Work Text:
It’s the little things that sneak up on Eddie Diaz. Not the alarms or the wreckage. Not the screaming chaos of disaster or the weight of command in his earpiece. He’s used to those. He’s built armor for the noise.
It’s the quiet that gets him.
Like tonight.
The kitchen smells faintly of garlic and dish soap, the lights dimmed to that warm, sleepy gold that makes everything feel closer. Dinner’s done, the shift’s behind them, and Chris is curled up on the couch—eyes heavy, blanket sliding down his shoulder. Buck’s right beside him. One hand supporting Chris’s head, the other lazily turning the volume down on the TV.
Eddie’s by the sink, pretending to dry a plate he’s been holding for two minutes too long.
“C’mon, superman,” Buck says softly, voice a low murmur that carries across the room like a song. “You’re gonna miss your dream adventures if you keep this up.”
Chris mumbles something about five more minutes, barely conscious.
Buck chuckles. It’s quiet, unguarded. That kind of laugh that lives in Eddie’s memory long after it’s gone. Buck’s leaning close to Chris now, brushing a curl from his forehead with the care of someone who doesn’t know how to love halfway. The glow of the TV catches on his face, and Eddie swears the light bends for him—softer, kinder, like it knows he’s the reason this house feels alive. Eddie swallows hard, his throat dry. His fingers curl around the edge of the counter just to ground himself.
Carla passes by then, and when she catches him staring; completely, hopelessly gone—she lets out a quiet laugh.
“He’s good with him,” She says, voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie doesn’t look away. He can’t. His heart is still thudding, too big, too loud. “Yeah,” he says finally, the word rough around the edges. “He is.”
But even that doesn’t cover it.
Because it’s not just that Buck’s good with Chris. It’s that he fits here—so perfectly it scares him. Like he’s always belonged to this space, to this light, to them. Eddie’s chest tightens, and for a second, he has to close his eyes. Just to steady himself. Just to breathe through the realization that he’s already too far gone.
And maybe—maybe that’s where it started.
Not in the middle of the chaos or the rescues or the heart-stopping moments on the job. But here. In the soft air of the house—their home, in the sound of Buck’s laugh, and the sight of his son falling asleep against him.
Because somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Eddie Diaz stopped guarding his life so fiercely and let Buck hold it in his hands.
Eddie still remembers the cold, metallic ring of his name. The world had narrowed down to that single voice shouting over static—desperate, determined.
Then there was the moment after—the sound of Buck’s breathless gasps when he realized realized Chris was safe. That he was safe.
And Buck… Buck had risked everything to make sure of it.
And in that moment, something in Eddie shifted. As he held his son, and when the lady said he was looking for Buck; he realized everything was beginning to change. Something unnameable, something that had nothing to do with duty or logic. It was pure, unfiltered, undeniable: Buck had become a part of his world, inseparable, essential.
Eddie remembers that night on the porch like it’s etched into him, even years later. The sky was bruised purple, the last light of day fading into the kind of dark that makes every shadow seem alive. Crickets buzzed lazily in the background, and somewhere down the street, a dog barked. The world felt impossibly quiet, stretched thin between one heartbeat and the next.
Buck was leaning back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, sweat drying into faint stains across his collarbones. His eyes were tired but soft, the kind of tired that comes after running yourself ragged not for glory, not for recognition, but for people you care about.
“You ever think about… what comes next?” Buck asked, voice low, almost swallowed by the night.
“What do you mean?” Eddie said, trying not to read too much into the way Buck’s hand flexed against the armrest, the way his lips pressed together like he was weighing something he wasn’t ready to say.
“I dunno,” Buck admitted, shrugging, that easy, casual shrug that somehow made everything feel heavier. “Life. After all this. After the fires, the rescues… after all the chaos.”
Eddie scoffed, letting a short laugh escape. “There’s no after. This is life. This—the danger, the noise—it’s what we signed up for.”
Buck tilted his head, looking at him, and the shadow of a crooked, half-sad smile appeared. “Guess we just hold on, huh?”
There was a pause, soft and stretching, filled only by the distant chirp of crickets and the sigh of the wind through the trees. Eddie caught the way the porch light hit the line of Buck’s jaw, the way it softened the set of his cheekbones, made his brown eyes glint in a way that was almost unfair.
Eddie felt a strange, electric pull in his chest, like his ribs were trying to remind him he was alive. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though they wanted to reach out, to touch that presence, to anchor themselves there.
And in that moment, Eddie realized something he hadn’t said out loud, and maybe never would: he didn’t mind holding on—not to the chaos, not to the danger, not to life itself if it meant holding on to Buck.
Buck had become his constant. His calm in the storm. His reason to breathe a little deeper, to let himself feel again.
And Eddie thought, for the first time, that maybe holding on wasn’t just surviving—it was wanting something, someone, so quietly, so fiercely, that it scared him more than any blaze or flood ever could.
It’s stupid, how much those moments still live in his chest. Because those are the times Eddie realized he didn’t feel lonely anymore.
Now, standing in the hallway, Eddie feels like he’s suspended in time. He watches Buck carry Chris, careful, deliberate, like the world has narrowed down to the two of them in this quiet bubble of safety and warmth.
Buck bends over the bed, tucking the blanket under Chris’s chin with a kind of reverence that shouldn’t surprise Eddie anymore but does. Every movement is meticulous, every gesture measured with a patience that’s both infuriatingly familiar and utterly disarming. He smooths back a curl that’s slipped onto Chris’s forehead and whispers something—the words muffled, intimate, carrying the weight of care and so soft that Chris smiles in his sleep.
Eddie swallows hard. It’s nothing, really. A routine, tender moment. And yet... somehow, it’s everything.
He feels rooted to the floor, chest tight, fingers curling against the edge of the doorway as if that simple action might somehow tether him to this revelation. Eddie can trace Buck’s hands with his mind—the same hands that have yanked him out of burning buildings, pressed gently against his wounds, handed him coffee when mornings were cruel, and flopped pancakes on plates with a ridiculous amount of syrup, carefully constructing worlds that Eddie’s heart lives in too.
And suddenly, Eddie’s heart is pounding so loud he can hear it. Thump, thump, thump—like it’s trying to knock against his ribs, desperate to be acknowledged. He presses a palm to his chest without thinking, trying to ease the ache blooming there.
Because God—he looks at Buck, with that soft grin and those gentle hands, and it hits him like a wave.
He feels everything.
The warmth. The safety. The quiet kind of joy that sneaks in when the world finally slows down enough to breathe.
Take my hand.
The thought hits him slowly, quietly, like a tide creeping in, filling the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty. Somewhere along the way, he had. He had taken it. And somehow, without fanfare, Buck had taken his in return.
He can see it now—the pattern of Buck’s presence in their lives. Buck didn’t ask. He didn’t announce himself. He just showed up, time and time again, in ways Eddie hadn’t noticed until now. And now… the thought is nearly unbearable: he cannot imagine a life without Buck in it.
Chris is Eddie’s life—the beating center of it, the reason he breathes, the gravity that keeps him grounded. But Buck… Buck is the air in his lungs, the warmth under his skin, the softness in a world that’s often too sharp, too loud, too unforgiving. Buck makes life feel… possible. He makes life feel like something Eddie could actually want again, like he could let himself want it without fear.
Eddie exhales slowly, chest rising and falling, heart still thumping, eyes soft and bright in the dim hallway light. And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to feel the depth of it. The quiet, unspoken truth that has been threading its way through his life, stitched into late nights, small laughs, shared coffees, and scraped knees: Buck isn’t just part of their family. Buck is part of him. His life. His heart.
And maybe, if he’s honest, he’s been part of Buck’s for just as long.
When Buck steps back into the living room, Eddie is still standing there, fingers curled lightly on the edge of the frame; watching. Every step Buck takes toward him, every shift of his weight, feels deliberate, though he knows it isn’t.
“Hey,” Buck says softly, voice low enough that it almost disappears into the hum of the house. “He’s out.”
Eddie swallows hard. His chest feels tight, like someone has pressed their hand over his heart, and the words catch in his throat. “Yeah,” he manages, voice husky. “…Thanks for… for everything.”
Buck tilts his head slightly, that small, crooked smile tugging at his lips—the one that always makes Eddie forget how to breathe properly. “You don’t have to thank me for being here, man.”
But Eddie shakes his head slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he whispers, the word barely more than air. “I do.”
For a moment, Buck blinks at him, uncertain, as if he’s trying to figure out the sudden weight behind those three small words. Then he just pats Eddie’s arm, a light, grounding touch, and slips past him down the hallway.
The room feels empty the second Buck leaves it, the glow from the hallway fading, leaving Eddie standing in a quiet, golden halo of lamplight. The ache in his chest grows heavier, unnamed, pressing against his ribs. His fingers tighten around the doorway, as if he could clutch this feeling and make it stop threatening to spill over.
The quiet is broken by the soft shuffle of feet. Carla appears beside him, following his gaze down the door where Buck had gone. Her presence is warm, teasing, understanding. She glances at him, eyes sharp but gentle, and her lips curve into that knowing smile.
“Took you long enough,” she says softly.
Eddie startles, snapping his head toward her. “What?” His voice is sharper than intended, caught somewhere between surprise and… realization.
She just smiles, the kind that makes him feel like she sees everything he’s too stubborn to admit to himself. “You know what I mean," she says, voice soft but firm, the statement hanging in the air like a promise.
Eddie’s gaze drifts back toward the door where Buck disappeared. And in that soft golden light, Eddie finally allows himself to acknowledge it—the truth he’s been skirting around for months. That the little things, the quiet moments, the soft smiles, the steady hands, the breathless laughter after chaos… they’ve all been pointing him to the same conclusion.
Eddie exhales slowly, letting the weight of it settle in, letting himself feel the pull of what he’s been resisting for too long. And for the first time, maybe ever, he allows himself the simple, quiet acknowledgment that he doesn’t want to let go.
Take my whole life too.