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The last thing Buck remembered was the sound of metal groaning under strain—an eerie warning he should’ve heeded a second earlier.
Then, nothing.
When he woke up, it was to fluorescent lights and a sterile room that smelled like antiseptic and something far less comforting: worry.
The world felt oddly muffled, as if he were underwater. His limbs ached, his chest was bandaged tight, and there was a dull throb behind his eyes like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of his skull.
“—Buck. Buck, hey, can you hear me?”
Buck blinked slowly, turned his head. Eddie.
His face was pale, a little unshaven, dark circles smudged under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Buck opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, he heard:
God, please just wake up, Buck. Just open your damn eyes. You can’t do this to me. Not you.
Buck’s brows furrowed. “I—Eddie?” he rasped.
Eddie’s eyes lit up, relief crashing through his expression like a wave. “You’re awake. Thank God. You scared the hell out of us.”
But that wasn’t the weird part.
The weird part was that Buck could still hear him.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry in front of him. He’s awake, he’s okay. You’re okay now, Diaz, pull it together. He doesn’t know. He can’t ever know.
Buck blinked again. “What… what did you say?”
Eddie tilted his head, concerned. “I said I’m glad you’re awake. Why?”
Buck stared at him. “No, I mean… before that.”
Eddie frowned. “I didn’t say anything before that.”
But Buck had heard him. Loud and clear. No sound, no movement of lips. Just words. Thoughts.
Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought, Buck mused.
A nurse came in. Then a flurry of checks. Blood pressure, pupil dilation, pain scale ratings. Eddie stepped back but didn’t leave, standing silently in the corner like he couldn’t bear to put distance between them.
Buck tested his theory as the nurse chatted lightly.
“Eddie,” he said softly.
Eddie looked up.
Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t ask him how he’s feeling again. He hates that.
“You okay?” Buck asked, watching him closely.
“I’m not the one who got half a building dropped on me,” Eddie said with a weak smile.
That’s not funny. You almost died. I almost watched you die.
Buck swallowed, heart thudding now for an entirely different reason. This wasn’t his imagination. This wasn’t a dream. Somehow, somehow… he could hear Eddie’s thoughts.
And Eddie didn’t know.
He didn’t know that Buck now heard every unspoken word, every flicker of fear, every unguarded moment Eddie usually kept buried deep.
He didn’t know Buck now knew he had cried.
He didn’t know Buck heard him whisper don’t you leave me in the silence between monitors and sterile sheets.
He didn’t know that Buck could feel himself slipping into something far more dangerous than shock.
He was falling in love—with the sound of Eddie’s heart when it thought no one was listening.
And Buck wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to pretend he hadn’t heard it.
The problem wasn’t hearing Eddie’s thoughts.
It was not reacting to them.
Buck had always prided himself on his ability to roll with chaos—fires, floods, collapsing buildings. He could improvise. He could adjust. But none of that training had prepared him for trying to have a conversation with a man whose internal monologue was now playing in Buck’s head like a podcast he couldn’t turn off.
“So, uh… do you remember anything from the accident?” Eddie asked as he sat in the visitor’s chair, elbow braced on his knee, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh.
Please say no. Please say you don’t remember me yelling your name. Please say you don’t remember how I froze.
Buck shook his head slowly. “Just… noise. And then lights. I think I blacked out before I hit the ground.”
Eddie nodded, visibly relieved.
Good. That’s good. You don’t need to carry that, too. You already carry too much.
Buck bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. His chest tightened with something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Not pain exactly. Not physical, anyway.
He kept quiet, his eyes drifting to the ceiling, trying to ignore the sound of Eddie’s worry ricocheting around inside his head.
The worst part? It wasn’t just worry.
It was affection.
It was guilt.
It was things Eddie would never say out loud.
You have no idea what you mean to me, Buck. And I’m a coward because I can’t say it.
Buck blinked hard, suddenly finding the fluorescent light far too bright.
“Are you in pain?” Eddie asked quickly, already half out of his chair, worry written in every tense line of his body.
Is it your chest? Shit, I should get a nurse.
“No, I’m okay,” Buck said, forcing a smile. “Just… a little overwhelmed.”
Eddie nodded again, slower this time.
Same.
That night, Buck couldn’t sleep. The hospital was quiet, except for the distant beep of monitors and the occasional footsteps of night nurses. But in his head, it wasn’t quiet at all. The silence buzzed with echoes—memories of Eddie’s voice in thoughts that weren’t his to know.
He didn’t want this.
He did want this.
He didn’t want to hear things he wasn’t meant to hear.
He desperately wanted to keep hearing them.
Because in those unspoken thoughts, there was a version of Eddie that Buck had never fully seen before. Vulnerable. Honest. Raw.
And something else, too.
Something that made Buck’s throat go tight when he remembered the way Eddie had stood at his bedside that first moment—like a man on the edge of something too big to name.
I thought I lost you. I don’t know what I’d do if I had.
He could still hear it. Clear as day.
And Buck knew, with a strange sort of certainty, that this wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Whatever had changed during that collapse—it wasn’t just the break in his ribs or the concussion on his chart.
Something had shifted between him and Eddie.
Now Buck just had to survive it without letting on that he knew everything.
And worse—without letting Eddie know he wanted it to mean something.
Buck was discharged three days later.
The doctors called it a miracle. The crew called it typical Buck luck—dangerously close to death one minute, making inappropriate jokes the next.
But Eddie didn’t call it anything.
He just hovered.
Driving Buck home. Carrying his bag. Fluffing his pillows. Stocking his fridge with groceries Buck didn’t remember asking for. He even arranged Buck’s pain meds in color-coded sections. And through it all, Buck kept hearing the thoughts Eddie didn’t say out loud.
Stay calm. Be normal. Don’t look at his mouth. Stop staring at his hands. You’re not seventeen with a crush. Jesus.
Buck coughed to cover his laugh.
“You okay?” Eddie turned from the fridge, instantly on alert. “Need your meds?”
“I’m good.” Buck leaned back on the couch, biting back a grin. “I think the drugs from the hospital are still kicking around in my system. I feel… floaty.”
Don’t tell him he looks beautiful like this. Don’t tell him you had nightmares the whole time he was unconscious.
Buck looked away, cheeks warming. This was getting harder.
Every time Eddie exhaled, it felt like Buck was hearing something sacred. Private. Every unspoken thought was a brushstroke painting a clearer picture of the man he’d thought he already knew.
Eddie had layers. Buck had always known that.
But this? This was the truth buried between every look, every pause, every time Eddie stayed too long after a shift or let Buck tuck Christopher in.
This is dangerous. You’re going to mess this up if you don’t stop.
Buck turned to him. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’m okay.”
Eddie froze, then forced a smile.
“I know. I just… I don’t like the idea of you being alone right now.”
Because if something happens and I’m not here—if you fall, if you pass out—
“I’m not gonna die on my couch, Eddie.”
“I know,” he said, voice a little too soft.
But I can’t lose you.
Buck stared at him for a long beat.
He knew he should set a boundary, tell Eddie he needed space, maybe even pretend the thoughts weren’t echoing through his head like thunder—but he couldn’t. Not when those thoughts were the most honest pieces of Eddie he’d ever had access to.
And not when every one of them was slowly breaking Buck’s heart.
Or filling it.
He couldn’t decide which.
“Want to stay for a while?” Buck asked casually, scooting over on the couch. “We could watch a movie. You can pick.”
Eddie hesitated.
Don’t say yes. You always say yes. You always give in when it comes to him.
“Yeah,” he said softly, settling beside him. “I’d like that.”
They didn’t touch, but they sat close. Their shoulders nearly brushed. And as the movie played and Buck pretended to focus, he heard Eddie think:
This feels like home.
And Buck thought, God help me, because it did.
The movie had long since ended.
Eddie had fallen asleep on Buck’s couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across his chest. Buck sat beside him, legs drawn up, blanket pooled in his lap, pretending to scroll on his phone.
In reality, he was listening.
You’re okay. He’s okay. You’re safe.
Eddie’s thoughts were soft, half-dreamed. Not words exactly—more like feelings, fragments, the echoes of long-standing fears wrapped up in hope. Buck didn’t even know if Eddie knew he was thinking them.
And God, it was intimate.
Too intimate.
It made Buck feel like he was intruding on something sacred. But he also couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Because the silence between them had never been this loud.
He looked at Eddie, the way his face softened in sleep, the tension finally draining from his jaw. He looked younger like this, lighter.
I love you.
The thought came so suddenly, so clearly, that Buck flinched.
His phone slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor.
Eddie stirred.
“Hm?” he mumbled, half-asleep, blinking blearily. “You okay?”
Buck forced a smile. “Yeah. Dropped my phone.”
Eddie sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. “What time is it?”
“Late. You can crash here, if you want. Spare room’s still got your hoodie from last time.”
Eddie nodded and stretched. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, man.”
Don’t be weird. Don’t linger. Say goodnight and go before you say something you can’t take back.
“Night, Buck.”
“Night,” Buck echoed, his voice quieter than he meant.
Eddie padded toward the hallway, pausing briefly like he wanted to say more. Buck held his breath.
But Eddie just turned and disappeared into the guest room.
Buck sat alone in the dark.
“I love you,” Buck whispered to no one, to the air, to the space Eddie had left behind.
He didn’t know if it was a response to Eddie’s thought—or if he was finally admitting what had been true for longer than he could remember.
He lay awake most of the night, waiting to hear Eddie think it again.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Buck fell asleep to the sound of Eddie’s slow, steady breathing from the next room—and the quiet hum of thoughts just out of reach.
The next morning, Buck woke to the smell of coffee and something warm in the kitchen. For a moment, he forgot everything—the accident, the hospital, the impossibility of hearing thoughts that weren’t his.
Then he heard:
He always wakes up slow. Bet he’s all squinty and confused right now. Cute.
Buck groaned into his pillow and considered just never moving again.
He sat up, muscles protesting slightly, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Eddie stood barefoot in front of the stove, wearing a worn t-shirt and sweats, flipping something in a pan.
“You’re cooking in my kitchen,” Buck said, voice still gravelly from sleep.
Eddie looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Someone had to make sure you eat something that isn’t half a protein bar.”
His hair sticks up in eight different directions. Jesus, I’m in trouble.
Buck ran a hand through his hair self-consciously and tried to pretend he didn’t hear it.
“What’s for breakfast?”
“Eggs. And toast if you’re lucky.”
Buck leaned on the counter, watching him move with the easy grace of routine. Like this was normal. Like waking up in Buck’s apartment, making breakfast, being here—was just part of the rhythm of his life.
Don’t make it weird. Just take care of him. He doesn’t need to know what you’re thinking.
Too late.
“Thanks,” Buck said instead, trying to act like he wasn’t silently screaming. “This is… really nice.”
Eddie shrugged, trying to seem casual.
Say something cool. Say it’s no big deal. Do not say you woke up early just to watch him sleep.
“It’s no big deal.”
Buck bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh.
They sat down to eat. There was quiet. Comfortable, almost. Except Buck kept hearing things between the clink of forks and sips of coffee.
How do I say it without wrecking everything?
Buck looked up sharply.
Eddie had frozen mid-bite.
You won’t. So don’t. Just be his friend. He needs you as his friend. That’s enough.
“Hey,” Buck said, softer than before. “You okay?”
Eddie looked up, startled. “What? Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
Liar.
Buck nearly choked on his coffee.
He didn’t know how long he could keep doing this—hearing Eddie’s thoughts, pretending he didn’t. Every moment felt like walking a tightrope between honesty and betrayal. Between love and restraint.
But when Eddie smiled at him, warm and tired and achingly familiar, Buck knew he wasn’t ready to give it up.
Not yet.
Because if he was honest with himself, this—Eddie—was the closest he’d ever felt to home.
Even if Eddie had no idea Buck could hear it.
Buck spent the next few days in a fog—not from the pain meds, not from the slow shuffle of recovery—but from Eddie.
From the endless, unspoken monologue that followed Buck around like a ghost. A ghost that sounded like love but wore a mask of friendship.
He told himself it was manageable. That he could handle it. That hearing Eddie’s thoughts was just a side effect, something temporary, something his brain would eventually stop doing.
But that hope shattered the day they went back to the station.
Bobby welcomed him back with a stern hug. Hen gave him crap for being reckless and then made him promise not to do it again. Chim ran a betting pool on how long Buck would last before throwing himself into another wall of fire.
And Eddie? Eddie stayed close.
Too close.
He hovered again, tracking Buck’s every movement without even realizing it.
Don’t let him overdo it. Watch his breathing. Is he wincing? He’s wincing. He shouldn’t be back yet.
Buck opened his locker and slammed it a little harder than necessary, just to drown it out.
Hen looked over. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Buck said. “Just a little echo in my head.”
If you fall apart, I’ll catch you. Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.
He nearly said it. I don’t have to ask, Eddie. I already heard you.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Instead, he changed into his gear, clenching his jaw every time Eddie’s thoughts brushed too close to his skin.
The first call back was minor—a stuck elevator, no injuries. But as soon as the tones dropped, Buck felt it.
Don’t let him out of your sight.
Eddie stood next to him in the truck, pretending to be casual. But Buck could feel the tension radiating off him. Every time Buck moved, Eddie’s thoughts pinged through his brain like sonar.
Don’t let him go in first. Don’t act like this is normal. Don’t let him die.
“Eddie,” Buck said quietly as they waited for the all-clear.
Eddie looked at him. “Yeah?”
Buck hesitated. You’re in love with me. I can hear you thinking it. Every second of every day. I don’t know what to do with that.
Instead, he said, “I’m okay.”
Eddie swallowed hard.
I know. I just—can’t help it.
Later, back at the station, Eddie made him tea. Buck laughed—tea, like he was fragile.
“I’m not made of glass,” Buck teased.
Eddie looked down, a little sheepish. “I know. Humor me.”
Let me take care of you, just this once. Just until I can let you go again.
Buck accepted the cup. He didn’t say anything.
He was getting too good at pretending.
Too good at ignoring the quiet ache of Eddie loving him silently while the rest of the world stayed oblivious.
The problem was—Buck wasn’t sure he could stay silent much longer.
Buck thought maybe he could adjust to it—this constant current of Eddie’s thoughts, like static in the back of his skull.
But pretending not to hear was getting harder.
Especially now that Eddie had started pulling away.
Not in any obvious way. Not with words or distance. But in the way his thoughts were quieter when they were near each other. More guarded. More rehearsed.
You’re getting sloppy. Don’t let it show. He’s watching you.
Buck caught Eddie watching him across the loft as they cleaned their gear after a long shift—sleeves pushed up, jaw tense, always on edge. He looked away quickly.
“I’m not made of glass,” Buck said again, louder this time, throwing it out like a test balloon.
Eddie didn’t look up from the oxygen tank he was refilling.
“I know,” he said evenly.
But what if you were? What if one more crack breaks you?
Buck gripped the metal in his hands tighter. “I’m fine, Eddie.”
“You don’t have to keep proving that.”
You do, though. You always think you do. And one day, you won’t make it.
“Jesus,” Buck muttered under his breath, turning away.
He couldn’t do this. Not today.
But of course, Eddie followed him into the locker room. Of course he did.
“Hey—” Eddie’s voice was gentle, careful. “I didn’t mean to push you.”
Buck faced his locker, breathing hard. “You didn’t.”
“You’re acting like I did.”
Tell him. Tell him it’s because you care too much. Tell him it’s killing you. Tell him—
“Don’t,” Buck said, sharper than intended, turning around. “Don’t pretend you don’t care more than you say.”
Eddie blinked. “I’m not pretending.”
Shit. What did I say? What did he hear?
Buck’s heart pounded in his chest. He was shaking. “Look, maybe I’m tired. Maybe I’m not thinking straight. But—”
He stopped.
He couldn’t say it.
He couldn’t say I hear you. I hear everything.
Because then it would all be real. Not just a strange twist of fate. Not a head injury side effect. Not some cosmic joke.
Then it would be a confession.
And Buck wasn’t sure what would happen after that.
So instead, he stepped back and grabbed his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Eddie nodded slowly.
I can’t lose him. So I’ll stay quiet. Even if it kills me.
Buck didn’t look back.
Because he wasn’t sure he could hear that and keep walking away.
Buck didn’t sleep that night.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sort through what he knew—what he’d heard—and what he was pretending not to know. It was getting harder to draw that line.
Eddie loved him.
Maybe not in the fully-formed, all-caps way, not something either of them had ever said out loud—but it was there, steady and threaded through every unspoken thought. Every glance. Every time Eddie’s voice in Buck’s head whispered things like:
I wish I was brave enough.
And worse—
He deserves to be loved out loud.
The next morning, Buck found himself standing outside Eddie’s house.
He didn’t remember deciding to drive there.
He didn’t text first.
Christopher answered the door with a sleepy smile and a “Hi, Buck,” like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Hey, buddy,” Buck said, voice soft. “You mind if I talk to your dad?”
“He’s in the kitchen. Making weird healthy pancakes again.”
Buck ruffled Chris’s hair on his way past.
When Eddie turned and saw him, he blinked. Startled.
“You okay?”
“No,” Buck said.
What did I do? What does he know? Did I say something in my sleep? Did I—
“You need to stop doing that,” Buck said, voice steady now.
Eddie frowned. “Doing what?”
“Thinking so loud.”
The silence between them stretched long and deep.
Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. He took a step back, like the words physically hit him.
You can’t know that.
“I do,” Buck said quietly. “I don’t know how. Ever since the accident. I’ve been hearing you. Your thoughts.”
Eddie was pale now, his voice cracking. “Everything?”
Buck nodded. “Not all the time. Not like… a faucet I can control. But yeah. Enough.”
The silence burned.
Buck took a shaky breath. “And if you want me to pretend I don’t, I will. But I need you to know that I heard you, Eddie. All of it.”
Eddie swallowed, throat working. “I didn’t want you to know like this.”
“I figured.”
“I didn’t want to ruin everything.”
“You didn’t.” Buck stepped closer. “You really didn’t.”
But if I say it out loud, it’s real. If it’s real, it can be taken away.
Buck reached out and took Eddie’s hand.
“You love me,” he said softly. “I know. I heard it before you ever said it. But now I want to hear you say it out loud. Not because I need proof. Not because I need to be sure. But because you do.”
Eddie stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes wide.
And then—
“I love you.”
Not a thought.
A truth.
A spoken one.
Buck smiled, eyes shining.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve been hearing voices.”
Eddie laughed—shaky, teary, relieved—and pulled him in.
And when they kissed, for the first time, Buck heard nothing at all.
Just peace.
Just quiet.
Because sometimes, the heart says what thoughts never could.
Buck had always lived loud.
Big gestures. Big emotions. Big crashes, when they came.
But in the weeks that followed that quiet morning in Eddie’s kitchen, everything softened.
They didn’t announce it to the team. Not yet. Not because they were hiding, but because it felt sacred—something to carry gently, to protect while it bloomed.
Eddie still made Buck tea after long shifts. Buck still showed up with tacos and Christopher’s favorite candy on movie nights. The rhythms didn’t change.
But the silences between them did.
Now they were safe. Now they meant something.
The thoughts didn’t vanish entirely. Every once in a while, Buck would still hear them—Eddie’s heartbeat of a mind, offering him little glimpses.
I still can’t believe he chose me.
He’s everything.
But the panic, the weight, the fear—they were gone. Because now Eddie said the things, too.
“I missed you today.”
“Come to bed.”
“You make everything easier.”
And Buck? Buck had never felt more seen.
The first time he woke up to Eddie pressed against him, sunlight spilling across the sheets and Christopher’s soft voice calling for pancakes in the background, Buck realized he hadn’t heard Eddie’s thoughts in days.
Maybe the accident was fading. Maybe the strange connection was severing.
But maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t necessary anymore.
Because he didn’t need to hear Eddie’s thoughts to know he was loved.
Eddie showed him. Every damn day.
And Buck, for once in his life, didn’t feel too much.
He just felt right.
As they sat at the kitchen table that morning, Christopher arguing that peanut butter absolutely belonged on pancakes, Eddie reached for Buck’s hand beneath the table.
Buck squeezed it, grinning.
“You okay?” Eddie asked, like he always did.
“Yeah,” Buck said, eyes warm. “More than okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, the quiet between them said everything that needed to be said.