Work Text:
Eddie’s day is going pretty well until he’s held hostage at gunpoint in the Dollar Store five minutes from his house.
Okay, that’s a lie. Not the being held hostage at gunpoint bit—that’s very much real, if the gun in his face is anything to go by—but the good day part.
Because it’s been a bad day. A shit day. A stupid day. A horrible, no good, very bad, awful, ugly day, and it all started when he woke up this morning.
(Well, if he’s being honest, it started the day he came into the world thirty-two years ago on a late October night, screaming and red-faced and pissing on the doctor, but he doesn’t have time to go back three decades and sort through all the reasons he’s fucked up. He and Frank are working through all that shit little by little and they’ve just made it to age ten, thank you very much.)
Anyway.
The day went to hell as soon as he woke up in a big, cold bed void of Buck’s warmth and smell and thick body and sunshine-like smile. Officially, they haven’t moved in together just yet, waiting on Buck’s lease to run up; unofficially, Buck spends six out of seven nights at Eddie’s home and in Eddie’s bed.
And, really, it’s not even the fact that Buck wasn’t home this morning that caused him to shrivel up with indignation. He can handle that—he’s a big boy who grew up a long, long time ago. He knows how to compartmentalize his wanting to have Buck next to him at all times and the reality of Buck having to go back to the loft because he’s paying a disgusting amount for it.
He promises.
(He might have threatened Buck’s landlord last week, a motherfucker named Derek, to let go of Buck’s lease a few months early and refund his deposit in full. He’s still waiting to hear back, but he’s confident Derek will do what he can to make both Eddie and Buck happy.)
(Derek is scared of snakes and Eddie is not. There was an infestation of water snakes in the basement of the apartment building, sending the whole place and especially Derek into a chaotic fit. Though they’re colored up similar to cottonmouths, water snakes aren’t harmful, and Eddie’s removed more than a few from various places through the years. He’s not above putting a couple in Derek’s mailbox.)
(Oops.)
So, yeah, not waking up with Buck was unpleasant, sure, but what really soured his mood and rankled his asscheeks like pruny fingers in the tub was the stuffy nose and sore throat that sneaked up on him during the night.
Everything hurt. His elbows, his knees, his hips, his eyelids and nose and neck and brow and the very tips of his hair, too, where they curl up no matter how many times he brushes through them.
Getting ready for work was a bitch. His alarm rang once, twice, and then on the third time he shut it off and laid there beneath the blankets, wallowing over the hole in the toe of his sock, until Chris came in and pushed him out of bed, down the hall, and into the bathroom. A warm shower didn’t help, and neither did the minty tea Pepa put in his hand on his way out the door, and braving traffic to drive to the station was a waste of time because as soon as Bobby saw him, clocked his red nose and swollen eyes and hoarse voice, he was sent straight home to get some rest.
He didn’t even try to fight it, too tired and achy and cold even in Buck’s too-big hoodie to argue. Instead, he stowed his face in Bobby’s neck and hugged Bobby tight, waved at the crew sitting down for breakfast, and then left, sniffling as he made his way to his truck.
He didn’t get to kiss Buck bye, either, resigned to a lackluster hug and forehead tap. It hurt his heart a little bit and made his eyes sting with hot, blurry tears that he rubbed away as fast as they came.
He’s a grown man—there’s no point in crying over not being able to kiss his boyfriend goodbye. He was fine.
(He isn’t.)
Anyway, listen, it gets worse.
On the way home, his bank’s fraud service called to let him know somebody’s tried to hack his debit card. They deactivated his cards, froze his accounts, and instructed him to come by first thing Monday morning to get everything sorted out—which is two days from now and the cup of quarters sitting in his console is getting real low ever since Jee decided she likes the coin machines at the grocery store.
She collects the plastic rings. He has a whole jar full at his house; Jee insists he wears one on each of his fingers whenever she comes over and wants to play princesses.
Eddie can’t tell her no. She’s his princesita.
The house was cold when he walked inside, so he opened a can of soup and put on a soft, cozy pair of Buck’s sweatpants in hopes of bringing some warmth back in his system, but the food was shit and the sweats were threadbare and his fuzzy socks were missing and his fleece robe was in the washer and he really, really just wanted to lay down in bed and sleep for a few hours and maybe start the day all over.
Except there was laundry to put up and dishes to do and rugs to vacuum and a bathroom to clean and a bed to make, stuffy nose and headache and sore body be damned, and by the time Eddie finished the mental chore list, braving through a mean headache and clogged nose and pounding pressure in his ears, it was time to pick Chris up from school.
Only, in his fit of cleaning, he forgot it was Saturday and Chris was spending the night with his cousins at Pepa’s. He waited in the empty parking lot for twenty minutes before realizing his mistake; he drove in silence the whole way home, ignoring his buzzing phone in favor of wallowing in misery and self-pity.
He collapsed as soon as he walked through the door. The couch isn’t comfortable, no matter how much Buck swears it is, and Eddie slept fitfully, hard and horrible, for three solid hours before he rolled over and off, landing funny on his shoulder.
It hurt—not enough to worry him, but plenty that it’ll be sore for the next few days—and he stayed there on the floor, shivering and sweaty and sad Buck isn’t here with him, to hold him and kiss him, blinking up at the ceiling and watching the shadows grow long before disappearing along with the sun because there’s nothing else he can do.
He’s sick. He knows he’s sick. It comes like clockwork every year, a head cold that lasts a few days; the fever and body aches knock him to his knees, and the lack of appetite and upset stomach leaves him trembling like a yearling.
There’s medicine in the cabinet, all sorts of stuff he keeps on hand just in case. A lot of it is cold and flu tablets, and he knows it’ll help him, knows it’ll work to break the fever and ease the aches and allow him to get some proper rest in bed, but all he wants is Buck.
Buck, who’s halfway through a 24. Buck, who has Eddie’s dogtags around his neck and tucked beneath his uniform shirt. Buck, who he missed waking up to this morning. Buck, who makes everything better everyday, all the time.
And Eddie knows he just has to call Bobby and ask, and Buck would be on his way home in under an hour. The shift’s been calm and Buck won’t be missed—he’s keeping Eddie updated, texting at least once every hour to check in with goofy selfies and increasingly horrid pickup lines that has Eddie wondering why he enjoys sucking Buck’s dick so much—and he’ll come running.
All he has to do is call.
He doesn’t. He stays on the floor of his living room, skin covered in gooseflesh through the layers he’s wearing, and watches the lights from outside scatter across the ceiling.
He hates being sick. It makes him feel weak and downright miserable—not that he is either of those things, mind you, but as much as he’s worked to heal himself over the last several months his brain is still mean sometimes and having a head cold makes it a gazillion times worse. There’s so much pressure inside his head, like an over-aired basketball, and everything hurts and he’s really, really sad because Buck isn’t here to make it better.
It’s a bad day. He woke up without Buck and the day was bad. The sky was cloudy and the day was bad. His head hurts and both nostrils are stopped up and his entire body aches and the day is bad. The day is bad and all he wants is hot chocolate. Hot chocolate and Buck—Buck’s hot chocolate, the kind he makes from cocoa and milk and sugar and vanilla, and Buck himself, a little piece of sunshine on earth.
And it’s so simple. All he needs to make everything better is hot chocolate and Buck, and there’s no mix in the cabinets and wearing Buck’s clothes is a poor excuse for Buck, but he’s not going to call Bobby and beg for Buck to come home to him because he’s a big boy, okay, and he can take care of himself. He can.
He struggles to his feet. He grabs his Scooby-Doo blanket off the couch, slides his feet into Buck’s house slippers, snatches his keys, and heads to his truck. The leather’s cold on his ass when he climbs in, but the blanket and seat warmers work fast to keep his shivering at bay.
The Dollar Store is only a few minutes down the road, around the corner and tucked into a small lot next to a playground. It has a neighborhood market, too, so even at nearly nine at night there’s a few cars out front. He parks as close as he can, grabs a handful of quarters, hops out, locks the truck, and shuffles his way through the automatic doors.
The AC’s blasting, cutting through his blanket and robe and hoodie and Buck’s big t-shirt beneath it all, and the lights are bright and blinding. The cashier—a fat, gorgeous woman with box-dye lilac hair and crooked smile named Hartley—greets him. He waves at her in return, side-steps a couple of floppy-haired boys playing tag, and makes his way toward the hot chocolate.
He frequents this Dollar Store, prefers their cotton candy grapes to the ones at the market a few streets over and likes the music they play loud over the speakers, a mix of classic rock and pre-911 country. The cashiers know him and Chris, and Buck, too, who has this adorable rivalry with one of the little kids that works every Wednesday night, and it feels a little bit like Texas used to.
The hot chocolate’s right where it always is, tucked on the bottom shelf next to the malt mix and Ovaltine. He snatches two boxes and makes his way toward the small line at the check-outs. There’s two young men in front of him; the kids who were playing tag earlier trip into the backs of his legs, much to their mother’s disappointment.
“Sorry about that,” she says, taking hold of both their hands and keeping them close. She sounds like he does, kinda—southern, a little bit, but she’s hiding it. He gets it. People can be mean sometimes. “I promised them candy and a movie if they cleaned their room.”
“They’re no problem,” he says, thick and hoarse and scratchy. It hurts to smile, but he does so anyway and waves at the two little boys who grin back at him, gap-toothed and sticky. “My sisters and I acted the same way.”
Her face softens. “My boyfriend’s sick, too.” She combs her fingers through the droopy curls of the boy on her left. “Do you mind the taste of honey? We’ve been—”
“Empty the drawer! Now!”
Startled, Eddie spins around so quick his brain knocks against his skull. Bleary-eyed and confused, he blinks a few times until he notices the two young men in front of him are attempting to rob the Dollar Store with a dull kitchen knife and a gun small enough to fit in the front pocket of their jeans.
He sighs. “Jesus Christ.”
The one holding the knife swings around, wide-eyed and bright-faced and young, nothing more than a big kid. “What’d you say?” He frowns, as if he’s smelled something bad. It might be Eddie, honestly. He isn’t sure how clean the Scooby-Doo blanket draped over his shoulders is.
“I said,” he begins, clearing his throat because yeah, the phlegm hanging heavy there makes him difficult to be understood, “Jesus Christ.”
The kid winces. “You sound like shit,” he quips, furrowing his brows. “You take anything for that? There’s medicine on the aisle by the Little Debbies. Off-brand NyQuil will have you sleeping so good you don’t even know you’re sick.”
“Thanks, but I have stuff at home,” he says, waving the kid off, and then shakes his head because what the fuck is even going on? Hartley’s hands are up and the kids and their mother behind him are whimpering and Jesus Christ. “It’s nine on a Saturday night. Don’t the two of you have something better to be doing than robbing a Dollar Store?”
“Listen, old man,” the other kid, the one with the gun, pivots and points the weapon straight at Eddie’s face, “if you don’t—”
“Get that gun out of my face.”
The kid quirks a brow and smirks, taking a few menacing steps forward. “Or what?” He bows up, tries to make himself bigger, but even sick Eddie towers over him, taller and wider and meaner.
Frustration boils up and spills over like a too-fill glass of chocolate milk. “What the fuck do you mean ‘or what?’” Eddie rolls his eyes—and immediately wishes he hadn’t because, wow, the nauseais intense. He might throw up. Yuck. “Or I’ll kick your ass, stupid bitch. That’s what.”
“Hey!” Ghostface Wannabe speaks up. “Don’t call Mikey a bitch!”
Eddie snorts. “Well, tell Mikey to stop acting like a bitch,” he says, and maybe he should shut up since there’s a knife and a gun pointed at him—it’s like that BOGO bullshit Buck’s always talking about—but he can’t. He’s not in the mood for this. The arch of his feet hurt; he has better things to do than be held hostage. “What are you two even doing? Go home.”
“What the—it’s a fucking gun, dude.”
“I see that.”
The kid’s eyes go wide, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “What the fuck?” He turns to the one with the knife, as if hoping his friend can make sense of this situation and honestly, Eddie doesn’t have much faith. “Billy, are you hearing this dude? He’s crazy.”
“I’m not crazy.”
Proud Gun Owner looks back at Eddie. “Well, old man, since you wanna play the hero,” he starts and no, Eddie doesn’t want to play the hero, not really, but he’s not scared of two punks with a couple weapons because the knife is dull and the gun’s safety is on and this is far from the first time he’s been held hostage, “you can hand over your wallet.”
“All I got’s a pocket of quarters.”
“Are you fuckin’ serious?”
Eddie crosses his chest lazily. “As a heartbeat,” he says, jiggling the pocket of his robe for emphasis. “Got hacked earlier today. Sorry.”
Second Amendment steps forward, tipping the short barrel of the gun at Eddie’s gut. “You’re really gonna be sorry if you don’t shut up.”
“Listen, pal.” He shuts his eyes, sighs, and sets his stuff on the candy rack to his right. “I’ve been mouth-breathing for the last eight hours and there’s enough pressure in my skull to fuel the next Big Bang. All I want is to get some hot chocolate, go home, and wait for my boyfriend to get off work so he can give me a hug. I don’t have time for this.”
“Dude, just—”
“Listen to me,” Eddie interrupts, moving close enough the kid has to look up to meet his eyes. “There’s kids here, right behind me, and you don’t look much older than them. If you stop now, it won’t be as bad as it could be. This doesn’t have to be the end.”
Mr. Nancy Wheeler opens his mouth to say something, but one of the little boys behind Eddie makes a frightened, scuffling noise that draws unwanted attention, and Eddie moves fast.
(Well, as fast as he can while his whole body’s achy and filled with phlegm, dressed in multiple layers, but he’s still pretty quick for a man running a fever and wrapped in a Scooby-Doo blanket.)
He knocks the gun out of Mikey’s hand and then hits Mikey in the throat, hard enough to steal his air but not permanently injure him, and when Billy makes a move with the knife, slow and disorganized, scared more than anything, Eddie shoulder checks him into the candy rack. It falls over, candy and knickknacks flying everywhere; the little kids scream and their mother lets out a faint wail and Hartley stares at him as if he’s grown a second head.
He kind of wants to. Maybe it’ll help him breathe better.
He sighs, rubbing at the wetness clinging to his lashes. “Are you okay?” he asks Hartley, bending down to pick up his blanket that fell in the flurry.
She nods. “Peachy.” She gives him two thumbs up, quivering and teary-eyed and smiling. “I’m going to call 911.”
“You do that.” He turns around to face the woman and little boys, both of which are clinging to their mother. “Everything okay?”
She nods, frightened and bewildered. “Yeah.” It’s a whisper, a quiet thing that’s nearly eaten up by Hartley’s conversation over the phone; she holds her boys close, hugging them tight around their necks as she looks up at Eddie. “Thank you? Yeah. Thank you.”
“Don’t do that. They’re just a couple kids.” He shakes his head and kneels down so he’s eye-level with the boys. “Are you two okay? Not hurt or scared?”
Both of them shake their heads, but the one with wild dark curls says, “No, sir,” from behind his mother’s hip.
Eddie smiles. “My name’s Eddie,” he says, holding his hand out to one brother and then the other. “What do I call you two?”
The other boy, with lighter hair and darker eyes, smiles. “I’m Jamey,” he says, high pitched and bright, and points at the curly-headed boy. “That’s my big brother, Evan.”
“My boyfriend’s name is Evan,” Eddie says, “but I call him Buck.”
The kid—Evan—looks up and laughs. “Like the firefighter? The one on the news?”
And, wow, what are the chances? Buck’s on TV as much as every other firefighter is—glimpses here and there, quick interviews asserting the scene is handled and everything’s going to be just fine. He puts on a show when he’s on traffic control, though, and he’s gone semi-viral a few times on TikTok for his dancing as he directs vehicles around accidents.
“Yeah, kid. Like the firefighter.”
“He’s a hero!”
Eddie’s heart goes all soft and ooey gooey, much to his displeasure. “He’s my hero,” he says because it’s true—the grass is green and the sky is blue and Buck is Eddie’s hero. “He gave me this blanket.”
“I like it,” Jamey says.
Eddie laughs hard, even though it hurts his head and makes his nose pulse, and stands. “Take it.” He unwinds the blanket and hands it to the little boy, who takes it like he’s just been given all the gold in the world. “It’ll keep you and your brother warm during your movie.”
“Thanks, Eddie!” Evan says, giddy and loud, and unfolds the blanket over his and his brother’s shoulders. Scooby-Doo swallows them up, tight and snug like a bug in a rug. The thought has Eddie grinning and he wonders what Chris is up to, if he and his cousins are building a massive pillow fort in Pepa’s living room while they watch movies and eat junk food.
Their mother gives him a sweet, soft smile that he returns.
He stands, a little lightheaded, and looks at the two young men. Billy’s out cold, his head having slammed into a bit of the wrack, and Mikey’s still gasping for air that he won’t be able to get until he calms down. Neither one of them are going anywhere anytime soon, incapacitated and humbled. Help’s on the way, though; Eddie can hear the sirens in the distance, over the loud music and the buzzing AC.
Something in his stomach turns, nasty and hateful.
“I’m gonna wait outside,” he tells Hartley, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the doors. “Holler if you need me.”
He rushes to the doors, so fast he nearly runs into the glass, and then loops toward the trash to puke up the little bit of food he has in his tummy. It’s awful, and there’s not much there, and once he’s finished, nose running and eyes watering and chest heaving, he grabs a display lawn chair, flips it open, and sits until he sees the flash of red and blue.
The police rush in and over the scene. He gives his statement three times to three different officers who grate at his frayed, chafed nerves. RA units pull in and paramedics from the 156 begin assessing the two kids cuffed on the floor. They’re fine, bruised and a bit roughed up, and on the way out, they nod toward Eddie. He waves at them, lethargic and beat down and tired, all the way to the bone, and he’s not sure how much more he can take before he breaks.
So, when a hand lands on his shoulder and cups his neck, soft and familiar and strong, he leans into the touch, leeching as much comfort and warmth as he can. It’s not Buck, but it’s his mama so it’s close enough.
“Hi, ‘Thena.” He nuzzles into her palm; she smells like vanilla. “I already told the other officers what happened.”
“I know, sweetheart.” She rakes her nails through his hair, scratching at the bottom of his skull right where there’s a mound of pressure. Her touch releases some of it; shivers ricochet through his body, in his meat and bones, and he goes just a little boneless. “Are you okay?”
He nods and tosses his head back. “Of course,” he says, smiling, and then, once he sees her face, the worry and affection and fierce love that’s greater than the biggest star in all the galaxies, his eyes start to well up and spill over his cheeks. “Athena?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, I don’t think I’m okay.” He laughs and scrubs the heel of his hand over his face, smearing hot tears and snot all over. “I don’t feel good.”
Athena makes a sharp sound. “Oh, Eddie.” She kneels so he’s able to meet her eyes without looking up. “Baby, what can I do to help you?”
His bottom lip wobbles. “I want Buck.”
She smooths her hand over his cheek. “I’ll call him. Okay, sweetheart? I’ll get him here.” She stands up tall and leans over him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and bringing his face into her stomach while she fiddles with her radio. “Dispatch, this is Sergeant Grant. I need Firefighter Evan Buckley from the 118 at the scene immediately.”
Dispatch says something in return, but Eddie’s face is shoved so deep in Athena’s side he can’t hear much over the pounding of his head. It’s a harsh thud-thud-thud that makes his tears fall faster than ever before.
“Thank you, Ma—‘Thena.”
“Sweet boy.” Athena bends low and presses a kiss to his sweaty, cold forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”
“I know.” Eddie nods, knocking his head into her chin. “I know—I—”
“Let’s go wait for Buck in my car, okay? It’s warm and you won’t be bothered.” She grabs hold of his hand and pulls him up, leading him toward her squad car. It’s blocked off from the crowd outside, who’ve gathered around his truck and the other vehicles in their efforts to get a look at the chaos unfolding. He can’t muster the energy to be angry.
Athena opens the door and helps him shuffle into the back bench seat; she reaches in the front, picking around until she finds a folded, sterile-smelling blanket that she covers his shoulders and tucks under his chin.
“Buck’s on his way.” She combs through his hair again, doting and fond and motherly and dammit, Eddie wishes he would’ve grown up with somebody like her as his mama. He wishes so badly it hurts. “I’ll bring him right to you.”
He looks up at her and smiles, snotty and teary. “Thank you.”
She hums. “Anything for one of my boys,” she says, kissing him on the forehead once more. “Lay down and try to rest a little. He’ll be here soon.”
Eddie nods and does as he’s told, leaning back and laying out over the seat; he brings his knees up to his chest, allowing Athena to shut the door lightly and cut him off from the abrasive, roaring outside world.
His head pounds, bouncing around in his skull, and his body aches and his nose is running and he can’t see clearly for the fat tears clinging to his lashes. He wonders if this is how Buck felt after the tsunami, after being swept away in the water and wandering around for hours searching for Christopher. Eddie doesn’t know how he did it.
And then another sob jumps up in his sore throat and bubbles over, bringing with it a fresh wave of tears and snot and sweat. He wants Buck so bad his chest hurts with it, cold and empty and loose.
A light tap sounds above him. Slow and shaky, he leans up and blinks sticky eyes open until he can focus on Buck’s sunshine face, backlit by red and blue and the yellow Dollar Store sign.
Buck opens the door and smiles. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says, softly, and reaches in to wipe off a stray tear and drip of snot.
Eddie rolls his eyes and laughs, thick and nasty, because he knows he’s not pretty right now, red-faced and wild-eyed and wet with tears, wet with snot and spit and sweat and all sorts of other things, but Buck really, truly, thinks so. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t.
“Hi.”
Buck’s smile widens. “Wanna scoot over and let me in?” he asks, ducking down so he can meet Eddie’s eyes. Eddie nods and scrambles to move, sliding over just enough for Buck to squeeze in and then slumping against his wide chest. Buck shuts the door, wraps his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, and kisses his forehead. He smells like smoke and Hen’s fruity lotion. “You’re burning up, baby.”
Eddie nods, hiccups, and says nothing.
Buck brings his other arm around to hold Eddie closer, tighter. “You said you were feeling better,” he says, whispery-soft, as he combs Eddie’s damp hair off his forehead. “Why’d you lie to me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Why do you think I’d worry?”
“‘Cause I’m having a bad day,” Eddie answers, shrugging, and nestles in further, like he can crawl inside Buck’s body and spread himself out along Buck’s bones, where he’s warm and wet and welcome, forever and always. “‘Cause I have a cold and everything hurts and nothing feels good except—except this. Except you.”
The tension in Eddie’s body sweeps out as quick as it came, leaving him boneless and unsecured and held in Buck’s arms, against Buck’s big chest and even bigger heart where he belongs, where he was born to be. It’s the one place that’s his and nobody else’s, ever again.
A tear falls, hot like fire, and he snuffles, wiping his face across Buck’s t-shirt.
“Oh, Eddie.” Buck muscles his way beneath the scratchy blanket Athena tossed over him and shoves his hands under Eddie’s hoodie, Buck’s own hoodie, to rub at Eddie’s bare skin. “I’m here for you, baby boy. Always.”
Eddie sniffles. “I know.” He coughs, hacking so violent it makes his throat hurt, and Buck holds him through it. “You’re my sunshine.”
“You’re my grumpy boyfriend and I adore so, so much,” Buck says, chuckling, and when Eddie pinches his side, soft and sweet with no strength, he just laughs all the more. “You don’t have to hide your bad days from me. I’m never, ever running away from you. I want all of you.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” Eddie insists, shuffling up until he can hide his burning face in the cozy warmth of Buck’s neck. He smells like mint and roses and eucalyptus—a mix of his cologne and Eddie’s shampoo. It’s wonderful. “I promise. I thought I could handle it all by myself.”
“You can.” Buck moves around until he has Eddie’s face cradled in his huge hands, holding him so still and so soft that Eddie starts crying again. Or maybe he didn’t even stop. “I know you can and I know you will, but you don’t have to do it by yourself anymore. I want to take care of you like you take care of me.”
Exhaling wetly, Eddie gives a lopsided, goofy smile. “I want you to take care of me, too,” he says, tipping forward to kiss Buck’s shoulder through his t-shirt. “I love you.”
Buck giggles. “Love you more.” He thumbs away some of Eddie’s tears. “What were you here for, anyway? You should’ve been at home sleeping.”
“I wanted some hot chocolate,” Eddie says, and then, wrinkling his nose, remedies with, “I wanted your hot chocolate, but you weren’t home and I had to come here.”
“The powder sucks.”
“I know.” Eddie laughs and effectively gets snot all over Buck’s shirt. “I just wanted something warm, and you weren’t home, and I gave my blanket to some little boys and I have this stupid fuckin’ cold and everything hurts and all I wanna do is kiss you ‘cause your kisses make everything better all the time and—”
Buck kisses him, sweat and tears and snot and all, which fruitfully brings Eddie back up from his spiral. He tastes like coffee and Bobby’s cinnamon muffins, sweet and warm, and Eddie’s sure his mouth is disgusting but when he goes to pull back, to let Buck loose and catch his breath, Buck follows him all the way down.
He lays over Eddie, arranging their limbs until they’re as comfortable as can be in the backseat of Athena’s squad car, and kisses Eddie—and keeps kissing Eddie, too, even when Eddie starts to cry into his mouth, sticks his cold fingers up Buck’s shirt to touch his hot skin, wraps his legs around Buck’s hips to keep him close while Buck sucks on his tongue.
He’s solid heat and soft cushion, the best balm to a bad day, made out of fluffy clouds and precious warmth, and Eddie can’t get enough, won’t ever be able to satiate the hunger in his tummy for Evan Buckley. He makes everything better, just like Eddie knew he would.
Eventually, though, he can’t breathe even with the few seconds Buck affords him to draw in air, and he has to pull away before his brain gets even more sloshy. He pets Buck’s hair, tugs at the neck of Buck’s t-shirt until he shifts and Eddie can smear his face in Buck’s throat, hot and hidden from the mean, ugly world outside.
He breathes, slow and steady. He’s settled. It’s all Buck’s doing.
“Buck.” He kisses Buck’s pulse point. “Buck, oh, God. I love you.”
“So, so much, Eddie.” Buck presses his mouth to Eddie’s again, hard and tender and fast. “Are you ready to go home now? Bobby brought me so I can drive us home.”
Eddie nods. “Will you take a bath with me when we get there?” he asks, small and gentle, like he’s going to be told no, but it’s Buck, his Buck, and Buck’s always going to give Eddie whatever he wants.
“Anything you want, pretty boy.” Buck puts his hand beneath the hoodie and splays it out over Eddie’s heart, right where it’s beating steady. “We’ll get you some medicine and take a bath and I’ll put our clothes in the dryer so they’re warm when we get out, and then I’ll make us some hot chocolate and something easy for your stomach and put on your favorite movie until we’re ready for bed.”
“And you’ll come with me?”
“And I’ll come with you.” Buck tickles Eddie’s sweaty armpit just because he can, laughing when Eddie grunts and shies away. “I’ll hold you tight, even when my arm falls asleep, and I’ll keep you warm all night long. How does that sound?”
Eddie twirls his arms around Buck’s neck. “It sounds pretty good,” he says, tipping up to suck on Buck’s bottom lip.
“Good,” Buck says, smiling, and puts his mouth back across Eddie’s because he’s apparently not finished kissing him yet.
Two days later, Buck wakes up with a stuffy nose and swollen eyes and pounding headache. To save everyone the trouble, Bobby gives them both the next three days off because they’re absolutely useless without each other. Eddie can’t argue much—three days in bed holding his boyfriend and keeping him warm doesn’t sound too bad.