911, what’s your emergency?

Eddie shrugs. "It's not."

"Right."

"He's my son, Buck."

It's not that Buck can't hear the warning in Eddie's tone. He's not actually fucking stupid. He just doesn't really care right now. "Yeah, no, I got that. None of my business. I'm just the backup plan, right?"

Eddie sighs heavily, rolls his eyes, zips his bag. Slings it over his shoulder like he's trying to make a point, but makes no move to shove past Buck and out the door. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know exactly what it means."

"I really don't."

"You remember when you told him you were dating Ana?" Buck asks. He watches Eddie flinch with an acidic sort of satisfaction. "And he smashed a bowl and called an Uber to my place?"

"That's not the same thing."

"Yeah, I guess not. That was back when you still trusted me to have your back."

"Oh, right, go ahead and make this about you, again."

"You made it about me," Buck hisses. "You put me in your will, you told me that I wasn't—you don't get to do that and then act like it's not my place. And I know, I know everything's different now—"

"Nothing is different—"

"Right," Buck retorts. "Right, we just can't hang out anymore unless Hen or Chim or, or Ravi is there to supervise. You've been to my house, what, twice since I moved in, six months ago. And Chris goes missing, and you don't even call me." 

"Buck—"

"You used to call me," Buck says. He takes a breath. His eyes are burning, and Eddie is just staring at him, in the locker room, in the firehouse, which is the only place they're ever alone anymore, except that they're not, not really. Anyone could walk in. "Two years ago you wouldn't even think twice."

Eddie closes his eyes. There's a stillness to him, a tension to his mouth, his jaw, that feels unfamiliar. It takes him a moment to speak, and when he does, he sounds defeated. "Yeah."

"What?"

"I said, yeah. You're right. Look, can we just—" Eddie nods toward the locker room door, the open bay beyond. "Not here, okay?"

"What—what do you mean?"

"Not here," Eddie repeats, and now he is moving, out the door and toward the parking lot beyond, and Buck slams his locker shut and scrambles to follow him.

Eddie's new truck is parked in the spot he's used since he started at the 118 almost nine years ago. Buck's is three spots down. The parking lot is deserted, but street traffic moves past quick and noisy, a rush of wind under the hot blue sky. Eddie slings his bag in the back, then braces himself briefly before turning.

"I'm trying," he says, then stops. "I've been working through some shit, okay?"

"Okay," Buck says carefully. As pissed off as he was five minutes ago, as hurt as he still sort of is, he can't help but soften at Eddie's tone. "What kind of shit?"

"The kind of shit where I'm trying not to need you as much as I do," Eddie says, with a steadiness that feels forced.

"What?"

"Figured it out when I went to Texas," Eddie says. His eyes slide past Buck, like they can't bear to land. He's holding himself very still, like he's bracing against a wound. Trying not to jostle something that hurts. "I wanted to ask you to come with me."

"You—what?"

Eddie shrugs. "Crazy, right? Couldn't do that. So I didn't, and I left, and it felt like ripping something out by the root."

"Yeah," Buck says, because it did. For him, it did. It never occurred to him that Eddie could feel the same.

"And I came back, yeah, but I couldn't not know that. How it felt. What I wanted. Couldn't lie to myself anymore, I guess."

"What do you want?" 

Eddie laughs, breathy and humorless. "Nothing I can have."

"Eddie."

"You wanna know why I haven't looked at a woman in a year? Same reason I stopped talking to Tommy. Same reason I haven't been over to your house. Same reason I can't—you're not, you're not for me. Even if you wanted to—I'd fuck it up. I always do."

"I," Buck says. There's a roaring in his ears. Eddie can't be saying what it sounds like he's saying, except Eddie is holding himself like he's made out of broken glass, and Buck knows him better than almost anyone in the world, and he knows he's not misunderstanding. "I thought you were straight."

"I don't know what I am. Haven't really thought that far. Doesn't matter, anyway."

"Eddie," Buck says again, and he shifts closer. Eddie twitches when Buck touches his arm, and now Buck can feel that he's not still at all; a minute tremor runs through his body. He watches Eddie's throat lurch as he swallows. "It—it matters."

"Buck—"

"I would have come with you to Texas," Buck says. "If you'd asked."

"Don't say that. You can't—you can't say that."

"It's the truth."

"You can't—"

"Can't what? Want you?" He doesn't even know where this sudden courage is coming from. Maybe it's just that he's always been able to be brave when Eddie needed him. "I do, though."

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He's impossible, and Buck loves him. "I'm trying not to fuck everything up."

"Everything is kind of fucked up right now," Buck points out. "In case you hadn't noticed."

"Okay, but," Eddie says, then stops.

"I'm just saying, I don't think your plan is working. Maybe we should try my plan."

"Oh, you have a plan," Eddie says. It's acidic, but that's still better than that wounded stillness of a moment ago.

"Let me just—try something. And if you want me to stop, I will."

"What," Eddie says, and Buck slides the hand on Eddie's arm up, very deliberately, and Eddie stops talking. He doesn't pull away. Not when Buck cups his jaw carefully, not when he leans in. Eddie holds still, trembling slightly, and lets Buck kiss him softly, carefully, on the lips.

It lights him up: the softness of Eddie's lips, the warmth, the faint texture of his scar. The quickness of his breath and the way his eyes have fluttered shut by the time Buck pulls away. He starts to move back, and Eddie grabs him, fingers digging hard into the meat of his arm, color high in his cheeks.

He breathes out shakily into the space between them, then opens his eyes to look up at Buck.

"Okay?" Buck whispers, trying not to shatter the moment before he has to.

"This is a bad idea," Eddie whispers back.

"That wasn't a no."

Eddie shakes his head. He's still hanging onto Buck, hard enough that Buck might have bruises. He wants them. Wants the memory, however fleeting, of Eddie holding on. 

"I'm going to fuck this up."

"You don't know that," Buck says.

Eddie breathes out a shaky laugh. His grip tightens, and then he pulls Buck down again, and against all odds the kiss is still gentle this time. Still slow, still sweet. They part softly. Buck's heart is beating fast.

"That definitely wasn't a no," he says.

Eddie laughs again, less shaky this time. "Would you, um. Do you want to come over tonight? For dinner? Chris is kind of pissed off at me. I think he'd be happy to see you."

"Yeah?" Buck says, feeling the smile starting to grow on his face. "Chris would, huh? What about you?"

Eddie rolls his eyes again. "I want you to come over tonight. Okay?"