Work Text:
overture: an opening, prelude, or a beginning
Sinclar smells like a dirty clorox wipe at one fifty-four in the afternoon. All gas stations are sort of the same: simple beige tiles, forgotten mop buckets, and a trucker waiting for fresh coffee to brew. There are the usual snacks, with colorful lettering and labels that promise low sodium. It hurts to breathe.
Eddie finds him in the candy aisle. He stays at the end with his head tilted and a dark curl falling over his forehead.
“It's three for five,” Buck says. He tugs on one of his bandages, the wrappings already beginning to peel. “Do you want cherry or orange slices?”
“Orange,” Eddie says. “Who the hell likes the cherry ones?”
“I like them,” he says. The bag is neon red. He focuses on keeping his breathing shallow. “They taste like cough medicine.”
“So get both,” he says. Eddie checks the time on his watch. Their gas tank is filling. “I’ll be outside.”
Only one other customer is in the store. He is older, with a bright green baseball cap and a faded varsity jacket slung over his left arm. The worker, with her messy french braids, must know him, the two conversing with an easy familiarity. Buck watches them for a few seconds. Maybe they’d hear about the kidnapping later today, and recall the cuts and bruises on his face. Maybe they knew Bonnie and Earl.
Probably, he decides. Everyone in this town seems to know everyone.
Buck dumps his spoils on the counter and rearranges the bags so the barcode could be scanned. The worker avoids eye contact as she swipes Eddie’s card.
Outside, the sun bears down. The yellow car smells like pine. A little green tree spins aimlessly below the mirror. Eddie’s right hand wraps over the gearshift, and the other wraps around the black leather of the steering wheel. Buck zooms in on his map and opens one of the candy bags instead of looking at the flex of his knuckles.
“Good to drive with your ribs?” Buck asks, through a mouthful of the cherry slices. He risks a glance over, in time to see Eddie grinning back at him. His heart flutters. His chest tightens.
“I rode a horse with these ribs,” Eddie says.
“Is that a metaphor?”
Eddie clicks his seat belt and smirks. “Athena practically deputized me. She told me to climb out the window and find you myself.”
“She’s never told me to climb out of a window,” Buck mutters, and slumps further into the car seat. He regrets the move immediately and winces.
“This,” Eddie starts, waving his hand to encompass all of the shit that had happened over the last twenty four hours, “or driving through El Paso to get lunch with my parents?”
“This.” Buck snorts. Eddie had decided in Little Rock that they’d go north, taking the route through Oklahoma instead of driving south towards his hometown. “You know I don’t like you in El Paso.”
Eddie digs his thumb into a seam on the wheel. Buck remembers a simple fraying thread, the one he’s avoided pulling in the chaos of the last week. Chimney had not submitted them. Bobby had let Eddie leave. Bobby had known that Eddie would come home.
“Ten hours?” he asks, both a question and a statement. He likes Eddie’s eyes. His eyes are expressive, and kind, and right now they’re almost teasing as he puts the car in drive. Eddie’s battered and bruised, but he's also alive and drumming his fingers to the baseline of a rock song Buck doesn't recognize. Eddie won’t stop looking at him. He does not know how to tell Eddie that he isn’t going anywhere.
“Not too late to find a flight,” Buck says.
A faint smile creeps onto Eddie’s face. “Driving is easier. I know you hate planes.”
“Oh,” Buck says. His heart stutters in his chest, at the earnestness in the offer. “I can handle it. You know I can.”
Eddie’s fingers tighten around the wheel. “I didn’t want you to have to handle it,” he says.
Buck nods. He looks for something to do. “Uh, do you want a cherry slice?”
He holds his hand out over the dashboard, fingers splayed invitingly. Buck drops three pieces into his palm.
A few minutes into their first break, after Buck has taken an additional dose of his painkillers and used the bathroom, his phone rings.
“Hi,” Maddie says, once the call connects. Her face fills the screen, dark eyes flickering around as she takes in the state of his visible injuries. “I wanted to hear your voice again. I saw that you two stopped. Is it time for your walk?”
Buck rolls his eyes. “You are hovering.” He toes a patch of gravel with his shoe. Standing is good, stretching his legs is good, and it’s easier to breathe outside of the stuffiness of that car. Buck closes his eyes.
“Sorry,” Maddie says, not at all sounding like it. He gets her anxiety. He remembers hearing Maddie screaming his name in Big Bear, hearing the proof of life and proof of love. He’s hit with an overwhelming bout of homesickness, in this moment, seeing the familiarity of Maddie’s house behind her. He wants to be next to her on her couch, splitting a wine bottle or sitting with his niece and nephew. He wants a hug from his sister.
Buck wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I love you,” Buck says. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Eddie had you,” she says. Her voice is warm. She likes to say things like they are simple. It's why she is so good in a crisis.
“Yeah,” Buck says. He spots Eddie easily, his back to Buck, as he paid at the gas pump. “He did.”
They are both quieter than they were in the beginning. The miles start to bleed together, and he’s not sure if silence is comfortable.
Buck wants to go back to the first few hours, when he had pulled up a list of road trip activities after Eddie vetoed Eye Spy. He wants to laugh without feeling like he’s back in the crash, hearing the collapse of their rental car and the ragged sound of Eddie’s breathing slowing. Buck puts his hand over his eyes.
One shallow breath, and then another. He measures how deeply he can breathe before the tissue begins to ache. The pain is like a pulse. It pushes into his skull, into his ribs, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to have the hollow bones of a bird.
The radio changes rapidly between stations.
Buck cracks one eye open and watches Eddie flip between what must be dozens of stations. Each song gets to play for a few seconds, before Eddie decides to try again. Heavy drums race the pulse in his temple, and then a large swelling orchestral arrangement rattles the speakers.
“AC/DC,” Eddie says. He changes the station. “The Killers.”
“I thought musical chairs would require chairs?” Buck asks.
Eddie raises his eyebrows and goes back. A somewhat familiar guitar line plays.
“This one’s Kansas, again,” he says, before flipping the station again. “Springsteen.”
“Okay, I know that’s wrong.” Buck pulls up an app to identify the singer. Eddie may be better at identifying artists, but Buck knew Bruce Springsteen’s catalog like the back of his hand. So had Bobby. “This doesn’t even sound like him.”
The song is titled Springsteen. Eddie laughs at him.
“You’ve been saying artists!” Buck exclaims. “You can’t just switch to song titles. What, are you going to start saying the years too?”
Eddie flips the station again. “Bryan Adams, Heaven, off the 1984 album.”
“You’re making this shit up,” Buck says.
“Check me.”
“No, I’ll believe you. Do we have an aux?”
“Our aux cord is in a ditch in New Mexico, bud,” Eddie says, and keeps the radio on Heaven.
A red truck flies by them. The driver was little more than a blur, only a vague outline of a man with his arm on the windowsill. More cars pass, a line of three, all nondescript shades of gray and blue.
“Did you know that red cars aren't more expensive to get insurance for than other colors?” Buck says. “That's a myth. I don't even think red cars get more speeding tickets. But a red truck just drove by and the guy was speeding, like, a million miles over. He's a - a fallacy - to that argument.”
“Okay? We’re in a yellow,” Eddie pauses, “I’m not comfortable calling this thing a car.” Wind spits dirt into the windshield. Restlessness creeps up his shin, creeps into his aching knee and ribs.
The car rattles ominously, and Buck grips the handle above him. “Apologize to the car, Eddie.”
“No,” Eddie says. He messes with the radio until a song with a steady drum line plays. The car stops rattling after a few seconds. Buck keeps gripping the handle.
After everything, it’s his knee bothering him now, too long spent stuck in one position. Thirty minutes on the road and he’s already itching to be let out.
Nine and a half hours to go. Six scheduled breaks. Three states. His phone buzzes with a text.
Their last notable stop before getting lost in New Mexico had been at the Buc-ee’s in Amarillo. Buck’s hand spasms as he looks at the selfie of the two of them with the person sized beaver statue. The picture had gone to Christopher.
Both of them are grinning widely, unaware that they’d be separated before the sun set. Two days and one gunshot later, Christopher has finally responded.
Did it do a buck flip? Christopher sent.
Buck breaks out into a wet laugh and shows Eddie.
He’s pulled out of a dream by a warm hand on his shoulder and Eddie’s voice, gentle and kind even though Buck’s not registering a single word.
“Why are we stopped?” Buck asks, looking out at a motel lit in greens and purple. The desert air is hazy in the evening, the lights swarming with June bugs. Each cut on his face stings when he talks. Fresh beads of blood drip onto his jeans and the scratched leather of the car. Buck’s not sure what’s going to happen to it once they get home.
“For the night,” Eddie says. “We’re not in a rush, and we both need to sleep. We can burn out tomorrow, okay?”
Buck takes his measured breaths. He knows exactly how much air he can pull into his lungs without any pain. Eddie’s hand is still on his shoulder.
“Okay,” Buck agrees.
The old woman running the motel does not like them. She glances between them with skeptical eyes, and Buck puts an extra foot of space between them. “Car crash,” Eddie offers easily, slinging his elbow onto the counter like his ribs were fine and he hadn't recently been in a car crash. “My partner and I need a room for the night.”
She softens. “I have a first-aid kit somewhere around here. We’ve got a few rooms ready, don’t we, Carlton?” she hollers, and Buck turns around. The entry way doubles as a lobby. An equally old man sits in a leather chair with a book on his lap. He nods without looking up.
She types into an ancient computer. The computer is tan, large, and clunky. Each keystroke clatters loudly. Eddie stays to pay, so Buck goes to grabs the bags from their car.
By the time he gets to the room, Eddie’s propped open the first aid kit on a table. The sheets to the singular bed are white, thin like paper, and Buck’s already cold.
“She only gave us one bed?” Buck asks.
“It’s king sized,” Eddie says. He reaches out, hand settling against Buck's back. “Sit, Buckley.”
The AC is on, a rattling noise that doesn’t seem to bother Eddie.
“Sit,” Eddie repeats. At Buck’s clear confusion, he sighs. “Please?”
Eddie stands between his legs and tilts his jaw upwards. Buck’s eyes slide close as the washcloth slides gently down his face. It is warm, and smells like the sterility of the hotel. He traces down the slope of his nose and the cuts from the crash. Eddie swipes the cloth over his ear.
“I don’t think I’ve got blood in my ear,” he teases.
“You do.” Eddie holds his jaw with one hand. His pulse hammers, and Buck can feel the place where his heartbeat is pushing against Eddie’s finger. He wonders if Eddie can feel it like he can. Buck looks. His chest feels a little like a pomegranate, cracked open, dark seeds making a mess of clean floors.
Eddie’s knuckles are still scraped, Buck’s not sure which injuries came from the crash and which came from his search. The time between the gunshot and Eddie’s hands on his neck is a blur. He’s only half sure that that was when he dislocated his shoulder. Eddie’s voice had carried through the walls, his frantic shouting, his desperation for an answer.
Buck’s first ever impression of Eddie was confident. (Actually, the word in his head was beautiful, with static noise filling his ears.) More words would come with the years: capable, kind, a good father and a good friend.
Right now, Eddie is nervous. He walks away to toss the washcloth onto the bathroom floor.
They’re out of step and it’s Buck’s fault. Maybe Eddie is finally noticing the way that both of them have to elaborate now, have to explain, have to speak out loud for anyone to hear.
He does not like the idea that Eddie is bracing himself from Buck.
“I can ask for a cot or a second room,” Buck says. He looks away. “People keep making assumptions. I’m sorry.”
Eddie leans against a table and crosses his arms. His head tilts. His gaze narrows. “That woman in Nashville didn’t think we were together.”
“Eddie,” Buck starts, and grabs a fistful of the sheets. He lowers his voice. “I think she was a sister-wife.”
Eddie glances around, conspiratorially. “Was she recruiting you?”
“Dunno,” Buck says. He picks at a thread. “Also, she definitely thought we were together.”
“Oh.”
“I told her you weren’t interested in me!” Buck says. “Uh, and that we were just friends. Normal friends.”
“Normal?” Eddie repeats.
"Yes?” Buck asks. “We’re normal, aren’t we?”
“You’re my best friend.”
“Right." Buck nods.
There are a lot of ways to fall apart, and Buck is not the first person to fall in love, and he is not the first person to want more than he is given.
His parents decided to get divorced on a road trip with nothing around except for the open road. He wonders what the conversation looked like, if it was at a gas station with thousands of miles still in front of them, if it was in a hotel room identical to the ones behind them. He wonders if the last thing his parents shared as partners was the uncomfortable realization that the space between them had become unmanageable.
Eddie’s phone buzzes. He leaves the room to take the call.
Buck gives it a few minutes before he decides to follow.
Fireflies scatter in the air and the light bulb from the streetlamp flickers. Eddie's back is to him, broad, the leather jacket still stretching over his shoulders. Maybe hope is a rabid animal sitting on his chest. Maybe hope is why he is struggling to breathe.
“No, the distance is good,” Eddie says, voice soft, like he's talking to Christopher. Buck frowns. “It's healthy. You can figure out who you are, and you have my number if you ever find yourself in LA again.”
He turns, unsurprised that Buck has been eavesdropping. Eddie hums at whatever she's saying on the phone.
“I know. Goodnight, Abigail.”
Now that he's outside, he can hear the cicadas buzzing.
“She's working on a crew that maintains hiking trails,” Eddie says. “They are gonna give her a bunk and feed her.”
"Cool."
“It's her first time seeing the ocean,” Eddie continues. He holds out his phone and there's a picture of the open sea. Abigail is in the corner of the frame, eyes crinkled from her smile. She's cut a foot off her hair since the last time he's seen her.
“Living in Los Angeles?" he asks. They both grimace.
“First time for everything.” He looks down at the picture.
“I probably have advice she'd want,” Buck says. He coughs. “If she's gonna be on the move, I mean. I did it for years when I was her age.”
“The point was to go,” Buck continues, remembering a different dark night and his shaking fingers curling around his sister's keys. If he were to write a guide to starting over it would begin with losing. Abigail understands that. “She already knows how to sleep in a car. That - uh - I remember doing that for the first time. It sucked.”
Eddie opens and closes his mouth. He settles his hand on Buck’s shoulder, thumb tracing the divot in his neck. “We'll give her all of your advice on being a wanderer.”
It was another life, one defined by his impermanence, by having no roots. He likes having roots.
The night starts to fade, and it's easy to forget that Eddie doesn't want him when his hand is on his shoulder and he's looking at him like this, his expression unbearably fond.
“Let’s find dinner,” Eddie says. He squeezes his shoulder. “Okay?”
The bar they find is lively. Regulars stream in and out, playful conversations between friends and neighbors. Eddie surveys the room with squared shoulders.
“Can I help you?” a waitress asks, waving to grab their attention. Her auburn hair is twisted into braids. “Or are you here for pick-up?”
“Table for two?” Buck asks, and then they follow her to a corner booth.
“We’ve got a special for two for one burgers,” she says, pointing a blue painted fingernail at the menu. “I’ll be back in a few once you guys have had a minute to look.”
Eddie props the menu up and stares intently at the laminated sheet. His hand taps impatiently on the wood. Buck props his chin in his hand and glances outside.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” Eddie says.
“You don’t want to take any of the meds tonight?” Buck asks. “They gave us the strong stuff.”
“I’m driving.”
“In, like, fifteen hours. You’d sleep better.” He knew why Eddie avoided the loopiness pills could bring, but they had time. They could sleep in and still be in Los Angeles for dinner tomorrow. Eddie shakes his head and heads to the bar.
He flags down a bartender and points to one of the beers on tap. A woman takes the spot next to him, and curls her hand over his arm. It’s easier to look away.
Ravi texted him, asking if he had any advice to get on Athena’s good side? 🙏 Buck hits the power button. There’s a small pile of napkins and he picks the top one to shred. Buck rips it into halves, and then quarters. From then, it is only a mess.
Eddie’s glass has way too much foam. It’s a bad pour. Despite that, he’s in a good mood, and taps his foot to Buck’s.
“Did you give her your number?” Buck asks, and he hopes he sounds less sullen than he feels. Maybe it’d be easier if the love of Eddie’s life had a face instead of being a hypothetical.
“What? No, I did not give her my number,” Eddie says, as the waiter comes by to drop off a basket of fries. “Grab the ketchup off that table behind you, please?”
“Maddie says it’s good to put yourself out there,” Buck says. “You know, you could have anyone you wanted.”
Eddie’s laugh is more of a bark, short and surprised. “Maddie told me, specifically, that I didn’t have to put myself out there, and that I didn't have to shake ass for orphans.”
Buck scowls. “As long as you paid her twenty five hundred dollars?” His sister befriending Eddie after buying him at the auction had come as a surprise to everyone. Chimney was less concerned than Buck would have liked about the situation.
“Exactly,” Eddie says. “Guaranteed that I didn’t have to go on a date.”
“The dates aren't bad, though,” Buck says, and starts to shred a new napkin. “It's not even like you have to do anything. I mean, I may have slept with some of them-”
“You did?” Eddie’s head whips around. His voice comes out higher than usual.
“She wasn't that much older,” Buck says, and scrunches his nose. It's almost been a decade, at this point, and he had been flattered that anyone would spend money to have dinner with him. Their waitress comes by with their burgers. Buck checks for a pickle before eating. It’s a brioche bun, lightly toasted, with a thick tomato slice.
“By fifty years?” Eddie mutters, after a few minutes of silent eating. “Sixty?”
“Not like you'd know.” He grabs a clean napkin for his mouth. “She was turning forty nine.”
“And how long has she been turning forty nine? None of those widows are under eighty, man.”
Buck almost drops his burger. “Do you think I'm talking about the stitch and bitch club?”
Eddie glances up. His ears tint pink. “You're not talking about the stitch and bitch club.”
“Eddie,” Buck says, “I don't think they had a single real tooth -”
“Okay, okay,” he says. “I get it. You don't sleep with the geriatric. I'd have bid on you if I could afford being out ten grand for something we do for free.”
“Like the farmer and the cow,” Buck says, and nods to himself. He ignores the brief flicker of a fantasy that involves Eddie standing on a table and bidding a million dollars for him.
“What?”
Buck blinks. “You know,” he says, "you only needed to bid eight thousand and three.”
“Then those old fucks would have bid eight thousand and four, and then where would I be?”
“Bidding eight thousand and five?” Buck goads. “Having fun at the auction?”
“Is it really fun? If you want to settle down?” Eddie asks.
Buck leans back into his seat. Meeting people has always been fun. He had liked the game of it all, figuring out if he was getting a conversation or more, if the night would end in a bed or with a goodbye.
“Since you can bake now,” Eddie continues. “And you have a cute niece and nephew.”
“And a Chris!” Buck says. He draws a lazy line through the circle of condensation from his water.
"Christopher wasn't in your multimedia presentation."
“He isn’t a tagline for my dating life," Buck says.
“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. He folds his arms over the table and leans in. A single dark curl falls over his forehead. He knows this expression. It is not that Eddie enjoys having secrets, but Buck knows that he likes the moment before a dramatic reveal. He hasn’t seen it in a while.
"Jee and Nash are Maddie's," Buck says. He runs a nail alongside the inside of his palm. "And I love them, and I love seeing them, but they're Maddie's kids. I'm their uncle. I can say that and people will understand why they're important to me. Christopher is your kid. He's one of my favorite people in the world. How am I supposed to quantify that?"
“Buck,” Eddie says, reaching out for his forearm. Buck waits. “Chris is also yours.”
"Oh. Yeah?" is all he can say, and he ends up grabbing Eddie's hand before he can talk himself out of it. Their fingers wind together. This had been a private thought. It was a hope that he avoided spelling out, because he didn’t want to force Eddie to confirm or find out Eddie disagreed - he wasn’t sure which would have been worse.
"We don't talk about it," Eddie says, "but that doesn't make it any less true."
Eddie pulls until Buck stands with him, letting go only to wrap him in a tight hug.
“We can talk to him when we get home, okay?” Eddie says, and he runs his hands soothingly up Buck’s back. His chest hurts, from the collision into Eddie and the restriction from Eddie’s hold. Buck presses closer, presses his face into his neck, and smiles.
“Okay,” Buck says.
Something buzzes under Buck’s fingertips. It was the pain medication, most likely, the changes in altitude and light lunch seeping him with an easy cheer. It also might have been the way Eddie’s pulse leapt, a lunching beat when Buck had leaned in.
Buck towels his hair as much as he can and tries to ignore the bloody spots from his injuries. The white towels do nothing to hide the red.
In the main room, Eddie’s already under the covers with the lights still on. Buck stays quiet. He drops his dirty clothes on the floor near their one suitcase and turns off the overhead light. Eddie doesn’t move when he slips into the other side of the bed, but then he rolls so they’re facing each other.
"Hey."
“You’re still awake?” Buck whispers.
“Did you know that they told me I was alone?” Eddie asks. “When I woke up at the hospital. You weren’t there. They tried to tell me that you were never there.”
Eddie pats around, looking for his hand, and links their pinkies together. They can hear the elevator from here. A group gets off, loud, and a few pairs of feet thunder past as children race to their room.
“Being your best friend is one of the best things to ever happen to me,” Eddie continues. “And lately, it's felt different."
“My fault,” Buck says. Eddie’s not smiling anymore. “No, c'mon, you know it is. People keep assuming things about you because of me.”
"They're not assuming anything that isn't true," Eddie says.
"They are, though," Buck says. "Eddie, I'm in love with you, and everyone can tell."
Nothing shatters. Eddie blinks slowly. Their pinkies stay intertwined.
“And you're always there,” Buck continues. “When I'm picking fights with nineteen year olds-”
“There’s no fucking way that guy was nineteen,” Eddie says. Buck laughs. Maybe this is it for them. Maybe they could still stay friends, because Buck does not want to figure out what it means to be in a world where they’re not trying to make each other laugh.
"I can't hide it," Buck says, "and I can't move on, and I am so, so, sorry, Eddie."
“You love me,” Eddie repeats, mirroring Buck’s tone. In his mouth, the words sound bitter. “You weren’t going to tell me?"
There are a lot of ways to fall apart. He’s got his excuses lined up, indexed and alphabetized. Buck reaches out and cups Eddie’s face anyways. He strokes his thumb across his stubble, the shadow creeping in after a few days without a razor. He thought Eddie knew. He thought it was simply another thing they did not talk about.
“At dinner, you said that I could have anyone that I want,” Eddie says, and pushes his face into Buck’s hand. He can feel him breathing, steady, a warm exhale against his palm. “Is that true?”
If asked, Buck would not be able to say which one of them moved first. Eddie’s mouth is firm, then yielding, and then Eddie’s hands are pulling on his hair and his tongue is in his mouth and Buck stops thinking. He focuses on what he can. Buck skates his hands down until he’s grabbing Eddie’s ass, running his hands up his thighs and stomach in all of the ways that he’s pretended not to think about.
Eddie breaks, panting against his mouth, and Buck latches onto his neck, dragging a patch of skin between his teeth. Buck pulls Eddie on top of him and Eddie goes willingly, bracketing his torso with his thighs.
He needs to breathe. His chest aches, and it’s a sudden enough pain that he grunts audibly. Buck takes a shuddering breath, filling his lungs, and it hurts - he’s been so good at sticking to shallow breaths to avoid agitating his ribs that he’s out of practice.
“Okay?” Eddie asks. Buck likes that they’re still touching, in the aftermath, with their legs tangled together and Eddie’s hand placed carefully on his chest. "We’ll get you better."
“Yeah,” Buck whispers.
One last kiss, for the night, and it is softer than their previous one. Eddie leaves their foreheads pressed together.
The morning sun breaks the chilly dewiness of the dawn. Eddie yawns, bumping their hips together as they look out at the sprawling landscape. Buck cannot stop smiling, because he can lean in and Eddie will meet him halfway.
They get into the yellow car. Under his seat, there’s a forgotten bag of candy that Buck immediately opens. Eddie holds his hand out over the dashboard for a piece. Instead, Buck takes his palm and links their fingers together. He brings his knuckles to his mouth and squeezes his hand.
They’re almost home.