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Buck does not like flying at the best of times. He hates, hates, hates airports, and he hates being in the sky, and he hates the cramped seats, and he hates—he just hates all of it, alright? But, he’s stomached them before, but not since—
Not since the explosion. Not since a firetruck crushed his leg, and in the end, took it from him. Amputated just above the knee. Leaving him with nothing but scar tissue and mangled flesh as a memory of a night he can’t forget.
He hasn’t done a lot since the explosion, but Maddie has travelled back home for Christmas. Buck promised he’d try to come months before the incident happened, but—surely he would’ve had a shift, or been busy, or had literally anything come up—except now, he’s got nothing to do. Nothing to take up his time. No job, no team, no life. Just this stupid stub that’s ruining his damn life, and a pair of crutches that make his shoulders ache.
He doesn’t want a wheelchair. He’s refused to use one, not since the hospital. He needs his autonomy, as much as he can get it, and he thinks if he lets himself sit in one for a second longer, it’ll be like giving up. He knows it’s stupid. Irrational. But he’s held onto the thought since he woke up and they told him it was gone. He wanted his life back—as much of it as he could get.
When he calls ahead and checks that he can bring the crutches all the way to the gate and then be assisted to the seat if required, he feels a lot more at ease. He knows people will look. These days, it feels like all people do is look at him. He doesn’t mind the kids—the ones that do a double take with wide eyes, like they’re expecting his leg to pop back up or be bent away in secret. He doesn’t blame them. Every morning, he looks down and expects it to be there again, and every morning, he wakes up disappointed, fighting for a reason to get out of bed and deal with the day.
He’ll be getting a prosthetic soon, but it’ll take months, and months of physical therapy to get him used to it, and he’s just— he’s so sick of the logistics of being an amputee. He’s so sick of calling ahead. Of being stuck in his stupid loft, with his stupid body that doesn’t even feel like his anymore. Not really. And now he has to take this tedious flight, several hours across the United States, to visit parents who don’t even like him, while he watches his sister try to keep the peace. It’s just not his week. He doesn’t want to be here. But alas, here he stands, in LAX, balancing on his crutches with a backpack on and his luggage on wheels, awkwardly dragged as much as he can. He’s grateful it’s a short trip from the Uber to check in.
He checks in easily, but then he’s at the service desk, checking his luggage, and then the gentleman—the most monotone man Buck has ever met—goes, “We’ll have someone bring a wheelchair around. Please place your crutches on the belt.”
Buck freezes. His jaw clenches, fingers twitching on the handles of his crutches. “No, uh—I checked. They said I could bring them all the way to the gate.”
The man blinks, unimpressed. “No, sorry, you have to check them in here. We don’t do that here.”
“No,” Buck says, sounding more impatient than he intends. “No, I called. I called and checked. I’m not—I’m not using a wheelchair. Especially if someone else is pushing me around. I called.”
The man’s expression remains deadpan. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’m not sure who you talked to, but you have to check them into oversized luggage, and then you can collect them when you land.”
Buck feels—overwhelmed. The last few months have been fucking hell, and he hasn’t dealt with it, has barely cried, but now, at the stupid service desk of American Airlines, he feels like he really might crumple into pieces. He leans in closer, taking a steadying breath. “Look, c-can you please just check?”
The man looks down at his computer. Scrolls a little. Looks back up. “Nope. Says you have to check them in.”
Buck is about to walk out of the airport. He can’t do this. He won’t. But then a hand—a big, warm hand—settles on his shoulder.
“Hey, uh—”
Buck turns, and standing there is the most beautiful man Buck’s seen in his entire life. A week’s worth of stubble across his jaw and cheek, a strong nose, and the deepest, prettiest brown eyes he’s ever seen, framed by mile-long lashes. Buck’s breath catches. Buck’s not into men, but holy shit, if he was—he’d be into this guy.
Well. He is kinda into this guy. Well. That’s—
“I’m here with my kid,” the guy continues, throwing a thumb over his shoulder and pointing toward where a blonde-haired, smiling kid with red glasses and crutches is standing. The kid lifts a hand and waves. Okay. Even if Buck is into the guy—kid usually means wife. Damn. “He’s got CP. We’ve done this song and dance a thousand times. You want a hand?”
“Sir,” the man cuts in, “this is a private discussion—”
Buck, who really was trying not to cry before, feels like he’s fighting a losing battle now. His eyes are a little wet, and his hands, gripping his crutches, are shaking just a little. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”
“What’s your name?” the hottest guy Buck’s ever met asks.
“Buck,” he answers.
The guy’s mouth twitches with amusement, but he doesn’t say anything, which is weird, because everyone always says something. Like the deer? Did your parents give you that name? Is that your real name? But just—nothing. Just fondness. Buck doesn’t know what to do with that. “Eddie,” he offers in return. The hand on Buck’s shoulder disappears. He hadn’t even noticed it was still there, but now that it’s gone, all he can feel is the chill it leaves behind.
Eddie steps forward, forearms crossing on the counter, and Buck, with the assistance of his crutches, takes a step back toward where the kid is standing. Eddie takes over from there, quoting policies that sound memorised. Eddie’s not impolite—he’s really not, even though Buck thinks he kind of deserves to be, 'cause this guy is a major, uncaring douche—but he leaves no room for argument.
Buck turns to the kid and smiles. “Hey, I’m Buck.”
Christopher tilts his head, curious and unguarded, eyes flicking down to the metal braces at Buck’s sides and back up again. “I’m Christopher. You have crutches. Like me.”
“Yeah. I’m new at them.”
“It kinda sucks when you’re new.” Christopher shrugs.
“Yeah, it does kinda suck.” Buck huffs a quiet breath of agreement, shoulders loosening just a fraction.
“My dad and I were watching you when we were waiting. He was gonna offer to help with your bag, but then Abuela called. But you’re pretty good at them.”
Buck’s eyebrows lift, surprised by the praise. “Yeah? You think so?”
“Yeah. Is it ’cause of your leg?”
Well. It’s because of his lack of a leg, but close enough.
“Yeah.”
“I have CP.”
“Yeah. You’ve been using them a long time, huh?”
“Like forever. I don’t like my chair.”
“I don’t like chairs either.” Buck glances instinctively at the rows of airport seating, then back to Christopher. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t be encouraging the thought—deep down, he knows that the thoughts he has about wheelchairs aren’t the best. They’re stupid, and rooted in something wrong, and something scared, and he doesn’t want Christopher to think that
“But they’re good sometimes. They’re not bad,” Christopher says, before Buck can. Oh. Maybe this kid is smarter than he is.
“Y—yeah. They’re not bad.”
“But Dad will make sure you get your crutches. Trust me. No one wins against Dad.”
It’s then that Buck turns back to Eddie, Eddie who is gesturing vaguely back towards them and speaking in an even, unimpressed tone that if it were aimed at him, would probably send a shiver of discomfort down his spine. He smiles, adjusting himself in place on his crutches. “Your dad is pretty cool, buddy.”
“Yeah. He’s a firefighter.”
Buck’s stomach twists.
Oh. That kind of makes Buck hate him in a really stupid, illogical way. In the same way, he kind of scowls every time he hears sirens now, as if those noises didn’t light up his day for the few years he got to be the one inside the truck, rather than a bystander on the side of the road.
“I was, too,” he says quietly, hoping Eddie doesn’t hear. “Before, uh—”
Chris looks at him for a long second. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s okay. You’re still cool.”
Buck, again, suddenly feels a little bit like he might cry. Thankfully, he toughs it out. He just smiles, ignoring the burning in his eyes. “Thanks, Chris.”
Silence lingers for just a moment, but in that time, Buck catches as the man behind the counter turns to his coworker and asks if there’s a way for the crutches to be allowed.
She just nods, smiling. “Yeah, of course.”
Buck feels like throwing his hands up in the air, but he thinks he’d tilt and then hit the floor if he did. Which, while funny, would probably hurt like a bitch. And he’d be doing it in front of the very hot (probably married) dad.
Eddie turns around, holding a hand out for Buck’s boarding pass, and Buck hands it over easily. It feels so easy to trust this complete stranger. It’s crazy. Probably a little stupid. But Buck’s never claimed to be a genius. He thinks he’s got a sense when it comes to people—he knows when they’re good. Eddie checks himself and Chris in next, and when he turns back, he’s smiling like he’s won a fight. Buck looks at him with such fondness that his chest aches with the weight of it.
“You, uh—thank you,” Buck manages. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“It’s nothing,” Eddie says, adjusting the bright red backpack over his shoulder that certainly doesn’t look like his own, judging by how small it is. “Looks like we’re on the same flight. You wanna stick with us?”
I’d follow you anywhere, Buck thinks, because apparently, deep at his core, he’s unhinged.
But then, because he’s at least mostly a normal person, or at least capable of acting like one, he just says, “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Uh—sure.”
They make their way through security, and when they start being weird and fidgety about Buck’s crutches, Eddie is right there behind him, advising them of policy again. And Buck kind of wants to kiss him.
Once they’re at the gate, Buck collapses into a chair, his leg lifting to prop up on the chair across the small walkway between the lines of chairs. Christopher sits next to him, holding Buck’s foot, and Eddie—surprising Buck, as he has been over and over—sits down beside him, their shoulders knocking together.
Chris gets lost in his Switch, and then Buck, quiet and private, whispers, “You’re really good at this stuff. The—the airport stuff.”
Eddie hums. “Yeah. We’ve done this a few times. His mom lives interstate.”
A pause. Then, hesitantly, Buck asks, “It ever get easier?”
Eddie looks at him for a long second. He looks so much like his kid that it’s kind of crazy. “How long you been, uh—”
Buck knows there’s no nice way to put it. People have continued to try and find considerate ways of asking, but so far, none of them have really been particularly sensitive. He finishes it for Eddie—putting him out of his misery before he takes a misstep. “One limb down?”
“Yeah.”
“Few months,” he answers, rubbing his hand over his thigh, carefully avoiding the beginning of the scar tissue. “Still… adjusting.”
“It’ll get easier,” Eddie says it with such surety that Buck almost believes him. Buck barely knows him, but he really does almost believe that things could get easier for him, even just this. “You’ll memorise the policies. Figure out which airlines are better for it. You, uh—you picked a bad one. Sorry.”
“You also picked this one.”
“Shannon, Christopher’s mom—she booked the tickets this time. I just started work at a new place, and I just … it’s been swamped.”
Buck’s nose scrunches, but he forces himself to smooth it away quickly. He misses being busy like that. Working shifts around the holidays always made him feel alive, and warm, and loved, surrounded by his team—by the people he called his family. “Chris said you’re a firefighter.”
“Mm, yeah. Just finished my probationary year. Had to transfer, though.”
“Which station?”
“Uh—which station am I at now?”
“Yeah.”
“The 133. You know it?”
“Yeah, it’s—” Close to mine. Buck feels sick, suddenly, his stomach churning with something ugly. He drops his foot off the seat in front of him, it hits the floor with a soft thud, and Christopher’s eyes don’t dart away from his Switch for even a second. It almost makes Buck laugh. Almost. He curls forward, rolling his shoulders, shifting a little uncomfortably.
“Hey, you good?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah. No. Uh. I was a firefighter,” Buck explains, voice a little strangled. “You know...Before.”
“Buckley.”
Buck’s gaze snaps to Eddie.
“Sorry. You’re—Evan Buckley. The bomb in the engine. I heard about it.”
“The one and only. Well. I think I’ve got a great uncle called Evan. But I’m—yeah. That one.”
“Fuck,” Eddie exhales, nodding softly.
It punches a laugh out of Buck. It’s the most genuine one that’s escaped him since the accident. Just the one laugh almost makes him feel like he’s about to burst into a fit of giggles. Fuck. “Yeah. Fuck,” he repeats, instead.
The two of them talk for so long that Buck forgets he’d planned to grab something to eat before the flight. Suddenly, the guy at the gate announces that they’re boarding, and Buck realises just how much time has passed. When Eddie stands first, he collects Christopher’s belongings, but doesn’t try to help Chris or Buck up. He just waits. Patient. Since his leg, no one has just waited for him to stand. Always offering him his crutches, or trying to give him a hand up, but Eddie just—he waits.
Buck stands and walks just ahead of the two of them. Christopher and Eddie are sitting in the row in front of him, and he spends the whole flight with Christopher’s head turned, listening to him tell tales about California, where they just moved a year or so ago, and about his mom, and about dinosaurs, and briefly about rock formations.
Eddie falls asleep after about five hours of endless chatting, his chin tucked to his chest, and gentle, barely audible snores escaping him. When Buck gets up to pee, about twenty minutes after Eddie went silent, he spots it—he’s struck by just how much of a dad pose it is. He smiles, fond, adoring. Feels a pang of something new and glowing in his chest.
When he sits back down, after hopping a little clumsily down the aisle, Christopher turns again. “We’re gonna land soon.”
Buck nods. “Yeah, buddy. I think in like thirty minutes.”
“You should stick with us,” Christopher says. “’Cause one time, they were supposed to pick us up from the gate, right? ‘Cause they forgot to bring the crutches. And then I guess they forgot. Dad and I sat there for like twenty minutes. Then Dad just carried me all the way to the bag thing. Like a sack of potatoes.”
“They forgot you?” Buck asks, brows knitting.
“Yeah. They forgot.” Christopher’s shoulders slump, but only slightly. He props his chin on his hand. “So you should stick with us, ’cause my dad can carry you—or he’ll get mad at the people. He’ll make sure you’re okay.”
Buck huffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as he leans back into his seat. He’s seen the outline of Eddie’s arms, hidden beneath a soft, dark blue Henley—he’s fairly certain the man would try to carry him—and the thought alone sends a warm flush creeping up his neck.
“Your dad’s a really nice guy, Chris.”
“Yeah. He’s kind of the best.”
Suddenly, rough from disuse, Eddie cuts in, clearly only just waking up. “Who's the what?”
Chris giggles, quick and conspiratorial, darting a glance at his dad before looking back at Buck like they’re sharing something private. “Nothing,” he says innocently. “You fell asleep.”
“Was resting my eyes,” Eddie mutters, turning his head. His gaze lands on Buck, and his face softens immediately. “How long we got?”
Buck can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that. He hasn’t seen Bobby in weeks. Hasn’t seen anyone in weeks. His chest aches, aches, aches. He swallows it down. He hums, forcing nonchalance, and checks his watch. “Uh—twenty-five, maybe.”
“Buck can come with us, right?”
“To baggage claim?” Eddie says, still half-asleep. “Yeah, mijo. Sure. If he wants to.”
“Can he come to Mom’s?”
Eddie exhales, amused, and shifts in his seat. “I’m sure Buck here’s got big plans in Pennsylvania.”
“I’m visiting my mom, Chris,” Buck explains. They’re not big plans. If anything, they’re dreaded plans.
“Oh,” Chris mumbles—disappointment evident.
“Maybe, uh—” Buck swallows, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. “I could give you my number?”
Chris blinks. “I don’t have a phone.”
“Nope. I—um—I meant—” Buck glances at Eddie, heart doing something reckless in his chest. “Just—if you wanted. I could—”
“Give me your phone,” Eddie says, already reaching into his pocket.
“O—okay,” Buck agrees easily, grabbing his phone out, almost dropping it in the process, but catching it at the last second. Across the top of the chair, they exchange devices, and Buck inputs his phone number, then taps the contact photo and takes a low-angled, incredibly close photo.
He hands back the phone, and in return, sees “Eddie Diaz”, and in the photo section, a quick selfie snapped of Eddie grinning and Chris’s head propped up on his shoulder, his smile a mirror image of his father's. God, Buck is into men. Okay. That’s fine. He’s into men, and this is some random guy he met on a flight—who saved him from a meltdown at the service desk and who could probably carry him out of a fire with one arm. Whatever. It’s fine. This is totally fine.
The rest of the flight is uneventful. Chris gets absorbed in a game on his dad’s phone, and Eddie somehow falls asleep again, slumped in the exact same position as before. He wakes almost as if he senses it, right as the plane begins its descent.
Eddie and Chris linger until the cabin clears, and the three of them exit together. Buck is relieved to see two sets of crutches waiting at the front counter—one much smaller than the other. Eddie grabs both, handing Buck his first before passing the smaller pair to Chris.
When they collect their baggage and head out toward the pick-up area, despite the exchange of numbers, it still feels a little like goodbye.
Two days pass. He’s fiddling with the sheets, tucked away in his room, while Maddie talks with their parents downstairs. His childhood bedroom is as empty and void of feeling as he remembers it to be. Suddenly, his phone buzzes.
He pauses his very important task of staring at a wall and sees Eddie and Chris’s faces flash on the screen. He’s calling? How old is this guy?
He picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
The voice that comes through the line is not Eddie’s. “Buck!” Christopher’s excited voice echoes through the phone, a little giggle escaping him.
Buck sits up straighter. “Christopher? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, my dad said I could play on his phone.”
“I don’t think he meant call people, buddy.”
“Yeah, but he’s been talking to my mom about calling you.”
Oh.
“He has?”
“Yeah. It’s kinda weird. ‘Cause they were married, but then they broke up. And now he’s gay.”
Okay. Well.
Buck blinks a few times. “You should be careful who you tell about that, I think. Has your dad said it’s okay to tell people?”
“Uh-huh! As long as they’re friends and not my Abuela and Abuelo. And you’re our friend, right?”
Buck’s heart kinda melts into a puddle of soup. “Yeah. I’m your friend.”
“Were you gonna call?”
“Huh?”
“My dad. ‘Cause I thought you would. ‘Cause you’re friends.”
“I’ve been busy with my parents, buddy. I was, uh—I thought your dad might text me.” He realises, all of a sudden, that maybe he shouldn’t be talking about this with a very small child. “Is your dad there?”
“He’s downstairs drinking with my mom. Do you wanna talk to him?"
“Yeah, buddy. Can you grab him for me?"
Suddenly, chaos and scrambling ensue on the other line. It’s all muffled and crackly, but he hears the click-clack of crutches, the rustling of clothes, the chatter of both familiar and unfamiliar voices. He thinks he might be in Christopher’s pocket.
“Chris!” Eddie calls out, muffled to Buck’s ears, but the excitement and volume are evident despite that. “You wanna come watch the movie? Or are we too boring for you?”
“I can’t! Buck’s on the phone!”
Silence. Dead, echoing silence.
“Buck is on the phone now?”
“Yeah,” Christopher replies cheerfully.
“He called?” The unfamiliar, higher voice says. “Oh my god. Old school.”
“Shannon, not—” He hears the thudding of muffled footsteps, then several sentences of exchanged whispers and mumbling between Christopher and his dad.
Finally, he’s pulled out of the pocket. “Hi,” he says down the line, grinning.
“I’m so sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m gonna—give me two seconds. I’m gonna step outside.”
“Eddie, it’s fine, seriously,” he assures, shifting in the bed to drag his leg atop the sheets rather than letting it hang over the edge. “Take your time.”
Eddie doesn’t take his time. He hears rapid footsteps, then the opening and closing of the door. If he listens closely, he’s pretty sure he hears a lady’s voice yelling out for Eddie to have fun, loverboy. Buck is very poorly muffling his laughter. It’s the lightest he’s felt since he last saw Eddie. And before that, in months.
Finally, the phone is pulled back to Eddie’s ear, and a slow, exhausted exhale sounds down the line. “He called you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Buck confirms. “But I, uh—I probably should’ve called.”
“No, no. I was going to text you. I was. But then—”
“Then you got drunk with your ex-wife?” He tries not to sound amused. He’s not sure he succeeds. Giggling in his childhood bedroom on the phone with someone he thinks is hot really makes him feel like a teenager again.
He hears a soft thud. It sounds a little like Eddie dropped his head against something.
“Okay, yes. I was drinking with Shannon. But—I was going to text you. I was.”
Eddie sounds frustrated with himself. Buck wonders if he’s ever even gone on a date with a man before. He’s only just gay now, according to Christopher. Maybe it’s new.
Probably less new than Buck’s discovery. Well, he’s always been an ally, but then Eddie was hot, and competent, and a DILF, and Buck kind of had to reevaluate some things over Christmas dinner. He’d told Maddie, who informed him checking out men, while not abnormal, is not very heterosexual behaviour. The more you know.
The thing is, though, he hasn’t dated since—since this. Since Ali broke up with him. Since his leg was surgically removed. He feels—scared. More scared than he ever has in his entire life about the prospect of asking someone out. His heartbeat thuds wildly in his chest, but still, he perseveres, because talking to Eddie is the lightest he’s felt since the accident. And Eddie’s so, so nice to him. So nice.
Even if he rejects him, it’s good practice, right?
“Hey, Eddie?” he says, soft and tentative.
“Yeah?”
“What’re you doing tomorrow night?”
A quiet, sharp inhale. “Oh. Uh. Nothing. I mean—just dinner. But Shannon’s home. She can watch Chris. What’re you—”
“You wanna get dinner with me?”
“Like—dinner between friends, or like dinner—”
“Dinner where we, if I’m lucky, kiss against your car at the end, and I pretend like I don’t wanna take you home. Because it’d be really embarrassing to bring you back to my parents’ house.” A pause. “And ’cause I haven’t had sex in like five months.”
“Two years,” Eddie says abruptly.
“What?”
“I haven’t had sex in two years. So I think I win. Or—or lose. On that front.”
Buck smiles. Fuck. He wants to kiss him so bad. “So. Dinner?”
“Dinner,” Eddie confirms, sounding like he’s smiling. “You want me to come pick you up? You can pick the place.”
“I was thinking maybe we could grab something, have a sit-down at the park, so you don’t have to deal with the—the crutches. And the restaurant. And the people.”
A thoughtful hum sounds from Eddie’s side of the line. “Do you not wanna deal with it, or do you think I’m gonna be embarrassed?”
Okay. Buck kinda wants to flip him off through the phone, but he’s aware of how unimpactful that would be. “It’s a valid concern.”
“Hey, I don’t get it, but I get it,” Eddie says softly. “Let me pick you up and take you to dinner. Please.”
Buck doesn’t think anyone’s ever taken him out for a meal. It’s always been the other way around. He finds himself grinning, and if he had longer hair, he’s sure he’d be twirling it around a finger. “Yeah, fine. Okay.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow morning.”
“Late morning, I’m sure.”
“Oh, fuck off. I’ve had two glasses of wine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Goodnight, Buck.”
He’s been Evan for two days straight now. Evan this, Evan that, even though they know he doesn’t prefer it. They scrunch up their nose every time Maddie calls him it, to the point where, for everyone’s sake, she’s just stopped too. Eddie doesn’t know that, but here, now, hearing his name on Eddie’s mouth, it feels like an exhale, like it’s held safely behind Eddie’s teeth.
“Goodnight, Eddie. Say goodnight to Chris for me, too.”
Eddie huffs a laugh into the phone. “You got it.”
Silence.
“You gonna hang up, Buck?”
Buck grins. “Are you?”
“I’m not playin’ this game."
“Yet you’re still not hanging up.”
“Neither are you.”
“I never said I wasn’t playing this game.”
“Buck.”
“Eddie.”
A pause. He swears he can hear Eddie grinning into the phone. “Goodnight. Again.”
“Goodnight.”
Then, the line goes dead.
Buck flops against the bed, staring at the roof, feeling so light he’s a little worried he’s gonna defy gravity and float up and up and up until he knocks against the ceiling.
He’s got a date.