Chapter Text
Buck loves pudding. It’s been a thing with him since his childhood. The texture and temperature. He’s had different kinds of pudding and has fallen in love with every flavor, but there is something special about the banana flavor. When he got over microwave meals and takeout and stepped into a life in the kitchen, he tried making it. Once. It went horribly. It was mediocre. He’s wanted to try making it again but hasn't had the time or motivation. Baking with Bobby today was wonderful, especially with the aftermath.
A spoonful of banana pudding on his tongue felt like utter bliss.
Bobby had the wonderful idea to finish dinner and then have a serious conversation over pudding. It helped Buck's anxiety enough to feel able to breathe, to eat pudding, and to sit on Bobby's couch. His dad's couch.
Yeah, that’ll take a minute to get used to. Dad. And yet, it feels so normal.
“I’ve had quite the chats with my therapist,” Rip the bandaid, Buck. It’ll be okay, or at least, that's what Eddie has said to him, over and over. “It’s helped me a lot with what I've been dealing with lately–not lately as in this happened lately, lately as in I’ve been talking about it more recently. Anyway, I’m getting help. I don't want you to worry. I’m doing well.” Buck was surprised at how easy it was to be genuine and vulnerable. ‘Easy’ as in, with a frog in his throat and glossy eyes.
Bobby nods along, his deep concern written on his face. “Yeah, that's good.”
Buck takes a deep breath in. Rip. The. Band-aid. “I was… raped. A few years ago.” Ouch, but it's going to be okay. It’s okay.
A mix of emotions flashed on Bobby's face. “What?” No shame, or judgment, just pure deviation of the meaning behind those three words.
Buck stayed silent and held his breath tightly in his chest. No words felt like an appropriate response. All he can do is wait until it sinks in.
Bobby goes to say something but shakes his head and pulls him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” His voice firm, and quiet, “I am so sorry. You don't deserve that.”
With bones trembling as well as his hands, he wrapped his arms around his father, “I-I’m learning...” His tears wet Bobby’s shirt.
“Good. I’m proud of you,” Bobby tightens his hold around his son, “I’m proud that you’re realizing that.”
Buck wanted this moment to last a lifetime, to never leave Bobby’s grasp.
*
Eddie set his glass down in the kitchen. When Buck came home Chris wanted to play games with him before dinner, so they put off talking about his talk with Bobby. After their bedtime routine, Chris went to bed, and Buck and Eddie had a moment of adult privacy. They both stalled the conversation before it got to the point where they either talked or went to sleep.
“Do you want to talk about how it went?” Eddie spoke first.
Buck shrugged and leaned sideways onto the counter next to Eddie, facing him, “it was nice. I didn’t expect him to believe me immediately, but he did.”
Eddie nodded and smiled softly, “What did he say when you told him it was a first responder therapist? Does he know anything about her current standing with the LAFD?”
“That’s,” Buck sighed, “that’s a lot of questions. Uh…”
“Right, sorry. I’m working on being less interrogative. A simpler question, more or less, how are you feeling?”
“I’m… I guess I’m fine. I feel lighter, but the situation still sucks.” He paused, “And I’m still a liar. Every conversation I have about it I end up saying something that’s not right, or I don’t say something true that’s also important.”
“But you are not a liar.” His ‘not’ coming out loader than he intended, “You have every right to skip parts of your trauma that you don’t want to share. As for saying things that aren’t true, I have only seen you use it to protect yourself emotionally. You’re hurting, Evan. You don’t owe your story to anyone. Say what you need to say for you to feel comfortable.”
“I didn’t tell Bobby who it was. I.. I just-”
“You don’t owe me anything either. You’ve been dodgy about who it was since this started, but it’s for a good reason. I don’t need to know your reason neither does Bobby. Not until you’re ready.”
“Thank you. I trust you, but I’m still unsure how to define what happened to me, and how I should talk about it.”
“I know you trust me. Trust has nothing to do with your privacy. Take your time figuring shit out, no one’s rushing you. You don’t have to have all the answers right this second. Take. Your. Time. Please…”