Archive of Our Own

The first time Chris calls Buck after leaving for El Paso is almost two months after Eddie follows him out, and Buck’s cooking dinner in his cold, quiet, empty house, mid-spiral because he hasn’t heard from Eddie in almost sixteen hours. He lunges for the phone as soon as it starts vibrating, freezing when he sees Chris’ name on the caller ID. 

His chest seizes, and he falls into the chair at the dining table, the wood scraping against the floors unpleasantly. His hearts in his head, and he’s sliding his index finger across the screen, and breathes out a confused, “Chris?” 

Did something happen? 

He closes his eyes—waits for an indication of something. 

He’s sent texts, quick check ins to let Christopher know he’s here if he ever wants to talk, but Chris hasn’t replied to any of them. Hasn’t acknowledged them for the little read tag in the bottom corner. 

“Buck.” 

He takes a shaky breath. “Hey, bud. What—what’s—“ 

“Why aren’t you here?”

Oh, god.

Something’s happened.

Something’s happened and Eddie’s parents didn’t tell him.

“Dad needs you. Why aren’t you here?” 

He shoves the chair back, rising to stand, a hand weaving into his hair. “I—I’ll get on a plane. Today. I’ll find a flight. I’ll be there, Chris. Okay? I’m on my way.” 

Chris sighs. “Hurry.” 

“I—I—yeah, Chris. Yeah. I’m. I’ll hurry.” 

“Okay.” 

And Chris hangs up. 

Buck takes a deep breath, pulling his phone away from his ear to stare down at it, wide eyed. Something’s happened to Eddie, and Chris needs Buck.

Eddie needs Buck. 

He just . . . needs to get to El Paso. He falls back into the chair and goes into the browser on his phone, clumsily typing in last minute flights to El Paso from LAX.

There’s a flight in three hours. If he leaves right now, he should make it, barring no natural disasters or major accidents that make LA traffic any worse than normal. 

Six hundred dollars.

He doesn’t have time to stress about the dent that’s going to make in his bank account. He just adds it to his cart, fills out his info, and jumps up from the table. Grabs his keys, isn’t even sure he locks the front door on the way out. 

All he knows is he needs to make that flight. He needs to get to El Paso.

To Eddie and Chris.

And whatever hell might be waiting with them. 

Maddie calls him as he’s in line to board. He almost declines the call, but he’s honestly kind of spiraling, and hoping for an update on Eddie, and he doesn’t even realize he’s answering it until the phones at his ear, and he’s saying, “I can’t talk, Mads. We’re boarding.” 

There’s a pause. “Boarding? Boarding what?”  

The person in front of him moves forward, he shuffles forward after them and fills the gap. “A plane.” 

She takes a breath, slow and cautious like she’s preparing to approach a wild animal. “Why . . . are you about to board a plane?” 

“Because Chris called. Something—something bad happened. He said Eddie needs me.” 

“Something bad? What happened?”

Another step forward; an overhead announcement about this being the final boarding call crackles through the speakers. There’re only two people left in front of him in line. “I don’t know,” he admits, throat tight. “Chris asked me to come, and he—he hasn’t texted me back in months, and I—if he’s calling me, then—“

“Okay.” She exhales, slowly. “One day, we’re going to get through a week without any of us almost dying.” It’s mumbled quietly, breathlessly, as if she’s moving around. “I’ll update the others. Try and get more info. What time are you landing?”

He looks down at his boarding pass, shuffling forward. “Eight,” he says, soft, glancing up as the last person in front of him goes up to the scanner. “I—I gotta go, Mads.” 

“Okay. Be safe. I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

He doesn’t wait to see if she has anything to add, he just drops the phone into his pocket and shuffles forward when the gate agent calls him forward. Mindlessly holds his ticket out, too worried to even feel guilty by the annoyed look on her face as she takes it from his hand and scans it herself when he freezes. 

He stares blankly at it as she holds it out for him.

“Sir?”

He blinks, glancing up at her. “Oh, I—sorry.” Taking the boarding pass, he offers a shaky smile and then moves to board the plane. He looks own at the boading pass in his hand as he goes; it’s all he has, other than his phone, wallet, and keys. His hands trembling, spasming as the pass crinkles and crumbles in his grip. 

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head and looks ahead.

How he feels isn’t important right now.

He just needs to get on the plane and get to El Paso. Whatever’s waiting for him—he’ll be there. He’ll hold Chris, he’ll comfort him, and he’ll be there for Eddie, because Eddie needs him. 

Needs him to take care of Chris?

Needs his support?

Needs his help?

Whatever it is, Buck’s going to be there. In whatever capacity he needs him. 

His phone’s dead when he lands. 

He knew it would be—he’d checked shortly after sitting, and the 10% glaring up at him had been a good enough warning, so he’d borrowed a pen from a flight attendant and a napkin, and scribbled down Eddie’s parents’ address. He’s clutching it in his hands as he approaches the line for taxis. Barely has the strength to say it when the driver asks.

The driver looks at him wearily, but doesn’t ask, and then they’re off.

And Buck’s in Texas.

In El Paso.

On his way to Eddie.

Well, not yet. Eddie’s probably at the hospital, if things are that bad. But Chris’ll be at Eddie’s parents’ house. So, he’s on his way to Chris, for the first time in so long, his heart almost aches with it. His spine’s trembling, like he’s cold, but the air outside the cab had been hot and dry. He’s scared. He’s scared, and he’s shaking, and he’s alone, and he can’t imagine how Chris is feeling, but he’ll be there soon. He’ll be there soon, and he’ll push his own fear away for Chris. 

He can do that.

He can support Chris, whatever’s happened to Eddie. It’s what he promised he’d do.

Even if he never wanted to be in this position. 

He’s trying so hard not to think about what it would mean to be Chris’ guardian. What he’d lose in its name. 

But he’s only just accepted how he feels about Eddie, that he can’t even remotely process the thought. Can’t think it into existence.

“What brings you to El Paso?” 

He blinks, startled, and turns from the window to the driver. “Sorry?” 

“What brings you to El Paso?” 

Buck takes a deep breath, and looks back out the window. “My family.” 

Pulling up to Eddie’s parents’, he’s surprised to find a relatively normal house. Part of him had expected maybe the gates to hell—it’s certainly where they’d deserve to reside, at least. He quickly pays the driver, gets out of the car, and stands on the sidewalk, watching the car drive away, before slowly turning around to stare up at the house. 

How many times has Eddie almost died? 

He can handle whatever’s waiting for him. 

He’s survived it before.

He didn’t know he was in love with Eddie before, but does that really make a difference? 

He forces himself to take a step forward, then another, and again until he steps up to the front door. When he reaches out to knock, he watches the way his hand trembles, frowning at it, before carefully knocking against the door and closing his eyes. He can do this. Whatever Chris needs. He can bury his own feelings to be there for him. He can.

He will. 

The door swings open—Eddie’s mom blinks up at him. “Hello?” She asks.

She looks . . . normal. Eyes aren’t puffy, no tears. She just looks confused. 

Buck wants to give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she’s in shock, but she’s probably got some insane idea that now that Eddie’s—she might have a shot at really stealing Christopher away. He frowns at her. There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving Christopher with her. 

“Hi,” He says. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I—”

“Buck!” Helena moves out of the way, as Chris shuffles forward, grinning brightly at him. “You came! I knew you would.” 

“Buck?” Helena asks, scowling. 

Buck nods. “Chris called,” he says, softly, gaze raking over Chris. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying either. He looks . . . taller. Older. But—fine. He looks fine.

What the fuck? 

“He said—” He cuts himself off, eyebrows furrowing, a frown forming. “Chris?” 

Chris turns to his grandmother. “Can you drive us to dads?” 

She blinks down at him. “Now?” She asks. “Mijo, it’s almost ten.” 

“Dad won’t mind.” He turns back to Buck, blinking up at him. “He’ll be happy.” 

The way he says it—

What’s going on here? 

“Am I missing something?” Buck asks, narrowing his eyes at Chris. “You said your dad needed me.” 

“Needs,” Chris corrects. “I said dad needs you.” 

“Because something happened?” 

Chris tilts his head. “I didn’t say that.” 

“Chris—”

Chris turns back to Helena. “Can we go now?” 

She must be as dumbstruck as Buck is, because she doesn’t even argue. She quietly grabs her keys and motions towards the car—and Buck mindlessly follows the silent order, and traipses over to the car, like he isn’t listening to Eddie’s mom, and he isn’t in El Paso, and Eddie isn’t probably dying. 

The drive is awkward. Nobody talks.

Chris—Chris seems happy. And Buck can’t tell if it’s because he knows what he’s done and he’s proud of himself, or if it’s just this life in El Paso that’s put him there, and honestly, he doesn’t want to think too hard about it, because acknowledging that El Paso makes Chris happy means acknowledging that this will most likely be the last time he sees him, because they’ll never come back to LA.

Which means acknowledging that he had hoped they’d come back.

Which means acknowledging that he’s doing the Abby thing again—and he can’t do that. He can’t do that the same week as realizing he’s in love with Eddie. 

When they pull into a driveway that matches a zillow listing Buck looked over with Eddie, he looks at Chris, and Chris just makes a go on motion with his hands. “Go on,” he says. 

“Aren’t you coming?” 

“In a minute.” 

Helena turns to look at him. “What are you up to?” 

“I just need a second,” Chris says, batting his lashes at her, “to get out.” He looks at Buck, grinning. “Go on!” 

Buck stares at him for a long, long moment before nodding to himself and climbing out of the car, gently closing the door behind himself. He looks up at the front door, runs a hand down the front of his shirt, frowning as it catches on—he looks down, sighs.

He’s still wearing his apron. 

Because he’d been cooking dinner when Chris called. 

He shakes his head, mostly to himself, and then walks up to the door.

In LA, he had a key. In LA, he could just . . . walk in.

In El Paso, he raps his knuckles against the front door three times. And waits. 

There’s grumbling from the other side of the door, something that sounds vaguely like, “Who the hell knocks on someone’s door at 10pm?” Which is so Eddie that Buck’s heart does a little flip. “Who’s there?” That voice comes louder, more intent, closer to the door. “I have a gun.” 

Buck blinks. “You do?”

“This is—wait,” The lock clicks, and the door swings open, and Eddie’s suddenly standing there, wide eyed, hair a mess, in his sweatpants and an old t-shirt that Buck thinks might actually be his. “Buck?” He blinks, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. 

Sheepishly, Buck waves a hand, rocking back on his heels. “Hey, man.” 

Eddie’s gaze rakes over him, head to toe and back up again, mouth falling open, before it trips past him to the car in the driveway. “Mom?” 

Buck twists, following his gaze. She’s in the car, watching them—and, yeah, no she’s not happy.

She’s glowering.

Next to her, though, Chris is beaming. 

Buck turns back around; and Eddie’s still staring into the car, his mouth open, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other on the door knob. “Eds?” He asks, hesitant. 

Eddie jerks his gaze back to him. “What are you—” 

“Chris called me,” Buck says, inhaling. “I thought you were dying.” 

“He told you I was dying?” His gaze skitters back over to Chris, a frown furrowing his eyebrows. 

Buck winces. “Not . . . in so many words?” 

Those eyes come back around, and focus—flicker back and forth between Buck’s, and god—FaceTime doesn’t do them justice. He knew that, obviously. Every call they were on he’d have a though that ran along the lines of I wish this call weren’t so pixelated, and then barrel past it, refusing to acknowledge it, but standing in front of Eddie again? 

He hadn’t even had time to think about this. 

Coming face to face with Eddie post-feelings realization. 

Nothing’s changed, Eddie’s still Eddie, but now—now Buck can’t do anything but process everything he feels around him. The way he holds himself taller; the way his heart hammers in his chest and pulsates in his ears; the way his fingers twitch, like they have a mind of their own and are barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch. 

“In . . . what words, then?” 

Buck shrugs, drops his gaze to the ground between them. “He said you needed me.” 

“And you . . .” Eddie huffs a laugh. “What? Just jumped on the first flight?”

Buck bites his lower lip and nods, bringing his head back up to look at him. “I mean. Yeah?” 

“With no other info,” Eddie says, slowly, hands releasing the door and doorframe, arms coming up and defensively crossing over his chest. “My kid calls you and you don’t ask any questions, you just jump on a plane.” 

“He said you needed me,” Buck murmurs. “I had all the info I needed.”   

A car door opens behind them. “I’m going back to grandmas,” Chris calls out. 

“Like hell you are, Christopher,” Eddie says, gazing snapping back over to him. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Buck doesn’t turn to look, but he’s pretty sure if he did, he’d find Chris, leaning out of the car, looking like the smug teenager he is. “Do you want me to say it?” Chris asks. “Right here? Right now? Because—” 

“Chris,” Eddie warns. 

Buck frowns, turns back to look at him—and there it is. Smug.

But. Why? 

“I’m confused,” Buck says. “What’s happening here?” 

Eddie’s mom glares at him from the car like he’s done something deeply offensive. 

“You’re going to apologize to Buck,” Eddie says. “You dragged him out here for no reason—” 

Chris scoffs. “He doesn’t want me to apologize.”

Eddie frowns, turning back to Buck. “Tell him to apologize.” 

Buck blinks. “No?” 

“No?” 

“Clearly there’s a reason he wanted me here, right? I—I’m not going to make him apologize for feeling safe enough to call me.” 

Eddie shakes his head, mumbles something in Spanish too quick for Buck to even try to translate, and then looks over Buck’s shoulder. “We’re going to talk about how manipulating people is wrong, Christopher.” 

“Manipulating? Please.”

Eddie clenches his jaw. “Christopher—” 

“You were the one who said—” 

“Confidentiality, Chris!” 

Buck looks back and forth between them. Eddie doesn’t look truly mad, just frustrated, and like, maybe, he knows exactly why Chris dragged him here, and Chris just looks like he’s proud of himself for managing to do it in the first place. 

“You’re the one who said we have to face our fears.” 

“This doesn’t count.” 

“Sure it does.” 

“Christopher.” 

Chris laughs, and the car door shuts as he slides back into the car. He rolls the window down and says, “We’ll see you guys tomorrow!” And Eddie’s mom stares at him for a long moment, before she shakes her head, mumbling something to Chris that Buck can’t hear, and then they’re pulling out of the driveway, and Buck’s left standing here alone with Eddie.

In El Paso.

Where nobodies dying. 

Eddie stares after the car, long after it’s left, and Buck clears his throat, dragging his attention back to him. 

“So.” Eddie blinks. “You look. Not dead.” 

Eddie gives him a long look before turning and heading into the house. “Lock the door behind you, Buck.” 

Buck nods, mostly to himself, feeling a bit like he’s done something wrong, before quietly padding into the house, closing and locking the door, and following in the direction Eddie went. He finds him in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, like he thinks he’s back in the house in LA, looking for something, but it not being where he left it. 

Buck watches him for a bit, before sighing. “Eddie—”

He slams a cabinet shut, dipping his head and dropping his hands to the counter, rendering Buck silent. “You can’t be here, Buck.” 

“I—I can’t?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

Eddie just shakes his head, gaze fixed on his countertop. 

Buck contemplates taking a step towards him, but instead moves to the opposite side of the kitchen, leaning against the wall. Neither of them say anything, and the silence is almost enough to send Buck into psychological despair. Twenty, maybe thirty, minutes ago, he’d been convinced Eddie was seriously injured. 

He’d spent nearly two hours on the plane imagining all the possibilities. A fire. A car accident. A freak accident, because their lives are fucking ripe with those. 

And then he’d imagined life without Eddie. It wouldn’t be like it is now, no. now he still has nightly facetime calls and life updates and the stupid, fleeting hope that he keeps shoving further and further to the back of his mind that Eddie might come home. If he died? He wouldn’t have that. He has a couple voicemails saved. He’d have those. Probably sink into those, just so he wouldn’t forget the sound of his voice. 

He’d imagined that, too.

The day he forgets.

“Look,” He says, jolting himself from that line of repeat-thinking—Eddie’s alive, not in danger of dying, at least, in this moment—he’s not going there. “I get you’re mad, but you have to see where I’m coming from. Usually we’ve texted a couple times—or—or called. But it’d been sixteen hours since I last heard from you, and Chris—Chris has been avoiding me since he left, and suddenly he was calling me, and telling me you needed me. What was I supposed to do? Just wait for the call from your parents threatening to sue me because someone read them your will?” 

Eddie tenses. Breathes deep for a few minutes.

And then asks, so quiet Buck barely even hears it, “You know how long it’s been since I last texted you?” 

And, that’s definitely not the response to all that that he expected.

“All that, and that’s your takeaway?” He asks, shoving away from the wall. 

Eddie finally lifts his head—but he’s staring at the cabinet in front of him, hands sliding closer to his body on the countertop. “Why didn’t you tell me about Tommy?” 

Whiplash. Buck whips his head back so fast he gets whiplash. 

“What?” 

“You almost got back together with him. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

He watches the slow rise of Eddie’s shoulders, as if he’s taking a deep breath to steady himself, and then he’s turning around, clicking his jaw to the side as he looks at Buck almost . . . defiantly. “You still in love with him?” 

Fuck no. 

“In love with him?” Buck asks, gobsmacked. “Where is this coming from?” 

He never loved Tommy. He’s not even sure he ever even wanted Tommy. He’d just been too far in his own self made pit of denial to understand the jealousy was Eddie -centric. 

“I knew you were keeping something from me, so I called around—”

“Called around? What?” 

“I was worried!” 

Buck’s eyebrows rise. “So you’re allowed to be worried but I’m not?” 

“I’m fine!” He tosses his arms out at his sides. “You didn’t need to fly across the fucking country because I didn’t respond to your texts, Buck!” 

“I didn’t,” Buck says, soft, almost angrily. “Chris asked me to come, so I came. I’m well aware that friendships die long distances, Eddie. I’ve been waiting for the day you get tired of the fucking charade of wanting to upkeep this, alright? I—I’m not an idiot. I’m the guy who waits, and you’re the guy who moves on, and that’s fine.” 

Something flickers across Eddie’s face. “What?” 

“But I’m not going to ignore Chris when he calls. Five minutes, five years. It doesn’t make a difference. He calls, he asks me to come, I come. I love that kid like—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head and biting his tongue, because he’d been about to say like he’s my own. “You—you can be done with me and LA and everything else back home. But, he will always be able to call me, and I will always jump on a plane the second he asks.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Eddie replies, voice thick. “Oh my god. I cannot fathom how someone as smart as you can be so god damned—” 

Buck steps back, as if gravity’s heaving him backward. “That’s not—” 

Fair. 

That’s not fair. 

“You think I’m done with you?” Eddie asks, sounding mad and sad and everything in between and Buck doesn’t get it. He can’t figure out what’s happening, and that’s the worst part of it all because the one thing he’s spent the last few years certain he knew with absolute certainty was Eddie. “You think I’m capable of moving on? Goodbye LA, goodbye 118, goodbye Evan fucking Buckley?” He scowls, running a hand over his mouth and laughs, bitterly. “I had to come here.” 

“I know,” Buck says, voice hoarse. 

“That wasn’t a choice.” 

“I know,” Buck repeats, harder. 

Eddie heaves in a deep breath, a bit like he’s forgotten how to breathe and is trying to force his body to remember. “I’m not letting go of you, Buck,” he says, voice hoarse. “That’s the only choice I can make in all this, and I made it and I meant it.” 

“Eddie—” 

“You’re not listening!” 

“I am,” Buck murmurs, taking a careful step towards him. “It’s okay.” 

“You think I’m just going to move on with my life and forget about you?” Eddie scoffs, runs a hand desperately through his hair. “How the hell am I meant to do that if I’m in love with you?” He pauses, raises his eyebrows. “Huh? How’s that happening, Buckley? If you’ve got any ideas, I’d love to hear them, because I’m going crazy. I’m here and you’re there and I’m not going back because Chris likes it here, and he’s happy and I can’t take that from him, but you’re there and all I want to do is—” He falls back against the counter, shaking his head as his gaze goes distant. “Is hop on a plane and come back to you.” 

Buck goes still, doesn’t even breathe. 

He doesn’t think Eddie realizes what he’s just said.

Buck’s not even sure he realizes what Eddie’s just said. Or if he’s just actively rewriting everything Eddie’s saying to be what he wants to hear. 

“But I can’t,” Eddie adds on a whisper, his face crumpling. “I can’t.”

“Eds—” 

“I didn’t text you because Chimney told me you almost got back together with Tommy, and I’ve spent the last week grappling with how I feel about you, and I—” He takes another deep breath, lets it out. “I thought about you falling in love with someone and it clicked and I couldn’t face you because I—I left. ” 

The corners of the room are slowly fading black—some weird imitation of tunnel vision bringing Eddie into focus. Buck couldn’t look away if he wanted to—and even if he could, he’s not sure there’s anything else. It’s just him and Eddie and the rest of the world is gone. 

“I left,” Eddie repeats. 

Buck nods. “You had no choice.” 

“You can’t be here.” 

He takes a step towards him, careful and slow. “Why not?” 

Eddie closes his eyes. “You just can’t.” 

And Buck’s still not convinced Eddie said what he thinks he said, but that doesn’t stop him from asking, “Because you’re in love with me?” 

Eddie flinches. Sighs, almost defeated. “I didn’t mean to say that.” 

“So you’re not in love with me?” 

He opens his eyes, and glares directly at Buck, as if it’s offensive that he’s suggested as much. “Did I say that?” 

“Stop getting mad at me for not understanding what’s happening, when I have no idea what’s happening.”

“My kid spied on me talking with Chimney, and then forced me to spill my guts to him and then, as soon as I turned my back, went and called you and dragged you out here.” He sighs again, this time more resigned, waving a hand in the air. “He’s parent trapping us.” 

“He is?” 

That somehow clears everything and nothing up all at once. 

“How does he know that I’m in love with you?” Buck asks, quietly. “I only accepted that like, two weeks ago. And I haven’t even told anyone.” 

Eddie doesn’t react right away. 

He stares at Buck, silent, as if processing the statement, and then he inhales sharply, almost involuntarily. 

“You’re in love with me?” He finally asks, voice cracking. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “And you almost got back together with Tommy?” The statement is lined with outrage, but he doesn’t give Buck a chance to explain that that was not the order of events, because he’s strolling forward and grabbing the front of Buck’s apron and walking him backwards until his back meets the wall. “What the fuck?” 

Buck swallows. Eddie’s leaning in close; he can smell his soap—he’d seen it on the shelf at the store a couple weeks back, had picked it up and held it and contemplated buying it so he could pretend Eddie was still there, but chickened out because he knew the looks everyone would give him if they realized—inhales deeply, closing his eyes. He’d also thought about being this close to Eddie again, after realizing how he felt, and this—this isn’t what he imagined. 

He can’t even place those imaginings in the moment.

Because all he can feel is Eddie pressed up against him. All he can smell is Eddie’s soap. All he can taste is his own fear and hope—and hope, for the first time in his life isn’t a stagnant sour taste, it’s vibrant and sweet and—

“Eds,” He breathes. 

Eddie makes a wounded noise, and then he’s leaning in and Buck’s meeting him in the middle and—

They’re kissing.

In Eddie’s kitchen in El Paso.

They’re kissing. 

And, Buck? Buck’s kissed a lot of people in his life. Of every gender and size. 

Nothing compares.

Nothing.

To the feel of Eddie Diaz, with his day old stubble, and hands fisted in Buck’s apron. To the way his lips move against Buck’s, desperate and seeking and purposeful. Buck’s hands come up, finally, and grab onto Eddie’s waist, dragging him in closer, holding him to himself, in case Eddie get’s any crazy ideas like letting go. Eddie’s knuckles dig into the meat of Buck’s chest, and he inhales deeply, to feel the pressure, and Eddie groans against him, fists tightening in the fabric. 

Eventually, they need to breathe.

Eventually—Eddie pulls away, but he doesn’t go far, his forehead presses to Buck’s and he closes his eyes, chest heaving with the same intensity as Buck’s. Buck drags one of his hands up Eddie’s side, over his shoulder. Leaves it there, cupping the side of Eddie’s neck. 

The kitchen light flickers overhead.

“I can’t remember,” Buck murmurs. 

“What?” 

“How Parent Trap ends.” Eddie blinks, lashes fluttering as he meets Buck’s gaze, eyebrow quirking, as if trying to figure out where this line of thought starts and ends. But Buck’s already barreling forward, insistent. “Did it work? Do they get together?” 

Eddie laughs, his head rolling to the side and falling to Buck’s shoulder. His laughter rumbles through Buck’s chest, warm and vibrant, and Buck can feel his smile along the column of his throat. 

“Yeah,” He finally says, lips grazing Buck’s skin—he can feel the goosebumps rising in their wake. “They get together, Buck.” 

“Okay,” Buck replies, nodding. Eddie presses a gentle kiss to his throat, almost like he can’t stop himself, and Buck shivers, fingers digging into Eddie’s waist. “So if two divorcees, who separated their twin daughters because the divorce was that bad, and who live in entirely different countries can get back together . . .” He trails off. 

Hopes Eddie knows where he’s going with it. 

One of Eddie’s hands flattens against his chest—his palm is so large, it covers so much space—so warm; grounding. His thumb shifts up, down, up, down, up . . . “Then we can find a way to make this work?” He asks, voice rumbling through Buck’s veins. 

“I could move out here,” Buck offers. 

Eddie tenses. “No,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“Your life is in LA.” 

“Yeah, but my family is in El Paso.” 

A gust of warm air washes over Buck’s throat. “Buck . . .” 

“I’m not a bad roommate.” 

“I know that.” 

“And I cook.” Eddie huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and pressing his face into Buck’s shoulder. 

“I’m not asking you to leave the 118, Buck.” 

Buck nods, squeezing his waist. “You don’t have to ask.” 

Eddie shakes his head, before unraveling them and taking a step back. He holds his hands to Buck’s chest for a moment, watching them—as if memorizing the rise and fall of Buck’s chest beneath his hands. Buck tries not to wonder—but he’s pretty sure the last time Eddie’s hands had been on his chest had been in an attempt to get his heart to beat again, so it’s hard not to wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about. 

“I don’t want to fight,” He says, eventually, gaze rising to meet Buck’s. “Can we . . . have a couple hours where we just sit in this?” 

This.

Them. 

Because Eddie’s in love with him. 

Buck pretends to think about it, rolling his neck and making a face. “I don’t know,” he says. “What is this?” 

“You’re in love with me.” 

“Yeah, but you’re in love with me.” 

“Do you want to be dumb or do you want to come to bed with me?” 

“Why not both?” 

Eddie fully extricates himself, and Buck’s smiling, even as his hand falls back to his side, still warm from Eddie’s skin. “Come on, Dennis Quaid,” turning and heading down an unfamiliar hall.

Buck trails after him, grinning. “You calling me hot, Diaz?” 

“Something like that.” 

Chris is waiting for them in the morning.

Buck’s wearing a pair of Eddie’s sweatpants—too small—and a shirt that was definitely his before Eddie stole it—fits perfectly—and is barely opening the fridge in the kitchen when he hears, “Hey, Buck!” 

Chris’ voice is happy. 

Buck, still half asleep, closes the fridge and turns around, leaning against it as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Hey, Lindsay Lohan.” 

Chris tilts his head. “Who?” 

Buck groans. “How do you not know—” 

“I’m fourteen, not forty.”  

“You calling me old?” 

“Always.” 

“I miss when you were seven. You were so sweet. You thought I was cool.”  

Chris just grins, rolling his eyes. “Did you and dad talk?” 

“Straight to business, then?” Buck shakes his head, pushing away from the fridge and opening it. “He has orange juice and he has . . . milk, but,” He lifts the container of milk, shakes it, and the sound it emits doesn’t give liquid, so he sets it back down. “I don’t trust it. Orange juice?” 

“Orange juice sounds good.” 

He nods, grabbing the jug of orange juice and turning to the kitchen, closing the fridge with his foot. He frowns—doesn’t know where anything is here. 

“Cupboard by the sink,” Chris says, motioning to it with his head. “Did you and dad talk?” 

Buck smiles to himself, walking over to the cupboard and opening it, pulling down three cups. “Did we need to?” 

Chris groans. “Buck!” 

Buck twists the lid off the orange juice and starts pouring. “You know,” he says, slowly. “You had me worried, yesterday.” 

“That was kind of the point.” 

Buck nods, sets the jug down, and grabs two of the cups, turning to the table. “How so?” 

“I had to get you here.” 

He sets one of the cups in front of Chris, and takes the seat opposite him. “You could’ve just asked me to come,” he says, lightly, bringing his own cup to his lips and shrugging. “Still would’ve jumped on the first flight.” 

Chris watches him. “You would have?” 

Buck nods again, swallowing and setting the cup down. “Yeah,” he says. “Anytime, bud.” 

Chris nods this time, looking down at his orange juice. “What if . . .” He starts, shrugging. “What if I wanted to go back? To California?” 

“You want to go back to California?” 

Buck turns at the sound of Eddie’s voice—Eddie’s standing at the entry to the kitchen, hair a mess, and looking lighter on his feet than he did yesterday—but it’s overshadowed by the shell shocked look on his face. 

Eddie steps into the kitchen, and Buck points him towards the orange juice on the counter, before turning back to Chris. “You mean to visit, right?” 

Chris blinks, like he’s going to call Buck stupid, and says. “No.” 

“I thought you liked it here?” 

He shakes his head. “I mean . . . it’s okay. But I miss the house. And my friends. And the fire station. And—” He motions to Buck, as if to say you.

And Buck’s heart does this dangerous little pattern—as if asking if this means what he thinks it means.

They both turn to Eddie, where he’s leaning against the counter, watching them, sipping his orange juice. 

“I don’t want to pull you out of school so close to the end of the year,” he says, eventually, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. “And . . . I’d have to sell the house. And see if Bobby meant it when he said I’d always have a place at the 118—”

“He did,” Buck says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, because Eddie’s mouth curls at the corner. 

“And seeing as I’m broke right now, Buck would have to be okay with us staying with him for a while—”

“I’m good with forever, actually,” Buck says, hope brimming brightly in his chest, turning to Chris. “If that’d be cool with you.” 

Chris watches him for a beat—and then he does the most miraculous thing—he smiles. 

“So, we’d be like. A family?” He asks. 

Buck turns to Eddie, and Eddie’s eyes are glistening, and his knuckles are turning white around the cup. 

“Would you want that?”

It takes everything Buck not to turn to him and beg him to say yes.

“Dad,” Chris groans. “Come on.” 

“Just want to make sure. I have to know this is what you want. And you’re not just saying it because you think it’s what I want.” 

Chris rolls his eyes. “So, it’s what you want?” 

“You already know it is,” Eddie says, softly, and Buck turns, he’s watching him. Something soft and dreamy in his expression, and Buck may get a little lost in it. 

“So you did talk,” Chris says, his tone accusing. “Are you guys in love now?” 

Eddie looks to the ceiling, groaning; says something in spanish, that Buck thinks loosely translates to, lord help me.

“I—” Buck says, turning to Chris. “I think—there’s still a lot to talk about and—” 

Chris gives him a withering look. “Tell me you didn’t turn him down.” 

“As if I could.” 

The look disappears, and a grin replaces it. “So you’re . . .” 

Eddie clears his throat. “We hadn’t gotten that far.” 

Chris shakes his head. “Old people are so dumb,” he mutters. 

“Hey!” Eddie exclaims. 

“I’m not that old,” Buck mutters to the table, frowning. 

“Monica at school, she said her dad’s gay, and he has a boyfriend. You and Buck could be boyfriends. ”

Eddie drops his cup in the sink and claps his hands. “We are not having this conversation.” 

“Why not?” 

“Chris.” 

Chris rolls his eyes, turning to Buck. “He’s so sensitive.” 

Buck nods, wrapping his hands around his cup. If his brain goes places it shouldn’t, it’s not his fault, so he just numbly nods in agreement. “You can say that again.” 

“Evan Buckley.” 

Buck looks up, chastised, and frowns. “What?” 

Eddie glowers at him, but there’s no heat in it. “You know.”  

He can’t help smiling, tilting his head to the side. “I do.” 

“I think I’ve made a dire mistake,” Chris mumbles. “I thought you guys were gross when you didn’t know what you were doing, but now, it’s ten times worse.” He sighs, pushing his chair back. “Anyways, Sienna and Al want to go to the movies, who’s taking me?” 

“We both will,” Eddie says. “We just need to get dressed.” 

Buck nods, and Eddie clears his throat. “Oh, now? Gotcha,” He grins at Chris, pushing up from the table and following Eddie back down the hall, a new pep in his step.

He steps into the room, and the door closes behind him, and before he can even look for Eddie, he’s there, pushing Buck up against the wall. 

“Well, hello,” Buck says, grinning. 

“I don’t have to choose,” Eddie whispers, reverently, his gaze raking over Buck’s face, almost in wonderment, and Buck’s heart gives an extra little bump in appreciation. 

“You don’t have to choose,” he says, just in case Eddie didn’t quite get the memo. 

Eddie laughs, this little amazed sound, like he can’t believe things are going right, and Buck tucks his chin and presses a kiss to his lips; swallows down that laugh, and lets it become a part of him. Eddie’s laughter, Eddie’s joy, Eddie’s happiness and relief and hope all ease into him as easily as oxygen. His blood absorbs it, and it rushes through his veins like it’s right where it was meant to be, even if they aren’t. Yet. 

“You know,” Buck says, after a moment, “Chris doesn’t know who Lindsay Lohan is? I don’t think he’s even seen Parent Trap.” 

Eddie groans. “That’ll be the first thing on the agenda when we move back.” 

Not if.

When.