I love you, kid

The girl Ravi had left with had been cute, but she'd gotten along way better with him than with Buck. She was shy, an accountant, and during the short five minutes they'd been given to get to know each other, Buck hadn't been able to break her out of her shell, not the way Ravi had managed to. But good for him, Buck thinks. To each their own.

"It's just too bad for Eddie," Buck says, "since the whole thing was his idea in the first place."

It'd been Eddie's idea, and it'd been Buck and Ravi who were the two unfortunate and still single souls of A-shift sitting next to Eddie in the station loft two weeks ago when the ad for the speed dating event had popped up on his phone.

"It's time for us to get back out there," he'd insisted, and before Buck or Ravi had a chance to say no, he'd bought them all tickets. "We gotta get back into the swing of things, right?"

Buck had really thought about it. Sat with it, like Dr. Copeland likes to say, and considered the idea. Getting back out there.

It's been six months since Bobby had died. A long, tired six months that makes Buck sick to his stomach when he thinks about it too hard. Even so, they are mostly settled into their new normal. Captain Han is running the show at the 118, little baby Robby is growing like a weed and Maddie is there for every step along the way. Eddie and Chris are firmly rooted in LA again. Buck has finally unpacked the last of the moving boxes in his new-old house, as Maddie loves to call it (there might still be a heavy, taped-up box of pots and pans hidden in the back corner of the pantry closet that Buck hasn't torn open just yet, but they don't talk about that).

Yeah, Buck still spends some long and dark nights wide awake, parsing out Bobby's last words. He wonders if Bobby would be proud of him, if he's following through and doing things right. Most days he isn't sure, and he doesn't know if he ever will be. But he does know that Bobby wouldn't want him to be alone. Eddie had been right: it's time start dating again—and before tonight, Buck had never tried the speed version.

The event was at a bar not far from here, only a few miles from Tommy's house. Buck would've asked Tommy to join, actually, if the point hadn't been to pair up men and women only.

Very straight. Have fun, Tommy had texted instead, when Buck had told him about it.

It had been straight, and Buck was oddly aware of that each time five minutes went by and the tables swapped and a new girl sat down across from him, with long hair and nice eyelashes and a soft, sweet laugh. Over an hour he'd talked to six different women and had some good conversations, tried out some flirting, but by the end of the night he'd shuffled together his stack of cards with each girl's name and fun fact and only felt like each round that something had been missing.

Unlike Buck, Ravi had lucked out. Eddie, on the other hand, hadn't made it past round one. He'd offered a sip of his cocktail to his very first date and her skin had exploded in hives so angry and red that they were obvious to Buck even from across the room.

"Poor Diaz," Tommy says. "Who knew there was orange zest in an Old Fashioned?"

Buck shakes his head. "Not the girl with a terrible citrus allergy, apparently. But according to Eddie's latest report from the emergency room, she should be fine."

Tommy lifts his glass back up, raising it in the air. "Hey, I'll cheers to that."

"Cheers to a night that was two-thirds a bust," Buck says, and he taps their glasses together. The sound lingers before it settles between them, no other words at the ready to replace it.

Instead of filling the silence, Buck melts further into the couch, heavy and loose at the same time from the two bottles of wine he and Tommy have shared between them. Tommy's living room is warm and smells like the burning cedarwood candle his sister had bought him for Christmas. The analog radio that he usually keeps in his garage, an ancient relic from the early 2000s with a honest to God antenna and dial that Buck loves to make fun of him for still somehow making use of, is set up behind them on the bookshelf. The volume's down low, playing an old country song. Buck listens and smiles as Tommy hums along to the lyrics, something about centrifugal motion, perpetual bliss. Buck is happy with his new house, absolutely, but he's never felt as comfortable there as he feels right here, right now.

"Hey." Buck clears his throat. "I'm sorry you couldn't come to speed dating with us. It would have been fun for you to have been there."

Tommy huffs, the corners of his mouth twitching up, not exactly a smile. "Not sure I'd call it fun to watch me relive the exact opposite of my glory days."

"Come on." Buck rolls his eyes. "I just mean, it felt like you should have been there, with me and Eddie and Ravi. Since we're all good friends now."

It'd been a boy's night out—although Buck had only said a quick hello to Ravi and Eddie before the speed dating had kicked off—and Tommy is usually around for those. He's sort of always around, now, since Bobby's funeral and since he and Buck had agreed to be just friends. Tommy's there for the drinking at the dive around the corner from the firehouse, for playing pool and watching the Rams together on Sundays.

But he's also been around for a hell of a lot of other things, too: Buck's deep descent into his bereavement leave and the steep climb out, when he'd forgotten how to eat, to shower, when he'd slept all day and stayed up all night. Tommy had been there, stirring soup on the stove, ready to answer the phone at two AM. He'd met Robby those first few weeks after he was born, and he'd never said a word about Buck nicknaming his nephew something that no one else calls him. He still hasn't. Once Buck had moved out of Eddie's, Tommy had shown up every other Saturday to paint the walls of Buck's new house, silently shifting the still unpacked moving boxes from room to completed room for weeks. He'd helped Buck unpack those boxes when he was finally ready, too.

Tommy has always been there, but he's never pushed, never toed even an inch past the boundary line of being friends—because that's what friends do.

Friends don't miss their other friends when they're in the middle of trying to date other people. They definitely don't feel lonely without them there.

But how is Buck supposed to feel, when six other people had sat down in front of him tonight and he hadn't felt that spark, that suddenly knowing feeling that had spread through him the moment Tommy had opened up his front door?

Now Tommy throws back the last of his wine and says, "if I were there I would've embarrassed myself stumbling through a conversation about Colleen Hoover and why men just can't commit, and you know it."

"First off, you need to talk to a woman who isn't Lucy or your sister," Buck says. "Second, it's just nice hanging out with you, that's all."

The words come out harsher than he means them to. Sometimes Tommy's so confident, but sometimes he's so self-depreciating. Sometimes, somehow, he's both at the same time. Now that they're no longer dating, Buck has been noticing those sorts of things more and more often. "I mean, this is nice, isn't it? Us being together?"

Before Tommy says anything back, Buck shakes his head at himself. He doesn't know what he's saying, why he's asking Tommy to be there on his dates with him, acting like this means something. He's had too much to drink. He should shut up, before he messes things up even more.

"Sorry. I'm going to get some water."

He gets up and hurries into the kitchen, his face hot while he sips a glass of water by the sink. It's not long before he hears Tommy's socked feet on the floor, padding up behind him. When Buck turns around, there's a frown on Tommy's face, his curls mussed up. One leg of his sweatpants is shoved up higher on his calf than the other. He looks wine drunk, soft and warm the way he always used to the mornings they were together, and Buck grips his water tighter to avoid doing something dumb with his arms and hands, especially because Tommy looks a little nervous. Probably because of him, because Buck started something stupid, bringing up the idea of Tommy coming along tonight. Now Tommy was, what? Going to let him down easy? Remind them they're friends, and Buck shouldn't be so weird about it?

"I'm glad I wasn't there for the speed dating," Tommy finally says. "I would have hated it."

"Yeah, I get it," Buck says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Kinsey six, and all that. I know. Please just forget I said anything, Tommy, all right?"

"I would have hated seeing you talking to other people, trying to get to know them." Buck's eyes blink open. "Talking about Rhode Island and drinking Old Fashioneds. I would have had an allergic reaction way worse than Eddie's date."

"But I don't think you're allergic to anything," Buck breathes, feeling more than a little stupid as Tommy steps closer, until their toes are almost touching. "Are you?"

"No. I would've had to have faked it. Itchy throat, swollen tongue, the works. Just to get out of there and avoid seeing you."

Buck swallows. "That would be a really inappropriate thing to do as a first responder."

"Evan," Tommy sighs, and he reaches out and he breaks the barrier between them, brushing his hand across Buck's arm where it's pressed against his chest, glass close to himself. He reaches Buck's elbow and stops, holding him there, and Buck thinks that he's never had someone touch him like this before, like he's fragile. It's almost like Tommy's forgotten any other way to do it.

"What changed?" Buck asks. It's been months, and now, finally, this. Buck's not sure he understands. What did he miss? When did he miss it? "It was you who said we were better off as friends."

"Nothing's changed. Nothing ever changed for me." Buck's heart pounds in his chest. "But after Bobby, I was..." Buck feels Tommy's fingers tighten, watches his mouth pull down. "So worried about you. I just...couldn't."

"I know." A few months ago Buck couldn't have imagined himself here or anywhere, no where but in that lab. Not in Tommy's house or in Tommy's kitchen or laughing on his couch. He couldn't have imagined letting himself feel good, letting himself feel happy. "But I'm doing better now, Tommy." Buck reaches his free hand out, cupping Tommy's cheek, but he doesn't lean into it. He doesn't fold. "You don't need to worry. You took care of me. Okay?"

Against Buck's palm, Tommy shakes his head. "I'll always worry about you. I'll always take care of you."

"You still can," Buck nods, because he does like the sound of that. It's not something he'd thought he'd needed or wanted, before, but he's so glad he knows it now. "But you don't have to be scared of it. At least, not as much."

Tommy's eyes flicker back and forth, searching his. They're bright and a little wet, reflecting the kitchen light and Buck, back at himself.

"Okay," Tommy says, nodding, "okay," and Buck only has to tilt forward an inch for their lips to meet, to taste on Tommy's mouth the cheap red wine he'd bought at the liquor store around the corner just hours ago, and salt, and something new. The fridge hums and the old radio keeps playing. Buck swears he hears it all in slow motion.

"How do you feel?" Buck asks when they pull apart. "Any rash? Wheezing? Shortness of breath?"

"Hm," Tommy says, nudging his nose against Buck's. "I am feeling a little flushed. But I think we're in the clear for now."

"But lets avoid any weird drinks in Peru."

"You never know what they're up to in New England, huh?"