Chapter Text
A dull ache throbs at the back of Eddie's head as he pushes himself off of the couch, white hot anger still coursing through his veins. He stares at the door Buck had slammed, lifting a tired hand to rub his burning eyes. It's always something these days, always some stupid reason for them to be at each other's throats like rabid dogs. Today's reason? Buck was upset that Eddie had postponed their weekly takeout movie night with Chris. This headache hadn't subsided all week and all he wanted to do was go to bed, but no, he ended up in a yelling match with his best friend for the third time this month. He may as well have just suffered through the fucking movie.
Perhaps that's one of the reasons he never has it in him to confess the feelings he's beginning to understand, a deep fear that they're too far gone or that if he crossed that line they soon would be. One of many, he supposes. He's been struggling to come to terms with it himself, his upbringing still a persistent part of him that he hasn't yet managed to shake. Even more so there's the worry that he is completely misjudging this. That he's toeing the cliff's edge with no real evidence that it won't drop him two hundred feet. It doesn't help that Buck has been on and off with Tommy for months now, his ever changing mood entirely reliant on the older man's whims. Some weeks he wants him, other weeks Buck becomes nothing but chopped liver, cast aside to Eddie's couch
Not that Eddie minds, of course. When they're free of their impromptu 'who can make the other snap first' contests, they're still the same starry eyed young men they had been when they first met, before the grief , before Bobby.
Eddie grimaces, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. He dwells on that day, on that fucking nightmare, enough each night, he doesn't need it to permeate his mind throughout the day too.
Coffee. That's what he needs. What he deserves. After all, he had successfully (albeit barely) managed to avoid throwing something at Buck when the altercation had turned particularly nasty. He couldn't lie and say that he had entirely avoided rising to the obvious bait the man had been practically shoving in his face but, hey, small victories.
'World's Greatest Dad' is scrawled on his mug. The words feel almost laughable in their aggressively bright yellow font, underlined with a swirling blue that doesn't match at all. Who is he to brag about that, to wear that title when his own son barely wanted to know him a month ago? He should be embarrassed to call himself a father, he is a selfish monster and everybody can see it, just as Buck insists on reminding him.
Not that Buck would phrase it exactly like that, of course. But Eddie isn't too stupid to see the implications.
Steam curls above the lip of the mug, the coffee pot safely reinstated to its correct position despite the persistent shake in his hands as his body deflates from the adrenaline. He wraps his fingers around its warmth, lifting it up and up towards his mouth until it slips.
A profound sense of fragility, one that he hasn't felt since he was a kid getting his ass kicked on the football field, strums through him. The gaudy font shatters across the tiles, steaming hot liquid pooling at his feet. He sees it touch his skin before he feels it, burning away at the flesh and darkening the edges of his vision.
He follows the mug down, dropping into a heavy heap at its side, his head colliding with the floor with a sickening crack.
The stench of bleach and latex swallows the air in Doctor Collins' office, knocking Eddie even more nauseous than he already is. Three days spent in hospital for what? Some exhaustion and stress and maybe some minor burns? A waste of time and money that he absolutely cannot afford right now. Christopher is only just starting to settle back into the old routine and, after the row, he doubts Buck is all that ecstatic about babysitting.
Well, maybe that was an unfair thought, no matter the state of Buck and Eddie, one thing is always certain, Christopher comes first. The men would never fight in-front of him nor would they dare take out their frustrations with each other on him, it's an unwritten rule and one that would never be broken.
"Mr Diaz," the doctor greets, sweeping into the office with an almost unsettling urgency. "I was just about to come looking for you on the ward but I see you've already found your way to me." He speaks with a distance and formality that Eddie has witnessed countless times but the subtle edge to his voice, the set to his jaw, that is something he hasn't seen since the lightning strike that almost took Buck from him forever.
"I've been looking over the results of your MRI," he continues, a grim expression settling across his face that makes Eddie's stomach lurch. "What I'm seeing, Mr Diaz, well, it's quite concerning." A pause for effect, or for some reaction that Eddie can't give, staring at the man blankly despite his trembling hands. "Can I ask, have you been experiencing any headaches recently? Or nausea? Weakness?" The look in Eddie's eyes tells him everything he needs to know, the way they widen and recognise every word spoken. The expression turns almost mournful despite the fact that Eddie is very much still alive and breathing, thank you very much.
"From what I can see and from the symptoms that you seem to be presenting with, I'm afraid to say that you may have glioblastoma."
The term is vaguely familiar but his training as an army medic didn't exactly cover brain diseases.
"And that would be?" he asks, trying to project a confidence he definitely does not feel.
"Brain cancer, Mr Diaz. A very aggressive form, that is. We won't know for certain until we've taken a biopsy but-" The room feels like it's spinning the moment the word cancer leaves his lips, his mind grasping to understand how this could be happening while it attacks itself from within.
"And how long will that take?" He can't help but interrupt, not interested in hearing how bad things are looking for him right now. He knows they're bad, suspected brain cancer obviously isn't fucking good.
"You would usually be looking at around a week for the results and then a few more days before any further action can be taken but I've consulted with my team and we can arrange for your samples to be fast tracked due to the severity of your case. I can have your results back to you in three days. I know it isn't perfect but there's only so much I can do. Just go home, Mr Diaz, spend these few days with your family." He's trying, Eddie can see that but as much as he appreciates it, three days is still a lifetime away.
"Doctor Collins, I have a son. I can't- I can't wait three days. I need to know. I need to prepare. Please there has to be something else you can do." He's begging and he knows it, praying to the God his relationship has become so complicated with.
"I'm sorry, Eddie, truly. But I've done all I can until we know more. I'll call you in three days and we can go from there," the doctor sighs, breaking his own strict rules for just a moment to reach across his desk and take Eddie's hand, squeezing it gently, almost fatherly. "I will do whatever I can do to get you through this, Mr Diaz, I swear to you and to your son. Now go home."
Eddie staggers out of the hospital in a daze, his eyes unfocused and his legs refusing to work with his traitorous brain. He stumbles once... twice... three times before he makes it to a bench by the entrance, dropping onto the worn wood with a shaky breath.
With very little else to do, he cries. There on that creaky, splintered bench in broad daylight, his resolve shatters into frenzied sobs. He wails for himself, for his parents, for his friends and for his son, body-wracking howls that drag every last inch of oxygen from his lungs.
He's known pain before, he's felt his heart break apart in his chest, felt a bullet slice through his shoulder but nothing quite like this. This is raw and heavy, brutal and punishing and he can't help but worry that it's exactly what he deserves. He's let everyone down. He's let his son down. And now maybe this is God finally getting even. He strayed from the righteous path and now what? Now he has to tell his son that Dad might not be here by Christmas. Cruel fucking God.
His phone shakes in his hand as he hurriedly swipes through his contacts, not even sure what he's searching for. He can't pull a breath in, shallow inhales and exhales doing their best to keep him awake and conscious while his lungs tighten painfully.
Somehow in his panic he finds the number he's been looking for, pressing dial and bringing the phone to his ear whilst dropping his head into his hand. "Bobby," he sobs, the word a broken plea as he hears a familiar voice coming through from the other line.
"You've reached Bobby Nash, I'm not available to take your call right now, please leave a message."
It hits him all over again, the memories, the phone call that night, all the things his frantic state had forgotten for just a brief moment. He almost does leave that message, desperate for Bobby's advice and guidance, for someone to tell him what the Hell to do now. But Bobby Nash is dead. And Eddie Diaz may not be far behind.
It takes him a long while to finally hang up, terrified of severing that final moment of connection with his mentor, his father in every way but biological. But eventually he has to face it, has to let him go again. He deletes the number to be sure.
He should call Buck but he can't handle that conversation right now, not when the last time they spoke was so charged and angry. He could call his actual parents but when have they ever been helpful? Fucking never, trying to get some empathy from them would be like squeezing blood from a stone.
He calls Athena and hopes against all odds that she's not on duty, a yearning for her motherly wisdom and comfort far outweighing his guilt over potentially ruining her day off.
She answers in an instant, concern already filling her voice and knocking him sick with self-reproach. When was the last time he called her just to talk? Had he ever? Or had communication like this been strictly reserved for emergencies? He supposes he'll be having a lot of realisations like this over the coming days.
"Can you come get me?" he asks, sounding so much like a scared child that he catches himself off guard.
"Of course, where are you?" comes the reply, her worry loosely masked by her matter of fact tone.
"LA General. I'll explain when you get here just... Please," is all he can get out, his throat constricting around the lump of the next desperate cry, holding it in with the rest of his might.
"I'll be there in ten."
The drive from her house to here is at least twenty minutes on a good day but somehow Eddie knows she's right. He's seen her do it for Buck and for May and it warms through that fear just the smallest bit that she would do it for him too.
She gets there in eight minutes, tearing into the carpark like the asphalt personally offended her. She doesn't ask anything, doesn't pry as to why he's brought her here, not yet. She simply gets out of the car, jogs up to him and hugs him, not caring at all about the tears soaking against her white blouse.
It catches Eddie by surprise, his body tensing at first but quickly relaxing. He ducks his head, burying it in the crook of her neck. It seems unnatural given the staggering height difference but Athena Grant can do anything, that much he's always known. And right now all she wants to do is hold one of her husband's boys and fix whatever it is that's ailing him. If only she knew.
They stay like that for a long while, neither daring nor wanting to pull back until Athena's concern and curiosity finally gets the best of her. She eases Eddie back onto the bench and sits down beside him, nudging his leg ever so gently with her knee. "Come on then, spill. What's happened?" she asks, trying to sound less nervous than she is. "Is it Chris? Has something happened to him?"
Eddie shakes his head, wiping a hand down his face with a deep sigh. "No, Chris is fine. He's with Buck," he explains and Athena settles the smallest fraction, reaching out to take his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.
"Then what's going on? I can't help if I don't know."
Part of him wants to yell, to scream, to tell her that even if she wanted to help there's nothing she can fucking do for him right now. But he knows that wouldn't be fair even though none of this is fucking fair.
Instead, he does his very best to explain, his words jumbled and occasionally catching in his throat. Athena just listens, nodding along in silence even as her own eyes gloss over just like his. She doesn't say a word until he's finished, her hold tightening noticeably around his hand.
"You damn firefighters, it's always something," she laughs softly, trying to lighten the mood even as a tear slips down her cheek. "If I'd have known how much shit follows you lot I never would have said yes to Bobby. I'd have ran screaming. But I'm a fool with a bleeding heart," she continues, reaching up to wipe his face. "Come on now, don't be silly. We've got this. We're the 118 family, aren't we?"
Oh, Athena Grant. You saintly woman.
"We don't know anything for certain right now, kid, but when we do we'll fix it. Like we always do." There's an unsaid fear in her words. That always didn't include Bobby and there's a high chance it won't include Eddie either. They can both feel it but neither can bring themselves to address it. "You're the strongest person I know. You raised that boy of yours into a sweet and kind young man, you've survived so much. This isn't gonna take you. We won't let it. Okay?"
He nods halfheartedly but Athena shakes her head.
"With a bit more conviction, you're not dead yet are you?" she teases and, for the first time in days, Eddie can't help but crack a smile.
"Okay," he replies, chuckling as she pulls his head down to press a kiss to his temple.
"You boys are gonna be the death of me one day, I'm telling you," she sighs fondly, standing and holding out her hand to help him to his feet. "Let's get you home to rest up. I'm sure Buck won't mind watching Chris a bit longer but you know you can always send him my way if you need to."
He takes it and nods, so grateful that he can't find it in himself to be sad anymore. He knows it'll be back and it will be unforgiving but for now he's calm enough to think clearly, to understand that there's no certainty just yet.
That newfound serenity lasts all of five minutes once Athena's dropped him home, not without making him swear that he'll call her if he needs to, of course.
He takes a much needed shower, scrubbing away the clinging stench of disinfectant and the greasy, filthy feeling that always comes from spending days in a hospital bed. His skin is rubbed raw once he's finished but at least he feels somewhat cleaner, less weighed down and uncomfortable.
The mirror is steamed up when he steps out, a small mercy he supposes. He doesn't want to see how much of a wreck he looks right now, be face to face with the broken and hollowed out man he feels like. If he stays ignorant, he can stay level headed... Theoretically.
Almost as soon as he reaches the couch, he's Googling, pouring over any and every source he can find on glioblastoma. All the migraines he passed off as stress, the nausea he assumed to be food poisoning, the dizziness and weakening muscles that he'd blamed on getting older. Months worth of symptoms that he had willed away with any old excuse. All of them leading to this? Would things have been different if he hadn't have ignored them? If he hadn't have been so scared of adding more worry to the pile Bobby's death had left, would he have a better chance of surviving this? Because Web MD isn't betting in his favour right now and frankly, neither is he.
He could sit here asking himself hypotheticals all night but he knows it wouldn't help. The fact is, this is happening and no amount of wishful thinking or frustration at his past self is going to change that. Three days and he'll know. All he has to do is stay sane for three days.
How hard could it be really? He's just a thirty-three year old man who thought he had all the time in the world left to face his fears but has suddenly been hit in the face with a pretty tight timeline. Worst case, he dies on an operating table. Best case, surgery gets him five more years at the most. Neither of those are great options but he knows which one he'd rather. Ideal scenario would be benign tumour but even that involves a pricey surgery and a risk, one he'd prefer not to take at all. Google hasn't helped him panic any less but at least he knows what the next steps will be a little better.
If, and it's a high chance it will, in three days the results come back as positive, it'll be, what, a week before he's getting it surgically removed. The doctor said his case is severe so he doubts they'd leave him any longer. That gives him ten days. Wow, The Ring was less stressful than this and she only gave them seven.
Ten days to iron out his will and make sure there's no loopholes his parents can exploit to get custody of Chris from Buck. Ten days to tell the team. Ten days to tell Chris that he might be an orphan before the months out, phrased far less brutally though, of course. Ten days to tell Buck, not only that he's dying but that he loves him and that he's sorry he didn't do it sooner. Maybe it's selfish, to tell him when they've got so little time, but Eddie's spent his life hiding away behind his parent's expectations and everyone else's needs. He'll be damned if he spends his death that way too.
He just needs to stop being so much of a pussy about it. Yes, Buck's probably still amped up about their fight but he can't still be angry enough that he won't listen to Eddie's need to talk to him. He's been in hospital, for Christ's sake, hopefully that's earned him at least a few pity points.
He sends a text that he hopes sounds casual enough to avoid raising any major red flags.
| Eddie: Hey, I'm home. Can you drop Chris at school tomorrow morning then come over? Need to talk to you.
| Buck: You gonna postpone that too or is it definitely tomorrow morning?
He's kidding, right? Eddie can't actually tell, staring at his phone blankly.
| Eddie: I've been in hospital for three days and you're still mad about that?
| Buck: Take a guess.
Fucking Evan Buckley and his fucking abandonment issues, Eddie thinks but there's a fondness to the soft shake of his head. Some things never change, he supposes, and, even with everything that's happened today, he hopes Buck never will.
| Eddie: Just get over here tomorrow, dumbass.
| Buck: Fine.