Follows Thoughts of Home
Warnings: A howling multitude of incomplete sentences. Excessive use of paragraphs.
Characters: C/B
Synopsis: At long last, Chris gets a clue. No smut, a little regret, and a lot of thoughts about Buck. Third in this series, that didn’t begin as a series. Once again, I’m channeling Chris, cause I just can’t get the hang of Buck. Maybe that says more about me than it ought to – that I can thoroughly understand someone who is emotionally destroyed and won’t let anyone get close to him. Although, I just read (one of) Charlotte’s “thesis” on Buck and it freakin’ rocks. She helped me edit too, and that also rocks. ;)
“So much for grilling.”Buck didn’t sound too disappointed as he said it, but Chris glanced sideways at him, just to be sure. Buck brought his beer to his lips, tilting his head with the bottle, and Chris watched the bob and tuck of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Yeah. So much for grilling. So much for down time. Though, as down time went, reclining next to his best friend, on his screened-in back porch, with his legs propped up, watching the distant lightning whip the stone shoulders of the mountains – was about as good as it got. Cold beer was a bonus.
Buck was right to pick out these chairs. He was right to screen in this part of the porch too. Several weekends of swearing and hitting their fingers with hammers, and they had sealed off this side of the porch against the threat of prehistoric mosquitoes that swarmed this time of year. The deck chairs were a recent buy. Hefty, deep, smooth, polished pine. Cushioned, with ottomans to match.
They were, as Buck described them, designed just for sprawling.
Chris sighed on a long hum of expelled tension and closed his eyes as the cool wind fingered through his hair. A tattered grey curtain had been drawn on the world of his back yard, muting the hues of spring, making even the air feel subdued. Rain tiptoed on soft silver feet, trying not to bow the tender heads of new grass and clover.
“We can always try tomorrow,” he suggested, half afterthought. It didn’t matter, really. Grilling was no longer an excuse for the two of them to spend time together.
Buck didn’t respond, not that he needed to. Of course they could try tomorrow.
Although, a week ago, tomorrows had become somehow more precious, and at the same time more meaningless. All the procrastination of knowing there is a day after was shattered; everything exploding into the eternal now of putting pressure on a gushing bullet wound, and calling for paramedics, and telling Buck to hold on.
Following the panic and the dread, the black hole of fear sucking all bodies to its center of gravity, came the shouting and the screaming, and the threats that if Buck ever broke cover like that again, Chris would be the one shooting him. It was an age-old threat.
Then they would simmer, a slow boil, Buck firmly explaining how he was only doing his job, the job Chris hired him to do. And Chris would clarify that that job did not entail playing jack-in-the-fucking-box in front of men with semi-automatic hand guns. And Buck would remind him that Chris couldn’t protect all of them, all at once. A little faith had to be involved.
They fast-forwarded more easily to this, now. To the afterburn of chaos. To the intangible stillness of being alive in the moment. Recent years, the fear had grown more potent, as well as the anger, but they arrived at this place more quickly than they used to, as if they knew that the rest of it was just a waste of time that they could be spending doing this. And they did, know that.
Besides, they won didn’t they?
Yeah, they won. The good guys won.
They always won; Chris wouldn’t settle for anything less.
And most of the time, that was sufficient. Sufficient reason to keep winning, to keep doing what they did better than anyone else did it. Days like this, though, Chris looked at the man next to him, and had to question how much longer he could live on a sufficiency of excuses.
Buck leaned forward, setting his beer on the damp floor of the porch, the only testament to his discomfort a peeping grunt of strain that he fought to hide.
“Your shoulder hurting?” Chris asked gently, knowing Buck would deny it. Knowing that Buck didn’t like prescription painkillers any more than he did. So he didn’t offer to go get any.
“Just stiff. That’s the worst part.”
Wasn’t that the truth. Getting shot didn’t hurt half as bad as recovering from it. Thank God this one hadn’t been life-threatening.
Buck held in a wince as he leaned back again, yet Chris could see it even though it wasn’t there, even though Buck held it in. Too proud to show pain, too stubborn to ask for help, and too reckless to stay down when he thought a friend was in danger. Chris couldn’t decide if he were describing Buck or himself, but he was only thinking about Buck.
“It’s ok, Chris. Really.” Buck turned to look at him, sable brows rising in emphasis, blue eyes black in this hoary twilight.
Chris fought to remain silent.
It was never okay for Buck to be in pain, minor or major. It was never okay for one of his men to be in a sling and on the injured list for the rest of the month.
So, he avoided eye contact, his own gaze locking on some random tree along the side of the yard, his mouth sealing shut with a moody compression of back teeth. He wasn’t going to waste breath giving his usual lip-service to the double standards he tried to live by – that it was acceptable for him to possess a less than healthy attitude towards self-preservation, but that his men were never allowed to be injured.
Buck was never allowed to be hurt. Buck wasn’t supposed to hurt ever.
He was thankful that Wilmington was sparing him the repeat argument that if Chris had been in the same position, he would have done the exact same damn thing. In Chris’ mind, that was different; he was allowed to get shot. He should make a toast to blatant hypocrisy.
He felt the pad of a thumb rubbing on the muscle reflexively twitching in his jaw.
“Hey.”
That one syllable brought his attention back to Buck, elbow of his good arm resting on Chris’ chair, thumb quietly massaging Chris’ cheek. That one word and the intensity of that probing gaze carried a great many concerns and unspoken requests.
Let it go. This isn’t the first time. It’s a risk we all take. I’ll heal. Let it go.
Chris looked away again and nodded, incidentally dislodging the hand at his face. He knew that he had to let it go, but he hated that he was the one in need of reassurance when it hadn’t been him unconscious and bleeding. As tough and impermeable as he tried to be, and managed to be, all it took was one gunshot to make his insides revolt, to make him seriously reconsider retiring out here to trees and grass, and a skyline that actually had sky. To the unvarying simplicity of earth and horses needing grain.
The rain continued to fall, a tickling pitter-patter on the roof. Beside him, he heard Buck exhale a quiet sigh, and for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t tell what it meant. Not irritated. Not pained. Perhaps just the release of something built up, easing the pressure a little. Like the clouds.
And then Buck was speaking again, his hand still poised on the arm of Chris’ chair. “When I was ten, and even better at getting into trouble than I am now, I fell out of a tree I wasn’t supposed to be climbing and broke my arm.” A small smile crept up half his mouth as he looked down at the arm currently in the sling. “I remember trying so hard not to show how much it hurt, cause I figured my mom would be even angrier than she already was. And she was. Boy was she. It took me a long time to figure out that she wasn’t mad cause I’d been stubborn and done what she told me not to. I think she kind of always counted on that.”
A full-blown smile of joy blossomed on his mouth, the smile that Chris always knew accompanied memories of his mother.
“And at the doctor’s, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. My arm hurt and I was sorry I’d disobeyed her, and the doc was poking and prodding, and I burst into tears. And I remember clear as day, my mom coming and kneeling down in front of me. And she had tears in her eyes, and she put her hand to my face and,” he paused, looking at Larabee now for the first time since he started, “she said, ‘Sweetheart, if I could, I would do anything to take away this pain. I would take it all on me and wear it like my own. I love you that much.’ Though, I can tell now like I couldn’t then, it was already hurting her as much as it was hurting me. Probably more.”
He stopped, and looked out on the gray green lawn. Then he laughed.
“I had the gall to tell her that next time I’d be sure to put a pile of leaves on the ground first. To break the fall. I don’t know how she put up with me.” He stopped then, his smile gradually fading until it was just in his eyes, a little sadder. “I’m gonna grab another beer. You want one?”
He stood, slowly, and looked down at Chris who responded, latently, “Sure,” and watched Buck disappear into the house.
He should have offered to go get them, but Buck was up and gone before the thought occurred to him. So he sat, staring vacantly at the rain, feeling several degrees worse than he had a moment before.
Of course Buck would do anything for him. That was a given. That was Buck.
He’d take on anybody’s pain just to spare them from it. A more fiercely loyal, protective man was never created, although he gave Buck a run for his money in that regard. Stubborn was also a given, Chris knew from too much experience. But here Buck was, the one with the hole in his shoulder, trying to tell Chris that he’d still do anything he could to make it easier for him, easier on him. Hadn’t he had enough of that, of bearing Chris’ pain?
Shit. Yeah, Chris didn’t know how Buck put up with him. There were days when he could hardly put up with himself.
He huffed a sound of pure annoyance and ran a hand through his hair.
Then he smirked. Clever of Buck to use a childhood memory as a way of apologizing for getting his fool-ass self shot. Damn straight he should apologize. Maybe Buck was right – he always said his mother had been a saint. So, maybe that made Larabee a saint as well.
That was a much better way to look at it, he thought smugly. Except that that made Chris Buck’s mother in this scenario. Which was more than amusing.
Chris smirked again. Sometimes he felt exactly like that – like an unorthodox den mother to a troupe of slightly unhinged ex-mental patients. He knew the boys all complained of Nathan’s mother-hen complex, but hell, he was way worse. He just exhibited it differently.
Didn’t make it less true. He would do anything to keep them safe.
He had felt no different as a father, only – perhaps – in a different way. The instinct to want to shelter his son, to protect him from all pain and fear and grief, had been nearly overwhelming. It was the hardest thing he ever had to do – to learn to let his son live, to experience all he could in his too-brief years.
Run even if you trip, swim even if you flail, ride even when you’re afraid to fall. Stand barefoot in the rain.
And he could just picture Buck at that age, at the age when climbing a tree was the greatest excitement. – the chance to experience it far outweighing the possibility that he might get hurt.
The stakes were higher now, with all of them, but it was the same instinct to protect them that fueled his temper whenever he couldn’t. He wasn’t superhuman, and they all knew the risks. But those risks weren’t any larger to them now than they were to a child going out on a shaky limb fifteen feet off the ground.
It didn’t mean Chris had to like it. He hated it. He hated when his men took risks, necessary or otherwise. And he never took risks with them. That was out of the question.
It made him shudder – the knowledge that he couldn’t be in control of everything all the time. That he couldn’t keep Buck safe all the time. They had had such a great weekend, and such a good week, and then this. It made him nauseous that Buck had been shot, and there was nothing he could do about it. Because there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Buck from getting hurt. He would do absolutely fucking anything on earth to keep Buck –
Comprehension sank within him like a stone. A boulder. The entire Great Divide.
And the clouds opened up and poured down upon his head.
He would do anything to keep Buck from pain – because he loved him that much. He would do anything to keep Buck. Period.
He must be the stupidest man on the face of the planet.
Chris couldn’t tell if he was burning up or freezing cold. His vision seemed to blur around the edges, and he wondered if his jaw was hanging as far open as he thought it was.
Flashbacks, pictures stormed his thoughts. All these weekends at his ranch, all the movies and pizzas and dinners at restaurants. Just the two of them. Buck opening doors and canceling dates. Just for him. Buck’s goodbye hugs lasting that much longer. Buck’s thumb on his cheek, Buck’s hand on his. Being held as he cried, being straightened when he was bent, and softened when he was angry.
Blind. Deaf. Dumb.
Poleaxed.
It was true, and that story meant Buck knew it was true, and that it worked both ways. That he would take all the pain in the world and wear it as his own – just so Buck wouldn’t have to feel it. Because he loved him that much. And Buck had done all that for him, and more. When the grief was suffocating, Buck had given him breath. Because Buck loved him that much. So in love that just friendship was sufficient.
Chris felt air rush out of his chest that he didn’t know had been in there. A thunder clap and a crackle of fire in the sky, and he stood up. Blood rushed right alongside emotion, and socked him in the head, making him sway.
He wanted to run around waving his hands and shouting, ‘I get it now!,’ like a child proud of his score on an exam. Like Adam when he learned how to write his name.
And Buck – gentle, rowdy, horny, steadfast Buck – had waited patiently until Chris finally figured it out on his own. Goddamnit, why hadn’t he said anything? Though, he had. Oh, damn, he had. Just not in so many words.
It did not take this long to get two beers, and Chris turned, determined, virtually frantic to find him – only to see him standing in the doorway to the back porch, easy as you please, silently sipping his beer.
Buck was staring off across the lawn, lost in thought. “If this rain lets up tomorrow, we could pick up that hay from McAlister’s and I could help you get it into the loft, ” he offered, idly.
“You will do no such thing.” Momentarily, Chris forgot all about life-altering epiphanies and life-long love. And the fact that Buck had been standing there watching him. “You can’t even lift your arm above your head.”
Buck didn’t do much of anything in response, no expression readable beyond that of quiet introspection. Then that passed, broken by a low growl of thunder. “Oh, did you want this?” he asked, holding out another beer.
“I must be the stupidest man on the face of the planet,” Chris announced, loudly, feeling like he should rent a billboard for the declaration. No, he didn’t want the damn beer.
“Well,” Buck moved a step forward, eyes teasing, and set his beer on the window-sill to his left, offering Chris the second bottle, “I have learned that it’s best not to argue with you.”
“You have not,” Chris shot back, incredulous, yet feeling a smile bubble up inside. Something that smiled on the inside even it if never made it to his face. Bold and terrified, he moved until he could feel the warmth of Buck’s chest wafting off of the man. Then he paused, narrowing his eyes as if in thought. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong – ”
And he found he had to lean up, the action sending a tiny thrill dancing all the way down his spine to his toes. He wanted to stand on his toes. He needed to stand on his toes. But he stayed, flatfooted, basking in the swooning sensation of having to reach up for a kiss.
Just a fingertip touch on Buck’s warm cheek and he brought their lips together, so very softly. A dull thud and a splash of something wet on his feet, and Chris worried, hesitated. But any apprehension or insecurity that would have drawn him backwards evaporated with the large hand that immediately wove into his hair. By his ear, over his ear, behind his head, giving him no chance of escape.
Jaws worked gently, maneuvering lips only, a smooth slide of vulnerable skin. Warm and easy, and so tender it bruised. God Almighty.
Buck’s moustache tickled, and Chris knew he was holding back. Being gentle. Being as gentle with him in this first kiss as he had been all these months of silent courtship. All these months.
Warm breath drifted across his mouth as they parted, and Chris felt he could have been knocked over with a feather. With that breath alone.
“Jesus, Buck.” All this time. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
That was a ridiculous question, and Buck obviously knew that. He drew back, laughter returned to his eyes. “What, and miss the look on your face when you finally figured it out?”
So like Buck to joke about the things most important to him.
So like Chris to let his actions speak for him, letting himself get giddy all over again, leaning up for another kiss. He framed Buck’s face in his hands and tried his best to assure Buck that, eureka, he’d finally figured it out. What he didn’t know he wanted.
So much wanting.
Chris ran his tongue along Buck’s lower lip and down into the slick glide of inner skin, and then over teeth, into all the love in the world.
Chris would have known this taste anywhere, this heat and compelling thrust of wet muscle. He felt like he had known all along what it would be like, kissing Buck, being kissed – the strong hand moving through his hair to his jaw and back again, the suction of lips and tongue that sought, and found, and went back to seeking more.
And still it was way beyond description.
When they parted, only a fraction of breathing room between them, Chris caught the naked, exquisitely pained expression on Buck’s face, and he froze. “What?”
For a moment, Buck only shook his head, drawing Chris to him – Chris let himself be led, burying his face in the solid fortress of Buck’s uninjured shoulder.
“What?” he whispered again, needing to know why now, of all times, there should be pain.
Lips moved to Chris’ ear, words almost drowned out by the rain.
“It just hurts a little. To finally have what I’ve wanted all my life.”
Immediately, intensely, Chris felt very, very small. Impossible with anyone but Buck. He gently encircled the man with his arms, as far around as they could reach, and let Buck hold him. If this was what he needed, Chris would give it.
Whatever he needed. Whatever it took.
Thunder rumbled a little, snapping lightning at the clouds, and Chris let Buck rock him back and forth to the rhythm of the storm. He felt perilously close to tears.
“Looks like the rain’s gonna let up,” Buck said at length, a hum under his ear, and Chris placed a kiss there, where he’d felt the sound, sliding his hand between them, to clasp Buck’s in the sling.
“I hope it doesn’t,” he mumbled against faded cotton, not talking about the rain at all. “I don’t want it to.”
Buck hummed, this time without words.
Then, softly, “Reckon you’re right.” He folded his fingers through Chris’ hair, over and over and over, breathing deeply against him, with him. “It’s been a long dry spell.”
THE END