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Buck drags the back of his hand across his forehead as he pulls away from his building, but it’s a futile gesture, and sweat is puddling on his skin again before he’s even turned the corner. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep it from dripping into his eyes as he listens to the directions from his GPS.
It’s not like he doesn’t know how to get where he’s going, but today, he doesn't trust himself enough not to miss the turns. His mind is hazy, like he’s seeing everything through a thick layer of fog, and it’s all he can do to hold his head upright. He’s barely able to focus on driving, never mind remembering which street is which without someone reminding him where to turn.
When he stops at a red light, he looks down at the dials on the console. The air conditioner knob is turned to full-blast, but Buck can’t feel it against his skin. Curiously, he reaches out and hovers his fingers a few inches from the vent. It’s blowing cold air, he can tell, but he’s still burning up. He tries to think about rolling down a window, but the light is green now, and his brain won’t divide itself between the two tasks.
So he swelters, in his icebox of a Jeep, and presses on across LA.
He’s halfway there when his stomach rolls and his spine arches against the wave of nausea coming over him. The sudden discomfort is almost more than he can handle, too much going on all at once, and none of it good.
By some small miracle, Buck holds himself together until he’s able to pull into a gas station and park haphazardly at one of the pumps. He doesn't need gas, and even if he did, there’s no way he’d be able to figure out how to activate the pump right now, but it’s easier than steering and maneuvering into a parking space.
Besides, he belatedly remembers that he’ll have to un-park eventually, and this way he won’t have to try and back through his haze.
With the last fringes of his energy, Buck pulls the keys from the ignition and reaches for the lever to slide his seat back. He tries to move slowly, but gravity takes over and the seat falls away before he’s registered the movement. His head bounces against the headrest as the motion stops, and he groans, reaching up with one hand to rub at his eyes.
When the world is still again, he reclines the seat carefully, until he’s lying halfway flat. There’s a sliver of windshield at the bottom of his field of vision, a tiny strip of bright blue sky. But most of what he’s seeing is the roof of his car, no movement to watch while his stomach churns.
He focuses on taking deep, steady breaths, trying to conjure up the feeling of Maddie’s hand rubbing his back when he had the flu as a kid, wracking his brain for the memories of her gentle touch until he feels like he can sit upright again.
When he leans forward, the seat comes up behind him, supporting him while he gets his bearings straight again. Buck doesn’t feel “better,” by any stretch of the word, but he’s at least coherent enough to know how awful it feels to have his body revolting on him like this.
The GPS chirps at him, a friendly-sounding reminder that he’s deviated from the route. He looks at the screen and realizes that he still has almost 10 minutes of driving left to do, provided that traffic doesn’t get any worse. That realization is enough to elicit another groan; this time, the noise reverberates through his head and throbs behind his eyes.
There has to be something Buck can do to at least make sure he survives the last few miles. Sure, he might be dying, but he doesn’t want to go out in a car accident.
So he reaches for his sunglasses, pulls them from the center console and rests them across his face. The relief is nearly instant, and he curses himself for not having the wherewithal to put them on any earlier.
But they’re on now, the sunlight dulled enough that it doesn’t feel like an attack on his senses anymore. Slowly, he nudges the door open just far enough that he can drop down and balance himself on the pavement of the parking lot.
One foot in front of the other, Buck makes his way into the convenience store, steeling himself against the cacophony of noises inside. From every direction, beeps, whirs, chatter, all of it too loud for him to tolerate. There’s not much choice, though, if he wants to make his purchases. So he moves as quickly as he can, winces when the refrigerator seal breaks with an audible pop. The air blows cold on his skin, cold enough that he can feel it from head to toe, deep beneath his skin like it’s trying to reach his kidneys.
He’s shivering by the time he wraps his hand around a bottle of Sprite, and his teeth are practically chattering before he makes it over to the shelves and finds the saltine crackers. But he has what he needs now, and the Jeep is just outside. It'll warm up quickly enough, if he cranks the heater as soon as he gets in.
On the way to the register, he stops and steadies himself on a display of chewing gum, looking down to make sure that both feet are still firmly planted on the floor. Regardless of how it feels, he can see that they are, and it gives him the confidence to try walking again. But before he can take the first step, his eyes catch on the rows of gum in front of him, tinted grey from the sunglasses.
Didn't he read something somewhere about peppermint gum being good for nausea? He's pretty sure he did, but the more he tries to think back, the worse the headache becomes.
Screw it, he decides, and reaches for the bright blue package. It’s not like it can make things that much worse.
Buck trudges to the register, dropping the gum and crackers on the counter and holding the Sprite out for the cashier to scan. She tells him the price, and Buck reaches for his wallet, but by the time he’s staring at the bills, he’s forgotten what number she said. He could ask her to repeat it; it probably wouldn’t even be the first time today she’s gotten the request, given the din of the store.
But he knows he probably wouldn’t hear it the second time either, so it’s just going to save everyone some time if he can remember if the blue card or the green one is his debit card. He blinks at them for a second, until he can make out the blurry bank logo in the corner of the green card.
(Not that it really matters, it all comes out of the same paycheck anyway. Still, he’d like to feel like he has at least some semblance of control right now).
He fumbles the card when he pulls it out, barely managing to keep from dropping it. Mercifully so, too, given that he’s pretty sure it’d just have to stay on the floor of the gas station. He can call the bank and get it cancelled, but he’s not convinced that he’d be able to pick it up without falling over right now.
The cashier smiles sympathetically at him, but looks a little relieved when Buck moves on from the paper bills. He waves away a receipt, trying to fit the debit card back into the wallet slot, but gives up on that too, sticking it in his jeans and hoping he’ll remember to check his pockets on laundry day.
Buck makes his way back to the Jeep without completely embarrassing himself, slides into the front seat and turns the heater up as the engine rumbles to life. A bit of the Sprite sloshes onto his hand when he twists the bottle open, but he wipes it across the front of his shirt and takes a small sip anyway. The bubbles are immediately soothing, helping to settle his stomach as he fumbles with the packaging on the crackers.
Finally, the plastic sleeve gives way, spilling a few crackers down to the floorboard. Most of them stay in the wrapper, though, so Buck counts it as a win and tucks one of them between his teeth to nibble on the corner.
Slowly, he works his way through a few crackers and several swallows of Sprite. His stomach starts to feel better, the spike of nausea receding back into the dull ache he’s felt since he woke up this morning. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then restarts the GPS and eases his way back onto the road.
The drive goes smoothly, until he almost misses a stop sign just blocks from his destination. Muscle memory takes over and he slams the brake to the floor, seatbelt pulling tight across his midsection. He holds his foot down and gasps for breath, leaning his head against the steering wheel while he waits for the world to settle again.
Everything slows down, eventually comes to a stop except for the gentle vibrations of the car, and Buck looks up again, staring at the road in front of him. It’s a straight shot from here, just a handful of houses away, but Buck isn’t sure if he can make it. He's beginning to wonder if he ever should have left his apartment, if he couldn’t have accomplished this with a phone call or text. Maybe if he’d have stayed home, his stomach wouldn’t hurt so much, he wouldn’t be so exhausted from the last 20 minutes.
But his apartment had been so hot, and he’d been so desperate to escape the stifling discomfort. And it’s so big, and everything in it is so bright and modern and he’d just wanted to go somewhere that feels lived-in, comfortable and not like it’s straight out of the pages of an architecture magazine. The loft is a great feature, really opens up the space and creates a different kind of privacy than he’s ever had.
It’s reliant on his ability to make it up the stairs without passing out, though, and today he’s just not convinced that he could have managed that. Which leaves him stranded on the sofa that’s too short for his body, with only a thin throw blanket for a pillow.
So here he is, sweating bullets in his car, again. He flips the air conditioner back on and cracks a window, then startles when there’s a loud noise from behind him.
He checks the rearview mirror, and sure enough, there’s a silver coupe behind him, a young woman jabbing at the horn and glaring at his rear bumper.
Shit, right. He’s supposed to be driving.
Buck pulls his foot carefully off of the brake, rolls through the intersection and accelerates down the street as he tries to remember how many more houses he needs to pass before he gets where he’s going. Three, he’s pretty sure, the one with the mailbox, the one with the garden gnome and –
Nope, two. It’s the next house, right in front of him as he stops abruptly. This time, he can brace for the impact so it’s not quite so much on his stomach as he backs up far enough that he can manage a wobbly turn into the driveway. The curb bounces the Jeep on its suspension, rattling Buck around enough that his vision blurs again, but at least he can come to a stop this time and know he doesn’t have to drive any further.
He’s cold again, but sweat still drips down his face as he reaches for his Sprite. The air conditioning blows against the lines of moisture, turning them to ice on his skin. As soon as the ignition is off, he cracks his door open enough to turn off the vents and takes a shaky breath as he fumbles with the bottle cap. The Sprite is too cold, even colder than his cheeks, which are flushed bright red when he looks up at them in the rearview mirror. All he can manage is two swallows and another cracker before he’s stepping down to the driveway, using both hands to balance as he lands.
He has to turn around and steady himself against the driver’s seat to get the drink and crackers from the cupholders, but then he’s upright again and closing the door to begin the seemingly endless trek up the driveway.
Buck makes it as far as the front of the car before he has to stop, bracing himself on the hood while he takes a few deep breaths and musters the rest of his energy. He takes another careful swallow of his drink, screws the lid back on tightly and sets his focus on getting to the bottom of the porch steps.
One step at a time, with nothing to hold onto but the last shreds of his dignity, no way to keep his balance other than sheer force of will, he makes it to the next landmark. Buck’s fingers wrap tightly around the railing, leaning his entire bodyweight on the two-by-fours that bracket either side of the stairs. The pop bottle and crackers hang between his thumb and forefinger on either hand until he’s able to stand upright again.
And, as if he hasn’t had to put in enough effort already, he still has to make it up the two steps to the front door. He takes a deep breath, remembering all the times he’s survived things far worse than this, the times he’d been sure he was going to die, but kept fighting anyway.
Really, what’s one more on that list?
It feels like a Herculean effort, the strength Buck needs to hoist his feet up onto the first step, leaning heavily on the railing for support and balance. He lets himself stand there for a second, braces himself to repeat the process. At least by the time he’s at the top of the second stair, he can lean against the front door, let the solid surface hold him up without having to worry about his arms giving out or overbalancing until he tips onto his face.
When he leans back, Buck holds onto the doorknob with one hand, keeps himself from leaning too far. As soon as he’s confident on his feet again, he curls his fingers into a loose fist and knocks repeatedly against the door. Or, tries to knock, anyway. In reality, the fatigue has settled deep into his bones, so he’s just flopping his hand back and forth, hoping he’s making contact with the door.
He hears the lock click, and drops his arm, turns his head slowly to look around. He knows where he is, remembers driving across town to get here, but can’t remember why. His stomach hurts, so he wraps his arm around his midsection, trying to press down enough to alleviate the pain.
It doesn’t work, but the door is open now, Bobby’s face blurred at the edges.
“Buck?” He sounds confused, but as he looks Buck up and down, takes in the Sprite and crackers, the way he’s quite literally holding himself together, it turns to worry on his face. “What’s going on?”
What is going on? Why is he standing on Bobby’s stoop, dead on his feet, clinging to a plastic bottle of Sprite and a sleeve of saltines?
Right, the flu. He’d come over here because he didn’t know where else to go, who’d be able to take him in. He’d thought about going to Eddie’s, pulling the best friend card. But Bobby lives closer, and besides, he doesn’t want to risk Chris’ health; not when the spelling bee is coming up. The kid would be crushed if he missed out on that. Maddie and Chim were on the list too, but between his sister’s morning sickness and Chim’s teasing, he’d have more than one reason to throw up.
“Buck?” Bobby says his name again, reaches one hand out to wave in front of his face.
“Athena?” His voice is weak and hoarse, but carries far enough for Bobby to hear. “Is Athena home? Where’s Athena?”
Suddenly, he’s panicking, remembering how Athena had told him that he was always welcome in her home. But what if she’s not home, and he’s at risk of passing out on her front porch, and he just invited himself over, does that count? What if it doesn’t? If Athena isn’t here, who’s going to mother him? He knows Bobby won’t just leave him out here to die, but that doesn’t mean that he’ll take care of him like Athena would. She’s so good at taking care of him, taking care of everyone.
He needs Athena to tell him that he’s going to be alright. She wouldn’t bullshit him, not about this.
(Neither would Bobby, he knows rationally, but when he left his apartment, the plan was to come seek comfort from Athena, the closest thing he’s had to a mother since Maddie moved out when he was a teenager.)
Bobby pulls the door open a little further and steps back, creating room for Buck to come inside. He moves forward tentatively, sets one foot over the threshold. But when he tries to move the other leg, his toe catches on the bottom of the doorframe and sends him stumbling into the house.
He's pretty sure he’s going to fall, sees the ground coming up to meet him and tries to brace his stomach for the force of the impact. But he stops suddenly, one of Bobby’s arms flinging out to catch across his midsection and hold onto him.
Both men grunt under the combined effort it takes to get Buck back onto his feet. His stomach is churning again, but he hasn’t eaten much today, so he’s not worried about ruining the rug. He stumbles forward when he tries to take a step, but Bobby catches him by the arm, turns him so he can study Buck’s face closely. Whatever he sees, his expression doesn’t change, other than to intensify his concern.
“Whoa, hey, what’s going on?” Bobby doesn't let go of Buck’s elbow, holds him steady as he calls over his shoulder for Athena, urgency lacing his tone as he shouts for her to come quickly. “C’mon, son, let’s go sit on the couch. You bleeding anywhere?”
Through the mind-fog, Buck only catches part of what Bobby said, recoiling suddenly enough that he nearly falls over, in spite of Bobby’s hand holding him up.
“What? Bobby, ‘m I bleeding? Where?” He looks down frantically, flipping his hands back and forth, looking for any injuries he didn’t know about.
“Nope, hey, I was asking you. You’re good, not bleeding Buck, OK? All good.” Bobby steers him away from the foyer.
Together, they cross the room, Buck leaning heavily on Bobby for support until he can drop down onto one corner of the plush sofa. He sits down too fast and groans, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut.
There’s a series of hurried thumps, Athena’s voice getting closer as she calls out through the house.
“Bobby? What’s the matter? Who's dying?” She’s picked up on the panic in her husband’s voice, clearly imagining dozens of worst case scenarios as she rounds the corner into the living room.
“’Thena?” Buck’s head lolls toward the sound of Athena’s voice as he whines. “I don’t feel so good.”
She takes one look at him and hurries to his side, her features softening in sympathetic concern as she leans against the arm of the sofa beside Buck.
“Oh, honey. You don’t look so good either. What’d you do to yourself?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but Athena is pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. Her skin is soft against his, soothing and cool, and she doesn't even flinch at how clammy he’s sure he must be. So the only noise that comes out is a soft sigh, as he relaxes and leans into her touch.
“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, pushing the hair back from his forehead and running her fingers through it. The sensation is so comforting that Buck feels his eyes glazing over. “Buck, hey, Buck?” She waits for him to look at her again before she asks her next question. “Did you take anything for this?”
“Mmm, Sprite ‘n crackers,” he mutters. “Didn’t help. ‘M still sick.”
Buck knows he must sound pathetic, can tell from the way Athena purses her lips and coos at him. But she’s rubbing soft circles into his hair now, so he really can’t be bothered to pay much attention when she sends Bobby upstairs to find Tylenol and the thermometer.
Suddenly, he’s cold again, shivers coursing through his body as he freezes. He thinks about asking for a blanket, but doesn’t get the chance. Because before he can say anything, Athena is reaching across him to pull a soft throw from the back of the sofa and draping it across his body.
She stands up, and Buck whimpers when her hand falls away from his hair.
“Don’t leave me here all ‘lone,” he whispers, staring up at her.
“I’m not going anywhere, but to the kitchen, Buck.” Athena runs her hand across his face again and calls upstairs for Bobby to bring a cool washcloth too. “I’ll be right back, honey. Faster than you can count to 100.”
Buck looks up at her, confused, but when she stares back at him, he starts to count slowly. She smiles and backs out of the room, only turning around when she’s reached the bottom of the staircase.
From the kitchen, she can just make out the top of Buck’s head over the back of the couch, can barely hear him counting out loud. He’s up to the 20s as she pulls the fridge open, reaching for one of Harry’s bottles of Gatorade. They can buy more before his next soccer game.
The counting slows down by the time Athena is checking the cupboard for a can of chicken noodle soup, longer stretches of silence between the numbers until Buck goes completely quiet. She smiles as she fills a glass with cool water, turning the spigot off and turning back toward the living room.
Bobby meets her at the bottom of the stairs, rattling a bottle of pills back and forth in his hand. She touches his arm lightly and smiles before leading the way back toward the couch.
Sure enough, Buck has turned himself to lay haphazardly across the couch, blanket kicked to a puddle on the floor by his feet. Athena smiles as Bobby steps up beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leans into his side and turns her face to rest her chin on his chest and look at him.
“I almost hate to wake him up; he looked like he needed the sleep.”
“So don’t.” Bobby drums his fingers against her side. “Let him sleep, we’ll deal with the rest of it later.”
Athena looks back to Buck, who's still asleep, but shifting restlessly. His face is screwed up in discomfort as he flops from one side to the other and back.
“We’ve got to get that fever down. He’s burning up; that can’t be comfortable for him.” She nudges Bobby’s hip with hers. “You’ve woken him up at the station before, right? It’d probably startle him less than if I do it.”
He glares, but when Athena narrows her eyes at him, he steps away from her and shakes his head.
“This is your idea, and yet I’m still the one waking him up,” he mutters. Even so, he moves to lean over the back of the couch and reaches slowly to wrap his hand around Buck’s shoulder and shake him gently. “Buck, c’mon, wake up, Athena’s got some medicine for you.”
Buck groans, but doesn’t open his eyes.
“Just for a minute,” Bobby tries again. “Then you can go back to sleep.”
This time, Buck blinks slowly, trying to bring the room into focus.
“87 … 88 … 89 …" His speech is slurred, long pauses between each number as he tries to keep track.
“What?” Bobby looks between him and Athena, furrowing his brow.
“That’s right, honey,” Athena steps forward to run her fingers through his hair, just like she does when May and Harry aren’t feeling well. “See, I told you I’d be back.”
Buck smiles a little bit, and between the three of them, they’re able to get him propped up against the corner of the sofa. Bobby sits on his other side, keeping him from toppling over, and Athena drapes the washcloth over the back of his neck. When he shivers and whines, she shushes him, reaching up to catch his hand before he can pull the rag away.
“Nope, it’ll help with the fever. So will these.” She shakes a couple of pills loose and hands them to him.
“Oh,” Buck stares at the little white capsules, but doesn’t put them in his mouth.
“Oh?” Bobby looks at Buck, whose mouth is hanging open a little bit.
“I gotta … take them?” He blinks up at Athena.
“Mhmm. It’ll help with your fever, so you don’t feel so hot anymore.”
“M cold.” Buck shivers, his skin prickling with goosebumps.
“They’ll help with that too, honey.” She smiles patiently at him, gesturing to the hand holding the pills. “One at a time, c’mon.”
Carefully, Buck sets the first pill in his mouth and washes it down with a sip of his Sprite. He coughs a little bit, knocking on his sternum with the hand holding the bottle, but it goes down relatively easy. Athena’s hand is rubbing wide, soothing circles between his shoulder blades, which helps him relax enough to drop the second pill to the back of his mouth.
He swallows dry, still lifting the bottle to his lips, and this time the pill lodges halfway down. Buck can feel it stuck in his throat, the muscle spasming as he coughs violently, trying to dislodge it. He jerks away from Athena’s hand, thinks about taking a drink to push the pill down.
But he remembers what happens when he sputtered on a bite of bread, how the wine had made things worse and he’d ended up with a hole in his neck and a tube down to his lungs. So he drops the Sprite, hoping it doesn’t spill on the rug, and tries to make himself keep coughing. The couch shifts next to him, and from the corner of his eyes he’s able to see Bobby recovering the bottle. He's not trying to blot anything up, though, so Buck thinks he made it out OK on the spill.
Then Bobby’s hand is landing firmly on his back, two solid thumps where Athena’s touch had been so gentle just a moment before. It hurts, vibrates all the way up to his skull and rattles his stomach, but he can’t deny the results. The pill shakes loose, back in his mouth until he spits it into his hand.
“T-tissue?” he rasps, looking at Athena, who’s already reaching behind her for the box. He wraps the pill up and sags back with a whimper.
“Alright, that’s half of them. We’ll try again in a few minutes.” Athena perches herself on the arm of the sofa, running her fingers through his hair again.
When she passes him another pill, Buck whimpers. But her hand on his back is soothing, her words encouraging as she reminds him to tilt his head forward when he swallows. This time, it goes down without any issue, and she murmurs quiet praise when he leans back sleepily. Athena watches until his eyes flutter closed, then looks to Bobby, who’s moved to stand in front of the fireplace, arms folded over his chest. His shoulders are stiff, his sharp gaze fixed on Buck as he stands perfectly still.
Athena’s eyes narrow, with the dawning realization of what must be going through her husband’s head. One of his firefighters – the one he’s come to think of as a son, and the one with a record-high injury rate with the LAFD – appeared on their doorstep looking like death warmed over. And all he’s done since he walked in was to gag on a Tylenol and whine about how awful he feels.
Bobby must be terrified, given everything he’s seen Buck through already. And not having heard him say anything coherent, when he always pretends that everything is just fine – even as he’s coughing up blood in their backyard – can't be comforting.
She’s worried about Buck too, but she’s got enough experience and intuition to know that he’s got some sort of a bug, nothing urgent enough to warrant actual medical care. What he really needs, she’s pretty sure, is a little bit of extra love, and a hot meal as soon as his stomach is settled.
And that’s exactly what she intends to provide. With her husband’s help, of course.
“Buck, sweetheart,” He’s not asleep yet, so Athena doesn’t feel bad about running her fingers through his hair and talking to him. “What’s goin’ on? You’re running a fever, seems like maybe your stomach hurts. Anything else?”
She looks between Buck and Bobby, sees the way Bobby has shifted forward a little bit, is listening intently, but hasn’t yet uncrossed his arms.
“Head hurts,” Buck groans, without opening his eyes. “An’ my throat. ‘S still cold.”
Fever, aches, nausea, sore throat. Symptom for symptom, Buck has the flu. She hums soothingly, feels the way he leans into her touch, and wonders for a moment if he’s ever had anyone take care of him like this before.
She can’t be sure, but Athena thinks she’s got some lost time to make up for.
Of course, Bobby is still standing halfway across the room, staring at Buck like he’s going to drop over dead any second. And if she’s going to look after him, she can’t be looking after her husband as well.
“Alright, well how about you start counting again, honey. Bobby and I will go find you a different blanket?” She waits for Buck to nod, then takes her hand away slowly, trying not to startle him when she stands up. “Bobby? Come help me reach the extra covers.”
Bobby looks at her and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but she knows him well enough that he doesn’t have to. He knows she’s never needed help to reach anything in the linen closet before, and he knows damn well that she doesn't need his help with it today.
But he also knows better than to pick fights when she’s glaring at him like this. So when Buck starts moving his lips slowly, whispering the numbers to himself, and Athena jerks her head toward the steps, Bobby knows well enough to follow her upstairs.
It doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes, though, even if he waits until she’s a couple of feet in front of him to do it.
When Athena gets to the top of the stairs, she stops and waits for Bobby, tugging him by the wrist until they’re standing at the foot of their bed.
“I’ll make this fast,” she whispers harshly into the space between them. “Because we only have until he gets to 100. That boy is sick as a dog, and he came to us, and you are not helping matters by standing there like you want to kill him for it.”
“Athena,” Bobby at least has the decency to look chastised, hands clasped behind his back as his shoulders sag. “He drove -”
“Don’t ‘Athena’ me, Robert.” Her hands plant firmly on her hips, weight shifting to one foot. It’s the same stance she takes with unruly suspects, and she knows exactly how intimidating she looks, all 5’3 of her coiled up in whispered frustration. “That may not have been his best choice, but this is Buck we’re talking about, so you and I both know it could have been a whole hell of a lot worse.
“Let’s just be thankful that he made it here relatively safely and get him back on his feet, alright?”
She stops talking, her jaw set tightly in preparation for whatever retort Bobby might try and come up with. Thankfully, he’s smart enough not to say anything, to just nod and wait for his next instruction.
“Good,” Athena relaxes and smiles, stepping forward to wrap her arms around Bobby’s waist. “Now pass me that afaghan. He’s got to be to the high 70s by now.”
Bobby reaches behind them as Athena steps back, pulling the blanket from the foot of the bed. She leads the way back toward the steps, without having to wait to know that he’s right behind her.
“What’s that mean, anyway?” Bobby asks when they reach the end of the hallway.
“Harry’s always been clingy when he’s sick. Wouldn’t give me a minute of peace to go fix him some soup or anything. But he knows I’ll always be back before he gets to 100.” Athena smiles over her shoulder, then leans forward as she starts down the stairs, calling out to Buck that they’re on their way back. “One of us has to go get Harry and May in half an hour. If I give you a list, can you stop at the drugstore?”
Bobby nods again, resting one hand on the small of Athena’s back as they reach the bottom of the stairs. Buck is hardly visible from here, a messy tuft of blonde hair sticking up from the corner of the sofa. As they walk closer, they can hear his hoarse, pained whispers.
“41 … 42 … 4- Athena!” Buck smiles when she appears in his eyeline again, but it comes across as more of a grimace. Still, he’s the most excited that Athena has heard him since she came flying down the stairs when Bobby shouted for her earlier. “I lost count, so I started over.”
He grins, and Athena can’t help but chuckle. When she turns to take the afaghan from Bobby, he’s smiling too.
“That’s alright, honey.” She settles the blanket around Buck’s shoulders, wrapping the ends around his front until he drags a hand up to hold it in place. “We’re right here. How’s your stomach? Think you want to try some soup?”
Buck considers the question for a moment, but his stomach rolls at the thought of eating, and he groans.
“Maybe crackers first? Less sloshy.” He shrugs half-heartedly, and Athena catches Bobby in the corner of her gaze. He’s seen a way to help, something he can do for Buck, and is all but diving for the roll of crackers that had been abandoned on the coffee table. The plastic rustles as he pulls a cracker out and passes it wordlessly to Buck, who starts nibbling at one corner.
As he gets past the corner of the cracker, Buck keeps chewing mindlessly, right through to the center. The edges fall onto the afaghan, landing among the fine dusting of tiny crumbs but he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t stop chewing until he’s reached the other end. When the cracker is gone, he looks up at Bobby expectantly, blinking rapidly until another saltine appears in front of him.
By the time he’s worked his way through five crackers, Athena assumes he’s probably eaten roughly two crackers’ worth of bites, with the remnants piling up in his lap. This time, when he holds his hand out, Bobby hesitates. He looks from the half-empty sleeve in his hand to Buck’s outstretched palm and pulls his own arm away, moving the crackers further out of Buck’s reach.
“Let’s see how those settle first?” Bobby glances at Athena, uncertain of his own response even as he knows that Buck needs to take it easy if his stomach is still upset.
Buck blinks a couple of more times, processing Bobby’s words. But when no cracker appears, he turns slowly toward Athena, his brow furrowing. His jaw goes slack, mouth hanging open just far enough for his bottom lip to jut out in an accusatory pout.
She takes a half-step forward and reaches out with one finger to press his chin gently back into place.
“How about one more, OK, Buck? Then we’ll take a break on eating, find a nice talk show to watch? May’ll be back soon; I’m sure she’d love to watch with you.”
For a moment, it looks like Buck is getting ready to protest. He opens his mouth again, deliberately this time, and takes a breath. But before he can say anything, he slumps back against the couch cushions and sighs. The fight bleeds out of him as he nods and holds his hand out for Bobby to pass him a cracker.
Bobby pauses before he sets the cracker in Buck’s palm, searching his face for any signs of discomfort beyond the misery that’s settled across his features. When he doesn’t find anything, he drops the saltine and watches Buck gnaw through it like he had the first several crackers.
His one relief is that Buck probably isn’t actually ingesting enough cracker to do anything, most of this one crumbling onto his lap. When it’s gone, Buck sighs and settles himself into the corner of the sofa, pulling the afaghan tighter around him.
He shivers as his eyes sag closed, body convulsing gently under the force of fighting his illness. Without opening them, he mutters something mostly incompressible, turning his head in the general direction of where he knows Athena is standing.
“What’s that, honey?” She moves closer again, close enough for him to pick up the scent of her perfume, the fragrance warm and comforting. Through the fog in his mind, he thinks that she smells like a mother, like someone who’ll help him feel better. It reminds him not of his own mother, but of Maddie, perching herself on the edge of his bed when she’d come home from school to find him exactly where he had been laying when she left that morning.
“S’t wi’ me?” He tries again, trying to make himself focus on the consonants, on making the words clear and audible. It’s not great, even Buck can tell that his speech is still muddled. But it’s enough that Athena hums softly and the couch shifts next to him.
“Of course we can sit with you, Buck. Here, Bobby, come join us.” The cushions move again, and Bobby’s big hand finds a place on Buck’s shoulder. Athena’s fingers wrap around his knee, over the blanket. She’s rubbing gentle circles into his skin, the touch giving him something to focus on.
Buck fights against sleep, when it tries to pull him under. He’s not sure what time it is, but it’s late enough in the afternoon that he knows he should stay awake. If he falls asleep now, he might not sleep tonight, and then he’ll be tired in the morning, and that’s a hard enough cycle for him to break when he’s not sick.
But right now, he feels like he could sleep for a week straight, his body so drained and fatigued that he can’t even hold his eyes open. Between the exhaustion and the soothing reptation of Athena’s hand on his leg, he gives in before too long, feeling the room fade out from around him.
When Buck starts snoring softly, Athena pulls her hand away slowly and looks at Bobby. She waits for him to meet her gaze, then jerks her head toward the kitchen. He nods, and as they stand up, he reaches for her hand, tangling their fingers together for the short walk across the house.
She drops the contact to pull a piece of paper from the pad hanging on the fridge, fishes a pen from the drawer next to the sink and leans over the counter. Bobby leans against the side of the island, staring back into the living room to watch Buck sleep. He looks more comfortable than he has since he’d arrived; whether it’s from the medication kicking in, the crackers or just being doted on, Bobby can’t be sure. But he’s glad to see Buck sleeping soundly, the misery smoothed off of his face.
“He’ll be OK, Bobby …" Athena trails off, scribbling a couple more items on the shopping list she’s writing before she says anything else. “Sounds like he’s got some sort of bug.” Her words come in staccato, punctuated by frequent pauses as she jots something else down.
“Yeah,” Bobby glances over when Athena starts opening and closing cabinets, checking the pantry for … he’s not sure what, but presumably it’s something she thinks Buck might need later. Clearly, she doesn’t find whatever she’s looking for, because she adds another line to the list. “Kid’s been through a lot, though, you know?”
“Mhmm,” Athena nods absently, encouraging Bobby to continue.
“And this is the first time I’ve ever seen him ask for help.”
Athena doesn’t say anything for a moment, her eyes scanning back over the paper to make sure she’s thought of everything. Then, she sits it on the counter and looks Bobby in the eye.
“Good.” She nods decisively and waits for Bobby’s expression to morph into confusion. “He knows he has a place here.” Bobby opens his mouth, and from the look on his face, Athena figures he’s going to try to belabor the point.
With everything else she’s got to worry about this afternoon, she really doesn’t have the energy for that right now. So she folds the list in half and crosses the room to slide it into Bobby’s shirt pocket.
“Now,” He takes her hand as she speaks again, holding it against his chest for a moment. “You take this, go get the kids. Pick up a pizza or something for dinner. Buck can eat if he’s up to it, or we’ll fix him some soup.”
Athena rolls up to her toes to kiss him, and Bobby meets her halfway before she steps back. His fingers trail along her shoulder when he crosses behind her to pick his car keys up from the basket on the island, calling a quiet goodbye across the room as he opens the front door.
She listens to the door close as she fills the coffee pot with water. Briefly, she thinks about adding an extra scoop of grounds, but coffee this late in the day is already a risky venture. The only reason she’s letting herself have any at all is that she’s got a feeling she might be up half the night with Buck.
It’s part of a mother’s duty, though, and Athena has come to consider him one of her own just as much as May and Harry are, so she’s not going to complain. She’ll just put the coffee on and keep her energy up for the long evening ahead.
The mug is warm in her hands, its strong aroma perking Athena up as she settles herself back beside Buck on the couch. He’s still asleep, snoring quietly, and she stares at him for a moment. It’s almost impressive, she thinks, that a grown man can look so small curled into the corner of a sofa. Buck usually has such a big energy, the sort of personality that enters a room ahead of him. He’s always sprawled out, enthusiastic and boisterous in the best ways.
This version of him is so far from the Buck she knows, malleable complacency where she’s come to expect independence and a little bit of arrogance around the edges. She doesn’t like it, knows that Buck needs to get back on his feet, back to his regular self, sooner rather than later.
Athena sighs, tucking one foot underneath herself as she sips her coffee and reaches for the TV remote. It’s not often that she has time in the afternoon to just sit down and watch one of her shows. Usually, she has to take a few evenings and pick through part of an episode at a time, turning the screen off before she dozes off and loses track of the plotlines.
As long as she keeps the volume down, she expects that Buck will stay asleep until someone disturbs him, and Bobby shouldn’t be back for at least an hour and a half. She looks over at him again and dials the noise back a couple more clicks, just to be on the safe side, and settles in with her phone to follow along with the Twitter updates as she watches.
She makes it through the entire episode, and the first half of the nightly news, before the front door swings open. Athena braces herself for the loud noise, but it stops just before it would have bounced bizarre, Bobby’s hand appearing from behind May to scramble for the door handle at the last second.
“Easy, Harry. Hopefully Buck is still asleep; we don’t want to wake him up,” Bobby admonishes him quietly, his whisper no less scolding than a shout would have been.
“Sorry!” He tries to whisper back, but Athena has to hide a laugh against the rim of her mug, because he’s just as loud as always, just a little hoarser sounding. “Hi, Mom!”
“Hey, sweetheart,” she leans forward to greet them both, pulling Harry in for a half-reluctant hug as he sits his backpack down. “How was your dad’s?”
She smiles at May, standing off to the side while her brother roots through his bag, digging for something Athena “just has to see, Mom! It’s so cool!”
“Good weekend, honey?” May breaks her gaze away from Buck’s face to look at Athena when she speaks. Still, the concern is clear in her eyes. “He’ll be alright, May. Just a stomach bug.”
May sighs, wringing her hands while she nods. Athena can see her actively trying not to worry, and pats the cushion next to her, hoping that she’ll come sit down for some comfort of her own.
I’ve got two hands, honey, she’d always say, when Harry asked why he couldn’t have a little brother. I can hold you both this way; no one has to be left out.
And it’s always been true, through whatever they’ve faced. Two arms, two hands, two babies to hold.
Except today, Harry is all but bouncing off the walls, and she’s got a different son to take care of.
But May shakes her head, and shuffles hesitantly to the other end of the couch. She ends up propped on the arm of the sofa, leaning against the side right next to Buck’s face. Under any other circumstances, Athena would remind her that it’s poor manners to sit on the armrest, but tonight she chooses not to push the issue.
They’ve all got enough to worry about.
Aside from Harry, who’s just found what he’s looking for, holding a baggie of neon green goo proudly over his head.
“We made slime!” He cheers, thrusting the bag out for Athena to see. “Look, it’s got shimmer dust! Dad says I’m only allowed to play with it in the kitchen or the bathroom though. Not on the rug.”
Athena is getting ready to agree with Michael, but before she can say anything, there’s a weak cough from the blanket-cocoon sitting next to her. Buck stirs, whimpering when his eyes slide open.
“Shh, Harry, get the lights. Quiet voices, please.” Athena keeps her voice soft and her tone gentle, but leaves no room for argument. The baggie slides out of Harry’s hand as he crosses the room, and Athena is grateful for the zip-top. She shushes him again when he yelps in alarm, but when she turns to soothe Buck, May is already fussing over his blanket.
“Hey, heard you’re trying to die on us,” She laughs softly, smoothing a wrinkle away from his shoulder. When he smiles, she rolls her eyes. “You know, if you didn’t want to help me move into my dorm, you could have just said so.”
At that, Buck pushes himself to sit upright. The exertion is enough that he groans, and his shoulders slump forward with the weight of his head. He tries to say something, but the words get lodged in his throat, replaced with rough, hacking coughs. His eyes go wide, and he adjusts his grip on the blanket to rub his knuckles vigorously against his chest.
When he turns to look at Athena, there’s panic etched across his features. She leans her mug against the outside of her leg and shifts sideways to squeeze his shoulder gently until the coughing fit ends.
“Wouldn’t … miss it,” Buck gasps, sucking in short breaths as he coughs lightly. “Just wanted an excuse to come hang out for a while.”
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, honey,” Athena lets go of Buck’s shoulder, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead before cupping his cheek in her palm. “You know you’re welcome any time. Feels like your fever is breaking; that’s a good sign. How are you feeling?”
Buck hesitates a moment before he answers, his eyes flitting back and forth slowly as he takes stock of his body.
“A little better, I think.” He’s hesitant at first, only building a little more confidence when he starts listing off specific symptoms. “Uh, I’m less queasy. Head hurts, though. And my throat, a bit. Um … hungry?”
The front door closes, and plastic bags crinkle before Bobby’s hand appears in front of him, wrapped around a lemon-lime Gatorade. Buck stares at it for a second, focused on the bright orange cap he knows he won’t be able to unfasten on his own. He’s still exhausted, and there’s a faint memory of struggling with a much smaller bottle cap earlier. There’s no way he’ll be able to manage this one, and even if he does get the top open, he’s pretty sure he’ll spill half the bottle in the process.
“Buck?” Athena’s thumb sweeps over his cheekbone, and he leans into the soothing gesture.
“The … the lid,” he whispers. Between the sore throat and his quiet embarrassment, the words seem to hurt for him to say. Nobody says anything about it though, and Bobby pulls his arm back far enough to unscrew the top. He passes the bottle back carefully, and Buck wraps both hands around it to take a sip.
It’s heavy, enough that his hands shake under the weight of it. But he manages a few swallows anyway, enough that it doesn’t slosh onto his lap when he sits it down too fast against his leg. Still, a couple drops hit his hand and trail down his wrist. The liquid feels cold on his skin, even though he knows it’s hardly any colder than the air in the room.
May doesn’t miss a beat when she leans back just far enough to reach for the box of tissues sitting on the end table behind her. She tugs on the top tissue, the quiet rustling the only sound in the room as she reaches over and wipes Buck’s hand gently, before the Gatorade can drip onto his blanket. He smiles at her and clears his throat.
“Thanks,” Buck’s voice sounds less scratchy this time, but he pulls the afaghan tighter over his shoulders and leans back again, clearly exhausted. “Throat’s not so bad now. Think I was thirsty.”
“I’ll bet,” Bobby crouches down and slides the Gatorade out of Buck’s weak grasp, before he falls asleep and lets go entirely. His only response is a jaw-cracking yawn as his hand droops across his thigh. “You were burning up earlier, probably started to dehydrate. We’ve got pizza on the way, if you’re up for it, or I stocked up on soup.”
Buck’s head lolls toward the sound of Bobby’s voice, but his eyes are barely open.
“Ooh, pizza?” His voice is thick with the edges of sleep, and everyone chuckles.
“Yeah, honey. Pizza. Go back to sleep,” Athena runs her hand through his hair, notices that there’s less heat radiating from his scalp than there was earlier. “We’ll wake you up when it gets here, I promise.”
He hums sleepily, just barely hanging onto consciousness.
“B’fore 100?”
“Probably not, Buckaroo, but I’ll stay right here until it comes.” The quiet breath Buck lets out is lost to the sound of Harry’s excited shout.
“Hey, that’s what you do when I’m sick too!” He looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, leaning against one of Athena’s legs with a book.
“It sure is, baby.” Her free hand lands on top of Harry’s head, guiding him back against her leg and stroking through his curls. He relaxes against her and turns the next page, satisfied with his mother’s acknowledgement.
Bobby steps around him carefully, picking up Athena’s mug before he sits down. His fingers graze the outside of her thigh as he makes sure not to spill the last few drops of coffee. When he sees that the cup is basically empty, he stops trying to sit down and turns course for the kitchen instead.
Athena smiles when she hears the sink running, then the trickle of pouring coffee before her husband reappears with a full, steaming mug. He passes it to her and kisses her cheek as he sits down, then winds his arm around her shoulders. His wingspan is enough that he can just brush his fingertips against Buck’s shoulder, completing the connections between all five of them.
It’s a family moment, everyone sitting quietly together. If not for Buck’s flushed cheeks and mussed hair, Athena could picture a camera on top of the TV, capturing the quiet peace that blankets them. So they’re a little piecemeal, maybe, but who cares? They all love each other, seek comfort in each other’s company, seek to comfort each other when they need it.
And that means more to her than any genetic links ever could.
She takes a sip, letting the coffee warm her from the inside until it meets the cozy air surrounding her. Her head lands on Bobby’s shoulder, and she feels his lips pressing into her hair.
It’s perfect.
Until Buck sniffles, shifting around as he adjusts his blanket. Even then, it’s pretty close to perfect, and she’d never fault him for it. He didn’t choose to be sick, but he did choose to come here, to let himself be taken care of.
It’s not a Christmas card moment, not a Kodak moment. But it’s her family, and Athena wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Especially not when Buck coughs softly and murmurs through his sleep-addled haze.
“’Thena?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Thanks for takin’ care of me. You’re good at it. All ‘f you.” His face goes slack again, blurry with the tears building in Athena’s eyes.
Yeah, this is pretty perfect.
“Anytime, Buck.” She pats his leg gently through the afaghan. “You’re welcome here anytime.”