Chapter Text
Buck woke up to a headache the size of the Hoover Dam and the slow, creeping realization that he was not in his own bed.
The sunlight filtering through the unfamiliar curtains stabbed at his eyes with the fury of a thousand LED flashlights, and his mouth felt like it had been used as a sandpit. Groaning, he turned his face into the pillow—and immediately regretted it when something warm shifted beside him.
Someone was in bed with him.
That wasn't too unusual, considering this was Vegas, but what was unusual—what sent a slow, crawling panic up his spine—was that the arm draped across his bare waist was familiar.
Too familiar.
Blinking against the blur, Buck dared a glance over his shoulder and caught sight of the one person he never expected to wake up next to like this.
Eddie Diaz.
Sleeping. Shirtless. In Buck’s bed—no, this wasn't even his hotel room. Whose room was this? Where the hell were they?
Buck sat up too fast, head spinning, and clutched the sheets to his chest like that would somehow protect him from the truth that was slowly assembling itself like a cursed jigsaw puzzle.
Eddie stirred with a grunt, blinking blearily as he lifted his head from the pillow. His hair was a mess. He looked half-dead. And then he looked at Buck. And then at the room.
Then—his hand.
And Buck saw it too. The flash of metal.
A ring.
On Eddie’s left hand.
Buck’s gaze dropped to his own hand, and his blood ran cold.
Ring. Same finger.
"No, no, no, no—" Buck scrambled off the bed, tripping over a discarded pair of pants (not his), and nearly knocking over an empty champagne bottle on the nightstand.
Eddie sat up slower, wincing. “Why are you—what the hell?” His voice was raspy. Confused. “Why do I have a—?”
“Did we get married?” Buck croaked.
Eddie blinked at him.
Buck stared back, heart hammering, mouth bone dry.
“Because I think we got married.”
And that’s when he spotted the glossy white envelope on the dresser.
Clark County Marriage Certificate
His name. Eddie’s name. The date.
Yesterday.
Vegas.
“Oh my God,” Buck whispered. “I married my best friend.” And that moment he know he fucked up so much.
Las Vegas, National Firefighter Games
The air was thick with heat and competition, the kind that clung to your skin and buzzed in your bloodstream. The Las Vegas heat didn’t care that it was the end of October—it scorched down on the artificial turf as if trying to test the limits of the competitors just a little more. Dozens of teams from across the country had gathered for the annual Firefighter Games—a heady mix of athletic showmanship, tactical brilliance, and unfiltered pride.
The 118 was on fire.
Not literally, though Buck had made that joke at least three times already—with Chim groaning every time and Hen threatening to tape his mouth shut by lunch.
“Save it for the mic, Buckley,” Bobby had muttered with an affectionate shake of his head, adjusting his gloves before the last event.
Now, the obstacle course loomed like a concrete beast in the sun. Full gear. Timed. No room for screw-ups.
By the time they crossed the finish line, Buck was panting, sweat dripping down his neck, gear slung halfway off, helmet under his arm. He was grinning like a maniac, cheeks flushed and hair plastered to his forehead as he flopped down on the scorched grass beside Eddie.
“You killed it on the high-rise sprint,” he panted, shoulder bumping Eddie’s.
Eddie smirked, still catching his breath, the edges of his buzzcut damp under his helmet. “You launched yourself over that wall like a golden retriever with rocket boots.”
Buck blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Aw, thanks. Wait—is that a compliment?”
“Take it however you want.”
Around them, teams were sprawled out, some groaning dramatically, some still jogging in place. Water bottles were passed around, shirts peeled off, gear tossed into messy piles. Music pumped through the speakers from the staging area, something poppy and too energetic for how much their legs were shaking.
Hen dropped down beside them and handed over a cold bottle of water. “If I hear Buck say ‘on fire’ one more time, I’m shoving him in the dunk tank.”
“There’s a dunk tank?” Buck asked, already sitting up a little straighter.
“No,” Hen deadpanned. “But I’ll make one.”
Chim was still hopping around near the scoreboard with his phone out. “Guys, we placed top five overall, but guess what? We won the obstacle course!”
A minute later, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers:
“First place in the Obstacle Course Event: Station 118, Los Angeles!”
Cheers erupted. Chim whooped so loudly he startled the team from Chicago next to them. Hen pumped her fist in the air. Bobby smiled, proud and tired, clapping everyone on the back.
Eddie stood slowly, the golden light of the sunset casting long shadows behind him as he offered Buck a hand. Buck took it without hesitation, fingers wrapping tight.
“We crushed it,” Buck grinned.
Eddie was smiling too—broad and genuine, a rare moment when his guard was completely down. “Yeah, we did.”
They didn’t let go right away.
And then came the afterparty.
Buck paced. Then stopped. Then paced again. His foot caught on a pair of jeans—his? Eddie’s? Did it even matter anymore?—and nearly sent him crashing into the corner of the dresser.
“You okay over there?” Eddie’s voice rasped from the bed, sleepy and painfully casual, like they hadn’t just obliterated the entire foundation of their friendship with a bottle of tequila and a wedding officiant named Carl.
Buck froze mid-step, clutching the dresser like it could anchor him to reality. “Okay? Okay? Eds, we got married.”
Eddie groaned and rolled onto his side, burying half his face in a pillow. “Yeah... I kinda gathered that.”
“You gathered that?” Buck echoed, high-pitched with panic. “I woke up wearing a wedding ring and you’re acting like we just accidentally ordered too much room service!”
“I mean, maybe don’t yell,” Eddie muttered, wincing. “My skull’s trying to crack open from the inside.”
Buck made a strangled noise and turned toward him, arms flailing for emphasis. “I’m not yelling—I’m processing! I’m trying to understand how we went from drinking fireball shots to legally bound in holy matrimony, and you’re just—just laying there like it’s a normal Sunday!”
“Saturday,” Eddie corrected, barely opening one eye.
“That’s not the point!”
Eddie squinted up at him, bleary but slightly amused. “Then what is?”
Buck opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words backed up like a traffic jam in his throat because the point was something he didn’t say out loud. The point was: I love you.
The point was: I’ve loved you forever, and I’m terrified this ruined everything.
Instead, he croaked, “We’re married, Eddie. That’s... big.”
Eddie pushed himself upright slowly, face scrunched like even gravity was too loud. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, I try to remember how we got there.”
The lights of Vegas shimmered below like a spilled bag of jewels, neon and pulsing and alive. Music thumped from the rooftop speakers, basslines vibrating through the soles of their shoes as the celebration stretched into the night.
Somehow, the 118 had ended up at one of the classier rooftop casino bars—Hen had a cousin who knew a guy, and suddenly they were on a guest list and in suits. Actual suits.
Buck kept tugging at his collar like it might strangle him. His jacket was dark blue and tailored just enough to make him look like he actually belonged at a high-roller table. Eddie was beside him in a slim-cut black suit with no tie, top two buttons undone and sleeves rolled just slightly, like a GQ model who could also carry you out of a burning building.
Everyone cleaned up obnoxiously well.
Bobby looked like someone’s intimidating but incredibly classy uncle, standing next to a craps table with some ice water. Chim was already tipsy, loudly explaining the rules of roulette to a group of firefighters from Nashville who clearly didn’t care. Hen was chatting with a team from San Diego, sipping something neon from a martini glass with a plastic flamingo in it.
Buck had lost count of how many fire departments he’d met.
Boston, Chicago, Austin. One group from Oregon had a guy who spent ten solid minutes comparing with Bobby, declaring him an “honorary lumber dad.”
He and Eddie had peeled off from the crowd sometime after round four of tequila shots and losing twenty bucks at blackjack. They stood now at the edge of the rooftop, leaning on the railing, drinks in hand, their suits catching the glow of the casino lights.
Eddie’s cheeks were flushed—either from the alcohol or the laugh he couldn’t quite stop after a firefighter from Miami had challenged Buck to an impromptu push-up contest. (Buck won, but he might’ve cheated by taking his shirt halfway off.)
A breeze tugged at Eddie’s hair. He leaned in closer, shoulder brushing Buck’s.
A firefighter from New York strolled over, nodding at them with the kind of easy grin only someone very drunk or very confident could pull off. “You two together, right?”
Buck blinked. “What?”
“You know, married. Or… something.”
Buck let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. We’re not married.”
The New Yorker raised an eyebrow like he didn’t quite believe it. “Huh. Well, could’ve fooled me.” He raised his glass and disappeared back into the crowd.
Buck turned to Eddie, amused. “Can you believe that guy?”
Buck sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, the sheets tangled around his waist, a bottle of water sweating in his hand as he stared blankly at the marriage certificate on the nightstand like it might spontaneously combust. Eddie was pacing.
Or, well—he was trying to pace, but his head kept throbbing, so mostly he was stumbling from one side of the room to the other like a wounded gazelle with anxiety issues.
"I remember... pictures," Buck said suddenly, voice thin and hesitant. "Flashes. There was... a chapel, I think? And Elvis? I’m not—" He shook his head slowly, trying to make sense of it. "It’s all fuzzy. But there were definitely hints of an Elvis impersonator."
Eddie paused mid-step. “You’re joking.”
“I really wish I was,” Buck said, leaning back and covering his face with both hands. “There might’ve been... a pink convertible. Or I hallucinated that.”
“Okay,” Eddie muttered, running a hand down his face. “So we’re really married. Vegas-married. Possibly by Elvis.”
Buck peeked through his fingers. “I mean, that is on-brand for us, right?”
Eddie gave him a flat look. “Buck.”
“I know, I know! Not the time for jokes,” Buck groaned, tossing himself backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might hold answers. “God, what is everyone gonna think?”
Eddie slowly sat down at the foot of the bed, his shoulders slumping as the full weight of reality sank in.
“Bobby’s gonna kill us,” Buck continued, still staring up. “Chim’s never gonna let us live it down. Hen—Hen will be supportive but in that smug, told-you-so kind of way. And Maddie? Maddie will probably laugh until she cries and then cry because she’s so happy for me and then yell at me for being an idiot.”
Eddie didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything.
Buck tilted his head to look at him. “You okay?”
Eddie let out a low breath. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I should be freaking out more, but I’m mostly just... confused. And weirdly calm.”
Buck blinked. “That’s alarming.”
Eddie gave him a sideways glance, and for a beat, there was something almost soft in it. “We’ve both made worse mistakes drunk.”
Buck made a face. “I don't know, Eddie. Accidentally marrying you feels like a whole new tier of chaos.”
Eddie's gaze flicked down to the ring on his finger, then back up to Buck. “Yeah, well... at least you married someone you trust.”
That shut Buck up for a moment.
Because that? That was true.
Still, as his mind started spinning again—what next, what now, how do we tell people, what if this ruins everything—he couldn’t help the low, dry laugh that escaped him.
“I swear to God,” Buck said, rubbing his temple, “if we find out we posted about it on Instagram, I’m walking into traffic.”
Eddie looked down at the discarded pants on the floor, then spotted a phone half-sticking out of the pocket. “Only one way to find out.”
Buck groaned again and flopped back down like a man accepting his fate.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s a TikTok of me slow-dancing with Elvis, delete it. Burn it. Bury the phone.”
“Noted.”
Somewhere between the bar and the curb, between “We should go back” and “One more drink,” they ended up here.
Buck was holding a fake bouquet. Eddie was wearing a plastic crown someone handed him on the Strip. Both were slightly too sober to blame this on alcohol, and just buzzed enough not to question it too hard.
“This is so dumb,” Buck muttered, but he was smiling.
“You wanna back out?” Eddie asked, a challenge hidden behind the calm.
Buck looked at him. The real answer—God, no—didn't make it out. He just shook his head and stepped up to the altar.
The Elvis impersonator cleared his throat. “Do you, Evan Buckley, take—”
“Yep.”
“Do you, Edmundo Diaz—”
“Yeah, sure.”
Elvis blinked. “Right. Uh. By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada and Rock ‘n’ Roll… you may now kiss.”
Buck hesitated.
Eddie didn’t.
He leaned in, quick and a little too hard, and their lips crashed. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t slow. It was chaos. Teeth bumped, hands fumbled, someone nearly knocked over a fake flower arrangement—but it was them.
And for a second, the whole world held its breath.