Work Text:
The first time they started that little routine, neither of them realized it would weave itself so deeply into their lives, like a quiet thread pulling them closer without asking permission.
It began on a soft, golden morning —the kind that smelled of coffee, toast, and fresh beginnings.
It was Christopher’s first day of school after summer vacation.
The night before, Buck had insisted on sleeping on the couch, claiming something about early mornings being smoother when the kitchen was free for proper breakfast prep. Something about “the importance of brain fuel for growing kids,” said with that confident grin that made Eddie roll his eyes and smile despite himself.
Whatever the excuse, it led them to this.
Christopher’s laughter echoed around the kitchen as he ate more than either of them thought possible —pancakes, fruit, juice, and half of Buck’s bacon. When the plates were finally empty, and Eddie was trying to get the boy to slow down enough to tie his shoes, Christopher turned to Buck with wide, pleading eyes.
“Come with us?”
Buck had opened his mouth to joke about needing to shower, but the words never left his tongue. Because of course he would. He would always say yes when it came to them. Nothing ever felt like a chore with his Diaz boys —not the school runs, not the dishes, not even the chaos that came with living under the same roof.
Eddie hadn’t even needed to ask. He’d already known Buck would come. Still, he’d waited, watching that moment quietly, something tender stirring in his chest. If Buck had said no, Eddie might’ve dragged him along anyway. But he knew better —Buck never said no when it came to Christopher. Or to him.
They piled into the truck, the morning air crisp enough to wake them fully. Buck parked a couple of blocks away from the school, earning a soft laugh from Christopher and a small shake of his head.
“Why are we parking so far?” Chris asked.
Buck shrugged, his grin a little sheepish.
“Walking’s good for the brain too, right?”
The truth was simpler —a few days earlier, Christopher had confessed that he missed those early days in L.A., when Eddie used to walk him right to the school gate. Back when everything had felt… smaller, somehow. Easier. Buck had listened —as he always did— and made sure to bring it back.
They walked side by side, Christopher bouncing between them, his backpack too big for his small shoulders, his words spilling out in bright, unstoppable waves. He talked about the clubs he might join, the friends he wouldn’t see anymore, and the new ones he hoped to make. Buck and Eddie listened, both smiling, both warmed by the sound of his voice.
When they reached the gate, Christopher turned, launching himself into Buck’s arms. It was pure instinct —love made easy and unfiltered.
Eddie watched, the familiar sting in his chest softened by gratitude rather than jealousy. If it had been anyone else, it might’ve hurt. But it was Buck. And Buck had long ago stopped being anyone else.
After a second hug —one for Eddie, one for luck— Christopher headed inside, waving over his shoulder before getting swallowed up by the crowd of kids.
They stood there for a moment, watching until he disappeared completely. The hum of the morning filled the silence between them —parents calling after their children, the distant sound of car doors, the city waking up.
Eddie was the first to speak.
“We could take the long way back,” he said, lifting his gaze just enough to meet Buck’s eyes.
Buck smiled, that small, bright smile that always managed to undo Eddie in quiet ways.
“Was hoping you’d say that.”
He gestured down the opposite direction, toward the park. They didn’t have a shift until the afternoon, and the day was too beautiful to waste behind walls.
So they walked.
Their shoulders brushed now and then —casual, easy, unhurried— but neither pulled away. They talked about everything and nothing: about Christopher’s new year, about the fire they’d had last week, about the coffee shop that had somehow started remembering their order. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, just shared the silence, comfortable and full.
By the time they made it back to the truck, the weight they each carried —different, but equally heavy— felt a little lighter. A thirty-minute walk and a couple of coffees shouldn’t have had the power to fix anything, but somehow, it did.
And the next time they had an afternoon shift, they did it again.
And again.
Until it stopped being a routine, and became something else entirely — something that lived quietly between them, as natural as breathing, as steady as the sunrise that started it all.
By the time the heavy warmth of summer melted into the soft melancholy of autumn, the world around them had changed —not just in color, but in rhythm. The air turned crisp and gold, mornings arriving with that fragile kind of light that seemed to promise a new beginning every day.
And the walks continued.
They had adjusted their schedules by then —a quiet agreement, never spoken, never questioned. What had started as a one-time gesture for Christopher’s first day back at school had turned into ritual. Every morning, before heading to work, they walked him to the gates, shared a coffee, and let the city unfold around them like a secret only they knew how to read.
It was ordinary, and it was everything.
Their conversations skipped through the most mundane topics: the weather, the stubborn heat that lingered too long before giving up to autumn’s bite, the PTA notice that meant baking an impossible number of cookies, the paperwork waiting for them back at the station. Sometimes, it was laughter —that easy, low kind that lived in the quiet between them. Other times, it was silence that spoke louder than any joke ever could.
But every now and then, the conversation veered into the places they usually avoided —the wounds that still ached beneath the surface.
Those were the moments when their hands found each other. Not in boldness, but in something softer —something honest. A fleeting touch at first: fingertips brushing when one of them gestured too widely, a knuckle grazing skin. But those small collisions started to linger. A pinky hooking against the other’s hand for just a second too long. Warmth that neither of them wanted to pull away from.
They were innocent touches, yes —but full of ghosts. Of fear, and guilt, and the hesitant hope that maybe they didn’t have to keep carrying everything alone.
One morning, as leaves whispered around their feet and the world felt painted in copper light, Buck asked quietly, “Do you think when we’re old, we’ll go for walks like this?”
Eddie turned to look at him. Buck’s hand was brushing his, his pinky tracing small, slow circles over the back of his glove. It was the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything, but still made his chest ache in all the places he thought had gone numb.
“Maybe we’ll take shorter routes,” Eddie said finally, his voice a little rough from the cold. Then, after a beat, softer: “But yeah… I think we will.”
He wanted those words to be enough — to hold everything he couldn’t yet say. To tell Buck, I see you. I feel you. I’m getting there.
Because love —his love— had never been loud. It was patient, cautious, almost shy. But it was there, pulsing beneath every glance, every almost-touch.
They were on the same page. They both knew it.
They just hadn’t reached the part where pain stopped dictating the story. Where they could set down their fear and let something new begin.
The days grew colder, but somehow, those mornings stayed warm.
On particularly bitter ones, Buck would show up with a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, complaining about the wind until Eddie teased him for being dramatic. But then Eddie would sneeze or grumble about the chill, and Buck —predictably, lovingly— would unwrap the scarf and drape it over Eddie’s shoulders instead.
Other mornings, Eddie came out in layers: hoodie under his jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’d roll his eyes at Buck’s insistence that “it's not even that cold,” and then, when Buck’s fingers inevitably started to go numb, Eddie would wordlessly take off the jacket and toss it at him.
It wasn’t just warmth they shared.
It was care.
A quiet, steady kind of devotion that had snuck in between early alarms and shared laughter, between the first cup of coffee and the second goodbye at the school gate.
Autumn passed in a slow, golden blur —every leaf that fell seemed to mark another step closer to something neither of them dared to name yet. But every morning, they kept walking. Side by side. Hands brushing. Breaths mingling in the cool air.
Because even if they didn’t know where it was leading, they both knew this: whatever it was, it already felt like home.
By the time winter settled in, their walks had become something sacred. The mornings were sharp and silver-edged, the air cold enough to make every breath visible, a soft fog that lingered between them before fading into nothing. The city felt quieter then, wrapped in its own stillness. But they had never felt more alive.
Now, the walks involved hot chocolate, steaming cups they held between their palms as if warmth could be shared that way. They spoke about Christmas lights, about the firehouse shifts, about life, and about the future —as if it were something they could actually plan together.
One morning, as the pale light crept through the clouds, Buck looked over at him, his voice breaking the quiet.
“Do you really want me to go with you to El Paso to celebrate Christmas Eve? And then come back here for dinner with Bobby on the 26th?”
His tone was careful, soft. His eyes wide and blue, filled with a thousand questions he didn’t dare voice aloud. Do you really want me there? With your family? With you?
Eddie’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile.
“I wouldn't want it any other way,” he said, and then tilted his head up toward the sky, letting the weak sunlight kiss his face. It felt grounding, like it kept him from saying the rest —like if he didn’t breathe, the words I want you there always might slip out. “Come on, you won't have to pay anything, you can talk and cook with Abuela, and Christopher will be happy to have our Buck with us.”
Our Buck. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but the words landed between them anyway, warm and heavy.
And Eddie bit his tongue before the rest followed —the dangerous truth that he, too, would be happier than he’d ever admit to have Buck by his side. Every moment. Every day.
The week before Christmas passed in a blur of chaos and tenderness. Christopher’s laughter filled the house as they packed bags and hunted down last-minute gifts. Eddie handled logistics, Buck handled wrapping—and somewhere in the middle of it all, between the late nights and quiet mornings, something shifted.
It was one of those nights —too cold, too late— when Buck ended up falling asleep in Eddie’s bed. It wasn’t planned. It never was. The movie they were watching in Eddie’s iPad had ended long before either of them realized their shoulders were pressed together under the blanket. At some point, Eddie had turned, half-asleep, and Buck’s arm had found its way around his waist.
They stayed that way. Wrapped in blankets and arms, both of them pretending it was nothing more than warmth.
The next morning, neither mentioned it. Not out of shame —just fear. Fear of how right it had felt.
And yet, the walks continued. Every morning. Sometimes with Christopher —though that was hit or miss now that he’d declared himself “too old to be walked like a dog.” Eddie had tried not to laugh at that. Buck hadn’t even tried.
When Chris didn’t join, they still went. Always together. Always with smiles that reached their eyes and glances that lingered too long to be casual. The silences between them grew heavier, but not uncomfortable —weighted with meaning, with something that felt dangerously close to love.
And then came that morning.
It was nothing grand, no cinematic crescendo. Just a moment —quiet, simple, perfect— when Buck’s pinky brushed against Eddie’s and didn’t pull away. Instead, he hooked it gently, a tentative question without words. Eddie looked down, then up, cheeks flushed with cold and something else entirely.
Neither of them said a word, but neither of them let go.
They walked the entire route like that—pinkies intertwined, pretending the world wasn’t shifting beneath their feet. When they finally reached the truck, both were red-faced and breathless. Buck from the cold. Eddie from everything else.
After that, it became habit.
Like breathing.
Like them.
On December 23rd, their walk took place in the bright, echoing corridors of the airport. Christopher moved ahead of them, determined and slightly annoyed, his crutches clicking rhythmically against the floor. Their pinkies were linked again, hidden between their jackets, the sunlight spilling in from the terminal windows like liquid gold.
“Why do we have to take the long way to the exit gate when we could have gone straight?” Christopher grumbled, wrinkling his nose as he dragged his crutches along.
“Because it’s important to enjoy the journey, mijo,” Eddie said, his voice gentle but steady.
Buck’s pinky pressed against his in quiet agreement, a soft squeeze that said Exactly.
The next morning —on Christmas Eve— the world looked like a painting. El Paso spread before them in muted colors, the desert air clear and cool. They climbed the hill behind Eddie’s parents’ house, their breath coming out in small clouds. The silence between them was peaceful, filled with the distant sound of birds and the crunch of earth beneath their boots.
“I would’ve liked to have met the Eddie who always hung out here,” Buck whispered, his voice barely a breath, as if afraid to disturb the calm.
Eddie smiled faintly, eyes sweeping over the horizon.
“I would’ve liked you to have met him,” he said softly. “He used to think the world ended right there.”
He pointed toward the hills.
“Turns out it was just beginning.”
Buck looked at him then —really looked— and for a second, Eddie had to look away.
Christmas morning found them awake before the sun. The neighborhood still slept, the world hushed and a little bit cold. They walked side by side, pinkies twined, recounting everything from the night before —the laughter, the food, the look on Christopher’s face when he unwrapped Buck’s gift.
“Do you think we’ll make it there before they wake up?” Buck asked, turning slightly as if he could still see the house from several blocks away.
“I don’t know,” Eddie said, smiling, and with his free hand, traced a slow line along the back of Buck’s fingers. “Chris will understand if we don’t.”
And for once, they both knew he wasn’t talking about time.
On the 26th, they walked with Christopher again —Buck carrying the boy’s bag while Eddie told stories. About Shannon. About his childhood. About the same streets they were walking now, only smaller then, brighter somehow.
This time, Buck didn’t reach for Eddie’s pinky. Instead, he let his hand fall, resting it lightly on Eddie’s lower back. The touch was simple, steady.
Eddie didn’t move away.
He just leaned back, a fraction of an inch, into that warmth. And Buck, without thinking, left his hand there. All the way home.
By the time the holidays melted into memory and the world softened again under spring’s gentle warmth, something in their routine changed. Not abruptly, not in a way anyone else could have noticed —just a quiet evolution, the kind that happens when hearts stop pretending they’re not already entwined.
Their walks were still sacred, still the best part of every day, but now there was something different in the way they moved together. Sometimes, their pinkies found each other like they always had —but other times, Buck’s hand slipped around Eddie’s back, resting there like it belonged.
And sometimes, when the street was empty and the morning sunlight hit them just right, one of them would slide a hand into the other’s back pocket with a smile that said I dare you to stop me.
No one stopped anyone anymore.
Their conversations deepened, but the ache was gone. The old wounds had softened into scars —still there, still visible, but no longer defining them. There was laughter now, the kind that came from a place of peace. There were long stretches of silence too, but even those felt full —rich with everything they didn’t need to say.
And God, there was laughter. Especially when Buck started sneezing —violent, unstoppable bursts that came one after another until Eddie had to stop walking just to steady him.
“Ten in a row,” Eddie would tease, handing him a tissue. “That’s a record.”
Buck would wipe at his nose, pretending to glare.
“You counting now?”
“Somebody has to keep track of your drama.”
Buck would roll his eyes, but his grin gave him away —because if he was honest, he liked being fussed over. He liked how Eddie’s hand lingered on his shoulder, how his laughter softened when he said his name.
And Eddie —Eddie couldn’t get over how endearing Buck looked like that: red-nosed, watery-eyed, still trying to look composed. Beautiful, he’d think, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last.
There were also those moments when laughter faded into something quieter —when Eddie started talking about the future. About them. About what they’d built, and what was still to come.
He’d talk about Christopher’s growing independence, about how the boy now spent half his weekends out with friends but still insisted on movie nights at home. He’d talk about Buck’s recipes that somehow always ended with flour on the counter and sometimes in burnt edges, and how he secretly loved it because it made the house smell like home.
And he’d talk about love —not directly, never out loud, but it lived in his words anyway. It was in the way he said we instead of I, in the way his eyes lingered on Buck’s face a heartbeat too long.
Because every burden they’d carried —every weight of guilt, fear, and loss— had been quietly exchanged for something lighter. Something freer. With every piece of pain they laid down, love found a little more space to breathe.
One morning, after Buck’s fifth consecutive sneeze nearly sent his coffee spilling, Eddie laughed —a deep, easy sound that filled the air. They’d stopped under the shade of a jacaranda tree, its blossoms painting the ground in lilac.
“I want us to paint the house,” Eddie said suddenly, voice casual but eyes bright.
Buck blinked, still recovering from the sneezing fit.
“What?”
Eddie smiled, watching the way Buck’s nose scrunched.
“You know, spruce up Chris’s room a little. He’s getting older —maybe let him pick something that matches his teenage energy. And maybe change our room too. Different color. Make it feel more… ours.”
Buck froze for half a second, breath caught mid-laugh. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost reverent.
“Our room?” he asked, blinking through the sunlight, trying to read the expression on Eddie’s face.
Eddie didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just nodded, slow and sure.
“Sounds good to me,” Buck said finally, his grin returning —warm, easy, and full of promise. “We could paint it dark blue. Hang lots of pictures. Everyone we love.”
Eddie’s chest tightened. Because everyone we love meant you, me, and him. It meant home.
He leaned his head against Buck’s shoulder then, the gesture quiet but full of meaning, and together they kept walking.
The jacaranda blossoms fell around them like soft purple snow. Their joined shadows stretched ahead on the pavement, two shapes so close they almost looked like one.
And for the first time, Eddie let himself think —maybe this is what forever feels like.
By the time summer rolled around again, the world had settled into that slow, golden rhythm only the sun could dictate —the kind that made everything feel softer, easier, alive.
Their walks shifted naturally, following the call of light and water and open skies. On those mornings when Christopher woke up before dawn, buzzing with the kind of energy only a kid could have, they headed for the beach.
The boy would burst into their room as soon as the first ray of sunlight slipped through the blinds, declaring, “We’re wasting daylight!” and Buck would groan while Eddie tried not to laugh.
They’d end up there anyway, all three of them, toes in the sand and the ocean wind tangling Buck’s hair while Eddie watched them both —his two favorite people illuminated by a sky that seemed too bright to belong anywhere else. Christopher would walk ahead, chasing waves, while Buck carried their bags and stole glances at Eddie, as if the sight of him barefoot and smiling wasn’t something he’d already memorized a hundred times.
Other days —quieter ones, when Chris stayed with Hen and Karen— they went the opposite direction. Toward the mountains. They’d leave before dawn, coffee thermoses in hand, the city still half asleep behind them. The world up there smelled of pine and promise, and the air was cleaner, cooler.
It became their thing —a shared escape. They’d drive until the sky turned pink, park the car halfway up the trail, and hike until they reached the overlook that seemed to belong to them alone.
“I really like this place,” Buck said one morning, as they finally reached the rest stop.
He dropped into one of the weathered wooden chairs, breathing hard, hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed from the climb. The sunlight hit his face, catching in his lashes. He looked young, happy —free.
Eddie watched him for a long moment, saying nothing. Just taking him in —the way he stretched, the easy sprawl of his body, the small smile tugging at his lips.
“I really like you,” Eddie said at last, quiet but certain, the words falling from his mouth like they’d been waiting years to be spoken aloud.
Buck froze for just a second, then looked up, his smile widening until it filled his whole face. He ducked his head slightly, trying to hide the color blooming on his cheeks, but Eddie saw it —and laughed softly, because of course Buck would blush even now.
The world seemed to tilt then —not dramatically, not with fanfare, but in a way that made everything feel right. As if all the waiting, all the detours, had led exactly here.
Time fades, Eddie thought weeks later, sitting in the truck, one hand on the window sill and the other resting lightly on Buck’s knee.
It was the first day of school again —a full circle moment he hadn’t seen coming. Christopher, now taller and leaner, with a voice that carried the first edges of adolescence, sat in the back seat chatting with Buck. His tone was more measured than it used to be, more reserved —like the world had shifted under his feet and he was still learning where to stand.
“This time you can drop me off in front of the school, you know?” Chris said, leaning forward between their seats, trying for serious but only half-managing it. “I’m a big boy now. I don’t need my parents to walk me to the door.”
Eddie threw his head back and laughed, the sound bursting out of him before he could help it. The idea of his kid not needing him was both funny and a little bittersweet.
When he turned to look at Buck, his breath caught —because Buck looked like he was fighting tears. His eyes were shiny, his smile wobbly, and Eddie could see the emotion swimming just beneath the surface.
“As you wish, buddy,” Buck said finally, voice soft, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, added, “No promises, though.”
Christopher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes as he slumped back into his seat.
But the moment the truck stopped in front of the school, all that bravado melted. He leaned forward again, pressing quick, messy kisses on both their cheeks before bolting out, his laughter trailing behind him as he joined his friends —tall, confident, but still their boy.
Eddie watched him go, a knot forming in his throat. He turned to Buck and found him already looking back.
Without a word, Eddie reached out and took Buck’s hand, their fingers intertwining easily —like they had always belonged that way.
“Shall we take the long way home?” Eddie asked, his voice quiet but full of something that made Buck’s heart ache.
Buck didn’t even answer. He just smiled —that soft, luminous smile that always seemed to undo Eddie— and drove a couple of blocks ahead before parking.
They got out together, hands still joined, and started walking. The same route they had taken all that time ago, when everything had begun. But the difference now was undeniable.
Because their hands didn’t just brush anymore —they held. Firmly, openly, without fear.
Because when they stopped for coffee, Buck leaned down and kissed him, quick and certain, and Eddie laughed against his mouth before rising on his toes to kiss him better.
And because now, the road before them wasn’t just the long road to somewhere.
It was the somewhere.
It was home.
They walked it like that —hand in hand, sunlight spilling across their faces, the city alive around them. And Eddie thought, not for the first time, that maybe the universe had always meant for them to end up here.
Holding Buck’s hand, he knew one thing for certain.
Whatever the road ahead looked like, they’d walk it together.
All the way to the end.