Archive of Our Own

₊˚✧ ━━ ‎𓌉◯𓇋 ━━ ✧ ₊˚

Eddie is wearing his nicer brown dress shirt.

He has two. This is an innocuous piece of intel Buck first learnt during their limited-run roommate stint. 

They’re both, as far as Buck can tell, the exact same shade. So, naturally, said piece of intel was subsequently committed to memory through a series of increasingly red-faced jokes Buck made upon seeing both shirts in one place. 

It’s just—two separate, specifically-walnut brown button-downs is kind of insane. Buck likes to imagine an Eddie who only owns one walnut shirt panicking because it got a sauce stain, and now what the hell shirt is he gonna wear? A chestnut one? Like some kind of chump?

At the time, Eddie, with a knitted brow on his head and a cotton-fiber garment the colour of dirt in each hand, had explained with not-insignificant levels of exasperation that they’re different, Buck. They serve completely different purposes. When Buck had asked for clarification, Eddie had huffed out a, I’m a grown man. I don’t have to explain myself to you. 

Since then, the twin shirts’ purposes have remained between Eddie, GAP, and God.

Tonight, though, the more prestigious brown dress shirt’s purpose is to accompany Eddie and Buck on their venture to a reasonably high-end Italian restaurant downtown. 

Because two days ago, Eddie had asked Buck if he’d be interested in forgoing their usual film-on-a-couch festival, featuring headliners such as Sweatpants and Beer, in favor of dinner out. At a reasonably high-end Italian restaurant. One located downtown, specifically.

Something about this has Buck inordinately antsy. 

If he were to hazard a guess at what caught him off guard, he would probably say the advance planning. They’ve been playing it mostly by ear for nearly a decade, save for special occasions or allowances for Chris’ schedule—but Eddie had to make a reservation for this place, which meant two days’ notice.

So, the one-on-one, table for two, three-course bro hang has him slightly flustered. Because it was… premeditated.

Well—that, combined with a compounding series of subtle micro-transformations Eddie has been undergoing lately. Buck is sure that anyone in Eddie’s orbit could pick up on a change in something, but he doubts anyone other than himself—a keen resident of Eddie’s gravitational, homeward-bound pull—would be able to keep their finger on the pulse of what it is.

Recently, for example: twenty hours into a particularly mundane twenty-four, Hen had appeared at Buck’s shoulder while Eddie was restocking his med bag a few feet away. He was humming something lazy-flowing and sweet as he rifled for gauze packets. She’d smiled softly, as if not to disturb him or intrude, and said, he seems lighter, doesn’t he?

Then a week or so later, on an admittedly less tender occasion, Ravi had made a passing remark: Eddie had just U-turned back into the firehouse kitchen, one chipmunk cheek stuffed with the second half of one of Buck’s protein oatmeal cookies; where he grabbed a second helping with a darting fist, mere moments after his first. Ravi had nodded heartily, approving, and thrown out a hell yeah, brother. Live deliciously.

Both of them were on the mark to an extent. But if Buck, the resident professional, were to describe the changes in Eddie’s demeanor? He would opt for the word indulgence. 

And not just in terms of baked goods—though, boy, is that a prevalent example. Eddie definitely never used to moan when he bit into Buck’s cheesecake. He knows, because he would certainly, God as his witness, remember if Eddie had. 

Eddie’s niche propensity for lacking situational awareness is a blessing and a curse, particularly when it comes to certain sounds he makes and how they might present to others; i.e. Buck, mainly, though occasionally a coworker, but mostly just Buck, and his flaming cheeks. Which, at least, mercifully, are a specific awareness Eddie seems to find lacking.

Point being: it’s less like a flip switched inside of Eddie, and more like a dial turned down. Specifically, the dial that controls the volume of voices actively fighting against Eddie’s softly-spoken right to seize good things he comes across. 

Buck has had it out for that dial for years. He’d rip it off the wall, if it were his to do so. But—boundaries. 

Slowly and surely over the past months, a series of weights seem to have lifted off of Eddie’s shoulders. He’s still the same Eddie, for which Buck is selfishly grateful; he wouldn’t want it any other way. He’s still stubbornly grounded, charismatically grouchy, a bona fide stickler for certain routines and ingrained self-beliefs. 

But… it’s as though he’s made room for more Eddie. 

His cup was too full to consider tipping in any small-to-medium delights, before. Now, he has a bigger cup. One that he probably picked up at the store; added it sheepishly to his cart because he liked the color, or the shape of the curved edges, or because the weight felt correct and good-heavy in his hands. Instead of putting it delicately back on the shelf as an unnecessary purchase like he was taught to do, he let himself have a little something. That something made room for a steady pour of little somethings. So on, so forth.

So, to summarize. Eddie: newly indulgent; particular about his earth-colored formalwear; currently sat across from Buck in a pleasantly decorated venue that smells like intimacy and garlic.

In his fancy brown shirt.

The umber fabric lays itself neatly at the feet of the mossy undertones to Eddie’s skin. Like a biblical painting, or something. 

There are a lot of men kneeling in artistic depictions of the Bible, at least to Buck’s vague recollection. Eddie’s Catholic. These tidbits are unrelated. Buck is holding them apart like Han Solo in the trash compactor.

The walls of the restaurant hum with finely-tuned ambience. An ornate sconce a couple of feet above Eddie’s left shoulder cascades a sharp golden glow perfectly into the divot of his jaw.

Buck looks at Eddie and finds him… mineralistic. Amber and jasper and deep topaz and the well-worn dirt they're excavated from. Warm hues of glistening, precious stone; grubby hands pawing away. It feels tarnishing, almost, to be staring like this. Indiana Jones pops up in Buck’s subconscious. He belongs in a museum. 

Buck stops looking. Harrison Ford needs to take a mental backseat, stat.

He turns his eyes to his wine, instead—his good friend. Content, opalite waters rest easy above a delicate stem of glass. They shudder in rough waves as Buck reaches out to disturb the peaceful tide, takes a large gulp, empties the cup. It’s crisp, though Buck wishes it were colder. He’s some sort of masochist right now; itching for a brain freeze to extinguish his spitting psychological bonfire.

Now, admittedly, Buck is prone to get a little amateur-poetic and maudlin after a glass of wine. He places his drink down, moves his hand to his lower lip instead, just to check, and—yep, he’s pouting. 

He prods his mouth into a more suitable shape for casual, low-lit, fancy-wined dinner with a friend. The beginnings of a smile would be ideal, so he tries that on for size: it rests uneasily on his face, stuttering minutely, like a computer glitch at the seam of his lips.

“I just can’t believe it. The audacity.” Eddie is tapping one blunt nail aggrievedly against the belly of his wine glass. His expression is stern. This could be for a number of reasons, so Buck has to go digging.

“Of…”

“Twenty dollars for some mixed olives,” Eddie clarifies. To his credit, it’s only slightly duh-toned.

“Have you been to a restaurant before?” Buck asks, his own leatherbound toes tap-tap-tapping against herringbone wood. “Like, extra-curricular, not just to put out a kitchen fire?”

“Nope,” Eddie smirks, saccharine. “First time. Super excited. I heard they do dessert, too, but that just sounds too good to be true.”

Buck bites back a greedy grin. He has to serve the bit, first; then maybe his casual, all-consuming giddiness can grab a plate.

“Nah.” Buck shakes his head. “That’s only the Happy Ending restaurants. Or if you’re really, really nice to the waiter.”

“Oh.” Eddie gives a deep nod, faux-sincere. He picks up the menu, flips over to the Desserts section. “So that’s what pot de creme means.”

“Jesus,” Buck coughs out a laugh. “Just—crude as hell. This is a classy joint, Eddie. Keep it in your…” He gestures lamely with his hand. “Mouth-pants.”

“Left them at home. I only wore my slacks,” Eddie shrugs, one corner of his mouth downturned, fingers pinching non-existent lint off of his left thigh. “Which means I’m being nothing but polite.”

“Says the man who ordered us the whipped eggplant.” 

(Kinky, Buck had said in response ten minutes ago, because he’s not above grabbing at low-hanging fruit. Or veg, he supposes.)

“Emojis ruined you,” Eddie sighs. “Or maybe you ruined them.”

“I think we’re both toxic,” Buck replies. “Anyway—you’re the one that picked this place. Did it not occur to you that it might break the bank a little more than, you know, some beers and a Meat Feast on the couch?” He winces. “Heard it. Regret it. Don’t laugh.”

Naturally, Eddie laughs, then takes a swig of his wine. 

“Alright, so, I wanted a change of scenery. Whatever. I’m just saying, man, these better be some life-changing olives.”

“If they don’t make you see God behind the bar, we’ll ask for our meal comped.”

“Attaboy,” Eddie grins lopsidedly, eyes crinkled; wonky, captivating lines of thin skin. 

Eddie is objectively handsome, which of course Buck knows, but his breath still snags its sleeve on the doorhandle on its way out. Crow’s feet just—suit him. Uncomplicated happiness suits him.

They hold eye contact for a moment, or two, perhaps, over the fine line of normalcy. Buck watches the wrinkles slowly slip away as Eddie’s expression softens; his bottom lip twitches like it’s preparing for a change of pace.

“Here you go,” their waiter intones with a tired smile, appearing suddenly with their appetizers. His hand hovers indeterminately with a plate of eggplant dip until Eddie puts him out of his misery by gesturing to the middle of the table with an oh, uh, anywhere’s fine, thanks. “Can I get you guys a refill?”

Buck raises an eyebrow at Eddie. Neither of them drove, and frankly, Buck could use another glass, or seven, if only to quiet the stampede of hypothesizing wildebeest running through his emotional regulation system; so his answer is yes. 

Thankfully, Eddie gives a decisive nod.

“Please,” Eddie answers the waiter. Buck darts his eyes to his smudged-gold nametag. Scott. He’s looking at Eddie with the eyes of a drained service industry employee who’s run off his feet and has just stepped out for a smoke break, only to be met with a dazzling, awe-inspiring sunset. 

Buck gets it. It happens to the best of them.

“Awesome,” Tired Scott exhales. “Two more…”

“Pinot grigios, thanks,” Buck fills in. “Large. Large?” He looks pointedly at Eddie.

“Large,” Eddie concurs. When in staged quasi-Rome, after all.

Scott smiles, collecting their empty glasses. “Large it is,” he chimes, a soft dimple appearing beside his upturned mouth.

He’s charming. Probably teetering on being too young for Buck, if he were actively in the mindset of considering futures with the other side of everyday encounters, which, notably, he isn’t. Not tonight, at least, while his head is whirlpooling like a funnel slide against his will.

Dinner is a thing friends do. It’s a thing he and Eddie have done before. Buck knows this, he knows this, he’s been actively reminding himself of this over and over for the past 48 hours, so help him God, it’s just…

Tonight feels different. New. An upheaval of their neatly established norm; one just disruptive enough to bring to mind various queries he’s received toward the nature of his and Eddie’s friendship. 

The exact ones that Buck has been putting a Sisyphean effort toward ignoring.

It’s a change in routine that should be entirely unremarkable. Buck wishes it were. Except—it’s taking place under cultivated mood lighting, and dressed in neatly ironed pants, and he’s pretty sure a couple in a distant corner just got engaged. It’s a dangerous combination; one that may leave a susceptible, hopelessly romantic mind to wander off, threadbare leash finally worn through.

Unless, of course, Buck keeps it locked down and firmly guarded. All is to say: he’s playing platonic defense, tonight.

Eddie tears a chunk of ciabatta with his fingers and dives toward the whipped eggplant. Once he’s taken a bite, he nudges the bowl of mixed olives over the center line of their table, tactically easing them into Buck’s territory.

Buck is a man of strategy. He nudges the bowl back.

Eddie is a man of endless oblivious resolve. He nudges the bowl toward Buck again.

“Why are you giving me the olives?” Buck asks, bravely, instead of committing to a public game of pitted tug of war. 

Mid-chomp of bread, Eddie freezes quizzically. He’s still holding a half-bitten piece of ciabatta between one hand and a handful of bared teeth.

“I’m not giving you anything,” he grumbles, mouth full, drops the remainder of the torn slice onto his plate. He chews, swallows, then adds, “I just know you like olives.”

“So do you,” Buck counters.

“Eh,” Eddie shrugs, eyes tracing the tablecloth. He wipes a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth with a nonchalant thumb. “Not really.”

Which—categorically doesn’t make sense. Buck has shared enough pizza nights with Eddie and Chris by this point. A large Supreme is almost always involved, because Diaz genes come with a predisposition for maximum toppings; except Chris doesn’t like the olives, but Eddie does, so Eddie eats Chris’ olives. This is how Buck’s world works. This is how the world works, period. 

Buck squints, but bites his tongue. Then he grabs a piece of bread and wades it through eggplant, so he has something external to chew on to bide his time as his mind churns through a vat of uninvited thoughts.

Eddie is a man with certain pop culture blind spots. He was still a teenager in the early 2000s, though, so he’s not completely lacking. He holds a societally largely-acceptable amount of awareness and references. 

Incidentally, Buck also knows for a fact that Eddie has seen at least the first two seasons of How I Met Your Mother. 

Which is a tidbit blaring across a P.A system in Buck’s consciousness right now; sitting across from Eddie in his dressy brown shirt, listening to him casually downplay the affection that Buck knows, from years of pizza surgery observation, he harbors for olives.

Whether Buck gave it permission to do so or not, his brain is frantically connecting dots. The resulting lines are forming a crudely scribbled warning sign. Best Guy Friends, Turn Back Now.

He nudges the bowl of olives again. “Have some.”

Eddie chews incredulously. “I mean, I will, just—you really like olives.”

“Not really,” Buck argues. It’s a lie. Buck loves olives, but there are still things he loves more. Namely, winning a trivial argument, or, say, maintaining the status quo of the most important relationship in his adult life. He pokes the bowl further toward Eddie with a petulant index finger. “Take them.”

“Stop—Buck, what,” says Eddie, exasperated. “Do you not want the olives?”

“Not that badly, no,” Buck lies again. They look delicious.

Eddie’s hands go flying into the air adjacent to his shoulders. His eyes go bugging out comically straight ahead of him. “So why the hell did we order the world’s most expensive bowl of olives?”

“Because you like them.”

“No—you like them!”

“I’m olive neutral,” Buck clarifies, calmly.

Two splayed hands hit the deck of Eddie’s thighs with a dull smack. “Twenty dollars for neutral,” he despairs, eyes on the ceiling and quite possibly beyond; a plea to whatever higher power may be looming.

Because Buck is a good friend who doesn’t want to upset Eddie’s randomly precious, selectively frugal disposition, and because it’s undeniably apt to the situation at hand, he extends an olive branch.

“I don’t not want the olives,” Buck explains, appeasing. “I just want it to be an… equal split. A mutual agreement, that the—the olives are for both of us, in the same way, and no one is being treated any… differently. Olive-wise.”

“Olive-wise,” Eddie squints.

“Yep,” Buck squeaks, determined to ride out Eddie’s scrutinizing glare for however long he can muster. 

Thankfully, like the merciful friend that he is, Eddie comes to his rescue before the straits grow too dire. He breaks eye contact, splitting the moment neatly down the middle.

“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.”

A beat of headstrong silence passes.

“That was at least a dollar,” says Buck, gesturing at the fallen army-green soldier currently rolling its way uncaringly toward the next table for two.

Eddie nods, then stands, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Buck knows he hasn’t pushed enough buttons to get him to walk out on dinner, so that flashing sweat of anxiety barely even gets off the ground. He’s puzzled though, certainly, and there’s a split second where he wonders if Eddie is about to execute a whole bit where he storms out for all of thirty seconds, just to cause a scene, or prove a point, then come back and finish his half-eaten chunk of bread like nothing out of the ordinary ever occurred. 

It wouldn’t be particularly in character for Eddie, but Buck is critically low on hypotheticals, here.

Instead, even more unpredictably, Eddie rifles until he pulls out a dollar bill—which he proceeds to tuck into the tastefully-open V of Buck’s button-down. 

Like a stripper.

Crinkled, paper-like cotton now rests cozily against Buck’s chest hair. Cozier, still, when Eddie gives the bill two affectionate little pats. There there. You sit tight, now.

“That should cover it,” says Eddie, his smile condescending and just a touch dizzying. “Gotta hit the restroom. Don’t steal any of my olives while I’m gone. I counted.” He pivots around Buck’s seat by clasping one firm hand on his shoulder, fingertips curling in ever so slightly.

Buck swears he still feels the miniscule indents even once the grip retreats. It’s as though the flesh there refuses to spring back to the surface.

“I don’t want your olives,” Buck calls out in response, several seconds too late. It probably doesn’t hit Eddie’s ears. It definitely hits the ears of several strangers trying to enjoy their tagliatelle, though.

Buck attempts to play it off with a weak cough, staring blankly at the meager olive pile in front of him. When it offers him no respite, he prods pathetically at one resting precariously on the shoulders of three of its brothers. It takes a fast tumble onto fancy ceramic, where Buck stares blankly at it some more.

“Here you go,” a voice announces. Buck’s shoulders hunch up like a spooked cat. 

“Sorry. Light on my feet,” Scott adds, apologetic. He’s holding two chilled glasses of white wine as though he’s about to start shaking them like pom-poms.

Shoving away any lingering, uninvited adrenaline, Buck replies, “That’s, uh—no problem. Thanks.” 

In the effort of being completely unsubtle, Buck nods pointedly at the soon-to-be-his drink. Scott, highly professional, places it down expeditiously. 

“So, uh…” Scott starts, reaching over to place soon-to-be-Eddie’s glass to the right of his plate. “If you don’t mind me asking—feel free to tell me to mind my damn business, but—how long have you two…” 

Buck’s veins run ice cold of their own accord. He watches, frozen, as Scott fidgets, tapping the knuckles of one hand with the other, until remembering he has to speak, probably, at some point.

“Oh, uh. We’re—we’re not…” Buck trails off. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the presence of mind—or perhaps the strength in his convictions—to commit to concrete statements.

“Oh,” Scott flushes. “Shit. Man, I’m, I mean—I’m sorry, I just… well, with the…”

He gestures at Buck’s torso, so Buck ducks his chin in confusion, in case he blacked out and got a cursive Eddie tattoo above his pec, or something, which—

As it turns out, the reality feels even more damning, somehow. Buck sheepishly peels the incriminating dollar away from his chest, cheeks heating hard and fast. 

“I, uh… I won’t tip you with this one, don’t worry,” he jokes weakly. He takes a long sip of wine in an attempt to pad his Sahara-dry mouth.

“Oh, I’m really not fussy,” Scott replies with a breathless laugh. “I really am sorry for assuming, though. You’d think I’d have learnt by now—you know this is my fourth restaurant gig? But, well, I’m nosy to a fault.” He taps the side of his nose to punctuate the statement. It’s cute.

“No need to apologize. It’s fine, really, we get it a—” Buck shakes his head, sighs out something akin to defeated mirth. “Yeah. It’s fine, man, don’t sweat it.”

Scott tilts his head consideringly, like he’s running through a series of simple customer service based equations behind his eyelids. “Tell you what,” he says, once his neck has straightened on its axis. “I won’t apologize, if you don’t mention it when these pinots don’t show up on the bill. Deal?”

Buck wonders, then, if Scott’s mind operates on professional autopilot the same way his does. As a firefighter, Buck has naturally developed a list of efficient mental shortcuts: person A is stuck, keep them calm; person B is injured, keep them talking; cat C is stuck up a tree, keep the protective gloves on, seriously, those claws can dig.

It can’t be that different for a seasoned waiter, surely. Person Buck at Table Two won’t stop staring dopily at his best friend. Offer him alcohol as a token of sympathy.

“Deal,” Buck agrees, offering up a genuine smile. Free pity wine is still free wine, after all. “Thanks, Scott.”

When Scott’s cheeks flush the tiniest bit rosy when Buck calls him by name, Buck pretends not to notice. He simply accepts the little ego boost with silent grace.

Eddie comes back just as Scott walks away from the table. It’s like a seamless revolving door of third party barriers between Buck and his thoughts. Funny how life works out at times.

As Eddie slides into his seat, Buck catches his eyes actually darting across each olive on his plate, taking attendance.

“Jesus Christ,” Buck exhales a laugh. “I didn’t eat any, Eddie.”

With a sniff, Eddie scans Buck’s still-full party of olives instead. “I can see that. Are you seriously gonna waste these ridiculously pricey olives over—” he makes a vague gesture in Buck’s direction with a floaty hand, “—whatever this is?”

Well, no. Of course he isn’t. He just got a little distracted, is all, by another stranger joining the ever-growing list of individuals to assume he and Eddie are a couple. His appetite is busy; it’s otherwise occupied, flipping all over the place with the rest of his stomach.

Still, he pops a facetious olive into his mouth. It’s refreshingly tart and salty, collapsing easily between the eager force of his teeth. Buck finds himself pathetically grateful for the fleeting sense of control provided by that cushioned crunch.

“No,” Buck answers once he’s swallowed. “When have you ever known me to waste food, man?”

Eddie spears an olive with his fork and responds, “Touché.” His nose crinkles a little when he puts it in his mouth. “Seriously, though,” he adds, eyes and tone equal parts earnest, “are you good?”

“Yeah,” Buck nods. Miraculously, his voice barely even comes out croaky. “All good. Just… enjoying a meal with a friend.”

“Cool,” Eddie smiles breezily. “I’ll cheers to that.”

Buck never much cared for high-class etiquette, so he grips the curve of his glass in a clumsy hand without shame, meeting Eddie’s with a pleasant, wind-chime clink. 

The glass is cool against the creases of Buck’s fingers, the condensation seeping into his skin like a balm. Familiar sharp sweetness floods his tastebuds. He relishes in it, but takes care to control his sip, abruptly cautious of steaming ahead of Eddie and earning himself any more concerned eyebrows.

Eddie smacks his lips appreciatively, his tongue peeping briefly round the corner of his mouth. “We gotta go to Italy, man.”

Buck blinks. Blinks again. Abandons controlled sips in favor of a frantic gulp, because who cares; it was free, anyway. “Uh, sure. I didn’t bring my passport, though.”

“Funny,” Eddie deadpans. “I just mean—I don’t really know anything about wine, but this is good stuff.”

Distractedly swirling his own drink, Buck replies, “For sure. Tastes even better when it’s free.”

An olive-laden fork pauses in the air halfway toward Eddie’s lips. He levels Buck with a look. “Who did you flirt with?”

Rude. Probably justified, historically, but still, rude.

“No one, thank you,” Buck asserts, voice flat. “Or—well. You, apparently.” 

Eddie’s eyes don’t flicker once over the next few seconds. In fact, they remain almost eerily still. He just stares blankly at Buck, gaze locked, as he scrapes the olive off his fork with his teeth; keeps staring while he chews, while he swallows, then for a couple of seconds after, too, for good measure. “I must have missed that.”

“Yeah, uh, I think I did too.” Kind of. Buck is somehow maintaining a constant state of both hypervigilance and blissful ignorance. He’s working overtime, here. “Scott—the waiter—he just got the wrong idea about…” Buck gestures between himself and Eddie with a taut finger. “This. Uh… us. So, apology wine.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t—I didn’t ask for an apology, obviously. He offered it. Freely.”

“Huh,” answers Eddie, nodding his head. He tucks his lips in a firm pout, the loose skin on his chin crinkling; nods some more as he stares into the distance behind Buck’s shoulder. Then: “Well,” he says, eyes snapping back to Buck, honey-brown and suddenly focused. “I guess that makes sense. Or, well—it happens. Right?”

“Right,” Buck rushes out.

“Right,” Eddie nods, nods, nods. Watching his head bob would be almost meditative, if Buck’s nervous system wasn’t so busy channeling the disposition of a startled deer. “Don’t see why two friends can’t enjoy some dinner, though.”

“Totally agree.”

“Not that—not that it’s a problem, obviously,” Eddie follows up emphatically, hands gesturing to and fro. The jury’s still out on whether he even heard Buck speak just now. “If people, you know, assume that. Just…”

He trails off, looking somewhat out of sorts, so Buck picks up the slack on instinct. “Well. You know what they say about assuming.”

When Eddie chuckles it comes out on an exhale, and slightly strained. 

“Exactly,” Eddie agrees, then shakes his head and blinks like he’s trying to jostle his mind back in place. His features soften one by one afterward, as if a manual override has been executed, before he gestures pointedly with the prongs of his fork and says, “Eat your olives, bud.”

Buck dips his head in a nod, more than grateful for the dismissal. He eats his olives. They dwell in companionable silence for a few minutes.

The two of them have always been good at forming a two-man personal bubble, even in public places. Eddie’s familiar presence has a similar effect on Buck’s ears as acoustic foam, even for the more invasive restaurant sounds: the raucous laughter from four nearby women on their third bottle of prosecco; the sharp, wailing scrape of cutlery grating against china; the jagged rattling of ice in a cocktail shaker behind the bar—all muted and contained. Fended off, like their own little air pocket in an ocean of strangers and noise. 

Anchored by Eddie’s close existence, Buck is physically comfortable. That being said—he can’t deny the outside world its powerful context clues. They push on the walls of that bubble like blunt needles until it gives in and bursts, sending Buck’s mind racing ahead of his mouth.

“I mean,” Buck offers up to the quiet, then falters for a second. He picks up his final olive only to change his mind and drop it back onto his plate, like he’s throwing down a tiny, brine-soaked gauntlet. “You did—put a dollar bill in my shirt.”

Eddie wipes his mouth with his napkin and rests his cutlery vertically on his plate. “As a bit,” he says evenly. “That was a bit. Friends do bits.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. He tosses the last olive into his mouth almost like he’s swallowing a painkiller. Something about the placebo effect. “They do, totally, just… well. The bits don’t usually involve, like, grazing nipple. So. I can see why he might have…”

Eddie’s eyes promptly flit to stare lasers at Buck’s pecs. Buck regrets ever forming the capacity to utilize human speech.

“Did I—”

“You all finished with those?” Scott appears, hands splayed in a well? sort of gesture. “Find everything okay?”

Head mercifully jerking away from Buck’s chest hair, Eddie titters, “Delicious, thank you, yeah—uh—here, thanks,” while Buck harmonizes with his own chorus of yep, yep, yeps. Eddie starts stacking up plates to hand over.

Buck is bordering on fight or flight territory, here, but he can still spare a moment to appreciate Eddie’s ever-relentless manners. Even operating on autopilot settings, he could probably charm the mothers of girlfriends across the country. 

“Please would you bring out another—” Eddie points at his half-drunk wine, “—with the mains?”

Three eyebrows raise in unison: two of Buck’s, one of Scott’s. Zero of Eddie’s, though, whose eyebrows are about as close to the laminate wood floor as they can get from his forehead.

To Scott’s credit, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Absotootly,” he says, shuffling the empty plates in his arms; visibly wincing as his own voice registers. “Jesus. Sorry. I mean—yes, of course. It should just be a few minutes.”

He whisks away before Eddie can round off the interaction with a thank you. Buck expects his shoe-shined subconscious is probably screaming in terror, somewhere deep down.

When Eddie notices the amused look still painting Buck’s features, he asks, “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Buck chuckles, running a thumb across his lower lip, self-soothing. “I’m all in. Just… are we celebrating something I don’t know about?”

Eddie shrugs flippantly. “Does there have to be an occasion?”

“Of course not. Just wondering. I mean…” 

He pauses, spares a beat to take in his surroundings. A new couple have arrived a couple of tables over; they’ve forgone the chair in favor of cuddling up to one another on the banquette. Two tables further, an elderly couple are feeding each other mousse by the spoonful. Melodic, soft, royalty-free piano music swirls through the slightly too warm atmosphere.

And Eddie, Buck can’t help but remember—even despite his best efforts—chose this place specifically. 

“Have you been here before?” Buck asks. The words tumble out of him rushed and jarring, like a graceless hand sliding over the keys of that same piano, cutting through the carefully constructed ambience.

“Here? No,” Eddie shakes his head. “Hen mentioned it. She’s why I ordered the linguine. Basically implied I was insulting her personally if I didn’t.”

“Right,” Buck drags out. “So Hen recommended this place to you—” he gestures at the general vicinity, “—after she came here with…”

“Karen,” Eddie answers plainly, non-plussed.

“So you… brought me?”

“Yeah?” Eddie bobs his head with a frustrating amount of perplexity. “What’s your point?”

“Hen came here with Karen,” Buck explains, drawn out and lilting, like Eddie is a softly-stubbled kindergartener. “And you came here with me.”

“I mean, yeah. Who else would I come with? Chimney?” Eddie scoffs. He picks up his wine glass for a sip, gestures with it like it's a natural extension of his fingers. Nothing spills, but it’s close. 

“No. Chimney would just bring Maddie.” Buck is speaking so, so slowly. He’s practically begging Eddie to catch up. He’s practically begging for a smack around the head for being patronizing, too, if he’s not careful.

“Exactly,” says Eddie.

“Exactly,” Buck echoes, defiantly, even though there’s no chance in hell they are arguing the same point right now. They’re sitting next to each other in an airport gate, not knowing they’re due on completely different flights. Buck’s plane, as it stands, is going straight to Hell. Zero layovers. 

Meanwhile, it seems like Eddie might not even know he’s at an airport. 

Even in this undeniably romantic setting, Eddie looks just as at ease as he probably does in the alternate universe where the two of them are spending tonight on the couch. The only difference being his petal pink, wine-ruddy cheeks. And—well, the strain of his biceps against his cotton-blend sleeves. The shadow cast by the firm ridge of his nose where he sits in a cocoon of warm light. The magnetic, beating drum of his fingertips against embroidered tablecloth.

Unwittingly, Buck winds up staring at that hand; entranced by Eddie’s slender fingers, his striking knuckles, the pocket-sized mountain range of vein and muscle lain across bone that ebbs and flows as he taps away, carefree, simple.

Buck’s stomach falls on its head, and all at once, he knows he’s lost. 

His defenses have defected; they’re laying their swords and shields on the muddy ground—but his unfiltered emotions stay undeterred. They ravage through him. They blindfold him, spin him round, over and over; then taunt him, telling him to walk, come on, one foot in front of the other, it’s easy. 

He put up a good fight. Ultimately, though, Eddie has always been Buck’s weak spot, hasn’t he?

Suddenly too warm, Buck fiddles with a button on his shirt—the one laying just to the right of where his heart rumbles in his chest, like thunder rolling closer, closer, closer.

“Careful there,” Eddie quips. “If you undo another one, you’ll get us kicked out before our main course.”

Buck’s hand flies off the button. When he’s in his head, it’s hard to discern friendly ribbing from stern command, sometimes, over all the static. 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Buck croaks.

The drumming stops. Eddie’s fingers flex—which, talk about salt in the wound, Jesus Christ—like he’s stubbornly scratching an itch to reach out with them. By the familiar searching look in his eyes, Buck assumes they would have landed in the crook of his collarbone, if it weren’t for the table-sized barricade. 

“Buck. What’s up?” Eddie asks. His throat bobs, so Buck’s eyes follow on gut instinct, tracking over the flush tinging his broad neck. “You’re being all… cryptic.”

When Buck’s chin tilts up to meet Eddie’s eyes, his vision takes half a second to follow. So, he’s tipsy. “I’m being cryptic?”

“Yeah,” replies Eddie, like it’s clear-cut and obvious.

“I’m—no, I’m not. You’re the one who’s… changing things.” Buck swirls a finger at Eddie in midair. Like a limp accusation, or like he’s casting a spell.

Eddie exhales out a baffled laugh, glossy eyes wide. “What? What am I changing?”

You’re my best friend, thinks Buck, helpless. He holds Eddie’s eye across the table, bottom lip trapped and chewed beneath his teeth. Why did you have to go and change my mind?

“Here we are,” Scott announces, wide smile stationed center-stage between a bowl and a plate. “One linguine,” he sing-songs, placing a dish in front of Eddie, “...and one soppressata.” Buck is bestowed a thin-stretched, wood-fired pizza. “Drinks coming right up. Two ticks.”

Eddie genuinely licks his lips as he looks down at his pasta bowl. He might be the easiest victim in history for a Looney Tunes style trap, so long as it involved a carb of some description. 

Knife and fork wielded like iron-forged weaponry, Eddie raises them in preparation, then—

—he leans over and starts sawing a wedge into Buck’s pizza.

Buck watches uselessly, mouth slightly parted like a resigned fish, as Eddie makes an exchange. Roughly a third of Buck’s pizza winds up in Eddie’s bowl. In return, he gifts Buck several hearty heaps of linguine. 

All without saying a single word.

The humiliating part is: this is their normal. This is, truly, nothing out of their ordinary. Except now, it’s like Buck finally accepted that the world around him was too fuzzy to proceed as he had been, so he forked out a fortune on those rose-rimmed glasses his theoretical optometrist shoved in his face—and since putting them on, ironically, every single line is blurred.

“And two pinot grigios,” says Scott, back at Buck’s side. Buck kind of wants to cling to his uniform pant leg like a distraught toddler, which might be partially the wine talking—except from the stunned look on Scott’s face as he watches Eddie delicately ladle an extra scallop from his own dish onto Buck’s plate, he thinks it might be warranted.

“...Okay!” Scott claps his hands together once he’s set down the drinks. “Uh—enjoy, you two.” He offers Buck a sympathetic little half-moon smile, and scurries off.

Traitor is the word that immediately comes to Buck’s mind, but—that’s not fair. This isn’t Scott’s fault. He just works here.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to do… anything with his hands, Buck digs into the pasta offering at the far edge of his plate, shoves a desperate forkful between his lips. He keeps his mouth firmly shut while he chews—though part of him craves the catharsis and carelessness of some truly terrible table manners right now.

Over the muffled, tacky noises of his own mouth, Buck hears a chuckle. He looks up to find Eddie smiling.

“What?”

“You just…” Eddie picks up his napkin, rolls an edge of it into a padded point. “You really can’t eat without getting it all over you,” he teases.

Then, because the universe’s new favorite hobby is smacking Buck repeatedly in the face with a plank of wood like an old-timey slapstick routine, he reaches over the table and wipes at Buck’s chin. The edge of his thumb kisses the skin beneath Buck’s lower lip.

“Messy,” Eddie murmurs, sotto voce, once he’s planted comfortably back in his seat, just to really maximize Buck’s brain damage. 

It’s like every little muscle movement flows out of Eddie with excruciating ease. He grins lazily, heavy-lidded, and it’s so wide that his canines poke out. Buck stares like a man possessed at the way they catch the light off guard, pointy and devilish and charming. He wants to prick his pinky finger on the cusp of one, like an impromptu field blood test; see if the red bead comes out fast and fizzing, or just heady and syrup-thick. 

“Eddie!” 

Buck hears himself cry out only after the fact. He’s officially an unwitting participant in his own public display of desperation, yet he has no choice but to follow through. 

Feebly, fervently, he asks, “Is this a date?”

Those canines duck back behind the curtain of Eddie’s stiff upper lip. His brow furrows into a surprised arch. 

“...No?”

A starting whistle blows piercingly somewhere in Buck’s subconscious. God save his soul over the next—fifteen minutes, give or take, rough estimate.

“Alright, well,” Buck replies, raspy but just about even. “That’s fine,” his chest aches; he ignores it, “but could you at least sound. Uh. Sure?”

“Okay,” Eddie nods. “No,” he repeats.

On paper, the word no is pretty concrete. In literally any other scenario, Buck wouldn’t press the issue. Except Eddie is saying the word no a lot like Scooby Doo says aruh?, which, turns out, isn’t really something Buck can just accept and move on from, actually. His anxious mind is knock-knock-knocking on the inside of his skull. It’ll continue relentlessly, he knows, until Eddie slams the door in his face.

“That was the same,” Buck does not whine. “You—you inflected.”

Eddie lays his knife and fork down, cups his left fist tenderly in his right palm. “You just… you caught me off guard, Buck, that’s all. I’m not—trying to inflect.”

He’s visibly twitchy; his eyes ever so slightly, trepidatiously sad, in a way that wilts Buck on the spot. He really can’t bear to cause Eddie any distress, no matter how ferociously his heart and lungs fidget beneath his ribcage.

“Okay. Great,” Buck nods in a way that he prays comes across authoritative, final; that doesn’t suggest he’s fighting back the urge to shake his head fiercely, instead. “Not a date.” 

He cuts them both loose and cuts into his pizza, both tasks executed with a level of force teetering on the upper boundary of normal and sane. (In his defense, it has a sourdough base. Buck doesn’t mind because he loves the crunch, but this stuff could resist a chainsaw on a good day.)

After spending a few long seconds watching Buck carve away at his pizza like a lumberjack working through a stubborn log, Eddie pipes up. 

“Do you…” Eddie falters, takes an eager mouthful of pasta, swallows audibly. “Is that—do you want it to be…”

The look on Eddie’s face is the one that strips away Buck’s capacity for wisdom like decades-old wallpaper, every time. His eyes are so wide, and so earnest, and so devastatingly rich and brown and pervasive. They bat away any chance Buck may have had at playing this off.

“Eddie, I have no idea what’s going on,” Buck replies; too honest, yet intentionally unrevealing. “I mean—Scott asked how long we’ve been together, sure, but he’s hardly the first. You…” 

Buck allows himself a quick respiteful glance to the wall above Eddie’s shoulder before he has to meet those eyes again. Once he does, he rasps out, “You olive theoried me, man, and if that’s—platonic, that’s fine, but I… just, I can’t get Maddie’s voice out of my damn head.”

Eddie’s irises are drowning out the whites of his eyes in a way that shouldn’t be physically possible, and yet. He stares at Buck like an occasionally blinking, stupidly handsome cow; until something apparently registers.

“You—I olive theor—what?” Eddie shakes his head, baffled. “Buck, do you mean like—as in, How I Met Your Mother?”

Good to see that’s what Eddie’s chosen to hone in on. It feels a little bit like he’s gotten away with some sort of crime, that he doesn’t have to elaborate or unpack—well, all of the rest of it.

“Obviously,” Buck monotones.

With a choked-off laugh, Eddie says, “I didn’t—I mean, yeah, sure, if I did really like olives, maybe—never mind. That’s neither here nor there.” He waves his hands dismissively in front of him, then reaches for his drink. “I just don’t care for olives, Buck.”

That can’t be true. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Buck sniffs.

“Oh, well. If you don’t think.”

“You always take Chris’ olives,” Buck argues, pointing assertively with the dull blade of his knife. 

Eddie coughs slightly on the tail-end of a sip. “I’m his dad,” he proclaims. “That’s my job! Full time first responder; part time garbage can. It’s pretty much the first thing you learn after having a kid.” He huffs out a petulant gust of air between his lips and briefly glances away, then looks back with renewed vigor. “And, you know, if we’re talking about it, you’re the one who lied about not liking olives. Not me.”

“Because I didn’t want you to—to be doing that! To be making, like—sacrifices for me,” Buck rambles. Then for good measure, really hammering that nail into that there coffin, he adds, “Romantically!”

“Look who’s talking,” Eddie scoffs.

Buck’s jaw drops. Eddie should probably get the napkin ready again, actually, because it no doubt landed in Buck’s portion of his pasta.

Eddie picks up a slice of pizza he’s carved and bites into it crust-first, because he’s a freak. The crunch rings out like it’s part of the argument at hand. His eyes are peeled comically open, his nose looks like it’s been dipped in soft pink dust from booze, there’s a tiny smudge of marinara just beneath one sweet dimple. He’s messy and uncomplicated and disarmingly real, in the throes of a bickering passion they both know so well, and Buck loves him in a way that sweeps and curls over his bones like lapping flames, crumbling them piece by piece.

“Expand on that,” says Buck with, frankly, a miraculous amount of polite restraint.

Half-finished with his mouthful and seemingly half-thinking, Eddie replies, “You moved into my house, Buck. How—” he swallows, punctuating and thick, “—is that not a romantic sacrifice?”

Well, Buck supposes—he did ask for it.

Even so, he finds himself incapable of mustering up any real response. His eyebrows fly up; his guard flies down. 

Eddie, naturally, notices both. Buck’s reaction seems to be what finally clues him in to what he just said, because the tips of his ears burn a self-conscious shade of crimson.

“In my defense,” Eddie says, index finger raised to the sky as if to say hold, please. “This is the first time I’ve thought of it that way.”

The last thing Buck wants right now is to be reminded of his illicit, ill-fated, wham, bam, no thank you rebound with his ex-boyfriend, but it seems he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. 

“Uh… yeah. You and me both,” Buck croaks. “Kind of.”

Eddie visibly pounces on that. “Kind of?”

Buck recognizes that eagerness: it’s the same flighty-eyed manner Eddie adopts whenever someone asks about his dating life, then the alarm rings. A convenient distraction. Opportunistic deflection. Buck resents being on the other end of it, currently; especially because without his wits about him, he can’t even deflect back. All of his mental faculties are busy standing arm-in-arm just to stop him spilling needlessly about Tommy.

“I mean,” Buck stutters. “I’ve—tried not to.”

“You have to… try?” Eddie’s eyelashes flutter in a series of soft, rapid blinks. “Not to?”

Jesus. His pupils are blown wide. Looking into Eddie’s eyes right now feels like staring directly at an eclipse, and just as inadvisable. 

“Not like I’m some—monster, or anything, just… I mean. The issue has, uh, previously been raised,” Buck answers cryptically. 

“Issue?” Eddie echoes. God, he’s like a devastatingly handsome parrot.

“Will you stop repeating my words as questions?”

“Sorry,” says Eddie, yielding. One dimple tugs at his lips by the wrist, placing them in the Quiet Corner of his mouth for time out. 

Eddie chews his cheek silently as Buck takes one, then two, deep breaths.

Then Buck sighs, shoulders dropping. “What I mean is—the idea has been, uh… across my desk a few times, so to speak.” Then promptly shredded. “And I didn’t want to, you know, disrespect you,” he explains, voice cracking, “or be, y’know—that guy, by considering it, ‘cause you’re—when you’re straight.”

At that, Eddie’s nose scrunches. Buck has to look away, find quick fascination in a faint crack in the nearby wall, because that little micro-reaction is far, far beyond his emotional comprehension or capacity right now.

“Well, yeah, but…” Eddie starts, his voice a deep rumble. It would be soothing, if only he didn’t sound so troubled. Shy. “It’d be fine, I mean, for you to consider it. Or, you know, if you…” 

He clears his throat, then trails off, making a slightly sheepish face—the implications of which leave Buck’s ears ringing, like discordant church bells vibrating through his skull.

“Okay, well,” Buck urges quickly, before the clamoring in his head can become all-consuming. “There’s no point in considering it in the first place, then. Because even if I—I did want…” he rasps, mouth bone dry; man, he is so doomed if he can’t even complete that sentence, “...you wouldn’t be an option. So. It’s moot.”

Eddie nods slowly and takes a large bite of pasta. A few thoughtful, knife’s-edge seconds pass as he chews on Buck’s words.

Eventually, he muses, “I think it’s still important for you, to, y’know…” he gestures emphatically with his cutlery, “...live your truth, though.”

Well, that’s awfully cocky. He’s right, sure, but that’s—unimportant.

“Who says that’s my truth?” asks Buck doggedly.

Two big blinks, then Eddie says, “I’m not saying that.” 

Which he was, but, whatever; Buck is dying to lay the matter to rest. Just before he can reply with a resounding good, or perhaps a thought so, though, Eddie keeps going.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s a horrifying idea,” he mutters sulkily. “We’d be… y’know. Good. A good match. Be—hot, probably.” Eddie mumbles the second half of this knock-out combo directly into the rim of his wine glass. 

Buck feels like he’s playing a game of emotional Bop-It. Seriously. His mind is being pulled, and twisted, and—and flicked, all over the place. Yet Eddie keeps going.

“Are you not attracted to me?” Eddie asks. He looks, to Buck’s equal parts amusement and imminent destruction, like he’s spiralling slightly over the concept. There’s a degree of genuine concern present, at the very least, even if it’s being clumsily shrouded by mirth and wine. 

“What?” Buck chokes.

Fuck, it’s hot in here. Does off-brand Sicily not have AC?

“I’m… I’m a handsome guy,” Eddie states, fixing his posture so his shoulders sit level and squared. Steady, where the expression sitting above them isn’t. “So I just—and, I mean, you’re just, objectively—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Buck pleads.

He’s fastidiously ignored. “What?” Eddie exclaims in a hushed tone. He’s sober enough to remember they’re in public, then; just not enough to keep a grasp on any sort of brain to mouth filter, apparently. “You’re hot! It’s—I have eyes, Buck, even if I’m not…” His gaze flits between each of Buck’s eyes before rolling to his chin, where it lounges for a moment. “If I’m not…”

It’s not often that Buck sees Eddie actively tipsy. Their couch beers usually serve to make them both slightly loose-limbed, but not loose-tongued. Buck also doesn’t necessarily buy into the notion that different drinks make for different drunks—but if he were to dip his toes into that logic, he’d have no choice but to determine that Wine Eddie is a guy who thinks through everything out loud, relentlessly, all of the time. 

Ordinarily, this would be great news for Buck, who loves to hear what his best friend is thinking. Especially when the thoughts come out unfiltered; a ripe harvest for potential teasing. 

Nothing about this conversation is ordinary, though. 

Buck has been noticing a lot of things he is desperately trying to help but notice, tonight. How arrestingly attractive Eddie looks, for one. How much they exist and act like a couple in the eyes of the general public and—as Buck has previously been made undeniably aware—their close circle, for two. 

Agenda item number three is the worst one, by nature of it being entirely out of his control. It’s cupped in Eddie’s hands, fighting for space alongside Buck’s skittish heart. Thing Number Three that Buck really, truly, can’t help but capital-N Notice is: Eddie isn’t outright rejecting anything. He’s simply talking around it.

Oh, and—he just explicitly called Buck hot, so, there’s that. Four things, it turns out. 

“Well,” Buck coughs. “Thank you. For the objective, uh, point of view. Objectively, thank you.”

Objectively, Buck’s brain is scrambling like eggs in a hot pan. Objectively, he has to admit to himself that just now, Eddie was staring at his mouth, not his chin. Objectively, there’s a monster living inside his chest, and it wants to lick messily up Eddie’s rosy cheeks, slobber him up before eating him whole.

“You’re welcome,” says Eddie. The words come out defiant, but his cheeks flush an even bolder red. Buck feels like a lovesick bull staring down two plump, apple-shaped matadors. 

So he feeds the rib-caged beast a couple of slices of pizza, instead. It grumbles, discontent, but at least sufficiently distracted.

Until a few minutes later, when—

“It would make sense, is all.” Eddie keeps and keeps and just keeps going. “If I were… so inclined, I mean, you’d probably be my first choice.”

Buck balks. He’s not proud of it, but he’s tipsy too, so sue him. “Probably?” he squawks.

Eddie looks positively smug. Buck is never letting either of them drink wine ever again. 

“You seem a little bothered, bud,” Eddie leers, his lips curling in a way that makes apparent he’s trying and failing to pin them down at the corners. “What, are you jealous?”

Buck scoffs. It’s his only option. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m tipsy,” Eddie corrects. “I’m relaxed. I’m having a nice night with my best friend.” He leans back against the banquette, arms coming to rest on the padded ridge; a king on his torn leather throne. 

“Sure,” Buck grumbles. He picks mindlessly at a spare crust on his plate. 

Eddie looks at him intently, then, seemingly drawing together the disconcerted lines on Buck’s forehead. Whatever conclusion he reaches causes his demeanor to significantly soften as he folds himself forward again. “I mean, I can—I can lay off. If you’re uncomfortable. Am I making you uncomfortable?” He scratches his ear. “I’m sorry,” he urges gently.

Buck isn’t uncomfortable, per se. Moreso… confronted, or maybe—unwittingly ambushed. At this point, he has zero idea who is leading the charge that’s emanating palpably from this interaction. What he does know is: while he gets his bearings, he categorically cannot let on that Eddie is potentially hitting too close to home. 

Because Eddie’s behavior tonight is still, currently, entirely non-committal. Maybe he doesn’t mean it, at least not like that; in which case, he’d probably curse himself for making Buck feel bad. Or—maybe he does mean it, for now; but if Buck shows his hand and things subsequently get out of it, he’d curse himself still the next day.

Which is a lose-lose set of scenarios, sure—but Buck would be an even bigger loser if he let his best friend sit there thinking he’s ruined dinner.

“No, you’re not,” Buck reassures, putting in the effort to reanimate; to recalibrate the shared tone. “You… stay relaxed. I’m fine. I’m relaxed, man. The ambience here is—it’s great.” 

It’s not. It was pleasant enough at first, but as the night goes on, Buck is beginning to feel like the ambience here was constructed and clinically trialed in a sterilized lab.

He adopts a warm smile, regardless, because ultimately—and ever-predictably—Eddie is right. There’s no reason tonight can’t just be a nice time, with nice food, nice wine, and very nice company.

“Okay. Nice,” Eddie murmurs, a shy smile blooming on his face. “How’d you like the pasta?”

“It’s really good,” Buck nods, scooping the remaining final forkful into his mouth. “Man, I love scallops. I feel bad, if I think about it too much, ‘cause, did you know sea scallops can live up to twenty years? That’s, like, a grown man.”

Eddie hums. “It’s like eating me right after having Christopher,” he replies, barely-there smirk in tow.

Buck shoots him a sardonically distraught look. “Don’t make me feel worse, man.”

“Alright, alright, sorry,” Eddie chuckles. “We’ll just… keep a wide berth from the aquarium for a few weeks, yeah?”

Before Buck can finish swallowing his next bite to respond, he feels a weight press at his ankle. Ridged, firm, distinctly leathery. 

So, that’s Eddie’s shoe. Or—his foot. His foot, in his shoe, pressing into Buck’s leg, just hanging out; that’s there Eddie’s foot goes now, apparently.

At least Buck can’t overthink it, because his present thoughts have ground to a halt. 

All that remains in his head are flashes of memory. Eddie, moaning around a forkful of homemade cheesecake. Eddie, showing up to work in a new cotton-rich, baby-soft t-shirt, one he bought just because: just because he liked it; just because it felt good against his skin. 

Eddie, humming around a sip of overpriced white wine at this reasonably high-end Italian restaurant, eyes lingering on Buck’s mouth. Indulgently.

The foot inches slightly up Buck’s ankle to the lower half of his calf, then glides back down.

So. Eddie is flirting with him, whether he knows it or not. Buck has powerful suspicions on which of those options is true.

Because front-of-house, Eddie has always put up a strong, presentable sense of self. Back-of-house, though, Buck knows things aren’t always so well-organized. Sometimes Eddie processes things a bit out of order, subconsciously.

In particular, the storage space required lately for more Eddie, indulgent Eddie, three glasses of wine on a Thursday Eddie, is no doubt taking some constant reshuffling to accommodate. Front-of-house might not have even managed to take a peek in the back, yet, to see what sorts of personal developments got dug up during renovations. 

After all, Eddie has said things tonight that Buck never thought he would say. Though, admittedly, he’s been staunchly close-minded where Eddie and Possibilities are concerned. 

His pantheon of platonic defense was built on a foundation of denial and presumption. Eddie knocked it down before they even got to their mains.

If he were to play devil’s advocate—because Buck is capable of healthily questioning his own authority too, not just that of others, thanks—maybe Buck has been making it too much about himself again. Jumping to conclusions on Eddie’s behalf, because at least that way, he can control where they land. 

If some part of Eddie wants to extend his newly abundant indulgence to… whatever one might call this—there probably aren’t enough dictionaries in the world for him to find a word that encapsulates tonight’s events, let alone their relationship as a whole—then who is Buck to stand in his way?

Buck, who is tipsy, and subsequently already working overtime holding himself back from jumping across the table and into Eddie’s lap like a stray cat. That’s enough restraint for any man for one evening, he thinks.

Taking a leaf out of Eddie’s book of instructions for a nice, relaxing night, Buck leans back in his seat and takes a drawn-out drink from his own glass. He revels in the pleasant fuzz flowing over his senses; the solid weight blanketing his ankle.

Substantially more even-headed, now, Buck readies himself to meet matters in the middle. If he’s lucky, Eddie will be there waiting for him. 

Only one way to find out.

“So, uh,” says Buck, stepping into an emboldened front like an old pair of shoes. “We’d be hot, huh?”

Eddie chokes on air. Buck does not smile, because he is kind and caring. (It’s more like a cough, anyway. No danger here, just… a teeny tiny, practically negligible, really, smattering of smug satisfaction.)

“Uh,” Eddie retorts wisely once his airflow resumes. He clears his throat. “What, you don’t agree?”

“Never said that,” Buck drawls. “But I believe I asked first.”

Something unchanging about Eddie: he hates being out-deflected. Right now, it’s amusing Buck to no end: to watch his nostrils flare just so, the way they do when he’s reluctant to admit defeat; his eyebrows twitching like they’re keen to squirm their way off of his forehead.

“Well, yeah. I guess I… I do think…” Eddie wafts a hand in the air as an endearingly shy stand-in for repeating his literal own words out loud. “I mean, I think so, but, y’know, it’s my first time—pondering that… particular sentiment.”

Buck dips his head in a reassuring nod. If the new angle means he’s looking up at Eddie through his lashes, no one can prove it’s intentional. 

“Hey, all in your own time,” says Buck. “I know I can be, uh…” he splays his arms out and looks up and down at his own form, brazen. Drawn-out and steady, so Eddie has no choice but to watch the display. “A lot to handle.”

Eddie snorts derisively, says, “Yeah, you got that right.” 

It would be like any other unbiting remark Eddie volleys Buck’s way, except—his eyes dart to the side, bashful, evasive; and an incriminating blush seizes his cheeks, leaving Buck with two irresistible red dots in his crosshairs. 

It’s not like he’s ever been one to do things in moderation.

“I’m serious, Eddie. Go slow if you need,” Buck hums, in the most deeply arrogant register he can reach. “I’ve been told I can be, uh… a lot to take at once.” He waits patiently a moment until Eddie’s face hits the desired shade of crimson, then adds, purposefully casual, “Emotionally.”

A bark of disbelieving laughter bubbles out of Eddie. He still rolls his eyes, though, to save face.

“Jesus,” Eddie huffs. “Do you ever turn it off?” 

His eyes are wide and sparkling, like he’s taking it all in. The sight fizzes down Buck’s throat, through his chest, into the pit of his gut, where it settles sweet and low.

“If I’m asked nicely,” Buck replies, dangerous, dangerous, dangerous. 

Growing up, Buck was told off frequently for teetering back on the rear legs of his chair. Turns out that particular habit is pretty inevitable, though, when you place a restless kid in one spot and tell them to sit still. The warnings won’t apply to them, until they do.

But even with his fierce tally of mostly-accidental injuries racked up throughout his upbringing, that’s still one particular way he never fell—which means he never really learnt the consequence of squirming a little too far off-balance. 

Which isn’t to say he didn’t have a few close calls. He has all four wooden legs on the ground right now; yet the risky swoop in his stomach is eerily reminiscent of that cheap schoolboy thrill, as he traps Eddie’s ankle, delicate but unwavering, between his two calves.

“Are you gonna ask?”

Eddie’s throat bobs as he swallows a nervous cocktail of air and his own spit. He meets Buck’s stare, assessing, full of weight, as the moment stretches thin and heady. 

Buck almost wants to cock an obnoxious eyebrow, give in; really play up the self-indulgence acting as his last feeble line of defense. Something holds him back, though. There’s a raised bet of vulnerability in Eddie’s expression that compels Buck to match it with a silent knock of his fist.

A soft flash of pink draws Buck’s eye as Eddie’s lips part heavily around his next words.

“Hi guys,” says Scott. 

Buck jumps. First at the entirely par-for-the-course intrusion, then at the sudden jolt back to reality as Eddie’s foot scarpers back into his own personal space. Eddie’s expression switches automatically, too: flat and deliberate; easily fit for public consumption.

Meanwhile, Scott’s smile is as pleasant as it has been all evening. His eyes dart between the two of them, though—frantically mischievous, shamelessly invested. Buck would love to make it through a single interaction with the guy without inadvertently playing out a rom-com to an audience of one man just trying to do his job.

Scott reaches for their empty plates, asks, “How about some desserts?”

Eddie picks up the menu. He opens it and looks at Buck with an expression that suggests he just saw some blue sky, or perhaps some green grass, when he asks, “You wanna split something?”

Well, there goes that. A guy can dream.

Resigned to his fate, Buck sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Great,” Eddie grins, turning to Scott after lazily browsing the page. “One tiramisu, two spoons, thank you so much,” he requests, oh so polite, eyebrow slightly quirked.

When Scott looks at Buck, the intent behind his expression is simultaneously completely uninterpretable and acutely, obviously telling. It’s an oxymoron Buck has become well acquainted with, tonight.

Buck looks back helplessly. He has no defense to offer. All he can say is, “Thanks, man.”

₊˚✧ ━━ ‎𓌉◯𓇋 ━━ ✧ ₊˚

On the Uber ride home, Buck stares pensively out of the window from the backseat. 

Or, well—the ride back to Eddie’s, he should say. Earlier—before—neither of them had felt the need to discuss that he would be crashing there. At least, though, even after some of the most confusing conversational exchanges of Buck’s life, that unspoken agreement remained intact.

The tension at dinner had dissipated, somewhat, after they ordered dessert. Buck wishes he could figure out whether the weight in his gut is one of relief or disappointment.

It’s probably both. He’s not exactly unfamiliar with the feeling of cognitive dissonance—after all, he couldn’t honestly recall a time he’s experienced fewer than two emotions at once since… puberty, probably, if not kindergarten.

They had split their tiramisu; one dish, two spoons, which they had both kept politely to themselves. If Buck had been silently pleading Eddie with his eyes to feed him a seductive spoonful, nobody will ever know, because his tipsy attempts at telepathy had gone breezily unnoticed. 

Which is for the greater good, ultimately. Buck had ventured down certain avenues that took the two of them to the city limits of Platonic Town, tonight, but tongue-fucking a spoon wielded by Eddie’s hand might have been a mile or two too far, even for him.

Still—his mind is rushing. Flying by intersection after intersection, his thoughts linger on flashes of Eddie: covering the leather-bound check holder; sliding it toward himself with a hand so effortless one might think it had nothing to write home about, if it weren’t for his rosy cheeks; paying the bill in full with little more than a dismissive wave and a shy smile in Buck’s direction. 

Needless to say, Buck feels dizzy—any wine he’s consumed notwithstanding.

A foot prods promptingly at Buck’s shin. Then again, then once more. When Buck swallows, his mouth tastes like lingering rich espresso.

Buck turns away from his task of tracking the halos of amber light across passing street lamps to meet Eddie’s call for attention.

“That was nice,” says Eddie. “Wasn’t that nice?”

Eddie’s head is lolled at an angle against the back of his seat. His eyes are slightly lidded from good wine and good food, but they keep anchored on Buck as the city rushes by outside—as though focusing on Buck will keep his head from spinning. 

Ironic, given that for Buck, it’s entirely the opposite.

“Real nice,” Buck replies, his smile warm and soft. 

Eddie hums, then kicks playfully again at Buck’s shin, just for the sake of it. “I’m glad we went,” he muses, eyes flitting briefly to the car’s ceiling. “I mean—I enjoy anything we do, really, but changing it up was fun, don’t you think?”

Then, before Buck can get an answer in edgewise, he adds, “We clean up alright, too.”

Buck chuckles, a little sleepy, a lot breathless. “Sure do.”

Somehow, in the short distance between the restaurant and the Uber, Eddie’s collar wound up askew. Buck is simply too weak a man not to reach out and fix it. It’s the fancy brown shirt, after all; it would be a disservice to let it rest improperly around Eddie’s neck.

He pinches the stiff cotton between his thumb and forefinger and fixes the upside-down V—right as their Uber driver gets cut off in traffic, slamming on the brakes with a hushed curse. It fast-tracks the backs of Buck’s nails across the flushed skin of Eddie’s neck, where they had been quietly itching to wind up in the first place. Divine intervention, maybe; or perhaps just entitled L.A drivers. Who’s to say.

Eddie jolts with the motion of the car, but otherwise doesn’t flinch. His eyes meet Buck’s, coated in a sweet glaze, rich and deep brown. They look sort of like ganache; that pristine shine that many chocolatiers probably spend their lives trying to achieve.

“A real classy affair,” Eddie murmurs.

Buck indulges in his stare for a few seconds, then retreats before he sinks too far into molten warmth. “Sure. Except for, y’know, when you threw an olive at my head—”

“You were being ridiculous. That was warranted.”

“—or when you tipped me like I was a stripper—”

“That was funny,” Eddie grins, cheek rolling lazily against the headrest. He’s a sight so comfortable, so familiar, that Buck is almost struggling to puzzle together where the new is supposed to fit. If that’s even what’s on the table, here.

“Right,” Buck nods contemplatively; lets his expression rest unfiltered for Eddie’s consideration. “Of course. Friends do bits.”

Eddie’s eyes fall to his lap, and he hums once in thought. He’s twisted up diagonally, knees crossing the footwell of the middle seat; leaning into Buck as far as possible within the confines of his seatbelt.

An ambulance with its sirens blaring comes whizzing past on the opposite side of the road. Buck’s neck twists to track it instinctively. He spares the crew inside some silent well wishes; hopes that everything goes okay when they reach their destination.

“It’s…” Eddie starts, trails off. When Buck turns his head back to the world inside the cab, Eddie is already looking his way.

“It’s easy to laugh around you,” Eddie states, softly. “You—you make it easy, I think.”

It sounds so simple on his tongue. Then again, Eddie has always had a knack for effortlessly putting Buck’s feelings into perspective. Even when Eddie’s own thoughts aren’t quite in a neat line yet. 

“That’s…” Buck clears his throat with a thoughtful hm as he picks at the skin beneath his thumbnail. “Uh. You too.”

Eddie extends an ankle across the footwell to rest against Buck’s own, anchoring them together.

“We should do it again,” Eddie murmurs, eyes fixed on the new point of contact. Like it’s an essential tether, and Buck’s the fixed point on the other end. “The restaurant thing, I mean. A second—a second dinner.”

Hiding behind his eyelids for just a moment, Buck takes a deep breath. 

He doesn’t want to push. Not in any sort of sincere capacity, anyway—if Eddie flirts, he’ll flirt back, but that’s just good old fashioned give and take. What he doesn’t want to do is push. Unfortunately, though, he’s absolutely and deliriously desperate for Eddie to just say what he really means. 

The thing is—that would require Eddie actually knowing what he really means, first, which Buck suspects he doesn’t. Not consciously, anyway.

In the end, maybe it’s less like pushing, then, and more Buck pulling on the loose threads being extended in his direction; so he can help Eddie plait them together into a shape that makes sense. 

Admittedly, it’s also maybe a little like Eddie is dangling a ropey piece of string in front of a cat. Buck’s mind has its claws in, now, and he’s never been good at releasing the things he wants from his grip. It’s in his nature to keep tugging.

“A second dinner, huh?” Buck coaxes, as gently as he can muster through the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Eddie’s foot curls around the arch of Buck’s through the stiff sole of his shoe as he says, “Yeah.” Then he puffs out a shuddery exhale, scratches clumsily at his chin, and adds, “It’s your turn to foot the bill, anyway.”

Buck laughs. “I can literally Venmo you right now, man.”

“Nah,” says Eddie. His right arm stretches out, elbow locked, to rest a hand on Buck’s knee. “I’m just kidding. My treat.”

Even despite Eddie’s palpable tentativeness, his palm rests comfortably. A solid weight that’s equal parts new and familiar.

After a beat of contemplative quiet, Eddie’s fingers start tapping. He begins a sequence of small, restless presses into Buck’s kneecap: one, two, three, four, five; rinse and repeat.

“You know Hen recommended the place?” Eddie asks. Buck meets his eye and offers an affirmative hm, so he continues, “She actually offered to set me up.”

Grinning, Buck retorts, “Bet that went down well.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Eddie smiles. His eyes flit upward in recollection. “She wasn’t pushy, obviously. It was more like, a… I know what you’re gonna say, but the option is there, if you feel totally possessed into giving it a go.”

“To which you said no,” Buck monotones.

After a heavy inhale through his nose, Eddie responds, “To which I said: I’d rather just go out with Buck, anyway.”

Buck’s breath catches in a sharp bubble, somewhere near the back of his tongue. 

It’s fascinating and humiliating, the way Buck’s brain reverts to schoolground operations during his starkest emotional moments. For instance, right now: Eddie’s hand rests securely on his knee; he just paid for an objectively romantically backdropped dinner for two, complete with crazy overpriced olives he doesn’t even enjoy—and yet, when he says the words go out, all Buck can think is: as in, on a date?

Frankly, it’s a miracle Buck’s next words aren’t just: do you like me, or like-like me?

He bites that back, opting instead for a simple, “Eddie?”

“Mm,” Eddie acknowledges. 

That one hum sounds something almost close to surrender. It just lacks the bitter aftertaste.

Slowly, as if not to spook, Buck drops one hand onto his own left thigh. His thumb finds its home a couple of inches away from Eddie’s pinky.

“Was this a date?”

Buck can’t recall the last time his voice slipped out so shy. He makes no effort to excuse himself, though, or to posture. The quiet rasp slinks from Buck’s lips to Eddie’s ears in all its timid glory, awaiting its fate.

It’s quiet for another beat. Buck’s hand twitches restlessly against his leg; it tugs at its leash, eager to race over to greet Eddie’s where it sits in wait just down the way. 

Finally, Eddie replies, hushed, “I don’t know.”

The words sound like they burst out unceremoniously through the front of his chest, rather than his mouth. His voice is raw, ragged, and more honest than Buck has heard from him all evening. He sounds brave.

“Okay,” Buck whispers. “That’s okay.”

“I had fun, though,” says Eddie. “I liked it. Tonight, I mean.”

“Me too,” Buck smiles. When he meets Eddie’s eyes, they’re full of a reticence that borders on rueful. 

Which—well, it tracks. Eddie is absolutely the type to apologize for going at his own pace; inevitably perceiving doing so as at the expense of others, never mind how unbothered Buck is to stroll at his side. Delighted, even, just to tag along for the journey.

That being said, Eddie’s expression also carries a quiet gratitude—like he knows this, ultimately, and is thankful for the company.

Determined to stop any self-sacrificial train of thought Eddie is gearing up to from leaving the station, Buck adds, “You’re a sloppy drunk, though.”

Eddie pulls his arm back. A cruel and foul play, because the absence of his touch serves as severe, efficient punishment. Critically, Buck doesn’t whine—though he’s beginning to acknowledge he’s probably not far off that level of pathetic, where Eddie is concerned.

Eyes narrowed in playful outrage, Eddie grumbles, “I’ll show you sloppy.” 

So, naturally, Buck balks like a delighted chicken.

When Eddie notices the thrilled, opportunistic grin steadily spreading across Buck’s face, he blushes furiously.

“I didn’t mean—” Eddie attempts, stops, resigns himself to his sweaty-palmed fate. “Jesus Christ. Whatever.”

Now, Buck was serious about not pushing Eddie too far. It’s just—it would quite literally go against his very nature; against his each and every core value; not to seize this moment and run it into the ground.

“No, no,” Buck squeaks, biting his lip something fierce to restrain the greedy laughter desperate to get its ass in the driver’s seat. His shoulders curl and shake with it, even despite his best efforts. “That sounds great, Eddie. I look forward to, uh—being shown.”

Trying and failing to completely hide a pleased little smile of his own, Eddie breaks his steadfast glare in favor of rolling his eyes. “You’d be so lucky.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Buck grins, and a portion of the air filling the empty space between them rushes out through the cracked top of his passenger window.

They lock eyes. The look they exchange is new, in that it’s loaded; certainly far headier than how they might have looked at one another just a few hours ago.

It still feels like nothing new at all, somehow.

It holds all the same familiarity, the same humor, the same fond warmth. It’s cut by that ever-present undercurrent of security; a safe place to land. There’s a new and kind-of-terrifying angle to it, sure—but it’s still them.

A bit more of them, maybe. Divided evenly between two, there’s plenty of space for it.

Buck feels Eddie’s eyes on him the entire rest of the way home.

₊˚✧ ━━ ‎𓌉◯𓇋 ━━ ✧ ₊˚

It only takes Eddie two attempts to fit the key into the lock on his own front door. Buck, only slightly biased, thinks this is pretty impressive work. Enough to warrant a congratulatory, forward-slash encouraging, forward-slash just-kind-of-wanted-to-put-it-there press of his hand to Eddie’s lower back as they tiptoe over the threshold, at least.

Said tiptoeing being a force of habit, more than anything else. Chris is at a friend’s for the night, so there’s no one around to disturb—it’s just a familiar set of muscle memories formed over the years. Maybe a little bit of game, too; one padded with a teenage sort of nostalgia; based on the way Eddie giggles and shushes when the late night quiet is broken up by the dense thud of Buck’s shoe against the wall.

He didn’t mean to kick it off so hard. He’ll check for scuff marks in the morning.

When Eddie comes back into the living room with two cups of water in his hands, Buck has already finished unfolding his designated couch blanket.

“Man, just—” says Eddie, stalling moments before some sort of unconscious gesticulation that would have tipped a small flood of water to the floor. “Stop that. Just… Come sleep in the bed, Buck.”

Buck stutters in his movements. He clutches the throw pillow in his hand to his chest, cushions it tightly with both arms. Like a plush conversational shield; or really, just something other than Eddie he can—grab. 

“That’s… is that, I—I mean,” Buck stammers. “I can’t…”

Eddie rests the cups down on the console table and gives Buck a look that’s flat, but undeniably fond. “That couch has seen plenty of action from you. Give it a break,” he teases. Then, softer, “No funny business. Promise.”

He’s wringing his hands in front of his stomach like he’s nervous. Buck channels the butterflies in his stomach into a lingering squeeze of his emotional support throw pillow, then reluctantly tosses it down. Eddie nods in low-stakes triumph and walks across the room.

“I like the couch,” Buck grumbles.

“I know, bud,” Eddie placates, facing the opposite direction, as he combs through a tabletop stack of clean laundry he’s clearly not gotten around to putting away. He extracts some shorts and a tee like precarious Jenga blocks, balls them up, underarm tosses them in Buck’s direction.

Now, Buck knows for certain that a good few of his own clothes are floating around this house. Yet upon examination, the t-shirt picked out for him—while still loose-fitting and comfortable enough for a Buck-sized man to sleep in—is one of Eddie’s.

He squishes the clothes to his chest. It’s not as good as the pillow, and it’s definitely not as good as an Eddie; but at least it’s something.

“Alright, fine,” Buck intones, feeling all at once a little—who is he trying to fool, here, it’s a lot—too giddy over something as mundane as an old t-shirt. “I’ll come to bed with you. If you insist.”

Eddie’s arm brushes Buck’s as he mooches back over to where he left the waters. “I do insist,” he smiles, low-pitched and slightly cocky; less than a foot away from where Buck is standing.

Then he’s off again. 

Buck enjoys the view for a moment or two as Eddie walks down the hallway. He’s a gentleman, but he’s not an idiot. 

Once Eddie has safely rounded the corner, Buck changes efficiently into the offered pyjamas. It’s not—he doesn’t consciously think about it, exactly; it’s just that—well. He’s granted a brief window of opportunity to strip while Eddie’s not, like, right there, with that face, and worst of all, those eyes. 

It just feels like the most neutral, sensible decision at present. After tonight’s revelations, that is.

Buck folds his exonerated fancy outfit into a tidy pile; rests it teeteringly on the arm of the couch. Then he pockets his phone and follows the soft, beckoning vibrations of Eddie’s humming down the hall to the bathroom. 

Eddie hands him his Diaz House toothbrush (plastic, blue); then coats his own (electric, green) one in toothpaste, handing the tube off to Buck when he’s done.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They huddle together around the sink. It’s not a basin exactly designed to accommodate two grown men, certainly not of their combined stature. Even squished shoulder to shoulder like cookies that merged into one blob during baking, Buck can only see half of his own reflection.

Which is fine. His eyes have other places to be.

After a minute or so of silence—save for the fluctuating dynamics of Eddie’s buzzing—Buck leans down to spit out a mouthful of foam.

“Huh,” Eddie garbles, before doing the same.

“Wha?” Buck mumbles back.

“Jus’—” Eddie pauses to attack the gums atop his molars, “—assumed you’d be a swallow kind of guy, that’s all,” he muses through bared teeth.

Face scrunching in distaste, Buck spits again. “What? Why would I be—swallowing toothpaste? Who’s out—oh.”

When he turns his head, Eddie’s incisors, canines, and premolars are all teaming up; their sole purpose to make Buck blush. Eddie’s grin is as squeaky-clean as it is cruel and flirtatious—he’s squinting with the depth of it, but the splashes of iris Buck can still see are all pupil. 

“Not toothpaste,” Buck drones.

“Not toothpaste,” Eddie confirms, and resumes brushing his teeth. Then around a mouthful of bristles, he remarks, loud and deliberate, “I meant like bl—”

“Eddie,” Buck cuts in, wrapping his free hand around Eddie’s where he grips his toothbrush, halting his movements. 

Eddie only laughs, still a bit tipsy. A slow drop of toothpaste cascades down the side of his chin. He stares up at Buck, pleased with himself, their fairly minimal height difference accentuated by their sheer proximity. The harsh overhead bathroom light bounces off his dark eyes, quelled and muted; reflecting back as a glassy twinkle that’s far less jarring to Buck’s senses.

Well—in some ways, anyway. Buck’s head still tingles at the sight before him, but at least Eddie won’t give him a migraine.

“You’re killing me,” Buck despairs. He retracts his grip from Eddie’s knuckles, slowly; a savoring slide of his fingers.

Eddie spits. “Sorry.”

“Ish fine,” Buck garbles, then follows suit. Rinsing his toothbrush, he says, “It’s—a good kind of murder.”

“Hm. Think they’ll acquit me?”

“With those doe eyes? I think you’ll walk,” Buck banters. More muscle memory. 

On Eddie’s way to place his toothbrush on its stand, he curves a soft palm around Buck’s right hip. It’s just enough to remind Buck of one or two of his senses, even though the lingering sensation curls up in his gut; anticipatory, needy.

“I just. Uh.” Buck wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; forces himself to meet Eddie’s eyes. “I also—I mean, if—I can’t, if you’re not… if you’re not sure,” he stammers.

It’s absolutely not his best work language-wise, but he thinks he got his point across. 

Eddie nods and chews his bottom lip for a couple of moments, eyes downcast. Their toes touch where Buck stands in front of him, oh so patient and unbearably jittery; mulishly lending Eddie the quiet seconds he needs to process.

“I’m…” Eddie’s eyelids flutter, and he does a tiny shake of his head. “I think I just—need to sleep. I’m pretty s—hm.” He looks down at Buck’s hand, and his eyebrows knit together.

Gently, Eddie reaches out; pries Buck’s toothbrush that he didn’t know he was still holding from the vice grip he didn’t realize he was making. Eddie places it in the holder atop the sink, then lifts Buck’s shaky hand up to smooth a soothing, thoughtful thumb over his knuckles.

“I want to… I want to honor that,” Eddie murmurs, now holding Buck’s hand in both of his own. “I want to make sure I’m in the—right frame of mind, before I say, or—or do anything.” 

Buck doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes drop down to his mouth. He just can’t think about it, or he’ll explode.

“But, Buck, I—”

“Okay,” Buck interrupts, soft and low. 

He has no doubt Eddie’s heart is in the right place, but—their dinner guest for the evening, Wine Eddie, is undoubtedly still pushing some of the buttons on that control panel. And given his propensity to commit every pondering to speech at all costs, there’s a non-zero chance that, without intervention, some loose thoughts might slip out. Like they’re coins in a piggy bank, but Eddie’s a little too uncoordinated to screw the stopper in properly before he starts shaking.

Thoughts that, as greedy as Buck is to hear, it would kill him twice as much to hear Eddie un-say.

“Okay,” Buck repeats. “Sleep. We’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” Eddie echoes, shyly entwining their fingers and half-heartedly tugging Buck by the arm. He leads them to the bedroom, where he suddenly lets go, emitting a small hm sound of realization.

“Hang on,” he says. “Gotta piss.”

Buck ducks his head and chuckles. “Smart man.”

“Brain’s huge,” Eddie calls out over his shoulder. Buck glances up just in time to catch him lazily tapping his temple with two fingers. 

A few minutes later, after a bathroom swap-out that was definitely executed with style and ease and not with all the grace of two flustered, six-foot-something-tall bumper cars, they lay side by side in bed.

Buck is on his back, but he twists his neck when he hears shuffling noises coming from the other side of the mattress. Eddie settles with his cheek squished against the pillow and yawns obnoxiously, so Buck is hit with a dragon-like blast of extremely minty breath.

He doesn’t even flinch. He suspects that might be what love is.

“In the morning. Will you make us—” Eddie lets out a second, smaller yawn, “—those eggs. Pretty please.”

“Duh,” Buck replies. “Of course. Stupid.”

“Sweet,” Eddie hisses sleepily, snuffling a little further into his pillow. “Night night.” 

Then he smacks a clumsy palm to his lips; which he then proceeds to smush, even clumsier, against Buck’s cheek—after patting around Buck’s nose and chin some, because his eyes are, important to note, closed—accompanied by a breathy mwah.

“Thanks,” Buck deadpans, but his smile is blaringly fond amongst all the quiet. “Sweet dreams, Eddie.”

No response.

When Eddie indulges—in whatever; food; wine; sex, probably, which is not a thought for right now, gotta stop that particular train—he does so enthusiastically, until he hits an arbitrary brick wall of a stopping point. 

Sometimes this point is pre-established; determined and enforced by himself as a hard and fast rule. One that hinges on a handful of things: his prolific sense of responsibility. His turbulent sense of self-worth. Even, on occasion, his volatile, invasive sense of God’s voyeuristic presence; the same one that abruptly stopped him from indulging in his relationship with his almost-nun ex-girlfriend. (Buck still privately finds that whole thing a little funny. Not the after, of course—just the nun part.)

Other times, though, Eddie’s stopping point is thrust upon him by external forces: for instance, when he gets a little bit sleepy.

Eddie has faced and won a number of battles over the course of his life. He’s one of the strongest people Buck has ever met, objectively. When it comes to fighting sleep, though, he loses every time. Tremendously, positively, irrevocably conked out; even when he’s willing to go down drowsily swinging insisting otherwise.

It’s adorable, and objectively hilarious.

Eddie’s nemesis, as usual, has bested him now, but Buck is still standing. He lingers for a few minutes in the tranquil aftermath, tracking Eddie’s features with bleary eyes. It’s his reward for staying conscious.

Neither of them bothered to properly shut the curtains before they tucked themselves in, which will probably bite 6 a.m. Buck in the ass, but—that guy isn’t at the wheel right now, so, whatever. Present Buck determines his impending sacrifice worth it, anyway, by the way the moon casts translucent, angelic rays over the outline of Eddie’s profile.

There’s something about moonlight that settles Buck. All natural; faintly guiding. It leaves a lot shrouded in darkness, giving him the space he demands to stubbornly navigate his own way through, but it doesn’t abandon: there’s a beacon there, distant but dependable. It offers up the essential shapes without taking away the messy fun of bumbling in the dark.

Buck feels sleep catching up to him and doesn’t bother putting up any more of a fight. 

Fuzzily, before he’s pulled under, he appreciates how much cooler and crisper everything looks in this room compared to the dense amber hues of the restaurant earlier. Their two-man bubble came home with them, but that pocket of air feels uniquely refreshing, here. He’s breathing easier.

Eddie looked wonderful in the saturated golds, but he’s an absolute vision in the unassuming light of the moon.

₊˚✧ ━━ ‎𓌉◯𓇋 ━━ ✧ ₊˚

By the time the night sky has clocked out for the day, Eddie has attached himself to Buck’s side.

Not to imply it’s literally one-sided—Buck is also considerably involved. The crook of his elbow is secured around Eddie, clasped tight like a hook and eye; his hand is clutching at Eddie’s wrist against his chest, fastening Eddie’s palm securely to his heart. 

Neither of them love sleeping alone, so it was most likely an equal-parts unconscious gravitation from both parties. It’s also—genuinely—not what Buck intended to happen when he went to sleep against his own pillow last night.

It’s lovely. 

That being said—there are three immediate consequences to their sudden proximity that he notes upon waking:

1. Eddie’s hair is relentlessly tickling the underside of Buck’s jaw. 
2. There’s drool on Buck’s collarbone, because Eddie is not only a total cuddlebug, but also sleeps like a rowdy grandpa.
3. Eddie’s leg has snuck its way into acting as a firm, wedge-like surface between Buck’s thighs.

One of these three ongoing incidents requires a level of constant close monitoring that is taking up a significant amount of early-morning brain power. He doesn’t feel like specifying which it is.

Shifting his hips back slightly, Buck takes stock of the rest of his body. There’s a faint, uncomfortable hum to his skull, but nothing that an Advil and a coffee can’t fix. His leg feels fine. His heart is—steadily increasing in pace, actually, so he’s gotta get that one reined in; otherwise, though, not doing too bad.

Buck is someone who has to put in conscious effort against worrying about things he can’t control. It’s ingrained in him, that urge to press and squeeze every little worry beneath his fingertips. His brain feels like an overripe apple, on its bad days: it holds onto the faintest of bruises; has a tang to it that’s just the wrong side of too sharp. 

It’s gotten easier with time. His thoughts don’t curl and grip mindlessly like they used to. 

So he knows better, now, than to fret over things out of his hands. It’s just a bit different, is all, when a particular something is—metaphorically and literally—within his grasp.

One half of Eddie’s hair is flat from the weight of Buck’s cheek. The other half splays out in short, silky strands against the pillowcase. His features rest at ease, off-duty, which is the sort of thing one might think would make him look younger, but it doesn’t. He looks the same. It’s just Eddie, with a little additional capacity for serenity. 

More drool, also. 

After lingering for a gratuitous few moments, Buck smooths a cautious hand through the portion of Eddie’s hair he leveled in his sleep, takes a deep breath, and extracts himself slowly.

He makes his escape, thankfully, without waking Eddie; who just makes a disgruntled noise before heavingly rolling his entire sleeping form to face the opposite direction, so he can drool onto some pleasantly soft bedding instead.

Buck stops in the bathroom for a quick piss, then plods down the hall toward the kitchen. After all, he has a promise to keep.

Rubbing a sleepy hand through his mess of curls and down his cheek, he steers himself to the fridge. 

Christopher’s gift for Eddie this recent Father’s Day was something that benefited the two of them, which means it benefits Buck by proxy. It’s a reliable source of amusement—father and son communicating with each other through sloppily arranged Scrabble tile magnets. 

Right now, underneath a scribbled grocery list held in place by a magnetic plastic succulent, the tiles spell out BRED STALE. There’s an empty space where that first A should live; presumably because of the words strewn beneath: HAVE CEREAL INSTEAD.

There’s a fresh loaf in the cupboard when Buck checks, because Eddie’s all talk. 

Buck disrupts Eddie’s short-form poetry to contribute: HI CHRIS LOVE BUCK. Then he goes rummaging for eggs.

Distraction is pretty much Buck’s only viable strategy this morning. The alternatives would be, say, running away—which he doesn’t want to do, the thought kind of makes him want to cry, actually—or sprinting back into the bedroom, launching himself on top of Eddie’s sleeping form, and begging for answers. Considerably more tempting; still not an option. 

He’s doing his best to lull himself into the muted, mental middle ground he has to self-enforce visitation to whenever his hopes or fears spike out of reasonable control. It’s murky there, and the careful neutrality slips out of his grasp second after second—unless he successfully submerges himself in the depths of procedural memory. 

So, he busies his hands. He fills the coffee machine and tucks in a fresh filter, so he doesn’t think about the warm, heady buzz Eddie’s hand spread down through his knee on the ride home. He empties the dishwasher, lest he remember the weight of Eddie’s strong, calloused fingers around his wrist as he led them to the bedroom. He dices tomatoes, fixing his focus on the precise, repetitive movement; instead of recalling standing toe-to-toe with Eddie while he made a fucking—spit or swallow joke, scarce inches from Buck’s face, in front of the bathroom mirror and also God.

In the end it’s entirely futile, of course; because while Buck is cracking eggs into a bowl, Eddie putters in.

He lives here; it’s likely. It’s still distracting, in the exact opposite way to what Buck is trying to achieve.

Regardless, Buck smiles, helpless but to. “Hi.”

“Mm,” Eddie rumbles, because in the mornings he likes to opt for a sleep-rumpled, grouchy sort of devastating; as opposed to his regular kind.

“Coffee’s there,” Buck gestures.

Eddie grunts politely. He collects his cup in Buck’s periphery—then all of a sudden Buck can’t see him at all, because he’s all but pressed against Buck’s back.

“Eggs?” Eddie mumbles, full of tender hope.

“I said of course, didn’t I?” 

“Mm. You did.” Eddie’s forehead thuds delicately against Buck’s shoulder. “My head hurts.”

“Eggs, then Advil,” Buck reassures him.

“Okay,” Eddie hums into Buck’s shoulderblade.

Buck, who is not getting his hopes up. Or—not too high. Not—well—he’s not jumping up and down on the spot with glee, and a win is a win, here.

Instead of jumping, he talks. 

“I think I dreamt about that tiramisu,” Buck says. 

Eddie’s forehead peels off of Buck’s shoulder with a soft noise of acknowledgement. He leans back against the counter at Buck’s side, sipping his drink.

“We should’ve got some more to go. Might’ve had to take out a loan, though. Hey, Coffee Man,” Buck gestures to the mug in Eddie’s grip to properly assert his new nickname, “does tiramisu have, like, real caffeine, do you think? As in, I mean, the stimulant effect—”

“It does,” Eddie cuts in. His voice is delectably gritty and thick, a combination of sleep and a mouth that’s slightly hangover-dry. “You mentioned that, during dinner. I forgot to answer you in the end, but I looked it up on my phone while you were in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” replies Buck. “I, uh. I forgot I’d already asked.”

“I figured,” Eddie smiles; small and lovely and without a trace of bother to be seen.

Buck cracks another egg. It’s something he can do one-handed, but he needs both of them on board and engaged right now, so he doesn’t think too hard while he speaks.

“I was kinda—uh.” Buck shakes his head minutely. An ungovernable curl flops onto his forehead, but there’s nothing he can do about it; his hands are all eggy. “I’m not sure what I said from around, like… dessert onward, honestly.”

Eddie folds his arms over his chest. His left hand, holding his mug, rests in the nook of one elbow; his right one taps nervously at his opposite bicep. “Wine got to you, huh?”

“Oh, uh. No,” Buck chuckles. He attempts to smooth the curl away with the back of his wrist to no avail. “Just, uh, nerves.”

A couple of quiet seconds pass, then a light kick lands and lingers on Buck’s ankle. 

Maybe it’s just some recently acquired sense memory, or—Pavlovian, or whatever, but the sparks of hope in Buck’s stomach flicker stubbornly to life. Like he’s an old TV that Eddie knocked against, stopping it from blaring only static.

“So, um. What about—what about you?” Buck ventures. 

He’s down to his last egg. He might actually have to look at Eddie soon.

“Nah,” Eddie hums. “Pretty sure I remember everything.” The sound of ceramic clinking down onto tile, then Buck feels slender fingers curl around the flank of his waist.

“Oh.” When Buck cracks his final thin shell of defense against the edge of the bowl, a little of the whites spill over onto the countertop. He’ll clean it up later; when he gets to checking the entryway wall, maybe. 

“Uh—how sure?” Buck asks his empty carton of eggs.

“Buck,” laughs Eddie, breathy and low. He pinches Buck’s side, who finally gives in and meets his eye, wiping his hands mindlessly on a nearby towel.

The hoods of Eddie’s eyelids look paper-thin at the angle he’s smiling up at Buck from. His chin is dipped down slightly, in a way Buck knows means come on, man. 

The morning sunlight pouring through the kitchen window makes itself at home between them. It surfaces and swirls around Eddie’s pupils in specs of fond, familiar hazel. 

Two large hands grasp at Buck’s waist, now.

“I’m sure,” Eddie states. He doesn’t waver, or even blink. Buck brings his own hands up to wrap around Eddie’s forearms.

“Yeah?”

Eddie nods, slow and decisive; takes a baby step closer. The movement shifts Buck’s fingers to curl around his elbows. He tenaciously doesn’t break eye contact. In fact, there might just be a determined shade of brown burned permanently into Buck’s retinas.

Does Eddie know how profoundly, ridiculously brown his eyes are? Maybe. Probably. Buck should tell him. Later, obviously.

“Just ‘cause, I feel like I, uh—kinda sprung some stuff on you, there,” Buck rattles out. “So, seriously, if you need a minute, or, if it’s—this—isn’t what you want, I’ll be…” He falters. Eddie is inching closer. “I’ll be, you know. Fine.” Closer still. Buck’s eyes begin to cross from their proximity. 

He abruptly slams them closed when Eddie kisses him.

It’s just the one: one lingering, firm brush of lips over lips; Eddie’s bottom one bridging the shy gap between Buck’s ever so slightly parted mouth. It lasts all of two seconds, the briefest of starting off points, but Buck’s hands still squeeze Eddie’s elbows like he’s scared one of them is about to float away.

Eddie pulls back, but only just enough for the kiss to break. His hands rub up and down Buck’s sides, squeezing occasionally, no discernable pattern to it.

He stays close in the soft aftermath. The tips of their noses bump in a way that, for some reason, almost makes Buck want to cry. The sheer tenderness, maybe; or perhaps because of the way something so simple lights him up from the inside.

“It’s what I want,” says Eddie, sweet and thick like syrup. “I know that much. I think I’d just rather process these… changes, you know—with you, rather than alone.” He licks his lips, rubs them together, then breathes out a tiny, whistle-shaped sigh. The gentle, exhaled breeze tickles the stubble of Buck’s chin. “If that works for you.”

“Yep,” Buck agrees immediately, his words rushing out and steaming ahead of him. “Yep. Yep, that’s—that’s working for me.”

Eddie throws his head back when he laughs. Buck seizes the moment to wrap his arms around the small of his back and tug him close; nosing at Eddie’s neck before squeezing him in his grip and lifting him an inch or two off the floor.

“Oof,” Eddie grunts. “Hey. Hey,” he complains, heartlessly. 

“Sorry,” Buck grins, once both of Eddie’s feet have been dutifully returned to solid ground.

To get his own back, Eddie huffs once, then kisses him again. 

It’s headier, this time. Buck winds his arms impossibly further around Eddie’s middle, squishing with his forearms, fingertips pressing greedily into the divots at the base of Eddie’s ribcage. He uses both lips to pluck messily at Eddie’s top one, then the bottom, then the bottom again; this time finishing it off with a teasing bite. 

Eddie inhales sharply. His hands smooth up the planes of Buck’s back to cup his shoulders from behind; he squeezes the broad curves of muscle in a way that makes Buck feel—well, claimed. 

He grunts a noise of acceptance and appreciation into Eddie’s mouth, before pressing at the seam of it with the tip of his tongue.

A hand comes to grip at the base of Buck’s neck as Eddie parts his lips to let him in. Eddie licks into Buck’s mouth, giving as good as he gets—a warm, needy slide; one that tastes like the coffee he just drank and sounds nearly as wet; accompanied by the fast-paced smacking of urgent lips. It’s just a little bit filthy, and a whole lot addicting.

Buck pulls back for a fleeting moment to grip the upper-back of Eddie’s thighs in two hands. Then he clutches and lifts, biceps flexing; carries Eddie a couple of paces so he can place him on a clean patch of counter. 

“Mmph,” Eddie articulates, mouth sealing itself back against Buck’s own. It sounds a little bit like fuck you—but if Buck is really, really, lucky, it might just sound a tiny bit like fuck me. 

Eddie’s thighs circle Buck’s hips, pulling him forward with the weight of his knees. In turn, Buck covers Eddie’s own hips with heavy palms, reaches his fingers to squeeze at the borders of his ass—but, in an exercise of superhuman willpower, he doesn’t dip them down all the way. Yet.

With a lingering pull at Buck’s top lip, Eddie edges back a little. He rests their foreheads together, breath mingling, and says, “You didn’t tip the waiter with that dollar bill, did you?”

When Buck laughs, it sounds a lot more like a pant. “No, I did not.” He pinches Eddie’s ass, allowing his hand to travel just a tiny bit lower—solely in the name of making a point, nothing else, no sir. “I promised him I wouldn’t, actually.”

“Very polite,” Eddie coos, teasing. His eyes flit to Buck’s hairline, and he brushes back a couple of loose curls with his fingers, before tracing the edges of the birthmark above Buck’s eyebrow with a delicate thumb. “Where did you put it?”

It takes Buck an embarrassing few seconds to remember what he’s referring to. Eddie’s mouth is pretty-pink and damp and a touch swollen from the bruising kisses that he’s been inflicting. He’s understandably distracted. 

“Uh. It’ll be in my pants pocket, I think. Do you—want it back?”

Eddie barks out a breathy, labored laugh. 

“No. I’m not that cheap, Buckley.” He flicks Buck’s nose, so Buck scrunches it up in weak complaint. Sarcastically, Eddie adds, “I was thinking we could frame it.”

“Yeah?” Buck grins. “Hang it above the bed?”

“Uh huh. Pride of place.”

When Eddie’s eyes meet Buck’s own, they’re pretty much letting off sparks. The twinkle echoes the pearly-white glint of his canines. Buck could write sonnets about those ridiculous fucking canines. 

Instead, Buck hums, and back leans in for a couple of shorter kisses.

“I don’t know how I feel about George Washington keeping watch over our sex life,” he muses.

“Eh,” Eddie intones, calves brushing intentionally up and down the backs of Buck’s thighs and knees. “Never know if you don’t try new things.”

“You’re so right.” Buck nods heartily, then pecks Eddie’s lips. “You’re so wise.” Another peck. “All the time.” Another peck—an attempt at one, at least, because Eddie seizes the opportunity known as Buck’s mouth.

Buck is pulled in closer, closer, closer, by the fierce grip of Eddie’s legs. He finally permits himself to cup Eddie’s ass in two delectable—actually, dare he say, life-changing, mesmerizing, he lives here now—handfuls; tugs him forward.

Eddie’s tongue licks messily at the backs of Buck’s teeth; then he moans—maddeningly soft, drawn-out, stuttering—when their hips meet. Buck can feel Eddie growing hard in his shorts, and it floods his gut with searing, swirling heat. He uses his grip on Eddie’s ass to grind them together, once, twice; breaks the kiss to pant raggedly against Eddie’s mouth.

“I mean—shit—Buck,” Eddie mutters against Buck’s lips. “You wanna… now?”

Groaning in a way that can only really be described as downright giddy, Buck says, “Yes. Please.” He slides his palms back up to the slightly tamer territory that is the dip of Eddie’s waist—the way his head spins when his hands encompass so significant a portion of it notwithstanding—and pulls back to level Eddie with a stupid smile.

“I’ll go get George,” Buck grins, purposefully ridiculous. Then he pecks Eddie once more on the mouth, swift and chaste, before rushing off to retrieve his dress pants from the arm of the couch.

When he hip-checks the corner of the kitchen table in his haste to make Eddie laugh, he lets out an ow; but it’s fine. He can’t really feel it, anyway, over the wonderful sound of Eddie’s cackle following him through the doorway.