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Buck realized he was in love with Eddie late last year.
They were out for breakfast — him, Eddie, and Christopher on a Saturday morning, the latter sleepy-eyed and only persuaded to get out of bed by promises of an IHOP milkshake. Chris had ordered first, then Buck, and finally Eddie, detailing each component of his very predictable breakfast combo: two buttermilk pancakes, two sausage links, a side of hashbrowns, and —
“I’ll have my eggs over easy, thank you,” Eddie finished, stacking the menus together and handing them to the server.
Buck and Chris had both looked at him in shock. “You don’t like eggs,” Chris informed him seriously.
“No, but Buck does,” Eddie replied.
Buck blinked at him, confusion. “But what about your bacon?” he asked, looking at the server’s retreating form and thinking about calling her back to get this sorted out. “You always ask to replace the eggs with bacon.”
“I don’t need it,” Eddie shrugged. “Besides, the last time we ate here, your stomach was rumbling less than two hours later. I figured you could use more protein.”
He said it so easily. Like it was something anyone would notice. Buck gaped at him.
“Did you not want extra eggs?” Eddie asked in a tone that meant he knew the answer already.
“No, I do,” Buck answered. Eddie smiled, satisfied, and all Buck could think was: I love you.
The thought knocked all the air out of his lungs. He hadn’t realized he was staring at Eddie; breathless, grinning; until Christopher very purposefully kicked him underneath the booth and started asking about their game plan for their trip to the aquarium that afternoon. Throughout the rest of the day, every time Buck looked at Eddie, it was like the entire world had just shifted on its axis, and he was the only one who’d noticed.
He thinks — no, he knows — he’s been in love with Eddie for a lot longer than that.
Sometimes he traces it back to the shooting. Knowing that there was more to say, that telling him to hang on in the ambulance couldn’t be the end, but not being able to think of what those words could be. Not being able to think much of anything past the taste of warm metal in his mouth.
Sometimes, it’s the tsunami — Eddie dropping Chris off a day after Buck had lost him; had failed him. Eddie trusting Buck with his son, his heart, again and again and again. Honestly, Buck found it hard to believe in that decision. At the end of the day, though, he believed in Eddie, and if Eddie believed in him, who was he to refute that?
Once or twice he thinks about when Eddie first joined the 118. He had seen Buck’s petulant anger for what it truly was — a fear of being replaced — and had taken it in stride. You can have my back any day was a simple sentence, but for Buck, in that moment, it was exactly what he needed.
Point is: Buck is fiercely, hopelessly, achingly in love with Eddie Diaz.
He can’t say a thing about it. Can’t risk jeopardizing the best friendship he’s ever had; can’t risk losing both Eddie and Christopher just because he developed feelings that, in retrospect, were absolutely inevitable.
So ever since that cool November morning — when Eddie ordered eggs for him with a smug little smile and the only thought in his head was I love you — Buck’s kept that as a ritual ever since. Sometimes it comes unbidden — Eddie double-checks his harness or accidentally burns toast and the thought just pops into his head: I love you. Sometimes it’s an active choice, when Eddie is indulging one of his research-induced rambles or stress-pacing over baseball scores or even just smiling at him, Buck thinks to himself, over and over, I love you I love you I love you.
The mantra keeps him sane, almost. Even if he can never tell Eddie, can never share his feelings, he can still think it. Sometimes, rarely, he’ll let it be more than a thought— he’ll lie in bed late at night, on that fuzzy precipice between dreaming and wakefulness, and whisper to his empty apartment: “I love you, Eddie Diaz.”
Buck’s floating on that same edge between dreaming and wakefulness as he and Eddie talk on his couch. The TV hums low in the background, the screen lit up with a basketball game that neither of them are paying attention to. When his eyes shut for a full minute while he babbles about how Christians historically considered birthday celebrations to be pagan rituals, Eddie laughs at him and decides it's time to head home.
Forcing his eyes open, Buck watches as Eddie glances around to make sure he has all his things, as if he hadn’t only brought his keys and Chinese takeout.
Buck had texted him earlier in the day begging for food and company— his bad leg was acting up, leaving him resigned to the couch, and he craved more sustenance than the granola bar he’d found next to the TV remote. There was no question of whether or not Eddie would come when he called. Forty-five minutes later, Eddie showed up at his door: freshly-showered, black tank top and grey joggers sticking to his still-damp skin. He smelled like eucalyptus and ginger and soy sauce, though the latter scents were definitely more from the paper bag in his hand than Eddie himself. Buck could have sworn he was an angel.
Eddie’s hair is rumpled after air-drying, a little curl flopping over his forehead. The next time he’s at the Diaz house, Buck might just throw out all of Eddie’s hair gel. And maybe all of his shirts that aren’t tank tops, Buck thinks, admiring the firm lines of his shoulders; the quiet strength of his muscular arms.
His eyes slip shut. Somehow, impossibly, he finds it within himself to open them again. Dizzily, he pushes himself up from where he’s sunk into the couch, already mourning the softness of the cushion against his cheek. It takes Herculean effort to stand, his body heavy and leg twinging with pain.
“Sit down, Buck,” Eddie says firmly, the second he’s on his feet.
“I’m being a good host,” Buck insists, staggering slowly towards Eddie to walk him to the door. His leg is aching far less than it was earlier; his joints thankfully no longer stiff and unmoveable. “Besides, I need to lock the door behind you.”
“I have a key,” Eddie reminds him.
“Right,” Buck says. They’re face-to-face now — or forehead to nose, really, Eddie’s head tilted up a little to meet his eye.
Maybe it’s the pain medication severing his brain-to-mouth filter; maybe the comment is just so silly that he has to voice it. Either way, Buck feels the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile as he continues: “You’re kind of short, huh?”
Eddie gives him an absolutely incredulous look— eyebrows high on his forehead; mouth a thin line just barely twitching with amusement. His chin is still tipped upward so he can make eye contact, though, which makes Buck want to laugh.
“I’ve been the same height since we met,” he claims.
Buck looks at him, doubtful. “Have you?”
Eddie shakes his head. He’s smiling close-lipped, but his eyes are still crinkled with amusement. Buck wants to map every single crease around the corners of his eyes; wants to commit every line of Eddie Diaz to memory.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay for work tomorrow?” he asks.
Buck’s a little thrown by the change in topic. He hums noncommittally in response before processing the question. “Yeah, my leg does this all the time,” he says. “Well, not all the time — it would actually suck if it did this all the time — but if I push myself at the gym too hard, or if the weather’s bad, or sometimes if the universe just decides it hates me, it gets like this. It’s usually fine after some rest.”
“I didn’t mean your leg,” Eddie says, which makes sense: he’s known about Buck’s chronic pain for years now; he knows he’ll be fine by tomorrow. “I mean the fact that you’re kind of loopy.”
“’m just tired,” Buck disagrees, blinking slowly. Eddie’s expression is soft. Eddie’s always soft, at least in Buck’s eyes. He kind of wants to let his head fall onto Eddie’s shoulder and just sink into him. They’ve had some exhausting shifts; some lazy movie nights. It wouldn’t be anything he hasn’t done before.
“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Eddie remarks, which makes Buck pout. He opens the door. The yellowish glow of the hallway seeps into the apartment. It gives him a backlight of hazy warmth; makes him look even softer. “Sleep well.”
“Get home safe,” Buck says. Then, as always, he thinks: I love you.
Eddie goes very, very still. His breathing stutters to a stop. There’s a strange expression on his face, his mouth twisting in that way it does when he doesn’t know what to say.
Buck squints blearily at him. “What?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches once. Twice. The muted light illuminates the quiet movement of his throat as he swallows.
“What’d you just say?” he rasps.
“Get home safe,” Buck repeats, a yawn overtaking the last word. “Why…?”
Eddie’s lashes flutter rapidly, large pupils blotting out the toffee brown of his irises. His arms hang limp and useless at his sides. Something pulls at his lips again, like they’re being controlled by the world’s most indecisive puppeteer, twisting and pursing and never settling once on a solid expression.
“Nothing,” he says finally, a nervous edge to his voice. “I will. You too.”
In the blink of an eye — which, to be fair, is at least ten seconds, because Buck’s still having a hard time keeping his eyes open — Eddie has disappeared down the hallway.
Buck shuts the door and slowly limps towards the couch. He only has the capacity to think ‘you too?’ before he’s collapsing onto the soft cushions, eyes slipping shut, and he’s out before he knows it.
Eddie is… weird when Buck comes back to work.
Eddie’s a weird guy in general. He loves mentholated lip balm and hates eggs and wears long-sleeved shirts in the summer. In his linen closet, tucked behind the thin bath towels he never uses in favour of the fluffy ones Hen got him for Christmas two years ago, is a secret stash of romance novels. If Buck ever asked, Eddie would probably deny having read them, even though the pages are incredibly well-worn. He has a fast-growing collection of socks with silly patterns. He chews the inside of his cheeks when he’s nervous, or sometimes just when he’s bored. Whenever they buy groceries together, Buck has to steer him away from the dairy aisle because he’ll spend ten full minutes complaining about yogurt-specific inflation. In the end, he always buys the same brand of overpriced peach yogurt. Eddie is weird, but above all else, he’s a creature of habit.
This isn’t typical Eddie-Diaz-weirdness, though. Every word out of his mouth feels like it’s been peer-reviewed and workshopped to be excessively casual, which obviously is a paradox. He keeps giving Buck looks, like they’re both in the know about something, but his expression sours into sadness the further into the shift they get. Every time Buck says a word to Bobby or Hen or Chimney, he can practically see Eddie tilting his head so he can get a better listen. Buck has no idea what he’s listening for.
Eddie is weird, which means Buck gets weird, which means the both of them are totally out-of-sync for the entire shift.
Buck opens his mouth to ask for a wrench and Eddie’s handing him a Halligan. Eddie says they’ll move a patient on three and Buck forgets what order numbers go in. At lunch, they both reach for the salad bowl at the same time, leading Buck to overly-formally say “my apologies, good sir” and Eddie to respond with “you take it, I’ve actually never had lettuce anyway.”
The longer this strange behaviour lasts, the worse Buck feels. He channels the itchiness under his skin into passive-aggression and pushiness; makes a few attempts at goading Eddie into admitting something’s up, but it doesn’t work at all. Buck knows himself. He knows why this stings so badly — he’s sensitive to perceived rejection and he’s got the therapist-approved coping mechanisms to deal with it. But it’s hard to ‘take some space from the situation’ while on a 24-hour shift with the guy, and it’s even harder to ‘think from the other person’s perspective’ when Eddie won’t give him a single hint about what’s wrong.
At the end of the day, Buck makes a rash, frustrated decision: he’s not going to leave without any answers.
The minute the two of them are left alone in the locker room, Eddie haphazardly shoves his belongings in his bag and beelines for the door. Buck is only halfway through pulling on his shoes, but he quickly leaps up and blocks Eddie’s path.
“Give it up,” he says before Eddie can even react to the sudden invasion of his space. “What did I do?”
“What?”
“You’ve been weird all day, and you’re giving me looks, and you didn’t high-five me after that awesome lizard call—”
“Your hand was covered in sewage,” Eddie interrupts, wrinkling his nose.
“We were wearing gloves!” Buck protests.
“It’s the principle of the thing!”
Buck crosses his arms over his chest. “Seriously, Eddie, what’s going on? Is this…” he’s afraid to voice it, this worst-case scenario that’s been floating around his brain, but he knows he has to. “Is this about the other night?”
Eddie looks away immediately. “Yeah,” he replies, though he doesn’t even really need to say it— the sudden lack of eye contact is confirmation enough. “Yeah, it’s about the other night.”
Buck’s always been an easy crier. He can accept it as part of himself. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating when his eyes immediately flood with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters.
Eddie’s eyes snap back to him. “You’re sorry?”
“I know it’s a lot to—” take care of me, Buck wants to say, but knows that statement will be immediately refuted. “I don’t expect… I shouldn’t have asked so much of you.”
Eddie’s face softens. Gone is the frustrated set of his brows; the anxious way he chews his cheek. He looks gentle now, cautiously optimistic, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. If Buck’s heart skips a few beats, that’s between him and his cardiologist.
“You caught me off guard, that’s all,” Eddie admits quietly.
Buck blinks at him. “Well, I didn’t really have much notice either that it would be a bad pain day, but I can manage on my own next time. Or at least not ask you to bring takeout—”
“Buck,” Eddie interrupts, and any trace of softness vanishes with the syllable— his face is guarded all over again. “What are you talking about?”
“The other night,” he says, confused. “You took care of me when I was a lot to handle and probably really dumb on painkillers.”
“No and yes,” Eddie says, a strange thickness to his voice. “You weren’t a lot to handle. You are always dumb, though. But I was… I was trying to talk about what you said.”
“What I said?” Buck pauses, wracking his brain. “Uh… was the thing about candles on birthday cakes originally existing to ward off demons too spooky for you? Or did I not apologize enough for stealing one of your spring rolls? Because I am sorry, but they also are listed as a starter.”
Eddie shakes his head. Buck can practically feel wrinkles developing in his brain as he tries to think.
“I don’t think I remember,” he admits, guilt making his voice pitch a little. “Give me something here. What was it?”
Eddie lets out a choked little breath, like he’s just got the wind knocked out of him. Buck might never forget that sound. He wants to say something to wipe the anguish off Eddie’s face, but he doesn’t know how to fix this.
“It was nothing,” he decides finally, ducking his head low. “Nothing worth remembering.”
“Aw, Eddie—”
“See you tomorrow, Buck,” he says with an air of finality, pushing past him to move out the locker room doors.
“Wait, Eddie, come on!” Buck calls out.
He only takes a few steps forward before realizing he’s only got one shoe on. Resigned, he watches Eddie’s solid frame disappear into the distance and wonders what he possibly could have done to cause this.
It doesn’t hit him until later that day, after he’s taken a long nap and done some chores around the house. Buck’s driving home from the grocery store — the one in Eddie’s neighbourhood, completely out of his way, because they carry the specific brand of oat milk he likes. The backseat is piled high with fresh pasta, frozen fruit, and the world’s largest jar of peanut butter.
When he sees the sign for Bedford Street, it’s like his body and mind react instinctively for him. His fingers automatically reach for the turn signal, ready to turn right towards Eddie and Chris, and his brain, against his will, sends out an I love you.
His throat seizes. He jerks the car to the right suddenly, veering onto Bedford and pulling over three houses down, outside a home he knows so well: soft yellow paint, terracotta roof, a porch with a broad oak door. Cars honk at him, barely audible over the thumping of his too-fast heartbeat,
I love you. Repeated a million times on a million occasions, all inside his head. I love you. Smiling dopily at Eddie, brain-to-mouth filter non-existent, the edges of his memory fuzzy with sleep. I love you. Eddie in the doorway, suddenly shell-shocked. Eddie at work, giving him expectant looks that grew increasingly miserable over the course of the day. Eddie in the locker room, stars in his eyes, admitting: you caught me off guard, that’s all.
Eddie on the porch, wearing a green cotton t-shirt and plaid pajama pants despite it being noon on a Tuesday.
I love you.
Eddie walking down the driveway, mail key in hand, the sun casting a warm glow on his beautiful tan skin.
I love you.
Eddie meeting Buck’s eye — shock flashing over his face quick as lightning — and immediately rerouting course towards him.
Oh, fuck.
For a moment, Buck considers playing dead. Then, he considers actually dying: just locking himself in his Jeep in the hot sun, developing the symptoms of heat stroke like he’s working his way through a checklist, and souring alongside his oat milk. Finally, he considers shifting his car back into drive and booking it down the road before Eddie reaches him.
There’s a knock at his window. Buck thinks he may have taken too long debating his options, and not long enough actually deciding.
Slowly, feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong without knowing what it is — a microcosm of all his childhood feelings — he rolls down the window.
With his hands planted firmly on his hips, Eddie somehow looks simultaneously unimpressed and baffled. Buck wants to casually say hello, or try to talk himself out of this situation, but his mind is coming up empty. He can only just look at Eddie, with his messy bedhead and the frown-induced wrinkles on his forehead and five-o-clock shadow Buck secretly wishes he would grow into a beard, even though it would go against LAFD regulations.
Eddie’s mouth opens, closes, and opens again. He shakes his head. Finally, he says, “what are you doing here, Buck? Our trip to the observatory is on Thursday, and Chris won’t be done at day camp until—”
“I love you,” he blurts out.
Everything about Eddie shifts in an instant. It’s strikingly familiar. His eyes widen, lashes fluttering rapidly in shock; his chest stills like he’s stopped breathing entirely; his arms go slack at his sides.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Buck presses on. “The other night?”
Slowly, Eddie nods. “You said you didn’t remember,” he says, voice tight. He still doesn’t seem to be breathing. “You were half-asleep and on painkillers. It’s okay if…”
It’s an out, Buck realizes. Eddie’s giving him the option to blame it on a medication-addled mind — as if he hasn’t been in love with him for years. As if this wasn’t an honest thought mistakenly spoken out loud. As if either of them will ever truly be able to write this off.
“I didn’t realize I said it,” he explains haltingly. “I think it every time I look at you, but I… I never meant to say it out loud. I’m sorry.”
Eddie still doesn’t say anything. The too-present fear of rejection tugs at every inch of Buck’s skin. You caught me off guard, that’s all, Eddie had said, but maybe— maybe Buck was right in not wanting to ever admit this. Maybe he read that sentence all wrong. Maybe he’s dumping an unfortunate truth on a man who will never feel the same way about him, and ruining the best part of his life in the process.
“I know you don’t — you’re straight, and we’re friends, and that’s—”
“Buck.”
The syllable is clean and precise, interrupting both the words spilling from his mouth and his inner turmoil. Eddie’s gaze is uncompromising.
“Get out of the car.”
Buck opens the door without even thinking about it. With all the shakiness of a newborn calf, he stands, his heart thumping a rapid rhythm in his chest. The metal of the door nearly scalds his fingers when he shuts it. Eddie takes a step forward, then another, crowding Buck against the car. His eyes, in the summer sun, shine a beautiful honey-brown.
The lingering heat in Buck’s fingertips is the only thing that grounds him to reality when Eddie kisses him.
It’s hot — not just the searing metal he’s pressed against, warmth radiating through his thin t-shirt, but the way Eddie grazes his teeth against Buck’s lower lip like a promise.
It’s sweet — how Eddie cups his cheek, pinkie dragging along his jawline; the faint taste of hazelnut on Eddie’s lips, like he’s been sipping on coffee topped with that ridiculously sugary creamer he loves.
Most of all, it’s just so perfectly Eddie — Eddie’s firm touch, Eddie’s unswayable affection, Eddie’s soft eyelashes fluttering against Buck’s cheekbone, Eddie’s quiet devotion. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
It’s everything Buck’s ever wanted.
After what feels like an eternity— a blissful, sun-soaked eternity — Eddie gently draws away. One of his hands still lingers at Buck’s waist. Buck blinks his eyes open slowly, dazed, and all hope of being able to form a rational thought leaves him when he sees how pink Eddie’s lips are.
“I love you,” Eddie says: conviction in his tone; softness in his eyes. Then, like he hasn’t just rocked Buck’s world twice over, he adds: “Now come inside before the neighbours complain.”
Buck stares at him, mouth open. “I have groceries in the car—”
“We’ll put them in the fridge.”
The touch at Buck’s waist disappears. Eddie’s fingers trail gently down his forearm until their palms meet. They’ve clasped each others’ hands dozens of times before, anchoring each other during dangerous calls, but not like this. He’s never had Eddie’s fingers threaded through his before; never been so perfectly intertwined.
Eddie tugs him forward: needy; impatient. “You don’t get to confess your love for me and then leave because your frozen fruit blend is melting.”
“Technically, I confessed my love for you two days ago,” Buck replies, but he’s already unfortunately removing his hand from Eddie’s to open the car door. He grabs two bags of groceries; Eddie carries the third with ease. “And how’d you know I got frozen fruit?”
“Because I know you,” Eddie says, and it sounds like I love you all over again.
They make quick work of putting away groceries and even faster work of falling into bed together. The next few languid, dreamlike hours are spent learning each other in a way Buck never thought he’d be allowed to do.
Afterwards, as they lay together atop rumpled sheets, he’s still not convinced this is all real. Their hands are slotted perfectly together again. Eddie’s on his back, free hand carding gently through Buck’s hair in a way that makes him feel so impossibly safe. Buck is curled into his side, his free hand splayed out over Eddie’s heart, fingertips tapping nonsensical patterns against his collarbone.
He nestles his face a little further into Eddie’s warm neck. Lost in the heady smell of sweat and eucalyptus shampoo, he thinks, I love you.
Eddie lets out a soft, content sigh. For a moment, he thinks Eddie’s read his mind — or maybe he’s just said it out loud again by accident — and then he realizes he can say it whenever he wants. The thought can exist outside his head. It can be more than just a ritual of endless longing.
“I love you,” Buck murmurs, kissing the side of his neck.
“I love you.” The underside of his jaw.
“I love you.” The corner of his lips, turning upward as he realizes what Buck is doing.
“I love you.” The little mole beneath his left eye, his cheekbone, and the mole again for good measure.
Eddie hums. “Are you ever gonna give me the chance to say it back?”
“Probably not,” Buck decides, pressing another feather-light kiss to the tip of Eddie’s nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I—”
“I love you,” Buck interrupts, grinning when Eddie swats at his arm.
“You’re an asshole,” Eddie informs him, laughing, and then pulls him in for a kiss that makes his head spin. When they draw apart, he’s wearing an expression Buck can only describe as fond.
“You’re lucky you’re so easy to love.”
Buck feels himself flush from his cheeks all the way to his toes. He takes those words — those surreal, impossible words — and tucks them into the sacred spot above his collarbone, where Eddie, with just a hand on his shoulder, has placed that sentiment so many times before. It’ll be safe there until Buck can believe it.
Eddie leans into him a little, seeming to know what he’s thinking— always, always knowing what he’s thinking. “I mean it,” he says, gaze unwavering, hand still perfectly intertwined with his. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Buck replies.
He can’t wait to repeat it for the rest of his life.