Oh, I Can't
Oh, I can't // stop you putting roots in my dreamland
Pairing: Eddie Diaz/Evan Buckley Word count: 1000 Summary: In which Buck is deconstructed, through his relationships, and born again, through Eddie. Also available on ao3
When Buck looked into Abby’s eyes, he’d seen a future. A flash, a flicker, a glance in the rearview—a second, it’s gone. Dancing in between shades of wrong and right, what mattered was never stopping to stay too long in any light.
In any case, Buck had tried to hold on. He’d seen an ocean—in those futures, in Abby’s eyes—and he’d tried to keep it. Built a moat, built a fort, swore they’d hop on a magic carpet and fly around the world—but it had, like fragments of his worst nightmare, slipped through his fingers before he could build a castle.
And how long is one to stare out at an ocean before realising it won’t stay for you?
Blond hair, blue eyes—that ghost is still alive. And he? He is a dead man walking.
° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °
Taylor Kelly was, in truth, a perfectly logical choice.
Fire in every sense of the word. Fiery hair, wildfire eyes and a spark between the two of them. Buck remembers the quick smile that had climbed onto his lips when he saw her for the first time, and that same smile for the first time where they had kissed.
For a fucking second, it had been…well, not perfect, but functional.
Taylor had loved how Buck looked in cameras. That was how she showed her love: pictures, visuals, passion. And as for Buck, a boy who spent his whole life staring up at a father who looked down on him, a man who couldn’t smile at himself in the mirror—this had been ecstasy.
They had been everything to each other.
Except for their jobs.
Buck had been convinced they could overcome it—ignore it. If they never look at the road again, he can’t ever be scared, right? He could live in a present where they were cruising on the freeway but—oh. One story, one moment—the crash.
In any case, Buck had realised then and there that this’d have to end. Neither of them would change: he is a firefighter, and she is a news reporter.
And as for their love for their jobs…it always took precedent over their love for each other. Always.
Oh, Buck realises with words that actualise themselves before the pain seeps in. It’s over. For good.
° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °
Buck wishes that this had worked out. Damn, he’d really thought it would’ve.
Because is there anything that held more weight, finality, than a realisation? That night in his kitchen, the golden lamp-light that reminded him of those silly fires, glowed incandescently. Tommy is there, something like confusion, something like is this real all over his lips. Then, Buck.
Soot all over Tommy, Soot all over Buck’s lips, the half-lidded gaze of someone staring at love—Buck is sure. Buck was sure.
But the blurry lines between forever and potential blur again and—oh. Buck gets confused. Steps into the wrong side, at the wrong time.
The self-actualisation is a waste.
° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °
Every version of Buck.
The only person who has seen every version of Buck is Eddie Diaz.
On only a few occasions does laughter escape Eddie’s lips, a delicate puff of air reserved for moments that no one is supposed to see—but Buck catches them. Buck catches most of them. A part of Buck wants to hold onto them and swirl them into poems and prophecies—he doesn’t know how it’ll start, only that it ends with ‘I love you’.
One brush of shoulders, midnight drive to the convenience store. Eddie’s fingers drip from the condensation from the slushie cup, and he uses the other to ruffle Buck’s curls, and—oh, wow. Buck is in love. Buck is in love with Eddie.
The words stumble themselves into Buck’s everyday life, hindering him from even the briefest of interactions. A sharply sucked in breath is a worry that Buck wants to kiss away, a smile is heart that Buck wants to hold, to have, and Eddie is the one. He is, he is, he is.
Buck doesn’t duck away from the rearview this time. Every iteration of him, of Eddie, of them appears behind him. But the freeway in front of him is open and free, and damn, the only person he can imagine in the seat next to him is Eddie. It’s Eddie.
And in the back is Christopher.
A son that Buck can’t quite claim. A father that takes at least one step back at any given moment. But he’s a presence nonetheless, hoisting Chris on his shoulders, holding him when he cries, baking for him in a secret midnight endeavor that can only scream: I love you. I want you in my life like this.
“I love you,” the words materialise before Buck can stop them. “I’m in love with you.”
Eddie’s eyes aren’t even surprised, just—soft.
“Okay,” Eddie whispers, and his body is much closer, and Buck’s cheeks are much warmer.
“Please,” Buck’s anticipation pulsates behind the word, like his emotions themselves are taking a shuddering breath. “I want you. I want this.”
“Then let’s have it.”
Buck doesn’t remember when Eddie kisses him, only that when they pull apart, Buck’s so invigorated he doesn’t feel like a new version of himself—he feels like a Buck, fully realised, finally ready.
Buck knows, fiercely—this, them, them and Chris, is everything to him. Nothing—not death, famine, war, fate—could stop that. The right time has never been waiting for him—Eddie has. Eddie’s the one who opened his life, his heart out to Buck, waiting just patiently for the realisation to hit Buck too.
And that dead man walking? He stopped, walked home, and realised the life behind his eyes.