Archive of Our Own

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s—there’s someone still inside! I saw him at the window! Everything’s on fire, please—”

“I hear you ma’am. Please stay on the line.”

A beat of silence, then the radio crackles to life.

“All units, be advised—possible victim trapped, third floor, Charlie side. Male, late thirties. Ladder 118, Engine 118, Rescue 118—respond.”

The dispatch line floods with static and overlapping chatter. There’s the familiar sound of boots hitting metal, the whine of sirens already cutting through the quiet in the distance. Hands fumble for radios, pressing buttons with practiced urgency.

And then, calm and clipped through the noise:

“Dispatch, 118 responding.”

Smoke still curls lazily from the cracked windows of the multi-story apartment complex as the 118 waits for the final all-clear. The building itself groans like it’s trying to decide whether to collapse or hold it together just a little longer. The structure’s been declared stable enough for a sweep, but everyone knows that doesn’t mean that it’s truly safe. It never really does. But, the 911 caller said there could still be a man up there, stuck on the third floor, just waiting for help. So, he and Eddie are ready to do what they do best… save lives. 

Buck tightens the strap on his SCBA mask as he stands at the base of the narrow stairwell, glancing up into the darkness. There’s something about this part, about walking directly into the unknown that’s equal parts terrifying and enticing. He’s always been an adrenaline junkie and he knows that in the quiet moments like these that he’s chosen the right career. 

"You ready?" Eddie asks beside him, voice muffled behind his own mask.

Buck gives him a nod with a thumbs up and a quick once-over. They’ve done this so many times—hundreds, maybe—but something in Buck’s gut twists anyway as he looks between his best friend and the stairwell in front of them. Could be the fatigue, could be the quietness of the building after the roar of the fire was knocked down. Or maybe it’s just that it’s them, alone, going in again. Just like always.

“Let’s make it quick,” Eddie mutters, stepping onto the first stair.

“Fast and safe,” Buck agrees, following close behind.

They ascend with practiced ease, boots thudding on scorched wood, axes and halligans hanging at their sides. The air is thick with damp soot and a chemical-like haze. It clings to their turnouts, and Buck knows that it’s going to take multiple deep cleans to get rid of it all. A call this big is going to have a lasting impact. They always do. Every few steps, Eddie lifts his head to glance toward the murky ceiling, a bit of concern in his eyes for its stability.

Buck’s radio crackles softly, breaking the easy silence between them. “Apartment 3C. Reports said someone was spotted through the window before the flames got too high. We haven’t made contact. Be advised, structure integrity is holding, but don’t linger.”

Bobby’s voice breaks through and it’s clear, clipped, and focused. This is serious, dangerous. It’s the type of instructions that they know better than to ignore. Maybe once upon a time Buck wouldn't have taken it seriously. But he does now, especially with Eddie right next to him. 

Buck’s fingers easily key his mic. “Copy that. 3C.”

They reach the third floor landing. The hallway is a mess—blackened walls, droplets of water trickling from overhead, scorched picture frames askew or melted outright as they hang from the wall. Smoke snakes in and out of the doors and creeps around the shadows and corners. It’s the type of thing that to most people would be a bright red “danger!” sign flashing in their faces. But, not for Buck or his best friend. This is something that they just push past, albeit carefully. 

Buck takes point, boots crunching on glass and other substances he refuses to think about as he moves. 3C is half-open, the door warped from the intensity of the heat. He pauses just long enough to knock loudly and call out, “LAFD! Call out if you can hear me!”

Nothing. Just the hollow creak of the door swinging.

Eddie gives him a look through the mask, and Buck knows what it means . Let’s go. Let’s get it done. Get in. Get out. 

They push open the door carefully. .

The apartment is akin to a war zone. Burn patterns stretch up one wall where the fire must’ve started—kitchen, from the looks of it. But it’s more than a grease fire. The room is too devastated, too blackened and precise. Buck notices it, but stores it in the back of his mind. It isn’t his job to investigate, just to help. He’ll give Bobby the information when they make it out. Maybe Athena will help figure out if this had been deliberate. It sure seems like it. 

They move room to room, calling out, checking under beds, in closets, behind furniture. It's eerily empty. There’s no answer. No indication that there is even anyone in here. That there's even been anyone living here before the fire. 

Eddie pushes open the bathroom door, glances in. “Clear.”

Buck turns to the last room, what must be the bedroom. He pauses on the threshold, shining his flashlight inside. There’s no one in there either, but also no smoke. It’s eerie. Feels like the only room in the apartment that hasn't’ been fully devastated. It makes his stomach swoop in a way he doesn’t appreciate. He isn't sure what it is, but it makes him uneasy. 

That’s when his radio hisses again, louder this time.

“Buckley! Diaz! Evacuate the building immediately. I repeat—get out now. The subject we’re looking for isn’t a victim. He set the fire. He’s gone. The building is unstable and we are unaware if there’s anything else in there that could present a hazard. Proceed with immediate evac protocol.”  Bobby’s voice is sharp and firm. There’s no room for argument or misinterpretation. 

Buck turns on instinct. “You hear that?” Maybe he’s being paranoid but there was something in Bobby's voice that's made him paranoid, concerned. At the end of the day, they need to get out. Or, at least Eddie does. Buck will always make sure that Eddie gets out. 

Eddie’s already backing toward the hall, face tense. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Buck takes one step—

Click.

He freezes.

There’s a sound, quiet and cold and unmistakable: metal shifting under weight. A soft mechanical pressure. Like a switch flipping, a mechanism activating. This isn’t something that they train you for in the academy, but he remembers it from those few weeks in SEALs training before he unceremoniously quit. He doesn't move or breathe… just looks down. 

His boot is pressed against a dented, blackened dinner plate, barely visible in the soot. It’s not random. It’s been bolted to the scorched wooden floor. A mess of wires runs out from beneath it.

A pressure trigger.

His heart thunders in his chest. “Eddie,” he says quietly, not turning his head. Something within him almost hopes that Eddie is too far away to hear him, that he’s already safe on the ground floor. But, he knows better.  “Don’t move.”

Eddie’s already halfway back into the room, instantly alert. “What is it?”

Buck doesn’t answer for a second. He lifts his boot a hair, less than an inch, and hears the mechanism shift again beneath him. He slams it back down, fast. He knows what that means, that one wrong move and the whole place goes boom, taking him and Eddie with it. 

“Pressure plate,” he says, his voice low. His breath is coming out ragged, trying not to let the panic seep in. “I stepped on something. It’s wired.”

Eddie doesn’t say fuck , but his eyes say it for him.

The air has gone still. Too still. The type of stillness that Buck has always hated, that has always felt like can only be broken by the worst happening. 

Buck hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked too hard, barely even lets himself exhale. His boot is planted firmly over the pressure plate, and every muscle in his body is coiled tight, trembling under the weight of stillness he’s being forced to adhere to. His lungs burn for a deeper breath, sweat seeping through his turn out gear. The silence in the apartment feels thick, like it’s almost mocking him.

Eddie crouches a few feet away, eyes locked on Buck’s foot. “Okay,” he says. His voice is calm, measured. But, his eyes betray the fear. He’s taken his mask off and snatched Buck’s carefully so it didn’t set anything off. This way, they can talk face to face and Buck doesn’t have to balance the weight of the mask and his tanks. “Just stay with me. You’re okay.”

Buck lets out the smallest laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”

Eddie doesn’t laugh along. Doesn’t smile back. 

The radio crackles again. A new voice this time–female. Sharp and authoritative. She isn't’ talking to Buck or Eddie but they both listen intently, Eddie holding the radio as close to his ear as possible, like there will be something in the message that could unlock the key to helping Buck.  “118, this is LAPD Bomb Squad. We’re en route, ETA four minutes. Do not attempt to move the victim. Clear the surrounding area immediately. Essential personnel only.”

Eddie reaches for his comm, but doesn’t take his eyes off Buck. “Copy that. Be advised, it’s an LAFD firefighter standing on the pressure plate. We need eyes on it. Immediately.” 

“Understood. Hold your position until we arrive. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to move the victim and do not disturb anything. Remain in position.” 

Buck doesn’t need the radio to tell him that.

He already knows.

He’s standing on a bomb. Buck is going to die today. 

Not exactly the way he was hoping his Thursday would go. 

The team arrives fast, moving quietly and efficiently. Three of them: two techs and a lead, a woman with hard eyes and graying hair tucked under her helmet. Her name tag reads SERGEANT L. GONZALEZ. They don’t talk to Buck or Eddie. They walk around him, spray painting circles on the floor and trying to prod at the exposed wires without shifting anything. He’s starting to feel a bit like a circus act and less like a firefighter who’s standing on a bomb that could blow at any moment. 

The lead crouches next to Eddie with a practiced ease, eyes sweeping the scene, calm in a way that doesn’t quite reach empathy.

“Name?” she asks Buck, eye flicking upwards for just a moment before shifting back down to the mess of exposed wires at his feet.

“Evan Buckley,” he answers. “Buck,” he amends after a moment. He tries to find Eddie’s eyes, but the other man has them trained on the ground as he worries a lip between his teeth.  

“Okay, Buck. I’m Sergeant Gonzalez, and I need you to stay absolutely still. You’re standing on a high-sensitivity pressure trigger. From what I can see, it’s been retrofitted with hairline sensors, so any weight shift, even subtle, could activate the detonation sequence.”

Buck swallows hard. “So uh–” he laughs weekly, trying to joke. “No wiggling my toes I guess?” 

“Exactly.”

He nods, jaw clenched so tight that it aches. The two bomb techs begin laying out equipment, methodical and whisper-quiet. Cameras. Scanners. One of them slides a small robotic crawler from a reinforced bag and sends it skittering under the floorboards to inspect the wires trailing beneath Buck’s boot. He swallows hard and tries not to move, tries not to disturb anything. The robot is already a risk but they need to get a good look at things so they can make decisions, so they can attempt to save him even though Buck thinks that maybe it’s a fools errand. 

The only other person who hasn't’ moved in the room is Eddie. He’s standing across from Buck, eyes locked on the floor. Buck isn’t even sure that he’s breathing. He’s just standing there like a statue…watching….waiting.

“Sir,” one of the bomb techs says gently, Eddie jumping at the touch to his shoulder. “We need to clear the room. Essential personnel only.” He tries to start to walk Eddie out of the room, but he stays rooted in place. “It’s standard protocol. The fewer bodies in the blast radius—”

“I’m not leaving him.” His voice is steel, his feet unmoving. 

Sergeant Gonzalez frowns. “Firefighter Diaz I–

“No,” Eddie cuts her off, not harsh but there’s a finality to the tone. “I’m staying. I’ll take full responsibility. If he’s going to die, he’s not doing it alone.”

Buck’s breath catches. He tries not to look at Eddie, he’s not sure he can do it. But, he glances anyway. 

Eddie doesn’t look back. He’s focused on Gonzalez like she’s going to try and pry him away, and if she does, he’ll fight.

Something in Buck’s chest tugs hard, almost painful.

Eddie’s staying. No hesitation, no question.

Even now, even here. 

He still has Buck’s back. 

Time stops being real after the first two hours. 

Gonzalez talks softly through updates, telling Buck what they’re seeing through the robot cam: wires, redundant triggers, a custom-built fail-safe that will trigger detonation if the weight shifts even a few ounces too suddenly. Someone built this thing to be unforgiving. Not just lethal— final. Gonzalez falls into the background after another hour, letting them have quiet moments just the two of them for Buck to think about his impending doom and just…talk to Eddie, be with Eddie. 

The adrenaline in his body has nowhere to go, pooling in Buck’s limbs, behind his eyes, under his skin. He stares straight ahead at the singed wall across from him.

And then—

His vision starts to blur. Not from tears or from fear, but instead from memory. It slams into him full force, almost like a train. He’s not trying to recall anything. He’s not thinking, this could be it, better make it count. The moments just come —unbidden, vivid.

Flashes.

Christopher’s laugh in the backseat, hands sticky with ice cream. Eddie’s soft voice talking to Buck, his fingers gripped tightly under a ladder truck. Movie nights, half-asleep on Eddie’s couch, Chris curled between them. Drawing a cartoon heart that later Eddie would roll his eyes at. 

Eddie brushing soot from Buck’s temple after a nasty fire downtown. Eddie pulling him close in that split second after Buck got hurt in a parking garage collapse, like he needed to touch him to know he was okay.

Eddie on the Diaz front porch last Christmas, handing Buck a mug of hot chocolate with this soft, shy look in his eyes. Like Buck was something warm and permanent. Like maybe he’d never stop showing up. The Christmas elf a few years ago that called Chris their son, called him adorable. Building gingerbread houses and being asked to spend Christmas with a kid that he somehow felt was his own even though there’s no blood ties. 

His breath shudders.

It’s all Eddie .

Every memory flashing through his mind, every moment that feels like life—real life, the kind that matters—it’s all Eddie.

Not his parents. Not any of his exes. Not his sister. Not the bad calls or the near-death moments or even the adrenaline.

Just Eddie.

And Buck suddenly, terribly understands.

He’s in love with him.

Stupidly. Entirely. Hopelessly.

He’s in love with Eddie Diaz, his best friend… and he might never get the chance to tell him.

“You okay?” Eddie asks, gently now. He’s crouched close enough to touch him, if he wanted to. If it wouldn’t risk everything. They're not really alone, Gonzalez on the other side of the room hearing and giving order through her radio. She leaves the room every now and then, returning to gather more information before pacing again. 

Buck laughs softly. “I just realized something.”

“Yeah?”

“If this goes bad…” Buck swallows, throat dry. “I’m going to miss our zoo day on Tuesday. I was uh–really looking forward to that.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow. “Buck—”

“I mean it,” he says, voice cracking around the words. “There's nowhere I'd rather be than with you and Chris. It's always you two. Always.”

A pause.

Eddie exhales like he’s been punched in the stomach. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares at Buck, like maybe the words are still making their way through his body. 

Then, softly, he says, “You think I’d be here if it wasn’t you too?”

And Buck—

Buck could cry.

But he doesn’t. He stays still. He wills the tears to retreat, to not allow the faintest of movements. 

It's not everything he wants to hear, not even close. But he can't say more, won't. He won't let Eddie either. He might be indulging him or not reading between the lines. But, those few words and this level of devotion laid bare on a smoke stained floor? It's enough to keep Buck's feet still if not for just a little while longer. 

Buck can hear Eddie breathing.

That’s the strange thing — it’s the only sound he can process. The room is full of quiet voices coming through radios, Sergeant Gonzalez's updates, the electric hum below his feet. But what Buck clings to, what cuts through the noise, is Eddie’s breath. Inhale, exhale. Steady and close. He's close, so close. 

Buck wonders if Eddie’s doing it on purpose. If he's staying calm so Buck doesn’t lose it. He wouldn’t put it past him to be thinking only of Buck in this scenario. His best friend has never had great self preservation. 

“Hey,” Eddie says after a long silence, crouched low and close. “You holding up okay? Or do you need me to do something? I could try singing for you?’ he cracks a smile as Buck snorts. 

 “God, please don’t. That might actually set the bomb off.”

“Wow,” Eddie says, mock-offended, but there’s a tremble in his voice, like the joke hit him harder than intended. But he's hiding it well. 

Buck glances at him out of the corner of his eye, not able to turn as Eddie moves a bit and falls out of his line of sight, just for the briefest of moments. “You look like you’re gonna puke, man.”

Eddie shrugs. “I’ve been told I have a great poker face.”

“You really don’t.”

The banter feels forced, like a dress rehearsal for a life they haven’t admitted to yet. Buck isn’t sure if it’s making things better or worse. They've always been like this, able to joke in even the worst of circumstances, but he doesn't know if that's what he wants at this moment, what he needs. 

And then—

Then Buck really looks at Eddie.

Not just the quick glances or adrenaline-laced stares. Not the quiet checks to make sure he’s breathing after a tough call. No. He looks . Studies the sharp lines of Eddie’s face softened by worry, the way his brows pinch like he’s thinking too hard about something he won’t say out loud. The faint cut along his cheekbone from earlier in the fire. The callused hands clenched too tight at his sides.

And Buck thinks, w hen did I fall in love with you?

Not a question of if. That feels like it's been long settled, etched into his bones. It's been there, just waiting for Buck to wake up to it. He just wants to know… when . Because now that he’s looking, really looking, he knows it’s not new. It’s not sudden.

It’s old . Ancient, even.

Like something he’s been living inside without knowing.

The first time Buck thought he’d lost him, truly lost him, was the day Eddie got shot.

He hadn’t seen it coming. No one had. One second, Eddie was beside the engine, calm as anything, and the next, Buck was soaked in his blood. It splattered across his face as a Captain that wasn't his pushed him to the ground. It was the first time he watched Eddie's life really leave in front of him. He still sees the empty eyes staring back at him in nightmares sometimes. It's an image he'll never be able to shake. 

He remembers the way time had fractured. The scream in his throat that never came out. The sound of the world fading, like a switch had flipped. He’d dropped to the ground beside Eddie and gripped him so hard his fingers went numb.

He remembers shaking.

Not because of the blood — but because he didn’t know how to breathe without Eddie.

The panic had been primal. Unforgiving.

And when the doctors said Eddie would live, Buck had sat outside the hospital room for three hours, just staring at the wall before he had to go back to Christopher. Before he could let himself breathe again. 

Now, standing on the edge of death again, it plays behind his eyelids like a film reel he never wanted to watch again.

How many times have I almost lost you?

And he knows that when he dies today, he has to make sure that he doesn't take Eddie with him. Even if it means dying alone. 

Eddie keeps talking. Keeps tossing out half-jokes and stupid trivia about pressure plate bombs like Buck needs to be entertained, like he needs all the information possible about the thing he's standing on. Like this is any other day and any other situation that demands one of Buck's signature deep dives.

But Buck can tell he’s unraveling. Not on the outside– no, never.  Eddie’s too good at holding the line, at keeping it inside to get the job done. But his voice slips sometimes. Goes too soft. His eyes keep flicking to Buck’s boot, then back up like he’s willing there to be a change the next time he glances down. 

“Did I ever tell you Chris tried to convince me to get a hedgehog?” Eddie says suddenly, like it's the most natural conversation starter in the world. 

Buck blinks. Once. Twice. “What?”

“Yeah. Last year. He got real into YouTube videos about it. I think he thought it’d be like a dog he could keep in his pocket or something. He got really into it all. 

Buck laughs, even though his muscles scream with the movement, and he wants nothing but to collapse into an exhausted heap. “You’re the person with the most random animal allergies I know. No way that'd go well for you.” 

“Exactly. Told him it’d probably kill me. He said that I was being dramatic. Dramatico.” 

Buck smiles — a real one, soft and aching and knowing all at once— and mutters, “Kid’s not wrong.”

The fragile levity that Eddie tries to bring doesn't hold. Soon enough they've lapsed into heavy silence again, Eddie's eyes falling once again to the floor. Buck’s chest aches. Not from fear. Not from the tension. From love .

Love… like he’s been living in the warmth of Eddie’s home, raising his kid, folding his laundry, watching late-night reruns of telenovelas with their knees pressed together — and calling it friendship .

How the hell did they think that was all it was?

He remembers the first time he knew that Eddie was a permanent fixture in his life. That he'd do anything– anything – to ensure that he'd make it home. 

The pit had been deep. Dark. No visibility. Buck had dropped everything and tried with desperate determination to climb into the earth with him, to beg it to give Eddie back to him. To fight mother nature herself for his safe return. 

He remembers the fear. Not of dying himself. No, Buck’s never been afraid of that. He was afraid of not getting there in time. Afraid that Eddie would slip away, not in a blaze of glory, but in the cold and the silence and the dark, and Buck wouldn’t be able to do anything, just sit amongst the bugs in mud soaked turnouts and sob. He wonders if the unbidden thoughts of, I love him , from that day would have ever surfaced as romantic had he ever tried to say them aloud. 

He still hasn’t said it.

Not really.

He's not sure he can now. It's too much to put on Eddie's shoulders. So he adds the words to the ache already on his own. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks quietly once again.

Buck doesn’t answer right away. He’s afraid his voice will crack. He closes his eyes for a moment, tilts his head back. When he opens again, he blinks against tears and keeps staring at the charred ceiling, like it holds any answers as to why this is happening. “I uh–” he tries to keep his voice even. “Will you tell uh–tell Chris–

“No.” Eddie interrupts, voice firm and sure in a way Buck can't believe is still possible after so many hours of nothing, of no hope. “We aren't doing this. Not yet.” 

Buck wants to reach for him. Wants to touch his face, wants to say, If I die, tell Chris I love him. Tell Maddie. Tell Bobby. But you—

He doesn’t say it. Because Eddie asked him not to. Because he'll do anything– anything – that Eddie asks, even to his own detriment. Instead he looks down. Because Eddie’s hand is hovering just above his elbow now, fingers trembling with restraint. And Buck can see it in his eyes when he looks back up. 

The same thing that he thinks must be reflected back in his own. Maybe it's his death-addled brain that sees it, but the thought feels so nice, so warm that he can't let himself believe he's imagining it. He can let himself believe that may, just maybe, Eddie could love him too. 

Maybe they’ve both known it all along. And Buck can only hope that when he's gone, the pain that comes with realization for Eddie won't be too much. 

Eddie Diaz is a patient man. 

He’s a man of action, but he's also patient. He can wait for the right moment to break down the door or the correct order before jumping in to be the hero. He's calculated and cool under pressure. If his life has taught him anything it really is that patience is a virtue and he needs a lot of it. 

But this?

This is a kind of waiting that gnaws at the edges of his sanity, threatening to send him over the edge. Because this isn't a random civilian on the other side of a locked door or a fellow first responder who just needs an additional hand. No, this is Buck. His best friend. Buck is standing completely and utterly still, balancing his life on a plate of metal and wires. And all Eddie can do is sit five feet away and simply watch him breathe. All he can do is sit and wait and hope that maybe the universe sends them one last miracle. 

The worst part of it all is how calm Buck looks.

Not relaxed — Eddie knows better than that — but still. He's collected. It's like he's accepted the truth and is waiting for the inevitable. The moment where Eddie will be dragged away before an explosion that will level the remains of the complex and take Buck under with it. 

It's that calm, that acceptance that does him in. Because Eddie knows what it looks like when someone’s made peace with the end. He's seen it. God, he's felt it himself. And he's never seen Buck give into that feeling, into the acceptance. His stomach twists violently, and for a brief second, he thinks he might throw up.

He hasn’t felt like this since—

God–

Since…3 minutes and 17 seconds. 

It was a freak accident or at least that's what they kept saying. Just a case of the wrong place, wrong time. They followed protocol just like they were supposed to. It wasn't their fault. It wasn't his fault even though the responsibility blanketed him, dragging him under. A freak accident, they keep reminding him. 

But to Eddie, there was nothing accidental about the scream that tore out of his throat when Buck went down, when he saw him hanging off the edge of the ladder like a marionette with its strings cut. Nothing freakish about the way the world stopped moving. The sky could have been falling and Eddie wouldn’t have noticed.

He’d run.

God, he’d run .

Dropped everything. Brushed himself off, ignoring the electric sting in his palms as he rushed up the ladder and tried to pull Buck back to him. He slid easily against the gurney, rain soaked fingers digging into skin as Bobby pulled him back, forcing him to drive. He doesn't remember the drive, just the ice cold fear the longer he drove and the worse the situation got. He does remember the way there was a stutter under his fingertips as the gurney was wheeled into the emergency room, the shout of “Do more!” falling from his lips where patients and staff turned to stare at him. 

Three minutes and seventeen seconds.

That’s how long Buck was gone.

That shouldn't be enough time for someone to take root inside your soul. But Eddie had already let him in. The lightning had just been the proof, uncovering in his mind the thing that his soul already knew. 

He doesn't remember the rest of that day. Not really. Just the feel of Buck’s heartbeat returning under his hands and the bleak sounds and smells of a hospital waiting room. Just the desperate don’t do this, don’t do this, don’t do this that had repeated in his head like a prayer.

He remembers thinking he could live without anything, except this. He'd give up anything, except for him. 

Except Buck .

And now…he's back in the same unbearable scenario. Only this time…he gets to talk to him, support him as he tumble towards death. Eddie's not sure what situation is worse. 

Buck hasn’t moved in twenty two minutes.

Eddie’s been counting.

They say the bomb can sense even the slightest shift. That even a twitch might send the whole place up in flames. So, Buck tries not to move. A near impossible task, but he sees the way that Buck's muscles pull tight and he fights it, fights and fights and fights…because one wrong move and–

So, Eddie stays still too. Not because he has to, but because if Buck can, then so can he. If Buck has to, then he will too. They have each other's backs. Even here. Even now. 

“I keep thinking about how many times you’ve saved my life,” he says, voice quieter than he means it to be. They haven't spoken in a while and Eddie wants him to know. Needs him to. Even if he'll never say all the words, even if they'll never truly bask in it. Eddie wants him to know. How loved he truly is. 

Buck’s eyes shift to him, the smallest movement he can manage now, hours into the standoff. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “And not just the big stuff. Not just the calls. I mean—Chris. Me. The day-to-day. You’ve been saving us for years.”

Buck swallows, the movement slow and thick. He opens his mouth but snaps it closed after a moment. He says nothing. 

Eddie doesn’t need him to.

He remembers the first time Buck took Christopher out on his own.

It was early days. Eddie had been cautious, hesitant to leave his son with anyone. But Buck had insisted. Had shown up with snacks and backup water bottles and a whole itinerary. “You’ve got to let me be the fun uncle, man,” he’d said with that grin Eddie could never argue with. He thought back to when Buck had taken care let's of of his shaking finger the day of the earthquake and drove him to the school. He'd known right then that the relationship he and Buck had, what they were going to build would be special. 

He'd spent the full day of that first solo outing chewing his nails and pacing the house. He was getting better at it, at letting people help and letting them in. He's always been too careful with Chris since Shannon. But, Buck had broken down those walls seamlessly and Chris deserved something fun. Someone who was just the fun, charismatic uncle in his life. 

But when they came back? When Eddie jumped to open the door when he heard the jeep pull into the driveway? 

It hadn’t been just fun .

Buck had carried Christopher through the door, crutches and a souvenir bag tucked under his other arm, whispering something soft that Eddie didn’t catch. Chris was already asleep on his shoulder. And Buck had looked at Eddie like he was terrified he’d done something wrong. It was the same look Eddie had seen on his own face a million times. It was the look of fatherhood and it looked great on him. Much better than it did on Eddie if he was being honest with himself. 

Eddie had stood there, watching them — and for one terrifying second, he’d thought: This is what it would be like if we were a family.

He'd pushed the thought aside then, burying it beneath everything else that they are. But, maybe that's where it started. Where the walls began to crack and the thin veneer of friendship began to fail even if they both cling to it, too afraid to take a step forward. 

There had been so many of those moments after that first day. So many times that Eddie looked at the three of them and felt the pull of family hitting him in the chest, Buck showing up to parent-teacher conferences. Buck reading with Chris before bed. Buck staying after movie night to do the dishes, to lock the doors, to kiss Chris on the head like it was his kid too before falling asleep face first on the couch that Eddie knew wasn't comfortable enough. 

Eddie let him.

And he never asked why.

Because deep down, he’d always known.

“I keep thinking about what I’d do if you died.”

Buck flinches slightly, and Eddie regrets it instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “I know. I shouldn’t say that. But—I need you to know. You dying? It’s not just losing a friend. It’s not losing a partner. It’s—”

His throat closes.

“It’s the end of everything,” he manages finally, barely a whisper, any other words dying before they can escape.

And suddenly, he sees it. All of it.

The mornings they made pancakes. The nights Buck fell asleep on the couch with Chris curled against his side, breaths in sync. The way Buck always stood on Eddie’s right, even off-duty, like he knew Eddie liked to keep his gun side clear, even if he doesn't carry a weapon anymore, but old military habits die hard. The knowing glances, the quiet check-ins, the way Buck said we instead of you when talking about parenting.

It wasn’t friendship. It was never just friendship. It was something else entirely. Something vast and terrifying and inevitable. Something they should have given a name to so long ago. 

And now that he sees it, it’s unbearable. It rips a hole right through his chest that he feels like he's threatening to bleed out from. 

Because this? This bomb ? It might take everything before Eddie even gets the chance to say it out loud.

Eddie remembers the will. How hard it had been to tell Buck. How he'd hidden it for over a year until he wasn't able to anymore. Until he was faced with his own mortality again , and needed someone to know, someone who wouldn't be surprised by the fight that laid ahead of them if the worst happened. 

He remembers how easily Buck had said yes. Surprise at first, but with no hesitation or second guessing.

“Of course,” Buck had said, like Eddie had asked him to pick up milk on his way to the house. 

And Eddie had watched him walk out of the room that day, and had felt something crack inside him.

Because giving someone your kid? That wasn’t just trust. That wasn't just close friendship or something a little bit closer than normal. 

That was love.

And Eddie had known it even then, even if he wasn't willing to admit it just yet, even to himself. 

He wants to reach out. Wants to put his hand on Buck’s chest just to feel it rise and fall. Wants to make sure that Buck knows he'll be here until the bitter end, until they drag him away kicking and screaming like a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

He wants to say, I’ve been yours for years. I just didn’t know how to tell you. Wants to hold his face in his hands and kiss him until the need for oxygen becomes too much. 

He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, the door creaks open. They've been alone for the better part of two hours now and Eddie knows, just feels , that this is a bad sign. 

The bomb squad re-enters, their faces grim but determined.

And suddenly, Eddie’s breath is gone. Because time is up and they're telling them that it's time to try and diffuse the damn thing. It means at any moment everything could go up in flames. But they're going to try. 

They tell Eddie in the hall, pull him away from Buck to break the news to him first. They came back in only 15 minutes and he knew . Something was wrong. 

The room shifts when they say the words, "There's a timer."

Thirty minutes. That's all they have. All Buck has. He tells the bomb squad to stay back, to give them a moment alone so that Eddie can break the news. He sits on the floor across from his best friend, takes a deep breath, and delivers the news. He does it with clinical precision, the type of voice and inflection he uses with patients in a war zone, with those he knows are going to die. 

Buck doesn’t say anything right away, but Eddie watches as something cracks behind his eyes. It’s not fear, exactly. It’s worse. It’s a quiet kind of resignation. Like maybe he always knew it wouldn’t end any other way. Like maybe he'd hoped and now it's all gone. This is real. This is final. 

One of the techs, an older man with sharp eyes and steady hands, kneels near the plate and murmurs that they’ll try to stop it, but there are too many unknowns. Too many variables. They never could promise anything but now with a timer in play? They both know what that means. 

So Eddie slides down the wall beside Buck and whispers, "Hey. Don’t go anywhere." It's the best he can do. 

Buck huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. "Not planning on it."

They lapse into silence, thirty minutes stretched out like an eternity and yet already slipping through their fingers.

"Remember that time you brought me soup?" Buck says suddenly. "After that call where I sliced up my bad leg again? I was off for a week. You showed up with this big-ass container, said it was Abuelas recipe."

Eddie chuckles under his breath. "It was store-bought. I just poured it into Tupperware so you'd think I made it."

Buck lets out a real laugh this time. Eddie drinks in the sound like he’ll never hear it again.

"I remember thinking," Buck says, "that you were the first person who ever made me feel like being taken care of wasn’t something I had to earn."

Eddie swallows hard. Looks down at his hands.

"You remember when you helped me build that desk for Chris?" Eddie asks after a long pause. "You showed up with donuts and a hammer and made a joke about being the gay Bob the Builder."

Buck grins, eyes soft. "Bisexual Bob the Builder. Get it right. The alliteration is what made it funny."

"Right. Sorry."

They fall quiet again, and this time it’s heavier. There are twenty-six minutes left. 

“I'm glad you were with him,” Eddie says. Voice barely above a whisper. “For all of it. I–it's why– I was so mad at you for that lawsuit. You'd both go through so much and–” 

“I'm sorry, Eds.”

“No,” Eddie holds out a hand. “It's in the past, but I just– you need to know what this has all meant to me.”

"You could've said no," Eddie says quietly after a beat. 

"To what?"

"To all of it. To me. To Chris. To this whole complicated life. But you never did."

Buck doesn’t answer for a while. Then he says, just as quietly, "There was never a world where I would."

More memories surface.

Eddie sees Buck asleep on the couch, Chris curled against his chest.

He sees Buck yelling at a principal when a teacher made Chris feel different.

He sees Buck quietly refilling the fridge when Eddie forgot. Sitting on the porch with him after Shannon's death, before having to tell his son that his mother is dead. Standing between him and a bullet. Digging through mud on a grainy TV feed on YouTube. Making Mac and cheese for Chris. Prying a baseball bat out of shaking fingers. 

He sees every look, every late-night call, every moment that felt like more even if they never said the words to go along with their actions. 

Buck remembers Eddie holding onto him after the tsunami. Of falling into the arms of his team and waking up in a field hospital with Chris tucked up under his arms and Eddie holding his wrist, like it was keeping him tethered. He remembers the next day, and Eddie unending trust and then the sharp pain of guilt followed by forgiveness months later when he could be there for them both again. 

He remembers Eddie dragging him out of a bar when he got too drunk after everything went to shit and then sitting legs pressed together in uncomfortable plastic chairs after Maddie disappeared, Eddie telling him that he has sisters, he'd tear the world apart too. 

He remembers Eddie driving across town to pick him up at 2 a.m. because Buck didn’t want to go home to an empty loft. He thinks about the terror of Eddie almost getting shot again and instead the relief that flowed through him when he saw his best friend willing to fulfill a dead man's last wish, despite everything else that had happened that day. 

They keep talking, pulling up the memories from over the years. They place them like bricks in a foundation, building something obvious in the space between them. Something they can't ignore anymore. Either of them.

They never say the word love , but it lives in every sentence. It lives in every moment they've had together. And in the space, they agree without words to not say it. Just to feel it. Just to know. As if giving a name to it all would mean they've accepted the finality, and neither of them will. Not until the very end.

The timer ticks down to five minutes.

The bomb squad reappears, and this time, they look grimmer than before. Gonzalez goes to Buck first, calls him a hero. Apologizes. 

"We need to clear the room," the lead tech says. "Everyone. Now." He looks toward Eddie specifically, offers a hand to help him up from the floor. 

Eddie pushes to his feet. "I'm not leaving."

Buck meets his eyes. There's fear there now, real and raw. "Eds..."

"You can’t ask me to go. Not yet.”

Buck smiles, but it's all sad, not a trace of what's normally behind those bright blue eyes. "I have to. You have to go with them.”

The squad steps forward. Eddie clenches his fists. Buck doesn't take his eyes off him.

"Firefighter Diaz," the tech says, gently. "Two minutes."

He looks at Buck one last time.

Buck’s voice is soft. "Tell Chris..."

"No," Eddie says, reaching forward but aborting the movement at the last moment, his fingers curling back in on themselves. " You tell him. Later." Hope until the very end. 

The squad escorts him out. The door shuts behind them with a click, Eddies face the last thing he sees. 

Buck is alone.

The room is silent. Still. Buck feels the weight of every second pressing against his skin.

He knows he has less than two minutes. He doesn't have the timer anymore so he isn't 100% sure but he's trying to keep track. He has maybe a full minute, maybe a little less. 

He doesn’t cry—not right away. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, searching for something to anchor himself with. Something that will make him fall warm against the cold that's overtaking him from the inside out. 

And every single thing is Eddie.

A memory: Buck in Eddie’s kitchen, wearing a hoodie that doesn’t belong to him, flipping pancakes while Chris laughs at a story he barely remembers telling.

Another one: the quiet moment in Eddie's kitchen, a glass of water slid in front of him. Asking his best friend what he remembered about being shot almost dying. A quiet, difficult conversation under low light. 

He remembers the first time they met, when Buck had looked through the ridiculous glass locker room to someone he immediately thought was competition. A guy he thought he'd never get along with because he was the replacement. If he knew then what he knew how, how impossible it was to live without Eddie Diaz, well, he's not sure he would have believed it. 

There was that time Eddie patched up Buck's hand in the station locker room, gentle fingers on split knuckles, eyes soft even as he muttered, "You need to stop punching things." He'd already warned Buck against going down that path, that his parents weren't worth it. He's graduated from a punch bag to the wall. Eddie just coaxed him through it. 

And the time they sat in silence on the roof of Buck’s apartment, legs dangling over the edge, Eddie pointing out constellations, voice low and reverent. "Chris loves Orion. Thinks it looks like you."

There was that time that Maddie had jokingly said he had a “boy crush” on Eddie. That time he'd assumed she thought he was cute, when really it had been Chimney (gross). Then his insecurities and jealousy over basketball, something that seems so stupid, so unimportant now. It seems like clues he's piecing together too late. 

Buck lets a sob catch in his throat. He’s shaking now. Not from fear, exactly. From grief. Grief for everything he never said. Grief for the life he never got to lead. His feet shift a bit and he sighs deeply. He's so tired, muscles exhausted. There's less than a minute and he wonders about just stepping off, leaving it in his own hands. 

He thinks of game nights. Of inside jokes. Of Eddie resting a hand on his back when Buck stood too still for too long after a hard call. Of a thumb pressing lightly over his collarbone, fist bumps after successful calls, and night spent drinking before crashing in the same bed, just a little too close. 

He thinks about what he won’t get to do: Laugh with Eddie again. Walk the pier with Chris. Fall asleep on Eddie’s couch. Watch the slow way Eddie looks at him when he thinks Buck isn’t noticing.

A tear slips down his cheek. Then another.

He breathes in through his nose. Whispers, "I'm sorry, Eddie. I should've told you."

The seconds tick by. Everything aches. 

His eyes are closed, a feeling of equal parts grief and peace washing over him. He stopped counting, so he's unsure if there's 50 seconds or 5 left. He takes a breath and– the door slams open. His head snaps towards the noise, tear streaks drying on his cheeks. 

"Buck!"

It’s Eddie.

His voice cracks. "I think we—we figured it out."

There's a bomb tech with him, a woman in a vest and carrying a heavy duty backpack. He doesn't recognize her, but even if she'd been in the room before, Eddie eclipses her.

Eddie falls to his knees beside the bomb tech, practically shoving a sheet of paper into her hands as she sets up and inspects the wires still sticking out from beneath Buck's feet. There's very little time left and Buck wants to shove Eddie out the door, tell him not to take the risk. But, Buck has always been a little selfish and if Eddie thinks they've got it…they've got it and Buck will take any chance if it means he might get to stay, might get his happy ending after all. 

"The guy who set this—he had a kid. They just confirmed it. A little girl, born five years ago. Her name was all over the photos in his apartment. That has to be it. It’s personal. It’s always personal." 

The tech hesitates, obviously not able to waste time with the full explanation of why, but feeling the pressure. Buck looks at her and nods when Eddie whispers, “Hen figured it out.” Because Buck trusts his team and if Hen figured it out and Eddie believes her enough to still be standing in this room…well, Buck trusts it too. 

Buck’s heart slams against his ribs as the code is typed in, only about 39 seconds left on the timer on Eddie's phone. When the tech hits enter, nothing happens. No sound, no movements. 

Eddie looks down at his phone. Twenty seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Three.

The plate clicks and Buck feels the shift beneath his feet. He desperately wants to tell Eddie to run, to leave just in case this didn't work. But, he can't. He's frozen. Waiting. 

Zero.

Nothing happens.

No explosion. No heat. No pain. No screams. Just the sudden, overwhelming relief of silence. For a moment Buck wonders if this is real. If he's truly been this lucky to cheat death one more time. 

"It's done," the tech whispers, staring down at the ground. “That was it.” 

Buck doesn’t move at first. He just stares at Eddie as his vision blurs and the tears start falling down his face. 

Then Eddie reaches out. Hands shaking. "C'mere.” 

Buck steps off the plate gingerly and all but falls into Eddie's waiting arms. They cling to each other, breathless and shaking. They're breaking apart and rebuilding all at once. And Buck lets his muscles give up finally and he lets himself collapse and give everything to Eddie. 

"You came back," Buck whispers.

Eddie cups his face. "I wasn’t going to let you die without knowing, without the chance.”

"Knowing what?"

"That I love you. I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it."

Buck lets out a trembling laugh, forehead resting against Eddie’s.

"Me too," he says. "God, me too."

And there, in the middle of the room that almost became a tomb, they kiss.

It’s soft and reverent. Salty and wet with their combined tears. But, it's everything they've ever wanted and more. A promise just for the two of them. 

It's the beginning of everything.

And for the first time in hours, Buck feels like he can breathe again.

The sun is setting through the window, throwing golden light across the Diaz kitchen in slanted beams. The soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the fridge, and the distant sound of Christopher laughing in the other room create the kind of peace Buck never thought he’d get to relish in, to hold in his hands. 

But here he is. Stirring pasta sauce, wearing one of Eddie’s old, oversized hoodies because his got splattered with grease ten minutes ago. Eddie is beside him, chopping basil with far too much precision for a man who claims he can’t cook.

“I feel like I should be insulted that you’re watching me like I’m about to lose a finger,” Eddie mutters without looking up.

Buck grins, eyes still on him. “You’re holding the knife like it personally offended you somehow.”

“That’s because it did,” Eddie says jokingly, glancing up with a smirk that softens immediately as his eyes roam over Buck's face. “You okay?”

 “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Eddie leans in, lips brushing against his cheek. “You sure?”

There’s no tension or judgement in it, just the kind of question you ask when someone almost died on you, and you’re still recalibrating everyday, thinking about how you almost lost them. 

“I wasn’t,” Buck admits. “For a while. I kept waking up thinking I was still standing on that plate, and that we never got here.”

Eddie’s face falls and he drops the knife on the countertop. His hands reach for Buck, trying to pull him close. 

“But,” Buck continues softly, never taking his eyes off the pot of sauce in front of him. “You always pull me back. Even when I’m in my own head. You bring me home.”

“I'll always make sure you come home.”

That makes Buck laugh — quietly, emotionally. He shakes his head like he can’t quite believe this is real. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m trying not to burn the garlic bread.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at that, stealing a quick kiss. “I’ll keep saying whatever I want if it gets you to look at me like that.”

There’s something sacred in the way they move around each other now. Easy and warm like they've been together for an eternity instead of only a few months. They clean up without speaking much. Eddie nudges Buck with his hip when he tries to stack the bowls wrong. Buck retaliates by flicking water at him, which earns him a stern, but amused look that only lasts two seconds before Eddie is laughing, low and quiet.

They sit down at the table, bowls steaming, Christopher joining them with a dramatic flop into the chair beside Buck.

“Did you make the sauce from scratch again?” Chris asks, nose wrinkling because it doesn't seem just right. 

“Nope,” Buck says proudly. “Jar sauce. But I added magic.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You added garlic powder.”

“Same thing.”

Christopher snorts and digs in.

Dinner is simple. Nothing big or fancy. It’s not the kind of moment they would’ve noticed before. But now, after everything—after bombs and confessions and near-impossible rescues—it’s everything. It's these moments that neither of them will ever take for granted again. They haven't had a real conversation yet, just keep living. Living in the moment and their love until(?) they've healed enough to make real decisions, to know for sure where they stand and what they want. Together. 

After dinner, when the dishes are done and Chris is in bed, Buck finds Eddie standing on the porch, staring out into the darkness of the warm September night. There's a smattering of stars in the sky and Buck thinks they should go camping soon, show Chris what it's like to see the night sky again without the light pollution creeping into the corners of the dark. 

Buck steps behind him, slides his arms around his waist, rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder.

“We’re really doing this,” Buck says.

Eddie hums. “We’ve been doing this.”

“I mean—this. Us.”

Eddie turns in his arms and cups his face. “Yeah. We’re doing this.”

They kiss. It's slow. Easy and practiced like kissing each other is something they've been doing their whole lives, like they know each other inside and out without a single hesitation. And when they part, Buck rests his forehead against Eddie’s.

“I love you.”

“I know,” Eddie says, smiling wide,  “I love you too.”

The world spins a little slower now. Softer and calmer for the two of them. 

And in the quiet of the night, warm light from the kitchen at their backs, Buck finally knows what it feels like to be loved. 

To be home.

With Eddie.

Always.