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It’s not the first time Buck’s come over for dinner, by any means; it’s not even the first time he’s come over for dinner since they started this — this dance, almost, where they both know how the other feels, and they both know they can make a move, and they both toe the line just enough, but they never quite cross it.
Eddie doesn’t know if he’s going to be the one to finally cross that line tonight, but he hopes one of them will.
The actual dinner part went quite smoothly, as it always does. Christopher was at a friend’s for the night, so it was just the two of them. Eddie had made something called a blush pasta from a recipe Maddie had recommended to him, and Buck had brought over some miniature lemon tarts from that new bakery by his loft. They talked about everything and nothing, trading stories about their days. Buck had had a shift that day, Eddie hadn’t, so he’d told Eddie about some call where a woman had given her husband an atomic wedgie because he’d dared her to, and Eddie had laughed so hard that the beer he’d been drinking shot out of his nose. It burned his nostrils, and twenty minutes later he still can only smell beer, but Buck had come over with a napkin to dry him off, so Eddie thinks it was worth it.
When they’re finished, Buck excuses himself to the bathroom, so Eddie gets started on the washing. He’s on the second plate when he feels a warm presence come up from behind him and a chin hooking on his shoulder. Eddie doesn’t lean into the touch, or away from it, just lets Buck hang on him while he scrubs at leftover pasta sauce and the remnants of roasted Brussels sprouts.
“You missed a spot,” Buck rumbles in his ear. “Right…there.” He brings a hand forward, pointing at a sparkling clean spot on the plate, and his other hand comes up to Eddie’s waist, steadying him. Eddie does lean into this touch, pushes as much of his body weight as he can into Buck’s palm. This, too, isn’t exactly a first, but it is the first time either one of them haven’t backed away almost immediately; Buck is lingering behind him, his free hand dropping and landing on the edge of the sink, caging Eddie in from that side. His chin is still resting on Eddie’s shoulder, the soft puffs of his breath tickling Eddie’s neck, and for a brief moment, Eddie closes his eyes and entertains the idea of Buck’s lips and teeth at his pulse point, instead of just the air from his lungs.
He doesn’t drop the plate in his hands, but he comes very close.
Buck does step out of Eddie’s space just a moment later, leaning his hip against the edge of the sink, just inches away from where his hand had been seconds before. Eddie can feel Buck’s eyes on him as he finishes rinsing the plate, something soft and warm blooming in the spots his gaze falls to: Eddie’s mouth, Eddie’s hands, Eddie’s arms, Eddie’s a—
Eddie clears his throat and holds out the plate for Buck to inspect. “That look good to you?”
Buck grabs it from him and takes a close look, angling it this way and that, holding it up to the light. He’s got a look on his face that says he’s trying to be serious, but his sunshine grin is peeking through spectacularly, and it bleeds onto Eddie’s own face, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement as Buck thoroughly examines the dish.
“It’s acceptable,” is all he says. The (not-so) serious look on his face has now morphed into a shit-eating grin, stretching wider as he leans into Eddie’s space again, across the sink, in order to gingerly place the plate in the drying rack.
He’s no more than a hand’s width away, now.
Eddie’s breath hitches as he looks up, just barely, those two inches that Buck has on him in the height department working against his favor. Or in his favor, really, because Eddie finds that he doesn’t quite mind being under Buck like this, having to tilt his chin up just so to maintain eye contact.
Buck’s own breathing seems to have faltered, too, the room almost silent now, nothing but the faint buzz of the refrigerator pulsing in time with the near-constant ringing Eddie always hears.
“So, um,” Buck swallows, gaze darting down to Eddie’s mouth for no more than a second. “So, this was a — a date, right?”
Eddie smiles, small, and leans away, reaching for a kitchen towel to dry his hands with. He keeps his eyes trained down when he asks, “Did you want it to be?”
Buck gives an almost flustered chuckle, and Eddie could not be more endeared. “I — I mean, I figured we’d already been, you know, going on dates. Together, I mean. I just — I wanted to make sure.”
Eddie leans back into Buck’s space, close enough to feel the warmth of his body between them, and meets his eyes. His hands itch to grab Buck by his waist and haul him in even closer, but he’s having fun with this back-and-forth — wants to see how far it can go. “How many dates do you think we’ve been on?”
Buck looks up — puts his thinking face on, Christopher likes to say — and counts, both out loud and on his fingers.
Eddie was wrong — he could be, and currently is, even more endeared.
“Seven, I think? Maybe eight?”
“Eight? We’ve been on at least twelve,” Eddie argues, but he’s still smiling, couldn’t make himself stop even if he wanted to.
“It doesn’t count as a date if Christopher’s there,” Buck shoots back, but there’s no bite there, either; both of them have all but dropped the game, each holding onto it with nothing more than a crooked pinkie.
Eddie purses his lips and hums. “Point taken.” He cocks his head to the side, and between them, one of his hands find’s Buck’s, tracing the backs of his fingers. Buck hooks his index around Eddie’s and gives the slightest tug, making Eddie inch even closer. There’s barely enough room to breathe in between them, now, and Eddie’s mind is swimming with thoughts of Buck’s smile, the softness in his eyes, the scent of his cologne, permeating the air now that he and Buck are chest-to-chest, nearly nose-to-nose. He manages to mumble out, “Guess we’ll just have to make up for it,” as his eyes slip shut and he leans forward, searching for Buck’s mouth with his own.
He doesn’t find it.
When he opens his eyes, Buck isn’t in front of him anymore; he’s opening the fridge door instead, grabbing two beers with one hand. When he turns around to face Eddie, that shit-eating grin is back on his face, teasing, mischievous.
So the game isn’t over, then.
“Guess we will,” Buck says, a lilt to his voice; he knows what he’s doing, knows he’s being a little shit and is having fun with it, for now — but they both know how tonight is going to end, at this point.
Eddie scratches his nose then points towards the living room. “I, uh, I didn’t have a movie planned, but there’s a new episode of Bake Off, if you wanted to catch up.” He mostly just wants Buck on the couch because he thinks it’d be much more comfortable to kiss him there instead of against his kitchen counter. Buck doesn’t seem to have any protests, handing Eddie one of the two beers and heading to the living room, Eddie close behind.
When Buck plops on the couch, he outstretches one of his arms across the back, and Eddie takes in a breath before he settles right into that space, the heat of Buck’s arm burning a brand across his shoulders. There’s still room in between them, no more than a few inches, but it’s far less than the foot or more they would have kept between them even a month ago, before they started — well, Eddie might as well call it what it is — dating.
Eddie briefly thinks about scooting closer, about the hot press of Buck against his side, from shoulder to knee, but he stays planted in his spot, just reaches for the remote off the coffee table and clicks the television on, pulling up Netflix and selecting the most recent episode of The Great British Bake Off before settling back against Buck’s arm.
Eddie only really half-watches, too distracted by Buck’s commentary, the way he quirks his eyebrow and says, “Oh, that sounds good,” about every other signature bake, or the groan he lets out when someone’s showstopper inevitably falls apart. He’s also quite distracted by Buck’s arm, now fallen off the back of the couch and secured around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie isn’t even sure if Buck has noticed his thumb tracing a back-and-forth across Eddie’s arm, because he seems too engrossed in the British bakers on screen. But Eddie has noticed very much, and he’s also noticed the inches between them have dwindled in the past forty-or-so minutes. He’s tucked up against Buck’s side now, his knee pressing into Buck’s strong, thick thigh. He wants to put his hand on it, to feel the firm muscle flex against his palm and fingers.
So, he does.
Buck’s in the middle of a rant about Prue’s lack of taste — or maybe Paul’s lack of whimsy, Eddie’s not too sure — when he rests his hand square in the middle of Buck’s thigh, squeezing just the slightest. Buck freezes mid-sentence, recovering quickly, but there’s an added strain to his voice, almost imperceptible. Eddie smiles to himself and gives Buck’s thigh another squeeze, firmer this time and causing another slight pause in Buck’s speech, then leans back against Buck’s arm, almost tucking his head on Buck’s shoulder, but not quite.
Buck sighs and turns his head, mouth now pressed into Eddie’s hair. “This okay?” he asks, quiet and muffled and — not nervous, exactly, just seeking reassurance. Eddie just nods, gives a quiet, “yeah, s’okay,” and then Buck presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head.
They stay like that until the end of the episode, Buck resting his head atop Eddie’s and occasionally dotting a kiss or two into his hair, Eddie leaning into Buck’s side and tracing patterns atop his thigh. He doesn’t think either of them really pay much attention to the rest of the episode; the credits roll, and Eddie still doesn’t know who got Star Baker and who got sent home. But he does know that Buck is tensing up next to him, just barely, and the arm that was tight around his shoulders is now loosening and being withdrawn.
“I, uh, I should probably get home,” Buck says, scratching his neck with the hand that was just rubbing up and down Eddie’s bicep. “Unless you want me to — to stay,” he adds, lower, softer, more vulnerable.
“Buck,” Eddie breathes, reverently, because he’s not sure that there’s another word in either of the two languages he speaks that holds more weight. He finally lifts his hand from Buck’s thigh and reaches up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touch. Buck’s eyes fall shut, and Eddie's are quick to follow. “I want you to stay.”
(He hopes Buck knows what he really means by that, but he supposed they’ll have plenty of time to talk about that in the morning.)
Buck kisses him, then, gentler than Eddie would have expected, but still firm, sure. Like he knows this is where he’s supposed to be. Eddie kisses him back, uses the hand on his neck to hold him in place, tries to tell him with just the slide of their lips, I love you. I love you, and I’ll tell you out loud, in the morning, when you wake up in my bed. But I’m telling you now, too, and I know you can feel it. Please, feel it.
Buck’s hum into his mouth, and his hands coming up to cup his face, tell Eddie, I do feel it. I do. I love you.
Eddie smiles against Buck’s lips, and he kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.