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Buck has almost perfected the art of the doorstep smile, bright enough to radiate trustworthiness, soft enough to read as neighborly, professional enough to mask the gleam of opportunism humming behind his eyes. He adjusts the clipboard tucked under his arm, checks his reflection in the polished window on the front porch, and knocks, trying to emanate the confident rhythm of a man who has never once hesitated before committing fraud.
This isn’t something he’s proud of, and he always knew he didn’t want to do it for long. He’s done it long enough to know what he’s doing, mostly, but he still has that underlying feeling that he did not plan enough. He’s used a different alias each time, each one keeping the same initials, ‘E.D.’
An older woman answers the door with a warm, welcoming tilt of her head and Buck can already tell she’s the type who believes people arrive with good intentions regardless of what they look like. She’s dressed in a soft cardigan, hair pulled back, gold cross glinting gently in the sunlight. She looks at Buck as though he’s a polite young man offering information, not a man whose aim is ninety percent lies and ten percent improv.
“Good afternoon,” Buck says, projecting what he hopes to be effortless sincerity. “I’m here from the Neighborhood Financial Wellness Program. What’s your name?”
She smiles, opening the door a little more. “Isabel Diaz.”
“Wonderful! It’s so nice to meet you, Isabel. My name is–”
This is the fatal moment he realizes he did not come up with a name prior to knocking. The second where his brain, empty as a hollowed gourd, reaches into the void for a convincing, respectable name.
What emerges, thankfully, is actually pretty respectable. And convincing. One may even say strategic.
“My name is Edmundo,” he says.
He sees Isabel’s eyebrows lift, and feels a pit in his stomach. He’s unsure what exactly is wrong with the name ‘Edmundo,’ but judging by her expression, it definitely wasn’t the right thing to say.
The damage is done.
“Edmundo…?” Isabel repeats, delighted despite her confusion.
Buck nods, deciding to commit, because it’s either that or admit he just lied about something as simple as his name. “Sí, Edmundo. Edmundo–”
He scans wildly for a last name, any last name, something that starts with D, something that sounds real and convincing at not at all like it was pulled from the deepest corners of his panicked brain.
He fails. Spectacularly.
“–Dick.”
Silence.
A long, unholy silence of unshakeable eye contact.
Isabel is the first to blink. “Edmundo… Dick.”
Buck keeps smiling, probably bordering on creepy, trying to look like he’s not dying inside. “Yes. Yeah. That is my, uh… full legal name.”
Where did that come from? Why did he do this? Why did he not say Richard or something? That’s a variation of Dick, technically! Why didn’t he choose something simple? Like Smith or Johnson or Bartholomew? Why, oh why, does he hate himself?
Isabel tilts her head. “My grandson has the same name as you!” she says, grinning.
Her grandson has the—
“Oh. Is it a nickname?”
“No, no. His full name.”
Man his parents must hate him. Buck has heard of people named Richard going by Dick occasionally, but to have your full name just be ‘Dick?’ Jesus Christ, what a life that must’ve been for him.
Before he can open his mouth to ask what kind of parent looks at a newborn baby and names them Dick, of all things, a voice slices through the yard.
“Abuela?”
A man appears, rounding the side of the house, wiping his hands on a rag. Buck looks at his shoes, half expecting to have to pick his jaw up off the floor because holy fucking shit, this guy is hot. He’s sweaty and dirty from whatever he must’ve been doing behind Isabel’s house and he’s got these sparkly brown cow eyes Buck just wants to drown in.
And his name is Dick. Go figure.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Buck.
Buck stops breathing when he sees… Dick..?
Isabel beams, caught in the crossfire.
Buck decides to break the silence before things get any more awkward and he ruins his plan entirely. “Hi there! I hear we share a name. You must be– you must be Dick.”
He holds his hand out to hopefully get a handshake but all he’s met with is a look of what could classify as mild disgust and Dick and Isabel looking at him like he’s grown a second head. Because he’s just that intent on his own self-destruction, he keeps talking.
“My name is Edmundo. Edmundo Dick.”
Dick stares at Buck, then at Isabel, then back at Buck. He looks so unimpressed. Buck is having a mild panic attack that’s causing his smile to get wider and wider, nearly spanning his entire face now.
“I’m sorry,” Dick says, voice flat, “your name is what?”
Buck straightens, clipboard pressed to his chest as if it can provide emotional support. It probably could, in other circumstances, Buck loves this clipboard. “Edmundo Dick.”
The increasingly irritated man standing in front of him repeats it, slower. “Ed. Mundo. Dick.”
Buck can feel his organs liquefying.
“Nice to meet you, Edmundo,” he says, finally meeting Buck’s hand that has been outstretched for probably five minutes now. “My name is Edmundo. Edmundo Diaz. I go by Eddie.”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
“Oh. Oh. Your name is– okay, well that makes a lot more sense, honestly,” Buck stammers.
Isabel pats Buck’s arm. “He’s here to help me with the finances.”
Eddie’s eyes sharpen. “Is he?”
Buck tries to smile again. “I’m with the Neighborhood Financial Wellness– ”
“No, I’m sorry,” Di—Eddie cuts in, stepping closer, “Abuela, did you invite this man over to help you?”
Buck hopes he can communicate telepathically, somehow, to say please, I know I was about to scam you out of hundreds of dollars but please say you know me.
“Oh no,” Abuela says, betraying the friendship Buck thought they’d built in the twenty seconds they’ve known each other. “He’s with the Neighborhood Financ– well, whatever he said before.”
“Mhm. And that’s your god given name? Sounds made up,” Eddie pushes.
Buck inhales sharply. “It’s a family name.”
“And what side does Edmundo come from? Because no offense, you don’t really look like an Edmundo.”
Buck flashes Isabel a panicked look and she looks back with nothing but encouraging grandmotherly support. He opens his mouth—absolutely nothing exists inside. It is an empty cave of regret.
“My– mother really liked the one guy in that band in the eighties… I forgot his name.”
“Well his name would probably have to be Edmundo.”
Buck stands there wide-eyed for long enough that the universe takes pity on him—sorta. Eddie leans in, inspecting him up close, so close Buck can smell soap and sweat and the subtle, stomach-wrecking musk of a man who absolutely just did something involving hard labor. “Right. So you’re a financial advisor. With a cute little clipboard and everything. Sure, very official looking.”
Buck tries to keep his dignity. He once again fails, catastrophically. “I promise this is completely legitimate.”
Eddie gestures calmly toward the house. “Great. Then come inside.”
“I-Inside?”
“Yes,” Eddie says smug and satisfied, guiding Buck to his execution. “Where you’re going to give her the full consultation you just promised.”
Isabel nods sweetly. “I’ll get my bills, Edmundo.”
Please don’t call me that, Buck thinks, but aloud he says, “Wonderful.”
Eddie moves aside, watching him carefully. “After you, Mr. Dick.”
Buck walks inside because he has no choice, because Eddie is blocking every escape route, because jail is not appealing, and because for reasons that should be studied by medical professionals, he is disturbingly attracted to the man plotting his downfall.
He whispers, barely audible, “I’m going to die.”
Eddie leans in as he whispers back, “If you’re lucky.”
Isabel returns with a stack of financial documents taller than he is. “Here you go, Edmundo.”
“Perfect. Let’s get started,” Buck says, smiling through the agony.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows: he is absolutely, unquestionably screwed.
And not in a fun way.
He glances to where Eddie is on his right, catching as the man drags his eyes up and down Buck’s body in a way that is not suspicious or hateful. If Buck didn’t know any better, he’d say Eddie’s checking him out.
He amends his previous statement: Not in a fun way. Yet.
Isabel pulls out a chair for him to sit and it makes Buck’s stomach twist between guilt and adrenaline. He sits, his clipboard in hand, trying to look as competent as possible while Eddie stands right behind him—something that’s not so easy to do when Buck can feel the warmth of him at the back of his neck, close enough that every inhale carries Eddie’s faint smell of clean cotton and sweat. It’s absolutely ruining his concentration on looking over Isabel’s financial documents.
He flips the papers on his clipboard, hoping this looks all very routine. “Alright Isabel,” he says, adopting his best Helpful Professional voice, “why don’t we start with the basics– utilities, monthly charges, anything that might’ve changed recently. With gas especially, winter rate adjustments can cause the billing algorithm to–” he pauses, trying to find the right words. More accurately, trying to remember the words he read on the flyer for the gas company. “–misalign the projected usage.”
Isabel nods along, bless her, as if he is speaking gospel instead of Guessing Out Loud: Scam Edition.
“Which brings us to the last thing for now, I think,” he says, forcing his gaze towards her, trying to keep it there instead of letting it drift back toward the furnace of Eddie’s scrutiny behind him. “Did you get an email from your provider about the prices increasing? It flagged on our system that you hadn't paid enough on the gas bill. It’s probably a simple misunderstanding. I just want to go over it with you, if that's okay?”
Isabel’s eyes widen. “Dios mío, I'm not good with technology. I can never work any of that properly, I–”
Buck holds up a calming hand, softening his tone. “It's okay, Isabel. That’s exactly why I’m here. It’s an easy fix. Once I explain the increase, you could pay it today with cash or through an online bank transfer, whichever you prefer.”
God, he hopes she picks online. It's so much easier when they pick online. Cash is fine, but cash means Eddie hovering and glowering and probably memorizing the bill’s serial numbers.
Isabel looks panicked at the mention of online payments, so Buck leans forward with a reassuring grin, it usually works on people when they feel uneasy. “If you want to pay online, I can walk you through it. Super easy. Two minutes tops.”
This usually seals the deal. People ease up when he smiles. People trust him.
Except the one person he needs to fool the most is currently breathing onto the back of his skull like an overprotective dragon.
“If it’s too much for you right now,” Buck adds sweetly, “I can come back tomorrow. There’s no rush.” He debates reaching out to grab her hand but with Eddie so close by, he ultimately decides he values living a little longer.
Isabel turns to her grandson. “Eddito, can you get my purse for me so I can give Edmundo here the money?”
Eddie moves to the side of the room, circling him. Buck glances up at Eddie—who is, horrifically, already staring at Buck, his eyes narrowed in a silent I dare you to breathe wrong in this house.
If Buck didn’t know any better, he’d think Eddie… knew the truth?
Wait—but if he knew, why isn’t he stopping this? Why isn’t he throwing Buck out by the shirt collar? Why is he just letting her hand him money? Does he know? Does he not? Is Buck being paranoid? Is Eddie playing some four-dimensional chess game where he lets Buck incriminate himself before snapping the trap shut?
Buck is sweating.
“Abuela,” Eddie says calmly, “let me take a look at it first before you pay anything.” He moves to her side, resting a hand on the back of her chair, and Buck swears he can feel every nerve in his body trying to flee. Eddie turns that focused, cop-adjacent gaze onto Buck. “Edmundo, this email you’re talking about– can you show it to me?”
Oh fuck. Oh he is so screwed.
“I– don’t have access to the company emails on my phone,” he lies with the conviction of a wet paper towel. “The big boss is… very private about who has access. It’s all very compartmentalized.” He tries to smile at him—tries. But he knows it comes off as more of a grimace that reads I’ve been caught. “Sorry about that.”
Eddie doesn’t bother hiding his derision. “Convenient.”
“I–I’m sorry, Di–Eddie,” Buck sputters, tripping over the syllables. “I really don’t have that kind of control. I just do what my boss tells me. If he says to talk to people, answer their questions, walk them through the difficult stuff. I just do the dirty work for him.”
He sits there and watches Eddie's eyes—raking his gaze down and back up Buck’s body in a way that makes Buck feel simultaneously interrogated, exposed, and, unfortunately, deeply turned on. Eddie seems like he’s looking for something. Maybe for Buck to break and say he's lying about everything, or maybe for him to admit that he wants Eddie so badly he’s ready to find the nearest room and beg for his forgiveness, by whatever means necessary… it has to be written all over his face. Buck has never been subtle when he’s attracted to someone; it rolls off him in waves. He’s sure Eddie’s sharp eyes catch all of it.
“Okay.”
Buck blinks. “Okay?”
That's it? That's all he has to say? No threats? No lectures? No handcuffs?
Eddie leaves the room to get Isabel’s purse, and Buck sits there in the heavy, suffocating silence that follows, too afraid to look at Isabel because if he sees grandmotherly warmth he’ll confess, but if he sees grandmotherly fear he’ll combust.
He focuses on the money instead. The money he really actually needs. Two hundred bucks isn’t much, but considering Eddie’s looming presence, it’s a miracle he’s getting anything at all. If he’d gotten Isabel alone, he could’ve maybe pulled five hundred out of the situation. One step closer to not having to do this anymore. One step closer to getting the money he needs to get Maddie the fuck out. But no. Eddie had to show up. Eddie and his stupid brown eyes and stupid arms and stupid moral backbone.
Buck is alive strictly out of spite.
Eddie returns carrying a purse that looks way too heavy for everyday use. “Gracias, Eddito,” Isabel says, taking it and immediately pulling out her wallet.
She's got two hundred in cash? Just ready to go?
Keep that as a mental note, Buckley.
“Two hundred, was it, Edmundo?” Isabel says sweetly, smiling at him. He should feel bad, he almost does feel bad for her. Almost. But rent is rent, and life is life, and a scam artist doesn’t walk away from cash. Especially when said cash will help him survive for the next few weeks until he can lock down another potential target.
It’s not like he’s doing this because he wants to. It’s how he survives. He’d much rather do something honorable or brave, but his parents have always told him he ruins everything he touches, so why not do something that’s already bad? That way he can’t ‘ruin’ it. It’s already ruined.
“Please,” he says, plastering on a grateful grin. “And if anything else changes, I’ll make sure they send you a letter instead of emailing you with anything.”
His eyes don't leave her wallet, watching her flip through a thick wad of money. He should’ve asked for more. He could’ve asked for more. He would’ve—this is all Eddie's fault. Him and his stupid brown eyes. Standing there smelling like sweat and musk and violence. He wants more. He needs more. He craves more.
And he isn’t talking about the money, either.
As soon as Isabel's money touches his hand, he has it in a death grip, shooting up out of the chair. "Thank you so much, Isabel. I'm so sorry for any inconvenience this might have caused you today. If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out—”
“Oh!” Isabel interrupts, reaching into her bag once more to pull out a pen and paper. “Please, Edmundo, write down your number for me. That way I can call with any questions I might think of.”
He can do this, it's just a number. He’s written down his burner more times than his own legal name. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, underwater, mid-concussion.
He takes Isabel’s notepad, clicks the pen, and starts writing the digits he knows by heart. See? No problem at all. Except—Eddie has moved closer, and Buck’s entire focus dissipates.
Eddie steps behind him with silent precision, leans in just enough that Buck feels the heat of him first, then the faint brush of air as Eddie exhales. Buck is already losing his grip on coherent thought when Eddie reaches forward to straighten the edge of the paper Buck’s writing on, all while pressing two fingers lightly to the back of Buck’s hand.
A barely-there touch.
A whisper of contact.
A very innocent, non-erotic, totally unsexual fleeting moment.
Buck feels it like a nerve striking the bone.
Warm skin grazing his knuckles, the slightest pressure guiding the paper straighter under his pen. Eddie’s fingers linger a fraction longer than they need to, just enough to make Buck’s breath hitch before Eddie withdraws as though nothing happened.
Buck is seconds from cardiac arrest. He can feel his heart giving up. What the fuck is happening.
His whole body tenses, pen hovering midair. He forces himself to breathe, but Eddie’s brief touch is still burning against the back of his hand, replaying in a loop that makes concentration impossible.
“Go ahead,” Isabel says, oblivious. “Write it down, cariño.”
Right. Yes. Number. Burner number.
But Buck’s hand is tingling, every nerve humming with the imprint of Eddie’s fingers touching him like they had a right to. He swallows, focuses on the pen, forces the digits out one at a time.
Because Eddie is still there, standing at his shoulder, close enough that Buck feels the heat of Eddie’s thigh near the leg of his chair, close enough that Buck’s senses are full of him. He feels dizzy.
And that tiny touch, that unspoken claim, has rerouted every neuron in Buck’s body.
He writes the number from memory.
He finishes, slides the paper toward Isabel, and only then makes the mistake of looking down to make sure he put down the correct name – Edmundo Dick. And written beneath that—
Oh fuck.
Oh no, nonono.
His phone number.
His real, personal, not-disposable number.
Every drop of blood in his body turns to ice. Then to fire. Then to nothing.
Isabel smiles warmly, tucking the paper into her wallet. “Perfect. I’ll call you if I need anything, Edmundo.”
Buck’s stomach plummets.
He can’t even reach for the slip of paper without giving himself away. He can’t confess without outing the entire con. He can’t breathe without thinking about the exact shape of Eddie’s fingers on his hand those few seconds ago.
Eddie steps back finally, and Buck does not want to think about how his absence makes him physically ache. He needs to think about what’s important. The real issue here.
Which is: Edmundo Dick now has Evan Buckley's phone number attached to him. He can't undo it, he can't get the paper back from her.
Fuck.
He has never been more thoroughly, humiliatingly, dangerously undone.
He needs to get out of this house, and far far away from Isabel and Eddie. He's not religious but he's going to start praying to everything that's holy that Isabel never calls his phone.
It’s been a few days of silence, which should be reassuring, but instead every notification makes Buck stiffen as if his phone has developed the ability to indict him. Every text or call that comes through gets stared at, then stared at again, thumb hovering while his brain supplies a dozen ways this could be the moment everything implodes. He double-checks the name, triple-checks the number, and still hesitates like the phone might suddenly scream gotcha if he answers too fast.
The first time his phone rang after he’d left the Diaz house nearly resulted in a panic attack. The whole nine yards—vision narrowing, breath skittering, the distinct awareness that his nervous system had decided to freelance. He’d ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, counting inhales while humming the tune of ‘Hotel California’ under his breath. He isn’t sure why, he just knew it was working.
There’ve been two more ‘jobs’ since.
The first was an old woman named Janet. That afternoon, Buck had been Elliot Dickinson. Janet had offered him tea, asked about his mother (“She must be a real nice lady to raise such a kind boy like yourself.” Oh, Janet. If only.), and handed over two thousand dollars with earnest gratitude. Buck left feeling faintly ashamed and substantially richer.
The second was an old man named Tommy, who thought Buck was Ethan Davies. That one was miserable. Tommy hit on him the whole time. He stood too close, breathed down Buck’s neck, and kept finding excuses to touch him. Buck smiled back anyway, nodded, endured, and naturally took a little extra from him (call it hazard pay). Five thousand dollars, to be exact. Morally questionable, emotionally unpleasant, financially efficient.
Seven thousand two hundred dollars in a week isn't too bad.
The two hundred dollars remains untouched, still lingering in his jacket, warm from his body heat and burning a hole in his pocket. He can't help but feel guilty every time he sees it… dirty when he touches it.
That part is new.
What's changed? He’s done worse. Plus, it's only two hundred. Why is it bothering him now?
The paranoia is pervasive. He feels it all around him, like he's carrying it with him constantly—installed somewhere between his bones and instincts, buried in his DNA. The certainty that something is wrong and the equally firm belief that it’s only a matter of time before it all comes crashing down.
Which makes being dragged out by Maddie an experience he’d rather avoid right now.
It's nice, objectively. There’s sunlight and movement and he isn’t letting himself rot away in his apartment thinking about how the next knock on his door could be someone there to arrest him. Being out with Maddie helps to take his mind off of it—out where there’s people… doing legal, socially acceptable activities. Buck can’t bring himself to enjoy any of it, though. Everywhere he looks, it feels as though he’s one misplaced glance away from recognition. He keeps waiting for a hand on his shoulder, a voice behind him asking him to step aside.
Maddie's arm is looped through his with a vice-like grip into his bicep as they walk. She’s tense too, flinching at loud noises, tracking every man who passes too close. Buck knows why. It’s the same reason he keeps doing this.
She gave up her childhood for him, and he'll give up the rest of his adult life for her if he has to.
Nothing dulls the edge. Every sound—from the wind and leaves scattering across the floor, to every car door opening or closing—feels like someone, something is coming for him, it’s simply just taking its time.
Buck just has to keep telling himself that all of it is worth it, he's doing this for a good reason. He repeats it to himself until he starts to calm down— whatever happens it will be worth it.
Lying never came naturally to him. He was bad at it. Or, he used to be. Repetition does wonders. After enough practice, it stops feeling dishonest and starts feeling procedural. He catches himself lying to strangers now for no reason at all, which feels like a character flaw he does not currently have the energy to address.
So far he’s been a doctor, a vet, a teacher, a firefighter, a police officer and, with alarming frequency, a bartender.
He is none of those things.
He's just Buck. Evan Buckley, a former barista that got fired for being, in retrospect, impressively bad at the job. He kept mixing up orders, dropping drinks all the time, spilling coffee on himself at least twice a day. Once, he actually gave a coffee with almond milk to someone who was allergic—but in his defense, two people ordered the same drink at the same time. It was an easy mistake. His boss didn't see it that way.
That’s how he met Alex. Alex was a regular in the café. They bonded through music to start, then slid seamlessly into shared family trauma, which Buck now recognizes as a warning sign he cheerfully ignored. Alex had made it sound easy. Fast money. Minimal thought.
And now Buck is here.
It's for Maddie.
He'd do anything for Maddie.
It shouldn't be too much longer until he has the money he needs. Just enough to get her out. Enough to give her a clean start somewhere safe. Enough to get her away from him.
His parents would never understand. It's not something they’d ever dream about doing—helping out a child in need, let alone their own flesh and blood? Not a chance. Buck and Maddie had pinky promised when they were young to always look out for each other, no matter what. He's never once broken that kind of promise. It means too much.
“Mads, I'm telling you the machine broke right when I was making a drink for this terrifying guy in a suit,” Buck says, pitching his voice light. “I almost shit myself. Zero out of ten experience.”
Maddie throws her head back and laughs, real and unguarded, and something in Buck’s chest loosens a fraction. It’s good to see her smile—to see her genuinely happy. He misses this. He misses her like this. He’s glad he’s starting to experience it again, even if it’s littered with anxiety and Maddie looking over her shoulder every other minute.
This is why he’s doing this.
The thought circles until it stops functioning as reassurance and starts operating as law. His mantra. His justification. His entire life compressed into a single, nonnegotiable reason.
Buck is mid-sentence, trying to keep Maddie distracted with low-stakes nonsense, when he hears a voice behind him say, pleasantly and with far too much confidence,
“Edmundo?”
His soul leaves his body.
Not metaphorically. Fully. It clocks out, hands in its badge, and vanishes into the ether.
There’s a very brief, very vivid image of him turning to dust on the sidewalk, cartoon-style, shoes left behind. He does not like this image. He refuses to engage with it.
Buck keeps walking.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But his brain, in a last-ditch act of self-preservation, has decided that if he does not acknowledge the sound, it will cease to exist. This is obviously not how reality works, but panic is not a rational process, and Buck’s panic has always been especially creative.
“Edmundo,” the voice repeats, closer now.
Maddie tightens her grip on his arm, her fingers digging into his bicep. “Did you hear that?”
“Nope,” Buck says immediately. “Didn’t hear a thing. Must’ve been the wind. The Santa Anas are nuts this time of year.”
His heart is already pounding hard enough to rattle his ribs. He can feel it in his throat. In his ears. He is acutely aware that if he looks guilty, this will go worse. He has no idea what not guilty looks like anymore.
“Edmundo,” the voice says again, now unmistakably right behind them. “Hey.”
Buck stops walking because if he keeps going, he might actually run.
He turns slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable sight of Eddie Diaz looking unfairly good in the mid-day sun, which—yes. There he is. Of course he is. Casual clothes, relaxed posture, that same assessing gaze like Buck is a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
There’s a faint sheen of sweat at Eddie’s hairline, dark cotton stretched across broad shoulders, arms relaxed at his sides—Buck notes the muscles spanning every inch of Eddie’s body and has the unpleasant thought that Eddie could probably move very fast if he wanted to. Buck’s stomach does a traitorous little flip that he does not consent to.
Eddie’s eyebrows knit together when Buck doesn’t respond.
“Edmundo?” he says again, slower this time, eyes flicking pointedly to Buck. “You good, man?”
Buck stares at him.
This is the wrong reaction.
He knows it’s the wrong reaction, but his brain is still stuck on the fact that Eddie just said Edmundo out loud, in public, in front of Maddie, with his whole chest, like he didn’t just do the verbal equivalent of pulling a pin on a grenade.
“Oh,” Buck says finally, brilliantly. “Oh. You mean– you mean me.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “I do.”
Buck laughs. It comes out too loud, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I, uh. I don’t always respond to that.”
Maddie turns to look at him. “To what?”
Buck feels his skeleton attempt to escape his skin.
“My–” He swallows. “My name.”
Eddie tilts his head. “Hmm. That so?”
Buck nods vigorously. “Yeah. Long story. Childhood thing– trauma. You know how it is.”
“I do not,” Eddie says mildly.
Maddie’s grip tightens again. “Buck?”
Eddie’s eyes flick to her for the first time, and his expression shifts immediately—softens, sharpens, recalibrates. Buck watches it happen in real time. The way Eddie clocks her tension, the way his posture adjusts, protective without being obvious.
“And you are?” Eddie asks.
“Maddie,” she says, cautious but polite. “His sister.”
“Oh,” Eddie says. He looks back at Buck. “That tracks.”
Buck doesn’t know what that means, and he hates that it sounds accurate.
“This is–” Buck gestures vaguely between them. “This is Eddie. From… the neighborhood.”
Eddie smiles at that. It is not a nice smile.
“Ran into your brother the other day,” Eddie says to Maddie. “He was helping my Abuela with her finances.”
Maddie brightens instantly. “Oh! Well isn’t that sweet. Buck, you didn’t tell me you had gotten a new job!”
Buck makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a prayer. His shoulders inch up toward his ears. He can feel sweat gathering at the base of his spine.
“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie grins, “why didn’t you tell your sister about your new job?”
“It’s not new, per se.”
Eddie hums. “Mhm.”
Buck can feel his pulse in his teeth.
Maddie looks between them, noticing the obvious tension and trying to ease some of it. “So you know Buck well, then?”
Eddie’s gaze doesn’t leave Buck’s face. “I know Edmundo.”
Buck clears his throat. “Nicknames,” he says weakly.
Eddie’s eyes flick down, then back up, slowly. Buck has the deeply unhelpful thought that he’d like Eddie to look at him like that for other reasons. “Funny,” he says. “You didn’t answer to it.”
Buck shrugs. “Selective hearing.”
“Convenient.”
Maddie shifts closer to Buck, her shoulder brushing his. Buck feels it like a reminder of gravity. Of why he’s standing here at all.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Buck says immediately. “Everything is great. Eddie was just leaving.”
Eddie was not just leaving.
Eddie folds his arms, his biceps flexing slightly, drawing Buck’s eyes to the motion. “Actually,” he says, “I was hoping to talk to Edmundo for a second.”
Buck smiles at him, his cheeks are starting to ache at the force of it. “Maybe we can do this somewhere else? This is a public place.”
Eddie’s smile widens. “Exactly.”
Buck considers his options.
- Running: bad.
- Fighting: worse.
- Passing out: tempting.
“Okay,” Buck says. “Hi. You found me. Congratulations. What’s up?”
Eddie glances at Maddie again, then back to Buck. “You wanna introduce me properly?”
Buck exhales through his nose, a resigned, controlled breath. Maddie needs him calm. He can do calm. He has done worse.
“Mads. This is Eddie. He’s… very observant.”
Maddie offers a small smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Eddie says, and then, to Buck, quietly, “You’re not very good at lying under pressure.”
Buck hisses back, just as quietly, “I am not lying.”
Eddie’s eyes flick over him, lingering for half a beat too long. Buck feels it everywhere. “See? Could be better.”
Buck hates that his stomach flips.
He straightens, forcing his spine into something resembling confidence, forcing himself steady. Maddie needs him steady.
“So,” Buck says, trying for bright, failing horrendously. “What can I help you with, Eddie?”
Eddie considers him for a moment, then smirks.
“I just wanted to see if you’d answer to your name,” he says. “Guess that answers my question.”
And with that, he steps back, giving Maddie a polite nod before walking away like he didn’t just shave ten years off Buck’s life expectancy.
Buck watches him go, his heart pounding, his brain on fire.
Maddie looks up at him slowly. “Buck,” she says. “Why did that man call you Edmundo?”
Buck exhales, still watching Eddie’s retreating form.
“…long story.”
Eddie waits exactly three blocks before pulling out his phone.
He waits exactly three blocks because he needs to walk first—needs the movement, the burn in his legs, something physical to bleed off the irritation curling in his chest. Because irritation is easier than whatever this other thing is—the thing that keeps replaying Edmu—Buck’s face in his head.
Buck’s too-wide smile, how he’d talked too much, tripping over himself every time Eddie stepped closer, as if the proximity alone scrambled his internal wiring.
Eddie hates that part. Hates that his body noticed before his brain could shut it down. The big, broad shoulders. The earnest, open face. That stupid, honest panic in his eyes. There’s something deeply unfair about a man trying to scam his abuela and still somehow managing to be… endearing.
That word makes Eddie scowl.
Endearing doesn’t get to coexist with criminal.
He stops at the corner and finally pulls out his phone.
Athena answers on the second ring. “Diaz.”
“I need you to run a number for me,” Eddie says.
There’s a brief pause. “That’s not ominous at all.”
“I’ve got a reason.”
“Uh-huh.” He can hear the faint sound of keys in the background. “You want to explain, or are we doing the thing where I just trust you?”
Eddie looks down the street, half-expecting to see Buck’s too-bright smile still hovering somewhere in the crowd. He’s gone. Of course he is. Eddie hadn’t missed the way he’d kept his body angled toward his sister, like he was shielding her from the world without realizing he was doing it.
He exhales through his nose. “A guy came to my abuela’s house the other day. Claimed he was from some financial wellness program. Used a fake name, took some money.”
Athena’s tone sharpens immediately. “How much?”
“Two hundred.”
“Okay,” she says. “And you were there?”
“Yes. I watched him work.”
Athena hums. “And?”
“And he’s either the worst scammer I’ve ever seen,” Eddie says, “or not one at all.”
“That’s a narrow margin. Did he pressure her?”
“No.”
“Threaten her?”
“No.”
“Rush her?”
“No,” Eddie says again, his irritation flaring up despite himself. “He was… careful. Kind, actually. I would say he seemed genuine, if I didn’t know any better.”
“That’s not usually a scammer trait.”
“I know,” Eddie snaps, then reins it in. “I know. But he still took money from her.”
“Fair,” Athena says. “What made you suspicious?”
The unwanted picture of Buck’s face replays in his head once again, a slideshow that’s been taunting him for days now. He can’t help but think of the desperate look on Buck’s face. The way he froze, the way he flinched.
“Well, his name, for one,” Eddie says. “Edmundo. Edmundo… Dick.”
Athena snorts through the speaker. “He told you that name, and it still took you three days to call me?”
“Hey, you didn’t meet the guy. He’s weirdly charming, in like a lost puppy sort of way. He also looked like he was actively trying not to pass out,” Eddie adds. “Which is not what I expect from someone running a con.”
“Could be performance anxiety.”
“Could be,” Eddie agrees. “But it didn’t feel like that.”
He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “He kept stumbling over his words whenever I talked to him. Like he couldn’t get his footing around me.”
Athena chuckles. “So was he nervous because he was lying or was he nervous because of you?”
Eddie ignores that. “My abuela asked for a number so she could call with questions. It’s probably a burner, but it’s worth a shot… I want to know who it belongs to.”
“All right,” Athena says. “Give it to me.”
Eddie reads it off and there’s a brief silence before Athena starts laughing.
“…You’re kidding.”
“What?”
“Did you just give me his real phone number?”
Eddie frowns.
“This is not a burner,” Athena continues after a moment of silence. “Not even close.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she replies. “Burners don’t have this much history. Or this many personal contacts.”
“Jesus,” Eddie mutters. “So he’s bad at this.”
“Or he didn’t expect to get checked,” Athena says.
“What do you see?” he asks.
Athena pauses. Eddie can hear her reading.
“…No active warrants. No priors. No fraud flags.”
Some of the tension drains out of Eddie’s shoulders.
“But,” Athena adds.
Of course.
“But the name attached to this number is not Edmundo Dick.”
Eddie lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
“Evan Buckley,” Athena says. “Early thirties. Spotty employment history. Barista, warehouse, construction temp work. Nothing that screams professional scammer.”
Eddie’s grip tightens around his phone, uncomfortably aware of the way Buck had looked at him—nervous, jittery, like Eddie’s attention meant something it shouldn’t.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“He’s got a sister,” Athena says. “Maddie Buckley. Recently relocated. No current address listed.”
Eddie thinks of the shorter brunette gripping Buck’s arm. Of the way she didn’t look confused, she looked scared. Of him? He isn’t sure. But if he had to guess, he’d say more so of the general male population.
“There’s an ex,” Athena continues. “Protective orders. Some concerning history.”
“That explains a few things,” he says quietly.
“Such as?”
“The way he kept positioning himself between her and everyone else,” Eddie replies. “Didn’t even look conscious. Just instinct.”
There’s silence on the line for a minute before Athena speaks again. “So,” she says carefully, “you want me to escalate this? Make a formal report?”
His brain chooses that moment to, unhelpfully, supply a memory of Buck’s nervous smile. Of the way he’d brightened when Maddie laughed. How he looked at Eddie like he wanted to tell him the truth and was terrified of the idea at the same time.
The thought of Buck in handcuffs makes him feel sick. It feels wrong, unsettling.
He doesn’t even know the guy beyond him trying to scam hundreds of dollars out of one of the most important people in Eddie’s life and yet… Eddie wanted to protect him?
“I want my abuela safe,” Eddie says finally. “That’s non-negotiable.”
“And the guy?”
Eddie hesitates. “He’s doing something wrong,” he says. “I know that. I’m not excusing it.”
“But.”
“But I don’t think he’s doing it because he wants to,” Eddie admits. “And that matters.”
“You’re telling me this because you don’t want to ruin his life.”
Eddie grimaces. “I don’t want to ignore what he did. But I don’t want him arrested before I understand why.”
“You’re going to talk to him,” Athena says.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to keep your hands to yourself.”
Eddie huffs a dry laugh. “No promises.”
She snorts. “You’ve gotten soft.”
“I’m protective.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Don’t start.”
“All right,” Athena says. “I’ll sit on it. But if he tries this again–”
“I’ll handle it,” Eddie says. “One way or another.”
He hangs up and slips his phone into his pocket, standing there longer than necessary.
Evan Buckley. Buck. Bad liar. Worse criminal. Earnest to the point of self-sabotage.
And, irritatingly, so damn likeable. Someone Eddie wants to understand, which is enough to make this whole thing much more complicated.
It’s been two days—two long days since he was out with Maddie. And ever since then, Buck has been a wreck. He hasn’t slept right. Every time he closes his eyes, Eddie’s face flashes behind his eyelids, the moment replaying on a loop whether he wants it to or not.
He's even seeing him in his dreams now, everything over and over again—not in any coherent, pleasant way. Just fragments of a memory Buck’s brain has latched onto and refused to let go.
Especially how the sun hit Eddie’s eyes just right, emitting an incandescent glow of golden.
Focus, Buck.
He's been on edge, to put it lightly. A million worst-case scenarios racing through his head faster than he can keep up with them. Why didn’t he just answer to Edmundo? Why didn’t he play along? Why did it feel different when Eddie looked at him, like suddenly everything felt more real?
Isabel's money is still untouched. He’s still unable to make himself use it. Two hundred dollars, folded and warm and wrong, sitting exactly where it’s been since that day. Every time Buck sees it, his pulse spikes, his heart races remembering that day as if it were yesterday.
Remembering how it felt to have Eddie's hot breath on his neck sending a shiver down his spine.
He hates the effect Eddie has on him, even without knowing it.
He paces his loft, restless, trying to plan the next job. Which neighborhood to hit. What he’ll say. Which name to pick. He needs distance, anonymity, momentum.
Ideally, he needs twenty-five thousand dollars. Enough to help Maddie file for divorce. Enough for a restraining order, a legal name change, new documents. Just so she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder every time she leaves the apartment—and maybe a little extra, so she's comfortable here.
He’s sitting at seventeen and a half now, a few more big hits and he’s done. He can stop. He can disappear. He can get a real job, save up, send the money back, every cent, with no return address and a conscience he can live with.
The older they are, the easier it is. He hates that fact even as he relies on it. That they’re less comfortable with technology, more trusting of the kind young man offering his help. It’s what he wants—what he needs.
Eric? Maybe.
Emmett? No.
Emiliano?
He's pulled out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing hard against his thigh, loud in the quiet loft.
Grabbing it, he quickly glances at the number, seeing it’s one he doesn't recognize. Doubt pulls at his stomach, but curiosity is stronger, so he answers.
“Hello?” He questions
“Hi,” a deep voice says. Buck can’t help but think it sounds friendly, almost bordering on fatherly. “I was given your number by Isabel Diaz. She said you'd helped her recently?”
This is it.
This is how it ends.
He's not going to be able to help Maddie now.
Buck’s vision tunnels and the room tilts. He reaches out blindly for something solid to keep himself upright.
It’s a lamp. That does not help anything.
Fuck.
“Isabel?” he repeats, forcing air into his lungs. “Yes. I remember her. How can I help you?”
“She mentioned you helped her with some taxes” the deep voice on the other end said, he sounded friendly enough.
“She mentioned you helped her with some taxes,” the man continues easily. “We used to be neighbors, caught up the other day. Sounds like the same thing might be happening to me. I’ve been getting emails, but I thought they were scams, so I deleted them. Think you could help me go through everything?”
Buck can feel his heart beating in his throat. How did that get there?
“Of course,” Buck says, because he is very good at this part. “I’d be happy to help. Could I get your name and address? I can swing by tomorrow, if that works for you?”
Has he passed out? He feels like he's going to pass out. After all of this is done, he's going to burn his phone. New phone, new him, right?
“Robert,” the man says, rattling off an address.
Buck scribbles it onto his hand with a pen that barely works, ink smearing across his skin.
“Thank you, Robert,” Buck says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, does ten sound okay?”
“Yes. One more thing,” Robert adds. “I hate to ask, but I forgot your name. Isabel mentioned it, but it slipped my mind.”
Buck doesn’t even hesitate, his experience swooping in to make sure he doesn’t stumble too hard and further incriminate himself.
“It happens,” he says smoothly. “My name is Elias Dane. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He hangs up and lets his body collapse to the floor. Twenty four hours. Seven thousand five hundred to go. Seven thousand three hundred, if he counts Isabel’s money (he doesn’t).
Maybe when this is over, he’ll buy himself a real meal. Like steak, or lobster. The possibilities are endless. Anything sounds good while you're practically living off instant ramen and tinned tomato soup, which most of the time ends up being cold.
You’re doing this for Maddie, he reminds himself. It’ll all be worth it when she’s safe.
Buck is pacing by his car, he parked a block away from where Robert said he lived, if he got the information from Isabel it can't be that bad, can it? He tells himself it’s to be cautious, but really it’s because he needs some extra time to breathe. A quick in and out job, hopefully he’ll get enough to knock off another thousand.
Walking to the door his head is clouded by a thousand thoughts—the familiar feeling of regret mixed with the overwhelming responsibility to keep Maddie safe.
Raising his hand to knock, just one thing runs through his mind.
You are Elias Dane, Elias Dane. No one else.
knock knock knock.
The door creaks open slowly, in a way he could only describe a haunted house's door opening. It’s unpleasantly theatrical. It's making him uncomfortable. Is it even the right place?
An older looking man answers the door. This must be Robert.
“Come on in,” Robert says, stepping to the side, letting him in the house of doom. “You must be Elliott right?”
“Elias,” Buck corrects automatically. “But it's okay, everyone mixes it up. I've been called worse.” He forces himself to laugh at his own stupid joke so he doesn't pass out on this stranger’s front porch or blurt out the truth.
“Ah my bad I'm sorry,” Robert nods, unbothered. “Sit tight, I’ll grab my bills. We can get started straight away.” All Buck can do is nod as a reply, his words already failing him.
It seems to satisfy Robert, as he walks off with no issue. So Buck takes a seat, his head dipped low as his hands immediately go to his hair, fingers threading through curls.
Get your shit together, Buckley.
He hears footsteps approach behind him, though he can't bring himself to look up yet. That changes quickly when they get closer and closer, stopping only when he hears someone cough behind him. He finally turns to meet the eyes of—
Eddie? Why is he here, and why is he here wearing glasses? Is this a setup? Is this psychological torture? Because Buck’s brain is currently trying to process the fact that Eddie looks hotter like this, which seems like a deeply inappropriate reaction to what is almost definitely a trap.
“Eddie? I– I'm, I–”
“Save it,” Eddie says, sitting down beside him, pushing his glasses up with one finger. The proximity is overwhelming. Buck’s body is on fire, he can feel the blood rushing around, he can feel it—him—everywhere. “What the fuck are you doing here? Doing in general? You need to start talking.”
“What am I doing?” Buck blurts. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“You’re worried about me?” Eddie snaps softly. “What’s your actual name? Start there. Can you do that? Are you capable of telling the truth?”
Buck’s breath comes out fast and shallow, chest feeling heavy, his head spinning, unable to see straight. His hands grip the edge of the table, trying to control his nerves in any way he can. “My– my name?” His vision blurs. There’s really no use in lying now. “My name is E-Evan.”
Everything around him becomes black and hazy. He can't hear anything anymore, he's barely sure he's still alive right now.
“Evan.. EVAN,” He's snapped out of his panic briefly by Eddie’s voice—god knows how long he was hyperventilating. The color finally comes back to his vision as everything slowly comes back into focus. “Hey, look at me,” Eddie says gently. “Are you okay?”
All he can do is give a slow, barely there nod. Is he okay? No. But he definitely won't be letting anyone else know that, especially Eddie.
Looking back at Eddie, Buck’s eyes flicker from his eyes to the freckle underneath, up to his hair and down to his lips, where his gaze lingers.
“‘My name is Evan Buckley…” He manages. “But please, call me Buck.”
“Evan, Edmundo, Elias,” Eddie says quietly. “Who else have you been?” Buck is a little confused at the tone. Sure, Eddie seems upset. But he also seems… concerned? His eyes stay fixed on Buck as he reaches out, resting a hand on Buck’s forearm.
The touch lights a fire up Buck’s arm, sending tingling heat throughout his body. It’s…comforting. Comforting and grounding and devastating all at once, which feels deeply wrong considering Eddie has very deliberately set up a situation that could end with Buck in handcuffs. Eddie is, at this exact moment, the only thing standing between him and jail time.
Buck’s brain, traitorous as ever, starts running the numbers. For extreme cases of fraud the penalty could be up to twenty years in prison. Then they take into account the amount of money stolen (not insignificant), the vulnerability of the victims (the elderly), judicial temperament (Buck has historically not tested well with authority figures), and evidence (he has essentially confessed in the middle of a stranger’s kitchen to a man who could absolutely be wearing a wire).
But god, Eddie is being so careful and soft with Buck right now. His voice is so low and his expression stripped of judgment in favor of something that looks dangerously like tenderness. This—this is not good. Because this is worse than anger.
Buck is so, so fucked.
He starts listing off all of the E names he can remember, sometimes followed by the surname he used. Always E.D. Never anything else. Close enough to his own initials but further enough away to be somebody new for a few hours.
“But why? Why scam innocent people?” Eddie snaps. There’s the anger Buck was looking for. “My abuela was just a pawn in your fucked up game,” he continues. “You’re not even sorry, are you? Can you even feel remorse for what you’ve done?”
“Do you really think I'm so heartless that I don't feel remorse for any of this? You think I wanted to do this? I was desperate!”
“Buck,” His name rolling from Eddie's mouth sounds nice, maybe nicer than it ever has before. “How am I supposed to know that? I don't know you, and it sounds like you don't even know yourself.”
He watches as Eddie sits up straight, his back going rigid.
Buck’s hand slips into his jacket. He pulls out the folded two hundred dollars and places them on the table between them, the motion is abrupt, almost defensive, like if he doesn’t get them out of his hands immediately they might burn him.
“That’s yours. I didn’t spend it. I couldn’t.”
“Why not.”
Buck hesitates, throat tightening all over again. He looks up at Eddie, really looks at him—the steady presence, the sharp eyes, the patience he doesn’t pretend not to have.
“Because it didn’t feel right,” he says quietly. “And because you… complicated it.”
Eddie stiffens. “I complicate a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” Buck says. “But you’re– you’re different.”
Silence stretches between them. Buck’s heart starts up again, traitorous and hopeful, thudding a little too hard in his chest.
“I could live with you hating me,” Buck says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I could live knowing you thought I was a screw-up, or a liar, or whatever. I’ve survived worse opinions. But I couldn’t live knowing you thought I was a piece of shit and you were right.”
Eddie’s breath hitches, just a little—a small, almost unperceivable movement, but Buck sees it dressed up as a flashing neon sign.
“I don’t know why,” Buck rushes on. “I know it’s stupid. I barely know you. Everything about me is a mess and most of it is illegal. But you make me feel–” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “Something. And I didn’t want to do wrong by you.”
“Then start explaining,” Eddie says quietly. “Everything.”
Buck opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His chest tightens so abruptly it feels like someone cinched a belt around his ribs and yanked. Air stalls halfway in, shallow and uncooperative, his lungs suddenly forgetting the concept of cooperation altogether. He blinks hard, vision fuzzing at the edges, the room pitching just enough to make the table feel miles away and the floor feel imminent.
“Okay.” He hears Eddie’s voice, but it sounds distant. “Hey. Buck. Breathe.”
“I am,” Buck says automatically, which is a lie. His hands are shaking now, fingers numb and buzzing like he’s stuck them in a light socket (at least, he’s assuming that’s how it would feel. He definitely hasn’t done that before). His heart is trying to beat its way out of his throat, each thud loud and clumsy and deeply unhelpful. “I’m just– hold on, I just need a second.”
He does not, in fact, get a second.
The panic crests fast and ugly, heat flooding his face, sweat prickling along his spine. His thoughts scatter, unspooling into fragments—Maddie, jail, Eddie, Eddie’s abuela, phone numbers, handcuffs, don’t throw up, don’t throw up—and he hunches forward instinctively, his elbows on the table, head dropping as if gravity has suddenly doubled.
Eddie swears under his breath.
“Okay,” he says again, lower now, closer. Buck feels it more than hears it—the shift in air, the heat of Eddie’s body near his shoulder. “This isn’t you getting arrested. This is you talking. Look at me.”
Buck tries. He really does. His eyes flick up, catch on Eddie’s glasses, the crease between his brows, the way his jaw is set tight with frustration and worry tangled together. That does not help. That helps too much.
“I can’t–” Buck gasps. “I’m sorry, I swear I’m not doing this on purpose, my body just–”
“I know,” Eddie says, cutting him off. “I can see that.”
That, inexplicably, makes it worse.
Buck’s breath stutters. His hands claw uselessly at the edge of the table again, knuckles blanching. “I’m not– I’m not trying to manipulate you,” he blurts. “I know it looks bad. Everything looks bad. I’m just– this is a lot, okay? You’re very intense.”
Eddie snorts despite himself. “You’re having a panic attack and I’m intense.”
“Extremely,” Buck wheezes. “You set up a sting operation looking like an erotic history professor.”
“An erotic history–"
“It’s the glasses,” Buck says weakly.
Eddie exhales, scrubbing a hand over his mouth before dropping it to Buck’s forearm again, firmer this time.
“All right. Forget talking. Just breathe with me. In through your nose. Slow.”
He demonstrates, clearly exaggerating it for Buck’s benefit, drawing in a long breath, holding it for a beat, then letting it out. Buck stares at his own chest, willing it to move.
“In,” Eddie prompts.
Buck drags air in.
“Hold.”
Buck holds. Everything trembles.
“Out.”
The breath leaves him in a rush, bordering on a sob.
They do it again. And again.
Somewhere around the fourth cycle, the pressure eases enough that Buck’s vision stops tunneling. His heartbeat drops from catastrophic to merely alarming. His hands still shake, but he can feel them again, which feels like progress worth celebrating with a parade.
“There you go,” Eddie murmurs softly, his thumb pressing lightly against Buck’s wrist. “You’re still here.”
Buck chuckles. “Barely.”
“Still counts.”
Buck slumps back in his chair, exhausted, lungs burning like he’s just run several miles in the wrong direction. His eyes sting, his head aches, and his dignity is somewhere under the table, possibly dead.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again. “This was supposed to be… cleaner. I didn’t plan on you.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches. “That much is obvious.”
Buck scrubs at his face with both hands, then drops them, shoulders sagging. “Okay. Okay. I’ll explain. Just—don’t interrupt me or I’ll lose the thread and start crying again, and I would like to avoid that.”
“No promises,” Eddie says. “But go.”
Buck nods, dragging in another shaky breath.
“I don’t have a choice,” he says quietly. “I just need money. Fast money. I can’t wait years to scrape together twenty-five grand. I needed it yesterday.”
“But why? Why do you need that much? I need you to tell me everything if you don't want the police involved.”
The police. So he hasn’t gone to them yet. That has to mean something.
“It’s not for me,” Buck says quickly. “I swear. I was going to give it all back after.” Eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Buck can see he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying.
“It’s for Maddie,” Buck whispers, looking at his hands. “You met her the other day. It’s all for her. She’s in an abusive marriage and she ran. I just– I need money to make sure she’s safe. I just want her to be safe, Eddie. You have to understand that.”
If Eddie's eyes were capable of burning holes through him, Buck would be on fire.
“She left in the middle of the night,” Buck continues, his fingers loosely playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “Everything I get is for her. For lawyers, paperwork, a name change, places to stay that weren’t traceable. I tried doing it the right way. Jobs, applications, all that. Turns out most places don’t want to hire a guy with a résumé that looks like a series of unfortunate events.”
He can already feel the tears burning behind his eyes. Talking about Maddie, about everything she's survived so far, kills him.
“Hey,” Eddie says. “That’s not–”
“It is,” Buck says, waving him off. “Trust me. So I did this instead. Because it was fast, and because I was weirdly good at it, which is not a skill I’m proud of but it exists, unfortunately.”
He laughs again, brittle and self-deprecating. “I told myself I’d stop once Maddie was safe. That I’d mail the money back. No return address. Anonymous apologies. The whole Robin Hood thing, except worse.”
“It isn’t down to you to fix,” Eddie starts. “Maddie–”
“Eddie, stop,” Buck cuts in, desperate. “I owe her everything. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be. It’s the least I can do. She doesn’t even know I’m doing this– she’d kill me if she found out.”
The words hang between them, heavy and unvarnished.
Eddie stares at him, anger warring visibly with something softer and far more dangerous. His hand is still on Buck’s arm. He hasn’t moved it.
“You’re unbelievable,” Eddie says finally.
Buck winces. “That’s fair.”
Eddie exhales sharply, leaning closer without quite meaning to. They’re suddenly too close, knees nearly brushing, Buck acutely aware of Eddie’s breath, the faint scent of soap and coffee and something unfamiliar that shouldn’t already feel so addicting.
“For the record,” Eddie murmurs, “you’re still in a lot of trouble.”
Buck nods. “I figured.”
“And I’m still very angry.”
“Also fair.”
“But,” Eddie adds, eyes flicking down to Buck’s mouth and back up again, “you’re not what I thought you were.”
Buck swallows.
“Is that… good?” he asks.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He leans in just a fraction more, close enough that Buck’s breath stutters again, close enough that for one suspended, electric second Buck is sure this is going to tip into something else entirely.
Then Eddie pulls back, just enough to break the moment.
“It means,” he says carefully, “we’re not done talking.”
Buck lets out a shaky laugh, relief and disappointment tangled together in his chest. “I can do talking. I’m very good at talking.”
“I noticed,” Eddie mutters dryly.
But they don’t—talk, that is. If anything, the room gets eerily quiet.
Instead, Eddie’s hand shifts, still on Buck’s arm, but higher now, his thumb pressing lightly where Buck’s pulse is racing out of control. Buck feels it immediately, the contact is dizzying, his breath catching as Eddie leans in again without seeming to make a decision about it. A gravitational pull neither of them noticed themselves falling into.
They’re close enough now that Buck can see the tiny crease at the corner of Eddie’s mouth, the faint freckle near his jaw. Close enough that Buck’s brain goes blessedly, catastrophically quiet.
Eddie’s gaze drops.
Buck’s does too, traitorously, helplessly, landing on Eddie’s mouth as if it’s always been drawn there. He tilts forward before he can stop himself, just a fraction, the movement instinctive and unguarded and absolutely not thought through.
Their noses almost brush.
Buck can feel Eddie’s breath on his upper lip and for one suspended second it feels inevitable— this is simply the next logical step, everything that’s happened has been funneling toward this exact inch of space between them.
Eddie inhales.
Buck does too, at the same time, a soft, startled sound escaping him before he can swallow it back.
“Buck.”
The sound of his name snaps the moment in half.
Eddie pulls back abruptly, his hand dropping from Buck’s arm, eyes dark and frustrated and very much still fixed on Buck’s face.
Buck blinks, his lungs burning, heart absolutely feral in his chest.
“Oh,” he says faintly. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. That—yeah.”
“Fuck,” Eddie breathes. “That was– sorry. We can’t– that was… not appropriate.”
Buck lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half near-death experience. “I mean. In my defense. You leaned in first.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “You tilted.”
“I was panicking,” Buck defends. “It affects my balance.”
Eddie chuckles despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to be noticeable.
“This conversation,” he says, firm again, “is not over.”
Buck nods, still a little dazed, still painfully aware of how close they were seconds ago. “Right. Yes. Talking. Big fan. Also a big fan of whatever that was…”
Eddie stands, sucking in a breath while putting a step of distance between them that feels both necessary and disappointing. He looks back down at Buck, a complicated expression crossing his face that Buck is beginning to recognize.
“Finish explaining,” Eddie says. “Then we’ll talk about… that.”
Buck swallows.
“Okay,” he says.
They, pointedly, do not talk about that.
If anything, Eddie shoves Buck out the door so fast after he finishes explaining that for a split second Buck genuinely wonders if there’s an active fire or a sudden plague of bees. But no, Eddie simply kicks him out with a small promise of getting in touch soon, then slams the door directly in Buck’s face.
Buck is still on… fuck, what was that guy’s name? Richard? Roger?
Buck’s still standing on whoever-the-fuck’s porch, stunned and slightly winded, trying to piece together what just happened and whether he really just detonated months of careful work because one hot man touched his arm and leaned in like he might kiss him.
He has the distinct emotional posture of a sixteen year old that just got rejected by his crush. Pathetic.
He brushes his fingers over his lips once before letting his hand drop and finally taking a step backwards, decidedly moving on with his day. If Eddie could kick him out of some random guy's house, Buck could act completely and totally unbothered about the entire situation. Eddie’s not even that attractive (yes, he is). Buck is so fine and in total control of the situation (no, he really is not).
Buck makes it three whole steps before his dignity trips him and shoves him straight back into his own head.
Great. Fantastic. Stellar professionalism. He absolutely nailed that interaction. Nothing says “competent adult with a carefully constructed long-con” quite as much as getting physically expelled after a near-kiss that never technically happened but will absolutely haunt him until the heat death of the universe. He exhales through his nose and adjusts his jacket even though no one is watching. The porch remains empty. The universe remains cruel. Somewhere behind that closed door, Eddie is probably pacing or staring at a wall or aggressively not thinking about Buck’s mouth. Buck hates that he hopes for that.
He drags a hand down his face and starts toward the sidewalk, posture stiff with a defiance no one is around to appreciate. Fine. Whatever. This is good, actually. Distance. Space. Very mature. He can compartmentalize the whole thing, shove it into the mental filing cabinet labeled “life-altering and devastating,” slam it shut, and find another city so he can continue doing strategic financial redistribution with his usual flawless composure.
He’s done worse under more pressure. He is unshaken. Rock solid. Un-fuckin-flappable.
Unfortunately, the worst part of this whole ordeal is that Mr. Erotic History Professor with the deep brown eyes, the soft smile, the irritating decency, and the concern Buck absolutely does not deserve but Eddie hands out anyway, has left Buck profoundly, devastatingly, inconveniently horny.
He cannot stop thinking about Eddie’s arms. Or his mouth. Or his no bullshit attitude that makes Buck’s brain go all fuzzy at the corners. He can’t stop thinking about how Eddie read him like a book the moment they met, and hasn’t stopped looking at him like Buck’s the prey. Buck still hasn’t figured out whether Eddie’s enthusiasm is aimed toward getting him arrested or toward…other extracurricular activities they could theoretically spend several uninterrupted hours exploring.
Either way, Buck cannot stay.
But one thing's for sure—regardless of what’s going on in Eddie’s head, Buck can’t stay here. That much is clear. He can’t stay and risk Maddie’s safety. He can’t stay and get arrested—have his face plastered all over the news for Doug to see. He’d know, and he’d find her, and he’d probably kill her at this point.
No. Buck has to go.
He has to leave Maddie the money, the apartment, the keys to his jeep, the same way she once did for him, and then he has to get on a bus headed literally anywhere else. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that does not contain one dangerously perceptive man with good arms and a pretty face and the worst timing.
That’s the safest plan. The smartest plan. The plan where Maddie survives and Buck does not get fucked by the porn version of a college professor.
And as tragic as that last detail is, he’d do anything for Maddie.
Even give up what would almost certainly be the most earth-shattering sex of his adult life.
He keeps walking, promptly kicks a garden gnome, nearly eats shit, and the thing glares at him with what Buck is deeply offended to recognize as judgment. Buck stares it down for a full second, matching the disgust on its stupid ceramic face, before it clicks that he’s locked in a silent standoff with lawn décor. A soulless, thoughtless, object. Buck exhales, exhausted, and nods once at the gnome anyway. He’s actually kind of jealous of it.
He can do this. He can ignore whatever the hell Eddie does to his nervous system and whatever sadness he feels in his heart at the idea of leaving before he can see what this thing is between them. He can forget about Eddie, he can buy a bus ticket and he can start over. It’s not a perfect plan. But it’s a plan. And right now, it’s the only one he’s got.
Eddie's hands shake as he stands outside of Abuela's house, his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. He's scared. Not of her, but of the way reality, everything that’s happened, has finally caught up to him all at once, collapsing in on itself with little to no warning.
He’s scared of telling her and her being disappointed, being hurt, being scared herself that she was a victim of such a selfish crime. Scared she’ll look at him and see someone who should have noticed sooner. Scared she’ll hate him for not protecting her like he always promised.
But not of her, never of her.
He knocks twice, loudly, before opening the door and letting himself inside. “Abuela, it's just me.” He enters the kitchen to find her there, glasses perched on her nose, looking over the bills again.
“I have something to tell you,” Eddie says, already bracing for impact as he crosses the room. “About the guy who came to look at the bills. And you’re not going to like it.”
He pulls out the chair and sits beside her, taking her hand gently between both of his for a point of contact, a way to provide comfort.
“Oh, Edmundo,” she sighs fondly, not even looking up. “He was so lovely. Such a sweet boy, Eddito.”
Eddie’s stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Abuela,” he says, carefully, clearing his throat. This is it. No more delaying. “He isn’t who you think he is. His name isn’t Edmundo. He was scamming you. There were never any issues with the bills.”
She looks up at him then and the look of confusion crossing her face breaks his heart, scattering it into a million tiny pieces.
“What do you mean?”
“His name is Evan Buckley,” Eddie says, squeezing her hand tighter. “I had a bad feeling, so I gave the number he left to Athena. She ran it. I… kind of set up a sting to catch him.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
Abuela blinks at him, staring for a moment before she waves a hand dismissively.
“Oh, Eddie, this isn’t your fault. That boy was very kind. There must be a reason he did this.” She tilts her head. “What happened when you saw him again?”
Why. Why does she have to be like this. Why can’t she just be mad. It's making telling her everything that much harder.
Eddie exhales shakily and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the folded bills Buck pressed into his hand earlier. He slides the money across the table.
“Buck—Evan—wanted you to have this back. He said he was sorry.”
She picks it up, counts it automatically, then slides it right back to him without hesitation.
“He told you something, didn’t he,” she says.
Eddie freezes.
“He said he was doing it for his sister,” Eddie admits. “Promised he was going to pay everyone back once he was working again.”
“For his sister?” Abuela asks, tilting her head slightly.
“Yeah uh… he said she's in an abusive marriage and wanted the money to protect her. He needs the money to get her out. A divorce, restraining order, to make sure she’s safe,” He reaches out to grab her hand once more, “Something about what he said– how he said it… I think he’s telling the truth. I’m just– I'm not sure I can trust him.”
Abuela’s face softens immediately.
“If it was Sophia or Adriana,” she says quietly, “you would do the same.”
Eddie opens his mouth before snapping it shut. Goddammit.
“I still feel wrong about it,” he says. “I should tell Athena everything. I shouldn’t just… let him go… let him keep doing this to innocent people.”
Abuela drops his hand, moving hers up to cup his face in that way only a grandmother can.
“Eddie, my sweet boy,” she says firmly. “You will not be telling the police anything. That poor boy is trying his best, looking out for his family. He has a good soul. I felt it, and I want to help him. Please, talk to him again, give him the money back.”
And that is… so not what Eddie was expecting. He stares at her, his mouth ajar.
“…That’s not what I expected you to say.”
She hums. “I have been alive a long time, Edmundo.”
“I’m not giving him the money back,” Eddie says weakly. “He said he couldn’t use it. That it felt wrong. That I… complicate things. Whatever that means.”
Abuela narrows her eyes.
“Oh?”
They sit there in silence for a moment, the kind that stretches and presses and knows too much.
“What happened?” she asks gently.
Eddie exhales, defeated.
“We almost kissed.”
Abuela lights up like she’s just been handed excellent gossip.
“Oh.”
“Abuela–”
“He is very handsome, Eddito. Let me know if this does not work out between the two of you, yes?” She chooses this moment to wiggle her eyebrows. Eddie sinks further into his seat. At least she’s not freaking out over the I like a dude part, or the he’s a liar and a criminal part.
“Oh my god, Abuela.”
“And you did not tell me this earlier because?”
“Because I am deeply confused,” Eddie snaps, then groans, rubbing his eyes. “He’s a criminal. I don’t know him. He lies, yet is so genuine it confuses me. I’ve never felt this way about a man before. I mean, sure, I’ve noticed some guys in the past. But Buck is so…” he sighs, dropping his head, “and I can’t stop thinking about his mouth and his muscl–”
It's at this moment that he realizes he’s still talking to his Abuela. Oh, god.
She pats his cheek.
“Ah,” she says. “That explains it.”
“What explains it?”
“Why you look like a boy with too many thoughts in his head and nowhere to put them.”
Eddie stares at the table. At the money. At the mess inside his own head.
“Why am I like this,” he mutters. “I don’t even know him. He tried to steal from you. I shouldn’t like him, I shouldn’t want to help him. I should hate him.”
Abuela smiles, satisfied.
“You will help him,” she says. “And you will figure yourself out, too.”
Eddie has the deeply unsettling realization that those two statements might be related.
And he does not like that at all.
Eddie does not text Buck right away. He stands frozen in his Abuela’s kitchen for a full minute after she says you will help him, thinking up any possible reason why that is a terrible idea and he absolutely should not do it.
Buck is a criminal. A criminal with motives that make sense when spoken aloud, sure, but still a criminal. Intent doesn’t erase consequence. Eddie knows that. He has testified to that. No matter how attractive the criminal is, Eddie can’t ignore that.
Eddie is a government employee. Not a cop, but a firefighter, which still feels adjacent enough to the concept of law-abiding citizen that he should probably have opinions about this. Obligations. Standards.
Eddie is also a father. What kind of example does he set for his son if he decides, arbitrarily, that some crimes are forgivable because the guy committing them has earnest eyes and infuriatingly pink lips?
And then there’s the part Eddie refuses to look at head-on: up until Evan Buckley crashed into his orbit roughly a week ago, Eddie has been very comfortably, very predictably, interested in women. That has been the system. What he has not done, ever, is seriously consider stepping outside that framework. But by god, Buck makes him want to.
Buck doesn’t just tempt him past the edge of the framework; he makes Eddie want to dismantle it entirely. To tear it down to the studs and start over with no blueprint and no apologies. Rebuild from the ground up, reckless and intentional all at once. A new place where Buck’s smile is worked into the grain of the wood, where his laugh lives, echoing off the walls like Eddie’s favorite song.
Eddie shuts that thought down immediately.
It lingers anyway.
Buck makes him want to reach across lines and test boundaries and see what happens when the rules bend instead of hold. Eddie’s thoughts skid there far too easily, looping in ways that are neither professional nor sane, and he has to forcibly shut that down before it goes anywhere truly incriminating.
Fine. Point taken.
Buck is a wrecking ball. He doesn’t belong in Eddie’s life, which has been carefully assembled into something stable and comprehensible. The white picket fence and the kid who is the best thing Eddie’s ever done and the ex-wife who still manages to be his friend despite everything that’s happened. Buck is an outlier. Buck doesn’t fit.
Eddie wants nothing more than for Buck to fit.
And that’s the problem.
Eddie wants him to.
He wants Buck to slot into the negative space he didn’t know was there, wants the chaos contained without being diminished, wants the impossible without acknowledging what it would cost.
Eddie does not want to admit that to himself.
Which, unfortunately, does not stop it from being true.
I met this guy a week ago, he tells himself. This is fucking insane.
His phone sits heavy in his pocket, his spine stiff with the familiar, unwelcome sensation of wanting something he has no clean explanation for. Wanting is dangerous. Wanting makes people sloppy. Wanting is how you wake up six months later wondering why your life feels like it veered off-course without consulting you first.
And wanting Evan Buckley feels especially ill-advised.
Abuela, naturally, notices.
She makes a small, knowing sound and pats his arm, the universal signal for I am done advising you, now listen and get out of my house.
“Text him,” she says.
Eddie exhales through his nose. “I don’t—”
“Text him, Edmundo.”
There it is. The tone that brooks no dissent. The same one she used when he tried to quit Little League. When he didn’t eat for a full twenty-four hours. When he once claimed he didn’t need a jacket.
Eddie pulls his phone out.
His thumb hovers over Buck’s name. The contact photo is blank, the string of messages no more than a conversation between strangers. It looks temporary. Temporary, the way Buck himself seems to be. Eddie tells himself that’s the reason his chest feels tight—professional irritation, unresolved suspicion, the ethical mess of caring too much about someone who shouldn’t matter.
He does not tell himself the truth, which is that he wants to see Buck again.
He types. Deletes it. Types again. Deletes that too.
Finally, because Abuela is looking over his shoulder and Eddie is only a little bit scared of her hitting him with her slipper if he doesn’t do what she says, he hits send.
Eddie: can we meet? just to talk.
The reply comes almost immediately, and Eddie knows it’s bad before he even reads it. His stomach drops with the same sick certainty he’s had on scenes that turn quiet too fast.
Buck: heading out of town.
it was nice meeting you.
i know you don’t owe me anything… but i trust that you’re a good person, so… keep an eye on maddie for me, would you?
Is he… this motherfucker. Is he actually skipping town right now?
Although, Eddie can’t be too mad, considering Buck was stupid enough to announce his departure.
“Fuck,” he mutters, already calling. Straight to voicemail.
He tries again and… nothing. A third time, because denial is a hell of a drug and once again—nothing.
That’s when Eddie does something he technically shouldn’t.
He tells himself it’s not illegal. Just… creative. The sort of thing that exists in the wide gray margins of favors and professional courtesy and the fact that this person owes him exactly one non-specific assist for helping his nephew move apartments in the rain.
He sends a text he absolutely should not be sending.
Two minutes later, a location pings onto his screen.
Eddie stares at it.
“…Are you kidding me.”
Abuela peers over his shoulder. “Where is he?”
Eddie grabs his keys. “I’ll explain later.”
And just to be clear, he will not be explaining this to his grandmother later.
Eddie does not intend to go inside the sex shop.
He tells himself that firmly as he parks half a block away, heart beating an unreasonable rhythm against his ribs. The plan is simple: find Buck, intercept him, talk him down from disappearing out of Eddie’s life before Eddie has figured out why that feels unacceptable on a cellular level.
That plan lasts exactly three seconds.
Because the little dot on Eddie’s phone showing Buck’s location shows him, inconveniently, inside the very flashy, not at all discrete shop.
The bell over the door jingles cheerfully as Eddie steps inside Pleasures & Pastimes, immediately assaulted by warm lighting, glossy packaging, and an unsettling number of penis shaped products, ranging from party favors to anatomically ambitious monstrosities that are frankly… jarring.
There are aisles… many aisles. Carefully labelled with informative signage everywhere. Eddie honestly has to give the store props for using education to ease people into whatever life choices they’re about to make with… The Punisher XL.
Good God.
Eddie takes one step in, then another, scanning.
And then he sees Buck.
Buck is standing in line at the register.
Buck is holding a dildo.
A dildo that—huh. Look. Eddie doesn’t make a habit of measuring his dick. Eddie doesn’t even make a habit of looking too closely at it without a specific need to. But even with that limited frame of reference, he can say with a good amount of confidence that the dildo Buck is holding bears a striking resemblance to his own equipment. It even curves a little to the left.
It is… impressive how unapologetic Buck looks while making his purchase. Eddie finds himself gaining an alarming amount of respect for Buck’s apparent sex-positivity.
Looking closer, he’s also grabbed a bottle of lube that promises maximum glide in bold, optimistic lettering and—Eddie squints—yeah, yup that is absolutely a cock ring. And judging by the brightly colored box, one that vibrates. He’s starting to feel a little dizzy at the sight.
Eddie presses his lips together so hard they nearly disappear.
Oh. Okay, this is very much happening.
He moves quietly, coming up behind Buck in line, close enough to read the receipt already curling in Buck’s hand, close enough to see the way Buck is very carefully not making eye contact with anyone.
Eddie leans in.
“Wow,” he says conversationally. “That’s… ambitious.”
Buck flinches so hard he nearly drops everything.
“Oh my god,” Buck blurts, spinning around, eyes wide. “Eddie–”
Eddie holds up a hand, trying to school his expression into something neutral and probably failing exponentially. “Sorry, man. Thought you were someone else.”
There’s a second where Buck clearly debates pretending he has never met Eddie before in his life. Except he just practically shouted Eddie’s name in front of everybody, so, probably not the best plan.
“Kidding,” Eddie smirks. “Relax.”
“Jesus,” Buck blurts. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Eddie hums, gaze sliding down without effort, cataloguing the contents of Buck’s arms while trying not to think about Buck using said items that may or may not be a twin to his own dick that just happens to be, traitorously, growing rapidly due to the circumstances. He keeps his face carefully blank aside from lifting one of his eyebrows.
Buck follows Eddie’s line of sight.
“Oh– uh,” Buck says quickly. “These aren’t– this isn’t–”
Eddie waits.
Buck clears his throat. “They’re for a friend.”
There it is.
Eddie lets the lie hang there between them, flimsy and transparent as cellophane.
“For a friend,” Eddie repeats, slowly.
“Yeah,” Buck says, nodding immediately. “Uh-huh, exactly. A friend.”
Eddie tilts his head, just a fraction. “You planning on robbing the place, too,” he asks innocently, “or is this more of a personal errand for this… friend.”
Buck lets out a strangled sound. “No, no, definitely personal. He’s– uh. He’s sick.”
“Sick,” Eddie echoes.
“Yeah. Can’t get out,” Buck adds, gesturing vaguely with the dildo that’s still in his hand. “I’m just doing him a favor. You know. Being a good friend.”
Eddie hums, eyes flicking back to the size of the purchase. “Your friend is… well-equipped.”
Buck swallows. “He’s going through a lot.”
Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. “You’re very loyal.”
Buck nods emphatically. “I really am.”
“What’s his name?”
“What?”
“Your friend,” Eddie says calmly. “The sick one.”
Buck’s eyes dart around the store, brain visibly stalling as fluorescent lights bounce off glossy packaging. Eddie watches the moment the lie begins to collapse under its own idiocy.
“Uh,” Buck says. “McDillonson.”
Eddie waits patiently for Buck to continue. After a moment of silence, he keeps going.
“Hmm, sounds familiar. What’s his first name?”
Buck’s pupils are blown wide as he chokes on his own spit, glancing up at the ceiling as if divine intervention might descend through the track lighting. There’s a few more people in line, but they’ve seemed to abandon any annoyance to Eddie and Buck’s interruption in favor of watching the trainwreck unfolding before them.
“...Dil.”
Eddie tilts his head. “Dil.”
“Yeah.”
“Dil..do,” Eddie pointedly glances at the nine-incher still clutched in Buck’s hand. “McDillonson.”
Buck sucks in a sharp breath, but doesn’t correct him.
Eddie repeats it, slowly, as if committing it to memory. “Dildo. McDillonson. Hm, guess I was wrong. I definitely don’t know anyone with that name.”
“Okay,” Buck says weakly. “When you say it out loud–”
“It sounds exactly how it is,” Eddie says, grinning now. “I’m honestly impressed you ever got money out of anyone. You completely disintegrate under even light questioning.”
Buck huffs, his cheeks flaming a pretty shade of red. “Did you follow me here just to bully me?”
“I followed you here because you said you were leaving town,” Eddie says, letting the humor soften between them. “We need to talk. Outside.”
Buck thanks the cashier who grunts in his general direction.
Outside, the air is cooler. Buck shifts, the bag moving against them, suddenly very aware of its contents.
Eddie gestures toward it with his chin. “So. Why the emergency supplies?”
Buck groans. “Why do you think?”
Eddie raises a brow.
“I’ve been pent up.”
“Mm,” Eddie says. “Any particular reason.”
“Eddie–”
“Hey, it’s just a question, you don’t have to answer it if you’re embarrass–”
“You!” Buck looks at him, incredulous. “Happy now? You’re the reason.”
Eddie stills, a low-grade hum igniting under his skin.
Buck barrels on, words tumbling now. “We almost kissed, and now my brain won’t shut up about it, and apparently it decided this–” he lifts the bag slightly “–was the solution.”
Heat coils low in Eddie’s stomach, sharp and unwelcome and entirely too satisfying.
“So,” he says quietly, “you needed the relief because of me.”
Buck gulps. “I–”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eddie mutters.
He grabs Buck by the front of his jacket and kisses him.
It’s sudden and absolutely not how Eddie had planned to do this conversation. It’s frustration and relief and too many unsorted feelings compressed into a single, reckless decision. But with Buck standing there, flushed and pent up and looking at him like that—how could he not? Buck makes a surprised sound Eddie wishes he could record and play over and over and over—and then kisses him back without hesitation, his hands fisting in Eddie’s shirt to keep them plastered together.
Eddie pulls away reluctantly after not long enough, breathing against Buck’s skin.
“We’re in front of a sex shop,” he says.
“Yeah,” Buck pants. “I noticed.”
Eddie presses his forehead to Buck’s, trying to envelope himself in the warmth of him. “Please let me help you.”
Buck shifts on his feet, unsure and awed in the same breath.
“I know people,” Eddie continues. “I can help protect Maddie. We can make this stop. Y-You don’t have to keep doing this. You can get a real job.”
Buck lets out a brittle laugh. “My job history is shit, remember? No one wants to hire me.”
“Join the LAFD,” Eddie says, immediately, already certain Bobby will adopt Buck within seconds like an abandoned puppy.
Buck stares. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m kind of a felon right now.”
Eddie smirks, a familiar heat curling low in his stomach. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he pauses, pointing a finger in Buck’s direction. “But we do have to pay back the money.”
“W-We? You’re gonna help me do that too?”
“Yes.”
“Why,” Buck asks quietly. “Why are you helping me?”
Eddie exhales, reaches into his pocket, and presses the folded bills into Buck’s hand.
“My abuela all but threatened me,” he admits. “She wanted you to have this… for Maddie.”
Buck looks down at the money, then back up, something fragile and stunned crossing his face.
“…You’re serious.”
“I like you, Buck,” Eddie says, voice steady even as his insides riot. “You seem like a good person, despite everything. There’s something here–" he waves a hand between them “–a connection or something. I know you feel it too. I don’t want you leaving before I figure out why I feel like this– about you.”
“Okay,” Buck whispers. “Okay, yes. Yeah. Let’s do it your way.” Eddie could jump with the amount of joy he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t do that, obviously, that would be unbecoming—but it’s a damn near thing.
They stand there, suspended as the bag crinkles between them.
Buck clears his throat after the silence grows awkward. “So. Coffee?”
Eddie chuckles under his breath. “I was going to ask you,” he mutters, and the answering smile from Buck sends butterflies fluttering through his stomach.
“Sure,” Buck breathes, adding a teasing lilt to his voice. “Just one question… Is this a date, or another setup? I’m not about to walk into an ambush, right?”
Eddie meets his eyes.
“It’s a date, Buck.”
Buck has his name on a locker now.
It’s not a temporary label, it’s not an alias, not something scrawled in marker that could be wiped away the second he screwed up badly enough to justify it. A real metal plate, bolted into place, white lettering set clean and permanent against red: BUCKLEY, E.
He still catches himself staring at it longer than necessary whenever he passes, some part of his brain lagging behind the reality of it, as if permanence is a language he’s still learning how to understand.
He belongs here. He’s not running. He’s not lying. He’s just Buck, now.
He’s leaning against the engine with his helmet tucked under one arm, turnout coat hanging open because the bay is warm and Bobby keeps saying someone’s going to come by to fix the thermostat, which never happens. Eddie is a few feet away, crouched at the hose bed, staring directly at Buck. His gaze drops quickly when he sees Buck looking at him, smiling when he realizes he’s been caught.
They do this now. Exist in the same space naturally. Happy and together despite the small miracle and several bad decisions it took to get here.
“Your shoe’s untied,” Eddie says, not looking up.
Buck glances down. It isn’t. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Eddie hums, finally standing and bumping his shoulder into Buck’s as he passes. A casual touch that Buck never wants to get used to. “Made ya look.”
Buck watches him go with a fondness that still sneaks up on him when he isn’t paying attention.
He isn’t used to things that stay.
The bay doors are open, afternoon sunlight cutting in low and gold, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Inside, Chimney is arguing with Hen. Maddie’s voice floats in too—having stopped by for lunch—lighter than it used to be, laughing at something Chimney says that isn’t actually funny at all.
That sound, Maddie laughing, still does something to him every time. Loosens him from the inside out. Reminds him why this all mattered in the first place.
Maddie is safe. She’s happy. She has a partner who doesn’t make her flinch whenever he raises his voice or checks her phone every time she leaves the room, someone steady and present and deeply unthreatened by her strength. Chim adores her in a way that doesn’t ask for anything in return, and Buck had needed to see that almost as much as she had needed to live it.
He exhales slowly and tips his head back against the engine, letting the moment settle.
Eddie reappears at his side without announcement, pressing a bottle of water into Buck’s hand. Their fingers brush, the spark still there but quieter now, something constant instead of volatile.
Eddie bumps his shoulder again and Buck lets himself lean into it without thinking. “You good?”
Buck nods. He is. That’s the strange part. He really is.
They fall into an easy silence, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward or unfinished, watching the afternoon stretch and soften around them. This is the part of the job Buck never knew he’d love—the waiting, the being-ready without being-needed, the quiet moments where nothing is actively falling apart.
Chimney wanders past with a stack of paperwork and a smile that promises trouble. “You two ever gonna move in together,” he asks mildly, “or should Bobby keep re-routing Buck’s mail to Eddie’s address?”
Buck blinks before turning to a now statuesque version of his boyfriend .
Hen laughs from behind them. “Chim.”
“What?” Chimney shrugs. “It’s logistical.”
Eddie mutters something under his breath in Spanish and walks off before Buck can fully read his expression, effectively throwing him to the wolves.
Chim grins at Buck. “Six months. Max.”
“Please remove yourself from my life,” Buck says, unamused.
Chim salutes and disappears.
The moment passes, but it leaves something behind, a thought Buck can’t quite set down once it’s been picked up. It lingers under his skin, persistent and oddly calm.
Later, when the bay quiets and Eddie drifts back over, Buck says, “Hey.”
Eddie looks at him. “Hey.”
They head for the lockers together, boots scuffing in sync without trying. Buck opens his and stares at the contents as if they might offer guidance. They do not. His half eaten granola bar and cat poster that says ‘hang in there’ mock him silently.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“You usually do.”
Buck huffs, then keeps his tone deliberately casual, as if he’s asking about dinner plans or weekend errands, as if this isn’t something that’s been circling quietly in his head for longer than he’d like to admit. “Would you ever… do that again?”
Eddie pauses just long enough for Buck’s chest to tighten in an old, familiar way. The doubt and rejection rearing its ugly head, not completely at bay, despite knowing Eddie would never hurt him.
“Do what again?” Eddie asks, glancing over.
Buck meets his eyes and doesn’t dodge it. “Y’know, all of it. Moving in together, the whole domestic package– marriage..”
Okay he said it, he said the words and whatever Eddie says will be great and awesome and okay with him.
Eddie leans back against the lockers, arms folding loosely as he thinks, considering it, which feels significant all on its own.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Sure.”
Buck’s breath catches before he can stop it. Oh god, he said yeah.
“Not right now,” Eddie adds, gently. “But yeah. At some point, in the future.”
Buck nods once. Yeah.
Not a no. He didn’t deflect. It wasn’t a conditional wrapped in a dozen escape routes.
Just, yeah.
“That’s cool,” Buck says, because understatement has always been his strongest defense mechanism. “I was just curious.”
Eddie watches him with the look Buck has learned means I know that wasn’t casual, and I’m choosing not to push.
They start packing up. Buck closes his locker, fingers lingering on the metal edge.
“Hypothetically,” Buck says, as they walk, “if that ever did happen.”
Eddie exhales. “Here it comes.”
“Would you take my last name?”
Eddie stops in his tracks as Buck turns, eyebrows raised, trying—and failing—to look uninvested.
Eddie stares at him for a long second, then squints. “And have my name be Dick Dick?”
Buck pauses for a beat, confusion written all over his face, before the memory slams into him. A callback to the day they first met, his panic in full control, and the brief, humiliating stretch of time where he’d genuinely thought Eddie’s name was Dick. Buck breaks into full-bodied laughter, bending forward, one of his hands braced on Eddie’s shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.
“Okay, okay,” he wheezes. “Noted.”
“Absolutely not,” Eddie says flatly, a small grin on his lips. “Never happening.”
Still smiling, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Buck’s temple. The affection comes as easy as breathing to them now, with no hesitance.
“We’ll figure it out,” Eddie says quietly.
Buck nods, warmth settling deep in his chest. “Yeah.”
For the first time in his life, that answer doesn’t feel provisional.
It feels settled. It feels earned.
It feels like home.