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Sometimes, the weight on Buck’s chest comes down on him so hard that he thinks his ribs might crack under the pressure, might cave in and send splinters into his already damaged heart, collapse his lungs and make him forget how to breathe. Sometimes, his brain whispers not enough not enough not enough as he strips off his uniform, pulling off everything that makes him good and worthwhile, leaving the best parts of himself on a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor. Sometimes, the color bleeds from his life and his laughter is too loud to make up for that, too quick, too often.
Buck had been used to dealing with that alone.
“Bad day?” Chris’ hand is on his face. Buck doesn’t remember him coming home, but he’s there now, dragging himself deeper into the nest of blankets Buck had buried himself in somewhere around noon.
“Bad day,” Buck says. His voice is rough, scratchy; he’d stopped crying at one point but his throat burns from holding it in for so long.
“Have you been in bed all day?” Christopher’s voice is impossibly gentle as he moves his hand to smooth Buck’s hair back, small fingers running from his hairline to behind his ear. It’s the same way Eddie soothes him after a nightmare or a hard time at school, and Buck’s not sure it should make him feel better but it does; makes him feel like he’s not so alone. “It’s okay, Buck, if you were.”
“Yeah,” Buck admits. He wraps an arm around Chris’ waist, pulling him closer and burying his face in his neck. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”
“That’s what you always say,” Chris says, patting his back.
Buck closes his eyes and tries to forget that he’s clinging to a nine year old for comfort, tries to pull himself together, tries not to let the sinking feeling in his heart pull him down to where his family can’t follow. He’s so focused on his immediate surroundings—the warmth of the blankets on top of him, the soft material of Chris’ shirt under his hands, the slide of small hands through his hair—that he doesn’t hear Eddie come in the room until the blankets are lifting up and he’s sliding under them, his arms coming to rest around Buck’s waist, heavy and comforting.
“Bad day?”
“Bad day,” Chris answers for him.
Eddie hums against his shoulder, lips pressing against the curve of Buck’s shoulder. “Did you eat?”
“No,” Buck says. He takes a deep breath, tries to push the shame of not being able to take care of himself away, tries to remind himself that it’s okay to feel like this, that he’s getting help, that he can accept comfort from his family. “We can move out to the couch,” he offers.
“When you’re ready,” Eddie says quietly. “We got you, Buck.”
Sometimes, the weight of his husband’s arm around him is what keeps Buck from spiraling further down, keeps him from sinking so deep he’ll never break the surface again. Sometimes, the soft puff of his son’s breath against his skin as he whispers love into Buck’s ear is what reminds him that he’s more than just a uniform, worthy of love and affection even if he’s not running into burning buildings. Sometimes, the soothing sound of his family surrounding him on his darkest days is all he needs.
Buck doesn’t have to face anything alone.