Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Buck came out as bisexual, it felt… good.

There was no smack to the face, no big blinking ‘bisexual’ sign above his head, no heavenly host of angels that came down with the revelation like it was this huge monumental discovery. 

It was just a man's lips on his and the sudden, easy clarity of huh, that’s what I was missing. 

And yeah, even with that thought it had taken his body a minute to catch up. 

Stumbling awkwardly through his first date with Tommy…

Running into Eddie— of all people —on his first date with Tommy… 

Getting ditched by Tommy after inevitably saying something stupid while trying to keep the entire restaurant from witnessing his gay awakening. 

And also because, he didn’t know— he didn’t know for sure if liking one kiss with a guy made him bi or just a really enthusiastic ally.

That was, until he went to Maddie’s house and she all but smacked him upside the head—lovingly—with the same big sister expression she’s mastered. The one that relays exactly what she’s thinking with one tilt of her head or eyebrow raise. And in this case, the thoughts fell between you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me and you poor dumb idiot.

But the point is, he kissed a guy, realized he liked it , went on a date, lied to his best friend, didn’t even finish the date, and came out to his sister—all within like, four days. And the real kicker was—the main thing he was upset about—was that he lied to Eddie. It swirled around in his head like a washing machine on a very aggressive spin cycle. 

Because they didn’t keep secrets from each other. That’s why they worked so well together.

But Maddie had assured him that if he had something to tell Eddie, he would. In his own time. 

So yeah, when Buck came out as bisexual, it felt good. Natural. Easy. And because Tommy was practically the entire reason for that revelation, they started dating. And it was good. Natural. Easy.

But one thing Buck doesn’t understand is this — when he came out to other people, they all had the same question when he mentioned he was dating Tommy.

“What about Eddie?”

Which was very confusing. What did Eddie have to do with anything? Did they mean ‘How did Eddie take it?’ or ‘ Have you told Eddie?’ The answer to those questions would be a very enthusiastic, “yeah, it went great!” He wouldn’t be Eddie if he didn’t support Buck through anything and everything, right? 

Well, it didn’t really matter, because six months later, Buck got dumped. Tommy left him with nothing more than a whole lot of questions and “I’m not your last, I’m your first.” What kind of cheap-ass riddle is that? 

So now, here he is, knocking on Eddie’s door. Six pack in hand. Testing that unwavering support. He lifts his hand and knocks three times, his muscles aching with nothing more than the weariness of existing right now. He knows Eddie will make him feel better because Eddie always does. 

He can hear music playing inside but can’t place the song. He waits about thirty seconds, enough time to feel a little stupid standing on Eddie’s porch looking like the world's most pathetic candy gram. 

He hears the faint sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor before the door is swinging open and Eddie is in front of him. Buck’s ‘kicked puppy’ expression doesn’t falter but his brain is running a mile a minute. It’s a little hard to ignore Eddie’s current appearance—white button down clinging to his damp chest, one arm stretched out against the doorframe, a breathless little smile, and he’s—

Buck isn’t sure he wants to know why Eddie isn’t wearing any pants. 

Why, you ask? Because somewhere between figuring out his sexuality and getting dumped by his boyfriend, Buck came to the conclusion that he’s very attracted to his best friend. And this visual that’s standing in front of him right now—well, it’s doing nothing for the carefully crafted self-control he’s mastered where Eddie’s concerned. 

Trying to stomp down any heat that creeps into his stomach, he grabs a beer and holds it out to Eddie without a word, hardening his expression to make sure he doesn’t look like a man walking straight into one of his very specific fantasies. When Eddie takes the beer, Buck pushes past him without a word, heading towards the couch to contemplate every single life choice that has led him to this moment. 

Eddie wordlessly follows, climbing over the back of the couch and plopping down next to Buck. They both take a long pull of their drinks, settling in like they have a hundred times before. The only thing going through his head? 

He’s fucked.

They sit there for close to fifteen minutes before Buck mumbles, “Tommy dumped me.”

Eddie’s head snaps up, “What?”

Buck winces. He hadn’t really meant to let it slip out like that, but there’s no taking it back now, the words dangling in front of them. “Yeah… Uh. Dumped.” He vaguely gestures with his hands to fill the space before the awkward embarrassment can settle in and make him regret ever coming here in the first place. 

“Why?” Eddie asks, and his voice sounds weird …sharper. 

Buck just groans and leans back against the couch. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” He lets out a shaky breath, “I mean, part of me thought—he’s older, ya know? Wiser. More…mature. And I thought maybe that meant he knew something I didn’t. But it turns out all he knew was how to leave in the most cryptic way possible.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Eddie watching him, waiting, so Buck mutters, “Said something about how your first boyfriend can’t also be your last boyfriend.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Exactly!” Buck throws a hand in the air, “He’s like some weird fortune-cookie. What am I supposed to do with that? Frame it? Get it tattooed?”

Eddie shakes his head and frowns, his expression softening, “That’s not a reason to dump somebody, Buck.”

“No, the reason to dump me was that I—” He cuts himself off, heat climbing to his face. His throat is tight from the sheer effort of trying to swallow down the words that are fighting to surface. “Forget it.”

If he tells Eddie that he asked Tommy to move in with him, he might as well legally change his name to ‘Please Love Me’ because he knows how it sounds. It sounds like he was asking Tommy to move in so Buck wouldn’t get left behind again. And so what if that was part of the reason? Sue him.

“Buck.” 

Eddie’s voice breaks him out of his spiral, his eyes meeting soft brown, “It doesn’t matter.”

“ Buck.”

He groans and runs a hand over his face. “Fine. I asked him to move in with me.”

The last words are no louder than a whisper as Eddie just blinks those gorgeous wide eyes at him, “You what?” Eddie says. 

“I know, I know!” Buck flails. “Six months, not that long, whatever. But it felt right, and I thought…I don’t know what I thought. He told me I’d only break his heart, gave me the whole first vs. last speech and then—” He waves his hands around helplessly, “ Poof. Gone.”

Those brown eyes are staring at him and Buck can’t decide if Eddie is going to throttle him or hug him. Buck fills the silence with nervous laughter and continues talking, “So, yeah. I’m officially the idiot who proposed cohabitation to a guy who wouldn’t even—” He cuts himself off again. 

How many times was he going to almost accidentally humiliate himself? Sometimes Buck is convinced Eddie is magic, or has the power of mind control, because there is no way Buck is just this fucking helpless. No, Eddie has to have some crazy voodoo mind trick where he bats his eyes and Buck can’t help but tell him every single thing he’s thinking. 

“Wouldn’t even what?”

He swallows hard, “Wouldn’t even…really sleep with me?” he says it fast, ripping off the band-aid. “I mean, he did—I guess. We messed around—hand stuff, blowjobs, whatever—but we never really got to go further. He would always want me to…do him first. And when he finished and would touch me, it was always like…” he gives a little shrug, “Like it was a chore. And I never really—felt relieved after.”

He looks at Eddie, hoping he doesn’t see disgust on his best friend’s face. What he sees definitely isn’t disgust. Eddie actually looks angry. 

The shame hits hard, making the words spill faster. “And I feel so stupid, because who asks somebody to move in when they aren’t even compatible sexually? And to get dumped right after. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does everyone leave me?” His voice cracks, and suddenly he’s rambling: “First women, now men. Apparently I’m an equal opportunity disaster. Am I just terrible in bed? Maybe I should just give up on dating altogether. Put up a sign: ‘Will disappoint you both emotionally and sexually.’”

Eddie doesn’t interrupt him—he just sits there, letting Buck burn himself out. And Buck does—says everything he needs to say until the words dry up and all that’s left is the sound of his own stupid heart thudding in his chest. 

The silence stretches before Eddie takes another slow sip of his beer, eyes still glued on Buck. Then he casually says, “I can help, you know. If you want.”

Uh— what?

He slowly raises his head, “Help?”

“Yeah.”

“With—what? The breakup?” He laughs awkwardly, “Because, uh, you’re already doing that. Sitting here, listening to me whine—” 

Eddie cuts him off, “With being frustrated.” 

“I—what?” 

Buck can feel the heat crawling up his neck, fully aware that he’s blinking ten times faster than any normal human would—he’s also not entirely convinced he’s not dreaming. 

Eddie turns, pulling his leg underneath him on the couch so he can fully face Buck, way too calm and composed. The light catches his face, softening the edges, and that’s when Buck notices—no mustache. Clean-shaven. For some reason that detail stops him in his tracks. 

“You’re frustrated.” Eddie repeats, bringing zero clarity to the situation.

Buck’s brain is a pinball machine of misery. Is Eddie Diaz, his best friend in the world, offering— what the fuck is he offering?

He stutters, trying to find the words, “I—uh—you—”

Eddie chuckles, but it's low and sexy and not normal and the sound goes directly to a place he is desperately trying to ignore. 

“Look,” Eddie starts, “We’ve been best friends for, what, seven years now? You’ve been there for me through…everything. I’m just saying—I can help you with this, I want to, if you need it.”

“What… Are you offering to—?”

“To have sex with you Buck, yes. Or—well, any of that stuff.”

Buck gapes at him, his tongue feels useless in his mouth. Quietly, because apparently he has to learn how to talk again, he whispers, “But…you’re straight?”

He can see the way Eddie blushes at that, scratching his jaw and shaking his head. “Yeah, well the priest told me to choose juice, or whatever. I guess I’m trying to do that.”

Did he just say— what the fuck does juice have to do with any of this?

“So—in this instance… I’m juice ,” Buck says flatly.

“Metaphorically, yes.” Eddie responds.

“I don’t follow.”

Eddie lets out a loud, genuine laugh, his face softening. “I talked to a priest, and he said I’ve been denying myself joy because I chose water instead of—nevermind. He said I should try new things. Figure out what I like. And, Buck—I haven’t had sex since Marisol. I’m also…pent-up. You’re—you. I trust you.” he shrugs, adding, “Hands are hands, lips are lips, sex is sex. I’m sure the logistics are different, but we can figure it out. Doesn’t have to be weird.”

Buck’s stomach flips so hard he thinks he might throw up. Or maybe that’s not right. He’s terrified, intrigued— painfully hard— all at once. 

“You’re serious?” he whispers. 

Eddie nods, “I just want to try. See what I like. And I know you’ll make it good. Give me the full experience.”

And he winks—fucking winks —at Buck. He makes a sound that does not belong in an adult man's throat. Who is this man and what did he do to Eddie Diaz? 

“How would… how would it even work?”

“You need me to explain sex to you? Wow, maybe I should rethink my options, think Ravi would be game?”

Buck is sweating, what is happening? He opens his mouth, shuts it again, thinks about pretending to go to the bathroom and climbing out the window. But Eddie is staring at him, with those eyes, in his underwear. And Buck is only a man. A weak, very horny man. 

And if Buck is sure of one thing, it's this—if any man is going to fuck Eddie Diaz, it’s going to be him.

“I—uh. I mean yeah, I guess. If you—If you’re sure. I just don’t want to—mess this up. Us.” 

“You’re not going to.”

Buck's laugh comes out as more of a high-pitched whine, “Yeah, okay, but you say that now, and then, I don’t know—next week you realize you don’t actually want this and I’m the idiot who—” he stops, dragging a hand down his face. “God. I sound pathetic.”

Eddie leans a little closer, Buck can feel his breath, “You don’t sound pathetic. Let me do this for you.”

His pulse is hammering in his chest. He wants to ask a dozen more questions, to stall, to make sure Eddie won’t regret this—but all he can muster is a soft, pathetic, “Yeah. Okay. Yes.”

“Say you want this,” Eddie says, hovering inches away.

“Fuck, Eddie—” Buck breathes, “Yeah. I want it.”

That’s all it takes. Eddie doesn’t even blink, he just closes the last bit of space between them and kisses him. 

Buck freezes, his brain catching up to what his mouth just agreed to. This was supposed to be theoretical, they were supposed to talk about this, make a game-plan or something, it wasn’t supposed to be right now. They’re tipsy, it’s late, it’s Eddie—his best friend. His heart thunders like it’s trying to break out of his chest. He is trying very hard to remember if he brushed his teeth before he came here. His hands are hovering, not sure where to go.

“This only works if you kiss back,” Eddie murmurs against his lips. 

But how does he kiss his best friend? The person he’s looked at as one of the most important people in his life? His co-parent to their— Eddie’s—son? But that’s not the problem—he knows it isn’t—it’s not that he doesn’t know how to kiss him. It’s that he’s terrified he won’t know how to stop .

Eddie’s lips are soft and warm and Eddie—Eddie is eager and his hands are everywhere. Then his hand starts trailing lower, and lower —until Buck can feel the light drag of fingers along his straining erection, Eddie starts palming him through his jeans, and just like that—Buck’s control snaps. His hands fly to Eddie’s waist, dragging him onto his lap. Eddie straddles him easily, their mouths sliding together, and Buck deepens the kiss with a groan he couldn’t hold back if he tried. 

The sound Eddie makes in response is filthy. Buck wants to memorize it. File it away and keep it forever. Just for him. 

And for the first time, Buck isn’t thinking about Tommy at all. 

So they start hooking up. 

Over the next three months, they fall into a rhythm of hands and mouths that is so filthy and desperate Buck isn’t sure how he lived without it before. They hadn’t actually had sex — not all the way — that invisible line neither of them had crossed despite both of them wanting to. But everything else? Fair game. Hands, mouths, Eddie’s fingers inside him, working him until he was boneless and spent— all of it until Buck was half-convinced he never wanted to be touched by anyone but Eddie ever again. 

It was a blur of places and stolen minutes that didn’t seem to feel nearly as reckless to Eddie as they did to Buck. The Jeep in the station lot, fogged windows with Eddie’s hand around him and Buck biting his lip bloody to keep quiet. The supply closet, Eddie barely getting the door shut before pushing Buck to his knees. The bathroom at some dive bar where Buck ended up flat against the tile with Eddie’s hand down his jeans and a warning growl in his ear to shut up. Even Buck’s bed, more than once, where Eddie let himself go slow — teeth biting marks into Buck’s skin, fingers working him open with brutal efficiency until it left Buck undone, shaking and begging for more. 

It was too easy. Easier than it had any right to be. Because they were still Buck and Eddie. They were still best friends, they still had movie nights, still texted everyday, they laughed and joked and hung out normally. But there were the moments where Eddie would look at him across the room with his pupils blown and his breathing heavy, and Buck wouldn’t hesitate to give him everything and more. 

Maybe that was why Buck didn’t think twice about the way his phone buzzed in his pocket all the time, Eddie’s name lighting up the screen, but with things that would make Buck throw his phone against a wall if anyone got too close. They sexted like it was a sport, each of them trying to make the other fold first. And Buck quickly learned — Eddie isn’t as innocent as people make him out to be. 

Eddie Diaz is a freak. 

And Buck is fucking living for it.

Today is no different, they’re stuck in the loft between calls, Eddie sprawled loosely on the couch with one arm thrown behind his head, pretending to watch TV. Buck’s in the kitchen with Bobby, trying to look useful while dicing vegetables for dinner, when his phone goes off.

Eddie: Thinking about your mouth

Eddie: What you would do if I pulled you into the bathroom right now

Buck’s pulse stutters. His hands aren’t steady to begin with and now he’s nearly diced his finger off trying to hide the text from Bobby. He glances up, just once, catching Eddie’s face across the loft — it’s relaxed and unreadable, but Buck can see the tiniest twitch of his mouth, of the knowing smirk laying right under the surface. Buck ducks his head and quickly types a response. 

Buck: id get on my knees so fast id leave bruises

Buck: wouldnt even care who heard

Eddie: I’d make you choke on it  

Eddie: Want you red in the face and dripping

Eddie: I know that pretty mouth of yours takes me so well

Buck exhales hard, trying to ignore the heat sparking under his skin to avoid getting hard in front of all of his coworkers and his surrogate father. God knows they’d never let him hear the end of it. His thumbs start flying across the screen, hoping to elicit the same reaction from Eddie that he’s having. 

Buck: i would

Buck: id take you so deep id feel it in my chest

Buck: bet i could make you cum so fast

Buck: let you use me

Check-mate, Diaz. 

He barely has time to grin at his own audacity before the next buzz hits. 

Eddie: Jesus, Buck  

Eddie: Keep talking like that and I’ll drag you to the truck bay  

Eddie: Show everyone who you belong to  

He shifts on his feet, dick already half-hard, the knife hovering useless over the cutting board. His response is shaky, a whine in text form. 

Buck: please

Buck: youd ruin me out there

Buck: fuck me where anyone could walk by. 

“Buck,” Bobby’s voice cuts clean through the steady buzz thrumming under his skin. He jerks, realizing Bobby’s been watching him hover over the uncut veggies for way too long.

“Phone down. Help me with this.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Buck mutters, thumbs moving to hit send on one more line before setting the phone face down on the counter.

Buck: youd love it

Buck: id beg so loud theyd all know exactly what you do to me

And then— every single phone in the loft dings at once. 

For one frozen second, Buck thinks maybe the sound is just in his head. But he sees Hen already pulling her phone out, Chim glancing down at his, and Ravi moving to grab his from the table. 

And his stomach drops so fast he’s pretty sure it cracks the floorboards on its way down—because if there is a God, he has a fucked up sense of humor. 

Eddie’s phone is in his hand too — but he’s not moving, Buck doesn’t even think he’s breathing. He’s just staring at his screen like if he focuses hard enough, the words will hopefully vanish. 

“Oh my God.”

Hen’s eyes are wide and looking between her screen and a very statuesque version of Buck. 

Chim is reading aloud before Buck can lunge across the counter and stop him, “I’d beg so loud they’d all know exactly what you—” His eyebrows climb to his hairline, “Buck, what the fuck?”

Ravi bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over, “Wait, you sexted the group chat?!”

“No, no, no—” Buck’s voice traitorously cracks and he can feel the heat in his face, “That’s not—I didn’t—”

Hen’s tone sharpens, amusement undercut with curiosity, “You’re seeing someone? Who is she?”

“Or he,” Ravi supplies. 

“Does Maddie know?” Chim adds, already fishing his phone back out. “Because if not, she’s about to.”

“Chim, don’t you dare.”

Hen crosses her arms, going all authoritative mother figure on him, “You know, Buck, you’re being awfully cagey about this mystery hookup. That’s not usually your style.”

“Yeah, usually you can’t shut up about whoever you’re seeing. What’s the deal?”

“Nothing’s the deal, I’m just enjoying myself.”

Buck thinks he would rather get struck by a thousand lighting bolts before having the conversation he’s having right now. Because Eddie is not gay. Eddie is exploring. Eddie is having fun. But Eddie, to Buck’s knowledge, is not gay. So Buck—Buck can’t say who he’s seeing. 

“Enjoying yourself,” Ravi echoes, dramatically. “Okay, but with who? ”

He thinks about maybe making someone up, at least then he can control the narrative, but the clock is ticking. He has about fifteen seconds max to decide how he’s going to play this. Which couldn’t be worse, because how he handles this could determine where him and Eddie stand after it’s all over. 

Buck takes a few more seconds to think before opening his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue—which is exactly when Eddie, who has been sitting on the couch stiff-backed and red as a fire hydrant, blurts out the one name Buck would’ve never expected. 

“Josh.”

Fucking Josh. 

Don’t get the wrong idea, Buck likes Josh. As a friend. 

Josh is great. Funny, smart, Maddie loves him! But let’s be real — that text was not "Josh from Dispatch" energy. That was six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, ruin-me-until-I-cry energy. Which Josh is… not.

He knows it isn’t impossible, he knows people have different preferences — but Buck likes being put in his place. Likes a big, strong man to take control and wreck him. And well—no disrespect, but Josh gives off “sarcastic brunch friend” energy—he’s just not seeing what Eddie had in mind here.

Every head whips towards Eddie. 

“Josh? Josh from dispatch? Maddie’s Josh?”

Hen breaks into a fit of laughter, “Oh, wow. That’s—”

“Oh my god,” Ravi whispers, eyes huge and sparkling with delight, “You’re sending that to Josh?”

“God, you people are nosy,” Buck groans, leaning into the bit, because what else can he do?? “Can’t a guy just get laid in peace?”

The words slip out easier than he meant them to—and when his eyes flick up, Eddie’s expression tightens just enough to make Buck falter. Jaw set, mouth flat, gaze burning into him like Buck just disobeyed an order. 

Which, of course, only makes Buck double down.

Hen snorts. “Laid? With Josh? Josh Josh?”

“What?” he says, tilting his head, goading. “It’s true. We’re just having fun. No strings. Isn’t that right, Eddie?”

Eddie smirks, but something feels off. “Hey man, you said it, not me.”

Oh. Oh. Eddie is jealous. This could be fun.

“Wait a second. Eddie, you’ve been real quiet through all this.” Ravi says, tilting his head, “What do you think about Buck and Josh?”

Eddie freezes, caught mid-silent prayer that no one would remember he exists. “Uh,” he chuckles, but Buck can’t help but notice the bitter edge to his words, “I think Buck can date whoever the hell he wants.”

The words are tight and calculated and definitely feel very pointed, and Buck is loving every minute. But sexy, jealous Eddie will have to wait. 

Right now, he has to go beg on his knees — in the non-sexual sense, okay? — and pray that Josh will agree to help him. Chim is already halfway down the stairs, phone pulled to his ear, when Buck hears it, “Hey Maddie—”

Fuck. 

Buck whips his phone out, his fingers moving faster than they ever have before.

Buck: josh i need you to listen to me okay?

Josh: I’m listening  

Buck: if anyone asks 

Buck: we’re sleeping together 

Josh: I beg your fucking pardon

Josh: Buck, no offense

Josh: but I don’t think I’m your type

Buck: what?

Buck: I came out almost a year ago?

Josh: Oh I know

Josh: I just mean

Buck: ???

Josh: Isnt your type more like

Josh: Tall, dark and repressed

Buck: how did you

Buck: nvm

Buck: will you help me or not

Josh: Whats in it for me

Chapter Text

Eddie probably could’ve said literally any name other than Josh. 

He could’ve said Thomas, or Jared or even Greg for fucks sake. 

He could’ve also kept his mouth shut. 

Buck would’ve turned on the charm, flashed that pretty smile, and everyone would say it’s just Buck being Buck. But Eddie’s big dumb monkey brain dug up the one person he can’t stand, and shoved him in Buck’s direction, practically giftwrapped. 

Fucking Josh. 

It’s not any secret that since their days together at dispatch, Eddie and Josh don’t exactly get along. It’s not that he hates the guy, it’s just that if he had the choice between chewing on glass or spending an entire evening with him—well, you get it. 

Another thing that isn’t helping is that Buck is suddenly texting — a lot — and Eddie? He keeps waiting for his phone to light up, waiting for Buck’s name to appear and for the questions to start pouring in about why the fuck Eddie went that route in regards to a solution to their issue.

Eddie knows— with like 97% certainty — that Buck wasn’t serious when he played into the whole thing. Buck didn’t want to get with Josh.

Josh isn’t even Buck’s type! 

Right? 

I guess if you close one eye and squint… and tilt your head at a ninety degree angle… and then close your other eye… Then maybe he and Josh look similar. 

No. Nope . Eddie isn’t stooping so low as to compare himself to Josh. 

When he started all of this with Buck he was dipping his toes in. It started with kissing, then making out, then grinding, and things kind of snowballed from there. He’s not even gay. He understands why some people would get a little confused, but he’s not. Both of them needed a helping hand — or mouth — and as best friends it was an easy decision. 

He can kiss Buck and still be straight. He can, and he will. 

Except, Eddie has become a little obsessed. So much so, Buck has started to call him insatiable. But good lord, Buck has never had the opportunity to see himself on his knees. His lips are so pink his eyes are so blue and his birthmark does this thing where it gets darker when he’s— Fuck Eddie really shouldn’t be thinking of this right now. 

Because Buck is across the loft, smiling like a goddamn fool at his phone, and it’s not because of Eddie. There’s really only one person it could be, and that’s the worst possible option, so Eddie’s pulling out his phone to do the only logical thing a man can do—

Eddie: Josh.

Josh: absolutely not

Eddie: I haven’t even said anything.

Josh: and that’s still too much for me

Eddie: Fuck you 

Josh: havent you heard?

Josh: turns out im taken 😘

Eddie: Josh.

Eddie: I swear to god

Josh: pipe down 

Josh: im already talking to buck

Josh: you two will be back to your gay shit in no time

Eddie: ???

Eddie: I'm not gay

Josh: …

Josh: wow

Josh: im entirely too sober to have this convo with you

Eddie: I need to talk to you about Buck.

Josh: no ❤️

If anyone were to ask Eddie if he moved from the couch to the barstool so he could get a closer look at who Buck is texting the answer would be a resounding no.

If they asked if he moved so he could be closer to Buck, smell his cologne and the slight scent of Eddie’s body wash on his skin, watch the way his muscles flex against his shirt, or the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips… what was he saying?

Oh yeah.

Buck can text whoever he wants, Buck is a grown man, Buck is likeable. What Buck is not, is Eddie’s boyfriend. Because Eddie likes women. 

“Are you okay?”

When he looks up he sees those pretty blue eyes, and they look very concerned. Why wouldn’t he be okay? He’s just sitting here. Shit, has he been glaring at Buck? Is he being that obvious?

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Buck frowns, “You’ve been looking at me funny. Like you’re in pain or something. Do you have a charlie horse again? If you need help, I can rub it out later.”

See—this entire conversation between them in the shared loft of their workplace surrounded by their coworkers and closest friends, is a very normal conversation. What is very not normal is the obscene moan Eddie lets loose in response to what Buck just offered. 

And if that isn’t enough, it echoes, making its way back to assault the ears of everyone for a second, equally horrifying, time. 

Buck’s eyes go wide, a flush climbing up his face at an impressive speed. He looks like he’s opening his mouth to speak but no words come out. Buck just stands there, red and blushing, with his mouth open. Eddie thinks he might die. 

“Did you just—” Buck whispers. 

“No” 

“Eddie I literally heard—” 

“Nope,” he says, grabbing a drink and taking a long, unnecessary sip, “Didn’t happen.”

Buck won’t stop staring, his eyes wide, lips twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing. Or worse—

“Eddie.”

“Drop it.”

“Or what? You’ll make me?”

It’s clear in that moment that Buck was definitely not thinking it through when those words slipped from his lips. Eddie’s wondering if he has a death wish. Or, in this case, a burning desire to get wrecked six ways from Sunday.

“ Buck.” Eddie doesn’t raise his voice, he actually drops it, matching the tone he uses when he wants Buck to do as he’s told. 

Were they really doing this here? They’re practically eye-fucking each other, with commentary. 

Buck notices the shift in Eddie’s tone and his mouth slams shut, those pretty lips forming a pout. What Eddie wouldn’t give to bend him over— nope. He needs to get a grip.

“It was kind of loud,” Ravi mumbles from his seat at the table, not even glancing up from whatever game he’s playing on his phone.

The silence that follows is deafening. 

Eddie wonders if this kind of stuff would happen to him less often if he had listened to his mom about going to church on Sundays. Maybe then he and God could call a truce on whatever karmic debt he’d apparently racked up in a past life. 

And then Buck, the little brat, grins. “See? Even Ravi heard it.”

Buck was gonna get it later, that he could promise. 

Because Buck was forgetting who was in charge in their little arrangement, which is why Eddie cuts him a sharp look, and says, “Careful, Buck. You keep offering to rub me out in front of people, Josh might get jealous.”

Buck’s eyes go wide and the sight before Eddie is one that he has thought of taking a picture of many times. Buck, flushed and breathless, all because of him. Eddie can practically feel the whine Buck’s holding back. 

Across the island Eddie hears a muttered, “God, give me strength,” and knows he needs to wrap things up before Bobby decides to hurl himself—or one of them— over the loft railing. 

Eddie has always been good at keeping his face stoic, even as his pulse jackhammers under his skin. He stands up, moving around to where Buck is standing. He presses up against him, his hand a featherlight touch against Buck’s, his breath ghosting across Buck’s neck—he can feel the shiver that moves through Buck.

It’s not a surprise that the tiniest shiver turns Eddie’s inner caveman absolutely ravenous. But they are in a firehouse loft, not a back alley. It would generally be frowned upon—not to mention a felony— to push Buck against the fridge and take him apart. Eddie needs to remember that, but it doesn’t stop him from talking—

“What? You offered. Don’t look at me like I’m the problem.”

Eddie steps back and Buck splutters, practically as red as a tomato now, “I wasn’t—”

“Sure,” Eddie drawls, stepping towards the stairs, “Whatever you say, Casanova.”

“You guys are so fucking weird.” Ravi mumbles, not even looking up.

He turns to look at Buck one more time, and he isn’t disappointed. His only thought is: yeah, Josh wouldn’t stand a fucking chance. 

Watching these two giant, gorgeous idiots circle each other like blind vultures for the past seven years has been equal parts hilarious and infuriating. Josh hasn’t spent too much time in the inner circle that is the 118, but he hears enough from Maddie that he feels like her frustration with her idiot of a brother is his frustration by association. 

Saying Buck is easy on the eyes is a massive understatement. Buck is recommended for the eyes, nine out of ten optometrists say staring at Buck will improve your eye health significantly. It may also raise your blood pressure, mostly because he’s ridiculously attractive—also because he’ll talk about Eddie the entire time you’re with him—seriously, one time Josh counted. Eddie was mentioned fourteen times. In less than one hour. 

And Eddie—well, he’s a DILF. It’s the truth, which is why Josh will admit it without bursting into flames, but he will never in a million years say that to Eddie. He wouldn’t want to blow up that massive head of his even more—Eddie has Buck for that. 

So why did Josh agree to help Buck by saying they’re fake dating/hooking up? He’s bored. It’s been a slow week and he could use the distraction. Plus, watching Buck and Eddie together is like watching a car crash in slow motion, he just can’t look away. 

He’s standing at the counter waiting for the coffee to be ready as he scrolls through the messages with Buck from earlier.

Buck: whats in it for you?? 

Buck: uh the satisfaction of helping friends in need??

Josh: You are not in need

Josh: You are in horny trouble of your own making

Josh: And Eddie is not my friend

Josh: More like arch-nemesis

Buck: what are you, five?

Buck: and Eddie made it worse! 

Buck: it wasnt just me

Josh: shocking

Josh: Eddie made something more complicated

Josh: Color me stunned

Buck: be nice

Josh: fine

Buck: everyone thinks we’re hooking up

Buck: and that you make me like

Buck: beg and stuff

Josh: please no

Josh: this is more than i ever wanted to know about yours and Eddie’s sex life

Buck: but youll do it?

Josh: Fine

Buck: wait really? 

Buck: why?

Josh: the eternal satisfaction of watching you two idiots squirm

Josh: tell Eddie your fuckbuddy says hey ❤️

Buck: 🖕🏼

Josh is mid-sip of coffee, smirking at the last message he sent to Buck, when the break room door swings open. 

“Maddie,” he says, straightening a little too fast. 

The look she gives him is eerily calm, which for Maddie, is terrifying. She slowly crosses the room with the slow agility of a lion stalking her prey, pours herself a mug, and finally says, “So.”

“So?”

“Since when are you fucking my brother?”

He chokes so hard he nearly spits coffee in her face, “I—excuse me?”

She just shrugs, stirring sugar in her mug, “I mean, I don’t really care, good for you both if that’s a thing. I will say though—I’m a little surprised he didn’t find a way to bring it up six times in a single conversation.”

What is he supposed to do? Deny? Deflect? Lean into it and watch the chaos unfold? He does his best to school his face into something neutral, “Wow. Only six? That’s low for him.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“Wasn’t a yes either.”

“I didn’t know you liked Buck like that.” she questions. 

“I’m not sure there’s many people who aren’t into him like that, Maddie. Seriously—he did the world a favor when he came out as bi. I just took advantage of that new development.” he says, regretting the words a little as they come out, because this is Buck’s sister after all.

“Mm-hm.” She hums, leaning against the counter, watching him with the same terrifying patience, “We’re not done here.”

Josh just smirks, because this is going to be a lot more fun than he thought. When she leaves, he slides his phone out one more time.

Josh: Hey your sister just asked me when I started fucking you

Buck: excuse me??

Buck: What did you say?

Josh: well i didn’t deny it

Buck: you didnt deny it 

Josh: nope ☺️

Buck: oh my god

Buck: shes gonna kill me

Josh: just doing my part

Josh: you’re welcome

Buck: I hate you

Josh: tell Eddie your lover says hi ❤️

Buck doesn’t even make it halfway to his Jeep after their shift before a fist hooks into the back of his shirt and yanks, dragging him off-course. His shoulder slams against the metal of Eddie’s truck door, paint still warm from the day’s sun, the side of the cab shadowed just enough that they’re mostly hidden from view.

“Eddie what the—” 

Eddie doesn’t let him finish, just opens the door to the backseat and growls, “Get in the truck, Buckley. Now.”

Which— sir yes sir — don’t have to ask him twice. He climbs rather clumsily into the truck and tumbles down onto the seat. And here’s the thing, Buck has known for a long time he has this thing—the thing for getting bossed around and roughed up a little in bed—but he never knew it could be like this. Buck isn’t sure there’s a single thing he wouldn’t let Eddie do to him. Better yet, he’d probably beg for whatever it is every time. 

He knew today in the kitchen he was being a brat. But can you blame him? Jealous Eddie makes him dizzy with want, and if he needs to lean into his bratty side to get that Eddie to come out and play, he will do so happily. 

“What the hell is this?” Eddie asks, climbing over him and shoving his phone in Buck’s face, ripping Buck out of his thoughts. 

Eddie’s screensaver is a picture of them with Chris, which is really sweet and cute and Buck is trying very hard not to think about how it makes him feel. 

There's a text on the screen. From Josh. 

Josh: how's our boy? 

Josh: don’t keep him all to yourself

Josh: sharing is caring, Eddie

Oh, fuck. 

Josh is definitely trying to fuck with Eddie. 

This is not going to end well—actually yes it is, for Buck at least. He's just happy Eddie parked far enough away that there are no other cars around.

“Eddie—he’s just messing around—”

“Shut up.” Eddie’s voice is coarse as he braces one hand against the seat next to Buck’s head, crowding him until he feels like a caged animal. “You think this is funny? You and Josh, letting people think you’re really—”

Buck can’t help but risk a smirk, “You’re the one who said his name, Eddie. Not me.”

“Don’t start.” He can see the muscle in Eddie’s jaw tick, and it only makes him want to push harder. 

“What?” Buck asks, sweet as poison. “Are you jealous, Eddie?”

That’s when Eddie fists his shirt and yanks him up, close enough now that Buck can feel the heat of his breath in uneven puffs. Eddie’s voice drops so low Buck starts to wonder if they’re not playing anymore. “Keep talking, Buck. See what happens.”

For the record: Buck would very much like to see what happens.

His pulse spikes in excitement as his grin only grows bigger. He makes a show of licking his lips slowly, letting out a little condescending laugh, “Guess I should thank Josh, then. Didn’t know a single text could get you this worked up. I’d love to see what you’d do if I actually took him on a date.”

It’s a bit of a low blow—the date thing. Mostly because Buck knows him and Eddie don’t do the dating thing. They can’t go on dates, Eddie doesn’t like guys like that. 

The growl Eddie makes at Buck’s taunt rattle through him, vibrating against his chest, and before Buck can savor it Eddie’s mouth is crushing into his, so hard it’s bruising. Buck groans into it, shoving back with equal force, nipping Eddie’s lip just to be a brat, poking at his already sharp edges.

Eddie’s hand is already at Buck’s jeans, roughly tearing at the button. He frees Buck’s cock with a rough hand, stroking him hard. He sets a brutal pace from the very start as Buck gasps, his whole body jolting at the contact, his hips betraying him as they push up into Eddie’s grip. 

“Fuck—Eddie—”

“You belong to me,” Eddie snarls against his mouth. Buck tries not to think too hard about those words, too heavy to mean nothing. His brain stutters at the sound of them, every nerve ending lighting up. 

He grins even as his breath hitches, pushing a little more just to see what it gets him, “Yeah? You gonna tell Josh that, or just keep saying it to me?”

Eddie’s answer is his teeth on Buck’s throat, biting hard enough that Buck yelps, no doubt leaving a mark that will be questioned in the morning. Well, at least he’ll see Eddie’s reaction when he says Josh gave him the mark, Buck thinks. 

Suddenly Eddie’s hand slows, easing off enough to make Buck whine. 

“Say it again,” Eddie mutters.

“What—”

“That I’m jealous.” Eddie squeezes him once around the base, tight enough to be just shy of painful. “Say it.”

Buck lets out a ragged, breathless laugh and tips his head back, baring his throat. “You’re jealous as hell, Diaz. And you hate it.”

That’s what makes Eddie tear his hand away completely. Buck groans, writhing against the seat, hard and dripping against his stomach. 

“Eddie—don’t stop—”

“You want to mouth off?” Eddie growls, shoving his hand between Buck’s thighs, pressing two fingers against his rim, “Then take it.”

Buck almost chokes, scrambling to shove his jeans down farther, anything to give Eddie better access. “Yes—fuck—please—”

Eddie grabs the lube from the center console, slicking up his fingers as he shoves them in, one first, then two, not pausing to let Buck adjust—they’ve done this enough that Eddie knows he can take it. Buck’s body clenches around him, a sharp burn-pleasure ripping a brutal sound from his throat. 

“Oh god—Eddie—”

Eddie’s looking at him like Buck’s reaction only eggs him on. He drives his fingers deeper, curling them just right, dragging over that spot until Buck is arching off the seat, his head cracking against the door. 

“You feel this, baby?” Eddie hisses, “Josh couldn’t touch you like this. No one can.”

Buck’s eyes roll back and he feels tears at the corners, his hands clawing at Eddie’s shoulders, “No one—no one but you.”

He didn’t mean to say it like that, but the confession hangs in the air between them anyway. Eddie reacts by fucking his fingers into Buck harder, stretching him open until he’s trembling beneath him. He’s merciless, working Buck until he’s half-gone, a mixture of babbling nonsense and begging for more. 

And then Eddie yanks his hands away—and Buck nearly sobs at the loss, his hands scrambling to reach for him. 

“Please,” Buck pants, his body a shaking mess, “Please, Eddie, need it—need you—”

Eddie frees himself with rough hands, his cock heavy and red, leaking against Buck’s thigh. Buck thinks maybe he’ll just jerk them off together, they’ve done it before. But Eddie lines himself up without hesitation, the blunt head pushing against him, and Buck’s whole body locks in anticipation. 

Because, this is it. This is the first time they’re actually going all the way. They’ve never explicitly talked about the “rules”, but Buck always followed Eddie’s lead, and they always stayed in safe territory. Stuff they could brush off. ‘ Hands are hands, lips are lips, it doesn’t have to be weird.” But Eddie is about to cross that line. Eddie is about to fuck him. And holy shit— Buck has never wanted anything more. 

Just before it happens, the thought hits Buck like a jolt of lightning: I don’t want it to be anyone else.

And that—is something he is burying deep deep down until further notice. No more feelings for Buck, he’s in feelings timeout. Because why the fuck did his brain have to supply him with that specific piece of information ten seconds before his best friend was going to be inside him? 

Eddie pushes forward hard, burying himself inside in one relentless thrust. Buck can’t help but cry out as he’s overwhelmingly filled, the stretch lighting every inch of him on fire. 

“Christ,” Eddie grits, “So tight—always so fucking tight—”

Buck can’t form words, only small pathetic sounds. He clings to Eddie’s arms, nails digging into muscle, his body arching to take him deeper. 

Eddie sets a pace that’s merciless, every thrust feels like a brand as Eddie claims him, every snap of his hips pounding Buck into the seat. He leans over him, his forehead pressing to Buck’s temple, growling with each ragged breath. 

“You’re mine,” he rasps, “Not his. Not anyone else’s”

Buck whines at the possessiveness of the words, his cock leaking between them, sad and neglected, “Fuck, Eddie. Harder. Please—”

Eddie groans, shoving himself deeper with every thrust until Buck is clawing at him. He tries to warn Eddie that he’s close, but his mouth just hangs open as every snap of Eddie’s hips punch out desperate little ah ah ah sounds from his throat. 

Buck comes first, untouched and spilling across his stomach with a cry that echoes in the cab. Eddie fucks him through it, groaning as he finally lets go, burying himself deep, his hand pressing flat to Buck’s chest to hold him still as he spills inside him.

After, their ragged breathing fills the silence. Eddie’s forehead rests against Buck’s shoulder as he tries to catch his breath, his hand still firm against Buck’s chest. 

Buck, still trembling, lets out a shaky laugh, “Guess that’s a yes to being jealous, then.”

Eddie groans and presses his face deeper into Buck’s neck, “Shut up, Buck.” 

But he doesn’t move from Buck’s side, and Buck can feel the shift in whatever this was between them, and he doesn’t know what the hell to make of it. 

Eddie’s truck smells like sex. Sex and mediocre decision making. If someone were to walk by right now, Eddie and him would look like sexed up teenagers, sneaking out for a quick fuck. Except they’re men in their mid-thirties who have been best friends for almost a decade and basically share a kid. Very stable and practical. 

Buck’s shirt is inside out, his jeans are caught around his ankle where he’s trying to shove his foot through without knocking his head against the ceiling. He’s honestly not entirely sure how they were able to do everything they just did without one of them getting injured or humiliated. 

Eddie’s buttoning his pants one-handed, the other braced against the window as he cranes his neck to peer out at the empty lot. 

“Think we’re good.” Eddie mutters, “Nobody around.”

Both of them seem to be avoiding the fact that this was an extremely stupid thing to do in the parking lot of their shared workplace, and Buck is grateful for that. 

“Good,” Buck says, thumbing his phone awake and typing out a message. 

“Who are you texting?” Eddie asks.

“Josh.”

Eddie’s head snaps around so fast it nearly hits the glass. “You’re—what the fuck, Buck?”

Buck lets a lazy, confident smirk cross his lips, finally tugging his shoes on. He pockets his phone with infuriating ease and leans back against the seat, trying to look as smug as possible. 

“I did say I needed to thank him, didn’t I?”

Buck: hey man

Buck: just wanted to say thanks 

Josh: do i want to know?

Buck: for the text

Buck: got me laid

Josh: …

Josh: what the fuck do you mean

Buck: not sure if youre trying to mess with Eddie but it really did the trick

Buck: I owe you 🙏

Josh: Buck I swear to god

Josh: If you ever send me something like this again

Josh: Im blocking your number

Buck: just trying to spread the love 🥺

Josh: blocked.

Chapter Text

The fact that Maddie hasn’t called him is becoming deeply unsettling. Buck would be half ready to rally a search party for her if he didn’t know via Chim that she’s completely fine. 

And before you ask, yes, he has tried to call her. He’s called, texted, hell—he even got desperate and sent her an email at 2:37 a.m. But the only response he’s gotten back has been “at work, talk later 🙂” which, really Maddie? Lame excuse when that’s literally never mattered before. 

He knows she knows. Josh told him she knows. So why is she not doing her big sister duty and making him feel thoroughly uncomfortable by talking about his sex life? 

He’s contemplated dialing 911… contemplated and immediately dismissed the idea. He’s not that dumb. He’s just desperate. Maddie has a way of seeing through him—meaning he can’t lie to her. Which in turn means he’d like to lie to her as soon as possible so she can call him out on his bullshit and he can get it over with. The anxiety of it all is eating him alive. 

It’s been two days. Two days since his and Eddie’s little friends with benefits arrangement went sideways. Since he leaned a little too hard into the whole Josh thing and got railed in the back seat of Eddie’s truck. Two days and he’s still not sure where he stands. The only person who will really communicate with him is Josh, which is weird, and… oddly comforting?

He checks his phone for the time—4 a.m. Has he really been up all night? Buck is on his third documentary and his fourth bowl of cereal before he decides to just get ready for work. He sets his phone down, heading to the bathroom. Might as well get a shower in before he goes, lord knows he needs one. 

Buck is excited for work—well, he’s always excited for work—but lately he’s really excited. Why? Because ever since the whole Josh incident, Eddie has been weirdly possessive and it’s possibly the hottest thing Buck’s ever seen. Getting to push those buttons everyday while they’re on shift? Buck does it simply because Eddie gives him this look . And he’s become well aware of what that look means. If Buck is a brat all day, Eddie makes him apologize. Buck does so every time— very enthusiastically. 

Sometimes, when he’s laying awake at 3 a.m. with too much sugar in his bloodstream and Eddie’s handprint still ghosting his hip, Buck lets his brain wander into dangerous territory. He isn’t sure how this whole thing is going to end. The logical part of him knows it probably will end, what with Eddie’s track record of self-sabotage and Buck’s of falling way too hard regardless of the consequences. And sure, it keeps him up at night—Eddie isn’t just some guy he’s hooking up with, he’s the most important person in his life. 

And yet—

Buck isn’t about to give it up. Not when it’s this good, not when the sex is… well, honestly, “life-ruining” is probably the most accurate way to describe it. His idiotic feelings can scream all they want, Buck’s not listening. He’s got a system: shove those feelings into a box labeled Do Not Open Unless Eddie Diaz Miraculously Becomes Gay, tape it shut, stick it in the back of the closet, and distract himself by being an unrepentant brat until Eddie inevitably drags him off to “apologize” . 

It’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, sure, but hey—therapy exists for a reason.

Getting ready for work took all of 30 minutes, so now instead of having two hours to kill, he only has an hour and thirty minutes. He lets out a heavy sigh and wonders how pathetic it’d look to show up to work anyway. He looks at his phone while walking out of the bathroom, about to bound up the flight of stairs to change into his clothes when he catches a figure out of the corner of his eye. 

“ Jesus—” Buck says sharply, “Maddie—what the hell are you doing here at 4:30 in the morning?”

Maddie sits poised at his kitchen counter, wearing an unimpressed look that Buck has been on the receiving end of way too many times to count, “I have work. I thought I’d stop by on my way there to see for myself.”

“See what?”

She gives him a pointed look, “If you really have lost your goddamn mind. Josh? Really, Evan? ” 

Buck stops mid-walk, his towel dripping on the hardwood. Of course, Josh. It’s always Josh now—the understudy in Buck’s mid-life crisis—a part he didn’t even audition for but was thrust into anyway. Maddie doesn’t ask him questions so much as announce conclusions, and Buck knows from experience that trying to dodge her is like trying to dodge gravity, it just doesn’t work. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t try anyway. 

“What’s it to you, Madison?”

If she was going to government name him at the break of dawn he was going to fake-name her too. Buck knows she hates it when he calls her Madison, mostly because that’s not her name. His parent’s—the people who are so particular about hating any type of nickname but didn’t care about neglecting their children—made her full name “ Maddie”. 

She narrows her eyes, “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t call me Evan,” he counters. 

He really didn’t care much if Maddie called him Evan. In fact, she was the only one he didn’t get mad at when she called him by his real name—aside from Tommy, and that was just because he didn’t listen to Buck about anything ever. Why did he date him again? 

“What is all this about you and Josh?”

Buck gestures vaguely at himself, still damp from the shower, towel slung low around his hips. “Okay, first of all—little weird you’re interrogating me while I’m naked.”

“You’re not naked, you’re in a towel.”

“Same thing,” Buck argues, because arguing is easier than explaining everything that’s happened over the last few months. He waves towards the stairs, “Naked-adjacent. Still not something I want to be in front of my sister for longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“Don’t change the subject!” she says, her voice raising a bit. 

“I’m literally changing,” he fires back, already taking the stairs two at a time before her voice, laced with big-sister authority, nails him in place. 

“Evan.”

Her specific tone of voice is enough to take him back to being twelve years old again—falling out of a tree and breaking his arm. Maddie always was the one to come to his rescue when one of his “stunts” went too far, and although he was the one with the broken bones, she was the one gluing all the pieces back together. Every time. Her teen years into her twenties were spent mothering him—a boy whose parents only ever showed him love if it was accompanied by guilt—and after everything he’s put Maddie through, he owes her everything. 

He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing a little too dramatically, “You know Mads, most people, when they show up to someone’s apartment at dawn, at least bring breakfast.”

She eyes him curiously, making Buck brace for the next words that’ll come out of her mouth—probably something irritatingly full of wisdom, or something that’ll say you’re full of shit in ten words or less. “Mm. Most people don’t fake-date my coworker.”

There it is. The reason she’s perched at his counter like a one-woman intervention at this ungodly hour. She already knows. She’s just waiting for him to admit it.

Buck stalls, scratching at his temple. He could argue, but it really wouldn’t matter. Maddie has a way of flattening every excuse he comes up with, so instead he goes for the classic Buck strategy: lean into the bit, deflect with humor, hope she doesn’t push it. 

“Not sure what you mean,” he shrugs, “It’s nothing serious, just casual. A hookup, one might say. Which is kind of awesome, getting to take the edge off without all the commitment.”

Nothing about what he just said sounds right. Partly because he’s not talking normal, but also because technically he’s not talking about Josh—he’s talking about Eddie.

In theory, it should sound normal. Very Buck 1.0 of him. Casual, detached and fun—if it were anyone else, maybe it would be. A random hookup with a stranger he barely remembers the name of the next morning. That is what taking the edge off is supposed to look like. Not whatever almost-relationship Eddie roped him into. And yes, Buck will be blaming Eddie for this mess.

He was fresh off a breakup, tipsy, and sitting next to his hot, pantsless best friend. His straight best friend, who was saying things like “I can help you” and “I want to” and “say you want this” while practically sliding into Buck’s lap. Not even God himself could’ve resisted Eddie in that moment. Eddie was the stupid little snake in the garden, temptation incarnate, dangling the forbidden fruit and basically whispering, “you know you wanna” . Buck’s pretty sure he’d seen a porno with the exact same plotline. What was he supposed to do, say no? Yeah fuckin’ right. He was eating that fruit, humanity be damned. 

He tries to sell the lie with a smile, but he can tell by the unimpressed look on her face that Maddie doesn't buy it. And the truth is—he doesn’t even buy it. 

Because yeah, sure, it’s casual. And yeah, maybe it all started as “helping each other out” or something he could file under “stress relief”. If it were literally anyone else, it could’ve worked. But when it’s Eddie, it’s never that simple for Buck. 

He’s not supposed to think about the way Eddie looks at him possessively, or the way Buck’s stomach does somersaults every time Eddie so much as brushes past him. Everything is meant to be kept compartmentalized—neat. Instead, it’s bleeding into everything, and now he’s standing half-naked in front of his sister, having to pass it off as the most casual thing in the world.

Buck misses when he was pent-up and horny and sad. Those were the days . 

Maddie sets her drink down with a click, still looking at him with a mixture of empathy and frustration, “You know this is going to blow up in your face, right?”

Buck swallows, wanting nothing more than to think of anything else, rather than the inevitable end of whatever he has with Eddie. He shrugs, hoping it comes off as nonchalant and not completely pathetic. 

“Story of my life, Mads.”

Buck rolls into the station an hour before he’s scheduled to work, jittery despite the lack of sleep. He’s there before anyone else, a phenomenon that is not normal even on his best days. He knows as soon as his friends start flooding in that he hasn’t escaped their inevitable questions of why he’s suddenly taken an interest in punctuality when he’s usually sliding in right when he has to—except if he carpools with Eddie, then he’s a little early. 

And that’s the other thing—if you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t notice a difference between his and Eddie’s relationship. Or is it friendship? Situationship? Platonic— but not entirely since they’re literally having sex —coparentship? Whatever, that’s besides the point. If you didn’t know any better, they still look like BuckandEddie, the baseline, the unbreakable friendship that everyone else covets. 

If only they knew. 

Buck clings to the normalcy, because as long as they have the easy banter and the shared routines, it didn’t matter that they were also sneaking off when no one was paying attention. It lets him pretend that this is all under control, that they can keep being best friends who just… occasionally blurred the lines in favor of mutual pleasure.

“Hey, you okay?” 

Buck’s thoughts come to a halt as he snaps his head up, locking on sultry brown eyes and tousled brown hair. Shoulders squared, jaw set, looking exactly the same way he always does and somehow still managing to knock the air out of Buck every. single. time.

The concern that is obvious in Eddie’s face makes Buck’s heart jump despite his better judgement. They’re best friends, it’s not unlike Eddie to be concerned when Buck is in a mood. But that doesn’t stop his tired brain from drawing conclusions that aren’t there—drawing fantasies he desperately wishes were a reality. Concern out of more than platonic love. 

He can see Eddie’s face scrunching more and more the longer he doesn’t answer. “Yeah, just tired. Not much sleep last night, you know me.” 

It’s a non-answer at best. He said earlier that Maddie could see right through him? Eddie could see through him even if he was a goddamn lead-lined bunker. He had even joked one time about having a “buckdar” which apparently is like a gaydar but wired exclusively to Buck. Like some internal GPS that pings every time Buck is lying through his teeth.

Buck isn’t sure if he should be creeped out or flattered. 

But it’s Eddie, so… flattered it is.  

The call comes in before Eddie can question him, making Buck thank whatever God there is for not having to stumble through a half-truth when he doesn’t even understand his own feelings. 

The ride to the scene is normal—a tender mercy—and Buck is starting to think today is going to be a good day. That is until they get there and he realizes half the crowd is more interested in him than the guy with the busted shoulder. 

The scene is chaotic with loud music still pounding, empty bottles littered across the lawn and college kids shrieking as if they’re on spring break in Panama Beach instead of a random Wednesday in the suburbs of uptown LA. It’s nearing 9 a.m. which has Buck thinking this is the aftermath of last night’s party that hasn’t yet ended. 

He makes his way across the lawn, pointedly ignoring the drunk twenty-somethings and crouching down beside the injured kid while Hen works. He’s trying to keep the patient calm, immediately feeling a spike in his own nerves at the attention on him. Particularly, two girls hovering near a cooler, giggling every time he so much as looks up. 

“Do you, like, have to train a lot to do this job?” one of them asks, and by the tone of her voice and the way she’s pushing her chest out, Buck knows exactly what her goal is here. 

He smiles politely, trying to remain professional while also wanting to point out that there’s someone writhing on the ground in pain while she’s trying to get laid. “Yeah, a fair amount.” he says, clipped. 

“And you carry people all the time? Bet you could carry me,” her friend says, bold enough to reach out and put a hand on his arm as he stands. 

Annoyance is bubbling low inside him. He looks down at her hand, reminding himself he’s on a call, not at a bar, and while he would sometimes welcome the flirtatious banter, he draws the line at work. He learned his lesson the hard way when he first started here. 

He scans the yard for Eddie. Bobby had told him and Ravi to control the other partygoers, make sure no one crowded in on Hen—wouldn’t want her biting the head off of some poor drunk kid if they decided to get too close. But when Buck glances up, Eddie’s eyes are locked on Buck, and while his look isn’t unprofessional per se—he’s still doing his job presently and thoroughly—Buck knows that look. That look is what got him thrown in the back of the truck last time. 

So he lets his grin widen, leaning into the girl’s space just enough to be obvious, his eyes still locked on Eddie, speaking loud enough for his words to carry. “Guess you’ll have to wait until your friend’s patched up. Wouldn’t want pretty girls like you getting hurt too because I wasn’t focused, would we?”

Both girls resume the giggling, obviously delighted that Buck is now engaging with them, but he hardly notices it. What he does notice is the tick of Eddie’s jaw, the darkening of his eyes, the clenching of his fists low at his sides. He tilts his head in a silent you good, Eds? And that’s enough to have Eddie marching across the lawn. 

When he reaches them, the shift is immediate. Both girls’ eyes widen when they see Eddie— like Buck can blame them— one actually fans herself and Buck has to bite back his laughter. 

“You two always work together?” one of them asks, but Eddie’s eyes never leave Buck. 

“Yeah,” Buck answers, “Pretty much inseparable.” 

“Mm,” Eddie says finally, basically staring holes into the side of Buck’s head, “Means I get to keep him from doing something stupid.”

The girls laugh nervously, not sure if that’s a joke and just now clocking the tension radiating off of Eddie’s body and how he hasn’t looked at them once. Buck’s grin just sharpens because Eddie doesn’t sound like he’s joking at all, Eddie sounds pissed. This day just keeps getting better. 

"So... are you two...?” she asks, waving a hand between them in the universal sign for “ are you fucking?”

“We’re working,” Eddie deadpans, exhaling through his nose. It’s the most professional non-answer he could give, but Buck can hear the edge underneath, the warning just for him: Don’t push me, Buckley. 

Eddie steps closer as he says it, making Buck’s breath hitch in his throat. His shoulder brushes Buck’s, the heat of him pressed in and staking a claim without even touching. One hand hovers at Buck’s back, subtly trying to herd him out of whatever the hell this situation is.

Buck just beams, all teeth, leaning back on his heels. “Oh, us? Nah. He’s as straight as they come. We’re just best friends.”

They look between him and Eddie, not entirely convinced, “Shame,” one says, “we were going to invite you both inside for some fun.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, really, but the sound that bursts out of him is bordering on startled. He may play for both teams but his days of sorority girl foursomes are long behind him. He can see the look on Eddie’s face, and it’s priceless. He resembles a marble statue—all chiseled and tense—put him in a museum and Buck wouldn’t ever leave. Art appreciation and all that. 

Eddie’s eyes flick over the two of them, the first time he’s acknowledged their existence this whole time, before landing right back on Buck and staying there. Buck can feel his entire body buzzing, is he on fire? Did a fire start and he didn’t notice?

When Eddie speaks, it’s casual enough that anyone else wouldn’t second guess it, but in their little bubble of sexual tension, Buck isn’t entirely sure Eddie won’t drag him back to the rig and show Buck what happens when he can’t keep his mouth shut. 

Eddie just levels him with a look that makes sparks shoot up his spine, and Buck couldn’t have been less ready for the words that come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry ladies,” Eddie says finally, after what could’ve been minutes of rated R eye-fucking on the front lawn of this sorority house. “Think I’ll keep him to myself.”

Did Buck and Eddie get in trouble on the way back to the station? A little. Whether it was because of their no-so-innocent conversation with two drunk girls propositioning them for a foursome, or because Eddie looked like he was two seconds from biting them if they laid a finger on Buck, or— as Bobby put it—because they apparently “forgot the importance of  professionalism and time management in an emergency situation.” Regardless, the end result was the same: Buck catching an earful. 

Bobby didn’t have to raise his voice, the paternal “I’m not mad, just disappointed” look was something Bobby had mastered by now where Buck was concerned. He simply aimed that look at Buck, “We’re not there to socialize, Buck. I don’t care how many sorority sisters want a group picture. You’re there for the patient.”

“Yes, Cap,” Buck had said, all wide-eyed innocence, even though everyone knew he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. 

Eddie, meanwhile, had stayed silent. Not unusual for Eddie—he could do silent brooding better than anyone—but the toddler temper tantrum posture he’d adopted (little pout, arms crossed tightly against his chest), he could see Eddie was still chewing on the last little bit of attention Buck had soaked up, which only made him want to poke the bear more. 

So yes, technically, they were in trouble—Buck moreso, which didn’t make much sense since Eddie was the one who escalated everything. Technically, they’d just been scolded for being unprofessional. And technically, Hen had muttered something about HR having an aneurysm if they ever got wind of how Eddie was looking at him on that lawn. 

But Buck? He was still practically humming with satisfaction the whole way back. 

By the time they pull into the station, Chim is waiting for them with coffee in hand and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Heard you two almost got recruited for a foursome, bummed I had to miss out on the show.”

Buck tosses him a warning look that says something along the lines of do not start and Beware of Diaz, which only makes Chim laugh harder. “What? I’m just saying, you guys keep this up and you’re going to force Bobby into early retirement.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Eddie says flatly, cutting in before Buck can make it any worse.

“Oh?” Chim raises an eyebrow, “So what was it like?”

“It was me trying to keep Buck focused on the actual patient instead of playing rockstar with some sorority girl groupies.” 

Hen breezes past, patting Chim on the shoulder, “Don’t encourage them.”

The damage is already done though, because Chim is turning to Eddie again, “So? Were they blonde or brunette?”

“Neither.” 

That alone should’ve been the end of it, but Buck loves this little game of cat and mouse. He simply couldn’t just leave it there. It would go against his biological makeup—opportunity to mess with Eddie? There’s not a cell in his body that would say no to that. So Buck just grins and claps Chim on the back. 

“They weren’t Eddie’s type.”

Eddie freezes mid-step, the glimmer of amusement in his eyes not lost on Buck. Then adds, calmly, “Yeah, because my type knows how to stay on task.” 

It takes a minute—bless him—but the smile on Chim’s face falters as he spins around to follow where Buck is now halfway to the locker room, “Wait—so what is Eddie’s type?”

Although Buck has been riding a weird high-low cocktail of exhaustion and leftover adrenaline all day, he’s still antsy with anticipation as Eddie suggests they go to Buck’s loft. He can almost feel the victory, who knew being a brat would lead to the best sex of his life? 

When they finally get inside, Eddie kicks his shoes off by the door, shrugs out of his jacket, and heads straight for the fridge. He pulls out two beers, tosses one to Buck without looking, and mutters something about watching the game tonight. 

Buck just…stands there for a beat, holding the bear, trying to figure out what he’s missing. 

Eddie’s acting like nothing happened today. Not the foursome offer, not the broody “think I’ll keep him to myself”, not the weeks of sexy, jealous Eddie slamming him against any flat surface and telling Buck to “be a good boy and keep quiet.” 

Nope. Just Eddie, his best friend of nearly eight years, leaning against the counter and flipping through a stack of Buck’s mail. 

“Uh,” Buck finally says, setting the beer down because his palms are suddenly very sweaty, “you want pizza or something?”

“Pizza sounds great.”

That’s…it. 

No loaded looks, no lingering touches, no “ you drive me crazy but I’m gonna bend you over this counter later.”

Just…dinner plans. 

Buck feels like he’s falling through a trap door. Did he take it too far today? 

He tries to recover, moving closer to Eddie as if proximity alone can give him the answer to this stupid game Eddie’s playing. 

“Okay, but I’m calling this time. You always order like you’re feeding an army.”

Eddie finally glances up, “Better too much than not enough. You forget what happened last time?”

Of course Buck remembers last time—he remembers every damn thing. The pizza delivery guy, the arguments over toppings, Eddie’s hand brushing his on the box… 

Oh! He also remembers Eddie pushing him against the wall later that night, murmuring filthy things in his ear and touching him until Buck forgot his own name. 

And now? Now Eddie is talking about pepperoni ratios, like Buck isn’t still half-hard just from the thought of it. 

He’s thumbing through Buck’s stack of takeout menus on his counter, he’s telling Buck about a new exhibit at the zoo, he’s asking about Buck’s plans on their next 48 off, and if Buck would like to go with him to pick out a new coffee maker. What he’s not doing is acting like they’ve been fucking nonstop for the past three and a half months. 

Buck’s going insane trying to figure out what is going on. Does this mean it’s over? Does Eddie expect him to act like nothing ever happened? 

“Eds—” Buck blurts, “you’re acting…different.”

“Different how?” 

You aren’t shoving me against furniture and kissing me stupid. 

Nope can’t say that. 

We’ve been home for almost thirty minutes and you aren’t acting like you want to bend me over the counter. 

Not that either. 

You’re acting normal again. 

He has to hold back a laugh at that one, because really, how idiotic does he sound? He’s upset because he went full brat all day at work just for Eddie to revert back to his factory settings? 

“Just…different.” 

“I’m tired, we worked a twenty-four. Now what do you want on your pizza?”

Buck can’t decide if he wants to scream in Eddie’s face or throw himself into traffic. 

So instead, he flops down on the couch with his beer, turning the TV on for background noise and doing what any other mature man in his mid-thirties would do. He sulks. 

The screen lights up the loft, and some game he doesn’t care about flickers across it. Eddie wanders over and drops down beside him—as close as possible because of course he does. 

“Bobby’s probably still pissed about this morning,” Eddie says, casually taking a swig of his beer, “You should’ve seen his face when you told those girls you could ‘bench press two of them at once.’”

“They asked! I was being polite!”

“You were being an idiot,” Eddie corrects, but his voice is warm. 

Buck is so fucking confused. That tone usually means they’d at least end up making out before the night was over.

Once twenty minutes has passed, Buck is ready to lose his mind. Eddie is entirely too relaxed, eating pizza on Buck’s couch, drinking Buck’s beer, laughing quietly at the tv like they’re just two guys unwinding after a shift. Which, okay, they are— but Buck was counting on a little more physical activity concerning their endeavors to unwind. 

Besides, Eddie had spent the last forty-eight hours alternating between ignoring Buck and eye-fucking him in public. Forgive a guy for being a tiny bit on edge. 

He chews slowly, then makes a scene of setting his plate down with exaggerated care. “So. When you said I was an idiot, was that a professional critique, or, you know…personal?”

“Both,” Eddie says without looking away from the screen. 

And that’s all he says. What the fuck.

“Harsh,” Buck drawls, stretching his arms across the back of the couch until they’re brushing the nape of Eddie’s neck, wiggling his fingers in Eddie’s peripheral. “Thought we had something special.”

“We do,” Eddie says mildly, “It’s called friendship.”

“Oh? Friendship where you throw me around in the back of your truck? Or my bed? Or the supply closet at work?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Eddie seems completely unfazed and Buck is about to spontaneously combust. That’s it? No glare, no clenching his fist, no sexy threat disguised as a calm warning? Fine. If there’s one thing Buck knows how to do it’s pushing until Eddie’s tight composure goes pop.

Game fucking on, Edmundo.

“A little handsy for a straight guy, don’t you think?” 

“Guess so.”

This little shit—

“Wow. Really dialing up the passion tonight, Diaz. You were a lot more talkative last time, if I recall correctly.”

“Games on,” Eddie says, nodding at the TV, “Do you mind?”

Buck feels scandalized—is that the right word? Offended? Like someone went back to 2020 and brought that Eddie—king of repression—and replaced Buck’s new, sexy, finding joy (or juice? Buck still doesn’t really understand what Eddie was saying back then) Eddie with this fucking buzzkill. Buck could get on his knees right this second and Eddie would probably just ask him to move out of the way. 

So that’s exactly what he does. 

He pushes off the couch, dropping to his knees in front of Eddie, eyes blazing with mischief. If Eddie wants to play, fine—Buck can play too. 

Eddie doesn’t so much as flinch, he doesn’t even look particularly amused, he just raises an eyebrow and says, “You lose something down there?”

“Are you—are you seriously—?”

“You’re blocking the screen, Buck.”

Buck waits on the floor for a good thirty seconds. Just waiting for Eddie to haul him up and give in. He can’t stop thinking about possessive Eddie, jealous Eddie. Now he just has sexually repressed straight best friend Eddie. 

“You done with your tantrum down there?”

Buck is ready to defend himself, “Tantrum? I—” 

“Sit down, Buck.” 

It’s infuriating, not just what is not happening right now, but the fact that Buck obeys, huffing like a sulky teenager as Eddie pats his thigh. 

For the next half hour, Buck waits and waits for the other shoe to drop. And it does, in slow-motion. A hand stroking Buck’s thigh while inching closer to where he’s aching for release. That same hand sliding up Buck’s back when he leans forward, fingers brushing the nape of his neck and tugging hard at his hair, brushing his lips against the shell of Buck’s ear when he leans in to grab another drink. 

“Eddie,” Buck hisses at one point, shoving lightly at his arm. 

“What?” Eddie looks genuinely innocent, dipping in to whisper into Buck’s ear, “You’re jumpy tonight.”

“You—you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?” Eddie finally looks at him then, his brown eyes wide as he tilts his head, dropping his voice an octave, “You’re being so good for me right now.”

Buck’s stomach does a nosedive, he can feel his ears burning, because what is happening? Can’t he just push Buck against the fridge and take what he wants? What kind of slow-burn hell did he just walk into?

By the time the game is over, Buck can feel the electricity under his skin. His jeans are way too tight, his face is basically tomato red right now, and his chest is a riot of need and frustration. 

Eddie stands, stretches, tosses a sleepy grin towards Buck and moves to grab his jacket, “Alright, I’m gonna head out.”

“That’s it? You’re just—you’re just leaving?”

Has he lost his fucking mind?

“Why, Buck? Did you want something else?”

He throws his hands up, the confusion and frustration rushing to the surface, “Yes! No—I—god, Eddie. You can’t just—” He’s practically shaking, incomplete thoughts tumbling out before he can stop them. “You can’t just sit here all night being normal while touching me like that and saying things like that. You can’t just—pretend this is nothing. I like when you’re jealous, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I like when you’re possessive and bossy and—Jesus Chris, I sound insane—”

Eddie watches him, lips tugging into the faintest smirk before stepping closer. Buck feels his breath catch when Eddie’s hand cups his jaw. 

“You’re not insane,” Eddie says quietly, “you just like being mine.”

All of the bravado is gone. Buck is now a puddle on the floor. 

“...Yeah. I do.”

And just like that, Eddie is kissing him. Softer than he ever has before, but just as fervent. Buck melts against him, not quite getting what he had begged shamelessly for, but something much more intense. They kiss like that—backed against Buck’s door—before Eddie pulls back panting. Before Buck can catch his breath, Eddie is opening the door with a small smile. 

“Good. I like it too.”

And then he’s gone. 

Eddie gets home from Buck's while mid-spiral.

As it turns out, googling “straight guy having sex with bisexual male friend and liking it way too much, what does this mean?” leads to answers like, “you might be gay.” 

Which— that can’t be. 

So naturally, the next step would be to text the all-knowing expert on the topic. 

Eddie: Hey, so…

Josh: it’s 2 am this better be good

Eddie: Hypothetically

Eddie: If one were to have sex with a man

Eddie: And enjoy it enough to keep having sex with the same man

Eddie: What would that mean?

Josh: oh my god 

Josh: Is this it?

Eddie: Is this what? 

Josh: nvm

Josh: does this hypothetical person have feelings for this man?

Eddie:  None he thought were abnormal?

Eddie: Like sure… they’re kind of raising a kid together

Eddie: And they’re together more often than not

Eddie: And he put the man in his will to get guardianship of his son if something were to happen to him

Josh: you did fucking WHAT NOW

Eddie: ???

Eddie: Never said it was me?

Josh: oh my god

Josh: okay no 

Josh: I say this out of annoyance and mild rage

Josh: having sex with a man when you are a man makes you not straight

Josh: you cannot be this stupid

Josh: goodnight Eddie 

Eddie just stares at his phone, waiting for Josh to text again, saying “ Sike! You’re as straight as an arrow!” but the screen stays dark. 

He exhales through his nose, muttering to the empty room, “That’s…not helpful.”

He tosses the phone on the nightstand, glaring at the ceiling, determined to fall asleep and escape this waking nightmare.

Two minutes later, he picks the phone back up. 

Eddie: you’re wrong

Eddie: I’ve had sex with women my whole life

Eddie: Loved one enough to marry her

Eddie: So clearly, this doesn’t apply to me

There, he’s said his piece, that’ll prove it to Josh. 

Josh: right, my bad

Josh: you’re the exception to the rule

Eddie: Cool 🙂

Josh: oh my god

Eddie: what?

Eddie: It’s just stress relief

Eddie: Like working out

Josh: let me spell it out for you

Josh: railing your hot male friend on a daily basis doesn’t count as “stress relief”

Eddie: we’re best friends

Josh: ???

Eddie: you said “hot friend”

Eddie: Buck and I are best friends

Josh: I give up

Turns out Josh doesn't know as much as Eddie thought. The all-knowing expert isn't so all-knowing after all. 

Chapter Text

The internet is no help. 

Sure, Eddie is well aware that him having sex with another man isn’t normal. But that’s if it was just some other man. This is Buck he’s having sex with. It’s the same as if he were having sex with a wife, or girlfriend. Because Buck is his best friend, his “other half” in some ways. He helped Eddie raise Chris, they eat dinner together almost every night, Buck picks groceries up on his way over to Eddie’s house sometimes—he’s a massive part of Eddie’s life. So it’s not having sex with men… it’s having sex with this specific man. 

Really, if you think about it enough, their relationship didn’t change at all. Only now, they both get a little physical pleasure from it. His dynamic with Buck is the same, his feelings for Buck are the same, everything is the same, there’s just sex now. Mindblowing sex, too. 

See? Open and shut, he’s not gay. 

There are more than a few reasons he offered his help to his best friend. 

One: Buck looked like he needed it. He was fresh off a breakup and Eddie isn’t sure what it was, but something inside of him was screaming to make Buck feel better. 

Two: Buck was looking at him with this shocked and awed expression when Eddie had offered, it kind of sent a thrill up his spine. He likes making Buck feel good—it’s addictive actually, how pretty Buck looks when he falls apart for him. And it makes Eddie feel even better that he can help his best friend in every way now. After all, Buck has gone out of his way to help Eddie too many times to count. 

Three: Eddie was so fucking horny. Sure, it hadn’t been a ridiculous amount of time after Marisol, but still, Marisol was good—and enthusiastic—but it kind of felt like a performance. Like he was putting on this elaborate show, which became less about his pleasure, and he just ended up exhausted after (and not in a good way). With Buck, he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to fake anything. Which, if he let himself think too hard about it, is kind of the problem. He just knows what to do. Which is likely because of how close they are, they know each other inside and out. Which brings us to the fourth point.

Four : Eddie trusts Buck. He knows Buck wouldn’t lie to him, and he knows Buck would do everything he could to make it as good as possible for Eddie. Him and his big heart .

So Eddie asked. 

And Buck said yes. 

And for three months, it was the most incredible non-relationship he’s ever had. Until the Jenga tower came crashing down around him after that one fateful day. 

Buck did one thing, Eddie said one fucking name, and everything changed. 

Ever since then it's been one domino falling after the other. Buck accidentally sent the text to the group chat, which led to Eddie saying Josh’s name, which led to a weird fake-relationship between Buck and Josh, which led to an actual friendship between Buck and Josh, which led to Eddie examining his feelings a little too closely and kissing Buck a little too softly—and then fleeing like the building was on fire. 

And now—he’s here, half-convinced Josh Russo, of all fucking people, holds all the answers. Which is humiliating, because if Josh is the smartest man in this equation, Eddie really is screwed. 

The internet says he must be gay, Josh says he’s definitely not straight, and Eddie says they’re both full of shit. 

Eddie Diaz is the only authority on Eddie Diaz’s sexuality, and he’s already decided he’s straight, which is bolded and underlined, twice, on a sticky note, probably taped to his fridge. Right next to the reminder that says ‘ stop sleeping with your best friend’.

And that—that’s what he’s sticking with for the foreseeable future. 

But one question remains, why the hell did he kiss Buck like that? And why, when he thinks about it now, does he kind of want to do it again?

If Josh gets one more text from Eddie “ Not Gay™ ” Diaz, he swears he’s going to walk into the 118, say the Q word, and walk right back out. 

It’s not that he hates Eddie—he really doesn’t. It’s that someone this clueless should not be this hot. Every time Josh’s phone buzzes in his pocket, it takes a year off his life. He’s a 911 dispatcher for hell's sake, not a psychologist for repressed men in their mid-thirties.

Josh’s day goes a little like this:

When he wakes up, it’s a continuation from the night before. When he said “I give up” he thought a man such as Eddie—a first responder with extensive medical knowledge, a father, a veteran who has wielded actual firearms—would read between the lines where Josh neatly penciled in: “for the love of god, Eddie, leave me alone.”

But no, he woke up to three texts from Eddie, all just saying “Josh??”

So not only was Eddie the world's straightest gay guy , he was also needy. Like a toddler with separation anxiety, if toddlers were muscular and broody. 

Josh: Be so for real

Eddie: I am!

Eddie: I’m not into guys

Eddie: I just…happen to really like having sex with Buck

Josh: breaking news

Josh: Buck is, in fact, a guy.

Eddie: It’s different

Josh: wow, groundbreaking

Josh: want me to knit that on a pillow for you?

Eddie: Buck doesn’t think I’m gay

Josh: that’s actually not surprising

Eddie: you’re not helping

Josh: not my job, Diaz 

He pockets his phone and walks into work, pointedly avoiding Maddie for now. There’s a dam of gossip that is threatening to burst at any minute, and Josh is very much right in the middle of it. And Maddie can do this thing where she just looks at you with that I may not be your mom but you will listen to me stare and it’s almost impossible to lie to her. Josh still isn’t sure how he did it the first time. 

And while he wouldn’t care much about gossiping where Eddie’s concerned, he wouldn’t do that to Buck. They’re friends. Plus, Buck is the victim here—having to deal with that horny, repressed disaster of a man—Josh is nothing if not empathetic. 

Also he’s nothing if not entirely too amused by the whole thing. If only Edmundo goddamn Diaz would stop texting him every five minutes, then the world would know peace, and Josh could laugh at their mutual codependent meltdown from a safe distance. 

He manages to make it to the desk without tripping over any Buckleys’, and just as he sets his phone down— bzz bzz. 

Eddie: you’re the one insisting I’m not straight

Josh: because you’re not

Eddie: it’s just to blow off steam

Josh: still gay

Eddie: like going to the gym

Josh: please tell me what gym you go to so I can avoid it at all costs 

He sighs, hits send, and swivels in his chair toward his monitor because he actually intends to do his job today. Unlike a certain firefighter, which is mildly alarming if you think about it. He’s halfway through logging in when— bzz bzz.

Of course.

Eddie: okay but i’ve dated women

Josh: you could be bisexual 

Eddie: I married one

Josh: …do you want a medal?

Eddie: that proves I’m straight

Josh: no, it proves you had a wife

Eddie: well, what about Marisol?

Josh: what about her?

Josh: she dumped you

Josh: and you started fucking your MALE best friend

For a blissful two hours, there’s silence. No buzzing, no crazy man trying to argue his way into heterosexuality, just the relaxing sound of emergency calls. Maybe, just maybe, the blunt-force honesty finally cracked through Eddie’s thick skull. 

He even lets himself feel proud. See? Brutal honesty works. Part of him wants to call his third grade teacher who told him being abrupt would get him nowhere—because look at him now, practically shoving a thirty-four year old single dad out of a closet made of glass. It’s better than Eddie’s clumsy logic-jenga any day. 

Josh sips his coffee, leans back in his chair, and starts logging calls. It’s almost peaceful. 

Almost. 

Because right when he thinks he’s off the hook— bzz bzz. 

Josh closes his eyes, inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, and thinks about slamming his phone directly into the wall. Or calling 911 himself to report a stalker and assigning the 118 to the call. It’s not like it would matter much, the only two people that don’t know Eddie Diaz is gay are Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley. 

He finally looks at his phone to see the latest episode of Eddie clawing his way out of whatever hole of denial he fell into last night. 

Eddie: okay but I don’t like… look gay

Josh: I…

Josh: I don’t know what that means

Josh: but I disagree

That’s the defense? That’s the card Eddie decided to play? God, he really is grasping at straws. 

Eddie: what about the fact that I love Buck like a brother?

Okay, ew. 

Josh: then you have some serious Alabama-coded sibling issues, champ

Eddie: …that’s gross

Josh: you’re the one that said it??

This whole thing really has Josh wondering why Eddie refuses to acknowledge the obvious. It’s actually kind of sad that he’s having a hard time coping with the idea of being anything other than straight. 

He feels bad for about thirty seconds, then he realizes Eddie could go to literally any other person in the world about this—and god, Josh wishes he would. 

Eddie: we’ve been friends for years before this and nothing was ever ‘gay’ between us

Josh: now you’re friends that fuck

Josh: evolution, baby

Eddie: dont call me baby

Josh: 👶🍼

Josh thanks the heavens above for his lunch break and the ability to turn his phone off. He’s going to eat his lunch and think about texting Buck to fake-break up with him. Reason being: he can’t handle Buck’s straight-best-friend/fuck-buddy/non-boyfriend/platonic coparent/they-are-so-fucking-stupid-oh-my-god.

“So, you’re avoiding me?” 

Josh almost falls out of his chair with how high he jumps. “Maddie, hey! Wh-what’re you talking about?”

She smirks while leaning against the door to the break room before moving to sit across from him, “You’re fake-dating my brother, and now you’re avoiding me so you don’t accidentally tell me.”

“I–uh.. Hah..” that’s about as eloquent as his answer is getting. 

“Knew it,” she says smiling, “Don’t worry about it, just wanted to confirm my theories.”

“Maddie, wait—” 

But she’s already walking back to her desk. Josh runs a hand down his face before turning his phone back on and, who would’ve guessed—

Eddie: how about the fact that I’ve only ever done or wanted to do stuff with Buck?

Josh: congratulations Eddie

Josh: you’re gay for Buck

Josh: (sent with confetti)

Eddie: that’s not a thing

Eddie: you can’t just be gay for one person

Josh: it is

Josh: and you can

Josh: I’ll even get you a shirt for Pride next year

Josh: do you prefer ‘disaster gay’ or ‘bucksexual’?

Eddie: 🖕🏼

Eddie: you’re wrong

Josh: and you’re exhausting ❤

Josh: but really, consult a therapist

Josh: you’re starting to make me question my own sexuality

Jesus Christ, he needs a nap.

Eddie tells himself the entire drive over that this isn’t a bad idea. It’s a good idea, a great one, even. He just…needs to talk to someone. He was talking to Josh but after seven—yes, seven— messages where he was left on read, he was starting to feel a little pathetic. 

He couldn’t go to Hen—she’s too wise, a master at being comfortable in her sexuality. And a master at clocking Eddie’s bullshit from a mile away. She’d take one look at him, give him a sympathetic look, and hit him with words like internalized homophobia until he’d have to walk into traffic out of shame. 

Bobby is out of the question, because he’s Bobby. He would sit him down, all fatherly and concerned and sincere, and he would probably make Eddie feel okay about everything. Which is not what he needs right now. 

Buck is obviously not an option—not unless he wants to dig a grave for himself right there in the Diaz backyard and then die from embarrassment. 

Buck is not an option because Buck is part of the problem.

So he lands on Chim. 

Chim is a good guy, one of the best! But Chim is chaos—he isn’t going to give him sage wisdom or a lecture about repression. Chim is unpredictable enough that Eddie can throw something messy in his lap and hope he just…runs with it. It’s flawed logic, but its logic nonetheless, and it gets Eddie into his truck and on the road. 

Buck had mentioned Maddie was working tonight, which only solidifies his plan. Chim will be home alone, he’ll open a couple beers, Eddie will confess just enough to get it off his chest, and that will be the end of it. Contained and clean, back in its neat little box. 

Except when Eddie finally builds up the courage to knock, and Chim opens the door…Maddie is right there, glass in hand. And at the dining table— Buck. 

He might puke. What is with his karma lately? 

The fork in Buck’s hand freezes halfway to his mouth when they lock eyes through the doorway. He stares at Eddie, surprise evident in his expression, “Uh…what are you doing here?”

There isn’t a thought in Eddie’s mind. He can practically feel Maddie’s eyes narrowing, feel Buck’s suspicious squint like a spotlight on his skin. He’s fully panicking now, his mouth moving before his brain catches up, “I—uh. Borrowing something.”

Buck frowns, “What?”

“A ladder.” The words tumble out, a desperate grab for anything that’ll make sense. “For my roof.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. He can feel Maddie and Chim’s eyes ping-ponging between him and Buck, glinting with barely hidden amusement. He can’t blame them, this would be fairly entertaining for Eddie too if he wasn’t the star of the show. 

“What’s wrong with your roof?” 

“What?” He feels the sweat bead at his temple. 

“Your roof. What’s wrong with it?” Buck pushes. 

“Uh…” Every molecule in Eddie’s body is screaming at him to abort, abort, abort, “It’s…old.”

“Your roof is old?”

“Yup,” he nods too fast and way too many times, “Real old roof. Happens to the best of us.” 

Chim,  bless his chaotic little heart, must’ve broken out of his trance, clapping Eddie on the shoulder, “Right! The ladder. Out in the garage. C'mon, Eddie. Let’s—go get it.”

“Now?” Buck’s eyes narrow. 

“Yeah, Chim. Now?” Maddie adds, trying to hold back her laughter. 

“Now!” Chim’s grin is so wide it’s bordering on creepy, “Man needs a ladder, Buck. You wouldn’t understand.”

Before Buck can object, Chim all but shoves Eddie toward the garage. The door swings shut behind them, muffling the clink of silverware and Maddie’s quiet chuckle.

He barely makes it two steps into the garage before Chim spins on him, hands raised defensively in front of him.

“Eddie—whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I can’t lie to my wife. You can’t ask me to.”

Eddie exhales sharply through his nose, fists clenching at his sides, “Chim—”

“Nope,” Chim jams his fingers in his ears, rocking side to side like a literal toddler. Honestly, he looks exactly like Jee right now, “Lalalalalala, not listening.”

Eddie lunges forward, yanking his hands down and hissing, “This isn’t optional!”

“No—Maddie can smell secrets. I am not built for this.”

“Chim,” he grinds out, “I need to tell someone. And you’re it. Just…swear you won’t tell Maddie. Or Buck—god, especially not Buck.”

Chim groans, but his face softens, as he makes a big show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “Fine, but if Maddie kills me, I’m blaming you.”

The words come out like wet cement: “Buck and I…have been hooking up.”

“...I’m sorry, what now?.”

“Since a few months ago,” Eddie mutters, “It’s fine. It’s just—” he waves a hand, “a thing.”

“A thing?!” Chim’s voice spikes, “With Buck ?!” He starts pacing. “Where? When?” He flails his hands. “Don’t answer that, actually, I don’t need visuals—”

“Uh—a lot of places. My place, his place, bar bathrooms, but—lately it’s mostly in my truck…in the station parking lot.”

Chim’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, “The station par—WAIT. At work?!”

“After work.” Eddie mutters.

“Oh, thank god,” Chim says with false relief. Then after a few seconds, “NO, NOT THANK GOD, THAT’S STILL TERRIBLE. Eddie, I park next to you every day! You can’t fuck Buck in your truck—at your place of employment!”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You sound like Dr. Seuss.”

“Don’t get cute with me, Diaz. This is not a rhyming situation!”

Chim stares at him, scandalized. “And please, please tell me this is the only place you’ve been doing this.”

“…Well.”

“Oh my god.” Chim claps a hand to his forehead. “No.”

“The supply closet,” Eddie admits. “…And once—in the showers.”

“The showers?!” Chim squawks. “Eddie, this is a workplace ! There are cameras! ”

“Not in the showers,” Eddie points out.

“That is not the point!” Chim whisper-yells, looking seconds from combusting, “You and Buckley— my Buckley-in-law— have been defiling department property like a bunch of horny teenagers—”

This may have been a stupider idea than he thought. At this moment, Eddie can’t help but think how Chim kind of resembles an anxious chihuahua. 

Eddie winces, his eyes darting toward the door, as if Buck’s going to burst through any minute. “That’s not why I came here.”

“Oh good, there’s more. ”

He swallows, the words getting caught in his throat, “...Does this make me gay?”

Chim stops mid-pace, tilting his head like he’s wondering if he misheard, “…I’m sorry, did you just ask me—does having sex with a man…repeatedly…for months…make you gay?”

Eddie’s fists clench instinctively at his sides, “It’s not like that. It’s Buck. He’s my best friend.”

“Oh, of course, my mistake!” Chim throws his arms wide, voice dripping sarcasm. “It doesn’t count because it’s Buck. You’ve invented a whole new sexuality— Bestfriendual! Congratulations, you’re a pioneer!”

“Chim—”

“No, no, I get it now,” Chim barrels on. “Gay sex with strangers? Gay. Gay sex with Buck? Totally straight. That’s airtight logic, Detective Diaz!”

Eddie drags his hands down his face, muttering. “This was a mistake.”

“Ya think?!” Chim groans. Then, after a beat: “God, Buck is gonna love this.”

Eddie snaps his head up, panic coursing through him. “You swore!”

“I know, I know,” Chim waves his hands. “But you owe me, man. Therapy bills, bleach for my brain so I never have to think about you and Buck doing—” He groans again. “Alright, let’s go before Maddie sends a search party and drags the truth out of me with her Jedi mind powers.”

They walk back inside and Eddie’s thoughts are a constant stream of: Be normal be normal be normal. 

Chim, unfortunately, looks about as normal as a car crash. His smile is so wide it looks like something straight from Eddie’s nightmares, his eyes are darting everywhere, and his voice comes out strangled, “So Eddie,” he says, enunciating every word like he’s talking to a group of hard-of-hearing seniors, “would you like to stay for dinner?”

Oh my god. Why would he say that. Why would he even—

“No, I—uh, no… I should—” Eddie stammers. 

Chim keeps going, “We have plenty of food. Don’t we, Maddie?”

“Oh, plenty,” Maddie says smoothly, not even trying to hide her smirk. She’s looking at Eddie the way a cat would look at an injured bird. Oh good, she knows something. Of course she knows something. It’s Maddie, she came out of the womb knowing everything. 

Eddie can feel his whole neck and ears light up like a Christmas tree. 

Buck finally speaks up, “I thought you needed a ladder for your roof.”

“...Yeah. Right. I’ll just—take it to go”

Take it to go. TAKE IT TO GO. Why are those the words I picked. Ladders don’t come with takeout boxes, Diaz, Jesus Christ. 

As if reading Eddie’s mind, Chim starts nodding abruptly, “Yes! Ladder to go! Want me to, uh, wrap it up in some foil? Need a takeout box for that ladder?”

The silence is deafening. 

“Most people don’t usually borrow ladders at nine o’clock at night, Eddie,” Maddie raises her eyebrows, her smugness dripping off of every word. 

She knows. She knows, she knows, she knows. Stop smirking at me, Maddie. Please. I’ll pay you. I’ll buy you a car. I’ll fix your roof, too. 

Buck narrows his eyes at her. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” Maddie says, feigning innocence.

“Like you know something.”

She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink, “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”

And then Buck twists the knife, “If something’s wrong with your roof, I can come take a look. Two pairs of hands’ll make it easier.”

Eddie’s soul fully leaves his body and his heart stutters to a stop. 

Nope nope nope. Buck cannot help with the roof. Buck cannot even look at the roof. The roof doesn’t exist. There is no roof. The roof is a government conspiracy. I will burn my house to the ground before Buck steps foot on that roof. 

Chim starts coughing so hard, Eddie has to make sure he isn’t actually choking. 

“No, No, that’s—don’t worry about it. One-man job.”

“You sure?” Buck presses, tilting his head, all suspicious eyes and furrowed brows.

No, I am not sure. I am the opposite of sure. I’m a human-shaped disaster zone right now, and you’re standing there looking like a Hallmark card asking if you can climb my metaphorical roof. But by all means, keep interrogating me, Buck, the man I might be gay for.

“Yes!” Eddie blurts. “Positive. Very…straightforward roof situation.”

Straightforward roof situation. Fantastic. Someone shoot me in the head.

Chim, desperate, slaps Eddie on the back so hard he almost faceplants into the counter. “Yeah, Buck, let him do it alone. Men love fixing roofs by themselves. You know—fixing shingles, hammering nails, sweating…alone—under the moonlight.”

Oh my god.

Buck looks appalled, seemingly noticing he’s the only one not in on whatever this is. “What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Maddie mutters, locking eyes with Eddie. 

Chim, drenched in sweat, nods frantically. “Yep, nothing! Just Eddie borrowing a ladder. To go.” He freezes, eyes going wide with inspiration. “Oh—just realized we’re out of tupperware, Diaz. You’ll have to take that ladder raw. ”

Time stops.

Eddie wants to die instantly. Raw. He actually said raw. Out loud. In front of Buck. Jesus Christ, Howard, put me in the ground. Just bury me alive in the yard like a dog with a bone. Raw. What the fuck does that even mean in this context. I am never showing my face here again.

Maddie covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking, eyes watering with how hard she’s holding in laughter.

Buck stares. First at Chim. Then at Eddie. Then back at Chim. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically leave his face. “Raw?”

Chim tries to act like he’s said something completely normal. “Yep. Raw ladder. That’s how he’s taking it.”

Eddie stares at the floor, at the counter, anywhere but Buck. His skin feels hot enough that he’s not completely sure that he’s not actually on fire right now. 

I cannot believe I am tethered to these people for life. Please, god, smite me where I stand.

Buck turns his stare on Eddie slowly, and now its a stand-off.

“What’s wrong with your roof, Eddie?”

“Nothing!”

“Then why do you need a ladder?”

“I—uh—maintenance.”

“What kind of maintenance?”

Eddie’s brain evacuates his body. Say literally anything. Anything normal. Don’t say raccoons. Don’t say racoons. Don’t say—

“Raccoons.”

Buck doesn’t even blink, “...Raccoons.”

“Yes. Infestation. Big problem. On the roof. Only at night.”

Maddie is crying now, wiping her eyes, practically folded in half. Chim is shaking his head in disbelief and Buck is staring at Eddie like he’s grown a second head, “You’ve got raccoons on your roof,” he repeats slowly. 

“Yes,” Eddie nods. 

“Why not call animal control?”

Because animal control can’t help me with the thing actually on my roof, Buck. That thing is you. Structurally compromising my metaphorical roof.

He swallows hard, “Because—it’s, uh—structural.”

“Structural,” Buck repeats. 

“Yes. The raccoons…compromised the structural integrity.”

The only sound that breaks the silence is Maddie snorting through her fits of laughter. 

Chim tries desperately to gain control of the conversation, talking so loud Eddie winces, “Yep! Classic raccoon problem. You know, teeth like little saws, claws like tiny wrecking balls— bam! There goes your roof support!”

“Raccoons don’t eat wood,” Buck deadpans. 

Eddie feels sweat drip down his spine. Abort. Abort. Do not engage with raccoon biology when your competition could recite animal facts in his sleep. “Well, these ones do.”

“Special wood-eating raccoons.”

“Yes,” Eddie says, doubling down like a complete lunatic, “Genetically modified.”

Chim’s elbow digs into his side, “Genetically modified raccoons?! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Plenty,” Maddie says under her breath. 

Buck looks between them, Eddie knows he’s not stupid, he knows they’re lying, but he doesn’t know why. “So you’re telling me your roof is being destroyed by genetically modified raccoons, and you need a ladder to…?”

“Check…morale,” he blurts out. 

“Morale,” Buck repeats flatly. 

“Yes,” Eddie insists, praying to god to put him out of his misery, “They get discouraged sometimes. Gotta…assess.”

Maddie is doubled over now, tears streaming down her face and her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

“Why not termites? At least that makes sense,” Buck asks, calling them out on their lie. 

Eddie’s brain is no longer operating under his control, “...Also termites.”

“Oh my god,” Chim groans, “Stop talking.”

“Raccoons and termites,” Buck says.

“Yes,” Eddie replies firmly, as if confidence can turn this fever dream into a reality. “Coordinated attack.”

“A raccoon-termite alliance,” Chim pipes up, looking impressed with his own addition to the conversation as Maddie wheezes behind him. 

Buck folds his arms, “So which is it, Eddie? Raccoons, termites, or structural integrity?”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes before opening again. Like a fish, gasping for air. His brain screams say something normal, you idiot, just say something normal. 

“Roof…maintenance,” he mutters finally. 

The silence that follows is brutal and Eddie wishes with everything in him that the ladder would just collapse on his head and finish the job. 

Buck just crosses his arms and stares at him, two seconds away from calling Eddie on his bullshit. 

And of course Eddie’s monkey brain betrays him, because instead of thinking get out now, he’s staring at Buck’s arms. His big, solid, unfairly toned arms that should not look that good folded across his chest. And his mouth—goddamn it, his mouth, all unimpressed and sharp and the exact same mouth Eddie knows way too well when it’s doing…other things. 

His eyes widen comically as his brain screeches to a horrifying halt.

…oh no. Ohhh, shit. 

Eddie might need Josh to make him that shirt after all. 

Buck: hey have you talked to Eddie lately?

Buck: he’s been acting really weird

Josh: for fucks sake

Buck: ???

Chapter Text

The sexuality aspect of Eddie’s front page meltdown in the middle of the Han family kitchen was a moot point by the time he hauled ass out of there. 

Logistically speaking, yeah—his excuse had been flimsy at best. He’d seen it in Buck’s face, the confusion and the hurt when he realized he was the only one not in on the joke.

Eddie’s logical mind wants to come clean, tell Buck everything… 

But, the other part of his mind, the freaked-out, self-destructive part, wants to find a dozen raccoons and hurl them onto his (perfectly fine) roof.

But then you run into logistics again. Where would he even find that many raccoons? How would he convince them to “structurally compromise” a roof? According to Buck, raccoons don’t even like wood. Don’t even get him started on how he would manage to genetically modify them, or train termites to stage a coordinated attack. He’s in deep enough already without building a rodent black-ops unit.

Are raccoons rodents? 

Buck would know.

He does the one thing that he probably shouldn’t, but nevertheless…. He makes it someone else’s problem. Or multiple someone’s.

groupchat: crisis hotline (eddie, hen, chim, ravi, josh)

Eddie: ISO: a dozen raccoons.

Hen: …no.

Chim: raccoons are a myth

Ravi: hold up do they need to be alive or

Josh: why am I here

Hen: Eddie, why?

Eddie: I have my reasons.

Chim: probably just wants a pet

Hen: he wants a dozen raccoons as pets

Ravi: I know a guy

Hen: you do not know a guy

Josh: let me guess, the reason for this is named Evan Buckley

Eddie: no

Hen: so yes

Chim: who the fuck is Evan

Ravi: pretty sure I could source 3 raccoons by tomorrow

Hen: RAVI

Josh: someone explain before I mute this chat

Eddie: Fine. Buck thinks raccoons can’t eat wood.

Chim: wood is overrated anyway

Hen: oh my god

Ravi: so you need them to prove a point??

Eddie: yes

Hen: or, and hear me out, you could just talk to him about whatever this is actually about

Eddie: impossible

Josh: man’s building a raccoon militia instead of communicating

Chim: delete this whole chat

Hen: what do you know

Chim: nothing

Ravi: 👀

Eddie: Chim shut up

Chim: I am the picture of innocence!! 

Ravi: do the raccoons need uniforms

Eddie: …maybe 

Ravi: say less, I can have twelve by our next shift on friday 

Eddie drops his phone face down on the passenger seat of his truck that he’s been sitting in for the last twenty minutes. He was joking about the raccoons. Obviously. He hopes Ravi knows that—because the one thing Eddie absolutely cannot do is explain to Bobby why there are twelve tiny trash eating mammals running laps around the station come Friday night. 

The most daunting part—terrifying, even—is that Ravi apparently has the kind of contacts who can deliver double digits of nocturnal bandits on short notice. 

This is his life now. He used to be a respectable adult with a mortgage, a kid, and a steady job. Now he’s apparently the kind of man who recruits raccoons to cover his inability to tell his best friend the truth. He’s not sure if that makes him pathetic or innovative. Sadly, he thinks Buck would love this whole thing if he was involved in it. He’d probably spout off a bunch of random raccoon facts, get that cute little look on his face when he’s excited about something…

Eddie flinches as his phone buzzes again. 

Buck: you good?

He can feel the truth sitting in his throat. He should answer. Say something simple. But all he can picture is Buck’s face at Maddie and Chim’s table, the confusion flickering through Buck’s eyes before Chim practically body-slammed him into the garage. 

He opens the message window, types yeah, deletes it. Types fine, deletes that too. Types goodnight, deletes it because it looks too harsh. 

The whole point of texting everyone in the first place was to take the edge off. A joke. Something stupid to make him feel better and get the pressure valve open for two seconds. And it worked, for exactly those two seconds. 

Now it’s just him again. Him and the quiet cab of his truck and the truth sitting heavy in his chest: he’s gay, probably, and in love with his best friend, definitely. His best friend who knows he’s being lied to. His best friend who almost definitely doesn’t love him back. 

And the kicker? He had this grand epiphany in Maddie and Chim’s kitchen. Not on a quiet night alone, or during some soul-searching, but because Buck was mad at him and taking control and frankly very sexy while doing it. That’s when his brain decided to go, surprise! You’re in love with him and also probably gay!

Which is rich, considering Eddie has spent this entire time swearing up and down that neither of those things are true. He’s been adamant. He’s practically built a PowerPoint presentation for himself titled Not gay. Not in love with Buck. Definitely, absolutely, 100% not, and now here he is, having his sexual awakening at thirty-four years old, realizing he’s been lying to everyone—including himself.

Eddie presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning low, “I should’ve just gone to Bobby.”

Before calling it a night and dragging himself into the empty house that awaits him, he does a little damage control, not wanting to add to the giant pile of whatever his life has become. 

Eddie: raccoons are a no go

Ravi: awe :(

Buck’s laptop is balanced on his knees, the blue light contrasting the lights from the city pouring in through the windows. He hasn’t moved in hours. His browser has twelve tabs open—half of them National Geographic and the other half sketchy forums that might’ve just given his computer three different viruses. 

It started innocent enough: maybe Eddie really does have roof problems. People’s roofs go bad all the time. Normal, boring homeowners tend to call licensed roofers. So what if Eddie invents a raccoon conspiracy instead. Buck thought he was lying, but Eddie always gives him the benefit of the doubt, so… maybe he wasn’t lying?

So first Buck typed: can raccoons damage structural integrity of roof

Which became: do raccoons eat wood

Which led to: can raccoons be genetically modified to eat wood

Two hours later, Buck is knee-deep in a Reddit thread called “stop teaching raccoons to read” and seriously considering the possibility that termites and raccoons have developed a cross-species communication system. He rubs his eyes, groaning, “If the termites can speak raccoon, we’re so screwed.”

He’s cross-referencing raccoon paw dexterity with termite colony hierarchies as if he’s writing a dissertation. He’s got diagrams pulled up, an article about how raccoons can open jars, and a blurry YouTube video titled “raccoon using hammer (real??)” playing on a loop in the corner of his screen. 

“Okay,” he mutters, pointing at the screen to question the pixelized raccoon himself, “But could you compromise a load-bearing wall? Because apparently Eddie’s house is under siege.”

He leans back on his couch dragging a hand through his hair, and groans. This is insane. He’s insane. He should close the laptop, go to sleep, and forget about genetically modified wood-eating raccoons with tiny little tool belts. 

Except he can’t forget Eddie. They way he’d looked at him at Chim’s house, panic cascading across his face, practically silently begging for Buck to read his mind instead of making him say whatever the truth is out loud. And underneath all the lies, Buck keeps going back to that kiss the other night. The tenderness that bled into every crack. What Eddie had said. 

You just like being mine. 

Good, I like it too. 

He may need to check with Buck 1.0, but he’s pretty certain he’d never said anything like that to a hookup. No matter how good the sex was. 

He’s never even let himself think about the possibility before—that Eddie could be gay, that Eddie could feel more than just platonic or sexual feelings for him. That’s the kind of thought that rearranges everything. And apparently it’s easier to believe in raccoon-termite diplomacy than in that. 

Buck can’t think about the fact that Eddie hasn’t replied to his text—-a text that, in Buck’s opinion, is very considerate considering the mental hoops Eddie has him jumping through lately. The worst part of this being, he’s not even getting laid at this point. He can handle crazy, just look at his track record, but can he handle the crazy if he isn’t getting a mind blowing orgasm? Debatable.

But this is Eddie. So Buck will try. 

It’s his last day off before a forty-eight hour shift, and Eddie is doing everything he can to dodge anyone and everyone that could question him about feral animals, or his stance on lying to those closest to you, or if he’s in love with his best friend of almost eight years. He thinks he’s doing fairly well at avoiding the inevitable—until there’s a knock on the door. 

Eddie opens it expecting a package, or a Jehovah’s Witness, or maybe the sweet sweet release of death. 

And, because God is cruel and possibly rooting for his downfall, it’s Buck.

And Buck is holding a toolbox.

“Hey,” Buck says, leaning casually against the frame, grin way too bright for someone who should absolutely not be here. “You weren’t answering me. Wanted to make sure you didn’t fall off the roof trying to fix it.”

Eddie blinks, slow and suspicious. “Why would I be on the roof?”

Buck hoists the toolbox a little, eyebrows shooting up like Eddie’s the one being ridiculous. “Uh, because yesterday you had a full-blown meltdown about your roof being under siege by—what was it? Genetically modified raccoons? You think I didn’t notice you ghosted me after dropping that bomb? I spent all night on National Geographic and three different Reddit threads, man. Did you know raccoons can solve puzzles faster than some dogs? They remember solutions for three years. Three years, Eddie. If you’re right and they are in cahoots with other species, we’re all dead.”

Eddie just stares at him, the emotion trying to claw its way up his throat. He knows Buck knows he was full of shit. He knows Buck was humoring him last night. And still, Buck stayed up, researched, lost sleep, just to give Eddie the benefit of the doubt. God, he’s such an asshole. Buck is so good, and here Eddie is, lying through his teeth, doing everything in his power to keep his feelings to himself to avoid ruining whatever their relationship has become. 

He wants to tell him, wants to tell Buck what he’s feeling. How do you say that, though? Hey, remember when I said this would be platonic and not change a thing between us and that sex is just sex? Surprise! I’m actually in love with you! 

What’s he supposed to do? Get down on one knee and propose? 

Okay, fine. That’s dramatic. But still, Eddie isn’t even sure Buck would return those feelings, and even so, whatever friendship they had before is well and truly fucked. And Eddie can’t lose Buck, even if that means they keep this friends-with-benefits arrangement going, and Eddie hides his feelings for the rest of his pathetic little life. So he’s selfish, sue him.

His brain reboots and he grasps for whatever excuse pops into his measly brain first.

“I’ve got plans,” he blurts.

Buck tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as if he’s trying to spot the lie — which, unhelpfully, is all of it. “Plans.”

“Yeah. With Chim.”

The silence is prompt and suffocating. Buck stares at Eddie with a look that describes exactly how Eddie is feeling in this moment. Because what Eddie realizes two seconds too late is that he, once again, has involved the world’s worst alibi. Chimney. The man who can’t keep a secret or a straight face to save his life. 

“Plans with Chim,” Buck repeats slowly, savoring the words, giving Eddie the opportunity to backtrack. 

But would he be Eddie if he did anything other than double down on the stupidest excuse he could muster? 

“Yes,” he says firmly, his confidence swaying like a house of cards on a windy day. “Big ones. Can’t talk. Top secret.”

This is going great. Perfect, even. There isn’t a single suspicious thing about this. Except literally everything.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket as Buck eyes him, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Eddie hides the screen against his thigh like that’ll make things better and not make it look like he’s absolutely lying. 

Eddie: get over here and get me out of this 

Eddie: everything spiraled bc i chose your sorry ass to come out to 

Chim: over where

Chim: get out of what

Chim:  oh god, please don’t tell me you’re street fighting again 

Eddie: what? chim no

Eddie: I told Buck we had plans

Chim: …what kind of plans

Eddie: bowling?

Chim: I hate bowling 🙁

Eddie: I don’t care. I’m dying. This is your fault.

Eddie: I’ll come up with something else 

Chim: I can be there in 20 

He pockets his phone and pastes on his best see, totally normal expression, “Yup. Just texted him. He’s on his way.”

Buck stifles a laugh but looks as though he’s decided to humor this breakdown a little more, “You just texted Chim to come here?”

“Yes.”

“Because you have… big plans.”

“Exactly.”

Buck leans against the doorframe, his biceps bulging as he crosses his arms across his chest. Eddie has to count to ten in his head to avoid leaning in and biting one of them. Christ. Get a grip. 

The toolbox is still dangling from Buck’s fingers, mischief dancing in his eyes. He’s enjoying this way too much. 

“Cool. What are these top-secret plans you can’t tell your best friend in the whole world about?”

Eddie isn’t sure why he doesn’t just avoid the question again, maybe it’s the heat, or the lack of sleep, or the gorgeous 6'2 walking temptation dripping sex and sin all over his carefully constructed self control at 2 p.m. on a Thursday.

His brain offers nothing but static and panic as he tries to muster up anything, anything, that doesn’t sound insane. Finally, because his brain doesn’t know the meaning of self-preservation, he says: “Bowling.”

“Bowling?”

“Yes.” Eddie nods aggressively, about ten times, getting dizzy by the force alone, “We’re bowling. Together. Normal, ball-rolling... friends.”

Buck’s grin resembles the cheshire cat, which has Eddie’s blood freezing in his veins, “So. What you’re saying is you could’ve had me bent over your couch by now… But instead, you’re blowing me off for a bowling date with Chim?”

Eddie is only vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open, the only sound coming out being a strangled ‘uhnph’ as Buck pushes past him into the living room, turning to say the one thing Eddie was praying wouldn’t pass those pretty pink lips. 

“It’s a good thing I love bowling, then.”

Buck knows Eddie’s unraveling before Eddie does. He’s always been able to read Eddie like one of his favorite books. Cover to cover, slowing down to memorize the details, always immersed in every little twist and turn. And right now, he can see it in the way Eddie sits—stiff as a two-by-four at the very far end of the couch, about as far as he could get without sitting on the floor, hands braced against his thighs. He’s pretending to be invested in the muted Jeopardy! rerun flickering across the TV, which is laughable because Eddie Diaz has never once cared about Jeopardy! and Buck knows it, having been the one to try to get him to watch it countless times. 

It’s been days since Eddie’s even looked him in the eye. Days since Buck’s had so much as a half-assed conversation with him that didn’t feel like pulling teeth. Days since Buck’s gotten off properly, if he’s being honest, because apparently once you’ve had Eddie Diaz’s hands, his mouth, his weight pressing you down—yeah, jerking off in the shower to the memory of it just doesn’t hit the same. 

Buck has been climbing the walls and Eddie has been avoiding him. Which means tonight, regardless of any plans Eddie may or may not have, Buck’s going to fix it. 

So he decides to have some fun.

“You’re sweating,” he says casually, nudging Eddie’s knee with his own. 

“I’m not sweating,” and Buck can see the muscle in his jaw twitch with how hard he’s clenching. 

“You’re definitely sweating,” Buck grins, “What’s got you all worked up? Don’t tell me you have bowling anxiety.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Okay,” Buck takes the opportunity to lean in, dropping his voice lower, “so it’s me then.”

Eddie goes rigid, which is as good as confirmation in Buck’s book, so he keeps pressing, “You keep thinking about me, don’t you?” His voice is no more than a whisper now as he moves closer, his breath ghosting Eddie’s ear, “About the way you had me, all laid out for you. The noises I made. Ya know, if you asked again right now, I’d be on my knees in a heartbeat.”

Eddie gulps and Buck watches the movement of his Adam's apple, transfixed. 

“I bet you jerked off to it,” he keeps going, desperation trumping rationality, “couldn’t stop thinking about my mouth, my hands. Wishing I was here, pliant and obedient, begging for your cock.” 

That gets a full-body twitch as Eddie’s hips roll involuntarily. He tries to hide it, but Buck catches it, and it only spurs him on.

“You want that again, don’t you?” he asks, his lips trailing featherlight down to Eddie’s neck, “Want me to get on my knees and suck you until I can’t breathe. I want to. I’d beg for it.” 

“Buck,” Eddie grinds out, except if Buck didn’t know any better he’d say it doesn’t sound like a warning, it sounds like begging. 

Buck smiles softly as he tilts his head and shifts to where he can hover his lips just above Eddie’s. Almost but not quite. “I missed you, Eds.” A beat, then filth curling sweet: “Or maybe I just missed the way you split me open.”

That’s the detonator. Eddie moves so fast Buck barely has time to laugh before he’s slammed flat into the cushions, Eddie’s mouth bruising against his. It’s not even a kiss—all teeth and heat and desperation. Buck groans into it, thrilled, getting exactly what he wanted. 

Finally, 

Eddie climbs into his lap like a man starved, grinding down hard enough that Buck groans against his mouth. Buck grabs his hips, lets Eddie take what he wants, but he’s not above giving—has been craving it, actually—so he slides his hand under Eddie’s waistband, fingers wrapping around his cock, pulling a filthy groan out of his throat. There’s not enough time for foreplay, Buck’s on a mission, stroking until Eddie’s moans rattle through both their chests. 

Buck thinks he could live here, with Eddie shaking in his lap, panting into his mouth, fist clenching at Buck’s shirt as if he’s holding on for dear life. Buck’s mouth gravitates to any piece of Eddie he can find. His jaw, his throat, biting down until Eddie shudders against him, letting himself come apart, something Buck has been craving for days. 

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, chasing their mutual peaks, breathing each other in. Long enough for Buck’s wrist to ache from the angle, long enough that Eddie’s jaw blooms red where Buck’s teeth have marked him, long enough Buck can feel every tremor, every gasp, signalling that Eddie is right on that edge, ready to fall—

“Ahem.”

Eddie stills, panic stricken through those beautiful brown eyes as they search Buck’s. Eddie’s still straddling him, Buck’s hand is still shoved down his pants, the only sound in the room being their heavy breathing. Slowly—painfully slowly—they turn towards the doorway. 

Chim. 

And… Ravi?

Chim is frozen in place, his mouth hanging so low it’s practically at his feet, and Ravi looks…kind of impressed. 

After what feels like an hour of nuclear silence, Ravi clears his throat again, “Uh. We knocked. A couple times. Door was unlocked and we heard voices. So…” He gestures vaguely at the scene before him, at Eddie still visibly tenting his pants in Buck’s lap, “So, yeah.”

What was previously a statuesque Chimney starts making a sound like a kettle shrieking, “Oh my god. I know I knew this was going on, but it’s something else entirely to see it with my own eyes—”

That’s enough for Eddie to scramble like he’s been lit on fire, shoving off Buck’s lap so fast Buck nearly topples with him. Buck yanks his hand back, tugging his shirt back into place. He wants to smirk, play it off, but instead he feels himself shrink and swell all at once—smug because this is proof Eddie wants him, shy because of course this is how they were caught. 

“Technically,” Buck starts, voice uneven, “you’re not seeing that much.”

Chim snaps towards him, eyes bulging, “Not that much? You had your hand on his dick, Buckley!”

“Still mostly decent! Everything was under the clothes!”

Ravi, ever unhelpful, chooses this moment to chime in, “Honestly? Respect. Eddie is hot.”

This elicits a loud groan from Eddie as Chim turns his bugging eyes on Ravi. 

Buck, true to his nature, scrambles to fix everything, “Look—it’s not—it’s nothing serious. Eddie’s straight. This is just…fun.”

No one says a word, but Buck catches it as Chim swivels his head toward Eddie now, resembling a horror-movie doll. There’s a few looks exchanged between the two until Eddie laughs. Except it’s the saddest, weakest laugh Buck’s ever heard. 

“Yeah about that,” Eddie scratches his neck, eyes focusing everywhere but Buck, “I’m…uh. Actually gay now? I guess? Not one hundred percent sure, but definitely not straight.”

Buck’s stomach plummets, then rockets. He stares, wide-eyed, because this is the last thing he expected. He expected denial, expected Eddie to shove him under the bus to save face. But Eddie just…said it. The one thing Buck has been aching to hear for months. 

Hope explodes through his body, so sharp it almost hurts. 

“Oh my god,” Chim groans again, pacing now, “Do you people have any idea what this means for me? You’re my wife’s little brother—my brother-in-law. I just walked in on my brother-in-law giving a handjob to one of my closest friends. I can’t unsee this.”

Ravi, utterly unfazed and actually a little too giddy, replies: “Hot brother-in-laws, though. Congrats.”

Eddie hides his face in his hands. Buck can feel the blush creeping down his neck, but the smile won’t leave his mouth. Because Eddie Diaz isn’t straight. Eddie Diaz wants him. And for Buck, already neck-deep in feelings he never planned to admit, that single fact is enough to set the whole damn world on fire. 

There’s a long, painful lull while Chim mutters into his hands about Maddie finding out and his life being over. Eddie is practically vibrating with the desire to dig a hole and die in it. And Buck—Buck is trying not to look like the cat who got the cream. 

And then Ravi, bright-eyed and chipper, claps his hands together once, “So,” he says, his grin stretching the width of his entire face, “bowling?”

Chapter Text

“House rule,” Chim says, slapping a scorecard down on the tacky, threadbare table, “If anyone kisses around me, I’m calling Maddie and then the police.”

“Relax,” Buck replies, only amplifying Chim’s very unrelaxed state of being. He’s holding two trays, curly fries and some goopy neon orange substance that Eddie can only guess is ‘nacho cheese.’ “We’re here to bowl. A wholesome, family activity. Just the guys.” He glances at Eddie, openly pleased, “And to demonstrate proper form.”

“I know how to bowl,” Eddie protests, lying to God, country, and himself. 

“Great!” Buck beams, stepping up behind him, “Show me.”

There’s a ball in Eddie’s hands and then there are hands on Eddie. Buck’s hands, to be specific, placed firmly on Eddie’s hips to square him to the lane. The part of his brain responsible for words quietly packs up and leaves.

“Feet shoulder-width,” Buck croons, mouth close enough Eddie can count the puffs of breath against his skin, “Loose grip. Don’t death-claw it.”

“I’m not–” Eddie’s voice cracks like a prepubescent teen, “I’m not death-clawing.”

“You’re white-knuckling a twelve pound orb, Eddie,” Buck jokes, “C’mon, loosen up. This is supposed to be fun. It’s like a giant marble, or… kinetic therapy.” He pauses, “Do you want me to Google if bowling is therapeutic? I can.”

Chim groans into his hands, “Please don’t.”

One of Buck’s hands slides down Eddie’s forearm, the other skims his stomach and nearly provokes a full-scale bowling-alley incident in which Eddie frisbees the ball into the lane of an unsuspecting civilian. “Let gravity do the work,” Buck whispers softly, “Don’t muscle it.”

From the plastic bench, Chim pinches the bridge of his nose, babbling like a man mid-stroke. “Is this—do we—oh, god help me”

Ravi appears wearing rented shoes, his giddiness from before still clinging tightly to his already naturally upbeat demeanor. “I call blue ball,” he announces, grabbing the wrong weight category and immediately nearly dropping it on his foot. “Also, Eddie, for the record, my raccoon guy is still upset I made him wrangle twelve raccoons for nothing—”

“Ravi,” Eddie says through clenched teeth. 

“—which, in retrospect, your text clearly read as code for ‘I’ve renounced society and gone feral with the woodland creatures,’ and really, that’s inspirational. Very Disney princess of you.”

Eddie feels Buck chuckle against his back and stares at the lane, at the innocent upright pins, “I’m fine.” 

(Whether he’s saying that to reassure Buck, or himself, he’s not sure.)

Buck’s thumb presses once at his hip, a quiet, reassuring tap that strips away every practiced denial Eddie’s been living behind, “Breathe,” Buck says, “We bowl on the exhale.”

Eddie rolls the ball. It leaves his hand with the grace of a doomed satellite and gutters instantly. He watches it go, his expression flat, his soul exiting his body via the emergency hatch. 

Ravi claps like he’s seeing art in the making as Chim scratches what looks like ‘RIP’ on the score sheet, “Incredible start. Can we go home?”

Buck leans in, tickling the back of Eddie’s neck, “Hey. Me and you. Second frame’s ours.”

“We’re not a team.”

That only causes Buck to move closer, his grip growing tighter as he smiles against Eddie’s skin, “C’mon. Again.”

They cycle through turns. Buck does not stop touching him, a shoulder squeeze here, a palm at the small of his back there. That gentle, infuriating press at Eddie’s wrist to ‘loosen the release.’ It’s all intentional, technically educational, actually maddening. 

“Watch my form,” Buck says, outrageously jogging his shoulders loose. He lines up, bends (way too suggestively for a family establishment), and releases a shot smooth enough to make the lane purr. Strike. He turns back, eyes immediately gravitating to Eddie with that bright, boyish look that makes Eddie’s heart soar, “See? And you doubted me. Never doubt me. Except when I’m wrong. Which is… occasionally. Rarely. Okay, semi-regularly.”

Eddie only sees the curve of Buck’s grin, and the blush on his cheeks, and the look Buck reserves just for him. “I hate you.”

Buck’s smile softens, “No, you don’t.”

Ravi chooses this moment to plant himself next to Chim, appointing himself as the sportscaster, “Technique breakdown: Buck’s hips are doing too much, but we, the audience, are grateful. Eddie’s defense is crumbling. Chim’s about to fake appendicitis to get out of this as if he isn’t in a room full of first responders.”

“Shut—” Chim starts.

“Up, yes, I know,” Ravi grins, unbothered. He holds a finger up, “Also I told the attendant it’s your birthday, Eddie, so there may be a flashing marquee and a song.”

“What song?” Eddie asks, horrified.

“It’s a surprise!”

“You’re up!” Ravi sings, shoving a ball into Eddie’s hands, “Bowler boy, showtime.”

Eddie takes the ball and Buck is instantly there again, the gravity he orbits, “Relax your shoulders,” he says, his voice returning to that intimate timbre, “Look at the arrow, not the pins.”

“That’s not—”

“Trust me, Eds.”

Eddie concentrates way too hard on the tiny overhead arrow as Buck fits his palms to his sides, Eddie’s exhale shudders on the way out. The ball curves, kisses the head pin, scatters a clatter of wood and knocks eight down, two wobble, then fall at the last second. Spare. 

Buck’s laugh comes out bright and triumphant. He grabs Eddie by the back of the neck and pulls him in forehead-to-forehead like they’re celebrating the world championship instead of teaching a thirty-four year old man how to throw a ball down a lane. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how hard he’s holding it together, “That’s my guy.”

Eddie forgets all words in any human language for a full five seconds. 

Chim stands. Then sits. Stands again. “Okay, so, if I text Maddie, it’s a crime; if I don’t text Maddie, it’s a different crime. I’m Sisyphus, but the boulder is two gay firefighters who won’t stop touching each other.”

There’s a beat, then Ravi squints, “Did you just say you have syphilis?”

Buck doesn’t move an inch, his bright blue eyes hypnotizing any functionality from Eddie. 

“Alright,” Chim continues, “We did bowling. Hooray. I’m leaving my corporeal form. Please stop standing forehead-to-forehead like a wedding photo. Play the game.”

Eddie finishes his next turn, his face a pretty shade of crimson from Buck’s over-the-top “let me show you how to bowl” routine, when a new shriek cuts through the din.

“WHAT THE HELL,” Chim yelps, flailing so violently his ball nearly ricochets into a nearby birthday party. 

Everyone whips around just in time to see Ravi behind Chim, palms planted firmly on his hips, mimicking Buck’s previous stance while whispering into his ear, “Alright, square up to the lane. Knees loose. Feel the energy of the orb.”

Eddie drops his head into his hands and Buck chokes on air mid-laugh.

“Ravi!” Chim squawks, twisting and seizing to get out of the younger man's grip, “What is happening, why are you—”

“What? I’m just doing what Buck did to Eddie. Thought we were all helping each other bowl now. Grown men teaching grown men. Our very own bowling league.”

“Oh my god, Chim, you gotta let him finish,” Buck cackles, barely able to speak through the laugh-gasping he’s doing. 

“Finish?!”

“Yes,” Ravi states gravely, “Okay, biomechanics, center of gravity, trust the process.”

And then, the unthinkable: Chim sighs, his shoulders slump, he stares dead into the middle distance, a man accepting his fate, “Fine. Whatever. Adjust my—hips, I guess. I give up.”

“See, that’s the spirit! Feel the orb’s potential energy. You are the ball, Chim. Be the ball.”

Buck is crying. Actually crying. Eddie’s face is buried in his hands. Ravi gently guides Chim into position, then lets go with a satisfied nod. “Perfect. Ten outta ten form.”

Chim, broken, just heaves the ball down the lane. It smacks every single gutter bumper on the way down, ricochets like a pinball, and somehow knocks over exactly one pin.

Ravi claps proudly, “Look at that! Immediate improvement.”

Chim turns to the others with hollow eyes. “Kill me.”

“No way,” Buck wheezes, swiping at his cheeks. “You’re—you’re thriving. I’ve never seen such raw talent.”

Ravi solemnly pats Chim’s shoulder. “I’ll draft the press release.”

They finish the game in a haze of petty miracles. Buck throws two more strikes and preens; Eddie finds a groove and pretends he doesn’t feel Buck’s hands on him. Ravi narrates each frame and keeps trying to start a wave. Chim fights the urge to lay down in front of a bowling ramp. Somewhere, a toddler sobs into a ball return.

Abruptly, a shriek of synths explodes from the speakers. The overhead screens flash into rave mode, strobing neon and spinning GIFs of exploding fireworks. Then, in twelve-point Comic Sans, the marquee scrolls:

🎉 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EDDIE!!! 🎉

Eddie freezes mid-step, the ball dangling from his hand, suddenly feeling like it weighs sixty pounds. “What the—”

A staff member approaches grinning, holding a single cupcake crowned with sparklers, and a rhinestone sash that says BIRTHDAY PRINCE.

Eddie turns, very slowly, to Ravi.

Ravi’s grin could power the East Coast. “Surprise! Make a wish, Birthday Prince.”

Buck is gone. Bent in half against the ball return, tears streaming, laughing so hard he’s clutching his chest.

Chim’s face has calcified into horror. “No. Absolutely not. Take it back.”

“I don’t—” Eddie sputters, “—it’s not my birthday.”

“It is now,” Ravi chirps, bouncing up and down, “Every day can be Eddie’s birthday if we believe hard enough.”

“Why are you even here?” Eddie snaps, ears scarlet.

Chim throws up both hands, instantly on the defensive. “Don’t look at me! I was leaving my house to come rescue your lying ass, and I walk out my front door and there’s Ravi—just standing there. Like that one kid from Up, looking like an abandoned puppy,  waiting to be adopted. What was I supposed to do? Leave him?”

“I was bored.”

“See?!” Chim says, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Not my fault! Stalker behaviour!”

“Or,” Ravi corrects, “it’s best friend behavior. Which, by the way, Eddie, if you’d just said ‘hey I’m in love with Buck and also gay now,’ none of us would’ve had to walk in on the pregame show at your house.”

Eddie stutters, “Pregame show?”

Ravi nods sagely. “You know. The hand-in-the-pants event. Front row seats, unfortunately. Not my favorite IMAX experience, but respect where it’s due.”

Chim covers his ears and yells, “STOP TALKING!”

“Can’t stop the truth, Chim,” Ravi sings, sash already in hand as he sweeps over to Eddie. “Now put this on, Birthday Prince.”

Eddie’s face could fry an egg. Buck’s wheezing so hard he’s nearly on the floor.

“Make a wish,” Ravi orders, solemn as a priest.

“Wish for silence,” Chim mutters, “wish for sanity, wish for the entire world to explode into nothingness.”

Eddie stares at the cupcake, the sparklers spitting dangerously close to his eyebrows. “It isn’t my birthday.”

“It is now,” Ravi says, beaming. “Manifest destiny, baby.”

“Manifest destiny?” Eddie growls.

“Smile for the cameras!” Ravi cheers, looping the sash over him with flourish. “Eddie Diaz: firefighter, Disney princess, dad, homosexual, Birthday Prince.”

Buck applauds as if he’s watching a Broadway play, “I vote we make this annual.”

Eddie is still wearing the sash and glaring daggers at Ravi when Buck sidles in closer, “You look good, Eds,” he says, tugging lightly on the rhinestones. “Very regal. Very…” He lowers his voice, letting it curl around Eddie’s ear, “my type.”

“Don’t—”

“Smile,” Buck interrupts, already flagging Ravi down. “Hey, take a picture of us. For posterity. Birthday Prince and his loyal subject.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Ravi crows.

Eddie barely gets out, “No—” before Buck slings an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. His grin is dazzling, Eddie’s blush is nuclear, and Ravi is having the time of his life.

“Group photo!” Buck adds quickly, snagging Chim by the sleeve before he can escape. “C’mon, all four of us. Memories.”

Chim groans but gets dragged into frame anyway, Ravi setting his phone up with a passing teenager who looks vaguely terrified but snaps the photo anyway.

Eddie’s about to crawl under the ball return and die when all three of their phones buzz at once.

Bobby: Heads up—schedule shuffle. You’re on for a 48 starting 2100. See you in an hour.

The cupcake nearly slides out of Eddie’s hand.

Ravi gasps, clutching onto the forearm of a very irritated Howard Han, “That’s forty-eight hours of close quarters. Do you understand the levels of psychological strain we’re about to witness?”

Chim sighs, trying to wiggle helplessly from Ravi’s grasp, “I understand I need a restraining order.”

Buck, still grinning but with his ears going pink, glances at Eddie. “Guess I’m riding with you,” he says shyly, contradicting his earlier mood. “We can… keep talking on the way.”

Eddie nods, the truth swimming in his head loudly, impossible to ignore. Buck’s still watching him fondly despite how ridiculous he looks, like Eddie in a rhinestone sash at a bowling alley is the best thing he’s ever seen.

Eddie can’t help but feel a little bit of pride at that. 

Groupchat: 118: The hosewives of LA (bobby, athena, hen, karen, chimney, maddie, buck, eddie, ravi)

Ravi: 📸👑 bowling night with the Birthday Prince!!!

Ravi: [photo attached]

Athena: …what am I looking at

Karen: oh my god you guys are adorable 😭

Maddie: why is Eddie dressed like Liberace’s intern

Maddie: wait. wait wait wait. did you two finally…

Chim: Maddie don’t say it

Chim: i’ve seen things

Ravi: side note, you never answered me earlier about your syphilis, Chim 🤨

Maddie: I’m sorry, his WHAT??

Chim: WHEN DID I SAY I HAVE SYPHILIS?!

Eddie: delete that pic right now

Ravi: no I already made it my lockscreen

Buck: same

Ravi: [sends meme of two raccoons holding hands under a streetlight] caption: Eddie and you know who

Maddie: also why does it kinda look like an engagement announcement

Chim: THANK YOU. EXACTLY.

Ravi: not wrong. they’re practically married.

Eddie: you’re all insane.

Ravi: insane for love ❤️

Hen: I was gone for ONE hour

Hen: why is Eddie wearing a sash

Karen: because it’s his birthday 💕

Ravi: 🎶 happy birthday dear EDDIEEEE 🎶

Hen: it is NOT his birthday

Eddie: I hate every single one of you

Ravi: even me 🥺

Ravi: after I immortalized your love story in 4K??

Eddie: especially you

Ravi: [sends GIF of Russell from Up] this was literally me outside Chim’s house earlier lmao

Chim: HE’S NOT JOKING. I WALK OUT MY FRONT DOOR AND HE WAS JUST STANDING THERE LIKE THAT KID. I DIDN’T INVITE HIM.

Athena: incredible.

Hen: phenomenal.

Karen: iconic behavior.

Buck: ngl I kinda agree

Eddie: stop encouraging him

Ravi: never 🤗 long live King Eddie & Consort Buck

Bobby: Buck and Eddie, stop by my office on your way in tonight - Bobby Nash

Buck: yes, cap

Eddie: sure thing, cap

Ravi: oops

Athena: I’m saving this. in case Eddie ever says the words “we’re just friends” again

Hen: seconded

Karen: thirded

Maddie: unanimous

Eddie: I hate this group

Bobby: We love you, Eddie. - Bobby Nash

Bobby: Happy Birthday, by the way. And congrats, I always knew you and Buck went well together - Bobby Nash

Eddie: It’s not my birthday

Ravi: notice how that’s the only thing he denied

Chapter Text

Buck’s still riding the high of the bowling alley, grin stuck to his face like the world’s most obvious neon sign. One that reads: Eddie’s gay! Yay! Hooray!

Eddie’s gay and alive and driving Buck to work and there’s about to be a forty-eight-hour shift with lots of close quarters and—okay, deep breath, don’t honk the horn in excitement. He’s vibrating with the kind of energy that makes him feel like a Labrador left alone in a sprinkler. 

Eddie slides into the driver’s seat, still wearing the rhinestone Birthday Prince sash because Ravi physically tied it on him with some sort of Girl Scout triple knot, and Buck has to clench his fists on his knees to keep from blurting you’re the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life. The sash should look ridiculous. On Eddie, it looks unfairly good.

He didn’t take it off before leaving. That has to mean something. (What it could mean, Buck so conveniently ignores, is that Eddie physically can’t remove it without help).

Buck can feel the conversation brewing, fizzing and bubbling in the silence like soda in a shaken can. This is it. They can talk. Finally. About… all of it. How Buck can’t stop staring and touching and flirting, and how Eddie didn’t shove him off when they were practically forehead-kissing (much to Chimney’s dismay) for like ten minutes in a public bowling alley. 

The first real moment alone together since Eddie basically came out. Buck wants to say something careful, something gentle but brave. Hey, Eds, I’m really glad you told me. I’m proud of you. Do you feel what I feel? Because I—

A sharp knock rattles the passenger side window so roughly that Buck jumps two feet in the air and bites his tongue. 

Ravi. Of fucking course. Grinning, waving, mouthing open up like he’s Jack Nicholson in The Shining, and if Buck didn’t already know that Ravi is about as scary as a wet paper towel, he might’ve been more creeped out. But, unfortunately, Buck does know Ravi Panikkar. And the only thing Ravi is right now is the mortal enemy of meaningful adult conversation.

And Buck’s love life. And his sanity. And the goose incident. And the suspiciously high number of times Ravi has ended up Venmo-requesting $47.83 with no explanation. And—

He realizes he could probably keep this going for a while, but that he’s been staring at Ravi with a strange, pensive look on his face like he’s trying to do long division in his head.

Eddie is still staring straight ahead, eyes wide, before whispering, “We’re cursed.”

Before Buck can even reply, Ravi yanks the back door open hard enough to make Eddie flinch and tumbles in like a newborn giraffe, “Sup roomies! Chim had to run home really quick to ‘check on Maddie,’ which really means ‘I’m abandoning Ravi.’ Rude. But he said to ask if you could drive me.”

“You didn’t ask,” Eddie says flatly, looking like the dad of a misbehaving toddler. 

“I did!” Ravi insists, flopping around in the back seat, “In my heart. I heard your thoughts. They said: ‘We love Ravi. We wish he was with us all the time. We wish he’d sit between us forever and radiate positive energy.’ And I’m nothing if not accommodating. You’re welcome.”

Buck barks a laugh before he can stop himself, learning his mistake quickly as Eddie glares at him.

“Buckle up, Ravi,” Eddie mutters, pulling out of the parking lot with all the warmth of an executioner. 

Buck tries to slip in sideways, soft, as to not poke the bear, “So… about earlier—”

“Earlier was bowling,” Ravi chirps, unhelpfully, “Earlier was a perfect display of form and friendship. And rhinestones. Which, Eddie, keep the sash, it really brings out the homicidal rage in your eyes.”

Eddie’s hands strangle the steering wheel, his knuckles going so white Buck is actually starting to get a little concerned. He was shy and nervous when Buck was flirting earlier, now he just seems pissed off. And okay… so maybe Eddie is freaking out. That’s normal, understandable. Buck can help, smooth it out, reassure him like he always does. 

“Eds, I just want you to know…”

“Friends,” Eddie blurts, eyes glued to the road. “We’re still friends.”

Ironically, Buck feels like he’s been hit by a bowling ball to the chest. His stomach drops, his brain changes to the wrong input, and he forces a loud laugh, “Ha! Right. Friends.”

Ravi leans forward between the seats, eyebrows raised, “That’s not what I saw at your house before bowling. Just saying, I don’t usually spend time with my friends so I can put my hands down their pants.”

Buck chokes so violently he nearly head-butts the dashboard. “What— Ravi—”

“Yeah. Friends. With… you know. Whatever,” Eddie cuts in, clipped.

Buck’s heart does a weird, traitorous flop. One that feels suspiciously like heartbreak dressed up in a rhinestone birthday sash. He pastes on a grin that feels way too big for his face, “Right. Totally. Friends with… you know. Extras.”

“Friends Deluxe,” Ravi supplies cheerfully, already scrolling his phone. “Like the McDonald’s combo meal of friendship. Comes with a toy. Some assembly required.”

Eddie nearly drives them into a stop sign. Buck feels his chest cave in, tries to grin like he isn’t unraveling one rib at a time. Friends. That’s all it is. That’s all he wants.

Ravi, meanwhile, sighs dreamily, “This is nice. Just us. Our little trio. Eddie, Buck, and Ravi. Gay, gay-adjacent, and me. Driving into the sunset.”

Eddie mutters, “Kill me now.”

And then, as if the night hasn’t killed Buck enough already, Ravi starts singing. Cheerfully. Loudly. Off-key.

“We’re the three best friends that anyone could have! The three best friends that anyone could have!”

Eddie slams his forehead on the steering wheel at a red light. Buck laughs until his chest hurts, pretending it’s because Ravi’s funny and not because the alternative is crying.

From the back, Ravi beams. “See? Harmony. The trifecta. This is forever.”

Buck stares out the window at the blur of city lights and thinks, God help me, he might be right.

Buck isn’t surprised that Eddie is having a full-blown meltdown, it’s honestly surprising it didn’t happen sooner. While, yes, Buck hasn’t exactly been helping the situation… he can acknowledge that the events of the last few days have been stress-inducing to say the least. It’s scary enough to accept that you’re ‘definitely not straight,’ as Eddie had said. 

But to come out to two of your closest friends by having them walk in on your best friend of nearly a decade giving you a handjob while you’re straddling his lap is… a lot. And just to be clear, Buck is not complaining about the things that have transpired over the last forty-eight hours. Complaining about Eddie in his lap is the last thing on his to-do list. Right below ‘stop replaying it in hi-def every five minutes.’

He’s just saying— this flinchy, squirrely version of the man he loves is expected.

And he is not judging. 

…Mildly (very) concerned, yes. But not judging. 

“So,” Bobby says slowly, “do I need to have you fill out the paperwork?”

“Paperwork?” Buck echoes. 

Bobby leans back in his chair, fighting a smile, “Dating paperwork. HR forms, liability protocols…” He waves a hand, but his features soften. “Look, I’m happy for you both. Really. But if you’re going to make this official, we need to make it official.”

Buck’s heart skips, happy for you both. The words ring in his ears. For one blinding second, he thinks maybe this is real. Maybe he wasn’t imagining it. Maybe Bobby sees it. Maybe Eddie—

“We’re just friends,” Eddie cuts in smoothly, but Buck doesn’t miss the way he flinches as Buck whips around to look at him. Eddie’s tone isn’t sharp or defensive, but he recognizes it. Firm. Practiced. Whether Eddie is trying to convince them or himself, though… that’s to be determined. 

“Friends,” Bobby repeats, unconvinced. 

“That’s right,” Eddie says, unwavering, “We joke around, but it’s nothing like that. Buck’s… Buck’s got his own thing going on with Josh, anyway.”

Buck goes still, his heart playing pinball in his chest. What? His brain rapid-fires through every possible thing Eddie could be thinking of right now. What Josh thing? The one where Buck is just his friend and Eddie knows this?

The whole blurting Josh’s name situation is semi-recent ancient history. What alternate timeline has Eddie been living in? 

Does Eddie really think there’s something going on between him and Josh?

Bobby hums, but doesn’t push further, “Alright, if you say so,” his gaze flicks to Buck, a soft sympathy under the surface, “Just… remember, you don’t have to keep secrets here. Not from me.”

Buck laughs, but it comes up wrong, sharp edges scraping his throat, “He’s right, we’re the best of friends.”

Eddie nods, unbothered, already halfway to the door. Buck tries to meet his eye three times before taking the hint that Eddie is pointedly avoiding it.

Bobby sighs, “Well, either way, keep it professional on shift. And if things change—my door’s always open.”

They leave, but Buck can’t shake how easily Bobby had accepted the idea of him and Eddie—and how fast Eddie had shut it down. 

Maybe Eddie knows him too well. Maybe he sees Buck’s past and his mistakes and his endless line of failed flings and failed relationships, the way people always leave and Buck is always the one being left.

Maybe Eddie being gay doesn’t change anything. Maybe it never had anything to do with Buck in the first place. 

They roll up as second-in on an apartment collapse, the 136 already there with their medic unit, working to get the patient loaded and transported. The 118 gets the unglamorous second-place trophy: sweep the wreckage, scan for more potential hazards, make sure no one’s about to get brained by a dangling cinderblock. 

Buck is close, always close, but not with him. Eddie feels the absence like a shadow, the deliberate avoidance gnawing at him with every step.

A crowd has gathered, the type of morbid curiosity only disaster can inspire—everyone loves a tragedy when it’s not their own.

Eddie sees the glint first. A thin blade of light winking from beneath the scatter of broken concrete and twisted metal, luring him in like the world’s shiniest middle finger. Before his brain can veto it, he’s already moving. He crouches, knee dropping with the creak of fabric and the bite of grit under his boot, hand pushing debris aside until his fingers close around the offending sparkle. 

It’s warm from the sun, heavier than expected, and when he pulls it free he’s staring down at a gold band inlaid with enough diamonds to pay off his truck—and then some. 

His breath stutters, then halts entirely. Because when he turns, just slightly, just enough to begin to show it to the rest of his team — the divine comedy that is his life hits its crescendo, and he silently prays one of the loose cinderblocks will fall on his head and put him out of his misery.

Why? Because he’s tilted into a stance he recognizes with the kind of horrified clarity that only comes when you realize the jokes on you.

A few key things hammer into him in rapid succession.

One: he is, unequivocally, in the textbook posture of a man proposing marriage.

Two: his hand is extended, holding a ring.

And three: directly in front of him, haloed by dust and sunlight and the collective gasp of a hundred bystanders, is Evan Buckley.

Four, five and six — those are three very inconvenient facts Eddie would prefer to punt directly into the sun.

Four being, there’s at least twenty people recording this entire shitshow—Eddie Diaz, thirty-four, freshly (and somewhat reluctantly) gay, apparently proposing to the man he’s secretly in love with but ninety percent sure doesn’t love him back. Those videos will outlive him, his grandchildren, and possibly civilization itself.

Five is that the universe, having decided that Eddie wasn’t going to come out quietly and amicably, has dragged him by the ankles into a public spectacle and slapped a diamond ring in his hand for good measure. 

And six—six may just be the most horrifying of them all. Which is that Ravi, the human embodiment of boundless enthusiasm paired with poor judgement, has clocked this entire thing and is looking at Eddie like a toddler who just found a permanent marker, an unguarded wall, and the distinct knowledge that no adult in the vicinity has the strength to stop him.

The world doesn’t stop as much as it slows to a vicious crawl, every detail etching itself into Eddie’s skull with merciless precision. Buck’s eyes are wide, blue gone pale with shock, mouth parted as though a word had been about to fall out before he swallowed it whole. 

The crowd moves forward as one, the shuffle of their shoes like a rising hymn. Every head bows toward the scene, every phone lifts like a candle at Easter vigil — except instead of Jesus it’s Eddie Diaz, kneeling with a ring he definitely didn’t mean to offer. Flashes go off like lightning, a hundred eyes blinking fire, as though Revelations had been rewritten to star him, on one knee, with Buck in the lead role of eternal damnation. 

If only his mother could see him now.

And hey, she probably will. 

That is, if she doesn’t die of a heart attack as soon as she sees her only son proposing to a man in the middle of downtown LA.

And just at the edge of his vision—god help him— Ravi is vibrating with glee, his grin is blinding, practically levitating with the sheer force of his delight. A man who’s been handed front-row seats to the collapse of an empire. Or in this case, the collapse of an apartment building, possibly eight years of friendship, and Eddie’s sanity. 

Eddie’s throat works uselessly. He needs to stand up. He needs to wave this off with brusque denial, laugh it off, but his body won’t. His knees feel locked, rooted, the earth itself deciding to reach up and pin him to this exact spot.

His mouth opens and words scrape up from his chest and collapse at the back of his teeth, falling out as broken syllables and fragments of sentences, “I—uh…Buck, I just—no, it’s not—”

None of it qualifies as actual words. He’s babbling in the dialect of humiliation, understood only by babies and men proposing against their will.

Eddie counts as Buck’s chest heaves once, then twice, his wide blue eyes unblinking. His lips twitch, trying to shape something. And although Eddie isn’t sure what it is, there’s a feeling deep in his gut that says if Buck says anything other than yes, Eddie will simply lie down in the rubble and die.

…which is new. 

Then, in a tone that is so soft and so reverent, too much so for this fluorescent hellscape of sirens and sweat, Buck breathes, “Eds—”

And that’s when the crowd makes the fatal mistake of deciding they are not passive witnesses, but participants in this absolute nightmare disguised as one of Eddie’s deeply buried fantasies. 

A dreamy sigh rolls through them, someone close enough to be heard is whispering, “God, that’s so romantic.”

Another, more realistic and logical person, says something like, “Isn’t this an OSHA violation or something?”

No. Absolutely not. This cannot be happening. I fought in a war, I’ve seen men die, I’ve been shot in the goddamn chest—and this is how I go out? On one knee, fake-proposing to my best friend-slash-secret-crush, in front of two dozen civilians livestreaming the downfall of my heterosexuality?

The weight of their attention crushes down, makes Eddie’s ears roar, and then a single voice slices clean through the noise.

The fatal blow—Ravi fucking Panikkar—practically foaming at the mouth, cups his hands around his mouth like a mock megaphone and yells,

“Well?!”

Eddie pleads to Buck with his eyes, begging him to read his mind and put a very quiet, very subtle end to this living nightmare. Don’t. Please, don’t—

Buck grins, throwing his arms wide like a man possessed and shouts, “Yes! A thousand times yes! I wish I didn’t have to wait—if it were up to me, I’d marry you right now!”

And, okay, Eddie deserved that after everything he pulled in Bobby’s office earlier. But he panicked. He couldn’t say the thing out loud—the L word—so he fell back on the old trick of shutting down before anyone could press further. And now he’s paying for it. 

The crowd goes crazy, Ravi having climbed a nearby piece of concrete—despite Bobby’s many attempts to make him come back down—and now he’s… is Ravi literally trying to start a fucking wave in the crowd of onlookers at an active disaster (both the collapse and Eddie’s life, apparently) site?

If a meteor fell out of the sky and squished him like a bug, he would thank God personally for ending his suffering. 

And then, because his karma is that of a wet cat in a thunderstorm, a yell breaks through the noise, “We have an officiant!”

God, of course they do.

A man pushes forward holding a briefcase, “I’m ordained,” he says, obviously feeling like the hero in this scenario, “If you were serious about the ‘right now’ thing.”

Before him or Buck can respond, an agitating voice cuts through the deafening shrieks, “Oh, they were one-hundred percent serious, sir—Ow!”

Eddie needs to remember to thank Hen for flicking Ravi in the forehead just then. 

“Perfect! What’re your names?”

Nobody on God’s green earth could make Eddie open his mouth and tell this random stranger his name. He will sooner sew his mouth shut before telling this man his name. 

“The blonde puppy dog looking one is Evan! And the one that looks like he wants to light himself, or all of us, on fire is Eddie—Ow, Hen, seriously stop it!” 

Ravi, patron saint of chaos.

“Perfect!” the officiant beams, “Do you, Evan, take Eddie to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Buck turns, about to answer—when Bobby, horrified, starts, “Buck—”

“Yeah?” Buck blurts, reflexive, spinning toward him.

The officiant claps once, “Perfect! Passionate! That’s a yes.”

Oh, fuck. 

“And do you, Eddie, take Evan—”

His head swims, he feels sick, this isn’t how he imagined their weddi—wait a second.

“Eds?” Buck says softly, eyes wide with concern. 

“Yeah?” Eddie croaks, startling him from his thoughts.

“Excellent! Then by the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church, the State of California, and the goodwill of this fine crowd—I now pronounce you married. You may kiss.”

Eddie stares, numb, as the man whips out an actual certificate. Does he just… carry those around?

When he turns, Buck’s eyes are wide, obviously asking the burning question of: Did we actually just get real life married at work while we were on a call?

His brain is a blender. Oh god, we’re at work. This is a collapse site. There are still hazards to clear. Buck doesn’t even—he doesn’t even love me. He can’t. He shouldn’t. Oh god, my mother is going to see this. Christopher is going to see this. His class is going to see this. I’m going to be the subject of a TikTok his classmates show him during lunch. I’d rather be shot again.

Hen pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering, “We are literally at a collapse site.”

“I don’t know how to file paperwork for a platonic accidental marriage,” Bobby sighs.

Chim looks partway between gleeful and doomed, “This is going to kill Maddie. She’s pregnant. You’re going to kill my wife.”

Eddie wants to move. He wants to wave this off, bark something gruff, anything to make it stop. But his body won’t move. He feels bolted to the earth. His heart is a jackhammer against his ribs.

And then Buck leans forward, eyes wide, whispering, “Just go with it, Eds.”

Go with it? GO WITH IT? Eddie thinks he might actually die.

Eddie’s face is on fire. He wants to disappear. He wants to crawl under the rubble, never be seen again, let the city file a missing persons report. But the chant is growing louder, Ravi’s voice the spearhead, Buck’s face impossibly close, hope dancing in his eyes, and Eddie realizes there’s only one way out.

So he does the only thing that will end it.

He lunges forward, grabbing Buck by the jacket, and kisses him.

The force of it rocks Buck back a step. For half a second Eddie panics—but then Buck’s arms are on him, pulling him closer, kissing him back like he’s been waiting years. The crowd explodes. Ravi is practically conducting them like a choir. 

Eddie’s thoughts collapse in on themselves. Perfect. Fantastic. I’m kissing my… husband. My surprise, platonic (?) husband.

When Eddie finally tears free, panting, lips swollen, ring still clutched in his fist, he stares at Buck like a man who just discovered his own mortality and also his soulmate in the same thirty seconds. Buck stares back, dazed, kiss-bruised, blue eyes glassy with shock and something else Eddie doesn’t want to name here in front of God and a hundred strangers with iPhones.

He keeps staring at Buck, his only thought a loop of what just happened and why did that feel more right than my actual eight year long marriage.

And Eddie knows, with bone-deep certainty, that this will follow him forever, that every Thanksgiving, every holiday party, every idle Tuesday at the firehouse, someone will bring it up, and he will never, ever be free.

“There’s no way he’ll actually file the certificate, Eds,” Buck is saying, his voice soothing, like he’s trying to coax Eddie down from a ledge. “We’ll go down next week, make sure it doesn’t stick. Get it annulled, erased, whatever. Poof. Gone.”

Eddie exhales, long and weary, watching Buck’s hands fly as he talks. Always so eager to fix what can’t be fixed. Always trying. “Buck,” Eddie says softly, the word heavy with everything he can’t say here—not yet, “You don’t have to fix this.”

Buck blinks at him, lips parting, like maybe he wants to argue. But Eddie shoulders past the weight of it, grabs a rag, and focuses on wiping dust and concrete grit from his gear. If he keeps his hands busy, maybe he won’t unravel.

They all take their time with cleanup, stretching it out like the ritual it is: gear off, showers hot, silence companionable. The long day lingers on their bones, dragging them into that in-between space where exhaustion numbs the edges of everything else.

Eddie takes the stairs slowly, Buck and Ravi trailing lazily behind him. He hits the top step, rounds into the loft—

And stops dead.

Because in the middle of the room is a baby playpen.

And inside the playpen are twelve raccoons.

Staring at him.

Twelve pairs of beady black eyes blink back in eerie unison, paws curled over the mesh sides, whiskers twitching like they know his deepest secrets.

Ravi slams into Eddie’s back with an “oof,” then starts, “Hey, why’d you—” before peering around him. He freezes, eyes widening, “Ohhhh… oh no.”

Buck bumps into both of them, craning his neck over Ravi’s shoulder. “What’s—” He stops. His jaw drops, “Holy shit. We have raccoons.”

In front of the playpen, arms crossed and expression carved from stone, stands Bobby.

Ravi whispers reverently, “Oooohhhhh I fucked up.”

Bobby doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His voice is monotone, the voice of a man staring down the barrel of a gun, “A man named Sal showed up ten minutes ago. Said I’d signed for them.” He gestures at the playpen with the vaguest flick of his hand. “Turns out, I did. I thought it was a prank. It wasn’t.”

“Okay,” Buck says, nodding way too quickly, already crouching down to inspect the raccoons like they’re exotic pets. “But wow. Look at them. They’re so… well-behaved. Like little gentlemen. Eddie, do you see this? They’re sitting in formation.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face, “Buck—”

“Fun fact,” Buck barrels on, eyes sparkling, “a group of raccoons is called a nursery. Isn’t that cute? We’ve got a whole nursery!”

“Don’t,” Eddie warns.

“You manifested them,” Buck whispers, leaning conspiratorially close, grin tugging wide. “You joked about raccoons, and now—” He gestures broadly to the mesh pen full of twitching, suspicious woodland creatures, “—the universe delivered.”

“I told Sal no more raccoons!” Ravi blurts, throwing his hands in the air. “I swear! I texted him! He didn’t reply, so I took that as him saying, ‘Thanks for being responsible, Ravi, you’re such a great guy.’”

Bobby turns his glare on him, “So instead of confirming, you just assumed?”

“In my defense, communication is a two-way street.”

Hen pokes her head up the stairs, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Chim follows, takes one look, and immediately pulls out his phone. “Oh, Maddie’s not gonna believe this.”

One of the raccoons chitters, baring tiny teeth. Buck gasps, delighted, “Did you know raccoons can make over fifty different vocalizations? That one sounded like a warning. Which is fair—this is probably a stressful environment for them.”

“Buck,” Eddie says again, firmer this time, like maybe saying his name enough will stop the tide of absurdity swallowing his life whole.

Buck just beams at him, eyes bright, like he’s already imagining raccoon enrichment toys and tiny firehouse uniforms.

“Why are they so still?” Eddie mutters.

“Oh,” Buck says immediately, crouching lower, “because raccoons can recognize over a hundred different human faces. They’re assessing us. They know we’re in charge.”

“I don’t feel in charge,” Eddie says.

“I feel blessed,” Ravi says dreamily.

“You won’t feel blessed when they’re rabid.”

“Rabies is actually really rare in raccoons,” Buck supplies, “It’s mostly bats, foxes—”

“Buck,” Bobby cuts in, “Stop. Helping.”

One of the raccoons chitters and looks at the counter, where an open bag of pretzels sits.

“They want snacks,” Buck says reverently, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Buck,” Eddie snaps.

“What? They’re hungry! Look at them. They’re practically begging,” he grabs the bag, shaking a few pretzels into his palm, and crouches down to offer them.

“Do not feed the raccoons,” Bobby orders, exhausted.

The raccoons, however, are already delicately plucking pretzels from Buck’s hand.

“Oh my god,” Buck breathes, eyes huge, “They’re gentle. They’re… they’re perfect.”

“Perfect?” Eddie repeats, horrified.

“You manifested them, Eds,” Buck whispers again, grinning like a lunatic, “First you joked about raccoons, and now—bam. A dozen of them. Your own little army.”

Hen sighs, already texting someone, “I’m calling Animal Control.”

“No!” Ravi yelps, stepping in front of the playpen like a protective parent, “They’re family now!”

“Family?”

“Yes! Look at Gary—he trusts me! You can’t just abandon him. Or Gerald. Or… Philomena.”

One of the raccoons chitters again, and suddenly the others join in—twelve raccoons, all squeaking in eerie harmony. 

“Oh no,” Eddie mutters. “They’re conspiring.”

Buck clutches his chest like he’s seeing angels, “Do you hear that? They’re communicating. They’re a team, just like us.”

Ravi gasps, “Oh my god, they’re the 119!”

Bobby finally snaps, rubbing both hands down his face. “I swear to God, if these raccoons so much as breathe near my kitchen, all three of you are scrubbing every inch of this house with bleach.”

The raccoons fall silent, twelve pairs of eyes swiveling to Bobby like they understood every word.

“See?” Buck whispers, awestruck, “They respect authority.”

Eddie turns, very slowly, locking eyes with Buck, knowing what his best friend is thinking, “No. No, we are not keeping them.”

Behind him, Ravi whispers to the nearest raccoon, “Don’t listen to him, Uncle Eddie’s just stressed. He loves you already.”

The raccoon chitters back like it’s agreeing.

Eddie considers jumping out the loft window.

Groupchat: 118: the raccoon nursery (bobby, athena, hen, karen, chimney, maddie, buck, eddie, ravi)

Ravi: [TikTok link] look at my boys 😍🥂 #husbands

Karen: …why is Eddie on one knee??

Athena: is Buck crying?

Buck: oh like you wouldn’t be crying 

Maddie: is that an actual officiant?? Howie??

Chim: …so funny story.

Ravi: 🥂 HUSBANDS 🥂

Eddie: RAVI SHUT UP.

Buck: it’s not what it looks like

Hen: it’s exactly what it looks like 👰🤵

Karen: you guys were there? And just let it happen??

Bobby: We didn’t LET it happen. It was an accident. - Bobby Nash

Athena: I’ve seen a lot of things in my job but “pop-up marriage ceremony at a structural collapse” is a first.

Maddie: BOBBY. IS MY BROTHER MARRIED.

Bobby: technically? - Bobby Nash

Ravi: 💍✨legally binding✨💍

Buck: RAVI NO.

Eddie: it's not real!!!

Karen: you kissed him like it was real

Ravi: it was real to me, Eds. You looked… beautiful. 😌

Eddie: you don’t get to call me that

Buck: YOU weren’t even involved Ravi

Ravi: emotional involvement counts

Maddie: is there paperwork?? Bobby. answer me.

Bobby: there might be paperwork - Bobby Nash

Karen: I cannot believe I’m saying this but…congratulations??

Buck: uh… thanks??

Eddie: yeah… thank you?

Hen: lmao this is insane.

Chim: Maddie, don’t worry, I’ve got the full video.

Maddie: oh SEND IT. immediately.

Eddie: MADDIE.

Buck: [📸 blurry raccoon mid-climb on the couch] look at him goooo 😍

Eddie: PUT IT BACK.

Ravi: king behavior 🦝👑

Bobby: which one of you let it out of the playpen - Bobby Nash

Karen: …why the HELL is there a raccoon on your couch??

Athena: No seriously. Why.

Maddie: that’s not a raccoon. tell me that’s not a raccoon.

Hen: oh it’s a raccoon. twelve, actually. long story.

Eddie: don’t. tell. them.

Ravi: important question: Diaz-Buckley or Buckley-Diaz? 👀

Eddie: None. Neither. We’re not!!!

Buck: …Buckley-Diaz does kinda flow.

Eddie: Buck.

Buck: what? just saying. has a nice ring to it.

Ravi: registry when??

Eddie: there is no registry!

Buck: …I mean… we could make one.

Hen: oh my god.

Ravi: btw #Buddie is trending 💕💖🥰💍 

Groupchat: Dad² + Chris (buck, eddie, chris)

Chris: [TikTok link: @la_collapsechronicles “Two firefighters get surprise-married at work?? 😳💍🔥 #Buddie”]

Chris: sooo. anything you two forgot to mention? like… a marriage?

Eddie: Christopher

Buck: okay, before you freak out

Chris: too late. already freaking out.

Eddie: it’s not real. it was an accident.

Chris: so you accidentally married Buck? at work?

Buck: in my defense, he got down on one knee first.

Eddie: I WAS PICKING UP A THING.

Chris: uh-huh. and then you “accidentally” kissed him too? because that video sure looked like a kiss.

Buck: look it was damage control.

Chris: wow. so kissing my dad is just “damage control” now? harsh.

Eddie: Christopher.

Buck: no, no, he’s right. I should’ve said “very effective damage control.” 😇

Chris: 🙄 you guys are ridiculous.

Eddie: we’ll talk about this properly when you’re home.

Chris: sure. until then, congrats on your fake real marriage. proud of you both 🙃

Buck: thanks, buddy. wait—Buddie. see what I did there?

Chris: I’m blocking you.

Buck: do it I dare you

Chapter Text

Bobby’s got his elbows braced on the kitchen table as his fingers massage aggressively into his temples, something Eddie would be concerned about if the circumstances of Bobby’s (otherwise peaceful) morning were different. Eddie watches him as he takes out a yellow legal pad, staring at it for a minute too long, then writing in big bold letters ‘ABSOLUTELY NOT.’ Underlined twice, for emphasis. His jaw is tight, a small pair of what Eddie would describe as librarian glasses, are perched low on his nose. The stoic face of a man who has decided today will not break him, even if the odds are not in his favor. 

What could possibly be making Bobby this tense?

Across from him: Buck and Ravi. A united front, shoulder to shoulder, both leaning forward as if they can sway Bobby’s already made up mind by sheer proximity alone. Between them is a laminated folder Ravi clearly spent way too much time working on — unnecessary doodles scattered around and colored tabs lining the side. Ravi’s even printed a little cover sheet with clipart raccoons holding hands under cheerful bubble letters that read ‘Raccoon Custody Proposal — Our Family, Our Future,’ that Bobby grimaces at whenever he looks down. 

Eddie’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, wishing he could melt into the wall. But Buck had looked at him on the way in, eyes so bright Eddie had no choice but to cave and follow. That’s the only reason he’s here. That’s the only reason he’s about to watch the man he’s in love with try to negotiate raccoon custody with his surrogate father like it’s a child custody hearing in divorce court. 

“This is not happening,” Bobby says flatly, before either of them can speak. 

“Cap, just hear us out—”

“No, Buck.”

“Cap,” Buck tries again, his voice almost pleading, “Come on. Just—look, we put together a plan!”

“A plan,” Bobby glances at the folder, debating whether it’s too early in the day to fake his own death.

“Yes! I’m glad you asked,” Ravi says, flipping it open with flair, “Comprehensive. Joint custody. Responsibilities divided, visitation schedules set, enrichment activities planned—”

“Enrichment?” Bobby cuts in.

“Like puzzles, obstacle courses, raccoon yoga.”

Bobby slaps his pen onto the table, “Stop. This is ridiculous. I don’t want to hear the words ‘raccoon yoga’ ever again.”

“Wow. Close-minded much?”

Buck barks out a laugh and immediately tries to smother it, shoulders shaking, and Eddie feels his chest ache. He hates how much he loves it. He hates how good Buck looks with that ridiculous grin plastered on his face. He hates that Buck is glowing like this over raccoons and Eddie is stuck standing here pretending not to want to give him everything he wants, raccoons included.

When Bobby speaks again, he looks like he’s aged a decade, “Show me the damn folder.”

Ravi beams triumphantly, sliding it across the table. Buck leans in, practically vibrating with sincerity, pointing to charts enthusiastically. “See, Cap, we divided up feeding and cleaning schedules. Ravi’s good with mornings, I’ll take evenings. And Eddie—”

“I’m not involved,” Eddie cuts in immediately, but Buck looks over at him with such hope Eddie’s stomach flips.

“Eds, you’d be amazing with training,” Buck says, smiling. “They’d love you.”

Ravi nods like a bobblehead, “You’ve got authority. Raccoons respect that. They’d march in formation for you. Their leader, the Birthday Prince himself.”

Eddie closes his eyes briefly. He has shot people. He has been shot. He has faced down death and fire and grief and the cold disapproval of his own parents. And now he’s standing here being told raccoons would march in formation for him. And the worst part is—Buck believes it. Buck is looking at him like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. Eddie swallows hard and mutters, “We’ll talk,” hating himself instantly.

Ravi claps his hands, “Motion passed!”

“No no,” Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose, “No passing of motions. This is not Congress. This is insanity.”

The conversation goes a bit like this: 

“I’ll take Philomena. She likes me,” Buck says.

“Correction,” Ravi replies, “she likes everyone. Gerald, on the other hand, is mysterious. Grumpy. A stickler for the rules. Sounds a lot like someone we know. You have experience with men like Gerald. Philomena’s warm, cuddly, universally adored. Obviously I should take her.”

Eddie is a calm man. Eddie is not going to punch Ravi in the face for comparing him to the less popular raccoon. 

The argument spirals until Buck says, almost horrified, “What if we’re hurting Gerald’s feelings?”

Eddie genuinely would think this is the stupidest, most arbitrary argument if Buck didn’t look like he was ten seconds away from actually crying. 

“He’s a raccoon, Buck.”

Buck looks stricken, like Eddie just stabbed him. His gaze drops to Gerald, currently chewing on the corner of Ravi’s laminated chart, then back to Eddie, and it’s so raw Eddie has to look away before his heart gives out. “Don’t say that in front of him,” Buck whispers.

And Eddie wants to laugh, wants to groan, wants to throw himself off the roof. Instead he grips his arms tighter, because the truth is he’d smuggle ten raccoons if it kept Buck smiling.

A man walking through the bay doors saves him from having to reply. 

Animal control. 

This is it. The jig is up. Eddie will soon be consoling a very sad, very raccoonless, Buck. 

But something Eddie absolutely does not expect, Bobby’s already moving, tone sharp as he meets the man halfway through the station, “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for the raccoons? We got a call about a dozen raccoons—”

“Ten,” Bobby (incorrectly) corrects.

“I was told there were twelve raccoons,” the guy says, flipping through papers. 

“Well,” Bobby shrugs, “raccoons are wily. Maybe you miscounted.”

“I didn’t count — you guys called us and said twel—”

“Look me in the eye,” Bobby says, leaning further in the man's space, ”and tell me you’ve never lost track of raccoons on the job.”

The man hesitates, obviously unsure of what he just walked into and wanting to leave as soon as humanly possible. 

“...Fair point.”

Meanwhile, Buck and Ravi already have their raccoons wrapped in dish towels and squirming in their arms as they sneak towards the backdoor with all the subtlety of a marching band. 

Eddie doesn’t want to follow. He really doesn’t. But Buck glances back at him, eyes lit up with mischief and devotion for this idiotic mission, and Eddie sighs, grabbing Gerald from him to make sure the damn thing doesn’t fall.

By the time animal control leaves, suspicious but appeased with all ten raccoons in tow, the decision’s been made. Buck gets Gerald. Ravi gets Philomena.

Bobby sighs, resigned, “Fine. Two raccoons. But not here. Not in this firehouse. You want them? You take them home. And you figure out how to explain it to animal control when they come asking why their headcount is off.”

Buck beams, incandescent, hugging Gerald like he’s the world’s most precious prize. Ravi pumps a fist in the air. Eddie stands there, raccoon fur clinging to his shirt, wondering how he’s going to survive loving a man who can talk about raccoon custody with tears in his eyes.

The raccoons are gone—well, most of them. Ten went back with animal control, two slipped out the back door swaddled in towels like furry contraband, and Eddie is still finding strands of raccoon fur clinging to his shirt like damning evidence. He should feel relief. He should feel normalcy returning. Instead, he’s standing in Buck’s loft thirty-six hours later, the entire space looking like an Amazon warehouse exploded, feeling nothing but mind-numbing adoration.

And in the middle of it all, Buck, the beautiful idiot that he is, fiddles with the straps on a brand-new baby carrier he ordered same-day delivery, humming to himself like this is normal, like strapping a raccoon to your chest isn’t a clear sign you’ve lost your mind.

“Okay, Gerald,” Buck says, wrestling the animal—who looks largely indifferent—into the harness with all the determination of a rookie firefighter forcing a hose coupling, “this is gonna be so good for you. Hands-free mobility, weight evenly distributed, breathable mesh—look at this, top of the line.”

Eddie leans against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to show how badly he wants to laugh and also die. “Buck,” he says carefully, for what feels like the thousandth time in two days, “you realize he’s a raccoon, right?

“Correction,” Buck says, letting Gerald hold onto his fingers, “he’s my raccoon.”

Gerald wiggles once, unimpressed, as Buck adjusts the straps until the creature is nestled against his chest like a hairy infant. Buck beams, “Look, Eds. I’m a dad.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the sight of Buck glowing with unearned paternal pride or the fact that his biceps flex every time he adjusts the straps, but something in Eddie’s chest twists so hard it’s almost painful. He can’t stop picturing it—Buck holding a real baby, not a raccoon. Buck’s baby. Their baby. The thought slams into him so fast he almost staggers.

He can see it in his mind’s eye: Buck with a little one strapped to his chest, arms flexing as he adjusts the carrier, smile wide and soft, blue eyes gone misty with love. He’d be the best dad. He already is.

There’s heat flaring low in his gut, and suddenly all he can think about is throwing Buck down on the bed right now, tearing those straps off and finding out if they could make one of their own. Not that Eddie would mind the effort. He’d put in the hours. Again and again and again.

“Eds,” Buck says, breaking into his spiral, “take a picture of us.”

“No,” Eddie says immediately, but his hand betrays him, already pulling his phone from his pocket. He frames the shot, thumb hovering, and for a second he doesn’t hit the button. Because through the screen, Buck’s smile is softer than sunlight, Gerald’s head tucked against his chest, and Eddie thinks this might be the most dangerous image of his life—no, not because of the raccoon—but because it looks too much like forever.

He snaps the picture anyway, tucks the phone away, and says, “You’re insane.”

“Best investment I’ve ever made.”

And Eddie, heart pounding, thinks, god help me, I’m so fucked.

Buck’s loft is a disaster zone: cardboard boxes stacked like Jenga towers, bubble wrap sticking to his socks, Gerald strapped to his chest in the baby carrier like a smug little war medal. Buck’s humming, pacing the room, rocking side to side because it feels right—because it feels good. He looks at himself in the microwave reflection and sees it plain as day: Dad. He looks like a dad. He looks like the man he’s always wanted to be.

There’s a knock at the door and Buck swings it open to find a haggard looking Chim with Jee balanced on his hip. Her well-worn unicorn pajamas are slipping loosely off her shoulder, there’s a tiara sitting crooked in a nest of tangled hair, and her fingers are wrapped haphazardly around a half-finished juice box that’s steadily dripping onto Chim’s shirt.

Chim’s eyes drift past Buck to take in the disaster inside—the raccoon nestled against his chest, the cardboard castle spilling across the living room—and he lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan.

“Alright,” Chim says, setting Jee down gently, “she’s all yours. Try not to corrupt her permanently.”

“Uncle Buck duty? You got it.”

Chim glances past Jee, spots Eddie in the doorway, and nods once. “Hey, Eddie,” he says in passing, then turns back to Buck, pointing at Gerald and narrowing his eyes, “Don’t let her near that thing. If Maddie comes home and finds out her daughter got rabies from your pet trash panda, I’ll end you.”

“He doesn’t have rabies!” Buck protests, “He’s family!”

Chim pivots, one eyebrow up, and looks at Eddie, “Make sure Buck and the raccoon behave, yeah? I don’t want to have to fib to Maddie about what ‘uncle duty’ entailed.”

Eddie smirks, folding his arms, “On it. No worries.”

“Have fun. Don’t break her,” Chim sighs, backing up towards the hallway. 

The door shuts behind him. Jee toddles forward, stopping dead when she sees Gerald. Her little mouth makes a perfect O. “Uncle Buck,” she whispers solemnly, “is dat your baby?”

“This,” he says, patting Gerald’s head, “is a raccoon.”

“Wha’s a ‘coon?”

“Oh!” Buck perks up, delighted, like he’s just been handed the best show-and-tell prompt in history, “They’re nocturnal mammals. Little hands, super smart, really adaptable. They wash their food sometimes before they eat it. Fun fact—did you know a group of raccoons is called a nursery?”

Eddie groans from the couch, “Yes, because the three year old will know what a nocturnal mammal is, Buck.”

Buck ignores him, crouching down so Jee can see Gerald better. “Basically, they’re like… neighbors that live in the woods. Furry little guys who will eat pretty much anything—berries, scraps, snacks. They’re excellent scavengers. But Gerald’s special. He lives with me now.”

Jee’s eyes go as wide as saucers, “You have a baby ‘coon?”

“Kind of,” Buck says proudly.

She pokes Gerald’s tail with one finger, awestruck, “He’s so cuuuute. He got a wife like daddy? Or a husban’ like you?”

Buck opens his mouth to respond when Gerald suddenly stretches toward Jee’s tiara, little grabby hands pawing at the plastic jewels. Buck fumbles one hand between raccoon and toddler, trying to referee the world’s dumbest turf war. Murmuring something like “share, buddy, share” while Jee squeals and ducks her head. 

His phone buzzes on the counter and muscle memory takes over before his brain catches up. He grabs it, his thumb swiping without even glancing at the screen, and answers on autopilot.  “Go for Buck.”

“Philomena says hi,” Ravi’s voice blares cheerfully as his face fills the screen. Sure enough, he’s at home, Philomena perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, gnawing on a Dorito.  “Also, Gerald looks fat. Are you overfeeding him?”

“Why are you FaceTiming me?” Buck asks, adjusting the phone in his hand.

“Because we’re co-parents,” Ravi says, “Communication is key.” He notices Jee then, squinting at the screen. “Oh my god, is that Jee? Buck, don’t let her near Gerald, Chim’ll kill me if—wait, Jee! Hey! Did you know Philomena and Gerald are soulmates?”

Jee gasps so loudly Buck’s sure the neighbors hear it. “They hafta get married!” she shrieks, her hands smacking her cheeks, “Now!”

From the hallway, Chim’s muffled voice carries through the door, “What did I just say?!”

Gerald chitters irritably at the noise, batting the carrier strap. Jee gasps again, “He said yes! He wants to get married!”

Buck laughs so hard his chest shakes, which jostles Gerald again. Eddie, standing by the counter, pretends he isn’t watching, entire body tense as he fakes irritation. But Buck catches it—the look Eddie’s trying to hide — the heat in his eyes, buried under disbelief. 

Jee tugs on Buck’s arm, juice box sloshing. “Uncle Buck, you have to help them. You’re the daddy.”

And Buck—because he’s Buck, because he can’t say no to kids or raccoons or Eddie Diaz even when Eddie isn’t asking—grins wide enough to make his cheeks hurt, “You got it, flower girl.”

Jee doesn’t let it go. Not through snack time, not through coloring, not even when Buck suggests they watch a movie. Every five minutes it’s the same refrain in her tiny, syrup-sweet voice: “When’s the wedding, Uncle Buck?” Until she finally drags one of Buck’s old t-shirts out of the laundry basket, wraps it around Gerald like a gown, and declares, “See? He’s ready.”

Buck should’ve said no. He should’ve redirected, distracted, offered ice cream or cartoons. But then Gerald chittered at exactly the right moment, and Jee gasped like it was divine confirmation, and suddenly Buck was whipping out his phone.

Groupchat: the raccoon nursery (bobby, athena, hen, karen, chimney, maddie, buck, eddie, ravi)

Buck: urgent. everyone get to my place now.

Buck: ravi, bring philomena. dress her fancy.

Buck: it’s important.

Buck: you’ll see.

Hen: …why do I feel like I don’t want to see?

Karen: why do I feel like I absolutely want to see?

Eddie: you really don’t

Maddie: I’m working :(

Bobby: define “urgent.” – Bobby Nash

Chim: I just left my child with you 

Chim: and you text “urgent”

Chim: I’m already terrified

Ravi: OMG IS IT HAPPENING??!?! 🥂✨💍

Buck: yes.

Buck sets the phone down with finality, heart hammering like he just pulled the alarm on something monumental. He turns back to Jee, who’s now sprinkling Cheerios in a solemn circle on the rug. “They’re on their way,” he tells her.

“For the wedding?!”

Buck nods, grinning, “For the wedding.”

Which is how, twenty minutes later, the entire 118 and most of their extended orbit are crowded into his loft, squeezed between cardboard boxes and leftover Amazon bubble wrap, looking like they’ve walked into the punchline of a joke no one explained.

Ravi clears his throat, standing proudly behind the coffee table where Gerald and Philomena are perched like mismatched royalty, staring blankly ahead with the same glassy-eyed indifference they apply to everything from Froot Loops to life itself. He raises his hands as though he’s presiding over the Oscars.

“Ladies, gentlemen, raccoons of all ages—”

“A violation,” Hen mutters, phone angled to catch the whole room. “Wedding at a construction site, wedding in a loft, doesn’t matter. Still some kind of violation.”

“Could be a health code violation,” Karen says mildly, sipping her wine like she’s at an actual ceremony.

“—we are gathered here today in this sacred loft to witness the union of two shining souls. Gerald. Philomena. Two wanderers who once lived only for garbage cans and moonlit dumpster dives, but who found, in each other, the kind of love that makes even a pretzel taste sweeter.”

Bobby’s by the counter, hand pressed to his forehead, “We are not gathered here. This is not happening.”

“It is happening,” Jee insists, scattering more Cheerios like flower petals. “I’m the flower girl.”

She says it with the kind of certainty only a toddler can muster, her chin tipped up and tone brooking no argument. It’s Maddie’s steel wrapped in Chimney’s showmanship, pint-sized and weaponized. 

Chim watches from the kitchen, half-horrified, half-delighted, the sight of Jee as the flower girl melting his disapproval of the situation, “This is literally the collapse site all over again.”

“Now, some might say raccoons can’t get married. That it’s ridiculous. Illegal. A health code violation. But I say—” Ravi slaps a hand over his chest, “Love is love. And if my beautiful trash daughter and son-in-law want to spend the rest of their lives raiding bins side by side, who are we to stand in their way?”

“You’re not their dad,” Eddie deadpans, still in obvious disbelief that his life has turned into this.

“I stand before you not just as an officiant,” Ravi continues, undeterred, “but as a proud papa. A proud trash papa. My heart overflows as I watch Gerald take Philomena’s tiny paw in holy matracoon-mony. May they always share their Froot Loops. May they always hiss at danger together. And may they never, ever let animal control tear them apart.”

“That’s so beautiful,” Buck whispers, misty-eyed.

Ravi turns to the raccoons with solemn dignity. “Do you, Gerald, promise to love, honor, and cherish Philomena, in sickness and in rabies, for all your dumpster nights to come?”

Silence.

Gerald stares straight ahead, unmoving.

Ravi’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes widen, manic, like he’s trying to will Gerald to make a sound, any sound. Nothing.

“And do you, Philomena, promise to accept Gerald as your lawfully wedded trash king, in garbage and in glory, forever and always?”

Philomena blinks once. Slowly. And then does nothing else.

The silence stretches. The raccoons sit in perfect, motionless apathy. Ravi stands there grinning manically at them, eyes flicking back and forth like he’s begging the universe to intervene. Everyone else stares. The awkwardness swells into a living, breathing thing.

Finally, Ravi slams his hand against the table with the force of divine decree. “Then by the power vested in me by the loft of Station 118, the Rite Aid dumpster behind our building and zero real authority—I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

He throws his arms up, beaming with such blinding enthusiasm, it borders on deranged. “You may now share the pretzel!”

The raccoons do nothing. Gerald sniffs the air. Philomena scratches behind her ear.

The silence in the room stretches, the only sound bouncing through the loft being Ravi’s erratic breathing and Jee’s excited squealing. 

Hen leans toward Bobby—except her whisper carries across the entire room. “Okay, but seriously, have you ever thought about getting Ravi screened for, like… anything?”

Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose, “Every day, Hen. Every single day.”

Buck’s never been to the county courthouse before, but somehow this feels wrong. Courthouses are supposed to be solemn, marble, echoing halls. Not… fluorescent lights, broken vending machines, and linoleum that looks like it’s survived five decades of bad divorces. The waiting area smells faintly of despair and stale crackers.

And yet here they are: the 118 plus assorted spouses, clustered in the lobby like they’re tailgating a football game. Ravi’s in his “best” shirt, which is a loud Hawaiian number with pineapples on it. Chim’s already gone through half a bag of Cheetos. Hen’s got her phone out, clearly documenting the whole ordeal. Karen’s sipping her drink, waiting for the impending trainwreck. Bobby looks like he’s attending his own funeral. Maddie’s leaning against the wall, smirking in her knowing, big sister way, which is making Buck feel uneasy. 

And Eddie—Eddie’s pretending to read a “Know Your Rights” poster, shoulders tightly coiled. He hasn’t said much since Buck announced this plan, but Buck can feel the heat of his silence from across the room. It burns.

Buck tries not to fidget. He’s here to fix things. He has to. Eddie doesn’t want this marriage—not really—and Buck made it worse at the collapse site, yelling “I’d marry you right now!” loud enough to get them fake-married by a stranger. If anyone’s responsible, it’s him. So he’ll be the one to clean it up.

“Okay,” Buck says, summoning the brittle authority of a babysitter long past his shift, clapping his hands in a desperate bid to corral the children who are, unfortunately, grown ass adults, “all we have to do is go in, find the certificate, make sure it doesn’t get filed. Simple.”

“Simple?” Bobby repeats, “That’s your word for it?”

“Straightforward,” Buck tries.

Hen raises a brow. “Bordering on Illegal.”

“Romantic,” Ravi supplies, earning himself a glare from half the group.

“Why are we all even here?” Chim asks, licking Cheeto dust off his fingers.

“Emotional support,” Karen says smoothly, without missing a beat.

Maddie smirks, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Buck groans, rubbing his face, “You guys are not helping.”

And then Bobby mutters the words that break him: “The county clerk’s office is closed.”

Everyone turns.

“What?” Buck blurts, spinning toward the counter. Sure enough, there’s a sign taped to the window: OFFICE CLOSED DUE TO SYSTEM MAINTENANCE.

“Closed,” Bobby repeats grimly. “All day. No filings. No annulments. No nothing.”

The group falls into chaos.

“Well, that’s it, you’re married forever,” Chim helpfully supplies.

“Should we start planning the reception?” Hen asks.

“Colors? Flowers?” Maddie responds.

“Oh my god,” Ravi says, “raccoons on the cake topper!”

Buck feels his stomach bottom out. He stares at the CLOSED sign like it’s mocking him. “No, no, no—this can’t—Eddie doesn’t want—” He cuts himself off, but his throat feels tight. He’s messing this up all over again.

Eddie finally turns, slow and steady, “Buck,” he says, voice even, “stop.”

But Buck can’t. “I said yes. I yelled it in front of everyone. That’s why we’re in this mess. I have to fix it.”

“Fix it how?” Hen asks, clearly entertained.

Ravi perks up, eyes bright, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “We break in.”

Everyone groans at once.

“No,” Bobby says immediately.

“Yes,” Ravi argues. “We get in, grab the certificate, poof. No record, no marriage.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Ravi insists, fist-pumping. “Tell me that’s not the sexiest plan you’ve ever heard.”

“It’s illegal. It’s reckless. It’s probably impossible,” Karen smiles, “I love it.”

Maddie’s already nodding, “I honestly want to see them try.”

Hen tilts her phone, recording Buck’s face as the panic spirals, “So do I.”

Chim’s in the corner, completely lost to what’s going on.

Buck swallows hard, staring at the CLOSED sign again. He knows Ravi’s plan is insane. He knows Bobby will never allow it. But all he can think is: Eddie doesn’t want this marriage, and I’ll do anything to make it right.

And from the corner, Eddie leans back against the wall, watching him unravel, and thinks: You couldn’t be more wrong.

They all look ridiculous in a courthouse lobby, and Eddie is the only one who notices. Not the neon “SERVICE WINDOW CLOSED” sign or the plexiglass or the strip of tacky faux-marble — those hit him like background noise. What hits him like a blade is Buck. The way Buck’s hands go a little too fast when he talks, the way his smile tries to be steady and comes out as desperate. The way Buck keeps glancing at him like he’s a tether to gravity, like Eddie might say the one thing that’ll make it all better. He doesn’t say it. He never says it out loud. Not here. Not when Chim is elbow-deep in a bag of Cheetos and Hen is filming what will probably become a felony.

“Okay,” Buck says, voice too loud in the quiet of the lobby. He looks like someone from a bad spy movie. “We go in. We get the certificate. We stop it from being filed. We get back out. Nobody touches anything. We don’t break anything. We do not get arrested.”

Bobby’s face loses three shades of color. “You just described a burglary with optimistic terms and conditions.”

Ravi’s already grinning that creepy, mischievous grin that makes Eddie uneasy, “No, no, no, listen,” he says, and Eddie feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand up because that grin is always the prelude to a bad idea that will, somehow, become worse by the time he’s finished explaining it. “We scope it out. We watch the intake hours. We bring a distraction—Chim can start a fight, Hen can stand guard, Karen is the decoy...”

“Why am I in this plan?” Chim asks, mouth full.

“Because you’re intimidating,” Ravi says, “You’re the perfect cover.”

“Perfect for what, a restraining order?” Chim says.

Eddie watches Buck nod as if it’s the most reasonable suggestion in the world. He wants to shake him awake. The courthouse is closed. The clerk’s office is closed. That sign is a legally blessed ‘go fuck yourselves.’  There’s nothing to steal. But Buck can’t accept that. He never does. He hates being the cause of something that hurts somebody else, and he hates even more that he’s the one who said “I’d marry you right now” like a goddamn lunatic and let the world turn that into a headline.

Ravi keeps talking, laying out contingencies like a man composing an indie heist movie: “We slip in through the back records door—there’s a maintenance hatch behind the annex. Buck and I will be in the records room—Buck distracts with charm, I grab the certificate. Eddie, you stand at the reception and give the sad ‘we lost our dog’ look in case anyone walks by. Who could possibly question you? Bobby, you stand nearby looking stern in case Eddie’s sad eyes don’t work. When they ask, you’re enforcing order. Hen, you record the whole thing, a family home video. ‘BREAKING: 118 Performs Emergency Records Retrieval’ — a memory that lasts decades.”

“Ravi, we don’t need a distraction. The office is closed. There’s no one here.” 

“Oh, right… well that just makes it easier!”

It’s ridiculous and precise and staged with that particular Ravi logic that assumes nothing bad can happen because we all love each other too much for consequences. Eddie’s internal eye, the one that’s been trained to predict structural collapse and human behavior under stress, flips through scenarios like he’s reading a manual: clogged vents, security rounds, an actual arrest, Hen’s video of the whole event being entered into evidence at the police station. He can see the holes in the plan faster than Ravi can talk them into looking like features.

“Bobby, you don’t have to say no right now,” Buck insists. “Just—hear him out. If there’s any way to make this go away without anyone getting hurt, I want to try.”

Bobby breathes through a slow exhale, the logical part of his brain at war with the part of his brain that loves Buck like a son and wants to make him happy. “There is a way,” he says, fingers steepled. “It’s called waiting until the office reopens and filing the proper paperwork. That’s the boring, legally correct, non-felonious route.”

“Waiting” is not an action word Buck likes tonight. “We don’t have time,” Buck says. “We can’t wait. I wasn’t thinking when I—” he falters, clenching his jaw, “I just have to fix it.”

“Fix what?” Eddie asks, the words slipping out before he can stop himself. His voice comes out sharper than he meant, quieter too, which only makes the room tilt into silence around them. It’s not a challenge, not exactly, but it sounds like one. He’s not trying to hold up the mirror, not trying to show Buck the jagged reflection of what he’s really asking, but he does it anyway.

His mouth twists, stalling on borrowed seconds, and what finally emerges is arid and cutting, “What are we fixing here, Buck? That you said yes, or just the part where you made it sound a little too believable?”

Buck’s face flinches, and for a split second Eddie sees the rawness under the grin—the shame, the dread, the wishfulness like a bruise. Eddie wants to fix it. He wants to be the person who fixes it because Buck cannot do this on his own. He has always been the one to hold, to steady, to be the shore. The sight of it makes something unreasonable in him ache.

“I said yes,” Buck echoes, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s an apology or an explanation.

Ravi’s eyes light like a match. “Then we make it un-said.” He reaches into his bag like a magician and produces a diagram so specific it would be funny if it wasn’t terrifying: a timeline, a map, a list titled Personnel & Props. He has labeled roles — Distraction, Lookout, Crowd Control, Tech Support — and he’s handed out tasks like it’s a volunteer bake sale.

“You’re joking,” Bobby says flatly. “You’ve made a labeled list. Do you just carry this around in case you stumble into an opportunity to commit a crime? This is a personality disorder, Ravi.”

“Call it efficiency,” Ravi says, “Call it moxie. Call it the culmination of every cell in my body vibrating toward greatness. A destiny written in the stars.”

Eddie flinches at the word destiny because hearts aren’t destinies written in a ledger and he hates that he can feel the tug of it like a magnet. He also hates that he wants, in the quiet dark places, for destiny to have him penned into the margins beside Buck. He hates that he wants to say, break in, steal the certificate, destroy the paperwork, let me marry you for real next time, even though his head recognizes the moronic logic and his mouth shapes words of protest.

“You’re not seriously considering this?” Hen says, voice a perfect blend of incredulous and amused.

“We're not breaking into the jury’s deliberation room,” Ravi says with mock solemnity, “We’re retrieving a document. From a cabinet. At most we get a sternly worded letter. At best it’s a story. At absolute worst, you get a minor slap on the wrist and your name on a list.”

“Minor slap on the wrist,” Bobby repeats sternly, “We have careers. People rely on us. We should not be on any list.’”

Eddie wants—so bad he surprises himself—to outline the pros and cons, the legal and emotional spreadsheets. The cons are enormous and real and tedious; they sit like ballast in his chest. The pros are small and bright. They glint in Buck’s awkward, righteous insistence to fix something that only happened because Buck panicked while Eddie was terrified and then Eddie kissed him because it stopped the noise in his head for a second. He had kissed him, and he’d meant it, and now they were legally married because someone with clergy credentials and a flair for the dramatic had declared it so. Eddie is a man who knows what he wants. He also knows fear. He knows the cost of being burned. But right now his chest is too full of another kind of knowing: he knows how it felt when Buck said yes.

“If you do this,” Bobby says, lowering his voice, “we don’t tell the story as a ‘heroic rescue.’ We tell it as a ‘stupid, juvenile stunt.’ You people will be on the news for all the wrong reasons.”

Buck reaches for his hand then, quick, like a reflex, and Eddie lets him. He doesn’t like the tremor in Buck’s fingers. He hates that he wants to make the tremor vanish with something huge and stupid and illegal if it means fixing the shame. He hates how clean the logic is in the back of his skull—the selfish math that whispers: get the certificate, erase the paperwork, pretend the world never watched you fall into each other at a disaster site. Make it private again. Keep Buck from feeling the public version of humiliation. Keep him safe.

He imagines Buck sleeping tonight without having to choke down the memory of his own voice saying something that might have meant more than the man could bear to say. He imagines Buck’s chest not aching with embarrassment in front of the whole world. He imagines — unreasonably, dangerously — Buck in a house where the raccoon carrier is replaced with a little human carrier and the kid half-asleep against his sternum like proof that they made this mess into something good.

That same dangerous thought makes his spine stiffen; it should terrify him. Instead it makes him oddly, attractively clear.

“No,” he says, and it sounds like a refusal, but it’s not. He can feel the edges soften in his voice as he continues. “Don’t do something stupid because you panicked. If you want to… make it right, do it in a way that won’t put all of us under legal review. Wait. Talk to the clerk when they reopen. Fix it cleanly.”

Buck looks like he’s been branded. Ravi looks deflated for a second, then furious in a bright, ridiculous way. “You’re letting them win,” Buck says, hurt and bewildered. “You’re letting them decide what happens while we do nothing.”

Eddie wants to tell him that sometimes doing nothing is the only sane thing. But the truth is, doing nothing feels like betrayal, because Buck’s already done so much—given himself like an offering at the altar of being brave—and Eddie’s not sure he has the strength to stand with his mouth shut while Buck tries to repair a wound he opened.

“So what are you going to do?” Ravi asks, leaning in, hungry for a yes.

He lays out his hand, open, not to take Buck’s but to give him a chance to catch whatever shape this night will become. Eddie looks at Buck’s palm, small and callused and honest, and he makes a decision that surprises him by how small and enormous it is all at once. Not a vote for a break-in. Not an oath to keep things public. Instead, a third path: he’ll be with Buck while Buck tries to fix it his way. He won’t be the barrier. He won’t be the voice of reason. He’ll be the person at Buck’s side while Buck does what he thinks is right.

“I’ll help,” he says. An unwavering fact. A soft, stupid fact that feels like giving into the part of himself he’s fought for so long but has been there all the same. The part of him that would rip through heaven and earth to make Evan Buckley happy.

Buck’s grin is immediate, like sunlight through a doorway. He grabs Eddie’s hand in both of his and holds it like a promise. For a moment Eddie lets himself believe that this is all he’s wanted: to be held like an answer instead of a question.

And then reality, practical and grey, nudges the margin of their little heat: they are still considering breaking into a closed county office to take a piece of paper that certifies they’re married. The word stupid hovers over the plan like a warning light. But even the warning light doesn’t feel as loud as the small, fierce thing behind Eddie’s ribs—some combination of tenderness and reckless hunger and the private terror that maybe he’d rather be married to Buck than fight the world for a chance not to be.

He lets Ravi make the lists. He lets Hen film the whole thing. He lets Chim joke. He lets Bobby grouse. He lets Buck believe they can fix it with a plan. He lets himself be dragged, because the man at the center of it looks like he needs saving and Eddie, stubborn to the bone, wants to be the one who tries.

If this is the beginning of a bad idea on a great night, then Eddie will be the hand that holds Buck steady while they stumble through it.

And maybe, if they don’t end up in jail, he’ll find out how it feels to finally accept the one thing he’s been too scared to want.

It shouldn’t have gotten this far. That’s Eddie’s first thought as he trails the group around the side of the courthouse. Ravi is in the lead like some kind of deranged general, whispering orders and pointing at walls like he’s about to breach enemy lines instead of circling a county building with peeling paint and a busted security light. The air is damp, heavy with the smell of mildew and city trash, and Eddie’s boots scrape against the cracked asphalt in a way that feels more humiliating than tactical.

Buck crouches beside Ravi, sneakers squeaking on the damp pavement, shoulders broad and gleaming under a too-white t-shirt that catches every weak glow from the broken light above. He’s trying to look serious, but he’s laughing under his breath—nervous, jittery laughter. Eddie knows what that means. He knows it isn’t adrenaline or thrill. Buck isn’t here because Ravi dragged him into it, or because he’s desperate for chaos. He’s here because he can’t stand the thought of Eddie being trapped in something he doesn’t want, can’t stand the idea that he hurt him.

And Eddie hates it. Hates how Buck can make a felony look noble.

“Maintenance hatch should be—” Ravi whispers, crawling forward on all fours like he’s in the middle of a SEAL operation. “—right here.”

It’s a corroded side door, more rust than paint, with a padlock older than Eddie’s entire family tree. Ravi rattles it proudly like it’s a treasure chest, “See? Totally doable.”

Bobby groans, a long, drawn-out sound that could double as a death rattle. “We’re not breaking into county records.”

“We’re slipping into county records,” Ravi corrects, tugging a bobby pin out of his pocket. “Big difference.”

Hen lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh my god, you actually came prepared.”

“Of course I did.” Ravi squints at the lock, tongue sticking out in concentration, “Never underestimate the power of Girl Scout lockpicking merit badges.”

Karen hums with serene approval. “Honestly? I appreciate his level of dedication to the task at hand.”

“I’m telling the cops we were just innocent bystanders,” Chim mutters, “I’m not leaving Jee alone with either of her grandparents if you guys get me and Maddie arrested.”

“Oh, god. I hadn’t thought of that,” Maddie says, horrified.

Eddie stands back, wanting to be anywhere else—home, work, hell, with his parents, back in Afghanistan—anywhere but in an alley watching Ravi fumble with a lock for ten minutes.

But then Buck glances back at him. That look. Desperate eyebrows tilted just so, half-smile tugging at his mouth like he’s begging for reassurance without asking for it outright. You still with me? it says.

And Eddie is. God help him, he is. He’ll always be with him, even when Buck is leading him into the stupidest, most doomed-to-fail plan they’ve ever had.

The lock clicks, echoing sharply, and Hen actually chokes out a nervous laugh, “Oh, we are so getting arrested.”

“If any of you set foot past that threshold, I swear—” Bobby tries, weakly. Already knowing there’s no stopping this circus comprised of all of his semi-adopted, fully adult children. 

Ravi is already swinging the hatch open with grandiosity, bowing like he’s presenting the crown jewels. “Ladies and gentlemen, the archives of destiny.”

“More like the archives of unparalleled stupidity,” Eddie mumbles.

And Buck—of course Buck—ducks inside first, head nearly clipping the low frame. He pauses only long enough to look back, whispering, “Come on, Eds.”

And Eddie follows. Because of course he does.

The inside smells like old paper and dust, the dense air clings to his throat. They shuffle down a narrow hallway, the light overhead buzzing like it’s about to give out. Ravi’s leading, Buck close behind him, and the rest of the circus trailing in a loose, muttering clump. Eddie keeps his steps careful, ears tuned to the sound of Buck’s sneakers squeaking against the tile.

“Records room should be this way,” Ravi whispers, like anyone cares about volume now.

“Should be?” Bobby repeats.

“Okay, is this way.” Ravi points dramatically at a door with a crooked sign that reads AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Hen lifts her phone to get a good shot of it for the ‘family home movie’, “Ooooh. Scandalous.”

Buck turns the handle. It’s unlocked. He looks back, eyes wide, like fate just opened the door for him. Eddie bites back the urge to grab him by the collar and drag him out.

The records room is worse than Eddie expected—rows of cabinets, papers stacked on counters, an ancient printer humming to itself like it’s possessed. Ravi claps his hands together, rubbing them like a cartoon villain. “Alright, Operation Divorce Before Marriage starts now.” 

Buck’s scanning every cabinet, frantic, running his hands over drawers as if he’ll know the right one by instinct. Ravi pulls out a folded piece of paper—another diagram (of a room that is definitely not the one they’re in currently), arrows pointing to “file cabinets,” “possible shredder,” “exit route (dramatic).”

“You know this is evidence, right?” Hen says, still filming like Ravi told her to.

“It’s also art,” Ravi counters.

Bobby leans against the wall, muttering a prayer. “Lord, grant me the serenity to stop Ravi, the courage to ignore Buck, and the wisdom to disown them both.”

And Eddie stands there, still watching Buck throw himself into chaos like his life depends on it. Watching the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw works, the way his fingers tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. Eddie knows this is insane. He knows it’s stupid, reckless, pointless. He knows it’s everything they shouldn’t be doing.

But he also knows he’ll stand here all night if it keeps Buck from breaking under the weight of his own guilt. He’ll take the risk, play the fool, trail after Ravi’s nonsense, because Buck wants this fixed. Because Buck thinks he needs to fix it for Eddie.

And Eddie—traitorous, selfish Eddie—doesn’t even care if it never gets fixed.

Ravi’s halfway through reading labels on a filing cabinet (“Ooooh, 2017 marriage licenses, juicy”) when the overhead lights flicker, buzz, and then an ugly red light clicks on in the corner.

Eddie’s stomach drops. The silent alarm.

“Uh oh,” Chim says, “That feels bad.”

“Feels like a felony, that’s what it feels like.”

Buck spins around, face pale. “It’s fine. We’re fine. Nobody’s coming—”

The heavy clunk of boots in the hall cuts him off. Radios crackle. A voice calls out, firm and professional: “LAPD. Whoever’s in there, hands where I can see them.”

The group goes dead quiet. Ravi’s still holding Philomena’s Dorito-stained diagram like it’s a notarized certificate of their innocence rather than a damning record of their complicity. Bobby, meanwhile, has acquired the hollow-eyed expression of a man fast-forwarding into his seventies, each year etching deeper into his face. And Buck—Buck’s hands hover halfway up, like he can’t quite commit to surrender but doesn’t want to get shot either.

And then Athena strides through the doorway, a flashlight beam sweeping the room, uniform crisp, badge glinting under the harsh light. She takes one look at the entire lineup—her husband, his crew, his surrogate son, his surrogate son’s situationship, and Ravi—standing in the middle of a government records room like deer in headlights.

Her face does something extraordinary: it doesn’t change. Not one muscle. Just that long, flat, I’ve had enough of this family’s shit stare.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says. “Y’all tripped the silent alarm at county records?”

Bobby clears his throat, trying for dignity he doesn’t have. “Athena—”

“Don’t ‘Athena’ me,” she snaps, already reaching for her radio. “Control, this is 727-L-30. I’ve got the suspects in custody.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. 

Buck looks two seconds from fainting. His hands twitch toward Eddie like he’s begging silently for backup. Eddie doesn’t move. He just watches, heart hammering, as Athena sweeps the flashlight back and forth. It lands on Buck and stays there.

“And you,” she says, tone bordering on dangerous, “Why do I already know this was your idea?”

Buck opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Just a squeak, then: “It wasn’t—it was Ravi’s plan.”

“Hey!” Ravi says, offended. “Shared custody of responsibility!”

Chim mutters, frozen, “We’re all dead men.”

Athena sighs, long and slow, and Eddie swears he can feel the temperature of the room drop. “All of you. Out. Now. Before I decide to actually run you in.”

They shuffle out like schoolkids caught smoking in the bathroom. 

Buck stays close to Eddie, shoulder brushing his as they step into the hallway. His voice is desperate. “I just wanted to fix it, Eds.”

Eddie looks at him, at the wide scared eyes, at the tremor in his hands. And what he doesn’t say, what he’ll never say out loud in a courthouse hallway under Athena’s glare, is: I don’t want you to fix it. I want it to stay.

The journey down the courthouse hallway feels longer than any deployment Eddie’s ever served. Athena marches them like prisoners to a firing squad, heels clicking, flashlight still in hand even though the fluorescent lights hum overhead. Nobody talks. Nobody even breathes too loud. Buck keeps brushing against his arm, shoulders knocking, and Eddie wants to shake him and hold him all at once.

Outside, the air feels sharp, like the night itself is waiting to see how bad they’ve screwed this up. Athena wheels around and points at the lineup—Hen, Chim, Karen, Maddie, Ravi, Bobby, Buck, and Eddie himself—like she’s running roll call for the world’s most humiliating perp line.

“Alright,” she says, her voice carrying that lethal calm Eddie’s seen make grown men fold. “Which one of you geniuses wants to explain why I just got called to a silent alarm and found half the 118 in county records like raccoons in a trash can?”

“Hey,” Buck blurts before anyone else can speak, “that’s offensive to Gerald.”

Eddie closes his eyes. God, kill me now.

Athena’s stare zeroes in on Buck, sharp enough to pin him to the courthouse wall, “You. Start talking.”

Buck swallows so hard Eddie can hear it, “I—uh—it was supposed to be simple. We just… needed to make sure a piece of paper didn’t get filed.”

“Paperwork.”

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Buck insists, words tripping over themselves, hands fluttering in front of him like he can build a shield out of air.

“Oh no,” Hen mutters, “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

Athena turns her gaze on Bobby. “And you let this happen?”

Bobby looks like he’s weighing whether to tell the truth or if it’s worth the risk to try running away. “In my defense,” he says finally, “I did say no.”

“And yet here you are,” Athena snaps.

“In my defense,” Bobby repeats, quieter this time, “nobody listens to me.”

Ravi pipes up, as if he could help this situation and not make it one hundred times worse, “It wasn’t a break-in, technically. More of a… love heist.”

Athena’s head tips back as she mutters something to the sky, “A love heist,” she repeats flatly.

“Exactly!” Ravi says, “Victimless crime. Except maybe Gerald and Philomena if their parents go to jail—”

“Ravi,” Eddie cuts in, channeling his ‘dad voice’ to finally shut him up.

Athena’s attention swings to him. Eddie meets her gaze without flinching, because if he lets himself look away she’ll see too much. She’ll see the fact that he doesn’t even care if the marriage stands. That he’d let the paperwork rot into permanence if it meant Buck stopped looking at him like he was a problem to be solved.

“You?” Athena says, voice softer now, scarier for it. “Diaz, of all people? You’re supposed to be the sane one.”

“I tried,” Eddie lies smoothly, “Didn’t stick.”

Athena studies him like she’s picking apart every excuse, every muscle twitch. Then she sighs, mutters something under her breath about men and idiots, and straightens up. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re all going home. You’re going to forget you ever set foot in this building tonight. And if I so much as hear a whisper about another harebrained scheme to tamper with county records, I will personally book you into holding myself. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they all mutter, a pathetic chorus.

Ravi still raises his hand. “Question: hypothetically, if we did succeed, would that technically make me a criminal mastermind?”

Athena doesn’t even answer. She just fixes him with a look so sharp Eddie’s amazed it doesn’t cut him down where he stands. Ravi lowers his hand immediately.

Athena turns back to the group. “Go home. Sleep. And Buck—”

“Yeah?”

Her expression softens just a hair, like she’s remembering that beneath all this mess, he’s hers too, “Stop trying so hard to fix what isn’t broken.”

Buck swallows, nods quickly, eyes flicking instinctively to Eddie. And Eddie, traitor that he is, feels it like a direct hit: the truth sitting between them, waiting for someone to say it out loud.

Athena holsters her flashlight. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

It starts like everything with Buck: casual, unthinking, chaos that Eddie should have predicted from a mile away.

They’ve barely been home an hour, Athena’s glare still burned into Eddie’s skull, and Buck’s on the couch with Gerald asleep next to him. The loft is dim, quiet, almost normal. Except Buck is fiddling with the ring. The ring. The one Eddie picked up from rubble, the one that trapped him in a proposal in front of a hundred people.

“Don’t,” Eddie warns automatically from the kitchen.

Buck grins, taking that as a dare, “What? Just trying it on for the bit.”

“It’s not a bit.” Eddie’s voice comes out sharper than intended, the truth he’s been trying to hide bleeding through the cracks.

But Buck’s already sliding the ring down his finger, holding it up to the light. “Look at that. Married man. Evan Buckley-Diaz.”

Eddie’s chest seizes. His mind supplies pictures he doesn’t ask for: Buck like this but softer, Buck with his last name, a baby napping with Buck instead of Gerald, the ring not as a joke but because it was real. Buck holding Chris at six, seven, ten years old. Buck with their kid—their kid—drowsy and safe against his chest.

It makes Eddie want to throw him down and make it true. Over and over until there’s no question of ownership, no undoing what already feels written.

Buck twists the ring, frowning, “Huh. Kinda snug.”

“Buck.”

He tugs harder as his knuckle whitens. The ring doesn’t budge. “Okay, um. It’s stuck.”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m serious, Eds. It’s—” Buck yanks, wincing. “Nope. Not moving.”

Eddie crosses the room without thinking, crouches in front of him, grabs his hand. Buck’s skin is warm, pulse frantic under Eddie’s fingers. He tries twisting, easing the band off, but Buck’s finger is already swelling.

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie mutters.

“An idiot you married,” Buck shoots back, voice shaky.

The words catch him off guard, hot and unfair. His grip tightens, “Accidentally.”

“Still counts,” Buck says, smug despite his panic.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, to deny, to push this back into the box. But then Buck says cheerfully, “Good thing I’ve got a ring cutter.”

“You what?”

Buck wriggles his hand free, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back holding it: small, silver, sharp, gleaming in the low light. Of course Buck would think it’s the most normal thing in the world to keep one in with your spatulas and serving spoons.

“Why the hell do you have that?” Eddie gawks.

Buck shrugs, grin spreading, eyes a little too bright, “Cockrings.”

The bottom drops out of Eddie’s stomach. Heat flashes so fast it makes him dizzy, “What?”

“You know. Safety precaution,” Buck says, casual, like they’re talking about jumper cables, “In case one gets stuck.”

Eddie’s throat works uselessly. He can’t decide if he wants to laugh, strangle him, or drag him down onto the couch and take him apart. This is my husband, his brain supplies unhelpfully. My husband who owns a cockring cutter. My husband who would look so good with an actual ring on his finger. And a ring on his—nevermind. 

My husband that I want to fuck into the mattress right now.

Buck sits back down, lays the cutter against the band with way too much practiced ease, and looks up through his lashes, “Should only take a second.”

The cutter snips clean through, the ring clinking to the coffee table. Buck exhales dramatically, as if he just survived major surgery.

“There,” he says, “Saved my marriage.”

“Saved your finger,” Eddie snaps, but it comes out thin.

Buck flashes that grin, reckless and unguarded, and Eddie’s restraint unravels. He grabs Buck’s wrist, yanks him forward, kisses him hard enough their teeth knock.

Buck gasps, startled, then melts like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, years of tension still breaking open, weeks of want flooding in around them. His hands fist in Eddie’s shirt, dragging him down, breathless against his mouth.

Eddie growls, pushes him flat onto the couch, straddling his thighs. Buck’s laughing into the kiss, “Careful—your son’s watching.”

“He’s your son,” Eddie mutters, biting Buck’s jaw, sucking until he tastes blood in his teeth.

“Yeah?” Buck pants, arching up, grinding into him. “That make us co-parents?”

The word hits Eddie like a punch. Co-parents. Husband. Father. He rocks down harder, swallowing Buck’s groan, his own head buzzing with images he can’t shut off—Buck with Chris, Buck with a baby, Buck flushed and undone exactly like this under him.

“You’re insane,” Eddie hisses, ripping at Buck’s shirt, baring his chest. “Talking about cockrings while you’re stuck in my ring—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Buck smirks up at him, lips swollen, “You love it.”

Eddie shoves two fingers into his mouth without warning, “Shut up.”

Buck moans obscenely, sucking them down, and Eddie nearly loses it. Heat flares in his gut, sharp and filthy. He yanks his fingers free, drags them down to Buck’s waistband, and Buck arches into it, frantic with want.

“Thought you were gonna fix things,” Eddie mutters, palming him through the fabric.

Buck’s head knocks back against the couch, voice cracking, “Fix me, then.”

Eddie isn’t soft. Eddie doesn’t really know how to do soft. It’s teeth and tongue and too much time spent wanting and longing and lying about how they feel crammed into one brutal collision. Buck groans into it, arching up, hands flying to Eddie’s shoulders to gain purchase.

Eddie growls, his breath fanning over Buck’s lips, “Do you even know what you do to me?”

Buck laughs against his mouth, “Guessing it’s not ‘make you calm and rational.’”

Eddie bites at his jaw, eliciting a gasp, “Smartass.” His hand drags down Buck’s chest, feeling the frantic rise and fall, the hammering heart beneath his palm. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect. You know that?”

Buck falters, eyes wide, like no one’s ever told him that before. Eddie feels something crack in his chest, too big, too treacherous, but he can’t stop. He peppers kisses down Buck’s throat, murmuring against hot skin, “Perfect. Gorgeous. Mine.”

Buck moans and tips his head back, throat bared, offering himself up. Eddie licks down the column of it, sucking bruises into the skin he’s claimed a thousand times in his dreams but never in reality. Never where anyone could see. Buck’s hips jerk under him, already hard and pressing against Eddie’s thigh.

“You feel that?” Eddie breathes, rolling his hips down, grinding against him until Buck gasps. “All for me.”

“Yeah,” Buck pants, clutching at his shirt. “Always for you. Only you.”

Eddie curses, ripping at his belt, fumbling Buck’s jeans down with rough hands. Buck helps, desperate for more, shoving the denim to his knees, and kicking his sneakers half-off in the chaos. Eddie’s palm drags over the outline of Buck’s cock through thin briefs, watching as his face twists, lips parting and eyes fluttering at the simple touch.

“You’re so good for me,” Eddie mutters, keeping his touch light and teasing, dragging a groan out of Buck, “So fucking good. Look at you.”

Buck whines, pushing into his hand. “More. Please, baby—fuck, I need more.”

The pet name nearly undoes him. Eddie yanks the briefs down, Buck’s cock springing free, hot and heavy in his hand. He strokes once, twice, savoring the way Buck writhes under him, breath coming in sharp bursts.

“God,” Eddie whispers, almost to himself, “So desperate for it. You’re so beautiful, mi amor.”

Buck groans, grabbing at his wrist, “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

Eddie smirks, leaning down and kissing him again while stroking faster, keeping the pressure light enough to keep him right on the edge. Buck’s a mess beneath him, clutching and gasping, until Eddie pulls his hand away.

“No,” Buck begs, shaking his head, eyes wild. “Don’t—”

Eddie shoves his fingers into his mouth, silencing him, “No more talking. Let me take care of you.”

Buck moans around them, sucking eagerly, making Eddie dizzy with need. Eddie pulls his fingers free, and shoves his jeans down enough to free himself. Using the spit already coating his fingers and palm, he strokes over himself roughly, then lines up, pressing just at Buck’s entrance. If he has to wait another minute he might explode right here. 

“This okay?” Eddie rasps, voice breaking.

Buck nods frantically, clutching at his shoulders. “Yes. God, yes, please.”

Eddie pushes slow, steady, watching Buck’s face twist, watching his mouth fall open on a broken gasp. He slides in inch by inch, groaning at the heat, the tightness, until he bottoms out and has to brace both hands on Buck’s hips to stop himself from losing control.

“Christ,” Eddie mutters, forehead pressed to Buck’s, “You feel incredible.”

Buck whimpers, shaking under him, nails digging into his back. “C’mon, Eds. Move.”

Eddie groans, pulling back, thrusting in again, harder this time. Buck cries out, clutching him tighter, legs wrapping around his waist. Eddie sets a brutal and relentless rhythm, every snap of his hips a confession he can’t voice out loud. You’re mine. I love you. You’re everything.

Buck babbles praise in between gasps, begging for more, telling Eddie he needs him, and Eddie feels himself unravel with every word. He can feel the shift, can feel how different it is this time compared to the dozens of times before. The fear of his revelation sits heavy in his chest, but something else is there too, something hopeful and new.

He presses kisses to Buck’s face, his temple, his mouth, whispering against his skin, “Good boy. Taking me so well. So fucking perfect for me.”

And when Buck breaks apart under him, loud and wrecked, Eddie follows right after, spilling with a groan that shakes his bones. He stays buried deep, clinging for as long as he can, forehead pressed to Buck’s as they both shake through it.

Eddie braces over him, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto Buck’s flushed face. Buck is smiling like an idiot, practically glowing, sweat damp curls sticking to his forehead, and Eddie feels his heart collapse under the weight of it.

For one second, Eddie thinks—what if this was real? What if he was really mine? Husband. Father. Home.

And then Buck kisses him again, softer this time, and Eddie wonders if he already is all of those things.

Eddie wakes to the sound of chewing. Wet, determined chewing. He blinks blearily, disoriented, body sore in ways that make him feel almost proud. Buck’s heavy arm is slung over his chest, his face buried against Eddie’s shoulder, still dead asleep and somehow smiling.

The chewing gets louder.

Eddie tilts his head toward the noise—and locks eyes with Gerald.

The raccoon is perched on the coffee table, halfway inside an empty cereal box, his ringed tail flicking and hitting Eddie in the nose every other time. 

Eddie groans, “And what the fuck are you looking at?”

Gerald chitters, victorious, emerging with a single Froot Loop clamped in his tiny paws. He stares Eddie down like he’s about to give him the shovel talk.

They hold eye contact for way too long before Eddie whispers sternly, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll—”

Buck shifts against him, mumbling into his skin, “’S he hungry?”

“You’re seriously defending him while he’s completely disregarding our privacy?” Eddie looks down at him, incredulous. 

Buck cracks one eye open, still half-asleep, grinning dopily, “That’s our boy.”

Eddie wants to argue, really does. Instead, he watches as Gerald carefully dunks the Froot Loop into Buck’s abandoned glass of water, swirls it around, and slurps it up like a tiny raccoon sommelier.

Buck chuckles, presses a kiss to Eddie’s chest without thinking, “See? A little genius.”

“I’m in hell.”

From the table, Gerald chitters again—loudly.

“He agrees,” Buck whispers.

Josh Russo isn’t worried. He’s annoyed. Which is different. Worry implies he doesn’t already know exactly what’s happening. Annoyance, however, is what happens when he knows his phone should’ve exploded with ten different Buckley-brand disasters by now, and instead? Radio silence.

He stirs honey into his tea, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. Two grown men, zero functioning brain cells between them. If they’re not dead in a ditch, they’re probably… I don’t know. Getting arrested. In an insane asylum. Something stupid.”

The kettle clicks off. He carries his mug to the couch, sets it down and opens his phone.

And stops.

Because front and center on his feed, trending, is a TikTok captioned: “Did these LA firefighters just get married at work?? #Buddie #118 #husbands.”

Josh stares at the thumbnail—Buck grinning like he’s just won the lottery, Eddie looking like someone just pulled the pin on his grenade. Against his better judgment, he taps.

The video plays: Eddie on one knee, diamond ring in hand, dust haloed around him like some kind of doomed saint. The crowd gasping, Ravi screaming in the background. And then—Buck, arms flung wide, face lit up and showing way more than he thinks it is.

“Yes! A thousand times yes! I wish I didn’t have to wait—if it were up to me, I’d marry you right now!”

The clip freeze-frames right there, Buck mid-yell, joy incarnate. The caption hovers: #Buddie #collapseproposal.

Josh blinks once. Twice. Rewinds, just to be sure he isn’t hallucinating. No, still there. Eddie proposing. Buck saying yes like they’re in some god awful romcom. The internet is eating it up.

Slowly, deliberately, Josh sets his tea down.

“It hasn’t even been a week since Eddie’s gay meltdown,” he says to no one.

His phone buzzes again—notifications piling up, a friend tagging him with “don’t you know him??”

What the fuck is happening?? And why does he kind of feel left out?

Groupchat: 118 & spouses & mistakes (Athena, Bobby, Hen, Karen, Chim, Maddie, Buck, Eddie, Ravi)

Ravi: 🚨BREAKING🚨 buddie confirmed married x2??

Ravi: first at the collapse site 💍

Ravi: then at the courthouse when we tried to commit light treason 🏛️

Ravi: and NOW Gerald & Philomena tied the knot 👰🤵🦝

Hen: you’re not supposed to admit to treason in writing

Athena: “light treason” is not a legal term, Ravi. It’s just treason.

Bobby: You guys broke into a courthouse. You tripped the silent alarm. You got me in trouble with my wife. - Bobby Nash

Buck: ok, to be fair, that was mostly Ravi’s idea

Ravi: 😇

Karen: …so you’re triple married now?

Maddie: [📸 Jee throwing Cheerios over Gerald and Philomena]

Maddie: someone explain why my daughter was asked to be flower girl at a raccoon wedding

Chim: character development

Hen: Gerald and Philomena are gonna need to file their marriage certificate now, btw.

Buck: working on it ✍️🦝💍

Eddie: no you’re not

Buck: [📸 photo of Gerald perched on the coffee table, eating Froot Loops out of a cereal bowl. In the background, Eddie is walking past the kitchen shirtless, sweatpants slung low, glaring at him.]

Ravi: oh HELLO shirtless Diaz 👀🔥

Ravi: bless this angle. bless Gerald. Let's pass a motion that says Eddie isn’t allowed to wear shirts anymore.

Eddie: Ravi.

Athena: I can’t believe this is an actual group chat I’m actively a part of

Karen: I can. This feels right.

Bobby: Buck, stop posting evidence. - Bobby Nash

Buck: evidence of what?? Gerald’s thriving breakfast routine?? 🍽️🦝

Hen: evidence of the eightpack, Buck.

Chim: imagine explaining to Chris that his dad’s nickname is Eightpack.

Eddie: please don’t do that

Ravi: whatever you say, Eightpack

Ravi: care to explain why you’re shirtless at Buckley’s loft at five thirty in the morning? 👀

Groupchat: The Intervention Squad (Josh, Buck, Eddie)

Josh: alright, we need to talk about The Thing™

Eddie: …The Thing?

Buck: 👀

Josh: don’t play dumb, Buckley. I saw the video. Everyone saw the video. you two getting “accidentally” married in front of an audience and making out like horny teenagers.

Buck: that was so three days ago, josh 🙄

Buck: we’ve moved on since then

Josh: moved on TO WHAT??

[📸 Buck sends a photo of Gerald and Philomena in tiny outfits, standing on the coffee table with cheerios scattered around them like flower petals. Jee’s plastic tiara is perched on Gerald’s head.]

Josh: …is that a fucking raccoon wedding??

Eddie: Buck.

Buck: what?? it was beautiful 

Josh: did you just rename the chat??

Groupchat renamed: Honeymoon Planning Committee 💍🦝

Eddie: I’m leaving.

Josh: if you leave I’ll just add you back.

Buck: same 😇

Eddie: I hate you both

Buck: love you too, Eightpack 

Josh: …Eightpack?

Buck: oh no.

Groupchat: Dad² + Chris (Buck, Eddie, Chris)

Chris: [TikTok link: “Two raccoons get MARRIED???”]

Chris: …are you serious right now??

Buck: ok but in our defense it was Jee’s idea 

Eddie: don’t drag a three year old into this.

Chris: you’re telling me my little cousin was the flower girl at a wedding for raccoons??

Buck: …she looked adorable tho 🌸🦝

Eddie: Buck.

Chris: so let me get this straight.

Buck: I think you mean gay

Eddie: oh my god

Chris: 🙄

Chris: first you two “accidentally” got married at work.

Chris: and now I have step-raccoons??

Buck: technically you have raccoon siblings 🤔

Buck: also you’re forgetting about when we broke into a courthouse.

Eddie: why are you telling him this??

Chris: I’m blocking you.

Buck: again?? rude 😭

Eddie: …the raccoons are not your siblings.

Chris: Dad. You and Buck are married. 

Chris: Buck has a raccoon son. 

Chris: you let this happen.

Eddie: I didn’t LET anything happen.

Buck: lies. he cried during the ceremony 

Chris: you caved when he gave you the puppy dog eyes didn’t you

Eddie: …no.

Chris: oh my god. I can’t believe you guys.

Buck: you’ll understand when you meet Gerald.

Chris: I don’t want to meet Gerald.

Buck: too late he already can’t wait to meet his big brother 🦝❤️

Chris: I wish I had normal parents

Eddie: join the club

Buck: same 

Chapter Text

The first time it happens, Buck doesn’t even register it as something to worry about. It feels harmless — which definitely should’ve been a red flag. 

It’s just another Saturday that already feels married — Eddie’s hands steady on the grocery cart, the sleeves of his henley cutting tight under his biceps, the tendons in his wrists shifting as he turns down an aisle. He’s methodical in the way he moves, like efficiency itself is an act of faith. Buck trails behind him, holding two boxes of cereal and pretending to compare labels, though mostly he’s watching the stretch of Eddie’s shirt across his shoulders. 

It’s unfair, really — how a simple henley can make him forget what he was about to say, or do, or what timezone he’s in.

They’re mid-argument — Buck making a very compelling argument that sugar is an important part of a balanced breakfast — when two college aged girls walk past them, slowing their cart in a silent, creepy drive-by. Buck catches the eye of one of the girls as she hesitates, stepping closer with her phone clutched in her hand. 

“Sorry to bother you—uh, is this you guys?”

She turns the screen and like the recurring nightmare where he shows up naked to work, there it is again: the damn proposal-turned-marriage-montage. Buck laughs to be polite and to hopefully move this interaction along, “Yeah,” he says, “that’s us. Weird day.”

Buck flicks his eyes to Eddie, who kind of looks like he’s caught somewhere between holding in a sneeze and undergoing a minor exorcism. The smile he’s wearing could technically be considered polite if you ignored the eye twitch and the visible regret radiating off him. It’s less a smile and more a desperate plea to be removed from this plane of existence.

Supposedly catching Eddie's distress, the second girl rushes to help, “You can tell you love each other just by how you look at him.”

That lands squarely in Buck’s sternum and starts a small, bright fire. 

Eddie’s hand tightens on the cart handle — there’s no visible change, a ‘blink and you’d miss it’ situation — Buck’s sure he would’ve missed it too, if he hadn’t built a career out of watching every tiny, insignificant thing Eddie does.

Buck says something unserious to float them out of it, “He just looks at everyone like that. It’s disarming.”

Eddie exhales harshly, somewhere between gratitude and for the love of God stop talking. Buck can’t help but notice the way Eddie flinched when the girl said ‘love’, the way he looked down at the floor like the word itself burned.

They pay, they leave, it should be nothing.

It is nothing.

It’s not nothing.

The second time there’s an oxygen mask and the sanctity of work between them, and still the world reaches in. 

Buck crouches beside a woman with a split lip and trembling hands, gloves creaking as he adjusts the oxygen mask over her face, and she narrows her eyes like she’s aligning a memory with a face. 

“Wait,” she says, lifting the plastic to say whatever must be more important than her health and well-being, “aren’t you the firefighter from that video?” 

Buck starts the usual evasive maneuver because no way is he dredging this up again, “Pretty sure that guy was way better looking.”

Too late. She’s already craning her neck to look past him, catching Eddie in the background wiping sweat off his hairline, looking way too devastating for an already hopeless situation.

“It is you!” she announces with a joy that would be flattering if Buck weren’t measuring her rapidly increasing pulse, “The married ones!” 

Heads snap toward them to investigate the shrieking, quickly becoming a scene, and somewhere behind Buck’s left shoulder Bobby says, very calmly — a calm that Buck recognizes all too well and has learned to be afraid of — “Buck. Wrap it up.” 

Buck does. He keeps his voice soft, his hands sure, he finishes the assessment and says all the right sentences, but inside he’s watching Eddie’s face across the lawn—not quite embarrassed, not quite afraid, a precise, practiced withdrawal—and it makes something old scrape the inside of Buck’s ribs, the familiar feeling of distance, invisible but absolute.

They are out with the 118 two nights later, because routine is a religion and they’re nothing if not devout.

The bar is loud enough to hide in, sticky with other people’s bad choices, and mercifully anonymous — for the first forty minutes. Then a table of men who are drunk enough to be friendly and stupid enough to be bold, recognize them. 

“Hey! It’s the husbands!” one of them declares, stumbling over with two of his friends.

The laughter is mostly good-natured until it isn’t. One guy leans too far into Eddie’s half of the booth, a hand on his shoulder that presumes old friendship but carries a suggestive undertone; another smirks at Buck.

“Didn’t peg you for the type, man. But hey, if I had one that looked like that—” the guy makes an obvious show of dragging his eyes over Eddie and Buck is two seconds from knocking his fucking teeth in “— maybe later you let us all take a turn,” the guy adds with a wink.

The laugh that follows is what breaks him —  boisterous, rage-inducing, vile. Like what he just said was alright. Too certain that Buck will join in. That Eddie’s a thing to be passed around.

‘Yeah man, got myself a nice piece of ass here, you should see how he looks when he’s beggin’ for it,’ who the fuck do these guys think they are?

Buck tells himself he is going to handle this diplomatically, and then the hand on Eddie tightens, an effort to look friendly, but has Buck’s vision turning red. 

Why isn’t Eddie saying something? he thinks, why is he letting them talk to him like that?

He tells himself nothing good will come from fighting three drunk guys in Eddie’s honor. But he can see the hand dragging up to grip Eddie’s jaw, and Eddie sinking lower in his seat, and he speaks before he can stop himself. 

“Hey,” he says, ripping the hand away, “don’t fucking touch him.”

The guy rears back, offended by the concept of consequences, “Relax, hero. ‘S a compliment.” 

Hen and Chimney stand up to intervene, materializing between bodies with ease, as Bobby mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘that’s enough, boys’. Ravi, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, sips placidly and says, “This is why the Greeks invented smiting. Fuckin’ assholes.” 

“Ravi,” Bobby warns.

“What? Smiting seems efficient.”

By the time the men retreat muttering half-apologies, everyone sits back around the table and the tension is so thick it’s suffocating. The others try to slip back into casual conversation as Buck rests a soft hand on Eddie’s arm, “Eddie, are you—”

“It’s fine, Buck. No harm done.”

On the drive back to Eddie’s, the silence is polite to the point of cruelty, nothing like the warm familiarity they’ve spent years building. Buck tries to make the words form in a way that will not sound like accusation or apology, which is difficult because he feels both. Every time he has reached for the problem—joked it down, brushed it off—Eddie has said the same sentence with increasing precision: I’m fine.

“I’m fine,” Eddie keeps insisting, and Buck keeps hearing the opposite, and in the gap between those two frequencies lives the worst idea Buck has had in months: maybe the kindest thing he can do is give Eddie an out. A way back to friendship so they can rebuild, not to what it used to be, but at least to something close.

He thinks about the courthouse, he thinks about the ring, he thinks: annulment. He thinks: Proper, simple, merciful. No more excuses. He thinks: bring him the pen, make it easy, be the version of yourself that lets him breathe. He thinks, with a sting that starts in his throat and migrates south, maybe if I stop being a reason he has to be brave in public, he’ll keep me in private.

He thinks, he thinks, he thinks.

“Hey,” Buck starts, pulling up to the curb, willing his voice not to sound like a man offering a parachute to someone who hasn’t asked to jump, “about the—” Eddie is already unbuckling, a carefully constructed calm in his tone, “It’s fine,” he says, the fourth iteration, quiet enough to be kind and sharp enough to be final. “I’m fine.” 

He opens the door, and Buck is left with those two words echoing ruthlessly. He watches Eddie walk up the path, shoulders a line of tension, and wants to believe that people who say “I’m fine” are sometimes telling the truth. He sits there one more minute, hands slack on the wheel, and tells the dashboard, “Sure,” because lying to himself is the only language he’s fluent in.

In the rearview mirror, he sees the face of a man that has realized being known by strangers is nowhere near as terrifying as being misread by the person you love.

He laughs once, humorless and small, because of course he is about to google annulment while eating leftover granola that is definitely dessert with a health halo, and of course tomorrow he will pretend it was just a long night, and of course when he tells Ravi he needs a quiet morning Ravi will text back fourteen question marks and a link to a new toy he bought Philomena, and of course—all of it, always of course—he will walk right back into the fire that is Eddie Diaz if there’s even a small chance he can survive it.

Eddie checks the driveway once, then twice, then a third time out of pure paranoia because he’s learned from experience that Buckley-based disasters often materialize from thin air, like biblical plagues but louder, with the ability to strip Eddie of all functionality. Case in point: the ladder incident that led to him waking up naked next to a fat raccoon named Gerald after fucking his best friend.

The coast appears clear — no Jeep, no six foot two hazard leaning on the hood waiting to ruin Eddie in every way possible — so he gets out of his truck and marches up the walkway, ringing the bell three times for good measure.

Chim answers the door mid-sip of his morning coffee, already wearing the exhausted neutrality of someone who has lived through several Diaz-related incidents.

“Morning,” Eddie says, all tense politeness. 

“It’s eleven-thirty.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, “Morning. You busy?”

“Always,” Chim grumbles, stepping aside, “but somehow never enough to stop you people from showing up.” 

Eddie hesitates in the doorway, scanning for signs of civilian occupancy. The living room is empty, except for a pile of toddler toys and a chocolate bar balanced precariously on the edge of the couch.

“She’s not here?” he asks.

Chim gestures at the void where his wife should be. “Correct. Your—” he pauses, doing mental math, “—your husband showed up this morning and commandeered my wife. Said he needed a ‘neutral, emotionally stable third party’ and absconded with my spouse. So whatever you did, congratulations.”

Eddie groans. “Great.”

“Yeah,” Chim says dryly. “Whatever apology or emotional autopsy you’re here for, make it quick before she calls to say they’ve joined a support group for people married to idiots.”

Eddie sighs, sinking into a dining chair, “I screwed up, Chim.”

“Define ‘screwed up,’ because the bar has been subterranean lately.”

“The other night—Buck tried to talk and I—” He says miserably, “I brushed him off. Totally shut him down. He probably thinks I’m mad or ashamed or that I regret everything.”

Chim hums, “And do you?”

“No! God, no.” Eddie insists. “That’s the problem. Everyone assumes I’m uncomfortable with the attention, but that’s not it. Yeah, strangers recording us in supermarkets is—objectively—a waking nightmare. And the guys at the bar? That was… not ideal.”

“Not ideal?”

“They were harassing us!”

“Thank you, Eddie. I was worried you’d developed amnesia.”

Eddie exhales, dragging a hand down his face, “It’s not the attention. Not really. The reason I get tense when people recognize us is because every single time, I have to physically stop myself from saying, yes, we’re married, actually, and I’d do it again right now in front of all of you, God, and probably the Pope if Buck even looked mildly enthusiastic about it.”

Chim’s mouth gapes slightly. “Please tell me you didn’t say that out loud to him.”

“Not yet,” Eddie admits. “But it was close. It’s like… a compulsion. Every time he smiles, I lose higher brain function. He says something stupid and I want to kiss him until it stops.”

“Jesus Christ, Diaz.”

“I mean, have you seen him lately? He’s all—” Eddie gestures vaguely in the air, apparently trying to mime “Buck” as a concept. “He’s just—everything. I look at him and I want to like bite his bicep—”

Chim holds up a hand. “Please—stop, don’t continue. My daughter still sleeps in this house.”

“He thinks I want to end it. He thinks I’m embarrassed. He’s probably planning to pull the plug to ‘set me free’ or whatever self-sacrificial thing he does when he’s spiraling. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how to act normal enough to get us back to just friends and sex before he—”

Chim cuts him off, “So you want to convince the man you accidentally married that you don’t love him by acting less weird around him, even though you just said you can’t look at him without wanting to lick his muscles?”

“Please don’t say that out loud,” Eddie groans.

“Too late,” Chim sighs, reclining in his chair, “You said it first. You’re trying to unring the world’s loudest bell, man.”

“I just need a plan,” Eddie mutters. “Something that makes him feel comfortable again.”

“Have you considered communication?”

“Be serious.”

Before Chim can respond, a new voice joins the conversation, cheerful and deeply alarming, “I think I can help with that.”

Both men spin around to meet Ravi standing in the doorway to the kitchen holding a juice box.

“Ravi,” Chim hisses, “What the actual hell. How long have you been in my house?”

Ravi sips his juice calmly. “I came over after shift.”

“That was hours ago.”

“Yeah. You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“Right, and you said you were heading out!”

“I said probably heading out,” Ravi corrects. “‘Probably’ implies potential departure, not guaranteed. English is full of nuance. I was watching TikToks on your back patio. There’s this guy who restores antique swords—fascinating stuff.”

Chimney looks physically ill, “You—were on my patio—for three hours.”

“Four. Long enough to question your landscaping choices—you know… you take a concerning amount of time in the bathroom,” Ravi says. “Anyways—focus. You said Buck thinks you want to end things, right? I have a plan.”

“Oh God,” Eddie whispers.

“A public spectacle breakup,” Ravi announces proudly. “Big crowd, lots of witnesses. Ideally multiple camera angles. We fake the end of your marriage in front of a crowd. Massive, dramatic, cathartic. The internet will believe you’ve split, they’ll move on, and you’ll both get your privacy back. It’s foolproof.”

Eddie just stares. “You want me to fake-break up with him in public?”

Ravi nods, energized. “Exactly! Somewhere crowded. A mall, a zoo—maybe not a zoo, too many opportunities for violence—Oh! Maybe a theme park. There’ll be perimeter checks, earpieces, I’ll recruit extras. Eddie will deliver the breakup lines, Buck will storm off, cue the fake tears—”

“Fake tears?” Eddie repeats weakly.

“Real emotion, fake scenario. Very The Bachelor: Emergency Services Edition," Ravi nods solemnly.

Chim rubs his temples. “I’m too old for this shit.”

“I’m thinking a slow-motion exit, maybe a prop drink throw. And we get the full cast involved. Bobby as the disapproving patriarch, Hen as the emotional anchor, Chim as the comedic relief. I’ll be on comms. Maybe a flash mob?” Ravi continues, pacing now. “We’ll storyboard it.”

“I’m in hell,” Eddie groans.

Chim sighs, “We’re all in hell.”

Ravi points a finger skyward. “But it’s organized hell. With choreography.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Eddie mutters, questioning why he decided to humor Ravi in the first place.

“Out of my mind and out of apple juice,” Ravi says, turning toward the fridge just as Jee toddles out of her room while rubbing her eyes, her hair sticking up chaotically.

“Daddy, can I have apple juice too?”

Chim gestures at Ravi. “Ask your Uncle Ravi. Apparently he lives here now.”

Ravi crouches to Jee’s level with an overly serious nod, handing her a juice box. “She’s developing excellent judgment,” he says to no one. “She knows who to approach for results.”

Eddie looks between them—one exhausted father, one overeager gremlin—and mutters, “I need new friends.”

“Yeah, well, you’re married into this now. No takebacks.”

Ravi claps his hands together, startling everyone. “Excellent. I’ll start the group chat. ‘Operation Mutual Destruction.’ Hen’s gonna love this.”

Jee takes a sip of her juice, squints up at Ravi, and declares, “You’re loud.”

“We know, tiny Maddie,” Ravi replies, “You get used to it.”

Buck’s feet drag against the carpet as he follows Maddie into the dispatch center. She said they were just dropping off lunch, which sounded simple enough, but he should’ve known he was walking into an ambush when she asked, “You can carry the food, right?” as if the weight of his own stupid mistakes is too much, and adding anything else — metaphorical or literal — will cripple him completely. 

The second he spots Josh sitting at the table looking aggressively judgemental, Buck realizes this is not a social visit.

“Maddie,” Buck starts, already suspicious. 

Josh looks up with a smile that already has Buck clocking the nearest exit, “Oh, good, if it isn’t Mr. Diaz himself.”

Maddie sits, reaching out to take Buck’s hand, “Buck, we’re worried about you.”

“Uh—” he blinks, “because I’m married?”

Josh snorts, “Accidentally married,” he corrects, “Which doesn’t exactly come as a shock. It’s very on-brand for you.”

Buck groans and drops into the chair across from them, shoving the takeout bag onto the table, “Okay, yes, fine, I messed up. But in my defense, I was confused, it was really loud, and it all happened so fast.”

Josh nods. “Adorable. A full-grown man with the decision making skills of a startled labrador.”

Buck slumps back, defeated. “I just— I didn’t think it’d blow up like this. People film us on calls, Hen keeps calling us ‘Mr. and Mr.,’ and Eddie—” He stops himself, just Eddie’s name alone striking a match too close to his heart. “Eddie’s weird about it.”

“Weird how?” Maddie asks.

“Weird like… avoiding eye contact and over-articulating his sentences so he doesn’t accidentally say something emotional,” Buck says, gesturing helplessly. “You know, Eddie weird.”

Josh raises a brow, “So you’re both repressing and spiraling simultaneously. Fantastic.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Buck waves a hand, “I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m gonna fix it.”

“By doing what?” 

He hesitates, “Annulling it.”

Josh braces his hands on the table, “You’re going to annul your marriage.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Your marriage to Eddie Diaz.”

Buck frowns, “You say that like it’s insane.”

“Because it is insane,” Josh says. “You’re married to your best friend, who you’ve been in love with for, what, a decade? And your grand plan is ‘un-marry him quietly and hope he doesn’t notice?’”

Maddie presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “Do you even know how to file for an annulment?”

“Yes!” Buck lies. “No. But I can learn.”

Josh gestures broadly. “Why not just talk to him? Tell him how you feel? Have one adult conversation?”

“Because!” Buck says, a little too loud, hands flailing. “Because if I tell him how I feel, he’ll realize I’m a lunatic! He’ll run! I’ll lose him entirely! This way, if I annul it, I at least get to keep being his—” He stops, searching for a word that doesn’t sound pathetic. “—his coworker.”

“His coworker,” Josh repeats flatly. “You’re shooting for platonic proximity now? That’s the plan?”

Buck’s voice drops, “I’ll take what I can get.”

There’s a beat of silence where Maddie’s face softens. Josh looks like he wants to be annoyed but can’t quite get there.

“Buck,” Maddie says gently, “maybe the problem isn’t the marriage. Maybe the problem is you pretending you don’t want it.”

He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Yeah, that’s definitely part of the problem.”

Josh exaggerates a sigh and gets up, “Alright, fine.”

“What are you doing?” Buck prods.

“Getting the annulment paperwork. If you’re going to catastrophize, you might as well have the proper documentation.”

“Josh, don’t—”

“Oh, no, I insist.” He emphasizes, clicking print, “You can’t just emotionally self-destruct in the abstract, Buckley. You need a form.”

Josh collects the pages, straightens them, and drops them on the table in front of Buck dramatically. “There,” he says. “Official path to self-sabotage. You can fill that out, hand it to the county clerk, and symbolically detonate your own love life at your earliest convenience.”

Maddie folds her hands. “Or,” she says pointedly, “you can talk to him like a person.”

Buck stares at the papers. The black-and-white lettering looks clinical, impersonal — nothing like the warm, messy reality of Eddie. Buckley-Diaz. The name itself looks wrong on the form, like bureaucracy trying to impersonate something divine.

He imagines Eddie signing it, neat and resigned, and something deep in his chest aches so sharply it borders on physical pain.

He clears his throat, “Yeah. Adult conversation. That’s… probably the best thing.”

Josh looks delighted, “Oh, thank God, a moment of clarity.”

Buck nods once, firmly, then adds, “I just need to find a good time. A neutral setting. Maybe after shift.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m planning!” Buck insists. “I’m strategizing!”

“You’re catastrophizing with extra steps.”

Buck sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll do it, okay? I’ll talk to him. I’ll end it. We’ll go back to normal.”

The sentence feels like gravel in his throat. Normal. As if he could ever want that again.

Josh leans back, satisfied, crossing his arms. “Good. Finally, a plan that doesn’t involve spontaneous combustion or public nudity.”

“Yet,” Buck mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Maddie reaches across the table, squeezing his hand. “You’ll figure it out, Buck.”

He nods, but his stomach feels like lead. I don’t want to figure it out, he thinks. I just want to stop pretending this isn’t the best mistake I’ve ever made.

Buck has barely made it out of the car before the dread sets in.

It’s the kind that starts in the chest and travels outward, like static, or a prophecy. He’s still trying to convince himself this is fine — he’s not going to have an emotional aneurysm in his sister’s living room. Sure, Josh printed him annulment paperwork and told him to “sign here, cry later,” but at least no one yelled. Maddie was gentle. Lunch was edible. That’s practically a win.

He’s mid–self-delusion when Maddie grabs her bag from the back seat and says, “You’re quiet. That’s never a good sign.”

“I’m thinking,” Buck mutters, which earns him a look of deep suspicion.

“Last time you said that, you bought a motorcycle.”

“That was years ago,” he argues.

“Buck, you named it.”

“Okay, I’m not having this conversation again.”

“Great,” she says dryly, walking up the path. “Just… try not to have an existential crisis before we get inside, alright?”

He’s about to tell her he already had one around the time Josh asked if he’d ever heard of emotional regulation, when they reach the porch. Maddie unlocks the door — and both of them freeze.

There’s noise. Not TV noise. Not Jee playing noise. No, more bordering on frat house mixer or meltdown at a daycare noise.

Ravi’s voice carries through the walls. “No, no, no, the confetti cannons go after the tears!”

Chimney’s voice follows, “We’re not using confetti cannons, Ravi.”

“You’re suppressing the art form.”

Eddie’s voice, sharp and strained: “No one’s using confetti cannons. Or fake crying. Or anything you’ve said in the last thirty minutes.”

Jee’s voice, tiny but confident: “I like the cannons.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Ravi replies warmly. “Visionaries stick together.”

Buck blinks. “Is that… Eddie?”

Maddie frowns. “And Chim?”

He nods slowly. “And Ravi.”

They exchange a look and Maddie whispers, “Do we… go in?”

Buck hesitates. “They sound busy.”

“Busy doing what, hosting a coup?”

Before he can answer, Eddie’s voice cuts through the din again, exasperated beyond reason.

“Ravi, this is not Mission: Impossible, it’s my marriage!”

That does it. Buck’s feet move before his brain catches up. He pushes open the door and steps into the living room.

And the scene that follows — well it has Buck questioning if he needs a psych evaluation.

There’s a whiteboard on the coffee table labeled OPERATION MUTUAL DESTRUCTION  covered in arrows, hearts, and a doodle that looks suspiciously like Buck crying. Juice boxes are everywhere. Jee’s wearing a tiara and holding a whistle.

Buck and Maddie just stand there.

No one notices them for a solid ten seconds — long enough for Ravi to say, “We can still do it at the zoo, but I’ll need to account for animal interference,” and for Chim to mutter, “I should’ve joined the Coast Guard.”

“Please tell me,” Buck says slowly, “this isn’t a pyramid scheme.”

All heads swivel toward them.

There are four very different reactions to their arrival. Ravi beams, Chimney looks relieved, Eddie’s face goes through all five stages of grief in real time, and Jee waves her whistle, smiling.

“Uncle Buck!” she chirps. “You’re late for the meeting!”

“Oh?” Buck manages, “For what?”

Maddie blinks. “Why is my child dressed like a sparkly referee?”

“She’s in charge of morale,” Ravi says proudly.

“She’s three.”

“Prodigy.”

Chimney exhales, “Oh. Good. You’re here.”

“Perfect timing!” Ravi yells, “We were just in the planning phase.”

“The planning phase of what?” Buck asks, looking between them.

There’s an awful, synchronized pause. Then Chim says, “Team-building.”

Eddie adds, “Training exercise.”

Ravi, unbothered, says, “Propaganda management.”

“No, Ravi,” Chim glares.

“Okay, I’m sorry—training for what, exactly? Why are there post-its? Why does your child have a code name?” Buck presses.

Eddie stammers, “We—uh—were brainstorming… crisis response?”

Maddie looks at the ceiling, “In my living room?”

“The acoustics are good,” Chim says automatically, dead behind the eyes.

Ravi nods sagely. “And the snacks.”

Buck sets the takeout bag down slowly. “So, let me get this straight. You, Eddie, and Ravi decided to conduct a departmental training seminar in my sister’s house—with a toddler as your commanding officer?”

Eddie, wide-eyed, says, “Technically, yes?”

Jee lifts her juice box in solidarity. “We’re doing a mission!”

Ravi grins at her. “Operation Spectacle, Lieutenant. Stay hydrated.”

“What kind of operation are we talking about?”

“Nothing big,” Eddie says quickly, way too quickly. “Just—uh—routine PR stuff.”

“PR,” Buck repeats. “Public relations.”

“Exactly.”

“For the fire department.”

“Sure.”

“With sticky notes and juice boxes.”

“Very community-focused,” Ravi says.

Maddie squints. “Eddie, why are you sweating?”

“Cardio,” Eddie says without hesitation.

Chim groans into his hands. “This is exhausting. Can we just—”

“No,” Buck says, “someone explain before I start guessing.”

“Please don’t,” Chim warns.

Too late. “Is this about the grocery store thing? Or the woman at the accident? Oh God, is this a damage-control think tank? Are you guys doing marriage PR?”

Maddie’s head snaps toward him. “Marriage what?”

Eddie goes pale. “No! It’s not that!”

Ravi cheerfully states, “It’s exactly that.”

“Ravi,” Chim hisses.

“What? It’s true!”

With nowhere left to run, Chim mutters, “They’re planning a fake breakup.”

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“Not planning,” Eddie says quickly. “Discussing. Against my will.”

“Brainstorming,” Ravi corrects. “Team effort.”

Chim gestures with his clipboard. “A public fake breakup, apparently. To have more privacy. Which is the most ridiculous riddle I’ve ever heard.”

There’s silence. Deep, echoing silence. Jee takes a loud sip through her straw.

Ravi points to the post-its. “Public. Spectacle. Breakup. We fake the divorce, make it big, make it dramatic. Somewhere crowded — the pier, the mall, Disneyland if we’re feeling bold. Cameras rolling, tears optional (but not really). Everyone sees you split, the internet moves on, the pressure’s off. It’s elegant.”

“Ravi, that’s deranged,” Maddie says bluntly.

“Thank you,” Ravi agrees, genuinely pleased.

Eddie drags a hand through his hair, whispering, “I told him it was stupid.”

“I prefer ‘bold,’” Ravi says.

“So you’ve all just been here—planning this?”

“More like surviving it,” Chim says.

“I need a drink,” Maddie mutters.

Jee pipes up, “Apple juice?”

“Stronger,” Maddie says.

Ravi claps his hands. “Anyway! The zoo’s out, but I think a farmer’s market could work. Strong crowd presence, plenty of witnesses—”

“Ravi,” Eddie warns.

“—and Buck could storm off dramatically through the flower section, symbolism!”

“Ravi,” Eddie repeats, louder.

Ravi beams. “What? I’m a creative!”

“Why are you like this?” Chim asks.

“It’s genetic,” Ravi says. “My parents met at an escape room.”

“It’s temporary,” Eddie says quietly, his eyes finding Buck’s for the first time. “Just to make it all die down.”

Buck stares at him, trying to read between the cracks. Temporary. Not over. His brain, against all odds, interprets this as hope. Ravi’s plan means I don’t have to end it completely, he thinks, pulse fluttering somewhere stupid. Ravi’s plan is insane, but insane might be better than gone.

He knows that’s not rational — this is Ravi, not a therapist, not a priest, not a professional — but he’s too busy clinging to the idea that this doesn’t have to be the end. That maybe a fake breakup means he still gets to be Eddie’s husband, even just on paper, even just for now.

“Alright! Assignments. Chim’s logistics, I’m operations, Eddie’s our emotional anchor, Buck—you’ll be lead actor. Maddie, wardrobe and press statements,” Ravi announces.

“No one is doing this,” Maddie exclaims.

Ravi blinks innocently. “It’s already on the whiteboard.”

Jee tugs on Ravi’s sleeve. “Can I help?”

“You already are,” Ravi tells her solemnly. “You’re morale support.”

Buck, still staring at Eddie, feels a painful warmth crawl into his chest — saying you’re doomed, but at least it’s mutual.

Ravi’s plan is unhinged, he thinks, but if it means I don’t have to watch Eddie sign annulment papers, maybe unhinged is exactly my level.

Ravi throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, grinning. “Welcome to the mission, gentlemen. And lady. And smaller lady. Operation: Public Meltdown is officially in motion.”

Everyone in the room looks like they’ve been thrown through a woodchipper. Wrung out, stressed out, and completely done with Ravi’s bullshit.

Eddie’s gaze finds him again from across the room, and Buck, idiot that he is, just smiles — because for now, at least, they’re still married.

This is insane. But they’re in it together.

And maybe, he thinks, that’s the best kind of stupid love there is.

Unknown Number: do you want to form

Unknown Number: an alliance

Unknown Number: with me

Josh: and who the fuck might you be

Unknown Number: it’s Ravi!

Unknown Number: (sent with confetti)

Josh: oh

Josh: absolutely i do

Ravi: good, good

Ravi: excellent

Ravi: okay

Chapter Text

Josh Russo has seen some things. 

No, not in a poetic, soul-crushing, trauma bond kind of way — more in the why is humanity still allowed outside unsupervised kind of way. The kind of things that include people who took the warning “don’t try this at home” as a dare.

A call that ended with a hamster up some guy's ass (the hamster’s fine; emotionally scarred, but fine). 

A man hiding in his closet from an intruder who turned out to be his Roomba under a hoodie. 

A noise complaint about ‘suspicious screaming’ that was actually two goats giving birth behind a fence (sister wives <3).

Someone who called to report a “squirrel fight” (nature, apparently, needed a referee).

A man who called 911 to complain that his burrito was ‘too emotional’ (still unsolved; still haunts him).

A woman who thought she was being haunted—turned out her Alexa was just nagging her to stay hydrated. 

Two separate calls from a couple demanding a tiebreaker vote over which Game of Thrones character name to give their baby (Josh liked ‘Cersei’ the best, which apparently, was the wrong answer).

And, of course, the man who proposed in the middle of an active rescue. (Still lookin’ at you, Diaz).

But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared him for sitting in a white, windowless van behind the Santa Monica Pier, watching Ravi Panikkar lay out surveillance gear with the manic zeal of a man staging a government coup in the name of true love.

The faint smell of funnel cakes is wafting in from the carnival and Josh is genuinely wondering what kind of head trauma Ravi suffered as a child to end up here, leading this dumpster fire.

Hen is backed into the back corner of the van, nursing a Diet Coke and wearing the expression of someone calculating just how much of her pension she’d be willing to give up to disappear into the sea. Karen is insisting on filming the entire thing on her phone for “insurance purposes,” which only makes him more nervous. Chimney seems to be stress-eating a paper tray of curly fries. 

And Ravi—dear, doomed Ravi—is in a tactical vest he bought from what he assures them is a “very reputable cosplay supplier,” complete with a headset, sunglasses, and in his words, “heroic purpose.”

“Welcome,” Ravi says, spinning towards them, “to Operation Mutual Destruction: Phase Four—Duck and Cover.”

“Duck and Cover?”

“Because they’re starting at the duck pond,” Ravi explains.

“What happened to Phases One through Three?” Karen frowns.

Josh stares, “You named the plans.”

“Of course I named the plans,” Ravi says, “Structure builds trust.”

“Not luring people into a creepy white van builds trust too,” Hen mutters.

Outside, on the grainy feed of Ravi’s “spy camera” (a clip-on camera Ravi keeps calling “state-of-the-art”), Buck and Eddie stand near the carnival entrance. Buck looks uneasy — his hands twitching slightly as his eyes dart toward the water every so often — likely a compulsion Buck is unaware of, but his body finds comforting. Josh remembers the story, the pier, the tsunami. Five years later, and trauma doesn’t follow a calendar—Josh knows that day was one of the worst of Buck’s life. 

Eddie’s watching him quietly—sure to steady Buck without making it obvious. It’d almost be touching if they weren’t, technically, here to fake a public breakup.

Ravi fiddles with switches on his control board that clearly don’t do anything, “Comms check. Buck, Eddie — do you copy?”

Eddie’s voice comes through tinny but exasperated all the same, “Ravi, these are children’s walkie-talkies. There’s a Barbie sticker on mine.”

“That’s a negative, Diaz. Maintain radio silence. Phase One can commence — Operation Duck Duck Go.”

The duck pond is ‘Plan A,’ “It’s about emotional distancing through theatrical conflict,” Ravi had said, and Josh still doesn’t know what that means but has accepted that comprehension died somewhere around “surveillance van.”

The concept: Buck and Eddie stage a polite disagreement over something harmless — a prize, maybe, or who gets to drive home (which is unrealistic when these idiots are so far gone for each other that not even a lawsuit, a sexuality crisis, an accidental marriage or co-parenting children — raccoon or otherwise — can make them give up on whatever this trainwreck is). 

The disagreement needs to end with something that says, we’re still friends, but it’s over, instead of, we need couples therapy and/or matching lobotomies.

In theory? It’s foolproof.

In practice? Buck’s holding a plastic fishing rod over a pool of bobbing yellow ducks while a toddler explains the rules to him. 

Josh watches through the feed and can’t help but think the toddler holds more authority than Ravi ever has, yet here he is, with six other grown adults running the world’s dumbest covert op to fake-divorce two men who have been accidentally legally married for weeks and emotionally married for years.

Eddie stands at his side, stiff as rebar—Chimney’s sworn nemesis—trying to look laid-back while hissing through his teeth, “This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”

“Disagree,” Buck says, keeping his eyes on the pond, “Top five, maybe.”

Through the grainy feed of the camera unceremoniously clipped to both their shirts, the plan unfolds in real time. The instructions had been specific—go to the duck pond, stage a mild domestic dispute that does not lead to a police intervention, stay within camera range, and keep the walkie-talkie buttons pressed so the van can monitor their “progress.”

Josh had questioned the need for walkie-talkies at all—especially given the earpieces Ravi had all but jammed into everyone’s ears—only to learn the cosplay store’s models were one-way. So, after a quick detour to the dollar store and a brief argument over color preference, both men ended up with brand-new children’s walkies clipped to their belts: Buck with Spider-Man, Eddie with Barbie.

Their banter plays out too easily—so natural it stops sounding like performance. Eddie’s scowling, Buck’s looks dangerously close to laughing, and the crowd around the booth has started watching. Someone whispers, “Oh my God, they’re even cuter in person.”

“This was supposed to look like a breakup,” Josh sighs.

Chim snorts. “Yeah, and Titanic was supposed to be a pleasure cruise.”

Buck hooks a duck, flips it over, and beams. “Blue star. I win.”

Eddie crosses his arms. “You cheated.”

“It’s literally random chance.”

Ravi’s voice buzzes in their ears. “Remember: light conflict, visible tension, no smiles. You’re communicating narrative drift.”

“Eddie’s communicating the urge to strangle him,” Chim says.

“Okay,” Buck says under his breath, “we should probably start fake-fighting before this turns into firefighter fan hour.”

But it’s already too late. The woman running the booth—a middle-aged saint in a sequined visor—leans over and declares, “You two are adorable. First prize for the newlyweds.”

Before either of them can object, she plucks a giant stuffed duck from the display and thrusts it into Eddie’s hands. The crowd around the booth cheers. A kid in a Spider-Man hoodie yells, “Kiss for the camera!”

Eddie blinks down at the toy, then at Buck. “We’re not—” He stops, sighs, and pastes on a smile that’s 90% resignation, 10% dying inside. “Thank you.”

Buck’s ears have gone pink. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The woman waves them off proudly, already telling another customer about “the firefighter husbands who stopped by.”

“Well,” Chim announces, “that didn’t look like a breakup.”

“No, that looked like a hallmark special,” Karen adds. 

Ravi slams his clipboard shut, “Okay. Minor misfire. Plan B.”

The pier feels smaller than he remembers. The smell of fried sugar and saltwater hits him in the same breath, and his chest tightens before his brain even catches up. He tells himself it’s nothing—just nostalgia and nerves. He’s been here hundreds of times since that day, there’s no reason for the flash of dark water swallowing everything he cares about to be pounding through his skull. I’m fine, he tells himself. It’s been five years. Don’t be such a baby, Buckley. 

Eddie’s beside him, face enveloped in the warm carnival lights and making Buck’s pulse spike, pretending this whole thing isn’t ridiculous. If Buck closes his eyes and ignores reality, he can almost pretend they’re on a real date. That the giant stuffed duck is a prize he won to impress Eddie, and not a byproduct of his catastrophic decision-making.

The fantasy shatters as Ravi’s voice hums in his ear through the earpiece he’s one sharp movement away from crushing. “Okay, gentlemen. Plan Blanket Thief at the Ferris Wheel. Elevated setting, less chance of civilian interference—minimal risk of concussion. We’re going to show polite separation through spatial symbolism.”

“Spatial symbolism,” Buck mumbles, “Oh, I’m thrilled.”

Eddie gives him a side-long glance, “Remind me why we didn’t stop after Plan A?”

“Because Ravi is intent on killing us both.”

They line up for the Ferris wheel, blending into the crowd that smells like popcorn and sunscreen. Buck keeps his eyes on the boards under his shoes, the wooden planks dark with salt spray, the ocean humming somewhere beneath them. The wheel creaks overhead, a nightmare he’s had too many times coming to life. His throat tightens against the familiar panic clawing its way up.

“You good?” Eddie asks softly, already tuned to the frequency of all things Buck.

“Yeah,” Buck lies, because he’s fine, because it’s just a ride, because it’s easier than explaining the phantom weight of a child’s hand in his own.

“Remember,” Ravi interrupts cheerfully, “you’re not here to enjoy yourselves. You’re here to represent dignified dissolution. Keep it civil—but with bite.”

“Great pep talk,” Buck says sarcastically.

The climb into the gondola feels like a horror movie montage—white paint chipping with age, a bench seat that feels a little too narrow to be safe, a small door that rattles when it closes, off-kilter just enough so the attendant has to jiggle it into place. None of this helps Buck’s rapidly rising blood pressure.

The ground slips away at an eerie pace, the carnival musical below thinning to a faint shimmer. Buck tries to calm his breathing, counting slowly in his head. He isn’t sure why his mind picked tonight to panic over something that happened all those years ago. He thinks maybe because that day irrevocably altered his life, and that tonight—this stupid, ridiculous, asinine notion that he wants anything other than to be tied to Eddie Diaz for the rest of his life, it might just do the same. 

Or, ya know, grief and trauma aren’t linear and you can experience them at any moment—blah, blah, blah, whatever his therapist would say. 

Eddie watches the ocean.

Buck watches Eddie. 

The world tilts, clicking back into place—back where it’s always belonged. A world where Eddie exists, and Buck is doomed to love him for it.

Buck doesn’t mean to stare but he does anyway—at the way the wind lifts Eddie’s hair; the curve of his jaw catching the light. The higher they climb, the tighter Buck’s grip gets on the bar, the blurrier the line gets between fear and awe. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s falling—if it’s because of the height, the past, or the future—though he’s not quite sure what the future looks like right now.

“Don’t look down,” Eddie teases.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You’re as white as the Ferris wheel.”

“I’m just—really selling the tension.”

The gondola rocks slightly when the wheel pauses to load passengers, the motion and his already rising anxiety making the tremble in his fingers noticeable. Eddie leans forward instinctively, a steadying hand brushing against Buck’s forearm. “Hey. Look at me.”

For a second, staring into those hazy brown eyes, the rest of the pier disappears—the noise, the cameras, Ravi’s mission, all of it. In this moment there’s just Eddie, as steady as he’s always been, with the one voice that’s enough to drown everything else out. 

Buck misses this, he thinks. Misses the easy closeness they’d forfeited in pursuit of mutual pleasure—mutual greed. Misses the way he never used to question his place in Eddie’s life, it was just there, always open for him to sink into like a warm bed on a cold winter’s night. Misses the casual touches without worry of them being misunderstood. How it all used to feel as easy as breathing. 

He misses his best friend. 

But that was then, and this is now. Now is fixing everything they broke in the name of wanting too much. Eddie wants fun. Eddie doesn’t want labels. Eddie doesn’t want pressure to be someone he isn’t. Eddie wants what he wants and Buck wants him to be happy. Which means he’ll see this through, even if it kills him. And the sting of pain radiating close to his heart tells him it just might.

The wheel lurches back into motion and Buck exhales a shaky breath. “See? Totally fine.”

Eddie tries to smother a smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Before Buck can respond, Ravi’s voice bursts in, brimming with manic purpose. “Alright! Time to introduce the prop! The shared comfort object now becomes contested emotional territory.”

Eddie frowns. “The what?”

“The blanket,” Buck says, pulling it from the bag at his feet. It’s hideous—bright yellow with cartoon ducks, soft from too many washes, probably chosen by Ravi specifically to haunt them.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just play along.”

Buck drapes it over their knees, which feels absurdly domestic in light of the situation, and immediately feels something in his chest twist. Ravi narrates, “Now, subtle conflict! One of you reclaims the blanket. The other resists. Viewers interpret detachment.”

“Viewers?” Eddie hisses.

“I think he means the crowd,” Buck says, tugging one corner half-heartedly.

Eddie tugs back. “Stop smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Buck bites down on a laugh, the noise pressing against the back of his teeth. The blanket slips between them, cartoon ducks grinning up at the night sky, and suddenly he doesn’t remember whose side was supposed to symbolize what. He just knows the sound of Eddie breathing beside him and the way it fills the small space between them and that he’s never wanted to sabotage a plan he helped come up with more than in this moment.

The blanket catches on the safety bar as the gondola rocks again. Eddie grabs it to keep it from flying out as Buck grabs it too, and for one ridiculous second they’re wrestling a piece of polyester eighty feet in the air, both too stubborn to give in.

Then the inevitable—Eddie loses his grip. The blanket flutters free, a bright yellow streak spiraling toward the crowd below.

Gasps and cheers sound from below, for what, Buck isn’t sure. He hears a voice yell, “They’re doing a stunt!” As if they’re show ponies jumping through hoops.

“Oh, for—” Eddie leans over the side, squinting down. “It’s in the ocean.”

Ravi’s voice spikes. “No, no, no! The symbol of unity cannot drown!”

“Too late,” Buck says.

The wheel keeps turning, slow and implacable, carrying them back down to the pier. Buck exhales, letting the noise wash over him—the music and laughter rising to meet them. “Well,” he says, “I think we nailed the ‘detachment’ part.”

Eddie shakes his head, a reluctant grin breaking through. “Ravi’s going to call it an artistic loss.”

In the van, Buck can just barely hear Hen’s amused voice through the comms: “That also didn’t look like a breakup.”

“Looked like foreplay,” Chim muses.

Ravi frantically scribbles notes and mutters, “Okay. A slight hiccup. Plan C. Recalibrating optics. We move to the Hall of Mirrors.”

“Ravi, stop talking like James Bond,” Josh groans.

Buck leans back against the seat, head tipping toward the sky, a laugh catching between exhaustion and disbelief. “I don’t think mirrors are the answer.”

Eddie hums, still watching him. “When has that ever stopped him?”

The wheel jolts to a stop, the latch clattering open as Ravi’s voice is already shouting new orders. Buck climbs out, thinking not for the first time this week—he could survive anything. Tsunamis, Murphy’s Law, even this.

As long as Eddie’s next to him.

Even if it’s just as a friend.

Ravi Panikkar does not fail.

He adapts.

He innovates.

He recalibrates the damn optics.

Failure is for people without vision, without tactical precision, without the emotional fortitude to stage-manage the world’s first successful public un-marriage simulation.

So yes, maybe Plans A and B had “hiccups.” Maybe the crowd at the duck pond demanded a kiss. Maybe the blanket of symbolic emotional estrangement is currently floating face-down somewhere in the Pacific, its cartoon ducks ascending to Valhalla. That’s fine. 

“No plan survives first contact with the enemy.” – Helmuth von Moltke the Elder.

Besides, he’s already mapped out contingencies through Phase Six. And while Hen keeps muttering about her “life insurance not covering whatever this is,” Ravi knows true genius is rarely appreciated in its time.

“Okay, team,” he says, slapping the side of the van for emphasis. “We pivot. Phase Six: codename Mirrorball, is now active.”

“Why are we skipping Phase Five?” Josh asks without looking up from his tablet.

“Because Phase Five involved a hot-air balloon,” Ravi says. “Budget constraints.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“You people need hobbies,” Karen murmurs.

Through the monitor—his masterpiece of low-budget surveillance tech (a cluster of keychain cameras zip-tied to a churro stand)—Buck and Eddie come into view, moving toward the Hall of Mirrors. They’re still talking, their shoulders brushing, shy grins slipping through the cracks of whatever emotional armor they think they’re wearing. Not ideal for narrative tension, but excellent for amping up the chemistry.

“Gentlemen,” Ravi says into the mic, channeling a commanding presence. “You’re entering symbolic territory. The Hall represents reflection and distortion—the lies we tell ourselves about who we are versus who we could be.”

There’s a long pause before Eddie speaks up.

“You got that off a motivational poster, didn’t you?”

“Focus, Diaz,” Ravi snaps. “We’re establishing a visual metaphor.”

Hen rolls her eyes, “I can’t believe I left my house for this.”

Inside, the feed shifts as Buck and Eddie enter the maze. The camera angle wobbles—the mirrors scatter the signal into a kaleidoscope of identical idiots. Ravi watches as Buck’s reflection splinters into ten versions of him at once, every one of them looking a little tense—a tad too constipated for his liking—but still beautifully vulnerable.

It’s art, Ravi thinks. Pure cinema.

“Okay,” he instructs. “You’ll move separately but in parallel. Mirror each other’s movements—subtextual representation of codependency unraveling.”

“Subtextual what now?” Buck asks.

“We’re not codependent,” Eddie scoffs.

“Just walk!”

Eddie’s reflection flickers into view beside Buck’s—both of them caught between light and glass, the air thick with carnival music bleeding through thin walls.

For a second, Ravi forgets to breathe.

Because damn it, it’s working. The lighting. The tension. The yearning. If he could get this edited with a sad Taylor Swift track, it’d go viral by morning.

Then—predictably, where these fuckers are involved—everything goes to hell.

A child runs into frame, little sticky fingers slapping a mirror—Buck startles, turns abruptly, and suddenly there are fifteen Eddies behind him. Eddie rounds a corner and walks straight into a reflective panel with a hollow thunk.

“Okay,” Ravi mutters, adjusting the focus, “less concussion, more metaphor.”

“You realize this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever made us do, right?” Chim questions.

Ravi doesn’t look away. “Correction: the most ambitious.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be in front of witnesses? The mirror maze is one of the most secluded places here, Ravi.”

“That’s beside the point,” Ravi exclaims.

“What do you mean—it’s exactly the point!”

On-screen, Eddie and Buck finally find each other again, face-to-face—or reflection-to-reflection, technically—close enough that Ravi has to look away or start narrating his own emotional breakdown. Because damn it, this is male vulnerability at its most visually stunning.

Ravi, you magnificent bastard, he thinks. You’ve done it. You’ve shattered gender roles and reinvented modern masculinity. Outstanding work, Panikkar.

Eddie says something Ravi can’t hear. Buck laughs softly, the sound bleeding faintly through the mic. Then Eddie’s hand reaches up, brushing against the mirror, almost—but not quite—touching Buck’s. A masterpiece unfolding, longing interrupted by a single sheet of merciless reflection. Ravi could cry… he still might.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. They’re flirting in a reflective death trap meant to entertain small children.”

“I’m gonna need to save this for their wedding montage,” Karen whispers solemnly.

Josh just mutters, “I hate that I care.”

Then the mirror shifts—Buck leans forward—and for a split second it looks like they’re finally, finally going to kiss.

Ravi holds his breath. This is it. The perfect arc. Conflict, reflection, reunion—Ravi is realizing, in this moment, he’s completely lost the plot. He’s been mesmerized by the homoerotic tension. He needs to get things back on track.

Ravi Panikkar does not fail!

Which, of course, is when one of the mirrors chooses to fall to the floor.

It doesn’t just tip—it drops, shattering in a chorus of gasps. 

Both men jump back as the glass cascades across the filthy floor. The sound of security guards rushing over echoes faintly through the earpiece.

This is the moment.

The moment where Ravi could admit defeat, admit failure, admit that maybe—just maybe—he’s in over his head.

But he’s Ravi fucking Panikkar. He doesn’t crumble. He doesn’t fold. He’s nothing if not fiercely loyal to the cause.

“Do not go gentle into that good night.” – Dylan Thomas.

He can’t abandon his friends in their hour of need. Not now. Not when the symbolism is hanging by a thread and one poorly secured mirror with impeccable timing.

He’ll fix this. He has to fix this. They’re depending on him, and Ravi Panikkar isn’t leaving this pier until love either triumphs or gets cited for disturbing the peace.

“Okay,” he says finally, voice pitched too high to be calm. “Symbolic fragmentation. We can use this.”

Josh turns to him. “This could technically be considered vandalism. You know that, right?”

“It’s called commitment to the bit,” Ravi insists.

Through the feed, Buck and Eddie are already crouched among the wreckage, helping a panicked attendant gather shards of mirrored glass. Buck’s down on one knee, muttering reassurances while trying not to cut himself; Eddie’s beside him, rolling his sleeves up, the two of them close enough that it’s honestly difficult to tell whose arm belongs to whom. Their shoulders brush as they work in silent coordination, all quiet voices threading through pandemonium, a familiar codependent waltz they’ve danced before—minus the mirror homicide.

Ravi exhales, thumb hovering over the comm switch before clicking it off. “Alright, team,” he says with quiet resignation, “We’re going dark.”

Hen lets out a long, relieved groan. “Finally.”

Ravi leans back against the van wall, his head hitting the metal with a dull thud as he closes his eyes.

Then, softly— “Okay. Plan D.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Phase Seven,” Ravi corrects, sitting up straighter. “Operation Closure—Boardwalk Edition.”

Karen looks up from her phone, “Please tell me this doesn’t involve fireworks.”

Ravi meets her gaze, deadly serious. “Only emotionally.”

There’s a moment, right after disaster, when the air itself feels electric. A breath held by the universe, waiting to see if you’ll do something stupid or extraordinary. Ravi has spent his entire life choosing both.

Somewhere between the mirror maze shattering and Josh threatening to call the union, he decides he’s not going to fail his friends again. They asked for his help, and by God, he’s going to deliver. He’s no longer content being their guy in the chair—it’s time to go full action hero. The Separation Specialist, reporting for duty.

He bursts from the van like a man shot from a cannon, tactical vest half unzipped, headset dangling around his neck, the night air thick with the unmistakable sound of someone playing an off-key trumpet near the cotton candy stand. He doesn’t have a plan—not anymore—but something inside him, something wild and desperate, insists that closure must be achieved.

Behind him, he hears the others scrambling to follow. Hen’s voice cuts through the noise first, her sharp, motherly tone catching on the breeze in an effort to stop him. 

He’s a man on a mission, fueled by adrenaline and a pathological inability to leave things unresolved.

Because this—this right here—is his redemption arc.

Ravi doesn’t look back. He’s running toward destiny—or, at the very least, toward two deeply confused firefighters who have no idea what’s coming.

The sound of carnival music wavers in and out, warped by distance and panic. His boots slap against the warped wooden planks, every step a declaration of misplaced conviction. Ahead, the crowd thickens near the maze exit, where Buck and Eddie stand framed under the ferris wheel’s glow. 

Two men standing side-by-side in the wreckage of broken glass and bad communication. Buck’s leaning in, trying to make Eddie laugh. Eddie’s pretending not to, eyes soft but guarded, his shoulders drawn in as if he’s bracing for something that’s already halfway happened.

And that’s the problem, Ravi thinks. They’re too good together. No one will believe a fake breakup when they look like that—not with the kind of palpable chemistry that makes people want to watch without knowing why.

The mission demands clarity, clean edges, finality. So Ravi makes the kind of decision that feels heroic in the half-second before it becomes catastrophic.

He breaks into a run.

The crowd parts around him with startled faces and nervous laughter. Hen’s voice cuts through faintly behind him—“Ravi, don’t you dare!”—but it’s swallowed up by the noise.

“This is it,” he mutters under his breath, his lungs burning from exertion. “Phase Seven. Operation Closure.”

When he reaches them, Buck’s the first to turn, confusion written across his face. “Ravi?” he says, uncertain, but Ravi’s already too close. He opens his mouth to explain—to deliver the speech he’s been rehearsing in his head for the better part of ten seconds—but the words won’t come.

Before anyone can stop him, he steps forward, grips Eddie’s face with both hands, and kisses him.

The impact is immediate. A shockwave through the crowd, a collective gasp, a few delayed whoops from people who think they’re witnessing some kind of public proposal. Dozens of phones lift into the air, the sudden white glow of screens cutting through the carnival haze. The sound around them fractures—music, rising voices and laughter caught somewhere between scandal and thrill.

Eddie goes stiff, his hands jerking up to Ravi’s shoulders in startled defense—but Ravi holds steady. For an instant, it’s a tableau—two silhouettes under the lights, suspended in disbelief. Ravi’s hands are steady against his jaw, the salt of sweat and sea air sharp between them. One full, cinematic beat for the camera, a living punctuation mark.

Then something shifts.

It’s imperceptible at first, a single breath shifting between them, Eddie’s grip changing, fingers curling lightly at Ravi’s arm, and Ravi feels it—he doesn’t pull back, he doesn’t shove Ravi off.  Instead, he leans in—fractionally, deliberately. Just enough to sell it. Just enough to make it convincing.

It’s measured, controlled—a performance.

Ravi catches the silent signal between the two of them, a whisper of understanding. 

The crowd hums with electricity. Someone says, “Wait, isn’t that the firefighter guy?” Another whispers, “Isn’t he married?” Someone else says, “Oh my God, is he cheating?” and nervous laughter erupts, confused and breathless.

But Ravi doesn’t hear it. His brain is all adrenaline and mission focus, the hum of blood in his ears drowning out reason. It’s working. They’re watching. The breakup narrative is being born right here in real time.

He feels the shape of Eddie’s breath, the faint tremor in the corner of his mouth, the way it lasts far too long to be mistaken for shock.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Long enough for a murmur to turn into a story. Long enough for Buck to visibly stop breathing. Long enough for Eddie’s breath to stutter against his lips, for his fingers to tighten once in something dangerously close to reflexive before he jerks away.

When Ravi finally breaks the kiss, it’s with the air of a man satisfied he’s just solved a national crisis.

Eddie steps back with a sharp inhale. His lips are wet, his chest heaving in unsteady breaths, his expression unreadable—stuck between fury and something Ravi can’t quite parse. 

Ravi’s heart hammers. His brain still hasn’t caught up. Then he grins—a bright, almost boyish grin—and says, entirely earnest, “Wow. You’re a really good kisser.”

No one laughs.

Eddie just stares at him, flushed and stunned.

Next to them, Buck hasn’t moved.

He’s standing a few paces away, expression hollowed out, pupils glassy under the neon. His mouth opens, then closes again, nothing coming out. His entire body looks wrong—still, small, off-center in the commotion.

Eddie turns to Buck, his throat working to find the words. “I—” he starts, but it’s too late.

Because Buck finally blinks. His voice splinters halfway through the first word. “It’s—It’s fine, I—” He laughs once, small and fractured. “It’s fine. I get it. You were just—it’s part of the—yeah.”

“Buck,” Eddie says urgently, a flash of panic behind his eyes, reaching out a hand that Buck doesn’t see.

But Buck shakes his head, the smallest motion, as fragile as paper. “Don’t—it’s fine, really, I—” His voice dies somewhere in the middle of it, strangled into nothing. Then, a whisper, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

The crowd’s still watching, waiting for someone to laugh, for the scene to end. Eddie takes a step forward, his mouth opening again, but Buck’s already turning away, forcing a wobbly smile at the stunned bystanders as he pushes through them.

The crowd parts around him, the way it did for Ravi, only slower—like the air itself can feel the weight of it, the disaster playing out under the sickly glow of carnival lights. Someone nearby whispers, “Oh, my God,” and someone else laughs hesitantly, because what else do you do when a man looks that wrecked?

His voice cracks once before it disappears completely.

“Good job, Ravi. Mission accomplished.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the noise, by the color, by the world that doesn’t know what it just witnessed.

Eddie stays there, breathing hard, the echo of that kiss still hanging between them, the taste of failure sharp in the air.

Ravi looks after Buck, brow furrowing. “He didn’t seem happy,” he murmurs.

Hen appears behind him, “You absolute idiot.”

And if anyone disagrees, Ravi doesn’t hear them.