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When Eddie first wakes up on Friday morning, it seems like any other day.
His alarm blares obnoxiously on the nightstand next to him. He groans and smacks it, rubbing the lingering sleep out of his eyes, whipping the comforter off before he can be drawn back into the sweet lull of sleep. He runs a mental checklist of the things he needs to get done this morning: wake up Chris, throw together something resembling real nutrients for the both of them, grab his clean laundry from the dryer. He sighs and sits up in his bed, leaning back against his palms. He should probably shower, too, and shave his face. He runs a palm over his stubble-- it seems like it’s growing in faster than normal.
He cracks open his bedroom door and he’s met with the heavenly smell of frying bacon. He wanders into the kitchen and sees Buck humming to himself, whisking together eggs in a bowl. That’s odd-- Buck had come over last night after their shift, and they’d had a few beers, but Eddie’s fairly certain Buck had gone home. Eddie had been nearly delirious with exhaustion, though, and maybe Buck had decided against it and spent the night on the couch. It wasn’t that uncommon.
“You’re up early,” he notes, his voice croaking where he’s still hoarse from sleep. Buck looks over his shoulder and shoots him a grin.
“Knew you would be eating cereal, otherwise. Wanted to treat Chris to something special.” He pours the egg mixture into the pan and it sizzles dramatically, the savory smell clinging to Eddie’s nostrils, warm and buttery. It perks him up a bit.
“And not me?” Eddie feigns hurt, putting his heart over his chest dramatically.
“You got a special treat last night,” Buck says in a weird amused tone, pointing his spatula at him and turning back to the stove. Eddie chuckles but knits his eyebrows in confusion. Yeah, Buck had brought over a six pack, but that was standard fare for them at this point. Nothing Eddie would consider special by any means.
“You should go shower,” Buck adds. “But knock on Christopher’s door before you get in, he can have this first omelet. Oh, and the clean laundry’s folded in the basket by the couch.”
Eddie blinks. “Wow. It my birthday, or something?” He checks the calendar. Nope, just a regular Friday.
“Oh, you’d know if it was your birthday,” Buck replies, and Eddie’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. What does that mean?
Whatever, he decides. He’s groggy, and he needs a brisk shower and a black coffee, and if Buck woke up at the crack of dawn to become Eddie’s housekeeper, he wasn’t complaining. He pivots to turn and walk back down the hall, knocking on Christopher’s door with two knuckles. He cracks it open.
“Up and at ‘em,” he says to the lump underneath the blankets.
Chris groans. “Can I skip today?”
Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. “Nope, sorry kiddo. But Buck made breakfast. And bacon,” he adds in a singsong voice, tempting Christopher into wakefulness.
Christopher sighs heavily, whipping the blanket off his body. “Okay, okay, I’m up,” he says, shooing Eddie out of his room.
Eddie turns to leave, and he notices a picture tacked on Christopher’s cork bulletin board that he doesn’t recognize. It’s Buck and Chris, both wearing suits, and Eddie tries to wrack his brain for when this was taken. The medal ceremony last year, maybe? Did Chris even wear a tie to that?
He closes the door behind him. Whatever, he decides again. Shower and coffee.
They drop Chris off at school and drive to work, carpooling in Buck’s truck. Eddie’s quiet, leaning his head against his propped up fist while Buck hums along to the radio.
“You okay?” Buck says, braking when they get to a red light. He gives Eddie a once-over. “You seem off today.”
Eddie hums. “How so?”
Buck shrugs. “I dunno. Just a little-- subdued, I guess. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
Eddie does a mental check of his body. “I do feel a little weird,” he admits, but he can’t quite pinpoint why. He just feels a little off in his skin, like it isn’t the right size. Maybe he’s just a little hungover-- three beers over the course of one movie usually wasn’t enough to make him sick the next day, but he’s not getting any younger. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Buck hums sympathetically. “If you start to feel worse, let me know. I’ll make you some tea when we get to work.”
Eddie squints at him, but Buck’s facing straight ahead, eyes locked to the road. “Sure,” Eddie says to the side of his head, tearing his eyes away from Buck’s face.
“Morning, boys,” Hen says when they arrive at the station. Buck makes a beeline for the kitchen, and Eddie moves to sit next to Hen, flopping down on the couch next to her.
“Morning,” Eddie greets, eyes moving to watch the muted TV. He jerks his chin at it. “What’s new and horrible today?”
“Some kind of thing with the moon,” Hen says, still staring down at her phone. “Like a full moon shift isn’t bad enough.”
Eddie squints at the screen to read the closed captions that pop up. His eyesight is definitely getting worse, but glasses would be a pain in their line of work, and he’ll selfishly admit that he doesn’t want to look even more like his father. The generated captions are struggling to keep up, but Eddie sees the words lunistice and lunar eclipse, and the picture framed on screen is of a red moon. A blood moon, Eddie thinks it’s called, trying to recall the project Christopher had done on lunar cycles in elementary school. Eddie had mostly just helped glue pictures onto a poster board.
“This thing gonna make people act crazy?” Eddie asks, settling back against the couch from where he’d been leaning forward.
“Like people really need an excuse to act crazy,” Ravi chimes in. He settles down into an armchair with a steaming mug of coffee, and Eddie’s mouth waters at the smell. He really does feel off; maybe some more caffeine will help.
He’s about to get up when Buck’s arm enters Eddie’s vision, holding out a mug for him. It smells earthy and floral, and there’s a small silicone tea bag holder clipped to the side, shaped like a snail.
“It’s echinacea,” Buck says. “Drink up.”
Eddie takes the mug from him, and when he tilts his head up he sees Buck giving him a fond smile, his cheeks dimpling. “Thanks,” he says, and he blinks dumbly when Buck’s cheeks flush, warm and pink. Practically batting his eyelashes at him. And Buck thinks Eddie is acting weird?
The alarm rings, and everyone jumps up to head to the engine. Eddie throws back a mouthful of the tea, and it scalds his throat, but it’s sweet where Buck added honey and lemon.
That was thoughtful.
“LAFD,” Bobby calls out when they get to the scene. They’re down at the beach, the sticky sand a rough trek in their work boots. Some kid waves them down, a frat boy in a backwards cap, and he’s rushing over to show them the way.
“Over here,” he pants breathlessly, leading them towards an elderly woman laid out on a towel. There’s a gaggle of frat boys surrounding her, using towels and surfboards to cover her from the harsh sun. “We were out on our boards when this lady got stung by a jellyfish.”
Eddie ducks under the protective barrier of college boys, kneeling down in the sand next to her. “Hello, ma’am,” he says, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “So, you were stung right in the leg?” he asks, turning her ankle over, eyeing the harsh pink swell on her left calf.
She nods. “It really stings,” she moans, digging her head back into the sand.
“We all pissed on it, but she’s still saying it hurts-- I dunno, man, she looks rough,” the first frat boy says.
Eddie blinks, squinting up at him. Bobby stops him with one hand, raising an eyebrow. “Whoa-- I’m sorry, did you say all?” he clarifies, looking around at the group of boys.
“Well-- yeah,” the guy says sheepishly. “I even chugged a few beers to grow some more--”
“Grow some more piss?” Eddie says with a wry smirk.
“You know what I mean,” the guy says, flustered. Drunk, too, Eddie’s guessing.
Bobby purses his lips. “Hot water,” he says patiently. “Just-- hot water would have been fine.”
“Urine can actually make it worse,” Eddie supplies helpfully. “The ammonia can actually make it hurt more.”
“Shit,” the frat boys curse, murmuring to each other. “Sorry, Mrs. K, we were just tryin’ to help.”
She waves off their collective apologies as they line the backboard up underneath her. “Oh, please,” she placates. “You boys have good hearts. I appreciate you looking out for a little old lady like me.”
Eddie’s eye twitches when they coordinate lifting her up, the stench wafting up to him. He fights to hide his grimace.
“Yo, if you’re ever at UCLA, come party with us,” the frat boys call out as they head towards the ambulance. “Sigma Nu!”
The patient waves to them, her hand cupped like she was royalty. “Oh, thank you!” she calls back, and then to Hen she says, “those boys wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
Chimney snorts, lifting her into the rig. “Atta girl. Know your worth.”
She drags her eyes salaciously over Eddie, and he stiffens uncomfortably. “Now, these boys, though,” she says with a wink. “If I were your age, I’d let you spin me every which way.”
Eddie scrunches his mouth up with a flush, hiding his discomfort and amusement. He clears his throat awkwardly. “That’s--” he fumbles.
Luckily, Buck comes to his rescue. “Uh, sorry, ma’am, I’m afraid he’s spoken for,” he says with a cheeky grin.
“But we admire your chutzpah,” Chim adds. Buck and Eddie shut the doors behind them, thumping the back with their fists and waving as they drive off.
Eddie blows out a stiff breath, and Buck laughs loudly beside him. “Seriously, why do I always get the weirdos,” Eddie laments.
Buck squishes his cheeks. “‘Cause you’re so irresistible,” he says impudently. Eddie smacks his hand away with a fond grin.
When they get back to the station, Buck grabs Eddie’s abandoned mug to reheat his tea in the microwave.
His eyelids are drooping by the end of the shift, and he’s thankful that Buck seems energized enough to drive Eddie home. He’d almost offered to order an Uber, guilty at the idea of Buck going an extra forty-five minutes out of his way, but Buck had guided Eddie’s tired body with a hand on his shoulder towards the parking lot and he’d forgotten all about it. He’s being selfish, he knows-- but he also would never say no to more of Buck’s company.
Buck wordlessly follows him inside when he parks, and Eddie doesn’t bother asking if he wants to stay-- he already knows the answer. The porch light is on, moths drawn to it now from the all-encompassing darkness where the sun has gone down, and Eddie fumbles for the keys in his pocket, fingers thick and clumsy where he’s struggling.
“I got it,” Buck says, halting Eddie’s hand with one of his own, and then he’s flipping through his own keys to find the one for Eddie’s house. It tugs at something in his chest, the way Buck opens Eddie’s door for him, pushing inside and making himself right at home.
“Chris, we’re home,” he calls out, tilting his head towards the direction of Christopher’s room.
“I’m raiding,” Chris calls back, muffled through the closed bedroom door, and then more quietly they catch, “motherfucker, I got clipped by that?”
Eddie snorts and shakes his head, tossing his jacket onto the coat hooks by the door. “Remember when we were the ones who needed the swear jar?” He makes his way over to the couch, just barely resisting the urge to fall over the back of it, his limbs dead weight. He sinks into the cushions with a soft thud, tilting his neck back with a sigh.
“I remember telling your abuela it was a vacation fund,” Buck says, wandering into the kitchen. “And how she very dubiously said, ‘vacation fund? You don’t go anywhere. Put it in the bank before that sketchy neighbor of yours steals it.’” Eddie hears the sound of glass bottles clacking together where Buck is rooting through his fridge, getting them two drinks to decompress.
Eddie grabs the remote, graciously accepting his beer when Buck holds one out for him. It’s cold to the touch, almost painfully so, but it perks him up just enough to fight the pull of his eyelids. “Abuela proving her omniscience once again,” he grumbles, and he scooches over to make room when Buck joins him on the couch, the length of their thighs pressed tightly together. Eddie shifts over again, but the space between them is negligible.
“I dunno about omniscience,” Buck laughs. “Maybe just a supremely good judge of character.” He tilts the neck of his bottle back, the thick swallows from his throat audible where he’s chugging it down.
Eddie scoffs. “You’re just saying that because you’re the first gringo she’s given any of her recipes to.”
Buck pulls the bottle away with a smug little grin, cheeks dimpling with the effort to hold in his laughter. “Ah, what can I say? Grandmothers love me.”
“Whereas I merely tolerate you,” Eddie says fondly, rolling his eyes when Buck exaggeratedly bats his eyelashes. He hands Buck the remote, leaning back and spreading his legs comfortably. “You pick something, my brain is fried.”
Buck matches his pose, flipping through Eddie’s streaming services until he finds a reality TV show they both like-- something trashy, just dramatic enough to be entertaining, braindead enough that Eddie only has to give half his attention to it. His eyelids are heavy, limbs coordinated enough only to lift the beer to his mouth, knee pressing into Buck’s where their legs are both spread wide. A solid point of contact to ground Eddie-- he’s felt off all day, but no real sickness has manifested yet. Not even a sniffle.
He dozes off without realizing it, beer still clutched tightly in his hand, the condensation dripping down his fingers. He startles at the soft press of Buck’s hand to his shoulder, jostling him awake, and he peels his eyes open clumsily.
“Wha’ time issit?” he mumbles, discarding his beer on the coffee table, cold fingers moving to rub over his tired eyes. He can’t fight the yawn, loud and obnoxious.
“Bedtime,” Buck replies, moving to stand up. He holds one hand out for Eddie, which he graciously accepts, hauled to his feet and stumbling into Buck from the momentum. He catches himself on Buck’s chest, one hand resting over the flat of his sternum, and he tears himself away just as quickly. Casually.
“Thanks,” Eddie murmurs, eyeballing the bottles on the coffee table. “You, uh-- good to clean up in here? I’m completely wiped.”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” Buck insists. “I need to shower anyway.”
“Yeah, go for it,” Eddie nods, moving around Buck to wander towards his bedroom. “You know where the extra towels are.”
Buck laughs behind him, like Eddie has just said something amusing. “Uh, yeah, I most definitely know where the towels are.”
Eddie just waves over his shoulder in acknowledgment. He’s had enough of this weird feeling permeating inside of him all day; his comforter is calling his name. He closes the bedroom door with his foot, lazily tossing his clothes to the floor, crawling into bed in just his boxers. God, but his sheets are like a dream, soft and clean and the perfect weight on top of him, and Eddie is out like a light.
He’s pulled from his slumber by the sound of the door cracking open behind him, slow and quiet like they’re trying not to wake him. Eddie is warm and exhausted and comfortable, and he assumes it’s just Buck sneaking in to borrow sweats after his shower, so he doesn’t bother turning around or cracking his eyes open. He hears the catch of his dresser where the shelf isn’t quite aligned right, the harsh squeak of wood on wood, and Buck’s quiet inhale at the noise.
Eddie starts to drift again, lulled into unconsciousness, when he feels some of that warmth sapped away by the comforter lifting. The bed dips with Buck’s weight as he settles behind Eddie, and then--
And then he feels Buck sling one possessive arm around his waist, his nose gently prodding at the knobs of Eddie’s spine, gently pressing his lips to his skin.
Eddie is suddenly wide awake.
He startles at the feel of Buck’s lips, eyes shooting open, adrenaline spiking. He twists his torso around, Buck’s arm still firmly slotted around his waist, and he puts as much space between them as he can.
“Whoa,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. His brain is still struggling to catch up, buffering like a bad internet connection. Buck’s hand does not move. “You, uh-- little drunk there, bud?” he chuckles nervously, trying to ease his own tension-filled body.
Buck hums, digging his head into the other pillow. His hair is still damp, curling up around his ears. “No, not really. I just had the one.” His nose crinkles up, eyes darting away in thought. “Well, one and a half. I slugged the rest of yours back instead of tossing it down the drain.”
Eddie tenses when Buck’s thumb starts caressing his skin, dragging just under his navel. He twitches, pulling away as far as the bed will allow him to without tumbling over the edge. “Uh… is the couch broken?” he asks, voice pitched up in hysteria.
“No?” Buck huffs a laugh, one little exhale, his own voice thick with confusion. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’ve been acting strange all day.”
“I’ve been acting strange?” Eddie laughs, crazed now. “Dude, you’re in my bed.”
Buck withdraws his hand at that, completely separating himself from Eddie. He sighs a bit in relief, but then his heart aches a bit at the way Buck defeatedly says, “did I… do something?”
Eddie flips over at that, sitting up to face Buck fully. He self-consciously drags the covers up as well, covering his boxers. “Buck, what are you talking about?”
Buck shrugs, moving his right hand up to scratch at his stubble. “You’ve just been sort of… uh, distant today.”
“Distant,” Eddie repeats weakly. He’s opening his mouth to add, since when has cuddling been part of our routine, when his eyes lock in on Buck’s left hand resting on his lap.
Specifically, the golden band on his ring finger.
“What is that?” Eddie asks numbly, eyes still glued to the ring.
Buck raises his eyebrows, following Eddie’s line of sight to his hand. “This?” he clarifies. He twists the ring with his right hand, pulling it off and holding it out for Eddie.
Eddie’s brain has begun to fill with white noise, static blooming hot and sharp between his ears. He reaches for the ring, holding it up to his eyes, mere inches away. It’s fairly dark in his bedroom, but the light of the full moon through his window is just enough to make out the ring’s undeniable shimmer.
“You’re married,” Eddie deadpans. He doesn’t look at Buck, but he sees in his peripheral the way Buck sits up straight, moving closer.
“Eddie…?” Buck asks, trepidation making his voice waver.
“You’re not married,” Eddie insists. “That’s-- no.” Dread starts to pour into him, the gut-dropping feeling that something is deeply, deeply wrong. He would’ve remembered something like that. He would’ve--
Buck gently places the back of his hand to Eddie’s forehead, like he’s checking him for a temperature. Eddie’s vision dims, black spots crowding the corner of his vision. His breathing is starting to get a little shaky.
“Eddie, you’re scaring me,” Buck says in the quiet of the room. “Do you-- do you know what day it is?”
“Friday,” Eddie answers, tongue thick like his throat is stuffed with cotton.
Buck nods to himself. “Okay. And do you know where we are?”
“L.A.,” Eddie says. His voice is still weak. “4995 South Bedford.”
“Yeah,” Buck confirms. “And-- do you know my full name?”
Eddie swallows. “Evan Buckley,” he says definitively, but--
He finally turns to look at Buck’s face, and it’s like he’s waiting for Eddie to keep going. Like Eddie had gotten it wrong. Buck’s face melts, his brows pinched together, and Eddie--
He doesn’t know what the hell is going on.
“Um… wait here for a sec,” Buck says, voice wobbling like he’s worried, and he whips the covers off, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. Eddie is helpless to just watch him, jaw permanently dropped open, fingers still pinching that damn ring.
Buck wanders out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Eddie stares down at the ring in his hand.
There’s no way. There’s just no--
He stands up, head rushing at the movement, and he opens the door just a crack. He can’t see Buck, but he can hear him pacing, talking in hushed tones with somebody on the phone.
“I’m-- I’m sorry to wake you Mads, but-- I think something is seriously wrong with Eddie. Can-- can you and Chim get down here so he can take a look at him?”
Eddie stands there, one hand on the door knob. He puts the ring down on his nightstand, and--
And, oh. There’s a matching band on Eddie’s nightstand, plain as day next to the alarm clock.
He falls back down to sit on the bed, clutching his chest. This was just a bad, confusing dream. He was having a break in reality. Because there was no possible way, no possible universe in which Eddie was married to--
Buck pushes the door open where it lay ajar. Eddie looks up at him, but he’s still clutching his chest painfully, gasping for air now where his lungs refuse to inflate.
“Eddie,” Buck breathes, moving to kneel in front of him, one hand on his shoulder and one hand on his knee. “Eddie, deep breaths, okay?”
Eddie nods, eyes still wide, breath juddering shallowly where he attempts to listen to Buck. Buck’s thumb is caressing Eddie’s bullet scar, calluses soothing over the unnaturally smooth tissue. Buck’s face is pinched with concern when Eddie gasps out, “what’s happening to me?”
“I don’t know,” Buck answers honestly. “You-- maybe you got a concussion, s-somehow? Chimney’s gonna come look you over.”
“A concussion,” Eddie breathes. “A concussion that made me forget--”
He looks at the two rings on the nightstand. Buck turns his head to look, too.
“I don’t know,” Buck says again.
Eddie moves a shaky hand out to grab the rings, the weight of the gold crushing in his palm. Identical golden bands, and the light from the hallway is enough for Eddie to make out the engravings along the inside: you don’t find it, one says, and the other, you make it.
His vision starts to dim and blur. “You really love me,” Eddie manages, each word trembling with the effort.
“Eddie, yeah,” Buck breathes. “Always.”
Eddie’s eyelashes flutter, head swimming violently, and then he passes out.
When Eddie wakes up, he’s alone in his bed.
He startles upright, remembering the night before. He’s about to call out Buck’s name, but-- the house is quiet. He turns to look at the nightstand, to see if Buck left him any kind of note, when he notices two things: first, the rings are decidedly absent, his nightstand empty once again save for his alarm clock and his charging phone. The second thing he notices? The date on his alarm has not changed.
Eddie fumbles for his phone, unplugging it and clicking it on, and yeah, the top of his screen still definitely says Friday. A dream, then?
If it was a dream, it’s the most lifelike dream Eddie has ever experienced. He’s never had a panic attack in his sleep before. But if he did, then-- he doesn’t really feel all that exhausted. Not like he would expect to.
Still-- it leaves him feeling unsettled. He still feels strange in his body, like not enough skin stretched over too many muscles, tight and uneasy and weird.
He goes through the motions of getting ready-- getting dressed, rousing Christopher, throwing together breakfast; the dream still lingering at the forefront of his mind, stubbornly persisting. The details should be gone by now, hazy and muddled, the feelings gone with them. They aren’t; they stay, and they bring with them a hollow space in the pit of his gut.
Eddie doesn’t ascribe any meaning to his dreams. They often mean nothing: despite being well into his mid-thirties, he still has the occasional dream about his school days, only remembering after he’s awake that it’s been a decade and a half since he’s graduated. If Chris doesn’t make him feel old, that certainly does.
And still, this one unsettles him in a way that he can’t seem to shake.
The station’s busy when he finally strolls into work, bag slung over his shoulder. Everybody is still changing, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and getting ready for a long shift, and he’s grateful that Buck isn’t there yet. He doesn’t mean to feel so awkward at the thought of laying eyes on him, but the feelings left behind from his dream still ache, like the sore press of nerves through a cavity.
“Morning,” he greets as he steps into the locker room.
Everyone half-heartedly greets him back, Ravi slapping him on the shoulder as he exits. Chim slams his locker shut and says, “TGIF, at least.”
“You have no idea,” Eddie mumbles.
Bobby pokes his head into the locker room, already in uniform, and says, “omelets or french toast?”
“French toast,” Chimney immediately says, and Eddie cuts in with a hum and says, “mm, Buck is bulking right now, he’ll probably want omelets.”
Hen and Chim turn to look at him, and Bobby raises his eyebrow where he’s still hovering in the doorway. Eddie briefly glances behind himself, as if they could possibly be staring at anybody else. “What?”
“Who?” Chimney says, popping his gum.
Eddie laughs nervously. Nobody else does. “Uh, your second favorite Buckley?” Eddie tries.
He receives blank stares.
“I’m just going to do waffles,” Bobby declares, slapping the frame and hurrying up the stairs. Eddie’s brows pinch together, high on his forehead, and his hands find his hips.
“You feeling okay, Eddie?” Hen asks, taking a step towards him.
He flinches, taking a step backwards. “Yes, I-- are you guys screwing with me? Because I’m really not in the mood today. Fill my locker with shaving cream instead, please.”
“I really have no idea who you’re talking about,” Chim answers, crossing his arms over his chest, and-- he seems sincere. Eddie looks to Hen with a bewildered expression, but she just shrugs and shakes her head.
“Evan Buckley,” Eddie says insistently. His heart leaps into his throat when they continue to blink at him, and the look they share with each other seems almost pitying.
“I need a minute,” Eddie mumbles, grabbing his phone and practically running to the bathroom. No-- there’s just no way… there must be an explanation for what’s happening to him. Encephalitis maybe, an inflamed and confused brain. Maybe he was struck in a hit and run, a twisted coma dream while he bleeds out on the pavement, his body clinging to any remnants of sanity.
His hands are trembling as he pulls up his text threads. There isn’t a single one with Buck, usually drifting towards the top of his message list. When he opens up his contacts, it’s not there either.
If this is a prank, it’s an elaborate one.
He opens Facebook, Instagram, searching for Buck’s usernames. Still nothing. His breathing becomes unsteady where he’s crouched in the bathroom stall, heart pounding rapidly. He feels dizzy, like he does before a panic attack, lightweight like he’ll drift away if he stops sucking in air.
He searches for Maddie, and he doesn’t find her under the name Buckley, but then he hits the backspace button and tries Kendall, instead. She’s third from the top, and her profile picture is of her and an unfamiliar child. A boy, maybe four years old. One that is decidedly not Chimney’s.
“No way,” he breathes out, slumping to sit fully against the floor. His head thumps back against the stall door while his mind races, phone pressed tightly to his chest. He slaps the flat of his palm against the side of his head, like a child rattling their brain to get pool water out of clogged ears, and it unsurprisingly doesn’t help.
He picks his phone back up, still open to Maddie’s profile, and he hits the direct message button.
Hey, he types out. Sorry if this is weird, but I went to high school with one of your brothers and can’t seem to find him anywhere. Is he on any social media?
Eddie hits send before he can chicken out, and he sits there on the filthy tile floor and prays and prays that he’s not lying in a hospital bed somewhere hooked up to machines while his brain withers away.
He’s not sure how much time passes, sucking in panicked breaths there on the bathroom floor, but eventually his phone buzzes and he reads Maddie’s response with a dropped jaw.
Hi-- I only have one brother, Daniel. You can try reaching out to him on Instagram.
Eddie’s gut roils violently. He stands on shaky legs, slipping his phone numbly back into his pocket and trudging over to the sink. His reflection looks pale and sweaty, and he runs the tap cold and splashes it over his face, shocking his system back online.
This can’t be a coma dream. This isn’t like what Buck described, one alternate universe that seemed too good to be true until it decidedly wasn’t. This is a nightmare from the start, one new reality after the other, and Eddie feels a bit like he’s sliding around on ice without skates.
He swallows the bile that’s begun to crawl up his throat. This is just-- a freak incident. Tomorrow, he’s going to wake up in his own bed, and everything will be back to normal, and he can chalk it up to a fluke. An overactive imagination. Maybe a quick headscan, just to be safe.
Eddie startles when the door opens, Bobby quietly stepping into the bathroom.
“You okay, Eddie?” he asks carefully, an inquisitive tilt to his head. “You look ill.”
His throat stings when he swallows again, raw and achy. “I just, uh-- think I got the flu, maybe?” he says with a shaky voice, unconvincing even to himself. Bobby seems to take pity on him, though, and he scrunches his mouth up with concern and nods.
“Go home,” he says authoritatively. “I have a couple guys on B-shift who wanted extra hours, anyway. Get some rest and let me know if you need anything, okay?”
Eddie nods, nose twitching. “Thanks, Cap. I appreciate it.”
He drives home in a haze, body going through the motions of driving back to South Bedford while his mind eclipses on itself. He crawls under his covers with shaky limbs, the panic still whispering sweetly in his ear, and he screws his face up tightly to block out the feelings.
Sleep. He just needs to sleep. Everything will be good as new when he wakes up tomorrow.
When Eddie wakes up in Texas, trapped in the walls of his childhood bedroom, still Friday, he knows that he’s well and truly lost to the rushing current of the universe.
It’s a terrifying and lonely conclusion.
He grits his teeth and plays the role of passive son, one he’s well rehearsed at, pinching a smile onto his face for Christopher’s sake whenever his parents overstep. He pretends that his blood is not boiling on the inside, guts mangled at the panicked notion of being trapped in time and space.
He wants nothing more than to call Buck, but his phone is Buck-less once more, and isn’t that a terrifying and lonely existence.
The only comfort, it seems, is that tomorrow is a new day.
Sort of.
When Eddie next wakes, he feels completely and utterly wrong.
He’s standing up, for one thing, and his body jerks to keep his balance. He doesn’t know what that means-- the other times he’s woken up, he’s at least been lying down in his bed. He feels somewhat assured that these other Eddies, these other versions of himself-- if that’s what they are-- are at least resting. A luxury he himself doesn’t always possess.
It’s dark, wherever he is. It might be some kind of barn or shed, from what he can tell, but there’s only a sliver of light coming in from one dusty window in the corner of the high ceiling. It’s musty in there, mold and old hay and rotting wood, and Eddie feels devastatingly out of place in his body.
He struggles to even comprehend his surroundings. His brain feels thick with a peculiar haze, foggy in all the worst ways, and his limbs feel unnaturally heavy. He can’t focus-- he’s starving. He needs to find something to eat.
Eddie wanders forward in the darkness, no goal in mind-- he needs to get out of here. He needs to eat.
The chain around his ankle stops him in his tracks, pulling at his skin harshly. Eddie doesn’t look down, can’t move his head or his limbs the way he wants to. He wonders, briefly, if he’s been drugged, and then he turns and wanders in the other direction. He needs to get out of here. He needs to eat.
The chain pulls at the delicate bones of his ankle again.
Eddie is lost to the cloudiness of his mind, wandering around in the small space, disoriented and sick and fucking ravenous in a way he’s never been before. He opens his mouth to test his voice, to shout for help, but all he manages is a guttural warble. His vocal cords are sore with misuse, and the sounds coming out of his throat are raspy and… unnatural.
He hears movement outside. Eddie turns his head to track it, the sounds of boots crunching in the snow-- he hadn’t even registered that it was cold outside. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel a thing, actually. Just that gnawing hunger.
A door cracks open on the far side of the shed, swathing the dark room in natural light, brilliant sunlight reflecting off of bright white snow. Eddie can’t even make out who it is against the blinding light, but he moves anyway, his feet swollen and numb.
“Hey, Eddie,” the voice says, quiet and resigned.
Buck steps into the room, closing the door behind him. Eddie is drawn towards him, towards his smell, warm and rich against the foul odor of the shed. The chain pulls at his ankle, and a stilted groan is pulled from his throat again. He reaches out for Buck with one hand, swiping at the air in front of him, and-- and his arm is-- it looks--
Buck pulls up a milk crate, dropping onto it heavily, just out of reach. He’s got a burlap sack clutched in his other hand, and when he drops it at his feet Eddie can smell the blood seeping into the fabric. It smells nothing like Buck, just a poor imitation of the real thing.
Buck’s face twists up in grief. He’s resting his elbows against his knees, wringing his gloved hands together, and he’s leveling Eddie with a look that would break his heart if he wasn’t so fucking voracious.
Buck sighs and darts his eyes away. “I know it’s been a few days. Sorry. We had-- we almost had a breach at the wall, so I’ve had back to back shifts.” He sniffs dryly, pinching at his nostrils with his gloved fingers, the skin irritated from the cold. “I was so-- so terrified that you were going to be in the crowd. I kept looking for your shirt.”
Eddie warbles again, that raspy growl in the back of his throat. He keeps trying to move towards Buck, but that stupid chain keeps him from making any progress. He can smell Buck’s skin, just out of his grasp.
Buck scratches at his beard. It’s longer than Eddie’s ever seen it, reddish blond and stubbly. He looks skinny, too, the hard earned muscle of the Buck that he knew long gone, his clothes practically hanging off of him. “Christopher is doing okay,” Buck says. “He’s been staying with Bobby and Athena while I had to work. I think they secretly love whenever they get to-- get to be grandparents.” He chuckles to himself humorlessly, the crease on his forehead getting harsher the more his brows pinch together. Buck swallows thickly, and Eddie is drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple. He wants to taste it.
“I’m sorry,” Buck whispers in the stale air of the shed, and it reminds Eddie of confession. Repentance for the sake of reconciliation. Eddie swipes at the air again, the putrefied flesh of his arm coming into view. He wants to hold Buck, wants to hold onto his arms, wants to pull him close and press their bodies together and dig into the sweet flesh of his neck. He’s starving, and Buck smells so, so divine.
“I’m so selfish,” Buck says, mostly to himself, and he buries his grubby face into his hands. His elbows push inwards, like he’s making himself small, and he sobs into his gloves. Eddie snarls. “I know we said if you-- if one of us ever got bit, that the other would--” Buck trembles, his words wavering in his throat. “I just couldn’t do it, Eddie,” he cries. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve made you comfortable. I should’ve-- I should’ve told you that I--” he heaves his sobs into the space between his legs, practically bent in half where he’s still crouched on the milk crate.
“I just couldn’t let you go,” Buck says, wiping his sleeve against his nose. Eddie’s leg keeps getting caught in the chain. “I just keep stupidly holding out hope that someday-- that someone will--” Buck lifts his head up, looking at Eddie with bloodshot eyes. He looks exhausted, bone-deep and chilling. “I want to fix you. I want to fix us.”
Eddie’s voice rasps again, guttural. His mind fog is getting worse the longer he’s in proximity to Buck. He wants and wants and wants, an animal instinct he’s never felt before. It scares him. He feels rot drip down his face where his teeth are bared, hissing at his best friend.
Buck’s face is still twisted up in devastation, and he tilts his head curiously at Eddie. “Are you even still in there?” he asks quietly. “Is there any part of you left?”
Yes, Eddie thinks, body halted again and again by the crushing pull of metal. I’m still alive in here.
Buck laughs self-deprecatingly, wiping his sleeve over the wet tracks of his face. “If it weren’t for Chris, I… I think I would’ve let go a long time ago,” he admits. His brows knit together harshly. “It would be so easy. I could just untie you, and--”
Yes, Eddie thinks desperately. He could untie Eddie and let him push Buck to the ground, let him take up the space between his legs and pour his sickness into Buck’s body, one rip at a time. Let him bite and soothe and have his fill of Buck until Buck is no longer himself, until the very fabric of his DNA is changed and they’re exactly the same, sick and shambling and wandering a frozen wasteland. Together. The way they’re meant to be.
Buck shakes his head, dismissing whatever thought he had away. Eddie reaches for him. “I got you some dinner,” Buck says, reaching for the burlap sack. Eddie had long forgotten it, but he’s drawn to it, now, the coppery smell of spilled iron. Buck holds the sack by the closed end, opening the mouth of it, and he’s tossing the contents within Eddie’s reach.
It’s a rabbit, twitching and squeaking around the bolt in its ribs. Its blood is harsh and red against the soft white of its fur, something once so pure and innocent stained by violence.
Eddie is helpless-- he drops to his knees, like a prayer at an altar, and he digs his teeth into that virtuous, pink flesh.
The next time Eddie wakes, he rolls over and empties the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He sobs and shudders as it’s wrenched from his body, until there’s nothing left, just painful cramps and bile and the horrible, devastating memory of ripping and chewing and swallowing.
He doesn’t care what world he’s woken up to this time. He doesn’t care about missing work, whatever job he has, and he doesn’t care about the buzzing of his phone from missed calls and texts. He doesn’t check the news, doesn’t check his calendar, doesn’t read through his texts and e-mails to put the pieces together.
Eddie just curls up in a ball on the bathroom floor, the tile harsh and cold against his knees and through his sweatpants. He bangs his head against the cabinet and tries to forget that awful, awful sickness permeating through his skin, that all-consuming hunger, the way Buck had smelled. The way Eddie had wanted to be near him more than anything. To be a part of him. A part of each other.
He digs through his liquor cabinet, locked tightly to keep Chris out, and he grabs every bottle he can physically carry, locking himself in the bathroom and stretching out pathetically in his tub.
Later, when it’s dark, Eddie ignores the banging on his front door, too, until he’s blissfully blacking out, curled up on his side with his head pressed against porcelain.
He thinks, at one point, that he can hear panicked yelling, the thudding footsteps of boots against hardwood, the crack of splinters where his bathroom door breaks down. He thinks he can feel big hands on his face, running through his hair, two fingers pressed against his pulse.
Eddie doesn’t care, though. His head swims, consciousness flickering in and out. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it.
Eddie dreams about Buck taking care of him. He dreams about echinacea tea and soft white fur and patching holes in his bedroom wall. He dreams about Cap yelling Buck, Eddie, jaws and saws, and he dreams about Buck’s heart flatlining beneath his hands, and he dreams about Buck falling asleep on his couch.
He dreams about being shot in broad daylight. He dreams about his blood, held stubbornly in his body by Buck’s capable hands. He dreams about consuming and being consumed.
Eddie spends the next couple cycles watching time loop movies, as if they could provide the answer, bitter and miserable on his couch. He watches one after the other hoping for a solution, wallowing in his misery alongside Bill Murray’s character, but he thinks he has it worse, somehow. Eddie wishes he could wake up knowing who or where he was, wishes he could accurately predict things like puddles and radio alarms. Instead, he wakes up every day in a panic, his brain still offline, desperately trying to parse information in those crucial ten seconds before he establishes where he is.
And he doesn’t even have a single constant, a person to confide in that’s the same in every iteration. He doesn’t always have Chris; he doesn’t always have Buck. Sometimes they live in other places, El Paso or Hershey or Boston. Sometimes Chris lives with his grandparents; sometimes Chris lives with Shannon. Sometimes, neither of them exist at all. He thinks that might be the worst scenario, worse than an all-consuming sickness.
The movies don’t provide him a satisfying-- or easy-- answer. Sometimes they’re trapped because of a made up sci-fi device; sometimes it’s alien blood; sometimes, all that’s required of them is an epiphany about their life, growing as a person, and he shudders at the idea of being stuck for years, decades even, trapped in a hell of his own stubborn making.
He wants, more than anything, to go home. He wants his Chris and his Buck, his 118. Doesn’t want to be trapped in the body of an alternate Eddie. He wonders just how many alternate realities there are; how many Eddies he has to cycle through to get back home. In the infinitely expanding vastness of the cosmos, unquantifiable and innumerable, he’s afraid the answer may not be one he likes.
He longs for the day he wakes up and doesn’t see Friday at the top of his phone.
Around and around and around again, like the world’s most twisted and sinister rollercoaster. Eddie officially wants off this ride.
The next time Eddie opens his eyes, it’s to the insistent buzzing of his phone on his nightstand. He slaps his arm out, still groggy, and finds the shape of it, squinting at the bright light of his screen. Buck’s contact picture pops up.
“Hello?” Eddie croaks.
“Hey, man,” Buck’s tinny voice greets. “You wanna carpool to the venue today? Parking’s gonna be a nightmare.”
Eddie rubs his hands over his eyes, picking at the crust that’s formed in the corner of his lids. He hasn’t even had a chance to do any snooping, yet, and isn’t that funny, that Eddie still considers it snooping. It’s his own damn phone, his own calendar, his own life.
“Uh, sure,” Eddie says hesitantly. “Just, uh-- remind me where it is, again?”
Buck scoffs, and his phone’s mic peaks against the rush of air. “Oh, how the tables have turned. You hungover, or something?”
Eddie clears his throat. “Or something,” he says vaguely. “Just, uh-- text me the address.”
“You got it,” Buck says. “You want anything from Starbucks?”
Eddie swings his legs over the side of his bed. “The usual?” he says, shrugging to himself. Who knows how Eddie takes his coffee here, but he really, really hopes it’s something with espresso. And some of those egg bites Buck is always getting for him.
“Aye, aye,” Buck says, and Eddie can just picture the corny little two-fingered salute he does. “Don’t forget your good sneakers.”
“Right,” Eddie replies, saying his goodbyes and hanging up. He clicks the link when Buck’s text comes through, and he frowns down at his screen. It’s a music festival-- they’re going to a music festival? At-- Eddie checks the alarm on his nightstand. Nine in the morning?
Sure, Eddie thinks. What the hell else is he going to do with his day?
He stands up to rummage through his closet, hoping this version of Eddie has something appropriate for a festival, when his eyes are drawn to a plastic bag hanging from the center of the rack. When he unzips it, he finds a clean EMS uniform.
Eddie’s mouth scrunches up, and he resists the urge to slap his hand over his forehead. Duh.
This job he knows how to do, at least. Eddie has inflated a balloon in someone’s artery in the back of a speeding ambulance-- he can handle triaging a bunch of tripping college kids. He pulls the outfit on, work pants and sturdy boots and a (probably too-tight) t-shirt. There’s a baseball cap on his dresser, too, and Eddie slips it on backwards, just in case. The weather app warns him that it’s going to be sunny and hot and Eddie knows how brutal it will feel.
He digs through his nightstand to look for a ring. Just in case.
Eddie ducks his head into Christopher’s room when he walks down the hall, and it’s empty but not abandoned. There are fresh signs of life, dirty bowls and an unmade bed and-- whew-- very ripe socks on the floor. Eddie doesn’t hear any other movements in the house, but at least he knows Christopher is around. Just not here, at this very moment.
He sighs in relief.
Buck’s Jeep honks out front, and Eddie grabs his wallet and keys from the bowl by the door. This is good, he thinks. Practically normal. No surprise spouses, no jobs he isn’t trained for. No unexpected hollow feeling in his chest when he realizes someone is missing.
He swings into the passenger seat of Buck’s Jeep, nodding his chin at him in lieu of a greeting. Buck hands him a cup, and Eddie perks up at the smell. “Your caffeine, milord,” Buck says in an exaggerated accent, bowing his head. “And your incredibly demure breakfast.”
Eddie ‘oooh’s and snatches the bag containing his egg bites. They’re the ones with gruyere. “You abuse the word demure,” Eddie accuses, biting into one. He offers the other half of it to Buck, who takes it with a grin and an eyebrow waggle.
“I call it like I see it,” Buck says through a mouthful of food. He pulls out of Eddie’s driveway, resting his arm over the back of Eddie’s seat as he reverses. “Hen texted me earlier and said she and Chim called dibs on med tent duty, so you and I get to hit the pavement.”
“Super,” Eddie sighs. He has a feeling he knows what that will entail; passing out water to drunk strangers and so, so, so much walking. He hopes the shoes he’s wearing are sufficient enough.
Eddie wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. The weather app lied to him. It wasn’t hot, it was fucking scorching. The venue has a hellish layout, no shade and almost no grass, a majority of the water refill stations parked on the opposite side of the stage entrance. The lines for it never ease up, and the duffel slung over Eddie’s shoulder is weighed down by the frankly obscene amount of disposable water bottles he’s carrying.
Buck’s wandered off to go check on a patient, called in by her friend, describing her as, quote, ‘bugging straight balls.’ When asked for a physical description, the friend said, oh, she’s ethereal. She’s glowing. So, Eddie thinks maybe Buck is looking for two patients, actually.
Eddie walks past a guy sprawled out on the ground, his arms and legs spread like a starfish. He stops and backs up a step.
“Hey, buddy, you dying or sleeping?” he checks, tilting his head to get a better look.
The guy cracks one eye open, squinting at Eddie where the sun’s in his eyes. “What are you, a cop?”
Eddie snorts and shakes his head. “Not a cop. I’m an EMT.” He pulls a water bottle out of his bag and shakes it at the guy, like he’s baiting a cat with a feather.
The guy goes to grab it, then pulls his hand back, squinting suspiciously. “Prove it,” he says slowly. His pupils are the size of saucers.
Eddie sighs, annoyed, pointing at the logo on his bag, gesturing to his uniform and his latex gloves and his radio wordlessly.
The guy on the ground nods sagely. “You’re good,” he says, like he’s impressed, grabbing the bottle and slugging it back in big gulps. He nods his chin at Eddie and adds, “hey, do you have a lighter?”
“No,” Eddie deadpans, zipping his duffel back up. He points towards the entrance of the venue and says, “med tents are down that way if you want to lie down somewhere with shade.”
“I like the dirt,” the guy says, laying back down and moving his arms like he’s making a snow angel. “I’m in my element, here. I’m an earth spirit.”
Eddie exhales in amusement. “Okay, well, try being a water spirit for a little while and drink up.”
“You got it, chief,” the guy replies, and Eddie gives him a little salute, wandering back through the mob of people to find Buck.
He scans the crowd, fanning himself with his hat. He definitely did not apply enough sunscreen, and he’s wishing after the fact that he had earplugs. Eddie’s sweating like a nun in a whorehouse, the pits of his t-shirt uncomfortably damp.
He hears Buck before he can see him, the familiar excited cadence of his best friend’s voice. He cuts through a line of people, diagonally across the flow of traffic, and finds Buck with a group of college aged girls.
“Eddie,” he yells with a grin, lifting his forearm up to his face. “Look what I got!”
His wrist is decorated with bracelets, the cheap plastic beads in varying shades of pink and yellow and green. One of the beads is shaped like a white rabbit-- Eddie grimaces at the memory, physically shaking the thought away.
“Oh my god, there’s another one,” one of the girls says excitedly, pointing at Eddie with the hand clutching her water bottle. “Are you real?”
“I am real,” Eddie confirms with a patient nod. “Believe it or not, so are you.” He drops his duffel to the ground, stretching out his sore shoulder when the weight is gone.
“Guys, I’m out of bracelets,” the girl gasps to her friends, her voice genuinely heartbroken. “Do we have any stickers left?”
“I traded them for Sebastian,” her friend says, delicately holding her cupped hand out. It’s one of those toy worms made out of pipe cleaners.
The other girls coo at it, reaching out with their index fingers to stroke its ‘fur.’
“I have an extra,” Buck offers, reaching his hand down to grab Eddie’s wrist. “I can PLUR you.”
Eddie squints and tilts his head at him. “Will this compromise my virtue?”
Buck snorts. “It’s uh-- Peace, Love--” he frowns, crooking his neck in thought. “Uh… what’s the rest?” he quietly says to the girls.
“Unity, Respect!” the girl holding the worm declares.
Buck points a finger at her approvingly. “Yes, that.” He turns back to Eddie with a mischievous grin. “Eddie, will you let me PLUR you?”
The girls giggle behind him. Eddie sighs exhaustedly.
“Do your worst,” he concedes, keeping his hand in the air when Buck pulls his hand away.
Buck walks him through the handshake, pressing their fingers together, then curling their hands into a heart, then finally high-fiving him and intertwining their fingers. Buck pulls a bracelet from his wrist, twisting it over the peak of their knuckles and settling it on Eddie’s wrist.
“Ta-da,” Buck sings, waving his hands joyously.
Eddie ducks his head with a sly grin. “I feel so honored,” he says dryly.
The radio crackles on his shoulder, Chim’s voice calling for their number, and Eddie clicks the button to respond.
“What’s up, Chim?” he says, watching Buck give each of the girls a fresh water bottle. They each gratefully accept one with awestruck eyes, like the concept of water was new and exciting.
“Got our hands full down here,” his voice crackles in response. “Got a few patients if you wouldn’t mind checkin’ em out. Some of them have a serious case of incarceritis.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Copy, we’ll head over now.” He catches Buck’s eyes and jerks his head towards the entrance, back where the med tent is. “Duty calls,” he says.
“Wait!” one girl says, halting Eddie and Buck. “You have to say goodbye to Sebastian.” The girls all nod, the one holding the worm lifting it up higher.
Eddie smirks and shakes his head. Buck hunches down to be eye-level with the toy. “Sebastian, I will never forget you,” he says sincerely, hoisting his duffel over his shoulder and straightening. “Stay hydrated,” he adds with a wave, ducking back into the crowd.
Eddie follows him, hooking two fingers into the strap of Buck’s bag when the flow of people threatens to separate them. The roar of the crowd deafens him momentarily, one act on stage swapping out for the next, and Eddie is briefly grateful for the knowledge that whatever hearing loss he’s inflicted with is temporary. For him, anyway.
They duck into the med tent from the back entrance, ditching their bags and going to the check-in table when Hen directs them there. This is truly basic stuff, just triaging scrapes and bruises, passing out water to dehydrated drunks and directing the truly bad trips to what has been affectionately dubbed ‘the Chillout tent.’ Chim had scoffed and said, we really should call it the Animal Farm. Put a blanket over the cage, and they’re out like a light. Like parakeets.
“Next,” Eddie calls, scratching his pen over his clipboard. He looks up and furrows his brows at the panicked man gesturing wildly in front of him.
“Dude, you gotta help me,” the man says, pupils blown black and voice agitated. “I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something I took.”
Eddie stops and looks the guy over. His skin does look pretty irritated, pink and dry all over. He pulls on a pair of fresh latex gloves and gestures to the man’s bicep. “May I?”
“Please,” the guy nods, holding his arms awkwardly by his sides. Eddie peels up the corner of his shirt sleeve to find white, white skin.
He puts it back in place. “Is it the acid?” the man whispers, leaning his head in conspiratorially.
Eddie looks around, crooking his finger to encourage the guy closer. He cups his hand over his mouth. “It’s a sunburn,” Eddie whispers back. He pats him on the shoulder, pulling it back apologetically when the man hisses from the pain. Eddie crooks his thumb towards the tent. “Ask her for some aloe vera,” he says.
The guy leans over the table to clasp both hands over Eddie’s shoulders. “Dude, you rock, thank you. Last time I ever buy shit from a wook.”
“Anytime,” Eddie says with a pinched smile, stepping back to break the guy’s hold. He shakes his head with a half-concealed roll of his eyes, picking up his clipboard. “Next,” he calls out distractedly, and when he picks his head up he has to smush his lips together to smother his laughter. The guy is obviously a cop, his pristine shoes and expensive watch a dead giveaway, and Eddie raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, really?
“Hey,” the guy says, fiddling with his baseball cap-- another obvious sign. “Uh, I overheard the guy in front of me, and I think I might’ve bought from the same person. Did he say where he got it?”
Eddie purses his lips together. He’s got an annoyed reply on the tip of his tongue when Buck comes up behind him and sarcastically says, “oh, yeah, let me just get that information for you.”
Eddie holds the clipboard out for Buck with a smirk while Buck pretends to read it over his shoulder. Buck nods sagely before pointing down at the paper and saying, “oh, it says right here that he got it from the nunya store.”
“The what?” the cop asks with a bewildered expression.
“Nice try, man,” Eddie says testily. “Ever heard of HIPAA?”
“Seriously,” Buck adds, body still pressed against Eddie’s shoulder.
The cop shakes his head in annoyance, waving them off and turning with a scoffed out, whatever. Eddie does roll his eyes then, and he tilts his head back to jerk his chin at Buck.
“Thanks for the assist,” he says fondly.
Buck claps him on the shoulder, fingers digging in for a quick squeeze, and he says, “anytime, partner.”
The sweetest words he’s ever heard, Eddie thinks, are “you guys can go ahead and pack up.”
“Thank god,” Hen groans, and Eddie nods and groans with her. His feet ache something fierce, his undershirt is soaked through with sweat, and he most definitely has the beginnings of a wicked sunburn crawling up his neck-- only a little sheepish at the fact that he won’t have to suffer the consequences. Sorry, Other Eddie.
“Anyone want to grab a beer?” Buck asks on the way back to the parking lot, and Eddie’s dreaming about an ice cold shower and his bed, but then Hen and Chim both waive Buck’s offer with similar excuses-- sorry, pal, I got a wife and kids at home -- and the words die on his tongue when Buck turns to him with a hopeful expression.
Eddie sighs, hitching his bag up his shoulder where it starts to fall. “Yeah, I could go for a beer,” he concedes.
It’s worth it for the dimpling smile on Buck’s face.
“Cheers,” Buck says, clinking the neck of his bottle to Eddie’s, condensation already making the beer sweat. It drips over the skin of his fingertips, cold and refreshing, and he’s tempted to press the bottle to his forehead-- in the end, his parched throat wins. He tips his own beer back with a nod of acknowledgement, each pull of his throat loud even to his own ears as he chugs it down.
He muffles an unflattering burp and manages a “cheers” back.
Buck laughs into the mouth of his own drink, lower lip catching on the rim of the bottle. He’s flushed, too, from their day in the sun, and Eddie is drawn to the sweat-soaked strands of curls that flop against his forehead.
“Abandoned by our team,” Buck says wistfully. “At least I know who’s really got my back,” he adds sarcastically.
“Because they have lives, and we don’t,” Eddie affirms. “If you had a toddler at home, you would’ve been outta there just as fast.”
Buck squints his eyes at him playfully. “Thank you so much for rubbing it in.”
Eddie grins. “Happy to help.”
The bar is decently crowded, a surge of what Eddie can only guess are hospital employees coming off a shift change, frazzled and tired and looking for reprieve at the bottom of a bottle. He understands that exhaustion deeply-- he also understands the desire to not be home alone with your thoughts after a day like that. He tips his beer back with another hefty swig, and briefly considers if he and Buck should take up a healthier habit to unwind. Yoga, maybe.
The bartender brings over two more beers when Buck raises his fingers. Nah.
Eddie savors this one, the bitter hops bubbling and melting over his taste buds. The muted TV in the corner is playing a hockey game, classic rock playing over the loudspeakers by the empty stage, and Eddie is thankful to be there-- surrounded by people. Better tired and a little sweaty at a bar than home alone, staring up at the ceiling, aching to be back where he belongs.
“Hey,” Eddie says, nudging Buck with his knee. Buck’s eyes dart over to him where they’d been glued to the TV, and he raises a brow in acknowledgment. “If you could have any job in the world, what would you be?”
“What do I wanna be when I grow up?” Buck chuckles.
Eddie shrugs good-naturedly, and his cheeks are starting to hurt where he’s been grinning like an idiot. “Humor me.”
Buck hums thoughtfully, swirling his beer around before taking another sip. “Always thought I’d make a decent cowboy. Maddie used to have this friend who was really into horses, and I used to tag along when they went to the farm they kept it at.”
“Is ‘cowboy’ an official career title?” Eddie teases.
Buck rolls his eyes with a smile. “Ranch hand, whatever you want to call it,” he says, waving his hand dismissively.
Eddie hums playfully. “The elusive L.A. cowboy. Exciting.”
“Well, obviously we’d go to Texas,” Buck scoffs.
He raises his eyebrows. “We?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah,” Buck says. He tips an invisible cowboy hat and thickly drawls, “you’re my partner, ain’tcha?”
Eddie snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Just ‘cause I’m from Texas doesn’t mean I know jack shit about horses.”
“Well, yeah, I’m the horse guy, we established that,” Buck grins. “You can be, like, the face of the farm.” He leans over to squish Eddie’s cheeks, and in a grating voice he obnoxiously adds, “‘cause you’re so handsome.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Eddie manages, teeth whistling where Buck is still smushing Eddie’s face. When Buck releases his cheeks, he says, “so, I’m like a glorified model.”
Buck's eyes light up, and he tilts his head to the side. “Oh, I could be your photographer. Now there’s a lucrative career.”
“I got more skills than just a pretty face, Buckley,” Eddie scoffs.
“Yeah, you’re also a pro at handing out water bottles and band-aids,” Buck teases, flinching and laughing squeamishly when Eddie pokes at his side.
“Keep it up, see if I ever get a beer with you again,” Eddie ribs.
He tosses the rest of his second beer back, his beaded bracelet clacking against the polished wooden countertop, and he’s fighting another belch when Buck says, “so, what about you, then? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Eddie sighs, eyes darting away to the booth in the corner. There’s a group of people squished tightly in it-- co-workers, maybe?-- and it reminds Eddie so fiercely of the 118, of his 118, that it makes his heart hurt.
“I ever tell you I used to do ballroom dancing as a kid?”
Buck coughs, liquid getting caught in his throat where he was mid-sip. “Um-- no, definitely not.”
Eddie flushes, and he hopes it’s hidden by the red stain of his sunburn. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“No, no way, man,” Buck insists. He’s trying to catch Eddie’s eye, but he’s still stubbornly averting his gaze. “Sorry, I was just surprised, is all. Were you, uh… any good?”
“‘Course,” Eddie says confidently. “Took home every trophy.”
Buck exhales softly, and Eddie can see in his peripheral vision that his cheeks are stretched into a smile. “Why’d you stop?”
Eddie chews bashfully at the flesh of his lower lip, cracked from the hot sun. “My parents.”
“They… didn’t approve?” Buck asks carefully, and Eddie can hear the unspoken meaning behind his words.
He shakes his head. “No, they were fine with it. A little too fine with it. They made it all about winning.” He gestures to the bartender that his drink is empty when he catches her eye.
“Ah,” Buck huffs. “Well, I wish I could say I was surprised, but… I’ve met your parents.”
Eddie clicks his tongue. “Yeah,” he says sharply, hackles rising just at the mention of them. Eddie’s used to dealing with his own shame; it’s exhausting having to live with his parent’s shame as well, and the shame that comes with being perceived in that way. Buck knows Eddie’s parents are a handful, and that’s somehow just as worse as having to be their child.
Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, so, I dunno. There was a while there where I thought maybe that’s what I would be. A dancer.”
“I can see it,” Buck says, and when Eddie finally catches his eye his cheeks are dimpling. “I have two left feet, so you’d definitely need a new partner for that.”
Eddie laughs, shaking his head, grabbing his new beer when it’s deposited on the bar in front of him. “Well, hey, I could teach you. I’ve been told I’m an excellent teacher.”
“Then we could go on Dancing with the Stars or something,” Buck declares. “Win a million bucks, buy a beach house in Miami, and retire in glory.”
“You would go absolutely insane,” Eddie affirms. “You’d be a total nightmare with nothing to do. I’d have to enrich you like an exotic pet.”
“I resent that,” Buck scoffs. His brows pinch together in thought and he bashfully adds, “I-I could last, like, at least a month.”
The booth full of people in the corner erupts with laughter at something, bodies bent over with pure joy, faces red and hands over mouths. Eddie’s heart beats warmly.
“You’re right, though,” Buck continues. Eddie looks back at him. “I think I’m pretty happy where I am-- helping people, I mean. I can’t imagine doing anything else. Even if it’s for shit pay. You?”
Eddie looks down the neck of his bottle, at the liquid swirling inside that rests in his belly, warm and bubbly. “I dunno,” he says honestly. “I think-- the job doesn’t matter so much as the people, you know? I can’t imagine…”
“Being on your own?” Buck finishes.
Eddie swallows thickly, throat tight where his Adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
Buck clinks their bottles together and solemnly says, “I’ll drink to that.”
Eddie dreams about pulling a grenade out of somebody’s leg. He dreams about laying one gloved hand over Buck’s, bloody and gentle, carefully guiding him. He dreams about Shannon angrily saying, I needed someone to have my back, and he dreams about telling Buck, you could have my back any day. He dreams about Buck’s responding grin and his, or, you know, you could have mine.
Isn’t that what we all want in a partner? Ravi’s voice echoes. Knowing that they have your back?
He dreams about movies on the couch and weekend hikes and trips to the zoo with his son. He dreams about Buck sleeping in the chair by his bed in the hospital. He dreams about Buck squeezing his hand, and he dreams about pretending to be unconscious so Buck wouldn’t pull it back.
When he pulls up to the station during the next cycle, the first thing he notices are the trailers in the parking lot. There’s also only one engine in the bay, no other trucks or ambulances in sight, and there’s a handful of people running around with clipboards and headphones. When he gets out of the truck, he also notices a craft service table lined up with coffee and pastries, and it clicks for him. It’s a TV set.
No wonder his uniform feels so cheap. Explains the return of the mustache, too.
Eddie pauses and considers turning back around and climbing into his truck, but then Buck spots him from a director’s chair, waving him over. The chair has ‘Buckley’ painted on the back in big bold letters, and there’s a matching ‘Diaz’ one right next to it.
“Hey, man,” Buck greets, holding out a coffee for him. He’s got a lot more tattoos, little designs painted all up and down his arms. Eddie sinks into the chair with a resigned sigh, grabbing it from him.
“Hey,” he says back. His eyes dart around, absorbing every detail it can: the engine looks real enough, despite being obviously empty, no hoses in sight. The place is also immaculately clean, the floor sterile, surface practically reflective. It doesn’t feel lived in, not like the real 118, no resounding clack of the pool table or underlying hum from the TV. No smells wafting from the kitchen or the clinking of forks against porcelain plates.
Eddie takes a sip of his coffee. It’s just how he likes it.
He takes in the faces of the crew members, scanning for the others, and when he doesn’t find them he nudges Buck with his arm and says, “just us today?”
Buck hums, thumbs flying over his phone where he’s still looking down at it. “Yeah, just our scene in the locker room,” he says distractedly. “Did you read the script yet?”
Eddie pauses, a low thrum of panic settling at the base of his spine. “Uh, no, not yet,” he says truthfully.
Buck clicks his phone off, settling it on his thigh where they’re obscenely spread in his chair. Not that Eddie is noticing, or anything. “Good, actually. You should just ad-lib it. It’ll feel more… authentic,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
Eddie squints suspiciously at him. “Why do I get the sense that you’re setting me up for failure,” he says doubtingly. Gun to his head, he could probably pull off ad-libbing. It’s a firefighter show, for god’s sake-- he’s got enough experience to make up the correct jargon. Or at least a close facsimile of it. His acting skills, on the other hand--
Well, he’d seen Buck’s acting on Hotshots firsthand. He was probably fine.
Buck grins at him, loose and easy, his cheeks dimpling. “We’re just giving the people what they want,” he says cryptically. “If you’re nervous or stumbling, that’s even better, actually. They’ll eat up the whole ‘go easy on me’ shtick.”
Eddie’s brow creases together. “The what?” he asks, and he thinks maybe he should dig through his email to find that script after all.
A woman with a clipboard walks up to them before Buck can respond, half of her headphones hanging from her ears. “You guys all set?” she asks, scribbling something onto the paper. “Rest of the crew’s gonna clear out, it’ll just be me and Sam today.”
Eddie’s eyes find her ID, hanging from a lanyard around her neck. It’s got her picture on it, and printed below it is her title: intimacy coordinator.
“Yep, all set,” Buck says confidently, getting up from his chair and slapping Eddie on the shoulder, frozen where his mouth is gaping open.
That-- it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. TV shows and movies use intimacy coordinators for all kinds of things, right? Like intense emotional scenes, or anything potentially triggering.
Damn. Eddie really wishes he’d checked his fucking email.
He should just say he’s not feeling well, to apologize and ask if they can table this scene for another day, but he’s possessed by the curious, insistent tug in his brain, and his mouth croaks out, “all good,” before he gives it permission to.
“Great,” she responds, before thumbing the walkie and telling the director to shoo everyone off the set. Eddie stands up in a kind of haze, nervously following Buck to the locker room. This is still the same, at least, four glass walls and a bench, except now there’s a camera pointed at it. Like, directly at it, hovering over it with an almost bird's eye view.
Eddie’s palms are sweaty. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, Buck leaning casually against the lockers. Buck’s wearing his turnouts, just the pants, suspenders looped over his LAFD shirt, and he tucks his thumbs into his waistband when the director tells them to take their places.
“Action,” the director yells, and Eddie’s heart thumps unsteadily against his ribcage.
Buck crosses one leg over the other, tilting his head at Eddie. “You gave us all a scare today,” he says, voice raspy, and Eddie digs his tooth into his cheek to fight back the smile that threatens to break through. He can’t help it-- it’s just silly, pretending to be serious with his best friend, Buck’s acting merely okay. He’s trying so hard to be intense. Eddie swallows down the amusement bubbling in his stomach, and remembers to maintain eye contact, the camera a weird intrusive presence to his right.
“Sorry,” he says, eyes searching Buck’s for some kind of clue on where the scene is supposed to go.
“Sorry’s not good enough,” Buck says, like a challenge. “The Captain gave you his orders to retreat, and you didn’t listen. You just had to go back in for the girl.”
Eddie exhales quietly, fighting the urge to shake his head. This sounds like a lecture he would be giving Buck, back in the real world-- his world. He summons all his knowledge of Buck’s recklessness, and he shrugs his shoulders, tucking his arms over his chest. “I had to do it,” he says, hoping he’s reading this right. “She could’ve died.”
“You could’ve died,” Buck says harshly, and then he’s pushing off the lockers with one foot, crowding into Eddie’s space. His breath hitches, tilting his head up just a fraction to maintain eye contact. “Are you in love with her, or something?”
“What?” Eddie breathes, jerking his head back. “I-- no,” he stumbles over his words, getting whiplash from Buck’s dialogue.
Buck hums, his tongue darting out to lick over his lips, leaving a shine behind. “That’s what I thought. Because she can’t give you what you need.”
Eddie stumbles back, blinking heavily at Buck’s tone. His back hits the glass wall, and Buck follows him, one hand firmly planted beside Eddie’s head. His breathing picks up, panicky and shaky, when Buck’s other hand moves for his hip, two fingers tugging harshly at a belt loop. “What-- what do I need?” Eddie asks, barely cognizant of the camera moving into a better position.
Buck hums again, thoughtfully, inching his head closer. The rapid puffs of air escaping Eddie’s nose paint over Buck’s skin, bodies pressed tightly together. He can’t breathe . He can’t catch his stupid breath.
“You need a thick cock in you,” Buck rasps, and then he’s tilting his head to stuff his tongue directly into Eddie’s gaping mouth.
Eddie gasps, choking on his saliva where it gets caught in his throat. His face flushes violently at Buck’s words, pulse kicking into overtime, and he’s helpless to do anything but stand there, trapped between Buck’s body and the glass wall. Buck licks into his mouth, curling his tongue over Eddie’s, the hot wet slide of it making Eddie dizzy.
What kind of show is this? Eddie jerks his head away, darting between Buck’s eyes, before he’s drawn to the little LAFD logo on Buck’s shirt. His eyes scroll over the small text printed underneath it: Los Angeles F-- and whoa, okay, the F very decidedly does not stand for Fire.
Porn. They’re-- this is porn.
Buck moves his hand off the wall, tucking his fingers under Eddie’s chin and guiding his eyes back up to Buck’s face. His gut clenches at the look Buck’s giving him, his eyes glassy, the white shine of his teeth where he’s smirking boyishly. He’s heard all the Buck 1.0 stories, seen firsthand the way Buck grins and ducks his head when he’s flirting with someone, but to have it directed at him is making him feel feverish.
“You ever been with a guy?” Buck asks, fingers digging into the thin skin of Eddie’s jaw.
Eddie gulps, and he feels when his throat bobs, dragging against Buck’s palm. “No,” he says truthfully, and his body burns hot with shame.
Buck’s smirk deepens, his teeth dragging over the pink skin of his lip. “My cock’s pretty big for a first-timer,” he says smugly, and it makes Eddie’s gut lurch, makes bile crawl up his throat. His thumb drags over Eddie’s cheek, tucking it into his lower lip where Eddie’s mouth is agape. Every hot breath he pants out hits the skin of Buck’s thumb. “Wanna see it?”
Eddie should call for a cut. He should claim sudden illness and retreat to his truck in a haze of shame and confusion.
“Yeah,” he says instead, eyes darting down to Buck’s crotch. His throat burns every time he swallows.
He feels glued to the floor, helpless to do anything but stare as Buck thumbs his suspenders off, toeing off his heavy boots and letting his turnouts fall to the floor. And-- Jesus, he’s not wearing anything underneath.
Eddie stares as Buck starts to tug at his cock, already half-hard where it lays between his thighs. His thick thighs, Jesus, and those are covered in tattoos, too. Eddie’s chest concaves when he sucks in a breath.
Buck had taken a step back when he’d undressed, but he’s still within arms reach, preening while he stands there in a too-tight t-shirt and socks, pulling at his big cock.
And it is. Big. Eddie tries not to stare, but-- the only other places to look are directly at the camera or into Buck’s searing gaze, so-- so he stares at his cock, instead.
He should go. He should really just walk out the door.
“You like it?” Buck croaks. “It’s a good size, right?”
Eddie’s gut tugs, hot and shaky. “Yeah,” he admits, his throat dry. He swallows thickly. “It looks-- good.”
Buck ducks his head and exhales in amusement, the façade of acting dropped for a genuine smile. Oh, right, Eddie thinks. This is Buck. He feels himself yanked back into reality, the dissociative fog clearing for just a moment, clarity causing his face to flush violently. What the hell is he doing?
Buck’s cock thickens fully, and then he’s holding it against his body, the wet tip pressing into the fabric of his shirt. Eddie licks his lips when Buck smears the tip where he’s leaking.
“Want a taste?” Buck asks, but he’s not really asking, because he takes his precome soaked thumb and drags it over Eddie’s bottom lip. His tongue darts out without his permission, chasing the taste of him, and he shivers at the interaction. The precome smears over his tongue, mingling with his saliva, and every time he swallows his mouth tastes like Buck.
“More where that came from,” Buck promises, his fist tightly wrapped around his cock again. His mouth drops at the pleasure, and Eddie’s eyes are glued to the sight of his tongue, pink and wet where it rests in his mouth. He wants Buck to kiss him again. Not that it had been much of a kiss, Eddie just frozen and confused while Buck fed him his tongue.
Eddie drags his eyes back up to Buck’s, and Buck raises his eyebrows with a grin, pointedly looking at the floor. Oh. He wants Eddie to--
A shudder runs up Eddie’s spine, the nerves flaring hot and tight. His keys. Where’d he put his keys, again?
Eddie helplessly falls to his knees.
“Yeah, look at you,” Buck sighs, stepping closer and spreading his legs wider. Eddie swallows the flood of saliva that swarms in his mouth, the tangy taste of Buck getting more and more faint. Buck’s still fucking his fist over the tip of his cock, and Eddie eyes the way the flush creeps down the shaft. “I knew it from the second we met. You’re just begging to be stuffed in every hole. Right?”
Eddie’s head swims. He feels unsteady, knees pressing harshly into the locker room floor. The porn dialogue is-- it should be cringeworthy. It is cringeworthy. But coming out of Buck’s mouth, directed at Eddie, with that look in his eyes, with that familiar rasp of his voice--
He feels like he used to before a panic attack; the lightheadedness, the way his breath is caught in his throat, the tight, uncomfortable feeling resting just beneath his skin. Wouldn’t that be just perfect, if Eddie just keeled over right now, gasping up at the ceiling while he futilely tried to push back the shame.
He’s not supposed to want this. He’s not-- allowed to want this.
But-- but Buck is-- offering. And-- it’s safe, to want this, in this world. To voice it out loud, under the guise of a script. Like the universe is offering it on a silver platter: don’t worry. There are no consequences here.
Right?
Eddie vows never to tell Buck-- his Buck-- a word of this.
He nods, eyelashes fluttering. “Yeah,” he admits, pulled from his throat by an invisible force. He feels like a spotlight has been cast on him, and he burns with the heat, shudders at the awful humiliation tugging at his gut. “Yeah, I want to be fucked,” he says, voice pitched deep, wavering at the end.
“Knew it,” Buck whispers, and then he’s dragging the tip of his cock over Eddie’s mustache, making the hair damp where Buck’s cock is dribbling. It’s obscene, and Eddie gasps, his mouth dropping open, and then Buck is carefully slotting his tip between Eddie’s lips.
They both sigh at the contact, Eddie’s eyes slipping closed. It’s too much to keep his eyes open, too intense to watch the way Buck’s forehead creases in bliss. He exhales harshly through his nose, tonguing at the wet cockhead in his mouth, and he feels a bit like an imposter in his own body. This wasn’t what they do. Eddie’s not supposed to just-- fall to his knees and suck Buck’s cock into his mouth.
Jesus. He feels himself flush anew, bobbing his head down further and making Buck grunt. This is-- basically a stranger, Eddie tells himself. A stranger who just so happens to look and act and smell and sound like his best friend.
“So fucking wet,” Buck rasps, and Eddie cracks his eyes open, watching the way Buck tilts his head back towards the ceiling. His expression is all screwed up, and it reminds Eddie of the way Buck looks before he’s about to sneeze, and that thought sends a fond pulse to his brain. The back of his skull feels ticklish, warm and fuzzy as he laves his tongue over the fat tip.
Buck’s right hand is still firmly grasped around his cock, the left one laying uselessly at his side, and Eddie feverishly wishes that Buck would grab his hair, would run his thumb over Eddie’s cheeks, his brow, his eyelashes. Buck’s not doing any of that because-- he realizes with a little startle-- it would block the camera’s view.
Eddie shudders, and his mouth vibrates over the cock in his mouth when he groans. This is so, so fucked up. It’s the most fucked up thing Eddie’s ever done. His cock kicks in his boxers, cognizant now of the hard line of it against his thigh. He presses one palm against it, blood sluggishly pooling beneath his hand to fill out the shape of him.
Buck feeds him more of his cock, grinning down at Eddie boyishly. His tongue is caught between his teeth, pink against white. “Yeah, look at you, all pink and pretty,” he gasps, fucking his hips forward in little rocking motions. Eddie whines at the mental image, muffled by Buck’s wet cock. “Haven’t even touched you yet. You’re just that desperate for it, huh? Pretty dick all hard just from me fucking your mouth.”
Eddie grunts, bobbing his head faster. The sounds coming from his throat are obscene, every wet click of his gullet making more blood rush to his cock and his face. It’s almost degrading, if not for the sparkle in Buck’s eyes, the way his gut clenches every time Eddie fucks his throat down.
Buck pulls back with a shift of his hips, a droopy string of saliva still connecting him to Eddie’s lips, and Eddie burns at the sight of it. Buck’s cock is really flushed now, the tip almost purple, and Eddie sits on the ground and pants and stares at it, wet and red and sticky. He digs his fingers into the fabric of his pants, clutching them desperately.
Buck looks down at him with an approving little smile, dropping his cock and moving his fingers towards Eddie’s mouth. He drags his fingertips over Eddie’s swollen lips, and Eddie drops his jaw, letting Buck stuff his middle and ring fingers into his mouth. He gurgles around the intrusion, gagging when Buck’s fingers fuck in deep.
“One cock might not be enough,” Buck says matter-of-factly, and Eddie’s blood surges. He jerks his chin down at Eddie’s dick, the obscene tent of it in his pants. “You wanna show me yours?”
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, garbled around Buck’s fingers, and his fingers fly to his belt. Buck pulls his fingers out of Eddie’s mouth as Eddie fumbles with his zipper, cradling his jaw in one big, warm hand. Eddie finally frees himself, pushing his pants and boxers down in one go, halfway down his thighs. Just enough for his cock to bob free. He sighs when the cool air hits him, reaching for his dick and wrapping his warm fist around it.
Eddie closes his eyes at the sensations he inflicts on himself. He feels so keyed up, goosebumps shuddering down his arms. His knees ache, and his cock is dribbling into his fist, and Buck is cradling his face with a tender touch. Eddie leans into the hand, spreading his legs wider, fucking up into his hand with a pathetic whine.
“Feel good?” Buck murmurs, massaging the hinge of Eddie’s jaw with his thumb.
Eddie’s brows knit together at the timbre of his voice, nodding desperately, mouth open in bliss. “Feels so good,” he admits, his breath hot against Buck’s palm. He lifts his hand up to spit into it, quickly moving it back down to his cock, the sticky spread of wetness easing the harsh pulls. He groans, the noise muffled behind the click of his teeth when he snaps his jaw shut.
“Nice and thick,” Buck says hotly, and Eddie shudders, nodding mindlessly. Buck thinks he has a nice dick, and oh, if that doesn’t tug at his gut. “I’d get it in my mouth if I didn’t think you would come,” he says casually, and Eddie’s thighs clench dangerously, dropping his cock at the dangerous pulse that shoots through him.
Buck laughs meanly, knocking his foot into Eddie’s knee. “That’s what I thought,” he grins. He tugs on Eddie’s chin, tilting his face up, and Eddie blinks his eyes open. Buck’s face is pink, his eyes clear and glossy, and he gives Eddie a salacious little smirk. Buck chucks him playfully under the chin, moving his hand back to his cock, still hard and wet where it bobs between his thighs. “You wanna see if I’ll fit?”
Eddie clenches his teeth together, molars squeaking painfully. “I’ll make it fit,” he responds, and he feels smug when Buck hisses through his teeth.
“Get on the bench,” Buck demands, moving back to give Eddie room, and he stands up on shaky legs, clutching his pants in one hand. He lets them drop when he’s upright, kicking them off, and he pulls his shirt off for good measure. He pointedly ignores the camera for his own sanity, moving over to the bench and lowering himself, bent over for Buck’s viewing pleasure. God, Eddie feels insane. He’s never going to be able to tie his shoes on this bench again.
He feels Buck settle behind him, hands moving to soothe over Eddie’s back. His thumbs dig into the dimples at the base of Eddie’s spine before moving lower, squeezing his ass and spreading him open. Eddie jolts at the feeling, flushing in embarrassment, knees squeezing together with the instinct to cover himself.
“Don’t be shy,” Buck says with a rumble, and then Eddie cries out like he’s been struck, because Buck has just spit down onto Eddie’s hole, smearing the saliva around the rim with his thumb.
“Buck, holy shit,” Eddie breathes, nerves searing up his spine every time Buck runs his digits over that sensitive, private place. He ducks his head down, hanging loose between his shoulders as he pants.
“Not my character’s name,” Buck whispers back, the smile obvious in his voice. “But they can edit that out in post.” Eddie nods, barely acknowledging the words, and then he hears the distinct click of the cap being pulled off a tube of lube. He shifts his knees, preparing himself for the intrusion.
Buck holds him open with one hand, squeezing the lube directly into Eddie’s hole, and he startles at the sensation. It’s-- it’s vulgar, the way the wetness trickles into him, and then Buck is pushing two wet fingers in after it, and Eddie’s brows push together harshly, panting into the wood below him.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his body clenching around the fingers. Buck is not gentle with it, obviously used to-- to doing this with this world’s Eddie, and whoever else he films with. He ignores the way that thought makes his gut rumble with something other than arousal. But Eddie’s never had anything inside him, and Buck doesn’t let up for a single second, digging around in Eddie’s guts like he’s mining for gold.
And he strikes it, maybe, because he drags two fingers over Eddie’s prostate with deadly accuracy, and Eddie moans pathetically, deep and guttural and overwhelmed.
Shit, it’s good. Eddie’s had some good orgasms in his life, sex that’s made him feel floaty and euphoric, but this is a whole other ballpark. God, how has he denied himself of this for so many years?
“Hole’s sucking me right in,” Buck tells him, and Eddie nods emphatically. “Body doesn’t even know what to do with itself. Just needs to be fucked so badly.”
“So badly,” Eddie repeats. He cranes his neck back, and fuck, is that a sight, Buck’s big body behind him, one hand fucking into Eddie and one wrapped gently around his own cock. His eyes drop to his cock with a pointed look, staring at the wet push of it through Buck’s fist. “You-- you gonna fuck me, or what?”
Buck groans, pulling his fingers out of Eddie, and his body flutters around nothing when they’re pulled free. Eddie watches Buck pull his LAFD shirt off, showing off the rest of his tattoos on his chest. He looks away when Buck starts to pour lube over his cock, shivering when he realizes there’s no condom in sight.
He sucks in a breath when he feels Buck slap the head of his wet cock over Eddie’s hole. The sound is filthy, the wet slap of skin on skin. He arches his back, forcing Buck’s cock to line up properly, and he lets out a long groan when the tip finally slips in, the breath punched out of him.
Buck slides in with a moan of his own, open-mouthed and thick with saliva, his hands wrapped tightly around Eddie’s waist. Eddie grunts at the insistent push of him, that never-ending pressure in his body, Buck’s cock big and spreading him obscenely wide.
“Jesus, so big,” Eddie gasps, slumping over when the last inch is inside him. He can barely hold himself up, overwhelmed by the sensation, and he makes a shocky little noise of surprise when he feels one of Buck’s hands slide up his shoulder, tugging him back onto Buck’s cock.
“Fuck,” Buck cries, and he starts up a relentless pace, pulling Eddie back onto him. Eddie’s face screws up in bliss, his body hot and shivery with every push. His gut is like a furnace, churning and boiling every time Buck’s cock drags over his prostate, his cock dripping onto the wood below him.
He feels like a doll, thrown around for Buck’s pleasure, and the thought makes him clench up tight. Fuck, he feels like he’s on fire, his world narrowed down to the echoing slap of their skin, the firing synapses of his brain drowning out every thought that isn’t fuck so big feels so good.
He grunts, body going limp under Buck’s hands, under his strong arms and the incessant push of his hips. “Gonna come,” he manages, and Buck squeezes his shoulder, whimpering pathetically at the wet clench of Eddie’s body.
“Didn’t even need to touch you,” Buck pants, and Eddie groans at the desperate, affected tone of his voice. “Knew you just needed a proper fucking. Show me how good it feels, baby. Dump that pretty, thick come all over the bench.”
Eddie’s body shudders, his muscles locking up tight tight tight , and he’s coming with a gasp, thick spurts of it painting the wood below him. He grunts with every pulse, clenching down on Buck’s cock inside him as he bullies the orgasm straight from Eddie’s guts.
He hunches down further, sucking down air in shivery little gasps, and he makes a horrid little involuntary whine when he feels Buck pull out of him. Eddie ducks his head, pressing it flat to the solid wood beneath him, and he can hear the wet slap of Buck’s hand behind him. He wants to lift his head and watch, wants to see the shiny tip of Buck’s cock disappear into his own fist, but then Eddie jolts as he feels Buck’s come striping his ass. He spasms, groaning pathetically as he feels Buck drag his tip over Eddie’s skin, painting his right cheek and making a mess of him.
Eddie pants harshly, lost in the fog of his intense orgasm, and he feels the shutters of his mind violently re-open when he hears the director yell, “cut.”
He flushes red, his head swimming at the rush of blood and white hot shame. Eddie feels lightheaded, shaky where his body is still slumped over. He thinks he might actually pass out this time.
Buck slaps him on the ass, like they’re football players. They are in a locker room, he thinks pathetically. “Good work, team,” Buck cheers, and Eddie grunts in response. “Wanna go get brunch or something? I’m starving.”
“Sure,” Eddie wheezes weakly. He remains glued to the bench.
Buck nudges his ankle against Eddie’s, boots tipped towards the floor where they’re propped against the footrest of the stool he’s slumped over on. He startles, eyebrows whipping up to his hairline, and Buck says, “are you okay, man? Your eggs are getting cold.”
Eddie clears his throat awkwardly, eyes moving back down to his plate. His fork scrapes unpleasantly over the plastic. “Yeah, yeah,” he lies. He pushes the flat of his utensil against his eggs, watching the yolk ooze out around the prongs. Bleeding out until the rest of his meal is caked in yellow. “Must be coming down with something,” he says, and he thinks of echinacea tea, sweetened with lemon and honey.
“Oh, now you tell me,” Buck teases sarcastically, stabbing into his tower of pancakes. He stuffs them into his mouth, a neat little stack of syrup-soaked triangles, and Eddie’s brain slips back into static.
The diner isn’t too busy. They were cleaning up from the lunch rush when Buck and Eddie had arrived, stealing two stools at the end of the counter. Eddie took the one closest to the wall-- his knee knocks into it now, a solid point of contact where he otherwise feels…
Untethered.
He stares down at his eggs. His fork remains firmly planted in the broken yolk, prongs buried in the flood. There’s a flake of fresh pepper clinging for dear life to the cooked whites, dangling precariously over that vast, vast ocean. How easy it would be for it to slip away.
His stomach churns.
Buck audibly swallows his mouthful of food beside him, lips smacking obnoxiously around the sticky-sweet maple. He bumps Eddie in the shoulder with the back of his hand, firm but gentle. “Hey, seriously,” Buck prods. “What’s up with you?”
Eddie laughs, the nerves making his voice quake. “I, uh,” he starts, frowning at himself. I think I might be going crazy, he wants to say. I think there might be something really wrong. I think I’m stuck.
Instead, he asks, “what’s the worst dream you’ve ever had?”
Buck raises an eyebrow, and his mouth twists, like his tongue is trying to dig food out of his molars. “Like… bad as in a nightmare?” he clarifies, teeth sucking when his tongue breaks free.
Eddie hums an affirmation, his canines digging into the malleable flesh of his cheek. He drags his fork through the spill of yolk, splattering the mess around. Too damaged to put back together.
Buck hums too, deep in consideration. “Well,” he starts, dragging out the L’s. “Once I had a dream that we were caught in a hurricane.”
“We?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah, uh-- you, me, and Chris,” Buck explains. “It was one of those dreams where, like, everything that can go wrong does. Like, the truck ran out of gas, and then our phones stopped working, and then I couldn’t get ahold of Maddie. Just constant stress.”
Eddie’s heart pounds erratically. He exhales roughly through his nose, a facsimile of levity that he does not feel, and his head still feels like it’s swimming. “How did it end?”
Buck picks up his glass of cranberry juice, his big hands dwarfing the tiny cup. “Uh, all my teeth started falling out, and when I pulled over to spit them up into a ditch, the wind swept you guys away.” He tilts his head back to drain the rest of his glass, the sweet, red liquid disappearing down his throat. A trickle of it escapes the corner of his lips, but he wipes it away before it dribbles past his chin.
Eddie manages a real chuckle that time, dropping his fork with a satisfying clatter and digging his thumb into the pressure point above his brow. “Why in god’s name were your teeth falling out?”
Buck snorts, shaking his head and shrugging. “It was a stress dream, man, I dunno. How dare you mock my pain.”
“The mental image of you, completely toothless and gaping up at a flying truck, will keep me going for a while,” Eddie japes, unable to resist poking fun at him. His fingers close around his mug of coffee, ignoring the handle completely. It’s hot where the waitress just topped him up, and the heat burns his fingertips, melting through the calluses to the nerves that lie beneath. Thick skin protecting delicate bones.
Buck grins at him, his cheeks dimpling. “I was completely devastated, you know. First thing I did when I woke up was call you.” His face screws up in thought, and he scrapes at his stubble contemplatively. “Actually, no, the first thing I did was brush and floss.”
Eddie scoffs, raising the mug to his mouth. It’s bitter from the fresh pour, too much coffee and not enough sweetener, but the taste of it grounds him. “So, your worst nightmare was losing me and Chris?” he teases, but--
His breath hitches, face flushing with shame when he thinks about Buck’s lips against the back of his neck, his arm around Eddie’s waist--
He closes his eyes, slamming the bay door of his mind shut. Tucks it away in a box in his mind, stuffs the box into a filing cabinet, pushes the filing cabinet into a dark, cold room full of tripwires.
“Well, yeah,” Buck shrugs, simple and unbothered. Like he doesn’t even have a filing system.
Eddie swallows down the shame, settling in the pit of his stomach, its favorite place to nest. Tight and achy and familiar.
“How about you?” Buck asks. “Worst dream you’ve ever had?”
Eddie’s fingers tighten around the mug. His palm is probably pink where it’s starting to burn, but he doesn’t move his hand away. I’m living in it right now, he wants to admit.
He blinks down at his coffee, the dim, yellow light of the lamp suspended above them reflecting off the surface. Eddie wonders if he’d even find himself reflected back.
He thinks about all the answers he could give Buck, half-truths: A tsunami. A lightning strike. Being shot. Being buried alive.
“One time I dreamt that we were married,” Eddie says instead. He doesn’t lift his head up.
“Ouch,” Buck huffs beside him, his voice still lighthearted. “Your worst nightmare was being my husband?”
“No,” Eddie shakes his head. His jaw clenches tightly, still sore from being pressed open so wide. “It was a nightmare because I-- I didn’t know.”
Buck chuckles nervously beside him, clearly confused. His foot is starting to bounce on the metal footrest below the stool, and Eddie barely resists the urge to drop his hand to Buck’s knee to steady it.
“I don’t get it,” Buck admits.
Eddie picks his head up, catching Buck’s eyes with his own. He feels dissociative, like he’s watching himself from afar, hovering just out of frame. Maybe he is, he thinks crazily. Maybe he’s dead, and he’s witnessing this alternate reality from beyond the grave, a series of what-ifs.
Maybe she felt like she was missing out on a life she could’ve had. If she’d been born someone else, or made different choices. Don’t you wonder about stuff like that? May Grant had once asked him, and Eddie had shook his head and averted his eyes and said, not really. Like a liar.
“It was a nightmare because I… I couldn’t appreciate what I had until it was gone,” Eddie confesses quietly. Another half-truth; he’s getting good at them. But it’s the first time he’s been able to admit it to himself: he misses Buck. He misses Chris. He wants to go home.
“Oh,” Buck breathes, his face falling. “E-Eddie, are you-- are you messing with me?”
Eddie tilts his gaze down to Buck’s chin. “No,” he starts, and then his brows furrow together tightly. “I don’t know.”
The bell above the door chimes. Eddie shudders, a small shock up his spine, dragged back into his body. He’s hyper-aware now of all his senses; the scratchy cotton of his henley, the smell of hash browns in the kitchen, the sour aftertaste of coffee thick on his tongue. The grating sound of his and Buck’s breathing. The clear, blue eyes darting back and forth between his own. The ache in his lower back.
“Eddie,” Buck says, firm but quiet. They’re alone in their little corner. “Do you-- want me? Do you want us?”
Eddie’s jaw tingles, the sensation crawling up his cheek, resting in his sinuses. He’s not crying, but his waterlines feel embarrassingly hot. “I don’t know,” he bites out. I want to go home, he wants to say, like a petulant child.
Buck sighs, lifting a hand as if to press it to Eddie’s cheek, but he aborts the gesture halfway through. Eddie’s chest feels tight. He hates himself for the small, insecure look on Buck’s face. He doesn’t want to be cruel. But he’s being cruel, isn’t he?
Buck awkwardly rests his hand on his own thigh, fingernails scratching over denim. “Well, let me know when you do,” Buck just says, digging into his hoodie pouch for his wallet, fumbling for a twenty.
Eddie’s helpless to just sit there and watch. Another Buck who resigns himself to put his own wants aside. Eddie prefers when Buck pushes back, forcing Eddie to confront his own feelings, dragged out of his throat by an invisible fist.
Eddie wishes it wasn’t like that. He wishes he could just say it out loud.
But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants, what he feels, not until someone is backing him into a corner. Maybe that’s what this is; the universe backing him into a corner.
The wall beside him feels closer. He feels boxed in; claustrophobic.
Buck squeezes Eddie’s knee, giving him a half-hearted smile. “Text me later, okay?” Buck mutters, standing from his stool and grabbing his keys.
Eddie nods dazedly, a stranger in his own skin. “Okay,” he rasps, and he thinks about Buck’s lips on his own, and he thinks about Buck’s lifeless body in that hospital bed, and he thinks about smashing his own bedroom to pieces.
The doom is swirling so thickly in his brain that he misses when Buck leaves, the chime ringing above the door, leaving Eddie cold and panicked and alone.
Eddie knows one thing that he wants: he wants to go home.
He drives around numbly for a while, eyes a blank stare, the road and traffic before him unseen. His gut aches where the anxiety rests, quivering and deadly. It’s like a Sisyphean boulder inside of him, cursed to keep rolling back down to the bottom of the hill. One must imagine Sisyphus happy, he thinks bitterly, foot planted on the gas pedal. Eddie doesn’t even know what that looks like for him, anymore.
Eddie thinks about being nineteen years old, about the disquieted expression on Shannon’s face when she holds up the positive pregnancy test. He thinks about their church pastor’s insistence on a wedding before the baby is born. He thinks about trying on suits, blue and black, and his mother saying, the navy really brings out your eyes.
He thinks about throwing his college applications into the garbage can in his bedroom, stuffed with wrappers and empty soda cans and used tissues.
He thinks about the flight to Afghanistan. He thinks about watching Christopher grow up through the screen of an iPad, the melancholy making his throat tight.
He thinks about Shannon’s one sentence note on his nightstand. He thinks about the way he’d finally, miserably, followed. Eddie had always harbored that resentment towards Shannon inside of him, a writhing pustule of bitterness that just grew and grew and grew, eating him up until only guilt remained.
How could she leave them, so selfishly? How dare she just…
Make a decision for herself. Choose, of her own free will, what was best for her.
It’s unfair. It’s all just so unfair.
He thinks about Buck. He thinks about the anxious pounding of his brain as Buck had pushed his tongue into his mouth, not tasting the crisis that lay thickly behind Eddie’s teeth. The way he’d finally, selfishly, accepted something for himself, only for his gut to continue aching even hours later.
Maybe this is a punishment. He chooses joy, just a small lick of it, and his reward is shaky hands gripping the steering wheel, blindly speeding down the highway.
He thinks about Buck fucking him. He thinks about the way his body lit up at every filthy word, degrading and praising and so, so sweet. He thinks about the small, hopeful look on Buck’s face when he’d said, do you want us?
Eddie’s gut roils violently, and he swiftly pulls onto the shoulder of the freeway, cracking his door open to empty the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. The bile and the eggs have mixed harmoniously, and he stares at the splatter of it while his chest heaves. He thinks of the eggs, once so delicate, safe inside their shell. Cracked open into a sizzling pan, the yolk broken by Eddie, staining the inside of him.
Eddie hates change. He doesn’t know what the world wants from him. He doesn’t want to crack his shell any further, but he can feel the way everything is spilling out.
The breeze blows across his skin, his eyes shut, slumped over as far as his seatbelt will allow him. He fumbles for his phone, resting in the cupholder of his truck, and he opens his thread with Buck.
I’m sorry, he types. I didn’t mean to make everything weird. I still need time to figure myself out.
Buck opens the text instantly. Eddie swallows down the acid lingering in his throat, watching the bubbles pop up, and he pinches his brows together when Buck replies, take your time, Eddie. I’m not going anywhere.
When Eddie falls into bed that night, he finds himself conflicted, both mourning and dreading the reset. His only comfort? That tomorrow, Buck won’t remember the way Eddie’d cracked his chest open. He won’t ever see this Buck again. He wonders if he’ll ever see his Buck again.
The next time he wakes, the sun seems a little gentler where it streams through the crack in his curtains, a bright light coaxing him into wakefulness. His pillow is cool against his face, cheeks still warm with sleep, and the residual anxiety from yesterday (or today, he should say. It’s still today) has cooled a bit, the boiling in his stomach now a low simmer.
He sighs, eyes still closed, stretching out on his back. He should move; should get up and investigate his phone and his emails and his calendar. Should do something about the aching fullness of his bladder, at the very least.
Maybe he’ll stay home today. Maybe he’ll fall right back to sleep, uncaring about his responsibilities. Maybe he’ll sleep until noon and get a latte and a breakfast sandwich delivered to his house.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Eddie blearily cracks one eye open to read the text that just came through.
[Buck 7:48] Rise n shine ☀️
[Buck 7:48] They’re out of that horseradish cream cheese u like. Is scallion cool instead?
Eddie smiles at his phone, the heaving sigh he releases making the tension melt out of his body. From down the hall, he hears Christopher’s door open, his crutches marking every step he makes towards the living room.
Scallion’s good, he replies, and then adds, and maybe something for Chris?
Way ahead of you, Buck sends back.
Eddie resigns himself to getting dressed. He’s, perhaps irresponsibly, going in blind; but maybe, this one time, he can just follow Buck’s lead. He can pretend, just for a day, that everything is normal.
And when he and Chris load into Buck’s Jeep, graciously accepting the breakfast he hands them while Buck and Chris launch into a heated debate about Green Day versus Weezer, Eddie feels settled.
He’d forgotten to look in his nightstand for a ring, but the gooey look on Buck’s face when they watch Christopher walk into school assuages any fears. Buck’s heart belongs to the Diaz boys, just like theirs belong to him.
For right now, it’s enough.
The worlds come and go, Eddie caught in the wheel of time. One where he still works at dispatch. One where he’s a triage nurse. One where Buck and Maddie still live in Pennsylvania. One where Christopher was never born. Most of the time, he’s still a firefighter, exactly where he should be, but never one that feels like a fulfilled life.
Despite the differences big and small, Eddie can’t help but feel like something is always missing. No world feels as normal and settled as that first one had.
And it did. Feel normal. It felt right, letting Buck take care of him. Letting Buck love him. It’s a terrifying thought, but really-- it hadn’t been all that different from his normal life.
He lies in bed before sleep and wishes, desperately, for a miracle.
He dreams about Buck touching him. He dreams about Buck cooking breakfast for his son and making him tea and hooking one hand around his waist. He dreams about Buck bumping Eddie’s fist with his own. He dreams about the life they’ve crafted together, comfortable and routine.
It’s spine-chilling. It’s heart-warming. His gut hurts; his heart yearns. He wants his space, overwhelmed by the idea of a Buck and an Eddie who are a Buck-and-Eddie.
It all feels just within his grasp, but every time he wakes it slips through his fingers like smoke. That smoke curls in his lungs, a vapid reminder of everything he can’t have, and Eddie chokes and chokes on it. He needs a break. He wants to go home.
Eddie feels strange the next time he wakes.
Physically, he seems fine. There are no obvious wounds, no pronounced symptoms of illness like a fever or a cough. He feels kind of chilly, actually, despite being buried in his comforter. The room is blanketed in darkness, the windows covered in blackout curtains that are new. He’s a bit peckish, too, but nothing life-threatening.
Sometimes it’s just like that, he finds; sometimes he just wakes up in a body and feels sort of off.
But Eddie can deal with being a little tired. He’s dealt with worse before.
He does his usual sleuthing, scrolling back through emails and texts and appointments in his virtual calendar. He’s still at the 118, at least, and he’s got a shift today, which is all he needs to know.
He can deal with any curveballs as they come.
Buck’s hounding him as soon as he comes up the stairs to the station’s loft.
“Eddie,” he says, almost nonchalant, if not for the obvious gulp in his throat. “How are you feeling?”
Eddie’s brows raise on his forehead, knitting together. “Fine?” he offers. He walks past him to wander towards the kitchen, poking his head down into the fridge and praying for something with his name printed on it.
“Are you hungry? I could make you something,” Buck rushes out.
Eddie peers at him over the top of the fridge door, squinting skeptically. “Dude, you’re being weird today.” He’s bristling a bit at the attention from Buck, viscerally and uncomfortably aware of himself, now, in a way he doesn’t enjoy. He tries to remind himself that this Buck has no idea what transpired that day in the locker room- and isn’t it odd, the way he’s a little more embarrassed about what happened at the diner than the locker room?
“Sorry,” Buck says sheepishly, wringing his hands together. “Seriously, though, let me, like, make you an omelet or something.”
Eddie sighs, throwing his hands up in concession. “Well, I won’t say no to free food.”
He wanders over to the couch to join Chim and Ravi’s card game, his eyes surreptitiously glancing to the morning news playing on the TV. Nothing new or world-shattering, no plagues or wars or impending natural disasters. For all intents and purposes, it’s a quiet news day. Still just that damn moon.
Chimney whistles at him to get his attention, and Eddie startles. “Earth to Eddie,” Chim says firmly. “It’s your turn.”
Eddie blinks. “Oh. Sorry.” He looks down at the cards in his hand. “Do you, uh… have any sixes?”
“We’re playing Gin,” Ravi points out.
Chimney tilts his head at Eddie. “You feelin’ alright?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Eddie spits, a little testy. He sighs, his leg jittering slightly. “I’m-- fine. Just a little under the weather,” he murmurs.
“Maybe you should go hit up the bunkroom,” Chimney suggests, snapping his gum. “You look pretty drained, man.”
Eddie nods in acknowledgement, slapping his cards facedown on the coffee table. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, and he’s about to push up from the couch when Buck reappears with breakfast.
“Bon appétit,” Buck says, brandishing the fork with a flourish and a proud smile on his face. “That bad boy is jam packed with good stuff. Spinach, tofu, sun dried tomatoes.”
“And once again, the rest of us are left to pitifully starve,” Chim teases, grinning cheekily at Buck.
“Hey, I owed him one,” Buck defends. “Next time you do something nice for me, I’ll make you any kind of omelet you want.”
“I want that in writing,” Chim says seriously, pointing a finger at his face.
Eddie shakes his head in amusement, digging into the hot food on his plate. He has no idea what Buck owed him for, but he’s happy to get the spoils of another Eddie’s hard work, the eggs perfectly fluffy and salty.
“Thanks,” he says sincerely, half-muffled while he chews through tomatoes. “Nothing for yourself?”
Buck’s brows furrow, just slightly, and he tilts his head at Eddie. “I’m, uh-- not hungry,” he says, his eyes cutting to Chim and Ravi on the couch. “I’ll eat later.”
Eddie hums, cutting his fork for another piece. “Come over after shift, I’ll whip something up for us,” he says, a peace offering-- for himself, too. A reminder that things are normal. Aside from the whole interdimensional travel and temporal time loops.
Buck’s mouth gapes open, just a fraction. “I-- really?” he asks. “I-I just mean, uh, I just had dinner at your place last night.”
Eddie frowns, leveling Buck with a no doubt incredulous expression. “There a statute or something I don’t know about?” he says after he swallows, his brows still pushed together high on his forehead.
“No, no,” Buck says quickly. “I’ll be there.”
“Great,” Eddie says definitively. He parses through his memories to recall what he’d seen in the fridge at home. “Steak cool with you? You still like yours rare?”
Buck snickers, slapping his hand down on the couch cushion before he turns to leave. “The rarer the better,” Eddie hears him mumble.
Their shift is, by all means, a normal one, and Eddie is grateful for the reprieve. He can pretend, just for a moment, that everything is fine; that he won’t toss and turn in his bed tonight with anxiety, wondering what awaits him come morning.
It’s nice.
Buck follows him home in the Jeep (or, rather, Eddie follows him, and he tries not to notice every time Buck checks his rearview mirror when they’re stopped at a red light). The sun is setting when they get off work, and it's dipped below the horizon by the time they pull into Eddie’s driveway, the skyline painted a dusky orange color. Eddie is exhausted, feet dragging as they make their way to the door, but Buck seems oddly perky next to him.
Eddie fumbles with his keys, heaving a sigh of relief when he finally gets the door open, dropping his bag with a satisfying thud right by the entryway. He kinda regrets agreeing to cook them both steaks, wishing he’d had the foresight to say he’d order a pizza, instead. He turns to ask Buck if he’s down with the change of plans when he notices Buck hovering outside, wringing his hands together nervously, the door still wide open.
Eddie puts his hands on his hips. “Dude, come in and shut the door before mosquitos get in,” he sighs. Whatever weird thing is going on, he doesn’t want to know. He really doesn’t. He wants to order a pizza (large, pepperoni and parmesan, extra black olives), and he wants to crack open a beer, and he wants to pass out in his bed before ten o’clock like the senior citizen he deserves to be. And he does not want any weirdness from Buck. He needs normality now more than ever, or he might have a nervous breakdown.
Buck complies, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind him. He clears his throat awkwardly. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asks nervously.
Eddie’s brows furrow together, rising high on his forehead. “For… dinner?” he clarifies, head tilting minutely. He has no idea what he’s missing here.
Buck gulps. “Yeah. I-I just mean-- you seem kinda tired.”
Eddie’s forehead creases further. “Dinner will probably help with that,” he says, his tone saying, duh.
Now Buck’s the one who looks confused. “Uh-- mine won’t,” he says cryptically.
Eddie shakes his head incredulously. “Buck, what am I missing here,” is what he says, but what he really means is, what the fuck are we talking about.
Buck moves closer, eyeing Eddie up and down, like he’s looking for something. “Did you-- hit your head, or something?”
“No?” Eddie blinks, and then his eyes widen when Buck leans in and smells him.
“You smell kinda off, but not injured or anything,” Buck says, like that explains anything.
“I smell--” Eddie cuts himself off, shaking his head with disbelief, and he watches helplessly as Buck moves to the couch, heaving his body onto it with a sigh.
“I don’t have to eat, Eddie, it’s fine,” Buck reassures, moving to grab the remote, and Eddie remains glued to his spot on the floor, hand still firmly planted on his hips. “I’ll be good for a few days.”
“A few-- Buck,” he chastises, moving to swipe the remote out of Buck’s hand, muting the TV. “You can’t go a few days without eating, Buck, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Buck frowns and shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done it before,” is all he offers in response.
Eddie’s starting to feel like a bobblehead. He tuts disapprovingly, moving to sit next to Buck on the couch, and he pulls his phone out. “I do not have the bandwidth to unpack all of that right now. I’m ordering a pizza, and you’re gonna eat, and that’s the end of the story,” he says firmly, pulling up a delivery app.
Buck’s mouth scrunches up awkwardly, and all he says is, “okay.”
When Eddie finishes placing the order, he throws his phone down onto the coffee table with a little flourish. “There,” he says testily. “Pizza on the way.”
Buck nods, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Alright. I’ll-- be quick,” he says.
“What?” Eddie asks dumbly, and then Buck is pulling Eddie’s wrist towards his mouth and--
Eddie yelps, two sharp pinpricks of pain. Buck is-- biting him.
Not just biting him. He’s-- he’s drinking Eddie’s blood.
He jerks automatically, attempting to rip his arm away from Buck’s teeth, but Buck has a solid grip on his flesh, holding him in place. His heart rate skyrockets, no doubt pushing the blood into Buck’s mouth faster, and Eddie feels dizzy at the way Buck is-- is gulping, Jesus Christ.
Buck’s eyes are half-lidded, his body draped over Eddie’s arm, but Eddie can see the color of them; two pools of inky blackness, even the sclera, the familiar blue hue of his irises long gone. Eddie wonders if Buck can taste the fear in his blood, the primordial human instinct of self-preservation. The fundamental animal intuition to run from a predator.
Eddie shivers, the blood pooling out of his wrist, and Buck doesn’t miss a single drop. His skin feels itchy and warm, his ears ringing, his brain static between his ears.
Buck pulls off of him with a wet little schick, and Eddie’s gut clenches at the sight of his fangs, sharp and blood soaked. Buck runs his tongue over them, cleaning off the dripping blood, and then he’s ducking forward to run that tongue over the puncture wounds on Eddie’s wrist. Eddie feels faint, sitting there glued to the couch, while Buck cleans up his mess. His tongue, pink and wet and warm, lapping at his wounds until they stitch together unnaturally fast.
Eddie’s chest heaves, his muscles locked up tight, and he watches Buck’s eyes fade back into their normal color, blue on white. His fangs withdraw as well, back into his gums. By all means, he looks like Buck again, if not for the red smear of Eddie’s blood on his mouth. A thin trickle of it trails down from the corner of his mouth, and Eddie deliriously remembers the droplet of sweet cranberry juice as Buck wipes it away with the back of his hand.
He’s frozen in his spot on the couch, eyes unblinking as he watches Buck wipe up the mess with his tongue. He’s still holding Eddie’s wrist, the wounds now closed, and when he looks at Eddie he feels his whole body startle violently.
“Buck,” he rasps weakly. His heart is still pounding in his chest, the erratic thumping against his ribcage making his whole body warm. “Buck, you--”
His mouth gapes. He doesn’t even know what to say: what was that? Are you even human? How long have you been like this? How long have I been letting you do this?
Buck takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Eddie. I don’t wanna-- take too much, since I just ate. But it really helps.”
Eddie blinks. Buck is still holding his arm, and he’s digging his thumbs into Eddie’s flesh now, massaging his stiff hand and forearm. “You didn’t take too much,” he says quietly. Buck’s eyes sear into his own like a physical sensation, and Eddie remains still, like a deer caught in headlights. Quiet and motionless; like Buck can’t see him if he doesn’t move.
“No?” Buck asks carefully. His thumbs rub over the now-healed puncture marks, and Eddie imagines his blood rushing out of them, warm and thick over Buck’s fingers. His life pooling into Buck’s hands.
“No,” Eddie says. “If you-- if you need more…” he trails off.
“Yeah?” Buck says, inching closer. Eddie’s breath gets caught in his throat.
He shivers, goosebumps breaking out all along the back of his neck, a stubborn itching sensation crawling up into his brain. He’s tingling, brain going a bit fuzzy at the feeling. “Yeah.”
Buck ducks his head in, rubbing his nose along the line of Eddie’s throat, pressing along his carotid. He gulps at the feel of Buck’s breath on his skin-- how had he not noticed how cold he was?-- and his body shudders when Buck whispers, “you smell scared.”
“I am,” Eddie answers honestly. “You’re-- a little intimidating like this.”
Buck pulls his head back to make eye contact. His brows pinch together when he says, “I would never hurt you, Eddie.”
Eddie’s eyelids flutter, and he nods rapidly. “I-- I know. I know you wouldn’t. I know that you’ll take care of me.” It’s an easy truth that slips from his lips without thought-- he knows, whether it’s… this or any other situation, that he and Buck have each other’s backs.
Buck’s eyes fade back into black, his mouth dropping open. Eddie jumps when his fangs drop, the warmth in his body pooling at the base of his spine. Buck’s nostrils flare, just a fraction, and his voice is raspy and deep when he says, “you’re getting hard.”
Eddie shifts against the couch, coming back into his body a bit. He hadn’t even noticed, truthfully, but-- Buck is right. His blood feels thick and sluggish where it's coursing through his veins, his cock starting to thicken in his jeans, toes curling against the rug.
“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, face flushing at the embarrassment of getting caught. “Sorry.”
Buck scrambles for Eddie’s belt buckle.
“Fuck,” Eddie whispers, leaning back against the couch with a grunt. He lifts his hips up when Buck prompts him to, letting his jeans get dragged down to his ankles, and he gasps when Buck’s knees hit the carpet.
“Eddie,” Buck whispers, words slurred around the fangs protruding from his lips. He closes his eyes and leans forward, nuzzling at the bare skin of Eddie’s knee, the dull edge of his teeth scraping over his thighs.
Eddie gasps at the sensation. His adrenaline spikes at the sight, a predator on his knees before him, soft pink lips pressing wet open-mouthed kisses into his skin. It makes his cock throb. Buck pulls his jeans completely off, cupping Eddie’s ankle tenderly while he pulls his feet through the leg holes, and then he’s draping Eddie’s leg over his shoulder.
Fuck. Eddie swallows down another pathetic gasp, spreading his other leg wide, letting Buck bully his way between his legs. His nerves feel like a livewire, jumping at every touch, that little thrill of fear still buzzing its way up his spine every time he gets a glimpse of Buck’s teeth or his eyes. Fear, arousal, need, anxiety-- they all swirl in his mind like a hazy miasma, a deadly cocktail of hormones making him feel dumb and drunk.
And they haven’t even really done anything yet. Maybe Buck is making him like this-- some sort of venom, or a pheromone he’s giving off. It’s an easier explanation than the obvious one: that Eddie really just is that desperate for Buck’s hands on him. It’s like a floodgate has been opened, and now Eddie has gotten a taste, he just wants .
Buck clearly wants a taste too, Eddie’s knee draped over his shoulder as he mouths his way up his thigh, sharp teeth dragging over plush skin. Eddie’s breathing heavily now, ribcage too big and oppressive where it rests in his chest, and he fights to catch his breath when Buck noses at the seamline of his boxers. He pushes the fabric up gently, nosing ever closer to Eddie’s pulsing cock, when he sinks his teeth into the flesh of his thigh.
“Shit,” Eddie gasps, body jolting at the quick pinprick of pain. The leg draped over Buck’s shoulder kicks out in surprise, his ankle falling back against Buck’s back with a dull thud, drowned out over the enthusiastic grunts falling out of Buck’s mouth as he gulps down more of Eddie’s blood.
It’s almost unseemly, the veritable lack of shame coming from Buck-- the way he slurps at Eddie’s skin, tongue and plush lower lip catching any drops that manage to escape. There aren’t many, despite the heavier flow from Eddie’s femoral artery, every heartbeat pulsing blood straight down Buck’s parched throat. Buck is careful to catch it all, mouth vacuum-sealed around Eddie’s thigh, bruising the tender flesh as Buck devours him. Like a soft peach, Eddie thinks deliriously, his clothed cock still tenting his boxers. Succulent and juicy.
Eddie tangles his fingers in Buck’s curls, tilting his head back against the couch, mouth dropping open. His brows push together at the vibration of Buck’s voice against his thigh, the tremors of his shameless moaning tickling Eddie’s cock and making him squirm against the cushions.
Buck’s cheeks are pink, no doubt flushed from the fresh supply of blood in his body, and the hand on Buck’s scalp tightens dramatically. Buck just groans at the sensation, nuzzling closer to Eddie’s skin as if he could bury himself deeper.
Eddie swallows down his shame and croaks out, “tastes good?”
Buck’s brows sink pathetically, and he grunts against Eddie’s thigh, lips stained a devastating scarlet. Eddie’s eyes dart down to Buck’s lap, and he feels a fresh wave of heat at the thick press of Buck’s cock straining against his zipper.
“Ugh,” Eddie grunts, draping his other leg over the unoccupied shoulder, dragging Buck impossibly closer. Both of Buck’s arms wrap around Eddie’s thighs, pulling Eddie to the edge of the couch. Eddie sucks a breath in-between his teeth with a sharp inhale, and he fumbles out, “makin’ me wanna come.”
Buck groans into Eddie’s skin, pulling his fangs free quickly and without remorse. Eddie startles at the feeling, like an IV ripped out of an arm, and he clumsily moves to press his fingers to the still open punctures in the fat of his thigh. He smears the mess around, the wounds still bleeding sluggishly, and Buck gasps, “let me. Please, Eddie, let me make you come, I can make you feel so good.” His fangs are still coated in Eddie’s blood, thick red drops of it dripping down onto the couch, and Eddie’s abdomen clenches when Buck’s tongue runs over them. Eddie kind of wanted to clean them off for him.
“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, eyes screwing shut at the hot, shivery feeling making its home in his gut. “Already makin’ me feel good.”
He opens them again at the sensation of Buck’s tongue licking between his fingers, lapping up every bit he can. He tentatively pushes his fingers into Buck’s mouth, running the tip of his index finger over the smooth enamel of his fangs. Buck’s still licking at Eddie’s thighs, lips held open around the weight of Eddie’s fingers, and the drool that slips out is tinged pink. He doesn’t gag when Eddie pushes down on his tongue, the skin of his knuckle scraping the bottom of one sharp tooth and slicing the thin skin open.
It doesn’t remain open for long, Buck’s stained tongue lapping over the scrape to stitch it back together. The wounds on Eddie’s thighs are closed, the skin sticky where Buck had wetly laved over them, his drying spit leaving an uncomfortable, tacky film behind. It makes Eddie squirm, especially when Buck leans back into to nose at Eddie’s cock through his boxers. His stomach jumps at the touch, his fingers grabbing Buck’s curls with a too-tight grip. Buck doesn’t complain.
“I can taste it, you know,” Buck mutters. He mouths at the fabric, his lips pillowing over Eddie’s fabric-covered cock. When Eddie grunts in response, he clarifies, “in your blood. I can-- fuck, Eddie. I can taste it in you. How wet you’re getting for me.”
“Jesus,” Eddie hisses, arching towards Buck’s mouth. He shudders at the heat that’s pouring into him, near woozy at the insistent throb of his cock, jolting when Buck runs his tongue over the head. “Buck, c’mon, just--” he cuts himself off, lifting his hips up to encourage Buck to remove Eddie’s boxers.
And he does-- lightning fast, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Eddie thinks he does miss it, because one second he’s clothed, and the next he’s completely bare from the waist down while Buck’s mouth descends towards his cock.
The problem, Eddie thinks, heart pounding dangerously in his chest, is that Buck’s fangs are still out, and they’re inching closer to his--
“Whoa,” Eddie cries, yanking Buck’s head away where he’s still got his fingers tangled in his hair. His eyes dart frantically back and forth between Buck’s teeth and his own cock. “You’re not, uh-- you’re not really going to--”
Buck grins, a smug little gesture, and in a deep voice he says, “hold still, Eddie.”
“Oh, fuck,” Eddie whispers to himself, hips jutting upwards. He pants harshly, chest concaving at the uneven way he sucks in air, and he holds still for dear life while Buck’s mouth inches closer. His skin crawls, like hordes of bees fluttering just under the surface, and his mouth drops at the feel of Buck’s wet tongue at the base of his cock.
Fuck, but that feels good, Buck’s tongue flat and firm where it laves over his throbbing dick, sending waves of electricity through his nerves. Eddie’s cock feels nice and full now, pulsing with heat at the teasing promise of wetness and suction, and his eyes flutter shut at the ghosting sensation of Buck’s lips over the head of his dick. And then--
Eddie hisses between his teeth, startling at the quick flash of pain. His cock had jumped at the feel of warm lips, pulsing up towards Buck’s mouth, and--
Eddie looks down at his dick, a thin red line where Buck’s tooth had scraped him. He should-- that should’ve ruined the moment, but--
But then Buck leans forward with a groan, lapping over the wound with his eager, pink tongue, and all the air is punched out of Eddie’s lungs.
“I don’t-- I don’t think I can stay still,” Eddie gasps, voice wet and sticky where he’s been swallowing thickly. He squirms at the frantic slurping coming from Buck’s mouth, his body unsure whether to back off or move closer. Like most things with Buck, Eddie thinks humorlessly.
Buck looks up at him from his spot on the floor, eyes still swallowed by darkness, and he says with a husky voice, “I could-- make you stay still.”
A ticklish heat curls in Eddie’s gut, something that feels forbidden. Goosebumps wash over the back of his neck, and he asks, “make me?”
Buck nods, mouth still dropped open, his tongue running over his own fangs. “With my powers. I could force you to-- to stay still. If you wanted.”
“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie breathes, eyes pinching shut at the idea. It’s filthy, and terrifying, knowing he’d be completely helpless at the mercy of-- of a monster--
But. It’s also Buck. His Buck. Trust isn’t even a question-- not even a part of the equation. So, naturally, in his euphoria, he just nods and whispers, “okay.”
Buck sits up straight, leaning into Eddie’s space with one possessive hand cupped around his jaw. Buck looks at him dead-on with those eyes, those murky black eyes, inhuman and unflinching, but-- up close like this, they’re actually kind of… pretty. Mysterious and cosmic, like an empty galaxy. Eddie finds he can’t really look away, actually, even if he wanted to, and he feels the ghost of something curl around his ears and into the base of his spine. Like smoke, slipping between your fingers.
“Don’t move,” Buck says, and his voice booms with authority, almost echoing around Eddie’s skull. Eddie goes to nod and finds he can’t.
Oh, he thinks as Buck moves back down to Eddie’s lap. He can breathe, he can blink, he can move his eyes, but-- he’s paralyzed, otherwise. His blood is pleasantly warm, despite the low thrum of panic, and he feels hazy around the edges, like everything is blurred.
“Fuck, Eddie, can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” Buck gasps, hands smoothing over the sensitive skin of Eddie’s thighs, and then he’s ducking his head down to stuff Eddie’s cock in his mouth.
Fuck, god, so wet, Eddie thinks, jaw held shut by an invisible force. He’s sweating now, thin lines of it trickling down his forehead, and the pressure building just below his navel throbs weakly. He’s so used to being in control, that to give it up freely, to have it taken from him, and be given this level of affection and care back?
Well, shit. He’s a goner.
Buck moans over the length of him, teeth carefully tucked out of harm’s way, but the ever-present threat of them makes Eddie’s heart race nonetheless. It’s so fucking hot, the desperate wet glugs of Buck’s throat as he fucks his mouth over Eddie’s cock. He’s so energized, and Eddie deliriously thinks, I did that. He needed something, and I took care of him, and now he’s taking care of me.
His cheeks feel stained red at the heat fluttering through his veins, every pull of Buck’s mouth sending a small little shock up his spine. He’s not going to last long, a statue in Buck’s arms, stitched to the couch and helpless to do anything but lie there and let Buck make him feel good.
And he does. Feel good. This might be the most erotic thing he’s experienced in his life-- top two, at least, and isn’t that funny, how Buck was in both of them? The thought should send a fresh wave of hot panic through his body, but all he can do is suck down air and throb insistently into Buck’s mouth.
Eddie wants to warn him, wants to open his mouth and babble until the cows come home. Wants to tell Buck every single thought that’s running through his filth-addled mind: You’re making me feel so good. Fuck, your mouth is so fucking wet. Gonna milk it right out of me and all I can do is lie back and take it. Want you to swallow.
And it’s that thought-- the idea of Buck swallowing, his belly full of blood and drool and Eddie’s come, swirling together in a frothy, disgusting mess, thick and pink-- that snaps the invisible wire. Eddie sucks in a stark breath, the inside of his guts cramping painfully, and he comes down Buck’s throat in wet little pulses with a pathetic groan.
Whatever spell Buck had him in starts to unravel, Buck’s concentration broken by the pitiful way he pushes his brows together and buries his nose to the base of Eddie’s cock. He takes everything Eddie gives him in big, desperate gulps, his throat working as he swallows. The vibrations of Buck’s whines make Eddie’s hips jerk up unsteadily, his cock sensitive and wrung dry, but his limbs are still too heavy to move.
Buck pulls off of him with a wet gasp, tongue and molars still stained red with Eddie’s blood, and he sits up straight to push their mouths together. Eddie makes a little hurt noise at the prick of Buck’s fangs in his lip, but it melts into a groan when Buck laps at it with his tongue. Eddie faintly registers the clink of Buck’s belt, but his brain is too fuzzy to make a move, content to lie back and suck on Buck’s tongue while he slowly comes back into his body.
“Fuck, Eddie, you were perfect,” Buck gasps, a string of saliva still connecting their lips. Eddie lazily chases after it when it breaks, pressing his lips softly over Buck’s chin, and he startles when he feels Buck’s come lacing his thigh-- the same thigh he fed from. He tilts his head down to watch as Buck’s fist tugs at his cock, come flying out to paint Eddie’s skin in hot, thick bursts.
“Jesus,” Eddie says weakly, and then stupidly adds, “I definitely need a gatorade after all that.”
Buck laughs, loud and whimsical right in his ear, and Eddie doesn’t even mind the way they ring afterwards. He especially doesn’t mind when the door rings with their pizza, and Buck tucks his arms under Eddie’s knees to deposit him in the bedroom away from prying pizza-man eyes-- very quickly, he might add. Buck’s speed almost made him as dizzy as the unnatural display of strength.
Just before midnight, when Eddie is about to drift off in Buck’s arms, body scrubbed down and stomach comfortably full, he mumbles, “you always take such good care of me.”
And right before he falls asleep, Buck whispers back, “I always will. If you’ll let me.”
Sometimes Eddie doesn’t dream. Sometimes when Eddie sleeps, he drifts for a while, those empty shadows twisting his sense of time. It’s only for a few seconds, in the moment, but when he finally wakes he finds he’s recalling the moments as longer. Minutes, hours, days, he couldn’t say; but he wonders if it could mean more. Is he slipping into another universe? Is he slipping away?
Maybe he’s in a world where he doesn’t exist. Maybe he’s in a world where he’s long gone, cold and buried in the ground. He wonders who’s waiting for him on the surface, if anyone at all.
He doesn’t like to think about it.
He opens his eyes to the darkness of the bunkroom at the station.
It’s not where he’d fallen asleep, obviously, but he checks his phone anyway, eyes still adjusting to the muddled darkness with squinting eyes. The bright light of his phone unhelpfully reminds him that it’s still Friday.
His head falls back to the pillow. Of course it was still Friday.
He notices the weight of a ring on his finger, a black band stretched over his skin. He holds it up to his face, feeling the smooth silicone with his thumb. He wonders who it belongs to.
The alarms go off with a loud shrill tone, everyone else startling to wakefulness around him, and Eddie sighs and moves to make his way to the engines.
In the early morning of the station’s bay, the ring on Buck’s finger glints delicately in the sun, shimmering light reflected right into Eddie’s eyes. He’s not sure whether it’s that or the sun that makes him feel suddenly so much warmer.
The differences in this world are negligible: Hen and Karen have a third child, Maddie and Chimney aren’t married yet, Lucy is still on the 118 A-shift despite Eddie’s employment. He’s gotten decent at schooling his expression whenever he gets surprising new information, but otherwise things are more or less like they are at home. They’re just as busy as they always are, Bobby is still the Captain, and Buck still follows Eddie from room to room while they chatter away endlessly. (Okay, and maybe Eddie follows him too-- they dance around each other endlessly, unsure who’s in the lead at this point.)
Eddie’s distracted by the ring on Buck’s finger all day, entranced by the sight of it, consciously aware of its presence. He’s swapped it out for a silicone black one, the real one safe and sound in his locker, but it’s so stark against the pale skin of his fingers that Eddie can’t help but be drawn to it.
And he’s conscious now of the looks Buck keeps giving him; sitting across from him at the table, in the engine, down in the gym while Eddie spots him. Eddie doesn’t make eye contact with the bench in the locker room, doesn’t even go near it-- he thinks it’ll be a while before that embarrassing memory isn’t so fresh.
They’re waiting on dinner when Buck drops into the armchair beside him, heaving a sigh and dropping his head back with a tired grunt.
“Man,” Buck sighs, eyes already closed. “I am gonna crash hard as soon as I get home. Having this job on top of the whole married with kids stuff is not for the weak of heart.”
Eddie grins, his heart pounding in his chest, and he thinks about the picture of Chris and Buck on his lock screen. Buck thinking of himself as a father does things to Eddie’s brain.
“Hey, at least you had some practice,” Hen pipes up, wandering over with a mug in her hand. “Karen and I had, like, no warning whatsoever.”
Buck snorts. “Yeah, it could’ve been worse. ‘Surprise! Here’s an infant! Now you have to speedrun learning how to raise it.’”
“Is that not what Eddie did to you?” Chimney teases, snapping his gum. “He did like, a reverse Maury Povitch.” He holds his hands out in front of him, miming holding up a big envelope. “The results are in! In the case of seven-year old Christopher Diaz, Buck: you are the step-father.”
Buck guffaws, and Eddie holds his hands up incredulously, the grin spreading on his face and hurting his cheeks. “Okay, wow,” Eddie scoffs, scrambling to come up with a defense. The truth is, he doesn’t have one: Eddie had been drowning with the responsibilities of moving, starting a new job, and being a single father. When Buck had come in and latched onto Chris and Eddie, he’d truthfully been relieved.
It’s still a relief. Every time he gets to rely on Buck for help with Christopher, it’s like a weight has been lifted. He feels warm, now, remembering every time Buck has been there for Chris. For the both of them.
“I’m not hearing any denial,” Lucy playfully says from her spot on the couch. “That’s pretty telling coming from the king himself.”
“Miss Donato with the steel chair,” Chimney whoops.
Everyone laughs, and Eddie is struck by how light and comfortable it feels. The setting sun shines in through the high windows of the loft, and the kitchen is wafting heavenly smells of simmering curry, warm and spiced. It’s not his home, but it’s a home.
His Saint Christopher medal rests heavily in his breast pocket. Home. He wants so badly to go home. He wants and wants and wants.
He’s startled out of his thoughts when Buck gently prods him, jerking his head towards the dining table with a soft smile. Eddie is helpless to the whims of his body: he smiles back and follows.
It’s dark by the time B-shift relieves them. Buck wordlessly gestures for Eddie to follow him to his Jeep, Eddie’s truck nowhere in sight. They carpooled together. Of course they did. The radio station is already turned to classic rock; Eddie’s favorite.
He hums along to the radio while they speed down the highway, his hand tapping out the beat along the car door. His Buck back home doesn’t even have the Jeep anymore, long scrapped after it breathed its last, and he remembers how torn up Buck had been when they handed the keys to the mechanic.
That was my first car, Buck had said, and then he’d sniffed and added, Maddie gave it to me. Basically told me to run and never look back.
I’m glad you did, Eddie had said. He’d clapped Buck on the back and softly affirmed, she did you good. Brought you to where you were supposed to end up.
Buck pulls into Eddie’s driveway, pulling up tightly next to his truck, a familiar maneuver. Eddie’s unbuckled his seatbelt to get out when he’s stopped in his tracks by Buck going, “alright, see you tomorrow.”
Eddie pauses, hand stilling over the car handle, and he turns to Buck with furrowed brows. “You’re not coming inside?”
Buck tilts his head minutely. “I gotta get home, man,” he laughs. “And Tay will kill me if I don’t pick up some of that cinnamon roll ice cream she likes. She eats it with pickles,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Pregnancy cravings are so weird.”
Eddie feels like the floor has dropped beneath his feet. He blinks dumbly at Buck.
“You’re married,” Eddie says disbelievingly, acid on the tip of his tongue. It feels like a mimicry of a conversation from a thousand lifetimes ago-- but he’s still the same person, caught in the messy, roiling tide of his own making. He felt like he was drowning then, and he feels like he’s drowning now. “To Taylor Kelly.”
Buck’s brows raise to his hairline. “Uh-- I mean… Taylor Buckley, now.”
Bile crawls up Eddie’s throat. Buck’s words feel like acid, too, his ears hot and starting to ring, tinnitus cranked up to max. The blood rushing in them makes him feel dizzy.
“Why?” Eddie asks sincerely.
“Why?” Buck repeats, chuckling nervously. “Because-- we love each other. I thought you liked Taylor?”
Eddie’s eyes dart down to Buck’s hands where they’re nervously gripping the wheel. His knuckles are white. “I don’t like her for you.”
“Eddie,” Buck says sharply, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “No offense, but this is, like, the worst timing to tell me all of this. We’re-- having a baby. We’re going to be a family.”
Eddie nods, pursing his lips together. He ignores the pang in his chest at the idea of Buck having a family and Eddie and Chris not being a part of it. “And, what, you wouldn’t have married her if I’d told you the truth?” he asks spitefully.
Buck’s mouth gapes open, floundering around words he hasn’t quite found yet. “I don’t-- I don’t know! Maybe. Maybe I would’ve taken my best friend’s opinion into consideration.”
Eddie’s heart aches a bit, because the worst part is, he believes him. Eddie believes Buck when he says that things could be different-- if only this world’s Eddie had been a little more brave.
“Why now?” Buck says quietly. “Why tell me this now?”
Eddie’s mouth screws to the side, throat bobbing as he swallows down the emotion. “I don’t know. I didn’t know, I guess.”
“Didn’t know what?” Buck asks insistently. Eddie can’t look him in the eye, and when he doesn’t respond Buck softly adds, “Eddie.”
“You know what,” Eddie mutters.
“No,” Buck says, voice shaking. “No, I really don’t.”
The air is still and heavy between them, and it feels like a physical presence pushes their bodies apart. Eddie longs to close the distance.
“You had a family,” Eddie says. “You know that, right?”
Buck scoffs. “What, you and Chris? That wasn’t-- it’s not enough for me, Eddie, you know that. I know I’m good at plastering on a smile, but… I still… want things for myself. I want love. And you-- you got married first. Was I supposed to just-- third wheel you guys for the rest of my life?”
“You don’t love me?” Eddie asks, and Buck jerks his head back in surprise.
“I… didn’t say that,” Buck says carefully. “Eddie, c’mon, you know what I meant,” he exasperates. “This isn’t fair.”
“How do you think I feel?” Eddie says, his voice wavering unevenly. He shakes his head and looks back out of the windshield. “Look, forget I said anything.”
“I really, really wish I could,” Buck says a little cruelly. Eddie moves his hand back to the car handle to get out of the Jeep, but Buck stops him with a firm hand to his chest. He feels the warmth of that palm like a brand through his shirt, and he wishes, deliriously, that Buck could imprint himself onto Eddie’s skin. “Just… you know I care about you, right? You and Chris? Nothing will ever change that.”
This doesn’t change a thing between us, Eddie hears, an echo of his own words, and he feels now the bitter taste of rejection behind them. There’s a part of him that wishes Buck had said something like, maybe I want it to change things between us, because Eddie wishes now, more than anything, that things were different.
They’re still sitting parked in his driveway, but Eddie really wants to go home.
“Yeah,” Eddie says bitterly. “I know.”
He numbly walks up his driveway, the specter of Buck’s Jeep still looming behind him, but he doesn’t look back. He paints a half-hearted smile on his face for Ana, manages a more sincere one for Chris, and claims he’s too ill when they ask if he wants to join them for a movie. He disappears down the hallway to his bedroom, instead, newly decorated in the way only a woman’s touch would accomplish. Throw pillows and breezy curtains and plush rugs. It makes him nauseous.
He crawls into bed and tries not to think about every half-sincere promise Eddie has ever made her in this world. Tries not to think about how he must have felt walking down the aisle. Tries not to think about how it must have made Buck feel, watching Eddie give himself away to a woman he knows he could never possibly love for the sake of his son. Eddie would do anything for Chris; he’d even make himself miserable.
He thinks about Buck going home to a family of his own making, and he knows, with clarity now, that there exists a world where Buck does not wait for him forever. And it clings to him like shrink wrap, tight and suffocating.
Eddie dreams of static and thunder. He dreams of Chris begging Buck to come back to them. He dreams of afternoons spent in the park and Christmas mornings and family barbecues.
He dreams of being alone in his house, an ache where it feels cold and empty, once so vibrant and full of life. He dreams of feeling lonely, when he wants to feel loved.
It’s dark when he next wakes, and Eddie knows, with some sort of twisted sixth sense, that something is wrong in this world. The dread pours into his body just from the notion of being conscious, being awake, and he’s not quite sure where it comes from. Perhaps it’s the blackout curtains encasing him in darkness, a hollow shadow enveloping the entire room. Perhaps it’s the sheets beneath him, obviously unwashed for some time, the clean comfort of his usual setup long gone. Perhaps it’s the weight of the beard on his face, long and untrimmed, that belies a deeper issue. Not a firefighter, then.
He feels kind of haggard, whipping the covers off of him with a real effort. It’s not until he plants his feet on the floor that he realizes how thin he is, the t-shirt he’s wearing practically enveloping his body. His phone rests on the nightstand, and he grimaces at the ‘Friday’ that greets him at the top of the screen. Not that he expected anything different.
His lock screen is a picture of him and Christopher, both smiling. Chris is maybe five or six years old, and Eddie doesn’t remember this picture, but-- of course he wouldn’t. This isn’t his world.
Eddie opens his text threads, intent on doing his usual snooping, when--
His thread with Buck is pinned to the top of his messages, but the date on it is wrong. It has to be wrong, because the last thing Buck sent him was from 2019. It’s a picture of Buck and Christopher at the pier, with the message: He wants pancakes. So we’re doing pancakes.
Eddie’s heart drops into his gut. His thumb hits the call button near Buck’s contact picture, and he brings his phone up to his ear.
It rings once, and then a robotic voice says, “we’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Goodbye.”
Eddie numbly puts his phone down, staring unseeing at the floor. It’s-- there has to be some other explanation than the one rattling through Eddie’s brain. There has to be. But his body isn’t getting the message, because his limbs are going numb at the panic seeping into his skin.
He stands up, dropping his phone to the bed, wandering down the hallway to Christopher’s bedroom. He stands in front of it, breathing shallowly for a moment, before knocking on the door with two of his knuckles.
“Chris…?” he calls out, voice still heavy with sleep.
No reply.
Eddie opens the door, limbs moving in a dissociative haze. His body is acting on its own, stepping into Christopher’s bedroom.
His bed is made neatly, blue comforter tucked into the corners with army-like precision. The shelves on the walls are full, books and art supplies and trophies, bins tucked under the dresser filled with art projects and old homework. There’s a shelf of his son’s prized hot wheels above his bed, the firetruck placed lovingly on top. Christopher’s backpack is hooked around the edge of his bed frame, and it’s small. Too small for a teenager.
The shades by the curtain are open, letting in a warm stream of sunlight, and it highlights the thick layer of dust coating everything.
“No,” Eddie chokes out, moving further into the room. There are dirty clothes in the hamper by the closet, one sock hanging off the lip of it. Eddie grabs it, thumbs smoothing over the white cotton, and a sob is ripped from his chest. It’s so small.
“No, please, god, no,” Eddie gasps, clutching the sock to his chest. He falls to the floor, skinny knees digging into the plush rug painfully. His ears ring, high-pitched and whiny, as his brain struggles to keep up. The grief is ripped violently from beneath his ribcage, sudden and excruciating, and Eddie falls forward to dig his forehead into the floor just to grasp at any semblance of steadiness. He feels weak and ill, but most of all, he feels desperate, and the tears begin to pour out of him like blood spraying from an arterial wound.
Why are you showing me this, he thinks angrily, snot and tears and anguished sobs being buried into the carpet. His heart and gut wrench violently at the thought of Christopher, small and scared and being swept away by the unforgiving waves, just eight years old, and--
And Buck, who would have gladly died to save him.
Eddie dry heaves, bile crawling up his esophagus. Fuck you, he thinks. This isn’t fair. What did I do to deserve this pain? Don’t leave me here. Please, for the love of god, don’t leave me in this world.
He wants to go home. He pushes the sock against his cheek, the cotton soft and gentle on his skin, and he thinks about how awful it is; a world where Eddie is totally and utterly alone.
Eddie sobs, his lungs shuddering at the effort. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t ever want to be alone again. Is this the kind of cruelty it takes to teach him that lesson?
If there is even a lesson to be learned here. As if Eddie is the universe’s favorite, cherry-picked out of billions of human souls, and this isn’t just some cosmic fluke. The idea is laughable.
But Eddie is not laughing. He’s thinking about the day Christopher was born, and he’s thinking about the day he met Buck, and he’s wailing into the rug on the floor of the tomb he created.
He has to wake up in a new universe tomorrow. Whether it’s his or not doesn’t matter. He just has to get out of this horrible, horrible reality.
He has to.
Eddie dreams of rainclouds and thunderstorms. He dreams of the cold, dark earth swallowing him up. He dreams of pain blooming in his shoulder, hot and sudden. He dreams and aches and never wants to wake up again.
He does.
It’s not his world, but it’s a different world all the same, and he runs to Christopher’s room as soon as he’s conscious. He doesn’t bother knocking, just twists the handle and whips the door open, and Christopher rolls over with a grumble and an exasperated, “Daaaaad.”
“Chris,” Eddie breathes, and his entire body slumps with relief. He walks over to the bed and he throws his arms around his son through the comforter, burying his head in Chris’ chest. His heartbeat is muffled through the blankets, but audible all the same.
“My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet,” Christopher complains.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Eddie says quietly. “Just-- give me a minute.”
The room is quiet for a moment, and Eddie times his breaths with his son’s. The world is beginning to wake outside, birds chirping and wheels turning, their crotchety neighbor’s ancient lawnmower kickstarting. Chris sighs, and he squirms to release one arm from his blanket burrito where Eddie has trapped him, patting Eddie’s shoulder comfortingly.
“Bad dream?” Chris asks.
Eddie nods, cheek squished to the blanket. “Probably-- the worst dream I’ve ever had.”
Chris pats his head, next. “You’re gonna be okay, kid,” he says cheekily, the smile evident in his voice, and Eddie can’t help but smile, too.
He’s going to be okay. They’re all going to be okay. Eddie is prepared, now, to get down on hands and knees and beg to make it happen. Prepared to claw through dirt and pond water and a shower of bullets to get back to his family, if he has to. Nothing will ever keep them apart again.
The digital clock above the stove blinks at him as the minutes change. It’s just before midnight, the house and the neighborhood just as still as the air around him. A pause in the monotony and mundanity of everyday life: here and now, it’s just Eddie. His mind, his body, his heart, and the universe.
The back door swings open with a push of his hand. He doesn’t bother turning the outside lights on, just blindly walks into his backyard in the dark, his bare feet touching cold, damp earth. Soft grass pokes up between his toes with each step, and he pauses in the middle of the yard, crossing his legs and sinking to the ground gracefully.
Eddie takes a deep breath, sinking backwards to lay his back flat against the earth. The moon looms high in the sky, brilliant and full and staring down at Eddie, shining a spotlight on him. It seems lonely, up there by itself in the sky, L.A.’s bright city lights washing out all the stars.
Seems alone, but it isn’t. Not really. Just need to peel back the layers.
And Eddie is just a small part of it, one microcosm of existence in a vast, vast ocean of souls. A small part of the macrocosm of eternity. And isn’t that an overwhelming thought? The enormity of the universe? His insignificance in it?
He breathes steadily, laying one hand over his chest. The back of his shirt is getting damp with dew, out here in the liminal space of his backyard. He lays in the earth and thinks about being buried beneath it, shouting uselessly into the void, desperate for someone, anyone to hear him: I’m still alive down here. This time, he thinks, he’ll make someone hear him.
Hey, Eddie thinks, staring up at the bright light in the sky. Who he’s addressing, even he doesn’t fully know: God? The Universe? Mother Nature?
Himself?
It doesn’t matter. Eddie just wants to be heard. Doesn’t want to make himself small anymore.
The universe is screaming at you and you refuse to listen, Buck had once said to him.
I hear you, Eddie thinks now. I hear you screaming.
The clock on his watch ticks again.
I don’t care if I’m cosmically insignificant, Eddie thinks. I don’t care because I still want to be happy. I still deserve to want things. To need people. To rely on them. I don’t want to have to lose everything just to feel something.
The breeze blows through the trees, the leaves rustling gently, the air blowing softly over his skin. Eddie lies there, a speck of sand in the infinity of the cosmos, and he closes his eyes.
Please take me home, he begs. I’m done wasting time. I’m done worrying about what-ifs. My future belongs to me, and what I want is my family. My real family.
The clock ticks again, and Eddie is encased in a comforting blanket of darkness.
Tonight, Eddie does not dream.
Buck smothers a groan into his pillow at the blare of his phone’s alarm, fumbling around in his bed where it got lost in the sheets. His head flops back down after he hits the snooze button, brows pinching together at the prospect of getting up. It’s his day off, and he really should be in bed until at least noon like any sane human being, but Maddie had hit him with those big doe eyes begging for Buck to babysit Jee while she had an OB appointment and-- well, Buck is nothing if not a sucker for pleading brown eyes.
Whatever. That’s what naps are for.
He whips the covers off him with another groan, eyes still firmly closed, fighting the tired pull of his eyelids. If he’s waking up at eight in the morning on his day off, he definitely deserves a treat first. Maybe a bagel from the place across the street?
There’s a pounding at his door. Buck opens his eyes, sitting up in bed with a frown. He checks his phone for messages, but the only one he finds is a good morning text from his sister checking to see if he’s still on the way.
“One sec,” Buck calls out, voice still raspy from sleep, and he clears his throat to dispel the dryness. He wanders down the stairs, still wearing the sweats and hoodie he slept in, too exhausted to care about making himself presentable. It’s 8 A.M. on a Saturday-- they can deal.
When he swings the door open, he’s certainly not expecting Eddie.
“Eddie, hey,” Buck says, brows still pinched together in confusion. “Uh, is everything okay?”
“Everything is fantastic,” Eddie grins, full of energy despite the early hour. He pushes past Buck to help himself inside, turning to lean against his counter. He claps his hands together. “You know what day it is?”
Buck wracks his brain, eyebrows flying up to his hairline. “Um, Saturday?”
Eddie nods, his cheeks red and dimpling. “Exactly. Music to my freakin’ ears. Saturday. My new favorite day.”
“Okay,” Buck says slowly, closing the door behind him. “Are you high right now?”
Eddie stretches his arms out wide. “High on life, baby.”
Buck chuckles, running one hand over his face. “Okay, man, sure. You wanna go grab breakfast with me? I gotta babysit Jee today and I was going to get a bagel sandwich or something.”
Buck’s mouth drops open in a gasp when Eddie kisses him instead of responding.
He’d been so quick, just got right into Buck’s space in two confident strides, and now he’s pressing their lips together, curling his tongue gently into Buck’s mouth. Buck’s lungs beg for air, startled by the move, and he rips his head back with a sharp inhale.
“Uh,” Buck says dumbly. Eddie’s hands are on him, one grabbing the divot at his waist, the other cupping the side of his neck. His thumb is dragging over Buck’s jawline, but Buck is too mesmerized by the flush on Eddie’s face, crawling down his neck. Even his ears are pink. It’s-- cute.
Cute. What the hell? This is not-- what they do. Buck does not just gape stupidly at his best friend and think he’s cute.
But he sort of is. Buck blinks rapidly when Eddie’s hand squeezes his waist.
“Uh,” Buck says again. His brain isn’t loading. “Uh, or we could get breakfast somewhere else. I’m-- I’m cool with whatever.” His hands finally move, gently resting on Eddie’s hips, and his heart pounds unevenly when his thumb drags over bare skin.
Eddie smirks, ducking his head with amusement. “Nah, bagels sound good, actually. You know what I like.”
“Horseradish cream cheese on a sesame bagel,” Buck rasps, eyes darting back and forth between warm, brown eyes. “And a coffee with two sugars and no cream.”
Eddie smiles, and Buck is drawn to the mole beneath his eye. “Mhm,” he hums in affirmation.
“Eddie,” Buck breathes. “I-- are you sure you’re not high? Because I really can’t handle-- uh, all of this if you are.”
“Stone-cold sober,” Eddie confirms. He’s still grinning. “I just-- finally came to terms with what I want, is all.”
Buck swallows thickly, his breathing a little unsteady. The foundation of his whole life is being rocked right now, the most important relationship in his life-- and he finds he’s clinging to Eddie’s every word with an aching little pang of hope. “And… you want… me?” he asks slowly, insecurely.
Eddie takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Buck thinks he might have fallen over by now if not for Eddie’s hands holding him upright. “Buck, yeah,” he says quietly. “Always. I’m sorry that I… that it took me so long to realize that.”
Buck’s eyelids flutter. His heart jackhammers against his ribcage, loud and insistent. “Eddie, I really need you to mean that,” he says pathetically. “Because I can’t lose you and Chris.”
“I love you,” Eddie says, sure and confident-- the most confident Buck has ever seen him. His chest aches fiercely.
“Yeah?” he gasps, fingers clenching against Eddie’s hips. His whole world has tilted on its axis. He hadn’t-- he hadn’t allowed himself to give it any real thought before, never allowed Eddie to even be an option, but--
But he sees it now, in full vivid technicolor. His future with Eddie and Chris. An all-encompassing love and family that Buck has been desperately searching for his entire life-- and he wants it, badly.
“Yeah,” Eddie smiles, like he wants it, too.
And what else could Buck do? He presses his matching grin into Eddie’s, and he finally lets his fragile heart breathe, safe and sound in the shared space of their bodies. Buck wants to think about forever, but right now, he’s content to just think about this.
Saturday might be his new favorite day, too.