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"Eds?" Buck calls out, stepping across the threshold to the entrance to the Diaz house, met with soft shouts of delight - sounds he knows all too well, belonging to his favourite little guy with red rimmed glasses, a wide smile, and the kindest heart he had ev-
He's almost knocked off his feet by Christopher - his favourite little guy - running up to him and winding his arms around his waist. "Buck! What are you doing here?"
"Saving the day," he responds with a light chuckle, holding Chris close, giving his hair a gentle ruffle. "You having fun?"
Nodding eagerly, the boy takes a step back to look up at Buck, giving him his signature grin, and of course Buck's heart melts. He can't help it. Everything the kid does makes him want to cry. In what? He doesn't quite know. Pride, maybe. Pure love or adoration, perhaps. It's cheesy, he's aware, but he can't find it in himself to give a shit.
"Buck?" calls a voice from the other side of the house. If he didn't know that voice like it was an extension of his own soul, it would sound stoic, put together, and perfectly calm. But it doesn't. There's a quiver in the midst of the sound, a slight panic, but nothing life threatening. Nothing to be overly worried about.
"You should rescue him," Chris dramatically whispers. "He's in the kitchen."
With a quick nod, Buck makes his way past the four kids - now that Chris has re-joined his friends - in the living room, the soft chatter and laughter contagious as they sit amongst piles of pillows and blankets, video game controllers spread out in front of them, and MarioKart split via characters evenly on the television screen. They're having the time of their lives, Chris seemingly the only one aware of the disaster happening in the kitchen with his father right now. Perhaps that's a good thing.
Oh. It's worse than he expected. From the short phone call, Buck had guessed maybe it was just a small salvagable mess. But this? This is a downright disaster.
"I need your help," Eddie says, whispering, his eyes pleading and wide.
Chuckling lightly, Buck rubs at his birthmark with his right thumb, a comforting gesture he's found himself doing for as long as he can remember. "Clearly," he jokes.
Eddie rolls his eyes, exasperated, but with a soft smile.
There's dishes everywhere, burnt food that Buck can't even try to guess what it was once meant to be, the counters covered in snacks that at least were fine, because Eddie hadn't done anything to taint those on the stove or in the oven.
"Maybe I'll just order some pizza?" To Buck's ears it sounds more like a question, almost as if he's silently asking if there's anything that can be done to fix this.
Maybe there is. "How about breakfast for dinner? I can do pancakes. Won't take too long."
Bumping his hip into Buck's, Eddie smiles again. "I'll clean up all this crap, my knight in-" he stops himself, taking in Buck's appearance, "basketball shorts and oversized tee armour."
If Buck blushes at his boyfriend's words, nobody has to know.