Chapter Text
Everyone loved Buck.
Eddie learned that like you learn the taste of blood in your mouth—slow at first, then all at once.
At the 118, Buck was sunlight. Loud laughter, easy smiles, hands always reaching out to steady someone else. He brought extra protein bars for Chim, remembered Hen’s mom’s birthday, let Bobby fuss over him. He listened when Eddie talked about Afghanistan, about Shannon, about the things that still woke him up shaking.
Buck loved Christopher openly. Played video games with him, helped with school projects, sat through endless YouTube compilations without complaint. He kissed Eddie in the kitchen while dinner burned and apologised like it was nothing. Like love was simple.
Eddie told himself he was lucky. And he was. Buck was perfect. The best friend, the golden retriever, the "kid" the team were insanely protective of.
Everyone loved Buck.
Eddie loved Buck.
For the first six months of their relationship, Eddie loved everything about him. He loved the safety he felt with Buck, the way Buck seemed to just know him. Knew his insecurities, his past, his imperfections—and loved him anyway. Eddie had never believed he could be loved in the way people dreamed about, the kind of love that felt steady and sure.
But he was.
At least for those first six months.
The first cracks were small.
Buck corrected him in front of others. Just a joke. Just teasing.
“I mean, Eddie wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, was he?” Buck said once, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. “Love him, but man—sometimes it’s like watching the wheels spin.”
Everyone chuckled. Eddie smiled, even though his chest tightened.
Another time, Maddie asked Eddie if he could help her set up a new security system. Buck laughed before Eddie could answer. “Oh, you don’t want Eddie in charge of that. He’ll read the instructions upside down and somehow still mess it up.” Buck grinned at Eddie like he was in on it. “No offense, babe.”
It was just joking. Buck always said it like that—warm, affectionate, harmless. Eddie told himself he was being dramatic.
Then there was the hose.
Eddie lost his grip for half a second, water spraying wide before he corrected it. Buck shook his head, smiling. “Jesus, Eddie. How did you make it through training?” He laughed. “Good thing you’ve got muscles—thinking clearly was never really your thing.”
A couple of the guys laughed. Eddie did too, even as something sour settled in his stomach.
The worst one happened at the station, over dinner.
Eddie was telling a story about a call, explaining a decision he’d made under pressure, when Buck cut in.
“Yeah, Eddie kinda froze,” Buck said lightly. “I had to spell it out for him.” He shrugged. “Stress hits him hard. Not everyone’s built for thinking on their feet.”
The table went quiet.
Chimney stared at his plate. Hen’s expression tightened. Bobby cleared his throat and steered the conversation somewhere safer.
Eddie laughed anyway. Too quick. Too loud. His face burned as Buck bumped his shoulder, smiling like he’d done nothing wrong.
He remembered the night he finally brought it up. He’d rehearsed the words, kept his voice calm. He didn’t accuse—he just asked. Asked if Buck really thought he was stupid. If Buck really believed he couldn’t handle things on his own.
Buck sighed like Eddie had exhausted him.
“You’re so sensitive.”
“I was just joking.”
“You always make things bigger than they are.”
So Eddie learned not to bring it up again.
----
The first time Buck raised his voice at Eddie was after a forty-eight-hour shift.
They were both starving, stressed, and bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in the muscles and made everything feel sharp. The last call had ended with casualties—something they never got used to, no matter how long they wore the uniform.
When they finally got back to Eddie’s place, the apartment was quiet. Chris had been staying at Tía Pepa’s for the last two days. Buck groaned, already peeling off his jacket, muttering something about a shower and food.
It was Eddie’s turn to cook. He kept it simple—chicken and rice. One of the three dishes Chris liked to tease him about actually being able to make.
The pan was heating when the memory hit.
The father’s face. Devastated. Hollow. The way his voice broke when they told him his kid hadn’t made it out of the fire alive. Ten years old. Only two years older than Chris.
The thought slammed into Eddie’s chest—how you could wake up one morning and by nightfall your whole world could be gone. How cruel that was. How unfair.
He didn’t realize he was crying. Didn’t realize he’d dissociated.
The fire alarm dragged him back, shrill and sudden. Eddie jumped, waving a dishcloth frantically until it stopped, then stared down at the pan.
The chicken was burned black.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. He was so tired. He just wanted the day to be over.
Buck came out of the bedroom, drawn by the noise, and took in the scene—the alarm, the smoke, the ruined dinner.
“Sorry,” Eddie said quietly, already dumping the chicken into the trash. “I just… zoned out.” He nodded toward the bread on the counter. “I can make toasties. If you wanna grab that?”
They just needed fuel and sleep.
Buck huffed.
“For God’s sake, Eddie,” he snapped. “Why can’t you just cook a goddamn meal?” He scoffed. “Jesus—why are you actually so useless?”
Eddie flinched.
He drew in a slow breath, telling himself it was the shift talking, the exhaustion, the grief. He kept moving, kept his back turned, pretending the words hadn’t landed.
“Oh, great,” Buck continued, voice rising. “Now you won’t even listen to me. Just like on that call—when you didn’t listen, and those kids died.”
That time Eddie’s flinch was unmistakable.
“Buck, I did every—”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
Buck’s voice rose, sharp and sudden, filling the kitchen.
“I’m so done with this,” he shouted. “With you being useless at work and then coming home and I can’t even eat because you can’t do anything right. God, Eddie—why the hell am I even with you? You provide nothing.”
Eddie froze.
His head was still full of smoke and sirens and grief, his emotions raw and unguarded. He knew he’d followed Bobby’s orders. He knew they’d done everything they could. There was no way in—no rational way to save them.
But hearing Buck say it—he felt doubt bloom anyway.
“I… I—”
Buck stopped short.
It was like something clicked all at once.
“God, Eddie, I didn’t mean that,” Buck said quickly, the anger draining from his face. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired and—shit, Eddie, I’m so, so sorry.”
He pulled Eddie into a tight hug, arms wrapped around him like a shield. Eddie broke then, crying into Buck’s chest, shaking with everything he’d been holding back. Buck murmured apologies, sweet nothings, pressed kisses into his hair until Eddie fell asleep in his arms.
The next morning, they acted like none of it had happened.
They picked up Chris. Went out for breakfast. Laughed. Things were good again.
Until the next time Eddie burned dinner trying a new recipe.
Until the time he forgot to wash Buck’s favorite shirt because laundry hadn’t been the top priority in a brutal week.
Eddie hadn’t realized Buck was a shouter—until it became the only volume Buck used when Chris wasn’t around. Eddie hated shouting.
There were always apologies after. Buck would press his forehead to Eddie’s, hands gentle, voice low.
“I hate when I yell at you,” he’d say. “I don’t know why I do that.”
Eddie believed him.
Because Buck never did it in front of anyone else.
Because Buck was good with Chris.
Because Buck saved lives.
--
The first time Buck hit him was on a Thursday.
They’d been arguing about Eddie’s new friend—Tommy. Buck was furious that Eddie had gone to a basketball game with him instead of staying in to watch a documentary like Buck had planned. Eddie had invited him. Buck had said no. Eddie said he’d been looking forward to this, that they’d talk when he got back—but he was already running late.
The game had been fun. It felt good to laugh, to talk about something that wasn’t work. Eddie loved the 118—he really did—but he’d never been popular, never good at making friends. Sometimes he wondered if they liked him because they were kind people, because it was easier to be kind than honest.
Tommy had chosen him. Shared his interests. Wanted to be there.
It felt nice.
Eddie came home late, still riding the warmth of it, already thinking about telling Buck how Tommy had managed to score tickets to a sold-out cooking exhibit. Buck would love that.
The apartment was dark. Chris was asleep. Eddie moved quietly, frowning when Buck wasn’t in the living room. He headed for the bedroom—
—and stopped.
Buck was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him.
The argument exploded fast. Buck had been scrolling through Tommy’s social media for hours, accusations spilling out—lying, cheating, betrayal. Eddie barely had time to respond before Buck surged forward and punched him.
Hard.
Eddie had taken hits before. He knew pain. But this—this was Buck.
His eye throbbed instantly, vision swimming.
“Get out,” Eddie said, voice shaking. “You can’t hit me. You can’t talk to me like that. I need space. Leave.”
Buck stared at him.
“Eddie, you’re overreact—”
“I said get out,” Eddie whispered, terrified of waking Chris.
Buck’s expression changed. Something cold settled behind his eyes.
“No,” he said calmly, stepping closer. “I don’t think I will.”
Eddie flinched and hated himself for it. Panic clawed up his chest. He just needed Buck gone.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Buck said softly. “You know why? Because I’m all you have.”
Eddie tried to shake his head, but Buck slammed him back against the wall, a hand closing around his throat.
Eddie wanted to fight. To push back. But he’d made a promise long ago—to never raise a hand against someone he loved. Never Chris. Never his family. Never the 118.
Never Buck.
“You know people only put up with you because of me, right?” Buck said quietly.
Eddie struggled to breathe, eyes burning.
“Chim’s my brother-in-law. Hen sees me like family. Bobby—Bobby looks at me like a son. You were just brought in to be my partner.” Buck loosened his grip just enough for Eddie to gasp. “They tolerate you because of me.”
“N-no,” Eddie rasped. “That’s not—”
“Moody Eddie Diaz,” Buck continued. “Angry. Damaged. Difficult. The one with the temper and the trauma. The one no one actually wants.”
His grip tightened.
“You’re mine,” Buck whispered.
Eddie blacked out.
After that, Buck stopped pretending.
To everyone else, he was still Buck—the smile, the jokes, the hero. But alone, or with Chris shut safely in his room, Buck became relentless. Every mistake was remembered. Every perceived slight punished. Eddie learned to move carefully, speak softly, anticipate moods.
Night times that used to be films and cuddles, were now the hit of the belt to his back followed by handcuffs and rough unwanted sex. Eddie found himself with a gag in his mouth, handcuffed to his bed, tears streaming down his face more nights than not.
There were apologies sometimes. Gentle touches. Promises whispered close.
“I don’t know why I do this,” Buck would say. “You make me crazy.”
Eddie believed him. He had to.
When Bobby named Eddie interim captain for a single shift, Buck smiled proudly in front of the team.
That night, he reminded Eddie it didn’t matter.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Buck said quietly as he whipped the belt on eddies bare back. Eddie flinched, on his knees hands behind his head, in the submissive position Buck wanted him in tonight. “You don’t outrank me.” He said as he continued to whip him. Eddie bit down on the gag, tears falling down his cheek. He thought he did good, everyone said he did well as acting captain. He thought today was a good day.
After the whipping session, Buck said he needed to take it a step further. Really remind Eddie of his place.
Eddie wore long sleeves the next day, even in the heat of a Los Angeles summer.
No one asked. No one thought to.
Because even though Eddie was quieter:
Buck laughed.
Buck smiled.
Buck was still Buck.