leneaitz
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“I’m just saying, you definitely don’t look old enough to have a teenager,” the dad says, nodding towards Chris again. “How old are you, kid? Fourteen?”
Chris is staring at him now, too, grip tight around his crutches. “Fifteen?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a genuine answer. He’s just as confused as Buck feels.
The dad lets out a low whistle. “Seriously, man,” he laughs, talking to Buck again. “Fifteen? You look good. I bet your wife is jealous as hell, though. It’s like you copy and pasted yourself.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh, I’m not—” Buck starts, his brain finally catching up to this confusing conversation. “He’s not—“
The dad’s eyes grow wide. “Oh,” he breathes, wincing. “Oh shit, my bad. I just assumed—I mean, you two just look so much alike.”
evan buckley vs the universe
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Captain Buckley, who is steady, who has his shit together, who definitely does not recognize his new probie because he spent a night eight years ago with his hands in that man's hair whispering things against his skin that would get him fired on the spot if anyone in this building ever found out.
"You must be Eddie Diaz." His hand goes out. Not shaking, by some miracle that deserves its own cathedral, its own patron saint, the patron saint of men who are dying inside and shaking hands about it. "Welcome to the 118. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Captain Buckley."
Eddie takes his hand. A firm grip, calloused in places Buck doesn't remember, but Buck's skin recognizes him anyway, every nerve, all at once.
"Captain." Eddie's voice is level, pleasant, perfectly neutral, and Buck would buy it completely if he couldn't see the tension bolted into Eddie's shoulders. "Thanks for having me." A beat. "You got a first name, Captain Buckley?"
"Evan. But most people just call me Buck."
"Buck," Eddie repeats, tasting it, dragging it out, and Buck's stomach drops through the floor. "Suits you."
Or,
Captain Buckley WILL NOT fuck his new probie, okay? At least, not again. -
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“This is the most thought that anyone, of all time, ever, has put into adjusting a driver’s seat, Eddie.”
“Buck—”
“I’m serious. That rearview mirror has lived through so many angles and lives in the past six minutes that it’s about to start recounting its first-hand experience on the Titanic.”
Just for that, Eddie reaches up between them and tweaks the mirror again. A ray of sunlight hits it and bounces across Buck’s eyeline. Buck’s face scrunches up as he rushes to shield his forehead with one hand. It does not remind Eddie whatsoever of a small, bashful dog hiding behind its soft paw, because that would be deranged. He twists the mirror back into position.
“The Titanic probably would have gotten us to Nashville better than this truck.”
Buck’s indignant squawk rings out in time with the turnover of the engine as Eddie hits the ignition.
or
Gay Thoughts: A New (Nissan) Frontier
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“C'mere," Buck says, sitting up to scoot closer to Eddie.
"What are you doing?” Eddie asks, and Buck sighs.
"You can just kiss me, get a taste of the lip balm, and tell me what flavour you think it is.”
Eddie can’t believe his ears.
"That is such a stupid way to win a bet, Buck."
“Oh so you concede?"
Eddie rolls his eyes, shaking his head before planting both hands on the sides of Buck's face and hauling him in to press their lips together.
OR
Buck and Eddie make a bet on whether or not Eddie can guess all of Buck's lip balm flavours, and in order for Eddie to get a taste, they have to kiss.
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Six-ish weeks ago, he’d fallen into bed with Buck after one of the scariest days of both of their lives; after Buck had made sure that Eddie didn’t lose his baby.
And now—
Now, because of Eddie, they both might lose another one.
— one night together, a miscommunication of epic proportions, and six weeks apart before their lives change forever.
written for #PregEddieWeek2026: miscarriage scare