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Buck’s at Maddie’s apartment when he gets the call. He’d come over, not to think about how he’d said yes to Connor—he’s talked that through with Maddie already and doesn’t feel any less like his stomach has dropped out and not come back up than he did when he’d given him his answer—but to spend time with baby Jee. Not so much a baby anymore, he thinks, as she swats at his face where he’s let his attention wander from her, and burbles “Uncle Buh” incredibly admonishingly for an 18 month old.
He’s spent the last two weeks with the words donor, not dad rattling around his brain, and he’s not any closer to knowing if it’s something he’s able to do. He’s talked to Maddie about it, yeah, and Hen, and last night he finally managed to tell Eddie about it, even if he couldn’t meet his eyes the entire time he spoke. He doesn’t know why he couldn’t, or why Eddie was unusually quiet in response. Buck had told him, gaze somewhere over Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie had hummed and opened another bottle of beer. When Buck looked at him later, when he was sure Eddie wouldn’t be looking back, he had been sat at the table, lips pressed to the bottle, not sipping, his brow gently furrowed.
He doesn’t really want to spend any more time today thinking about how he’s promised someone that he’ll give them a part of him, and know he won’t get to see and know and raise and love the person born from that part the way he’s always hoped he would. So he’s here to hang out with Jee, hold her and make her laugh and know this, at least, is a certain in his life.
He can hear Maddie singing softly to the radio while she putters around the kitchen, interspersed with the sounds of cutlery and dishes clinking as she puts them away. He’s telling Jee an age-inappropriate work story as she looks up at him from her high chair, eyes big and brown and thoroughly engrossed. His phone rings, and the caller ID provided by some app he’d downloaded tells him it’s Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.
He should be used to this by now, he thinks, blood feeling like ice anyway. He stands up, faces away from Jee-Yun before he hits answer.
“Hello?” he asks, voice croaking like he’s not used it in a while, even though he’d just been chatting away to Jee.
“Is this Evan Buckley?” a woman’s voice enquires.
“Yes, is everything okay?” Buck manages, fingers tight around his phone.
“Hi, Mr. Buckley, I’m calling you from Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There’s been a small accident, and you are listed as the legal guardian and second emergency contact,” she informs him, briskly.
Legal guardian. Fuck, Chris.
“Did something happen to Christopher?” Buck asks, panic seeping into his voice even as he tries to breathe evenly.
“We have Christopher Diaz here with us. He’s alright, but he seems to have taken a tumble. He needs some stitches on his forehead, and we’d like to keep him for overnight observation in case of a concussion,” she goes on, just as brisk, but equally calm. “His father wasn’t reachable by phone, and you’re listed as the next point of contact.” He thinks he can hear something soften in her voice when she adds, “That, and Christopher was very insistent that we call you.”
Shit. Okay. If Chris is up and talking and this hospital staff person on the phone isn’t delicately dancing around what’s going on, that’s probably good, right? Buck holds the phone away from his face, takes a deep, steadying breath. Lets his work-brain take over a little and speaks into the receiver again, “Is he hurt anywhere else? Have you got him in the ER or have you given him a room? And is there anyone with him? He was supposed to be out with his friends.” He’s already grabbing his keys, waving in what he hopes is a reassuring manner at a concerned Maddie, ruffling Jee’s silky hair and legging it out the door.
“Just his head, Mr. Buckley, and couple of scrapes. He’s in the ER right now getting stitched up, but we’ll move him to a private room for the night shortly. Two of his friends are with him, but it would be ideal for an adult to be present as soon as possible.” She sounds calm still, and Buck knows that she does this every day, makes calls much harder than this one, and it’s not too far from the emotional labour his own job requires, but even so, he’s grateful for it.
“I’m on my way, I’ll be there as soon as I can. His dad is busy right now but I’ll let him know what’s going on.” He stops outside the Jeep, and adds, “Please tell Christopher I’m coming, yeah? I’m on my way.”
She agrees, tells him to drive safe, and hangs up. He slides into the driver’s seat and buckles himself in, pausing only to shoot off two quick texts to Eddie.
buck: hey chris is alright so don’t panic, but i think he fell? he’s at cedars-sinai
buck: i’m on my way there rn i’ll call as soon as i’m with him
Twenty-five minutes later, Buck rests his forehead on the steering wheel and screams. Well, it’s more of a hoarse, strained whisper, because he is in public, but he meant it as a scream. Why the fuck did he pick today of all days to be across the city from the Diaz house? Usually when Eddie’s got therapy, like he has today, Buck picks Chris up from school and they hang out, either playing video games or doing homework (which Buck is less and less equipped to deal with these days, God, when did Chris get old enough to start learning such intense math? Buck can handle algebra and fractions separately, but together in the same equations is just cruel) or just shooting the shit and gossiping about school while making dinner.
But as of one week ago, fresh out of his grounding, Chris is spending time with his friends outside of school, not at their houses with parental supervision, but at the park because he’s growing up now, and Buck is all kinds of sad and proud and heartclenchy about it. And today Eddie’s at an emergency two hour long therapy session, so Buck hadn’t planned to keep Chris company, even if he didn’t have his park plans, and Eddie had assured Buck he’d be able to swing by the park to pick Chris up after he finished therapy.
So Buck was across town with his sister and niece, and Chris got injured, and Eddie doesn’t know, and now Buck is stuck in the fucking nightmare that is LA traffic and only able to think about the fact that Chris is alone and hurt. As brave as that kid is, it sucks and it's gotta be scary, and it feels a lot like Buck’s fault.
He checks his phone quickly but there’s no reply from Eddie, so he must still be in his therapy session. The car in front of him rumbles back to life and crawls forwards, and he puts the Jeep into gear in relief. Fifteen of the longest minutes of his life later, he’s screeching into the hospital car park, wheels definitely not within the lines of a single parking space, and running through the big glass doors.
He heaves himself half across the ER reception desk and asks “Christopher Diaz? I’m here for him, is he still down here?”
The receptionist holds her finger up and types something into her computer. Buck scans the room and takes in blood and bandages and IVs, but no curly haired kid with glasses. He feels desperate, suddenly. The drive over had contained the panic, he knew where Chris was and that he was logically in the safest place possible, but now that he’s here and can’t see him, hold him yet, it’s starting to feel a lot like streets filled with seawater and floating bodies and a fallen pair of red spectacles.
His breath hitches, and the receptionist must clock it, because she says “Yes, Christopher Diaz, he’s been moved to a room in North Tower, third floor.” She hands him a visitors sticker to put on his shirt. “Through those doors and up the elevator.”
He’s jogging, half-running down the corridor even as she finishes directing him. He takes the stairs, two at a time, because there are several elderly people waiting by the elevator, the numbered display showing that it’s still on the fifth floor. He bursts out the stairwell, nearly braining a nurse with the door he flings open, and stops because Jesus Christ this place is massive. There are so many people around, visitors and hospital staff and patients walking slowly through the corridors in their gowns. The hallways spread out in every direction, and he gives himself a second to make a pained, frustrated sound before he’s flinging himself across the help desk on this floor too.
“Hi, I’m Evan Buckley, I’m looking for Christopher Diaz, can someone please tell me where he is? He’s only twelve and he’s hurt and he’s been on his own because it took me a while to get here, please—” he says, the desperation in his voice and eyes and body spilling over.
“Are you a relation?” the person behind the desk asks politely, already going to look up the patient details. Buck has never felt urgency like this before, like he could lift this entire hospital with his two hands if it meant he could be by Chris’s side as soon as physically possible. “Oh, yes—you’re down as a legal guardian,” she reads off the screen.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s—he’s my kid, he’s my kid,” Buck tells her, tripping over his words in the effort to get this whole process to hurry the fuck up so he can see Chris.
There’s the sound of something hitting the floor from behind him, followed by what might be plastic bouncing off the shiny hospital tiles. The person at the desk looks up in surprise, over Buck’s shoulder, and he turns to look too.
Eddie’s standing there, Styrofoam cup rolling at his feet, coffee splattered all down the bottom of his faded blue jeans. The plastic lid of the cup skitters over the tile before coming to a stop a few feet away. He looks like someone punched him in the gut, absolutely shellshocked, something Buck can’t quite read behind the startled expression on his face.
“E-Eddie? Did you get my texts? I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here, I swear I broke every traffic law I could without killing someone—” Buck starts, taking a step towards Eddie. Panic begins to fade into unease and self-loathing when he considers Eddie’s coffee cup, realising he must’ve been here a while. “Eddie? Did you see him? Is he okay?”
Eddie blinks, once, twice, shakes himself out of the stupor he seemed to be in. “Buck, no, yeah, he’s okay. Bit banged up, but okay. He fell off that jungle gym in the park—he was only on the bottom of it but he hit his head on the edge of the sandpit. They fixed him up, he’s in a room now. He’s got my phone, he got bored so I—yeah, sorry that’s why I didn’t text back after I got here.”
Buck nods, chest still tight. “Okay, okay. That’s good. Did you, um, did you have to leave therapy early?” He worries his lower lip between his teeth, feeling guilty even if he knows rationally Eddie doesn’t give a shit about missing some therapy when his son's just gotten hurt.
“No! No, turns out I didn’t need the full two hours. I think I was more comfortable with uh, what I needed to talk through than I realised,” Eddie says, smile small but not self-deprecating. “I called the hospital back pretty much immediately, and Frank’s office is like five minutes from here, so.”
“Oh,” Buck replies, voice shaking a bit. “You’ve been with him, then?”
Eddie’s smile slips, and he frowns slightly, stepping towards Buck. He nearly trips on the coffee cup at his feet, and bends to pick it up before placing his other hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Hey, yeah, I got here quick. Before they even started sewing him up. He wasn’t alone. His friends stuck around till I got here anyway, they’re good kids.” He gives Buck’s face an assessing look. “Buck, he is fine, I promise. He’s a twelve year old boy, this happens, you know this happens.”
Buck doesn’t know if his face is doing a convincing job of believing him, but tries for a smile when Eddie adds, “He took the stitches like a champ, you know. Said he’d have a scar on his head like the one on your leg.”
“I don’t know that that’s something to be happy about,” he tells Eddie ruefully. Eddie seems encouraged by his smile, and squeezes his shoulder, using his grip to steer him around towards one of the hallways.
“Buck, Chris may have had a shitty day, but I don’t think for one second that he thought he was alone in it. He knew you’d come.” And with that, Eddie pushes him gently forward, says “He’s in room 317, I’m just gonna deal with—this” and gestures to the coffee puddle by their feet. “Go, I’ll be right there.”
Buck obeys, and walks down the corridor, slower now, half-looking at the room numbers and half-swirling the words he knew you’d come around his head. He’s never given Chris any reason to believe he wouldn’t come, he doesn’t think. Buck knew he would come, and according to Eddie, it’s as much a fact of life as gravity that Chris knew he’d come.
He doesn’t think about how the three of them work very often, him-Chris-and-Eddie. It’s usually something that just is, that they work as a family that’s not quite a family to people looking in. Yeah, they have dinner together multiple times a week, and do movie nights and gaming tournaments and aquarium trips. There’s a Buck-shaped impression on the Diaz’s couch from the countless nights he slept over when Eddie was struggling, and from when he just—kept sleeping over when Eddie got better.
But he doesn’t think about it. This is just how their friendship works, and it works for them. He doesn’t think about how he and Eddie never talked about the will after that first time, about how he doesn’t understand who that makes him in Christopher’s life right now, about how he’s constantly, constantly drawing boundaries for himself in his head because he doesn’t know where they are but he can’t let himself overstep them.
And most of all, he doesn’t think about how he doesn’t know whether it’s this, Eddie all but giving him his son with the trust and unwavering belief that Buck would have to be six feet under before he’d ever stop fighting tooth-and-nail for him, that makes his heart stammer and something warm curl in his gut when Eddie looks at him, fondness and humour permanently etched into the expression he saves for Buck, or if that reaction is to Eddie simply existing. Untangling the two means thinking about it, which he's not doing. He’s not.
He gets to room 317. The door’s open, and he can hear bright, cheerful sounds coming from inside. He stands in the doorway, and watches Chris as he lies propped up in the hospital bed, playing some game on Eddie’s phone that Eddie most definitely doesn’t even know is on there. There’s a big, clean white bandage wrapped around his head, curly hair sticking up wildly over the top of it, making him look so much younger than he is. Making him look like the 9 year old that the ocean took from Buck all those years ago.
He lets himself look, makes his body and mind believe that yes, Chris is okay. He’s alive and he’s right here.
A minute, maybe less, later, Chris looks up and sees him. His face splits into a grin so wide it threatens the bandage staying in place, his every feature contorted in the beam he’s throwing Buck’s way.
“Buck!” he exclaims, flinging the phone to the side, game forgotten, “you’re here.”
Buck feels the knot in his chest finally loosen, and he grins back, loping up to the bed. “Where else would I be? I heard my best pal tried to pick a fight with gravity and cement, and I’m not sure he won.”
“Buck,” Chris rolls his eyes, “I slipped, it was an accident. And you’re one to talk. Aren’t you the real expert at this?” He points to his bandage with a cheeky grin. Buck gapes indignantly before bending over with a laugh. He peers back up at Chris’s face, fully overwhelmed by just how fucking much he loves this kid.
“Well,” he says, “let’s not make ‘What Would Buck Do’ a habit here, bud. Your dad can only handle one klutz at a time.”
Chris smiles back indulgently, and all he can feel is soft happiness. For a split second, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be this relieved when he’s not sure how much this kid is his to love, which is so stupid, so he kicks the door shut on that corner of his brain and leans forward to press a kiss into Chris’s hair instead. He smells like dirt and disinfectant and citrus shampoo, and he’s warm as Buck closes his eyes and stays there for a beat.
Chris allows him ten full seconds of his sentimental nonsense before wriggling away with another exasperated but fond “Buck.”
“Alright, alright, sorry,” he laughs, leaning away and flopping down into the chair beside the bed. “Any other battle scars, Rambo?”
Chris pushes off the blanket to reveal two matching skinned knees, raw and pink but not deep. “Lucky it’s shorts weather,” he grimaces at Buck, “this would not be fun under jeans.” Buck winces sympathetically.
Chris settles back into the bed. “Were you with Jee today?” he asks. “I’ll have to apologise to her for stealing you away on her Buck Day.” He smiles, not looking worried or guilty, just stating facts, and Buck’s heart aches with something.
“Yeah, I was with Jee, but we finished hanging out. And you know I always wanna hang out with you, right? Not just on certain days, but all the time? You don’t have to get all scraped up in hospital to see me,” he teases, mostly joking because he knows that that’s his own trauma and not Chris’s, but placing a hand over Chris’s much smaller one and squeezing anyway, needing him to know how much he means it. “I love you something fierce, buddy.”
There’s a rustle behind him and he twists his head, hand still holding Chris’s, to see Eddie leaning in the doorway. If his face had been unreadable before, Buck is the most literate fucking person on the planet right now because there is no way to misinterpret the love plastered across his expression, the open affection Buck gets tastes of dialled up to one hundred, his gaze fixed on where Buck’s hand meets his son’s. His eyes slide up to meet Buck’s, shining and unguarded and warm. His smile grows even bigger when Buck offers up his own, the first genuine one this evening, dimple making an appearance and everything.
“Right, boys, hate to break up the party, but we’ve got the go ahead from the doctor to get outta here for the night,” he announces, stepping into the room and slinging an arm around Buck’s shoulders.
“I thought they were keeping me in case I have a concussion?” Christopher frowns.
“I told them I’m a medic and there would be two firefighters in the house with you all night, so they’re letting us go,” Eddie answers, not moving from where he’s essentially draped over Buck.
“Cool,” Chris says cheerfully, “can we get McDonald’s on the way home?”
Eddie snorts and looks at the ceiling like give me strength, before grinning and pointing at Chris with the hand that isn’t around Buck. “Fine, but we are not making a habit of this. Head injuries or fast food debauchery.”
“Deal,” Chris replies solemnly.
Eddie turns his grin to Buck, looking expectant. “You cool having some sad veggie burger with wilted lettuce that tastes like dead dreams?” he jokes. Buck just smiles back at him, feeling dazed.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, anything,” he says, even as Eddie raises an eyebrow at him quizzically. And he would, he would agree to anything the Diaz boys asked of him in this moment, blazing warmth washing through him at the two points he’s connected to each of them, hand in Chris’s and snug under Eddie’s arm.
_____
Buck chews unenthusiastically on a cold, limp fry. His veggie burger sits half-eaten in its soggy cardboard box on the Diaz’s coffee table. Some documentary about crocodiles is playing on the television, volume low, and usually he’d be watching it raptly, but he can’t shake himself out of his thoughts enough to pay attention.
Chris is in bed, exhausted after the day he had. He didn’t even wait for Eddie to suggest he get some sleep, simply standing up after inhaling two cheeseburgers and announcing he was done for the night. They’d run through the concussion symptoms checklist to make sure he was okay to pass out. Buck had squeezed his hand and said goodnight, and Eddie waited twenty minutes before slipping open Chris’s bedroom door to kiss his forehead before he drifted off, expertly timing it to avoid any accusations of his own father thinking he needs to be tucked into bed at his big age.
Now it’s just Buck and Eddie on the couch, close enough that their knees are touching but far enough apart that Buck aches for the warmth of Eddie’s body, just out of reach. This is normal, for them. What’s not normal is the silence.
After Eddie had his breakdown and was putting himself back together, it had been quiet, sure. But Chris was there to fill the silence with bright chatter about his friends and biology class and the astonishingly detailed lore of whatever game he was playing. And if he was in bed, there was Buck’s running commentary on whatever shitty reality tv show they’d be watching, always safe and always entertaining. Surprising no one, telenovela enthusiast and closet bitch Eddie Diaz deeply enjoys culinary based drama—“Did she throw a cast-iron frying pan at his head because he implied her chicken looks like a white person cooked it? Mierda, I’d have thrown it too”—and if it made Eddie smile, especially then, there’s nothing Buck wouldn’t have done.
And definitely after, when Eddie was doing better, the conversation was constant—they never really run out of things they want to say to each other.
So this, the television soft, Eddie quiet beside him, and Buck drowning in his own head? This isn’t normal. His own mind is so loud he can’t even summon up the will to mentally beg Eddie to ask him something, anything, to pull on an end of the tangled yarn in his skull, unspool it segment by segment, carefully and gently, just like he always does.
He thinks of Connor, and the promise he’s made. He thinks of Hen, Karen and Denny, of Maddie, Chim and Jee-Yun, of Eddie and Chris. His heart feels like it might strain right out of its muscle casing with how much he wants. How he doesn’t quite fit, doesn’t know if he’s supposed to fit. How he didn’t even really fit in the Buckleys’ version of that, irreparable after Daniel died, and no one but him and Maddie willing to try.
God, he wants. He’s always wanted. He’s been searching for understanding and meaning and happiness for a little while now, wondering how to find it. Keeping himself open, saying yes in hopes that if he says it often enough, it’ll show him what he didn’t know he was looking for.
But after meeting Connor and Kameron, realising that what they need might be the same thing he wants, the thing he’s surrounded himself with for years now—he’s pretty damn sure. He knows what he wants, and he also knows that it might not be something he ever gets to have. Not in the way the people around him have it. He didn’t get it as a kid, and no one in his love life has stuck around long enough or made him feel like he mattered enough to build that.
That’s okay, he decides. He has his sister and his beautiful niece, he has Eddie and Chris, and though he knows he doesn’t have them all the way—not the way he aches for—he has them enough. Who is he to ask for more, to push the boundaries he’s laid in his mind as far as he can, when they’ve already offered him so much? It’s gotta be enough. And if he can give Connor and Kameron the one thing they’re missing to make this same dream real for them? When for the first time in his life he isn’t made of defective parts? How can he say no?
He has always been only as needed as his body was useful. Now, throwing himself into burning buildings, putting himself in line of potential gunfire, just his body and a bicycle between drunk drivers and the rest of the world. As a kid, scraping and bruising and hollowing himself out for attention, for love, for proof that he exists, flesh-and-blood. He thinks back to not three hours ago, his hand tight over Christopher’s, laughing but determined to never allow the world and people and circumstance let him feel the way Buck has so often felt. The way Buck always feels.
His hand reflexively tightens where it’s sat on his leg, fingers grazing Eddie’s knee where it’s pressed against his own. Eddie’s knees are bare, tanned skin disappearing up into the sweatshorts he threw on after taking off his coffee-stained Levi’s in the middle of the kitchen. Buck shivers. He tries to pull back his hand nonchalantly, but the motion comes out jerky and stiff. He swallows quietly, gaze trained unseeingly on the tv.
“Buck?” Eddie asks softly, tentatively.
Buck swallows again, not turning from the tv, feeling Eddie’s eyes on him.
“Buck.” Eddie says again, and when he still receives no response, sighs. He shifts on the couch beside him, turning so the leg touching Buck’s lifts up onto the seat and folds under the other, knee pressed into the back of the cushion. He’s fully facing Buck now.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
“’Bout what?” Buck mumbles, not sure where he would even start.
Eddie sighs again. “Right. You told me something really big last night, and I—and I didn’t say much back. I wasn’t expecting you to tell me that, or to tell me that you’d agreed to that, and I needed a minute to think about what I wanted to say to you. Because there is so much I want to say to you, Buck. I need to say it, and I think you need to hear it.”
Buck turns to look at Eddie then. Not because he’s feeling any more equipped for this conversation, but because Eddie’s being vulnerable, and every time he is, it floors Buck. He knows how extraordinarily hard it’s been for Eddie to get here, to allow himself to examine his emotions and name them and feel them. He knows it’s been months of unlearning rules he thought applied to him and him alone, and how determined Eddie was to give his brain the same kindness and understanding he so easily gives everyone around him.
Eddie’s being vulnerable, and Buck is so proud of him, so he will look him in the eyes for this and make sure he knows he’s being heard.
“So,” Eddie starts, “you told me you’d agreed to be a sperm donor for your friend. And you told me why they wanted it to be you—and listen, I get that. More of you in the world? That’s. That’s pretty special. And I know you have the biggest heart of anyone I know—”
Buck opens his mouth, protest on his lips out of habit.
“—shut up, let me finish—of anyone we all know, which is why you wanna give these people something you know will make them happy. But what do you want, Buck?”
He pauses, looking at Buck with his brow creased, and then continues before Buck can find a reply.
“You haven’t said it to me, not explicitly, but I talked to Hen this morning about when you told her. Maybe I’m getting this wrong, but kindness of your heart aside, are you doing this because you think it’s not something you’re gonna have for yourself?” he asks, blunt.
Buck looks at him, head spinning a bit. What the fuck do you say to that? Yes, I don’t think anyone’s gonna love me enough to want to build a family together? Christ, that’s bleak. He tries for a smile, to shrug it off, says “Eddie, that’s not—I’m just—I just want to do something nice for them, you know?”
Eddie narrows his eyes, looking entirely unconvinced by his weak explanation. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Buck barrels on. “It’s not like the, uh, necessary bits are being used for anything else right now,” he jokes, gesturing at his crotch, and fuck, that was the wrong thing to say, because Eddie’s face falls instantly. He looks at Buck, sadness and frustration splayed across his expression.
“Buck,” he says, with so much tenderness Buck is instantly overwhelmed, chest tight again. He reaches for Buck’s hand, still on his knee, and laces them together, fingers warm and calloused. It’s not a tight grip, just a tether, a steady, grounding hold.
“I know that everything and everyone that’s happened to you has made you think that. And I know you don’t wish it had been different, because you think you might never have become Buck otherwise—I don’t know if I agree with that, I think you’d have always become this person you’re supposed to be, even if, God forbid, you’d been given a little more love along the way—but that doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t mean it was worth it. It does not mean that your happiness needs to be an afterthought—I know you know that. God, I thought I was being clear when I told you about the will but—” he scrubs his face with his other hand, impatient with himself.
Buck’s breath hitches. This is the first time either of them has brought up the will since the day Eddie first told him about it.
“You don’t have to give away pieces of yourself to be worthy of love. Your happiness is not contingent on you making sacrifices. You’ve—you’ve already given so much, Buck,” he says, eyes clear, voice firm.
Buck’s trying to follow, he really is, but— “The will?,” he asks.
The faintest flush appears at the tops of Eddie’s cheeks, and for the first time all day he looks almost nervous. The hold on his hand loosens. “Um,” he says. “I just mean that—you’ve got time, you know that, right? If you’re waiting for the right person, they’re out there. I promise you, there isn’t a universe where you don’t get the happily ever after you want. It’ll happen.”
Buck is so confused. Is Eddie trying to lift his spirits about his dating life? Why the fuck would he bring up the will in that context?
“Eddie,” he says slowly, “not that I don’t appreciate the pep talk, but I’m not entirely sure what you’re trying say.”
The flush on Eddie’s cheeks deepens. He swallows, sticks his chin out, eyes never leaving Buck’s, something determined steeling itself in them.
“What I’m trying to say,” he starts, “what I meant when I made you Christopher’s legal guardian in my will, is that you already have a family. Here, with me and Chris. If you want it. In whatever way you want it, actually. I—I know it’s not the most conventional, from the outside, but that doesn’t make it any less real, you know? I’ve known it for a while now, and so has Chris, and. We want it. If that’s something you wanted.” Some of the nervousness from before has slipped back onto his face as he watches Buck carefully.
Buck’s reeling. He’s spent the last two weeks, few months, years, maybe the last decade, looking for something. And here Eddie is, offering it to him like it’s been his all along.
“Um, I know it’s a lot. And I get that maybe this is not what you pictured for yourself, and maybe you want to make your own thing—I get it, I promise,” Eddie continues, looking more unsure every second Buck is quiet, but not backtracking on the words he’s laid out in front of them both. “And if that’s what you want, we’re not gonna love you any less, and nothing will change. But—listen, I’m so serious about this, I know it’s what I want, I’ve talked it to death with Frank, even though I didn’t really need to, because I already knew. But—today at the hospital, when you got there. You called Chris your kid—”
Buck unfreezes, says “Eddie, I was so worried, I didn’t mean to overstep, I know he’s not really my kid—”
“—you called Chris your kid, and you were right. He’s your kid just as much as he’s mine,” Eddie goes on, hesitation gone, voice sure and steady and firm. “You’re already a dad, Buck. You’ve been one for some time now. Nothing is gonna change that, whatever you decide about this—us—being a family. But you called him your kid, so I think,” he takes a breath, “I think maybe you want this too?”
Buck stares at him, throat tight. Eddie's eyes aren’t as transparent about what he’s feeling as they were in the hospital room, but he thinks he can make out gently guarded hope. He slumps back into the couch cushions, drawing their twined hands into his lap as he goes.
He believes Eddie when he told him that nothing would change and they’d still love him if he didn’t want this. He’s not worried about that. He’s not even worried that he doesn’t want this, honestly kind of amused in a hysterical sort of way that Eddie could ever think he would say no to this, as if it’s not his worst kept secret. But—
“Chris does too?” he asks, soft and cautious. He forces his heart to stay beating evenly, refusing to let it stutter faster the way it’s begging to, until he knows for sure this is something that could exist outside his head. He knows Chris has worked through losing his mom, as much as a kid can, enough that he’s okay with Eddie bringing people into his family in any realm of official capacity. But after Ana—Buck doesn’t want Chris to ever think there’s a world in which Buck won’t be in his life. He doesn’t know if making this official, in whatever way Eddie’s suggesting, will make Chris worry about losing Buck.
“Buck,” Eddie laughs, a huff of fondness and disbelief, “are you fucking kidding me?” His hand tightens around Buck’s, his grip finally strong. “When I told Chris about the will, that you would look after him if I couldn’t, do you know what he said to me?”
Buck waits, traitorous heart picking up the pace.
“He said, ‘Dad, he already does that’,” Eddie laughs again, “and immediately followed it up with ‘so does that mean he’s gonna move in with us properly? Because then we should probably let him sleep in a bed, our couch kinda sucks’”.
“He knows about the will?” is what Buck says when he gets his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. Fuck, his mouth is so dry.
“Yeah? Did you think I wasn’t gonna tell him?” Eddie asks, brow furrowed slightly. Hand still holding Buck’s, he reaches back with his other one to grab his own half-full glass of water from the coffee table and passes it to Buck. He takes a slow sip, feeling more than a little insane.
“I—I don’t know? We never talk about it. Like, ever. I, uh, didn’t want to bring it up, after the—after that day. I figured you didn’t want anyone to know? ‘Cause it’s kinda morbid to talk about, I guess. But, um. Why haven’t we talked about it?”
“I wanted to wait a little while, after I got shot, before I told Chris. I didn’t want him to think it was something I did because I thought I was gonna die—yeah, maybe partly, but he was ten. The last thing I wanted was him thinking I was gonna die. I wanted to get some distance from it, so it wasn’t a connect-the-dots kinda thing. I wanted him to know it was something I wanted for him, and for me, regardless of the fact that I’m in a dangerous line of work. That’s part of it, but like, shit happens to everyone. If a piano fell on my head on the way to work tomorrow, yes, I’d be glad knowing the two of you have got each other. But I’m also just as glad knowing that he’s got you to pick him up from school when I’m in therapy, to come to when he’s sad or mad, to wake up early and make him those ridiculous soufflé pancakes he’s so obsessed with. And you’ve got him to remind you what a nerd you are when you’re trying to one-up him with elephant facts at the zoo.”
Buck snorts at that, corner of his lips tugging up. “We couldn’t enjoy terrorizing you through sentient technology without each other,” he tells Eddie, who rolls his eyes fondly.
“I don’t need a piece of paper to know those things are a certain, you know? It was just to make sure no one else could try and change that.” Eddie blows out a breath, smiles back at Buck.
“And—we didn’t talk about it, I didn’t bring it up, because after I told you I figured maybe I should’ve asked you before I did it. Even if I knew you’d say yes. I don’t know, I just suddenly realised I didn’t even know if you wanted it? And you wouldn’t have said no, even if you didn’t. And it was done, and I didn’t want to change it, but I also didn’t want to overwhelm you more. I didn’t want to stop you living the rest of your life because I’d tied you to ours.” Eddie’s voice wavers slightly as he finishes, smile a bit wobbly on his face.
“Eddie,” Buck says, hushed, hopeful. “I—I thought that the will was only if you died.”
Eddie smiles at him, open and affectionate and easy, and runs his thumb across the back of Buck’s hand as he tells him, “You’re our family. We want you right now.”
Buck’s heart gives one final, mutinous thump inside his chest before bursting out the starting gate. His eyes are a bit wet, his throat still tight but his chest loose, like his ribs heard Eddie’s words and expanded to accommodate the space his heart was demanding. His hand holding the glass is trembling so hard he’s afraid he’s going to drop it in their laps, but Eddie grabs it and sets it back on the table. He takes Buck’s empty hand in his own, clutching them together.
“I want that too, Eddie,” he tells him, tremor in his voice eclipsed by the sheer conviction with which he says it. “I want that. I’ve been wanting that. I want you both, properly, in all the ways.” His eyes search Eddie’s face, needing to know he believes him, gets that he’s in this too.
He needn’t have worried. Eddie’s fully grinning at him now, a mix of relief and adoration. He matches it with a grin of his own, and is suddenly surprised by the wave of shyness that hits him when Eddie untangles their fingers to raise his hand to Buck’s face, pressing the pad of his thumb into Buck’s dimple.
He ducks his head, leaning forwards and tucking his face into the curve of Eddie’s neck. The fabric of his sweatshirt is soft against his cheek, and he realises, surreptitiously drying the wetness on his lashes with Eddie’s collar, that it’s his own sweatshirt, actually. He wonders distantly if it had just gotten mixed up in one of their joint laundry loads and Eddie’d put it on in a hurry for something clean to wear, or if he’d picked it out on purpose, wanting to wear something of Buck’s on a day when Buck wasn’t going to be around.
Eddie’s breathing sounds a little uneven from where Buck’s positioned, face squashed into his chest. Before he can move to inspect why, Eddie’s hand runs up the curve of his shoulder, slowly, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. He cups the back of Buck’s neck, fingers resting in the soft curls at the nape, nails gently scratching his scalp.
And Buck should be overwhelmed. This is everything he’s wanted, everything he didn’t know he’d get to have. But all he can do is melt into Eddie’s touch, safe and held. He nestles further into Eddie with a small, pleased sigh.
“I’ve always wanted to belong. To a place, to a person. I think I’ve belonged to you for a long time. I just didn’t know you wanted me back,” he admits, muffled but intelligible. The hand in his hair stills for a moment, and then holds him a little tighter.
“Baby,” Eddie breathes, and Buck stops breathing, “I can’t remember a time I didn’t want you.”
And okay, maybe Buck is getting a little overwhelmed. He registers, in some part of his mind that isn’t overcome, that they’ve started saying I as opposed to we and us and our family, and he isn’t sure if it means anything, if there’s a difference, but Eddie just called him baby, and he’s pretty certain coming off five years of friendship that Eddie isn’t the kind of person who calls his friends baby, whether or not they’re raising a child together, and—
The pressure of Eddie’s hand on the back of his skull increases softly, and he uses it to guide Buck’s head up until they’re level with each other. Buck looks at Eddie, eyes wide and neck tense with apprehension. But Eddie’s so calm, so sure, nothing on his face but clarity.
He slowly tips forward till his brow presses Buck’s. They stay there, a breath apart, foreheads resting against each other. Buck doesn’t know how much time passes, looks at Eddie till he can’t anymore, till he has to shut his eyes, just listening to their breathing.
At some point, Eddie’s grip on his neck loosens, lifts off. Buck whines, instinctually, surprising both of them.
“Buck,” Eddie starts, voice rough and hesitant. “I kinda threw you in the deep end with a lot of, um, emotion heavy stuff just now. Maybe we should—”
Buck opens his eyes and moves forward, barely an inch, nudging his nose against Eddie’s. He wants, so enormously that he feels dizzy with it. Looking into Eddie’s eyes, still clear and warm and always steadying, he thinks this time he can ask for it.
“Eddie. Please.” He clutches the front of Eddie’s sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—and waits, not pulling him closer. He feels a puff of warm breath against his lips as Eddie huffs in amusement.
And then Eddie’s nose is nudging his too, and his hand is coming up to Buck’s jaw to tilt his head ever so slightly, and his mouth is pressed to Buck’s. His lips are warm, soft, dry. Buck hasn’t been kissed so chastely, so sweetly, in ever, maybe. His body feels warm all over, beginning at his lips, like Eddie’s filling him with liquid sunshine, and he smiles helplessly at the thought.
Eddie, however, has other ideas, and as Buck’s smile stretches wide, he uses it to deepen the kiss, licking hotly into Buck’s mouth. Buck gasps into it, and Eddie is there, warm and wet and sucking on Buck’s bottom lip. Jesus Christ. Buck chases his lips to connect them properly again, needing Eddie’s tongue in his mouth more than he needs air to breathe. Of course Eddie Diaz is fucking incredible at this too. Not that he’s complaining here, not even close. When they break apart, panting, Eddie doesn’t wait a beat before kissing open-mouthed down his jaw, hand holding him steady as he nips and sucks a bruise onto his neck.
“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck says, breathless and delighted. Eddie pulls away to inspect his work, seems pleased at the hickey forming, and looks back up at Buck.
“What?” he asks, grinning, and leans in to press a quick kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth before he can answer. “Just making sure everyone else knows who you belong with, too.”
Buck doesn’t think he’s ever blushed this violently in his life. He doesn’t know how there’s any blood left to rush south, actually, but his body is nothing if not a trooper. Lots to unpack there, and plenty of time to do it.
His body can do a lot of things simultaneously, apparently, because despite 100% of his brain dedicating itself to considering how he can best casually resituate himself into Eddie’s lap, he has to stifle a yawn that sneaks up on him.
Eddie watches him, thoroughly endeared. He laughs, embarrassed, and starts to apologise, leaning back into Eddie’s space, but Eddie just grins. He moves the hand at Buck’s jaw back to his lap, latching their fingers together.
“We have had pretty long days,” he agrees, smiling. “Bed?”
Buck doesn’t know how his face is big enough to contain his own smile. He nods, not bothering to hide his eagerness, and Eddie huffs another fond laugh before standing and tugging at Buck’s hand till he gets up too.
He lets go of Buck’s hand long enough for them to brush their teeth, looking at each other in the bathroom mirror and smiling around mouthfuls of dripping toothpaste.
In his bedroom, Eddie pulls off his sweatshirt, the ratty LAFD t-shirt underneath riding up to reveal a strip of skin. Buck wants to kiss it. But Eddie’s already crawling under the covers, flinging them back on the other side of the bed and waiting for Buck. He shucks his own jeans and shirt, and climbs in next to him in just his boxers.
They lie in the middle of the bed facing each other, close enough that Buck can count Eddie’s dark lashes and feel the warm air on his face as he breathes. They might as well be sharing a pillow. Their knees knock together, and Eddie reaches for his hand again.
“We can talk more about it in the morning,” he promises Buck. “We can talk about it as much as you want, but nothing’s gonna change for me. I’m in this. So don’t doubt that.”
Buck smiles at their hands before looking back up at Eddie. “I do want to talk about it more. But me too.”
_____
Sunlight streams through Eddie’s curtains, both of them having forgotten to draw them closed last night. Buck squints, lifting his head slightly only to have his cheek stick to the wet fabric beneath it. Fabric that is rising and falling gently.
He looks up, face still resting on Eddie’s chest. He gives himself a whole second to be embarrassed about the amount of drool he’s dampened Eddie’s t-shirt with before moving on to more pressing things: like how Eddie’s face is slack and calm and golden in the sun, and how his breathing matches his own, even in sleep, and how his arm is warm around Buck’s body, cradling him to his chest.
There’s a sound in the hallway, and Eddie stirs beneath him. Buck turns his head to see Chris nudging open the already ajar bedroom door with a crutch. He looks surprised for a split second, taking in Buck in Eddie’s bed, and then meets Buck’s eyes.
He grins at him. “Oh good,” he whispers loudly, “Dad finally gave you a bed to sleep in.”