Work Text:
Seeing the stacks of boxes by the front door hits Buck like a brick wall when he walks in. He knew they’d be there; they were there when he left, but a shift at work and visiting Maddie almost made him forget. Suddenly, the sip of coffee he just took tastes even more bitter than it already did. He swallows, the taste and the lump in his throat, and closes the door.
“I’m back,” Buck shouts into the maw of the house, which is really just the hallway leading to the bedrooms, but with the unfolded boxes leaning on the wall and a heap of shoes and—sandals?—strewn across the floor, it looks gaping and irritating. Keys on the sideboard, sneakers off, jacket on the hook; and Buck moves to get to work, hesitantly. He’d promised he’d help, and it’s not like he has anywhere else to go now. He’s a good friend, he thinks, most of the time. Good friends let their friends move away to be with their kids.
He keeps having to remind himself.
Eddie rounds the corner, and with him comes the sensation of being not-so-gently kicked in the stomach. He just—he looks tired, tousled a bit, as tousled as Eddie ever allows himself to get. Circles under his eyes, five-o-clock shadow, and a mustard stain high on the collar of his shirt, high enough he’s probably unaware of it. Buck looks at him, and he knows he’s in love with Eddie—has known since Eddie would periodically glance over during his going-away dinner two weeks ago, wide-eyed and a little disbelieving—but it keeps hitting Buck square in the chest, just how beautiful Eddie is, and how he’s not going to see him around in person for a while. All he really wants is to soak him in for the rest of the night, all of a sudden scared he’s going to forget the mole high on Eddie’s cheek, or the shape of his nose, or the blinding smile he’s throwing at Buck, and—he’s talking.
“How was the hospital?” Eddie sounds a little out of breath, and when he turns around, Buck sees a faint sweat stain at the base of his spine. He must have been packing for hours already.
“It was good,” Buck says, swallowing, “they’re releasing her in two days.”
Another smile. “Must be a relief.”
“Yeah,” and he means it, “you should have seen Chimney’s face.”
It’s surprising how much there is to pack, considering Eddie’s barely taking any furniture with him. But there’s all of Christopher’s clothes and books and gaming systems he didn’t take with him when he went, and way more pairs of boots than Buck was ever aware Eddie owned. Buck tries not to feel upset by it, when Eddie’s wild eyes at his own collection make it obvious he wasn’t really aware either. But, as Buck assembles another box and starts on the picture frames and little trinkets on the dining room shelf, he has to turn away from Eddie to hide the hurt that must be evident on his face. He didn’t think there were things left to learn about Eddie, things that Buck, somehow, never got an opportunity to know in the past eight years. He could categorize somewhere north of two hundred of Eddie’s different smiles; he knows the taste of his blood. It just feels like there shouldn’t be anything left, and now they’ve run out of time.
Buck wraps anything that could break carefully in tissue paper and tries not to linger on every single object, but he can’t help it. This might not be his house—or wasn’t, until recently—but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been looking at all this stuff for almost as long as Eddie has. They’re Eddie’s things, but taking them from the shelves and placing them in the box still feels a little like Buck is ripping them from his own body, and he ends up almost having to sit down over how this might be the last time he's ever going to see the little Poliwrath figurine Chris gave Eddie one day over breakfast, years ago, handing it over like he was passing down a family heirloom. It's two inches tall. Buck had been there for that one, snickering into his toast at the expression on Eddie's face.
He closes up the box, scribbles STUFF on the side and carries it over, and tries to convince himself that watching this house become empty and drab isn’t devastating.
He’s weirdly hyper-aware of the distance between them, small as it is, as if Eddie were tugging on a string. It’s really only a couple of steps—living room, hallway, to the bedroom where Eddie’s packing his overnight bag—and Buck could just go to him and sit on the bed and Eddie probably wouldn’t even say anything about how Buck is supposed to be packing. But Buck is trying to be good, so he stays.
There's a box balancing on top of a pile in the living room, half-closed. SAFE, it says on the side. Buck can still hear Eddie rummage in the bedroom, so he steps closer until he can peer in. A hard drive; Eddie's passport; a box with a ring inside, gold band. And then a stack of paper, clipped together at the top with a seal on the cover.
Buck takes it out, even though he knows what it is before he reads the words; they’re blurry for a second, but then he blinks the dampness in his eyes away. It’s been years since he and Eddie talked about it, years since he’s known it exists, but for some reason he never considered that it might be here—when he was crashing on the couch, stealing the last of Eddie's flour, fixing holes and cracks in the walls, this monumental promise right there the entire time in the house with them.
Then again, it shouldn’t have made a difference. It was always sort of lingering in an abstract way: the one thing they both knew to be true and never mentioned; not when they were held at gunpoint in the back of an ambulance, not when they watched the first couple of drops of rain fall to the ground together a few weeks after the lightning strike, memory still a bit too fresh. Never more than a glance, where Buck had no way of telling whether Eddie was thinking about the same thing but was always sure of it, without a doubt. You still in this? the first glance would ask; and at times a reminder, whenever Buck was about to risk his life again, something to tether him to the ground.
He never told Eddie, because they never talked about it, but it did tether him, like a weighted blanket, like a collar around his neck, like he was finally slotting into place somewhere.
Buck clutches it in his hands, creasing the paper at the edge. It's strange to see it, is all. This bone-deep devotion that's been solidifying for half a decade laid out in neat sans serif type; it looks small, as if it's nothing, instead of something so life-affirming. The most important vow Buck has ever made.
The thing is, there’s whole states between himself and Chris now. Eight hundred miles, twelve hours by car, two by plane, and his entire family in Texas. Surely, someone else will take his place over there. Not Eddie’s parents. Maybe Adriana—Buck has only ever seen her once, on FaceTime, but she has kids of her own and Eddie loves her. Maybe someone else, someone Eddie hasn’t even met yet.
Buck begins to taste bile; at the same moment, suddenly, he hears Eddie speak, voice echoing closer and closer. “Have you seen that black tank?”
Eddie finds him with the will clasped in his hands, feet stuck where he's been standing for too long. The sound of Eddie’s feet is enough for Buck to finally be able to tear his eyes away from his name, right there on the page, underlined and bold, but he's not quick enough.
“Oh.”
And then they're both standing frozen on opposite ends of the living room.
“Sorry,” Buck says, “didn't mean to snoop.” He places the document back in the box, delicately like it's not nothing at all.
“It's fine,” Eddie says, but they're both just looking at each other. “It's not a secret.”
Except—it always felt a little bit like a secret just between the two of them. Buck isn't even sure if anyone else knows. He assumes that Eddie’s waiting for the right moment to tell his parents, when it’ll hurt the most, but others—why would they know, if Buck didn’t for a whole year. Maybe it’s a little thrilling.
“You okay?” Warm, earnest eyes. Buck never stood a chance.
“Yeah,” he says, closing up the box just to have something to do with hands. “Have you, um. Thought about who you’re going to put in there instead?”
“Why would I put anyone else?” A moment of silence, and then, “Buck,” Eddie continues when there’s no answer. Buck, like it means something. “I’m not going to change my will. Again.” He says it with a little chuckle, a disbelieving quirk to his lips—smile #67, in the catalogue—like he can’t quite gauge if Buck is joking or not. Buck very much isn’t. For a second he considers going along with it, laughing and playing it off, but it sits heavy in his gut like a rock, and he doesn’t really feel like joking, not with what feels like the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.
“His entire family is already there, so…” he begins, but then Eddie takes a step closer, then another, until there’s only about a foot of space between them. Eddie smells like sweat and almond shampoo. Buck wants to bury his face in his neck and never let go.
“I trust you more than anyone with Chris. That hasn’t changed just because we’re gonna be in Texas.” Eddie says it like it’s the only thing that matters, like it’s self-evident. And then: “You helped raise that kid more than my parents ever did, and he lived with them for years. Still doesn’t change a thing. You know what’s best for him. And if I don’t make it, I’ll die happy knowing that you’re going to watch over him for me.”
Buck is—reeling, like he’s been slapped, until Eddie’s hand lands on his shoulder, moving to grasp the side of his neck. His fingertips dig into Buck’s nape, scratching mildly through the hair there, and he shivers. He’s sure Eddie notices, but Buck can really only focus on trying not to nuzzle into the palm of Eddie’s hand like a cat, on watching the shape of his lips. Smile #21. One of his favorites.
“Okay.”
Later, he's going to feel like there's a string tied to his heart when Eddie pulls away from the curb, wrenching it from his chest and dragging it with him behind the car as he leaves. Entrails, all of it spilled on the blacktop. But he doesn't know that yet; he's still managing to swallow it down around the lump of everything stuck in his throat, around Eddie's words.