nothing impossible <- ao3 link
âHey, Buck!â Eddie practices in the car as he enters LA. âChristopherâs finishing his school year so Iâmââ
He gets stuck in standstill traffic. Heâs gotten used to it, used to any obstacle really, driving around in Texas, kind of expects it. Before, heâd complain to Buck about every little inconvenience on the road until Buck wrestled the keys from his grip.
âIf you wanted me to drive, you couldâve just asked,â Buck would say, fondness all over his face, and Eddieâs whole body would go warm.
Thereâs a crash up ahead so he sits there, windows down, breathes in the smell of this place. El Paso and LA smell similar in a lot of ways, but thereâs a difference he canât quite put his finger on. Thereâs also an ease to the way he sits here rather than there, a rigid line of tension that he canât find anymore when he searches for it.
Thereâs a difference between traffic there, where it would build up inside him, where everything was building and building, and traffic here where heâs a puppet cut loose, where he can simply sit and breathe and think.
He thinks of Buck when the traffic starts moving again.
âBuck?â he imagines calling, if he used the spare key safe in his pocket, trying to figure out where Buck would be in the house when he gets there. He glances at the time, nearing 4 PM. Buck isnât on a shift today, he reasons. He probably went to the gym in the morning, got groceries sometime after. He didnât have anywhere to be for lunch today, and there was nothing special in his calendar. âIâm home,â Eddie says softly, trying to imagine saying it in about thirty minutes, which is how long itâll take him to get home if his estimate is accurate.
âMissed me?â could be on the table when Buck opens the door, and Eddie will grin wide and hold his arms open for a hug he kind of desperately wants.
Or, âIs there enough for two?â because dinner might be on the stove, or in the oven, and Eddie will be able to smell it from outside the house. Buck will turn, wearing that blue apron of his, and his eyes will widen, mouth in a perfect o, and Eddie will laugh, then.
âHeâs coming home,â Eddie might say first because he knows thatâs on their mind. That would happen after a silent hug, after Buck takes one look at him and maybe cries as he pulls Eddie in. If Buck cries, Eddie will too, and he gets a little emotional just thinking about it, them crying together on the doorstep, holding each other, and then laughing together at how ridiculous it is.
The minutes whittle down to streets and it hits Eddie suddenly that heâs home. Heâs not nervous to see Buck the way he was nervous to see his parents, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, smoothing down his hair in his rearview mirror, over and over.
No, here, he parks, walks easily up to his door, grinning already, and all the debate about what heâs going to do dissipates. He knocks on the door because Buck isnât expecting him. Heâs not sure how Buck believed Eddieâs fumble of a lie about going out today and not being able to call, but he did, though he texted him throughout the day anyway.
Eddie waits a minute. Taps his foot, turns with his arms folded and surveys the neighborâs houses. Knocks again, and frowns this time when thereâs no answer, and then he lets himself in.
Itâs quiet inside. âBuck?â Eddie calls anyway, halfway through kicking off his shoes when he looks up and realizes it looks the same. Different, because itâs not his furniture, but things are where they were when he lived there. Heâd suspected over FaceTime, but it feels like Buckâs been preserving a little of kernel of him, and all of a sudden it hits Eddie that heâs really home. That he belonged here, and belongs, that heâs about to see Buck, and heâs going to have his kid, and that he has it, everything heâd ever wanted.
He swallows down the lump in his throat, runs a hand over the couch as he passes, says quietly, âCan I crash here?â Thatâs what heâll say first, a joke about the couch, or Buck taking over his house, when Buck gets home.
He makes his way to Christopherâs room, opens it a sliver, sees itâs empty, and then closes it, putting his forehead on the door. Buck kept him too in his own way. Kept both of them there while they were gone. He didnât replace them.
He doesnât bother knocking on what used to be his own bedroom door, just opens it and oh, thereâs Buck.
Heâs sprawled out on his back, one hand on his stomach, not even under the covers. He hasnât shaved today, Eddie can tell, and he doesnât really think when he comes forward and sits next to him. Over FaceTime, he couldnât see as much as he can now. Couldnât watch the way Buckâs chest rises and falls with every breath, the scratch on his knuckle he whined about yesterday. Eddie can see it now, a little white mark on Buckâs hand, and he thumbs over it absently, not sure why he has to touch it, only that he does.
Thereâs a breadth to Buck that a phone could never approximate. A realness. Heâs right there, in his bed in Eddieâs room, all of him, down to his socked feet. Eddie feels oddly emotional over seeing his socks, and heâs not sure why, but heâs been feeling emotional at a bit of everything these days when it comes to coming home.
âI missed you,â Eddie says, and heâs glad those are the first words he says with intention in this house, even if Buck isnât awake to hear them.
His hand is still resting over Buckâs. He doesnât move for a long time, just watching Buck breathe, and breathing it all in, and then he goes off to shower.
Buck is still asleep when Eddie walks back in with wet hair, barefoot, wearing shorts and a t-shirt he scrounged from the closet. Droplets roll down the back of his neck to dampen the collar of the shirt, which feels good after the heat of outside. Heâd forgotten how much he missed that particular brand of shampoo, and the way the light in his bathroom looked on him in the mirror. Even the squeaky faucet, the way the door stuck a little when Eddie pulled. Itâs like discovering everything anew, and itâs also like he never left.
He rummages through the fridge, discovers leftovers, and piles up a plate that he takes back to the bedroom so he can sit next to Buck and eat, munching thoughtfully as he mentally rearranges the house.
âI was saving that,â Buck mumbles, voice rough with sleep, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.
âWarn a guy, would you?â Eddie says, turning to look at him once heâs swallowed, heartbeat still a panicked pace in his chest, and then he thinks only, thatâs not how it was supposed to go.
Buck yawns, blinking blearily at him, rubbing at his eyes. âWhereâsââ
âFinishing the school year,â Eddie answers, easy, and then he doesnât want to eat anymore. He just wants to look. He wants to look at Buck looking at him. âYou can have the rest,â he offers, something squeezing at his chest.
Buck ignores it. âBut heâs coming back?â he asks, earnest. Sincere. Eddie can't put into words how much it means that someone's right there with him.
Eddie nods, manages to put the plate on the bedside table, and then Buck is sitting up next to him and pulling him into a hug. âOh, Eddie,â Buck says, and Eddie breathes him in and holds him tight, and he thinks, I did good. I did good.
âProud of me?â he mumbles, like he canât feel it in the way Buck is squeezing him.
âYou smell good,â Buck says instead, and thereâs a little thrill that runs up Eddieâs spine at that. âHave you been back for a while?â
âAn hour, maybe,â Eddie answers, face tucked into Buckâs shoulder. âI showered.â
âMm,â Buck says, nosing at his ear, and Eddieâs stomach swoops like nothing else.
"Buck," he complains, words soft around the edges. He doesn't mean it, and he's reminded that Buck knows him better than anyone because he doesn't move an inch, rubbing Eddie's back comfortingly, and thatâs where it all catches up to him.
"Yeah?" Buck says, smile all over his voice. Eddie can hear the rumble of his chest from here, and that wasn't captured on FaceTime either, and he can hear Buck breathing right next to his ear. âI didnât know what I was going to say to you,â he confesses into the safety of Buck's shoulder. âI was practicing in the car.â
Buck doesn't say anything for a moment. âAnything you said wouldâve been good,â he offers, like it's obvious, voice warm all the way through, and thereâs something different about Buckâs warmth than the sun on his skin in El Paso, something that cuts the last string keeping him there, that tames something within Eddieâs chest that has been begging to be let out.
Eddie sniffles, just a little. "Not anything," he protests weakly.
Buck's next breath is a little shaky, and it takes Eddie a moment to realize he's crying too. "Anything," he repeats, sure of it, and Eddie forgets standing on another doorstep, practicing what to say, fumbling over the words and feeling small under his own failures. Here, he has a million things to say, none of them impossible, but he only needs to reach up and squeeze the back of Buck's neck for Buck to say, everything like home, "Eddie."
