Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been. Thirteen years since my last confession,” Eddie whispered, the words coming almost easy to him now that he was here.

The response was instant and simple. “Welcome home, son.”

That's when Eddie started to cry.

They went to church every Sunday. It was Eddie's favourite day of the week. Not because of church, but because it was all of them together. Sunday was family day.

It was always abuela who woke him up with a kiss to the forehead and spindly fingers tickling his armpits until Eddie was wheezing and writhing and giggling and begging her to stop, abuela, stop, por favor, and then abuela would giggle too and give him another kiss and tell him to get up Eddito, breakfast is getting cold.

It was always abuelo who sat at the head of the table with a newspaper laid out in front of him and pretending he didn't see when Eddie sneaked some of his coffee, chuckling to himself when Eddie made a face of disgust at the bitter taste.

It was always mum who pulled out a chair and set a plate of pancakes and bacon and syrup in front of him and ruffle his hair with affection.

It was always dad who would ask him if Adriana and Sophia had behaved, if they'd been good, if they'd listened to him, and then smile in pride when Eddie said yes papa.

It was always Adriana and Sophia who complained about Sundays being the worst.

Sunday was Eddie's favourite day of the week.

Sunday was family day.

After breakfast and after brushing his teeth and after getting dressed in the nice shirt and the nice pants and the nice shoes that Eddie wasn't allowed to wear any other day, they walked together to the church a few blocks away, Adriana and Sophia holding on to abuela's hands and Eddie walking on his own because he was old enough to do that.

The church was small, red bricks and stained glass windows, the pews a dark mahogany, the altar made of marble, the floors always shiny and clean. And there was Father Raymond. He was old and ugly, the way most adults were old and ugly.

Sometimes, Eddie could hear his sisters snickering behind their hands, heads stuck together and hushed voices as they exchanged gossip and secrets. He never joined in, but he always wondered what it was they were saying.

Father Raymond was a loud man. His voice boomed.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” he said, “Hallowed be thy name.”

The church was always cold even in the summer heat of El Paso, and Eddie always shivered even in his good shirt and his good pants and his good shoes.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” he said, “On earth as it is in heaven.”

The church was silent, only Father Raymond’s voice echoing between the walls and Eddie’s heart beat echoing in his own mind.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses,” he said, “As we forgive those who trespass against us.”

The church was small but so, so, so very large. A beast that breathed and swallowed Eddie whole.

“And lead us not into temptation,” he said, “But deliver us from evil.”

The church was salvation from all the sins Eddie knew he had committed, was committing, would commit.

“For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours, now and for ever,” he said, “Amen.”

And the congregation responded as one, “Amen.”

There was a girl that lived on Eddie's street and went to Eddie's school and sat in the back of Eddie's church during mass on Sunday. Her name was Shannon.

Mum and dad didn't like Shannon, because she was a trouble-maker.

Eddie did, though. He liked Shannon. Because she was a trouble-maker.

It was just her and her parents, and then, after the divorce, it was just her and her mum.

Shannon wasn't like Eddie.

Shannon wore leather jackets and sneaked cigarettes behind the gym, she read Shakespeare for fun because she liked the dirty jokes, she once broke Niall Powell's fingers for touching her ass. Shannon was alive and she showed Eddie that he could be too.

“She's a bad influence,” mum would always say whenever Shannon's name came up.

Because Eddie started wearing his own leather jackets, started sneaking his own cigarettes behind the gym, and even though he would never read Shakespeare unless he had to, he listened when she talked about it. Shannon did that a lot. Talk.

Sometimes, it felt like Eddie could barely get a word in edgewise. He liked it that way.

“Mr. Broody,” she called him.

There was always an edge to her a smile, a twinkle in her eyes that would have put the devil to shame.

They weren't dating when they kissed for the first time. That came later. But they were both sixteen and drunk from a single beer and then the empty bottle landed on Eddie and then Shannon kissed him. Just like that. Their classmates cheered and jeered and Eddie thought this is it? Because there were no fireworks, no swelling background music, not even the curling desire in his gut that some of the guys had described before. It just felt wet.

But Eddie liked Shannon, so it only made sense that he would also like her, and when he finally asked her out she said yes like it was the most obvious answer in the world. Maybe it was.

“She's a bad influence,” mum said again when Eddie told her about the date.

It was a Sunday. Family day.

Except abuelo was dead now and abuela had moved to California to stay with Tia Pepa because the memories were too painful here in El Paso.

“Let him be, Helena, it's just a date,” dad said from the other end of the breakfast table where he was reading the newspaper the way abuelo had always done. “It's not like they're getting married.”

It was just a date.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And Eddie kept waiting for it, that spark that people talked about, that moment of realisation, that shift in colour and lighting where everything suddenly made sense. He would be waiting for a long, long time.

When Eddie was sixteen, he and Shannon started dating.

When Eddie was seventeen, he and Shannon broke up because Eddie was tired of dealing with his parents' criticism.

When Eddie was eighteen, he and Shannon got back together at their high school graduation party.

When was nineteen, Shannon said I'm pregnant, and Eddie went to a bar he knew wouldn't card him, got drunk, and traded a hand job with a guy twice his age and size. The next day, he proposed to Shannon and enlisted in the army.

Life was funny like that sometimes.

The thing was, Eddie knew he'd been born tainted, sinful, unholy. There was a stain on his soul that had always been there, a thing with roots that dug deep and grew and grew and grew.

Father Raymond spoke of the dangers of desire and temptation.

“The devil,” he would remind them, “Will not present at your door with hoofed feet and horns on his head. Instead, it will promise you that which you yearn for but have not yet earned.”

Eddie knew the devil well, the forms it could take, the promises it would make. And he was a weak, weak man.

“The Lord,” father Raymond would tell them, “May grant forgiveness to those who seek it and show repentance.”

And Eddie sought and repented and prayed that he may one day also be forgiven for his wrongness.

“Let us pray,” father Raymond would implore them, “For our brothers and sisters who have strayed from the path of God.”

And Eddie would bow his head and clasp his hands together and know that they were praying for him.

Being a father was not something that came naturally to Eddie, was not something that came easy, was not something he knew how to be.

And he thought of his own father, if this was how he'd felt, if this was why he hadn't been there, if maybe they were more alike than Eddie had thought.

As Eddie shipped out to Afghanistan, leaving behind a pregnant wife, as he shipped out again, leaving behind a newborn infant, as he shipped out a third time, leaving behind a toddler, he wondered if he should apologise to his dad for being too harsh on him. Because he understood now, the fear that came with fatherhood, the uncertainty, the possibility of failure. That, maybe, it was already too late.

The day that Christopher was born, was the last time he went to confession, a church he'd never been to before, the booth around him like a prison cell.

And he said, “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

And he said, “I cheated on my girlfriend after she told me she was pregnant.”

And he said, “I'm abandoning my wife and son because I don't know how to be a husband, how to be a father, to fight for a war I don't believe in.”

And the priest on the other side of the prison cell said, “I will pray for you, son.”

The first time Eddie met the devil, she bore a leather jacket and a mischievous glint in her eyes and she taught him the meaning of joy and friendship and recklessness. Then, she taught him that actions have consequences.

Shannon was a the first gulp of fresh air after years and years and years of drowning. She showed him how to be the responsible big brother by day and a teenager by night. She was the taste of cigarettes and beer and stolen candy, and Eddie was in love with her because of course he was, because it made sense, because that was what happened when a boy like him met a girl like her.

The second time Eddie met the devil, he bore a smile like sunshine and a heart that was bigger than any Eddie had ever seen before and he taught him that family was a thing that was forged with fire and blood. Then, he taught him the meaning of loss.

Buck was a light at the end of a very dark tunnel, a spark of hope in a time when everything felt lost. He showed him that kindness could be found in the most unlikely of places and that he didn't have to be alone. He was the sound of laughter and jokes and late night conversation, and Eddie loved him in a way he knew wasn't allowed but couldn't help, because Buck was an easy person to love.

The third time Eddie met the devil, he bore the ease of self-confidence and self-acceptance and he taught him that happiness was a thing that was possible. Then, he taught him that happiness was a thing that only happened to other people.

Tommy was a call to action for an unexpected adventure that would leave him forever changed. He showed him that he was allowed to have a life that was bigger than his son and his work, that people did not stay the same, that healing wasn't something to that happened to you but something you did. He was the feeling of flying and sore muscles and companionship, and Eddie didn't love him but he knew he could because Tommy reminded him of the person he wanted to be.

Eddie was a weak, weak man.

Thirteen years and several lifetimes later, he walked back into a church, back into a confessional, the weight of his sins resting heavy on his shoulders.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been. Thirteen years since my last confession,” Eddie whispered, the words coming almost easy to him now that he was here.

The response was instant and simple. “Welcome home, son.”

That's when Eddie started to cry.

Chapter Text

Three months after Chris had left, Eddie moved in with Tommy. It went a little like this -

There was the morning after the night before and the caustic aftertaste of vomit and shame still resting heavily on his tongue. There were already half-forgotten memories of sitting in his too-quiet, too-empty house and the knowledge that Chris is gone and this is my fault, there was a text he didn’t remember sending that said I’m sorry and Buck’s voice calling out his name.

And Eddie knew Buck had been worried about him, because he’d said so.

He’d said, “I was worried about you, you know. Last night. I was fucking worried. I thought – I thought something happened to you.” And his voice was so sharp now, Eddie was surprised it didn't cut him right open.

There were things they didn't talk about, the things that were too big, the things that shaped them. Things like the tsunami and Shannon dying and illegal fighting rings. Things like a collapsible well and getting shot and being struck by lightning. Things like Kim and Chris.

Things like this.

And yet here Buck was, talking about it.

And he’d said, “I don't think you should be alone right now.”

And Tommy had said, “You could stay here. I don't use the guest room. You're actually the first person to ever sleep in that bed.”

And Buck had said, “Eddie, please.”

And that’s how Eddie had moved in with Tommy.

Eddie had never been a particularly touchy person. It wasn't that he didn't like touch, because he did. Some days, he felt like the desire of it, the temptation, was so big and so loud and so much, he could barely hear his own thoughts. To feel the warmth of someone else's skin, the life that pulsed beneath it, to feel something that wasn't nothing, it was a craving. And yet the distance between himself and someone else was always so large, so impossible to cross.

Shannon had always been the first to reach out, to place her hands on him, her fingers, so gentle and delicate, closing around his, running up his arms, his chest, his face. And Eddie had always let her because he'd loved her, because he'd been in love with her, because what else was there. It made sense. He'd never cared all that much about the sex, it was just a thing that people did when they were together, but the thing that came after – hot skin on hot skin, breaths mingling, arms holding tightly – Eddie had lived for the after.

Buck was like that too. And Eddie had tried, he really had, to keep that distance between them, but Buck had only ever crossed it so easily, so effortlessly, like it was simple. It was Buck's arm around Eddie's shoulder and Buck's thigh pressed against his and Buck's hand, rough and strong and so unlike Shannon's, clasping his arm. And that maybe made sense, because Chris loved him and so Eddie let him. Because Buck was his best friend. Because what else was there? And Eddie hadn't even noticed at first, the way Buck had disassembled the walls Eddie had so carefully built up, the way he'd replaced them with bridges instead.

Maybe that was why he hadn't questioned it when Tommy had greeted him with a hug the first time they'd hung out after the hurricane. Because Buck had done it first. And then Tommy had kept doing it – hugging him, touching him. It was fist bumps and high fives and shoulder nudges, so casual and non-chalant, like it was normal. Eddie had never met anyone like Tommy before.

His friendship with Buck had been hard-won and hard-earned, had been carved from stone by their bare hands, was something they'd built, brick by brick, from the ground up. It was special.

Tommy, though – Tommy was like continuing a conversation mid-sentence, like they'd always known each other even if they hadn't met before, like they clicked. It was instant and familiar and magical. And none of that made sense because Eddie didn't click with people. Not like that. But Eddie clicked with Tommy and Tommy had hugged him the first time they'd hung out and Eddie had let him and only asked himself why afterwards. He still didn't have the answer, but it was probably because of Buck.

Many things were because of Buck, like the expensive food processor in Eddie's kitchen that only Buck ever used to make smoothies and protein shakes and soup for when Chris was sick, like Eddie's subscription to five different streaming services because they all held different documentaries Buck liked to watch when he came over, even though he already knew them by heart, like the weighted blanket and the fancy coffee and the third toothbrush that was neatly sitting in the cup in the bathroom between Eddie's and Chris'.

Eddie didn't know where he'd be without Buck anymore, truth be told. He'd come into their lives, sunshine smile and a heart made of gold, and simply made a home there, and Eddie had welcomed him, had opened his home and given him his son and hoped that was enough to make him stay.

He knew he didn't deserve it.

He’d said as much to Buck.

They’d gone to Eddie’s house to pick up some of Eddie’s stuff, and Buck had stopped and stared at the closed door of Chris bedroom.

And Buck had said, “I miss him.”

And Eddie had said, “Me too.”

It had been the most they’d ever said about Chris, the most they'd ever come to acknowledging his absence.

And then Eddie had said, “I don't like being here anymore. It's too empty. Too quiet. That's why I got drunk last night, I think.”

And Buck had asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

And Eddie had shrugged, because, “It's not your problem, Buck.”

And Buck had said, “It is, though. I'm making it my problem. Eddie, I want it to be my problem. I've got your back, remember?”

And that’s when Eddie had told him, when he’d looked at him and said, “I don’t deserve it.”

They hadn’t talked about it since.

Living with Tommy was both easier and harder than living alone. It was easier because Buck and Tommy were there and Eddie was no longer alone. It was harder because Buck and Tommy were there and Eddie was no longer alone.

He and Buck had always spent a lot of time together. Living in each other’s back pocket, Hen had called it once, and Eddie knew she’d been trying to tease them, but she hadn’t been wrong. Buck was a part of him, an extension of him. They were the same, him and Buck.

And he and Tommy had gotten close since rescuing Bobby and Athena from a sinking cruise ship, finding common ground in their shared love for sports and cars and, sometimes, in those quiet and dark hours of the night where all secrets lived, they talked about war.

Eddie had never before spent much time with Buck and Tommy. BuckandTommy. Them, as a couple, a unit, a thing that belonged together.

This doesn’t change a thing between us, he’d told Buck, and even then the lie had burned his tongue like acid, because of course it changed things. Because it changed everything. Because how could it not?

Eddie had never before spent much time with BuckandTommy. Now, he was doing little else.

In the morning, Eddie would wake up to the smell of coffee and breakfast and Buck standing in Tommy’s kitchen like it was his own, and together they’d sit at the table, the three of them, and Tommy would get the newspaper from the mailbox to do the crossword, and Buck would hum along with the radio, and Eddie would sit quietly and watch.

In he evening, Buck and Tommy would cook together, moving around each other, with each other, like they’d been doing it for years instead of months, silent communication with eyes and smiles and tilted heads, and after dinner and after dishes, they’d sit on Tommy’s couch, watching Netflix on Tommy’s TV, drinking beer from Tommy’s fridge, and it would be BuckandTommy on one side, pressed together and exchanging small whispers and kisses, and Eddie would sit quietly and watch.

It was only ever at night that Eddie found himself well and truly alone, lying in Tommy's bed in Tommy's guest room, staring up at Tommy's ceiling. He could usually hear Buck and Tommy through the wall, muffled voices and laughter, and he'd wonder what they were talking about. If they ever talked about him.

Sometimes, he could hear other things too, though he always pretended like he couldn't.

And the thing was, even though there was BuckandTommy, and there was Eddie, there was also Buck and Tommy and Eddie, and the two of them never made him feel unwelcome. Sometimes, Eddie almost wished they did, thought, perhaps, it would be easier if they saw him as the intruder he was instead of the friend he wasn't. A parasite under their skin, slowly rotting them from the inside out.

He could see it sometimes, he thought, the stains he left behind, like bloody handprints, on Tommy's leather couch, Tommy's kitchen table, Tommy's door handles. And he thought, if he were to touch them, he'd stain them too, infect them with this disease that lived inside of him.

Sometimes, Eddie wondered what they saw when they looked at him, if they, too, could see the rot, if they, too, were afraid of him.

Eddie knew that Buck was worried about him, and he didn't know how to tell him that he wasn't going to do anything, how to make him believe it.

He'd tried. On that morning after the night before, Eddie had said, “Buck, I'm not gonna do anything.”

And Buck hadn't believed him. He'd said, “I don't believe you.”

And the thing was, Eddie couldn't even blame him for it, because these days he barely believed him.

But he wasn't going to do anything.

He'd considered it. Only once.

Back when Frank had told him to call his old unit, when they'd all been dead, there'd been a moment, just one, where he'd thought maybe I should join them, and then the moment had passed because Chris had been in the other room. Eddie knew he couldn't do it, even if he'd wanted to. It was one sin he would never commit. The peace that would come with it, was a peace he didn’t deserve. His penance was life, after all.

He'd told Tommy too, and Tommy did believe him.

He'd said, “Tommy, I'm not gonna do anything.”

And he'd said, “I couldn't do that to Chris. He already lost his mum. I'm not going to make him lose his dad too. Even if he hates me. Even if he never comes back. I need him to know that I'm still here.”

And he'd said, “There's too many people relying on me. Too many people that need me. Chris, my sisters, my abuela and Tia, my team. Buck.”

And Tommy had said, “I know you won't.”

Because, in many ways, he and Tommy were so similar. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. They had an understanding, him and Tommy. It made it almost easy to talk about these things.

“I thought about it. Once. I found out that everyone from my old unit is dead, and I thought about it. But I couldn’t do it.”

“Yeah. Me too. There’s a reason I transferred to Harbour. It was that, or a bullet to the brain.”

“Does Buck know?”

“No.”

“There’s things he doesn’t understand.”

“I would never want him to understand this.”

Buck didn't understand, and Eddie didn't know how to make him understand, and so he simply let it happen. Let Buck hover and fuss and do whatever it was he needed to do to reassure himself that Eddie was there, that he wasn't going anywhere.

On the rare days they didn't spend together, Buck had taken to sending him frequent texts to check in, had taken to arranging alternative Eddie-sitting systems by siccing Hen and Karen on him, Chim, even Maddie on one occasion. Like Eddie would simply fade away if he wasn't being watched.

Sometimes, Eddie thought he might.

Sometimes, Eddie wished he did.

On the days they did spend together, Buck barely left his side.

Eddie wasn't sure anymore which days he preferred.

The thing was also, that being around BuckandTommy made Eddie desire, made him tempted -

But he couldn't.

Father Raymond used to say hate the sin, not the sinner, and Eddie didn't. He didn't hate them, didn't even hate himself, but, perhaps, some part of him despised this thing they called love, the way it wasn't what it was supposed to be, what Eddie had been told it should be.

There was a snake that lived tightly coiled in the pit of his stomach and he watched them hold hands and the snake in his stomach writhed, watched them smile at each other and the snake in his stomach hissed, watched them kiss and the snake in his stomach sunk its teeth into his insides and shot its venom through his veins.

He remembered, back when he'd first joined the 118, meeting Michael for the first time and getting so utterly angry at him because how dare he? How dare he abandon his wife and his children, abandon his duty to his family, for the fantasy of another man? That was not what people were supposed to do. Life didn't work like that.

And he remembered working at dispatch and meeting Josh and the way his heart had hammered in his throat, the way his skin had itched because Josh was – Josh was so comfortable, so confident, so unlike what he should be.

And he remembered, too, the first time he'd hung out with Tommy after Buck had told him about the date. He'd had to keep himself from flinching away, had to remind himself time and time and time again that Tommy was his friend. He'd gotten over it eventually, but he still remembered.

Buck was different. Eddie wasn't sure why he was different, but he was, and Eddie was grateful for it. It was Buck.

But Buck also wasn't different. Not when he was with Tommy. Because when Buck was with Tommy, Eddie felt sick, felt like throwing up, felt like crying, maybe. He never did and he never said anything, because this wasn't Buck's problem, because this wasn't a problem at all, and because Eddie wouldn't have known what to say even if he'd wanted to.

He thought Tommy might know anyway. Sometimes, there was a look in Tommy's eyes, like he could see right through Eddie, right into him. Like he could read every thought Eddie had ever had, every thought he was having, every thought he would ever have. It was a level of scrutiny Eddie had never felt before because even Buck – who knew Eddie better than anyone else, better than he knew himself some days – only ever saw what Eddie wanted him to see. Tommy, though, saw all of it. Eddie stripped down and laid bare. Cracked open. And there was something like sadness in Tommy's eyes, something like understanding. Eddie wasn't sure what to do with that, what to think of that, what to feel about that, because he didn't want Tommy to see those things, to look at him like that. There was nothing to know.

Tommy never said anything either, which only made it worse, because Eddie couldn't even defend himself. Acknowledging Tommy's looks would be to admit that there was something to defend himself against, that there was something to understand, something to be sad about. There wasn't.

Everything was fine.

Some nights, Eddie dreamed.

In his dreams, he was back in El Paso. Shannon was there, so young and so alive. She smiled at him in that way she always did, like she knew all his secrets. And she took his hand and lead him towards a church that was not their church and looked at Eddie and she said onto him – Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men will inherit the kingdom of God – And Shannon was Father Raymond and Father Raymond was his dad and Eddie fell down to his knees and prayed.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

And in his dreams, he was back in Afghanistan. He was pressing his back against the stone and pressing his hands to the bullet wound on his shoulder and he knew this is how I die. His Saint Christopher pendant was heavy around his neck, weighting him down, down, down, choking him.
“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

And in his dreams, he was back in his house. There was a woman that looked like Shannon but wasn’t her. There was a gun in his hand. And then the front door opened and Chris looked at him and Chris looked at the woman that looked like Shannon but wasn’t her and he said mum and the gunshot echoed.

“For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours, now and for ever.”

Other nights – those nights when Eddie pretended like he couldn’t hear the other things from Tommy’s bedroom – the dreams were about Buck and about Tommy and about BuckandTommy and about him. In those dreams, Eddie was there, on the other side of that shared wall, four hands and two mouths on his skin, touching and kissing and so right in ways that was so wrong. It was Buck's breathy pants and whines in his ear and Tommy's low grunts in his mouth, was Eddie chanting their names like a prayer, was the bed as an altar and their sweat as a sacrifice. Eddie only ever woke up crying from those dreams.

“Amen.”

Everything was fine.

There were moments, sometimes, where Eddie felt like he was coming up for air for the very first time after drowning for too long, where the haze and the fog and the mist surrounding him lifted. Just for a second. Just long enough to get a clear view of his surroundings.

This was one of those moments.

It would have, could have, should have been a morning like any other -

He woke up to his alarms and Buck sticking his head through the door. A thing he'd taken to doing after the third time Eddie had almost missed a shift because he hadn't wanted to get out of bed.

“Eddie?” Buck would ask, soft and gentle and quiet.

“I'm awake,” Eddie would answer, and he would wish that he wasn't.

And then Buck would leave the door ajar to join Tommy downstairs and Eddie would force his way out of bed and into the shower.

In a cup by Tommy's sink, there were three toothbrushes. A yellow one, a blue one, and a green one. They'd been there since the day Eddie moved in. And usually, Eddie reached for the green one without thought, his arm moving by muscle memory alone. Today, though, he paused, hand reaching out but not yet touching.

There were three toothbrushes.

In the shower, next to Tommy's 3-in-1 body wash, stood Buck's fancy coconut oil conditioner, and next to that Eddie's anti-dandruff shampoo.

In the medicine cabinet sat a first aid kit with Kinard written on the front, a bottle of Buck's painkillers he kept around for bad days when his leg was acting up, and a bottle of Eddie's anti-depressants he forgot to take half the time because he still held that he didn't actually need them.

But there was something about the toothbrushes that scratched at his mind. The way it looked next to the other two. Like it belonged there.

He didn't look in the mirror when he stepped out of the shower, kept his gaze low as he got dressed, his hair steadily dripping into the collar of his shirt. It was one of Buck's shirts, he thought, a little stretched around the shoulders. It smelled like Tommy's detergent.

Eddie left the bathroom.

The house smelled like coffee. He could already hear Buck's and Tommy's voices from downstairs because even on days Tommy was off he got up early – I like to keep a routine, he'd told Buck when he'd asked, I like to kiss him goodbye, he'd told Eddie when Buck hadn't been there to hear.

He couldn't make out what they were saying but, like a siren's call, he followed the sound of laughter and light conversation, the clanking of mugs and plates, the sizzling of hot oil in a frying pan.

It sounded like a home.

They were in the kitchen, Buck and Tommy, the rising sun casting a low, orange glow through the window over the sink. They hadn't noticed him yet, Eddie didn't think.

Buck was fully dressed for work, an apron slung around his waist, a spatula held tightly in his hand as he kept one eye on the eggs on the stove, Tommy was still wearing an old shirt and threadbare sweatpants, his feet bare against the tiles, his hands cradling a steaming mug of coffee. There was another mug sitting on the counter next to the coffee machine, empty.

And Eddie watched as Tommy took a slow sip from his mug before setting it down and stepping closer to Buck, watched as Tommy placed his hands on Buck's waist, watched as Tommy pressed a chaste and gentle kiss to the nape of Buck's neck.

And Eddie watched as Buck leaned into the touch, watched as Buck turned off the stove, watched as Buck turned in Tommy's arms to capture his lips with his own.

The snake in Eddie's stomach twisted violently.

And then Eddie cleared his throat.

Buck and Tommy parted slowly, turning their heads towards Eddie, and smiled.

And there was something about their smile that made Eddie want to scream and shout and cry, maybe. Like they were happy to see him.

They didn't say anything when Tommy stepped back, stepped towards the coffee machine and the empty mug on the counter, when he poured the coffee into the mug, when he opened the fridge for the hazelnut creamer that was only there because Eddie liked it.

And they didn't say anything when Buck got out three plates and three forks and set three pieces of golden-brown toast on the plates, when he heaped the scrambled eggs onto the toast, when he carried the three plates over to the table – Buck on one side, Tommy on the other, Eddie in the middle.

And they didn't say anything when Tommy handed the coffee to Eddie, when Buck pulled out Eddie's chair for him, when Tommy gave Eddie's shoulder a light squeeze, when Buck set a glass of orange juice next to Eddie's coffee.

Eddie didn't say anything either but he wondered what it would feel like to have Tommy's hands on his hips, but he wondered what it would feel like to press his lips to Buck's neck, but he wondered what it would feel like to belong here with them.

But this was one of those moments.

He couldn't stop thinking about that damn toothbrush, and the haze and fog and filling his mind cleared and he wanted -

He wanted.

He wanted to sit at that table right between Buck and Tommy – BuckandTommy – and he wanted to reach out, wanted to touch, wanted to feel. He wanted to return their smile. He wanted this to be like home.

He wanted to take a knife to his chest and carve out his rotten heart, and present it to them as offering, and pray -

“Eddie?”

Eddie knew what dying felt like, that brief moment of clarity between the pain and the fear, that knowledge that this is it, that peace he did not deserve. This was a little bit like that.

It should have been a morning like any other. But it wasn't. And that's when Eddie left.

Chapter Text

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been. Thirteen years since my last confession,” Eddie whispered, the words coming almost easy to him now that he was here.

The response was instant and simple. “Welcome home, son.”

That's when Eddie started to cry.

The panel between the booths slid open. There was a tissue held in front of Eddie's face. He took it.

“If I may,” said the voice of the priest, Eddie could see him if he turned his head, but he didn't, “Some people find it more comfortable talking out in the pews or even my office. I know these booths can be a little. Claustrophobic.”

Eddie blew his nose. Loudly. If the priest took any offence to it, he didn't say so, simply waited for Eddie's answer.

“Okay.”

He stepped out of the confessional, arms wrapped tightly around himself in some effort to protect, to shield, perhaps to hide.

The priest, Father Brian he introduced himself as, was surprisingly young. Around Eddie's age, perhaps. Eddie could spot the faint marks of pierced ears long since healed.

He thought Father Raymond may have had another heart attack if he saw him.

“Right this way.” Father Brian led him through the church, empty safe for the two of them and an elderly woman sitting in the back and silently praying, and through a door that led to an office – there was a desk and two chairs and a painting of a sunrise up on the wall. Eddie could almost convince himself to forget where he was. Why he was here.

“Would you like some tea? I find it always helps when I'm upset.”

Eddie had been 12 years old the first time he'd realised that he'd been made wrong. He remembered it well.

There'd been a boy. Caleb. He'd been a little older than Eddie, a little taller, a little wilder – a bird's nest of dirty-blond hair, freckles spattered across his nose and cheeks like constellations of stars, and a smile that could charm even the sternest of teachers.

Eddie had never once spoken to him. But he'd watched.

He'd watched Caleb play soccer with his friends, bare calves and sweat-stained shirt, and he'd thought I wish he would play with me. He'd watched Caleb sit outside the mall with his friends, ice-cream dripping down his hand, and he'd thought I wish he would look at me. He'd watched Caleb holding hands with his girlfriend in the hallways of school, pressing chaste kisses to her cheek, and he'd thought I wish I was her.

And Eddie had known it was wrong, had never once uttered a single word about these thoughts, had gotten to his knees every night and prayed for them to go away.

They never had.

At 14, there'd been another boy. Matthew. They'd sat together in English. They'd been friends, kind of.

Matthew had let him copy his homework, and in turn, Eddie had shared his lunch with him.

Eddie had taught him how to curse in Spanish, and in turn, Matthew had taught him how throw a punch.

They'd never once hung out outside of school, but Eddie had dreamed about it, sometimes, dreamed about him. Had imagined what it could be like to be together in Eddie's room, in Matthew's, listening to music and reading comics – they'd be close, Eddie had thought, maybe laying side by side on the bed, maybe sitting on the floor, their arms would brush every so often, and Eddie would laugh at Matthew's jokes even when they were terrible. Sometimes, Eddie had imagined kissing Matthew.

At 16, before Shannon, there'd been a third boy. Silas. They'd met at a wedding and then again at a funeral and Eddie had hated, hated, hated him because of how he'd made Eddie feel. Like flying. Like falling. Like dying.

Eddie had known it was wrong, not allowed, sinful, and he'd done everything he could to ignore it. To fix it.

That's why he'd been so grateful for Shannon.

“What brings you here today, Eddie?” Father Brian asked.

There were two steaming cups of tea between them and a box of tissues, like maybe Father Brian expected Eddie to start crying again any second now.

Eddie thought he might.

“I didn't know where else to go.”

Father Brian inclined his head in a slow nod. “I will say of the Lord,” he recited, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

“Psalm 91,” Eddie replied, his voice oddly robotic. Foreign. Like it wasn't him saying the words.

Again father Brian nodded. Then, he took a sip of his tea. “You said it's been a while since you've been to confession. What made you change your mind?”

This was a mistake, Eddie realised.

He hadn't meant to end up here, had just been walking aimlessly after fleeing from the house, fleeing from them, and his feet had carried him, all by themselves, to the front door of this church. He wasn't even sure why he'd gone inside.

There was nothing here for him. Not anymore. Maybe there had never been.

“I lost my son,” he still found himself saying now. It was a good a place to start as any.

Father Brian opened his mouth, perhaps to offer his condolences, but before he got the chance, Eddie continued.

“He's not dead. Just gone. It's my fault.”

Father Brian closed his mouth. Opened it again. “May I ask what you mean by gone?”

“I met a woman that looked exactly like his dead mother. And I mean, exactly like her. He saw us together. He's in Texas now, with my parents. He won't talk to me.”

Father Brian, Eddie realised had an impressive poke face, because there was no indication whatsoever that he found Eddie's words in any way strange or unusual. There was just patience and open acceptance. “That can't have been easy for you,” he said and it was unclear if he meant the dead mother, the woman looked exactly like her, or his son who was gone and wouldn't talk to him.

Eddie shrugged. “Shannon died years ago. I should be over it by now.”

“There is no expiration date on grief, Eddie,” Father Brian said gently. “I don't need to cite scripture to tell you that.”

Frank had said the same thing, the last time Eddie had seen him. So had Bobby. So had Buck.

As if Eddie had any right to mourn her when he'd been the one to abandon her, when he'd been the one to fail her.

But that wasn't the point.

“That's not the point.”

“What is?”

“I’m gay.”

Shannon was supposed to be his salvation, the one to safe him from himself, the one to fix him.

They met at a party.

And Eddie liked her, was the thing. Of course he did. Shannon was amazing. Bright and brave and so beautiful, the way she only ever lived for herself.

She taught him how to be free.

There was spin the bottle and a kiss that was wet and Eddie thought this is it?

And then Eddie asked, “Will you go out with me?”

And then Shannon answered, “Yes, I will.”

And then Eddie was in love because that's what was supposed to happen.

Shannon was supposed to make him not think about the things he wasn't allowed to think about, was supposed to make him not want the things he wasn't allowed to want, was supposed to be his holiness.

Instead, she was the devil.

Eddie parents didn't like her, thought she was trouble, because she was.

Shannon didn't care about school, didn't care about rules, didn't care about anything but reckless happiness. And Eddie was enthralled.

On their first date, they snuck into an R-rated horror movie and gave themselves a belly ache from all the candy they ate.

On their second date, they dined and dashed at a small pizza place across town and almost got arrested for it.

On their third date, they went skinny dipping at the lake and there, bathed in pale moonlight, Shannon kissed him again. It was still wet. And again Eddie thought this is it?

But Eddie was in love with her because he was supposed to be, because he had to be, because what else could he be, and so he kissed her back.

It was the best and worst thing he would ever do in his life.

“I'm gay,” Eddie confessed and shut his eyes tightly. Waiting.

There was something heavy in his chest, squeezing his heart, his lungs – something like shame, like fear, like the certainty that he was going to a hell he no longer believed in.

“I've never said that out loud before.”

“Then,” came Father Brian's voice from beyond the darkness of his Eddie's eyelids, calm and quiet, “I would like to say I feel honoured by this trust you have placed in me.”

Perhaps it was the ease with which Father Brian had said the words, perhaps the slight hint of a smile that had been audible in each syllable, perhaps it was the quiet that settled over them now they'd been spoken – Eddie opened his eyes and the world was still turning.

Father Brian was looking at him, patient and kind. There was no disgust there, no hatred, no eternal damnation and the flickering fires of hell. He was smiling.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Eddie. It’s alright.”

Eddie let out a snort. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. It was a sharp and derisive sound, his lips curling in distaste. He shook his head.

Because it wasn’t alright.

“There is something wrong with me.” Something twisted. Something rotten.

“You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect .”

Again, Eddie shook his head. He wished father Brian would stop looking at him like that, like Eddie wasn't tainted to his core.

“I cheated on my girlfriend, you know,” he said, the words pointed and sharp, like a weapon. “We were nineteen and she told me she was pregnant. I went to a gay bar. It was the only time I've ever – I cheated on her. He never even told me his name. I proposed to her the next day.”

And still there was no change in father Brian's face, no shift in his demeanour, no crack in his ever-pleasant front.

“God forgives,” he said. “Sometimes, so do people.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut and, for a second, Eddie was worried he might actually throw up all over father Brian's desk, the bile rising up and up and up his throat, acidic and scorching hot. The room around him blurred, tears clouding his vision, and Eddie closed his eyes again.

It was safer that way.

“I don't deserve it.”

“Do you believe in God, Eddie?”

“What?”

“Do you believe in God?”

Eddie sputtered just a little, his hand coming up to rub at his neck. “Is that a trick question?”

“Quite the contrary,” said Father Brian. “My next words depend greatly on your answer.”

Eddie opened his mouth, perhaps to say yes, perhaps to say no, before he stopped himself and seriously considered the question.

Did he believe in God? He thought he used to, thought he must have. At some point.

He remembered kneeling on the hard, cold tiles of the church, hands folded in prayer, remembered the certainty that, if he just tried hard enough, God could fix him.

He remembered also being in Afghanistan and seeing the death and devastation and the emptiness inside of him.

Did he believe in a God that would allow so much suffering? So much violence?

Did he believe in a God that would take Shannon away so soon and so sudden?

Did he believe in a God that would strike Buck with lightning?

Could he believe in a God like that?

Did he want to?

“I don't know what I believe in anymore.” It felt as close to the truth as he was probably going to get.

Father Brian, of course, seemed entirely unbothered. It was starting to piss Eddie off just a little bit.

“That's perfectly fine,” he said, in that serene way he had. Then, he went in for the kill. “You say you don't deserve forgiveness. Whose forgiveness would you be seeking? God's? Or your own? Because God has already forgiven you. Can you say the same about yourself?”

When they were nineteen, Shannon got pregnant. It was an accident.

Unwelcome, Eddie's parents would say, among other choice words such as disgraceful and irresponsible.

“I'm pregnant,” Shannon said and in that moment, Eddie could have sworn he died, just a little.

He didn't say anything in return, only gave her a hug and kiss and then he left.

He didn't plan to go to a gay bar. He just ended up there.

The bouncer didn't ask for ID and neither did the bartender. They barely even looked at him. Like they didn't care he was there. Like he belonged in this place.

The man who led Eddie to the bathroom never gave his name, but he was big and bulky and older than Eddie – a full, ginger beard and no hair on his head, tattoos ranking up his arms. His palm was rough when it slipped past Eddie's waistband. Calloused. And Eddie liked it.

He wasn't supposed to like it.

When it was over, Eddie's shame drying against his skin and unshed tears drying on his lashes, the man offered to pay for Eddie's taxi home. As a thank you. As a see you around, handsome.

Eddie declined.

He walked outside and threw up behind the bins.

And he didn't plan to go to the enlistment office. He just ended up there.

“You're doing the right thing, son,” the man at the desk told him, and Eddie wasn't sure if he believed him, but he knew he wanted to.

He proposed to Shannon. He didn't mean to. It just happened.

Eddie asked, “Will you marry me?”

And Shannon answered, “Yes, I will.” And she was smiling like she was happy.

Eddie was smiling too because of he didn't, he thought he might cry.

“You're doing the right thing, son,” his dad told him, and Eddie wasn't sure if he believed him, but he knew he had to.

One week later, Eddie stood at the top of the aisle and the tie around his neck felt like a noise.

One month later, Eddie shipped out for basic training and some part of him almost hoped he'd never make it back.

Thirteen years later, Eddie still wasn't sure if he was glad that he had.

“I think I'm in love with my best friends.” Another confession to another sin. Perhaps the largest of them all. Because it wasn't just him anymore. Now he was tainting Buck and Tommy as well.

“You say it like that's a bad thing,” Father Brian observed, like it wasn't, like he didn't hear, like he didn't understand.

“It is.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because -”

Because he wasn't supposed to.

Because he wasn't allowed.

“Because they deserve better.”

Because Eddie knew, if he said something, they'd welcome him in with open arms.

Because there was nothing Buck wouldn't do for him.

Because Tommy had flirted with him when they'd first met.

“Love is not deserved, but freely given. If they love you too, you only have to accept it, and give back.”

“I can't.”

Father Brian smiled at him, then, but it wasn't a happy smile. It looked sad.

“Love is never a sin, Eddie,” he said. “Whichever shape yours may take, it is not something you need to repent for.”

“Wouldn't the church disagree with that?” Eddie asked, not even bothering to hide the bitterness behind the words.

Father Brian shrugged. “The church, as an institution, can be quite set in its ways, I admit. But my responsibility is not to it, but to God and to the people I meet who seek guidance and support.” People like you, he didn't say, but Eddie heard it anyway.

It felt nice, Eddie found. To be someone else’s responsibility for a change. To have someone else point him in the right direction.

All his life, Eddie had only ever been the one to take charge, to take care, to take up whatever burden was laid at his feet, and it was nice to let someone else take.

It felt like Buck, somehow, because Buck took and took and took, and Eddie gave freely because he trusted Buck. He trusted Buck more than he trusted himself.

And it felt like Tommy, somehow, because Tommy didn't take, but he made sure Eddie didn't fall. Tommy was steady in a way Eddie didn't know how to be.

“I don't know what to do.”

Tell me, he wanted to say, wanted to beg, wanted to pray, tell me what to do, Father.

Again, Father Brian smiled, and this time it was not a sad smile. It looked happy.

“Love your friends,” he said, “Be in love with them. And find joy in that love. Give yourself some grace, Eddie.”

Eddie had always known that he'd been made wrong. Twisted. Unnatural. Sinful.

Gay.

Such a small word, and yet it looked so large, and yet it weighed so heavy.

People died because of that one word.

Eddie had always known he was like that, the same way he'd always known he wasn't allowed to be like that.

And he'd tried.

He’d tried to put Caleb and Matthew and Silas out of his mind, to stop watching, stop imagining, stop thinking, stop feeling all these things that weren’t supposed to be, and it was working because they’d never meant anything, because they’d never been anyone.

And then he'd met Shannon and he'd been in love because he'd had to be. She should have been the one to fix him.

The man from the gay bar didn’t count because Eddie had never even learned his name, didn’t even remember his face now. Because that had been a mistake. Because it should have never happened again.

And it hadn’t.

It hadn’t.

And yet -

After meeting Shannon, it had been almost easy to forget, to pretend, to move on with his life the way he was supposed to because he’d been a husband. Because he’d been a father. Because he’d been bruised and damaged and broken when he’d come home and Shannon had been there to take care of him. She’d fixed him.

And then she’d left.

Eddie had been 26 years old when he’d walked through the gates of the 118 fire station. It had been the beginning of everything, because Buck -

Buck had happened.

He’d told Eddie, once, that when planetary bodies collided in space, a new planet could be formed. Giant impact event it was called, apparently. Eddie thought they were a little bit like that – two worlds coming together in a destructive explosion and creating something new, something beautiful, something alive.

Buck had happened and Eddie hadn’t even noticed until he’d already handed over his child and his heart without questions or doubts.

But he hadn’t known. Not really. It was Buck.

Eddie had been 32 years old when he’d met Tommy. It had been the end of everything.

This doesn’t change a thing between us, he’d told Buck, and he’d proven himself to be a damn liar because it changed everything.

Chapter Text

When Eddie returned after the church it was to his own house because the thought of facing Buck and Tommy after – After – made him want to throw up.

Buck was waiting for him anyway.

He was sitting on the couch, back oddly straight, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had turned white, his whole body coiled with tension that released ever so slightly when Eddie walked in.

“You're here.”

Eddie blinked, hand still around the door handle. “So are you,” he said dumbly.

It was strange, he'd never before felt wrong-footed by seeing Buck in his house, because Buck belonged here. This was different, somehow, like they were both trespassing in a stranger's house.

Chris' bedroom door, he noticed, stood open, revealing the barren space beyond. Buck must have opened it. The sight ached like an open wound, and Eddie quickly walked over to close it again.

“You're supposed to be in work,” he pointed out when he turned back to look at Buck.

Buck arched a single eyebrow at him. “So are you,” he echoed, dry in a way that reminded Eddie of Tommy and the thought of the two of them already copying each other's quirks and mannerisms made his blood freeze in his veins. “I called Bobby, by the way,” Buck tacked on, “You have food poisoning and I'm taking care of you.”

Because of course Buck would call in sick for Eddie, of course he would cover for him, of course he said it like it was nothing, because to him it was.

Eddie kind of wanted to scream.

“What were you doing at church?” Buck asked then.

“How do you know -”

Before Eddie could even finish his question, Buck already waved his phone at him, like that was an explanation. He said, “We shared our location, remember?”

Eddie crossed his arms firmly over his chest. “You stalked me.”

Buck lowered the phone. He was still sitting on the couch but Eddie knew he wasn't going to stay there much longer. “I guess? You ran out without a word. I was worried about you. We both were.”

“I'm fine, Buck,” Eddie said, and maybe, if he just repeated it often enough, it would become true.

“Are you?” Buck asked, shuffling forward to the edge of the couch now, almost standing up. But only almost. “Since when do you go to church?”

Eddie laughed. It was a hollow, bitter sound. “I went every Sunday for nineteen years,” he answered. “Maybe I felt like going back. So what? Do I need your permission now?” His tone was sharp, defensive, and Buck balked a little at it, but Eddie couldn't quite find it in himself to care at the moment.

The almost-anger, at least, was familiar. He knew what to do with a that.

“Why are you trying to pick a fight with me right now?” Buck asked, his voice so raw, the way he only ever got when his emotions got too big for his body, when they chafed and pushed and ached.

Eddie swallowed down the guilt at being the cause of it. “I'm not.” Except maybe he was, because fighting was easy, because fighting was all he knew.

Buck didn't seem to hear him, either way. “Is it because you blame me?” he asked, words a little choked now, a little unsteady.

“What?”

“You asked me to fix it, and I tried, I really did, but I just – I couldn't. And I'm sorry.”

Eddie frowned. The almost-anger, as quickly as it had come, evaporated, leaving him drained and empty because -

“Buck, Chris leaving wasn't your fault.”

Buck's lips pulled into the kind of smile that came from anguish. “You told me to fix it.”

And Eddie remembered, vaguely, between all the confusion and pain and fear he'd felt in that moment, between the guilt and the shame, asking Buck to talk to Chris, to do the thing he always did, the thing he was so much better at doing than Eddie could ever hope to be.

“I should have never asked that of you,” he said now. “This was never your mess. And Chris shouldn't be your responsibility.”

“Except he is,” Buck argued. “You made him my responsibility. I want him to be my responsibility.”

They didn't talk about it. This. Chris, and Buck and Chris, and what Buck was to Chris in all but name. Eddie wouldn't even know where to start.

“Eddie, I -”

“Don't,” Eddie cut in, a little desperate to not hear whatever Buck had to say – another apology, perhaps, another explanation, something else entirely. He didn't think he could take it.

Buck had his lips pressed together and there was something in his eyes, like desperation, maybe, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

“It wasn't your fault,” Eddie repeated, because Buck had to know. It was important that he knew.

Buck sighed. “Then tell me what’s going on,” he said. “You – Eddie, you’ve been shutting me out. Tommy too. It’s like – like you’re not even there. Like there’s this wall around you. And I’ve been letting it happen because I know you miss Chris and I know you’re hurting but -” He sighed again, running a hand over his face, into his hair, all the way to his neck. “I’m just worried about you,” he eventually said, looking almost helpless, the way he was still perched on the edge of the couch, peering up at Eddie, his eyes large, his brows knitted together in deep concern.

And Eddie wished -

And Eddie wanted -

But he couldn’t.

“I can’t.”

And Eddie had never before seen heartbreak on Buck’s face, but he thought he could see it now.

That night, it was Eddie and Buck sleeping together in Eddie’s bed. It was the best night’s sleep Eddie had gotten since Christopher had left.

The next morning, Buck said, “Let’s go home.”

And Eddie didn’t say, we are home, because it didn’t feel like they were. He just followed Buck.

Tommy wasn’t in when they got there. But when he returned he pulled Eddie into a tight, bone-crushing hug, and said nothing.

Love your friends, Father Brian had said, and Eddie did.

It felt like damnation.

Eddie wasn't always sure if he was glad he'd made it back.

He couldn't tell Buck, because Buck wouldn't understand, but he could tell Tommy.

He said, “Do you ever wish you hadn't made it back home?”

It was just the two of them in Tommy's garage, taped knuckles and mouth guards in, the sweat glistening on their heated skin. Tommy had been taking it easy on him, his gaze calculating, like he was trying to read Eddie's every thought.

Maybe he was.

He didn't ask what Eddie meant, only took a step back and gave a nod. “I used to,” he said. “Now I'm grateful I have.”

“What changed?”

Tommy shrugged. “I found something I thought I'd never get to have.”

There was something hot and heavy settling in his stomach, something ugly that made his lips curl in disdain. He couldn't help it.

“What? Buck?”

Tommy tilted his head, not at all bothered by Eddie's tone or the hostility behind his words. “It bothers you,” he observed. “Evan and me.”

The thing that was hot and heavy and ugly froze, turned to ice and stone and shame. Eddie averted his eyes but it wasn't enough. He turned his back to Tommy.

He knew he should deny it, knew he should defend himself, knew he should assure Tommy that no, it didn't bother him. Except it did.

But not like that.

“Not like that.”

“I know,” Tommy said from behind his back, strangely gentle. Careful. The way one would talk to a spooked animal to keep it calm.

It sent another ice-cold shiver down Eddie's spine, because he'd suspected, of course, but now there was the confirmation that Tommy knew. Tommy knew and had known and hadn't said anything. He still wasn't saying anything.

“Can you look at me, please?”

Eddie shook his head. His eyes were burning.

“Eddie,” Tommy said, his voice closer now, a steady presence right behind his back, almost touching. But not quite.

Eddie kind of wished Tommy would simply reach out and close the gap.

Eddie kind of wished Tommy would walk away and never look back.

“Look at me.”

Eddie looked at him, Tommy's face so open and so kind, it almost hurt.

“I didn't have a lot of friends growing up, you know,” Tommy said. “I don't have siblings. I was never close with my parents. It made me lonely. Then I made myself lonely. Because I was scared. Because I was ashamed. And I wished, for a very long time, that I hadn't made it back home, because I felt like there was nothing here for me. Even after I transferred to Harbor, after I came out, after I stopped hating myself so much, I didn't think I could ever belong. But it's different now. For the first time I feel like, maybe, I could have a family. A real one. And, yes, Evan is a big part of that. But so are you, Eddie.”

Eddie's eyes were burning, the tears finally spilling over, scorching hot against his skin.

And, finally, Tommy did reach out, finally, Tommy did close the gap – a large hand on Eddie's arm, so strong and yet so gentle.

“I'm not going to force you to talk to me,” he said, voice pitched low, “But I will be here when you're ready.”

It was almost easy to simply let himself fall forward, then, almost easy to allow Tommy to draw him into a hug, almost easy to bury his face in Tommy's neck and let the tears fall freely. He wasn't even sure what he was crying for anymore, only that Tommy's arms were just as strong and just as gentle as his hands, only that Tommy smelled of sweat and deodorant, only that Tommy's chest was big and firm and comfortable, and Eddie never wanted to leave again.

He wasn’t sure if he would ever be ready, wasn’t sure what ready could even feel like.

It bothered him, Buck and Tommy. BuckandTommy.

But not like that.

Because Eddie hadn't known, not really, not about Buck and not about Tommy, either, but now he did. Now he knew and now he couldn't unknow, and just looking at them, happy and together, made him ache.

His dreams were different now.

Sometimes there was still Shannon and Father Raymond and the church that wasn’t their church, there was still Afghanistan and his Saint Christopher pendant, there was still the woman that looked like Shannon but wasn’t her and a gun in his hand. Most times, though, there was just them and him and a quiet kind of tranquillity Eddie didn't think he'd ever known in the waking world.

In his dreams, they were happy together.

Outside his dreams, Eddie knew the rot inside of him had finally spread because Buck and Tommy no longer looked as carefree around each other, no longer looked as content and confident. Instead, they watched Eddie, and they whispered, and they watched Eddie and whispered.

Eddie knew they were talking about him.

Sometimes, he thought, he could almost hear them -

“I want to help. I want to fix it.”

“I don’t think you can. Not this time.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

Outside his dreams, Eddie was watching them too. He was watching them in the kitchen and at the table and on the couch, was watching them share their little smiles and touches and kisses, was watching them watching him and he knew they could see it. They could see him and his sickness and the stains he left behind in their lives and yet, somehow, they still let him stay.

I want it to be my problem, Buck had said, and the thing was, Eddie knew he'd meant it.

There was nothing Buck wouldn't do for him.

Sometimes, Eddie imagined how easy it would be to say something, imagined the smile on Buck’s face if Eddie put it all into words, imagined the feeling of Buck’s fingers against his, the same as they always were, but more somehow, like sparks of electricity dancing across his skin.

Sometimes, Eddie imagined what could have been if he’d returned Tommy’s smiles in Las Vegas – they’d gone to an expensive steakhouse but Eddie had insisted on splitting the bill, they’d sat side by side at the fight but Eddie had kept that carefully curated distance between them, they’d walked through the ever-wakened city back to the hotel and Eddie had declined the offer of a nightcap in Tommy’s room. He imagined the what if. What if he’d let Tommy pay? What if he’d leaned into Tommy’s space? What if he’d followed Tommy to his room? Would it be him with Tommy now, instead of Buck? Would everything be different?

And he watched Buck and Tommy in those moments when they thought they weren’t being watched, when Eddie wasn’t supposed to be there, when they felt unobserved – watched the heaviness of their gazes, the thickness of the air, the tension that crackled with every touch, watched the wandering hands and hungry mouths, watched the sin they committed like it was holy.

And Eddie wanted.

Eddie wanted.

Their shifts had lined up perfectly, a rare enough occurrence they'd taken to celebrating the occasion whenever it happened. Usually that meant going for a drink or five with the rest of the team. Once or twice, recently, some of Tommy's teammates had even joined, though the 217 wasn't nearly as close-knit as the 118 and, from what Eddie could gather, didn't spend all that much time together outside of work.

On this particular occasion, though, it was them – him and Buck and Tommy – and a whole 48 hours off with no work and no plans and no obligations.

Eddie tried hard not to think about the fact that they were spending it with him and not each other. He failed.

After sleeping in, after breakfast, sitting together at the kitchen table, a spread of coffee and orange juice and pancakes between them, after a lazy morning together sitting on the couch and doing nothing at all, Buck banished him and Tommy to the garage – go play with cars or get all sweaty together or something – while he got busy in the kitchen.

Eddie also tried not to think about himself and Tommy in their workout clothes, dancing around each other on the rubber mats, their muscles bulging and their bodies colliding with each blow and jab. Again, he failed.

Tommy’s garage was large, one half taken over by a gym set-up, the other half by a car lift currently holding an old Cadillac which he was hoping to sell once it was all done up. Tommy, Eddie was learning, had a couple side gigs like that – cars and flying lessons and guided hikes through the Santa Monica Mountains.

“My dad was a mechanic,” he told Eddie now as he idly tinkered around with the engine of the Cadillac while Eddie simply sat nearby and watched those strong fingers work, “I spent a lot of time in that shop, just watching the guys work. Sometimes they’d show me things. I guess it stuck.”

Tommy didn’t talk often about his dad, his family, his childhood, like he didn’t like to remember it. Eddie knew what that was like. He didn’t always like remembering it either.
“He lost his job when I was sixteen? Maybe seventeen,” he continued to tell Eddie, not looking at him but not all that focused on the car in front of him either, his gaze far, far away. “I don’t even know why. He just stopped going one day. That’s when things got really bad. I enlisted with the army as soon as I could, just to get away from him.”

Eddie nodded, maybe for Tommy, maybe for himself. He also knew what it was like to want to get away from things, from people, from his life.

“I was nineteen when I enlisted,” he offered quietly and Tommy paused in his motions, just for a second, before carrying on. “Right after Shannon told me she was pregnant.”

Tommy nodded too. Maybe for Eddie. Maybe for himself. It was a quiet kind of understanding they shared, a kind of understanding that didn’t need words, because they both knew. They’d both been there. They’d both lived it.

“I almost got married once,” Tommy said, then, apropos nothing and still not looking at Eddie, though at least he’d stopped pretending to work on the car. His arms were firmly crossed over his chest, biceps flexing. There was a streak of grease across his forearm that Eddie couldn’t look away from. “Her name was Abby. She was – she was nice. She deserved better than me. We were engaged for 2 years before I – a lot of things happened all at once. Her mum got sick, my parents died, there was a fire at a gay bar. I broke up with her and handed in my transfer request the next day. Then, I spend years trying to claw my way out of the hole I’d been digging for myself.”

Eddie thought, perhaps, there was a moral in there somewhere, some deeper meaning he could find if only he looked hard enough. But he couldn’t. But there wasn’t. Tommy wasn’t telling him to teach him a lesson, he was telling him to tell him. Just for the sake of it.

In return, Eddie wanted to tell him about Caleb and Matthew and Silas, wanted to tell him about the guy in the bar, wanted to tell him about Buck, too, but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Instead, Eddie said nothing.

Instead, they moved from the Cadillac on the car lift to the rubber mats on the other side of the garage – taped knuckles and mouth guards and vast expanses of bare skin glistening with sweat. This, Eddie knew. There was a comfort to the back and forth of their movements, a familiarity to the rise and fall of their chests. There was no questions, no doubts, no second-guesses. There was only him and Tommy and the blood pumping through their veins as their hearts beat in the same rhythm of attack, block, counter, repeat.

This, Eddie was allowed.

Attack.

Eddie moved in, feigning a right and pivoting to the left, his leg painting a perfect arch through the heated air between them.

Block.

Tommy caught his leg, stepped in, shifted the balance, their chests almost pressed together, strong arms coming up for a grapple.

Counter.

Eddie moved with the momentum, let himself fall, dragged Tommy down with him, rolled over, sprang up, moved away.

Repeat.

Tommy moved in.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

It happened in an instant, an elbow to Eddie’s head, easily averted, followed by a swing. Eddie caught the arm, turned, tried for a grapple. Tommy shifted. There was a moment of gravity disappearing, the feeling of weightlessness, before Eddie’s back hit the ground and Tommy was right there on top of him, his weight heavy, his muscles firm, and Eddie -

Eddie could smell him.

Tommy was right there on top of him and Eddie could smell him, the sourness of his sweat, the faint notes of his deodorant, hints of his shampoo. And Eddie could feel every coiled muscle, the firm strength of his arms, his legs, his chest, all against him and around him and Eddie -

Eddie wanted.

He knew he should keep fighting, knew he should break free, knew he should shift and get the upper hand again, knew also that he could because as strong and heavy as Tommy was, Eddie was quicker, more agile, and yet -

Eddie’s body went lax, he closed his eyes, he breathed. There was a fire burning inside his chest, travelling through his veins, his skin in flames.

“Eddie?” Tommy’s voice, deep and breathless, cut through the fog in his brain. He sounded so close.

Eddie opened his eyes.

“You good?”

Eddie nodded, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was agreeing to, his gaze tracking the sharp outline of Tommy’s cheekbones, down his jaw, getting caught on the cleft on his chin and the softness of his lips. They were so very close. And it would be so easy to -

And Eddie wanted -

He wanted.

He -

“Eddie.” Tommy said his name softly, barely more than an exhale that made a sound, pulling back a little, his eyes wide.

Eddie’s head hit the mat. Had he raised it? He must have. He’d raised and now he’d lowered it and Tommy was dismounting him, careful and slow, and his eyes were still wide, and Eddie’s eyes were burning.

“Eddie,” Tommy said again, “Are you -”

Eddie rolled over, pushed himself up to his knees, his feet, eyes still closed, turned his back to Tommy. “I need a shower,” he announced, glad to hear his own voice coming out steady and firm.

He didn’t wait to see if Tommy would respond, didn’t think he could stomach it.

Faintly, he thought, he could hear Tommy calling his name behind his back as he walked away towards the bathroom.

The fucking toothbrush was still there.

And then -

And then -

And then -

There was a night before the morning after. That’s how it began. That’s how it ended.

It went a little like this -

Buck had gone all out for dinner – risotto with home-made garlic bread, fancy red wine, and brownies for dessert. There was a candle merrily flickering in the middle of the table.

And there was Tommy and there was Buck and they smiled at him like they were happy to see him. Like he belonged.

It conjured up images in his mind of linked fingers and locked lips, of those little, intimate smiles he'd seen between Buck and Tommy, of hushed secrets in hushed voices giving words to things that had only ever gone unspoken.

It was Tommy who stepped forward, pulling out one of the chairs for Eddie. It was the chair at the head of the table, the chair that would place him right between Buck and Tommy.

Eddie hesitated.

Tommy gave him a nod and a reassuring smile and no indication whatsoever that anything out of the ordinary had happened earlier. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had all just been in Eddie's head.

Tommy's dining table wasn't small, and yet Eddie found himself elbow to elbow and thigh to thigh with both Tommy and Buck, one on each side. It felt intimate in a way it never had before, to sit here and share a meal and a space. Unfamiliar in a way that put Eddie's teeth on edge, like he'd missed a step on the stairs, his stomach lurching in that split-second of terror.

There was a conversation, he knew – something funny that Jee-Yun had done the other day, a close call at Harbor, Chris' latest text about El Paso – but Eddie barely followed it, too caught up on the table cloth and the candle and the wine.

It felt like a date.

The thought came to him unbidden and unwelcome, settled in his mind and took root there. He couldn't unthink it.

He looked at Buck again, noting the nice button-down he was wearing, a deep red, hugging his shoulders in a way that was almost obscene.

He looked at Tommy, freshly showered, the top few buttons of his own shirt undone, revealing expanse of pale skin and the curls of his chest hair.

It felt like a date.

“You’ve figured it out,” Tommy said, and it wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact, delivered in perfect neutrality. His face was completely bare when he said it.

His stomach lurched again, as if it was revolting against this new revelation, the implication, the panic unfurling inside of him because he shouldn’t -

Because he couldn’t -

Because he wasn’t allowed.

But he wanted.

“It feels like a date,” Eddie whispered.

“I want -” Eddie whispered.

“I can’t,” Eddie whispered.

Then he stood, ready to leave, to run, if he had to.

It was Buck who held him back – “Eddie, wait!” - Buck’s voice, urgent, desperate, the way he called his name. Afraid.

It was Tommy who stood and stepped closer. Calm. Composed. Controlled. “Eddie, it’s okay.”

It went like this -

Tommy was tall and broad and strong, but his fingers were gentle where they closed around Eddie’s hand, not pulling, just holding.

It was Eddie who stepped closer, closed the gap, bridged the distance.

He wanted.

And Eddie was a weak, weak man.

It was Tommy who pressed his lips to Eddie’s, light and fleeting, like a question.

It was Eddie who kissed back, hopeful and needful, like an answer.

It felt like salvation.

It went like this -

Buck was the first ray of sunshine after an endless night, was the first breath of air after a lifetime of drowning, was safety and comfort and home.

It was them, together as one, perfectly in synch the way they always were, finally colliding in the birth of a new planet, a whole new universe.

The kiss was different from Tommy. Hungry. Desperate. Passionate.

It felt like holiness.

And Eddie thought, this is it.