Chapter Text
Eddie never thought—even for a minute—that the bratty firefighter he met eight years ago would be the person to ruin him forever but hey, things change.
He's not exactly sure when that change started to happen. It wasn't abrupt like being splashed with cold water or burnt from a hot pan, it was slow, steady and disguised as a simply platonic relationship. All he knows is that somewhere between him leaving and returning from Texas, he had figured it out.
Because before Texas, he wouldn't have thought twice about Buck's laughter. The way his crooked grin stretched. The way he leant his head back at first and then almost collapses in on himself when something gets too funny. He wouldn't have thought about how Buck always uses his hands to talk, especially when he's passionate about something. He wouldn't have thought about just how easy Buck is to be around—about how easy it is to orbit him.
And then he got back from Texas and he noticed it all. Like it had been waiting for him.
Like it had been there the whole time and Eddie had just... missed it. Now he sees it everywhere.
He sees it when Buck is leaning against the kitchen counter at the firehouse, half listening to Chimney while still managing to look like he's the centre of the room without trying. He sees it when Buck steals the last of someone's fries like it's not a crime and then grins when he gets called out, all innocence that doesn't fool anyone except the people who want to let him get away with it.
Eddie doesn't say anything when it happens. He just watches. That's the problem now too. He watches too much.
Because there's something about Buck when he's not aware he's being observed, something unguarded that Eddie feels almost guilty for noticing. Like he's stumbled into a private version of him that no one else is supposed to hold onto.
He notices it now, as Buck laughs at something Hen says, loud and bright and completely unrestrained, and Eddie feels it settle in his chest in a way that's almost physical. Not sharp. Not painful. Just... full. Like something expanding into space it was always meant to occupy.
He tells himself it's normal. That it's just Buck. That everyone reacts to Buck like this.
But then he looks around.
Chimney is laughing. Hen is smiling. Ravi is shaking his head like he's seen this exact thing a hundred times before. Yet none of them are looking at Buck the way Eddie is.
Eddie shifts his weight slightly, like he can physically adjust something inside himself by moving his body. It doesn't work.
Buck runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that careless way that somehow makes him look even more like himself, and Eddie thinks—unhelpfully, immediately—that he would know that gesture anywhere now. That he could probably recognise Buck from just the shape of his silhouette if he had to.
That thought sits too close to something dangerous. So he pushes it down. He always pushes it down.
Buck says something else—Eddie doesn't even catch what it is—and everyone laughs again. This time Buck looks over, eyes landing on Eddie like it's instinct, like he's checking he's still there.
Eddie realises, with a strange kind of clarity, that he always is.
There's a beat where Buck's grin softens just slightly, like he's waiting for something from Eddie specifically. A reaction. A look. Anything. Eddie gives him a small shake of his head instead, something easy, something familiar. Buck laughs again, like that's enough. And Eddie thinks—quietly, without meaning to think it at all—
Yeah. That's a problem. Because if Buck ever stopped looking at him like that, Eddie isn't entirely sure what would be left of him after.
He notices it later on that day too, when Eddie thinks he's finally stopped thinking about it. Except he hasn't.
He's just gotten better at pretending he isn't.
Christopher is on the living room floor, sprawled out on his stomach with a comic book half-open in front of him, kicking his feet absentmindedly against the rug like he can't quite sit still even when he's trying to focus. The television is on low volume in the background, some cartoon Eddie isn't really paying attention to, the kind of noise that fills a space without demanding anything from it.
And Buck is there. Of course he is.
He's sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Christopher like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he's always belonged in this exact position, in this exact house, in this exact moment. He's talking about something Eddie only catches fragments of—something about superheroes, or maybe physics, or maybe just Buck being Buck and turning a simple explanation into something that feels bigger than it needs to be.
But it isn't really the words Eddie hears.
It's the sound of him.
Buck laughs mid-sentence and it cuts through everything else. Not just the TV, not just Christopher's occasional shifting, but the whole room. It's loud and unfiltered and it fills the space like it doesn't ask permission first. Christopher immediately laughs with him, that sharp, bright kid-laugh that always sounds like it's been pulled straight out of him without warning.
And Eddie just... listens. He realises he always listens for Buck now. Not in a conscious way. Not like he's waiting for him specifically. It's worse than that. It's automatic.
Buck says something else—too fast, too animated—and Christopher interrupts him, overlapping their voices without hesitation.
"Wait, wait, wait—Buck, that doesn't make sense," Christopher says, and there's amusement in it, no frustration, just comfort. Like arguing with Buck is part of the rhythm of things.
Buck gasps like he's been personally offended. "It makes perfect sense. You just don't have the required level of genius yet."
Christopher snorts. "That's not a thing."
"It is absolutely a thing."
Christopher laughs again, louder this time, and Buck laughs with him like it's the easiest response in the world.
Eddie stands a few feet away without meaning to. He doesn't remember moving there. He just notices that he has.
There's the sound of the floor creaking slightly under Christopher shifting positions, the soft rustle of comic pages turning, Buck's voice dropping lower as he explains something again, slower this time, like he's actually trying now. Like Christopher matters enough to him to make him try.
Eddie hears that too.
That difference.
He hears the way Buck's tone changes when it's just them in the room like this. Softer at the edges. Less performative. Less like he's trying to fill silence and more like he's just... existing inside it.
Christopher goes quiet for a moment, clearly listening now, and Eddie catches the sound of Buck pausing mid-thought. A small breath in. A shift of weight. The faint scrape of his hand against the floor as he steadies himself.
Then Buck says Christopher's name, gently, like he's making sure he still has his attention.
And Christopher says, "Yeah, I get it," in that half-convinced way kids always do when they're trying to prove they understand more than they actually do.
Buck laughs again, quieter this time. Warm instead of loud.
And Eddie feels it again—that thing he keeps trying to ignore.
Because it isn't just that Buck is here. It's that Buck fits here.
The sound of him in this room feels wrong in the sense that Eddie can't imagine it ever not being there.
Christopher shifts suddenly, rolling onto his back with a dramatic groan. "I'm bored," he announces, even though he very clearly isn't.
Buck leans back on his hands, tilting his head slightly as if considering this like it's a serious problem. "That sounds like a you issue."
Christopher kicks lightly at Buck's leg. "Help me."
Buck gasps again, offended on principle. "I am helping you. I am emotionally supporting your boredom crisis."
Christopher laughs so hard he actually rolls onto his side, comic book slipping out of his hands onto the floor with a soft thud Eddie can hear even from where he stands.
Eddie should move. He knows he should.
But he doesn't.
Because Buck is looking at Christopher like he's something worth paying attention to. Like he's interesting. Like he matters in a way that is effortless.
And Christopher is looking at Buck like he belongs there.
Like this is normal. Like this is permanent.
Buck reaches out then, nudging Christopher's shoulder lightly with his hand, and the sound of it—the soft contact against fabric, the small shift of movement on the floor—lands louder in Eddie's head than it should.
Christopher bats his hand away immediately, still laughing. Buck lets him.
Eddie hears that too. The letting. He hears everything now, it feels like.
The smallest sounds become evidence of something he doesn't have a name for yet. The laugh. The breath. The casual touch. The way Christopher's voice always gets slightly higher when Buck is involved. The way Buck answers without hesitation, like he's never unsure where he stands in this house.
Eddie finally looks away for a second, just long enough to steady himself.
When he looks back, Buck is mid-sentence again, gesturing with his hands like always, like his whole body is part of the conversation. Christopher is watching him like he's hanging onto every word, even when he's pretending he isn't.
And Eddie thinks, very quietly, very unfairly that he didn't notice when this became something he couldn't imagine losing.
Buck laughs again.
And Eddie hears it like a warning now.
Buck stays for dinner without either of them really acknowledging that he's doing it. It just... happens.
One minute Eddie is pulling ingredients out of the fridge while Christopher complains dramatically about homework from the kitchen table and the next Buck is beside him stealing slices of bell pepper straight from the chopping board like he pays rent there.
"Those are for the fajitas," Eddie says without looking up.
Buck hums thoughtfully around the bite. "Mm. Shame."
Eddie rolls his eyes despite himself, nudging Buck lightly with his elbow when he reaches for another piece. Buck grins immediately, entirely unapologetic, and Eddie has to look away before the expression settles somewhere dangerous inside his chest again.
Christopher groans loudly from the table. "You guys are gross."
Buck gasps. "Excuse you?"
"You flirt constantly."
Eddie nearly drops the knife.
Buck bursts into laughter instantly, bright and unrestrained in that way that always catches Eddie slightly off guard no matter how used to it he should be by now. Christopher joins in immediately, delighted by the reaction he caused, and suddenly the kitchen is full of noise. Too much noise for Eddie to hide behind his own pulse.
"Pretty sure wanting to murder me for stealing vegetables isn't flirting, buddy," Buck says.
Christopher shrugs. "Sure."
Eddie clears his throat, reaching for the pan mostly so he has something to do with his hands. "Okay you, go back to doing homework."
Christopher grins wickedly. "You're blushing."
"I literally am not."
Buck laughs again. Eddie feels it somewhere beneath his ribs.
Dinner passes easily after that. It always does with Buck here. Conversation slips between them naturally, overlapping and messy and comfortable in a way Eddie stopped noticing a long time ago. Or maybe he never stopped noticing. Maybe that's the problem.
Because Buck fits into his evenings so seamlessly now that Eddie can't remember what the apartment felt like before him.
Christopher disappears to shower after eating, leaving Buck and Eddie alone in the kitchen with dirty dishes stacked in the sink and music playing quietly from Buck's phone where it sits face-down on the counter.
Buck had connected it to Eddie's speaker without asking. Again.
Eddie should probably say something about how Buck keeps doing that. Instead he just listens to the soft music drifting through the apartment while Buck rolls his sleeves higher up his forearms and reaches automatically for the soap to put in the water.
Domestic.
The thought lands suddenly and heavily enough that Eddie nearly hates it. Because it is domestic.
Buck standing beside him with dish soap on his hands shouldn't feel intimate. It shouldn't feel like something dangerous. But Eddie is standing close enough to feel the warmth coming off Buck's skin every time he moves and suddenly the kitchen feels too small for all the things Eddie refuses to say out loud.
"You washing or drying?" Buck asks.
Eddie blinks. "What?"
Buck glances over, amused already. "Wow. You really checked out for a second there, huh?"
"Shut up."
Buck smiles softly at that. Not teasing this time. Just fond. God.
"I'll wash," Eddie says eventually, turning toward the sink before Buck can notice the way that look almost undid him completely.
The water runs warm over his hands as Buck moves beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush every few seconds in the cramped space. Neither of them move away from it.
That should probably mean less than it does.
Eddie hands Buck a plate without looking directly at him. Buck takes it carefully, fingers brushing Eddie's for barely half a second.
It still feels catastrophic. Not because it's unusual. That's the worst part. Buck touches him all the time.
Hands on his shoulders after rough calls. Fingers curling around the back of his neck when Buck laughs too hard. Knees bumping together on the couch during movie nights. Absentminded touches that Buck gives away freely, easily, like affection is something he was built to express physically. And Eddie—
Eddie feels every single one.
Even now, something as stupid as Buck's fingertips against his own sends warmth shooting all the way up his arm before settling low and aching somewhere in his chest.
Buck says something then, some absentminded comment about Chimney nearly setting the station kitchen on fire earlier, but Eddie barely hears him over the sound of water running and his own heartbeat climbing steadily louder in his ears.
Because Buck leans closer as he talks. Not intentionally. Just naturally. Like proximity to Eddie is something unconscious now.
Eddie risks a glance sideways.
Buck is focused on drying the plate in his hands, hair still slightly messy from Christopher shoving him earlier, mouth curved into a small smile at his own story before he even reaches the punchline.
Eddie loves him so much he feels sick with it sometimes. The realization comes quietly.
Not dramatic. Not sharp. Just certain.
Buck laughs softly at his own joke before looking over. "You listening to me at all?"
Eddie forces himself back into the room. "Obviously."
"You're staring again."
The words hit Eddie hard enough he almost drops the glass in his hands.
Buck doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does.
His expression stays easy, open, warm in that terrifyingly familiar way that always makes Eddie feel like he's standing too close to the edge of something.
"I wasn't staring," Eddie lies.
Buck snorts. "Sure."
Then Buck reaches out. Just casually. Just Buck being Buck.
His hand lands briefly against Eddie's side as he moves around him to place a dry dish back in the cupboard. Barely anything. A guiding touch more than anything else. Fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of Eddie's shirt for maybe a second at most.
Platonic. Meaningless. Normal.
Eddie feels it in every bone of his body. His breath catches so quietly he prays Buck doesn't hear it. But suddenly he can feel everything at once. Buck's hand. The warmth of it. The shape of his fingers. The solid weight of him standing close behind Eddie for one brief suspended moment before moving away again.
It burns through Eddie like a live wire.
And Buck doesn't even know. That's the unbearable part. Buck does these things naturally and has no idea on how much it torments Eddie to the core.
Buck goes back to drying dishes like nothing happened while Eddie stands there trying to remember how to breathe normally again.
The kitchen feels quieter suddenly. Smaller.
Or maybe Eddie is just too aware of Buck occupying every inch of space around him.
"You okay?" Buck asks after a moment.
Eddie nods too quickly. "Yeah."
Buck studies him for a second longer than necessary.
Then, softly, "You sure?"
And there it is again. That thing Buck does.
That unbearable gentleness. Like Eddie is something worth handling carefully. Eddie looks down at the dish in his hands because he physically cannot look directly at Buck when he sounds like that.
"Yeah, just tired," he says again, quieter this time.
Buck hums like he believes him. He shouldn't.
The song changes on Buck's phone, softer now, something low and slow drifting through the apartment while water runs steadily from the tap.
Beside him, Buck starts talking again. And Eddie listens. Of course he does. He thinks he always will.
Buck stopped over most nights, at least three times a week but evidentially tonight wasn't one of them. Which was normal. Perfectly normal.
Buck had his own apartment. His own life. Sometimes he stayed over so late that it stopped making sense to drive home and other times Christopher begged him into staying for movie nights and sometimes Buck just... stayed. Like the apartment pulled him back naturally. Like leaving was an afterthought.
But tonight he'd smiled easy and soft by the door, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and said:
"Text me tomorrow, yeah?"
Then he'd left. And Eddie had watched him go with something heavy lodged beneath his ribs.
Now the apartment is quiet in a way that feels wrong. Not silent. Never silent.
The refrigerator hums faintly from the kitchen. Pipes creak somewhere in the walls. Cars pass outside every so often, headlights briefly spilling through the gap in Eddie's curtains before disappearing again. Christopher is asleep down the hall, and Eddie can hear the occasional shift of movement from his room if he listens hard enough.
The apartment sounds exactly the same as it always does. And still, something is missing from it.
Eddie stares up at the ceiling, one arm folded beneath his head while the other rests uselessly against his stomach. The digital clock beside the bed glows 1:17 a.m. in dull red numbers. He should be asleep.
He's exhausted enough for it. His body aches pleasantly from the shift earlier, heavy in that familiar way that usually knocks him out within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
Instead he's lying awake thinking about Buck. Again. It's pathetic, honestly. Buck was here barely four hours ago.
Eddie can still see the evidence of him if he tries hard enough. Can still picture him standing barefoot in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, laughing under his breath while drying dishes. Can still hear the sound of his voice drifting through the apartment so naturally that Eddie had stopped noticing how much space it occupied until it was gone.
That's the thing. Buck leaves and Eddie only notices him more.
He shifts onto his side with a quiet sigh, reaching blindly toward the other half of the bed before catching himself halfway there.
The movement makes him still completely.
Because that—
That right there is the problem. Not the reaching. The instinct behind it. Like some part of him had expected to find another body there.
Warmth. Buck.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut briefly, pressing the heel of his hand against them until colours spark behind his eyelids.
This is getting bad. No. That's not true. This has been bad for a long time now.
He just keeps pretending otherwise.
Outside, rain starts softly against the windows. Barely there at first. Just a faint tapping sound against the glass that slowly grows steadier. Immediately, helplessly, Eddie thinks of Buck. Of course he does.
He thinks about that night after the park when the rain had started too suddenly for either of them to outrun it properly. Christopher had screamed with laughter while Buck swore loudly beside him, both of them soaked through within seconds.
Buck's hair had dripped into his eyes the entire walk home. His shirt had clung to him embarrassingly closely. And Eddie remembers looking over at him underneath the streetlights and feeling something strange twist low in his stomach when Buck grinned at him through the rain like it was the best thing that had happened all week.
When they got home Buck had shivered dramatically for nearly ten minutes straight while Christopher laughed at him from beneath three blankets on the couch.
Eddie remembers that too.
Remembers Buck emerging from the shower with damp curls falling into his face and flushed skin from the hot water. Remembers handing him a towel. Remembers trying not to stare.
God.
Eddie rolls onto his back again with another frustrated exhale. Every road in his head somehow leads back to Buck now.
Tequila reminds him of Buck. Rain reminds him of Buck. Certain songs. Certain foods. The sound of laughter from another room. Hoodies tossed over chairs. Half-open cabinet doors. Stupid superhero movies. The smell of coffee too early in the morning.
Buck exists inside every part of Eddie's life now in ways that feel impossible to untangle.
And maybe that's what scares him most.
Not loving him. Not wanting him.
But how natural it feels.
Like Buck slid quietly into the shape of Eddie's life so carefully that Eddie didn't notice until suddenly he was everywhere.
In the kitchen. On the couch. In Christopher's voice. In Eddie's routines.
In the empty space beside him now that feels far too cold for a bed that's only occupied by one person.
Eddie swallows hard against the feeling rising unexpectedly in his throat.
He wants Buck here. The thought comes soft.
Simple. Dangerous. He wants the sound of Buck moving around his apartment half asleep. Wants his laugh echoing from the kitchen while he steals Eddie's coffee. Wants the warmth of him sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch during some terrible late-night movie neither of them are actually watching. He wants—
God.
He just wants Buck. And the worst part is that he knows if he picked up his phone right now and texted him, Buck would probably answer immediately. Probably come back, honestly.
Not because Buck knows. Just because it's Eddie. Because Buck has always come when Eddie needed him. The thought nearly undoes him completely. Because Buck trusts him with that love so freely. So unquestioningly. He gives and gives and gives without ever seeming to realise how much of himself he places into Eddie's hands.
And Eddie has taken all of it.
Every smile. Every touch. Every late night conversation. Every quiet moment in this apartment that felt too intimate to belong to friendship but somehow still did.
Eddie turns his head finally, staring toward the faint strip of light beneath his bedroom door.
The apartment still feels shaped around Buck somehow. Like his absence has weight. Like if Eddie listens hard enough he might still hear him laughing softly from the kitchen.
Instead there's only rain against the windows. And Eddie lying awake wanting something he can never ask for.
Something that he knows is ruining him. But the thing is, Eddie had a feeling he'd let it ruin him forever.