by Elle Keaton
Voices penetrated the fog in his mind; hands grabbed his shoulders, trying to pull him away.
“Buck—Buck, stop!”
Joey was speaking, but Perla was the one trying to get him off Andre. Joey stood in the doorway with Sacha propped against him, trying to hold himself up. The light streaming in from behind them made Joey look like an angel.
Stumbling back off the unconscious man, Buck sagged to the floor, his heart beating a million times a minute, his head fuzzy. Perla tried to wipe his face with a rag of some kind, but he pushed her away. He couldn’t have anyone touching him.
“Right, sorry if I underestimated you,” Sacha rumbled. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
He and Joey shambled over to the couch, but before Joey could help him sit, Sacha changed his mind.
“Help me to the floor. I’ll catch something from that piece of shit, and—” he waved toward Andre, “—find something to tie that guy up with before he regains consciousness, or we’ll all be in a world of hurt. More hurt,” he clarified.
As smoothly as he could, Joey lowered Sacha to the floor. The man groaned when Joey dropped him a few inches. “I thought you were a nurse, supposed to be kind and help people, not cause pain.”
Buck found some ancient cable cord he used on Andre. Under Sacha’s baleful eye, he wrapped it as tightly as he could around the man’s wrists and ankles. Joey was repacking Sacha’s wound when they heard the first distant sirens coming their way.
As the first of Adam’s team stormed the house, Andre began to come around. Before anyone could stop her, Perla hit him in the face with a piece of wood she had brought in from the porch. Buck took her by the arm, pulling her away, though he understood how she felt.
Now that the adrenaline had dissipated, Buck was exhausted and embarrassed by his actions. The agents kept saying how lucky it was for Perla he was there, clapping him on the shoulder with pride. Buck felt ill. He couldn’t bring himself to look Joey in the eye, or Perla, or anyone.
An ambulance finally bumped down the narrow drive. They had to move cars around like one of those puzzle games where only one square was empty so it could get close enough to load up Sacha. Good thing his wound wasn’t life-threatening and that Joey had been there to take care of it.
Buck tried to focus on what was happening around him. He’d told his version of events to the investigators what seemed like a hundred times. The agents had taken him and Joey to another location, an office building, where Adam had lain in wait for them. Joey’d cringed when he saw Adam’s grim face among the waiting team.
“Fuck me sideways,” Joey muttered, not quite under his breath.
“Hello, Mr. James, Mr. Swanfeldt. We meet again. Lucky me.”
Buck was humiliated that he had allowed his violent emotions to get away from him; more like they had poured from him. He’d hit another person in anger, with intent to cause physical pain. His hands now had someone else’s blood on them. He had been so angry he couldn’t control himself. A flash of Andre’s—no, Andriy’s; the agents had spelled his real name for them, though Buck didn’t see why it mattered—bruised and battered face kept popping up like a stupid billboard in his head. He couldn’t get rid of it and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He had only hit one person in anger before. It didn’t matter that the person on the other end of his fists was morally corrupt, that he’d been threatening Perla. Buck had used his fists and body to hurt someone.
“Bathroom?” he asked. Weir looked at him a little oddly but nodded his okay.
An agent he hadn’t been introduced to pointed down an empty hallway. Buck made his way as quickly and unobtrusively as he could, passing several empty offices. The restroom was unoccupied, thankfully. Buck locked himself in the stall farthest from the door. Bending over the toilet, he threw up what was left of the waffles. Then he slid down onto the tile floor, not caring when it had last been cleaned, his head between his knees, body shaking, his bruised knuckles throbbing in time with his heart.
Thirty-Three
Joey and Weir watched Buck bolt from the conference room they were stationed in. Buck had been quiet since they’d been brought there from the Hansen estate, but he was a quiet person, Joey knew that much about him. Even the New Year’s Party had been pretty quiet. Music playing softly in the background instead of blaring so loudly that no one could talk. He was, Joey decided, a man of few words.
The expression on his face just now, though…Joey couldn’t put a name to it. Buck looked like he’d maybe murdered a baby or abused a puppy. His glacial blue eyes were a clouded gray, not the clear icy depths Joey had been learning expressed what Buck didn’t say out loud, eyes that held nothing back. When Buck was quiet, which was most of the time, Joey had a pretty good idea what was going through his mind. Which raised the question, what on earth did he see in Joey?
“You wanna go check on your guy?” Weir asked.
Joey didn’t hesitate; he was out of the room and down the hall before Weir could rescind his offer.
The door to the men’s room opened silently. Seeing no one at the sinks, Joey stepped farther into the room and let the door shut behind him. The sound of hitched breathing interspersed with sobs echoed softly off the tile walls, followed by sniffling, as Buck tried but was unable to get his emotions under control. A fresh round of tears broke out.
Joey cleared his throat. “Hey, it’s me.”
The noise ended abruptly, and Joey heard the rustling of the toilet-paper roll.
“Um,” finally his nursing training kicked in, “would you like to talk about it? Tell me what’s bothering you? I’m a really good listener.”
He heard Buck shifting around in the stall and he crouched to see that Buck was sitting on the floor next to the toilet. This was bad.
“Can I come in and sit next to you? Please?” He had no idea what had Buck so wound up, but Joey needed to be next to him, to comfort him in some way. He’d just have to hope it was the right way. Buck unlocked the stall door. Joey guessed that was as good an invitation as he was going to get. He opened the door and slid inside the stall to sit next to Buck.
“You know, I’ve been in bathroom stalls with a lot of hot guys such as yourself. All the other boys are gonna be jealous, you got me in here without having to promise a lewd sex act.”
Buck half sniffled, half chuckled. Joey grabbed another wad of tissues off the roll.
“Here. Seriously, I am not having sex with you here. You are just going to have to wait until we get—shoot, I forgot, I’m staying with my mom right now.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a basket case,” Buck muttered into the tissue.
“What happened? And, in regards to our earlier sex discussion, we can totally do it at your house, right?”
“You are incorrigible.” But Joey could tell Buck was smiling a little. “Miguel is staying at my house.”
“Wait, why? No, never mind, don’t distract me. You didn’t say we couldn’t. Before we get down to brass tacks about our agreement, can you tell me what happened? Why are you so upset?”
Buck took a deep breath and kind of shuddered. Joey liked feeling his solid, warm (and hot) body against his own. Even though Buck was physically much larger than Joey, at that moment Joey was the protector.
“You know I won’t repeat anything you tell me.”
“It’s not that.” Buck tugged Joey even closer, almost into his lap, settling his chin over the top of Joey’s head. Fuck this, Joey thought, and crawled all the way onto Buck, his knees on the floor so he was straddling him.
“I don’t know what to say.” Buck’s voice was broken, and he shivered against Joey. “I wasn’t thinking, I—my mind was blank; I was just striking out. I’ve never felt that angry before in my life.”
Joey tried to soothe him, running his hands up Buck’s sides to help him ground himself. “He was attacking Perla, right? I mean, we heard her screaming.”
Buck nodded. “And…I kept thinking about the kids, how Sveta has a bruise
on her cheek. About how scared they all were and still are, how they cower and hide. They have no idea what will happen to them. I wanted to hurt Andriy so badly, if you and Perla hadn’t stopped me I think I would have killed him.” Buck whispered something else, but it was so quiet that Joey couldn’t make out the words.
“Say again?”
Buck shook his head. Joey leaned back and saw that his eyes were scrunched shut, tears leaking out again. Joey swung himself around so his back was pressed against Buck. It seemed eye contact wasn’t going to work for Operation Buck Swanfeldt. Almost automatically, Buck brought his arms around Joey’s waist, slumping to rest his chin on his shoulder.
“Is this better? Can you tell me now what is really bothering you? You were a hero today. If you hadn’t been there with me, Sacha, Perla, and I would all be dead, I have no doubt about that. If you had let me leave by myself…”
Buck’s arms tightened again. “I can’t think about that.”
Waiting for Buck to bring whatever it was he needed to out into the light was painful. Joey suspected what it was, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear, or easier for Buck to say. Picking up Buck’s right hand, Joey kissed each bruised and scraped knuckle as softly as he could. “These hands saved me today. Even if you were angry, it wasn’t with me or Perla, it was with Andriy, right? You used your power for good, not evil. Kon would be proud.”
Right into Joey’s ear, so the words wouldn’t escape anywhere else, Buck whispered, “My father used to hit me. The only person who knew was my mother. He would hit me and tell me I was a useless piece of shit, that I couldn’t do anything right. I never knew why, what set him off. I walked on eggshells every day. Every day, from my earliest memory until the summer of my junior year in high school.”
“The summer you grew six inches.”
“Yeah. He was coming at me one day in our kitchen after we both got home from work, kind of like Andriy did today, and I realized I was taller than he was. Bigger, stronger, healthier. He slapped me across the cheek.” Unconsciously Buck put his hand to his cheek, remembering that awful day. “He was always doing stuff like that. Slapping me, calling me a crybaby. My mom would just stand in the kitchen doorway, her usual helpless expression on her face.”
“I’m so sorry. Keep going. What happened?”
“Um, I stood to my full height—I think I must have usually slouched around him, because I was a couple inches taller and hadn’t realized it before. I stood to my full height and told him if he ever hit me again I would kill him. I meant it, too. He laughed at me. So I hit him. I hit him so hard he slammed against the kitchen table and broke it in half. My mother ran upstairs. I went to the bathroom and threw up, but he never hit me again.”
“And today?”
“I can’t hit anyone, Joey; it makes me feel like my father, and I can’t be like him.” Buck gulped back a sob. “During the fight with Andriy I wasn’t even thinking, I was just punching, trying to hurt him as much as possible. I think I could have killed him. I hate that I have the potential to kill inside me.”
There was a light knock on the restroom door. “Hey, guys, we need you in the conference room; can you wrap it up?” Weir said.
“Coming,” Joey called out.
“They all say that in the men’s room stalls when I’m around,” Weir shot back.
“Don’t encourage him,” Buck groused. His voice sounded almost back to normal.
Joey stood and opened the door, offering a hand to help Buck from the cold floor. They both washed their hands at the sink, and Buck rinsed his mouth. It was a good thing Joey hadn’t had the chance to look in a mirror since morning, as he had forgotten about his black eye for a while. Of course, now it started to throb. He looked almost as bad as Buck. Joey fussed over Buck a little. Someone had given him a shirt to make up for the one he’d sacrificed to Sacha and his undershirt, which had been covered in Andriy’s blood, but it was too damn small and kept riding up. Joey didn’t need any other guys ogling his man’s abs. Or any of his man, for that matter.
It was early evening before they were allowed to return to Brandon and Stephanie’s. After Buck’s stomach rumbled for a third time, alerting everyone in the room to the fact that he was very hungry, Adam released them to Weir. Joey and Buck had to promise they would behave themselves and would stay one more night at the farm.
Kon was waiting for them on the front porch with Xena.
“I made the mistake of telling him you two were on your way home.” Brandon grimaced. “He’s been beside himself since this morning. The kid is a downright pest when he doesn’t get what he wants. I think he taught himself most of the English language today so he could drive me crazy with questions. Didn’t you?” Brandon ruffled Kon’s black hair, and the boy glared up at him.
Brandon motioned them inside, where they were greeted in Russian and English alike. Sveta came forward to offer Buck a quick, shy hug. Someone must have relayed to them what had happened, that Andriy had been taken somewhere he would no longer be able to harm them. The church connection was still vague, though. Weir and Adam had told them that Sacha, on his way into the operating room, had said something about a church as well. But the final key person—the money person—they didn’t know who that was yet.
Tomorrow they were bringing Ira back out to talk to the teens some more. The previous day had been so overwhelming for them, Adam and Weir hoped they might have more useful information after more food and rest. As to what would happen to them, Weir shrugged. Joey could sense he wasn’t going to like what Weir had to say.
“It depends. Can we find their family? Will their family take them? I’ve been involved with cases like this before, where we either couldn’t find the family, or the living situation was too dangerous to send them back. Most often, kids like these come from a damaged population who have nothing left to lose, persecuted in their countries.” He looked out at the kids, most of whom were gathered in the living room watching TV. A few seemed to be bickering amongst themselves, although it was hard to gauge. Kon, of course, was once again plastered to Buck’s side, Xena curled up at their feet. Buck seemed to need the little boy’s attention as much as Kon needed his.
I am in way too deep, he thought. Way too deep.
That night they left the connecting door between the bedrooms open. Regardless of Joey’s banter earlier in the day, there was no suggestion of sexy times, no talk of the crazy day or how it had ended. They were too wrung out, too tired, too overwhelmed. Instead, they quietly tucked Kon in together and waited for him to fall asleep with Xena curled protectively at his feet. She eyed them with suspicion. Apparently, the day’s antics had gotten them on her shit list. Who knew a dog could hold a grudge?
With the light off, they padded back into their room, and fell quickly into bed, letting sleep claim them. Buck had a nightmare in the dark hours, and Joey roused enough to caress his cheek and wrap himself tightly around Buck’s big body, doing what he could to protect him from invisible fears. Morpheus kept his tight hold on them until early morning when two more bodies joined them. They had been forgiven, by the boy and the dog.
Thirty-Four
When he tried to stretch out, Buck discovered he was pinned against the bedroom wall, and not in a good way, either. Sometime during the night he had switched to the inside spot, and Joey was dead asleep, sweaty, crushed against him. Xena lay splayed out at their feet, and Kon was curled into a little ball on the other side of Joey, under a blanket he must have dragged with him from the other room. The dog somehow had the best spot. Buck tried not to groan, but now that he was fully awake he could swear he felt each of his muscles cramping one by one from the ridiculous position he had slept in. He didn’t want to wake Joey or Kon, but this bed was going to be the death of him.
After waiting as long as he could—probably only a few minutes—he tried to sit up without waking the bed’s other occupants. No such luck. Xena popped up to stand on the bed, stepping on someone (not Buck) in the process. There was
groaning. Joey whimpered into his pillow and Kon rolled onto his side, staring at both of them grumpily. The sleepy glare was pretty cute. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “waffles” and plunked out of the bed, taking his blanket with him.
Maybe Buck was getting better at this stealth stuff. After setting Kon up in the kitchen with Brandon, the self-appointed waffle king, he gathered his coat and car keys before stepping quickly outside. Sheila was parked in front of the house. As quietly as possible, he unlocked the car, put it in neutral, and released the parking brake. Once the car was rolling down the incline he jumped back in and started it at the end of the drive.
Turning the corner onto his block, Buck felt an enormous sense of relief as his house came into view. He needed to be home so he could think. His home had been his sanctuary ever since he purchased it. Parking Sheila on the street, because he had managed to amass several cars in his driveway over the past weeks, he gratefully let himself inside.
He’d been awake less than two hours, but Buck was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He divested himself of his coat, boots, wallet, and phone as he walked toward his bedroom. By the time he reached his room he had his socks off and jeans unbuttoned. He may have heard Miguel call down the stairs asking if he was okay, but he didn’t reply. Shutting his door, a universal signal for his housemate to leave him alone, he collapsed onto his bed, pulled the covers up and over his head, and closed his eyes against the world.