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When Buck gets to the station and takes the stairs up to the loft, three trays of Bobby’s famous lasagna stacked high and hot in his arms, he expects to find his family starving and—okay, maybe excited to see him beyond the heaping stack of food. There may have been a fantasy or twelve during noodle prep where he’d imagined a slow applause, a grateful group hug, a medal of some type.
A stretch? A hundred percent.
So it’s not a surprise, exactly, that that’s not what he finds.
What is a surprise, though, is almost all of his favorite people sat at the table, plates full of spaghetti, humming their approval over it. And Sam—if that even is his name, at the moment, Buck’s not convinced it’s not Napoleon Bonafreakingparte—grinning in the kitchen, wearing Buck’s apron, as he puts together another plate.
“What, uh,” Buck says, stopping at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on here?”
Sam steps around the island, grinning, “Hey, man! I made spaghetti to thank everyone for the warm welcome. Want me to make you a plate?”
Warm? Welcome?
For the guy who lied to a room full of bureaucrats who were ready to fire Chimney over it?
A clink of silverware hitting porcelain drags Buck’s confused glare back to the table, as four other sets of silverware follow after it. Like a wind chime of betrayal, ringing the bitter song of the 118’s treachery, their silverware sings with shame.
At least, that’s what it sounds like to Buck.
Chim slowly sucks up the marinara drenched noodle hanging out of his mouth and waves a hand, swallowing like it hurts. Good. Buck woke up at 4am to make them Bobby’s lasagna and they’re here. Eating the traitors spaghetti. Like he didn’t try and get Chim fired less than a week ago.
“Hey,” Chim says, like he doesn’t have evidence of his betrayal clinging to his upper lip, “Buckaroo. We weren’t expecting you to stop by.”
Like this isn’t Buck’s station, too. Like this isn’t his home.
Like Bobby didn’t leave the kitchen to him years before they lost him.
Buck narrows his eyes at him and looks around the table, seeks out the one person he knows wouldn’t—and, ha! Eddie’s eating one of the day old cookies Buck sent in yesterday, staring down at his phone like Sam’s spaghetti hasn’t even crossed into the threshold of things he cares about.
At least someone—
Sam sidles up next to him and sets a plate in front of him.
Eddie makes a quiet, “ooh,” coo and sets Buck’s cookie on a napkin beside the plate in favor of picking up a fork and spoon.
Buck blinks.
What.
Harry elbows Eddie.
Eddie frowns, a mouthful of spaghetti already halfway to his mouth, and follows Harry’s gaze. Something happens—like his brain and hand short circuit and he can’t figure out if he wants the spaghetti or to drop the fork, and as Buck raises an eyebrow, he does both. His teeth bite down on the metal prongs of the fork and everything on it goes falling back to the plate as he lets go of it, unleashing noodle and sopping sauce. Spaghetti sauce splashes back onto his forehead with a quiet splat.
Serves him right.
He grimaces and opens his mouth, allowing the fork to finally fall to the plate with a pathetic thump into the oversauced spaghetti.
“Hey, Buck,” he says, offering up a weak grin. “I thought you were coming at the end of shift.”
Good thing he didn’t wait.
He opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the long, drawn out slurrrrrp of a noodle. Buck turns his head, slowly to find Ravi sitting across from Eddie, face practically buried in his plate of spaghetti as he shovels a forkful into his mouth like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten.
What the fuck.
“I wanted to surprise my family,” he says it with emphasis, pointed, as Hen looks down and away, scratching the top of her ear. “With a home cooked meal.”
Sam laughs from the kitchen, “Ah, man, you don’t have to worry about that!”
In Buck’s periphery, Harry facepalms over his plate. Ravi slowly sits up and sets his fork down, pushing the plate away from himself.
“No?” Buck asks, mindful of the way his voice pitches upwards. He steps further into the loft, carrying the trays of lasagna past the traitors to set them carefully on the kitchen island. They may be traitors but he doesn’t need to take it out on Bobby’s lasagna.
“Nah,” Sam waves a hand, and reaches for a plate by the sink. “Here, let me make you a plate—“
Buck glares at him and yanks the foil off the top of the top tray. “No, thanks,” he says, voice high and calm and collected and not at all like he’s about to go off the rails. “I wouldn’t want Bobby’s lasagna to go to waste.” He sneaks an evil eye towards the table.
Chim has another noodle sticking out of the corner of his mouth, that he quickly sucks in and smiles innocently around when he realizes Buck’s looking.
“Don’t you have a meeting this afternoon?” Hen asks.
Buck pauses. Turns to look at her. “How’s the spaghetti, Hen?”
Her eyebrows go high and she nods, shaking her head once and turning back to the plate without another word, like she’s figured this is going to be a whole thing and she wants no part in it. Which is—it’s crazy, alright? It’s not a thing. He just wants to—to provide for his family the way they provided for him and instead this stranger is interloping in Buck’s kitchen wearing Buck’s apron.
Okay.
So maybe it’s a thing.
And rightfully so, actually. Buck cooks during a shift. He makes extras for B and C shift. It’s how he gives back.
How’s he supposed to give back if Sam is Cassius’ing up his firehouse?
Buck steps around the island and reaches for a plate by the sink without taking his glare off Sam, like he might try and sneak his betrayal spaghetti onto Buck’s plate. Try and trick him. He knows his game. And he won’t fall prey to it. Even if the rest of the 118 has.
He may have made a Brutus of the 118, but he won’t make a Caesar of Buck.
He finally turns to reach for a serving spoon in the drawer by the stove, pausing at the sight of the oven light where it’s indicating that there’s something cooking within. He blindly sets the plate on the counter and turns to give it his full attention.
Sniffs.
Chocolate.
He almost missed it over the pungent scent of perfidy.
“Oh, you spotted the brownies?” Sam asks, laughing, like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. What he’s done. “I figured—“
Buck whips around to look at him. “You’re baking brownies?”
Someone whispers something at the table, a thump—hiss—groan follows in its wake before eventually getting answered with a hissed, “I’m going!”
Behind Sam, where a flicker of confusion finally furrows his stupid eyebrows, Eddie stands. “Hey, I was really thinking about getting a work out in, Buck. You think you could spot me?”
Buck’s gaze darts over to him. He leans to the left to look at him properly, where he’s standing by the table with his maybe it’s time to calm down, bud look on his face, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other motioning over his shoulder with his thumb, like it’s going to keep Buck from noticing the dallop of marinara sauce still center stage on his forehead.
“You have spaghetti sauce on your face.”
He grimaces, turning to Harry, who nods solemnly and holds out a defeated napkin to him.
Eddie sighs and takes it, shaking his head as he turns back around and rubs at his forehead with it, all the while giving Buck an alright, ease up look coupled with his damn eyelashes.
Buck will not give in to fluttering lashes and doe eyes when subterfuge hangs so heavy in the air.
“Eddie doesn’t like middle pieces,” Buck says, turning back to Sam.
Sam’s mouth pinches up and then down and then up again, almost cautiously. “I—um. Used the pan with the dividers? So there. Um.” He looks over his shoulder towards the table, and Buck follows his gaze to the table where they’re all staring at him and slowly shaking their heads. He turns back around, swallows and shrugs a shoulder almost apologetically. “Aren’t? Any. Middle pieces?”
Bucks pan with the dividers, by the way.
The pan he bought specifically because Eddie doesn’t like the middle pieces.
How would his support group respond to a murder confession? They’d help him work through that, too, right?
Hi, my name’s Buck. I got kidnapped, and tortured and as a result became dependent on my pain medication and almost ruined my life and my best friends in the process. And also, I killed the guy who’s supposed to cover for me while the brass decides whether or not I deserve to come back. His crime? He cooked for my family. My Ed—my entire family.
Actually—
At least Chris isn’t here. Not that he’d be sitting at the table with the rest of the Benedict Arnold’s.
Chris wouldn’t have eaten the traitors spaghetti. Chris has standards.
Sam’s brownies are probably as dry as his spaghetti is wet.
“Buckley!” A voice cheers from the top of the stairs.
Buck frowns, turning to greet them, a confused little smile taking its place as Jones jogs across the dining area towards the island, rubbing his hands together. “Tell me this is Bobby’s lasagna. I could smell it all the way in the gym!”
Buck blinks, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “It—yeah. It is.”
Jones looks past him towards Sam, waving a hand, “No shame to you, man,” he says. “But the only recipes I’m eating out of this kitchen come from the Nash recipe book.”
A smile cracks open Buck’s chest and he puffs it out, crossing his arms and looking at the guilty faces around the table. “You and me both, Jones.”
Jones reaches for the plate Buck discarded and hums to himself as he helps himself to a huge serving of lasagna. Bucks turns to the table, tilting his head to the side. This is what he expected. A little appreciation. A little understanding. And all he found instead was betrayal.
Eddie sighs. “Buck.”
“Eddie.”
“Let’s go to the gym, bud.”
Buck huffs. “You—“
The tones cut him off and Chim jerks to his feet like he’d been praying for this and points to Eddie. “Dee-ahz,” he says, tossing his mottled napkin on the table with his other hand. “You’re man behind on this call. Everyone else, let’s go.”
Jones groans, stuffing a forkful of lasagna into his mouth before saying something that sounds like, “I’m coming back for you,” through the mouthful to his plate, accompanied by a mournful shake of his head. He sets the plate down and follows after Chimney.
Buck watches the rest of them make for the stairs like their asses are on fire and he knows they’re going to laugh at him in the engine but it’s not funny. Everything they’ve done for him the past couple weeks, this is all he has to give back. This is how he shows his appreciation, his gratitude, and Sam—gives him a closed lip smile as he tugs off Bucks apron and jogs after the rest of the team—is stealing it.
And if they don’t know he’s grateful or appreciative or that being a part of this team is everything to him, and not just because he loves being a firefighter, because he wouldn’t love it as much at any other house, because of them—if they don’t know.
Then Sam stops being a temp and Buck’s name gets covered in the locker room and where does he go from there? He knew he’d lose the job. He’s not convinced the committee will let him back on, but he’d hoped that if he couldn’t be employed here, he could still—be a part of the 118.
But if Sam’s cooking.
What the hell is Buck supposed to do?
Eddie moves around the table and comes to a stop in front of him. “Alright, frowny,” he says around a long, dramatic sigh that’s obviously a ploy for response, but Buck just frowns harder at him. He shakes his head and reaches out, carefully unwinding Buck’s crossed arms, and watching with raised eyebrows as Buck lets them flop to his sides gracelessly.
And Buck cracks.
“You were gonna eat his brownies?”
He sounds a little pathetic.
Hell, he is a little pathetic. God.
“You can’t cook every meal,” Eddie replies, like it’s a sensible response to a senseless accusation.
Buck looks down and away.
It’s true, though.
He can’t cook every meal.
Because he’s on administrative leave.
“Buck.”
He scoffs defiantly. “Benedict.”
Eddie’s brows furrow. “Benedict?”
“As in Arnold. You know. The most infamous traitor in American history?” There’s no spirit to the jab, though, and he huffs, turning away to go put the trays of lasagna away. Jones’ half eaten plate sits on the counter beside them. He frowns down at it as he passes it, quietly opening the cabinet they store the aluminum foil in and pulling a roll out.
“Buck.”
Buck ignores him, choosing instead to go into the far drawer and pull out the sharpie he keeps there for exactly this reason. Well. Not this. Not even he could’ve prepared for any of the events that lead them here. Sighing, he turns back to the island and tears a piece of aluminum foil off the roll with maybe a little more aggression than necessary.
A hand settles overtop his.
He huffs, going still but refusing to meet Eddie’s gaze, even though he can feel it on the side of his face like a brand.
“He’s not replacing you.”
He scoffs, pulling his hand out from beneath Eddie’s and turning to face him, crossing his arms between them like a protective barrier. Not that he needs one with Eddie. He never has. It feels good to put the defenses up, though. He hasn’t really been able to be defensive in a while.
Eddie tilts his head to the side. “His foods not even that good.”
Buck narrows his eyes. “How do you know? Was there more than the spaghetti and the brownies?”
“Nice trap,” Eddie says, pointing. “But I’m not falling into it.”
“So there was!”
“Buck,” Eddie groans, reaching out and grabbing Buck by the biceps, hands squeezing like he’s trying to redirect Buck towards sense. “He’s not you. He’s never going to be you.” He shakes him gently as he speaks, holding Buck’s gaze like it’s important.
Buck breaks it, turning to look at the oven. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He should really pull Sam’s brownies out of the oven, though. No brownie deserves to be overcooked.
Eddie scoffs and leans back into his view. “Liar.”
“What?”
He tugs and shoves Buck until his back’s pressed into the island, and then releases Buck’s arms in order to take a step in and cross his own, a challenge settling into the cut of his jaw. “You’re being dramatic for attention.”
“I’m not being—“
“You know nobody could replace you.” His tone softens. “That we wouldn’t let anyone.” Head tilting to the side, his nose wrinkling in the way that’s particularly charming—and fully annoying when Buck’s trying to be mad at him because it’s hard to be mad when he looks like that—he adds, mumbling in that I love gossip tone that usually prefaces some weird deep understanding of something random Buck’s never noticed, “Besides, I wouldn’t really take the team eating some randos food to heart. You really think Harry and Chim are going to turn down any food?”
Instinctively, defensively, he wants to reply with a resounding yes.
Except.
Damn it.
No.
Eddie nods as if to say exactly. “If it’s edible,” he says, waving a hand next to them. “It’s gone.”
Buck deflates, letting the island hold his weight at his hips as he slumps back against it.
He knows that.
Logically. He knows that.
But—there’s that little voice at the back of his mind that demands to lay claim.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And it’s—it’s not necessarily the team it’s laying claim to, either.
“It’s not even about everyone else,” Buck admits quietly. “I know they’ll eat whatever’s put in front of them. But—,” He takes a deep breath, feeling particularly petulant as he adds, “You put my cookie down to eat his spaghetti.”
Mine.
Eddie’s mouth parts, and then closes, and he looks away, nodding. “I did,” he rasps, swallowing as his gaze slowly comes back around. “That the problem? You don’t want me eating another man’s food?”
Buck rolls his eyes, pushing away from the island. It’s not funny. “You—“
“No, come on,” Eddie reaches up and pokes him in the middle of the chest to keep him from moving. He doesn’t let up when Buck stills, either, his eyebrow quirking upwards. “Tell me.”
How does he even begin to explain?
In my head you’re mine.
Eddie’s straight, and Buck’s not in love with him, but in his head, Eddie’s his.
His to support, his to laugh with, his to feed, his to lo—
To feed.
His to feed.
He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth and resolutely does not let it spill out of him. It’s not logical. It’s not even insane. It’s just—senseless, is what it is. Eddie and Chris hold a place in Bucks head and heart that he can’t even properly name because there’s—it’s just—
They’re his.
That’s it.
And he can’t say that to Eddie. He can’t come in to the fire station while he’s on administrative leave because he couldn’t let himself go to Eddie and ask for help, freak out because everyone’s eating the lying liar’s spaghetti, and then just—what.
Say he feels like he has some sort of ownership over Eddie?
That’s not even what it is.
It’s not ownership.
It sounds like it. But it’s—
“Buck.”
Buck exhales shakily, meeting Eddie’s gaze. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “It’s stupid. I can’t cook every meal.” He starts to push away from the island, shaking his head. “I should get going. Hen was right, I—I have a meeting this afternoon.”
Eddie lets him stand upright, but doesn’t move back to give him the space to step away from the island. His palm’s pressing to the center of Buck’s chest, right at the base of his sternum, stopping from going any further.
“I didn’t say it’s stupid.”
“But it is.”
He doesn’t own Eddie.
Eddie’s eyes flicker back and forth between his. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is it stupid?” He pushes forward so they’re toe to toe, the tips of his work boots butting up against the tip of Buck’s tennis shoes. “Because it’s your insecurity? Because I know if I came to you, jealous and worried, you wouldn’t call it stupid.”
Buck sniffs. “You don’t know that.”
Eddie lets the words sit between them for a long moment. Buck takes three big breaths before he says anything—he knows, because he counts them. Every time his chest rises and pushes him further into Eddie’s palm. Like he’s absorbing all that anxiety thrumming under Buck’s skin before allowing himself to reply.
“I do,” he says, finally. “Because you’re you and you’re not going to dismiss anyone else’s struggles. You’d probably sit me down on the couch and tell me every reason I have to not be jealous.” He tilts his head to the side. “After you let yourself be smug about it.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about you being jealous.”
Eddie’s gaze goes skyward, a quick shake of his head left to right accompanying it as he mutters, “Este idiota ciego,” under his breath. He reaches up with his free hand and runs it over the side of his face before dropping his chin and leveling Buck with a mild frown.
Buck forces a feeble smile. His Spanish isn’t great these days, but he still knows the basics. “I’m guessing I’m the idiota?”
Eddie blinks, like he’s caught, before chuckling softly to himself, his chin dipping down to his chest. He shakes his head again, but it’s less pleading with the heavens and more this fuckin’ guy.
“That sounds like a yes.”
Eddie stops laughing, but doesn’t move for a beat.
“You had a dog,” he admits in a quiet, almost annoyed rasp, glancing up from beneath his lashes and rolling his lips to the side with a shrug of his shoulders. “For a day, and I picked a fight with you that I knew I’d lose, because when we go petty for petty, one of us always does, to get your attention back on me.” He takes a deep breath and lifts his chin to look at him seriously. “I get jealous.”
Buck forces himself to laugh so he doesn’t cry. “Man,” he says. “What’re you gonna do when I get a dog long term?”
Eddie doesn’t smile.
Doesn’t even blink.
“Move in, probably.” He says it like it’s simple fact. Like it’s a totally normal response to one’s best friend getting a dog.
And—okay. Sure. Buck can play along.
He hums, like he’s thinking about it. “I do have a guest room.”
This time Eddie does blink, nodding, like he’s thinking about it. “Good thing Chris has already been scouting it out.”
Chris—
Wait.
If Chris is in the guest room, even in this unlikely scenario, the math doesn’t make sense.
Buck’s brows furrow. “I’m happy to have him but, uh. Where would you—“
“Probably the same place as the dog.”
Buck is firmly a the dog belongs in the bed type of guy. And they’ve had that conversation. Big dog. Big bed. Big cuddles.
So that doesn’t make sense.
“But the dog would be in bed with me.”
Eddie blinks at him, as if to say yeah, dummy. “How else am I supposed to avoid being jealous of it?”
Buck blinks. “You’re joking.”
Eddie looks down at where his palm’s still resting on Buck’s sternum, and then sighs, slowly inching it up to curve over the top of Buck’s shoulder. Thank god Buck’s wearing long sleeves, because goosebumps erupt up and down his arms and along his spine because everything about the movement feels like an echo of the word still whispering at the back of Buck’s head.
Mine.
Only—
Buck’s not the one claiming ownership.
“I didn’t just call you an idiot, you know,” Eddie murmurs, his gaze locked on his hand, like he’d been following its path with as much intensity and focus as every nerve ending in Buck’s body was.
“Huh?”
“You asked if you’re the idiota. You are. But did you catch the rest of it?”
Buck grimaces. His Spanish is mostly limited to the obvious. He really should start taking lessons again, now that he’s thinking about it.
Eddie nods, finally glancing up. “Ciego,” he says, his voice cracking and his lips sticking together like his mouth has gone completely dry. He licks them, then adds, quietly, “I said este idiota ciego. This blind idiot.”
Buck blinks, his own mouth going dry. He tries to swallow around the quickly growing lump at the back of his throat, but his tongue is heavy and uncooperative. “Why—why am I a blind idiot?”
“When the Tommy thing happened—“ he’s speaking slowly, like he’s picking his words carefully. His brow furrows, like he’s not actually happy with the ones he’s chosen, though, and he turns his head to the ceiling again. “It’s so much easier not talking about this.”
Buck sort of feels like he’s been given a pop quiz with no chance to study.
Because what the hell does that even mean?
“I think I’m confused.”
“Yeah, bud,” Eddie breathes, nodding at the ceiling. “I know.”
Sighing, Buck falls back against the island, his hands splaying out at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say. I don’t even know what I—I just don’t like him cooking for you, okay? I don’t want him to cook for you. If that makes me jealous, so be it. I don’t care. It’s probably because I don’t trust him, though? After what he did to Chimney? So.”
Eddie looks at him again, frowning. “He apologized.”
Buck scoffs.
“Buck.”
“Some things are unforgivable.”
Eddie’s frown deepens. “You’re changing the subject.”
“No,” Buck says, pointing, “I’m not. Chim had you stay behind to get me to see sense because I freaked about him cooking for everyone. This is—“
“Chim told me to stay behind,” Eddie interrupts, raising his voice and following Buck’s gaze, “because of a completely unrelated conversation he and I had this morning. Though, he did probably think it would mellow you out.”
Harumphing defensively, Buck mutters, “I’m mellow.”
One eyebrow quirks disbelievingly. “When have you ever been mellow?”
“Literally always.”
“Literally?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Including when you saw me put my cookie down to eat Sam’s spaghetti?”
Buck opens his mouth and promptly closes it.
“That’s what I thought.”
He narrows his eyes. And then pauses. “Wait. What completely unrelated conversation did you have with Chim that would have you be man behind?” He pushes up from the island, stepping in towards him, slipping one foot in between Eddie’s to get closer. “Are you okay?”
Eddie’s eyes flicker back and forth between his, widening slightly, like he expected Buck to breeze right past that.
Behind them, a loud buzzer goes off.
Eddie jerks away from him, twisting around, and Buck sighs, motioning to the egg timer by the stove and side stepping him. “It’s probably Sam’s brownies,” he says, pulling open the drawer closest to the oven and taking out his favorite oven mitt.
Eddie’s eyes follow him like a heavy weight settling on the back of his neck as he opens the oven door and pulls the brownies out, setting them on the stove top.
He doesn’t even need to do the toothpick test to know they’re overcooked. Ravi’ll like them, probably. Buck usually makes him his own slightly overcooked batch because he prefers the chew of a slightly burnt brownie, whatever that means. Some of the guys on B shift might eat whatever he doesn’t take.
They’re not a complete lost cause.
“This is what I’m talking about, by the way,” Eddie says behind him.
He turns, frowning. “What?”
“You hate the guy. You don’t want him cooking for us. You saved the brownies he made with the sole intention of feeding to us.”
“We’re firefighters,” Buck shrugs. “It’s what we do. Prevent fires.”
Eddie nods, his mouth downturning in a yeah, sure, but sort of expression. “You could’ve let them sit a little longer.”
“I—“ he twists around and looks at the tray, blinking down at it. He filled it too high—the brownies are probably overcooked on the edges and either too dry inside or complete goo at the center. And when they cool it’ll just be a textural nightmare. Even for Ravi.
“Anyone else would’ve let them burn. Hell,” Buck turns back to him. “I would’ve let them burn.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
He exhales through his nose, “If it would’ve made you happy to know we couldn’t eat them? I would’ve let them burn, Buck.”
“Now who’s the liar?” Buck shakes his head and turns back to the oven, reaching out to turn it off with a shake of his head.
Eddie wouldn’t let any sweet treat burn. And certainly not for the sake of Buck’s pettiness.
Eddie sighs behind him, and Buck pulls off the oven mit to set it back in the drawer. His hand hovers over the pack of toothpicks, and before he can stop himself, he plucks one from the package and brings it to Sam’s brownies, gently stabbing it. He gives it to the count of three and then pulls it back out.
Batter clings to the center of the stick.
Under and overcooked.
Damn, he’s gotten good at knowing what he’s looking at.
“Maybe I can help him with the cooking,” he murmurs, turning to drop the toothpick in the trash. “Teach him like Bobby taught me.”
Eddie crosses his arms, frowning down at the trash can. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like him being here isn’t temporary. You’re coming back.”
Buck shrugs, twisting and leaning against the counter next to the stove, crossing his own arms. “At some point we have to face reality,” he says, shrugging. “I might not get to come back. Sam might just. Be the new me. Be your partner. Become your best friend. Next thing you know, you’re moving in with him because he got a dog.”
Eddie stares at him, unimpressed. “You done?”
Buck shrugs. “I don’t know. Am I? Do you think he likes the same type of beer as you?”
“He doesn’t drink.”
How much talking have they done for him to know that?
Groaning, Buck asks, “How’s he going to get a beer with you after shift if he doesn’t drink?”
Eddie’s frown starts to shift into more of a glower.
“Does he live closer than me? Might be more convenient if you have weekly dinners with him.”
If Buck ignores the way his voice is rising in pitch, and the way his throat feels tighter with every word, he can pretend he’s not spiraling. He can pretend he doesn’t see it clear as day labeled THE FUTURE in an ominous box backed by scratchy background music in the back of his mind.
“Sure,” Eddie says, “And while we’re at it, maybe I should just marry him,” Eddie says.
Buck gasp-laughs, a kind of awful dying duck noise that jolts out of him, and says, too loud, “Maybe you should!”
Wait.
He pauses. Realizes what they’ve just said.
“What?” He forces himself to take a breath, and points at Eddie accusatorily, “You’re straight. You can’t marry Sam.”
Mine, that voice at the back of his head snaps.
Mine. Mine.
Eddie uncrosses his arms and takes a step towards him. “And if I weren’t straight,” he exhales, soft, like he’s posing a particularly difficult question. “I could?”
“You could?”
“Marry Sam.”
Hell no.
Buck clears his throat, shuffling and standing up straight as Eddie raises his eyebrows expectantly. “If—if you wanted to, sure. But, you—you’re straight. So. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Okay.” Eddie laughs softly to himself, “Of all the ways to—“ he shakes his head, and steps closer. “Alright, so.”
Buck’s brows pinch together.
Eddie throws his hands out at his sides. “I’m not.”
Nodding slowly, Buck says, “Marrying Sam? I know?”
Eddie groans. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”
“I’m not being difficult. You’re being vague.”
Eddie makes a kind of growling face, baring his teeth, and runs both of his hands through his hair like he’s frustrated, and then says, fast and loud, and impossibly clear, “I don’t know how much clearer I can be that I’m gay and in love with you, man.”
A flight of birds takes off in Buck’s chest as Eddie’s heaves in a big breath—a stampede of wild animals roar across the landscape of his ribs—a magnitude 8.0 earthquake shatters the foundation of all reality as a category 5 hurricane washes everything left standing away; sight, sound, understanding. Gone. All at once.
Buck’s first thought is that he’s in another coma dream.
He figured it out a lot faster last time, and he couldn’t even begin to try and pinpoint where it started but—
That has to be what’s happening.
Because Eddie definitely did not just say—
“Buck?”
Ah. Eddie.
“I—I think I mishea—“
“You didn’t. You know you didn’t.”
First of all; unfair to assume Buck knows anything right now, not to mention factually, indisputably incorrect.
Because five seconds ago Buck lived in the reality where he could still insist to anyone who even looked like they might imply otherwise, that he is not hopelessly pining after his straight best friend.
“It’s why Chim had me stay as man behind.”
Eddie needs to stop talking.
Eddie needs to stop fucking talking.
“That’s homophobic,” Buck manages, his voice crackly and thick.
Eddie doesn’t laugh. “Buck.”
“Keeping you from calls because you’re gay,” He forces a panicked laugh and shoves away from the counter, taking the long way around the island while his heart skips several beats—why did he stop wearing his smart watch? He’s pretty sure he’s going into cardiac arrest and he has no tangible proof otherwise.
Eddie stays on his side of the island, watching him.
Buck drags the aluminum foil back overtop the top pan of lasagna, his stomach twisting.
Is he dying?
Point to coma dream?
“That’s not why he had me stay behind.”
Buck hums noncommittally and steps around the island to head to the fridge. He pulls it open and starts moving things around to make space for the lasagna. Sauces go into the door. Takeout boxes moved to the top and bottom shelves. The three quarter empty bag of shredded cheese finds its home in the drawer with the bags of lettuce.
“I don’t know who’s been organizing this while I’ve been gone but it’s chaos.”
Eddie sighs. “Buck.”
Buck turns to the island and grabs the trays of lasagna. “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
Preserving whatever remnants of his sanity that might still be kicking around.
“Putting the lasagna away.”
There’s a long moment of silence.
And then, “Can you look at me?”
Ha, no.
No, Buck cannot look at him.
He stuffs the lasagna pans in the fridge and stands there to stare at them. Now what? They’re put away. If he closes the door he knows Eddie’s going to be standing there watching him, waiting. Maybe he can just. Stand here staring at the lasagna until everyone gets back and he can make a run for it to find time to process.
Time to figure out how to wake up? Maybe?
Because Eddie’s not—
And he’s certainly not in—
And, to that measure, Buck’s not—
“Buck.”
Fuck.
Oh, no.
Buck is.
Oh, god. Buck is. Buck is. Fuck. What the fuck does he do? He doesn’t know what to do. He—
“You know I can see you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding,” Buck says, tucking himself in closer to the shelves under the guise or reading the label on an old bottle of worcestershire sauce.
“That’s why you’re halfway in the fridge? Because you’re not hiding?”
“Yep. Checking expiration dates.”
Eddie huffs, and Buck can hear the attitude in the gust of air. “Right. I come out to you and expiration dates are your concern.”
Buck yanks himself out of the fridge and leans around the door. “You didn’t come out to me!” He says, voice high and frail and increasingly desperate.
Eddie’s stupid expressive eyebrow quirks upwards. “Buck.”
“Don’t Buck me.”
“I really feel like this is a Buckable moment, though.”
“You’re not funny.”
“No,” Eddie agrees, rolling his lips in as the corners of them start to tip upwards. “But I am gay.”
Buck inhales sharply. “You—“
“Me?”
He steps back from the fridge and slams it shut, pointing an accusatory finger at Eddie. “You—“ But his throat closes around whatever accusation is meant to follow and he falters, because, what? What is he supposed to say here? Do?
Eddie’s gay.
Eddie’s gay.
And Buck’s not entirely convinced this is a coma dream or a fever dream or some insane haze rewriting the laws of the universe. The universe might have actually rewritten itself when he wasn’t looking and now everything’s coming at him in an entirely new, never before spoken language, and Buck has no means to translate it.
“I can’t tell if you’re more freaked out about me being gay or me being in love with you.”
Buck freezes.
He’s said that already. That—that sentence.
But.
Shit.
Buck might be hearing it for the first time.
He blinks.
Is there an emotional equivalent to getting hit by a bus? If not, he may have just discovered it.
“That one,” Buck rasps.
Eddie nods. “You’re surprised?”
Yes.
Well.
Yes.
Well.
How is he simultaneously more surprised than he’s ever been in his entire life and completely unsurprised? Eddie’s gay, so, of course: Them. Eddie’s gay but wait. Them?
There’s no way Buck’s this lucky.
“I think I’m speechless.”
Eddie hums, moving in towards him and pressing his hip to the edge of the kitchen island. “First time for everything, I guess.”
Buck gives him a look that he hopes says not funny, but the corner of his mouth twitches and he’s not sure it quite comes across. Especially when he takes into account the easy, soft way Eddie’s looking at him. Like first time for everything isn’t meant to be a jab. Like it’s just to fill the space so Buck knows there’s no judgement or anxiety in this moment.
It’s just—Eddie once again curating a safe space and waiting for Buck to join him in it.
“You’ve been quiet an awful long time, bud.”
“You try having your best friend tell you they’re in love with you—“
“I am trying.”
Buck’s mouth snaps shut so hard his teeth clank together. He points at him. “That’s dirty. You’re playing dirty.”
Eddie smiles, but it’s all cheek and shining eyes. “Am I?”
“Obviously I’m in love with you,” Buck says, shifting to shut the fridge and move in towards him. “Everyone and their mother has called me out on it.”
That casual confidence, the easy smile on Eddie’s face slips for a moment—just a breath of a moment, long enough for Buck to get a glimpse at the anxiety beneath the confession. Just long enough for him to realize that Eddie didn’t know what Buck’s answer would be.
He laid it all out on the table and he didn’t even know.
Eddie clears his throat. “Everyone, huh?”
“Just about.” Buck hesitates, looking down at the ground between them. Part of him wants to ask if he’s sure. Wants to—give him the chance to go out and see if there are better options. Because there are. Buck knows there are. Just look at what his life has been the last few months. Is that really something he wants to saddle Eddie with?
The other part—the selfish part—wants to latch on and never let go.
Mine, mine, mine.
He shifts, glancing back up.
Eddie’s watching him, something vulnerable settled over the cut of his jaw and rise of his eyebrows. Something in his eyes that almost feels like he’s saying catch me, don’t let me fall on my face, Buckley.
And the thing is.
Buck’s never been great at ignoring the urge to be selfish.
He wants Eddie.
He wants to catch him. Be caught in return.
It’s just.
“I’m kind of a mess,” he says, helplessly.
There. An out. He can take it and Buck can pretend he’s not vibrating out of his skin with the need to close the distance between them and make this real. Not that it hasn’t been real. Hasn’t been actively happening for eight years.
Eddie shrugs. “Who isn’t?” He pauses, pointing, “And don’t even try to say me, because we both know that’s not true.”
Buck frowns.
“But—“ He was supposed to take the out.
“Buck.”
“Are you forgetting why Sam’s here cooking for you? Why I’m not?”
“No,” Eddie murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not going to forget you getting kidnapped and tortured any time soon.”
“That’s not—“
“It is.”
Buck huffs, shaking his head.
Eddie takes a step towards him. “I know what you’re doing. Mostly because I’m pretty sure it’s what I’d do if the roles were reversed.” He takes an unsteady breath and shrugs. “You’re giving me an out, right?”
Buck nods.
“I don’t want it.”
Oh.
“Are you—“
“Do you want an out?” Eddie barrels over him, raising his eyebrows.
Not on his life.
Buck shakes his head. “Why would I want an out?”
Eddie nods. “Exactly, man. I’m a mess, you’re a mess, but neither of us—“ he cuts himself off, clenching his jaw like he’s frustrated with himself because he can’t find the words. He’s got that annoyed searching look on his face that Buck’s seen on his face a thousand times. The I know what I want to say but I don’t know how to say it look.
Buck nods and presses his hip into the corner of the island. “You realize,” he says, shooting for lighthearted, “if we do this. My jealousy is just gonna get worse.”
Eddie snorts. “Yeah, because almost breaking my ankle wasn’t—“
Holy shit. Wait.
Buck pushes away from the island. “That was about you!”
Eddie’s brows furrow. “What?”
“I was jealous of Tommy.” Buck breathes. “Because he was hanging out with you.”
Eddie moves, in dipping his head while simultaneously raising his eyebrows. “Did you not realize that?”
Buck shakes his head. “I thought it—that I—you know.”
There’s a long pause.
And then, sounding almost entirely flabbergasted, Eddie asks, “You thought you sprained my ankle because you were jealous of me?”
And, okay.
When he puts it like that—
“When you say it, it sounds stupid.”
“Does it?”
There’s a smug tilt to the corner of his lips and Buck rolls his eyes.
“I think I might have been in denial,” he admits, waving a hand lazily, in a what can you do? motion.
Eddie laughs. “You think?”
“What about you?” Buck asks, stepping in towards him and poking him lightly in the middle of the chest. “Mister this changes nothing between us?”
Eddie’s gaze dips down to Buck’s hand and then slowly comes back up as he shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “It didn’t. I was already in love with you. You coming out didn’t change anything because you wanted him.”
Buck inhales sharply and drops his hand to his side. “If you’d said that I never would’ve even looked twice at him.”
Eddie makes a face. “I’m not sure you did look twice at him.”
“I dated him.”
He shakes his head like Buck’s misunderstanding him. “I was calling him ugly.”
Buck blinks.
“And old.”
Buck huffs.
“And generally unpleasant.”
“He was your friend first, you know.”
Eddie looks away almost guiltily. “Hardly,” he mutters, glancing back like he’s about to confess a secret. “I kind of liked how jealous you got when I hung out with him. Or thought I was talking to him.”
Buck shakes his head, mostly for himself, mostly for the time he wasted on denial. A little for every kiss wasted on Tim Kinard when Eddie was an option the entire fucking time.
Which, actually, begs the question—
“When did you realize?”
“Which part?”
“About you,” Buck murmurs. “Realizing you’re gay.”
Eddie smiles, closed lip and teasing. “That’s not the question you wanna ask.”
Mildly offended, Buck huffs. “Yes, it is.”
“Is it?”
Yes. No.
One of them, for sure.
“Yes.”
Eddie tilts his head.
“Not when I realized I’m in love with you?”
Buck inhales. “You gotta stop saying that, man.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure how many more times I can hear it before I go into full cardiac arrest.”
Eddie laughs, his eyes crinkling the way they do when he’s wholly and completely happy. And it’s not that it’s rare—it’s just. Not as frequent an occurrence as Buck would like it to be. But it makes his heart clamber at the bars of his ribcage because it’s one of his favorite sounds, one of his favorite expressions. His favorite person. Happy.
And Buck’s the one who made him happy.
Eddie steps in closer, his foot slipping between Buck’s and he looks up at him, his eyes still crinkled, his nose wrinkled, and a smile curling the corners of his mouth with intention. “Good thing,” he says easily, “That I’m a paramedic. And have a solid history at getting your heart, specifically, to beat again.”
“Weird thing to smile about,” Buck says, feeling a bit like the wind’s been knocked out of him with Eddie’s full attention so close and so locked and unguarded.
Eddie’s smile goes soft, somehow softer than it’s been, something almost vulnerable, as he reaches out and places a hand on Buck’s shoulder. His brows furrow, and he drags the hand down, straightening out Buck’s collar, like he just needs something to do with his hands and it needs to involve Buck somehow. “I’ve known for a while,” He admits, quietly, his voice quiet and directed into the space between them, like their closeness is a vacuum that’ll protect it.
“About being in love with me?”
He shakes his head side to side. “That I’m gay.” His cheek twitches and he looks back up. “Took longer than I want to admit to actually say the word.”
Buck shakes his head, stepping closer, as if it doesn’t nearly bring them chest to chest. “That’s okay,” He murmurs. “You got there. That’s—the important part. That—that you trusted yourself and—” Eddie looks back up at him, and he reaches out, wrapping his hand around the back of Eddie’s wrist, holding him there. “I’m proud of you.”
Eddie nods. “Me too,” He says, almost like it’s the first time he’s admitted it. Almost like it’s a weight that’s been sitting on him and Buck gets to watch in real time as he stands a little taller as it falls away. “It’s still a lot to navigate. But unlike someone I know—”
Buck laughs, and it’s wet and he rolls his eyes through it, “Hey!” He exclaims. “I am not a bad navigator!”
Eddie’s right eyebrow calls him a liar as he raises it pointedly. “Who got us lost in New Mexico?”
Unfair.
“Not who. What! The GPS!”
Eddie rolls his neck, still smiling as he shakes his head at the ceiling. “Sure, blame technology.”
“Thank you,” Buck snarks. “I will.”
Chin dipping, Eddie turns his attention back on him. His thumb sweeps over the collar of Buck’s shirt. Buck’s heart rattles his rib cage with the force it beats in response. “I’m still figuring it all out,” He admits, quietly. “But,” He swallows, and Buck watches the bob of his adam’s apple as his gaze dips down to his hand on Buck’s collar. “I know that I’m in love with you. It’s the only solid footing I had in this whole thing. I didn’t know anything else, but I knew that. It was like a light at the end of the tunnel, a point I was running towards. I just had to find my way through to reach it.”
His eyes come up, almost tentatively, like he went more vulnerable than he intended, and Buck holds his gaze purposefully. He doesn’t waiver or blink. He takes Eddie’s vulnerability, and he holds it as carefully as he dares.
He doesn’t know that he’d ever see himself as anyone’s light, but he sees the truth of it there in Eddie’s eyes.
He’s not sure anyone’s ever looked at him like this before.
This past year, especially, he’s felt dimmed out and dull. Incapable of being what the people around him needed. Incapable of being anything to anyone, because he couldn’t even hold himself up. And the whole time. Eddie’s just—seen him. He always has, though, hasn’t he? It’s who they are to each other. Like they have some sixth sense specifically attuned to one another. They can’t see in themselves what they see in each other, but they never fail to see it.
“I think I’ve loved you since the day I met you,” Buck admits. “I just didn’t have a word for it and whenever I got too close to thinking it, I got scared and ran from it.”
Eddie nods. “If I promise not to eat anymore of Sam’s soggy spaghetti, will you stop running?”
It’s romantic as hell and the answer is obviously a resounding yes, but—
Buck narrows his eyes accusingly. “So, he has cooked for you before.”
“Buck.”
“I cannot believe—”
“You’re missing the point, bud.”
“ —in my kitchen—”
“Buck.”
Buck shakes his head. “How many—”
Eddie’s hand grabs at Buck’s collar and his free hand comes up to grab at the front of the shirt. “Do you want to be mad about Sam or do you want to kiss me?”
Buck exhales, says breathlessly, “Sam who?”
Eddie laughs, a soft whisper of a thing, and Buck has just enough forethought to close his nose and inhale, before they both lean in and everything he thought he knew changes forever.
Because Buck’s kissed a lot of people.
A lot. Of people.
But nobody kisses like Eddie Diaz.
He’s kissed and been kissed and he’s kissed people he thought he loved before. He’s had first kisses he thought would change the rules of the universe, and kisses that felt like they should but ultimately didn’t. He knows what it is to be kissed like he’s the most wanted person in the world, and he knows what it is to lose himself entirely to someone’s lips.
Somehow—
Somehow Eddie’s kiss takes all of that and sweeps it away.
All expectation.
All thought.
Gone.
Because there’s kissing someone you think you could love. There’s kissing someone who could be the one with a little time and effort. There’s kissing someone you hope won’t leave.
And then there’s this.
A kiss that feels as alive as the person on the other end of it.
A kiss that feels as much like the beginning as it does the end. There’s no doubt that this is the last first kiss, no doubt of how much love is shared between them. No fear that one day he might not get to experience this again.
If CPR could be romantic, this is what it’d be. Eddie’s lips on Buck’s, breathing life in to him. Buck’s heart stops and starts in between each press of their lips because Eddie was right. If there’s anyone well versed in the way of Buck’s heartbeat, it’s him.
It’s him.
God.
It’s—
Life changing, and reaffirming, and as mundane and alive as anything Buck’s ever experienced. Simultaneously outrageously normal—like kissing Eddie is what he should’ve been doing this entire time, and his body’s already predicted exactly how it’d feel—and altogether life alteringly unexpected. Because Eddie’s lips are slightly chapped, and he pushes as much as he pulls, and Buck doesn’t know when he spun them and pressed Buck into the counter, and he’s not sure he that he about cares the when, so much as that he never stops.
“There’s no way that’s sanitary.”
Eddie’s lips stop moving.
Buck opens his eyes.
“Definitely not.”
Eddie’s eyes fly open.
Maybe if they don’t move—
“I don’t know if I should be grossed out or relieved.”
“Both,” Hen says.
Slowly, Eddie releases Buck, and Buck unravels himself from around him—he’s not sure when he wrapped a leg around the back of Eddie’s, but he’s not going to apologize for it—and they turn to face their audience.
Harry sighs at the sight of them. “Definitely both.”
“Guess we weren’t the only ones who were hungry,” Ravi says lightly, grinning.
Harry elbows him.
“What?” Ravi asks, motioning to the two of them. “Look at them. I’m pretty sure if that call took any longer—”
“I’d have had a lot of paperwork to fill out,” Chim finishes, shaking his head as he looks at Eddie. “You know when I said you should go for it, I didn’t mean on the kitchen counter, right?”
Buck turns to look at Eddie, too, and finds his cheeks have gone bright pink.
He wants to kiss him again and never stop.
“It kinda just . . . happened.”
“I hope you at least talked.”
Buck clears his throat. “There was talking,” He says, his voice hoarse. He smiles sheepishly. “A lot of it. If that helps.”
Chim sighs a world worn heavy sigh like he knows he should’ve seen this coming and is mostly disappointed in himself for not. “It doesn’t. But I guess I should just be grateful you didn’t steal a firetruck. Again.”
Eddie shuffles closer to him, snickering under his breath as his shoulder brushes against Buck’s.
“Again?”
Buck frowns, turning to look at Sam where he’s standing further from them behind the rest of the group.
“You stole a firetruck?”
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says. “You should ask him why.”
Buck turns to him. Traitor.
“What happened to spousal privilege?"
“We’re not married, yet.” Eddie ticks his head to the side. “Or in court.”
Yet? Yet. Yet!
“Wait,” Sam says, waving a hand and dragging Buck’s attention back to him before he can properly spiral over yet. “You’re not married?”
Buck blinks.
Chim snorts.
“You thought we were married?” Buck asks.
Sam nods. “He’s always talking about you and his son like you guys are, you know. Married.”
Buck turns back to Eddie. “He does?”
“Oh yeah,” Sam says, while Eddie blushes. “Nonstop.”
Buck twists back around to look at him. “And you still cooked for him?”
Sam blinks, taking a step back. “I—cooked for everyone?”
A hand wraps around Buck’s wrist, squeezing gently. A quiet don’t kill the new guy. Buck narrows his eyes anyways, and starts to take a step towards him, but Ravi clears his throat and steps forward.
“Hey, Buck,” He says. “You wanna heat up the lasagna while we tell you about the call we just went on?”
No. He wants to drag Sam out of the fire station by his ear and tell him to never come back.
But, he supposes, watching Sam bag up his soggy spaghetti while Buck heats up the lasagna and Sam has to watch everyone actually enjoy their meal, would be a good compromise.
“Sure.”
Chim clicks his tongue. “First you need to call your sister,” He says, pointing.
“I do?”
“Do you want her to find out you and Eddie got together some other way?”
Buck stands up straighter, turning to Eddie. “I need to call my sister.” I don’t want this to be a secret.
Eddie grins, nodding. “Go call your sister.”
“Yeah?”
He squeezes Buck’s wrist before releasing it. “Yeah.”
Not a secret.
Buck inhales and grins, turning back to the team. “I’m gonna go call my sister.” He turns back around, pausing. “Do you need to call Chris?”
Eddie blushes again and Buck wants to follow it, kiss every inch of flushed skin until there’s nowhere left for him to go. “Chris already knows.”
“Chris already knows?”
He nods. “He’s the first one I told.”
“And he’s—”
“In full support.”
Oh.
Buck’s vision goes blurry and he nods. “Cool,” He says, his voice wobbling. “That’s—”
Eddie smiles, motioning with his chin. “Go call Maddie. I’ll heat up the lasagna.”
“I love you.”
His smile widens, and he reaches out, pushing Buck gently towards the stairs. “I love you, too.”
“I can’t believe they’re finally—”
“Don’t jinx it. If you say it, you’ll jinx it and they’ll fall back into the land of oblivious idiots.”
Ravi nods. “Yeah, it’d be like saying quiet on shift.”
Buck freezes. Everyone freezes.
The tones go off.
Chim groans.
Ravi makes a face. “Yeah, that’s my bad—”
“Your bad and a week of latrine duty!” Chim grumbles, turning towards the stairs. “Buck call your sister. Eddie, let’s go.”
“You don’t want me to be man behind?”
“And give you a chance to christen the kitchen island? I don’t think so. Sam? You’re man behind!”
Eddie sighs, stepping around Buck, pausing to reach out and squeeze his hand. “I’ll see you at the end of shift?”
Buck nods. “I’ll pick you up.”
His brows furrow, and then even out as he smiles.
“Di-ahz, lets go!” Chimney calls from the bottom of the stairs.
Eddie sighs, leaning in to kiss Buck so quick he doesn’t even have a chance to really acknowledge or respond. And then he’s gone, darting down the stairs after the rest of the team. Bucks stares at him, longing to go with them. To be Eddie’s partner and to have his back the way he’s always done.
He’s almost tempted to try, anyways, when someone clears their throat.
“So, uh,” Sam says.
Buck turns to him, raising an eyebrow.
He smiles sheepishly. “Did you happen to hear the timer for the brownies?” He asks, motioning towards the oven.
Buck sighs. “They’re on the counter.”
“Oh, cool. Thanks, man!”
Buck resists the urge to tell him they’re over and undercooked, only because his lips are still tingling with Eddie’s kiss, and he’s pretty sure he’s floating, and because if he doesn’t call his sister in the next thirty seconds, Chimney’s going to somehow beat him to the revelation. So, instead, he nods, digs his phone out of his pocket, and makes his way towards the stairs, already dialing Maddie’s number.
“We should bake him a cake to say goodbye,” Buck says.
Eddie lifts his head from the arm of the couch to raise an eyebrow. “Goodbye or good riddance?”
“Two things can be true,” Buck grins. “I’ll bake it and we can present it to him at the end of his last shift tomorrow.”
Eddie narrows his eyebrows. “You’re going to bake him a cake. To be nice.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Buck shrugs. “I don’t know. You should believe your boyfriend when he has good intentions. I think it says more about you than it does me that you don’t.”
Eddie snorts, dropping his head back onto the arm of the couch as he crosses his legs in Buck’s lap. “Sure, bud,” he says. “Whatever you say.”
“Who’s Max?”
“He’s Max.”
“He’s not Max.”
Eddie looks at Buck. “He’s Sam.”
He can practically hear the you know he’s Sam in Eddie’s voice.
Oops.