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Buck reads the note and thinks: No. No one else leaving while Buck stays behind. No more conversations left unfinished, the grain of them rough against Buck’s nerves.
The traffic gets worse the closer he gets to LAX. The radio might help calm him, but Buck keeps it off. He taps an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel to the silence.
It’s not like the movies, he thinks. Especially not the pre-9/11 ones. Short-term parking is less dramatic than the curb, and as he runs across the busy skybridge, Buck wonders if Eddie will even be in this terminal. Eddie usually flies Southwest — he has the credit card! — but there were other flights to El Paso leaving earlier. Buck can’t even get past security without buying a ticket. He’d slam a hand on the ticketing counter and demand, “What’s the cheapest flight you’ve got?”, but the line is really long, and he probably can’t afford a ticket if he wants to pay Eddie’s rent this month.
Buck stands there in Departures, panting, as the stupidity of it all catches up to him. Another day of making it about Buck, of creating scenarios in his head to serve his own interests without considering anything or anyone else. And why the big movie scene? Why the rom-com daydream? This is the kind of thing that makes people think Buck’s in love with his best friend. Because he doesn’t think. He just reacts. And then the people around him get tired of it, and then they—
“Buck?”
Eddie is standing a few feet away, on the other side of a steady stream of Mickey-eared families and suit-clad business people. He’s holding a coffee and a pastry bag, head tilted slightly to the side, face unreadable.
“Eddie—” Buck lurches through a gap in the crowd but stops right in front of Eddie. Buck feels awkward; his fingers seek security deep in his pockets. Even though Eddie’s hands are full, he closes the distance, knocking their elbows together.
“You were right.” The words tumble out of Buck’s mouth. “I wanted to help everyone, but I just made Bobby’s death about me. I should’ve done more to—”
“Stop,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Don’t blame yourself for not doing more. You’ve been hurting, but you won’t let anyone see. It’s closing you off from us. And it’s blinding you to how we’re hurting. And I—” Eddie cuts himself off, licks his lips.
“I didn’t mean to,” Buck says quietly. “I wanted to be there for you. For everyone.”
“Just be with us.”
Buck nods, and a weight lifts off his chest before fresh misery drops back down on him. “I can’t be with you if you go back to Texas.”
Eddie smirks, and irritation mixes in with Buck’s despair.
“I’m not,” Eddie says. “I never was.”
Buck’s eyebrows knit, hands gesturing aimlessly in confusion. “But your note…”
“My note said I was going to the airport. The airport and Texas are not the same. They don’t even have the same amount of letters in it.”
Buck shakes his head, exasperated, but a grin sneaks onto his face. “Then why are you here?”
“I heard some dick was being mean to you — thought you could use some cheering up.” Eddie gestures vaguely across the airport with his coffee. “Follow me.”
Eddie leans against the railing on the escalator to baggage claim. Buck is so amped up on anxiety and half-repressed hope that he very nearly pushes past Eddie to jog down the stairs. But he lets Eddie lead, and he jumps when Eddie holds up the pastry bag and calls out, “I found lunch — and also a free ride.”
“Nice!” The answering voice is so familiar that Buck’s heart breaks. “Hi, Buck!”
“Christopher, hey,” Buck says, choked up. He crouches next to the bench Chris sits on, pulling him into a hug so he can press his face into Chris’s curls. His hair is longer, isn’t it? Did he get taller? Buck looks up at Eddie to find his eyes already on him, his face soft.
“Thank you,” Buck mouths.
Eddie shrugs. Like it’s nothing. Then, Buck drives them home.
It’s better than the movies.