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“It doesn’t matter if it takes a hundred more crawls,” Mike says, planting his hands against the table. “A thousand! We don’t stop until we’re goddamn sure that wrinkled, rotting, noseless bastard is dead and gone and never coming back.”
Will’s smiling, now, looking reassured. And Mike’s saying it for El’s sake, but also Will’s. Max’s. Eddie’s, too. Everyone who’s been hurt by this monster, who won’t be able to sleep at night with even the slimmest chance that he might still be out there.
He has to do something. And until there’s a better plan, or more information to go off of, this is the only option.
He puts his hand out above the table. “Everyone in?”
Lucas, looking determined, slaps his palm on top of Mike’s. Then Will. Then, when there’s only one of them left, they turn to look at Dustin.
Dustin’s mouth twitches to the side. His torn Hellfire shirt ripples in the late-autumn breeze. “I want to see Vecna’s heart on a platter,” he says. His voice is low, almost scarily detached. Like he has nothing left to lose. “Just wish I could do it myself.”
—
season 5, but make it byler. (again!)
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- Part 6 of i know the end
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“Eddie? Is that you?” Margaret’s coming in from the hallway, now, freshly dressed and inquisitive. She’s met Eddie before, more than once, but Buck’s still surprised she remembers his name. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Eddie smiles: nervously, charmingly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Buckley, it was a last-minute decision. I just—” He looks back at Buck, resolved. Something passes between them, lightning-fast and electric. Buck shifts back on his heels, his socks rubbing against the wood. “I thought I should be here. As Buck’s partner.”
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or: buck goes home for the holidays, grieving. eddie doesn't let him go alone.
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He plops down on the couch again, sets his elbows on his knees, and looks Eddie in the eye. “Okay. Soooo,” he says. “You’re asking me to marry you.”
“Yes,” Eddie says.
“On a Wednesday,” Buck says.
“Yep.”
“As a friend.”
Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Ye-ep. Just about covers it.”
“Why?”
—
or: eddie and buck embark on the most platonic journey of all: marriage!
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Bobby makes a small noise in the back of his throat, bordering on agitated, the kind he always makes when he’s trying to keep himself from raising his voice. “I’m not a role model, Buck,” he says, and okay, whatever, he’s wrong, but that’s—
“And I’m not your father, either.”
The breath punches out of Buck’s lungs. For a violent, confused second, he thinks Bobby’s actually hit him.
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or: buck, circa season 3, and everything he knows about fatherhood.
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The thing about running back into fires is that there’s a limit to how many times you can do it. Eventually, the smoke inhalation wears you down. Buck exhales, and inhales, and exhales. What’s that thing Eddie likes to say?
Jello. He’s jello. Maybe lime, or maybe cherry. Like blood. Like cold medicine on a day you’re faking sick just to feel your mom’s hand on your forehead. Like hospital food. Like fucking cherry jello, and nothing else.
Eddie doesn’t know shit.
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or: eddie’s moving. buck’s dealing with it.
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Eddie climbs onto the bed. They sit side by side, legs extended, two letter L’s protruding off the page. Instead of pressing play like Eddie is expecting, Buck laughs.
“What?” Eddie asks, an instinctive smile caressing his lips.
Buck grips his jaw, thumb brushing over his teeth before he bites at the broad nail, stifling. “Just—did you ever see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”
Eddie nods. “Gene Wilder.”
“That’s the one,” Buck chuckles around his thumb, then lets it slide free. “You know the grandparents?”
Then Eddie’s laughing too. “Jesus,” he says on an exhale.
“I’m just saying,” says Buck, still giggling. “I’ve seen our future, and it’s bright.”
Or: God created the world in seven days. It only takes Eddie six to surreptitiously move into Buck’s house.
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“Ravi, I want you to have my fours,” says Buck, before Ravi can start his own turn. All three heads at the table turn to him in incredulous unison, so he adds, “What?”
“That is simply not how the game works,” answers Ravi, dumbfounded. “How do you—are you real?”
“Don’t open that can of worms,” Eddie teases with a shake of his head. “I’m still trying to work that one out, and I was roommates with the guy.”
Barely audible, Hen mutters, “Roommates, he says. Is that what historians will call it?”
or: Eddie has a work wife. Buck has a lot to figure out.
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“You said you talked to Hen about”—Ravi makes a vague, conjuring gesture, even though Eddie can’t see it—“all this yesterday, right? She dresses the best out of all of us. You should ask her for fashion advice.”
“I tried.” Eddie huffs. “She said, verbatim, ‘I’m not your gay Yoda.’”
With that, the fitting room stall’s lock finally clicks open, the door swinging open with a muted groan. Eddie steps out, arms spread wide. “Alright. What do we think?”
From an objective standpoint, he looks good. He looks really good. Objectively speaking.
From a subjective standpoint, he looks like someone Buck wants to pin against the nearest surface and fuck until they’re both stupid.
“Handsome, you are,” Buck croaks.
—
Or: Eddie comes out to Buck and takes him clothes shopping.
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“Do none of you care about the children? It’s a bachelor auction, and you, my friend, are a bachelor. Abracadabra, put your name on the list.”
“I can’t,” Eddie repeats. He can’t. He cannot. “I’m not.”
“You’re not? Since when?” Chimney frowns. “Who?”
It’s not Eddie’s fault that, at that exact moment, Buck walks in. So it’s not his fault that he opens his mouth and says, “Buck.”
Or, Eddie trips and falls into a lightly fraudulent HR-disclosed "consensual romantic relationship" with his best friend. Really, if you think about it, it's a win-win.
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Oh, alright, cool.
Cool, cool, cool. Neat.
That is a photograph of Eddie Diaz's dick.
It's just there. On the screen. In his hand. In high resolution. His best friend’s dick is in his hand. Well, wait — the photo. The photo of the penis is in his hand. Eddie’s dick isn’t in his hand. That would be absurd.
It’s just a penis. Buck has one of those.
So does Eddie, apparently and it’s… Buck has seen it, absorbed it, and every thought he's ever had has been replaced by a high-pitched tone and the image in front of him, which is — and this is the last coherent observation he'll produce for the foreseeable future —
Big.
Genuinely, impressively big.
Buck closes out of the photo and locks the phone so hard he's surprised it doesn't crack in half.
"Maddie say anything?" Eddie asks.
"Yep," Buck squeaks. Like a mouse. A giant, shocked mouse that has just seen its best friend’s erect dick.
"You okay?"
"Great. Y-yep. So great. I-I'm just really— the sunset was really— it's very— yep."
"It’s yep?"
"Uh-huh. Very yep."
Or,
Stumbling upon your straight best friends' nudes is fine. Buck is fine. Everything is fine.