#911onfox

Buck: Go big or go home!

Eddie: Please, Buck. For once in your life, I am begging you to just go home

𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝘾𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝘿𝙚𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙨

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 5.1𝙠

𝙈𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨: 𝙀𝙫𝙖𝙣 "𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠" 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮, 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 "𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨" 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯, 𝙀𝙙𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙤 "𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚" 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯

𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨: 𝘿𝙧. 𝘾𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝘿𝙚𝙣𝙣𝙮, 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙖, 𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 "𝘽𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙮" 𝙉𝙖𝙨𝙝

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘽𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙇𝙤𝙨 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖 𝙨𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚. 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙗𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙪𝙩𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 "𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣" 𝙤𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙩𝙤 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙮, 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙀𝙭𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙪𝙣𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙨 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮. 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙧𝙪𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙤𝙮, 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠, 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙜𝙚, 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿, 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚, 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙩, 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝘿𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙑𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙖𝙡 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙩, 𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙁𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝘿𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨

A/N: This is part 2/2 of this series. Still my fav series that I've written so far. Let me know what you think! If you have any requests or suggestions for any upcoming series or something ya'll would like to read, let me know. I'm open for ideas!

The sun over Los Angeles did not look like the sun over El Paso. In Texas, the sky had been wide and hostile, a bruised violet expanse that had birthed a monster. In California, it was merely bright, a flat, unblinking glare that bounced off the stucco houses and concrete driveways of Silver Lake, pretending that nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

The physical transition back to California had been a blur of logistics and quiet, efficient coordination. Bobby had handled the cross-border red tape, using his quiet leverage and Chief Rodriguez’s goodwill to ensure Eddie’s deferred charges remained safely tucked into a drawer in Texas while the family healed. Helena and Ramon had been transferred to a local medical facility in El Paso for their cracked ribs and concussions; they were stable, stubborn, and insisted Eddie take Christopher home.

"He needs his father, Edmundo," Ramon had said from his hospital bed, his voice rough but clear. "And you need him. Go."

So they had gone. They had flown back to LA: Eddie, Christopher, and Buck. The flight had been a lesson in heavy, structural silence. Christopher had sat between them, his gaze glued to the small window, watching the clouds move beneath the wing. He hadn't asked for snacks. He hadn't asked for his phone. He had simply sat, a small, pale ghost wrapped in an oversized gray hoodie that Buck had bought him at an airport gift shop.

Now, three weeks later, that silence had become the permanent architecture of the Diaz household.

Eddie stood at the kitchen stove, the spatula heavy in his hand. The clock on the wall ticked with a rhythmic, maddening regularity, thud-click, thud-click, a sound that still, if Eddie closed his eyes for too long, sounded like the boots of the state troopers walking across the gravel at the border checkpoint.

On the counter sat a plate of three scrambled eggs, two pieces of sourdough toast buttered to the edges just the way Christopher used to like it, and a small glass of orange juice. It was 8:30 AM on a Tuesday. Eddie was on a mandatory two-week administrative leave, a standard precaution after the "incident" in Texas, which meant his entire universe had contracted down to the four walls of this house. And his son.

"Chris?" Eddie called out, keeping his voice carefully level, deliberately draining it of the exhaustion that was currently scraping against the back of his eyes. "Breakfast is ready, buddy."

A moment later, the sound of crutches echoed from the hallway. It was a familiar sound, one that had filled this house for years, but lately, the cadence was different. It was slower. Heavier. There was no dragging of feet, no enthusiastic thud of a boy rushing to see what was on the table. It was the deliberate, exhausting movement of someone forcing themselves through water.

Christopher came around the corner. He had grown over the summer; he was taller, his shoulders broader, but he looked smaller than he ever had. The skin beneath his eyes was a dark, smudged indigo, the physical receipt of hours spent staring at the ceiling. The small gash on his forehead from the drywall had healed into a pink, jagged line that disappeared into his hairline, but the real damage remained invisible, locked tight behind his teeth.

"Hey," Christopher murmured. He didn't look at Eddie. He navigated his way to the table, propped his crutches against the wall, and slid into his chair.

"Hey," Eddie smiled, setting the plate down in front of him. He sat in the chair opposite, leaving a deliberate, non-threatening distance between them. "Made your favorite. Sourdough."

Christopher looked down at the plate. His hands, still dusted with the phantom grit of Texas sheetrock in Eddie's memory, picked up a fork. He pushed a piece of egg from the left side of the plate to the right. Then he pushed it back.

"Thanks," Christopher said, his voice flat.

"You look tired, Chris," Eddie said gently, leaning forward just an inch. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"You sure? Because I heard… well, I thought I heard you up around three." Eddie had actually heard him screaming. He had heard the frantic, choking gasps of a boy drowning in dry land, but every time Eddie had tried to open Christopher’s door in the dead of night, the boy would instantly shut down, turning his back to the door and burying his face in the pillow until Eddie went away.

"I was just getting water," Christopher said. He took a tiny bite of the toast, chewing it slowly, deliberately, as if the act of swallowing required an immense amount of conscious effort. After a few seconds, he set the crust down. "I'm not really hungry."

"Chris, you barely ate dinner last night. You had three bites of the chicken," Eddie's voice drifted into that pleading territory he was trying so hard to avoid. He hated how small he sounded when he spoke to his son now. He hated how much he felt like a stranger begging for entrance into a country he used to rule. "You need to keep your strength up, buddy. Your body went through a lot. You’re still healing."

"I said I'm fine, Dad," Christopher's voice hardened, a tiny spark of the old anger flaring up before dying out just as quickly. He pushed the plate away, the ceramic scraping against the wood with a sound that made Eddie’s teeth ache. "Can I go back to my room?"

"Chris, we can't keep doing this," Eddie said, his hands flat on the table. "You're not fine. You don't talk to me. You don't talk to Denny or Harry. Mara called two days ago and you wouldn't take the phone. You're living in the dark, Chris. I want to help you, but you have to let me in. Just tell me what you're feeling. Give me something."

Christopher’s knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the table. He stared down at his lap, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles leaped under his skin. "There's nothing to say. A tornado happened. The house broke. We're back here now. That's it."

"It's not that simple, and you know it," Eddie pressed, his own desperation rising like a tide. "The nightmares—"

"I don't have nightmares," Christopher lied, his voice rising, sharp and jagged. He grabbed his crutches, his movements sudden and uncoordinated as he hauled himself to his feet. "Stop asking me. Stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken!" Christopher yelled, his eyes finally locking onto Eddie's. They were wide, wet, and absolutely terrified, but surrounded by a wall of fierce, defensive fury. "I don't need you to fix me, Dad! I don't need anyone to fix me! I just want you to leave me alone!"

"Chris, listen to me." Eddie stood up, his hands extended, trying to act as a buffer, trying to slow the spiral. "I know a woman named Dr. Copeland. She’s… she’s a professional, Chris. She works with people who have been through massive trauma. She helps firefighters, but she also helps kids. I think if we just went and talked to her, just one session of therapy—"

The word therapy hit the room like an explosive charge.

Christopher’s face twisted into something primal, a look of pure, unadulterated betrayal. "No! No therapy! I'm not crazy!"

"Nobody thinks you're crazy—"

"You do! You think I'm messed up because I don't want to talk to you! You brought that woman here, you lied to me, you let me leave, and now you want to send me to a shrink?!" Christopher was shaking, his crutches trembling against the floorboards. "I'm not going! You can't make me! I hate it here! I hate this!"

He turned on his heel, the rubber tips of his crutches squeaking violently against the hardwood as he fled down the hall. A second later, the heavy wood of his bedroom door slammed shut with a force that rattled the frames of the pictures hanging in the corridor.

Eddie stood alone in the kitchen.

The silence rushed back into the room, larger and heavier than before, tasting faintly of sourdough and old arguments. He looked down at his hands; they were shaking. He reached down, picked up the plate of untouched food, and scraped the scrambled eggs into the trash can.

By Friday, the tension in the house had become a physical weight. The air felt thick, charged with static electricity, like the minutes before a thunderstorm hits the plains.

Christopher had stopped coming out of his room entirely except to use the bathroom. Eddie would leave plates of food outside the door; sometimes they were touched, mostly they weren't. The only sign that Christopher was alive was the occasional creak of his bed frame or the low, indistinct murmur of the television playing old sitcoms he wasn't actually watching.

Eddie was unraveling. He hadn't slept more than two hours a night since they returned from Texas. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the dirt at the checkpoint, Ramirez's taser pointed at his chest, Gary’s blood on his knuckles. Or worse, he was looking into that dark crawlspace under the oak table, seeing his son covered in dust, wondering if he was breathing.

He spent his days cleaning. He scrubbed the kitchen counters until the grout turned white. He bleached the bathroom. He organized the garage three times. He was trying to control the only things he could, because the one thing that mattered, the boy behind the closed door, was completely out of his reach.

At 4:00 PM, Eddie walked down the hallway carrying a fresh laundry basket of Christopher's clothes. He knocked softly on the door.

"Chris? I have your laundry."

No answer.

"Chris? I'm opening the door."

Eddie turned the knob and pushed it open. The room was pitch black. The thick, light-blocking curtains Eddie had installed years ago were drawn tight, letting in absolutely no afternoon light. The air was warm, stale, and smelled of teenage sweat and unwashed sheets. Christopher was lying on his side, his back to the door, his knees pulled up toward his chest, fully dressed in his hoodie and sweatpants despite the heat.

"Chris, come on," Eddie said, his voice carrying a thin, dangerous edge of irritation he couldn't quite mask. He set the laundry basket on the desk, his eyes sweeping over the room. There were three half-empty glasses of water growing film on the nightstand. A plate with a moldering crust of bread sat on the floor. "You can't live like this. It's ninety degrees outside, and you're sweating through your clothes in the dark."

Christopher didn't move. He didn't even shift his weight. "Leave it on the bed."

Eddie walked over to the window and, with a sudden, jerky movement, ripped the curtains open. The bright, golden California sunlight flooded the room, harsh and unforgiving.

Christopher flinched violently, covering his eyes with his forearm. "Stop! Close it! Put it back!"

"No! I'm not putting it back!" Eddie snapped, his voice louder than he intended. The sleep deprivation, the weeks of fear, the constant rejection, it all surged to the surface in a single, ugly spike of adrenaline. "Look at this room, Christopher! It's a pigsty! You're living like an animal in a cave! You won't eat, you won't talk, you won't even look at me!"

"I told you to leave me alone!" Christopher yelled, sitting up quickly, his hair wild and full of static, his eyes squinting against the light. "I didn't ask you to come in here! I didn't ask for the laundry!"

"I am your father!" Eddie roared, the words exploding from his chest before he could think, before his training, his therapy, or his love could stop them. He stepped closer to the bed, towering over his son, his chest heaving. "I am your father, and I am trying to keep you alive! I spent eight hours driving through the night, I punched a state trooper, I went to a concrete jail cell, and I dug you out of the dirt with my bare hands! I almost lost my mind thinking you were dead under that house! And you won't even give me the courtesy of a conversation?! You won't even try?!"

The words hung in the air like heavy smoke.

The moment they left Eddie's mouth, the temperature in the room seemed to drop to absolute zero.

Christopher didn't yell back. He didn't throw anything. Instead, he simply shrank. He pulled his arms inward, his shoulders rounding, his entire body collapsing into itself as if he were trying to occupy as little space in the world as humanly possible. The anger in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by a hollow, bottomless shame that made him look completely devoid of life.

He looked up at Eddie, his voice dropping to a tiny, broken whisper. "I'm sorry I'm such a burden."

Eddie felt the air leave his lungs as if he had been hit in the solar plexus by a heavy rescue tool. "Chris… no. No, that's not what I meant—"

"I'll be quiet," Christopher whispered, his gaze dropping to the blanket. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head, drawing the strings tight until only his nose and his eyes were visible. He slid back down onto his side, turning his back to Eddie, curling into that same, tight ball he had formed under the oak table in El Paso. "I'm sorry."

"Chris, look at me. Please," Eddie stepped toward the bed, his hand reaching out to touch his son’s shoulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I'm exhausted, and I'm scared, and I didn't mean any of that. You are not a burden. You are my whole world. Chris, please."

Christopher didn't move. He didn't answer. He was completely rigid, his breathing shallow and rapid under the heavy fabric of the hoodie. He had retreated into a place where Eddie could not follow, a deep, fortified bunker of his own making.

Eddie stood there for five minutes, the silence screaming in his ears, before he finally walked out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Eddie collapsed onto the couch. He put his face in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp until it hurt.

He had screwed up. He had done exactly what he wasn't supposed to do. He had taken his own fear, his own trauma, and his own frustration and dumped it directly onto his fifteen-year-old child who had just survived a natural disaster. He had made Christopher feel like his survival was a chore, like his grief was an inconvenience.

I'm a terrible father, Eddie thought, the realization hitting him with the cold, absolute certainty of a terminal diagnosis. I don't know how to do this. I'm breaking him.

The panic started small, a tight knot in his stomach, but within minutes, it had expanded into his throat. His breath became short. He looked around the living room, and suddenly the walls felt like they were vibrating. He couldn't stay in this house. He couldn't be alone with his failure.

He grabbed his phone. His fingers were slick with sweat as he scrolled through his contacts until he found the one name that represented safety, the one person who had been there in the dirt with him.

He hit dial.

The phone didn't even finish its first full ring before Buck picked up. "Hey, Eddie. Everything okay?"

"Buck," Eddie choked out. His voice was too high, too thin. He sounded like he was drowning. "Buck, I need… I need you to come over. Please."

There was a sudden rustle of fabric on the other end of the line, the heavy thud of a coffee mug being set down fast, and the sound of Buck’s keys jangling. "Eddie? What's going on? Is Chris okay? Is he hurt?"

"No, he's… he's not hurt. Not physically anyway. Buck I... I snapped. I yelled at him," Eddie sobbed, the tears finally breaking through, hot and fast down his face. He slid off the couch, his back hitting the cushions as he sank to the floor, clutching the phone to his ear like a lifeline. "I told him about the jail. I told him about digging him out. I made him feel like it was his fault. He won't look at me, Buck. He won't speak. He’s completely gone. I ruined it. I ruined everything."

"Eddie, breathe. Just breathe for me, okay?" Buck's voice was loud, steady, and filled with an immediate, protective focus. "I'm at my apartment. I'm walking out the door right now. I'll be there in ten minutes. Do you hear me? Ten minutes."

"Please hurry," Eddie whispered. "Please."

True to his word, it was less than ten minutes before the heavy front door of the house clicked open. Buck didn't knock; he burst through the entryway like a man entering a structure fire, his jacket half-zipped, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Eddie, who was still sitting on the floor by the couch, his head between his knees.

Buck dropped his keys on the counter and was across the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees in front of Eddie, grabbing him by the upper arms and lifting him slightly until Eddie had to look at him.

"I'm here," Buck said, his breath coming a little fast from the sprint from his truck. "I'm right here. Look at me, Eddie."

Eddie looked up. Buck’s face was an anchor, the same blue eyes that had pulled him out of the gray twilight of his panic attack three weeks ago. "I ruined it, Buck. I yelled at him. I looked at him and I just… I lost my mind. I told him he was living like an animal."

"Hey, hey, stop," Buck said firmly, his hands sliding up to Eddie’s shoulders, squeezing hard enough to anchor him to the floor. "You're sleep-deprived. You've been carrying the weight of the world for a month without a break. You had a human moment. It happens."

"Not to him," Eddie shook his head, his voice cracking. "Not after what he went through. He looked so small, Buck. He told me he was sorry he was a burden. He thinks I hate him."

Buck's expression softened, a deep, sorrowful look passing through his eyes before he stood up, pulling Eddie up with him. Eddie stumbled slightly, his legs weak, but Buck held him steady until his footing was secure.

"Where is he now?" Buck asked, looking down the dark hallway.

"In his room. He closed the door. He won't let me in," Eddie said, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of gray dust and salt on his skin. "I tried to apologize, but he just… he completely shut down. He won't even look in my direction."

Buck stood in silence for a moment, his jaw working as he thought. He looked at Eddie, then down the hall, then back to Eddie. "Stay here," Buck said softly. "Let me go talk to him."

"Buck, he's furious. He doesn't want anyone—"

"He wants you, Eddie. He's just too terrified to realize it right now," Buck said, his voice carrying that quiet, intuitive wisdom that only ever seemed to appear when Christopher was involved. "Let me go be the buffer for a minute. Just sit down. Drink some water. Trust me."

Eddie looked at him, his chest still heaving, but he nodded. He didn't have the strength left to argue. He sank back onto the couch, his body feeling like lead, as Buck turned and walked down the long, quiet hallway toward Christopher’s door.

Buck knocked on Christopher’s door, not the soft, tentative tap Eddie had been using, but three solid, familiar raps. The secret code they had used since Christopher was eight years old.

"Chris?" Buck called out, his voice low and easy through the wood. "It's Buck. I'm coming in, okay?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned the knob and stepped into the room.

The light was still pouring through the open curtains, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor. Christopher was exactly where Eddie had left him, a motionless, gray lump beneath the blanket, his face completely hidden inside the hood of his sweatshirt.

Buck didn't say anything at first. He didn't tell him to sit up, and he didn't ask him how he was feeling. He walked over to the desk, picked up the laundry basket Eddie had left there, and set it on the floor. Then, with the easy familiarity of someone who spent half his life in this house, Buck sat down on the very edge of the mattress, right near Christopher’s feet.

The bed dipped under his weight. Christopher shifted slightly but didn't uncover his face.

"Your dad is in the living room," Buck said into the quiet room. "He’s sitting on the floor, and he looks like he’s about to faint. He thinks he’s the worst guy in the world right now."

A long silence followed. Then, from beneath the thick layers of the hood, Christopher’s voice came out, small and muffled. "He hates me."

"Oh, Chris," Buck sighed, reaching out and resting his large hand over the blanket where Christopher’s shin was. "You know that's not true. You know your dad loves you more than his own lungs."

"He shouted at me," Christopher whispered. "He said I was a pig. He said he had to go to jail because of me."

"He didn't go to jail because of you, buddy. He went to jail because he was terrified," Buck said gently, his fingers tapping a slow, reassuring rhythm against the boy's leg. "When the news said that the tornado went through your grandparents' neighborhood, your dad… I've never seen him like that, Chris. He couldn't breathe. His heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to burst right out of his chest. He thought he lost you. And when we got to the border and they wouldn't let us through, he didn't care about the laws or the guards or the guns. He just saw a wall between him and his son, and he tried to tear it down with his bare fists."

Christopher shifted, the blanket sliding down just enough for his wet, red-rimmed eyes to show above the collar of his hoodie. "He punched a cop?"

"Two of them," Buck said, a tiny, sad smile touching the corners of his mouth. "And then I punched a guy who tried to hit him. We were both a total mess, Chris. Because we love you. Because the thought of this world without Christopher Diaz in it is… well, it's not a world either of us wants to live in."

Christopher looked at Buck for a long time, his breathing rattling in his chest. "I see it every time I close my eyes, Buck."

The admission was so small, so fragile, that Buck almost missed it. He leaned in closer, his expression shifting into one of absolute, unblinking focus. "The storm?"

Christopher nodded, a single tear spilling over his eyelid and disappearing into the gray cotton of his hood. "The sound. It didn't sound like wind. It sounded like a train… like a giant metal train scraping along the ground right above our heads. The house was screaming. The walls were literally bending inward, Buck. Grandpa was trying to hold the door shut, but the wind just… it just ripped it off the hinges like it was paper. And Grandma was screaming my name, and then the roof just… vanished."

Christopher started to shake, a violent, full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

"I was under the table," Christopher choked out, the words pouring out of him now like water from a broken dam, the barrier finally cracking. "And it was so dark. I couldn't see my hands. I couldn't see my legs. I thought… I thought the table was going to break, and I'd be crushed, and nobody would ever find me. I thought Dad would come home to El Paso and there’d just be nothing left."

Buck didn't hesitate. He shifted up the bed, reaching out and pulling Christopher into his arms, blanket and all. He hauled the fifteen-year-old boy against his chest, holding him with the same fierce, protective strength he had used to lift the structural beams off him three weeks ago.

Christopher didn't fight it. He buried his face into Buck's shoulder, his hands bunching into the fabric of Buck's shirt as he let out a loud, agonized wail, the sound of a child who had been holding a mountain on his back for a month and had finally been allowed to drop it.

"I've got you," Buck muttered into his hair, his own throat tight, his eyes burning. "I've got you, Chris. You're safe. You're in LA. The house is solid. The roof is here. I'm here."

"I don't want to go to therapy," Christopher sobbed into Buck’s neck, his voice thick with mucus and tears. "I don't want to talk to a stranger. They're going to look at me like I'm broken. Like I'm different. I'm already different, Buck. I don't want to be more different."

Buck closed his eyes, the understanding hitting him like a physical blow. That was what the anger was about. It wasn't about Dr. Copeland or the process; it was about the shame of feeling defective in a world that already required him to fight twice as hard just to walk down the street.

"Hey," Buck said, pulling back just enough to look Christopher in the face. He wiped the boy's cheeks with his palms, his eyes steady. "Listen to me. You are not broken. You survived a multi-vortex tornado. Do you know how many people can say that? You're not different because you're scared, Chris. You're scared because you're human. I've been to therapy. Your dad goes to therapy. Bobby goes to therapy. It's not for crazy people, buddy. It's for soldiers who came home from a war and need someone to help them clean their weapons."

Christopher sniffled, his chest still hitching. "Does it work?"

"It helps," Buck said softly. "But you don't have to go today. And you don't have to go tomorrow. But you can't live in the dark anymore, Chris. You're killing your dad. He's out there dying because he thinks he failed you."

Christopher looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the seams of his sweatpants. "I don't want him to be sad."

"Then let's go tell him," Buck said, offering a small, encouraging nudge. "Come on. Let's go fix this."

Eddie hadn't moved from the couch. He was staring at the hallway entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, when the shadow finally broke across the floorboards.

Buck came out first, his face flushed, his shirt wrinkled from where Christopher had been clutching it. But right behind him, walking slowly but steadily on his crutches, was Christopher.

The hood was down. His face was red, his eyes swollen and wet, but he was looking up. He was looking directly at Eddie.

Eddie stood up so fast his knees popped. He took two steps forward, then stopped, remembering his mistake from before, terrified of pushing too hard, of being too large, of saying the wrong thing.

Christopher stopped three feet away. He looked at Eddie for a long, agonizing second, his jaw trembling.

"I'm sorry I called the room a pigsty," Eddie said, his voice dropping to a rough, trembling whisper, the tears starting up again instantly. "I'm sorry I shouted, Chris. I was so scared. I’ve been so scared since Texas."

"I'm not a burden?" Christopher asked, his voice tiny, vulnerable, stripped of all the teenage armor he had tried so hard to wear.

"Never," Eddie choked out, dropping to his knees on the floor so he was looking up at his son, his hands trembling against his thighs. "Never, Christopher. You are the best thing I have ever done. You are the only thing that matters to me. If I lost you… I wouldn't know how to be a person anymore. I'm so sorry I made you feel like you had to carry this alone."

Christopher let go of his right crutch. It hit the floor with a loud, clattering bang. He leaned forward, losing his balance slightly, and let himself fall directly into his father's arms.

Eddie caught him. He wrapped his arms around his son's back, pulling him down into the dirt, into the safety of the living room floor, holding him so tightly their heartbeats seemed to sync up through their chests. He buried his face in Christopher’s neck, his shoulders shaking as he let out the breath he felt like he’d been holding since the news feed first flashed red on the screen.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Christopher sobbed into his shoulder. "I'm sorry I was mean."

"It's okay, buddy. It's okay," Eddie whispered, his hands gripping the back of Christopher’s shirt as if the boy might dissolve if he let go. "We're okay. We're going to be okay."

Buck stood a few feet away, leaning against the kitchen counter. He had his hands in his pockets, his own face tracked with tears, but a massive, relieved smile was spreading across his face. He watched them for a long time, the quiet of the house finally shifting from something hostile into something resembling peace.

"Hey," Buck called out gently, his voice breaking the heavy emotion of the room. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving. Eddie, did you actually throw those eggs away, or can we start over?"

Christopher let out a wet, breathless laugh against Eddie’s shoulder, the first real laugh Eddie had heard in a month. He pulled back, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and looked at Buck.

"Start over," Christopher said.

Eddie looked up at Buck, his eyes filled with a profound, unspoken gratitude that didn't need words. He stood up, helping Christopher back onto his feet, and picked up the fallen crutch, handing it back to his son.

𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙚-𝙒𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 4.5𝙠

𝙈𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨: 𝙀𝙫𝙖𝙣 "𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠" 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮, 𝙀𝙙𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙤 "𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚" 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯, & 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 "𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨" 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯

𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨: 𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 "𝘽𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙮" 𝙉𝙖𝙨𝙝, 𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙖 & 𝙍𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙙: 𝙃𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 "𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙣𝙚𝙮" 𝙃𝙖𝙣, 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙡 & 𝙆𝙞𝙢, 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙣 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯

𝙈𝙮 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨: 𝙎𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙍𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙯 & 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙮

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙁𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨, 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙀𝙡 𝙋𝙖𝙨𝙤, 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙚𝙬𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙘 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙙𝙤 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙏𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙙. 𝙐𝙣𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙧 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨, 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠. 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝-𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙏𝙚𝙭𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙀𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝘼𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙚, 𝘿𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙩, 𝙋𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙘 𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨, 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙑𝙞𝙤𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝘼𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙪𝙡𝙩, 𝙋𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣/𝘼𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩, 𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙄𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙮

This is part 1/2 of this series. This was definitely one of my fav one-shots to make, so hopefully ya'll enjoy. Let me know what you think!

The silence in the truck on the way back from Los Angeles International Airport had been a heavy, suffocating thing, but it was nothing compared to the silence that had settled over the house afterward.

For days, Eddie had walked through the quiet rooms of his home like a ghost, his boots clicking against the hardwood floors, the sound echoing off walls that suddenly felt too far apart. Christopher’s bedroom door was shut tight. Eddie couldn’t bring himself to open it, couldn’t bear to see the unmade bed, the scattered video game cases, the lingering scent of body spray and laundry detergent that still belonged to his son.

The argument that had precipitated everything still played in Eddie’s mind like a broken projector, flashing the same agonizing images over and over. It had started over something trivial, a simple question about school or dinner, but the underlying tension of the past months had acted as dry tinder. The wounds from Marisol, the appearance of Kim, and the unresolved ghost of Shannon had left Christopher raw.

"You lie to me! You always lie to me!" Christopher had screamed, his voice cracking with the strain of a boy caught between childhood and the harsh realities of teenage anger. He had stood in the center of the living room, his knuckles white around his crutches, his chest heaving.

Eddie had tried to step closer, his hands raised in a plea for calm. "Chris, please. I was trying to protect you. I didn't want you to get hurt."

"By bringing her here? By pretending?" Christopher’s eyes had flashed with a cold, hardened resentment that cut Eddie deeper than any physical blade ever could. "You don't protect me, Dad. You just protect yourself. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to look at you!"

The words had tasted like battery acid, sharp and meant to draw maximum blood. And Eddie, pushed to his absolute limit, exhausted by his own guilt and drowning in the wreckage of his choices, had let his guard down. He had let the anger take over. "Fine! If you think it's so much better somewhere else, then go!" he had yelled back, a decision he regretted the very millisecond it left his lips.

He had called Helena. He had bought the ticket. He had watched his son walk through the TSA line without a single glance back.

In the days immediately following Christopher’s departure, Eddie had tried to convince himself that he could handle the solitude. He told himself that he was a soldier, a firefighter, a man who had survived war zones and collapsed buildings. He could handle an empty house.

He was wrong.

The quiet was not peaceful; it was violent. It pressed against his eardrums until his own heartbeat sounded like a warning siren. He would sit on the edge of his bed, staring at the floorboards, realizing he hadn't spoken a word aloud in thirty-six hours. The routine that had defined his life for years, making breakfast, driving to school, checking homework, had evaporated, leaving him with a vast, terrifying stretch of empty time. He began to skip meals, the effort of cooking for one feeling like an exercise in futility. The house grew cold, the blinds remained drawn, and Eddie slowly began to sink into the floorboards of his own home.

Three days after Christopher left, the lock on the front door clicked open. Buck didn't knock anymore; he didn't need to. He walked into the dim entryway, carrying a plastic bag of takeout.

"Eddie?" Buck called out, his voice cautious but warm.

He walked into the living room and stopped. Eddie was sitting on the couch in the dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps bleeding through the cracks in the blinds. He hadn't shaved, and he was still wearing the same t-shirt from the day before.

"Hey," Buck said gently. He set the food on the coffee table and sat down on the opposite end of the couch. He didn't immediately try to turn on the lights or force Eddie to talk. He just sat there, letting his presence fill the empty space. "I brought those street tacos you like from the truck near the station."

"I'm not really hungry, Buck," Eddie muttered, his voice raspy from disuse.

"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, Eddie. Chimney told me you looked like a ghost on shift." Buck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Living like this… it's not going to bring him back any faster. You're punishing yourself, and it's killing me to watch."

Eddie let out a dry, humorless laugh that sounded more like a choke. "I deserve it. I let him go, Buck. I literally bought the ticket. What kind of father does that?"

"A father who was exhausted, terrified, and trying to give his kid the space he was screaming for," Buck said firmly, shifting closer until he could place a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. The weight of Buck’s hand was the first solid thing Eddie had felt in days. "You made a mistake in the heat of an argument. We all do. But you love him, and he knows that. He's just angry right now."

"The house is too quiet," Eddie whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I thought I'd be okay. I thought I could just… wait it out. But every time I walk past his door, I expect to hear his video games. I expect him to complain about his dinner. I can't do this alone."

"You're not alone," Buck said softly, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

The following week, Eddie’s shift at Station 118 ended early. Bobby had pulled him aside after a minor residential alarm, noticing the deep, structural exhaustion written into every line of Eddie's face, and ordered him to go home and sleep. Eddie hadn't argued.

He arrived back at the empty house around mid-afternoon. He showered, trying to wash away the lingering smell of diesel and soot, and sat on the couch with a cup of black coffee. He turned on the television simply to drown out the oppressive silence of the empty rooms.

He was flicking through the channels when a local news broadcast cut away to a national feed. A bright red banner flashed across the screen:

CATASTROPHE IN WEST TEXAS.

Eddie froze, the mug halfway to his lips.

"We are receiving reports of historic, catastrophic damage out of El Paso, Texas," the anchor announced, her voice tight with panic. "An unprecedented supercell thunderstorm has violently torn through the region, producing a massive, multi-vortex tornado. Early footage shows entire residential blocks completely leveled. The local power grid has suffered a total collapse, cell towers are completely down, and a hard perimeter has been established around the city. Absolutely no communication or transport is possible at this time."

The screen split to a shaky, terrifying video taken from a highway overpass. A monstrous, mile-wide funnel cloud, jet-black and wrapped in sheets of violent rain, was grinding its way directly through the western suburbs of El Paso. Sparks from exploding transformers lit up the dark sky like demonic fireworks.

Eddie’s heart stopped. The coffee cup slipped from his fingers, hitting the hardwood floor and shattering, splashing hot liquid across his bare feet. He didn't even flinch.

The western suburbs. Where Helena and Ramon lived. Where Christopher was staying.

He grabbed his phone from the coffee table, his fingers shaking so violently he could barely unlock the screen. He dialed Christopher's cell.

We're sorry, the number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable or out of the service area.

He dialed Helena. Call failed. He dialed Ramon. Call failed.

"No, no, no," Eddie whispered, his chest tightening until he couldn't draw a breath. He hit redial. Same mechanical voice. He tried Helena again.

Call failed.

The sheer panic was a physical force, a heavy hand wrapping around his throat and squeezing. The room began to spin, the walls pressing inward. He couldn't get air. He opened his mouth, his throat working, but his lungs refused to expand. He fell to his knees on the floor, surrounded by shattered ceramic and spilled coffee, clutching his chest as his heart hammered a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs.

With his remaining strength, he dialed Buck.

The phone rang twice before Buck answered, his voice bright. "Hey, Eddie, you get some sleep—"

"Buck," Eddie choked out, the word a ragged gasp. "Buck… I can't… I can't breathe."

"Eddie? Eddie, what's wrong? Where are you?" Buck's tone shifted instantly from casual to high-alert, the sounds of him scrambling for his keys audible over the line.

"The news… El Paso," Eddie gasped, his vision starting to turn gray at the edges. "The tornado… it went through their neighborhood. I called him. I called them. Nothing. Call failed. Buck, they're dead. My boy is dead."

"Eddie, listen to me!" Buck yelled over the phone, the sound of his truck engine roaring to life in the background. "I'm on my way. I'm three minutes out. Do not hang up. Just try to take a breath. In and out. I'm coming, Eddie!"

By the time the front door burst open, Eddie was slumped against the kitchen cabinets, his chest heaving as he fought for oxygen. Buck flew around the corner, dropping his keys on the counter as he slid on his knees directly in front of Eddie.

He grabbed Eddie’s face with both hands, his palms warm and unyielding.

"Eddie! Look at me! Look right here!" Buck commanded, his voice a solid, unshakeable anchor in the middle of the storm. "I've got you. Breathe with me. Come on. In for four. Do it for Chris."

Eddie stared into Buck's blue eyes, seeing the absolute, unshakable certainty there. He forced a ragged, sobbing breath into his lungs, his chest shuddering. Buck held him tightly, his thumbs gently sweeping over Eddie’s cheekbones, wiping away the hot, silent tears that had begun to track through the stubble on his face.

"That's it. Keep going. In… and out," Buck guided softly. "I've got you. We're gonna get him, Eddie. I swear to you, we're gonna get him."

Slowly, the terrifying constriction in Eddie's throat loosened, and he let out a long, shuddering sob, his head falling forward against Buck’s shoulder.

"We have to go," Eddie choked out into the fabric of Buck's shirt. "Buck, we have to go right now. I don't care about the roads. I don't care about anything."

"We're going," Buck said instantly, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Get your boots. We're leaving now."

The drive from Los Angeles to the edge of El Paso County was an agonizing, eight-hour descent into a nightmare. Buck pushed his truck past ninety miles an hour along the desert interstate, while Eddie sat in the passenger seat like a stone statue, redialing the three Texas numbers in a continuous, maddening loop that always ended in the same flat, dead tone.

By the time they reached the outer perimeter of El Paso, the sky was pitch-black, illuminated only by the thousands of flashing emergency lights that blocked the highway.

A massive checkpoint had been established by the Texas Department of Public Safety and the National Guard. High-visibility orange barricades formed a multi-lane snake across the asphalt, flanked by armored Humvees and state trooper cruisers. A thick line of vehicles- hundreds of desperate family members- was backed up on the shoulder, people crying, screaming, and begging the officers to let them through.

Buck pulled his truck up as close to the main barricade as possible. Before the wheels had fully stopped spinning, Eddie slammed his door open and hit the pavement running.

"Eddie, wait! Let's be smart about this!" Buck yelled, throwing the truck into park and sprinting after him.

Eddie stormed straight up to the lead officer standing by the primary gate, a tall, broad-shouldered man with an unyielding expression and a nametag that read Sgt. Ramirez.

"Sir, you need to return to your vehicle. The entire county is under a hard closure," Sergeant Ramirez said, his voice a mechanical, tired recording.

"My son is in there," Eddie said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a coiled, animalistic energy. He ripped his LAFD badge from his pocket and shoved it into Ramirez's face. "I'm a firefighter. LAFD. My fifteen-year-old son is in that city, and his house was directly in the path of the storm. Let me through."

Ramirez didn't even look at the gold shield. He reached up, his heavy hand firmly pushing Eddie’s arm down. "I don't care if you're the Governor, son. Nobody goes in. The roads are compromised, there are active gas leaks under the rubble, and live high-voltage transmission lines are down. It’s a hazard zone. Turn around."

"I am not turning around!" Eddie erupted, his face flushing deep crimson. He stepped directly into Ramirez's personal space, their chests nearly touching. "He has cerebral palsy! Do you understand what that means? He can't run! He can't climb out of a collapsed room! He is trapped, and you are standing here telling me about road hazards?!"

"Sir, back up immediately," Ramirez warned, his right hand dropping down to rest on the handle of his taser. "Step away from the perimeter, or you will be detained."

"Go ahead and try it, you son of a bitch!" Eddie screamed, his mind entirely consumed by a primitive, desperate need to break through.

Right at that exact second, a man from one of the small ranch houses that bordered the highway shoulder, a stocky, middle-aged guy in a grease-stained tank top named Gary, came slamming out of his front screen door. Gary was holding a flashlight, his face twisted in deep irritation.

"Hey! Shut the hell up out here!" Gary shouted, storming down his gravel driveway toward the checkpoint line. "Some of us have structural damage on our own property we're trying to clear without you crazy bastards screaming in the middle of the road! Get back in your trucks and beat it back to where you came from!"

The comment was a match dropped into a powder keg.

Eddie turned, his entire body weight pivoting on his heel, and unleashed a vicious, roaring right hook straight into Sergeant Ramirez’s jaw. The wet, heavy crack of bone on bone cut through the noise of the highway. Ramirez’s head snapped back, his hat flying into the dirt as he stumbled backward, slamming hard against the hood of his cruiser.

"Eddie, no!" Buck screamed, lunging forward to pin Eddie’s arms.

But before Buck could grab him, Gary stepped into the fray, grabbing Eddie by the shoulder and shoving him back. "Hey! You can't just punch a cop, you goddamn psycho—"

Eddie didn't let him finish. He spun on Gary and leveled a brutal left hook directly into the center of Gary’s face. The punch landed with sickening force; Gary’s nose instantly shattered, blood spurting across his tank top as he collapsed onto the asphalt.

Gary wasn't completely down, though. Fueled by shock and adrenaline, he scrambled back up to his feet, swearing violently, and lunged at Eddie with his fists swinging wildly. One of his stray, erratic punches caught Eddie hard across the left cheekbone, splitting the skin and opening a gash that instantly began to bleed down Eddie’s face.

Seeing Eddie get hit made something inside Buck’s chest violently snap.

The weeks of silent terror, the fear of losing his family, the absolute desperation- all of it exploded to the surface. Buck flew forward, his massive frame covering the distance instantly. He brought his right fist around with the entire weight of his body behind it, connecting perfectly with Gary’s jaw.

Gary’s eyes rolled back, and he went down hard onto the dirt shoulder, knocked out cold before he even hit the ground.

"Hands where I can see them! Down on the ground! Now!"

Sergeant Ramirez was back up, his face covered in blood, his taser drawn. Three other state troopers instantly converged on the scene, their service weapons drawn and aimed directly at Buck and Eddie's chests.

"Get down! Get down or you will be shot!"

Two troopers tackled Eddie from behind, slamming his face into the rough gravel. Another trooper threw his weight onto Buck’s back, forcing him down into the dirt beside him.

Ramirez yanked Eddie’s arms behind his back, clicking the heavy steel handcuffs shut until they bit deep into Eddie's wrists. "You're under arrest! Both of you! Assault on a police officer, aggravated battery, resisting arrest with violence!"

Eddie lay there in the dirt, his face pressed against the cold gravel, staring through the narrow gaps of the orange plastic barricade.

"Christopher," Eddie whispered into the dust, his voice a broken, rattling sob. "Christopher…"

The El Paso County Holding Facility smelled of old bleach, industrial floor wax, and the damp, metallic tang of sweat and blood.

The cell was a small, square block of poured concrete, illuminated by a single, recessed fluorescent light behind a wire mesh grate in the ceiling. A heavy iron bench was bolted to the far wall, but neither Eddie nor Buck was using it.

Eddie was pacing.

He had been pacing for nearly four hours, his boots creating a continuous, rhythmic thud-click, thud-click against the gray concrete floor. Five paces to the iron door, turn, five paces to the back wall, turn. Over and over. His navy shirt was torn at the shoulder, the left side of his face swollen and bruised where Gary’s punch had landed. A crust of dark, dried blood sat along the edge of his cheekbone, but he hadn't touched it. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his fingers curled into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"Eddie," Buck said softly from the bench. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low, his large hands clasped together. His knuckles were raw and split. "Eddie, you need to sit down. You're going to wear a hole through your boots."

Eddie didn't stop. He didn't even look at him. He hit the iron door, his shoulder nearly clipping the frame as he turned on his heel. Five paces back. "He's out there, Buck."

"I know."

"He's out there, under whatever is left of that house, and I am sitting in a concrete box because I couldn't control myself," Eddie’s voice was terrifyingly hollow. "Every minute we sit here, the temperature drops. The gas lines are leaking. If he’s hurt… if he’s bleeding…"

"Eddie, stop," Buck stood up, stepping directly into Eddie’s pacing lane, forcing his best friend to halt. Buck looked terrible, his eyes bloodshot with an exhaustion that went deeper than physical fatigue. "Listen to me. Bobby knows. I managed to call him from the transport van before they took our phones. He’s coming."

"Bobby is eight hundred miles away, Buck!" Eddie yelled, the flat monotone finally cracking, revealing the raw, bleeding panic beneath. He grabbed the front of Buck’s shirt. "By the time Bobby gets a flight, by the time he deals with the jurisdiction—"

"Bobby will get here," Buck interrupted fiercely, grabbing Eddie’s wrists, his grip firm and steady. "You know Bobby. He doesn't look at maps or rules when one of us is drowning. He’s already on his way. You need to keep your head together, Eddie."

Eddie stared at Buck, his breath hitching in his chest. The anger seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving behind nothing but the cold, naked terror of a father who was completely powerless. He let his forehead drop against Buck’s shoulder, his shoulders shaking with a silent, ragged breath.

"I can't lose him, Buck," Eddie whispered, his voice small. "I can't let the last thing I said to him be that argument."

"You won't," Buck said, his voice thick as he wrapped his arms around Eddie’s back, squeezing tight. "I promise you, Eddie. We’re getting out of here, and we’re going to find him."

The heavy iron door of the holding block cleared with a loud, mechanical buzz.

Eddie snapped his head up as the door swung open. Standing in the hallway, flanked by a tired-looking shift lieutenant and an older man in a dress uniform with the insignia of the El Paso Fire Department, was Bobby Nash.

Bobby looked like he hadn't slept in three days, but his posture was straight, his civilian jacket neatly zipped. He didn't say a word as the guard unlocked the cell gate with a heavy metallic clink.

"Step out," the guard said.

Eddie and Buck walked into the hallway. Eddie looked at Bobby, his mouth opening to speak, to apologize, but Bobby simply raised a single hand, cutting him off before a sound could form.

"Save it," Bobby said, his voice carrying that deep, unshakeable authority. "Your personal belongings are at the front desk. Sign the release forms, and get to the vehicle. We don't have time."

Ten minutes later, they were walking out into the blinding Texas afternoon sun. Parked in the restricted lot was a heavy-duty rental SUV with a municipal emergency placard resting on the dashboard.

The older man in the EPFD uniform, Chief Rodriguez, walked with them to the door. He turned to look at Eddie, his eyes serious. "Nash told me who your boy is, Diaz. And he told me what you two did at the gate. I managed to get the District Attorney to agree to a deferred presentment on the assault charges until the rescue operations are concluded, but you are on an incredibly short leash. You stay out of the way of the primary heavy-rescue teams. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Eddie said, his voice thick.

Bobby turned around from the driver’s seat once they were both inside. "I brought your turnout gear from your lockers. It’s in the back trunk. We have an official clearance for one vehicle into the western sector. Let’s go."

The drive through the hard perimeter was like driving into the mouth of a volcano.

The tornado had acted like a giant, blunt lawnmower, shearing off everything above the foundation level for three straight blocks. Brick homes were reduced to chaotic mounds of red dust and splintered wood.

Bobby dropped the SUV into low gear, bringing the SUV to a halt in front of a massive, collapsed commercial sign that blocked the intersection. "This is as far as the vehicle can go," he said, turning back to look at them. "You two have two hours before the structural engineers declare this grid an active collapse hazard. Go."

Eddie didn't wait. He threw his door open, grabbing his heavy rescue helmet and turnout coat from the back. Buck was right behind him, his heavy-duty flashlight already turned on.

They ran down the center of the street, their boots splashing through deep, muddy puddles.

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks.

The lot was there. The numbers on the curb, 314, were still visible beneath a layer of gray dust. But the house was gone. The entire second story had been sheared away, and the heavy brick walls of the first floor had caved inward, creating a massive, jagged pyramid of debris.

"No," Eddie gasped, dropping his flashlight as he ran toward the pile, his knees hitting the debris as he began to claw frantically at the heavy bricks with his bare hands. "Christopher! Christopher!"

"Eddie, use your gloves! Keep your head up!" Buck yelled, dropping down beside him, his powerful flashlight illuminating the jagged, unstable shifting of the wood.

Eddie didn't care about the gloves; he didn't care that the sharp edges of the broken brick were tearing through his skin. "Christopher! Can you hear me?! It’s Dad! Christopher!"

"Eddie, stop! Be quiet! Listen to me, stop!" Buck grabbed Eddie by the shoulders, forcing him into a second of absolute stillness. "Listen!"

Through the dead, heavy silence, beneath the low whistle of the desert wind through the debris, a faint, muffled sound drifted up.

It was a cough. A small, dry, rattling cough.

"Dad?"

The voice was tiny. It didn't sound like a fifteen-year-old boy; it sounded like the five-year-old child Eddie used to rock to sleep during the worst of the night terrors.

"Chris! I'm here! Dad's here!" Eddie screamed, a massive, electric surge of pure adrenaline hitting his bloodstream. He looked at Buck, his eyes wide and brilliant. "He's alive, Buck! He's right under here!"

"Let's get him out," Buck said, his face instantly hardening into pure, professional focus.

Working with the flawless, wordless synchronization they had developed over hundreds of scenes, they began to systematically clear the pile. Buck wedged his broad shoulders beneath a shattered structural beam, hoisting the heavy timber upward with a guttural roar of pure strength, while Eddie slid underneath, clearing away the smaller pieces of lath, plaster, and pink insulation.

Beneath the main collapse, a small, miraculous triangle of space had been preserved by an old, heavy, solid oak dining table.

Eddie shone his flashlight into the dark crawlspace.

There, curled into a tight ball, his knees tucked into his chest, was Christopher. He was covered from head to toe in white sheetrock dust, his clothes torn, dark streaks of dried blood running down his forehead. His glasses were gone, his eyes wide and blinking against the sudden, sharp light, filled with a profound, bone-deep terror.

A few feet behind him, deeper in the crawlspace, Eddie could see the motionless forms of Helena and Ramon. They were bruised and unconscious, but Eddie could see the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his father’s back. They were breathing. They would survive.

But right now, Eddie’s entire universe had narrowed down to the boy three feet in front of him.

"Chris," Eddie choked out, his voice breaking as he reached his arms deep into the narrow space.

"Dad," Christopher sobbed. The anger, the distance, the weeks of bitter silence, all of it vanished in an instant. He lunged forward as best as his legs would allow, his dusty hands reaching out to grip the collar of Eddie’s LAFD turnout coat. "Dad, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I didn't mean it… please don't leave me…"

"I've got you. I'm never leaving you," Eddie cried openly, his tears cutting clean, dark tracks through the thick layer of dust on his face. He carefully, with infinite gentleness, wrapped his arms around Christopher’s torso, guiding him out of the crawlspace while shielding him from the jagged debris.

The exact second Christopher was clear of the rubble, Eddie pulled him tightly into his lap, burying his face into his son’s dust-choked hair. Christopher wrapped his arms around his father’s neck, squeezing with every ounce of strength his small frame possessed, and let out a violent, body-shaking sob.

𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝙒𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙨

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙀𝙫𝙖𝙣 "𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠" 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮 & 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 6.4𝙠

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙙: 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯, 𝙃𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙖 "𝙃𝙚𝙣" 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙃𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 "𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙣𝙚𝙮" 𝙃𝙖𝙣, 𝘽𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙮 𝙉𝙖𝙨𝙝

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨 "𝙣𝙤" 𝙩𝙤 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙙𝙤𝙜, 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠, 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙥𝙩𝙨 𝙒𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙖 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙪𝙚, 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙, 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙨-𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖 𝙛𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙙𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙮 𝙖𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙤𝙤𝙣, 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙁𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙐𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙘, 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝-𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚/𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙖 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛

A/N: Not really much to say, thought I would make a fluffy/hurt type one shot, so enjoy and let me know what you think!

The morning sun in Los Angeles never crept into the Diaz household; it barged in. It sliced through the slatted blinds of the kitchen window, casting long, geometric bars of gold across the scarred wooden dining table and highlighting the gentle, swirling steam rising from Eddie’s mug of black coffee.

Eddie Diaz sat with his chin resting in his palm, his eyes tracing the rim of his mug. He was tired. Not just the physical, bone-deep exhaustion that came with pulling a grueling twenty-four-hour shift at Station 118, but a quieter, more domestic kind of weary. The kind of tired that came from navigating the shifting, unpredictable tectonic plates of raising a teenager.

Christopher was fourteen now. The sweet, easily appeased little boy who used to build Lego towers for hours had gradually been replaced by a young man of sharp angles, heavy sighs, and sudden, fierce declarations of independence. Eddie loved him more than his own breath, but lately, it felt like they were speaking two different languages.

The rhythmic, uneven thud-drag of Christopher’s crutches echoed down the hallway, signaling his arrival. Eddie straightened his posture, pasting on a warm, inviting smile.

"Morning, buddy," Eddie said, sliding a plate of freshly scrambled eggs and buttered toast toward the empty seat. "Sleep okay?"

Christopher didn't answer immediately. He negotiated his way into the chair, leaning his crutches against the wall with a clatter that felt a little more forceful than necessary. He looked at the eggs, then at his dad, his expression guarded.

"I slept fine," Christopher said, his voice carrying that scratchy, adolescent pitch that still caught Eddie off guard. He picked up his fork but didn't eat. He just pushed the eggs around, drawing a circle in the yellow yolk.

Eddie took a slow sip of his coffee. He knew that look. It was the "I’m prepping a speech" look. "Something on your mind, Chris?"

Christopher took a breath, puffing out his chest. "I want a dog."

Eddie blinked. Of all the things he had been preparing himself for, requests for a higher allowance, questions about high school parties, requests to go to the mall unsupervised- this was not on the immediate radar. "A dog?"

"Yeah. A dog," Christopher said, his tone instantly defensive, as if anticipating the hurdle. "Everyone at school has one. Toby has a golden retriever. Maya has a lab mix. I’m old enough to take care of one, Dad. I can feed it, I can brush it, I can keep it in my room."

Eddie sighed, the weariness settling back into his shoulders. He set his coffee mug down with a soft clink. "Chris, we’ve talked about this before. A dog is a lot of work. A lot of responsibility."

"I just said I would do the work!" Christopher’s voice rose, a sudden spark of anger igniting in his eyes. "I’m fourteen. I’m not a baby anymore. I can handle it."

"It’s not just about you handling it, Christopher," Eddie explained, trying to keep his voice calm, level, and reasonable. "Dogs need to be walked multiple times a day. They need to be trained. What happens when I’m on a twenty-four-hour shift? What happens when you’re at school, or at physical therapy, or doing extracurriculars? A dog can't just sit in a crate all day."

"We could figure it out!" Christopher insisted, leaning forward. "Buck could help. Buck would love a dog."

The mention of Buck’s name sent a tiny, familiar pang through Eddie’s chest, but he kept his focus. "Buck has his own life, Chris. He has his own apartment, his own shifts. We can’t just assume he’s going to babysit a dog because we decided to get one. And what about the expenses? Vet bills, food, grooming, shots. It’s a lot."

"You always do this," Christopher muttered, his shoulders slumping, his face darkening into a scowl. "You just say no to everything. You treat me like I can’t do anything because of my CP. You think I can't walk a dog."

The accusation felt like a physical blow. Eddie’s chest tightened, his jaw clenching. He had spent Christopher’s entire life trying to prove the exact opposite: trying to empower him, to give him every opportunity, to never let his diagnosis limit him. To hear Christopher weaponize it now, in a moment of teenage frustration, stung fiercely.

"That is not what this is about, and you know it," Eddie said, his voice dropping to a low, stern register. "This is about the reality of our schedule. It is about the house we live in. It is about the commitment. My answer is no, Christopher."

"It’s not fair!" Christopher yelled. He shoved his chair back. The legs scraped loudly against the linoleum. He grabbed his crutches, his movements hurried and angry. "You never listen to me! I hate this!"

"Christopher, get back here and finish your breakfast," Eddie ordered, rising from his chair.

"No!" Christopher shouted over his shoulder. He swung himself down the hallway with surprising speed, his bedroom door slamming shut a second later. The force of it rattled the framed photos hanging in the corridor.

Eddie stood alone in the quiet kitchen. The scrambled eggs were growing cold. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache blossoming behind his eyes. He wanted to go after him, to force him to talk, but he knew Christopher’s temper. Right now, any further discussion would just be throwing gasoline on a fire.

He sank back into his chair, stared at his lukewarm coffee, and wished, not for the first time, that raising a child came with an instruction manual.

Inside his bedroom, Christopher was vibrating with pure, unadulterated teenage rage. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. His dad still looked at him and saw a little kid who needed to be protected from everything, who couldn't handle the responsibility of a living, breathing pet.

He paced the limited space of his room, his crutches thudding against the carpet. He needed an ally. He needed someone who actually listened to him, someone who didn't immediately jump to "no" and "responsibility" and "schedules."

He grabbed his phone from his nightstand, his thumbs flying across the screen. He bypassed his dad’s contact, bypassed his friends, and went straight to the person he trusted more than anyone else in the world.

He hit dial.

It only rang twice before a bright, cheerful voice filled the receiver.

"Hey, buddy! What’s up? Shouldn't you be eating breakfast?"

"Buck," Christopher said, his voice cracking slightly with the leftover adrenaline of the argument. "Dad is being completely unreasonable."

In his loft across town, Evan "Buck" Buckley stopped half-shaven in front of his bathroom mirror. The sheer distress in Christopher’s voice immediately put him on high alert. He wiped the shaving cream from his jaw with a towel and walked out into his living room, his brow furrowed.

"Whoa, hey, slow down, Chris," Buck said, his tone softening into that warm, protective frequency he reserved almost exclusively for the Diaz boys. "What’s going on? What did your dad do?"

"I asked him for a dog," Christopher vent-splurted, the words tumbling out of him in a desperate rush. "I told him I’m fourteen, that I can take care of it, that I can feed it and do everything. And he just immediately said no. He didn't even think about it, Buck! He said we don't have time, and then he basically said I couldn't do it because of my legs."

Buck winced. Knowing Eddie, he highly doubted Eddie had actually said that, but he also knew how Christopher’s mind worked and how any boundary could feel like a limitation imposed by his cerebral palsy if he was already feeling frustrated.

"Chris, I'm sure your dad didn't mean it like that," Buck tried to placate gently. "Eddie knows how strong you are. But dogs are a huge responsibility—"

"Not you too," Christopher groaned, sounding deeply betrayed. "I thought you were on my side. I thought you got it."

"I am on your side!" Buck said quickly, panic flaring in his chest at the thought of Christopher being mad at him. "I am, Chris. Always. I’m just saying… your dad is looking out for the house. It's a lot of work."

"It wouldn't be if we did it together," Christopher pointed out, his tone shifting from angry to suddenly very quiet, very calculating. "You’re always at our house anyway. You basically live here. If I got a dog… you could help me. We could train him together. It would be our dog."

Buck froze in the middle of his living room.

Our dog.

The words wrapped around Buck’s heart and squeezed. He loved Christopher like his own. He loved Eddie deeply, quietly, in a way he still struggled to put into words even to himself. The idea of a dog… a dog that belonged to them, a dog that he and Christopher could train, a dog that would run around the backyard while they grilled on weekends… it sounded perfect. It sounded like the missing piece of a picture he had been staring at for years.

"Chris…" Buck started, his resolve crumbling like dry cookies. "I don't know. Your dad said no. If I go behind his back—"

"He won't be mad once he sees how happy it makes us," Christopher pleaded, pulling out the big guns. "Please, Buck. I really, really want this. I can do it. I just need you to believe in me. Do you believe I can do it?"

Buck closed his eyes. It was a low blow, playing the "do you believe in me" card, but it worked with devastating efficiency. Buck’s chest swelled with a fierce, protective urge to give this kid whatever he wanted, to prove to him that he could have a normal life, that he could have the things other kids had.

"What kind of dog are we talking about?" Buck asked quietly, a small, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

On the other end of the line, Christopher gasped. "Really? You'll help me?"

"I didn't say that yet," Buck lied, already knowing he was entirely doomed. "I’m just asking. Hypothetically."

"A shelter dog," Christopher said instantly. "A rescue. Someone who needs a home. Like we do."

Buck’s heart melted into a puddle on his hardwood floor. "Okay. Okay, look. Don't say anything to your dad. Let me think about it, alright? Let me see what I can do."

"Thank you, Buck! You're the best!"

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't tell Eddie I said that, or he’ll skin me alive," Buck muttered, though his heart was hammering with a mix of excitement and absolute, terrifying dread. He was going to get so, so murdered.

The plan took exactly four days to execute.

Buck spent his off-duty hours scouring local animal shelter websites. He didn't want a high-energy puppy that would trip Christopher up, nor did he want a dog so large it could accidentally knock him over. He needed a goldilocks dog: calm, medium-sized, gentle, and eager to please.

He found her at a small rescue shelter in Pasadena.

She was a two-year-old golden retriever and yellow lab mix. The shelter staff had named her "Waffles" because of her light, honey-colored coat and her incredibly sweet, doughy disposition. She had been surrendered by an elderly owner who could no longer care for her, meaning she was already house-trained, knew basic commands, and walked beautifully on a leash without pulling.

When Buck met her, she simply walked up to him, rested her chin on his knee, and let out a long, contented sigh.

This is the one, Buck thought, his eyes stinging slightly. This is Christopher’s dog.

He signed the paperwork, paid the adoption fees, purchased a crate, a plush bed, bowls, a leash, a collar, and enough toys to stock a small pet store, and loaded everything into the back of his truck.

He timed it perfectly. Eddie was scheduled for a double shift that ended on Saturday morning. Christopher was home alone, having been dropped off by Pepa an hour earlier. Buck had texted Christopher a simple message: Be ready.

When Buck’s truck pulled into the Diaz driveway, Christopher was already waiting by the front window. The moment he saw Buck get out of the cab, Christopher practically flew out the front door, his crutches swinging wildly as he navigated the porch steps.

"Buck! Is it—did you—?"

"Keep your voice down, the neighbors are going to think we're stealing something," Buck laughed, though his own adrenaline was spiking. He walked to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door.

Sitting on the passenger seat, wearing a bright red collar with a shiny silver tag, was Waffles. She blinked her big, soulful brown eyes at Christopher, her tail immediately beginning to thump a slow, rhythmic beat against the fabric of the seat.

Christopher stopped dead in his tracks. His crutches wobbled slightly as his mouth fell open. "Oh my god."

"Chris, meet Waffles," Buck said, his face splitting into a massive, proud grin. "Waffles, meet your new best friend."

Buck reached in and gently coaxed the dog out. Waffles hopped down, her paws landing softly on the driveway. She didn't bolt. Instead, she took a few cautious, sniffing steps toward Christopher.

Christopher slowly lowered himself down onto the grass of the front lawn, discarding his crutches beside him. He stretched out a hand, his fingers trembling slightly. "Hey. Hey, girl. Come here."

Waffles didn't hesitate. She trotted over, her tail wagging so hard her entire back half shook, and buried her wet nose directly into Christopher’s neck. Christopher let out a loud, breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around her thick neck, burying his face in her golden fur.

Buck stood over them, hands on his hips, feeling a profound sense of warmth and accomplishment. See? he thought. How could Eddie possibly be mad at this? It’s perfect.

Ten minutes later, they had migrated inside. Waffles was exploring the living room with polite curiosity, sniffing the edges of the rug and the legs of the coffee table. Christopher was sitting on the floor, tossing a tennis ball a few feet away, which Waffles would gently fetch and drop back into his lap.

"She’s perfect, Buck. She’s the best dog in the world," Christopher beamed, his eyes shining with a happiness Eddie hadn't seen in him for weeks.

"She is pretty great," Buck agreed, sitting on the sofa, watching them. "Now, we have to set up her bed and her food bowls before your dad—"

The sound of a key turning in the front door lock cut Buck off mid-sentence.

The air in the room suddenly felt very cold.

Christopher froze. Waffles, sensing the shift in energy, stopped squeaking her tennis ball and sat down next to Christopher, her ears perking up toward the door.

The door swung open. Eddie walked in, looking exhausted, his uniform shirt slightly wrinkled, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was rubbing his eyes, speaking before he even fully looked up. "Hey, Chris, sorry I'm late, traffic on the 101 was a—"

Eddie stopped.

His duffel bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy, dull thud.

He stared.

He stared at Christopher sitting on the floor. He stared at the golden-yellow dog sitting right next to him. And then, slowly, his eyes drifted upward, locking onto Buck, who was sitting on the couch looking like a man who had just been caught holding a smoking gun over a body.

For a long, agonizing moment, the house was dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

"Eddie," Buck started, his voice squeaking slightly. He cleared his throat, trying to sound authoritative and casual. "Hey, man. You’re home early."

Eddie didn't look at Christopher. He didn't look at the dog. His eyes remained fixed entirely on Buck. The look in his eyes wasn't just anger; it was a cold, simmering, white-hot fury that made Buck’s stomach drop straight through the floor.

"Buck," Eddie said, his voice dangerously quiet, dropping an octave. "Out. Now."

"Dad, wait—" Christopher started, scrambling to his feet with the help of the sofa.

"Christopher, go to your room," Eddie said. He didn't shout. He didn't raise his voice. But the sheer, icy authority in his tone was terrifying.

"But Dad, she’s Waffles, she's—"

"I said, go to your room, Christopher," Eddie repeated, finally turning his gaze to his son. It wasn't an angry look, but it was completely unyielding. "I need to speak to Buck. Now."

Christopher looked at Buck, his eyes wide with fear and guilt. Buck gave him a small, reassuring nod, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Go ahead, Chris. It’s okay. Go on."

Christopher grabbed his crutches and slowly made his way down the hall. Waffles, confused by the tension, made to follow him, but Christopher gently closed his bedroom door, leaving the dog in the living room. Waffles whimpered softly, then trotted back to Buck’s legs, pressing her side against his shins.

Once Christopher’s door clicked shut, Eddie stepped fully into the living room. He didn't look at the dog. He looked at Buck.

"What did you do?" Eddie whispered.

"Eddie, listen, she’s a rescue," Buck began, his hands raised in a placating gesture as he stood up. "She’s two years old, she’s house-trained, she’s incredibly gentle. Christopher was so upset, and I thought—I thought if I helped him, if we did this together—"

"You thought," Eddie interrupted, taking a step forward. His chest was heaving. "You thought you had the right to make a major, life-altering decision for my family? Behind my back?"

"I'm part of this family, Eddie!" Buck argued, his own defensive walls rising, though they felt flimsy against Eddie’s rage. "I wanted to help him! He felt like he couldn't have anything because of his CP, he felt like you didn't trust him—"

"Do not use his diagnosis to justify you undermining me as a parent!" Eddie snarled, his voice finally cracking, rising in volume. "I told him no! I am his father, Buck! I made a parenting decision, and you—you walked in here, bypassed me completely, and bought him a dog!"

"I didn't buy her, I adopted her—"

"I don't care!" Eddie yelled, slamming his hand down on the back of the kitchen chair. Waffles flinched, shrinking back behind Buck’s legs. Buck immediately felt a pang of guilt for the dog. "You do not get to do this, Buck. You do not get to play the fun uncle who sweeps in and gives Christopher whatever he wants while I have to be the bad guy who enforces the rules!"

"I don't play the fun uncle!" Buck shouted back, taking a step closer, matching Eddie’s proximity. "I love him, Eddie! I did this because I wanted to see him happy! You should have seen his face—"

"I don't care about his face right now!" Eddie barked, his eyes flashing with tears of anger. "I care about the fact that you betrayed my trust. You went behind my back. You made me look like an enemy to my own son. How am I supposed to teach him respect, how am I supposed to set boundaries, when you are standing right behind me ready to tear them down the second I turn my back?"

The words hit Buck like a physical punch. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of realization. He looked at Eddie’s pale, furious face, at the tight line of his jaw, and realized how deeply he had crossed the line. This wasn't just about a dog. This was about boundaries, about respect, about the delicate, fragile ecosystem of Eddie’s parenting.

"Eddie…" Buck whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. I… I didn't think about it like that."

"No, you didn't," Eddie said, his voice dropping back to that icy, quiet whisper. "You never think, Buck. You just act on impulse, and everyone else has to clean up the mess."

That hurt. It hurt worse than anything Eddie had ever said to him.

"What do you want me to do?" Buck asked, his voice barely audible. "Do you want me to take her back? Because… because if I take her back, it’s going to break Christopher's heart. He’ll never forgive you, Eddie. And he’ll never forgive me."

Eddie stared at him. He looked at the dog, Waffles, who was now peeking out from behind Buck’s legs, her big brown eyes looking up at Eddie with a mixture of hope and fear.

Eddie closed his eyes. He let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like it tore his throat on the way out. He rubbed his face with both hands, his shoulders slumping.

"If I make you take her back," Eddie said quietly, "I’m the monster. I’m the dad who took away his dog. You put me in a box, Buck. You and Christopher. You cornered me."

"Eddie, I didn't mean to—"

"Get out," Eddie said, opening his eyes. They were cold, dead, and utterly devoid of the warmth Buck usually found there. "Just… get out of my house, Buck. I don't want to look at you right now."

"Eddie—"

"Go," Eddie commanded.

Buck looked at the dog, then at the closed door of Christopher’s room, and finally at Eddie, whose back was now turned to him, his hands gripping the kitchen counter so tightly his knuckles were white.

With a heavy, breaking heart, Buck walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out into the bright, mocking California sunshine, leaving the dog behind.

The weeks that followed were some of the most uncomfortable, tense, and miserable days in the history of Station 118.

Eddie was furious.

It wasn't a loud, explosive anger that burned out quickly. It was a slow, deep, glacial freeze.

At the station, Eddie functioned with terrifying, robotic efficiency. He did his chores, he cleaned the trucks, he suited up for calls, and he worked seamlessly alongside Buck when they were on a scene, because when lives were on the line, Eddie Diaz was a professional. But the moment they stepped back into the firehouse, the curtain fell.

Eddie did not speak to Buck.

If Buck walked into the kitchen, Eddie walked out. If Buck sat at the dining table, Eddie took his plate to the locker room. If Bobby asked them to work on a task together, Eddie did his part in absolute silence, ignoring any attempt Buck made at small talk, apologies, or lighthearted banter.

The rest of the crew noticed immediately.

"Alright, what did you do?" Hen asked Buck on the third day of the silent treatment, cornering him by the coffee maker.

"Nothing," Buck mumbled, staring down at his mug.

"Buck, Eddie looks like he wants to use your skull as a bowling ball," Chimney chimed in, leaning against the counter. "And you look like a kicked puppy. Literally. Did you break his truck? Did you lose his favorite spatula?"

"I got Christopher a dog," Buck whispered.

Hen and Chimney both froze.

"You did what?" Hen gasped.

"I got Christopher a dog," Buck repeated, louder this time, his face flushing. "Christopher was really upset because Eddie said no, and he called me, and I… I found this amazing rescue dog, Waffles, and I adopted her and brought her over."

Chimney slowly let out a low whistle. "Oh, Buck. Oh, sweetie. You didn't just cross the line, you jumped over it on a pogo stick while flipping him the bird."

"I was trying to help!" Buck defended himself, feeling the familiar, desperate sting of tears. "Christopher was so unhappy. And she’s a great dog! She really is! But Eddie… Eddie won't even look at me. He told me to get out of his house. I haven't been over there in three weeks."

"You undermined his parenting, Buck," Hen said, her tone softening with sympathy, but remaining firm. "Eddie has to make the hard choices. He’s the dad. When you went behind his back, you told Christopher that his dad’s rules don't matter as long as he can coax you into doing what he wants. That’s a dangerous precedent."

"I know," Buck groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I know that now. I apologized, but he won't let me say anything. How long is he going to be mad at me?"

"Knowing Eddie?" Chimney said, wincing. "Could be a while. He’s a stubborn Texan, Buck. He holds onto a grudge like it’s a gold medal."

At the Diaz household, the atmosphere was barely any better.

Eddie had allowed Waffles to stay, mostly because, as he had told Buck, he couldn't bear to be the villain who ripped a shelter dog away from his disabled son. But he refused to have anything to do with her.

He didn't feed her. He didn't walk her. He didn't pet her.

If Waffles walked into a room Eddie was in, Eddie would politely but firmly walk out. If Waffles approached him, tail wagging, hoping for a scratch behind the ears, Eddie would cross his arms and look away, ignoring her completely.

"She’s your responsibility, Christopher," Eddie had told his son on night one. "You wanted her. You and Buck decided to bring her into this house. So you take care of her. I am not a dog owner."

Christopher, to his credit, took the job seriously. He fed Waffles every morning and evening. He brushed her golden coat. He kept her water bowl filled. He even managed to walk her around the block, Waffles walking perfectly at his pace, never pulling on her leash, as if she understood exactly what Christopher needed from her.

But the silence in the house was heavy. Christopher knew he had messed up. He saw the toll the fight had taken on his dad, and he saw how much his dad missed Buck, even if Eddie wouldn't admit it.

Buck hadn't been to the house in three weeks. He hadn't come over for Friday night dinners. He hadn't joined them for movie nights. The couch in the living room felt empty, a quiet monument to the rift that had formed between them.

One night, after Christopher had gone to bed, Eddie sat alone in the living room. Waffles was lying on her plush bed in the corner, her chin resting on her paws. She was staring at Eddie, her big, warm eyes reflecting the dim light of the television.

Eddie looked at her.

She was, objectively, a very good dog. She didn't bark. She didn't chew on the furniture. She smelled clean and sweet. And she looked at him with nothing but pure, unconditional affection, completely unaware of the political storm she had caused.

Eddie felt a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness. He wanted to call Buck. He wanted to hear Buck’s ridiculous, rambling stories. He wanted to hear him laugh. He wanted Buck to be sitting on the other end of the couch, arguing about what movie to watch.

But his pride, stiff and unyielding, kept him anchored to his spot. He turned off the TV, ignored the dog, and went to bed in the dark.

By week four, the raw, burning edges of Eddie’s anger had begun to dull into a quiet, exhausting apathy.

It was hard to stay angry when the target of your anger looked like he was slowly wasting away from guilt. At the station, Buck had stopped trying to make jokes. He had stopped trying to force conversation. He just looked sad, his shoulders perpetually slumped, his eyes quiet and hollowed out.

Even Bobby had pulled Eddie aside after a shift.

"Eddie," Bobby had said, leaning against his desk. "I’m not going to get in the middle of whatever is going on between you and Buck. But I will say this: the 118 relies on trust. You two are a team. Right now, that team is fractured, and it’s affecting the energy of the whole house. Figure it out."

Eddie knew Bobby was right. He also knew, deep down, that he was ready to let it go. He was tired of being angry. He was tired of the silence.

The breakthrough happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie was off shift. Christopher was at an after-school study group, and he wasn't due home for another two hours.

The rain was coming down in sheets, drumming a steady, loud rhythm against the roof of the Diaz house. Eddie was in the kitchen, organizing the pantry out of sheer, restless boredom, when a sudden, loud crack of thunder rattled the windows.

A second later, a soft, trembling weight pressed firmly against the back of Eddie’s legs.

Eddie startled, looking down.

It was Waffles.

The poor dog was shaking violently, her ears pinned flat against her head, her tail tucked tight between her legs. She was panting softly, her eyes wide with terror at the sound of the storm. She had squeezed herself into the narrow space between Eddie’s legs and the kitchen cabinet, seeking shelter.

Eddie froze. His immediate instinct was to step away, to maintain his strict policy of non-engagement.

But as another deafening boom of thunder echoed outside, Waffles let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper and pressed her head harder against Eddie’s shin, burying her nose in the cuff of his jeans.

Eddie’s heart cracked.

He was a firefighter. He spent his life running into burning buildings to save strangers. He was not a monster. He couldn't look at a terrified, innocent animal seeking comfort from him and push her away.

"Hey," Eddie murmured, his voice softer than it had been in weeks. "Hey, it’s okay."

He slowly sank down onto the kitchen floor, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum.

Waffles didn't hesitate. The moment he was on her level, she practically crawled into his lap, her eighty-pound frame draping over his legs as she shivered against him.

"You're okay, Waffles," Eddie whispered, his hands moving automatically, driven by a deep, instinctual tenderness. He reached out and began to stroke her back, his fingers sinking into her soft, golden fur. "It's just some noise. It's just rain. I've got you."

He scratched the sweet spot right behind her ears. Waffles let out a long, shuddering sigh, her shaking slowly beginning to subside as she rested her heavy head directly on Eddie’s chest.

Sitting there in the dim kitchen, listening to the rain and the steady, comforting heartbeat of the dog in his lap, Eddie felt the last, stubborn icy blocks of his anger melt away.

He had been so rigid. So stubborn. He had been so focused on "rules" and "boundaries" and "respect" that he had completely ignored the love that had driven the entire situation. Buck hadn't gotten the dog to spite him. Buck had gotten the dog because he loved Christopher, because he wanted to make him happy, and because, whether Eddie wanted to admit it or not, Buck considered himself a part of their family.

And looking at Waffles now, feeling her warmth, Eddie realized he couldn't imagine their home without her.

"You're a pretty good dog, aren't you?" Eddie murmured, smiling softly as Waffles gave his chin a gentle, tentative lick. "Yeah. You are."

Two weeks later, the rain had cleared, replaced by a warm, golden Saturday afternoon.

Christopher and Buck had spent the morning at the park. It was their first official outing together since the "dog incident." Eddie had finally texted Buck a week ago, a simple, brief message: Bring Chris to the park on Saturday. We need to talk.

Buck had been terrified, but he had complied. He had picked Christopher up, and they had spent three hours playing fetch with Waffles, though Buck’s anxiety had been simmering the entire time, wondering what "the talk" was going to entail.

They pulled up to the Diaz house around three in the afternoon.

"Remember," Christopher warned Buck as they got out of the truck, Waffles trotting happily on her leash. "If Dad starts being mean, we just tell him how much Waffles missed him."

"Your dad isn't going to be mean, Chris," Buck said, though he was sweating through his t-shirt. He grabbed Waffles’ leash, his hand shaking slightly. "But… let me do the talking, okay? I want to make things right."

They walked up to the front door. Christopher, who had a key, gently unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping into the quiet house.

"Dad?" Christopher called out. "We're back!"

There was no answer.

"Maybe he's napping," Buck whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Waffles immediately slipped her head out of her collar, a trick she had apparently learned recently, and trotted eagerly toward the living room.

"Waffles, wait, get back here—" Buck started, but Christopher grabbed his arm, his eyes wide.

"Buck," Christopher whispered, a massive, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Listen."

From the living room, a sound was echoing.

It was a voice. But it wasn't Eddie’s normal, deep, serious voice. It was a high-pitched, goofy, incredibly embarrassing baby-talk voice.

"Who’s a good girl? Is it you? Yes, it is! You’re the prettiest, sweetest, most beautiful little princess in the whole wide world! Yes, you are!"

Buck and Christopher exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated shock.

They crept forward, moving silently down the hallway, peeking around the corner into the living room.

What they saw was a sight Buck would cherish for the rest of his natural life.

Eddie Diaz, former army medic, tough-as-nails Los Angeles firefighter, stern father, was lying flat on his back in the middle of the living room rug.

Waffles was standing directly over him, her tail wagging so fast it was a blur, her paws resting on Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie was holding a plush, squeaky dinosaur toy in one hand, squeaking it frantically, while his other hand was vigorously scratching Waffles’ belly.

"Look at you! Look at those big paws!" Eddie cooed, giggling, actually giggling, as Waffles showered his face with wet licks. "Do you want the dino? Do you? Yes, you do! You can have it! Just give me a kiss! Give me a kiss, Waffles!"

Buck stood frozen, his mouth hanging open, a sudden, overwhelming wave of warmth and love crashing over him so hard it nearly took his breath away. Eddie looked happy. He looked relaxed. He looked completely, utterly soft.

Christopher, unable to contain himself, let out a loud, snorting laugh.

Eddie froze.

The baby-talk stopped instantly. Waffles, sensing the audience, hopped off Eddie’s chest and trotted over to Christopher, her tail wagging proudly.

Eddie lay perfectly still on the rug for three seconds, staring at the ceiling, realizing he had just been caught in the most compromising, uncool position of his adult life.

Slowly, painfully, his face flushing a bright, furious red, Eddie sat up. He cleared his throat, trying to smooth down his messy hair, and looked up at Buck and Christopher.

"Hey," Eddie said, his voice dropping back to his deep, masculine register. "You’re back early."

"Dad," Christopher gasped, clutching his stomach as he laughed. "What were you doing?"

"I was… testing the structural integrity of the rug," Eddie lied terribly, rising to his feet and brushing dog hair off his t-shirt. "And checking the dog's… teeth. For safety."

"Right," Buck said, a slow, brilliant, teasing grin spreading across his face. He stepped into the living room, his heart lighter than it had been in a month. "And the 'sweetest little princess' part? Was that a clinical diagnosis, doctor?"

Eddie glared at Buck, but there was no heat in it. In fact, as he looked at Buck, really looked at him, the final remnants of the tension between them evaporated.

"Shut up, Buck," Eddie muttered, though a small, reluctant smile was tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I can't believe you," Christopher laughed, walking over to hug Waffles. "You said you hated her!"

"I never said I hated her," Eddie corrected, walking over to his son and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I said she was your responsibility. I was just… supervising. In a highly interactive way."

"Sure, Dad," Christopher rolled his eyes, but his smile was huge. "I'm going to go put my backpack away. Come on, Waffles!"

Waffles trotted happily after Christopher down the hallway, leaving Buck and Eddie alone in the living room.

The silence that fell over them now wasn't cold or tense. It was warm, soft, and filled with a quiet, unspoken understanding.

Buck rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Eddie… I'm really sorry. For everything. I shouldn't have—"

"Buck," Eddie interrupted gently.

Buck looked up.

Eddie stepped closer. He didn't look angry. He looked tired, but in a peaceful way. He reached out, his hand resting warm and heavy on Buck’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing slightly.

"It’s okay," Eddie said quietly. "I'm sorry too. I was too stubborn. I was holding onto my pride because I felt… I felt like I was losing control. But… look at them."

They both looked down the hall, where they could hear Christopher giggling in his room, followed by the soft, happy thumping of Waffles’ tail against the wall.

"You gave him something amazing, Buck," Eddie whispered, his eyes returning to Buck’s face, soft and incredibly affectionate. "And… she’s a really good dog. Even if she is a princess."

Buck let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a month. A huge, bright smile broke across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah. She is. And hey… I promised I'd help. I’m still going to help. I'll do the food runs, I'll take her to the vet, I'll walk her when you're on shift—"

"Buck," Eddie laughed, shaking his head. "We'll do it together. Like we always do."

Together.

The word hung in the warm air between them, perfect and solid. Buck’s heart swelled, his hand reaching up to rest over Eddie’s hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah," Buck whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Together."

From the hallway, Christopher’s voice echoed back to them. "Hey! Are you guys going to keep staring at each other, or are we going to order pizza? Waffles wants pepperoni!"

Eddie laughed, the sound bright and clear, filling the house with a music that had been missing for far too long. He looked at Buck, his eyes sparkling.

𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝘾𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙙

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯 𝙭 𝙀𝙫𝙖𝙣 "𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠" 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮 (𝘽𝙪𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚)

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2.7𝙠

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙧, 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙨, 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠, 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙖𝙬 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 (18+), 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝘼𝙜𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣/𝙍𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣/𝘿𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙖𝙡, 𝘼𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙅𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙨 & 𝙋𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯, 𝘿𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯, 𝙎𝙪𝙗𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚/𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝘽𝙪𝙘𝙠, 𝙎𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚/𝙋𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 & 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙎𝙪𝙧𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙭, 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜/𝘽𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚

A/N: So… Eddie Diaz being fiercely possessive and entirely done with hiding his feelings? Yeah, this thought took over my brain, and I just had to write it. Please enjoy the absolute breakdown of Eddie’s self-control (and RIP to that entryway table). This is my first smut so let me know what you think! (I do not own any of these characters)

The atmosphere inside the high-end downtown lounge was suffocatingly loud, a blur of clinking glasses, thumping bass, and neon lights. The 118 had gathered to celebrate Chimney’s birthday, but for Eddie Diaz, the celebration had stopped being fun about forty-five minutes ago.

Specifically, it stopped when a smooth-talking guy in a tailored suit bought Buck a drink.

Eddie sat at the corner of the booth, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. His eyes were locked on Buck, who was currently leaning against the bar, laughing at something the stranger had said. Buck was glowing flushed from a few beers, his curls a little messy, wearing a soft henley shirt that clung to his broad chest. He was entirely oblivious to the predatory way the man was looking at him, or how the man's hand had just subtly brushed against Buck’s forearm.

A dark, possessive heat flared in Eddie’s chest, sharp and demanding. He’d spent months years, really suffering in silence, hiding how deeply he burned for his best friend. But watching someone else try to move in on what Eddie secretly considered his was pushing him entirely over the edge.

"Eddie, you okay? You look like you're about to murder someone," Hen murmured, clinking her glass against his to get his attention.

"I'm fine," Eddie bit out, his voice dangerously low. He didn't look at her. He couldn't take his eyes off Buck.

Across the room, the stranger took a step closer to Buck, entering his personal space, his hand sliding down to rest boldly on the small of Buck’s back.

That was it. The thread snapped.

Eddie stood up so abruptly that the heavy wooden table shifted. Without a word to Hen or Chimney, he stormed across the crowded lounge, his movements deliberate and lethal.

Buck was in the middle of a sentence when he felt a sudden, heavy presence materialize beside him. Before he could turn his head, a strong, calloused hand gripped the nape of his neck, fingers digging firmly into his skin. The sheer force of the grip anchored him in place.

"Hey, Eddie-" Buck started, his eyes widening in surprise, but the words caught in his throat at the look on Eddie's face.

Eddie didn't look at Buck. His gaze was fixed entirely on the stranger. Step by step, Eddie crowded into Buck's space, physically inserting himself between the two men, forcing the stranger to take a step back. Eddie’s posture was rigid, radiating pure, unadulterated dominance.

"He's done talking to you," Eddie said, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, commanding tone that sent an immediate, unexpected shiver straight down Buck's spine.

The stranger blinked, taken aback by the sudden hostility. "Look, man, we were just-"

"I don't care," Eddie interrupted, his grip on the back of Buck's neck tightening just enough to demand absolute submission. "Walk away. Now."

The guy took one look at the raw fury in Eddie’s dark eyes, measured the broad set of his shoulders, and decided it wasn't worth it. He held his hands up in defeat and vanished into the crowd.

Buck let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Eddie, what the hell was that? He was just being nice-"

Eddie finally snapped his gaze to Buck. The sheer intensity in his eyes made Buck’s breath hitch. There was no warmth there right now just a dark, possessive hunger that made Eddie look like a completely different man.

"We're leaving," Eddie commanded. It wasn't an invitation.

Before Buck could protest, Eddie’s hand slid from his neck down to his wrist, locking around it like a handcuff. He pulled Buck behind him, navigating through the crowded bar with a fierce, unstoppable momentum. Buck, usually the larger and stronger of the two, found himself entirely overpowered by the sheer force of Eddie’s willpower. He didn't even try to fight it; his heart was hammering against his ribs, a sudden, intoxicating thrill pooling in his stomach.

They didn't speak a word in the elevator down to the parking garage, nor during the fifteen-minute drive to Eddie’s house. The silence in the truck was thick, heavy with an unspoken tension that felt like a ticking time bomb. Eddie kept one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel, while his other hand remained firmly planted on Buck’s thigh, his fingers digging into the denim, pinning him to the seat as if ensuring he couldn't run.

The second Eddie unlocked his front door, he pulled Buck inside and slammed the door shut, locking it in one fluid motion.

Buck turned around, his back hitting the heavy wood of the door. "Eddie, talk to me. You're acting crazy-"

Eddie advanced on him, stepping so close their chests collided. He trapped Buck against the door, placing both hands flat on the wood on either side of Buck's head. He loomed over him, his dark eyes boring into Buck’s.

"You think I'm acting crazy?" Eddie whispered, his breath hot against Buck's lips. "You let him touch you, Buck. You stood there and let him put his hands on you."

"He was just being friendly, Eddie, I didn't think-"

"That's your problem. You never think," Eddie growled, slamming a hand against the door right next to Buck's ear, making him jump slightly. "You don't see how people look at you. You don't see how much I want to rip anyone apart who even thinks about laying a finger on what belongs to me."

Buck’s breath hitched, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. Belongs to me. The words echoed in his head, turning his blood to fire. "Eddie…" he breathed out, a desperate, longing sound.

"You're mine, Evan," Eddie said, the declaration dropping like an anchor. It was fierce, unyielding, and utterly dominant. "Do you understand me? You don't smile at other men like that. You don't let them buy you drinks. You are mine."

The raw confession broke whatever restraint Buck had left. "Then show me," Buck choked out, his eyes wide and dark with desire. "Stop talking and show me, Eddie."

Eddie didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining distance, his mouth crashing down onto Buck’s with an intensity that stole the air right out of Buck’s lungs. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claim. Eddie tasted like desperate longing and fierce possession. He used his body weight to pin Buck firmly against the door, his thighs slotting between Buck’s, effectively rendering him breathless and trapped.

Buck groaned into the kiss, his hands flying to Eddie’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if he were a drowning man and Eddie was his only lifeline. But Eddie wasn't done taking control. He grabbed both of Buck’s wrists, forcing them up and pinning them against the door above Buck's head, holding them there with just one of his strong hands.

Buck gasped against Eddie’s lips at the sudden restriction, his chest heaving. He was completely at Eddie's mercy, and God, he had never wanted anything more in his entire life.

Eddie broke the kiss, trailing his lips down Buck’s jawline to the sensitive skin of his neck. He bit down softly on the junction where Buck’s neck met his shoulder, making Buck cry out, his hips arching instinctively into Eddie’s.

"Eddie, please," Buck begged, his voice a broken whisper, his wrists twitching against Eddie's iron grip.

Eddie paused, his hot breath fanning over Buck’s damp skin. He looked up, his gaze dark, heavy, and completely satisfied by the undone, breathless state of the man beneath him. He slowly released Buck's wrists, letting his hand slide down to cup Buck's jaw, his thumb wiping away a smudge of moisture from Buck's lower lip.

"Look at me," Eddie commanded softly.

Buck opened his eyes, blinking through the haze of desire.

"No one else gets to have you," Eddie said, his voice dropping into a promise that was fiercely protective, a perfect blend of the gentle best friend Buck loved and the dominant alpha who had just taken control. "Just me. Say it."

Buck swallowed hard, leaning his face into Eddie’s hand, completely surrendered. "Just you, Eddie. Always just you."

Eddie’s expression softened, the hard edge of jealousy finally melting into something deep, consuming, and fiercely loving. He leaned in again, his lips brushing against Buck's in a slow, deep kiss that sealed the promise between them.

The slow, deep kiss shifted from a gentle promise back into a burning, impatient demand. Eddie’s hand moved from Buck’s jaw down to the hem of his henley, his fingers brushing against the bare, warm skin of Buck's stomach. A sharp shiver ran through Buck, his abdomen contracting under the touch.

"Eddie, the bedroom," Buck gasped out against Eddie’s lips, his own hands frantically tugging at the buttons of Eddie’s collared shirt, needing to feel the heat of Eddie’s skin against his own.

"No," Eddie muttered, his voice thick and rough. He didn't want to wait. He couldn't. "Right here."

To emphasize his point, Eddie hooked his hands under Buck’s thighs and lifted him effortlessly. Buck let out a low cry of surprise, his legs immediately wrapping around Eddie’s waist, locking him in place. With Buck pinned between his body and the front door, Eddie walked them a few staggered steps over to the sturdy entryway table. He cleared it with one sweep of his arm, sending a tray of keys and mail clattering to the floor, and sat Buck down on the edge of the dark wood.

The change in height put them eye-to-eye. Buck looked down at Eddie, his chest heaving, his blue eyes blown out with desire. Eddie didn't give him a second to breathe; he ripped Buck’s henley up and over his head, discarding it on the floor, before immediately attacking Buck's chest and neck with hot, bruising kisses.

Buck threw his head back, his fingers tangling in Eddie’s dark hair, anchoring him closer. "Ah, God, Eddie…"

Eddie’s hands were everywhere tracing the hard lines of Buck's ribs, gripping his hips with a bruising force, making sure Buck knew exactly who commanded the space. Every touch was heavy, deliberate, and fiercely possessive. Eddie reached down, his fingers fumbling with the button of Buck’s jeans, tugging the zipper down with an impatient jerk. He slid his hands inside, cupping Buck's heat through his underwear, and Buck nearly unraveled right then and there, arching his back and groaning loudly into the empty house.

"You like that?" Eddie growled against his skin, his thumb rubbing firmly over the tip of Buck's length, eliciting a choked sob of pleasure. "Look at you. You're so hot for me."

"Eddie, please, I need- I want you," Buck begged, his hands shifting to Eddie’s belt, desperately trying to undo it.

Eddie helped him, stripping out of his own jeans and underwear with a frantic energy that contradicted his otherwise calculated dominance. When they were both completely bare, the contrast between them was striking Buck, flushed and trembling, spread open on the table, and Eddie, hovering over him, dark, intense, and completely in control.

Eddie reached into his back pocket, pulling out a couple of packets he’d kept in his wallet, a silent testament to how long he’d secretly dreamed of this exact moment. He slicked his fingers with lube, his eyes never leaving Buck’s face as he reached between Buck’s legs.

Buck gasped, his thighs widening instinctively as Eddie pushed two fingers inside him. The sensation was overwhelming, stretching him open, filling him up. Buck's hips twitched, trying to chase the friction, but Eddie used his other hand to pin Buck’s chest down against the table.

"Be still," Eddie commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. "Slow down. I've got you."

Buck whined, his eyes fluttering shut, completely surrendering to Eddie's rhythm. Eddie added a third finger, pacing himself despite the furious ache in his own groin, stretching Buck until he knew Buck could take him comfortably. Buck was a panting, undone mess beneath him, his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, his lips parted.

Satisfied, Eddie withdrew his fingers, making Buck whimper at the sudden loss. Eddie coated himself quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. He grabbed Buck’s thighs, pushing them back and lifting his hips slightly to get the perfect angle.

He pressed his head against the entrance, pausing for just a second. "Look at me, Evan."

Buck forced his heavy eyelids open, locking his gaze with Eddie's. The vulnerability and absolute trust in Buck’s eyes nearly brought Eddie to his knees.

"You're mine," Eddie whispered fiercely, and then he drove himself inside all at once.

Buck screamed, the sound muffled against Eddie’s shoulder as Eddie leaned down to catch it. The fullness was staggering, stretching Buck to his absolute limit. He gripped Eddie’s shoulders, his nails digging into the muscle as his body adjusted to the sheer size of him. Eddie stayed still for a moment, letting Buck acclimate, burying his face in the crook of Buck’s neck, his own breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"You okay?" Eddie breathed, a rare flash of softness breaking through his dominant facade.

"Yes- God, yes, Eddie, please move," Buck gasped, tightening his legs around Eddie’s hips, urging him forward.

Eddie didn't need to be told twice. He pulled back slightly and then thrust in deep, finding a rhythm that was hard, relentless, and unforgiving. The table groaned under their weight, but neither of them cared. Every stroke was a claim, a physical manifestation of the years of pining, the jealousy from the bar, and the consuming love Eddie held for him.

Buck was completely lost to the sensation. He could only make disjointed, breathless noises, his head rolling back against the wall as Eddie hit his sweet spot over and over again. The friction was unbearable in the best way possible. Eddie’s hands locked onto Buck’s hips, holding him steady, anchoring him as he pounded into him with a fierce, primal intensity.

"Eddie, I'm- I'm gonna-" Buck choked out, his vision blurring as he neared the edge, the friction of their bodies rubbing together pushing him over the brink.

"Not yet," Eddie growled, reaching down to wrap his hand firmly around the base of Buck’s length, squeezing tightly to stop him from releasing. "Look at me when you go. I want to see you."

The denial only made the pleasure sharper, more agonizingly intense. Eddie picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, completely consuming Buck’s entire world. Buck’s breath came in short, frantic gasps, his entire body trembling on the verge of a shattering climax.

Eddie felt the tight, rhythmic contractions of Buck’s walls clamping down around him, pulling him under. The sheer pleasure of it broke Eddie’s final restraint. He let go of Buck's length, letting his hand slide up to tangle in Buck’s messy curls, pulling him into a fierce, messy kiss.

"Come for me, Evan," Eddie ordered against his lips.

That was the breaking point. Buck unraveled, a loud, ruined sound tearing from his throat as he came hard, white-hot pleasure blinding him as he coated their stomachs. Seconds later, with one final, deep, possessive thrust, Eddie followed him over the edge, crying out Buck’s name as he came deep inside him, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release.

For several long minutes, the only sound in the house was the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men completely spent. Eddie collapsed forward, burying his face in Buck’s neck, his chest heaving against Buck’s wet skin. His grip on Buck’s hips loosened, but he didn't pull out, wanting to stay connected for as long as possible.

Buck’s hands slowly came up to rest on Eddie’s back, his fingers tracing the familiar lines of his shoulder blades. A soft, lazy smile spread across Buck’s lips, the chaotic energy of the night finally settling into a warm, grounded peace.

Eddie shifted, kissing the damp pulse point on Buck’s neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. The dark, possessive anger from the bar was entirely gone, replaced by a soft, fiercely protective warmth that made Buck’s heart swell.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" Eddie murmured softly, his thumb gently brushing a stray curl away from Buck's forehead.

"Yeah," Buck breathed, his voice entirely wrecked. "But I'm your idiot."

𝙏𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚: 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙯 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 2.1𝙠

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙬𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛, 𝙣𝙤 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩.

A/N: Just some late-night Eddie Diaz comfort because the man deserves a break and a long nap. Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated!! Hope you guys enjoy. This is my first one-shot, so please let me know if ya'll like it. (I do not own any characters in this piece)

The apartment was quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind of quiet, but the kind you had grown used to after spending enough time around firefighters, dispatch radios, and the unpredictable chaos that came with loving someone whose job was to run toward danger. It was the kind of silence that usually felt peaceful, the kind that made home feel like a safe place away from everything outside.

But tonight, it felt heavier.

The clock on the oven blinked 8:47 p.m.

Eddie had texted almost three hours ago.

Running late. Love you.

That was it. No explanation. No estimate of when he would be home. Just enough information to let you know he was okay. You had learned not to ask for more. Not because you didn't care, but because you knew Eddie.

You knew that sometimes, after a hard call, he needed time before he could even admit to himself that something had affected him. He carried things quietly, tucked them away behind a calm expression and a simple, "I'm fine."

Dinner had gone cold hours ago. You had reheated it once, then twice, before finally giving up and covering it with foil. You left it sitting in the oven, hoping maybe he'd actually eat when he got home.

You hated nights like this. Not because you didn't understand his job; you did. You were proud of him, more than he probably realized. But loving a firefighter meant learning how to live with the fear that sometimes followed them home. It meant trusting that the person you loved would come back through the door, even when part of you spent every shift imagining all the reasons they might not.

Outside, headlights swept across the living room curtains. A car door shut. Your entire body relaxed the second you heard familiar footsteps approaching the apartment.

The key turned in the lock. The door opened.

And there he was.

Eddie stepped inside slowly, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the day. His navy LAFD shirt was wrinkled and streaked with soot, his hair flattened from hours beneath his helmet, and there was a tiredness in his eyes that no shower or amount of sleep could fix. He looked exhausted. Not just physically, something deeper.

For a moment, he stayed in the doorway after closing it behind him, his eyes falling shut as if he needed a second to convince himself he was finally home.

You stood from the couch. "Hey."

His eyes opened, and the smallest smile appeared. "Hey."

It wasn't his usual smile. Not the one that showed up when Christopher said something funny or when Buck made some ridiculous comment at the station. This one was softer. Tired.

He crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'm gonna shower."

You nodded, studying his face. "Food's still warm."

"I'll eat in a minute."

You recognized that tone immediately. Short. Controlled. Carefully measured. The same voice Eddie used whenever something from a shift followed him home. You watched him disappear down the hallway, the bathroom door clicking shut moments later. Soon the sound of running water filled the apartment, but somehow you knew that whatever happened today wasn't something that could be washed away.

Twenty minutes later, Eddie walked back into the living room wearing gray sweatpants and an old hoodie. His hair was still damp, and he looked cleaner, but the heaviness was still there.

You placed his plate in front of him at the kitchen island.

"Thanks," he murmured.

"You barely ate lunch."

He looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You talked to Buck?"

You smiled slightly. "He worries."

"So do you."

"Occupational hazard."

That earned the smallest laugh from him. Small, but real. For a moment, you thought maybe he would be okay. Then he looked back down at his plate.

Normally, dinner was filled with stories. Christopher's latest obsession, something funny Chimney said at the station, or Buck doing something that somehow managed to be both impressive and completely ridiculous. Tonight, there was nothing. Just silence and the quiet scrape of a fork against a plate.

"Eddie."

"Hm?"

"You've been staring at the same piece of food for almost a minute."

He blinked, almost surprised that he had been caught. Setting his fork down, he rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I'm just tired."

You reached across the table and placed your hand over his. His fingers were cold. "You don't have to tell me what happened. But you don't have to pretend nothing happened either."

For a moment, he didn't answer. His jaw tightened. Then came the words you expected.

"I've got it."

Three words. The ones Eddie always used. I've got Christopher. I've got work. I've got everyone else. I've got it.

You squeezed his hand gently. "I know you think you do."

The words hung between you. Eddie looked down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. You knew better than to fill the silence; Eddie needed space sometimes, not distance, just room to find the words he was trying so hard to avoid.

Finally, he let out a slow breath. "There was a kid."

Your heart softened immediately. You didn't move. Didn't interrupt. You just listened.

"It was a car accident," he continued quietly. "We got there fast. Faster than we usually do. We did everything right." The way he said it told you that was the part he was trying hardest to believe. "We did everything right… but…" His voice faded.

You gently squeezed his hand. "But it wasn't enough."

Eddie swallowed. "No. It wasn't."

The answer came out so quietly it almost hurt more. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to take the words back, like admitting it out loud somehow made the memory more real.

"I hate that feeling," he whispered. "That moment when you know you've done everything you can, but you still have to look at someone's family and tell them…" He stopped, his eyes closing. You didn't need him to finish.

"I know it's not my fault," he said after a moment. "I know that. Bobby has told me that a hundred times. Buck has told me that. Everyone always says the same thing." His laugh was quiet, devoid of humor. "Doesn't really stop my brain from replaying every second."

You moved from across the table to sit beside him instead. Eddie didn't fight it. He just leaned back slightly as you wrapped an arm around him, letting him breathe and feel whatever he needed to feel without trying to rush him through it.

Because that was the thing about Eddie. Everyone knew him as the firefighter, the protector, the guy who ran into burning buildings without hesitation. But sometimes you wondered if people forgot that Eddie Diaz was still just a person who got scared, who hurt, and who carried every life he couldn't save like it was his responsibility alone.

"You know what I think?" you whispered. He looked over at you. "I think every person who walked away today did because you showed up. I think Christopher gets to come home to his dad because you show up. And I think the 118 trusts you because they know you'd never stop trying."

You rested your forehead gently against his.

"You don't have to save everyone to be someone worth loving."

That was the sentence that finally broke through. Not completely, not dramatically, just enough. Eddie leaned into you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he finally let himself stop holding everything together.

"I hate bringing this home."

You ran your fingers gently through his hair. "You didn't bring it home. You came home."

His grip tightened slightly. And for the first time all night, Eddie let himself believe it.

Later, after the dishes sat forgotten in the sink and the kitchen lights had been turned off, you found yourselves curled together on the couch. A movie played quietly in the background, serving as less of an entertainment source and more of a reason for Eddie to stay still.

The blanket covered both of you, Eddie's arm resting around your waist. Earlier, his body had been tense, like he was still waiting for the next alarm to go off. Now, slowly, his breathing evened out. His hand finally went still against your side.

You looked down. Eddie was asleep. Actually asleep, not the kind of half-sleep firefighters mastered, but real, deep sleep where his face softened and the lines of stress disappeared.

A soft click from the front door pulled your attention away. You looked up.

"Hey," Christopher whispered, stepping inside and setting his overnight bag down quietly. His expression changed when he saw his father. "He had a bad day?"

You looked down at Eddie before nodding. "Yeah. A really hard one."

Christopher was quiet for a moment. He understood. Growing up with Eddie meant learning that some days were heavier than others. He walked over slowly, looking down at his dad.

"He always takes care of me."

Your chest tightened. "I know."

Christopher reached over and pulled the blanket higher over Eddie's shoulder. "I guess he needs someone to take care of him too."

You smiled softly. "Yeah. He does."

Christopher gave a small nod before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to Eddie's head. "Goodnight, Dad."

Eddie didn't wake up, but the small smile that appeared on his face made you wonder if maybe, somewhere in his dreams, he heard him.

"Goodnight," Christopher whispered to you, heading toward his room.

"Goodnight, Chris."

When his bedroom door closed, you looked back at Eddie. Tomorrow, he would put the uniform back on. Tomorrow, he would go back to being the person everyone depended on. But tonight, he didn't have to be the strongest person in the room. Tonight, he could just be Eddie.

The first thing Eddie noticed when he woke up was the quiet. For a few seconds, he didn't know where he was, his body entirely too used to waking up to alarms and a sudden rush of adrenaline.

Then he felt the warmth beside him. The blanket. The couch. Your hand resting loosely over his. And he remembered.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the morning light filtering through the curtains. His neck was slightly sore, but the suffocating heaviness in his chest had receded.

You stirred beside him, noticing the movement. "Morning," you whispered.

Eddie looked down at you and smiled softly. "Morning."

"You let me sleep out here all night?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You were asleep."

"I could've moved."

"You could've," you agreed, "but you didn't."

A small, real laugh escaped him this time. He looked around the living room, noticing the blanket pulled up around him, quiet evidence that someone had taken care of him while he wasn't paying attention.

"You know," he said softly, "I don't remember the last time I slept through the night after a bad call."

Your expression softened. "Maybe you needed to."

Eddie looked down at his hands. "I don't like when you see me like that. Not okay."

You reached over and took his hand. "Eddie, you spend your entire life letting people see you as the person who has everything under control. But I don't love you because you're always strong. I love you because you're you."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then he squeezed your hand. "Thank you. I mean it this time."

Before you could answer, the rich aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Both of you turned to see Christopher standing there, holding a mug almost as big as his hands could handle.

"You guys are awake. Dad, you slept there all night?"

Eddie glanced down. "Apparently."

Christopher nodded like he was filing away important information. "You needed it."

Coming from Christopher, it meant everything. A soft smile crossed Eddie's face. "Yeah," he admitted. "I think I did."

Christopher walked over and handed him the coffee. "Abuela says you don't drink enough water. And she said you're stubborn."

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. Eddie shot you a look. "You're enjoying this."

"A little."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the apartment was filled with genuine laughter. The kind that reminded Eddie that there was more to life than the hardest moments. There were mornings like this. There was coffee, Christopher, you, and home.

Later, when Eddie got ready for his shift, he paused by the door longer than usual. You noticed.

"You okay?"

He looked back at you. This time, he didn't give an immediate, knee-jerk 'yes'. Instead, he smiled a quiet, real answer. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

You walked over and fixed the collar of his uniform, a small smile on your face. "Come home to us."

His expression softened. "I will."