Work Text:
“Remember once I told you about
How before I heard it from your mouth
My name would always hit my ears as such an awful sound?
And the soul, if that's what you'd call it
Uneasy ally of the body, it felt nameless as a river
Undiscovered, underground
And the first time that you kissed me
I drank dry the River Lethe
The Liffey would have been softer on my stomach all the same
But you spoke some quick new music
That went so far to soothe this soul
As it was and ever shall be, unearth without a name
Some part of me must have died
The first time that you called me ‘baby’
And some part of me came alive
The first time that you called me ‘baby’”
–Hozier, “First Time”
~~~
“Baby,” he breathes against Eddie’s skin. “Honey,” he whispers, pressing his lips to Eddie’s neck just below his jaw. “Darling,” he says, sucking on his skin. “Sweetheart,” he teases, trailing his way lower, down his throat and over his collarbones, to his chest.
And Eddie likes it.
Half an hour ago, Eddie had stood in his kitchen with a beer bottle dangling loosely from between his fingers, wearing a dark blue hoodie that made him look softer and cozier than Eddie usually allowed himself and gave Buck dangerous ideas.
They were both a little drunk, although Buck would have to admit that he is not as far gone as Eddie seems to be. Whether that is because Eddie historically doesn’t hold his liquor well (where Buck has proven himself to be oddly capable of landing a backflip after as many as eight beers) or because he’d done a bit of pre-gaming before he arrived was not clear.
“--never even called Shannon anything like that,” he was complaining, a bit too vigorously.
“What, none of it?” Buck asks incredulously. “Not even the classics? Baby, honey…? Darling?” he questions, the last one feeling a little obscene as his gaze flickers down to Eddie’s mouth. Eyes are up here, Buck, he can almost hear Eddie mocking. He clears his throat. “Or like, sweetheart or something? Eddie, those are just standard.”
“Wow, so when did you become the pet name expert, huh?” Eddie’s words are slurring just a little bit, whether from the alcohol or the late hour or a little bit of both, and his accent is starting to creep stronger into his words. Buck is having a really hard time not thinking about how hot it is.
“Not expert, just… I mean, come on, Eddie, where’s the romance? I love that shit,” he confesses, his face feeling a little warm. “I don’t even care if it’s cheesy, man, I love all that stuff. The pet names, the grand gestures, the being so fucking in love you feel sick and you know you’re driving everyone around you crazy but it doesn’t even matter… ugh, I’m such a sucker for it!” He scrunches his eyes closed and smiles to himself for a minute, reveling in the warm fuzzies of it all.
When he opens his eyes, Eddie is staring at him with a hungry look that Buck doesn’t fully understand… but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t decipher it, replaced by a flare of red in Eddie’s cheeks.
Eddie takes a step closer, almost carefully, and Buck finds himself holding his breath. He releases it when he realizes that Eddie is just moving to set down his beer. “Well, that may be, Buck, but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” he drawls. “Shannon and me, we just called each other by our names.” He shrugs. “Sometimes she’d use my last name if we were feeling…” he trails off, looking a little sheepish. “Some type of way.”
Buck raises an eyebrow, amused at Eddie’s occasional primness. “Uh huh. Okay, Diaz ,” he says, taunting, “and you’re really gonna stand there and tell me it does nothing for you? That there’s not a single pet name that turns you on just a little bit?”
Eddie swallows, visibly, and that look from before… the hunger, the heat, the way his eyes seem to go a little dark… it’s there again, for just a flickering second.
Then his eyes are just Eddie’s eyes again – warm and brown and steady, always a touch sad in a way that activates Buck’s instinct to cradle and comfort and hold gently in his cupped hands until everything is okay again – and he’s turning his back on Buck to toss their collection of empty beer bottles in the recycling bin because Eddie is absolutely obsessive about recycling.
And Buck…
Buck is following him, inevitably, because he always follows him, because sometimes he could swear there’s a magnet buried in his chest that corresponds to a matching one in Eddie’s, that drags him to wherever Eddie happens to be. A force he can’t seem to fight. He reaches around Eddie to toss his beer bottle into the bin too, and his chest is brushing up against Eddie’s back just a little.
Buck lingers there, the world gone slow and liquid and dead silent. In his head, he is begging Eddie to turn around. To face him. What does he hope for after that? He has no words for it, the yawning chasm of unending wanting inside him. He can hear – he can feel – Eddie breathing.
Eddie turns.
“Baby,” he rasps, lifting a hand as if to cup Buck’s face.
Buck lets his eyes drift closed, preemptively, but Eddie doesn’t actually make contact. He huffs out a laugh, and Buck’s eyes snap open again, bewildered.
“In answer to your question,” Eddie says, his voice still pitched low.
“Oh,” Buck says dumbly. And then he remembers his own words, just a few moments earlier. “Ohhhh,” he repeats, a grin tugging at his lips, “yeah? Okay, so we’ve got something to work with.” He smirks. “Baby? Really? I wouldn’t have thought–”
Eddie frowns. “You know what, Buckley–”
“No, no, no. I take it back. It’s great. It’s cute.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “God, I didn’t even mean… I don’t even like it that much, I just… thought I’d try it on for size. This is stupid, Buck.”
“Hey, it’s not stupid. Did it work? Did it… do anything for you? When you, uh, tried it on for size?”
Eddie hesitates, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Pet names aren’t my forte, man. Not my area of expertise.” He reaches out and squeezes Buck’s shoulder playfully. “Although apparently they are yours. What a pity, Buckley, that we can’t all have your game.”
“Let me try,” Buck says without thinking. Always without thinking.
“What?” Eddie says, reflexively, but Buck is pretty sure he heard him. Eddie raises an eyebrow. Like a dare. Like a challenge. Oh, Buck will take that bait.
He grins. “I think I can change your mind. About pet names. In fact, I’m willing to bet…” he lets his smile drift into something just a little bit wicked. “I fucking dare you to resist me, Diaz.” Buck moves closer, so close they’re almost touching, almost chest-to-chest. He’s crowding him, getting in his space just to piss him off, and Buck isn’t really sure why he’s doing it – he just knows that there’s that familiar, simmering desire in his gut to pick a fight, to push and keep pushing, to rile someone up and see what happens when they snap.
Eddie’s hands settle on his hips – Eddie’s, not Buck’s, unfortunately – in that disapproving stance that Buck finds so adorably sassy. “You’re talkin’ crazy, Buck.”
“But you like it.”
Eddie throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine.” He stares levelly at Buck. “Do your worst.”
Famous last words, Eddie Diaz. Famous fucking last words.
There’s not really room between them for Buck to step closer, but he takes the step anyway, narrowly avoiding stepping on Eddie’s socked feet. And Eddie, notoriously protective over his personal space, infamous for his sarcastic remarks about “people who hover,” well-known for going stiff as a board when hugged, that Eddie , lets Buck do it.
Eddie, who pushes everyone away, lets Buck push in closer.
He reaches up and curls his hand around the back of Eddie’s neck, gently tugging him forward until their foreheads rest against each other. “Come here,” he murmurs.
“Is this part of it?” Eddie asks. “Your master plan?”
Buck chuckles, lifting his other hand to brush his thumb over Eddie’s cheekbone. “This is part of it, baby.”
Eddie makes a noise in response, but Buck can’t really tell if it’s a grunt or a groan or a whimper. Whatever it is, he decides to take it as encouragement to keep going. He leans in close and presses his lips, just barely, to Eddie’s jaw. And again, a little lower. Again, again, again. Punctuating each kiss with that word: “Baby, baby, baby…”
Eddie is breathing hard. Buck glances up and sees that his eyes are shut, his lips slightly parted. He looks sort of ravished, and Buck allows himself a moment to just bask in his accomplishment. Too long of a moment, apparently, because Eddie’s eyes flicker open and attach themselves to Buck’s face – his mouth? – with something Buck feels certain is a question forming on his lips.
“So?” he asks, before Eddie can say anything. “Is it working?” Buck places one hand palm-flat on Eddie’s chest, propelling him gently but steadily backward, out of the kitchen and into the living area of the apartment.
Eddie shakes his head no.
Buck laughs breathlessly. “Fuck you.” Maybe Buck’s ears are just playing tricks on him, but he thinks he hears Eddie breathe a word in response. It sounds a lot like a murmured “okay.”
They’ve reached the couch – the glorious, amazing, positively divine couch that Buck is more attached to than anyone should reasonably be to a piece of furniture – and when Eddie’s legs bump against it, he lets himself topple backwards, pulling Buck with him. Pulling Buck down on top of him. They land in a sort of tangled mess of arms and legs and bodies pressed firmly together in a way that feels somehow familiar – Buck has carried this man on his shoulders and cried in his arms, cleaned his stitched-up wounds and seen his scars and helped him shower, even tasted Eddie’s blood, uncomfortably warm and metallic, on his lips, for fuck’s sake – and like totally uncharted territory at the same time, and Buck is staring into brown eyes that seem to go on forever. Unfaltering. Unrelenting. Unyielding. Like… a promise.
Buck physically shakes the thought from his mind and pulls his smile, well-worn piece of armor that it is, back in place. “You are going to lose this game, mi amor.”
Eddie laughs then, a warm ringing thing like liquid gold in Buck’s veins. “Oh, now you’re just playing dirty, tu hermoso hijo de puta. No fair, Buck.” Even though the last sentence is in English, Eddie says it with his accent intact.
And God, Buck loves it when he speaks Spanish. He’s so much filthier than he allows himself to be in English. He allows himself the luxury of running his fingers through Eddie’s hair. “Leave my mother out of this, please,” he murmurs teasingly.
Eddie’s eyes go wide. “How much Spanish do you understand, exactly?”
“Que? Pense que sabias que hablo con fluidez. Hace calor, eh?”
Eddie just stares at him.
Squirming a little under the intensity of his gaze, Buck hauls himself upright, pulling Eddie after up with him. Now he is essentially sitting in Eddie’s lap, straddling him. Face to face. He tries not to think about it too much, lest the blood all go rushing south. His hands meander over Eddie’s chest, to the hem of Eddie’s soft blue hoodie. He looks at Eddie through his lashes.
“Quita esto?” he says softly, the phrase landing somewhere in between a command and a request.
Eddie glares at him. “Stripping was not part of the deal, Buckley.”
“It’s for science , Eddie,” he says. “Do you really want to be the kind of man who hinders the progress of science ? Look, I’ll even go first.” Buck pulls off his tee in a single fluid motion that also conveniently flexes his abs.
Eddie rolls his eyes at the obviously-practiced move. “That work on a lot of girls?”
“Oh, believe me, it works on everybody . Maybe someday I’ll teach you.” Buck winks at him with exaggerated charm.
“Such a player, Buck.”
“Such a tease, Eddie.”
Eddie tugs his hoodie over his head, getting stuck inside it and flailing around while Buck laughs at him for a couple seconds before managing to escape.
“Wow, we really do need to work on that. Like, as a priority.”
“Shut up.”
Buck snatches the hoodie from him, burying his nose in it.
“What the hell? Are you… smelling my clothes now? What kinda psycho behavior is that, Buck?” Eddie says, aghast.
Buck’s voice is muffled in the fabric. “I just love the detergent you use. And this hoodie is so soft.” Finally, Buck lifts his face from the hoodie, chucking it carelessly over his shoulder.
“Hey–”
He tackles Eddie backwards onto the cushions, Eddie letting out a surprised sound.
“What are you doing, you big–”
“Super secret squirrel things,” Buck murmurs into his neck.
“What the fuck?” Eddie’s voice floats above him.
Buck ignores him and presses his nose to Eddie’s shoulder. “You smell like your detergent. Like… soap.”
“Wow,” Eddie drawls. “Really? Like soap? Who would have ever thought–”
Just to shut him up, Buck presses an open-mouthed kiss to his sternum. Listens to the way the breath catches in Eddie’s chest. Revels in the feeling of Eddie’s hand tangling in his hair.
“Baby,” he says, his breath skimming the surface of Eddie’s neck. “Honey,” he murmurs, kissing him again, just beneath his jaw, refusing to think about what he’s doing – what they’re doing – all tangled up together on Eddie’s magical couch like this. “Darling,” he says, practically moaning the word. “Sweetheart.” He places kisses carefully, like he’s mapping out a path, leaving landmarks for his future self, down the column of Eddie’s throat, lingering on his collarbones, wandering towards his chest.
It isn’t usually like this, Buck thinks. Or at least he can’t remember it ever feeling like this before – like he’s lit up, humming with some dangerous energy, dangling over an abyss of potential. Something that could happen, but hasn’t yet. Words they could say, but haven’t dared to. It was just a game… right? They were just playing. Until suddenly it feels like maybe they weren’t .
He and Eddie touch in casual, playful ways all the time – bumping shoulders as they walk side by side, a hand extended to help the other to his feet, the occasional enthusiastic hug (usually because Buck is a chronic hugger and Eddie knows it) or the occasional firm hand on the shoulder (usually because Eddie is reprimanding him for something), fist bumps, arms slung around shoulders, legs pressed together in the truck or on the couch at work or while they play video games – so this shouldn’t feel foreign. It shouldn’t feel new. For God’s sake, they’ve even wrestled before. But then, Christopher was usually present for that sort of roughhousing, if not the cause of it. And it’s fun and silly and easy, because they’re a family – Buck and Eddie sharing a conspiratorial glance before both turning on Chris to tickle him or Eddie and Chris ganging up on Buck out of nowhere to drag him to the floor. They’ve never ended up like this before, no Chris between them as a buffer, both shirtless and panting and, Buck worries, more drunk than he’d realized. Clearly. Because there are no other circumstances under which this would be happening.
Still, Buck’s hands have a mind of their own. He lets them wander over Eddie’s ribs and skim over his waist… until Eddie squirms and shoves Buck off and away and there’s nowhere to go but crashing onto the floor. Because Eddie – Eddie is ticklish!
Which is incredibly important information that Buck will be filing away for later use.
The thud of Buck’s body on the floor, future bruises aside, is probably a good thing. It snaps both of them out of whatever drunken haze they’d slipped into.
“Owwwww.”
Eddie sits up, looking flushed and bright and rumpled. Buck wants to memorize him like this. Buck wants to devour him, to wrap him up and hold him close and keep him forever.
“You okay?” he asks, sounding a little breathless, and not nearly apologetic enough for someone who just threw his best friend onto the floor.
Buck hauls himself upright, snagging his own discarded shirt as he does so, adopting an injured air. “I am wounded, in body and soul, Eddie Diaz. You can make it up to me by letting me sleep on your couch.”
“I would’ve let you do that anyway,” Eddie points out rationally. “Would’ve made you, actually. You’re way too drunk to be driving.”
“I’m not that drunk,” Buck fires back, more out of the habit of being contradictory than genuine disagreement with Eddie’s statement. “But thanks.”
Eddie waves him off ( you’re not a guest here, he hears in his head), staggering to his feet and swaying a little. “Hey, can you…?” Eddie points to the hoodie that’s just slightly closer to Buck than it is to Eddie. Buck picks it up and instead of tossing it to him, steps closer and presses it to his chest, not letting go even when Eddie’s fingers close around the fabric. They’re just standing there, eyes locked, linked by that stupid blue hoodie, sharing breathing space. And, Buck thinks sort of wildly, they are both still shirtless, holding clothes they just picked up off the floor like… like people who just shared a fleeting moment of passion or intimacy only now ended.
The thing is, Eddie and Buck have those kinds of moments a lot. They flow in and out of the regular proceedings of their lives so frequently now that it feels natural, to be handing Eddie his clothes, to be sharing this easy nighttime silence, to cook meals and wash dishes and tidy up the house together. It all feels… right.
For just the briefest moment, Eddie’s other hand comes to rest on Buck’s hip, where sweatpants meet skin, and tugs him closer. Buck moves into him willingly, letting his head drop forward onto Eddie’s shoulder, his eyes drifting closed for a moment. It’s… like a silent goodnight, a wordless conversation they both understand, but there’s something about it that makes Buck ache with the bittersweetness of it all.
The hand on his hip drifts lazily upward, ghosting over his neck and through his hair, and Buck lifts his head at the same time Eddie steps back. Another moment, passed.
Eddie’s blinking slow, dragging his eyes open again each time they flutter closed. He looks ready to pass out where he stands. Buck laughs. Shoves him towards the hall bathroom. “I’ll take care of everything out here and take the bathroom after you’re done. You look dead on your feet, man.”
Eddie just blinks again and nods, leaving Buck to finish clearing odds and ends from the kitchen countertops and the coffee table in the living area, placing a few dishes in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow, switching off lights as he goes, except for the lamp next to the couch, and making sure the front door is locked and bolted. He’s already raided the linen closet for sheets and a pillow when Eddie emerges from the bathroom, looking bleary and beautiful in a way that hooks on something low in Buck’s belly – not for the first time – and compels him to look away or else break into one thousand pieces with the longing for things he can never have.
Eddie’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper, perhaps born out of their old habit of trying not to wake Christopher after he’s been put to bed (so strange and quietly heartwrenching to think he doesn’t need putting to bed anymore, he’s too grown up for it now) when he speaks into the dim light, one hand resting on the doorframe. “Hey, babe, there’s extra blankets in the…” he waves a hand vaguely at the closet, “you know, if you need them.”
Buck fights back the smile that’s threatening to play across his lips. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Because Eddie would notice and Eddie would ask why and Eddie is so clearly exhausted and Buck… Buck can tease him for it, crowing over his victory, some other time. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he will just hold this small, good thing close to his chest and let it keep him warm in between those moments where Eddie feels like his .