9-1-1 FIC: i want to feel you from the inside

[xylodemon]

Title: i want to feel you from the inside
Pairing: Buck/Eddie
Rating: NC17
Words: ~11,000
Summary: He realizes, as Eddie's asking a Texas realtor about bathroom accessibility, that he's in love with Eddie. That he's probably been in love with Eddie. And there's nothing he can do about it. Eddie has to leave.
Notes: I joked on twitter that I put Buck through the five stages of grief: obsessive thoughts, psychosexual behavior, Grindr, recklessness, trespassing. He's also deranged, but so is Eddie, so it works out in a freak4freak way.


[AO3]


i want to feel you from the inside

Eddie huffs out a laugh. His mouth ticks up at one corner as he says, "I'll get you a cup of coffee."

He turns away to open a cabinet, and Buck bites back the wounded noise rising in his throat. He feels like a giant fist is crushing everything behind his ribs, meat and blood wet between its knuckles, his lungs still shuddering, his heart still beating.

Eddie is the best friend Buck has ever had. The best friend Buck ever will have. Buck could meet a million other people, and not a single one would even come close to filling the space Eddie has carved into Buck's life. None of them would be able to read Buck's moods the way Eddie does. None of them would be able to talk to him without speaking the way Eddie does. None of them would have a smile that pulls at something deep in Buck's gut. None of them would be able to settle the meaner, noisier parts of Buck's brain simply by sitting next to him, or snorting at his jokes, or listening to one of his rambles, or resting a big, warm hand on his shoulder.

None of them would invite Buck into his family as wholly and easily as Eddie had—so wholly and easily that Buck hadn't grasped the enormity of what he'd been given until Christopher left for Texas and it started slipping through his fingers.

He should've taken better care of it. He should've tried harder to convince Christopher to stay. He should've made Eddie listen when he confronted him about Kim. He shouldn't have pursued a relationship with Tommy, not when it was so obvious that Eddie was going through something. He'd been distracted and absent when Eddie needed him the most, and Tommy had ended up leaving him anyway.

And now Eddie's leaving too.

Eddie, who's had Buck's back for nearly eight years. Eddie, who'd kept Buck's head above water after his leg was crushed and after he'd found out about Daniel and after Maddie left and the thought of her not coming back had been eating him alive. Eddie, who'd been a soft place to land after the lightning strike, when everyone else had been too loud and too pushy and too much.

Eddie, who's coming into the living room with two steaming mugs and the basket of scones Buck brought. He sets everything on the coffee table and sits down beside Buck, leaning a little into Buck 's shoulder.

"You find anything yet?"

Buck schools his face before saying, "Yeah," and passing over the tablet. It's open to a rambling, daisy-yellow farmhouse with a wraparound porch. "This one's nice, although I'm not sure what you'd do with a third bedroom."

Eddie frowns. "I'm not sure about all those stairs in the front."

"I wasn't either, but—" Buck leans over and swipes to the next photo. "There's a ramp around the side."

"Nice." Eddie swipes through the next few photos himself—six of the kitchen and three of each bedroom. "You're right though, about it being more than I need. What else have you got?"

Buck shivers through a bolt of pathetic, childish impulses: begging Eddie not to go, begging Eddie to take him along, grabbing the tablet and throwing it across the room so hard it shatters against the wall. But he shoves them down because none of that is fair. Because Christopher comes first. Because he'd give Eddie anything he needs, even if that means queuing up houses on homes.com so Eddie can move away from him.

They look at a ranch-style house with two bedrooms. A ranch-style house with two bedrooms and a den. Another farmhouse, pale green with a less accessible porch. A Mission Revival that's more of a fixer-upper than Eddie feels like dealing with. They're swiping through house number five—a squat, boxy bungalow with subway-tiled bathrooms and a mediocre backyard—when the realtor calls.

She introduces herself as Marina, or Martina, or maybe Melinda. Buck doesn't really hear her over the blood rushing in his ears. She has teased-up beauty-queen hair and a bright-white smile. A molasses-thick Texas drawl pours over her voice as she talks them through a video tour of a restored Craftsman with hardwood floors and a huge, river-rock fireplace.

Beside him, Eddie is nodding and uh-huh'ing in all the right places, but his leg is jittering. His hands are clenching and unclenching in the tails of his shirt. And Buck gets it; moving halfway across the country is big. It's huge. And Eddie doesn't know what kind of reception he'll get, from Christopher or his parents. But seeing Eddie anxious and upset always makes him anxious and upset, tying his stomach in knots and leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He knows touch usually grounds Eddie, so he leans into his side and rests a hand on his bouncing knee.

Eddie slumps a little. The tension ebbs from his jaw. He wraps his hand around Buck's wrist and zeros in on the tablet, where the camera is panning around a kitchen that's trapped in 1974.

"Now, I will admit, the appliances need updating," the realtor says. "But—" The camera zooms over to a large open area past the breakfast nook. "As you can see, the dining room is just phenomenal. There's plenty of space, and the natural light is to die for. It'll be great when you and your partner are entertaining."

Eddie barely hesitates before asking, "Can we go back to the bathrooms?"

The realtor replies with something agreeable, but Buck misses it. His blood is rushing in his ears again. She's not the first person to think he and Eddie are together. She isn't even the tenth. Fifteenth. Twentieth. Usually, they both just shrug it off. But for some reason, right now, with the smell of Eddie's fabric softener in his nose and Eddie's fingers resting over his pulse and the cup of coffee Eddie made him growing cold on the table, his brain is looping it over and over—partner partner partner partner.

The thought of it—being with Eddie, being Eddie's—is making his palms sweat. It's making his skin feel like it's pulled too tight across his shoulders and neck and back. It's making something well up inside him, something liquid and lush, something shimmering and gold-bright and blissful, warm as it rushes up from the pit of his gut to fill his chest, seeping into every sliver of empty space, nothing forgotten, no stone unturned. It's gigantic. Consuming. It's so much all at once that his whole body is humming with it.

He—he's in love with Eddie.

He's probably been in love with Eddie. It probably started right at the beginning. And it grew so naturally and built up so slowly that he basically frog-boiled himself, not noticing when thinking Eddie was cool became wanting to be around him all the time became wanting to make him smile at every opportunity became wishing they could be closer when they were already sitting shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. He might never have noticed, if Eddie deciding to leave hadn't suddenly turned the heat up so high that the water bubbled over and the frog fucking hopped out.

Eddie. I'm in love with Eddie. I'm in love with Eddie. I'm in love with Eddie.

His brain's still stuck there, skidding around like old tires on gravel, when Eddie lets go of his wrist. He sits up straight, jostling Buck's shoulder before leaning away, and that—Eddie's arm no longer touching his—cuts through the white noise a little. Distantly, he hears Eddie thanking the realtor, which means the call is ending. Somehow, he gets himself back online enough to mumble his own goodbyes.

As soon as the screen goes black, Eddie sets the tablet on the coffee table. He sucks in a shaky breath and tells Buck, "Thanks. Having you there helped a lot."

"Of course," Buck says, his face heating and his gut squirming. That always happens when he makes Eddie happy, which should've been a fucking clue. "Anything you need. You know that."

"Yeah." Eddie smiles." The way it lights Buck's whole body up should've been a fucking clue too. "You up for some pizza? We could catch up on Severance."

Panicked, Buck blurts, "No," too loud and too quick.

"Oh. Okay."

"Yeah, I—I've got a thing." It's the second time he's lied to Eddie, ever, and he hates himself for it so much he's almost nauseated with it. But he needs to get out of here—away from Eddie, who he loves and is leaving, and away from this house, which has become a home over the years and won't be much longer. "Maddie. She… uh. She needs me to help her with something."

Eddie says, "Okay," again before Buck can put the rest of his foot in his mouth. "I… I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah."



+++



Buck takes a couple of deep breaths as he unlocks the Jeep and climbs inside. It's parked in Eddie's driveway, to the left of the Sierra, in what over time has become his spot. Christopher had been the first Diaz to call it that, years ago, back when he'd still been young enough to need a booster seat, and it hadn't been long before Eddie was calling it that too. Buck always flushes a little when one of them says it, pleased at the reminder that he belongs somewhere, that he belongs to them. But that's going to change a month or so from now, depending on how fast Eddie's house sells. Strangers are going to move in, and they're going to park one of their cars in Buck's spot, right over the oil stain the Jeep has left on the concrete. They're going to put their couch in the living room and their towels in the bathroom and their pictures over the fireplace and on the fridge. They might paint over Christopher's height chart on the back of the laundry room door, and they might dig up the sunflowers Buck and Christopher planted in the backyard. They might reface the outdated cabinets in the kitchen—the kitchen where Buck has cooked many family dinners.

Hands shaking, Buck backs out of the driveway. Habit makes him glance at the porch, even though he knows Eddie isn't there to watch him drive off. Usually, Eddie waits there until Buck is about a block down, waving just as Buck turns out of sight, but tonight, he didn't even walk Buck to the door. Buck figures that's what he gets for lying right to Eddie's face. He takes another deep breath and heads down South Bedford, then winds through the side streets that lead to Venice, which Google promises is less congested than Washington. This close to rush hour, he's not sure it matters. He's not even sure where he's going.

Not the loft, at least not yet. Not when his brain's still spinning out of control. As much as he loves the loft—the first place he really lived on his own, the place he finally started putting down roots—it can feel empty when he's there alone. And Eddie, out of everyone Buck knows, fills that space the best. That should've been another clue, that after three girlfriends and a boyfriend, his favorite memories of his apartment are of Eddie: Eddie smiling at him as he cooks dinner, Eddie laughing as they play video games with Christopher, Eddie leaning into his shoulder as they watch TV. If Buck goes home now, knowing that some day soon, Eddie won't be there anymore—that he won't have a toothbrush in Buck's bathroom and spare clothes in Buck's dresser, that the throw pillow he sometimes tucks under his arm will eventually stop smelling like his cologne—he'll go straight off the deep end.

He gets on Venice and heads east. It isn't as crowded as it could be at four-fifty on a Thursday. This close to the 10, there isn't much to look at but ugly warehouses and industrial parks. He needs a distraction, so he turns on the radio and spins the dial until he finds Jack FM, which plays such random stuff that it's always good for a laugh. He catches the middle of a Green Day song, something he's heard just enough that he knows the tune but not the lyrics or the title. He hums along with it, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with the beat.

Mild traffic is still traffic; he misses the light at Fairfax twice. The second time, he waits it out in front of a LADWP receiving station, which gets him thinking about Eddie again. The 118 responded there about a month ago, after a catwalk collapsed and injured three workers. He and Eddie had teamed up to stabilize one of them, but what Buck really remembers is cutting himself on some debris at the scene and Eddie patching him up. That also should've been a clue, how as much as he loves and trusts Hen, he'd felt a lightning-quick flash of relief when Eddie nudged her out of the way, intent on tending Buck himself.

The Green Day song ends, followed by something with a dreamy 80s synthpop vibe. Buck doesn't think he's heard it before, but he nods along to it anyway. That doesn't stop him from glancing over as he passes the batting cages, where he and Eddie practiced in preparation for the First (and thankfully, only) Annual Intradepartmental Softball Game. Three or four blocks after that, he sees Darling Donuts, where Eddie stops on the rare mornings he and Buck are on call before Bobby. He always picks up two iced coffees, two bagel breakfast sandwiches, and an apple fritter for them to share.

A mile or so after that, the song changes again. Beastie Boys, "No Sleep Till Brooklyn." It had been a crowd favorite at the house parties Connor used to throw, getting played so often that Buck still knows the words, even though he hasn't heard it in years. Still, he looks over as he comes up on the food bank, where he and Eddie manned a table at last year's Christmas donation drive. Hen and Bobby had been on shift, but Chimney had come down to help out, along with Ravi and a couple of his buddies from B-Shift. Buck remembers Chimney stacking cereal boxes so high they'd toppled over, and Ravi and Ramos squabbling about whether canned yams count as actual food, but he also remembers the pretty red-haired volunteer who'd kept flirting with Eddie, the simmer of irritation he'd felt whenever she'd touched him arm or laughed at something he said—another fucking clue.

Buck hangs a left on Western to Bachman–Turner Overdrive, "Takin' Care of Business." He only knows it because its fairly high on Chimney's karaoke rotation, along with "Piano Man" and that annoying piña colada song and—to Maddie's horror—Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below." This close to five-thirty, traffic's bottling up. The sun is starting to set, the sky streaked orange and pink behind the heavy jut of the Santa Monica Mountains. Neon signs are flashing in nearly every store or restaurant window—open, sale, check cashing, parking in rear. Up the street, someone is selling LED toys from a cart. Past that, an inflatable man is dancing at a gas station, perfectly placed to block the price marquee.

All of that amounts to a million distractions, but Buck can't help noticing Road to Seoul as he crosses Pico, the Korean barbeque place Eddie took him to on his last birthday. The Saturday before, Hen and Karen hosted a get-together at their place, but the night of his actual birthday, Eddie showed up at the loft wearing one of Buck's sweaters and saying they should do something, just the two of them. They ended up at Road to Seoul, knees knocking under a table too small for two firefighters having all-you-can-eat, chatting over platters of bulgogi and short ribs and miso pork belly and corn cheese. They stayed so late that the server had to politely remind them that they closed at eleven-thirty.

Another 80s synthpop song comes on, then something Buck thinks is either Nickelback or Creed, then Springsteen's "Pink Cadillac," then another house party staple, "Humpty Dance." He misses the light at Wilshire and spends what feels like ten minutes flexing a cramp out of his bad leg and watching the fading sunlight glint off the Wiltern's sky-blue tiles. The 118 has responded to numerous calls at the Wiltern, most recently a guy who climbed on stage during a metal gig and got stomped by security. But a couple of months ago, Buck went there for a show. Kameron had bullied him into buying two tickets to see her younger brother's band, a ska punk group opening a lineup.

Eddie went with him. Eddie, because it never occurred to him to invite his actual boyfriend, although Tommy probably would've said no. Eddie hung around the loft all day when he could've been sleeping off their last forty-eight, then made a nuisance of himself trying to "help" while Buck made them lunch, then smiled at Buck though some of the worst music Buck's ever heard and promised he wasn't having a terrible time. Afterward, he ordered an Uber, which took them up the street to Biergarten LA. He paid for their fancy IPAs and their fancier burgers, and he stood at Buck's shoulder as they waited for the Uber back to the loft, his fingers hooked in Buck's belt-loops.

Slowly, Buck turns the radio off. He stares at the brake lights in front of him until his vision starts to blur and tries to figure out exactly how many dates he and Eddie have gone on without even knowing it.

The verdict? A lot. And the longer Buck drives, the more evidence that stacks up. Like the art gallery Buck dragged Eddie to because their favorite barista at Undergrind was having a showing. Or the taco truck Eddie likes because their carnitas reminds him of Abuela's cooking. Or the Target they'd rushed to one Christmas Eve, because Christopher wanted a specific video game and it was out of stock everywhere else. Western curves into Los Feliz and Buck passes the entrance to the Griffith Observatory, which he and Eddie have visited with Christopher at least ten times. He crosses the LA River, just a mile north from where he and Eddie tried to find a buried treasure together.

Driving into Atwater brings Buck to Tam O'Shanter. Everyone had met up there last month because Albert was back in town. Buck and Eddie Uber'd there together, and they sat next to each other in the circular booth, and they each ordered an entrée but also duck wings and a plate of poutine to split between them. They overdid it on salted caramel Old Fashioneds, getting so drunk that they ended up slouched against each other and giggling at nothing. In the morning, much of the night had been a blur.

But Buck remembers now. He remembers how Eddie's hand drifted up to his thigh while they waited for dessert. How he turned to look at Eddie and found Eddie already looking at him. How Eddie breathed out against his jaw, and how he'd been overcome with a desire to touch the freckle under Eddie's eye. How before he could, someone—Chimney?—knocked over their glass of water. That startled everyone, and—

A feeling crawls into Buck's chest, aching and tight, not panic exactly, but a close cousin. His heart starts pounding, hard enough that he pulls over. He grabs his phone and fumbles with it until he gets YouTube open, thinking he'll pull up an anxiety talkdown or a guided box breathing meditation, but his hands are shaking again, so badly that his fingers won't cooperate.

He's in love with Eddie. And he's almost certain that Eddie's in love with him.

They're in love with each other.

And now it's too late to do anything about it.



+++



"You sure this is what you want?" the guy asks.

Buck pauses over the consent form he's filling out. He looks at the guy, then at the paper the guy's holding, where he'd written out the words he wants tattooed.


you can

have my back

any day


This is the surest he's been about anything in a long time.

"Yeah."

The guy clarifies, "And you want it like this?" and gestures with the paper. "Not in script?"

It's Eddie's handwriting, or as close as Buck could get using a grocery list he found in the Jeep as a guide. If Buck had his wish, Eddie would've written it out for him. Eddie would've come here with him, would be sitting next to him as he gets the words that sparked their friendship put into his skin. But if Buck had his wish, Eddie wouldn't be moving to Texas, either.

"Yeah. Just like that."

"And where do you want it?"

Buck flashes the inside of his left wrist. "Here."

"That's gonna sting," the guy warns.

Buck shrugs. He's heard that that's a tender place for a tattoo, but that's also the last place Eddie touched him. That's where it has to go.

"I'll be fine."

It takes a few minutes for the guy to copy the words into a stencil and get all the equipment set up. Buck kills some of it flipping through the shop portfolio, but he ends up zoning out, thinking about that night with the grenade. It's a memory he replays often—the lingering summer heat, the smell of cooling asphalt, the red glare from all the flashing lights. The air inside the ambulance had prickled the back of his neck, heavy with tension and fear-sweat and blood, so much blood that their gloves had been sticky with it, that Buck had practically been able taste it. But there'd been a moment, when Eddie first started the extraction, when he braced his hand on top of Buck's where Buck was holding pressure on Charlie's wound. It had grounded Buck in a way that didn't make sense at the time, like his body knew that he and Eddie belonged to each other, even if his brain didn't.

Eventually, the guy calls Buck back. He hadn't been kidding about it hurting—the first couple of passes have Buck gritting his teeth—but he breathes through it until the burn starts to fade. Tattoos have always been kind of meditative for him, the pain and the buzzing muting some of the chatter in his head. Usually, he closes his eyes and drifts until the piece is finished, but this time, it's different. These are the first real words Eddie said to him. He can't look away.

About halfway through, the guy asks, "So, what's this for?"

"My partner," Buck replies. "He, uh… he's going to Texas for a while to deal with some family stuff. And I… I want to keep a piece of him with me."

"Cool. How long've you two been together?"

The y in my starts to take shape. Buck says, "Nearly eight years," and it feels like the truth.



+++



Inevitably, Buck ends up back at Eddie's house, although he has no idea how. His last clear memory is climbing into the Jeep after leaving the tattoo shop. That was all the way up in Glendale, which means he blanked out during a forty-minute drive.

The porch light is off, and the living room is dark. If Eddie isn't already asleep, then he's getting ready to go to bed. Buck should go home. But something—something desperate and anxious and hungry, something stoked by the itch-ache at his wrist—prompts him to walk up the front steps. He slips his key into the lock and lets himself in.

Silence greets him. All he hears is the clock ticking in the dining room. There's a faint meat-and-cheese-and tomato smell in the air; Eddie must have ordered a pizza after all. The blanket balled up at one end of the couch says he ate it while watching TV. Buck hesitates. He could sleep out here. He could get up early and cook Eddie breakfast as an apology for lying right to his face. Since they're working the same shift tomorrow, they could carpool to the station.

His wrist throbs. He wants more. He taps his fingers on the back of the couch before heading down the hallway to Eddie's room. The floorboards creak as he steps inside. Eddie startles at first, rolling over and sitting up, but then he realizes who it is and lets out a relieved sigh.

"Buck?" he asks, his voice rough. His phone, on the bed, is open to Instagram, but he'd probably been dozing off. "What's going on? Did you leave something here?"


Yeah. You.


Buck just looks at him. He's beautiful—shirtless, the blanket pulled up to his waist, one knee bent, his hair a messy shadow against his pillow. Buck's always wanted him in an abstract way, aware of how hot he is, even if their friendship made him off limits. But now, it's consuming him. He can feel it at the base of his spine and the back of his neck, behind his fucking teeth.

"Buck?" Eddie asks again. He sits up a bit more, but Buck shushes him.

He says, "I'm not really here."

"What?"

This is insane. Insane, and it could potentially ruin what they've already built together. But Buck needs it. A memory of what they could've had, something to hold on to after Eddie moves eight hundred miles away, if he ends up making new friends in El Paso and leaving Buck behind.

Deliberately, he curves his hand over Eddie's bent knee. "I'm not really here. This is a dream."

Eddie's quiet for a moment before murmuring, "Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"If—" Eddie swallows hard, then brings a hand up and rests it on top of Buck's. "If this is a dream, you'd be naked."

The confirmation that Eddie wants this, wants him, makes Buck shiver. Quickly, he strips out of his clothes, leaving them puddled on the floor. When he looks back up, Eddie is pushing the blanket away. He's wearing boxer-briefs. They're hugging his perfect thighs, tenting as his dick fills.

As Buck reaches for Eddie, Eddie catches his arm. Buck panics for a split-second, afraid that Eddie has already changed his mind, has realized how insane this is, but then he sees that Eddie is looking at his tattoo. At their tattoo. He waits as Eddie gropes around for his phone, unlocks it, and shines the light from the screen on his wrist. Once he's read it, he makes a soft noise and runs his thumb along the edge of the Saniderm.

"Buck."

Buck shakes his head. "Dreaming, remember?"

Eddie studies him for a moment, then nods. He uses his grip on Buck's arm to tug him closer. Buck stumbles a little, saving himself by planting a knee on the bed. Eddie spreads his legs slightly, an invitation that Buck takes. He pushes Eddie's thighs apart, then fits himself between them, bracing his arms on either side of Eddie's head. They both hesitate, barely breathing, balanced on a precipice—this is it. Slowly, Eddie reaches up and cards his fingers through the hair at the back of Buck's neck. He makes another noise and tugs Buck down for a kiss.

It's hot and slick and wondrous. It makes Buck want to crawl inside Eddie and stay there, warm and safe behind his ribs, close to the steady beat of his heart and the blood he once stopped from leaving Eddie's body. It feels like a puzzle piece slotting into place. A key fitting into a lock. He should've been kissing Eddie for years; he should be kissing Eddie always. He shifts his weight to one elbow so he can touch Eddie's face. He rubs his thumb over the freckle beneath Eddie's eye and sucks Eddie's tongue into his mouth.

They fall into it, kissing and kissing and kissing. Kissing until their lips are flush and swollen and spit-slick. Until they're both hard and panting, until Buck's cock is dripping precome, smearing a wet patch on Eddie's boxer-briefs. Eddie's holding Buck so tightly that Buck can feel it when he breathes. He keeps making tiny, desperate noises into Buck's mouth.

It's so, so good, but Buck wants more. He wants as much of Eddie as he can fit into a single dream. He shifts down, dragging his open mouth over Eddie's jaw and throat as he goes. He sucks Eddie's nipple into his mouth. Eddie pushes up into it and clutches at Buck's shoulders. Buck shifts again, nuzzling at Eddie's chest hair before finding his other nipple, teasing it with the flat of his tongue, grazing it with his teeth. He loves this—Eddie underneath him, trembling, gasping his name—but he still wants more. He moves down, down, down. He noses at the waist of Eddie's boxer-briefs and cups his hand over the hard curve of his cock.

"Buck."

"Dreaming," Buck reminds him.

Eddie nods. "Yeah."

Buck tugs at the boxer-briefs, enough to free Eddie's cock. It's perfect: full and straining, fever-hot and wet at the tip. Buck tucks his face into the crease of Eddie's hip so he can breathe Eddie in, then turns into Eddie's cock, letting it streak precome over his cheek and jaw. Eddie clutches at him again, and he starts mumbling under his breath—Buck, Buck, please, Buck. Buck wraps his hand around it and slides a slow, wet kiss up the length of it. He presses another kiss to the head, then laps away the mess there, then sucks all of it in.

It's been a while since he's done this, but after a few bobs of his head, he remembers how it goes. He remembers how to relax his jaw, how to open his throat, how to hollow his cheeks and curl his tongue. Eddie makes a noise so filthy Buck has to hump down against the bed to relieve the ache in his dick. He rocks up into every movement Buck makes, pushing himself farther and farther into Buck's mouth, far enough that Buck gags a little. His eyes start to water. He doesn't care. He'd let Eddie shove in as far as he can go, let Eddie stuff him full, let Eddie choke him with it until he passes out. He slides his hands under Eddie's ass and urges him to go deeper, deeper, deeper.

"Buck."

It's rough at the edges—desperate, a warning. He squirms like he's trying to hold off, but that's not what Buck wants. He wants all of it. Everything. He moves his hands again, pinning Eddie to the bed by the hips so Eddie has to give it to him. He pulls up until the head of Eddie's dick is resting on his lower lip. He lets all the spit in his mouth flood out, then sinks down until his throat is fluttering, until Eddie is panting and grabbing at the sheets.

It doesn't take long. Eddie twists under him, then comes, yanking on Buck's hair and flooding Buck's mouth. Buck swallows around him, sucking him through it, only letting up when he starts to shake.

He says, "Buck," again. It's soft this time, slurred.

Buck's own cock is throbbing. It's leaked enough that there's a wet patch on the bed. He sits up on his knees and wraps a hand around himself, painfully aware that it's not going to take much. In fact, it takes almost nothing because Eddie reaches up to bat his hand away and replace it with his own. He comes after just a few strokes, spurting over Eddie's fingers and dripping onto his soft cock and thighs.

Buck gives himself about thirty seconds, enough time to come down from his high and catch his breath. Enough time to look at Eddie, flushed and come-filthy and satisfied, and commit the sight to memory. Once that thirty seconds has passed, he climbs off the bed and bends down to grab his clothes.

"You can stay," Eddie offers.

Buck shakes his head. He says, "I'm not here. This is a dream," and back-steps toward the door. He can get dressed in the hall.

"Okay," Eddie says, closing his eyes.



+++



It was just a dream, so they don't talk about it the next day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

They don't talk about it when Bobby taps Buck for a rope rescue at the abandoned Red Car tunnel under Hill Street. Eddie spends longer than necessary on a safety check, running his fingers over every strap, buckle, and D-ring on Buck's harness at least three times. Before Buck goes down, he murmurs, "Come back to me," instead of the usual, "Be safe."

They don't talk about it when Buck asks Eddie if he wants to try the new phở spot down the street from the station. They drive over in the Jeep, freshly showered but tired and achy from a twelve-hour shift. Before the food comes, Eddie slides into Buck's side of the booth to show him a video of Christoper his mother sent. He stays there the rest of their meal, his thigh pressed against Buck's.

They don't talk about it when Eddie shows up to the loft with two pizzas and a six-pack of Buck's favorite lager. They watch the Kings lose to the Penguins, then finally get caught up on Severance. At some point, Buck's feet end up in Eddie's lap. He dozes off with Eddie's hand wrapped around his ankle.

They don't talk about it when Eddie tells Bobby he needs to put in for some vacation time.



+++



It's raining when Buck gets to Eddie's place. He's not surprised; the sky has been heavy and gray all morning. It's not coming down too hard, but it's enough that Buck's hair starts frizzing and his shirt gets damp the minute he climbs out of the Jeep. He shivers as he walks over to Eddie, who's pulling down the roller door on a midsized U-Haul trailer.

When he sees Buck approaching, he says, "Hey."

"Hey."

They both hesitate, and the silence is awkward. It's probably the only time things have been awkward between them since those first weeks immediately after the lawsuit, when they'd still been still regaining their footing with each other. Even when Buck was coming out, stumbling over his words while Eddie stared at him in surprise, Buck hadn't felt awkward, just flustered. But now, it feels like everything they haven't talked about is suddenly festering between them, coming to a head like a boil.

Buck's pretty sure they shouldn't lance it right before Eddie drives eight hundred miles, if they ever lance it at all. He raps his knuckles against the U-Haul and asks, "What's this? I thought you said you're just visiting."

Eddie hesitates again before explaining, "I'm staying a month," which is news to Buck. When Eddie brought it up to Bobby, he'd mentioned two weeks. Buck breathes through ache clawing from his chest to his throat as Eddie continues, "I'm also bringing some of Christopher's stuff. My mom—" His mouth twists. "She said he wants it."

"You don't sound like you believe that."

"I'm not sure what I believe. I can't even talk to Christopher without her hovering. And she—" Eddie sighs and flexes his hands a couple of times. "I think she wants me to think that he wants to stay permanently. I think she wants me to stop trying."

Buck hates the doubt in Eddie's voice. He also hates Eddie's parents. He hates them for a lot of reasons: for Ramón's absenteeism, for Helena's impossible expectations, for how they burdened him with being the man of the house and taking care of his sisters at ten-years-old while finding fault in everything he did. But most of all, he hates how easily they've written Eddie off as a failure, how they'd rather start over with Christopher than repair the damage they did to Eddie growing up.

"He'll come home," Buck insists. He hasn't talked to Christopher much—too afraid to that he'll make him feel pressured, or that he'll accidentally interfere with any progress Eddie's made with him. But he knows that Christopher loves Eddie more than anything, and—like he told Maddie after their blowup about Daniel—he knows it's easy to lash out at someone when you know they'll forgive you. "And, hey—" He taps the U-Haul again. "If he decides to come home now, you'll be ready."

Eddie says, "Yeah," but doesn't sound convinced. Before Buck can try, a car alarm starts wailing somewhere down the street. Eddie glances in that direction, then looks back at Buck and asks, "Do me a favor, yeah?"

"Anything. You know that."

Heat flushes Eddie's cheeks. He says, "Yeah," and gestures at his house. "Can you stay here a few nights? Make it look lived in? There were some break-ins around here recently, always people who were out of town."

The car alarm cuts off. Buck replies, "Sure. That's no problem." He was going to do that anyway. "Text me the address of your Airbnb, in case you get murdered."

"I'm not going to get murdered."

"You don't know that! Texas is, like, third in the country for serial killings."

Eddie huffs. "I'm sure that's got nothing to do with it being second in population. But I'll text you." After a pause, he nudges Buck's arm. "Alright. I better—"

"Wait," Buck blurts, remembering the care package he brought. He adds, "Give me one sec," and jogs for the Jeep.

Knowing Eddie was leaving in the morning had left him too twisted up to sleep last night, so he'd gone on another baking rampage, but it ended up being way more than he could eat by himself. Since Maddie and Chimney have cut him off, he decided to wrap some of it up for Eddie—a lemon loaf, a dozen snickerdoodles, and six of those scones he seemed to like.

He grabs the bag off the passenger seat and heads back over to Eddie.

"Make sure you save some for Chris, and—"

"Buck."

"—let me know when you get there, okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Alright."

Buck's chest is aching again, but he pastes a smile on his face. "Better hit the road before the weather gets worse."

Eddie pauses again, then says, "Yeah," and reaches for him.

Everything Buck feels for Eddie tugs at his gut. He crowds in too close and holds Eddie too tight. He barely stops himself from tucking his face into Eddie's neck. A beat passes, then another, and another, and another. He knows he should let go, that this is pushing beyond the boundaries of a hug between friends, but he can't. It's like his arms are locked in place. It would be easier, maybe, if he didn't know that Eddie's skin tastes like, or what Eddie's body feels like underneath his, or what Eddie sounds like when he comes.

Except that he doesn't. That was just a dream.

Eddie pats Buck's shoulder. He murmurs, " I should go," and steps back.

Buck lets his hand brush Eddie's bicep as he turns away.



+++



Buck downloads Grindr the third night after Eddie leaves, which is also the third night he's spent at Eddie's house. He knows he probably shouldn't, not when he's worked so hard to distance himself from the shallow, cocky guy he was at twenty-six, but he needs something to settle him, to stop him from feeling like his skin doesn't fit right and his brain is rattling around inside his skull. He fills out some of the bio, just enough that he won't look like a crypto bot or an organ harvester, and he uploads a handful of Instagram selfies. He deliberately doesn't think about the fact that he's doing this while wearing Eddie's sweats and sitting on Eddie's couch.

It doesn't take long for notifications to start rolling in. Theo, who's taller than Buck, has zigzag cornrows and a nose ring, and is at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on La Cienega. Harlan, who has stretched ears and a sweet neck tattoo, and is also, hilariously, at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on La Cienega. Liam, who has red hair, freckles all over, and is at the Taco Bell on Robertson. Maurice, who's profile pic is just a mirror selfie of his ass in tighty-whities, and is at one of the art galleries on Washington. Derek, who has curly blond hair and scar over one eyebrow, and is skipping any pretenses by lurking at a shabby motel on Venice.

Joaquin, who's at a sports bar down a side street off Culver. Most of his photos are neck-down selfies framed to highlight his abs and his bulge and the cyberpunk half-sleeve on his left arm, but the three that include his face show that he has dark hair, honey-brown eyes, and a familiar quirk to his smile. Looking at him stirs something in Buck's gut—not genuine heat, but something that's close enough for his current headspace.

Buck replies to him, and they exchange a few messages. He offers to meet at the bar, because he's not bringing a hook-up to Eddie's place and the loft is a thirty-minute drive. He changes into real clothes—his own jeans and one of Eddie's henleys—then climbs into the Jeep. The rain moved on two days ago, but it left a cold front in its wake. Buck flips on the Jeep's lousy heater before making his way over to Rocco's Tavern.

Joaquin is hotter than his pictures, which almost never happens. The quirk to his mouth is more pronounced in person. Heat sparks in Buck's gut again, muted but better than nothing, so he rolls with it when Joaquin cuts right to the chase, pushing Buck back against the Jeep and slipping his tongue into Buck's mouth. He's a fantastic kisser. But his jaw is too narrow, and his shoulders aren't broad enough. His soft, hungry noises don't sound right.

Buck nudges Joaquin back and mutters, "Sorry." His stomach is churning. "I can't do this."

"Lemme guess," Joaquin says, looking Buck up and down. The twist to his mouth goes from flirty to annoyed. "You just got dumped."

"Something like that."

"And you were hoping to fuck the pain away."

"Something like that."

Joaquin sighs. "Alright, well. Thanks for wasting my time, I guess."

Buck gets into the Jeep. He turns the heater off and puts the windows down as he swings out of the parking lot, hoping the cold air will help him clear his head. It doesn't. By the time he gets back to Eddie's place, he's still unsettled and vaguely anxious and missing Eddie like a phantom limb, he's just shivering while he's doing it.

Inside, he heads straight for Eddie's room. He strips off his jeans and Eddie's henley, then pulls on the sweats he was wearing earlier. He has a drawer full of his own clothes in one of Eddie's dressers, but he digs around in Eddie's stuff until he finds an oversized t-shirt, worn soft and slightly misshapen from too many laundry cycles. Once dressed, he considers where he's going to sleep. He's been staying on the couch, but tonight, he wants whatever pieces of Eddie are left as close to him as possible. He barely hesitates before crawling into Eddie's bed.

It's a fucking mistake. Everything smells like him—the sheets, the blankets, the pillows—and this is where his dream-self pushed Eddie's thighs apart and slid between them, where his dream-self held Eddie's hips down and sucked Eddie's cock into his throat. He's rock-hard in an instant, and he isn't strong enough to not do something about it.

He rolls over, mashing his face into Eddie's pillow as he gets a hand around his dick, and he jerks himself until he's coming in Eddie's sweats.



+++



"What the hell were you thinking?" Bobby demands.

He hasn't been this pissed at Buck in a long, long time—so pissed that he's apparently decided to chew Buck out now, at the scene, while Buck's sitting on the bumper of their ambulance and getting treated for smoke inhalation.

Buck lowers the oxygen mask a little. He coughs before croaking out, "I was thinking there were still kids in that building."

"But there wasn't."

"I didn't know that."

"You would've, if you'd listened to me when I ordered everyone to stand down. You would've heard that the teachers did a headcount, and all the students were accounted for. But you—" Bobby makes an abrupt, angry gesture at what's left of Horace Mann Elementary School. It's still smoldering in places; Chimney and Ravi are leading the group doing spot-checks. "Instead, you just ran off, half-cocked, into a collapsing building."

"Hey, that's the job sometimes."

"No, the job is taking calculated risks. This was just stupid."

"Bobby—"

"What's going on with you?"

Buck can't answer that without sounding pathetic, so he brings the mask back to his face and takes a few deep breaths: in for four, out for four; in for four, out for four.

"Because," Bobby pushes, his face washed red by the ambulance lights, "you were like this at the high-rise rescue too. You nearly fell fifteen stories because your rope wasn't secure."

"I thought it was," Buck insists. It would've been, if Eddie had been the one to suit him up and check the lines. "I thought—"

"Is this about Eddie?"

"No," Buck says quickly. Probably too quickly, judging by the way Bobby sighs.

"Are you sure about that? You yelled at Jenkins yesterday about the way he was stocking the engine compartments."

"He was doing it wrong!"

"No, he just wasn't doing it the way Eddie does it." After a pause, Bobby softens, his shoulders relaxing, the twist leaving his mouth. "You know, when I hired him, I was hoping you two would get along well enough to work together. And then you went became the closest friends I think I've ever met. I'm sure him leaving hasn't been easy on you."

Buck's gut lurches, but he puts a shrug in his shoulder and says, "He's coming back."

"This time. But there's a real possibility that he ends up going out there for good."

"Yeah, I know."

"And you'll have to find a way to deal with that."

Buck says, "Yeah," again and ducks back behind the mask. "I know."



+++



Buck's stroking himself, slowly, just getting started, when his phone buzzes. Normally, he wouldn't answer it, but it's Eddie, and it's only the second time he's called since he got to Texas. Buck grabs his phone and unlocks it. He stops moving his hand but doesn't let go of his dick.

"Hey."

"Hey." Eddie sounds quiet, a little breathless. Buck can't help imagining it's the distance. "You busy?"

"No. What's up?"

"Nothing. I just—" Eddie cuts off, sighing. Buck hears a noise like fabric rustling, like Eddie's getting into bed or stretching out on a couch. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"About anything."

"I watched a thing on jellyfish the other night."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, soft. "Tell me about it."

"Jellyfish are over six million years old," Buck cites. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock but doesn't stroke. "They've survived five mass extinction events. They're older than sharks and trees."

"Yeah? What else?"

"Scientists have identified two thousand species of jellyfish, but they suspect there are tons more because we've only explored five percent of the ocean."

"That—" Eddie cuts off with a hiss, broken like he tried to swallow it.

"Eddie? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just—fuck—keep talking."

A bolt of heat hits Buck so suddenly that it nearly takes his breath away. Eddie's touching himself. He called so he could get off listening to Buck's voice.

Buck says, "The smallest jellyfish are less than half an inch long," and starts stroking himself again. "The largest are six and a half feet long."

"Yeah?"

"They don't have brains. They're ninety-eight percent water. They—shit."

"Buck. Buck."

"Yeah?" Buck drags his hand up his dick and rubs his thumb over the head, right along the slit. "I'm here."

"More."

"Most jellyfish only live about a year. Some only live for a couple of days."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Buck." Eddie's panting now, right in Buck's fucking ear. "Please."

Buck starts rolling his hips, fucking into his fist. He isn't bothering to hide the noises he's making. "What? Tell me what you need."

"You—oh, fuck—keep talking."

"There's one species," Buck starts, his voice breaking. He's so close he can practically taste it. "There's one species that's immortal. I didn't—I didn't really understand it, but somehow they can regenerate their cells. They—"

"Buck."

"Yeah, I'm here."

Eddie says, "Buck," again, and lets out a low, unmistakable noise. "Fuck. I miss you so much."

That—knowing that Eddie is lying there, covered in come and thinking about him, missing him—that's enough to drag him over the edge. He gasps through it, unashamed that he's doing it right in Eddie's ear. He catches most of it in his hand, but some of it drips on to Eddie's sheets.

When he can talk again, he murmurs, "I miss you too."

"I—" Eddie sighs. "I think I can sleep now. I'll let you go."

"Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."



+++



Buck's Grindr hook-up—Jason—starts kissing down his jaw and throat. Buck isn't really feeling it. He should've stayed home. It's Connor's fault he's here in the first place. Connor and Kameron's.

Connor called earlier, asking if Buck had plans. He pointed out that they hadn't seen each other in a while, and since Lucas was with Kameron's parents for the night, it was the perfect opportunity for the three of them to get together and catch up. Buck hadn't been too excited about going out, but he'd supposed it was better than lying on Eddie's couch, eating sour cream and onion Ruffles and watching M*A*S*H reruns, so he got up. He put on his own jeans and the green v-neck sweater he bought Eddie for his birthday two years ago.

He had an Uber take him to a wine bar on Pico, Cardinale du Vin, and it was fine. It was fun. They ordered the confit potatoes and a cheese board and a shockingly expensive bottle of red. Kameron talked about the book she's trying to write, some kind of neo-noir thriller, and Connor pulled out his phone and showed Buck roughly fifty pictures of Lucas. Buck told them about some of the wild calls the station had responded to recently, like the woman who brained herself trying to hide under the bed when her boyfriend's wife came home, or the man who learned the hard way why it's best to leave Canadian geese alone.

But just after nine, Connor and Kameron headed home, and since they live out in West Hollywood, it didn't make sense to share an Uber. Buck, halfway through his third glass of wine, unlocked his phone to call his own and for some reason opened Grindr instead. Probably because there was nothing waiting for him at Eddie's house except jacking off in Eddie's bed or staring at Eddie's location on Life360 and wishing he wasn't eight hundred miles away.

Jason was the first guy to message him. With his surfer dude vibe—tanned skin, blue eyes, blond hair streaked white from salt water and the sun—he looked nothing like Eddie, which Buck hoped might help him get out of his head. And, conveniently, he was already at Carnivale du Vin.

Now, they're making out in the alley behind the bar while one of the bussers sneaks a cigarette fifty feet away.

Jason crowds Buck back against the wall. He tucks his hand under Buck's sweater and slides it up Buck's side. He burrs, "God, you're hot," against Buck's jaw, then slots their mouths together.

He's a good kisser—a little sloppy, but still good. He's hot as hell too. But Buck feels like he did last time he tried this: unsettled, anxious, not right. He never should've touched Eddie. Pretending it was a dream hasn't stopped that night from completely fucking ruining him.

Jason goes for Buck's belt. His knuckles bump the front of Buck's jeans, where Buck is barely half-hard. He pulls back with a surprised noise and asks, "What's the matter, baby? Too much to drink?"

Buck takes the out. He mumbles, "Yeah," and ducks his head like he's embarrassed. "I think I overdid it. I—I should go."

"We could go back to my place," Jason offers. "Have a cup of coffee. See where things go."

"No," Buck says, shaking his head. "I'm not feeling too good."

"No worries. I'll send you my number. We can try again sometime."

"Sure. Yeah."



+++



Buck startles when someone sits next to him on the couch.

It's Hen; she laughs and quips, "Easy, tiger. I come in peace."

She has a cup of tea in her hands, something herbal by the fruity, floral smell. Buck points at it and cocks an eyebrow. "Did you bring enough for the whole class, Henrietta?"

"Call me Henrietta again and I'll bring you something."

"What happened to coming in peace?"

"I lied." After a long sip of tea, she notes, "Honestly, I wasn't sure if you were awake."

Buck rubs a hand over his face. He hadn't been, but he hadn't not been either. "What time is it?"

"About four."

"Huh." They got back from their last call around two-thirty, so he's been sitting here, completely zoned out, for an hour and a half. "Are we—" He glances around the loft, noting how empty it is. "Is everyone else in the bunks?"

"Pretty much." Hen pauses to take another sip of tea. Buck can feel the question in the air before her next words take shape. "So—"

"Please don't ask me how I am."

"I don't need to ask," she counters, giving him a deliberate once-over. "I have eyes. I can see how you're doing."

"Yeah? And how's that?"

She looks him over again. "Judging by the bags under your eyes, you're not sleeping well, if you're sleeping at all. You're dragging yourself around here like a zombie. You're reckless on calls."

"I'm not—"

"And," she continues, steamrolling right over him, "You're avoiding us." Buck opens his mouth to argue, but she smacks his arm. "You skipped out on trivia night. You were 'busy with stuff' both times Karen and I invited you to dinner. Chimney says you've only called Maddie once this week."

"I—" Buck looks away. "Sorry."

"Oh, Buckaroo." She squeezes his arm. "Don't be sorry. Eddie's your best friend. I'm sure this hasn't been easy for you."

Buck's eyes start stinging. His throat closes up. All he can do is shake his head.

"I just wanted to remind you that you're not going to be alone. You still have us. And—" She walks her fingers down his arm and taps the tattoo on his wrist, out in the open today because it's been too warm for long sleeves. "You two are so close. I doubt a few hundred miles can do anything to change that."

She might be right. If Eddie does end up moving, they'll both make the effort. They'll text constantly and schedule Facetime calls and plan visits back and forth. And that might be enough for them to beat the odds on long-distance friendships.

But Buck is selfish. He doesn't want Eddie part-time, over a screen. He wants Eddie with him, next to him. Close to him. He wants to see Eddie, and hear him laugh, and feel their shoulders bump when they're walking beside each other or sitting next to each other. He wants what he had in the dream they shared—holding Eddie, touching him, kissing him.

He wants everything.

"Yeah."



+++



Buck wakes up to someone standing beside the bed. He sits up, his heart leaping into his throat, panicking for the split-second it takes his eyes to adjust to the dark.

He asks, "Eddie?" then, "What are you doing here?" like they're not in Eddie's house, like he's not naked in Eddie's bed with no explanation. "It's only been a week."

Instead of answering, Eddie reaches out and tugs the blanket down to his knees.

"Eddie?"

"I'm not really here," Eddie prompts quietly. "This is a dream."

Buck closes his eyes for a second. He shouldn't do this again. As much as he wants it, it'll make it that much harder when Eddie goes back to Texas. To tell the truth, it might actually kill him. But it's Eddie, and Buck loves him too much. He's fucking weak.

"If I'm dreaming," he starts, echoing what Eddie said to him last time, "you'd be naked."

Eyes never leaving Buck's, Eddie shrugs out of his jacket and pulls his shirt over his head. He unbuckles his belt, then shoves off his jeans and boxer-briefs. His dick, already filling, bobs as he climbs onto the bed. They shuffle around for a moment—Eddie's knee banging into Buck's thigh, the blanket catching on Buck's ankle as he kicks it away—but then Eddie is sliding on top of him, heavy and perfect. He cups Buck's face in both hands and brushes his lips over Buck's birthmark. He noses down Buck's cheek and jaw, then slots their mouths together.

Buck moans into it. He's missed this so much, the soft press of Eddie's lips, the slick glide of Eddie's tongue. He's missed the smell of him, a familiar mix of fabric softener and cologne. It's slightly sweat-stale now, like Eddie's been traveling, stuck in his truck all day, or maybe on an airplane, but Buck tucks face into the curve of Eddie's neck and breathes him in. He drags an open-mouthed kiss up Eddie's throat so he can taste Eddie's skin.

He bites down a little, making Eddie shiver, making him hiss, "Fuck, fuck," and grind down, his cock riding against Buck's.

Buck tips his head back up and draws Eddie into another kiss. And another, and another. He cards his fingers through Eddie's hair and thinks, fleetingly, of the lube in the nightstand. He could open himself up for Eddie's cock. He could work two fingers into Eddie and tease his prostate until he's writhing and shaking and screaming. But that would mean moving, stopping, letting go. He slides his hands down to Eddie's ass and urges Eddie closer, rocking up as Eddie ruts down. Again. Again. Again. It's desperate, animal. Buck can't get enough. The heat building under his skin is almost more than he can bear.

Eddie rests his hand at the base of Buck's throat. He says, "You're mine," in a rough voice. "Tell me you're mine."

"Eddie, don't," Buck begs. His blood is rushing in his ears. "We're dreaming."

Eddie mutters, "I know," and grinds down. He breathes out a noise so hungry Buck feels it in his gut. "In my dreams, you tell me. You tell me all the time."

"Fuck," Buck hisses. It doesn't matter if the charade is falling apart; he's Eddie's in every reality. "I am. I'm yours."

"Tell me I'm yours."

"You are," Buck promises, dragging their mouths together, more spit and breath than an actual kiss. "You're mine."

"I better be." Eddie grabs Buck's hand and brings it up to his bicep. "You feel that?"

Buck does feel it: the rough, scaly skin of a week-old tattoo. "Eddie—"

"You know what it says," Eddie insists. "It's ours. It's us."

Buck's whole body locks up. The tension coiled in his gut snaps so suddenly that it feels like getting punched. He comes and comes and comes, all over himself and all over Eddie. Eddie pauses to watch him, mouth slack. When he starts moving his hips again, fucking through the mess Buck made, it's rhythmless, hungry, like he's right on the edge.

"You close?" Buck asks.

Eddie nods. His nails dig in where he's holding Buck's hip.

Buck murmurs, "Come on, give it to me," and pushes his thumb into Eddie's mouth. "In my dreams, you don't make me wait."

Eddie shudders through it, his back arching, his tongue fluttering around Buck's thumb. Afterward, he collapses on top of Buck, his face hidden in the curve of Bucks' shoulder. Buck can't help wrapping his arms around him, holding him close.

They can dream a little bit longer.



+++



Eddie's the first thing Buck sees when he opens his eyes in the morning. If Buck had his wish, he always would be.

There's an old saying about wishes, though, how if they were wings, pigs would fly. He takes a deep breath and says, "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"I wanted to be," Eddie replies. He reaches over and palms Buck's hip. "Are we still dreaming?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you're going back to Texas. Because if you are, I—" Buck swallows hard. "I can't make this real."

"It is real."

"Eddie, please. I need to know."

Instead of answering, Eddie slides his hand from Buck's hip to Buck's chest. He rubs his thumb over Buck's nipple, not teasing it, but not not.

He asks, "Why were you at Rocco's Tavern the other night?"

Buck blinks at him. "What?"

"Rocco's Tavern," Eddie repeats. He moves his hand again, resting it where Buck's neck curves into his shoulder. "You went there a couple nights after I left."

"You've been watching me?"

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. "Like you haven't been watching me." When Buck doesn't deny it, his mouth goes smug. "Tell me."

"I was meeting someone," Buck admits. "A guy, from Grindr."

"A guy. From Grindr." Eddie cups Buck's jaw, pressing his thumb to Buck's lower lip. "Did he look like me?"

Buck sucks Eddie's thumb into his mouth. Eddie makes a soft noise, and his eyes flutter for a moment, but it doesn't take long for him to realize what Buck's doing. He pulls his thumb out and leaves it, warm and spit-wet, against Buck's chin.

"Tell me."

"Yeah," Buck says quietly. "He looked like you."

"Did you fuck him? Did he fuck you?" Eddie's voice is sour at edges, curled up like burnt paper. "Did you—"

"No," Buck cuts in. He brings his hand up to Eddie's bicep, tapping his thumb just below the tattoo. It's exactly like he imagined last night—you could have mine in a good copy of his handwriting. "He kissed me, but I didn't want him."

"And the wine bar?" Eddie presses. "That one look like me too?"

Buck shakes his head. "No. It didn't help. I didn't want him either."

After a pause, Eddie says, "No more," like he's chewing on each word. "I don't want anyone else touching you."

"Eddie," Buck pleads. All this possessiveness has him getting hard at a record pace, but he needs to know. "I meant what I said about not making this real. I don't think I'd survive doing long distance with you. I love you too much not to see you and touch you every day."

Eddie rolls onto his back, bringing Buck with him. He kisses Buck—once, twice—before explaining, "I am going back to Texas, but only for two weeks. Chris is coming home."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Turns out, my parents have been telling him I didn't want him to. That I was happier here without him."

"You're kidding," Buck hisses. That's beneath his already low expectations of Eddie's parents, and the bar was on the fucking floor. "Unbelievable."

"That's why he's been so distant and angry whenever I call. But, once he knew the truth, he insisted on coming home. He—" A sad look crosses Eddie's face. "He's still upset with me, but he's willing to work it out here."

"That's great." Buck leans down and gives him a kiss. "Why two weeks?"

"One of Christopher's cousins, Luz, is having her quinceañera. And he's in the court, one of the chambelanes. He's really excited about it."

"You don't want to take that away from him," Buck ventures. "But you don't want to leave him with your parents, either."

"No." Eddie shakes his head. "I don't trust them. He's with Abuela until I get back tomorrow. He wants to stay with us at the Airbnb."

Buck freezes. "Us?"

Eddie rolls them, putting himself on top. He says, "Yeah. That's why I came back," and cards a hand through Buck's hair. "I wanted to ask you to come out there."

"What—" Buck's heart is pounding like it wants to burst out of his chest. "What about Chris? What—?"

"He knows I'm in love with you," Eddie replies. "I told him."

"Eddie."

Eddie continues, "I am," and rubs his thumb over Buck's birthmark. "I didn't realize it until I was driving away from you, and it felt like getting shot again. Then I had thirteen hours to think about it. I'm in love with you. I probably have been for a long time."

"I love you too," Buck says. "So much."

"Good." Eddie leans down for another quick kiss. "I want a life with you. I want you to move in here. I want us to get married and have more kids. I want—"

"Yes. Yes to all of it."

"—you to delete Grindr from your phone."

Buck snorts. "I'm surprised you didn't delete it for me." When Eddie chews his lip instead of saying anything, Buck pinches him. "You already did."

"I really, really don't want anyone else touching you."

"No one will."

"Good. Now will you call Bobby and ask for two weeks off so you can help me bring our son home?"

"Of course," Buck says, taking the first full breath he's had since Eddie mentioned moving away. "Anything. You know that."