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Chapter Text

Eddie had a reputation for weaseling his way out of dates.

When Pepa had gotten it into her head that she was the only thing standing between him and a long, sad future of bachelorhood and eventual death alone, she’d started trying to set him up with everyone from her neighbor’s cousin to her hairdresser’s lawyer.

At first, he’d tried the obvious excuse: Chris. Chris wasn’t feeling well, Chris had a project due, Chris had a friend’s birthday party and Eddie had to stay the whole time. So Pepa started a tradition she called Tía Tuesdays—Eddie thought Tía Traps was more appropriate—where she’d get Chris from school once a week and have him sleep over her house.

After that, Eddie had to get a bit more creative with his excuses—last minute shift coverage, headaches, car trouble, PTA meetings. And whenever he was really backed into a corner, he usually just gave up and leveled with whatever poor woman had been bullied into meeting up with him; he was a widowed single father who had a lot of shit to do, and finding his future wife was not on the list.

He’d finally curtailed Pepa’s meddling when he came out—though after the third time he tried to dodge a date with a c-list actress-slash-model, he didn’t think she was very surprised—and she said she’d give him some time to ‘explore.’ Whatever she thought that meant, he didn’t want to know. But he was pretty sure she was about to start dipping into her rolodex, this time to ask about sons, brothers, nephews, and other eligible male acquaintances.

Which was one of the reasons he was, actually, looking forward to tonight. It was just drinks, so it might not qualify as a real first date, but it was with a guy, who was definitely into men, and possibly, for some reason, into Eddie, specifically. And for the first time in his life, Eddie wasn’t dreading it. He was a little terrified, maybe; but there was something soft about the terror that was different from the feeling he usually got before dates. Like his stomach was full of butterflies, for once, instead of, like, knives.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d set up this not-officially-a-date date for himself. Maybe it was the guy he was meeting. But for whatever reason, Eddie actually, really didn’t want to wriggle out of it this time.

Which made this extremely frustrating.

It wasn’t his most generous thought, he reminded himself, as he climbed back out of his car, into the uncharacteristically persistent LA rain, to check on his coworker, who seemed to be well on her way to an emotional breakdown in the car next to his.

She didn’t know that he’d timed it exactly so that if he left the Dispatch Center when his shift ended and drove directly to the bar, he’d be five minutes early—no time to go home and change, no time to second-guess himself.  She didn’t know that he’d been waiting for this date for months; in some ways, his whole life.

She also didn’t know that she reminded him of his sister, Adriana, and that he absolutely couldn’t get into his car and drive away after seeing her, crying alone in a rainy parking lot over a flat tire and who knew what else.

The rain pelted him as he rounded her car to the driver’s side door. Through the deluge, he could see her hunched over the steering wheel; her brown hair was obscuring her face, but her shoulders shook and gave her away. He felt a tug in his stomach, equal parts empathy and discomfort: crying women were not his forte.

Still, he had two little sisters, and, for a while, a wife, and if he’d learned anything from them, it was cries like this meant something was really wrong.

He glanced at his watch—7:02, he had three minutes to leave and still be on time—and then reached out and tapped on her window.

She jumped at the noise, flinching so hard that he felt the need to apologize. When she saw it was him, she hastily rubbed at her eyes and then rolled down the window, even though that meant she was getting rained on, too.

“Eddie?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

“Hey, Maddie,” he said, and he meant to keep his voice soft but ended up practically yelling over the rain. “You okay?”

“Oh,” she said, like she was surprised by the question. She wiped the tears off her cheeks again and forced out a very unconvincing laugh. “Yeah,” she said, gesturing to herself like, oh this, this is nothing. “Don’t mind me, I just got a flat and, you know, therapeutic cry and­­–and all that.”

Whatever was causing her to act like a human hosepipe didn’t seem very therapeutic, but he decided to keep that thought to himself. “Do you have a spare?” he asked, instead.

“I—yeah,” she said. “But this rain—”

“I can change it,” he offered. He was already soaked to the bone, at this point, so he might as well. “It’ll take fifteen minutes.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t ask you to do that. I won’t—it’ll be fine.”

“Come on,” he tried again. “One time my sister made me change her tire while a literal tornado was in sight. It was far off, but—” he broke off. He’d been trying to ease her into accepting the help, but apparently whatever he said was the absolute wrong thing. Maddie’s face crumpled before he even finished the sentence, and she’d started again with such big, wrenching sobs that he was legitimately concerned she might start hyperventilating.

Fuck. “Oh, uh,” he said, trying to figure out if they were close enough that he should pat her on the shoulder. He decided to err on the side of caution and not.

Maddie had started two months ago, and no one knew very much about her. She was friendly enough in the breakroom, and her desk was next to his, so he knew she was good at her job. But she never volunteered extra information, never started conversations first.

He’d heard Linda try to ask her about where she was from, and she’d just vaguely said “the Northeast,” before escaping to the bathroom. One time Josh stopped by to comment on the postcards she had hanging up at her desk, and she picked up a call so fast that she was halfway through talking down a panicked teenager before Josh got the memo and moved on.

Eddie certainly wasn’t winning any awards for being open with his emotions, but he liked his coworkers, and they all knew enough for small talk: that he had a son named Chris, and that he was from Texas, that he was in desperate need of some easy weeknight recipes.

Maddie Daniels, on the other hand, was a total enigma.

Which was also why this sudden sob-fest was so alarming. Everyone was used to new recruits having breakdowns in their first few weeks on the job; it was standard, in their line of work. But Maddie had been poised and professional the whole time, unflappable even during some pretty dark calls, from what Eddie could hear.

Was an emergency the reason for this? It must have been a doozy.

“Can I—uh, can I call anyone for you?” he tried.

That noise Maddie made at that was such a wrenching, agonized sound that Eddie felt his heart break a little, just from hearing it.

“Okay, okay,” he said, feeling the urge to hold his hands up like people did when they approached injured animals in the wild. She was shaking her head and repeating no, until that dissolved into hiccups. Eddie watched her for a moment, then glanced down at his watch, then up across the street, where there was a dive bar that had dark booths and friendly waitstaff. Some of the dispatchers liked to go there for drinks after shifts; Eddie had only been once or twice, on a Tuesday.

“Hey,” he tried again, feeling the rain pelt his hair, dripping down his face. He held a hand up to shield his eyes and waited for Maddie to look up again. “The rain should stop within the hour. Why don’t we grab a drink at Lowell’s and wait for a break in the weather, and then we’ll get your new tire on and you can get home?”

She was watching him, her eyes roving his face even as tears leaked down her cheeks. After a moment, she said, “look, Eddie. You seem really nice, but I’m not looking for . . .” she trailed off, gesturing at him, and it took him ten whole seconds to realize what she was implying.

He didn’t think he could be faulted for being so slow on the uptake, because who found a woman sobbing in her car and thought time to shoot my shot? It made him worry about the kind of men Maddie knew, if she thought that was what was going on here.

“Oh, no, uh—I’m gay,” he clarified. It was the first time he’d said it out loud to a stranger. It was nice, how normal it felt to say. How he could offer it up, like it was a good thing; not like something he needed to apologize for. “I actually—” he broke off. He almost said I actually have a date tonight, because he got the sense that then Maddie would definitely not take him up on his offer.

And even though regret was actively banging around the back of his head as he thought of the text he’d have to send to cancel tonight, he found that he genuinely wanted Maddie to say yes. He just—he didn’t want to leave her alone, like that.

“Come on,” he tried again. “One drink, one tire—you’ll be good as new. I’ll even let you pay.”

She let out a small, watery laugh. “You’re sure you don’t have anywhere to be?” she asked. “Don’t you have a kid?”

“He’s at a sleepover tonight,” Eddie answered her second question and ignored her first. “You’ll like Lowell’s.”

Her red-rimmed eyes looked past him, then, a thousand-yard stare that Eddie knew, intimately, was from the heavy weight of grief. And then she blinked, and nodded, and climbed out of her car, into the rain.

When they got to Lowell’s, he directed Maddie towards a booth in the back and went to the bar to get their drinks—a Miller Lite for him, a pinot noir for her. He ordered from the bartender and then pulled out his phone; his gut twisted when he saw the last message: can’t wait for tonight!

He started typing a message four times, deleting each one, even though his drafts just kept getting longer and more rambling. He finally settled on: hey! I am really, really sorry to do this, but I think I have to cancel. My coworker is having car trouble and as I’m writing this I realize this sounds like a dumb excuse but she seems really upset and I told her I’d wait until the rain cleared and I could help change her flat, because it sounds like she doesn’t have anyone else to call. I hope it’s not going to take too long but I don’t want to keep you waiting. Can I call you after, so we can figure out rescheduling?

“Here you go,” said the bartender, breaking his train of thought and pushing two drinks forward on the bar. Eddie tucked his phone back into his pocket and tried not to think about it. He’d understand. He definitely would. He was practically a knight in shining armor himself, he’d be fine with Eddie canceling for such a good reason.

And Eddie had waited months at this point. What was one more week?

By the time he returned to their table with the drinks, Maddie had rallied considerably. There was a small pile of crumpled napkins tucked into the corner of the table, and her eyes were still a little bloodshot, but you wouldn’t be able to tell anything was wrong if you weren’t looking for it.

He slid into the seat and pushed the wine glass towards her, and then opened with the line his sisters had taught him for situations like this: “so,” he said, keeping it light. Concerned, but with no pressure. “You wanna talk about it?”

Maddie’s eyes watered up again, but she blinked a few times, clearing them. She put her fingers on the stem of the wine glass and turned it, slowly, like a nervous habit, except more subtle. After a moment, she said, “you don’t want to hear my sob story.”

He shrugged. “Who better to talk to then a 9-1-1 dispatcher? We’re trained for disasters, you know.”

She let one side of her mouth tug up, a miserable gesture at a real smile.

“I did two tours in Afghanistan,” he told her. “I’m a single father. Most of my family are Texan Catholics and I just came out of the closet like, six months ago.”

“I know,” Maddie said. “I mean, I didn’t know any of that,” she clarified, at his alarmed look. “I just mean—I know, a flat tire is nothing—”

“No,” Eddie interrupted. “I’m not trying to, like, outdo you, here. I’m just telling you that I’ve seen some shit. You’re not going to ruin my day with whatever you’re dealing with, okay? You can tell me.” 

She studied him, for a moment. “You’re really good at this,” she commented.

And he could have pointed out that they were both professionally trained in getting people to be honest in times of crisis, but, credit where credit was due. “I have two younger sisters. They taught me well.”

Maddie’s face crumpled again, but no tears leaked out this time; it was just a flicker of anguish across her face. She took a small sip from her glass, and then a second, larger one. When she put the glass down, she kept her eyes on her coaster and asked it, “two younger sisters, huh?”

Her voice was tight, wobbly.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I, uh—” she cleared her throat, started again. “I had two younger brothers.”

A few tears escaped, then, dripping down her cheeks and hitting the table with tiny splashes. Had, he thought. Fuck.

“Sorry,” she said, grabbing a new napkin to wipe her eyes. “Sorry, I just—I never talk about—”

“It’s okay,” he promised. “You can tell me.”

The words poured out of her then, like he’d unlocked a door. “D–Daniel, he . . . he died when we were kids. Leukemia,” she explained. It was like when he finally said the right thing and got Chris to open up about his feelings—he felt satisfied and relieved and also a little scared, of the amount of trust being handed to him. Of not knowing the right thing to say back.

“My parents didn’t know how to cope, you know? And they’d had my other brother in the middle of that, so he could be a donor baby, which, like, is its own thing, I know. It didn’t even work. But I didn’t really get it then, I was eleven at the time, and he was just this cute, perfect little baby, who arrived in the middle of all that sadness.”

Eddie thought about Chris; the tiny bright spot who didn’t realize he’d been born into a messy household full of repression and regrets. He understood what she meant; the way that uncomplicated love can feel like a lifeline in the darkness.

“Evan,” she told him, breathing out the word like a prayer. “He was so happy, so easygoing. My parents didn’t—they were lost in their grief, and they just—but Evan was mine, you know? I missed Daniel so much, but Evan . . .” she trailed off, smiling for real that time, but it was so anguished Eddie could barely stand to look at it.

Maddie twirled her wineglass stem again.

“What happened?” he asked, after a minute; but only because he could tell she wanted to talk about it.

“I hardly even know,” she said, pain lacing the words. “That’s the most fucked up part, you know? He—I left. I had to get out of that house eventually, and I saw my chance and . . . I knew it was going to hurt him. Being left behind with them. I did. And I did it anyway.”

She looked up and caught his expression, and explained. “They didn’t—they just—they were sucking the life out of him. They were so stuck in their grief, they could never see past what his body couldn’t do for Daniel and—” she paused, blowing her nose in another napkin. “He had to get out of there. He tried to get me to come with him, but I was a fucking idiot and—”

Her words were barely making sense anymore, but Eddie knew this wasn’t about what he understood; it was just about Maddie, letting it all out.

“He was nineteen by then, and it was going to crush him, if he stayed. I gave him my jeep and told him to go, you know? Just get out. I could have run, too. Started fresh with him. It would have been fun,” she said, her voice cracking on the word. “Everything’s so fun with him. So easy. He’s—he was,” she corrected, grief painting every word, “he was the kind of person who made everything seem like an adventure.”

Eddie could almost picture him, a bright-eyed boy, grinning as he drove with his windows down. No one had ever described Eddie like that; he barely knew anyone like that. It felt special. It reminded him of the man he hoped wasn’t mad at him for the text he’d sent tonight.

“He sent me postcards, for a while,” she went on. “Those are—if you’ve seen them at my desk. They’re all from Evan. Even though I didn’t go with him, he just kept throwing out that lifeline for me. We always said it was us against the world but . . . he was out there, by himself. And he kept trying to get me to—”

She took another big gulp of wine, emptying the glass.

“He was in LA. That was the last postcard I got from him, before—” she broke off. “I don’t even know—my husband got the call, from the hospital. You know those bombings that were happening in LA, a few months back? Apparently, he got caught up in one of them and—” she stopped, again, glaring at the ketchup bottle on the table. After a moment, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. With her eyes still closed, she confided, “today—it would have been his birthday.”

And—oh. No wonder she had broken down over a flat tire. Last year on Shannon’s birthday, Eddie had teared up at a dead squirrel he drove past on the side of the road.

“Oh, Maddie,” he said, softly.

“He would have been 28,” she said. “Sometimes it just hits me that I’m the only sibling who survived. I’m still alive, and I nearly—” she broke off. Picked up her wine glass, realized it was empty, and put it back down. “I had to get out, after, I just had to go. I came to LA, because it was the last place he’d been, and he’d seemed happy here. But I can’t feel any of that, you know? The truth is, I don’t know anything real about him anymore.”

She made a noise then, something so sad it couldn’t be called a laugh. “I ran away from my entire life so I could chase his ghost. And I can’t even find it.”

Eddie’s chest ached for her. Her loneliness was so palpable it was like a third person at their table. He imagined her brother’s ghost in the bar with them, a bright-eyed specter, reaching out, unseen. 

They weren’t so different, he realized. If he hadn’t had Chris—if he’d come back from overseas and had been dealt one more blow, one more loss. But he had Chris. And Pepa and abuela, and LA had always felt like a haven, a place to escape to. Not the empty city it was for Maddie.

“Then find him.”

She looked up. “What?”

“You said you can’t find him here. Maybe if you learn more about his life in LA, the people he knew, the places he went—maybe it’ll feel more like—”

He stopped, wondering if he was overstepping. He was about to say “like home,” which was a bit presumptuous. But for some reason he just felt like he really didn’t want Maddie to give up on her new life in California. Maybe it was because he knew first-hand how hard it was to start over. Maybe it was because she was a really good dispatch operator. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” Maddie admitted, something tight in her voice. “Meeting his friends, his roommates, if I can even find them, I don’t—”

“Okay,” Eddie agreed. “Start small then. What did he like?”

Maddie huffed out a small laugh. She looked around the bar for a moment, and then said, “honestly? Places like this. He worked as a bartender, when he was in Virginia Beach and Peru. I could see him in a place like this.”

Eddie held up his drink. “To Evan, then.”

She clinked her empty glass against his and smiled a watery smile. “To Evan,” she repeated, softly. “He would have liked you, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie replied, self-deprecating. “He bartended in Peru. I’m usually asleep by nine, after reading my kid bedtime stories.”

Maddie didn’t laugh; she just looked a little wistful. “No,” she said. “He had good instincts about people. He didn’t always listen to them,” she admitted. “But he knew. When people were kind.”

Eddie didn’t really know what to say to that. After talking to Maddie for only a few hours, he could already tell she didn’t have a higher compliment than ‘my brother would have liked you.’

“What else?” he asked, instead of replying. “What else did he like? You should make a list of places in LA to go to. Things that remind you of him.”

“Yeah,” agreed Maddie. “Maybe I should.” She glanced towards the front of the bar, then, and Eddie followed her gaze. The rain had stopped.

“You want another drink?” he offered. “Or just a new tire?”

“Just the tire, I think.”

They left the bar, then. Maddie insisted on paying, leaving cash on the table for the bartender, and they went back to the dispatch parking lot where he made quick work of swapping out the tires. The jeans he’d picked out for the date—the ones Linda had said really worked for him—now had dirty knees and a few grease stains; but he could go home and drop them directly in the wash.

A glance at his watch told him it was nearing ten o’clock. The urge to check his phone for replies rushed back with a vengeance.

“Thank you, Eddie,” Maddie said, after he finished putting the jack and lug wrench back in the storage compartment in his pick-up.

“It’s no problem,” he said, easily. “I used to help out at my tío’s autobody shop. It’s good to know I’ve still got it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

“Either way,” he said, shrugging. And then, unexpectedly, Maddie stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. 

“Sorry,” she apologized, still holding him tight around the middle. After the initial shock, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, the way he hugged Adriana or Sophia. “Just needed a hug from a brother,” she said, sniffling.

“Anytime,” he promised; surprised to find he meant it.

“Okay,” she said, pulling back and wiping at her eyes again. “I’m going to stop crying all over you, now,” she said, letting go and moving to get into her car. “See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

“Good night, Maddie,” he said. He watched her car pull out of the lot, feeling a strange mix of happy and sad; mostly, heartsick. He put her busted, deflated tire into the bed of his truck to deal with later, and then pulled out his phone as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

He had a missed call, and four missed messages.

Hey! just got here. snagged a table near the back.

U ok? No prob if u got hung up at work.

Eddie?

Ok message received.

And at the bottom of the screen, sitting unsent, was Eddie’s message about canceling.

Fuck. He’d stood Buck up.

Chapter Text

Today was Buck’s birthday, and it was not going well.

It had started out with a lot of promise. He decided to wake up early and go to the beach, because it seemed like a good way to start off a new year of his life. Twenty-seven had kicked him in the ass, a bit, if he was being honest. But he had a good feeling about twenty-eight.

By the time he parked at the beach, storm clouds had rolled in over the ocean, making the sky look unusually bleak, especially for LA. He should have known, then.

He was still feeling optimistic at the time, though, so he detoured to one of the kitschy souvenir stands lining the boardwalk and found a postcard that had Santa Monica pier on it. With a pang, he realized it had been almost a year since he wrote to Maddie; at first, he’d been so busy finishing up the Academy and trying to prove his place at the 118—especially after getting fired—and then, after, he hadn’t felt in the mood to write. What was he going to say?

Dear Maddie, I fell in love with an amazing woman, and then she fled the country.

Dear Maddie, it took me two months to realize Abby broke up with me. I thought she might have been the one.

Dear Maddie, someone blew up a ladder truck and it landed on me. Ouch.

Dear Maddie, the doctors say I have to stay on blood thinners for the foreseeable future, and now my captain won’t take me off of light duty.

Dear Maddie, I really, really wish you were here.

Those updates were all too bleak for a sunny LA postcard; he hadn’t had the heart to buy a stamp and ruin her day with any of that. If she was even still reading these. That’s what he’d thought, the last few times he’d seen a postcard stand and thought of his sister.

But two months ago, something changed.

He’d been back at the 118 for a few weeks, and Bobby still was adamantly refusing to let him do anything more strenuous than the tasks kids do during field trips to the station. He was pretty sure that if he tried sliding down the poll, Bobby would put him on bedrest.

Halloween was no exception. Buck was sick to death of clocking in only to do chores and be man-behind, which, on Halloween, meant he was in charge of candy distribution to kids that trick-or-treated at the station. He loved kids, he did—but there was something maddening about constantly being sidelined that was slowly killing Buck’s spirit. He tried to listen to Chim’s pep talks about earning his way back out in the field, but he was starting to think Bobby would never think he was ready.

Case in point: when the team returned from a call and Buck reported that he’d given out all of the candy, safety pamphlets, and smoke detectors, Bobby told him he’d done a good job. And then he’d suggested Buck take the rest of his shift off.

As if his shift had been so taxing. As if he didn’t realize that the only thing Buck was at risk of was death by boredom.

Still—Chimney was giving him a look, and Buck decided he’d swallow his retort and do what Bobby said. He’d go home, and then he’d compile every piece of medical records, studies, and advice into a comprehensive book of proof that he was ready to be a real firefighter again. And if that didn’t work, he’d beg his doctor to come to the station and talk to Bobby in person.

But then he stopped for gas on the way home, and in the parking lot, he saw a man stuck in a car windshield.

Maybe if it was after a full 48, he would have dismissed it as his brain playing tricks on him. But he wasn’t even tired—Bobby had sent him home after a pathetic six hours on the job—so he was perfectly alert when he saw the man’s leg move.

He caught a glimpse of the driver and the impressive shiner on her forehead as she peeled out of the parking lot, and he knew something was very, very wrong. He jumped in his car and started pursuit, dialing 9-1-1 as he drove.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“This is LAFD firefighter Evan Buckley, off-duty from station 118. I’m going south down Vermont following a gold four door sedan. There is a man embedded in the windshield.”

“I’m sorry, did you say in the windshield?”

“Yeah—”

“You know it’s Halloween,” the dispatcher reminded him. As if he hadn’t spent the last five hours being bullied by kids in costumes.

“I’m aware,” he replied, speeding up even faster to follow the car through a yellow light. “I’m a firefighter. I think I can tell the difference between a prop and a hit-and-run.”

“Well, if the man is still in the windshield, it’s not really a hit-and-run, is it?”

 “Can you just send an ambulance to my location?”

“Already done.”

“Good, I’m about to intercept.”

“Wait—”

But Buck was done listening to the know-it-all dispatcher. He sped up and started shouting at the other driver, using his jeep to steer her off the road, onto the shoulder. He left his car running while he got out, while he led the confused woman to the curb, while he checked on the man. It wasn’t until the ambulance arrived and took over that Buck stepped back towards his car and realized the call was still going on.

He grabbed his phone out of the cupholder and disconnected from the Bluetooth, bringing it to his ear. If the dispatcher was still on, he deserved to hear an update; Abby had told him many times about how frustrating it was, to always be left with a cliffhanger when help arrived on scene.

“Still there?” he asked.

“Still here,” said the man.

“They think he’s going to be okay,” Buck told him.

“Holy shit, thank god,” said the man. It was so unprofessional. Buck couldn’t help but like him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like he was out biking when she hit him. The woman has a brain bleed—they think she just never realized.”

“I looked it up in our system,” the dispatcher told him. “We’ve gotten fourteen calls about it since yesterday. Everyone else thought it was a joke.”

Buck hissed out a breath. Since yesterday? That was a long time to be embedded in a windshield.

“You were the only one who did anything about it,” the man continued.

“Well, it is my job,” Buck said.

“Still,” he said. “If he survives, it’s because of you.” It was the first time in weeks that Buck had felt like he was any sort of use to anyone. It felt good.

“You too,” he insisted. “Dispatcher—?”

“Eddie,” he said, and then after a moment, added, “Diaz. Eddie Diaz.”

Before Buck had the chance to respond, one of the medics from the scene headed towards him. “Hold that thought, Eddie Diaz,” he said, moving the phone against his chest as he spoke to the approaching EMT. “Hey, man—do you need anything else from me?”

“Do you?” the man asked, gesturing to Buck’s left arm, where a thin cut sliced across his forearm. Blood was dripping down, soaking through his sleeve. He must gotten it from the broken windshield glass, but in all the excitement, he hadn’t realized. “That cut looks pretty bad.”

Well, fuck. This was not going to help his case with Bobby. “Ah, it does, doesn’t it,” he said, more statement than question. “I should probably tell you I’m on blood thinners.”  

“I think you should come with us in the ambulance,” he said. “They can glue it up for you at the ER. Let me go grab you something to wrap it up for the drive.”

Buck thanked him and then put the phone back up to his ear. “Well, looks like we’re all good here—”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Oh,” said Buck. He’d raised his left arm up above his head to try to stem the flow, and he felt like a bit of an idiot in that position—one arm up like he was trying to get called on in class, the blood now dripping the other way and staining the top of his sleeve. A first responder who needed his own rescue. “Yeah. A little. Must’ve knicked it on the windshield earlier.”

“Did you tell the medic you’re on blood thinners?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I used to be a medic too, so I’m guessing it’s definitely more than a little.”

“Eh,” said Buck, lifting his shoulder in a shrug, even though Eddie couldn’t see him. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

“Aw,” Buck said, feeling himself grin, despite the fact that his pain receptors were finally alerting him to the injury. “You worried about me?”

“Well, it is my job,” Eddie repeated back to him. “Do you want me to call anyone for you?”

“Nah,” said Buck. The less Bobby knew of this, the better. “My team at the 118 would freak out. It’s really not that bad.”

“They just advised you to ride in the ambulance.”

“You medic types are always too cautious,” Buck retorted. He looked up and saw the EMT waving him towards the front seat, holding up a roll of gauze. At least he wouldn’t have to sit in the back. “Speaking of—looks like my ride is about to leave. Thanks for the assist, Eddie Diaz.”

“Happy to have your back, firefighter Buckley.”

“Buck,” he said. “My friends call me Buck.”

“Are we friends now?”

“I don’t know, I think we make a good team,” Buck said. The words just slipped out and with a jolt, Buck realized—they were flirting.

He was flirting with a dispatcher again.

Was he ever going to learn?

“Is that still a call?” he could hear another voice in the background of Eddie’s side.

“Jesus, Josh, how long have you been standing there?” Eddie sounded aggrieved; the switch in tone so sudden it almost made Buck laugh.

“You know all of these calls are recorded, right?”

“It’s not my first day on the job.”

“Then you should remember that this is an emergency helpline, not a sex hotline.”

“Oh my god—firefighter Buckley, I gotta go. Feel better. Thanks for—bye.”

And despite himself, despite the fact that Buck really shouldn’t tempt history to repeat itself by following the exact steps that led to his trampled, aching heart, he was a little charmed by dispatcher Eddie Diaz.

It was the first time he’d flirted with someone since Abby. The first time he’d wanted to. That was it, though—a fluke incident. A good sign that he was almost ready to move on.

That didn’t mean he had to move on with a funny, kind 9-1-1 dispatcher, who would probably just break his heart, too.

The hospital had ended up calling Bobby, anyway, since he was his emergency contact; and despite Buck’s concern that Bobby would use his cut as an excuse to bench him forever, he actually seemed to come around to the idea that Buck’s blood thinners didn’t make him a total liability. Maybe it was because he’d been responsible enough to take himself to the ER; maybe it was just that Buck looked so pathetic that Bobby took pity on him.

Either way, it meant that Buck was back on shift for real, and that no one was treating him with kid gloves anymore. Which was great, except timing-wise, it meant everyone now thought it was fair game to mock him mercilessly when a package arrived for him at the station.

“I didn’t order anything,” he told Bobby, when he dropped the envelope in front of him on the table.

“Well that’s good,” Hen said, leaning over Buck’s shoulder to glance at the address. “I’d be worried if you started ordering things to yourself as Firefighter Buckley.”

“It doesn’t—oh,” said Buck, reading the label and realizing she was right. He tore the package open, and inside was a box of bandages labeled Quik-Clot, with bold, italic lettering declaring: Stops Bleeding 5x faster! Advanced Clotting Gauze! US Military Proven!

There was also one of those slips of paper that indicated it had been shipped as a gift. Buck had no idea why his fingers were shaking a little when he picked it up and read Can never be too cautious. —Eddie

“Oh, that’s the good stuff,” Chimney said, reaching across the table to pick it up and read the box. “One of those things we’d stock if they funded us like the LAPD.”

“Who’s it from?” Hen asked.

“We don’t stock certain medical supplies because it’s too expensive?” Buck asked.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Hen replied. “Who sent you this?”

“Uh—”

Chim reached forward and snatched the gift note out of his hand before Buck could think of a plausible lie. “Eddie? Who is Eddie?”

“Cap,” Buck whined, looking at Bobby for help. Bobby, unfortunately, was now reading the note over Chimney’s shoulder and looking equally intrigued,

“He’s no one,” Buck insisted. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about someone who is clearly concerned with your well-being,” Chimney said, holding up the Quik-Clot like it was evidence.

“It’s—he’s the dispatcher,” Buck said, giving in. “The one I called to report the guy in the windshield. He was on the line when the medic realized I was bleeding. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

Hen, Chim, and Bobby all made eye contact with each other after that. As the silence grew, Buck reached forward and grabbed the note back out of Chimney’s hand. He knew what they were thinking: there he goes again.

But they were wrong. He wasn’t going to fall for another dispatcher. He wasn’t going to recklessly hand his heart over to another charming stranger who was good at talking on the phone, right up until they weren’t. 

“Well,” Hen spoke, finally, and pushed the Quik-Clot back towards Buck. “That was nice of him,” she said, diplomatically. She might as well have said you’re doomed.  

And, after that, he kind of was. Because it suddenly felt like every call the 118 got was from Dispatcher Eddie Diaz.

Six hours into that shift, they were on the way back to the station from a call involving a warehouse and a rogue robot when dispatch intercepted.

“118, there’s an incident at an ice-skating rink around the block from you. Are you available to respond?”

Eddie’s voice came over the truck radio, and Buck—well, he didn’t flinch, exactly. But he did react to the voice in a way that immediately caught Chim and Hen’s attention.

“Is that him?” Chim asked, mercilessly.

“Shut up,” Buck hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough that Bobby wouldn’t notice.

In the front seat, Bobby keyed the radio, and said, “copy—we’re available to respond.” Eddie gave them the address; it was so close that the driver didn’t even bother flicking the engine lights on. “What are we looking at?”

“A mishap during some sort of performance,” Eddie’s voice replied. He did, Buck hated to admit, have a really nice voice. Hen waggled her eyebrows in the seat across from him. He ignored her. “Two injuries from the skates. One person got a few fingers sliced off, the other has an ice skate imbedded in his chest.”

“Ouch,” Chimney said, wincing.

“Thanks,” said Bobby. “Anything else we need to know?”

“Just to be careful on the ice,” Eddie said. Buck did not find that endearing.

“Got it,” Bobby replied, and Buck almost let out a sigh of relief, but then Bobby lifted the radio again, like a traitor, and asked, “one more thing—is this Eddie?” 

“Uh, yes, sir, this is Eddie Diaz.”

“Thanks for looking after our boy Buck the other night.” Bobby didn’t even do Buck the courtesy of turning around to see how furiously Buck was glaring at him. “That was a good call on the Quik-Clot.”

“So—he, uh, got the package, then?”

Bobby keyed the radio again and this time held it out, in case anyone in the backseat wanted to get a message across. Which, of course, Buck did not. But then Chimney elbowed him, hard, in the ribs, and Buck let out a pained squawk, which Eddie probably heard, so then Buck would just seem like an asshole if he didn’t say anything.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he yelled, turning to glare at Chimney. Why was everyone on A shift trying to sabotage him?

“Anytime, Buck,” Eddie said, and even through the radio static, his voice managed to sound soft. Buck hated everyone. “Good luck out there, 118.”

Bobby clicked the radio again and said, “copy—thanks,” but before he clicked off, Chimney and Hen both shouted “bye, Eddie!” from the backseat, like they’d planned it. They were so immature.

Buck kicked Chim in the shin.

Luckily Chim didn’t have time to retaliate, because they were pulling up at the ice-skating rink; but unluckily, he didn’t need to, because Buck wiped out on the ice, entirely of his own accord.

The first few calls with Eddie after that were enough to inspire teasing, but not enough for Buck to break his new stay-single-and-don’t-flirt-with-dispatchers rule.

Eddie sent them to a four-car pile-up and added, “tell Buck to stay away from windshields,” which earned him a lot of ribbing from Hen and Chim. He sent them to a scene where a deer had gotten into someone’s backyard and kicked over their firepit, and he slipped in, “don’t bring the wrong Buck back with you,” right before they arrived on scene.

Little comments that could mean nothing, despite the way his team liked to blow it out of proportion. And something about it was nice, Buck could admit; he’d always liked being the object of someone’s attention.

It was just that, before Abby, he’d never felt like anyone actually saw him. All of the flirtations and hook-ups and one-night stands were about how he looked or how he acted or how he could make someone feel; they were never about him.

Abby was different. Abby liked talking to him. She depended on him. She was a real adult with a full life and a job and people she cared about, and still, she took the time to see him, again, and again. When he was with her, he didn’t feel so unmoored; he felt like he could be the kind of man she deserved; someone functional, and useful. Someone who could have something permanent.

And then she left.

It had happened to him before, of course; but if Abby found him so easy to leave behind . . .

Abby had called to comfort him, and be comforted in return, after their darkest calls. She cut his throat open to save his life. He’d held her the night her mother died, and then spent the weeks following helping to arrange the funeral. And still, he wasn’t enough.

It was the story of his life. The most surprising thing, actually, was that it had taken twenty-seven years for the message to really sink in.

But it had. It was fine. Buck loved his job. Bobby was teaching him how to cook, and Chim teased him the way he imagined a big brother might, and Hen, he thought, genuinely liked him. It was enough. More than enough. Certainly, more than he’d ever expected, before Abby.

So even though he’d gotten a taste of something real, he couldn’t go through that again; and the idea of returning to casual hookups felt equally impossible. Just the thought of it made his skin feel itchy, made something like dread pool in his stomach: being that close to someone and having them look right through him—he just couldn’t bring himself to do it right now. No matter how much he missed orgasms.

Eddie Diaz had to stay carefully compartmentalized, out of bounds. Eddie had talked to him on the phone for a handful minutes; he didn’t actually know Buck. If he was looking for a hookup, Buck wasn’t in the mood. If he was looking for more—well, Buck knew how that would end.

It was a lose-lose situation. Which was why it was pretty idiotic that Buck finally gave in and agreed to go out with him.

But on the morning of his birthday, postcard in hand, Buck was still feeling a ridiculous thrill of optimism. He ended up at Perry’s Café on the beach in Santa Monica. The sky was mottled gray and the clouds were wringing out a few raindrops, but Buck had a red umbrella over his table and a mango smoothie to drink, so he didn’t mind. He pulled out the postcard and started writing:

Maddie,

Sorry I haven’t sent one of these in a while. A lot happened this year, maybe someday I can tell you about it in person. If you’re ever up for it, you could come visit me in LA! You’d like it here, and I think I’ll be sticking around for a while. I finished the fire academy and now I’m an official member of the LAFD.  I think this time I finally found what it is I’m meant to be. There are a lot of good people on my team, and we help people, and sometimes I get to rappel down buildings. It’s pretty great.

I’m writing this on my birthday. Remember how you used to get me hot chocolate from Hershey’s Chocolate World? Maybe I’ll get something sweet to bring into work for my shift today. And after that, I have a date tonight. You might not be surprised to hear it, but it’s actually been a while, and something about this one feels different. Might be jinxing it to write that, but you know I’ve never been good at playing it cool.

Wish you were here.

Buck

P.S. there were five Evans at the academy, so everyone calls me Buck now. I like it.

He pulled out his wallet and found the stamps he kept tucked into a pocket for moments like this, then addressed it to Maddie’s hospital. Rain drops began falling in earnest as he made his way back across the street, so he quickly dropped it in the nearest mailbox and then got in his car and headed for the donut shop near the station.

He was only working an eight hour shift that day—an unusual nine-to-five, which would give him plenty of time to go home and shower and get ready for his date.

He had a date. Even though he’d told himself he’d make it a full six months before getting back out there—enough time for him to get his head straightened out—and he wasn’t even halfway through that, he had a date tonight.

The thought tumbled around his brain, making him feel a little crazy. On the one hand, he was terrified, a feeling he never used to get before dates. On the other, he would get to see Eddie.

Eddie, who had worn him down over the last two months, with his patience and his teasing and his dimpled smiles. Eddie, who was the best dad Buck had ever seen, to the cutest kid he’d ever met. Eddie, who, for some reason, had seemed really nervous when he finally asked Buck out for drinks.

Maybe that was why Buck had said yes. Eddie had those stupid brown cow eyes that made it look like Buck had the power to break his heart; he couldn’t say no to that. Maybe Buck just didn’t want to be alone on his birthday. Maybe, despite what he’d promised himself after Abby, he’d begun to hope that he actually could have something real.

He tried not to think too hard about it, either way. Even when he brought the donuts in, just because, and Chim called him weird for being in such a good mood. Even when he got home after his shift and showered and put on his dark jeans and a blue button-up. When he found a quiet table in the back of the bar, ten minutes early, and ordered a whiskey and ginger for his nerves.

And he really, really tried not to think about it when Eddie stood him up.

Chapter Text

Hey! just got here. snagged a table near the back.

U ok? No prob if u got hung up at work.

Eddie?

Ok message received.

Eddie stared at the messages in horror. How had he not clicked send on his text? How had he not checked his phone, even once, since sitting down with Maddie?

Without thinking, he clicked on Buck’s contact and hit call. The phone rang once, twice, and then picked up, but there was no sound coming from the other end.

“Buck?”

He heard a sigh on the other end; not a long, mournful one, but a short, pissed-off one. Fuck. After an endless minute, Buck said, “are you okay?”

There was something a little slurred about the words—was Buck drunk? Eddie was so fixated on that, it took him a moment to realize what Buck had asked.

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine—”

“Christopher?”

“He’s fine, Buck, I—”

He hung up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eddie called him again; this time, the phone only rang out once before going to voicemail. “Go for Buck,” was all he heard, before he was hanging up and trying again. This time, it went straight to voicemail. Had Buck turned his phone off? Had he blocked him?

He tried a fourth time. This time, Buck picked up again.

“Stop calling,” he said.

“Wait, wait, let me explain,” said Eddie. Rain had started up again, and it was sluicing down all of the windows of his car, making him feel like he was in a spin cycle. He gripped the steering wheel, even though the car was still in park. “Please,” he added.

Buck hadn’t hung up yet. Eddie held his breath, waiting, and then he heard, “fine.”

He was so giddy with it he almost laughed. Thank god. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “My coworker got a flat tire.”

Silence rang out on the line. When Buck spoke next, his voice had a gravelly quality Eddie had never heard before. “That’s what you’re going with?” He gave a bark of laughter, but it sounded wrong. “You were supposed to meet me hours ago.”

“I know—”

“You asked me, Eddie. If you didn’t want to—”

“No, I know, I—” Fuck, this was coming out all wrong. “It was more involved than that, I just—I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to you—” as the words came out of his mouth, he recalled, with dawning dismay, that Pepa was going to be way for the three coming weeks; when he’d dropped Christopher’s bag off that morning, she’d reminded him that she was going to visit a friend in Oregon before her cruise to Alaska. Jesus fucking Christ. “I mean, I can’t, the next, uh, three weeks, but—”

“Eddie,” Buck’s voice interrupted. There was something awful in his voice; disappointment, maybe, or resignation. Something that Eddie had put there. “This wasn’t a good idea anyway.”

“No,” Eddie argued. “It is a good idea, I just—”

“Let’s just call it, okay?”

“Buck—”

“I’m really tired, Eddie. Please don’t call back.”

And then he hung up on Eddie, again.

He didn’t know what to do. Buck specifically asked him not to call back. But Eddie had to call back, right? He didn’t want Buck out there thinking that Eddie had stood him up for no reason. But if he kept calling, was Buck just going to get more and more pissed off at him?

He put his car in drive and thought about it the whole way home.

Buck had said, shortly after they met; that he wasn’t looking to date. Taking a break from all that, was how he’d put it. Eddie had been the dispatcher on a call to an incident at a speed-dating event—something that involved a tibia, a barstool, and a small kitchen fire—and Captain Nash had put Buck on the phone, so that Eddie could alert them as soon as he’d gotten in touch with one of the victim’s doctors.

“She picking up?” asked Buck, still on the line while Eddie tried the two contact numbers he could find over and over again.

“No,” he said, redialing the numbers in as quickly as he could. “What about you?” It slipped out before he could press his lips shut and trap that stupid question inside where it belonged.

Ring, ring, ring.

“What about me?”

Ring, ring, ring.

“Are you—picking up? It’s a speed dating event, isn’t it?” The words were just coming out of Eddie’s mouth, against his will. “Probably lots of eligible, uh, singles, there.”

Buck was silent on the other end for a moment while Eddie calculated the damage that would be done if he took of his headset and left the building. Josh could probably pick up where he left off.

“It looks pretty heterosexual,” Buck answered, after a moment.

Ah. Well. That was interesting information that Eddie had now. That was—yeah. That was good.

You have reached the offices of— He hung up and dialed again, while Buck continued, “but that would only be if I was looking.”

Oh.

“You, uh, taken?”

What the hell was Eddie’s mouth doing, and how did he make it stop?

Buck let out a huff of laughter on the other end of the line; Eddie thought about how these calls were all recorded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m taking a break from all that, is what I’m taking.”

Ring, ring, ring.

“Oh,” said Eddie. If he had control over his vocal chords, he would have stopped them from cracking on that one syllable. But, like his mouth, the rest of his body had stopped obeying orders. “You—”

Ring— “Hello?”

The doctor answered then, and Eddie never got to ask any follow up questions. He didn’t know why Buck was taking a break, but—even though Eddie was more attracted to Buck then he’d been to anyone else, in his entire life—he’d felt a thrill of relief at the news.

If Buck wasn’t looking to date, it meant Eddie had time. Time to get used to the idea of being with a man, to work his way up to feeling comfortable with Buck.

But that took barely any time at all; within one hour of meeting Buck in person, Eddie had been ready to bundle him up, take him home, and tell him to stay forever. So much about him exceeded expectations—how naturally good he was with Chris, how bright and kind and genuine, how much hotter than Eddie had dared to imagine.

And he had imagined it. A lot. Something about that first phone call with Buck hooked his interest; the command in his voice, and then the warmth; the way he’d jumped into action; the way he said all good here. And in the middle of all that, he had thought to update Eddie on the vic.

No one ever updated at Eddie on the vic.

He didn’t even know what he wanted from Buck, at first. His attention, really. He wanted to get Buck back on the phone, even if was actually a dispatch radio. And those little bits of it were addicting, but then he actually met Buck and—

And he was a goner.

He had to make this right. He had to.

The next morning, he felt like a zombie, shambling through his house on autopilot. He hadn’t gotten much sleep; words had kept popping into his mind, things he should have said to Buck, ways he could have changed his mind.

He pulled up their text thread—his unsent message was still sitting in the text box, the first two lines visible. He deleted the stupid, unsent message and wrote I really am sorry. Can I call you today?

No reply came. Even though he definitely hit send that time.

Eddie got dressed, only half-paying attention, and was already in his car when he realized his shirt was on inside out. But whatever; he’d change it at the office.

Except when the elevator opened up to their floor, he stepped out and immediately ran into Linda and Josh. What had he done to deserve this?

They turned to him with matching excited expressions. “So . . . ?” Linda teed him up; Eddie regretted ever telling his coworkers anything about his life.

Instead of replying, he turned and beelined for the kitchen. He was going to need coffee for this.

“His shirt’s on inside out,” Josh commented to Linda, as they followed Eddie, a step behind. Eddie opened the door to the breakroom and tried to let it close behind him, but it did not deter either of his colleagues. “Is this a walk of shame?”

“Well, I am walking,” Eddie confirmed, rounding the counter. “And full of shame.”

“Oh no,” Josh said. Eddie didn’t have to turn around to know that he and Linda had parked themselves on the other side of the kitchen island, probably watching him with puppy dog eyes. “I meant in a fun way.”

“What happened?” Linda said, leaning down to rest her chin on her fist. Normally, Eddie was in awe of the way Linda got people to spill their guts with one sympathetic look; being on the receiving end was much less fun.

He rifled through the cabinets looking for his mug, which somehow always managed to get lost between one shift and the next. Finally, he located it in the back of the Tupperware shelf. “I stood him up,” he answered, shortly.

He ignored the silence behind him and went to the coffee maker which was, of course, empty. He should have just gone to a drive-thru on the way in that morning, he thought, as he began emptying the filter. After what was probably a very involved silent conversation between Linda and Josh, Josh said, “Eddie, if you aren’t ready, I’m sure he’d understand.”

“I am ready,” he said, detaching the water reservoir with more force than necessary. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Okay, so . . . how do you stand someone up by accident?”

He wished there was a way to make filling up the container of water from the fridge more satisfying. The filtered water came out in a slow trickle, trapping him in place by the fridge while he was pinned with Josh and Linda’s curious gazes.

“Maddie had car trouble last night,” he said, giving the abbreviated version. “I texted Buck to tell him I was sorry but she needed help and that I didn’t know how long it would take—it was raining so we ended up—the point was, I didn’t check my phone again for a few hours. And it turned out, I’d never actually hit send on the text.”

Painfully slowly, the water crept towards the filler line. Eddie watched it so he didn’t have to see what kind of faces they were making at him.

“Eddie—” Linda started, but then stopped; his stupidity had stumped even Linda. And she had once spent three hours on a call with a man who refused to come out of the bathroom because of a spider that ended up being a pile of bobby pins.

“Don’t say anything to Maddie,” he said, turning to point a finger at both of them. In the three seconds he had his eyes off the reservoir, the water started overflowing. He breathed out, heavily, and then dropped a towel on where water had pooled under the fridge, and went back to the coffee maker, pressing the buttons until it beeped in protest. “She doesn’t know I had a date last night. I don’t want her to feel bad.”

“Couldn’t she have called, like, Triple A?”

“Are we done talking about this?”

“No,” Josh insisted. Because he was the worst. “Did you call Buck?”

“Of course, I called him.”

“What did he say?”

“Please don’t call back,” Eddie repeated, robotically. The words had haunted him throughout the night.

Josh sucked in a breath, a sound that was somehow both sympathetic and a little judgmental.

Linda was more optimistic. “It’s okay, Eddie,” she said, grabbing his favorite almond creamer out of the fridge for him. “This is totally fixable.”

He ignored her and chose to instead glare at the coffee, which really could be dripping faster.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Listen—people feel hurt when they get stood up because they think the other person isn’t interested. But you are interested!”

“You’re so interested,” Josh corrected.

Eddie gave Josh the evil eye before turning to Linda. “I already told him that,” he said, in a tone that was bordering on a whine.

“You can’t tell someone you’re serious, you have to prove it.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two months?” Josh and Linda made eye contact. “What?” Eddie asked, pointing between them. “What’s that look?”

“We have to tell him,” Linda said.

“Tell me what?”

“I was trying not to get involved,” Josh hedged, in the least believable impression of a man who actually liked minding his own business. “But . . . I think you’re right.” He pulled out a stool and sat down, which, honestly, was not boding well for Eddie. When Linda pulled out the stool next to him and sat down, he knew he was in trouble.

“You guys are freaking me out.”

“You don’t have to freak out,” Linda said. “You’ve just been missing some . . . context.”

“Context?”

“Yeah. You, uh aren’t the first dispatcher whose had a thing with Buck.”

Eddie felt his stomach drop. His brain started sorting through every colleague, wondering who could be his competition.

“She doesn’t work here anymore,” Linda said, reading the panic on his face. “It was, uh, Abby Clark.”

“Abby Clark? The Abby Clark?” Abby was a legend around dispatch; more than half of the calls that trainees listen to were ones she’d handled. Around the holidays, cards and gift baskets had poured in, addressed to her, from thankful people she’d helped to save. The hallway that housed Dispatcher of the Year plaques featured her picture three times.

“Yeah,” said Josh. “They met on a call, and, uh, I don’t know the full story. I know he almost choked to death on their first date and she did an emergency tracheotomy—”

“Oh my god, I remember that!” Linda interrupted. Then, after seeing Eddie’s face, she said, “I mean. It was pretty standard. A pretty basic, uhm, field tracheotomy.”

“But at first, we thought it was just . . . like, she was the sole caretaker for her mom, who had dementia. And Buck was—well, you know what he—I’m just saying, a lot of us thought maybe it was like, a fling.”

“What, like Buck was her mid-life crisis?” Eddie asked.

Josh raised an eyebrow at that, but Eddie didn’t take it back; he’d seen Abby’s picture. She was beautiful, but she had to be almost twenty years his senior.

“All I know is, he really seemed to care about her. He stopped by a few times, dropping off coffee or pastries for the floor; won a lot of us over,” Linda said. “And when her mom died, it was like . . .”

“Like he was co-hosting the funeral,” Josh supplied.

“Right, that,” seconded Linda. “But a few weeks after, Abby put in her notice and took off. She said she wanted to go to travel. Find herself.”

“She dumped him?” Eddie was liking this Abby woman less and less by the minute.

Linda shrugged, but Josh leaned forward on the counter, lowering his voice. “Well—I heard, she actually didn’t. Apparently, she implied she’d wait for him, said he could stay at her place. But then she stopped answering his calls. Fully ghosted him. Last I heard, she was somewhere in Paris with a new guy.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Linda asked.

Josh shrugged, mysteriously; but when Linda narrowed her eyes, he said, “fine, Sue told me when she got drunk at the holiday party. Buck reached out, asked if he could leave Abby’s keys with her when he finally moved out.”

Behind Eddie, the coffee machine beeped, signaling a fully brewed pot. The sound grated on Eddie’s nerves, insistent and annoying. But at least the coffee was ready.

He poured himself one, using the time facing away from Linda and Josh to think through this new intel. He was feeling a lot of uncharitable feelings—jealous and defensive and sorry for himself—but his primary feeling was annoyance at Abby Clark. She’d apparently been the blueprint for Buck and Eddie’s . . . thing. Except instead of building up, she’d fucked with the foundation, and then skipped town; she’d made Buck think he needed to be cautious of a sure thing.

Which Eddie was.

Except for the fact that Eddie stood him up.

Stopped answering his calls, Josh had said. Fully ghosted him.

It would have been helpful to know this backstory a month ago. A day ago, even. No fucking wonder Buck didn’t want to talk to him.  

“So,” Josh said, interrupting his internal pity party. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan is that I go do my job,” Eddie said, collecting his mug and heading for the door, before Josh could scramble his brain any further.

When he got to his desk, he signed in and then pulled out his phone; he always left it face-up on the desk, in case Christopher needed to get ahold of him. But when he glanced at it, the screen lit up with a message from Buck.

Eddie felt his gut twist; with a growing sense of dread, he opened his latest message.

Its fine eddie, im not mad. I just realized im actually not ready to get back out there. Can we be friends?

Well. Shit. What was Eddie supposed to say to that—no? Buck didn’t realize shit; he was hurt by Eddie’s actions and he was retreating. But that was Eddie’s fault.

Could they be friends? Could Eddie talk and text and hang out with him, while the idea of more stayed off the table?

Of course. Eddie would take whatever bits of Buck he could get, sweeping up the scraps and stuffing them in his pockets; he just wanted to be around him.

He stared at the message for another minute, until Maddie set a to-go cup down on his desk. “Hey, Eddie,” she said, interrupting his pining. “I brought you a thank you. For, uh, last night. It’s hot chocolate. I didn’t know your coffee order and I was thinking about picking up some hot chocolate for myself, and I thought, you know—just . . . thanks.”

Eddie picked up the cup and felt the warmth seep into his palm. Even though it’d led to one of the biggest romantic fuck-ups of his life—which, for Eddie, was saying something—he couldn’t bring himself to regret staying with Maddie the night before.

Plus, Buck still wanted to talk to Eddie; he still wanted to be friends. It was an impressive get after what he’d done. Maybe things were looking up.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he told her, taking a sip. He hadn’t had a hot chocolate in ages; sometimes he made a packet for Christopher; but this was clearly not a powdered mix; it reminded him of something comforting and homey, like childhood sleepovers at abuela’s. “This is, like, really good.”

“I’ve been on the hunt for the best since I got here,” she told him. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find good hot chocolate in LA. But Charlie Bean’s, on twelfth? That’s the place to go.”

“Sounds like you have high standards,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, well, I am from—uhm, from a hot chocolate-loving family,” she said, with a wince. A second later, Eddie found out why. “I always used to take Evan to get it.” She bit her lip for a second, and then added, “I started making a list, you know? Of places I might find him. I put the beach. I know he loved the ocean; I could just imagine him on Santa Monica pier.”

“It’s pretty cool there,” said Eddie. Christopher had loved it the one time Eddie took him there, shortly after they arrived in LA. Maybe Maddie had the right idea. Maybe a beach day was in order; maybe he could invite Buck. He was pretty sure it was one of the locations where he could use the six-class pass of surfing lessons he’d got Chris for his birthday.

But first, he had to offer, “let me know if you want some company, okay?”

Maddie nodded at him, blinking her watery eyes in a way that told Eddie she would definitely not be taking him up on that. And then before Eddie could add anything else, she tugged on her headset. “Well, time to log on,” she said, not even waiting for her computer to turn on to start ignoring Eddie.

Before last night, he would have attributed that to her brusque personality; but now he had a better understanding of what was going on in Maddie’s head when she broke off and cut conversations short. He smiled at her, even though she wasn’t looking anymore; and when he went to plug his own headphones in, his gaze caught on his phone.

He picked it up and typed his reply: Yeah, Buck, he wrote back. Friends would be great.

When Eddie clocked out of his shift at nine that night, he was feeling much more optimistic than he had that morning. The serotonin boost from the drink and Buck’s lukewarm message had buoyed him, and he’d been brave enough to text Carla and ask her to stay for an extra hour.

She said that was fine, that Chris was already asleep and that she’d only just put on Bridges of Madison County, so he could take his time. Which meant that now he couldn’t back out. Plus, he checked, and Charlie Bean’s stayed open until ten.

So he had no excuse not to buy a hot chocolate and bring it to Buck.

It was a thing a friend might do, conceivably. Hadn’t Maddie just done it? Eddie was in the area. He was thinking of Buck. He had the time. There was nothing inherently romantic about it; nothing that someone could claim was not strictly platonic.

Still—he felt nervous when he walked into the 118 twenty minutes later, holding a large hot chocolate; mint flavored, because the barista swore by it and Buck seemed like the kind of guy who would appreciate a bold swing. Part of him wished they’d be out on a call and he’d have to drop it off with a note, but the bay doors were wide open when he arrived, revealing every truck and ambulance parked in place.

He slowed his gait as he entered, leaning cautiously forward as he walked. He only made it about ten feet before someone spotted him.

“Eddie?” The voice was coming from the other side of the first truck Eddie passed; he turned and saw Chimney, staring at him, hand paused where it was wiping a rag on the side of the ladder truck. Going by the surprised expression on his face, Eddie guessed Chimney already knew the story of the night before.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best look both apologetic and also trustworthy. “Is, uh, Buck here?”

Chimney swept his eyes up and down Eddie in a blatant appraisal; his eyes snagged on the cup Eddie was holding, and eventually, he said, “yeah, this way.” He turned and started walking along the truck without waiting to confirm Eddie was actually following.

A dull thumping could be heard as they approached the far side of the room, the only warning he had before he became faced with the vision of Buck, sweating and beating the shit out of a punching bag.

“Buck, you’ve got a visitor,” Chimney called out, not even giving Eddie time to fix his face.

Buck slammed the bag with a front kick, and then turned, wiping his face off with his towel as he did, so Eddie couldn’t see his full expression when Buck spotted him and stopped in his tracks.

“Hey, uh, Eddie,” he said, at a loss. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“And yet here I am,” said Eddie, stepping forward. “I’m hoping this is an improvement over, you know, the opposite.”

Buck grimaced then, like maybe it was too soon for that. 

“Hey, Buckley!” They both started at the interruption; another firefighter called out as he crossed the weight rack, towards the stairs, “any of your cake still left?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Buck, looking caught off guard by all the things pulling his attention. He glanced quickly at Eddie and then called back to the firefighter, “Hen put it in the fridge.”

Eddie watched as the guy fist pumped in victory and jogged up the stairs. Buck was still watching him go when Eddie said, “your cake?”

“His birthday cake,” answered Chimney. He had his arms crossed and was standing between Buck and Eddie like a very unnecessary bodyguard. It was so distracting that it took Eddie a moment to process—Buck’s birthday? It was Buck’s birthday? 

“Thanks, Chim,” Buck said, pointedly. “Don’t you have some hoses to roll?”

Chimney gave a heavy sigh. “I’m watching you, dispatcher,” he said, in a way that sounded like a joke but didn’t feel like one. 

“Chim,” Buck repeated.

He held up his hands in surrender and walked away, muttering under his breath. Eddie waited until he disappeared between the firetrucks before speaking again. “It’s your birthday?”

Buck looked down then, fiddling with the tape around his knuckles. Eddie could see a trickle of blood coming out from the wrap around his right hand. Buck was on blood-thinners, he remembered.

“What are you doing here, Eddie?” Buck asked, instead of answering. 

Trying to win you over, he wanted to say. He’d rather they just acknowledge it—Eddie’s mistake, Buck’s hesitancy, everything. If they never talked about it, it would just become this big thing. But instead, he held out the to-go cup, and said, “I was in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to be friendly and drop off a drink. As a friend.”

Buck gave him a doleful look, but he still reached out and took the cup. While he was looking for a label, Eddie added, “it’s hot chocolate.”

An odd expression flickered across Buck’s face then; Eddie couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was fleeting, though, and his expression was back to being unsettlingly blank when he said, “I told you it was fine, Eddie. You didn’t have to bring me an apology drink.”

“It’s not an apology drink,” Eddie countered. “It’s a friend drink.”

“A friend drink?”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, only slightly wishing that he’d chickened out and gone straight home instead. Maybe he should have given Buck another day or two before surprising him at his workplace. “My coworker who had car trouble, she brought me one in this morning as thanks. And I thought, wow, what a nice platonic thing to do for a friend. Especially one who did you a favor, or . . . one who you did something really shitty to.”

Buck gave him a small smile at that, and his eyes did something that was downright fluttery. Eddie tried his hardest to think boring, platonic thoughts. After a moment of silence, Buck finally took a sip of the hot chocolate, and he nodded in approval at the taste.

“You know, my aunt watches Chris every Tuesday night,” Eddie started, cautiously.

“So I’ve heard,” said Buck, fiddling with the cup.

“She’s taking a cruise to Alaska, though,” he explained. “Going up to Oregon and then won’t be back til the end of the month.”

“There a reason you’re telling me this?” Buck asked; and he kept his voice light, but there was an undercurrent there, too, that Eddie couldn’t parse out.

“What, you don’t care about my Aunt Pepa’s vacation?” Eddie asked, incredulously. “Some friend you are.”

Buck raised an eyebrow; he moved like he was going to cross his arms, but realized he was still holding the hot chocolate, so he just crossed one arm and held the cup out to the side. Eddie wished he’d gotten a drink for himself, so he’d have something to do with his hands.

“When Pepa’s away, it’s harder to get an evening babysitter, for dates . . . or whatever,” he said, shoving his fists in his pockets. “But it’s fine—I mean, it’s good—more time with Chris, you know.”

Buck looked confused by the conversation, but still, he humored him. “Sure,” he said, easily. “Chris is the best.”

“Exactly,” Eddie agreed, feeling a little like he’d walked Buck into a trap. “We have a beach day planned for Saturday,” he said, finally. “Casual, you know. Probably build some sandcastles, and then Chris has a surfing lesson at one, so I’ll pretend not to panic during that.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You could join us,” Eddie tried. “If you don’t have plans. And feel like spending the day with an eight-year-old and his lame dad.”

“I—”

“No pressure,” Eddie interrupted, unwilling to hear Buck say no. “Like I said, very casual. We’ll be by Santa Monica pier, Saturday around noon. If you’re free, come by. If not,” he shrugged, trying to look like he genuinely didn’t mind either way. Like his heart wasn’t beating in his throat.

But before Buck could give him an answer, the bell rang.

Chapter Text

Around the start of the second hour Buck spent at the bar where was supposed to meet Eddie, he polished off his third drink and made the executive decision that he could keep ordering as many as he liked.

There was no chance Eddie was showing up, so there was no reason Buck had to sit there and be miserable. He might as well enjoy himself.

He put in an order for another drink and a veggie burger, and then he found himself absorbed in the hockey game playing on the TV over the bar. Normally, Buck found organized sports boring, but he was finding their synchronized speed hypnotizing.

The ref was calling overtime—he was pretty sure—when his phone rang. He felt a pang of annoyance when it went off, followed by a second pang when he saw who was calling. 

He picked up.

“Buck?”

Eddie sounded awfully urgent for someone who was—he checked his watch—over three hours late. Buck wanted to snap at him, but his first responder brain kicked in faster. “Are you okay?

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine—”

That just left— “Christopher?”

“He’s fine,” Eddie said, and Buck let out a sigh of relief, though it didn’t feel like any tension left his body. Eddie kept talking. “Buck, I—”

He hung up.

He wasn’t trying to be petty; really, he wasn’t. It was just that—well, it was his birthday. It was his birthday, and no one knew, and he was alone at a bar, and he just really, really didn’t want to act all mature about it. He didn’t want to sober up and keep it together while Eddie gave his excuses.

Part of this was his own fault. He could have told his team that it was his birthday; everyone else did. They marked off the date on the shared calendar, and people took turns grabbing a cake or muffins or the take-out from the good place, on sixth. But after a lifetime of barely acknowledging his birthday, it felt juvenile—regressive, maybe—to act like he cared about it now.

He was 28, for Christ’s sake.

But he must have subconsciously pushed all of those expectations onto tonight. Not that he was going to tell Eddie, either; but it still would have felt . . . special.

It would have felt good.

Buck really, really wanted to feel good again.

But instead, he felt the same way he had when he’d learned from Instagram that Abby was in a new European country, when she geo-tagged her picture of gelato, a glimpse of a man’s shoe visible, out of focus. Like he wasn’t sure if people forgot about him by accident or on purpose, and he didn’t know which one was worse.

He watched as Eddie’s name flashed on the screen again, feeling a heady mixture of annoyance and satisfaction and yearning. The next time his name appeared on screen, Buck clicked the button to hang up before the first ring even started.

Buck wished he wasn’t at a bar right now. He glanced up; something dramatic was happening between members of one of the hockey teams, but he couldn’t follow what.

Eddie called a fourth time, and this time, Buck picked up. “Stop calling,” he begged.

“Wait, wait, let me explain, please,” said Eddie.

Buck was too drunk to parse his tone, and he was too tired to argue. “Fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “My coworker got a flat tire.”

He—his coworker got a flat tire? Buck had been sitting there for hours, trying to pretend like he wasn’t alternately catastrophizing and brooding, and he’d been—what? Changing tires? For three hours? Did his coworker drive an 18-wheeler? “That’s what you’re going with?” It was honestly such an absurd excuse, it was kind of funny. “You were supposed to meet me hours ago.”

“I know—”

But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that Buck broke his stupid goal of staying single for six months, all because Eddie had gotten him so excited about tonight. Because the minute someone showed interest in him, Buck couldn’t say yes fast enough. No matter how much he wanted to change, he couldn’t override his natural instinct to chomp at the bit for a hint of affection.

“You asked me, Eddie. If you didn’t want to—”

“No, I know, I—it was more involved than that, I just—I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to you—” Eddie trailed off, and Buck bit his tongue. After a moment, he continued, “I mean, I can’t, the next, uh, three weeks, but—”

“Eddie.” This was torture. Buck was being tortured right now. He needed to get off the phone. “This wasn’t a good idea anyway.”

“No, it is a good idea,” he said, and Buck felt something pinching in his chest. What part of tonight was a good idea? “I just—”

“Let’s just call it, okay?”

“Buck—”

“I’m really tired, Eddie,” he said, and he hated that he could hear how pathetic his voice sounded. Pitiful. Like someone who cared way too much about getting stood up on their birthday. “Please don’t call back.”

And then he hung up on Eddie, again, and he ordered another drink.

He didn’t catch who won the game.

The next morning, he was so miserably hungover that he didn’t even try to hide what was wrong.

“What’s the matter with you?” Hen asked, as he slouched through the kitchen, bypassing her and Bobby and heading straight for where Chim was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Chimney added a dash of creamer to it, and when he turned to put the container back in the fridge, Buck reached over and snagged the mug for himself.

He ignored Chim’s glare while he took a long, restorative gulp from it; and when he swallowed, he said, “yesterday was my birthday and Eddie stood me up.”

Immediately, Chim’s face dropped, and he stopped advancing like he was going to yank the mug back out of Buck’s hands. He savored his victory with another sip of coffee, while Hen and Bobby floundered for something to say.

“What?” Hen landed on.

“Yesterday was your birthday?” Bobby asked. He got up and walked towards the wall calendar, as though he might have missed the writing.

“Eddie from Dispatch?” Chimney asked, still paused where he’d turned to get another mug out of the cabinet.

“Yes and yes,” Buck answered.

“But he’s—he’s so into you,” Hen protested. 

“Not enough to actually show up on the date he asked me on.”

“Wait, did Eddie know it was your birthday?” Bobby asked.

Buck made a face. “No,” he said. “Why would Eddie know that?”

Bobby looked thoroughly confused. “You could have told him,” he suggested.

“When?” asked Buck. “When he called me three and a half hours later?”

“So, he called you,” said Hen, leaning forward in her chair like a juror being presented with fresh evidence. Chimney, now with a coffee of his own, settled in next to her.

“Yes,” said Buck.

“What did he say?”

“That his coworker got a flat tire.”

“That his—what?”

“Yep,” Buck agreed.

“Let me get this straight,” Bobby said, finally leaving the calendar and moving to sit down on Chim’s other side. Buck felt like he was on a tribunal. “Yesterday was your birthday?”

“Oh my god, yes,” Buck groaned, feeling like a teenager whining at his parents. He should probably get it together. “That’s not really the point, the point is—”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It just . . . didn’t seem important.”

“Buck,” said Bobby, and Buck rubbed a hand over his eyes. He needed Tylenol.

“The point is, you all really have to help me stick to this six-months-of-no-dating thing,” he said, dropping down into a chair across from them. “I clearly can’t trust my own judgment.”

“I’m confused,” Hen said. “That guy is like, deeply pathetic over you.”

Next to her, Chim nodded. “He’s the reason Karen had to explain the term ‘down bad’ to me.”

“What part of he stood me up did you guys not hear?” Buck asked.

“Tell me more about this coworker, the one with the flat tire,” said Hen. She looked like she was about to whip out a pen and start taking notes. “What was the deal with that?”

“I don’t know,” said Buck, feeling annoyed, though he wasn’t sure at what. Whatever he had hoped to get out of telling the 118 about his night, this didn’t feel like it. “I wasn’t exactly in the mood to chat.”

“I’m just saying—” Hen started, but Buck was saved from further discussion when the bell went off.  

He outlawed mention of Eddie after that, even after Bobby and Hen took the long way back from their call and showed up with balloons and a cake that said NOW WE KNOW WHEN YOUR BIRTHDAY IS, BUCK. Even after Eddie showed up at the station to give him hot chocolate and invite him to the beach.

Which he wasn’t going to go to.

He shouldn’t even want to go. Except that he’d felt an aching urge to be around the Diaz boys ever since the call that came in a few weeks before.

“Dispatch to 118, are you available to respond to a medic call? 1439 Oakdale Ridge?”

Eddie’s voice had come over the radio in the engine when they were on their way back from an emergency at a popular fishing spot, where a man had nearly aspirated on a live fish; Chim was going to be making sushi jokes for weeks. Buck didn’t mean to pay such close attention every time he heard Eddie’s voice, but it had somehow become a reflex. Which meant that this time, Buck could tell that Eddie sounded off.

“Copy,” Bobby replied. From where Buck was sitting, he could see Bobby direct the driver to reroute. “What’s the situation?”

“Seventy-two-year-old woman had a fall in her backyard,” he said. “There’s an unattended minor on scene, who called it in. He’s eight and he has cerebral palsy. He—”

“Eddie, what are you still doing here?”

Another voice could be heard over the radio; everyone in the cab stayed silent, straining to hear.

“I’m calling it in,” Eddie snapped back. Josh—the name flashed through Buck’s memory. The other voice must be Josh.

“I can do that, just go—”

“They need to know all of the information,” Eddie argued back.

“Dispatch?” Bobby interrupted. “Everything okay over there?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Eddie said, “it’s, uh, my abuela. And my son. She was watching him and she fell and—” he broke off then, while Buck struggled to compute this new information.

Bobby didn’t need as much time as him to process. “We’ll take good care of them, Eddie,” he promised. “Do you want us to call someone for your son? Or we can take him with us, to the hospital, if you want to meet us there.”

“I—you can do that?”

“We look after our own,” Bobby said, simply. “We’ll take her to Cedars-Sinai, and we can bring him, if you think he’ll be okay.”

“I—yeah, that please,” said Eddie. “Thanks, I—his name is Christopher. I’m leaving now—here, Josh, can you—?”

“Got it,” said Josh. “118, you guys have the address, right? I have a few things here in Isabel Diaz’s file that might be useful—”

He rattled off a few details, how she was in the backyard and had a hip replacement last year and was allergic to cherries, which almost definitely was not going to be relevant during this call. Buck imagined Eddie furiously typing out everything he could think of in the report.

“Probably shouldn’t do this, but can I give you guys Eddie’s phone number?” Josh asked. “Just in case anything changes and you have to take her to a different hospital, or something. Or if someone wants to text him with updates.”

“Good idea,” said Bobby. “Anyone have their phone on them?”

And even though Buck was almost positive Chimney was playing Candy Crush earlier, and Hen always kept her phone handy in case Denny needed her, they both stayed silent. “Uh, yeah,” said Buck, when the silence stretched out for a few seconds. He fumbled in his turnout pockets and unlocked his phone, opening a new contact card and typing in Eddie Diaz. “Go for it,” he said.

Josh read the number out, and Buck entered it in. And despite the fact that he was really, really not trying to upgrade his and Eddie’s relationship from people-who-sometimes-were-on-the-same-emergency-line to people-who-texted, Buck wasn’t such an asshole that he’d let that stop him from updating Eddie about his injured grandma and child.

Eddie had a kid.

Buck didn’t know what to think about that. He’d kind of assumed that Eddie was single, based on . . . everything. Not that one thing definitely meant the other. He just wondered.  

After he entered the phone number, he opened a message and typed, hey eddie its buck, josh gave me ur number. Were almost there. ill keep you posted.

Thank you, came Eddie’s reply, lightning fast. There’s an accident on the 101 and I’m in standstill traffic, but hopefully it will clear up soon. And then, a minute later, my son’s name is Christopher.

Which Buck remembered, because he said that over the phone; but could feel it was important to Eddie to send.

Well take good care of them I promise, he wrote back, hoping that would help alleviate some of Eddie’s palpable anxiety.

Before Eddie’s reply came through, they were at the scene. Hen and Chim descended upon the older woman—Eddie’s abuela—and so Buck beelined for the curly haired kid who was currently sitting on the steps next to her, looking morose.

“Hey,” he said, nudging the kid to get his attention. “Christopher, right? Let’s say we give my friends Hen and Chimney some room to help your abuela, okay?”

The kid tilted his head up to meet his eyes and Buck felt a weird swooping sensation in his stomach; his little button nose, the vulnerable wobble of his bottom lip, the confused crease in his forehead—Buck loved kids, but something about this one tugged on all his heartstrings at once. Why hadn’t Eddie mentioned he had the cutest kid in the world?

“Hen and Chimney?”

“Yeah, uh, here, have a seat,” he said, gesturing at the patio chair that was facing away from where Hen and Chim were getting Isabel onto a stretcher. “Their real names are Henrietta and Howie. Chimney’s just a nickname.”

“My dad calls me superman sometimes,” Chris told him; a little proud, a little uncertain.  

“Oh!” Buck said, fake-acting surprise. “I almost didn’t recognize you, because of the glasses.”  

Chris giggled. “Do they call him Chimney because of fires?”

“Kind of,” said Buck. “And my name’s Buck. I’m actually, uh, friends with your dad.”

“Oh!” said the kid, perking up. “You’re Buck?”

Buck wasn’t sure what he meant by that inflection and he honestly wasn’t keen on finding out. “That’s me,” he said, instead.

“Thank you for coming,” Chris said, unbearably sincere. “Is abuela gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, bud,” Buck promised, just like he wasn’t supposed to. It was just that Chris had these big earnest eyes and Buck was totally powerless against them.

He wrapped Chris up in his turnout coat and sat next to him in the back of the engine, letting him use the headsets and snapping a photo to send to Eddie. He gave him a piggy-back ride into the hospital and begged the nurses for some paper and crayons, and when Chris got tired of drawing, they played I Spy in the waiting room.

And then Eddie arrived, and—oh. Buck hadn’t been expecting that. 

Eddie’s voice was sexy; Buck knew that. And honestly, he wasn’t particularly concerned with how Eddie looked. Like, when he met Abby in real life—yeah, he maybe hadn’t been expecting her age, but she was gorgeous, and by that point he was so head over heels she could have looked like a mailbox and he would have wanted to drop to his knees.

But he wasn’t expecting that familiar instinct to rear its head again here, in the middle of the Cedars-Sinai waiting room. It was just that Eddie was—Eddie was . . . well, he was extremely hot. His arms were tight in his dispatcher shirt, and Buck had to stop his eyes from dipping disrespectfully below the belt; but looking up wasn’t any better. He somehow had both rounded cheeks and a sharp jawline, all of it covered in dark scruff. Warm brown eyes, dimples, a lock of hair that flopped over his forehead; he looked like a heartthrob from a 90s sitcom that Buck would have obsessed over without realizing why.

Well—he knew why, now.

His goal of abstaining from dating for six months—and from dating dispatchers, specifically, forever, maybe—got a lot harder. Especially when Eddie scooped Chris up into a big bear hug, looking like a Hallmark commercial for Father’s Day. Especially when Eddie finally looked at Buck and thanked him, his eyes just as big and earnest as his son’s. Especially when he told Buck it was just the two of them.

So, yeah. Buck may be a little infatuated with the Diaz boys. But that still didn’t mean he was going to go to meet them at the beach. He had a shift Saturday night, and before then he had committed plans to sleep in and laze around all day. And if he did do anything, it would just be picking up groceries and laundry detergent.

Except, then Saturday was brilliantly sunny. And when Buck woke up early, feeling refreshed, going to the beach—with or without the Diazes—did kind of sound like the perfect plan for the day.

He dawdled and dragged his heels for as long as he could, but he still found himself parked by the street across from the pier, directly under the midday sun.

He felt like an asshole for waiting until the time ticked past one o’clock to get out of his car, because he didn’t know if Christopher was expecting him. But he wanted to talk to Eddie alone before he decided to stay; if it went well, he’d hang out with Chris after his surfing lesson.

And if it didn’t go well—well, he should probably work on not getting too attached to Christopher in that case, anyway.

When he got to the beach’s edge, he kicked off his sandals and held them in one hand, digging the other around in his bag for the sunglasses he threw in there, along with a towel, water bottle, and a few Tupperware containers of snacks. He hadn’t meant to come with a full picnic prepared—he still wasn’t even sure if he was going to stay, really—but Eddie had let a few jokes slip about his cooking abilities that, honestly, had Buck a little worried about Chris’s vegetable intake. So, if he was going to come, he might as well come prepared.

Through the tinted view of his sunglasses, he scanned the beach, looking for a man by himself, but the area by the pier was full of families and couples. He about to give in and text him when he spotted a familiar head of dark hair, standing up from a spread of four beach chairs, two blankets, and three umbrellas.

Buck froze in the sand, taking in the scene; Eddie jogging over, a pained look on his face. Behind him, an older man and woman were both craning their necks from where they sat in their beach chairs, openly staring at where Buck had stopped.

“Hey,” said Eddie, panting heavily, even though he’d only jogged about twelve feet, and Buck could tell he was fit enough to handle that.

“Hey?” he said back, letting the unspoken question bleed into the word.

“I can’t even, like, begin to say how humiliating this is,” Eddie started, his face fully flushed now. “My, uh, parents are here. I didn’t know they were coming to house-sit for Pepa, and they insisted on coming today, and I wasn’t sure if you—well, I just—I should have warned you, I just—” he broke off, looking chagrined.

Well. This was not really what Buck was expecting; not least because the only person who’d ever introduced him to their parents was Abby, and that was under very specific circumstances. But Eddie had said it was a friendly, casual beach day; he hadn’t said Buck was the only one invited.

“That’s not humiliating,” Buck offered. In fact, some might say it’s more humiliating to be a random guy crashing a family’s weekend outing.  

“That’s not the humiliating part.” Eddie winced. “The humiliating part is that I might have implied that you’re—”

“The boyfriend!”

Buck started; he’d been so focused on the way that Eddie’s blush was spreading down his chest, directly contrasting with the way his shoulders were drawing up, that he hadn’t realized the woman—Eddie’s mom, Buck’s brain supplied—had approached.

The boyfriend?

“Hi, uh, I’m Buck,” he corrected. Because, what?

“Right, Buck,” the woman said, reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Helena. I’ve heard so much. Come, sit down, meet Ramon,” she instructed, ushering him to follow her, never looking away from his face, so he didn’t have a chance to meet Eddie’s eyes.

“I didn’t think we’d get to meet you while you were here, but Chris told us Eddie said you might be joining them for his surf lesson, and—Ramon, this is Buck, Buck, Ramon—and we aren’t in LA very often so we figured, while we were here—”

“Give him a break, mom,” Eddie interrupted, still not looking Buck, a strain already apparent in his voice. “He just got here.”

“Well, excuse me,” said Helena, a patronizing note in her voice. “Sorry for wanting to meet the man who turned my son gay.”

It took Buck a moment to realize his jaw had dropped, and another to snap it shut.

What was happening?

Helena looked like she was daring Eddie to contradict her; Eddie looked like he wished the beach were made of quicksand that would swallow him up whole. And Buck didn’t know what was going on, but he did know that he was on Eddie’s side in whatever the hell this was.

“Mom, actually, uh—” Eddie started,

“My crowning achievement,” Buck interrupted, smiling warmly at Helena. “Helena, Ramon, I’m happy to meet you both. Huge fan of your work,” he added, dropping his shoes and gesturing at Eddie.

Helena gave a sharp bark of laughter, like she was caught off guard to find him funny. Behind her, Ramon gave a small wave and a grunt that passed as his hello. And next to him was Eddie, staring at Buck with those big, dumb, brown eyes.

Buck ignored the spare beach chair and plopped down on the blanket, in front of where Eddie had been sitting. For some reason, Eddie wanted his parents to think Buck was his boyfriend; he didn’t know why, but he assumed it had something to do with the way his mom had said turned my son gay.

If it would help Eddie, Buck could act along; he’d never been mom-bait, but he was always good at turning on the charm. And if there was one thing he knew about, it was trying to make yourself appealing to parents.

“Tell us about yourself,” instructed Helena, sidestepping the compliment to both herself and her son.

“What can I say?” asked Buck, hoping the very real question wasn’t bleeding through. “My name’s Buck, I’m a firefighter, and I’m lucky your son lets me spend so much time with him and Christopher.” He was afraid to get more specific than that. 

“Aren’t you sweet,” said Helena, sounding sincere, even as she continued eyeing him critically. “And you and Eddie met on a call, isn’t that right?”

“Uh, yes­­­­—yes,” Buck said, after Eddie’s slight nod of the head.

“Oh right,” Helena continued “That terrible incident with the man in the windshield, I remember now.” Buck nodded, clocking that Eddie had at least told some of the truth. “And how does that go, you two working together? Is that—like, allowed?”

“Are you trying to find reasons it won’t work?” Eddie griped, sounding remarkably defensive over a relationship that didn’t actually exist.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Edmundo,” his mother griped right back, like he knew she would. “I was just asking a question.”

“Oh, no,” Buck interjected, before either of them had a chance to respond. “It’s not even that uncommon. It helps to date other first responders, actually; no need to explain your terrible schedules or, like, why you’re showing up covered in bodily fluids.”

Buck thought that was at least a little funny, but both Eddie and his mom had a look like they’d swallowed lemons. “Not that, uh, that happens. Often.”

 “No, I hope not,” said Helena, shaking her head like she wanted to get the image out of her mind; but her face still looked pinched when she added, “I guess that’s part of the appeal, you two being so . . . similar. What?” she said, in response to Eddie’s short, huffy exhale. “That wasn’t about you two being men!”

“Well, that definitely was.”

Eddie’s mom had mastered the delivery of her lines, somehow sounding both critical and innocent at the same time, and Eddie was playing right into her hands, stressed and sniping like a teenager. There was something surprisingly cute about seeing him so high-strung; Eddie usually seemed so unflappable. Buck wanted to smooth out the lines on his forehead, wanted to grab his hand and hold on tight.

Helena caught Buck’s eye, despite his best efforts. “He may have shared it with you the moment you met, but some of us have known Eddie for his entire life, and were under the impression he was, you know. Straight.” She gestured at her son, then, like he was a before-and-after picture in a Highlights magazine. “Sorry I don’t always know the right thing to say. I mean, first it was, I’m gay, and then it was, I’ve met this man and it’s very serious—” 

“It’s fine,” interrupted Eddie. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have put words in your mouth,” he said, emphasizing the words in a way that Buck was pretty sure was meant for him as much as his mom.

“Totally fine,” Buck agreed, eager to disperse the situation. “Honestly, it’s nice of you guys to make the effort,” he said, sincerely.

“Did—did your parents not react well to you—” Helena broke off, gesturing at Buck; she probably meant his queerness, but if she was referring to the rest of him, his answer would have been the same.

“Being bisexual? Not really,” Buck said, hoping that if he kept his tone light enough, they would move on to another conversation.

No such luck.

“Really?” asked Helena, digging in. She sounded perversely eager to have beat the competition, which was a little insensitive, in Buck’s opinion. But he also thought it couldn’t hurt to establish a common enemy; it was certainly one thing his parents were good for. “What did they say?”

“Something about how they thought I was just trying to get attention,” he answered. He probably could have thought of a more lighthearted lie, but it was still a slight improvement over the truth. What they’d really said was, why are you calling us?  

“Oh,” said Helena, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Next to her, Eddie’s dad gave a sympathetic grunt.

“Yeah, well,” Buck shrugged, realizing he’d have to be the one to move them off this subject. “I’m just saying, it’s nice of you guys to want to meet me—you don’t have to worry about offending me, or whatever,” he said.

He hoped that would ease some of the tension he could feel radiating from Eddie. Buck was in it to win it, now; he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Thank you, Buck,” said Helena, pointedly. Buck felt his lips tug into a smirk, even as shifted himself to be more directly in front of Eddie. “We thought we’d feel better if we got a chance to meet you.”

“You—what?” Eddie asked.

“I mean, you threw so much at us,” Helena continued, apparently ready and willing to take advantage of Buck’s preemptive get-out-of-jail-free card. “Think of it from our perspective—you’ve only ever been with Shannon, and now you’re in a relationship with a man, and he’s spending all this time with Christopher; it’s just, we worry about you. You live so far away now, and you’re doing all this crazy stuff like—like signing Christopher up for surfing lessons!”

“Actually,” interrupted Buck, figuring that he could clarify just this one thing and Eddie could tell him to shut up, if he needed. “Kids’ surfing lessons are super tame, and they’re great for making kids stronger swimmers.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” said Buck, “it’s a lot of core strength and what to do if you get tumbled in the waves.”

“You’re familiar with the lessons?” Helena asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“I surf, and I used to help teach some.” He turned his gaze to the ocean, following where Eddie’s eyes kept snagging to. “That Chris out there on the red board?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Eddie, and even though his voice still sounded strangled, he could hear the note of pride in there, too.

“Looks like he’s doing great,” Buck commented, watching while Chris followed the instructor’s directions to turn the other way without falling off the board. “Anyone need a snack? I brought a few things.”

Ramon perked up at that, leaning across Helena to peruse the Tupperware tray Buck presented. On the drive over, he’d felt a little embarrassed by the obvious amount of effort he’d put into it—home-made roasted red pepper hummus and multicolored carrot sticks and watermelon slices cut into the shapes of dinosaurs, curtesy of the cookie cutter set he’d gotten in last year’s Secret Santa—but now he was glad he’d have something to impress the Diaz parents with.

Buck was pretty sure Eddie expected his parents to slip up, that he was waiting for one of them to say something unforgiveable; he didn’t seem to know what to do with their clumsy support. Buck could understand why: there was a sort of grim satisfaction in having your worst suspicions confirmed, a bleak safety in getting the confirmation that you could stop trying to hope.

But that wasn’t what he wanted for Eddie. And Helena and Ramon, for all their flaws and passive aggression and fumbling comments, clearly loved their son. In their own, imperfect way.

So, in that case, Buck knew what game he needed to play. He was going to try his damndest to help Eddie get the thing he so clearly wanted: parental approval.

Chapter Text

“So, he just pretended to be your boyfriend?” Maddie asked, taking a sip of beer and raising her eyebrows at him over the pint glass.

“He pretended to be, like, the world’s most perfect boyfriend,” Eddie corrected. “He was all isn’t Eddie the best? Also I packed a dinosaur-themed snack board for your son.”

“Wow, where did you find this guy?”

“It was almost insulting,” Eddie went on. “He got them to feel good about Chris taking surfing lessons; they ragged on me for two weeks for signing him up for those! And then suddenly it’s oh how smart to make sure he’s a strong swimmer. I mean, he somehow got my parents to be like, almost supportive. Of me,” he clarified, gesturing towards his own body.

Maddie raised her eyebrows at him, and he continued, “Buck told them about how badly his parents butchered his coming out and all of the sudden my mom is all, Eddie I think it’s great you’re being brave and do you want Christopher to come stay with us during Pride Month.” Maddie made a face at that, and Eddie added, “I don’t want to know what they think happens during Pride Month.”

“I feel like you’re not particularly happy about this,” she said, eyeing where he sat, curled over a barstool, bouncing one leg on the ground.

“I’m not unhappy,” Eddie hedged. He’d told her almost all of the backstory now, strategically leaving out the exact day and reason he’d accidentally stood Buck up. “It’s just—imagine your, like, dream guy, meets your parents, finds out you lied to them about being in a relationship, then very convincingly plays like you two are a happy, committed couple, and then has to leave for work before you get a chance to talk alone.”

Maddie cocked her head, thinking. “I literally can’t even imagine what could possibly lead to that series of events,” she confessed, after a moment. He ignored her, choosing instead to knock back the last of his beer. “No wait, wait,” she said, as he signaled to the bartender for another. “Okay, so, all that happens. Then what?”

“Well, he’s either going to call me any minute now about the restraining order, or he’s waiting to do it in person.”

“What do you mean, in person?”

“He agreed to have dinner with me,” Eddie said, pretending not to know how badly he’d buried the lede. “Sunday, after his shift.”

 “Really?” Maddie asked, looking impressed. “That’s a good sign, right?”

Eddie sighed, unlocked his phone, opened his text thread with Buck, and then handed it to Maddie. “You tell me,” he said, and he waited while she read the most exchange.

thanks for doing that. And sorry. I know that was

not what you expected

nah that’s on me

I should have assumed by ‘casual platonic beach day’ you meant ‘meeting the parents as the boyfriend’

I can’t jump off a bridge, Buck. Who would feed Christopher?

don’t jump off a bridge, youre too pretty for that

I know this is insane of me to ask but can we get dinner? Just to talk?

And after, if you never want to see me again, I will actually respect that this time, I promise

at the very least I owe you

for having my back today

anytime Eddie

selena’s tacoria, Sunday at 8? I get out at 7

👍

it’s a totally platonic friend dinner.

 👍

“My parents offered to take Chris for the night,” Eddie explained, taking the phone back from her, ignoring her teasing smile. “There’s some evening exhibit at the aquarium and then he’ll sleep over with them at my aunt’s house and they’ll take him to school.”

“You sure planned a lot of coverage for a date night that’s not going to end well.”

“I told my parents that he was my boyfriend,” Eddie reminded her.

She shrugged. “What if he’s into that? Commitment is sexy, Eddie.”

The bartender poured him a new glass, and he set it down on the table a little harder than was necessary; it only served to splash beer onto his fingers. “Have me committed, more like,” he muttered.

“How did that even happen?” Maddie asked, pulling napkins out of the container and passing them to him. “You telling your parents—?”

“I don’t know,” groaned Eddie. “I came out to them a few months ago, and it was this huge deal, but then it was like—like, I wasn’t doing anything about it. Like, why did I make such a fuss about everyone knowing I want to date men if no men if I don’t actually date men, you know?”

“I’m hoping you’re dramatizing here, but I’m with you,” Maddie told him.

“Eventually she started asking, like, is there anyone? And I felt kind of like . . . like it didn’t count, unless I had someone. Otherwise, what was it all for?” Eddie watched as Maddie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and gestured for him to continue. “And, I think I’d just talked to Buck that day, and I’d been thinking more and more about finally asking him out and I decided to just, sort of, imply that I’d met someone.”

“And how did that go?”

“Terribly,” Eddie admitted freely. “They interrogated the shit out of me, and I made a bunch of stuff up. Long story short, Buck and I have been in a seriously committed relationship for a month now.”

Maddie snorted, sputtering as beer came out of her nose; Eddie would have been happier about making her laugh if the punchline wasn’t his dismal love life.

“Okay, I’ve humiliated myself enough,” Eddie said, only half kidding. “What’s going on with you? What’s the latest with your Evan list?”

Maddie took the bait. “It’s . . . going,” she said, turning reflective. “I went to the beach Saturday morning, actually. Probably not far from where you were. It was good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he, uh, I know Evan loved the ocean. He said it was where he felt freest.”

Eddie watched her, her fingers tapping on the table. Finally, she breathed out a long sigh, and then said, “I tried to go to his old apartment.”

“Oh?” asked Eddie, surprised.

“Yeah,” she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “It was—I shouldn’t have done it. It was this big house, like, a bunch of roommates. Only one of the guys overlapped with him; he said he lost touch when Evan moved out about eight months ago and moved in with his girlfriend. His girlfriend. Who he lived with! And I—I have no idea who this woman even is,” she said, her voice was regretful, but there was also a mix of pride and protectiveness; the kind an older sibling understood.

“Did they know anything about her?”

“They knew her address,” Maddie told him. “So I went and talked to the landlord but he said—he said that after one of the tenants p­­–passed away, the woman whose place it was took off. He said someone was looking after the apartment for a while, but eventually he got word that she wasn’t coming back. Now some young family lives there.”

“Oh, Maddie,” he said, aching for her, for this dead end. “I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t what you were looking for.”

“No, it’s—I don’t know, it’s stupid,” she said, wiping her eyes before tears had the chance to fall. “I could just google it, you know? It’s not like it wouldn’t have been in the news. I’m sure I could find out exactly what happened. Who he was with at the time and where—where he’s buried, or—but every time I sit down in front of the computer I just . . . can’t. It’s like, there were years when I didn’t talk to him, but I knew he was out there, you know? And as long as I never look it up, I can keep living in that world. Where he’s just . . . between postcards. Onto his next big adventure.”

Eddie reached across the table and squeezed Maddie’s arm. He didn’t want to say that she needed to look it up and face the truth; it wasn’t his place. He understood the allure of her fantasy, picturing someone that free and full of life, immortalized, out on a never-ending road.

“I get that,” he said, and left it at that. “Are there other places on your list?”

“The zoo,” she said, smiling wryly. “We always used to go to the one in, uh, our hometown. The hike—the one that goes to the Hollywood sign? I just know he did that as soon as he got out here. And I think he’d really like the Griffith Observatory—he was a big star-gazer.”

“I can picture that for him,” Eddie said.

Maddie grinned; watery but enthusiastic. “And I think, when I’m ready, I’ll find out where he’s buried and show up with a giant Hershey bar and a bottle of tequila and I’ll just—hang out with my brother.”

“Getting trashed in a cemetery,” Eddie said, nodding. “That certainly is a move.”

“I think Evan would approve.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Eddie said. “Maybe just have me or Josh or Linda on standby, so you don’t actually have to spend the night in a cemetery.”

“Fair enough,” she said. She held up her beer towards him, and said, “to making mistakes on purpose.”

“To Evan,” Eddie said.

“To Buck,” Maddie added.

And they both finished their drinks.

Eddie almost didn’t hear his phone ring over the sound of the vacuum. He’d been tidying the house ever since his parents left, not sure what else to do with his nervous energy with four hours to go until his not-date. But he’d turned his phone ringer up to full volume, determined not to have any miscommunications due to stupid technology, and it paid off when he heard the tinny beeping and saw Buck’s name flashing across the screen.

He answered embarrassingly quickly. “Hello?”

“Don’t get excited,” said a voice that was definitively not Buck.

“Chimney?”

“Unfortunately,” he answered. “Buck has come down with a pretty bad 24-hour bug and is currently vomiting into a plastic bag in my passenger seat.”

“Is that him?” Eddie could hear Buck’s voice in the background, sounding slurred.

“Yes, Buck,” Chimney said, away from the speaker. “Keep aiming into the bag, champ.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s been better,” said Chimney. “Even though he’s got a 103 fever and has been throwing up for the last hour, he made sure I called you to cancel your dinner tonight. Seemed to think it was unconscionable to leave someone hanging like that.”

“I—”

“Personally, I said he should stand you up,” said Chim, breezily. “Let you see how it feels. But—”

“Can I come over?”

“You—what?”

“To where you’re going,” Eddie asked, standing up and hunting for his keys. “You’re taking him home? Can I come by? I can bring some fluids and soup and­–and keep an eye on him.”

“You want to go to Buck’s apartment and watch him throw up for a few hours?”

“I wouldn’t say I want to watch him throw up,” Eddie clarified. “But I’d rather keep an eye on him. I was a medic,” he added.

“What if you catch whatever the hell this is?”

“I also have an eight-year-old,” Eddie reminded him. “I’m not exactly a stranger to stomach bugs.”

“Did—did you tell him—” Eddie could hear Buck mumbling in the background, and he slipped his shoes on.

“Come on, Chim. Just give me the address, I’ll meet you there.”

“I, uh—”

“I’ve already got a babysitter for the night,” Eddie added. “You probably have to go back on shift, right? This way he won’t be alone.”

“Fine,” said Chimney, after a moment. He sounded reluctant, but he still rattled off Buck’s address. Eddie put it in his phone and saw that it only took thirteen minutes to get to from his house. 

It actually took twenty-four minutes to get to Buck’s place, but that was because he stopped at the store to load up on crackers, cans of chicken noodle soup, Gatorade, and those icy popsicles Chris always wanted when he was sick. He was pretty sure they were just water and food dye, but if they helped, what did he care? Between that and the supplies he had in his med kit, he should be covered.

He didn’t have Chimney’s number, so he called Buck’s phone back when he parked outside the imposing apartment building. It was all industrial brick and glass; not at all what Eddie would have pictured for him. 

“9-1-1, we already have our own emergency,” was how Chimney answered the phone.

“Very funny,” said Eddie. “He didn’t—it’s not actually an emergency, right?”

“I’m buzzing you up,” Chimney said instead, ignoring him. “Apartment 4b.” 

He knocked on the door three minutes later, and Chimney called, “it’s open!” 

He let himself in, and it took him a moment to figure out that Chim’s voice was coming from under the stairs, where he was perched on a coffee table across from a large lump sprawled across the couch.

“How’s he doing?”

Chimney patted the pile of blankets that were hiding Buck and stood up, hopping over the small garbage can in front of the couch before gesturing for Eddie to follow him into the kitchen. “I think he just passed out,” he told him. He started poking through the bags Eddie had dropped on the table; he let him. “He got thrown up on last night. We thought he was okay but he was a little pale this morning, and by the time he woke up from his afternoon nap—well, he didn’t so much wake up from his nap as he turned into the flu monster on the couch there.”

“I’m familiar with the species,” Eddie said. “You said he has a fever?”

“It was 103 an hour ago; I just checked and it’s 102.9, so hopefully it’s going down. But keep an eye on that. And he’s allergic to Naproxen.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll give you my number,” Chimney offered, scribbling it down on a scrap of paper. “Keep us updated, and if you have to go, just let me know. Our shift will be over in a few hours, one of us can tag in.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie said. “My parents were planning on taking Chris for the night anyway. I’m free until he gets out of school tomorrow.”

Chimney eyed him then, surveying him where he stood in Buck’s kitchen. Eddie wanted to know what he was looking for. Finally, Chim turned and went back to the couch.

“Hey, Buckaroo,” he said, gently shaking the shape of the lump that was probably Buck’s shoulder. “Can you wake up for a sec?”

“Hey Chim,” Buck’s voice was thready and weak. “‘S there a call?”

“Not for you, you just rest,” he said, patting him familiarly. “Is it okay if I leave you here with Eddie?”

“Eddie?”

Eddie took it as his cue to step forward, into Buck’s bleary line of sight. “Hey, Buck.”

“Eddie?” he repeated. Eddie didn’t think he was reading into the uptick in Buck’s voice; Chimney also registered it and rolled his eyes at them.

“Good enough for me,” he muttered. With another slap to Buck’s shoulder, he pointed at Eddie and said, “he’s your problem now. Keep me posted, Diaz. I mean it!”

“Yessir,” answered Eddie, out of habit. He heard the door open and close while he checked over Buck for himself. His skin was pale and clammy; his eyes were scrunched closed, sensitive to the bright afternoon light. Under the edge of the blanket, he could tell that Buck was still in his clothes. “Buck?” he tried, but he’d fallen back asleep.

Eddie pulled the shades down over the windows that had them, plunging the room into a little more respectable napping conditions. Then he went back to the kitchen and put Chimney’s number in his phone, shooting him a text that said patient’s asleep, before unpacking the Gatorade into the fridge and the popsicles into the freezer. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help noticing that Buck had only stocked the fridge with breakfast foods.

And once he started snooping, he couldn’t stop.

On the outside of the fridge was a magnetic shopping list in Buck’s wonky handwriting, reminding him to get protein powder and bananas and Captain Crunch; he made his As the way Chris did, with the extra loop on top. Next to that was an old faded photograph of two kids—a brunette girl and a small curly-haired boy that must be Buck. Eddie studied him for a moment, tracing the small features that had grown into the man he knew; below that, held up with an LAFD magnet, was a hand-drawn picture that was, unmistakably, by Christopher.

Eddie recognized his son’s shaky handwriting, the rounded way he drew faces, the hard scribble of his favorite color, blue, making up the background. It was a picture of Buck in his firefighter gear next to Chris; he must have drawn it when abuela was in the hospital.

Buck had kept it. He’d hung it on his fridge.

Eddie’s heart felt a little too big in his chest.

After staring at it for an unhealthy amount of time, he forced himself to move along; Buck’s kitchen had tools and utensils Eddie had never seen before: something that looked like a grip strengthener with a mini strainer attached, scissors that had four blades, a rod with the bottom of a blender on one end, and something that Eddie was 85% sure was a ring cutter. 

He moved on to the rest of the room; it was a bright, airy space, and there was art hanging up, but besides the two pictures on the fridge, there wasn’t much that looked particularly personal; no framed photos, no band posters or sports team memorabilia or landscapes of specific places.

There was a corner of workout gear, though, and a small but stuffed bookshelf that, unlike the one in Eddie’s house, looked like it had been touched in the last year. It was full of battered paperbacks and hardcovers with peeling jackets; Born to Run, the Bruce Springsteen autobiography and another book called Born to Run that seemed to be about long-distance runners; Music is History and The Lost City of Z and Eragon, which Eddie remembered from his middle school days. 

He was debating whether venturing upstairs would be crossing into creep territory when he heard the sound of retching; Buck was awake.

“Hey, hey,” he said, rounding the couch, where Buck’s head was fully in the garbage can Chim had left behind. He reached forward and rubbed the Buck’s back, the way he did when Christopher wasn’t feeling well; Eddie could feel his back was warm and sweaty. “That’s it, let it out.”

After another minute, Buck wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rolled backwards on the couch, like he was trying to disappear into the cushions. “Sorry,” he mumbled, miserably.

“No need to apologize,” said Eddie, grabbing the garbage bag by the handles and tying it off. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He dropped it next by the door and then scrubbed his hands down before rooting around under the kitchen sink for another plastic bag to line the garbage can.

He got back to the couch to find that Buck had kicked off his blankets; besides the fact that his shirt sleeve had served as a napkin, he was also still wearing jeans. Eddie had never seen someone look so uncomfortable.

“That’s it, come on, you’re getting pajamas on and going to bed.”

Buck made a noise that sounded a lot like “hngfh.”

“Come on, you can do it,” Eddie said, reaching to maneuver him, pulling on his shoulder and guiding him into a sitting position. He should probably take his temperature again. “Think of how good it’ll feel to get in bed.”

“Din’t ‘ven buy me dinner first,” Buck said; it took Eddie a second to hear past the slurring and realizing Buck was making a joke.

“Very funny,” he said, feeling some of the tension from the morning leak out. Slowly but surely, he got Buck to stand up, then to walk through the kitchen, then up the stairs, though they did have to stop halfway so that Buck could throw up again. He was lucid enough then to look for something to use besides his sleeve, but by that point, Eddie figured out the shirt was a lost cause and gestured for Buck to continue using it.

At the top of the stairs, Eddie steered Buck to sit down at the edge of his bed, and asked, “pajamas?”

Instead of providing a location, Buck gave him a sleepy thumbs up and moved like he was going to pass out backwards on the bed.

“Okay, okay,” said Eddie, reaching out to grab his shoulder and hold him in place. “You’re pretty warm anyway; let’s just get your clothes off.” Once he was pretty sure Buck would stay upright again, he let go and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Sorry, Eds,” Buck said, his speech slow and sluggish. “Not–not really up for tha’ ri’ now. ‘f you know wha’ I mean.”

“I’m starting to take this personally,” Eddie protested as he got to the last button and peeled Buck’s shirt back, off one shoulder and then the other. “People really think I can’t read the room, huh?”

Once he was down to his white undershirt, Eddie lightly tapped his chest, which was all it took for Buck to flop backwards on the bed. “You’re-you’re tryna get inta my pants,” Buck pointed out, somehow managing to sound both playful and lethargic.

“I’m succeeding,” Eddie narrated. He moved with businesslike efficiency as he undid the button and zipper on Buck’s jeans and yanked them down; luckily for everyone involved, Buck was wearing boxers. “Come on, under the covers you go,” Eddie instructed, herding him up the bed until his head hit the pillow. “The garbage can is right here,” he showed him, waiting until Buck blinked his heavy eyelids open, and he could see the brilliant, drowsy, blue eyes. “I’m going to be back in thirty seconds.”

It was a thing he’d started doing when Chris wasn’t feeling well; one of the hardest parts of being a single parent was that he never had an extra pair of hands—Eddie always had to choose between keeping Chris company or making him dinner, changing out the laundry, getting his medicine. He’d learned that a sick Chris was a clingy Chris, so he always qualified his absences with how long he’d be.

Buck nodded, still keeping his tired eyes on Eddie as he backed away from the bed. He jogged down the stairs, gathering his med kit, a bottle of Gatorade, and a roll of paper towels. He was back upstairs in eighteen seconds, but Buck’s eyes had already started drifting closed.

“Hey, no napping yet,” he said, feeling like a bit of a bully as he nudged Buck’s shoulder until he woke up again. He got him to drink a few gulps before the bottle almost slipped out of his hand, and then Eddie recapped it for him and dug out his thermometer. “Let’s check your temperature. Open up,” he nudged, slipping it under Buck’s tongue and then pushing up the bottom of his chin until his lips closed around it.

While the thermometer beeped along, Eddie ducked into the bathroom and found a rag, running it under cool water and then wringing it out, then doing the same with a few pieces of paper towel. When he got back to Buck, he was half asleep again, so Eddie just laid the rag on his forehead and used the paper towels to wipe down his face and hands as best he could. The thermometer beeped three times in a row and then glowed red; Eddie checked and it said 103.2.

“Okay, that’s not great,” Eddie told a sleeping Buck. “You rest, okay? I’m going to get you some ice packs.”

Buck’s reply was incomprehensible, something between a snore and what might have been Eddie’s name.

The night passed like that, with Buck waking up every few hours to throw up, long past when he had anything left in his stomach, and Eddie changing out his cool rags and ice packs and warm blankets. He kept a steady rotation of laundry and washed his hands compulsively. Buck’s fever broke around four in the morning, and after, when Buck slipped back into a deep sleep, Eddie snuck out to put all of the trash in the garbage shoot at the end of the hall, and then thoroughly cleaned every surface Buck might’ve come in touch with.

When he got back upstairs, he checked on Buck, whose unconscious form now seemed a little more restful than it had earlier in the night. Eddie perched on the side of the bed next to him, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand.

It was weird, seeing Buck like this. The first time Eddie had laid eyes on him, he’d been sitting next to Chris in the Cedars-Sinai hospital waiting room, telling a story with exaggerated gestures and funny voices that Eddie could only make out the tone of. Even though he’d been in a rush, anxious to get to both his son and his abuela, he’d paused for a moment in the doorway, watching the way the guy talked with his whole body, the way he had his full attention focused in on Christopher, the way his kid was doubled over with peals of laughter.

He knew, immediately, that was Buck. And something in him just said: there you are.

That was how Buck had lived in his brain ever since; active and animated and aware, always with his eyes searching out the people around him, their moods and reactions. Now, with his eyes closed and his arm clutching his pillow, Buck looked soft; younger, maybe, or a little vulnerable.

It reared a protective instinct in Eddie. It reminded him of when his dad took him aside and told him what it meant to be the man of the house; how Eddie needed to protect and provide for his family. For so many years, the responsibility hadn’t sat well on his shoulders; he’d thought maybe he would get it right when he enlisted, when he trained to be stronger, when he could guarantee a steady paycheck would make its way back home, even if he didn’t.

But it was moments like this, that he’d had with Chris, and now with Buck, that made him feel deserving of the role. Times when he could actually be of use, be there; when he could offer comfort and help and safety, when he could use his hands to heal instead of to hurt—that made the role feel like it fit, and fit well. Protector. Provider.

Partner.

He pulled the blanket up over Buck’s shoulder and went downstairs to put on the soup.

Chapter Text

Buck felt like a truck hit him; and, having experienced a fire engine landing on top of him, he felt qualified to make that comparison.

Somewhere through the fog of his brain he heard, “Buck?”

He grunted.

“Think you can drink something?”

He grunted again, and he tried to blink, but he his eyes stayed closed. He felt a plastic bottle against his lips, and he tried to work his mouth around it, swallowing the drink—blue Gatorade, he guessed—down. Maddie always bought him the yellow flavor, which was an insane choice, but he’d never told her that, so the sweet tang of the blue confused him.

After a few gulps, the drink was taken away. Buck felt the liquid slosh around in his stomach for a minute before he knew it was going to come back up. Blindly, he reached out for a bag or a container, and when his hand closed around the edge of his garbage can, he rolled over and heaved into it.

“Okay, no Gatorade yet,” said a warm voice above him; it wasn’t Maddie. Buck felt a hand rubbing soothing circles on his back; he let go of his grip on the wastebasket, and fell asleep.

Sometime later, he came to, feeling sweaty and overheated. His bleary eyes registered the dimness of the room; he had a lot of windows and few shades, so it must still have been nighttime. He kicked off his blankets, feeling tangled and constricted and so, so hot.

“Hey, hey,” a voice interrupted his thrashing. “It’s okay.” The knotted mess of his comforter and blankets disappeared, replaced by a thin top-sheet. A few moments later, Buck felt a cool rag on his forehead, a chilled icepack against the small of his back. “Better?” the voice asked, and hands pushed his curls back off his forehead, threaded through his hair. Yes, he wanted to say, please never stop.

He passed out again, instead.

The next time he tried to open his eyes, the world was brighter than before. He scrunched his eyelids back closed, suddenly becoming aware of the dampness of his t-shirt, a sharp bit of plastic stabbing him in the side, a layer of goosebumps covering his chilled skin. He reached around, trying to dislodge the offending object, but he couldn’t quite reach it.

“You alright?” a voice asked; someone was in his bed with him, he thought. It was a revelation that should have concerned him, but he was finding it hard to care about anything beyond the sharp point of the plastic, the fog of his brain, the chill of his skin. His stomach still felt like something was writhing inside of it. The nice voice checking on him was one of the few good things happening, as far as Buck was concerned.

“’urts,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if that was how the word actually came out. “Cold.”

Like a miracle, the thing poking him disappeared, and a moment later, he felt the weight of several blankets landing back on top of him.

“How’s that?” the voice asked. Cool, calloused fingers ran over his forehead, then, and Buck felt the urge to purr like a cat. Something niggled in the back of his mind at the sensation, like an old favorite song that he’d forgotten; like a guilty pleasure he used to enjoy. Like he’d found something fleeting and knew he had to appreciate it before it was gone.

“’anks,” he said, instead of answering. He burrowed further down into the blankets then, gravitating towards the warmth in the bed next to him.

“Get some rest, Buck. I’ll be here in the morning,” the voice promised.

The next time Buck woke up, his body was lurching for the garbage can before his brain could catch up. He clumsily rolled to the side of the bed just in time for the shudder to rush through him, his abdomen muscles clenching, though there was nothing left for his stomach to roil over, barely anything left to expel.

After a few hacking coughs, Buck rested his head in his hands, willing the pounding to subside. He took a few deep breaths and tried opening his eyes again; he had no idea what was going on. How did he get home? How long had he been there? Did he remember to plug his phone in?

The brightness of his apartment felt like it was stabbing eyes, so he shaded them with his hands and tried to let his vision adjust.

“Oh, hey, you’re up.”

Buck flinched hard at the voice; then he opened his eyes and was fully assaulted by the morning light, and flinched at that, too. It immediately restarted the pounding in his head, and he tried to twist around to see who the hell was in his apartment, but the sudden movement caused him to smack his head on the headboard. “Fuck,” he said, still trying to roll over, but the blankets had coiled around him again and he only accomplished toppling off the side of his bed.

“Oh shit, are you alright?”

Buck, in an undignified heap of blankets, his stomach twisting, his head aching, and a new pain where he had landed on his hip, thought the answer was pretty obviously no.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, crouching in front of him. Buck’s eyes had finally stopped protesting at the light, which meant he could open them wide and see: Eddie fucking Diaz. In his apartment.

“What—what are you doing here?”

Absurdly, even though Buck was the one who just fell out of his own bed, Eddie looked a little embarrassed. “Oh, I’ve, uh, been here,” he said.

Buck stared at him. Was he hallucinating? He felt so unwell; his mouth tasted terrible and his skin had a filmy residue from dried sweat. The last thing he remembered was getting sick in the bunk room.

“How—?”

“Oh, uh,” Eddie shifted onto his knees. “We were supposed to have dinner. Last night.”

For the life of him, Buck couldn’t make the words make sense.

“Chim called me,” Eddie went on, when it became clear that Buck had no further plans to add to the conversation. “And I—I mean, he had to go back to work, and I had already cleared the night,” he said, like, you understand. Buck did not. “I’m a—I was a medic,” Eddie reminded him. “You, uh, you seemed okay with it when Chim left, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have . . . but I just—wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Buck really wished his head would stop pounding. He had to look away from Eddie’s earnest brown eyes, then, because it was really too much for this early in the morning. What time even was it? Buck let his gaze shift off of the unfairly put-together—or, who was he kidding, devastatingly handsome—man in front of him, surveying the room. The garbage can he’d tried to puke into had been knocked over and rolled away from the bed; on the bedside table, his alarm clock showed that it was nearing ten in the morning; and next to it sat a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade, an ice pack, a rag, and a thermometer.

Buck stared at the tableau for so long that Eddie rocked back onto his heels, giving Buck even more space. He looked down, then, and saw that, besides the blanket still wrapped around his leg, he was wearing only his blue plaid boxers and a white t-shirt that had some very off-putting stains on it.

“Do you—do you want to take a shower?” Eddie asked, reading his mind.

And while none of this made any sense—not Buck’s clothes, not the items on his nightstand, not Eddie in his loft—there was an easy answer to that one. “God, yes,” he breathed.

Eddie huffed out a small laugh, looking relieved; Buck’s senses were a little muddled, but he bet he reeked. Eddie stood up and went to his dresser, pulling out a new pair of boxers, sweatpants, and an old LAFD t-shirt; he didn’t know how Eddie knew where to find those.

Buck watched as Eddie carried the clothes into his bathroom and came back out, offering Buck a hand to pull him up. “Can you shower without passing out?” Buck nodded, and Eddie gave him a gentle shove towards the bathroom, guiding him in and closing the door behind him.

Once he was alone, Buck assessed the question for real, shifting his weight back and forth until he felt confident that he could survive getting in and out of his tub in one piece.

The shower was heavenly. He turned the dial up as hot as it could go and lathered himself up three times before he finally felt human again. He reached out of the shower to grab his toothbrush and tooth paste off the counter, and then brushed his teeth for a full five minutes.

His mind was blissfully blank as he rinsed and dried himself, entirely occupied with the tasks at hand. He put on the clothes and continued to think about nothing, right up until he opened the door and saw Eddie, making his bed.

“Hey,” he said, looking up at Buck from where he was shaking Buck’s pillow into a new pillowcase. “Feeling any better?”

“You don’t—you don’t have to do that,” Buck said.

“What?” asked Eddie. “Oh, don’t worry, your other sheets are in the wash,” he offered, as if Buck was concerned about that and not about the fact that his—that Eddie was changing his bedsheets. The garbage can had been righted, a new bag put in it, and an unopened bottle of red Gatorade sat on the nightstand, next to a box of crackers.

Buck watched, uselessly, as Eddie shoved the last pillow in the case and placed it on the bed. “Get in,” he said, gesturing towards Buck’s newly made bed. “I’ll bring you some soup.”

Eddie disappeared down the stairs, then, and Buck watched him go; still feeling like his brain was trying to catch up to the situation. He was still standing there when Eddie came back up the stairs a minute later, carrying a bowl of steaming broth. He was looking at the bowl, making sure none of it sloshed over, so it took him a moment to realize Buck was still right where he’d left him.

“Come on, back to bed,” Eddie said, using the tone of voice Buck heard him use with Chris. “Doctor’s orders.”

This time, Buck did as he said; though the sheets were tucked so tightly that he had to yank on them to get enough room to slide in; the effect was weirdly calming, though. Like a weighted blanket.

“Sorry about that,” Eddie apologized, coming around the side of the bed to deposit the bowl on Buck’s night stand. “Those hospital corners were drilled into me, I don’t know another way to make a bed anymore.”

He laid a blanket across Buck’s lap, then, and gestured for him to take the soup, if he wanted it. “That’s chicken noodle,” he said. “I can, uh—I’ll just be downstairs, if you—if you want.”

“No,” said Buck, his voice cracking on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No—I mean, you can—you’ve been here all night?”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, twisting his hands in front of him, like a nervous habit; though Buck had no clue what Eddie had to be nervous about; of the two of them, Eddie wasn’t the one who couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten covered in his own bile.

 “What about Chris?”

“He slept over with my parents,” said Eddie. “That was already planned—I mean, not to—they just wanted to take him to this exhibit and it made sense. He’s at school now. I’ll pick him up in—” he checked his watch, “—a few hours.”

“I’m sorry,” Buck said. He didn’t know what else to say. “You didn’t have to—to stay.”

“I know I didn’t,” said Eddie. He straightened up and pushed his hands down into his pockets. “I wanted to.”

“You wanted to watch me throw up all night?”

“No,” said Eddie, huffing out a short, annoyed sigh. “Why does everyone keep—I just meant, I wanted to help. To, you know. Take care of you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Buck bit his lip then, not sure what to say to that. Finally, he said, “do you, uhm, do you want to have soup, too?”

Eddie’s shoulders eased, the tiniest bit, down from where they’d tensed up around his ears. “It’s like, ten in the morning,” he said.

“Too good for breakfast soup?”

“I had some of your cereal an hour ago,” Eddie said.

“Don’t rub it in,” Buck said, though he wasn’t actually very jealous of the idea of putting solids in his stomach. He was rewarded with a small smile, though. “Do you want to sit?” he offered, pretending like it wasn’t weird that the only available surface was the other half of his bed. “I can put something on?”

Eddie didn’t even hesitate before taking him up on it, crossing the room and making himself comfortable next to Buck, sitting with his back against the headboard, legs out straight, on top of the comforter.

Buck navigated to the five-part ocean documentary he’d been watching, pressing play and then diving into the bowl of soup. It should be weird, having Eddie there; but Buck’s lethargic brain didn’t let him focus on that; it didn’t let him think about the fact that Eddie had been in his space, taking care of him while he was out of commission. It only let him register the comforting dip in the mattress next to him, the salty, fortifying taste of the soup, the undulations of the ocean water on screen.

It was the best bowl of soup he’d ever had.

When Buck woke up again, he felt significantly better. His bedroom was flooded with afternoon sunlight, and his head was no longer pounding; on his TV, the streaming service had paused, waiting for him to reply whether he was still watching. And from downstairs, he could hear somebody moving around; it sounded like they were doing dishes.

He was marginally more lucid, though he still didn’t feel any closer to processing the fact that Eddie was in his apartment. But more pressingly, he really had to pee.

He maneuvered his way out of his tight sheets and relieved himself, realizing, once he flushed the toilet, that now Eddie would know he was awake, so he bit the bullet and started descending the stairs. He was pleased to note that he felt steady enough that he didn’t have to hold onto the railing; he’d take his victories where he could.

“Hey,” he called, “you don’t have to—oh.”

The person in his kitchen was not Eddie. It was Hen.

“Sorry, lover boy’s gone,” she said, turning around from where she’d been at his sink. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Hen,” he said, scrunching up his face at her. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my shift on Buckaroo-Duty,” she told him. “Eddie had to go pick Chris up from school. Ginger ale?”

“Uh—yes, please,” he said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. The trip down the stairs had taken more energy than he’d anticipated.

Hen brought two cans over from the fridge, grabbing a box of crackers on her way. She sat down across from him and popped open her own drink; it let out a soft hiss into the quiet air of his apartment.

“So,” she said, settling in and helping herself to some crackers. “How’re you feeling?”

“Been better,” he said, shrugging. “Been worse.”

“But have you ever been tended to by such a dedicated night nurse?”

Buck took a long sip from his can instead of replying.

“Come on, I came all this way. I brought you Karen’s weird turmeric ginger tea concoction. The least you could do is trade me some gossip. How’s Eddie?”

“He’s—” Buck broke off, heaving out a sigh. “Whose idea was it to leave me with him?”

“Pretty sure it was his,” answered Hen, giving him a look. “He was very insistent, according to Chimney.”

Buck let out an aggrieved sigh before he could stop himself; he didn’t mean to be ungrateful, he really didn’t. It just felt like the ground had shifted while he was out of commission; that everyone had made a lot of decisions, and they’d made them while he was unconscious.

Hen shook out a few more crackers and pushed them across the table at him. “Eat something,” she instructed. “So, tell me. Why are you torturing that man?”

“I’m not torturing him,” Buck defended. “I’m trying to have, like, boundaries.”

“No,” disagreed Hen. He narrowed his eyes at her, but she plowed on. “Boundaries are for when you don’t want something. I’ve seen you, these last few weeks. When Eddie’s voice comes over a call, when your phone lights up. That good mood you were in the day of your date?”

“Which he then stood me up for.”

“He called you, though. And then came by. Invited you out again, right? And then spent the night looking after you? Come on, Buck,” she said, gently pushing another cracker his way. “That’s not what someone would do if they were trying to ghost you. He’s not—he’s not Abby.”

Buck sucked in a deep breath, then. He picked up a cracker and broke it into pieces. On some level, he knew that; of course, he did. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d been cataloging their differences: the way Abby had been confused when Buck first asked if they keep talking on the phone instead of meeting in person, and the way Eddie had said friends would be great. The time Abby had tried to break it off with him when things got hard with her mom and the way Eddie had looked at him in the hospital waiting room with Chris. The time Abby accused him of cheating and the fact that Eddie had lied to his parents about Buck being his boyfriend. All of the times Abby missed his texts and calls and never bothered to return them, and the way Eddie had called him back four times that night.

Yeah. On some level, he did know. Eddie wasn’t Abby. But—

“It’s not just—it’s not just her,” Buck said, spinning the can where it sat on the table. “I’m not trying to be like, dramatic; it’s just—sometimes it seems like it’s me. That I’m the reason no one sticks.”

“Buck—”

“I have a sister.”

He hadn’t talked about Maddie to anyone in so long; it felt good to talk about her. Like he was speaking her back into existence. “Maddie,” he told Hen, who was now watching him with raised eyebrows.

“We were really close growing up. She was older and she practically raised me. And—a lot happened, but . . . I haven’t heard from her in three years, Hen. I’ve sent her postcards and my number hasn’t changed and I just—” he broke off pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes, like he was trying to stem tears, even though none were leaking out. Hen let him sit there in silence for a minute, pressing until spots of color danced behind his eyelids.

Finally, he rubbed his eyes and opened them again to find Hen watching him with a soft expression on her face. “I know Eddie isn’t Abby,” he said. “Eddie and Chris, they’re special, you know? But I’ve had special before, and I wasn’t . . . it’s going to hurt so much if I can’t keep them.”

“Oh, honey,” said Hen, reaching out to grab both his hands in hers. “I think it’s already hurting you.” Buck blinked, turning to watch a tiny bird land on his balcony. He stared at it as it flitted around, inching its way closer to the only plant he had out there. “What if you could?”

Buck opened his mouth then, closed it. She barreled on. “It’s not you. You’re not doomed to drive people away. You want to know how I know that?” He did, but he wasn’t sure he could make any sound that would pass for a word, just then. “Because,” she said, squeezing his hand and leaning back to survey him over her ginger ale. “Remember when you got fired?”

He let out something almost like a laugh, and the knot in his throat loosened. “I remember that, yeah.”

“Athena needed help and I called you. I knew you’d come through. I knew it might convince Bobby to give you a second chance. Would I have done that if you drove people away?”

Buck didn’t answer.

“You’re the one who got through to Bobby,” she reminded him. “The one who kept pushing, who wanted to check up on him. You’re the one who wanted to follow Chim through the glass doors the night of his accident. You’ve got such a big heart, Buckaroo. And I’m sorry you’ve given it to a lot of people who didn’t appreciate it, but you’ve got people who do. You’ve got us. And I bet, wherever your sister is right now, she’s missing you just as much as you’re missing her.”

The bird on the balcony hopped up onto the plant, and then disappeared somewhere beneath the leaves. He blinked again, and this time he felt a tear slip down his cheek.

“I think Eddie’s trying to show you that he sees your big heart, too,” she went on. “I think he’s trying to prove that you can trust him with it. Maybe you should give him the chance.”

“Ugh,” groaned Buck, after a moment, rubbing harshly at his eyes and clearing his throat. “Stop trying to make me cry. You’re a medic, you know I’m already in danger of getting dehydrated.”  

“Sorry,” said Hen, not sounding sorry at all. “Chim and I have a bet going about when you two will finally get together, and I’m not above meddling.”

“Hen!”

“Kidding, kidding,” she said, grinning at him over her soda can. “Sort of.” He snorted at her, and she nudged his foot under the table.

“You sure you don’t have any younger siblings?” Buck asked. “You’ve really got that wise, older sister-speech thing down.”

“Yeah? How’d I do? Would your sister have approved?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Buck said, imagining Maddie joining them at the table. Her warm brown eyes, her smile that always hovered somewhere between sweet and teasing. “I think she’d probably approve of Eddie, too.”

Hen packed up shortly after that, leaving Buck with minestrone soup bubbling in the crockpot and a lot to think about.

He got back in bed, his room dimmed in the evening light, and pressed still watching on the ocean documentary. He watched the slow, graceful movements of the blue whales on screen for a minute, remembering what it was like to sit there with Eddie on the bed next to him.

He thought about everything Hen had said. About his parents and about Maddie; about Abby and Eddie; about all of the jobs he’d had before landing at the 118. He thought about how he knew, on some, deep, gut-level, when something felt right.

He rolled over to plug his phone in, and he spotted a note on his night stand. It said feel better, Buck, in Eddie’s scrawled handwriting.

He stared at it for a full minute, and then he picked up his phone and sent Eddie a message before he had any more time to overthink it.

thx for looking after me last night

Bubbles appeared and disappeared for a few moments, and Buck watched them, shamelessly. Finally, Eddie’s reply came through. I’ve got your back.

Buck let out a soft snort at his reply; he could tell Eddie was trying to be platonic, just like Buck had asked. He was probably lucky Eddie hadn’t tacked on a bro.

really, he sent back. it means a lot  

Bubbles appeared and disappeared again and again, so many times that Buck wondered if Eddie didn’t realize that was a feature of their phones. He pictured Eddie biting his lip, maybe twisting his hands or running them through his hair, trying to figure out a response. He thought of Hen saying boundaries are for when you don’t want something.

He typed another message. if ur still interested after what u saw last night, maybe we could try a do over?

Eddie’s bubbles stopped. After thirty seconds—not that Buck was counting—Eddie replied, of our platonic friend dinner?

Buck took a deep breath. no, he sent back.

Eddie’s text came through, lightning fast. Yes, he sent, followed by, I’d love that. And then just say when. And a moment later, I promise I’ll be there this time.

Buck stared at the screen, feeling something big and light filling his chest. He thought about replying u better, but instead he wrote I know u will. And then, when’s good w Chris? He can come?

Another minute passed before Eddie hearted the message and sent Friday? He’s got a sleepover at a friend’s house. A moment later, it was followed by, maybe he can join for date 2.

Buck stared at the message for so long that his phone went black, which meant he could see his own reflection in the dark screen, grinning like an idiot. Friday, he sent back.

7? I have a shift and then I’ll pick you up.

Buck bit his lip; if he smiled any wider, his face was going to split in half.

its a date, he sent back.

The rest of the week passed in a glowy daze. Buck slept off his stomach bug for one more night and then worked the next two days. He and Eddie kept up a steady stream of texts; Buck asked about Christopher, about whether Eddie’s parents were still there and driving him crazy. Eddie asked him if he knew the best hiking trail to get to the Hollywood sign, and if he’d want to join when he and Chris finally checked out the LA zoo. And then suddenly it was Friday. 

Buck cleaned his whole apartment, changed his outfit four times, mixed himself a pre-date drink, and was still ready a full hour before Eddie was set to pick him up.

Which was good, because at 6:17 pm, there was a knock at his door.

Chapter Text

Buck drifted off halfway into the Our Oceans episode about the Atlantic, and he hadn’t stirred since.

Thanks to the text thread with Chimney, he knew that Hen would be arriving in time for him to leave to pick up Christopher up from school. He’d been hoping he could say goodbye before he left, but Buck was still snoring lightly, face-down in his pillow, so when Eddie heard a knock on the door, he jotted down a quick note before going to answer it.

“Hey,” said Hen, surveying him through her pink-rimmed glasses. “How’s the patient?”

“Asleep,” Eddie said quietly, waving her in. “He had a shower and ate some soup this morning,” he told her, watching as she pulled out two bottles of tea and stowed them in Buck’s fridge. “His fever broke sometime last night, so I think he’s on the up-and-up.”

“And how’re you? Did you sleep last night?”

“You know how it is,” he said. “Parents and first responders don’t need as much sleep as normal people.”

She grinned at him, and he felt like he earned something. “Not feeling queasy, are you?”

“I’ve scrubbed my hands so many times I think I’m more in danger of my skin falling off.”

“Gross,” she said, approvingly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Uh, no,” he said, looking around for his keys and the sweatshirt he’d discarded at some point throughout the night. “He’s a model patient.”

Hen snorted out a laugh. “Those must be some rose-colored glasses you’ve got on,” she said. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that about Buck before.”

“Well, my references are an eight-year-old and people in an active war zone, so.” He shrugged. “Tell him—tell him I said goodbye, yeah?”

She nodded, so he turned to leave, but then she called, “hey Eddie,” keeping her voice low. “You didn’t mean to stand him up, did you?”

“No,” said Eddie. He felt defensive, but there wasn’t any condemnation in her tone; she actually just nodded, like he’d confirmed her suspicions.

“Thought so. Thanks for taking the night shift,” she said, waving him out.  

“How was your dinner with Buck?”

Eddie met his son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. At eight, Chris was just about done with his booster seat; but for now, the extra height meant that Eddie could easily see his son’s smirky little face in the backseat.

He wasn’t totally sure what Chris thought was going on between him and Buck. He first told Chris about Buck’s existence when he peeked over Eddie’s shoulder when he was placing an online order for Quik-Clot and wanted to know who it was for. And then he also wanted to know why Buck was called Buck (Eddie couldn’t remember his actual name), if he liked being a firefighter (he hadn’t asked, but he was guessing yes), why Buck was on blood thinners (that wasn’t their business), why he was bleeding (a very long tangent about brain bleeds and Halloween decorations),  if Buck was going to die from blood loss (no, Jesus, should he stop telling his kid so many details about his job?), and if Eddie bought gifts for all the firefighters he worked with (another no, this one followed promptly by a subject change to what they were ordering for dinner).

Eddie had friends, but he guessed he didn’t talk about them very much, because Chris seized on Buck’s existence and he immediately became the new favorite topic at the dinner table. Luckily, Buck provided a lot of material—especially if Eddie could remember details about all of the calls he sent the 118 on. Which were a lot; Eddie had the sneaking suspicion that Sue was purposefully routing most of the calls in their jurisdiction his way. The other day, she’d had an unnervingly knowing smile when he ran into her in the kitchen and she asked how that nice Firefighter Buckley was doing; he was just relieved no other dispatchers were around to hear.

Like all of his coworkers, Chris seemed to naturally intuit that Eddie was gone over Buck. It might have had something to do with the timing, that Buck was the first guy he’d mentioned after coming out; but Eddie suspected it was the way he talked about Buck that was incriminating.

Like father, like son, he guessed; even before they met, Chris started mentioning Buck off-hand, the same way they talked about Jim, who was always up to something down the block, or the cat that kept getting into their garbage cans; Buck had become a given, a regular character in the landscape of their lives. Chris talked about him in front of Eddie, but also in front of his friends, their parents, and, mortifyingly, Eddie’s own parents; it was part of the reason the lie about them being together had come so easily.

And then he and Chris both actually met Buck, and that was it. Game, set, match. Chris was enamored, and Eddie was—well, whatever was worse than that. Gone. Head over heels. Deeply, deeply pathetic.

He kept chickening out of asking him out though, even though Chris started asking, daily, when they’d see Buck again. If he wanted to join them at the zoo, if he’d come over to play video games, if he’d let Chris ride in a firetruck. Finally, after weeks and weeks of nudging, Eddie gave in: he took the most easily defensible route and asked Buck if he’d be willing to give Chris a tour of the 118.

It did nothing to quell his infatuation; actually, he was pretty sure all of Buck’s coworkers clocked the heart-eyes he only realized he was giving once he saw his own face in the engine truck’s oversized side mirrors. 

Buck must have seen it, too—Eddie was so painfully obvious. And he was still there; still helping him catch Chris at the bottom of the fireman’s pole, still asking Eddie if he wanted to try his helmet on, still knocking his shoulder as they walked, still shooting him smiles that had to mean something.

So when Chimney offered to show Chris their pinball machine and Buck gestured for Eddie to follow him into the kitchen, Eddie steeled himself to finally, finally make a move. After all, they didn’t give out Silver Stars to cowards, did they?

“You want a coffee?” Buck asked. 

Eddie’s stomach was already in knots; he didn’t think adding caffeine was a good idea. “Got anything else?”

Buck opened the fridge then, rooting around for more options. Eddie tried to use the reprieve from his ocean blue eyes to gather his courage. “Uh—orange juice?”

“What? Oh, yeah, that’s great, thanks,” he said, distracted. Buck poured him a glass and pushed it across the counter, and Eddie took a huge gulp to put off saying more.

He ended up downing the whole glass in one go, like someone had dared him to chug it. “Big juice fan?” Buck asked, that mirth dancing in his eyes that Eddie was finding addictive. 

“Oh, uh,” he could do this, he could do this. “Yeah—do you like drinks?”

“Do I like drinks?” Buck asked, his expression changing into one of confusion. Eddie would love for someone to put him out of his misery. Shouldn’t an alarm bell be going off, or something? Isn’t that what happened at fire houses?

“Yeah like, juice. Beer. Wine. Cocktails.” 

“Don’t worry, I used to bartend. I’m familiar with the concept of drinks,” he said, guilelessly; and something about his response made Eddie know he couldn’t blow this. What if he missed his chance and someone else scooped this ridiculous man?

“Would you want to get drinks with me?”

“Oh,” said Buck, looking up from where he was fixing himself a coffee. “Drinks? Like—“

“Yeah,” interrupted Eddie, a little afraid of how he was going to end that sentence. “Maybe—maybe Tuesday?”

“This Tuesday? The 27th?”

“Yeah.”

“I . . .” 

He was going to say no. He was going to say no and Eddie was going to have to remember not to abandon his son when he booked it out of the station. He was going to have to ask Sue to reroute the 118’s calls. Actually, he may have to get a new job altogether.

“I—I’d like that,” Buck finished. “Yeah. Tuesday would be good.”

Were there alarm bells going off now? Eddie felt like something loud and raucous was ringing in his ears.

“Good. Great,” he said, knowing whatever his face was doing was probably deeply embarrassing. “We’ll get drinks, then.”

Except, they didn’t get drinks. Or dinner. 

“We didn’t, uh, actually get a chance to go out,” Eddie told Chris, looking away from his son’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Cause he’s still mad at you? He didn’t seem mad at the beach.”

“He wasn’t—he’s not mad at me,” Eddie said, feeling slightly dismayed at the defensiveness evident in his own voice. “He was just . . . disappointed.”

“Okay, dad,” said Chris, sounding far too much like a teenager for Eddie’s liking. “So why didn’t you have dinner? Because he was too disappointed?”

“No—he—,” Eddie sighed, long and hard. “He came down with a stomach bug. So, I just went over to his place to keep him company instead. You know. Help out a little.”

“Oh,” said Chris. In the rearview mirror, Eddie could see his son get distracted by the streets passing outside the window. “That’s good, you’re good at that.”

“What?”

“Taking care of people,” Chris said, like it was obvious. Like his words weren’t getting him straight in the gut. “You always make me feel better when I’m sick.”

He coughed a little, to clear his throat. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Should I make him a get-well card?”

“Yeah, Chris,” he said, thinking of the art taped to Buck’s fridge. “I think he’d really like that.”

Chris dropped the topic after that, updating Eddie on the latest drama in his art class group project. When they got home, Eddie put on a pot of coffee, determined to make it to bedtime; but he didn’t actually have any chores to do—he’d stress-cleaned the whole house the day before—so he dozed on the couch while Chris did his homework.

Until he was awoken by the shrill beeping of his phone. He groaned, rubbing his drowsy eyes as he dug his phone out from where it had fallen into the cushions. A split second before he looked, he wondered if Buck was calling him; but then he pulled it up and the name on the screen read Maddie.

“’lo?”

“Hey—uh, hey, Eddie,” came Maddie’s voice, tentative and nasally. He sat up. “Is now a bad time?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and swallowing back a yawn. “Not at all. What’s up?”

“Are you sure? You sound tired.”

“I’m sure, Maddie,” he said, feeling more awake. He got up and made his way into the kitchen to see if the coffee was still hot. He passed Chris, hunched over his textbook at the dining room table, and ruffled his hair as he went. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing, really, I just—you wouldn’t be free for a drink, would you?”

“Oh, uh,” said Eddie, looking between the mug of coffee he poured himself and his kid in the other room.

“Never mind,” said Maddie. “You’re probably busy—”

“No, no,” said Eddie, “I’m just home with Chris. But we were about to order pizza, if you want to come join.”

“We were?” Chris called, perking up from the other room. He really shouldn’t be so shocked; Eddie gave up on cooking dinner and ordered take-out at least twice a week.

Eddie gave him a look and dropped the pizzeria menu on top of his notebook before going back to the kitchen and seeing if he had enough ingredients to rustle up a salad.

“You were?” Maddie echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, spotting a half-head of iceberg lettuce that would have to do. “I have—” he pushed a few condiments around, “—a few Miller Lites. If you want anything better than that you’re going to have to bring it yourself.”

“I—”

“Plain good with you? Chris has been on a pineapple kick so it’ll probably be half and half.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Great,” said Eddie. “I’ll text you my address.”

Maddie arrived a half hour later, only five minutes after the pizza.

“Hey,” he said, holding the door open and waving her in. “Kick off your shoes—we’re just about to sit down.”

“Are you sure it’s okay that I crash your dinner?” she checked, even as she toed her sneakers off inside the entryway.

“Of course.” He turned and lead her to where Chris was already sitting at the table. “We have dinner together all the time, he’s sick of my boring company.”

Right on cue, Chris started nodding his head in exaggerated agreement. “Say hi to Maddie,” Eddie instructed, kicking the bottom of his son’s chair as he passed by on the way to the kitchen.

Chris stuck his tongue out at him and then said, “hi, Maddie.”

“Hey,” said Maddie, “Christopher, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, cocking his head at their guest. “Have I met you before?”

Maddie smiled, scrunching up her face. “I don’t think so. You haven’t been to Dispatch, have you?”

“No,” Chris grumbled. “Dad said they don’t allow kids.”

“With good reason,” Eddie said, coming back from the kitchen with his lackluster salad. “What can I get you to drink?” he asked Maddie, finally getting a good look at her. She had circles under her eyes, but no other signs of distress; though Eddie had seen firsthand how good she was at appearing like she hadn’t been crying.

“Oh, I brought wine,” she remembered, digging into her oversized purse and pulling out a bottle. “It’s pinot grigio.”

“I’ll grab glasses,” he said, gesturing for her to sit down.

They dished up then, and even though Eddie wasn’t in the habit of having his friends from work over for dinner, there was something very easy—almost familiar—about it. Maddie had no trouble giving Chris her full attention. Apparently, she used to work as an ER nurse, and she had a lot of hilarious and disgusting stories that neither of them minded hearing while they scarfed down their pizza.

When Chris finished his three slices of pineapple pizza and four whole bites of salad, Eddie excused him for his allotted post-dinner video game time. Maddie got up to help him clear the table. “I almost forgot,” she said, following him with the salad bowl. “How was dinner last night?”

“He got a stomach bug,” Eddie told her. “So he was out of commission.”

“Oh my god, you’re cursed,” said Maddie, pausing clean-up to pour them both a second glass of wine.

“No, I’m not,” said Eddie, making a face at her. “Curses aren’t a thing.”

“Then how come you can’t get dinner with this man?”

“Norovirus?”

Maddie gave him an unimpressed look.

“And anyway, I did see him,” he told her. “I went over to keep him company while he was sick.”

“Oh,” said Maddie, looking down into her newly refilled glass of wine. Eddie started wrapping the extra pizza up in foil. “That’s really sweet, actually,” she said. “Did you guys get a chance to talk through everything?”

“Not really.” “He was asleep for most of it. And I think I have to—I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out how to prove to him that I’m. I don’t know . . . good enough. For him.” He winced, hearing how the words came out, all self-deprecating. It was just that Eddie didn’t exactly have a glowing track record with relationships. “It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” said Maddie, gently. “You are, Eddie.” He made a noise of disbelief in his throat; she didn’t know Buck; good, golden-hearted Buck; he couldn’t trust her judgment on this. “It sounds like maybe he’s had some bad relationships in the past. It makes sense that he’d be a little gun-shy after that.”

Eddie hummed. She had a point, but he wasn’t planning to share any of the gossip he learned about Abby, so he just let it drop, sensing Maddie had more to say.

“I, uh, would know,” she continued, after a minute. “My, uh, my ex, he’s not really . . . a great guy.”

Oh. Eddie had been wondering. He hadn’t guessed if she was running from someone or something, but either way, he’d come to expect her cagey answers, her obvious half-lies. She’d never once let a real detail about herself or her life before LA slip. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, putting the roll of foil down on the counter and turning to face her when she didn’t answer. “Maddie, are you in some kind of danger?”

Maddie was making strong eye contact with the kitchen table; her attention snagged on the folded get-well card Chris had made for Buck after school. He’d drawn himself and Buck next to matching surfboards on the beach; a sweet scene that was out of place in the middle of this conversation.

“Not right now,” Maddie said, eventually. “I don’t think he knows where I am. No one from my old life does. Except—” she cleared her throat, swallowed down a large gulp of wine. “I did something stupid. Right after I started at Dispatch I called my friend who I worked with in—at the hospital.”

Eddie kept quiet, waiting. He felt like he did, that first night in the bar; like he didn’t know if he deserved her trust, but that he certainly knew he wasn’t going to break it.

“I gave him the address of the Dispatch offices, just in case—Evan used to send his postcards to me at the hospital, because he didn’t trust Doug not to throw them out,” she said, giving a small, sad laugh. “He was probably right. Doug never liked Evan. Not really. I used to tell myself he was just too mature for someone Evan’s age but really, I think he knew. That Evan was the only person I would always love more than him. That if I ever ran, he’s the one I’d go to.”

She took another sip of her wine, and then lowered the glass, twisting the stem in her hands. “It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I figured Dispatch is always full of cops, and . . . it was just after he’d—like, he’d had to have sent a postcard right before the—” she broke off, unable to say the words. “But I just wanted to hang onto the hope, you know? Of hearing from him again. And now I’ve gone to the zoo, and the observatory, and I just have this hike left and then I’m going to have to face it, to find out where he is, and then I’ll have to stop pretending.”

“Hey, hey,” said Eddie, crossing the kitchen and taking the wine out of Maddie’s hands, so that he could wrap her up into a hug. She buried her face into the gray jersey cotton of his t-shirt, but he didn’t think she was crying.

After a few minutes, he said, “Shannon used to love s’mores.”

Under his chin, he could feel Maddie’s head bob, a huff of breath that felt more like a laugh than a cry. Encouraged, he went on, “I make them for me and Chris, sometimes, and I always make three. One for him, one for me, and one for her. Sometimes it’s okay to pretend.”

She pulled back, sniffling and rubbing her eyes, though they were still dry. Within seconds, she looked totally put together again. “Yeah?” she asked, the tightness of her throat barely evident in the word.

“I think so,” he shrugged. “Wanna pretend?” He nodded his head back towards the living room. “We could put on a show Evan would have liked? We can even make s’mores.”

“That sounds really nice,” she said, after another hearty sniff. “I’m really glad I called you, Eddie.”

“Me too,” he said, honestly. “Why don’t you go pick something to watch? I’ll be in in a minute.”

She nodded, looking grateful to have a moment alone. He checked his phone to see how long Chris had been shooting zombies when he saw a text come through from Buck.

thx for looking after me last night

Eddie’s heart jumped in his throat. He couldn’t parse Buck’s casual texting style; did he mean it like, thanks for the Gatorade, man, or like, the way you stayed with me last night makes me think you’d be good partner material?

But Buck had asked if they could be friends. Eddie could do that.

I’ve got your back.

There. Supportive, but platonic. Irreproachable.

Except then Buck replied, really and it means a lot.

And that—he wouldn’t have sent that if he just wanted to be polite and move on, right? What should Eddie say back?

You mean a lot. Too strong.

See, I can be good at showing up, most of the time! Too irreverent, like he was making a joke of it.

I’m glad I could do it. Too weird, like, he was glad Buck had gotten sick.

I really liked taking care of you. Did that sound too sexual? He’d been out of the game too long for this.

He was typing and deleting his seventh draft when Buck beat him to it

if ur still interested after what u saw last night, maybe we could try a do over?

That was—oh shit. That was more than Eddie had hoped for. It kind of sounded like—but he had to check—

of our platonic friend dinner?

Buck didn’t keep him waiting. no.

Eddie couldn’t reply fast enough.

Yes

I’d love that

just say when.

I promise I’ll be there this time.

Was that too much? That might have been too much. But then his phone screen delivered Buck’s messages: I know u will. And then, when’s good w Chris? He can come?

Eddie felt a little like he might cry. He’d never spent much of his life daydreaming about a partner, but that was just probably because he could never have dreamed up Buck; someone who he wanted to be around, all the time. Someone who fit with him and Chris like it was as natural as breathing. He never thought he’d get one chance with someone like that, let alone two.

And as much as he appreciated the offer to bring Chris, and as bad as he felt for excluding his son from Buck-time, he thought they could really use a dinner alone, to really talk. He hearted the message, and suggested Friday? He’s got a sleepover at a friend’s house. Chris couldn’t be too mad about missing out since he was going to a birthday party, but he wouldn’t be put off for long.

maybe he can join for date 2.

It didn’t even feel brave, supposing there was going to be a second date, or a third, or a fourth. It felt gloriously, incredibly inevitable.

Friday, Buck agreed.

7? I have a shift and then I’ll pick you up. Less chance for anything to go wrong that way, Eddie figured.

its a date, Buck replied.  

Eddie was grinning, his face probably looking ridiculous as he stood stock-still in his kitchen, having the best conversation of his life. It’s a date, he sent back.

After a moment, remembered that he’d left Maddie in the living room and that he was supposed to be doing something in his kitchen besides staring, moony-eyed at his phone, wondering if Buck would send another message.

He pulled out the s’mores supplies and then ducked into Chris’s room to see if he wanted to join them on the couch for dessert, trying to school his expression into something more sane. By the time he’d assembled the five s’mores—an extra for Shannon and Evan, each—and carried them into the living room, Maddie and Chris were both sprawled across the couch, while familiar footage of the Pacific Ocean played across the screen.

He didn’t mind, though. It was a good documentary.

The week passed quickly after that. Eddie felt like he was on a collision course with Friday night, barreling towards it, passing the days with sheer force of will. He was going to have a date. With Buck. For real this time.

But by Friday afternoon, the hours had slowed down to a crawl. It felt like every time he checked the clock, only one minute had passed. Maddie wasn’t working that day, but Linda indulged him when he spent twenty minutes in the breakroom going over his plan for the evening: he was going to pick him up and drive his truck up the Pacific Coast Highway, stopping at a little hole-in-the-wall seafood place he and Chris had found one time. Then it was just a short drive to Malibu Bluffs Park, where they could park and watch the sunset over the water.

It wasn’t the fanciest date night, but that was the point; he thought Buck would appreciate that. Something low-key and outdoors. No frills, but lots of thought put into it. At least, that’s what he hoped. And it was definitively a date. This was no undefined drinks, no platonic friend dinner. Watching the sunset was romantic territory, for sure. Who knows—maybe they’d even make out in the backseat of his car.

There was a chance Eddie should have run his plan by someone else, since both he and Linda had gotten married to the person they dated in high school . . . but still. He was, almost ninety-five percent sure Buck was going to like it. Ninety.

Eighty-five percent.

When there was, finally, only ten minutes left in his shift, he took a bathroom break—studiously ignoring the portraits of Abby in the hallway—and on his way back, something on Maddie’s empty desk caught his eye.

It was a postcard.

Eddie’s heart froze in his chest.

A postcard of Santa Monica Pier.

He thought of her saying I did something stupid.

Had Evan sent her a postcard, all those months ago? Had it been lost in the mail this whole time?

Before he could think better of it, he snatched it up, turning to look at the note on the other side. He was so confused—it was dated only a few weeks ago. And something about the chicken-scratch handwriting tugged at a memory in his brain. He shouldn’t read it—it was a huge invasion of privacy—but he was going to have to call Maddie, immediately, and she’d ask him to do this, anyway. He needed to prepare himself for what he was going to say. So—

Maddie,

Sorry I haven’t sent one of these in a while. A lot happened this year, maybe someday I can tell you about it in person. If you’re ever up for it, you could come visit me in LA! You’d like it here, and I think I’ll be sticking around for a while. I finished the fire academy and now I’m an official member of the LAFD.  I think this time I finally found what it is I’m meant to be. There are a lot of good people on my team, and we help people, and sometimes I get to rappel down buildings. It’s pretty great.

I’m writing this on my birthday. Remember how you used to get me hot chocolate from Hershey’s Chocolate World? Maybe I’ll get something sweet to bring into work for my shift today. And after that, I have a date tonight. You might not be surprised to hear it, but it’s actually been a while, and something about this one feels different. Might be jinxing it to write that, but you know I’ve never been good at playing it cool.

Wish you were here.

Buck

P.S. there were five Evans at the academy, so everyone calls me Buck now. I like it.

The gears in Eddie’s brain grinded to a halt. Everything was crashing together in his mind: Buck’s handwriting on his fridge and the loopy A’s of the postcard, Evan’s birthday the day he helped Maddie with her tire and Buck’s birthday, the day after. The ocean documentaries and the garbled way Buck had said his name when he was sick, a mumble ending in –ddie. The accident that had landed Buck on blood thinners and the bombing that Maddie had thought killed her brother.

Evan. Buck. Evan. Buck.

Eddie couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. He had to—he just had to check—he scrambled back to his own desk and shoved his headphones on, navigating to the archives where all of his old calls were logged. He scrolled back, back, back to that first call on Halloween, and started clicking on recordings:

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“These damn kids toilet-papered my—”

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi, I think my grandfather took the car, and he shouldn’t—”

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a Halloween decoration but there’s a skeleton—”

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Yeah, my husband fell off—”

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“This is LAFD firefighter Evan Buckley, off-duty from station 118. I’m going south down Vermont following a gold four door sedan. There is a man embedded in the windshield.”

Evan.

Buck was Evan.

Maddie was on the run. Of course she wasn’t using her real last name.

He felt a little insane; like he wanted to grab the nearest person and walk them through it, just to make sure he wasn’t being crazy. But it was all there, wasn’t it? Maddie, getting a postcard from her brother, Evan-nicknamed-Buck, who’d settled into his new job with the LAFD. Firefighter Evan ‘Buck’ Buckley, who had a date on his birthday.

On his birthday. Not the day before. Eddie had stood up Buck on his birthday. To help out his sister.

Eddie was this close to pulling Josh out of his meeting with Sue just to have someone else confirm this madness. Josh would definitely tell him if he was being losing it.

But he already knew the answer, didn’t he?

Physically, they were opposites. But Buck and Maddie had other things in common; their warm smiles and their big hearts and their East Coast accents.

Oh god. He had to tell her immediately.

He picked up his phone, navigated to her number and pressed call. When she didn’t pick up, he tried again, and then a third time. Finally, right before the voicemail kicked in, he heard, “Eddie?”

“Maddie?”

“Is everything okay? I just saw your calls—”  

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep the mania out of his tone. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m just leaving the grocery store? What’s going on, Eddie? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“Sorry, I’m not—I just. Listen, this is going to sound weird, but, did your brother have a birthmark?”

“Did he . . . yeah. Yeah, he had a–a red one. Right over his left eyebrow. Why—how did you know about that?”

“Maddie, I’m going to send you an address. Can you meet me there?”

Chapter Text

There were a few people Buck thought he might see on the other side of his door. Eddie, if he mixed up the time. Martha from down the hall, who stopped by when she needed to borrow an ingredient, or the young family from the floor below who always asked him for help when their cat got stuck somewhere it shouldn’t be. 

He absolutely was not expecting to see his sister.

She was turned, facing the hallway, but she could have been a hundred yards away in a hat and sunglasses and he would have known it was her. At the sound of the door opening, her head snapped his way and he had a split second to take her in while she stared at him—  

“Maddie!?” 

—and then she burst into tears.

“Oh my god,” he said, reaching out to pull her into a hug; she fell into it immediately. “Maddie, are you okay? What’s—what’s wrong? What are you—?”

“You’re alive,” she said, sobbing into his chest. “Evan, Evan, you’re alive.”

“Yeah…?”

He was so confused. But still, he tightened his arms around her, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Maddie pulled back then, staring up at him, eyes roving over his face like she was trying to commit him to memory. Buck understood the impulse—he hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t gotten a hug from his sister, in years. 

But still—he hadn’t thought she was dead. 

After a few moments, he realized they were still standing in his doorway. “Come on,” he said, tugging her inside. “Come in, come in. Maddie, what’s going on? What happened?”

“No, I—I mean—I don’t even know,” she said, tears still leaking down her cheeks. “Evan, I thought you were dead.”  Her voice broke on the word. Buck stared at her in confusion.

“Dead—what? How?”

“I don’t—oh my god,” she said scrunching her eyes closed. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Maddie—”

“Were you in an accident a few months ago? Something to do with the LA bombings?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Buck, leading her over to the kitchen table and sitting her down in one of the chairs. He turned and got her a glass of water, but quickly; he felt a little like if he looked away from her, she’d disappear. “Yeah, the guy planted a bomb on our ladder truck,” he said, deciding to forgo most of the details. “I was in the hospital for a bit.”

“Doug told me—he said a fire chief called and that you’d been caught up in the blast. He—he told me you didn’t make it.”

“What?”

Buck had hated his brother-in-law for a long time, but never so much as right then.

“He must have known that I was thinking about–about running. I’d started putting money away, you know? He found one of your old postcards in my bag and we had this huge fight about it. And I was thinking about you in LA, and I just thought—it doesn’t have to be like this. I thought I could come find you.”

Her words were punching Buck in the gut, one hit landing after another. He hated imagining Maddie like that, so desperate that she needed an escape plan.

“He told me they were notifying family. That he was sorry. He actually . . . that son of a bitch seemed sorry, you know? I thought if he was lying to hurt me, he’d be happier about it.”

“You believed him? Maddie why didn’t you call me?”

“I did! I tried. You must have been in the hospital—”

She was right; his phone had gotten crushed in the blast, and by the time he’d gotten it replaced a week later, it was only backed up to the time of the accident.

“I even called mom and dad,” she told him, sounding horrified.

“But they knew—I know they knew I was alive,” Buck told her. “Bobby told me he called them, and they said they felt bad but they didn’t do hospitals.” Buck shook his head. “I would have told him not to bother, but he did it while I was unconscious. But I just figured they wouldn’t care, I didn’t think—I can’t believe this is what happened.”

“I feel like such an idiot,” Maddie said, her voice breaking, regret in every word. “I remember . . . Dad picked up, and I said, did you hear? And he said, it’s not a good time, your mom is very upset about Evan, and I just—I just hung up. I went, like, catatonic. Evan,” she said, letting out another pained sob. “You’re alive.”

“I am,” he confirmed, reaching out to grab both her hands in his.

“I think Doug thought it would break me,” she went on. “And it did. But not . . . not in the way he thought. The next day, as soon as he left the house, I just grabbed everything I’d stashed—all the bags, all the cash—and ran.”

“You—Maddie,” said Buck, feeling in awe of his sister. “Finally.”

“I know, I know,” she said, wiping her eyes as best she could while still keeping them trained on him. “Everyone was right about him. Oh my god, I could have looked it up. I could have googled it. I spent months thinking I’d lost you and—”

She broke off, and Buck felt the anguish in his bones. Like a crushing guilt, even though there was nothing he could have done. 

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized anyway. “Why didn’t you? Look it up, I mean.”

“I was going to,” she told him. “Soon—this weekend, probably. I just . . . when I didn’t know any details, it didn’t feel real, you know? I wanted to keep thinking you were out there. And you were,” she said, her sobs turning into an equally hysterical laugh. “Oh my god, you were.”

Buck understood the crushing weight of years missed, the giddy relief of being together again. He had so many emotions bubbling up he couldn’t even pinpoint a specific feeling; just that he felt it all so much.

“Wait, you’ve been in LA this whole time?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but enough about me. I want to hear about you. Everything, everywhere you’ve been. Don’t leave anything out.”

They passed the next few hours that way. Eventually, they migrated to Buck’s couch; a little after that, he broke out the wine. He left a lot of things out, as he retraced his steps from Oregon to Wyoming to Peru to California, but he did actually end up telling her a lot. He told her about joining the academy and starting at the 118. About getting fired and meeting Abby. About Abby leaving and the truck bombing and the pins in his leg. And she listened to every second of it.

It felt so good to have his sister back. It felt like he hadn’t realized how homesick he’d been for the last few years until she was right in front of him, staring at him with that smile, half sweet, half teasing. A little dimmer than he’d like, maybe, but steelier, too.

He thought of Hen saying wherever your sister is, I bet she’s missing you just as much as you miss her. 

By the time they were polishing off the second bottle of wine, he got tired of hearing his own voice. She’d kept up an exhaustive list of questions, so before she had a chance to ask another, he turned the tables. “Okay, now tell me about you. What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you didn’t miss much,” Maddie said, waving him off. “I was working at the ER, walking on eggshells around Doug,” she said, glossing over what he suspected was a lot of trauma that they would talk about, eventually. “I barely did anything else. I’d go months without even seeing mom and dad. It’s been nice out here, actually. Remembering I can go out and actually do things, just because I want to, you know?”

He didn’t know. Most of Buck’s life had been him going out and doing things, just because he wanted to. It made him sad to think that was such a novelty for her; but it was good to see her talking like this; like the old Maddie he remembered. Like the one he only used to get glances of when she was away from Doug. 

“Like what?” he prompted.

“I tried to do things I thought you would have done,” she told him, and he felt the warmth of her words blooming in his chest; like all the ways she’d been trying to reach him had finally caught up, all at once. “I went to Santa Monica Pier.”

“I love the pier.”

“The zoo,” she told him.

“Did you see the Sumatran tiger?”

She nodded, and said, “the Griffith Observatory.”

“Did you do the planetarium show?”

“Of course, I did,” she said. “The universe one.”

“The best one,” he agreed. “What else?”

“I was going to hike to the Hollywood sign,” she told him.

“I did that the first week I got to LA,” he told her.

She beamed at him. “I knew it.”

“I can’t believe you were doing all my favorite things,” Buck said. 

“It was Eddie’s idea,” she told him. 

“Oh, sure,” he agreed. That made sense; Eddie had a lot of good ideas. 

Except.

Wait.

What?

“Eddie?”

Maddie made a face then, something halfway between a smile and a grimace. She nodded.

He scrambled a bit, straightening up on the couch, like that would undo the fuzziness in his brain from the wine. “Eddie—like. My Eddie?”

“Eddie Diaz?” Maddie clarified. “Well, he’ll love to hear you refer to him that way.”

“I—what?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been working at Dispatch?”

“You’ve been working at Dispatch?” Buck was finding it very challenging to form coherent questions. “Eddie’s Dispatch?”

“Okay, he doesn’t own Dispatch,” she qualified. “But, yeah. He’s—he’s the one who realized. Your last postcard got forwarded to the office and he saw it. He called me and told me to meet me here, and he walked me up and said he’d wait at the end of the hallway and—I mean, I think he probably went home by now,” she said, squinting towards the door in thought.

Buck was too distracted to think too hard about the second half of that sentence. “How did he realize? How did—I’m so confused. You guys are . . . friends?”

It was the same disorientation he’d felt when he woke up to find Eddie in his apartment, but tenfold. Maddie and Eddie occupied such different parts of his brain; he couldn’t make it make sense. 

“How did that even happen?”

Maddie scrunched up her nose, looking reluctant. “It’s kind of embarrassing.” Buck stared her down, waiting for her to elaborate. “Okay, fine,” she relented. “I was having a—a tough day on, uh, your birthday. And then I must have driven over a nail or something, because by the time I left the office my tire was totally flat. And it was raining, and I was just, like, really missing you and—I basically had an emotional breakdown in the parking lot at work.” 

She leaned forward, turning her attention to refilling her wine glass. “It was not my finest moment. And then all the sudden this guy I’ve barely talked to is knocking on my window. He offered to change it and said something about his sister and I just, like, sobbed all over him.” She sucked in a long breath and flicked her eyes up, remembering, and then huffed out a short laugh. “He was really sweet about it. Let me cry all over him. He’s a good one,” she told him, lifting up her newly refilled glass of wine in cheers.

“This was on my birthday?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward to get the bottle again, to fill up his glass this time. “That was kind of what all the blubbering was about.”

“Oh my god.” Buck turned on the couch, fully facing her, sloshing his wine as he went. “He stood me up that night! To hang out with you!” he said, accusingly.

“That was the night he stood you up?”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah, you’re all he talks about,” Maddie told him. “Buck this, Buck that. I can’t believe you’re going by Buck now.”

“I gave him so much shit for that,” Buck said, more to himself than Maddie.

She met his serious gaze, pulling back her lips in a grimace, like, whoopsie daisy! But she could only keep the expression up for a moment; a second later, she burst out laughing. Buck watched as she dissolved into a fit of giggles, feeling jumbled and light and kind of insane. 

“I feel kinda bad now,” he said, feeling the smile catching on his face.

“Well, we did hang out on your birthday without you,” Maddie pointed out. “You were alone in a bar! You thought you’d been stood up!” she cried; but her outrage on his behalf was undercut by the fact that she kept cackling. 

“True,” Buck agreed. “I—oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit—what time is it?”

Maddie looked at her phone. “Ten thirty.”

“Fuck,” he said, pulling out his own phone. “We were supposed to go out tonight. I have to call him.”

“Call him!” Maddie agreed. “Put him on speaker.”

Buck did call him, but he did not put him on speaker; he got up from the couch and walked towards his kitchen, listening to the ringing as he went, hoping— 

“Hey, Buck.”

“I stood you up,” Buck said, in lieu of a greeting.

“You did,” agreed Eddie. The smile unmistakable in his voice.

“Eddie.” 

“Buck,” Eddie said. “Evan Buckley.”

“You gave me my sister,” Buck replied.

“Nah,” said Eddie. “I just sped it up a day or two.”

From the couch, Maddie yelled, “hi Eddie!”

“Let me guess,” Eddie said, his voice low in Buck’s ear. “She got into the white wine.”

“This is so weird,” Buck replied. “I’m going to need several years to recover from this.”

“You?” Eddie asked, incredulously. “I just found out I’ve been pining over you to your sister.”

“You’ve been pining?”

“Oh, he’s been pining,” Maddie commented, getting up and coming over to where Buck was leaning against his kitchen island, cradling the phone in his hand. “It’s okay, Eddie,” she said, raising her voice so Eddie could hear her clearly. “I’ll put in a good word.”

Eddie made a noise between a laugh and a cough. “Comforting,” he said. “Glad to hear I’ve got a man on the inside now. Might actually stand a chance.”

“No you’re—you’re—” Buck broke off, feeling dizzy from the wine and the revelations and Eddie’s voice in his ear. “There’s no competition,” he said.

“That so, Evan Buckley?”

Buck felt goosebumps erupts across his skin at the low rumble of his words.   

“Oh my god, get a room,” heckled Maddie; even though Buck was pretty sure she couldn’t hear Eddie from where she was standing.

“I’ll let you guys catch up,” Eddie continued, when Buck couldn’t think of anything to say back to either of the two people torturing him. “Call me tomorrow, yeah? We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sorry for standing you up,” Buck said.

“Now we’re even.”

“Eddie.”

“Evan.” He sucked in a breath. Even though Buck didn’t particularly like his name—there was a reason he’d taken so quickly to Buck—something coiled tight and low in his stomach at hearing Eddie call him by it. “Goodnight.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow?” he double-checked.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, Buck,” agreed Eddie. “Get some sleep,” he added, and then he hung up.

Buck stood there for a beat longer, feeling warm and fond and at ease; a strong mash of contentment he hadn’t felt in . . . ever, maybe.

“You guys are so embarrassing,” said Maddie, turning to rifle through his cabinets for snacks.

The next morning, Buck got in his car, on a mission.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. At some point around midnight, he and Maddie had carried their snacks and drinks up to his bed and collapsed in front of old X-Files re-runs. Maddie drifted off before the end of the second episode, which was about the time Buck remembered that she talked in her sleep, so he grabbed a blanket and traipsed back downstairs to pass out on his couch instead.

He was grateful for it, though, because when the morning sunlight woke him up and he was greeted by the worn leather of his couch, it immediately reminded him why.

Maddie was there.

She came downstairs after he put on a pot of coffee, ruffling his hair as she passed him to get herself a mug and then staring at him happily while she drank it.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked her, opening his fridge to see what he could cook up for breakfast.

“Mhm, nope,” she said. “You already have plans today.”

He scrunched up his face in confusion, looking over his shoulder at where she sat at his kitchen island. “Pretty sure I don’t,” he said. He had enough ingredients for omelets. And it wouldn’t be hard to rustle up a few pancakes, either.

“Evan,” said Maddie, like he was being ridiculous. Buck supposed there was some comfort in the fact that it took her less than a day to start sounding exasperated at him. “Come on. You know what you have to do.”

“Maddie, I haven’t seen you in years,” he said.

“I know,” she said, putting her mug down at looking at him gently. “Believe me, I know. But we’re both here now. I live here! Like, twenty minutes away. I have to go home and shower anyway. Why don’t we plan something? With Eddie,” she added, slyly.

It hadn’t taken him much convincing, after that, to grab his keys and get on the road. It wasn’t even nine by the time he arrived at the address Maddie gave him.

He parked on the street out front of the cozy, one-story bungalow, and didn’t bother slowing his steps on the way to the door. He knocked a few times, and then, when there was no answer, a few more times. He’d just lifted his hand to knock a third time when the door flung open.

“Wha—Buck?”

Eddie stood in his doorway, looking adorably sleepy and disheveled. He was wearing sweatpants and a tank with the sleeves cut off; his hair was plastered to one side and he had a layer of dark scruff covering his cheeks. Basically, Buck wanted to eat him alive.

“Hey,” he said, feeling unbearably chipper. It was just such a beautiful morning. “Want to go on a date?”

“I—” Eddie was squinting at him, either in confusion or because he was blinded by the bright sun outside. “A—right now?”

“Yeah,” said Buck, undeterred. “Chris is still at his sleepover, right?”

“Yeah, but—” Eddie trailed off. “It’s really early,” he said, after a moment.

“Sure,” said Buck. “But if you think about it, it’s also pretty late, isn’t it? Come on,” he said, like a dare. “You really want to see what else the universe is gonna throw at us if we wait to reschedule?”

“The universe isn’t invested in us going on a date,” said Eddie. Buck almost forgot how contrarian Eddie liked to be about fate and jinxes and destiny.

“Well, I am,” Buck answered.

Eddie opened his mouth, and then closed it, like he wasn’t exactly sure why he was protesting. And then he grinned at Buck, and Buck stood there on his doorstep, grinning back, like an idiot. “Okay,” he said, excitement seeping into his tone. “Yeah. Let me just get dressed,” he said, gesturing behind him.

He turned to walk back into the house, towards his bedroom, but Buck was struck with a sense of urgency. All of these interruptions and revelations and unexpected surprises made him feel a little frantic with it, the need to act on his instincts.

“Eddie, wait,” he said, reaching forward and grabbing his shoulder. Eddie turned, spinning so his back was against the doorjamb, and Buck stepped in closer. And then, before either of them could think better of it, before fate or the universe or a nosy neighbor or phone call or emergency bell or long-lost family member could interrupt them—he kissed him.

Kissing Eddie was good. Really, really good. So good, in fact, that Buck didn’t stop, even while they clumsily maneuvered themselves back into Eddie’s house; he didn’t stop when he used Eddie’s back to close the door, and then push him up against it; he didn’t stop when he started to get lightheaded from lack of oxygen. It just felt so, unbelievably good—the pliant movement of Eddie’s lips against his own, the burn of Eddie’s scruff against his face, the tight squeeze of Eddie’s big hands, wherever they could find purchase. Eddie, being the one making him feel this way,

It was a long time before they left the house.

They did, though. Eventually. Eddie told him about his plan for the night before, and they modified it for the morning, picking up breakfast sandwiches and coffee on their drive up to Malibu. Instead of watching the sunset, they sat in the back of Eddie’s pick-up in the bright morning sunlight and watched the waves roll in. From their view on the bluff, they could see the clouds tracking shadows across the ocean, like little islands of color on the move. Over the calming soundtrack of crashing waves, they talked. About everything.

About Buck’s night with Maddie, and how Eddie had pieced everything together: “I was freaking out,” Eddie told him. “I almost called Josh. Josh, Buck.”

About the night Eddie stood him up: “I still can’t believe you were at a bar with my sister. On my birthday. That’s so messed up,” he whined, even after Eddie assured Buck that they spent most of the night talking about him.

About the way Abby had ghosted him: “oh, well, that’s easy,” Eddie said, when Buck confessed his irrational fear that Eddie would do something similar. “It’s way too hard to do that Eat Pray Love shit with an eight-year-old. I mean, imagine me dragging Chris around Tuscany? He’d be like dad, where’s the nearest Panera? This wifi is terrible.”

About Eddie’s parents and how he’d probably have to see them at least one more time before they headed back to El Paso: “Catch me up to speed on our backstory,” Buck prompted him. “I need to be prepared.”

“I kind of feel like, if you’re going to actually date me, I should come clean,” Eddie countered. “It feels weird to lie about, like, us.”

“Or, does it feel like a fun, sexy secret?” Buck asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“Please don’t say the word sexy while we’re talking about my parents.”

“We’re not talking about your parents,” Buck argued. “We’re talking about, like, romantic espionage. Roleplay.”

“You want us to roleplay . . . I asked you out four weeks earlier than I did, you said yes, and our date wasn’t interrupted?”

“God, yes,” said Buck, in a breathy voice that started out like a joke but didn’t end that way. “That’s so hot.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie said.

“You’re just trying to get out of getting me a one-month anniversary gift,” Buck said, nudging his shoulder. “I won’t be deterred. You can’t ruin my birthday and our anniversary, Eddie.”

“We don’t have an anniversary yet,” Eddie pointed out.

“Sure we do,” said Buck. “It’s been,” he checked his watch, “three hours since our first kiss. How should we mark the occasion?”

It might have been the best weekend of Buck’s life. After another long make-out session—in the backseat, no less; he would have made his teenage self proud—he and Eddie picked up Chris and took him to get ice cream for lunch.

On Sunday, he and Maddie hiked to the Hollywood sign. She grumbled that there was a reason Buck was a fan of hiking, and since she knew he was alive, they could just hang out without involving so much physical activity; but she still made him wait fifteen minutes while they tried to find a tourist to take a good photo of them in front of the sign.

And then Bobby insisted on hosting everyone—including Eddie, Chris, and Maddie—for a big barbecue cookout on Sunday night. Buck insisted that he not make it some sort of belated birthday party, but he let it slide when Bobby brought out a cake just because.

He had said he a good feeling about this year.

And after all, he thought, staring at the room at where Maddie was debating something with Chimney, and where Eddie and Chris were sitting with Hen and Karen and Athena, birthdays, like family, are less about what you’re given, and more about what you make of it.