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Chapter Text

Buck lazes against the ancient sofa in the corner of Miz Nettie's garage, grinning as JD manages to tap out a half-decent rendition of Billy-Jean on his keyboard. “I'm telling you,” JD enthuses when he finishes, spinning around on his stool with a flourish, “we're gonna be famous.” Ordinarily Buck would tease the crap out of him, but he's feeling it too, the possibility thrumming through them all, so he slaps the side of the couch enthusiastically instead.

“Hell yes we are! You can play, Inez can sing, lil' Casey ain't half bad on that banjo of hers-” A cry of outrage hits his ears right before the yellow tennis ball Casey had been bouncing off the wall careens nearly into the side of his head. Buck slaps it away as he ducks, laughing as she snaps, “It's a fiddle! And I'm not little!”

“You are the youngest,” JD points out with another swirl around on his stool, the girl scowling up at him from her perch on the edge of the square of old blue shag carpet that Buck is pretty sure had been pulled out of one of the bedrooms.

“Careful JD, she goes for the eyes when she's really mad,” Vin says, coming out of the house with a tray full of snacks, Miz Nettie's soft spot for Vin paying off in extra goodies. Casey huffs, deciding their childishness is beneath her dignity as she looks pointedly away from Vin. 'Course, she might also be annoyed that Vin can get more cookies out of her aunt than she can, Buck figures. Inez, uncurling herself from a beanbag Vin had gotten from...somewhere, pats Casey's shoulder in sympathy as she stands. Buck idly admires the view of her very nice backside as he contemplates whether it's worth getting up from where he's sunk into the sagging couch just for food. Maybe he can get JD to snag a couple pizza rolls for him.

“Often,” Inez announces, pausing slightly for effect, “I feel as though I am babysitting when I come here. Only, no one pays me.” Even knowing it was a shot at him at least as much as everybody else, probably more, Buck grins wider. He likes her grit and the way she doesn't think twice about putting any of them in her place. Really, he thinks, watching her bite into a slice of apple, her lips closing around it, he likes her. A lot.

They shove pizza rolls and fruit and cookies down their gullets, eating eagerly, like it will disappear, though Buck can see there is enough to feed even the bottomless pit that is Vin, talking about how good they're getting, and the next practice and what songs they want to play and gigs, playing on stage, in front of people-maybe, someday; and it feels like the world is bright and fun, electric with possibilities.

Buck's cell-phone buzzes in his pocket, he swallows the mouthful of sweet, crumbly cookie he'd just taken, swipes his hand on his shirt, and tugs his phone out to read the text message. It's from Sarah, saying that she's about to wrangle Adam into his car seat and head towards Miz Nettie's, so get him and his half a drum kit ready to go please. Also, he really needs to move his laundry to the laundry room himself if he doesn't want her to see things like the history test he got a D on lying in the middle of his floor when she goes in to get it.

Which is basically Sarah's way of saying 'busted, Bud,' even if she can't quite pull off Chris's crooked grin. Crap. Flopping himself sideways down onto the couch, and ignoring the 'Buck is soooo weird' looks his friends are passing around, Buck groans. What he is is soooo dead.

He knew he should have burned it.

Buck tries to forget his impending doom while he waits, Casey's tennis ball getting used for keep away in the front yard, who they keep it away from changing every few passes, tossing the ball here, there, and everywhere. JD's it, running to get the ball, and misses that Buck was only faking, didn't actually toss the ball to Vin, and when he turns to charge after Vin, Buck bounces the ball off the back of his head and nearly falls over laughing at his outraged squawk.

Only, then it's been more than half an hour and Sarah still isn't there. He frowns at his phone and the time stamp for a minute then shrugs it off. Probably, Adam is being more of a hellion than usual, or Sarah is picking something up from the grocery store. That's all.

Another twenty minutes and Buck is worried and also kind of wondering if she forgot about him. He might have tried walking, only he's sure Sarah will show up the second he's around the corner if he does. He calls her once, then twice, then sends her a text. No answer. Buck sends Chris a text, not quite daring to call him when he's in court, because if by some crazy chance the phone is on and not on silent he has no doubt his brother will kill him. He doesn't want to die twice in one week. Especially when Sarah's probably just stuck in a traffic jam. She never answers her cell-phone when she's driving.

He's confused more than anything when Ezra's car pulls up to the curb, the dark green mustang shining in the sun. Miz Nettie likes Ezra just fine now, even if she didn't at first, but he's still wary around her, like she'll snap his head off if he moves wrong. Why is he here?

When Ezra gets out of his car he has one of his almost blank faces on, skin pale, and Buck can see his hands are shaking and fumbling. He has to swallow the urge to puke, to scream at Ezra to get back in his car and go and not tell him something terrible. Something that will hurt like fire. Like Ma.

He walks slowly up the driveway. Buck cannot take his eyes off him the entire time.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck sits in the hospital waiting room, terrified and numb, Ezra at his side, not sure what to do. Josiah is trying to talk someone, anyone, into telling him something, more than once moving into roaring. Buck hardly notices, can't think and can't escape his thoughts at the same time. He wants his brother, Chris will fix it, make the world make sense again. Chris had gone to court, he knew that, knew it was a three hour drive back from where he'd had to go, but it feels as though it had been that long twice over.

Sarah and Adam are alone back there. They shouldn't be. They shouldn't be. Adam must be so scared.

Buck is halfway across the room before he realizes it, heading towards the back with a single minded purpose, hearing and not hearing the voices calling out to him, questioning what he's doing, as he walks. Josiah's arms on him hauls him back, trying to hold him close while he yells for him to let him go, yells, “They need me, I should be with them, please! They need me! Josiah, please!” Shouting please even as he elbows and scratches and kicks, acting like a kid less than half his age, hysterical, and all Josiah will do is hold him, won't let him go, won't help. He's crooning to Buck now, like he really is a tiny kid, and he feels himself start to fold, start to collapse, because if Josiah can hold him back he can hold him up and he's not sure his legs are going to do the job much longer.

Chris appears, tugging at his elbow, and Buck turns to him needily as Josiah unwraps his arms and steps back, expecting to be held, expecting him to make the world make sense again, expecting anything but what he gets. “What the hell are you doing? You trying to distract the damned doctors? You'll get somebody killed!” Chris hisses it, in a tone Buck has never, ever heard from him before, and then he's gone, whirling away with a flap of his duster towards the nurse's desk, as Buck gapes after him, not sure what to do now that the last of the solid ground has fallen from beneath his feet. Josiah's arms wrap around him again, pulling him close, and this time Buck doesn't fight it. He doesn't do anything but stare at where his brother stands, his ears buzzing, though he can imagine the words that the preacher is saying, things like, 'he's just scared, Son', and 'he didn't mean it like that'.

Only, Buck is pretty sure he did mean it.

^.^.^.^.^

It's Chris, face strange and broken, who wakes him up where he's passed out on a waiting room chair. Buck shoots up, looking at him like he's expecting a miracle because he is, because they're due one, goddammit.

He knows the second he sees Chris's eyes. He shrinks from those eyes, but Chris, for all he looks as though he's holding himself together with spit and a prayer, is gentle. He doesn't say it, doesn't have to, so why would he? But he pulls Buck close, holding him maybe too tight, holding him like he's the last thing he has, Buck knows because he's squeezing him back the same way. It hurts so bad, only he can't quite feel it either. It's too big, too scary, too impossible to be real. It feels like a nightmare. It is a nightmare.

They can't be gone. Adam with his shining eyes, following him around with constant cries of, 'Buck, Buck!' scrambling to tell him whatever was important right then when Buck answered, 'Yep, little Bud?', he can't be...dead. Sarah who teased and joked and just like his Ma wasn't shy about kicking his ass when she thought it needed it. Dead. His mind pokes at the word like it's a physical thing, shying away from the hugeness of it. Dead. Sarah is dead. Adam is dead.

Dead. And not coming back.

The sobs erupt, spewing out of him, a torrent he can't control and he pushes himself into his brother, gripping on so he can't be ripped away too, as his brain chants, 'no, no, no, no, no, not true, not real, it's not real,' but he knows it is. It is. Chris is gripping him even tighter, for all it should be impossible, Buck's face pressed half into his neck, half into his duster, tears streaking down both leather and skin. He can't hear Chris crying, not loud like he is anyway, but he can feel the tears running into his thick hair, enough to wet it.

He wakes up at home. In his bed. He stares at the ceiling and prays to God that it was all a terrible, terrible, dream.

^.^.^.^.^

At the funeral, Buck and Chris sit together, not talking. Just like they haven't talked at home. The silence stretches everywhere, surrounding them no matter who is speaking. Pretty stories, for such an ugly day. Hesitant, since Chris is so brittle, so tight with rage and grief Buck has felt like a bomb was going to explode any minute for days now, he pushes his shoulder into his brother's a little. Just needing to know he's there, that he's real. Chris lets him, his hand moving after a long minute to squeeze Buck's knee. There is still so much silence.

They walk across rolling fields of dead, generation after generation, and Buck wishes it felt peaceful, wishes it felt like the sort of place his family could rest easily, but it doesn't. Not to him.

The gravestones are too much, the teddy bear carved on Adam's like a spike in his heart. It's like the world is telling him again, taunting him with these great honking slabs of stone as proof. They're gone. They're gone, just like Ma, and he's not ever going to get them back.

Then Chris is gone, just gone, not by the graves; and he can't find him, can't see him, and Buck is trying not to panic, but all he can think is, 'why does everyone leave me?' Josiah's hand comes down on his shoulder as he prepares to hunt the parking lot, his gentlest voice telling Buck that Chris has asked if he can stay with them for a few days.

^.^.^.^.^

JD and Vin show up at Josiah's three days after the funeral. Buck has only talked to Chris twice. He almost understands. He hasn't answered any of his friend's calls, doesn't know how to talk to them anymore.

But he doesn't.

They go out in the backyard. It's bright and sunny and all he can picture is that BBQ they had last month, Sarah chasing after Adam with a wet nap while the sauce covered boy giggled and shrieked. Half of a sob escapes him before he can stop it, but then he decides he doesn't care. Sarah and Adam deserve to be cried over.

Later, JD makes Buck laugh. He wishes he could hate him for it.

But he doesn't.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck missed his room, missed his house, so even though it's musty smelling and there's whiskey spilled on the coffee table he grins wide at his brother; no matter that part of his heart is clenching because how can this be his house when there is no baby nephew tackling his legs, no Sarah tussling his hair and telling him to 'stop growing already, you're not supposed to be this much taller than me yet.'

Chris doesn't grin back, but he looks relieved to see Buck, claps him on the shoulder, takes his bag from him to carry up to his room even though it doesn't weigh anything at all. Buck follows right behind him with hardly a goodbye to Josiah, needing to be close, not wanting to be left behind again. He follows Chris back out of his room like a puppy, down the stairs and into the kitchen where there is a casserole someone has brought over heating up in the oven. “It'll be hot in a minute. We've got four more in the freezer, so eat up,” his exhausted looking brother says as he gets himself a beer out of the fridge.

“Cool,” Buck answers, because he doesn't know what else to say. All his stories, all his jokes, it's like they've dried up.

^.^.^.^.^

Chris drinks his glass of whiskey like it's the milk Sarah would have served as Buck forks up the runny Mac and Cheese and hot dogs he'd made for lunch, wanting to cry because he can't even make mac and cheese right, because nothing is right and it never will be again.

^.^.^.^.^

Three days after he comes home Chris finds Buck in Adam's room holding onto the little stuffed cougar he'd given him when he turned three, trying to not cry. He screams at him for being in there, yanking the toy out of his hands as he backs him up into the wall, face not just angry, but hateful, spiteful, like Buck has committed the worst crime in the world just by wanting to hold something Adam had held.

Buck, Buck who has been so hesitant, so careful around his brother while he seems like he is going to break apart into shards of glass, screams back. He tells him that he loves them too, that he misses them too, that Chris isn't the only who's hurt so bad they can't think, can't breathe, can't be.

Tells him that he's still here. That they're still a family.

The silent question in his words is answered by Chris turning his back, taking the stuffed animal with him. He turns his back and walks away like Buck is nothing.

He guesses that's his answer. Buck sinks to the ground trying so hard not to sob that they almost choke him, pushing their way up as he pushes them down. He wraps his arms around his legs and buries his head in the tops of his knees, shaking and crying and wanting his Ma as bad as he did the day he lost her six years ago, and knowing he can never ever have what he wants.

Chris doesn't come home that night, not before he's dragging himself off to bed, and Buck isn't sure whether he should lock the door or not. He leaves the porch light on and latches the screen door, but doesn't lock the deadbolt.

^.^.^.^.^

Chris isn't there in the morning. Buck can feel the silence filling the house like a living thing as he stares at the ceiling wondering whether he's going to bother getting up. He lulls his head to the side and blinks as a tawny face with blue buttons for eyes fills his sight. 'Couga' stares back at him from his nightstand, a greasy McDonald's bag sitting next to him. Buck freezes, not daring to blink, then almost lunges for the toy, snaking it back to his chest and holding it close, pressed so tight he can feel the black plastic nose gouging into his skin. He doesn't care. He might not ever let it go.

Later, when his shoulders stop trying to shake, Buck sets Couga to his side, tucked close, and, sitting up, reaches for the McDonalds bag. Two sausage and egg McMuffins, two hash browns and an apple pie. It's exactly what he always gets, and not caring at all that it's cold Buck shoves a huge bite of McMuffin in his mouth, only realizing how hungry he is when the food passes his lips. It's gone in record time, and he leans back against his pillows when he's done, looking at the stuffed animal.

He guesses Chris took his first answer back.

^.^.^.^.^

Chapter Text

^.^.^.^.^

Buck goes back to school a week after the funeral. He doesn't want to go, not really, but he can't just bump around the house, with Chris gone most of the time, Josiah showing up randomly, doing the dishes or bringing in groceries that mostly get ignored as they eat pity casseroles and frozen pizza. Better than roaming around the town when everyone his age is in school, cops starting to pull him over for truancy, only to offer a ride wherever he is going or ask if he needs anything when they realize it's him. Buck has known most of them for years, and they all know Chris, but that doesn't mean the small talk, the, “Yep, we're hanging in there”'s and the forced smiles when he promises them he'll ask if they need anything aren't draining him every time he goes through the act.

As Chris's borrowed truck pulls up outside the school, as the glances and sideways stares pile up while it eases into the parent drop-off/pick-up spot Buck wonders why he thought this would be any better. He stares out the window, trying not to shrink back into his seat and Chris's hand moves to squeeze his shoulder. “You'll do fine.” It's said in that dead certain, no lies, voice of Chris's that always seems to bend the world his way. Buck still can't help but shoot him an incredulous glance, because how the hell is he gonna be fine with a couple hundred people bustling around him, staring and whispering, or worse, telling him they're sorry?

“Do I hafta?” He tries to say it like he's joking, like this really ain't making his skin crawl and his palms sweat, but he doesn't half pull it off.

Chris looks at him real hard, then says, voice just as certain as before, “No. Not today.” His hand starts to move towards the clutch, preparing to shift it into reverse when he stops, lifting his chin towards the front of the truck on Buck's side, Buck's eyes following automatically to the small cluster standing there. Inez, Vin, JD and Casey, all looking hesitantly, hopeful and nervous, up at him. Unlike everybody else they're really looking, not glancing, not staring at him while acting like they're not, and Buck sits up a little, leaning towards them. “Go on then.” Chris's voice has just a bit of a smile in it, and when Buck turns back to him there is a hint on his lips and he nods his head towards his friends. “They're waiting for you.”

Buck nods, looks at them, licks his lips, and then turns to Chris and blurts before he can stop himself, “You gonna care if we skip after lunch?”

Chris shakes his head, and almost, almost, chuckles, and Buck hasn't felt that proud of himself in a long, long time. “Not today, bud.”

He slips out of the truck, his friends greeting him with a weird mixture of sympathy and excitement that he's there. As they walk they cluster around him, protective in their jostling, even JD and little Casey acting like a wall against the tide. Buck is nearly as amused as he is touched when JD snarls out, “Kick rocks,” at Lucas James when he steps up to them, the older boy backing off, hands raising as he gets a good luck at their faces.

He's lucky. If he'd laid a hand on JD, Buck would've beaten the piss out of him.

^.^.^.^.^

By lunchtime, when they take their lunches out to eat on the edge of the P.E. Field, Buck is more than ready to leave, the stares and whispers and people he doesn't even really know, or worse, can't stand, circling around him, coming up to say they're sorry for his loss making him want to scream.

His loss. He pictures Sarah and Adam and wants to scream that it was the world's loss.

Hell, they're all waiting, watching for him to do something nuts, to break, so why the heck doesn't he? Buck shoves the ham sandwich he made in his mouth, ignoring the fact that the tomato had made the bread soggy as he chews and swallows, tries to look like this day isn't dragging him down, down, down.

Sarah always put the tomato between the cheese and the meat, so the bread stayed nice. He forgot.

His eyes want to burn, but he's tired of crying. Tired of eating too, only halfway through his soggy sandwich and he pushes it back into the ziploc baggy, taking his pear out of the paper lunch bag and shoving it in his coat pocket for later. He drops the sandwich in in its place and heaves himself to his feet, heading for the garbage can at the edge of the field. Before he reaches it he can feel the gang walking behind him. So, going for quick today, not subtle. Buck doesn't blame them.

They meander over towards the broad green space behind the field, only separated from them by a fence and a locked gate. A locked gate with a nice big gap that even Buck's wide shoulders can shimmy through, and then they're blending into the 'forest'-JD insists on calling it that, really, it's hardly a wood-moving quick for all Gary the security guard has never come close to catching them. The light gleams golden and green through the canopy as they dart forward, the roots and underbrush the only thing keeping Buck from breaking into a flat out run, knowing the others will be close behind him if he does. They slow down when they get to the wide stream that's in between them and their special place, and the log that leans against the high bank on the other side, broken branches like a ladder. If they went 50 or 60 yards in either direction they could wade across easily enough, but they never do, Vin already scrambling like a panther up the trunk, grinning at them easily when he reaches the top. Casey scoops up a pine cone and chucks it at him with a grin, Vin dodging the well aimed missile at the last minute with a whoop and a flash of taunting tongue. Buck stands back watching as the others clamber their way up the log, needing to watch, needing to see that they all pass over before he does, for all the stream is deep enough that nobody would be more than bruised in a tumble.

Inez brushes against him slightly as she follows after JD, murmuring, “If you fixate your eyes on my ass, don't think I won't hit you,” and it's so normal, so her, that Buck can't help but laugh, his eyes lingering, not on her ass, but the side of her face, her hair falling in it as she picks her way up the log, more graceful than anyone has the right to be when negotiating dead wood. Stark admiration fills him, and for just a second he wonders if this is what love feels like.

He isn't sure he wants to know. Love hurts.

^.^.^.^.^

For the rest of the week he and Chris slip into a routine, and the steady simpleness of it is a relief. Buck gets up and eats cereal while Chris sits across from him at the table sipping black coffee. Sometimes Buck talks, rambles to fill the silence, but Chris doesn't answer much, and neither mention the others blood shot eyes. Chris drives him to school and goes into the department, or at least he says he is, since Buck knows he's still on leave. There are questions now, murmurs that it might not have been an accident, that the truck had been tampered with, getting back to his ears, but Buck can't believe that, can't process that. But maybe Chris is hanging around the department, looking for answers, even if he really isn't supposed to be yet. Buck stays at school all day, most of the week, but twice he leaves before last period. Not with his friends, not to do anything fun, he just...leaves. The school would have called, but his brother doesn't say anything.

Friday, Buck comes home to a short note and pizza money tucked under the empty vase on the kitchen table. Chris says in it he'll be back the next afternoon, and though Buck finds himself scowling at the note with unexpected ferociousness, he mostly sighs and shrugs and figures he should decide what kind of pizza he wants. The quiet in the house shouldn't seem so big, not when Chris has been all but silent anyway.

But it is. Buck cranks up the stereo and listens to Dragonforce, liking, no needing, the way the beat fills the air with it's heavy pulse, the way the drums crash around him. He's singing along, drumming on the coffee table, on the back of the couch, on the walls, with his hands, when the pizza man shows up, peering in through the screen door like he's wondering what Buck is on.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck hangs around the house on Saturday, trying to straighten things up a little, wiping down the counters in the kitchen, and then starts a load of his jeans and drawers. They were getting pretty ripe. He swallows hard as he pours in the soap, remembering Sarah teaching him how to use the machine, and what to do for the different kinds of clothes. Remembers why she taught him, back when he was twelve and Sarah was about bursting with Adam and he tried to do it on his own for the first time. Suds had started foaming up everywhere, spilling out of the machine and onto the floor, and Buck had been yelping and freaking as he tried to figure out what he'd done wrong and how to stop it. Remembers how he was so sure the crankier than usual Sarah would rip him a new one, but she just took one look, saw him trying to scoop bubbles back into the washer frantically and just laughed and laughed, almost howling she was laughing so hard. He looks up and whispers, “Don't worry, I won't forget how much to use, learned my lesson.” He isn't sure if he really believes that Sarah can hear him, wherever she is, isn't sure he really believes that she's anywhere now, but he feels a little better anyway.

At three o'clock Buck starts watching the clock, waiting on Chris since the afternoon is almost over. He's sitting at the kitchen table, reading the cliff notes on Great Gatsby on his laptop, because three chapters in he already hated it. That Gatsby guy is a tool, he just knew it. Only, his eyes keep drifting to the clock. 3:05, 3:15...

3:30. No Chris.

3:50. Buck's fingers start tapping on the table.

3:55. He gives up on the cliff notes, on his book report, and possibly on English class altogether, snapping the laptop shut with more force than necessary. He gets up and goes to the closet they use as a pantry, hunting through it until he finds the Oreos and wanders with them into the living room, flopping on the couch. Buck flips through the channels, finally settling on an old episode of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on VH1, trying to just concentrate on the show, and not on when his brother will be home.

4:10. Buck knows he's being ridiculous, that there's no reason to be worried, for all the worry is crawling up from his toes, invading. It's still afternoon for almost an hour. Chris is fine.

4:25. All he can think of is that afternoon, waiting for Sarah. Waiting for her, telling himself she'd be there any minute. And then she wasn't.

4:30. Buck calls Chris's cell, trying not to panic when it goes to voicemail, because he's being ridiculous. He is. Chris is fine.

4:40. Buck calls again, and then sends a text. He doesn't want to sound like he's scared, doesn't want to sound like he needs Chris to come home, so he only says, “Hey brother, where are you at?”

4:50. Any minute now. Any minute now, Chris will walk through the door. Buck might just yell at him, for scaring the crap out of him. Maybe. But he will. Buck knows he will.

5:00. He doesn't.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck isn't sure whether he's more terrified or more betrayed at first, more angry, because Chris should know, he should know what flashes through his mind every minute he's not here, every minute Buck waits.

Later, after he's slammed his wet clothes into the dryer, after he's eaten the last of the oreos, with milk this time, for all he can hardly taste them, the anger goes and he's just scared. He's so scared. He calls Chris again, not surprised this time when it goes to voicemail. Buck tries to keep his voice normal sounding as he speaks into the recorder, “Hi Chris, just wondering when you were coming home...” He swallows, bites back the 'if', that wants to escape, and finishes up with a far too cheerful sounding, “Let me know,” and hangs up before he can embarrass himself.

The TV is buzzing in the background, he'd hit the the wrong button, the one that only turns off the cable. Buck can hear it, sitting on the loveseat now, leg jiggling, and not sure what to do. He can't call the cops, or the hospitals, not just because his brother is a couple of hours late. It might cause trouble for Chris at work if he did. Or worse.

Social services.

Buck had been lucky, after Ma, as horribly wrong as that seemed to say. Chris had been old enough to take him, just nineteen, just finished with the police academy, and he'd reacted to the idea of Buck being placed anywhere but with him with a quiet, scornful, fury. A quiet, scornful, fury that threatened to erupt into a wildfire and had made Buck feel safe, no matter how terrible everything else was. Chris had wanted him. He wouldn't let him go.

Now?

He's heard Vin's stories, knows that he considers the foster family that mostly ignores him to be one of the best he's had. Seen the faint scars on his back when they go swimming. Kiddy fantasies about him and Vin driving back to where those bastards live and egging and T.Ping the crap out of their house aside, he's never really been able to wrap his head around how someone could do that, how even the idea of hurting someone so much smaller than themselves doesn't make them want to puke.

What happens to him if Chris doesn't come home? What happens if the social worker starts coming around again? Would Chris jump through the hoops for him this time?

He closes his eyes, suddenly feeling horribly selfish, like a monster, because he's worried about himself, worried about his hurts, his worries, when he knows his brother's are so much worse. So much bigger.

Probably, Buck is asking too much of Chris. Maybe, he'd meant to say evening, or night, in his note, had just been writing fast and hadn't noticed the mistake. It's stupid, and self-centered, and probably lots of other S words, that he thinks Chris being late has anything to do with him.

Probably, Chris wasn't even thinking about him at all.

That's it. Buck breathes in deep, because while the thought isn't exactly comforting, it makes sense, and if Chris ever has the right, it's now. He's just hurting. Hurting even more than Buck.

Chapter Text

^.^.^.^.^

Buck locks the house up at ten o'clock and drags himself off to bed. He doesn't sleep, can't sleep, watches music videos on his phone while he's hoping more than anything to hear Chris coming in the door. He hasn't slept with his bedroom door open in years, but tonight he needs to hear him.

By 8:30 the next morning he's so jittery with worry and nerves he can hardly feel how exhausted he is. He's pretty sure he fell asleep for awhile around two, pretty sure he remembers waking up. He's been texting Chris since five, but, he realizes as his call goes straight to voicemail, his phone's probably been dead for awhile.

What does he do? He sits cross-legged on his bed, still in a t-shirt and boxers, staring across his room at the blue sky out his window.

What if Chris is hurt? What if the truck was sabotaged and they came back to finish the job?

What if he just needs to be alone? Is just fishing somewhere?

He can't call the police. But he has to call someone.

Josiah. The relief that surges through him at the thought that someone else would take care of it, that Josiah will know what to do almost knocks him flat.

When Josiah's phone rings to voicemail it feels like a heavy weight has slammed back down on his chest. No. He takes a deep, slow, breath in and texts Josiah, 'I need you'. Less than a minute later his phone is ringing, and Josiah's deep rumble of a voice is asking what's wrong, is he hurt, did something happen? Buck has to take in a long, shaky breath before he can even think about answering, and Josiah asks again, “Buck?”

“I can't find Chris.” It's not enough information, not to explain what's going on, but it's all he trusted himself to say right then.

“He was gone when you got up?” Josiah sounds a little worried, but mostly like he's trying to sooth Buck. He wishes it was just that, wishes it were that simple, but it's not. His breath shudders as he tries to answer, shakes his head even though Josiah can't see him, and when his solid voice asks again, insisting now, Buck breaks. He spills it all. That Chris wasn't there when he got home on Friday, just a note, and he said he'd be home yesterday, but he never came, he never came, and, and, what if...?

What if he's not coming back? What if he can't? He's hurt somewhere? (Buck can't, won't, think that he might be worse than hurt. He can't.)

What if Chris doesn't want to?

Josiah lets himself in with his key when he gets there, Buck can hear him below at the same time the big man is still talking in his ear on his phone. Buck hopes he's wearing his headset, that he was careful.

He can't lose him too.

^.^.^.^.^

“You have to eat, son.” Buck nods without looking up, the spicy, tomatoey chili something he ordinarily loves, but right now the few bites he's taken are sitting like a rock at the bottom of his stomach. He honestly isn't sure if Josiah pulled it out of his freezer as he left or if he'd been bringing them leftovers at the same time as groceries.

Buck isn't sure why, knows it's stupid, but for some reason he thought Josiah would be able to figure out where Chris is. But Chris's phone is still dead and all the people Josiah had called hadn't seen hide nor hair of Chris, Buck able to see Josiah getting more worried with each failed phone call and feel his own gut tighten in response.

Then the preacher had made him lie down on the couch and rest, like he's some little kid, giving him the clicker and a banana and telling him plainly that he was going to lay down and relax whether he liked it or not.

Buck snorts quietly down at his meal. Like he could have slept, feeling like this. He doesn't look like a raccoon, either.

How the hell is he supposed to eat when he feels like this? Buck hears Josiah sigh across from him and looks up, defensive, waiting for him to tell him to eat again. He's not prepared for him to stand up and motion for Buck to stand up too, but he follows after the big man.

They wind up outside, Buck tugging on the windbreaker Josiah had tossed at him as they meander down the sidewalk. Buck doesn't like it. What if Chris calls or comes back while they're gone?

“Where are we goin'?”

“You'll see.” Heaving a loud sigh, Buck shoves his hands in his jacket pocket and keeps walking. He's not mad at Josiah. Knows it's not fair that he's being a moody little shit, but he doesn't like not knowing what they're doing, or why they're doing it.

Not like he has anything better to do, though. With another sigh, quiet this time, Buck walks a little quicker, closing the gap that had been forming between him and the preacher. Josiah shifts to the side a little, giving him enough room to walk by his side. It's kind of nice, he guesses.

When Josiah veers to the left a few blocks later Buck hesitates, pretty sure he knows where they're going and not sure he wants to follow. This was her spot, not his.

“Can't stay away forever.”

“Wanna bet?” Josiah stops, reaching out to tug Buck to a stop too, Buck reluctantly letting himself be turned towards the preacher.

“Moving on doesn't mean forgetting.”

Buck just stares at Josiah for a second, at his solemn face, not sure he should believe his ears. Then he glares, because that's not fair, where does Josiah get off saying that? Buck would never try and forget Sarah and Adam, not ever, and-

As tears start forcing their way up, Josiah still looking at him like he thinks he knows what he's talking about when he doesn't know shit, Buck forces his way past him, shouting just that as he goes.

It's not until he's halfway through the little green area, turning onto the 'secret' path his sister-in-law had shown him years ago, that Buck starts to wonder if he didn't just do exactly what Josiah had wanted all along.

And damn him if he isn't right, too. Buck isn't trying to forget, but as he drops to his knees in the little clearing, the grass tall and wet with dew, he realizes he hasn't been letting himself remember either. Now, here, he can't seem to stop.

Sarah teaching him to play piano, how amazing it had been to learn he was good at it.

Adam calling him 'Bu-kuh' the first time, how proud he'd been that the baby had said his name.

That first week after Ma, and how every time he woke up screaming Sarah or Chris were there. Every single time.

Holding Adam for the first time, Chris hovering like a hawk and Sarah watching with warm, warm eyes.

Sarah taking him and Vin to the comic book store in Dayton when he turned 13 and 'unleashing' them on the bargain bin. He still had them all, except for a couple he'd given JD.

How funny Adam could be when he was mad, glaring at you like a little-mini Chris, hands on his hips and all.

The way Sarah would look so relieved when he came in after curfew-right before her lips tightened and her arms crossed and she'd want to know if there was something wrong with his cell-phone's clock, because it was 'not 11, mister,'.

Running back and forth on the lawn with Adam on his shoulders, spinning until he had to sit down, Adam shrieking for him to do it 'again, again!' Kid never did seem to get dizzy.

Baking cookies for his junior high bake sale, Sarah plopping batter on his nose and insisting on taking a picture.

He remembers so much.

It all hurts. It hurts so bad.

And Buck won't give it up for anything.

Later, he gets up and walks out, drained and exhausted, and not as heavy on the inside. Josiah is waiting partway up the path and Buck nods at him. Grateful, and not sure how to say it. He tries though. “Thanks. I...Chris doesn't really wanna talk about,” Buck swallows, ducking his head to hide the tears springing up. Chris doesn't want to, and Buck doesn't know how to, but as Josiah bridges the space between them, pulling Buck close, he thinks maybe Josiah might be able to figure it out.

^.^.^

By ten o'clock Josiah has declared that if Chris isn't home by morning he's calling the police. Buck is relieved and worried, and not entirely sure why the call he made to Rafael, Chris's partner, that morning, doesn't count. At eleven Josiah declares it bedtime, and okay, yeah, it's a school night, and Josiah's a responsible adult and all that, but seriously? He's not actually expecting Buck to sleep, is he?

He is. He even comes up to make sure Buck's actually going to bed, though at least the preacher doesn't bug him about saying his prayers or anything. Convinced that there is no way he's going to fall asleep, Buck texts Vin for awhile, updating him that Chris still isn't around. Vin, he figures, is probably worrying nearly as much as Buck is.

Sometimes, even though Vin is his best friend, like another brother, Buck is jealous of how close him and Chris are, the way they just seem to understand each other without any of the years of growing up together, living in the same house, that Buck has only to be able to read his brother about three quarters as good as Vin can. Mostly though, he's glad that Vin has them, 'cause his foster parents are way too stupid to realize how awesome Vin is. Right now, if Chris texts Vin back instead of him, while it would suck, majorly, it would be totally worth it to know his brother is okay.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up, the sound of the garbage cans getting knocked over making him sit up in bed. Curious and hopeful, he gets to his window in time to see Chris picking them up where they're sitting by the curb for the morning. The way he is staggering lets Buck know all he needs to know about why they fell over. But he's home and he's safe, he came back, and right now that's all that matters. Josiah meets him, coming down the driveway as the cab pulls away and he hustles Chris into the house, and at first Buck grins, imagining that Chris is probably getting an earful.

Only then he can hear, his door still open, Chris yelling about Josiah interfering, voice slurred and angry, and Josiah countering back that he is over a day late and scared the hell out of all of them, and Chris-Chris says something foul to Josiah, that isn't true and isn't fair, and Buck doesn't understand how he can be like this.

It only gets worse.

There is roaring and cold shouting back from Chris, and then a slamming door and silence. Until a drunken, crying, raging, grieving Chris makes his way up the stairs. Buck curls up in his bed and pretends to be asleep, hoping the anger won't pay a visit his way.

^.^.^.^.^

Late the next morning, nearing afternoon, Buck is staring into the fridge, wondering whether it's worth it to make eggs or not. He decides not, shutting the door and snagging a bag of sour cream and onion chips off the top of the fridge instead. While he's leaning on the counter, two handfuls deep in the chips, he hears Chris grunting his way down the stairs, but doesn't look up from his food until a gravelly, hung over, voice grumbles, “Chips ain't breakfast.”

Buck feels a sardonic smile spread over his face, head still down, and bites back, 'But whiskey's dinner,' even though he really, really, wants to say it. Bites back a lot of things he wants to say, like, 'Didn't figure you'd be home to care', or, 'Was starting to think you were moving out.'

Buck realizes that he's crushing the bag of potato chips, smashing it, and loosens his hands, a little frightened that he could do that without noticing. Chris pulls the bag out of his hands, not gentle, but not rough either, and tosses it onto the counter. “Buck...Bud...” His voice is almost helpless, almost guilty, and the almost pisses Buck off. He raises his chin and glares, telling himself he doesn't care how haunted his brother looks, and maybe right now, mad, he doesn't.

“You left,” Buck swallows, the words thick in his throat, “a note. I didn't even know where you were, or-” He cuts himself off, not quite willing to voice that thought. His eyes are trying to brim, and he hates that it feels like his body is half tears now, but the best he can do is hold them back, keep them from falling while his empty hands ball into angry fists.

“Buck,” Chris puts his hands on his shoulders, and part of Buck says he should shrug them off, but most of him is resisting the urge to grab onto Chris like he'll disappear if he doesn't, “I'll always come back. I wasn't leaving.”

“You're already gone!” It bursts out of him before he can stop it, and he flinches back, not sure of Chris's reaction, not anymore. Chris's hands tighten and loosen on his shoulders once, then again, but he isn't saying anything, just looking at Buck like he's a puzzle with a piece missing. Slowly, slowly enough that Buck has time to take stock of the dark circles under Chris's eyes, that he looks like shit even after a shower, a determined look overtakes his brother, a look that fits proper on Chris's face.

“Not anymore.” His thumbs rub circles on Buck's shoulders, and he wants to believe him so bad. “Things,” Chris swallows, Buck watching his throat bob, “Things are hard. Someti-” Chris shakes his head, stops himself from saying whatever he was going to say, then winces like his head hurts, sucking in a slow breath before he goes on. Buck isn't sure if he wants to know what it was or not. “I'm gonna do better.” He smiles then, earnest and bittersweet, and Buck almost, almost, believes him. “'Cause you're my brother. And boy, do I ever love you.”

Hook, line, and sinker. “I love you too,” he mumbles, not sure if he should believe Chris, but knowing he does.

Ma said I love you like that, when she was tickling or roughhousing with him, she'd just grab you up and squeeze and say, 'Boy, do I ever love you', not a question, but a multiplier, and Chris wouldn't-he wouldn't have used her way if he wasn't really going to try. He wouldn't. Chris's hands drop and he steps back a little, and Buck isn't sure what he's supposed to do next.

“You want to go to Denny's?” Buck blinks, not expecting the question, and he must have looked confused, because Chris explains, “For breakfast. You still can't eat chips.”

Grinning just a little, testing, Buck says, “Already did.”

“Smart-ass.” Chris says, no heat in it, a little amused, “Need to get some real food into you. Go on, go get dressed. We leave in fifteen.”

“You totally want hangover food.”

“Brat.”

Buck is halfway up the stairs when he freezes like the proverbial witch's tit. The borrowed truck is gone, hopefully returned since Chris came home in a cab, and that leaves Sarah's SUV. His guts starting to tighten, Buck wonders if Chris wouldn't mind walking instead. It's not that far, and it's sunny out...

Pulling on the first clean shirt he finds and shaking the wrinkles out of a pair of jeans he grabbed from the pile on his desk chair, he decides that he can deal with riding in it if Chris can.

A cursory wash of his face and teeth later Buck is downstairs. Where Chris is holding both their motorcycle helmets. He all but sags in relief when Chris orders, “Boots and leather jacket,” matter of factly, like Buck should already have known. Neither of them are ready to test those waters yet.

Her sunglasses are still on the visor. Buck sees them as Chris rolls the motorcycle out of the garage.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck flirts outrageously with the waitress, and Chris rolls his eyes and sucks down black coffee. “Sixteen,” he mutters at Buck, like it's a reminder, as she-Angela-walks away from the booth with their orders. Buck just grins, shifting a little on the vinyl seat to get comfortable, not quite, but almost, sprawling.

Their food comes quick; hot, greasy, and good. Buck shoves it in his face, the grilled cheese from last night a distant memory, the fried potatoes in his scramble almost hot enough to burn him, but they're good enough he doesn't much care.

It's good, and flicking his eyes up at Chris, who is carving into his ham and eggs slower, but just as steadily, as Buck, he watches him carefully for a moment. He swallows and smiles down at his plate.

It's all good.

^.^.^.^.^

Chapter Text

“Hey, Bud, c'mere and watch the game with me.” Chris says it casually as Buck is carrying his snack towards the stairs. He has homework, too much homework with all the back work that piled up while he was absent, and then he missed today too, but...

Chris wants to watch the game with him. Buck's feet are carrying him over to the couch, dropping him onto the side closest to his brother's armchair before he can think twice about it. Settling into the cushions as Chris smiles at him, small, but sincere and warm, over his beer bottle, Buck figures his feet are pretty smart. Hockey's on the screen, Buck's pretty sure it's the playoffs, and as Chris looks back at the screen, Buck following along, he thinks maybe they're going to be okay. Maybe not now, not yet, but they will be. They will be.

A minute later Chris reaches over and snags a Ritz cracker with pepperoni off Buck's plate, chuckling at his automatic, “Hey!”

“Don't worry, I'm gonna feed ya.”

“Can we get Dominos?” He's eating pepperoni because he likes it, after all. Chris shakes his head, and okay, they've been eating a lot of pizza lately, Buck even more than Chris, but he still gives Chris puppy dog eyes, and reminds his brother that they've got that sandwich he really likes there. Chris tells him to go look in the old fridge they keep in the garage, and, despite knowing that this means he'll probably wind up with carrying duty for whatever it is, Buck is too curious to complain.

He does make Chris pause the TV before he'll move. They're watching the game together, after all.

Flipping on the garage light as he enters, Buck is halfway across the room when he realizes that Adam's tricycle and the little bike with training wheels that he wasn't quite big enough for yet are both gone from the corner where Buck's bike and old scooter rest. He stops and stares for a long second. He's not sure why that shocks him, but it does, rattling him so he can't seem to move.

He tells himself he gets it. He does, really. Chris spends a lot of time out here, working on his carvings, or his motorcycle, and probably it hurt him to see them sitting there, like Adam would come running out any second and head straight for the tricycle. He'd ride it in circles in the garage happily for ages if no one could take him out. Buck swallows, and plans to start moving to the fridge, to tear his eyes away from that ugly, ugly gap, but he can't. Chris calls out to him from the living room, the words carrying through the open door behind him but Buck doesn't really hear them. He wonders when Chris moved them. Where are they? He wouldn't've, couldn't've given or thrown them away. Chris wouldn't.

“Buck?” He doesn't move, doesn't turn his head, because if he looks at his brother right now he's going to cry. He's really, really sick of crying. Chris isn't stupid though, and he can see where Buck is looking. He walks over behind Buck and puts both his hands on his shoulders, squeezing a little.

“Did you get rid of them?” He doesn't mean to say it, doesn't mean for his voice to come out as harsh and accusing as it does, and for just a second Chris's hands are just a bit too tight on his shoulders. They loosen again in an instant, massaging a little where they'd pressed.

“Never.” Buck chokes up a little, relieved and embarrassed, hurting and guilty, all at once, and Chris uses his hold on him to turn him around, crushing him into his chest. Buck is as tall as Chris now, and part of him knows as he pushes his face into Chris's shoulder that he's too old for this, to find his safe space here. Only, Chris doesn't seem to think so. He just holds him, rocking just a little, and Buck doesn't know how long that's going to last, not when he'd kind of already thought he lost it.

Later, Chris next to him on the couch, they eat the tamales and sliced avocados and tomatoes that Dita had sent over with Rafael on TV trays while watching the last of the game and then Gone in Sixty Seconds. Buck knows Chris thinks it is kind of lame for a car chase movie, but he'd told Buck to choose after all.

He falls asleep before the end and then wakes up with his head pillowed on Chris's leg. The blanket from the back of the couch is tucked around him, and he can hear Chris snoring and see the credits rolling on the TV. Buck gropes for the clicker where it has fallen on the floor and shuts it off before settling back where he was.

He guesses Chris really meant it when he said he was gonna do better.

^.^.^.^.^

“So, you've decided to once again make an appearance in this class, Mr. Wilmington? How surprising. I'd ask if you were concerned with your education, but well, we both know that isn't true.” As Mr. Barbela stares down at him from the front of the room, his wobbly jowls quivering in displeasure. Buck feels his face heat, embarrassed and angry, wanting to snap back at the man, but not trusting what might come out. He knows why Buck has missed so much school. Everyone knows. “Nothing to say? That is surprising.” It's all Buck can do to keep a hold of his temper now, sucking in slow breaths for all he's not sure why he's bothering, because screw this holier-than-thou son of a bitch, but hold it he does. He can feel JD vibrating on the lab bench next to him and just has time to really hope the kid doesn't explode, before he's on his feet, shouting down the teacher.

Shit. JD is red-faced and yelling at Barbela, who is shouting back about detention and suspension, and Buck should stop him, he really should, or maybe he should go punch Mr. Barbela in the nose. Yeah. That sounds good.

Buck doesn't actually punch him in the nose, but he does get up, shoving his stuff in his backpack while the now enraged man demands to know what he thinks he's doing.

“Taking charge of my education,” he deadpans, snagging a JD who can't decide between grinning at Buck and still glaring in outrage at their chemistry teacher by the elbow, “His too.”

^.^.^.^.^

The school calls Chris, and this time he cares. Buck just shrugs from his spot on the couch when his brother demands to know what the hell happened, looming over him in frustration. Chris doesn't need to worry about it. Buck can handle that old geezer.

Probably, he thinks a minute later, marching up the stairs to his room and making sure his feet thumped as he went, he shouldn't have said that last part out loud. Doesn't mean Chris has to be such a jerk about it. Not quite slamming his door behind him, Buck flops down on his bed, feeling the frame vibrate beneath him as his back hits the mattress.

Whatever. Not like he has anywhere he was planning to go anywhere this week anyway.

Chris sucks.

^.^.^.^.^

Buck is walking back to the ISS room, where he has to spend the day after his escape from chemistry, with his lunch tray, when he becomes aware of Chris storming down the hall. Of his school. In full uniform. Looking rather like he wants to kill someone.

Buck, frozen where he stands now, really hopes it isn't him Chris has his eyes set on. But, since he's looking right at him he doesn't think he's so lucky. The monitor pokes her head out the door, Buck can see her out of the corner of his eye, and opens her mouth to tell him to get into the room, he's sure. She gets one look at Chris and retreats. Buck doesn't blame her. Face hard, Chris comes to a halt in front of him, feet planted, and Buck gulps. “Why the hell didn't you tell me what Mr. Barbela said to you?” It's all he says, glaring, and Buck gapes, no idea what to say to that, no idea how Chris knows.

“I...it's okay, Chris.” Clearly this is the wrong thing to say, Chris's eyes flashing as he points at Buck.

“I'm the grown-up, you're the kid. Someone does you wrong, you tell me. Not JD, you.” Chris is storming past Buck before he even has time to curse JD for not being able to keep his motormouth shut, Buck turning to look after him. He wants to call out and ask his brother where he's going, what he's doing, but he doesn't quite dare, pretty sure he already knows.

On the one hand, the idea that Chris might bust into Mr. Barbela's classroom and ream him out is awesome. On the other hand, Chris busting in and making a scene in a classroom he's going to have to go back to tomorrow is...well, okay it's still pretty awesome, but it's kind of awful too. Mr. Barbela is enough of a jerk that Buck will never hear the end of it, both from him and the kids that will think it's legendary.

Buck wonders if he can get away with following Chris down the hall and watching-if his brother's going to tell his teacher off for him, he might as well be able to enjoy it right? Only the monitor is telling him to get back in the room now, and with a grumble he walks back in, settling at a desk.

Hey, maybe this means he isn't grounded anymore?

^.^.^.^.^.^

He isn't grounded anymore. Chris hasn't officially told him that yet, but as the monitor's walkie buzzes and a voice asks for Buck to be sent to Mrs. Aizen's office he's sure of it.

He also learns, thanks to the ever lovely office assistant Miss Tanya, and is a little disappointed about it, that his brother didn't actually just storm into Mr. Barbela's classroom and rip him a new one. Of course, his marching into the principal's office and demanding to know why they punished their students for not being able to put up with verbal abuse is nearly as cool, and probably a lot more effective.

Buck thinks maybe his brother is going a little overboard with calling it verbal abuse. It wasn't like he'd called him stupid or useless or anything like that. Only as Mrs. Aizen calmly asks Buck to explain what happened yesterday he finds himself having to clear his throat a couple times, especially when he gets to what the man had been saying about both him and JD once the kid started yelling.

Buck knows he's not the best student, never has been and never will be, but he does care about his education. He's not stupid, and he knows it's important to Chris and...

Knows it was important to Sarah. For Mr. Barbela to act like Buck was just skipping, just off having fun at the arcade or something, when...Buck closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, the unfairness of it all trying to make them well up, but that's not going to happen here, he's not going to let it. Chris's hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing, and he declares, voice almost daring Mrs. Aizen to disagree with him, that he's not going to have his brother be punished for any of this, not anymore than he already has been. Mrs. Aizen looks a little frustrated, a little tired, but her quick agreement has Buck pretty sure it's not with him. Well, at least not mostly, her voice is pretty serious when she tells him what he should have done was gone to see the counselor or something yesterday, not just left. The school is responsible for his safety, and if they don't know where he is...

Buck gets it. He really does. He still isn't sure he would have done a single thing differently, but he gets where she's coming from, and he tells her so.

Leaving the office feels like escaping again, Mrs. Aizen saying he doesn't have to go back to the ISS room. ISS kids get the later lunch, so he only has a class and a half left and the half is Mr. Barbela's, so Chris signs him out and takes him with him.

They're driving down the road in Chris's police cruiser when Buck sees a familiar figure walking down the road. Going towards the school, making Buck wonder just what Vin's been doing with his day. Not wanting to get Vin caught, he looks away, staring out the other side of the car window. A muffled curse a second later and the sound of the turn signal being flipped on lets him know it didn't work. “First JD, now Vin,” Chris grumbles, but there is a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and, okay, Buck is really curious now about just what his friends are up to. And why Chris seems to know more about it than he does. He looks back over at Vin, who seeing the car has stopped where he is on the sidewalk, resigned, waiting as Chris gets out of the car and marches towards him. Even with Buck's window down he can't hear more than the odd word or two, which sucks, but two of the things he does hear are 'T.P.' and 'Barbela'. Grinning, even as Chris points towards the car exasperatedly and Vin starts trudging towards it, Buck is sure he knows exactly what Vin's been doing.

He shoots Vin a thumbs up as he climbs in the back, and Chris, climbing into the front, sees and gives Buck a look. “Did you know what Vin was planning, Buck?” Buck, who has only just gotten ungrounded, and really didn't know a thing, shakes his head and insists that he didn't, he hadn't a clue, just has good ears, and Chris considers him for a long moment before finally nodding. He's silent most of the way home, and Buck and Vin stay that way too, not even texting like they usually would have. Or Buck would have, wanting to know details, and Vin would have shot him back maybe a sentence.

As the car pulls into the driveway and they pile out, Chris opens the back of the cruiser for Vin and then jerks his head towards the garage. Buck knows without it having to be said that he should head into the main house while Chris scorches Vin's ears a little in the garage and hightails it before Chris starts wondering if he was involved after all.

He only ate half his lunch before he got called to the office, so Buck heads to the fridge, snagging an apple out of the vegetable bin and munching on it as he leans on the counter.

Chris is acting like, well, like himself. That should be a good thing, and really, really, it is.

Last week Buck isn't sure Chris would have cared about any of this. Sure, when his brother was pissed and thinking he'd just stormed out of Barbela's classroom to be a brat or something, that sucked.

But...it was better than him not caring. And he fixed it when he found out was going on, fixed it for Buck.

Only...Buck doesn't quite trust it. Or, maybe it would be better to say he doesn't buy it, because he trusts his brother. He's been so different, and Buck had been hurt, but he hadn't blamed him, not really. Maybe a little. Now, what, Josiah yelled at him and Buck cried a little and everything is...not normal, it can't be normal, and that's not fair anyway, but...

How long until it gets too hard again?

^.^.^.^.^

Buck wrinkles his nose as Chris informs them that they're going to spend the afternoon on a project, his brother heading up the stairs to change out of his heavy uniform. Apparently he thinks they need to be kept busy. He guesses Vin did just commit vandalism for him, so maybe Chris has a point, but he really hopes they don't wind up organizing the garden shed again. Looking over at Vin who is slouching against the counter, subdued, but definitely not as regretful as Chris was probably going for, he grins. “Hey, Vin?” Vin looks up, nodding but silent. “I appreciate it. Really. Sorry Chris reamed ya.”

Vin shrugs, “I got your back.” Then, when Buck thinks that is all he's going to say, he grins, face lighting up, “Been wanting to do that for a long time anyway.”