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.