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“Max, really?” A voice says to his left, startling him. Buck shuts his locker door, turning to see Eddie leaning against the entrance of the locker room, dressed in his civilian clothes.
Buck’s eyes trail over Eddie’s body, noting the way his dark jeans hugged his legs and how the burgundy henley he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the shape of his biceps or the slim cut of his waist. He blinks, his eyes catching on Eddie’s mouth, butterflies erupting in his stomach at the sight of the teasing smirk on the other man’s lips. His very pink lips.
Buck blinks again.
He clears his throat, averting his gaze— hoping Eddie didn’t catch his slip up—as he grabs his duffle bag from the bench, zipping the bag shut before hiking it over his shoulder. It was the end of Buck’s first shift officially back with the 118, and Chimney had asked him to hang back and sign a few outstanding forms for his reinstatement. Who knew firefighting required so much paperwork? No wonder Chimney complained about it constantly; he was surprised Bobby hadn’t complained more.
It had taken a while, Chimney making him read through every line before signing, and he figured everyone else had gone home, but Eddie hadn’t. Had Eddie waited for him?
He hates how much he likes that thought.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He responds, keeping his voice neutral as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. He brushes past Eddie, making his way towards the exit.
Eddie quickly falls in step beside him, their shoulders brushing as they walk through the empty station. The alarm had sounded shortly after B-shift had taken over, leaving the engine bay empty except for the two of them.
“Right,” Eddie says, voice still playful, leaning in slightly towards Buck’s ear as he speaks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he does. Eddie’s change in stride pushes him more firmly into Buck’s side as they continue towards the exit. Eddie doesn’t step away, just adjusts slightly to match Buck’s speed, apparently deciding that Buck’s personal space was now also Eddie’s. Buck tightens his grip on the strap of his bag, his knuckles white; he doesn’t step away either.
Buck chooses not to respond, squinting slightly as they walk out of the building, his eyes adjusting to the morning light. He hears Eddie huff out a laugh beside him, the sound only encouraging the butterflies in his belly. He reaches into his own pants, pulling out his car keys, his hands shaking slightly as he does.
Buck knows he had acted a little childish with the cake, neither Eddie, Hen, nor anyone else needed to tell him that. Obviously, he had matured a lot over the years; was less reckless on the job—didn’t blindly throw himself into danger without thinking about the potential consequences—and didn’t let his emotions dictate his actions. At least, not as much as before.
But, sadly, despite how hard he tried to will it away, he never quite managed to overcome his fear of being replaced. Of no longer being needed, both on and off the job. While the dread and anxiety had diminished over the years, much in part due his family and friends unwavering love and support, there was always a small part of him that never could let go of the possibility.
He ignored it the best he could, and succeeded the majority of the time, but still, it never fully went away.
“Old habits,” Buck admits with a shrug, not elaborating.
Eddie’s expression softens, “yeah.”
He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. Just looks at him, his brown eyes filled with so much understanding, that it makes Buck’s own eyes sting. Makes the butterflies do flips and tricks inside him, a whole acrobatic show. Choreographed and everything. He’s overwhelmed, like he always is, when reminded of the fact that Eddie knows him. He just knows him. Knows, without words. exactly how Buck’s feeling. Knows with complete certainty. And doesn’t judge him for it.
What’s that saying? To be loved is to be known.
And Eddie knows him. Probably better than anyone. Does that mean he loves him? Obviously, Eddie loves him. That goes without saying— no, literally, it does. They have never said they love each other, not aloud. Not in those words. Not once in their almost-decade long friendship.
But Buck knows Eddie does. Loves him, that is.
Buck sees it. Sees it in how Eddie keeps showing up, even through the worst of it. Has seen Buck at his lowest, his most raw and broken and vulnerable, and has never, not for a second, looked away. So, yeah, he knows he’s loved.
But it’s the how. The how is where Buck’s unsure; where all the doubt and uncertainty that Buck keeps locked away, under heavy lock and key, and buried under what is probably years of repression and denial, lies. Because Buck doesn’t know. Not really. How does Eddie love him? The how has begun to blur in Buck’s mind.
It’s been blurring for longer than Buck cares to admit; they’ve always been unusually close, ever since the beginning, even by best friend standards, but that was just them, wasn’t it? Just BuckandEddie. But now, they seem to be toeing the line between friendship and something else— boundaries being pushed and tested, leaving Buck feeling confused and off balance— without either of them acknowledging it. Buck doesn’t know when exactly it started, but New Mexico had felt like a turning point.
A shift.
“I am the other guy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Buck feels heat climbing up the back of his neck, a tightening behind his rib cage signally the arrival of more butterflies, now taking up residence in his chest. He clears his throat, letting out a cough, tapping his chest with the palm of his hand, willing the butterflies to cease their flapping. They ignore him, too busy flittering around his heart to pay him any mind.
“So, how was Sam?” He blurts out, desperate to change the subject. “Are the 144 gaining a good firefighter?”
“He was okay, a tad overzealous,” Eddie answers, tilting his head slightly. If he notices Buck’s weird behaviour—which he probably did, it was hard to miss—he chooses to ignore it. Buck is grateful. “But he’s young, you know? Enthusiastic, just wants to do well. I think Chim said he called himself a people pleaser?”
Buck snorts.
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Hey—”
Eddie holds a hand up, stopping him. “Not a bad thing, bud.” He places his hand on Buck’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, forcing Buck to meet his eyes. “It just means you care.” Eddie’s hand was no stranger to Buck’s shoulder; it was a gesture so familiar, something that Eddie had done so many times throughout their many years of friendship, that Buck shouldn’t even register it. Nonetheless, it burns. Heat licks up his spine, butterflies dropping left and right as they burn up. The ones that make it out unscathed, some with wings singed from the heat, ignore their fallen companions, too busy focusing on Eddie’s hand on him to notice anything else.
They had stopped in front of Buck’s truck, with Eddie’s own parked a few spaces away. Buck grips his keys in his hand, the metal end of his house key digging into his palm.
“Right,” Buck nods a few times, doing his best bobble head impression, the motion breaking their eye contact. Buck blinks a few times, feeling dazed. “So, uh, what are you still doing here?”
Eddie shrugs, squeezing Buck’s shoulder one last time before dropping his arm; he turns his head to look out at the parking lot, his eyes squinting slightly against the brightness of the sun, before looking back over to Buck. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to go out for breakfast? I was thinking that diner that May had mentioned going to a few weeks ago. To celebrate your first shift back, my treat.”
Eddie did wait for me, Buck thinks. The remaining butterflies in his belly and chest are pleased, their wings fluttering incessantly as they dance and celebrate around his torso. He then registers what Eddie said and his brows furrow.
“Wait, didn’t we already celebrate?” He asks, thinking back to the beginning of their shift. “I made that cake—”
“Right, of course, for Max—”
“For Sam.” Buck retorts, eyes narrowed slightly. Laughter bubbles up on the tip of his tongue.
“Right.” Eddie nods, biting the inside of his cheek, fighting his own laughter, trying to keep his face serious. He fails, a chuckle escaping him, a dimple appearing on the side of his face. Buck has to fight the urge to press his thumb into it. “I just figured you, you know, deserved your own celebration. It wasn’t an easy journey, getting back here, Buck. I’m proud of you.”
The words hit him straight in the chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. A few more butterflies drop, from lack of oxygen.
“Oh.”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
Buck blinks, his face growing hot, his brain juggling both the fact that Eddie is proud of him with trying to remind his lungs how to function properly. “I’m not.”
“Uh huh.”
“Shut up.”
Eddie was smiling at him again, his eyes fond. Ridiculously so. The look makes Buck’s knees weak, and he blindly reaches out, gripping the door handle of his truck to steady himself. “So, uh— breakfast? Yes. I mean, yeah. Sounds good.”
Eddie nods, taking a small step away towards his own truck. “Great! Meet you there?”
Buck nods back, rooted to the spot as he watches Eddie walk the small distance to his car. In the last few moments, the butterflies in his stomach and in his chest have joined forces, have unionized, and were threatening to stage a walk-out, preparing to burst out of his body, and follow Eddie to his car.
“Yeah,” he replies, even though Eddie is now too far away to hear him, “I’ll meet you there.”