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It's two o'clock on a sunny afternoon when Eddie picks Buck up from the oral surgeon's office. He's not exactly sure why he was nominated—Maddie and Chim's place is closer, and Buck took an Uber in for his appointment—but he's also not going to look at that too closely. He's glad to do it. Glad to have something easy to offer, in the occasionally precarious landscape that their friendship has become lately. It's—growing pains, he thinks. Hopes. Everything's a little off-balance lately. They'll get past it.
In the meantime, the least he can do is pick Buck up and drive him home while he's high out of his mind after getting his wisdom teeth out. Ten years too late, give or take, but Buck spent his early twenties on the road, hopping from odd job to odd job. No health insurance, and definitely no dental, at least not until he joined the LAFD. Eddie remembers him saying that, ages ago, in the offhanded way he always talks about those years. Like it was all just a big adventure. Eddie's not stupid enough to actually buy that, but he gets the impulse. The need for it to be a good story.
Anyway, Buck survived it more or less in one piece, except for the fact that he never actually had his wisdom teeth removed when he should have, and now he gets to have that joyful experience at the ripe old age of thirty-four. Eddie squints at his watch as he jogs up the steps. He's late. Traffic was a shitshow on the I-10, as if it's ever not, and Buck can't have been waiting long, but he still feels bad.
Buck is in the waiting room, a loose-limbed sprawl in one of the chairs that looks comically small with him in it. He's bleary-eyed, wads of gauze puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk, but he brightens visibly when Eddie comes in.
"E-e!"
"You must be his ride," the receptionist says, smiling like she thinks Buck is adorable. She's not exactly wrong, but he's also six foot two and tilting like a tree in a high wind as he struggles to his feet, aftercare sheets clutched in one hand. Eddie steps close to steady him, bracing just in time for Buck to flop his entire weight against him.
"Hi," he mumbles in Eddie's ear.
"Hey, bud," Eddie says, helplessly fond. "Let's get you home, huh? You got everything?"
Buck waves the sheets at him, and Eddie takes them before he can crumple them even more. That seems to be all he has on him, so Eddie wraps an arm around his ribs, gives the receptionist a smile, and steers Buck out into the sunny parking lot. He's moving more or less under his own power, loose-limbed and clumsy like he's drunk, but Eddie still helps him fold into the passenger side of his truck, glad that he had the forethought to put the seat back. Buck flops back against the seat as he closes the door, and by the time Eddie gets into the driver's seat he's rooting in his mouth with two fingers, tugging out the soggy, blood-spotted wads of gauze.
"Ought to leave those in," Eddie says, but he holds out the little garbage bag he keeps looped around the back of the seat for Buck to drop them in.
"Mouth's dry," Buck mumbles, slightly more coherent but still slurred. "S'not bleeding anymore anyway."
"It's your mouth, I guess," Eddie says, amused, and hands him a bottle of water. Buck takes it and drinks, then peers at the twist-on cap like it's one of the great mysteries of the universe. Eddie takes it back and twists the cap back on, leaving it in the center console. "Seatbelt."
"Bossy," Buck mumbles, but he obeys.
"Just think we don't need to put your head through the windshield after you spent all that money on surgery," Eddie says, and Buck grunts, putting his head back against the head rest. He blinks a couple of times, but by the time Eddie pulls out onto the main road and glances over at him, he seems fast asleep—eyes closed, face slack, faintly chapped lips parted.
The plan was to drive Buck back to his place and let him sleep it off there, but somehow Eddie can't make himself do it. He passes the exit and makes the turn that'll take them back toward South Bedford.
Buck doesn't stir as he pulls into the driveway, or when he cuts the engine. Eddie pockets the key and reaches over to jostle his shoulder gently.
"Mmph?" Buck mumbles, blinking like he's trying to open his eyes and only managing to get them halfway there.
"Come on. We're here."
"Okay," Buck mumbles again, but he still hasn't managed to unbuckle his seatbelt by the time Eddie comes around to his side of the truck, so Eddie reaches across and does it for him. Buck tilts forward to thunk his forehead lightly against Eddie's shoulder, and Eddie has a brief, ridiculous urge to pull him into a tight hug, right here in the driveway, half hunched in the front of the truck. Instead he straightens up, tugging at Buck until he gets to his feet, and kicks the car door shut behind him. Buck tucks his face into Eddie's shoulder, humming contentedly and being of basically no use at all as Eddie tries to maneuver them into the house, and god help him, Eddie has missed this.
Not this, not exactly. The last time he had to help Buck after surgery, Buck's leg was in a massive cast and he was as anxious and snappish as a wild animal in a trap, and Eddie was in no place to be patient with him. They both gave each other a lot of grace in those first months after the accident, after Shannon died. This isn't anything like that. This is more like the occasional times they both got a little too sloshed at the Hook and Ladder and had to take an Uber home, giggling and shushing each other all the way into the house before Buck collapsed like a sack of potatoes on Eddie's couch and usually passed out snoring before Eddie could even dig the blankets out of the hall closet.
Been a while since they did that, either. Life keeps coming up.
This time, he maneuvers them past the couch, down the short hallway toward his bedroom. Buck allows himself to be steered, blinking around like he's trying to place the room. Then he says, "'S this Eddie's room?"
"Uh huh," Eddie says. He steers Buck toward the bed and folds him gently down onto it, then kneels to pull his shoes like he used to when Chris was little. Buck sways slightly in place, blinking heavily.
"D'you know Eddie?" he asks. His eyes are huge and earnest. It's not often these days that Eddie gets to see him this unguarded. Just needed to get him stoned out of his mind on painkillers, apparently. He's probably got a prescription in that stack of papers Eddie took. Maybe Eddie can run out and fill it for him while he sleeps. "He's my best—my best friend."
Eddie's heart does something traitorously squishy that he hopes doesn't show on his face. "Feeling's mutual, bud. Come on, lie down, sleep it off for a little bit, okay?"
"Kay," Buck mumbles, flopping backwards onto the bed. "Eddie, Eddie, hey."
"Yeah?"
"Nothin'," Buck yawns. "Just pretty."
"Pretty what?" Eddie asks, amused.
"You're pretty," Buck clarifies, around another huge yawn. He doesn't seem to notice at all when Eddie's hand stutters on the blanket. "The prettiest. My best friend. 'S so stupid."
"It's stupid that I'm pretty?" Eddie asks, and he's trying to laugh, he is, but his voice comes out all weird.
Buck, of course, doesn't notice. "Mm. No, me, I'm stupid. Fallin' for my best friend. 'S a cliche, right? Wanna kiss you all the time, but you're straight, so I can't. Stupid."
Eddie opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
"Don' tell Eddie I said that," Buck mumbles, his eyes already closed. "Don' wanna—don't wanna make it weird."
"I won't," Eddie manages, strangled, but it must be good enough, because Buck's face smooths out into a beatific smile, and a moment later he's snoring.
Eddie has cleaned the entire house from top to bottom by the time Buck finally stumbles out of the bedroom, and he's considering pulling the stove and the fridge out from the wall to scrub behind them, too—anything to keep his hands busy, to keep from remembering Buck's sleep-hazy voice mumbling, wanna kiss you all the time.
It doesn't mean anything. It can't! Buck was stoned out of his gourd on painkillers, probably didn't even know what he was saying, definitely didn't mean it. If Eddie is a good friend, which he's trying to be, he'll put it out of his head and forget it ever happened. It's just that that turns out to be easier said than done.
He hears the creak of the bedframe, shuffling footsteps down the hall, and freezes over the sink, feeling like he's been caught in the act of something heinous. Heart pounding, he rinses off the suds and switches the water off and turns, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.
"Hey," he says. It sounds normal. Normal-ish.
Buck blinks at him from the doorway, his curls a mess, a crease from Eddie's pillow imprinted on his cheek. His jaw is slightly swollen and his mouth is red, his eyes still foggy but clearing as he peers at Eddie. "Thought you were taking me back to mine?"
"Figured you could sleep it off here with some medical supervision."
Buck laughs under his breath, then winces. "Uh, thanks, I think."
"Sure," Eddie says. He clears his throat. "How are you feeling?"
"Kinda sore." Buck yawns and winces again. "Mouth tastes gross. Can I have some water?"
"Uh, sure," Eddie says again, then jolts when he realizes he's blocking the cupboard. He pulls out a glass, feeling weirdly self-conscious of every jerky little twitch of his body, and yanks open the fridge for the Brita. When he hands the glass to Buck their fingers brush and he does not jolt back, because that would be weird and ridiculous.
"Thanks," Buck mumbles, shuffling across the kitchen to collapse heavily into a chair. He sips his water carefully, and Eddie busies himself with putting the pitcher away and rearranging the condiments in the fridge door until he can no longer justify holding it open. He closes it, then lifts his hands, then lets them drop. Buck is sitting at the table, eyes closed, sipping his water, but when the fridge door thumps shut he glances up at Eddie and smiles briefly.
Wanna kiss you all the time, his voice repeats, in Eddie's memory.
Out loud, Buck says, "Thanks for this, man, seriously. If I didn't say it already."
"You don't." Eddie clears his throat. "You don't remember?"
"Nah." Buck yawns again. "Anesthesia always knocks me for a loop. I didn't say anything too embarrassing, did I? Please tell me you didn't take video."
That would have been a great idea, Eddie thinks, insanely. Just to prove to himself that it did happen, even if it doesn't mean anything. But that would have been childish, invasive, and rude, and so of course he didn't. "Course not."
Buck huffs laughter, sips from his glass again. Eddie watches as he rolls his shoulders, tilting his jaw back. He's scruffy, probably sore given the swelling. There's no good reason for Eddie's fingers to itch, like he wants to touch, to soothe the pain away. Buck will be fine by tomorrow, and that's not—it's not what they are to each other. Obviously.
Eddie is straight. Buck knows that. No call to go muddying the waters, not that it would be muddying the waters, because he just wants his best friend to not be in pain. Which is normal.
"Give me a few minutes to wake up and I'll get out of your hair," Buck is saying. He takes another drink of water, eyes closed again, every inch of him loose and half-asleep. He should still be asleep, probably.
"You don't have to," Eddie says, and Buck snorts.
"Not exactly good company right now."
"So?"
Buck scoffs under his breath and looks up at Eddie again with that slow, sleepy smile. No sign of the sharpness that's often there these days, the knife Eddie can feel under his own smiles. Right now, Buck just looks… soft. "I just wanna have like a twelve-hour nap in my own bed."
"You should probably eat something."
"Maddie's bringing me some gazpacho from that place near Dispatch when she gets off shift." Buck yawns and digs his phone out of his pocket to peer at it. "In, uh… about an hour and a half."
"I could…." he stops. What is he doing? It's been ages since they used to hang out indefinitely in each other's spaces, Buck crashing on his couch for no particular reason, Eddie wandering into the loft to eat his food and borrow his clothes, impromptu dinners at one of their places or at whatever restaurant Chris could be convinced to try. They don't do that anymore. They've grown up. Settled into a more normal routine with each other, the kind where they knock.
Just because Buck said—
But it doesn't matter. It doesn't mean anything. Clearly.
Meanwhile, Buck is blinking heavily as he swipes through his phone. Eddie catches a glimpse of a couple of apps—Instagram, Grubhub, Grindr—before he pulls up Uber and orders a car. He blinks at it again, and yawns, "Should be like five minutes. D'you know where my shoes ended up?"
"I—in the bedroom," Eddie says, his mouth dry. "I'll go get them."
He goes to retrieve Buck's shoes, and he doesn't pause in the dim bedroom, staring at the rumpled bed, the faint indent of Buck's head on his pillow. He brings the shoes to Buck and hands them to him, because he's awake now, and coherent, and he doesn't need Eddie to dress him like a toddler.
"Thanks," Buck yawns as he leans down to fumble with the laces. "Seriously, man, thanks for all this."
"Anytime," Eddie says, and looks away.
Buck misses their next shift, but he's back at work on Thursday, upbeat and full of energy, the swelling nearly gone. He hasn't texted Eddie, but that's not unusual anymore. It's not like Eddie couldn't text him—thought about it, when he was flopped out in the bunk room, obscurely missing the sound of Buck's snoring—but he didn't. It was a pretty busy shift, anyway. The boring kind, lots of calls but nothing worth talking about. It's not like Buck doesn't know what those are like, and he was probably sleeping anyway, courtesy of the Vicodin prescription that Eddie did not in fact get around to filling for him. Someone must have. Maddie, probably.
He's back at work on Thursday, in any case. Eddie's in the kitchen when he bounds up the stairs, whistling, and that's enough of a warning that he manages to get his face back under control before he turns around, the picture of casual ease with a coffee cup clutched in one white-knuckled fist. Buck is leaning down to let Hen prod gently at his cheeks, looking fondly exasperated.
"I wouldn't have come back to work if I wasn't doing better," he says.
"Mm, yeah, of course, silly me, I must have mistaken you for someone else."
Buck grins at that. Hen ruffles his hair and releases him, and then he catches sight of Eddie, stalled out next to the coffee maker.
"Hi," Eddie says stiffly. He clears his throat, and manages, in a somewhat more normal tone, "Feeling better, I take it?"
"Spent the last day and a half sleeping, so yeah," Buck says. "Is there any coffee left?"
"Sure," Eddie says, gesturing stupidly at the half-full pot. He clears his throat again, steps to the side, leans his hip against the counter edge as Buck comes into the kitchen. The cup in his hand bleeds heat into his fingers; he sips it just for something to do as Buck leans past him to pull open the cabinet. He's not even that close, but Eddie can still smell him—that woodsy body wash he likes, faint lingering notes of pine. Buck acquires a cup, pours himself coffee.
"Any oat milk creamer left?" he asks.
"Ravi used it up, sorry," Eddie says. Buck makes a face at him, scrunched up and playfully annoyed. He didn't shave this morning, probably because his cheeks are still a little sore, and blondish stubble softens the edge of his jaw.
"Jerk," he says cheerfully. "Hey, you okay? You seem a little…"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Eddie says quickly.
Buck is still looking at him, head cocked like a puzzled dog. It's always kind of a funny expression, but it also usually precludes him seeing right through Eddie like he's made of glass and bringing up shit that Eddie would rather not talk about, actually. Though if Buck really doesn't remember—and he must not, as normal as he's being—Eddie can't imagine him intuiting this.
Does Buck want to kiss him right now? That's what he said, isn't it? I wanna kiss you all the time.
He wasn't being literal. Obviously. That's obviously not the kind of thing people mean literally. Buck isn't thinking about kissing him right now in the middle of their workplace. What he's thinking is that Eddie is being suspicious, which means that Eddie needs to get himself together.
"...Okay," Buck says, after another moment, with a faintly frowning little nod, the kind that means they're not done with this but he's willing to let it drop for now.
The bell goes off then, and coffee or no coffee Eddie has never been so glad to hear it in his life.
They've gotten into a good rhythm in the field these days. Eddie's learned to anticipate Hen's moves, learned to stay out of her way when he needs to, and how to step in when he is needed. It's not quite as seamless as it was with Buck, but, well—that took time. And Buck and Ravi have a good thing going, and honestly, it's probably a good thing that they're not partners right now, because Eddie still hasn't figured out how to compose his face normally when he looks at Buck.
It feels unfair, really. Buck's the one nursing a—a crush. How long has that been going on, anyway? It can't have been while he was still with Tommy. Even if that relationship had an expiration date that was clear as anything to anyone other than Buck, eternal optimist that he is—that's just because Tommy was an ass. Eddie might not have realized it during that first early bloom of friendship, but he was. Obviously. He broke up with Buck, after all.
"Lift on three," Hen says, and Eddie snaps back to the present.
"Yep," he says, and lifts on her count. The man on the stretcher groans, and Eddie adds, "Don't worry, sir, we'll get you to the hospital, you'll be in good hands."
"Just maybe don't try any more solo construction projects," Hen adds, and the man—Jerry, fifty-six, drill bit embedded in the meat of his calf and currently carefully packed in place for transport—chuckles, then winces.
"Guess that was pretty stupid of me, huh," he says. "You'd think I'd know better."
"Happens more often than you might think," Eddie says reassuringly.
"It was supposed to be a surprise for my wife. She's been on me to get those bookshelves installed for months now, and I thought I'd finally get it done." He turns his head to peer around the demolished living room and sighs mournfully. "She's gonna be so mad at me."
"Hey," Buck says, coming up alongside them. Behind him, Harry shifts the mangled bookshelf over onto its side, then dodges back, wincing, before it can fall on his foot. "I'm sure she won't be."
"I hope you're right."
"She loves you, she'll just be glad you're okay." Buck pats his shoulder, then glances up at Eddie. "Right?"
"Right," Eddie says, a beat too late.
Buck gives him that look again, that little cocked-head frown, but fortunately for Eddie they have a patient to transport, so he clears his throat and nods at Hen and they move in tandem toward the ambulance.
Eddie is straight. It's not something he tells himself, it just is, a casual fact of the universe, something he hasn't thought about any more than the color of his eyes or the shape of his own hands. He's never had to think about it. He's never thought about it. There was maybe a moment, in Buck's old loft, years ago now, when he stuttered out a quiet explanation about Tommy, it was a date. A readjustment in Eddie's understanding of his corner of the world. But that was about Buck, not him.
He lies awake that night between calls, hands folded over his stomach, staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him. A few bunks away, Buck is snoring peacefully. If Eddie slipped out of bed and went over to him, he knows he'd find Buck sleeping in a loose sprawl, limbs everywhere. Somehow he always seems to manage to wake up without a crick in his neck; Eddie has no idea how.
He could press his fingers to Buck's throat and feel his pulse. Feel the heat of his skin. Watch his chest rise and fall, his fingers twitch, his eyes move beneath his eyelids as he dreams. It's a thought that settles strangely, a scrim on the surface that won't sink in.
He closes his eyes, and doesn't sleep.
In the end, Buck gives him to the end of their twenty-four before cornering him in the parking lot. Eddie sees it coming—Buck hovering by his truck, shoulders squared like he's stepping into a burning building—and he considers trying to flee, but that'll just lead to this conversation happening on his front step after Buck follows him home. If there's one thing that can be said about Buck as a person, it's that he's got follow through. If he's decided they're talking about something, it's happening whether Eddie likes it or not.
In a way, it's almost a relief.
He still puts on an irritated face, still sighs as he takes his time about unlocking the truck and slinging his bags in the back. He shuts the door, leans back against the hot metal, face turned toward Buck, who is watching him like a puzzle.
"Hey," he says casually, or as casually as he can, but that weird tension is still there in his tone, and he knows Buck can hear it too. "What's up?"
"Are you okay?" Buck asks, cutting bluntly to the chase.
Eddie shrugs. Still casual. "Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You've been weird this whole shift."
Eddie bristles. "No, I haven't."
"Yeah," Buck says patiently, "you have. Are you—are we good?"
"Of course."
Buck squints at him. The sunlight is in his hair, his unruly curls still damp from the shower, stubble shading his jaw. It would be rough to the touch, if Eddie touched his face, which is something he's never actually done. At least not sober. "It just seems like—I don't know. Feels like I did something recently to piss you off."
"Not everything is about you, Buck."
"A-alright, is something going on with Chris? Or—"
"Nothing's going on," Eddie says, too fast.
"Right," Buck says. "You're just, uh, avoiding me for normal reasons."
"I'm not avoiding you."
"Right."
"Fine," Eddie sighs, slumping back against his truck. Buck cocks his head, looking infuriatingly satisfied, and nods for him to continue. "You remember the other day when I picked you up after your surgery?"
"Uh, what? I mean, yeah, but—"
"You were pretty out of it, and, uh, you said some stuff…"
"Okay, I'm sorry," Buck says. It sounds sincere, which is worse. "I—whatever I said, I didn't mean it—"
"It was the drugs, I know, I know," Eddie says. "It's just been messing with me a little bit."
Buck winces. "That bad, huh?"
"No, it wasn't bad, just…" he trails off again. It wasn't bad, and the guilty look on Buck's face makes a matching twinge of guilt echo in his chest. Maybe it'd be better to just say it. Clear the air. That usually fixes things with Buck, when he can force himself to do it. He'll tell Buck, and Buck can laugh it off, and then he can stop thinking about it. There's another brief twinge in his chest at the thought. Maybe he's getting indigestion. "You said I was pretty."
"What?" Buck asks blankly.
Eddie chuckles, rubbing at his jaw, nerves humming. Caffeine. Or heartburn. Or maybe the look on Buck's face, wary now, looking a little like he's regretting he asked. "You said I was pretty and you wanted to kiss me all the time. Like I said, I know it's not…"
Buck's face has gone pale. "I said that?"
"Yep."
"And that's why you've been…"
"Yeah."
"Shit," Buck breathes. He looks—apologetic isn't the right word for it. He looks devastated. "Eddie, I—"
"I know you didn't mean it," Eddie hastens to add. This is, actually, not better. Eddie should have kept his mouth shut. He should have made Buck follow him home; that might have given him time to think up a better story, one that wouldn't have Buck standing in the station parking lot looking like Eddie just sucker-punched him.
Buck makes a raspy little noise in the back of his throat, then shakes his head jerkily.
"So it doesn't have to be a big thing," Eddie adds. That awful feeling in his chest is back. "Sorry I've been..." He trails off. He doesn't actually know how to end that sentence. Weird. Cagey. Concerning enough for you to corner me, like you always do, and make me talk about it.
"It's—Jesus, Eddie." Buck closes his eyes. Eddie watches him take a couple of deep breaths, like he's preparing to dive into deep water. After a moment, he says, under his breath, "Shit."
"Buck. It's not—"
"I did mean it," Buck blurts, like it's been punched out of him. And because he's Buck, he opens his eyes, lifts his chin, looks Eddie in the face. "But I didn't—I wasn't going to—I know you don't feel the same. I know you're straight. I never would have—"
"Oh," Eddie says blankly. His heart is beating fast. He might be having a panic attack, actually. That would be inconvenient. "Right, yeah. I am. Straight."
"I know," Buck says. "I know, I know you are, I told Tommy—"
"Wait, what about Tommy?"
"—a-and Maddie, when she—it doesn't matter. But I'm not going to make it weird, I promise."
"No, I know that," Eddie says. It's still coming out in that weird, blank tone; he wishes it wouldn't. He wishes he could say something reassuring. Kind. Something that Buck needs to hear right now. But he's drawing a complete blank; his head feels full of static.
"Right," Buck says, and Eddie can't tell if he's relieved or not. "So we can just forget about it."
"Sure," Eddie says. "I mean, if that's what you want."
Buck jerks his head down in a nod that looks like a flinch.
"Okay. Okay, yeah."
"Sorry," Buck says. "I should have—I should have left it alone."
"No, it's fine. Clear the air, right?"
"Right." Buck hooks a thumb over his shoulder at his truck, parked three spots down. "I actually, um, I have—you know, some errands to run, I'm gonna—"
He's lying, Eddie's sure of it. An uncharacteristic lie, for Buck; Eddie is usually the one who flees. Buck is the one who chases. That's their thing, that's what they do. Eddie's no good at the other way around.
"Right," he says. "Right, yeah. I'll, I'll see you later?" The inflection makes it a question, in a way he doesn't mean. Of course he will. If nothing else, he'll see Buck at work on their next shift. It's not like he's moving to Texas. It's not like Buck is going to transfer to another station.
"Sure, definitely, yeah," Buck says, hunching his broad shoulders, shoving his hands in his pockets. "See you."
"See you," Eddie says, and he watches Buck spin around on his heel and move toward his truck, and he doesn't follow. After a moment, as if in a daze, he pulls open the door, climbs into his truck, starts the engine. Sits there for a long moment in the stuffy silence as Buck reverses out of his parking spot, pulls out onto the street, and vanishes into the morning traffic.
Eddie rolls down the window, puts the radio on. Some forgettable country song is playing; he changes it to a pop station that Buck likes, then winces and turns it off again.
Eventually, he puts his truck in reverse, pulls out of the lot, and drives home alone.
Chris is at school, and normally Eddie would take the opportunity to have a nap and maybe, if he was feeling ambitious, catch up on laundry. Instead, he finds himself starting and abandoning task after task—the washing machine loaded but not running, the dishes half-done, the living room half-vacuumed. There's a frenetic energy that he can't explain running beneath his skin.
Well. He can explain it, actually. Like it's magnetically attached, his mind keeps dragging him back to that moment in the parking lot. Buck's tense shoulders and wide blue eyes and the way he braced himself when he said, I did mean it.
I want to kiss you all the time. I did mean it. Like a song he can't get out of his head. He finds himself standing in his kitchen with a dishtowel clutched loosely in one hand, replaying it over and over again. Buck in the parking lot, scared but resolute. Buck in his bed, soft and loopy and mumbling blurred truths.
It would have been so easy then to touch him. Settle on the bed, kiss his temple, pet his hair back out of his face and linger there until he dozed off. It's not how they are with each other, not ever. Not even when one of them is in a hospital bed. But Eddie could have. Buck would have let him. Buck wants him.
And Eddie—
Desire has always been a troublesome thing for him. His own desires, at least. He's always tried to portion them out carefully, trimming them into the shapes of the boxes he has to put them in, storing them neatly away.
What he feels for Buck isn't easily stuffed into a box, so he's mostly been—not ignoring it. Maybe ignoring it a little bit. Draping a sheet over it and leaving it there so long that he forgot it wasn't part of the furniture, and maybe this is a metaphor that's gotten away from him, just a little, and maybe he's actually an idiot.
He laughs, once, out loud, in his empty kitchen: a cracked, half crazed sound.
Then he sets the dishtowel down, scoops up his keys, and heads for the door.
He's not sure if Buck will actually be home; it's possible that those errands he invented actually ended up being real. It doesn't matter. Eddie is prepared to park himself on Buck's front step until he has to go pick Chris up, if that's what it takes. Buck has done the same often enough for him.
Buck's truck is in the driveway, though, as it turns out, so Eddie pulls in behind him and braces his hands on the steering wheel, breathing through a fit of nerves that might actually be a mild panic attack. But then he sees the front curtain twitch, which means that Buck knows he's here, which means that he needs to get out of his truck, walk up the steps, and knock on the door.
Buck opens it immediately. He looks tired and frazzled in sweatpants and a ratty blue t-shirt that clings to his shoulders and chest, his eyes wide, his pink lips parted.
"Uh, Eddie?" he asks, with the wary look of a man expecting to be tossed a live grenade. "What—what's up?"
Eddie had a plan. He did. He practiced it on the way over—all the calm, reasonable words he needs to lay it out for Buck. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "I think you should kiss me."
"I. What?"
In for a penny, in for a pound. Eddie steps forward, into the front hallway, and Buck moves aside, looking dazed, to let him. The door falls shut behind him, and they're alone in Buck's house, which smells pleasantly of something sweet and cinnamony. "Are you stress baking again?"
"I—I found this recipe for cinnamon oatmeal cookies, I was gonna—" Buck breaks off, shaking his head. "Eddie."
"So," Eddie says, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit, wishing he had something to fidget with. "I've always been… I never thought about it. But you, when you said—Tommy, he just kissed you, and then you knew."
"Okay, but that's not—"
"And I think I just—I need to know."
"So you want me to kiss you," Buck says carefully, "to see if—what, if you like men?"
"I want you to kiss me," Eddie says, because that much is true. "And you want to kiss me, so—"
Buck looks pained. "That's not fair."
He's probably right about that.
"Buck," Eddie says softly. Also unfair, probably. Buck deserves more words, more of an explanation, than Eddie can put together right now. "Please."
Buck closes his eyes, breathes out hard. He doesn't look happy, but he's going to say yes; Eddie knows that as well as he knows his own name. And after that—after that, he doesn't know. His heart is tripping fast in what could be either terror or anticipation. This could be a live grenade tossed into the already unsteady ground of their recent friendship. This could break everything.
He still doesn't take it back.
"Okay," Buck says finally, opening his eyes to look at Eddie. "Just—just one."
"Sure," Eddie agrees, not meaning it. He can tell that Buck knows that, because Buck knows him, too.
"This is such a bad fucking idea," Buck mutters under his breath, but then he steps closer, reaching out to cup Eddie's chin with a careful hand, and Eddie's ability to process language abruptly goes on the fritz.
Buck's warm breath dusts his lips for a moment before the distance closes completely, and then they're kissing. Buck is kissing him, careful and slow. His fingers are five points of heat on Eddie's skin, and his lips are soft, and he tastes faintly of cinnamon and sugar, and he's kissing Eddie.
It's brief, just a handful of seconds. Eddie barely has time to sink into the sensation before it's over. The kiss breaks; Buck's fingers leave his jaw. Eddie opens his eyes as Buck takes a step back, a quiet echo of his earlier devastation on his face for a moment before he clears his throat and smiles with a visible effort.
"So, uh, so what's the verdict?" he asks.
Eddie breathes out shakily, feeling an incredulous smile catching at the corners of his mouth. He feels—electrified, like an echo of lightning just passed from Buck to him. His lips are warm and tingling.
"You should do that again," he says.
"Eddie."
"Buck," he retorts.
Buck breathes out a weird little laugh, already shaking his head, but when Eddie steps closer he doesn't retreat. Eddie catches his shoulder, solid and familiar beneath his palm. Buck's eyes are on him, his lips softly parted, wary but not retreating. Eddie slides his palm up to cup the back of Buck's head, and Buck lets him do it; lets Eddie pull him down.
He trembles faintly when Eddie kisses him, makes a swallowed sound that Eddie feels down to his toes. But he's right there with him, just like always: when Eddie parts his lips, Buck does too, when Eddie pulls him closer, Buck goes. His hand settles on Eddie's hip, fingers just brushing bare skin, and Eddie's the one to let out a noise this time, muffled and shocked, as if it's the first time Buck has ever touched him. It feels like it is.
Buck makes a noise too, wounded, and breaks the kiss again. "Eddie—"
"If you ask me again what the verdict is, Buck, I swear to god."
"No, I, um." Buck tilts his head down until his forehead is pressed to Eddie's, lets out an incredulous little laugh. His hand is still on Eddie's hip, holding tight. Eddie's having some trouble paying attention to anything else. "Just. You actually want this?"
"You think I would be here if I didn't?"
Buck laughs again, easier this time. He turns his head slightly to press a brief kiss to Eddie's cheek, one that absolutely shouldn't make him shiver but does. "I mean. We, uh, we both know that historically I'm not the only reckless idiot in this room."
"Just following your lead."
"Sure," Buck says, fond but unyielding. Eddie sighs.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," he admits.
"Yeah, I kinda figured that from the fact that you told me you were straight, like, two hours ago."
Eddie scoffs, closing his eyes, heat flaring in his cheeks. "But I do want this. Ever since you said—what you said—"
"That I want to kiss you all the time?"
He smacks lightly at the back of Buck's head with the hand still resting there. "Yeah."
"Okay," Buck says. Even without opening his eyes, Eddie can tell that he's smiling.
"Haven't been able to get it out of my head. Couldn't figure out why, but—it's this. I think it's this."
"So you want to… what, date me?" Buck asks, sounding—skeptical, maybe.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"Kind of, yeah. You hate dating."
"I hate feeling like I'm putting on an act. This is different."
"How so?" Buck asks, definitely skeptical now.
Eddie steps back a little bit, enough that he can meet Buck's eyes, which are wide and blue and—yeah, still kind of wary. Eddie should have kissed him a long time ago, probably. It would have cleared a lot of things up. "It's you. It's us."
"So?"
"So," Eddie says, and shrugs. "So you don't buy it when I'm full of shit."
"Usually that ends up being a big fight."
There's a part of him that wants to sidestep to the safety of a fight right now, one he knows would be trivially easy to pick. They both know each other's sore spots too well. He takes a breath and forces out the truth instead. "It scares me. When you know me, and you still—"
You still want me. You still don't leave. He can't quite get either one out. But Buck is still watching him, eyes soft, because he knows Eddie, knows every shameful fuckup and flaw, and he still stays. Still looks at him like this, like Eddie is worth staying for.
"Yeah," Buck says finally. He reaches out, touches Eddie's face, thumb brushing lightly over his lower lip. "Good odds this blows up in our faces."
"You're gonna be the cautious one now?"
It's a goad, and it works, because Eddie knows Buck, too.
"Okay, I didn't say that," Buck says, smiling now, and pulls him back in.