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Buck wakes before the alarm, not because he has to, but because he wants to.
For a moment he lies still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house. The heater kicks on with a low whir. Pipes tick softly in the walls. Somewhere beside him, Eddie shifts in his sleep, one arm flung across Buck’s waist like even unconscious he isn’t willing to risk distance.
Christmas Eve.
Buck carefully slips out from under Eddie’s arm, easing it onto the mattress. Eddie makes a small noise of protest but doesn’t wake. Buck pauses long enough to press a quick kiss into his hair before padding toward the kitchen.
He pulls on sweatpants and the oldest LAFD shirt he owns and ties an apron around his waist that says Grill Master in aggressive red letters. He does not own a grill. That’s not the point.
Last year, the dinosaur pancakes had been… interpretive.
This year, he is prepared.
He lines up the ingredients like he’s about to perform surgery. Flour. Eggs. Milk. Vanilla. A little extra sugar because it’s Christmas and because he can. He whisks with quiet determination, glancing at the squeeze bottle he bought specifically for this redemption arc.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “We respect dinosaur anatomy this time.”
He pours the batter carefully into the pan, outlining a very distinct triceratops. Head. Back plates. Tail that actually resembles a tail instead of a smudge. He watches it like it might betray him.
It holds.
Buck grins.
“Yes,” he whispers fiercely. “Evolution.”
He waits. Patient. He does not flip too early. He does not panic.
The spatula slides underneath cleanly.
He flips.
Perfect.
He actually laughs under his breath.
“Take that, past me.”
“Are you arguing with extinct animals?”
Buck startles so hard the spatula clatters against the stove.
Eddie stands in the doorway, barefoot, hair rumpled, wearing gray sweatpants and Buck’s old hoodie. He looks soft. Warm. Unfairly domestic.
“It’s a tactical discussion,” Buck says, recovering.
Buck rolls his eyes. “This year I have tools.”
Eddie studies the triceratops on the plate. He goes quiet.
“That’s actually… good,” he admits slowly.
Buck gasps. “Document this moment.”
“I’m serious.”
The T-Rex goes into the pan next. Buck’s tongue pokes out in concentration. Eddie watches him instead of the pancake, eyes soft in that way that always makes Buck feel a little exposed.
“You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” Eddie says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You’re making anatomically correct dinosaurs before sunrise.”
“That’s personal growth.”
Eddie’s mouth twitches.
The T-Rex flips perfectly.
Buck freezes, staring at it like he’s just performed magic.
Down the hall, there’s the unmistakable sound of Christopher’s door opening.
“Are those pancakes?!”
Buck beams. “Operation Jurassic Breakfast is a go.”
Christopher rolls into the kitchen in Christmas pajamas, hair sticking up, eyes bright. Buck sets the plate down in front of him with exaggerated ceremony.
Christopher’s mouth drops open. “They look real.”
“I studied,” Buck says solemnly.
Eddie reaches for the coffee maker. The smell fills the kitchen, warm and grounding.
Christopher cuts into the triceratops carefully. “This is the best one you’ve ever made.”
Buck leans back against the counter, arms folded, pride radiating. “I’ve evolved.”
Eddie steals the last leg off Buck’s plate when he thinks no one’s looking. Buck lets him.
The sunlight creeps through the window, pale gold washing over the kitchen. The plates stack in the sink. The coffee is poured. Powdered sugar dusts the counter in a way Buck will absolutely deny responsibility for later.
“Next order of business,” Buck announces, grabbing a dish towel.
Christopher perks up instantly. “Tree?”
“Tree,” Buck confirms.
“It’s barely nine,” Eddie says.
“And?” Buck and Christopher say in unison.
Eddie looks between them and sighs. “I see I’ve been outvoted.”
Christopher wipes his hands. “Thanks, Dad.”
It’s automatic. Casual. Already true.
Buck stills.
The towel in his hand freezes mid-motion.
Christopher keeps talking as he heads toward the living room. “We should put the star higher this year so it doesn’t lean—”
He disappears down the hall.
Silence lingers in the kitchen.
“He didn’t correct himself,” Buck says quietly.
Eddie doesn’t hesitate. “Why would he?”
Buck swallows.
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“You don’t have to assume,” Eddie says gently. “You’re here. You show up. You make dinosaur pancakes before sunrise.”
Buck lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s the qualification?”
“That,” Eddie says, stepping closer, “and everything else.”
There’s a thousand things in the everything else.
Buck nods once, overwhelmed in a way that feels steady instead of scary.
“Dad!” Christopher calls again.
Buck smiles.
“Coming, buddy.”
****
Decorating is chaos. The tree leans again. Buck insists it has personality. Eddie insists it’s a structural issue. Christopher directs them both like a tiny foreman.
They hang the beach ornament first — sunburned and laughing, arms around each other. Buck pretends not to tear up.
By the time Christopher is yawning, the tree glows warm and gold, the stockings hang straight, and the house smells like cinnamon and pine.
After Christopher goes to bed, the living room feels different. Quieter. Dimmer.
The tree lights are the only illumination. Buck sinks into the couch with a tired exhale. Eddie returns from the kitchen with two mugs and hands one over without asking.
They sit close enough that their knees touch.
For a while, they just watch the lights.
“I used to hate this part,” Buck says eventually.
“What part?”
“The after,” Buck says. “When everything’s done and it’s just… quiet.”
Eddie turns toward him fully.
“Growing up, Christmas always felt like something I was supposed to look at from the outside,” Buck continues slowly. “Like there was a right way to do it. The perfect tree. The perfect family. And I was always just… slightly off.”
He stares at the stockings. Three of them.
“I’d watch other people have it,” he says. “And think — okay. That’s Christmas. That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”
His voice softens.
“I never really felt inside it.”
Eddie sets his mug down and shifts closer until their shoulders press together.
“You are,” Eddie says quietly.
Buck lets out a small laugh. “Yeah?”
“You are,” Eddie repeats. “You didn’t watch today happen. You built it.”
Buck swallows.
“I didn’t think I’d ever…” He hesitates. “Stay.”
Eddie reaches for his hand.
“You’re not visiting,” he says. “You’re not temporary. You’re not an extra chair at the table.”
Buck’s eyes sting.
“You’re home.”
The word settles deep.
Buck exhales like something inside him finally unclenches.
Eddie leans in first, brushing a soft kiss against Buck’s mouth. Slow. Certain. Familiar in the way that makes Buck’s chest ache for all the right reasons.
“Next year,” Eddie murmurs, forehead resting against his, “you’re still going to be arguing with me about how straight the tree is.”
“It has personality,” Buck whispers.
“It’s leaning.”
Buck smiles.
Christopher laughs in his sleep down the hall.
The heater hums. The lights glow steady. Eddie’s hand stays threaded through his.
And for once, Christmas doesn’t feel like something Buck is trying to earn.
It feels like something he’s allowed to keep.