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Among the backside of Buck’s childhood neighborhood, if you walked far enough through the trees—maybe about a mile into the woods—there’s a creek.
Buck used to go out there all the time as a kid. A majority of the time he’d get distracted by different insects or plants and stay out there longer than he should've, or he just got lost trying to navigate through the endless sea of Hemlocks. Other times he stayed out there on purpose.
Nobody else ever went into the woods—or at least he assumes nobody else did. He never saw anyone. Buck thought that was a shame, actually. He’d try and race the sun to see if he could reach the water before it got dark.
He never could reach it in time.
There wasn’t an accurate timeframe on just how quickly Eddie’s moving process progressed from the moment he told (Buck found out) him he was moving.
Well, he could give you a time frame, actually, because it was two months and four days. But that timeline didn’t feel accurate to Buck personally. It felt like two seconds and two years all at the same time. Two months and four days of dreading the inevitable while trying to soak up as much of Eddie's time as humanly possible without it being weird.
Or weird for Buck, at least. He does have some dignity, by the way. And that line for Buck’s self-respect existed somewhere between climbing in bed with Eddie or showering with him.
He sucks it up to the best of his ability and plays the supportive best friend; he helps Eddie pack up seven years of his life into cardboard boxes and pays for Eddie’s moving truck as a goodbye gift. He indulges him in nightly nostalgia hour as they take down picture frames off the wall. They drink beer and toss remember when—’s between each other for the five days it takes the both of them to pack up the house.
They could’ve done it in three. Buck knows both of them stalled a bit.
He ignored the levity of the situation until Eddie had told him the house was officially on the market and, well—
Buck did the thing any normal person would do, and asked to move into Eddie’s. He had actually laughed at first—until he realized Buck was being serious.
Buck just gave a bullshit excuse about liking the layout of Eddie’s house better than the loft, and whether or not he bought that is irrelevant because Eddie had said yes.
And now, it’s been four and a half weeks.
And he’s living in Eddie’s house.
And Buck feels like he’s involuntarily participating in some social experiment about how much a person can fucking take.
He’s mostly just really sad, at first. Buck has never been the type to push things down. He tries—but he wears his emotions on his sleeve, so it’s useless. To say that Buck finds himself hard to stay for is an understatement. He dilutes himself for others, files himself down, hoping it will make him easier to digest. It never works. He bubbles over anyways. People leave.
Eddie, though, was immediately faced with the worst of him. His first impression of Buck was Buck at his worst; peacocking around the 118, an Eddie Diaz buzz underneath his skin that kept irritating him—desperate and humiliating attempts at showing him mine mine mine. This firehouse, these people—they’re mine. You won’t ruin this. You can’t act like this is yours.
Eddie’s a strong enough man to have never risen to the bait, or just flat out hit him like Buck probably would've done had the roles been reversed at the time. His attempts at scaring Eddie off failed miserably—he only showed him more patience and understanding than anyone really ever has. It was definitely more patience than Buck deserved. Then, or now.
Buck, however, is a much weaker man, and it only took him 48 hours of meeting Eddie to place him in the same part of him that the rest of the 118 lived in: His people.
They removed a bomb out of a man's leg—Eddie flashed him a smile and said you’re badass under pressure, brother. He introduced him to Christopher and had him over for dinner twice a week. And that same possessive and all-consuming rush of mineminemine flooded through Buck with a level of intensity parallel to that of when he walked into the firehouse for the first time. Buck molded his place in Eddie and Chris’ lives—a role the three of them had trouble describing outside of being Buck—so quickly that he was sure Eddie was going to tell him to chill the hell out at any second for the first year there.
He didn’t. A new corner of him; separate from the 118 but directly next to it: Diaz boys.
Diaz boys who are now in El Paso, Texas.
Buck can tell that everyone else is trying to go about this normally—to treat Buck normally. They’ll mention Eddie in conversation and then glance at him like he’s some sort of bomb that can only hear Eddie’s name so many times before the fuse blows.
The first thing that sets him off isn’t even something anybody says. It’s Bobby clearing out the fridge. He’s holding one of Eddie’s electrolyte juices, about to throw it away and–
Buck doesn’t know why he would do that? Eddie just bought that. Well, he bought it before his second to last shift five weeks ago and never drank it, but still. Eddie had just bought that. “Cap, wait, what’re you doing?” He blurts louder than necessary.
Bobby blinks at him. Hen and Chim look up from where they were huddled over Hen’s phone eating chips and salsa.
“Clearing out the fridge?” He answers slowly, like he’s confused. He’s still holding Eddie’s drink. Eddie’s drink that he just bought.
“That’s Eddie's.” Buck points dumbly to the bottle.
“It’s been in the fridge for weeks now, Buck.” Bobby tells him, still speaking slowly. Buck realizes he’s speaking carefully. Like he’ll say the wrong thing and light the match. His face heats in embarrassment.
“Yeah, but—but he just bought that. He might want it.”
“Do you want him to drive and come get it—” Chim jokes, but coughs when Hen elbows him in the side. Chim throws a chip at her.
“No,” He glares before turning back to Bobby. It just doesn’t make sense for Bobby to throw away an unopened bottle of Electrolit. “When he—when he comes back. Those don’t expire if you don’t open them. He'll probably want it.”
“Okay.” Bobby nods, “We’ll keep it for him, then.” He pats Buck’s shoulder and slides the bottle back on the top shelf, tucked into the corner on the right. Buck bites the inside of his cheek and ignores how his ears are burning out of embarrassment as he drags himself away from the fridge and to the couch
They try to have a routine, but it barely stays consistent. There’s an attempt to work around each other's schedules, but they just have to call when they get the chance. Things were quiet at first, not in the sense that they weren’t talking, but because it’s like the second Eddie crossed the Texas state line, his shoulders slumped and the thirty-three years worth of ignoring it started being forcefully pulled out of his chest.
Buck can hear it in his voice. “What’re you doing for dinner?” he asks, because he was currently making pork chops.
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“You probably should,” he frowns at his phone, “it’s an hour later over there. It’s nine o’clock at night. You gotta eat something.”
“I had breakfast and lunch. I might just skip dinner.” Eddie’s voice is airy and tired like he hasn't been sleeping. Buck’s worried about him. It’s all Buck has been doing, since before Eddie actually even made the move to Texas. It’s like a switch he can’t turn off. How can he fix this? He needs to fix this.
But there’s only so much he can do from twelve hours away, and he’s fully aware that this is something Eddie has to face on his own. He hates it. He hopes, at the very least, that being closer to Christopher is keeping him grounded.
And that’s another thing Eddie hasn’t mentioned much. He hasn’t said anything about talking to him. Chris does know he’s there, Eddie just didn’t tell him until after he was settled in the two bedroom twenty-five minutes from his parents. Safe distance.
“Eddie,” he sighs, “you can’t skip dinner.”
“Buck, it’s fine. I’ll eat a big breakfast tomorrow. It’s one meal–”
“It’s not about the meal–” Buck cuts him off slightly too loud. “Okay. It’s sort of about the meal, because you have to eat, Eddie, but it’s about—it’s–” He shakes his head, frustrated, “Eddie you’ve gotta talk to me, man.”
Eddie doesn’t say anything for a minute. Buck can hear his slightly too heavy breathing so he knows he hasn’t hung up. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Buck.”
“Yes, you do.” Buck says confidently, “Christopher.”
Eddie lets out a bitter laugh, “He won’t even talk to me. I talked to my parents earlier.”
There it is.
“Guessing it didn’t go well?” It’s more rhetorical than anything. Buck can’t recall a time in the past seven years he’s known him that he’s had a conversation with his parents that went well. He can’t hear anything other than Eddie’s fan for a second. "I told you I played baseball when I was younger, right?”
Buck blinks, confused at the relevancy. “Uh, yeah, you’ve mentioned it.”
“There’s a baseball field right up the road from here. Not the one I played at, it’s a different one, but I stopped by earlier. I worked so damn hard every season, and I was good, too. I quit when I was seventeen. My dad,” Eddie snorts, humorless, “he was pissed.”
Buck’s oven beeps, but he carries the phone over to the stove so Eddie can keep talking. “About you quitting?” He asks when Eddie doesn’t say anything else.
“Yeah. I don’t even know why. He never talked to me about maybe going to college for it, or anything. He barely came to my games. He was just mad that I quit. It was the quitting itself that pissed him off. Like I was a coward for it, or something. Really, I just got bored of playing.”
Buck flinches when the hot air from the oven hits his face, he sits the pan on the counter.
“The three of us got into it earlier today, I guess. They said this whole thing was impulsive and irrational. And I –” he pauses, “they’re right. I’ve backed myself into a corner. No matter what I do, I – Buck, I’m fucking terrified of doing to Chris what my dad did to me. I’ve fucked him up enough.”
“Eddie,” Buck breathes, and his chest burns with the distance between them. He doesn't know how to help. He’s not there. And there’s been a question on the tip or Buck’s tongue since the second Eddie left: Why didn’t you ask me to come with you? I would’ve come with you. He’d carry the weight of what Eddie couldn't and try his fucking hardest to soothe the El Paso shaped bruises in Eddie’s bones. “you haven’t fucked him up.”
Eddie scoffs a yeah, sure.
“No, Eddie, listen to me.” He says sharply, because he has to know this. “You haven’t fucked him up. You made a mistake. A mistake that you’re trying to fix. You were hurting–”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Buck clenches his jaw in frustration and leans against his palms on his – Eddie’s – kitchen counter. He doesn’t know how much he’s allowed to say, he’s terrified of overstepping. “Of course it matters.” He can’t force Eddie to look him in the eyes over the phone.
“It doesn’t, because if I used that as an excuse every time I hurt him, i’d be – it’d be –”
It would be all the time. Oh, Eddie.
Buck, selfishly, can’t control the guilt. He doesn’t blame himself for Eddie’s pain – but he blames himself for not sitting Eddie down before the move to El Paso and making him talk to him. He didn’t say anything other than I’m tired of missing out on my son's life, and Buck let him get away with it. He didn’t press him to talk – just orbited around him the way he always does and offered distractions.
“Can I say–” he flinches, “Eddie, I don’t want to overstep.” He’s worried that finally – after all these years – he’s going to cross the invisible undiscussed boundary between them. This situation isn’t just about Eddie; it’s about Christopher. It’s about Eddie as a father – something far out of Buck’s realm of experience.
“You won’t. You can’t.” Eddie tells him almost immediately.
Buck doesn’t know if he believes him, but he opens his mouth anyway, “Showing Chris that you’re a person is important, too. You’re… dealing with stuff. He is too. You don’t have to hide that from him. It’s not… Eddie, that doesn't make you weak.”
Eddie’s voice is defeated when he says, “I think I was hiding from it, too.” Buck goes to add something else, but can’t get anything out before Eddie tags on: “I miss you.”
Buck doesn't remember what he was going to say. Every other thought in his head being wiped out by three words. He misses him so much. He’s so fucking worried about Eddie and Christopher both that he can barely sleep. “I miss you too,” he says instead of please don’t shut me out. I’m here. Talk to me.
“I think I should head to bed, it’s pretty late.”
Buck nods as if Eddie can see him and ignores every part of himself that’s screaming to keep Eddie on the phone. “Okay. Will you call me tomorrow?”
“Of course. Night, Buck.”
“Night, Eddie.”
Buck’s too in his head to reheat his food, so he sits on Eddie’s couch in a Diaz-less house and eats a barely warm dinner; then he takes a shower and stands underneath the head till the water runs cold.
He doesn’t fall asleep until four in the morning.
The call comes around 10:23 PM the following Tuesday.
It's a head on motorcycle accident with a man that can't be anything older than twenty-three; and when Buck sees the white motorcycle he mistakes the sheer amount of blood splattered on the side of it for a paint job.
His hand is pinned beneath the front tire, but the blood is coming from the half of a front brake disc that's lodged itself into his abdomen. How that’s even possible, Buck doesn’t know. It’s definitely requiring medical care too advanced for Buck, so he's forced to watch, forced to wait for instructions.
The guy's alert – almost unusually so given the sheer amount of blood oozing out of him. He won't have long before he passes out.
"Alright, sir, we're gonna help you out here. What's your name?" Bobby asks. Buck busies himself by inspecting the bike.
"Evan," He grits out, and Buck jerks his head up. He looks around to see if anybody is in on this cosmic joke that's being played on him, or if they can explain what type of life lesson Buck is supposed to be learning here.
Then, he realizes, they don't really know. And in the grand scheme of things that motorcycle crash wasn't really a big deal physically. It definitely ranks lower on the list of things that have almost gotten one Buck Buckley killed.
So, he didn't talk about it. But mentally, it just–it was a lot. It put Buck at the 118 after a while.
He winces internally and pushes the thought down because the universe doesn't revolve around him, and he has a job to do here.
“Looks like a broken pelvis,” Chim points out, “alongside the uh – what is that?” He asks, gesturing to the piece of metal in his stomach.
“Brake disc,” Buck answers, ignoring the tremor in his jaw. “Should I take off his helmet?” Hen shakes her head.
“No, I don’t think he has a spinal injury but it’s good to keep him in it for stability. His leg is pinned.”
"Okay, Evan. We got you, okay?" He hears Bobby's voice, but when his gaze turns to Hen, they share a look. A look that Buck recognizes as he doesn’t have much time. His stomach churns. "We gotta move fast, though."
"No," the kid – Evan – coughs out. "Just leave me."
Buck shares a glance with Chim, and when Hen moves for a needle – an IV – the kid screams. A nasty sound that isn’t out of pain but out of protest. "Just leave me. Seriously, I don't fucking care. It's– fuck. Just leave–”
Buck's heart is pounding so loud in his fucking ears that it's making him lightheaded. Because, because he's–that's–
"Sir," Hen says gently, "are you refusing medical service? If so we can't–”
"Yes–”
"I crashed my motorcycle when I was twenty." Buck flinches at the outburst, but he has to do something. They can help him if he lets them. He can make it out.
Evan glances up at him. There's blood at the corner of his mouth. "Okay?" He laughs bitterly.
"Yes. I uh–" He crouches down. "I can... I'll tell you about it? If you let my friends here keep you alive long enough to hear it?" Buck bargains. He doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is no.
"Whatever, man."
He hears the shuffling of equipment and orders from Bobby but he keeps his eyes locked firmly into Evan's. Buck swallows as he sits on the concrete next to him, trying to avoid the steady pooling of blood by his feet. "I-I used to love to ride. When I was about your– how old are you?"
Evan's chest heaves, "Nineteen."
Jesus Christ. "About your age, then. A little older. I uhm— was sort of reckless about it, really. Kinda going through some stuff. And I wasn't paying attention because—because I didn't care to. Or I just didn't care what happened." Buck's eyes find the heart monitor. Fifty-six. Okay.
"It was a four-way; the car was going too fast. I was going too fast. And it uh, it kind of got black for a second. The crash itself wasn't–" wasn't as bad as this, Buck doesn't say.
“You didn’t almost die?” Evan fills in, jaw chattering less than earlier, his voice slightly more leveled. It’s probably the morphine kicking in. Good. Keep talking, come on. Buck eye’s the monitor again: Forty-nine.
“I have died. I got struck by lightning.”
"No fucking way.” Evan mumbles, and his eyes flutter shut.
“Hey, gotta stay awake, Evan, open your eyes, bud.” Chimney says urgently, then looks at Buck when his eyes open again. “Buck lift this bike off him, we gotta get him on a gurney.”
Buck nods, keeps talking as he moves to the other side of him. “Yup.”
“Any advice on dying?” Evan mutters the question almost so low that Buck can barely even hear him.
“Yes,” Buck answers, “don't.”
He laughs, a weak barely there sound, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as Hen and Chim strap him to the stretcher, carefully avoiding his stomach.
"And what? It’ll get better?” He asks, disbelieving, his tone almost condescending.
Buck thinks for a second. It’s a loaded question. He’s overcome bigger obstacles in his life than that crash. "You’ll find something that'll make you think twice about jerking the bike handles."
They get him secured in the ambulance, and Buck knows he still has to actually make it through the ride to the hospital as well as through surgery, but he likes his chances.
The second the ambulance doors close he selfishly exhales a breath he didn’t even know he was holding since they arrived at the scene. It's a relief, or something akin to it. But there’s still a tightness in his chest and an ache in his jaw.
Buck doesn’t necessarily have the best track record when it comes to letting work be work; this was bound to knock him off kilter for a couple days. He could deal with it. He’s fine.
Buck nearly jumps out of his skin when Bobby places a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. “Buck, did you hear me?”
He forces his eyes away from the ambulance driving out of sight to meet his eyes, “Huh?”
“I said you did really good back there. Saved that kid's life.”
Usually Buck would smile, or bask in the compliment for a moment, but instead he just shakes his head. It’s his job to save people—this wasn’t that. “I didn’t do anything. That was Hen and Chim.”
Bobby gives him the all too familiar cut the bullshit, Buck look. “You calmed him enough to let them do their job.”
“I guess,” he murmurs almost childishly, and then mentally scolds himself. You’re gonna worry him, he thinks, just take the praise and say thanks. They do automobile accident calls everyday. “Uh, thanks.” He adds, and it sounds a lot less convincing than he wanted it to.
Bobby lets him get away with it, so Buck sits in silence the entire ride back to the station.
He lets Hen and Chim’s light conversation act as a comforting background noise. Maybe he should increase the frequency in his therapy visits, or something. It could help.
What he really wants right now, though – is a beer on Eddie’s couch. More specifically a beer on Eddie’s couch with Eddie. It’s a near constant thought every second of the day: I wish Eddie were here. Anytime there’s a call that settles heavy over the team, he wishes Eddie could sit in silent company with them.
Anytime he, Hen, Chim, and even Ravi have a back and forth that ends with them giggling and roughhousing on the upstairs carpet– the thought of Eddie just can’t leave his head. It’s getting harder to live with. The team is off without him. Everyone knows it; it’s not the first time he’s been away from the station.
When they get back to his firehouse, Buck does his typical end of shift duties. He’s assigned to a quick inventory – clipboard in hand – and checks that the ambulances and engines are ready for B shift. It’s a mindless task, something he’s done hundreds of times that more often than not takes him out of his head for a second.
“What, no clipboard Buck tonight?” Chim teases, strolling up beside him and patting Buck on his back.
He gives him a soft smile that probably looks as tired as it feels. “It’s 11 o’clock at night and the end of a 48. Thought I'd spare you guys.”
“Oh, how kind.” Chim deadpans, but his face softens again when Buck doesn’t give a response and stares back down at the paper.
First aid kits, extinguisher, oxygen tank: all checked.
"You should come over to Maddie and I’s this weekend for dinner.”
Buck looks back up. “Okay.”
“You can make us something, as long as you accommodate Maddie's pregnancy food no-no’s.” He looks over Buck’s shoulder at the clipboard. “I checked tire pressure; you can check that off.”
"I’m being appointed to make dinner?” He marks it.
“All she wants lately is pizza with bell peppers. Buck, please help a brother out here.” He complains, and bangs his head dramatically against the bar by the engine door.
Buck’s not an idiot, he knows what Chim’s doing. Dinner with them sounds nice regardless.
He smiles a bit more genuinely this time. “Alright. I’ll make you something other than pizza on Saturday. I’ll think of what.”
Chim turns his head from where it’s pressed against the metal and opens an eye to look at him. “You’re a good man.” He jerks his head in a nod before patting Buck’s chest and walking backwards towards the exit.
"You’re my second favorite Buckley!” Buck rolls his eyes, then feels Hen squeeze his arm. “Night, Buckaroo.”
“Night.” He echoes, and finishes up the last of the inspection.
He’s almost out the door, already having said goodnight to Ravi when Bobby stops him. “Buck.”
Buck looks at him expectantly. “Are you alright?”
He’s never had a poker face, he knows that, but he has to get better at reeling this in if he doesn't want to be put on some sort of forced leave. “I’m fine, Cap.”
Bobby gives him a much more pointed look, almost like the one by the ambulance. He’s not asking as Buck’s captain. “I’m fine, Bobby.”
“Alright. But if you’re not–”
“I am. I promise.” He mostly just wants to go to bed and sleep this off. Even if he knows he barely sleeps through the night anymore.
Bobby gives him a firm nod. Buck knows he’s not convinced. “Alright. Get home safe.”
He takes the long way back to Eddie’s. He wouldn't go as far as to say the streets are empty – because it’s Los Angeles – but it’s a route he takes now when he wants to drive relatively mindlessly. He doesn’t think of anything. He just drives.
It’s past 12:30 when he makes it to the house. He never remembers Eddie’s house being this cold when Eddie lived here. It’s so weird. Every time he walks in it’s near freezing. He lived through Pennsylvania winters, so this should be nothing; but he guesses in Pennsylvania he didn’t have a near constant burning in his leg anytime it got below fifty degrees.
Buck’s locking the door, and heading straight for his heating pad when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Eddie.
This late?
“Eddie? Everything good?” He’s not even trying to hide the concern when he answers; it’s almost two in the morning over there.
“What, no go for Buck?” Eddie teases, and Buck furrows his eyebrows.
“Uh, it’s two in the morning in El Paso so I got kind of concerned. You never call this late.”
Fuck his leg hurts. He can’t remember where he put his heating pad.
“Well, maybe I just want to check in on you.” Eddie says, clearly trying to aim for nonchalant and hopefully have Buck talk to him himself.
But, even through the phone Buck knows Eddie’s tone. He knows why he called. “Bobby told you.” He leans against the wall, the ache in his leg almost unbearable now.
“Not the details,” Eddie assures, “Just that maybe I should call.”
Something protective rises in his throat, almost choking him. He has an urge to call Bobby and tell him to absolutely never do that again. Eddie is dealing with enough in El Paso. He’s left to fend for himself with his parents. Buck keeps thinking about if he was forced back to Hershey – forced to face his parents for an unprecedented amount of time.
“He shouldn't have done that.” He says, voice small.
“Yes, he should've. And I asked him to.”
What?
“What?”
“I asked him that if there was something off with you at the firehouse, if he would call me. So we can talk.” Eddie tells him, like it’s simple.
Buck’s neck turns hot out of embarrassment. “I– why?”
"I know you, Buck. And I know–or hoped at the very least–that you would come talk to me if needed. If it got to that point. But I don’t want it to get to that point. Sometimes–” Eddie pauses like he’s searching for the words, “sometimes it’s good to reel you in before you sit with yourself for too long. You'll let it spiral out of control. And usually I’d invite you over, or maybe throw Chris in your lap if I think he’d help more, but–” his voice trails off.
But Eddie and Chris aren’t here. They’re eight-hundred miles away in El Paso.
Buck didn’t need the reminder. Eddie’s absence rings through the house like a gunshot. He refuses to acknowledge the comparison, trying to peel himself off the wall in the hallway once his good leg starts to ache from resting all his weight on it. He winces in pain.
"Are you alright?” Eddie asks, and Buck doesn’t know if he’s asking about the strangled noise or the… everything else.
“Leg,” he grunts. “I don't remember where I put my heating pad last.”
Eddie makes a sound in the back of his throat like he’s thinking. “The one you keep at my house is at the top of the towel closet.”
Buck’s brain kind of blanks at my house. He never remembers having more than one heating pad, let alone storing one at Eddie’s. “I kept a heating pad here?”
“Uh–” Eddie breathes, like he’s flustered about something. “You didn’t. I bought one and kept it there for when you stayed over. Just in case. I guess.”
That’s… a lot. It’s a gesture Buck refuses to think too hard about right now. He limps his way to the towel closet regardless and – yup. Unopened and in the box still. It’s nicer than the one Buck bought for himself. “Got it.”
“So,” Eddie says after a minute, “are you gonna tell me what happened?”
Buck puts his phone on speaker and lays it on the table next to the couch, letting out a sigh as he tugs at his curls.
“Motorcycle accident. I think he’ll be fine, just–” he shakes his head as if Eddie could see him.
“A kid?” Yes. No. He doesn't know.
“Like, nineteen.” Buck answers as he plugs the pad into the outlet.
He cranks the setting up all the way and wraps it firmly around his leg from the knee down. Eddie hums a gentle but confused noise. Which makes sense because nineteen usually isn’t the age demographic that makes Buck’s skin itch for days after. And they get motorcycle accident calls all the time. It’s fucking Los Angeles.
“Wanna know something funny?” He asks.
Eddie makes another interested hum. Despite the grimness of the conversation, Buck smiles slightly at the noise. He misses him so fucking much – misses talking about absolutely nothing in his kitchen while Eddie hums and nods and listens his way through a conversation, asking questions to keep the topic flowing when he can tell Buck wants to keep talking. “He uh—his name was Evan.”
"Oh.” Eddie exhales.
Might as well dive head first. “I think I got in my head about it because I crashed my bike when I was about his age. Got kicked out of community college because I spent all of my tuition money on bike modifications.” Buck stares down at the heating pad.
Eddie was right; Buck would've had to talk about this eventually. He can’t hide how he’s feeling for shit. He probably would’ve gone to Maddie about it. She’s the only one who knows about the crash because Buck begged every one of her coworkers at the hospital to let him talk to her. She pinky sweared.
Buck swallows before continuing, “The crash was basically nothing. I broke my arm and scraped myself up a bit from tumbling on asphalt, but I was fine. It wasn’t the uh– injuries or whatever that set me off. I kinda…. the whole way to the hospital I just remember thinking that I kinda wished it wasn’t basically nothing.” He admits. Maddie didn’t know that part. He’s never said it outloud.
“That call– the kid refused help at first. He asked for us to just leave him, but—Eddie, I couldn't stop picturing myself. I told him I crashed my bike, too. Tried to maybe… I don’t know, tell him he wasn’t the only person in the world who’s felt like that and eventually come out of it, I guess. I don’t know. It worked, though. He let Hen and Chim give him some morphine and put him in an ambulance.”
Really, and he is being honest when he says this – it’s not something he thinks about often. He tried to run away with Maddie after that, then Maddie bailed on him, and then he played what essentially was dress up around the world until he found himself – metaphorically and physically – at the 118. He sunk his teeth and claws into the firehouse and now they’d have to pull him out kicking and screaming. The universe has tried to pull him out kicking and screaming. Buck is just stubborn.
Eddie’s silent, though. So Buck keeps talking. “After my crash, things moved kind of fast. It was like dominos, I guess. I felt like a wind up toy, it set me off. You know everything – or most things – after that. Maddie gave me money and then I just ran. I think the call just made me think about that. There was a point in my life where I was reckless–”
Eddie makes a noise in the back of his throat and Buck rolls his eyes. “I know. I know I still am, but that was different. It wasn’t a martyr act. It was just for the hell of it. But yeah, it made me think. I know you don’t believe in, like, fate. I know that, but to me, my life kind of started there. With that crash. I crashed my bike and the universe put me at the 118. I don’t know how my life would look without that. Or– or if I'd have one.”
“You would've found your way to us eventually. I’m sure.”
Buck chews on the inside of his cheek, picks at the skin around his fingers; a habit that Eddie isn’t here to call him out on. “What about you?” He deflects, “You came to the 118 after me.”
Eddie loads the metaphorical gun, cocks it. “I would’ve found my way to you. That I'm even more sure of.”
Buck is burning. That’s the only way he can describe this. Eddie says something like that, and then Buck will end the call, and he’ll crawl into Eddie’s bed in Eddie’s house and stare at the patches in Eddie’s wall that he helped Eddie patch up, and he’ll pretend like this isn’t going to kill him. He’s entirely convinced he’s going to die before Eddie ever crosses the California state line again.
He digs his own grave. “You sound confident for a guy who doesn’t believe in fate.”
“Nah, it’s not fate. It’s us and pure determination.” Buck has to hang up. Or he’ll start crying. Or screaming. He takes a deep breath. “I’m tired.”
“Okay,” Eddie says, “But wait.”
“What?”
Buck’s confident this can’t get worse. Eddie can’t possibly say anything worse than that so he’s entirely unprepared when Eddie puts the blade to his jugular and says: “I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way. From that Evan to this Buck. I’m sorry I didn’t know you then.”
His breath hitches. It’s… kind of mean. It’s a mean thing to say when he’s not here with him, and it’s sort of out of the comfortable bubble of things they say to each other. Buck knows that Eddie knows. He grips the couch cushion until his knuckles turn white. “You know me now.”
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, “I do. How’s your leg?”
“It’s better. Thank you for the… uh–” All of it.
“Of course, Buck.” He soothes. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
The call ends. Buck focuses on breathing – focuses on inhaling through his nose and exhaling out of his mouth and very deliberately does not focus on how a phone doesn’t do Eddie’s voice justice.
He doesn’t think about how the walls of this house are unbearably empty; not just because of the lack of pictures, but because his cell phone isn’t loud enough for Eddie’s voice to echo in the halls like when he speaks a little too loud after a couple of beers.
He doesn’t think about how the walls are so thin, that one time he and Eddie woke Chris up from laughing so hard, even though they swore they were being quiet. But it was a Saturday night and Chris didn’t have school the next day so Eddie pulled him in between them and made Buck repeat his story about being forced to eat squid ink in Peru as some type of hiring ritual at a bar. It was just some college guys fucking with him, but he took it seriously. Chris laughed for ten minutes. That’s so you, Buck, he had said.
Moving into Eddie’s was an impulse decision. It wasn’t that he was desperate to live here; he was just desperate to make sure that nobody else did. Nobody but Buck would be able to love every inch of this house the way it should be loved; live in it the way it should be lived in.
He realizes now, though, that the love that framed this house and seeped into the cracks of creaking floors and door hinges was now eight-hundred miles away. It’s so fucking quiet, now. Buck’s going crazy. He feels the lack of Eddie everywhere. In this house and in the firehouse and that – that’s just fucking unfortunate. There’s no escaping it.
Buck’s lived in more places from ages twenty-one to twenty-five than most people will have in their lifetime. But none of that really matters because Buck’s entire life spans from the 7 miles between Eddie’s and the 118. He wonders if he should regress back to being twenty and begging Maddie to let him stay in a spare room.
But he refuses to give this house up. Because – because Eddie will come back. And it’ll be a home that breathes again.
It’ll be an EddieAndChristopher filled home that Buck will show up at the porch of four times a week like a stray dog begging for attention. The butterfly bush outside Eddie’s front door will bloom more flowers.
He pretends he’s convinced of that when he goes to bed and ignores the ache in his leg being replaced by the one in his chest. He stares at the patches in the wall until he manages to drift off, and falls asleep wondering why Eddie never painted over the holes with a better shade match like he said he would.
The universe decides to show some mercy on his next 24-hour shift. It wasn’t Q word or anything. It was still busy; the calls were just less intense. A fender bender here and a sprained ankle there. Something Buck could hyper focus on with ease, because he was good at his job. He could tend to people's wounds and take himself out of his head. Even if the black hole presence next to him was still gaping.
Buck’s just – he feels weird, is what it is. He knows he’s off. It’s been two months now and it’s getting worse by the day. The world kept spinning when Eddie moved to El Paso and Buck’s bitter about it. Sue him.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet, as of late. And everyone knows the reason so they don’t press him on it. Hen plays Mario Kart with him in between calls and Chimney picks on him like he always does. Buck’s grateful for it all. And Ravi’s a good partner to him. He’s a good firefighter. He just misses Eddie like a fucking lost limb. Their phone call from a couple nights ago only made it worse.
And he hasn’t texted him today. So that’s something. It’s four in the afternoon and Eddie hasn’t texted him back. Which, that’s like, totally fine. It’s fine because Eddie is in El Paso for a reason. And that reason is going to keep him busy. He could even be with Christopher right now! Which would be great.
Or, Buck’s brain thinks traitorously, he could be arguing with his parents. Buck’s a little worried. He’s overthinking because that’s all he has time to do lately – think. When he’s not on shift or on a call, he’s left to himself. Chim goes home to Maddie, Hen goes home to Karen, Bobby to Athena, and Buck to an empty shell of a house.
Dinner with Maddie and Chimney the other night went well. They talked about comfortable topics, which Buck was grateful for. He enjoyed their company and making them dinner.
Eating at the firehouse, though, was almost impossible nowadays. Eddie’s not here to knock knees with him beneath the table. Buck just picks at his food and it makes him feel even worse that he doesn’t want to eat Bobby’s baked ziti.
He’s quiet while everyone else stuffs their faces – still keeping Buck in the loop of the conversation but not pressing him to talk. Buck loves them.
“Denny’s into racing, lately. Something about a Grand Prix in Austin coming up.” Hen adds, an easy conversation between her and Chim.
“Eddie mentioned that earlier this morning. Something about how he wouldn't wish to be in Austin this time of year.” Chim talks with his mouth so full that the name is barely even decipherable, but Buck perks up from where he was staring into his food and opens his mouth for the first time all dinner. “You’ve talked to Eddie today?"
Chim rolls his eyes, but it’s playful, “Like a bee to honey.” he says like Buck can’t hear him.
“Or a moth to a flame.” Hen murmurs.
Buck ignores them. “When?” He presses, because, what the hell?
“Around ten this morning? I guess. Why?” Chim squints like he’s confused, and Buck slumps back into his chair.
Chim only adds fuel to the fire in Buck’s brain when he says, “Well, he didn’t text me. He called me.”
“Chim–” Hen sighs, like she’s trying to prevent a conversation from happening. Alarm bells go off in Buck’s head because something is wrong. He doesn’t like it.
“He called you? What the hell?” Buck sits his fork down onto his plate with a clank.
Chim just raises his hands in defense, “I don’t know, Buck! Take it up with him!”
“I would,” he scoffs, “If he’d text me back.”
Bobby, ever the mediator, just says, “How about we finish dinner? Bell could ring at any second. I’m sure Eddie’s fine, Buck. Eat your food.”
The last bit of his shift went by quickly. He was more tired than expected considering he didn’t do anything strenuous this go around. He chops it up to having not slept well this week.
Buck doesn’t look at his phone in the passenger seat as he drives back to Eddie’s and he definitely doesn’t notice the way Eddie still hasn’t texted him. He won’t text again because he sent five separate Chernobyl facts in a row last night and asked Eddie to text him back tomorrow when he woke up.
And he didn’t.
So, Buck won’t text again. He’ll leave Eddie alone because he’s busy. Not busy enough to where he can’t talk to Chimney apparently, though.
Did he do something wrong? He would know if he had done something wrong. He keeps racking his brain for anything he’s said these past few days, but he keeps coming up short. They’ve only been sending back and forth meaningless updates about their day. Buck’s sure they’re fine. He won’t text again.
He caves after two redlights.
Buck: hey are we good?
Buck throws his phone back onto the passenger seat and doesn’t glance at it again until he’s pulling up in Eddie’s driveway.
Buck had switched his mail over to Eddie’s address the second he moved in. Mostly for bill purposes and anything he ordered online. Anyone who cared enough about him to send him postcards lived within a 15 minute drive of him, so they could just give him things in person.
Until now.
Buck is staring at a manilla envelope with his name on it. Buck Buckley scribbled in Eddie’s handwriting.
He should really get out of the road before opening whatever this is. Buck doesn’t run into the house to slash open the package but it’s close enough.
It’s just…. Eddie never mentioned sending him anything. Does he open this now? Does he call him and open it on the phone? Does he text him first? He figures if Eddie wanted him to open it with him then he would've texted. Which—Buck clicks open his phone—he hasn't.
Buck flicks his key open and cuts into the package anyways.
It’s a postcard. From El Paso. With picture of a sunset with a star over it; Buck reads what's on the back of it maybe fifty times.
Haven’t decided if I miss you or L.A sunsets more.
I tried to look for something to send you at a random truck stop here. Thought you might like this. Simple and small but I thought of you.
:)
- Eddie
Buck reaches his hand into the envelope and pulls out a metal keychain. It's got a metal cowboy hat attached to it with a charm that says Drive safe cowboy!
Whatever tightness that’s been in his chest since this morning unravels instantly. He feels like he can breathe as he attaches the charm to his set of keys. Eddie bought this for him. His phone buzzes.
Eddie: Of course Buck
Sorry for not texting you today
Dealing with some stuff. But I’m alright
Buck doesn’t care about replying in milliseconds.
Buck: all good man
wanna call?
Eddie: Rain check? I’m beat. Gonna try and sleep early
I promise tomorrow
Buck can’t even bring himself to be disappointed. He’s mostly just relieved because he’s felt like a hamster on a wheel all day. He takes a picture of his truck keys in his hands to send to Eddie.
Buck: okay :)
[IMAGE.PNG]
🤠
Eddie: ❤️
I miss the jeep
Buck’s glad nobody is here to see how flushed his face is.
Buck: lol
you just miss me driving you around
Eddie: Did you or did you not drive me around in the jeep 🤔
Buck: i can still drive you around in my truck
Eddie: I’ll hold you to that
Actually try and get some sleep Buck
Buck settles into bed, warm and content. He sleeps better than he has all week. If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it.
Buck takes Jee-yun out for the day. He has her smothered in enough sunscreen to where she’ll probably smell like SPF for a week, but the Los Angeles sun is still ruthless as they sit outside a Salt & Straw with ice cream cones.
Jee is hammering through a small cone in a cup of Chocolate Gooey Brownie so quickly that Buck has to slow her down five times to hopefully prevent her from getting an upset stomach.
This is Eddie and Chris’s favorite ice cream shop. It’s not why he brought Jee-yun here; it’s become Buck’s favorite as well.
"Y’know,” he says, smiling at Jee-yun with chocolate on her nose, “This is Uncle Eddie’s favorite ice cream place, too.”
Jee-yun’s face lights up at the mention, “Uncle Eddie?”
“Mhm,” Eddie always gets Cinnamon Snickerdoodle. Which is disgusting, but Buck pays for it anyways. “Should we send him a picture to make him jealous?”
Jee giggles and nods, sticks her tongue out at the camera when Buck pulls out his phone in a way that is so Maddie it makes his chest hurt. Buck holds up a peace sign. When he sends it to Eddie the response is almost instant.
Eddie: Omg
Bastard
I was just thinking about S&S
Buck: since when do you say omg
Eddie: Since I've been in Texas with no S&S….
And I’m not saying it I’m texting it
Buck doesn’t expect for his phone to light up with an incoming facetime call, because they actually haven’t facetimed that much. They’ve just been doing phone calls unless one of them has something specific to show the other.
When he picks up Eddie looks– well. Buck’s not blind. He looks handsome. His hair is longer and curling at his forehead – he doesn’t have a full beard, but he’s scruffy like he hasn’t shaved in a while. When Buck last saw him in person his hair was wet from the rain – his face clean shaven.
Texas is at least doing Eddie one favor. He looks gorgeous. The sky is blue. Whatever.
“Give the phone to Jee,” Eddie says immediately.
Buck scoffs in mock offense, “Wow, okay. Hello to you, too.”
“Buck–”
The delighted squeal from Jee when she sees Eddie, and Eddie’s equally as enthusiastic “Baby girl!” makes up for the sticky chocolate she’s smearing all over Buck’s phone screen.
“We’re eating ice cream!” She tells him, and Eddie gives her an indulging gasp. “Really?”
“Yup!” She laughs. Buck’s chest twinges watching them. “Uncle Buck says it's your favorite.”
“It is my favorite. Your Uncle Buck is evil.”
Buck pops into frame and says, “Don’t tell her that–” over Jee’s giggles.
“What’d you go with?” Eddie asks her.
“I got Chocolate Brownie and Uncle Buck got… uh–”
“Salted Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough,” Eddie fills in for her, and something tugs at Buck’s lungs again.
It’s weird – how he keeps seesawing between emotions every time he’s talking to Eddie or about Eddie. Which is all the time. He’s running out of ways to describe how he misses him.
Buck watches them talk about nothing for the next ten minutes and cuts in sometimes because he’s greedy and wants to see Eddie smile.
“Uncle Eddie?” Jee asks as she sticks a too big spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. Buck watches as a drop of chocolate hits his phone.
“Yes?”
“Are you coming back soon?”
All of the air gets sucked out Buck’s lungs at once, and he should change the subject. It’s an innocent question. Jee is four—she doesn’t know the weight of it. It’s a simple question for her because she misses Eddie and wants to see him again. Buck wishes it were that simple for him, too. There’s these capital T Things that they don’t talk about. Buck doesn’t ask Eddie when he’s coming back. He doesn’t beg him to come back either.
Buck wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to answer that question. He doesn’t want to hear the answer to that question, even if he already knows it.
“I want to, sweetheart.” Eddie says gently. And that’s good enough. Then, after a beat, “Why don’t you give the phone back to your Uncle Buck?”
Buck winces, taking the phone back from her and wiping the chocolate off of it with a napkin. “Sorry–”
“It’s fine, Buck.” Eddie smiles, sad but kind. “How's your ice cream, you traitor?”
Melted now. “As good as usual.”
“Mm,” He hums. “Well, I gotta go. I’m having dinner with Chris tonight.”
Buck’s face must do something obvious, because Eddie’s smile only grows. “Really?”
“Yep. We’ve.... talked. About some things. I can call you later?” He says, and there’s a clear implication there. It makes Buck kind of antsy – the same way any mention of Christopher makes him antsy nowadays. He wants them both okay. He wants them both together.
Buck nods at the camera and Jee on his lap from where she was squirming next to him. “Tell Chris I said hey.” Shit. Should he have said that? “Or, uh. Sorry–”
“I will, Buck.” Eddie assured gently before he could make himself anxious over it. “Okay, so, call later?” He asks.
“Yes, please.” Eager.
Eddie chuckles, “Alright. Bye Buck. Bye Jee!”
“Bye Uncle Eddie!” Jee waves.
He’s expecting a call any time now from Eddie after he drops Jee off and heads home. It’s around nine. It’s not a hurry, though. He’s with Chris – knowing they’re at least on speaking terms now gives Buck a security blanket for his thoughts.
What he’s not expecting – is a text from Chris for the first time in almost a year.
Chris: yo
What the fuck, Buck thinks.
Buck: yo
Chris: did you ever get your switch fixed?
Buck: sure did bud
Chris: gamestop.com/p/super-smash-bros-ultimate
play with me 🫵
Buck feels lightheaded. He stares at the text for a solid two minutes before he realizes Chris probably thinks he left him on read.
Buck: super smash bros? no more fortnite?
Chris: i still like fortnite im just into ssb right now
and i feel like i could kick your ass
The text startles such a laugh out of him that he has to sit down. He missed him—still misses him, but this is more than he’s gotten in months. He never reached out to Chris himself; it felt too much like going behind Eddie’s back. He told himself if Chris reached out first—or if he needed anything—then Buck would step in. But he never called or texted. Until now, apparently. And he assumes Eddie’s aware of this.
Buck: language
also no way
i’ll stop by gamestop after shift tomorrow
Chris: 😎
He sends a screenshot of their texts to Eddie, and Eddie heart reacts to the attachment. He’s down sixty bucks on a video game, and has a scheduled facetime gaming hangout with Chris after he gets home from school on Friday.
Buck’s heart beats a steady EddieChristopher the rest of the week. He’s definitely more excited for this than Chris is.
Buck Buckley
CA 90035
4995 South Bedford Street, Los Angeles
The picture on the front of this postcard is a college in El Paso. Before Shannon got pregnant with Christopher and I joined the army the only reason I considered going to college at all was because of the garden on this campus. I thought the lights were cool.
I remembered that when I passed by the other day and I thought about how you could probably tell me more about the plants than the guide could.
El Paso would've been a hell of a lot easier to live in when I was younger if I was reminded of you when I looked at things. I don't know if that makes sense and I'm runningoutofroomonthiscard.
- Eddie
Postcards have become a regular thing, apparently. The keychain was a one time addition, but other than that at least biweekly Buck will receive a card in the mail. They usually don’t say much. Buck doesn’t need them to. It’s a thoughtful gesture—one that makes something that’s been rattling deep in his chest try and burst its way out.
Buck has sent more postcards in his life than he could count—all to Maddie. He never received any from her in return, which Buck now knows the reason for.
Every postcard Eddie sends him stays tucked away safely in his nightstand. There’s an exception for one, though—Buck has it firmly placed in the viser of his truck.
Buck Buckley
CA 90035
4995 South Bedford Street, Los Angeles
Things are kind of hectic right now. Sorry we didn’t call last week.
I’m doing my best to sort some things out. I don’t know if I’m making progress but I’m trying and I thought you’d want to hear that. Read that? I don’t know man
Miss ya Buck
- Eddie
When Buck’s shift ends it’s eight o'clock at night and pouring rain. It’s been a gloomy day in terms of the weather, harsh grey clouds hovering over them since earlier this morning. It never actually started raining until around six. The rain never let up—unusually heavy drops of water pelting against his truck and the road as he drives home. L.A hasn’t been in a drought, exactly, it’s just been a while since it rained at this force for this long.
He feels uneasy, as he drives. He’s never been a fan of driving in harsh weather. In a fire engine it’s different, but behind the wheel himself? Buck hates it. He’s nauseous as he flips on the A.C—trying to get some cool air on his face.
His legs and arms shake as he clenches his steering wheel—a tingling numbing feeling spreading from his feet to his chest and oh—Buck can’t breathe. His chest is hurting as his heart thrums in his ears and Buck can’t breathe.
“Fuck,” He hisses, “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Buck thinks he can hear thunder roaring outside his truck. There’s a crackling burst of lightning straight ahead and Buck jolts — chest panging again and he’s — is he having a heart attack? Buck heaves as he runs over the symptoms in his head: nausea, numbness, intense chest pains, racing heart.
Fuck. Okay. He’s gotta pull over. He's driving home —to Eddie’s—purely out of muscle memory, and he should pull over and call 9-1-1. But First Presbyterian is right down the road and—he can make it there. Atleast to the parking lot. He was told by his cardiologist to see somebody if he had any heart complications, and that’s what this is, right?
There’s something wrong, his bodies numb but it hurts and he can’t hear anything but thunder and he can’t see anything but lightning and it’s a miracle he manages to pull into the hospital without crashing his fucking truck.
When he parks he scrubs a hand over his face. He has to get out. He needs to get out and go inside but he can’t move. Buck’s phone was on four percent when he left the firehouse and it’s probably dead now and—and he was supposed to call Eddie.
He told Eddie he’d call him after he got home. And he can’t call Eddie because—because his phone is dead and he thinks he’s about to have a heart attack in the hospital bay, if he hasn’t had one already.
He’s panicking now, on top of everything. He’s panicking and he needs to calm down so he can go inside. He needs to call Eddie.
Buck’s eyes find the postcard on his visor, and he inhales sharply. The air stings as he tries to breathe. Once. Then twice. Think of something, he thinks to himself through short breaths. Something that matters. Think. Think. Think. Maddie. Jeeyun. Christopher. Virginia beach salt water air. Smeared ink on postcards. Count to one hundred and eighteen in your head. Eddie Eddie Eddie.
Buck makes it inside, somehow, and they put him in a room pretty quickly—which makes sense, because he told them he thinks he had a heart attack, or is having one. He doesn’t know. His head hurts now.
He’s calmed a bit, heart rate beating at a steady ninety. He’s not dying. The nurses fuss over him as they place stickers for an ECG on his chest and run blood tests. “You said you’ve had heart complications before?”
Buck shakes his head. “Uh, not really. Kind of. I was struck by lightning about three years ago. I was down for a couple minutes—cardiac arrest. And I had a pulmonary embolism I guess five years ago now. Uhm, history of blood clotting. I was on thinners.”
The nurse—Ms. Bailey, Buck thinks she called herself—blinks at him. “That’s quite an impressive history for a thirty-three year old, Mr. Buckley.”
Buck lets out a dry laugh and presses his palms to his eyes. “I guess.”
“Are you on any medication now?”
“Captopril and Lexapro.”
She hums, looks at her computer and then back to him. “Lexapro,” she repeats, “you have a history of panic attacks?”
“I mean, occasionally.” And when she doesn’t say anything, it sort of clicks into place for him. Fuck. “You think that's what this was?” He says it like a question, but he knows the answer.
Ms. Bailey turns in her chair to face him. “You’re a firefighter working up to forty-eight hours of one the most stress-inducing jobs on the planet. You have a history of panic attacks and have undergone some…. trauma in your time. I’m not a mental health professional, but it’s something to take into consideration. Your ECG looks good. Great, even, considering your past of cardiac arrest and blood clots. Anything stressful happening lately that might have caused this, Mr. Buckley?”
His face heats. “Maybe?”
Ms. Bailey gestures at him. “Then there you go. I should be able to clear you, but I think you should maybe have someone pick you up.”
Absolutely not, Buck thinks. “Alright.”
“Someone will be in shortly, just hang tight.” She smiles kindly. “Do you need anything?”
A fucking nap, “I’m good.”
When she leaves, Buck mindlessly fumbles for his phone. He’s mostly expecting it to be dead, and blinks in surprise when it lights up. Two percent.
9 Missed Calls from Eddie
Eddie: Why does your location say you’re at First Presbyterian?
Are you okay?
Is everyone okay? Is somebody hurt?
Buck can you answer your phone because you’re freaking me the hell out
You have 3 minutes or I’m calling Maddie
3 Missed calls from Maddie
Shit. Fuck. He should call them, but his phones about to die and he wouldn’t even be able to–
“Evan.”
Buck snaps his head up to a very disheveled Maddie standing in the doorway of his hospital room. Fuck, Eddie must've actually called her. “Maddie, I’m fine–”
“Evan,” Maddie says again, slightly more desperate, “what the hell happened?” She rushes and drops her bag by his hospital bed.
A wave of embarrassment washes over Buck for the second time. Nothing happened. He just couldn’t get out of his head, and he couldn’t breathe but it—it didn’t feel like a panic attack. It felt like something was physically inside of Buck’s chest and kneading at his heart. “Nothing. I really mean that. It was a false alarm.”
Maddie’s eyes are wide in disbelief. “A false alarm for what?”
Buck lets his head fall against the uncomfortably thin hospital pillow. “After the lightning strike, my cardiologist told me if I had any intense chest pains to go to the doctors.” It’s been almost three years, but your body never fully recovers from being struck by lightning and then dead for three and a half minutes.
Maddie crosses her arms. “Okay, but this isn’t a doctor's appointment, Evan. This is the emergency room. What do you mean intense chest pains?”
“We think it was a panic attack. I guess.” He mumbles, he has zero energy for this conversation.
“Oh.” Maddie says. “But I thought you got better at recognizing them?”
“I did. I am. This one felt different. But, nope. Panic attack. No heart failure here.” He jokes, giving her a halfhearted thumbs up.
Maddie pulls up a chair next to the side of the bed and rests her hands on his arm. It’s a comforting touch for both him and her. “Did something cause it?”
Buck shakes his head. It’s sort of a lie. He just doesn’t want to have that conversation, mostly because he’s fucking embarrassed. “Just general stress.”
“You have to–”
“-- take better care of myself. I know, which is why I drove to the hospital when I thought something was wrong. Look at me go.” The joke falls short—absolutely does not land.
Maddie clenches her jaw. “I’m being serious. You’re too wound up, you need to slow down. Are you taking your medication?”
“The SSRIs or the cardiovascular ones?”
Another joke that doesn’t land. He’s two for two.
“Both, actually.” She snips.
“Yes, Maddie.” And that’s not a lie. He has been taking them.
She softens after a second, at least partly relieved he’s doing that much. “Okay. Okay.” She huffs, sitting back in her chair. “That’s good, atleast. I love you. I’m not trying to be snappy. I’m just worried about you. The doctors cleared you, though?”
Buck covers her hand with his. “Yup. Well, almost. She said she’ll be back in. Bloodworks normal. ECG was clear. No heart attack, no impending pulmonary embolism. Again. I’m fine.”
Maddie exhales heavily and pulls her phone out of her purse. “I’m assuming your phone's dead?”
Buck winces when he remembers the nine missed calls, “Yeah, sorry.”
“Uh, don’t say sorry to me.” She places her phone on his chest. “Call Eddie. Before you put him in the hospital.”
“That bad?” He cringes.
“Yeah, Buck. You were supposed to call him an hour ago, and when you didn’t he checked your location. He called me.”
Buck takes a deep breath before clicking Eddie’s contact on Maddie’s phone—preparing himself to repeat pretty much everything he’s said these past fifteen minutes.
It barely even rings once. “Maddie? What’s going on?” Eddie’s voice rushes out. He sounds scared. If these mistaken heart attacks don’t kill him then the guilt will.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Buck,” He exhales his name more than he says it. “What happened? Are you okay? Why’re you at the hospital? Are you hurt?”
The corner of Buck’s mouth twitches. “One question at a time, man.”
“No, you asshole. I called you ten fucking times and you wouldn’t answer your phone. You really fucking worried me, Buck. I’m still worried, by the way. Because you haven’t told me what the hell is going on.”
He really should've known Eddie would assume the worst because Buck would have assumed the worst. The both of them have watched the other almost die enough times. Eddie actually did watch Buck die.
“Will you hold off on yelling at me long enough to let me explain?” He asks.
Eddie huffs into the phone, “We’ll see.” he says stubbornly. Being on the receiving end of a concerned Eddie that overlaps with a mad Eddie is never fun. Even if it is kind of endearing. He can sort of picture him thumping his foot against the floor.
Maddie—who can definitely hear everything Eddie is saying—lets out a silent laugh and mouths deserved at him.
Buck rolls his eyes at her. “I had a panic attack earlier,” he explains, “I just felt off and couldn't shake it. I remembered my cardiologist saying to come here if I had extreme chest pains. I just confused the bad panic attack for a heart problem.”
“Buck–”
“Which if I remember correctly–” Buck cuts him off, “that happened to somebody else we know. Huh. Funny. But I wasn’t put in an ambulance, or anything. I drove myself here.”
“You drove yourself to the hospital when you thought you were having a heart attack?” Eddie says in disbelief.
“I thought we agreed for the yelling and lecturing to wait until after I stopped talking–”
“I said we’ll see–”
“I’m fine, baby, really.” Buck catches himself about half a second too late. Eddie doesn’t say anything. He can feel Maddie’s wide eyed gaze on him.
He clears his throat. “But, uh—they checked me out. Completely healthy. I’ve just been working a little too much. Haven’t been sleeping well and stuff. And I think… I think the storm here was kind of rough.”
Maddie gives him an understanding look. He wants to sleep.
“Okay, Buck.” Eddie says, his voice gentle and not at all like the voice he was using maybe thirty seconds ago when Buck thought he was about to reach through the phone and kill Buck himself. “Call me when you’re home? Unless you’re tired.”
Buck wants to say it’s not home, you’re not there. “I will.” he squints his eyes. “That’s it? I’m off the hook?” he says. He is teasing, but he sort of doesn’t believe Eddie isn’t going to press him for information later.
“Absolutely not. That’s part of why I’m saying we’ll talk later. Charge your phone.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” He salutes.
“Bye, Buck.”
“Bye, Eddie.”
He is not a fan of whatever look is on Maddie’s face when he hands the phone back to her—this weird pointed look with raised eyebrows like she knows something Buck doesn’t. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She shrugs, tucking her phone back into her purse.
Maddie offers to take him home and have Chimney get his car, but Buck declines. “I’m good,” He tells her. She keeps him company until he’s officially discharged and on his way to Eddie’s.
He’s so exhausted he’s debating telling Eddie that he’ll just call him tomorrow—but he promised him earlier. So with heavy eyelids and a still lingering headache he plugs his phone in by the nightstand and pulls up Eddie’s contact once it turns back on.
“Made it home safe?” Eddie asks on speaker.
Buck should shower, but he’s so fucking exhausted he just strips his shirt off and slides into boxer shorts before getting into bed. It’s time for him to wash his sheets, anyways. “Yep.” He mumbles sleepily.
“What happened?”
“I told you.” He curls around his pillow. “Panic attack.”
“You’ve had those before.” Eddie points out, “This was bad enough that you thought it was a heart attack.”
Thanks, captain obvious Buck wants to say. “Just had a lot on my mind, Eddie.”
“Okay,” he speaks patiently, “like what?”
It’s not a fair question. It’s not a fair question to either of them. “I don’t know.” It’s half a lie. There’s a million things on his mind, none of which he knows how to say. He doesn't know how to say anything without it pouring out of him and pooling on Eddie’s tile floors.
“You can talk to me, Buck.” It’s exhaustion that he hears in Eddie’s voice. They’re both equally as drained. His chest aches again, much less sudden heart attack and much more Eddie. He kind of doesn’t know which is worse.
“Can I?” He snaps, and almost instantly regrets the tone when Eddie inhales sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired, Eddie. I’m sorry.”
“No, you did.” Eddie’s voice is tight, but it’s not defensive. It’s tight like he’s hurt—like Buck hurt him. “I don’t—” he sighs heavily, “why don’t you say what it is you need to say to me. I can take it if you’re mad, Buck.”
Buck sits up in bed, desperate to reassure Eddie that he’s not mad at him, he’s the furthest thing from mad. “No, I’m not mad! I swear to God I’m not mad at you.”
“Okay, then what is it?”
Buck holds back a noise trying to make its way out of his chest. He clears his throat, “Eddie, I don’t want to make this about me—”
“Buck, please just say it–” Eddie says desperately.
Floodgates. “You haven’t asked me to come visit. I think… I think I know why you didn’t ask me to move. I think you knew I would’ve. I know you have to do this by yourself. I don’t need to be there, Eddie, I know—”
“Buck—”
“I’m not hurt by that! I’m not!” he says quickly, “But I would’ve thought I'd have visited by now.” His voice is weak, it sounds childish even to his own ears. “Fuck it sounds worse when I say it outloud.”
“I always need you, Buck.” Eddie says softly after a moment. “The reason I haven’t asked you has everything to do with me. Not you. I think that—” he hears the shuffling of fabric, like Eddie’s in bed. “El Paso—I’ve always hated it here. I hated it as a kid, I hated it while I was in the army, I hated it as an adult when I was in Los Angeles. What is it that people always say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder or something? In L.A, I could think of El Paso as a part of me and kind of nothing else. There wasn’t a lot of nostalgia. I was born there, I grew up there, Chris was born there and that will always be the most beautiful thing to come out of this city. I started a life in California that I don’t think I ever would've been able to down here. Moving states won’t solve all of your problems—the problems you have, they’ll follow you. Trust me, I know that.”
Eddie pauses for a moment. “But I tried my best to keep a good amount of mileage between me and Texas—visiting only when necessary. I tried, but—here I am anyway. And it’s my own fault—what I’m trying to say…is that I need you in California. It helps knowing that you’re there and not here—in this. I can—I can come visit L.A, maybe? Spend a weekend there? I fucking miss you Buck, I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t. Shit, I think that’s the most I’ve ever talked at once.”
Buck gapes at the ceiling for a second. Trying to figure out which part of that to address first. “No, Eddie—I know you miss me. I’m sorry if I made you think I felt otherwise. I get it, I promise. I’ll be here.”
“I want to come back. To L.A. To you.”
Buck swallows. “I know you do.”
“I’m trying, Buck.”
“I know, baby.” He says it again. It’s instinct, something protective and affectionate—a compensation for the fact that he can’t be physically with Eddie right now. He can’t protect him from the things that El Paso has planted in him, or the things Eddie’s caused himself. But he can let him know he understands. He can call him baby.
“Okay,” Eddie says shakily, “good. I don’t know when I could visit—I’d have to talk to Chris and see if he’s okay with me leaving for a weekend. We’re doing good, I just… I haven’t mentioned L.A yet. At all. Soon, just—not yet.” Eddie reassures him. It’s not a necessary reassurance, Buck panics less knowing they’re speaking to each other.
“Okay, Eddie.” Buck echoes, and curls back into his pillow. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, he just remembers waking up to a text from Eddie saying I think you fell asleep. Call me before your shift on Thursday?
Buck didn’t have to set a reminder for it, it’d be the only thing on his mind before he heard Eddie’s voice again.
Buck thinks he should start keeping track of Things That Could Only Happen To Him.
The only thing Buck’s ever gotten out of dating apps was sex. He’s never had a real relationship come out of one. He likes to think he’s grown over the years; got a grip on his libido and settled down. Sex for him has always been a way to connect with somebody, it was something he was good at. He hasn’t slept with anybody since Tommy almost seven months ago.
He thought it would help a bit, redownloading a couple of apps and setting it to short-term fun. Naively, he thought it would get him out of his head.
Buck realizes about thirty minutes into a dinner he got asked out to that he absolutely cannot do this.
The guy—Tristan—is nice. He’s handsome for sure; brown eyes and brown wavy hair that swoops right below his ears. It really does go well at first. It goes well all the way up until it doesn’t, and Buck is trying to come up with every possible excuse to leave this date.
He just keeps looking at Tristan’s eyes—brown and warm—and it’s wrong. It feels… off. He doesn’t know. They talked the night before this, light flirting and easy convo, then Tristan asked if he wanted to grab dinner tonight, and confidently, Buck said yes.
“I don’t think I asked you what you did for work?” Tristan asks, spinning his straw in his glass. The restaurant’s a perfect spot for a first date. Buck would know, he’s taken girls here before.
This, Buck can talk about. “I’m a firefighter.”
Tristan's eyes widened for a moment, Buck’s used to that. He used to be more cocky about it, but hey, he’s like—Buck 8.0 by now. The name Firehose on dating apps now just traded for Buck. “Oh. Wow. That’s impressive.”
Buck shrugs and puts a fry in his mouth. “What about you?” He asks, mostly just trying to be polite.
“I’m a photographer, actually. Full time. I run it out of a studio here in Los Angeles.”
That’s cool, Buck guesses. And Tristan’s eyes light up like he’s passionate about it – which any other time would be something Buck was into – something he could relate to; being passionate about your career. “That’s cool, actually.” He goes for a tone of voice that sounds interested, but falls flat.
“So, should we just play twenty questions?” Tristan tilts his head at him. “If so, it’s your turn.”
Buck looks down at his plate. Shit, uh— “What’s your favorite movie?”
Tristan makes a considerate hum, then clicks his tongue in thought. “Easy, actually. Risky Business.”
Buck jerks his head up so fast it almost gives him whiplash. “You like Risky Business?”
He must mistake whatever look is in Buck’s eyes as a shared love for this movie Buck has actually never seen. “Oh, absolutely. You like it too?”
Not at all, Buck wants to say. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s, uh— it’s my best friend's favorite movie, actually.”
The smile on Tristan’s face doesn’t falter, “A best friend with taste, then. I bet we’d get along.”
Buck grimaces, an alarming no, you wouldn’t ringing through his head. God, he just wants to go home. “Oh, no. He—he’s uhm. He’s like… y’know.” He cringes, because no this guy absolutely does not know and Buck knows exactly how that sounded.
The smile does wipe off of Tristan’s face then, and is almost immediately replaced with horror. “Oh. Oh, I am so sorry. I can’t even imagine.” He says with wide eyes.
No, you can’t, Buck thinks. A normal person would immediately correct Tristan’s assumption, and even though Tristan has no idea who Eddie is—he thinks he’s dead now. There’s a weight in Buck’s stomach.
“Yeah, uh, it’s alright. Thanks.” Buck tries, and Tristan gives him a sympathetic nod in return.
They stop the twenty questions after that because Buck is a terrible person, and he just hums at the small talk Tristan tries to make.
Buck can’t stop thinking about Eddie. He tries to stay engaged in the conversation, but all of his replies fall short—and he’s only thinking about one thing. Which is Eddie. Tristan’s looking at him with brown eyes and talking about Risky Business and it all feels wrong.
It’s not fair to him to drag it out. He tries to think about the ways this night could end. Buck could politely make an excuse and leave—pay for both of their meals even though Tristan's the one who asked him out, maybe pay for him to have a desert, too, and then go home to a quiet, empty house filled with memories that’re saving and killing Buck all at once. Or, he could take Tristan home, maybe kiss him against the wall of Eddie’s house, against the doorframes he helped Eddie paint, and then lay him down on Eddie’s bed in Eddie’s bedroom and pull sounds out of him that he wished were coming out of someone else's mouth.
A wave of nausea bubbles up in his stomach, bile threatening to make its way up his throat. Neither of those options sound appealing because neither of them bring Eddie and Chris home. Neither of them fix the pain Eddie and Chris are feeling. The thought of bringing someone else into that house makes guilt sink into his blood like vicine—like he’s doing something he shouldn't.
I want to come back to L.A. To you.
“I have to go.”
Tristan blinks at him for a moment, Buck doesn’t know if he cut him off mid sentence. He wasn’t really listening. “I’m sorry?”
“I have to go. I’m so sorry—” Buck apologizes, standing up abruptly from the table and fumbling for his wallet. “You’re nice, and you’re handsome but—I can’t do this.” Tristans just staring wide eyed up at him, probably unsettled by Buck’s sudden outbursts and the amount of people who are definitely staring at the both of them right now.
He manages to pull a hundred dollar bill out, and sets it firmly on the table. “T-that should be enough to cover both of us, a-and a desert or a drink if you want one. You can use it for whatever. I’m sorry. I have to go.” Buck stammers, and then hightails it out of the restaurant.
He lets out a breath behind the wheel of his truck that he didn’t even realize he was holding in—eyes drifting to the postcard in the visor as he scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he says outloud to no one. What else is there to say?
He pants for a minute while trying to calm himself; feeling like he’s just ran a fucking marathon. The entire drive back to the house he can’t seem to shake this overwhelming feeling of loss. He can’t outrun this. His heart is pounding a mile a minute, like it’s trying to beat out of his chest and get to something it can’t.
Nothing feels right. His job, his life, this house he’s living in—he knows what’s missing. He does.
Buck wants to talk to Eddie. He wants to hear his voice. He stumbles his way into the house, one hand fumbling the key to the door while the other is pulling up Eddie’s contact.
Eddie picks up on ring two. “Hey, Buck.”
“Eddie.” He breathes, almost dropping his keys.
“Buck?” Eddie says, probably concerned by how winded he sounds. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he unbuttons the top of his shirt, hoping it would make him feel less like he’s choking. It barely works.
“Are you panicking?” Eddie asks him, something protective in his voice, probably preparing to talk Buck down from whatever this is.
Is he? He pauses for a second, listens to the crackling sound coming from Eddie’s side of the phone, clenches his fist once to see if he can feel it, takes a deep breath to see if his chest shakes. “I’m good, I think. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Alright.” Eddie’s voice wraps itself around the tension in Buck’s throat, an unintentional calming. “I’m glad you called. I was thinking about you.”
He smiles weakly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. What were you up to?”
Fuck. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about that. Realistically, Buck knows he didn’t do anything wrong. Eddie’s his friend. Even in his thoughts this label falls short. “I uh—I was having lunch with a friend.” He lies.
“Oh.” Eddie’s voice is blank. Buck can’t read the tone. “Who?”
He unbuttons another button on his shirt. “Um. You don’t know him—just an old friend.” Another lie. He hates this. “I talked about you, actually.”
“Oh.” Eddie repeats with more emotion this time. “What about me?”
Buck decides talking about how there’s somebody out there who thinks his nameless best friend is dead because Buck can’t fucking behave like a normal person is a bad idea. It’s an embarrassing one, at the very least. He skips over that part. “We were talking about movies. His favorite is Risky Business, apparently.”
“You didn’t tell him you showed up at my house ten seconds after an extremely accurate Risky Business dance recreation, right?” He jokes, pulling a genuine smile out of Buck.
“Damn, no. I should've, though. Still can’t believe I was ten seconds too late.”
Eddie hisses playfully and clicks his tongue. “Sucks to suck.”
Buck's cheeks heat at the memory. “Anyways—yeah. Told him it was my best friend's favorite movie.”
“Wanna watch it with me?”
Buck furrows his eyebrows and stares at the patterned carpet. “Uh. How?”
“We just start it at the same time, man. Grab a beer, or something. Watch a movie with me. Unless you have something better to do?” He knows Buck doesn’t. Eddie’s saying it to be annoying more than he is genuinely asking about Buck’s plans.
Buck scrambles off of the couch to look for the remote. “I don’t. I’d uhm—I'd love to. I wanna watch a movie with you. Just let me—let me find the, shit, the remote—”
“Chill out, Buck.” Eddie laughs, “I’m not going anywhere. Find the remote. Grab a beer. Relax.”
Buck does, pavloved into calming down when Eddie tells him to.
He’s never done anything like this before, actually. It’s kind of an unconventional way to watch a movie with somebody—but he’s enjoying it. He’s enjoying spending time with Eddie and listening to him laugh at whatever scene Buck is only half paying attention to, more like.
Buck feels settled, for a moment. This is where he belongs. This is where he’s supposed to be—listening to Eddie laugh while they watch a movie on the couch. If he closes his eyes he can picture Eddie next to him, loose limbed—relaxed from the alcohol and each other's presence. He’d lean into Buck, but not quite press against him.
If Buck were someone braver, maybe he’d pull Eddie closer.
There’s a common theme in the different scenarios that play through Buck’s brain—it’s one where Buck gets to have him. To touch and hold and love and selfishly take and take and take. He loves him.
Buck waits for what he thinks is the inevitable—for his lungs to stop taking in oxygen or for his heart to stop beating. It never comes. He can only hear Eddie’s soft laugh coming out of the speaker on his phone.
Somewhere between the back of an ambulance and a moving truck, Buck loved and let go—between Eddie’s blood on his face and a house key in his hands. Buck doesn't know. He doesn’t know when. Maybe it was the entire time. Now, though, he’s watching a movie with Eddie on the phone, and he’s loving him like it’s breathing—something easier than breathing, because he doesn’t think he’s been doing much of that since he moved away.
To have someone keep him the way Eddie has all these years—it’s what Buck thought he was going to spend his whole life searching for. He was preparing for it. His entire life he’s made these drastic choices in search of himself—in search of a purpose or reason, in search of something to keep him centered—and he finds it by chance in a singular person on a random Sunday in September.
Funnily enough, this revelation doesn’t feel new to Buck. It feels like it’s something he’s always known; like it’s in his bone marrow. Live and die with him by your side, the universe tells him, and don’t realize you love him until there’s nothing you can do to fix it.
At the core of it—this is just another thing that's happened to him. Something that is happening to him and will continue to happen to him a million times over until he’s six feet under and after that. He has to move forward. Like he always has. Buck crashes his motorcycle. He moves forward. Buck leaves home. He moves forward. Buck runs around the country until he burns out. He moves forward. A fire engine falls on him. He moves forward. Buck gets struck by lightning. He moves forward. Buck falls in love with Eddie. He–
“Buck, you awake?” Eddie breaks the silence. Buck doesn’t know how long he’s been quiet for
Buck startles out of whatever trance he was in and stares into the neck of his beer bottle as if it’s responsible for this entire shit show. He guesses, in a way, it is. “I—uh— yes. Yeah. Guess this beer is making me tired.”
Eddie hums, “Since when does a single beer make you tired?”
Of course it would be Eddie. It always has been. This is something Buck has to figure out right now with half of himself 800 miles away. At some point, everybody will face something that they won’t be able to move forward from, and at the chance that they do, what happened will have changed them fundamentally—how they live, how they go about their day. At twenty-one, Buck thought it was crashing his bike and then Maddie bailing on him at the last minute. Then when he got laid off from duty, he thought this is it—I'll never be able to be anything else.
And now— Eddie—loving him from 800 miles away, not knowing when he’s coming back. If he will.
“Hold on, Maddie’s calling, I’ll call you back—” it’s the first excuse he can come up with, and he hangs up before Eddie can say anything else. Another lie.
He flings himself off the couch and paces around his kitchen as he thinks the same question for what feels like the millionth time in a year: how can he fix this?
Buck doesn’t know how many traffic laws he breaks on the way to Maddie’s, but he does know that it's almost midnight and he’s probably waking her up when he knocks on her door.
He probably should've called her first.
When Maddie actually opens the door Buck realizes he has absolutely no idea why he’s here. He has no clue how he’s going to go about this conversation. What is there even to say? I’m in love with Eddie. I’ve always been in love with Eddie. I’ve felt like a guard dog for an empty house these past four months.
“Evan—” Maddie says, probably not for the first time.
Buck blinks, hesitating. He tries to peek around Maddie for any sign of somebody else here. “Is Chimney home?”
If Maddie looked concerned before when Buck showed up unannounced at her door at 11:30 at night, asking about Chimney definitely put the final nail in the coffin. Her eyebrows furrow. “Yes,” she says slowly, “where else would he be?”
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes– Buck, what’s going on?”
Buck just shakes his head once and walks past her and into the house, darting for the backdoor. “Okay. Okay, we have to talk on the back patio, then.”
He’s not panicking about telling Maddie, and he’s not having a saying it makes it real moment, either. This is already about as real as it fucking gets. It’s one of the only real things Buck knows, honestly. Oh, God, he’s in love with Eddie.
Maddie shuts the back patio door behind her as she walks out—looking just as alarmed as she did 2 minutes ago—and Buck realizes he really should let her know that nobody's dying.
Instead, all he can manage to say is a miserable sounding: “Eddie.”
Buck’s expecting a look from her to prompt him to elaborate, but instead he watches her eyes soften and her mouth part in a silent O shape. He doesn’t even have to say anything else. “Oh, Evan.” She says sympathetically, and—fuck.
He presses his palms against his eyes and exhales.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asks him, “Unfortunately, we don’t have any alcohol in the house because of—” she gestures to her belly bump “y’know. But we have hot chocolate? Tea?”
It’s 90 degrees and almost early summer in Los Angeles. Buck doesn’t want hot chocolate. He shakes his head. “Okay, so—s-so you knew?” Because it’s blatantly obvious that she knew. She’s not pressing him for more information. Maddie’s offering to make him sympathy drinks because there’s something to be sympathetic about.
“I had my suspicions,” she confirms carefully.
Buck doesn’t know what that means. “For how long?”
She tilts her head in thought. “I mean—I hoped? Maybe since I moved back to L.A. I was ninety-five percent sure when you started to date Tommy. Completely sure and waiting for this conversation, though? Since you moved into his house.”
That’s a lot. And at the mention of Tommy’s name Buck realizes that he’s barely even thought about him or the end of their relationship since that day in Eddie’s kitchen. His brain is latching onto one part, though. “What do you mean you hoped?”
Maddie sighs and looks at the wedding band on her finger, then back to him. “Buck, I want nothing more in the world than for you to be happy and loved. Loved in the way you deserve and loved in the same way you love others. The way you talked to me about him and Christopher at first—I was happy you made a friend. Especially someone you work with so closely like that. You made a friend and you were being Buck, helping him out with his son and maybe hanging out occasionally outside of work—”
Buck breathes out a short laugh. It was the opposite of occasional.
“ —yes, exactly. It wasn’t an occasional thing. It was Eddie this and Eddie and Christopher and I did that every time we talked. And I watched as you started to build this tiny life with them. You’re so happy with them. So, yes, part of me hoped it would be Eddie, if anybody.”
Buck doesn’t know what his face looks like, but Maddie adds on: “Because that’s what this is about, right? You’re in love with Eddie?”
He folds his arms over his chest and tries not to feel small. “Yeah—yeah. I am.”
Maddie smiles, which seems kind of unfitting, because there’s not much to smile about when the love of his life is living two states away. The love of his life. “Did something happen?”
“Yeah,” Buck scoffs, “he upped and moved eight hundred miles away.”
Her smile falls. “Evan, he’s—”
“You don’t have to remind me what he’s there for. I know what he’s there for.” Buck is actually the only person who knows exactly why Eddie is there. “Which is why I feel terrible. This—this isn’t about me, Maddie. He’s fighting like hell over there, facing the absolute worst and I can barely keep my head above ground—above water—whatever it is— without him here.”
“You love him, and you want him back here. And you know he wants to be back here, too. You shouldn't feel terrible about that.”
“Well, I do. Because the last thing he needs is to be dealing with my shit.”
“It’s a little too late for that, I think.” She’s right. Buck knows she is, even if he’s trying his hardest to hide how badly he’s spinning out lately. He’s doing a terrible job (as usual) at it. “Man, you two have such horrible timing.”
Buck pulls a face. “Us two?”
“Oh, Evan, come on. He loves you, too.” Maddie says it like it’s simple. Like it’s obvious.
He shakes his head, he can’t think about it.“If that was the case, he’s had about a million opportunities to say that.”
Maddie gives him an unimpressed look, “The same million opportunities where you also didn’t say it?”
“I didn’t really know–”
“I don’t think he did, either.” Her voice is insistent, but none of it makes sense to Buck.
“And you think he does now?”
Maddie shrugs, “I’m not Eddie. Have you tried talking to him?” She says sarcastically.
“Have I tried talking to Eddie about something I realized half an hour ago on the phone with him before I got in a car and drove here? No, Mads, I can’t say I have.” He deadpans. Maddie leans across the table to swat at him.
“You never answered my question,” she wraps her cardigan tighter around herself, “did something happen?”
“I went on a date with a guy who’s favorite movie was Risky Business.” That really is the honest answer. He doesn’t know how else to word it.
Apparently Maddie’s sibling mind reading abilities only stretch so far. She blinks. “Am I missing something here?”
“Risky Business is Eddie’s favorite movie.” He clarifies.
She nods once. “Right. Okay.” she says blankly, like she still doesn't get it.
“The guy was… nice. I guess. But then I kinda…. thought about Eddie the whole time after that. I went home and called him. The date went fine. I just….”
“Probably won’t be seeing him again.” She guesses.
Despite himself, Buck snorts. “Yeah, Maddie. Probably not. So, yeah—went home after and called Eddie. I didn’t tell him I was on a date but I made up some bullshit story and lied to him again, which I feel fucking terrible about. I said I ran into an old friend and we were talking about movies or something. And he said his favorite was Risky Business. Eddie got excited and kept talking about how now he was in the mood to watch it—and then asked me to watch it with him over the phone.”
Maddie makes a tsk noise with her tongue and whistles. “And that just kind of….”
“I mean, yeah. We’d never done anything like that before. He told me to grab a beer out of the fridge and we’d start the movie at the same time. I made it through thirty minutes before I lied and said that you were calling and that I’d call him back. And now I’m here.”
“Kind of romantic, though. The whole movie on the phone thing.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
Buck’s not laughing. “Please don’t start this.”
Maddie rolls her eyes and leans forward to rest her elbow on the table. She holds her pinkie out. “I love you. I think you just have to trust that things will work out the way that they should. And maybe not now, but eventually, you could talk to him.”
Buck wraps his pinkie around hers.
1 Missed Call: Eddie
1 Voicemail: Eddie
“Hey, Buck—”
“Hey, Buck! Wait, why’re you calling him? Why didn’t you facetime him? I want to see his face.”
“This is a voicemail, you idiot. Stop yelling. And you don’t need to see his face.”
“Oh, we really do though—”
“Who sends voicemails anymore?”
“Shut up—sorry, Buck. We’re a little drunk. Well, Adriana and Sophia are alot drunk ‘n I’m….. also a lot drunk.”
“Anyways, I tried calling you but you didn’t answer. Hopefully because you’re asleep or I’ll be really really mad that you ignored my call. I realized I haven't been drunk since Chimney’s bachelor party. And then I thought about you even though we were talking about you anyways. But, uh—give me a call when you get this. Actually, fuck, don’t do that, you start a 12 tomorrow at 6—”
“How do you know that—”
“Adriana, shut up. Buck, do not call me when I’m hungover at 6 A.M. Okay, that’s all I wanted to say. Call me tomorrow at some point though, if you get the chance. Wait—I miss you. That’s what I wanted to say. Miss you, bye.”
Like everything else about Eddie, Buck clings onto the voicemail for the entirety of his next shift. Buck works a short, but busy, twelve hour; something relatively uncommon as he’s usually working twenty-fours or fourty-eights.
By the time Buck got off shift, Eddie had only been awake for two and a half hours.
He follows through with Eddie’s request for a phone call at some point today. “Hey, you.” Buck says into the phone “Hangover bad?”
“Engh,” Eddie groans. “It could be worse, actually.” His voice is rough like it’s the first time he’s spoken all day. “I drank a lot.”
“Hmm, I could tell,” he jibes, “you sounded wasted.”
“I was.” Eddie laughs, and then Buck thinks he can hear faint gulping, so at least he doesn’t have to hound him about drinking water. “How was your shift?”
“Short. Nothing crazy. Boring without you.” He answers easily, and makes his way to the laundry room. Postponing his laundry will just make him hate himself tomorrow, and he should do it now while he has Eddie to keep him company.
Eddie hums, “I had lunch with Chris yesterday, before I went out.”
Buck can’t control the grin that spreads on his face as he walks back to his bedroom, he presses the phone between his shoulder and cheek and dumps the clothes basket onto the bed. “Yeah? How’d that go?”
“Really good, Buck.” Eddie says earnestly, “I think we’re really getting somewhere, I don’t…. he seems…. less mad, I guess. Not that… not that I don’t deserve the anger, just—”
“I know what you mean, man.” Buck says. He puts his phone on speaker on his comforter. “And you went out for celebratory drinks after?”
There’s silence for a moment, “Er, no, we had planned to do that… before.” Eddie tells him timidly.
“Did you wear a cowboy hat?” He asks, “I’m just realizing I’ve never actually seen you in a cowboy hat. Do you even own one? I’ve always wanted to go to one of those country bars. What’re they called? Honky-tonks? I don’t know how to line dance, but I think I could make a cowboy hat work.” He rambles, folding his clothes.
“Oh, uh,” Eddie laughs nervously, “it wasn’t that kind of bar.”
“Boring,” he singsongs. “I mean, regular bars are fun, too, but it’s a waste of being in Texas, in my opinion. Cowboy out or go home.”
He hears Eddie sigh heavily into the phone, like Buck’s not getting something. “It was—it was a gay bar, Buck.”
Buck freezes mid folding a shirt. Oh. That’s definitely something. He guesses there are gay bars in Texas. It’s sort of crazy to picture Eddie in one, though. “With Adriana and Sophia?”
“Yes.” Eddie says carefully. Then he’s just breathing into the line, like he’s expecting Buck to say something else. What else is he supposed to say? “I didn’t know one of them was gay.” Eddie’s never mentioned that, and he’s had great opportunities to mention that in the past year.
Eddie huffs again, frustrated. “Jesus—no, Buck. Me.”
Buck’s not following. “You what?”
“Me. Gay.”
Oh.
Buck is racking his brain for anything—absolutely anything—to say in response to this. But honestly, his ears are ringing and the only thing he can think is what the fuck? “You like men?” is what stupidly comes out of Buck’s mouth instead of literally anything else.
Eddie lets out an airy laugh. “I think that’s what being gay means, yeah.”
What the fuck? “That’s—wow. Wow.”
“Yeah? Wow?” Eddie’s voice is almost teasing.
“Shit, sorry. I suck, I just—Eddie, wow.”
“No, that's,” Eddie laughs again, and he sounds relieved, like a weight has been lifted off his chest. Buck can relate to that. It felt the same for him, too. “That’s kind of what I said, too.”
Buck giggles with him, and runs a hand through his hair. “Over the phone, Eddie? Really? I can’t even hug you!”
“I didn’t want to!” He exclaims, voice high, “You forced my hand!”
“No I didn’t!” He yells back, and they both just laugh into each other's ears for a moment. Eddie’s gay. He just discovered this huge part of himself alone in Texas. “Eddie,” Buck says, sort of urgently, actually, because he realizes he hasn’t been very best friend about it yet, “I'm proud of you. Fuck, Eddie, that’s a big deal. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks, Buck.” Eddie murmurs like he’s bashful.
Buck doesn’t know what the safe questions to ask are. When he came out to Eddie—Eddie sort of knew exactly what to say. He reassured him that nothing would change between them and pulled him into a hug that he knew Buck needed. He can’t hug Eddie right now. All he has is short words. “How’d uh—how’d you know?”
“Um,” Eddie pauses, “I think I always have. I think it’s just—I’m here alone. I’ve been left with my thoughts and kind of blurted it out when drunk on wine with Adriana and Sophia a few nights ago. I couldn’t stop thinking about it—the idea that I could… that I could be gay. The bar was their idea. To test the theory, I guess.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. “Like... with someone?”
Jesus Christ.
“Uh.” Eddie says. Buck wishes he could see his face. “I never got around to that part. I just… looked.” He finishes, shyly. Oh, God.
“Talked boys with your sisters? Anybody catch your eye?” What would Eddie’s type even be? Does Eddie have a type?
Another nervous laugh. “Something like that. And no.”
He’s not relieved. “I bet you got hit on a lot.” Buck says normally—it’s a normal thing to say because Buck’s feeling and acting normally about this information.
“Well, I–I mean, a few times.” Eddie stammers, and Buck can almost see the redness of his cheeks. If Buck didn’t feel like his own were equally as red he’d ask to facetime just to see it.
“Are you being humble?” He presses, because his mind is split in two. Half of him is yelling to keep pushing Eddie for more details, and the other half is yelling that he doesn’t want to know about what random men went up to Eddie and tried to flirt with him. He doesn’t want to know if any of them managed to pull a blush out of him. He doesn’t.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Bullshit. “It means I don’t believe you only got hit on a few times at a gay bar.”
“Hmm,” Eddie hums again, but it sounds different, “and why’s that?”
That tone Buck definitely hasn’t heard out of him before, and something hot curls in his stomach while he freezes—he’s mid folding a shirt and staring down Eddie’s contact name displayed on his phone. “Uh, you’re you. So.”
Eddie’s laugh is low, dangerously low. Buck feels like he should sit down. “Which means?”
Buck won’t rise to the bait; Eddie was just stuttering a second ago and now he’s cocky. “You’re fishing for compliments.”
“Is there a compliment to be given here?” Eddie quips.
He’s being fucked with, he is absolutely being fucked with. “No.” He answers, just to be annoying.
“Okay then, Buck.” Eddie replies, voice still dipped below his normal speaking voice.
Silence.
And then, in his regular voice, “You work tomorrow?”
What the hell just happened? Buck doesn’t know what the fuck that was. “Uh, no. Day after.”
“You get to sleep in.”
He feels kind of dazed from these past fifteen minutes, like he needs to stick his head into a bucket of ice water. Or look into electric shock therapy. “Yup.” Buck says, casually. He’s chill. He’s still folding shirts. Eddie’s still gay. The world hasn’t ended. Yet, atleast.
“I should probably call Christopher.” Eddie says after a moment.
“You definitely should.” He replies slightly too quickly. He feels the need to hide his face in his pillow.
“Okay,” Eddie chuckles, “take a nap, Buck.” It’s not much of a question.
Buck nods like Eddie can see him. “I will.”
“Good.”
Buck needs to get off the fucking phone.
“Talk later, bud.” Eddie adds warmly, and then hangs up.
Buck puts his last shirt away and flops down face first onto his bed. He doesn't scream into his pillow but it’s a damn near thing.
Eddie being gay doesn’t make him an option. Buck refuses to even consider it—less he actually seriously goes crazy in Eddie’s house this time; more than he already has been.
He’s happy for him, that’s an unbelievably huge thing to come to terms with. Buck wishes he were closer to be able to be more supportive about it. He doesn’t really know what that would look like though beyond words of encouragement. Buck could do that over the phone, he’d just much rather do it in person.
He could go to a gay bar with Eddie—if Eddie were here. Buck knows being a martyr is typically his thing, but watching Eddie flirt with other men—be flirted with by other men—would feel like a suicide mission.
He can be normal about this.
Buck makes it twenty-four hours of being normal about this. Any attempt at not thinking about Eddie always fails anyways, but now the usual missing him is paired with your best friend who you’re hopelessly in love with who’s two states away is gay.
Eddie’s discovering things about himself in El Paso. Their conversations lately have been sounding lighter—Eddie sounds lighter—both on the phone and when they’re texting. Things are progressing with Christopher. He hasn’t mentioned anything about coming back to Los Angeles.
Buck’s trying his hardest to go about his days normally. He thinks he’s being obsessive; too obsessive.
“Maddie, do you think I’m too obsessive?”
There’s a faint rumbling sound over the line, and the noise of passing cars. “Hello, Evan.”
Buck rolls his eyes, “Mads, I’m serious.”
“Like… in general?”
Buck lifts his beer to his lips, takes a hefty gulp. “I mean—I guess?”
“I think that you’re very passionate. And you love very hard.”
Buck lets his head hit the back of the couch with a groan, the answer should've been obvious. He thinks he’s even asked her this before. “So that’s a yes—”
“There’s nothing wrong with it!” She assures, but Buck cannot stress just how much there is wrong with it at this specific moment. “Hey, was that seriously a general question or is it about…. you know.”
Buck sits back up. “You’re in the car with Chimney, aren’t you?”
“Hi, Buckaroo!” Chimney's voice booms, and something in Buck unnerves when he realizes he has no idea what they’re talking about, or who, he guesses.
“Yes, and Karen. But you didn’t answer my question so I’m taking that as a yes. We’ll talk later?”
“No talk necessary,” he sighs. “I’m good. All good here.”
Maddie snorts. “Super convincing. Call me if you need me. Love you, bye.”
Eddie: I do have a cowboy hat by the way
To answer your question from yesterday
Buck: yeah?
Eddie: From when I was younger
I’m thinking about wearing it tomorrow night
Buck: going out again? where?
He’s well adjusted. This is what an involved supportive friend sounds like. Zero ulterior motives.
Eddie: Saloon
Buck: you cruising for a cowboy?
Eddie: Hahahaha no not really my type
Buck: then what is your type?
Eddie: I don’t think I have one
Buck: are you lying
Eddie: Do you think you’re being subtle?
Buck: about what
Eddie: I don’t know Buck
When I go out again I’ll report back to you what my type is
Buck puts his phone down and groans into his hands. He kind of wants to get drunk. Getting drunk alone sounds absolutely awful and pitiful, but he can’t drink with somebody else without alcohol forcefully pulling everything he’s feeling out of him. It’s not his secrets he’s worried about—it’s Eddie’s.
So he gets drunk alone on beer, anyway. He’s allowed to mope, right? As childish as that sounds. Eddie’s in Texas at a gay bar, in a cowboy hat—flirting and being flirted with—so Buck can get drunk about it. For one night.
It’s weird how time is split since he realized he’s in love with Eddie. The feeling is familiar, but the constant acknowledgement of where it sits in his chest isn’t. It’s behind his ribcage, thrumming with every move he makes.
Buck sips another beer, and thinks about the house he’s in. He doesn’t know if it’s always going to weigh this heavy on him, or if he’ll get used to the hollow shell of it eventually—but for now, Buck’s experiencing the loudest thing he has in his entire life, rivaling grenades—desperately clinging onto every bit of Eddie left in his house while the silence plays in his head like a mantra. The mantra sounds a lot like you should’ve done more.
Eddie’s phone goes to voicemail when he calls—which is definitely a sign from something because Buck never remembers calling him. He probably couldn’t hear the ringing over the music playing in whatever bar he’s at. Maybe he doesn’t have his phone on him. Maybe somebody has Eddie pressed against a bathroom stall, getting to touch and taste him. He wouldn't deserve it. Buck doesn’t deserve it, either, but some random guy in a bar definitely doesn’t deserve to feel Eddie beneath his hands.
The voicemail rings—a simple send your message after the tone because Eddie never actually set a voicemail. Buck’s sent him tons of voicemails before, but none since he’s left for El Paso. Eddie never replies to them. Buck doesn't think he can even access them.
“Oh, uh,” he says. Eddie won’t hear this. He can say what he wants—and try to move forward. Not move on, but forward. “Hey, Eddie. You won’t hear this—I don’t even think you get them. So, I’m just gonna talk. I guess. I’m tipsy a little, and missing you a lot.”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to find a place where I felt like I could stay. It wasn't a person, at first. I wanted a physical place that was mine and mine only. I think that feeling lasted for a while. I didn't find it in Hershey. I didn't find it in Virginia Beach, or Georgia, or Peru. When I came to L.A—to the 118—I thought that was it. I found it. A place to stay, a place that I felt needed me in it. A job that made me feel like I was accomplishing something. But I felt like there was still something missing.”
Buck fidgets with a loose thread on the couch pillow, “I wanted to belong to a person, too. The hole that I felt, I tried to patch it. Maybe with Abby, but it all just kept bleeding through. When you're trying so hard to have something and make it into a thing that it's not—you'll never succeed. No matter what I tried to do with Abby, or Taylor, o-or Tommy. I couldn't. And whatever you're ignoring will just come back around eventually. I don't—I don't know what I'm saying, Eddie. It's a whole lot of words to say I love you. And I think you're it for me. You're not just the person I belong to, but the place too. The thing I was seeking, that I needed.”
“It was selfish when I moved in here. I-I wanted to help you, and that was the priority. It'll always be the priority, but I wanted to cling onto it because I always found here more home than my loft. But with you gone—it's not the house, Eddie, it's you. You're home. And you said you wanted to come back to L.A. And to me. So I'll wait for however long, because I love you, I'm in love with you. I love you and I love Chris and I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I told you that I understood you had to do this on your own, and I do. You told me a couple weeks ago on the phone that—that you were proud of me. Eddie. I'm proud of you. You're facing things, you're figuring them out. I love you. You said you're going out tonight, and I hope you're having fun and experiencing joy because you deserve it. And everything else. Even if I'm going a little crazy thinking about somebody else kissing you, or flirting with you, or—yeah. I love you. I think I said everything I could.”
He takes in a deep gulp of air after he ends the message, because he didn't breathe once saying all of that. It helped, he thinks. He just needed to say it. He’s not drunk enough to not feel anxious about saying all of it out loud, putting it into the air and letting it breathe in Eddie's house. But he thinks it helped. His chest feels lighter. He falls asleep the second he drags himself off the couch and into bed.
The banging on the door startles Buck out of his sleep—persistent booms from the front door that's so harsh he thinks he should take something to defend himself with before he opens it.
“Jesus, I’m coming, hold on!” He yells, his phone reads 3:42 in the morning. If he wasn’t half asleep he’d probably be panicking at why someone is knocking on his door this late. Early?
Buck’s expecting absolutely anybody else other than Eddie, standing in front of him with something frantic in his eyes and rain dripping from his hair. “Eddie?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Buck, I’ve been banging on your door for five minutes.”
“Eddie, what the fuck?” Buck’s not entirely sure he’s not asleep, still. “What’re you— how—what’re you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Eddie gapes, jaw dropping almost comically. Buck’s just staring at him dumbly. “Let me in the house, Buck.”
Buck stumbles when he flings the door open, gesturing for Eddie to come inside. He wipes his hands on the front of his sweatpants nervously. He’s definitely real though—standing in front of Buck and dripping water onto the floor.
“I should, uh, I’ll get you a towel.” He stammers, before turning down the hall. He can hear Eddie call out “Buck–” but he ignores him.
Eddie’s here, for some fucking reason, and he seems… worked up. So he’s trying to delay whatever conversation is about to happen here. Did he forget to pay rent?
He hands Eddie the towel and Eddie takes it with a blank face. He sighs before drying his hair. “Did you mean it?”
The look in Eddie’s eyes wakes him up like cold water to the face. It’s not as intense as when he first walked through the door, but he seems… cracked open—hopeful, almost. “Mean what?”
“Buck.” Eddie says, almost raw as he tosses the towel over the top of the couch. “The voicemail. You told me—you said—”
For the hundredth time, Buck feels his heart stop. He wasn’t supposed to hear any of that. He doesn’t say anything because—what is there to say? There’s no avoiding this conversation. Eddie heard everything, “I didn’t know you even knew how to access those.”
Eddie's shoulders slump. “That really, really doesn’t answer my question, Buck.”
Buck knows his hands are shaking as he clenches them by his side. He looks away from Eddie and lets the silence hang between them for a moment. It’s still raining outside. “I think you know the answer to it, Eddie.”
Buck isn’t expecting anger—he isn’t expecting cruelty. He’s spent the last almost four months digging a grave over just how gentle Eddie is with him. About the way Eddie treats him like he’s something that should be taken care of and handled delicately. Maybe he is. So, when Eddie turns him down, Buck can take it.
“I talked to a priest about you.” Eddie’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Two of them. One in L.A and one in Texas. They both told me the same thing.”
Buck swallows, “What’d they say?”
Eddie shakes his head, signaling I’ll get to that. “I felt guilty for lying to you. About—about Kim. More guilty than I felt about lying to Marisol. I didn’t understand why at the time.”
At the time. Buck bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
“The guilt about that took a backseat in my head because of Chris, but—but it was there. So I’m sorry for lying and keeping things from you.”
“Eddie,” he utters, because they’re past that. Buck can’t stand the thought of himself being added onto the list of things that’ve been killing Eddie this past year.
“I know. Just let me talk, Buck.” Eddie insists, so he holds back his protests and the thousand reassurances that threaten to leave his mouth. “Then he ran into me, told me to find joy, which you know about from the whole—” he gestures vaguely with his hand. Buck knows. He’d smile at the memory if his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest.
“I went to mass, the first couple weeks in El Paso.” He tells him, “I don’t know why. Drove about half an hour out of the city, though. I was terrified of seeing anyone I knew. Or anyone that knew my parents. Before Chris and I were talking again—it was rough. I had nothing to do but keep pushing and wait it out. So I gave myself something to do—drove to the church. Just to sit there and listen to somebody talk about the importance of talking to a God I hadn’t believed in since I was eighteen.”
Buck watches as Eddie tries to push a wet stray curl from his forehead. It falls right back into place. “If I'm being honest, I was punishing myself by going. But he said something. I know you said you didn’t grow up religious, but he quoted this verse that said: two are better than one, if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. If two lie down together, they will keep warm. It sounds—I don’t know. I’m sure there’s some deep biblical meaning I don’t care to know, but when he said it all I could think was: he’s living in my house.”
Buck’s entire body goes numb, and when he meets Eddie’s eyes again they’re warm. He shivers, because this almost sounds like—
“And then I stood up and went to sit in my truck in the parking lot after that because I couldn’t get you off my mind, and you texted me saying you saw it was cold in El Paso and to not get sick and—” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, he’s speaking faster than Buck’s ever heard him speak before. Buck wants to reach out and touch him—hold him. “It was all just really fucking bad timing to realize I’m in love with you.”
Buck’s head is spinning as Eddie takes a step forward and takes his hand between his. “After that, I mean, I just kept seeing you everywhere. You said I deserve joy. In the voicemail—”
Buck somehow manages to form words, “Everything, Eddie, I mean it—”
“Let me have you, then. Buck, I’m not worthy of this but I’ll die trying to be—”
Buck presses his mouth to his, he will never have the words to tell Eddie just how worthy he is of everything—so he holds his face in his hands and kisses him. He hopes it gets the point across.
Eddie’s mouth is warm and soft against his, and it hits him all at once that he’s kissing Eddie. It’s Eddie who has his hand on Buck’s chest. He makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds almost like a wounded animal.
It’s Eddie who pulls away, reluctantly. “That’s a yes?”
Buck doesn’t really register the question. He’s hazy and staring at Eddie’s mouth. “Huh?”
Eddie lets out a soft laugh, warm and light. “I said that’s a yes? About us?”
Us. Us. Us Us Us.
Buck’s face feels hot as he nods. Eddie smiles and leans in again. “Good. Because I pick up Chris on Monday. Would’ve been really awkward if this didn’t go how I expected it to.” He mumbles against his lips.
That snaps Buck out of it. He pulls away at lightning speed and gawks at him because—what? “Huh?”
“Huh?” Eddie mocks, laughing, and cups Buck’s face. “We’re coming home, Buck.”
“You’re serious?” Buck really doesn’t want to cry right now, but Eddie’s cupping his face, and he’s his, and he and Chris are coming home.
“Very. We bought our tickets last week. I was supposed to tell you tomorrow, but then I received the most insane love declaration via voicemail—”
“Sorry—”
“So I made Adri and Soph drive me to the airport.” Eddie leans forward, connecting their lips again.
Things get heated fast with Buck’s hands on Eddie’s waist and Eddie’s hands in Buck’s hair. It’s all tongue and heat, and Buck wants it. He wants it so bad. “Bed,” Eddie pants into his mouth.
So, Buck takes him to bed, lays him down on the mattress even though Eddie’s shirt is still wet from the rain. He kisses down his jaw, his neck, his chest. Eddie paws desperately at the hem of his shirt. “Why is your shirt still on?”
“Why is yours?” He retorts.
Eddie pushes at Buck’s face, fond annoyance. “Because you haven’t taken it off of me yet.” he mocks. Buck makes a show of hovering over Eddie and removing his own shirt, flexing his muscles and all, and is met with a playful groan. “That was lame.”
Buck leans back down to mouth at the side of his face, playfully bites the apple of his cheeks and says: “You’re so red.” he pulls at Eddie’s shirt, “Lift.” he tells him, then throws it to the side.
Buck doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to stop this, now. He’s nipping down Eddie’s chest and stomach and watching the skin turn pink in irritation and he’s so achingly hard in his sweatpants he has to stop himself from rutting against the bed. Eddie has one hand scratching on Buck’s shoulder and another resting on his chest. When he licks him he can still taste the rain on his skin.
“Buck,” he whines, needy and low, and Buck flicks his eyes up to his face. Eddie’s cheeks are blotchy and pink, his pupils blown in arousal. “please.”
“What do you want?” He asks, eager. Whatever Eddie wants—he’ll give it to him. He just has to ask for it.
He tugs at Buck’s hair to pull him up, gentle but commanding as he shoves his tongue back into Buck’s mouth. He lets Eddie whimper and rut against his leg for a moment before he pulls away. “You gotta tell me what you want, baby.”
“I want you to fuck me.” Eddie says, and Buck—impossibly—feels himself get harder. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay. Shit. I can do that. Yeah—” He rambles, and scrubs a hand over his forehead to try and calm himself. Eddie laughs at him. Because he’s mean. And he has not a fucking clue in the world what he does to Buck.
Eddie’s never done this before, has he? Buck would be the first to ever get to see him like this. First and last. Unless he has? “Hey, you’ve never….” Buck trails off.
“No.” Eddie confirms, shaking his head. “I mean, I experimented a little bit in El Paso, but–”
Buck’s eyes jerk to Eddie’s from where he was reaching over to the nightstand. Clearly, whatever look that’s plastered on his face makes Eddie let out another breathless laugh. “Not with another person,” he rolls his eyes, sliding a hand down Buck’s bare chest. “Down, boy.”
Buck shivers at the touch. “That’s not what—I mean, if you did, that would've been…. fine.” He cringes, aiming for supportive of self discovery and missing by a mile.
Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You convincing me or yourself?” He teases.
Buck squints his eyes and then rolls one of Eddie’s nipples between his thumb and pointer, grinning when he gasps and arches. His hand flings up to grab at Buck’s wrist out of instinct. “That was mean.” He whines. “And I had a singular kiss.”
A jealous possessiveness swirls around Buck’s stomach. It should’ve been him. “Someone kissed you? When?” He feels like he’s walking himself into a trap, asking about this.
“One of the nights at the bar.”
“I thought you said cowboys weren’t your type?”
Eddie grins at him like he’s being an idiot, if he is, Buck doesn’t care. He sort of wants to bite into him right now. “You’re my type, you idiot. And it was for confirmation. Just to see. It wasn’t as… intense as this.”
“But you enjoyed it?” He asks. Or pushes.
Eddie gives him a suspicious look, “Do you really want to know the answer?”
No. “Yes. As long as you tell me I’m better.” He’s mostly joking. Mostly.
With a roll of his eyes Eddie tells him, “Yes, I enjoyed being kissed. Yes, you’re a better kisser. Best I’ve had.”
“And what a long list that is.” Buck deadpans. He feels warm all over.
He leans back down to kiss him, lets Eddie squeeze his arms and dig his nails into his bicep as he melts further into the mattress. It’s… kind of a girlish move, if he’s being honest. If it weren’t for Eddie’s size and the fact he can feel just how hard he is poking against his hip. He pulls away to look, and Eddie whimpers a pathetic sounding Buck.
Buck can see where Eddie’s boxers are damp from him leaking all over himself and physically has to control his breathing. He runs a finger over the head through his boxers. “Fuck,” Eddie hisses, arching into it.
Buck thinks he’s going to die, he is actually going to die before he can even properly touch him let alone get inside of him. “You’re sensitive.” He doesn’t even care about hiding the awe in his voice. There’s much to be awed about.
“Take your pants off.”
Buck snorts at the serious look in Eddie’s eyes, “Take a guy out to dinner first–”
“I’ve taken you on so many dinners.” he shifts his hips, rutting against Buck’s leg again. “C’mon, Buck, please.”
“Okay, shh, I got you.” His voice sounds steadier than he feels as he pulls off his boxers, then Eddie’s. Unsurprisingly, his cock is just as pink and flushed as the rest of him. Buck’s mouth waters.
“Are you cold?” He asks when he sees Eddie shivering, but he just shakes his head and pulls Buck back down to kiss him lazily, all tongue and spit. Buck trails down to take him into his hand, smiling when Eddie moans low and loud. “Does this count as morning sex or late night sex?” He asks. Just to run his mouth.
Eddie looks up at him through heavy eyelids and moves his hips, trying to fuck up into Buck's hand. “It’s not any sex until you’re inside of me.” is the answer he gets, followed by another moan.
Buck lets go of him—much to Eddie’s noises of protest—and grabs the lube from the nightstand.
“Hey, Buck.” Eddie reaches to grasp onto Buck’s wrist, stopping him from uncapping the bottle. “Uh, just a warning—”
“Hmm?” He encourages.
“Everytime…. when I’ve… I don’t last. And this’ll be worse, so, just a heads up.” He flushes an impossibly deeper shade of red, like this is something to be embarrassed over and not something Buck will be thinking about for the next, like, twenty to thirty business years.
Buck wants to be smug about it, maybe ask Eddie all about the things he did to himself—late at night and restless in Texas— but he looks at the way Eddie’s squirming beneath him without Buck even touching him and thinks yeah, I’m not gonna last either.
“It’s alright. Encouraged, even.” He says sweetly, and presses a gentle kiss to Eddie’s lips.
It’s not until they both manage to shut their mouths and Buck’s circling his index finger around Eddie’s rim that he realizes how fucking nervous he is. His breathing is hard, and he’s trying to zero in on how to make sure this is perfect. It’s five in the morning, he’s running on adrenaline and the ache in his core.
He has Eddie beneath him. Soft and pliant and asking Buck oh so sweetly to let him have it and it’s—it’s a lot.
“Mm, Buck.” Eddie hums, petting Buck’s hair.
“Yeah?” His voice cracks. Damn.
“Are you alright?”
“Y-Yeah, yes, of course.” Buck stammers, kissing Eddie’s stomach. Which he is. He’ll probably just start crying during sex.
Eddie makes another hum, wriggling his hips to move against Buck’s finger. “More,” he tells him. So Buck gives.
He starts with one, lets Eddie get used to the feeling and watches his face carefully for any sign of discomfort. “Good?”
“More.” Eddie nods, eyes closed.
Buck’s tongue feels like it's too big for his mouth as he pushes the second finger inside of him carefully, gently. You’ve been so gentle with me, all these years. He wants to say, let me do the same. He curls his fingers inside of him, slick wet sounds from the lube filling the room mixed with Eddie’s heavy breathing and moans.
Buck doesn’t think he’s breathing at all, actually. His eyes are glued to Eddie’s face. “Feels good, Buck.” He moans, meeting Buck’s pace with his hips. Holy shit, Buck thinks to himself.
Buck lets out a choked noise and pulls Eddie by his hips further down the bed, he captures him in a kiss and adds a third. “Buck,” he gasps, “you don’t—fuck—please, it’s enough, baby, please–”
Buck slows the speed of his fingers, but doesn't stop, mouthing against the side of Eddie’s neck. “Don’t want it to hurt.”
“It won’t. You won’t hurt me, please, I need—” the words get cut out of him with a jolt and a loud whimper when Buck moves his hand again.
Buck rests the pads of his fingers against the spot inside of him. He’s so fucking hard. “There?”
“I’m going to cum if you don’t stop.” Eddie digs his hands into Buck’s back, kneading the muscle there. Buck moans.
Scrambling for a condom out of the drawer, he pulls back to basically sit on Eddie’s lap, either knee resting on the side of Eddie’s hips. “What?” he breathes when he sees the look on Eddie’s face.
“Condom in the drawer. Who’s all been in my bed?” He asks jokingly, but it rips through Buck like a second lightning strike when he hears the underlying possessiveness in Eddie’s voice.
“Nobodies even been in this house, let alone this bed.” He says honestly as he rolls the condom onto himself. It’s clearly what Eddie wanted to hear, because he’s evil, and Buck’s so in love with him. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Buck, please—” Eddie echoes desperately, Buck swallows it with his mouth and slides into him.
He’s tight and hot, and Buck has to steady himself with his palms by Eddie’s head so that he doesn’t collapse on top of him. The overwhelming feeling of Eddie everywhere is about to end this before Buck can even really start. “Are you—” he clears his throat when he hears how hoarse his voice is, “are you okay?”
Eddie’s chest is heaving, eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed together, he nods. “Full.”
“Fuck.” Buck grits, taking that as a confirmation to thrust. Eddie’s lips are parted, and his face is nothing short of blissed out. “Eddie,” he whines, “you’re gorgeous.”
Eddie moans unabashedly and Buck watches with shaking limbs as he takes himself into his hand, attempting to stroke himself in time with Buck’s movement. “Wait, no, let me—” he moves Eddie’s hand to do it himself.
“You feel so good.” Eddie tells him, Buck has to bury his face into Eddie’s shoulder to calm himself down.
He doesn’t let up the pace, finds the right angle that makes Eddie writhe and moan. Buck doesn’t know how he lasted so long not getting to have and hear Eddie like this. He’s ruined—completely fucking ruined, overwhelmed with the feeling of Eddie being his. Then, Eddie fumbles above his head for Buck’s hand, moving it beneath where his palm is pushed against the bed, and laces their fingers together.
Buck’s orgasm rips through him, he’s babbling an endless string of Eddie, oh my God, and he feels the second Eddie’s body tenses followed by the twitching of his cock in Buck’s hand and warm wetness over his stomach.
Buck kisses the side of his neck through it, gentle kisses as they both come down, one of Eddie’s hands still laced with Buck’s while the other runs his fingers through his curls. “I have to pull out.” he mumbles.
Eddie kisses Buck’s sweaty hair. “Why?”
He laughs, breathless and in love and warm with aching muscles and an aching heart. “I should clean us up.”
Eddie sounds a tired hum. “I could fall asleep like this.”
Buck laughs again before lifting himself up and untangling their hands. He kisses him and says, “Maybe another time.”
The sun’s rising outside, Buck can feel the warmth of the light coming through the curtain and hitting his face. “You’re so beautiful.” Eddie tells him.
He grins, bashful. He knows all of Eddie’s tricks. He knows Eddie. “Still pulling out.” Eddie gives him a sleepy laugh in response, and he shushes him and says I know when he whimpers at the sensitivity of Buck sliding carefully out of him.
They should shower, really. But they’re both exhausted and it’s six in the morning, Eddie hasn’t even slept at all. Buck settles for dragging a rag lazily across both of them and then tossing it to the side to pick up later.
Buck curls into Eddie almost instantly, tucking his face back into his neck, he’s half asleep already. “I want you.”
Eddie’s hand pauses from where it was rubbing gentle circles on his back. “I don’t know if I can–”
“Not like that.” Buck snorts, “Just in general. I love you.” He kisses his shoulder, “You should sleep, you’ve had a long night.”
He doesn’t know who falls asleep first. The last thought in Buck’s head before he drifts off is that this is the first time he’s going to sleep in this bed and not wake up hollow.
Surprisingly, it’s not Buck who wakes up first. The bed is empty, and if it weren't for the still slightly warm patch text to him and the smell of bacon wafting through the house, maybe he would panic.
He slides on a pair of gym shorts from the floor, doesn’t bother with a shirt, and drags himself to the kitchen.
Eddie. In Buck’s shirt, in the kitchen, making an insane amount of breakfast for two people. He leans against the door frame and watches him.
“Morning,” Eddie greets, honey warm, even though it’s one o'clock in the afternoon.
“Morning,” Buck echoes, but stays firmly by the door. He doesn't know…. Eddie sounded pretty sure yesterday, Buck knows that. But he’s still nervous—like walking over and touching Eddie right now is gonna shatter whatever it is they built last night.
He sort of wants to stay here forever, watching Eddie in one of Buck’s LAFD shirts and a pair of boxer shorts—hair messy from sleep and cheeks pink from the heat of the pan.
He doesn’t know how long he stares at him in silence, but he watches as Eddie reaches over, puts the stove on low, and turns to Buck. He rolls his eyes when he sees he hasn’t moved. “Come here.”
It’s two words that can mean anything, but Buck takes it as an invitation. He takes two quick strides over to Eddie, grabs him by his waist, and kisses him.
It’s slow and deep, and Eddie hums, opening up immediately. He’s firm but pliant beneath his hands and Buck’s never felt this warm in his life as Eddie wraps his arms around Buck’s neck. He sticks his hands underneath Eddie’s (Buck’s) shirt and licks across his tongue.
A sweet sound is moaned into Buck’s mouth, and at some sort of attempt of a move, he bends down, mouth never leaving Eddie’s, and grabs him by the back of his thighs to place him on the counter—
—and promptly misses.
Eddie stumbles but steadies himself with a palm on the counter; Buck catches him before he hits the floor. “Eddie, oh my God, are you okay? I’m sorry—”
Eddie just looks at him with wide eyes for a second and catches his breath. Whether that’s from the adrenaline of his ass almost hitting the ground or kissing Buck—he’s not sure.
“Are you okay?” He asks again, bringing a palm to cup his face. Eddie, after a second, just giggles.
And doesn’t stop. It’s the best sound Buck’s ever heard in his fucking life, and he wants to keep Eddie here forever—giggling and flushed in this kitchen.
Eddie places a hand to Buck’s bare chest. “Slow down,” he giggles the words more than he actually says it.
“Sorry,” Buck replies, but he’s laughing too, hands back on Eddie’s waist. “You weren’t complaining,” he teases, pressing him back up against the counter again.
Eddie trails his hand lower, twirls the strings of Buck’s gym shorts around his finger. “Well, you didn’t give me a chance to, with your tongue down my throat.”
“Okay—” he scoffs fondly, and moves to pull away, but Eddie only tugs him back by his gym shorts and kisses him sweetly – much less heated than the one they shared seconds ago.
“I made breakfast,” he says against his lips, then pushes Buck away. He misses the warmth immediately. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m starving. And I made the entire pack of bacon.”
“You didn’t do much to work up an appetite last night,” Buck quips, mostly just to see how red Eddie will get.
Eddie flashes him an unamused look. “Is it gonna take me telling you how good you’re being to get you to stop being annoying and grab plates?”
Well, that backfired almost immediately. Buck’s face heats as he walks over to the cabinet. “You’re such a dick,” he grumbles, but can’t fake the attitude for more than a second once Eddie laughs again.
They eat in comfortable silence, for the most part, stealing glances across the table. They’ll meet the others eyes and smile and it’s everything Buck’s ever wanted. Then, he remembers they’re picking up Christopher on Monday, and grows impossibly warmer. You can keep this, he thinks. Trust yourself to keep this.
There is one thing, though. With Eddie and Christopher both home, they’ll most likely just move back in here. Which is what Buck wants, and he has a feeling Eddie’s just going to ask him to stay with them.
In theory, it’s what Buck wants most in the world—to wake up next to Eddie in the mornings and drive Chris to school—but he’s sort of fucking terrified.
“So, I was thinking,” Buck says nervously.
Eddie hums, his back turned to him as he washes his plate in the sink.
“With you and Chris home now, I should probably pack my stuff.” It’s terrible wording, absolutely awful wording.
The plate clashes in the sink, splashing water onto the floor as Eddie spins around. “What? Why?”
“Eddie,” he breathes a humorless laugh, “I don’t have the best track record when it comes to immediately moving in with partners.”
It sounds weak to both of their ears. They haven’t actually talked about what it is that they’re doing here. But they both know Eddie isn’t just somebody he’s dating. Regardless, Buck is so fucking terrified of fucking this up, of making the wrong choice, that he’s stammering over his words.
“We don’t count.” Eddie says simply, stubbornly, and turns back to the sink.
“We count a little bit, baby—”
“And,” Eddie cuts him off, “we were partners before all of them.”
Jesus. “Romantic partners—”
Eddie spins around again with something softer in his eyes. “Buck, if you don’t want to stay here, you don’t have to. I’m not going to force your hand o-or something. If you think you’re not ready, that’s fine. I'll wait. Because I meant everything I said last night. This—” he gestures between him, “is it. It’s all I want. So I’ll wait if you don’t want to move in right now. But, if all you’re nervous about is this being some repeat of Taylor or Tommy or whoever, then I’ll say this: I know you. They didn’t.”
Buck blinks.
“We aren’t them, and I know you know this is different. So I’m asking you to stay here with me and Christopher. Because we love you and we want you here. You can think about it, I said I’ll wait, just—”
“Okay.” He says. He doesn’t even plan to say it, it just comes out.
Eddie squints his eyes. “Okay as in okay I’ll think about it, or okay as in yes, Eddie.”
Buck rolls his eyes, slides his plate into the sink. “Okay as in I love you. Okay as in I'd probably end up sleeping in your bed five times a week, anyways.”
Eddie smiles and washes Buck’s plate for him. “No more couch.”
“Damn,” He sighs dramatically, “I might sleep on it every once in a while, for old times sake.”
“No.”
Buck laughs and presses a kiss to his cheek. Warm. Warm warm warm. “Does everyone know you’re home?”
Home. Eddie’s home.
Eddie snorted. “No. Uh, one track mind. I was kind of a man on a mission.”
Buck makes a noise that can only be described as fond. “And… do we uh… do we tell them?” Smoothe.
Eddie furrows his eyebrows, a confused look in his eyes as if he doesn’t understand what Buck’s getting at. “That I’m home? Uh, I mean, we have to? I want to come back to the 118.”
Buck huffs a laugh. He’s cute. There’s syrup on his face. “About us, genius.”
“Oh.” Eddie blinks.
“Oh as in yes, Buck or oh as in absolutely not, Buck.” Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Oh as in were you not listening to a single thing I said earlier? Oh as in I love you and want to show it. Oh as in they’d find out anyways and we’re still gonna have to fill out paperwork.”
Buck feels his ears and neck heat up again. “Okay. Good. I want to tell them, too. And… Chris…”
“Knows.”
Oh. That’s something. “About you or about us?”
“Both. I told him first. Well, he doesn’t know we’re together, because that happened about 12 hours ago, but he knows how I feel about you. He kind of guessed it after I said I was gay.”
Well. “Smart kid.”
“Mm, too smart for his own good.”
“How’d that go?” He asks, curious.
“Good, actually. Surprisingly good.” He dries the plate and places it in the cabinet. “But I practiced what I was going to say for a solid three hours. I just wanted him to know that I loved Shannon. I’ve done a really fucking bad job of showing that to him.”
“Eddie–”
Eddie waves him off. “That wasn’t a woe is me comment. Chris and I are working on it. It’s… better.” He trails off. “But, yeah. He said he just wanted me to be happy.”
“God. I miss that kid.”
“He misses you. Don’t let the moody teenager act fool you.”
Buck hasn’t seen Chris in a year. And before Eddie left, Buck didn’t talk about him; about how the constant feeling of a piece of Buck missing hovered over him every day.
Until early afternoon, Buck and Eddie mostly just lounge around. Then Eddie gets antsy about wanting to see the rest of the team. Seeing the rest of the team means having to tell the rest of the team. If Eddie wants to talk to Bobby about coming back, then that conversation has to happen first.
They try and run through what they want to say and how they want to say it. Buck votes they just text the group chat a picture of them in bed. Eddie shuts that down with an immediate what is wrong with you?
They come to the conclusion that they’re way overthinking this when Buck says, “Wait! I’ll pretend to be Bobby. You be Eddie. I’ll be Bobby.”
Eddie had rolled his eyes, frustrated. “I am Eddie. And I don’t need you to be Bobby; I need you to be Buck.”
They get around to it eventually. After the welcome home’s and we missed you’s.
They pregame telling the team by inviting Maddie out for a late lunch first. That’s easy. It’s easy with Maddie, she knows already. And only gloats a little bit.
Bobby is Bobby about it; acts as their friend before their captain, but says when Eddie starts back on shift he’ll have to be Captain Nash and make them sign paperwork. go over workplace relationship protocols.
Chimney and Hen are way too invested in the details of the how. They settle down after a while—and tell them they’re happy for them, that they love them.
Buck feels so whole. It’s almost perfect, almost complete, and Buck knows the missing piece of himself comes home tomorrow afternoon.
Buck can barely sleep the night before. It takes Eddie physically rolling overtop of him in the middle of the night to get him to stop fidgeting. (“Sleep, Buck.” “I’m trying, Eddie–”)
Eddie’s nervous too, Buck can tell. But Buck and Eddie can’t both freak out; it would just end in disaster. One of them has to be the voice of reasoning.
The plan is: Eddie has two one way tickets because he couldn’t manage to find a ticket from LA to El Paso that left to come back almost immediately. So, Buck drives Eddie to the airport at six in the morning, Eddie meets Sophia who’s driving Christopher at the airport, and then basically hops right back on the plane.
Hopefully, if Buck has this whole thing mapped correctly, Chris and Eddie should be back around 2:30, and home by 3:45.
Which leaves him by himself for about eight hours; if his timing is right.
When he drops Eddie off, Eddie leaves him with a kiss and a promise to be back safe with Christopher. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared in public and Buck kills the first hour of eight with a red face and a fluttering in his chest.
The next seven don’t go by that easily. He has their flight number and checks it a healthy amount of times. After about the fifth time in two hours he accepts that the laws of airplane mechanics aren’t going to magically change to get Eddie and Chris home to him faster, so he sits his phone down.
Cleaning isn’t an option, because there’s not much to do. He’s been living by himself here for 4 months and cleans regularly.
It’s 11:45 when he decides on just baking something. He hasn’t done that in a while, actually. Not since Eddie left. The rest of the 118 and Maddie could only handle so many pastries thrown at them before they try and stage some sort of intervention.
It’s not hard to pick what he should bake. It has to be snickerdoodles. They’re Eddie’s favorite. Chris likes them too, but he likes to put Hershey kisses on top of them, so Buck makes a mental note to grab a pack when he heads to the store to pick up more cinnamon.
He sort of speed runs the batch because he wants them fully ready for when he goes to pick Eddie and Chris up from the airport. Buck receives steady updates from Eddie once he’s landed and got Chris.
His heart is beating so fast the only thing he can manage in reply is:
Buck: did you know airplanes are completely lightning proof and actually get struck on a regular basis with zero damage?
Eddie: Did you learn this googling after the airplane crash or after you got struck by lightning?
Buck: second one
Eddie: Yeesh
Interesting though
Boarding now
See you soon ❤️
The oven beeps and their flight lands in about an hour. It’s a half an hour drive to LAX. It goes by fast after that. He has a one track mind—turn the oven off but keep the cookies in so they’ll hopefully still be warm, and obey Los Angeles traffic laws on the drive to the airport because once again, it’s not going to make the plane land faster.
Navigating LAX is hell on fucking earth and Buck hates it no matter the circumstance, but he’s so keyed up that he has to physically stop and force himself to breathe as he makes his way through crowds and to their baggage claim.
When he spots them it’s… God. He waves his hands like an idiot, and Chris sees him first, taps Eddie’s shoulder to point him out in the crowd.
“Christopher,” he breathes out once he’s made his way to them. Buck holds out his arms, hoping–
Christopher wraps his arms around his waist in a hug. “Hey, Buck.”
His voice is deeper, and he’s tall – he’s up to Buck’s shoulders now “Jesus, you’re so tall.” He says, muffled into Chris’ curls. “I missed you.” He won't fucking cry in this airport. He won't do it.
Chris pulls away, and Buck places two firm hands on his shoulder, just looking at him. “Wow. Woah.”
“Why’re you being weird?” Chris grumbles, but it’s fond, like he missed Buck too.
“Sorry,” Buck ruffles his hair.
When he turns to Eddie, his face is painted with something Buck can only label as love. He wants to learn forward and take Eddie into a kiss, but he doesn’t really know what he’s allowed to do here. Should they both talk to Christopher first? Buck knows he has to talk to him separately at some point. Probably once he’s settled back in L.A. Back home.
“Hi.” He says to Eddie, stupidly.
Eddie completely disregards whatever spiral Buck was having, and leans forward to peck his lips. “Hi. Again.”
“I’m hungry.” Chris interrupts, clearly unphased by this whole thing. Buck’s heart is about to give out from a Diaz induced heart murmur.
“In & Out?” Buck asks him, because honestly he could also go for a burger right now.
“Hell yeah.” Chris agrees, and Eddie scolds him by flicking the back of his head.
“Okay, I’ve had enough airports for the foreseeable future. Burgers, and then home.” Eddie says, shoving Chris’ bag into Buck’s arms. He doesn’t even groan at being the designated bag carrier because he’s only thinking one word:
Home.
The impromptu In & Out stop puts a slight detour in Buck’s original home by 3:45 plan, but he doesn’t care. They eat greasy burgers in Buck’s truck and make plans for Chris to see Denny tomorrow.
Eddie’s half asleep in Buck’s passenger seat when they finally make it to the house.
“Eddie,” He whispers, and when he doesn’t respond he leans over and runs his fingers through Eddie’s unkempt i’ve been on and off a plane since eight in the morning hair.
“Eddie,” Buck repeats.
Eddie blinks awake, looking at him with tired eyes.
“C’mon, you can go take a nap.” He nods towards the house and sits the keys in Eddie’s lap for him to unlock the door while Buck grabs Chris’ things and goes to put them in his room.
“Is that cinnamon?” Eddie asks, sniffing, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Oh, shit, yeah. He forgot. “Yeah, uh—I made snickerdoodles.” Buck stammers and wipes his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans.
When he doesn’t move to get them out of the oven, Eddie and Chris share a glance. “So can we eat them, or….” Chris asks.
“Shit—shoot. Yeah.” He nods, and moves to take the pan out of the oven. ”They’re still warmish but I can reheat them, just—“
“Buck.” Eddie interrupts, rubbing his back, “Breathe.”
And he does—he exhales such a large breath that his chest shakes with it. He breathes in warm air in a warm house that smells like cinnamon and feels like it’s actually putting oxygen in his lungs after breathing in dead air for months.
“Sorry,“ Buck breathes—and breathes and breathes and breathes. He sets the pan on the counter and doesn’t even have it in him to tell Eddie and Chris to wait for him to properly put the cookies on plates.
Chris walks up next to him, and shoves one in his mouth. “Buck. Good.” He says in approval with his mouthful.
“Thanks, caveman.” Buck snorts, and holds out a cookie for Eddie. Eddie leans forward and takes it with his teeth. He gives Buck a thumbs up. “Good.”
“Wow, you two have such an extensive list of compliments.”
Chris bites into another cookie. “Dang, I wish I had Hersheys.”
Buck reaches into the cabinet and slides the pack of chocolate forward.
Chris stares at them for a second. “This is why you’re my best friend,” he says finally, and Buck doesn’t blush because that would be ridiculous.
Buck stands there in the kitchen—shoulders pressed against Eddie’s—and smiles as Chris walks to his room, an all too familiar sound of crutches on floors making up for the oppressive silence that’s contaminated the house since Eddie left.
When Buck turns, Eddie is already looking at him. “What?” He squints.
“Nothing.” Eddie shrugs, amused, and pushes off the counter to walk towards their bedroom. “I’m taking a nap. Also there’s chocolate on your chin.”
“Wh—” Buck wipes at his face. Eddie’s laugh rings through the hall. It’s a balm to the ache that Buck’s had in his chest since a hug and goodbye in the rain.
He trails behind Eddie, and feels all the pieces fall into place. Buck’s two favorite people under one roof—warm and breathing and home.