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They don’t talk about it.
After all the chaos — the prison break, the hostage situation, CPR on a dead man — Buck and Eddie don’t talk about it.
It makes sense, Buck thinks. The two of them have a bad habit of dancing around what’s important. He’s had Eddie’s blood on his lips. Eddie’s life in his hands. Eddie’s name in his mouth — spilling out of him like a prayer; like a howl; like he’s Orpheus calling out to Eurydice, needing to know she’s there, and dooming them both in the process. It’s all gone unacknowledged. They haven’t spoken about the shooting since it happened; haven’t spoken about the contents of Eddie’s will since he looked Buck in the eye and said no one will ever fight for my son as hard as you.
Sometimes, late at night, Buck rolls those words around in his head. He replays the conversation — because, Evan, you think you’re expendable, but you’re wrong — and thinks one day he might learn to believe in that sentiment. His imagination, though, can never really recapture that memory accurately. It can never do justice to the way Eddie looked at him: genuine, assured, unwavering. As though he meant it all and more.
So much still goes unsaid. Eddie, in particular, has been not talking. During the blackout, Buck found out about his visit to the ER by total mistake— and then it took some prying and pushing to learn it was because of a panic attack. The fact that his panic stemmed from his relationship with Ana, though, he offered up without hesitation. They can talk about relationships; about Christopher; about work— but rarely about what’s going on with Eddie and never, never about what’s going on with them.
What happened today — yesterday, technically — is apparently a them thing, because they sit on opposite sides of the hospital waiting room after it’s all almost over.
Buck sips his coffee, having weighed his need to stay awake against the risks of having caffeine with a potential concussion, and come out in favor of having enough energy to get home. Across the room from him, Eddie flips through a magazine, not really reading it. His mind is far away. Where, Buck doesn’t know, not with this chasm between them, and honestly — his head hurts too much to try and figure it out.
When they learn that the surgery was successful, Eddie leaves immediately to see Christopher. He doesn’t spare Buck a second glance.
Taylor is waiting for him at home — a thin layer of concern above her curiosity; a requisite moment of fussing before she starts hounding him for details in that way she does. Still, he clings to her saying I was so worried. At least someone was. At least someone’s giving him a once-over; reaching a careful hand up near his bandaged wound; holding him tightly, albeit briefly.
Only ten minutes after she leaves for work, Buck is heading out the door too without a second thought. He can’t stop thinking about Mitchell holding up Christopher’s picture; reading out Eddie’s address from his ID. A veiled threat in his words. The danger is over, he knows that. He heard the gunshot that killed Mitchell; saw his corpse; got confirmation his heart was still beating inside his son’s body. Still, though, he needs to be sure that both Christopher and Eddie are okay.
He’d been hoping he could make it to the Diaz house before Eddie left to take Christopher to school— maybe, if he was lucky, they could do the school run together; spend some extra time with the kid — but the L.A. traffic gods seem to be working against him. All the lights are off when he gets there. Eddie’s truck isn’t in the driveway. He parks on the street anyways.
Buck slides his key in the door, feeling almost like a trespasser. He’s used the key before, opened the door with a loud greeting to announce his arrival, but he doesn’t think he’s entered the Diaz house without either Diaz there. Stepping inside feels wrong; the house empty in a way it should never be.
He locks the door behind him, sliding off his shoes. It’s strange to feel this house so quiet and dim. Every little noise he makes sounds loud: his breathing; his socked feet padding through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen. Even though the back door is locked, he still tugs a few times on the handle to test its strength. Then, he starts checking the windows, making sure they lock too. The ones in Christopher’s room are secure, fit with childproof locks; the one in Eddie’s room is open a crack to let the breeze in. Buck slams it so hard that he might have actually jammed it shut.
He’s double-checking the locks on the kitchen windows when the front door creaks open. The sound of footsteps; keys jingling — his heart jumps into his throat — and then Eddie is calling his name:
“Buck? You here?”
Buck backs away from the window, turning towards the doorway just as Eddie enters the kitchen. He’s in blue jeans and a gray-green henley Buck’s seen a million times before; hair a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it; the bags under his eyes darker than they were in that hospital waiting room. With his arms limp at his sides and his brow furrowed, he looks a little like he’s at a loss.
“Hey,” Buck offers weakly, like they didn’t just survive a hostage situation and then not speak to each other about it afterwards; like he didn’t just break into his home.
“Hey,” Eddie says, frown deepening. “What are you doing here?”
“What, am I not welcome at my best friend’s house?” Buck teases, leaning against the counter, but his tone doesn’t quite hit the mark.
“That’s not what I said,” Eddie responds, eyebrows raised. “I guess I’m just wondering why you wouldn’t give your best friend a heads up that you’re coming over.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d want me to call Chris during the school day, so…”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. “Very funny,” he says drily. He stuffs his hands in his pockets: taking a beat; looking Buck up and down as his smile fades into something a little more questioning. “Seriously, are you okay?”
They don’t talk about important things, Buck knows that — he knows he can bring the shooting up as an objective fact once in a blue moon, but never in a way that means anything. He can’t tell Eddie what it felt like to crawl under the ladder truck and tug him to safety; to push aside the 133’s paramedics and pack Eddie’s wound himself, because if Eddie died, then at least Buck would know that he did all he could. He can’t tell Eddie that when he heard that gunshot yesterday — when he burst through the hospital doors screaming his name, blindly searching for him, and saw a body on the ground — for a moment, he was face-to-face with that same sight from last May. Eddie, eyes vacant, in a pool of his own blood; his arm weakly outstretched towards Buck, fingers fluttering briefly before going limp.
He can’t tell Eddie that he’s tired of living from nightmare to nightmare, crisis to crisis, and he just wants —
He wants to wake up. He wants to let every word in his head fill the distance between them. He wants to think about Eddie in that hospital room, saying no one will fight for my son as hard as you, the greatest act of trust — without thinking about everything that came before that conversation and every horrific thing that could come of it.
He can’t.
Eddie is asking a question, though. Inviting him to say something, even if are you okay? doesn’t warrant Buck responding with everything he wants to say. It’s genuine, from that look in his eyes, tired but kind — and it’s worrying, probably, the way Buck just showed up here, car on the street and shoes in the doorway — and it feels like the gravity of it all is finally settling on both their shoulders, tired bones creaking under that sudden weight, and Buck can’t help but be grateful he doesn’t have to hold this alone.
“I don’t like that he knew your address,” Buck admits finally.
Eddie’s jaw tenses as he glances in the direction of Christopher’s room. “Me neither.”
“And he’s dead, and he’s — in the end, he — but it still—”
“I know,” Eddie says.
Buck believes him. Nothing matters more to Eddie than Christopher. Even if Eddie can keep his head in a stressful situation— even though Buck’s the one that reacted outwardly when Chris was threatened and nearly got concussed in the process — he’s willing to bet that Eddie will be thinking about Mitchell holding up Christopher’s photo and rattling off their address for a long, long time too.
Eddie’s looking at him, like he knows there’s more going on in Buck’s mind than just that; like he’s waiting for him to say something else. Buck swallows. He doesn’t know how to word what he wants to say without addressing the crux of it all. He doesn’t know how to not cross a line.
“I don’t like that you were in danger,” he settles on saying, voice small.
“It’s part of the job,” Eddie replies carefully.
Buck’s shaking his head before he even processes that he’s doing it. “No. It isn’t. Not like this. We’re firefighters,” he stresses. “We’re not supposed to be held hostage. We’re not supposed to be shot or—”
“Buck.”
He falls silent. Eddie’s an expert at getting through to him: packing so much meaning into one syllable; settling him with just his name and a knowing look.
“What happened, happened,” he continues. “We can’t change that.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to be okay with it,” Buck insists past the lump in his throat.
“No,” Eddie agrees, “it doesn’t.”
Buck takes him in— his stiff shoulders; his exhausted eyes; his hand drifted unconsciously up to his heart, curling and uncurling against his shirt.
“You’re not okay with it either,” he observes quietly.
Eddie shifts half a step backward, brows drawing closer together. He ducks his head down. For a moment, Buck thinks he’s not going to admit to it. That he’s going to shut off and leave this as yet another thing they don’t talk about.
Then, so soft he can barely hear it, Eddie admits: “You’re right. I’m not.”
His hand tightens around the fabric of the shirt again, tugging it away from his chest by an inch, and then releases. He repeats the action once. Twice.
Buck can’t say for certain what comes over him in this moment, but he reaches for Eddie’s hand. As he untangles Eddie’s fingers from the fabric, he hears his little intake of breath; feels, for a brief moment, his fast-pounding heart. Buck clasps Eddie’s shaky hand between both of his, enveloping it entirely, and lets the warmth of it ground him. He hopes it’s grounding Eddie too.
It takes a moment for Eddie to look up at him — his brown eyes wide and doe-like, dark despite the light of the kitchen — and then he drops his gaze again, staring at their hands. Staring at Buck’s hands, really, covering his.
Slowly, he reaches out with his other hand, laying it over Buck’s. It feels grounding and electrifying all at once. His thumb rubs a slow rhythm against the base of Buck’s pale wrist.
“Do you want…”
Yes, Buck thinks. He’d take anything Eddie offered him— lazy downtime between calls together on the couch; outings and dinners and nights spent playing video games with the Diaz boys; amused conversations held only with their eyes; car rides where Eddie and Chris gang up on Buck for his terrible taste in music, but still let him be on aux; a hand on his shoulder in answer or reassurance or camaraderie.
Buck is a dog at the foot of his bed, waiting patiently for scraps and getting so much more than that. He knows not to take Eddie’s deliberate generosity for granted. He hasn’t stopped being awed by the fact that Eddie thinks he’s deserving of all this— his friendship, his trust, his son.
“…to pick up Chris from school with me later? We can grab take-out, watch a movie or something.”
Eddie’s tone is casual, but there’s intention behind his words. This is one of those moments where Buck knows what he isn’t saying. It’s sorry about the distance and I know you need to see us both safe and if we do something that feels normal, we can pretend yesterday never happened.
“Yeah,” Buck whispers. “I’d like that.”
Eddie looks back up, eyes searching Buck’s face, and then he lets out a little breath. Quiet and content, like he’s found what he’s looking for. Buck feels frozen still, like if he moves even an inch he’ll kill this moment, but he can’t help but lift the corners of his lips in a tiny smile. Eddie doesn’t smile back, but his eyes soften.
He squeezes Buck’s hands once, firmly, and slowly pulls away his own.
Ever since that first fateful day, when they rolled their dice against death together and won — ever since Eddie turned an impressed grin in his direction, striking under the flashes of red-blue lights, and said you could have my back any day — ever since Buck, feeling breathlessly known, replied yeah, or you know, you could have mine — he was riveted, enraptured, and unbelievably all-in. How could he not be, after that unknowing exchange of vows?
Whatever it is that sparked between them that night is ineffable. It’s everything Buck never knew he needed, but just a fraction away from what he can’t always admit to himself that he wants. It’s a passing touch that lasts longer than it should; a lingering glance that feels like an indulgence; a conversation, a promise, a will that means more than either of them will say.
Sometimes, he thinks about it for too long. Sometimes, he thinks about it so much that he starts thinking about what it would be like to be brave. He shrinks from that notion any time it starts to plant roots in reality. Eddie has a lot to reckon with right now and Buck is with Taylor and — it’s not like either of them could address this anyways. This thing between them is too big to name; too much to voice; too life-changing to acknowledge.
Buck lets their hands separate; lets their eye contact break. He’ll take what Eddie is willing to give him, equal parts reverent and patient, and won’t beg for more.
They won’t talk about it.