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The thing about Eddie’s music taste, Buck decided, was that it made absolutely no sense.
For a guy who was otherwise practical, grounded, methodical; someone who ironed his t-shirts and alphabetized his spice rack, Eddie Diaz listened to music like a man going through his third divorce and a custody battle.
It wasn’t just that Nickelback had been near permanently added to his daily playlist. It was Creed. The Staind. Hinder. At one point Buck could have sworn he heard Lifehouse playing softly through the kitchen window while Eddie was attempting a chicken parm recipe Bobby had given him. The realization had nearly knocked him off his feet before he even got into the house.
At first, Buck thought maybe Eddie was joking. That it was some ironic bit that he was playing with. But Eddie never joked about things like that. His playlists were built with the solemn determination of a man who used music to get out the feeling he wouldn’t otherwise express. It had started after the fight club years ago, carefully crafted Spotify playlists that fully encapsulated any mood Eddie could find himself in. Buck had always admired that, loved that Eddie had found ways, even if they weren’t traditional, to get himself back into a healthy headspace. The addition of what he could only call "divorced dad rock,” was sudden and once Buck noticed it, he couldn’t un-notice it.
He started imagining Eddie alone in his house at night, sitting on the couch in sweatpants, nursing a beer while listening to “Photograph,” eyes soft with some kind of hidden sorrow. And the more he thought about it, the more concerned he became. It became clear after a few weeks that Eddie must be depressed.
It made sense, didn’t it? Buck told himself that he knew the signs. Withdrawal. Brooding silences. Too many sad songs about broken marriages and unfulfilled dreams. Eddie wasn’t exactly an open book, and Buck figured the music was a window into the stuff he wouldn’t say out loud. It always had been, why would now be any different?
Which meant Buck needed to do something about it.
Quickly.
The campaign began quietly enough. One night, Buck just showed up at Eddie’s with a casserole. It wasn’t even a bad one. He’d googled “comfort food for depressed people” and landed on baked ziti, which came out bubbling and golden and slightly lopsided because he’d gotten distracted by a text from Maddie while layering the noodles. Eddie stared at him for a long moment, then muttered something about already having dinner planned.
Buck left the ziti anyway, feeling accomplished.
But then he thought, no, one casserole wasn’t going to cut it. So the next day he swung by after shift with takeout—tacos from Eddie’s favorite downtown food truck—and the day after that he showed up with a bag of groceries. He helped Chris with his math homework, fixed the squeaky hinge on the back door, and when Eddie complained about a clogged sink, Buck pulled out a wrench like he was auditioning for a home improvement show on HG TV.
Eddie didn’t say much about it to start. He watched Buck with narrowed eyes, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or demand an explanation for the sudden and probably overwhelming amount of acts of service.
Buck wasn’t deterred.
By the end of the week, he’d moved from food and chores to ‘Operation Eddie Needs to Get Laid.’
“Met this woman at the gym,” Buck said casually one afternoon while they were at the station. He slid a protein bar across the table toward Eddie, feeling like it was his responsibility to make sure his best friend was eating enough. “She’s really nice. A nurse apparently so she gets the weird schedules. Likes dogs and has a 7 year old daughter. Thought maybe I could introduce you?”
Eddie blinked. “You want to introduce me to a nurse? From your gym?”
“Yeah! I just think–it could be good for you. You know. To get out there again.”
Eddie’s eyebrows drew together in that skeptical, overly critical way of his. “Get out where?”
“Dating!” Buck said, too loud. Hen looked up from her crossword with one arched brow, and Chim smirked into his coffee.
Eddie didn’t dignify it with a response.
That night, Buck lay awake staring at his ceiling, trying to figure out if maybe the nurse idea had been too much, too soon. Maybe Eddie needed something gentler or more low stakes. Bowling, maybe. Mini golf. Something fun, to remind him of the joys of life beyond Nickelback. Something with a group of friends versus a one on one date he wasn't ready for yet.
By the time Saturday rolled around, Buck had scheduled an entire “cheer up Eddie” day without Eddie’s knowledge. It started with breakfast at that little diner Eddie liked, then a hike, then a stop at a record store so Buck could casually slip some decent vinyl into Eddie’s collection. Maybe Fleetwood Mac. Something classic but a little less soul-crushing.
Except Eddie didn’t exactly play along.
The breakfast went fine, if you ignored the fact that Eddie spent half of it staring at Buck like he was waiting for a confession of some type. The hike was more of a trudge, with Eddie muttering about steep inclines, and when they got to the record store, Eddie flat-out refused to buy anything.
“I like my music,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Do you, though?” Buck shot back before he could stop himself. “Because it sounds like every divorced dad’s sad playlist from 2006.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
And that was how Buck ended up cornered in Eddie’s kitchen that night, standing by the counter while Eddie leaned against the sink with his arms folded tight and looking every bit the single dad who’d had enough.
“Alright,” Eddie said, voice sharp but calm. “Out with it. What’s going on?”
Buck froze.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been weird all week,” Eddie pressed. “The food, the chores, trying to set me up with random women, dragging me out on hikes. What’s wrong?”
Buck opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. The truth was ridiculous when he thought about saying it out loud. But Eddie’s eyes were steady, and Buck was terrible at lying to him. He was a terrible liar in general, but with Eddie? Buck didn’t stand a chance.
“I just—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I thought you were depressed.”
“What?”
“The music, man!” Buck threw his hands up. “It’s all Nickelback and Creed and–God, Eddie, Hinder! Who even listens to Hinder anymore? I thought it was a cry for help!”
For a moment, Eddie said nothing. His face didn’t move. Then, slowly, he let out a short, incredulous laugh. And then, he didn’t stop laughing, words choking out between chuckles that lit up the tense air around them.
“You thought I was depressed…because of my music taste?”
“Well–I mean–yeah!” Buck insisted. “What else was I supposed to think?”
Eddie shook his head, still laughing, though it was softer now, almost fond. “Buck, I’m not depressed.”
Buck exhaled in relief, though some embarrassment twisted in his gut. “You’re not?”
“No,” Eddie said, finally pushing away from the sink. His expression shifted into something gentler now, more careful. “I was going through something, yeah. But not that.”
“Okay….”
Eddie’s eyes held his, steady and warm, and Buck felt suddenly pinned in place.
“I’ve been seeing Frank again,” Eddie admitted. “Talking through some things I didn’t know how to say out loud.” He hesitated, jaw tight, then went on. “Mostly about you.”
Buck’s breath caught. “Me?”
“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice was low and steady as he spoke. “About how I feel about you. About what it means. About how scared I was to screw it up. Frank’s been helping me…figure it out.”
For once, Buck didn’t know what to say. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.
“And what did you figure out?” he asked finally, voice hoarse. This was feeling a lot like a dream Buck has had before, something he tried to never let enter his conscious mind. Feelings like those thoughts that felt more like they existed to break his heart more than anything else.
Eddie smiled, small and soft, but overwhelmingly real. “That I’m in love with you.”
The world tilted. Buck had imagined a thousand confessions, had daydreamed about Eddie saying those words, but hearing them now, in Eddie’s kitchen with the faint hum of the fridge and Chris’s laughter drifting faintly from down the hall. It was overwhelming.
“You–” Buck swallowed hard. “You love me.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, still watching him like he was daring him to laugh, to deny it, or to reject it. “I do.”
Buck let out a shaky laugh of his own, his whole body buzzing with relief and disbelief and something wild, something joyous.
“God, Eddie,” he said, stepping closer. “You could’ve just said that instead of torturing me with Nickelback.”
Eddie chuckled, and then Buck was kissing him; clumsy, urgent, grinning against Eddie’s mouth like he couldn’t believe this was real. Eddie kissed him back with steady warmth, grounding him the way he always did.
When they finally pulled apart, Buck couldn’t do anything but laugh.
“So, just to be clear,” he murmured, “the music’s not a cry for help?”
Eddie laughed softly. “No. Just bad taste.”
“Guess I can live with that.”
And he could. God, he could.