Chapter Text
Eddie
Silt glides through his fingers like silk. Chocolatey and luxuriously weaving in and out with the soft ripples along the shoreline. The very shoreline Eddie is stranded upon. The one that welcomed him, a little girl, and about 350 pounds of driftwood encasing him like a medieval cage. It’s sprawled its way across his chest and legs pinning him to the sand below. He’s got a gash across his stomach to prove it. He isn’t going anywhere.
“Niña, ¿estás bien?” He pleads for probably the hundredth time, but he still hasn’t gotten a reply out of her. She’s tucked herself into the treeline refusing to speak since he came to. He doesn’t blame her. He wouldn’t be very trusting of men in uniforms if he was trying to swim across the border either. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Vine aquí por mi hijo.” I came here for my son . His son. Disarming has never been his strength, but it’s all he’s got left. If he can’t disarm himself from this mess of branches, his words are the next best option. “Christopher.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Almost a whisper to himself, “Necesito volver con él.” I need to get back to him.
What he’d give for a pancake breakfast right about now. Chris would have so much syrup flooding his plate he could practically taste it. The mere thought makes his teeth hurt. He can smell the bacon and sausage accompanying the cakes and hear the light hum of an oldies tune stuck in time from an old cassette in a Jeep. As the sun sets, he can envision a towel thrown intentionally across broad shoulders and a head ducked below the vent fan above the stove. That smile returns to his lips. He loves pancakes.
Goosebumps tickle their way up his spine as the moon dances across the water. His head is forced left to stare at the river and his fingers in the sand.
Buck
It turns out TSA can move quite quickly when all you have is one bag with a toothbrush, a pair of socks, and a stick of deodorant. By midnight he’s pulling up to the El Paso Police Station with a very concerned Uber driver. Without a word, he flies out the door.
“Oh my god, Christopher,” Buck’s voice cracks as he tears through the bullpen. He weaves through desks, badges, and chatter until he’s on his knees, squeezing Christopher into his chest a hand escaping to hold his head. As he tucks his face into Chris, he leaves tears to streak across his shoulder joining the growing web that Chris left himself.
“Buck,” Christopher hiccups as he mirrors Buck’s hold. After a deep breath, Buck pulls back and Chris is suddenly 10 years old, sitting on his bed with one hand draped across Buck’s shoulders. “ It’s gonna be okay, Buck. ” He was only 10 then. A bullet in his father for the second time in his life. He’s a teenager now. He’s run away from his own problems. He understands that the world is cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. Regardless of how strong his dad is. He’s got an unfamiliar look in his eye.
Oh.
He’s scared. Buck’s been present for over half of Chris’s life. Through gunshots and grief and tsunamis, he’s never seen him scared.
“I got you, Buddy. I got you.” Buck tucks him back against his chest and tightens his hold. Fingers grab at the back of his shirt.
“Um excuse me?” A voice pierces his ear. Sharp and semi-permanent. “Chris, we told you not to call him.”
Buck reluctantly lets Chris go and turns to the voice. “So that was you huh?” Any comfort he got from holding Chris is gone in an instant. If he wasn’t in a police station right now…
Helena and Ramon look more annoyed than anxious. More pulled tight than fraying at every end.
“EPFD called me. They needed me to come and get Chris.”
“He’s perfectly fine with us, thank you very much,” Helena punctuates unamused.
“Unless you want me to call Child Protective Services, he’ll be going with me,” Buck challenges.
“Touch or talk to him again and I just might. They’d want him to stay with family,” Helena squares up to Buck, but there’ll be no fists today. Not physical ones.
“They’d want him to stay with his legal guardian, and according to Eddie’s will, that’s me.” Buck raises his signature brow.
Her scoff unlocks a deep fire in Buck’s brain. “He would never do something so reckless with his child.”
“Reckless?”
“Give him to a stranger when he could be with family.” Helena walks towards Chris. “Family who he’s built a home with.” She rests a hand on Chris’s shoulder. Chris stares at the ground like it might give way beneath him.
As if right on cue, Lieutenant Cantu steps out of her office. “You must be Evan Buckley.” She says while reaching out her hand.
The voice slaps Buck in the face like a cold gust of wind. Buck shakes her hand. “Just Buck,” is all he can make out.
“Buck,” she softly smiles. Apologetic, but professional. She gestures towards her open door. All Buck can do is stare at it. If the sound of his blood rushing in his ears is any indication, his heart is racing. His boots are glued to the floor. Between his breaths and his pulse in his ears it’s so loud . So LOUD . An unsure hand sneaks its way into his palm, the jolt of the touch shocking him back to reality.
“Can you follow me, Buck?” Lieutenant Cantu prompts again. Likely not for the first time.
The palm in his tugs him towards the open door.
With the way Helena steps back and throws a hand over her heart, he knows he’s won, but it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.
Eddie’s apartment is empty. Like bachelor pad empty. It’s got a couple of mismatched chairs in the living room, an even more mismatched dining room, a mattress on a metal frame (at least he has a frame), and a single towel. The walls are empty and seem to suck all the happiness out of the air. Not that there was any to start with.
The navy sheets are scratchy and the moon’s too bright, but Chris falls asleep instantly on Eddie’s bed. Worn thin by the day of parents and grandparents, rest welcomes him. Buck isn’t as lucky. His leg hurts. His head hurts. Don’t even get him started on his heart. He turns to his bag for relief. No such luck. Of course. Checking that Chris has fallen asleep and not playing the fake snoring act he did as a kid, Buck looks for salvation in the medicine cabinet.
For the first time all day, he can get a look at himself in the mirror. He looks tired. Dry from the plane. He rolls his eyes at the mirror. Two little red pills greet him as he turns off the light and swallows. As quietly as he can, he slides open Eddie’s dresser and blindly grabs a sweatshirt. Turns out Texas can actually be cold and a pair of socks and some deodorant isn’t going to help him much.
The worn fabric makes its way over Buck’s face and wraps him in a fresh linen scent that lingers long after it passes his nose. He doesn’t recognize the grey fabric and is caught a little off guard when his fingers get stuck in a hole in the neckline. With the help of the moon, he can just make out La Salle Baseball 2008. Eddie must’ve been just as much over his head about this relocation as Buck was if he had to get a high school sweatshirt from Helena.
It’s fully taught as it squeezes his back and shoulders, but Buck allows himself to be wrapped in the fabric as he pulls his hands into the cuffs of the sleeves. Placing a palm on the wall, he allows the hallway and the moon to guide him out a back door and to the road. He can’t sleep, so he walks.
Gravel and pavement provide a constant sting against the soles of his feet as he wanders a treeline. His fingers twirl a loose thread teasing at a hole in the cuff of the sweatshirt sleeve. The breeze rustles his hair and dries out his misted eyes. To his left just between two trees older than his grandad is a small wear path. Knee-high shrub grasses barely parted. If you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it completely. With the rocks between his toes screaming at him, he takes a left and a light path of dirt and sand spits him out at the river.
He’s used to the ocean. It goes on so far, you could convince yourself you can see the curve of the earth. Daunting and mighty it makes itself known. But here, bloody toes on the shoreline, the trees across the river practically laugh at him. He’d probably be able to chuck a frisbee and it’d skip across the water and graze the sand on the other side.
Digging his toes into the muddy sand that blends the once harsh line of water and earth, he sits. Leaning forward he hugs his knees close to his chest. A small trickle of water carries drops of blood downstream. It almost feels like a buzz beneath his feet. It’s not the ocean, but it’s the water that’s carrying Eddie.
Eddie. The sound of his pulse replaces the gushing of the river. His chest rises and falls so rapidly it doesn’t have the slightest opportunity to fully expand or contract just bouncing like a tennis match on steroids. His hands grasp the earth desperately. Desperate. For what? He’s not sure, but the desperation takes total control as his breathing becomes more and more rapid. Tears warm his cheeks as his fingers sprawl into the ground grasping and grasping until his fingers wrap around a smooth stone. Wrapped in his palm, he inhales twice. His ears pop as a cry rips its way out of his throat. Convulsing on his side, the bottle that he’s shoved deep into the pit of his stomach has breached the surface and popped the cork.