Work Text:
- “I didn’t think it was that serious”
The 118’s barbecue is loud in the way Buck usually loves, all smoke and music and familiar voices talking over one another. He feels good, relaxed, leaning into Tommy’s side while Eddie argues with Chimney about grill temperatures like it actually matters.
Tommy comes back from the food table with a grin and two plates. “Try this,” he says, nudging one into Buck’s hands. “Everyone says it’s amazing.”
Buck does not check. He never thinks he has to.
The first bite barely registers before everything goes wrong.
The sweetness is immediate. The sharpness follows. Buck’s stomach drops as recognition slams into him. Strawberry. His throat tightens so fast it feels like a fist closing.
“Tommy,” Buck says, voice already strained. “What is this?”
Tommy laughs a little. “Strawberry shortcake. Why?”
Buck drops the plate. It hits the grass with a dull thud. He swallows and coughs, breath coming shallow and wrong. “I’m allergic,” he says, panic breaking through. “I told you. I told you multiple times.”
Eddie is there instantly. “Buck,” he says, sharp now, all medic like. “Look at me. Are you breathing?”
Buck tries. He really does. His chest burns, each inhale thin and useless, lips already tingling. “I—can’t—” He breaks off, wheezing.
“Oh shit,” Tommy says. “You never told me it was that bad.”
Eddie’s head snaps up. “That’s the one thing he can’t have,” he says, anger cutting clean through his voice. “How could you forget?”
Buck’s knees buckle. Eddie catches him before he hits the ground, lowering him carefully, one hand braced at his back, the other gripping Buck’s wrist. His skin is flushing fast, hives blooming up his neck.
“Epi pen,” Eddie says, loud and clear. “Now.”
Bobby is already there, already pulling it free. “Buck,” he says calmly, “this is going to help.”
Buck nods weakly, eyes glassy, fear naked on his face. “I told him,” he whispers, like he needs someone to believe him.
“I know,” Eddie says fiercely. “I know. I’ve got you.”
The injection burns, sharp and shocking, and Buck gasps, sucking in air like he has been underwater too long. It is not instant relief, but it is something. Enough.
Tommy hovers uselessly nearby. “I didn’t think,” he says again, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”
Buck’s breath stutters as he looks at him. “That’s not enough,” he manages. “You have to listen.”
Eddie does not look at Tommy when he answers. “If you think that something that puts him in the hospital isn’t that serious,” he says coldly, “you shouldn’t be dating him.”
The sirens are already getting closer.
Buck curls instinctively toward Eddie, fingers fisting in his shirt. Eddie stays right there, solid and unmovable, eyes never leaving Buck’s face.
2.
Buck is halfway through tying his shoes when his phone rings.
He almost ignores it. Tommy is already pacing by the door, jacket on, keys in hand, glancing at his watch like they are late for something important. But then Buck sees the caller ID and his stomach tightens.
Christopher’s School.
“Hold on,” Buck says automatically, already answering. “Hi, this is Buck.”
Tommy sighs, loud enough that Buck hears it even as the school secretary starts talking. Buck turns away, one hand braced on the kitchen counter as he listens.
“Yes,” Buck says. “I’m his emergency contact.” A pause. “Yeah, I can be there in twenty.”
He hangs up and exhales, already reaching for his jacket again. “Chris fell on the playground,” he explains quickly. “They think he might’ve sprained his wrist. I’ve gotta go grab him.”
Tommy stares at him. “Are you serious right now?”
Buck blinks. “Yeah. Of course I am.”
Tommy’s jaw tightens. “Evan, we had plans. Reservations. You said tonight was ours.”
“I know,” Buck says, soft but firm. “But it’s Chris.”
“That’s not your kid,” Tommy snaps, agitation spilling over now. “Eddie’s his dad. Not you.”
The words hit harder than Buck expects. He stills, hand tightening around his keys. “He’s my family,” Buck says quietly.
Tommy steps closer, frustration sharp in his voice. “What about me? I should be more important than this. Than him.”
Buck looks at him then, really looks, and something settles heavy in his chest.
“I’m not choosing,” Buck says. “This isn’t a competition.”
Tommy scoffs. “Sure feels like one.”
Buck shakes his head, already moving toward the door. “Chris needs me.”
“You’re just going to walk out?” Tommy asks.
Buck pauses with his hand on the knob. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
He leaves before Tommy can say anything else, heart pounding as he drives across town, anger and hurt tangling tight in his chest.
Christopher is sitting in the nurse’s office when Buck arrives, eyes lighting up immediately. “Buck,” he says, relief clear in his voice.
Buck drops to his knees in front of him, checking his wrist, brushing hair back gently. “I’m here, buddy. I’ve always got you.”
3.
Buck’s shift runs long, the kind that leaves his shoulders aching and his head buzzing with leftover adrenaline. By the time he showers and changes, the station is quieter, lights dimmed, everyone drifting out in twos and threes.
He checks his phone.
No messages.
Buck waits anyway. Ten minutes turns into twenty. He texts once, then again, fingers hovering over the screen like he does not want to look needy. The reply never comes.
Eddie notices before Buck says anything. He always does. “Tommy supposed to pick you up?”
Buck forces a smile. “Yeah. He probably got busy.”
Another fifteen minutes pass. The bay doors echo when Eddie closes them, and the silence feels too big. Eddie grabs his keys without a word.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”
Buck hesitates. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Eddie says. “I want to.”
The drive to the loft is quiet, the city lights blurring past. Buck stares out the window, jaw tight, exhaustion settling into something heavier.
Tommy’s car is in the lot when they pull in.
The apartment door is unlocked. Inside, the TV glows bright, game sounds filling the room. Tommy is sprawled on the couch, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen.
Buck stops short. “Tommy?”
Tommy startles, glancing over. “Oh. Hey.”
Eddie’s patience snaps.
“You forgot him,” Eddie says, voice sharp.
Tommy frowns. “What?”
“You were supposed to pick him up,” Eddie continues, stepping fully into the room. “He waited at the station for almost an hour.”
Tommy shrugs, eyes flicking back to the TV. “I lost track of time. It’s not a big deal.”
Buck’s chest tightens. “I called you,” he says quietly. “I texted.”
“I didn’t see it,” Tommy says, irritation creeping in. “You’re home now, aren’t you?”
Eddie laughs once, harsh. “Unbelievable.”
Tommy finally looks at him, defensive. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does when you make him feel like he doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, anger clear now. “He spent all shift saving lives and you couldn’t pause a game.”
Buck sets his bag down slowly, hands shaking just a little. “You could’ve just told me you weren’t coming.”
Tommy scoffs. “You’re overreacting.”
Eddie steps closer. “No,” he says firmly. “You are underreacting. You don’t get to treat him like an afterthought.”
The room is too loud, too bright. Buck feels small suddenly, exhausted in a way sleep will not fix.
“I’m going to bed,” Buck says, voice flat.
He disappears down the hall.
Eddie stares at Tommy for a long moment. “If you keep doing this,” he says quietly, “you’re going to lose him.”
Tommy says nothing, controller still in his hands.
Eddie leaves without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
4.
The change is obvious enough that Buck notices it right away.
Tommy starts texting more. He asks how Buck’s shifts go, actually listens when Buck talks, brings home takeout without being asked. He stops forgetting things, at least the big ones, and when Buck comes home tired there’s an arm around his shoulders and a kiss pressed to his temple.
It feels like an apology without the words.
A few weeks later, Buck comes home to find Tommy in the kitchen, hands tucked behind his back, smiling in a way that feels rehearsed.
“Hey,” Tommy says. “I got you something.”
He produces a bouquet of bright yellow flowers, wrapped in crisp paper.
Buck blinks. “Oh.”
Tommy beams. “They’re your favorite color.”
Buck takes them automatically, fingers brushing the stems. The yellow is cheerful, loud. Not wrong. Just not right.
“They’re… really nice,” Buck says, because that is easier.
Tommy relaxes, clearly pleased with himself. “I figured I should do better, you know? Show you I care.”
Buck nods, carrying the flowers into the living room. He sets them on the table and stares at them longer than necessary.
“My favorite color is blue,” he says finally, quietly. “I’ve told you that.”
Tommy laughs a little, like Buck is joking. “You like yellow.”
“I like it,” Buck agrees. “It’s just not my favorite.”
The smile slips, just a bit. “Does it matter?”
Buck looks at him then. “It’s not about the color.”
Tommy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m trying, Evan. Isn’t that enough?”
Buck wants it to be. He really does. He wants effort to count for more than intention.
“They’re beautiful,” he says instead.
Tommy nods, satisfied, already moving on, already done with the moment.
Later, Buck trims the stems and puts the flowers in water. They brighten the room, all sunny and warm.
But every time he looks at them, he thinks about how he knows what color Eddie would like his flowers.
5.
Dinner with Maddie and Chimney is usually safe. Familiar. Predictable in a way Buck clings to without realizing it. Adding Margaret and Phillip changes the air entirely, tightening his shoulders the moment they sit down, polite smiles sharp at the edges.
The restaurant is warm and crowded, the kind of place where conversations overlap and no one notices if you go quiet.
Tommy sits beside Buck, leg pressed against his, playing the role of supportive boyfriend easily. He laughs at the right moments. Nods along when Phillip complains about the menu. Looks comfortable.
Maddie mentions Jee-Yun’s baby box over dessert, her voice soft and fond as she talks about tiny hospital bracelets and curled newborn socks she could never throw away.
Margaret brightens immediately. “I saved everything of yours too, Maddie. All the important firsts.”
Phillip hums in agreement. “Those memories matter.”
Buck knows what’s coming. He always does. His fork stills halfway to his mouth.
Margaret turns to him with a smile that feels practiced. “And yours, Evan? You must still have it somewhere.”
“I don’t,” Buck says. The words come out flat, rehearsed. “You didn’t make one.”
Margaret’s smile falters. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” Buck replies quietly. “There wasn’t a box. No pictures. Nothing.”
The table shifts uncomfortably. Chimney looks down. Maddie’s jaw tightens.
Tommy glances between them, confused. “What’s a baby box?”
Buck exhales slowly. “It’s a box parents keep. First shoes. Hospital stuff. Things you don’t want to forget.”
Tommy shrugs, trying to laugh it off. “Okay, but… Evan, is it that big of a deal?”
The question lands wrong immediately.
Maddie snaps, “Tommy,” warning sharp in her voice.
Buck stares at the tablecloth. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It kind of is.”
Phillip clears his throat, uncomfortable. “We did the best we could at the time.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Maddie says, voice steady but furious. “You chose not to.”
Margaret bristles. “That’s unfair.”
Buck finally looks up, meeting Tommy’s eyes. “It’s not about the box,” he says. “It’s about knowing there was nothing you wanted to keep. No proof I was worth remembering.”
Tommy exhales, clearly frustrated. “I just don’t think this should still matter this much.”
Something settles in Buck’s chest then, heavy and familiar.
“It does,” he says simply.
He pulls his hand away from Tommy’s knee under the table. Maddie reaches for it immediately, grounding and sure.
“You deserved one,” she says. “You deserved all of it.”
The conversation limps forward after that, fractured and careful, but the damage is already done.
Buck sits there between the people who shaped him and the person who is supposed to love him, realizing that Tommy keeps shrinking his pain until it fits comfortably out of the way.
And Buck is so tired of being made small.
+1
The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the heater. Buck sits on the couch, legs drawn up under him, staring at the floor. Tommy leans against the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. The tension is thick enough that Buck can almost hear it pressing down on him.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Tommy says finally, voice strained. “I just… I can’t keep feeling like I’m competing with your past. With everything that happened before me.”
Buck looks up, heart tightening. “Tommy… you’re not—”
“I am!” Tommy snaps, suddenly pacing a little. “I feel like no matter what I do, it’s never enough. You’re always… I don’t know, looking for something I can’t give you. I’m done trying to fit into this—into you.”
Buck’s chest aches. “Tommy, I’m not asking you to fit into me. I just… I need someone who sees me. Really sees me.”
Tommy’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “And you think I don’t?”
“You don’t,” Buck says softly. “You don’t see the things that matter. You don’t remember the little stuff. The things that make me… me.”
Tommy shakes his head, anger flashing across his face. “This is ridiculous. You’re making it bigger than it is. I’ve tried, Buck.”
Buck swallows hard, feeling that familiar twist in his stomach. “Trying isn’t enough when it comes to me. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t notice the parts of me nobody else even knows exist.”
There’s a long pause. Tommy’s hands shake a little, and Buck notices for the first time how small he looks in the doorway, frustrated and defensive but helpless all the same.
“I guess this is it,” Tommy mutters finally. “I guess we’re done.”
Buck nods, throat tight. “Yeah. I guess we are.”
The apartment feels impossibly empty when Tommy leaves. Buck sinks into the couch, the quiet pressing into him from all sides.
-
The winter air hits Buck like a wall the moment he steps out of the apartment, sharp and cold enough to make his knees ache. He hunches against it, trying not to think about how Tommy hasn’t called in days, hasn’t checked in, hasn’t… anything.
He shuffles through the snow toward the station, hoping movement will distract him from the dull ache spreading through his knee. But it doesn’t. Not really.
By the time he gets home, his knee is throbbing and stiff, and the apartment feels colder than usual. He collapses onto the couch, trying to ignore it, burying his hands in his coat. Christopher’s homework is spread across the table, untouched. Buck sighs, running a hand through his hair.
A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. “Buck?” Eddie’s voice. Calm, soft, familiar.
Buck hesitates, then gets up to answer. Eddie is standing there with Chris in tow, cheeks flushed from the cold. But it’s not just that—Eddie’s holding a small bag. Buck frowns, confused.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Eddie steps inside without waiting for an answer, setting the bag on the counter. “Hot compress,” he says casually, as if it’s no big deal. “Thought you might need it.” He glances at Buck’s knee. “Cold day, right? I know how yours reacts.”
Buck freezes. “You… you remembered?”
Eddie shrugs, settling onto the couch beside him. “Yeah. Your knee always stiffens up when it’s cold. You’ve been rubbing it since we moved in.” His tone is casual, but there’s no mistaking the care behind it. He pulls out the compress and presses it gently against Buck’s knee.
Buck sinks back into the couch, letting out a shaky breath. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“I notice,” Eddie says simply, adjusting it until it’s snug and warm. “Little things matter. To me.”
Chris tugs at Eddie’s sleeve. “Can we do homework now, Dad?”
Eddie smiles, glancing at Buck. “Yeah. In a minute.” He keeps his hand on Buck’s knee just a little longer, warmth and pressure steady.
Over the next few weeks, Eddie’s small gestures pile up in ways Buck barely realizes.
Buck sits on the couch, shoulders hunched, fingers drumming against his knee. His phone buzzes, and he flinches. His chest feels tight, stomach fluttering in that familiar, gnawing way.
Eddie walks in carrying Chris, who’s chattering about a school project. “Hey,” Eddie says softly, setting Chris down at the table. “What’s going on?”
Buck tries to smile, but he can feel it, his left eyebrow twitching, a little tick that always comes when the anxiety creeps in.
Eddie notices immediately. His eyes narrow, not in accusation, just in focus. “Buck,” he says gently, reaching for his hand. “Your eyebrow… it’s twitching.”
Buck swallows hard. “I—It’s nothing,” he mutters, looking down.
Eddie kneels in front of him, hand brushing Buck’s knee, steadying. “That only happens when you’re anxious. What’s wrong?”
Buck hesitates, trying to push the tight feeling away, but Eddie doesn’t let him. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” Eddie says softly. “I see it. I see when you’re freaking out even if you don’t say it.”
Buck’s fingers curl into the couch cushion. “I don’t… I don’t want to bother you,” he admits, voice shaky.
“You’re not bothering me,” Eddie says firmly. “I notice the little things, Buck. That eyebrow twitch? Your knee when it’s cold? I notice because I care. And I’m here.”
Buck lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Eddie’s hand squeezes his, warm and grounding. The tight flutter in his chest eases just slightly.
“Okay,” Buck whispers. “I… I just feel… off.”
“That’s fine,” Eddie says. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
–
The loft is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. Buck sits on the couch, legs pulled up, knees tucked under his chin, staring at the floor. Eddie is across from him, sorting through a pile of mail, casual and calm. But Buck’s eyes are on him, heart thumping faster than he can hide.
Finally, Buck blurts it out, voice small and raw. “You… you notice me.”
Eddie looks up, eyebrows raised. “Of course I notice you.”
“No,” Buck says, shaking his head, a laugh tinged with disbelief escaping him. “I mean… really. Everything. The way my eyebrow twitches when I’m nervous. The way my knee buckles in the cold. How I bite my lip when I’m thinking too hard… you notice it all. You remember it all.” His chest feels tight, and his voice cracks. “You… you see me.”
Eddie sets the mail down, moving closer. “I see you, Buck. All of you.”
Buck swallows hard, eyes glistening. “I’ve… I’ve never had anyone see me like that before. And it… it makes me feel like… like I’m not broken. Like I’m enough.” He exhales shakily. “And I… I think I—” He stops, unsure, heart racing. “I think I love you, Eddie. I love you. I’ve been trying not to, but I… I can’t anymore. Because you… you notice me. Every little part. And I… I just…”
Eddie doesn’t say a word at first. He just reaches out, brushing Buck’s hair back from his forehead, thumb resting lightly on his cheek. “You’re not trying too hard,” he says softly. “I’ve always known. I’ve always felt this. I love you too, Buck. Every single part. And I don’t want you to ever doubt it.”
Buck’s chest feels like it could burst. Relief, fear, joy, everything twisting together, and finally he lets himself lean into Eddie, forehead resting against his shoulder.
“You noticed me,” Buck whispers again, incredulous and awed.
“I notice everything about you,” Eddie says. “And I always will.”
Buck’s chest tightens again, but this time with something different. Hope. Something like longing. He leans in slightly, and Eddie doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, closing the small gap between them.
Buck’s lips hover over Eddie’s for a heartbeat, just brushing, just testing. Eddie’s hand moves up, fingers curling gently into the back of Buck’s neck, pulling him closer, patient and steady.
Then, slowly, deliberately, their lips meet.
It’s soft at first, a question more than a statement. Buck freezes for a second, tasting warmth and reassurance and something he’s been craving without realizing it. Eddie hums softly into the kiss, a little sound that makes Buck’s chest loosen, makes him feel like he can breathe again.
Buck leans in, pressing his forehead against Eddie’s as they pull back just slightly, breath mingling. His hands settle on Eddie’s arms, tentative but trusting.
“I… I’ve wanted that,” Buck admits, voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie smiles, brushing a thumb along Buck’s cheek. “Me too. For a long time.”
They kiss again, slower this time, easier, full of the promise that they’ve finally found each other—every little part noticed, every little part loved.
And for the first time in a long time, Buck doesn’t have to hold back. He can just be. And Eddie is there, seeing him completely, holding him like he always should have been.