Work Text:
“Where’s Chris?” Buck asks when they step into the house.
Eddie’s eyes flick up from where he’s toeing off his shoes — well, Buck’s shoes. He’d had to leave his boots at the station, along with his turnout gear. Given he arrived at the building collapse in uniform, he didn’t exactly have fresh clothes to change back into. He hadn’t even thought of it before he hit the showers, but Buck had. Left a neat pile for him, out the front of his stall: a spare LAFD long tee, worn soft, a pair of sneakers a half size too big, and some socks.
As they left the station together, Eddie noticed that Buck was wearing the same kind. Sun yellow. It’s dark in the house now, but Eddie can still see them peaking out from beneath Buck’s jeans, a few steps ahead of him.
Buck flicks on a few lights, looks back at Eddie in question.
Right.
“He’s staying at Pepa’s tonight,” Eddie answers, wondering why those words feel so dangerous right now.
“Oh,” Buck says, surprised. He blinks at Eddie — once, twice. “So you’re really not booking the red eye flights?”
He asks it with a false casualness that Eddie sees right through. And yet, somehow, it’s Eddie who feels exposed by it. Like there’s a spotlight fixed on him, bright and demanding.
He glances away, not for the first time since they arrived back at the station, since Chimney’s speech to the 118 — to Eddie, specifically.
The drive home was quiet, but thick with the tension of unspoken words.
Eddie swallows.
Makes himself look back at Buck.
There’s something in his eyes, something that feels so close to hope, and it tugs at the strings of Eddie’s heart. Pulls them this way and that, forcing him to reckon with the knowledge that he’ll be leaving Buck again. Because he has to, doesn’t he?
“Figured it’d be a rough ask before a seven am start tomorrow,” he says, and Buck nods.
“Right. Of course.”
Buck turns, heads to the kitchen.
Eddie, unsure what else to do, follows.
There’s more to it than that, of course. What he doesn’t tell Buck is that he’s already messaged Captain Morales, told him about the delay. The building collapse made headlines across the country, so Morales wasn’t particularly surprised to learn that Eddie had been involved, helping out his old team. He’d happily shifted Eddie’s start date 48 hours, to avoid what would’ve been pretty crap commute on his first day of a new job.
But those details won’t matter to Buck. Not when the end result is the same.
Buck opens the fridge, grabs a beer out, then, at Eddie’s nod, another.
He cracks them open, hands one to Eddie, their hands brushing briefly.
They each take a pull.
It’s not the first time they’ve been in the kitchen since that day — since their fight. But Eddie still feels acutely aware of it, being in this space with Buck again. Where he’d spilled every angry, hurt thought to Buck that night, now, it’s what’s going unsaid that hangs between them. And Eddie wishes it wasn’t like this. Wishes they could return to their usual ease, Buck’s endless smiles and quick laughs, which always manage to make Eddie’s chest thrum with content.
But Eddie’s leaving again, and there’s no way around that.
They drink in silence for a minute.
Buck takes a few measured sips, while Eddie manages to drain half his bottle.
There’s a smudge of dirt on the underside of Buck’s jaw, still there despite their showers at the station. Eddie hadn’t noticed it in the car, but he can see it now, and he has to resist the urge to walk over, to reach out and clean it with a lick to his thumb.
“It really was an amazing rescue,” Buck says out of nowhere — breaking Eddie from that thought, that fantasy — and there’s a half-smile lifting his mouth.
He’s trying.
Eddie’s heart aches, bittersweet.
He huffs a half-laugh. “Channeling you with that one, cowboy.”
Buck makes a noise of surprise, his cheeks turning just a touch pink. He takes another sip of his beer.
“So, um. Chim’s speech sure was something,” Eddie says after a beat, can’t help it — like a bruise blooming purple on skin, that you know will hurt to press against, but do it anyway.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”
“Did you — are you reconsidering your decision? About transferring?”
Buck looks at him for a long moment. Then, “Yeah. I’m going to rescind my request tomorrow.”
Eddie nods.
That’s good. That’s the right call. He knows Buck, knows he would’ve regretted making a hasty decision in the midst of grief. Eddie’s got personal experience of how tough that is.
“What about — what about you, Eddie?”
It’s the expected next question — the one that follows Eddie’s — and yet it still has something seizing in his chest. Something that he doesn’t want to examine too closely, but that Chimney’s sharp declaration — his order, really, that Eddie wouldn’t be staying in Texas any longer — forces out into the open.
Eddie swallows.
He thinks about the weatherboard he bought in El Paso, that he’s been fixing up over the past few months, a place he’s been hoping will one day feel like home.
He thinks about the job he’s supposed to be starting — tomorrow, in three days — a sign that he’s finally getting his life back on track.
He thinks about the kid who fled an entire state to escape him.
He forces down the want that aches in his bones, and says, “Buck. It’s not that simple.”
Buck nods again.
More silence.
Then, “I want to say something to you, but I don’t want — I don’t want you to think I’m being… you know.”
Eddie swallows. Hates that Buck feels the need to qualify this.
“What is it?”
“Just that… for the first time since Bobby died — or since before that. Since you left. That I felt almost… normal today.” Buck pauses, offers a slow, wobbly smile. “Rav’s been great, don’t get me wrong. But when you radioed in. When I saw you, and I knew you were coming to save me — us. Fuck. It was the best I’ve felt at work in a long time. I’ve really — I’ve really missed being your partner, man.”
A laugh bursts out of Eddie, something wet and bruised.
He thinks of all the things he’s been missing in his life these past months. Christopher makes up so much of his heart, and Eddie would — he’d do anything for him. Return to a city he clawed his way out of almost a decade ago, just to be close to him. And he’d wanted so badly for that love to carve out the wrongness that was the rest of it. Of not being with the 118 — the family found and forged — of not being with Pepa, or Carla.
Of noting being with Buck.
And it did. It did.
But not entirely.
He thinks of that call, in the middle of the night. Thinks of Bobby dying, Eddie not there to even try to help.
This time — this time, he was there.
And when Buck came zip lining towards him, a cloud of dust and rubble haloing him as he cleared the space between a half collapsed building and safety, Eddie felt such profound, overwhelming relief it threatened to take his legs out. He almost forgot anyone else was there, his eyes so fixed on Buck — okay, alive, delivered right to him — until Ravi came barrelling into his chest, a hug that startled him back to the rest of the team.
He smiles now. Nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, me too, Buck.”
Buck smiles, too. Shifts away from the kitchen bench he’d been leaning against, nods towards the fridge. “I’ll, um. I’ll get started on dinner, okay? You happy with pasta? Pepa brought over some lemons the other day, so I thought I could do that broccoli one Bobby always liked.”
“Pasta sounds great,” Eddie says, pulling out one of the kitchen island chairs, settling in to keep Buck company.
Buck’s brows jump in surprise, but his smile turns pleased.
He puts on apron — blue and white stripes — then starts pulling things from the fridge, the cupboards. Eddie watches on readily. Buck moves around the kitchen with the same ease he did when it was still Eddie’s, and it’s — it’s kind of beautiful to witness, actually. Transfixing.
Eddie yawns, even though it’s barely eight.
It’s been months since he’s had the opportunity to flex the skillset of being a firefighter. His body feels heavy, his mind tired, but here, in this kitchen with Buck, it’s an exhaustion that feels safe. Buck takes a sip of his beer as he chops the broccoli into florets. Eddie’s eyes track the movement, the way his mouth parts and settles over the lip of the bottle, his head tipping back and his throat working as he swallows.
For some reason, it has Eddie’s body growing warm, almost — antsy.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he manages to tear his gaze away from Buck.
It’s a text from Christopher, a response to the one Eddie sent earlier this evening, when Buck was driving them home — letting Chris know how the rescue went, that they wouldn’t be heading back to Texas tonight after all.
Chris’s messages are simple:
glad ur ok
glad ur with buck
Eddie heart reacts the first. Then the second. Glances back up at Buck, lingering on the soft concentration of his face as he minces some garlic.
He looks back to his phone.
Watches as he types, without any real permission from his brain, Mijo, do you like Texas? He sends it then stares. Want stretches, and worry pushes back against it. Hastily, he adds, I’m sorry to ask over text. It can wait til tomorrow. And I want you to be honest with me, either way.
Thankfully, Chris’s response comes quickly.
lol dad
ur so formal
texas is fine I guess
Something stirs in Eddie’s chest — a shift of possibility — his mind suddenly whirring. He’s not sure what response he was expecting from Chris, and there wasn’t enough time to actually hope for any particular response — not when that feels… selfish. Unfair.
He clears his throat.
Buck looks up at him in response.
“I’m just gonna call Chris.”
Buck nods, smiles. “Say hi for me.”
Chris answers after two rings, and Eddie shuts the spare bedroom door — Christopher’s bedroom door — behind him with a soft click. When Buck helped him pack his belongings into the U-haul, there was some stuff that got left behind. Chris’s old desk is still in here, as is a bookshelf and dresser. Eddie had assumed Buck would clear it out when he moved in. Make use of the space. Maybe a home gym.
But instead it’s remained as is. Gone are the bits of life that made it Chris’s; the posters and books and pictures in frames. But still Buck’s kept it.
Of course he has.
“Hey, mijo,” Eddie says.
“Hey, Dad. You’re thinking about Texas?”
Eddie barks a surprised laugh. Christ. Jumping right in. He’s still getting used to it — that his baby is a teenager now, that he’s sharp and headstrong and stubborn, all the things Eddie is, too.
Eddie nods, even though Chris can’t see.
“Chim said something today, when we got back to the station. About the 118, how they’re — how we’re — still a team.” He doesn’t mention the personal call out, but his heart thumps beneath his ribcage as he replays Chimney’s words. Nobody’s staying in Texas. Words Eddie hadn’t ever let himself look at — not when they came to his own mind, uncaring and unbridled, not when Eddie caught them coming to Buck’s. “It — I guess it’s got me thinking.”
“Okay…”
Eddie closes his eyes. Takes a breath. “I want to be honest with you, Chris. It’s what we promised, yeah?”
“Well be honest, then,” Chris says, like it’s that simple — like Eddie’s even allowed himself to know, to look this closely at all the drowning want inside of him. “Where do you wanna be?”
“Shit. My kid shouldn’t be the one asking me that.”
“I mean, I can go get Pepa.”
“No, don’t — ” Chris cuts him off with a laugh — a perfectly laid trap — and Eddie can’t help but smile. Little shit. “Yeah. Good one.”
“Dad, I like El Paso just fine. But we were in LA for like, eight years before that. I miss it. It’s still — I still think of it as home, you know?”
Eddie swallows. His mind goes to that conversation with Hen and Karen, barely a week ago. His Freudian slip. So yeah, he does know.
“This is a big decision,” Eddie says, though he’s not sure why. Just so that somebody says it. So that it’s acknowledged.
“So what?”
Eddie laughs again. There’s something in a kid’s ability to make things seem so simple, to just cut through the bullshit. So what? He’s probably right.
“I want to be back in LA,” Eddie says finally, and it’s immediate relief, letting those words escape the locked box Eddie had trapped them in, admitting them out loud. “With you. And with the 118, and Pepa, and, and — ”
“And Buck. Yeah, I know.”
Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. His heart flips. He doesn’t quite know what Chris means by that, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s okay with it — with this. Moving back to LA. Returning to their family.
“Okay, so, we’re staying. We’re going to stay.”
“Cool. I’m telling Pepa, okay? I think she’ll let me have more of that good ice cream if I do.”
Eddie shakes his head in bemusement, but he’s smiling. “Okay, I’ll let you have that one. But don’t go overboard.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“And, um. Buck says hi, by the way.”
“Well what’re you waiting for? Go tell him.”
“Yep, I — I will. Love you, mijo.”
“Love you, too.”
The call ends, and Eddie takes a deep breath. Then another, and another. Each one filling his lungs with something warm and buoyant, until he’s suddenly brimming with it — with this energy. It almost reminds him of that moment, in front the bathroom mirror, freshly shaved, truly looking at himself for the first time since Chris left. Of putting on Old Time Rock and Roll, a pink shirt and not much more, and dancing.
Of regained confidence in the home he grew up in, telling his mother that Chris would be staying with him. Chris’s grin when Eddie got back in the car, the cheekiness of his voice when he said punch it.
Eddie wonders if this is what Father Brian meant when he talked about joy.
He smiles again, in the dark and quiet of Christopher’s old room — his soon to be room again.
He touches the hem of his top — Buck’s top — soft between his fingers.
He opens the door.
A list of things that need doing start to form in his mind.
He’ll need to return to Texas, break the news to his parents.
Get everything packed up.
Sell the house.
That’ll be a headache.
He’ll need to call Captain Morales. Explain the situation, and politely decline the job offer. He suddenly remembers that conversation during his interview, about the Lieutenant the EPFD hired over locals, only for him to move four months later — following his wife across the country.
Eddie can’t help but draw some sort of comparison.
He’ll need to reapply for his job in the LAFD. Bobby said there’d always be a place for him at the 118, and Chimney certainly seemed to suggest the same today, but Eddie’s not sure what the logistics look like.
It’s almost overwhelming to think about it all, but then he returns to the kitchen, and sees Buck, and all those thoughts promptly evaporate.
Buck’s got the pasta boiling, broccoli at the ready, a colander in the sink.
He’s put some music on, something vaguely familiar, and he’s swaying to it.
Eddie’s heart swells in his chest, doubles in size, triples.
“Chris says hi,” he says to announce his return, which is technically a lie, but Eddie thinks a forgivable one.
Buck looks over his shoulder, smiling that way he always does when Chris is mentioned. “Is he alright? Doesn’t mind staying an extra night?”
Eddie manages to hold back his laugh. “Nah, he’s happy to.”
He comes up beside Buck at the stove, and he’s sure it’s not just the heat from the burner that has his body warming, thrumming in a way that makes him think he could run a marathon right now, or lift whatever ridiculous weight Buck’s got on his bench press.
“So, um. You know how I said it wasn’t that simple?”
Buck casts him a sidelong look, brows furrowed — halfway between amused and confused. “You mean ten minutes ago?”
“Yeah.”
“Then yes, I do.”
Eddie nods. Turns, so his hip presses to the kitchen counter. “Turns out, it is,” he says, and it really is stupidly simple to say it — to choose it.
Buck goes still, a stirring spoon in hand, hovering over the pasta. Then he turns, too, facing Eddie. “What?”
“I just — that’s why I spoke to Chris. To ask him how he’d feel about coming back to LA. Because it’s what — it’s what I want, Buck.”
“Eddie…”
“I didn’t even plan to ask. It just… happened. But he wants it, too,” Eddie says, and he knows already — literally just had the conversation with Chris — and yet saying it out loud, saying it out loud to Buck, it becomes real all over again, a flood of relief washing over him.
Buck’s lashes flutter as he absorbs the words. His throat works, and Eddie’s obviously watching him far too closely in order to notice it, but he does. And that smudge of dirt, it’s still there.
Eddie considers his options.
This time, he doesn’t resist the urge. This time, he brings a hand to Buck’s jaw, gently wipes the mark clean with his thumb.
Buck stares at him, eyes wide, shining bright blue.
“Eddie,” he whispers, and there’s a quality to his name that hits Eddie right in the chest — that feels old and new and life changing and achingly familiar, all at once.
“Yeah?”
“You’re staying? That’s — that’s what you’re saying to me right now?”
Eddie nods. Drops his hand slowly, only for Buck to catch it. He holds onto Eddie’s hand like he thinks he could disappear at any moment. Which is probably — agonisingly — fair.
“Yeah, Buck. I’m moving back. We’re moving back.”
Buck makes a noise — something between a laugh and a sob, joy bursting through grief. He closes the barely-there gap between them, arms coming to wrap around Eddie, face tucking into his neck. And Eddie slides his around Buck just as firmly, just as tight, letting his eyes close as he just… breathes Evan Buckley in. Lemon and soap cling to him, but they’re not able to mask the inherent Buck-ness of his scent.
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes.
They stay wrapped together. Just breathing. Clinging.
Bizarrely, they haven’t hugged the entire time Eddie’s been home, and he’s not sure whether that was self preservation, but this is better. This is so much better.
It’s only when a timer sounds that they startle apart, and Eddie steps out of Buck’s way when he mutters a curse under his breath, shooting Eddie a wry grin as he gets the broccoli into the pasta pot, too — barely a minute before tipping everything into the colander in the sink.
They’re quiet again as Buck finishes with dinner, getting everything mixed together and plated, bringing over heaping serves to the kitchen island.
Eddie all but moans at the first bite. “Damn. This is so good, Buck.”
“Carbs are always good,” Buck says, but his smile is undeniably pleased, and Eddie wants to put that smile on his face all the time — wants in a way he’s so rarely let himself want.
He shifts in his seat, half facing Buck. Lets his knee press into Buck’s, thrilling when Buck presses his right back. Buck glances up at him through his lashes, something so achingly soft in his gaze, and it does something to Eddie’s chest. Cracks it open in a way that feels good, feels right — like a bone that needs resetting to properly heal.
And it could be overwhelming, could be too much. Instead, it’s simple. Wonderfully so.
It’s Buck.
Eddie thinks about what it would be, to truly choose joy.
And it’s not yet. Not quite yet.
But soon, he thinks.
Soon.