Chapter Text
Los Angeles stinks.
The stench is saturating his nose before he even takes his first steps off of the Greyhound. The rain isn’t quite pouring but it’s misting pretty heavily and it smells a lot like the time a mouse accidentally fell in one of his brews and fermented right along with it for an entire week. Like death and decay and other unnamed things and just as heavy.
Still, the tension seeps from his shoulders as he breathes his first breath of non-recycled air. It's been almost six hours since the last stop and an entire thirty-four hours of travel. It's the end of a long line and hopefully the beginning of another and he can't help but turn his face upwards, letting the smog-laden rain wash away the last of cramped seats and crying infants and all the dust in his wake.
A satisfied smile spreads slowly across his face.
He takes another deep breath, blinking water logged eyelashes and just—basking. It’s not the first major magical city he’s been to, but this city is a magnificent, shimmering hot pot of bright lights and even brighter Auras, intriguing magical signatures—some of which he's never even felt before—and wide swathes of shifting shadows that he should probably stay away from.
He didn’t exactly have an impression of Los Angeles before he made the decision to go here, but the lights from a distance had seemed inviting, even if the bars and storefronts they had rumbled past were dark. Everything he thought fast paced about it is slowed down in a torpid sleepiness, but beneath that, there's a steady pulsing rhythm that's separate all its own, a mixture of so many things he can’t even separate them and doesn’t want to. He can't contain his blooming happiness, dogged only immediately by creeping exhaustion and that almost nauseating stench. He shifts the strap of his worn duffel bag higher on his shoulder, grinning tiredly and feeling good about things for once, feeling excited, maybe, for the first in a while.
He's here. He's made it. Everything else will work itself out.
The motel is something like three blocks from the bus stop. The glowing sign that peeks over the buildings is a beacon of dubious safety guiding him from the distance. He sways on the curb, a little uncertain, eyes darting around the dark before he steps off and into the night.
It’s like an entirely different world, once he leaves the hustle and bustle of the bus station behind. The neighborhood has definitely seen better days. The buildings are all decrepit and nondescript in their way, bricks sagging beneath the weight of time and any markings faded into obscurity. Darkened windows gaze over him, devoid of any life. There aren’t even any birds chirping sleepily, settling in for the night, nor are there dogs barking in the distance.
The rest of the street is nearly as empty. Cracks branch across the crumbling black asphalt of the road and up onto the sidewalks. Rusted skeletons of cars sit next to slightly newer, if still worn, models—a few are perched up on cinder blocks, missing tires. Few street lights still work, throwing that which they illuminate into an orange relief that doesn’t do much outside of a ten foot radius.
He keeps his gaze keen, wide and sweeping; peering down dank alleys that he passes quickly, wary for movement in the dark. He doesn't quite feel unsafe, but there's a silence here he's not accustomed to. The weight of an untold number of eyes watching and weighing even if there's still not a soul to be seen. There are a few questing, curious bounces off his Aura, but nothing threatening.
He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he turns into the parking lot of the motel before wrinkling his nose. How can it smell even worse here? A mixture of burnt hair and human feces and all of it overlaid by a nauseatingly strong layer of bleach. The parking lot is full of more aging cars on cracked asphalt but it’s brightly lit, if nothing else. He's careful not to do more than glance over the few people hanging out by one of the rooms. He's more than aware that he sticks out like a sore thumb with his salmon pink polo and khaki corduroys, but he's tired enough that he just hopes nobody messes with him. The night clerk barely perks up when he makes an entry into the dirty reception area; is thoroughly unimpressed by his wet and bedraggled appearance, but grants him a room without question or comment.
The sheets look surprisingly clean even if the carpets are dirty and it’s been a minute since someone last dusted. His neighbors are loud, if muffled, through the walls, but their Auras sing purely human so he’s not too worried about them. More importantly, the hot water holds and any energy he had left to care about anything seeps out with the last of the tension and travel in his muscles. When he collapses onto the bed, still half damp and fully star-fished the entire length of his limbs finally, he barely remembers to flick up the most cursory of wards and pretty much just passes out.
He's up bright and early with the sun and he can't contain the giddiness oozing through him. He can’t tell if everything looks extra inviting under the sun or if it’s just his mood. The clerk side eyes him as he drops off the key, belatedly raising a hand to acknowledge his cheerful goodbye. He takes an Uber into the heart of the city, trying not to stare at the driver who radiates Other but stinks of weed and really, how exactly does that work? Is it a special, non-human blend, designed specifically, or is it just stronger? A magical strain?? He's dying to ask. He’s dying to experiment a little, himself. The drive is safe enough, even if the corners are a little sharp, the yellow lights are mostly suggestions and the use of the horn is...fairly liberal.
"Welcome to LA, man."
He pauses, one foot out the door and smiles awkwardly in surprise. "Uh...thanks." The car takes off with a screech before he can even fully close the door and he blinks after it for a second with a baffled laugh before shaking his head. He takes another deep breath to dispel the rising weight of nerves and takes in the building before him. He doesn’t know anything about it, hadn’t done more than a cursory search on how many Houses existed in Los Angeles and where, specifically, they were located.
But Station 118 has good vibes.
The building is a modern marvel of wide open spaces, large windows and even larger doors, numerous skylights and he's not sure, but it feels like there's a minor ley line running through it. The strength of the protective wards is nothing short of impressive, though a cursory scan shows a surprising lack of offensive triggers—which makes sense for a public access, he guesses. The same hadn’t been true for his old Houses, but they’d been…older, and in areas he wouldn’t consider the least bit safe.
The amalgamation of a variety of Auras soaking into the space, both human and Other, is...interesting, to say the least. It's cumulative into an atmosphere that's cozy and light and warm, like being wrapped in a blanket with melty hot chocolate and gooey marshmallow on a snow day.
He already loves it.
His other Houses had also been a lot more traditional, both in terms of architecture and staffing and so this—this is a breath of fresh air. This whole damn city is. Gods, he loves Los Angeles.
He can't help the wide smile as he crosses the threshold, eagerly seeking out a Captain Robert Nash. It's gratifying to see smiles returned by hopefully soon-to-be co-workers, even better to feel only hints of curiosity and interest and not hostility and suspicion. The clash of strong personalities can usually bring down the energies of a place, but it doesn't seem to be the case here and that's just, fantastic. He's dying to meet everyone.
The Captain is a good man...or well, whatever he is--certainly not human, but he's good. His eyes are the clearest blue and there's just...a steady, clean (and powerful) Aura around him, with maybe a smidgen of ash and soot from some long ago trauma. Buck likes him immediately, even if that piercing stare causes the hairs on his neck to prickle in a decidedly unnatural way. He wonders what that smudge is about, and if the good captain would like a spot of tea to take care of that.
"You've been transferred from or quit your last three Houses, Mr. Buckley. Rather fast. Want to tell me what that's about?"
He expects the question, yet it somehow still catches him off guard. Possibly it's the fact that he wants so bad to be accepted here. It's the first place in a long time that feels so--
"Mr. Buckley?"
He startles, his neck going hot. "Uh, there were some...some compatibility issues." He doesn't elaborate beyond that, and doesn't squirm under that even gaze and the smallest twitch of what's probably going to be a very formidable eyebrow. He can already tell, Robert Nash is definitely not someone he wants to cross.
"Your former Captains did have only good things to say about you."
"Yeah, bu--wait, really?"
He swallows, trying not to shift when the Captain looks at him strangely. "I'm...sort of an acquired taste," he admits, dropping his gaze. Too honest, too eager, too outspoken--too much to handle, because it's not like he can leave it alone when people are in distress. Not when it's all floating around right before his eyes where he couldn't ignore it even if he wanted to.
His last House was in Peru and his last Captain was definitely not a fan. The feel was mutual. Still is.
Captain Nash hums. He closes the file in front of him with a snap that makes Buck twitch and for a moment they just stare at one another. He holds his breath.
"Probation for a year, then we'll see, kid."
Oxygen leaves him in a whoosh, and he's stunned and relieved in even measure to see a kind smile emerge on that inscrutable face. He scrambles to his feet to shake the offered hand.
"Really?!"
"Really. Welcome to the 118, Evan."
"Buck," he says faintly, a slow grin spreading across his face and happiness bubbling. "Call me Buck. Thank you so much, Captain! You won’t regret this!"
“I’m sure I won’t,” Captain Nash says, something twinkling in his eyes.
The sun is shining extra bright, when he steps back outside, the ink of his signature on the work contract probably not even dry and his magic humming as the featherlight employment bindings settle. The air tastes sweeter and everywhere he looks, he's fit to burst at just how beautiful California is. He's floating all the way to his second order of business: searching for a place to live.
He hadn't left that place with much beyond whatever he could carry on his back, and that hasn't changed since. A warm little hope blossoms in his chest, a giddy little elation, that maybe, just maybe, he can put down roots here and actually acquire something like permanence. Los Angeles is a jungle he can hide in, with so many energies intermixed and overlapping that his own is utterly insignificant.
The first place is...almost expected. The detached, single family home with two bedrooms and two baths is the furthest out in what could almost pass for a suburb and nearly completely out of city proper. The roof is clearly patched in three places and sagging on its edges. The paint is peeling and the lawn is overgrown. It's the cheapest and it's really not half bad inside. The interior's at least been updated sometime in the last decade even if there are questionable stains on the carpet. It's when he's staring down into the dark of the basement that he feels it. Something ages old and...maybe not malicious, but definitely...not friendly. He passes, after that.
The next one he doesn't even. It's an innocuous duplex in the heart of downtown and his skin starts crawling before he even steps on the walk up. There's dirt in his mouth and blood in his throat and it takes everything he has to not toss his cookies. It's seriously bad juju, enough that he maybe considers calling the authorities for at least a welfare check, or even gaining permission for himself to go, because the tenants in the other half are probably not having a good time. He puts a pin in that and has to stop a block away to settle shaking nerves before he can even continue.
The third one he just...doesn't know. The high rise condominium is above his price range, but it's like, three blocks from the station. Everything is sleek and modern and shiny. The entirely human owner seems perfectly friendly, but he feels uneasy all the same. Like someone had stripped all the memory out of the place and left it...blank, which does happen sometimes with new buildings, but this property has apparently been operating for at least a year and has to have tenants, so he doesn't understand it. He doesn't quite manage to breathe until the door closes behind him, mentally crossing it off his list because he may not know much about it, but he knows better than to ignore his instincts.
By the seventh one, he's starting to wilt and wondering if he should check into another motel for the night. Los Angeles is old and so are its very territorial inhabitants and well, okay, this one doesn't seem too bad, actually. It's a cozy looking home, worn, but well-maintained and tucked away in one of the quieter neighborhoods in the city proper. In fact, as he approaches, it feels sort of fantastic, like slipping into a warm bath after a long day. It's been so very long a day.
He's already smiling as he knocks on the door, deftly avoiding the few toys scattered on the front porch. The man who opens the door--"Eddie Diaz, nice to meet you!"--is tall, dark and easy on the eyes. It takes him a full ten seconds to respond coherently, because did he mention that Eddie Diaz is really easy on the eyes? He's easily the most attractive man Buck has set eyes on in--ever, and he's spent a good amount of time frolicking in the sun with scantily clad men and women in both hemispheres. He's almost as tall as Buck and possibly more muscular. Soulful brown eyes are open and lush pink lips are stretched in a wide friendly smile and ugh, that--he wants to nibble on that jawline. There's no question, Eddie Diaz is hot and Buck is so very interested--even if the man's Aura is murky and muddled with just...a whole lotta negativity lurking and whatever, Buck can probably still work with that.
Curiously, even though Eddie Diaz is human through and through, and seems to have no knowledge of Other things--judging by his complete non-reaction to Buck's less than subtle probing--the various wards on the property are extremely old and iron clad against intentional harm. Specifically the ones surrounding what seems to be his son's room. His son, who is something inherently Other. Interesting. Christopher is as cute as a button, radiates pure sunshine and is a balm on his senses. The kid invites him to a joint Lego session immediately and then there's an impromptu and unsettlingly intense game of Cribbage. The stress of the day unwinds even further and oh my goodness, he loves this kid (and possibly his dad) already.
They invite him to join them for dinner, which is just--the fantastic cherry on top of this amazing sundae.
"I can't really cook," Eddie admits, cheeks somewhat pink, "but I can make a mean chicken quesadilla. And I have the best helper!" A shriek of laughter as he scoops up Christopher and tickles him.
And really, who can say no to that?
Watching Eddie Diaz and his son work together in the kitchen makes something ache in his chest at the sweetness of it. The steady patience in which the man directs his son and helps without hindering is touching. He doesn't even seem to notice the mess they're making of the kitchen, with shredded cheese landing every which way, or the bits of tomatoes or cilantro that go flying when Christopher gets too excited and the glob of sour cream that drips off the spoon onto the floor and is promptly stepped on.
It's all very endearing and Buck's heart is as melted as the cheese, by the time all is said and done. He makes sure to compliment the chefs effusively and vows to himself that he's keeping these Diazes whether he takes the room or not.
The room itself is nothing to speak about. It's clearly the master bedroom, there's a size-able walk-in closet and an attached bathroom. There's even a layer of dust on the window sill that speaks to long time disuse. He wants to ask about the necessity of allowing a stranger into your home. Is Eddie in financial trouble? Even with the wards it couldn't be too safe. He could be a crazy person.
"What do you think?"
But as he's standing in the middle of the room, it definitely feels right like it hasn't all day. He turns back to Eddie, whose eyes shoot up, startled, and who--to Buck's utter delight--blushes and clears his throat. He considers that for a singularly long moment, the complications of pursuing a single father--who is rather really attractive--of a child with special needs who is possibly extra special, with whom he's looking to live with as he settles into this new place.
"I'll take it," he says, utterly gleeful. Eddie is flawlessly holding his gaze despite the pink tinge to his cheeks. He'll just let that particular attraction simmer for a long while. "When can I move in?"