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There’s nothing in Buck’s fridge.
Well—
Okay. There’s a packet of shredded Gruyère in one of the drawers, left over from when he cooked for Eddie and Chris a few weeks ago. On the door’s shelf, there’s that algae-coconut superfood creamer he got for Eddie, which only ended up there in the first place because Eddie—half-asleep and uncaffeinated—wasn’t paying attention and tossed it in. So, basically empty.
“What the fuck, Buckley,” he mutters. “Get your shit together.”
Lately, his grocery shopping looks like buying exactly what he needs for whatever dish he’s making for Chris and Eddie. Any meals outside of that? He’s been managing just fine on the leftovers (if there are any) or take-out on the off-chance he’s not running in and out of the loft just to swap clothes before heading over to Eddie’s. He really can’t make himself give enough of a shit to order anything right now though, so he grabs the cheese, shuts the fridge with a dull thud , and sits on one of the counter stools—remembering, belatedly, that he has a nice, dark bruise forming half on his ass and half on his hip where he landed on the pavement.
Fuck , that hurts more than he thought.
His face winces when he shifts to find a better position. The armchair would have probably been a smarter choice since it’s cushioned, but there’s something pathetic about sitting in it with his back uncomfortably straight while funneling shredded cheese into his mouth and the TV playing in the background. It’s not like he would even pretend to watch it either. At thirty-one and four (five?) system updates later, Buck would like to think he’s grown up and moved on from having a night like that.
But maybe he’s not—
Maybe he really is still just some clingy kid with a jeep and a hot head, barely holding back the urge to get his dick wet. And that’s why everyone—Bobby, Hen—is telling him to figure things out for himself. They all see him for what he is, and he doesn’t blame them for losing their patience. Everyone he knows has a life and kids and a home to go to; meanwhile, he has, what? A refrigerator he can’t even manage to stock for himself?
Buck shakes his head and huffs out a sharp breath.
No—
He has to get better. He has to do better. Read more of those books. Listen to podcasts.
Something.
Anything .
The plastic bag crinkles when he rolls it up into a tight spiral. He watches the way it unfurls and winds it up again into a small baton as it teeter-totters between his thumb and first two fingers.
Inhales when it falls to the left.
Exhales when it falls to the right.
He has to be willing to try harder, but he can’t stand the idea of calling up Dr. Copeland’s office again to say: You know what? I’m not better. In fact, I think I’m worse than I’ve ever been. It’s admitting failure in a way that makes his stomach turn, and the acid pricks the back of his throat. He just needs some sleep. He’ll feel better in the morning. Buck stands up and grips into the edges of the island once—knuckles white—before walking towards the front door to check the locks. It’s half past midnight, and he’s had a rougher day than usual. That’s all.
Yeah, he’s just tired.
He would’ve gotten home earlier actually, but he convinced Bobby to let him stay until the end of the shift after the drunk driver hit him with his car—the only condition being that someone check for sprains and fractures and that he sit out if there were any new calls. The cuts were minimal, but it’s the bruising that’s a bitch right now. There’s that huge one on his hip-slash-ass; the others on his back are fine as long as he doesn’t put pressure on them.
The reason he bothered asking Bobby to stay a little longer was because he’d been delaying this—
Turning opposite the entrance to find no one. An empty apartment.
Over the past few months, he’s gotten used to his own company. Enjoyed it, even, when they’d end their shift in the morning, and he’d wear off the post-adrenaline buzz with a hand down his shorts. It was fine. It did the job. Then a nap after, if he wasn’t able to catch more than a couple hours at the bunks. The novelty wore out fast though; the bedsheets got cold.
But he just has to get used to it.
That’s what Bobby meant by being at ease, right? What the people at that Happiness Symposium—with their suffocating optimism and unadulterated love of life—that’s what they meant too? It’s just a matter of opening yourself up to the world , one of them reassured. When you’re handed something, you’re meant to take it. Don’t ask. Say yes. Grab it with both hands and spin it around until you can see the good in it.
Squint if you have to.
When Lev died, Hen said that all that matters is that he found it in the end: the big, sought-after secret to happiness. Is that true, though? It seems crueler, somehow, to die right when life would have been worth living, and the clarity of perspective pulls into focus everything that means something while leaving fuzzy the distractions. The complications. The mistakes.
So many fucking mistakes .
It’s been three weeks since the call at the Symposium. Three weeks since Lev told Buck that marriage and kids and weekends at the shore still won’t feel like enough to give you the peace you need to watch the sky fall on top of you and smile at the fact that you got the chance to live under it. Three weeks since Buck almost thought he had it figured out.
Especially after being the one to end things with Taylor, he really thought he was close. But he isn't at all, is he? Buck chuckles despite himself; it’s hollow. He thought he learned his lesson—
Clinging onto the corpse of what could have been and what could be and pressing down on the center of its lifeless body won't reanimate it. And he knows better than to waste his effort, seeing what he sees every day. Though it could be—
It could be that he hasn't learned anything at all.
He’s still doing what he’s always done.
And the only thing he knows how to do is do all or nothing. He recognizes that. It’s the thing that makes him toomuchtoomuchtoomuch . When he was told that being in a relationship—a real one—meant stepping in, he did. He stayed. He walked in and shut the door behind him. Even when there was no air left in the room and parts of him were dying little by little, he didn’t move—
Until he gave himself permission to leave.
Buck didn’t account for the paralysis of his fear, though. It’s a whole hamster-on-a-wheel thing: too tired to keep going and too scared to stop. He’ll have to eventually, if he wants any chance at stumbling onto whatever it was that got Lev’s eyes all bright.
And fuck , he wants to know. Might have even spent his entire life looking—even when he didn’t know he was.
It’s late.
But he can’t go to bed like this, with a thrum under his skin and his body feeling tense, on edge. It’s familiar the way it triggers that same reflex he got every time he packed up all his things, jumped into the Jeep, and got the hell out of wherever he was. It’s funny, in a way, because Maddie called herself the fugitive—always the one running—but he’s one too, isn’t he? Only, the person he consistently abandons is himself.
The coils tighten.
He eyes the balcony.
It’s getting chilly, and it’s nice, sometimes to take in the fresh air and watch all the traffic on the street below and the way the lamps in the apartment buildings across the street would flicker on and off as the people inside flit from one room to the next.
He wraps his fingers around the cool metal of the handle and pulls, sliding between the frame and the door shoulder-first. From back here—even with his height—there’s no way to get a good view of West Seventh, so Buck walks closer to the edge. Sidestepping the chairs and the low table, he walks until his toes hit the wall and all that’s left to do is lean his body over it.
His forearms dig into the rough surface of the concrete when he bears down, and he can feel the skin tearing at the elbows, but he just digs his fingers into the meat of his upper arms until they leave marks there too.
There’s something about this perspective that makes him feel so painfully in the center of his own universe, made untouchable by how far removed he is from the lives of others.
It’s a sixty-foot drop—
Someone honks their horn below. There’s a group of friends on the opposite sidewalk. If he's quiet enough, he might even hear their conversation as it floats up.
He leans forward again, and his head is just that much farther out. The wind starts to pick up, nipping at his heels and stroking his cheek.
Jump .
Jump. Just jump.
He shudders, but the voice is undeterred—
It doesn’t even take long to clean up after a jumper. You already know the protocol. Just don’t hit anyone or anyone’s car.
True, it’d be easy to hop up on top of the slab and balance on the foot-wide surface. No one would really miss him if he did. No one needs him anymore. In fact, no one needed him once he failed Daniel. That’s all he was good for anyway, right? Maddie and Chim are doing good with Jee-Yun. Eddie finally found his footing and isn’t a danger to himself anymore, so Buck’s role as the back-up plan is never going to kick in. And then what? Connor and his wife say they need him right now. Well, not him so much as a few milliliters of his come. He’ll never forget their faces that day when he told them he’d do it. It was hard not to smile with them— for them.
But he’d be a donor. Not a dad.
And that’s simple enough to replace, so what difference does it make if he just—
Drops.
If you time it well, it’ll be thoughtful.
Quick.
The cars would still drive along this street. The seasons will change and the Santa Ana’s will come in and sweep the city in a hot, dry heat. His parents? His parents wouldn’t even notice. And besides, they’ve lost one son already—the one they wanted—so what difference does it make if they lose him too?
You’re here. You don’t have to keep looking anymore.
It’s a seductive thought. He’s tired of searching for something he doesn’t even think he’ll recognize.
Go on.
Do it.
Something he’ll never even get to have.
Jump.
He doesn’t.
Buck takes a step away, shaking. And then another, and another until his back hits the glass door. His exhales claw out of his chest, angry and defiant and alive . The heels of his palms dig into the sockets of his wet eyes, but he’s too snotty and messy and gross for it to do very much good. At least he’s alone.
No one saw how close he’d gotten.
The absence of an audience feels like a consolation, but there’s also something antagonizing about it: double-edged and sharp as he twists the thought in his mind, nicking himself in the process.
He’s alone.
Of course he is. And he has been for officially, what, four months now? Closer to five? Longer than that, really. Playing pretend with Taylor like they were dolls at the mercy of children miming affection, but it was jilted and clumsy and neither of them could figure out why.
Honestly, he doesn’t think about her anymore—not how he had with Abby and Ali. What stayed with him was the relief of letting go.
God , he doesn’t think he’ll forget that.
He slides back inside, shoulder-first again, and closes the door behind him, the sounds of people muted now by the glass. His head bangs against it once before he walks over to the lamp in the living room to turn it off. When he turns around, the armchair and all the empty space surrounding it taunts him.
He still wants a couch, and he still can’t make a decision.
What the fuck does he do with that.
It’s way too late for Eddie to be calling—
Then again, it’s not like Buck was sleeping anyway.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Eddie says. It’s gravelly. “What are you up to? ”
He could say: Oh, y’know. Staring at the ceiling of my loft, repeating the list of mantras some self-help book told me would eventually burrow a hole in my brain and replace all the other shit I’ve been hearing on repeat that makes me want to stay in bed and never leave.
But flipping the question around is easier than answering it. “I think I should be asking you that. You’re the one who called past their bedtime.”
Eddie chuckles. “ Okay, fair, fair. I, um–it’s Chris. Couldn’t fall asleep after we talked yesterday, so now I’ve decided it’s the perfect time to clean out the fridge. ” There’s the sound of the faucet running on the other side of the line to corroborate his excuse. “ And talk to you. ”
Over the past few months, Eddie’s been doing that: calling just because. Sometimes it’s at three in the afternoon, and he’d just woken up from his post-shift nap. Other times it’s before Christopher heads to school— after he’s had his cup of coffee. But then, every so often, it’s one, two, even three in the morning, and they’re both up.
They’re always both up.
And it scares him, sometimes, how easy it is for Eddie to say that. Not… not the part where Eddie’s increasingly unreserved with his affection. Buck’s happy for him. Really. What scares him is getting used to it. It’ll give him the false expectation that Eddie is a constant. An unwavering presence he can always return to when everything else has shifted too far left for him to gain his bearings again. Eddie’s not, though, because Buck knows when he inevitably fucks up, it’s gonna be the thing that breaks him for good.
It’s watching a car come barreling towards you.
It’s knowing how this all ends but God , you just can’t get yourself to move out of the way because at least, for a moment, someone’s looking at you.
It’s knowing time is running out.
Buck flops fully onto his back, the bruises there ache under the weight of his body. “You wanna talk it out? Or are you just bored?”
“ Maybe. ”
“Maybe?” He echoes. “Maybe what?”
“ Maybe both. ”
“Okay, which one do you wanna start with?”
Eddie’s quiet, taking his time to answer while Buck runs his palm back and forth across the comforter; he doesn’t mean to, but his mind wanders through the expansive catalog of expressions Eddie has and settles on the pursed lips and knit brows. It feels right.
“ I think— ” Eddie breathes out. “ I think this thing with Chris is eating at me more than I thought it would. I FaceTimed with my dad, and it helped. ”
“Did you and Chris talk about it again? After he was talking to his friends that night?”
“ No, not really. I pushed it off until after his grounding—“
“ Smart.”
“Ha. Thanks. So now I’m wondering how the hell I'm gonna balance the fact that he’s slipping away from me faster than I realized and respect his need for… for independence.”
A chair scratches across the surface of the kitchen floor, and Buck refreshes the image with an Eddie who’s seated: one hand scrubbing his face and the other holding the phone up to his ear while he gazes vacantly at the pictures he’s been putting up on the fridge.
“ I’m... I don’t know, Buck. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting to protect him. ”
“I don’t think he needs you to stop.” It comes out softer than he intended, bleeding from the same gash his parents left him with when he begged for them to love him. Every time he watches Eddie with Christopher, that cut itches—healing just as much as it aches. “That’s not it at all. I think he’s just as confused as you are. Wanting new things. Having new interests. Becoming a teenager and-and going through puberty is kind of intense.”
“ No, no. I know. ” Eddie murmurs.
“And listen, I promise it’s not a big deal. I mean,” he corrects, “it’s not good that he’s skipping science club and lying to you about it just so that he can go to the park with his friends. Like, the park? Really? He should at least be sneaking off to concerts and parties—“
“ Careful, Buckley. ”
He bites the grin tugging at his lips. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. But seriously, Eddie, he’s at that age. Y’know?” Buck repositions himself so he’s sitting up and leaning forward on his bent knees, the phone held tightly against his ear. “Remember how I told you a while back that he’s gonna go through one of those phases where he might even tell you that he hates you?”
He snorts. “ Remember how I said I’m choosing to ignore that? ”
“And what did I say?”
Buck can practically hear the eye roll through the phone. “ It’sgonnahappenanyway. ”
“Sorry, what was that?”
“ It’s gonna happen anyway. ” Eddie enunciates, exasperated, but it’s not testy—more like it just pains him to admit it.
(It’s not like it doesn’t hurt Buck too, to think that the zoo trips and the game nights and the afternoons in the library are numbered.)
“Hey,” he tries to tug him back. “Hey, I promise he’s never gonna hate you. He’ll get mad, sure, but it’s bound to happen.”
“ Yeah, but I just… I want him to feel like— ”
“He can always come to you if he needs you?” He fills in, a smile tugging at his lips. “Eddie, he does . He’s-he’s figuring himself out right now. That’s all.”
“ Yeah— ”
“But I still can’t believe he didn’t even tell me. I’m the cool one between the two of us.”
That earns Buck a laugh, and it filters in low and sweet through the speaker until it lulls into a silence, and he wraps himself in it. It’s almost warm enough too, to make him forget he’s alone.
“ Anyway… ” Eddie trails off. “ Buck, I think— “
“Hold on.” Buck interrupts him, and it’s selfish, but he can’t hang up. His hands are still clammy in the aftershock of… of what he tried to do earlier, and he doesn’t trust whatever’s going on in his head. “There were two problems. One down, and one to go.” So he prods. “Now, you said something about being bored?”
“ I did. ” Eddie’s amused; he can hear it in the lilt.
“In that case,” he harnesses his best proselyte inflection and asks, “Can I interest you in a discussion about the Age of Absolutely ?”
“ This is one of those books you’re reading, right? ”
“Yup. Picked it up a few days ago.”
“ Buck, ” Eddie sighs. “ I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to put my foot down. Those books are a scam. ”
“Then why do so many people read it?” He counters. He’s not sure whether he believes them either, but there’s a reason they’re so popular, right? Doesn’t hurt to try. Plus, Eddie’s really fun to annoy with all this pseudoscience shit. “ And swear by it? Listen, I’m not saying all of them are good, but—“
Eddie won’t even humor him. “ Do I need to remind you about all the calls we get that involve multilevel marketing essential oils?”
“There’s no way that’s the sa—“
“ Yes, it is. ” Eddie cuts in. “ And I’m staging an intervention. ”
“Rude,” Buck grumbles.
“I’m more interested in hearing how you’re doing after I specifically told you not to borrow a bike and put yourself in front of a drunk driver. ”
“Ah, y’know…” he draws out. “I’m fine. Just some bruising.”
“ That’s not what I’m asking. ”
Yeah, he’s going to play dumb. “My head didn’t even hit the pavement.”
“ Are you sure? The fact that you’re still reading books written by those quacks doesn’t exactly give me a vote of confidence. ”
“Quacks? Eddie, should I be looking into retirement homes for you?”
“ Oh, fuck off. People use that word all the time. ”
“Yeah, just like how people say ‘grub’ all the time too, right?”
“ It’s a Texan thing ,” Eddie mumbles.
He snorts. “You say that every time you say or do something weird.”
Eddie’s caught—he knows he is. So he lets out a hum; it’s as close a sound as he’s going to get to neither confirming nor denying. In the silence, Buck fidgets with the comforter where it’s bunched up under his feet.
“ Hey, Buck? ”
“Yeah?”
“ I figured out how you can help with my second problem. ” Eddie clears his throat. “ Why don’t you, um, why don’t you come over? ”
“You sure?”
Please say yes.
“ Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it. ”
That’s something Eddie’s been doing a lot more lately—asking. Asking to spend time together and talk and go on grocery runs together and, when Chris is staying with a friend and they had an easier shift, hike together in Glendale before they go pick him up. On a good day ( read : in a fantasy land where the southbound Santa Ana Freeway actually moves), they can do a round trip in a little over an hour from Eddie’s.
Buck isn’t sure whether it’s a product of Chris wanting more space or—
Well, he’s not going to think about the or . It doesn’t matter, really, because he’s greedy for the attention either way, swallowing it up whole quickly—barely chewing—before Eddie ever decides to ask for it back (or take it away for good). It dribbles, nectar-sweet, from the corners of his mouth. It’s sloppy and gluttonous and sticky, but he can’t get himself to stop.
“Sounds good. I’ll, uh, I’ll be there in a few.”
“ Drive safe. I’ll see you soon, Buck. ”
“I always do.”
The call disconnects, and he flops down onto the mattress, forgetting the bruises he has on his back. “Shit.”
Then he throws some socks on, shoves his feet into his sneakers, and grabs the keys from the bowl by the door.
When Buck walks out, he doesn’t look back.
He’s barely pulled into the driveway when Eddie opens the front door.
The warm yellow of the porchlight is diffuse, making the lines of his body soft. Hazy, even. There’s something easy about the way he’s leaning against the frame, his arms crossed and his head tilted. From the looks of it, neither of them seem to have bothered putting on real clothes: Eddie in his cut-off sweat-shorts and that black tank top he wears to bed, and Buck—
Buck can’t stop looking.
Between putting himself back together and going back to work, Eddie’s a little more filled out. A little more solid. He noticed — of course he noticed—but it’s a different thing entirely to really get a chance to look the way he can now, under the cover of darkness and through the windshield. Eddie’s shoulders are broader and rounder, and his arms can’t be that much smaller than Buck’s anymore. It’s not just being back in the job; he’s been feeding himself better too, now that his skill set has expanded past pasta and ordering out. Doing good looks good on him.
Okay.
Now Buck needs to stop looking because he’s pretty sure he’s been stalling for too long, and it’s getting weird. So he fumbles for the keys in the ignition and shuts the engine off. When he looks up, he watches Eddie pull out his phone and type something up before pocketing it, crossing his arms again and smiling lazily.
Eddie (1:48 AM): You coming in? Or did you see a ghost?
There are, in fact, fabric ghosts haunting the front steps and the trees out front (along with a two-headed skeleton sitting on the rocking chair). What a fucking dork . He glances up at Eddie before texting back.
Buck (1:49 AM): No, but I think there’s a zombie standing in front of your door.
Buck (1:49 AM): Sorry. Just you.
Buck (1:49 AM): 🥸
He looks up just in time to see Eddie flip him off.
Eddie (1:50 AM): Come inside. It’s cold.
Buck shuts off the engine. It doesn’t take more than six steps to reach the foot of the porch stairs. Another three to reach Eddie.
“You made it,” Eddie murmurs.
“Thought you would’ve fallen asleep by the time I got here.”
“No, I was waiting for you.” And then he briefly tugs on Buck’s wrist to pull him inside. “You’re right on time.”
The door shuts behind him as he’s taking off his shoes and leaving his keys on the table with the lamp. He’s done it a million times, but the warm palm on his waist as Eddie passes by is new. It’s casual. Innocuous. Yet knowing him, he’s probably checking for injuries from the crash.
Or maybe that’s not it at all. A part of him almost didn’t want to come because he’s still a little unsettled after that… that near-attempt; it’s written all over his face. So the touch is Eddie responding: I’m here . And I haven’t gone anywhere .
But how does he tell him: I know, and that’s what scares me.
They round the corner to the dining room.
“Have you eaten anything since our shift?”
“Uh… y-yeah. I had some shredded cheese—“
“That’s a no,” Eddie cuts in, looking back at him as he pushes the kitchen door open. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” His voice is thin; Eddie waits. “What can I get?”
“Whatever we have,” he answers.
“You still have food left over from last night?”
“Yeah, hold on.”
Buck leans against the door of the fridge while he watches Eddie get two plates from the upper cabinet and some utensils from the drawer near the range. He sets them down on the counter beside Buck, clattering quietly on the white counters. Then, he grabs the cups from the other cabinet directly next to him and sets those down too. Eddie steps in front of him, and—
The fridge is cool against Buck’s back. Which is a trivial thing to note; naturally, it would be. But Eddie is crowding him against the stainless steel surface, and he’s warm. So warm. And it feels too good to move away or slide by and let him through so Eddie can take out the Tupperware with mashed potatoes and roasted chicken. Because that’s why he’s standing here.
If Buck were stronger, he’d pull himself away.
He’s not.
At least, not tonight.
He gives in. Leans into the warmth— chases it.
There’s a flush dusting Eddie’s cheeks; Buck doesn’t think he’s ever been close enough to see it before. Not like this, with their chests meeting on the inhale. When Eddie wraps an arm around Buck’s waist, he doesn’t flinch. But he does want to try something—
Carefully, Buck lifts his hand, trailing it lightly against the outside seam of Eddie’s thigh. There’s a stutter in Eddie’s breath. It’s easy to hear because the only other sound in the room is the soft hum of the fridge behind him.
That’s… that’s good .
So he doesn’t stop, traveling up with a feather-light pressure that could almost be mistaken for an accidental touch. He wants to see the blush again, just to see if it’s still there. See what expression Eddie has so he can memorize it for later. It’s a new one for him: lips parted and brown eyes glancing down at Buck’s mouth. His fingers are almost at the bottom hem of the black fabric now; they dip underneath.
Eddie’s skin is even warmer.
It’s the second ledge Buck finds himself standing on tonight.
And this time, he does jump—
Head first.
His palm presses fully against the small of Eddie’s back, tilting his head and fluttering his eyelids closed. Not all the way. He still… (closer)… wants to see… (closer) when he brushes his lips against Eddie’s… (almost)—
The heat is gone.
Eddie’s the one stumbling backwards. “Buck. Buck. Stop. We can’t.”
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
He runs out.
Only from muscle memory does he manage to not forget his keys and shoes by the entrance. He swings the front door open, unlocks his Jeep, and climbs inside, fumbling to get his shoes on. Belatedly, he remembers Christopher is still sleeping, and he hopes he hasn’t woken him up.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Eddie isn’t another warm body you can feed off of.
Shit.
Has it gotten colder? He’s shivering now, and it’s making it really fucking hard to get his shoes on like this. What an idiot . Does he transfer? He has to apologize. That’s definitely the first thing he should do. He’ll tell Eddie that he completely understands if he doesn’t want him in their lives anymore—it makes sense. Why would they? He knew he’d fuck up eventually. He knew it—
It doesn’t even occur to him that Eddie would follow.
The passenger door slams shut. “Okay, what happened back there, Buck?”
What happened is that Buck will strip the insulation from a wire and wonder why he gets electrocuted. It’s simple, really. But he doesn’t know how to say that, so he hits the back of the seat with his head and shuts his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tight.
“Buck?”
Eddie’s not gonna drop this. Buck knows when his heels have dug into the ground.
“I’m-I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I know I act first and think later and apparently my brain is inside my dick and—“
“Dammit, Buck. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the fact that you’ve been mentally checked-out for weeks now.”
Eddie noticing makes him feel like he’s getting turned inside-out. He’s embarrassed. Wants Eddie to look away from the grotesque scene until Buck can pull it together.
He still can’t open his eyes.
“It’s been a weird shift,” he tries. “And I… I think I’m just tired. It’s late. Just misread something.”
Eddie hums, and Buck can hear the leather seat next to him groan as he repositions himself. There’s a hand tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, which means Eddie must be facing him now—parallel to the dashboard. “Look at me.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t want to.”
Is it childish? Yes. Does he care? No.
He lost his pride on the kitchen floor.
“Buck.”
On the exhale, he turns his head and finds wide eyes looking at him.
Eddie raises his brows. “Okay, now the real answer.”
The real answer. Buck nods.
Okay. The real answer.
He thinks about everything that spilled out of him—that tormented him and made him this close to ending it for good. They say that the best thing you can give to someone… someone like that is time. Time to process. Time to count the things in their life worth living for. Time to crawl out of whatever hole they’ve convinced themselves is their grave. Buck doesn’t want more time, though.
He wants things to change now.
It’s the petulance of his impatience that speaks. “What do you want me to say, Eddie? That everyone has kids to go home to, and I don’t? A family? That I feel like a fucking child all the time trying to figure my shit out, and it’s embarrassing ? Is that what you want me to say?” His breathing turns heavy. Since he already made a mess, he might as well fully commit. “I mean, I had the chance to give that to someone else if I agreed to give Connor and his wife my semen—“
“Woah, woah, woah. Who the fuck is Connor and why are he and his wife asking for your semen?”
“Sperm, really,” Buck corrects.
“Answer the damn question, Buck.”
He deflates. “Connor—he’s my ex-roommate. You didn’t know me at the time, but I used to live in a house with like four other guys when I first moved out here. He was actually the one that I first met when I bartended in Peru, and he convinced me to move out to LA.”
Buck kinda owes him his life, now that he thinks about it. Imagine if he would’ve moved to bumfuck wherever instead.
Eddie nods slowly.
“I met up with them for dinner the other day—I thought he just wanted to catch up since we hadn’t seen each other in a while.” It was ridiculous of Buck to think they would reach out without wanting something from him. But that’s his fault. “Then they told me about how they’ve been struggling to get pregnant. First, they thought it had something to do with Kameron—his wife.”
Buck turns away from Eddie and looks out the driver’s window, rubbing the rough skin of his jaw. “Turns out it was him. Didn’t have enough swimmers. Anyway.” He turns back. “That’s why they contacted me.”
Eddie doesn’t respond immediately—just stares into the middle distance. “And you… You didn’t go through with it? Right?”
“No…” He takes a deep breath. “No, I didn’t. Couldn’t figure out how to be okay with receiving Christmas cards and not being a dad.”
He knows it sounds pathetic.
But it’s the truth. That’s what Eddie wanted to hear, right? Buck’s expecting him to ask follow-up questions like Have they asked someone else? and What are they planning to do now?
Instead, he asks—
“Is that something you’re thinking about a lot?”
“The sperm donation—?”
“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No, I mean being a dad.”
Buck rests an arm on the window and looks out at the porch. The warm light from before looks eerie now without Eddie standing there. The skeletons and the ghosts fit right in.
“I think I want it too bad sometimes.” The glass fogs up when he speaks. “A-and I’m worried I want it because… because I think that having a kid would be the thing that fixes me. I’d actually have a shot at being happy.” His fingers drum against hard plastic, and he tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest. “It’s… it’s so fucking selfish , though, isn’t it? No one should be born just to save someone else.”
Eddie lets out a small oh. Whatever he wanted to add gets swallowed by the flood of confessions Buck can’t seem to stop now—
“The worst part is I don’t think I know what that means anymore.”
“What what means?”
“Being happy,” he admits, turning to face Eddie. “Are you happy?”
His hands rub up and down his thighs while he thinks. “It… it took me a while. And a whole bedroom to remodel.” Buck squirms when Eddie pokes his side, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.
“You’re welcome for the drywall services, by the way.”
Eddie continues, undeterred, “ And a hell of a lot of therapy, but yeah. I think I’m getting there. Some days are… good . Not from dumb shit like hitting every green light on my way home from the firehouse or having an easy day, but because everything doesn’t feel so heavy all the time.”
“How do I do that?”
The furrow in his brows means he’s probably counting just how many sessions with Frank it took. “It starts with wanting to get better.”
Ah.
“Maybe the problem is that I don’t want it enough,” He says, barely above a whisper. The confession slithers out, venomous. It would explain why he’d been so scared to touch it this whole time.
“Could be.” Eddie shrugs. “Do you really believe that though?”
Does he?
Buck keeps doing the same stupid shit for the same stupid reasons.
“I don’t know. I-I keep thinking I do, but I still feel like I’m going in circles. I thought everything I gave would one day boomerang back to me. That’s how the universe works, right?”
You give what you get. You reap what you sow—
Etcetera, etcetera.
There’s a snort beside him. “You know the universe and I have a complicated relationship.”
Buck rolls his eyes. “Humor me.”
“Okay, sure.” Shifting in his seat again, Eddie uses his hands to push on the dashboard and backrest to lift himself so that he can fold his left leg up. He’s giving Buck his full attention. “Don’t tell anyone, but yeah, I do think the universe— what word did you use? —boomerangs back the love you put in it.”
“What if it isn’t enough?”
Eddie’s eyebrows knit together, urging him to keep going.
“What if love isn’t enough?” He turns to face Eddie more fully, their positions mirror images of each other—split down the middle by the center console. “I mean, I wish it was. Or-or maybe I don’t know where to put all of it sometimes. Maybe that’s my problem.”
“Buck, I don’t think it’s supposed to be.” He clears his throat. “I love Christopher more each day, so that Christmas? Seeing how much I was hurting him? It pushed me in the right direction, but I needed to show up for myself too. Otherwise, it was never gonna stick.”
A hand reaches out and squeezes his forearm, pinning him here before he floats off—dizzy from the lack of sleep and the sick feeling in his gut that he’s been doing this all wrong. The only thing he can return is a nod.
“ Hey .” Eddie squeezes again. Buck shuts his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you need to close yourself off to the world either.”
“So how do you learn where to put it?”
“I think… you spend your whole life learning what to give and what to take,” Eddie whispers.
There’s not really much to say to that, is there? His hand hasn’t moved, and Buck hasn’t asked him to. This is the part after the adrenaline rush where everything sounds hollow, distant. The birds have started to chirp outside. That neighbor Eddie has with the weird hours pulls into his driveway; the car beeping twice as it locks. Behind them, the sun is starting to rise, tinting the sky a reddish-orange. He hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten (or is it early?). And the light’s streaming into the Jeep in soft beams. He could let Eddie out, drive away, and head back to his loft.
He doesn’t want to.
So he asks instead if he can take—
“Can I come inside?”
“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, giving easily. “I have a couch with your name on it.”
“Thank you.”