Chapter Text
There’s nowhere to go. He can stay here, in the wreckage, or swim towards what is likely a dead end.
Eddie makes his choice.
The water welcomes him like an old friend.
-
A few days after their post-flea market FaceTime, Chris answers another one of Eddie’s texts.
Remember the book Runny Babbit? From when you were a kid?
Fun fact: transposing the initial letters of two words is called a spoonerism :)
Chris: You sound like Buck
Is that a bad thing?
He gets a shrug emoji in response, and grins so wide that his cheeks hurt.
Chris doesn’t respond to everything, skipping some of the How’s it going?s and Love yous, but he does answer a select few texts. They plan some calls, too, a handful of which are still facilitated by Eddie’s mother, but— they’re getting somewhere. Kind of. Maybe.
The first time Eddie gets a text back at work, he can’t stop grinning at his phone. Chimney jumps on it immediately, ribbing him about having a secret boyfriend, and Hen just raises her eyebrows at him until he turns the phone around to show them. It’s simple — You should keep it. Grandma won’t let us get a pet :( in response to a photo of Buck rescuing an unruly cat from a tree.
Eddie, pointedly, doesn’t think about the implications of Chris asking his grandparents for a pet. It’s enough that he got a response at all. It’s more than enough, actually— it’s everything.
And seeing his friends’ delighted expressions when he shows them the text; seeing them join him in his joy— that’s everything too, in a different way.
-
LA has a lot of small earthquakes. Ten thousand annually in Southern California, according to Buck. Usually, dispatch gets called about a handful of small emergencies— an object falling off a shelf and concussing someone; a person panicking at the smallest rumble and tripping down the stairs in their haste to evacuate.
This time, though, there’s a beach cave right above the fault line— and according to two teenagers on the phone with 9-1-1, their friend got stuck in it with a spinal injury when the cave collapsed.
“We should be aware of the tide,” Buck is saying, jiggling his leg anxiously in the cab of the engine. He pulls out his phone. “Do we know the name of the cave? Or the coordinates? Because depending on how far it is below sea level—”
“Back in my day,” Gerrard interrupts, “we didn’t need cell phones to do our jobs.”
Eddie has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “It can be a helpful resource, sir,” he says patiently.
“And it’s one we don’t need,” Gerrard shoots back drily. “I can’t control whatever Han and Wilson are jabbering about in their ambulance, but you boys are with me right now, alright? Focus up. Stay sharp. We’re doing our jobs, we’re doing them well, and we’re doing them without our phones. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Eddie says. After a moment of silence, he nudges Buck’s foot.
“Yes,” Buck mutters.
“What was that, Buckley?”
“Yes,” Buck says through gritted teeth. “Sir.”
Gerrard, satisfied, turns to look out the window as they approach the beach. Eddie leans his shoulder into Buck’s in a silent show of support. Buck seems comforted by it— but there’s also something troubled in his gaze.
Eddie thinks, despite everything with Gerrard, that he might be the reason why Buck looks like that.
They still haven’t talked about it, after all. Eddie’s impromptu confession at breakfast with the team, added to the laundry list of items that are too delicate for them to voice. They’ll keep dancing around it, Eddie supposes, until eventually, one of them gets so tired of avoiding the topic that they’ll finally bring it up.
Eddie has a feeling that he’ll be the one who cracks.
-
Chris is ten years old and dreaming of Eddie dying.
Eddie is dying— just not in a way Chris knows about, not really.
Coming back to himself after the breakdown feels like his head has finally breached the surface of the endless ocean he’d been drowning in. When he gasps desperately for air, it tastes like ash. Two seconds pass in this vivid, breathless state— and on the third second, his surroundings click into place.
He goes under the water, again, this time drowning in guilt.
The state he’s in only matters because Christopher might have seen him like this. The state he left his bedroom in only matters because Christopher might have heard him do it.
Eddie learns, that night, the price of losing control— of potentially scarring his child for life.
He doesn’t have to pay that price until years later.
-
“We were just— exploring,” one of the girls says, half out of breath as she hurries alongside them in the sand. “And then the whole cave started crumbling and when it stopped, Callie was…”
“Her neck was fucked,” the other girl says, voice trembling.
“Lara!”
“How else am I supposed to describe it?” she demands. “It was like, horror-movie, Bent-Neck-Lady fucked. So we went to get help, obviously, but as soon as we got out, the entrance basically caved in on itself.”
“Wait,” Hen gasps as they all skid to a stop, staring at the pile of rocky debris in front of them. “That’s the entrance?”
The girls nod. Eddie trades a look with Buck, the two of them jogging towards the cave to see what they can do.
“Careful!” Gerrard shouts after them. “Anything we do could send the whole thing down on her.”
Eddie places his hands on his hips, assessing. “If we move those two rocks in the middle there,” he says, “the ones above should stay where they are. That’ll create enough of a gap for one of us to get through.”
Buck gives him a look.
“What? I’m really good at Tetris.”
“There’s no way we’ll be able to stabilize this enough on our own,” Gerrard announces. “I’ll call it in. Buckley, Diaz, make whatever progress you can now— but be smart about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Eddie says. He puts his hands on the rocks; starts feeling for a bit of give. “Buck, you wanna help me with this?”
There’s no response. Eddie turns his head to see Buck staring at the water, pale-faced.
“Buck?”
“The tide’s coming in,” he says slowly. When he looks at Eddie, his expression is one of familiar determination— and equally familiar terror. “We’re running out of time.”
-
“He needs time,” Helena says, after yet another FaceTime gone wrong.
“He’s had time.”
Even through the grainy screen, Eddie can see her pinched expression. “Do you really get to decide that?”
“No,” Eddie admits, shoulders slumping. “I guess not.”
It’s a sentiment they’ve all been repeating. For the first time, as it leaves his lips, it feels like a lie.
“It’s August,” his mother says suddenly. “Do you think… well, I think— we should start making arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” he echoes faintly.
“School,” she explains. “I was talking to Carol at church the other day — you remember Carol, the secretary at La Salle — and she said there shouldn’t be an issue enrolling Chris for the fall so long as we get his transcript sent over.”
La Salle. It was over half his life ago, but the memories hit him with a painful familiarity; a bullet piercing the skin. Wearing a navy shirt and slacks every day. Trying and failing to pay attention in math class, as his friends goofed off. Playing baseball in the outfield. Keeping his head down in the locker room. Confessing his sins in the school chapel to Father Espinoza, and praying a decade of the rosary for something the priest thought was only worth four Hail Marys and one Our Father.
And Shannon— Shannon, roping him into the school play in the twelfth grade and laughing hysterically when he butchered every line; Shannon, getting detention for pinning her kilt too short, and him waiting around after school for her just so he could drive her home. Shannon, talking again and again and again about her boundless dreams for the future.
I want to be a real artist, she told Eddie once, the two of them tucked under the bleachers with a joint he was too scared to take more than two hits off of. Putting all my energy, all my emotions into my work and selling it to galleries. Painting murals on the sides of buildings that make people stop and think. Spending my days wandering around Los Angeles with a sketchbook, just letting the wind and inspiration take me wherever I need to go.
Uh-huh, Eddie said in reply, and in this scenario, how many hours am I working at some construction job to afford this lifestyle of yours?
Laughing, she swatted his arm. You’re not working in construction, she insisted. I’m doing what I want to do, so you’re doing what you want to do. She looked at him, then, blue-green eyes narrowed like she knew something he didn’t, and said: what do you want to do?
He plucked the joint from her fingers. Took a hit; coughed; and avoided her gaze. I want to get out of this town, he said finally.
We could—
Come on, Shan. He leaned into her side, like his weight against her body could stop her mind from running away with a fantasy. We at least have to finish school first.
As soon as we graduate, I’m outta here, she declared, and you’re coming with me.
Between the two of them, it should be in Christopher’s DNA, at this point, to hate La Salle and El Paso in equal measure.
Jury’s still out on the former. Eddie seems to be wrong about the latter.
Still, the thought of Chris, wearing that same itchy uniform— walking those same hallways— attending mass in that same chapel— it makes him feel nauseous, enough so that he can see himself go pale in the little box in the corner of his screen.
His mother doesn’t seem to notice.
“I haven’t spoken about it to him yet, of course, but he seems settled here. Most of the friends he’s met this summer go to La Salle too. So if you could give his middle school a call, or honestly, just remind me of the name and I can phone them, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate…”
Eddie looks at the kitchen door behind her on the screen and wills Chris to walk through it again.
-
“Engine 118, please be advised, we have a five-alarm fire within your vicinity at Sherman and Maple.” Josh’s voice over the radio sounds tinny and defeated. “I’m working on redirecting a unit to you within the next fifteen-to-twenty minutes. Stand by.”
Eddie doesn’t need to look at everyone else’s faces to know what they’re thinking.
“Buck, how fast is the tide rising?” he asks.
“Her friends said she was on a shelf, right? At hip height?” Buck stares out at the ocean with furrowed brows, considering. “It’ll be high enough to inhibit her breathing within the next five minutes at best.”
Eddie steps forward. “Cap, I’m telling you, that crevice is wide enough—”
“If you go in there, you risk bringing the whole thing down on top of her,” Gerrard argues.
“If I don’t, she’ll die,” Eddie snaps back.
“You won’t be able to get her out alone. It’s a possible spinal—”
“But we’ll be able to render necessary medical attention,” Hen cuts in. “That’s the job.”
Gerrard glares at her. He assesses the gap again— and then, impossibly, concedes. “Alright. Who’s feeling skinny?”
Eddie raises his hand, as do Hen and Chimney. Buck reluctantly falls back.
“It’s gotta be Hen or I,” Chimney says. “We have medical training.”
“How is it that I’ve worked with you guys for six years and you always conveniently forget I was a medic in the army?” Eddie shucks his outer layer off, leaving him in just his sleeveless shirt. “I’ve treated plenty of spinals before. I’m going.”
“Being an army medic is different than being a paramedic and you know it,” Hen gripes. “Let me go—”
“So I can get an earful from your wife later?” Eddie turns to Chimney. “Or your wife? Absolutely not. I’m not sparing you guys the risk, I’m sparing myself the lecture.” Eddie grabs the med kit from where it’s planted in the sand. “I moved those rocks. I know how to get in and out without causing a collapse. I’ve handled close-quarter spinals before. It’s me.”
Hen and Chimney exchange a look— and then Hen passes him the c-collar.
“Be careful,” Buck says quietly.
Eddie tries to laugh. “Big talk, coming from you.”
They go over the plan: they’ll anchor a rope so he has something to hold onto as he lowers himself down. Ideally, he can keep her above water until backup arrives, but in the event that that isn’t possible, Hen or Chimney will join him with a backboard for a rescue that isn’t exactly up to LAFD standards.
“This is Captain 118,” Gerrard reports into the radio. “The tide’s coming in. We need to move now. I’m sending one of my guys in.”
“Captain 118, this is not a recommended course of action,” Josh replies, static marring his voice. “Protocol says to wait for more units.”
Eddie clicks his radio on. “Dispatcher Russo, respectfully, we don’t have time to adhere to protocol.”
“Firefighter Diaz. Why am I not surprised?” Josh lets out a dramatic, drawn out sigh, and then says, quieter: “Be safe.”
-
Chris is six years old and Eddie is uprooting their lives.
It’s a bad decision, his mother says, you should think this through.
He knows what that’s code for. He knows what she really wants to repeat to him again: don’t drag him down with you.
Eddie puts a down payment on a house he’s never been in. He packs up the truck with all of Chris’ things, cramming his own belongings into the little space left behind, and he pitches it as an adventure. He tells Chris all about California, about the beaches and the sun, about the time he’ll get to spend with his great-aunt and bisabuela— about the new life they’re going to make for themselves.
He hears his parents’ worries; his sisters’ advice. The words itch ferociously under his skin in the nights leading up to their departure.
You’ve always been so stubborn, his mother says tearfully the day before he leaves.
Eddie’s not so sure that’s a bad thing.
He doesn’t drag Christopher down. He pulls Christopher out.
-
Eddie reaches the victim right before water fills her throat.
He attaches the c-collar; drags her slow and steady towards a slightly higher part of the shelf she’s on. Her breathing is shallow; a clear disalignment in her spine and in several bones— things aren’t looking good. The water, dark and treacherous, continues to rise.
“I’ve got her,” he reports into the radio. “Any word on backup?”
“Nothing yet,” Gerrard snaps. “If these dispatchers weren’t dilly-dallying, maybe we’d get somewhere.”
“I’m sure they’re doing their best,” Eddie responds evenly. He fights back a shiver as the water splashes against his back. “Dispatch, what’s the timing like? Any chance we can get a unit in the next five minutes?”
“Unlikely, 118,” Josh reports back, voice grim.
Eddie takes a deep breath. His exhale echoes faintly off the distant walls. The air is thick and damp, uneasiness settling under his skin. He taps his radio again.
“Hen, Chim, it’s time for plan B.”
-
Chris is thirteen years old and Eddie is trying to respect his wishes.
If he calls his grandparents at three in the morning; if he begs them to fly to LA; if he wants to stay with them for god-knows-how-long— so be it. Eddie’s not allowed to weigh in on this. Not after what he’s done.
For Eddie, thirteen is a distant memory— but still a painful one. He remembers his baseball team making it to the post-season tournament; remembers his father missing the one game he’d promised to attend. It stoked the fire of betrayal in his chest, heat and anger all-consuming.
His abuela knocked on his door not long after the screaming match was over. She was the only one he’d let in, in times like these. She sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his hair as he cried. He buried his face into his pillow, unwilling to let her see his tears; unwilling to let his father hear him from the other room. There was no point in giving him ammunition for their fight, or more reason not to come to his next game.
You know, she told him, you get your temper from your father.
It was the first time he’d yelled at her since— since he was a toddler, maybe, throwing tantrums he doesn’t remember. I’m not like him! I don’t want to be like him!
Ramon, later, sat him down to explain that promises can’t always be kept. Work gets in the way, sometimes, and that should be accepted. There isn’t any point in being disappointed over something that’s already happened.
There was no apology. No chance for Eddie to say his piece.
Eddie doesn’t want to be like his father. He lets Christopher decide what the best move is. He doesn’t remember how that burning fire of betrayal began to subside; how it morphed into resentment, smouldering and festering in the pit of his chest. He doesn’t remember how trapped he felt by that feeling.
Even in trying to fix his mistakes, Eddie just keeps making more of them.
-
“You see that rock to your left?” Eddie yells out. “If you have to hold onto anything, hold onto that.”
“Got it,” Hen calls back.
Eddie watches as her distant figure clambers down the rocks, slipping safely into the cave. She retrieves the backboard, then half-swims half-jogs towards where he’s struggling to keep Callie out of the rising water without actually moving her.
“So why you and not Chim?” he asks as they strap Callie to the backboard.
“Rock paper scissors,” she responds drily.
“You lost?”
“I won.”
The water is up to their chests as they lift the backboard off the higher ground it was on. Callie lets out a low groan as she’s jostled.
“You’re doing great, Callie,” Eddie tells her as they wade towards the blocked-off entrance again. “Almost there.”
When they make it, he can see Buck waving down at them. He doesn’t have arms to wave back, but he thinks the relief on his face speaks for itself.
“I’d rather do this with a basket,” Gerrard says through the radio, instead of yelling down at them, “but the gap isn’t wide enough to get it through. But you’re not too far down. So we’re going to very carefully pass the backboard up without touching any rocks. Got it?”
“Got it,” Eddie and Hen respond in unison, and faintly, he thinks he can hear Buck and Chimney saying the same.
“On three,” Gerrard says, and Eddie angles the board, Hen following his lead. “One, two, three!”
They push the board upwards. Callie cries out. “More!” Buck yells. “I can almost reach!”
It takes some careful maneuvering, but soon, the backboard slides seamlessly through the gap; Callie with it.
“Wilson, Diaz, your turn!” Gerrard yells.
Eddie looks to Hen, headlight illuminating her face. “Medics first.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “You better be right behind me,” she cautions, placing her boot into his laced-together hands to get a step up.
“See you on the other side,” he confirms with a nod.
She starts her climb.
-
Chris is eight years old and Eddie is drowning.
His lungs burn with water and mud and determination. The well is flooded; his radio is busted. He didn’t know how he thought it would end, but it wasn’t like this— without the chance to say goodbye to his son, so far away in the world up above.
He remembers, so long ago, whispering a promise into Christopher’s hair under the El Paso sun. I’m never gonna leave you again.
He remembers his father, many more years before then, telling him that promises can’t always be kept.
Nothing — not forty feet of mud separating him from his team; not his oxygen tank running out of air; not the way he loses time for a moment underwater, drifting between memories until he hears his son calling for him — will stop him from keeping this promise.
Eddie opens his eyes, and he swims.
-
It happens in slow motion.
Hen’s weight leaves his hands; he straightens up to get his head more above water. Above him, he sees her carefully clamber up the rocks with the help of the rope, Buck and Gerrard grabbing her arms once she’s high enough to pull her out— and somewhere along the way, one of them must miscalculate the amount of force they’re using.
Hen’s foot slips and skids to the left, nudging a rock out of place— the one above it falls, and Eddie watches as her foot is pulled clear just in time. Then, he watches as the gap to his team begins to crumble, the right side of the cave starting to go with it, and—
There’s nowhere to go. He can stay here, in the wreckage, or swim towards what is likely a dead end.
Eddie makes his choice.
The water welcomes him like an old friend.
- - -
Eddie ends up with a dislocated shoulder, a broken wrist, and a smattering of bruises and scrapes for his troubles. Hen is left without a scratch. The girl from the cave, Callie, apparently has a spinal fracture, but is expected to make at least a partial recovery.
Aching and sore in a hospital bed, Eddie comes to the conclusion that it was worth it.
Karen Wilson, however, seems to disagree.
“Are you stupid?” is the first thing out of her mouth when she barges into the room, where he’s waiting semi-impatiently for discharge papers. She’s furious and teary-eyed and gesturing wildly. “Don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question. Do you even know what a rhetorical question is? You stupid, stupid man.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows. “I got an A in twelfth grade English,” he offers. “I know what a rhetorical question is.”
“Well, I want to see the rest of your report card, because clearly you got an F in Common Sense,” she huffs.
Without warning, she hugs him. It’s warm and careful — she’s clearly avoiding his injuries — and it soothes the ache in his bones faster than any painkiller could.
“You’re so stupid,” she repeats, muffled into his shirt.
“So I’ve heard.”
She pulls away and studies him. There are two pens tucked behind her ears; another one twisted into her hair— she must have just come from work. A pang of guilt hits him — did she really just interrupt her workday for him? — and she shakes her head before he can voice that thought.
“Don’t even start,” she says, like the guilt is visible on his face. “We’ll get going whenever you’re discharged, but in the meantime, I have some people wanting to check on you.”
She taps away at her phone. The familiar FaceTime ringtone begins to play. When she gives him her phone, he expects it to be Hen and the rest of the team, still on shift and checking in.
Instead, it’s Maddie on the tiny screen— and her expression is one of open relief. “You’re okay? How bad is it?”
“Uh. Hi,” he says dumbly. “I’m fine.”
In unison, both Karen and Maddie say: “Try again.”
Terrifying. Eddie clears his throat. “I’m a little banged up,” he elaborates, “and I fractured my wrist, but seriously. I’m fine. Relatively speaking.”
“Yeah, relative to the girl with the broken spine that you rescued,” comes Josh’s voice from over the phone, and he soon appears over Maddie’s shoulder with a frown. “Relative to us normal people? You’re not fine in the slightest.”
Eddie looks up at Karen. “What is happening?”
“We’re checking in,” Maddie explains patiently.
“And telling you off for making stupid decisions,” Josh chimes in. Maddie swats his arm. “But mostly checking in.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” Eddie says slowly. He turns to Karen. “Thank you for being here, but you can go back to work. I was just going to call an Uber, and Buck texted to say that he’ll pick up my prescriptions after shift.”
“I can be your Uber today,” Karen protests. “And your Buck.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No one tell Buck he’s being replaced,” Maddie chimes in from over the phone. “He will not handle that well.”
“Okay.” Eddie takes a deep breath. “Yes, Karen, I will accept your offer for a ride to the pharmacy and home. Thank you. But let’s be clear on one thing— no one could replace Buck.”
Everyone falls silent.
“Okay, wait,” Eddie scrambles, “I just mean— he’s— you know—”
“Impossible to replace?” There’s a gleam in Karen’s eye. Josh is cackling distantly over the phone. “So when are you going to tell him that?”
Panic flares in his chest. He shakes his head frantically. “Maddie doesn’t know,” he whispers, forgetting that the phone’s microphone is right in front of him.
“Oh, Maddie knows!” When he looks down at the phone screen, the woman herself is smiling smugly up at him. “Maddie knew before the two of you even knew, actually. And she’s been waiting patiently for one of you two knuckleheads to do something about it.”
“Josh has also been waiting,” Josh chimes in. He pauses, thoughtful. “Huh. Josh is kind of enjoying speaking in third-person. Josh might do this from now on.”
Eddie hands the phone silently to Karen and leans back in the bed. “Yeah,” he sighs, “I’m having a coma dream or something. Josh being worried about me was already a stretch, but all three of you ganging up on me about Buck? This isn’t real.”
There’s a sharp pinch on his leg. Eddie yelps, betrayed, and meets Karen’s no-nonsense gaze.
“This is real,” she says. “You have us. You have your team. You have Buck. So don’t be stupid. Don’t sacrifice this to get buried in a cave or whatever.”
“I didn’t want to get buried in a cave,” Eddie complains.
“Wait.” Josh’s voice sounds from Karen’s hand. “How did you get out, anyways?”
“Tetris,” Eddie says, shrugging his good shoulder. “The cave shifted a lot when the entrance closed. I saw a little gap out to the ocean, moved a rock or two, and found a path out to sea.”
“Classic 118 luck,” Maddie muses.
“I’m in the hospital,” Eddie deadpans. “You call that luck? ”
“Yeah. I do. You survived,” Maddie says. “You found a way out where there shouldn’t have been one. That sounds pretty damn lucky to me.”
“There’s a metaphor in there somewhere,” Karen says wisely, taking a seat next to him on the bed. Eddie frowns at her. “What? I also passed twelfth grade English.”
When the nurse comes in with his discharge papers, Eddie is leaning into her shoulder, listening to his friends laugh and clamor over each other. They’re apparently in a groupchat, now, that Josh has named the gays and also Maddie, but upon Maddie’s confession that she would have experimented in college if she had the chance — which is what everyone is currently discussing with passion — the name is being revised.
Weirdly enough, Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt more content in a hospital room.
-
Twenty minutes after the end of shift, Eddie hears a key turning in his door. He gets up, slowly, and rounds the corner to see Buck toeing his shoes off.
“Hey.”
Buck whirls around, face lighting up in joy and relief. “You’re okay.”
“You saw me when I reached shore,” Eddie says. “You know I’m okay.”
“Well, your shoulder was messed, and you looked like a mouse caught in a pool filter, so—”
A laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I looked like a drowned mouse? ”
“I— no, I was just watching this show recently, and—” Buck splutters. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I have mice on the brain, okay?”
“Yeah, you’re mouse-brained, alright.” He lets a fond smile find a home on his lips; lets himself take in Buck’s flustered demeanor and messy curls. “You gonna come in, or…?”
“I’m not a vampire,” Buck says as he follows Eddie towards the living room. Eddie returns to his set up on the couch— pillow behind his shoulder; wrist elevated above his chest. “You don’t need to invite me in.”
“Then don’t just stand there next time,” Eddie responds, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes, “and I won’t have to.”
“Asshole,” Buck snipes, but it sounds more affectionate than anything else. “A vampire and a mouse, huh? We make quite the pair.”
“That sounds like the plot of a bad children’s book,” he remarks.
“That sounds like the plot of a good children’s book,” Buck protests. “A docile animal befriending a bloodthirsty creature? I’d read it.”
Eddie snorts. “Are you calling me docile?”
“Right now, yeah,” Buck says. Eddie cracks his eye open to see a gleam in his eye; a smirk on his lips. “You practically fell asleep as soon as you sat down.”
“I’m on painkillers,” Eddie mutters, waving him off with his good hand. “Leave me be.”
“Alright,” Buck says, sounding amused. “Leaving you be.”
They sit in silence for— Eddie doesn’t know how long. He just knows he enjoys it. Every steady breath from Buck is like a metronome: keeping time; soothing and grounding him. Any time with Buck is well-spent, he thinks, and he especially likes it when they don’t exist in silence — when they’re ribbing each other or when he’s listening to Buck talk endlessly and enthusiastically about something he’s interested in. But there’s something special about the way they can sit on the same couch, not speaking, and still be in perfect sync. Eddie’s breaths match Buck’s, in and out, without even trying.
The thought comes up again, like it has in every moment they’ve spent in silence together recently. Eddie rolls it around in his head; forms it on his tongue. He opens his mouth only to close it soon after.
Buck hums in question.
Eddie hums back.
“I thought you were going to say something,” Buck explains, breaking the silence more concretely. “Do you need anything?”
Eddie takes a breath. He keeps his eyes shut. “Why didn’t you ask me?”
He can practically hear Buck frown. “Ask you what?”
“When I…” The taste of seawater lingers in his mouth. If something had gone wrong today, you’d never get an answer, it urges him. He swallows and continues. “When I came out. I didn’t tell you before I told the team. Didn’t it… I don’t know, bother you?”
Buck stops breathing for just a moment. “Coming out is a personal thing,” he recites after a moment. “You weren’t obligated to tell me first.”
Eddie opens his eyes, lolls his head over towards Buck, and gives him a look.
“...which is what Maddie said,” he continues, “when I went to her because I was upset that you didn’t tell me first.” He twists his hands together nervously. “I didn’t think you’d want me to bring it up.”
“I’m bringing it up now,” Eddie says. His voice is soft; all air. He can only bear to have this conversation at a low volume. Even if it’s just the two of them here— the sensitivity of the topic makes it feel like they’re telling secrets.
“Yeah.” Buck lets out a heavy breath. “And you’re also on painkillers, Eddie, so forgive me if I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”
“I’m on Vicodin,” Eddie says drily. “It’s hardly mind-altering.”
Buck just looks away, eyes trained on the dark television. Eddie wants to count every acne scar on his tense jawline; wants to kiss every freckle on his cheeks; wants to memorize the exact rhythm of his fluttering eyelashes.
He could live in this moment forever, just looking at Buck. But he’d gladly take a happier moment— one where he can bask in the warmth of Buck’s smile for all of eternity, instead of sitting with the firm ridges of his shoulders; the way his chest rises and falls in quick, unsteady breaths. If he got to choose, he thinks, a moment to gaze upon Buck forever— he’d choose a moment where Buck is looking at him. Attentive eyes; a soft tilt in the corner of his lips that is for Eddie and Eddie alone.
“Ask me,” Eddie whispers. His throat feels dry. “You should ask me.”
Buck opens his mouth. He shakes his head; lets out a breath. For a moment, Eddie thinks he isn’t going to do it, but— if there’s one thing he knows about Buck, it’s that he’ll do anything Eddie asks.
“Why didn’t you tell me first?”
Eddie’s been expecting this question for a long time — hell, he wanted this question; he asked for it — but the vulnerability in Buck’s voice still strikes him.
“Not even first,” Buck continues, small. “Second, maybe. Just— separately from everyone else. I would have understood how it feels to come to terms with something like that. I do understand how it feels.”
“I know you do.” Eddie braces his hands on his knees; steadies himself. “I was… I was afraid of what it might mean.”
Buck looks over at him, now— frowning in confusion. “To be gay?”
“To tell you.”
Eddie sees the breath get punched out of him; sees his throat working as he swallows. He shakes his head, as if in disbelief, and the look on his face when he meets his eye is— endless hope and openness and vulnerability. His heart on the line. Just so Buck. There’s no other way to describe it.
His voice is shaky when he speaks. “So… what does it mean?”
Every word Eddie has ever learned, in any language, vanishes from his brain. The confession he’s practiced over and over and over again crawls from his tongue, all the way back down his throat, and tries to bury itself deep in his heart again. He hears himself make a choking sound — like maybe he can cough himself into being able to speak again; maybe he can just puke up his heart into Buck’s hands and that will be enough. Nothing comes out of his mouth, still.
He reaches towards Buck, for a moment, like a hand on his shoulder will express his feelings, or at the very least, convey an apology. When he moves, though, his shoulder protests— and, already having been so open with his expressions, he can’t bite back his wince.
“Your shoulder’s bugging you, huh?” Buck asks, gaze narrowing in on the offending injury and growing clinical. Look at me, Eddie wants to say; wants to be able to implore with his eyes: I’m sorry. I thought I was ready. I want to be ready. I want to tell you what this means. “I’ll grab you an ice pack, get the swelling down.”
Buck’s out of the room before he can even blink. Guilt and resentment coil around each other in his chest; twin snakes making a home. He’s the one who brought it up. He should have been able to say it. It’s you. That’s all it needed to be. Buck would have understood. Buck does understand, he thinks, but— it doesn’t mean much of anything when Eddie can’t speak the words out loud.
It takes a long moment, but eventually Buck returns, ice pack in hand. He gives it to Eddie and hovers for a moment. “You should, uh. You should rest,” he says, stilted. “Can I use your shower? It was a long shift.”
You’re not a vampire, Eddie wants to say. You’ve never needed permission to shower here. Go ahead.
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He nods instead.
“Thanks.” Buck shifts awkwardly. “Shout if you need anything? I’ll make you some food, afterwards— I think you’re not supposed to take those antibiotics on an empty stomach.”
Eddie wants to thank him. He can’t. He nods.
Buck, before leaving, doesn’t seem surprised by this at all.
-
Hen comes over the next morning with breakfast sandwiches from their go-to spot and a purposeful energy about her. She fusses over him: replaces his ice pack; palpates his shoulder as if she thinks the doctors reset it properly. If it were anyone else, Eddie thinks he would complain, but this is Hen— this is how she shows she cares.
This is also, he knows, how she acts when she’s upset.
“You’re mad at me,” he states, after the second time she’s rewound the gauze around a nasty scrape on his leg.
“I’m not,” she says shortly, and fastens the gauze tighter than necessary.
“Why are you mad at me?”
Hen doesn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, she lets out a heavy sigh and sinks back into the seat across from him.
“I don’t like seeing you get hurt,” she admits.
Eddie frowns. “I didn’t ask to get hurt.”
“No.” Hen folds her hands together and looks down at them. “But you got trapped in that cave and I didn’t.”
“That’s a good thing, Hen,” he says by default.
“Not for me,” she snaps back. “I don’t want to see you suffer, Eddie. I don’t want to see you buried under a pile of rocks. And maybe, if you had gotten out first and I had gone second, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows; takes a sip of his water. It’s a trick he’s learned from therapy, that he’s always been on the other side of— letting someone sit with their words for a moment before you dismantle their argument.
“Yeah,” he agrees after a moment. “Or maybe the cave would have collapsed on you. Or maybe it would have collapsed on both of us. Or maybe aliens would have landed on Earth at that exact moment and abducted us.”
Hen glares at him. “You don’t believe in aliens.”
“I don’t,” he admits, raising his good shoulder in a shrug. “Look. I just… everything is random. And some time ago, I thought that meant there was no real point to anything. But even if that’s true, you don’t just give up, right?” He leans forward as best he can; meets her eye steadily. “You still do the good thing. The right thing. And the right thing, here, was to rescue that girl, and for you to get out first, because I knew the way out and I could direct you.”
Hen takes a slow breath. “I just think,” she says, “when it comes to any one of us, we’re always gonna wish that we’re the one carrying the pain. You know?” She reaches across the table and pats his hand. “I’m just upset that I couldn’t take some of this from you.”
“I know,” Eddie says, because he remembers what it was like to see her collapse in that bank vault; to see Buck get struck by lightning; to see Chimney dangling from the ambulance during the bridge collapse. The memories shift and waver as he brings them to light again, pain spilling out from the edges, and he has to fight to refocus. “But hey. You’re here now. And you brought me breakfast. That’s what matters.”
Hen’s eyes are glimmering with tears, and she’s smiling, but she still shakes her head at him chidingly.
“Let me grab you some more water,” she offers as she stands, grabbing his glass.
“Actually, could you get me some juice?” He blinks, having surprised himself. It’s Buck’s orange juice, really, not his. “It’s in the fridge, second shelf.”
Hen redirects herself, and then laughs. “Wow. Your fridge did not look like it the last time I was here.”
She’s right. The whiteboard calendar remains, as do the pictures of Chris and the colorful people magnets, but he’s added quite a bit of decor to it over the summer. The print of the painting he and Hen made together, all fiery oranges and grey smoke, is pinned up by the four Pac-Man ghost magnets he got. Pac-Man himself is proudly hanging Jee-Yun’s beautiful drawing, along with the sunflower, hot sauce, and rainbow magnets he also got at the flea market. Next to some scattered sticky notes from Buck — almost out of oat milk, one reads, with what Eddie thinks is an excessive amount of exclamation points — is the 365 Days of Trivia calendar he won at dispatch’s trivia night.
Eddie squints to see the trivia fact. The date is right — August 17th — so Buck must have flipped it before he left yesterday. The average hug is approximately 3.17 seconds long. Huh.
“I have the print you gave me,” Eddie points out, watching as Hen scans the fridge. “Our apocalyptic version of LA.”
“We’ve got the real painting hanging in the living room,” Hen says, “though Karen keeps swapping it with hers and Buck’s catstronaut painting, since we have ‘prime visibility.’” She taps the rainbow magnet. “I like this. Although, let me help you out here…”
With a sweep of her hand, she scrubs away his upcoming shifts on his calendar.
“Hey!”
“It’s out of date. You’re off for six weeks.” She squints closer at it. “Should I erase your, uh, ‘b-ball double-u slash Chim’ next week?”
Eddie considers. “Knowing him, we’ll probably have a movie night instead,” he says. “You can leave it.”
“My money’s on him making you watch The Basketball Diaries,” Hen replies, opening the fridge and grabbing the carton of orange juice.
“I’ll put five bucks on Baywatch,” Eddie pitches. “We were just at a beach, after all.”
Hen grins, sharklike. “I’ll take those odds. Baywatch is a remake. You know how he feels about those.”
“You can take the money out of my wallet already,” he says with a grimace, and she laughs.
She doesn’t stay for long — errands to run and kids to entertain. When the house is empty again, it still feels warm with her presence.
Eddie replays their conversation in his head over and over again, looks at the stretch of free space in his calendar, and pulls out his phone to make a call.
-
Eddie knows what it’s like to have hope. He knows what it’s like to lose it, too— and he knows what it’s like to keep living anyways.
That’s what he’s forgotten, somewhere along the way. Even when you lack hope — even when you’re underwater with a dead end — you keep trying.
You fail your son, time and time again, and you love him enough to keep trying.
When did this belief unravel? When did he choose to stop fighting?
Why is it so terrifying to start trying again?
-
“So things are getting better with Chris?”
It’s maybe the first time Eddie is eager to answer one of Frank’s questions.
“Yeah,” he says, freely letting his enthusiasm bleed into his voice. “We’re actually texting, sometimes, and we’ve had a few calls. I think we’re making progress.”
“That’s great, Eddie,” Frank says warmly. “What do you think prompted this progress?”
“A crochet frog from the flea market,” Eddie answers immediately, and then elaborates before Frank’s frown of confusion can fully set in. “I mean. I don’t know. I texted him and he answered. And then I asked if he wanted to FaceTime, and he said about three sentences to me, but that’s about two sentences more than usual. And since then, we’ve been in more frequent contact.”
Frank hums. “So what changed? Something on his end, or something on yours?”
The frog, Eddie wants to repeat, because that’s the only clear explanation. Instead, he answers, “maybe something on his end. I wouldn’t know.”
“But it wasn’t just a one-off,” Frank notes. “The two of you are still texting and calling.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s hit or miss, depending on if my parents are hovering over his shoulder — and trust me, my mother loves to hover — but…”
Oh. Eddie’s sure he doesn’t have the full puzzle when it comes to Chris, but he thinks a few major pieces just clicked into place.
“That’s what changed.”
“What is?”
“My mother,” Eddie repeats, slumping back in his seat with a sense of awe. “We’ve been FaceTiming without her there. I’ve been texting Chris directly instead of talking to her about him.”
Frank jots something down — the urge to rip his clipboard out of his hands is small, but it still remains, though Eddie’s not sure how well that would go given his fractured wrist — and then he speaks again.
“I think there’s one step further you could take here.” He fixes Eddie with a keen gaze. “Is it about your mother not being present? Or is it about you having a more active presence?”
I was making an effort, Eddie wants to protest, instinctively, but— was he? He texted Chris, sure, but the messages were few and far between, and they lacked substance. It was a thin line he was trying to balance— showing he cared without being overbearing; trying to connect while respecting Chris’ wishes. He’d taken a step back and accepted whatever his parents were willing to give him of his son, which of course, wasn’t much at all.
“I wanted to give him space,” Eddie says finally. “I mean, you said it was good. That I should give him space and work on myself instead.”
“And you’ve spent the summer doing that. And making great progress, by the way.” He offers a smile. “But now, it doesn’t seem like Chris wants that amount of space.”
“So I should keep talking to him, is what you’re saying.”
“I think you should keep making the choice to be in his life,” Frank says, “and see what comes of it.”
The words sink into his bones, filling the space where his self-doubt usually resides.
“I’m still in play,” Eddie realizes.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Chris, he’s, uh— he’s getting really into chess, apparently. Getting good at it. And I think maybe I thought I had forfeited a game to my parents, but really, we’re all just on the board. I’m on the board. And I can— I can take action, is what you’re saying, right? I can move forward a step or two. Hell, maybe I’m a rook and I can just—” and here he extends his arm fast and forward for emphasis “— slide all the way to El Paso.”
Frank raises his eyebrows. After a beat, he says, “I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“I know,” Eddie says. “I’m not a metaphor guy. But I was talking to Hen recently, and I think, maybe— maybe I should take the burden of this situation off of Chris. Maybe this is something we should navigate together. Right?”
“That sounds like a good thing to discuss with him,” Frank says slowly. He’s still frowning, like he doesn’t quite understand. Maybe he doesn’t need to.
Eddie gets it, now. He knows what he has to do.
-
For the first time in a long time, Eddie leaves therapy feeling lighter.
For the first time in a long time, Eddie feels like he has direction.
He mulls it over in the car on the way home. The logistics. Flying or driving? Crashing at his abuela’s or getting a hotel room? Telling his parents that he’s coming ahead of time, or just showing up on their doorstep? Every possible scenario, he runs through in his head. The look on his mother’s face— shock or resentment or kindness. The first thing his father says— what are you doing here? or good to see you, son. The way it will feel, to see his son in-person again for the first time in months; the way Chris could have had a growth spurt and Eddie won’t know until he gets there. That’s the most unpredictable factor: Chris. Will he be okay with it, when Eddie tells him his intention to come to El Paso? Will he want to talk? Will he hug him hello? Will he agree to come home? Or will he say he wants to stay— and if he does, will he hug him goodbye again?
Either way, the idea of his son being in his arms again— Eddie can’t help it. Tears spring to his eyes, and he fails to blink them away.
When they pull up to a stoplight, Buck turns to him, half his face bathed in red light. He doesn’t say anything— just raises a brow in question, concern and sympathy written across his face.
“I’m fine,” Eddie says— a reflex.
“It’s okay if you aren’t,” Buck says quietly.
“I am.” He thinks he means it. “I’m just… thinking.”
The light turns green.
Eddie thinks Buck looks beautiful in any kind of lighting. The dim serenity of the bunkroom, brows furrowed as he fights a yawn; by the engine on a call, red and blue lights illuminating the sheen of sweat on his forehead; under the glow of the lamp in Eddie’s living room, casting a layer of warmth over his freckled skin as he sprawls out on his side of the couch.
But here, now, in the sunlight, hints of green shimmering over his brow and cheek and birthmark, like the traffic light knows that Buck is everything he wants, and is telling him to go for it— this might be his favorite.
“Thinking,” Buck echoes as he turns back to the road. “You’re not known to do that.”
“Hi pot,” Eddie says drily. “I’m kettle.”
“Hi kettle,” Buck replies. “It’s nice to meet you. Come here often?”
Eddie snorts. He looks away; tilts his head to get a glimpse of the road rushing by. He drums his fingers on his knees, excess energy needing to spill out of him, like his body knows the plan he’s been slowly forming in his mind.
It’s only when Buck pulls into the driveway and Eddie sees the house — because god, he can’t wait for them all to be in it, for it to feel like a home again — that he blurts it out.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
He hears the click of Buck’s seatbelt disengaging; feels the shift in the air as Buck turns towards him. “What’s going on, Eddie?”
“Chris,” he says, and the syllable breaks on his tongue. “It’s been months and I’m— I’m better. I am. Right?”
He looks at Buck for confirmation; penance, maybe. What he finds is unending faith.
“You are.”
“So he should come home,” Eddie stresses. “And I know it should be his decision, because leaving was his decision, but I don’t know if that should have been his decision. I think we should have talked about it together.” He swallows; looks down at his hands. “I can’t keep missing out on more of his life.”
Buck’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So what are you gonna do?”
“I should go get him,” Eddie says. “I should at the very least go talk to him. Right?”
“I can’t make that decision for you.”
“I know. And I think I’ve already decided. But do you think…” Eddie looks away for a moment, knowing what Buck’s answer will likely be, but afraid he’s predicted this all wrong. “Do you think it’s the right decision?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Buck says, voice sincere and steady, “just say the word, and we’ll drive out there.”
The world stops.
“We?”
“Well, yeah,” Buck says easily, “you shouldn’t really be driving with your mangled wrist.”
Eddie swats at him with his good hand. Buck laughs.
“But, you know, if you wait until after you’re healed up… I can still be there.” He ducks his head, sheepishly. “Unless you don’t want me there, obviously, because I don’t have to be there—”
“Buck.”
Eddie doesn’t even feel the syllable leaving his mouth, but he hears it, thick with emotions he can’t name, as it breaks through Buck’s anxiety.
He watches through a dreamlike haze as his hand rises of its own volition; as it plants itself next to Buck’s hand on the center console. Pinkies brushing together, barely.
“I’ll always want you there,” he confesses in spite of the fog he’s in; in spite of the way his heart seems to have stopped at this small point of contact between them.
Maybe it’s a little too truthful— but after the last time, when he couldn’t force the words out of his mouth, he thinks they could both use some honesty. The air is frozen and still between them. He doesn’t dare move an inch. Breath catching, he watches as Buck’s hand flips his own over, an offering Eddie doesn’t shy from. Their palms meet, warm, Buck’s hand pressing down on his, broad fingers threading carefully between his own.
It’s dizzying. Impossible. They’ve held hands hundreds of times before, clutching onto each other like a lifeline during rescues— but never like this. Never with their fingers tangled together, instead of a simple clasp. Never this gentle or simple or intimate.
“I’ll be there,” Buck reaffirms in a whisper.
They’re so close together. Eddie feels his breath; feels the words, and can’t help the way he shivers.
“Buck,” he breathes out, “what…?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Buck repeats, low. Eddie looks up and is struck by his expression— it should be impossible to look so earnest and intense at the same time.
His heart jackhammers in his chest. “What if— I’m not? What if I’m never ready?”
The look on Buck’s face shifts; morphs into a familiar sadness. “That’s okay,” Buck says.
It sounds hollow. Resigned. Eddie shakes his head.
“No, it’s not.” Honesty grips him, sharp and vivid, and he lets his feelings spill out of his mouth. “Buck, you… you deserve someone who will love you loudly and unconditionally and endlessly. You deserve peace and shelter. You deserve someone who can be everything you need them to be.”
A tear catches on Buck’s eyelash before slipping down his cheek. Eddie fights the urge to wipe it away.
“That’s you,” Buck says quietly. He’s smiling, soft, despite his watery eyes. “Eddie, that’s you. Look at where we are right now.” He sniffles, gesturing to the house in front of them with the hand that isn’t clasped in Eddie’s own. “You’re my peace. You’re my shelter.”
And— Buck’s right, isn’t he?
He’s here all the time, protein powder in the cupboard and sticky notes on the fridge and citrus-scented soap in the shower. Even beyond that, when Eddie pictured his house becoming a home again — when he pictured Chris coming back, and everything ended up okay — he pictured the three of them, piled together on the couch. This is the family he chose. This is what Buck chose to call home.
Eddie’s a storm, he knows that, but maybe he’s been sheltering Buck in the eye of it. Maybe the wreckage won’t hurt him after all.
Except—
“You deserve,” he says, voice small, “someone who isn’t afraid to kiss you.”
“You can be afraid,” Buck asserts. He squeezes Eddie’s hand. “I just want you. No matter what, okay? Even if it takes us another seven years.”
Eddie laughs wetly. “It’s not going to take another seven years.”
“No?”
He shakes his head; tightens his grip on Buck’s hand. “How about… thirty seconds?”
“Well,” Buck says, dumbstruck, “that’s definitely a lot less time than seven years.”
Eddie closes his eyes and begins to count. He breathes, deep and steady, over and over again. Fear rises like the tide, sloshing up around his shoulders, and he lets it happen. He can’t will it back down. He knows that. Instead, he leans into its intensity. He lets it intermingle with his anticipation, until he can’t quite tell the difference anymore— until the tide within him begins to ebb, leaving strength in its wake.
Three.
He opens his eyes.
Two.
Buck sits across from him, patient and awed, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
One.
Eddie leans forward, across their clasped hands on the center console, and presses his lips to Buck’s— soft and gentle.
It feels right. Buck responds with a similar energy, tender and slow, hand coming up to cup his cheek. They’re in the eye of a storm, in their own little world, lips fitting together so perfectly like it might as well have been bound to happen. Not fate, Eddie doesn’t believe in that, but— an inevitability, maybe.
Of course kissing Buck feels like coming home.
They live together in that small, sweet moment before Eddie pulls away just by a fraction— resting his forehead against Buck’s and watching his beautiful blue eyes flutter open.
He thinks he might be crying. It’s okay. Not an ounce of shame exists in this little bubble they’ve created.
“Hey,” he whispers.
A smile blossoms on Buck’s face. He’s crying too. “Hey.”
“You want to road trip to Texas?”
“Absolutely,” Buck breathes out. “Do you feel ready?”
Eddie kisses him again. It’s clumsy, between the tears and the fact that neither of them can stop smiling, but it’s perfect.
“Not at all,” Eddie answers. “Let’s do it anyway.”
-
There’s a path out to sea. There’s a road to El Paso, and a road to reconciliation. There’s a dozen ways Eddie’s bettered himself over the summer, and nearly half a dozen things he’s learned about who he is, and he knows with a certainty that his journey doesn’t end here.
It’s just beginning.
And with his son willing to make amends with him, and the love of his life in the driver’s seat next to him— Eddie is ready for whatever comes next.