Like Real People Do
Noah's hand was shaking when Buck left.
Not badly. Noah's left side never moved well anymore, and his right had developed a fine tremor in the last six months that came and went without explanation. The neurologist said it wasn't progressive. The neurologist said a lot of fucking things.
Buck had held the hand until it steadied. Had watched Noah's face until the crumpled thing behind his eyes folded itself back into something Noah could live with for the rest of the day. Rebecca had been gone for forty minutes by then. The papers were on the rolling tray beside the bed. A nurse had already moved the water cup to make room for them, which told Buck the nurse hadn't clocked yet that the papers were papers.
"She's coming back Sunday," Noah said.
"Yeah, Saint."
"For dinner."
"I don't think so, man."
Noah looked at him. The look was lucid in the way Noah was sometimes lucid now, in flashes that made it worse, not better. "Okay," he nodded.
Buck had pulled the blanket up. Had put the remote where Noah could find it. Had said the things he said every morning, which Noah needed said every morning, which was fine, which was a routine Buck could do with his eyes closed and sometimes did when he was too fucking tired to open them. Then he'd kissed the top of Noah's head the way he'd seen Noah's mom do once, years ago, in a base housing kitchen in Virginia Beach, and he'd left.
He was nineteen minutes late pulling into the academy lot.
---
He didn't run. Running would make it worse. He walked the way he'd been taught to walk when he was bleeding and didn't want anyone to see, which was also the way he walked into the academy at 0719 on a Thursday six weeks into the rotation, with his hair still wet from the hospital sink and his jaw set and his hands perfectly fucking steady at his sides.
Captain Deluca was already on the floor.
He was standing with his back to the bay doors, arms crossed, watching the other recruits run through the hose drill Buck should’ve been leading. He didn't turn when Buck came in. He didn't need to. Buck felt the attention land on him and he adjusted for it without thinking, squaring his shoulders.
"Buckley."
"Captain."
"You're late."
"Yes, sir."
"Nineteen fucking minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Sal turned then. He was built the way Buck's old chief had been built, tall and thick through the shoulders. Buck, who had three inches on him easily, still found himself aware of how Sal carried himself in a room. Sal's eyes were blue. They did the thing they did, which was to look at Buck and seem to catalogue him.
"Explanation."
Buck's mouth opened. Nothing came out. It was the first time that had happened in six weeks, and he watched Sal notice it.
"Personal, Cap."
Sal held the look another second. "On the line."
"Yes, sir."
Buck went.
He ran the drill. He ran it the way he ran everything, which was too well for where he was and not well enough for where he'd been, and he felt Sal watching the whole goddamn time, and he did not look over once.
---
At the end of the morning, when the recruits were stripping gear and refilling bottles and the bay smelled like sweat and the faint chemical sweetness of the floor cleaner someone had mopped, Sal said, "Buckley. My office."
Buck passed off his gloves.
"Yes, sir."
The door was half open and Buck pulled it shut behind him the way Sal liked, latch clicking quiet, and stood until Sal looked up from the clipboard.
He did not sit first.
Sal’s office smelled like coffee and something underneath it that Buck had stopped trying to identify around week three, when he’d realized identifying it wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he noticed it every single time he walked in here.
Sal’s desk was the same government-issue metal as the rest of the academy furniture and Sal made it look like he’d chosen it personally.
“Sit,” Sal said.
Buck sat. Hands on thighs, back straight, the way he’d sat in debrief rooms for five years under men who could end his career with a phone call. Sal’s eyes came up from the clipboard and did the thing they did, went from his hair to hands, and Buck kept his face blank and didn’t think about the fact that Sal’s forearms because that was not a productive line of thought.
“Personal,” Sal inquired, testing the word for structural integrity.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve used that three times in six weeks.”
“I’m aware, Captain.”
Sal set the pen down. Leaned back in the chair, which creaked once and then settled. “You’re running the top scores in your class. Every sim, every drill. Extraction, hazmat, the rope work last week. You move like you’ve done all of it before.” He paused. “Not like it. Like you’ve actually done it.”
Buck blinked at him.
“And then you show up nineteen minutes late with your hair wet and your eyes like you haven’t slept, and you give me personal and expect that to be the end of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sal glared like he wasn’t sure if Buck was being a smartass. “That’s not how this works.”
“I understand that, Captain. It won’t happen again.”
“You said that last time.”
“I mean it this time.”
Sal looked at him for a long moment. Buck held it. He was good at holding Sal’s attention, which was either discipline or something he wasn’t going to name, and either way it served him fine in this room.
“What branch?” Sal said.
“Navy.”
“What rate?”
Buck looked past his shoulder. “SO.”
The silence that followed was a different shape than the one before it. Sal’s eyes did another pass, like he was resetting something. Special Operations. Buck watched him do the math happen.
“You’re a fucking SEAL,” Sal said.
“Was, Captain.”
“Christ.” Sal rubbed the back of his neck, one short motion, and then his hand came down again. “And you didn’t think that was worth putting on the application.”
“I put Navy, sir.”
“You put Navy,” Sal repeated, and something moved at the corner of his mouth.
Buck noticed that too, because apparently he noticed everything about this man, which was a problem he was going to deal with at a later date.
Alright, Buckley. One more personal. After that, you talk to me. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Buck stood and moved to the door. He had his hand on the knob when Sal said, “Eat something before the afternoon session. You look like shit.”
Buck looked back over his shoulder. Sal had already picked the pen back up but not before Buck caught the flex of his forearm, corded muscle shifting, and he knew those hands… fuck.
“Yes, sir,” Buck grunted and left.
