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1. the uniform
Buck is having the worst luck today.
Like, seriously, he’s about to start investigating if there’s a jinx like the Q-word that only affects one firefighter. There’s no other explanation for this, okay? He’s only four-and-a-half hours into his shift, there’s no logical reason for him to have made his way through all three of the uniform shirts he’d brought already.
It’s a curse, it has to be.
His first shirt fell victim to a rogue fire extinguisher that decided to malfunction spectacularly during a routine equipment check. The second met its demise when he accidentally knocked over a pitcher of a victim’s experimental “super-hydrating” smoothie, which turned out to be more super-staining than anything else. And was also the reason for the victim’s allergic reaction. Maybe they shouldn’t be trusted with a blender, was Buck’s point.
The third had fallen victim during a rescue involving an overzealous dog, a muddy puddle, and Buck’s misguided attempt to be a hero. Let’s just say the dog was rescued, but the shirt was beyond salvation. At least he got some doggy cuddles out of it.
Well. Doggy cuddles, and mud in his mouth.
Still worth it.
Now, standing shirtless and slightly damp in the locker room, Buck stares forlornly at the pile of spare uniforms. He rifles through them, growing increasingly desperate as he realises that not a single one is his size. It’s as if the universe has conspired to leave him half-naked for the rest of his shift.
Like he said, it’s a curse.
“You’re not cursed,” Eddie’s voice calls out, coming from behind him.
“How did you know I was thinking that?” Buck shoots back, folding the shirts back up again. They might not be of use to him, but there’s no reason to leave them all messy. See, he can be considerate. The curse is just messing with him, is all.
“Because you always do.” Eddie sounds long-suffering, but when Buck turns around, he sees the smile on his best friend’s face. “You think about curses at least once a week.”
“And one of these days, I’m going to be right.”
“Sure thing, bud,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “Till then, put this on, will you?”
He lobs a bundle of fabric at Buck. Buck scrambles to catch it, then unfolds it to find a blue button-up, the version of their uniform that Eddie usually prefers.
He holds it out in front of him. On the label in the back of the neck, he sees Diaz written in Eddie’s spiky handwriting.
“I figured you wouldn’t have any spares left,” Eddie explains, “and the ones in that pile tend to run smaller, cause B-shift always forgets to do the laundry and we never have any larger sizes left because of them. This should still fit you, I think.”
Buck pulls the shirt on and quickly does the buttons up. It’s a little tight around his arms and chest, but not to the extent that it limits his motions. It’s perfect. Definitely better than anything else he could find, that’s for sure.
And if Eddie’s name burns in the back of his neck like a brand-new tattoo, that’s not something he feels like sharing. Or even contemplating, really. He just files it away in the back of his mind, way back with his post-shift grocery list and which documentary he’s going to watch when he gets home. The shrimp one is winning, but is that cruel to watch when he’s also thinking about having shrimp for dinner? Maybe he should watch that history one instead. Or eat something vegetarian.
“Thanks, Eddie,” Buck says, grinning as he tucks the shirt into his pants, resolutely not talking about names or shrimp at all. “You’re my hero.”
Eddie flushes. His eyes keep trailing down to Buck’s chest. Buck isn’t sure why. Like, he’s only been wearing this shirt for a minute, and all he’s done is stand here. There’s no way there’s a stain yet, right?
“No problem.” Eddie clears his throat. “Uh, I think Cap’s almost done making lunch.”
“Oh,” Buck perks right up. “It’s lasagna day. We’d better get up there, man, I’m starving.”
“Of course you are,” Eddie sighs. “You did run after that dog for ages. What was that, some sort of poodle?”
“A poodle?” Buck is almost offended on behalf of dogs everywhere, because that had not been a poodle. He’s pretty sure poodles would also be offended. They seem pretty proud. “Okay, man, do you not know your dog breeds or something?”
“Apparently not.” Eddie follows Buck out of the locker room. “So, what was it?”
“Well,” Buck says, before launching into a long speech about the exact breed of dog he’d rescued.
As he walks up the stairs, following the smell of Bobby’s lasagna and with Eddie by his side, he doesn’t think about the curse at all anymore.
And when he goes home later that night, he’s still wearing Eddie’s shirt, all of his bad luck apparently done for. Maybe it had only cared about messing with Buck’s clothes, not Eddie’s.
Well, if that’s the case, then Buck will just have to wear Eddie’s clothes more often.
2. the socks
Movie nights at the Diaz household are not without casualties.
Sometimes, the casualties are popcorn kernels flying everywhere. Sometimes it’s a balled-up tissue they find weeks later under the couch, sometimes a pillow doused in crumbs.
Tonight, the casualties are Buck’s socks.
He’s with Eddie, Christopher having a sleepover party, and they’re watching some mindless action movie. Honestly, Buck is barely paying attention, too focused on sneaking glances at Eddie whenever he can. So when the big explosion happens, flooding the living room with light and sounding louder than the rest of the movie put together, he startles. Like, physically flinches. And the beer bottle he’d been holding in his hand, still mostly full because he doesn’t want to lower his inhibitions too much, jerks with the movement, liquid spilling over the top and dripping right down onto his socks.
“Oh,” Buck says, staring at his dripping socks.
Eddie peers down at his feet.
“Good aim,” he says, snickering, “the floor is still clean. Those socks are a lost cause, though.”
Buck wiggles his toes. He winces at the feeling. Lost cause, indeed. He peels the socks off, cool air hitting his damp skin. He holds them at arm’s length, unsure what to do with the mess. They’re going to smell too bad for him to throw in his bag, that’s for sure.
“Just toss those in the laundry,” Eddie says. “I’ll run a load tomorrow. And you might as well get ready for the night while you’re at it, ’cause I think we’re both pretty beat.”
Buck nods gratefully and pads across the floor quickly. It’s cold against his bare feet. His feet always run cold. He never goes without socks if he can help it. His collection of fuzzy, fluffy, extra-warm socks is a masterpiece, if he may say so himself.
And unfortunately, none of those extra socks made his way into his bag for today. Looks like he’ll be spending a night on Eddie’s couch with cold feet, then, because there’s no way he’s heading home. Not when he can stay here and cook Eddie breakfast in the morning, that’s for sure.
Buck lobs them in the direction of Eddie’s laundry basket, pumping his fist when they land in it. He brushes his teeth and washes his face quickly. It’s funny how his nighttime routine feels more comfortable in Eddie’s bathroom than his own, how right his toothbrush and moisturiser look on Eddie’s counter, but he makes the executive decision not to dwell on it.
When he’s done, he heads back to the living room, where Eddie has just finished setting up the sheets on the couch. Buck smiles down at the striped sheets, the pillow fluffed up. Usually, he tosses these on himself, and he barely bothers to tuck the sheets around the corners of the pillows. Eddie, on the other hand, has made the effort to straighten them out perfectly.
“Here,” Eddie says, and before Buck can react, throws something against Buck’s chest. It makes an impact with a soft thump, then falls to the ground. “Wow, your reflexes are bad.”
“I’m just tired,” Buck mumbles, bending down to pick up a soft bundle of fabric.
A pair of socks.
A pair of soft, fuzzy socks, with a red and green pattern and that fluffy inner lining Buck loves so much. He immediately recognises them as being from his favourite brand.
His favourite brand, not Eddie’s. As far as he’s aware, Eddie couldn’t care less about the kinds of socks he wears. Definitely not enough to go out of his way to order soft, fluffy, expensive ones, when their local stores carry enough in his size.
He never used to, at least. Maybe this newer version of Eddie, the one who lets himself have joy and all that, does.
Or maybe he bought them for Buck. Buck really doesn’t know.
He looks up at Eddie. His expression must betray his confusion, because Eddie rolls his eyes at him. But he does it, like, uncertainly. Is there such a thing as a vulnerable eye roll? Buck thinks there is, because he’s seeing one right now.
“So your feet don’t get cold,” is all Eddie says, which is incredibly thoughtful but does nothing to clear up Buck’s confusion. “Are you all set for tonight?”
“Yeah,” Buck says. He nods, mind still racing. “Yeah, I’m good. Sleep well, I guess.”
Eddie smiles, eyes crinkly and soft.
“Sleep well, Buck. And put your socks on.”
He disappears down the hallway. A few seconds later, Buck hears the soft click of Eddie’s bedroom door closing.
Buck sits down on the edge of the couch. He unfolds the socks and runs his fingers over the soft texture of the socks. Then, he gently slides them onto his feet.
They fit perfectly, because of course they do. And even though they’re exactly the same socks he normally wears at home, there’s something about them that feels different. Much nicer, softer. More comforting
He falls asleep feeling warm and soft and loved, feet cradled by his new socks.
The Diaz couch has never been more comfortable.
3. the shirt
Buck isn’t having a great day.
He woke up gasping in the middle of the night, the dregs of a nightmare fading away, and has felt unsettled ever since. There’s an itch under his skin he can’t quite erase. A long run hadn’t done the trick, neither had a hot shower or a filling meal. As a last resort, Buck is doing chores around the loft, trying anything and everything to take his mind off of things.
He moves through his loft like a whirlwind, dusting shelves and reorganising drawers with frantic energy he can’t seem to shake. He scrubs the kitchen counters until they gleam, polishes the windows until he can see his own troubled reflection staring back at him. The physical labour helps a little, sweat beading on his forehead as he tackles each task with laser focus.
After vacuuming every inch of his floor and reorganising the bookshelf that was already alphabetised, Buck finally makes his way to the laundry nook. He sorts through the overflowing hamper, tossing clothes into piles — darks, lights, delicates. As he reaches the bottom, his hand brushes against a soft, worn fabric that’s instantly familiar.
Buck pulls out one of Eddie’s old LAFD t-shirts, the navy blue material faded from countless washes. It must have gotten mixed in with his own. That’s not unusual, of course. They both have some clothes at each other’s place, and their stuff mingles pretty frequently. Sure, it’s mostly Buck’s clothes ending up in Eddie’s laundry, because they spend more time at the Diaz home than at the loft, but it happens the other way around as well.
This shirt was probably left behind after Eddie stayed the night the other week. Buck remembers it so clearly. They’d fallen asleep on the couch, waking up at three in the morning because Buck moved in his sleep and fell off. The sight of Eddie, bed-headed and bleary-eyed, peering down at him in confusion, was truly a sight to behold. It was so worth the sore ass and the crick in his neck Buck had gotten.
Eddie wore the shirt that night, and had dug one of his spare shirts in the morning while Buck made them eggs and toast.
And now Eddie is back at home, but his shirt is right here, soft and comfortable and smelling of him, the faded print of his name on the back. These shirts hadn’t lasted long, the next shipment had been without name modifications again, but wow, Buck is glad Eddie still has this one.
Buck doesn’t think twice about it. He just whips his own hoodie off, flinging it in the direction of the dark laundry pile, and pulls on Eddie’s shirt.
As soon as the soft fabric settles against Buck’s skin, a wave of calm washes over him. The tension that’s been coiled tight in his muscles all day begins to unwind. He inhales deeply, Eddie’s familiar scent enveloping him. It’s a mix of his laundry detergent and cologne and it’s just — it’s just Eddie, and there’s nothing quite like it.
The shirt is well-worn, the material soft against Buck’s skin. It’s a little snug across his shoulders, but that only adds to the feeling of being held, embraced. Buck runs his hands down his arms, feeling the slightly stretched fabric at the biceps where Eddie’s muscles have pulled at it over time.
With a contented sigh, Buck abandons his laundry sorting and makes his way to his bed. He crawls under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. Maybe like this, he’ll actually be able to get some rest.
Buck doesn’t know how long he sleeps. He’d drifted off at some point, the same way he’s now drifting back into wakefulness, caused by a new level of noise coming from downstairs.
The sounds are familiar, and not threatening, so Buck nuzzles further into the covers, happy to wake up slowly. He feels better now, he recognises that among the fuzziness in his mind. Less stressed, more refreshed. Oh, the wonders a good nap can do.
Well.
The wonders a good shirt can do.
“Buck?” Eddie’s voice calls out. It comes paired with footsteps coming up the stairs. Buck blinks, still too asleep to process anything beyond Eddie’s here. “Why does it look like your laundry vomited all over the floor?”
Buck sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The movement causes the covers to pool around his waist, revealing Eddie’s shirt stretched across his chest. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the fog from his mind as Eddie reaches the top of the stairs.
Eddie’s eyes immediately lock onto the familiar navy fabric. His brow furrows slightly, a mix of confusion and something else, something Buck isn’t awake enough to recognise, flickering across his face.
“Is that my shirt?”
Buck glances down, suddenly very aware of what he’s wearing. The soft material clings to his torso, the LAFD logo slightly faded but still visible. He can feel the warmth of it against his skin, a comforting presence that lingers even now that he’s rapidly waking up.
“Maybe,” Buck says, his voice still rough with sleep. He clears his throat, running a hand through his undoubtedly messy hair. “I found it in my laundry.”
“And you decided to wear it instead of washing it?”
Eddie doesn’t look mad, of course. It would take a whole lot more than this for Buck to piss him off — frankly, Buck doesn’t know if he could do that at all, not involuntarily, at least. He’s fine with this. It’s not the first time Buck has worn his clothes, after all. It’s just that this is the first time he’s doing it without Eddie offering them.
“It’s nice,” Buck settles on, knowing he needs to give Eddie an explanation but not quite sure how to say this. “Comforting.”
Eddie’s expression softens. He steps forward and sits on the bed next to Buck.
“I’m fine,” Buck immediately says. “Just wasn’t feeling great, I guess.”
“And the shirt helped?”
Buck shrugs.
“Mostly you,” he admits. “It smells like you.”
Eddie presses his shoulder against Buck’s.
“Well, you can wear my shirts whenever,” he says easily. “I’m always here, okay? I’ve got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours.” Buck leans back into Eddie’s touch.
They sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, shoulders pressed together. Buck can feel the warmth radiating from Eddie’s body, a stark contrast to the cool air of the loft.
Eddie’s hand finds its way to Buck’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. The touch sends a pleasant tingle up Buck’s spine, and he fights the urge to lean further into Eddie's space.
There’s something different in the air between them, a tension that’s been building for weeks, maybe months. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s unmistakably there, like static electricity crackling just beneath the surface of their skin. They’re different now, not the same Buck and Eddie they were two months or years or even weeks ago. And they’re building towards something different too, something more. Something neither of them are talking about, but both of them are feeling. They’re on the same page, Buck knows it. They always are. They’re just not reading out loud yet.
That’s okay, though. It’s a big book. They have plenty more to read.
Eddie hesitates before leaning in. He leaves a soft, gentle kiss on Buck’s forehead. When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed red.
“Chris is downstairs,” Eddie says. “We brought Abuela’s tamales for dinner. I’ll go heat them up. Join us when you’re ready, okay?”
“Okay.” Buck smiles, his own cheeks burning as brightly as Eddie’s. He watches Eddie disappear down the stairs, listening to the soft sounds of him and Christopher getting their dinner ready.
He sits in bed for a moment, heart racing and skin tingling where Eddie’s lips touched his skin. He brings his hand up, fingers ghosting over the spot, hardly daring to believe it happened. The warmth of Eddie’s kiss lingers, spreading through him like honey, sweet and slow.
He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Eddie’s shirt that still envelops him. It grounds him, a tangible reminder that this is real. That Eddie is downstairs, waiting for him. That Christopher is there too, probably setting the table with matching plates the way he likes to do.
They’re here. His two favourite people are here, came here to spend the evening with him.
Buck swings his legs over the side of his bed and heads down to the kitchen.
His day might not have been great, but his evening is going to be much better.
4. the sweater
Okay, this time, Buck knows exactly what he’s doing.
Here’s what he knows: Buck likes wearing Eddie’s clothes. He especially likes it when those clothes have Eddie’s name on them somewhere. It makes him feel safe, claimed, like he belongs somewhere. Like he belongs to Eddie.
And Eddie likes seeing Buck in his clothes. So. Both of them like it when Buck wears Eddie’s clothes.
So really, when Buck jumps in his jeep one evening to head over to the Diaz house and finds one of Eddie’s sweaters in the backseat, a soft, dark grey thing that always makes him look a little softer, he comes to the only natural conclusion.
He takes off his own hoodie, tosses it back into the jeep, and pulls Eddie’s sweater on. This time, he doesn’t even need to check if it has Eddie’s name written on it. He knows by now that Eddie labels most of his clothes, some sort of leftover habit from years in sports dressing rooms and army barracks. Eddie’s name is there, and so is his smell, and it all envelops Buck until he’s sighing in pleasure.
And then he drives to the Diaz home as if everything’s totally normal and cool and he’s not about to vibrate out of his skin or anything. Nope, nothing to see here. Nothing at all.
As Buck steps out of the jeep and makes his way to the front door, he feels a rush of confidence wash over him. The sweater envelops him like a warm embrace, like he’s coming home, and the anxiety that had been gnawing at him during his drive fades away. He uses his key to let himself in, then follows the sound of dishes clattering to the kitchen.
“Hey,” Eddie greets with a bright smile that lights up his face, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His eyes land on Buck’s sweater, and for a split second, his jaw drops, before his expression transforms into something softer. “Nice sweater.”
“Yeah, I found it in my car,” Buck replies with a shrug, trying to sound casual even though he can feel his cheeks heating up under Eddie’s gaze. “Thought I’d put it to good use.”
Eddie’s eyes sweep over Buck, taking in every inch of him. He flickers them back up to Buck’s eyes when he’s done, then down to his lips. Slowly, deliberately.
“Well,” he finally says, a smile hitching at the corner of his mouth, “this is pretty good use, I agree.”
“Good,” Buck breathes out. “I- I’m glad you approve.”
“I do.” Eddie takes a step closer. He opens his mouth, then chuckles and shuts it again.
“What?” Buck demands.
“I was about to say that I know an even better use for that sweater,” Eddie says, “but then I realised that that sounds a lot like a pickup line.”
“And, what,” Buck says, heart hammering out of his chest so hard, it’s almost stretching Eddie’s sweater out. “You don’t want to pick me up?”
Eddie smirks. He takes another step closer.
“Sweetheart,” he says, and oh, that just makes Buck melt, “do I really need to? I thought we were past that.”
“That doesn’t mean a guy can’t appreciate a good pickup line,” Buck replies. He’s the one to take a step forward this time. They’re close enough to touch, now.
“Okay,” Eddie says. Buck can feel his exhale. He links their pinkies together, hands swinging gently between them. “Well, I was going to say that that sweater looks good on you, but it would look even better on my floor.”
Buck snorts. The movement causes him to tilt his head forward, and then all of a sudden, his forehead is leaning against Eddie’s and Eddie’s free hand comes up to cradle his jaw.
“You’re right,” Buck says. He bites his lip, barely containing his glee. “I mean, that was so corny, and I loved it, but yeah. We’re past pickup lines.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
And then Buck leans forward and kisses Eddie.
The kiss is warm and soft, a gentle meeting of lips that sends electricity dancing through Buck’s veins. It’s everything he’s been waiting for and more than he ever dreamed it could be. It’s new, and yet so, so familiar.
It’s like coming home.
Buck can feel Eddie smiling against his mouth. When they finally pull apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, Buck can’t help but grin.
“Well,” Buck says, trying to catch his breath. “Guess that sweater must be lucky.”
Eddie chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Then it’s a good thing I left it in your car the other day.”
“Left,” Buck says slowly, “not forgot?”
Eddie shrugs. His hand slides from Buck’s jaw to the back of his neck, where his pinky dips below the sweater and strokes Buck’s bare skin, right there where the label rests. Buck breaks out in goosebumps everywhere. It would be embarrassing if he didn’t want Eddie to keep doing it forever.
“You’re not exactly subtle,” Eddie says, stroking his finger again. “You like wearing my clothes.”
“I guess I do.” Buck leans forward for another soft, sweet kiss. They’re both smiling when they part, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. “But you like seeing me in your clothes, too.”
“I do.” Eddie grins. His grip on Buck’s neck tightens ever-so-slightly. “I can think of other situations in which I’d like to see you, too.”
“Like what?”
Eddie’s smirk grows. Oh, that look is dangerous, has Buck a little weak in the knees and everything. Fuck, he’s glad they’re doing this now.
“Like in my bed,” Eddie says, and he drops his hand from Buck’s neck. Before Buck can mourn the loss, Eddie is pulling him towards the bedroom, the door slamming shut behind them with a definitive bang.
Yeah, Buck thinks as Eddie peels the sweater off of him between kisses, he can get on board with that, too.
5. the jacket
The pier stretches out before them, a long wooden path disappearing into the darkening horizon. The sun has just dipped below the ocean, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks that reflect off the water’s surface. As they walk, the last rays of warmth fade, replaced by a cool breeze coming off the sea.
It’s been a beautiful day. Eddie, Chris, and Buck came to the Pier together on a rare day off. They spent all day going on rides and eating greasy food, hitting one sugar high after the other. Now, they’re going on one last stroll before they head back home.
Buck shivers slightly, rubbing his bare arms. He’d insisted he didn’t need a jacket, confident that the lingering heat of the day would be enough. Now, as goosebumps rise on his skin, he’s starting to regret that decision.
“Cold, Buck?” Eddie asks, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
“Nope,” Buck replies stubbornly, even as another shiver runs through him. “I’m totally fine.”
Christopher snorts, looking up at Buck with an unimpressed expression.
“You just don’t want to admit you were wrong,” he says. And, like, he’s right, but Buck isn’t about to admit that.
“I’m not cold,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets to show how casual and cool he is, definitely not to try and get some warmth out of them. “I’m just enjoying this breeze.”
“There’s no breeze,” Eddie and Chris chorus. They high-five. It would be adorable if they weren’t ganging up on Buck.
Oh, who is he kidding? It’s still adorable, just frustratingly so.
Buck resolutely keeps on walking and ignores them. They laugh, but follow him, Buck slowing down so they catch up with him again. Eddie’s hand slides down Buck’s arm and tugs his hand out of his pocket so his fingers can tangle together with Eddie’s.
“Are you sure you’re not too cold?” Eddie asks softly. “We can go home, you know.”
Buck shakes his head.
“We’re almost there anyway,” he says. It’s true: they’re about to reach the end of the pier, where they’ll turn around and head back to their car. It’ll be warmer in there, Buck thinks.
“If you say so,” Eddie says. He squeezes Buck’s hand.
For a few minutes, they keep walking in a comfortable silence.
Then Buck shivers again and Christopher rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost audible.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Eddie says, and he gestures for Chris to turn around. While he waits for his son to do so, he takes his own jacket off and holds it out for Buck, shaking it at the shoulders.
“Come on,” he says when Buck just looks at him. “You know how clothes work, don’t you?”
“But that’s your jacket,” Buck says. “You’ll be cold.”
Eddie shrugs. “By the time I’m cold, we’ll be back in the car. Now come here, put the jacket on.”
“Just do it, Buck,” Chris says. “Dad’s not gonna back down. He always makes me wear a jacket, too.”
Helpless against his two Diaz boys, Buck turns around and allows Eddie to help him pull the jacket on. It’s warm and soft to the touch. Buck can’t help but burrow into it.
“Better?” Eddie asks, a knowing grin on his face.
“Much better.” Buck leans forward and kisses Eddie quickly, then links their fingers again and tugs him forward. “Now let’s go, I don’t want you to get cold.”
“It’s been a whole minute without my jacket,” Eddie says dramatically, following Buck and Christopher down the pier. “My lips are turning blue. I’ve lost all feeling in my toes. I’m freezing alive.”
Buck shares an unimpressed look with Christopher.
“What do you think,” Buck says, “should we watch Frozen when we get home, or is that insensitive to our human snowman over here?”
“Insensitive,” the human snowman says.
“ You can watch Frozen ,” Chris says. “But you can’t sing the songs. I don’t want them stuck in my head.”
“Buck, of course, begins singing Do You Want to Build a Snowman.
His audience doesn’t appreciate his musical genius.
That’s on them, though. He’ll just have to remind them of it. It’s not like it’ll be a hardship or anything.
And if he has to pull Eddie extra close in bed that night, just to make sure his boyfriend is well and truly warm, well, that’s not exactly a hardship either.
+1. the turnouts
After three gruelling hours, the fire is under control.
It was a bad one, a building gone up in flames entirely. The 118 isn’t the only house on the scene. They hadn’t even been the first to arrive. It was long, and took hard work, but the surrounding buildings are safe, and they got everyone out safely, so Buck counts it as a giant success.
He’s rolling up a hose near the truck while the rest of his team is spread around, finishing up triage and other tasks, when he hears someone call his name.
He looks up, coming face to face with another firefighter, her long hair in a braid and soot streaked on her face. She looks vaguely familiar in the way that most of his coworkers do.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, already backing away. “I was looking for Eddie.”
“He’s over there,” Buck says, pointing towards the group of kids gathered on the pavement. They hadn’t been involved in the fire at all, thankfully. No, they’d just cycled by and in the excitement over seeing real-life firefighters, one of them had lost control of his steering wheel. Eddie is cleaning up his skimmed knee — and being asked all sorts of questions about his job, from the looks of it.
“Got it.” The firefighter nods in thanks. She turns around, then back towards Buck. “Oh, you’ve got the wrong coat, by the way. That’s why I thought you were him.”
Buck smiles, but she’s gone before he can say anything.
He continues rolling up the hose, still smiling. It doesn’t take long for Eddie to appear next to him.
“So,” Eddie says, leaning against the side of the truck. He’s taken his helmet off, his hair tousled and a little damp. He’s probably gross, covered in ash and smoke and sweat, but Buck doesn’t care one bit. Eddie is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, no matter the circumstances.
“So,” Buck parrots back. “Is the kid okay?”
“All good,” Eddie confirms. “He just needed a bandaid. And he wanted to know if the fire was scary. I told him it was pretty big, but that I was with my team, so I wasn’t scared. And then I said that he should never play with fire, because he looked a little too excited.”
He tilts his head.
“And then Lena said hi and told me you stole my gear.”
Buck grins.
“I did no such thing,” he says, stepping forward to box Eddie up against the engine. Eddie easily tugs him further into his space. “She just left before I could tell her that these are my turnouts, not yours.”
Eddie’s hands slide around Buck’s back. One rests on the back of his neck, worming around the thick fabric of his work gear to rest against his skin.
The other goes much slower, till it’s pressing right against where Buck’s name is printed on his turnouts.
“Well, I corrected her,” Eddie promises. “And as much as I like seeing you in my clothes, I quite like these on you as well.”
Buck leans forward and presses a soft, smoke-flavoured kiss against Eddie’s lips. He doesn’t linger, no matter how much he wants to, because past experience tells him he only has about three seconds to kiss his husband before Hen and Chim pop up to break them apart.
“Good,” Buck says, keeping his forehead against Eddie’s. He takes Eddie’s hand from his neck and laces their fingers together, holding their hands up between them. “I like them, too.”
He presses his ring finger against Eddie’s more snugly, feeling the soft silicone press between their hands. Eddie’s matching ring is right there, a sight Buck doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of.
And at his back, Eddie’s fingers trace the Diaz printed on Buck’s new turnouts.