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Eddie loses track of time in the shower.
It was a long shift. Nothing too heavy, just—exhausting. Call after call after call, decision after decision after decision.
He might be a little suspicious that someone used the Q word. Might be. It was that rough.
It’s why he loses himself—once the warm water is spraying over him and settling nicely into the ache of his muscles and bones, he’s groaning with it. Takes his sweet time washing his hair, makes sure it’s squeaky clean and free of sweat and grime. Washes his body slowly, thoroughly, the fragrance of his body wash clinging to his wet skin.
It’s just so comfortable. The pleasant, enveloping heat, the soap washing away the stress of the past 24 hours.
It isn’t until he starts smelling the dinner he was supposed to be helping with that he snaps out of his trance.
He curses softly, the thrum of his voice completely lost in the sound of the water crashing to his shower floor. He’s quick with rinsing off the remaining suds and twisting the water off, quick with toweling himself dry, quick with getting himself halfway decent so he can hurry into the kitchen.
He’s got droplets of water racing down his bare chest when he walks in, wrinkly old LAFD shirt in his hands and his sweats snug around his hips. Buck’s standing over the stove, apron tied neatly to his front. He’s moving along to the song that’s playing over his phone, looking entirely at ease.
Eddie takes a second just to stare.
He takes that second, maybe two of them, if he’s being real honest with himself, and he’s trying to do more of that, so. Two seconds. And then he’s saying, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging, you could’ve called for me—”
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Buck cuts in, smile brighter than the fucking sun when he turns to meet Eddie’s eyes, and it’s then that he pauses a little, eyes breaking contact to roam over Eddie’s skin.
And Eddie—he doesn’t really have the time to analyze that look, other than the fact he’s probably just a little surprised that Eddie didn’t finish getting dressed before meeting him out here. Because as quickly as he paused, he’s back to moving again; foot tapping to the music, hand controlling the wooden spoon that’s trying to perfect Abuela’s rice. Pepa’s been teaching him how to make it, and he’s so set on getting it right.
His heart aches a little.
He had made a throwaway comment about missing her the other day, and now Buck’s in his kitchen, making her rice, her beef enchiladas in the oven.
He’s a little afraid that whatever comes out of his mouth will morph into I want you to dance in my kitchen every day for forever, so he bites down on it and puts his shirt over his head.
“It’s almost done,” Buck continues, brow furrowing adorably as he brings the spoon up to his mouth to test out the rice. It’s not up to his standards, it seems, so he pulls another equally adorable face and keeps it simmering in the pan. “Chris helped me with the enchiladas. He’s finishing up his math homework.”
And it’s, like. Eddie can’t help it.
He closes the small distance between the two of them, the smell of the kitchen so unbelievably nostalgic, the soft music settling his shoulders. He slides right up behind Buck, overcome with all of it, everything, and hooks his chin on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he says. His voice shakes a little with it.
Buck tenses underneath him. Eddie’s a second away from backing up and putting both of his hands on the back of a chair to settle the urge to reach out for him, but then—Buck’s leaning back into him. Their cheeks touch with the movement, and the warmth bleeds into his skin like fire.
It’s almost too much—blood rushes to the exact place where their skin is joined, his eyes nearly water. He blinks, once, twice, and Buck’s breathes in, sharp.
“Your eyelashes,” he says, a breath, a pitch too high, and then he huffs out the rest of the air in his lungs through a laugh. Eddie feels it. In his chest, in his stomach. It feels like his heart tries to match up with the rhythm of it.
“My eyelashes?” Eddie asks. He has no idea how his voice is so even.
“They—I felt them. When you blinked. It tickled.”
“Oh,” Eddie says, laughing, and he’s so comfortable; still warm from the shower, from how their bodies are aligned. He places one of his hands on Buck’s waist, and when he says, “Sorry,” he isn’t.
“No, don’t be. It’s just—it’s okay. You also don’t have to thank me.”
Eddie, with all the strength in his body, moves away from Buck, leaning against the cabinets beside them, instead. “I know I don’t. But I’m going to, anyway.”
Buck rolls his eyes and laughs at him, then puts the spoon back in his mouth for another taste test. He hums this time, eyes wide, and then Eddie’s got a wooden spoon waiting at his closed mouth. “Try this. See if it’s okay. It’s getting better, I think.”
The thing is, Buck could monumentally fuck up his Abuela’s rice and leave it tasting completely unrecognizable and he thinks he would still compliment his culinary skills. But he opens his mouth anyway, ignores the way his stomach does backflips when their eyes meet, and gets a taste.
It’s close. It’s really close. He can’t help the noise he makes when he tries to speak and swallow at the same time, an embarrassing splutter, but it’s worth it, making a fool of himself, to see the way Buck’s eyes light up.
“Holy shit,” he says, “That’s good.”
Buck ducks his head, the tips of his ears flushing pink, and Eddie watches in real time as his cheeks start trying to match his birthmark.
He thinks he might pass out in the middle of this goddamn kitchen. He doesn’t know if it’s the exhaustion that’s turning his brain into mush or if his brain has just finally had enough in trying to censor himself around the man he’s in love with, but he finds himself reaching out, wiping his thumb over the corner of Buck’s mouth to catch the oil that’s been left behind.
“Let me just,” Buck says, a rush of air, and turns the gas off, letting the rice cool. When he’s done, he turns to face Eddie again, still shining over the compliment. “Your hair is dripping wet.”
“Is it?” Eddie asks, and he knows it is, can feel wet spots forming in his shirt. Can see the tiny damp spots on Buck’s shirt, too.
“Asshole,” he mumbles, smile muted with the way he bites at his bottom lip. He turns his attention to the soft glow of the oven, squinting at the visible enchiladas. “Go finish what you need to finish. I’m about to take these out and then we’ll be ready to eat.”
“Are you sure? I can help with—”
“Eddie,” Buck says, all serious, and puts both hands on his shoulders. His touch is heavy, a brand. Eddie hopes his irises aren’t turning into hearts. “Let me do something for you, okay?”
Eddie wants to ask why. He almost does. His mouth is open, the word is crawling up his tongue, but what comes out instead, is, “Okay.”
“Okay,” Buck repeats, nodding to the doorway. “You deserve a minute, after today.”
“So do—”
Buck makes an obnoxious noise to cut him off and Eddie giggles, shaking his head at him. Ridiculous. “Yeah, yeah. You and Chris brought me takeout last week when I had a rough shift. Made me cookies. Let me do something, too.”
“So you’re kicking me out of the kitchen?”
“Yeah,” Buck says, eyebrows raised in a challenge. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Eddie hums, and his heart is about to beat out of his chest, maybe, because it used to be that he thought about the future and saw murky what-ifs. But when he thinks about the future right now, he sees this exact same thing play out in his head, except Buck’s got more crinkles by his eyes and camouflaged gray hairs in between the light ones.
He’s a little bit dazed by it. Because he feels so sure.
Buck’s speaking again, telling him, “Go dry your hair, baby.”
And like, he’s stuck in that daydream. Completely crazy about it. So it’s not exactly his fault that he doesn’t register what Buck said until he’s in the bathroom again.
He straightens his shoulders out and looks at his reflection like maybe he’s actually lost it, but, no, those were real words coming from Buck, who is also real, so—
“Oh, fuck.”
He drops the towel into the sink. His hair isn’t wet anymore, just damp, and he stares into his own eyes and thinks, over and over and over, baby, baby, baby.
That’s just—that’s not what they do. They don’t know what personal space is and they make up any excuse to see each other during the week, but they don’t—they don’t use pet names. Eddie thinks them, all the time, but he’s never been brave enough to say them out loud, like Buck just did.
Buck, who was probably just—messing around.
His face is flushed, completely pink, and he’s already thinking about blaming it on the humidity in the bathroom if it’s brought up. He stares at himself, mirror still a little foggy, and bites back a groan.
Oh, it’s all over his face. He knows he’s being completely hysterical about it, but there’s also a voice in his head that’s telling him, no, you actually do look completely ass overs tits in love, and your son is going to know, Buck’s going to know, everyone’s going to know.
There’s a knock at the door and Eddie nearly gives a horror movie scream, but Christopher’s voice is filtering in through the door before he can further embarrass himself. If he keeps going at this rate, he’ll probably have to pack the whole house up in the middle of the night and head back to Texas.
“Buck says dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, mijo,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
He gives himself a look in the mirror, tells himself to get his shit together, and then he’s walking up to the cutest scene he’s ever witnessed in his life.
Chris and Eddie are working together to make Eddie’s plate at the table, making sure he has enough rice, two nice enchiladas, a slice of avocado like he usually requests, and it makes all the nerves in his body quiet. He breathes out the tension in his body and gets close enough to put a hand on Buck’s shoulder.
Buck looks back with a grin, his eyes shining with it, crinkled with it, and Eddie’s scared of a lot of things, can work up the panic in his body until he’s shaking with it, but—he’s not scared of this.
They all sit, plates piled high with food, and there’s going to be a day when he can be one of those people and reach over to hold Buck’s hand during dinner. He’s so sure.
Because Buck’s been choosing the two of them for God knows how long—and Eddie’s been choosing him right back.
They’re all quiet for a moment as they start to eat, and fuck, it’s good, Eddie can’t do much other than shoot Buck grateful looks and make insane noises as he eats, which, admittedly, isn’t the best example to set about manners, but whatever.
“I think we should get a cat,” Christopher announces, stabbing a piece of enchilada with his fork.
“Woah,” Eddie says, “Where did that come from?”
“Alex got a new cat and he’s been sending me videos,” he answers. “She’s just so cute.”
“Number one, you’re showing me those videos after dinner,” Buck starts. “Number two, we can’t just go out and get a cat. We have to plan it out, make sure we’re ready.”
And it’s—the we. We have to plan it out. We have to make sure we’re ready.
Eddie might shed a few tears onto his food. The jury’s still out on it. It’s just that—he’s so sure, and Buck’s talking about this like he lives here, like he’s sure, like it’s also his decision to make. Because it is—or, it will be, because Eddie’s going to make sure he never leaves, after tonight.
“I’ve been researching,” Christopher says, and Buck brightens up at that, and oh god, that’s Buck’s son. That’s their son. “And I have a list of things we would need to buy, like a litter box and actual good cat food with nutritional value. I also have the address to the closest local shelter, because adopting is a million times better.”
Eddie looks over at Buck. They exchanged a woah, he’s serious and really being mature about this look through a single look, and Eddie promises to talk about it more this weekend.
They talk about upcoming deadlines for a project and the book fair, talk about a new movie that’s supposed to be coming out within a few weeks. It’s so—it’s normal. They have three different sets of handwriting on the calendar, Buck’s shoes are mixed in with theirs on the rack, Buck’s making family recipes. They’re a family, and this has been their normal, and Eddie wants to laugh, because why haven’t they—they’re so silly.
It’s when Christopher excuses himself after dinner to finish the rest of his homework that the air shifts again. They take the plates into the kitchen, Eddie washes, like always, Buck dries, like always, and the silence is so thick, but it isn’t uncomfortable.
With Buck, the silence feels like a blanket.
Eddie knows exactly what he’s going to say, once the final plate is back in the cabinet. Buck reaches up to place it in there, and it’s there, on his tongue, it’s there.
But it’s Buck, who breaks the silence.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says. Urgent. Eddie would laugh at the expression on his face if his heart wasn’t beating so hard.
Eddie looks down at himself, because—what? But—oh. Yeah. This shirt is longer, and it has a rip in the side, and if Eddie were anywhere near a mirror, he could turn around and see BUCKLEY written across his back.
He fights a shiver at the thought of it.
For some reason, what comes out of his mouth is, “You called me baby.”
Buck laughs, something nervous and halfway frantic. “You, like—you hugged me from behind. I felt your eyelashes.”
“You know how to make my Abuela’s rice.”
“You walked in shirtless. And—and wet, Eddie.”
Eddie loses it at that one. He laughs, and he hangs onto the kitchen island because he might faint if he doesn’t, and when he can finally breathe again, he says, like he was supposed to, before Buck spoke first: “I think you should stay here.”
“I’m right here,” Buck says, a little confused by the way his head tilts, and oh, Eddie can’t stand being this far away from him, so he takes a few steps, stands toe to toe with him, relishes in the way he can see Buck shiver.
“I know you are. I meant,” Eddie starts, and he lets both of his hands reach out and take hold of Buck’s waist, pulling him in until there’s nowhere else to go. “You should stay here forever.”
Buck’s taking these short breaths and his eyes are moving all over Eddie’s face. “Like—?”
“Like you get rid of the loft and come be with us,” Eddie finishes. Buck’s looking at him like he’s maybe stuck on pause, trying to take everything in, so he keeps going. “I don’t want you to go through that front door again unless you’re just going to the store, or to that stupid expensive coffee place, or—or to work with me in the morning, or the animal shelter, since apparently we’re getting a cat. I want the rest of your shoes mixed in with ours, and I never want you to sleep on the couch again.”
“Eddie,” Buck whispers, and Eddie’s so close that he can see every mark, every blemish, every freckle. He’s perfect. “I—yeah. I want that, too. I want that so fucking much, I didn’t think you—Eddie—I’ll stay. I’ll stay, of course I’ll stay. Are you kidding?”
Buck’s hands reach out and take Eddie’s face in them, and they should have done this years ago, should’ve done this the day they met. Eddie has missed out on the rough warmth of Buck’s hands over his jaw, feels like he’s just now blinking himself awake. Like this is what he needed to see clearly.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Buck says, again, and now that Eddie’s so close, he can see how intense his gaze is when he drinks the sight in. He feels himself flush all over, being the subject of Buck’s stare. His whole attention. “That’s—I need to kiss you. I mean, if you want me to, I—”
Eddie presses in close, cuts him off with a kiss, and he feels like he’s going to drown, maybe, because Buck’s lips feel like heaven against his own and it’s taking all the air from every cell in his body.
Buck’s humming, making all kinds of noise into the kiss, and Eddie sighs when he feels Buck back off just a little. Their lips are still touching, but barely so, connected by a string of spit that turns Eddie’s insides into flames.
Buck’s still holding his face like he’s something precious, keeping their eyes locked together. He moves in, kisses him once, twice, chaste. “I really don’t think I’ll be able to stop kissing you after this. After knowing what it’s like.”
Eddie chases his mouth, kisses him again and again. When he speaks, he speaks slowly against Buck’s lips. “Then don’t.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Buck says, smile sweet, and Eddie refrains from kissing him again to hear what he says next. “I’m staying, remember?”
Eddie kisses the edge of his mouth. “Prove it.”