Chapter Text
Buck is uncomfortable.
It’s not just about his current predicament; it applies to everything. Nothing quite fits him right—not his fifth job in six months or this house full of former frat guys. Not the clothes he’s had since he was a freshman in college. Not the partying, the drinking, the drugs, the copious amounts of sex.
Not the fact that he hasn’t spoken to Maddie in six years, his parents in seven, and has never maintained a romantic relationship for more than a year. Or the fact that he can’t stand to look at himself in the mirror, can’t stand to be alone with his thoughts.
It’s all very uncomfortable.
But so is waking up with all 6’2” of his body crammed in a tub with the smell of vomit. Probably the more pressing of his current discomforts.
With no small measure of reluctance, he cracks an eye open and spends a moment concerned he may have drunk so much last night that he permanently impaired his vision. Then he realizes that the bathroom light is off and the door is closed. He flails a hand out until it smacks painfully against the sink counter, gets a good grip, and hauls himself out of the bathtub.
Every inch of him is sore, even his teeth. He has to pause to sit on the toilet and breathe before slapping at the wall until he hits the light switch. The bulbs above the mirror flicker to life, and he recoils as the light hits his sensitive eyes. When he adjusts to the light, he squints at himself in the mirror. Buck is not overly fond of the man staring back at him; he’s not anything like he imagined himself to be when he was young and idealistic.
He’s maintained his bulk over the years, but that’s about the best he can say for himself. His hair is sticking up in odd tufts thanks to the chaotic night. He’s pale, and his eyes are so bloodshot it makes his irises look more arctic than their usual cornflower blue. There’s a tear in the collar of his old college t-shirt and vomit smeared down the front. He’s not wearing pants, and he’s pretty sure these boxers are not his. Which means he probably slept with some asshole last night and he doesn’t even remember it.
He turns away before he can make himself sick again. The shower calls to him, but that will have to wait until he cleans the vomit out of the tub. He opens the toilet to take a leak and finds it clogged. Well, that’s why he decided to vomit in the tub. Sighing, he gets to work.
It takes him nearly an hour to clean the whole bathroom. Partially because his extreme light-headedness forces him to take periodic breaks, and partially because once he’s started, he can’t stop. Cleaning has always been soothing to him, and he’s nothing if not a perfectionist, so he can’t stop at unclogging the toilet and wiping down the tub. No, he’s got to scrub the sink and counter, the floor, the walls, everything. By the time he’s finished, the bathroom smells like lemons and chemicals. A marked improvement from vomit and alcohol.
He turns the water on as hot as it will go and hisses as it burns his skin, forcing himself to stay under the stream until he adjusts to the temperature. He’s as meticulous about cleaning himself as he was the bathroom. His ass is sore, so that means he was being fucked rather than doing the fucking.
He’s in the shower so long that his skin has started to turn red from the heat, so he finally shuts the water off and climbs out, a towel tied around his waist.
His room is about as disorderly as his bathroom pre-stress-clean. His dirty clothes are scattered haphazardly across the floor, and his clean clothes form a small mountain on the armchair by the window. Both of his bedside tables are cluttered with empty beer cans and plastic water bottles, each one featuring an ashtray practically overflowing with roaches (the kind that come from a joint, not the bugs, so there’s that at least). His closet is full of shoes and workout gear and other random shit that he can’t be bothered to remember.
He spots a half-smoked joint lying on the dresser by the bathroom. Shrugging, he sticks it in the corner of his mouth while he rifles through his garbage for a lighter that works. It takes him three tries, but eventually, he finds one with enough gas to light his blunt. He takes a deep drag, relishing in the familiar tickle of smoke in his lungs, and then lets it out with a long sigh.
Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the deep breath, but some of the inherent anxiety he walks around with every waking moment finally lets up just a smidge.
He finishes the joint while digging through his clothes with one hand, tossing the items he wants onto the bed until he’s got a full outfit. Jeans, a black button down he should iron out but won’t, a fresh pair of boxers, and socks. Done. He flicks the roach into the trash can by his bed and fumbles into his clothes.
Ten minutes later, he’s made something presentable about his hair and hosed himself down with enough cologne to drown the smell of weed. He’s feeling pretty accomplished as he staggers into the kitchen.
Andy, one of his six roommates, is cooking bacon and drinking a beer. Buck opens his mouth to chastise him about drinking before noon, but his eyes snag on the clock on the microwave. It’s nearly four in the afternoon. Cursing, he changes course from the fridge to the front door.
“Mornin’, Bucks,” Andy calls after him.
“Gonna be late!” he shouts over his shoulder, snagging his keys from the hook by the door. He hooks the carabiner to his belt loop and starts pawing through the jackets on the rack for his wallet.
“You wanna take breakfast?”
“No time!” he shouts. He finds his wallet stuffed in his brown leather jacket. “Bye!”
He doesn’t bother locking the door behind him. Andy or somebody will lock it for him, as per usual. Or they’ll all forget, and Buck will experience a moment of panic when he comes home to find his door still unlocked. He wonders what it’s like to exist without the low hum of anxiety that follows him wherever he goes, no matter what he does. Must be peaceful.
He double-times it down the steps but pauses in the driveway to stare at his jeep, stalled on the curb.
There’s something wrong with the transmission, and the mechanic Buck took it to quoted him nearly three thousand dollars. Money he does not have. Or... well... he does. It’s just that the money comes from his mother’s life insurance policy, split evenly between her two children, and not a dime for her husband. One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars that he hasn’t touched in three years because it feels too much like blood money. Like if he uses it, it means he has to forgive her for standing there and doing nothing for eighteen years.
He should donate it to charity or something, but he doesn’t because, deep down, he’s horribly selfish. One day, he’ll get desperate enough, and then he’ll be glad the money’s there.
He’s a terrible person. The guilt that comes with that thought is a familiar friend. It’s better than the dichotomy of anxiety and numbness that he usually struggles under.
Just go, Evan. Get out of here. Find somewhere, something, someone that you love with all your heart, and never look back.
Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he breaks eye contact with the jeep to see the city bus pull up to the stop at the end of his street. He bolts down the drive, waving his arms and shouting for the driver. He makes it through the doors just as the driver starts to close them.
“Gladys,” he says, flashing her one of his most disarming smiles.
She levels him with an unimpressed glare and jerks her thumb toward the back of the bus. Buck swipes his pass and does as he’s told.
The usual suspects haunt their usual seats. Bridget, in her pale blue nurse's uniform, half asleep against the window. Christine and Jacob, on their way to see their dad, the older sister listening to music, the little brother glaring out the window with his backpack clutched to his chest like a shield. Barbara is knitting, smiling pleasantly at everyone she makes eye contact with. Corey twists his dog tags around and around his fingers, leg jumping, eyes restless.
Buck likes talking to people, getting to know their stories. And, generally, people like him back, at least until they spend too much time around him. Everyone looks up as he enters to smile and wave at him. Buck smiles and waves back, dropping into his usual seat.
Abby Clark’s smile is tired this afternoon. She works the night shift at a dispatch center in central LA. Her mother passed away two years ago and she hasn’t been coping well since. Buck makes her feel young and important again, so she tolerates him. It’s a little painful to know he’s being used, but it’s also a little comforting to know he’s worth something to someone. He’s lonely enough to tolerate it right back.
“Ireland,” he says, settling in just as the bus takes off again.
Abby tilts her head curiously. Buck is a little in love with the way her strawberry blonde hair slides over her shoulder. “Anywhere in the world, and you choose Ireland? Why?”
Last week, their conversation about where they would want to live outside of the States had been cut short before Buck could settle on an answer. Buck grins. “‘Cause those people can drink. Might actually be able to keep up with me,” he explains. “Scotland would probably work too. Or Germany.”
Abby chuckles and shakes her head. Buck says these kinds of things to remind her that he is not relationship material, not worth any of her real time. He belongs in this weird limbo where the real world halts for a moment as they’re transported from one part of their lives to the next. He should never exist to her outside of this pocket. Abby appreciates the reminders.
They chat idly about nothing important for the rest of the ride. When they get to Abby’s stop, he stands to let her out, and she smiles, touching his shoulder as she brushes past him. Buck wants a hug with such a sudden ferocity that it leaves him shaky and forlorn. He lowers himself back into Abby’s seat and leans his temple against the window, watching LA flash past him.
When was the last time he had a hug? It’s concerning how easy it is to answer that question; it was when Maddie handed him the keys to the jeep and told him to get a life.
Find somewhere, something, someone that you love with all your heart, and never look back.
He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize they’ve made it to his stop.
“Buckaroo, that’s you!” Barbara shouts.
He jerks upright and scrambles out of the seat, half running, half stumbling off the bus. Barbara holds out her hand as he passes, and he pauses long enough to give her a grateful smile and a kiss on her knuckles before he bolts again. He thanks Gladys in a rush as he trips down the stairs and catches himself on the sign for the bus stop before he eats pavement.
The bus squeals away from the curb as he checks the time, cursing under his breath. Buck has five minutes to make a ten-minute walk before he’s officially late for the sixth time in two weeks.
Buck sprints.
It’s a good thing he’s kept up with his physique because he makes it in six minutes. One minute late is better than five. Luis, his boss, only glares at him as he hastily clocks in. Buck strategically does not make eye contact, making a mental bet with himself that he has another solid two weeks at this job before he gets the can. He’ll have to start poking around on Indeed for some other options.
It’s funny how a day is just a day until it isn’t anymore. One tiny shift, and the mundane becomes the first day of the rest of your life.
It is a completely unremarkable shift for the first four hours. He makes drinks, flirts with anyone who even seems half interested, and keeps a mental tally of his tips. Veronica, one of the two waitresses on duty, keeps hinting that she wants to come home with him tonight, and Buck is debating letting her. His skin still feels a little sticky and gross with the uncertainty of last night's sexual encounter, but maybe a new experience is exactly what he needs to chase away the old one.
There’s a lull in the drink orders around ten, and Buck busies himself by wiping down his already pristine counters. Kora, the other waitress, leans across the bar to smile at him.
Kora is only 21 and the sweetest girl Buck has ever met. She moved to LA to be an actress, and she still has stars in her eyes for the city. Her curly brown hair is twisted up into matching buns on either side of her head that she once called space buns around giggles of amusement at his expense. Buck has never flirted with her; she feels too much like a little sister for that.
“I have an audition tomorrow,” she tells him.
He stops wiping down the bar. “Kori! That’s great!”
Her smile spreads into a full grin, revealing the dimple in her left cheek. “I feel really good about this one. I fit the casting call to a T.” She sighs a little, relaxing into the bar with her chin held up in one hand. “I’m ready, Buck.”
Buck grins right back at her. “Of course, you are, Kori. You were born for this.”
He’s not just saying that either. Sometimes, after a long shift, they linger for an hour or two afterward. Buck helps her run lines and gives his best attempts at feedback. She really does have a talent for acting. She’s made him cry once or twice with a well-placed monologue. Not only that, but she’s an incredible writer. Once someone gives her a chance, she’s going to run with it and never look back.
Kora opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off by the appearance of one of her customers from booth ten.
“Pretty sure they pay you to run drinks, not to look pretty,” he leers. His sentence is punctuated by a rough smack to her ass.
Kora’s eyes go round with surprise, and she whirls to face the man, pressing her back against the bar. Buck can see her shoulders heaving with her labored breathing, every one of her muscles tensed with surprise and fear.
This is the moment that the ordinary becomes extraordinary. The moment that changes the entire trajectory of his life.
If there’s one thing Buck can’t stand, it’s a bully.
“Touch her again, see what happens,” he hears himself saying.
The man’s eyes lift from Kora to glower at him. He’s drunk, obviously, and something in the set of his jaw reminds Buck of his father.
“What’re you going to do about it, shit stain?” he slurs.
Buck narrows his eyes. “I’ll break your hand, for starters,” he promises.
“Buck, don’t,” Kora says. Buck ignores her.
The man only laughs. “I’d like to see you try.”
Famous last words.
The asshole reaches for Kora, grabbing her wrist and yanking her away from the bar. Buck sees red. The next thing he knows, he’s vaulted over the side of the bar, knocking glasses over and scattering patrons, only to drive his fist into the man’s stupid, pug-like face. Pugface grunts, releasing Kora to stagger back a few steps, but Buck doesn’t give him the chance to recover before he punches him again.
This time, the man sprawls on his ass. He braces a hand on the floor as he readies to leverage himself back to his feet. Buck sees his fingers splayed against the wood and doesn't think, just reacts. He slams his boot down on the man’s knuckles as hard as he can and feels a thrill of satisfaction at the sensation of bones cracking beneath his heel. The man howls, drawing his injured hand to his chest and curling around it.
Through his belligerent screaming, Buck makes out the words, “Fuck this guy up!”
Hm. That can’t be a good sign.
He turns to find the man’s companion rising from their booth. Of course, he’s bigger than Pugface and not quite as inebriated. Great. Well, just because he’s bigger than Pugface doesn’t mean he’s bigger than Buck. He’s feeling pretty good about his chances until the new guy pulls something from his back pocket. There is a faint clicking noise, and a blade appears in the man’s hand.
Awesome.
Kora screams for someone to call 911, and Buck is too focused on the deadly weapon to remind her that maybe that won’t be such a good idea for Buck, who technically started this.
Big Guy starts to stalk toward Buck, and Buck moves to put the table between them. Big Guy does not entertain this approach; he simply grabs the edge of the table and tosses it aside. Luckily, the patrons who’d been using the table cleared the area as soon as a weapon got involved.
Buck puts his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. “Hey, Big Guy, we can talk this out, yeah? It was just a misunderstanding!”
He slams a boot into Buck’s chest, sending Buck careening backward into a recently abandoned table. By an insane stroke of luck, he collapses ass first into a vacant chair, mostly unscathed. He has half a second to appreciate his good luck before he sees Big Guy coming at him again, knife first this time.
Buck ducks out of the way before he can find out what a switchblade feels like, trying to put as much space between himself and the knife-wielding maniac. But Buck’s attacker is an unrelenting force, completely undeterred by his repeated failed attempts to hit Buck. Buck’s only saving grace is that he has slightly less alcohol in his system than this guy.
This doesn’t carry him for long.
Big Guy gets him pinned against the bar and slashes at him with the knife. Buck's hand comes up automatically, taking the brunt of the slice instead of his face. A sharp, burning pain blossoms all the way up to his elbow, but Buck ignores it. He doesn’t have time to moan about pain when this guy is making another stab at him.
Buck grabs his wrist, stopping him in his tracks, and wrenches his arm sideways as hard and as far as he can. Big Guy grunts in surprised pain and the switchblade clatters loudly against the wood flooring. Buck doesn’t have a lot of time to feel triumphant about this because Big Guy uses his free hand to get a fistful of Buck’s hair.
Buck is so startled by this turn of events that he does nothing to resist as Big Guy slams his head down against the edge of the bar. The pain is an explosion behind his temples, radiating through his teeth all the way down to his feet, and black spots begin to dance in front of his eyes. Weakly, he slaps at Big Guy’s wrist, a vain attempt to pry his fingers from Buck’s hair. This only serves to piss him off more and Big Guy slams his head against the bar a second time, harder than before.
Buck’s vision goes black for a handful of seconds. When he comes to, he’s panting against the sticky bar floor. Everything sounds muffled and distant. His vision refuses to focus, no matter how many times he blinks. A feeling like writhing snakes starts up in the pit of his stomach, forcing bile up his throat.
Buck has enough presence of mind to feel surprised that he’s not currently being stabbed to death. He rolls to investigate his situation and finds four men dragging Big Guy and Pugface from the bar despite their wild thrashing and violent shouting. The pocketknife is still discarded on the ground, only a few feet away from Buck.
He pushes himself upright and then slumps back against the bar as the room begins to swirl around him. He groans and moves to cover his face with one hand, only to be brought up short by the sight of his hand bleeding sluggishly. Oh, right. He’s been stabbed. Or lacerated. Something unpleasant involving a knife.
Every thought feels like it’s fighting to wade through quicksand. They’re slow, difficult to hold onto, and mostly more painful than they’re worth. Buck diverts most of his energy toward not vomiting all over himself at his place of employment.
Kora appears out of nowhere, pressing a towel into the gash on his palm. Her brow is pinched, and tear tracks stain her freckled cheeks. Her sadness makes Buck sad. Why is he such a fuck up?
“Don’t worry, Buck, there’s an ambulance on the way,” she promises.
Buck shakes his head and immediately regrets it. He swallows against the bile crawling up his throat and closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the bar. It helps with the nausea. He isn’t aware of time passing until a heavy, unfamiliar hand grips his shoulder.
“Sir, I need you to open your eyes.”
That is a very pleasant voice. Calm, assured, confident. Buck wishes he sounded like that.
Buck opens his eyes.
“Oh, no.”
This is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. He exudes warmth. Warm brown skin, warm brown eyes, warm brown hair falling in gentle waves across his forehead. Strong, capable hands and thick, muscular biceps. He fills out his uniform so nicely. His chest looks like a cozy spot for Buck’s head, broad and muscular.
Buck can’t stop staring. He’s thinking all sorts of crazy things. Like how he wants to buy this man whatever he wants just to say thank you for being so pretty. Like how he wants to open car doors for him and take him to fancy restaurants. Like how he wants to hold his hand, do his grocery shopping, and clean his house. Like how he wants to rub his cheek against his baby smooth skin, and how he wants to tuck his nose just under his jawline to inhale his cologne.
Nothing sexual once crosses his mind. Odd.
“Sir,” the angel prompts, snapping his fingers under Buck’s nose. “Can you tell me your name?”
“S’Buck. Evan. Buck.” He can’t decide which one he wants to hear this man call him more.
The angel quirks a perfect eyebrow at him. “Which one is it?”
“Both. Evan Buckley. Buck. You can pick one.”
“Okay, Evan-”
Buck lets out a wistful sigh and feels his body go a bit boneless. “Yeah,” he slurs. “Good choice. Hi.”
“Hi, Evan, I’m Eddie, and I really need you to open your eyes for me,” the angel is saying very calmly.
When did Buck close them? He peels them open again and finds Eddie's concerned, warm brown eyes on him. Oh, that’s nice. He feels almost cared for.
“Your friend, Kora, says you hit your head pretty hard. Did you lose consciousness at all?”
“Yessir,” he mumbles. His angel commands respect and Buck will be damned if he’s not going to give it to him.
He makes a quiet tutting noise and produces a pen light from nowhere, shining it into Buck’s eyes. Buck frowns and tries to turn away, but the angel catches his chin in his hand, turning him back. Oh. Oh, that’s nice. That’s so nice.
“Evan, are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Well, you definitely have a concussion. Grade two, I think. Let me take a look at that hand.”
Buck frowns and cradles his hand against his chest. “No, thank you, that’s okay.”
His angel looks very mystified by this answer. “Are you refusing care?”
“From you? Yes.”
Something in his angel’s expression shutters, leeching the warmth from his eyes. Buck realizes he probably thinks it has something to do with the fact that he’s Latino, and hurries to correct him.
“You’re too pretty,” he elaborates. “If you keep taking care of me, I’m going to fall in love with you.”
His angel only stares for a long moment, and then the warmth returns to his eyes as he cracks a small smile.
“You hit your head pretty hard there, Evan. We met five seconds ago. I don’t think you’re in any danger.”
Evan wants to shake his head but thinks better of it. “I’m halfway there already.”
“Would it help if I told you I have an eight-year-old at home?”
Buck can tell Eddie really does expect that to solve the problem. He wonders how many people have been interested in this angel only to lose all shreds of attraction the moment there’s a child to deal with. Probably more than once, if he’s so confident that it will deter Buck.
The trouble is, Buck loves kids. Once upon a time, before Buck fucked school up royally for himself, he’d wanted to be a special ed teacher. When he was younger, he always imagined himself with six to eight kids all running around, climbing on him like a jungle gym. He’s been mourning the loss of that future every day since the Incident.
Sighing, Buck offers up his hand for Eddie to fix, hanging his head.
Eddie sounds almost smug as he says, “That’s what I thought,” but it’s not quite enough to hide the bitterness either.
Buck shakes his head. “It’s too late,” he confesses. “I’m already in love with you. Might as well let you treat me.”
Eddie pauses, gloved hand gripping Buck’s fingers. When Buck peeks up at him through his lashes, Eddie is staring in slack-jawed surprise.
“What,” he says, rather eloquently.
“I love kids,” Buck pouts. “They’re my kryptonite.”
Eddie blinks down at him. Then he shakes his head, turning his attention to Buck’s injury. He prods at the skin around the wound, pulling it apart and revealing just how deep it goes. It’s not too bad, all things considered.
“I don’t think it needs stitches,” Eddie mutters. Are his ears turning red? “But you definitely need to go to the hospital and get some scans done.”
Buck wrinkles his nose. “I don’t have the money for an ambulance ride or a hospital visit.”
Eddie frowns at him. “You also can’t afford to develop a brain bleed.”
“Is that fatal?”
“Yes.”
“Then I absolutely can afford it.”
Eddie winces and shakes his head. “We’re going to the hospital, Buck, and that’s final.”
Buck swallows a sigh. “Will you be riding in the ambulance with me?”
“If you want me to,” Eddie says, shrugging, hiding a smile.
“If you want me to get in the ambulance, then you’re gonna have to go with me.”
Eddie gets a brace around his neck to hold it in place and grips him under the arm, easing Buck up onto his feet. “I’ll ride along with you, but I have to leave you at the doors,” he says once Buck is steady enough.
Buck doesn’t pout—he doesn’t— but it is a very near thing. “Fine,” he grumbles, and lets Eddie guide him up onto the ambulance without any further complaints.
Eddie gets him strapped into the gurney in the upright position, which Buck appreciates. It puts him on more of an even level with Eddie, so he can look straight into those beautiful, stormy eyes.
They look light brown at first - a kind of warm, tawny color - but then a shaft of light falls across his face. It illuminates the shards of evergreen and amber flecked throughout a sea of gilded bronze. Buck feels sort of stuck for a moment, like he can’t look away. He can’t even breathe. It’s like he exists as a mere vessel for Eddie’s will. He will blink when Eddie tells him to, breathe when Eddie tells him to, move when Eddie tells him to.
“You with me?” Eddie asks. He leans in to scan Buck’s eyes, and the shaft of light slips back to caress his hair instead.
His hair isn’t just brown either. It’s gold and bronze and even a little russet in places. It looks so achingly soft. Buck wants to touch it, badly, but he’s still frozen in place. Staring.
“Evan?”
If autumn were a person, it would be Eddie. All crackling hearths and leaves crunching underfoot and nights spent sprawled under the stars wrapped in the coziest, softest blankets.
Buck sighs. “I’m here.” He wants to close his eyes and go to sleep, but he’s pretty sure that would make Eddie upset with him, so he fights to keep them open. “D’you have pictures of your kiddo?” he asks just to have something to distract himself.
It’s a mistake. Eddie fishes his phone out of his pocket and flicks it on, showing Buck his lock screen.
If Eddie is warmth personified, then this kid is pure, bright sunlight, the source of all warmth. He has a head full of curly, buttery blonde hair and wide, sky-blue eyes. But the star of the show is his big grin, all his pearly white teeth bared in manic glee. He reminds Buck of scorching hot summers in Pennsylvania, spent wading down river and kicking his feet in the local pool, and drinking lemonade from Maddie’s stand on the curb.
“Oh,” he hears himself whisper. “Oh, he’s perfect.”
Eddie’s smile is all soft affection as he turns the phone back toward himself to study the photo. “Yeah,” he murmurs, wistful, and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. “His name’s Chris,” he adds, and then blinks like he’s surprised he offered up the information on his own.
“Chris,” Buck hums. “Lovely name. Perfect name... Angel?”
Eddie chuckles. “It’s Eddie.”
“Right. Eddie. Eddie, Ed, Eds, Eduardo—no, Edmundo?”
Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Uh, yes, actually. But no one really calls me that.”
“That’s great, Eddie. I think I’m going to throw up.”
Eddie mutters a curse under his breath in Spanish and darts forward to grab a peanut-shaped pan. He shoves it under Buck’s face and helps roll him onto his side. Buck is very grateful for this because it means that none of his puke ends up on his shirt.
“Ew,” Buck slurs, wiping his chin.
Eddie sets the pan aside, keeping a hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Do you need me to call someone to come pick you up from the hospital?”
Buck giggles. It’s not really funny, but he can’t help it. “No, silly,” he teases as Eddie helps him straighten up again. “There’s no one to call.”
Eddie goes very still. It’s quite impressive how little he moves, like one of those living statue actors. “No one?” he clarifies.
Buck tries to shrug but it’s difficult with the neck brace and somehow manages to hurt his head. “Nah. All of my roommates are definitely too drunk to come pick me up, and that’s... well, that’s everyone, Eddie the paramedic.”
“First of all, I’m technically just a firefighter,” Eddie clarifies. “Secondly, can you get an Uber or something?”
Buck’s eyes pop back open. He has to stop closing them without his permission.
“You’re a firefighter ?” he breathes. “But I’m not a fire!”
Eddie laughs. Every time he does, his face looks surprised like he didn’t know he could do that. “Well, your friends were a little worse off than you, so the paramedics are dealing with them.”
Buck blinks, considering this. “That’s crazy because I really feel like shit right now.”
“You broke one guy’s hand and the other guy was getting the crap kicked out of him by a couple of your regulars before we showed up. Everyone there seems to like you quite a bit, Evan. Well, except your brawl buddies.”
Buck chews on this information, decides he likes the taste, and swallows it so that it can sit warm and comfortable around his heart. People like him. What wonderful news.
“Listen, Evan,” Eddie begins, shining another light in his eyes that Buck patiently doesn’t resist. “My shift ends in,” he checks his watch, “actually, it ended 20 minutes ago, and-”
Buck gasps. “Oh no! I made your shift go over! You're late for Chris!”
Buck’s lower lip begins to tremble, and Eddie must notice because his eyes get as big as dinner plates.
“No, no! It’s not your fault, Evan. Don’t cry, you’ll only make your headache worse.”
As far as comfort goes, it’s not really that great of a pep talk. But Eddie told him not to cry, so Buck is going to listen. It takes a few deep breaths, but eventually, he’s able to rein in the waterworks.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
Now that the threat of tears is no longer imminent, Eddie relaxes and pats Buck’s arm. “No need to apologize. I was just going to offer to give you a ride home from the hospital.”
Buck stares at him. “But your shift ended twenty minutes ago.”
“Exactly. I’ll come back in my truck off the clock and take you home.”
“But how will you get paid?”
Eddie’s smile is patient and a little exasperated. “I’m not doing this as a firefighter, I’m doing this as a favor.”
Buck’s head hurts. “ Why?”
“I…” Eddie seems thrown by this question. “Don’t know? You seem nice and, I mean, how else will you get home?”
It’s a pretty good question. Buck has no idea. The answer likely equates to walking himself home, which, he can guess, is not the greatest idea for someone with a concussion. But to ask a complete stranger to give him a ride feels unfathomable.
“You don’t have to do that, angel.”
“Eddie,” he corrects with a smile. “And I know I don’t. But I want to help.”
Buck doesn’t realize they’ve stopped moving until the ambulance doors swing open. Eddie stands, pushing his gurney toward the exit, and Buck experiences a moment of blind panic. He flails a hand out until it smacks into Eddie’s arm and then curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt, clinging for dear life.
“I’ll be back, remember,” Eddie soothes as they move.
Buck has heard that before. The spasm of premature grief is not unfamiliar, but still unwarranted, considering he met this man fifteen minutes ago while he was working.
“Promise?” he slurs.
Eddie’s smile is the warmest sunshine Buck has ever felt. “Promise.”
The nurses take over, and Buck wants to crane his neck to watch Eddie as he leaves, but the brace on his neck prevents him from moving too far. He gets a glimpse of the 118 printed on the side of the ambulance, and then Eddie is gone. Likely forever.
That is so, so sad.
Buck weathers the attention of the nurses with as much patience as he can muster. It feels like his head is stuffed so full of cotton that it may implode at any moment. Or like there’s a tiny leprechaun tap dancing on his eyeballs. Some deeply unpleasant analogy to intense pain. They ask him a bajillion questions that are annoying but necessary. They also put him through all kinds of scans. They try to explain it, but his head hurts too much to process it all.
They keep him sequestered in his own little room off the ER. A nurse sweeps through to check his drip of pain meds and saline for hydration. They’re nice enough but clearly too busy to fuss too much. Once they get the imaging back from his scans, they’re less insistent about him staying awake, so he gets to doze.
When he wakes again, he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. He must be dreaming. It doesn’t make sense for his angel to be standing over him, bathed in a holy glow. He blinks, and the holy glow is just the backlight of the fluorescent hospital lights. But it is Eddie.
He’s not wearing his uniform anymore; just a soft, olive green henley and jeans that hug his thighs in the most sinful way. It looks like he was kind of in a rush to get here. His hair is falling all over the place instead of carefully jelled like it was before, and he needs to brush his mustache back into place. Buck has the insane urge to do it for him.
Unfortunately, he’s feeling a bit more like himself with the pain meds and the saline drip. Far less delirious than he was a handful of hours ago.
“Hey, Evan,” Eddie greets with a small, awkward smile. He looks less confident out of the uniform. “You still need that ride?”
Buck thinks he wants to crawl into a hole and die. If he’s remembering correctly, he’s pretty sure he told this guy he was in love with him. It would probably be less embarrassing if it weren’t kind of true. Can anyone blame him, though? This guy is drop-dead gorgeous, and he has the cutest kid that’s ever existed! While Buck's feelings may be totally warranted, he’s not sure he would have chosen to share them with the man if he’d been in his right mind.
“Um, I was actually considering smothering myself with this pillow. The morgue is right here, so it feels kind of like a golden opportunity.”
Eddie chuckles, and the sound looks startled out of him again. Buck wants very desperately to figure out why Eddie’s own laughter seems so foreign to him. It’s not his business, though.
“Suicide is not necessary. I’ve seen a lot worse behavior from the heavily concussed,” he promises, patting Buck’s hand. “You ready to get out of here?”
Buck doesn’t have a lot of options, so he nods. “Yeah, sure.”
It takes about twenty minutes to get the spiel from the doctor about his medication and to sign all the discharge paperwork. Eddie is kind enough to read everything for him and point to where he’s supposed to sign. Buck is supposed to keep anything mentally strenuous to a minimum. The doctor gives him a laundry list of activities that count as “mentally strenuous,” which essentially boils down to “anything that might be considered fun or entertaining.” Buck is going to be insufferable for days.
The walk to the car is silent. He feels a little like a blushing schoolgirl when Eddie opens the truck door for him, even though he knows Eddie is trying to accommodate his injury. The music blares as soon as he turns the key in the ignition, and Eddie scrambles to cut it off with an apologetic wince.
Buck recites his address so Eddie can put it in his GPS before carefully pulling out of the parking lot. He manages to keep his trap shut right up until they hit the main road.
“I didn’t take you for a Pierce The Veil kind of guy,” Buck teases. He can't help himself.
“I’m uh… trying to connect with my inner child? I don’t know, something my therapist wants me to try.” Eddie’s cheeks turn a flattering shade of dusky pink, and he shifts awkwardly in the driver’s seat, paying far too much attention to the road. “Sorry.”
Buck waves off the apology. “Nah, no reason to be sorry. So you’re, what? Listening to the stuff you liked when you were younger?”
Eddie shrugs. “More or less. Just supposed to do the things that used to make me happy, even if they seem silly now. I pretty much buried all this crap when my kid was born but now that… Well, it’s just nice to connect to my roots.”
Buck hums and leans his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. What had he enjoyed when he was younger? Before college, he used to read a lot. He played football but mostly because his dad liked it. He spent a lot of time at museums and stuff.
Learning. He used to love learning.
“Okay, so, you were one of those weird emo kids in high school.”
“And how did you know it was Pierce The Veil?" Eddie challenges. When Buck cracks an eye open to check his expression, Eddie has an eyebrow raised at him, his features bathed in the crimson glow of a stoplight. "Pot, kettle."
"Touche," Buck says, laughing. The light turns green, and Eddie's attention returns to the road. Closing his eyes again, Buck asks, “So, what else have you been getting back into?”
Eddie’s fingers tap a restless rhythm against the steering wheel. A muscle in his jaw visibly shifts as he debates his response. Buck is wondering if he should apologize for pressing when Eddie finally answers.
“I take dance lessons on my days off.” The pause is heavy enough to suggest there’s more, so Buck waits. When Eddie finally says it, it comes out in a jumbled rush. “And I’m trying the whole dating thing again.”
Buck opens his eyes to blink at Eddie’s profile. Eddie’s gaze is eating up the road. Most people glance away at least occasionally, but Eddie is laser-focused.
“Dating?” he parrots.
Divorced? Dead wife? Christopher is adopted?
Eddie’s smile is thin and self-deprecating. “Chris’ mom left a while ago. I don’t know where she is and, honestly, I don’t think I care to know anymore. I just hope she’s happy now.”
This feels like a practiced speech. Buck tries to remain nonchalant with a casual nod, but the motion causes an uncomfortable jab of pain behind his eyes. He closes them again, rubbing at his temples.
“Sorry, all this yapping is probably not great for your head, hm?”
Buck almost comes up out of his seat in his desperation to reassure Eddie, but thankfully, the seat belt holds him in place. “No, no! I like hearing about you!”
Eddie’s answering smile is small but no less pleased. Buck’s chest feels full of the softest and warmest glow. Where did this guy even come from?
Despite Buck’s insistence, the rest of the ride passes in silence. Usually, Buck hates the quiet. It leaves too much space for his thoughts to spiral, so he spends the whole time anxious that the other person is bored or upset with him. For some reason, that doesn’t seem to be the case with Eddie. He seems relaxed in the driver’s seat, expression serene. Anytime he glances over and accidentally makes eye contact with Buck, he offers a gentle smile.
Or maybe it’s that he’s too beautiful for Buck to think about anything else. His face isn’t perfectly balanced or symmetrical by any means. His nose is slightly crooked, likely from an old break, and the tops of his ears are puffy. What do boxers call it? Cauliflower ear? But his skin is honey-warm and his eyes are big and shiny like a goddamn anime character. Eddie is interesting to look at, which makes him infinitely more beautiful than someone with perfect symmetry. Buck is too busy thinking about all of this to be anxious.
He’s brought back to reality as Eddie shifts his truck into park. Eddie leans forward over the steering wheel, eyes wide as he checks between the house and the GPS.
“This is your house?” Eddie asks a bit incredulously.
Buck follows his gaze, trying to see it through Eddie’s eyes.
The Wolf Creek neighborhood is comprised of old, beautiful mansions. Most of them had been bought out and renovated by the wealthy elite years ago, converted into museums and bed and breakfasts, and expensive AirBNBs.
Mrs. Ursula Moorehead had stubbornly refused to sell her home, even after the death of her late husband in 1984. At the ripe age of 62, she had been unable to keep up with the overall maintenance by herself, even as she refused to let anyone else touch the home, relatives and professionals included. Her stubborn streak hadn’t let up until she was 97 years old, when her fifth heart attack finally took her.
As a result, 317 Black Wolf Drive sits like a lump of coal amidst a sea of diamonds.
The wood paneling on the side of the house had once been painted a stark white, but time and weather have bruised it to a dull shade of muddy gray and left it chipped in long strips. The wrap-around porch is missing several boards and is bowing inward on the eastern side. The walkway up to the front door is spider-webbed with cracks and sprouting weeds.
Ursula Moorehead left the three-story home to the only family member she didn’t hate; Richard Moorehead Jr. Or RJ, as Buck’s college football buddies affectionately termed him. Seven of them had moved into 317 Black Wolf Drive during their sophomore year of college when RJ inherited the estate.
Rent is basically free, and with the utilities split seven ways, they could all enjoy the easy life of part-time jobs and parties every weekend. Buck sometimes thinks this is why none of them have matured past the age of 21, even though he is the only one without a degree to his name.
“Yeah,” Buck says, scratching idly at his cheek. “That’s home, I guess.”
Eddie hums, still studying the house with a look of disbelief. Buck supposes it might be impressive to someone who doesn’t know about the plethora of defects the house comes with—faulty electricity, piss-poor plumbing, no central heating or cooling system. Buck is considering telling Eddie this, as though that will make him feel better, when Eddie moves in his periphery.
Eddie turns to face him and grabs Buck’s chin, turning his head in Eddie’s direction. Buck is frozen, unable to do anything but allow Eddie to manipulate him. For Eddie’s part, it’s clear that he’s all business, checking Buck’s eyes to assess his condition.
“Is there anyone who can keep an eye on you?” Eddie asks, letting his hand fall away.
Buck’s face feels painfully cold without it. “Um, yeah. My sister works the night shift at a different hospital. I called her while I was in the ER, and she said she’d come stay with me when she gets off in a couple hours. My roommates can fill in the gaps.”
The lie spills from his tongue like silver poison, all too easy. He hasn’t heard from Maddie in years, and she’s not even in the same state. But he’s afraid that if he admits there’s no one, Eddie will inconvenience himself on Buck’s behalf again. Buck would rather die than let that happen. Literally. But it'll be fine.
Probably.
Eddie hums, eyes narrowed, but leans away with a nod.
“Call your primary care doctor if you continue to experience any dizziness, nausea, or extreme pain, okay?”
Buck smiles and gives him a thumbs-up. “My sister’s a nurse, remember? She’s got me covered.”
The heat of Eddie’s gaze is searing. Buck is starting to worry that Eddie has somehow seen through his lie. But then his expression softens and his posture relaxes into the driver’s seat.
“Well, Evan, it was nice to meet you.”
Buck chews on his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. “Um, yeah, you too, Eddie. And... thanks. You went well above the call of duty today.”
Eddie shrugs. “It’s no trouble. Your house is not too far out of the way.”
A tense awkwardness hangs in the air between them again. Buck should get out of the car, let Eddie get on his way, but it feels unfinished somehow. There’s a sense that Buck is forgetting something or perhaps that there is something he should say or do. It can’t be over. This can’t be all there is.
In the end, all he says is, “Get home safe, Eddie.”
Eddie smiles like the first hint of sunshine in the early hours of the morning. “Feel better, Evan.”
The walk to his front door feels like the longest walk of his life. He can hear Eddie’s car idling on the curb behind him, waiting to make sure he makes it inside safe, and it takes all his strength not to look back. He loses the battle when his fingers touch the doorknob, turning before he can stop himself to glance over his shoulder.
It’s dark, and the glare of the street lamp against Eddie’s window makes it impossible for Buck to see inside from this distance. Even so, Buck imagines he can feel the weight of Eddie’s dark gaze heavy against his skin. Shaking his head, he wrenches the door open and slips inside.
The entryway is dark, so Buck stumbles as he toes out of his shoes and hangs his keys on the hook by the door. He cuts through the dining room, aiming for the golden glow of lamp light and the smell of weed. Five of his roommates are crowded in the living room, watching some action flick at full volume.
RJ, Denis, and Andy are all sprawled on the L-shaped couch, passing a blunt between the three of them. Alex and Morgan have shoved the coffee table to the side to make a nest out of throw pillows and old blankets on the floor. Morgan is asleep on Alex’s thigh, a bottle of beer still dangling precariously from his fingers. Alex’s head is lolling back against the couch, eyes only half open as he sips from a straw in a red solo cup.
With the noise from the TV, none of them notice Buck’s silent entrance. He hovers for a moment, wondering if it's worth it to ask them to keep an eye on him for the next few days.
He still hasn’t made up his mind when Alejandro emerges from the kitchen, three bottles of beer in each hand. His dark eyes are bloodshot and heavy-lidded, so Buck isn’t surprised that it takes him a moment to register that he’s there.
“Buck!” he yelps, sloshing beer as he stumbles to a stop. “Where’ve you been, man?” he slurs, blinking slowly. “We’ve been like... blowing your phone up.”
Buck frowns and fishes his phone out of his back pocket. He tries to tap the screen awake, but it remains stubbornly black. Buck shows Alejo the dark screen with a shrug.
“Sorry, been kinda busy.”
“Lily said you got into a bar fight and went to the hospital.”
He’d forgotten that Denis had started dating one of the waitresses at his bar.
Well, that makes the decision for him. “Uh, yeah. Some dude was being an asshole to Kora and it got kinda outta hand. I’m fine, though, just a concussion and a bad cut.” He holds up his hand in evidence that he’s fine.
Alejo eyes the bandage on his hand like he’s not convinced. “Lily also said Luis doesn’t want you to come back.”
Buck winces and looks away, chewing on his cheek as he considers his misfortune. Alejo sets the beers down on a display table behind the couch to pat Buck awkwardly on the shoulder. Buck decides not to scold him about coasters and offers a tired smile instead.
“Might be a bit late on rent,” he says.
Alejo shrugs. “You know we’re not worried about all that. You wanna smoke?”
Buck does—badly—but he knows that it’s not worth it with the way his head feels right now.
“Can’t,” he says, gesturing to his head. “Concussion.”
Alejo looks more disturbed by the discovery that Buck can’t smoke than the news that he lost his job. His expression is completely crestfallen as he claps Buck on the shoulder again, squeezing a little too hard.
“How long?” he asks like he’s asking how long Buck has to live.
Buck bites his cheek to keep from laughing. “Just for a few days.”
Alejo nods sagely. “You can drink, though, right?”
“No, Al, I can’t drink either.”
Alejo, honest to God, starts to tear up. “That really blows, dude.”
This time, Buck does laugh. “It’s fine. I think I’m probably just gonna head to bed.”
“Sure, man,” Alejo says, already collecting the beers again. “Shout if you need anything.”
Ignoring the fact that shouting sounds horrendously painful, Buck gives a small nod and trudges toward the stairs. He wants a shower because he feels gross and sticky, but that’s a lot to ask of himself in his present condition. Settling for a fresh change of pajamas, he plugs his phone into the charger and crawls into bed.
It occurs to him as he’s drifting off that he should have asked for Eddie’s number. Now he’ll likely never see him again.
What a sad, terrible thing. What a sad, terrible life.