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Buck says, I’ve got you, when he pulls him out from the camper van, and Eddie can’t shake the sense of déjà vu that haunts him alongside the burning ache of his broken ribs.
At the hospital, in the waiting room, and later still once they’ve all been kicked out and sent home by Athena, Eddie can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t ignore the feeling that he’s missing something; that he’s forgotten something.
Now that they’re home, Buck’s pottering away in the kitchen, and Eddie’s been ordered to stay on the couch for the foreseeable.
“Take it easy, I got this,” Buck had insisted when Eddie had made a noise of complaint at being coddled.
I’ve got you.
Christopher’s video game is set to a lower volume than usual, and ever since they’d picked him up from school, he’s been careful to sit with space between them to limit the chances of accidentally elbowing his father in pursuit of a high-score.
The cold pack Eddie’s holding against his abdomen is getting warm, and he can hear the tell-tale beeps of the timer being set on the oven. A pasta bake, if Eddie remembers correctly. Or. Was it something with broccoli?
Maybe both?
He yawns. The day’s harrowing events bear down on him, and showering away the dust and grime off of his body had taken more effort than he’d expected. He shifts, and a wave of exhaustion has him blinking slowly in its wake. He wonders what time it is, but his eyes remain closed.
“Food won’t be long,” Buck’s voice drifts from above—closer now, and Christopher responds with a hangry remark. One that, judging by the ensuing complaint of “Buuuck!” resulted in having his hair tousled for the cheek.
“Just for that you can come help me with the salad,” Buck tells Chris, and Eddie feels his son shift to his feet beside him.
“Dad’s sleeping,” he says in an exaggerated whisper but Eddie doesn’t catch a response if there is one. He feels the touch of careful fingers brushing against his own as the not-so-cold pack is gently pried from Eddie’s grasp, and without it to hold on to, the dream comes quick.
He’s on the ground —pinned by the detritus of the camper van—pinned by the threat of a sniper—pinned by the determined look of his best friend crawling across the asphalt to get to him. “Hang on, just hang on!”
Buck grabs a hold of his right arm—in one instance he apologizes in advance, in another, he screams from beneath the fire-truck as he scrambles forward, and in both Eddie yells at the pain as he’s dragged to safety. Pulled to his feet, and held by a steady grasp. Cradled and carried and lifted to safety. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve—I’ve—I’ve—
The images overlap, memories intertwined, and Eddie struggles to make sense of any of it until he sees the dried blood across the side of Buck’s face. Streaming from his nose, with small grazes by his eye. Red smears on the side of his neck, more still on his white shirt—no, his black turnout—Eddie’s mind switching between the two like some garish flip-book. Night and day, but one constant remains.
Buck.
The last thing Eddie sees clearly in the dream is the image of Buck’s face hovering above him—fear and desperation painfully visible through the violent red splatter on his cheeks. Like an awful piece of performance art, Eddie’s existence has been boiled down to an imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting on his best friend’s shirt.
Is that mine? He wonders with a new kind of horror as his eyes flutter open.
“Are you hurt?” He whispers, still caught in the dream as he slowly wakes to find Buck staring down at him, in the same way he had in the dream. Eddie reaches up to gently touch the small scratches and cuts dotted across Buck’s frowning face, only to elicit a small wince from the other man.
“You were dreaming,” Buck whispers, but he doesn’t pull away—if anything he leans into the touch, sighs at the feeling. “Dinner’s ready,” he adds softly, making no move to stand from where he’s crouched in front of the sofa. In front of Eddie.
Eddie doesn’t know how to tell him that the dreams were really memories—nightmarish ones, hidden, buried deep, and knocked loose by the image of Buck’s face—bloodied and shouting—as he pulled Eddie to safety again and again. He doesn’t know how to respond at all, so he lets his thumb drift across the beginnings of a bruise running into Buck’s hairline instead. Close, and intimate; quiet and soft.
“Were you dreaming about today?” Buck asks gently, his words laced with a painful kind of understanding. Eddie’s voice catches in his throat. Yes, and no, he thinks to say. Why didn’t you tell me? He wonders too.
Before he can say either, Christopher calls out to them from the dining table, washed up and ready to eat, and the moment has passed.
Eddie gives Buck a small smile instead, slipping into the familial domestic routine of dinner with his son and his best friend—his family.
“Help me up?” He asks with a slight groan as his ribs remind him of the endless ache that stretches closer to Eddie’s heart that he’d ever care to admit.
“Sure,” Buck says, standing tall, and reaching down, his hand outstretched to Eddie; a steady anchor, a port in the storm. Always.
“I’ve got you.”