Archive of Our Own

It starts like this.

Eddie’s had a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes ever since their last call. He’s just off a 48-hour shift and left with only enough time to dump his work duffel by the couch, dry-swallow a Tylenol in front of his bathroom mirror, and glare in betrayal at his own exhausted reflection before he has to hop back in his truck to head to Chris’s school and meet the bus bringing his class back from their three day science camp field trip.

He's missed his kid a lot, even if it was just three days apart and the Bear Creek Ranch camp is only a few hours out of Los Angeles. He’d really been looking forward to taking Chris for waffles and getting a chance to have his ear talked off about every single thing he’d gotten up to while away. But his head is pounding and it hurts to swallow—he should’ve taken that Tylenol with a glass of water—and he’s sweated through the thin t-shirt he only just changed into at the station; he’s not sure he’s going to be very good company.

Sighing, he grabs his keys and gets back into the truck, feeling more empathetic towards Buck, who’d pouted unhappily through the majority of their shift when he’d learned his fortnightly post-lightning strike check-up was scheduled for the same morning Christopher’s getting home, and that he’d have to miss the waffles-and-camp-stories breakfast they’d had planned. If there’s anyone who stresses about letting Chris down more than Eddie, never mind that his kid isn’t even aware of this possibility of weekday waffles and therefore won’t be disappointed by a lack thereof, it’s Buck.

Outside the school, Eddie gingerly pushes his sunglasses higher up his nose. The truck is hot from the sun, heat bleeding off the metal and making his back that much sweatier where he’s leaning against it. He can feel the perspiration dripping down the nape of his neck, and does his goddamned best to suppress the shiver that wants to roll through his entire body. If he’s going to fall sick, he’ll fall sick after he’s hugged his son for as long as a twelve year old will humanly tolerate, thank you very much.

The school bus rounds the corner the same time his phone chimes with a message from Buck. He pushes himself off the truck and makes his way to the center of the parking lot, thumbing open the text as he goes.

Buck: chris reach yet?

Eddie slips his phone back into his pocket in favour of scanning the stream of mussed seventh-grade heads of hair steadily pouring out the bus. He doesn’t even notice when the anticipatory smile his face stretches into pulls at the ache in his temples, too busy catching sight of a girl with shiny brown bangs and Chris’s bulging backpack slung over her shoulder as she chatters away to—his son, who is grinning at her as he carefully steps off the bus, hair so tousled Eddie just knows it’s not seen a brush in the last 72 hours. The girl—Sally?—offers Chris his bag back and Eddie watches his son transfer his crutches to one hand while he puts the backpack on, saying something to the girl with that same cheeky twinkle Buck gets when he’s telling the world’s worst joke. He’s proved right when Chris’s friend groans before laughing anyway, Chris grinning at her, looking so very pleased with himself.

Parents are reuniting with kids all around him, and he only feels a little selfish when he interrupts his son with a “Chris!” and big wave.

Christopher turns to him, still beaming, and Eddie’s heart feels full to the brim.

“Dad!” Chris calls back, before saying a quick goodbye to his friend and making his way over to Eddie.

“Hey, kid,” Eddie says, reaching for his backpack when he gets to him. Before he can grab it, Chris faceplants into Eddie’s stomach with an oof, crutches clattering together as his skinny arms wrap around Eddie.

Eddie’s body reacts automatically, hugging his kid to him even as his brain catches up that yeah, his son still doesn’t mind being seen hugging his dad in front of his friends, and oh but that’s gonna make Eddie cry. He settles for holding him a little tighter before letting go, grabbing Chris’s bag and ruffling his curls. His fingers get caught in the tangles and he snorts out a laugh.

“Ow,” Chris says, grinning anyway.

“Ow, yourself. Did you just forget about the hairbrush you packed—my hairbrush, might I add, or did you just not bother showering at all?” Eddie enquires as they head to his truck.

“I showered,” Chris protests, handing Eddie his crutches as he gets into the passenger seat. Since turning twelve, and after many arguments without any real heat to them, they’d agreed he’s old enough and tall enough to sit up front with Eddie. “But there was just so much to do, Dad, there just wasn’t enough time to be brushing my hair every day.”

Eddie laughs properly at that, waiting for the tell-tale click of Chris’s seatbelt buckle slotting into place before buckling himself in. His phone buzzes again and he slides it out, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair to see the screen clearly.

Buck: cant believe i’m missing waffles for this

There’s a selfie attached of Buck hooked up to the EKG monitor, face drawn into the same pout he’d been wearing when Eddie last saw him. The Lichtenberg scar across his chest has faded, barely visible now, but Eddie knows it was there, knows to look for it even if he doesn’t want to. He studies the photo, half-seeing pale lines spider across Buck’s smooth skin, imagining them disappearing under the wires and suction cups of the machine.

“Is that Buck?” Chris asks.

“Yep, he’s just getting his check-up,” Eddie says, turning the screen to show Chris and pushing down the tightness that always grasps his chest when he’s confronted with his best friend’s mortality. “We were gonna take you for waffles so we could hear about camp, but we might have to raincheck on that,” he says, apologetic.

Chris nods. “That’s okay, I was kinda looking forward to just doing nothing for a bit anyway. I need a nap. And then maybe some video games. Oh, I need some sweet, sweet screen-time.”

Eddie laughs again as his son exhales longingly, and turns back to his phone. Yes, he types out in response to Buck’s first message. He clicks the camera icon and angles the phone to get Chris in the shot with him. “Picture for Buck,” he tells Chris, and he smiles obligingly as Eddie clicks it.

Eddie captions it “all fingers and toes accounted for” and sends it exactly as his phone chimes again with a message from Buck, demanding proof of life picture????

He smiles at his phone as Buck laugh-reacts to the photo.

Eddie: We’re gonna raincheck waffles actually so don’t worry about missing anything

He starts the car, wincing a little when Chris turns on the radio and the oldies rock station it’s tuned to blares out music louder than Eddie’s capable of handling right now. He flips his sunglasses back down, turns the volume dial liberally to the left—ignoring the shake in his fingers—and peels out of the school parking lot.

In their driveway, Eddie parks and only flinches a bit when Chris accidentally slams the door a little hard. He feels like shit, both because he wasn’t really able to ask Chris as many questions as he wanted to while Chris gave him the CliffsNotes version of his trip, and because he’s pretty sure he has a fever. His brain feels too big for his skull, swollen and tender, and he pinches the bridge of his nose gently to try and alleviate the ache.

“Dad? Keys?” Chris asks from the front door.

Eddie sighs and gets out of the truck slowly, reaching for Chris’s bag in the backseat. He unlocks the door, and Chris makes a beeline for his room.

“Shower first, please!” he calls after him, carrying the backpack to the laundry room, scooping up his work duffel from beside the couch as he goes. Chris makes what he can only hope is a grunt of assent, and he sighs again. He empties both bags into the hamper, heart sinking at the sheer amount of dirty clothes in front of him. It sinks a little further when he picks up the bottle of fabric softener and it’s suspiciously light. He immediately discovers that this is because it is completely empty, and if the puddle of sticky liquid on the shelf below it is anything to go by, this is not on him for not restocking his empties. The mess extends down to the floor, dripped and pooled over the power cables of his washer-dryer.

Eddie hunches over and groans, and then has to hold himself stock-still to ride through the wave of nausea that passes through him. When he’s able to straighten up, the harsh white light of the laundry room does nothing to help with the dizziness. “Okay,” he whispers, and abandons the heap of clothes that do, unfortunately, smell like they were worn by an almost-teenage boy and a man who worked up a respectable amount of sweat at his physically laborious job.

He makes himself sip an entire glass of cool water in the kitchen, and then catches Chris as he’s dutifully making his way to the bathroom, clean clothes in hand and headphones on.

“Hey, bud, I’m just gonna nap for a bit. But wake me up if you need anything, okay? Door’s open. I’ll be up for lunch,” he tells him, leaning heavily against the wall and trying to act like he’s not.

“Okay,” Chris says, mostly distracted, but seemingly unconcerned. Good, Eddie thinks, relieved, glad his son doesn’t worry much about a repeat of what happened in Eddie’s room over a year ago these days. Eddie knows the likelihood of that happening again is low, so low with all the work he’s put in at therapy and with himself. He’s glad it shows, that Christopher doesn’t stress every time Eddie closes a door any more, that he’s fought for and won back the steadiness upon which he’s built their family. It faltered for a moment there, with Buck’s heart, but he didn’t get off that damn gurney till the rhythm returned. Wobbly-kneed as they wheeled him away, but steadying with every consecutive beat. Steady with the first even breath.

Chris slams the bathroom door cheerfully, and Eddie is shaken out of his train of thought with a grimace. Teenagehood is looking to be a lot of unintentionally slammed doors and he for one is not looking forward to it.

He heaves himself off the wall and slinks into his bedroom. Strips off his damp t-shirt, shivers, and pulls on the softest hoodie in his dresser. He draws the curtains shut as completely as he can, overlapping them to block out every leak of sunlight, and slides beneath his sheets, exhaling in relief when his cheek meets the cool cotton of his pillow. The room is dark, his eyes are closing, and he is going to sleep off whatever the fuck this is if it’s the last thing he does.

He does not sleep it off.

He wakes with a start, legs tangled in his sheets as he shifts to sit up. His eyes are gritty, his throat is dry, and his goddamn head still feels like someone’s operating a jackhammer inside it. He fumbles for his phone and squints at the bright screen in the dim room.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, the digital clock informing him it’s three in the afternoon. He hopes Chris helped himself to leftovers or a sandwich for lunch. He knows he set an alarm for noon, fucking technology man, always screwing you over when you actually need to rely on it. He extricates himself from his bedding and stands up, wobbly. The nausea seems to have passed, small blessings, and he leaves the soothing darkness of his room.

The rest of his house is bright with hazy afternoon light. He squints some more, and heads to the living room. He can hear the distinctive noises from Chris’s latest video game, cheery bursts of sound every time he collects something he needs in the on-screen quest, but at a much lower volume than he’s come to expect from his son’s playing.

“I hate this bit, it always takes me forever to get past this guy,” Chris says, curls peeking out over the top of the sofa, and Eddie smiles fondly from the doorway before frowning—he’s not got his headset on?

Then he hears, “Oh, this guy is the worst, try that combo attack from level two?” in a voice second in familiarity only to his son’s. He steps fully into the living toom and sees Buck, all six foot two of him sat cross-legged on his carpet, folding what looks like fresh laundry from the hamper beside him into little piles on his coffee table.

“Yessss,” Buck cheers softly, so gentle about it that it has to be intentional, as Chris does something in the game that levels him up. Eddie’s legs feel wobbly again, but in a different way. He goes to sit beside Chris before they decide to go full Jell-O on him, and both he and Buck turn to Eddie with smiles.

“Hey Dad,” Chris greets him before unpausing the game. Eddie reaches an arm out to squeeze his shoulder gently before looking at Buck.

“Hey,” Buck says to him, eyes so soft Eddie might miss the crease of concern lining his brow if he wasn’t so well acquainted with it. “How’re you feeling?”

“’M okay,” Eddie says, voice a little raspy from sleep and the soreness in his throat. “When did you get here?”

“Around eleven? I came after my check-up. All clear, except they diagnosed me with a serious case of missing one Christopher Diaz,” Buck grins, and Chris groans good-naturedly on the other side of Eddie. “Figured we’d have some lunch, catch up, play some games, and I’d be miraculously cured.”

Eddie nods, something delicate unfurling in his chest as he watches Buck go right back to folding Eddie and Chris’s clean clothes, Chris’s video game chirps filling the quiet.

“Are you hungry? Sorry we didn’t wake you for lunch, I thought we should let you get as much sleep as possible,” Buck says after a minute of comfortable silence.

“Mm. That’s okay, my alarm didn’t go off anyway, so meant to be, I guess,” Eddie yawns, moving to scrub at his eyes but pausing a hair away at the warning throb of his headache.

“Ah.” Buck looks at him, contrite. “Um, also sorry for that? I snuck in and turned off your alarm when I got here.”

Eddie regards him blearily for a second, then asks, “How did you know I was feeling less than. Bursting with health?”

Buck levels him with an unimpressed look, hands pausing mid-air where they’d been folding one of Eddie’s old fire academy t-shirts. “You were quiet after that last call even though everything went fine. Didn’t tell me to stop grumbling about my appointment, which. I was grumbling a lot. Cancelled waffles even though you’ve been talking about it for the last three days, even after you knew you’d have to enjoy them despite a devastating absence of me.” He shifts his gaze back to the t-shirt, creasing the edges with a shocking level of perfection. “Also, the selfie you sent me was… rough. You looked like death warmed up.”

Eddies feels his ears redden, and is suddenly thankful for the fever flush he’s sporting. “Okay, okay,” he mumbles, only slightly defensive, sinking back into the couch. He closes his eyes, letting the video game noises lull him into not-quite-sleep, but a gentle in-between.

He starts a little when a while later a large, cool hand is pressed to his forehead. He blinks up at Buck, who’s got that concerned crease to his face again, and unconsciously leans forward to follow Buck’s hand when he lifts it away. His face heats again, embarrassed, and he looks to the side. All the laundry sits in neat little piles on the table, and something about it makes his breath hitch.

“Think you might still have a fever,” Buck murmurs. “Eat something and sleep some more?”

Eddie shakes his head, nausea returning at the prospect of a meal. “Not hu— Don’t think I can eat anything right now.”

Buck nods assent, but offers his hand to Eddie anyway. He lets himself be pulled to his feet and led to the kitchen, confused but too tired to ask more questions.

Buck pulls out a chair at the table and Eddie sits, closing his eyes again. He can hear Buck rummaging about the kitchen, quiet clinks and water boiling and drawers squeaking open. There’s the sound of something being placed down right in front of him, and he opens his eyes to a steaming mug. It’s his favourite mug, one Chris made at school years ago, handle chipped and Best Dad In The World glitter paint rubbed half-off. He looks up at Buck, who’s already looking at him, eyes still so soft Eddie’s starting to feel unravelled in a way that has nothing to do with the fever. He tells Eddie, “Lemon-ginger-honey tea. Thought it’d help the throat and the nausea.”

Eddie wraps his hands around the mug gratefully. He sips slowly as Buck turns away, tidying the small mess he’s made concocting the tea. His eyes fall on the clean plates and washed pans stacked to dry, something in his sternum itching when he realises Buck came over and cooked Chris a proper hot lunch for his first meal back home.

Buck’s throwing half a squeezed lemon in the compost bin, the other half ripe and rotund and yellow where it lies on the counter. Eddie doesn’t remember having any fresh lemons in his fridge. He says as much to Buck, who suddenly looks… embarrassed? And turns himself so Eddie can’t see his face when he replies, “Oh, when I was doing laundry I needed to run out and get fabric softener anyway, so. I just picked up a couple of other things.”

“Oh, shit, the laundry room,” Eddie bemoans, reminded of the absolute state of it. If he focuses on that he doesn’t have to think about how easily Buck looks after them. After him.

Buck laughs, still turned away, and says, “Nah, it didn’t take that long to sort out. Looked worse than it was.”

Eddie’s been in warzones less chaotic than the way he’d left his laundry room. Buck walked right through it, armed with nothing but fresh groceries and a heart that is always ready to help, never waiting to be asked. Just there, bringing world peace. To the Diaz household. Eddie has a fever. Eddie’s losing track of this analogy.

He scratches at his chest through the thick fabric of his hoodie, trying to rub away at whatever is itching inside him. “Buck,” he says, before he knows what he wants to say. Buck hums in response, putting the box of tea back into a cupboard. “Thank you,” he decides on, saying it heavily, with feeling. He’ll think of a less lame way to express his gratitude when his body isn’t turning against him.

Buck turns to face him finally. Maybe it wasn’t embarrassment before, Eddie thinks. Maybe it was shyness, he thinks, as Buck’s cheeks are dusted pink in the muted kitchen light. His eyes meet Eddie’s before glancing down to where Eddie’s scrubbing at his chest.

“Why don’t you take a quick shower?” he suggests, taking the empty mug from Eddie and putting it in the sink. “Fever’s probably had you sweating all day, might make you feel better and then you can sleep?”

Eddie makes a noise of agreement and struggles to his feet, shuffling down the hall straight into the bathroom. He zones out under the hot spray of the shower till the air gets too steamy, and then wraps a towel around his waist before stepping out to his room.

He pulls on some sleep shorts and woozily paws through his drawers, looking for something warm to wear, before realizing he just sweated through his one comfy hoodie. He lives in LA, his healthy body runs hot, he doesn’t need more sweaters. I need more sweaters, he thinks to himself miserably.

There’s a knock on his door, and Buck pokes his head in. “You okay?” he asks, and frowns when Eddie whole-body shivers even while he’s replying yes. He disappears, and ten seconds later the door is being opened properly as he comes in, folded fabric in his arms.

“One of my hoodies must’ve gotten mixed up with your clothes, it was in your duffel bag so I just threw it in the wash too,” he says, handing Eddie a worn LAFD hoodie with a faded BUCKLEY on the back. Eddie clutches it to his chest before wriggling his way into it. It’s massive, big on Buck and a goddamn circus tent on him. It’s warm, and it smells like his own familiar brand of fabric softener, and it belongs to Buck.

He looks at Buck, who’s already looking back, always looking back, and the itching in his chest grows, stretches wide, blooms into something Eddie knows the name for.

His heart trips, and he steps back, hitting the bed and sitting down heavily. Buck must take this as a need to rest, not a need to anchor himself while—not his whole world rearranges itself, no, but maybe while he lets himself really realise that the composition of what he’s built is different to what he’d thought. No less or more important, just remarkably different. In a giddy, life-altering sort of way.

But Buck thinks he needs to rest, and he does, and Buck’s slipping out of his room, murmuring, “I’ll wake you up for dinner. Sleep.”

It starts like this.

(Or, maybe this isn’t how it started, it’s just when he gave it a name. Maybe it started with a bomb and unwavering trust given before it was even earned and or, you know, maybe you could have mine.)

________

It goes like this.

Nearly everybody Eddie loves is under the Grant-Nash roof for what has devolved into a full-blown house party. They’re not celebrating anything in particular, just the fact that they haven’t all been together—partners and kids and dispatch co-workers included—in a non-work setting in a hot second. The 118 A-shift got off a long and weird 48-hour that morning, and after a solid nap and scramble to put together a rendition of Abuela’s chicken tamales (perfectly fucking edible, thank you very much Chim) for the potluck, they’re all in the same place once again, only considerably more inebriated.

It also just so happens to be Valentine’s Day, which is neither here nor there, except Eddie can’t stop thinking about the little revelation he’d had a few weeks ago when he was ill and Buck was there, like he always is.

So now Eddie’s sat on one end of the couch, sipping the positively deadly cocktail May and Linda handed him and staunchly ignoring the way the rosy pink of the hearts in the bunting Athena’s strung up perfectly matches the rosy pink of Buck’s lips as they curl around his words. He’s stood by the French doors, talking excitedly to Josh, who’s smiling nervously as he watches Buck’s drink slosh a little more vigorously with every expressive hand gesture. Eddie wonders what Buck’s telling him. God, Eddie could listen to Buck talk for the rest of his life, probably. Definitely, he thinks, sipping his drink again to tamp down the fond smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when Buck inevitably does end up spilling his own drink on himself.

Josh hands Buck a kitchen towel, and Eddie watches him dab at his own sleeve before giving up and uncuffing them to roll them up to his elbows, still talking a mile a minute to Josh, who looks much more harried than Eddie feels is called for. Buck suddenly inhales all big, the way he sometimes does when he simply forgets to breathe normally, too caught up in his impassioned speech that could be about anything under the sun, really, and Eddie’s smile slips past his guards, unreserved fondness bleeding through.

“Alright there, Diaz?” Karen asks, laugh barely hidden in her question.

“What?” Eddie replies absently, eyes glued to where Buck’s forearms are now straining against the fabric of his rolled-up shirtsleeves in a manner that is quite frankly obscene. Will no one think of the children, he thinks semi-hysterically, before Karen’s actual laughter draws his full attention to her.

She’s smirking at him from the loveseat by the couch, squished against Hen, who is in deep conversation with Chim. “Eddie Diaz, such a considerate guest, really committing to the party theme. And here I was feeling good about coming early to help tape up the banners,” she grins, gesturing at the pink Valentine’s bunting above them.

“What?” Eddie repeats, this time in confusion instead of inattention.

“The goddamn heart-eyes, Diaz,” Karen laughs. “I feel like I’m interrupting something here. I’d say put 'em away, but 'tis the season, and also, I don’t think you actually could if you wanted to.”

“I—Listen,” Eddie starts, blush tearing its way across his face. He stares down into his cup, and then looks back up at Buck, who’s still windmilling his arms, slightly less full drink in hand, like he hasn’t just lived through this very struggle.

“Yeah? I’m listening,” Karen says, enjoying this entirely too much.

Eddie sighs and looks back at her, smile a little helpless and a lot contentedly reconciled to his current state of existence. “You’re—not wrong,” he acquiesces.

“I’m never wrong,” Karen informs him, sipping her own dangerous cocktail smugly. “Have you told him?”

Eddie exhales and shakes his head. “I will, I just. Whatever he says, things will change, and I have to be ready for them to change. I—I just got him back, you know? And I wouldn’t be losing him, I know that’s ridiculous, but. Things are—comfortable. And I know he deserves to know how—much he makes me feel, and I know this is a risk that’s worth everything, but…” he trails off. Karen’s smile has softened, sympathetic in its curve.

He looks away, chest feeling tight suddenly, and realises the familiar hum of Buck’s voice in the background has disappeared. He’s not by the doors with Josh anymore and Eddie can’t see into the kitchen from his seat on the couch. He wonders briefly if he can deal with the embarrassment of getting up to look for Buck while Karen watches, but then she’s talking to him again.

“I think you’ve thought about this more than anything I could say would help,” she says, smiling gently. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think this risk is as much a gamble as you think.”

Eddie tilts his head at her, dubious.

“I’m not the betting kind of woman, but if I were, I’d put my—house and mortgage and, uh, rocket ships on the line that that man there wants you just as badly,” she tells him. She glances to the right and grins big, “Oh, I’d bet it all,” and as Hen turns to her with mild concern and enquires what exactly she’s doing with their worldly possessions, Eddie looks up to Buck ambling over to him, drink refilled and face flushed. The anxious thrum in his chest eases.

“Hey,” Buck says, collapsing next to him on the couch, legs sprawled out and thigh a warm line against Eddie’s. God, his legs look so good in these slacks, Eddie just wants to bury his face in—no, okay, no boners in front of friends and family is a good rule and one Eddie does not intend on breaking tonight.

“Hey,” he mumbles, eyes drifting back up to Buck’s face, slow enough that it’s not not sexual, and at this point Eddie’s just hoping Buck’s had enough to drink that he doesn’t notice. Buck’s just smiling at him, simple and syrupy-sweet through the haze of mixed liquor in Eddie’s blood. “How’re you doing?”

“I was telling Josh how weird our shift was. Like, unnaturally weird, considering it wasn’t a full moon, or Halloween, and no one said the Q-word, and we didn’t find any cursed artifacts,” Buck lists off, head lolling on the back of the couch so he faces Eddie. His cheeks are pink from the alcohol, and Eddie gets a little lost staring at them, fingers twitching around his cup with the need to reach out and touch. “Like, that woman with the house full of mannequins?” He shudders. “And our hoses not turning on? I mean, thank God the 133 got there even though we were told it wasn’t a house fire, but if Hen hadn’t found that extinguisher, it would so have burned through the seat of his pants. Chim would not be sitting so comfortably right now.”

Chimney lifts his head towards them at the mention of his name to shudder in traumatised agreement, then carries on his conversation with Hen. Eddie smiles at Buck’s disgruntled expression, thoroughly endeared. He knows he must look stupidly fond to anyone who might be watching but finds he’s okay with that.

“Also,” Buck continues, “I cannot believe that twice now we’ve had to take an actual octopus off someone’s face and neither time has been at the beach, or the aquarium, or a lab.”

Eddie laughs at the way Buck’s voice has gone from aggrieved to enthusiastic talking about their last call. He remembers their first octopus call, how Buck had been so taken by the creature he’d shown up the next day having read an entire educational book about them as well as devouring whatever the internet had to offer. Last night, he’d volunteered eagerly to be the one to delicately get it off the poor barista’s face. He’d been so gentle with it, carefully transferring it to the tank that Animal Control had provided, and Eddie’s heart had chafed against his ribcage with how heavily he wanted.

Buck rubs at the burgundy cocktail stain where his shirtsleeve is folded at his elbow. “Octopuses’ arms have a mind of their own, too,” he tells Eddie with a rueful grin. “Maybe I’ve also got most of my nerve cells in my limbs.” He wiggles his arms out, only narrowly avoiding spilling his drink again. He takes a big sip so the cup’s not as full.

He’s silent for a minute, and Eddie’s watching his face as his mouth turns downwards, just a little. “They don’t live very long lives, you know. For all they get up to, all they learn and know and can do, they die pretty quick. Only a few years, at most.” He smiles at Eddie, a little sadly. “Live fast, die young. Whether or not they want to.”

Eddie feels a little like crying. He wishes he wasn’t as tipsy as he is, wishes Buck wasn’t, wishes he could fix this. He can’t, just like Buck couldn’t when Eddie’d had to break. He will be here, though, and he will hold Buck’s hand—emotionally and physically, he decides, reaching for Buck with the hand not holding his cup.

His fingers curl around Buck’s palm as he continues, frowning. “They have three hearts, too. Is that. Do you think that means something. Symbolically, I mean. Like, I’ve seriously dated three—I mean.” He huffs frustratedly and knocks back the last of the liquor in his cup. “Maybe it’s. Maybe you get three chances, and then you die. Game over.”

And, okay, Eddie might not have the words to fix this, or the sober eloquence this conversation probably needs, but he’s not going sit here and let the most beautiful man he’s ever known, inside and out, hurt himself with this line of thought. He twists his hand, slotting their fingers together properly and squeezing, looking Buck dead in the eye when he turns to Eddie.

“Buck,” he says firmly, “You’re not a fucking octopus.”

Buck sways away, exhaling on a self-deprecating laugh.

“Buck,” Eddie insists, tugging his hand till it’s in Eddie’s lap and Buck’s looking over at him again, brow furrowed gently. “You know how I know you’re not an octopus?”

“They can open child-proof bottles and I usually can’t without Bobby’s help?” Buck guesses, dredging up a weak shadow of a smile.

Eddie snorts. “Sure, that too. But how I really know?” Buck waits, blinking slowly at him.

“I know because you told me that octopuses die after they have kids. They mate, and lay eggs, and then they both die, and the—baby octopuses, whatever, are left alone. They leave, or give up, and their babies have to fend for themselves. They have to feed themselves, and protect themselves, and learn everything about the world by themselves. Sure, the female kills herself to make sure the eggs hatch, but what’s the point? She doesn’t look after them, and most of them don’t make it. It’s, what, two? Out of tens of thousands? It’s— What I’m saying is—octopuses don’t know how to raise and love and look after their kids. They’ll never be parents.” Eddie nods his head towards the glass doors, to Christopher sat giggling with Denny on the grass outside. “You are.”

He turns to Buck, distinctly aware that the naked adoration on his face does not dim the slightest as he looks from his son to his best friend, and can’t find it in himself to care. Buck’s staring at him, mouth ajar and eyes saucer-wide.

Eddie’s not sure what else to add, so he clears his throat and squeezes Buck’s hand again, sure and unwavering. Buck looks from him to Chris and back again, mouth opening and closing dazedly. He stares at Eddie for a long moment, and then squeezes his hand back, fingers warm and strong where they grip Eddie’s.

“You, um, you remember me telling you that from nearly three years ago?” he asks, mouth so pink and curving up into a real smile, cheeks dimpling on either side.

Eddie puts his drink on the table in front of them, done for the night, not wanting the moment to blur a single bit more than he can help. His mind flicks back to the conversation he had with Captain Mehta not long ago, finally learning the whole heartstopping truth of what Buck had done to keep him safe that day. The Herculean lengths he’d gone to, out on the blood-spattered street and singlehandedly holding the pieces of Eddie in place in the back of that ambulance. The way Eddie’s entire body had felt like it was lit from within, warm and luminous, the stark opposite of getting shot, when he’d looked away from Mehta and caught Buck’s eye at the bar.

“I think we both know it takes significantly more than something as boring as time for me to forget anything you say to me,” he murmurs, and watches Buck’s eyelashes flutter as he shivers, eyes on Eddie’s mouth.

There’s a crash from the kitchen; Buck inhales sharply as they tear their gazes away from each other and towards the commotion. May shouts “I’m okay!” and in the muddle of people coming in from the garden to check on her, Christopher blows in and over to them.

“Hi Dad, hi Buck,” he greets, grinning in that very specific way he does when he wants something. He’s standing in front of them, leaning heavily against Buck’s shins, tiredness from a full day at school and the late hour seeping through even while his eyes shine excitedly.

Buck lets go of Eddie’s hand, gently extracting his fingers, and before Eddie has a chance to mourn the loss, his heart is once again stumbling as he watches Buck casually wind his arm around Chris’s waist, holding him steady.

“Hey, bud,” Eddie says. “What’s up?”

“Denny says there’s a dog adoption drive happening at his school tomorrow, and they need more volunteers to look after the puppies. Can we go? Please?” He does his own well-perfected version of puppy-dog eyes at them, big and blue and honestly so like Buck it drives Eddie more than a little insane. He turns to Buck, instinctively seeking out parental solidarity, only to find he’s on the receiving end of the adult version of big, blue puppy-dog eyes, too.

He groans out a laugh, looking between the two of them. “This is how it’s gonna be, huh?” he asks, and is cut off by Buck and Chris talking over each other in their efforts to convince him.

“Okay, okay!” he relents pretty much immediately, shaking his head. “We can go. But the ground rules are: Chris, we can’t just play with them all day, we do need to try and actually get them adopted.” Chris opens his mouth indignantly, and Eddie continues, “And Buck, no falling in love with every three-legged mongrel you see, we can’t get a dog right now.” Buck also opens his mouth, matching indignation ready, and then closes it and shrugs in good-natured acceptance. Eddie resolutely does not think about the implications of saying “we can’t get a dog” and no one bothering to distinguish whether he meant Buck, the Diazes, or all of them as one.

Chris seems satisfied with that, and hurries back outside to tell Denny. The throng of people in the kitchen begin emerging, and among them is Maddie with a yawn. She sleepily slings herself across Chim’s shoulders and he looks back at her with such tenderness Eddie feels exposed.

“Home?” Chim asks her, and she nods agreement. Eddie’s chest feels cavernous as he stares down at Buck’s knee, knocking against his own, and imagines an end to this evening where he too can enquire something as simple yet weighty as “home?” and get to keep his boy for the night. For every night. He could, and Buck would say yes and sleep on the couch like they’ve done dozens of times before, but. He waits a beat too long, and then Buck is pulling out his phone and asking Chim and Maddie if they want to share an Uber.

Twenty minutes of cursory post-party clean-up later, everyone is shuffling out the door, calling goodnight to each other. Eddie squints at his phone, the rideshare app informing him that their Uber driver is on the way.

Another car pulls up, and Chim checks the license plate before opening the door for Maddie. Buck spins on his heels towards Eddie and Chris, eyes twinkling, looking so much happier than he’d been on the couch less than an hour ago.

“Goodnight, dearest Diazes,” he says solemnly, bending over in a little bow. Chris giggles, and Buck’s face immediately splits into a grin. He takes one bounding stride over to Chris, grabs his head gently and plants a loud kiss on the top of his curls. Chris shrieks with laughter and a joyful, long-suffering “Buck!”

Eddie has a whole second for his heart to fucking glow at the sight, before Buck is turning to him, mischief in his eyes. He puts his hands up defensively, grinning at Buck anyway, and then Buck is leaping into his space, warm, broad palms cupping Eddie’s face.

Buck leans down to plant a similarly goofy kiss on Eddie’s head, except Eddie looks up, and then Buck is smacking an obnoxious kiss right over Eddie’s right eye. He pulls back, unsure for a second, but Eddie’s laughing, and then Buck’s laughing too, faces so close together he can feel the warmth of Buck’s breath.

“Alright Buck, you’re not going off to war, can we leave now?” Maddie calls from the car, amusement colouring her voice.

“Coming!” Buck calls back, eyes not leaving Eddie’s. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says softly, lingering another couple of seconds before turning and sliding into the car beside Maddie.

Chris leans against Eddie, and they both watch as Buck, cheek pressed to the window, huffs out a breath of hot air and draws a little heart in the condensation on the glass. He’s smiling as the car pulls away, and all Eddie can do is gaze dreamily after him till the car turns the corner, and even then, till his phone is insistently telling him that Dominic from Uber is at his location and Chris is exasperatedly tugging him to the cab, and even then, he watches the road pass and sees Buck’s face looking back, and thinks, nowhere in the history of humanity has there been a risk more worth taking.

________  

It happens like this.

Eddie locks his truck and makes his way up the front steps of his house. He’d picked up an extra half-shift—he wants to take Chris to Mexico to visit his cousins this summer and he’d like to be able to afford to see and do everything they want without worrying about a strict budget.

Their last call had been—hard, but not in a way they could’ve solved. They’d arrived at the old couple’s house and her wife had already been gone, quietly, sat in an armchair facing the window and oak trees outside. The wife who opened the door to them had smiled sadly and told them it was okay, she just needed someone to be gentle with them for this next part. Eddie’d seen the way her entire body relaxed, tightness in her shoulders easing the minute Hen stepped forward, gentle and kind and community.

As they’d wheeled her wife to the ambulance, she’d turned to Eddie and said, “We had all the time we needed, you know? Forty-six years of getting to love each other, even if we couldn’t be as loud about it as we wanted at the beginning.” She watched them load the gurney as the lights flashed silently. “All we needed, and still,” she said, “Still, I’d do anything for one more day.”

Her words echoed in Eddie’s head all the way to the station, and then all the way home. Home, to where Buck is putting Eddie’s son to bed, probably stretching bedtime and risking the wrath of a grumbling preteen too old to be tucked in to pull the blankets tight and drop a kiss on his forehead anyway. Home, to where he’ll eat dinner under the yellow kitchen lights and tell Buck about the lesbian couple who lived and loved so hard, and feel a little lighter when Buck looks at him like he knows, too. Home, to the man he wants to keep building a life with, only loudly.

It's been three weeks since that night at Bobby and Athena’s, and it’s not like Eddie’s not had a chance to tell Buck. There have been so many times over the last weeks he’s almost told him: adrenaline in his veins after that high-rise basket rescue; fondness spilling over as Buck spent that one uneventful afternoon at the station ranking Taylor Swift songs by most dangerous romantic lyrical anecdotes about driving (I know he was a shitty boyfriend, but he almost ran the red because he was looking over at her, Eddie); raw yearning blooming big in his chest when he watched Buck carefully stick matching dinosaur BandAids on Chris’s elbow and his own knee where they’d been scraped when Chris had been bowled over by a particularly energetic Boxer-Labrador mix at the adoption event and Buck had tripped over a pile of leashes and then his own feet in his haste to get to Chris.

Every time he starts to say something, though, his heart starts hammering so loud it’s all he can hear, blood drumming in his ears. Buck looks at him expectantly, and Eddie has to change the subject and wait for his chest to fall back into a regular rhythm. It’s not a bad feeling, just an overwhelming one. Buck will keep looking at him searchingly for hours after, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s hope, or resignation, or both he sees in his face. He will tell him, he just… wants to feel settled enough that his heart kicking off doesn’t affect the significance of the words he chooses, the utterly unshakeable, unchangeable fixedness of his love, because it is the forever kind, and he doesn’t want to stutter through it.

He frowns a little as he sticks the key into the front door. The windows are open, but it’s a particularly muggy night, so that’s not out of the ordinary. The curtains are drawn, but haphazardly, and it doesn’t look like any lights are on inside. He opens the door quietly, unlacing his boots and padding down the hall as softly as he can in case Buck’s asleep on the couch.

The TV’s on, though, he can hear it, and the blue-white glow lights up his otherwise dark living room. He stops a few meters away from the couch, where Buck is curled against the corner cushion, wrapped wholly in a chrysalis of blankets. On the television, Jason Sudeikis is talking in that comforting Midwestern accent, and that very hairy, very attractive British man does something dramatic in the soccer game going on. On the couch, Buck hiccups a wet sob, and reaches for the box of tissues lying on the coffee table beside an empty glass and a plate covered in toast crumbs.

The beginnings of alarm curl through Eddie, and he takes a step forward, only to pause when Buck blows his nose loudly, the most comical sad honk Eddie’s ever heard him produce. Eddie stops, arm dropping back to his side from where he’d begun to reach out, and watches as Buck crumples the tissue in his fist and nestles further back into his cocoon. He just—looks, for another minute, maybe, at his best friend periodically sniffling at the screen. The soccer player is in a locker room, and Buck chokes out another sob. Eddie’s concern wins out and he opens his mouth.

“Buck?” he says quietly.

Buck startles, whipping around to face him before recognition has him relaxing. “Oh, hey Eds, didn’t hear you come in,” he—croaks, if Eddie’s being honest. In the glow of the television, his face is shiny with tears, but he’s smiling at Eddie, a real smile, and Eddie just—

“Buck,” he says again. “Are you watching Ted Lasso and crying in the dark?”

The pink of Buck’s blush blooms through the wetness on his cheeks, and he brings up a hand to wipe at his face slowly.

“…Yes?” he says sheepishly, and Eddie’s heart thumps once, twice, and settles, steady. Oh.

“I love you,” he tells Buck, “So much.”

Buck’s eyes widen for a second before he’s laughing wetly and turning away to mute the TV. “Weird time to say it, but I love you too, man. You’re my best friend.”

“Buck,” Eddie perseveres, taking a last step to the edge of the couch, standing above Buck where he cranes his head and blinks up at Eddie like a damp-faced owl. And Eddie’s thought about what he wants to say for months now, but what comes out is, “I’m not an octopus either. I don’t need three hearts. Maybe I don’t need one at all—the one I’ve got has been pretty happy being yours for… a long time now. It’s been. Pretty happy being in love with you. And I don’t think it plans on stopping.” He doesn’t look away from Buck, however much he wants to melt with embarrassment at whatever the fuck has just come out of his mouth.

Buck’s mouth has dropped open in a little “o”. He looks at Eddie for a long, taut moment, and then says, seriously, “Did you know seahorses mate for life?,” and Eddie climbs over the arm of the couch and into his lap.

“Oh,” Buck breathes, surprised and delighted, “Hi.” He struggles to free his other arm from the clutch of blankets.

“Hi,” Eddie whispers back, hands on Buck’s shoulders, thighs straddling his legs.

Buck gets both hands free, and places one on Eddie’s waist. The other comes up to cup his cheek, tenderness of his touch rivalled only by the tenderness in the way he’s looking at Eddie. “You may have restarted my heart after the strike,” he tells Eddie softly, “But it’s been yours for so much longer. You were saving it long before you ever put your hands on me.”

Eddie’s breath catches, and he moves Buck’s hand from his waist so it rests over Eddie’s sternum, pulse a balanced beat. “I think,” he says, “We’ve been saving each other.” And then he leans forward, feeling Buck’s lashes flutter shut against his cheek as he presses their mouths together.

Buck’s hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His lips are soft against Eddie’s, a little sticky from the iced tea he must’ve been drinking. Eddie fists a hand in the front of his sweatshirt, and he parts his lips on a pleased exhale. When Eddie tilts his head and kisses deeper, desperate for this closeness he’s now allowed, Buck’s mouth tastes sweet, like the expensive blackcurrant jam he buys at the farmer’s market but insists on keeping in Eddie’s kitchen, and salty, like the butter Eddie buys in bulk because it’s the brand Abuela has always used, and—something categorically Buck, just warm and somehow already familiar.

Eddie doesn’t know how long they sit like that, bodies pressed together, mouths moving gently against each other, long, deliberate drags of their lips that makes slow heat spread from his gut to his toes. He doesn’t know if this unbelievable lightness is from getting to hold the love of his life the way he’s wanted to for so long, or from the marked lack of oxygen his brain is receiving, body too preoccupied with touching Buck at every possible point to remember to breathe at consistent intervals.

His cheek is wet where it brushes against Buck’s and he breaks away to touch his fingertips to his face—is he crying? But no, the tears start on Buck’s face, and he reaches out to run his thumb under Buck’s eye, smearing the dampness. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong, because Buck is beaming up at him bright enough to power the whole of LA, but he asks anyway.

“You okay?” he checks, quiet between them.

Buck grins. “I was okay when I was weeping at Roy Kent playing his last match. This? This makes okay look like a Greek tragedy. This is—” he breaks off to drop a quick kiss to Eddie’s mouth, and then tips back. “This is everything I’ve been waiting for. This— This is the rest of my life.”

He ducks his head, looking a little shy, and Eddie lets out a laugh that’s also treasonously wet. He kisses Buck’s temple, hard, and wraps his arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly to his chest. “We do have all the time. For everything. But fuck, am I glad I don’t have to worry about one day less of this, with you.”

Buck leans back and looks at him, and it’s the same way he always looks at Eddie: unguarded and soft. Safe, to be with and to keep.

“So,” Eddie says, thumb pressed into the indent where Buck’s dimple hides. “The rest of our lives, huh? What should we start with?”

Buck tilts his head, cheeky sparkle in his eyes just like their kid, and Eddie braces himself for whatever truly disgraceful joke he’s about to crack.

“Well,” he begins gravely, “How much do you know about seahorse dads?”

Eddie groans, and then Buck says, “Wanna put a baby in me, Diaz?” and Eddie has to pounce on him where he’s fallen sprawled across the length of the couch, breathless with laughter, and kiss him so thoroughly he forgets every other romantic sea creature fact he knows.

Eddie’ll ask him about them later. Now: he’s got his boy below him, his long, long legs wrapped around him, mouth pink and begging to be kissed. The spring breeze flutters the curtains, and Buck’s right hand is tangling in his hair, the left one interlocking itself with Eddie’s.

Home? It feels like this.