fuck it, snippet sunday even though nobody asked
Eddie proposes on a Thursday.
Nothing particularly notable about the day itself. No anniversary. No holiday. No grand orchestration of fate. No celestial alignment. No significance carved into the calendar. Just late evening sunlight slanting gold through kitchen windows; the kind of light that makes everything feel softer at the edges than it really is, Christopher's abandoned homework spread across the table amongst Theo's colouring pages all half completed, the distant hum of traffic from outside.
And Eddie. Eddie standing in front of him with nervous hands and unbearably soft eyes.
Afterward, Buck will remember every detail with startling clarity. The way Eddie's thumb catches against the velvet edge of the ring box. The slight hitch in his breathing before he asks. The warmth of the light painting him amber and gold, like something holy. The tv on low volume in the living room, more presence than sound.
Outside, Los Angeles moves on without noticing anything is about to change. Then, Eddie stands in front of him. Not as a best friend. Not as a partner in the fragile, long-built architecture of their lives. But as something more certain than either of those words ever managed to be on their own.
It isn't dramatic. It isn't loud.
It's Eddie Ramon Diaz asking him a question like it has always already been answered. Buck says yes before the question is even fully forming in the air between them. Because of course he does. Because there is nothing else in him that thinks to respond differently.
Four nights later, Buck lies awake staring at the ceiling next to Eddie, listening to him breathe as he sleeps on his side, one arm thrown loosely across Buck's waist like even unconscious he refuses to let go completely.
Buck turns the ring around his finger again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. As if attempting to memorise the weight of the future pressing gently into his skin. And somewhere in that quiet, it lands in him with a kind of startling inevitability: He does not want to marry Eddie as Evan.
The thought doesn't arrive like lightning. It arrives like the tide. Patient. Certain. Already in motion long before he ever noticed it coming in.
Because Evan hasn't ever really fit. Not fully.
Evan belongs to Pennsylvania winters and a too-big house filled with silence. To report cards slid across kitchen counters without much interest. To trying and trying to become someone worth keeping around. Evan belongs to a person Buck barely knows how to be anymore. Evan has always been a name that felt slightly out of reach, even when it was his, Like it belonged to someone standing a few steps behind him in a hallway he could never quite turn around fast enough to see.
Evan is hospital wristbands that itch against skin too sensitive for permanence. Evan is teachers berating him for having too much energy. Evan is the version of him that learned early how to make himself smaller so he would not take up too much space in rooms that already felt full without him.
But Buck—
Buck is the name Christopher shouted across a crowded school parking lot the first time he spotted him after a hard day. Buck was Bobby's steady hand against the back of his neck after a difficult call. Buck is Hen laughing fondly under her breath after calling him an idiot. He's Maddie saying his name like relief. He's Theo's third best friend after Chris and Eddie—in that order. Buck is Ravi's eye roll and Harry's groan and sigh. He's Chimney ribbing him for no reason other than he can.
Buck is Eddie, half asleep and rough-voiced in the dark, murmuring sweetheart, c'mere. It's Eddie saying his name like it's something worth keeping.
That's who he is. That's the life he's made.
So the decision becomes easy after all. It settles. Not as an impulse. Not as a whim. As recognition.
Five weeks later, Buck finds himself standing in a downtown Los Angeles courtroom that smells faintly of paper and old air conditioning, trying very hard not to vibrate directly out of his own skin, standing still only because moving too much might make him fall apart in front of a stranger in a robe.
His hands will not stop. Fingers interlace, separate, and the motion repeats like he can somehow wear down the anxiety by force of repetition alone. His heel taps a quiet rhythm against the floor that he cannot seem to control.
He hates lying to Eddie.
