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You’d think Buck was the sun.
The way he lights up any room he steps into. His warmth, his kindness. His energy. The way his smile melts deep into your bones. The way he greets you on a cold 6am Thursday, with a warm cup of coffee in a heated car. The way everyone seems to revolve around him, gravitate towards him. When he’s at the center of attention and his stupid jokes draw everyone in, makes them laugh, melts the tension and weariness after a 24 hour shift. You’d think he was the sun. Eddie wouldn’t blame you.
But he’s not.
Eddie is the sun.
He burns too hot, too fast. He hurts people, scalds them. He abandons them when they need him, when they rely on him. He disappears in a gloom for days on end, hiding out in his bedroom, ignoring all texts and calls. Clouds obscure him, a darkness falls over him. And he has to fight his way back every time. Sometimes it takes a thunderstorm for him to reappear. Like standing up to his parents after a fight with them. Or standing up to someone in an actual, literal fight, in a ring, with people looking on. Sometimes the clouds linger for days. Sometimes for weeks. Like when Christopher leaves.
When Chris leaves, it’s like the fire within him goes out. Something inside him, something small hidden behind his ribs, grows and expands, pushing out and out, out of his heart and out of his chest. It solidifies until he’s a dense, hard rock, just floating around in a cold universe. Flames snuffed out and extinguished by the emptiness.
He lives on autopilot from that point on. He goes to work only because he doesn't know what else to do. The empty house only reminds him of what he’s lost. He eats only because Bobby cooks for him and Buck practically feeds him like a toddler. He pulls on his turnout call efter call, because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Giving away little pieces of himself to save others. He saves a woman out of the fifth story window of a burning building. He cuts a family of four out of a crushed car. He saves fourteen people from an impending explosion at a chemical factory. And still he feels nothing; he’s not relieved, he’s not happy, he’s not proud. Because he couldn’t save the most important person in his life. He couldn’t save his son from himself.
Ever since he first found out Shannon was pregnant, he’s tried to do the right thing. Provide. Be a good husband, be a good father. Take care of the people around him. But every time he thought he had it under control, something would happen to him, like an old wound resurfacing, coming back to haunt him.
He starts cherishing his 24 hour shifts. He’s not good at sleeping anymore. It takes him hours to fall asleep, and when he does, the dreams start. He dreams of gunfire and bombs and helicopters. Of desert sand and makeshift trenches. He dreams of car crashes, and waves dragging everything underwater. He dreams of Shannon.
He shows up to work more exhausted than when he left the night before. He’s impatient. He loses his temper, fucks up an intubation Hen asked him to do. He feels everyone staring at him as they pile into the engine to head back to the station. He sulks in his seat, until Buck comes and presses right up next to him and puts a hand on his neck, wordlessly massaging some of the tension out of him.
( “We’re worried about you, you know. All of us.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You’re not. We can all see it. It’s okay to ask for help, Eddie.”
“I don’t need— I don’t deserve—“
“Hey. No one’s disappointed in you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
“It’s hard. When I get home, the house, it’s. It’s so empty. And I’m having these dreams...”
“What dreams?”
“Just. Dreams. It’s nothing.” )
Buck starts sleeping on the couch after learning about the nightmares. He turns the tv all the way up, he keeps the light on in the hallway. He snores and mumbles in his sleep. And Eddie has to admit it helps having someone in the next room, to fall asleep to the soft flashes of light emitting from the living room. But falling asleep means falling into dreams. He wakes up thrashing in the covers, clenching his pillows. Sometimes he wakes up sobbing. One time he wakes up screaming.
Buck appears in his doorway that night. Eddie doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him, but buries his head in the pillow, in shame, in guilt, in agony. He might’ve even whispered something like just leave , but Buck never does as he’s told, and he responds by climbing into the bed, on top of the covers, without saying a word. Eddie doesn’t move a muscle, just lies there with his back to him, waiting, until Buck’s breathing goes steady and heavy, until the air feels even between them. When he wakes up, Buck is tucked under the covers, face turned towards Eddie and the window, where the soft glow of the morning stains his cheeks a faint pink.
Buck sleeps in Eddie’s bed every night from that day on. And it always happens in the same way. He slips into bed at the dark of the night, careful not to disturb Eddie. They don’t talk, they don’t touch. Even on his days off, Buck ends up in Eddie’s house, in Eddie’s bed, at one point or another. They never talk about it. They also don’t talk about the thermos of coffee Buck always has ready for Eddie in the morning, or how he always knows what music Eddie is in the mood for on the way to work, or how he watches out for Eddie when they’re on a call, or how he’s started stroking the back of Eddie’s neck when they sit on the couch watching tv, scratching lightly with his nails in a way that sends shivers down Eddie’s spine. There’s a lot they don’t talk about. But they always talk about Chris.
It’s like Buck makes a point to mention him every day. At first it hurt, the reminder. Just hearing his name would jumpstart a bout of guilt. But every day it gets easier. Buck tells stories and shares memories. Sometimes he’ll share a story he’s already told before, but Eddie doesn’t mind. Knowing the punchline is soothing, familiar. Somehow it’s nice to know he’s not the only one missing him. It feels good to share the longing.
( “Did Chris say how the math test went when you talked to him yesterday?”
“He said it went well. Got an A-.”
“Hey, that’s great. Smart kid.”
“I know.”
“I remember one time when we were playing that game, you know, the one with the puzzles? He was beating me at every single level. I just couldn’t keep up with him. And that biology assignment? I didn’t learn any of that when I went to school.”
“Yeah, he keeps me on my toes.”
“I can see where he gets that from.”
“Uh, thanks. I think?” )
Eddie talks to Chris a few times a week. He tells him every time how much he misses him, how much he loves him, how he can’t wait to get him back home. But he makes a point not to pressure him. And he tries not to apologize too much. Buck told him not to. Assured him that if the first thousand sorry’s didn’t fix it, the next thousand won’t. You don’t need to keep reminding him, Buck said.
And it actually seems to be helping. Chris seems happier and more chatty every time they talk. He starts talking less about El Paso, and more about LA. About how he misses his classmates, misses his favorite pizza place, misses Buck. On those days, where they chat on FaceTime and he sees Chris’s wonderful smile, the clouds seem to part a little.
But there are still bad days, where Buck practically has to drag him out into the car. On the really bad days, Buck’s voice will go all soft, and he’ll hover around Eddie at the station, let a hand linger on his back when they’re in the kitchen making coffee. He’ll sit next to Eddie in the truck, legs pressed close. Eddie starts to anticipate the closeness, Buck’s quiet, reassuring words in his ear. He gets used to Buck’s fingers dragging up and down his spine. He can’t sleep without listening to Buck’s soft snores. And he knows it’s not normal. He knows it should probably make him panic, make him feel ashamed, make him nervous. But it doesn’t. Everything about Buck makes him calm.
And one night, when Buck is asleep next to him, and the moonlight lights up the room enough for Eddie to let his eyes follow every rise and fall of Buck’s chest, he realizes something.
Buck isn’t the sun. Buck is the moon.
Ever since Eddie moved to LA, Buck has been the only constant in his life. He might be hot headed, or impulsive, or all over the place, but he’s always there. He’s there when Eddie needs him, no questions asked. He’s there when Eddie doesn’t even know he needs him. Always keeping an eye out for him, making sure he’s okay. When Eddie thought he was alone, Buck showed him that he wasn’t.
And in this moonlight, Eddie reaches out a hand and places it lightly, as not to wake him, on Buck’s chest. He feels his heartbeat through the soft fabric of his t-shirt and finds comfort in the rhythm. As he fades into sleep, Buck’s hand moves up to cover his, steady and sure.
( “Eddie? Eddie. Wake up.”
“Mmm?”
“Eddie.”
“Buck? What’s going on?”
“I think you were dreaming. You were, like, shaking.”
“Oh.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I don’t even know…”
“Come here. I got you.”)
They get called out to a car crash involving a young couple. It’s an ugly one. The car is crushed against a wall, engine on fire. Bobby thinks quickly; Buck cuts the door open, Eddie and Chimney pull them out, Hen performs CPR. But it’s no use. They’re too late. The woman’s torso is crushed. She dies in the arms of her boyfriend, right there under the sky, while the rain washes away her blood.
And Eddie loses it.
He doesn’t know why he reacts this way. He’s seen countless deaths on the job. Parents, kids, wives, husbands. But something about the way the man held her, his steady words of encouragement until the very end, made something short circuit in Eddie’s brain. His chest tightens and he gets tunnel vision; he staggers off towards the engine. Buck finds him a minute later on the ground against the wheel, rain hammering down on the ground around him. Eddie looks up at him, squinting against the water, and tries to say something. When he can’t come up with anything, he tries with an apology instead, but Buck’s having none of that. He crouches next to Eddie and wraps his arms around him, until his sobs subside. It’s okay. You’re okay.
After their shift, they pick up food on their way home. They eat it at the kitchen table, while Buck tells jokes and does everything in his power to cheer him up. Eddie tries again to apologize for his reaction earlier, but Buck’s still not having it. He swats Eddie playfully on the arm as they clear out the take-out boxes, and tells him to stop worrying so much about what people, and especially Buck, thinks about him.
This sentiment lingers at the back of Eddie’s mind when they move to the couch to catch up on their current guilty pleasure tv show. It lingers as Buck rests his arm at the back of the couch, and after a while, as usual, brushes his fingers against the small hairs of Eddie’s neck.
Eddie feels something, almost like a quaver or a crackling, deep in his chest, like warm embers getting hotter and brighter with every breath he takes. And he looks at Buck, and he realizes, without even thinking about it, that he never wants these kinds of days to end. He wants Buck’s fingertips to linger on his skin, he wants Buck to linger on his couch in the afternoon, in his bed at night. He wants him around at all times. And instead of letting the thought of that scare him, he lets it light a fire inside of him. Impatient, trembling, hot hands search for something to hold on to.
( “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You okay? You look hot. I mean, like, warm. Do you have a fever?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to open a window? I can—“
“No.”
“Are you sure? I can get you a glass of–”
“I’m fine, I promise. I’m good. Just… stay.”
“Here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.” )
Eddie looks at Buck, and he thinks of all the moments he’s let slip through his fingers, the people he’s lost, the people he didn’t fight hard enough for, the pieces of himself he’s lost on his way to this point in time. And it all makes it seem so easy, so simple, to reach for Buck and hold onto him.
Buck smiles into it when their lips meet and somewhere in a vast, cold universe, a star blinks back to life.
It feels different, kissing Buck, like nothing he’s ever felt before. It feels different pulling him eagerly into his bed, rather than wordlessly allowing him the space, and Buck asks a hundred times over is this okay , and Eddie can’t help but laugh, because he doesn’t think anything in his life has ever been more okay . Two forces of nature crash into each other, and Eddie would be afraid to burn him, but Buck absorbs every burst of energy like he was made for it. For the first time in his life, Eddie holds no part of himself back.
Eddie wakes up in the morning with an arm draped over his chest and little wisps of air breathing against his neck. Watching with reverence, he waits for Buck to wake up. When Buck’s eyes flicker open, the first light of the morning peeks through the curtains, infusing pale blue with warm gold.
They drive to work together in Buck’s car and smile at each other across the console. Eddie doesn’t hide his gaze when they change in the locker room; Buck just ducks his head and laughs in sudden shyness. Eddie’s stomach does some weird acrobatics every time Buck’s laughter makes its way across the room to him. The whole shift is a blur of Buck, and sirens, and Buck saving the day, and eating lunch, and Buck licking the spoon, and Buck winking at Eddie across the table. It’s Buck, Buck, Buck , and Eddie feels drunk.
He corners him in a secluded spot at the station, willing him to press against the wall with just his eyes, and tells him to cut it out . Then he kisses him and asks him if he’s staying the night again. Buck just laughs, because of course he is . Because he’s been “staying the night” for five weeks in a row. Where else would he be?
The thing is, he’s been staying the night for five weeks in a row . They arrive in Buck’s car for every shift. They leave together after every shift. People are starting to pick up on it. Sure, Buck would often give Eddie a ride even before this happened, but now there’s a domesticity about it that’s new.
( “Alright Hen, you stay with me, get him bandaged up. Chimney, Buck, Eddie, you check upstairs, see if anyone else needs a hand.”
“Aw, come on Cap.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Don’t send me with the lovebirds please.”
“The what ?”
“Lovebirds?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you guys are more insufferable than usual.”
“I— what are you—“
“Alright Chimney, that’s enough. Get upstairs. Keep it professional.”
“Yeah, Chimney, keep it professional.”
“That was meant for you, Buck.” )
They don’t really talk about it. They dance around it, they joke, they dream, but they don’t talk . That isn’t new to Eddie. He’s used to kind of falling into these situations, finding himself in a relationship before he’s even had time to consider it. But this is not like those other times. This is Buck, which should make it more complicated, but it’s not. It’s easy. It’s fun. God, it’s fun. Eddie doesn’t remember ever having this kind of fun with any of his ex girlfriends. He wasn’t aware that just making out on the couch on a Tuesday afternoon could be this silly and lighthearted and charming. That having his chest peppered with kisses would make him throw back his head in laughter. That having Buck’s hands on him would make his cheeks ache from smiling.
Eddie starts to notice all these new things about Buck. He likes to sing songs under his breath when he’s cooking, but only when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He leaves the toothpaste out for Eddie after brushing his teeth. He fluffs both their pillows before getting into bed. Little things he never thought he’d have the opportunity to notice. Buck is so generous with his time and his attention. His affection, as well. Eddie remembers the feelings of claustrophobia or even panic he would get when his previous partners were too physically affectionate towards him. But nothing like that happens with Buck. Eddie finds himself craving the touches, seeking them out, testing his limits. So far, there’s been nothing Eddie hasn’t liked. He’s infatuated with the way their bodies fit together, moving in the same rhythm, like two wavelengths tuning into each other, intertwining.
But Eddie struggles with articulating these things. Instead, he lets his hands do the talking for him. And if he’s being honest, Buck seems to get the gist.
Then Eddie gets a call from Chris.
It’s been almost two months since Chris left for El Paso. He’s kept in sparse contact with Eddie, mostly texts, and a video call or two a week. Every time his face would pop up on Eddie’s phone, Eddie would feel a tiny spark of hope. But then, when Chris had to hang up and return to his life in El Paso, his heart would sink a bit. Still, it’s better than nothing. But now Chris is calling Eddie, unprompted, and Eddie locks himself away in the kitchen to take the call.
When he comes back out of the kitchen, Buck is sitting on the couch, question clear on his face. Eddie goes and hugs him, tight, and shares the news. Chris is coming home.
That night, Buck is lying draped across Eddie’s body, limbs long and heavy, eyes longing for something beyond his reach.
( “I need to mow the lawn before he gets home. And change his bedsheets.”
“Mmh.”
“I didn’t have the heart to change anything when he left, but now he’s coming home, I wanna make sure everything is ready.”
“Yeah.”
“I should get him that new video game he’s been talking about. And a chess board. He joined a chess club, did I tell you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I never knew he played chess. Did you? Buck?”
“Huh?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Buck.”
“I just— I’m happy he’s coming home. Of course I am. It’s everything we’ve - you’ve - fought for. I just. I worry about us.”
“Why?”
“Come on, we can’t pretend that this isn’t— isn’t… a big change for him, Eddie. Again. ”
“ Yeah, but it’s a good change. He loves you.”
“He loves me as Uncle Buck. I don’t think he’s ready for Stepdad Buck, or whatever. And I just don’t want to be the one to fuck it up between you two. He’s finally coming home, you’ve been waiting for this for so long. I don’t want to be in your way, or mess anything up, or—“
“He loves you. I— Hey. Hey, look at me. Buck. I love you.”
“Are you—“
“I love you.”
“Okay.”
“And we’re gonna make this work. We’ll figure it out. I promise. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I love you too. ”)
The next morning, Buck looks at him over a freshly brewed cup of coffee, and Eddie can't stop himself from saying those three words again, and he repeats them until Buck’s face turns pink and his kisses desperate.
At the station, he announces that he has some good news for everyone. Hen asks if they’re finally gonna stop sneaking around. Chimney asks if they’re getting married. Buck looks at him with wide eyes but can’t stop himself from laughing. They all congratulate and hug him when he tells them about Chris. Buck squeezes Eddie’s hand before lacing their fingers together, and that’s that.
Eddie mows the lawn, buys the video game, buys the chess board. He does the laundry, his and Buck’s clothes mixed together. Buck bakes a cake, making a mess in the kitchen. Eddie wraps his arms around him, breathing in the scent of him. He smells like vanilla and the body wash they share. There’s a sprinkle of flour in his hair. Eddie brushes it out, lets his fingers tangle in the curls, presses a kiss to his lips. Buck hums against him. Eddie feels delirious, like he’s dreaming, like he shouldn’t be deserving of this kind of love, but he basks in it anyways.
(“ I can’t believe we danced around this for so many years.”
“There are worse ways to spend your life, than dancing with your best friend.”)
It’s a bright, warm morning the day Chris’ plane arrives at LAX. The arrival area is buzzing with anticipation and excitement. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, friends, partners, all waiting for their loved ones. Eddie is here with Buck, his boyfriend , and he’s waiting for his son to come home. Outside the windows, the sky is a deep, clear blue.
Chris walks through the gate with a smile plastered on his face. Eddie runs to him and scoops him into a tight hug, the kind where Chris wraps both his arms around his waist like he used to do when he was a kid. He’s so tall now, taller than he remembers, and it dawns on him that time moves too fast. He lets go, and Chris walks over to a cautious Buck and embraces him. Buck squeezes him until he complains, head thrown back in laughter. Eddie can’t tear away his eyes from the sight, tucking away the moment somewhere safe, deep inside.
They step out into the dry, California air and walk towards Buck’s car, Chris wedged between the two of them. Buck’s eyes mirror the sky as he looks at Eddie, squinting against the light. The sun beams down and Eddie beams back.
(“ Hey Chris, you know how you call Buck, “Uncle Buck”?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well. How would you feel if I told you he’s actually my boyfriend now?”
“That would make me happy.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I love Buck.”
“Yeah, me too, kid.” )