the program

by stnicky

Summary:

Buck works as a support submissive, a re-entry resource for dominants who get released from prison. Support subs live with their dominants and cook and clean and generally service their dominants to help them re-acclimate to society.

Buck is good at his job, so he usually gets assigned to higher risk cases. He’s had absolutely no problem staying professional.

He’s sure that Eddie Diaz, convicted murderer, is going to be absolutely no different.

Notes:

and here i am again with another biological bdsm verse, lol

some notes ~
in this 'verse, a person's physiology is affected by their designation, dom, switch, or sub, indicated by biological and anatomical nuances that get more differentiated the higher level someone is

there are medical alternatives to scening, like synthetic hormones and therapies, etc.

also, this takes place in TX, so the South Bedford St house has been magically transported to TX. By the powers vested in author, there's now a South Bedford St in TX.

anyway, i hope you enjoy. :)

Chapter 1

Evan Buckley has never been the kind of person to take breaks . 

Not that he’s not lazy. He is. 100% lazy, considering he’s never done anything of substance in his life. 

It’s just that he always has something going on. After he left Pennsylvania, he’d never spend longer than a few months in one place. Odd jobs. Picking up after people, manual labor, doing whatever he possibly could to keep his body too tired to let his brain start thinking. 

After coming back from Peru, Buck really thought that he’d found himself. Going through academy and working with the fire department had been the greatest two years of his damn life. 

And then he lost his job. 

Well. If he’s getting technical about it, he almost died, and then was informed he couldn’t ever work again, but that wasn’t really the point. Buck didn’t die, but he got lost. Again, and it sent him spiraling right back down. 

In hindsight, it’s intensely pathetic, despite everything that Buck was feeling in the moment. All of those ugly feelings that he’d never quite managed to get rid of. They were long, dark hours in Bobby and Athena’s guest room, because the loft was just too difficult to manage with his mangled leg. 

Get up. 

Buck looks over his shoulder, warily. What?

Get up. 

To go where? 

Doesn’t matter, Bobby says. Pack everything you care about. We’re leaving in ten minutes. 

Bobby dragged him out of bed kicking and screaming, and then didn’t let go until they made it to Texas, and Bobby’s new job opportunity. Working as the director of the Dynamic Service Program, created as a re-entry resource for released inmates. 

In many ways, the program saved Buck. Even though his position as a service submissive puts him in direct service of others, he’d be lying if he claimed this was all selfless. It’s good work, sure. The same thing that drew him to firefighting- but at its core, the desire to help people, it’s something that keeps Buck going. It feeds his savior complex. It’s still selfish . 

Still, he’s doing more good than bad, so. Buck supposes he can forgive himself. He can find some sweet, sweet solace. If he isn’t wanted, then he’ll sure as fuck be needed. Nearly everyone applies for a service specialist upon release, if they’re eligible. Buck barely went a week between his last few placements, and this whole thing with Abby probably would’ve been the same, if he had just. Been honest. 

But Abby was so sweet, and so kind to him, and needed him so badly for the few months he was hers. When she left, he wanted to protect her, but more than that. He wanted her to come back. Come back, for him. Keep him. 

It was stupid. Buck was stupid. These placements are always temporary. Only about 6% of service dynamic specialists meet their permanent bondmate through the re-entry program, and subs are even less likely. It’s not real, and Buck knows that, but he lets himself pretend until everything has crashed and burned and he can’t fake it anymore. 

After his last placement, he didn’t have much of a choice. The department (and by the department, he means Bobby) had made it clear in no uncertain terms that Evan Buckley was taking a break. 

Buck knows that he messed up, alright? He knows that he handled the Abby situation terribly, but Bobby’s kept him on the bench for a whole damn month, despite the fact that he was out of the hospital within a week . He knows that he shouldn’t, but there’s some indignance building up in his throat, just getting worse the longer that Bobby keeps him in time-out. 

His office door is still closed, and Buck sighs, trying to distract himself from the way his leg is bouncing, restless. He has very little control over the muscle spasms, and he usually doesn’t notice them until they start hurting, but the nervous bounce has been around a lot longer than the mangled leg. 

They forced him to take a break, but they can’t force him to be still. Nobody can make him smaller, or quiet. At least, not for long, no matter how badly he wants to be and feel a little less . 

When Bobby’s office door finally swings open, Buck doesn’t quite jump up, but it’s close. He closes the door behind him, smirking at Bobby like he hadn’t just seen him yesterday. 

“Hey, Bobby,” Buck greets. “How have you been?”

“Buck,” Bobby says, still warm as ever. “How are you doing?”

He says it with the air of authority and seriousness that comes with years of being Buck’s captain, so he can’t even pretend like it’s an innocent question. Rolling his eyes, Buck collapses into the chair, readjusting himself when it bothers his hip. “I’m fine. Emailed you my clearance from the doctor. I rested and did the therapy, I’m good. Put me back in, coach.”

“It’s only been a month.”

Uncomfortable, Buck rubs at the back of his neck. “Technically, it’s been seven.” 

Bobby glares at him, just barely masking the concern. Same face as the one Buck woke up to in the hospital. An entire month ago. “Evan, I’m serious. You can’t just-“

“I know,” he says. “I know that. I do, I just- I don’t want to sit on the bench any more. I’m ready to start working again. Start feeling normal again.” 

Bobby’s staring at him, the closest to a squint he’s ever gotten. 

“Buck,” he says slowly. “You know how difficult direct service can be. It’s jumping directly into the deep end. Nobody is expecting you to jump right back in to the program, especially after what happened with Abby.” 

“Abby’s gone,” Buck says. “She doesn’t get to control my life, anymore. Bobby, please. It’s been a month .” 

“Fine. I’ll assign you, but I need you to do me a favor, first.”

Trying not to exhale too noisily, Buck leans forward. “Of course. Anything.” 

“Tell me the truth,” Bobby says. “Why is it so important to you? To get back?” 

Buck knew he wasn’t going to get away with a non-response this time around. Sometimes, Bobby would allow for it- allow Buck to brush it off, act like it’s no big deal despite the both of them knowing it’s cut much deeper than he’d ever admit. 

It’s not like he doesn’t get it. Buck knows that he wasn’t the only person affected when he lied. 

“I don’t really know,” Buck admits. “It’s just a little lonely. I guess.”

Bobby can’t even look at him. He breaks eye contact, eyes shifting back down to his keyboard. Buck’s been staying with Athena and Bobby for a while, so it’s not like they haven’t seen it. But Buck knows how guilty Bobby feels. 

He’d been teasing Bobby all day, giving him shit about accidentally triggering the curse. Bobby had said the Q word, and they’d been insanely busy, all day. They were hungry and tired and stressed, and Buck had just wanted to lighten the mood a little. 

“Aw, come on, Bobby,” Buck had said. “Thought you didn’t believe in all of this mumbo jumbo? What gives, huh?”

Scoffing, Bobby rolls his eyes. “Just get in the damn engine, kid.”

Bobby’s saved his life three times now.

Buck doesn’t know if he gets a fourth. 

“That was a lot easier than I expected,” Buck quips. “Not that I’m complaining. Just an observation.” 

Bobby sighs, almost caught. “Well. We have a pretty emergent placement, and as much as I hate to admit this, I wouldn’t trust placing him with anyone else.”

Blinking, Buck almost chokes on his water. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a compliment,” Bobby reassures. “You know that the department prefers someone with your experience and stature for more violent offenders.”

Oh. Right. Buck is- he’s a sasquatch. Giant, not a traditional submissive in the slightest. He’s kept up with as much exercise as possible to make up for the lost mobility in his leg, so he’s strong enough to hold his own in potentially dangerous situations, which makes up for the fact that he’s so incredibly submissive. Buck’s submissive nature runs deep, a higher-level submissive who doesn’t struggle with the amount of control that most offenders seek the second they’re out.

After having absolutely no control, the program operates to allow them to over-correct. With someone more submissive, the Dom can exert all of that control until they’ve managed to regulate themselves again. Then they get a job, Buck hangs around to give them somewhere to burn the nervous energy. Buck’s there for moral support, validation, and comfort, letting himself be used- whatever they need. And then - if the program works - they manage the self-reflection to move beyond the corrections system and become fully functioning members of society. 

They figure out who they are, and what they want. 

That’s never been Buck, but it does usually take his placements around a year to figure out.

“Who’s the lucky Dom?” Buck asks, taking the file from Bobby’s desk. 

“Edmundo Diaz,” Bobby says, clicking through something on his computer. “He’s been in El Paso County for… coming up on five years, now.”

“Let me guess,” Buck says, even though he never gets these right. “Armed robbery.”

“No.” 

“Grand theft auto?”

“No,” Bobby says. “Texas doesn’t even have that.”

“Accidentally spilling coffee on a rich white man.”

“Buck.”

“What?” he says, smirking, finally opening the file. “I read a story about that. The dude got six years for assault.” 

“I’m afraid this case is a bit more convoluted than that,” Bobby says. 

 

Edmundo Diaz

Third-class felony, 2-10 years, fine of up to $10,000

Felony Manslaughter

 

“Did he do it?” Buck asks. 

“He pled guilty.” 

“That’s nice,” Buck says drily. “You weren’t kidding when you said off the deep end.”

“If this is too much, Evan, you know I’ll-”

“I know,” Buck interrupts, closing the file. “It’s not. Come on, Bobby. He’s not my first violent offender. He’s not even the first murderer.”

Buck’s learned that the severity of the offense does not usually correlate to the difficulty of the placement. Frankly, Ali was the easiest placement he’s had, so far. In and out, quick and easy, and Buck had absolutely no doubt that she’d thrive out in the real world. He felt grateful to have had any role in her journey, no matter how small his contribution truly was, in the grand scheme of things. 

Bobby eyes the file on the desk. “You know, you still have to take that.”

“Just email it to me, if you insist,” Buck says. “We both know I’m not going to read it.” 

Buck did his research before starting his position. Being a direct service worker was similar enough to being a first responder, but there were still a lot of things that Buck didn’t know anything about. Frankly, he thought it was pretty insane that not only was he qualified to work the program, but he was actually more qualified than most applicants. 

And, yeah. Buck’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he doesn’t have any background in criminology or forensics or legal crap. He was grateful that he had the time to sit down with his laptop before his first placement, but that wasn’t even required.

Still, he had a system, and he had to trust it. Obviously, it remained loose enough to apply to the individual, but Buck never looks at the file for the crime itself. He doesn’t look at any of the evidence provided. He’ll take the prison records, visitor’s logs, see who they became when they were incarcerated, because Buck has found it’s usually completely different from who they were on the outside. 

Sometimes, it’s good change. Mostly, it’s bad, but Buck doesn’t see the point in assigning blame. Prisons are scary places, putting every single inmate in survival mode, constant adrenaline for years , and Buck can’t even imagine what that must feel like. 

“Where are we staying?” Buck asks. 

“He’s got a house on South Bedford St.” 

Buck blinks. All his previous placements were renters, because nobody their age was in a situation to own property.

“Okay,” Buck says. “No family?”

Bobby sighs. “Nope. He didn’t have a single visitor other than his parole officer, and only within the last two years.”

“Any record of requests?” Buck asks. Sometimes, inmates will ask permission for certain family members, but the family doesn’t want to visit. It’s selfish, and although Buck understands prisons are scary places, he can’t imagine leaving someone he loves in there without at least trying. 

Bobby shakes his head. “No. His whole file is just fishy. There’s something weird going on- so much is redacted, and I couldn’t find it in any existing archives. There isn’t even a transcript of his deposition or arraignment.” 

Huh. That would all be included in the stuff Buck would intentionally ignore, but this is the first time there hasn’t been something to ignore. 

“What, you think something’s weird with his case?” Buck asks. “In what way?”

Bobby sighs. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling, I guess.” 

Instincts and gut reactions have actual science behind them. Should always trust your instincts, but only if you have good instincts, and Bobby has the best. 

Reading through Diaz’s file was a little intimidating. Beyond some mandated solitary at the beginning of his sentence, he has an exemplary prison record- went through two or three jobs to pay off his fines. But no participation in any programs beyond what his PO required. No visitors, no packages. Not even a single fucking letter, and Buck gets the feeling.

Standing inside the house on South Bedford St, Buck understands the feeling . 

He can’t explain it. Just a feeling. 

Shaking it off, Buck takes all of his things inside. They changed the locks out for him, so Buck uses his key before going into this house. Edmundo Diaz’s house, but his for the foreseeable future, as long as he doesn’t fuck this up. 

Buck’s perfected it, actually. The blank sub-mask; enough of a flat personality until he can figure out what, exactly, they’re looking for.  

After long enough, it starts feeling natural. The parts of himself that get hidden away eventually stop screaming. Because he’s being good. He’s being useful, helping- and this inherent part of him, something he still felt so much shame over, allows Buck to be something that not everyone can be. 

When the car pulls into the driveway, Buck takes a deep breath, wringing his hands before going to greet them at the front door. He’s worked with Lena before- she was Tommy’s PO, after all. She’s tough, but more than fair, and easy to work with. 

Smiling, Buck watches as she gets out of her car, waiting for Buck’s new assignment to follow her. 

He’s a bit unkempt, but Buck barely notices. A full, messy beard and mustache, and still not nearly as thick as his hair. It’s long, tucked thoughtlessly behind his ears, but a few strands still fall in his face, and oh fuck, he’s going to be fucking ethereal once he’s got some life in him again. 

“Hi, Ms. Bosko,” Buck says, taking the hand she extends. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, Evan,” she says warmly. “This is Eddie Diaz, my newest flight risk.” 

Edmundo - Eddie - rolls his eyes.

“Hi, Eddie,” Buck says, copying the nickname. Suits him much better than Edmundo, anyway. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Evan Buckley, your service submissive.” 

Eddie takes his hand with a polite grunt, dropping it as quickly as he’d picked it up. He doesn’t make eye contact. Buck’s not even sure if it’s intentional, but he’s got some personal vendetta against the floorboards, or something.   

“I would stay longer, but I just had another PV,” Lena says, sighing. “Eddie, you better be nice to Evan. Cut it out with the grouchy face.” 

 Eddie scoffs, the most audible noise he’s made so far. Lena closes the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone in their living room. Eddie’s living room, even though Buck has spent more time here than Eddie has, in the last five years. Bizarre, considering he’s got about forty minutes under his belt.

Eddie hasn’t moved. Buck’s not even sure he’s blinked. 

“So, I mostly kept to the living room,” Buck says, breaking the silence. “Sorry for my suitcases. Just wanted to wait for you to set some ground rules.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. “Okay.”

It’s a pretty basic thing, but through Buck’s few experiences, it’s been the ideal move. Sometimes they’re grateful and appreciative that Buck isn’t pushing boundaries, and they take the opportunity to lay down a few firm boundaries of their own. Expectations and all that. Or they go the other way- providing some space for Buck to provide some guidance of his own. 

“So,” Buck continues, when it becomes clear that Eddie isn’t planning on elaborating further. “Do you have any preferences? Particular expectations? I’m trained in submission of all kinds, so I can do cooking, cleaning, and I have my contract in my backpack for sexual and kinky crap. I know this is all a bit awkward. Sometimes it’s easier to get it out of the way before anything else.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Eddie says, glaring resolutely at the floor. 

“Okay,” Buck squeaks. “It’s your house. I’m just living in it it.”

It’s a weak joke, one that Buck wouldn’t even expect well-adjusted people to laugh at, so there’s no way this guarded mass of rigidity would come anywhere close. 

“Is there something I can do for you?” Buck hedges. “I can’t imagine what it must be like. Coming back to your home after all this time, and if there’s something I can do to help, I’d like to.” 

It’s the tiniest bit icky. Acting like this. Sweet, accommodating language, but it’s a necessity when Buck doesn’t know anything about the Dom facing him. He’s got a record of Edmundo Diaz’s behavior in prison, and what they labelled him with to throw him in there in the first place, but that doesn’t tell Buck much about who Edmundo Diaz is. 

Convicted murderer. 

Is that truly it? 

Diaz shifts, his crossed arms hugging himself the slightest bit tighter.

“I would like to take a shower,” Eddie announces, the words phrased like a request, but not the way Diaz says it. Statement. But Buck knows how confusing this all must be. He’s had it wired in him for the last five years- needing permission for absolutely everything. Not to mention the general lack of healthcare in the prison system. One thing Buck can count on- Diaz is fucked in the head. Buck just has to figure out how fucked he is, exactly. 

“Sounds good,” Buck says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the bathroom. “Do you want me in the big bedroom, or the second one?” 

“Not the second one,” he says quickly. The most certain he’s sounded through this whole conversation. “Actually, it- if- you can’t go in the second room.” 

“Okay,” Buck agrees easily. The first boundary, usually the most important- Buck has to be agreeable. “Do you want to sleep in there?” 

“No,” Eddie says. “You take the bedroom. The couch is fine.”

 Buck trips over his own damn tongue. He’s contracted to Eddie for a whole year, minimum. While Eddie can technically apply to get dropped from the program as soon as he wants, both Eddie’s PO and Buck’s supervisor would need to sign off on it. Buck doesn’t know Lena very well, but Bobby’s always been receptive to Buck’s opinion and dear fucking god. From what Buck can tell, nobody has ever needed a companion like this guy. 

Either way, Eddie can’t sleep on the damn couch for such a long time. Buck’s sure anything would seem comfortable compared to the prison-issue mattress, but Eddie deserved a real bed. 

Still. Buck’s role is to help Eddie adjust. Do whatever he needs in order for him to get acclimated to society. 

“Alright,” Buck says. “I’ll put some fresh sheets out and get you clothes and a towel. Is it okay if I do some laundry?” 

“Sure.” 

Turning on his heel, Buck pulls his suitcase toward the back, two of his duffle bags in the other hand. He drops them in the bedroom before opening Eddie’s drawers, making quick notes of the organization. Everything’s folded neatly, appearing clean despite the layer of dust. Even his socks are in pairs. 

Dragging the second duffle, Buck unzips it, opening up the fresh pack of underwear and socks. There are some essentials he’s learned to bring with him when going to a new assignment. Tommy had only been in jail for a few months. Ali and Abby had been in for a few years, but it didn’t matter very much. Fresh start. Sometimes the old stuff just didn’t cut it. Buck’s brought a basic pack, something similar to the prison issue to keep it relatively familiar, but different enough to remind them that they’re home, now. They’re out. And they need to stay out. 

No matter how many times Buck does this, he hasn’t gotten used to how devastating this all is. The person who lived here, in a comfortable, happy home-   

Buck chooses two pairs of gym shorts, two pairs of sweatpants. An old sweatshirt, some muscle tanks and tee shirts, tossing them all into the laundry basket with the new stuff Buck’s brought. Taking out his laundry detergent and dryer sheets, Buck wanders back down the hall to set everything up for a wash. 

Most of it goes into the washing machine, but he hears the shower turns on and gnaws at his cheek, torn. Eddie’s gonna need clean clothes when he’s done. It’s a cooler night, but there are always blankets- after all, he can put layers on. Can’t peel his skin off. Separating a tank top and shorts from the rest of the laundry, Buck turns the sink on, making quick work of soaking the soft material with detergent before washing it out completely, just one outfit to keep him comfortable for the rest of the night. Squeezing as much of the water out as possible, Buck hums quietly. 

Tossing it into the dryer, Buck sets it onto a quick dry. The noise of the laundry machines almost drowns out the shower. Buck hopes he won’t be too long. Something antsy burns under his skin, nervous. Maybe Buck should have been working on laundry before Eddie got here instead of poring through his file. He doesn’t even know if this is what Eddie wants from him- but as far as he can tell, Eddie doesn’t, either. 

He’s left his third duffle bag in the living room, so it’s easy enough to take out one set of fitted and top sheet, leaving them on the coffee table with a towel before heading back toward the bedroom. The bed is still made, the way everything else was in this house. A sordid sign reminding Buck of what happened.

Eddie left his house one day and never came back. 

The shower is still running when the dryer goes off, and Buck almost trips in his haste. It’s the tiniest bit damp, but Eddie will be too, after his shower. And hopefully he’ll have lost any picky-ness-ness, desensitized from the years of monotony. 

Buck folds everything up and places it on top of the towel. The shower is still going, and Buck pauses, unsure. This is definitely an invasion of privacy but he’s still in the shower, behind the safety of the curtain. Buck doesn’t want to knock when he’s naked and he definitely doesn’t want Eddie to have to put his gross prison clothes back on. He’s taking a shower, which seems to Buck like he’s trying to wash all of the ickiness of prison off him- get rid of everything that reminded Eddie that he was once in there. Feel real again, back in his own home.

If Buck didn’t knock, then Eddie would have to put his prison clothes back on to come out and ask for clothes, and that would mean he was asking for something in his own home. Or he’d put his old, dusty clothes back on. Or he’d even have to come out all vulnerable, in a towel. Actually. He might not even have a towel. 

Shifting the pile of laundry to one arm, Buck knocks, firmly but not too loud. 

“…hello?”

Wincing, Buck turns the knob, opening it up just enough for Eddie to hear him. “Got a towel and some clean clothes for you. Is it okay if I leave them on the counter?” 

Eddie doesn’t answer. Buck starts to worry he wasn’t talking loud enough when Eddie scoffs. “Um- I- can you just leave it on the floor? At the door?” 

“Of course,” Buck agrees quickly. “It’ll be right here.” 

It messes with the folds when he shoves it through the crack in the door, but Buck doesn’t care. He closes the door behind him loud enough for Eddie to hear the definitive click, know that he’s safe. It’s his house, after all. 

But Eddie sounded weirded out. Of course he did. Buck is still just some random guy that Eddie doesn’t know, so it makes complete sense that Eddie would feel weird about talking to Buck through the flimsy protection of a glass shower door. It was frosted. Even if Buck had looked (which he didn’t, thank you very much) he wouldn’t have been able to see anything. 

Trying to brush it off, he takes his phone out, checking on the pizza. He’s set it to be left at their door with instructions not to knock or ring the bell. No need to spook Eddie even more than he already has. 

By the time Eddie trudges out of the bathroom, Buck’s got the pizza boxes on the table with a few glasses of water. Eddie sees the pizza, then sees Buck, and decidedly looks away. He’s made it nearly all the way (ten feet) to the couch before Buck can’t stand it. 

“Are you hungry?” Buck blurts out.

Eddie doesn’t look at him. “No.” 

“Right,” Buck says. “You should eat, though.”

Eddie stands perfectly still over by the couch. He nudges his backpack to the side, tugging at the blankets and pillows, and Buck starts to think Eddie’s going to ignore him and lay down. He has no strategy in his head for how he could possibly proceed with that , so he has to put real effort into breathing normally when Eddie turns on his heel and comes to the table, reaching for his plate. 

“I know that you’re probably tired, but I do have a few questions,” Buck says. 

Eddie looks at him, neutral glance. Buck holds his breath while Eddie stares at him, not breaking eye contact as he takes a piece of pizza from the box, dropping it onto his plate. 

“I got some of your paperwork from Ms. Bosko,” Buck continues. “And I left you some of mine on the coffee table with some fresh sheets. But there’s only so much I can get from those forms, so I wanted to ask you directly.”

Eddie finally drops his eyes, taking a small bite of the pizza before sitting back. Waiting. Swallows the bite. Stares.

“Okay,” Eddie says eventually, and doesn’t continue. 

Jesus Christ. 

“To serve you best, I need to know about your preferences,” Buck says finally. “So what exactly are you hoping to get out of the program? What do you want out of your submissive?” 

Lena had provided him with a few questionnaires, standard for program folks. Eddie’s a high level dom with preferences toward sexual submission. Buck’s own file has a similar list, hard limits and kinky stuff that Buck had studied. He has an idea of what Eddie might need, but he wants to know what Eddie thinks .  What he wants, and his long term goals. 

From the look on Eddie’s face, he’d like to find out, as well. 

“You really don’t know much about this, do you?” he says curiously. 

“My parole officer applied for me,” Eddie mumbles through a mouthful of pizza. “And I get priority because of the good behavior and prior military service.” 

“What branch?” Buck asks curiously. 

“Army.”

The rigid set to his shoulders suddenly makes a lot more sense. Re-entry leaves people feeling tense, but Buck is pretty sure Eddie’s spine is completely fucking straight. 

“Ah,” Buck says. “I tried out for the Navy SEALs, but never followed through with that.” 

“Yeah. Well, like I said, this wasn’t my idea,” Eddie says. 

“Yeah,” Buck says. “That’s a surprise.”

Something like a cough starts to make its way out of Eddie’s throat. Buck isn’t dumb enough to think it’s a laugh, despite the hope, but he still doesn’t quite know what to make of it when Eddie levels a completely humorless smirk Buck’s way. 

“Evan, I just spent five years in prison,” Eddie says. “One of the beautiful things about leaving prison is getting to use the bathroom in private. Do you think I’d purposefully sign up to have another random guy I don’t know creeping on me when I’m in the shower?” 

It’s sardonic. Harsh, in a way that Eddie doesn’t even seem to realize. He carries on eating his pizza, finishing his second slice before going to toss his paper plate into the trash, washing his hands with the soap Buck’s left on the sink. Buck can’t tell if Eddie’s intentionally ignoring his reaction or if he simply hadn’t noticed. 

Buck knows that’s why he’s here. To allow Eddie to relearn how to establish healthy boundaries. But he’s also supposed to afford him safety, especially within his own home. He’s supposed to be someone who allows Eddie to release some of the tension Buck can’t ignore, especially when Eddie turns his back on him, ready to head back to the living room. 

“I wasn’t trying to invade your privacy,” Buck says quickly. “I know I could have just left them on the floor outside the door, but I didn’t think you’d want to put your jail clothes back on. But I won’t do it again. I promise.” 

When Eddie stops, he’s in the doorway. His head is turned slightly to the side, the only indication Buck has that he was even listening. Carefully, his head jerks once, down and to the left. So quick Buck isn’t even sure it’s intentional, and then he’s gone. 

Through the arch, Buck can see Eddie pulling at the blankets, laying on the couch before pulling them up, nearly silent. 

Edmundo Diaz, convicted murderer.

This is all going to be completely fine. 

Notes:

keep in mind lol eddie has been in prison for five years so his social skills are lacking, for lack of better words

i'm really excited about this au- i'd love to hear what y'all think! comments make my day!

Chapter 2

Notes:

thank you so much for such a positive response to this story :)

to those who have some experience in the legal or prison system like me, please join me in suspending your disbelief for the sake of buddie, lol

i hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

Eddie has expressed exactly two opinions since he’s gotten out of prison. One, Buck’s not allowed in the second bedroom, and two, Eddie doesn’t want him here. 

This is uncharted territory. Most Doms coming out of prison are desperate for some kind of service sub. Not only is it nice to have what potentially amounts to a domestic servant, but service dynamic specialists also receive a salary and a government stipend. They’re one of the most effective re-entry resource programs in the country. 

It was why Buck liked his job. Regardless of the reason, he was needed. It’s been too fucking long since he’s been needed . Nearly seven months, at this point, without having someone to be good for. 

Buck’s never been proud of his designation, exactly, but he’s accepted it. Mostly because ignoring it would leave him dysregulated, persistent headaches and emotional outbursts. When it gets bad, and Buck loses his mind, the weight of the world starts to crush him, sitting on his chest and weighing down until he’s left, barely breathing, and even more pathetic and needy than he was before. 

Before Abby left, Buck had been thriving. She might not have been the most attentive, but she was so much sweeter and softer than Tommy had ever been. Every now and then, she would call Buck over and ask him to lay in her arms, cradling his head, her hands soft through his hair. It was the most still, most quiet Buck had ever felt- laying there, unmoving. Knowing that he was being good , as long as he stayed still and quiet, giving her what she needed. 

When she left, she promised she would be back. Abby promised that she’d be back for him, and all he had to do was lie. Not even lie, just- he couldn’t tell Bobby that Abby had left, violated her parole. He had to lie and convince everyone that she was still around, that she was adjusting just fine, becoming a functioning member of society. He knew he was being good, as long as he stayed still. As long as he was quiet. 

A month passed, and then another one. And time kept passing and Buck kept still, and he kept quiet. Hormones in the morning, at night. Whenever he might be panicking and pathetic in between. The longer she was gone, the worse he got. 

There are prescription hormones that keep subs regulated just as well as being in an actual dynamic relationship, but Buck couldn’t get those without explaining that Abby had jumped her parole. Service dynamic specialists have to submit most of their health records to the program, and if the program didn’t notice, Bobby certainly would. So, he was stuck with the generic, over the counter pills, which aren’t nearly as strong and definitely not meant for long-term usage. 

When Buck ended up in the hospital, they put him on emergency medications to get him stabilized, sending him home with enough to cover the transition period of his time-out before going back to work, but they cancelled the prescription when he got assigned to Eddie. Eddie fuckin’ Diaz, the anomaly that he is. 

They managed to come up with a bit of a routine, mostly by accident. Eddie’s usually up before 8, something Buck has attributed to years of military regime being doubly reinforced by prison scheduling. Buck’s alarm goes off at 9 (because dear god, no matter how hard he tried, he is so not a morning person) and he stumbles into the kitchen, where Eddie’s sitting on the couch, blankets and sheets neatly folded and packed away into the basket under the coffee table, staring mindlessly at the television. 

Buck putters around doing menial housework and either orders in or makes something quick for lunch, which he’ll place in front of Eddie on the coffee table. There’s lots of time for extra research he does for Bobby, little administrative tasks or suggestions for the program. And some other research that has absolutely nothing to do with the program, but sue him. Eddie’s solid company, but Buck would be surprised if Eddie’s spoken a solid fifty words since meeting him. 

Buck’ll make something more substantial for dinner, which Eddie eats with him in the kitchen before taking Buck’s plate, doing the dishes, with just barely a handful of words, if Buck is lucky. The first few days, Buck tries to help, either with his own dishes or drying or something, just for Eddie to take them from his hands. Firmly, but not threateningly, a glance the slightest bit less neutral. 

“I’ve got it, Evan,” he says, the closest thing to an order Buck’s received in seven damn months. 

He swallows. Thanks Eddie quietly, goes back to his room because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Buck’s always been pathetic. He’s always wanted so badly to be good, to do what others ask, but Eddie barely asks anything. It’s probably just because of the seven long months that Buck hasn’t been able to truly sub for anyone, but Buck can’t remember wanting to be good this badly for anyone in his life. But he can’t.  He can’t be good for Eddie because Eddie doesn’t want him, and Buck might as well be losing his mind. 

When Eddie finishes the dishes, he heads back out to the living room. Parks himself in the corner of the couch. Turns the TV back on. 

Turns out, Eddie watches a lot of TV. 

It started with random news channels and whatever sports were playing on cable. After a grand total of two days, Buck found himself sick of hearing the same fucking commercial for the fiftieth time. He waited until dinner and swapped it out for a Roku streaming stick, introducing Eddie to the wonders of Smart TVs. 

Of course, without commercials, the binging just got worse. He’s starting to get whiplash from the pure range of crap that he wakes up to. Survival shows. Documentaries. Even reality TV, a couple of times. 

Eddie doesn’t talk much, so Buck is kind of grateful for the background noise as he wanders around the house looking for something to clean while he’s waiting to cook. He’s not certain, but Buck thinks Eddie made it through an entire season of Parks and Rec before dinner.

For four weeks. They wake up, go through this mundane cycle. Every night, for four weeks, Buck goes into the living room. 

“Do you need anything from me?” He asks. Open invitation- clear permission, but Eddie just shoots him a tight smile and waves him off. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

A month .  

It’s not like Buck thinks Eddie should want to have sex with him, it’s just weird that he doesn’t . Not because Buck is some kind of Greek God, but because it’s been years, for him. And not to mention, but Buck is literally here to sub for Eddie. He’s here to service Eddie, who has very clear leanings toward sexual dominance, and Eddie still doesn’t want him. He doesn’t even need him. 

Well. Fuck that. 

Eddie might not want to fuck him, but Buck will sure as hell find some way to be useful. 

Scrolling through the groceries on offer from Albertsons, he notes a few quick recipes. He isn’t really sure what kind of food Eddie might want to eat. Buck’s learned some simple Mexican recipes, but he knows how particular people can get about spices and he doesn’t want to throw that at Eddie without asking. But asking Eddie what he wants hasn’t gotten Buck very far. 

Sighing, Buck picks the laptop up, poking his head through the doorway, leaning out toward the living room. 

Eddie’s sitting on the couch, head resting on his hand, staring emptily at the TV. 

“Eddie.” 

Warily, Eddie turns his head. “What?” 

“What’s the worst thing they served for prison food?” Buck asks. 

The disdain on his face is clouded, if only by confusion, but whatever. Buck will take it. 

“What?” Eddie manages. 

“The worst thing you ate,” Buck clarifies. “From the prison cafeteria. What was it?”

“It- it was a weird chicken stew?” Eddie says cautiously. “I think it was some kind of casserole, or a pot pie style thing.”

“Cool,” Buck says, trying to sort through his ideas. “Carry on.”

“I- I don’t want to eat another chicken stew, Evan-”

“You’re going to want to eat this one,” he counters, waving him off, filling up his grocery cart. “Just shut up and watch your movie.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, huffing. “I’m not watching a movie.” 

“TV show, then. Whatever,” Buck says. 

As soon as he’s got the order on the way, Buck pulls out a fresh bag of flour, carefully measuring the correct amount for four pie crusts. Eddie eats whatever Buck puts in front of him, no matter the portion size, and Buck doesn’t want him to go hungry. Maybe he’s being excessive, but what’s new? 

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie appears, almost comical in the way he’s peering around the corner, like he’s trying not to get caught. He’s not looking at Buck, exactly- more surveying the scene, trying to figure out what evil schemes Buck’s got going on. 

“Thought I told you to watch your movie,” Buck says, smiling. He tries to keep his tone light, happy, make sure Eddie can hear that he’s just teasing. 

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, ambling toward the oven, and Buck almost drops the entire bag of flour. 

Eddie hasn’t shaved since he’d gotten out. His facial hair is getting longer, and thicker, a full beard and mustache that framed his face almost unfairly well. His hair was falling in soft curls, just past his jawbone when it’s tucked behind his ear. Buck had known he’d be pretty, but he didn’t think he’d be this pretty. 

“Making dinner,” Buck says belatedly. 

“What is it?” 

“Chicken stew,” Buck quips. “Kind of. Chicken pot pie. Making the pastry myself.” 

“Is making pastry supposed to be hard?” Eddie asks, staring at the oven, and Buck almost chokes on his own laugh. Eddie’s eyes widen, darting in Buck’s direction before looking back at the pastry,

“Sorry,” Eddie says, flushing. “Um. I didn’t mean that- I didn’t mean that making pastry wasn’t hard, I’ve just never done it so I don’t know if that’s something that’s been universally declared ‘hard.’”

“I know,” Buck says quickly. “Do you want to try? We could make some more.” 

Eddie exhales sharply, blowing through pursed lips. “No. And if you want to eat it, then you don’t want me to try, either.” 

Buck barely has time to laugh before the doorbell rings, and Eddie tenses up, just enough for Buck to notice. When his jaw clenches, he gets so tight that Buck isn’t even sure he’s breathing. 

“It’s the groceries I ordered,” Buck explains. “I just need to wash my hands, and I’ll get them.”

“I got it,” Eddie says, waving a dismissive hand, out of the room before Buck can even protest. Despite Eddie’s couch potato status, he moves alarmingly quickly, back in the kitchen by the time Buck is working on the next crust. 

“This is creepy,” Eddie murmurs, examining the bags like they’re out to get him. “I open the door and there are grocery bags on my doorstep. There could be a bomb in there. Or poison.” 

“I usually eat half the ingredients before they’re cooked. So after I collapse, you should have enough time to call 911 before we’re both dead.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but it seems to fall more into the category of fond admonishment than something truly annoyed. He starts taking everything out of the bags, opening and closing cabinets as he figures out where to store everything. Something tugs at his stomach, and Buck starts to get nervous that Eddie will be upset with him for re-organizing, but nothing in Eddie’s demeanor changes. As flat as ever. 

“So, what was wrong with it?” Buck asks. “The chicken stew?” 

Eddie’s still leaning over the counter. Sometimes, when he’s quiet, Buck can’t figure out when Eddie doesn’t hear him and when he’s just taking a second to answer. 

“The worst chicken stew I’ve ever had was basically boiled chicken and mayonnaise,” Buck blurts out. “But that was just because money was tight and I didn’t know how to cook, and I was living in a house with a bunch of other people who didn’t know how to cook.” 

“Everything you’ve made so far has been great,” Eddie says. 

“I learned at my first job,” Buck blurts out, even though that wasn’t a question. “Well. Not really my first job, I had a bunch of odd jobs when I was going through a bit of a phase.”

“That’s how you ended up here,” Eddie says. It’s flat. Not really a question. “You’re not from Texas.”

“What gave it away?” Buck asks, smiling awkwardly. “The pasty complexion or the shitty Spanish accent?”

“It’s not shitty,” Eddie says. “For a gringo.”

The compliment hits him with the force of a fucking brick. It’s pathetic. The way he holds on to it. “So, the complexion.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’m guessing the odd jobs landed you in the kitchen?”

“Nope,” Buck says. “I was a firefighter in Los Angeles. We spend long shifts together, and Bobby- um, my captain - really pushed us to connect with each other. We were required to eat at least one meal together every shift, and he taught me how to cook when I worked there. It was really awesome. I loved that job.”

“Why’d you stop?” Eddie asks. 

Oh. Buck’s hands falter, almost slipping and cutting himself on the half-open lid of a metal can. 

“Shit,” he mutters, dropping the can opener. Eddie reaches across the counter, but Buck waves him away. “No, it’s fine, I didn’t even cut myself-”

“Why’d you stop?” Eddie asks again, fitting the can opener back onto the lid before wrenching it open, sliding it across the counter to Buck before tossing the lid. 

“Wasn’t really my choice,” Buck says sheepishly. “There was a little accident on the job.”

Buck never really knows how specific to get when people ask him questions that have answers broaching the trauma territory. He’s not someone who has trouble talking, or sharing. In fact, he probably overshares. To a fault. And when he gets nervous, he talks. To fill the space, more than anything, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Everything with Eddie has been new. Different. 

Buck’s used to acting and behaving the way his Dominant wants him to behave, but that doesn’t work when his Dominant doesn’t want anything. Buck’s not allowed in the second bedroom and he’s an inconvenience. 

There’s literally nothing Buck wouldn’t do to make his Dominants happy. There’s nothing Buck wouldn’t do for Eddie, if he’d only ask . 

“What kind of accident?” 

Anything. 

“There was a kid who blamed our house for his father’s arrest,” Buck says. “He had been leaving bombs around at different places, the prosecutor’s house, arresting officer. So he planted a bomb on the bottom of our ladder truck, and it blew up.”

“You got caught in the blast?” Eddie asks. 

“Kind of?” Buck laughs. “I mean, I was on the truck, but then the ladder truck fell over. And landed. On me.” 

Eyes wide fucking open, Eddie looks at him. Actually looks at him, soft, wide eyes, with something that looks suspiciously like concern. 

“I’m fine,” Buck says quickly. “I was- I’m fine. I had surgery and I was on blood thinners for clots, but the department wouldn’t let me come back to work.”

“Which one?” Eddie asks. 

Looking down, Buck tests the range of motion in his leg. Much better than it was, still not where he wants to be. 

“My left,” Buck says. “But seriously, it’s fine. Firefighters have to do much more strenuous labor than the average person, and I did a bunch of rehab. Most days it’s just something I live with.” 

“Does it hurt?” Eddie asks. “Your leg?” 

Buck doesn’t know what it is about Eddie’s stare. It’s not unnecessarily harsh, or mean, or threatening. But there’s an intensity in his guarded eyes that Buck doesn’t know how to handle. What few defenses he’s managed to build up just melt away into nothingness, and he’s left there, under Eddie’s thumb. 

Buck would do anything to feel Eddie’s hands. Somewhere, on him, holding him steady. He’d do anything, and it’s fucking terrifying. 

“Sometimes,” Buck mumbles. “The scar tissue hurts. And I get cramps. But it's fine. I promise."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Eddie says quietly. "And I'm sorry that you had to leave your job."

"It's okay," Buck says again, still a little panicked. This isn't about him. "It was great while it lasted, and now I get to use everything I learned in that kitchen to cook for my Doms."

“It smells good,” Eddie says. “For what it’s worth.”

It barely even qualifies as praise, but Buck still feels it- his words, piercing Buck’s heart and squeezing, allowing him to feel like he’s earned the air he’s breathing. 

“Thanks, Eds,” Buck says, trying to sound normal. “It’ll taste good, too. I promise.”

“I know,” Eddie says simply. “I- um. I want to take a shower before dinner, but- you have to leave the dishes. I’ll finish up after we eat. Don’t do the dishes.”

It’s a poor excuse for an order, but Buck can recognize progress when he sees it. No need to antagonize Eddie further, no matter how badly he kinda wants to. 

“I won’t,” Buck says. “I’ll be good.” 

He doesn’t even have enough time to panic about his response (pathetic, but instinctive) before Eddie responds, halfway out the room.

“You always are,” Eddie says, almost absently. "Don't do the dishes."

What the fuck. What the actual fuck. 

“I need to change out your sheets anyway,” Buck says late again, waving him toward the living room. “Go shower. I put a lock on the doorknob, by the way.”

Eddie pauses where he’s started digging through his bag. “Why?”

Surprised, Buck almost drops the blanket. “Oh. Um, just for privacy. So you could lock it, when you’re taking a shower or just want some privacy in the bathroom. I don’t know. You don’t have to lock it, obviously, but I figured it might help you feel a bit more secure. A lock that you have control over.”

Oh, no. Is that stupid? That might be stupid. 

He stares at Buck, looking at him. Seeing right through him. 

"You put a lock on the door," Eddie says eventually. 

Fuck. "Yeah, I did." I'm sorry? Should he be sorry? 

"Thank you," Eddie says. "That's- that's really kind of you, Evan." 

He doesn't say anything else, turning on his heel. 

Buck still hasn't breathed by the time he hears the door close. He's too far away to hear whether or not Eddie engages the lock, but it doesn't matter. 

He's been trying so hard to be good for Eddie, do what Eddie needs, but it's not easy when he doesn't know anything about him.

Buck knows it’s his job to sub for people who he doesn’t know very well, but he’s never remembered feeling like this. Someone he barely knows – Eddie Diaz, convicted murderer, holding Buck’s sanity in his stained hands. 

Why? Why? Why?

Buck doesn’t even know him. Eddie wouldn’t let him. 

There’s something there. There’s something real, lost within him, incapable of finding its way out. The real Eddie. Buck sees him in moments, like with the dishes, when he refuses to let Buck help. Sometimes, when Eddie's still tired, he'll smile at Buck in greeting, and there's something warm about it. Eddie's always there. Quiet, but helpful, and he hasn't gotten upset with Buck since the first day when Buck creeped on him in the bathroom. 

Maybe Buck is crazy. But he swears there’s something good there. Someone, inside of him, some semblance of identity that made up Eddie, the person, before he was ever Edmundo Diaz, convicted fucking murderer. 

Why did you do it? Buck wants to ask. What happened to you? 

When he pulls Eddie’s backpack over to put it back next to the basket, something falls from where it must have been propped up between the bag and the couch. Buck reaches for it blindly, going to tuck it back behind the backpack when he recognizes his own handwriting. 

His file. The contract he’d given to Eddie, more for reference than anything. Buck kind of forgot it existed- but it’s opened. The spine is cracked, and Buck can see places Eddie’s folded the page in. He swears there might even be pencil marks in there. Notes. 

Eddie’d read his file. 

Whatever questions Buck was already asking start multiplying. If Eddie’s read his file, does that mean that he’s thinking about Domming Buck? Does he have questions? Is Eddie judging him for the things he’s into? 

Does he want Buck?

Why hasn’t he tried?

Buck hears the oven timer go off, and he tucks everything away hastily, standing up when he hears the shower turn off. Fuck. He makes it into the kitchen, shutting the oven off before taking out the pot pies, beautifully golden brown and smelling absolutely phenomenal. They're too hot for them to eat, so Buck sets them to cool before resetting the timer.

Eddie’s towel is still in his hand. He walks into the kitchen wearing his tank top and shorts, soft hair still damp where it’s pulled back, just long enough for him to tie it into a ponytail as he raises his brow questioningly.

“The pot pies just came out of the oven,” Buck explains as Eddie makes it to the table. “We need to let them cool for about twenty minutes, and then we can eat.”

“Sit down.”

Stupidly, Buck looks over his shoulder. “But we can’t eat them yet. It’ll burn your mouth, seriously.”

“Not for dinner,” Eddie says. “Sit down.” 

Confused, Buck fumbles to take his oven mitts off, almost tripping over his own feet to get to the chair Eddie’s standing behind, watching him. He holds the back of the chair, waiting for Buck to sit down. Which he does, even though he’s confused. Buck has no idea what’s going on, and he’s confused, so confused. And it doesn’t help when holy shit Eddie is going to his knees in front of Buck’s fucking chair-

“May I roll up the leg of your pants?” Eddie asks. “To above your knee?”

Buck stares at him, stupid. What the hell kind of foreplay is this? “Yes. Yes, of course, what did-”

“I want you to tell me where it hurts,” Eddie interrupts. “Can you do that?” 

He doesn't wait for a response before gently rolling up Buck's pant leg, neatly tucking the cuff into the leg of his pants before pulling a container of shea butter out of the towel. Buck can barely hear him over his pounding fucking heart, but he can make out the words. "Hope it's okay if I use this."

"Yeah," Buck says stupidly. "It's yours, too." 

Buck has about a million questions, but Eddie's gently rubbing at the soft skin behind Buck's knee, following the lines of Buck's ugly, dark scars with gentle, strong fingers. He examines Buck's leg while he drags his fingers through the shea butter, spreading it across the upper half of his calf, going back to the jar before kneading into the scar tissue. 

It hurts for about two seconds before warm relief shoots through his entire leg, and Buck's eyes almost roll back into his goddamn head. It takes real effort for him to stay quiet, unmoving, as Eddie works what feels like fucking magic through his bad leg. He works through the scar tissue with practiced efficiency, and Buck has no idea where he's learned how to do this but he doesn't fucking care. 

"Evan." 

Fuck. "Hmm?"

"Does this hurt?" Eddie asks.

Um. "No. I mean. A- a little, but good hurt. Like- like building up a muscle. Oh, God. Please don't stop."

He might be embarrassed about the babbling, but then Eddie pushes just right on something right underneath his knee and it feels so fucking good that he can't think about anything else. 

It's incredible. Eddie finds the tension, pushing it out with ease with his hands. Beautiful, strong hands, long fingers, so gentle on Buck's scarred, ugly skin. Touching him. 

He's so lost in the feeling that he's not sure how long the oven timer's been going off before he actually hears it. The twenty minute timer. 

Twenty minutes?

"Timer," Buck mumbles. "Pot pies are ready."

"Okay," Eddie murmurs. "Let me just..."

Eddie pushes one more time, and then he pulls back, not touching him anymore and Buck might just fucking die. He breathes for what feels like the first time since Eddie's touched him, sharp inhale as he stumbles up, catching himself before he can kick Eddie in the fucking face. 

Eddie, who's still on one knee, staring up at him with real amusement.

"Thank you," Buck breathes out. "Thank you. Sit, I'll get the food."

He's too panicked, heart pounding too damn hard for him to hear Eddie behind him as he plates two of the pies, hurriedly putting forks and knives into his napkin before going back to the table, laying it down in front of his Dom as carefully as he can. He tries not to let his hands shake as he lays the fork and knife down on the napkin, setting it neatly next to Eddie's plate on the right side, because Eddie's left handed. Eddie also doesn't like ice in his water, so Buck pours him a glass directly from the pitcher filter, no ice. And no straw. 

When Buck finishes pouring his own glass, Eddie's hand covers his, taking the pitcher away before setting it down. Quiet. Clearing his throat, Eddie waits, and Buck forces himself to look back at him. Intense fucking stare. 

Why?

“Hey,” Eddie says. “Um. I shouldn’t have been so crappy to you.”

Buck stays quiet, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and looking at Eddie, maintaining eye contact. “Mm.”

“You’ve been really great,” Eddie says quietly. “You’ve been really good for me, Evan. Like. Feeding me, and all that. You didn’t have to do that.”

There’s a weak joke somewhere in there. Something about his legal duties and responsibilities to keep Eddie stable, alive, and a functioning member of society, but Buck doesn’t want to brush this off. He knows Eddie’s uncomfortable, but his first genuine show of affection and vulnerability deserves more respect than that. 

Eddie can handle a little discomfort, clearly. 

“I wanted to,” Buck says. “I like being good for you.” 

“Is that why you do this?” Eddie asks. “This whole service sub thing?”

“Uh-“

“Not- not in a judgmental way,” Eddie clarifies quickly. “Submitting to a bunch of people who haven’t had to worry about self-control for God knows how long. I just- I just don’t understand why you’d do that to yourself, Evan.”

It’s one of the most common things people say after they find out what Buck’s job is. There are a bunch of different variations, but it’s all along the same lines: why on earth would he subject himself to this? 

All of that concern is rooted in something. Buck doesn't think Eddie'd be able to see it otherwise. 

But this isn’t about Buck’s healing. It’s about Eddie’s. 

“Buck.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Buck,” he clarifies. “Not Evan.”

Eddie doesn’t know him well enough to understand how intentional of an olive branch this is. Buck wishes there was some way for them to just meld. Allow Eddie to see into his head, allow Buck a glimpse into his. 

“Okay, Buck,” Eddie says softly, and then he doesn’t say anything at all. 

Notes:

comments make my day!!!
<3

Chapter 3

Notes:

i wasn't sure how to tag this chapter. prisons are rough places and eddie did not have a good time, there. so, there's mentions of assault, organized fighting and other types of prison violence. i'm gonna put those in the general story tags, but be warned that kind of thing is probably going to continue coming up.

When Buck was younger, he used to think about what his perfect partner would look like.

Back then, before he figured out who and what he was, he always thought he’d just do what Phillip did. Find a pretty, sweet sub and have two or three (or two) kids. Provide for her. Be content with what he has. It was a pretty picture. It’s all Buck’s ever wanted- to be content. Good with who he is and what he’s got. 

Buck presented a little later than most kids did. Most of the seventh grade had received their designation already, and Buck was embarrassed that he hadn’t. Most people assumed he was a Dom, and Buck wasn’t eager to dissuade them from that notion, even after he learned the truth. 

That picture Buck had been dreaming about, creating in his head, filling in details whenever he was bored- that picture didn’t make sense anymore. That wasn’t the life that Buck was going to get, because it wasn’t the life he deserved. He didn’t know who he was anymore, or what to hope for, or what he was allowed to want. 

So. He got lost. He tried a bunch of different Doms, subs, switches on for size, and he wandered. He never stayed long enough in one place for it to feel like home, so he couldn’t miss it once he’d left. No risk of losing anything because there was nothing truly his . 

When Buck found the LAFD, he’d really thought that was it. He was trying to figure out how to regulate himself without outside help, and it really did work for a while. Sure, he went a little rogue sometimes, stole the firetruck and didn’t listen to Bobby’s orders and he put himself in danger, but he was doing better than he had for a while.

The schedule for firefighters was insane. Buck couldn’t realistically maintain a relationship during that time, which was the only reason he wasn’t in a dynamic, committed relationship. Bobby and Athena were different because they were both first responders and understood the struggle. Chim- he was single until Buck introduced him to Maddie, and she’s a first responder, too. 

So. That was the reason. That was his excuse, and Buck didn’t have to deal with his own shortcomings. Everybody loved firefighters, so it didn’t matter that nobody loved him . That was it. It was the best he was going to get. 

When that engine crushed his leg, Buck didn't know what he was going to do. He couldn't figure out what else was going to give him that same feeling. Let him feel like he deserved any joy and compassion and love that he'd managed to scrounge up. It was supposed to be his new picture of the future, and it had been ripped from him, yet again. 

Buck didn't actually know where they were going when Bobby dragged him out of bed. He and Athena packed Buck into the backseat of their car like a surly teenager for a road trip, and Bobby took him into the office to introduce Buck to the other people in the program, telling Buck that he was going to be helping Bobby and Athena out around here. 

Frankly, none of them expected it to turn out like this. Bobby actually pushed back against the idea of Buck joining the program as a service dynamic specialist, worried about the emotional stress, not to mention how physically taxing it might be. But Buck didn't want to be in the office, doing all of that boring paperwork. He wanted to be back in the field. Working. Helping. 

With Athena's help, Buck got all the necessary certifications, and Bobby begrudgingly signed off. They were always desperate for more service dynamic specialists, especially subs. And Buck wasn't ashamed to say that he's one of the best they've got. Now, it didn't matter that Buck wasn't ever going to find someone who wanted him, for him. Because now, he was needed. And he worked tirelessly to earn every scrap of affection he got. Work with his Dom's expectations, their needs. Be good for them. 

God, Buck is trying to be good for Eddie. 

Eddie lets Buck tease him, a lot. He starts getting more involved in household chores and is pretty good at doing whatever Buck throws at him. It’s been sort of funny. Ordering his Dom around. 

Abby would have rolled her eyes and eventually told him to cut it out, and Buck doesn’t even want to think about what kinda kinky torture Tommy would put him through, but it’d be the kind that was decidedly lacking in the fun department. At least, for Buck. Not that Buck would have pushed in the first place. Tommy liked a sweet sub. Buck could really only get away with being a brat if Tommy was in the right mood for it, and even then, it was limited to a handful of bedroom activities. 

It’s different. Eddie’s different. 

“Don’t push yourself too hard, old man,” Buck says when Eddie stands up slowly, groaning, cracking every bone in his body. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured. Soft eyes with a hint of a smile. Buck knows that expression- fond amusement, reserved for easy times like this. He's beautiful when he manages to relax, even a little bit, and Buck's incessant urge to submit starts burning even hotter. 

“You know, I’m only a few years older than you,” Eddie says tartly. 

“Every day counts,” Buck says. “Besides. When I sit down, I can stand back up.” 

“Alright,” Eddie laughs, waving him off. “ I’m standing.”

Barely. 

“You can’t keep sleeping on that damn couch,” Buck says. “We need to get you in a real bed, Eddie.” 

He pulls his arms behind his back, stretching, perfect angle to accentuate his fucking collarbone. “Aren’t too many of those around here.”

Swallow your own damn tongue, Evan. “Well, we could always get the second room set up with my stipend.” 

Eddie’s back is to Buck, and the way he can practically see the tension would be almost comical if it weren’t deeply concerning. The amount of tension that Eddie carries around on a daily basis would be enough to dull a knife. 

“And there’s always the big bed,” Buck says. “King sized for a reason.” 

“I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch, Buck.”

“Yeah, because the couch is shit, which is why you should be sleeping in the bed ,” Buck wheedles. “The bed, which is big enough for the both of us. I never said I was going anywhere.”

Eddie drops his shirt into the laundry basket Buck’s left by the couch. “I’m not gonna make you do that.”

Right, because sleeping with Eddie would be such a hardship.

“I’m here for all submissive purposes, you know,” Buck says. “For everything that you might want, or need. And it’s not like I can judge you. You’ve seen what I’m into.” 

Eddie snorts, but that’s the extent of his reaction. 

Buck’s started to be able to pick up on some of Eddie’s expressions, minute as they might be, and it’s made it a little easier for him to read. Buck apparently likes to talk when he’s nervous, and nothing makes him more nervous than being out of touch with his Dom’s expectations and needs. 

But the more he’s learned about Eddie, the more Buck’s had to come to terms with how Eddie simply doesn’t have expectations. He has needs, because everyone has those, but he just doesn’t acknowledge them. Whether that be a survival mechanism, or out of sheer stubbornness, Buck has no idea. 

“I’m just messing with you,” Buck says eventually. “Obviously, we don’t have to do anything, I’m sorry for overstepping.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Eddie says. “I just wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Sleeping with a murderer and all that.” 

What little he’s managed to figure has landed somewhere around what . He can figure out what Eddie’s feeling, but not very much about why or where that’s coming from. 

Maybe it should be odd. With all of his previous placements, they had long since told Buck what happened by this time. With Ali, it was nearly immediate. It took a second for Abby and Tommy, but they both needed Buck’s reassurance that it wasn’t that bad. (Ali never should have gone to prison. Abby’s was definitely sympathetic. Tommy, on the other hand.)

It’s not like Buck had necessarily forgotten what Eddie’d done. It’s burned into his brain- the pieces of the file he allowed himself to see. Edmundo Diaz, felony manslaughter. 

But that’s not Eddie.

Eddie, not Edmundo Diaz, who… Buck sort of forgot about. 

“I’m legally permitted to terminate this contract, no questions asked,” Buck says. “They provide service subs with protections. Like, people with certain assault charges can’t apply for a service subs. There are mandatory medical reports, and we have emergency housing with the department in case we have to pick up and leave in the middle of the night. That kind of thing.” 

“It’s fine,” Eddie says. “I’ll just stretch more often.” 

…Eddie, who is really, really fucking stubborn. 

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, deflecting.

“Making overnight oats,” Buck says. “What do you want in yours?”

“Blueberries?” Eddie suggests. 

“Okay. Help me with these?”

Eddie takes the spoon without much comment, carefully folding the oats over the way Buck’s taught him. Regardless of what he says, Eddie’s not bad at cooking. He just didn’t cook often enough to be good at it. When Buck passes him the mason jars, Eddie scoops the oats up to divide it up evenly. 

After Buck takes out what’s left of the blueberries, he notices some old food shoved in the back of the fridge. It’s been a while since he cleaned the fridge out, apparently, because there’s mold on his strawberries. That he washed .

“I need a trash bag,” Buck says. He doesn’t even mean to whine, but it slips out. Eddie turns, worried. 

“What happened?” he asks, already opening the drawers under the sink to pull a trash bag off the roll. 

“I need to clean the fridge out,” Buck says, taking the bag. “The strawberries went bad. And I bought a bunch of stuff back when we first moved in before I knew what you liked to eat.”

Buck feels like the worst consumer capitalist piece of shit as he tosses an old head of lettuce, a takeout container, and two bottles of juice that have apparently begun to ferment. 

Ooh. Actually, maybe Eddie could figure out how to make really shitty alcohol from this. Buck’s heard of prune-o. 

“Oh, god,” Eddie says, almost gagging. “What is that smell ?”

Fuck. “Prune juice,” Buck says sheepishly. 

“...Prune juice?”

“Don’t judge me,” he says defensively. “I had never tried it so I bought some and then my taste buds realized they didn’t like prune juice, and I guess I forgot to throw it away.” 

 “ Prune juice.”

“Oh, shut up,” Buck says, standing up, unscrewing the lid of the juice. The smell gets worse and Buck shoves it into Eddie’s face. “Here. You try it.” 

“Nope! No,” Eddie says, laughing. “I am so fine. I’ll throw it away. Don’t do the dishes.”

Buck’s curiosity about Eddie feels less like a feeling and more so a state of being. He’s curious about Eddie, the same way he has been since the second he’d entered the house. Everything Eddie does makes sense, to Buck. The way he acts and behaves never leaves him guessing. He says what he’s thinking or he doesn’t say anything, at all. 

“No, I’ll take the trash out,” Buck says, darting out of the kitchen before Eddie can stop him, trash bag in one hand and the juice in the other. 

It would be much simpler if Buck could just rely on that, but historically speaking, Buck’s own biases and perception is skewed. His brain is stupid and it says stupid things. 

When people show you who they are, believe them. Someone much smarter than Buck figured that out a long time ago. And Eddie has been consistent for nearly two months. 

Eddie, who is completely contradictory to Edmundo Diaz, guilty of felony manslaughter.

Determinedly, Buck turns the bottle of juice over, pouring it over the couch cushions. It soaks in, the awful smell almost punching him in the face. 

“I spilled,” Buck announces. 

Eddie looks at him from the kitchen. “You… spilled.”

“Yup,” Buck says, grinning stupid, holding up the empty carton. 

“You spilled half a bottle of rotten prune juice.”

“Yup,” Buck says, his nose already wrinkling. “We have to move it out to the curb. There’s no getting that stain out.” 

Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes in disbelief. Honestly, Buck had no doubts that Eddie was going to see right through him. It wasn’t clever, or sneaky, but Eddie doesn’t scold him while they drag the couch out to the curb. It's a good plan. Eddie will have to sleep in the bed, and if he wants to keep being stubborn, then Buck will at least make sure the next couch he buys has a proper pull-out mattress. 

“Watch your step,” Eddie warns, and Buck looks down, making sure he doesn’t miss the drop down and twist his ankle. 

“Looks like you have nowhere to sleep,” Buck says pointedly. 

I trust you, Buck wants to say. Even if Eddie doesn’t believe him, Buck’s gotta show him. 

Without making Eddie respond, Buck picks up the pillows on the armchair and Eddie's blanket, heading off toward the bedroom. Tossing them onto the bed, Buck lays the throw blanket out on top of the quilt, going to the bedroom to brush his teeth. 

When he's gotten back, Eddie's sitting almost grudgingly on the top of the quilt, back rigid up against the headboard. When he looks at Buck, it's almost guilty. Like Buck hadn't practically forced him in here. 

Smiling at him, Buck starts to mess with the lights, switching the lamp on Buck's nightstand on before turning off the ceiling light, getting into bed on the other side. 

Eddie hesitates, but he pulls the blankets over himself, starting to settle back down. He's clutching the blankets for dear fucking life, his hands tense. (Big fucking hands, Buck can't help but notice. Fuck.)

“What happened to your hand?” Buck asks. 

Eddie looks down at the scars, spread across his knuckles and down the side of his left hand. 

“What’s it look like?” Eddie murmurs. 

“Looks like you tried to beat up a crocodile,” Buck says. “But. Um, they give me access to your files. There isn’t any injury in there that would explain your hands.” 

“Guards couldn’t really include these in my file,” Eddie says, examining his hands. “They’d definitely get in trouble. Probably lose their jobs.” 

“For what?” Buck asks dumbly. It’s really hard to fire a state employee once they’ve passed their probationary period, so some idiots get to keep being idiots for much longer than they should. Especially prison guards. 

“A fight club,” Eddie clarifies. “And you know the first rule about fight club.” 

Buck can’t even laugh at the outdated reference. “What are you talking about?” 

“El Paso County Cell Block D has a fight club,” Eddie says, like he’s reading a goddamn grocery list. “Hosted weekly on Fridays, while the warden was at his kid’s cello lessons.” 

“What?” 

“Warden was practically the only person there who wasn’t a piece of shit,” Eddie says. “Apparently, he was there to clean up, so he had a habit of stopping by randomly a couple of times throughout the week, and the only time the guards knew he wouldn’t show up was when his sub was working, so he had to take his kid to and from her cello lesson after school on Fridays.” 

Organizing an illegal fight club using inmates who were convicted of violent crimes was an entirely new level of hypocrisy, not even considering the fact that it all happened within a goddamn prison. 

“But- but why?” He asks, stupidly. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “I guess they were bored.”

Eddie was always flat when he spoke. Everything he said was at one level, calm and collected, even when he was telling Buck about being forced to participate in organized violence. 

“For a while, they would throw me in and I’d just kind of. Let them. I knew they wouldn’t injure me fatally because that’s too much heat for the guards. They can patch up injuries. Nothing crazy, but enough to keep us alive. Me and a couple of the other guys had some medical training.”

“They made you fight?” Buck asks. “They made you guys fight each other?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “It’s not like- I don’t know. I know we’re supposed to take responsibility for our actions, but the guards had nightsticks and guns, and we weren’t stupid enough to try anything. Or I wasn’t, at least.” 

“Guards aren’t allowed to bring guns into prisons,” Buck insists. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they’re not allowed to make inmates fight each other, either, but here we are.”

Oh. Right. 

 “They had a little ritual,” Eddie explains. “Put someone in solitary, so by the time they came out, they’d be desperate enough to do anything. From solitary straight to their little fight club. Fight or we’ll throw you back in there.” 

“Oh, Eddie-“

“I didn’t,” he says, almost quickly. “I mean. For a long time, I didn’t. When they threw me in solitary, um. It messed with my head, and I wasn’t in any state to fight by the time they pulled me out.” 

Solitary confinement was torture, as far as Buck is concerned. When he toured the prison (optional, but eventually very helpful) and they showed him the isolation cells, Buck thought they were joking, at first. 

Solitary cells were metal all the way around. No windows. A food slot in the door, but only opened up for ten seconds to put a tray in and pull the tray out. A toilet and a sink and a hard shaky bed built into the floor with a mattress that probably hadn’t been changed out in years. 

The cells weren’t soundproof. There was still life, echoes throughout the halls of the prison, leaving the person inside going crazy wondering if any of that was real. 

Buck barely lasted two minutes in there. He doesn’t know what he’d do if the door locked behind him. 

“There was a kid I was bunking up with,” Eddie says. “He had just moved to County from Bexar, in San Antonio. Serving a life sentence for something he did when he was seventeen.”

Buck’s lips twist, but he tries not to say anything, keep himself from commenting further. Give Eddie space to come to his own conclusions without Buck’s input. 

“He was a good kid,” Eddie says weakly. “Panikkar. Ravi . Had cancer when he was young, and then went a little crazy when he went into remission. Got high with some of his friends and accidentally caused a house fire when they got hungry. There were six of them in the apartment, and he was the only one who survived.”

“But it was an accident,” Buck says. “He lost all of his friends.”

“One of them was… some famous dermatologist? I don’t know what they’re called when they’re also surgeons. Skin surgeon. Whatever. But his daughter was Panikkar’s friend and she died, so he decided to hire a team of lawyers to nail him to the damn wall. His family didn’t have enough money to pay for their own after all his cancer treatments, so he was fucked. Lamb to the fucking slaughter.” 

“He was a good kid,” Eddie repeated. “Good cellie. Always had a good attitude. He even ran the AA meetings and taught some of the math stuff for the GED program, but he was a lower level switch. So, an easy target.” 

Buck’s always had a problem with the way they divide up prison populations. They’ve kept them separated, usually by biological sex, which makes sense when he factors in the Texas of it all. Up until recently, though, they kept Dom and sub populations together. There weren’t any regulations preventing correctional officers or wardens from putting them in the same cell, much less dividing up a whole cell block. 

Subs going to prison very rarely made it out, and the ones who did usually found their way back. 

“What happened to him?” Buck asks. 

“I went to go meet up with him for basketball and he didn’t show,” Eddie says. “I wasn’t there during mess because Lena wanted to talk to me, so I figured I’d see him during our break, but he didn’t show. And one of the guards ended up locking me down in my cell for the rest of the day, so I had no idea what was going on.”

“Nobody told you anything?” Buck asks. 

“I knew something was wrong because I was sleeping alone for the first time in a year. I asked, but Tommy didn’t like my tone, I guess. He told me he didn’t have to take orders from prisoners and then spit in my food tray,” Eddie says. “And then threw me back into solitary when I refused to eat it.” 

Buck’s grimace might be permanently melded on his face. Apparently everyone named Tommy is destined to be a cowardly piece of shit. 

“Found out a few days later that Ravi was in medical,” Eddie says, the slightest tremor in his voice. “This fucking asshole– low level Dom who was in for six sexual assault charges– propositioned him and then lost his shit when Ravi turned him down. Beat him up so badly he nearly killed him.” 

“Oh, Eddie-”

“I felt- I was worried about him,” Eddie says. “He fucked up. But he didn’t deserve that. Nobody does.” 

You didn’t, Buck wants to say. It doesn’t matter what you did. You didn’t, either. 

You didn’t, Eddie. 

“That Friday, Tommy put me in. Against the fuck who tried to kill him,” Eddie says. “He was so proud of himself for that move. I heard him bragging about how he was so sure he was going to finally break me. Bring out who I really am. A vicious, brutal killer. And for a second, I- I really thought I was going to do it. That’s how they all see me, anyway. Might as well.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I wanted to,” Eddie says. “What does that say about me?” 

Eddie’s fingers are tangled in the blanket, fussing almost thoughtlessly. Keeping his hands busy while he works through old, horrible memories that Buck could never truly understand. 

“He was on the floor, choking,” Eddie mumbles. “And Tommy and all the other guys are freaking out, because letting someone die is too much hassle. I told them to let me help. I, uh. I was an army medic, before.”

“Did they let you?” 

“He had some shards of bone blocking his airway,” Eddie says softly. By way of explanation, Buck supposes. “Part of his nose. And a tooth.” 

“A tooth?” Buck asks, bewildered. “How did that happen?” 

“I broke his jaw,” Eddie says. “Accidentally split my wrist on his teeth. And- um. He got moved to a different block. And they kept putting me up against all of the troublemakers. People who were picking on the lower levels. Switches. Tommy figured out if they were horrible people, I didn’t care as much about getting my hands on them. Made him a lot of money.”  

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you,” Buck says softly.

It almost feels like the wrong thing to say, with the way Eddie scoffs at him. Rolls his eyes, folds his arms even tighter around himself. 

“I almost killed someone, Evan,” Eddie says. He almost spits it out. “I punched him so hard a piece of his nose got stuck in his throat. I came out of it fine .” 

Forgiving someone for assault, attempted murder, whatever, that goes against practically everything Buck believes in. He knows that a history of trauma and pain doesn't give anyone the right to take it out on others, and Buck isn't the one who Eddie hurt. It's not his pain to take on. 

But- but Buck doesn't think Eddie's asking for his forgiveness. Eddie doesn't strike Buck as the kind of person who could let go of guilt just because someone told him to. Buck can see it. He can see the guilt that Eddie carries with him, every damn day. 

Buck knows he's not that smart. He knows that Buck forgives the wrong people, that he's quick to feel and that he needs to work on his impulsivity, but he can't help it. Eddie's not a bad person. He's not the kind of person who will do bad and make up some excuse when he fucks up again. He's so careful. Almost annoyingly so, with the care he gives to Buck. Keep Buck comfortable and help Buck out wherever he can. 

Like when Buck accidentally sliced his hand open with a kitchen knife, and Eddie had patched him up- and then checked on the wound the next morning. Like how Eddie keeps doing the dishes, and how he's started choosing TV shows that he knows Buck likes. The way he drops the sweetest little pieces of praise like it's nothing. As natural as fucking breathing.

When someone shows you who they are, believe them.

“You saved his life,” Buck says softly. “What does that say about you?”

Eddie continues to stare off into space, jaw so tense Buck's worried he's going to pass out. 

They're still. For a long, long time, while Buck has to put active effort into not filling the silence with his own anxieties. If Eddie were anyone else, Buck would sit on his lap. He'd wrap his arms around Eddie's neck and let him do whatever he wanted, tell him to take all of the ugliness he's feeling on the inside and put it all on Buck. He can take it. He wants to take it. 

When Eddie moves, it's so sudden Buck almost jumps. He pulls the blankets back to allow himself to stretch, reaching over Buck, and his heart almost catches in his throat. It's the closest Eddie's ever got to him, close enough to feel his body heat, and he never wants to stop feeling him. Never, ever, ever-

The lights go out, and Eddie pulls away, getting back under the covers on his side. Away from Buck. Away from the lamp he'd just turned out, and Buck is stunned, staring open mouthed into the darkness. 

His stomach squeezes, and he tries not to exhale too loudly, ignore the tears that are threatening to sting at his eyes. 

They lay there, in the dark. 

Buck's not sure he's allowed to feel so alone, not when Eddie's half a foot away.

Notes:

i am so immensely grateful for the amount of support this fic has received!! i'm super excited about this concept and want to make sure that i'm doing it justice, and this past week or so was pretty nuts for me so this came in a bit late.

i know we're all curious about what exactly happened with eddie, and where christopher is, and what's up with buck's history in the program?? lots of questions, but all the answers are coming, i swear!!

comments absolutely make my day and make it so much easier to come back and keep working on this, so i appreciate each and every one of you!!

Chapter 4

Notes:

i am so sorry about how long this took, lol. my life got a little crazy. things appear to be calming down, so hopefully it'll be a bit more regular- this chapter is a bit longer than my chapters typically are, so hopefully that makes up for it.

sending all my love!
nicky

“I can’t believe they assign you homework.” 

Buck doesn’t process Eddie’s teasing at first, so engrossed in his laptop he’s managed to tune out whatever movie Eddie’s left on in the living room. He tears his eyes away from the article to look at Eddie over the top, guilty. 

“This technically isn’t required,” Buck explains. “But I do some research for my boss so he can implement that into the program.” 

The extra pay is nice, but it’s mostly something to keep Buck occupied, busy, and useful. Especially during his placement with Ali, Buck had never felt more useless. Having a research project to write up and apply back to how they operate helps him to enact change, even if it’s from a distance. 

Plus, all of this dynamic and inmate psychology is interesting. Science helps him to be a better service sub, and that’s all he really wants. To be good. Do good. 

Yeah. He’s pathetic. 

Ever since Buck ‘spilled’ the prune juice, he and Eddie have shared the bed to sleep. Buck is decidedly not thinking about that, though, and not worrying about it. He’s not thinking about how Eddie doesn’t need him, but he is worried that Eddie is needing something , and he’s just ignoring it. He’s been out of prison for months with no scening, no supplemental hormones. 

Buck knows he’s chicken shit. He’s nervous that he’s about to hit his limit where he starts feeling all the physical detriments of dysregulation. Fatigue, nausea, migraines- Buck’s been doing his best not to let himself fall into the pits of subby neediness, though. He has to have better control than that. 

“Always working,” Eddie sighs, running the dish towel over the cleaned plate. “No idea how you do it, Buck.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Buck tries to stretch away the ache in his lower back he hadn’t noticed until then. “I’m guessing you’re not itching to get back to the 9 to 5 life?”

“Getting back would imply I had any experience there in the first place,” Eddie says. “Which I don’t.”

“That’s part of my job, by the way,” Buck says. 

“What, being a career counselor?” Eddie asks sarcastically. “Prisons are not like dorms, just for the record.”

“My job is to help you be a functioning member of society,” Buck says. “Part of that is helping you find work.”  

The program provides housing and the stipend, but Buck knows his goal is supposed to be to help Eddie live on his own. Which, yeah. Means Buck is going to move out one day. He’s accepted that just fine. 

If Eddie’s going to be alone again, then he needs to have income. Some sort of job, even though he’s got a gap on his resume filled in with what is likely his biggest shame. Eddie also has to disclose his felony status, and it’s technically not illegal to discriminate based on that. 

So, yeah. In a word, it’s complicated. 

“So, what’s the plan for jobs?” Eddie asks. “Or. I mean, what can I do? What’s- how am I supposed to- you know?” 

The nonsensical questions actually did happen to make some sense to Buck, if only because getting back on your feet after a prison stint was so impossibly complicated. 

Parolees are required to get a job. Some of them are still paying off fines, but all of them need to have an address on file. Sometimes, people get lucky and have a relative who’s more than willing to take them in while they’re getting back on their feet. But other than that, it’s practically impossible. Halfway houses only have so many spots, and people coming out of prison have been out of work for years. They don’t have enough money for a security deposit for an apartment lease. They usually can’t find roommates, so. Yeah. Impossible situation. 

“You could do lots of things,” Buck says. “Most of the restrictions in Texas are limited to education, finance, medicine. Things you would need a license for, stuff like that.” 

“The only thing I ever did was the army,” Eddie says. “I mean, I did some smaller labor jobs in prison. 

“If you could do anything, right now,” Buck says. “Be anything. What would you be?”

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to be.”

“Forget about all of that conviction and felon bullshit,” Buck says. “If all of that never happened. What would you do?” 

Eddie looks almost guilty. The way he stares off into nothing, the most intense of empty gazes. 

What are you looking for? Buck wants to ask. Please let me help.   

“I used to think about being a firefighter,” Eddie says. “You know. Before.” 

“Texas fire departments don’t disqualify people with convictions automatically,” Buck says. “If you’re honest and you disclose it, there’s a good chance you could be hired.” 

Eddie’s lips curl up into a smirk, and he sighs, leaning back to hit his head on the couch. 

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie says. “Seems like a lot of responsibility. I don’t know if I could handle that.”

“Aw, come on,” Buck says. “You served in Afghanistan before serving five years in federal prison, Eddie. You can handle more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

“Are they going to ask me?” Eddie blurts out. “I know I have to disclose my status, but are they going to ask me about specifics?”

Buck falters. He has all of the answers, but that doesn’t mean he likes them. 

“Maybe,” Buck says. “But they’re not supposed to, not until they’ve offered you the position.”

“Do I have to tell them?” Eddie asks weakly. 

“Only if it’s relevant to your job performance,” Buck explains. “In that case, they’d ask you something particular and you answer with as many or as few details as you feel comfortable sharing.” 

Eddie stares off into nothing. 

Searching.

“I’m sorry,” Buck says feebly. “I know it’s uncomfortable to have to navigate all of this, and I know people get really weird when anything regarding prison comes around. I wish they wouldn’t ask.” 

“Why haven’t you?” Eddie blurts out. “Asked?” 

Buck has the whole explanation on the tip of his tongue. He could start rambling about all of the literature he’s read, the importance of strict and clear boundaries, his role as Eddie’s safe space, the one part of his life that he’s allowed to control wholly and completely. Buck, someone who Eddie could trust not to leave, as long as Eddie was trying. 

Trying for what? 

Buck’s not really sure, actually. 

Other Doms had to work really hard to regulate themselves. Tommy in particular was prone to outbursts over the smallest things, losing his shit if someone was rude to him at a restaurant, or if someone parked over the line. It took Buck a long time to figure out what exactly Tommy was expecting of him, heavily depending on his mood. Buck was always supposed to be sweet and subservient for Tommy. Most days, that was it. Go right along with whatever Tommy wanted. He was good at sweet, but he was supposed to be a little bratty when Tommy was a little drunk so he’d have a reason to rough Buck up a little.

When Tommy was angry, though, he didn’t really need a reason. He was rough with Buck because he needed to be rough with someone. Something. Anything, and Buck could take it, and Buck was really good at his job.

But Eddie’s self control was almost scary. He was always so calm, and so level. When Buck manages to claw at that surface, pull at something deeper, it doesn’t happen in a burst of rage or joy or fear. Eddie speaks about his pain so candidly, so far detached from the feeling that Buck almost thinks he’s managed to convince himself it’s not real.

Buck can see it, though. Something deeper inside of Eddie, something he’s clearly terrified of allowing out. Like he can’t let himself feel anything too deeply, just in case he accidentally lets himself feel everything, and it all comes rushing out, destroying everything in its wake.  

Buck wonders when Eddie’d last allowed himself to fall apart. 

During the fight club? 

After? 

I can handle it, Buck wants to scream. Please . 

“It’s not necessary,” Buck says, breath catching when Eddie levels his gaze back toward him. “If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.” 

“Why does it matter what I want?”

Buck’s pretty sure he’d find a way to resurrect Sir Isaac fucking Newton, if that’s what Eddie wanted. 

“That’s my job,” Buck says feebly. “To be good for you.” 

Eddie’s stupid fucking intense doe eyes are going on Buck’s list. He tries not to wring his hands, no matter how nervous he is. Eddie watches him, and Buck tries not to panic.

“Baby steps,” Buck says. “We’ll get you set up with our department’s job agency, and see what they have to say. And we can go from there. Sound good?”

 He doesn’t know what Eddie’s looking for, and without that, he can’t prove to him that he’s good . Once he figures it out, he won’t just be Evan anymore. He can- he can be whoever Eddie needs him to be. More. Less.

“You’re unbelievable,” Eddie says eventually. 

Uh. “Is that a good thing?”

“I can’t believe that you’re real,” Eddie says, clarifying. “You just- you’re always working so hard to be good.”

Yeah. Yes. Exactly, and Buck tries to stave off his excitement when Eddie keeps talking.

“I guess that makes sense though,” Eddie says. “Because it’s your job. And you take pride in what you do for a living. It makes sense that you’re so good at it, and your Dom is going to be really lucky. I can’t imagine how good you’ll be when it’s real.” 

His words rest on Evan’s chest, uncomfortable pressure, dragging him off the dream cloud he had managed to delude into existence. Something like jealousy stirs, and Buck has to fight the urge to protest. Convince Eddie that this is real, because it’s the closest to real that Buck is ever going to be allowed to get. Show him that Buck is giving him everything . He’s giving all he’s got.

Nudging him, Buck raises a judgy brow, pursing his lips in the way that makes Eddie roll his eyes, fighting the fond smirk he can’t seem to get rid of. 

This isn’t real.

“So?” Buck asks, pointedly. “Sound good?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says gently. “Sounds good.” 

~~~

Buck doesn’t like hospitals. He doesn’t like doctor’s offices, and he hates the fucking dentist. 

To be fair, most children don’t like hospitals, and Buck probably has some negative feelings he’s carrying over from bone marrow transplants and giant needles he can’t even remember. 

Honestly, he’s not sure how long after birth they harvested his bone marrow, but it had to be pretty quickly, considering. Daniel was sick for a while before they started trying to conceive Evan, and they had to wait nine whole months for him to come out. Maddie says they spent lots of time in the hospital until Daniel died, not that Buck remembers any of that. 

From what he can remember, though, hospitals were still the worst. A test of a bunch of things Buck wasn’t even sure of. They asked him what he ate and what kind of stuff he liked doing and checked his eyes and ears and throat. He had to get shots and take pills and get scans, and he hated it. 

Still, though, he made sure not to complain. Emergency rooms and hospitals were some of the few places that he had to have Margaret or Phillip, and their full attention. Whoever that happened to be. They had to answer questions about Buck and his health, and he accepted stickers and lollipops from the nurses much longer than he’d like to admit. He’d take the stupid shots and doctor’s orders to get a little attention, as pathetic as that may be. 

After Buck presented, something changed. Well. A lot of things changed, but doctors stopped talking to him. Nurses, too. They still poked and prodded. Asked what he ate, what he’d been doing, checked his eyes and ears and throat. More shots and more pills, but something about it started feeling notably clinical. They’d tell Margaret and Phillip all of their updates, ask them questions. Questions about Buck, like he was incapable of answering for himself. 

Buck started doing his appointments alone the second it was legal. 

“Evan Buckley!” 

Shooting his most charming smile in her direction, he sits up straighter. “Henrietta Wilson!”

She smiles at him, fond as ever when she wraps him into a hug, and Buck tries not to relax into it too quickly. Turning into her, he lets her squeeze, not too tight. Could never be too tight. 

“Oh, good, I thought you were going to be late,” Hen says over his shoulder. 

Buck rolls his eyes as she releases him. He’s been here for fifteen minutes, thank you very much. After dropping Eddie off at his intake appointment with the hiring agency, he didn’t have anything to do other than come here. Buck’s about to say so when a hand lands on his shoulder. Unexpected, but not unwelcome-

What the fuck. 

“Bobby?” Buck asks, bewildered. “What are you doing here?” 

Bobby shrugs, crossing his arms. “Heard you had an appointment today.”

Obviously. Buck told him yesterday. “Okay. So, what are you doing here?” 

“Thought you might want some company,” Bobby says. 

“Company” sounds a lot more like “babysitting” from where Buck’s standing, but Bobby herds him through the door to the exam room like a fucking border collie, and Buck finds himself sitting on the table with his head bowed, shamed little kid. 

Hen seems to sense the tension, and she starts up a conversation with Buck about a medical journal they both subscribe to. Some scientist in the Netherlands just published an article about neurological damages of secondary PTSD, and Buck appreciates her so much. He manages to lose himself in the conversation, nearly managing to forget that Bobby’s there, in the corner. Watching. 

“Everything seems good,” Hen says. “On the surface, at least. If I do your bloodwork, am I going to see anything I don’t like?”

Buck decidedly ignores the way that Bobby perks up, anxious for the answer.

“Nope,” he says. 

Hen looks at Buck. 

Buck sighs. 

“We haven’t been scening much,” Buck says. “And I’m not- it’s not because I’m unfit for the job, I promise. I’m not being difficult. I’ve been offering openly but obviously, I can’t force the guy to scene with me.” 

“Hm,” Hen says. “He just doesn’t want to?” 

“How are your levels?” Bobby cuts in. “Are you feeling sick? How’s your appetite? And sleep?”  

Glaring at him, Buck levels his arm out in Bobby’s general direction. “Should he be here?” 

Hen, he has to answer, but not Bobby. 

“You know the department is required to keep tabs on your health throughout your placement, Buck.” 

“I also know that the department’s usual methods of ‘keeping tabs’ don’t include stalking DS workers during private doctor’s appointments,” Buck snaps. “You seriously don’t have to be here right now, Bobby.” 

He can feel Bobby’s stupidly neutral, emotionless gaze on him from across the room, watching Buck squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass. 

“Please,” Buck says. “Look, I’ll- I consent to Hen sharing anything worrisome, and I’ll call you tonight. Hen’s got me. I swear. But I need to do this alone. I can handle this, Bobby.” 

Hen coughs. Bobby finally breaks his glare at Buck, glancing at her neutrally as she purses her lips, brows raised behind her glasses, the two of them locked in some kind of stand-off that Buck isn’t allowed access to. 

About three seconds before Buck breaks off into a full blown tantrum, Bobby sighs. Standing up, he turns the handle of the door without another word, closing it gently behind him. 

The quiet sound still manages to echo in Buck’s brain.

“Be gentle with him, Buck,” Hen says. “He’s just worried about you.” 

Little does she know. Bobby hasn’t stopped “worrying” about Buck since they’ve met. 

“I know,” Buck says. “It’s- it’s just- he has to trust me to do my job, you know? I feel like I can’t show any signs of weakness or struggle without him threatening to bench me forever.” 

And it’s unfair, to Bobby. Nobody knows that more than Buck. Bobby has a lot of reasons to be worried about Buck, because he’s seen him at his absolute worst. 

It’s Buck’s personal conundrum. He wants to be seen, and rationally, he knows that includes all of the bad parts. That includes his impulsivity, and his inability to sit still for five seconds, and everything else he’s been working so hard to hide. 

But that’s supposed to be Buck of the past. It’s not supposed to be Buck, 4.0. (2.0’s leg was crushed by a ladder truck, and 3.0 got abandoned by an Abby). 

“I was there, you know,” Hen says quietly. “I was working a shift in the ER when Bobby brought you in.”

Buck doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember anything about those last few days, when Buck’s communication had dropped off a cliff right along with his blood pressure. Bobby practically broke Abby’s door down. He was a fire captain, after all. He used to break into places for a living. 

“I’d never seen him like that,” Hen says. “He was terrified for you, Buck. I mean, we all were, but I don’t think Bobby took a complete breath the entire time you were out.”

Buck doesn’t want to picture that. Bobby, leaning over his hospital bed, Bible on his lap and rosary tangled in his fingers.

“Honestly, I don’t think he’s taken a deep breath yet.”

“Eddie isn’t Abby.”

“Oh, Buck. I know that you miss her.”

That… isn’t even remotely where Buck is going with this. “No. I mean, Eddie isn’t Abby. He’s not going to abandon me and force me to lie to you. Eddie’s not trying to hurt me, Hen.” 

“Honey, I don’t think Abby was trying to hurt you, either, but she still did.” 

“I am fine ,” Buck says. He knows he sounds petulant, like a little fucking baby, but who can blame him at this point? If they’re all gonna treat him like this, then he’s gonna act like one. 

“Can you just write some scrips?” Buck asks. “For both of us?” 

Hen’s hands pause where she’s typing. It’s so miniscule- Buck probably wouldn’t even have noticed if he wasn’t expecting this. 

“What?” he asks defensively. “He’s not scening, either.” 

“Has he asked for supplemental hormones?” Hen asks. 

Ugh. “No, but-”

“If he wants some prescriptions, then you tell him he’s going to have to come in here and ask for them himself.” 

“I’m not trying to steal drugs, Hen.” 

“He hasn’t even asked for them, Evan.” 

“I want to have some,” Buck snaps. “Just- just in case. What if he drops, and he hasn’t consented? By the time he gets any emergency scrips, it’ll be too late, Hen. You know that.” 

“I do know that,” Hen says, and she’s using her calm doctor tone, the one she only pulls out when Buck starts getting hysterical. “I also know that you’re a good sub, Buck. I know you’ve managed to figure out ways to be there for Mr. Diaz, even if you don’t feel like it’s enough.” 

“Look, if you don’t want to prescribe them, then I can just get some that are over the counter,” Buck says. Snaps. A little more terse than necessary. “I promise. I’m not being difficult, Hen, I just need- I need…”

He has no possible idea how to explain to Hen this urge- Eddie’s not letting him help, and Buck’s terrified Eddie’s going to get hurt and he hasn’t done enough to stop it. It’s his responsibility. To stop the bad things from happening. It’s Buck’s responsibility to do everything he can to keep his Dom happy. He can do it, if he tries hard enough, and if other people let him. 

“I’ll write the prescriptions,” Hen says. “But you’re only to take one a day, Buck. I’m doing your bloodwork once every month, and extra tests before I do any refills.”

Buck rolls his eyes. “Okay, that just seems like overkill.” 

“It’s either this or you don’t get any ‘scrips at all.” 

“Fine,” Buck snaps, taking his jacket off and rolling his sleeve up, putting his hand on his chin, embodying the stubborn child he feels like. Hen spares him his dignity, doesn’t tease him as she prepares him to draw his blood.

Ugh. Buck tries to think about literally anything other than hospitals. And Abby. And Eddie. 

When Hen’s finally done, she takes the vials, telling Buck to wait while she expedites her tests. Buck doesn’t answer, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

 

[Eddie]: can you pick me up?

[Eddie]: now?

[Eddie]: please

 

Cursing, Buck taps out a quick response as he scrambles to pull his jacket back on. 

 

Sorry just finished with the doctor. Omw 

 

“Hey, Hen, I’ve gotta go,” Buck calls down the hall. 

“I’m not done with your bloodwork, Buck-”

“Work stuff!” he yells. “Thanks, love you, see you later!”

He doesn’t quite run to the car, but it’s close. Luckily, the agency isn’t too far from the department’s hospital, so Buck hopes Eddie will forgive him for the six minutes late he was reading Eddie’s texts. Something must have happened. Maybe Eddie feels sick, too. Buck should have forced him to go to the doctor, too, or insisted on a different interview time so Hen could at least observe him. 

Plus, then maybe she wouldn’t have been annoying about the prescription hormones. 

Pulling into the parking lot, Buck sees Eddie leaning up against the outside wall, jacket in hand. He turns when he hears Buck’s car. Must be familiar enough at this point. 

Buck can’t see any real distress on Eddie’s face. Annoyance, maybe, at the way he’s so tense, and the way his lips had curved over into the slightest pout. It’s endearing, most of the time, but not when Buck doesn’t know how to help.

Eddie opens the car door before Buck’s even finished parking. 

“Hey!” Buck says. “I’m sorry, the doctor wanted me to stay and run some extra tests-”

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, cutting him off. “Can we- let’s just go, okay?”

“Okay,” Buck says dumbly. “I- uh. I got you some synthetic hormones. I need to pick them up at the pharmacy. I know you said you didn’t want to take them, but I-”

“I can’t take them,” Eddie says dully. “I told you that.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” 

“ Can’t ,” Eddie snaps. “I’m allergic to synths, Buck.” 

 “Oh,” Buck manages. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” 

Eddie huffs, and Buck might be driving but he doesn’t need his eyes to feel the eye roll, Eddie’s annoyance taking up the whole damn car. At least Buck identified the emotion correctly, even if he’s not getting a sticker for that. 

And maybe Eddie just needed some alone time. So Buck isn’t completely shirking his duties by running away like the coward he feels like. 

As they’re pulling onto South Bedford St, Buck licks his lips, trying to form words in his stupid, dry mouth. “I have to go to the pharmacy,” he says stupidly. “Will you be okay for a bit?”

“I’m fine.” 

Buck’s too selfish to question the obvious lie, passing Eddie the house key off the ring before pulling out of the driveway, desperate to get anywhere other than here. Here, where he keeps fucking up. 

God, Buck is so tired of fucking up. It’s all he can think about, these days. More and more situations come to mind the longer he thinks about it. In the car, in the line at the pharmacy. The line at the front checking counter, because Buck forgot to get something to drink. 

When he’s finally safe in the car, Buck pulls out the two pill bottles. Eddie’s Dom hormones and Buck’s subby ones. Buck’s tempted to play roulette. Ignore the labels and just go with fucking God. Hen took his blood today, anyway. It’d be long out of his system by the time he has to go back. 

Rolling his eyes, Buck drops Eddie’s bottle back into the bag, popping the cap off his own to take two pills out. 

After he takes them, he just waits. Stares at nothing and waits for the rush of calm and quiet to hit him. He’s been waiting so long, and he’s been trying so hard to be good. He doesn’t know what else he could do to deserve peace. He doesn’t know how long it’ll be before he figures it out. 

Parking lots definitely qualify as liminal spaces. Buck stares, listless, as cars park and people mill in and out, and then other people come back and get into different cars, leaving. Normal people doing normal things, feeling normal .

Maybe it’s the cars or the people or the pills, but Buck manages to pull his shit together for long enough to drive home. Finishing his water, he drops the bottle into the trash bag in the door compartment, turning his car back on. Buck hadn’t noticed how much colder it had gotten until he grabs the steering wheel with numb fingers. 

Eddie’s left the front door open for him. Carefully, Buck locks it behind him. He can’t hear the TV or the shower, and Buck panics for two seconds before finding the kitchen empty, lights off. In fact, all of the lights are off, except for a faint glow outside the back door. 

Confused, Buck opens it, looking around until he sees Eddie, sitting on the floor. 

He doesn’t look at Buck, but he raises the bottle in acknowledgement. The bottle. Of beer. 

“Where did you even get those?” Buck asks, dumbly. Eddie doesn’t have ID. Buck’s the only one who brings the mail in, and he hasn’t managed to get Eddie’s driver’s license renewed. 

“That place on Segundo doesn’t card.” 

Buck tries to picture the map of El Paso- Segundo is closer to the border, by Chihuahita. Which isn’t ridiculously far from their home, but it’s not a quick little trip around the corner. 

“Did you walk there?”

Eddie eyes him over the bottle of beer. “You gonna tell on me?” 

Whatever. Buck laughs. “Not if you share.”

Eddie spreads his hands best he can, even with the hand clutching the bottle. He’s already finished one, tipped over on the ground, so Buck takes the third from the six pack in the middle. If he had grabbed one for Eddie, too, he would have taken them from the other side, but this leaves the two on the end with one in the middle. Not as symmetrical as he would like, but whatever. 

He’ll hide the bottles in the neighbor’s recycling. It’s a stupid rule, frankly. Eddie’s done his time in prison and an IPA isn’t gonna change anything. 

“Are you okay?” Buck asks feebly. He knows Eddie isn’t. Everything about him is screaming “not okay,” and yet. He can’t think of anything else to say. So far, every time Eddie’s opened up, it hadn’t been at Buck’s urging. It was random, the same way everything has been with Eddie. 

“I’m probably not going to get a job through them,” Eddie says. 

Um. “Well, you never know.”

“I told the hiring manager to fuck himself.” 

Yeah, okay. That’s probably a foregone conclusion. Buck can’t even sell that. 

“He announced to the whole waiting room that he was looking for the candidate for the ex-con program,” Eddie says.

Buck waits for the punchline, but it doesn’t come. “That’s… really unprofessional.”

“He asked all the typical questions, like what I’m good at and what I’ve done,” Eddie explains. “So I told him about my work in the army. I know I’m not allowed to do people jobs, but I figured it might be helpful.” 

“It is!” Buck says quickly. “There are a lot of jobs where anatomical and medical knowledge are useful.”

“Not according to him,” Eddie mumbles. “He cut me off and told me that I’m not in the army anymore. And then pulled out… all of my records. Army records, the information the public can get on inmates. And he started getting nosy. Asked me about- about my discharge, and about my reprimands, and about the- the leave that I took in the middle of my tour. Like that’s any of his damn business.” 

“Yeah, no,” Buck says. “That’s totally unprofessional, man. It’s not fair to you, at all. I get why you’re mad.”

“I’m not, anymore,” Eddie reassures. “No more than I usually am. I’m not going to blow up on you.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Buck asks. “Taking it out on me? Because you don’t have to be, Eddie. I can-”

“I know,” he cuts Buck off. 

Do you? Buck wants to ask. Do you believe me? 

Buck knows there’s no point in repeating himself, not if Eddie doesn’t believe him. Or if Eddie doesn’t want him.

Quietly, Buck tips the bottle back, downing the rest of the beer in one long drink before tossing it to the side, grabbing another one. The last one from the middle, obviously, leaving the last row. Maybe Eddie will take another one at the same time as Buck does, and then it’ll be empty instead of just one left in the corner, because Buck feels like he wants a third. If Eddie doesn’t drink another, he will. Maybe both at the same time so the last one won’t be lonely. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. 

Buck knows his brain isn’t working very well right now, so he’ll eventually forgive himself for gawping at Eddie. “For what?”

“You went out of your way to set this up for me and I ruined it,” Eddie says. “I- I really wasn’t planning on it. I was going to go in there and smile and be polite and grateful. I just- I hate the way people like that look at me.”

“Hey, no,” Buck says. “If this doesn’t work out, then we’ll find something else. When you’re ready. Some place that respects you as a human, not one that sees you as a convict.” 

“I am a convict.”

“Okay,” Buck says. “You’re a human, first.” 

Honestly, it’s insane to Buck that he even needs to explain this concept, but if he’s learned one thing, it’s that people suck. And that people are stupid. And that people are extra stupid when it comes to other people. 

There’s no question Buck hasn’t received about his position as a service sub. Why is he doing that to himself? Aren’t there better jobs, and easier ways to help people? What does his Dom think? Oh, why doesn’t he have a Dom? Doesn’t he want one? Is he trying ? Surely, there’s no possible way this job could be worth disappointing his hypothetical Dom. Not for “those people.” Or “monsters,” to a few choice idiots. 

Now that Buck has been working in direct service for a few years, he can confirm what he’s always known. They’re people, first and foremost. Most of them were just people in shitty situations, becoming whoever they had to in order to survive. 

And people- they deserve a chance. They deserve a real chance to be something more than whatever they had to become in order to survive. 

“Service subs aren’t mandatory reporters, you know,” Buck says randomly. “You could literally kill someone and I’m not obligated to tell anyone, and I can’t be punished for that in a court of law. So, you know. A few beers is nothing.” 

Eddie doesn't bother responding, but he’s not one to say very much in general, so Buck doesn’t think too hard on it. They sit together, on the deck, nursing the six pack. Buck’s second goes much slower than his first, which turns out to be a good thing because Eddie’s barely touched his third the entire time Buck’s been out here. 

Hiding out on their back porch gives a pretty good angle to watch the late sunset- the best part, in Buck’s opinion. When all of the colors start to melt together, a beautiful swirl. 

“Someone else,” Eddie says finally. 

Confused, Buck has to stop himself mid-yawn. “What?”

 “You said I could literally kill someone and you wouldn’t be obligated to tell,” Eddie says. “I’m a convicted murderer, Buck. You meant if I did it again . You meant if I kill someone else .” 

And maybe it’s the beer, or his sheer exhaustion. He could blame it on a million different things, all of them easier than admitting what he truly wants to say. 

Eddie’s not a killer. Buck would bet his sister’s life on it. 

“No,” Buck says quietly. “I didn’t.”

It’s quiet. 

The world around them keeps moving, but Buck sits there, with Eddie, and it’s almost easy to feel quiet. Eddie’s quiet, too, but Buck doesn’t mind. He was honest. It’s the truth. Buck might not have any facts, or evidence. He’s lose in a court of law, but he doesn’t care.

Eddie’s fingers graze Buck’s thigh. It’s so light that Buck almost doesn’t notice it. But he does, of course. Because it’s Eddie.

He plans to write it off the way he brushes off all of their physical contact. They live in the same house. Of course, they accidentally bump into each other. They’re accidents. Happy accidents, but still. 

Gently, they trace his leg. Eddie’s fingers tense lightly, dancing along Buck’s thigh, every step more intentional than the last. 

He slides his fingers down his arm, like he’s as fragile as the moment feels, a harsh breath or sharp movement prone to scaring him away. 

Buck can’t breathe. And he’s so fucking grateful, so grateful that he can’t breathe, because he’s two breaths away from begging. Pleading, absolutely no shame left. 

Long, perfect fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, and Buck tries not to gasp. Eddie’s hand is gone as quick as it was there, and Buck bites down, clenching his jaw, fighting to keep his eyes from squeezing shut, just about managing to watch him tug at Buck’s sleeve, getting it to lay properly across his shoulders, and Buck’s heart squeezes. Please . 

“Eddie,” Buck mumbles, and Eddie’s hand stops, fingers just starting to tangle with Buck’s. 

“Mm.”

His heart is pounding. It might tear out of his damn chest. 

“I know you’re not a murderer,” Buck whispers. “You couldn’t murder anyone.” 

The sky is blue. Water isn’t wet. The sun is the brightest star in the galaxy, and Eddie Diaz is not a killer. 

The sun’s long since set when Buck can’t stand it anymore, shaky fingers of his free hand reaching for another beer, but Eddie pushes his own hand further into Buck’s, squeezing. Buck stares at him, wide eyed, and Eddie just smiles, so soft. 

“Time for bed,” Eddie says. “It’s late.”

Buck keeps staring, stupid, as Eddie pulls him up. With the hand not holding Buck’s, he collects the bottles and slots them into the empty carton, dropping it on the table as they come inside. 

“Lock the door, please,” Eddie says, and Buck fumbles to obey. To be good . He manages to lock the door, even with his numb fingers and racing heart, and Eddie smiles at him. 

“That’s good, Buck,” he says, and Buck wants to weep. 

When Eddie tucks him into bed, Buck almost hopes he’s dreaming. Certainly feels like it, with the way his body is crashing, hurtling toward sleep at the speed of light. Eddie lets go of his hand, and Buck almost panics, but then he feels soft, certain pressure somewhere behind his ear, firm fingers through his hair. 

“Good night, Evan,” Eddie whispers, and Buck doesn’t know if he imagines the ghost of a kiss on his forehead, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not real, after all. None of this is.

But it’s the closest to “real” Evan Buckley can get.

God, he hopes Eddie will still be there when he wakes up.

Notes:

comments absolutely make my day!! thank you to everyone who takes the time to read this!!

Chapter 5

Evan Buckley’s birthmark was the same color as his lips. 

It wasn’t the first thing Eddie noticed about him, and it was far from his favorite, but it’s definitely been on his mind. When he sleeps, his face is softer. Eyes closed, his lips parted just enough for Eddie to hear his gentle, steady breathing, stark contrast to his heavy, deep snore that’s become a comfort during quiet nights. 

Prisons weren’t quiet. Something about the echo, and the way sound bounces off the walls- there was always some external noise to combat the chaos inside of Eddie’s head. Throughout the day, it was enough to keep him occupied, but nights were different. Sometimes, there’d be footsteps. Voices. At least once a week, something sounding vaguely like a scream. On fewer occasions, what was definitely a scream. He’d lay awake, eyes closed, hoping that sleep would take him soon, and keep him longer. 

Eddie knew that coming back here was going to be an adjustment. The same way the house had changed after Shannon died, and still, so different. Before, Eddie’d had Christopher. With a younger child, the house was never quiet. Christopher blessed that house with his laughter. His joy. Christopher was the reason that life existed within those four walls, and Eddie had no idea what would be left without him. 

Christopher is the most incredible kid. There was no way that anyone could know him and not love him, and Christopher was his. Not in a weird, parental ownership way. Christopher will never just be an extension of him and Shannon (and thank God for that). Eddie still isn’t sure how much a parent can truly influence who a kid becomes, but he’s so fucking grateful to have been gifted any part in Christopher’s life. 

Eddie’s proven to himself that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Christopher. 

Nothing. 

The house on South Bedford St. was different from where Eddie’d grown up. The bedroom Eddie had slept in as a child lasted approximately two weeks into his first tour, when Helena decided to change everything around and make it into a proper guest room. That wasn’t the room that Christopher had slept in during their sparse visits, though, usually sleeping in the living room with all of the other kids. 

As far as Eddie knew, though, they’d sold that house. His childhood home. Not that anyone would have bothered to tell him. Eddie has no idea where Christopher is. Maybe Helena decided it was finally time for them to move out to Sweden, or just somewhere closer to an Ikea. Maybe they were in Nashville, or Los Angeles, or Austin. 

Eddie doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a right to know, not anymore. 

When they’d bought this house, Shannon had chosen it because of the quiet. Far enough from the freeway, and pretty deep within the suburbs. She’d thought it would be nice and peaceful, allowing their son to get the sleep he needed, to go on and achieve all of the great things that Eddie’d had absolutely no doubt he would. 

It was respite. At the end of a long, busy day, they’d be able to come down from all of that noise and fall asleep. Eddie would fall asleep knowing that Shannon and Christopher were at real peace. 

When he’d been released, back into society, Eddie knew there wasn’t enough life in him for all of that quiet to feel peaceful. Lena had walked into his prison cell and told him to pack up, and Eddie hadn’t moved. 

Let’s go. 

Where? 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she dug the heel of her boot into the cell gate. Seriously? 

Eddie’d rolled his eyes right back. Lena was fucking annoying. What?

Home, Lena had said. Come on. It's time to go home. 

Within two hours, Eddie’d found himself back in that quiet, quiet house, face to face with this service dynamic specialist that he had absolutely zero interest in getting to know. 

It was supposed to be easy. Eddie’d done it for years. Coexist with someone else in his space, and his house was a lot bigger than the cells in El Paso County. He’d talk to this sub when he had to, but that was it. Eddie’d heard nightmares about being a DS worker, so he was pretty sure that whatever poor sub they’d foisted Eddie onto would be grateful for a little less responsibility. Have a brief period in their life where they didn’t have to pretend to be all docile and subservient, the way the rest of the freaks in prison had wanted their subs. 

So, obviously, the universe decided to pair him up with Evan Buckley. And Evan Buckley just decided to be the most genuine person that Eddie’d ever met in his damn life. Buck didn’t give two shits about his disinterest. Or, maybe he did, but he wasn’t letting that stop him. He was stubborn. Buck decided that he was going to be Eddie’s friend, whether he liked it, or not. 

Eddie was pretty useless around the house, but he knew that he could still help out. He could wash dishes, which was a lot easier to do with the citrus scented soaps Buck likes to buy than with the watered down Dawn they used in prison. Something to do with budget cuts, or possibly attempted murder. Probably some mix of both. Doesn’t matter. It smells good, and it’s apparently good for the environment, too. 

That’s the kind of thoughtful shit Eddie’s come to expect of Evan Buckley. If he had to describe him in a word, it was thoughtful. Literally, full of thoughts. Buck’s always thinking about other people, thinking about other things. Random things. Every time he opens his mouth, it’s genuinely a game of roulette to guess what sort of thing Buck is going to bring up next. Eddie couldn’t guess and he’s been enjoying being wrong. Eddie’s learned more from Buck in the last few months than he did in the five years he’d been in county. 

Eddie doesn’t know if Buck has realized it, but he’s the reason that there’s still life in this house. He’s the reason why Eddie hadn’t jumped into the hole that Christopher left behind, wrapping himself in sadness and wasting away into nothing. Spending the rest of his days, hoping, wishing- begging whatever cosmic entity was out there to somehow give him a way to turn back time until he ran out of time himself. 

Buck gave him a reason to wake up. He gave him a reason to get out of bed. Reminded him there was still a world out there, with things to learn, and Eddie knows that Christopher would have liked Buck, so much. 

Buck, who seems determined to make the best out of this shitty situation. So willing to give, to be Eddie’s person for as long as he has to. It was almost scary how quickly Buck became this integral piece of Eddie’s life. Waking up with him, going to sleep with him. They’d work in the garden or on little home renovation projects. Buck took him around to parks and hikes and anywhere that didn’t have too many people. He was so good , and Eddie was determined not to take advantage of that goodness . He wanted to keep Buck safe as long as Buck was here, and as long as Eddie could keep pretending that Buck was his. 

It was easy, too. The pretending. When he had Buck in his bed, sleeping more peacefully than Eddie’d seen in weeks. His lips were slightly chapped, and Eddie hadn’t been paying attention to his water intake, but he might have to start. He likes Buck’s lips. Eddie likes his cupid’s bow, the way that Buck talks out the side of his mouth. He likes his birthmark, and the way that it brings out the soft blue of his eyes- and how he flushes so bright at the smallest pieces of praise that Eddie can’t help giving. 

He likes how soft Buck looked when he slept. The most peace he seems to get from his overly active mind. Eddie took active steps not to be a creep, but nobody’s getting hurt if Eddie spends a few extra minutes after he’s woken up enjoying Buck’s presence. He hasn’t woken him up yet, and it’s something he intends to avoid, but Buck hasn’t moved since Eddie woke up. Three hours ago. 

Eddie doesn’t want to disturb him. His limited medical knowledge was mostly geared toward traumatic injuries, and Buck wasn’t actively exhibiting signs of distress. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Eddie doesn’t ever remember seeing him so still . This wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t different. From everything they’d done before. 

Hanging on to his self control by the skin of his teeth, Eddie hasn’t scened with Buck. He refuses to take advantage of him. But Buck is higher level. Level 10, according to his file, susceptible to secreting those submissive hormones at any show of dominance. Eddie saw him getting softer. When he’d massage Buck’s leg, or when Eddie accidentally praised him a little too directly. They hadn’t scened, and Eddie would never get to see Buck like that, but Eddie’s gotten him closer to a sweet, soft space- and it’s enough. More than enough. Buck would be so fucking beautiful when he’s blissed out, at peace, right under Eddie’s thumb. 

Frankly, Eddie has no fucking idea what he was thinking. When Buck walked out onto the porch, parking himself right next to Eddie as if there’s no place else he could possibly be. Eddie sat there and apologized, useless apology, and Buck forgave him like it was nothing. Eddie admitted more of his shame. Showed Buck that he’s still, as a matter of fact, incapable of being a functioning member of society, and Buck- 

Buck made him feel closer to human , anyway. 

Buck gets a little softer when he’d drinking, too, which Eddie couldn’t help but appreciate. Soft, under the light of the setting sun, as beautiful as Eddie’d ever seen him. 

I know you’re not a murderer. You couldn’t murder anyone. 

He was drinking. Eddie can’t hold Buck to what he said, not when he was drinking. 

Still. There’s no way he can stop himself from wondering. If, somehow, Eddie had managed to fool Buck into thinking he was still worth saving, he knows that there’s no way he’d feel the same way once he knew the whole story. 

Eddie might not have killed anyone, but that doesn’t make him any less damned . 

His chest is tight, and he has to force his next exhale, only then realizing that he’s been holding his breath. Carefully, Eddie smooths his hand along Buck’s messy curls, pushing them back off his face to feel temperature. Buck turns toward the contact, even unconsciously, and then Eddie’s holding his breath for an entirely different reason. 

Unsure, Eddie gets back out of bed, trying to figure out where Buck would put a thermometer. They have a first aid kit in the bathroom and another one in the kitchen, but neither of those cabinets have a thermometer. He didn’t feel hot, just a little warm- a heat that could technically be attributed to the Texas of it all, but Buck was a little too soft last night for Eddie to consider this mere coincidence. 

Closing the cabinet, Eddie picks up the phone Buck had bought him off the coffee table. Eddie had barely figured out how to use an iPhone before he went in. They’re much slimmer now, and still feel foreign. 

Buck had programmed his own number into there with a few other contacts- the office for the program, his parole officer. Eddie navigates through the stupid contacts app before he finds the office number for the doctor Buck’s been trying to get him to see. 

Dr. Henrietta Wilson. Double-board certified, OBGYN + Emergency Medicine. Eddie’s never actually seen a doctor for his dynamic shit, because most of the care specific to Doms was actively incorporated into primary care, but this isn't really about him. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” Eddie says. “Is this the- um. I’m trying to reach Dr. Wilson.” 

“This is she,” the voice says. Pleasant as ever. “What can I do for you?” 

Okay. Eddie can do this. She seems sane.

“I’m a re-entry assignment in the Dynamic Service Program,” Eddie says awkwardly. “They assigned a service sub to me when I was released. Evan Buckley?”

Dr. Wilson doesn’t immediately respond. “Mr. Diaz,” she says, that note of wary recognition. “Is everything okay?”

Wrapping his free arm around his waist, Eddie squeezes, trying to get rid of the discomfort in his stomach. 

“Buck- or, sorry. Evan told me I could call this number in case I was worried about dynamic crap.” 

“You can,” Hen says. “I’m the doctor assigned to Buck’s placements.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says, relieved, and then he just keeps talking. “He hasn’t woken up yet. And we went to sleep pretty early last night. And we didn’t- we weren’t scening, I don’t think he was in ‘space, but he still went down pretty hard. So I’m just- I’m just worried. I don’t want to wake him up if he needs to rest.” 

“He went down?” Hen asks. “When did he go down? What were you doing?” 

Eddie remembers that he’s not allowed to drink just in time not to open his damn mouth. 

“He had a few beers and I was- I touched him,” Eddie tries to explain. “Not in an inappropriate way. I just fixed his shirt and held his hand, but I could see his eyes were glassy when we went inside, and he was really receptive to orders. Got him to lay down and go to sleep. That was- it was nearing 10:00, so he’s been out for more than 12 hours.”

“Hm. How does he usually react when you guys scene together?” 

“We haven’t.” 

“Haven’t what?” 

Biting back a sigh, Eddie leans back on the counter. “Scened.” 

“You mean in a while, or-”

“No,” Eddie says. “We haven’t scened yet. At all.” 

Dr. Wilson pauses. Eddie can feel his jaw tensing uncomfortably, and he shifts, wrapping his arm tighter around his waist. 

“Okay,” she says, although her voice sounds anything but. “Okay. Did he pick up the synths that I prescribed? Because I prescribed them for both of you.” 

“Oh. Yes,” Eddie says. “But I’m allergic to synths. I didn’t tell him until you’d already prescribed them.”

“So you haven’t been taking any supplements?” Hen asks. 

“No.” 

“…And you’re not scening?” 

Eddie’s starting to feel like he’s failing a very elementary test. “No.” 

“I’m going to kill that boy.” 

“It’s not his fault,” Eddie says. “I- he’s been very open, I just- I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.” 

“You’re not,” Dr. Wilson says. “I know it’s not his fault. Buck is very good at his job, Mr. Diaz.” 

Ew. “Eddie.” 

“Eddie. Look. I’m not a DS worker and I know this is unprofessional, but Buck won’t say it so I’m going to,” she says. “A big part of the program is allowing you to have a submissive, so someone who is at your beck and call, blah, blah, whatever. But it’s also teaching you about responsibility.” 

Eddie stares dumbly. 

“You need to take care of him,” Dr. Wilson says. “That’s part of your rehabilitation. Teaching you to be responsible to something or someone other than yourself, just because you can. I don’t care if you don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be sexual. But you need to start taking care of him, because he isn’t going to ask you to.” 

Faceless woman on the phone. Telling Eddie he needs to learn how to take care of someone, like that isn’t all he’s been trying to do. His whole damn life. 

It’s not fair. Nothing in life is fair. It’s not fair that he’s here, not to Eddie, or to Christopher. It’s not fair that Christopher’s mother is dead and he won’t ever see his father again. It’s not fair that Buck has to be here, bound to a Dom that keeps failing him. 

“That’s the most important part of having a submissive,” Hen says. “It’s about being someone who Buck can trust to take care of him, Mr. Diaz. Someone who will see him.”

His grip tightens on the phone. A five minute phone conversation, and she thinks that she gets to comment on their relationship. Which- it's not a relationship. That's the whole damn point. 

Eddie is trying. He wants to keep Buck safe, do what's best for him. Eddie wouldn't have called if he didn't care.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Eddie says. I’m scared . 

“You are hurting him,” she says. “Sometimes, not doing something can be just as harmful.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Eddie repeats, the words a little harsher than they were the first time. 

“Look,” she says. “You’ve lived with him for months. Buck’s the most transparent person I’ve ever known. He won’t ask for it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t listen.” 

“So, is he dying, or not?” Eddie bites out. “Do I need to bring him in to the hospital?” 

“If all of his vital signs seem normal, I’d probably say the alcohol in combination with the hormones just sent him down a little too hard for his body to cope with,” Hen says. “The synthetic hormones alone can’t send a sub into ‘space, even a sub like Buck, but it does make them more susceptible. Since it’s been a while, I think his body just really needed the rest.”

Eddie exhales. “So he’s okay?” 

“He’s not in distress,” she says. “But this is not sustainable for a high level sub, Eddie. Frankly, without synthetic hormones, it’s not sustainable for you, either.” 

“I know,” he says. “Thanks, Dr. Wilson.” 

“Hen,” she says. “Any friend of Buck’s.” 

Oh. 

“Eddie,” she says. “This isn’t my story to tell and I’m definitely overstepping again, but my wife would kill me if I didn’t at least mention this.” 

“What?”

“The synthetic hormones,” Hen says. “I need you to monitor Buck’s usage. Make sure he’s using them properly.”

“Why?” 

“Not my story to tell,” Hen repeats. “Sorry. I’m glad that he didn’t get any Dom hormones, so nothing to worry about there. But just make sure that you know if and when he’s taking synths. And- and how much he’s taking.” 

Glaring at nothing, he bites out. “Did they get rid of HIPAA when I was in prison, or something?”

“I’m a friend before I’m a doctor,” she says. “But this is the same advice I’d give to any active dynamic. Buck’s too high level for these synths to be sustainable, long term. Regardless of his history.” 

The discomfort in his stomach starts to boil over, and Eddie’s finding some new appreciation for Buck’s understanding of privacy . 

Obviously, Eddie was grateful that Buck hadn’t read his case file, not that there was much in there. He’d been grateful when Buck first explained his method, and then grateful again when he’s gone to that stupid job agency and he’d seen what happens when someone gets the cold, hard facts laid out in front of them without any context or sentience to balance them out. 

Eddie hadn’t thought about what it might feel from this side. Being handed information about Buck in this cold, clinical format, making him out to be whatever that person had decided he’d be. It all feels underhanded. Like he’s being led to a decision he’d never wanted to make. Not enough information. Too much, at the same time. 

On paper, sure. Higher level subs tend to have more addictive tendencies, and the way that Buck was drinking last night doesn’t necessarily help. But on paper, Eddie knows that he doesn’t have much going for him, either. On paper, there’s absolutely nothing to disprove that Eddie is who they say he is. An army veteran who abandoned his family. Twice. Nobody would second guess if that guy lost his shit and killed someone in front of his own child, who he was never very good at loving, in the first place. 

Eddie tried. He doesn’t have anything to show for it, not anymore, but he tried.

Regardless of what kind of person Eddie has become, he’s still more than that.

Buck deserved more than whatever Dr. Hen has to say. He doesn't deserve to be belittled- for Eddie and Hen to make decisions about what's best for him, not when Eddie hasn't asked. 

Eddie doesn't give two shits about what anyone else has to say. He's not going to fuck this up and make another bad decision, add being a bad Dom on to his long, long list of failures. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says, hanging up before she has the chance to say anything else.

Notes:

this chapter is a little shorter than usual, but i decided to cut it here to maintain the same pov and also get an update out a little quicker. hope you guys liked getting into eddie's brain a little bit, even though he's cagey.

comments make my day!! thank you for reading this and sending love to you all!!!

Chapter 6

Notes:

hello! i... i have no excuse. life is busy. school and work are hard and i unfortunately had to direct my energy into doing the life-sustaining things as opposed to writing fanfic, which is soooo lame of me.

anyway, lol. just a warning- buck is Really dysregulated at this point and has a bit of a tantrum version of an anxiety attack towards the end of this chapter, so proceed with caution!

also, this week is my dear friend Zandra's (ZandraDay20) birth week, another incredible author here on ao3. If you're looking for an excellent buddie fic, i cannot suggest enough that you "Make Time for Quiet" . so happy week of birth to you!! i'm so grateful you exist.

 

all my love!
nicky

“Buck, honey?” 

He’d felt almost frozen. It had been a while since he’d sat down. Abby was busy and she had gotten sick of Buck bothering her, so he went to the living room and tried to be quiet. He wanted to calm down, do what she asked, but he had never managed to figure out how to actually do it. Buck could pretend. If he tried hard enough to be patient, sit and stay and be quiet, he could appear calm enough on the outside for everyone else to ignore the chaos on the inside. 

She called him, though, so he tries not to jump off the couch as he hurries off toward her bedroom, where she was leaning out of the doorway. 

“Honey,” she says. Again. She barely calls him honey, and it was definitely odd to hear it twice in twenty seconds. “I don’t want you to panic, so you’re going to be good for me and listen carefully, okay?” 

Yes. Listen. He nodded frantically, and Abby took his hand before taking him into the bedroom. Her bedroom, that he tries not to go in during the day unless she asks. Abby- she really only wants Buck on her own terms. She wants him when she wants him, and then sets him aside the rest of the time. 

Abby really liked a clean house. Buck made the bed with military corners and perfected his pillow chops pretty quickly. He tucked everything in neatly and made sure the linens were clean and changed every two weeks, so Buck sees the comforter askew and panics. Just a little bit, enough to distract him from the suitcase open on her bed. 

“I’m not sending you away.”

Buck blinks. “Wait, what? You’re- sending me away? But-”

“No, I said I’m not sending you away,” Abby says, like she’s talking to a toddler. “Listen carefully, Evan. I need to get out of town, sweetheart.” 

Oh. That makes sense. Abby’s been cooped up in prison, and although they’re not supposed to leave town, she’s allowed to go places within state lines. Texas is pretty big. They could go to Odessa, or Big Bend, or even San Antonio. It might be good for them, actually. Getting out of town for a little while. A little bit of time to reconnect. 

“Okay, yeah,” he agrees. “Um, if I talk to Bobby, I could probably get us approved for about a week? Or- or maybe two, if that’s not enough? We could go to Fredericksburg, there’s this incredible lavender field, and there are a lot of wineries there with really good hotels. If I order all the alcohol, they’ll never be able to prove anything, anyway.” 

“Actually,” Abby says, sucking her teeth just slightly. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone, and until I do, I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell anyone.” 

Dumbly, Buck stands there. “What do you mean?” 

She sighs, dropping his hands, turning away from him in frustration. The makings of guilt start to bubble in his chest, not that it ever really goes away. He knows he’s always been too needy for most Dominants, so it’s a familiar feeling. Still uncomfortable. 

“I need to get out of town,” she repeats. “And I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

It only now registers in Buck’s head- the pronoun. Singular pronouns. Abby is going, and apparently Buck’s not invited. 

“You don’t want me to come with you?” he asks stupidly. Obviously, she doesn’t want that. 

“No, honey,” she says, but it sounds more like a reprimand than a term of endearment. “This isn’t about you, Evan. Can’t you try and see it from my side?” 

He tries. God, fuck, he tries- Abby needs to get out of town. She’s been here for so long. Prison, and then practically chained to her mom’s bedside for nearly a year before that. She wants to go somewhere, allow herself to heal, and she doesn’t have nearly enough time or energy to spend dealing with Buck on top of that. So, she’s going somewhere. She’s leaving. 

She’s- she’s leaving Buck. 

“Okay,” he says, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. Some tiny part of him knew that Abby was never going to keep him, but another dumber part of him had apparently been holding on to hope.  “I can- um. There’s emergency housing, or I can just ask Bobby for a new placement, I- I don’t know how soon you want to leave, but I can still help you get approval from your parole officer and your boss for your vacation. It probably won’t be as long without a support, but as long as you’re okay with that.”

“No, no,” she says, sighing. Disappointed, again, and Buck is getting desperate. He’s trying so fucking hard and he has no idea what she wants. He’s trying. “I told you, honey. I’m not sending you away.”

“You’re not?” 

“No,” she says, laughing, and although there isn’t much humor in it, it’s a much more welcome sound than all the others she’s been making. “I need you, Evan, of course I’m not sending you away.”

I need you. 

“You’re right. They probably won’t let me go out of town for very long without you, so that’s why I need you to hold down the fort while I’m gone.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” she says, smiling, sweet as honey. “My parole officer, my boss, and Mr. Nash- none of them can know that I’m gone. I need someone to cover for me, and there’s nobody I trust like you.”

The praise is enough to warm him, some. Helps to get rid of some of the nervous buzzing, get some feeling back in his fingers- and she doesn’t scold him for being needy when he takes her hand, again, holds on.

“You’ll come back?” Buck asks feebly. 

She tsks, dropping his hand to run hers through his hair, gently trailing down his jaw and it feels so fucking good. This is good. This is love, this is real-

“Of course I will,” Abby says. “I need to know I’ll have a good, sweet boy waiting for me, right here.”  

Okay. Buck is good. He could be patient, wait for Abby. 

I’m not leaving you.

Maybe he would have expected it, if he’d been a little smarter. Every Dominant had grown tired of Buck at some point. He was the common denominator in all of his failed relationships and on some level, he must have known that Abby wasn’t an exception.  

Buck hasn’t really figured out how he feels about Abby. He’s been trying to ignore any and all thoughts of her because they just send him down a spiral about how he’s not a good sub, and by all accounts it’s a stupid train of thought, so it makes sense. Buck is allowed to ignore those thoughts because they aren’t good thoughts and he doesn’t want to be stupid. 

It still creeps up on him, sometimes. The first few months at Eddie’s where he’d been sleeping alone in an unfamiliar bed- before that, back in Bobby’s guest room. When they’re sitting together, in the living room, and he starts to feel all of the restless buzz under his skin that prevented him from being good and still and quiet. 

Every single time Buck looks at Eddie, and he feels something in his chest, something he swears is bigger and stronger and more real than anything he’s felt before.

This isn’t real. 

The last few days have been strange. Soft. Not necessarily urgent, but charged with something Buck hasn’t been able to put into words. Eddie still won’t touch him beyond a few casual moments in passing- their shoulders brush in the kitchen. Eddie’s fingers linger when Buck passes him the remote. Their hips touch when Eddie gets into bed, and then he doesn’t move away. 

The heat is fleeting, but Buck is far from unaffected. He’s the opposite, actually. Embarrassingly affected. He’s always been touch starved, but this is getting to be embarrassing levels of pathetic. 

Eddie’s been soft with Buck since that night on the porch- when Buck had been so exhausted he’d managed to lose his mind over Eddie’s hand in his, managed to convince himself he was feeling things that weren’t there. They couldn’t be. If it had been real, and Eddie had felt- god. Even a fraction of what Buck was feeling, then surely they would have done something by now. Anything . 

Sure, Eddie’s fucking gorgeous, but it doesn’t even have to be that . Buck just wants Eddie to trust him. Let him in, a little bit more. 

Buck believes in his system. He wouldn’t have changed the way he’d done things- ignoring Eddie’s file was the first step toward real trust. Real appreciation. Eddie was grateful that Buck wasn’t prying about his record, and Buck knows firsthand how nice it can be to exist without being weighed down by all of your history. This was a way he could prove that he trusted Eddie. Who Eddie is, not what he’s done. 

But he’d never had to wait this long to find out. Maybe it’s a guilty conscience sort of thing, but his other placements hadn’t even made it six weeks, let alone months . It was usually quick and dirty. Buck proved himself and his usefulness, they start unloading all of their feelings, Buck takes it on, and then they grow and grow until they’ve outgrown him. 

At this point, it’d be dishonest to say it’s unexpected. Eddie has definitely proven himself to be worlds away from Buck’s previous placements. Guarded. No less damaged. 

It’s not that Buck blames him, exactly. He’s intimately familiar with the terror that accompanies being perceived, but that fear has never been enough to stop him from craving the high that comes with the barest scraps of being known . 

There are cracks. Even stone walls have their weak spots, and Buck has managed to worm his way into Eddie’s life and take up some semblance of his consciousness, but it’s not enough. They’re still distant. Like Eddie is gone, in a world Buck hasn’t managed to reach, quite yet. Lost. Looking for something. So far away from each other, regardless of how close they might end up in the middle of the night–which isn’t nearly close enough, in Buck’s opinion. 

Buck wants to know Eddie. He wants to get his claws in, tear away at that carefully controlled surface and rip out the deepest, darkest parts of Eddie that Buck’s starting to think Eddie’d never let anyone see. 

A simple, sweet feeling of someone else’s fingers brushing his. 

It’s not nearly enough, but he’ll take whatever the fuck he could get. 

“Buck.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. Eddie was finishing up with their dinner dishes while Buck lingered in the hallway like a fucking creep. Mostly on accident, he just started thinking and forgot what his body was doing. 

“Yessir?”

“Come here, please.”

Buck’s stupid hindbrain is quick to latch on to anything he might be able to consider an order. In his defense, it’s been a while. Like. A long fucking time. 

Eddie had finished the dishes, and he was pouring two glasses of lemonade- Buck had made it himself, from scratch, quietly preening when he’d seen how much Eddie liked it. 

“Could you sit down?” Eddie asks, head jerking toward the cleared off dining table. 

“Only if you give me mine,” Buck says, ignoring the nervous jerk in his stomach, dropping into the chair as Eddie carries the glasses over. 

“I have a question.” 

Uh. “For me? Sure.”

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to-”

“No, no,” Buck says quickly. If he’s more open, then it’ll hopefully help Eddie to be, as well. “What’s up? Is, uh. Is everything okay?”

Eddie takes a careful, long drink of his lemonade, and even the way he works his jaw to swallow isn’t enough to distract him. 

“The synthetic hormones.” 

Well. Fuck. 

Feeling a little bit like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, Buck tries not to jump immediately to defense. Eddie couldn’t be accusing him of anything. He’s barely said anything. “That’s not a question.” 

“When I talked to Dr. Wilson, she told me I needed to pay attention to the synths,” Eddie says. 

Curls of defensiveness start to wrap around Buck’s chest. “I don’t know what she told you, but-”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” Eddie says. “She said it wasn’t her story to tell.” 

“It’s not.”

“I know,” Eddie says. “So. Tell me.” 

What? “Tell you…? Eddie, I didn’t do anything, I swear. I haven’t- I don’t think I was bad, I-“ 

His stupid stutter is just making him sound even more guilty than he feels. But it’s the truth. Buck can’t misbehave if there aren’t even any rules. Eddie’s two things- he doesn’t want Buck here, and he can’t go in the second bedroom. But Buck has to be here and he’s been doing everything he can to be helpful. And he hasn’t been in that stupid second bedroom. Eddie hasn’t even been in that bedroom. 

But that’s it. There aren’t any rules. Buck can’t break the rules if there aren’t any rules. He can’t be bad if Eddie hasn’t told him how to be good. 

Buck hasn’t been bad, but he doesn’t know how to be good, either. 

“Tell me,” Eddie repeats. “What happened with the synths?” 

Buck scoffs. 

It’s not fair. Eddie’s setting Buck up for failure. There’s no way that he can come out of this being ‘good.’ Either Buck doesn’t tell Eddie anything and he’s disobeying a direct order, or he spills his guts and Eddie finds out how fucked he is, and probably worries about him, at least a little. And Buck has managed to manipulate yet another Dom into taking pity on him.

Worse, then Eddie will know without a doubt what Buck’s known all along. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Buck insists. 

“Yes, it does.” 

Because it’s proof. Buck’s damaged goods. Broken, disobedient submissive. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Buck says. Pleads. “I promise. It has- it has nothing to do with how well I perform as your service submissive. I promise, I- you just have to give me a chance, Eddie. I swear.” 

Blinking, Eddie scoffs, and it touches all the wrong nerves. He’s itchy. 

“What are you talking about?” Eddie asks, dumbfounded. “Buck, if we’re gonna- you know. I need to know.” 

If they’re going to keep living together- if Eddie’s going to keep allowing Buck to live here, if Buck isn’t going to lose another fucking person in his life-

Eddie’s fucking this up. This is not part of the rules. This is- he’s breaking the rules. Doms aren’t supposed to ask Buck all of these questions. They’re not supposed to pry into his history, because Doms won’t want subs with Buck’s history. Service placements are supposed to be so preoccupied with figuring their own shit out that they ignore all of Buck’s mess, which means he gets to ignore it, too.

Eddie looks at him, wide, intense eyes, burning into Buck's skin without even giving him a fucking chance to hide. 

He's ruining this.

"Evan, it's okay," Eddie says, all soft and sweet and understanding and Buck can't fucking breathe.

"It's stupid," Buck says. "It's- it's literally so stupid, Eddie, I- I just- I took hormones when I wasn't scening to try and keep myself from getting dysregulated. I couldn't- I ended up needing a bigger dose and then when that stopped working, I- I took some of my last Dom's synths. It wasn't a big deal, I just wanted to function like a normal human being, is- that's not a crime."

Eddie's jaw clenches. 

"It's- I didn't mean it like that," Buck says quickly. "Please, Eddie, it's not a big deal, okay? I didn't bring it up because it- it was a long time ago, it doesn't matter."

"Evan," he says, the scolding in his tone like sandpaper against his skin. "That is a big deal, Evan. Synths for Doms won't help you with your dysregulation, they'll just- they'll just make you numb." 

I know, I know, I know-

"I was sick," Buck says, the excuses flying out of him. "I couldn't keep food down, I was so tired, I'd had a headache for weeks, Eddie, I just wanted to stop feeling everything for a little while, and- and taking synths, it's not like I want that. I don't want to take the synths, Eddie, but sometimes that's easier than feeling like- like this."

"Do you feel like that?" Eddie asks, and Buck sputters. "Have you been feeling like that?" 

It's such a stupid fucking question that Buck can't help but laugh. He'd been living with Eddie for months without having hit 'space. Buck's been serving Eddie, trying his best to be good for him, but there's no structure and no rules, no way for him to earn Eddie's affection and praise. He's been living on scraps, for months, and Eddie's acting like there's some possible world where Buck wouldn't have to feel "like that."

Useless. Needy. Lonely. 

Eddie's hand lands on his shoulder, thumb sweeping his collarbone. Buck barely manages to hold back his whimper, force himself not to lean into Eddie's hands. 

Is any of this real?

"Buck, why wouldn't you tell me?" Eddie asks, staring at him with all of that intensity in his eyes. 

This stupid push and pull, fucking-

"That," Buck says, his mouth dry. "Is rich coming from you."

Something in him screams when he forces himself to pull away from Eddie, anguish drowned out only by his racing heart. He feels guilty the second it comes out, and Buck stumbles away from the table, his glass of lemonade dangerously close to being crushed in his hand. A wave of nausea hits him, every other breath reaching deep enough to catch in his chest. Leaning against the corner, Buck shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth. Sit. Breathe, for- fuck. He doesn't even know how long.

Fucking Hen. Fucking- Bobby. He'd had it under control. He was fine. Eddie didn't want him, didn't want to trust him, and that was fine. He had it under control. Buck can control himself. They all know he's an impulsive, careless, reckless piece of shit, but he'd found a way to manage it. Make him a little less intense, allow him a second to breathe, act like he could function on his own. 

This is going to be the rest of his life. He's going to be taking these stupid synths, dependent on them for the rest of his fucking life. He's just going to keep playing pretend, acting like a functioning human being. 

He's never going to feel normal. Buck's just going to prove them all right. Bobby and Hen and- and Eddie. 

The glass slips. Buck curses, barely managing to regain his grip in time for the last bit of lemonade not to spill. He can't- he can't lose control of himself, not right now.

Carefully, he manages to get his feet under himself, force his legs to work, drag himself to the bathroom. Blindly, he bats at the light switch, reaching for the bottles he'd left on the counter, grunting when his hand searches- and nothing. 

Confused, Buck blinks, quickly scanning the bathroom counter. Their toothbrushes are still there. Eddie's hairbrush and Buck's hair product- even their little tub of shea butter, the one Buck has intentionally left out, but his hormones are gone. 

All of that terror freezing him up melts away in favor of the rage. It’s warmer. He can move again. 

It's such a Dom thing, too. To take away his drugs without even asking. Buck shouldn't be surprised. Every Dom in his life thinks they know better than Buck, like he can't be trusted to take care of himself, like- like he's still a little kid jumping out of trees to get attention. 

Fucking Eddie. It’s not fair. Buck was here to sub for Eddie, and he hasn’t been put in his place, not even once. Which was fine. Buck is fucking fine, as long as he can take his hormones and stay level. But Eddie won’t scene with him and now he’s taking away his fucking meds, too? 

Gritting his teeth, Buck stomps out toward the living room. Eddie's still sitting at the dining table, leaning over something stupid.

“Eddie.”

“Mhm.”

His nonchalance just stokes the fucking fire, makes Buck even more angry- like Eddie is lording his self-control over Buck. 

“You can’t fucking do this.”

Eddie looks- almost surprised, actually, when he finally makes eye contact with Buck. “I- I’m sorry, you gave me the file. Did you want it back?”

Idiot, fucking stupid Dominant asshole. “You can’t take away my fucking hormones just because some doctor told you I can’t take care of myself."

Eddie blinks, slow, then fast, his brow creasing, hands moving up slowly in some mockery of surrender. “Buck, I-”

“No, you listen to me,” Buck snaps. “You clearly aren’t interested in being my Dom, okay? You’ve made that very fucking clear. So you don’t get to pull all of this power play bullshit and decide to start making decisions for me with this. You can’t- you can’t refuse to help me and then take away my hormones , Eddie.”

“Buck.”

“They’re mine,” he says, even though he can hear how pathetic he's being. “They’re mine .” 

“Evan, listen to me,” Eddie says, and that stupid voice pulls him right in. Quiet. Insistent. “They’re- I didn’t take them away. They’re in the medicine cabinet."

Everything in his head screeches to a halt.

He feels like a stupid cartoon character that took off across the water, stopped, but is still somehow defying physics and walking on water. He knows he's about to drown. The danger is real, and imminent, and yet he just stands there, looking like the biggest fucking idiot on the planet. 

"What?" Buck manages. 

"In the mirror?" Eddie says, hesitant. "In the bathroom?" 

Buck can feel the tantrum leaking out of his body, all of that empty space left and ready to be replaced with guilt, guilt, guilt.

"Oh." 

The corner of Eddie's mouth twitches. "Yeah." 

Buck stands there, staring at Eddie, who stays sitting. Staring.

Turning on his heel, Buck stalks off, back toward the bathroom, opening the mirror. His skincare stuff is in there. Mouthwash. Spare razor blades. He opens this mirror every fucking day.

He can read his name on the bottle, bright neon yellow label on the stupid orange bottle. Right in front of his fucking face. Snatching the bottle, he closes the mirror, shaky fingers opening the bottle.

Eddie’s expression is guarded where he looms over Buck’s shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets. Buck doesn't want to look at him, deliberately avoiding his gaze as he shakes two pills out. Three. Swallows them with lemonade, appropriately childish for how stupid he's feeling. 

“I know that we don’t know each other,” Eddie says roughly. “But I would- I’d never do that to you, Buck. I’d never hurt you. Or do anything that you wouldn’t want.” 

We don't know each other, we don't know each other, we don't know each other, we don't know-

“I’m here for all submissive needs," Buck mumbles.

“I don’t care how your other Doms have done it,” Eddie says, biting. “We’d have to talk. We’d- I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

I'm sorry, he thinks desperately. He's done it again. 

“Where are yours?” Buck asks. 

“I threw them away,” Eddie says dully. “They’re mine, and I can’t take them.” 

He has absolutely no reason to get irritated. He’d asked and Eddie’d answered, and he explained exactly why he’d thrown them out. They had no reason to keep them. Eddie could never take them, and it's not like they have any Dom friends to give them a reason to keep an emergency stash around, so Buck shouldn't be feeling annoyed. He shouldn't have gotten angry, shouldn't have been so stupid, and he can't even apologize, not in a meaningful way. Not the way Eddie would have wanted. 

Carefully, Buck screws the cap back on, tucking the bottle back in the corner that Eddie'd put it. Rotates it. Bright yellow label on the outside. 

Eddie's still looking at him when he closes the mirror. 

"I'm sorry," Buck says feebly. "I didn't- I don't-"

"I know," Eddie says quietly, cutting him off. 

And how can he possibly know, if Buck has no fucking idea what's happening? 

Embarrassed, Buck stands there, gripping the sink, knuckles almost white. 

"I'm sorry," he says again, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Eddie's footsteps are loud, even against the buzz in Buck's head. Two steps, and Eddie's right behind him, hand firm on his shoulder and Buck tries his best not to tense up- he was bad, doesn't matter what Eddie does- Buck would deserve it. And Eddie would still be touching him. He'd still be touching him, and it would be worth whatever punishment Eddie would want to dole out- Eddie could do whatever he wanted, Buck would shut up and take it. He'd take it. He'd be good. 

"Buck," Eddie says, and it's so soft and so sweet that Buck has to squeeze his eyes shut, fight back tears he hasn't earned. "Open your eyes, baby." 

A pained whimper somehow claws out of his strangled throat, and he forces himself to obey, seeking Eddie out through the mirror, terrified. Eddie's still looking at him. Still soft. Sweet. 

"Good," Eddie says, on an exhale. Soft. "That's good, baby. Just breathe. You're okay." 

Baby. Buck's breath catches in his chest, and he can't stop himself, eyes slipping closed again-

"Tell me what to do," Eddie says, soft. "Please. Tell me what I can do." 

He doesn't know. Buck doesn't know. He knows what he deserves, and he knows that it isn't what he wants- he knows that it's not fair to ask Eddie for any of this, and that he shouldn't have to take care of Buck.

"May I hold you?" Eddie asks, something close to desperate cutting through his words. "Please?"

He's losing his words. What few he might have been hanging on to slip through his fingers, and he nods, can't stop nodding, and Eddie exhales sharply. His other hand rests on Buck's waist and something warm turns his stomach, but he doesn't think too hard about it. Maybe it's the synths or maybe it's just Eddie. 

When Eddie pulls the blankets back, Eddie gets in to bed before reaching out and pulling Buck forward, and he stumbles, panicking for two seconds that he's going to crush Eddie. But he just drags him in, pulls him closer, encourages him to rest Buck's entire weight on him. 

Eddie's warm. Not uncomfortably hot, and not even temperature warm, but comfortable. Eddie's on his back, Buck on his stomach, legs tangled together as Eddie's hand presses gently against the back of Buck's head, fingers running through his curls where he lays on Eddie's chest. His other arm wraps tightly around Buck, keeping him grounded. Safe. 

"M'sorry," Buck manages, fighting off the wave of exhaustion with the pure wonder of feeling Eddie under him, around him, holding him. 

"No more, baby," Eddie says, and Buck huffs, disgruntled. "Time to rest." 

I could be yours, Buck thinks, lazily, as he drifts off to sleep. 

I think I might be, already.

Notes:

comments absolutely make my day!

Chapter 7

Notes:

possible cw: bdsm- details in end notes

et voila! Here’s a bit of a longer chapter (than my average) because I am going to see my religious family this weekend and it is very possible that I will disappear for longer than I’m intending to- I’m hoping to have the next chapter (mostly written) up within a week, or so, but just in case I start having complicated feelings about god and sex again I am issuing an apology in advance. LOL. But who knows? Maybe it’ll feed the muse!

Sending love, light, and all the happy things. <3

When Eddie and Shannon had Christopher, they were still kids. 

Really, really young, and Texas sex ed is lacking, at best. He and Shannon were figuring out what to do as they went along with everything. Parenting, dynamics, love. 

After she died, Eddie couldn’t even think about trying to find another sub. Too caught up in grief and loss and life– Eddie truly couldn’t spare a thought to a romantic relationship of any kind. He went to clubs when he started getting twitchy, picked someone up for the night, and then he’d go back home. To Christopher. 

He’d bid the babysitter goodnight (their neighbor, a sweet UTEP student getting her degree in elementary education) and see her off, and then stick his head into Christopher’s bedroom. 

Eddie didn’t want to wake him up, so he wouldn’t touch him, but if he got close enough he could smell Christopher’s shampoo. Breathing deeply, eyes closed, he felt all of that turmoil finally begin to slow down. 

He’d been good. Truly, he was fine, and it should have been enough. It was closer to normal than he’d felt in years, and he threw all of that away over Kim. 

Kim, who- who Eddie didn’t even want . Not like that, in the way that he’d let her believe. 

Shannon was smart. Almost sharp, in the way that she spoke, but that didn’t take away from her kindness. Shannon was strong, too. Always independent, mostly because Eddie couldn’t support her the way that she needed. A survival mechanism, but strong, regardless. 

Kim- 

Actually, Eddie has no idea. 

In hindsight, Eddie can’t say that he knows very much about Kim beyond the fact that she wasn’t Shannon. As time passed, and that became glaringly apparent, the fantasy began to wither. 

They may look the same, but Kim just wasn’t Shannon. She was an entirely different person wearing his dead wife’s face. So he broke it off, and he’d figured that was that. 

And here they are, nearly six years later. Or Eddie is, at least. 

Eddie’s history with submissives is suspect, at best. A childhood lover, a series of one night stands, a dead woman. None of whom had anything in common with each other, not in a way that matters. 

Most of his relationships were dictated by convenience, more than anything. Maybe necessity. Shannon was the mother of his child, and all of his one-night scene partners were the first available person he was vaguely compatible with. There wasn’t a lot of deeper choice involved, not even with Ravi. But Eddie hadn’t really figured out what he wanted from submissives until Ravi. Until he’d gone to prison. 

Panikkar was a lower level switch, and he preferred to get his Dom hormones through lifestyle. He had enough control over the AA meetings, running the GED program, but he needed more for his sub side. It was a little awkward. Ravi had looked Eddie in the eye and asked him for help, and there was no fucking way Eddie wanted him to be scening with any of the other fucks in prison. At the very least, Eddie knew he’d never hurt Panikkar on purpose. He couldn’t say the same about anyone else. 

Things were easy with Ravi. On bad days, Ravi would ask Eddie for help, and Eddie would make sure that Ravi finished all of his meals and then track his progress through his work detail. Check-ins for menial tasks, simple stuff. At the end of the day, Eddie would put Ravi on his knees for a few minutes, helping him off the floor and into Eddie’s bunk so Ravi wouldn’t have to climb to the top, and they’d start the next day fresh. 

Ravi’s eyes would be clearer. His smile a little softer, just a little more life in him, and Eddie felt the smallest slivers of pride. 

That’s part of your rehabilitation. Teaching you to be responsible to something or someone other than yourself, just because you can . 

He can’t call it the ‘most important’ part of having a sub, because it’s the only part he’s ever cared about. To give his subs the safety they need to rest and recharge, trust that Eddie could give them what nobody else would. The most important, and the most terrifying. 

Eddie needs to earn that trust and that responsibility. He needs to live up to it, and he just doesn’t know if he’s capable of that. Helena certainly didn’t think so. Before, it didn’t matter. With Shannon, it didn’t matter whether or not Eddie could. He had no choice. He had to. 

Eddie doesn’t know if he can honestly call this whole thing with Buck a “choice.” 

Mostly, it’s Buck’s job . So he’s just stuck with whoever the department decides to assign him to. But Buck says he loves this job- it gives him purpose, allows him to help, and Eddie kind of believes him. He believes that Buck loves helping people, but he’s not so convinced that being a dynamic specialist is anything more than a means to an end. The only way that he knows how to feel useful, allow others to use him in a way that isn’t blatantly unhealthy. 

Eddie couldn’t get around it, though. The way Buck seemed so willing to accept far less than he deserves.

Doesn’t feel like much of a choice, on Buck’s end. 

Eddie didn’t know that he was allowed to apply for a service dynamic specialist. Even if he had known, he probably wouldn’t have applied. Frankly, he’s not certain that Lena didn’t forge a few signatures, but whatever. She showed up, brought him home, and Buck was there. Waiting. 

Eddie refuses to open that can of worms. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be good for Buck, to have to continue to bend over backwards for Eddie. Because Buck would . He’d do anything to be good for Eddie. 

And it wouldn’t be good for Eddie, either. Just the thought of it- Evan Buckley, under Eddie’s hands, so fucking tempting-

If the simple thought of it is this intoxicating, Eddie can imagine what it might be like, but it wouldn’t live up to the real thing. 

The door- Buck’s left it unlocked, but Eddie can’t open it. He can’t even look in that general direction. He absolutely can’t allow himself to examine anything about their relationship, because Eddie knows. 

If he let himself, he could lose himself in Evan Buckley. 

But he can’t. 

At the end of their contract, Eddie’s going to have to let him go. He’s trying not to let that bother him. 

Eddie’s never been very good at “trying,” though. He’s not good at doing the whole selfless thing, no matter how badly he wants to be. 

Buck was his for another six months. It might be fake, but Eddie’s still responsible to him for another six months. 

He knows it’s selfish. The idea of getting to see Buck, soft and ‘spaced– and the idea that Eddie’s doing it all for ‘selfless’ reasons. It’s for Buck, he keeps reminding himself. It’s for Buck. 

Now, if he could only figure out how to start. 

Buck had provided him a bunch of research on healthy relationship dynamics. Eddie remembered him being sheepish. A little embarrassed. He’d made it clear that Eddie was under no obligation to read all of the information that Buck had provided, but once he started he couldn’t exactly stop. Introduce new terms, hammer in healthy habits. And Eddie felt pretty vindicated when every single article mentioned something about communication. There are different communication styles, sure, but they had to understand each other to some degree in order for this to work. 

Eddie couldn’t make assumptions, even if he wanted to, so Eddie knew  he’d have to ask about the hormones. Hen had been vague, purposefully so, but Eddie needed to know what kinds of things Buck struggled with if he was going to be able to help. Maybe it’d be their starting point, and Eddie would just learn more about him from there. 

When he’d asked, Eddie didn’t mean to make Buck so nervous. He had gotten nervous, and maybe defensive? Eddie isn’t sure how much room there was in his head once the panic had set in. 

I didn’t do anything, I swear. I haven’t done… I don’t think I was bad, I was…

Eddie wanted to be safe. He wanted to be somewhere Buck was allowed to fall apart, so he pushed. 

Buck, if we’re gonna- you know. I need to know. 

Communication. If they were going to scene, if Eddie was going to take care of him, then he had to know. 

Watching Buck drown in his own panic was awful. Eddie could swear he felt his own body react, whatever Dominant instinct he might have left reacting to seeing his submissive in distress. Any submissive in distress. 

And Eddie had felt relieved! So fucking relieved when Buck managed to spit it all out. He swears that he could feel something , some pressure released with the ability to be honest. Eddie knew there’s nothing Buck could tell him that would make Eddie turn his back on him- because he was getting to know Buck. Or so he thought. 

Maybe Eddie was just imagining it. It definitely felt like that when Buck came storming back into the living room, accusing Eddie of stealing his drugs. 

Eddie knew where Buck’s hormones were. He had checked the bottle before speaking to Buck, wanting to make sure that he was healthy and level when they talked. Eddie had watched him put the bottle in the medicine cabinet the day before, and he put it right back where he found it. 

All of the panic that Eddie had caused started eating at Buck. The effects were terrifyingly immediate. Buck started shaking on his feet, grasping on to the counter with twitchy hands. He couldn’t make eye contact with Eddie, standing there, radiating pure hurt and Eddie couldn’t fucking stand it. 

Tell me what to do, he’d said. Tell me what I can do. 

Eddie’s nearly memorized Buck’s file within the last two weeks. He’d read all of Buck’s notes. A literal guide as to how to be the perfect Dominant, something straight out of Eddie’s dreams. It wasn’t very detailed. There was a time he would have been grateful for that. Allowing him the feeling of achievement, discovering how to be a good Dominant through exploring, learning every piece of the person he thinks he could love. 

But not here. Eddie wouldn’t have minded step by step instructions, not if it prevented him failing Buck so miserably.

It’s better than nothing, though, and Eddie thinks back. Remembers so clearly.

  I don’t want to have to beg to be taken care of. 

May I hold you? Eddie’d spat out. Please ? 

Buck trembled in Eddie’s arms, shaking, and Eddie refused to let go. 

It was the first time Eddie’s ever gotten to touch Buck. Truly hold him, and it takes all of two minutes for Eddie to wonder how he’d ever lived without this. As close as they are, Eddie swears he can feel all of that turmoil in Buck’s body, too many thoughts and feelings for him to contain. 

And Buck shouldn’t have needed to. Eddie should have been there. Given him a place to let that out- whatever that might mean. 

He feels Buck shifting, pulling out of his arms and rushing toward the bathroom. 

“Buck-“ 

Eddie hears the clatter of the toilet lid. He doesn’t bother finishing his question. 

Dragging himself out of bed, Eddie flicks the hallway light on, not wanting to overwhelm him with the harsh overhead bathroom light. Taking a clean towel out of the linen closet, Eddie turns the tap on, pulling the mouthwash out of the medicine cabinet while he waits for the water to warm up. 

Buck groans, sitting back. “Sorry.”

“Why?” Eddie asks. 

“Waking you up.”

Turning the tap off, Eddie folds the damp towel, getting on the floor next to Buck. “I wasn’t sleeping.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” Buck says, leaning back against the wall. “This is disgusting.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to sleep on a pukey pillow,” Eddie says. “Hold still.”

Carefully, Eddie wipes along Buck’s chin, tracing the outline of his lips. Refolding the towel, he uses the clean surface to pat at Buck’s forehead, getting some of the clammy sweat there. 

“How’s that?” Eddie asks quietly. “Better? Okay.”

Tossing the towel to the side, Eddie grabs the mouthwash off the counter, but Buck waves it off. 

“I appreciate that, but I don’t think I can stand, right now.” 

Eddie snorts. “Just spit it in to the toilet. No one cares. I’m going to get you some water.” 

Standing up, Eddie leaves him in the peace of the bathroom. Buck can use the mouthwash or not. Close the door. Lock it, if he needs to. Whatever he needs to do. 

Buck always forgets to refill the Brita, so Eddie’s started filling it before they go to bed, something he’s grateful for right now. Taking a glass out of the cabinet, Eddie hears the toilet flush– it had been too quiet, and Eddie knew Buck would use the mouthwash. 

Taking the glass back, Buck had curled up a little, leaning against the wall. His eyes were lidded, barely open, but he still smiles at Eddie as he passes him the glass of water, moving to sit next to him. 

“Thanks,” Buck mumbles, and Eddie doesn’t answer when he presses the back of his hand to Buck’s forehead- a little hot, but nothing that’s concerning in and of itself. 

“You’re dysregulated,” Eddie says. It was supposed to be a question, but it doesn’t sound like one. Not even to himself. 

“Yeah,” Buck confirms. Agrees. 

“Is that why you’ve been taking more?” Eddie asks. “More than the recommended dose?” 

Buck smacks his head back against the wall. “Yeah.” 

The stupid fucking hormones. The first time Eddie had seen Buck take them, two pills instead of one, Eddie’s whole body had locked up. He tried not to tense in a way that Buck would notice, but he’d read the label and he knew Buck was taking a higher dose than he’d meant to. Maybe Eddie would have chalked it up to a harmless mistake without Hen’s intervention, even as he watched Buck count the rest of the pills in the bottle the next morning. 

Sometimes, not doing something can be just as harmful. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m really sorry, Buck.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“It is,” Eddie insists. 

“Eds, you can’t force yourself to be attracted to someone you’re not.” 

“That is not the problem,” Eddie says, almost laughing.  

Buck’s eyes fly open, even though his head doesn’t move from where he’s leaned over. “It’s not?”

Buck is beautiful. Eddie wasn’t above admitting that. He’s got those gorgeous, happy eyes, the birthmark as pink as his perfect lips. He’s got that infectious laugh and his brilliant fucking brain- he’s got all of that grace and selflessness, the ability to just give, and give, and give -

Eddie couldn’t ignore this. He sees the gesture for what it is- a chance to back out. Take back something that he probably shouldn’t have admitted to in the first place, because he knows how dangerous this is. Not just for Buck, but for Eddie, too. 

Look a little deeper. A little further than Eddie was comfortable with, all of that simmering just below the surface-

“I need to be sure,” Eddie tries. “I just- I need to make sure, Buck.” 

He wilts. Not in a good way, more like cringing away from rather than melting into Eddie’s hands, and Eddie wants to take back whatever he’d done to make Buck look so sad. 

“I need to do this right,” Eddie says. “I- I can’t- I don’t want to do this wrong. I can’t take advantage of you.”

I can’t hurt you. 

I don’t think I could live with myself. 

“I want this,” Buck says. “I want to do this for you, Eddie. What’s stopping you?”

A million reasons spring to mind. Excuses. Things that he probably shouldn’t tell him, because then it would put all the responsibility on Buck to make Eddie feel better for things he fucked up, and that’s just- that’s not what Buck signed up for. 

That is rich coming from you.

Eddie doesn’t know how he could possibly ask Buck to trust him with something like his submission, considering. 

Maybe that’s too much to ask. Tell Buck that he can’t get what he needs, not if he doesn’t trust Eddie. It’s not a fair expectation, especially not if Buck knew what happened with Kim. 

Still, Buck was going to be here for six more months, and Eddie couldn’t let him continue ignoring his needs. Eddie needed to take care of Buck, because Buck wasn’t going to ask. He shouldn’t have to ask. 

“I know,” Eddie says quietly. “I know. We just- We need to talk, but we will, okay? I promise, I’m not going to- we’re going to fix this.”

Coughing gently, Buck adjusts his position, leaning back better against the wall before Eddie feels Buck’s hand nudging his. 

“I know bad Doms,” Buck says. “Eddie, I’ve had bad Doms, and you aren’t like them.”

Eddie knows Buck wants to believe it. Hell, Eddie wants him to believe it. 

“We’re going to fix this,” Eddie repeats. “Maybe- let’s try and talk tomorrow morning, okay? Do you think you can sleep?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, way too quickly, eyes darting away from Eddie’s. 

Gnawing on his cheek, Eddie looks over his shoulder, just about to make out the time on the clock. 

“We’re going to have to be honest with each other,” Eddie says. “If this is going to work.” 

Buck groans, rubbing his eyes with his hands, almost adorably grumpy. 

“Come on,” Eddie says, offering his hand to help Buck stand. “You’re going to go sit at the kitchen table.” 

Buck doesn’t say anything, but he takes Eddie’s hand willingly enough. Once Eddie is sure that Buck’s not going to keel over, he goes to the kitchen, pulling out Buck’s tea kettle and some of his disgusting smelling tea that’s supposed to have some magical healing properties. It sounds like bullshit, but Buck’s always drank it whenever he wasn’t feeling well, which was far more often than it should have been. In hindsight.

Once he’s got some water in the kettle and Buck has begrudgingly sat down, Eddie picks up Buck’s file from the island, sitting across from Buck. 

Buck’s file feels even weirder to look at now that he’s become a fully formed human in Eddie’s mind. Reducing him down to a few checklists and forms already felt clinical, but the twenty-six pages they provided were never going to be enough to explain Evan Buckley. 

Boiling someone so full of life into these few pages. 

“I think you’ve read that more times than anyone else in the world, combined,” Buck says, half a smirk on his face. “And I read it twice in between every placement.” 

Suddenly self-conscious, Eddie tries not to get defensive. “I just wanted to make sure I was doing this right.”

“Well, you haven’t done anything so far,” Buck says. “So I’d say you’re probably good.”

“No, I’m not,” Eddie says, sighing. “I’m still hurting you. By doing nothing, I’m hurting you.” 

The switch on the electric kettle goes off, and Eddie holds his hand out when Buck starts to stand. 

“I’ve got it,” Eddie says. “Tell me about your limits.” 

Buck stares, a little unsure. “Fire, feet, scat, golden, infantilization.” 

It’s the same order they’re listed in his file. Just a list, something he’s removed from himself. 

“Fire, feet, scat, golden, and infantilization,” Eddie repeats. “You wrote something- a note, next to orgasm control, that just said ‘structure.’ Explain that to me.” 

“Oh,” Buck says. “Yeah, it’s like- okay. I might be a little bit of a brat.”

Eddie snorts. Like anyone could spend time with Buck and not know that. 

“Rude,” Buck huffs. “I just- there needs to be rules. I don’t want to have to guess what you want from me. Without rules then I don’t know how to be good. And I don’t know the difference between being a little bratty and then being bad.”

Eddie nods, setting the kettle in front of Buck, who grabs for it just for something to do with his hands. Always so busy, in his head and his heart and it’s going to take a lot of Eddie’s efforts to maintain his attention and his focus. 

He wants to know how, though. Eddie wants to know where to touch Evan, and how he likes it- what he wants, what he needs . 

I’d give you anything. Swear it, up and down, up to God and back.

“You marked yes on pain, but not that it was something you strongly desired. Can you tell me about that?”

Buck flushes, and it might just be the tea. Eddie hopes it’s the tea. Maybe it’ll be different when it’s Eddie . 

“I can take pain,” Buck says, dragging him out of the gutter. “And it helps, a lot. Effective punishment. And- and I like a little pain, makes me feel like I’ve earned my pleasure. But I don’t need a lot of it, and I don’t get off on it, by itself.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says. Like he’s earned his pleasure- like Buck doesn’t do that, with everything he does, every single day. “And restraints?”

“I need it,” Buck says immediately. “I- I need- I need them.”

His blush has spread, and he hunches over in his chair, embarrassed. Eddie watches him, his jaw flexing. 

Carefully, Eddie reaches over, resting his hand firmly on Buck’s upper thigh, waiting for his wide eyes to come back up, meet Eddie’s own. 

“You’re doing so well,” Eddie says, keeping his voice soft. “I know this is uncomfortable, but you’re being very good for me, baby. And when this is over, I’ll take care of you.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Buck says, almost mindless. Instinctual. “I’ll be good.”

“You always are,” Eddie says. “Tell me why you need the restraints.”

“Helps me to be good,” Buck says. “Helps me. So- so then I can struggle a little bit, but still take it. Take whatever you give me, cause I don’t have a choice. Or I can pretend, at least.” 

Praise. Humiliation. Dirty talk- everything on Buck’s green list already making Eddie’s pants a little uncomfortable, the thought of laying Buck out under him, showering him with praise and affection and the right kind of humiliation-

“You’re weird, you know,” Buck mumbles into his mug. “Most Doms don’t care about why I like restraints. They’re just happy that they get to tie me up.” 

It takes active effort for Eddie not to swallow his own tongue, shove away any and all images that come to mind.  

“I need to-”

“I know,” Buck says. “I’m just saying. You’re already doing a lot more than anyone would expect of you.” 

Eddie- he kind of wants to throw up. He doesn’t know if Buck means his program assignments or if he means Doms in general, but he doesn’t want Buck to be thinking about any other shitty Dom that might have come before him. 

“Oh, yeah, also,” Buck says. “I- I don’t want to, like, tell you what to do-”

“No, that’s exactly what I need,” Eddie corrects. “You tell me what you need before so that I can take care of everything during.” 

“Okay,” Buck says, still nervous. “I just- technically I can write off toys and stuff on my taxes because it’s for my job, so I have a lot of things. If you want to use them.” 

Eddie will laugh about Buck writing his sex toys off on official tax forms later. Right now, he can’t focus on anything else. Watching Buck squirm in his seat, thighs pressed together- 

“You have presents for me, baby?” Eddie asks softly, and Buck chokes, wide-eyed, perfect pink blush all the way down his chest.

Eddie’s a terrible person.

But it’s just so easy. To make him look like that- pull all of that soft sweetness right out of him, and Eddie can feel himself getting greedy. 

“Go fetch, then,” Eddie says. “Don’t be rude.” 

Buck is out of his chair before Eddie even finishes talking, so fast Eddie barely has time to worry about him tripping before he’s out of the room. For all of ten seconds, but Eddie’s not counting. He hurries back with a large duffle bag, carefully setting it on the kitchen table in front of Eddie. 

“Good boy,” Eddie says absently. “Have a seat. Finish your drink.” 

Eddie had never actually gone to a candy store as a kid, but he’d imagine this is what it must be like. Soft restraints, hard metal cuffs. Silk ties. Cock rings, a gag- fuck, two gags. Three different kinds of vibrators, plugs, a dildo-

“Sorry, I know it’s a lot,” Buck says, too embarrassed about all the wrong things. “I just- sometimes it’s hard to figure out what my Dom might want, so I figured it’s better to be overprepared. Sorry. I don’t usually use all of it, obviously, I can’t use all of it but-”

“Why are you apologizing?” Eddie asks. 

Buck pauses. “I- because-”

I don’t want to have to guess what you want from me. 

“If I ever want an apology from you,” Eddie starts. “I’ll tell you.” 

Buck- his bottom lip pokes out, and Eddie wants to kiss that broody little pout right off of his face. He gives up on looking through the duffle. He’ll have time for some proper inventory later. 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “How do you feel about-”

“Yes,” Buck interrupts, and Eddie looks at him pointedly.  

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” he says. 

“You read my file,” Buck says, impatient. “And if it’s in the bag, I bought it. Whatever you want. Red for stop, yellow for slow down. Pinch and snaps if I’m gagged. I swear, I consent.”

And he’s been so good- waited so long for Eddie to get his head out of his ass. The anticipation floating between them, stealing all of the air in the room- 

This is for Buck, Eddie reminds himself. For Buck. 

Zipping the bag closed halfway, just enough to make sure it won’t spill, Eddie stands up to push his chair in, tapping the side of Buck’s mug, nearly empty. 

“Finish that and then come to the bedroom,” Eddie says, letting his hand linger on Buck’s shoulder a second longer than he needs to, just to touch. Feel. Drag himself away, hanging on to the promise of Buck, in his bed, all soft and sweet.

He can feel his own mind start to race. All of the possibilities- so many ideas, and somehow, none of them feel worthy of Buck. It’s their first scene. Eddie knows that he can’t expect too much from it, and that it’s not smart for them to dive in, headfirst, regardless of how the program is structured. 

But Eddie wants . 

It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to want . 

Eddie can’t remember wanting anyone the way he wants Buck. Not Ravi, not Shannon, not Kim .

Swallowing heavily, Eddie takes some ties out of Buck’s bag and one of the gags. Silicone, a stuffer gag, something to fill his mouth completely. Give him something to suck on. Another thing to focus on, so Eddie can focus on Buck. 

Buck, who is standing in the doorframe, watching, almost nervous. Peering around the corner, like he’s not supposed to be there, as if Eddie wanted him anywhere else. 

“On the bed,” Eddie orders. "Clothes off." 

Soft voice, no threat- just to see how Buck is going to react, and something in Eddie’s stomach screams when Buck hurries, pulling off his sweatpants and t-shirt, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, still looking at Eddie with those wide, needing eyes, like Eddie has all the answers in the world. 

For Buck, he has to remind himself, yet again. This is not about you. 

Eddie gets on the bed, against Buck’s side, skin humming with anticipation as he reaches out, taking Buck’s hand with his right before dropping the silk ties next to them, his left hand coming around to guide him, pull him where Eddie wants him.

Skin on skin contact. 

"Up," Eddie says, pulling his shirt off, tossing it toward the nighstand. "Just on your knees, sweetheart."

It's been a while since Eddie'd done any serious bondage. Actually, he quite liked shibari, and Buck would be beautiful in his ropes, but luckily his rational brain is still a bit louder than his horny brain. Silk ties are softer, much less likely to cut off circulation.

Carefully, Eddie slips a tie around Buck's thigh, tracing his fingers along the inside just to hear his breath hitch.

Taking his wrist, Eddie carefully passes the tie between his wrist and his thigh, knotting it off before doing the same on the other side, keeping his hands down and to the side. Watching Buck, Eddie sees the way his eyes dart back and forth, torn between watching Eddie work and his own cock, neglected and needy between his legs. 

When Eddie ties the last knot off, Buck's cock jerks, and Eddie chuckles, trailing his hands from Buck's thigh closer to where he wants them, closer-

“Wait, wait,” Buck says, a little panicked, and something cold freezes Eddie up, pulling his hands back, starting to mirror Buck, but he manages to catch Eddie's hand before he can fully back off. 

“No, no,” Buck says, holding on to Eddie, a little breathless. “No, I’m okay, I just-”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Buck insists. “Nothing, please, don’t- don’t untie them, I don’t-”

Their point of contact, how Buck is clinging on to his arm at the wrist, somehow serving as much of a lifeline for Buck as it is for Eddie. Humming, Eddie tries to soothe him, taking his hand back, doesn’t have it in him to keep himself from running his hand through Buck’s hair. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” Eddie says, and Buck whimpers. 

God, Eddie wants more of that. 

“What about you?” Buck asks. “What about- what do you need? I- you didn’t fill out your own forms, I don’t- I don’t know what you need.” 

I don’t want to have to guess what you want from me.  

It’s so very Buck. The need to check-in, to be sure that he’s serving Eddie, even–especially–when he’s like this. So desperate to be good.

Buck looks at him, searching his face for something. Eddie hopes to fuck that he’s managed to claw something out of his empty fucking heart, something that Buck will find to allow himself to take this. Let Eddie take care of him. 

I’ll give you anything . 

“I need to take care of you,” Eddie says, his own brand of desperation soaking his words as he looks at Buck, hoping he can understand what Eddie hasn’t figured out. Can’t seem to look away from Buck. “I know I haven’t done a great job, so far, but I would like to try. I need to try.” 

“But it’s okay?” Buck asks. “All of my- my stuff? I can- I can be a brat, and still be good?” 

I don’t want to have to guess what you want from me. 

“You want to be good for me, baby?” Eddie asks, and Buck barely hears the question before he’s nodding, so earnest. 

Eddie didn’t need some stupid file to tell him that it was all Buck wanted. To be good. 

“You always are,” Eddie says, repeating something he’s said to him, so many damn times.

Buck chews on his bottom lip, eyes darting down, big, shaky breath. 

“Okay,” Buck says. “Okay.” 

Rules. Structure. 

“Yes, Sir,” Eddie prompts, getting himself in the right position to haul Buck over, closer to the headboard. With Eddie's back up against it, he gets Buck situated on his lap, facing outward, tugging his legs to kneel spread on the outsides of Eddie's thighs. Buck gasps lightly, perfect flush on his perfect face, and he stutters. 

“Try again,” Eddie says, stroking that sensitive spot on Buck's thigh, closer. “Use your words, baby.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Buck says, squirming. “ Please .”

Anything coming from Buck's lips would be sweet, but Eddie's completely unprepared for the way it sweeps the floor out from underneath him. His entire center shifts. Like he hadn't truly understood gravity, not until now. 

Eddie can't quite catch his breath, but it doesn't matter. He'd gladly give up oxygen for a chance to breathe in whatever Evan Buckley's soul was made of. 

With his right arm around Buck's stomach, Eddie can tuck his chin on Buck's shoulder, reach around him with his left to tease at Buck's cockhead, already sticky with precome. Eddie's barely touched him.

"Look at you, leaking," Eddie murmurs. "I haven't been paying enough attention to your needy cock, baby, have I?" 

Buck whimpers, hips jerking, trying to hump forward and into Eddie's lax hand. It's cute. Adorably needy, and Eddie manages to time it pretty well, allowing him to hump and still keep him from getting any serious friction. 

"Eddie!" he whines. 

Rules.

"You don't come without permission," Eddie says. Orders. 

Buck whines, his whole body wriggling in a pathetic form of a tantrum. He's already so needy, so fucking desperate, and Eddie's barely even touched him. Turning in to Buck's neck, Eddie breathes deeply, all of that soft, sensitive skin along his jaw.

I like a little pain. Makes me feel like I've earned my pleasure. 

Carefully, Eddie sweeps more slick from Buck's weeping slit before stroking him, slow and firm, once, twice, before dragging harshly down and squeezing. Narrowly avoiding Buck throwing his head back, heat pools in Eddie's stomach when Buck moans, needy cock twitching against his hand. 

"Hurts," he gasps. 

"Oh," Eddie tsks, loosening his grip. "Poor baby." 

When Eddie lets go, Buck's eyes fly open, and he tugs at the restraints so hard Eddie can feel it from behind him. 

"You're so beautiful," Eddie breathes out. Glassy, wet eyes, sweet pouty mouth, and Eddie can fucking feel it, the urge to kiss him, to love him- 

This is not about you!

"Please," Buck whimpers. "Sir, please."

From his place in Buck's neck, he can hear his breathing, feel his heartbeat. Watch Buck's cock- he likes slow, long strokes. When Eddie wants to tease, he toys with the head, so very sensitive. It's dangerous- playing with Buck like this, playing with his cock, the beginnings of what could become Eddie's new addiction. 

If he could, Eddie would lay Buck out- worship him with his hands and his mouth and his tongue. He'd pick Buck apart, pull as many orgasms as he could out of him, and then a few more. Just because he could. Because in his dream world, in the perfect world, Eddie would know Buck. He'd have learned him, inside and out, learned how to take him apart, given the privilege of putting him back together again. 

"Okay," Eddie says, clearing his throat, speeding up. "You can come whenever you like, baby." 

Buck gasps, but he's lost his words- stuck somewhere, trapped. His hips jerk, and his breathing picks up. 

"I- fuck," Buck says, eyes flying open. "I- Sir, I'm gonna come, please."

It hits him, all at once- just how fucking good he truly is. 

"Go ahead, baby," Eddie repeats, and Buck whines, high, needy. Perfect. "You're gonna come for me, yeah? Good- yes, good boy."

His orgasm hits him like a freight train. Buck's whole body locks up as he comes, spilling all over Eddie's hand, the last contraction taking all of his energy with it as he collapses against Eddie, completely spent. 

Quickly, Eddie pulls at the release on the silk ties. Carefully, he manages to coax him into a better position, laying curled up on his side. 

Eddie shifts, picking up the silk ties from half under Buck's hip, dropping them on the nightstand before snatching up his shirt. Fuck. He really should have thought ahead, had a warm washcloth instead of Eddie's old t-shirt, but it'll have to do. Buck is clinging on to him, probably swimming with all of the sub hormones, and Eddie's own Dom hormones couldn't leave him alone even if he wanted to. 

Once he's gotten them relatively cleaned up, Eddie tosses the shirt to the side again, snuggling up against Buck's back. Just to make sure he can hear his heartbeat, respiration, make sure he's stable. 

Blearily, Buck turns to him, reaching for Eddie. 

"I'm right here," Eddie murmurs.

"You, too," Buck mumbles, and Eddie pauses, confused. 

"I could feel you," Buck manages. "You- I didn't- you, too." 

Oh. 

Well. Yeah. Sue him. Eddie has remarkable self control, but he had Evan Buckley on his lap, begging, so sweet and soft. He was still hard. The low buzz of arousal still simmering somewhere in his stomach, but this isn't about Eddie. It's not.

"I'm okay," Eddie soothes. "Thank you, baby." 

Buck somehow manages to contort his face into a frown. "But-"

"I'm good," Eddie says, firmer. "Go to sleep, sweetheart." 

It takes all of two seconds for his breathing to even out, send him off, floating through 'space. 

Notes:

they have their first scene!!

is this... PROGRESS???

comments absolutely make my day!! thank you to everyone who's reading <3