Chapter Text
Buck knew he was going to be desperate for company after Eddie left, but this was definitely not what he’d had in mind.
He was sitting in an airy café in Brentwood—the kind where the chairs were so spindly, he worried about resting his full weight on them when he sat down, and most of the dishes were served in bowls, and every few minutes a waitress dressed in white came out to check on him.
At this point, he’d told her he was fine six times. He felt a little bad, but he wasn’t going to start ordering on the off chance that his mother was actually standing him up and he wouldn’t have to stay.
She was fifteen minutes late. Buck figured that in five more minutes he’d text to check on her, and if she still hadn’t shown up after a half hour, then he couldn’t be blamed for leaving. He pulled out his phone to see if she’d messaged him, but instead he found a text from Eddie.
Chris won his chess tournament today! It said, and it was accompanied by a picture that did things to Buck’s insides: Chris, holding a trophy, smiling next to Eddie.
It was everything Eddie had wanted when he left for Texas—the chance to be a part of his son’s life again. To be there for all of Chris’s milestones, to support him. To be the kind of father that neither of them had had.
Buck was really really happy for them.
He was just also really fucking pathetic, too.
Eddie had been texting way more than he ever had before, now that he was three states away. Buck knew Eddie’s guilt complex was wreaking havoc on him these days. For as happy he was to be reunited with Chris, Eddie still felt bad—for himself, being back to Texas; for the team, since he’d left LA only a few days after everything had gone down with Maddie; and for Buck.
Because everyone knew how Buck felt about Eddie.
Well. Everyone thought they did. Until Buck had some painful realizations.
“There you are.” He looked up from where he’d been staring at the photo of Chris and Eddie to see his mom finally settling into the chair across from him. He clicked his phone off and straightened up in his chair, hoping he was imagining the chair groaning underneath him.
“I don’t know how you live out here,” she said, placing her purse on the floor and picking up a menu. “I left an hour ago but this godawful traffic took forever.”
“Ah, yeah, sorry about that,” he said, even though she’d been the one to pick the spot.
“I know everyone likes it out here for the sunshine, but there’s more to consider when you’re picking a place to live,” she went on.
Yeah, like where your son lives, his mind volunteered unhelpfully. It was just that everything reminded him of Eddie. He just hmmed in response.
“This menu looks good,” she continued musing, not needing any input from Buck. “I could go for a salad—it feels like Maddie and Howard have been ordering takeout every night of the week.”
Buck felt his hackles rise in defense; his mom had flown out to California to ‘check on Maddie’ after the whole kidnapping thing. Apparently, his mom thought she was a good addition to the stressful situation—the opposite of what Buck had learned very early in life—and came to watch Jee-Yun, make sure Maddie relaxed, and nitpick everything about both of their lives.
It was going great.
The best part was that it was almost over. Today was Thursday, and her flight back to Pennsylvania was Saturday morning; Buck had contemplated offering her a ride to LAX just so he could confirm she got on the plane. He opted not to, because it wouldn’t be worth the extra alone time with her—but then she’d gone ahead and invited him out to lunch, anyway.
Which is why Buck was sitting in this stupid café, staring intensely at the Build-Your-Own-Bowl section of the menu as though it might provide instructions for avoiding this conversation.
“I know Maddie doesn’t want to hear it, but I think she should be watching her sodium intake while she’s pregnant, it can’t be good for the baby.”
“Well, getting kidnapped while in utero probably wasn’t very good for the baby either,” Buck said. He would like it known that he made it a full minute before sniping at his mother.
The waitress, who’d just swung back for a seventh check-in, was giving him a look like, maybe that wasn’t such an impressive accomplishment.
“Uhm, hi,” she said, her voice strengthening as she slipped into professional mode. “Can I take your drink orders?”
His mom ignored Buck and ordered an iced tea. Buck stuck with water.
Once the waitress left, he went back to studying the menu. The faster they ordered food, the faster he could leave; but once the waitress took their menus, there would be nothing left for them to look at.
After a few minutes of blissful silence, his mom looked up from her menu and said, “so, Evan, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Buck guessed this might be coming. What, he didn’t know—but he’d suspected there was an ulterior motive when his mom asked if they could get lunch, just the two of them.
Before he could reply, the waitress came back with their drinks and got their orders, callously taking the menus with her when she left, and then Buck was left staring at his mother’s probing blue eyes. Whatever this was going to be, he could already tell he was going to hate it.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she repeated, ominously. “Obviously, I wanted to come out here to check on Maddie after, you know—” she trailed off.
“She was kidnapped?”
“Yes, that,” she sniffed, like he was insensitive for saying it out loud. “But there’s another reason I wanted to come out here. And it’s the same reason why it’s just me and not—not your father.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” she said, straightening the silverware on the table in front of her. “The thing is, your father—well, we’ve learned he has something called polycystic kidney disease.”
Well, shit.
“How—what—what does that mean?” His fingers twitched towards his pocket; the urge to call Hen was strong. Or even Chimney. Or—wait, why did she feel the need to meet with him alone to tell him this? He was Maddie’s dad, too.
“He’s okay for now. He has a new diet and is trying to manage the symptoms. They’ve only started showing up now that it’s progressed, but he’s had it for a while. It’s genetic.”
“Oh,” said Buck. That was fine, he could do genetic testing. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to tell Maddie yet, with the baby and everything.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s hanging in there,” she said. “You know your father.”
Buck thought about that, as the waitress came back with their bowl meals in hand. The thing was—he didn’t. Buck didn’t know his father’s taste in music, let alone how he would be in the wake of a kidney disease diagnosis. If he had to guess, he’d say stoic, probably. Something that involved pushing down his feelings and pretending like his kidneys didn’t exist.
He hmmed again, stabbing a piece of salmon with his fork. After a moment, he realized his mom was still staring at him, her bowl untouched.
“I’m sorry,” he added. “That must be really hard.” She was still staring, fork in hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
She used her fork to poke around her bowl, which looked about 90% arugula, and then she put it back down without eating anything.
“Well, Evan, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father needs a kidney.”
“He—what?”
“He needs a kidney transplant, Evan. From a donor.”
“And—you—you’re telling me this, because . . .”
“Because you’re a genetic match.”
“Everything okay here?” The waitress appeared in front of their table with a water pitcher and a cheery smile and Buck felt his mind slipping into disassociation territory. It felt like his brain wanted to hop on a bus and get out of town. Actually, his whole body wanted to hop on a bus and get out of town.
To El Paso, specifically.
God, what would Eddie make of this fucking conversation? Buck wished he was here, so badly he ached with it. But for that to have happened, Eddie would need to be in LA. And he would probably need to also be in love with Buck, so Buck could have said, yes I’ll meet you for lunch and I’m bringing my partner, which was socially acceptable, unlike saying yes I’ll meet for lunch and I’m going to have my long distance best friend on FaceTime, which is what he’d wanted to say when his mom invited him out.
He really should have said that.
His mom was saying something to the waitress; she was nodding and smiling, so he was guessing it wasn’t I just asked my son for an organ.
“I’m gonna—I have to go to the bathroom,” Buck said, and he stood up so abruptly that he knocked over the stupid flimsy chair. “Sorry, I—sorry,” he stuttered, righting it and then turning away before he could accidentally meet his mom’s eyes. He made three wrong turns on the way to the bathroom, but once he finally found the right door, he pushed through and locked it behind him.
A kidney. A kidney.
With shaky hands, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. When he opened it, the screen was still showing the text from Eddie, so he clicked on his icon and called him.
Pick up, he thought, desperately. Pick up pick up pick up pick up.
“You’ve reached Eddie Diaz, leave a message.”
Buck hung up.
Breathe, he had to breathe. He’d researched box breathing when Eddie started having panic attacks and this might not be one, but it also might be one? He wasn’t clear. In-2-3-4, hold-2-3-4, out-2-3-4, hold-2-3-4.
A text from Eddie came through while he was holding his outbreath and it didn’t help the feeling that his stomach was dropping, that he was choking.
Sorry, it said. We’re grabbing celebratory lunch after the tournament. Talk later?
Buck breathed in, deep, disregarding the counts. He wanted to breathe in so deep that oxygen reached every corner of his brain and it made him smart enough to figure out how to handle this fucking situation. Or he could pass out. That could work, too.
Course, he typed back on shaky fingers, knowing Eddie might worry if he didn’t answer. Have fun
After it sent, he realized he should have added an exclamation point. What kind of dick said have fun and didn’t even acknowledge the news of Chris’s chess win? He wanted to write more—I’m so proud of him and you both deserve to celebrate and actually can you please fucking call me back right now—but his hands were shaking a little; nothing crazy, just enough to make typing difficult, so he put his phone back in his pocket and tried the breathing thing again.
In-2-3—it was just, a kidney?
That was a weird thing to ask someone for, right? Even without any of the context of, you know, Buck’s existence.
It’s what you were made for, whispered a voice in the back of his head. And wasn’t it true? He’d been custom-built with all the right pieces, a patchwork of parts other people might want, need, deserve more—the only downside was that he came with a brain and feelings.
It wasn’t so different from how Conner and Kameron had asked him to be a sperm donor, if he thought about it. Sure, that time didn’t require surgery, but it’d be a lot easier to part with a kidney than it was to part with a kid that was 50% him. But they’d still done this—invited Buck out to lunch and sprung the ask on him over entrees.
He should probably stop accepting lunch invitations from people he hadn’t seen in years.
It was kind of funny, actually, if you didn’t think too hard about the way bits of his body were in such high demand, even though no one seemed particularly excited about the whole assembled package. Sometimes it felt like when his parents designed him, they must have selected some ‘don’t-get-attached’ gene, to make things easier on everyone.
It would explain a lot.
But either way, his parents had designed him for this. They’d rolled the ultimate dice that he’d be a miracle, and he failed. Didn’t he have an obligation to step up, this time? Do what he couldn’t manage before, and keep a member of his family alive?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Eddie had typed back, everything okay? Buck felt the intrusive urge to snap his phone in two pieces. In-2-3-4, hold-2-3-4.
Yeah, he wrote back, his hands barely shaking this time. Sry just drving
Don’t text and drive! Eddie’s answer came quick. I’ll call later, followed it. Buck thumbs-upped both texts and finally looked at himself in the mirror. Shockingly, his reflection looked the same as always. It felt like something had changed.
He washed his hands, for something to do, and headed back to the table. Across the restaurant he could see his mom, people-watching out the window. On the table, both of their lunches had been boxed up in to-go containers next to a signed receipt.
“Evan,” she said, her tone unreadable. “You were gone a while.”
He opened his mouth to say sorry but it didn’t come out. “Can I think about it?” he said, instead. Embarrassingly, it came out like a genuine question. Like he wanted permission.
Her face softened. “Of course, Evan. It’s a big deal, we know that. Your father didn’t even want to ask you, but I said—I knew you were the kind of man who would be happy to do it. Not that—” she broke off, coloring a little when she realized what she had implied. “You know, of course, you have to think on it. It’s a big thing, is all I meant.”
“Right,” said Buck. “And is there—how much—when do you need to know by?”
“Oh,” she said, pulling a packet out of her purse. “Here, I brought all of the information for you from the nephrologist. He’s managing his symptoms now, but, you know. The sooner the better.”
“Right,” said Buck, his voice gravely. He coughed and tried again. “Right, I’ll look this over.”
“Thanks, Evan,” she said, earnestly. She reached her hand out, like she was going to cover his, but then moved past it and gave his wrist a quick squeeze. “Your father and I really appreciate that you’re thinking about it at all.”
He nodded, not sure what else to say. She stood up, picking up her purse and her to-go container. “I better get going,” she said. “I told Maddie I’d be home in time for her to go for a haircut. Will you come over for dinner before I leave? I’m going to tell Maddie about your father tomorrow, I’m sure she’ll appreciate having you there when she finds out.”
He was saying something—probably a yes—and then he was parting ways with his mom on the sidewalk and going to his car. And then he was getting in his car, and navigating to a very specific house. And then he was ringing the doorbell.
And when Hen answered it, he said, “do you want to get drunk?”
Two hours later, Buck and Hen were in the same place they’d been three years ago—slumped over Hen’s dining table, trading shots of tequila and wondering why people kept thinking it was okay to ask Buck to hand over bits of himself.
“The thing I don’t understand—” Hen started, tapping the purple folder full of papers from the nephrologist, which they hadn’t gotten around to looking at yet, “is why they keep asking you over lunch.”
That was such a good question. “Maybe coffee feels like, too cheap,” he wondered. “Like, I’m going to ask for your kidney, you might as well get a meal out of it.” He laughed.
“Right, sure,” agreed Hen. “A coffee would be stupid, but a twenty-five dollar lunch makes total sense. Damn, Buckley,” she went on, pouring him another shot. “I knew you were a cheap date, but even you have to see the problem with that.”
“The problem,” Buck said, downing the shot without even waiting to cheers Hen. “Is that it’s the wrong person. Who wants the wrong thing.”
“Philosophical,” said Hen, pointing at him with a lime before sucking it between her teeth, so it looked like she had a green smile.
“No,” disagreed Buck. She didn’t get it—he was making a joke. “It’s always Buck, your dad wants your kidney and never Buck, Eddie wants your dick.”
Hen spit out the lime, coughing so hard Buck reached out and slapped her on the back. He really didn’t want to have to do the Heimlich while drunk.
“Buck—did you just—say what I think you said?”
“What?”
“About Eddie—?”
Oh. He did, didn’t he? That was his hilarious joke. Fitting, because his whole obsession with Eddie was a joke.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, taking the bottle and pouring two more shots. Most of the liquid went in the glass. Hen might as well know; she was so smart. And she was really good at being a lesbian. Not like Buck was. Well, not that he was a lesbian, but he wasn’t shaping up to be a great bisexual. He missed all the years of clues, and then was so bad at having a boyfriend he got dumped for it, and then he’d tanked his entire love life by making the most stereotypical mistake possible: being in love with his straight best friend.
“Did you know I was in love with Eddie?” He was curious to know if Hen had picked up on it; in hindsight, it seemed like he’d been a bit obvious. “I didn’t. I thought we were just bffs. How was I supposed to know? I didn’t have best friends growing up. That shit required having parents who would take you to playdates and parties and let you have people over.”
Buck scanned the room, seeing evidence of Denny and Mara’s lively adolescences. Thank god they were out with Karen. “I bet Denny and Mara have best friends,” he said. “You guys are great parents. I bet they’ll grow up knowing what best friends are and that way they won’t be total fucking idiots when they fall in love with someone.”
“Thank you,” said Hen, but it came out like a question. “I think?”
“You’re welcome,” said Buck. “I said your kids wouldn’t be total fucking idiots.”
“Cheers to that,” said Hen, holding up her glass and then downing half of it. She slammed it down on the table, half full, and Buck lamented that he wouldn’t be able to pour them both another shot until she finished hers. “Wait,” she said, letting go of the glass and pointing up at Buck. “You’re not an idiot. You’re in love with Eddie!”
“Yeah, don’t rub it in.”
“Buck,” said Hen, shaking him on the shoulder. “This is a good thing!”
“In what world is this a good thing? He just moved 800 miles away, and he’s straight.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Hen.
“Yeah, fuck,” repeated Buck. And then, like he’d sensed them talking about him, Eddie called.
They both stared at Buck’s phone as it buzzed, face-up on the table, showing a picture of Eddie in his beekeeper suit.
“Don’t answer it!” Hen warned, but like . . . it was Eddie.
“It’s okay,” said Buck, reaching out to put the call on speaker. “Shh—be cool.”
“Buck?”
“Hello, Eddie.” There—kept his voice very even. Hen gave him a thumbs up from across the table.
“Hey—what’s up?”
Oh, shit. Buck didn’t think that far ahead. He couldn’t tell Eddie what was actually up—that would be insane.
“The—uh, the sky,” he said, stupidly. Hen burst out laughing.
“Is that Hen?”
Hen leaned close to the phone and yelled into the speaker, “hey Eddie!”
“Are you two drunk?”
They both erupted in snickers. Eddie had this stern dad tone going on, and if Buck didn’t laugh at it, he was going to start drooling over it instead.
“No,” he said, still laughing. “Why would we—who does that?”
“Yeah, that’s—that’s totally what we’re doing,” said Hen.
“What’s going on?” Eddie asked, his tone suspicious. “The last time you two did this, Buck got asked for his—to donate—”
“My sperm?” Buck guessed, when Eddie seemed incapable of finishing the sentence. “Why?” He felt his lips curve around the question. It wasn’t his fault he had a visceral reaction to the idea of Eddie thinking about his dick. “Are you—” but then Buck got cut off as Hen smushed both of her hands over his mouth.
“How’s Texas, Eddie?” she yelled over whatever else Buck might’ve said.
“Well, I was going to complain, but you two are day-drinking so I guess it’s not as bad as whatever’s going on there.”
“Nothing’s going on here,” said Buck, elbowing Hen.
“That is clearly a lie,” Eddie countered.
Eddie knew him so well. Maybe Eddie knew Buck was in love with him. Maybe that’s why he’d left.
No, wait. That was Christopher.
For one wild second, Buck imagined Eddie asking Christopher for a kidney. Eddie would probably rather try his luck with no kidneys than take something vital from his son.
Buck would give Eddie a kidney, though. He wouldn’t even have to ask.
Honestly there was something kind of appealing about it; a piece of Buck inside Eddie, forever. What if he gave his dad his kidney and then one day Eddie needed one and Buck no longer had a spare? That was a very real concern here.
“Hello?” Eddie said. “Hen, tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” said Hen, like a bro. But then she caved under the weight of Eddie’s silence and added, “Buck had lunch with his mom.”
“Traitor,” hissed Buck. He reached for the tequila bottle, even though Hen never finished her last shot. If she was going to betray him like that, he wasn’t waiting for her.
“Your mom is in town? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Uh, just for a few days,” answered Buck, distracted by how carefully he had to pour his shot. It was taking a weirdly long time. “She mostly came to see Maddie.”
“But you got lunch with her?”
“Not really,” said Buck, finally leveling off the shot. “She got our meals to go while I was in the bathroom,” he said, and then put the bottle down as he started laughing. It was just such a funny concept: his mom asking him to drive all the way to Brentwood for lunch and then flagging down the staff for the check the second he left the table.
“Buck,” said Eddie, a pained note in his voice. Was Eddie in pain?
“Are you okay, Eddie?”
“What? Yes, of course.” Buck smiled at the answer and then threw back his shot. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Buck asked, sharing confused glances with Hen. He reached out to grab the bottle again, but this time Hen snatched it out of his grasp. He’d almost forgotten—she was a traitor.
“Maybe let’s cool it with the tequila, if you want to stay okay, Buckaroo,” she said.
“How much has he had?” Eddie asked. What was he, Buck’s babysitter?
He kind of was, if Buck thought about it. Buck was like one of those sad kids who got too attached to their babysitter because their parents didn’t pay enough attention to them, and no one ever told them that high schoolers leave for college.
“Well, there’s still some in the bottle,” said Hen.
“Yeah, but she won’t give it to me,” whined Buck.
“Hen, don’t let him have any more.” Eddie was so bossy.
“You’re so bossy,” Buck told him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Watch me,” said Eddie, and his dad tone was back. It made Buck want to do what he said. But even more, it made Buck want to keep goading and pushing him until he provoked Eddie into saying something else in that voice.
“Sorry, I can’t see you,” said Buck in a singsong voice, holding his hand over both eyes to show how much he couldn’t see Eddie. “You’re in Texas.”
“Buck—”
“Hey, hey, Hen,” he nudged Hen’s shoulder until she paid attention to him. “Do you think in like six years Eddie will call me out of the blue and—and—invite me to lunch—” He could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard. The idea was too ridiculous. What would Eddie want from him? It was already his. Hen had started to look a little too sober, but at the mention of lunch she cracked and joined him.
“What do you think—” she started, before the cackles overtook her, so she just gestured to Buck’s body.
“Just like, a full arm—” Buck theorized, near hysterics. “I’d be like, here you go!”
“You totally would.”
“What the fuck are you two talking about?”
“It’s an inside joke, Eddie,” said Buck, making his voice sound bratty. “For people who live in LA.”
“Am I going to have to call Chimney to go over and check on you two?”
“Ooh, good idea,” said Hen.
“Nooooo,” said Buck, really dragging it out, even though, to be honest, Chimney would be a fun addition to this party. He really understood the way tequila was required to deal with the Buckley parents. “If Chimney finds out, then Maddie will know.”
“Finds out what?”
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. It was just that sometimes Eddie scrambled his brain. And also, the tequila. Buck looked at Hen in a panic.
“Uh,” she said, tapping the table as she searched for a cover story. “Uh . . . oh, hey, the kids are home!” she lied. “Gotta go. Bye, Eddie!”
Buck let out a bark of laughter before Hen had the chance to end the call, and it definitely wasn’t his finest moment. But Hen’s excuse was barely more convincing than a ‘we’re going through a tunnel’ routine, and he really appreciated the way she committed to the bit in order to save his ass.
Though, unfortunately, now that meant Eddie was no longer on the phone.
“I miss Eddie,” he said.
Hen just scoffed at him. “Come on, sad boy,” she said, pulling him up and herding him towards their living room. “Get your ass on the couch. We’re watching Great British Bake Off.”
“Fine,” said Buck, reluctantly, as he sat down, winced, wrenched a plastic dinosaur out from between the cushions, and then settled back in. “But we’re skipping bread week.”
Hen yessed him and then put on an episode at random, and they settled in to watch. Within the first three minutes, the hosts announced it was bread week, but by then Buck was already invested. And it wasn’t so bad—even though they never had enough time to prove their dough and Paul Hollywood got all superior and it reminded him of his furious post-breakup bread-baking phase—because Hen was there, and she was happy to talk shit about the useless half-recipes and the tent conditions and his ex-boyfriend.
Right before the hosts called time for the showstoppers, Hen’s doorbell rang. She and Buck exchanged a confused look, and when Hen got up to answer the door, Buck followed. Had Eddie really called Chim on them?
But the person there wasn’t Chimney—it was a delivery guy, holding two full bags of Taco Bell that Buck could smell the minute the door was open. Holy shit he was hungry.
“Uh, delivery for Evan Buckley?” he said, reading something off his phone. “Delivery instructions say I’m supposed to, uh, say,” he paused, putting on a deadpan voice, “‘sober up and call me back, you idiot,’ but that feels kinda mean so, uh, I guess just, here you go.” He pushed a bag into each Hen and Buck’s arms and waved as he turned to exit the porch.
He met Hen’s eyes over the tantalizing scent of queso and ground beef, and he felt so much at once: irritated and heartsick and hungry and drunk. And also head over heels, or whatever it was people said about hopeless cases. “I literally never stood a chance,” he griped.
Hen just shook her head and offered him a burrito.