Junebug93472
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A person who listens to whatever inane, mundane shit Buck is incapable of not spouting? Actually listens, with interjected questions and regular mmhms of acknowledgement? Indulgent of every tangent, every spiel, unless Buck is actively sowing terror in the hearts of victims on calls with his worst-case scenario stories.
He has that person. Eddie. According to May, that makes Eddie his person, a thought that has a bloom of warmth unfurling in his chest.
It might not be romantic, but it’s—it’s something.
And it’s worth Buck trying to get back to who they were. When their shift is over, he follows Eddie home like he might’ve done a year ago.
or, buck learns about bird theory. eddie, unsurprisingly, is the only one who passes with flying colours
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Summary
Eddie's journey of reconnecting with his son, figuring out who he is and what he wants, and finding his way back home.
Series title from ‘Taken’ by Hayley Williams
- Words:
- 15,533
- Works:
- 2
- Bookmarks:
- 21
Bookmarked by Junebug93472
23 Mar 2026
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Two months after the sniper and three weeks after Eddie left the 118, Buck is left dealing with his trauma alone. He decides to go to the beach to clear his mind, and ends up with more than he bargained for.
Meanwhile, when Eddie goes to check on him, he finds a letter than he really, really wasn't supposed to see...
Alternatively; the angsty presumed dead fic that I couldn't get out of my mind.
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- Words:
- 39,053
- Works:
- 12
- Bookmarks:
- 8
Bookmarked by Junebug93472
21 Mar 2026
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Summary
"Leave it," Eddie says, his voice pulled taut like a wire about to snap, tight enough to hum.
Buck looks at him, and Eddie’s whole body has gone so rigid he looks carved from stone, but Buck will ruminate on that later. But he can't exactly leave his phone under the seat for the next eight hundred miles, it's got his whole life on it, every stupid photo he's ever taken of Christopher and Eddie and Eddie and Christopher and, embarrassingly, just Eddie, so many just-Eddies, an entire hidden album of candids he'll never admit to because they constitute evidence of something he's been pretending he doesn't feel.
"I can't leave it, it's my phone. It's got— hold on, I think it slid under your seat."
“Buck, don’t.”
It’s as if Eddie doesn’t even know him, because Buck has never once heard the word don’t and responded with anything resembling obedience. So now he’s stretching across the center console with one hand braced on Eddie’s thigh for leverage, the other reaching blindly into the dark gap beneath the driver’s seat, and he’s aware on some level that his positioning is— that he’s essentially— that his head is—
He’s in Eddie’s lap.
Or,
What's a little road-head between friends?