Chapter Text
“Kameron’s in labor,” Buck says when Eddie opens the front door.
Eddie winces, holding his ribs a little. “Salud.”
“No, I—”
Eddie opens the door wider, inviting Buck in.
Buck steps across the threshold, toes off his shoes, and stops in the entry way.
“I’m doing dishes.” Eddie shuffles past Buck.
“I can do them.”
Buck can hear the videogame noises from Chris’s room as he trails Eddie into the kitchen. Eddie stops in front of the sink, but Buck lightly hip-checks Eddie out of the way. Eddie moves to the fridge instead and retrieves a pitcher of water. Buck reaches into the cabinet and pulls down two glasses, handing them to Eddie, then he works in silence to wash Eddie’s and Chris’s plates from dinner.
“Did you take your pain meds?” Buck asks over his shoulder.
Eddie tries to sigh, but Buck can hear the way it stutters.
“Don’t be a tough guy,” Buck admonishes, scrubbing at a stubborn bit of broccoli on one of the plates.
“I’ll take them in a minute.”
“What, are you punishing yourself for something?”
There’s a sound behind Buck like a glass being rotated on the kitchen table. And pouring water.
Eddie’s voice is low: “Just want to feel it for a minute.”
Buck pauses briefly, remembering his own broken ribs after the lightning strike. He’d been desperate to feel anything, and the hurt in his chest was as close to an emotion as Buck could get for a while.
It sounds so unhealthy when he hears it coming out of Eddie’s mouth.
Buck makes a mental note to force Eddie to take his next dose soon.
When Buck finally moves to sit across from Eddie at the kitchen table, Eddie is appraising him. Buck feels off balance under the scrutiny. But Buck did show up unannounced. Maybe the scrutiny is deserved.
“Kameron’s been at my apartment,” Buck explains. He grabs the second glass on the table, still empty, and pulls the pitcher toward him.
“I remember.”
“Then a couple hours ago, she went into labor. On my couch.” Buck pours water into his glass. He sets the pitcher down slowly.
“Mm.”
“So I drove her to the hospital. Connor’s there now, with her, and he said he’d let me know.”
“That’s good.”
“And I thought…” Buck spins his glass idly, staring at it. “I thought I would feel worse, actually.”
“Because you gave him up.”
Buck’s gaze jumps to Eddie’s. “Y-yeah.”
Eddie nods, inhales shakily. Must be sore from the broken ribs. He almost looks on the verge of tears.
“I thought,” Buck continues hesitantly, “I’d feel something. Like it— this was a big moment. A big deal. And I expected to get somewhere when it was over. You know, like… with the captain thing and the lightning. I feel off. Like I’m not there yet. When am I going to get there?”
“We don’t get anywhere,” Eddie says with a look of surprise. “We just go. You think you’re the same person you were even a year ago? And not because you died. I met a different guy when I joined the 118. You think that guy could have kept his cool like you did on the freeway? You prioritized. You got all of us out. Not Hen, not Ravi. You.”
“Chim—”
“You did the job, man. Well. You had the experience and discipline to get it done right.”
Buck worries his lip.
Eddie huffs against the back of his chair. Pain flicks across his features.
“You got Kameron to the hospital,” Eddie continues. “She was panicking, right? But I’ll bet anything you didn’t.”
Buck raises his eyebrows.
“You’re on your way now,” Eddie insists. He scowls. “You’re going.”
Buck clears his throat. “Uh, Eddie, the words are nice, but the tone is not nice.”
“Yep,” Eddie admits obviously, “because I hate the age of absolutely.”
Buck leans his forearms onto the table, sliding away his glass of water. “Yeah, you mentioned that. Uh… why do you hate the age of absolutely?”
Eddie’s head sags back, eyes rolling to the ceiling.
“Eddie?”
“Chris is yours,” Eddie announces off-handedly, like it’s the first item in a grocery list.
Buck’s mind blanks. He knew Chris was… his. Technically. But conditionally. One day. Maybe. In a future without Eddie. A future Buck doesn’t want.
“But her baby, now their baby…” Eddie’s voice is soft, pensive. “That kid is yours and he isn’t even mine.”
Buck’s veins flush cold.
He isn’t even mine.
“W-what are you talking about?”
“I sure hope you figure it out, man,” Eddie says with a regretful laugh, tipping his chin down to his chest, shaking his head. “’Cause I can’t… I can’t—”
Buck’s heart is beating so hard he wonders if he’s going to fall to the floor, sink to his butt like he did on Eddie’s driveway when he drove over to crash on Eddie’s couch. Buck’s ears are stuffed with something thick like the air in Eddie’s kitchen when Buck recounted the shooting.
And then they took you away.
His fingertips tingle now the way they did, the way they must have done—some sort of electricity lingering in the touch—as Buck took Eddie’s hands in his to map the burn scars on Eddie’s palms.
I was screaming at you—
(In my experience, people scream.)
And then they took you away.
Buck is confused, as confused as he was when Eddie was just “angry guy” in Buck’s coma dream. As desperate to break out of this pathetic miscommunication in Eddie’s kitchen, this trap, as he was guilty for leaving Christopher standing in the hospital hallway.
He told you to come back.
He asked me to find you.
The sadness, bone-deep, that pierced Buck when Eddie said he didn’t want to see Buck recovering. The strange spark of longing when Eddie admitted why.
I was trying to make it true.
The heat, the pain in Eddie’s expression when Buck said that Natalia really understood him, saw him for who he was and what he’d been through. Eddie had been simmering with disbelief. Disappointment.
There’s some stuff you haven’t said yes to.
Sounds so funny now, sounds so complicated, the most complicated way to say something years and years old.
I love you, I love you.
“You can’t?” Buck echoes, frozen.
Eddie pushes back in his chair, stands, and reaches for the pitcher of water on the table.
Buck jumps to his feet, grabs the pitcher first, and swiftly deposits it into the fridge. He spins to find himself face-to-face with a statue of Eddie, whose eyes are downcast at the tile, fingertips resting lightly on the table.
Buck steps closer.
Eddie steps back.
“You can’t?”
Eddie’s gaze lifts, tracking something past Buck’s shoulder.
Buck studies Eddie’s face, the way his eyes tighten in the corners like he’s about to speak but he won’t give in, the tilt of his head like he wants to bolt, the shadow of stubble wrapping around his jaw and chin.
“You can’t?”
Eddie is insistent. Furious. “I can’t.”
I love you, I love you.
“You should,” Buck breathes. “Absolutely.”
Eddie’s eyes flick to Buck’s. Angry, sharp with confusion. And fear. Buck knows. Under the rest of it, there’s just fear.
“You can.”
Eddie’s expression is fixed, almost a glare. Still serious. Still scared.
I love you.
Then Eddie steps forward and surges into him, mouth hot and hard against Buck’s parted lips. Both of Eddie’s hands reach up to cup Buck’s neck. Eddie tugs Buck down, and Buck nods eagerly. Eddie presses, aggressive, leaning so solidly against Buck that Buck has to reshuffle his feet to keep balanced. But it’s like dancing, Buck’s hands on Eddie’s hips. giddy and close and moving, and when Eddie’s tongue licks into Buck’s mouth, he moans like the taste is his favorite song.
Eddie pushes, crowds Buck until they hit the countertop, drags his teeth over Buck’s bottom lip. Buck whines, obeys, tilts his neck obligingly back when Eddie’s mouth drags along Buck’s jaw and skates over Buck’s throat.
Buck groans, low and deep. He can feel Eddie smirk.
Buck’s hands move up to hold Eddie’s waist, pull Eddie tighter into him, hug Eddie’s ribs—
Eddie yanks back so fast that Buck gets dizzy from the absence. Hollowness. Wrong.
“Eddie?”
Eddie’s fist digs into Buck’s chest at the shoulder. Eddie’s chin dips as he cycles through quick inhales.
“Ed—”
“Ribs,” Eddie wheezes.
“Ri— oh, oh!” Buck rips his hands away like Eddie is made of lava. “Sorry! I’m s—”
“It’s fine.”
“Sorry,” Buck repeats, swinging his hands out to his sides, fisting them, digging his nails into his palms, pressing his knuckles into the countertop behind him so he’s not tempted to reach out and touch.
Eddie sighs forward, against Buck, leaning his forehead on Buck’s shoulder. Eddie’s fist burns into Buck’s chest where Eddie’s digging through the pain, but Buck doesn’t care. He can take it. Buck’s lips brush against Eddie’s temple, his hairline, skimming quick kisses everywhere they land.
“Sorry,” Buck is whispering, “I’m sorry.”
Buck unclenches his fists, removes them from the countertop, and lets his fingers skate along Eddie’s wrists, tugging gently to untangle Eddie’s hands from Buck’s clothes.
Eddie’s face tips back suddenly, reaches up to meet Buck halfway, like he can’t stand the thought of being so close and not tasting. Not taking.
“I’m not,” Eddie says between kisses, sighing against Buck’s mouth. “I’m really not.”
Eddie’s warm lips need so desperately, want so lovingly, and it feels right and whole, and Buck understands, finally, and it makes sense, and it doesn’t hurt, and this is real. This is real. The realest thing Buck has ever clung to in his life. Absolutely.