Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even before he opened his eyes, Buck knew that the day already sucked ass. His brain felt like it was going to leak out of his ears (ears that were ringing no less), his mouth was dry and cottony, sickly sweet perfume seemed to soak into his pores, and his entire body ached like he had run a marathon and then got crushed by a building.

Which almost would've been more enjoyable than what had actually happened: waking up at three in the afternoon, a few lines with his dealer landlord-slash-roommate, picking up a shift bartending at the skeevy dive he worked at that paid him in cash and let him drink on shift, a couple more lines and some pills after hours, and then getting fucked into oblivion by some repressed lawyer asshole who swung with his wife every other weekend.

Rinse. Repeat.

It was a struggle to open his eyes, but Buck just managed to suppress a groan when the morning light hit his corneas. It felt like knives stabbing his skull, only bringing attention to the pain in his muscles and how exhausted he was and how much he wanted to go to sleep and never wake back up. All of which made it painfully obvious that whatever high he'd had the night before had long since worn off.

Sitting up, he rubbed his bare chest to get the feeling back into his body (taking an extra second to look at his hands, glad that the tremors hadn't started yet) and curb that ache he felt creeping back into his senses. His head felt sluggish, but he still blearily looked around to try and figure out where his pants were.

Actually, he couldn't even lie to himself. He was looking around to see if there was any leftover coke and/or alcohol laying around.

The hotel looked absolutely trashed—lamp knocked off the nightstands, cracked glass from picture frames dotted the ground, the hotel comforter thrown on the floor, clothes strewn absolutely everywhere, a woman's lace thong had somehow made it up to hang from the ceiling fan, empty bottles were littered everywhere, unidentifiable fluids staining the carpet.

A soft moan drew Buck's attention as he was contemplating whether any of those beer cans had anything left in them. A quick look down showed that the sound came from the blonde currently wrapped around his thigh. It was a process (one that included ignoring his hard cock that decided right then to make an appearance) to extract himself from her grip, but he managed. And the woman—Milla, he suddenly remembered her name—just latched onto the dark-haired woman that had been on her other side.

Sandy...and Milla is the wife, Buck told himself, to...

He couldn't quite remember who Milla was married to, but he figured it would come back to him at some point.

Unashamed of his nudity, he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers snagging in his tangled curls, as he plodded towards the minibar, grimacing at the tacky feeling of drying sweat and day-old hair gel. Wiping his hand on his thigh, Buck grabbed the mostly empty handle of vodka and tipped the rest of it down his throat.

That seemed to take the edge off his headache, or at least dulled the edges of it enough that he could focus.

As he was looking around for some more blow, he vaguely registered the two women stirring, high-pitched moans and giggles starting to cut through the fog of his mind.

"Come back to bed," one of them sighed, before getting cut off by the tell-tale signs of kissing.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Buck felt a faint pang of arousal strike his stomach when he saw the sheets pooling around Sandy's waist as she practically devoured Milla. The blonde's arms were pinned above her head by one of Sandy's hands, her own hands clutching at the headboard, both women's lower bodies writhing underneath the sheets.

"In a second," Buck smirked, licking his lips at the sight. "More blow?"

Sandy's free arm waved towards the nightstand on the right, and Buck saw unmistakable white powder dusting the surface, as if it had been wiped away halfheartedly.

Milla's moans started getting louder, and as he bent down to snort the single line the leftover coke made, he was at the perfect level to see Sandy kiss her way down Milla's body, ducking underneath the sheets.

"Now that's a sight you don't see every day," a deep voice said from behind Buck.

He cursed himself for not hearing the door open, but he smoothed out his features as he straightened up, throwing a cocky smile over his shoulder. "My ass or the two of them?"

The man standing behind him was a couple inches shorter than Buck, but with lean muscles. His salt and pepper hair was thinning and he had the start of a beer gut, but his face was nice enough that if Buck squinted he could almost pretend he was getting fucked by someone hot.

"I was talking about them," he growled, the man's hands coming up to grab Buck's ass.

Buck tipped his head back at the feeling of being touched, the vodka and coke in his system finally starting to hit and the ever-present ache in his chest lessened to something he could ignore and replace. Starting with sex. Preferably rough, angry, full of latent and repressed homosexual tendencies sex.

"But," the husband (what was his name? Denny? Derek? It was something douchey with a capital D) growled, lips trailing up Buck's neck and biting his ear roughly, "your ass is a close second."

And how was he supposed to feel that empty cavern in his chest when Donny (let's go with Donny) said shit like that and made his dick twitch and leak and he moaned...loudly...at the sensation.

"Don't you know it," Buck sighed, practically preening as Donny sucked bruise after bruise onto the back of his neck, hands gripping matching bruises on his hips. He couldn't stop, the loud moan that was practically punched out of him as a cock thrust into him. Hard.

"Fuck, I don't know how you're still so tight," Donny groaned in his ear, and it was enough for Buck to ignore the painful burn of the stretch and just focus on the pleasure.

He was just opening his mouth to reply, probably with nothing more than a choked off groan, when the next words come flying out of the man fucking in and out of him like he was trying to break him in half.

"Loose enough for me though."

Buck grimaced, bending fully so his whole chest was on the bedspread, his hands coming up to grip the sheets next to his head. His face was turned to the side, so he got an eyeful of Milla moaning and writhing as Sandy ate her out like a pro.

With the familiar sounds of sex filling the air, Donny grunting and thrusting in and out so roughly Buck knew he was going to be feeling it for the next couple days, his entire body hot and sweaty, something filling up his chest...pleasure? Pain? Buck didn't really care, it was something to distract him from the usual black hole that sat beneath his sternum.

(Why was he thinking about this now? He had a super hot—okay, passable in the right lighting—guy pounding his ass like there's no tomorrow. This is what he lived for.)

(This wasn't the time to think of what would happen when Donny and Milla packed up their stuff and walked hand-in-hand back to their high-profile lives filled with friends and success. It wasn't the time to think of what would happen after Sandy climbed on top of him, his dick still hard because Donny didn't usually bother with a reach-around, halfheartedly grinding on him until he came before gathering up her clothes, a quick "see you next time" thrown over her shoulder.)

(It wasn't the time to think of what would happen when he laid there, flat on his back on the bed, drying come on his back and chest, hands thrown over his head, combing through his hair. It wasn't time to think about how Buck would reach over, grab the nearest half-full bottle of beer and drink it down before polishing off the rest of the contraband that the other three had left scattered around. Sandy also usually left a baggie of coke for him to take "home.")

"I'm always loose for you, babe," Buck groaned out, pushing his hips back to encourage Donny to fuck him even harder.

Which is just what happened.

Three minutes of the hardest, roughest fucking Buck's had in a long time, riding the line between pleasure and pain, teetering too close to falling off the wrong side too often.

And when Donny was finished, the husband lay on the bed, grabbing Sandy by the hips to grope her ass while he kissed his wife through her next orgasm. Buck knew that watching what was pretty much live porn should be enough to get him off, but despite the throb in his groin, he couldn't seem to muster up the energy to roll over and get a hand around his cock and take the five minutes it would take to jerk off.

Buck just stayed where he was—face-down on the bedsheets, ass in the air, feet on the floor—and watched.

He watched as Milla caught her breath, practically leaping into the arms of her husband as they gathered their scattered clothes off the hotel room floor.

"Check out's at nine," Donny slurred, his pants still unbuttoned and an arm around his wife.

(Buck had to wonder what it would be like to have someone like that. That after practically eight straight hours of fucking other people, they still wrapped themselves around each other.)

(Sometimes Buck wondered if that was the touch he was chasing with every hookup—an arm around his shoulder, a hand on his side, the brush of lips against his temple birthmark anywhere—but he shoved the thought out of his mind before it could take root and twist his chest open until he couldn't accept the only love he could get. The kind made up of bruises on his hips and an ache in his body, with slammed hotel room doors and whiskey and coke strewn around.)

He watched as the door slammed behind the couple, as Sandy pulled him up the bed (he couldn't help but be a bit impressed, his erection perking up at the way she manhandled him onto his back), roughly jerked him back to full hardness, and sunk down onto him.

He watched as she worked herself up and down his cock at a furious pace, thighs working hard and her breasts bouncing enticingly, but he knew better than to touch. Sandy liked to say that she was "technically bisexual just very picky when it came to men" but Buck could tell anytime Donny wanted to fuck her or she took pity on Buck when situations like this happened and the other two left even though he hadn't come yet, that she wished it was another woman underneath her with a strap-on. And so whenever Sandy did this, with closed eyes and touching herself, Buck tried to keep all contact to a minimum. Nothing kills your ego more than a smoking hot woman on top of you, growling to keep your hands to yourself and calling you an asshole.

(Okay, there were probably some people who were really into that, but Buck wasn't judging, he just wasn't one of them.)

(And it wasn't a sexy, BDSM-y, kind of name-calling or anything like that. It was a "I don't really want to be fucking you, but you're hot enough and I feel bad enough for you that I'll grit my teeth and pretend you're ScarJo" kind of thing.)

It didn't take long for him to come, but it was hardly satisfying, and Sandy climbed off as soon as he started to tense up, so he spilled pretty pathetically onto the already filthy hotel sheets and part of his chest. It barely even filled that cavern behind his ribcage.

He watched as she gathered up her things, rummaging around on the floor of the hotel room, out of sight. Not that Buck was paying particularly close attention, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if Jeremy was going to be at the apartment or not, and how much energy it was going to take to get off this bed.

"See you next time," Sandy tossed over her shoulder in that throaty voice of hers that if he were back in high school, would have him ready to go again in a minute even if he knew she wasn't totally into him.

The door closed behind her, and Buck sighed loudly to himself in the empty room. His head was spinning—from the drugs, from the sex—and he finally dragged his ass up and off the bed, sending a silent apology to the housekeeping staff as he used a towel from the bathroom to wipe the come off his chest.

Getting redressed was a process, and he fought to keep his head empty as he pulled on his boxer briefs and a t-shirt that was probably three days overdue for a wash. (That reminds him, they need quarters for laundry, he should probably stop by the grocery store to get change at some point.) But when he stooped to pick up his jeans, he grimaced as he saw his wallet lying on top of them instead of in the pocket.

He might be fucked up, but he didn't think they had used one of his cards to cut the lines, and the couple always provided the condoms and lube so there was no reason for his wallet to be lying open.

Well, there was but he just hated to think about it.

Sure enough, when he checked his cash, which was primarily made up of his tips from last night, he knew there was more than half missing. To be fair, Buck couldn't remember exactly how much he had made, but he figured it was more than a crumpled twenty and half a dozen ones.

To be even more fair, there was also a bag full of fresh white powder tucked behind the bills.

Sandy usually saved some coke for him to take home like it was those goody bags he used to get from parties when he was five and she deducted her cut from whatever cash he had on hand.

Shoving everything back into his wallet, then shoving the wallet into his pants, Buck got ready at the speed of light, his hands shaking from...he wasn't sure from what but there were probably plenty of reasons. He wiped the evidence of the lines into his hands, smearing it on his gums so as to not waste any, and tried to pile the empties as much as he could in the hotel room's small trash can, but didn't know if he succeeded.

The high was staring to hit as he left the keycard on the dresser and closed the door gently behind him. It was eight-thirty, no need to wake anyone else up by being loud. But then he tripped over a housekeeping cart, cursing in a whisper-shout as he stumbled out of the hotel.

He tried not to feel used as he squinted at the bright sunlight as he started his long walk to the apartment, arguing with himself that that was the reason why he even agreed when Sandy called every other week. He knew that the couple only wanted to use them for their fantasies, to keep their marriage interesting or some such bullshit. That when Milla was scratching her fingers down his chest in harsh, bloody lines, her mouth around his cock or while she rode him, or while Donny was fucking him from behind so hard Buck knew he wouldn't sit right for a week, that they didn't care that he was the one they were having sex with. That it could be anyone else in his position and they would make the same faces, give the same reactions, hand out the same praise he craved even from people like them.

So, he told himself as he dragged his sorry, sore, exhausted, coming-off-a-high body to his shitty apartment, that he couldn't feel bad about feeling used.

That they could have anyone but they picked him. Someone (two someones even) wanted him enough that they kept coming back to him and Sandy week after week. And while waiting for that text was torturous, he knew it was worth the swell of relief that came when Sandy let him know every other Friday afternoon what room number they were going to that night.

That it was a heady rush of adrenaline, and he practically preened every time h knocked on the hotel room's door, the anticipation and arousal of knowing that someone wanted him was right on the other side mixed in his gut in a way that was almost better than the pills he popped as he got ready. Almost.

He couldn't tell you if he talked to anyone on the way up to the apartment, or even how he managed to unlock the door to the apartment, but he could feel himself crashing—adrenaline wearing off and his high waning to the point where he was just achy and feeling like shit about himself but still so keyed up he wouldn't need another bump for a couple hours—but when he saw Jeremy in the living room, his dick buried in some twink's ass, needles on the floor as they fucked on the couch...well, he just turned right around and walked right back out the door.

Wandering around LA at the asscrack of dawn (well, not totally, it was the time "respectable members of society"—something his father used to like to remind him that he was not—were heading to work) didn't sound like the most fun but Buck didn't really have another choice.

When he started rooming with Jeremy, the older man had been dealing to him for a couple years, the two of them drifting around the country after a brief stint in Peru, and he'd tried to get Buck hooked on more than just blow. That was one line Buck knew he would never cross.

Fuck a near stranger in an alley despite the public indecency charges surely to follow? Sure.

Drink almost an entire bottle each of vodka and tequila while working? On the regular.

Snort lines instead of eating breakfast and then work out for three hours straight? No problem.

But he stopped at putting a needle in his arm.

Not to say he wasn't tempted, or that Jeremy didn't try to coerce him each time he "sampled the product" that he and Jeremy used. (Buck counted himself lucky that none of the shit he got sold had ever been laced with fentanyl or some shit like that.) But he usually had just enough self-control—in the form of a Maddie-like PSA in the back of his head telling him that drugs are bad and to "just say no"—to walk away.

He'd make it up to Jeremy later too. He probably hadn't even seen Buck, he hadn't even made it a step in the doorway before he turned around. But a blowjob never hurt, especially when soothing the dealer's ego.

Yeah, he could give Jeremy a blowjob when he got back. Jeremy always said he gave great head, and Buck knew he gave great head. Had heard so from plenty of people over the years—from Mitchie Prior when he was fifteen and Donny every other week.

A couple lines from Sandy's goody bag would probably be needed too.

LA was such a loud city, Buck could feel his shoulders hunching in as he walked around, somehow finding his way to a more middle-class, almost suburban-y part of the city. He hadn't even realized he had made it out of downtown. This was the kind of place that reminded him of Hershey, the good and the bad. Families were walking around, smiling and laughing, people were lining up to get coffee before their nine-to-five (although it could've been their lunch break, he wasn't sure how long he'd been walking around), kids were shrieking and playing tag while exasperated parents told them not to hurt themselves.

But it also reminded him that those nuclear families were just a bunch of bullshit. Or if there were any Brady Bunch type families in the world, he sure as shit didn't belong to one.

It was also a reminder that who he was now so fucking far from acceptable in a town like Hershey. And the yoga moms were probably wondering if he was hot enough and a good enough lay to ignore the clear signs of "troublemaker druggie" that he felt was flashing over his head twenty-four-seven. That the businessmen in their suits were turning their noses up at him and patting themselves on the back for having the foresight to take the job at daddy's law firm or financial planning company or whatever the fuck so they didn't end up like him. (Despite the fact that they were probably snorting the same blow that he was.)

Before he realized, he was standing in front of some corner grocery store and figured he might as well get some change like he had been planning. Maybe some Tylenol too.

His head was still buzzing from his high, so he mindlessly ambled around the aisles, murmuring his apologies when some old lady gave him the stink eye for standing too close. At least that's what he assumed based on her displeased sniff that wouldn't have felt out of place at one of his mom's wine nights.

With twenty-ish dollars in his pocket and no way in hell he was about to use his cards, he certainly had a limited selection of what he could even afford. What he really needed was ibuprofen for his headache (and general body aches that came from nights full of sex on the wrong side of rough and the impending withdrawal) but was currently trying to get his brain to process the numbers seemingly floating in front of his eyes.

"Excuse me," a soft voice came from his left. And about two feet down.

A quick glance to the side showed a kid with adorably curly hair and a nervous look on his face. He was leaning hard on one of his crutches, and before Buck could process that the kid was talking to him, he felt a light tug on his jacket.

"Can you help me?" He asked, big eyes behind his glasses looked at Buck imploringly. "I can't find my dad."

This was insane. He was high, drunk, there was coke in his wallet, and a seven year old was asking him for help.

"Me?" He asked, pointing a surprised finger at his chest.

The kid nodded enthusiastically, looking like he was a harsh word away from tears but not that concerned about it.

Fuck me, Buck thought, before crouching down to the kid's level, forcing his stomach to obey and prayed that he would not throw up and traumatize this poor child more.

"Okay, I'm Buck," he introduced himself, reaching a hand out for the kid to shake. "You said you can't find your dad?"

"Yeah," the kid said quietly, but thankfully he didn't look to be on the verge of tears anymore.

"Well, let's see if we can find him. What's your name?"

"Christopher," the boy smiled, shaking Buck's hand with a quick squeeze, and Buck actually felt bad when they had to let go—the kid looked so lost. "My dad's name is Eddie."

Buck smiled thinly, wondering if he ever said his father's name with so much pride. Whoever this Eddie guy was, he must have done a good job with Christopher. "Okay," Buck slowly pushed himself to his feet, fighting back a wave of nausea as he scanned the aisle, wondering if there was anyone frantically looking for their kid. When he didn't, he gestured to Christopher to walk with him, figuring that if they could get to the register, someone would probably be able to make an announcement or something. "Let's go this way."

"Thanks, Buck," Christopher said quietly, falling into step beside him.

Chapter Text

Eddie didn't usually need outside interference to feel like a shit father—his parents, ex-wife, and even his own brain usually kept up a steady stream of reasons why he wasn't cut out to be a dad, never mind one to "a kid like Christopher"—but today it really felt like the universe was screaming something at him. Which was blatantly ridiculous, and he told himself that every time the thought crept into his mind, batting it back with logic and reasoning that everyone had bad days and that just because this one seemed worse than most, that didn't mean there was some curse or jinx out to get him.

But the day started off with his alarm failing to go off and only got worse from there.

Since he accidentally overslept (something that didn't happen since before he joined the army) he was rushing to get out the door, showing up at Shannon's house thirty minutes late because LA traffic was a nightmare in the best of situations. And then he had to deal with her disappointed stare and her frustrated "I was supposed to meet Johnny fifteen minutes ago, I know you're busy, but I'm allowed a life too" as Christopher was making his way to Eddie's truck.

After which, his rundown pickup that had been his since high school and his father's before then decided to break down three miles from his house. So he had to call Pepa to come pick up Christopher, who protested heavily about having to leave, but Eddie just told him that Dad wasn't going to be much fun for the next few hours and that if he wanted, Chris could hand him the tools if he wanted to help. (Because there was no way Eddie was paying for a tow truck and whatever overpriced service an auto shop would give him, probably taking one look at his last name and hiking their prices, especially when he knew he had the skills to fix it himself.) Of course, then he had to push his car three miles to his driveway before he could even get started on whatever the problem was.

Chris had tapped out on helping about half an hour into it, and Pepa took him inside to make him lunch. Eddie felt bad at having his aunt feed Chris, but he was still buried under the hood, oil and grease coating his forearms, his shirt sticking to his chest and back with sweat, and he still had no idea what the fuck was wrong with his car.

Of course, that was when Pepa came back out and scolded him (in that tone of voice that only family had that somehow managed to still sound fond) that he didn't have any food except cereal and junk food.

"Es un niño en crecimiento, necesita algunas verduras," Pepa huffed in discontent, patting Eddie's cheek in amiable condescension. "I don't know why you don't let Mama and I cook for you."

"I'm an adult, tia," Eddie grumbled, wiping his hands with a rag that probably did jack shit. "I can feed my son on my own."

"Well, why don't you take my car to get groceries and I'll call Victor down to take a look, verdad?" Pepa had phrased it as a question, but Eddie knew that there was no arguing with her when she got that glint in her eyes that he saw too often in Christopher—that stubborn Diaz shine that meant they weren't going to back down.

"Si, tia," Eddie agreed. He reluctantly shut the hood of his trunk, following Pepa back into his house. "I know you're only doing this because Victor proposes every other time you see him."

"Ay, Eddito," she slapped him on the arm in protest, but Eddie couldn't help but grin. "No sabes de lo que hablas."

Eddie just raised his eyebrows, "Sure I don't, tia. But you didn't deny it!"

Pepa's curses were surprisingly colorful as they followed him down the hallway towards the bathroom. He stopped to poke his head into Chris' room, his heart tugging painfully in his chest and his throat constricting as he saw Chris sitting on the floor playing with his LEGOs.

He would do anything for this kid, no questions asked, and he hated that sometimes he wondered if Shannon—even though she didn't want it—should have received primary custody after the divorce. She could give Chris a good life, he knew it, because she was everything and had everything Eddie didn't: a good paying job with minimal threat of injury or death; a house large enough to support a family and in a good school district; she was white from a well-off family, middle-class but upper middle-class. She didn't have regular nightmares and PTSD. She could actually go out and date, bring back someone who could be a positive influence on Christopher's life.

"Hey, Chris," Eddie cleared his throat, hoping his smile looked genuine enough when his son saw him standing in the doorway. "Can you get ready to head back out? I need to head to the grocery store, and you need to help me pick everything out for dinner. Sound good?"

"Sounds great!" Chris beamed, and Eddie was struck by another crushing wave of inadequacy because there was no way he deserved the one kid in the world who acted like going to the grocery store was the same as going to Disneyland. (A place he hadn't been able to take Chris to yet, despite the dozen or so asks since they moved to California.)

Which was how he ended up standing in the middle of the frozen food aisle of the closest grocery store, trying to convince himself he just had really shitty luck today, and that losing Christopher was not the universe's way of telling him he was the world's worst father.

Rationally, he knew that kids wandered off, and he was certainly not the first person to lose their son in a grocery store. Hell, back when he was Christopher's age, Sophia would toddle off in whatever direction she pleased and their mom would hardly notice when he and Adriana would follow her to make sure she didn't fall.

"Christopher!" He shouted, looking around frantically, practically dropping the dinosaur chicken nuggets in his hand. His heart felt like it was going to bruise his ribcage with how hard it was beating, and then his breath started to come in shorter pants.

He could feel the judging stares from the couple farther down the aisle that reminded him too much of his parents with their expressions of disgust. Like they were thinking, 'how could he possibly have lost track of his own child? Must have gotten the poor mother knocked up much too young, he's still so irresponsible...not fit to be a parent.'

(Okay, maybe that's not exactly what was going through their minds, but Eddie felt it probably wasn't too far off.)

Taking a beat, he knew that running around like a chicken with his head cut off was not the way to go about this. The army taught him how to be cool under pressure, and although this wasn't an active warzone, he was missing his kid...so he thought it evened out well enough.

Eddie had just finished collecting his thoughts—he knew that he had talked to Christopher about what to do if they ever got separated, and that was to find an adult, preferably a woman with other children or another family, tell them what had happened, and to not leave the immediate area—when his phone started to buzz.

Pulling it out, he bit back a curse when he saw Shannon's name there. Just what he needed: his ex-wife who was one wrong move from taking custody of his son away from him, calling him up right when said son had wandered off.

Perfect.

Stabbing the green 'Accept' icon like it had shot him, Eddie plastered on a fake smile, even though he knew she couldn't see. Maybe he would be able to fake competent fatherhood enough for her to get off his back. (Unlikely, but he could hope.) And maybe she didn't even want to talk to Chris—it could be a mistake or a misdial. (Even more unlikely because, as Eddie was learning, he had used up whatever luck he had and was now running on fumes.)

"Hey, Shannon," he replied, trying not to let his frustration color his tone.

"Eddie," came the slightly rushed reply, like she was just remembering whatever it was that she wanted to talk to him about, "Chris left a couple games and some shoes at my house. I just remembered. Do you want me to bring them to you, or can you come pick them up?"

Thank God it was something he could answer. And even though, from her tone, it was clear that the second choice was the right one, with his transportation (or lack thereof) the way it was, it didn't seem likely that he was going to make it all the way out to Shannon's anytime soon.

"Can you actually drop his stuff off this afternoon? We're out right now and my car is..." his voice failing him as he trailed off. She didn't need another reason to tell him why he should swallow his pride and just accept her help for stuff like this, his father's voice telling him that he needed to be a man, the provider of his family, echoing in his ears. "It doesn't matter. Can you drop everything off?"

"Sure," Shannon sighed, a little heavily, but Eddie wasn't going to call her out on it. He didn't exactly have a leg to stand on in the 'good parent' department right now.

He was currently pacing the aisles, his head on what seemed like a permanent swivel as he tried to catch a glimpse of Christopher's curly hair and red glasses. The cart was long since abandoned in the frozen food aisle—he figured that i-when he found Christopher, it wouldn't be too hard to redo their shopping, and if not...

Well, if not, then Eddie would have a lot worse things to deal with than forgetting some groceries.

"Is that it?" Eddie bit out, "We're kind of in the middle of something right now."

"Sorry for bothering," she replied, just as snippily.

The two of them had settled into a pretty decent co-parenting pattern: Eddie got Christopher during the week (although how much of that time he really spent with his son was ever-fluctuating due to twenty-four hour shifts and all that came with being a firefighter) and the two alternated weekends; holidays were a bit trickier but thankfully Chris was enough of a buffer that Shannon and Eddie could usually keep their behavior in check for a couple hours. When it was just the two of them, however, they tended to fight more than they didn't, every little comment or exhale of breath turning into a battleground. Hence, why they got divorced.

He still loved Shannon, he always would, but there was only the love for the mother of his son and someone he would share a life with just by the fact that they had once been idiot twenty somethings and thought they wouldn't be the ones to get pregnant by having unprotected sex. There was no love between the two of them anymore, that had all been obliterated by two tours in Afghanistan and years of them both running from their responsibilities—to each other and as parents.

"Can you put Chris on for a second?" She asked, and Eddie felt his heart drop out of his chest, his stomach curdling uncomfortably, his breath snagging in his throat. "I want to ask him what games he wants me to bring over."

"You can just text me the names, and I'll let you know what he says." Eddie tried to deflect, but he knew that it was a weak excuse, one he wouldn't take if Shannon was offering it to him.

"Eddie," Shannon huffed out, and he could feel the annoyance rising in her tone, "are you seriously not going to let me talk to my own son now? What the fuck is wrong with you? We agreed to settle custody out of court—"

"It's not that," Eddie interrupted, his stomach now somewhere near his throat at the mention of custody, "I'm just saying...we're kinda' busy right now and—"

"Eddie, what the fuck is going on?" Shannon demanded, "What happened to Christopher?"

"Nothing happened," he lied, but she cut him off before he could get very far into the lie.

"Bullshit. I've known you since you were eighteen, that's your lying voice. So tell me what the hell is going on!"

Before Eddie could start on a rational explanation—Christopher was still a kid after all, and kids tended to wander off; there's no reason to think that he's hurt; he knows what to do in an emergency like this, even though "emergency" was probably too strong a word to describe this situation; it had only been a few minutes, nothing horrible could have happened after five minutes in a well-lit, well-trafficked grocery store in the Valley—the intercom buzzed to life, reminding Eddie that this was most certainly not his day.

"Could Eddie Diaz please make his way to the customer service desk, your son is waiting for you. Thank you."

"Fuck," Eddie mumbled under his breath, knowing there was no way Shannon didn't hear the announcement.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Eddie!" Shannon yelled, and he was tempted to move the phone away from his ear at the volume. "You lost Christopher! I can't believe you actually lost him! Actually, no, I can believe it because everything that you do is always so much more important than how that affects your family, isn't that right?"

"Shannon..." Eddie sighed, her words twisting the knife a little further into his chest. "I'm sure everything's fine, I'm almost at the reg—"

"Everything is not fucking fine!" She continued, almost in the same breath. And although her words hurt him—deeply—he knew that it was just because she cared about Christopher.

(And she wasn't completely wrong, a traitorous part of him thought. How many times had Eddie thought that his decision was the only right path and damn the consequences? How many times had he sacrificed his family's happiness just to make himself feel better? Make himself feel like he was making the right decision?)

"I don't care what you say, there's no excuse for losing your own child. And it's not like Christopher can just run off whenever he chooses, you have to be actively ignoring him for him to sneak past!"

"He's seven," Eddie bit out, no small amount of frustration or annoyance in his tone. "Seven year olds wander off, it's what they do. And look, I'm right here."

"Dad!" Chris smiled cheerily, waving as a man, presumably the one who had helped show Chris to the customer service desk, helped him down from his chair and nudged him towards Eddie.

"Hey, kiddo," Eddie grinned, feeling a weight lift off his chest and throat as he knelt down, Chris slotting into his arms, even if it was a bit awkward with one hand still holding his phone and Shannon talking in his ear, demanding to speak with Chris.

"Eddie, I swear to God if you hang up the phone right now," Shannon threatened, although he internally sighed in relief as he noticed most of the bite was gone from her tone, replaced with exhaustion and exasperation.

"I'm really glad you're okay," Eddie mumbled as he pressed a kiss to Chris' curly head. "Your mom wants to talk to you, okay? And I need to thank the nice man."

"Okay!" Christopher just extended a hand for the phone, sitting back on the chair and starting to talk animatedly with Shannon.

Straightening up, Eddie was able to get a better look at the man who had been awkwardly hanging in the background, clearly not wanting to go but unsure how to interrupt. Eddie didn't like to prejudge people, but the man—who couldn't have been more than twenty-five, more like a kid—did not exactly seem like the type to help a lost seven year old. Never mind being awake before five pm on a Saturday.

Dark blond hair looked matted with sweat, sticking to his forehead in curls; his skin was pale, making him looked washed out and a bright red birthmark by his left eye stood out starkly; clothes that consisted of jeans that might as well be painted on and a white t-shirt that was so stretched out he could see the edge of a geometric-looking tattoo on the guy's right pec.

Not that he was staring at the guy's pecs. Well, maybe a little bit...just because of the abnormality of seeing that part of a dude's chest outside of the gym. Not that he would be ogling a guy's chest at the gym either!

Shaking his head as if that would help clear the thoughts that had rudely intruded on his brain, Eddie stuck a hand out, a small but genuine smile tilting his lips. "Thank you so much for helping Christopher..." He trailed off a little as a cue for the guy to give his name.

"Oh, uh, Buck," the blond replied, almost in a daze, blinking a little rapidly as he shook Eddie's hand. "An-and you don't really need to be thanking me. I didn't really do all that much."

Eddie shook his head gently—there was no way this young twenty something could know that anyone who helped Christopher, in any capacity, had his gratitude for life. "When you're a parent, even the little things mean a lot. So really, thank you."

Buck looked like he had been hit over the head with a frying pan, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly and a flush rising in his cheeks. But before Eddie could ask if he was okay (because the flush only made his skin look all the more waxy and he generally looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in a long time despite his body being more lean muscle than anything else), it was like a switch flipped in the guy's head, his whole posture changing on a dime.

A self-satisfied, almost cocky smirk slid onto his lips, and his eyes blatantly ran over Eddie's body. He doesn't think he's ever been so obviously checked out before, and just knowing that this objectively attractive man was looking at him, passing judgement, and (apparently) finding him...something that Eddie was not going to name at this time, made his own body heat up.

Bright blue eyes fluttered over Eddie's shoulder. and when he turned to follow his gaze, he got a glimpse of Christopher chatting away on the phone, clearly not paying attention to either of them. But then a hand at his hips drew his attention, his head snapping back towards Buck (who was now much much closer than he had been before) with such speed he felt something in his neck pop.

He could barely process what was happening—Buck was in his space, his sweat and the barest hints of cologne invading his nose; his body heat positively fucking scorching—but Buck had evidently looped his pointer fingers through Eddie's belt loops, tugging him until their bodies were so close the space between might as well be nonexistent.

Eddie couldn't help but stare at the sliver of space between them, eyes tracing the exposed double band tattoo on Buck's forearm, struck with the sudden desire to see exactly how many tattoos the other man had.

His mouth dropped open, the somewhat nervous young man from before had disappeared and in his place was someone who positively oozed confidence and charm and sex appeal. Buck's entire body was lax, his shoulders pushed back, and his head cocked with that charming, seduc-arrogant (cocky?) smile trained at Eddie with full force. His blue eyes were blown wide in a way Eddie hadn't ever seen outside of sex (which is a statement he is choosing not to look too closely at) as his gaze finally met Eddie's.

"Well..." he drew out the word, and it was like his voice had changed too, becoming deeper, maybe a little huskier.

You are in a public place, Diaz, Eddie scolded himself, his pants growing a bit tighter in a way that sent fear and heat lancing through his stomach. And straight. This is inappropriate on multiple levels, not the least of which is that you are nothing other than goddamn fucking straight!

But Buck apparently didn't notice or didn't care about the argument Eddie was having with himself, choosing to continue to look and act as if he was two seconds away from dragging Eddie into the nearest bedroom and letting him—

Nope. Train of thought stops here.

"If it really means that much," Buck murmured, voice dripping with heat and wan—nope. "I can think of some...fun ways for you to thank me." At that, his grin widened somehow, his tongue darting out to run along his lower lip and upper row of teeth. "The missus can come too," he somehow shifted even closer, his breath ghosting over Eddie's face. He figured that Buck was probably a couple inches taller than him, but with the...posed slouching, he somehow managed to look up at Eddie through his lashes.

Eddie's eyes couldn't be torn from that flash of pink tongue, tracing the stubble-covered jaw all the way up to that birthmark. He passively wondered why he hadn't just stepped out of Buck's grasp yet. The man only had two fingers through his belt loops, but for some reason Eddie just couldn't...take a fucking step back.

But once his brain decided to get back online again—a shameful amount of blood was still below his belt, and God, he hadn't prayed in years but he was praying that Buck couldn't tell how little control Eddie had over his body at the moment—and Buck's words started to process, he snapped back to himself. Like he had been observing himself outside of his body for the past minute of conversation, but was now firmly back in the driver's seat, and there were a million and one reasons why what Buck had just offered (in the middle of a grocery store no less) was wrong and never going to happen.

(Not the least of which was that he really never wanted to have sex with Shannon again.)

(You're going to have to be the head of this family one day, Edmundo. And when you have to provide...for your mother, your sisters, your wife, you cannot be weak, entiendes?)

(Do not look at those men, Eddie...they have strayed. It is unnatural for...unions such as those to exist.)

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer)

"Sorry man," Eddie stepped back, trying to talk around the block in his throat that seemed heavier than usual. Why did this guy, this stranger, proposition him in the middle of a grocery store? Was it something he did? Some kind of signal or was it just (and this was truly frightening) did he just know Eddie's thoughts? Was Eddie somehow wearing all his forbidden fantasies and unwanted thoughts on his face? "I don't know what kind of impression I gave you where our wires got crossed but...that's not me. I don't..."

"What?" Buck smirked, but it was wavering slightly. His eyes were still blown and that would concern Eddie when he let himself think about this conversation for more than a minute. "You don't pick up an easy lay at the grocery store."

"I'm not gay or married," Eddie clarified, proud of how sure his voice sounded despite his insides feeling like they'd just been through the meat grinder.

"One more and I'm out then, huh?" The blond stuck out his lower lip until he was almost pouting and Eddie was definitely not noticing. "You know, I always thought I did look good in baseball pants."

Nope. He was not thinking about this guy in baseball pants. Not if he ever wanted to look his abuela in the eyes again. Not like he was remembering playing baseball all throughout high school and he was definitely not remembering the awkward locker room boners he had shoved into a box so far in the back of his mind he never thought about that anymore.

"Well," Eddie laughed, hoping it sounded natural, "there is still..." he put his hands around Buck's wrists (and his breath definitely didn't catch in his throat) and gently pulled the other man's hands away from his belt loops and took a fortifying step back. "Three strikes."

"Damn," he grinned, not sounding remotely sorry at all.

"Exactly. And hate to break it to you," Eddie shot back, a little sarcastically to cover up the shake in his voice, "but you're not exactly my type."

"Too bad, 'cause you are definitely mine." Buck didn't seem put out, but whatever facade he had adopted dropped, a normal, cheerful grin appearing. One that made him look younger than he had before—God, he looked like he was Sophia's age.

"Dad," Christopher's quiet voice finally popped the bubble that had surrounded the two men, and Eddie had never been more grateful for his son. "Mom said she wants to talk to you."

"Okay, bud," Eddie turned away from Buck, crouching slightly to take the phone from Chris. "When you and I get home though, we are definitely gong to talk again about wandering off and stranger danger, got it?"

"Fine," Chris sighed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "Can we get ice cream for after, though?"

Eddie shook his head—his kid sure knew how to get what he wanted. "Sure we can."

Chris cheered, clearly knowing exactly how much he had Eddie wrapped around his finger (not like that was a surprise). Eddie turned to say thank you to Buck one more time, but the blond was gone.

He felt his brows wrinkling briefly in confusion at the young man's disappearance, but he was distracted by Shannon's tinny voice demanding to be heard and Chris trying to upgrade from just ice cream to ice cream for dinner. Buck probably had better things to do befitting a (presumably) single guy in his twenties than stay and chat with a stressed single dad and his kid, even if he did single-handedly save Eddie's entire day from becoming even more of a complete disaster.

That doesn't mean he didn't still have those bright blue eyes seared into his mind for the rest of the trip. (Who was he kidding, it was the rest of the day.)

Chapter Text

Buck thought that the old water stain on the ceiling looked like a map of California if you looked at it long enough. If you tilted your head and squinted your eyes just so you could see the edge of the coastline, the angle of California-Nevada border, and you could see right where the curve of the smoke detector interrupted the border with Mexico. When Buck was high (and not coke-high, railed out of his mind that everything was thrown into sharp focus and blinding color, but properly hazy weed-high) he liked to imagine that if he stared long and hard enough at the ceiling that he would see the map start to move. That LA and San Francisco and Oakland would come to life on his ceiling, that the ocean would crash on the shore and pull him in deep until he was surrounded by the calm water.

That dumb water stain was probably the best thing about his apartment (if he could really call it his) and Buck didn't know what that said about him, but he was still stoned enough that he simply let the thought float out of his head with his next exhale.

"Honey, I'm home!" A familiar, slightly nasally tone cut through his hazy mind, the joke having gotten old within the first three days of living with Jeremy.

Buck just gave a grunt of acknowledgement, too busy wondering if he had any weed left from earlier today because he was starting to miss the watery peacefulness the more he looked at the ceiling. The withdrawal had been starting to hit before he smoked his backup stash, his coke from Sandy had run out two days ago, only three days since he had met—

Not going there, Buckley, he chided himself. This was the problem with weed, or at least his problem: it tricked him into dropping his guard until the things he really didn't want to think about were right in the forefront of his mind.

"And I brought goodies," Jeremy continued in a sing-song voice. And that had Buck sitting up with interest. "I have a feeling you're gonna' like this new batch, Buckley. Although...you do look pretty fucked up already." He raised an eyebrow, dark eyes flashing in a way that was a mix of threatening, dangerous, and...hungry.

Buck shook his head empathetically, draping his half-naked frame over Jeremy as the latter sat down on the couch—there weren't many perks to rooming with your drug dealer, but free samples was definitely one of them. "Just coming down from being stoned," he murmured, his lips trailing over the older man's neck. Overlong, stringy, silver-dyed hair got in his mouth before Buck moved it out of the way. "Hotboxed Taylor's bathroom."

He didn't add how she had been pissed off he didn't have any coke on him or how they fucked in the bathroom—him on top for once, her legs practically above her head as she clung to the edge of the bathtub, after he had gone down on her in apology, coming up every so often to take a hit from the blunt she smoked while he ate her out—before she kicked him out as the afterglow set in and he stumbled home high as a kite, somehow managing not to get picked up for public intoxication.

Jeremy's entire body tensed, because he might fuck every poor, desperate, twenty year old pretty boy just coming out of the closet that crossed his doorway looking for a bump and their first homosexual experience, but he was possessive. Buck didn't know how old he was, but definitely over thirty-five, and a lifetime of poverty and drug use meant he had more than a few gold teeth (although mostly in the back) and he was thin to a concerning point, but lithe and deceptively strong. Tattoos covered nearly his entire chest, back, and arms, a barbed wire tatt even wrapping up his throat (a tattoo that Buck was busy lavishing with attention, sucking bruising hickies onto the spikes that covered the thin skin), and greasy hair reached his shoulders, and had been dyed so many times Buck wasn't sure what its original color was.

"Did you fuck her?" Came the expected question, and it was only through years of practice that Buck didn't flinch.

He just merely hummed, his hands coming up to rub Jeremy's sides. His bare chest was sweaty and plastered to the older man's jacket, and the boxers he was wearing were doing little to conceal his hard cock poking into Jeremy's lower back. "What's it matter?" One hand came down, massaging Jeremy's thigh before cupping him through his jeans. "You can't blame me for a little fun. Besides, I know she's only using me for coke." (And the sex, but he wasn't going to tell Jeremy that.)

"And you're doing what exactly?"

It was the standard song and dance they did every time a new supply came in. Jeremy knew Buck fucked around, he didn't hide it at all, hell, Jeremy joined in sometimes—the two of them had even fucked Taylor together before—but he was insecure and paranoid.

"Paying rent," Buck murmured with a biting smile, grinding his erection into the small of Jeremy's back, that base amount of friction pulling a genuine moan out of Buck. Thankfully that seemed to settle the issue since Jeremy didn't turn around and simply started cutting lines on the coffee table.

While he watched, Buck kept up rutting shallowly against the other man's back, his hand deftly undoing a button and zipper, pulling Jeremy's hard dick out one-handed, working his fist over the stiff member roughly. The dealer's breathing was coming in a steady beat of rough exhales and pants as Buck jerked him off, precome slicking the way for his hand enough that it was probably just on the right side of painful, but Jeremy managed to do two lines in quick succession, shaking his head at the rush before sitting back.

Buck slithered off the couch, whining at the loss of friction against his cock. Needing both hands, he took the hand off Jeremy's dick to close one nostril before doing his own line. He vaguely registered the growled complaint from Jeremy and hands groping his ass, but the sensation of the drugs flooding his head and making their way into his bloodstream was too heady to ignore.

That ache in his muscles disappeared almost instantly, but that aching hole in his chest only shrank to a manageable size.

"Ah, fuck," Buck groaned, tipping his head back to rest his temple against Jeremy's thigh.

"Good shit, huh?" The other man groaned, and Buck had to suppress a whimper as he ran his fingers through Buck's sweaty curls.

He couldn't remember when someone had last touched him so gently, and he knew that the gentleness wasn't going to last—it never did with Jeremy, or Taylor, or anyone else he picked up for a night—but he was damn well going to enjoy it while he could. Not to mention that the high that was starting to hit just made every part of his skin vibrate with either a crushing emptiness—the desire, the need, the desperation to be touched—or an overload of sensations.

The scratchy carpet dug into his bare knees in little pinpricks of pain, Jeremy's hands in his hair felt like they were stripping his scalp bare with every touch, the harsh denim against his cheek was the only thing keeping him grounded, and the light fabric of his boxers was almost too much—he could probably come just from the right touch at the right time, it probably didn't even have to be a touch to his cock. There was a serious chance that if a gentle hand just slowly stroked down his arm, he would come in his boxers so hard and so fast it would be like he was fifteen again just discovering what jerking off was.

But the hands in his hair twisted, yanking sharply backwards, shooting bursts of pain through him that mixed too well with the simmering heat in his gut. His cock practically twitched at the sensation of hands roughly dragging him by the hair upwards.

"Don't take much for you anymore, does it?" Jeremy sneered, although it took Buck what felt like a full hour to process the words. "Although, I've got it on good authority that this was cut into something real nice. Your little girlfriend is going to love it."

"Not...my...girlfriend," Buck drew out the words, his eyes glazing over and mouth watering when he saw Jeremy's hard cock still standing tall.

There was something hot about being down to his boxers, on his knees with rough hands in his hair, on a bit of a hair trigger, and Jeremy hadn't even taken his jacket off, the only thing exposed was his red and weeping cock.

"Nah, you like sucking cock too much for that."

The words cut through his high, and Buck felt his breath starting to come faster, and not with anticipation. It just hit too close to home about things that he would rather not think about. Like what he was doing with his life, the kind of choices he was making, the people he was friends with.

(The way he wanted something, in such a nebulous way, and that if he ever tried to put a face to it, only one came to mind and he would never be able to have it. Not even if he was clean...so why bother getting clean?)

How it was five in the afternoon and the only meaningful things he had done today were get stoned, fuck a reporter, and get high.

How he was living out of his drug dealer's apartment and basically trading rent for said drugs.

How every time he went out, and he went out every night, there was at least one other person to go home with, one person who wanted him but only ever just for the night, sometimes not even for more than a couple hours.

How thin the line he was walking truly was and how he refused to acknowledge that he came closer to crossing it every day.

How Maddie—

Nope.

How in a grocery store—

Double nope.

"Come on, baby," Jeremy crooned, but there was a harsh edge to the words and to the sharp tug on Buck's hair that undercut any concern that might be there, "you're not just going to leave me hanging, are you?"

His own arousal had waned considerably—having a mini panic attack-slash-existential crisis will do that to you—but it wasn't really a question.

And it's not like Jeremy was wrong, he thought as he took the dealer's erection all the way down to the base in one go. Because he did like sucking cock. He was good at it too. He knew, the guys whose dicks he sucked knew it too. Fuck, even some girls he slept with thought it was hot that he could deepthroat, who wanted to watch as some stud of a man fucked his mouth until he was gagging and there were tears running down his face.

Jeremy knew it too—knew that no matter how many freshly-minted, eager to please, cokehead or pothead gay guys he fucked, that no one could come close to giving as good head as Buck did.

It's certainly why he's kept Buck around this whole time.

So he just kept his head down (sometimes literally) and tried not to think about how he was sucking and fucking his way through both the city of LA and his twenties. He ignored the ache in his throat, the way he couldn't breathe all too well, and how sometimes he didn't even get hard when he was giving head anymore.

(Which he hated for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which was that he used to find that the hottest part of a blowjob. That he could get so fucking turned on by giving someone else pleasure that he couldn't stop himself from grinding against his own palm or just hump the air or a pillow or the nearest vaguely sturdy surface until hot come filled his mouth that pushed him over the edge.)

It didn't matter, because soon Jeremy was groaning and grunting out his approval and shooting his load down Buck's throat. And Buck simply groaned, his entire body feeling fuzzy and tired, he didn't know if he was still hard anymore, but it wasn't like he wasn't enjoying himself. If he was hard, he would totally be getting off at the salty taste in his mouth and the way Jeremy's hands tugged relentlessly at his hair.

He swallowed every last bit of come, blinking blearily up at Jeremy before slumping to the side. Staring at the still cut white lines on the coffee table, he debated how much effort it was going to take to sit forward and snort.

"Fuck, your mouth is so fucking hot," Jeremy groaned out, not even bothering to put himself away as he leaned forward for another line. "Better than porn."

Buck just snorted at the compliment, deciding that it wasn't too much effort to lean forward and do another bump.

He let the high hit him, every one of his limbs buzzing with energy, his senses seemingly cranked back up to eleven—this is what he craved, why he did all the shitty things that he did, the things that would make people look down their noses at him, and that would make certain people in his past either yell at him with contempt or pity and he didn't know which was worse.

Because when he was high, it was like nothing mattered but the nerves firing under his skin, the paradox of sharpness and numbness that meant every touch was heightened and that turned off whatever was in his brain that made him care so damn much about what other people thought of him. Buck didn't have to be a good person when he was high, in fact, it was like a built-in excuse for being a fucking trainwreck or for having too much sex or for shoplifting some Tylenol because he was starting to come down and long-term withdrawal was something that he knew he would never survive so he had plans to never go through it.

All he had to do was tip his head back with a blissed out grin, not even caring that he hadn't come yet even though he was still half-hard in his boxers. Jeremy patted the side of his face, muttering something unintelligible (more than likely something about how good and fucked out he looked) before standing up.

Something hit his bare stomach, and he looked down to find a Ziploc sandwich size baggie filled with a fine white powder.

With a grin, he looked up at Jeremy. "This the same shit I'm on?"

"Fuckin' idiot," Jeremy shook his head, which probably meant that Buck was right and that the baggie would be all he was going to get for the foreseeable future. That usually meant the coke had to last him until the next batch was ready, but Buck was never one to have very good impulse control.

(What generally happened if he ran out of coke before Jeremy got more was he simply replaced it with one of his other vices, more often than not sex, although sex was usually more enjoyable when the person you're fucking wasn't shaking nonstop and sweaty and pale and about to vomit at any moment.)

But the good thing was that impulse control was a problem for Future Buck. All Present Buck had to do was ride out his high.

Ding.

His phone buzzed with a notification, and Buck fumbled around the couch trying to find it. His pants had been discarded nowhere near the living room, but the sound was close enough that his phone had to be at least kind of close by. After a good five minutes of uselessly pushing at the sofa cushions and furiously shuffling through the pile of mail and magazines on the coffee table, he did managed to find his phone.

Pulling it out from underneath the couch, he grimaced and rubbed his eyes as the notification came into focus.

"Fuck," he muttered. Present Buck apparently also had to worry about having a shift in twenty minutes.

With a groan, he pulled himself up off the floor and headed towards his room to find actual clothes to wear. It didn't take very long for him to get ready—he had one pair of "nice" dark jeans that didn't have any rips, holes, or look like they were painted on him; and despite anything else that could happen at Hannigan's, there was still a uniform (AKA a black t-shirt with the logo of the bar at the back). A shirt that had gotten him laid multiple times after he'd gotten many compliments on how good his arms looked.

He hid the coke in his underwear drawer, desperately wishing he could bring it with him—paranoia and his own desire made him want to keep the baggie on him at all times—but even strung out he knew that if he showed up with drugs, he would absolutely be fired. And there were already very few places that would take on someone like him, he wasn't about to tempt fate by getting fired from a job that did hire a runaway-slash-vagabond (and he might be technically homeless) with a coke (and drinking and sex) habit.

Even though it took him barely any time to get changed, the bar was at least a fifteen minute walk from the apartment, so he was already going to be late. On his way out the door, he grabbed his wallet (despite it being nearly empty) and pocketed his keys (even though they never looked their door and he knew better than to drive fucked up), waving sarcastically to Jeremy.

The air in LA never really became humid like it did back in Penn—back east—and Buck had lived in a lot of different climates over the years, and he had to say that California's pleasant dry heat was by far the best. Most of the time. Right now, it was well into August and while that meant sweltering temperatures during the day, you would hope it would cool down after dark (and it usually did), but right now it still felt like it was over ninety and he could already feel the sweat dripping down his forehead.

Hopefully that just added to his appeal.

He made his way into the back of Hannigan's, ignoring the dirty looks from Cynthia, another bartender, who was out on her smoke break. Punching in quickly, he kept his shoulders hunched and his head down as if that would make him able to skate by unnoticed so that everyone thought he wasn't nearly ten minutes late.

"Guess who finally decided to show up," Adam, the manager, snarked. Buck didn't know why he thought that was going to work. He was six two and despite the, you know everything about his life, he wasn't scrawny or wasting away. Of course he wasn't going to be able to hide.

"You know how LA traffic is, man," Buck grinned, his tone and posture projecting nonchalance. Normally, he figured that being ten minutes late wouldn't be the worst thing you could do (Buck probably did a lot worse on shift than be late) but he figured once you were late four shifts in a row, it was probably going to be a problem.

Not that he was ever going to let Adam know that he knew it was an issue or bring his attention to the matter any more than necessary.

"Bullshit, Buckley, you live five blocks away," came the retort, although most of the heat had faded from the other man's voice.

"Yeah, but there was a group of chicks in yoga pants ahead of me," he lied with another flash of teeth and devilish charm. Adam might try to throw his weight around, but he was really just as bad as any other bartenders at the hole in the wall bar. He drank on the job, he fucked on the job, skimmed money from tips, the whole nine yards. But no one came to a skeevy place like Hannigan's for quality anything, and no one ended up at Hannigan's if they had better options.

Buck never would have ended up there if he had the choice, but he plastered on his best customer service smile and went to work anyways.

The shift was a rough one—Friday night customers getting drunk and yelling about the baseball game on the TV, beer flying through the air; the music was some awful country station that Buck had truly no idea how it ended up on rotation, but it was giving him a headache; there was a non-stop flow of people at the bar itself, and he was groped at least half a dozen times by tipsy sorority girls quote-unquote "looking for something exciting" and had apparently decided to try a shady bar like Hannigan's.

The good thing was that it was all hands on deck behind the bar, so that meant shots for all the staff nearly every hour, which quickly became shots every time someone did something stupid and/or shitty, which turned into shots whenever. So after a good hour and a half, Buck was positively plastered and he probably would've gone home with the hot blonde who had been not-so-subtly eye-fucking him for the past twenty minutes if not for the fact that he could barely stand on his own two feet. He was at least self-aware enough that he probably wasn't in the right place to have sex right now.

(That's not true. He had tried to chat her up the second his shift was over, but he couldn't make it two steps without tripping over himself and feeling like he was about to throw up. She had taken one look at him, turned her nose up, and left.)

(Probably a good call on her part.)

Buck stumbled back into the apartment, dead on his feet from exhaustion and probably one or two (or eight or ten) too many drinks in his system throwing his balance completely off. None of the lights were turned on, making the entire main living room look entirely too creepy, and he had to navigate based on memory alone.

It went about as well as you would expect. He stubbed his toe at least three times, ran into a wall, smacked his head on his own room's doorframe because he forgot that he had to duck under his pull-up bar (which he had found in the dumpster behind the apartment complex and stolen), and practically missed his bed, bouncing off onto the floor.

He laid there, groaning, sore, and probably bruising and strung out and drunk and horny and it was just all too much.

Tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes, and he pressed his fists into his eye sockets as if that would help somehow. Plus, it's not like anyone would see him cry anyways—it was a Friday night which meant there was no way Jeremy was getting back until six in the morning at the earliest, and none of the other guys who sometimes crashed on the couch would be aware enough to even think to check on him.

The only people who maybe, maybe, would hear him if he broke down would be the couple who lived in the apartment next door. He knew their bedroom was right on the other side of the his wall because he'd hear the two of them fucking at random times, usually when he was trying to get four hours of sleep.

As if they heard his thoughts, voices started coming through the paper-thin walls, but it wasn't the usual cringey dirty talk the couple seemed to pull directly from porn when they fucked, and it was full-on shouting and arguments and accusations.

"Fuck you, Jerry! You wouldn't know a clit if it had a neon sign pointing directly at it!"

"Well your sister was better at riding my dick than you ever were. I'll have you know she gave me a BJ before our wedding. Yeah, that's right, she came over to the bachelor party and gave all us boys a striptease and said I was giving it up for the wrong sister!"

The harsh crack of a slap seemed to echo even through the walls, and Buck couldn't help but flinch. His breath sped up, his heart feeling like it was going to leap out of his chest.

It felt like the ground was spinning and he knew he should probably try and get vertical or at least turn onto his side so he didn't choke on his own puke, but something about the raised voices, the slap, the dark quiet lonely emptiness of his room...everything about the moment seemed determined to keep him trapped in the past, in fear.

(Voices were never raised in the Buckley household, in fact, words were barely spoken by the Buckley parents until Evan was standing there with a skinned knee or a broken arm or a black eye and suddenly the yelling started.)

"No," he hissed at himself, forcing the memories of Pennsylvania and everything he had left behind, everything he had abandoned, back into the one corner of his mind that he kept ferociously locked shut at all times.

But as the yelling from the next room turned into the unmistakable sounds of sex, Buck's mind could not seem to get on board. All the shit he kept locked away wanted out and he didn't know how to stop it from happening.

Twisting his eyes shut, he had an idea of how to at least redirect his thoughts, and so Buck finally let himself think of a bright smile and cute curls. Of deep soulful beautiful gorgeous brown eyes and a quiet but firm voice.

Standing in that grocery store, he had felt like an imposter—like everyone was looking at him and wondering what kind of person he was, how he was just going to dirty and corrupt kids by being near them. That Christopher's father would come and see his dilated pupils and know instantly that he was high, that he would ask why he was even talking to Christopher in the first place.

Because Christopher hadn't seen a drug addict still high on sex and coke and booze. He had taken his hand and asked for his help, believing so naively that Buck would be able to give that.

And then Eddie had come, and Buck's throat had jumped in his chest, but the other man had just thanked him, sincere gratitude in his eyes, and Buck was drawn in.

He craved that look in their eyes that he would never be able to deserve—to be looked at with affection and faith and gratitude; to be looked to for help in a crisis; to be so fucking seen he thought he might have been invisible for the whole rest of his life—and he knew then that he was selfish and greedy and needy enough to take those looks and watch them turn into disaffection and indifference.

So he had run while neither of them were looking, the ibuprofen burning a hole through his pocket because he hadn't meant to steal, truly, but he couldn't stand one more minute in that store.

And it was hard to get them out of his mind for the next few days. He woke up from dreams of dates in the park and a life he would never be able to have (never mind how creepy it was that he was inserting himself into this family unit that surely had no room for him there).

Sometimes it was easier to just picture those muscled arms clad in a too-tight Henley holding him down or against a wall, while he fucked his fist until he came with Eddie's name on his lips.

Because Buck would only let himself have Eddie and Chris in moments like this—when he sat in his shitty room in his shitty apartment thinking about his shitty life and it felt like the only bright spots were the two strangers he had met in a grocery store a week ago.

That was when he gave himself permission to think about how they cracked open a part of his heart he thought Maddie had taken with her and how that crack would soon turn into a bleeding, open wound that would never heal.

He gave himself those small moments—always in the dead of night or the early hours of the morning—before he shoved Eddie and Chris and everything else that might have escaped that fucking corner of his head back where it belonged and locked that shit down. Permanently.

(Not matter how hard he tried, it was never permanent.)

Chapter Text

Eddie didn't know if being a firefighter in LA was the same as being one in Texas or Chicago, hopefully the sheer number of ridiculous calls he would get sent out to would be fewer, but he wasn't hopeful. There were people who would do dumb shit that would get themselves hurt or into frankly absurd situations anywhere in the country.

But since moving to LA, he was shocked by the number of truly ludicrous bordering on actual stupidity calls he saw. (Not to say that there weren't actual emergencies—his first week with the 118 there was a mudslide that carved huge swaths out of the cliffsides of the county and he spent all day up to his waist in thick mud on the side of the Hollywood hills rescuing hikers.)

"Do you young people not know how to read the instructions on a microwavable dinner?" Chimney asked, snapping his gum as they all jumped down from the truck. "Did no one teach you not to put plastic or metal in there?"

"Don't ask me," Bobby sighed, still bristling from the impromptu fire safety lecture he had to give to a group of stoned college students that they had to actually take the plastic off the TV dinner and couldn't just stick a fork in the top for "the food to breathe" and then forget to take it out before they turned the microwave on.

Eddie grinned at the familiar banter—it had been a relatively calm shift, a few minor medical calls and one incident where a car hydroplaned and skidded into a ditch with the driver unharmed but stuck—and everyone was in relatively high spirits. It was past the halfway point of a twenty-four hour shift (hour sixteen to be exact), which was good because they were over halfway done and no one was overly exhausted yet, but bad because it was almost midnight on a Friday night, so that meant the calls were probably going to be ramping up if history proved correct.

(Also, Chimney was talking about how it was a full moon and all the craziest calls happened on a full moon, but Eddie wasn't quite sure he believed in all that.)

The team settled into the loft, Hen and Chim starting up the gaming console, probably planning on finishing whatever competition they had started before the alarm had rung, and Bobby ducked into the kitchen, saying how he was going to reheat some leftovers for a midnight snack.

It had been a little over a year since he joined the 118, probably just over a year since he moved to LA, and Eddie hadn't been expecting to make many friends, especially not at work. He was a young single dad with a demanding job, so it wasn't like he had a lot of free time anyway—but even if he did, people his own age probably just wanted to go out and get drunk (which he couldn't do with a kid at home nor did he really have the desire to), and then the other parents at Christopher's school already had their cliques and Chris was old enough that for playdates, it wasn't like the parents needed to stick around. But his crew at the 118 had taken one look at him on his first day and had been nothing but welcoming and understanding.

Hen and Bobby offered up playdates with Denny and Harry for Chris, the three of them trading off houses to meet at and then de-stressing from the job sometimes.

Chimney was always good for a laugh and made sure Eddie never took himself too seriously, inviting him out to karaoke nights with him and his girlfriend (Ana was included once he started dating her, but she always declined politely if a little coldly).

And the whole Grant-Nash clan—which Eddie had quickly learned included Athena, a police sergeant; Michael, the architect; and David, a surgeon; in addition to a fire captain (those kids were lucky to have so many parents who cared for and looked out for them, but those expectations could not be low)—invited the whole shift over for barbeques at least once every couple of weeks.

In El Paso, he had felt isolated despite being surrounded by people who were supposed to have his best interests at heart, who were his blood relatives but could only see how much he was screwing up his kid. But in LA, he had expected Abuela's support and Pepa's dedication and Shannon's...well, Shannon would be around for Chris, but he hadn't expected that he would find...all of this.

"How's Ana?" Bobby asked, setting a plate of lasagna in front of Eddie that looked just as good reheated as it did when it was first out of the oven. "Everything going well between you two?"

"Yeah," Eddie replied almost automatically. "What makes you ask that?"

Not that Bobby was invested in his team's mental and emotional well-being on top of their physical capability to do the job, but he knew that Eddie was...closed off would probably be the best term to use. His friends were his crewmates and they worked together, but there was always that divide in his mind. Work was work, personal was personal.

"You were practically staring a hole through the TV screen," Bobby explained. "I know Chim isn't the best at the games, but it was a little severe."

Eddie huffed out a laugh as Chim sputtered half-formed indignations as he ran off the track in whatever racing game he and Hen were playing.

"Ana wants to have dinner with Shannon," Eddie sighed, a little surprised in himself that he had caved so quickly. "And Chris, obviously, but...she says that if we're...getting serious then she should see how she fits in-in our lives."

Bobby hummed thoughtfully, looking down at his hands. Eddie knew that Bobby had been through something of a similar thing when he and Athena started dating, having to meet Michael and figure out how he fit into their pre-existing family unit. But even though he hadn't been around for when they got together, he would have assumed they would have been seeing each other for longer than a handful of months. Right?

"Meeting the child of a single parent is an important hurdle in any relationship where it applies, and it's a challenge you're always going to have," Bobby started, his tone carefully neutral and supportive like it always was. "And Shannon is always going to play a role in your life because of Christopher, it probably wouldn't hurt to see how they get along. If you are serious about Ana...look at it this way, they're probably going to meet at some point, why not get it over with? What's the absolute worst that could happen?"

Eddie raised his eyebrows—Cap might be cautiously optimistic, but Eddie was a realist. "Don't let Chim and Hen hear you say that, they'll think you just jinxed me."

"I'm serious, Eddie," Bobby continued firmly. "Now, it might not go perfectly or even at all how you want it to go at the start, but once that initial meeting is over with...maybe you'll find there wasn't that much to be worried about in the first place."

He nodded, not really knowing what to say—Shannon and Ana were two women he cared about but he had a feeling that if he put Shannon's stubbornness against Ana's (mild) pretentiousness, the combination of passive-aggressive tendencies would make for one very awkward dinner. And that wasn't even counting the fact that he had only met Ana six months ago, they started dating nearly a month after they met, and that she was still Christopher's teacher.

He didn't know yet how serious his relationship was with Ana, and he didn't know how serious he wanted it to be. It was easy to be with her, nice even, she was everything he had ben looking for in a partner since Shannon had left him. (Well, since he finally gave himself permission to move on and accept that while he loved Shannon, he wasn't in love with her and that their friendship still had the chance to work if they stopped trying to force the perfect nuclear family unit.)

But there was no...spark. Any initial chemistry when they had first met at Parents' Night seemed to have dissipated, or at least cooled, since they got together.

(But that had to be because he wasn't trying hard enough. Even though he and Shannon had been hot from the start, physical chemistry was never part of their issues, that didn't mean that all of his relationships were going to be like that. He had to try harder with Ana.)

(Blue eyes and a cocky smile and a stubbled jawline filled his mind and he had to shove those thoughts aside.)

(He had a girlfriend who liked him and was good with Chris, it didn't matter if Eddie's sex drive had decided to stall out whenever he was with Ana, despite the fact he had come twice in his sleep in the past two weeks to dreams of what could be under tight skinny jeans and a stretched out white t-shirt.)

Thankfully, he was saved from answering Bobby, or from thinking about his own inner turmoil for much longer, because the alarm went off and then it was back to work.

The crew leapt into action, moving in tandem as they all pulled on their turnout gear and climbed on board the engine.

Eddie settled into his usual seat by the window, feeling the beginnings of adrenaline start to pump through his veins. He wasn't an adrenaline junkie by any means, but he knew that some might join the department for the glory and thrill of it all. For him, it was a way to use the skills he'd learned from the army stateside, in a job that provided well for his son, and that would allow him to help people.

"There was a small fire at a Beverly Hills mansion," Cap started the rundown as they sped towards the Hills. "Caller thought it was a bonfire at a house party that got out of hand. Dispatch said that because it's a party, they couldn't get a good estimate of who might still be on the premises. The fire seems to have mainly affected the pool house and there's no one left in that building. So, we just need to contain and eliminate the fire and triage anyone who might have gotten hurt."

"At a house party in the Hills there could be anything," Hen supplied, her brow scrunched up behind her glasses.

"So be prepared for anything," Bobby replied, not unkindly.

"There's probably going to be lots of drugs and alcohol on the premises," Eddie added, realizing where Hen was going. "Additional accelerants if the fire gets out of control," he tacked on in an attempt at subtlety. Never his strongest suit on the best day.

Three weeks into the job, Bobby had sat everyone down and told them the story of how he first made his way to California, about the tragedy that befell his first family in St. Paul and how he had been sober for years but that he wasn't perfect. That if anyone in the stations was struggling with anything, his door was always open with an understanding ear.

Bobby must have heard the implication in Eddie's tone—it wasn't that he didn't think this call could trigger a relapse, it was just hard to know how intoxicated some of the people were going to be and accidents could happen—but he didn't respond past a curt, "I'm fine."

That was good enough for Eddie, he trusted the Cap implicitly and he knew the rest of the crew felt the same. And as the engine pulled up to the gigantic house that probably cost more money than Eddie would see in a lifetime, he could focus back on the task at hand.

The lawn that looked more like the size of a regulation soccer field was trampled and littered with empty beer bottles, red solo cups, the stubbed out ends of cigarettes and blunts, and there were dozens of people milling around. Most seemed like they were still drunk and didn't know that the fire department had been called, never mind why.

One girl even whooped and yelled that the strippers were here, as she tried to grab onto Eddie's arm and pull him towards her and her friends. He just sidestepped with a tight smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

"Sorry, I'm definitely not what you're looking for," he muttered, shooting looks at Hen and Chim who were snickering to themselves.

This was certainly one of the most chaotic scenes Eddie had ever been on, and he couldn't help but think that they needed more help here than just their small crew. (Ever since Marwani had transferred down to Austin they'd been a man down.)

The fire was easy enough to locate based just on the commotion coming from the backyard, and it looked like there had been a massive bonfire in the middle of the yard but since there was no proper fire pit, sparks must have caught on some of the lawn furniture and the siding of the pool house. A structure that was at least two stories high and probably cost more than Eddie made in a year and five times the size of his small condo on South Bedford.

"Everyone, we need to clear this area!" Bobby shouted at the partygoers still in the backyard—some clearly oblivious to the commotion, others just standing around with their phones and staring. "Hen, start triaging on the front lawn. Chim, get everyone out of here and help Hen with triage. Eddie, you and I are on the hose."

The team scrambled to their assignments, and although a good amount of the crowd tried to stay behind, Chim was able to shuttle them away. But a few did try and sneak around to video them putting out the fire from a distance that had Bobby giving them death glares and the patented Intro to Fire Safety look.

It took barely ten minutes to put the fire out, but Hen and Chim had reported back and said that there were a lot more wounded than they had accounted for. According to Hen, there had been a mini-stampede when the fire had started and while most injuries were yellow-tags at worst, there was enough that they needed all hands to help with triage. Chim had also mentioned that a couple people were exhibiting symptoms of excessive narcotic use, but until anyone asked for help or their condition worsened, their hands were effectively tied.

Eddie spent the next hour triaging partygoers—bandaging sprained ankles, setting a broken wrist, disinfecting minor lacerations, handing out ice packs to those with bruises and water bottles to those who looked like they'd had too much to drink (which was almost everyone he'd come across)—and it was the most amount of time he'd spent at a party since he was in high school.

At one point, he even stripped off his turnout coat to give to a girl who couldn't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet (which she was) who had fallen into the pool and was shivering violently and looking like she was going into shock.

"You look strong," a sharp voice pulled his attention.

"Sorry, what?" Eddie asked, genuinely baffled by the declaration. The words had come from a moderately tall redhead in a black dress that left little to the imagination and a lot of body glitter exposed. She didn't look injured, but she was staring at Eddie like he was an idiot with her arms crossed under her chest.

"My friend managed to lock himself in a bathroom and you look strong enough to break the door down."

Yeah, that barely explained anything.

"Is your friend hurt?" He asked, focusing on dressing the head wound on a twenty-seven year old frat pledge in front of him with a watch that cost more than Eddie's car.

(Fuck, to be young and idiotic again.)

"I don't know, that's why I need you," she huffed, and Eddie got the feeling this was someone that wasn't used to not getting her way.

Now, to be fair, this was certainly the sort of thing that the fire department was here for, but in situations with multiple or massive amounts of injuries, if the individual wasn't injured or in immediate danger, or unconscious, the priority was low. And to be even more fair, he did want to help, so he looked to Cap as a silent question.

"Go ahead," Bobby nodded, taking over the frat guy's care. "We can handle everything here, take the ram from the truck."

With a nod of his own, Eddie stood up, grabbed the necessary equipment and a medkit from the engine, and followed the redhead back into the house. Well, mansion. Semantics.

Despite the generally trashed nature of the house—it looked like every eighties teen movie cliché at once, even though he doubted any teenagers were actually in attendance, although if any were, he wanted to tell them it was way past their bedtime and to think about their decisions (consequences of being a dad he was learning)—the place still looked impressive, all high ceilings and crystal chandeliers and wood-paneled walls.

"What's your name?" Eddie asked the young woman in front of him—she looked vaguely familiar, but he didn't know from what or where.

"Taylor," the redhead supplied crisply, and although she wobbled a bit in her heels, her voice was surprisingly clear. "And you are?"

"Eddie," he replied, the two exchanging stiff "nice to meet you's" as Taylor led him up the grand staircase to the second floor.

She snorted all of a sudden, however, and he threw her a confused look. That was not the reaction he had been expecting.

"What is it?"

Taylor waved a hand dismissively, but there was a look in her eye that looked like she was flaying him alive and trying to figure out if he had a criminal record all at once. It was way too calculating, and he immediately didn't trust it. Or her. Semantics.

"Nothing," she rolled her eyes, "just, I seem to be hearing that name a lot lately. My friend, Buck, just met this guy named Eddie and now will not shut up about him."

Eddie just about choked on air the second she said the word "Buck," and then was immediately followed by his entire body flushing with heated embarrassment. Buck talked about him? Why the fuck would Buck think about him anymore after he left his immediate eyeline? Eddie knew that he thought about Buck (at night, in the shower, his hand on his cock guiltily) but that was because not only had Buck done something incredibly meaningful for Eddie, but he also managed to press buttons in him that he had hoped had stopped working or gotten lost.

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer)

It was probably just another Saturday for Buck, an interaction that lasted maybe five minutes in total with two complete strangers.

"B-Buck?" He managed to cough out. Normally, Eddie thought himself fairly cool under pressure, but apparently the thought of the man from the grocery store sent him back to being a teenager. "Your friend's name is Buck?"

Taylor looked at him sideways, her wide pupils shrewd but astute, almost like she was dissecting his very brain. "Yeah. Is there a problem with that?"

He shook his head, calming his racing heart. Who knows, it was probably just a crazy coincidence. Buck could be a common name, right? "No, just...I've been hearing that name a lot lately too."

She turned into a large bedroom, the two of them picking their way over clothes and bottles and shoes strewn all over the room. He heard her mutter something under her breath, but it sounded like "ugh, men, so fucking moronic sometimes" so he wasn't about to ask for clarification.

"They're right in there," Taylor gestured to the door to what was likely an ensuite bathroom. Nothing looked wrong from first glance, so Eddie figured it was probably just a lock that had failed or gotten stuck.

"Everything alright in there?" Eddie knocked sharply on the door, voice steady. He rally hoped it was not Grocery Store Buck and was actually some completely other Buck because he counted pants and tops for at least two people and a bra laying over a lampshade, so whoever was in the bathroom was more than likely in a state of undress and Eddie would like to keep his reputations as not a creep who checked out victims at a scene.

"Yeah, we're all good, just...can't manage to get the door open." And Eddie knew that voice—fuck, his luck was really going down the gutter lately.

"Stand back as far as you can," Eddie called back, making sure nothing in his face or voice gave away that he recognized the other man's voice. "I'm just going to have to use the battering ram."

"The what?" A female voice asked quietly, probably more for the mysterious Buck than anyone else.

After gesturing for Taylor to stand back as well, Eddie quickly busted the door open, and it swung inward to reveal Grocery Store Buck (yep, there was definitely that birthmark on his temple) and a red-haired woman standing there looking understandably confused and a little annoyed. Also, they were practically naked, and the miles of pale skin and tattoos on display made Eddie's mouth dry up.

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer)

The redhead woman threw Buck a strange look, marching right past Eddie into the room, seemingly uncaring that she was clad in only a pair of underpants (although, out of the corner of his eye, he did notice Taylor give her a once over as she bent down to retrieve her clothes), a snake tattoo climbing up her side to her neck.

On the other hand, Buck looked frozen, but as Eddie watched, that same smug, crooked grin spread over his lips and he leaned back against the sink, abs and muscles flexing enticingly—no, there's nothing to watch here, focus Diaz—and Eddie felt his eyes shoot to the strange-looking tattoo on his side that sat just above the V-cut that he looked at out of...curiosity because how could someone get a body like that? That's all it was.

"Fancy seeing you again," Buck grinned—was that...eyeliner that made his eyes look like that?—and looked more at home in dark blue boxer briefs than Eddie had ever felt in anything (maybe his firefighter's uniform on a good day could feel like a second skin, but definitely not right now).

Before he could even respond, the redhead (not Taylor), reminded everyone of her presence. "Well, this is weird," she sneered, her lip curling. "It was fun Buckley, but you don't need to call me again."

At that, Buck blushed with a nod, that cockiness gone, replaced with a tight expression that quickly smoothed out but there was still a crease in between his brows. "Yeah, i-it was a good time, Jess."

When the other woman—Jess it seems like, Eddie tried not to think too harshly about her—had disappeared around the corner, Taylor turned to Buck, an impressed look on her face.

"Really, Buckley?" She asked with a roll of her eyes. "Snake Girl?"

"What?" He shot back, finally exiting the bathroom, snatching his shirt from Taylor who had been holding it out, sending a wink and blowing a kiss in her direction. "She was hot, wanted me, I said yes. If I knew you wanted in, I would've asked her."

Eddie thought his eyes were going to bug out of his head—this was definitely not a conversation he needed to be here for. (There was also a small part of his heart that clenched tightly, painfully, in his chest because this just sealed the deal, didn't it? Buck might have flirted with him at the grocery store, and that was a big 'might' but that must just be who he is. And it clearly wasn't like he was wanting for partners, so why would Eddie get his hopes up?)

(Why would I be getting my hopes up, anyways? He argued with himself. You're not attracted to him. He's an aesthetically, objectively, attractive man, that's all. You're straight.)

"Are you okay?" He asked, wanting to run through the triage questions so he could get the fuck out of here and put the entire encounter behind him. "Are you injured or in pain anywhere?"

"No, I'm all good," Buck grinned broadly, that cockiness back in his eyes. "Although you're welcome to check if you like." He spread his arms and looked pointedly down, and Eddie couldn't help but follow his gaze to the crotch of his pants, which looked suspiciously more filled out than it had been before. Not that he was looking or anything.

Taylor made a noise that sounded like a cough but was probably just a laugh at how red Eddie was turning.

"I should get back outside," Eddie pointed towards the door. "As long as no one's injured, I'm, uh...going to be heading back downstairs. You should follow to get looked at by a paramedic just in case. An-and go to the hospital if you start feeling dizzy, nausea, any symptoms of a concussion."

Buck looked like he wanted to say something more, but Taylor cut him off. "Thanks for your help, Eddie," she stressed his name for some reason, "we'll be right behind you. Buck and I just need to chat for a moment."

With a nod, sending a cursory glance back into the bathroom, he paused, his brow furrowing when he saw something on the countertop, but he nodded, wondering if he could be mistaken, and left.

It wasn't very long after he joined back up with the rest of the 118 that they were heading out, those in need of more advanced medical care already en route to the hospital, and Bobby said that Athena was on her way out to check up on a noise complaint the neighbors had called in for the party. But throughout the rest of the ride back to the station, the rest of the shift even, Eddie was slightly distracted. Because in the back of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about Buck's blown pupils, his muscles, and his hair starting to curl with (post coital—stop it Diaz) sweat...and the white lines on that bathroom countertop.

Chapter Text

"Wow," Taylor sighed, that sarcastic and caustic edge in her voice. "You really blew that. And not in the fun way."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut, wishing there was something, anything he could do to forget the last three minutes of his life (and he remembered the leftover coke in the bathroom and realized that he could). If there was some way that Eddie wasn't out of his league before, him showing up like the cover of a sexy firefighter calendar, all broad shoulders in a tight t-shirt with the LAFD logo, suspenders and firefighter-looking pants, hair messy and sweaty like he'd just gotten laid definitely meant he was. And then he blushed when Buck caught him checking him out because Buck was an idiot who managed to get stuck in a bathroom after having shower sex and had to have his fuck buddy bail him out with help from his unrequited crush.

(He could say it was a crush, right? Or did that make it weirder when Buck got himself off practically every night to thoughts of said crush on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, of riding said crush's cock?)

(Did it make it creepier when he thought of a distant future where maybe said crush just touched him softly for once, of holding hands and gentle kisses, and that sometimes that made him ache more than the dirty thoughts and fantasies?)

"What do you even mean?" Buck lied, bending down to do another line off the bathroom counter.

After Eddie had made his strategic exit that looked a whole lot like fleeing the scene—he actively wasn't thinking about if Eddie had seen the coke, what that would make him think about Buck if he did, probably make him rethink their entire first interaction, and if firefighters were obligated to tell police if they saw illegal activity...like drug use, for example, on the job—he hadn't bothered to put on the shirt Taylor had handed him. He saw the look in her eye when she saw Jesse, the one that meant she was turned on and wanted to get high and fuck. She didn't really care who, but it was usually Buck she fell into bed with since he was generally in the vicinity to the drugs she wanted.

"I think it went pretty great. Got laid, got checked out by a hot firefighter who just provided enough material to jerk off to for the foreseeable future."

"You're an idiot, but at least you're pretty," Taylor scoffed, leaning down next to him to do a line. She sighed as the coke hit her system, her mouth going slack, and she threw her arms around Buck to keep her steady.

"Knew you kept me around for something, Tay," he grinned, her body a line of white-hot fire along his side.

She just scoffed again, her breath hitting his ear, and she started kissing a line from behind his ear down to his neck. He felt his body reacting to Taylor—they had good physical chemistry after all, they'd always been good at sex, it was just (no, Buck told himself whenever he felt his thoughts go down that path, don't hope for anything else and you won't be disappointed)—his cock was filling out, because he was already half-hard from Eddie's eyes trailing like a physical weight up his body, and he knew before she asked when his answer was going to be.

"Good to go?" She murmured, one of her hands trailing down his arm, nails digging into his skin as she skirted past his abs to grip him over his boxer briefs tightly.

He grabbed her ass, slipping a hand underneath her short dress, hoisting her up and turning so that she was pinned against one of the shower walls. Taylor gasped at the sudden movement, her hips pushing against his abdomen, trying to find friction as he pulled her thong out from underneath her dress in a swift move. (Thankfully, he didn't rip it this time, she had reamed him out for that the last time he'd accidentally ruined her underwear.)

Her hands started rubbing him over his boxers, and the simmering heat of arousal shot through him, she pulled grunts and groans from him as he panted into her neck. The small bathroom was filled with her high cries as she rutted against his stomach, and it didn't take long before she was snapping at him to get a condom and "fuck me already."

Thankfully, the box of condoms he and Jesse had found underneath the vanity still had a few left so he grabbed one, tearing it with his teeth, and had the condom in place and was sliding into Taylor in less than half a minute. They let out twin moans at the sensation, Buck not hesitating to start thrusting in and out of her immediately, just on the side of rough that he knew Taylor liked.

Hands clawed at his hair, and he winced a bit at the pain, but that quickly faded to pleasure, the smell of sex starting to permeate the air and the sounds of skin on skin echoed in the shower.

"Ugh...more...harder," Taylor growled, punctuating the statement with another yank of his hair, and Buck just curled his upper lip back from his teeth in what he hoped was a sexy smirk and not a grimace, picking up the pace even more.

It had to be painful for Taylor's back to keep getting banged into the tile wall with the force of his thrusts, but her moans just kept increasing in volume and frequency, her eyes closed and her head tipped backwards. Her breasts were barely contained by the low cut of her dress, the creamy skin flushed red with arousal and so Buck just leaned in, lavishing the skin with kisses and bites, hoping that maybe if the marks of him were still there in the morning, she would remember and come back...for sex, not anything else.

Neither of them wanted anything else, as she was fond of reminding him.

"Fuck, I'm so close," she moaned, her breath coming in high pants and sounded like it was being punched out of her in time with his movements.

He nodded, shifting his grip so that he was supporting her weight with one hand underneath her ass, wondering if she was going to have bruises shaped like his fingers there tomorrow, because he was certainly going to have scrapes from her nails tearing up his back. She huffed out a complaint at the movement since it slowed his thrusts down a little bit, but she cried out when the pad of his thumb started rubbing in rough circles over her clit.

With a wordless cry, Taylor's walls clamped down on his dick as she came and he wasn't far behind, muffling his groan in her chest. Although when Taylor came, she flung a hand to the side, hitting the knob for the shower and ice-cold water shot out from the showerhead, dousing the two of them. It would have been a real vibe-killer if they both hadn't come at nearly the same time.

"God, fuck! Turn it off, Buck!" Taylor spluttered, practically shoving him backwards by planting both hands on his chest and trying to scramble out from underneath the spray.

"Sorry, I got it," he muttered, not even bothering to pull his boxers up from where they were resting at his thighs and turned the handle back to 'Off' as quickly as it had been turned on.

He was still trying to catch his breath, a pleasant ache settling in his bones, in the meat of his thighs and legs from pinning her against the wall, in his arms from holding Taylor up and supporting all her weight (not that there was a lot of it), but Taylor was already shimmying back into her panties.

"See, now that was the fun kind," Taylor smirked, not even touching him as she bent down for another bump.

His eyes were drawn to her ass because he was human and still in the afterglow of quick, but great, sex. His brain must be a little scrambled at the moment, because he thought he was missing something 'cause that seemed like the response to something she'd said earlier but he had no idea what.

"Right..." he drew out, still breathing heavily. "Hey, do you want to get drinks back at yours? Maybe go another round?"

"Sorry," Taylor shook her head, "I've got an early day tomorrow. Besides, kind of wanted some tongue and pussy action before the night's over."

"Yeah, totally," Buck replied, trying not to feel the familiar clench in his chest. "I'll see you..."

"Have fun mooning over your hot firefighter. I'll text you," she threw over her shoulder and then she was gone."

Right. Eddie. More specifically, looking like a complete fool in front of Eddie. No, not a fool, just some sex-crazed party boy in front of the one person who hadn't known about that side of himself.

This is why it would never work with someone like Eddie. Never mind the fact that either he was lying about not being into Buck, or just really deep in the closet, there was no way Eddie—respectable, kind, firefighting, good dad Eddie—would be into the guy who got drunk and coked up and fucked three different people at the same party, two not even thirty minutes apart.

And then, what that was all said and done, was left with leftover lines of coke and went back to his cold apartment. Alone.

Two days later, Buck was still replaying the entire disastrous interaction over and over in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. How in the span of two hours he had sex with one woman, got locked in a bathroom half-naked with her, and then had sex with Taylor Kelly, Channel 8 News.

He wanted it to be noted that in the two times he had sex with two different people in the span of that time, neither instance involved getting fucked by the one man who he wanted. And he wanted.

(God did he want.)

And part of him had given up on keeping Eddie in that box in the darkest, least traveled corners of his mind because the ache that came when he thought about Eddie was worth it to feels something, anything. Because he's dealt with unrequited love before, going all the way back to Trevor Jones in the ninth grade who called him a fag when he asked his best friend to homecoming.

(He ended up going with Betsy Collins who was two years older and had a bit of a reputation, but she climbed on top of him in the backseat of her car, her hands were soft and nice, and he'd been chasing that touch for years.)

He learned that liking boys was something better kept secret, for back alley handjobs and getting fucked by the captain of his football team in the empty equipment closet after practice, but that ended with a tight grasp on his hair and threats to never speak about what they did. It wasn't until he left Hershey that he learned that embracing that roughness—that looking for those men who would leave bruises and call him a slut or a whore or whatever was easier than hoping for better and being surprised when things didn't work out that way.

And when it came to women, he'd found that whatever bullshit TV or books spewed about girls being "pure" and shy about sex was just that: horseshit. Because he'd had more women openly proposition him on the street than men, and some of those women didn't even wait to find four walls and a roof to fuck within. He knew that asking for dates and romance when women weren't just set off all the red flag that he was clingy and to run while they had the chance.

He'd ruined the beginnings of countless friendships by adding sex into the mix. Hell, even him and Taylor started as just fucking, and even though she was the closest thing he had to an actual friend, they don't do any "friend" things, or if they do, it just is some pointless contrivance before they fuck.

So knowing that, if by some miracle, he came across Eddie again, or in whatever fantasy world he was deluding himself with, Buck just knew he would fuck it up like he did everything else. Because Eddie wasn't interested in sex with Buck and sex was pretty much the only thing Buck was good for.

And he felt pathetic, because he was at a club with Taylor, one of those clubs where people were pretty much openly fucking in dark corners and the dance floor was one giant mass of writhing flesh, and he should be thriving. This is what he was all about, this is who he was—the party boy, the overgrown frat guy, sex and drugs and rock and roll and all that. But he was sitting at the bar, three shots and four lines of coke deep and he didn't feel anything.

(There was a part of him that liked the numbness. That this time, instead of adrenaline pumping through him with each line, setting the nerves alight, that there was this icy numbness that flooded his veins instead.)

(There was another part of him that was terrified by how much he liked that numb ache in his sternum. That soon, chasing the high wasn't going to be enough and he would find himself chasing the emptiness.)

"Fuck, you really are needy, aren't you? And could you try to look any more miserable?" Taylor quipped at his side, her pupils dilated from the coke she had done with him before they came. There was also a half-filled baggie in his pocket for later in the night.

He turned to look at her, she looked stunning in a silvery minidress that was practically see-through with some very strategically placed squares. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and based on the number of tequila shots they had done she was about to get real horny real quick. Buck should be looping an arm around her waist, tugging her into his lap, sneaking a hand up her thigh underneath the hem of her dress...something, anything.

"Look," she grabbed his chin, fingers pinching the skin tightly, so he was forced to meet her eyes, "we are in this club full of people who want nothing more than to fuck one or both of us. And sitting here, staring into space is clearly not helping you and it's not helping me get laid. So you fucked up with your wet dream...who gives a shit? Did you really think anything was going to happen between you two?

"I mean, seriously, Buck. The guy was probably straight, and you definitely can't be friends with a straight guy that hot, you'd just end up wanting to jump his hones and scare him off."

A muscle in his jaw ticked, but the pit in his stomach was just from having his own fears confirmed. It didn't matter if he had swept Eddie off his feet, they would never work out in any real sense and so why was he trying so hard? Why did it matter what some random straight guy thought of Buck? And Taylor was right—he didn't have friends, male or female, because he just ended up fucking them or trying to fuck them and that only ended with them finding out that he wasn't worth sticking around for, whether that was after the orgasm-high faded, or he got punched or slapped for coming onto the wrong person.

Meeting Eddie and Christopher was an accident that should have never happened and even though they'd managed to run into each other twice, in a city as big as LA, they could go years living in the same place and never crossing paths again. That was what would happen going forward, and in five months, he would just be a funny story about the loser who found Chris in a grocery store and helped him for all of three minutes.

In two months, Eddie probably wouldn't even remember his name while Buck would still be seeing Eddie in that firefighter getup in his dreams (literal and metaphorical) for an undetermined amount of time.

Another shot of...something landed in front of him and so Buck picked it up and downed it in one go, barely feeling the burn as it raced down his throat.

He finally did what he should have done hour ago and pulled Taylor onto his lap, kissing a trail up her neck, biting harshly at her pale skin. Her head tilted back, her long red curls brushing his arm and tickling his neck—the sensation was almost itchy and uncomfortable, but he just massaged her thigh, getting close to the apex of her thighs.

"Tell me what you want, babe," he muttered into her ear, licking some of the sweat from her neck as he made his way upwards. She let out a soft whine at the sensation, but there was something triumphant about it, like she had won a game Buck hadn't even known they were playing.

"You and I," she breathed, her chest heaving with each breath she took, "are going to go dance. And then I am going to fuck that brunette who has been eye-fucking me for the past forty-five minutes. I don't really give a fuck what you do after that."

With a nod, Buck gently set her down. This was something he could do. He wouldn't, couldn't, disappoint Taylor like this—she already put up with a lot of his needy shit and all she asked in return was some coke and sex. He could provide both.

Taylor started towards the dance floor, her ass shaking enticingly, and he knew that she had her 'you're what I want tonight and I always get what I want' look on her face. He just kept his hand on her lower back (practically cupping her ass) as he followed, steadfastly ignoring the way his skin itched at the thought of so many people touching him, pressing in at all sides, grabbing his ass, groping him...but no.

He wasn't thinking about himself right now, and the brunette Taylor had her sights set on seemed to be reciprocating, licking her lips as the two of them approached, her purple two-piece clinging to her in all the right places.

The bass was so loud, the floorboards were vibrating with the force and volume, so he couldn't hear what Taylor said as she leaned into the brunette, talking into her ear. Buck just stood back, feeling a little bit like an idiot, in his back tank top ripped down the sides until it barely qualified as a shirt (but his abs and arms looked great) and jeans with too many rips but clinging to his thighs and ass, hair gelled so it didn't curl and the barest hint of eyeliner.

Basically, he looked hot as fuck and he'd seen men and women sizing him up as he followed Taylor out onto the dance floor. And any other night he would be clamoring at the opportunity to take one or multiple of his admirers home (the man with tanned skin and ark hair slicked back from his face, stubble lining a square jaw, and muscles that looked like they could hold Buck down; the woman with short blonde hair and freckles that looked like they were the painted on kind, a smile that looked like she wanted to eat him alive, and heels that could safely be classified as weapons), but he just felt exposed.

Like they could take one look and see the worthlessness crawling over his skin, the clinginess, the neediness that seemed to seep out of his pores the second anyone got too close.

The way Jesse ran the second they were done fucking, how Sandy only fucked him out of pity and then didn't speak to him for weeks, how Jeremy used his mouth as he did lines off their coffee table.

The way Taylor kicked him out once the drugs were gone and only texted him a "u up?" every so often when she wanted to get off without complications and her vibrator wasn't doing it for her.

But he shook himself out of his thoughts as Taylor grabbed his hands, planting them on her hips before turning and starting to dance. (Although he's using "dance" here very generously, he was basically a vertical surface to support Taylor and the brunette as they engaged in what probably amounted to public indecency and was closer to foreplay than dancing.)

He lost himself in the beat of the music, sweat pouring form his pores as he let his body jerk around to the beat, pulling Taylor's hips back in a dirty grind every so often—he had never been the most graceful person ever. The brunette was facing Taylor, the two of them making out heavily as their hands wandered over each other, the brunette grabbing Taylor's breasts, Taylor palming the brunette's ass, one of Taylor's hands disappearing up the brunette's skirt.

It should be hot, he should be turned on, but if he was half-hard it was more from the sheer friction and movement of someone pressed up against his dick, writhing in time with the music, rather than any other visual aid or genuine desire.

The three of them danced for a while like that, tangled up in each other, and he could hear the brunette's arms start to reach his ears over the music, Taylor pressing filthy kiss after filthy kiss into her skin. For a couple songs, some guy sidled up behind Buck, roughly grabbing his hips and dragging him back against a hard cock.

He just tipped his head to the side, letting the guy kiss him, lips biting and hard, his tongue plunging into Buck's mouth immediately. It felt good, for those brief few moments, someone's hands were on him, someone wanted him so badly they didn't hesitate to show him how much. Who whispered dirty words in his ear, calling him sexy and a slut, telling him all the ways he would get fucked before the night was over.

But before Buck could pull away from the intertwined women to offer a blowjob in the bathroom (although if the guy made him kneel in the middle of the dance floor and suck him off, Buck didn't think he was in the frame of mind to say no) the weight and heat at his back was gone. The air felt colder somehow now, and a shiver danced up his spine and it wasn't the good kind.

"Can you ditch the third wheel here, so we can go back to mine?" The brunette's voice suddenly cut through the music as she practically screamed in Taylor's ear.

"Yeah, he doesn't mind," Taylor answered with a giggle. "He's a manwhore anyway, he'll find someone when we're gone."

"Good, because he's hot but I'm not interested in sharing," the brunette agreed with a smirk. "Especially not with douchey fuckboys like him anyway."

The two of them laughed at that, and Buck wasn't sure if they knew he could hear them, but he got the feeling that it wouldn't change a whole lot if they did know. Taylor didn't so much as turn around and give him a cursory nod before she took the brunette by the waist, the two stumbling towards the door.

They left Buck standing in the middle of the dance floor, wondering what the hell had happened. Someone approached him—he wasn't even sure if they were male, female, nonbinary, young, old, thin, fat, nothing—and asked if he wanted to dance. He didn't even know what (or if) he said anything, just turned and walked off the dance floor, out of the bar, and into the cold night air.

The walk back to his apartment happened in a daze, his chest feeling like it was caving in on itself. He thinks his hands might have been shaking but that could have just been from the cold. Or the impending crash.

(Needy...third wheel...fuckboy...manwhore...hot...sexy...slut)

It felt like his lungs couldn't get enough air, his heart rapidly pumping loudly in his ears, his balance shot to shit, and his vision going blurry. There was a good chance he would pass out in the next few minutes, vomit, and fall into the gutter, choking on his own sick until the cops found him in the morning. A worthless, pointless death to a worthless, pointless existence as his parents would say.

It was a miracle, but Buck made it back to the apartment in one piece, although he had no clue how. He didn't remember getting to his bedroom, closing the door, and falling on the bed fully clothed. But he does remember taking a bottle of cheap whiskey from underneath his bed and drinking until he passed out. Because then he could forget that night, forget the world, forget how shitty he was, and maybe forget how to wake u—

Chapter Text

"Everything's going to be fine, Edmundo. You're stressing about nothing." Ana gave him a soft smile, running her hands up and down the outside of his arms. It was probably supposed to be a calming gesture.

"I'm not stressing," Eddie huffed, trying not to roll his eyes at his girlfriend. That brief moment of panic—when he opened the oven door and saw the mac and cheese burnt to a crisp and thought he must be having a mental break because was he seriously about to cry over burnt carbs?—had passed, and he schooled his features into a pleasant neutrality.

(He also tried not to think about how he found himself forcing that benign façade on himself more often than not when he was with his girlfriend—the person who was supposed to see past his walls, or at the very least want to.)

"I just want to make sure everything goes well for Christopher."

Ana smiled and nodded, turning back to arrange the empanadas on a platter, bustling around the kitchen as if it was her own house. And wasn't he supposed to feel some sense of pride or-or happiness or something like that? He had been known to be a bit possessive in the past, so why did he only feel the vague sense of dread that had been building since Shannon agreed to the dinner instead of affection or arousal at Ana looking at home in his kitchen?

As if his thoughts had conjured her, there was a knock at the door before it swung open, Christopher's happy chatter announcing their arrival. Eddie felt genuine joy as he turned and knelt to wrap Chris in a hug, not even minding that Chris didn't miss a beat of telling his story.

Ever since he returned from his second tour, there was always something special whenever he laid eyes on Chris, even if they had only been apart for a couple hours. He felt like he was making up for lost time, for all the milestones in Chris' early life that he'd only gotten to witness through a pixelated video call or had just flat-out missed entirely. He had told himself re-enlisting was the right choice, but Eddie knew that even if he was the best dad ever (which he certainly wasn't) he would never be able to get back what that decision had cost him.

"How was Mom's?" He asked, pulling back and standing up. "Did you guys have fun?"

"We got started on the LEGO fire station kit, but got a little sidetracked," Shannon replied, giving him a brief one-armed hug. "I think we ended up with a dragon and a robot, right Chris?"

"It was a sea monster, Mom." Chris wasn't at the age where he knew the effectiveness of rolling his eyes, but his tone still had that familiar exasperation of kids correcting their parents on what they believed were obvious facts.

"Right, a sea monster," Shannon nodded, depositing his overnight bag and her purse on the couch. "It smells great in here, Eddie. I didn't think your kitchen could produce food that wasn't burnt."

Eddie shook his head, taking the pointed teasing with good nature—it was too early in the night to pick a fight over his admittedly less than five-star cooking skills—plus this was a good opportunity to smooth the way for the rest of the evening. "Well, that's all down to Ana. She's been hard at work for the past couple hours."

Ana tilted her chin up, gazing at Eddie with dark eyes that were filled with some emotion that he didn't quite know what to make of (some combination of affection and superiority and smugness). "Edmundo is just being kind, it's my abuela's empanada recipe and it has a way of always making the house smell this good. I'm Ana Flores, by the way."

"Shannon Adams," his ex-wife replied, and Eddie wanted to wince at the hint of ice that had crept into her voice. "I think we met at Christopher's school's Parents' Night earlier this year."

At that, Eddie did roll his eyes, Ana bristling at the insinuation. So what if Ana was Chris' teacher? She had assured him multiple times that there wasn't going to be any hint of favoritism and had even offered to have Chris moved to another English class if that made him feel more comfortable. They just couldn't let word of their relationship get back to the administration of her school. Besides, it was nice to have some time for themselves and Ana was always saying that having that secret made being with him even more...exciting.

"Of course," Ana matched the level of coolness in Shannon's tone. "Well, Dinner's ready if you want to take a seat."

"I burnt the mac and cheese, so we're down one side, but everything else should be ready." Eddie chimed in, trying (and failing) to cut a small bit of the tension.

Shannon nodded, looking through the doorway to the dining area where Chris was already sitting at the table expectantly, playing away on his Switch, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable atmosphere settling over the kitchen. Eddie tapped her arm lightly when Ana had turned her back to get the empanadas.

"Play nice, Shan." If this dinner (and the rest of his relationship) was going to work, then everyone needed to at least pretend that they would get along. Or at the very lease, make it through half an hour of stilted small talk with a minimum on the passive-aggressive comments.

"I will if she does," Shannon replied, just as stubborn as she always was—something that initially drew Eddie to her, but then kind of wrecked their relationship in a classic case of immovable object and unstoppable force.

He raised his eyebrows with a pointed look, because he knew the two women in his house (although one much more than the other) and of the two, Shannon was the one who would break first and bite back with something harsh instead of just condescending.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "I will help her with the wine." She lowered her voice as she walked over to the fridge, but still clearly loud enough that Eddie was meant to hear. "God knows we're going to need it."

Eddie grimaced but didn't disagree, hopefully the wine would loosen everyone up so that dinner could progress with little further issue. (There was a part of him that shoved down the reminder that too much and words would turn biting and scathing as inhibitions were lowered.)

"Hey, no electronics at the table, remember?" Eddie said gently, crouching down next to Christopher's seat, so he was actually looking up at his son. Chris relinquished the Switch easily, but his bottom lip stuck out in a pout. "Hey, hey...what's the matter? Did something happen at Mom's?"

Chris shook his head but didn't respond besides shrugging his shoulders and refusing to meet Eddie's eyes.

This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid: Chris bottling up his feelings or emotions or just anything that was on his mind. He was supposed to be teaching Chris to do better than Eddie himself was, because he used to (and still does) shove down every emotion, cut himself off from his heart for so long he didn't know if it still worked sometimes. And look where that had gotten him. Divorced, traumatized, unable to sleep with his girlfriend (sometimes unable to kiss her), and now...apparently failing as a father.

"Come on," Eddie pleaded, praying that Shannon or Ana noticed that he was trying to have a quick word with Chris and didn't interrupt. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, I can't help."

"You can't help anyways," Christopher muttered, and Eddie just took it as a good sign that Chris had said anything to him.

"I can try," he promised, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest at the thought of his son not thinking he could come to Eddie for help. His throat wanted to close up, but he forced the feeling away, clearing his throat subtly as if that would help anything.

(Chris didn't know it but Eddie would move mountains, heaven and earth, for him, that there was nothing he could say that Eddie would not try and help with until it killed him.)

They sat in silence for another minute or so, and Eddie heard actual conversation coming from the kitchen, which was a minor miracle in itself so he had high hopes for his own talk with Chris. And as mature as his son was at times—never let it be said that kids don't see and understand more than adults think they do—he was still seven years old and his patience wasn't quite on the same level as Eddie's.

"I just don't know why we have to do this," he finally grumbled out, looking up at Eddie with puppy-dog eyes that melted his heart. "We didn't have to have some big dinner when Mom started dating Johnny. Why can't it be like that with Ms. Flores?"

Eddie sighed, because he couldn't lie to Chris (he'd sworn he'd always be honest about the important things with his son) but he also couldn't tell him the whole truth—that Johnny and Shannon were more than likely not very serious, and he really shouldn't be around Chris, in case Christopher got attached, while if he wanted to get more serious with Ana, this was the next step in proving that he wanted this relationship. That he could hack it, essentially.

"Look, buddy," he started, "I know this is a lot of change, but I really like Ana...Ms. Flores. And even though your mom and I aren't together anymore, we both love you so much." He paused—this wasn't anything Chris hadn't heard from him before, but this next part was where it got tricky. "But...we still want to have people in our lives who love us...differently than we love each other or you. And no one is ever going to replace your mom. Ever. Or me, okay, mijo? We're always going to be your mom and dad, but we might...add to the family."

"Like how Bobby is Harry's dad too because he married Athena?" Chris asked, looking a bit more settled. Eddie wanted to smack himself because he had the perfect example of step-families and multiple parental units right in front of his face and just blanked.

"Yeah, just like that."

Christopher nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer, and Eddie released a mental breath, shocked he'd made it through the conversation without interruption or too awkward a question.

(By now, you think he'd learn not to tempt the universe into proving that he still had the worst luck, but apparently he hadn't learned his lesson quite yet.)

"Does that mean you want to marry Ms. Flores?" The question was asked so innocently, but Eddie felt his face burn bright red.

His lungs felt like they were working overtime, because he couldn't get married again—not if he was just going to fail at being a husband and partner again; if his parents tried to pressure him for more grandchildren, trying to get him to move back to El Paso—and he knew that was what Ana was looking for. On their third date they did Christopher's second grade math homework and she talked about how she'd always wanted the big white Catholic wedding, but Eddie barely tolerated going to mass on Christmas and Easter and that was only because his Abuela would withhold her tres leches recipe from him if he didn't.

"I-I think it's a little early to be talking about that, kiddo," was what he finally settled on, although Christopher did give him an unimpressed look as he sat there with his mouth gaping like a fish.

Unfortunately, that was when Shannon and Ana made their reappearance, carrying three glasses of red wine and a cup of apple juice for Christopher. Fortunately, neither woman appeared to have heard that last little bit about his lack of readiness to think about marriage.

"So Chris could feel like one of the grown-ups," Ana explained, placing the apple juice in front of Chris with a wide smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you, Ms. Flores," Chris replied, not even needing to be prompted. He reached for the glass and Eddie could see Ana's hands twitch like she wanted to reach forward to help, but Eddie managed to catch her eye and she pulled back sheepishly.

"Old habits," she whispered, pecking his cheek in apology.

And he understood, somewhat, because she dealt with classrooms full of messy, sticky kids on a daily basis and she prided herself on her tidiness (which had since been extended to Eddie's house), but he always bristled whenever someone tried to help Chris when he didn't ask for it.

His parents were always offering to cut up his food or get him a drink with a straw or telling him he couldn't go out in the yard without his crutches and then only to sit quietly on a lawn chair. And if Eddie ever stepped out of those narrow parameters when parenting his kid...it was always "you're not helping him, Edmundo, let us do it," or his personal favorite, "don't drag him down with you."

It was stifling and frustrating and Eddie didn't blame Shannon for leaving after being stuck under their harsh lens for years on her own.

"Can we eat now?" Chris piped up. He was already shifting in his seat, now that the three adults had sat down (Eddie across from Chris, while Shannon was opposite Ana), he seemed to be anxious to get the dinner going.

Eddie couldn't really say that he disagreed. "'Course we can get started."

There was an awkward silence as everyone filled their plates, Ana asking Christopher if he wanted any help but he declined politely—Eddie didn't know how his kid got to be so well-mannered. Shannon looked like she had sucked on a lemon whenever she looked at Ana, so he figured that whatever tentative truce they had come to over wine in the kitchen didn't last very long. On the other hand, Ana looked like she was just going to ignore Shannon, and her hand fell to Eddie's leg underneath the table,

He wanted to jolt at the contact as she squeezed and massaged his thigh, he wanted to make a scene and pluck her hand off him and put it on top of the table so she got the message.

But, when he looked over and she just gave him an innocent smile, he knew that he couldn't do that. He knew how anxious she was about the dinner, knowing that although Christopher was the number one litmus test for a relationship, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get on the good side of the rest of his family. And Shannon was the first step in that process. So he couldn't make it look like they were anything less than a happy couple in front of Shannon (even if his skin sometimes crawled when she touched him...but that was just because he was out of practice and had never been the biggest fan of PDA in general).

"So, Eddie tells me you want to go back to school," Shannon finally spoke, her tone a little flat but neutral. "I thought to be a teacher you already needed your Master's degree."

"Yes, well this would be for my doctorate," Ana replied, sitting up straight. She always perked up when talking about schooling—her own education or teaching. "I want to get a doctorate in child educational psychology so I can become a vice principal."

"That seems like you would be overqualified," Shannon raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Back in Texas, all our school administrators were just parents with too much time on their hands and the PTA wasn't enough."

"Well, in California the rules are a little more stringent and if I want to keep working with special needs children, I need to be extremely qualified." Eddie wouldn't say Ana's nose was in the air, but he inwardly winced at her tone. Fuck, this was a disaster.

"Shannon looked like she was gearing up for an argument, her eyes blazing—a sure sign that she was pissed—so Eddie quickly stepped in. "Chris, why don't you tell Mom and Ana about your playdate with Harry and Denny later this week?"

Chris was happy to fill them in on all that the three boys were supposed to do, including finding a certain kind of fish in Fortnight, playing Super Smash Bros until their eyes bled (Eddie's addition, Chris probably didn't know that expression yet), and gorging themselves on candy. The three of them got together frequently and it was Eddie's turn to host, so he knew that this weekend he would have three elementary schoolers hopped up on sugar and he had his fingers crossed the house was going to survive. He could deal with a me, he was just hoping to avoid anything more in the realm of light property damage, because he could not afford to lose his deposit on the house.

But more than anything, Christopher was excited that Eddie had promised to take the three of them to the Santa Monica Pier. They had lived in LA for a year and Chris had been begging to see the Pier since he saw it in a brochure his parents had shown him in an attempt to dissuade Eddie from moving. (There were too many people, too many tourists, Christopher could get lost easily, the people were not like those in El Paso, everything cost too much etcetera etcetera.)

"And they have lots of carnival games," Chris was saying, practically bouncing in his seat with anticipation and excitement, food forgotten on his plate. "And a rollercoaster, but Dad says I might not be tall enough to ride yet, and if I'm not then he's going to get me a giant teddy bear, right Dad?"

"That's right, bud," Eddie grinned, knowing that even if Chris was tall enough, he was still going to ask for a giant stuffed animal of some kind.

"Harry said that those carnival games were rigged but I don't think so," Chris continued like he hadn't been answered. "Why would anyone make a gam that's really hard to win? That just doesn't seem like it would be fun."

Both Shannon and Ana were making all the right noises, humming in agreement when Christopher said that Yoshi was the best character to play in Super Smash Bros, while being sympathetic when he said he missed his friends in between playdates.

Since it was almost summer, the boys had been getting together more often than not, but there was still an elaborate barter system of days off and babysitting duties that went into coordinating three firefighters' schedules so that one person was always free to watch them and taking into account everyone's family oblications.

Michael was usually the most reliable for watching the boys—being one of two out of seven parents that didn't have a job with a shift schedule—but even he couldn't just be at the whim of three energetic boys all the time. Karen was the other parent who usually watched the boys but since she and Hen had just become foster parents, she'd had to focus on helping Nia, who was only three, settle into her new home. (Pepa always offered to help out too, but Eddie always felt bad asking for her help, so he tried to schedule playdates when Eddie himself was available.)

"Well, that sounds very...exciting," Ana said, shifting in her chair. Her words were clearly directed towards Eddie. "But there's so many people there, maybe it's a little...too much for him?"

He felt ice trace down his spine at the comment, that weight appearing on his throat as he saw Christopher's face fall. He looked over to Shannon, but she just raised her eyebrow at him, judgement clearly written on her face.

(Eddie still hadn't forgotten those five heart-stopping minutes at the grocery store a few weeks ago when he had lost Chris.)

He knew that he wasn't the best parent but keeping his kid safe was supposed to be the one thing he was good at, but it was clear that Ana and Shannon didn't agree. Fuck, this was why he needed a partner like Ana in the first place. He could never really crack being a single parent—his job demanded he work too many hours, he was always behind on the mortgage payments, he couldn't get Christopher in private school without Shannon being interviewed—and it felt like every couple weeks his parents called him up, wanting to take Christopher.

If he could just show them that he had his life together, that there was this woman who cared about Chris in his life, who was the perfect companion for him on paper, then maybe they would back off. Maybe that would help Eddie start to feel like he had a bit of control back.

(Maybe if he had control, he would stop feeling the anger bubbling beneath the surface, the desire to go to town on a punching bag at work until his knuckles ached and bled.)

(Maybe he could forget blue eyes and a pink birthmark and a tattooed body and strong arms.)

"I'm sure the Pier will be fine," Eddie managed to choke out. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, and everyone at the table picked up on it. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We'll go at one of the off-peak times so there's not as many people around."

That seemed to placate Ana, who grinned proudly before digging back into her meal. It was another few minutes of stilted silence before Christopher was asking to be excused. To Eddie's shock, Ana was the one who nodded at him, telling him to put his plate in the dishwasher before playing video games or LEGOs.

Shannon huffed at that, her eyes narrowing, and Eddie could only hope that she at least waited until Chris was out of earshot before starting another argument.

"Can we not—" he started but was quickly talked over.

"So...Ana, how long have you been dating Eddie?" It was a pointed question and everyone in the room knew it. Shannon's tone was harsh and sharp, and Eddie hated all the times it had been (and still was) directed at him.

"I think it's been about five months now," Ana replied coolly, folding her hands in her lap, trying to appear like the rational one—it was a tactic she had told him worked well with her students. (Eddie was going to withhold that information from Shannon though in the interest of not having to report a homicide.) "Isn't that right, Edmundo?"

"Ye—" He started, but his mouth snapped shut before the agreement was even half finished.

"So, was that before or after Parents' Night? You know, when you realized he was the parent to one of your students? That seems like it would be a conflict of interest."

Fuck, Eddie thought, because while their relationship wasn't technically breaking any sort of ethical rules she had told him about...he's not going to say it didn't sometimes set something weird off in his gut when he thought about it for too long.

And nothing got Ana more worked up than someone insinuating that she wasn't good at her job.

In fact, he felt his shoulders drop and his stomach fall to somewhere around his knees when he saw Ana stand up, dark eyes blazing with an intensity that matched Shannon's. He opened his mouth to jump in—even though he had no clue what he was going to even say—but, like before, he was cut off before he could even get a full syllable out.

"You know full well that Edmundo and I met at Parents' Night," Ana retorted.

"Oh, I do," Shannon interjected, standing up as well. "And sitting through whatever display you called flirting that night put me off women for a month."

Ana tipped her head in confusion but steamrolled past the statement. "I'll also have you know that there's nothing prohibiting a teacher and a parent from having a consensual relationship."

"Now, I wonder why you had to remember the consensual part of that rule," Shannon pretended to think. "Have you had problems with that before?"

"At least I don't introduce Christopher to strange men who make him think his mother can't keep a relationship to save her life." Ana responded before Eddie could cut in, and it was like the temperature in the room dropped to negative degrees.

"That's not fair," Eddie muttered to Ana, trying to apologize for her to Shannon. Because even though their marriage was a complete disaster, he and Shannon had been friends first and had settled into a tentative coparenting-focused friendship after the divorce and he didn't like his girlfriend talking about his friend that way.

"No, she clearly meant it, Edmundo," Shannon spat, not even looking at him. He wanted to ask what the hell he had done to warrant the full name treatment, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. "In fact, I'm really interested to hear what she has to say about my relationships. Or, even what she thinks of me as a mother, because she clearly thinks she's better at it than I am!"

"That's not true!" Eddie interjected, throwing Ana a look that he hoped conveyed the message that even if she agreed (which, knowing his girlfriend, she likely did) to please keep it to herself.

Shannon shook her head and looked pointedly at Ana, her arms crossed in front of her chest and eyebrows raised. "No, I'm really curious actually."

Ana wouldn't meet Eddie's eyes. "I think that having a mother and father, together, present, in a loving relationship is what Christopher needs right now. He and Edmundo need to worry about you running out on them again, I can be there for them both."

With that, she took Eddie's hand in hers and he abandoned all hope of having the kind of expanded family unit that the Grant-Nashes had.

"Eddie can be your trophy all he wants," Shannon was practically breathing fire at this point, "but Christopher will always be my son, not yours."

"But his siblings won't be."

It was like all of the air had been sucked out of the room, Eddie's head spinning, and his stomach felt like it was trying to escape through his esophagus.

She...she didn't just imply...

He couldn't even think the words, the entire dining room feeling too small, It had only been five months. Things were going well but they weren't...him and Shannon had only been together for six months before she got pregnant...was this Ana's way of telling him she was...no, they'd only slept together once and they'd used protection.

"I-I have to..." he didn't even realize he had spoken, before he was practically sprinting from the room, closing and locking the bathroom door behind him.

Eddie gripped the edge of the sink so tightly the porcelain dug into the palms of his hands painfully and his knuckles turned white. His breath was coming in shallow pants and when he looked up at himself in the mirror, he looked paler than he'd ever been in his life, all the blood was drained from his face.

He should want more kids with Ana, right? He should be thinking about the long run because there was never going to be anyone else like her. His parents never approved of Shannon, but they would adore Ana because she was Latina and Catholic and a teacher and wore flowery dresses and knew how to cook.

(He shouldn't be thinking about dark blue boxer briefs and what could be hidden underneath. He shouldn't still be dreaming about fingers through his belt loops, knuckles barely brushing his skin.)

(He shouldn't be freezing up every time Ana tries to initiate anything with him. Kissing her should be as easy as breathing, it shouldn't feel like he was standing outside of his skin watching someone else have sex in his body.)

Christopher. The thought of his son was the only thing that brought his heart rate back down to something normal and out of the "maybe having a cardiac episode" range. He had to make sure Chris had been sufficiently distracted by his game or something and hadn't heard the three of them arguing in the next room over. (He didn't have high hopes, but he was hoping that if the universe ever took an interest in his sad, Christopher-is-the-only-bright-spot life, then it had to give him a break, right?)

(Eddie didn't quite believe himself and he was about to get a rude awakening that if the universe did give a shit about him, it was only because he was being punished for a countless number of sins he must have committed in this life and all his past lives.)

The TV was playing the home screen for the Xbox, but Chris' favorite controller was sitting on the coffee table and the boy himself was nowhere to be seen.

"Christopher?" He shouted, feeling that familiar panic from the grocery store rise up again to choke him. Running to Chris' room (also empty), to the backyard (empty), to finally back into the kitchen, where Shannon and Ana were continuing to argue but their words didn't reach his ears. "Christopher!"

"What's going on, Eddie?" Shannon asked, anger for Ana quickly replaced with worry for Chris.

He was never going to be able to see his son again—he knew Shannon or his parents were just going to use this to take Chris away from him, and at this point, he figures they probably should.

"Chris is gone."

Chapter Text

Sometimes it felt like the world was just...too much. And when that happened, it felt like Buck was too much and the universe was just reflecting that back to him to show him how tiring it was to be around someone so much all the time.

It was nighttime, but nighttime in LA hardly meant anything—what with the streetlamps making it seem like daytime nearly twenty-four-seven—and the bright lights pounded his brain, giving him a headache so severe he was in serious danger of puking. (The questionable pills and the booze and the unknown number of lines he did before this couldn't have been helping either.)

People's voices were too high like everyone in the world was shouting directly in his ear and he tasted blood and something else that was bitter and acidic. His entire body was aching and he was burning up, but when he raised a hand in front of his face, it was shaking so badly he looked like he was vibrating. He sometimes got the shakes when he was railed, more often when he crashed, but this was so much worse than anything he's ever experienced.

But that was the goal, right? A horrible voice in the back of his head reminded him, sneering and condescending and biting. You can't stand not being the center of attention, so you have to make a scene. Make everyone feel bad for poor weak pathetic broken defective Evan Buckley.

"Shu' up," he slurred, not realizing he had spoken aloud until a woman with a baby gave him an odd look, holding her kid a little tighter to her chest. "S'rry." Buck wanted to apologize, but the words came out clunky and wrong and didn't blame her when she crossed the street, walking quickly away from him.

"'S 'bout righ'." If he was going off the deep end, might as well act the part.

There was an empty orange bottle in his jacket pocket, a plastic baggie half-filled with more coke, a joint tucked into his boot, and a handle of tequila in the brown paper bag in his hand. He really had his pick of vices.

Bright, shrieking laughter practically stabbed him in the ears and he winced at the volume, but when he looked up, he saw that he had somehow wandered all the way to the Pier. There were stalls filled with carnival games, the smell of funnel cake and cotton candy making its way into his abused nostrils, kids screaming on a rollercoaster from the eighties, and all that jingling carnival music layered underneath the sounds of dozens of people (families, children, couples, everyone had someone) enjoying the night. (What day was it? Wednesday? Thursday? He thinks it might be a Thursday.)

He kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention to himself, taking a swig of tequila from the bottle in his hand. It burned his throat and settled awfully in his gut, but Buck was way past caring about how he was feeling—it was the least important thing after all.

Is this your big plan...to finally feel like a man? That voice was back, and Buck knew that everyone could see right through him, their gazes like knives—a thousand cuts and maybe that would be enough to make up for what he did. Daddy didn't love you so now you have to prove that you're big strong tough brave...that you can stare death in the face and not give a fuck. Mommy didn't hug you so now you aren't happy with the people who will touch someone needy weak pathetic clingy slutty like you.

You know what they always said about you and you're just proving them right.

Buck didn't realize he was crying until the tears hit his hand. He looked at them with fascination—it had been so long since he'd cried like this. Numbly.

That black hole in the center of his chest felt like it was expanding, sucking everything he was into until there was no escape. Maddie's affection (though long-gone) was erased, leaving only a childhood of empty rooms and drafty hallways and pain and silence. God, the fucking silence was what Buck hated the most. It's why parties where the music was so loud you couldn't hear your own thoughts was so appealing; why drowning the thoughts in blow and booze until the buzzing in his ears reached a fever pitch was what Buck craved; why the sound of moans and grunts and good you're so good at this fuck Buck god fuck me harder rougher faster more made him want to prove he was good, that he was enough even if it was just for a couple orgasms and some hickies or bruises that would fade in a day or two.

Because when Buck was left to his own thoughts, that was when the thoughts of not enough never enough crept in until he was curled in a ball in his childhood bedroom with an aching cheek and wondering why his parents hated him.

He hadn't even been trying to hook up—for once in his life, he hadn't been trying to get laid—he had just wanted to talk...to someone, anyone that at least pretended to care (but if that was his expectation, he guesses he can't blame anyone but himself for what happened).

He had gotten a text from one of his party friends—the guys that let him know where shit was happening because he brought the blow and didn't care about sharing—and figured, "fuck it." Maybe this was a chance to get out of his head, because his mind was just a constant parade of not good enough fuck up constant disappointment and if he could let loose for one night, it wouldn't be the end of the world. Besides, there was always the atmosphere at parties that you could talk to anyone about anything because you'd never see them again anyways.

Jeremy had his lay of the week over and they were playing out some weird kinky shit in the kitchen that even Buck's sex-addicted self didn't find hot. Taylor was still hooking up with that girl from the club a couple weeks ago—which he found out when he texted to see if she wanted in and the reply was 'V's keeping me up all night, well treated too. Prob not gonna need your dick in a while. F ya later.'

So he went out, got blitzed until he could barely see straight and ended up in another grimy bathroom with his hands all over another's body, a foreign tongue down his throat, and rough hands pulling at his hair, jerking his head roughly.

It was his own fault really, for getting so in his head about his fantasies (because maybe that would make it hurt less, but maybe it needed to hurt because that meant he still mattered enough to someone to be hurt by them) or for getting so absolutely wasted his filter was basically non-existent.

And it definitely was his fault for groaning out, "Oh, fuck yeah, Eddie," as he came. The guy didn't even look like Eddie—too short and his hair was shaved to the scalp on the sides (and his hands were too rough, voice too cruel)—and Buck hadn't even come to the party wanting to hook up. But the guy looked at him and told him he was hot and how good he would look bent over in front of him and, fuck, he just wanted someone to touch him.

Hands gripped his hips roughly, one moving to skate up his side, blunt nails leaving trails of fire in their path. Fingers tweaked a nipple, harshly, but the barest hint of pleasure came from the dull pain.

The only thing that managed to get through the haze of drugs and alcohol in his system—because usually, having sex while he was high just intensified all the feelings and sensations (which is why he fucked so often when he was railed), the alcohol mixed with the coke created a dull haze, a pleasant tingling numbness that settled into his limbs—was the rough thrusts, his hips and ass were surely going to be aching in the morning.

He felt filled, like he mattered, like having a cock in him made the ache in his sternum abate for the briefest of moments and then he could breathe again.

The grunts and groans of the guy behind him—they hadn't exchanged names, just groped each other on the dance floor until Buck pulled him into the bathroom, high on adrenaline and lust in addition to the coke—were the only things that could drown out the thoughts.

F ya later...paying rent...good to go...now that was fun...F ya later...

He felt his orgasm coiling tightly in his stomach, all the muscles in his body clenching, but his head felt like it was spinning and hadn't quite caught up with his body.

A rough hand was around the base of his cock, squeezing tightly, a harsh voice growling in his ear, "You don't come before I do."

The hand was gone, but it quickly grabbed a handful of curls and yanked his head up until he was staring at himself in the mirror.

He looked like a wreck, predictably, and he should just be glad that someone looked past the dark, bruise-like circles underneath his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks, the ugly red of his birthmark standing out like a splotch of paint on his face and decided that he was still good enough pretty enough worthy enough to fuck.

His eyes had a misty sheen to them, like he was about to start crying, but he focused back on the feeling of a cock ramming into him raw (he could have sworn he had given him a condom though...he must have forgotten...it was easy to forget when he was high), the pain of being stretched (he didn't think Party Guy prepped him, but whatever...he was slutty enough that he could take a decent-sized cock without much difficulty...it didn't really hurt...the hurt's what made it good) grounding him. He refused to be one of those guys who cried during sex.

But when he kept looking at himself, it was like his brain switched into overdrive and he couldn't stop thinking.

He thought about what Maddie would think if she this was what he did with his life. His freedom. No, she was happy with Doug, he had to remember that. She didn't feel the same need to be free from their parents like he did. They loved her because she was wanted. She wasn't parts.

He thought about how if he called his parents, they wouldn't care enough to ask how he was, just if he wanted money. They knew he was a fuck up in high school. They knew he wasted their money and got kicked out of community college. They knew he didn't have a clue of what he wanted to do with his life. They knew he wasn't worth keeping around.

He thought about Taylor Kelly and Veronica, wondering what he did wrong that even his hookups at clubs never wanted him back for more. What was he doing wrong? Was he shit at sex and no one had the guts to tell the pathetic, clingy loser that he was bad at sex? If he wasn't good at that then how would anyone ever touch him again?

He thought about the guy fucking him right now (he didn't think about why he picked him) with his dark hair and square jaw, he was handsome. He was properly hot and he was into guys, or at least fucking guys, which was more than he should ask for. He thought about the cruel words filtering into his ears, echoing in the small bathroom—slut...whore...asking for it...fag.

He thought suddenly that he didn't want this. This wasn't the touch he wanted.

"W-wait," he pleaded trying to turn around, but the guy's grip on his hair and his hip was ironclad. "S-stop...p-ple—"

"Shut up," the guy cut him off, his tone sharp enough to cut glass and Buck snapped his mouth shut. He knew that tone—the one that always preceded harsh words and maybe a smack to the face and cutting disappointment. "So fucking needy. We're already fucking, you're the one who pulled me in here, you already gave it up...don't know why you're whining about it now."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut, determined not to cry. His head was still swimming and his entire body hurt and there were hands on him that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

He thought about that day in the grocery store, how Eddie took his hands and gently slid them off his waist. He thought about what it would be like if it actually was Eddie behind him right now. Would it be like that? Gentle and soft and better than anything he deserved? Or would it be on the right side of rough? Tension snapping and exhilarating because he wanted Buck that much? He wanted to know how good Buck could make him feel. Buck could make him feel so good if he got the chance.

If he could imagine it was Eddie and Eddie's hands, would it make it better or worse?

The hand in his hair loosened slightly, still tangled and putting pressure on his scalp but it felt good this time. He let out a moan at the feeling, pain mingling with heat and arousal as the cock inside him finally hit his prostate. It was like his nerve endings were on fire, and he was back on the edge quickly.

"God, fuck, you like it don't you?" A rough voice said from behind him, and Buck could only moan in assent. Eddie knew how to hit all the right spots (these were all his right spots).

A couple more grunts, moans, and a "fuckin' whore fag getting off on my cock" and he felt the guy behind him tense up. A long groan filled the bathroom as hot come flooded him—marking him and isn't that what he wanted? To be marked and singled out and told that he belonged to someone for the barest of minutes?—and that sensation put him over the edge.

(Although he never had sex without a condom on purpose, sometimes guys insisted they would and then forgot and Buck could never bring himself to care too much because he'd had enough sex to know that sometimes your brain stopped working in the middle of it.)

"Oh, fuck yeah, Eddie," he moaned out as he came. He instantly knew that had been the wrong thing to say, the hand tightening in his hair once again.

"What the fuck did you say?" The guy was deadly calm, but the rage was obvious. "Who the fuck is Eddie? Your little queer boyfriend? Does he knew he's seeing a slut who doesn't even know who's fucking him?"

"I-i-it was a-a mistake," Buck said, his eyes flying open, being met with gray eyes that looked like tempered steel.

The afterglow had faded real quick (had been nonexistent) and his entire body felt numb and cold. He wanted to be anywhere but here at the moment...nowhere sounded good too.

But he wasn't nowhere. At least not yet.

Buck still felt his cheek smarting and his entire body hadn't seemed able to warm up even though he felt sweat pouring from his forehead. His entire form was trembling, his stomach churning as he remembered rough hands and harsh words.

The Pier was crowded and noisy and he just wanted to find somewhere that wasn't. Where he didn't have to try to take up space because he wanted the attention, but he couldn't take up space because he wasn't worth the air he breathed sometimes.

His knuckles were white and spotted with blood and tears—he didn't know where the blood came from at first, staring at it, not comprehending what it meant, but then he realized that he tasted blood on his lips and he wiped his nose—as he held onto the railing at the end of the pier. It was quieter here, still well-lit like the floodlights were going to expose every part of him that was ugly and malformed and defective, and the ocean going in and out created a blanket of white noise.

Looking down, he idly wondered how far the drop was. It probably wasn't enough to kill him right away, and he couldn't live with broken legs or worse—he couldn't take up people's time and energy looking after him—and even if he tried to let himself drown, there was still the chance that someone would save him. He didn't want to be saved.

"Excuse me," a soft voice—one that sounded achingly familiar, but he didn't (dare hope to) know from where—managed to pierce through the fog that covered Buck's mind. "Are you Buck?"

The breath stopped in his chest. This couldn't be happening again...it was so much worse than the last time...this kid didn't deserve whatever trauma Buck was going to inflict on him.

"I don't think so," he muttered, not daring to turn around.

A small hand curved around to hold lightly onto his wrist, tugging insistently so Buck would face him. "You are my Buck though. Why're you lying?"

"I'm not lying," he gritted his teeth. The words "my Buck" combined with the innocent touch sinking into his skin like sunlight almost pushed him over the edge. "I'm not your Buck. Besides, shouldn't your dad be here?"

"I ran away." That drew Buck's attention, and before he could stop it, his head was turning and he saw Christopher standing there, staring out at the ocean sadly. "I don't think he noticed."

"I'm sure he noticed, bud," Buck said. "My parents...when I got lost at the grocery store, they never looked half as scared as your dad did."

"My dad doesn't get scared," Chris said thoughtfully, full of confidence in his dad in that way little kids sometimes idolized their parents. "He does get sad sometimes though, and he thinks I don't notice."

"I think everyone gets a little sad sometimes." And this was definitely not the kind of conversation to be having with a seven year old but Buck's head was still spinning and he was trying to focus on not passing out, throwing up, or otherwise traumatizing Chris.

"He tells me that it's okay to be sad," Chris continued. "That I can be sad him and Mom live in different houses or if a dog dies in a movie."

"Those are some pretty good reasons to be sad," Buck chimed in. But he had lived in a house where his parents didn't care if he ran away, in fact they'd probably be glad the reminder was gone from their house, and Eddie would surely notice Chris was gone. "But grown ups get scared too, and I have a feeling your dad is really scared right now."

"Why would he be scared?" Christopher huffed, frustrated. "He's a firefighter, that means he's brave, right? And he went away when I was little and Mom said that it was to fight bad guys, but that's supposed to be scary, and he came back and said it was fine even though he was hurt!"

"Because he loves you, which means he misses you and he worries about you. That's what a good dad does." Buck felt his heart break as Chris' face crumpled—he was just confused and scared about something, and he didn't even want to know how he got to the pier—and he shifted so that he was holding Chris' hand. "Is your dad a good one?"

"He's the best dad in the world." He said it so sincerely, Buck's lips turned upwards in a small, genuine grin. That phrase was probably plastered on hundreds of coffee mugs on hundreds of dads' desks around the world, and half of them maybe deserved it, another quarter probably thought they did, but Chris believed without question that his dad was the best.

"I think we should let him know where you are, okay?" Buck said gently, making sure Chris was looking him in the eye. "He's probably really sad the best kid isn't around."

Christopher smiled broadly at that, nodding and looking up at him with so much trust it made Buck want to curl up into a ball and cry because he didn't deserve it. (It made him want to push his shoulders back and smile a real smile for the first time in a long time because maybe he wanted to deserve it.)

"Okay, we can call him." Chris looked at him expectantly, and that was when Buck realized that his phone was dead and useless even if it had a charge because he only used it for hookup apps and texts to find out shift schedules and where to get more blow. He thinks he already used up all of his minutes for the month.

"Let's go ask one of the people working the booths if we can use their phone, mine's not working really well right now." Chris scrunched up his face and nodded, keeping a tight hold on Buck's hand as he walked him over to the nearest booth.

(The sound of the ocean faded into the background, but somehow the ache in Buck's chest was lessened...his mind was focused, his thoughts weren't threatening to overwhelm him.)

"Hey, um, excuse me," Buck leaned on the counter of an empty ring toss stand. The teenager working was actively scrolling through her phone, so he put that in the plus column for the moment.

"Five dollars for six rings, if you get the red cap, you get the bear," she pointed at the giant stuffed teddy bear hanging from the roof without looking up. Christopher looked at it so excitedly, his smile so wide, Buck was already mentally checking his wallet for if he had any cash on him.

"Actually, I was hoping I could use your phone for a minute?" The girl's head—her name tag said 'Claire'—snapped up and she eyed him shrewdly. Buck plastered on his best 'I don't mean any harm, I just need a little help' look, but he was always called out for being a troublemaker in school, so he wasn't holding his breath. "Christopher here is a little lost and we need to call his dad."

Claire narrowed her eyes, but when she turned to Chris, her face softened a bit. "Do you know your dad's phone number?" When she nodded, she handed Chris the phone. "Stay right here while you call, okay?"

Buck let go of Chris' hand reluctantly, the boy quickly punching in his dad's phone number. He could hear the ringing of the phone from where he was, and he tried sending another grin to Claire, but she still eyed him distrustfully. That wasn't her fault though, in fact, Buck was glad she was giving Chris the phone and control because if Chris had asked someone who didn't have his best interests in mind, he would want him to be safe.

The click of the call connecting was faint, but the clipped, "Who is this?" came through loud and clear.

"Dad?" Chris said, his voice small. "It's me."

The stream of rapid-fire Spanish came through almost at full volume, and Chris' face fell, and he held the phone away from his ear a little, grimacing at the noise. Eddie was clearly going out of his mind with worry and based on the way he could hear a female voice in the background, he would put his money on Chris' mom being there too.

"Dad, I'm okay...Buck found me," Chris looked at him with a smile and a nod, like he thought Eddie would be happy that Chris walked up to a stranger and asked for help.

He couldn't imagine Eddie wanted Buck around to witness what were likely pretty shitty points in his life. He couldn't imagine Eddie wanted someone like Buck around Christopher, especially when he was high (both times).

He couldn't see Eddie again because while once was a meet-cute, and accident, and the second at the party was a coincidence, practically a miracle, Buck knew that the third time was the time where his luck would run out and his dream of Eddie maybe tolerating him shattered. He couldn't be there to see the mistrust in his eyes when he finally looked at Buck like everyone else in his life did.

"It's definitely the same Buck," Christopher was saying. That awful rushing noise in his head was back but he couldn't give in, not while Chris was still here.

(When Eddie arrived, that was when he would break. Seeing the anger would be enough to push him over the edge.)

"Dad wants to talk to you," he held out the phone, and Buck took the device with shaking hands.

"Here," he dug a crumpled five from his pocket—remnants from his last shit at Hannigan's a couple days ago—and nodded towards Claire. "You want to try and win the bear?"

"Yeah!" Chris clapped his hands, giving the money over to Claire and sitting down at the booth. Kids were really resilient.

"Hello? Is this actually Buck?" The tinny voice washed away any sort of doubt that could have remained in his system—he knew that voice, it fucking haunted him sometimes.

"Eddie, right?" He asked by way of answering, sounding about as small as he felt. "I think we met at the grocery store on Madison a month or so ago?"

"And a party in the Hills a couple weeks ago," Eddie replied, his voice sounding high and tight.

"Who the fuck is this Buck character?" A woman's voice demanded, although it was harder to hear her over the background noise, it sounded like they were driving somewhere.

"He's the one who helped Chris when he wandered off at the store," Eddie explained in a rush. "Where are you exactly? Chris said he went to the Santa Monica Pier."

"Yeah, yeah that's where we are," he said, crossing his arms, watching Chris throw ring after ring (it had definitely been more than six, but Claire was looking between him and Chris, so he was glad for keeping him distracted). "We-we're at the-the ring toss booth towards the end of the pier."

"Okay, we're almost there," Eddie said, his words clipped off at the ends. "Is he safe, is he hurt?"

"What happened?" The woman demanded once again.

Buck shook his head, before realizing that they couldn't see him. "I don't think he's hurt...he doesn't look hurt. He's safe right now, but...I don't know what happened. He just said he ran away."

He'd spent some time in Peru so he liked to think he knew enough Spanish to hold a five minute conversation, and he certainly had the curse words down pat (those were the first things anyone taught you when learning a new language) but the curses that came from Eddie were almost foreign to him. There might have been another language mixed in with the Spanish.

(Or he was just really fucked up and his brain was barely working.)

"Fuck, fuck, okay," it sounded like Eddie was trying to calm himself down and Buck felt his own heartrate start to jackrabbit even faster. "We're here. We'll be there in one minute."

He nodded again, knowing that Eddie really meant one minute. The phone call hung up abruptly and Buck handed the phone back to Claire, who looked like she had a bit more sympathy for him than before.

"Chris, your dad is gonna' be here soon," he crouched down, watching idly as the boy tossed another ring. "Can you promise me something?"

Chris nodded, and Buck really hated to put this on a kid, but he didn't know what else to do. His head was pounding and he felt bile creeping up his throat and he tasted blood and his entire body felt like it was going to give out any minute now. "Y-you have to promise to tell your dad what you told me, okay? And no more running away."

"I can do that," Chris agreed without hesitation.

"Pinky promise?" Buck stuck out his little finger in a long-forgotten tradition. "This means it can't be broken."

Chris nodded, linking his little finger with Buck's. When he turned back to the stall, the next ring he threw landed on the bottle with the red cap in the middle of the circle of bottles.

He vaguely heard Claire shouting that he won and Christopher jumping up and down, but it was like he was too tired to process anything that was happening. Looking up, he saw Eddie and a woman with dark hair and bangs sprinting down the pier towards them.

It was all going to be okay.

Buck saw the concern in Eddie's brown eyes—not a bad sight for his last few seconds of consciousness—and it looked like his mouth opened but Buck couldn't hear anything other than the rushing of his blood and the buzzing in his head.

"Chr's don' look," he mumbled, feeling himself sway on his feet—he was going down and there was no way to stop it.

Buck felt his body go limp as everything went black.

Chapter Text

Eddie was not an emotional guy. It was probably (definitely) one of the reasons his marriage broke down, because he came back from the desert and packed away all of the fear and horror and anger and guilt and never talked about it. Never talked about the nightmares he had, about how he was petrified to let Chris on a plane, about the way Fourth of July fireworks made him flinch and want to run for cover.

Shannon hated that he could practically turn off his emotions, that he could keep up this "façade," as she always took to calling it, of intractability. She hated that nothing seemed to bother him. She'd called him an "unfeeling monster" and a "heartless robot" during some of their worst fights. She said that she hated the idea of him raising Christopher to be just as emotionless as he was.

(That last one they could actually agree on, although he wasn't sure if he had ever told her that when they were married. He hated the idea of Chris learning that he needed to hide his emotions of the world. He didn't want that constant pressure on his son's throat, keeping all of the hurting, soft parts of him inside.)

But just because he could shove everything aside except for the problems in front of him—something that made him a good army medic and a great firefighter—that didn't mean he didn't have emotions. He just chose not to show them.

And right now, he was feeling about a metric fuckton of emotions.

Panic was a big one—the lingering feeling of panic turning every one of his limbs numb. How he felt disconnected from his body when he told Ana to wait at the house before jumping into his truck with Shannon to go to the Grant-Nashes for help. How his body kept moving but his mind was a fractured mess of a desert, a grocery store, and countless scenes with injured kids. How he would never forgive himself if something had happened to Christopher.

Relief was starting to trickle in, though—as he saw his son standing at the end of a pier, the brightest smile on his face, light starting to return. Any one of the worst case scenarios hadn't happened, and he was starting to believe that everything would be okay, at least physically. He would have to worry about why his son decided running away was the best option, but he was just going to let himself be relieved that Chris was safe and unharmed.

Guilt was right alongside the relief—how could he have let his son run away? It wasn't as if Chris was a very fast kid. Was he really so distracted by his crumbling relationship that he didn't realize Chris sneaking away, out the front door, and calling an Uber? Was he really that shitty of a father? He liked to think he was different from his own father who he saw maybe twice a week growing up and who never knew much about him or his sisters? Who cared but showed his care with a gruff pat on the shoulder or a tilt of the chin once in a blue moon?

Was his son really that unhappy with him?

Surprise had struck when he heard Buck's voice on the other end of the phone—was the universe actually throwing him a bone? That the same man who had helped Christopher when he was lost once before was here this time too? He must be the Diaz guardian angel. (Besos de angel, his abuela called birthmarks. Angel kisses.)

And then there was confusion—what was happening to Buck? He had a couple ideas that he wasn't keen on exploring. Christopher was running towards them, the blonde girl at the ring toss was getting down a giant teddy bear the size of Chris, Shannon was pushing past him with tears in her eyes as she reached their son, and Buck looked like he was about to pass out.

Eddie got a glimpse of Chris, clinging onto Shannon's neck, bright smile in place. His face fell though, when he caught sight of Eddie, probably worried about if he was mad (he was) and what the consequences would be (there would be some, but Eddie didn't have the foresight to think about what they would be right now).

It was easy to join the family moment, running his hands through Chris' curly hair, and send a prayer to a God he hadn't believed in for a long time that he was thankful his son was safe.

"I'm sorry, Mom, Dad," Chris mumbled, Shannon still unwilling to let Chris go so Eddie settled for kissing the top of his head.

"The most important thing is that you're safe, mijo," he whispered. "I was so worried about you."

"Buck kept me safe, he made sure I wasn't scared." At the mention of the other man, Eddie turned to thank him, but he was immediately filled with another wave of worry and fear.

Because Buck looked absolutely horrible—his face was as pale as a sheet, with an almost grayish-tinge; his eyes had deep bags underneath them, his cheeks so hollow they looked gaunt; he looked dressed for a party, all tight jeans and a black shirt under a dark yellow jacket; he looked thinner than he had before, almost disturbingly so; and there was blood dripping steadily from his nose.

"Did you win this giant bear?" Eddie asked, his voice sounding high and strained to himself, but Chris didn't notice, nodding enthusiastically. "Can you help the nice woman here get it down for you?" Christopher nodded again, turning fully towards the booth and the blonde girl with the bear in her hands. "Make sure he doesn't turn around," he whispered to Shannon and she gave him a pointed look, but when she caught sight of Buck, she nodded once, turning to help Chris.

Eddie ran over to where Buck was swaying on his feet, looking a million miles away. His eyes were glassy as they met Eddie's, like he wasn't sure what was happening.

"Chris don' look," he muttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as he dropped like a stone.

Shit, fuck. Eddie ran over to Buck, barely able to catch himself before he hit the ground—the poor man didn't need a concussion on top of everything else happening.

Bystanders had stopped, forming a loose circle around the two of them, but Eddie couldn't focus on them although their whispers were not really helping. He didn't think Buck would want to be nothing more than gossip that got traded around Facebook message boards.

"Shit," he cursed, Buck's form twitching uncontrollably, something that looked too much like vomit leaking out of the edges of his mouth. Turning Buck onto his side, he looked at the blonde girl, her hands over her mouth in shock. "Call 9-1-1, tell them we have a possible overdose at the southwest end of the Santa Monica Pier. Victim is seizing and unconscious but still breathing. When they ask, say that the victim is a mid-twenties Caucasian male, maybe a hundred-fifty, hundred-sixty pounds."

He waited for the girl to nod her head in understanding, putting the phone up to her ear. It was impossible for Shannon and Christopher to not have noticed with all the commotion, but he hoped that she was keeping Chris from seeing exactly what had happened.

Distantly, he heard Shannon's voice demanding to know what was going on, but Eddie ignored her in favor of going through Buck's pockets, trying to figure out what he had taken. (He felt bad about it, but he also had a guess, and this was a situation where he didn't want to be wrong.)

Buck was still convulsing, but he was getting weaker, putting his fingers to Buck's neck, he cursed as he felt his pulse skipping and beating much too fast. His other hand pulled out an orange bottle of prescription painkillers...completely empty.

"What the fu-what is going on, Eddie!" Shannon shouted, and when he chanced a glance up, Christopher was turned into her stomach but struggling to get free, and she was looking at him with frantic eyes.

"9-1-1 says that the ambulance is only three minutes away," the girl chimed in before he could respond. Her voice was surprisingly steady, and Eddie made a mental note to come back and thank her for helping Chris.

"He's a friend," Eddie said to Shannon, although the moniker didn't really fit, and he pocketed the empty bottle. "He's helped Chris before, and I saw him on a call once. Take Chris home and I'll explain everything later."

She gave him a skeptical look, but nodded, coaxing a distressed Chris to release her, although making sure he didn't see what was happening. "I'll text you later."

"No!" Chris protested, resuming his struggle. "Dad, I want to stay with you."

"Go with your mom, Christopher," Eddie said firmly, his heart sinking as Buck's pulse got weaker—he was probably only a few minutes from cardiac arrest. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"What's wrong with Buck?" Christopher insisted. "What's happening? Why won't you let me see, Mom?"

"Buck isn't feeling really good right now," Eddie explained, because that was the best his brain could come up with in place of "overdose" at the moment. "He's really tired and I'm sure you are too. I promise I will let you know in the morning, okay?"

With great reluctance, Christopher let Shannon lead him away, his ex-wife throwing a concerned look over her shoulder, but Eddie just turned his focus back to Buck. Who had stopped breathing.

"Fuck," Eddie muttered under his breath, shifting to quickly turn Buck onto his back. There was rarely a month that went by where Eddie didn't have to do chest compressions on a call—even though Hen and Chim were the paramedics, he had enough training in the army that he helped out frequently on medical calls—but this was the first time since he joined the LAFD he had to do compressions on someone he knew, even as circumstantially as he knew Buck.

It threw him back to Afghanistan, the dust stinging his eyes, gear weighing him down, as he fought to save the lives of his team. (And he hadn't even gotten the chance to try and save Greggs.)

Buck's ribs bent under his hands, and he winced inwardly at the feeling, but he kept the steady count at the forefront of his attention.

"You seem like such a stubborn son of a bitch, man," Eddie said through gritted teeth. "So, fucking live so I can help you, you ass."

The sound of a fire engine and an ambulance's sirens did little to alleviate his worry, that pressure on his throat. How could he repay Buck for what he had done to help Chris if he couldn't get his damn heart started again?

"Come on!" He felt something snap inside Buck's chest, one of his ribs fracturing under the force of the compressions.

"Make a path, move aside!" A semi-familiar voice was shouting—but maybe it was only familiar int he way Bobby sometimes reminded him of his old CO, all calm authority and control.

"Diaz? What the hell are you doing here?" Lena's voice questioned and he raised his head, and sure enough, it was the 136.

"Overdose," he replied simply, and he knew he should let the paramedics take over, but he couldn't make his hands stop. Buck couldn't die, not when there was so much he still wanted to know, when he still wanted the chance to see him again, to thank him at the very least.

"Do you know what?" One of the 136 paramedics asked, Eddie thinks her name is Julie, Julie something.

"There was an empty bottle of painkillers on his person," Eddie replied. His arms were feeling that familiar ache and burn but he couldn't stop. "I've been doing compressions for about a minute. Also, can't rule out cocaine or alcohol."

"Come on, Diaz," Lena's voice was as gentle as he's ever heard it, her hand on his shoulder and he went to shake her off, but Buck sucked in a breath of air, his eyes flying open as he quickly turned to the side and vomited again, his whole body shaking but not seizing anymore.

Eddie could have cried in relief, but he just let Lena pull him away, letting the 136 focus on taking Buck's vitals because, although his heart was beating and he was breathing again, he still looked like he was on the verge of consciousness.

Crawling into the back of the ambulance, Eddie tried to keep his own heart rate steady and himself under control. He didn't want to think about what his parents would say if they saw him so concerned about a relative stranger (another man) over Christopher.

But, he argued with the little voice of his parents in his mind, Christopher is safe and he's healthy and he's alive...Buck is not.

But he always was too soft, Eddie knew that's why his father was so tough on him compared to Adri and Soph—he was the oldest, the only boy, and he had to protect them. And he loved his sisters and he's given multiple of their boyfriends a talking to when they hurt either one. (He also had to chew out one of Adri's girlfriends when she said that Adriana was just calling herself bi so she didn't seem like a slut.) But when Adriana and Sophia teamed up against his high school girlfriend for cheating on him, their dad told him that he shouldn't be letting the girls speak for him (that he should've been more of a man or else Maggie wouldn't have..."strayed" was the exact word his father had used at the time).

Buck looked like he was moments from death's door—again—but the paramedics had an IV line set up to pump saline into his system to dilute the drugs. Since they couldn't be certain of what exactly he had taken, they didn't push any counteragents in case they reacted poorly to the drugs in his system and Buck coded.

Thankfully, they were only a few minutes from the nearest hospital, and for once, Eddie was able to go past the glass doors, trying to give as much information as he could to the doctors and nurses surrounding Buck's stretcher, pressing the empty pill bottle into a free hand (he wasn't even sure whose hand it was). However, they stopped him from going into the ICU, but promised that they'd have him updated with his partner's status as soon as possible, and they were going to give him the intake paperwork to fill out.

Eddie just nodded, barely comprehending what the doctor was saying, glad that they weren't kicking him out.

(It wouldn't hit him until there was a nurse handing him a clipboard with a stack of forms and a pen that the doctor had said "partner" and not the kind like he had at work.)

At some point, a nurse came out and asked if he was the one who had come in with Buck.

He handed her a mostly blank intake form, apologizing that he didn't know more information—she looked at him strangely before he remembered that they were supposed to be partners.

"Um," he knew that what he was about to say would mean he was going to be in trouble with the nurse, probably not allowed anywhere near Buck, and likely wouldn't be able to know what was happening to Buck, "I'm sorry I don't know more but...I'm not his partner. He...he looked after—he saved my kid while he was in this state. I don't think my son even realized something was wrong but...I wanted to pay him back."

The nurse's lips pulled into a thin line, but her eyes looked relatively understanding. "Is there anyone else we could call?"

"I don't know," Eddie shook his head. "I'm sorry."

The nurse turned to walk away, but he just had to know.

"Excuse me!" She turned around and leveled him with a curious look. "Um...can you just tell me how he's doing?"

She nodded, a professionally sympathetic smile on her face. "He's made it through the worst, I can assume, but there's not much else I can tell you other than we just have to wait. Do you want me to let him know that you're here when he wakes up?"

Eddie nodded frantically, relieved that even if he couldn't be in the room with Buck, Buck would at least know that he wasn't alone. "Eddie Diaz. Just...tell him Eddie's here."

With one last nod, the nurse walked back through the doors to the ICU ward and left Eddie slumped in his chair with relief.

He took a minute to just breathe, the first real breath he'd taken the whole night, probably ever since he realized Chris was gone. With the thought of Chris, he dug out his phone and saw a litany of texts from Shannon, mostly just demanding to know what was going on and that Chris was asking questions she didn't know how to answer and to call her. There was also a couple from Ana telling him that she was going home and that she hoped to see him again soon, one from Lena saying he owed her a drink and an explanation for the call, and a few missed calls from Shannon as well.

With a sigh, he ignored Ana and Lena for the moment, knowing that he owed Shannon an explanation first.

The phone had barely started ringing before Shannon's voice was in his ear. "Eddie, oh my God...I have been trying to get a hold of you for at least an hour!"

"I'm sorry, Shan," Eddie sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose at the headache that was starting to form. "Is Christopher in bed?"

"I took him back to my house, I know it's not my night, but," she sounded genuinely apologetic, but Eddie was just grateful that Chris was with at least one parent tonight. Although, if Buck didn't wake up soon, maybe Eddie would be able to run to Shannon's and see his son, even if the latter was asleep.

"Thank you," Eddie replied sincerely. "I know...I know tonight has been hard on you and I'm sorry for the way everything went down at dinner with Ana and now this..."

"A genuine apology, Eddie, I'm shocked," her tone was dry, but he could tell she appreciated it nonetheless. "And I'm just as much to blame for Chris running away as you are. My purse was right there on the couch, that's how he got my phone. So don't beat yourself up about it."

He snorted at that because there was a time in their marriage they would have been clamoring to blame one another for every little thing, but now....when the actual blame lay with Eddie thinking he could merge two parts of his life together (thinking that he was a good father), she absolved him.

"How's the guy? Buck, isn't it?" She asked, changing the topic. "Chris was really worried."

"Buck's in the ICU. He hasn't really been conscious enough to give any information to the doctors and I don't know who to call, Shan." Eddie's voice sounded desperate even to his own ears. There was an internal struggle because he wanted to tell Shannon what he'd seen at the call to the Beverly Hills party a few weeks ago, but he didn't want to spread rumors. "Something's not right, I just...I don't think he's okay."

"You always did have a soft spot for strays and the hopeless," Shannon teased not unkindly. "But he's not...he's not your problem to fix. You might have to prepare yourself for the idea that he might not want your help."

Eddie nodded, knowing that if Buck didn't want to be helped there was going to be nothing Eddie could do that would change his mind. But he had to try.

When he'd met Shannon, she had just started her first year of college and had been lost—she'd told him as much when they'd been in the far too short "good" part of their relationship—and he'd been working at his dad's while also pulling weekends at a garage in El Paso. She always said that if he hadn't helped her screw her head on straight, find a purpose, she didn't know what her life would've been like. Of course, this was before they got pregnant accidentally and then all it was was that he ruined her life and took away what was supposed to be the fun, reckless parts of her and forced her into a role she didn't want. The role of a wife and a mother, a life of pointless, empty domesticity (although she took back the "mother" portion of those fights after Christopher was born).

"Before he passed out, do you know what he said to me?" He asked, not even sure if his voice sounded real to his own ears. "He asked Chris not to watch." Shannon sucked in a gasp, and he heard watery sniffles on the other end of the phone. "He's got a good heart in there, I know it."

"I can take care of Christopher while you're at the hospital," Shannon's voice was thin but determined. "I'm sure he's going to want to FaceTime you in the morning, so make sure you look somewhat awake, okay?"

"Got it...and thank you," Eddie felt another real breath leave his body.

"Text me updates when you have them," she said, hiding a yawn. So Eddie just agreed and they said their goodbyes.

It was a long three hours—yes, Eddie was counting—waiting in the hospital lobby for any news of Buck. He'd given his name to the first nurse, Caroline, and she'd promised to tell the front desk that he was waiting for Evan Buckley in the ICU. They'd had to get his name off of his ID in his wallet. Eddie hadn't even known his real name.

The time was approaching midnight and Eddie was trying not to go to the nurses' station every twenty-five minutes, but it was a hard thing. But he was patient, had been taught to be patient and disciplined and that sometimes there was nothing you could do except wait for news, good or bad. Eddie had been able to compartmentalize in the army and on his job, but there was something throwing him off about tonight. Maybe it was because his emotions were always out of order when Christopher was involved, and he'd never really come down from the adrenaline rush. Maybe it was feeling Buck's ribs crack under his hands, this golden-hearted young man who was drowning and Eddie couldn't save him, this man who'd saved his son.

(Because Buck didn't just help Christopher. In fact, in doing so he actually saved Chris from the worst case scenarios that had plagued Eddie's mind for those torturous forty-five minutes he was missing.)

"Mr. Diaz?" Caroline cleared her threat, and Eddie jerked awake. He must have dozed off while still sitting upright in an uncomfortable hospital chair. "Mr. Buckley is awake. He's been moved to a non-intensive care room. He's said it's alright if you come back to see him.

"He actually said that you didn't have to stick around for him, that you should be with your son," Caroline supplied, sounding like she wanted to scold Buck for talking that way about himself when he literally almost died, and Eddie had to agree with that. She didn't seem like she was much older than Eddie himself, but she carried herself like she was older. "I told him that if you didn't want to be here, you wouldn't be. That seemed to shut him right up."

Eddie chuckled dryly at her upbeat tone, he guessed you would have to have somewhat of both a thick skin and an optimistic personality to work in the ICU. "I just wanted to make sure he's okay, I owe him a lot."

Caroline nodded in understanding, but her eyes were sad and she didn't say anything, so he wasn't sure how well Buck was doing. "He's in here," she stopped outside a patient room identical to all the others, room 81E. "My husband practically paid for this ward, so they let me bend the rules a bit. You can stay as long as you need to. And if you need anything, ask for Caroline Mikaelson."

"Thank you." Eddie pushed open the door, taking a deep breath as he finally laid eyes on Buck for the first time in hours not clouded by shock or blood or lack of blood.

He looked almost worse than when he was in the middle of an overdose and cardiac arrest. In the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, even though they were dimmed, his skin looked washed out, almost gray, and his birthmark was an angry red. His hair was grimy looking and plastered to his forehead in limp curls. The hospital gown swamped him—not an easy feat, Eddie had to imagine—and there were bruises under his eyes that spoke to lack of sleep.

(There was also a distinct bruise on the ridge of his cheekbone that spoke to something much worse than lack of sleep.)

Surreptitiously, he checked Buck's (still quite sizable) forearms that were resting above the hospital sheets and felt himself relax when he saw the lack of track marks there.

"You should see me when I'm trying to look hot." Buck's voice was hoarse, slurred from exhaustion, and his eyes were glassy but his gaze was steady. His lips twitched in what could be a smirk but didn't quite manage to reach a point of sincerity. "If you're checking me out now...I'd blow your mind. Other things too."

Eddie rolled his eyes at the half-assed come on, sinking into the chair next to Buck's bed, suddenly at a loss for what to say.

Thankfully, the near-death experience hadn't impacted how chatty Buck was since he just kept talking. "They had to pump my stomach. I told them about the...the coke and the pills and the weed but...they wanted to know if it was laced with anything and...and I didn't know so they're doing a drug screening. Won't be back for a couple hours though. And I'm malnourished, dehydrated, probably still a little fucked up...par for the course really." He attempted another smile, like that was supposed to be a joke, but Eddie just leveled him with his best 'I'm not buying this whole tough guy act' look. (He used a scaled down version on Chris when his son didn't want to tell him he was struggling with math.)

"But," Buck continued, finally breaking Eddie's gaze to look at the ceiling, "the scary blonde nurse said I'm luck to be alive. I guess I have you to thank."

He said "thank" with such desperation and hopelessness that Eddie shifted forward, putting his forearms on the bed. (His skin prickled and his heart jumped at the heat radiating in the two inches between Buck's arm and his, but he shoved the feeling down, far down.)

"I want to thank you, Buck, for what you did for Christopher," Eddie said, too many emotions to count dripping from his voice. "That's twice you've found him, and I couldn't be more grateful that you were there tonight. I don't want to imagine what would've happened..." to either of you, he wanted to say but they weren't quite there yet.

"Well," Buck's tone turned bitter, "you did your moral duty or whatever. Made sure I wasn't dead. Can fuck off now."

Eddie was taken aback, wondering what he had said wrong. He snapped almost to attention in his chair his hands back down to his sides. "I...I guess I didn't know who to call," Eddie replied, his tone carefully neutral. "Now that you're awake, if there's someone else you'd rather be here...I'm sure Christopher will want to see you and thank you in person. If I cold ask the nurse to let me know when I can come back—"

"Why the fuck do you want to come back?" Buck shouted. When he looked at Eddie, his blue eyes looked glassy and his voice cracked at the end of the sentence. "Why-why the fuck w-would you let your kid around me? After all th-the shit that happened at the pier?"

"You freaked him out pretty good," Eddie conceded but not raising to the bait. "But I don't think he saw you pass out, so he's just worried about his new friend."

"He'd be better off if I OD'd at the fucking party," Buck muttered to himself, but Eddie still heard.

"Look," Eddie huffed out—he was tired and stressed out and his body decided that now was a good time to come down from the adrenaline, "I don't know what's going on with your life, man, but Chris...you've helped him out when he's needed it and he wants to know you're okay."

Buck just shook his head and laughed—a sharp sound that meant he didn't find anything particularly funny and that sounded completely out of place even to Eddie who didn't know Buck all that well. "You want to keep that kid as far away from me as you can. I'm a fuckup who drinks from morning to night, gets paid pennies at a bartending gig I'm plastered at half the time. And I live with and fuck my coke dealer for my next fix...and to keep my room. In addition to being such a fucking slut I'll jump into bed with anyone who looks at me for more than five seconds. You don't want him around me."

The words were harsh, meant to show Eddie the parts of Buck that were the most distasteful, the ones that would send any parent in their right mind running from the room and never looking back. But Eddie was watching Buck's face—the way his eyebrows pulled together and the corners of his mouth tightened. The way his eyes were practically pleading with Eddie not to believe it.

"I don't give a shit about that right now," Eddie said, and he wasn't lying. Not that he wouldn't be concerned later for a multitude of reasons, but right now, what Buck did in the past wasn't his concern. It was what was going to happen next. "Tell me who to call, and I'll leave. But I'm still going to be back in the morning."

"Jeremy Hardin," Buck said after some hesitation, his eyes flicking to the side. He was lying.

"Is that your coke dealer roommate?"

Buck looked away, but his lack of response was all the answer Eddie needed. His heart cracked for the young man in front of him—if his first response to an emergency contact was his drug dealing roommate, he must really have no one else.

"Okay," Eddie stood up, finding the paperwork Buck had managed to halfway fill out. The emergency contact section was completely blank. He took a pen and prepared to write but he looked back at Buck. "I can put myself down for now and you can change it at any time. And I can leave my name and number so you at least have a ride out of the hospital, does that sound okay?"

Big blue eyes looked pained and like they were hiding a struggle, Buck's mouth twisting harshly as he clearly wanted to say no, but probably needed to say yes. Eddie patiently waited for his internal dilemma to be over, tapping the pen against his lower lip absentmindedly.

"You don't have to..." Buck started, and Eddie knew that he had won. Just a small step, but it might be in the right direction.

"I want to," he said gently, and that seemed to genuinely floor Buck. "Besides, this way, you can call me if you ever want to talk. To me or Christopher. I'm serious, Buck," the young man's head snapped up at his name to meet Eddie's eyes, "use it. You might owe me some babysitting after all this."

A small grin, but this one seemed more genuine, crossed Buck's face as he nodded again. Eddie scribbled his information down on the paperwork, putting it down with a satisfied thunk before jotting his number down again on a scrap of paper and handing it to Buck.

"Just..."

"No dick pics?" Buck joked with a small laugh, clutching the paper tightly, lying back on the bed, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"No dick pics," Eddie confirmed with a smile of his own, taking his seat again.

As Buck drifted off, looking a little more settled than when Eddie had come in, he muttered, "No promises."

Chapter Text

Buck sat at the edge of his hospital bed, feeling like the floor was going to drop out underneath him. They weren't going to let him go until tomorrow morning, since Caroline had explained it was hospital policy not to release patients after six p.m. And since the medical detox took twenty-four hours, Buck wouldn't be cleared until ten tonight at the earliest. (He'd managed to avoid a psychiatric hold and suicide watch by convincing the doctors it was an accidental OD because...it was...it was.) He'd tried to fight and argue with Caroline, but she was unwavering with that same cheery smile as she said he just had to "rest his pretty little head" for the next twenty-six hours.

However, if he wanted to avoid Jeremy feeding him nothing but beer, pot brownies, and microwave dinners that were somehow out of date even though they could probably survive nuclear fallout, he was going to have to build his strength back and quickly.

(But his body felt like it was on fire, his cracked ribs screaming with every movement, like his brain was leaking out his ears, like his organs were shutting down or rebelling against him. He felt like he was going to throw up almost constantly, and there was a never-ending dizziness that only compounded the nausea.)

Even though withdrawal was currently kicking his ass, even though it'd only been six hours since they'd finished pumping his stomach and his system was currently being flooded with detox agents and chemicals, and even though he still felt like absolute shit, he was ready to get the fuck out. He'd only been in the hospital for a little more than six hours, but he was not ready for the medical bills or how the fuck he was going to pay them.

He still couldn't quite believe that Eddie had waited for him to wake up. That he'd stayed with Buck even while Buck was passed out, after putting himself down as an emergency contact—although that was certainly the most roundabout way anyone has ever given him their phone number—and had only left an hour ago because he had a shift at six in the morning. What was even more unbelievable was that he'd promised to have Shannon bring Christopher by after school—his shift was twenty-four hours, but he said he'd be there for Buck to be discharged—and if that didn't just terrify Buck down to his core.

"I hope you aren't trying to walk," Caroline's unnervingly perky voice broke through his thoughts. "Especially not without help or anyone to catch you if you decide to crack your skull open trying to be a tough guy."

"What's it to you?" He ground out but let the blonde maneuver him back onto the bed. Normally, he would be putting the moves on her, trying to charm her into letting him walk around or giving him a sponge bath, but even if there wasn't a diamond ring that probably cost a small (or large) fortune and a matching wedding band on her finger, he just didn't feel like it.

(It hurt him to admit that maybe he liked it better that she cared about him as a patient, about his well-being, and that care translated into cheerful threats instead of nails scratching down his back.)

"Well, your boyfriend will probably kill me for letting you die, and then my husband will probably try and kill him and no one wants that," she joked and Buck couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him.

Although...

"Eddie's not my boyfriend," he reminded her as she checked his blood pressure.

Caroline's blue eyes looked at him sympathetically, or maybe it was compassion or understanding, Buck's head was hurting too much to figure it out.

"My husband, Klaus, and I," she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice small and wistful, "we didn't start off on the right foot. At all. I thought he was an arrogant ass, plus he was totally jealous of my boyfriend at the time and didn't realize what being off the market meant. He was a little too used to girls falling at his feet."

Buck wrinkled his nose, not quite knowing where her story was going.

"But," she raised her eyebrows, "as we got to know each other...I realized that whatever exterior he put on for everyone else just sort of...disappeared when I was around. It took me a while to realize that's why I started to fall for him, that he showed a different side of himself around me, and I was a different person around him. He made me want to be brave and unapologetic about going for what I want, to be more than just the blonde ditz everyone saw me as, even my closest friends. But I was terrified of what falling for him felt like so I kind of...kept him at a distance."

She smiled to herself, her eyes looking down briefly, and Buck realized that must be what love looks like on a face. "But...he's kind of old-fashioned so he...wooed me. All these fancy presents, jewelry, books, painting he made for me. But do you know what finally made me realize that he was serious about loving me? Why I finally gave him a chance?"

He shook his head, and if his eyes were watering a little due to the sweet story, he could claim it was a migraine.

Caroline smiled, putting her hand on Buck's forearm. "He told me that my ex was my first love...but he intended to be my last, however long it took. He was willing to wait for me to be ready for him. Klaus never pushed or pressured me into dating him, he just kept saying, 'I'm here, I'm not leaving,' even if it was just as my friend."

It didn't seem like she wanted to know what Buck had to say—which was a really good thing because Buck himself had absolutely no clue, his head and heart still a mess of emotions and feelings and guilt and withdrawal—because she patted his shoulder and stood up.

"Look, I don't know who Eddie is to you, but I watched him sit practically motionless in the hospital lobby on the off chance you would see him after you woke up. Let him be there for you." She was almost at the door when she turned around and threw a cheeky smile over her shoulder, "And if he ever hurts you, I will have on very scary, very well-connected British lawyer on his case in a split second."

"Thanks, Caroline," he threw out by way of saying goodbye. His head was still pounding, and he knew the comedown was going to be horrendous, but as Buck stared up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but turn her words over in his mind.

I'm here, I'm not leaving.

Fuck, the things Buck would do to have someone say that to him and mean it.

His eyes slipped closed, trying to hold on to the feeling of Caroline's hand on his arm, a light warmth that somehow reminded him of Maddie, that was the only thing he could feel other than all-consuming pain. The rest of his body was freezing in the hospital air conditioning and the thin blankets they had given him weren't much help.

He considered calling Caroline back in for some more blankets, but she was just here reassuring him, she didn't need to coddle him too because he got a little chilly.

Drifting in and out of a light sleep, only being woken when a nurse came in to give him some lunch and check his vitals again, Buck tried not to focus on the pain and the cold, only slipping deep enough that he forgot about his discomfort once or twice.

When he woke up, he felt like he had been dropped into the pits of hell, sweating buckets from what seemed like every pore of his body. His breath heaved and caught in his chest as he struggled to free himself from the blankets that were suffocating him.

Buck normally wasn't a claustrophobic person, but the feeling of the weight of the covers pressing down on his chest, weighing down all of his limbs like he was moving through molasses, was enough to send him spiraling. He had to get free.

Finally, he won the battle with the sheets, throwing them off the bed, letting the cool air wash over him. But then the sweat cooled on his body, and he felt cold once again. (It wasn't quite the chills or fever that would come with an extended withdrawal, but when he had a particularly bad come down—which was most of them since he preferred to just not come down—it wasn't unlike his body to go all haywire on him for a couple hours. Which was usually how long it took to get his next fix.

Staring at the ceiling once again, he counted tiles to give his mind something to do because his phone was on the bedside table, and he couldn't quite bring himself to pick it up. Buck would be too tempted to click on the newest contact in his phone and he didn't want to bother Eddie at work. The man was off fighting fires and saving lives, doing something with his life, he didn't need Buck's crap.

"Knock knock," Caroline chirped, poking her head through the door, a look in her eye that really reminded him of Maddie. It was the kind that said I know something you don't, and Buck really hated it. "You have some visitors if you're up for them."

Wracking his brain to try and figure out who the fuck wanted to see him—maybe Taylor when she came up for air between Veronica's thighs, he thought uncharitably, and then scolded himself for the thought. She didn't need to take care of him, she had a career and a life of her own to live—but he nodded anyway. Seeing another human person would probably help that gaping hole of alone in his chest.

However, as he heard the distinct pattern of crutches tapping and heeled footsteps, he violently remembered Eddie saying that his ex was bringing Christopher to see him.

Scrambling to get the sheets in order and sit up, praying he didn't look as much like a corpse as he thought he might, Buck's heart started beating a painful and irregular pattern against his busted ribs.

What the hell was Eddie's ex like? They must be on good terms if she's willing to come see his sorry ass as a favor. What the fuck was Christopher going to think of him, all laid up in bed like an invalid? Would he be scared? Worried? Even more traumatized than if he had seen Buck collapse on the pier last night? (Was it last night? It was just last night, right? Shit, he never had memory problems when he used too much before.)

"Buck?" Christopher's soft voice pulled Buck's attention, the boy's curly head poking into the hospital room. He had a concerned expression on his face before he saw Buck sitting up with a (fake, strained) grin on his face before he broke out into a wide smile himself. "Buck! You're okay!"

"Yeah...I'm okay," he replied, trying not to feel like he just lied to this seven year old. "How-how are you, bud? Did you get to talk to your dad about last night?"

Chris moved slowly over to his bedside, his mom—a pretty brunette with bangs and wearing a floral top and jeans—helped him into the chair, pulling the doctor's stool over to sit next to her son.

"I only saw him for a little bit this morning before he had to go to work," Chris answered, a little dejectedly. "But I promise I will! Pinky promises can't be broken."

"I like this new idea of pinky promises," Chris' mom—Buck felt like such an ass that he couldn't remember her name—smirked. "That might be a good way to make sure all your homework is done before video games."

"Mom," Chris sighed, drawing out the word in a patented kid huff. "I already do all my homework before I play video games. Besides, pinky promises have to be saved for the really important stuff.

"Homework is pretty important," Buck grinned, remembering his shitty grades and how he could've pinned a report card of all D's on the fridge and his parents wouldn't have noticed. "Means you're learning how to be smart."

"He's already smarter than both me and his dad," Chris' mom grinned, ruffling Chris' hair. "I think we need to balance out the smarts in this family sometimes."

"Ms. Flores is smart," Chris shot back but he didn't look happy about it and his mom's face shuttered briefly.

Buck felt a brief snag in his heart—was Eddie dating someone? And if so, why should he care? Eddie's just ridiculously hot, someone he would fuck and get out of his system—before Chris' mom replied, "She's your teacher, of course she's smart."

"I'm sorry," Buck interjected, feeling blood rush to his cheeks with embarrassment, "I-I know Eddie told me y-your name, but I-I can't..."

"It's totally alright, I'm Shannon Adams," she stuck out her hand with a pleasant smile. "Chris here was telling me all about you last night."

"I wanted to come see you but Mom and Dad said I couldn't," Chris pouted, looking up at Buck, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "You helped me find my dad last night, so I wanted to help you too! But they wouldn't even tell me what was wrong, they wouldn't let me see you."

Buck looked at Shannon, wondering what they had told Chris, what he should even think about saying because he couldn't exactly tell him, "I got fucked up at a party, drank almost a whole bottle of cheap tequila, had sex with someone that kinda looks like your dad 'cause I'm fucked in the head and want someone I barely know, smoked a blunt, and nearly OD'd on coke and painkillers right in front of you." Yeah, he imagines that'd go over real well.

"Uh..." he tried to stall for time, but Shannon was being annoyingly silent, looking at him with a challenge in his eyes, although he didn't know what for. "I-I just got really sick."

"I know that," Christopher interjected, starting to sound legitimately upset. "But why? Why are you in the hospital? Are you having surgery?"

"Um, no, I'm not having surgery," Buck answered the easy question. "I...I a-ate something bad, and I haven't been drinking all the right drinks. I'm sure your mom and dad make you drink lots of water and milk and orange juice, right?" Chris nodded, looking like he was following. Buck just hoped he knew where he was going with this. "Well...I haven't been doing great with drinking enough water, and I-I had a lot of grown-up drinks and...vitamins, that made me sick."

"So you can just drink more water and you'll be all better?" Chris asked.

"Kinda," he continued. "The doctors want to make sure all the bad stuff is out of my system first, so I'm gonna' be stuck here until the morning."

"Do you want to make Buck a card for when he gets out of the hospital?" Shannon asked gently. "I know you loved all your cards from your cousins when you were done with your surgeries."

Christopher nodded enthusiastically, and Buck tried not to get teary-eyed at the thought of this kid who he doesn't know very well, making him a card.

Shannon and Christopher stayed with him for nearly two hours, and through nurses bringing him dinner and checking up on him, Chris kept up a steady chatter about school and his friends, thankfully monopolizing the conversation so there was never a chance at awkwardness.

Buck had a little trouble focusing due to the ever-present headache and nausea, but he made sure to ask Chris all about his project in history class on the Revolutionary War, which turned into a tangent about this documentary he was watching with his dad. Eddie liked history movies, Chris explained, as long as they weren't about war, but then they were sometimes too boring and slow for Chris—he preferred ones about nature and space—but he did say he liked it when his dad smiled and got excited about things since, apparently, that didn't happen as much anymore. (Shannon's face had pulled tight at that, half-annoyed, half-looking like she sucked on a lemon.)

When Buck had said that he'd been to the Griffith Park Observatory (he left out the part where he'd stumbled there while high and tried to have sex in the park), Chris looked at his mom, eyes wide and asked if Buck could please please please take him there. She just smiled fondly and said that it was up to Buck and his dad. Buck just thought she didn't have the heart to tell him no, he couldn't go to the park with a strange man who was probably a little unstable.

But they eventually had to go, Chris giving him an awkward hug (due to the angle) and Shannon patting his shoulder fondly, both promising to see him soon.

(Fuck, when was the last time someone said "see you soon" to Buck? And actually fucking meant it?)

When the door had shut behind them, Buck realized how exhausted he was, slumping back on the pillows and his eyes immediately falling closed. Distantly, he heard the door open again, and there was someone shuffling around his bed. Normally, he would immediately sit up straight, eyes wide, and demand to know what was happening, and he was about to do just that, when Caroline's voice whispered that she was just checking his vitals and then she was going to let him sleep.

He drifted off once again—he didn't think ODing and apparently going into cardiac arrest would be so tiring, but it was like all he could do was sleep—half-heartedly wishing that Eddie would come by soon. That way, with the sunlight that Christopher always seemed to carry around, Shannon's somewhat stiff attempts at comfort, and Eddie's...just the Eddie of it all, would be enough that he might not need to wake back up.

His dreams weren't particularly new or haunting, just brief glimpses of pain and flashing lights that could have been from the party or the ambulance or the pier alongside faces he couldn't make out hovering over him and hands he didn't know on his body and just pain and an ache he didn't know where it came from.

Another nurse, not Caroline, woke him up close to ten and briefly took his blood pressure and temperature, changing out the bag hooked up to his IV. Apparently, feeling like absolute hell meant that his body had "reacted well" to the detoxification process. After the medical detox, there wasn't a whole lot the hospital could do except let him dry out for the rest of the night, let his ribs heal on their own, and recommend he seek professional help for addiction treatment.

Fat chance of getting clean when you fuck your coke dealer so you could have a place to live, he thought miserably before falling back to sleep once more.

When he woke up, Caroline was back with a smile on her face and saying that he was free to go once the discharge papers were filled out and he had a ride home.

She left him with the paperwork and a sinking sensation in his stomach. Who the fuck am I going to call? He thought, looking despondently at the forms in his hands, his eyes drifting to his jeans, stained t-shirt, and jacket from the night of the pier sitting at the corner of the bed.

He really didn't want to put that fucking shirt back on.

There was something on the front of it that was probably his own bile, there was blood staining the collar, plus it hadn't really been that clean to begin with. His head was pounding, his limbs felt like jelly, and he knew that if he tried to put those clothes on...

"Hey, man," Eddie said gently, knocking once on the doorframe.

Buck's head snapped up and there was Eddie, standing in the doorway in a Henley pushed up to his elbows, exposing a script-looking tattoo around his left forearm (Buck definitely did not think about the double ring tatt he had on his right arm almost in the exact same place), and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His hair looked damp and was falling in his eyes, and he looked so—

"I'm guessing you probably want a jailbreak right about now."

Buck managed a weak smile, ducking his head in a meager attempt to hide his flaming cheeks, but he looked up as he said, "Is that what this is?"

Eddie shrugged, closing the door behind him and dumping the bag on the bed next to Buck. "I told you I'd be back this morning. I also said that you could call me for a ride," he looked pointedly at Buck, but he ducked his head sheepishly. "But Caroline also called me and said you were getting discharged this morning, figured you needed a ride and a change of clothes."

Both men turned to look at the sad pile of Buck's clothes, Eddie's mouth twisting in distaste before smoothing out.

"I brought you some things," he carried, opening the duffle as if that sentence didn't just blow Buck's mind.

"Hey, you didn't have to do that," Buck argued, looking away from the clothes in the bag—it looked like Eddie had brought fucking options. "You don't owe me shit."

"This isn't about owing, Buck," Eddie stressed, his voice still soft. "I want to help. Let me help."

I'm here, I'm not leaving.

"What if I don't want to feel like I owe you?" He mumbled, almost inaudible. He wasn't sure if it would be better or worse if Eddie heard him.

There was a charged silence in the air, and Buck stared at his hands in his lap, picking at the skin around his nails until it hurt. He was terrified of what he would see if he looked up.

"You helped Christopher call us last night." Eddie's voice had taken on a strained quality, and when Buck looked up, brown eyes were practically staring into his soul. "That's worth a lot to me, personally. So if you want to think of this as me paying you back..."

Buck shook his head at that, because he didn't want Eddie to feel like he should be indebted to Buck of all people. Nothing Buck did would ever be enough, it never was.

"Take the damn clothes, Buck. I don't want you walking out of here ass-out in that hospital gown, because I'm sure you definitely don't want to put those clothes back on."

He huffed out a laugh at that, torn between wanting to make a joke about all the fun they could have with Buck's ass out and breaking down at Eddie understanding the clothes dilemma without Buck having to explain.

As he reached for the duffle, Eddie leaned back looking like the cat that got the cream and there was an ache in Buck's chest, but it didn't feel like it normally did—like his ribs were crumbling in on themselves and into the black hole where his heart should be. It felt like...butterflies, but that sounded stupid and childish. He pulled out a pair of gray sweat joggers that he pulled on underneath his hospital gown—thankfully his boxers had made it through the ordeal relatively unscathed, he just needed to change them ASAP—and struggled to pull a t-shirt over his head, his arms barely able to raise above his head before his ribs protested fervently.

(When he shed  his hospital, he realized much too late that this was the second time Eddie was seeing him shirtless and he should have made more of a point, but when he looked over, Eddie was staring up at the ceiling, keeping a low hum of conversation about his job.)

(What he didn't notice was the flush climbing up the back of Eddie's neck, well hidden by his complexion.)

There was a strong temptation to grab the hoodie with the LAFD logo on the front, but he settled on the plain black zip-up instead. He looked ridiculous in the sweats and his boots (they weren't super messed up, thankfully, because he and Eddie weren't the same shoe size), his hair all limp and greasy, two days worth of blond stubble on his face.

He's also been told repeatedly that if his stubble grows out more than a couple days it starts to look...well, not good is what the comments boiled down to.

"Do you want help with the discharge forms?" Eddie asked gently. "I know there's always a lot of repetition on those things."

Buck appreciated the offer, but he shook his head. He wanted to say that Eddie had already done more than enough, but based on the previous conversation, he didn't think that would be well-received. "Thanks, but it's fine."

With a nod, Eddie just leaned back in his chair, not pushing the matter. They fell silent except for the pen scratching across the paper as Buck filled out the paperwork. He was so not looking forward to the bill, he already felt his insides cringing at the thought of how much overtime he was going to need to get, wondering where else he was going to find a job that him work railed. It was a short list with no good choices.

Caroline came in, gave him one last check, and took his paperwork. She disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Eddie and Buck in comfortable silence, and when she returned, she had a pamphlet and a bright smile.

"You're all set to go, Mr. Buckley!" She declared cheerfully, hands clasped in front of her chest. "This is for you," she handed the pamphlet to him, "your test results will be back in a few weeks, and we can forward them to the address you put on the intake paperwork."

"Thank you," he mumbled, avoiding Eddie's gaze. The drug screening results had come back that first night—thankfully, the shit he was on hadn't been laced with anything more dangerous than the usual aspirin and whatever else it was usually cut with—but he'd had them do an STI screening as well, unable to shake the dream (memory) of that guy at the party coming inside him.

"And let me know if you think any more about what I said!" Caroline winked, but then she was leaving the room in a whirl of blonde hair and pink scrubs, leaving Buck burning red in the face at her insinuations (and at the brochure in his hands for narcotics abuse and addiction).

"Good to go?" Eddie asked simply.

Buck nodded, pocketing his phone and wallet (obviously the hospital had confiscated his drugs and he was pretty sure he'd had a bottle of something the night before, but he must have lost that) and stood up. Eddie followed him out of the hospital wing, through the lobby, touching his elbow lightly to steer him towards a semi-beat-up-looking truck.

"This is me," he said, heading around to the driver's side.

Buck stared at the passenger side of the truck for what must've been a beat too long because Eddie was coming back over, putting a hand between Buck's shoulder blades. Just like the tap to his elbow seconds before, the touch was so light, but the warmth of Eddie felt like it was burning him through his clothes. His breath hitched in his chest, but he forced himself to relax. Despite the touch, Eddie stayed a reasonable distance away, looking at Buck with a face so devoid of judgement it almost made Buck weak.

But his head was pounding, and he didn't want to puke in Eddie's car. "You don't actually have to drive me back."

With a roll of his eyes, Eddie leveled him with a 'bullshit detected' look. "Right. And you think I'm going to be taking you back to your apartment?"

"Are you planning to abduct me?" Buck shot back and raised an eyebrow.

"No, but I was at least going to let you have a home-cooked meal first," Eddie shrugged. When Buck looked at him with his own 'you're joking' expression, Eddie ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Okay, if I tried to cook for you, you'd be back here in an hour. But my abuela brought over some food when she heard what happened. Which means we have enough homemade Mexican food to feed a small army, so you're certainly welcome to some."

The grin that spread over Buck's face couldn't be contained. Not having to immediately figure out what to cook for himself definitely put going to Eddie's in the pro column. (The lack of easy access to drugs and alcohol in the con, because he wasn't sure if he wanted it to be a pro yet.)

But then, Eddie shifted on his feet, his hand dropping from Buck's back. His back immediately felt cold, and his heart dropped.

"What?" He asked, his voice tight and anxious. Here is where the other shoe dropped. Where there were conditions and rules that he had already broken, the lines he'd already crossed.

"Nothing," Eddie shook his head, his expression still clouded. "Just hop in."

Buck did as he was told, and they were off to Eddie's, rock music playing on low on the radio, the windows down so he could get fresh air to stave off the nausea (windows which Buck hadn't even asked to be rolled down), and Eddie asking him about Christopher and Shannon's visit, his love for his son blatantly obvious.

Soon, they stopped at a bungalow in the Valley, South Glendale—not too far from the grocery store where they met for the first time, Buck noted—and Eddie got out of the car, nodding at Buck to follow.

He hesitated though, one step off the porch. If he walked through...should he walk through? He was already here, so he might as well, right? But maybe it was just his withdrawal-addled mind playing tricks on him. Maybe Eddie really just wanted some peace and quiet from the druggie slut who'd been taking up his time these past couple days. Maybe he should just call an Uber (even though his phone was dead and he definitely didn't have the data for Uber) and be gone before Eddie noticed.

Buck looked at the front door of the house, knowing there was homemade food, somewhere to sleep that didn't require a blowjob, and Eddie, who looked at him with kindness and touched him softly. (He knew that if he stepped inside, he ran the risk of getting attached, getting addicted, but he wanted to know if he also would feel like this was someplace that he wanted to be.)

He stepped inside.

Chapter Text

For a second there, Eddie wasn't sure if Buck was even going to get in the car, never mind actually accept a meal from him. It didn't seem to matter to Buck that it looked like he hadn't eaten properly in weeks, and Caroline had pulled him aside at the hospital to tell him that Buck needed plenty of rest, fluids, and TLC. (She said that last one with such a smirk, Eddie felt his face flush, feeling like he just got called out, but for what, he wasn't totally sure.)

But watching Buck turn slowly in the living room like he wanted to take in every inch of the small, one floor bungalow, Eddie felt something clench in his chest. What was so fascinating about his secondhand furniture that didn't match (at least according to Ana) and the LEGOs strewn over the floor?

"It's not much but..." he trailed off, suddenly feeling defensive. This house was in a decent school district—not the best, but close enough to the private school he and Shannon finally moved Chris to—and it was close to Abuela and Tia Pepa. And it was the best he could afford.

He knows Chris deserves more, Chris deserves the entire fucking world, but this is all Eddie can give him right now, and if that doesn't eat him up inside—

"I think it's pretty fucking great!" Buck interrupted, turning to him with a grin before his entire face turned red and his eyes widened. "Oh shit...I mean, is-is Christopher here? D-did he hear? Fuck, I'm sorry. Oh...wait—"

Eddie laughed, putting a hand up to put Buck out of his misery. "Chris is at his mom's today, she's been looking after him this weekend, but they'll probably be over this afternoon. Also, you really doubled down on the cursing while trying to apologize for cursing, didn't expect that."

The corner of Buck's mouth ticked upwards in a smile. "So...I was promised food..." he trailed off suggestively (not in the kind of suggestiveness that colored his tone in almost all of their previous interactions, but the leading kind where he didn't want to outright ask for something and was hoping Eddie would understand).

"In here, pendejo," he said fondly, tilting his head towards the kitchen. "I'm shit in the kitchen but one of the skills I have mastered is reheating other people's cooking."

Buck laughed, following closely behind, and he looked excited when Eddie pulled outa glass dish full of cold sopa de lima. Eddie's knowledge in the kitchen pretty much began and ended with reheating Abuela's cooking, so he just dumped the entire contents of the container into a pot and turned the stove on to a lower simmer. As the sopa started to reheat, Eddie leaned back against the counter to get a better look at the man standing in his kitchen.

He thought he might be insane, Shannon's words still echoing in the back of his mind—soft spots for strays and hopeless...he might not want your help—but he shoved her voice aside. He was just being helpful, this was a guy, clearly down on his luck, who had helped Eddie out in the past, he wasn't going to let him go back to his life without thanking him first.

Without trying to help.

(There was an even smaller voice that somehow sounded like both his parents together asking him if he was blind, deaf, or stupid to let someone using drugs around Christopher. Telling him that exposing his son to "that kind of people" would only hurt Chris in the long run.)

(Telling him that this was just one more way in which he was failing his son.)

Buck was fidgeting from where he was standing in the middle of the room, his shoulders hunched almost like he was trying to make himself smaller—a ridiculous feat for a man over six foot, and even though he was malnourished, his shoulders were broad and his arms looked...strong. He was also clearly waiting for Eddie to make the first move.

And since he had chickened out earlier, even though Buck looked like he was going to bolt before their food was ready, now might be a good time to ask...

He couldn't let Buck walk out not knowing how much Eddie wanted to help, that he knew there had to be more to his story—and maybe this was his savior complex or his guilt talking—but he wouldn't be himself if he didn't try.

"You can crash here if you want," he blurted out, wincing at his lack of tact. And based on the way Buck's head snapped up, his eyes wide and mouth open, there were probably better ways to state that. "I mean...you don't seem very thrilled with your living situation right now, and," fuck, Eddie has never been this ungraceful trying to talk—he was a man who always thought before he spoke, choosing his words carefully, but now he was just barreling ahead, hoping he was being clear (probably not though), "if it's better for you...the couch is decent, and, like I mentioned, the food—"

"What the fuck?" Buck demanded, and Eddie's mouth slammed shut with a click. He probably should've expected anger. "I don't need your fucking pity, man, and you don't know the first thing about me or-or my 'living situation,' so you can just fuck off."

Now Eddie was starting to feel his own anger, because, yeah, he knew this was probably going to grate on Buck's pride, but he wasn't trying to act like he understood or to pity him. "I know you don't trust your roommate enough to pick you up from the hospital after you fucking OD'd."

"Well, he'd probably be too high to drive anyways," Buck fired back, blue eyes fiery but sad. "I could've just called an Uber. God, this was a mistake, I'm gonna' go."

He turned to leave, his shoulders still tense and hunched, and Eddie let out a harsh breath in an attempt to calm himself. You are a first responder, he told himself, drowning out the intrusive thoughts that said he should just let Buck go. It'd be irresponsible to know an overdose victim went back to the one supplying him drugs and to not at least try to help. That's just basic fucking human decency.

"Buck," Eddie breathed out, his anger gone as quickly as it had arrived. "Wait."

The blond froze at the world, almost unnaturally still, silhouetted in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Chris is going to want to see you." And it was probably the coward's way out, using his kid as a shield, but it wasn't like he was lying. Shannon had told him Chris was demanding to see Buck once he was out of the hospital. "And...I'm not asking you to change or get clean, but...I can't help but feel like," he took a deep breath, wondering if this was going too far, "like you might be safer here."

Buck still hadn't said a word, and that in an of itself was enough to freak Eddie out, because he might not know Buck that well, but he got the feeling that he wasn't often quiet. It was enough to get his heart skipping a couple beats in panic, thinking he had completely overstepped.

"Sorry if I'm stepping on your toes or anything like that," he muttered. But he refused to break eye contact—Buck had to know he was serious, that he meant what he said.

There was a tense pause, Buck still holding himself like he was about to get shot, eyes downcast and his shoulders a line of tension. In fact, the silence stretched on long enough that Eddie wanted to shift on his feet, to try and break the silence, but he had experience outwaiting his seven year old and the Diazes were famously very stubborn.

True to form, it only took two minutes before Buck was grinding out, "Dinner."

"One week."

"One night."

"Three days."

"One day, two nights."

Eddie tried not to appear so smug, his face still full of placid concern and determination, but he was glad about the agreement. "Deal," he grinned, sticking out his hand for Buck to shake.

Tentatively, the blond reached out, his palm calloused and warm as he gripped Eddie's hand. He opened his mouth to argue, but Eddie just turned around and took the pot off the stove, taking a ladle and some bowls, serving them both a heaping portion.

"Eat." He pointed at the food, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you're wasting away over there."

"Drug habits don't exactly leave room for a balanced diet," Buck muttered half-heartedly, but he dug into his food like he was starving and hadn't eaten in a week.

Eddie rolled his eyes at the comment but said nothing—if Buck thought he was going to scare him off by continuing to bring up the fact that he used...he had another thing coming.

Because he'd been around guys in the army who used—after they came back, while they were overseas—and he wasn't going to be scared off. He knew using could be a coping mechanism (an incredibly unhealthy one obviously but not one without reason) and that it was more than likely Buck was just hurting.

For someone who didn't like change all that much, who clung to his control with an iron grip, having another person around for his day off and all the random chores he had to get done around the house wasn't as frustrating as he would've thought. Much less that he hardly knew the person he was sharing the space with.

Shannon hardly stuck around for very long after the hand-off of Christopher—sometimes he'd invite her in for a beer, and they'd sit on opposite sides of the table talking about their jobs or just drinking in silence—but on special occasions, like birthdays or holidays, she'd stick around or he'd linger at her place. But they certainly never shared any real domestic routines outside of occasionally putting Christopher to bed together.

On the other hand, Ana was around much more frequently, but she was never really interested in just sharing the space with him and Chris. She preferred to plan activities, even if they were just at home, wanting to have a baking day (which ended in disaster due to Eddie's lack of culinary skills apparently being genetic) or bringing over educational activities for them to do. And once Chris was asleep, it became about making out on the couch and maybe going further than that depending on if Eddie had the energy to put up a front or not.

But with Buck, they drifted in silence around the house for a couple hours, Buck clearly unsure about where he fit and Eddie trying to play the good host, but the role had never really fit him. At one point, he left Buck in the family room with the TV on—he's kind of unclear on the details, but he got the impression that Buck's never seen a lot of movies, next to none really—and Netflix queued up while he tried to fix the pipe under his sink that'd been leaking for the past few weeks.

Then, when Buck heard him cursing up a storm because he nearly brained himself on the pipe trying to find the right screwdriver, blind and one-handed, he joined him. And Eddie found out that it actually felt good to have someone hand him tools as he tried to fix his sink.

And when he couldn't do it, Buck quickly stepped in and said that he fixed stuff around his crappy apartment and the dive bar where he worked all the time, and had it done in two minutes flat.

(Eddie definitely did not find his eyes glued to the strip of skin on Buck's stomach that was exposed as he crawled under the sink and his shirt pulled up to expose his abs. How was he malnourished and managed to have abs?)

From then on, they got more things crossed off Eddie's To Do list than he's managed to finish in at least six months—fixing the loose steps on the front porch; changing all the batteries in the smoke detectors; getting a new shoer chair installed in the bathroom for Chris; cleaning out the pantry. And, within the first hour, Buck started talking. Not about anything serious, but random little facts every so often, his face lighting up when Eddie asked him how he knew so much trivia, a blush coating his cheeks when he remarked on his memory.

The steady stream of banter helped pass the time, and he didn't realize until he caught sight of himself in the mirror that he was smiling. Legitimately smiling, and he couldn't remember the last time he had done that without Christopher being involved in some capacity.

And then, the knock at the door, followed by the sound of it opening and Chris and Shannon's voices echoing, he couldn't help but feel his smile grow wider.

When he turned around, he caught a glimpse of Buck tensing up like he expected to be attacked or was trying to be invisible, but his focus was on his son running full steam ahead. His backpack looked to be dumped on the floor near the entryway and Christopher had broken free of Shannon and threw his arms around Buck's legs.

Eddie tried to hold back a laugh at the dumbstruck expression on Buck's face, looking like he just got hit over the head with a frying pan. Shannon's eyes were glinting with something that might have been tears, but she just caught his eye and winked, her own face radiating happiness and pride.

He nodded back at her, knowing exactly how she was feeling what she was thinking: their kid was the best. So joyful and full of empathy and compassion and intelligence—he wondered how they got so lucky sometimes.

"H-hey, bud," Buck patted Chris' head awkwardly, looking nervously between Shannon and Eddie. When they both gave him nods, he crouched down and wrapped his arms lightly around Chris, hiding a wince masterfully. "It's okay, I'm...it's okay."

Chris pulled back first, looking Buck up and down as if appraising him or scanning for injuries. "You don't have to go back to the hospital?"

Clearing his throat, Buck knelt down, keeping his eyes on Chris. "Yeah...the-the doctors and nurses fixed me up real good. And I'm not-not hurt or anything like that...just a little sick."

Tilting his head, Chris didn't look like he was buying it. "You fell...did you hit your head? And if you were sick, are you all better now?"

Welcome to the joys of having a curious elementary schooler, Eddie thought with a smirk. Asking all the questions you didn't know how to answer.

"Uh," Buck coughed, shifting on his feet. "No, no I didn't hit my head, but...this isn't the kind of sickness that goes away right away."

"Like CP?"

All the air was sucked from the room, and Eddie caught Buck's wide eyes as they shot up to his—the younger man looked positively terrified—but both Eddie and Shannon fixed him with looks that said, 'he's only going to want to hear this from you.' And Eddie trusted Buck to make sure that he made what was happening easy for Chris to understand.

"No," Buck replied firmly. "It's not quite like CP. It's...you remember what I said yesterday? That it was grown up food and drinks that made me sick?" Chris nodded, staying quiet and listening. "Well, it's going to be hard not to eat and drink what I did before because...that's what I was used to. I-it's called, um, addiction, my brain makes me want those things even though, even though I know they're bad for me. But...if something's making you sick or hurt, then you should try as hard as you can to stop. Do you, do you understand?"

Chris nodded again, scrunching his nose up like Eddie did when he was thinking. "So, you're gonna' try really hard to get better?"

Buck sucked in a gulp of air, sounding a little like he'd been punch. "I'll try," he promised. "For you, okay?"

Eddie was so going to hold him to that—it was probably unfair to do so, but Buck had just made a promise to his son, and he was going to do everything he could to make sure Chris wasn't let down by someone else.

"Well," Shannon announced, discreetly wiping under her eye as she put on a bright smile. "I think this calls for some afternoon ice cream, what do you think, Eddie?"

"Sounds like a plan," Eddie grinned, crouching down to finally hug Christopher, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "You're amazing, kid," he whispered, so incredibly proud of what had just happened.

Chris beamed up at him before following Shannon into the kitchen, tugging on Buck's hand—crutches abandoned with his backpack—for the blond to come with, talking about his day.

Eddie squeezed by Buck in the doorway, the shoulders brushing for the briefest moment, and Eddie clapped the other man on the shoulder, giving it a light squeeze that he hoped conveyed, 'good job' and 'thank you,' but he wasn't sure if that came across base don the way Buck's head tilted to the side in confusion. Although he never broke the stream of conversation with Christopher.

The four of them sat around the table—Chris refusing to leave Buck's side, enamored with his new friend—eating bowls of chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, and butterscotch (for Eddie, who is now never going to live it down to Buck that he is a prematurely old man). Christopher led most of the conversation, rehashing his latest friend drama for Eddie and then going into detailed tangents about how he met each person to get Buck up to speed.

Eddie smiled to himself as he watched Buck trying to absorb about fifteen different names and stories at once, but the blond looked like he was actively trying to remember, not just humoring Chris like many were wont to do. And he couldn't help but notice that the line of tension across his shoulders was gone.

He knew that Shannon probably had work to do, but when he suggested that she was free to leave if she had other things to do, she didn't take it as Eddie not accepting her presence (it had taken a long time to get to the point where they didn't fight every time one of them asked the other to leave Chris with them, and it had even happened just the other week) but she just smiled and pulled out her laptop.

"I can work from here," she grinned, looking at Chris pointedly. "Christopher and I can work on our homework together, isn't that right?"

Chris nodded a little reluctantly, getting up to go get his backpack, Buck helping him down from his chair.

"I can get started on dinner," Buck muttered, looking at the table before Chris had come back. "It's the least—"

Eddie just stopped him right there. "Everyone had an exciting week, I think we deserve take out today, don't you think?"

Shannon looked bemused, but she didn't say anything, just kept looking at her computer booting up and Chris was as enthusiastic as always.

Buck looked semi-defeated, but he nodded, a flicker of relief showing on his face before disappearing.

Tapping Buck on the shoulder, he nodded towards the living room where they had been getting started on finally hooking up the Switch Shannon had got Chris for his birthday to the TV—he'd been begging to play it on a big screen, but Eddie had been so busy the past couple weekends he hadn't gotten around to it. They didn't talk much, letting the quiet clack of Shannon's typing and the scratch of Chris working through his homework wash over them.

One time, Chris had gotten stuck on a science question and both Eddie and Shannon were no help, but Buck, who had been lingering in the background, peering over Eddie's shoulder, had quietly pointed out where they were all going wrong. After that, Buck was the designated homework helper and Eddie ordered the pizza.

Shannon nodded towards the kitchen for them to get the plates and utensils, but Eddie knew it was more of an excuse to get him alone to talk. He just wasn't sure if it was going to be a positive chat or a negative one.

"So Buck, huh..." Shannon teased, and she had already taken this better than he would expect anyone to, but this open, lighthearted ribbing was not in the realm of what he'd thought the conversation would be like. "He seems nice."

"Yeah," Eddie replied, still a little unsure of how to continue. "I mean, I saw him on a call once and he was the one who helped Chris at the grocery store a couple months ago, so I thought..."

"What?" She raised an eyebrow. "That he's your guardian angel? Come on, Eddie, I didn't think you still believed in...I didn't think you put a lot of stock in fate."

"I don't," Eddie bit back. "It's just coincidence, but I'm not going to let him go back without thanking him." He paused, hanging his head, his arms stiff as he braced himself on the island. "I'm just trying to help. I know you don't want Chris in the house, but the least I can do is give the guy the couch to crash on while he comes down."

"He's looking remarkably good for someone who OD'd forty hours ago," Shannon remarked.

Eddie nodded, because Buck did seem to be doing better, but he knew he was in no place to judge what his recovery—good or bad—was going to look like.

"And I know you just want to help, and Buck's a good guy," she continued. "I mean, you spend five minutes with the guy and he wins you over."

He smiled at that, looking over to where Buck was sitting next to Chris, both of them focused on second grade homework but neither looking put off by it.

"Oh, now I see," Shannon poked him in the side, and he looked at her in confusion. "You totally have a thing for him." His eyes widened in panic, and he opened his mouth to stop her, to correct her, but she just kept talking. "You could've told me, you know. I mean, I'm bi so I don't know why you felt the need to hide from me, but—"

"That's not it, Shan," Eddie interrupted, his tone a little more forceful than was probably necessary. "He's flirted with me a couple times but that's how he is. And I am definitely not, not anything."

She looked at him, almost like she was reading his mind, but she nodded once, squeezing his hand briefly, something unnamable and unknowable in her eyes. Thankfully, Eddie was saved from having to continue the conversation by the doorbell ringing for the pizza.

It seemed like before long Chris was starting to yawn and Shannon looked genuinely regretful about having to take him home. Buck gave him a hug, and Christopher made him promise once again, pressing one of his homemade cards into Buck's hands, that he would try to get better—Eddie made a mental note to talk to Chris, wondering if he had seen more than he thought. Shannon gave Eddie and Buck quick hugs before she was carrying Chris out to the car and their rear headlights were gone from view.

After that, Buck's entire demeanor changed, he suddenly looked wiped, staggering onto the couch and flopping down. With a grin and shake of his head, Eddie went to the linen closet to get the spare set of sheets.

Although, as he was pulling them out, his phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to check his texts. He cringed at the sight of the missed calls and texts from Ana, he had thought she was at a seminar for her PhD, but it had apparently been canceled. Her most recent text made it clear that she expected him to make the most of it.

[Ana Flores]: I have a free evening and I know Chris is with his mother today. Do you want to spend the night?

His heart managed to both beat too fast and stop at the same time. It had been how any hours and he'd forgotten to tell Ana about...everything. Fuck. he shoved the phone in his pocket and resolved to text her back after he got Buck set up. Fuck, he was such a shitty boyfriend.

(And he should be leaping at the chance to have a full night with his girlfriend—helping a friend or not. But it wasn't like he could kick Buck out, and she was probably pissed at him for not responding. He could never seem to get on the right foot with her—it didn't help that Shannon's words from earlier were rattling in his skull—but that just meant he had to try harder.)

As he came back into the living room, his heart doing something weird again at the sight of Buck sitting on the edge of the couch, somehow looking completely out of place but also a little like he didn't want to be anywhere else. His fingers were toying with the edge of a blanket and his eyes were downcast. It was like déjà vu to his morning, when he refused to look Eddie in the face when he offered the couch.

"You're not-not worried that I'll, I don't know, steal the silver?" He said it like he was joking, but his voice was too close to cracking for Eddie to believe that he wasn't being serious.

To be fair, Eddie wasn't a total idiot, he knows that people can do anything if they're desperate enough, he's seen the evidence on calls occasionally (and in the desert), and Buck was clearly nothing if not desperate. He just wasn't sure if it was the kind of desperation that led to stolen cash and injuries.

"Well, we don't actually have any real silver, so you're shit outta' luck if that's your plan," Eddie shrugged, placing the spare set of sheets and an extra pillow he never used on the couch next to Buck. "And don't give me that face," he smirked as Buck's eyes turned big and pleading, knowing he was probably coming up with another argument, "Chris is staying with his mom tomorrow night too if that's what you're worried about."

"Good," Buck sighed, almost like he was relieved that Christopher wouldn't be around. Like he was afraid of what he would do.

"But even if he wasn't..." Eddie started, but Buck leveled him with a knowing look, so he changed tracks. "If you wanted to hurt Chris, you had plenty of opportunity that night at the pier. And given that you were a step away from ODing the entire time, I'd say you were more inclined to hurt him then. Not now."

"Come downs are shit," Buck grumbled, still refusing to meet his eyes. "You don't want him to see me like this. You shouldn't have to see me like this."

Eddie sat down on the couch, inches of space between their thighs but he could somehow feel the heat of Buck's body—although that might be the fever. "Tell me what I can do to help."

Chapter Text

Tell me what I can do to help.

Buck sat with his mouth open, trying to figure out how the fuck to respond to that.  He stared blankly at the floor in front of him, because when he tried to meet Eddie's gaze, he was nearly sucked into the depths of his warm brown eyes full of concern and sincerity and goodness that he couldn't afford to drown in.

I'm here...I'm not leaving.

It had only been ten hours, and he hadn't really settled into the idea that Eddie just blatantly trusted him. With meeting Chris, with staying in his house. His head had been killing him the whole day, and he had thrown up after lunch—sandwiches that Eddie made this time—but Eddie hadn't even commented. He just handed Buck a can of ginger ale without a word and they got back to the million little things that he hadn't realized came with having a house.

(In the back of his mind, he couldn't help that, you know, underneath feeling like hammered shit, he actually liked the little taste of domesticity he got this afternoon.)

(And every time that thought floated to the surface, he shoved it back down because he knew that soon the buzzing underneath his skin was going to get worse and he would have to go back to his apartment and when that happened, he knew he would be weak enough to fall right back into his old habits.)

(But he desperately wished he was strong enough to hold onto this suburban dream for a little longer than two nights.)

"You can't help," he finally said. Because it was the truth. As good and kind and bright as this entire place was (as Eddie was), it couldn't touch the black hole in his chest, the parts of him that were broken from coke and too many days spent blacked out drunk and one night stands that left him dirtied to the core.

Eddie didn't say anything, but Buck could tell that he wanted to. He just sat there. Barely half a foot from Buck like he wasn't afraid to get corrupted by him.

"You shouldn't be helping me," he muttered, even though he really wanted to say, 'You shouldn't have saved me.'

"Well, I am, so you should probably get used to it," Eddie replied, his tone light, almost joking, but when Buck looked over, his eyes were steady as they looked at him.

I'm here...I'm not leaving.

"Even if I try to jump you and steal the silver?" Buck joked back, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He may not deserve Eddie's help, but it was clear that trying to fight him about it would not lead to any kind of progress.

Eddie chuckled, tilting his head and a contemplative look on his face. But his eyes were dark and heavy on Buck's face. "I know MMA, Buck, I think we'll be fine."

Yeah, he was definitely not picturing how hot Eddie would look shirtless in the ring, all sweaty and bloody. Nope, his thoughts definitely didn't go there.

He shrugged, turning back on the charm a little bit, but it felt a little easier this time, more natural. "I could still take you," he shrugged, his mouth tugging up in a grin, his aches and pains fading underneath a haze of anticipation.

"You think?" Eddie shot back, his voice a low rumble.

"I know," Buck replied cockily, not believing it for a second. But fuck if he didn't want Eddie to try and pin him. "You wanna' go for the title?"

For a second, he thought Eddie was going to go for it. Buck was leaning back slightly, legs falling open just the slightest bit, but there was no mistaking his intention—he wanted Eddie to slide in between and just take. It looked like Eddie was in better shape than Buck, his muscles the result of actual use (as a firefighter, another drool-worthy profession that had supplied a not insignificant amount of Buck's fantasies lately) and not from the gym like Buck's. And it was an open secret that he liked to get tossed around a little during sex, he couldn't imagine if Eddie was the one twisting him around to press against a wall, pinning Buck face-down on the bed, all lithe power and grace ready to just take what Buck wanted to give.

And for that split second in the charged air, he saw Eddie's eyes flick down to his lips, his own legs falling open the slightest bit—and if that didn't just make Buck want to crawl into his lap, grind his half-hard dick into Eddie's hips, knee, whatever, and seal their lips together.

But as soon as that moment was there, it was gone, Eddie clearing his throat and standing up, his face impassive. "Um, I should probably tell you...I'm seeing someone, a woman, her name's Ana. She's probably going to be coming around soon, probably tomorrow since I accidentally blew her off tonight."

And that was Buck's stomach hitting the floor, his heart somewhere next to it.

How fucking stupid could he be? Eddie told him that day at the grocery store that he didn't swing that way, he had been married to a woman, he's dating one now, why the fuck did Buck still think Eddie would be attracted to him?

Even if he was into guys, which this was just the ultimate confirmation that he was not, there's absolutely no way he would be into Buck. No one who saw how actually fucked up he is—Maddie and his parents included—thought he was worth sticking around for.

Right? He was the guys brides-to-be fucked the night before their wedding so they could have one last taste of the "wild life." He's the guy who's only good to come back to for orgies in shitty motels as long as he wasn't the one you went home with afterwards. He's good for one night stands and quickies in dirty bar bathrooms and blowjobs in dark corners of a club.

He's not the one for fancy dinners and early morning cuddles and talking and touches that didn't lead to being naked.

When would he get that through his thick skull?

"You're probably tired," Eddie said, and he seemed a little more stressed than normal, his voice a little tighter. Buck thinks he might have been talking, but he hadn't been listening. "There's a shower in the main bedroom's bathroom if you want to get washed up. "I'm...I should probably call my girlfriend."

Normally, Buck would argue—bathrooms were personal spaces and here was Eddie, once again ignoring every barrier that should be in place to keep people like Buck separate, showing him kindness without even seeming to think—but he was so dumbstruck he just nodded.

Eddie disappeared...somewhere, while Buck stayed staring at the dark TV screen across from the couch. His head was spinning in a million different directions, just causing his entire brain to hurt even more. And, when he realized he could see his reflection in the TV—his hair a mess, face glistening with sweat and cheeks sunken...he looked like he just came in off the street (which wasn't far from the truth)—he averted his eyes, standing up abruptly.

He made it through the shower mostly on autopilot, whatever last reserves of his energy and adrenaline carrying him through. Although at one point, he had a wave of nausea so bad, he practically fell, sliding down the tiled wall until he was crouched on the floor, his head tipped back to catch the cool spray as he tried not to pass out or vomit (or both), taking shallow breaths to avoid feeling like he was being stabbed in the lungs.

When he turned the water off—still crouched at the bottom of the tub like a wild animal—and tried to catch his breath, he heard Eddie's voice not far away. He was talking quickly all in Spanish, and his voice seemed agitated (and normally, that voice speaking Spanish would get Buck going, but he was clearly talking to his girlfriend, and Buck didn't think he could get it up even if Eddie came in stark naked and gave him a lap dance) but his voice soon started to fade away, so Buck focused on getting dressed.

Climbing out of the tub with shaky legs, he wrapped a towel around his waist, unable to find the energy to dry himself even though he felt bad dripping water onto Eddie's floors. Buck stared at himself in the mirror—cheeks flushed from exertion or maybe the fever; pale all over; bruises still scattered at his hips and ribs, all the way up to his collarbone even though it'd been a few days since he fucked that guy at the party, although some were definitely from his fractured ribs; that birthmark that seemed to be a visual reminder that he would never be perfect, so why even fucking try?—and he grinned humorlessly at himself.

"Fuckin' defective," he slurred, feeling himself sway on his feet.

Not bothering to dry off, he changed back into the sweats and hoodie Eddie had lent him this morning, not bothering with the t-shirt, leaving it on the bathroom floor. He didn't think he had the motor skills to put it on and the world had started to tilt on its axis again.

Stumbling back out, he barely registered anything in Eddie's room, making a beeline to the couch, needing to get horizontal (needing a line) before he crumbled to the ground. He heard Eddie still shuffling around in the kitchen, but he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regulate his breathing.

He could not pass out here. He could not burden Eddie anymore. He had to fight past this.

Turning over, he felt tears leak out of his eyes because he knew there was no way he was going to be able to do any of what he needed to do. He was too weak, too broken, and as he turned his head, catching the faintest hint of clean laundry and something sharp and nature-y, he felt himself succumbing to the exhaustion and the come down that had been nipping at his heels all day

His eyes struggled to open in the morning, the low light stabbing his corneas, and he had spent the whole night tossing and turning or shivering in a ball, trying not to have a complete breakdown. His entire body felt like it had been through the meat grinder, and he felt both overheated and freezing, cold sweat sticking to his body.

There was something burning in the vicinity, although that wasn't exactly new, what was new was that the something burning seemed to be bread, and not weed or coke.

Forcing one eye open, he barely caught a glimpse of Eddie through the kitchen doorway, although it looked like he was running around frantically, and foreign curses helped him wake up all the way as he tried to decipher what he was saying.

He tried to sit up, but was wracked with such intense vertigo, his stomach rolling around like it was on a roller coaster that he knew what was coming next wouldn't be good. Sprinting to the bathroom—well, more like stumbling like a baby deer, limbs flying barely coordinated—he just made it to the toilet before everything was coming up.

His entire body was shaking when he was done, feeling like the insides of his throat had just been burned through and scraped raw. He washed his hands slowly, unable to stop the tremors, before making his way back to the living room.

Eddie was mindlessly fiddling with the plates of blackened toast on the table, clearly trying to look busy. It was a good thing Buck didn't think he could handle any food right now, because he really didn't want to offend Eddie by pointing out that he had somehow managed to burn bread, something Buck had even learned how not to do.

"Sorry," Buck muttered, sitting down at the table, keeping his eyes focused on the plate in front of him, "I don't think I'm going to be able to keep anything down."

Eddie shook his head, chuckling a little, "I would say you don't have to fake being sick to get out of eating my cooking, but I should probably learn how to get used to that reaction."

Buck wanted to laugh, to let Eddie know that he didn't take offense to anything, but his head was pounding the inside of his skull, right behind his eyes, and he had to grimace and look away when he tried to meet Eddie's gaze.

"Hey, it's okay," Eddie said quietly, and it was like Buck blinked and the other man was crouched by his side—not touching, but close enough that he could make out the worry in his brown eyes. "What do you need?"

"More coke," Buck answered wryly. And it was the cold hard fucking truth. The only thing that would make him feel less like this kind of shit, was the hair of the dog and all that.

(It would make him feel like a different kind of shit, but at least he wouldn't feel like he was minutes from dying.)

Eddie grimaced, and he knew that he was choosing his words carefully. "You know I can't get you that, but...is there something else you can replace it with? Cigarettes?"

"Don't smoke," Buck laughed, the motion grating his throat.

"I know, but if they could help..." he trailed off, likely knowing that nothing could really take all of the pain away.

"D-don't let Chris come by...see-see me like th-this," he managed to get out, feeling weird telling Eddie what to do when it came to his son, but no one should see him like this, much less a seven year old.

"If that's what you want, of course," Eddie replied immediately. Buck didn't know when the last time someone actually accepted what he wanted without question and realizing that Eddie was trusting him, made him want to cry. A steady hand creeped into his field of vision, and Buck had plenty of time to shy away or say no before Eddie's hand landed on his shoulder.

His thumb brushed Buck's pulse point, and he took a shaky breath in, the touch hot but in a way that didn't feel like he was about to burn horribly. It was grounding in a way, something to focus on that wasn't the pain.

"And..." Eddie paused, his voice stressed, "if you, if you really want to go back...you're free to stay here as long as you want, I want you to know that. But...I'm not going to stop you from leaving if...if you're really in that much pain."

Buck felt his insides twist up again, his chest feeling like it was caving in—it was an out and he should take it. He knew that Eddie probably didn't want to deal with him, his weakness, his fucked-upped-ness, but there was something in the way he saw Christopher's LEGOs out of the corner of his eye, Eddie's sweatshirt wrapped around his bare skin that made him pause.

Made him wonder if the pain was worth it, losing them.

"I'm just gonna' go back to the couch," Buck mumbled, so quietly he hadn't really realized he had said anything until Eddie was nodding, helping him up so he could stagger to the couch. "Try not to die."

"Sounds like a plan," Eddie said, part-joking part-serious. "I don't need the cops looking into the random dead body in my apartment. I'd never be able to sell."

Buck vaguely comprehended the joke and felt something brush his hair for the briefest of moments before the pain took over once again.

Hershey was known as the Sweetest Place on Earth, and while that might be true for the amusement park or the chocolate factory, the suburbs were just like any other upper-middle class WASP-y suburbia in Pennsylvania. Full of kids to play with, summers at the pool, and Little League games taking up weekends.

For a while growing up, Buck didn't even realize that it was strange that Maddie was the one taking him to the pool or to his games—first on the handlebars of her bike, then the Jeep their parents bought her for her sixteenth birthday. He assumed that everyone's parents were just always busy working and that their houses were just as cold and sterile as his.

He fell once, riding his bike. It was just an accident—Maddie was only thirteen and Buck had found an old bike that looked like it would fit him in the back of the garage, and he wanted to try.

But the frightened screams of his parents when they saw him startled him and he lost control of the bike and crashed.

His knee was scraped up and the pain hurt but this was the most his parents had ever talked to him so he kept riding the bike, and if he fell again, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

His entire body was aching, his clothes sticking to his skin, tacky with sweat. He'd always had a knee that acted up in bad weather, cramping unnecessarily when he was working out, and right now it felt like if he shattered it, it would hurt less.

He knew that he wasn't as strong as he should be, his body taking a toll over the years, but it was nothing compared to how weak he was in his head.

Somewhere in his fucked up mind, he knew that there were people who could just walk away from a line or a shot or sex, but he could never. Whatever he could do to get people to look at him for just one more minute he would do. If that meant joining in on a line or shotgunning a joint or giving head, he would do it happily.

And at some point, he stopped doing those things to get attention and started craving them because they got him attention.

Needy...clingy...greedy...selfish, he was all that and more. And the worst part was he knew it.

And if this fucking pain in his knee would just go away maybe he could focus on something other than how weak and ugly he was. Just a fucking abomination of issues and sex drive.

Kids were assholes, everyone knew that. And Buck couldn't act like he hadn't said mean things to his friends before because it got the guys on the football team to laugh and invite him to eat lunch with them.

So he knew it was just what kids did. And at fourteen, everyone was starting to get crueler, and the insults were pointed—more focused on who was having sex and who wasn't. What made someone desirable and what didn't.

What made people different and what made them just like everyone else.

Buck knew that the second Trevor's face coiled up in disgust that he had made a mistake that would probably cost him a lot more than just a "no" at homecoming. And when his eyes glanced over just to the left side of his face, he hated that he knew what was coming.

When it was done, he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floorboards and just disappear, hearing the whispers already starting to spread through the hallway. When Maddie came to pick him up and she asked what was wrong, his face all blotchy and gross, he wanted to yell at her not to look at him. (And when his parents didn't notice when he came home, he wanted to scream at them to notice him.) But when he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he knew there was no way anyone would look at him with desire.

The words his ex-best friend spat at him, drowning out everything else in his head: "I didn't know you were a fag, Spot."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," a soft but deep voice murmured, the warmth of a hand on his knee. Gently, he felt himself being maneuvered onto his back, his energy spent as he sunk into the pillows. "You don't want to do that."

"I r'lly do," he mumbled, although his determination was gone, exhaustion taking over. He couldn't find the energy to open his eyes, but he wasn't sure what he would find if he did.

The warmth just intensified—was someone squeezing his knee?—and he heard a quiet chuckle, but it sounded sad.

"I know it hurts."

Something was in his hair now, fingers maybe? But it couldn't be, he doesn't remember anyone but Maddie willing to touch him like that...to comfort.

Then, the fingers trailed down the side of his face, pressing gently just above his left eye and Buck felt his entire body tense at the contact. He couldn't take it...not right now when his body was trying to kill him, and his mind was fucked up...he couldn't take the usual comments. The disgust, because scars and bruises were hot, but a birthmark was just...a defect.

But there was just a light pressure before the warmth was gone, leaving that spot feeling like it wasn't a part of him anymore.

"It's okay...just rest."

Hershey was finally in the fucking rearview, and Buck couldn't be happier (well, he could have done without the existential crisis, but he literally couldn't give a shit now). He was in a club, in some city he'd never been to, with people who didn't know him, and it was fucking fantastic!

There was a girl grinding on him, and she let him drink from her glass because he was nineteen and could bluff his way past the bouncer, but no bartender was going to serve him.

But it didn't matter because he was drunk on the atmosphere and the attention and the little bit of martini he'd had.

God, because someone's hands were on him and the girl was moaning, "God, you're so fucking hot...fuck, I want you so bad," and he never wanted this to end.

And there was a guy in the corner with a square jaw that looked like he wanted to eat Buck alive, and although Buck knew that part of himself was just another one of his broken parts, he didn't give a shit. Two people wanted him!

And when it was over—after the girl had pulled him into the bathroom, letting him bend her over the sink; after the guy had tugged him into the alley and pushed him to his knees—when he opened his mouth (his stupid fucking mouth that had only gotten him in trouble) to ask if they should do it again, they both said the same thing.

"We both know that's not what this is...why ruin a good thing?"

Buck wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when he opened his eyes, he didn't immediately feel like vomiting or like the lights were going to blind him. His vision was still hazy and he couldn't focus, but his mind was a little quieter.

Maybe the worst of it was over. (Probably not, it wouldn't be until he got his hands on some blow, but he could hope.)

It was quiet too, which was something he wasn't normally used to, and it made his skin itch. Like he would just disappear if no one was around to notice. Like he was that paradox that said how can you really be sure things existed when something isn't looking at them? He was like that sometimes, he was really only real when someone was looking at him.

"Hey, man," Eddie's voice pulled his focus, and fuck if his greedy, clingy brain didn't just grab on to how attractive he looked, hair fluffy and t-shirt showing forearms and that tattoo that he just wanted to trace over and over until he knew what it said. "How're you doing?"

But he couldn't talk, couldn't show Eddie even more of his fucked up underbelly because then he'd have to leave. He was a good thing now—Eddie clearly liked to help people, and Buck needed help—but once he realized that Buck wasn't fixable, wasn't even real sometimes...why mess with a good thing?

So he just rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go to sleep, wishing that when he woke up it would have just been a hallucination, a fever dream.

The party was in full swing, lights dim and flashing, music pumping, and Buck was right in the thick of it. He wasn't quite sure how he ended up at a frat party in upstate New York, but he followed some guys from Virginia Beach up here. He was only twenty, so he was working for a construction company in the city, but the ocean was calling his name.

The East Coast still felt too close to Hershey for his liking. He needed to put as much distance between himself and that empty house as possible—the whole continent didn't seem like enough sometimes.

"You want in?" His friend's voice asked. Buck hadn't realized, but TK had pulled him upstairs where a group of his frat brothers were gathered around a table.

"Sure," Buck shrugged, sitting down in a circle, welcomed by pats on the back and a hand on his ass from the one guy he's been hooking up with for the past week. He was always sneaking in and out of the house at weird hours, Dylan wanting to keep things "low-key" between them.

That was how he'd met TK, sneaking out of Dylan's room at midnight and the other guy told him that he knew there was at least one closeted guy in the house. ("My gay-dar is immaculate," TK had said.)

TK had snorted a line, nudging Buck in the ribs as he coughed. "Fuck, remind me why I stick to pills."

"Because your dad'll notice if you start a coke habit," Buck shot back.

TK laughed and shoved his shoulder. The two had gotten close in the past week—although they never hooked up because TK didn't do closet cases and Buck wasn't exactly out, and it was way more fun just to get tipsy on wine coolers and dish about boys—and Buck wondered if he bothered to stick around, if he would eventually be TK's friend. He hadn't had one of those in a while.

Almost without thinking, Buck leaned down and snorted a line. The feeling of numbness hit his system and then he was flying—his thoughts quieted and his entire body feeling lax and weightless and electrified.

"Let me fucking go, Eddie," Buck growled, his skin practically on fire with the need. He needed booze or weed or someone to fuck the thoughts out of him, but he really just needed more coke.

"You're going to pass out before you get three steps out the door," he said, the bastard calm and composed, one hand burning an imprint on his chest.

"Fine. Then I don't have to fucking feel like this anymore!" Buck knew he sounded pathetic, his voice breaking, hands clawing at his own chest to get that feeling out of him.

Not good enough fuck up disappointment

(Needy clingy pathetic weak slutty)

"Buck," Eddie's voice was firm, hands grabbing his tight enough that he stopped trying to gouge himself but loose enough that it didn't hurt. "Do you need me to drive you home?"

What Eddie didn't know was that he didn't have a home.

He doesn't really know how he ended up in Peru. Doesn't really know how he got a passport even, because he definitely never had one growing up.

But criss-crossing the country was fun for a while—Montana was the best, all wide open plains and sky, and so few people Buck felt like he could take up space—hopping from one place to another one, job to job, bed to bed, living in hostels and motels and his car.

And then he just kept driving south, some of his ranch hand friends getting tired of Montana and heading to Peru for better everything—better girls, better drinks, better jobs, better drugs—and he didn't have anywhere else to go.

He had thought it would be hard to find coke in Big Sky country but with almost nothing to do for miles, it was a prime spot for drugs to change hands and make life a little more fun.

Peru was the opposite, but the coke was nearly indiscriminate from the sand on the beaches, and Buck showed up to his bartending job railed and went home with someone new each night.

And then, his dealer said that he was going to LA after tourist season was over, and Buck turned away from the movie on the screen behind the bar—some cheesy 80s movie about firefighters—and figured there was nothing tying him to Peru, why not following the one person who could stand him when he came down? The one who kept bringing him the coke and go find somewhere (someone) else that would take him for a bit.

Buck must have drifted back out of consciousness because the last thing he remembered was Eddie's hands on his chest, and he wished he could have taken better advantage of the other man practically straddling him to keep Buck from hurting himself.

(A twisted part of him wondered that if he'd tried to start something with Eddie, he would have let Buck go, either out of disgust or if once Buck had fulfilled his purpose, Eddie wouldn't care what happened to him anymore.)

He could hardly move, that black hole eating through his chest—defective—and he felt like he was sucking the life out of the house by being there. Eddie and Chris didn't deserve what he would do to them in the long run. He wanted to get up and just leave while Eddie was distracted—he heard him on the phone in the other room, his voice hushed which meant he was probably talking to Christopher—but he couldn't make himself get off the couch.

"Defective," he whispered to himself. That reminder eating away at him more than the addiction ever could.

Buck couldn't believe it. He was standing in the foyer of his house—this great, big, empty house that he never felt at home in—and his parents were looking at him and for once he wished they wouldn't.

The photograph in his hand was shaking and it took Buck a second to realize that it was because his hand was trembling. Nineteen years old and he was realizing that he...that he...

"Daniel was sick" His mother was shouting, tears in her eyes. "He needed a transplant and, and none..."

"You couldn't save your brother." His father was more blunt about it.

Everything was finally clicking into place though. Why they were pissed every time he ended up in the hospital with another injury from an "accident." Why they called him "invincible" and told him that he "needs too much attention." Why Maddie never called him back after she married Doug.

He was a reminder of what they had all lost. His big brother had needed his bone marrow, and he was a match. Two years old and he'd already failed at his purpose in life.

They thought he thought himself invincible because Daniel should have been saved and Buck was throwing his life away.

They hated when he cried for attention—whether as a baby with his tears or now with his recklessness—because looking at him was just a reminder of the son who should still be here.

As he ran to the Jeep, Maddie had given it to him as a birthday present when he turned sixteen—the last time he'd seen her in person after the wedding—his parents didn't even try to stop him. But he heard his mother's voice in his ear even as he watched the Hershey sign fade in the rearview.

"Your bone marrow...it was defective."

Chapter Text

"Ana, you know I'm busy. I can't just drop everything—" Eddie started, feeling frustrated and on edge. Things with Ana were supposed to be easy...perfect.

"Christopher is with his mother, and I know you don't have a shift today," Ana interrupted, sounding hurt and sad even over the phone. "So, I don't know why I can't come over. We are dating, Edmundo, and it still feels like you're hiding something from me."

Eddie felt himself wince at that because she wasn't wrong, he was keeping quite a few things from her—how he got his Silver Star, his nightmares, the ugliness of his family, Shannon's abandonment, his own failings as a father partner husband son (take your pick)—but there was kind of a big one that was actually relevant to this conversation.

"Ana," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face in an attempt to calm himself, "you remember how a couple nights ago, Christopher ran away?"

"You mean that disastrous dinner because you introduced me to Shannon too early, so she had the upper hand?" Ana shot back, clearly still hurt about what had been said.

"Yeah, that one," he continued, a little of his exhaustion leaking through. "Well, you know the guy who helped Christopher at the pier?" After a hum of acknowledgement because he already knew she didn't approve of Buck even interacting with Chris while high (which, on principle, Eddie understood, but there were extenuating circumstances and Buck hadn't hurt or scared Chris any more than he would've been...plus he made sure Chris didn't see him pass out), he took a deep breath. "He's crashing on the couch for a few nights."

There was a dead silence on the other end of the line, and it went on for so long that Eddie pulled his cell away from his ear to make sure that the call was even still connected.

"Ana..." he tried to prompt her to say something, anything, but she stayed silent.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and he heard Buck shuffling around, so he knew that he was going to have to beg off in another minute or so to make sure the younger man wasn't hurt by overexerting himself because he didn't want to ask for help.

(And yes, Eddie was aware that he could be a hypocrite when it came to certain things.)

"Call me when you get the chance." Came Ana's calm voice (her "teacher voice" as Chris liked to say), and before Eddie could even reply, the line was dead.

He stared at the black phone screen for a solid minute, before a thump and a muffled curse drew his attention.

Walking back into the living room, shoving his phone in his pocket, he sighed (a little bit in sadness, a little bit in relief) when he saw Buck. Thankfully, the blond had managed to stay standing, but he was leaning against the wall where it ended at the hallway, his hand clenched around the corner until his knuckles were white.

His head was tipped back and resting against the wall, his eyes closed, and he would've looked almost peaceful if it weren't for the sheen of sweat covering his face. Eddie noted that it would probably be a good time to convince him to take another shower and to change his clothes, but Buck's voice cut off that train of thought.

"Take me back to my place."

"What?" Eddie asked, disbelieving. Sure, it had been a rough eight hours, but it had seemed like his fever had broken and he was getting a bit more lucid when he was awake and less troubled when he was resting.

"Please," Buck pleaded, eyes opening and finding Eddie's. The blue was glassy with tears and glazed over. "I can't do this...it huts. I'm not...enough."

Getting shot in the shoulder again probably would've hurt less. He stepped closer to Buck, noting the way he shifted on his feet, eyes downcast, and how his breathing seemed to hitch. "If...if you're sure," he started slowly, because although he really really didn't want to take Buck back to his apartment (was in fact terrified that if he did, he wouldn't see Buck again, and then that would mean Chris never saw Buck again), he wasn't going to force Buck to stay.

(He knew that he couldn't force Buck to get sober. He would let him know that he had help and support, but he knew enough about addiction that it wouldn't stick if the person themselves didn't choose to get clean.)

"I'm not worried about you staying here," Eddie put a hand on Buck's shoulder, his thumb just brushing his neck, "if that's something you were concerned about. You're welcome to stay as long as you need. But...but I can drive you back to your place if you want, too. Whatever you need, it's entirely up to you."

Buck grimaced, but Eddie had a feeling that it was supposed to be a smile, wry and humorless as it was. "Can' go back," he shook his head. "Lose you an' Chris."

Buck..." Eddie drew the word out, heart breaking for the man in front of him—a stranger, practically—but Eddie had this pull in his gut that he was supposed to know him.

"Can' stay here," Buck continued, almost as if he hadn't heard Eddie. "'ll still lose you two."

"Buck." Eddie ducked his head, making sure that Buck's eyes were on his and that he was listening. Intently. "No matter what you choose, you won't lose Chris and me. I promise, we will be here for you, no matter what."

The silence in the room was charged and heavy, under different circumstances (and when Eddie had enough distance to think about it) their position would be considered almost intimate—Buck leaning against the wall, the scant few inches of space between them, Eddie's thumb on his pulse point (which was racing), the assuredness of his tone.

Buck's eyes were wide, but he closed them, and as he did, a tear escaped and ran down his cheek. His pulse jumped under Eddie's hand, but Eddie didn't flinch, determined to show Buck that he was telling the truth.

"I'm sorry..." Buck's voice was cracked and broken and so so scared. "I-I can't do it."

"Okay," Eddie said softly, making sure his tone was neutral and agreeable. He had been telling the truth—even if Buck kept up the drugs and partying, he would make an effort to make sure he knew he had a friend in him and Chris. "Why don't you take another shower, and I can pack you some leftovers and an extra pair of clothes."

Buck didn't open his eyes, but he nodded slowly, another tear leaking out of his eye. He didn't look like he was going anywhere anytime soon, so Eddie just squeezed his shoulder and turned around—the guy already didn't have any privacy or thought he didn't anyway—and went back to the kitchen.

When he heard slow footsteps and then the door to the bathroom close, Eddie let himself fall forward, gripping the edge of the island. His breath was shaky and wet as he tried to calm his racing heart. It was never a good experience, when you were in the field and some people were so frozen with fear that they didn't know that help had arrived. That they were safe now.

Some of the toughest calls Eddie had been on—some of the most difficult, heart-wrenching, horrific moments of his life—had been the ones where the person let go instead of fighting to hang on one moment longer. Whether that was someone losing their grip on the one thing holding them up right when Eddie reached them on a rope rescue, or someone flatlining in the ambulance before they got to the hospital and he had to perform CPR while Hen or Chim desperately tried to save them.

One of the hardest lessons he'd had to learn, in the military and with the 118, was that you couldn't save everyone. (What he'd learned from his father was that when you weren't good enough, you had to pack down everything that made you unworthy and to suck it up and move on and do better next time.)

But it was so hard to accept that he couldn't save everyone when Buck was right there in his living room, shivering and fighting so hard against the fever and whatever nightmares the withdrawal was bringing up.

His hands shook as he grabbed a soft-sided cooler, shoving in as many Tupperware containers as he could fit, and filling in the spaces with small things—fruit cups for Chris' lunches, candy, mini water bottles, energy drinks. Then, he grabbed some of the reusable grocery bags and started stuffing as much food as he could fit in them—granola bars he took to work, sleeves of crackers and cookies, fruit he hadn't put in the fridge, a whole box of cereal that Chris hated but Eddie loved.

The shower was still running when he finished, so he set everything by the door. With nothing else to do except wallow in his thoughts, Eddie grabbed a pen and paper. Shannon had started leaving notes in Christopher's lunches when he was deployed, silly little things that she always signed "Love, Dad." He doesn't know if he's ever thanked her for doing that. (He should thank her for that.)

He was just folding up the note when he heard the bathroom door open. Fuck, he forgot to get Buck new clothes. Quickly shoving the paper into the cooler, he ran back to his room, rummaging around until he found a pair of joggers, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt that would likely fit Buck.

"Sorry about that," he said, holding out the clothes, Buck standing in the hallway, a towel around his waist and looking like he's just been run over.

Buck just nodded, eyes still a little wide but he still refused to meet Eddie's gaze as he grabbed the clothes, ducking back into the bathroom to change.

As much as he wanted to, Eddie didn't fight Buck as they got in the car, ignoring his protests that Eddie had given him too much food and that he wouldn't take it all.

The drive back to Buck's apartment was nearly silent as the one from the hospital to Eddie's, but tense in a sad way. He didn't really want to think about why he kept feeling like he failed at yet another thing in his life, so he turned the radio to his usual radio station and let that drown out the thoughts pressing in at the corners of his mind.

(It didn't.)

Buck gave him directions in a quiet voice, almost like he was too scared of breaking whatever fragile tension had built over the past few days, even if Buck had been unconscious for one reason or another for most of that time.

Soon, Buck was directing him down streets where the city clearly didn't want to maintain as much as other areas—there were some overflowing trash cans, some weeds sticking out between the many cracks in the sidewalk, and he had to be more careful of potholes—but it wasn't unlike some of the poorer parts of El Paso.

"It's right here," Buck muttered, pointing listlessly at an apartment building eight stories high, the first level occupied by shops and a laundromat.

Eddie pulled around the back, parking the car, but neither one made a move to get out. Out of the corner of his eye, it looked like Buck was shaking, his face having gone sheet-white again. He assumed Buck wouldn't want to talk about what had happened when he was going through the worst of the shit earlier today. (He had already texted Shannon around lunchtime that Chris shouldn't stop by the house today, which was certainly going to earn him an earful from his ex and his son, but he knew Buck wouldn't want anyone to see him like that.)

"Whatever you need, Buck," he assured, softly, turning to look at him. "I know what I would prefer, I'm not going to pretend I don't have a preference, but I'm not going to be angry or upset because of your choice, okay?"

Buck shook his head, mouth twisting like he didn't believe him. "You know why I live here? What I do to pay for this place, right?"

Eddie winced but nodded. "You have mentioned something about living with and fucking your coke dealer," he hedged carefully.

"Then why the fuck aren't you running in the other direction?" Buck spat out, trying to sound angry but there was too much sadness in his voice, in his eyes, for Eddie to believe it. "Why...just why?"

"Buck," Eddie turned nearly fully in his seat, making sure Buck was looking at him (he was two seconds from taking Buck's hand in his, but he held back), "I will say this however many times you need to hear it...you helped Christopher. Fastest way to get into my good books, and the fastest way to get on my bad side is to hurt him. And, I know, you wouldn't do that intentionally," when he raised an eyebrow as Buck clearly went to protest—probably something about how Eddie didn't really know him—Buck quickly snapped his mouth shut. "And I meant it when I said you aren't going to lose Chris but...I can't have him getting hurt. Again."

He had said that last word so quietly, he hadn't realized it was aloud until Buck respodned.

"What do you mean 'again'?"

With a sigh, Eddie finally broke eye contact, looking down at his lap to gather the courage to tell, at least the bare bones version of the worst years of his life. "I enlisted when I was twenty-two, right after Shannon found out she was pregnant." He heard Buck inhale sharply, but Eddie plowed on, "I held my kid for a week when he was a baby, and by the next time I got leave he was almost one. I watched Christopher grow up through shitty Wi-Fi connections from halfway around the world."

If Buck thought Eddie had any room to judge on poor life choices, this would certainly dissuade him of that notion.

"I re-upped without telling Shannon when Chris was diagnosed with CP," he admitted, feeling that familiar burn of shame guilt disgust self-loathing in his chest. Nothing he ever did to provide for Christopher now would ever make up for missing the first five years of his life.

"Eddie..." Buck trailed off, his voice sounding wrecked, but Eddie couldn't look at him.

"Shannon and I got married right when we found out she was expecting," this next part was slightly easier to explain, if only because Buck already knew he was divorced, "but it wasn't...we were too you, we weren't ready. To be married, to be parents, none of it. We fought every time I was home"—when we weren't distracting each other with sex, he added to himself—"and when I got back for the last time, she practically served me with divorce papers in the airport. She came to LA once it was finalized, I stayed in El Paso for another year before moving here too."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Buck admitted sadly. "I-I'm sure it wasn't your fault..."

Eddie shook his head to cut him off. "No, it was. I've had to live with the fact that I abandoned my son before he was even born because I was a coward. I've had to admit that I failed as a husband and a father before I was either. So I know about impossible choices, Buck, and I'm not going to judge your failures. Chris won't either. You just...you can't be high around him." That was his one hard line. He knew that Buck wouldn't get sober, but he couldn't be around his kid if he was fucked up.

"I know," Buck replied, and when Eddie finally looked up, the blond actually looked fairly sure of himself. "I won't be."

"Good," Eddie nodded. But, when neither of them moved, he cocked his head to look at Buck, studying him. "So, what do you want to do?"

Buck looked away, his shoulders hunching inwards. After taking a few shaking breaths, he looked back up at the apartment building sadly. "I still...I'm sorry, but I-I can't..."

"Okay," Eddie agreed softly, his voice calm and belying none of his hurt. "Let me help you carry some of this up then."

Between the two of them, they could bring everything up in one trip, but when they got to the top of the stairs, Buck just shifted around until he was able to open the door, because it was apparently unlocked.

Eddie just raised an eyebrow as he followed Buck inside, because he knew that Buck knew how dangerous it is to leave your door unlocked in the middle of LA.

"Who's gonna' want to steal from us?" Buck asked, responding to the unaired question, gesturing around at the apartment. And Eddie did have to admit that it was a pretty sparse space complete with ratty couches, dishes in the sink, and a coffee table with white powder still on top.

"I didn't say anything," Eddie responded, helping Buck put what needed to be refrigerated in the fridge that looked like it was on its last legs.

"Yeah, but you were thinking it." Buck's eyes kept dancing around, and based on the quiet in the apartment, Eddie figured they were the only ones here.

"Are you going to be okay?" He asked quietly, his mind still stuck on the cocaine on the coffee table, his fingers itching to dump it down the drain, and then turn the apartment upside down until the whole place was drug free.

"I have to be," he gritted out, eyes firmly on the empty cooler. He shoved it in Eddie's direction, but he shook his head, turning around to find Buck's room and put the rest of the groceries away there.

"This you?" He nodded to the one open doorway—the room inside practically bare bones, some bottles littering the floor and clothes hanging out of the drawers.

Buck's face turned a bright shade of red, but he nodded, brushing past Eddie, scrambling to put clothes away and make some attempt at cleaning up.

"I appreciate the effort, but I live with a seven year old," Eddie put a hand on Buck's shoulder to stop his frantic energy. "This is pretty much spotless to me."

With a nod, Buck straightened up, looking around the room, an unreadable expression on his face. But before Eddie could ask what was wrong (he looks lost, his mind unhelpfully supplied), the door opened, and it sounded like a lot more than just Buck's "roommate" was coming in.

"Fuck," Buck cursed quietly, ripping the bag from Eddie's hands and practically shoving him out of the room, before closing the door tightly behind him. "Time for you to go."

He protested, but Buck just kept his head pointed at the ground and trudged down the hallway and Eddie had no choice but to follow. In the living room, a good twenty to thirty people were there, most lounging on the couches, two guys were setting up speakers, and there were half a dozen people congregated in the kitchen, pulling out bottle after bottle of alcohol. Someone(s) must be smoking, because within the thirty seconds Eddie stood there, stunned at the scene that was unfolding in front of him like the start to a party in just about any movie, a thin smog had settled over the apartment.

"Come on," Buck grabbed  his arm, his voice and face serious, but his eyes were practically begging Eddie to get a move on.

They had barely made it two feet before a skinny guy a couple years older than Eddie with shoulder-length greasy hair was putting a hand on Buck's chest, stopping the two of them in their tracks.

"I thought you didn't bring people back here to fuck," the new guy slurred—Eddie assumed this was the roommate—swaying on his feet. (Eddie also did not like the way his hand kept rubbing back and forth over Buck's chest, and how Buck seemed frozen.) "Thought you were embarrassed of this shithole."

"Who says we fucked?" Buck retorted, but it sounded weak even to Eddie's ears.

"That mean you don't mind...paying rent a little early?" The guy managed to step even closer to Buck, his hand trailing down until it was hooked in the front of Buck's pants.

Without thinking, Eddie just stepped forward so he was even with Buck (maybe a little in front) and threw his arm around Buck's neck, pulling him into his body and away from the roommate. "I'm not big on sharing," he growled, not even bothering to mask the prickliness and anger in his tone. "Sorry." (He wasn't.)

Buck seemed to have fallen silent, and Eddie might be imagining things, but he thought Buck leaned into his side a little bit. Although he was careful not to touch Eddie more than necessary.

"Guess Pretty Boy isn't from your regular scene," the roommate eyed Eddie up and down with beady eyes, leering smugly. "Otherwise he'd know not to get so protective over the slut half the LA clubbing scene has fucked."

He was going to knock this smug fuck's teeth in.

But Buck managed to mutter something that Eddie couldn't hear over the roaring of blood in his ears, tugging him towards the door, and muscling through the growing crowd of people. By the time they had made it back down to the street, Eddie's blood had cooled, but he realized that he hadn't actually taken his arm away from around Buck's shoulders.

"Sorry about that," he muttered, still not feeling very sorry, but he retracted his arm, trying not to think about how much he had liked Buck under his arm, pressed against him.

"You could've let me handle it," he replied, looking at his feet, his face still (or again) such a bright red, his birthmark almost disappeared.

"Yeah, I was definitely going to let him call you a slut after he implied that we slept together. That's what good friends do," Eddie said sarcastically. "I'm guessing that's your roommate?"

Buck nodded, still not making eye contact, his shoulders hunched in. "Jeremy."

"Piece of work," he muttered, although there were much stronger words he wanted to use. "I can stay if you want. Keep him off your back for a little while."

He didn't mention that Buck still looked like shit and didn't seem like he was in any position to have sex and that it would maybe do him some good to have someone in his corner, at least for the night. (Eddie also didn't want to think about how it was turning out to be harder for him to let go of Buck than he had previously thought.)

Buck shook his head, finally looking up—something flickered behind his eyes, maybe frustration, maybe lust, maybe despair—mouth quirked upwards in a half-hearted grin. "Unless you want to make good on your promises, Eddie..." he hooked his thumbs into the tops of his (Eddie's) sweatpants, tugging them down just a bit to expose sharp hipbones and a light trail of hair.

His cheeks burned red at the insinuation, and although it seemed a little more forced (or genuine? Eddie was just confusing himself at this point), he still shook his head. "I guess I'll get going." He climbed into the cab of his truck, looking back out at Buck, soft smile tugging at the corners of Eddie's mouth. "I'm serious, text me anytime."

"Still no dick pics?" He asked cheekily, his own grin widening into something real.

"Still no..." Eddie started his car, turning the key but the piece of shit engine just turned over pathetically a couple of times before giving a loud bang and black smoke started leaking out from under the hood. "Maldito infierno," he cursed, slapping his hand against the steering wheel.

This was exactly the time he needed his truck to crap out on him. He had a shift in the morning, was all the way across town from his house, and he really didn't need the cost of the Uber or the tow truck right now. Thank God Chris was taken care of into the next day due to a combination of Shannon and Abuela, but Eddie still needed a functioning car to get around this fucking city whose streets were ninety percent traffic jams.

"You good?" Buck asked, sounding closer than before.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, because no, everything was not fine, but this was nothing compared to what Buck went through so he could suck it up. "Yeah. Damn truck was on its last legs anyway." If he hadn't been repairing it himself for the past three years, way past when he should've just bit the bullet and gotten a new car.

Buck clearly didn't believe him, but he let Eddie stew in silence for a little bit. Eddie heard the light crunch of gravel and figured Buck was doing that thing where he got restless when he was unsure of himself.

"You could stay here," he blurted out, not sounding happy about it.

"Yeah, you really sound thrilled about that idea, Buck," Eddie shot back, opening one eye to see Buck looking pained.

"Of course I fucking don't," Buck spat, throwing an arm out and gesturing to the parking lot and apartment building. "You think I want you anywhere near here? But-but you could get a-a-an Uber from here to work, and then one of your crewmates or you could call Shannon, a-an-and then they could take you home, and I-I think I know someone at the bar who works for a garage, and he could tow your car..."

Buck trailed off, but that was probably more due to the fact Eddie was looking at him, staring really, with so much awe and confusion it probably was starting to weird him out.

"Okay," he agreed, already planning on texting Pepa to let her know that Victor could be expecting yet another call from Eddie in the near future.

"Okay?" Buck echoed, tilting his head like a confused dog, unsure if what he had said was right.

"Yeah, okay," Eddie repeated, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders as he hopped back down from the cab. "I can crash here, keep Jeremy off your back for a night, make sure you don't go too hard and OD again, and it's probably a shorter Uber from here to the station than from here to my house." (It probably wasn't, but it wasn't enough of a difference that he could justify abandoning the other two reasons.)

"Okay," Buck ducked his head, looking up at Eddie from underneath his eyelashes.

"You ready to head back up there?" He tried for a joking tone, but he hoped Buck knew that if he needed a moment, Eddie was more than fine hanging out here for a little longer.

With a deep breath, Buck nodded, his blue eyes shuttering a little bit. "Might as well get it over with. Sorry in advance though...hot piece that you are, you're probably gonna' get groped a lot."

Shaking his head, Eddie just trailed after Buck back up the stairs. (He tried not to feel that possessive urge in him that was unerringly pleased to see "Diaz" stamped across the back of Buck's shoulders. Maybe that'll keep half of LA's clubbing scene away from Buck, he thought, then scolded himself for feeling so possessive.)

(Straight, Diaz. Get your head on straight. Literally. You'll flirt with him to keep skeezy guys like Jeremy away, but that doesn't mean you want to...just no.)

Buck stopped abruptly outside of the apartment door, some rap song Eddie could barely understand coming loudly through the door. "Oh, and..." picking up Eddie's arm, Buck quickly threw it back around his shoulders, squirming until he was neatly tucked against Eddie's side. His own hand slid down so that one of his fingers hooked into Eddie's belt loops, his knuckles burning where they brushed up against the smallest patch of skin like that day in the grocery store. "I'm probably going to be doing some of the groping. Sorry about that."

"You seem real torn up about it," Eddie grumped back, fighting the thrill in his chest at the idea—Buck smelled like his soap and conditioner, but there was something more, purely Buck, underneath it all—and at the line of heat that was now plastered against his side.

Walking back into the apartment, Eddie was immediately hit with music playing at a volume that would surely annoy the neighbors, the smell of both cigarette smoke and pot that did not mix well together, and about fifty drunk, intoxicated twenty to thirty-somethings who, thankfully, didn't notice Buck and Eddie.

"I swear, this is how a good half of the calls we get start," Eddie leaned over to shout in Buck's ear because that was the only way he would be able to hear him over the commotion of the party.

(He refused to register the shiver that had gone down Buck's spine at that. It was nearly invisible anyway. Probably the fever or the chills from the come down. Withdrawal. Whatever stage he was currently in.)

"I know," Buck turned his head to talk into Eddie's ear, his breath warm on the thin skin there. His eyes were dark, but that was probably just a trick of the light. "You saw me at one of those, remember?"

A flash of dark blue briefs and lots of pale skin dotted with ink crossed his mind, but he shoved it away just as quickly as it had come. "Not really."

Buck just leaned closer—if that was even possible, his hand now pressed flat against Eddie's hip and his lips brushed his ear—as they ambled in the direction of the kitchen. "Really? 'Cause I remember it took you a long time to remember where my eyes were."

Eddie couldn't help the faint tremble at the sensation, hoping he wasn't flushing to give away that he was absolutely mortified at having been caught checking Buck out that day.

(Which wasn't what he was doing in the first place, so why was he worried about what Buck thought?)

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer)

"Keep telling yourself that," he managed to cough out, Buck's smug face in his peripheral vision meant that he probably wasn't very convincing.

"Let's get you a drink," Buck seemed to have boundless energy all of a sudden—or maybe he was just interested to see the disaster that was going to be "Old Man Edmundo," as his sisters liked to call him, at this kind of party—as he tugged insistently on Eddie's jeans.

I am in way over my head, he thought, looking at the side of Buck's face and wondering if he should be way more terrified than he felt.

Chapter Text

If Buck didn't know any better, he'd assume he was high—the floaty feeling in his limbs, the twist in his gut, the sharp focus—but he's been counting and he's been painfully sober for forty-seven hours, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-five seconds. And most of that time, he'd been barely conscious and halfway lucid.

He even had to pinch himself on the inside of his thigh (discreetly) to check if he was still hallucinating and/or dreaming.

But, nope, Eddie really was in his shitty apartment, on his shitty couch. And more than that, his fucking arm was thrown over Buck's shoulders, as if to signal to everyone at the "party" that Buck was his. It was way too hot how he glared at Jeremy from across the room whenever the dealer had the bad luck of wandering into Eddie's line of sight.

(In the end, he knew it wouldn't do much but hold Jeremy off for a day, and once Eddie was gone...)

And the other clue that he was unfortunately not unconscious, was that his entire body still fucking hurt like he'd been run over with a semi-truck. Plus, with the whole atmosphere of the "party"—which was really just an excuse for everyone in Jeremy's circle to gather in one place, get high, get drunk, and get laid—his skin was itching, his brain pounding for some modicum of release. He knew that once he did that first line, he'd be good—his body would stop hurting, his mind would quiet, and then he'd really be riding high.

But he also knew that he wouldn't be able to stop at one. One line, one drink, one kiss. He's an addict through and through and he's a selfish greedy needy person deep down, so he knew he would fuck everything up without even trying. He's never known when to stop.

"You wanna' get some air?" Eddie asked, leaning in close to talk directly into Buck's ear. His warm breath combined with the arm around his shoulders apparently subconsciously tightening to pull him closer until he could smell Eddie's woodsy cologne, sent sparks all throughout his body, pooling low in his gut.

"Yeah," Buck nodded oh so coherently, barely able to tear his eyes away from where a couple of guys he couldn't remember the names of were setting up more lines of coke in the kitchen.

But thank fuck he did, because Eddie's eyes were dark and heated, and those sparks in his stomach ignited and started to burn a little hotter and was really making him question whether not being able to stop at one kiss would be worth it if he got just the barest taste of Eddie.

(Would losing the chance to get to know Chris and Eddie be worth it?)

Almost like he could hear Buck's thoughts, Eddie removed his arm from across his shoulders, leaving him feeling cold and adrift. But then he had to bite back what was sure to be an embarrassing moan from the feel of Eddie's hand hooking into the back of his sweats, the heat of him going from just being barely separated from his ass by the thin cotton, to his fingers brushing against the bare skin low on his back. And he was so glad that Past Buck decided that going commando was better than wearing the same pair of briefs for three days.

He's straight, he's straight, he's straight, Buck had to keep repeating to himself as they walked into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Thankfully, it was a little more secluded (barely) but, miraculously, the smoke hadn't seemed to settle there yet, so the air was clear and they would be able to actually hear each other.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be copping a feel," Buck teased, leaning in, one of his own hands slipping underneath Eddie's shirt to settle heavily on his side.

Is it possible to have that much muscle on your back? He thought wildly to himself, realizing that he was way too close to pitching a tent in his borrowed joggers.

Eddie just leaned in, maneuvering them so that Buck was leaning against the wall and Eddie almost boxing him in, one forearm resting on the wall next to his head, his hand playing with Buck's hair (and blocking the view of their faces, he realized significantly later), and leaning in until there was next to no space between their bodies.

"I can move if you want," he smirked, eyes dark as his hand snagged in Buck's tangled mess of curls, causing him to pull slightly, and this time, Buck wasn't so successful at hiding the groan that came with the sensation.

For a man who claimed to be straight (and not interested in Buck at that), he sure knew how to hit every single one of Buck's turn-ons at once.

"Don't you fucking dare." God, he already sounded fucked out, his head lolling back to rest against the wall. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for Eddie to take the opportunity and just start planting hickey after hickey on Buck. With those sharp canines, he bet Eddie could do some real damage, mark him up really well.

"You'd let me know if you...didn't want to be here, right?" Eddie looked unsure, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Buck was so distracted by that flash of pink that it took him an extra few seconds to register what he had said. "Or if you didn't and you want to...to take something but are worried about me..."

It was like an ice bath, but that was the kind of wake up call Buck knew he needed, and he couldn't decide if it was helpful or not that Eddie kept running his fingers through his hair, gently now, almost affectionate.

Because of fucking course he didn't want to be here, but here was all he knew, and he wasn't strong enough to go through the rest of the hell that was withdrawal and recovery at Eddie's and he didn't want to risk either Diaz seeing him more broken than they had already.

(Because nobody ever stayed when he was high, so why the fuck would Chris and Eddie stay when he was sober?)

"Where else am I supposed to be?" Buck retorted, a little bit of resentment for himself in his tone. And he knew Eddie didn't buy it, but he nodded, eyes going soft and sad in a way that made that black hole in him a little bigger.

He knew he was disappointing Eddie. It was impossible to miss the hurt and anger and frustration, and Buck had a lot of experience being a disappointment, he thinks he knows what it looks like by now. But that was the exact reason why he had to come back to this place, to his old life—because at least this way he wouldn't be surprised when he saw the inevitable disappointment in Eddie's eyes, because he knew he had caused it on purpose.

Eddie looked at him for a good long moment, and normally that would have Buck's heart racing, his fingers itching to dig a little deeper into Eddie's skin to pull him closer until they were touching in all the gaps they weren't. But now it just made him feel empty whatever he was seeing wasn't the Buck that could smirk and wink and charm his way into the pants of anyone he wanted for the night. It wasn't the Buck who made friends for an hour to share his coke with. It wasn't the Buck who could be the life of the party, practically screaming "look at me, look at me," so that he could feel real.

"Do you want me to leave?" Eddie asked, so quietly Buck shouldn't have been able to hear it. His eyes were big and sad, but he seemed serious. "If...if you're uncomfortable with me here...I mean, I wouldn't be happy about it, but I'd go."

Buck almost said no on instinct—that desperate thing inside him that made him want to tear himself in half if that was what someone else needed—but before he'd opened his mouth, those four fucking words came from Eddie yet again.

"Whatever you need, Buck."

He had to close his eyes, stop his heart from crawling out his throat, because he genuinely believed that Eddie would follow his lead. That Buck actually had the choice to do what made himself happy, to think about what he needed, not what everyone else needed. And that even if Eddie disagreed...maybe he wouldn't be disappointed.

"I...I want you to stay," Buck said haltingly, his eyes opening to meet Eddie's gaze. "I just..." His hand spasmed on Eddie's back, the warm touch almost grounding him.

(Like Eddie had been grounding him all night.)

"I just...I know if I-I start...I'm-I'm not going to be able to st-stop." He was unsure where the honesty was coming from, but it felt like a weight lifted off his chest, maybe not all the way, but it started to lighten.

Eddie nodded, "My captain...he's a former addict. He always says that you never stop being one...even if you're sober the rest of your life. I wish I could say it gets easier, but I'm not sure that's how it works."

For a moment, Buck wants to ask how a former addict became an LAFD captain, and if he could meet him, but that wounded too much like asking for help or like the sponsors that he read about in that stupid brochure from the hospital.

"I'm not strong enough to fight this fucking feeling every day of my life," he admitted, feeling his eyes start to burn. He was fucking defective, weak, needy...everything he was was the polar opposite of what a person needed to be to overcome something like this.

Eddie pulled that face of his that said he was about to argue, but they were interrupted right when he had opened his mouth.

"Well don't you two look cozy," Taylor's dry voice cut through the bubble they had seemingly formed in the hall. "I guess you didn't blow it, Buckley. Or maybe you did."

"Can I help you?" Eddie spat, hand moving from his back to grip Buck's hip tightly. His eyes were flashing but it didn't look like he recognized Taylor.

"Eddie, Taylor. Taylor, Eddie," Buck waved his free hand lamely between the two and the name seemed to click for Eddie. "What the hell are you doing here, Tay?"

"Veronica and I stopped our...thing, so I figured I might as well come here when I heard about it," she gestured to the rest of the party, but Buck knew she meant she had come here to scop out a new hook up. "And you're here so I figured I had a sure thing no matter what."

There was a strangled noise that came from Eddie and both Buck and Taylor turned to look at him in confusion. Even with Jeremy, he must not have realized just how much of a slut Buck really was, because "sure thing," was probably one of the nicest ways he'd ever been described when it came to casual sex.

"Can I help you?" Taylor raised an eyebrow in Eddie's direction, looking him up and down distastefully, her lip curling in partial disgust. "Buck and I were talking."

If smoke started pouring from Eddie's ears, Buck would not be surprised.

"We're a little busy at the moment," Eddie practically growled, which would be hot under different circumstances. Much different. Maybe not that different.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle with him," Taylor simpered, running a hand down Buck's arm, her long nails feeling like ants crawling over his skin.

Eddie's eyes flicked to Buck's as if he could read what Buck was thinking without having to talk. Hopefully, he managed to convey that Taylor was fine, that he didn't need the big chivalrous protection act with her, but Eddie didn't look convinced, his dark eyes clouded.

He flashed one more annoyed look at Taylor, before his entire body softened, falling onto Buck's, and then it became really hard to think because his blood was rushing south because holy fuck it felt nice to have Eddie's body pressed in a line against him, chest to chest, hips to hips. And he felt his knees go weak as Eddie leaned in, his lips brushing the ear opposite Taylor, sucking a little on the sensitive skin behind it, his hands gripping his hair and hip just that much tighter that had Buck feeling like he just stuck his finger in a light socket of pleasure.

"Let me know if you need anything," Eddie whispered, his voice low and dark and full of promise. And then his teeth tugged on Buck's earlobe as he pulled away, causing him to let out a moan, the sensations were a lot for him right now.

"Someone doesn't like sharing," Taylor remarked, and it took Buck a couple seconds to blink the haze of lust and arousal from his eyes.

"Y-yeah, he said something l-l-like that..." he trailed off, trying to remember who Eddie had said that to, but his brain was firing just a bit slower—Eddie's hands still felt like they were on him, like he would look down and there'd be an imprint of his fingers on his hips.

"Must not know you very well then," she grinned sharply, draping her arms around his shoulders. His hands went to her waist almost automatically to steady her on her insanely high heels, but it felt...off (wrong). "You miss me, babe?" She was looking up at him from beneath her lashes, lips just a hair's breadth away from his, and she was clearly angling for a kiss.

And it would be so easy to give in, his mind told him. His body screaming that this was what he deserved so he shouldn't pass up the chance.

(Needy clingy pathetic weak slutty)

Because Eddie was just doing this as a favor, he didn't actually want Buck, and why the fuck would he? And if Eddie wouldn't ever see him that way, then what was he doing wrong if he fucked Taylor?

(Why did it feel so wrong to think about?)

When she leaned in further, he tilted his head to the side, her lips brushing his neck. Taylor jolted backwards like she had been slapped, her face twisted in anger. "What the fuck? Mister Tall Dark and Brooding got you all twisted up or some shit?"

Buck ducked his head, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks—maybe it would just be easier to give in to Taylor, at least that way someone wouldn't be pissed off and disappointed with him. "I-I just...I'm trying to-to be...different."

Taylor scoffed, crossing her arms and tossing her hair. The dead air between them felt cold as she was almost on the other side of the hallway. "You know, I really needed a friend here, Buck. And I thought you of all people would understand what it's like to be left."

Even though she wasn't wrong, that didn't mean the words didn't hurt. "That's kind of a low blow, Tay."

"Don't fucking call me 'Tay' unless you're going to fuck me," Taylor spat. "God, you're just so fucking needy and selfish, but, news flash Buckley, not everything is about you. I mean, some friend you are...I've tried texting you about this shit the past couple days and you couldn't be bothered to respond!"

"I-I-I'm sorry...I didn't see," he stuttered out, feeling about two inches tall under Taylor's sharp gaze.

"And what the fuck do you mean by 'different,' anyways?" She asked, sounding like she hadn't even heard him talk. "Trying to get clean?" It came out so derisively, he knew that she didn't think he could do it. (Not like she was wrong, but it still hurt to hear.)

He shrugged noncommittally, refusing to meet her eyes, fascinated by the stains in the hallway's carpet—one kind of looked like Russia.

"Is Eddie forcing you to go clean or some shit?" Taylor snapped, her eyes hard. "Says he won't fuck you until you get clean...God, he probably thinks he's so much better than people like us, right?"

Buck wasn't going to say that Eddie definitely was a better person than both him and Taylor because, contrary to popular belief he did have some self-preservation instincts. But how could he explain that Eddie had actually brought him back because Buck had asked, knowing that it was going to lead to a relapse? And that while he definitely didn't want Buck to get back into the lifestyle that caused him to OD, he wanted Buck to have some kind of control.

(In the back of his mind, there was a voice that sounded way too much like Maddie that was telling him that maybe getting clean wouldn't be the worst thing.)

(Maybe this way he could show Eddie that he could be good enough for him and Chris. If he could get sober on his own...Eddie wouldn't have to deal with all of Buck's pathetic problems and see him so weak.)

Taylor looked away in mild disgust and/or disbelief and huffed. Buck turned to follow her eyeline and saw that Eddie was fiddling on his phone, not even looking in their direction, his entire body tense. "I doubt he's even into men," she said, although her voice was softer, colored by something that was probably pity.

"I know," Buck admitted, because pretending to be Buck's hookup for the day was way different than actually being attracted to men. (And even if he wasn't straight, there was absolutely zero guarantee he'd want Buck.)

Taylor rolled her eyes, looking him up and down again, her gaze dragging darkly over his body, but now Buck wasn't sure if it was because of her anger or lust. She stepped back into him, trailing kisses up his neck, sucking and biting until Buck's hips were jerking with aborted thrusts against hers, one of her hands coming down to cup him through his pants. Her other hand had found its way to the back of his neck, using the short hairs there to pull his head to the side, giving her more access to his throat.

His body was definitely on board with what she was doing, but Buck wasn't sure this was what he wanted anymore—but he couldn't find it in himself to pull away, to push away someone who was actually touching him, who wanted him if just for a little bit.

Fuck, Taylor was right, he was so fucking needy.

"I've got coke somewhere on me," she purred in his ear, rubbing his rapidly hardening erection, and his eyes immediately opened, flicking down to where her dark purple skirt and white crop-top thing that looked more like a bra or a bikini really eliminated the number of hiding places. "Find me when Saint Eduardo over there gets bored. I can give you what you deserve."

Buck didn't know how to respond, his entire focus on the fact that, just like for this entire freaking party, he was so fucking close to blow, but this time, it was literally within reach. He knew that if he just picked Taylor up, maybe fucked her against the wall, she'd share a line or two with him. And then he wouldn't have to worry about Eddie because that bridge would be burned.

And he was tempted. Fuck, was he tempted. It'd be so fucking easy to fall back into old habits, and it wasn't like his life was horrible before. He could go pack to that and fuck around for another few years or so.

(He didn't want to think about what would happen past these next two or three years, and he didn't want to think about how he wasn't actually happy and why he ended up on that pier three days ago.)

That black hole in his chest contracted at the thought, giving in was just so much easier and what would he even be fighting for? A chance with a man who surely wouldn't want him? A chance at friends (a family, his mind hissed traitorously), when he had plenty of friends now and it's not like family had ever done him any good.

Whatever you need, Buck.

Why did Eddie have to put that thought in his head? The idea that Buck could take what he wanted and not be a complete screw up. That he could just ask and he wouldn't be thought of as clingy or weak or defective.

And Taylor was still rubbing him off and sucking on his pulse point, and her fingers were twisted in his hair.

He was close (in way too many senses of the word) to falling over the edge.

But, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eddie, staring down at his phone, and by the soft look on his face, he figured it had something to do with Christopher.

"Maybe another time," he heard himself saying, his hands finally unclenching form his sides and gently pushing Taylor away. And maybe he felt that black hole shrink a little bit.

She huffed angrily and stomped away without another word, her red hair swinging back and forth across her back.

Somehow exhausted, Buck slumped against the wall, his head hitting the plaster with a thunk as he looked up at the ceiling. His entire body was cold, and that fucking headache was back, and he had no clue if he just fucked up by sending away the person with the ability to make it go away.

"Hey," Eddie said, drawing his attention. The other man looked sheepish before his face smoothed out into the neutral expression Buck was starting to hate. Buck ached to pull him closer, to feel some of that warmth heating him from the inside out as if to bring him to life, but Eddie had stopped a good few feet away.

With the clear gap between them, Buck tilted his head back and laughed, a harsh thing that barely sounded like him. There's no way Eddie didn't see Taylor's little display and so he must know now that Buck—

"See what I mean?" Buck lashed out, sounding bitter even to his own ears. He gestured towards himself weakly with one hand, "I'm really nothing but damaged parts."

"Buck..." Eddie protested softly, and he couldn't look to see whatever mix of pity and sympathy and disgust was on his face.

"You can fuck off now," Buck closed his eyes, resigned. His plan was so much better when he was just planning on pushing Eddie away...why did he stop again?

"Tough shit, I'm not leaving," Eddie retorted, and Buck should've known it was going to be harder to get him to leave him alone.

"Well, I'm about to go do some coke and fuck her so unless you want to join in, you can leave me the fuck alone," Buck spat, the lies tasting like tar in his mouth.

For a second, Eddie looked stunned, and Buck used that second to slip away into the main room, blending in with the crowd forming. The apartment wasn't very large, but it was also about three times over capacity, and Buck was tall, but he was used to hunching and hiding and he knew how to get lost in a crowd.

Plus, Eddie was ridiculously easy to keep track of, pushing through the crowd, causing people to exclaim in disgust when he jostled them, so it was easy for Buck to keep one step ahead of him. Buck ended up in the shadows of the stairwell—outside his apartment and down the hall—hugging his knees, his eyes tightly closed as he tried not to focus on the entire world spinning out from under him.

A week ago, he would have been back in his apartment, would probably have already hooked up with Taylor, would be at least half a dozen lines in, and absolutely plastered. And maybe he would've hated himself in the morning, but in the moment it would have felt like the best decision of his life. he would have been flying high, his mind empty except for whoever's hands were on him, whoever he could make feel good at the moment.

He wouldn't have been worrying about whether Hot Firefighter Dad Eddie thought he was a good person (he wasn't) or how badly he had traumatized a child. He wouldn't have to sit with his thoughts and wonder what the fuck he was doing with his life and what Maddie would be saying if she could see him now.

(The answers to those last two, were that he had no fucking clue what he was doing—and that really fucking terrified him—and Maddie would surely think he was just an overdramatic teenager throwing a tantrum for attention—which...maybe he was.)

(Maybe he was just screaming out so that someone would notice him, give him some scraps of attention he's been begging for his whole life. But he didn't want to be that person...the one who manipulates everyone around him with his selfish pathetic weak "poor me" routine so that everyone will focus on him.)

Tears leaked out of his eyes...was that what he was doing? No, he was making his own choices, he knew that, but that fucking black hole in his chest couldn't be filled. It just kept taking and taking from him and from everyone around him, and he didn't know how to fill it.

The door to the stairwell opened, and he wiped his eyes, putting his head down on his knees, and he hoped that whoever it was just passed him by. Being not quite real could have its benefits sometimes.

But of course he wasn't that lucky.

"I'm sorry...about earlier," Eddie said, because of course it had to be Eddie to find him like this.

He lifted his head and saw the other man sitting on the other side of the stairwell, looking out, his entire face impassive. Buck didn't say anything, wondering what the fuck Eddie had to apologize for—Buck was the one who had pretty much spat in Eddie's face when all he was trying to do was help.

"I...I got carried away," he continued, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "I didn't know you were...with someone, and I...I shouldn't have done everything with, you know, touching your hair and...kissing your neck."

He couldn't tell, but it looked like Eddie was turning a little red, and Buck desperately wanted to tell him that he had nothing to apologize for, that those touches were about the only ones he actually wanted the whole night. But he couldn't bring himself to admit it, because this is what he wanted, right? Distance from Eddie? But he also couldn't say that the whole—sucking on his neck, giving him a semi just from lightly tugging on his hair—wasn't absolutely confusing.

(But Eddie had actually come back, a treacherous voice reminded him. When was the last time someone actually found him when he was upset?)

"It was way over the line, so I'm sorry." Eddie took a deep breath, almost like he was bracing himself for Buck to be mad.

(When was the last time someone apologized to him? Sincerely? Especially when they didn't need to?)

"Don't apologize to me," Buck finally said, his voice a murmur in the quiet stairwell. "It wasn't your fault."

Eddie made a noise like he disagreed, "I still should've asked you first. And I really am sorry that I didn't."

There really wasn't anything that Buck could think of to say to that, other than to nod and accept the apology even if he didn't believe it was necessary. It should've been awkward, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of a darkened stairwell, but it wasn't. It actually felt kind of...good, knowing that Eddie cared enough to seek him out, even when Buck was being a brat and an asshole.

They stared there, not saying anything, until it sounded like people were starting to leave the apartment, the doorway opening, and drunk and high partygoers started stumbling down the stairs. Eddie just shot him a look, nodding his head back towards the door, and Buck just looked down and nodded. Eddie stood first, reaching a hand and pulling Buck to his feet—normally that would be unnecessary, but he was actually feeling pretty shaky and dead on his feet.)

The whole walk back into his apartment, Eddie's hand didn't leave his, the calloused palm warm and big in his own. It caused some sort of clench in his stomach—it wasn't lust or arousal, because he knew what those felt like and this wasn't it (okay, wasn't just it)—it was something...steadier, mor dependable.

(He thought it felt a lot like trust, but he couldn't bring himself to really hope for that. Or to even believe it.)

A quick scan of those who were still milling around in the living room showed that Taylor wasn't anywhere to be seen, Buck just prayed she hadn't decided to crash in his bed (it wouldn't have been the first time she slept over even though she was pissed at him). But he did see Jeremy lounging on the couch, two young frat-looking guys under his arms, giving him a leer as he watched Eddie pull him back towards his room.

He gulped, trying to keep the fear off his face, but he knew there was going to be hell to pay tomorrow.

Thankfully, Taylor wasn't in his room, and Eddie closed the door behind him. He gently pushed Buck towards the bed, shuffling around to get their phones plugged in, before slipping onto the other side of the bed.

Surprisingly, knowing he was going to sleep in the same bed as Eddie didn't give him the fun kind of warm fuzzies that he would have thought, and the second his head hit the pillow, he felt his eyelids start to grow heavy. But, when he turned on his side so his back was facing Eddie, he felt the other man's warmth right behind him, and it actually relaxed him instead of turning him on.

He heard Eddie's breath catch, almost like the other man wanted to say something, but "G'night, Buck," was all that came out.

Buck didn't reply, hoping Eddie would just leave it be, and if Buck didn't break whatever bubble or atmosphere they were in—if he didn't remind Eddie all that Buck was—they could live in it for a little longer. And it wasn't long before Eddie's breathing was evening out, and Buck's breath started to hitch in his throat.

He didn't want to cry, and he didn't know why he was starting to tear up. But then he saw a piece of paper sticking out of the front pocket of the cooler. Intrigued, he slowly extended an arm from where it had been curled up to his chest and plucked the paper out.

It was hard to read, but he used the light from his phone's screen to read the note Eddie had clearly written that morning. And then the tears started flowing in earnest, because he needed to try. He couldn't half-ass this whole sobriety thing...he had to get clean. There was so much doubt in his mind, but he had to do it.

We're always here for you, Buck. Anything you need. Love, Eddie and Christopher.

Chapter Text

Being with Ana...it was easy. Whenever the 118 or Abuela or Pepa or even Chris asked how his relationship with Ana was going, the answer was, without question: "Nice."

Their relationship was probably the polar opposite of his and Shannon's—temperate instead of icy, affection instead of passion—and that was exactly what Eddie wanted. What he needed.

(What he was capable of asking for. What he should want.)

And for the majority of the time, their relationship was simple. Eddie knew he wasn't the most charismatic man, he was generally terrible with flirting, but with Ana, they had good conversations and his charm worked well enough when they had started dating. In the seven months they'd been a couple, they had had almost no fights, bar the disastrous dinner with Shannon and the few days that followed—but that was all weeks in the past.

(He tried not to think about how he hadn't heard from Buck in that time, how he'd considered reaching out because Christopher, and Eddie if he was being honest with himself, was getting anxious to see him again.)

(And he definitely tried not to think about how he had left Buck's apartment that morning after the party.)

But the one area that, without fail, in any relationship, seemed to always trip Eddie up was sex.

Ana wasn't always subtle when she wanted him to stay the night or to come over for an afternoon tryst during her lunch break, and this shouldn't really be a problem for Eddie. He was only twenty-nine and sometimes it had felt like the only time his and Shannon's relationship had gone right was during sex. This wasn't something he should be having an issue with.

He shouldn't be looking down, his beautiful girlfriend underneath him—her eyes closed, tan skin flushed, dark curls wild—topless and moaning, and feel...

It didn't matter what he did or did not feel, he always had to remind himself. Because he knew what he should feel and that was enough. It had to be. And it wasn't like he wasn't into it, he was...or at least his dick was.

Her hands were clutching his back, drawing him closer to her, and in the afternoon light, she looked very pretty, her skin turning almost gold. Ana had been instigating more sleepovers lately, and she knew his schedule, so she was always careful (strategic) to plan them when he was off-shift (but never immediately afterwards when he was just bone-tired and wanted to see Chris and then sleep for ten hours) and when Chris was either going to be with Shannon, at school, or had a playdate.

Which made it hard to say no. If that was something he would want to say.

"Oh, please...oh," she moaned, her eyes still closed as Eddie pulled his fingers from her, keeping a thumb on her clit, drawing out the pleasure of her orgasm. "Please...I need you..." Ana arched her back, pushing her hips down so they dragged over his still-covered cock—he was down to his boxers while she was still in her bra and panties.

He grinned down at her before leaning to kiss softly at her neck—she was adamantly against any marks, and for good reason since she was a teacher, so he had to make sure to keep his tendencies towards biting and hickies well under control—a hand moving from her hips to splay across her small back. Gently pushing her forward, he unhooked her bra with one easy flick of his wrist, and she quickly moved her arms to toss the garment aside.

Her legs were bent at the knee, but Eddie was careful to stay hovering above her, keeping his weight on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her, only their bare chests now touching, and her center brushed against him with every other rock of her hips.

For the briefest moment, as she pulled his boxers down and he kicked them to the side, she did the same to her panties...and he hesitated. Ana was only the third woman (third person) he'd ever slept with and he knew that if he asked to put a pause on things, she would listen, that ever-present amiable expression on her face, but he knew she would be disappointed. He knew he wasn't much of a catch anymore, if he ever was, but she already asked for so little while he took so much, the least he could give her was this.

When he slid into her—condom on—they moaned in unison, her legs coming up to wrap around his hips, her hands pressing him closer and closer as he buried his face in her neck and chest, peppering her skin with light kisses. She panted and sighed highly in his ear with every thrust, while he just muffled his grunts, sometimes biting his bottom lip to keep from being too loud.

Neither of them were particularly vocal during the act, Eddie not willing to give up his composed exterior even during sex, while Ana...he wasn't sure if there was a specific reason. She could just be quiet, which was more than fine.

(Unwillingly, he thought that it might be a good thing that they didn't have very loud sex because when you had kids, it brought a whole new layer to sex—quickies in the shower, late night sex after Chris was asleep, scheduling nights to themselves around Christopher's schedule, having to stop in the middle when they heard that Chris was coming to wake them up—and all of them required near-silence.)

They never quite got in the same rhythm, but before long, she was coming again, his thumb on her clit once more, mouth on her neck. She moaned high and breathily, her head tipping back and fingers gripping his back firmly, but not enough to break skin. And at the feeling of her walls clenching around him, he wasn't every far behind, the only hint that he had come was the way his entire body tensed before relaxing with a harder exhale than normal.

He made sure to fall to the side so as not to crush her, and he certainly didn't think about the distance separating them—even after such intimacy, they were both seemingly fine with catching their breath a full two inches apart.

(And he definitely wasn't thinking about the way Buck felt when they woke up, his body fitting against Eddie's so tightly.)

There was a part of Eddie that didn't mind cuddling after sex—enjoyed it, even, though he'd never admit it—feeding that connection that had formed and just getting to be with another person he cared about so much he wanted to be intimate with them. Her. But, when they first had sex, Ana had rolled over to put her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest—just the barest points of contact between them—and it had felt so...perfunctory. Rehearsed almost. And after that, they'd never really cuddled again, not even when they woke up after sleeping in the same bed.

And Eddie tried not to think about how he didn't even mind the lack of follow up touch...preferred it even.

"You can't even look at me anymore," Ana broke the silence, her words sharp and pointed.

"What?" He replied, his higher cognitive functions coming back slower than he would like. Eddie wasn't normally one to get sex-drunk, but an orgasm was still an orgasm and with the quick change in tone, he needed an extra second for his brain to catch up.

Ana just scoffed, pulling on her underwear, her back to him. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching in still slightly confused silence as she got dressed—within a minute, her floral dress was smoothed down, her hair finger-combed back into place, and it looked like they hadn't even had sex in the first place.

She turned around, crossing her arms over her body, and Eddie was struck with the idea that he probably shouldn't be naked for this. Pulling on his boxers and a t-shirt, he stood up too, but they were still separated by the double bed between them.

"You've changed," Ana sighed like that explained everything, or really anything. "These past few weeks...ever since that horrible dinner with Shannon, you've been different. Distant even."

"There's just been a lot on my plate right now, you know that," Eddie defended himself, but he wasn't sure what it was from. "And I know dinner didn't go great last time, but we can try again. I'm sure Shannon will understand—"

"I don't need your ex-wife to understand," Ana spat. "I want you to take my side so that I don't feel like I'm still competing with her!"

"Shannon and I aren't like that anymore," he was quick to interject. "We haven't been together for years even when—she's Christopher's mother, so if this is going to work, everyone is going to have to be civil with each other, at the very least."

Ana scoffed, rolling her eyes, "I can be civil. But do you even want to make this work?"

"Excuse me?"

"Look," Ana continued as if he hadn't said anything. "I have been trying to be patient, but there's just some things that have happened recently that really make me wonder...if you're really who I thought you were."

Eddie's heart dropped like a stone, his throat feeling like it was closing up, but he felt his entire body tensing up before relaxing minutely. This was familiar territory at least—he'd done something wrong, and if he just apologized so they could move past it, everything would work out—any maybe if he said everything right this time, Chris wouldn't be the one who lost everything. Again.

"I know I've been busy," Eddie repeated, his tone carefully measured. "But if there's something I did to make you think that I don't want this to work...I am trying so hard to make this work."

"You shouldn't have to be trying!" Ana exclaimed, throwing her hands up in anger and frustration. "Being with me shouldn't be work, and you should want to make me your priority and not be cancelling dates because—"

"Christopher will always be my priority," Eddie stated firmly, his eyes sharp. "I thought you knew that going in, but if you can't handle a couple canceled dinners because my son needed me, then maybe this really isn't going to work."

"I understand Christopher needs you, but that's not what these past couple weeks have been about and you know it." Her eyes were cold, but Eddie didn't really know where all of the discontent was coming from.

He knew he wasn't always the most attentive, but he had a stressful job and a young son. He couldn't be at his girlfriend's side every free minute of every free day, and sometimes he missed dates or texts, but he was trying to be better. In the past couple weeks, he had really tried to be there consistently.

"So, what has it been about then?" He asked coldly.

Her entire face hardened, and when she spoke, her words were barbed. "You want to talk about Christopher being a priority, what about inviting an addict into your home, letting him be around Christopher, is making your son a priority? And going to out of control parties like you're still in college, I mean...what is gong on? It's so unlike you. What happened to my Edmundo?"

If you had hit him on the head with a frying pan, he thinks that he would have been less shocked. No, that's not exactly true. Because he knew that Ana didn't like when he talked about Buck, but he really only mentioned the man a few times, primarily when he stayed at the house for a couple days and that was weeks ago. He hadn't realized her frustration was still festering inside her so much that it was reason to...

But the short answer to her question—what happened to "her Edmundo"—was that he never quite existed. Because Eddie was always supposed to be the perfect Edmundo that Ana had first talked to at the Parents' Night seven months ago. When he was actually always a mess of impulsive life decisions for himself and careful composure, near stoicism, with the rest of the world. He had always been closed off until he decided not to be, and he kept his walls up because the second someone got a glimpse of the wreck of a man he was behind them, they tried to change him. And when they realized they couldn't make him into something more palatable, something perfect, they left because he wasn't enough.

It's why, deep down, he's not surprised that Ana's mad—she's just realizing that what she is getting with him isn't what she signed up for. She got a glimpse of the real Eddie and didn't like what she saw.

"God, you don't even have an answer, do you?" She sounded truly sad, and when he looked up, there were tears in her eyes. She didn't deserve this, him and all his issues, she deserves someone who could actually be who she wanted.

"Buck was someone who needed my help," he tried to make her understand, "I was just going to leave him in the hospital with no one."

"It's not your job to save everyone," she implored. And it wasn't like she was wrong, but...he couldn't let Buck go back to his apartment without at least trying to help him.

(And maybe he hadn't succeeded in the end, maybe Buck was back on the wagon or had even OD'd again, but that didn't mean if Buck reached out tomorrow, asking for help, Eddie wasn't going to give it to him. He'd meant what he'd said—whatever Buck needed, Eddie would do his best to give it to him.)

"You shouldn't want to help when it's not your job," Ana was saying, and raised his eyebrows, anger rising in his chest at her words. "Especially not if it puts you in danger."

"I don't think you really have any idea of who I am," Eddie replied, low and steady, his anger just under the surface of his skin.

"Because you don't let me in!" Ana cried. "You shouldn't want...him around more than me!"

"Who said I wanted Buck around?" Eddie asked, genuinely thrown. "I mean...if he needs help, he's more than welcome, but...it's not even close to the same thing."

"It's not?" Ana sneered, and he felt like there was a layer to this conversation he was missing. "I'm sure sleeping in his bed was necessary to help him. I'm sure he was so...grateful."

"I really hope you're not insinuating what I think you are," Eddie warned, his hands clutching at his own biceps to ground himself from saying something he'd regret. "There were extenuating circumstances, my truck was broken for God's sake! And that's beside the point because Buck and I are just friends."

(You're straight, Diaz.)

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer)

"I'm sure that's all he wants to be," she rolled her eyes, venom dripping from her words.

Eddie realized that they were just talking in circles. He knew where this was gong several minutes ago and hadn't wanted to admit it (still didn't want to). "So, what are you really saying?" He asked, trying to get to the point.

"I think you know, Edmundo," she gathered her purse and shoes, pausing at his bedroom door. "I'm not going to wait for whatever this phase is to pass. If you figure yourself out, maybe we can start talking about our future, but for now...I'm done here."

A week after The Breakup—as Shannon had taken to calling it, with capital letters and barely contained glee when it came up in conversation—Eddie was still in a bit of a daze. Not because he wanted to get back together with Ana, but...everything around the breakup had felt so weird, and he still wasn't sure how Buck fit into everything, but it wasn't like the other man had ever used his phone number so he should just move on.

And it wasn't like there appeared to be negative effects for Christopher, since whenever he asked his son how he was feeling about Ms. Flores not being around anymore, he just said, "I'm fine. She was nice, but...I think I liked her better as my teacher." The first couple times Eddie had asked Chris and gotten such a relaxed response, he'd been worried (terrified) that Chris wasn't being honest, that he'd picked up on Eddie's screwed up emotional responses and started to adopt them.

But then Chris would ask every couple days if Buck was okay and when he was going to get to talk to Buck again, and Eddie started to wonder if he really was okay with everything that had happened with Ana.

He certainly seemed fine now, playing with some of his second cousins in Abuela's backyard at the monthly Diaz get-together. When he'd first moved to LA, he'd tried to help prepare the food, but Abuela was particular about her kitchen and Eddie had been known to burn water. (That was only once, though, when he'd accidentally left the water to over-boil while Chris had needed help with homework that Eddie had struggled with, with his high school diploma.)

So now, he was just chatting with one of Pepa's daughters' husbands about the baseball season, sipping on a beer and keeping one eye on the kids.

These cookouts always reminded him of the dinners Bobby and Athena would host for the 118, and he found that he missed hanging out with the crew after shift. In the past couple weeks, he'd had to turn down an invite to drinks and to one of their barbeques due to either not having anyone to watch Chris, or already having plans with Ana. Selfishly, he wondered if now that he and Ana were no longer a thing (and he had absolutely no intention of dating anyone else for a long time), if he would have more time for the "FireFam" as Chimney had dubbed the group after one too many conversations with May.

"So," Pepa interrupted his thoughts, and Eddie realized that he'd been staring out at the backyard blankly, the conversation with Maria's husband long since over. "Victor tells me that that truck of yours is costing more to repair again and again than if you just bought a new one. He said he's happy for the business but that you should invest in a new car. Do you know why he would tell me that?"

Eddie grimaced, not realizing Victor was going to rat him out to his tia—although maybe he should have expected it. The cost of fixing the stalled engine almost gave Eddie a heart attack, but he definitely couldn't afford a new truck, so he just resigned himself to picking up overtime and extra shifts whenever he could.

"It's a long story, tia," he hedged, shifting on his feet. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"The point of family is that we help you handle things, even if you can do it on your own," Pepa replied wisely, her hand resting on his forearm briefly. "I'm not going to make you tell me everything, but Victor did say where exactly he picked your truck up from and I do want to know what you were doing in such a neighborhood."

"It was almost a month ago," Eddie replied, "it doesn't matter now. I haven't been back there if that's what you're worried about."

Pepa didn't reply, just looked out at the lawn, sipping on the wine in her glass thoughtfully. Eddie followed her gaze to where Shannon was just walking in, stopping to give Christopher a hug before heading into the house, a bottle of wine in her hands. It had been a process, getting his family to accept that Shannon was a part of his life, would always be a part of his life because of Chris, and after a few incredibly frosty dinners with Abuela and Pepa, she started coming to these cookouts every so often and his family stopped openly talking bad about her. At least to her face or to Eddie.

And Eddie still blamed himself for leaving her with his parents when they were married while he was in Afghanistan—and he knew she still blamed him a little bit too and would likely never truly forgive him—so he was trying to do better about having her back with his family.

"I was helping out a friend," Eddie admitted, a little unsure where the honesty had come from. "Shannon had Chris, so he wasn't there."

"I didn't know you had friends," Pepa said dryly, and Eddie had to smirk at that.

"This one...he is, was, a new friend. And he needed my help," Eddie shrugged, not really knowing how else to explain it without getting into the nitty gritty of what he went through with Buck that weekend. "He's the one who lived there, and I wanted to make sure he got home okay."

"This wouldn't happen to be the famous Buck I keep hearing about from Christopher, would it?" She asked shrewdly, turning to look at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "It was Buck."

"Well, the next time you see him, I want you to invite him over for dinner with Mama and I," Pepa declared as if it was a done deal. "I want to see the man my grand-nephew so looks up to."

"I'll...I'll see when he's free," Eddie agreed, unsure if he should bring up the fact that he hadn't talked to Buck in at least about a month, plus the whole...potentially relapsed with drugs thing. "I just...only if you're sure."

"When have I ever said something I wasn't sure of?" Pepa retorted with a piercing gaze.

"All right, I'll ask," Eddie smirked, but then he remembered, "I do have friends you know.

"Yes, yes," she waved a hand, and it was almost condescending in the way only family could get away with, like she was just humoring him as if he was still a kid. "Your ex-wife and your co-workers are great friends, but you could always do with more people on your side, Eddito."

Eddie rolled his eyes but didn't say anything, knowing that there was no arguing with Pepa. And it was hardly a bad thing that she wanted him to make friends, it just felt very high school, not like Eddie was nearly thirty and had a busy life that didn't exactly lead to meaningful relationships outside of family and work.

Without another word, Pepa patted him on the cheek before heading back inside. Eddie wasn't sure how long he stood there, just thinking about all that she had said, suddenly exhausted from working three double shifts in the past five days, with Ana's words still rattling around in his skull, from trying to figure out what the fuck he was going to do about Buck (if there was even anything that could be done about Buck).

As the sun got lower, his cousins started to filter out and Chris came up and sat next to him, leaning his head against Eddie's waist. Carding a hand through his son's curls, he closed his eyes for a quick moment, just to savor the moment, one quiet moment with Chris before the rest of his responsibilities caught up with him.

(There was still the truck to deal with, he hadn't cleaned out his fridge in at least three weeks, there was one night coming up where he had a shift but there was no one who would be able to take Chris, so he still had to let Bobby know he'd be out and to find a replacement.)

"How are my two favorite boys doing?" Shannon asked, coming to sit on Christopher's other side.

Eddie rolled his eyes although Chris let out a small giggle as Shannon put her arm around Chris—but she was looking at Eddie concernedly.

"What happened to Johnny?" Eddie asked, not even bothering to try and sound annoyed that she was managing dating while working and being a single parent while he was failing quite spectacularly.

"We broke up a while ago," she hummed, resting her head on top of Chris', A quick glance down showed that he was pretty much asleep. "He was kind of a...jerk."

He raised an eyebrow, silently asking her if it was the kind of "jerk" he needed to inform Athena about, but Shannon just rolled her eyes and shook her head. Nodding a little, he was glad her ex wasn't horrible, but he thought they had a good thing going, and as much as the two of them fought (still did), she was his friend first and he just wanted what's best for her.

Picking Chris up, the three started walking towards the cars, Eddie ducking in to say goodbye to Abuela and Pepa, promising once again to ask Buck about dinner—which got an eyebrow raise from Shannon, so he kenw she wasn't going to be letting that go anytime soon.

"Are you seeing anyone else?" He asked, after he'd buckled Chris in and Shannon had given their son a kiss on the forehead.

Shannon bit her lip, eyes darting to the side, meaning that she was thinking about lying and didn't know exactly what to say.

"I just want you to be happy," he offered lamely, wondering if that would actually work.

It did, because she sighed, the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips. "I hooked up with a woman a couple weekends ago. We've been texting a little bit and...I don't know," she shook her head, but there was a look on her face that Eddie hadn't seen in a long time. She looked...excited. "It's still pretty early."

"I'm glad," he said, and he really meant it. "But I don't think there'll be any double dates in the future."

"I'm sure she has some hunky friends to get you out of...whatever this mood is," she gestured towards him. His cheeks burned red and he spluttered out half-formed protests to the use of the word "hunky," but she stopped him with a look. "Oh, come on...you're telling me that you're not into Buck?"

"What the hell does Buck have to do with any of this?" Eddie protested, "I'm straight."

"Okay, sure," Shannon replied, in that way that meant she totally didn't believe him.

"I'm serious, Shan," Eddie bit back, falling easily back into anger and frustration. "I know it's easy for you to joke sometimes, but you're really close to crossing a line."

"Fine, be miserable!" She poked a finger into his chest, eyes blazing. "Just don't teach our son to be a repressed asshole like you."

"Why don't you get that everything I do, I'm doing for Chris?" He replied, trying to keep his voice down but probably failing. "Everything I am, every choice I make is so that little boy is better than me."

Her eyes turned sad at that, and Eddie realized that he'd probably gone too far. "Eddie," she sighed, "you're a good man."

He snorted in disbelief because there had been many many arguments in the past where she had called him anything but a good man.

"I'm serious, is that..." her eyes lit up like she just realized something important. "Is that why you and Ana were together? Trying to do over our marriage so that Chris could have a family?"

Shame settled in his stomach, but he wasn't quite sure that he could disagree with her. He never claimed to be a perfect person, or a great husband, or even an above average father, but he should be able to give his son a family. "I'm not trying to replace you," is what he landed on, unable to meet Shannon's eyes. "You're his mother, you always will be. But...I'm not cut out to do this on my own, and Chris needs someone like Ana in my life so I can be a better father for him. She could help me...be better."

Shannon sighed again, but the noise was sadder this time, and she ducked her head so he was forced to meet her eyes. "You are...the best father Chris could have. And look, I know neither of us are perfect but we both try and if we give him the very best that we can...he's going to turn out okay. And you shouldn't be making yourself miserable trying to give him something that you think he wants but is really just going to hurt everyone involved."

"I never thought I'd hear you defending Ana," he quipped, trying to brush off the implications of her words.

"Oh, I'm not. She was horrible for you, and you know it. But if she, for some reason, made you happy, I would at least try to get to know her," Shannon made a face as if that hypothetical was causing her pain, before she looked at him with sincerity again. "I'm moving on and trying to find someone that makes me happy...you should think about doing the same. Because it is okay for you to be a little selfish sometimes and to want a partner, got it?"

He nodded with a smile that was maybe more of a grimace, but he appreciated her saying it nonetheless. "That doesn't mean I'm into men, though."

Shannon rolled her eyes, catching onto the playful teasing. "Yeah, sure, but maybe it's just Buck then." They both laughed quietly, nodding their goodbyes as she walked towards her car, but she turned back. "I'm serious, Eddie...you're allowed to be happy."

He waved her off, starting the car and thanking God when the engine turned over. The drive back home was quiet, but he had plenty to think about, his mind churning in a hundred different directions and his stomach was in knots.

After he put Chris to bed and made sure the house was locked up, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone for a good twenty minutes.

This doesn't have to mean anything, he thought to himself, staring at an empty text thread and the blinking cursor with thinly veiled fear. He's my friend, it literally doesn't have to mean anything more.

[Eddie]: Hey, Buck. Chris has been asking about you lately. Do you want to meet up one day for lunch? No pressure, just let me know.

There. It was done, sent, whatever. Eddie practically threw his phone across the room, turning over and closing his eyes even though he wouldn't fall asleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

Waking up is never the best part of Buck's day but waking up to the sound of someone tapping on a window right next to his head has to be one of his least favorite ways to start his day. At least he's no longer staying up until three in the morning every day, so he is now capable of being functional before noon. Grimacing at the light stabbing his eyes, he squints to see a woman in a police officer's uniform and dark sunglasses looking at him with an unimpressed expression on her face.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, uncurling his limbs from where he'd been crammed in the backseat of his Jeep. His barely healed ribs were giving him hell every night he slept in the backseat, but they hadn't rebroken yet so he was going to take the win. He still didn't feel totally sober—his shakes still haven't disappeared and he was pretty sure he still had a fever—or trusted himself to drive, but it made for a good place to crash when he couldn't stay at the apartment. "Morning, officer," he said, trying for cheery but missing by a mile.

"Morning, and it's 'Sergeant.' Are you aware that it is a misdemeanor to sleep in your car?" The sergeant asked in a no-nonsense manner.

He nodded, averting his eyes guiltily. If she arrested him, he would have to dip into the savings account his parents set up for his college fund, which meant that not only would they know where he is, but it was likely Maddie would too.

It had been a rough week since he woke up to his head on Eddie's chest, the other man's arm around his shoulders. Buck's own arm was thrown across Eddie's stomach, their legs intertwined, in that soft early morning light that made him want to get high on Eddie's sleepy smile for the rest of his life. When the other man had seemingly become more aware, he muttered a soft, sleep-gruff "hey" before slipping out of bed, telling Buck to call him whenever, and then he vanished. It was a cruel reminder of every one night stand he'd had and, well...

One shot at Hannigan's turned into five, turned into ten, turned into four lines of coke in the bathroom, turned into fucking some girl in the backseat of her car, turned into blowing Jeremy when he got to the apartment.

He woke up that next morning with the worst taste in his mouth—come and cheap tequila and the sour taste of coke in the back of his throat—and didn't move from his bed for two days.

He's pretty sure he missed a shift at Hannigan's that day, and he's definitely missed a couple in the week or so since then, so he's probably (definitely) fired, but he can't find it in himself to care. He can't stay in his apartment because he had no cash for rent (he really doesn't want to use too much of his savings account) and he knows that if he runs into Jeremy, he'll just end up sleeping with him, doing coke, and just continuing on the same path that got him OD'd on that fucking pier.

So he's been sleeping in the Jeep that used to be his only home as he criss-crossed the country, but has been sitting idle since he arrived in LA. Frankly, he's surprised it still has enough gas to run the heater every so often.

But he also hasn't talked to anyone in a good four days, living off the granola bars Eddie left him and fast food every couple days. Taylor hasn't talked to him since the night of the party, he can't bring himself to text Eddie unless the other man initiates the conversation, and that's about the extent of his contact list.

"Sir, have you taken any controlled substances?" The sergeant's voice snapped him back to attention. "Have you had any alcohol in the past six hours?"

Buck felt his lips twist in a humorless smirk. This might be the first time in five years he can answer that question with an honest, "No."

She gives him a look that says she doesn't quite believe him, and Buck doesn't blame her—she seems like she's good at her job and he probably looks like shit.

"I-I'm trying to stop the whole..." he waved a hand weakly around his head, "'controlled substances and alcohol' thing." (I want to be better, he thought to himself, thinking of a house that felt like a home and bright laughter and dark eyes.)

The sergeant looks at him with something that looks close to pity, but there's something else there, but Buck is too wrapped up in how absolutely horrible it is to go through this intense of a withdrawal for the second time in a little over a week that he can't name it right now. But she takes her sunglasses off, revealing brown eyes that seem warm, not quite as hard as the rest of her stance softens but only slightly.

"What's your name, kiddo?" She asked, and normally Buck would object at being called "kiddo," but it doesn't seem so bad in the sergeant's tone.

"Buck," he replied, but when she raised an eyebrow he said, "Evan Buckley, but people just call me Buck."

"Well, then, Buck, I'm Sergeant Athena Grant, and today is your lucky day." Sergeant Grant said that like she was joking, but neither of them laughed.

Buck was adamantly against the idea that he had any kind of good luck reserves left with the universe, so he highly doubted that whatever she was about to say was going to be good for him in any way. In fact, he was already calculating how likely it was that his Jeep was going to be impounded, how quickly he could make bail (how difficult that whole process was going to be), how much he was going to need to pay, if he even still had access to that savings account, what he was going to do for a job with a misdemeanor on his record.

If it was even worth it to stay clean if it meant this was going to be his life—might as well reap the benefits of being a worthless degenerate.

"I'm letting you off with a warning," Sergeant Grant said, and Buck couldn't believe it. "But there are conditions. Do you want to hear what they are, or should I take you down to the station?"

Buck just nodded enthusiastically, sitting up so quickly he nearly brained himself on the car's roof. Maybe he did have just a bit or luck left after all. She rolled her eyes at him, but he got the feeling that it was something close to fondness, instead of annoyance.

And so, two days later, Buck was standing in front of a church, a small piece of Sergeant Grant's notebook paper clutched in his hand and wondered if it was too late to turn himself in at the station.

"Is this your first time here?" A kind voice interrupts his spiraling thoughts, and Buck turns wide eyes towards the speaker—a man probably a little younger than Buck's father with graying brown hair and a few wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, laugh lines. He looked like the last person Buck would have expected to find here—at the meeting, not the church—but maybe he was just here to support someone. (Was that a thing people did?)

"That obvious?" Buck joked in return with a half-hearted shrug and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Everyone here had that look on your face the first time we stood outside the doors to one of these meetings," the man looked at the church contemplatively. "Taking that first step...admitting you have a problem is always the most difficult one."

"And I'm being forced to be here," Buck muttered darkly, trying not to sound too bitter. He hadn't wanted the man to hear him acting like a petulant teenager, but he turned to look at Buck curiously. "I got caught sleeping in my car and let it slip that I'm...trying to get clean. The officer let me off if I went to one of these."

He left out the part where Sergeant Grant said that she would know if he didn't go. Buck wasn't quite sure how she could manage that, but he didn't doubt her for a second.

"Well, just getting here is a pretty big step," the man replied. He stuck his hand for Buck to shake. "I'm Bobby."

"Buck."

"Well, Buck, as much as I like standing out here with you, I think the meeting's going to start." Bobby tilted his head towards the church, and Buck followed him inisde.

He was proud of himself for only cringing a little bit at the guilt of being a liar, addict, heathen, maybe a whore, definitely a slut, and bisexual inside a church. There was a small part of him that had gone to Sunday school for the first eleven years of his life that expected to be smited (smote?) the second he stepped on holy ground.

Bobby led him towards a back room that looked more like an unused multipurpose room at a school than anything else. A little more than a half dozen people were already milling around, chatting quietly and sipping from paper cups. He spotted a coffee machine and a table laid out with store-bought cookies and a platter of sandwiches.

"Get some food, kid, you look like you need it," Bobby said. "The meeting starts in five minutes."

Buck nodded, drifting over towards the food table, because he was starving, grabbing a paper plate and piling on two turkey sandwiches and three cookies. The coffee from the machine wasn't the greatest, but it was probably the best thing Buck has ever tasted.

Soon, the chatter died out and everyone took seats in the half circle that was set up facing a wall with a white board on it. Looking around, he realized that there wasn't a second row and that everyone would be able to see him, the unwashed, greasy-haired mess of a person that he was. Buck slouched in his seat, trying to hide behind his coffee cup when he realized that he was probably the youngest person here, everyone else ranging from early thirties to one man who looked about seventy.

A middle-aged woman who wouldn't look out of place at one of his mother's brunches got up to start the meeting. It was embarrassing having to raise his hand when she asked if this was anyone's first meeting, but thankfully she didn't make him say anything other than his name.

As the meeting went on, Buck felt himself shrinking further into his seat, his cheeks bright red with mortification. All of these people...they had real problems, real reasons why they had gotten addicted. The seventy year old man, Thomas, had been "really into acid" in the '70s and that had spiraled into other drugs in the '80s as an escape, but his boyfriend—now-husband—had helped him stay clean for thirty years. A woman, Susan, had gotten cancer a few years ago and they prescribed her oxy and now she was addicted and got clean for her family, which included two young kids. Even Bobby spoke for a short while about the hardship of being a captain with the LAFD and how his wife and stepchildren gave him a daily reason not to drink.

While Buck...Buck was just a jumped up party boy who didn't know when to quit.

Everyone was talking about how it wasn't easy, and every day is a struggle, and how no one can do it alone—just about every poster in the business—and Buck just wanted to scream. He wanted to stand up and shout: 'It's so easy for you because you have someone to fill that void, that black hole in you crying for pills, booze, coke, sex, whatever! I don't have that! No one would give a shit if I OD'd tomorrow. I bet no one would notice for days!'

"One of the hardest things for me," Bobby was saying, looking directly at Buck, "was finding that support. I spent so long carrying the guilt of what happened to my family that I didn't think anyone would want to help me even if I asked. But I've learned that...if you give people a chance, they might surprise you, and that reaching out is always better than suffering in silence. Because someone is out there. I promise you...someone is out there. Someone will listen."

Buck ducked his head, his phone like a lead weight in his pocket, and he thought tears were going to start leaking out of his eyes.

Who could he call?

Maddie? She was probably busy with Doug, they were a family now with their own issues and life, and all the way across the country anyways.

His parents? Fat chance they would pick up even if he did.

Taylor or Sandy would just enable him, any of his coworkers at Hannigan's wouldn't give a shit, and he doesn't really think this is the kind of thing you call a one night stand about.

There was a desperate urge to call Eddie, even just to hear his voice and maybe get to talk to Chris, but he couldn't do that. Not yet. Not if he still needed help. Because he had to be better, be more (hopefully be enough) the next time he saw the Diazes. He couldn't just be the same needy, desperate person he was now...he didn't deserve them yet.

Buck spent the rest of the meeting mentally scrolling through his phone's pathetic contact list, wondering who he could call and came up empty. The closest he got was TK Strand from New York, but he hadn't seen TK in years, and it wasn't like the other boy had been on the straight and narrow (although he would appreciate the pun) the last time he had seen the other guy at that frat house in upstate New York.

As everyone was filtering out, Bobby caught his eye and jerked his head as if to indicate that Buck should stay behind. Reluctantly, he did, stuffing his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to fidget and feeling a little like he'd been called to the principal's office.

"I noticed you were a little distracted, Buck," Bobby tarted, packing up the sandwiches and Buck quickly began to help. "I hope it wasn't out of a lack of respect for these people and their journeys." His voice held a note of warning, and Buck's stomach plummeted out his feet. He hadn't even realized he was being rude, but of course he couldn't even get NA right.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, feeling his chest ache. "I was just...thinking about what everyone was saying, and I-I guess I got wrapped up i-in my head an-and—"

"It's okay, Buck, breathe," Bobby put his hands on Buck's shoulders. "I was just making sure. I was a little worried about you there in the middle, you looked like you wanted to run."

Buck shrugged, because it wasn't like he hadn't been thinking about just getting up and running out of the church to have a breakdown. "I just...everyone has it so much worse than I do, you know? Real reasons why they're here but I just...party too much sometimes."

From the corner of his eye, he could see Bobby looking at him thoughtfully, but he focused on meticulously packing up the coffee machine. "No one's problems mean any more or less than yours do."

And wasn't that just the damndest thing Buck's ever heard.

"And beyond that, living in your car seems like a pretty real problem regardless," he continued. "Think about what you heard here today, okay? Someone out there is gong to care about you and your recovery. If nothing else, I will care. So at least think about reaching out to someone, anyone, okay?"

Buck nodded, head still bowed. It felt a little like homework, but something soothed in his chest at the idea that Bobby would care—even if he was lying, it at least felt nice to have someone care enough to lie so he was a little more comfortable.

"Thanks, Bobby," Buck muttered, hoping the older man could hear the genuine gratitude in his voice. That he knew how much it meant to Buck that he had taken the time to make Buck feel better—even if he still felt like ninety-five percent shit.

"Look, the brochures and the internet will probably tell you a hundred different things you should do or ways to help you get and stay clean," Bobby continued as the two men walked out of the church into the late night air, "and some will probably work for you, but others might not. And some still might make you want to dive right back to drinking or drugs or whatever reason you're here. But...I think having a consistent place to stay, sleeping in a real bed, might be a good place to start."

Buck smirked humorlessly because his one "consistent" place was an apartment he shared with his drug dealer. Probably not a good idea to tempt fate. "I'll figure something out," he assured Bobby, not really wanting to get into the whole 'sleeping with my drug dealer to pay rent in a shitbox apartment' thing with him.

Eddie knowing that particularly unsavory part of his life was more people than he needed knowing. Plus, he didn't want Bobby's pity—he was a grown adult, twenty-five years old, he could figure out a housing situation that wouldn't get him to relapse.

"Well," Bobby extended a hand to give him an index card (where did he even get that?) "take my number if you ever need anything. And I mean it...anything."

He took the card, staring at the black numbers written in neat script with his heart in his throat. There was a familiar burning behind his eyes and he really didn't want to break down in front of Bobby. "You know, you're the second person who's given me their number and told me to call if I need anything."

If it was possible for Bobby to look proud of Buck, the wide smile and knowing look in his eyes would have done the job. "I think it sounds like you're on your way to having a support system, then."

With a shared grin, Bobby got in the car, giving a wave before driving off, leaving Buck standing in front of the church wondering if he dared...hope wish want dream, all the cheesy verbs. He didn't want to think that maybe he could do this, but he thought that the doubt in him was much less prominent than it had been an hour—scratch that, twenty minutes—ago.

It was a hike back to his apartment, but he figured the walk might actually do him some good. At least he would have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck he was going to say to Jeremy when he got there.

This wasn't the first time that one of them had gone off the grid for a couple days so it wasn't like the guy was worrying about his safety (in fact, Buck would much rather prefer it if he didn't), but usually whenever Buck got back from whatever had kept him away—a mix of drugs and sex, per usual—there was the expectation of...rent.

He couldn't keep fucking his dealer. He really should find a new place to live altogether, but he probably needed, you know, a job and savings in order to even apply for a lease.

So, step one: Break it off with Jeremy—the sex, drugs, all of  it. He had that account from his parents he could use to actually pay rent until he could find a job, his own place, and build back his own savings.

Steps two and three: Find a job and a place to live, respectively.

Step four through whatever: Text Eddie and hope that he still wants him because who knows how long it's going to take to clean up his act.

(In the back of his mind, steps five and sex were "ask Eddie out" and "have mind-blowing sex," but he wasn't holding out hope.)

By the time he felt mildly confident in his plan—never let anyone say Buck wasn't underprepared when he's had time to overthink—he was standing in front of his apartment building, a pit settling in his stomach once again. All his shit was still in the Jeep, but if it hadn't been stolen already it could want until morning.

Bobby was right, having a legitimate bed to sleep on, even if was just a mattress on the floor, would probably do wonders for his...he hesitated to call it "recovery." More like "half-assed attempt at sobriety and being a better person."

But the mattress came with strings, and he really didn't want to have the conversation he was about to.

Walking up the stairs to his apartment didn't feel unlike walking into the church earlier—there was the same fear, the same uncertainty, and a fuck of a lot of nerves wiring his system. (Absently, he was reminded of Eddie holding his hand after his mini-breakdown at the party and wondered if this would be easier if there was someone to tell him if he was doing the right thing, blowing up his whole life.)

Opening the door to the apartment, Buck couldn't help holding his breath as if to brace himself for what might be on the other side. Thankfully, the worst case scenarios of orgies or Jeremy shooting up or the suppliers having a stand-off in the living room didn't happen. However, Jeremy was there, shirtless, spaced out on the couch, and staring at the ceiling.

A quick look showed just a blunt in an ashtray and some lines on the coffee table, but that was it.

"Hey, man," Buck started nervously, closing the door behind him gently, "I think we need to talk."

It took Jeremy a second to focus, but he slowly sat up, rubbing at his eyes and looking at Buck...well, at his dick. "You breakin' up w'me?" He slurred, standing up on shaky legs.

When the older man took a stumble-step forward, Buck just side-stepped towards the hallway, hoping he could make an easy escape if this went poorly. (He didn't really have any other idea of how it was gonna' go.)

"Something like that," Buck muttered, forcing himself to look Jeremy in the eye. "I'm moving out. I don't know when, but while I'm still here...we are done."

Jeremy took that as well as could be expected.

Which is to say after two hours of arguing so loudly Buck figured they rivaled the couple on the other side of his bedroom wall, the apartment had settled into a temporary silence. It certainly wasn't the first place he'd lived that was dominated by quiet tension more often than not, and he doubted it'd be his last.

The best part was that Jeremy had agreed to take rent money—and although Buck wasn't totally sold on the idea that he would stop expecting regular blow jobs, without the need to pay rent or share his coke, his leverage just got a whole lot flimsier.

But as Buck drifted off to sleep, exhausted and with a headache that felt like his brain was leaking out of his ears, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd made the right choice. Not to end the sex, that was definitely the right choice, but using his savings account. He hated that it was technically his parents' money and he hated what it represented—yet another disappointment, this time his decision to drop out of college—and he hated that they still fucking kept it.

He thought for sure that the moment he ran away from home that he would be disowned. The only reason he kept his last name was because it would make it easier for Maddie to find him if she ever wanted to. (It was a link to a brother he never knew and failed before he could remember. Maybe it was his way of keeping a link to Daniel too.)

But the fact that they hadn't closed the account, or even looked like they had touched the thing in six years made him furious. Either they didn't give enough of a shit about him that they didn't even bother to get their money back for their defective kid and give him the courtesy of actually disowning him. Or, even worse, they still wanted him to have the money, maybe hoping they could paper over all that had happened with cash, hope that he ran the account dry and came back asking for more.

The only good thing that could potentially come out of using the account was that if Maddie tried really hard, she could probably find him. If the postcards he had sent her every time he moved, the last time when he decide to move to LA, had been falling on deaf ears—as he assumed they had since he'd never had a response—maybe this would help.

(But if she was ignoring the postcards, why would she be keeping an eye on a savings account that she only had access to because Buck made her a secondary account holder when he was twenty and hemorrhaging cash on coke? He had wanted a failsafe so if he was ever tempted to take money out of there—and fuck did he come close more than occasionally—he knew that he would have to face Maddie.)

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he tried to drown out the sounds of Jeremy passive-aggressively playing his "getting high" music at a volume just loud enough that Buck wouldn't be able to fall asleep but was unlikely to be successful.

This had to be worth it.

About two weeks later, Buck was walking down a row of shops in a middle-income part of LA—he was trying not to think about how close it was to the grocery store where he first met Eddie—and looking to see if anyone was hiring.

Most of any applications, if there even were positions available, were online and so he probably needed to make a trip to the local library soon. He could probably find a job at a construction site, he'd done the same thing before, but he's also had about a dozen other jobs, maybe this time he could pick one with things like steady pay and benefits.

But the endless line of fancy coffee shops took one look at his less-than professional appearance—he doesn't think he's ever owned nice clothes that weren't meant for parties since he left home, and the one button-down he has, which he's wearing, definitely has a beer stain on the side—and decided he just "wasn't the right fit."

It was fine, though. Buck had been rejected by one night stands so many times (post-sex) that getting turned down for a barista position that barely paid minimum wage hardly fazed him. Although he was glad that Sergeant Grant decided not to charge him when she found him sleeping in his car, because that would probably kill literally any hope he had left.

But, he had absolutely no desire to go back to his apartment anytime soon, so he just kept walking. He'd picked up a flyer for a dog-walking job (he'd passed on the babysitting job though) and had a heart-sinking feeling that this might be the best he was going to get, when a voice calling his name made him start.

"Buck?" A woman's voice said in a tone that was more questioning than not, and when he looked up, he felt his cheeks burn when he saw Shannon Adams walking towards him with a determined expression and a woman with dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and who looked like she could probably bench press Buck if she wanted to by her side.

"Uh, hey, Shannon," Buck turned to greet her, startling again in surprise when the woman reached up to give a one-armed hug. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Coffee date," she replied, a soft smile on her face as she looked at the woman next to her. "But you are crashing it."

"No, no," Buck protested, looking between the two women with wide eyes. "I'm not crashing your date."

"Well, we have you to thank for getting us together so tough shit," Shannon pulled on his arm and dragged him into the coffee shop he had just been told was "probably too much of a high-stress environment for him."

(The place was nearly empty, but it was half-past two and it did seem like they had good coffee.)

The three of them stood in semi-awkward but not uncomfortable silence as they waited for their coffee, Shannon and Lena sneaking shy glances at each other every so often. It was cute...Buck doesn't think he's ever looked that cute with someone before.

Sitting down at a small table near the window across from the two women felt a little like sitting down in an interrogation room, but he just fiddled with the coffee cup, wondering if he should make the first move or wait for them.

"Y-you said I'm the reason you two met?" He finally couldn't take the silence and looked up at the two women. "H-how?"

Lena and Shannon exchanged sad looks, while Shannon eventually turned to Buck, her face set, Lena was the one who spoke. "I'm with the 136, the fire station that responded to your OD a month ago."

"Oh," his gaze immediately dropped to his hands. He wasn't expecting that.

"Eddie's actually good friends with Lena," Shannon added. "We'd just never met, but when I went down to the station to thank them for helping you that night...well, let's just say we hit it off."

Buck couldn't help the small smile that spread over his face as he looked up and they were both blushing a bright red. He'd bet on a hookup first and they were just now moving on to actual dates.

"I'm glad," Buck nodded, looking at Lena. "And I should probably be thanking you too."

"Just doing the job," Lena waved a hand, but there was a warmth to her brusque words that made him think she really appreciated the sentiment. He could see how she and Eddie were good friends. "Eddie still owes me a beer though...and an explanation. So if you talk to him, let him know, okay?"

Buck's heart sank but he nodded anyway. "Um...we're not really...friends or anything. I haven't talked to him in a while."

"Bullshit you're not friends," Shannon called him out with a raised eyebrow. "Did you or did you not crash on his couch and spend multiple days with him around the house?"

"One of those days I was barely conscious," Buck retorted, but there was little heat to his words (contrast to his cheeks which were positively flaming).

"Irrelevant. Eddie barely lets his cousins sleep over, and I know Chris has been asking me about you every other hour, so I bet Eddie is hearing it non-stop."

"Doesn't matter," Buck mumbled, looking down at his lap, unable to take her steely gaze for much longer. "He doesn't...we're not...I can't talk to him now. I have to...I don't know, be better. He shouldn't have to deal with this now. How-how do I know if he-he really wants me to call?"

Shannon shook her head, but she just sighed and put her hand on his forearm, causing him to look up at her in confusion. "I'll talk to Eddie," she said gently. "Discreetly, of course. Sometimes he needs a kick in the ass, but I'm positive he was telling the truth when he told you he wanted you to call. He's good like that."

"I'm all for giving Eddie a kick in the pants," Lena raised her coffee cup to cheers with Shannon. "Let me know if I can help."

"Will do, babe."

Buck watched the two of them lean into each other, the conversation soon turning to more mundane small talk, but Shannon's words were in the back of his head the whole time, fighting with his own instincts. Call Eddie when he still needs help and risk losing him because he's still a fuck up? Or wait until he's clean and potentially ruin the chance of whatever is happening because he's waited too long and Eddie's moved on?

He's been dealing with the same dilemma for so long he has no clue what the fuck to do anymore. So, he just nods goodbye to Shannon and Lena as they leave the coffee shop, saying he'll think about calling Eddie, and when he tries, he just...can't.

(Ten days later, Buck was tossing and turning, and his phone buzzed with a text that said: Hey, Buck. Chris as been asking about you lately. Do you want to meet up one day for lunch? No pressure, just let me know.)

Chapter Text

"When did it get so fucking hard to make plans?" Eddie growled in frustration, throwing a punch at Lena, the other firefighter dodging easily.

"It's not," she replied, aiming a kick for his stomach, but Eddie managed to pivot and it only glanced off the side of his arm. "You just have shitty luck."

"Ain't that the truth," he muttered darkly. For the past week he's been trying to set up a time for him and Chris to see Buck, but literally every plan they've made has fallen through for one reason or another.

First, there was a plan to go see the new Pixar movie, but then the 118 got stuck at a jumper call for four hours past the end of shift and he had to tell Buck and Chris that he was going to miss the movie. (He should probably feel a little jealous that Chris was more upset about not getting to see Buck rather than disappointed Eddie wasn't going to be home soon, but he got to see Christopher every day, Buck was still new. Besides, he couldn't be mad at his son for having such a big heart.)

Then Buck wanted to meet him and Chris for breakfast, but at the last minute had to cancel. He was incredibly apologetic over text but didn't ever give his reason for backing out. And Eddie wasn't going to push him to tell if he didn't want to for whatever reason, he just replied to say that he hoped everything was okay and they should try and make plans for the next time he was off (a phrase which led to a good five minutes of Buck spamming his messages with "getting off" jokes that he couldn't tell if they were serious or not).

The third time was supposed to be the charm—just basically meeting Buck at their house and deciding what to do afterwards, because Eddie did not trust the universe not to fuck with him if they made concrete plans—but then Chris remembered that he had a sleepover with a couple of his friends from school and it was the Diazes' turn to host. And when he had mentioned that to Buck, his phone had gone silent for a full hour, and Eddie knew that Buck was more than likely freaking out. So, he just replied that he knew there was no way Buck wanted to be around four seven to eight year olds hopped up on sugar so he had to reschedule again.

Currently, he was taking out his frustrations with the universe at the gym by sparring with Lena. The two of them had been going at it in the ring for about an hour and had worked up a sweat, and Eddie was trying not to think about how much frustration he had over this.

"I swear," Eddie said through gritted teeth, throwing bare-knuckled punches at Lena. She blocked them with ease, but it was a little satisfying to punctuate his words with action. "It. Was not. This. Hard. To date. Ana!"

The last punch slipped through her defenses, landing in her ribcage, pushing the air out of her lungs.

"Shit, sorry," Eddie stopped, putting his hands up and giving her his best 'Don't knock my teeth in' face. Thankfully, she shook off the punch, but since his guard was down, she flipped him onto his back, twisting one arm above his head, one of her feet on his chest to pin him. "Point made."

With a roll of her eyes—the Lena Bosko equivalent of a wide smile—she let him go, reaching a hand down to help him up. He tossed her a towel and a water bottle, grabbing his own as they leaned against the ropes of the ring.

"It's cause you care more about this than with Ana," Lena replied, and although he knew and greatly appreciated her blunt honesty, Eddie couldn't help looking at her in confusion.

"What does that mean?"

Lena rolled her eyes again, turning around so that she had her back to the ropes, her arms on the top rope. "It means that your relationship with Ana was super boring and while you maybe liked her, you care more about Buck. There's...passion there."

"Not everything has to be about passion," Eddie countered quietly, not sure if he believed himself. "Sometimes good things are easy."

With a snort, Lena shook her head. Yeah, maybe good things like eating ice cream or petting a dog. But relationships...they're not always about what's the easiest. Trust me, I've had some shitty girlfriends and been in some shitty relationships because they were 'easy.' The ones worth staying for...you have to put in some effort."

"I don't know what you think is going on, but Buck and I...this isn't a relationship. It's a friendship," he met her eyes, both of them were stubborn so neither was going to look away first.

"Right," she drew out the word in a way that meant she wasn't buying it. "Still, friendships lead to great relationships sometimes. I'm just a little shocked you're talking to me about this, you know, since I'm sleeping with your ex and all."

"What?" Eddie's mouth dropped open. He never would have guessed that when Shannon had said she was seeing someone new, that she meant Lena. For all that he's talked about his friendship with the woman, he doesn't think the two have ever met.

"Oh shit, sorry," Lena looked away, the back of her beck turning red. It was a little surprising to see the normally stoic woman so flustered—as flustered as Lena got anyway. "She said that she was going to tell you."

All Eddie could think about was how this was prime blackmail material—for the both of them. "She told me she was seeing someone, a woman, but she never named names." He smirked as Lena ducked her head in another uncharacteristic display of bashfulness. "I'm not pissed off though, I knew she was dating."

"Yeah, but there's a big difference between your ex-wife dating and your ex-wife dating your best friend," Lena countered.

"Do you want me to be mad at you?" He teased with a shake of his head. "Besides, who says you're my best friend, Bosko?"

"I'm your only friend, Diaz," Lena replied, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. When Eddie opened his mouth to retort, she shut him down. "And your kid doesn't count."

"Well played," he smirked, turning around to match her stance. "But I do hope it works out."

"It's still early," Lena hedged, pausing for a moment, before her next few words came out almost as a whisper. "But I really like her."

And from what Eddie had seen after Abuela's barbeque, he was pretty sure that Shannon returned the sentiment. Plus, he was being serious when he said that he hoped the two of them worked out—they were great women and although he probably wouldn't have thought to set them up, now that he knew they were dating, he was pissed he didn't think of it earlier.

They headed back to the middle of the ring, sparring for another couple rounds—most of which Lena won, one of which Eddie did because he pulled off a roundhouse kick towards her face that threw her off balance and she tripped over the mats—until it was almost time for the gym to close.

"What do you have planned for tonight?" Eddie asked as they packed up their gear. They were both exhausted and out of breath and his muscles were sore, but he wasn't sure if he'd ever felt more calm than after a fight.

(It probably wasn't indicative of anything good, but at least he knew one way to release tension and his anger that didn't land him in the hospital.)

"Feed my cat," she grinned as he shoved her lightly on the shoulder.

"You don't have a cat."

When she had transferred briefly to the 118 after her house was shut down to clear out asbestos, they had worked well together in the field, but when it came down to it, Lena pointed out that they didn't really know anything about each other—well, that he didn't know anything about her, because Eddie had been going through the process of reintegrating Shannon into his and Christopher's lives and was oversharing way too much—and when she asked if he knew what her cat's name was, predictably he couldn't come up with an answer.

Turns out she did not and has never had a cat.

"Probably just watch out and watch the soccer game," Lena shrugged, shouldering her gym bag. "I've got a shift in the morning, so I'll probably go to bed around nine like an old person."

"Hey, I go to bed at nine," Eddie retorted, the two walking to their cars.

"You also have a seven year old and the heart of an eighty year old man who can't get past the invention of the internet," Lena shot back, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"I take it back," Eddie joked. "I don't like you and Shannon together, she's been rubbing off on you too much."

"Tough shit," she grinned, and he thinks this is maybe the happiest he's ever seen his friend.

He opened his mouth to reply but his phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off what he was going to say next. "One sec," he gestured towards his phone, and she nodded. If it was Christopher—currently at Tia Pepa's—he needed to respond.

But it wasn't a text from his aunt or about his son, but from Buck. He couldn't help the surprise at that because in almost all of the instances they've texted—albeit briefly most of the time—Eddie was always the one to initiate the conversation.

[Buck]: i'm sooo booored! what ru doin???

[Eddie]: Finished working out. Why're you bored?

[Buck]: tryin 2 ignore the couple having rlly loud sex on the other side of my wall
[Buck]: also turns out when u don't do drugs u rlly dont have a lot 2 do
[Buck]: also...i bet u look rlly hot rn

[Eddie]: ?? I'm just super gross and sweaty.

[Buck]: exactly

Eddie couldn't help a small chuckle at that, but then his eyes widened a bit more and his mouth went dry when the next text came in. Well, it wasn't a text, but a picture of Buck. Shirtless. Clearly lying on his bed.

It honestly wasn't a sext, because Buck was making the most exaggerated pouting face—highlighting his lips (which Eddie definitely didn't notice)—and the picture didn't even show anything below his shoulders. But, fuck, was that enough to get Eddie's heart to jump into his throat. And was that a tattoo on his shoulder? Fuck, he really should say something back.

"Should I just leave you alone with your phone?" Lena's voice, thankfully, snapped him out of his head, and he immediately blushed and felt the familiar pang of guilt and shame in his stomach.

He wasn't this person. The kind who could ogle a friend's picture and not feel like he was violating a commandment. The kind who was brave and unafraid and could make the decision he wanted to make.

(You're straight, Diaz, that familiar voice was fond of saying, but why did it sound like it was drifting further away rather than screaming in his ear?)

"Sorry...I wasn't," Eddie started off, not really knowing where he was going.

Lena shook her head, "Show me whatever pic has you so hot and bothered, and I'll forgive you."

"I'm not hot and bothered," he muttered, but turned the phone towards her anyway. It wasn't like he had any dignity left to lose when it came to Lena.

She whistled when she saw the picture, Eddie refusing to look anywhere but her face. Her eyebrows raised minutely and her mouth turned up in an impressed expression. "That is one good-looking man...and I like women."

"Not the point, I'm not gay," Eddie snatched his phone back, feeling his hackles raise. Even though Lena wasn't even into guys she could tell that Buck was attractive. That had to mean that, since Eddie was straight, he could still think Buck was a good-looking guy, and it didn't have to mean he wanted to...do things he refused to think about.

(Figuring out if that squiggle by his shoulder was another tattoo or just an error with the picture...kiss that birthmark...see if his hair was still soft and if tugging on it really turned him on...)

Nope, stop thinking about all that, he berated his thoughts, forcing himself to type out a response that said, 'No, Buck, I'm not sending you a picture of my gross ass after the gym,' before pocketing his phone.

"It's okay if you want him," Lena said in a rare burst of soft sincerity. Maybe Shannon had more of an influence on Lena than he'd anticipated. More quickly than he would've thought too. Because Lena Bosko never looked at him with this kind of empathy—they were friends, just...not this kind of friend (at least so he'd thought).

It's really not. He clenched his teeth together to keep the reply from slipping out, since it would imply that he did want Buck. Which he didn't. (Right?)

"Yeah, I know," he lied, waving goodbye to Lena before they got in their cars and drove in separate directions. Eddie forced the image out of his mind, hearing the buzz of his phone getting incoming texts and resolved to reply when he got home.

(And when he did get home, if he did take a selfie in the mirror of his bathroom before he got into the shower and contemplated sending it for fifteen minutes, that was his business.)

(It was also his business that he eventually decided to hit 'Send.')

Three days later, all three of their schedules finally lined up, and now Eddie was waiting at a park near their house, with an excitable Christopher bouncing in his seat next to him.

"Can you see him?" Chris asked, craning his neck until he was almost fully turned around in his seat.

They had managed to grab a bench near the entrance to the park, which Eddie was not giving up until Buck arrived—maybe not even then—no matter how many people gave him the evil eye. It was a warm day, nearly perfect weather and it seemed like half the city was at this one park, so seating was scarce and valuable.

"No, I don't see him yet, mijo," Eddie replied just as he had the first eight times Chris has asked that question in the past ten minutes. "Buck said that there was a lot of traffic by his apartment, and I think it takes him longer to get here, anyway."

Chris grumbled, but nodded his head in agreement, swinging his legs idly. "I just miss him. You got to see him when he left our house...but I didn't."

His heart tugged as it usually did whenever Chris said something like that—something so sweet and good that it made him wonder how someone as broken and repressed as Eddie was his dad. His kid really was the best.

Eddie put an arm around the back of the park bench, leaning in a bit so Chris knew it was serious. "Buck really misses you too. He asks me about you all the time," he smiled sadly. Because Buck did text Eddie to ask how Chris was doing, but the first few times Eddie had suggested meeting up, Buck was quick to deny and deflect and say that it was best if he didn't see Chris. It was like pulling teeth, getting him to even agree to this...he refused to call it a date, even though everyone at the 118, Shannon, Lena, and even Tia Pepa and Adrianna—he still wasn't sure how she knew about this—called it one. How could it be a date if his kid was there?

"And I know he was really sad that he didn't get to say goodbye to you," Eddie continued, Christopher looking up at him with big blue eyes behind his glasses. "He was just really...sick."

"If he was sick, why did he leave?" Chris asked. "We could have helped him."

Don't I know it, kid, Eddie thought wryly to himself. "It's a different kind of sickness...a grown up kind, remember?" Chris nodded, and Eddie paused, wondering how to continue. "So, sometimes grown up sickness...they make someone like Buck want to handle things on their own. And it's really important that we let him know that we want him to be healthy and will do whatever we can to help. Can you do that?"

"I want to help," Chris nodded solemnly, reaching a hand over to hug Eddie's side. "I don't think I ever said, 'thank you.'" That second sentence was said quietly and sadly. "I'm sorry, Dad. I know you always say thank you and I forgot."

Eddie's heart squeezed in his chest, because he knows that he's thanked Buck—relentlessly and forcefully—for helping Chris, but he couldn't remember, in between all the chaos of the hospital and Buck coming home, if Christopher had ever thanked Buck. (It also made him proud that Chris had realized the importance of saying thank you, even if it was probably past the time when a "thank you" would be relevant. It didn't matter that Buck surely wouldn't accept Chris' thanks, or even that Chris might have already thanked Buck and couldn't remember, his son still wanted to correct the perceived mistake.)

"I think Buck would appreciate that a lot," Eddie agreed, pressing a kiss to his hair. "It's a very grown up thing to want to say thank you after all this time. I'm proud of you for remembering."

Chris grinned toothily up at him, and as he was opening his mouth to say something else, his eyes drifted to the side before widening to the size of saucers. "Buck!"

Eddie turned around, hoping his eagerness wasn't showing on his face, and sure enough there was Buck walking towards them. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his hoodie nervously, his complexion was still pale and he was still thin, but he didn't look two steps away from the grave so Eddie would take the win.

In a flurry of motion, Chris turned around and hopped down, grabbing his crutches before Eddie could help him, and was off to Buck in a flash. Eddie grinned as he saw Buck's eyes widen in surprise before he knelt down to catch Christopher in a hug.

Standing up, Eddie went over to the two, grinning broadly as he heard Chris mumble-shouting, "thank you's" right next to Buck's ear, his arms wrapped tightly around the blond's neck. For what it's worth, however, Buck had his arms wrapped just as securely around Chris and looked like he was holding back tears.

"It's okay," Buck was murmuring, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he talked to the side of Christopher's head. "You don't need to thank me."

"You helped me, and Dad says to always say thank you when someone helps you," Chris said firmly, repeating exactly what he'd just said to Eddie. He even looked back over his shoulder to smile at Eddie, and he just nodded, proud of his son.

"Thank you so much, Chris," Buck whispered, his voice thin, and if Eddie wasn't three feet from him, he wasn't sure if he would have heard it. "You've helped me so much."

There was a prick behind his eyes, but Eddie steadfastly looked at the sun, tamping down the urge to break. They were already getting strange looks—Chris and Buck not having moved for almost a full minute—and he was going to add his tears to the mix.

He was loath to break them apart, but he tapped Chris' shoulder to get his attention. "How about we skip right to ice cream?" The original plan had been to walk around the park, but with the amount and volatility of the emotions floating in the air, he was wondering if it would be better to just skip right to the sweets and sugar high portion of the afternoon.

Chris nodded, but he still didn't let go of Buck—maybe he should have pushed harder to meet up sooner. "Can Buck carry me?"

"That's up to him."

Chris turned to Buck with wide eyes and a look that crushed anyone if they had to say no to him. "Can you carry me, Buck?"

"What else do we say, Chris?" Eddie prompted gently with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Please?"

"Of course," Buck nodded, his eyes red and voice still shaky, but when he stood up, it didn't appear as if he had any problem doing so with the extra weight of a child in his arms.

(He would by lying if it didn't set off a flurry of emotion and warmth in his chest at the sight.)

"Come on," Eddie nodded his head, unable to keep the small smile off his face as Buck fell into step with him as they exited the park, Chris' crutches clutched in his hand, but his shoulder brushing against Buck's with every step.

The walk to the ice cream parlor was short, Chris telling Buck all about his classes and how his sleepover with his friends had gone, and Buck nodded along, asking questions in all the right places. He couldn't help but notice that there wasn't as much stress in the line of his body anymore. (Okay, and he might've used the opportunity to check him out a bit. He was a first responder, it was just to check  him over to see if he was okay.)

His eyes were clearer, certainly clearer than the last time he'd seen Buck in person, which was now getting close to six weeks ago.

His t-shirt was still loose, but it didn't look like it was hanging off him. In fact, if Eddie really was being honest, and not just optimistic, but Buck almost looked...healthy.

And he knew it was not his place to ask, and he knew that Buck wasn't fucked up now, was going to be sober at least for a couple hours he was with him and Chris, but that didn't necessarily mean he was clean.

After Chris had negotiated with Eddie from a single scoop of ice cream to a large sundae, provided Buck ate half, the three took their ice cream to sit at one of the outdoor tables.

When the conversation lulled, Buck turned and asked Eddie what he'd been up to, and then it was Eddie's turn to regale Buck and Chris with the weirdest calls from the week—a man that got stuck in a vat of chocolate, helium tanks that trapped someone at a party store and made Hen and Bobby sound like chipmunks, and a kid (teenager, really) at a house party who got dared to stick his head through a railing and got stuck.

"Why would someone do that?" Chris giggled, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "That's silly."

"People can be really silly sometimes," Eddie grinned. He felt so light, sitting here and chatting with his son and Buck, pistachio ice cream melting in the bowl in front of him. "Promise me you'll never do silly stuff like that when you're older."

"Of course not!" Chris laughed, shaking his head as if Eddie was ridiculous for even thinking he would do such a thing.

"I bet you're way smarter than half the people your dad meets at his job," Buck added, a wide smile on his face. "And that includes me."

Eddie rolled his eyes, but there was no annoyance behind it, and Chris clapped happily, looking at Eddie expectantly. "Did you meet Buck at work? What happened? When was it? Was it before the pier?"

Chuckling, Eddie waited for Chris to finish with his questions before responding. He met Buck's eyes and was glad that there was an umbrella over their table so that it was harder to see the flush that he felt rising in his cheeks at the look in Buck's eyes. (And as he remembered the distinct lack of clothing Buck had been wearing when he'd found him in that bathroom.)

"It was a couple weeks before you saw Buck at the pier," Eddie nodded. "There was a big party going on in one of the fancy parts of LA—"

"You were at a fancy party?" Christopher now turned to Buck eagerly.

"Ah," Buck scratched the back of his neck and Eddie was not noticing how that made his biceps look. "Not exactly. I mean, I was there, but it wasn't very fancy."

Chris looked a little bummed that it wasn't a gala, but his curiosity still hadn't been sated so he turned back to Eddie, expectantly. "Well, there was a fire and a lot of people had gotten scared, so they started running, which meant more people got hurt. So, we were there to put the fire out and to help those that were hurt."

"Always stay calm in those situations, Chris," Buck interjected, although Eddie didn't mind because it was sound advice. "I think a lot more people get hurt when they're scared than if they'd just stayed clam, right Eddie?"

Eddie nodded, wondering how Buck knew to tell Chris that. As far as he knew, Buck had been locked in the bathroom when the fire had started—locked in which was a fire hazard if Eddie had ever seen one. But he made a note, because Buck looked at him with wide eyes, a spark in their blue depths that made him look...

(Beautiful, his mind whispered, and he found that he didn't want to shove the thought away so quickly.)

(There was still that voice that told him all the tings he would be if he gave in...but it was competing with Shannon and Lena telling him that it was okay to want. And, fuck, was he finding out that he wanted.)

"Exactly," Eddie agreed, and Buck looked ready to preen under the praise. "And then one of Buck's friends came up afterwards and told me that someone was stuck in a bathroom and needed rescuing."

"I don't think that's exactly what she said," Buck teased, cocking his head to the side.

"I'm paraphrasing," Eddie retorted with a grin. "And so, I had to come and knock the door to the bathroom down. And do you know what I found?"

Buck's face turned a bright red impressively quickly, and Eddie just felt his smile widen as Chris shook his head in delight.

That warmth in his chest from earlier was back, but now it was just getting more intense, and he felt it start to expand, like he'd been out in the cold for years and was just now realizing that heat still existed, like he was coming back to life. He felt weird because that pressure that crushes his throat and voice was gone, and he didn't know how or why.

Eddie leaned forward, putting a hand up to fake-whisper to Chris. "Buck was there in his underwear!"

Chris burst into peals of laughter, which just made Eddie laugh as well. And after a few indignant, half-hearted protests from Buck, he joined in. "Buck! You were in your underwear? You're silly too!"

"That is exactly right, bud," Eddie smiled and when he got a glimpse of Buck's face—eyes bright and smile wide enough he could see that Buck had dimples—he knew that he was going to do something incredibly stupid.

But in the moment, he didn't care because this was the best he'd felt in years.

He didn't care that he was in public. He didn't care that his son was there—his son was happy and laughing as Buck was reenacting his expression when Eddie had knocked down the door.

He didn't care about that fucking voice in his head.

(Pansy...fairy...weak...unnatural...queer...)

(How about you shut the hell up?)

He wanted and in this moment...he thought he could take something and it wouldn't be selfish. Or if it was, it wasn't a bad kind of selfish, it was putting himself first for once.

He wanted and for once, maybe he could have something good and it wouldn't shatter in his hands.

So, Eddie leaned over and wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of Buck's lips and leaned in and replaced his thumb with his mouth.

Chapter Text

Buck had to be dreaming. He just had to be.

Because there was no way that Eddie had kissed him. Like actually kissed him. And it wasn't just an accident, or hidden away in the back of a car, or in private where no one could see or had to know. No, he kissed Buck in the middle of ice cream on a crowded street in broad daylight. In front of Christopher.

Christopher, who apparently had no problem with it, just shrieked, "Ew, Dad!" in that little-kid way that meant he was still embarrassed and grossed-out by kissing.

And Eddie hadn't jerked away, realizing what he was doing, how big a mistake he was making, but had simply pressed his lips a bit more firmly for the briefest of seconds and then pulled away just as gently. And then the bastard just ruffled Chris' hair, shot a grin and a wink in Buck's direction (which, what the fuck did that mean?) and continued the conversation as if everything was normal.

It was probably the most chaste kiss Buck had ever received—just the barest brush of lips, the kiss was even off-center, really more on the corner of his mouth than anything else—and he very much was including his first kiss in that. But, fuck, if it wasn't the best kiss of his life.

It threw him for a loop and no wit was all he could think about. Even as he teased Eddie with Chris and listened to Chris recounting playdates and video game battles. Even as he walked back to Eddie's truck with the Diazes, Christopher in between him and Eddie. Even as he lingered there, wondering if he could ask for—wondering if this had to end.

Even through Eddie inviting him back to his house, the entire drive back filled with Chris' laughter and Eddie's dad rock music and Buck's chest feeling full for the first time in a long time.

Even through video games and dinner and saying good night to Chris and sitting on Eddie's couch, staring at a ceiling with no water damage stain that looks like California.

Even through all that, he thought about the kiss. It was probably too much thought for not even five seconds of a kiss, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Eddie's lips pressed so gently against his, how he could taste just a bit of chocolate and pistachio flavor. How half his mouth felt bereft and wanting while the other side was aching like he'd been branded.

"You kissed me," Buck blurted out the second Eddie came back into the living room. The other man's eyebrows raised but he didn't look all that surprised as he sat down on the couch, much too far away for Buck's liking. In all honesty, there were probably better ways for Buck to bring...that up.

"Yeah, I did," Eddie replied, even though it hadn't really been a question.

There were so many things that Buck wanted to say: You said you weren't into me. Why did you kiss me then? Why did you kiss me at all? How long have you wanted to kiss me? What does this mean to you because I'm an addict and I'm pretty sure your lips are better than the first high I ever had and I'm going to be chasing that feeling forever like I've been chasing that high down a spiral of depravity.

But the one big, bright thought that he couldn't shake, didn't know if he was ever going to shake, was just, Please please please...

"Can you kiss me again?"

With a smile that almost looked shy, Eddie nodded, reaching a hand out and pulled Buck across the couch gently. His hand brushed the side of his face, tugging him forward so their lips met in the middle.

Buck let out a small sound at the contact—of relief, desperation, want, he wasn't sure—that was embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just put his hands on Eddie's waist, curling one in the hem of his shirt. (It was a desperate attempt to keep himself from clawing at every part of Eddie's body he could reach, but it was working well enough for now.) Their lips moved with each other, a soft push and pull of pressure that had heat sparking throughout every nerve in Buck's body.

Eddie's hand moved from his cheek to his hair, tangling in the curly strands but not tugging—he remembered that night at the party when Eddie pulled his hair just a bit and Buck was ready to come in his pants—not yet hopefully. His other hand was trailing up Buck's chest, leaving sparks and fire in its wake.

The kiss wasn't rough or particularly deep yet, but it still had Buck's chest heaving and his head spinning. He hadn't been kissed like this in so long—maybe ever. Kissed by someone that knew him, someone who had seen the broken worthless defective parts of him and still wanted to kiss him. Someone that wanted to hang out with him and that texted him awkward mirror selfies after the gym that had Buck wanting to lick the sweat off his eight-pack. Someone that just wanted to help and someone that he really fucking liked.

The broke apart for air, and Buck felt like he had just run a marathon, the gentle touches and soft kisses were overwhelming. Eddie's nose brushed against his as they just swayed together on the couch. His hand had settled over Buck's heart, and he could probably feel how quickly it was beating, his hand moving up and down as Buck continued to gulp in air like he'd been starved for oxygen for hours days weeks months years.

Warm skin brushed the backs of Buck's fingers and he shivered at the sensation, closing his eyes in an attempt at trying to regain control of his body. He felt like he was floating—not in a way like he was high but not not in that way either—and heat was starting to pool in his stomach, his hands itching from holding himself in check.

Self-control was never really one of his strengths, and he really just wanted to touch and kiss and moan and feel. He wanted Eddie to press him into the couch and fuck him until he barely knew his own name. He wanted Eddie to press him into the couch and just lay on top of him, kissing him until he couldn't breathe.

(A fair few of his fantasies right now started with Eddie pushing him down onto the couch, if he was being honest.)

He wanted anything and everything and it was terrifying because he always wanted that, but he had the feeling that Eddie would give it to him if he asked.

Whatever you need, Buck. That was what he said when Buck was strung out and coming down after ODing and it made him think that he could ask for what he needed, what he wanted, and it (he) didn't have to be a burden, a weight on those he cared about.

When he opened his eyes again—Eddie's fingers had shifted in his hair so his thumb brushed against the birthmark on Buck's temple—Eddie's dark eyes were dancing over his face. He doesn't know if anyone has ever looked at him like this before—with such awe. Sure, people have looked at him with want and lust in their eyes before (almost exclusively, in fact) and there's no shortage of that in Eddie's eyes either, but there's something warm about it right now.

He let his own eyes roam over Eddie, taking in his flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the tan skin of his neck, and the dark hair falling into his eyes. His mouth is parted, but as Buck watches, he presses his lips together before diving back in. With hunger.

The kiss is everything the first was not—desperate and heady and just on the right side of rough. Eddie's tongue traces his lips and plunges in when Buck moaned as Eddie's body was tightly pressed against his.

The hand on Buck's chest presses down, and Buck goes with a groan, laying back on the couch and letting his legs fall open. His hands tear at Eddie's shirt now, and he doesn't know if he wants to pull the damn thing off, or not even bother with it and just shove his hands up underneath and feel the warm, had skin of Eddie's torso. Eddie's hand dives right back into Buck's hair, this time combing with a bit more purpose, his fingers twisting in the strands more often, sending sharp bursts of pleasure singing down his spine.

With a desperate groan, Buck finally decides to yank Eddie's shirt up, and they break away for the briefest possible moment—their harsh pants of breath loud in the quiet room—so that Eddie can strip the Henley off and throw it somewhere behind him. Buck leans up the minute all that smooth, tan skin is revealed, kissing sloppily at his abs, wondering if it'd be too weird to start off with licking them.

Eddie let out a lust-filled sigh, almost a moan but quieter, both hands flying to Buck's hair. With a sharp tug, he pulled Buck's lips off him, and Buck looked up with hooded eyes and a sharp noise that was part-grunt part-whine.

(He knew he sounded needy, but this was Eddie. And he was way past the point of caring, truthfully.)

Eddie pushed him down, practically pinning him by the shoulders to the couch, and Buck did moan at that, his cock hard and his hips jerking upwards in an attempt to find friction. Then, when he latched onto Buck's neck, sucking and biting hickies onto his throat like he was a fucking vampire to match those pointy canines of his, Buck swore and practically melted into the couch cushions with pleasure.

Just like at the party, Eddie seemed to be hitting every one of Buck's turn-ons without even trying—the manhandling, the marking—and when he shoved a knee right up against Buck's crotch, fuck, he was gone.

Grinding against Eddie's leg, Buck didn't try to stop the various noises that came from him, too lost in the sensation of Eddie's hands shoving his sweatshirt off his shoulders and his t-shirt upwards. (But he did try and keep it down, biting his lip until he was sure he was going to break skin.) Eddie's nails scraped against his stomach, so close to where Buck wanted them, before dragging upwards. When he caught on a nipple, Buck's hips jerked forwards and he felt precome leak into his underwear.

"God, so fucking perfect," Eddie muttered against Buck's neck, kissing his way up to his jaw. (Another turn-on found without even trying.)

"Fuck...Eddie, oh, fuck, yes...just...so good," Buck didn't even know what he was whisper-babbling in between dirty kisses that were more teeth than tongue. "Please...oh, fuck, like that."

Eddie had sunk most of his weight down between the cradle of Buck's legs, their crotches brushing against each other. Buck usually prided himself on his stamina, but the friction of Eddie's jean-covered bulge against his own was nearly too much. It had been over five weeks since he'd had sex, probably the longest stretch of time he'd gone without fucking since he lost his virginity, and he didn't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by his hair-trigger right now.

"So close," he panted, his voice high and his head thrown back, his breathing was too labored to keep kissing. Eddie simply resumed his exploration of Buck's throat, this time on the opposite side, his hands twisting a nipple and in his hair at once, in time with a rough thrust of his hips, and then Buck was coming.

Lights exploded behind his eyes, his entire body flushing with pleasure and warmth. He was vaguely aware that he was moaning, and that Eddie was saying...something, but he wasn't sure what.

When Buck's senses came back to him, he felt like he should be more embarrassed, sprawled out on the couch, not even undressed, his shirt rucked up to his armpits, and he just came in his pants after like five minutes of making out and grinding. Without even having gotten a hand on his cock. And it turned out that Eddie was fixing Buck's shirt, combing a hand through his curls and muttering, "Fuck, Buck that was...you're really...fuck," in between labored breaths and peppering his necks and jaw with light kisses.

Looking up, he felt a grin form lazily over his face as he saw how Eddie looked properly disheveled leaning over him, supporting all his weight on his forearms—his hair a wreck, no shirt, silver chain and pendant swinging as he propped himself up on his elbows, a flush staining his chest, a chest that had a dusting of hair Buck didn't want to look away from—but then he glanced down and saw that the bulge in his jeans was still there.

He knew that he could make Eddie feel good, and he wanted to, fuck, he wanted to put his mouth on Eddie and show him just how good Buck could be. His arms were reaching out, but Eddie shifted minutely and suddenly he seemed out of reach.

It was like ice water down his spine. Buck felt his breath hitch and catch in his chest, his hands snapping back to his sides. What had he done wrong? He had thought Eddie was into it, but had Buck fucked up? Why...

"Chris is right there," he said as if that explained anything, even though it explained fuck all. Because Buck knew he wasn't that quiet and Eddie had apparently had no problem grinding Buck into an orgasm half a minute ago.

His hands were still in Buck's hair and rubbing absently at his chest (right over his heart but Buck had no idea what to do with that information) and he wanted to press his hands to Eddie's to keep them there and he wanted to shove them away because while he never deserved the gentleness Eddie showed him, he definitely didn't right now.

Buck felt his breath becoming quicker—he had to have fucked up. A minute ago, Eddie was all over him and it felt good and now it was just...empty nothing lonely aching searching broken worthless too much not enough never enough. Eddie hadn't yet bothered to put his shirt back on, shifting to sit back on the couch, his hands slowly retracting to grip his thighs, either not knowing or not caring about Buck's silence.

"It's...I can't...not yet, I mean..." None of that was a full sentence, but Buck knew what was coming. It's not you it's me...I can't fuck you...don't touch me, not yet, I mean, why would I want you to, I'll tell you when to touch...let me use your mouth, your hole, your hands, then leave.

He didn't hear any of the rest of what Eddie was saying, some more half-formed sentences, apologies although why the fuck was he apologizing to a slut like Buck...?

Laughing at himself, Buck shook his head, standing up. He really wasn't any better than anything anyone had ever called him (needy clingy fuckboy manwhore pathetic weak slutty) and he just showed it all to Eddie. Greedy desperate broken Buck just spread his legs for anyone, and now Eddie knew how easy it (he) was, why would he want anything more?

"I'll text you and we can go somewhere...maybe Saturday? Just the two of us," Eddie was saying, but Buck wasn't processing.

"Yeah, sure," he grunted, not even really knowing what he was saying, keeping his head down as he tried not to sprint away. The plans would be canceled in two days anyway.

Eddie might have said something else, but there was a ringing in Buck's ears and his blood was rushing in his veins, so he didn't hear it. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it in the first place anyway.

This was what he always did—he got attached to the first person that showed him any sort of kindness, any scrap of attention, and then he latched on and refused to let go until he was kicked away like a stray dog. And for whatever fucking reason, he had decided that Eddie was going to be different, that he would be the person to look at Buck's broken, defective parts and think there was worth there.

Fat chance of that. And that just led to the inevitable pain hurting that much worse because he had started to hope that it wouldn't come.

Buck was only good at (for) one thing: sex. He knew that, Eddie knew that, so why did he not want Buck to make him come? Why did he let Buck fall apart beneath him? Why didn't he ask for something in return?

(Why had he kissed him in the first place if he was just going to pull this shit?)

His hands were shaking and he knew he was spiraling but he didn't know how to stop it. The entire night was playing on a loop in his mind, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Had he said something, done something, that Eddie didn't like? Was it a test and he was supposed to get Eddie off first and then when he didn't, Eddie got pissed?

Why did he have to fuck up the one thing that was supposed to be going right in his life? Why did he have to see Eddie and Chris so soon? Why couldn't he have kept coming up with excuses until he was more sober, more sure that he wouldn't do something to lose them?

Tears sprung to his eyes at the thought. He was going to lose Chris and Eddie. There was no doubt in his mind at this point and that made him stop dead in his tracks—he wasn't totally sure where he was—and slump against a low stone wall, his head between his knees. His breath was coming in fits and starts, much too quickly, and his fingers were starting to tingle as he lost feeling in them.

Make yourself say the fucking words, Buckley, he demanded himself. He gripped the back of his head with both hands, trying not to lose control. (And failing quite miserably.)

The words stuck in his throat, choked out noises coming from his mouth that probably didn't even qualify as speech. Tears leaked down his face onto the pavement below him and he knew he should want to stop crying, stop showing the entire world how fucked up and soft and weak and broken he was but he didn't care at the moment.

From above him, he heard someone—a woman's voice—asking if he was okay. A hand landed on his shoulder, the weight too light it made his skin itch so he shrugged it off. Keeping his head bowed, he nodded, waving a hand dismissively.

"Drunk," Buck muttered, and that was probably the first time that he'd ever said that as a lie. "'ll be fine in a second."

A soft hum made it past his ears, and the moving shadows indicated that whoever it was, was gone.

Raising his eyes, Buck looked around—he was on some deserted street, almost an alley really, behind a strip mall, every other streetlight was working and the one above his head was burnt out—he might know where he is. In his stupor he had managed to stumble halfway back to Hannigan's.

"Y-you are not getting th-them back," he forced himself to say, the words tasting rough and heavy in his mouth. His chest ached as he said them, like his ribs were crushing his lungs, but they had to be said.

If he didn't, he could keep deluding himself into thinking that he could have a place there—in a world where park dates and casual kisses and gentle touches and sex on the couch that was the best sex of his life even if he never got his pants off—and that would kill him. Slowly and surely, he would be forced to accept that he didn't fit in there, that he was fucked up and he couldn't bring his screwup self into Eddie's life. And that would fuck him up more than anything else.

That would end with him back on that fucking pier.

Brushing off his pants, he stood on shaky legs, flexing his trembling fingers in an attempt to bring feeling back into them.

If he was never going to fit in with Eddie and Chris, why the fuck was he even still trying to be—

"Two shots of tequila," Buck raised his hand to Cynthia with a cocky smirk. "To start."

She rolled her eyes, but lined the shots up for him nonetheless. The cool tequila burned on the way down, but once the warmth hit his stomach, he couldn't resist ordering another two right away. He'd have to stop after that, since he didn't work here anymore the shots would actually cost him money he didn't have, but the apartment should be well-stocked.

There was a girl on the other side of the bar—blonde hair, perky, total sorority girl—twirling her hair around a finger and eyeing him up and down. The tequila was clearing his head, pushing all of the negative thoughts out and he wondered why the fuck he stopped this. And this wasn't even the good part yet.

No, the good part was stumbling into the bathroom with Sorority Girl, his tongue down her throat and his hands squeezing and massaging her tits and ass to make her moan. The good part was when she shoved his pants down (not noticing or not caring about his come-stained underwear) and then he was inside her in barely enough time to put a condom on.

The sex lasted maybe three minutes, but it was fast and dirty and her nails had scraped down his back, surely leaving welts and he'd gripped her hips so tightly as he pushed her against the wall that she might still have marks in the shape of his fingers in the morning.

The really good part was when he left Hannigan's loose and laughing and stumbling around, tripping over his own two feet, but he didn't give a shit. Buck's mind had one track right now and that was to get to his apartment and do some lines.

He didn't care if he had to let Jeremy fuck him raw, he was willing to bet that the high would be worth it. Nothing would compare to the very first one, but he'd have to imagine that after weeks of painful sobriety, he'd be well rewarded for falling back off the wagon.

Walking through the door to his apartment should have felt harder.

In the back of his mind, he thought (maybe, hoped) that he would pause outside, hand just above the doorknob and wonder if this was really what he wanted to do. Maybe he should've called Bobby or TK, finally, or even that nice nurse from the hospital. Maybe he should've just turned straight around and gone back to Eddie's house and begged for forgiveness and prayed Eddie let him crash on the couch.

(He would've wanted to make breakfast for Christopher and Eddie would've given him a hangover cure that tasted rank, but he would've choked it down anyways.)

But, in reality, there wasn't any hesitation. Buck just walked right into the apartment, feeling his shoulders tense and then loosen at the familiar smell of pot and burnt food and spilled alcohol invading his senses.

Jeremy was nowhere to be found, but there were leftover lines on the kitchen counter and a trail of clothes leading to the dealer's room. And then the very loud sex noises coming from said room answered the question of where his roommate was.

There wasn't any hesitation as he bent down and snorted the three lines in quick succession, his head buzzing almost immediately. He wiped his nose out of habit more than anything, a lazy grin stretching over his face as his limbs loosened even further, his head spinning but empty.

Stumbling back to his room, he couldn't stop grinning, even though his chest started to ache, but instead of that ache fading away like it normally did when he got high, it started to expand.

What would Eddie think? Buck mused absentmindedly as he crashed very ungracefully onto his bed. But then he remembered that Eddie didn't want him anymore so he would probably think that Buck was a fuckup and a horrible person and that he shouldn't really think about what Eddie thinks anymore.

Decision made, he rolled around, shuffling until he was out of his clothes and just flopped onto his stomach on top of the covers. He didn't bother putting on new underwear—it would probably bite him in the ass (ha, ass, he made a pun) in the morning, because his door was still open, and he'd put good money on Jeremy waking him up with at least two fingers inside him.

Whatever. At least he'd get fucked.

Feeling his head start to hurt, too many negative feelings, he decided that he was still feeling like shit because he was alone and the needy clingy desperate slutty person he was, he couldn't just let his skin itch with the lack of touch.

[Buck]: hey tya...u up? wnna coe bcj 2 u lyke u dais at pstry

And so, three days later, he found himself in Taylor's apartment, panting like he'd run a marathon as he snorted coke off her tits as her legs squeezed around his waist as she came.

He wasn't far behind, even with the marathon weekend of sex—sometimes with Veronica or Jesse or both; sometimes with one of the many guys who Buck hooked up with at a club; but always always while they were high—his stamina was still pretty good, but after almost three hours and multiple orgasms, he was a bit overstimulated.

They fall apart to catch their breath, Buck not even feeling the distance between them on the bed, because this was definitely the most amount of time he's ever spent with Taylor. Two and a half, nearly three days with the same person...he was just trying not to blink in case it was all a dream.

She leaned over him, somehow managing to keep their bodies from brushing, to grab her phone, thumbing through emails while Buck stared at the ceiling.

That first night, when he texted her at two in the morning, she'd come over, giving him the same challenge as that night at the party. He had been practically animalistic when he tore her clothes off, finding the baggie of coke stuck between the thin string of her thong and her skin.

She'd pushed him back onto the bed, cutting a line on his abs, licking away the excess afterwards. Then she'd held his hands down as she rode him, the only points of contact were her hands on his wrists and where their hips joined but it was enough.

Someone was touching him, someone wanted him, that was enough. (It had to be enough.)

And then when he woke up that morning, he'd had a text from Sandy—one he'd been ignoring for weeks—and responded with a yes. Even though he'd blown them off—and not in a fun way—that couple still wanted him to be their fourth. That had to mean something, right?

Her emails must've bored her, because Taylor soon sprawled out over his chest and the drag of her soft body against his should've felt phenomenal, and it did. There was nothing but coke and vodka and weed and pills in his system and he'd never felt better.

(He definitely didn't still think of sunshine and bright sunshine-like laughter and kisses that tasted like ice cream, no fucking way.)

"I told you he'd get bored of you," Taylor muttered smugly. "You're better in small doses, I've found out." Buck snorted because wasn't that the truth, but she wasn't done talking. "I knew you weren't better than me...so how'd you fuck up this time?"

When hadn't he fucked up with Eddie? When he first met the man, high and hungover and smelling like sex and had talked to his son? When he'd tried to flirt with Eddie, right there where everyone could see his hands all over him, marking Eddie with his needy grip?

When he tried and failed to flirt with him while Eddie was on-duty and Buck had clearly just fucked another person? (When he fucked Taylor right after that?)

When he OD'd in front of Christopher, probably traumatizing the poor child for life? When he couldn't shake the symptoms of the comedown and Eddie had to spend a full day taking care of Buck's pathetic ass?

When he slept in the bed next to Eddie after that party? When he didn't text Eddie back for weeks? When he was failing at Na and still had no clue what to do with his life?

"I let him in," Buck replied, his voice quiet and more honest than he'd been planning on being with Taylor. "I let him get in my head."

"Never a good thing," Taylor replied dryly, leaning over once more to do a line off the nightstand next to Buck's head. "Doubt you'll make that mistake again."

Buck didn't answer, but it felt like turning over to finish the rest of their coke while Taylor reached around to tug his dick back to hardness was answer enough.

Chapter Text

The last time Eddie was standing in front of this nurse's station, he was in shock and so full of emotions that he was lost in his head for hours waiting for news. This time, however, he was his usual focused, determined self. All of the concern and emotions—guilt, fear, worry—stayed firmly locked inside him as he smiled politely at the nurse.

"I was hoping to speak to Caroline Mikaelson," he told the nurse. "Do you know if she's available?"

"What is this in reference to?" The nurse asked, looking up from her computer with a mildly skeptical expression.

"I'm, uh, a friend of hers," Eddie stumbled over his words, hopefully looking sincere enough. "Just...whenever she gets the time."

"Name?" The nurse still didn't look quite like she believed him, but it was more than Eddie knew to hope for right now.

"Eddie Diaz."

"One moment please. I'll let you know if she's available." She gestured towards the chairs, and though he didn't feel like sitting, he took a seat anyway, hoping that would quell the restless energy that couldn't seem to leave his body. This was a long shot and he knew it, but after talking Buck's roommate, he didn't have a whole lot of options left and the guilt and weight crawling up his throat was choking him.

And that had been a charming conversation—Eddie's blood practically boiled at the thought of that prick's smug face leering at him from across the parking lot.

It had been almost two full months since he'd last seen Buck, and not just seen, but talked to, texted, had proof of life. And while that wouldn't be so much cause for concern—he still remembered how Buck was when he first got Eddie's number, it was like pulling teeth to get the man to use it—after that night...

Something just felt off. In the pit of his stomach, he felt like something was wrong. Deeply, intrinsically wrong.

Buck wouldn't just ghost him, right? But that Saturday, the day of their date, rolled around, and Buck was nowhere to be found. Eddie had sat in his living room, alternating between staring at the door and staring at his phone for hours. He'd even tried calling Buck, leaving a message that it was okay that Buck stood him up but maybe they could take Chris to the zoo the next weekend.

It had been a mistake telling Chris that he'd asked Buck that, because when the day of the proposed zoo trip rolled around and Buck still hadn't made contact, Eddie had to look his son in the eye and tell him that Buck couldn't make it.

("So you lied to me?" Chris had asked in his saddest voice, and Eddie had nodded just as sadly. There had even been a pause for over a minute, Chris looking to the side, tears welling up in his big eyes and Eddie's heart had caught in his throat. That weight that had been absent for so long, that feeling of his throat being squeezed and his voice cut off, was back. Like it had never been gone.

"I think...I'm really mad at you, Dad," Chris had finally mumbled.

"That's okay," Eddie had managed to get out, and he tried not to feel like a failure of a father when Chris didn't talk to him the rest of the day and shrugged off any attempts at a hug.

But he couldn't make himself believe that he wasn't a failure. Seven years old and Chris already realized how much of a fuckup Eddie was. If he was a little older, Eddie had no doubt that "I'm really mad at you" would have been "I hate you" and he would've deserved it all.)

He kept texting Buck, but there started to be little "Not Delivered" signs underneath his messages and asking Hen and Chim what that meant did not yield positive results.

("I think that means your number's blocked Eduardo," Chim raised his eyebrows, snapping his gum pointedly.

"Who are you trying to get a hold of?" Hen asked, sympathy filling her voice until it was that tone she used on victims.

"Doesn't matter." Was the only reply Eddie had for them.)

He hadn't even bothered asking Bobby for his advice, still not quite used to the idea of being close personal friends with his captain. Don't get him wrong, he loved the fact that the 118 sometimes felt more like a family with Bobby and Athena as their pseudo-parents, but that analogy also didn't make Eddie feel super comfortable going to Bobby because it wasn't like his actual father was the most open person in the world.

So, he pushed everything down and moved forward, just as he always had, and he figured that before long the rest of his crew would forget that Eddie had ever been mildly out of it for a week or two.

And he hadn't wanted to be that guy from all the romcoms that his sisters and Shannon decided for being a wrong music cue away from being horror movies about stalkers, but he couldn't shake this feeling in his gut that something was wrong.

He couldn't forget that look on Buck's face that night on the couch, how open he was, how beautiful he was as he fell apart underneath Eddie. God, the fucking sounds he made, even when he bit his lip to try and be quiet. It all played on a loop in his dreams nearly every night. The best sex of Eddie's life and he hadn't even come.

Because Buck was a giver, a fixer, and Eddie hadn't needed anything else from him in that moment except maybe another a kiss or two. And he knew that Buck probably wouldn't get it, would probably take it the wrong way when Eddie stopped him from reciprocating but...in every relationship he's ever had, sex was the one part that fucked everything up.

With Shannon it was like sex was the only thing they could do right, and it started to become a fight, all of their arguments spilling over into the bedroom until they broke the last part of them that was supposed to be from before everything blew up in their faces.

With Ana, sex was a necessity—something that Eddie knew that he should be into, that he should want, but couldn't seem to muster up the energy for half the time and sometimes that made him feel like a shitty person, stringing her along with sex when he wasn't all the way into it.

And that night...he'd meant to stop after the first kiss. Eddie really wanted to do right by Buck, to take it slow so that when his head was screwed on right—because there was still that voice taunting in the background, louder than it ever has been, about how he wasn't queer that this was unnatural—sex wouldn't ruin what they had.

But he couldn't keep a lid on his desires and they'd fucked on his couch, and when Eddie couldn't handle the reciprocation—oh, he wanted it, wanted everything, but he hadn't wanted Buck to feel pressured, hadn't even needed to come, he had just wanted to do something good for Buck, plus he'd felt pretty satisfied watching Buck fall apart anyway—it hadn't mattered what his intentions were. He'd fucked it up the same way he always did, except now they had barely started before it was in shambles.

"Eddie?" Caroline's bright voice was laced with concern as Eddie broke his staring contest with the ground. "What are you doing here? Tanya said that you were asking for me."

"Uh, hey," he started, unsure how to even really say what he wanted to ask. Actually, he probably shouldn't ask what he wanted to ask because it was definitely a HIPPA violation. "I just wanted to see if Buck...Evan Buckley had been checked in here recently? I think I'm still the emergency contact on his paperwork?"

Everything came out sounding like a question and she just smiled at him sadly. "You know I can't answer any of that, right?"

He looked down at his feet, trying not to flourish with embarrassment at getting called out. "Yeah, I figured."

"Great!" She exclaimed with a clap of her hands, way too chipper for eight in the morning. "It's my break so you can buy me a coffee and we can talk about why you're really here."

Eddie smirked a little half-heartedly but nodded nonetheless. They kept up a quiet stream of small talk on the way to the cafeteria, Caroline grabbing them two coffees before they made their way over to a small, out of the way table.

"So," she grinned at him with an eyebrow wiggle, looking like the cat that got the cream. "Buck, huh? That's the boyishly handsome blond that you came in with months ago, right?"

Eddie took a deliberate sip of coffee, trying to hide the flush crawling up his neck and figure out what the fuck to say to that. "We've been...talking recently and I was worried about how he was doing. I mean, you can hardly fault me for that give how we," he motioned between Caroline and himself, "met."

"Talking or talking?" She asked and he promised himself to never introduce her to Shannon or his sisters or he would never hear the end of it.

"Does it matter?" He bit out, maybe a little harsher than necessary but he couldn't help going on the defensive. Maybe they had been on the way to something more but that obviously didn't matter now.

Caroline shrugged, apparently unfazed by his tone and looking like his non-answer was enough for her. "Look," she sighed, her tone becoming one that was wise beyond her years, "as a nurse I can't tell you anything. But if Buck gets brought back in and if you're still on file as his emergency contact, you'll get a call anyway. But if that's not the case...as a friend I can keep an eye out for a mutual friend. But if he doesn't come through my wing, my hands are going to be tied. That's the best I can do right now, 'kay?"

Eddie nodded, knowing that was more than he could hope for. Looking down at the table, he saw the giant diamond ring on her left hand and couldn't help raising his eyebrows slightly. He remembered her mentioning a husband, but that was one hell of a rock.

"It's a little big, isn't it?" Caroline must have noticed his staring since she held her hand up to inspect the ring. "When I was a teenager I would've never accepted anything less, but when the time came that I finally wanted to get engaged to Klaus, my husband...I could have cared less about the ring."

"It really shows how much he loves you," Eddie added, feeling a little out of his depth. He had given Shannon his Bisabuela's ring at his father's insistence, but they never had the time or money to get it sized so she said that it had never quite been hers, she never felt it belonged to her. And he always knew that she wanted a bigger, better ring while they were still together, but he'd never gotten around to it.

"It actually doesn't," Caroline chirped almost sharply before her voice softened again. "He thought it did. His family's from, like, super old money and that's sort of their thing, you know...buying love and affection. But the only thing I cared about, the thing that actually showed me that he really did love me, was on the day before our wedding, he told me that he had the ring picked out since the day after our first date. It's an old family heirloom and he made sure none of his siblings took the ring over the years until we started dating, and then he kept it in the back of his desk for years. He always said that he loved me almost right away but...the fact that he kept track of the ring, meant that he never stopped loving me. I was the one that took a little longer to figure out my own feelings. But he never lost hope...in me or in us."

Eddie pressed his lips together in a thin smile, "You think you're subtle, don't you?"

"Not particularly," she shrugged, finishing off her coffee and standing up. "My point is that love is a lot, and sometimes you know right away, but then sometimes you don't know you're in love until you're already in the middle of it and have no freaking clue how you ended up there. And look, maybe it won't work out in the end, but no love is without hurt, and there's nothing you can do to stop that hurt. Except be there and hope because...sometimes you find your last love."

Eddie wanted to believe that, and in some ways he did, but he had to imagine it was a little different for Caroline and her husband, who just took time to build their relationship and that intimacy with each other, rather than two people who barely got off the ground in the first place.

"I'll keep you posted, Eddie, but don't be a stranger. If the next time I hear from you is in another four months, I promise you will not enjoy that conversation." Caroline squeezed his shoulder gently, "Just...think about it all, okay? If it was easy, everyone would have no problem finding love."

Caroline's words stuck with him the entire time he was on shift—thankfully only eighteen hours, but that was still a long time to be dwelling on one ten minute conversation with a woman he barely knows. Because he knew she was right. Love was never something that was easy, and it certainly never came easy to Eddie, just look at his previous romantic history. The only love that ever had was how much he loved Christopher.

And Buck...Eddie had no clue how Buck felt, he barely knew his own feelings and he certainly wouldn't go so far as to use the L-word. But feelings were feelings, and he did care about Buck in a way he hadn't cared about anyone since Shannon. And it had been fast, and he had no clue how he ended up with these feelings in the first place, but it hardly seemed like they were going anywhere  anytime soon.

Even if Buck had. But he hadn't given up hope yet. Eddie wasn't a hopeful person by nature, much more realistic, bordering on cynical sometimes, but this one time he would try to be selfish and hold out hope that maybe Buck would come back.

God, the man could just text an "I'm alive" and Eddie would be over the moon.

As he was tucking Chris in, smoothing his curly hair back from his forehead with a soft smile, he couldn't help but wonder if he was the reason that he had hope. His brave, sweet, amazing son had enough optimism for the two of them that some had spilled over into Eddie.

"Hey Dad?" Chris asked, fiddling with the top of the comforter. "Is Buck mad at me?"

"No, of course not!" Eddie assured him, "What makes you think that?"

Chris shrugged, but Eddie just had to wait for him to find the right words to explain himself. "Because I broke a pinky promise...I didn't tell you why I ran away."

Eddie's heart stopped beating in his chest at those words. He hadn't realized Buck knew why Christopher was on the pier that night...or more like he knew more than what Eddie did. "Do you want to tell me now?" He whispered, not wanting to sound too anxious or overeager. "I'm not mad at you, I promise. And neither is Buck."

Chris nodded, but still seemed a little unsure, his eyes not meeting Eddie's. "We talk about our feelings, right?"

Fuck, his kid was way smarter than he was. "Yeah, bud, we do," Eddie nodded.

"I was mad," Chris said simply, and Eddie just kept silent, hoping his smile looked encouraging enough for Chris to continue. "I didn't think you would notice if I left...that you wouldn't care."

Eddie's heart broke a little right then. "I will always care about you," he replied firmly, trying to infuse as much love and care and affection into his words as possible. "And of course I noticed that you were gone. I was really scared."

"You were scared?" Chris looked up at him with big eyes, "But you never get scared. I told Buck that you didn't get scared...but he said that you were, because you were a good dad."

His breath caught in his throat at that, he didn't know how to respond. He knew that he had to say something, but there was something breaking deep inside him—grief and guilt and hope just becoming too much for him to feel all at once—and he couldn't open his mouth without being afraid all that brokenness was going to come spilling out in the low light of his son's room.

He ended up not having to say anything, because Christopher wasn't done talking. "You act like you don't get sad either, but I know you do."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're very observant?" Eddie forced his mouth to quirk up into a smirk, but he let the joke land flatly in the quiet room.

"You're sad now," Chris continued like he hadn't heard Eddie. "Is it because Buck isn't here? There was a little bit when you weren't sad...after Ms. Flores stopped coming around, but now you're sad because Buck is gone. I'm confused."

"Me too, mijo," he breathed, trying to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of order. "It's complicated and Buck...I care a lot about him, and I know you do too so it makes me sad when I can't see or talk to him. And it's okay if you're sad about that too...you can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

His son nodded, "I didn't like Ms. Flores. But I don't think she liked me much either...I heard her say...say that you were going to have more kids."

Eddie closed his eyes, trying to keep the hurt and pain and anger off his face. He still remembered Ana throwing that particular barb in Shannon's face that night—his siblings won't be—but he hadn't realized Chris had heard.

"I'm really sorry that you had to hear that," Eddie managed to say, glad that his voice was steady. "She shouldn't have said that. You're the best kid ever...and I mean that. And...if in a long long time from now, you get a sibling...it won't be because you're not enough. I promise that you are always going to be more than enough for me. And if that does happen, I know that you will be the best big brother in the world."

Chris nodded, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. "I told Buck that you are the best dad and I meant that too." Eddie had a watery smile as he pulled his son in for a hug.

The two clung to each other for so long, Chris' tears leaking onto the shoulder of Eddie's shirt, but he couldn't care less—in fact, his own tears were starting to drip down his cheeks—as Chris started to fall asleep on his shoulder.

"I think it's bedtime now." Eddie gently laid Chris back down, keeping one hand running through his son's curls in the meantime, watching him struggle to keep his drooping eyes open. "I love you, Christopher."

"I love you too, Dad," Chris replied through a yawn.

It had been months since they'd last seen Buck—that night—and Eddie had heard it all from everyone.

Shannon and Lena looking at him with matching pitying expressions, telling him that maybe it was time to let Buck go, to try and move on.

Most of the 118 giving him sideways glances when he came in after a night of tossing and turning with worry—Bobby was the only one who didn't, and there were times Eddie wanted to take the Captain by the shoulders and shake him because it seemed like he knew something and wouldn't tell unless Eddie asked. (But Eddie was too much of a coward to ask.)

Even Ana had texted him once, asking if he and Christopher were alright—and if that just didn't throw him for the world's longest tailspin. Maybe he had messed it all up with her too, maybe there was something that could be salvaged. He could talk to her about waiting for a long time before they talked about kids and how she talked to and about Chris.

And last night he had driven to Buck's apartment like a fucking stalker and spent twenty minutes arguing with himself before ultimately getting out of the car when his asshole of a roommate had stumbled out of the building.

"Hey, man!" He'd called and it was clear Jeremy—he thinks that's the douchebag's name—recognized him.

"Pre'y boy," the other man had slurred, stumbling over. "I figured once Buckley went back to normal you would've wanted out. Kid's got a hell of a mouth though, one taste ain't ever enough."

Eddie was this close to breaking the man's already crooked nose, but he breathed slowly, trying not to lose control. "Can you just tell Buck I was here? That he can call me if he needs anything?"

Jeremy snorted as if the very concept of human decency and concern was abhorrent to him. "Buckley isn't your boyfriend...well, if he is then he's playin' you for a sucker 'cause he fucks more now than he ever did before you. Strait-laced and repressed ain't really his type."

"And sleazy coke dealers are?" Eddie shot back, unable to keep his cool. "Just let him know, okay, many? It's not that fucking hard."

Jeremy waved him off, shuffling away and Eddie knew that there was no way in hell his message was getting back to Buck. Buck, who had relapsed...hard.

He wondered if breaking Chris' heart now would hurt less than it breaking later. This was where it would be great to have someone like Shannon, a partner, or parents who gave a shit about his life and not how his son could be their do-over kid. Because he had a feeling that this could do more harm than good.

But Chris had been in so much pain lately, constantly worried and upset—he might notice when Eddie was sad, but Eddie was the dad and always knew when Chris was sad as well—and maybe this was necessary to help him move on.

(Help both of them move on.)

Because deep down...he knew that they weren't going to see Buck again. He knew it in his gut, just like he did when a person at a scene wasn't going to make it, like he knew his marriage to Shannon was over the second he stepped off that last plane from Afghanistan. Like he knew that Buck had relapsed that same night they'd had sex on the couch and Buck left in a rush. Like he knew he had fucked up his explanation that night and Buck either hadn't heard it or had decided it wasn't enough.

"Hey, Christopher," Eddie sighed, "there's something I have to tell you." Chris nodded and Eddie took a deep breath, his heart clenching and eyes pricking with tears. "You know that grown up sickness Buck has, addiction...it's gotten worse and now, and now he has to go away."

"Go away?" Chris' voice was so small that Eddie wanted to burst into tears. "Like Grandma and Grandpa?"

Eddie shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek to keep in the sobs. Shannon's father had died shortly after Chris was born, her mother passing soon after Eddie's last tour, and from the few times he'd met them, they seemed like decent people. Now, all Chris had left for grandparents were Eddie's. "Not like that, mijo. He has to move...to, to get help."

"He said that he'd fight really hard to get better," Christopher's voice was rising to near a shout.

"This can help him do that," Eddie lied, feeling like absolute shit, like the worst kind of father. But better Chris thinks that Buck had just moved than if he turned up dead one day. "And I'm sure he's sorry that he didn't get to say goodbye."

"Did he say goodbye to you?" Chris asked and Eddie had to shake his head. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," he replied, tears burning his eyes as he pulled Christopher in for another hug, this one lasting even longer.

Eddie shut the door to Christopher's room, emotionally wrung out. Chris had finally conked out and Eddie wanted to start breaking down at the thought of his kid crying himself to sleep. He just stared at the ceiling in his room, it was only three hours until he had to be up for an early morning shift.

When Tia Pepa came over, he checked on Chris, glad that the boy was resting, and told her not to wake him until the last possible second. He could tell that she wanted to ask what was wrong, but he was out the door before she could.

The drive to the fire station happened almost on autopilot, Eddie just staring at the city streets passing him by, wondering by what miracle the universe managed to get him and Buck to meet not once, not twice, but three times.

He sat in his car, a full hour before his shift was about to start, his phone clutched in his hand.

One last try, he told himself, pressing on the familiar contact number.

There was only ringing on the other end of the line for the briefest of moments before it sent him right to the voicemail inbox. (And Buck didn't have it set up so he didn't get to hear Buck's voice one last time. Even if it was through the phone, Eddie didn't care anymore.)

"Hey, Buck, it's Eddie," he started slowly, his voice shaky. "Uh...I'm getting the idea that you don't want to talk to me, so, yeah. I'm really sorry if...if that night went too far. I didn't mean to, and I wanted for you to...fuck, I just want you. I hope you didn't, I hope you don't think that I don't want you.

"Um, and I ran into Jeremy," yeah, that's one word for it, his mind supplied, "and...I get that you're seeing other people. It doesn't even matter that you stood me up for our date."

Eddie smiled a watery grin to himself, thinking of that night he stared at the doorway hoping for Buck to call. "Okay, that's not true, it does matter, but I don't care about it. I just care about y—" he cut himself off with a sigh. "I just...Chris misses you." His next words were a whisper, a confession. "I miss you. And...and I really hope that you're okay. Fuck, I hope you're okay. Call me if you—"

"Your voicemail has been recorded," the stupid automated voice cut him off. "If you are satisfied with your message, press one. To save your message, press two. If you would like to delete your message—"

Eddie stared at his phone blankly, before pressing '2' and hanging up the call before the voice could ask him if he wanted to do anything else. He got out of his truck and walked inside Station 118, his feet heavy, chest aching, and it felt like the weight around his throat was never going to lift.