Archive of Our Own

The thing about Eddie and Hen bonding is that he might not want to admit it, but Buck’s jealous. He’s achingly and overwhelmingly jealous. He’s jealous of Eddie.

He knows how it sounds, he knows what people think. He hasn’t even tried to raise it with Maddie, because she’d laugh at him and she wouldn’t believe him, and she’d ask if he was sure he wasn’t jealous of Hen. Increasingly, he thinks most people in his life would assume that. That he’s just too stupid to recognise his own feelings, too caught up in his own repression or something. It really isn’t that.

There’s no one he can ever say this to, because there’s no one would get it, and there’s no way to say it without hurting someone, but Hen is special. Hen’s always been there for him, always been a steady and constant support like no one else. Watching her get so close to Eddie stings, and not just for the obvious reason.

The thing that no one seems to understand is that he lost Eddie months ago. Before they lost Bobby. Before he lost Chris, even. He met a ghost in a fire station, and part of him knew, even then, that he’d lost Eddie. Let him slip through cracks that Buck didn’t even know were there.

On his worst nights, Buck wonders if he lost him in a dimly lit loft kitchen, even as they both promised nothing would change.

So yeah, the Eddie of it all sucks, obviously it does, but he was braced for that. He knew it was coming. It’s Hen that stings. Hen that he didn’t see coming.

“You doing okay, Buck?” asks Ravi, his eyes so serious and soulful, as people trickle in for their shift.

Buck’s making a giant batch of scrambled eggs while when Hen makes coffee and Chimney goes over paperwork at the island. He doesn’t really use the office very much, even now.

He might want to deflect, but Buck can’t look at Ravi without seeing him earnestly cutting him to the fucking bone with “You seemed like you needed it”, so he isn’t going to pull off nonchalant well.

He sighs. “Yeah, Rav. Doing a lot better.”

“Why?” asks Hen, brow furrowing in concern. “Did something happen?”

“Well, after the police—” Ravi starts to say, and then Eddie appears at the top of the stairs.

He looks rough. Hollowed out and hurting in a way that Buck remembers in visceral detail from six months ago, and in his civilian clothes.

“What happened?” he asks in unison with Hen.

“It’s…” he starts and then stops. “My abuela died yesterday,” he says instead, and Buck takes it like a hit on the chin, staggering back just a little.

“Isabel’s…?” he asks, voice raspy, too shocked to be pained, not yet. With time, with time.

“In her sleep,” says Eddie, directly to Buck this time.

“Chris? Pepa?” asks Buck.

“Hurting,” says Eddie, then pauses before he admits, “We all are. They’re as good as they can be, though.”

“I’m glad,” says Buck faintly.

“Should you be here?” asks Chimney, “I can put you on compassionate leave.”

Eddie hesitates, and then nods jerkily. “I don’t want my tia making the funeral arrangements,” he says after a moment. “Her kids won’t help, and my parents won’t be here to help for a few days yet.”

“Of course,” says Chimney, “I’ll call Rosen in for cover, don’t worry about it.”

Eddie nods again, a little like he’s in shock, a little like he hadn’t expected this. How many years, and he still doesn’t trust they’ve got him?

“I can…” Buck starts before hesitating. Trying to find the line between friendship and overstepping is harder than it used to be, but he’d rather reach out and be told to step back a thousand times than simply not try anymore. “I can come around tomorrow,” he says, firmer. “I’ll cook lunch for the three of you.”

Eddie looks at him for what feels like an eternally long second. “Yeah,” he says eventually, “Thanks. Sounds good.”

The others give Eddie their condolences, and he leaves, and Buck can’t stop thinking about how long it’s been since he last saw Isabel Diaz. He knew she was back in town of course, she’s been visiting pretty regularly since she moved back to El Paso, but they hadn’t gotten around to making plans yet this trip. Usually Pepa invites him for a meal, lunch or dinner with the Diaz family, and he gets to spend a few hours catching up with Isabel. Invited. Got to.

“You okay, Buckaroo?”

Buck startles, Hen right by his side.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I’m. Yeah. I just didn’t know about Isabel, that’s all.”

She gives him a soft little look, and nudges his arm with hers.

“Don’t think I’m forgetting you get tangled up with the police this weekend,” she murmurs, so Chimney can’t hear, “But I’ll leave it for the moment.”

“Always so merciful,” Buck even manages a small smile, and she smiles back.

The bell rings, and there’s no more time to dwell on things.

“Are we good?” asks Ravi, at nearly four in the morning, as they slope off towards the bunk room from the showers.

“What?” Buck asks, looking up, and seeing Ravi look at him with a light frown gracing his brows.

You seemed like you really needed it, echoes in his head for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Yeah, Rav,” Buck promises, “We’re good. You were right, you know. I did need it, I think. Thanks for doing that for me.”

“I’m your partner,” says Ravi, a relieved little smile playing across his face, “Even when you lie to me about the cool parties we’re going to go to.”

“Point taken,” laughs Buck, “We’ll go out properly soon, okay? Promise.”

Ravi holds out a fist to bump, and Buck does so, before shouldering open the doors to the bunk room.

It’s not how things used to be, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t normal. This is how things are. That’s okay. That has to be.

He goes to the store on the way to Eddie’s place, having napped for a few hours when he got in. He knocks when he gets to South Bedford Street, tote bags under each arm laden with groceries.

Eddie opens the door, and he’s on the phone, but he looks grateful to see Buck. In the living room, Chris and Pepa sit in awkward silence while Eddie paces away, still on the phone. It sounds like he’s talking about the availability of a particular casket.

“Evancito,” says Pepa, getting to her feet, arms outstretched. “You came!”

In the same moment, Chris looks up at him, sad and relieved. “Buck,” he says simply, and it contains a multitude.

“I’m so sorry, Pepa,” Buck says, sweeping her into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

She nods, eyes shining, and holds him tight and close.

“Chris,” he says, hopes that Chris can hear as much in it as Buck can hear in his own name. Based on the way that Chris’ whole face wavers, trying to rein in tears, he thinks maybe he can. “Come here,” he says, leaning down, pulling Chris up and into a hug of his own. “Come here,” he says again, already holding Chris close, and feels Chris melt into the hug, shudder in his arms.

When he’s ready to let go, Buck says nothing about how long it’s been, about the tears that Chris is knuckling away.

“I brought stuff for dinner,” says Buck, “And maybe also for cupcakes. Come on.”

Both Diazes look at him, look at each other, and smile shakily as they follow him through the living room, through the dining room, into the kitchen. As they leave the living room, Buck can’t pretend not to notice the ofrenda in the corner of the room. Shannon, Bobby, Isabel. Marigolds, candles, a bowl of familiar looking snickerdoodles.

He has to clear his throat, blink hard.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, when he’s sure his voice will sound normal.

“It is,” agrees Pepa, “It’s perfect.”

“We’re going to do it every year from now on,” says Chris, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“That sounds lovely,” says Buck with a smile, unloading the groceries onto the table. “Come on, what do we want to do first?”

“Well, abuela always loved your cupcakes,” says Chris loyally, and Buck can’t help a bark of laughter.

“She did!” agrees Pepa, “Those horchata ones, do you have the ingredients for those?”

“What do you take me for?” Buck asks, pulling cinnamon out of a bag. Somewhere in the house, a door slams, and Buck guesses that the casket issue is ongoing.

Eddie comes into the kitchen, a tight smile on his face. “I have to head out, shouldn’t be long. You all good here?”

“I’ve got them,” says Buck, and Pepa and Chris affirm it.

Eddie nods once, decisive, and disappears out the back door. There’s a relief in it, in the simple proof that Eddie still trusts him with this.

They’re doing pasta for dinner, in part because Buck thought kneading the pasta dough would appeal to Chris. He’d been thinking tagliatelle, but Chris is keen on tortellini or ravioli, so he’s going to see what appeals when they get there.

Pepa’s gone to lie down for a bit, and Buck gets the impression that she hasn’t been sleeping well since she found her mother. Eddie’s still out, the endless bureaucracy of death eating away at him. It’s just Buck and Chris for the first time in over a year.

“I saw her, you know,” says Chris out of nowhere.

“You what?” asks Buck, having to switch focus from sauteing his onions.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me, I’m not sure I believe me,” says Chris with an odd little smile.

“Go back,” says Buck, “You saw who? Where?”

“Bisabuela,” says Chris, “The night before, when we didn’t know yet. I saw her in my room, she said not to be afraid, and she said she loved me.”

Buck’s throat closes up entirely for a second. What he wouldn’t have given, what he wouldn’t give for—

“I was probably dreaming,” says Chris, a wry smile on his face, as he looks down at the dough.

“Or you weren’t,” Buck pushes through to say. “What matters is that you’re right. She loves you. She’ll always love you, even now she’s gone. You know that, right?”

Chris looks up at him, eyes welling with tears. “I know,” he says. “I know.”

“Good,” says Buck fiercely. “You know, I thought Bobby was haunting my new place?”

“No,” says Chris, then, eager, “Tell me about it?” He’s an attentive listener, engaged and nodding at each moment. Eyes wide at the ouija board, then shaking his head disappointed at Ravi. Gasping in shock at the reveal of Dwayne in the attic, and face falling at Dwayne’s explanation of ‘tang’. He perks up when Buck describes finding the chip, and reaching out to Dwayne.

“I don’t know,” Buck finishes, “It was weird. I was so sure— I really thought… I really thought Bobby was there, it really felt like…”

“He was,” says Chris, just as sure as Buck himself had been only a few days ago. “You said it doesn’t matter if it was a dream, right? The important thing is that I know Bisabuela loved me? It works the same. It’s the same thing.”

Buck’s eyes sting anew with fresh tears that he blinks back. “When you’re right, you’re right,” he manages, because Chris is right. Whether Bobby’s actually been haunting him doesn’t really matter, because he is haunted by reminders of Bobby regardless.

“I can’t believe you did a ouija board without me though,” complains Chris, “And on Halloween! We stayed home and watched some old horror film about a guy who turns himself into a fly, I would totally have done a seance with you instead!”

Buck laughs a little, unsure of what to do with that. He knows Eddie well enough to know it wasn’t about Bobby, or the seance, or even Buck, but he still hadn’t wanted to tell Chris that bit of the story. “Next time I break out the candles, kid, I promise.”

Dinner is nice, and Eddie seems less restless when he gets back, having presumably sorted more things for the funeral out. The tortellini turns out well, Pepa having woken up from her nap in time to help them shape and fold the pasta. They talk about Isabel, share stories of her that Buck had never gotten the chance to know. They talk about a lot of other things too, not stuck to any one topic. Pepa asks him about his new place, and Buck talks through the layout, his plans for the garden, and winks at Chris to keep the details of Dwayne quiet. He doesn’t think Pepa would be happy to hear about the idea of a man secretly living in his attic, and besides, it feels like too much of a diversion, centering his own problems in a moment when the Diazes need space to process their loss. Eddie gives him an odd little look at one point, but he doesn’t say anything, so he’s clearly happy to move on without any ghost talk.

After dinner, Eddie and Pepa insist on cleaning up, and so Buck and Chris retreat to the living room.

Buck finds himself stuck in place in front of the ofrenda, unable to tear his eyes away. He’s stared a lot at his own picture of Bobby lately, and slowly, slowly, it feels less like pressing on a bruise than it used to. He’s seen this picture of Shannon a thousand times in Christopher’s room, just off to the side of his desk. A woman he met once in his life, whose very existence has haunted his best friend so much that he can’t help but feel some kinship with her, some confidence that he could have liked her, if he could have known her. The picture of Isabel is the hardest to look at. Even more so with a horchata cupcake in front of it, somehow. He turns away, asks Chris what he wants to do instead.

When Chris goes to bed, there’s a moment where Buck’s not sure the move is.

There was a time, not that long ago, when he wouldn’t have needed to think about it. When Pepa would have said a cheerful goodbye while Buck and Eddie were still sitting tucked up next to one another on the couch with beers. When They would have had another hour or two of shooting the shit before either of them even hinted at heading to bed, a fifty-fifty chance that Buck would have just crashed on Eddie’s couch instead of making the drive on a few too many beers back to his loft. A routine so easy and habitual that neither of them ever needed to talk about it.

Now, however?

Now, Pepa gets up, starts getting her things together to make a move, and Buck looks between her and Eddie, their silent eye contact, the way it feels like Eddie’s not looked him in the eyes since he got here, and he nods once, decisively.

“I’ll walk you to your car, Pepa,” he says, getting his own stuff together, and out of the corner of his eyes he can see Eddie slump just a little in relief.

Pepa hugs Eddie close in the corridor, and Buck gives him a solemn nod. Eddie doesn’t reach out to Buck, just nods in return. Buck hadn’t realised how much Eddie touched him until it stopped. Doesn’t know if Eddie’s even noticed that he doesn’t anymore.

“Feels like we were here not so long ago,” says Pepa, standing by her own car.

“Talking about the nature of change,” agrees Buck, and Pepa’s eyes fill with tears.

“Ay, Buck,” says Pepa, “It has been so good to see you. So good to know that Eddie has someone.”

Buck’s smile feels like a lie. “He has a lot of people,” assures Buck, and that at least is the truth. “And so do you. I’m here if you need me, Pepa.”

She sniffs once, heavily, then pulls him into a tight hug, the corners of her tupperware of cupcakes digging a little into his ribs. Buck ignores it in favour of wrapping her up in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. She seems delicate in a way that she hasn’t ever before, usually so larger than life and full of vivacity, she seems smaller, sadder. Older.

Over her shoulder, Buck sees a flash of movement through the curtains, and nothing more.

He waits until Pepa has gotten in her car, driven away. The curtains don’t move. The front door is shut. The motion light on the porch flickers off automatically.

Buck can take a hint.

He gets into his Jeep, heads home.

“Hey Buck,” Hen’s voice is gentle, though it’s not even that late.

It’s only a few hours past dinner, and it’s been a pretty standard day. Two fender-benders, yet another malfunctioning elevator, one suspected heart attack, and that’s about it. No serious injuries, no major disasters.

Eddie’s still off for the rest of the week, the funeral on their first of four off tomorrow, and it’s led to more than a little reshuffling for the parademics at the 118.

“Hey,” Buck replies, just as quiet, from where he sits on the studio couch, vaguely paying attention to some cop show with the volume down low and subtitles on. “Not sure I can catch you up that well, but I think it’s an alien abduction episode or something?”

“What?” Hen asks, before glancing at the screen. “Oh, right, whatever. I actually wanted to check in with you.”

“You did?” Buck asks, mentally going through everything he’s said and done this shift, what might have made Hen feel the need to check in.

“Yeah,” she says. “I know you’re the only one here who really knew Eddie’s abuela.”

“Isabel,” Buck says automatically, and she just nods in response.

“Exactly,” she says. “I know we’re all thinking about and focused on Eddie right now, but I wanted to make sure you knew that I’m here for you as well.”

Buck’s throat feels tight, so he tries to swallow through it as he nods, blinks tears away.

“I’ve never had a grandma,” he says, which isn’t what he meant to say at all. “I just— I meant—”

“It’s okay,” says Hen immediately, “You’re okay, Buck.”

“I kind of feel like Hoover,” admits Buck helplessly, so sure that won’t even mean anything to her. Another thing he didn’t mean to say.

Hen pauses, brow furrowed, before it clicks. “The dog from a few years ago?” she asks confused, perhaps a little concerned.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse, small.

“What do you mean?” asks Hen. “I’m not critiquing, I’m just… In what way do you feel like Hoover.”

Buck hesitates, unsure of how to continue, but he’s already started now, so why not continue to flay himself alive. If anyone will understand, if anyone will stay, it’s Hen.

“He was a good dog, and we all liked him, but it just wasn’t practical. We kept taking him in, and then giving him up, moving him to the next person. Even when it seemed like it might work, he was always too much. He could never stay. No one ever wanted to keep him.”

Oh, Buck, say Hen’s eyes, which is exactly why Buck hasn’t wanted to fucking say this to anyone.

“Someone did keep him,” Hen counters, but her voice sounds so so sad. “Someone who really needed him, even.”

“Yeah,” manages Buck, but he’s not fooling anyone. They can both hear the silent Not one of us, though. A stranger.

“You’re not Hoover,” says Hen, sure, “And you’re not Red.”

It’s a gutpunch he wasn’t braced for, the reminder that other people also still think about Red.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice wavering a little.

“I’m keeping you,” says Hen, firm and easy, like it’s never occurred to her otherwise. “You’re not getting out of my life that easy, Buckley, you’re here to stay. You know that, don’t you?”

Buck huffs a little laugh, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch as he looks up at the ceiling of the 118 station. The Robert Nash Memorial Station.

“I’ll try to remember,” he offers in reply, and feels Hen pull him into a side hug.

“I’ll take it,” she says, “And I’ll remind you next time I think you’re forgetting, okay?”

“Okay,” Buck agrees, Hen pressed warm at his side. “Missed you,” he admits quietly.

“You know, I’ve been missing you too,” she says, a little slowly, and Buck can’t tell if she’s only just realising that now, or if she just didn’t know how to raise it. “It’s felt a little like you’re behind a glass screen since…” A deep breath. “Since Bobby died.” They both sit in the weight of that for a moment.

“I’m not trying to be,” says Buck, “But I don’t know how to be here, how to be helpful. I’m trying so hard, Hen, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“None of us do,” says Hen. “That’s the problem with grief, there’s no right or wrong way to do it.”

Buck nods slowly, his eyes burning again.

“I never knew any of my grandparents,” he says up to the ceiling. “But Isabel? Sometimes… Sometimes she felt… I think I thought maybe that’s what it would be like, to have grandparents. We weren’t close, exactly, but I’d see her at least once a visit, and she’d pinch my cheeks and call me nicknames, and always always wanted to hear how I was doing. After the lightning strike, she prayed for me every day and night until I woke up, she told me once. She used to let me sous chef for her sometimes, and she always insisted on playing this crooner music from the 20s or something, even though it was well before her time. She was funny and kind and so welcoming. Every time I called her Isabel, she tried to correct me to abuela. I don’t… What do you call that? What is that loss? I haven’t lost a grandmother, and I haven’t lost a father, and—”

Buck cuts himself off, a second too late.

"You’ve lost people you love,” says Hen, “That’s the bit that matters. I’m so sorry for your loss, Buck.”

“Thanks,” he manages, leaning more heavily into her side.

They sit there in comfortable silence for a while, until the moment is broken by the sound of someone downstairs dropping something loudly.

“Okay, come on, we’re not watching this military propaganda,” says Hen, picking up the tv remote. “Let me induct you into the truly heinous world of Queer Ultimatatum.”

It’s a lovely funeral.

The wake had started while they were on shift, but kept going for a full 48 hours, so Buck was able to attend the next day when he’d slept a bit more. He’d offered his condolences to Ramon and Helena, and otherwise not really spoken to them. Not really known how to engage the people who had so decisively riven Eddie and Chris apart, even in the wake of such a loss. Pepa re-introduces him to some of her own children, and Buck tries not to think too much about the fact that Raphael also lives in L.A., but didn’t seem to help at all with the funeral arrangements. He gets Chris a plate of food, and gamely meets about twelve of his cousins. He mostly sees Eddie fleetingly, across the room, in tense conversations with any number of his relatives.

When the funeral starts, and they all head to the Church, Buck finds himself driving a number of Diazes he’s never met before in his Jeep.

It’s a Catholic Church, of course, and not the same one that Bobby used to attend, so it’s not one Buck knows. The rest of the 118 are there too, though this time they all wear suits, rather than the uniform. It’s a relief. Buck’s not sure how he’ll get through wearing the dress uniform the next time he has to.

Buck falls into place beside Ravi, Harry, and May as they all offer Eddie and his family their condolences.

He’s not exactly used to funerals, but it doesn’t feel like that long since the last time he was at one. What he realised then, looking at the closed casket that held Bobby, too ravaged by CCHF to be seen, is that really funerals are a lot like birthdays. This isn’t about Isabel, not really, it’s about the people who love her. It’s about wanting to show that, feel that, publicly. Wanting to visibly demonstrate that love.

It’s a lovely funeral. The readings alternate between English and Spanish, there’s music, and above all it’s so achingly full of love.

Buck and the 118 sit together, several rows back, because they’re here for support, more than anything. It at least makes it easy to tell when they should be sitting, standing, or kneeling.

The priest, Father Bolsanaro, asks who will take the Eucharist, and among the movement of the crowd, Buck can see Athena gently touch Eddie’s arm as she gets behind him in the queue before the altar from where he has stayed seated. Buck wouldn’t think twice of it, but unlike Eddie, Chris is also staying seated, his grandparents attempting to persuade him exactly once before they get in line themselves.

Buck tried to find Bobby in a church, like this one and so different as well, and if anything it left him feeling more alone. He doesn’t even try to reach for Isabel in this place, doesn’t bother seeing if the communion wafer will transmute into understanding on his tongue this time.

Chris was right, is the thing. He was right about the ghosts. About Bobby. Buck connected more with Bobby in the last few days, simply by acting like the man he thinks Bobby was always trying to teach him to be, by respecting his values, and bringing them forward, than he ever did trying to reach out to a higher power. He doesn’t need to share Bobby’s beliefs to know who Bobby was to him, what he would do, what he would want. It’s the same for Isabel. He doesn’t have to share her faith, but he knows what her priorities were. He can make sure her family are taken care of, are taking care of each other. He vows it, to himself and to her, as Father Bolsanaro wafts a censer around her casket.

The reception is held at Pepa’s house, and spills out into the yard. It’s lively, cheerful and bright, with everyone swapping yet more stories of Isabel Diaz.

Buck’s introduced Ravi to Pepa, and been utterly unsurprised to learn that Ravi is excellent with aunties. In turn, he’s finally met her other son, Fernando, and one of her daughters, Liliana. The four of them are listening in rapt silence to a tale of Isabel’s youth; she was a firecracker young nurse who took no prisoners, Buck is learning.

Across the yard, he sees Eddie leave the house, his face a mask of neutrality, until he sees Hen. They embrace, Hen saying something to Eddie that has the mask shattering, his face breaking open into genuine joy, laughter on his lips.

Around him, laughter, as Pepa hits whatever punchline she’s been setting up, and just half a second too slow, Buck makes himself smile.

He hates that he’s even noticing, that he even cares, especially at a time like this, but he can’t seem to help himself. It’s like it’s engrained into him to check in on Eddie, to see if he needs help. Maybe he does. He doesn’t need Buck.

He mentally shakes himself, because feeling sorry for himself has only ever made these situations worse and more painful, and you’d think he’d know better by now.

The 118 gather to leave before the end of the reception in full, give some time for the Diaz family to mourn Isabel together, and Buck goes inside to hug Pepa and Chris farewell.

“Heading out already?” asks Eddie, eyes sharp, something in his tone of voice that Buck can’t place. He used to be so easy to read. He used to be fluent in all of Eddie’s facial expressions and tones, in each half hand gesture. Now it feels like watching a show in a language you took once at school, with subtitles that say something completely different. Half remembered words and false definitions.

“It’s only really family left,” says Buck, as he absentmindedly tidies Pepa’s kitchen of just a little of the debris. “We should take off.”

“Right,” says Eddie tightly, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Buck pauses, hands full with paper plates. “I’m so sorry, Eddie.” He looks up, and Eddie’s watching him with careful eyes that soften as he talks. “She was… She was so special, and I know how close you were. I’m so sorry.”

Eddie nods, slowly. Before he can say anything, before Buck can add anything, Pepa sweeps in.

“Ay, Evancito, are you tidying? You are a guest, stop that, what kind of host do you take me for?”

“Ah, Pepa, I was just taking them on my way out,” demurs Buck. “Thank you so much for having me, it has been an honour to be here, to get to learn more about Isabel, to say goodbye properly.”

“Sweet boy,” Pepa pronounces, taking the paper plates from his hand, and putting them down unconcernedly, as she takes him by each shoulder. “It’s my pleasure, as always. Besides, it’s what she would have wanted. She loved you, you know that?” Her gaze is so determined, so unwavering, that Buck finally realises where Eddie learned it from, his habit of chasing eye contact at all costs.

“I loved her,” he admits, far too honest in a house full of Isabel’s real family, Ramon and Helena walking through the doorframe that Eddie’s leaning on as he talks. “She meant a lot to me.”

Pepa nods in understanding, and Buck smiles in return.

“I will see you soon, yes?” she asks, unconcerned about the way her brother and his wife hover, clearly angling to talk to her.

“Soon,” he agrees with a small smile, “I promise.”

She releases him, and Buck ducks his head, murmurs a final condolence to the room at large, and walks away. He can feel the heavy weight of their gaze on him as he goes to the next room, sweeps Chris into a fierce hug only somewhat against his will, heads out. He can’t tell how many sets of eyes are trailing him, but they prickle and burn.

The funeral was day one of four off, and Buck didn’t acutally get a chance to figure out how long the Diazes were staying in town after it. They didn’t make any plans, which isn’t exactly a change, they never used to make plans either. But the assumption used to be that they’d do something together in those four off, and that just doesn’t feel like something Buck can assume anymore.

He has Bachelor night with May and Harry, as usual. They’ve been binging through the entire back catalogue, essentially because Buck mentioned they’d had a call there but he’d never seen the show, May had insisted it was a uniquely important cultural reference point, and Harry kept ‘happening to be in the room’ until they forced him to admit he was invested. Since Harry moved in with Athena, they’ve relocated to Buck’s new place, a weekly excuse to host. They’re in hometowns week, which Buck is torn between thinking is one of the best weeks in the show, and finding wildly stressful.

“This is crazy,” says May, gesturing with her wineglass at the screen, “She lives in Canada, how has he never thought about that before.”

“Because they’ve been focused on the relationship!” exclaims Harry.

“Okay, sure, but the real world still exists! Their relationship might be good, but what is their plan? How have they been getting so serious and never once discussed where they would even live when it’s over.”

“They’re in love,” says Harry, exasperated, “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

“Romance is great, I just think it’s worth checking if you want the same things,” complains May.

“Isn’t it easier to not know?” asks Buck. “Isn’t it nicer to focus on the moment, and not look too much at the hard stuff?”

“But it’s doomed! You can see on Nick’s face that he doesn’t want to move to Canada, and Vanessa so clearly loves it there!”

Buck sighs, feeling so old all of a sudden. “It’s doomed anyway, isn’t it? Sometimes you know, deep down, that there’s something broken there, but the longer you can avoid talking about it, the better.”

May’s looking at him seriously now, that thoughtful gaze so much like all three of her parents’ steady looks.

“What do you mean?” she asks, holding her wine glass in both hands, tucked up comfortably on his couch with her feet beneath her.

“If it really is doomed, then talking about it is the death knell. You’ll both have to admit it’s doomed, and where can you go from there? If you’re fundamentally incompatible, if there’s something broken that can’t be fixed, once you’ve acknowledged it, how do you go on pretending?”

“So it’s easier not to talk about it at all,” says May slowly, her eyes far too knowing.

“He’s not moving to Canada, and she’s not leaving it, and they both know that, deep down. But they’re in love. If they say it out loud, they’ll have to call it quits, but if they just keep avoiding the topic…” Buck offers, before taking a heavy gulp of his own wine.

“I think they can make it work,” says Harry, voice solemn but eyes firmly on the tv. “I think if they want to, if they mean enough to each other, they’ll make it work even through whatever’s broken.” As he says it, he slowly leans further and further into Buck’s side, until Buck is forced to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“Okay, you would say that,” says Buck with a laugh, letting himself believe they’re all truly wrapped up in The Bachelor and nothing more, “You’re an uncurable romantic.”

It’s good to see Maddie, obviously, always, but if he’s very honest, it’s been kind of a relief that she’s been so distracted with Chimney lately. She’s been letting him slide on all sorts of things that she’d normally push him on, and right now it feels like the wrong push might shatter something he can’t repair.

Better than that, even, he gets to spend most of their time together doting on his niece and nephew. He played make-believe with Jee all morning, the first mate to her starship captain. Pirate starship captain? Pirate elementary school teacher starship captain? Who is maybe a cowboy princess? Honestly the storylines got a bit muddled at points, but he got to wow her with a fitted sheet over the corners of her new four poster bed to make an extremely easy fort/starship, so it was definitely a win. Chim gamefacedly played a European pirate-hunting t-rex, complete with terrible English accident, until he had to bring Jee to her art class.

Since then, Buck’s been talking with Maddie and lavishing attention on his nephew. He’s a perfect sphere of a baby, and getting to cuddle him close twists something deep in Buck’s insides. Robbie is the sweetest, happiest baby in the whole wide world, and Buck’s realising that he loves getting to see him at this point in his life. He didn’t get this with Jee, already in Boston with Maddie. He certainly didn’t get this with Chris, the only other child that Buck’s ever really known. He got photos of this stage with Caleb, Kameron and Connor’s kid, but it’s not like he ever really got to meet him. Got to know him.

He loves Robbie to pieces, loves holding him close, loves hearing him babble nonsense in response to Buck’s overly serious questions. He just can’t help the tug in his chest that says this is the only time he’ll ever get this.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” asks Maddie, looking at her fridge somewhat hopelessly. “Mara does the art class with Jee, so Chim normally wrangles his way into a dinner invite over at Hen and Karen’s, but I’m honestly exhausted.”

“Hen’s not too busy with Eddie, then?” Buck asks, before immediately regretting it.

“What?” asks Maddie, looking over at him, and thank god she looks distracted, like she didn’t properly take it in.

“Here, take baby Bobert", says Buck, passing his nephew over before going over to the fridge himself. “There’s definitely enough here to make a stir-fry,” he says, “Ooh, how do you feel about fried rice?”

“Positive,” says Maddie, sitting down at the counter, her son in her arms, a relieved smile on her face.

“A plan!” says Buck, taking ingredients out.

“What was that about Eddie?” asks Maddie, and when Buck goes to look, she’s looking down at Robert, letting him play with her fingertips.

“Oh,” says Buck, struggling to find the exact right out, “I think he’s just struggling with his abuela, and all. Thought Hen had been helping him through it.”

Maddie looks up at that, assessing, and Buck busies himself with measuring out stuff to velvet the chicken for their fried rice. “You’re not helping him with that?” she asks after a few moments where Buck doesn’t look back up.

“We handle grief differently,” Buck says wryly, the understatement of the year.

Maddie hums in acknowledgement, and then moves the conversation elsewhere. She won’t be this magnanimous forever, but Buck can’t pretend he doesn’t appreciate it in the moment.

He can admit that perfecting the snickerdoodles was about Bobby, but it’s a little offensive that every time he bakes things people act like that means it’s defcon one. He can just like baking, thanks, Ravi. Not everything is a fucking cry for help!

It’s grounding, is the thing. He didn’t know that before Bobby, that the kitchen could be a space, a haven, that helps him stay grounded. It’s true, though. There’s something about baking, about following the precise instructions, weighing out exact amounts, everything in perfect regulated order. It’s relaxing. He doesn’t have to think, can just sink into the recipe.

He spends almost a full day baking, and it grounds him, tethers him to his body and his kitchen and his new home. The more he cooks and bakes here, the more it feels like home, even if Bobby never got to cook here with him. Even if the only people he’s cooked for here are Jee-Yun, May, and Harry. He didn’t really host much at the loft, and he’s yet to figure out how to do it here either. Yet to extend a proper invitation. Still, a home doesn’t have to be full of other people. It can just be steady ground beneath your feet and a kitchen you’re growing to know like the back of your hand.

He bakes and bakes, and the house smells of warmth and butter and sugar, and it soothes something inside him.

The problem, of course, with baking all day often lies in the baked goods themselves.

It’s not just that the rest of the 118 have all at various points banned him from giving them the products of his baking, citing too many too quickly, but also that he knows that they’ll see this as something more than it is. Sometimes you simply want to bake, that’s all.

It doesn’t take much time on his phone to find an instagram story that someone he met at a house party once twelve years ago has put up about a community food drive. He drives over, intending just to drop stuff off, and ends up spending his afternoon helping out. He exchanges details with Hajra, the woman he discovers to be in charge when he gets there, and commits to helping in advance on a semi-regular basis. It feels like the sort of thing Bobby would do. More than that, it feels like the sort of thing he wants to do himself.

It might not be how he thought he’d spend two of his days off, but it feels good. He’s grounded himself, and more than that, he’s been helpful. Maybe the 118 themselves don’t always need him, but that’s good, that’s healthy, you don’t want your loved ones to need you, necessarily. And it doesn’t mean he isn’t needed. He spent the day with strangers who needed community, was able to provide that for them. That’s something. That’s enough. That’s got to be enough.

It’s nearly four in the morning, Eddie’s first shift back from his compassionate leave, and almost everyone is in the bunk room. Buck, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think about the aching distance he still feels from his team, from his family. He’s been drifting for months now, waiting for something to anchor him, and right now, at four in the morning, it feels like nothing ever will.

He heads up to the kitchen to make himself a mint tea, anything to help him catch just a few moments’ rest. He just needs to sleep.

He gets a mug out, goes to fill it, and pauses. From the back of the cupboard, he pulls out the kettle that Bobby has insisted on, plugs it back into the wal. He’s not sure when it got put away, except that there were long weeks and months where none of them could look at anything of Bobby’s without feeling the ache of it. Now, the ache has transmuted. It feels worse to know that this was in a cupboard, where no one could see it or use it. Buck’s learning slowly but surely to work through his grief, and the greater sin isn’t feeling the hurt, but trying not to. He wants to live the life Bobby wanted him to live. That’s true in using a kettle over the microwave just as much as in his newly established monthly coffee with Dwayne.

He fills the kettle, turns it on, watches the little blue light flick on as it starts to heat. A familiar sound he’s heard a thousand times with Bobby right next to him. It’s almost like he’s here, in this liminal moment, this breath between night and day.

From the corner of his eyes, movement.

Buck startles, turning to face it, and sees Eddie, rising up abruptly into sitting from where he must have been lying on the couch. There was a split second where he thought—

“Oh,” says Buck, one hand on his heart, “I didn’t know you were up here.”

Eddie gives him a weird tight smile.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” he says, and there’s a tone to it. For better or worse, this last year Buck has learned exactly what Eddie sounds like when he’s spoiling for a fight.

Buck ignores it.

“You want tea or coffee?” he offers instead, “I’m having mint.”

“No, Buck,” says Eddie slowly, “I don’t want a hot drink.”

He’s extremely good at goading Buck is the thing. It’s hard to not roll his eyes, his own frustration making his lips purse up.

“Eddie, don’t,” says Buck firmly.

“Don’t what?” asks Eddie, needlingly, always fucking needlingly.

“We’re at work,” snaps Buck. “I’m not doing this at work.”

“So there is a this,” Eddie says it like he’s satisfied, like Buck’s fucking confessed to something.

“Eddie,” says Buck, letting his exhaustion drip into every word. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Eddie scoffs, “Oh, okay. So I’m the problem here?”

“It is four in the fucking morning, and we are at work,” Buck reiterates as quiet as he can manage, furious despite himself. “Yeah, you’re the fucking problem right now. Why are you picking a fight with me at work?”

“Well when else am I supposed to?” snaps Eddie, “It’s not like I see you outside of work any more.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Buck demands.

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. We just had four days off, and the only time I saw you was at my abuela’s fucking funeral!"

Eddie’s a master of that pitched yell, hushed enough that a child sleeping soundly a few rooms away hopefully won’t hear it, even though they never actually have these fights in the same house as Chris.

“Your family were in town,” points out Buck, “I figured you’d want to spend some time with them.”

“Oh did you?” asks Eddie. “Very thoughtful, but my parents left two days ago, so I don’t think that excuse works.”

“And how would I know that?” Buck asks, exasperated, like he didn’t used to have Eddie’s calendar memorised, like they didn’t both know that for most of the years of their friendship he would have just known.

“There’s this great invention,” says Eddie snidely, “It’s called asking. You could have texted, called, hell even asked at the wake, but that would require you actually wanting to see me.”

“Are you serious?” snaps Buck, his own voice raising now, “Phones work both ways, Eddie! If you wanted to see me, youcould have asked me!”

“Wow,” says Eddie, anger thrumming through him, as he storms closer. “Wow. Since when do I have to beg you to behave like my best friend? I thought you had my back!”

“Oh fuck off,” Buck bites out, “Don’t you dare put this all on me, don’t you dare act like I’m not doing exactly what you fucking wanted.”

“When the fuck did I say that!” Eddie asks, throwing his arms up into the air in frustration, “Did I ever fucking say that?? What are you talking about?”

Buck scowls in return, shaking his head.

“Nothing to say to that?” asks Eddie, loud and mean, so obviously in pain and trying to excise it through biting at Buck, making them share the same wounds. “Because I never asked you to leave me or Chris, and now we never see you, not even when we’re hurting.”

“I left you?” Buck asks, can’t help himself, “Is this a fucking joke?”

“There it is,” says Eddie, a vicious joy in him, the hunter with prey in sight. “You’re punishing me, us, for Texas? Is that it?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” snaps Buck, hurt thrumming through him. “Everyone leaves, of course I’m not fucking punishing you, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re never fucking around any more,” he says it like he’s accusing Buck of something, like this is a true fact, like this is at all fucking reasonable. “I’m talking about the fact that you’ve been further away since I moved back to L.A. than you were when I was in fucking Texas. I’m talking about the fact that what, I left, because I had to, and you’re holding it against me?”

“When did I say that?” demands Buck, “No, really, Eddie, when? Because I was sad you left, sure, fucking obviously, but I’m not punishing you over it. I’m not holding it against you.”

“Then where the fuck are you? You barely look at me, you’re not even talking to me, you don’t come around any more…”

“I am following your lead,” Buck says, and that is an accusation, even if he didn’t realise it would be until he said it. “If you want to hang out, if you want to talk more? You can ask too, Eddie, it’s not all on me!”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘my lead’?” asks Eddie, stepping closer, eyes narrowed, frustration shimmering off him like heat in the middle of summer.

Buck narrows his own eyes, takes another step closer, and hears the distinctive creak of the bunk room door. He closes his eyes in defeat, the shame of remembering where they are, what that means, racing through him.

Takes a step back.

“I’m not doing this with you right now, Eddie,” he says slowly, forcing himself to calm down.

“This is not over,” says Eddie, taking another step forward.

“Yes it is,” decides Buck, “For now it is. We’re at work.”

Eddie looks for a moment like he might challenge that, before there’s another distinctive creak from downstairs. He rolls his eyes, tries to shrug his on anger off.

“Fine,” agrees Eddie, a smile so polite it’s almost venomous. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would we?”

“You can be such a bitch,” says Buck, pushing past him to walk downstairs, and it’s the first time he’s ever said it and meant it devoid of fondness or affection.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hen, Ravi, and Chim stand silently in front of the bunkroom door, concerned frowns adorning their faces.

“You should probably check on him,” mutters Buck to Hen, not daring to make eye contact.

“Are you okay?” she asks just as quietly, and somehow that hurts worse than if she’d just gone straight upstairs to Eddie’s side.

Buck walks past the three of them to open the bunkroom door himself. “I’m going to go to sleep.”

Ravi and Chim follow him into the room, but the others on shift are miraculously still sleeping inside, so they can’t actually talk to him about anything.

Buck twists and turns, but he doesn’t actually sleep. Slowly, the adrenaline racing through his body slows enough to leave him feeling merely nauseous.

In an act of kindness from the universe, there’s a medical call about twelve minutes before the next station-wide call, and that goes until the end of shift, so Buck doesn’t have to try to look any of them in the eyes for much longer. Doesn’t have to try to pretend that he and Eddie are normal and good.

There’s one moment in the engine on their way back to the station to end their shift where Ravi kicks him in the ankle until Buck looks up.

“You guys fight like that a lot?” he asks quietly, helmets off so it’s not over the teamwide radio, but that hardly matters with Chimney ‘lipreading is a useful life skill’ Han staring at him from the seat across from him.

“Not a lot,” says Buck quietly, and sees more than hears the sharp inhale that provokes. “Leave it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Ravi solemnly, a better partner than Buck has really deserved these last six months.

Chimney makes no such promise, but Buck knew better than to hope he would.

He goes straight to bed after their shift, manages two and a half fitful hours of sleep before he gives up and takes a hot shower. Maybe the trick is to just exhaust himself today, hope he can get an early night tonight. It’s probably a good day to figure out what exactly he’s going to do with this new backyard.

He makes it as far as the kitchen before his doorbell rings.

Looking through the peephole, he can see Eddie, shoulders squared and determined. In the half second before Buck braces himself to open the door, he sees Eddie gearing himself up, getting ready to start knocking as well.

“Hi,” he says, swinging the door open, Eddie’s fist already raised like he was going to start pounding.

“Hi,” says Eddie, almost thrown. Like he really didn’t think that Buck would open the door. Buck wants to be annoyed, incredulous, wants anything but the sting in his eyes and the knowledge that he did think about not opening the door.

A beat of silence.

“Come in,” says Buck, moving to the side, as Eddie walks into his new home for the first time.

“It’s nice,” says Eddie, walking around, peering through each room. “Doesn’t exactly feel haunted.” It’s sharp, chased by a mean little smile that Buck is supposed to pretend means well.

He huffs a dry laugh in response instead. Linda told Maddie about Buck’s 911 call the other day, so there’s no way that he’ll be able to keep Dwayne a secret for much longer, but he’s hardly going to volunteer the information to Eddie if it can be avoided.

“Why are you here, Eddie?” Buck asks, tired already. He should have just gone back to bed.

“Came over to see if you’re free,” Eddie says it like a challenge.

Buck caves immediately. However he’s been feeling lately, however weird things have been with Eddie, with the team, with it all, it’s nice. It’s nice to have someone reach out first.

“I was gonna do some garden work?” he offers, and Eddie hesitates, like Buck’s missed a cue on a script that he never bothered to share with him.

“Okay,” says Eddie after a moment. “Let’s see what you’re working with.”

It could be a nice garden. Probably a good third of the reason why Buck said yes to this place was the backyard, more land than he could have expected to get so close to the station, empty beds near the kitchen doors that he has vague plans to turn into a herb garden, trees just tall enough that somehow it feels like an oasis of peace in the middle of Los Angeles.

He explains his plans, the herbs he wants in the beds, the flowers he thought he’d put in for Jee, his probably naive dreams of a fruit tree. The future he envisions here, the garden that he wants to grow. Eddie’s jaw gets tighter and tighter, the more Buck waxes poetic about the roots he wants to put down here, but just like the Ouija board, he can’t seem to stop himself.

“It’ll take a lot of time and effort,” Buck says, “But today I was just thinking clearing the herb beds of junk. Pretty physical work, but doable in an afternoon I think.”

“Sure,” says Eddie, weighty, measuring something. “You know Hen has some great tools for yardwork, I’m sure she’d be happy to lend them.”

Buck doesn’t mean to, but he rolls his eyes.

“What was that?” asks Eddie, but Buck has a niggling sense that he knows exactly what it was, that he was gunning for it.

“Nothing,” says Buck, “Just don’t think we’re at a stage where we need much in the way of tools.”

“Mhmm,” says Eddie in that infuriating way he has where he’s as good as calling you a liar. “I’m sure.”

Extending an olive branch is so much fucking work, even when you’re the one who wants everything to go back to normal. Not enough people acknowledge this.

“Okay,” says Buck, keeping his frustration reined in as tightly as he can. “I’m feeling a little weird about you and Hen, is that what you want to hear? Can we move on?”

“Not going to sprain my ankle this time, are you?” asks Eddie, and it’s a joke, and it’s a provocation.

Everything they fucking say to each other feels like a provocation these days. Buck’s not quite sure when that started, because he doesn’t like to look at that time too closely, but even when one of them is trying, they can’t seem to stop this fucking cycle.

“It’s not like that,” snaps Buck, an overreaction to the tease, and he knows it, but there’s a glint in Eddie’s eyes, like he’s relieved that Buck’s finally biting back. Following the script.

“Yeah, I’d hope not, she’s married. And a lesbian.”

Buck rolls his eyes, throws his arms up.

“Is this what you want?” he asks. “Never got out the ring, did you? Always starting fights to make yourself feel better.”

That makes Eddie’s eyes narrow, his stance change.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” asks Eddie, squaring up for a fight. Does he even realise it’s second nature to him right now?

“Throw a punch or two, hope someone else gets a hit in, hope you’ve martyred yourself enough that you never have to actually fucking talk about it,” accuses Buck, before smiling sardonically. “You know, your usual MO?”

“Oh, so now you want to talk?”

“Now we’re not at work?! Like I’m unreasonable for not wanting to get into an argument in the middle of the night in our workplace? Yes, now I want to fucking talk.”

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re following my fucking lead?” asks Eddie immediately, like that’s been ringing around in his head since he heard it.

“Exactly what I said! You’ve made it very clear that I’ve been overstepping, that you wanted space. I’m just doing what I always fucking do, Eddie. I’m following your lead.”

“When exactly did I make that clear? When did I ever fucking say all that shit?" demands Eddie, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “How is this not about punishing me for Texas?”

Buck scowls in response. “Eddie, this is not about fucking Texas!"

“Then what is it about?” He’s angry, sure, but Eddie’s eyes are so soulful, like he’s tormented by not knowing. Like this really truly matters to him.

“It’s about Hen!” exclaims Buck before he can think it through.

Eddie looks away, visibly annoyed, throwing his hands up. “I thought you said it wasn’t like that.”

“It isn’t,” Buck says, then again, insistent at Eddie’s look of disbelief. “It isn’t.” He sighs, short, sharp, annoyed. “Fine,” says Buck, “Fine! It’s not what… I’m jealous of you and Hen, yes, but. I’m jealous of you.”

Nothing cuts quicker than Eddie’s look of amused disbelief.

“Really?” he asks, “Hen and I are getting closer because we’re doing our goddamn job, and the problem is that you’re jealous of me for getting closer with her?”

“Fuck you,” Buck snaps, hurt running closer to the surface than he’d like it to. If Eddie’s so amused, so dismissive of this, does that mean he too— “You don’t understand. You don’t get what Hen is to me.”

“She’s your friend, Buck, I know. So am I.”

Buck looks down, annoyed still, but almost scared to put it into words. To admit things aloud that he knows will hurt some of the people he loves most.

“Eddie,” he says after a moment or two to summon the courage. “You’re my best friend. Still, always, despite everything.” Eddie takes that like a hit, like Buck backhanded him. “But Hen’s different. She’s important to me in a way that none of you can understand.”

“Try me,” insists Eddie, body still humming with restless energy, eyes still searching Buck like he’s looking for a fight or an escape route.

“She’s the only one in my life who’s never left me,” says Buck, upset and ashamed and angry. What a thing to have to admit out loud. How humiliating.

“Here we go again, making it about you,” snaps Eddie, a current of hurt visible just below the surface.

“This is about me,” Buck responds, immediately furious, “I’m not talking about why you left, I know you had to, I never once asked you not to, but this time I’m talking about me. I’m talking about being left.”

“It wasn’t about leaving you, Buck! I don’t know how to get that through to you!”

“You think I don’t know that??” Buck asks, furious and heartbroken, and fucking exhausted. “It’s never about me, not leaving and not coming back, I know that, I’ve always fucking known that.”

“What, so you’re mad about why I came back? That I didn’t beg for forgiveness on bended knee?”

Buck rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disgust. “Are you even listening to me? When did I say that?!”

Eddie throws his own hands up in frustration again. “What are you saying, Buck? Because I feel like I haven’t known what you’re trying to say in fucking months. What is the goddamn problem?”

“I told you,” says Buck, voice cracking, because this is awful and hurtful and so fucking humiliating. “I was jealous about Hen. That was my problem. I’m working on it.”

“Right,” says Eddie, rolling his eyes dramatically. “You’re treating me weirdly because you’re jealous of me because, what, you finally noticed I’m friends with Hen?”

“That’s not—” Buck blows out a sharp breath in frustration. Takes a moment to force his own shoulders to lower, to take a deeper breath. “Before you interrupt, I’m not saying you’ve never been left, I know you have, and I know how much it hurt you. I’m saying you don’t, can’t, understand what it’s like to have been left by everyone. Emotionally or physically or both, and always, always, with a good reason that’s got nothing to do with me. You, Maddie, Chimney, Bobby, my parents, hell even Chris. I’m not saying that you didn’t have to go, I’m not saying that it wasn’t for a good reason. It always is.”

“Buck—” Eddie starts, no longer looking furious, but discomforted, unsure maybe.

“I don’t resent you for going, Eddie, because I didn’t expect you to stay,” says Buck, and he watches the hurt flare of Eddie’s eyes, the way the words seemed to hit him somewhere physically almost.

“I came back,” says Eddie, quieter now, brows furrowed, but the heat of their previous fighting leaking out of him.

“This time,” agrees Buck, and there’s the anger, bouncing back behind Eddie’s eyes, “No, wait, I know you don’t plan to leave again, but you might. You can’t say that you won’t, because you don’t know. No one ever does. That’s part of life, and it sucks, but it’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Buck,” says Eddie, and it’s worse than before, because now he sounds sad.

“It’s not like I think I’m not important,” says Buck quickly, “It’s not like I don’t know that you all care about me. It’s just that that doesn’t matter.”

“Hey,” starts Eddie, and Buck steamrolls him, because if he doesn’t get this out, he never will. It’ll stew inside of him forever.

“No, I mean it. I’m not saying you didn’t have a good reason to leave, because you did. Everyone always does. Maddie left for good reasons both times, and it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me, but loving me didn’t stop her from leaving. When Chim followed her to Boston, when you went to Dispatch, when you followed Chris to Texas… When— When Bobby wouldn’t let me come back, when he quit, when he— It’s not like they aren’t all good reasons, and it’s not like they were about me. They never ever are. Coming back is never about me either. I just don’t factor in. Not when people leave, not when people come back. Not on the worst days of my life. It’s never about me, Eddie, I know that. I know that better than anyone.”

“Buck,” says Eddie, and this time it comes out like there’s broken glass shredding his vocal chords.

“I don’t think you heard me earlier,” says Buck, blinking back tears, hating that anger and frustration make him cry, hating how it undermines him every time he wants to have a hard discussion. “In my life, there is only one person who has never left me, not physically, not emotionally, not ever. It’s just Hen. She’s the only one. Not even during the lawsuit, not even when I was fired as a probie. She’s the only one.”

Eddie lets out an unsteady breath.

“And now you’re jealous,” he says slowly, pained. “Because you feel like you’re losing her.”

Buck nods, too raw to speak.

“And,” starts Eddie, his eyes so fucking wide, so fucking pained. “And you already expected to lose me.”

“Already had,” corrects Buck in a hoarse voice.

“Fuck that,” says Eddie, one hand finding its way to Buck’s shoulder, thumb tracing an old familiar path across Buck’s collarbone. A grounding he never thought to miss, always relishing it in the moment, never expecting to feel it again. “No, wait, Buck just listen. I hear you, I do. But if you truly think that you weren’t a factor in coming back to L.A., for me, for Chris, for Maddie? I—” He stops, visibly gathering his thoughts, chasing Buck’s eye contact, impossible to avoid, to ignore. “You know why I was so mad after Bobby’s funeral?”

“You felt abandoned,” says Buck, honest in a way that they never are about their emotions. “You felt like I wasn’t there for you.”

“A little,” admits Eddie, “And I didn’t know how to be there for you. You were right, you know. Sometimes it is all about you. Sometimes I’m mad because you aren’t making it about you, because you won’t. I was furious you didn’t tell me not to go to El Paso, you know that?”

“I couldn’t—” Buck starts to protest.

“Yeah,” agrees Eddie, “I know. That made it worse. You were so fucking reasonable about it, even when you were pissy and hurt and mad, you were still so reasonable. Drove me up the fucking wall.”

Buck laughs a little incredulously. “That makes no sense.”

Eddie gives him that crooked little grin he has, still so close, one hand still on Buck’s collar, the other warm at Buck’s waist. “Yeah, well. If you haven’t noticed, I’m always making it all about you. It’s kind of a problem.”

“Is that what’s been happening?” asks Buck, and he wants to be arch, but it comes out far too earnest.

“Yeah, bud,” says Eddie, eyes so soft and warm. Smile so achingly sad. “Don’t really know how not to. You should hear me talking to Hen in the ambulance. All ‘He’s not sharing anything with me, how am I supposed to help?’, and ‘He’s not even my partner anymore, and he’s laughing it up with Ravi, what right do I have’, and ‘Hen, you don’t understand, he didn’t come around once in our four off’. She’s sick of me.”

“Ravi’s pretty sick of me too,” admits Buck with a smile, and it makes Eddie grin.

“Good,” he says, decisive. “Look, you’re right that I don’t know what will come, but even when I was in Texas, I was talking to you every hour of the day. I’m not leaving again, and if something happens, if I ever have to, I’m just going to drag you with me.”

Buck huffs a hollow kind of laugh. “Promise?”

“Promise,” agrees Eddie easily, just like that. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Okay,” says Buck, grounded under Eddie’s hands, under the promise of his words. “Good.”

“Good,” agrees Eddie, and then, like a simple punctuation to the conversation they were having, he leans in and kisses Buck.

“Oh,” says Buck when Eddie pulls away just fraction. “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah?” asks Eddie, amused now, like Buck can’t see his red cheeks, the breathless thrill of him. Like he doesn’t know what this took Eddie.

“Yeah,” agrees Buck, pulling him back in.

It’ll all take time. The 118 is still off kilter, their family still reeling from a wound that they can never truly recover from, but it’s scarring over. They’ll get there with enough time.

Buck knocks on the front door, waiting patiently in the early morning light. Eddie had laughed, and sent him off with his blessing before rolling over and going back to sleep, and Buck’s barely been able to restrain the smile that wants to break free.

The door swings open, and Hen looks at him, baffled.

“Buck?” she asks, “What’s going on? We have shift in an hour and a half, is everything okay?”

“It will be,” says Buck, and she doesn’t look at all reassured. “I miss you,” he admits, and watches her soften as he says it. “And I brought pastries for breakfast.”

“For everyone?” calls Denny’s voice from inside, hopeful, and it makes Buck laugh.

“For everyone,” agrees Buck cheerfully, stepping inside as Hen welcomes him in. “Also, I need advice.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Hen, a curious look on her face, and Buck wonders if she suspects, how long she’s suspected.

“I’m in love with my best friend,” he says easily, as Denny and Mara paw through the pastries on the kitchen table, and Hen’s eyes go as wide as she’s ever seen them.

There’s a clatter, and he turns to see Karen, her handbag spilled across the floor, looking at him with equally wide eyes. She exchanges a glance with Hen, and yeah, they definitely suspected. For a single shining moment, everything feels suspended.

“Don’t worry,” laughs Buck, “He’s in love with me too.”

Karen smiles so brightly she looks like she might cry, and Hen laughs a delighted laugh, and the world keeps spinning.