Work Text:
“I love you.”
“It’ll pass.”
--
It’s a Thursday night, Christopher passed out on the couch between him and Eddie, and Buck has never been so content in his life. There were days with Abby that he thought maybe and evenings with Taylor that he thought perhaps, but it’s right here, on the worn couch in the middle of Eddie’s living room that he feels the most at peace. It’s where he came when he was desperate for a break from Maddie’s constant barrage of check-ins, where he always comes when he needs space from his mind. This house is more familiar than his loft, feels more like home than it ever has, more than Abby’s ever did – or Hershey or Peru or the farm where he was a ranch hand – and sometimes, though he hates to admit it, more than the 118.
Eddie stands, careful not to disturb his son, and stretches his arms over his head. Buck forces himself not to watch the shifting of the muscles in his biceps and his exposed shoulders from that horrible black tank top he’s so fond of, keeps his eyes carefully averted from the strip of skin that’s exposed between the hem of his shirt and his sweatpants. Eddie scoops Chris up, and Buck does let himself watch as Chris wraps himself around his father, tucking his head against Eddie’s shoulder in a way that’s so rare now that he’s closing in on his teenage years. Eddie smiles in the soft way he reserves only for his son before walking out of the living room.
Buck loves him so much it threatens to burn him from the inside out, starting from the tips of his toes and making its way up and up and up until flames ignite in the chambers of his heart, burning through his arteries and veins and capillary beds. He would tattoo Eddie’s name across his chest if only to show anyone who looked at his skin that he could never belong to anyone else, if only to remind himself that he’ll never move on, never love anyone the way that he loves Eddie Diaz.
The horrible part is that Buck is almost certain Eddie loves him, too. He thinks he sees it sometimes when Eddie puts his hand on his shoulder, when he forces Buck to look at him, to face the fondness in his brown eyes. He thinks he sees it when he catches Eddie watching him with Chris, whether they’re building some horrible facsimile of a Lego castle or Buck is very carefully teaching him to chop vegetables on the wretched old cutting board Eddie refuses to let him replace.
If he were anyone else, anyone who wasn’t carrying the trauma of ten people on his shoulders, Buck would allow it. He would let Eddie love him, would let himself have this, have a home, a family, but Buck is not anyone else. He is nothing but himself; a man torn apart by parents who never really loved him, held together by pins in his leg and a million scars from a million sets of stitches. He’s a man who shouldn’t be alive, a man living by chance alone, by sheer force of will, a man with a branching lightning strike scar that hasn’t quite faded reminding him every day that he’s lucky to be standing.
He's just himself, just Evan Buckley who has been failing the people around him since the day he was born, and he thinks that’s why when Eddie comes back from taking Chris to bed and sits down on the coffee table, bumping their legs together instead of reclaiming his seat on the couch, Buck’s stomach drops. Eddie has this look in his eyes that Buck cannot allow himself to read into. It’s soft and open and vulnerable and Buck can’t, he can’t let himself have it, so he looks away, stares down at a stain on the couch.
“Buck.” Eddie says his name quietly, and Buck is helpless but to look back up at him, “I love you.”
There’s a little quirk to Eddie’s mouth, a half-smile that makes Buck’s heart flutter. He wants to kiss it, wants to memorize the way that smile feels against his lips. He forces himself to look Eddie in the eyes so that he doesn’t do something stupid like actually kiss him. Somewhere, deep down, Buck knew this was coming. He knew when Eddie sat on the coffee table, when he said his name, when that little smile appeared on his face. Maybe he knew when he walked in the door tonight and Eddie hugged him, really hugged him.
But Buck is Buck, and even if Eddie loves him and god does he love Eddie more than he loves air in his lungs, he can’t. He can’t have this. He can’t have Eddie love him and then leave him because that’s what people do. They come into Buck’s life and they love him because he’s fun and he’s loud and he’d do anything to keep them safe, then they leave.
Maddie left him alone with their parents when she married Doug even though he begged her to stay. She abandoned him when he asked her to run away with him. Sure she came back, but it stings even still.
Every person he brought into his bed left the next morning with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to call that was never carried out, or they very kindly asked him to leave before he even had time to put his underwear back on.
Abby was the first person he really loved, and she left him without a second thought. Came back with a fiancé and a half-assed explanation about needing to be out of LA.
He was never going to be enough to satisfy Taylor, even if their lifestyles had meshed together. He still remembers the feeling of her key in his hand, the bite of the metal when he closed his fist around it after she walked out the door.
Buck looks at Eddie, who is still watching him, and there’s a little bit of nervousness in his eyes now – uncertainty. Buck hates himself for the words that come out of his mouth, but they’re the only ones he can allow himself to say –
“It’ll pass.”
Because it will. No one loves Buck for long. He isn’t anyone’s forever.
Eddie flinches back, his mouth contorting into a frown.
“Buck –”
“No, Eddie, listen,” Buck swallows hard, “It’ll pass. It always does. You – I – this –” he gestures between them, “It wouldn’t last.”
Eddie lurches to his feet, and Buck knows he’s hurt. He can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands are curled into fists and his nostrils flare with each breath.
“Buck.” He snaps, “What the fuck does that mean?”
Buck doesn’t want to explain himself. He doesn’t want to tell Eddie about all the ways that people have left him because, really, Eddie should know. He was there when the Buckley parents came to town and tore his world apart with the truth about Daniel and he knows about Maddie leaving when they were kids and Eddie hates Abby and he never even tried to get along with Taylor, so why should Buck have to explain himself anyway?
“You know what it means.”
Eddie deflates, and for a moment Buck thinks he gets it. He thinks that Eddie understands. But then –
“You don’t love me.” Eddie mutters, his voice so low that Buck wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t watching him, “God, Buck, I'm sorry. I –”
“Eddie, of course I love you.” Buck cuts him off, standing. He wants to throw up. This is all wrong. The coffee table and million miles separate him and his best friend, “But I can’t –”
“Can’t what?” Eddie demands, “What can’t you do, Buck?”
Buck opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. There are so many words swirling through his mind, on the tip of his tongue.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
I’ll lose you, I’ll lose you, I’ll lose you.
“You should go.” Eddie says, looking away from Buck and clenching his jaw. His eyes are a little shiny, “It’s late.”
Buck freezes. It’s like the lightning strike all over again; he can almost smell the ozone in the air, can sense the danger closing in on him. Eddie is asking – telling – him to leave. He’s had nightmares like this, ones that leave him gasping for breath and miserable, clutching his phone and swiping through his pictures with Eddie and Christopher to remind himself that he hasn’t lost them but now –
Now he is.
It’s his own fault because Buck is incapable of doing anything the right way. Not loving someone, not keeping them, not staying, not leaving, not living, not even breathing if the burning in his chest is any indication.
He flinches back when hands connect with his shoulders, and Buck realizes that he’s squeezing his eyes shut.
“Buck.”
Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
“Buck, breathe.”
Eddie loves him.
Eddie asked him to go.
“Buck, I need you to breathe.”
One of Eddie’s hands is on Buck’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart, and the other is on his shoulder. Gently, Buck feels him press down and he allows himself to be lowered to the couch, eyes still closed because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he looks at Eddie and he still can’t breathe.
“Buck.” Eddie tries again and again, near frantic despite years of training, and then, “Evan.”
Buck inhales sharply, relief flooding him.
“Don’t make me go.” He says – not an earthquake or a ladder truck or a tsunami or a derailed train or a gunshot or a lightning strike could stop the words – “Please let me stay.”
“You can stay.” Eddie tells him, “I promise you can stay, baby.”
Stay.
“Everyone leaves.” Buck whines, he whines. God, he hates the sound of his voice, “They love me and then they leave.”
“I'm not leaving, Buck.” Eddie places his palms on Buck’s cheeks, “I swear to you, nothing in this world could make me willingly walk away from you.”
“I love you.” Buck tells him, “More than I’ve ever loved anyone, and it scares me.”
“Buck.” Eddie says his name like a prayer, “I watched you die. I felt your ribs break under my hands.” He inhales shakily, “Loving you is the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but I’d rather be terrified the rest of my life than live it without you.”
Buck wonders if when Eddie broke his ribs after the lightning strike he crawled inside his chest and made a home there, wonders if his skeleton has reshaped itself around the overwhelming amount of love he has for Eddie Diaz.
“I…” He swallows, “It’s going to take me a long time to believe you’ll stay.”
“Good thing I have the rest of my life to prove it to you.” Eddie says, “I would marry you tomorrow if I didn’t think our families would kill us. I’d make room in my closet and my dresser for your clothes. Clean out the pantry for your health foods –”
“Replace your ancient cutting board?”
Eddie laughs, really laughs, bright and far too loud for how late it is, “Don’t get carried away, Buckley.”
Buck leans forward and kisses him, tasting the smile he’s been dreaming about for years. It's soft and sweet and full of love, so different from every other first kiss he’s shared. He could kiss Eddie forever, he thinks, but they’re both smiling too hard for it to last very long.
“Let’s try this again.” Eddie murmurs when they break apart, kissing Buck’s nose, “I love you.”
Buck snorts, “I love you, too.”
“Stay with me tonight.” Eddie says and it isn’t a question, “Make pancakes in the morning. Chris will be thrilled.”
“Yeah, okay.” Buck says, leaning in for another kiss, “I’ll stay tonight.”