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The light from the kitchen window spills across the back yard, and even from here Hen can hear the comfortable hum and clatter of dinner being cleared away; Karen shouts to Denny to come scrape his plate, now, please, and she hears Eddie laugh and call for Chris to do the same. Comfortable sounds, familiar sounds. She should be in there helping. Not sitting here like an old woman, blanket tucked over her lap, cup of tea going cold on the side table as she watches the empty yard. Fairy lights are strung up along the back fence, and there's a candle still guttering on the deck table, sending up the faint smell of citronella in the gathering dark. Everyone else will be back outside soon enough. It's not worth the effort to try to get back up and shuffle back into the house. Not when she'll just be sitting uselessly at the table inside instead. She's not so steady on her feet recently. Can't really stand up long enough to do anything useful, not when her head spins and her hands shake at the smallest exertion.
The door swings open, and Hen tilts her head back, expecting it to be Karen, or maybe one of the kids. Denny and Mara both have been so sweet to her about everything, and god, she loves them more than life but it makes that awful clawing helpless anger harder and harder to swallow down sometimes.
Instead, it's Eddie. He's got his own cup of tea, smelling faintly of hibiscus and honey, and he smiles at her, tilts his head toward the other chair. "Mind if I join you?"
"Go ahead," Hen says, and he circles around to sit in the other chair, the side table between them, cradling his cup between his hands like he's warming his fingers, though it's not cold out at all. Karen wouldn't let her stay out here if it were.
"Thanks for having us," he says after a moment. "Dinner was great."
"I didn't cook it," Hen says, then she makes a face at the sharpness of her tone, the bite she can hear too late to soften. She reaches for her tea without looking at Eddie. "Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for."
Hen snorts. The tea is lukewarm, but that's alright. Gives her something to do with her hands. Something to do with her mouth other than biting the head off of someone who's only trying to be a friend. "You don't have to coddle me. I get plenty of that from Karen. Half the time I wanna get better just so we can finally have that big fight I know she's putting off."
Eddie laughs out loud at that, and she finds a smile pulling reluctantly at her mouth. "Well, you already ripped the rest of us a new one."
"Yeah," Hen sighs. "Did I ever say sorry for that?"
"No need," Eddie says.
"Would you let me just give you a damn apology?"
"Okay," he says, like he's indulging her, which makes her want to dump her tea in his lap almost as much as it makes her want to laugh. "Apology accepted."
"Thank you."
He nods, sips his tea, looks back out across the yard. After a moment, he says, "You know Buck and I got into it last year. Before I moved back. Worst fight we've ever had, by a mile."
"Yeah?" Hen asks.
"Yeah. He was pissed that I didn't tell him about the El Paso job. I was pissed that he didn't ask how I was doing. Acted like a real jackass to him about it. So, you know."
"Is there supposed to be a lesson here?" Hen asks dryly.
"Nah," Eddie says. He glances over at her, tilts his mug with a wry smile. "I'm just saying, I get it. Acting like everything's fine when it's not, hiding things from the people you love, it wears on you. Sometimes it comes out ugly. That's all."
"If I recall correctly, you were on Chim's side about all that."
"Still am," Eddie says easily. "He was right."
"Thanks a lot," Hen mutters, but there's no real ire in it this time.
"You were right, too," Eddie says, and that is surprising. She glances over at him, and he shrugs. "You've always been the one who has it together. Has all the answers. You don't make mistakes. We got too used to that."
"I'm not allowed to make mistakes," she says. There's a lump in her throat—anger, or maybe tears. "I've never been allowed to make mistakes."
"You are, though. We all do."
"None of you got fired over it."
"Buck did."
"Yeah, and that lasted all of three hours." Eddie opens his mouth, and she shakes her head. "I know. I know Chim had to do it, I know I can't—look at me." She waves at her stiff, blanket-covered knees. "I can barely stand up. Of course I can't do the damn job. And I lied to him. I took a stupid risk, with my safety, with everyone's safety. I know that. I know that. But I—I loved it. I loved that job, I loved being that person. And I don't know who I am now without it."
"You're Hen," Eddie says, like it's just as simple as that. God, she only wishes it could be that easy. "And we're all gonna stick with you through this. You know that."
"I know that," she sighs, like a concession. "Just wish the hits would stop coming, you know?"
He winces. "Yeah."
For a little while, they sit in silence. Hen sips her tea; Eddie does the same. Her bones ache, a heavy weakness pinning her in place. She remembers being strong, straining beneath a weight she could move, climbing a ladder in full gear with her breath easy in her lungs. Whatever Eddie says, that Hen feels like a far distant creature to the Hen of here and now. She doesn't say that. Eddie might get it—he's been injured on the job, after all—but maybe not. He always healed. Always knew he would. Maybe it's more like Buck—the blood clots, or earlier, during those months of healing when none of them knew if he'd ever get the full use of his leg back.
"I think I understand better now why Buck sued the department," she says eventually, and Eddie makes a choking noise like he's about to spit out his tea. Hen laughs out loud at that, sudden and unexpectedly bright. "I'm not going to, I'm just saying—"
"Don't even joke about that," Eddie gasps, swiping at his mouth, but he's laughing too. "Christ. That's one blast from the past we don't need. He'd be on your side, too."
"He would not."
"He would," Eddie counters, laughter in his eyes, tone both exasperated and fond, and Hen laughs harder. Behind them, the door swings open, and Karen ducks her head out. Her expression is worried, but it softens when Hen turns back to her with laughter still clinging to her tongue.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"Yeah," Hen says, smiling back at her. Karen tucks a lock behind her ear, shaking her head, and steps down onto the porch, close enough to settle a palm on the back of Hen's neck, a warm, steady, grounding touch. The soft swell of her hip presses against Hen's cheek, and if they were alone she'd turn her face into it, nuzzle at her though the fine linen shirt she's wearing, but they have company, so she restrains herself.
Karen sighs, sounding tired, sounding fond. "The kids are bringing dessert out. Any minute now, allegedly."
"I can help," Eddie says, starting to stand, but Karen waves him off.
"No, they got it, don't worry about it. Hen, you want some more tea?"
"I'm okay," Hen says.
"Hm," Karen hums. Her thumb moves on the back of Hen's neck. They are going to have that fight one of these days, Hen knows. Karen's good at putting things aside when she needs to, but she doesn't bury them to fester underground. They'll have it out, one way or another.
But for now, she sits on the porch with her wife and her friend, watching the sunset come down, listening to the kids clattering around the kitchen inside, and for a brief, peaceful moment she lets herself settle, and breathes in silence, not alone.