Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buck’s hand moves in circles, rag clenched tight between white knuckles, the familiar red of the firetruck blurring in front of his eyes. Eddie is whistling something to his left, which Buck hears without registering. Eddie’s been in a great mood for three straight days. Of course he has, Buck has too— Chris comes home next month. 

They’ve got plans, plans on top of plans. Him and Eddie and Chris, together after weeks, all three of them giddy about it. Movie nights, video games, trips to the zoo which Christopher suggested then protested half-heartedly because he’s ‘too old’ for them. All three of them regressing slightly, going back to what they know. To what worked for them before.

And what worked before was the three of them, together, in any configuration they could manage. God, it makes Buck giddy. The thought of it. 

So, Buck should be in a good mood. He should be in a fucking great mood. And he has been. 

It’s just— Tommy. Night after night spent with Tommy, having dinner, drinking gin. Both of them sitting on Buck’s fucking uncomfortable couch. It’s not bad. Of course it’s not bad.

But Chris is coming home soon. But Eddie is finally smiling again, bright like the sun, and Buck wants to go and bask for a while. It’s not right, him being gone while the Diaz boys wait for him. It’s— he doesn’t have the words for it. 

Buck polishes harder. He frowns. Scowls, even. He doesn’t feel like himself. He feels… 

Like, in a lot of ways, being with Tommy is new. Seeing Eddie in that restaurant and being hit with a sudden wall of shame, like he was doing something wrong— that was new. Stuttering, stammering and sweating on his drive over to Eddie’s, trying to find his tongue to apologize for that basketball game— also new. He’s never been nervous with Eddie like that.

But a few months in, all that fear and panic is over. Now, well. In a lot of other ways being with Tommy is unsettlingly familiar. 

Buck keeps thinking it should feel more earth-shattering. But it’s not; none of it really is. Arms strong enough to pin him down? Tommy’s not the first person to be stronger than him— that title is held by a girl in Colorado, a woman now, probably, a professional mountain-climber with palms broader than Buck’s own. Not the first partner who’s been taller, either; when he was seventeen, there was a girl in his chemistry class— Hannah— who had been six foot three. She’d wound up being a division one volleyball player; he’d taken her to prom.

Cock rings, edging, weird sex positions— familiar, familiar, and familiar again. Experiences he’d gathered like seaglass, drifting between beachside towns, and now carries inside himself forever. He doesn’t remember every woman. Of course he doesn’t. What sex addict does? But he remembers most of them. Remembers most of them fondly, even if he doesn’t think too fondly of his younger self. 

The brief foray into daddy kink was new, or at least being on the other side of it was new, and blowjobs were new even if oral sex wasn’t. So, there. Not all of it is familiar. It’s still fine— Buck’s not backsliding. He’s not. He’s moving in a totally new direction with a totally new person. A man! Which he’s never done! He’s a brand new version of himself— 5.0, even. And he’s happy. Tommy makes him happy. 

Buck’s always loved coming home to someone. He loved coming home to Taylor, seeing her head pop over the couch, laptop on her knees, socked toes wiggling. To Abby, the precious lines on her brow, the creases by her eye when she smiled. Tommy’s got the same creases.

Which he likes! He likes this odd, familiar-mixed strangeness.    

He just… he keeps waiting for that spark, right? That moment where everything lights up and the fireworks in his chest, which have been waiting patiently for years inside their packages, burst and burn and explode. He’s worked on himself. He has. So why is he still…

“Tommy is great, right?” Buck says aloud. He’s mostly talking to himself, but Eddie cocks his head to listen anyway. They’re wiping down the firetruck, mostly killing time and avoiding Gerrard. 

Before Eddie can respond, they hear clomping on the metal stairs and they both dive for the firetruck’s cab. They press their backs to the seats, sucking in their stomachs. Him and Eddie do this a lot: hide from Gerrard. Buck keeps thinking it’s sort of like skipping school. Or, at least, how skipping school probably felt for everybody else.

Like he’s dodging the teacher with his best friend, hiding in the bathroom. It sort of makes him giddy. Despite the twisted, confused knot in his chest, Buck grins at Eddie. Just for the simple pleasure of smiling at Eddie, not really because there’s much to smile about, what with the two of them hiding from their boss like they are. 

The boots walk away. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. He presses play on their conversation. “You don’t sound too sure.”

And that’s— not what he expected Eddie to say. Eddie loves Tommy, right? They went to Vegas together. Tommy flew him out and Eddie actually went, which Buck never would’ve expected. In a good way! Eddie making new friends with random people is great. 

Not that Tommy is new or random anymore, obviously. He’s Buck’s boyfriend and has been for months. And Eddie plays pickup with him still, as far as Buck knows. Not that Buck ever got invited again. Which is fine. Eddie doesn’t come on their dates, so it’s fair. Everyone gets to spend time one-on-one with everyone else— but Buck gets to see them the most, obviously. It just makes sense. He is Tommy’s boyfriend and he is Eddie’s… the only phrase he’s finding is his Buck. He can hear it, vividly, in Eddie’s voice, even though it hasn’t been said for years, really. Not since Chris was little. 

Anyway, Tommy and Eddie probably only spend time together once a month. 

Once a month isn’t very much. Had something changed without Buck noticing?

“Wh-why wouldn’t I be sure?” Buck counters.

“I don’t know, Buck. Why aren’t you?” Eddie stares from across the cab, rag still in his hand, brow furrowed but his face open.

It’s so easy to talk to Eddie. It always has been. There’s just something warm about him. Patient, welcoming. Not at all brusque or impatient, even if he’s occasionally stern. He’s always been open to Buck, for all that he’s a shut door to everyone else. Buck can tell him anything and get a genuine response, even if jokes come after. 

Simultaneously, Buck hears, at least it wasn’t a tsunami and you act like you’re expendable. Overlaid again with bzzt-bzzt, then a gentle and sincere, you’re gonna have a lot of feelings about that. 

Jolting him back to awareness, Eddie says, “Space-case Buckley, do you copy?” Then makes a kshhst noise, like the crackling of a walkie-talkie. 

It startles a chuckle out of Buck and, obligingly, Buck raises his fist to his mouth, a fake walkie-talkie. He responds, “Buckley here, over.” And mimics the goofy kshhst noise just to see Eddie smile.

“What’s the view like up there? Over.” And he’s giving Buck two choices: to continue the joke or to tell Eddie what it is he’s looking at; what he’s really thinking about.

Buck licks his lips and stares at Eddie’s brown eyes. Forces himself to think about Tommy. “I guess it’s beautiful. But I’m not— sure. Over.”

Eddie says, “I don’t think beauty is about thinking. It’s a gut feeling. Over.”

Buck frowns. “So, then it must not be… I don’t know. I don’t like this metaphor, man. Over.”

“Okay. What are we actually talking about?” And then belatedly Eddie adds, “Over.”

“Tommy,” Buck says, which of course Eddie already knew. Buck already said that. But this time he doesn’t add the word over or any kshhst noises. He just says it and Eddie pivots, his head lolling back to better gaze at Buck. 

“Tommy,” Eddie repeats, allowing Buck to talk in circles around the subject, rolling the word around his mouth like he occasionally plays with his gum. It makes something sick twist in Buck’s stomach. “Tommy, Tommy— yeah, I’ve heard of that guy. Six-five, pale.” 

Six-five, pale. It’s the only description Eddie offers. It’s jarring; Tommy is one of Eddie’s good friends. That warmth is gone from Eddie’s voice. It’s like Eddie is talking about someone different, someone he doesn’t know. Someone he doesn’t like too much.

Inexplicably, it makes Buck feel better. It feels like something snapping back into place. Eddie never likes anyone Buck dates. Not ever. Why should Tommy be different? In a weird way, it would've been homophobic if Tommy were the exception. Probably. Of course Eddie would take Buck’s side. Who is Tommy to Eddie, anyway? No one important— no one more important than Buck. Of course Eddie is protective toward Buck. He always has been. The thought feels warm in Buck’s chest. It settles him. 

“I’m— I’m good to him, right?” Buck asks, which isn’t really what he meant to say. He’s not sure what he wanted to say, though, so he just lets the question linger.

Eddie keeps looking at him. “I don’t think you could ever be bad, Buck. Not to anyone, but especially not to him. He’s your partner, right? And I’ve got…” Eddie’s voice falters for a split-second. Probably no one but Buck would catch it. “I’ve got first-hand experience with that. You’re the best partner anyone could ask for.” 

He doesn’t cushion the statement with anything. He doesn’t smirk or make a joke or keep talking. He never really does. A half-dozen or maybe twenty different moments float through Buck’s head. None of them stick too hard though. Mostly it’s just sense-memory. Them, in a kitchen or a hospital or together on the couch.  

This, the way Eddie talks to him? It’s familiar and precious. Maybe not everything needs to be new all the time. Maybe it’s okay?

“It just feels… I don’t know. I feel like I’m back to being an old version of me. Like I’m— fucking— Buck 2.0 again. I can’t be good to him if I’m Buck 2.0. I know that.”

Eddie frowns. “I first met you when you were Buck 2.0. And you were good to me.”

Buck opens his mouth. Closes it. Doesn’t know how to say that Eddie doesn’t count. Eddie is his freak occurrence, his miracle-exception, like going into the doctor with something terminal only to discover the tumor dissolved. Like being struck by lightning a second time, except somehow good— like maybe his heart had stopped, but then he met Eddie, and Eddie shocked him back to life. Like CPR.

Not for the first time, Buck is sidetracked by a vaguely distraught feeling and the thought he gave me CPR and I don’t remember. Eddie put their mouths together and kept Buck’s body working and it’s like metaphor made real. Eddie’s always been that way. 

“Sure, but, Eddie, it’s not the same,” Buck says, because it’s not. 

Being with Eddie is the easiest thing in the world. It’s easy even when one or both of them is gasping and dying, falling apart in tears or spitting mad over physical therapy. It’s easy when they’re arguing over what to make for dinner, it’s just— it’s not effortless. It’s thoughtless, though. Instinctual. Both of them knowing, gut-steady, what they need to do or say or be for each other. 

“Right,” Eddie says. “Yeah, no, I know it’s not. I just mean— you’re a good guy, Buck. You wouldn’t hurt your partner on purpose.” A wry smile crosses Eddie’s face when he adds, “You’ve given me advice about that enough times. Maybe trust yourself a little more, huh?”

“Right,” Buck echoes. His mouth feels dry. His heart, suddenly, is tripping double-time, an anxious drumbeat in his chest.

“What’s this really about?” Eddie presses for a second time. His eyes are focused and dark.

Buck clears his throat. “No, nothing. Nothing really. Just— just in my head a little, man. You know me. Thanks for— thanks.”

Buck is lying. He’s lying and it’s making him feel nauseous and he doesn’t know why, or even really what he’s lying about. Except maybe he does. Because his own advice is coming back to haunt him— stick it out, his own voice says. That’s not the way you talk about someone you’re in love with. 

But he’s not just sticking it out. Right? Of course he’s not. That would be crazy and— ungrateful. Tommy’s really helped him realize a lot, and he’s so patient, kind. He’s a good partner to Buck. Handsome, too. So what if talking to Tommy isn’t effortless? Relationships are worth the effort.

When Eddie hops out of the truck, Buck follows. They walk with footsteps matching, left-right, left-right, off toward the bunk room and Buck allows himself to be distracted by work, and by Eddie. Always, somehow, by Eddie.

It keeps bothering Buck. It’s just—

Tommy keeps expecting him to be shocked, right? And sure, Buck knows where that expectation came from. Buck still cringes remembering his own awkward fumbling, the way he acted the first few weeks after Tommy kissed him. But Buck… well, he’s lived in the world for a long time. He had sex multiple times a week, with multiple different people a week, for years of his life. Addiction will do that. And so there’s not much for Tommy to really, truly teach him.

Sometimes, he thinks that disappoints Tommy. Just a little. 

His shift is done, he’s in his own apartment, and Tommy is kissing him. Buck can feel their stubble grinding together, their noses and chins mashing. There’s a lot of tongue. It’s nice. It really does feel good. Buck likes kissing— he’s always liked kissing. He’s always liked sex, the wet-messy closeness of it.  

Who is he to complain? Tommy is a good man. He’s hot. He wants to fuck Buck and make him dinner.

They tumble toward the bed. Tommy climbs over him and Buck allows it for a while, then flips them because he’s starting to feel suffocated. It’s better like this: Tommy beneath him, tilting his head, and Buck squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to get lost in the feeling. 

Tommy, moving against him, under him. His bare chest. Their stomachs and cocks pressing together, getting wet. The easy rocking and rolling. It’s nice. It’s good.

After, Buck flops to the side, breathes toward the ceiling. Tommy doesn’t try to cuddle close. They’re not cuddlers, really— Buck doesn’t mind. He thought he might, but he doesn’t, which is a sign of growth, right? He used to be so clingy. A stage-four clinger, Taylor had called him, and it had stung even though she’d sounded fond at the time. So, this is good. This is him maturing.

He’s going in circles. He turns his head toward Tommy and smiles. I’m good to you, Buck thinks. I’m good to you, right? 

Tommy doesn’t answer. He’s half-asleep already, and of course he would be, after his forty-eight. Six small fires in that time. A busy shift. More than busy.

“Go to sleep,” Buck tells him. Tommy gives him half a smile and then does.

Buck looks away. He stares at the ceiling some more. 

There’s a memory that Buck tries not to think about. It’s nothing crazy. Really, it isn’t. It’s just— once, years ago, Buck had been getting ready for a date. 

“Alright, which one?” Buck had wheedled, holding two shirts out to Eddie. It was Buck’s new thing: tricking Eddie into picking Buck’s clothes for him. It was just— it was like a joke, right? Except Buck couldn’t, and still can’t, figure out what was funny about it. It just… was nice. It made him feel nice, and still does when he can convince Eddie into doing it. Which is more often than is maybe reasonable. They get dressed together a lot, is all.

That’s not the point. 

They were in the fire house’s locker room, up by the glass walls and lockers, both of them half-dressed and dripping from the shower. It was a few months after Taylor, after Ana, and Buck was ready to get back out there. He was going out on the town, come hell or— he doesn’t say high water anymore, but he can also mentally hear Eddie laughing at his superstition, which makes the fear smaller. Like, the force of Eddie’s will might keep a curse away. Eddie Diaz: Buck’s very own protection amulet.

It’s a charmed life, with Eddie looking out for him. 

Anyway, in the memory, he shook the shirts in Eddie’s face. “Come on, man. Blue or red?”

Eddie examined them. Then he examined Buck. He turned back to the shirts. “Red.” His tone was a little flat.

“Really?” Buck asked. And he’d been right to be surprised because, to this day, Eddie always mentions how nice Buck looks in blue. 

“Mm.” Eddie had turned away to pull his own shirt on— a henley, gray and dark, everyday clothes.

“Are you sure about the red?” Buck had pressed. “Like, you’ve got to be really sure, I want to make a good impression.”

“You really want my opinion?” Eddie asked.

“Jesus, man, yes, obviously, I want your opinion—”

“Don’t go out tonight,” Eddie said. 

Buck had blinked. At the time, it was like his lungs shrunk. It was hard to breathe. “Wh— what?”

“Don’t go out tonight,” repeated Eddie. “Reschedule. Come on, Buck, we were just on for seventy-two hours.”

“Yeah, Eddie, and we’re going to be on shift again in twenty-four—”

And then, all at once, it happened: the switch. The straightening of Eddie’s spine, the broadening of his shoulders. His chin tipping. Buck, sometimes, thinks he imagines it. The way Eddie changes. But then he sees it all over again and realizes, no, there, there it is. 

It happened then. The switch.

Fuck, it was elating. Eddie was going to say no. He was about to put his foot down, hard, and make Buck go home with him, and eat something warm, and fall asleep early in the night on Eddie’s own couch. Tucked down into thick blankets inside the only house that really feels like home. Eddie was going to say no and Buck was going to fold like cards, collapse down into the seatbelt-safety of Eddie knowing better. 

And he did. 

“You can reschedule.” A statement, a demand. “Abuela made tamales again. I’ve got more than I could ever want, and you know Chris is out for the week, anyway. You should come and eat some. Get some real sleep, too. Twelve hours, if we can swing it— which we can.”

“Well, alright,” Buck said with relief, because he hadn’t actually wanted to go out after his seventy-two anyway. He felt giddy, lighter than feathers, and he floated into the parking lot alongside Eddie, their shoulders bumping the whole way. 

He fished his phone out of his pocket and then frowned down at it. What to text? What to say?

Eddie held out a hand. Buck had passed his phone and Eddie unlocked it easily, his thumb swiping through the eight-digit code automatically. He shot off some text. Buck didn’t read it. He didn’t actually care what it said; he trusted Eddie, and, a little meanly, he hadn’t cared about— what was her name?— Petra at all. She wasn’t real to him, not the way Eddie was real. 

Is still real. Sometimes, Buck thinks Eddie is the realest person on planet Earth. Not the smartest, or calmest, or strongest, but the most solid. 

This is what Buck remembers most vividly: 

Buck thought cheerily: he’s my guy. He tossed an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and reeled him in. They fell into step, crossing the lot easily, and the sun was bright in the sky, barely setting, warm on Buck’s skin. 

And it’s not fair, he knows it’s not, but he keeps waiting for that warm happiness to appear when he’s with Tommy. 

It never does. Of course it never does; Eddie and Tommy are different people, surprisingly different despite their surface similarities, so obviously they inspire different emotions in Buck. Eddie is just— separate. Not in a bad way! But Eddie has always been outside of everything else. Something special that Buck can’t categorize.

He’s never felt guilty about it before. It’s never been a secret to hide. Except, suddenly, it is. Because he’s with Tommy now and Tommy— he wouldn’t get it. Buck knows he wouldn’t, even while he can’t figure out what the ‘it’ is.

It takes a long time for Buck to fall asleep.

“You think you can handle that, Evan?” Tommy asks, teasing. He’s smirking, the expression tipping toward a smile. 

Buck tries to smile back. Jesus, there’s nothing wrong with Tommy. Smiling at him should be easy. There shouldn’t be this weird feeling in his stomach reminding him of third grade, when he spent two weeks giving serious effort toward sitting still in class. He was just so bored, and mad at himself for being bored, because clearly everyone else was doing fine. It was just him struggling.

Not that this is the same situation. It’s just a similar feeling. Which doesn’t make any sense, actually— they’re walking in the sun hand in hand, down the street under cheery looking awnings. Booths line the edges of the sidewalks, homegrown vegetables, hand-made candles. They’re in a part of town Buck doesn’t go to often; it’s touristy, kitschy, perfect for dates. Very clean and bright. 

Tommy is detailing their plans for the rest of the day. It’s early in the morning; the farmer’s market is still open. All the bakeries are still fully stocked. They’re heading toward a jam stall. Tommy wants to wander around for a while, then get coffee, then go to lunch. Head back home after, and he says this part with a certain curve to his mouth, suggestive.

Dull heat courses through Buck, slow-moving but there. See? It’s there. And so what if it’s not the surging wildfire he wanted when he was younger? This is more realistic, probably. This is just him growing up. 

“Sounds great, babe,” Buck says. Because it does sound great. Or, at least, it sounds perfectly nice. There’s nothing wrong with it.

God, what is wrong with Buck? 

He gets through the date. He holds Tommy’s hand and tells him about the Shark Week rerun he watched last night and takes him to lunch and then lets Tommy take him home. He lets Tommy fuck him. It’s a nice day. Relaxed. 

But that feeling in his stomach stays. That old itching, which urges him to move or shake or run, lingers. It follows him around. 

He leaves Tommy’s apartment while Tommy is still shirtless in bed, afternoon light slanting through the windows, and drives to work. He’s the first one there. He changes then sits on the locker room bench. Watches everyone else trickle in and put their uniforms on. He rubs his fingers together over and over. 

After a while, he heads upstairs to the couch then sits, still bored, waiting for Eddie to hurry up and arrive. He’s already ten minutes late, the slacker— almost unheard of, but only almost. Nobody wins against LA traffic every time, not even Eddie. 

When Hen comes up the stairs, Buck is calling out to her before he realizes it. “Hey, Hen!” 

She comes over because why wouldn’t she? They’re friends. They’ve been friends for a long time— been family for a long time. He can trust Hen with this.

“What’s going on?” Hen says, and it could be a greeting except for how she’s staring at him really close. 

Buck opens his mouth and then can’t find the words he wants. Even in his own head he sounds like a brat. Like a kid, mad that Santa only brought him one present while his sister got five. What, he’s got someone to take him out and take him home, a genuine boyfriend, and now it’s not good enough? She’s going to be disappointed in him. She’s going to remind him of Buck 1.0 and she’ll be right. 

But maybe he needs to hear it. Evolving away from Buck 1.0 took a lot of people telling him a lot of hard truths. Maybe this dressing-down is exactly what he needs. 

“Tommy,” Buck blurts, before he can talk himself out of it.

Hen raises an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend Tommy?”

“Do you know any other Tommys?” Buck hisses.

Hen ignores him. “Okay, sure. We can spend ten minutes on this.” She’s talking to herself. She’s got that expression on her face— the one that appeared during her time at med school, like she’s envisioning a line of tasks and minutes, calculating how much time she can give to any one thing. 

“What, only ten?” Buck bitches.

“Maybe less,” Hen responds, with an equal amount of attitude.

Buck deflates. “Help me,” he begs. 

“You’ve got to say it, Buck,” Hen tells him. “I don't even know what you need help with.”

“Tommy!” Buck says again. “Tell me how to— Hen. Tommy is… he’s as good as it’s going to get. Right? So I need to—”

“Okay, woah,” Hen says, recoiling slightly. “What? Buck. That’s not—”

“And I know I should be grateful, alright? I’m beating myself up enough as it is—”

“Stop,” Hen tells him. “Just hold on a minute, alright?” She frowns and rubs a hand over her shaved head. She adjusts her glasses. “What’s this about being grateful?”

“I’m not being grateful, Hen, that’s the point.” Buck pulls on his hair. “He’s— really nice. Mostly. And he’s super hot. But I’m…” 

When Buck trails off, Hen squints at him. “You have any other adjectives you wanna throw in there?”

“What?” Buck asks.

“He’s nice. He’s hot. That’s pretty surface-level stuff, Buck.”

Buck opens his mouth. Closes it. It is surface level. But he doesn’t really have any other way to describe Tommy— or to describe him and Tommy together. It’s nice. It’s perfectly fine. It’s long walks in the sunshine at the farmer’s market and Buck’s chest feeling tight, like he’s trapped, and going to bed with Tommy and rolling Tommy over, because having Tommy above him makes the claustrophobic feeling worse. 

“It’s just… I keep waiting for more. You know? But that’s just me being— it’s like I’m relapsing or something. I’m finally in a healthy relationship and I don’t know how to cope with it.”

“Walk me through it, here, Buck,” Hen says. “What do you mean?”

“I’m still looking for fireworks, I guess,” Buck admits, oddly ashamed. “Magic. Which is so stupid. So what if I don’t spend all night dreaming about him, or whatever? He’s nice. He treats me nice. And everyone wants a break from their partners sometimes, right? We don’t need to spend every minute together.”

“You’re telling me that you want a break from your partner. You, Evan Buckley.”

Buck hesitates. “Yes,” he finally responds.

“Hm,” Hen replies. She thinks for a minute, then shrugs. She’s got a face on, like she’s about to tell him a hard truth. He hasn’t seen it in a long time. It’s an odd reassurance. Hen’s never had a problem telling him about his own bullshit. 

She says, “I don’t know. I could be wrong, but it just sounds like you might not like him that much, Buck.”

“What?” Buck asks. His mind blanks out, crackling static, because what? 

“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes you think you’ll get along great, and then you start dating, and then you just— don’t mesh. Happens all the time. It happens to you, specifically, all the time.”

“No it doesn’t,” Buck responds, because— no it doesn’t. His breakups never have anything to do with him liking the other person. It’s always about how… difficult he is. How his pieces don’t fit with theirs. Or otherwise it’s about his job, or his near death experiences, or any number of other ways Buck is constantly too much.

“Buck. Do you like hanging out with Tommy? Take sex out of it. Put the big sexuality revelations aside for a minute. Do you like Tommy?”

“Of course I like Tommy,” Buck defends.

Hen stares at him for a minute. “Okay,” she says. “So what’s the problem?”

“I just… I don’t like him enough. I should like him more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Hen says. 

Buck goes to answer— how, he’s not really sure— but the bell rings and then they’re moving, the conversation ended. They hustle down the stairs, grab their gear, and make for the truck. Chim is right behind them, Bobby two steps behind him, with Eddie still presumably in traffic. 

They leave Gerrard behind. He never comes on any calls, anyway. 

As the truck leaves the station, Buck jokes, “Ooh, double chores for Eddie,” in an attempt to brush his and Hen’s conversation aside. 

Bobby ignores him, listening to his briefing, and Chim pops his gum in agreement. Buck grins and tries to project normalcy. They sit in silence for a long time, the truck winding through traffic, until finally Bobby speaks. 

“Alright, well, we’ve figured out why Eddie is late,” Bobby says with wry humor. “Big crash on the route he takes here— huge pile-up, they’re not even sure how many cars. EMS is already en-route, we’re gonna be support on this one.”

“Sure, Cap,” Buck says. “Hey, maybe we’ll find Eddie. Give him a lift.” 

Chim snorts. “As if he’d leave his truck in the middle of the road.”

“He would,” says Buck. “He hates that truck.”

Hen gives him a strange look. “Does he?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says. “He always makes me drive it.”

“Then why the fuck did he buy it?” Chim asks.

“Something about missing Texas, I don’t know. He— holy shit.”

Because huge pileup didn’t really cover it. There’s at least twenty busted-up cars scattered around the bridge, another few presumably over the rail and in the ocean below. It’s just a guess he makes while looking at the breaks in the rail, though, because by the time they arrive on scene nothing is floating. 

None of them say anything else. They fly out the doors and from the minute Buck’s boots hit the ground he’s moving. He’s made of action and motion, composed entirely of reaction, being presented with problem after problem and needing to, almost instantaneously, find the solution.

And he does. 

He finds the solution, and he triages, and he prevents a line of three cars from exploding with Chimney and a number of fire extinguishers. Ten minutes in, another wave of help comes: two more firetrucks from different houses and another batch of ambulances. Police, keeping everyone in line. From the corner of his eye, he sees boats in the water, divers in their dark gear, and knows the search is starting. 

They’re on that bridge for a long time. Four hours, maybe six. The instant one crisis ends another rears its ugly head. There’s no time to think about anything.

Despite all that, it’s a successful shift.

They’re on fire— Buck is on fire. Somehow, some way, he doesn’t lose a single victim. Not the mom with the crushed legs and the toddler in the back seat. Not the car full of high schoolers, crammed shoulder to shoulder and sharing seatbelts, ditching class and regretting it. He doesn’t lose the older man who reminds him of Bobby, or the woman with the loud husband, or the twin girls whose car-seats had come undone in the crash. 

When they climb back onto the truck, each of them soot-stained and exhausted, they grin at each other. They laugh the whole way back, Bobby saying that it was like they’d had a guardian angel that whole time and Chim agreeing yeah, Christ, we’ve never been so lucky in our lives. 

And Buck just throws back his head, almost manic, grinning so hard he can hardly see, and says, “Jesus, Eddie should be late for work more often. It’s clearly good luck.”

It also, somehow, feels a little bit like going back in time. Like, maybe not everything from Buck 1.0 is something to be ashamed of. It can’t be, right? Not when it brought the four of them together. Him, Bobby, Hen, and Chim.

“The old dream team,” Chim agrees, smacking a new piece of gum. 

Of course he doesn’t mean it. None of them really do. Eddie should be here for this. For this miracle. He wants, suddenly and viscerally, for Eddie to be with them, even though in a strange way it feels like he already is. Like Eddie is riding along, invisible, his shoulder knocking against Buck’s. 

Buck sort of always feels like that, though. Eddie is always a passenger in his head, a welcome ghost haunting him. 

When they get back to the station, it’s quiet. They troop into the showers and hose down. Buck swaps his sweat-soaked uniform for a new one, the blue shirt tight as always. He’s the last one upstairs but when he looks, he doesn’t see anybody. The few guys he does see— a handful of firefighters he isn’t familiar with— stare at him.

“Uh,” Buck says.

“The Captain wants to see you in his office,” one of them says. He’s blond and tall and Buck hates the look on his face. 

“Sure,” Buck says, then moves briskly away. 

Everyone else is already there, each of them colored a different shade of impatient. Not with Buck, obviously. Gerrard pisses everyone off; calling them all into the office while they’re scattered, after a hard call, without even bothering to gather them himself? Of course they’re stewing.

Buck throws himself down in the empty chair beside Bobby and crosses his arms, happily echoing their angry expressions. He waits for Gerrard to speak.

“Now that you’re all, finally, here,” Gerrard says, setting down a stack of papers. He sounds like himself. Impatient, mean, brusque. But then he doesn’t continue. He looks at them with pale, piercing eyes, so different from Bobby’s despite being the same color, and Buck…

He can’t explain it. His fingers go cold. His tongue and lips are, suddenly, numb.

“There’s not an easy way to say this,” Gerrard tells them, and it’s like he’s flipped a switch. His words turn smooth and practiced, and Buck knows he’s given this speech a hundred times, maybe more. Buck, himself, has given this speech.

Please, Buck thinks, inanely.

“Police pulled footage from cameras near the accident to identify the cars that fell into the water. Firefighter Diaz, while not in the accident, was on the bridge and pulled over to help a family whose car was near the edge. The car tipped and fell. Firefighter Diaz, unfortunately, fell with it.” 

Gerrard’s tone is steady. Calm. Bedside manner, Buck thinks, but then doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

“Is he in the hospital?” Bobby asks. Buck hears the question but can’t make sense of it. It’s like Bobby is talking through a tube and it’s pointed away from Buck. Everything is muffled.

“At this time, we don’t know. He’s presumed missing. Search and rescue has a list of contacts; they’ll call if there’s any news.”

Buck sits. 

“The boys out there are your replacements; you’re free to go join S&R or head home to your families. I’ll see you all next shift.”

He can’t feel his feet or hands. Gerrard wants him to do something; there’s a silent cue that he’s missed. To his right, Bobby is shifting. A strong hand comes down on Buck’s shoulder, the other grasping his elbow. Buck is hauled upward.

They float or maybe stumble toward the door. Something is ringing, like a siren, in Buck’s ears. He shakes his head to get rid of it. It doesn’t work. 

“—Bunk room—” Someone is saying. “He needs to lay down.”

“Buck, hey,” Bobby’s voice says. “Work with me a little, alright?”

Buck tries. He doesn’t really know what Bobby wants. Nothing is making sense. 

Suddenly, he’s horizontal. Someone is telling him to breathe. 

Like an echo, Buck hears: you’re tired, Buck. Shut your eyes. And of course Buck listens. How could he not?

Buck dreams. It’s not really a dream, though. He swims backward through time and finds himself in a memory. A real memory, so vivid it’s like he lives it all over. It goes:

After the shooting, Eddie moves a little differently. He’s not hesitant— Buck doesn’t think Eddie is really capable of being hesitant— more measured. Calculating, except less cold. Whatever the warmer version of that word is. Maybe the word is just ‘thoughtful.’

So: even though he’s been back at work for a while, Eddie is moving thoughtfully. Carefully. Buck doesn’t blame him. Two bullet wounds in a handful of years? On the same shoulder? It would be hell for anyone. Sometimes he wants to make Eddie move even slower, turtle speed if possible, wants to hang back and wave everyone else on and say, hey, let’s just take a breather, man, alright? Me and you will hang back here. Which is new. It’s a brand new feeling. Caution in quantities he’s never held before— at least not at work. 

Sometimes he watches Eddie breathe, measured and slow, in the middle of the night on shift in the bunk room. Eddie stands while Buck sits with his elbows on his knees. He watches Eddie stretch his arms over his head then swing them down gently, flexing his freshly-grown muscles and tendons. He watches and he can taste Eddie’s blood in his mouth. 

Not that he ever shares that part. It’s weird. He knows why it happens— sense-memory and trauma, wires getting crossed and tangled, he’s a first responder, he knows, alright?— but he’s still ashamed. Shame like a hand around his throat, because he’s not… it’s not…

It was horrifying. He dreams about it and wakes up shaking, can hardly breathe around the terror, and still he… 

The blood. Well, it was Eddie’s, wasn’t it? It was Eddie. In his mouth, down his throat. Absorbed, now, into his own blood stream. It’s part of Buck; Buck’s own piece of Eddie to keep forever and ever.   

And so maybe he likes to think about it. Just sometimes. Just while he can see Eddie, right? He thinks about how it tasted and watches Eddie and then tries not to think about how it tasted and watches Eddie some more. It’s a decent system, except for how it’s also nauseating. Buck is disgusting. Eddie would be disgusted.

It’s just that Eddie is alive. He’s alive, now, and maybe Buck would like a little more proof. Just something small. Just something to hold in his mouth for a while— something that would linger for hours, if he avoided eating and drinking. 

He’s sick to his stomach. It’s twisting and rolling with guilt and shame. He sits on the bunk, staring at Eddie, and feels like he might throw up. 

From across the room their eyes link. Eddie’s eyebrow goes up. Buck tries to sham a smile but it doesn’t fit on his mouth correctly. It slips back off. 

Eddie wanders over to Buck’s neighboring bunk. He sits, stretching his legs out until his ankles bump and link with Buck’s. Buck leans back on his hands so that the contact comes easier. 

“You alright?” Eddie asks.

“Sure,” Buck responds. “And you? How’s your— your shoulder?”

Eddie shrugs. “Fine. I’m fine, Buck. You know, it’s funny, I don’t think it hurts as bad this time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like I got used to this part. The healing part. Being shot— I don’t think anyone ever gets used to that.” Eddie snorts. “But the therapy stretches? Not so bad.”

Buck nods a couple times. Except it’s less nodding and more wobbling. He doesn’t have a lot of control, for some reason. “That’s good, man.” He blinks very fast, can feel himself doing it, but doesn’t know why and also can’t stop. 

When he glances up at Eddie, he discovers Eddie staring at him. His brown eyes are very dark— of course they are, it’s fucking two in the morning— and Buck gets caught in them. Snared, or otherwise roped— roped like he’s in his rescue harness, maybe, with Eddie on the other side. Being his belay. Keeping Buck from dropping ten or one hundred feet down. 

“You should go to sleep,” Eddie says. 

“We both should,” Buck counters, because Buck hasn’t been shot. Never has been. 

What would it feel like? The bullet? Hot, maybe. Hot from the gun. Fast and hard like a punch, except maybe sharper. Buck doesn’t know. Eddie’s never talked about it but, also, why the fuck would he? 

“Buck.” And Eddie’s tone is firm, now, heavy on Buck’s shoulders. “Lay down.”

Buck stares at him. Eddie stares back. They gaze at each other for a while, just looking, before Buck feels his back bend, like his spine is dissolving, and he lands on the bunk. But he twists as he goes, so that he stays facing Eddie. So that he keeps their eyes linked. He has to pull his legs up, though, and so they’re not touching anymore. Which is fine. They don’t need to be. They touch plenty. 

It feels like maybe Buck will die if Eddie looks away. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He never does anymore. He used to know, right? He used to make all his own decisions. He used to float around, free spirit, no rules. All Buck all the time.

Tell me what to do, Buck thinks. His mouth is very dry. Sickeningly, he imagines it wetter with— with. It. He doesn’t let himself think about what ‘it’ is. It’s nothing. Nothing.

But, fuck. His mouth is dry. Tongue like sandpaper.

“Stretch your legs out, Buck, Jesus, you look like a pretzel.” Eddie’s voice is very steady. He’s not uncertain, not hesitant. Why would he be? He just talks like this. “Lay on your back, Buck.”

Buck listens. He hauls his limbs around until they’re in line. It feels like moving rocks. Like lifting Eddie’s dead weight. But he does it. 

“Shut your eyes.” Eddie leans forward, his strong nose poking through the almost-dark of the bunk room. Buck doesn’t want to. He wants to keep looking. Looking at Eddie, tan and warm, cheeks full again. Flushed. All that red. Red everywhere— not that Buck is thinking about that. That weird sense-memory. The taste. That single transformed piece of the nightmare, which isn’t quite a nightmare anymore.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He shuts his eyes. 

“Good,” Eddie says. “You’re tired, Buck.” And Eddie saying it makes it true. Like magic. Because Buck is tired, suddenly. So tired he’s light-headed. He’s tingling with it. Chills running up and down his arms, his legs. Goosebumps everywhere.

He’s getting all his wires crossed. He needs to go to sleep. 

Eddie clicks his tongue. Buck can imagine the expression across his face with high-definition clarity. “Jesus, Buck, relax. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’ll both be here when you wake up. I know you’re tired— look at you. Just lay still for a while.”  

So Buck does. He lays for a while.

He falls asleep.

Years away from that moment, Buck lays. He licks his lips and, of course, doesn’t taste any blood. Bobby is above him. His ears are still ringing. His chest feels very small. His face and eyes are hot.

He opens his eyes and discovers that the bunk room is clean. Buck’s clothes are clean, his hands still pink from his shower. Pink, not red. Nothing is sticky. It’s not right. It’s not right. He wants it back. He wants it back. 

“Oh, Buck,” someone says. He doesn’t care who. None of this is right. His ears are still ringing. His fingers and toes are very cold. Eddie would tell him to put better socks on. He would pick the socks for him, even. He always does. Buck doesn’t know which ones are best— Eddie measures by some strange metric known only to himself.

This is the thing that pushes him over. His breathing goes fast, then faster, and there are hands on his shoulders as he begins to cry.

Chapter Text

He’s buried.

Of course he is. He’s always buried. He’s been buried his whole life. And maybe he’s doomed to die that way; airless, compressed, feeling his heart in his throat. He can’t breathe. 

He never can. Just one— just one time, just once, he would like to take a clean breath. Something deep that hits his belly. Free. A breath that’s easy. Everything is always too close, too small, even his skin. He’s always cutting off pieces of himself to fit inside… inside wherever he is.

It’s cold. Why is he cold? 

Eddie, weakly, rolls to the side, pulling his face from the water. He’s laying on dark rock, jagged stalactites overhead. He gasps and feels like a landed fish. He stares at the ceiling, tipping his head sideways and finding the front of a cave, powerful waves slapping against the dark mouth. The spray flies into the air and shimmers, a white haze in the night. 

Distantly, Eddie realizes: he wasn’t buried. The crash— the bridge— he was drowning. 

Holy shit.

There are boats on the horizon. Their lights twirl, red and white and yellow, into the night sky. They’re beautiful. They look like… well, they look like lights. Eddie’s never really gone in for metaphors. They look like lights and they’re the best thing he’s ever seen. 

Eddie hauls himself up until he’s sitting, away from the midnight ocean water. He stares out and trembles. Settles in for the long wait. Nobody will find him until morning. It’s too dark, and they’re too far away.

That’s alright. After a big tragedy like this, Search and Rescue stays out for days at a time looking for bodies. He can wait. 

Eddie breathes. He shivers. He hugs his arms around his waist and starts strategizing: he has to get through the night, he can’t freeze to death. He digs deep and finds his calm, his ‘cool in a crisis,’ that mental state which earned him a Silver Star. His heart pounds in his chest and, in the chill spray, the shallow abrasions littering his arms and face begin to sting.

Come find me, Eddie thinks. I’m right here. I’m waiting. I just need a little help. Jesus, I just need a little fucking help— just once. Just once. And he doesn’t even know what he’s thinking about anymore. It feels… it’s large in his chest, the feeling. I want to get out of here, Eddie thinks, and it encapsulates more than this latest disaster. I want to get out. I’m going to get myself out. Jesus, God, let me do it this time. And he’s not praying, not really. Mostly he’s just talking inside his head. 

He stares out at the big ocean, the bigger sky. There’s lots of space in front of him. He takes another deep breath and it burns going down. His lungs crackle concerningly.

It feels good anyway. The breathing.

Someone gets Buck into a car. He’s not really sure who. 

They drive him to Maddie and Chim’s. The Hans. Maddie has Chim’s last name now. Maddie Han. It's a strange thought, and also the first one he's had in a while. He's not really thinking. His brain is like a TV, all static in the storm, with a split-second of color image interrupting the haze. And then it's gone again. They bring him to the house. He’s not sure who drives him. They usher him inside. He sits on the couch. 

After a while, someone takes him by the arm. They bring him to the bathroom but Buck just stares at the door. He’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do. He’s not sure why he’s in the house. His sister's house. Maddie Han.

He’s escorted back to the couch. He sits on the couch.

He sits.

Nobody talks to him. Or maybe they do and he just doesn't hear them. It's possible. Honestly, someone probably does talk to him. It seems like the sort of thing they'd do. Whoever they would be in this situation. Or maybe Buck is alone in the Han house. Or maybe two hundred people are crammed into the kitchen. 

Maybe it's more accurate to say: Buck doesn't speak. He doesn't hear. Instead, he thinks about Eddie. 

The thing is: Eddie doesn’t talk to Buck like other people. Nobody really talks to Buck like Eddie does. 

Buck doesn’t know when it started. Maybe it’s not the type of thing that starts. It probably tumbled out of nowhere fully-formed and standing, a new colt on thin legs already running. Still dripping wet with viscera, and Buck knows how that feels. So, it must have happened like that.

It’s just how they are. It’s how they talk. How Eddie talks to him. He doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about it. Eddie with a finger pointed at Buck’s nose, a thumb digging into Buck’s collarbone. Firm statements, no question mark. Don’t do it again. Come here. Be careful. Get your ass out of bed. Come over for dinner. We’re picking up milk before we grab Chris. Just use your key, Buck, stop knocking. 

It’s just the way Eddie is. Eddie never asks anymore— maybe never did, Buck still can’t remember— and it’s not because he takes Buck for granted. It’s just that it doesn’t need to be thought about. 

It’s never bothered Buck. Sometimes it’s the only thing holding him up. Eddie, never questioning if Buck is capable. Never questioning if Buck can, or is willing, or if he wants to. He trusts Buck, and Buck knows that’s hard-won. He’s fucking proud of Eddie’s trust. Eddie says ‘come grab this’ when his arms are too full to carry all the groceries into the firehouse, and he never wonders if Buck will leave him hanging. Never wonders if Buck will break the eggs, or drop the pre-made bakery cake, or whatever other stupid fucking food metaphor Buck wants to come up with. 

Eddie never doubts him, is the point. 

The way Eddie speaks to him— it’s precious to Buck. That trust is precious. Even better, it’s normal. It’s so normal. This is just the way they are. Eddie says stop, or go, or jump, and Buck never hesitates, and sometimes in his brain he spoofs it, just a little, in a way that would make Bobby cringe and Eddie hit him upside the head. Through Eddie’s belief, all things are possible. Like Eddie is God, or Jesus, or whoever that saying was originally about. Buck never really went to church. 

And it’s funny because Buck never liked being told what to do, before. He didn’t like the way it felt: condescending, like he wasn’t capable of making good choices by himself. It always felt like slime in his hair, on his skin. Gross and cold. It made him itch. Jesus, the shit he pulled with Bobby while trying to avoid that feeling… 

He never feels that way with Eddie. All he ever feels is warm. Warm and focused, strong almost, and capable of doing whatever Eddie needs. It’s nice. 

It is. It is. 

It’s not gone. If it was gone he would know. He would sense it somehow, if Eddie were gone. Right? Wouldn’t he know? 

It would feel like something, or at least make a sound. Buck is convinced, all at once, that he would hear it if Eddie… if. It would make a sound; a gunshot or a bell or the crackling tumble of a tower collapsing. It would echo around in all Buck’s organs. So, he’s not. Because Buck can’t hear anything.

His stomach is twisting again. Like it’s made of snakes. Ball pythons fresh from their eggs, still knotted up and wet. On average there are six eggs in a clutch, but there can be up to twelve. He learned that at the zoo with Eddie and Chris. One of their very first trips together. 

It’s starting to hurt. His stomach. His ears are very quiet but also ringing and, abruptly, Buck hates himself for already crying. Why would he cry? Eddie isn’t gone. Buck would know. He would’ve heard the sound. 

He shouldn’t be just sitting here. Who even brought him here? He needs to be out on the water. Eddie is out there, and Buck can go and get him. Buck can get him back home. He knows it. He knows it. God, it was so stupid of him to cry. What a waste of time. He shouldn’t have… like, put that out into the world. Of course Eddie is just— waiting. He’s waiting. Buck can go find him. 

Abruptly, Buck stands. His calves slam against the couch but it’s a soft hit. Because of the cushions. He’s in Maddie’s house. How did he get here? He needs to leave. 

When he rounds the corner, he’s walking with purpose. His knees won’t bend correctly but that’s fine. Back when he got his leg crushed, walking was hard all the time. This is nothing. Eddie used to pull him out of bed, let Buck use his shoulder as a crutch. It’s nice, sometimes, Eddie being shorter. Easier to lean on him that way. 

He’s sort of staggering. It’s fine. There are people in the kitchen— his people. They’re his people. He thinks. He’s not quite seeing straight, either, like everything has a filter on it. Lights hurt. He’s probably got a headache. His head feels fine, though. His stomach is— the snakes are in there. The baby ball pythons. Six to a clutch on average. It’s—  

Maddie, Chim, Bobby, and Hen are all in the kitchen. Buck barely notices. Like he’s a child all over again, Buck stares at Maddie and announces, “I’m gonna throw up.” 

It sort of sounds like he’s saying the sky is blue. Except it’s not. It’s dark outside. When did it get dark? Not that it matters. It gets dark every night. God, this is such a stupid train of thought. His stomach tightens and twists in on itself. His mouth gets wet. With spit. It’s spit rushing in. Salivary glands. There are three major glands: parotid, submandibular, and sublingual. It’s just spit. 

There’s a hand on his arm. Maddie. She’s saying, “—the sink, not my floor, Evan—” 

Buck stumbles forward. Maddie’s other hand is on his back, sweeping up toward his hair. He bends over the sink and notices there are three mugs inside. They’re half-filled with water.

All at once, textured chunks are exploding from Buck’s mouth, hot and thick. He leans over the sink and pukes. He clutches at the edge and heaves four times in a row. 

Maddie’s hands don’t leave him. They stroke up and down his spine with steady sweeps. “Okay,” she tells him. “Okay, it’s okay.”

Chills sweep him and he shakes. It’s like he’s got a fever— God, what a fucking horrible time to be sick— he’s got a flu. He can’t have the flu right now. He’s got to go down to the water because Eddie is there waiting. 

Buck always… Eddie relies on him. Eddie puts his weight on Buck, always, and Buck carries it and loves to carry it and what if Eddie is waiting for him? What if he was expecting Buck to show up hours ago and he’s been waiting? What if he could see Buck on the bridge and was waiting for Buck to look down and see him but Buck didn’t and now he’s disappointed? Eddie trusts Buck to help him and that’s precious but Buck didn’t know, so Eddie can’t be mad. Buck will explain it to him. Eddie never stays angry after Buck explains. 

“Breathe, Buck,” Bobby says, or maybe is saying. It’s like Buck’s ears are under water. “You need to breathe. Nice and slow, come on.”

He doesn’t have the fucking time. 

“I’ve got to get down there,” Buck says, or tries to say. It’s hard to speak. Maybe Bobby is right and he’s breathing too fast. There’s just not enough air— it’s too difficult, like it’s all high altitude. Everything is thinner. 

“Howie, can you get him a chair,” Maddie says. One of her hands finds the back of Buck’s neck. She rests her palm against it. 

“Don’t do that,” Buck says, shrugging it off. He pushes off from the sink with his arms but sways.

Before he falls, there’s wood at the pits of his knees, and Buck collapses into a kitchen chair. Maddie puts her hand on his back again and Bobby crouches in front of him, Chim and Hen hovering at his shoulders. 

There isn’t time for this. Buck doesn’t even know what this is. They need to be— driving. Driving down to the bridge— no, to the base of the bridge, so they can climb down to the rocks. So they can see the boats and the diving gear and Buck can find someone with a clipboard and— Buck knows how to dive. He’s great at it. Someone would be ready to tap out, at this point. Someone would need a break. So he could get in the water. And it would be cold and dark but he would find Eddie quickly enough it wouldn’t matter.

He knows he can find Eddie. He can. Not because he’s better at rescues but because him and Eddie will find each other, like magnets, like fate or magic or a miracle, Buck doesn’t care which. All of it. None of it. Maybe it would be God; maybe he’ll go to church with Bobby next Sunday. 

It will be over fast and then Eddie will be home, safe— and Buck’s only just stopped worrying about him. It’s not fair, how sad Eddie’s been. How scared Buck was that he would hurt himself. The white lies he’d told everyone about having one too many beers and needing to stay on Eddie’s couch when, really, he was dead sober and worried Eddie would… Buck doesn’t know. He never let himself think about it. Not even while laying on the couch in the middle of the night. 

Eddie knew why he was there. Eddie never made him leave.

Eddie will let him sleep on the couch tonight, when they both get home. He’ll need a shower, or maybe a bath. Some way to warm up. Maybe the doctors will want to keep him over night, but Buck will take him home anyway, because it’ll just be little things— just an abundance of caution on the doctor’s end. They’ll talk their way out of it. 

And Buck will run the shower and sit in the steam and watch Eddie through the frosted glass, the way he has a handful of times before, because Eddie is never shy when Buck needs to be close. The steam will cling to Buck’s arms and clothes, damp and thick, and he’ll stare at the light brown of Eddie’s skin through the haze and watch him move. He’s done it before. He can see it playing in front of him, the same way it has five or six times previously. Buck, sitting on the closed toilet. Eddie in profile, hands in his own hair, with Buck taking advantage of the situation to trace his eyes down to Eddie’s toes then back up, examining each hidden bruise or scrape or bullet wound. 

Then the shower will end and Eddie will leave it running, wrap a towel around his waist and head to the mirror so they can swap spots. Buck will climb inside and leave the door partway open and let himself get warm. He’ll use Eddie’s shampoo, the familiar dark smell of it saturating the bathroom a second time, and when Eddie is done at the sink he won’t leave. He’ll lean against the counter and watch Buck.

But Buck won’t take much longer. He’ll shut the water off and Eddie will hand him a towel and they’ll put pajamas on, the same ones as always— the comfortable ones, with the pill-balls beginning to form because they’re so worn. Eddie keeps those special pairs at the front of his dresser. 

Then they’ll separate: Eddie will clap Buck on the shoulder, his thumb at the base of Buck’s neck, and hold his hand there tightly. He’ll squeeze. Maybe say something— moments like that, Eddie always knows what to say. And then Eddie will take the bed, which is only right. Eddie deserves to spread out, warm and covered, with Buck out on the couch watching him. Keeping track of the house, of all the hidden things that might move and disturb the peace. Keeping everything safe.

It’s… Buck doesn’t know how to describe being on the couch. Of course the couch itself is uncomfortable. But it’s not about that. He doesn’t care about the lumpy pillows, or the one spring that pokes his spine no matter how he shifts. It’s just— 

When Buck was little, he wanted to be a knight. The slay-a-dragon type. And being on Eddie’s couch, in Eddie’s home, feels kind of like that. Like he’s at his post doing his job, but in a way that feels like fantasy. He lays and watches Eddie through the open doorway, at Eddie stretched out almost diagonal on his bed. His hair ruffled. The walls tinted blue with moonlight while Buck counts his breaths and thinks of those old paintings. Fairies in fields and a lady leaning up toward a man wrapped in silver, leaning together, almost a kiss. He doesn’t know how to describe them. But he feels like that, on Eddie’s couch. 

Why doesn’t he know anything about art? This is such a blind spot. He needs to look up some of those paintings; he needs to know who made them. He needs to tell Eddie— to show Eddie, so maybe Eddie will know how he makes Buck feel. Because Buck can never find the words. But maybe if he shows him tonight, when they’re both at home together, maybe after their showers. 

Buck’s toes are still freezing. His mouth tastes like acid, sort of like sharp cheese. His eyes are burning but not because they’re wet— because they’re too dry. He blinks several times but it doesn’t help. It does pull them back into focus, though, and suddenly he sees Bobby again. Bobby, who is still kneeling in front of Buck’s kitchen chair. He’s on the hard tile. It can’t be comfortable. 

Buck frowns. He can’t think of anything to say that will convince Bobby to stand up. There are two warm weights on his ankles— Bobby’s hands. Bobby loosely holding him. Holding him still? Why would Bobby do that? Buck’s whole body feels cold and slow. 

“We’ve got to go get him,” Buck informs Bobby. 

Behind Bobby, Hen and Chim shift, almost in unison. They lean back from Buck like his words pushed them. Maddie’s hand twitches on his neck.

Bobby doesn’t move. He stares at Buck, face and eyes steady. He doesn’t blink, just holds Buck’s gaze. It reminds him of Eddie. How steady it is. How secure it makes Buck feel. 

“Buck,” Bobby says, then cuts himself off. He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep. Buck twitches.

“Bobby,” Buck says. He wants to beg, or maybe yell, but he can’t find words for it. His lips feel like rubber. In the end, all he says is, “Pops,” even though he hasn’t in years. He doesn’t know why he stopped. He doesn’t know why he says it now. 

“Alright,” Bobby says. “Alright, Buck. But you listen to me, are you hearing me? I don’t want you in that water. We’ll go down and help out where we can— be gofers, answer phones, deliver sandwiches. I don’t know. But you’re not diving.”

“I need to do it,” Buck protests. “It needs to be me.” Because he doesn’t know how else to explain it. Doesn’t know how to explain that if Buck is in the water Eddie will find him, but might miss someone else. Eddie might have to… it might be hard, for Eddie in the water after all these hours. He might be really tired. But he’ll fight if it’s Buck. He won’t fight for some random diver he doesn’t know. He just won’t. 

“This is my line, take it or leave it,” Bobby responds. “I’ll drive you down there. I’ll stay all night if we have to. Hell, Buck, I’ll stay there tomorrow, too. But you’re not getting in the water like this.” 

“We’ll come with,” Hen says, with Chim nodding along. “We’ll all help, Buck.”

“Thank you,” Buck breathes, but even as he says it he’s moving. He shakes off Maddie’s hand, dislodges Bobby’s hands from his ankles, and goes to find his shoes. He doesn’t remember taking them off. It doesn’t matter. They’re by the door, on the shoe mat. 

He bends down and unties the laces. Slides his feet in, ties them again. Listens but doesn’t really care when Maddie says, her voice hushed and still in the kitchen:

“He shouldn’t be going out there like this—”

“If he stays he’s going to do something crazy.” Bobby’s voice. “He’s got that look. He needs this. We’ll be with him the whole time, I promise. We’ll keep him safe.”

“We'll be in arms reach,” Hen promises.  

Maddie’s voice trembles when she says, “Just… if there’s. News. I’m not sure I want him to hear it out there, in front of everyone. Nobody would…”

“And we’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,” Bobby says grimly. He’s got his Firehouse Captain voice on. His victim voice. “We can’t think that far ahead with him. We need to take it in smaller steps. Being out there is going to get him through tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” Maddie’s voice is more than trembling, now. It’s sort of cracking in the middle. Buck notices, and cares, but it’s like the caring is far away. Like he’s on an island and can see it on the horizon, but doesn’t totally know how to get there. “What about tomorrow? The day after that?”

A long pause. This time, it’s Chim who speaks: “We’ll find him something. If there are more nights that he… that he needs help. But let’s just… Eddie’s strong. He’s smart. He’s lived through crazy shit before— we all have. Let’s not count our chickens yet, huh?”

“You’re right. God, you’re right, I’m sorry. Eddie is… Of course. Let’s— grab some protein bars before you leave. Take the box with you—” And then there’s rustling, the soft open and close of cabinets as Maddie moves around the kitchen. 

Buck hears the whole thing. He doesn’t… he doesn’t care? Is that right to say? He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. Nothing they could say or do will keep him inside this house while Eddie is out in the water.  

He finishes putting his shoes on. “Let’s go,” he announces, poking his head around the corner.

Everyone gets moving. Bobby’s shoes are already on. Hen squeezes his arm as she brushes past. Chim kisses Maddie, long and lingering, because Maddie is staying behind with Jee-Yun. After their kiss, Maddie moves, like she might come to Buck, but it’s already been too much time. They’ve been inside too long. 

Buck waves at her and strides out the door on numb legs. His six snakes twist inside his stomach and he swallows compulsively, blinking fast, and heads for Bobby’s truck. 

Bobby must’ve driven him here.

He climbs into the passenger seat. Bobby hoists himself in, turns his keys. The radio comes on. 

Buck can’t understand the words to the song playing. Even when he tries, he doesn’t understand.

Down by the water, the spray flies cold and silver. It hits Buck’s face when the wind gusts strong enough. It’s frigid. Nothing like the warm water in the Gulf— it surprises Buck every time. California water should be warm, right? That’s what he always thought. 

It’s not, though. It never is. He looked it up, once— there’s a current that swings down from Alaska that keeps the water chilly. Worse than chilly. Numbing, sometimes. It’s a strong current. 

It’s almost dawn, but not quite. Maybe thirty minutes away. The sky is that weird shade of gray that comes before the blueish-purple of early morning. The stars are still out and are brighter than they’ve been all night. 

There are boats on the water; tiny lifeboats and civilian-volunteer sailboats and small motorized fishing skiffs. Divers have been pulling up bodies sporadically through the night; five of them, now, in total. Buck knows that at least six cars tipped over the edge. They haven’t found everyone, not even close.

They haven’t found Eddie. 

And it’s fucking— it’s fucking ridiculous. Buck could find him. Buck knows he could find Eddie, but nobody is letting him, they’re all keeping him ten feet back from the shore and loading him up with bottled waters and empty oxygen tanks and damp towels. Some well-meaning abuela who wasn’t Eddie’s abuela brought a tub of empanadas for the divers, which Buck had to carry to a red-striped tent in the dark. The empanadas made him feel… 

He doesn’t know. He never knows anything, when Eddie is gone like this. It’s like he’s far away from himself. He can’t follow a thought to its finish. He keeps getting lost somewhere in the middle. 

It’s been hours. It’s been more than hours. Eddie’s been in this water since yesterday morning. Just after eleven, before lunch, that’s when the cameras were time stamped. Video footage. Had Buck seen the video, somehow? Had someone said something? He’s not sure how he knows this. Maybe Bobby mentioned it while Buck wasn’t really in his head. 

He feels like he saw it. He can see it in his mind, technicolor and high-definition. Eddie, going to help a family trapped. Eddie, climbing halfway into the car to reach a little girl. Everything tipping, too quick for him to jump out. The screech then slam of metal on water.

The waves are consistent. Sizeable, a steady pounding against the rocks— the wind is blowing hard. There had been a shark warning earlier. All the divers leaving the water for an hour until the water was clear again. 

“Buck,” Bobby says. He’s suddenly at Buck’s shoulder, or maybe he’s been there for a while. Buck realizes, distantly surprised, that he’s been staring, frozen, out at the ocean. He doesn’t know how long.

Buck just sort of grunts. He can’t find any words. 

“Alright, kid,” Bobby says. “Time for a break.” He grabs Buck by the elbow and guides him closer to the water, not further away. He’s sort of— surprised, by that. Surprised but thankful.

Bobby spreads out a towel and pushes Buck gently down. Buck goes with it. They stare out at the water together. Buck waits. He knows Bobby; Bobby must be getting ready to say something. It’s strange he left it this long. Left it alone all night, practically. The sun will be coming up any minute. 

Not that it’s up yet. The stars are still out. They’re bright. Buck hopes Eddie is looking at them, too. He hopes they’re something nice for him to look at. They’re beautiful. Buck will have to take Eddie stargazing next weekend. He’ll bring blankets. They’ll climb in the back of Eddie’s truck and lay down and their shoulders will be pressed together, warm, because they always press their shoulders together. And Eddie will force Buck to look at specific stars, will steer his head to see them better, because Eddie does things like that. He’ll laugh about it. His fingers will be warm on Buck’s chin. And Buck will let him, because he lets Eddie do things like that all the time. 

They haven’t spent a full weekend together in… a while. A month? Two months? Not that they never see each other. It’s just that Buck doesn’t get Eddie’s Friday, Saturday, and Sunday the way he used to. Buck’s only been getting one day out of the three; Buck’s been splitting his attention, juggling responsibilities.

His stomach twists thinking about it. What could be more important than Eddie? There isn’t anything more important than Eddie— he wants that weekend. He wants his three days, all Eddie’s attention focused on him. Why hadn’t he— he could’ve had them, he could’ve, Eddie is always inviting and asking and— this is just like those basketball games. Eddie kept asking. Why didn’t Buck ever go? 

He would go to every basketball game. He would give Eddie his every weekend. He will, he will, just as soon as Eddie comes back and Buck convinces him not to be mad. Because Buck should’ve known, known, as soon as Eddie was late to work— Eddie is never late. Buck should’ve— but he’ll make Eddie understand.

And Eddie will understand. He never stays mad at Buck, not for too long, just long enough to shake Buck a little by the neck and point a finger in his face, which is good and right. Buck needs the process of it; the anger, then lecture, Buck’s apology, then the forgiveness. A formula. Familiar enough for Buck to trust the process without panicking. He’ll wrap Buck up in his arms after, like he used to, and why did they stop? When did they stop? Was it when the all-weekend hangouts stopped?

Why the fuck had any of it stopped? It’s not— it’s not fair. It’s not fair. When Eddie comes back, Buck is going to crawl onto Eddie’s couch and never leave. They’ll spend all day, every day together, like they used to, and he’ll watch the door for Eddie while he sleeps, and he’ll make pancakes in the morning. The kind with berries, not chocolate chips, because Eddie likes the berries better but always lets Chris and Buck get the final say. 

Buck hasn’t made pancakes at the Diaz house in— three weeks? Has it been three weeks? It used to be every Sunday. He hadn’t— he hadn’t noticed, has Eddie noticed? Is Eddie mad at him for it? Does Eddie feel like Buck forgot about him? He hasn’t. He hasn’t, he hasn’t, he— but he did— but he didn’t mean to, he never means to— and he can’t apologize for the pancakes because he has to apologize for the car crash first, for Eddie being in the water— and it’s cold out, and dark, and Eddie is— 

Eddie is— 

“You need to breathe, Buck,” Bobby tells him. He sounds sad. Why the fuck is Bobby sad? Nobody should be sad. There’s nothing to be sad about, because Eddie is going to— any minute, Eddie will— 

Bobby tries to touch Buck’s shoulder. Buck shoves him away, a burst of motion, but Bobby doesn’t budge. 

Nobody should touch him. Buck wasted three Sundays— Buck wasted entire weekends— Buck wasted every sunny-afternoon basketball game. Nobody but Eddie should put their hands on him, and hadn’t Buck asked, once, if Eddie were taking swings at the wrong guy? Eddie should come back and— Eddie should— and then Buck could keep the bruises, and he could touch them, and know Eddie forgave him. 

And then he could have his weekends back, his couch, his spot in Eddie’s home. His place in the Diaz family, which he hadn’t meant to give up. He hasn’t given it up, right? It’s still his. Eddie will tell him so. Eddie will use that stern voice and cup Buck’s neck and force Buck to look him in the eyes. Eddie will say, as if we’d let you go that easy, and shake him a little. Right? Eddie will say that. 

“Buck,” Bobby says again.

“What?” Buck hisses, that churning inside his stomach traveling to his chest, until he’s frothing with… it’s not anger. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know anything. 

In front of them, the sun finally crests the water, the first rays of orange reaching outward like tree branches. It’s going to be a beautiful sunrise. It already is. 

It’s not right, it’s not right. It’s not fucking right. Buck isn’t right. Nothing is good or correct in the whole world. 

Bobby’s voice is slow. The words are dragging, like he’s hesitating, or otherwise looking for something. “I need to know you… Buck. I need to know you understand what’s happening here. Alright? I don’t want to— There’s a difference between hope and denial. And you can… you’re the type of guy who never gives up. I know that. But I can’t tell if… I can’t tell if you understand.” 

“Understand what?” Buck asks sharply. Don’t say it. Wildfire flashes of anger turn his body hot, despite the cold sea spray.

“Buck,” Bobby says. His voice is very gentle. “Kid.” He pauses a minute, then says, “It’s morning.” 

And Buck just… it’s like he can see the words. Like a bunch of typed letters floating in front of Bobby: they haven’t found anything other than bodies. No survivors. Except Bobby wouldn’t say that. He’d say the direct words. He’s not coming back. He’s gone. Except— Bobby wouldn’t say that either. He wants to know if Buck really understands. He wouldn’t use civilian words like ‘gone’ or ‘not coming back.’ 

But Buck can’t think it.

“I can’t,” Buck says, his voice cracking and breaking. “I can’t— Bobby, I can’t do it— it isn’t—” 

All at once, the world is spinning. He digs his hands into his hair, pulling, to try and keep steady. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t work. 

They’re almost alone, on this stretch of beach. Just the boats in front and the bustle of volunteers behind, the tents far away. He doesn’t know where Hen and Chim went. Maybe they’re nearby; maybe they’re not. Maybe they were allowed to strap oxygen tanks to their backs and go out into the water. What would they see down there?

Eddie? Would they see Eddie? 

When Eddie comes back, are they going to let Buck see him? Or will they pull Buck away, turn him around, because Eddie won’t be— Buck’s seen people come out of the water before. The way they turn heavy, skin white-blue and puffy, swollen, and look alien. Like pale fish pulled from deep ocean, proportions suddenly all wrong. But Eddie wouldn’t look— it would be like the well. His hair dark and flopping, drops down his nose, red mouth gasping for air. Half-hysterical laughing. 

They’ll let him see Eddie. Because Eddie will— he’s so beautiful. He’s so beautiful, his perfect face, and the water— 

There’s a noise coming from Buck. It’s like a dog whining. 

He wants this feeling out of him, he wants to get it out, he wants to throw up again. He wants Eddie’s hand on his shoulder, thumb at the base of his neck, Eddie’s deep brown eyes peering up into his steadily. The surety and peace that only comes while Eddie is looking at him. He wants to— wants to be digging, he wants to be packing gauze down into Eddie’s chest, he wants Eddie, he wants Eddie, he wants them to give Eddie back— 

But nobody has Eddie. Nobody took him away. 

Still, he tries anyway: “They’ve got to give him back, Bobby.” Because maybe Bobby will understand. How did Bobby do this? Buck can’t do this. He can’t even say what this is.

Bobby reaches out again. Buck is too light headed to shove him off. 

Black sweatshirt, fleece-lined with a drawstring hood. That’s what Bobby is wearing. Buck isn’t sure he’s ever seen it before. It’s soft when it brushes Buck’s cheek, Bobby’s shoulder coming toward him along with the rest of Bobby’s body. Buck sees it in flashes, a DVD skipping. Nothing feels real anymore. It won’t until he sees Eddie. 

The thought comes, hesitantly: things might not feel real for a long, long time. 

That noise again. From Buck’s throat. The high-pitched one. If anything could bring Eddie home, it would be that. Eddie will— he’ll hear that. Won’t he? He’ll hear Buck, and come, and pull Buck in. He’ll hold his hand, like he holds Buck’s hand when things hurt, and this hurts, it hurts, it’s like the firetruck, it’s— it hurts, hurts, and he can’t—

God, he wants it to stop. It’s not going to ever stop. 

Bobby wraps around Buck’s body. He doesn’t do it like Eddie would. It’s not fair of him to think that. He doesn’t want Bobby to do it like Eddie would. Like Eddie will. When he comes back. Because this feeling is going to stop. Buck has decided it’s going to stop, because he can’t take it, and so when Eddie comes back it will end. He just has to be patient. He just has to wait. 

He doesn’t say anything to Bobby. He can’t speak. He just makes those little hurt noises, and sits with Bobby by the water, and waits. 

It’s a beautiful dawn. All orange and pink, and the water is fucking frigid when it kicks up onto Eddie’s rock, and he’s shaking like a fucking rattler, each breath hissing, but at least the sunrise is beautiful. At least he’s shivering. It’s not so bad, not yet. Once he made it out of the water, the nighttime heat of California kept him steady. Had to have been sixty, seventy degrees last night. Vaguely, Eddie thinks: I thank You, Lord, with all my heart, in the presence of angels, to You I sing. Catholic-school instinct. He doesn't even fucking mean it, really. It just... it's a beautiful dawn. He's glad to be alive. 

A trio of tiny motor boats have been drifting in Eddie’s direction for an hour. Maybe eight divers hopping in and out of them. Soon, they’ll be close enough for him to yell to. No point in expending the little energy he’s still got before it’s time. They’re comforting to look at, though.

Eddie fucking loves boats. He’s decided this. When he’s home, his next impulse purchase is going to be a fishing boat— Buck won’t even give him shit for it. Not like he did the truck. The truck is a piece of shit anyway. Eddie sort of hopes it fell into the ocean, too.

Jesus, though, could these divers hurry up? He hasn’t been able to feel his fingers since… last night, maybe. Christ. What a fucking mess. As if he doesn’t have enough bills to pay, already— a hospital bill for pneumonia is the last thing he wants. Still. He’s been through worse. And, better, if this crew makes it over within the next thirty minutes, it might not even be pneumonia. He might get off with a rattle in his lungs and an ER visit. 

He keeps his breathing steady. He watches the boats drift closer, watches the divers come up to exchange their tanks. Two of them surface closer to Eddie than the rest, within shouting distance, tearing their masks off, and they’re—

“You’re fucking kidding,” Eddie says to nobody. And then, loudly: “Hey— hey! I’m over here!”

Chim and Hen spin in the water. Eddie stumbles to his feet. When they spot him, the feeling that swells in his chest is large enough to burst out from his throat. Hysterical, heaving laughter. 

They all stare at each other a moment while Eddie continues to laugh. Then, as a unit, Chim and Hen burst into motion: Hen toward the boat, where the other volunteers and the medical supplies are, and Chimney breast-stroking forward, smoothly swimming toward Eddie.

When he reaches Eddie’s cave that’s mostly just a bunch of rocks, Chim heaves himself up, already grinning. 

“Thanks for coming,” Eddie tells him.

Chimney claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry for taking so long.”

“Nah,” Eddie dismisses. 

Over the crush of ocean waves, Eddie hears the steady thrumming of a motor: Hen and her fellows drawing closer. 

“I think you should go home and get some rest,” Bobby is saying calmly. His voice is very measured, even. It travels down Bobby’s arm, where it’s around Buck’s shoulders, rumbles through Buck’s chest. “The rest of us will stay here, I promise. We’ll call you the second, the very second, we find anything out.”

Buck doesn’t say anything. He can’t make his mouth move. 

Bobby waits for a response that doesn’t come, then keeps talking. “We’ll call Tommy, have him drive you home. He’ll stay with you, you won’t be alone. And when you’re ready you can come back.”

The first thing Buck thinks is: Why would you call Tommy? The second thing he thinks, distant and detached, is: oh, right. Tommy. And then he can’t think any more, because a wave of— of something sweeps him. Like worms eating through his chest. Gross, and writhing, like something important is being chewed out of him, leaving him empty. 

“No,” Buck says. He shakes his head, slow and then fast, because he needs Bobby to understand but, again, always, doesn’t know how to explain. “I can’t,” he tries.

Bobby frowns at him. “Why not?” Still, his voice is gentle. Maybe it will be gentle forever. Maybe it’ll never go back to normal.

Buck gnaws his lip. He wrings his hands, then tugs on the hem of his shirt. His fingers are shaking. “It’s not right. It doesn’t feel— it’s not right, Bobby.”

It’s a betrayal, that’s what it is. Buck knows it all at once, though he didn’t before and can’t explain it to himself. Going home, safe and warm to Tommy, while Eddie is in the water… Buck is only on loan. He doesn’t belong to Tommy. Not like he does with Eddie. He’s just— he’s just borrowed out. Surely everyone knows that. Surely Bobby knows that.

It’s crazy. What Bobby said is— is crazy. Bobby knows he wouldn’t leave Eddie here. Right?

“Why would we call Tommy?” Buck says. He feels— it’s like he’s a kid, trying to explain that wasn’t even me, Maddie, you know I’d never do that. 

Bobby sighs. Shakes his head like it weighs a hundred pounds. He pulls Buck’s fingers off the hem of his shirt and rubs at them. The shaking gets worse, when Bobby touches him. Or maybe Buck just notices it more. 

“Fine,” Bobby says. “We won’t call Tommy. But you need to rest, Buck. So how about I take you home, instead. You can come to mine, we’ll tell Maddie where you are. She can bring Jee-Yun over in a little while. And then we’ll come back out. How’s that sound?”

He’s got his negotiation voice on, the one he uses to talk down bombers and widows and people standing by the edge of something really tall. 

Buck licks his lips. His whole body hurts, and he’s queasy, and he’s shaking from the cold and— and nothing else, but he’s still shaking, and it’s not giving up, right? It’s just resting. Eddie would want him to rest, if he could see Buck. Will scold Buck for not taking care of himself when he gets back. And, besides, how will he take care of Eddie if he’s not operating at one-hundred? Buck wants to give Eddie his best, always. He needs to give Eddie a good apology, and be awake enough to complete their ritual, where Eddie scolds him and shakes him and hugs him, and then he needs to wrap Eddie down in blankets and bring him warm things to eat.

So, he does need to get some rest. Just… just with Bobby. Just with Bobby. Being with Bobby isn’t a betrayal of anything.

“Okay,” Buck finally says.

They don’t move, though. They keep staring out at the water together, boots on the rocks. Buck is damp all over, closer to wet than anything, and he’s… not hungry. He knows he should be. But he isn’t. He doesn’t want anything in his mouth except for the one thing he does, that thing which he never thinks about and won’t ever get, anyway. Not because Eddie— just because it’s weird. 

The ocean is turning blue in the sun, shifting away from the midnight black it was two hours ago. Buck can’t stand looking at it. It’s too bright. He’s been awake for a long time. It’s hurting his eyes, the sunlight. The beauty. Nothing should be— it’s not. He can’t stand it. 

His eyes stay shut for a while. He tries to breathe in any kind of rhythm. It doesn’t work.

Bobby stays with him. They listen to the waves, and the boats that come and go, their rattling motors. One gets loud, louder, and then there’s a commotion of people yelling, feet pounding the sand, dull strikes. Dull noises. Buck doesn’t look. His whole body is heavy. He’s exhausted.

At his side, Bobby shifts. Buck can tell he’s craning his neck by the way his shoulders move. Buck lets himself sag against Bobby and maybe if he falls asleep here, Bobby won’t even make him leave. He can just rest for a while and not leave Eddie alone. He never wants Eddie to feel alone— it’s the worst feeling in the world. So, he’ll stay.

The crowd moves from the water, toward the red-striped tent, and it sounds— it sounds different. It’s different from the other five times. The five bodies found and solemnly carried inland. It’s loud, it’s hurried, voices overlapping with enough passion and speed that Buck can’t decipher the words. 

It could be— it could. It might not be. Buck can’t think it. He can’t look at it, can’t open his eyes. What if it isn’t? 

What if it is?

Someone will get him. Someone will tell him. He doesn’t have to look. He shouldn’t. 

“Thank you, God,” Bobby breathes, and Buck flies to his feet like a rubber-band snapping.

He moves so fast his head spins and he sees black spots. It doesn’t matter. There’s a crowd of people at the tent, huddled together, and Buck sprints forward, his arms and legs flailing, tripping and catching himself half a dozen times. He pushes against the sand— it’s so fucking hard to run on sand, even sand that’s mostly made from rock— and feels like he’s in a dream. Like there’s an invisible force shortening the distance, pressing space together and folding it up like origami, a paper accordion. 

He can hear Bobby running behind him. He doesn’t look back. Buck trips into the tent, pushing aside one of the clear plastic flaps. There’s seven people huddled around a gray table and someone— Hen— is grabbing at his shoulder. 

“He’s fine, he’s alright,” she’s saying, but Buck doesn’t hear her. He’s staring at Chimney, who has a stethoscope in hand, the white caps in his ears, grinning wildly. And in front of him, sat on that gray table— 

Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie—

“—die, Eddie, Eddie—” And he’s saying it out loud, not just thinking it, and it feels good to say his name, it feels right and perfect, and Eddie is so beautiful, pink cheeked and red lipped and not blue, not that pale opalescent white of a dead body, he’s— 

He’s right there. His perfect face, his eyes. His brown eyes, bright and exhausted, and he’s turning to look at Buck and Buck can’t take it, he can’t take it, he’s still saying Eddie’s name. He’s still lurching forward, completely out of control, and he crashes through the bystanders and accidentally knocks against Chimney but it’s all okay, it’s all going to be okay, because Eddie is there and Eddie is catching him. 

Eddie’s arms slam around Buck’s shoulders and Buck crashes into his chest, flinging his arms forward around Eddie’s waist. His chin and teeth bang into Eddie’s collarbone but Eddie doesn’t react, makes no noise other than a huff, and squeezes Buck like a boa constrictor, tight enough to bruise. It’s crushing, it’s so perfect, Buck’s hands are scrabbling up and down Eddie’s back, his fingers clawing. 

He pulls at Eddie’s shirt desperately, trying to find skin, and Eddie shifts until, suddenly, there it is. There it is: the smoothness of Eddie’s body, cold but warming rapidly, and the easy expansion of his lungs. The shift of his muscles under Buck’s hands. 

One of Eddie’s hands slides up his spine, a long strong sweep, squeezes the back of his neck, then settles on Buck’s head. Eddie fists his hand in Buck’s hair, pulling the strands taut and tugging skin, and Buck makes a noise and shoves himself harder against Eddie. 

He opens his mouth and bites, catching Eddie’s shirt between his teeth, but it’s not enough, so he does it again. He gets some of Eddie’s shoulder this time and Buck clenches his jaw, holding tight. He claws up Eddie’s back and Eddie pulls his hair again, tugging Buck down strongly. Pressing them both together. Buck helps, shoving his chest forward into Eddie’s, almost climbing onto the table with him. Eddie’s knees find Buck’s waist, and he holds him like that, too, so that Buck is engulfed and safe, safe, Eddie is safe, it’s going to be— it’s— 

A noise erupts from Buck, forcing its way out from between Eddie’s shirt and shoulder and Buck’s clamped teeth. His jaw is halfway unhinged, holding onto as much of Eddie as he can, and the pathetic sound sneaks out accidentally. But then he can’t stop, and he doesn’t know— he doesn’t know what to call the sound, doesn’t know why he’s making it— he’s moaning, almost, wordless, and he bites hard to try and muffle it. 

Still, Eddie doesn’t flinch. He never flinches away from Buck, not ever, he’s Buck’s most special— he’s— 

Eddie’s hand, the one not pulling Buck’s hair, shoves his sweatshirt up and finds bare skin. He clutches at the blade of Buck’s shoulder, knuckles digging beneath the flexing bone. Buck uses his nails, uses his teeth, shoves his chest and stomach and hips into Eddie.

Let me get inside you, Buck thinks deliriously. Let me in, let me back in— 

And he doesn’t know what he means, because he’s never— they’ve never— but, still, he means it, he wants it bad enough he’s shaking, feels like he could cut Eddie open and— and— and cut himself open, and then maybe they could be together forever, like that, their intestines roped together like harness lines, and— 

Buck gasps, then moans, then gasps again. Eddie holds him tighter. Fuck, it hurts, fuck, it needs to last forever, he needs it to— needs it—

Eddie’s legs wrap around him entirely, pulling him in, and Buck falls. Eddie doesn’t budge. Buck’s body is pushing, rocking against Eddie, animal instinct taking him over. He’s not in control of his body. He’s turned into something that moans and cries and claws at Eddie. He bites down harder, Eddie’s shoulder still in his mouth, the shirt slipping, and finally— finally— yes, yes, yes, that burst of red, of wet copper, his to keep and swallow and— 

“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie hisses, but doesn’t pull away. 

Eddie clutches Buck’s hair tighter, his knees still around Buck’s waist, the world’s best boa-constrictor hug. Bruising. Close. Euphoria tingles down Buck’s spine, through his stomach, all the way to his toes. 

Yes, Buck thinks again. He pants and sucks on Eddie’s neck, the blood, the damp collar of his shirt. He pants, open-mouthed, his tongue still scraping Eddie’s skin. He presses it against the bite. Tastes Eddie, alive, solid proof coating his tongue, and writhes his body against Eddie’s again. Eddie’s cheek is against Buck’s head, fingers fisted tight in his hair, the others raking down Buck’s spine. It’s a vicious, sharp pressure, like maybe Buck’s back is bleeding, too. 

Faintly, through the ringing in Buck’s ears, he hears Chimney speaking.

“—did not like witnessing that at all, get off him right now, Buckley,” Chim says.

And— and why should he do that? He shouldn’t, he won’t, it’s not right. It’s not right. 

Eddie, of course, fixes it. “Come here, come sit by me. C’mere.”

Buck listens. He lifts his face from Eddie’s neck and realizes his cheeks and chin are tacky, sticky, from the blood and drying tears. 

“You look like a wild thing, bud,” Eddie tells him fondly. He slips his hand from Buck’s hair and wipes at Buck’s mouth. His thumb brushes Buck’s bottom lip. 

Buck is swept with the urge, overwhelmingly strong, to bury his head back in Eddie’s neck. To bite him, again, but not as hard. Little nibbles, maybe, his jaw working, just so he can feel Eddie’s pulse under his teeth. Feel Eddie’s warm skin. 

But Eddie tugs him to the side, then up, and Buck follows the pull of his body. He settles next to Eddie on the table, Eddie’s makeshift exam bed, then changes his mind and crawls backward. He brackets Eddie’s body with his own, his chest to Eddie’s back, his arms around Eddie’s waist. His thighs outside Eddie’s own thighs. 

There, Buck thinks with satisfaction. He links his hands on Eddie’s stomach. Finally, he puts his chin to Eddie’s shoulder blade, looking outward.

The tent is emptier than before, only Chim, Hen, and Bobby remaining. And they’re not— they’re not as happy as they should be. Buck frowns at them. They should be beaming, laughing, but mostly they’re— he’s not sure how to describe it. Chim is grimacing. Hen’s mouth is pursed, and Bobby just looks… pale. 

After a beat, Hen asks, “Can we come over there, now?”

“Yes, obviously,” Buck answers, half-rolling his eyes. 

“Cool. Sure. Cool, cool. Awesome,” Chim says. “Yuck, by the way. Like— really, really gross, guys.”

Neither him nor Hen move for a moment but then, tentatively, Chimney comes forward again, stethoscope back in his ears, and Hen moves to the side of the table. She stares at Eddie for a minute before tipping her head and looking at Buck. 

She gazes at him, brow furrowed, before bending down to a bag which is resting near the table. She rummages through it, stands, and in her hand is a pack of wet wipes. With quick, efficient motions, she peels it open, pulls one out, then reaches out to Buck.

She swipes at his mouth. The wipe comes away red and pink. 

Buck flinches back, because he doesn’t want to taste clorox, the sharp chemicals. He wants— he wants to keep it. Eddie. The warm taste of him.

Hen says, “Okay, Buck,” and she says it like it means something different than it normally does. She’s not upset with him, though. Probably. She just watches him a moment before setting the pack next to Eddie’s hip, for Buck to either use or ignore. 

Chim says, “I need you to pull your shirt down a little, Eddie. We’ve gotta clean that bite.”

“Sure,” Eddie says, all easy confidence, acceptance, and Buck doesn’t feel any shame. He should, but he doesn’t. It’s impossible.

He just can’t.

He tightens his arms around Eddie’s waist and feels deliriously, euphorically happy instead. He grins at the tent top, and worms his fingers under Eddie’s shirt again, presses them into Eddie’s stomach. He pokes his thumb into Eddie’s belly button then leaves it there. His pinky slides beneath the top of Eddie’s jeans, under the band of his boxers, and neither of them flinch. He doesn’t slide his hands lower. He just holds Eddie’s stomach. Feels it rise and fall as he breathes. 

Buck nuzzles into Eddie’s neck. He huffs, in and out, and mostly Eddie smells like saltwater and rotting seaweed. Not like how he should. His warm, woodsy shampoo, his gel deodorant and laundry detergent. 

There’s rustling at the far side of the table, Bobby crossing his arms and leaning against it. He examines Buck, then Eddie, then Buck again, and Buck isn’t sure what he’s seeing. The wheels are turning in Bobby’s head, Buck can see them, but he’s not sure what Bobby is thinking. On a different day, Buck would have been anxious about it.

He’s not anxious about it now. He can’t be anything but happy, overjoyed, fucking jubilant. He bites Eddie’s shirt again, careful not to get skin, just because he can. He squeezes Eddie tight around the waist, clutches him with his thighs. And then he lifts his head and kisses the back of Eddie’s neck, then his ear, then his temple. Kisses Eddie’s temple a second time just because the little dip feels so good under his mouth. 

Eddie huffs a little laugh. One of his hands presses against Buck’s forearm.

Finally, Bobby says, “Well.” And then he pauses. “Looks like you’re alright, more or less, Eddie. We’ll get you home soon.” Bobby hesitates again before saying, in that measured way of his, “New pants. Buck. Do you need them?”

Hen snorts, the sound rocketing out of her, and it must crack whatever dam of composure she had been maintaining, because she starts giggling, half-hysterical, and bends to put her hands on her knees. 

“What?” Buck asks, baffled. “Wh-what? No, I don’t need new pants, Bobby. What the hell?”

“Sure,” Bobby says quickly. “Just checking. In case it would be… awkward, in any way. Good to hear.”

“What?” Buck asks again. 

“You are not actually confused. You can’t be serious,” Chim says. “You are not a serious person. You make me fucking crazy.”

“Hey,” Buck defends. He looks over Eddie’s shoulder, eyes bouncing between the three of them, but nobody explains or says anything else. 

After waiting another moment, Buck decides it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. Him and Eddie have always been— just to the left of normal. One half-step of evolution away from all other things, all other people. It’s just how they are. That animal wanting, that animal hurt and hunger that happens between them— it’s how they are. It’s how they’ve always been.

It occurs to Buck, belatedly, that nobody else has ever seen it. Nobody else has seen buckandeddie, the them that’s made out of their stomachs and hands, rain and mud and blood spraying. The thing that sweeps them away, sometimes. That emotion with no name, which makes them want to… grab and shake and bruise. Go for the title, except a real urge to feel Eddie’s fist on his kidneys. A pain that Buck could keep. They haven’t seen that. And why would they? Buck doesn’t even let himself look at it. Not really. 

Still, he doesn’t care that they’ve seen it. It’s not… Buck isn’t embarrassed of it. He never could be. That feeling belongs to Eddie. Buck couldn’t be ashamed of Eddie even if he tried. It would just slide out of him, water off penguin feathers, because he’s not made for that. Eddie is… Eddie is every good thing in the world. Buck really believes it. Every good thing in the world sprung from Eddie, Chris included.

“Let’s get you home, huh?” Buck says quietly, breathing the words in Eddie’s ear. He strokes his fingers across Eddie’s bare stomach. He watches the long shapes of his hands over Eddie’s shoulder. They’re covered by Eddie’s damp shirt, wrinkles moving when Buck does. Like waves on the ocean. “Get you in a warm shower. I’ll sleep on the couch. We can have pancakes tomorrow.”

The plans tumble out of him. He’s been making plans like promises for fourteen hours straight. 

But they’re right in front of him, now. Eddie in the shower, steam warming the room, Buck rinsing off after him, covered in Eddie’s shampoo. Eddie watching him through the glass. The happily sleepless night to follow, Buck on the couch, protective, surprising Eddie with berries on his pancakes in the morning.

Thank you, Buck thinks toward the universe. Fuck, thank you.

“Sounds good,” Eddie says easily. “Thanks, Buck.”

Buck licks his lips. Tastes Eddie, alive, and isn’t ashamed of the relief that comes alongside the tang of blood. It’s Eddie. It’s Eddie.

Oh, Buck thinks.

Chapter Text

Bobby guides them to the truck, the sun peeking over his shoulder and bathing him in orange, crystalline water glimmering behind him like glass. The sky is a vivid blue. Everything, all at once, is colorful and bright. Buck grins wildly and bounces across the pavement, one hand on Eddie’s shoulder and the other at Eddie’s belt, fingers hooked in the loop there. 

Eddie, of course, doesn’t comment. He holds Buck back, in that way of his: a sturdy grip on the nape of Buck’s neck, hand occasionally sweeping up toward that broad stretch between Buck’s ears. He squeezes there, pulsing, almost a pattern with how regularly it comes. 

The whole world is beautiful. It’s perfect, it’s— he never thought it would be like this again. He thought— but here Eddie is, and here the world is, and it’s still flawless and strong and standing next to him. Ocean waves crashing, gulls and horns and cigarette butts in the sand. Buck wants to do— something crazy. Cartwheels, maybe, or a ten-mile sprint. An obstacle course, like the ones him and Eddie went to back when they first met, a training competition that was mostly showing off. 

Hen and Chim went back to their families twenty minutes ago. Eddie was checked over by Chim first, then Hen for the sake of thoroughness, and then Bobby took a turn, even though he doesn’t have half the experience or training. Probably it was just to make himself feel better. It made Buck feel better. 

And Buck had sat, hugging Eddie against his body, and felt happiness swelling inside his ribs, inflating like a balloon with every breath. He had snuffled against Eddie’s neck and hair, scraping his almost-bearded chin— when had he last shaved?— against Eddie’s drying skin.

And now they’re going home.

They’re going home!

Buck yanks Eddie to him, joyfully, and feels their hips and chests slam together. He spins Eddie around, still tucked tight under Buck’s arm, and hears Eddie laugh. It doesn’t rumble, Eddie’s voice isn’t quite deep enough for it, but it buzzes against Buck’s skin. It feels warm. It feels— Buck feels— 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Buck thinks toward nothing, or everything, or God or otherwise the universe, because now it’s sinking in. It’s really, finally sinking in. 

He feels like— it’s like a clean breath of air, mask off, after a five-alarm fire. Smoke everywhere, no end in sight until, suddenly, there is. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe Buck was put to the test, given a Grecian quest requiring Herculean effort. Have faith, and he had. He’d done it, he did it, it’s done, it’s done—  

He feels like Orpheus, except better, because Eddie’s here, and what was the line? Everything is beautiful, Eurydice. His heart is a bird, or whatever. 

Buck isn’t really thinking straight. It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing in the whole world matters other than Eddie. Eddie under his arms, alive, his cheeks still red and full, grinning, that precious curl swooping down his forehead. Dark eyes, dark hair, his eyelashes long and sweeping. Eddie, oh, Eddie, and Buck doesn’t have other words. He doesn’t. 

But he doesn’t need them, anyway. Not with Eddie. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, each of his teeth glinting— sharp canines, precious and familiar to Buck, he’s got such big teeth, perfectly arranged, Buck wouldn’t change a single thing about him— “Hey, Buck. Hey.” 

And maybe Eddie doesn’t have any words either. 

They’ve staggered to a stop in the middle of the closed parking lot, the entrances blocked off with caution tape like a crime scene, and Buck hauls Eddie in closer. Five bodies out of the water, five bodies, but not six. Not six, not Eddie, never Eddie, of course not Eddie, hadn’t Buck told them? Hadn’t Buck said?

Buck would’ve known. Eddie is here, he’s here, and Buck has to bury his face back in Eddie’s shoulder. Something is shaking and distantly Buck wonders, Earthquake? But it’s not. It’s his own body, twitching and trembling, and maybe he’s crying again. He’s sort of been crying for the past hour, off and on, but it feels so good. The crying. He’s getting it out, that horrible feeling, each tear leeching it away. 

Eddie shifts. He brushes his head against Buck’s cheek, his hair gently catching Buck’s tears, because Buck is still buried in Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie’s hands slide around Buck’s waist, up his back, and then Eddie— it’s not dancing. But he pushes Buck backward and Buck goes easily, of course he does, and then there’s metal against Buck’s back.

Bobby’s truck, identifies Buck, and it’s clinical, the way he might think, fifth street is closed to traffic. It doesn’t matter to him.

He slumps against the door, the handle digging into his spine, and Eddie crowds against him. Now it’s Eddie who burrows into Buck, tipping Buck’s head back so he can put his mouth by Buck’s throat. Buck accidentally slams his head into the glass to give him more room, but it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. How could anything other than this matter?

It doesn’t. Fuck, he almost didn’t— Eddie— 

Eddie. Jesus Christ.

“Jesus Christ,” Buck whispers into Eddie’s hair. He clutches at Eddie’s back and shuts his eyes. Feels Eddie against him, their chests pushing together tighter on every inhale. “Jesus, Eddie, thank you. Thank you.”

“What’re you thanking me for,” Eddie mumbles into Buck’s skin. His breath is hot. It’s hot and moist and alive. 

“For— for— swimming. I don’t know. I don’t know, Eddie, I just— Jesus, I can’t—”

“Hey, I’m right here— Buck, hey—”

And they’re both incoherent. Buck knows it. It doesn’t matter, though, because he can… he feels it. Right here, right against his breastbone. He feels it like warm honey, sticky against his chest. It’s not about the words. They’re not having a conversation. It’s about that horrible feeling oozing out of Buck and alchemizing in the air into joy. 

An hour ago, Buck bit Eddie bloody, settled behind him, and hardly said thirty words. He held Eddie’s stomach and breathed. And now it’s— it’s like each calm minute transformed into something heavy, and now it’s crushing him, everything overwhelming all at once— but not in a bad way— just— Eddie is— and Buck needs to—

Buck needs. 

“Eddie,” Buck breathes.

He hauls Eddie in. It’s mostly a hug, even though Buck is pinned against a truck door. Eddie presses his cheek to Buck’s shoulder, arms around Buck’s waist. Slowly, Buck’s shaking stops— Eddie presses it out of him, gently, like a lemon against a juicer. His body turns into lemonade; all liquid limbs, all sweet thoughts.

The sigh comes again, instinctive, emotional: oh, Eddie. He’s said it before. In his own head, out loud. All sorts of situations and places. He means it every time. 

There’s a click. The pull of a door opening on the other side of the truck; Bobby, probably. 

Warmly, Bobby says, his voice drifting across the hood of the cab, “Ready, fellas?”

Eddie breathes against Buck’s shoulder twice before pulling away. Buck clings but Eddie grabs his wrists and pulls at them, until they’re only connected by Eddie’s loose hold. Eddie’s fingers are around Buck’s wrists like handcuffs. 

We should get some of those, Buck thinks. Deliriously, he imagines handcuffing his hand to Eddie’s, and them going through each day that way. Together from sunset to sunrise and back again. They’d go through their shifts that way, too, and so neither of them would ever be dangling alone from a crane again, or buried away from the other. 

It’s such a perfect idea that Buck says, “We should get handcuffs,” the same instant Eddie responds to Bobby, saying, “Ready, Cap.” 

Hopefully, Eddie’s voice covers up Buck’s. Belatedly, Buck realizes it’s— sort of an insane thing to say. Eddie will understand what he means. Maybe not Bobby, though. Maybe he should have saved that for later. 

Bobby’s door swings open then shut. Buck hears it. He can’t bring himself to move back to open the passenger door. 

“Maybe not handcuffs,” Eddie tells him, still smiling his beautiful toothy smile. “We could get one of those backpack leashes, though.”

“For me or you?” Buck asks. 

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Eddie just shakes his head, huffs something that turns into a chuckle, and pulls Buck off the door by his wrist. He opens it slowly, so that it doesn’t hit Buck’s spine, and Buck— he rolls his eyes.

It’s crazy, but he does. It feels— it’s—

It’s normal. It’s normal again. The world is still here and Eddie is still here and they’re going home.

Buck climbs in the truck. 

He slides into the truck and flips up the cupholder so that it becomes a middle seat. Eddie climbs in behind him, slamming the door shut, and Buck can’t help it. He sidles close again, until they’re pressed together. Eddie stretches his arm across the back. It doesn’t cover Buck’s shoulders. Buck is too tall for it. 

This time, when Bobby starts the car, and the radio comes on, Buck hears the song easily. A crooning, early-2000s classic. Maroon Five, maybe. Something like that. I drove for miles and miles and wound up at your door. Cheesy and soothing. An easy beat. 

I don’t mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain, the radio says, and Buck shuts his eyes. He tips his head back. Feels Eddie’s arm behind his neck. 

The truck rocks. Bobby is saying something, his voice low, and Eddie is responding. 

Suddenly, Buck is dozing, like hitting the snooze button on a ringing alarm. All at once that buoyant, frantic joy collapses. His body goes heavy. He has half a dream, again, except that's a lie. He's just thinking.  

He's thinking about three months ago: Buck slumped over Eddie’s kitchen table, a beer near his knuckles. Gray sweatpants on, crumpled blanket left on the couch. It was late. It was dark.

They were alone. Really alone. This was before Chris started texting, or calling. Before he was coming home. 

Buck had snuck away from Tommy. Or, well, it wasn’t sneaking. He’d told Tommy he was at Eddie’s. He just… maybe had lied, too. Maybe he’d implied the situation was more urgent than it was. There wasn’t really a situation at all. Eddie was— it was a good night, not a bad one. 

The beer was cold, condensation creeping down his knuckles. The oven’s clock flashed 1:03am. 

Eddie came up behind him. Eddie put a hand on his shoulder, which was normal, has always been normal. But then the hand stayed there. Heavy, warm. It slid toward the nape of Buck’s neck. Eddie scruffed him there with a gentle squeeze.

Buck went limp in the chair. His breathing turned heavy. 

It wasn’t— Eddie let him go. Too much time later, maybe, but he did. They didn’t talk about it.

In the morning Buck went back to Tommy and pretended it didn’t happen even while he planned ways to make it happen again. Calculated the time on the oven clock, the outfits they had been wearing, how many beers they’d each drank. Added them all together and thought, maybe next time he will— 

But Buck didn’t let himself finish the sentence. He’s never, not once, finished the sentence. 

He thinks maybe Eddie has. Thinks maybe Eddie got there before him. Long, long before him. Last will and testament before him. Nobody I trust with my son more than you before him.

But then again, maybe Eddie hasn’t. Maybe it’s—

Buck still can’t think it. He can’t stare at it straight-on. 

Half-asleep, Buck decides, it doesn’t matter. Stick to the plan: shower, sleep, apology, pancakes. Or maybe pancakes then apology. He slumps further into Eddie. He breathes into Eddie’s shoulder.

The truck turns, turns again, and Buck knows exactly where they are. Knows the route even half-asleep after the worst day of his life. Bobby turns the truck off and Buck opens his eyes.

Eddie’s house is dark inside but it doesn’t matter. He knows it effortlessly. Knows the scraggly bushes Eddie agonizes over during drought season, which is practically year-round, now. The left edge near the garage, which Chris scuffed up with his crutches after a nasty fall. Every piece precious to Buck, each part familiar.

“You boys gonna be alright?” Bobby asks. 

Buck looks at him for the first time in… a while. Bobby looks tired, and pale, but happy. Obviously, glowingly happy. And relieved. Maybe more relieved than happy, now that Buck is looking. 

“Of course,” Buck says. He feels Eddie nodding behind him. 

“Right,” Bobby says. He hesitates, takes a breath, and seems to choke something back. After a moment, he says, “I’ll be over in the afternoon tomorrow. Call if there’s anything you need, alright? Either of you.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says, his voice heartfelt. It trembles, just once, when he says, “It means a lot. That you were looking. So, thanks. We’ll let you get some rest.” And then he puts his hand on the handle, heaving himself up with an effort that looks tremendous. 

Buck scrambles after him, obviously, then backtracks to throw himself at Bobby. He clutches Bobby around the shoulders, whispers, “thanks, Pops,” because it feels right to use it. Just one more time while the world still is sideways-leaning.

Bobby clutches at him but lets him go when Eddie leaves the truck completely.

Buck doesn’t say anything else. Just follows after Eddie, fast enough that it’s more falling than anything, and returns his hands to Eddie’s body. Because that, too, feels right. It’s good and natural, touching Eddie. 

Eddie doesn’t have his keys, obviously. They’re still somewhere in his truck, or maybe at the bottom of the ocean. It doesn’t matter. Buck kicks up the fake rock where they keep the spare and Eddie retrieves it. Unlocks the door and ushers Buck in with one hand on his back. Buck goes easy. They leave Bobby in the driveway; the truck remains for a long moment before pulling away.

And then Bobby is gone, and him and Eddie are alone in the foyer, and Buck just— doesn’t think about it. There’s nothing to think about. It’s bright inside. A little bit magical. They don’t need to turn on any lights. They stand in the sunshine together. It’s streaming through the windows in ribbons, almost solid.  

Shower, Buck thinks. He needs a shower. And then sleep, where Buck will watch him, just as a precaution, and Eddie will wake up in the late afternoon for dinner, which will be pancakes. Buck puts each step in meticulous order, drawing careful boxes in his mind. No checks on the list yet. But it’ll come. They have time.

Jesus Christ, they have time. They do. Right? They do. 

Why does it still feel like they don’t have time? It’s like he’s running out of it. But he’s not. Of course he’s not? Buck has— definitely today. He can swing the rest of the week, even. Nobody would think twice, if he spent the rest of the week here. They might encourage it. 

Five days. It’s an eternity, a luxury, compared to what he might have gotten. If Eddie hadn’t… but he had. But he had. And so Buck should be grateful, right? He should be happy. Five whole days. 

And it will be five days of just him and Eddie. Something in Buck's chest flutters, silk in the wind, colorful and light. They’ll lock down the house, get groceries delivered. Play cards and get drunk and wake up and make each other toast and coffee. Buck will have all the time in the world to put his feet on Eddie’s lap and watch that swoop of hair curl over Eddie’s forehead, because he doesn’t put gel in when he’s not leaving the house.

Buck is the only one who sees him like that. He’s the only one who’s earned it. Nobody else deserves it like he does. Buck will sit at the kitchen table, the only one allowed here in the middle of the night, and feel Eddie’s hand creep up into his hair. Feel his broad palm against the back of his skull. The cradle of it. The way Eddie’s hand will skim his shoulder and back as he walks away. 

Eddie has never, not once, told Buck to get out of his house. Buck is a special case— more special than anyone Eddie’s ever been with. So there, he thinks spitefully, except he can’t decide who he’s thinking toward. The ghost of Ana, maybe, or Marisol. The much sadder, more real ghost of Shannon, who Buck always tries really, really hard not to hate.

It’s just that she had everything Buck has ever— and she didn’t want it. Or she didn’t keep it. Or she tried to keep it but did it wrong. Buck’s not… it’s not his place to think about it. Eddie defends her to everyone, Buck included. Defends her like an animal, honestly; all teeth and tense muscles. So, Buck doesn’t hate Shannon. Obviously. 

Eddie won’t let him. 

But that doesn’t matter right now, because there are five days, maybe even seven, if Buck is really pathetic when people come to visit. If he’s particularly fragile when Bobby shows up tomorrow. So: maybe even a full week of just Buck, and Eddie, and the heat of Eddie’s body pressed against his in the kitchen, and on the couch, because Eddie abandons personal space as soon as they’re alone. He always has, which is right and good, because Buck wants him to never, ever be out of reach. 

A whole week of this, time like a stack of gold arcade coins which Buck will spend until he runs out. It’s— all Buck could ask for. All he’d ever want. He never thought he’d— but he is. Eddie is here and they’ve barely begun day one. Real life has to start again eventually, anyway. Not too soon, but it’s good to keep in mind. It’s good for him to think: Eddie will still be here, in this house, even if Buck isn’t. And that has to be enough. Because Buck can’t— he would, if he could, but he can’t just— 

It’s just. 

Seven days isn’t very long.

And seven is a longshot, anyway, it might be six, or five. Realistically, after day four they’ll have to allow visitors, and Bobby is already coming by tomorrow, and it’s— it’s not enough time. It’s not enough fucking— why isn’t it ever enough? And the worst of it is that it’s Buck’s fault, because.

Because Eddie would let him stay. Is the thing. Eddie would let him stay forever and Buck knows it. 

He keeps asking, asking without words, and Buck keeps pretending to not understand him. Eddie keeps allowing it. Over and over it happens, in a million little ways. A shared calendar at Eddie’s house, which Buck keeps track of. A spare key Buck knows the location to. A permanent divot in the couch cushions. His name typed in black ink in Eddie’s will. I’m not really a guest, and Since when do you knock?

But Buck can’t stay. Obviously. Because— because. 

He has a reason, right? He’s always had a reason. He has one. Clearly he has one.

He can’t recall it. He tries. He stares out into the bright living room, at the streaming morning light with Eddie breathing beside him, and tries to remember. He fails. It’s like he reaches and closes his hand on empty air, or otherwise like he puts his hand on cell bars, a prisoner, and feels the door swing open effortlessly. 

There isn’t anything. There is no reason for him to leave. 

I’m going to stay, Buck thinks, flabbergasted. He blinks very fast at the sun. At the bright windows. Turns his head to blink at Eddie, who is tired and still damp, and gets caught on Eddie’s glistening eyes. Shimmering brown. Cow eyes, Chim called them once, and Buck had said, You know in Greek mythology Zeus’s wife was called cow-eyed? Like, as an appellation, or whatever. So, obviously it’s a huge compliment. It had spilled out of him, uncontrollable. Hen shook her head at him.

Cow eyes, Buck thinks to himself. 

“Buck?” Eddie says.

Buck turns to stare at him, his curved nose, his red lips. The place where his cheek flexes, no dimples, exactly, but still a crease. A happy fold. Buck wants to touch it.

“Alright,” Eddie says, as if Buck had responded with words. His voice is rough but still easy, rolling, that calm firmness which comes naturally to Eddie and never Buck. “Up and attem, cowboy.” 

And suddenly Eddie’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him forward again, and Buck lets it happen. Eddie’s moving them toward the bathroom, and as they walk Buck realizes— oh. Eddie is using him as a crutch, resting most of his exhausted weight on Buck. Buck straightens, proud, then immediately changes his mind and hunches down, so that Eddie’s arm rests easily across his shoulders.

Like blinking, they appear in Eddie’s bathroom. Buck takes in its familiar shapes. The linoleum tile, the white porcelain sink. The glass-walled shower, frosted enough to blur but not conceal. They turn the shower on like one person; Eddie draped over Buck’s shoulders, Buck holding him up. Buck slides the door open but Eddie starts the water.

When Eddie leans back, he doesn’t go far. He strips his wet layers off, naked skin brushing against Buck’s clothed spine. 

Buck wants to be shirtless. More than that, he wants them to be… skinless, or something. Wet veins pulsing together, all nerve endings exposed. Maybe they’d get tangled up. Maybe they really would transform into one person. 

When Eddie is naked, he climbs into the shower. Buck gently closes the bathroom door while Eddie tips his head into the spray. He flicks the fan on then leans against the bathroom counter, crossing his arms. Warmth, bubbling and steady, builds in Buck’s chest. Yes, he thinks, and from nowhere a sigh bursts from his stomach. Absolute contentment.

White haze is already starting to cover the mirror behind him. Buck stares at Eddie, at his narrow waist and strong legs. The long line of his profile. That dramatic tilt to his nose, the way his hair slicks down to his skull. It covers his forehead in dark bangs.

Buck’s chest hurts, seeing it. It makes Eddie look like a kid, his hair halfway to a bowl cut, dripping down into Eddie’s eyes like he’s been playing in the pool. And then Eddie reaches up, brushes it back, and he’s himself again. The grown version of him which Buck has known for years and years.

Sometimes Buck really wishes he and Eddie knew each other as kids. Fuck, what Buck wouldn’t give to travel back and find Eddie, alone in Texas the same way Buck was alone everywhere else in the world, and change both their lives for the better. Buck had needed a family; somewhere to belong. And Eddie had needed help so bad it was like drowning. Buck knows it. 

They’re the same age, him and Eddie. He’s always known it but sometimes he really understands it. Draws the parallel lines in his mind. He’d been surfing in a puka shell necklace while Eddie checked his gun for ammunition. Been doing shots on the beach while Eddie huddled down into different sand, hiding from artillery fire a thousand miles away.

The thing is—

The thing is, they would’ve been so good at it. Just— life. Living together. Being a team. Doing wound care, making dinner, driving Chris to appointments. Holding Chris between them, his tiny toddler body, his tiny wriggling fingers. They would’ve done it like breathing— they would’ve done it happily. They would’ve been so happy. Buck knows because they are. They have been. Buck stepped into that empty space two weeks after they first met and never left it. 

God, he wishes he found Eddie sooner. He thinks about it more than he should.

Buck shakes his head. Tries to shake the thoughts loose. 

He can’t fix it so he stares at Eddie instead. Two strands have fallen into his eyes again, like a movie star from the ‘50s. He’s very James Dean, very Marlon Brando. He’s standing naked in the shower and Buck counts each breath, traces his eyes over the hazy peak of Eddie’s nipples. The bite mark is still at the base of Eddie’s neck. It’s red. Eddie must have taken the bandage off to shower, though Buck hadn’t noticed him do it. 

Buck breathes. He forces himself to breathe and not move. Not speak. There’s nothing to even say. 

There’s not any awkwardness. Or there shouldn’t be. They shower at the 118 all the time; multiple times a shift, even. There isn’t a part of Eddie that Buck hasn’t seen, hasn’t gotten a hand on— not even his dick. Those first few days after Eddie came home from the shooting… that cocktail of drugs, the blurred haze to his eyes. The pain, the staggering steps. Of course Buck had helped. 

Of course Eddie will do the same, if Buck needs it. It’s not even worth thinking about.

At least, it hadn’t been. Before. But maybe it’s weird, now. It shouldn’t be, but maybe it is. Buck held Eddie’s dick in his hand. Felt his pulse, the twitch and jerk of hidden muscles. His warmth. Eddie is always so warm. 

Buck swallows heavily. His thighs itch. Or maybe they don’t? He’s not sure what he’s feeling. He wants to reach down and scratch. It’s the salt water, probably. Irritating his skin through his jeans. He reaches down and scrapes his nails up then down, edging near his inner thighs. He erupts into a full-body shudder before yanking his hands back. 

Hastily, he undoes the button of his jeans and yanks his pants off. He kicks them into the corner. It doesn’t matter; he’s getting into the shower directly after Eddie is done. Maybe the steam will help? Buck scrapes his nails up his inner thighs again, edging up toward his boxers, and it still feels— it itches. Right? It itches. That’s what he’s feeling. 

He yanks his hands away and stares at Eddie— Eddie, the long stretches of smooth skin, exposed and wet. Dripping. Water falling down.

Maybe Eddie will need him to do it again? It was necessary at the time, and they’re both first responders. Eddie hadn’t been weird about it; of course he wasn’t. A former military medic and a man who had seen his wife through labor, knew the messy bodily process of it. Neither of them thought twice.

Or maybe that’s just the convenient explanation. It’s vulnerable, helping someone like that. If Buck is honest, he knows it still would’ve been humiliating if they weren’t them. If they weren’t BuckandEddie.

Why is Buck thinking about this? 

Probably because he can see Eddie’s dick. 

Eddie is in profile, so it’s not a clear image, and hidden by the haze of steam and the frosted glass. But it’s there: the thatch of dark hair, the long flushed shape. His dick. Eddie’s dick. Which Buck has seen and held before. 

What if Eddie needs his help again? Maybe he’ll be— really tired. Maybe. And Buck will have to hug Eddie close, like he did those five or six times after Eddie was shot. His chest to Eddie’s back. His hand down Eddie’s pants, gently cupping his dick and pulling him free. The kick when Eddie started pissing. Eddie’s got to be really tired. Buck might— and Eddie shouldn’t be embarrassed about it. Buck will reassure him, if it happens. 

And who else will do it? Nobody else could do it right. Nobody really touches Eddie like that, only four people in Eddie’s whole life. Buck knows them by name. Shannon, Ana, Marisol. Him. Eddie doesn’t do casual hook-ups. Buck’s always known this. So, obviously, Buck is the only one who— Buck does it right. Right enough that Eddie isn’t shy, or ashamed. It’s not even a big deal.

Is there a way to ask? Should he ask? Buck wants… it would just be— like. Obviously, him and Eddie are closer to each other than anyone else in the world. Obviously Buck can touch him like that. And he wants to feel it. Eddie between his arms, alive and warm, his skin velvet-smooth and maybe even getting a little hard. Right? That happens sometimes. After a harrowing experience. It happens to Buck, so it has to happen to Eddie.

Obviously Buck would never judge Eddie for that. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just keep holding Eddie. Keep his hand on Eddie’s dick. Maybe he’d squeeze a little, just because sometimes it feels nice. Even if jerking off isn’t on the agenda. He could even give Eddie a pull or two. Just a handful of solid strokes, so that Eddie can feel good. Eddie’s spine would probably go loose. He’d probably tip his head back onto Buck’s shoulder.

Eddie would get harder in Buck’s hand. Because he would be feeling good, right? Buck would be making him feel good. That’s just how it works. Eddie would get harder. But Buck couldn’t leave him like that. So, he would keep going. He would squeeze. He would be so smooth, his hand would be gliding, it would make Eddie feel so good. And Eddie would tell him that. He’d say so. 

He would lean his head back and nuzzle up under Buck’s jaw and tell him, yeah, Buck, just like that. And Buck would— Buck is— 

Buck is panting. He’s leaning against the bathroom sink, his shoulders against the foggy mirror, staring at Eddie and breathing fast. 

He’s itching again except, no, he’s not. He’s just hard and he wants to touch himself so bad it feels like an itch. He’s so fucking stiff and he doesn’t even have his jeans on and he’s—

And Eddie’s getting out of the shower. 

He leaves the water running, because that’s how this goes: Eddie showers first, efficient but relaxed, and then Buck climbs in behind him. Or— not behind him. After him. And Eddie takes his place by the mirror so that neither of them are alone. 

Eddie steps out and drips onto the white bathroom rug, naked, bruised, Buck’s bite still low on his neck. His cheeks are candy red, his mouth slick and— and his eyes, his eyelashes— his hair wet and dripping and loose on his forehead—

“All yours, bud,” Eddie tells him steadily. He smiles with his teeth, sharp canines showing. There are bags under his eyes but it doesn’t matter. Eddie looks him in the face and his smile shrinks into something gentler. “You alright, Buck?”

“Ye-yeah,” Buck says. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll just—” And then yanks his shirt and sweatshirt over his head, draping it in front of himself as he slides his boxers off. 

Eddie steps to the side and Buck holds his clothes until the last second, dropping them and then scrambling into the shower. He keeps his back to Eddie, facing the wall. His heart slams against his ribs, over and over, like it’s trying to escape. Leap out of him and land in Eddie’s hands, or something.

Humiliatingly, Buck just gets harder. He pantomimes their normal routine— uses Eddie’s shower gel, his shampoo, tips his head back into the hot spray— but it’s not relaxing. Or, it is. It always is. He can hear Eddie behind him and he didn’t think Eddie—

Eddie is here. Thank God, Eddie is here. 

And Buck is hard. Fuck, Buck is so hard, and he can’t do anything about it. He feels like a butterfly pinned beneath glass, or maybe a zoo animal. Buck shifts from foot to foot except, well, that doesn’t help, because then his dick sways and his thighs brush his balls and it’s just— can Eddie see it? See him? Buck definitely tensed up just now. His naked ass flexing. 

Is Eddie looking? What if he is? 

Fuck, what if he isn’t?

It would be worse. Buck wants Eddie to— Eddie should— Buck wouldn’t look away. If it were Eddie. There wouldn’t be anything for Eddie to be embarrassed about, Buck wouldn’t let this break their routine. So, Eddie won’t have looked away from him. Right? Because they’re them, and they always understand each other. So, Eddie is looking. 

Just to be certain, Buck peeks over his shoulder. And— yes. Yes, Eddie is there, and yes, he’s looking, his dark eyes gazing unblinkingly at Buck. He’s staring. His lips are parted, just barely, and his cheeks are still red.

Good, that’s— Buck knew it. He knew it. 

A hot rush tingles through him, overwhelming like a wave, like he’s being pulled under and tumbled around. Relief follows it, cooler and more soothing. Buck shivers. He’s breathing hard because it’s all overwhelming, his skin is humming, and his dick is so hard the skin feels tight, like he might split open. He’s pulsing. His heart racing, and each throb feels— it’s starting to feel really good, is the thing. Eddie is here. Eddie is watching him. Eddie is safe. 

Nothing could be wrong, nothing in the whole world, and even this strange torture feels wonderful. 

“Buck,” Eddie says. “Time’s up. Get out here, I’ve got towels.”

When Buck turns his head, the cabinet under the sink is open. Eddie’s already got a towel around his waist and another in his hand. He shakes it at Buck, his eyes dark and wide, and his face is— Buck has seen that expression a handful of times.

Another rush carries Buck away. He flings a hand out and shuts the water off, slides the glass door open, and steps onto the bathroom rug. He shakes himself a little, flinging water off his hair and spraying Eddie, who huffs. 

Eddie holds out the towel. It’s green with a blue stripe. Buck grabs it and dries his hair first, then his chest and shoulders, his pits, because part of him wants— he wants to be sure that Eddie sees it. Him. And he doesn’t know why, but he thinks maybe— if Eddie sees it, maybe Eddie will understand, because Buck doesn’t— Buck can’t say it. He can’t even think it. But maybe—

He ducks his head and peeks up at Eddie.

Eddie licks his lips. He stares at Buck, his dark eyes darker than Buck’s ever seen them, and licks his lips. Red tongue against sharp teeth. Like a lion in front of— an antelope with a broken leg. Or something. Buck’s head is a little fuzzy. 

Breathing in deep, Eddie says, “Finish drying off, Buck.”

So Buck does. He slides the towel down his chest, over his stomach. Uncertainly, he glances at Eddie, who still isn’t looking away, then commits. He dabs the towel over his sensitive dick, the towel scratching in a way that feels really— it feels really— but he doesn't linger. Hurriedly, Buck dries his thighs. Slides the towel down his legs to his feet then back up. 

And then, like he’s caught in a current, Eddie takes him by the arm and leads him out of the bathroom. He pulls Buck into his bedroom and deposits Buck by the dresser, where he opens the top drawer and pulls out their most comfortable pajamas— the ones with the pill-balls starting to form. The ones Buck thought about, hours ago, before Eddie was home again. Eddie hands the soft pants and softer shirt to Buck and it’s—

Perfect. It’s so, so perfect, and Buck feels his eyes turn hot and blurry. His throat feels tight, and thick, and so do his sinuses. His lip wobbles a little but he doesn’t do anything other than take the pajamas and put them on. Soft shirt, stretching familiarly across his shoulders, because Buck is wider than Eddie is, these days, and this shirt was Eddie’s first. The sweatpants are pulled on and up, carefully edged over his dick, which is still hard, and he ties the strings tight. No underwear, which is different from their norm, but not bad. Not bad. 

When Buck blinks his tears away, he discovers Eddie is dressed, too, in his familiar gray sweatpants and white t-shirt. The shirt has a hole near the collar. It’s a little stretched. Eddie’s hair is fluffy and gel-free, half stuck to his forehead and half jutting out in clumps. Already drying crazy, which is the reason Eddie gels it so often. 

“Are th— the sheets are still clean, right? In the cabinet? I’ll get them onto the couch,” Buck says. “You should lay down, I’m sure you’re really— it’s been a long night, I can set it all up, don’t worry about anything. Okay? You should lay down and let me, uh, let me get everything ready. And when you get up I’ll make breakfast, Eddie, okay?”

Eddie stares at him. Buck’s heart pounds.

Buck continues, “It’ll be pancakes. With blueberries. I know we usually have them with chocolate chips, but you like the berries better, right? So that’s what we’ll have.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, Buck,” Eddie says. 

“I know,” Buck responds, because he’s always known, deep down, that if he only asked— well. He wouldn’t be on the couch. “But it’s tradition, right?” Buck grins, and mostly it’s sincere. He likes the couch. He loves the couch. It’s safe on the couch, for him and for Eddie, and what he wants more than anything is for Eddie to be safe. To feel safe. For Buck to make him feel safe.

“Okay,” Eddie says. He hesitates, staring up at Buck. Buck stares back and thinks, just tell me what to do. 

Hesitantly, Buck shuffles backward. Just one step, but he does it. He widens the gap between them. 

And then Eddie blurts, “But you should stay in here. With me.” The sentence jerks, starts and stops, and Eddie finishes it with, “For tonight.”

“Right,” Buck says. “Sure, of— of course. If that’s what you want?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. 

“Cool,” Buck responds. The single word trembles in the air. 

Eddie frowns at him. “Because it’s not like we haven’t before.” He stares at Buck. “Unless you think it might… with Tommy. I guess he, uh, might think about it differently.” He licks his lips, red tongue flashing, and it’s so bright in his room. 

The curtains are open. Outside, it’s broad daylight. It should be nighttime. This feels like a conversation that should happen in the dark. But also— of course it’s not. Of course it’s bright, Eddie’s eyes lit up golden in the sun. There’s never been anything to hide, not between the two of them. 

And, anyway, Buck doesn’t know what Eddie is asking.

That’s a lie. He knows. 

“Tommy?” Buck asks anyway, because he needs to pretend. He’s not certain. He doesn’t know what Eddie wants from him. And until he knows what Eddie wants, he needs to keep all the options open, because Buck would do… anything. He wants to do anything. Eddie just needs to tell him what ‘anything’ is, because Buck can’t mess it up. He can’t guess. 

Eddie shakes his head. “Come on, Buck.”

“You come on,” Buck responds, a little petulant. “It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered before. Right?”

Eddie doesn’t respond immediately. He just looks at Buck for a while, then says, “I think it probably still mattered.” He shakes his head. “Whatever. Nevermind. Get into bed, Buck, I’m so tired I might fall over.”

“Sure,” Buck responds, and then, half-stumbling, “What do you mean, ‘it probably still mattered?’” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie says. “At least not today. Just— let’s get some rest, huh?”

“Okay,” Buck says. Because— okay. If Eddie wants him to let this go, of course he will. Besides, it’s probably not the time. 

Turning down the comforter, Eddie climbs in on the right side, Buck shuffles in on the left, and there’s a swarm of movement while they arrange pillows and sheets. 

Buck lays on his back hesitantly, folding his hands on his stomach over his shirt. He breathes and tries to lay extremely still. At his side, Eddie does the same. They lay like a pair of felled trees, and Buck… it’s never been like this. 

Twenty, thirty, a hundred times they’ve slept together, just like this. Why is it different now? 

It feels like watching sand trickle down the hourglass, the pile getting smaller and smaller, disappearing faster with each passing second. Like watching a lit fuse shrink, the spark racing down its track.

Buck breathes in, deep, and Eddie echoes it. Outside, the sky is blue. Clouds are drifting. 

Then, like magnets, they collide in the middle of the bed. 

There’s a sensation like something breaking, or— or fire igniting, maybe. They slam into each other and it’s like throwing off a weight. Something transforms and is, suddenly, right, where before it was wrong. It’s— fuck. Fuck, Eddie pressed against him under the comforter. His arms snapping like bands around Buck’s waist. Buck squirms until their foreheads are crushed together, pressure so strong it almost hurts. 

Suddenly, it’s like they’re back in that tent, grappling with each other, needing to get closer than skin, deeper than is possible. Buck wants everything in the whole world and then he wants more of it, and he wants Eddie to give it to him, and he wants to give it to Eddie. 

“Fuck,” Buck hisses, because he can’t say anything else but needs to say something. Needs the release of it; steam escaping from the pressure valve. “Fuck!”

Eddie grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back, then forward, like he isn’t sure what to do, either.

“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie breathes, like he did before. 

Except this time it’s like Eddie feels it, too. This crazy rush. Or maybe he allows himself to feel it. Now that it’s just them. Now that they’re alone, in Eddie’s house, hidden and warm and dry. Nobody looking at them. He smashes his face against Buck’s, rubs his cheek down Buck’s face, and Buck gets his teeth on the edge of Eddie’s jaw. He hooks them and bites down, holds Eddie in place, and Eddie’s other hand grabs Buck by the pit of his knee. He hitches Buck’s leg over his waist, getting them closer, and Buck says, “yes,” so breathlessly it’s almost— something else. A moan, maybe.

Not that it matters. It’s just him and Eddie.

“Please, Eddie,” Buck says. He doesn’t know what he means. He doesn’t know what he wants— the easy answer is ‘sex,’ but it’s never felt like this. Wanting has never been like this and it’s almost frightening, how out of control his body feels. Like he’s in the passenger seat, not driving. His blood racing and hands clutching without his permission. 

Buck stutters, “Ed-Eddie, Eddie, fuck, we need to—” But then he can’t finish the sentence, because his mouth is just moving, also out of his control, with no forethought to give it purpose. 

He doesn’t want sex, or he does, he does, but mostly he wants Eddie to crawl down his throat and never come out, like an alien from a horror movie. He wants to be inside Eddie’s brain, chewing on his liver. Buck’s mouth is watering, every limb twitching, and his fingers are clawing down Eddie’s back like he’s trying, again, to split the skin open.

And Eddie isn’t stopping him, Eddie is panting against his cheek instead, his breath warm and wet and alive. Eddie is holding him by the back of the knee, grinding their hips together, his other hand fisting Buck’s hair. It’s all deep pressure, squeezing, and it fucking hurts, actually, but Buck is thankful for the feeling. Because he’ll get to keep it, for hours and hours, maybe days, if he’s lucky. If he can goad Eddie into holding him tighter. 

“What are we— Eddie, what are we—” Buck pants. But he wrecks it by biting Eddie midway through the sentence, because he can’t— just can’t, he’s not sure what he can’t do but he can’t do it, he needs his mouth on Eddie, needs it immediately, so he puts it on the other side of Eddie’s neck. He puts the tendon between his teeth and he isn’t gentle about it. 

Eddie groans, loud, and his mouth is so close to Buck’s ear. It’s loud like the crack of a branch breaking. And then Eddie is hoisting him by his grip on the back of Buck’s leg, pulling him by the hair, until Buck is underneath Eddie. Flat on his back and stunned about it.

Suddenly, Eddie is over him, his hands still in Buck’s hair and on Buck’s knee. He’s working his core, keeping himself above Buck, and Buck pants up at him.

They freeze. Stare at each other. 

It's almost frightening, this sudden explosion. The uncertainty of it, the instability. Buck should probably slow them down, should climb out of bed and onto the couch. Because he doesn’t want this to ruin something precious. This is exactly the kind of shit he pulled before he became this new version of himself. 

It’s the same, on the surface. An upheaval, resulting in a Buck who is shit-scared and reaching out to find skin to shove himself against. Creating artificial closeness. 

Except no part of this is artificial. It’s real, down to Buck’s core, down to who he is at the center. He knows Eddie. Knows every last tragic, sharp, beautiful piece of him. And Eddie knows him back. Knows him in storming rain, fire and lightning and dirt coming to swallow them whole. It’s not artificial closeness. It’s fucking real, and Buck wants more of it.

He stares up at Eddie, at Eddie’s ruddy round cheeks and soft hair. Dark stubble against his jaw. His eyelashes arcing, almost brushing against his eyebrows, because Eddie is staring back at him, holding his body still and quiet while Buck thinks. Eddie is waiting for him. All at once, Buck understands: Eddie has been waiting for him.

Buck’s heart seizes in his chest and, before he knows it, he’s saying, “Kiss me.”

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. Swooping down, he covers Buck’s mouth with his own. 

Buck flings his arms and legs around Eddie, pulling him in, and Eddie collapses onto Buck’s chest with their lips still crushed together. Eddie shoves his arms under Buck’s back, so tight they almost circle around to his stomach.

Buck opens his mouth the same instant as Eddie, and they’re kissing tongue to tongue, close and wet and sloppy. Breathing in sharply, Buck twists his head to get a new angle, because there’s something he— he needs to— and Eddie rocks his head, too. All at once their faces are pushing against each other, until they’re barely kissing, or maybe that’s not right. Maybe they’re kissing too much, faces pressed together viciously, jaws bumping then slamming into a new angle, like they’re— it’s like they’re grinding, almost. Shoving faces and mouths back and forth.

Every time they shift, Buck makes a noise, and Eddie echoes it, until they’re both panting and moaning. Buck jerks his arm, and then remembers he has arms, then uses them to claw Eddie closer. 

Eddie’s hips shove down into Buck’s. Buck locks his ankles around Eddie’s waist and then they’re really moving, a train picking up steam, rocking and rumbling, Buck panting around Eddie’s tongue. 

And it feels— it’s like nothing ever has been. Like a wet dream coming to life, or otherwise like magic, the kind Buck used to believe in. Fairytales. Eddie, against him, moaning like he is. Eddie pressing Buck down, safe and held and warm, pinned between Eddie’s hips and flexing brown arms. Their faces grinding back and forth, mashed, mouths open. 

Buck licks across Eddie’s mouth, licks his teeth, licks Eddie’s tongue. He’s not kissing. Eddie doesn’t care. Eddie lets Buck do it and makes happy, hot noises. Their hips twist together, squirming more than grinding. Like neither of them have ever done this before, overwhelmed, shocked when moving hips together feels good. 

God, it feels good, it feels perfect, it feels like— it’s just— and he’s so hard, been hard since that shower, since— oh, fuck, oh, fuck, and now their dicks are— 

“Oh, sh-shit, Eddie, oh, fuck, f-fuh—” Buck stutters, moaning, because their dicks are lined up, and they’re both wearing soft pants, and Buck is commando. And Eddie’s thigh is pressing, brushing his balls, squeeze-release, squeeze-release coming with each grinding thrust. 

He presses his head into the mattress, because the pillow is gone, he doesn’t know where it is, and Eddie tears their mouths apart and latches onto Buck’s neck.

“Yes, y-yeah, yeah, please.” Buck sounds— God, he’s never sounded like this before. He’s whining, his voice high, moaning on every breath. 

He wants Eddie to bite him. He wants a matching mark, puckered and deep, like a brand. A stamped set, do not separate. Ownership. Permanent belonging, more and better than a tattoo because it happened like this. His blood on Eddie’s teeth, too. 

“Harder, Eddie, you need to— harder— bite me, please, please,” Buck says, rocking up against Eddie. He squeezes his thighs to Eddie’s waist and grinds back and forth, back and forth, the head of his dick smearing into the puddle on his sweats. Buck opens his mouth to speak again, tries to repeat the word harder, except all that comes out is, “Huh, uh, uh-h!”

Because Eddie’s really got him by the throat, now, his teeth digging in. There’s no blood but it’s still a deep, sharp pressure, and it feels crazy, Buck feels crazy, fuck, it feels so good. It feels so good, and it shouldn’t, but it does, and Eddie isn’t letting go, and Buck is still making noises. Uncontrollable noises, his hips thrashing.

In a flurry of motion, Eddie shifts and grabs the band of Buck’s sweatpants, right above his ass, and yanks them down. They get stuck because Buck’s legs are still around Eddie’s waist but that doesn’t matter, Buck can’t focus on it, he’s too busy clawing Eddie’s own sweatpants down, until their dicks are free and pressing together.

“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie gasps, lifting his head from Buck’s neck. “Jesus, you’re wet.” 

“Yeah,” Buck moans, because those words, in that tone, prickle down his spine. He shivers with his whole body. 

Eddie slams their mouths together, his hand reaching between Buck’s legs. But he doesn’t do the easy thing and touch Buck’s dick. Instead, while they kiss and rock and writhe, he reaches down and cups Buck’s balls, settling them into the dip of his palm while his fingers press back and rub against that long stretch of skin. Buck jerks and startles, clamping down on Eddie’s lip, and—

Blood, again. Eddie’s lip is bleeding. 

Something erupts out of Buck, a high-pitched noise like a dog whining. Frantically, Buck drags his tongue across Eddie’s split lip, over and over, and he can’t— he can’t, he can't.

His body is moving but he isn't in control. He can’t feel his fingers. His head is spinning already, spinning like he’s off his face except he’s not, it’s just Eddie. Eddie presses his fingers hard behind Buck’s balls and Buck groans strangely, all throat, and then Eddie’s hand slides up. His fist closes around Buck’s dick and starts stroking. Buck can’t find words to describe it. He can’t quantify it. Doesn’t know if it’s sloppy, or smooth, or hesitant, or practiced. No idea at all. All he knows is that it feels good, feels better than anything ever has in his whole life, is better than any other fucking he’s done, because it’s— because—

“Oh-h, shit, Eddie, oh—”

It’s Eddie, it’s Eddie, and it feels like flying top-speed down a hill, arms stretched out on his bike, but also safe. Like he’ll never, ever crash. It will never hurt and that swooping joy will continue forever. He loves it, he loves, loves, loves, it’s so large in his chest; he loves Eddie, oh he loves Eddie, loves him, he loves Eddie more than he thought he could love anything.

“That’s it, Buck, Buck, yeah,” Eddie says, breathing hotly against Buck’s mouth. “Does that feel good? You feeling good, bud?”

And Buck just— fucking giggles, and then gasps and groans, because why would Eddie call him bud now, and why does it feel so good? It’s like the word scratches down his back, lighting up buttons he didn’t know he had. It’s such a gentle and loving humiliation and Eddie isn’t even doing it on purpose. 

“Yes, yeah, y-yeah, Eddie, fuck,” Buck stutters between panting breaths. He licks his lips and finds Eddie’s blood lingering there, and that copper taste sweeps him away again. His eyes roll back with the roll of Eddie’s fist.

His legs are shaking. He can feel them, trembling all the way down his thighs and calves, his toes curling. He’s really gonna— it’s really, it’s really— and it’s never been like this, it’s just a fucking handjob—

“Eddie!” Buck moans. “Eddie, it’s c— I’m gonna— wait, wait, Eddie, wait—”

“Oh, shit, Buck,” Eddie gasps. He stops his hand but squeezes a few times, clench and release, and it still feels so good. Buck’s dick is burning hot, red and slick and angry. His belly feels wet, and it is, it has to be, his precum has been flying everywhere for the past few minutes. Fuck, fuck, but the thought makes his abdomen flex and his dick jump, each pulse of Eddie’s hand streaking through him like a shooting star, bright and burning and special. Amazing. 

Helplessly, Buck laughs again, because his body feels sharp and bright, like he’s been edging, like this is the fifth time Eddie’s hand stopped instead of the first. Like they’ve been going for hours instead of fifteen minutes. He feels like a teenage kid— except, no, that’s not right. He’s never felt like this. It’s never been like this. 

“Why’d we stop?” Eddie asks. 

Buck opens his mouth but can’t find an answer. Why did he stop Eddie? 

Before he’s conscious of the answer, he’s already talking. He blurts, “Tell me… tell me we’ll do this again. Tell me this isn’t the only time.”

Eddie stares down at him with his deep eyes. Brown and glimmering. Hair on his face, because he hadn’t shaved in the shower. Oh, he’s so beautiful. It makes Buck feel hot and relaxed, like honey in the sun, like he might just slide away from himself. 

“Of course it’s not,” Eddie says. “Of course it’s not, Buck, Jesus, I’m— don’t you know?”

“Know what?” Buck asks, but then he looks at Eddie’s face, his precious face, and the suddenly-scared clench of Eddie’s jaw, and he thinks, a direct echo of Eddie’s words: of course. Of course, of course. Of course it’s not the only time. The way Eddie is looking at him? The way Eddie, apparently, has been looking at him— because Buck recognizes the expression, has seen it from the corner of his eye a dozen or maybe a hundred times— of course this won’t be their only time. 

Eddie says, gazing down with his right hand still on Buck’s dick, “It’s you. It’s us. I want you all the time.” He pauses, thoughtful, then shakes his head. “I want you forever.”

And it’s absurd. It’s so fucking absurd, Eddie saying this while his hand is slick from Buck’s precome, and Buck is still halfway to bursting everywhere, to snapping and gushing like a waterballoon. Even with all of that: Eddie is hesitant. His eyes are big and hopeful.

Buck’s heart leaps and aches, like a muscle flexing, trying to reach out. Trying to leap out of him and crawl into Eddie’s mouth, maybe.   

“You’re— Eddie. Come on.” Buck shakes his head, baffled. “I want you forever, too.” 

Eddie stares at him for a second, red cheeks flushed, sweat beaded on his forehead, and then laughs. Beautiful, his high-pitched laughter. Familiar and special. Buck grins back at him and traces a thumb over Eddie’s sharp canines. Still laughing, Eddie gently captures Buck’s thumb between his teeth. Nibbles. Slides his tongue out in a gentle lick, then twists his head to kiss Buck’s palm.

It’s romantic. Oh, Jesus, but Eddie is going to be so fucking romantic. And of course he is. He always has been. He’s been this way since the moment they met, or close to it, anyway.

“Sounds good,” Eddie says. “So, come on, Buck. Can we get you off now? Promise it’ll happen again. Plenty of times.” Eddie squeezes his hand around Buck’s dick, which obviously hasn’t softened, then drags his palm upward. Gently rubs his calloused hand over the slit of Buck’s dick.

Buck makes a noise. Eddie smiles. Helplessly, Buck smiles back, so hard his eyes squint and Eddie’s face blurs. But, wait, he needs to say— 

“Touch yourself, too,” Buck bargains, because he doesn’t trust himself to do it right. Not with the way it’s been feeling: electric and wild, pleasure so strong he loses control of his arms and legs. Can’t feel his mouth or tongue. He won’t do it any justice. So, it’s better to not have the choice. He won’t be able to fuck up like that, and Eddie will come, and maybe it’ll get all over Buck— maybe he’ll be able to scoop it up with his fingers, after, and swallow it whole. 

And why shouldn’t he swallow it? Another piece of Eddie, for him to keep. He wants everything he can get. And Eddie, like a miracle, is going to give it to him.

Eddie’s eyes get darker, pupils blowing wide even though it’s broad daylight in the bedroom. When he leans forward, he’s silent except for a puff of air, and then his hot mouth is pressed against Buck’s.

They twist together on the bed, Eddie shifting to kneel with Buck’s legs still wrapped around him. And then Eddie’s thighs spread wide, and Buck is forced to open with him, until their crotches are pressed close together and Buck’s legs are spread far enough to almost ache. Only almost, though.

Their dicks collide, sticky and burning, and Eddie wraps his fist around them both. He slides his fist slow, then quicker, until it’s flying and Buck is back to trembling. His knees shaking around Eddie’s waist, toes curling, moaning uh, huh, uh, uh each time Eddie’s hand cups the heads of their dicks. 

All at once, Buck’s dick is on fire again, hot and tight and dripping, too. He’s not leaking. He’s squirting, small jets pulsing out with each stroke. He’s going to come a lot. Fuck, shit, but he’s really going to come a lot, and his hips are twisting, writhing up into Eddie, because he can’t handle it anymore, he can’t— normally he loves to drag it out, but not today, he needs it, he needs it, he can’t— 

“Eddie, yes, yes, yesyesyes,” Buck gasps. 

“Good, Buck,” Eddie tells him. He clunks their foreheads together, angled down like he’s staring between their bodies, watching his own fist flying. “Yeah, just like that, you sound so…”

“What?” Buck says, because Eddie needs to say it, Buck needs him to say it, oh, fuck, his dick is on fire, oh fuck, oh, oh, oh, oh— 

“You sound so pretty, baby,” Eddie says, and Buck claws down his back jerkily. “Fuck, keep making those noises, Buck. Jesus, look at you— You’re doing so good, bud.”

And that’s it. That’s really, really it, something about that strikes through Buck like a hammer, and he’s coming in jets, long hot streams, hips thrusting up with each one. It goes and goes, the agonizingly good flex of his balls, the clenching in his dick. He’s moaning, shaking, and then Eddie does— his fist is still moving, and he does something, and suddenly it’s like it happens all over again, and Buck almost cries out. His body thrashes, and he’s drooling, and he doesn’t care because it feels so good, so good, really— really good, oh, oh. 

Eddie lets go of his dick right when it starts to hurt and Buck whines a complaint. He forces an eye open and discovers Eddie’s hand flying, jerking himself so quickly it almost blurs, the muscles in Eddie’s neck and forearm straining. And then Eddie is gone, too, coming hot into his own hand. He hunches down, humping for a moment, his eyes screwed shut, and then trembles above Buck.

Buck stares. Eddie holds himself, his hand cupped around his dick, and Buck’s mouth waters. He wiggles his numb tongue around in his mouth, trying to get feeling back so he can ask—

Except he doesn’t need to ask.

Eddie lifts his head, eyes still midnight-dark, and reaches up with his own come sliding down his fingers. Pearly and white and thick. Buck’s lips part and Eddie slides his fingers inside, the taste bitter and strong, and Buck moans. Eddie reaches back, almost into Buck’s throat, and Buck sucks

He sucks Eddie’s fingers clean. When Eddie tries to pull away, Buck follows, licking over Eddie’s knuckles and palm, lapping his tongue down to Eddie’s wrist. Buck’s body feels hot again, and tight, but also somehow liquid. Like he’s been poured, boiling, into something very small. Or otherwise like Eddie is taking up space inside of him. 

They stare at each other. The room is still very bright. It’s daytime. Eddie’s hair is flopping over his forehead.

When Eddie tumbles forward, Buck catches him, and they’re kissing again between one breath and the next.