Chapter Text
End of Summer rain renders the streetlight in runny, yellow rivulets across Eddie’s window. It's pitch-black outside, a sure indication that despite what his upstairs neighbor might believe, nobody should be awake. Eddie’s phone tells him it’s half past three AM and he has about two and a half hours till his alarm goes off. The number ticks down in time with thudding footsteps above his head and the rhythmic fall of rain on glass.
For all the noise, Christopher hasn’t woken up once; it’s been going on since they moved in a few weeks ago. Every Friday and sometimes well into the weekend, his upstairs neighbor thuds around, first up the narrow stairwell and then pointedly across the floor above Eddie’s bedroom.
He’d attributed it to moving in at first; it had started near the first of the month and he wasn’t one to begrudge someone’s weird schedule – he has no room to talk. But now, weeks after Eddie had unpacked Christopher’s last box of books, the noise persisted.
Their last place had been a bungalow with a few feet of green space between them and their nearest neighbors. At the time, it had quelled some of Eddie’s guilt about arriving home at odd hours, keeping his disturbances to their own little plot of home. Unfortunately, the price of privacy was more than he could afford as a single parent.
For a time, they’d stayed afloat off his wife’s – ex-wife? Wife? What did you call someone who died before you could sign the divorce papers? – life insurance payout. But he could only justify spending that money for so long.
The one thing he and Shannon agreed on above everything else was that Chris came first. It would be better to put the money into a trust and claw themselves out of the grief-stricken stagnation by hand. Which meant that nine months later, they’d sold the house and moved into a ground-level apartment. Quiet neighborhood, a little further from school and the station, but the rent was well within their means. By all accounts, it would be a fresh start. A reprieve, just Eddie and Chris. Chris and Eddie.
Eddie stared at his ceiling as the thudding progressed to the tell-tale creaking of a box spring mattress. Eddie and Chris and their nocturnal pest upstairs.
--
Somehow, Eddie makes it to sleep. Through red-eyes and dragging feet, he pushes his way through his Monday shift and gets to pick-up only five minutes late. He holds Chris to him for a moment longer than usual, sagging a little into the warmth.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, you have to drive us home.” Chris pulls away and cocks his head.
“Of course, of course.” So, he does. The drive home is narrated by Christopher’s slow and careful retelling of his day, peppered with one-liners.
Eddie snags Christopher’s backpack from him once they park and closes the apartment complex’s front door on the day’s exhaustion. Chris leans against the doorframe as Eddie struggles to find which jacket pocket he’s stored his keys.
Eddie hears him before he sees him. Clattering down their shared staircase is a man with tawny blond hair. He’s dressed head to toe in black, skin-tight and his entire being projects all the energy Eddie has been missing that week.
He’s panting and there’s a shine of perspiration to his skin. Eddie fumbles with his key, nearly drops it then turns his attention back to his door. The lock clicks open just as he hears the apartment complex’s door swing closed.
“Dad,” Chris asks, “who was that?”
Eddie pushes the door open and hangs Chris’s backpack up. “That is our upstairs neighbor.”
Chris is already heading straight for the TV, and Eddie doesn’t have the heart to say no. He’s too exhausted to argue the finer points of elementary geometry or conjugation.
“How do we feel about pizza?” Eddie asks, peering into their barren fridge. There are the makings of a decent sandwich for Chris’s lunch, some yogurt tubes, an apple.
“Hawaiian,” Chris calls from his spot on the couch. “What’s the guy upstairs do? Why do you think he had that bag?”
“Uh, I’m not sure buddy.” Eddie checks a flyer for a local pizzeria in their mail pile.
“We should meet him,” Chris says and Eddie balks. Of course, Chris is unaware of their neighbor’s nighttime proclivities but still, stranger danger?
“I don’t know about that, bud.”
“Ms. Flores says it's important to know your neighbors.”
“Since when do you quote Ms. Flores?” Eddie dials the number and holds a finger to his lips. “I’ll think about it.”
--
On Tuesday, Christopher requests macaroni and cheese for dinner. Simple enough, Eddie had thought as they patrolled the grocery store for elbow macaroni and mild cheddar. Can’t be too difficult, he’d reasoned as he set the water to boil.
“Holy shit, what the hell!” Is what he screams when the roux catches fire. Their fire alarm screeches out across the apartment and smoke billows from the charred mess at the bottom of his pan.
“You said a bad word.” Chris snickers from behind him.
“Go open the windows. And the front door. And turn on the fans.” Eddie grunts, lifting the sizzling pan off the stove with an oven mitt.
“Okay!”
Eddie swats at the smoke with a towel, face pinched as he comes to terms with the fact that he can’t even make mac and cheese. Who decided that cheese sauce should have flour in it anyway? And why were all the notches on the stove so small?
“Dad,” Chris calls from the front hall.
“Try swinging the door open and closed to get the smoke out, Chris.” Eddie knows that he should probably be dealing with things more efficiently, but he can’t be assed. After a full day facing full-fledged fires and emergencies, a little smoke is a drop in the bucket. The fire alarm shuts off. He cranks the cold-water faucet on over the smoking pan.
“Um, I smelled burning?” And that isn’t Chris. Eddie’s head snaps up and standing in the doorframe is their neighbor, tall and smiling. Chris is beaming up at him unabashedly.
“Yeah.” Eddie licks his lips. The man’s eyebrows are up at his hairline, half concern half disbelief. “It was uh, well. I burned something.”
“Dad was making mac and cheese. And it caught on fire.” Chris says impishly.
“It didn’t catch on fire. It just…”
“Burned?” Their neighbor supplies. “Well, you’re in luck because Jennifer in 103 told me we have a firefighter in the building.”
Eddie blinks. He’d only spoken to 103 – Jennifer – once, but clearly, she’d been paying attention. “That would be me.”
“Oh, wow.” The man’s blue eyes are full of mirth. “This is perfect.”
“No, this is Chris.” His son holds a small hand out to shake.
“Pleasure to meet you, Chris.” Their neighbor says. “I’m Buck from 201.” And then those blue eyes are turned on Eddie and he clears his throat.
“Eddie. Diaz. 101.” Eddie manages then jolts when he feels water dribbling on his toes.
“The faucet-” Buck’s lips are pressed against laughter. Eddie swiftly wrenches it shut and glares at the puddle forming at his feet. “A flood and fire. Your work really is following you home.” Buck’s voice is bright. Eddie wants to disappear, face warm with the embarrassment of being caught in incompetence twice by this stranger.
“Anyway, if you’re both okay, I’ll just leave you to it.” Buck backs out, shooting a quick finger-gun at Chris.
“Yeah, thanks,” Eddie says weakly. The door clicks closed.
“He seems cool.” Chris says, “Pizza?”
--
The next day, Eddie’s shift ends too late for him to pick up Chris. Carla, their aide, would be there with Chris when he got home, and he’d eat whatever leftovers she’d left in a Tupperware for him. She was more than he deserves, Eddie thinks.
When he pushes open their front door, the place still smells vaguely of smoke. But under that is a rich, savory smell that has his mouth-watering.
“Carla, what have you been up to?” He calls as he shucks off his boots. She’s an incredible cook, and he’s sure the Diaz household would have perished to scurvy if it wasn’t for her help.
“Eddie, did you know you have a professional chef living above you?” Carla’s voice is warm and teasing.
Before Eddie can voice his confusion, he hears another voice. “Please. Ex-line cook. I’m a bartender now.” Buck.
“Buck?” Carla, Buck, and Christopher are all seated at the kitchen counter, three bowls scraped clean and a casserole dish full of steaming macaroni and cheese in front of them. Eddie shoots Carla a look and she holds her hands up in surrender.
“He said he owed you some macaroni,” Carla says like it’s the most reasonable explanation for a stranger being in their apartment, eating dinner with his son. “And I wasn’t gonna turn him down. Honey, all you have in the pantry are some stale chips and a can of black beans. What was I gonna make?”
Eddie is drawn closer by the smell wafting from the casserole dish. Buck looks sheepish from his spot beside Chris. “I just thought you might want some. I made extra. By accident.”
Yeah, right, Eddie wants to say. What bachelor made a whole casserole dish of macaroni by accident. He narrows his eyes. “Well, that’s kind of you.” He says, mindful of Chris’s eyes on him. Carla pushes a warm bowl into his hands and for all his strength he can’t resist taking a bite.
Well, shit. Maybe it’s the fact that the only mac and cheese he’s had in nine months has been boxed. Or maybe it’s just that good. Eddie closes his eyes momentarily. Maybe it’s drugged or something.
“Good, Dad?” Chris pipes up.
“Really good.”
--
Carla leaves shortly after, but Buck lingers around the kitchen. “You go put the little dude to bed, I’ll tidy up.”
Eddie is uneasy about leaving him alone in their home, but he’s too grateful for the warm meal and the prospect of a clean kitchen to complain.
Chris goes down easy after a chapter of Lord of the Rings, asking only once if Buck would be coming over again. Eddie says something non-committal and tucks him in.
When he returns to the kitchen, the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher, the counter is wiped, and since when did he have this much counter space? Buck grins at him easily and Eddie nods. “Thank you, really. Can I get you a beer?”
“Nah. Some water though?”
“Sure.” Eddie pours them two tall glasses.
“I wrapped the leftovers up for you in your fridge. And I could send you the recipe if you want.” Buck offers, unadulterated kindness. Eddie has to look away.
He takes a gulp of water, feeling warm again. “Thanks. Listen, I promise I’m usually less of a mess.”
“Hey, I get it. I work crazy hours too. I don’t know how I’d manage if I had a kid on top of that.”
Eddie wants to be sour, to poke at him about all the spare time he spends doing other things. But his stomach is full of homemade macaroni. “We make it work.”
“Of course.” Buck sips his water and Eddie’s eyes drift to the line of his throat. “I should go.” Buck sets the glass down and wipes his mouth on his bare arm. “Shift starts soon.” He smiles tightly.
Eddie can sympathize with the tired set of Buck’s shoulders. He nods. “Right. Thanks, again.” He says, walking Buck towards their front door.
“Just being a good neighbor.”
--
Eddie wonders if good neighbors practice Olympic-level bedroom gymnastics on a Friday night. The macaroni-appreciation glow has long since worn off and the thudding won’t stop.
He pushes the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying to grind the sound out of his head. His door creaks open and Chris peeks his head around it. “Dad?” Eddie sighs and pats the empty spot beside him. Chris clambers up, wriggling into the warm spot at his side. “Is it construction?”
A sigh pushes out from between Eddie’s lips. “Yeah. Something like that, bud.”
“Why is Buck doing construction at midnight?” Eddie doesn’t have the heart to tell Chris that it's well past midnight and that it definitely isn’t any kind of construction. Chris knew Buck now, and he knew him as the nice neighbor who made mac and cheese. He wouldn’t ruin it for him. “I’m tired.” Chris whines, pressing his face into the pillow. Eddie’s frustration flares.
Right. Eddie pulls the covers back and rolls out of bed. “Just, try to get to sleep. I’m going to go…ask him to stop.” Bite his head off, more like, Eddie thinks. He shoves his feet into a pair of slip-ons and stomps out of his apartment. He takes the steps two at a time until he reaches Buck’s apartment, nearly bursting a blood vessel at the welcome mat which proclaims, “BEWARE OF THE CATS”.
He knocks three times, knuckles white with the force of them.
It doesn’t take long for Buck to answer. He’s wearing tiny shorts and nothing else. His hair is curly and tousled and there’s a bead of sweat running down his neck. He’s grinning anyway, despite Eddie’s stormy expression.
“Hey, Eddie Diaz, 101.” Buck braces a forearm against the doorframe. “You working late?”
Eddie looks down at his plaid pajamas and worn-thin #1 Dad shirt then back at Buck. “You need to quiet the hell down.” He seethes. “I get that you’re having fun, but I have a kid. And it’s 3 AM and he should not have to ask me what the hell is making that noise up here.”
Buck’s face drops. “Oh, I didn’t even realize you could hear us.” Us. Eddie wants to gag.
“Well, we can.” And Eddie is so beyond done with this conversation. He already knows he and Chris are going to waste half of their free weekend napping this disturbance off and he’s pissed, and Buck is blushing all the way down his chest. Eddie wipes a hand over his eyes. “Just, next time, maybe you can take it to their place instead of using your bed like some twisted trampoline.”
“My bed?”
“I don’t know, fuck! Just, not at 3 AM.” Eddie groans and storms back downstairs feeling a peculiar mix of anger and something else entirely settle in his stomach. Even after he’s tucked Chris back into his own bed, even though there’s no noise, Eddie still has trouble falling back asleep.
--