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“It doesn’t matter if it takes a hundred more crawls,” Mike says, planting his hands against the table. “A thousand! We don’t stop until we’re goddamn sure that wrinkled, rotting, noseless bastard is dead and gone and never coming back.”
Will’s smiling, now, looking reassured. And Mike’s saying it for El’s sake, but also Will’s. Max’s. Eddie’s, too. Everyone who’s been hurt by this monster, who won’t be able to sleep at night with even the slimmest chance that he might still be out there.
He has to do something. And until there’s a better plan, or more information to go off of, this is the only option.
He puts his hand out above the table. “Everyone in?”
Lucas, looking determined, slaps his palm on top of Mike’s. Then Will. Then, when there’s only one of them left, they turn to look at Dustin.
Dustin’s mouth twitches to the side. His torn Hellfire shirt ripples in the late-autumn breeze. “I want to see Vecna’s heart on a platter,” he says. His voice is low, almost scarily detached. Like he has nothing left to lose. “Just wish I could do it myself.”
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season 5, but make it byler. (again!)
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- Part 6 of i know the end
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“Eddie? Is that you?” Margaret’s coming in from the hallway, now, freshly dressed and inquisitive. She’s met Eddie before, more than once, but Buck’s still surprised she remembers his name. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Eddie smiles: nervously, charmingly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Buckley, it was a last-minute decision. I just—” He looks back at Buck, resolved. Something passes between them, lightning-fast and electric. Buck shifts back on his heels, his socks rubbing against the wood. “I thought I should be here. As Buck’s partner.”
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or: buck goes home for the holidays, grieving. eddie doesn't let him go alone.
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He plops down on the couch again, sets his elbows on his knees, and looks Eddie in the eye. “Okay. Soooo,” he says. “You’re asking me to marry you.”
“Yes,” Eddie says.
“On a Wednesday,” Buck says.
“Yep.”
“As a friend.”
Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Ye-ep. Just about covers it.”
“Why?”
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or: eddie and buck embark on the most platonic journey of all: marriage!
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Bobby makes a small noise in the back of his throat, bordering on agitated, the kind he always makes when he’s trying to keep himself from raising his voice. “I’m not a role model, Buck,” he says, and okay, whatever, he’s wrong, but that’s—
“And I’m not your father, either.”
The breath punches out of Buck’s lungs. For a violent, confused second, he thinks Bobby’s actually hit him.
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or: buck, circa season 3, and everything he knows about fatherhood.
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The thing about running back into fires is that there’s a limit to how many times you can do it. Eventually, the smoke inhalation wears you down. Buck exhales, and inhales, and exhales. What’s that thing Eddie likes to say?
Jello. He’s jello. Maybe lime, or maybe cherry. Like blood. Like cold medicine on a day you’re faking sick just to feel your mom’s hand on your forehead. Like hospital food. Like fucking cherry jello, and nothing else.
Eddie doesn’t know shit.
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or: eddie’s moving. buck’s dealing with it.
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“Alright,” Eddie shrugs, laissez-faire. He pulls Buck’s plate to the center of the table; pushes his own forward in kind. Then he begins a drawn-out circus routine of plucking an olive at a time up and out of the bowl and plopping them onto their respective dishes, one by one.
The delicate, repetitive movement of Eddie’s pinched fingers reminds Buck of picking the petals off of flowers. He loves me. He loves me not. He love—
An olive hits him square in the forehead.
“There,” Eddie says, resolute, as the pitted projectile tumbles to the ground at Buck’s feet. “Equal treatment.”
Or: Buck, Eddie, and the olive theory. Well, in theory.
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It’s almost like — like Buck’s holding a possible thing in his hands, fragile and fledgling, born too early. It’s not the first time he’s felt this way, with Eddie. It’s happened before, mostly in kitchens.
“Did that guy tell you the name of the suite he put us in?”
The corner of Eddie’s mouth lifts. There, Buck supposes, is his answer.
“Yeah. Honeymooners, huh? Should we tell him about our disaster of a trip?”
His stomach lurches. God. Eddie’s taking this in stride; Buck should be thankful for it. Instead, he’s afraid he’ll be sick all over their shoes.
or: a pining buck has to navigate the Emotional Saw Trap that is the road trip back from new mexico. eddie, quite literally, comes along for the ride.
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Eddie touches Buck a lot.
It’s a thing they do, has been for years, and it’s not a big deal. Eddie’s an affectionate guy. Side hugs and arm grabs and that move where Eddie steers him through doorways with a hand on his lower back.
All of which Buck has never spent any real time considering because it’s just Eddie, it’s just how he is. Eddie touches people and Buck just happens to be the person standing next to him most of the time, so it’s aimed at him most of the time. Proximity and frequency, that’s all. A coincidence.
They’re close. They always have been. So what?
All that being said, there is one thing Eddie doesn’t do.
Eddie doesn’t kiss Buck.
Or — didn’t. Past tense, until about thirty seconds ago, when Eddie leaned across their table at the diner they’re currently eating at and pressed his mouth to Buck’s cheek like the kiss was just another item on a list of things he was doing that afternoon.
Or,
The totally natural and platonic long-term friendship escalation of kissing your best friend on multiple parts of his body without explanation.Bookmarked by bookinit
14 May 2026
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Something changed for him in New Mexico. On his knees in the dirt, cradling Buck's head, Buck's dirty hair against his palm and his pulse thudding against Eddie's fingers, which he couldn't pull away even though Buck was awake, smiling dazedly under the blood and the bruises. Something changed then. Cracked open. He could patch it up, probably. He's good at that. He's done it before, plenty of times.
Under his hands, Buck breathes, warm and alive.
Bookmarked by bookinit
01 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
oh this is so soft and beautiful i loved it!!!!
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Eddie climbs onto the bed. They sit side by side, legs extended, two letter L’s protruding off the page. Instead of pressing play like Eddie is expecting, Buck laughs.
“What?” Eddie asks, an instinctive smile caressing his lips.
Buck grips his jaw, thumb brushing over his teeth before he bites at the broad nail, stifling. “Just—did you ever see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”
Eddie nods. “Gene Wilder.”
“That’s the one,” Buck chuckles around his thumb, then lets it slide free. “You know the grandparents?”
Then Eddie’s laughing too. “Jesus,” he says on an exhale.
“I’m just saying,” says Buck, still giggling. “I’ve seen our future, and it’s bright.”
Or: God created the world in seven days. It only takes Eddie six to surreptitiously move into Buck’s house.