just email it to you... the upshot’s to the tune of about four million dollars.”   

Buck’s silent for about a full minute.  

“Mr. Buckley?” Mackey prompts. “Did I lose you?”   

He startles back into himself.  

“Nothing...” he says. “Nothing about my actual job?”  

On the other end of the line, Mackey scoffs. “That’s what you’re asking about? Okay.” More flipping of papers. “Uh, no. No mention of resuming employment. Not surprising. If you really want, I can reject the offer, try and talk them into some kind of municipal office position, but that’ll probably cut the pay out by a considerable margin. The current offer is supposed to be the equivalency of employment.”   

“...What if the pay out was zero dollars,” Buck says, very slowly and, if you ask him, at a very reasonable volume, “and I got my fucking job back?”  

Mackey seems stunned into silence for a couple of seconds. Then he recovers. He says, almost laughing, “God. You’re killing me, Buckley. That’s not—that’s one of the cheapest options. If they wanted to do that, they would’ve offered it weeks ago.”   

Buck drops a bundle of old sheets over the bedroom railing. Watches them fall, underwhelmingly soft and slow, to the tile floor.  

“Well, they can offer it now,” he says. “Or they can come to court. I don’t want anything to do with their money.”  

This time, it’s keyboard clicking from Mackey’s end.  

“Cold,” Mackey says. “Very cold. Also very stupid, but I’ll see what I can do.”  

Buck stares at the pile of sheets on the floor. “I... really don’t like you.”  

“I’ve been under that impression,” Mackey says easily. “Alright, well. I’ll push. Could blow up in our faces, but—”  

“—Thanks,” Buck says, and hangs up.  

His phone screen’s not blank when he looks down at it afterward. An encrypted email from two minutes ago, marked from Chase Mackey—presumably the original settlement offer; Buck thinks he’ll probably never open it—and then, below that, a text from Eddie.  

It’s a link to a Google calendar. 

Eddie’s written below it, Easier than typing out his entire schedule. Obviously school’s not on there. Dismissal’s @ 3:10 but you already know that. Take your pick of days I won’t be there.   

When the second settlement agreement comes through—an offer of resumed employment, with a caveat in the form of a laundry list of required continued medical monitoring for liability purposes—Buck finally takes Maddie up on her open-ended offer to go get lunch on one of her days off.  

It’s definitely just a ploy to get him out of the apartment, but it’s whatever. He’ll play along. 

“So you just get to... go back?” Maddie asks. They’ve got outdoor seating, at a casual, kitschy restaurant that Maddie likes and Buck’s never been to. She got some kind of complicated-looking salad with mandarin oranges in it. “You just have to go to those monthly appointments?”  
“For a year, yeah. But, I mean, I’m already off the blood thinners, as of Monday, so I don’t think it’ll really be much of a problem.”  

Maddie stabs her fork through a mandarin orange slice, a chunk of grilled chicken, and approximately two inches worth of dark green leaves. “Unless they check anything other than your blood.”  

“I’m handling it.”  

She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “You keep saying that.”  

He is handling it.  

Sort of.  

He’s whittling himself down to an older pattern, something more contained, something he can maybe fit into the confines of his work schedule. At least until he starts feeling like it’s really real. That he’s really back. At least until he stops feeling so fucking anxious all of the time.  

Stability, he’s found, when he’s back at square one, is the most boring shit in the entire world.  

Nudging her away from that specific topic, he adds, “I’m also getting twelve thousand dollars. For emotional distress, apparently.”  

“Damn,” Maddie says. Clearly letting herself be nudged. “Good lawyer.”  

Buck laughs a little. “You should’ve seen the first settlement agreement.”  

“What?”  

When he doesn’t answer, she pushes, gesturing a little with her fork. “Come on, no, what was it?”

“I’m taking it to my grave,” he says resolutely. “Everyone will call me a dumbass for the rest of time.”  

“So... it had to be like a lot a lot, then.”  

“It was... more than twelve thousand dollars, definitely.”  

“Duh. Give me a ballpark.”  

“Between twelve thousand and one billion dollars.”  

“Ugh.” She takes an annoyed bite of salad. “No fun.”  

“So I’ve been told,” Buck says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out kind of miserable-sounding, but it does.  

Maddie makes a sympathetic face. “Have you actually talked to him yet?”  

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Just in passing. Just about Chris.”  

“I mean, that’s something, at least. Right? You just have to try and breach that gap.”  

“He’s, like, never home, Maddie. I have to check up on him through Christopher. And that’s fucked up, because Chris is eight, he shouldn’t have to—” he laughs at himself, a little. “I feel like... I feel like I’m his ex-wife, or something. That’s so weird.”   

Maddie raises an eyebrow. “His dead ex-wife?”  

“No. Like a second ex-wife, I guess. And it’s. I don’t know. This is probably stupid. I kind of don’t want to break first. Like, I kind of want him to talk to me.”  

“To apologize?”  

“What? No. Or.” Buck screws up his face. “Maybe? I don’t—that’s dumb. He wasn’t even really wrong, about a lot of it.”  

“It’s definitely not dumb,” Maddie says. “It really doesn’t matter, I don’t think, what specifically was right or wrong. At least as far as what he said. What I remember you telling me is that he yelled at you in front of all your coworkers in the middle of a grocery store. Which, personally, I think is pretty immature. And rude.”  

“Okay, now you have me feeling like I have to defend him.”  

“You don’t.” She shrugs. “I like Eddie. I mean, I’ve only talked to him, like, twice. At your party and during your first surgery. And maybe you gave me a biased account of the situation. But from where I’m sitting, even if he was right about some of it, he said it while acting like an ass. So wanting him to apologize seems totally normal. I’d want him to apologize, if I were you.” 

“You would?”  

Maddie picks through the remnants of her salad, searching for any mandarins that might be hiding. “Yes, Buck. I would. You know—and I’m not trying to be an ass, when I say this—you’re the most insecure person I know. And that includes me.”  

“Ow,” Buck says, and that’s it, because she’s probably right.  

“Do you have a start date?” She asks, and then makes a small, pleased noise as she finds a single mandarin slice. “Because whenever that is, the day before that is when you guys have to get your shit together.”  

“Thirty-first,” Buck says. “I don’t... I don’t think it’s gonna happen by then, Maddie. Something’s off with him. It’s like.” He clenches a fist as tight as he can, watches the skin of his knuckles blot out white, gestures to it with his other hand. “It’s like he’s wound up like this, all the time. Like he’s one wrong thing away from—I don’t even know. I don’t think he’ll be coming back around to me any time soon.”  

“Okay, so maybe you do have to talk to him first. Doesn’t mean you have to grovel.”  

When Buck’s only response is an aggrieved, overwhelmed sort of sound, Maddie just barely sighs. “It would be super awesome if you had a psychiatrist to talk to about this stuff again,” she says. “Among other things.”  

“Probably would be,” he says, and that first part comes out tough-skinned, but the second part doesn’t: “I don’t know if I can go back, though.”  

“Of course you can. You have to.”  

“I don’t have to do anything. Kind of sick of being told what I have to do.”  

“You don’t have to do anything, sure,” Maddie says, with a little bit of heat to it. “You don’t have to wear a seatbelt in the car. You don’t have to pay your taxes. You don’t have to drink water. It would be really stupid not to.”  

“Would it? I mean—I get what you’re saying. I do. But—can I say something kind of pathetic?”  

Maddie just waits for him to keep talking.  

“I don’t know if I can take another hit like this. The last two weeks have been... there’s not even a word for it that makes sense. The worst. Worse than the worst. I can’t—I don’t think I can do that again. But... I think I can stay where I am. I did it for a really long time. I think maybe I could... manage it. Kind of live in-between.”  

Maddie, unless she’s shut-down, always shows everything she’s feeling clearly on her face. Buck’s like that, too. So’s their mother.  

Right now she looks a little ill.  

“Just... forever?” She asks.  

“Maybe. I don’t know. If I have to.”  

“That’s not like you at all.”  

“Maybe it is like me. Maybe what’s ‘like me’ changed. Maybe I’m different now.”  

Maddie looks at him for a while. Like she’s trying to parse out if any of the difference is showing on his face. It would, probably, if it were actually there.  

“I don’t think you are,” she says. “I think you’re really tired.”  

He laughs, but it’s mostly an exhale. “Yeah. No shit.”  

Chapter Text

He’s had the same dream three times now, where he goes into work on his first shift back and no one can actually see him. No one can tell he’s there.  

He doesn’t think it’s a dream this time—at least, he didn’t earlier this morning: when he woke up at four-thirty for the first time since the embolism, when he tugged on the inconspicuously black compression socks that the vascular specialist recommended, when he double-checked his duffle for all the stuff he wants to move back into his locker—but now he’s second-guessing himself.  

He walks into the station, and it’s just like he’s been worrying about: uncharacteristically quiet. Not that it’s usually loud, but normally people talk . If he catches snippets of speech this morning, they’re almost all more accurately described as a murmur.  

The whole place feels... underlit. Dim. And kind of cold. Though that could just be Buck’s circulatory system continuing to not pull its weight.  

He makes it to his locker on muscle memory, brain half logged-off.  

And this is startlingly different from the dream: there’s no plaque. He was hoping someone would’ve taken off the paper that reads – osko, tacked onto the B of Buckley. But there’s just no plaque at all. There’s an empty space, with two little holes for the screws that should hold the name tag in place.  

Somebody’s cleaned the locker, too. Gotten into all the corners with a cloth, cleared out old dust, wiped off any fingerprints from the edges.  

It should feel like a courtesy. It kind of just feels like crime scene cleanup.  

He’s doing his best to arrange everything precisely how it was when he feels a light tap on his shoulder.  

He turns. Sees Hen. “Oh. Hey.” 

“Hey.” She holds out a small card-stock box. She says, “Got you a present,” like nothing’s all that different. 

He takes the box. The top of it is a square of transparent plastic, letting him see through to a relatively large cupcake.  

“I got myself one, too,” she says. “But yours bleeds when you cut it.”  

It startles a laugh out of him. Dampened, but real.  

“Thanks,” he says. “That’s—sick, actually.” He sits down on the locker room bench. “Is it cool if I eat it now?” He pops the tab out from the front of the box. “...I’m gonna eat it now. I didn’t eat breakfast.”  

Hen lowers herself down onto the bench next to him, sighing a little as she does. “Sugar bomb at seven in the morning. Love to see it. Oh, wait, make sure you hold the box under—” She cuts herself off, because it’s already too late. “You have cupcake blood all over your chin.”  

“And it tastes fantastic,” Buck says, though it comes out extremely muffled by white cake and raspberry filling. “Where’s yours?”  

Hen snorts, glances away from him so she doesn’t laugh. “What was that?”  

He chews more, then swallows. Repeats, “Where’s yours?”  

She shrugs. “In the fridge. I didn’t know you were gonna go straight for it.”  

Buck takes another very large bite of cupcake. He remembers to hold the box below his face that time, just in case there’s another pocket of raspberry blood lying in wait. “I told you,” he says. “Didn’t eat breakfast.”  

“Why do you take a bite right before you know you’re about to talk?”  

“To get on your nerves.”  

“If that’s what you’re after, you could just sue me again.”  

And that makes his stomach go a little cold. He doesn’t speak with his mouth full this time. He spends a good few seconds trying to figure out what to say, and comes up short, just settling on, “Yeah, I...”  

Hen just shakes her head slightly, closing her eyes and sporting a half-smile. “That was a joke, Buck. For me, anyway, it’s over with. I’m just glad you’re back.”  

“Yeah, well. I think maybe you’re the only person who’s looking at it that way.”  

“No,” Hen says immediately, casually, like the notion’s too ridiculous to warrant any kind of real anxiety. “That’s part of why they’re all making themselves scarce. Actually, I think Chim’s just asleep. I can personally attest to him not being all that pissed—he basically tells me everything. As for Bobby and”—she takes a pause, eyes going a little wide as she sighs in mild exasperation— “Eddie... I’d bet you they’re happy you’re back, too. The team just isn’t the same without you here. Maybe they don’t consciously know that yet, but.”  

“You think they’d take it super well if I just tried to remind them?”  

She snorts lightly. “I think you know the answer to that one already.”  

“Yeah.” He sighs. Stuffs the last quarter of the cupcake into his mouth. “Thanks. And thanks for...” he raises the box. “God. I just realized I’m, like, over a month behind on everything. How’s the IVF going? You and Karen knocked up yet?”  

“Crass,” Hen remarks fondly, and scrunches her nose. “And no. It’s a long process. A month won’t have you missing too much. For all the emotional ups and downs, at every appointment it’s like nothing’s... like nothing’s even happening. But. You know.” She shrugs.  

“Keep the faith,” Buck says.  

“Exactly.” She knocks their shoulders together, moves as if to stand. “Applies to you too, you know.”  

— 

Everyone’s been in and out for the entire shift thus far, appearing briefly in Buck’s sightline on the way upstairs or to the bunk room whenever a minute’s afforded to them, sometimes only long enough to nod at him, usually not long enough to do even that. Chim does alter his course across the bay at one point, clapping a hand to Buck’s shoulder for a moment, tossing a welcome back his way. Eddie, of course, as bruised and sleepless-looking at work as he is at home, could teach a masterclass in Ignoring Evan Buckley.  

Buck, meanwhile—because it is Halloween, even if the station’s decorations this year are decidedly lacking—has been posted up in the corner at a folding table, tasked with candy duty. He’s got a bunch of pamphlets and smoke detectors, too, but those have proven to be a bit of a harder sell.  

He’s been man-behind literally all day. Which feels like it should maybe be against some kind of code prohibiting psychological torture in the workplace. More people are coming into the station, at least, as the shift ticks forward into evening, which means Buck’s a little less bored out of his skull.  

(At midday, with the station completely devoid of both firefighters and trick-or-treaters, he abandoned his post for a full twenty minutes, took one of the bulk bags of mini Milky Ways with him to the bunk room, sat alone in the quiet dark and made his way through the bag quickly, methodically, letting the spitty, chewed-up pulp fall from his mouth into the trashcan, burying it and the mess of wrappers under a small mountain of paper towels when he was done.)  

(He got back into his spot behind the folding table only about thirty seconds before the engine started backing into the garage. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again, just to make sure, tried to sit still like his heart wasn’t thrumming.)  

The engine backs in again around nine PM, and this time, it stays for longer. Ten minutes turns to fifteen turns to twenty, and the alarm hasn’t rung again. The barrage of Halloween party mishap calls probably won’t start for another hour or so.  

“Buckley,” Bobby calls from halfway across the bay. “Start packing that up. I’m sending you home for the night.”  

Buck makes an affronted noise. Luckily, it’s quiet. “I’ve only been here, like, fourteen hours.”  

“That’s already two hours longer than the half-shifts I’ve been instructed to start you with.” Bobby gestures to the table. “I’m not taking us offline if I don’t have to, and I’d like to see you in my office before you leave, so get to it.”  

“I didn’t even do anything today. It’s not like I’m tired.”  

Even though he’s looking at Bobby, Buck can tell, out of the corner of his eye, that someone’s watching them. Great. An audience to bear witness to Buck getting reprimanded like Bobby’s his middle school principal.  

“None of that’s very relevant to you getting that table back in the storage closet.”  

Buck flicks his eyes over to the person watching, hanging back in the shadow of the engine.  

It’s Eddie.  

Of course it’s Eddie.  

Eddie, who’s still pissed enough at Buck that he literally hasn’t said a word to him any time they’ve crossed paths today—who, actually, has barely said a single sentence to him that didn’t also include the word Christopher since the arbitration hearings, apart from when he said a lot of sentences back to back that are still bouncing around in Buck’s brain, which Buck suspects are true even though they feel like open wounds, or maybe because they feel like open wounds.  

He never knows when to stop talking.  

He doesn’t know how to suck it up.  

He makes everything about himself.  

“Got it,” Buck says shortly, and stands. “I’ll get right on it.”  

He commands his face to stay stoic as Bobby turns and walks away, keeps himself silent and still until the other man disappears from view.  

“You want to help me with this, maybe?” he calls out, turns his head to look right at Eddie. “Or are you going to just lurk in the shadows and watch me?”  

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as instigative as it does.  

Or maybe he does. Because after he says it, and he realizes how it sounds, it feels kind of good.  

Eddie walks forward, into the reach of the overhead light. “I think you got it,” he says, sounding unbothered. “I mean, you’re at a hundred percent, right? It’s not like you’re tired.”  

“So you can hear me when I talk,” Buck says. He starts bagging up candy, kicks the empty box that holds the smoke detectors out from under the table, keeps talking while he works. “Okay. I wasn’t sure. Should I just learn to work with that, then? The ‘speak only when spoken to’, freeze-out thing? That’s what you’re going with?”  

“I don’t know what you want from me, Buck.”  

“I just want you to talk to me. Even if you’re mad.”  

“I’m not mad.”  

Buck folds up the metal chair, leans it against the wall. “So you think I’m selfish and stupid. I can tell when you’re mad.”  

“I don’t—I don’t think you’re either of those things.”  

“Could’ve fooled me.” He stacks the leftover smoke detectors inside the box. “Because you’re treating me like I’m dumb right now, and I’m pretty sure the other one came out of your actual mouth.”  

“I—” Eddie cuts himself off with a sigh. He’s still standing about ten feet away, but at least there’s nobody else in the bay. He says the next part like it physically pains him, a little bit: “I shouldn’t have said that.”  

Buck pauses, a smoke detector in one hand, the other on the edge of the box. “Did you mean it?” 

“I shouldn’t have said it.”  

Buck says, deliberately slow, “But did you mean it?”  

“I meant it when I said it.”   

“Okay. Cool.” Buck goes back to boxing smoke detectors and doesn’t say anything else, because what is there to say? He folds the top of the box over itself, so nothing can fall out where it’s not wanted. So it all stays secure.  

“What do you want me to say? You want me to just pretend like nothing happened? Like you didn’t do anything?”  

“No.”  

The table’s empty now. Buck tips it over, lowers it gently to the ground, squats down to pop the locks on the table legs and fold them in.  

“So, what, then? Buck—when you decided to sue, did you stop and think for even a second how it would impact anyone else? Like, what went through your head?”  

Buck finds himself treading an incredibly fine line.  

On the one side: He doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t like lying in general; he especially doesn’t like lying to Eddie.  

On the other: He’s already let Eddie and Chris down once. Chris is in therapy—and sure, it seems to be going well, but it’s at least in part due to something that happened under Buck’s care, and he hasn’t been around until recently to actually help him through it. He can’t afford to be any more of a mess.  

So he says, still down on the ground with the table, still looking at the locks on its legs, “I was thinking I needed my job back. I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was like, I didn’t have coming back here to work towards, so everything in the world just... stopped. I didn’t feel like a real person anymore. I didn’t think about anybody else. You said it yourself, I’m not very good at that. I thought about me, and I thought about surviving, and I decided to sue. Simple. End of.”  

Eddie doesn’t say anything.  

Buck continues, “And yeah, it feels shitty to know that. I feel shitty about it all the time. I feel shitty all the time anyway, right now. I don’t know. I couldn’t talk to anyone, and it got worse, and—”  

“—You could’ve talked to me.”   

That makes Buck stop looking at the table, glance up to Eddie instead. Eddie looks different than he did a minute ago. Jaw still a little tight, still poised to argue, but his expression is more open, easier to decipher. A little more hurt than anything else.  

“I wasn’t gonna do that,” Buck says.  

“Why? We’re friends. We’re partners. Look, if there’s something—I want to be able to help, when I can. If I can. But you would’ve had to actually tell me.”  

“Because—” Buck pitches his voice down almost to a whisper. “Because Shannon, man. It wasn’t that long ago.”  

“…I know it wasn’t that long ago. I actually remember every time I wake up, that it wasn’t that long ago,” Eddie says. A little brittle. He steps forward more, bypassing Buck at the last second, walking behind him to pick up the folding chair. “I can have my own stuff and still want to help you with yours.”  

“Yeah, well. I’m not built like that. You’re more mature than me.”  

Eddie snorts. “Doubt it.”  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  

Eddie hefts the chair. “Closet by the single bathroom, right?”  

“Eddie, what does that mean?”   

Eddie’s already started carrying the chair away, so Buck lifts the table, moving to follow him.  

“It means we’re cool, I think,” Eddie says when Buck catches up to him. He hooks the top half of the folding chair over his wrist to prop open the door to the closet. “Truce.”  

The thing about truces, Buck thinks, is that they’re not actually an end to anything. The thing about truces, he thinks, is that they should never be something that apply to him and Eddie.  

But it would be better than a cold war.  

“Okay,” he says, even if it tastes a little bitter as he says it, “truce.”  

— 

Buck shuts the door to Bobby’s office behind him. The chair on the other side of the desk is already pulled out, angled to be sat in.  

So Buck sits down.  

“Before you yell at me,” he says, “I gave away as many smoke detectors as I possibly could. It’s not my fault kids think smoke detectors aren’t cool.”  

“I’m not going to yell at you.”  

“Phew,” Buck says. It comes out a little more insolent than he would’ve liked.  

Bobby leans back in his seat, shoulders too straight-looking to be comfortable. He puts his hands on the desk, clasping his hands and interlocking his fingers.  

“It’s been brought to my attention,” he says, “both before this shift and during it, that I may be conflating you with other people.”  

“And that’s...” Buck posits, still not really sure if he’s in trouble or not, “...bad.”  

“Well,” Bobby says. His voice is very stiff. “Yes. Looking at this objectively, if I—” and he stops again. Gets a weird, complicated look on his face. And then speaks again in a tone of voice that Buck’s more used to. 

“I’m a stubborn person, Buck,” he says. Holds up a hand, open-palmed, when Buck starts to speak. “Just, give me a second. I’m a stubborn person. We have that in common. And I care about you. And I know you know that. So I thought no one could possibly be more correct about this than I was. And that if my decisions were informed by wanting you to be safe, that they couldn’t be the wrong ones to make.”  

Bobby spreads his hands. “But, obviously, that was wrong. I mean—I’ve made three separate people angry with me by not allowing you to make your own decisions as an adult. I overextended my authority—obviously, in a legal sense. And, if my regret over it is anything to go by, also in a moral sense. And that’s... well, I wish I could undo it, is what I’m saying.”  

Buck doesn’t exactly know what to say to that.  

He hadn’t expected anything like this.  

He expected, at the most, a half-hearted reprimand. Not enough emotion to feel like anything, in either direction. Another cold dismissal.  

What he comes up with to say, in the end, is, “I should’ve... found a different way.”  

Bobby shakes his head. “The option should’ve never been presented.”  

“What does that mean?”  

“I was given the option to transfer you to another house, did you know?”  

Buck shakes his head.  

“I’m starting to think maybe I should’ve taken it. Because—” he sighs, like he’s loathe to admit it. “If the discrimination claim wasn’t valid, the Department wouldn’t have settled. Special treatment is discrimination. If I can’t be logical about something, as a Captain, I shouldn’t be in charge of it.”  

“You... want to transfer me?”  

“No,” Bobby says. Immediately. Decisively. “No. I want to be fair. Like I’m supposed to be. I want you here. It’s never been that I didn’t want you here. It’s that I had accepted the... lackluster reality of you not being here in exchange for peace of mind. And I ignored the lesson I’ve been taught over the past few years—that I shouldn’t accept a dismal, empty status quo just because the better world that is possible comes with more risk.”  

Buck takes a few seconds to process all of that. It’s very earnest, for Bobby, who isn’t usually cynical, per se, but isn’t particularly prone to professing things, either.  

Bobby looks a little uncomfortable having said all of it, too.  

“I mean,” Buck finally says, to try and lighten the mood, “not that much risk. I signed a crapload of liability waivers.”  

It works; Bobby chuckles lightly. “That you did. Chimney said we should keep them in a folder labelled In Case of Buck Ups.”   

“Of course he did.” 

After a few moments of quiet, Bobby tuts his tongue against his teeth and takes a long inhale. “I guess most of what I’m trying to say is that I strive to be a good Captain and a good friend, and I was being neither of those things.”  

“I don’t know. I mean—” 

“—I’m trying to say I’m sorry, Buck.” Bobby sounds beleaguered while he says it. But fond.  

“Oh,” Buck says. “Oh. Okay. Um. Thank you.”  

It’s the first time he’s heard the word since all of this started.  

Bobby just nods. “You apologized for your part of it weeks ago, and... well, that’s all there is to it, really.”  

That’s all there is to it.   

Buck moves to stand. “I’ll see you in thirty-six hours?” He tries.  

Bobby shakes his head. “Sit back down.” 

Buck sits back down. “Is this the part where you yell at me?”  

“Still no.” Bobby scoots his chair back, opens one of the desk drawers, roots around, and draws out a thick file folder.  

“Is that In Case of Buck Ups?”   

“It’s your medical accommodation paperwork. So. Sort of.”  

“Oh,” Buck says. “Don’t worry about—I didn’t read it all, but I’ve heard it, like, a million times from the Department rep. I have my appointments scheduled for the next six months, I know I have to take a couple weeks to work up to full shifts, I already—” 

“—I’ve read it all,” Bobby interrupts. “Extremely closely. Multiple times over.”  

“Okay,” Buck says. Bobby’s voice is getting weird again. More closed-off. Or—not closed-off. Just... tentative. Uncomfortable again, for some reason.  

Bobby steeples his hands in front of face. Closes his eyes for a moment and presses the edge of his forefingers to the space between his eyes.  

“I want to preface this by saying that I don’t have access to your private medical records,” he says. Then, “During negotiations, you signed medical release of information forms.” 

“Well. Yeah,” Buck says. “Because all of my clearance stuff needed to be used to prove that I could come back.”  

Bobby nods. “Yes. I understand that. Part of...” he trails off. Gathers himself again. “Part of the accommodations is that I need to have a medical information file on hand to give to other medical personnel in the event of another embolism, or...” he shakes his head. “Anything else that might happen.” 

“Okay,” Buck says again, because what else is he supposed to say to that? He knows this. It seems normal. 

Bobby opens the file folder, flips through some of the pages just by glancing at the corners. He really does know it all like the back of his hand. He plucks out a page, slides it across the desk to Buck. 

Buck skims the paper.   

Emergency Treatment Information  

Name: Evan Isaac Buckley  

DoB: 07/27/1991  

Wt: 192  

Blood type: AB+   

Known allergies: Naproxen (Avoid all NSAIDs)   

He knows all this. He skims further down, over Current Medications, over Medication Interactions.    

Medical Procedures History heads the second half of the page’s front. It’s followed by a list of surgeries, starting as early as when Abby had to cut a hole in his throat so he could breathe.  

He flips the page to the back.  

Relevant Diagnoses   

Chronic Hypotension   

Heart failure (Stage B Pre-heart failure/myocardial thinning)   

Bulimia Nervosa (Avg. moderate severity)   

Oh.  

Okay.  

Okay, then.  

“Fuck,” Buck says, and then makes a noise that he can’t really explain, and then says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say—” and then stops talking because his voice comes out very thin and watery.  

He wants to come up with something else to say, but the only thing he can think of is Fuck. Fuck, I’m so stupid. And it repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats and makes getting another thought in edgewise near-impossible.  

“Buck?” Bobby prompts.  

Buck tries to nod.  

He’s not going to panic.  

He’s already panicking.  

He’s not going to keep panicking.  

“Buck?” Bobby repeats, with a little more urgency. “Are you okay?”  

“Yeah,” Buck says. It comes out choked and stilted-sounding. “Yeah, I’m. I’m.” He breathes. Breathes. Drags his eyes away from the paper and breathes.  

“You didn’t know that was on there,” Bobby guesses.  

Buck shakes his head. Doesn’t look back at the paper. Refuses to look back at the paper.  

“I thought as much,” Bobby says. He slips the paper back into the file folder, closes it, puts it back in the desk drawer.  

“Does...” Buck starts, and his voice is still panic-dry, even as he takes real, slow breaths. “Does everybody know?”  

“Absolutely not,” Bobby says firmly, and then repeats again for good measure, “absolutely not. Just me, and the Department legal counsel. I was... after arbitration, I was asked to give a statement regarding how it affected your ability to work.”  

So stupid, Buck tells himself. So fucking stupid. He knows it’s all in his charts. He’s known that since before the embolism. He could’ve guessed it would come up during all this, or at least get noticed by somebody. But he never heard about it, and he thought it was over, that he’d gotten back unscathed. He had tunnel vision. Like he always fucking does.  

“And... what did. What did you say?”   

Was it worth it? His brain hisses.  

And the answer should be yes. Of course it’s worth it. He’s here, isn’t he? He’s back. It’s all he wanted.  

Found out, he thinks anyway. Caught. Officially. Stamped onto you. Sick. Incompetent. Can’t handle yourself. So, so stupid. Only a matter of time.   

Bobby shrugs. Smiles, but it’s a pressed-in, shapeless sort of smile. More sad than anything else. 

He says, “I told them the truth.” He shakes his head, rueful. “I had no idea.”  

“Okay.” Buck nods. “Okay.” He puts a fist to his mouth, traps the ridge of bone of his first knuckle between his teeth, bites down until it hurts, then bites a little harder. Maybe he can tell himself that’s why it feels like he’s about to cry.  

He’s not going to cry in this office.  

He’s not going to cry on his first day back.   

He takes his hand from his mouth.  

“I can do my job,” he says. “When I’m working—I’ve never let it get bad enough that I can’t do my job. I can—I can manage myself. I mean... you said I just showed that, right? I can manage myself. And—honestly, I don’t even think—it’s not even that bad. Like, I’ve never had to go to a center for it or anything, and I don’t know why the paper says moderate—I mean, sometimes, I guess, it’s moderate, but I keep it in the mild range—”  

“—Buck.” 

“I keep it mild on purpose, because I can manage myself, and I—when I’m working, it’s fine—I mean, it’s fine, except for when it’s not, but mostly it’s fine, I can handle it, and I can go back to therapy if you want me to, I don’t know if it’ll work but I promise I’ll try, and—” 

“—Buck.”   

“I’m kind of in a relapse, right now, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, I mean, it is a big deal—but I can fix it, I did an okay job of it up until a month ago, so I can fix it, I just need time and I need to still be—” 

“—Buck!”   

Bobby’s voice is much louder this time.  

Buck shuts up. 

Bobby says, slowly, “I just wanted to see if you were okay.”   

Buck stays quiet. Looks at Bobby’s hands, flat on the surface of the desk. If he starts talking again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop.  

“I really want to put this trust in you,” Bobby says. “I am trying to put this trust in you. I care about you. Everybody here cares about you. I enjoy having you here. You are an asset to this team. And I know you take this seriously. I know you want to do the best you can here.”  

“‘But’,” Buck fills in, quiet, dark.  

“No but,” Bobby says. “No but. I’ve learned that lesson. I will do my best to believe whatever you tell me. I have to ask. Is this a new problem? Is it a problem right now? Are you managing it? Are you okay?”   

“I’m okay,” Buck says, and it’s mostly automatic, but even if he’d thought about it he would’ve said the same thing. There’s no world where he admits something different. Not with everything on the line. “Um. It’s a problem right now. Technically. But I’m managing it. And it’s. It’s definitely not new. I’ve had a long time to get used to it.”  

“That’s good to hear,” Bobby says, then grimaces. “The part about you being alright, I mean. Not that it’s been a long-term struggle. I want you to know—any time. Any time, you reach out, I’ll be there.”  

“Okay,” Buck says. He can’t really foresee himself doing that, even if part of him immediately, desperately wants to.  

Bobby takes a sharp inhale. “I don’t... mean to pry, but—” 

“—You absolutely do,” Buck interrupts, but not meanly.  

“Fine,” Bobby admits. “Maybe I do mean to pry a little. But you don’t have to answer. ‘Long time’ as in, before you worked here? Before LA?”  

And Buck just has to laugh. He’s lucky it’s a quiet one. Contained. Doesn’t make him sound too crazy.  

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It’s been a while, Cap.”  

Maddie tosses her entire body back onto her couch and groans. “I’m done talking about it. Don’t ask me about it. I had to talk to Sue about it, and then I had to go and meet Frank the therapist about it—which I have so much time to do, now that I’m on paid suspension— and Josh keeps texting me about it, and Chimney keeps checking on me about it, and—” 

“—You sound like me,” Buck says. He shuts Maddie’s front door behind him, locks it. Follows her down the hallway to join her on the couch.  

“I’m a decade older than you,” she says. “You sound like me.” She has her head tipped back and her eyes closed. Her hair is splayed out on the cushion behind her. It’s healthy-looking and shiny, and longer than Buck’s seen it since she was in high school. She keeps mentioning that she wants to chop it off.  

“At least your problems are more interesting,” Buck says. “I mean, when it comes down to it, stalking someone like some kind of vigilante versus boring old chronic bulimia...”  

“I’m not a vigilante; Frank the therapist says it was an unmitigated trauma response. And by using the S-word you are talking about it, which I explicitly said I don’t want to do.”  

“Okay,” Buck surrenders. “No talking about it.”  

“Thank you.” She’s only quiet for a few moments before she prompts, “...Any Eddie updates?”  

“Are Eddie and me like your personal soap opera, or something?”  

She shrugs, unrepentant. “A little bit. You can ask for updates about me and Chimney, if you have to. Tit for tat, and all that.”  

“I don’t really want updates about you and Chimney. And anyway, it would be more like if I asked for updates about you and Josh.”  

Maddie makes a face. “I don’t think so, really. So...?”  

“We’re good,” Buck says. It sounds very bitter when he says it, and he kind of means it to. “I mean, we’re talking. He’s home when I’m over there. It’s better when Chris is around, but even when he’s not, it’s... fine, I guess. But—I mean, he called a truce, Maddie. Whatever the hell that means. And that was over a week ago. And now we’re just... good. But it doesn’t really feel like we’re good.”  

“Did he apologize?”  

“No.”  

“...Did you apologize?”  

“I’m waiting for him.”  

Maddie groans. “You’re stuck at a Kindergarten-level communication impasse right now. One of you has to give.”  

“It’s not gonna be me,” Buck says hotly. “I’m already stressed out of my mind at work right now, and I’m still on half-shifts. And everything still feels so fragile. It’s just easier to pretend everything’s fine.”  

Maddie frowns a little, eyes still closed. “Chim’s said everyone’s been pretty okay with you. That you’re going out on calls now, at least.”  

“It’s not that,” Buck says. He thinks about how he wants to say it. Decides to just rip the band-aid off. “Bobby knows. About me, I mean.”  

Maddie doesn’t really move, when he says that, but her eyes snap open and shift to look at him. “What?” 

“Yeah.” Part of him wants to curl up into Maddie’s side like he’s a little kid and just start venting, but he stays in his corner of the couch. Picks up one of her throw pillows instead. Picks at one of the tassels that sit at the corners. “It was all in—I should’ve known he’d read all my paperwork front to back. And—he said he’s the only one at work who knows, but I feel like everyone’s, like, looking at me all the time, or he’s gonna accidentally let it slip at some point... and I came in from my ninety-six yesterday and he just looked at me and it was so obvious that he knew, and—I don’t even throw up at work, Maddie. I’ve never, ever done that. But. I can’t even pee without him looking at me fucking weird when I come back and it feels like he’s always watching me eat and—” 

—From outside, the buzzer rings, the one you have to press at the front gate. A moment later, Maddie’s little security screen chimes, and Chimney’s voice comes through the speaker, small and tinny.  

“I spy a Jeep,” he says. “Hello, Buckleys. I come bearing gifts, and petitioning for access to the Sanctum Sanctorum.”   

“Should I leave?” Buck asks, half-whispered, and then answers his own question before Maddie can: “No, I was literally here first.”  

Maddie huffs out a quiet laugh, groaning a little a second later as she hauls herself up into a sitting position, then stands, making her way to the security pad to unlock the gate for Chimney.  

“Frank the therapist says eventually I shouldn’t feel like I need all of this anymore,” Maddie says, gesturing to the security pad as she crosses the rest of the foyer to unlock the front door. “But, I mean, LA still has crime. I already spent all the money on it. And now I’m virtually un-robbable.” She opens the door, revealing Chimney, mid-step on the porch, on the other side. “What did you bring to tithe?” she asks.  

Chim presents her with a white cardboard box. “Cronuts.”  

“What the hell is a cronut?” Buck calls.  

“None of your concern,” Chimney responds without missing a beat, “seeing as they’re not yours.”  

“Correct,” Maddie says, and takes the box from him. “They’re ours— thank you very much, by the way—and I say Buck gets a cronut.” She comes back to the couch, sits down in the middle this time, opening the box and presenting it to Buck. “They’re a cross between a croissant and a donut. They’re good.”  

Buck takes a cronut. “What’s your guys’ deal with portmanteaus?”  

Chimney sits down on the far corner of the couch holding his own cronut. “I didn’t invent the cronut, Buck. I simply procure them for your sister. Anyway, what are we talking about?”  

“Eddie,” Maddie says smoothly, “and how weird he’s being.”  

Chim’s eyes go very wide, and he starts to chew faster, swallowing a massive bite of cronut before he says, “Isn’t he? Okay, I’m actually so glad you said this, because Hen and I didn’t know if you”— this part he directs specifically to Buck—“were okay with talking about this. Or if you even noticed.”  

Buck snorts. “Of course I noticed. He, like, looks like he just fought a bear—” 

“—All the time, right?” Chimney finishes. “It’s weird! It’s so weird! And me and Hen thought it was because you weren’t here, but now you’re back, and he’s still being—I don’t even know how to explain it. Like, it’s better now, sort of, but also not really—and the truck.” Chimney makes a very enthusiastic, confounded sort of sound. He takes another extremely large bite of cronut. “Can we please talk about the truck? Where the hell did he get the money for that goddamn beast of a truck?”  

About a week later, Bobby calls Eddie into the office as soon as the latter walks into the station.  

Buck, like he has about every recent conversation involving Bobby that Buck can’t directly monitor, slowly begins to freak out.  

“Did he tell you what it’s about?” Chim asks, but so quietly that a Buck has to read his lips more than hear him.  

“What?” 

Eddie and Bobby are already gone upstairs; Chimney and Hen and Buck are in the bay, with Hen and Chim doing inventory and Buck doing absolutely nothing.  

Or, he was doing absolutely nothing. Now he’s decidedly freaking out.   

“Eddie,” Chim clarifies. “Did he finally tell you what’s going on? Because you look like you know something.”  

“Eddie’s not telling anybody anything,” Hen dismisses. “Not even Buck.”  

That manages to switch Chimney’s attention from Buck over to Hen, and Buck resists the urge to thank her, as that would be pretty hard to explain: Thanks for taking the heat off me for a second so I can panic in peace; I know it’s irrational, but I literally haven’t had a single second in this building where I’m not already almost panicking since my first shift back, and if anybody looks at me too closely or asks me another question where I have to carefully choose the words in my answer, I think I might have a nervous breakdown.   

Jesus.  

He can’t keep living like this.  

Bobby has no reason to tell Eddie anything about anything. Buck knows that. And what’s more, Bobby said he wouldn’t. And they’re supposed to be trusting each other.  

It doesn’t stop the thin, cold wire of fear from working its way through all of the gears inside him, jamming up all the processes.  

He scrapes the nail of his first finger over the cuticle of his thumb, digs in until it smarts, tries to hone in on the pain.  

He really can’t keep living like this.  

Maybe it would be better if he just blew the whole thing up. Made a PowerPoint about it or something: Yes, I Am Super Fucking Weird About Food. Here’s All the Ways We Can Never Talk About It Again (Slide 1 of 300).   

Part of him actually kind of wants to, the more he thinks about it. Sure, even the idea is making his hands sweat, but—and he can’t really tell if it’s a self-destructive impulse, or a genuine one that’s just been so stuffed-down and lacquered over with the self-taught, reinforced secrecy that comes with an eating disorder—there’s a part of him that thinks that at least the anxiety over it would be gone. He can’t worry about them finding something out if they all already know.  

But.   

Okay.  

Maddie knows.  

Bobby knows.  

And he said he didn’t tell anyone, but it’s probably safe to bet that Athena knows. Even if Bobby hadn’t elected to tell her, she’d manage to get whatever was bothering him out with surgical precision.  

Hen doesn’t know, but it wouldn’t be all that awful if she did.  

Buck guesses that he could live with Chimney knowing. If it absolutely came down to it.  

But Eddie.   

Eddie should be the easiest to stomach. If Buck attempts to look at it objectively—which he’s very, very bad at doing, but he can still try—he can see how Eddie should be the easiest person to tell.  

But even thinking about it, even thinking about thinking about it, makes Buck want to peel off his own skin.  

And Eddie’s upstairs right now. In Bobby’s office. With the door closed. And they’re having a discussion. And it’s been, like, ten minutes. And Buck has no fucking clue what they could be talking about.  

Bobby has no reason to tell anyone.   

Bobby said he wouldn’t tell anyone.   

Bobby hasn’t even mentioned it out loud since.   

It’s all true, and he can think it as much as he wants, but none of it helps.  

God. He can’t keep living like this.  

“Hey, Hen?” He asks, and he doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he already has, and Hen and Chimney have already been interrupted and stopped talking, and now they’re both looking at him. Hen prompts him to talk both with silence and with her eyes, but Buck’s mouth has suddenly gone dry and inert, so he just motions with his chin for her to follow him a little ways away.  

“I don’t like all this secret-keeping,” Chimney calls after Buck, though he stays put as Hen starts to move. “I just want it known that don’t appreciate this! It’s bad work culture!”   

They just walk around to the other side of the ambulance, then a few feet beyond that so they’re closer to the wall.  

“Did Eddie actually tell you something?” Hen asks. Her voice is pitched low.  

Buck shakes his head. “Nah. You’re right, he’s not telling anyone crap. And”—he flicks his eyes upward, but of course, the office is completely out of sight from here, and even if it wasn’t, the door is closed—“God, he’s been in there a long time, right?”  

“Maybe he’s suing the Department.”  

“Ha, ha.”  

“Sorry,” Hen says, though she doesn’t sound particularly sorry. “Too soon?”  

“It’s whatever,” Buck says. “Chim’s probably gonna put it on a Bingo card at some point, for bonding purposes, or something—don’t tell him I said that, though; it’ll just give him ideas. But. Uh, actually, this is more about... it’s kind of personal, and the more I keep talking, the more I realize I’m kind of making it seem like a huge deal when all I really wanted to ask you was—can we, like, talk? After shift?”  

He looks back at Hen, then. Sees that she’s got a complicated look on her face. Like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to be worried or not.  

“Yeah,” she says, after a beat. “Yeah, of course, Buck. Did something happen, or...?” 

“No, no. It’s just. You’re the most level-headed person I know, I think. And I just wanted to run some stuff by you—you know, the more I think about it, the more I think I’m blowing this out of proportion, and I should probably just—” 

“—Hey, no, no,” Hen says, and snags Buck by the arm, just a light press of her palm right above his elbow, gently fencing him in. “Don’t overthink it. It’s—you checked, first. Which is more considerate than most people. If you have something you need to talk about, I’m totally down. Just, remind me, okay? Hand off’s still twenty-three hours away.”  

— 

In the end, he doesn’t remind her, because their shift ends early after the ambulance slams into a little blue Honda, broad daylight, middle of the intersection.  

Buck gets tagged in to take care of the driver, because Hen’s crumpled on the curb like wet paper, trying and failing to breathe.  

He’ll find out later—after somebody checks her license, calls the coroner, calls her mother—that her name is Evelyn, that she had just turned eighteen. All he can think in the moment, surveying her body twisted at strange angles over the front seat, is that she’s just a kid.  

She’s dead by the time they get her out of the car.  

Buck takes the beer Eddie hands him. “It feels like everyone’s under some kind of investigation right now except us.”  

It’s been a full shift cycle since Evelyn died—eight o’ clock tomorrow morning marks the end of their ninety-six—so almost nine days.  

Hen got the hell out of dodge during that time, with the LAPD and the Fire Department still combing through traffic cam footage, troubleshooting the ambulance, running simulations. Karen took her on some kind of retreat, or something. Totally unplugged, as far as Buck knows. Though maybe Chim’s heard from them.  

Eddie makes a disbelieving sound.  

“Maddie’s still not back to work,” Buck reasons, “Athena’s benched, Hen’s being investigated...” 

“Cap and Chimney are business as usual,” Eddie says.  

“For now.”   

Eddie pries the cap off his own beer, hands the churchkey to Buck. “That’s foreboding,” he says, and settles on the other side of the couch.  

“Well, things have been foreboding lately.”  

“When’s the last time things weren’t foreboding?”  

Buck shrugs. Finally opens his beer. “Probably last September.”  

“Like, 7.1 earthquake last September?” Eddie’s smiling while he asks it, a smile that centers the points of his canines, how one of them rests on the end of his tongue. “Okay.”  

“It’s when Maddie came to town,” Buck says. “And you and Chris. But that’s not—okay, the point remains that things now are downright ominous. Soon you and I are gonna be the only people not being grilled by the brass, and I just got out of it.”  

“I did, too,” Eddie says tepidly, “if you remember.”  

“...Fair enough.”  

“And technically—” Eddie stops himself mid-sentence.  

“What?”  

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just drinks from his bottle. It’s a long enough pull that Buck can watch the entirety of it, start to finish, just by looking at Eddie’s throat. It’s the kind of drink you take when you’re trying to avoid speaking.  

“Seriously, Eddie, what?”  

“Technically, I am also under investigation,” Eddie says, quietly, very normally, like he’s telling Buck what the weather’s like outside, or asking him to pick up something from the grocery store.  

“You’re what?”   

“Jesus, don’t yell at me.”  

For a moment, they’re both silent, both of their faces turned towards the hallway, even though they can’t see Christopher’s bedroom door from the couch.  

“Sorry,” Buck half-whispers, but Eddie just vaguely waves a hand in his direction.  

Buck continues, “Why the hell are you being investigated?” 

“Wrong place,” Eddie says, and shrugs. “Wrong time. Wrong decisions.” 

“That’s so vague. You have to know how mysterious that sounds. Did you do crime? I can’t picture you doing crime.”  

“Then you’re not very imaginative.”  

“You did crime?”   

“Why are you saying it like that?” Eddie’s half-laughing. “‘Did crime’. Like it’s a hobby.”  

“You’re totally stalling right now. You’re trying to get me caught on semantics so that I’ll forget what you said, but I won’t, because that was completely unforgettable. What happened? What crime did you do?”   

“I, uh.” Eddie takes another drink. “Tried to find a good outlet for excessive anger, and then it turns out it wasn’t a good outlet, and it eventually... became illegal. So. I stopped.”  

“Eddie.” Buck knocks his ankle against Eddie’s, repeatedly, until Eddie finally looks at him. “Eddie. Did you kill someone.”  

And he’s joking, when he asks it. That’s the thing—he’s totally joking. But something flickers over Eddie’s face for just a fraction of a second, and it turns everything cold.  

(Buck will know, for the rest of his life, that in that moment he was, with zero hesitation, one hundred percent willing to help Eddie Diaz cover up a murder, had that been the situation.)  

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Eddie says after a beat, like even the idea’s ridiculous, despite the expression on his face just a moment ago. “I just. Hurt someone”—he lowers his voice even more—“really fucking badly. I...” he sighs. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”  

All Buck can offer is, “Hey. It’s just me.”  

“Yeah.” Eddie stares at the middle distance. “…When you disappeared, and then we found out about the lawsuit—and I’m not blaming you for this, or anything—I was mad at you, yeah, but it was my choice to... Anyway. Lena took me to this, like, sparring group—” 

“—Lena as in Bosko? Lena Bosko?”   

“Yeah,” Eddie says, a little unsure. “Why are you saying her name like that?”  

“I don’t like her.”  

“You’ve never even really met her.”  

Buck squares his jaw a little bit. “I just don’t like her.”  

“Okay,” Eddie acquiesces, breathing out a laugh. “Whatever, man. So, Lena took me to her sparring group, which was kind of... underground, I guess—” 

“—So, a fight club?”  

“I guess.”   

“Sounds like it was definitely a fight club.”  

“Sure. A fight club. So she took me to fight club, and at first, I felt completely out of my depth, but I kind of figured—I was so pissed, and I kind of just wanted to hit shit, and I was already there, so why not?”  

“And you... almost killed someone?”  

“No,” Eddie says. “Not yet. I won my first match, but it wasn’t even that I won, it was that I—it was that I felt so calm. That’s gotta sound weird. I just mean that there’s so much energy during a fight. You can do whatever you want without even thinking about it. Your limbs just—I didn’t even have to figure out what I was going to do. I just did it. Brain totally off. And the energy ramps up and then it’s over, and I either won, or I lost, but it didn’t matter, because either way I finally just felt calm.” 

At that, Buck makes a noise that he doesn’t really mean to make, some kind of animal-imprinting me too, look, we have the same handprint noise. Eddie doesn’t react to it, thankfully, because Buck wouldn’t know how to explain it, and anyway, it’s not even true. They’re not the same. Not even close. Eddie’s talking about this like it was a momentary lapse—a thing that he tried, and it worked, but it wasn’t good, so obviously he stopped. Steps one, two, three, and four. Buck’s been strapped into this ride for his entire life, and he still can’t make it past step three. 

“But,” Eddie says, “I was pretty good, got offered money for it, and it got realer and realer until I was in over my head, and I hurt a guy, really, really fucking badly, and I had to call EMS, and—well, they recognized me, yadda, yadda, I’m under investigation. The end.” 

“...Woah.”  

Eddie leans forward to put his beer on the coffee table. Rests his elbows on his knees. Rubs his hands flat over his face. “Yeah. And it turns out—who would’ve thought—getting hooked on adrenaline crashes actually just makes you less stable. So it was a great few weeks, for me, in case you were wondering.”  

Buck snorts quietly. “I’ll bet. And you’re just—what, you’re really not mad anymore?”  

“No,” Eddie says, partially into his hands. Unlike the last time he said it, at least, he actually sounds like he means it. “I mostly just feel like an idiot.”  

“Hey,” Buck says, unable to resist, “ethically dubious fight clubs are everywhere. Could’ve happened to anyone. Not me. But a lot of people.”  

“Not about that,” Eddie says. “Or, yeah, that. But mostly what a dick it made me. I was already acting like a dick, kind of, that’s why it started— just, you can never just un-remember something... mortifying, right?”  

“...Right,” Buck says, because he also thinks that’s true, even if he doesn’t know where Eddie’s going with this.  

“I feel like an idiot,” Eddie says, “because I acted like an idiot. In public.”  

Well.  

If he’s not talking about the fight club...  

“Just to clarify, you’re talking about when we were—” 

“—In the grocery store,” Eddie interrupts. “Yeah.”  

“Oh,” Buck says, and can’t help feeling pleased. He knows it’s showing in his voice a little bit, and probably in his expression, too. “Okay.”  

“Yeah,” Eddie repeats. He takes his hands off his face. “I keep remembering when I said out of line.”   

Buck resists the urge to say me, too.   

“I was out of line,” Eddie says, “I think... I was pissed at you, and I said it was Chris, but I think it was—I don’t know. I was thinking about Chris, when I said it. I was. But I was really thinking about me and Chris. Me and Chris and you. And it was a crazy thing to say in general. A lot of crazy things. Crazier to say in public. Craziest to say in front of everybody.”  

“It was a lot,” Buck admits. “Definitely... a lot.”  

“Sorry,” Eddie says, and tilts his head back and forth like he’s trying to roll his thoughts around in his skull until they make more sense. “I’m bad at this, but that’s what this is. Saying sorry. I’m sorry. For all of that.” 

Buck’s first thought is, Finally.    

And his second thought is, ‘ Finally’? Does that make me an asshole? It probably makes me an asshole.   

His third thought is, I’m the most insecure person Maddie knows. Including her. It probably doesn't make me an asshole.   

“I’m sorry, too,” Buck says. And now it’s as easy as anything to say it. Now he can’t believe it ever felt impossible. “Just so you know.”  

“I know,” Eddie says, and falls silent.  

“So,” Buck starts after a few more seconds of quiet, just trying to fill it (because if he doesn’t fill it, he keeps thinking, but did you mean it? Did you mean what you said? Not just when you said it, but for real? Did you mean it? ) “you’re just, like, zen now? Is that your new thing? Because I swear, sometimes you still look at me like you want to punch me in the head. ...I didn’t know that’s specifically what that look meant, but now I’ve been enlightened, so.”  

Eddie holds Buck’s gaze for one second, two seconds, three. Almost seems like he’s legitimately considering it. Then breaks away, scoffing. Sips his beer. “I don’t want to punch you.”  

“Are you sure?” Buck asks. Adds, “I could take it.”  

“I don’t think you know how good at this I was,” Eddie says. Then corrects: “Am.”  

Buck needles, “Well, I’ll never find out if you don’t try.” He shifts closer. Not fully into the middle seat, but almost. “Come on. Prove it.” 

“I have zero desire to hurt you, Buck. Seriously. None. At all.”  

Buck huffs. “I’d be fine. Some part of you’s gotta still want to. At least a little. Like, one percent—half a percent, even.”  

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. It’s not like he wants to get punched right now, except that maybe, on some level, he kind of does want to see if Eddie would punch him. Just to see it in action. To see calm open up his face at the end. He’s only ever seen calm like that from behind the eyes. Only ever felt it in himself. He wonders if maybe, hopefully, it’ll push something between them until it splinters and snaps apart, so they can just go back to finally being normal again.  

He shifts the tiniest bit closer. Perfect swinging range. Stares right at Eddie as Eddie looks back at him. Counts the seconds in his head, one, two, three, four...   

“Fuck off,” Eddie breathes, and then coughs, and says, a little louder, with more conviction but less actual annoyance, “Fuck off.”    

Hen kept telling everyone that she didn’t really want to go for drinks after her first shift back —I wasn’t even gone that long, she said, and it’s the beginning of everyone’s ninety-six, and, I don’t even want to stay out that late, and, it’s not even—  

—Chimney insisted that since they could never get ahold of her cake guy without her, that this would have to do.  

Buck’s starting to think that Hen was actually being one hundred percent serious.  

She kind of looks miserable.  

She’s standing alone outside the bar when Eddie parks the truck.  

(Eddie’s been driving the two of them around more, now that he has the new truck. The blood money truck, although it aggravates him when Buck calls it that out loud. Buck thinks it’ll take maybe a month before he’s back to never wanting to drive them anywhere unless he has to.)  

“Hey,” Buck calls as they make their way towards the front entrance. “We the first ones here?”  

Hen shakes her head. “Last. I just thought I’d try and wait as long as I could.”  

He slips an arm over her shoulders when they finally catch up to her, squeezes her to his side for a second. “Sounds kinda defeatist.”  

“Well. I tried to say.”   

“Surprised Chimney didn’t pick up on it,” Eddie says. “He can usually tell when you’re being serious. Y’all have that best friend ESP thing going on.”  

“You don’t believe in ESP,” Buck murmurs at the same time as Hen scoffs, says, “You’re one to talk.”   

“He knows I meant it,” Hen adds after a second. “He just thinks it’s out of character. That it’ll be good for me. I’ll regret it if I don’t, or something.”  

“He said that?” Eddie asks.  

“No. I just know him. ‘Best friend ESP’.”  

Buck reaches for the front door, holds it open for her. “You think he’s right?”  

She shakes her head. “I guess we’ll see.”  

Buck doesn’t think Chimney’s right.  

The conversation’s fine. Buck, personally, is having an okay time, but that’s mostly because he just likes being around everybody, and also because on the far wall, they’re playing a college basketball game, and Eddie’s sitting close enough beside him that Buck can lean over without interrupting the group at large, gesture to the television, and ask increasingly absurd, annoying questions about the game on purpose and then not process any of the answers.  

Hen’s acting... pretty normally, by most metrics. Subdued, but pleasant enough. It’s just obvious she’d rather be at home.  

Buck can see on Chimney’s face that he recognizes it, too. His expression turns quietly, visibly apologetic just about half an hour in.  

So no one really tries too hard to keep Hen in her seat when she excuses herself an hour later.  

Just about ten minutes after that, Buck finds himself standing, stretching out his back, pushing in his chair. He doesn’t really know why. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t announce that he’s leaving, either. Just pulls out his phone on his way to the door, texts Eddie, Getting tired. Getting an Uber nbd, see you tmmr  

Hen’s still standing outside when he leaves the building. Which surprises him, even though, on some level, he had to know, right? Like, he thinks he was probably hoping that he’d catch her. Because once he does, he feels a little relieved.  

“Hey,” he says, medium volume, from decently far away. She’s standing outside a bar at night, and she’s noticeably a little checked out. He doesn’t want to give her a heart attack. “Karen on her way?”  

Hen turns her head to look at him. She didn’t jump when he first spoke. “Yeah,” she sighs. Her hands are in her pockets. She rocks back on her heels for a second. “She had to finish grocery shopping. Didn’t expect me to be done so early.”  

Buck comes to stand beside her. They face the parking lot. It’s the middle of an LA night, so only mostly dim. The streetlamp over the curb casts a harsh circle of white light. “Weird time to go grocery shopping.”  

“She keeps mad scientist hours,” Hen says, and then doesn’t say anything else.  

It’s never really silent in Los Angeles, not unless it’s artificial—noise-cancelling headphones, a recording booth, a concrete basement—but it feels silent now, with neither of them speaking. Even with the nearby rush of traffic, even with the quiet sound of canned music from the speakers in the bar.  

Buck knocks his shoulder lightly into Hen’s. “Hey,” he says. “Checking in.”  

She looks over and up at him, then away. Laughs, a little wetly. “Not great,” she says.  

“Duh.”  

“I don’t really want to talk about it right now. Or probably for a long while yet.”  

“Isn’t talking about it kind of what you’re supposed to do?” Buck asks, like he knows anything about anything. “To start to feel better?”  

Hen makes a disbelieving sort of sound. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel better after killing someone.”  

“You didn’t kill someone.”  

Hen says, like she’s said it a few times before—maybe to Karen, maybe to Athena, maybe to Chimney; Buck has no way of knowing—“Not technically.”  

“Not at all,” Buck insists. “It was a traffic accident caused by a malfunction, there was no way you could’ve—”  

“—Trust me,” Hen cuts in evenly, eyes cast back toward the parking lot, “that anything you could possibly say right now, I have heard at least three times already. And it didn’t help. And I don’t want to talk about it right now.”  

Buck shuts up.  

Hen takes a deep breath, and her voice is marginally brighter when she asks, “What was that thing you wanted to talk about, though?”  

“...What?”  

“Way back before... before the investigation,” Hen says, presumably wanting to avoid saying, before I killed someone. “We said we were going to talk after our shift, and then we—obviously didn’t do that.”  

Buck knows what she’s talking about. But he doesn’t know how she knows what she’s talking about. “How do you even remember that?”  

“Because you never actually talk about anything,” Hen says, without any hesitation, like it’s incredibly obvious.  

“I talk all the time,” Buck argues. “I never shut up. Like, famously.”  

Hen shakes her head. “You talk a lot. You don’t talk about anything real.”  

“That seems rude. Should I be offended? I think I’m offended.”  

“I’m being serious,” Hen says. “You have never once pulled me aside and asked if we could talk. Of course I remembered it. It’s been a personal cliffhanger for weeks now. So—what was it?”  

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it, either.”  

Hen softly says, “I don’t believe you,” which. Fair enough.  

Buck sighs. Tries to find a different avenue out of it.  

“Besides,” Hen says, “I’m currently experiencing something that will weigh on my soul forever. Do me a solid. Let me live in your problems.”  

“Who said I have problems?”  

Hen just gives him a look.  

Buck wonders when his Uber is finally going to get here.  

Hen’s still looking at him.  

“Stop looking at me,” he says, very quietly. “I’ll talk, just—you can’t look at me like that.”  

“Like what?”  

“You have all-seeing eyes.”  

Hen stops looking at him.  

He has never, not once in his entire life, slowly pulled off a Band-Aid.  

When he was really little, maybe six or seven, and he would skin his knee or get papercuts on the pads of his fingers, Maddie would wash the cuts with soap and water, pat them dry, put on dots of Neosporin, smooth out the Band-Aid on top, neat and practiced every time.  

Buck would keep them for a day or so, but even back then, he preferred to wrench them off. Liked the sudden, short-lived sting of it, the little spike of adrenaline. The gift of hurting himself without having to be laid-up and hurt.  

He doesn’t think this comes from the same place. He doesn’t think he wants to do this because it hurts. But the urge feels the same. Rip it off. It will hurt, but you won’t be hurt.  

“I’m super fucked, I think,” Buck says. Tacks on, “Mentally, I mean.”  

“Okay,” Hen says, conversational, but obviously purposefully so. Carefully chosen casualness. “How so?” 

It’ll hurt, for a second, but he won’t be hurt.  

And he can finally stop worrying about her finding out. One less person to constantly skirt around, and observe, and check and re-check and re-check himself near.  

So maybe it’ll be better, in the end. That’s why he brought it up in the first place, isn’t it? Because he can’t keep going like this?  

He traces his eyes down a yellow line of paint on the pavement. “I’ve had an eating disorder since I was a kid.”  

She’s looking at him again.  

He can feel it, like the warmth of concentrated light on his cheek, even as he stares at the ground.  

“It’s not, like—I don’t know. I was about to say it’s not that bad, but, I mean. It kind of ruined my life. Is ruining my life, actually. Stuff keeps happening, because stuff always keeps happening—that’s kind of the thing about being alive, I think—but it’s always there, the whole... bulimia thing. And it’s always just... making shit even worse. I lie to myself about it sometimes, to try and feel like less of an idiot, but it does make everything worse.” He loses steam for a second, stuffs his hands in his pockets, hates the ensuing silence more than anything in the entire world. “I don’t know why I’m dumping this on you, why I—why I thought it was a good idea. I mean—I know why I thought it—it’s because Bobby found out, and somehow didn’t immediately re-fire me, so I’ve spent every single shift since I came back worried out of my fucking mind, and I can’t focus, like worse than I usually can’t focus, because normally work is the one thing I can do, but I’ve been so, so— I just wanted someone to know, I think. Can’t be found out again if I just... say it. But. Sorry. I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot. And probably not what you were expecting. But I’m kind of spiraling—I mean, I’ll be fine, but I know a spiral when I’m in one—and I thought for the longest time that I’d have this shit stuck to me forever, and then I thought for a little that maybe I wouldn’t, and I tried—I mean, I really, really tried, Hen; I was in therapy like five hours a week and everything—but now I’m back to thinking it’s permanent. Like, ninety-nine percent sure I’ll always be like this. And it—it hurts worse the second time around. Who would’ve thought?” 

He finally runs out of things to say.  

The silence is, predictably, excruciating. Not even LA traffic can help to soothe it.  

With very little fanfare, Hen leans her body into his. He wraps an arm around her, doesn’t even have to think about it, just does it automatically. The soft buzz of her hair grazes his jaw, and for some reason, it makes his eyes start to sting. The fact that she’s smaller than him, and leaning on him, but in the way a trellis leans while holding up a plant.  

“Got any sage advice?” he asks, when he can’t stand the fact that neither of them are talking for another second.  

“Don’t think so,” Hen says, half-muffled by his shirt. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t... expecting that.”  

“Can’t blame you.”  

“And I don’t really know enough to...”  

“That’s a first.”  

Hen says, a little smartly, but it’s lessened by the fact that she’s still folded up against him, “You just finished baring your soul, and you’ve still got jokes.”  

“It’s my last line of defense.”  

“Oh, Buck.” One of her arms presses around his back. “You know I love you, right? Have I ever told you that? I do.”  

He wants to say it back. He’d even settle for just saying thanks. But his voice isn’t working. Just quit on him, no warning.  

“We all do,” she says, and it’s a little easier to hear, when he can’t see her face. “Everyone would—you don’t have to tell anyone anything you don’t want to. But that’s my sage advice, I think. Found it. Everyone would—we’d all just want you to be okay.”  

“I know,” Buck manages to get out, voice shaky and ground-down and childish-sounding. “That’s—part of the problem. I don’t think I can explain how... embarrassing it feels. Like, I’m twenty-eight. And I can’t eat food like a normal person. That’s, like, the first thing you learn. Ever.”  

“It’s not some kind of... scarlet letter, Buck.”  

“I don’t know what that means.”  

“Something to be ashamed of.”  

“I don’t know,” Buck says. “It’s pretty gross.”  

“So are a lot of other things people do. Like.” Hen lifts the arm not around Buck’s back, waves her hand around in a circle while she thinks. “Like pooping.”  

“Okay,” Buck says, and laughs at the same time, even though it’s weak and congested. He breaks out of the hug, because at least if they’re talking about poop, he can bear making eye contact. “Pooping didn’t give me heart problems or—or fuck up my teeth. And everyone poops, Hen. There’s a whole book about it. I don’t think they’re really comparable.”  

“Maybe not,” Hen says. “Maybe that’s a bad example. Maybe it’s more—okay, what if someone has depression? Clinical depression, I mean. What do you think about them, as a person?”  

“Um,” Buck says. “Nothing? I mean. I assume it sucks, for them.”  

“What if I had depression?” Hen presses. “And I just told you about how I had depression, and that I’ve had it for a very long time, and how hard it was to deal with?” 

“...Do you have depression?”  

“Not clinically,” Hen says easily. “Just for the example. Come on. What would you think?”  

“I would... feel bad for you.”  

“Exactly,” Hen says. “So—”  

“—No,” Buck says. “That’s part of the problem. I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me.”  

“That’s too bad, because people who love you are going to feel bad for you if you’re suffering.”  

Buck makes an uncomfortable sort of sound. Almost disgusted. “I don’t want you guys to pity me, I just can’t live wondering when it’s going to get out.”  

“It’s not pity,” Hen says. “Not how you’re saying it, anyway. It’s caring. They’re different. You told me—well, actually, you confessed to me, which, on that topic, it’s not some kind of mortal sin, Buck. It’s just a problem you have. And my first thought when you said all of it was that I wish you didn’t have to live with that problem.”  

All of a sudden, Buck’s done with this. It’s not pity, but it feels like pity. He doesn’t have to be ashamed, but he feels shame anyway. It’s just a problem he has, but it’s one that’s never going to go away.  

“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t know how else to stop talking about this. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Eddie already liked his text, so it’s got to be Uber.  

Hen sees right through him. “Do you even believe me?”  

“No.”  

“I guess that makes sense. Do you believe that I love you?”  

Buck watches a car pull into the parking lot. He gets out his phone to check the make and model he’s looking for. “...Yes.” 

“I think I can work with that.”  

— 

Buck spends the first fourteen minutes of the drive bouncing his leg to near-seismic proportions before he catches sight of a convenience store.  

His Uber driver’s name is Phillip, which—there are worse names, definitely. And it’s not Phillip the Uber Driver’s fault, but it still feels like a bit of an omen.  

Phillip’s a talker. Which Buck is usually more than amenable to.  

But he spends fourteen whole minutes in the back seat of Phillip’s Chevy Sonic and realizes, at a certain point, that Phillip’s been talking for most of those minutes, and that maybe Buck has been answering, but that he has absolutely no idea what Phillip’s been saying, because Buck’s internal monologue is just a loop of, I think I made it worse. It was supposed to take some of the pressure off but I think I just made it worse. It feels worse. I made it worse.   

And then he sees the ARCO, with the convenience store behind it.  

“Hey, Phillip?” He asks.  

Phillip stops talking mid-sentence. He seems more surprised than offended.  

“Think you can drop me off up there? Quarter-mile-ish up there on the left, the ARCO?”  

Phillip doesn’t immediately answer, but he does check all his mirrors before flicking on his left turn signal. He’s a very cautious driver. Buck wonders how long he’s lived here.  

“We’re still a good ways away from your address,” Phillip settles on eventually, after tucking the car into the left turn lane.  

“It’s fine,” Buck says. His leg is still bouncing. Unfortunately, all of his please-seem-normal energy is going towards his voice, right now.  

“Are you sure?” Phillip asks. “If you just need to buy something, I can always wait. I could stand to get some gas.”  

“It’s really, really fine.”  

In fact, it’s only fine if Phillip doesn’t stick around. It’s only fine if Phillip fucks off as soon as humanly possible.  

God, that sounds mean.  

It’s really not Phillip’s fault.  

“If you’re sure,” Phillip says.  

“Definitely am,” Buck says, and he’s trying to smile while he says it, but it just makes his voice come out weird and tight. “Definitely, totally super-sure. Thanks.”  

So Phillip drops Buck off at the ARCO, and Buck walks through the pumps to the ampm storefront behind them, and Phillip does get gas, so Buck stands off to the side half out of view and watches Phillip pay and wait for his tank to fill and then finally, finally leave, and only when he’s pulled back onto the main road and thrown Buck a half-confused wave through the driver’s side window does Buck feel unseen enough to actually go inside the store.  

The side of his bed dips down under someone else’s weight. There’s no warning. One second he’s asleep, and the next, someone’s sitting on his bed, their movements obnoxiously uninhibited, and Buck’s very, very awake.  

“Good afternoon, Buck.”  

Eddie’s voice. Pointed. Too loud for it to be any time other than, indeed, the afternoon.  

“Oh,” Buck says, and blinks his eyes open. “Shit.”  

He feels around the sheets for his phone. Holds it up to his face when he finds it, sees the time looking back at him. Just before one o’ clock. And a bunch of text notifications from Eddie, ranging back a couple of hours. A few, buried at the back, from Hen.  

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “Thought you dropped off the face of the earth again.”  

Buck groans.  

“Are you seriously hungover?” Eddie asks.  

“Yes,” Buck says, rolling over to smash his face into his pillow, hiding from the light. He never pulled his curtains down last night, because he came home an emotional wreck, purge-drunk and stupid.  

So it’s not even really a lie. He is hungover. In a way. 

Eddie says, “You barely drank.”  

“You monitoring me or something?”  

“Not really,” Eddie says, which means something closer to a little, yeah. “I just figured you were being responsible. Because. You know. We had plans.”  

They did have plans. Not that the plans were all that involved—Chris had a doctor’s appointment this morning that Eddie, obviously, took him to. If Eddie followed the schedule, which is seems like he did, he then dropped Christopher off at a birthday party, and went home. Where Buck was supposed to meet him.  

“When’s the party over?” Buck asks into his pillow.  

“Ten to three.” 

“I’ll get up,” Buck says. “I’ll get up. Just give me a second.”  

“Do you think you’re getting sick?”  

“No.” Buck slides a leg over under the covers, tries to kick Eddie off the edge of the mattress. “Get off my bed. It’s weird to come into someone’s house and just sit on their bed while they’re asleep.”  

“It’s just me.”  

“You’re like Edward Cullen,” Buck insists, even though Eddie’s right—it is just him, and Buck really doesn’t care—“watching me sleep. Get off my bed.”  

“I wasn’t watching you sleep. How do you know who Edward Cullen is?”  

“Maddie read all the books. Obviously. And then I read the first one. And everybody knows who Edward Cullen is, anyway. Why are you still on my bed.” 

Eddie finally stands up. He rests his hands on his hips. Scrutinizes Buck for a few seconds. “You kind of look like you’re getting sick.”  

“Thanks,” Buck says. “But I’m not. I promise. I probably just got shitty sleep.”  

“Mm.” Eddie doesn’t sound fully convinced. He claps his hands together once in that very dad way he sometimes does, points a decisive figure at Buck’s still-sluggish form. “Come on. I still want lunch. Breakfast for you, I guess. Hop to.”  

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”  

“Well, we’re gonna have to go get Chris at some point. I’m not just going to leave him at the arcade.”  

“Obviously I’ll go with you to get Chris. I don’t want to go anywhere right now.”  

“Then we’ll order something.”  

Buck just makes another displeased, ugh -sounding noise, because that’s actually a perfect solution, but he doesn’t really want to admit it. Not when Eddie broke into his apartment (admittedly, with the key Buck gave him) and woke him up so rudely (admittedly, because Buck slept through their plans) and inflicted breakfast upon him when he still feels mildly nauseous and dehydrated from puking two times in a disgusting, cramped ampm bathroom last night (admittedly, you’re supposed to go straight back into normal eating patterns, which is something Buck learned back when he had a therapist and, by extension, his life marginally together).  

“Be... not in this room,” Buck tells him. “Give me like eight minutes. Tops. Promise.”  

Buck’s right, by the way. About things being foreboding. And he’d tell anybody who was willing to listen, if such a person existed.  

Bobby gets trapped in a tunnel surrounded by hazmats, and Maddie, somehow, even though she’s still on suspension, almost has to see another person die. Buck suspects that it doesn’t make a difference if the guy’s a huge asshole or not. Given the life she’s lead so far, he thinks it actually might be worse.  

Buck meets her at the hospital, and the guy survives, and Maddie watches him reunite with his wife like she’s watching someone deploy an atom bomb. The wife has a split bottom lip. The bloody mark of it stretches when she smiles, a little manic.  

Somewhere in the next fifteen minutes, Maddie leaves before he can find her to drive her home.  

Buck spends the next week trying to make sure she’s okay—and failing, because she evades him with perfect accuracy (he learned from the best)—and when that doesn’t work, he channels all his energy into checking on Bobby instead. He scours every primary source he can find on radioactive cobalt exposure. He tries to subtly go through a list of symptoms after every shift hand-off. He may or may not be keeping track of how much Bobby sleeps in his office when they’re not on a call. 

At least until Athena texts him.  

I have some ideas for Christmas this year. Would you be interested in helping me plan & execute?   

Buck rereads it a few times.  

His texts with Athena are always sporadic. Stretches of weeks or months sprawl out between half-conversations, the missing parts of them taking place when they see each other in person.  

He sends back, Obviously!!!   

And then, Where did this come from??  

Athena’s response pops up a couple seconds later: Little birdie told me last Christmas was less than ideal for you & yours.   

And now you’re a part of me & mine.   

And I know how you love a checklist, so it seemed apt.   

Buck types out, Thank you Athena I’d love to help :)   

Then, This doesn’t have anything to do with Bobby being super annoyed by me??   

Athena responds: Oh, it most definitely does.   

He told me his best bet was to distract you with tasks like some kind of British herding dog.   

But the other parts are still true.   

Christmas turns out great.  

Athena picked out some extra decorations to add to the station, and Buck was her guy on the ladder. Buck scouted out any allergies or intolerances from non-118 guests, and Athena cooked. Everybody who was asked to show up showed up. They weren’t stuck on calls for the entire shift, got back to the station right around four, Chris and Pepa and Karen and Denny and May and Harry and Michael and everybody else hadn’t even been waiting that long.  

The shift had even been remarkably smooth, up to that point. Minus the guy stuck in the plane propellor, but even he lived, in the end. Christmas miracle.  

Bobby’s been cleared of complications from the cobalt exposure. Hen’s smiling a little more. Eddie and him are—they’re not entirely how they used to be, but they’re closer to it than they’ve been since before the lawsuit.  

So Christmas is, objectively, good.  

Buck’s apparently the only one who can’t seem to unfuck himself.  

It started this morning. Fucked the day before it even started, purged at home before leaving at six in the morning. He doesn’t even know why. He just can’t keep it as locked down as he thought he could. And he spent the entire day feeling like he already failed, like he’s already coming apart at the seams so what’s the point, actually, in trying to stay together for the rest of the shift—  

He sees Maddie clock it from across the station loft. Ducks out of her sightline, tries to find Chris, finds him with Denny and Harry, all crowded around Harry’s Switch, and decides not to interfere, not when they’re clearly entertained and Buck feels so strange and off-kilter and miserable.  

He doesn’t even really realize he’s bingeing until he sees Hen watching him. The guilt is immediate and all-encompassing, flushing through his body like cold water, rendering him mostly-frozen in place.  

She knows. She knows because Buck told her and he’s going to have to remember that she knows every single day for the rest of his life. She knows, and he’s not playing it cool enough, and what are the other options? Stop hiding it in general, eventually? At least from his family? Just be, what, open about it? Not ashamed? And feel like this all of the fucking time?  

He’s walked halfway to the bathroom before he realizes what direction he’s headed.  

He stops.  

Pulls out his phone.  

Texts Bobby, Where are you?  

And then looks at the text. Watches the receipt change over from delivered to read, and wonders why the hell he just sent that.  

Bobby’s response pops up: In the office. Am I needed for something?  

Buck types out, No I just wanted to talk to you  

He’s already headed to the office on autopilot, at least until Bobby’s next text buzzes through.  

Just give me a few more minutes. Having a private conversation right now.  

Buck stops short. Sends back a thumbs-up emoji.  

He can’t go into the bathroom. 

He doesn’t want to go back to the party.

He has to wait to go into the office.

So he just stands in the hallway, rocking back and forth on his heels, until Bobby’s next text comes in six minutes later.  

Is everything alright? You can come in now if you want or I can come back out.  

And that—it’s always the moment when people ask him if things are okay that he second and third and fourth guesses himself. When the opportunity presents itself to turn back, to pack it back in, to minimize, Buck always, always wants to take it. At least part of him does.  

And he almost never knows what he’s actually going to do until he’s already done one or the other.  

Did you mean it, Buck types you, when you said I could talk to you about it if I needed to  

He doesn’t bother specifying what it is.  

Either Bobby will get it or he won’t.  

If he doesn’t, Buck will be appropriately reminded that not everyone’s thinking about him and his problems all the time, that he should probably learn how to deal with this shit on his own, because at the end of the day, he’s really the only person who has to stick this out, and everybody else has their own things that they have to deal with, and Buck needs to learn to just— 

Absolutely, Bobby’s text reads. Of course I meant that.  

Oh.  

Okay.  

Buck finishes making his way to the office.  

“Don’t fire me,” he says immediately, and closes the door behind him.  

Bobby’s not sitting at the chair behind the desk. Instead, he’s half-standing in front of it, half-sitting on the edge. Which—Buck thinks Michael was just in here, so that makes a little more sense. It would be kind of weird, Buck thinks, if Bobby sat Michael down in the Captain’s office like he was the latter’s work superior.  

“I’m not going to fire you,” Bobby says, also immediately, like he had the response ready to go.  

“Okay.” Buck nods while he says it, shakes the nerves out of his hands—it doesn’t work; he still feels it in his hands, in his chest, on the sides of his tongue, sour with sourceless fear—and tosses himself down into the chair on the front side of the desk. “Okay.”  

Bobby inclines his head. He asks evenly, “What’s going on?”  

“Nothing, technically,” Buck says, and it comes out a little too high-strung, a little tinged with disbelief. “Nothing’s happening, and I still can’t—I think—I think I lied to you.”  

“About what?”  

Bobby’s energy is so dampened right now, so even-keeled, and Buck hopes that maybe it’ll help even him out too, but it doesn’t seem to be working. He can feel the anxiety embedded in the skin of his palms, itching like fresh stitches. He only has one way to deal with anxiety like that. But he's at the station right now, so it’s categorically forbidden. So what the fuck is he even supposed to do?  

“About—I think I lied—I’m not okay.” He repeats, “I’m not okay, Bobby. I’m super not okay. Everybody else can manage themselves, and for some reason, I—I’m not okay. I don’t know why I can’t do it. I don’t know why. I don’t—for some reason I—I just can’t—” 

“Buck.” Bobby pushes himself off the desk, half-kneels so their faces are even in height. “Buck, you’ve got to breathe.”  

“I am breathing,” Buck says. “I’m breathing a lot. I’m just—I don’t think I’m getting enough oxygen when I do it, is the thing. I just can’t figure that out, either, I guess. Everybody else can do it. Why can’t I do it? It’s so stupid. It’s so stupid! I’m sick of it—how do you mess up breathing? How do you mess up eating? Why can’t—”  

Bobby reaches forward, presses a warm, dry palm to either side of Buck’s face. Not very tightly. But Buck can still feel his pulse in his neck, where the edge of Bobby’s hand is grounding it.  

It shocks him enough to shut up.  

Even if he’s still not doing great on the breathing front.  

“In four, out four,” Bobby says calmly, a shortened version of what they tell to panicking patients.  

Hen’s the best at it. Breathe with me, she’ll tell a patient. It’s easy. We’ll count in for four, and then out for four. Okay? Okay. Big inhale, one, two, three, four. Now out, one, two, three, four. Good. You’re doing great. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. Keep that up.  

Bobby doesn’t say any of that to Buck. Just in four, out four.  

It’s enough. It takes Buck a second to organize his brain enough to keep track of the count, but eventually it’s enough.  

In, two, three, four, out, two, three four. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four.  

Repeat until you stop feeling like you’re going to pass out.  

“Are you safe?” Bobby asks eventually, taking his hands from Buck’s face.  

“Am I —what kind of question is that?”  

Bobby stands, leans back against the desk. He says, calmly, “The kind of question they ask when someone acts like that at an AA meeting.”  

“Oh,” Buck says, because duh. “I mean. I guess. Yeah. I’m safe. I’m safe.”  

“Okay. Good. That’s good.”  

In four.  

Out four.  

“How often does that happen?” Bobby asks.  

And Buck... can’t really answer that.  

He shrugs. “Most of the time it doesn’t. Most of the time it’s when I’m alone, so I just... do other things. Instead.”  

Bobby looks confused for only half a second, and then it clicks into understanding. There’s a tiny fraction of a moment in between, where Buck thinks that maybe Bobby looks unnerved, maybe even a little disgusted, but looking back, he can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it. He hopes he imagined it.  

When Bobby speaks again, at least, he doesn’t sound disgusted at all. “Well,” he says, “thank you for not doing those things here today. It’s Christmas.”  

“If I manage to keep Christmas dinner down, I’ll be breaking a fourteen-year streak,” Buck says, knowing he’s self-flagellating but unable not to. When Bobby’s expression does visibly turn to being obviously, entirely out of his depth, Buck almost relishes it, even as it sets off every rejection alarm bell in his body.  

Because yes, it is weird, it’s fucking gross, it’s ridiculous that it’s gone on for this long, and can somebody, anybody, please just have the guts to be fucking real enough with him to admit that they’re not just going to love and support him through it?  

All Bobby says, though, in the end, is, “It’ll be very impressive when you pull it off, then.”  

“Are you serious?”  

“Completely.”  

“Like, actually serious.”  

Bobby nods.  

“God,” Buck says. “I need to—” he cuts himself off. Realizes he was about to say, go back to therapy. Knows it’s true. Knows it’s the only decent option. Hates it anyway.  

Buck asks, “What would you do if you had to drink three beers every day for the rest of your life?” 

“If I had to...?”  

“Three beers. Every day. Just three. Can’t drink them all at once, either. And you have to, or you’ll start to die.” 

“Do you want me to answer realistically?”  

Buck shrugs.  

“I imagine I’d relapse, and it would be downhill from there.”  

“You can’t relapse. You have to drink exactly three beers every single day for the rest of your life.”  

Bobby shakes his head a little. “...I think I don’t really understand the question, Buck. I’m... an alcoholic. You know this. I don’t exactly think that hypothetical is even possible—”  

“—Exactly,” Buck says, and his voice is angry, but not at Bobby. Just in general. Focused in his core. Pointing inwards. Like it always is. “Exactly. It seems impossible, right? It seems crazy." His voice comes out wrecked when he says, "So I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to do it.”  

Chapter Text

Buck tries, for over a month, to stick to something sustainable.  

Not that anything he can come up with is really all that sustainable. Not like he’s not lying to himself.  

His rules for himself get more and more complicated—episodes planned days, or sometimes weeks, in advance (only kept track of inside his head, because writing it down anywhere, even privately, would feel like diving headfirst into total delirium), strict guidelines for when he can binge, where he can purge, the situations in which he should probably just run instead to try and avoid the whole thing, what days he doesn’t have plans with Eddie, or Maddie, or anyone else, so the options are being home alone, running, or finding someone to sleep with.  

He hasn’t told anybody.  

About the sex, that is.  

It’s not even fractionally as embarrassing as any of the rest of it, but at this point it feels so woven-in that it might as well be. Self-awareness is a fucking curse.  

And why would he, anyway? At least nobody’s mad at him about having an eating disorder.  

(Yet.)  

The general consensus about how he used to (and apparently, does again) approach sex, though, is that it kind of makes him a bit of an asshole.  

So he keeps that to himself, and he keeps the rest of the rules to himself too, and by the end of January, they shake out like this:  

• Binge/purge 1st day of 96 only  

• Binge/purge any time in 96 

• Binge/purge 1st 2 days of 96 only, after that do something else  

• Nothing at the station 

• Spitting stuff out at the station is fine 

• Nothing at Maddie’s 

• No purging at Maddie’s  

• No purging at Maddie’s if she’s home and awake 

• Nothing at Eddie’s  

• Nothing at Eddie’s unless 

• Nothing at Eddie’s 

• Go to the ER if you see blood 

• Go to the ER if you see blood and it’s not from that sore inside your left cheek that you keep accidentally biting back open 

So he follows the rules until he’s not following them anymore, and then he amends the rules so they’re easier to follow, and when he can, instead of having to amend them even further, he finds himself running—at abnormal times, taking weird paths, going long distances—and if he isn’t doing that, he’s finding someone who wants to have sex with him.  

He pointedly doesn’t kiss anymore. Under any circumstances. So that kind of feels like a rule, too.  

Even with that caveat, it’s still not very difficult. Figuring out hookups feels like a close relative to small talk, just slightly more exciting.   

He felt extra inept, extra pathetic, when it all came to a head a couple of weeks ago, because nothing’s even been happening. Nothing terrible’s occurred, not since before Christmas—at least, not to Buck, specifically. He just never left square one after the last time he crashed into it. Because he doesn’t have the gumption, or whatever. Because he’s too fucking tired.  

That’s what he told Bobby anyway, when the latter pulled him aside right after handoff before a ninety-six. 

He didn’t mince words, just said, “You’re struggling. Visibly.”   

Before he could stop himself, Buck replied, “Maybe I’m just aging. Doesn’t come to everyone gracefully.”  

“Granted,” Bobby continued, like Buck hadn’t said anything—which, even Buck could admit that it was a dumb thing to say— “I only know the signs in hindsight, but I’ve seen you look and act like this before, and I have a pretty good guess as to the cause now.”   

“I’m managing it.”   

Bobby looked unimpressed. “That’s what you said before Christmas.”   

And—he was right. Objectively. So, having crossed out distraction and denial, Buck’s only remaining strategy was being defensive.  

“What happened to letting me have autonomy?”   

Bobby’s expression turned undeniably annoyed for a second. “Don’t turn this—” he cut himself off. Smoothed his face back out. “I’m not telling you that you have to do anything specific. I’m saying however bad you think things are right now, they’re actually worse.”   

“I--I know exactly how ‘bad’ things are,” Buck said, trying to sound like Bobby didn’t get right to his spine with that one, “I’m stuck with me all the time.”   

Bobby remained entirely nonplussed.  

“Everything you’ve said just now? I was saying it five years ago, ten years ago, whatever. All of it.”   

And Buck didn’t exactly have a quip for that one.  

“I’m not telling you what—” Bobby cut himself off again. Sighed. “You’re not on the clock right now. You said you used to be in therapy?”  

So now it’s the middle of February, and Buck is slouched in a waiting room chair, trying not to bounce his leg too hard.  

It’s a pretty full waiting room: it’s brightly lit and clinical, and out of the thirty or so chairs, set up in rows like in the DMV, less than half of them are empty. A bunch of different doctors share this place, at least according to all the small brown placards on the wall that confronted him when he came out of the elevator.  

That gives him some sense of security, at least. The idea that even though the waiting room is full of people right now, nobody can actually tell why he’s here. He has been trying—though, admittedly, not with a huge amount of effort—to adjust to the idea that it isn’t, like Hen said, some kind of scarlet letter. It’s just a problem that he has.  

It’s an extremely slow-going process.  

Someone calls, “Evan?” from the direction of the front desks.  

Nobody else stands up.  

Again, a little louder: “Evan?”  

Okay.  

Go time.  

He gets lead to the back of the waiting room, then down a hallway. Then down another hallway. Then, somehow, back past the elevator that he came out of to get up here, which doesn’t inspire a huge amount of confidence. Then down a third hallway, until the receptionist says, “Here we are,” and stops in front of a gray door labelled 034.   

She doesn’t say anything before she knocks. Buck doesn’t really know what he would’ve expected her to say—it would be kind of weird to ask a grown adult, Are you ready? and he knows that—but it catches him off-guard anyway.  

A voice from inside says, “Come in,” and Buck notes that even from his place in the hallway, he can hear it crystal clear.  

The receptionist opens the door, stands aside to motion him in. She gives him a half wave as he walks over the threshold, already pivoting back down the hall. There are an awful lot of people in that waiting room.  

Buck steps into the room and... tries to keep an open mind.  

He knows he’s not the average patient, is the thing. He knows that. He’s somewhat older. Significantly more male. And despite everyone he knows reminding him he looks like shit all of the time, he knows that overall, he actually wears the diagnostic yoke pretty well.  

So he knows that very little, if anything, in this room was chosen with him in mind.  

Still.  

He feels a little bit like he’s accidentally walked into a high school guidance counselor’s office.  

His eyes are locked on a very large, very pastel poster proclaiming that Instagram Is Not Reality! when he finally remembers that there’s someone else in the room.  

She’s sitting in a cushioned rolling chair, opposite the arm chair that makes up the only other seating in the room. She’s maybe forty-five years old, pale skin and dark hair french braided tightly to her head. Big, square glasses.  

She seems... nice? Nice enough, anyway, because when she fully looks at Buck, tilts her head back to make eye contact with him while she’s sitting and he’s standing, she looks unequivocally surprised.   

“Hi,” he says.  

She holds out a hand for him to shake, still looking a little put off, but covering it decently. “Evan?”  

“Sure,” Buck says, and knows that he’s officially failed in giving her the benefit of the doubt.  

“Unit thirteen, clear,” Hen says, and Buck hears it twice-over, both from her mouth a few yards away, and again from his radio. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her start making her way from that car to the larger SUV that Buck’s checking out, boots crunching over glass on the asphalt.  

It looks a lot worse than it is. Fourteen vehicle pile-up, but nobody died. Even the few people with more major injuries stayed conscious; they’re all headed to the hospital now, courtesy of the 136. It helps that the semi truck involved was at the very front.  

The SUV has those black mesh screens pulled up over the back windows, but through the mesh, Buck can still see empty car seats. Buckles fully undone; not broken-through, just never buckled. The floor’s typical of a kid’s backseat: a sippy cup, a couple of battered cardboard-paged books, an exploded package of cheerios.  

No kids, though, as far as he can see. They’d be too big to be hiding under the front seat or something, judging by the size of the booster seats.  

“Unit twelve,” he radios, “clear.”  

Hen catches up to him, nudges her shoulder into his upper arm. “So—”  

“—Being saved by the bell is a Decree from the Universe that we shouldn’t disrespect.”  

“Don’t talk to me about decrees from the universe,” Hen says, miffed. They step forward to the next car, a small sedan, crumpled up pretty badly from the back, but Buck remembers seeing the driver get brought out of this one. There was nobody else in there, just her. She’s one of the ones that went straight into the ambulance. Hen continues, disappearing around to the other side of the car, “I still haven’t forgotten the Q-word incident.”  

“I served my time for that!” Buck complains. “I’ve literally atoned.”   

Hen’s head pops back into view over the car’s roof. She keys her radio. “Unit eleven, clear.” She switches her attention back to Buck. “Some might say not quite enough.”  

“You can forgive me for an entire lawsuit, but not for saying the Q-word one time over two years ago?” He asks it like he’s insanely offended, but he knows she’s kidding.  

He also knows she’s trying to get him in a better mood, so he’ll finally answer her question. The question he was saved from answering because right after she’d asked it, the bell hand rung, and they’d all gone out on this call.  

The question was just her usual, just an open-eyed look and Checking in. It didn’t even sound like a question, the way she phrased it.  

“I forgave you as soon as the foam deluge was tripped,” Hen says, “but an elephant never forgets.”  

“You’re not an elephant.” He says it with that particular, childish tone that signifies an especially stupid joke. “You’re a hen.”  

They move to the next car. He can feel her looking at him.  

“I’m doing bad,” he says plainly, because really, she would let it go if he pushed long enough, but it’s not like she doesn’t already know. It’s why she asked in the first place.  

She makes a noise, a knowing one, one that’s just short of saying, Obviously. “You wanna talk about it?”