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Buck is released from the hospital after a decontamination shower and several hours of tests that show nothing particularly conclusive. When he comes out into the waiting room, he's wearing a set of blue scrubs that are a couple of inches too short on him, cheap plastic slides, and a scowl that only lightens slightly when he sees Eddie stretched out in the chair where he's been scrolling through Instagram with a quarter of his attention and watching for Buck's approach with the rest.
"They finally springing you?" Eddie asks, getting to his feet.
"As long as I have medical supervision, yeah." Buck puts 'medical supervision' in air quotes that feel snide. He's flushed, a sheen of sweat standing on his upper lip. Fidgety, too, more than usual—a constant frenetic twitchiness that speaks of uppers in whatever that devil's brew cocktail he inhaled at the scene earlier.
"Well," Eddie says, "you got me."
That gets him a smile, just a little twitch of one. "I guess that'll have to be good enough."
"Thanks a lot," Eddie says dryly. "Your place?"
It's about the same distance to drive, either way. Maddie's got Theo for the night, and Pepa has Chris. They weren't sure how long this would take, how serious it might be, and Eddie—he just needed to be here, that's all.
Buck shrugs. "I guess. They confiscated my fucking clothes."
"Hence the fashion statement. You eat yet?"
"Not really hungry." Eddie looks at him, and he sighs, throws his hands up a little, and says, "They brought me a sandwich a few hours ago. I have leftovers at home. I just want to sleep, man."
"Alright," Eddie says easily, and doesn't point out that Buck looks too wired to sit down for any length of time, let alone sleep. Food will help, maybe. Food, and a familiar place where he isn't getting jabbed with needles by strangers for hours on end. "They figure out what it was?"
Buck shakes his head. There's a knotted tension to his jaw that Eddie doesn't need an explanation for; even almost a year out from his suspension, it's a sore subject. "Some fucking experimental party drug cocktail. MDMA, some other stuff."
"How do you feel?"
"That guy, the one we—you know, that Athena arrested, he said it was supposed to feel good. What'd he call it, transcendental? This, this isn't—I feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin."
"They give you anything?"
"Didn't want to risk it. I'm supposed to drink a lot of water and get a lot of rest and keep an eye on my vitals. Come back here if anything changes. You know the drill."
"I do," Eddie admits, and doesn't say that maybe if Buck were someone else, someone whose records weren't flagged, they would have given him something. Maybe not. Maybe it is just a precaution.
Buck is probably thinking the same thing. He doesn't need to say it.
"Four hours for that," Buck says, a bitter but amused quirk to the edge of his smile. "I was telling you guys the same thing in the rig. Could have just gone home and napped and saved a lot of trouble."
"You know the drill," Eddie bats back. It makes Buck's smile a little more real, so he'll call it a win.
"Yeah, yeah. Where are you parked?"
"Back there." He nods toward the visitor lot. "Come on."
Buck seems to be moving okay as they cross the parking lot; Eddie catalogues these things automatically. He's not stumbling, and he seems alert and aware, if tired and uncomfortable. Feverish, maybe, by the flush in his cheeks. He keeps his hands jammed tightly in his pockets as he walks, slightly hunched over. Eddie wants to rest the back of his hand on Buck's forehead like he's a kid, more to soothe than to take his temperature, but he resists the urge, unlocks his truck, pulls the door open for Buck and weathers his sulky eyeroll about it.
"Get strapped in," he says.
"Yes, dad," Buck retorts, but he's smiling a little. Eddie pushes the door closed behind him.
It's hot in the cab; Eddie rolls down the window a little until the A/C can get going as they start to move, but it's still stuffy. Buck shifts his weight, tilting his head against the seat back with a grunt as they pull out of the lot. Eddie can smell him—skin and sweat, animal smells.
The A/C is starting to cool the cab. He rolls the window back up and focuses on the road.
Buck is twitchy at first, rubbing his knuckles over his thighs, twisting in his seat like he can't get comfortable. He's got one knee hooked over the other in a position that doesn't look natural or comfortable, turned slightly away from Eddie so that his weight is resting on his hip, face aimed at the side window as Los Angeles slips past into the dusk.
Eventually, though, it eases; his body relaxes into the seat, his head tilting back. Eddie glances over at the first faint snore and bites down on his smile, half-amused, half-relieved. Too bad, he thinks, that they're only five minutes from Buck's place now; he's halfway got the urge to just start driving in loops around the block, the way he did when Chris was tiny and couldn't be soothed to sleep any other way.
But Buck isn't a colicky child, and he'll sleep better in his own bed than he will half-slumped in the cab of Eddie's truck. Still, Eddie takes extra care to ease them gently to a stop at the next light. While he waits for it to turn green, he looks over at Buck, who has his head tilted back, hands resting loosely on his thighs, knees spread now in a relaxed sprawl. His mouth is softly open, his eyes flickering beneath their lids, the threads of gray in his scruff glinting in the light of passing cars. His chest rises with his slow, heavy breaths, and Eddie's eyes move downward, and he realizes then that Buck is hard. Not a morning semi, either, but pornographically hard, stiff and leaking enough that there's a dark smear soaking through the light blue scrub pants he's wearing.
That explains his awkward posture earlier, Eddie thinks blankly. He was trying to hide it. It must be the drug. That happens. He should stop looking, save them both the embarrassment, but somehow he can't drag his eyes away until a car honks impatiently behind him and he realizes the light has already turned green.
He hits the gas, jolting them forward sharply enough that Buck wakes with a grunt, rubbing at his mouth with both hands. His body shifts in the seat; out of the corner of his eye Eddie watches him settle his hands on his thighs, then drag them up, then freeze like he's just gotten caught doing something wrong. Deeply grateful that the dark hides how red his cheeks must be, Eddie fixes his gaze on the road.
"Uh, sorry," Buck says, a low rasp. He shifts again in the seat, crossing his legs, and this time it's so fucking obviously the posture of a man trying to hide an awkward boner that Eddie has no idea how he didn't realize that before.
"It's fine."
"Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"You need the rest."
Buck grunts again. It's a sound that Eddie can't help but string to other things—bodies moving together in the darkness, the sounds Buck might make fucking someone or getting fucked, and he immediately slams the door on that thought as soon as it surfaces, before he can even think about looking at it straight on.
He licks his lips, opens his mouth, then shuts it. They pass the rest of the ride in silence.
The porch light comes on automatically when he pulls into Buck's driveway, a sudden flare of illumination that makes it obvious how red Buck is, the sheen of sweat on his skin. Eddie looks away, busies himself with the keys, with his phone and wallet, climbing out of the truck and pushing the door shut behind him. Buck gets himself out as well, moving stiffly, gingerly, like everything hurts, but Eddie's pretty sure it's not just that.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yep," Buck says tightly. He's got the plastic bag with his personal effects still clutched in his hand, held strategically in front of his crotch, so Eddie steps past him to open the door with his own key. He pushes it open into darkness, the living room scattered with toys, the Spiderman nightlight illuminating the hallway down to the bedrooms in a dim red glow.
Buck pushes the door shut, turns the light on, kicks the hospital slides off. "I'm gonna, uh," he says, nodding toward the bathroom, and Eddie feels heat flare in his cheeks again.
"Sure thing, man. Take your time," he says, and then winces, but Buck is already shuffling past him down the hallway, pulling the door shut with a pointed click. A moment later, the sink turns on. Eddie rubs both hands over his face.
"Get it together," he mutters. He's being ridiculous. He's a fucking paramedic; he's definitely encountered weirder and more embarrassing sexual misadventures than this. If all Buck needs is some privacy to jerk off because he just got hit by some kind of home-brew aphrodisiac, Eddie can give him that and not be weird about it.
He busies himself with puttering around Buck's kitchen, pulling out Gatorade, one of those gross cherry protein bars that Buck is obsessed with, in the hopes that he can tempt him to eat at least something. He's making a little more noise than he probably needs to, letting cabinet doors fall shut with clatters, humming under his breath, running water in the sink before pouring himself a glass and drinking it in noisy gulps that would have Pepa smacking the back of his hand for bad manners.
He sets the empty glass down, looks up at the darkened glass of the window over the sink. His cheeks feel hot, but that's not obvious in the dim outline of his reflection. Buck's backyard is just visible beyond, dark now without the string lights illuminating it, cut off from the neighbors on either side by a fence. Power lines loop through the dim blue sky, and behind the hills in the distance he can see the faint glow of the rising moon.
In the hallway, a door opens, then shuts. Buck's shuffling footsteps approach. Eddie clears his throat and turns. "Feeling better?"
Buck shrugs a little, looking sheepish. He slouches into the kitchen and drops into a chair, rubbing his hands over his thighs, then leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table and his chin in the cradle of his palm. "Uh, yeah. I guess."
"Good," Eddie says firmly. It is good. Buck looks slightly more comfortable now, which is a good thing, and Eddie does not need to follow that line of thought any further. He picks up his offerings from the counter. "Feel like eating anything now?"
"Nah."
"At least drink some Gatorade."
Buck makes a scoffing little noise under his breath, then says, "Okay, fine," in a tone that says clearly that he's just indulging Eddie.
Eddie will take it. He twists the top off of the Gatorade, which gets him another fond little scoff, and crosses the kitchen to set it down on the table. He can still smell Buck—sweat and skin and now a sharp animal musk underneath the scent of that grapefruit hand soap he keeps in his bathroom. He doesn't let himself fill in the mental image that surfaces there: Buck hunched over in the dark, gripping the sink with one hand, maybe not even bothering to push his pants down all the way, just shoving his hand inside and—
"Drink up," he says out loud.
Buck takes the bottle, tilts his head back, drinks. Eddie watches his throat work as he does, then turns away.
"Thanks," he says when he's done.
"Sure. Anytime. You got a med kit?"
Buck makes a face, flushed again. "Yeah, uh, in the bathroom. I can—"
"I can get it," Eddie says firmly. "Sit down."
"Bossy," Buck mutters, but subsides. Eddie watches him stretch his long legs out under the table, the hems of his borrowed scrubs riding up over his calves.
"Just let me check your vitals, and I'll let you sleep. For my own peace of mind."
"Sure," Buck mumbles. He pushes the Gatorade away, folds his elbows on the table, and drops his head into them. His hair is sweaty and tousled and Eddie has an absurd urge to muss it up even more with his fingers.
Instead, he sidesteps the table, heads down the hall, flicks the bathroom light on, ignores the sharp and unmistakable smell, the wad of tissues in the garbage. He was in the military, in locker rooms, he has a teenage son, he was a teenage boy once himself. No call to get precious about this all of a sudden. It's Buck who's important.
Buck, who is back on his feet when Eddie comes back out, pacing his kitchen like a caged animal.
"I'm fine," he says, before Eddie can speak.
"Uh huh. C'mon, sit down."
Buck sighs explosively and throws himself into a chair, and Eddie gets to work checking him over as quickly and professionally as he can. Temperature elevated. Heart rate elevated. Buck's fingers rattle on his thigh the entire time Eddie is touching him, his head turned to the side, a flush crawling up his neck. He's still hard, which Eddie doesn't intend to notice but can't not see, with the way he's sitting, in those thin hospital scrubs. He's probably not wearing underwear, if they confiscated his clothes. Eddie is almost sure he's not.
He's got an impulse, familiar now, to keep touching Buck once he's done. It's one he'd usually indulge, but Buck looks about ready to jitter out of his skin with discomfort, so he packs up when he's done, steps back to give him some space. "Looks like you're gonna make it."
Buck snorts out a sharp little laugh. "That's your medical opinion?"
"What, you don't trust me?"
His laugh this time is softer. Eddie glances back to see Buck looking up at him from the chair, his cheeks pink, his blue eyes luminous in the dim light.
"I trust you," he says, and Eddie doesn't know what to do with the flare of warmth that brings to his chest and cheeks.
"Well," he says. "Thanks."
Buck ducks his head. The stubble on his cheeks glints gold, the shift of his body shadowed now as he props his chin on a palm, smiling a little still. "Anytime.
Buck takes himself off to bed shortly thereafter, with a grumbling agreement that he'll yell if he needs anything, and Eddie parks himself in the living room, piles blankets and pillows from the hall closet on Buck's couch, turns the TV on just for some white noise. He can hear Buck moving around in his bedroom for a little while after, but none of it sounds like distress, so he doesn't go investigate, as much as a part of him wants to. He turns the lights down low instead, brews a cup of tea and then sets it on the coffee table to go cool, untouched, as the last of the daylight slips away into night.
He's not thinking about anything in particular. It's been a long day. He's paying attention to the TV show, which is some Ninja Warrior knock-off thing, and he's not thinking about how Chris is doing at Pepa's or how he's going to get to school tomorrow—also Pepa, who waved him off when he apologized—or how Chim is going to cover both their shifts tomorrow. Those are just details, the kind of thing his brain always catches on when it needs a reason for the nebulous free-floating anxiety that's always there but surges in moments like this. He's self-aware enough, these days, to realize that.
It'd be simpler if he was just worried about Buck, which he is. But there's a strange intimacy to this that doesn't feel exactly new, that feels like a slip sideways, loose sand and sinkholes on what should be familiar ground. If this had happened five years ago, he knows, he would have given Buck endless amounts of shit over it and Buck would have batted it back just as hard, and it would have been something to laugh at after. During, even. He wouldn't be sitting here in the darkness trying not to imagine what Buck might be doing three rooms away.
Sleeping, hopefully. If not, it's none of Eddie's business. As long as he's okay.
He doesn't intend to fall asleep, but at some point his eyes slip shut. He wakes to a crick in his neck where he's tilted sideways against the pile of blankets that he never actually bothered to lay out, the screensaver on the TV looping over and over again. Groaning quietly, he levers himself upright and turns off the TV. The living room, still full of dim golden light, feels strangely surreal in the way quiet rooms do in the middle of the night. There's an echo of a dream still lingering: warmth and skin, a body against his. No more detail than that, and Eddie doesn't dig for it. He sets the remote down, rubbing at his eyes, which feel gritty and sore.
There's a clatter from the bathroom. Vaguely, he realizes that must have been what woke him; less vaguely, he realizes that Buck is cursing, not quite under his breath, sounding frustrated. Another clatter, like something's been dropped or smacked to the floor, and the door swings open. Footsteps move across the hall, the light still dim—from here, Eddie can't quite see Buck, just the shift of shadows.
The door swings shut but doesn't latch. Bedsprings creak, then creak again, and then there's a faint thump and Buck swears again, sounding agitated.
Before he can think better of it, Eddie pushes himself to his feet and stands. He moves down the hallway without turning the light on; the door of Buck's room is cracked, faint light spilling through. Eddie raps on the frame lightly. "Buck? You good?"
Silence stretches out long enough that he thinks Buck might not answer before he finally rasps, "Yeah."
"Need anything? Water?"
"Nope," Buck bites off.
"You sure?" There's another sound, aggravated enough that Eddie wonders if Buck is about to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn't speak. Eddie pauses, then says, "Can I come in?"
Buck sighs. There's another restless shift of bedding, and then he sighs, "Fine."
Eddie pushes the door open. He leaves the light off, but there's enough illumination slipping in through the shades that he can see Buck, sitting back against the headboard with his eyes closed and his knee jittering under the blankets, an uncomfortable echo of that miserable string of days when he was detoxing, banana bag hooked to a pole shoved against his nightstand, the faint but persistent smell of vomit and fever sweat. Watching Buck shake through it, helpless to fix it, helpless to do anything other than wait.
"Hey, hey," Eddie murmurs, settling on the edge of the bed to hold the back of his hand to Buck's forehead like he's a sick child. Buck twitches hard, almost a flinch, a swallowed noise escaping his throat. Ice drops into the pit of Eddie's stomach. "Do we need to go back to the ER?"
"No," Buck says tightly.
"Buck—"
"It's not—it's just—fuck," Buck sighs. Eddie's hand drifts, almost unconsciously, up to smooth his sweaty hair back out of his face, and Buck lets him do it for a moment before ducking away. "This is humiliating."
"What's…" he stops. Buck has shifted a little, his knee dropping enough that the blankets drape over his lap, and Eddie can see, even in this light, that he's still hard. He makes a little noise, involuntary, in the back of his throat. Buck's hips jump a little, and he turns his face to the side, blushing so hard that even in this uncertain light Eddie can see it.
"So, yeah," he says.
"Uh." Eddie clears his throat, then forcibly shifts gears. "If it's been going on for more than a couple of hours, we should definitely go back to the hospital. You know that."
"It's not—not like that—I just, I feel so fuckin' wound up, I can't sleep, feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin. Feels like I'm going crazy here."
"If you need me to give you some privacy…" He's not going to go far, but maybe it's too weird trying to jerk off with Eddie in the house. Maybe Buck needs to be loud. Eddie could go for a walk around the block. Around a couple of blocks. There's an all-night corner store at the end of Buck's street, and it's a bit of a hike, but he could walk down and buy more Gatorade and snacks, give Buck some space to get it out of his system.
"I don't…" Buck groans, rubbing both hands over his jaw, then up into his hair. "It won't work."
"It won't…"
"The first few times, yeah, but—" Eddie's mind catches on that, the first few times, and then Buck says, "You know how you can't tickle yourself?"
"Oh," Eddie says blankly.
"Yeah."
"So you haven't been able to—"
"Nope."
"The first few times, you said."
"Three, four, I don't know, I just, it keeps, I keep getting more…" Buck waves a hand vaguely. "You know, wound up. And now it's just, and I can't—"
"Well," Eddie says. Professional. He is a medical professional, he can be professional about this. "What about, uh. Toys. You have those, right?"
Buck scoffs, because of course. "Tried that."
"And it didn't help?"
"Obviously not."
"Oh," Eddie says. The silence stretches out, agonizingly. Buck's face is turned to the side, his cheeks flushed dark, the outline of his profile shaded softly in the dim light. He's shifting a little, like he's trying not to; like even despite his best efforts he can't keep still. This close, Eddie can smell him—sweat and sleep-warm skin. Better than the lingering hospital antiseptic of earlier. His mouth moves without intention or permission: "What about me?"
Buck jerks his head up to stare at him. "What?"
"Unless there's someone else you want me to call." He should have led with that, probably. Buck dates sometimes, these days. Casually, yeah; he says he doesn't have time for anything more than that, but he's definitely got people he could call for—this—who aren't Eddie. It doesn't matter if the idea makes him want to snap with some insane kind of protective impulse to throw himself over Buck and hold on and shield him from the whole world. Eddie's good at unhooking those thoughts from his mind when they start to catch, and he can certainly do that now, for Buck.
"No, I don't, I… Eddie, what?"
"I can help you out. If it's not working, and you don't want to call someone else."
He means it, he discovers. Awkward? Sure. But Eddie would endure a lot worse than awkwardness for Buck. Especially after the year they've both had. Maybe this, unlike so many things, is something he can fix.
"I…" Buck is shaking his head, less like he's disagreeing and more like he's lost. "Just—just to be totally clear, here, you mean like…"
He makes a vague jerk-off gesture, and Eddie laughs, weirdly reassured by it. "Not exactly rocket science there, bud. Yeah, that's what I mean."
"Jesus Christ," Buck groans. He shoves a hand over his face, then up into his hair, fingers knotting. Eddie wonders briefly what Buck's messy curls would feel like clenched in his fingers, skin-warm, damp with sweat, and then he dismisses the thought firmly, because it's not relevant.
"Come on. You'd do the same for me."
Buck makes a wild, pained noise. "Yeah, maybe, but I also like dick. You're straight."
"So?"
"What do you mean, so?" Buck demands.
"So, I'm not into…" Eddie waves a hand. "All that. So what? I'm sure I've handled worse."
That was maybe not the best choice of words, he decides, when Buck barks out an even more pained laugh. But the point still stands. Buck is shifting, sweating, visibly uncomfortable, and Eddie can help, he's sure of it, if Buck will just let him.
"Buck," he says, shifting closer. Not touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him. Buck's hips shift a little, and he tilts his head back against the headboard with a whine that sounds less frustrated and more genuinely pained. His dick strains at the front of his pajama pants, and Eddie can't even imagine how out of his mind he must be by now, if it's been hours. He pushes every bit of sincerity he can muster into his voice. "Listen, man. I want to help. I—please let me help."
Buck opens his eyes. Even in this light, they look dark, sharp enough to pin Eddie in place. His stomach flips over at that look. Once again, he's aware of the heat radiating off of Buck like a furnace.
"Shit," Buck breathes eventually. He licks his lips, and Eddie finds himself caught momentarily on the reflective shine of saliva, the quick slip of his tongue, the intensity of his eyes before he squeezes them shut again, his whole face scrunched into something pained before he finally sighs. "This is such a bad idea."
Eddie doesn't laugh in relief or triumph, but he wants to. "Is that a yes?"
Buck looks at him for a long moment, something unreadable, almost pained, in his face. Then he closes his eyes and nods.
Eddie almost says something else, something reassuring, but if he keeps talking he's going to lose his nerve. He doesn't let himself hesitate, just shifts closer, into Buck's space, and settles a palm over his clothed dick. It's hot, throbbing beneath his hand, and Buck chokes out a shocked little noise, like maybe he still didn't expect Eddie to actually go for it. That makes a mulish sort of stubbornness surface; he firms his grip a little, and Buck's hips jerk.
"Good?" Eddie murmurs, even though he knows the answer. There's something nice about it, he decides: Buck's body beneath his hands, so warm and reactive and alive. He tugs at the waistband of Buck's sweatpants. "Here, shift up, let me get these out of the way."
"Oh, god," Buck chokes out, but he obeys, shifting his hips, letting Eddie push his sweatpants down around his thick, pale thighs. His cock springs up, flushed darker than the surrounding skin, gleaming at the head. Eddie runs a hand up it, curiously. It's not an unpleasant sensation. It's not really that much different from doing it to himself. Buck is gratifyingly responsive, though, choking out another helpless little moan, arching against the headboard. Eddie wonders if he's always like that or if it's just his current desperation, but it makes smug pleasure curl in his chest regardless. He likes it when Buck reacts to him, always has.
He firms his grip, slides down. Buck's cut, unlike him, and he gets wetter than Eddie ever does, a slow dribble of precome oozing from his slit. His cock is thick, a nice handful in Eddie's grip. Fascinating somehow—the familiarity of doing this, the novelty of doing this to someone else. To Buck. This is a corner of Buck's life that Eddie's never had access to, and he feels strangely greedy for it all of a sudden.
He swipes a thumb over the head, collecting fluid to wet the slide of his hand. He should ask if Buck has lube or something, but he's got a rhythm going now, and it doesn't seem like Buck minds in any case. He's breathing faster now, desperate little moans on every exhale, eyes squeezed shut, body a tense arc as Eddie speeds up the pace.
Eddie was a little worried that this wouldn't work, but it will. He's going to make Buck come, and the knowledge lights him up with thrilled pride.
"Come on," he murmurs, speeding up, experimenting with a little twist at the head that he likes to do to himself. Buck also seems to be a fan of the move: he lets out a strangled gasp, his hand flying up to grip Eddie's shoulder hard. That makes Eddie suck in a sharp breath—something about the reality of it, Buck's fingers digging in, the familiar shape of his hand.
"Shit, sorry," Buck gasps, letting go.
"Hey, no, come on," Eddie says, and he catches Buck's wrist with his free hand, guiding his hand back to Eddie's shoulder. Feels Buck's fingers flex, tentative, like for maybe the first time ever, he's unsure about touching Eddie. His eyes are open now, intent on Eddie's face, his mouth slack and wet, and Eddie, following a sudden impulse, leans forward and kisses him.
It's soft, pretty chaste other than the context. It's not that different from kissing a woman, though Buck has stubble, and that's new. His lips are plush and soft, and the brief slip of tongue where his mouth is open, the slickness and heat of it, feels as good as a kiss ever does. Eddie can't even say, really, why he does it, but it feels right. He doesn't have Buck's extensive experience of casual hookups. He's slept with three people, total, in his life, and he's never taken someone to bed without having at least kissed them.
And he's not going to start now. Not with Buck. Buck deserves to be treated—right. Like he matters. Like he's wanted. Like this isn't just some mechanical, medicinal favor Eddie is doing him.
For a handful of seconds, Buck freezes. His hand flexes on Eddie's shoulder. Then, tentatively, he begins to kiss back, soft and slow, his hot breath on Eddie's face. Eddie catches his jaw with his free hand to control the angle. It feels like cupping something fragile and precious in his hands, holding Buck like this, being the one to give this to him. Buck is making little noises in the back of his throat, his hips stuttering up into Eddie's hand, and Eddie breaks the kiss, somewhat reluctantly, to glance down between them, his hand on Buck's cock, knuckles gleaming.
"Good," he murmurs. Buck shudders, and Eddie brushes another little kiss to his mouth. "Doing so good for me, bud."
"God," Buck chokes out. He's holding on tight now, practically clinging. "Eddie, Eddie, fuck—"
Possessive tenderness rushes through him at the sound of his name on Buck's tongue, in that tone. He kisses him again, hard, shifting closer until he's practically in Buck's lap, close enough to feel the feverish heat of his body. "Just like that, come on."
Buck makes another swallowed noise that might be a curse, might be Eddie's name, and arches beneath him almost violently as he comes over Eddie's fist. Eddie works him through it, slowing down a little as it comes to an end.
And that should be it, he thinks with some disappointment, except Buck isn't softening in his hand, isn't trying to bat Eddie's hand away as it starts to get oversensitive. He's still working his hips jerkily, shoving his cock up into Eddie's slackened grip, his eyes squeezed shut now.
Three or four times, Eddie remembers. And that was when Buck was doing it to himself. Heat flashes through him.
"Gonna give me another one?" he asks. His voice doesn't sound like his voice—there's a roughness to it even he can hear. Buck nods, a whine caught in his throat that sounds pained, but Eddie doesn't think it is pain.
"Please," he mumbles. "Please, please, Eddie, ohfuck, keep, keep, just like that."
"Good boy, come on," Eddie says, and he barely hears himself over the roaring in his ears as Buck gasps and arches and comes for a second time. He tilts forward, and they're kissing again, sloppy and hot and not at all careful. Buck's hand is in his hair, clutching hard enough to hurt, and this time Eddie is the one who lets out a noise that could be pain but isn't.
This is all getting out of control somehow, he thinks, but it's hazy. Buck's tongue is in his mouth. Maybe whatever he was dosed with is contagious, because Eddie's heart is beating fast and his skin is hot, and he's hard, and Buck is still so hard in his hand, pulsing hot and slick over his fingers. Eddie'd think he'd have run dry by now, but he hasn't. He shifts closer, the rough scrape of teeth and stubble, spit-slick lips, Buck still shifting restlessly beneath him, still panting helplessly into his mouth.
Eddie's hand is still covered in his come. He breaks the kiss to find Buck staring at him with hot, hazy eyes, and for some reason, unthinking, Eddie lifts his hand and slides two fingers into Buck's open mouth.
Buck's eyes slam shut; he moans around Eddie's fingers. His tongue is hot and wet and his teeth scrape Eddie's knuckles as he pushes his fingers in deeper, and come is smeared on Buck's face now too, in his stubble, on his cheeks, and when Eddie pulls his fingers out and leans back in to replace them with his tongue, he can taste it. His hand lands on Buck's bare thigh, fingers digging in. Even though he's not touching Buck's dick anymore, Buck is still squirming beneath him, arching against Eddie's grip while Eddie kisses him.
And—he doesn't know why he does it. Curiosity, maybe. The taste of Buck's come and spit on his tongue, the boundaries that seemed so clear and bright a few minutes ago starting to crumble into dust, or maybe that greedy possessive thing that's been coiled around his heart for years, the one that likes nothing more than seeing Buck react to him. He breaks the kiss and slides down.
Buck cries out when Eddie closes his lips around the head of his cock, the skin silky hot, slick and bitter. It makes him feel weirdly powerful, the throb against his tongue, the vulnerability of it, the way Buck curses brokenly when he slides down, sealing his lips, doing his best to avoid scraping teeth. Though he's not even sure Buck would care, with the state he's in. There's a thin little voice in the back of his head screaming at him, demanding to know what the hell he thinks he's doing, but it's drowned out by the throb of blood in his ears, his own drumming heartbeat, the sound of Buck's moans escalating as he bobs his head, trying to figure out a rhythm.
"God, oh god," Buck babbles. One of his hands is in Eddie's hair now, and despite his clear desperation, it's still so gentle. Eddie digs his fingers into Buck's thigh, eyes closed, surrounded by unthinking sensation as Buck's hips start to jerk, shoving his cock into Eddie's mouth again and again, almost deep enough to choke on. "Oh, fuck, Eddie, you're so—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—"
He's coming again, on Eddie's tongue, salty and bitter and hot, and Eddie swallows it almost before he's aware he's doing it, breathing fast through his nose. He slides off, wiping roughly at his mouth. His lips feel slick and swollen and slightly numb, and his chin is wet, and Buck is staring at him. His cock bobs against his bare stomach, twitching and dribbling, still hard.
"You want me to?" Eddie asks. If his voice was rough before, now it sounds wrecked.
"What?" Buck breathes.
"You want me to fuck you?" He's stepped off the cliff, already in freefall; he'll worry about the landing later. "I will. If you want it."
Buck groans, squeezing his eyes shut, his body still shifting restlessly, hands clenching spasmodically against his bare thighs. "You—you're not, this is—you don't—"
"I want to," Eddie clarifies. There's a rushing sound in his ears, salt on his tongue. It's the truth, and that says something he's not going to look at now.
Buck opens his eyes to stare at him. It's an unnervingly perceptive look, which isn't uncommon from Buck, but right now, with his face smeared with spit and come and his shirt sticking to his chest and his cock throbbing between his legs, it feels like a fucking lot. Like he's been peeled bare, and this was all supposed to be for Buck, something selfless, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it now.
Buck licks his lips, still staring at him. Then he leans to the side, scrabbling amid the roiled blankets for something that turns out to be a bottle of lube, which he hands to Eddie like a challenge.
"You done it before?" he asks.
Eddie nods instead of answering, sees Buck's eyebrow quirk up in what must be surprise. It's the truth, funny enough: Marisol liked it that way sometimes, which felt too daring and naughty to ever talk about, not that he ever really talked about his sex life in the kind of detail Buck sometimes did.
"C'mon," he murmurs, tugging at Buck's sweatpants until he kicks them off completely. He struggles out of his shirt too, leaving him naked, bare-chested and breathing hard, spread out beneath Eddie like a gift. Eddie drifts his hands up Buck's inner thighs, watches him shiver, watches his cock kick against his stomach, watches him tilt his head back to bare the line of his throat, a shaky moan escaping him.
He looks good. He looks really good. It's an observation Eddie's had before, one he never thought meant anything. Eddie has eyes, and Buck is an objectively handsome guy, with his shoulders and his muscles, his wide blue eyes and sunny smile.
It kinda feels like it means something right now. It probably always did. But they've both apparently decided to jump off this cliff together, and Eddie can't worry about the landing now. He pours lube over his fingers and leans in to kiss Buck again as he slips a hand between his legs.
Buck jolts at the first touch of Eddie's fingers. He's already slick and loose, probably from the toys he was trying earlier; two fingers sink into him as smooth and easy as a dream. It's probably not even really necessary, but now that Eddie has fully committed to this horny insanity, he wants to prolong it as much as he can: Buck writing beneath him, moaning into his mouth, fucking himself onto Eddie's fingers as Eddie settles between his legs. He breaks the kiss, slides his mouth across Buck's jaw to the tender inside of his throat, the skin thin and hot, blood pulsing. Buck whines at the scrape of his teeth, and Eddie can't help but grin and bite harder, which has Buck's hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. He moves lower, dragging his tongue across a nipple. It's flatter and smaller than he's used to, but just as sensitive, from the way Buck jerks beneath him with a drawn out moan. Eddie bites him, then soothes the sting with his tongue, feels Buck convulse and cry out.
"Fuck me, come on, Eddie," he pants, hands dragging at Eddie's hips now, like he's trying to merge their bodies together despite the fact that Eddie still has his jeans on. "Please, please—"
Eddie leans in and kisses him again, hard, as he pulls his fingers out. He unzips and shoves his pants down just far enough to free his cock, smears lube on it with hands so clumsy that he must spill half of it on the sheets beneath him, but then he's pushing forward, smearing the head of his cock between Buck's legs where he's slick and soft and open, pressing in, feeling Buck's rim stretch around him. Too eager to be careful, but Buck doesn't seem to mind: he throws his head back with a desperate noise when Eddie bottoms out in a single hard thrust, clawing at his back, clenching down around him. He feels so fucking good that Eddie's going to lose his mind, probably, can't find anything like a measured rhythm, all of his control shot to pieces as he grabs at Buck's thighs, digging his fingers in tight, holding him spread open for Eddie's cock.
Buck is cursing brokenly, practically sobbing, dragging Eddie even closer now with a tight grip on his bare ass, rocking back into his thrusts, his cock jerking and dripping between like he's already coming, untouched, but it doesn't seem to stop. He seems lost in it, lost in how good Eddie is making him feel, and some selfish, greedy, rarely acknowledged part of Eddie thinks, he should look like this forever.
He tilts forward, bracing himself on an elbow to kiss Buck, a sloppy mess of a kiss, tongues sliding together, spit smearing, and Buck clutches at him, holding him so close that Eddie can barely get a hand between them to wrap tight fingers around his cock.
Buck arches with a shout and comes again, almost instantly, pulsing hot between them and clenching around Eddie's cock, and Eddie digs his fingers into Buck's hip, panting into his mouth as he drives into his body with another handful of sharp thrusts and comes so hard his vision goes black.
He comes back to himself in increments as the wave of pleasure subsides. There's a sudden sharp awareness of Buck's body beneath him, naked and hot and undeniably male. Buck's hands on his hips, Buck's face close enough that they're sharing breath. The hard-packed dirt of reality, of consequences, slamming up to meet him all at once.
He shifts back, slipping out, feels Buck shudder all over as they separate.
"Sorry," he rasps; his voice feels raw, his mouth wet and tender.
Buck swallows audibly, his throat bobbing. His eyes are still squeezed shut. His fingers slip briefly against the bare skin under the shirt Eddie is still wearing somehow, then withdraw.
"It's okay," he says a moment later, sounding even rougher than Eddie feels, like he was the one just sucking cock, instead of—sick, feverish, drugged to the point of desperation. Eddie has no such excuse. "It's—I think it's—better now."
That's probably a good thing, because it's percolating in, right now, just how insane all of this was. It's a revelation he could use a little privacy with, but he's not going to get it now, tangled up with Buck, smeared with spit and come, feeling Buck's cock softening between them.
"I'm gonna," Eddie says, and shifts back on his heels, tucking himself away, doing up his pants. That's better in some ways—they're not touching anymore—and worse in others, because he can see Buck now, naked and flushed and thoroughly debauched, and worse, Buck can see him. He's watching Eddie with eyes that are hazy but not confused, and Eddie wants to fucking flee.
He leans down instead, presses a darting little kiss to Buck's cheek, a small intimacy after everything that still feels too revealing.
"Stay there," he says, "I'll be right back."
Buck lets out a strange, sharp bark of laughter, but he doesn't argue, doesn't turn, doesn't try to kiss Eddie for real or pull him back as he climbs off the bed. And that's good, that's fine.
He heads into the bathroom and cleans himself up, trying hard not to think about what he's actually doing as he does it. His shirt is sticky, damp with sweat and other fluids, but peeling it off and throwing it in Buck's laundry like that feels somehow presumptuous, so he doesn't. He wets another washcloth, detours into the kitchen to pour a glass of water, then steels himself and heads back into the bedroom before he can get it into his head to flee into the night.
Buck is still on the bed, still naked, arm flung over his face, one knee bent so that from this angle his groin is hidden from view. His skin is still flushed and glistening, his hair a riot of curls on the pillow. He looks like a painting. He looks beautiful, and fucking wrecked, and Eddie is the one who did that.
He doesn't make a sound, but Buck must realize that he's there. He lifts his arm and looks at Eddie, and the expression on his face is something Eddie doesn't know how to read at all.
"Hey," he rasps.
"Hey," Eddie says back. For some reason, the fact that he's fully dressed makes this feel more awkward, not less. He should have taken his ruined shirt off, at least. "I brought water. And a washcloth."
That makes Buck soften. He laughs, rubbing a hand over his face, and levers himself upright. Eddie's not trying to look—is trying hard not to look, actually—but he's not hard anymore. So it worked. At least there's that. Eddie's going to need to have a fucking crisis about this the second he slows down, but at least it worked. He holds out the glass and the washcloth, feeling faintly ridiculous, and Buck takes them. "Uh, thanks."
"I'll grab you some clean clothes," Eddie says firmly, turning back toward the dresser. Behind him, he hears the clink of the glass, the sound of cloth on skin as Buck cleans himself up. The bedclothes are almost definitely ruined, but it's probably too late to strip the bed and change them out. He pulls open the top drawer, where Buck keeps his pajamas because he's a freak, and pulls out shorts and a tank top, hesitates, then says, "You, uh, you mind if I borrow a shirt? Mine's kind of…"
Buck makes a faint choking noise behind him, then clears his throat and says, "Go for it, man."
"Thanks," Eddie says. He peels off his damp shirt and drops it in the hamper, trying not to wonder if Buck is looking at him, if he wants him to be. This isn't about him. This is about Buck.
Averting his eyes, he turns to put the stack of pajamas on the bed. Buck tosses the washcloth in the direction of the hamper, misses; it lands on the floor with a wet slop, and Eddie bends to pick it up and doesn't turn around until the sounds of shuffling cloth have stopped.
Buck is dressed, cross-legged on the messy bed, cradling the water glass between his hands like a lifeline. He's already red, and when he glances up and meets Eddie's eyes briefly, he goes redder still.
"Sorry," he says, for some reason.
"How are you feeling?"
"Uh, be—better. Thanks." Buck winces hard as soon as he says it, which is fair, because Eddie also does not know what fucking words he should say next. The past half hour feels like a fever dream.
"Think you'll be able to sleep?"
Buck barks out a wild, incredulous little laugh. "Uh, no, Eddie, I don't think I'm gonna be sleeping anytime soon."
"That bad?"
"Was it—no, it wasn't bad, it was—you're—you're straight, you said you were straight, and then—"
"Yeah," Eddie says sheepishly. He rubs at his eyebrow, unable to meet Buck's eyes, painfully aware that he's still shirtless. "I did say that."
He thought that, too. Right up until he had his mouth on Buck. Though the kissing—or maybe the whole damn plan—should have been a clue.
There's a fraught silence. Then Buck sets his water glass down on the night stand and says, halfway between plaintive and accusatory, "I'm so confused."
"Yeah, join the club."
"You—you were just doing me a favor." It's not phrased like a question, but Buck doesn't sound at all certain.
Eddie nods anyway, like the world's most obvious liar. Buck is still looking at him, and Eddie can't tell if he believes it.
"Are you…" Buck clears his throat. "Are you okay?"
"What? Of course I'm okay. I'm not the one who got drugged."
"Right, I know that, it's just. Uh. You know that I'm, I… you didn't have to do any of this."
"I know that," Eddie says, sharper than he means. If either of them should be apologizing, it should probably be him, but somehow he can't choke the words out. He turns back to the dresser, digging for a shirt, and pulls it on. The fabric smells like Buck, which is both better and worse. "I'm always going to have your back. Drink your water."
Buck makes a strange little scoffing noise, but he picks up the water. Eddie watches out of the corner of his eye as he drinks. "Is that what this was? Having my back?"
No, Eddie thinks, but the word can't quite make it up to his mouth. Can't quite push past the tangle of fear, or maybe embarrassment. "Do we need to do this now?"
Buck is silent for a long, long moment. Then he sighs, and something about the sound makes Eddie shrivel a little inside. "No, I guess not."
"Buck—"
"I think I'm going to try to sleep, actually," Buck says.
Message received. "Okay. I'll take the couch."
He makes it a few steps back toward the door before Buck blurts, "You don't have to."
"What?" Eddie asks, half-turning, wondering if Buck is about to kick him out to tough the rest of it out alone. Eddie'll fight him on that if he has to, but he hopes he doesn't.
On the bed, Buck sighs again, scrubs a hand through his wildly messy curls, and finally meets Eddie's eyes. "Just stay here, if you're going to stay. We already—I know that couch isn't comfortable to sleep on."
It's not. Eddie had a crick in his neck for a week after sleeping on it while Buck was going through detox. But still. "You sure?"
"I'm sure it's late. And you don't want to talk about it, and we don't have to, but just… stay."
He should probably argue with that. This isn't what they do. None of this has been what they do. And Buck's right that he doesn't really want to talk about it, but it still stings to be seen so clearly. He licks his lips. "It is late."
"Yeah," Buck says, with a lopsided smile. Eddie still wants to kiss him. He thinks that if he crossed the room and leaned in right now, Buck would let him. He doesn't do that, but he does flick the lamp off, throwing the room into darkness. Buck shifts, shoving the blankets out of the way, kicking at them until they're more or less flat on the bed, as Eddie circles around to the other side.
He's still wearing his jeans, which feels faintly ridiculous. "You mind if I, uh, take these off, get comfortable?"
He sees the faint shine of Buck's eyes as he opens them and looks at him. If he thinks Eddie is being ridiculous, he doesn't say as much. He just clears his throat and says, "Yeah, go ahead."
For the second time tonight, Eddie undoes his jeans and pushes them down, kicks them off, leaving him in his underwear and Buck's t-shirt. It's easier in the dark. Maybe. He pulls the sheets and blankets back and slips into the bed, wedging a pillow under his head, too aware of the warmth radiating off of Buck, the gravitational dip his body creates on the mattress. It would be so easy to delete the space between them now.
Buck would let him. He knows that. Buck would let him do almost anything. Kiss him, suck his dick, fuck him into incoherence and then refuse to talk about it afterward. Call it a favor, like Eddie's whole body isn't still burning at the memory. Buck will pretend to believe him, and still invite him to sleep in his bed, because of the two of them he's always been the brave one.
"Night," Buck rasps, after a moment.
"Night," Eddie says back, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling. Neither of them says anything else. The silence settles over the room, heavy and thick. Makes him too aware of the small shifts of cloth and bodies, the sound of Buck's breathing.
He doesn't expect to sleep anytime soon, and he doesn't. Buck doesn't either—he's not snoring or shifting or sprawling his limbs across the entire bed the way he does when he's actually sleeping—and that's worse. A couple of times, Eddie opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again because he has no idea what to say. He contemplates rolling close enough to touch Buck, to wrap himself around his body and shove his face into his throat, to kiss him again. He contemplates getting out of bed and putting his pants back on and fleeing back to the couch, or maybe to another state.
Not funny, he imagines Buck saying to that one, and just barely manages to choke down a faintly hysterical laugh. He hears Buck's breathing change and wonders if he's about to ask, but he doesn't.
Eddie closes his eyes and doesn't move. They don't speak. He doesn't remember slipping off the edge of consciousness, but eventually he must, because he wakes, disoriented, to darkness and quick stuttering breaths next to him.
"Bzuh?" he mumbles. Then, slightly more awake, "Buck?"
"Mfine," Buck says immediately, tightly. "Go back to sleep."
"Well, that's not happening," Eddie says.
"I said I'm fine, Eddie."
"And I'm saying I don't believe you."
Buck chokes off a laugh. "Can we not do this again?"
"Again?" Eddie asks.
Silence. Then a sigh. Buck is still shifting, still moving restlessly on the mattress like he can't help himself. In a moment, Eddie thinks, he's going to climb out of the bed and flee the room, and even though Eddie was thinking about doing the same thing not long ago, he puts out a hand and catches Buck by the shoulder to stop him. As if he wasn't already sure, the shaky breath Buck takes tells him everything he needed to know.
"Again?" he repeats, softer.
"You don't," Buck breathes. Eddie doesn't know what to read from his voice; it's all a mess. He's made a mess of this, and he's about to do worse, he thinks. "You don't have to, we don't have to. I'm okay."
"Come on," Eddie murmurs, letting his hand slide up until he's cupping Buck's cheek. "You're really gonna make me fight you on this again?"
Buck breathes out something that might be a cousin to a laugh. His warm breath dusts Eddie's skin. He doesn't pull away. "Should have let you take the couch."
"Probably," Eddie admits, shifting closer. Then, because it's true, and easier to say in the dark, "I want to be here."
"You're gonna fucking kill me," Buck groans, and then they're kissing.
Zero to sixty almost instantly; Buck grabs at him, pulling him in, and Eddie lets himself be grabbed, lets his hands settle on Buck's cheeks, cupping his jaw, holding him close as Buck's leg slides between his. He can feel the heat of Buck's cock against his hip, fully hard, and Buck groans into his mouth, rutting against him.
"Let me," Eddie says, shoving at first Buck's pants, then his own, wrestling them out of the way. "Just let me, come on."
Buck swears against his lips, hips working, grinding his cock against Eddie's hip, against his thigh, leaving slick trails of precome on his skin. And Eddie just—he wants, he wants, not the least bit selfless at all. He gets a hand around Buck's cock and kisses the sob from his mouth as he starts to come, smearing hot between them, and this time he's not surprised when he doesn't start to soften. He kisses him again, then shifts, smearing his messy hand on Buck's thigh as he rolls over, tucking his ass against Buck's hips so that Buck's cock slips between his thighs.
Buck chokes out another desperate little noise, his warm breath lifting the hairs at Eddie's nape, still moving, fucking into the hot, tight space between Eddie's thighs, the wet head of his cock bumping against the back of his balls. The size of him is more obvious like this, the shape of his body, all the ways it's different from what Eddie is used to. All the ways he doesn't mind that.
"Please, please," Buck mumbles in his ear, clutching at his hips, bruising tight. Holding Eddie in place while he ruts against him, slick and hot and desperate. He could fuck Eddie like this, and it wouldn't even be that different, and that thought has Eddie tilting back against him with a helpless groan. Buck mouths at his throat, his hand slipping up under the shirt Eddie is still wearing, spreading against his skin. "Can I—"
"Yeah," Eddie breathes before he can even get the rest of the sentence out. Anything Buck wants, anything he needs right now. Anything. Hold Eddie down and fuck him raw, eat him alive. Buck's hand slides down, instead, cradling Eddie's cock, and Eddie almost chokes on his tongue.
It's different, Buck's hand on him. Bigger than he's used to. But more than that, the deliberateness of it—this isn't for Buck, this part. Buck's thumb slips over the head, smearing wetness, then slides down to cup his balls gently. It's so gentle, even though Buck is mouthing at his throat, scraping teeth in a way that he knows is going to leave him looking fucking mauled.
"You're so," he breathes against the shell of Eddie's ear. "Let me, let me make you feel good, Eddie, please."
"Yeah," Eddie says, twisting back to kiss him, awkward at this angle, and Buck's hand slips back up as he gasps into it, fingers twitching on Eddie's cock as he paints the inside of his thighs with come. Eddie shudders, groaning, and Buck bites him again, shifting them until he's on his belly, Buck's hand trapped between him and the mattress, a welcome heat for him to rut against. Buck's weight on top of him, driving him down. Buck's teeth on his neck, Buck's cock slipping through the mess of his own come, dragging between Eddie's asscheeks, and Eddie has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from begging. It's overwhelming, being surrounded by Buck like this, pressed down into the mattress by his weight. He wants to scrounge through the sheets for the lube so Buck can fuck him for real, and that thought, the sudden sharp clarity of it, has him working his hips frantically against the bed, the insistent heat of Buck's hand, until he tips off the edge of the cliff and shatters with pleasure, Buck following him over an instant later.
They take a while to shift apart this time. In the dark, they lie together, breathing, heartbeats steadying. Buck is plastered against him with sweat, sticky and damp enough that there's an audible noise when he finally shifts back enough to separate them. He's probably better again. Eddie could feel him going soft after that last one, bare and slick and unbearably intimate tucked against the inside of his thigh.
Eddie doesn't mourn the loss. He doesn't. He also doesn't get out of bed to try to hunt up a washcloth again, because stepping out of this dark liminal space feels impossible. The sheets are ruined anyway. He uses a corner of bedding to wipe himself roughly clean and tugs his underwear back up, listens to Buck doing probably the same thing next to him.
"Hey," he whispers after a minute, for lack of anything better to say.
"Hey," Buck whispers back, and doesn't demand anything more of him. Eddie flops a hand out, clumsy in the darkness, until he finds Buck's shoulder. It's familiar, touching him like this. Eddie digs his fingers in like he's holding onto a lifeline, and Buck does not roll away.
It's easy, right now, in the dark. Just for now, it can be easy. He closes his eyes.
He wakes to sunlight and the sound of snoring. They've shifted apart in the night; Buck is on his side, facing away from Eddie, snoring softly. He's pulled the blankets with him as he rolled away, and Eddie's entire left side is bare and chilled.
For a brief, crazed moment, he actually considers following Buck across the bed, tucking himself up against the sleepy heat of his body, tugging at the blanket until he surrenders it with the half-awake mumble Eddie knows so well. In his half-awake mind, the instinct seems simple. So possible to indulge.
Then reality slams back into him. Last night, touching Buck, being touched by him. Kissing him, fucking him, falling apart in his hands, the plausible deniability of just a favor left far away at the top of the cliff Eddie recklessly flung them both off of. He sits up so fast that the mattress jolts, then freezes.
Buck's snores don't stop. His body stays loose and peaceful under the pile of blankets he's hogging. Barely breathing, Eddie slides to the edge of the mattress and stands. His jeans are still in a crumpled heap on the floor. His skin is tacky and cool, and he reeks. They both do. The bed, too, probably. If Buck was already awake and out of bed, Eddie would strip it and wash the sheets and blankets for him. That's what he was supposed to be doing here last night. Taking care of Buck.
He pads around the bed as stealthily as he can, opens Buck's dresser to steal a pair of sweatpants and another t-shirt—Buck will forgive him, he's sure—and hurries into the bathroom, where he turns the shower on as hot as it'll go and doesn't look in the mirror as he strips. He keeps his mind blank as he washes himself, letting the lingering evidence of last night sluice away down the drain. Though he's got marks on him, he realizes as he steps out, snugging a towel tightly around his waist and swiping his wet hair out of his face. Faint finger-print shaped bruises on his hips, where Buck—
Nope. He shakes his head, mouths the word silently, like he can stop the flood of memories. Buck's fingers digging into his skin, the feel of his body beneath Eddie, on top of him, the way he looked coming undone from Eddie's mouth and hands and cock.
"Stop it," Eddie says, out loud this time. It doesn't help. He steals Buck's toothbrush and scrubs until he can't taste anything other than the weird gritty organic toothpaste he always buys. The mirror stays fogged up, and he doesn't clean it. He dresses quickly, slings his towel over the shower door, and sneaks out into the kitchen. Buck's snores are still faintly audible down the hallway, which makes him relax a little.
He could probably leave. Cut the line; if he goes now, and they never talk about it again, it'll be almost like it never happened at all. Buck will go with him on that, he's pretty sure. He did last night. Buck likes to push him on things, but he'll usually respect a real roadblock if Eddie throws one up.
Maybe if it had been just the one time. Maybe if he hadn't woken up in the night and pulled Buck to him like all he wanted was to touch him at the faintest excuse.
At the far end of the hallway, the snoring stops. Eddie freezes, pulse rabbiting, like he's about to be caught in some unspeakable act. Then he forcibly unfreezes himself and sets about making coffee, hands moving automatically through measuring and scooping grounds. Buck's kitchen is familiar now in a way it wasn't back when he first moved in, back when they were still keeping their distance. That's gone now, in the most literal way possible, Eddie thinks, and then smothers a faintly hysterical laugh with the back of his hand.
The smell of coffee starts to fill the kitchen, so he can't leave now. He's supposed to be taking care of Buck, is the thing. And Buck still might need him.
On the far side of the house, there are shuffling footsteps; Buck moves across the hallway to the bathroom. A moment later, the shower kicks on. Eddie breathes out a sigh. A reprieve, for now. Maybe Buck thinks he's already gone, which is a thought that makes the pit of his stomach knot with emotion he doesn't want to identify. There's still a part of him that wants to flee, but the coffee is brewing, and he's here now, and there's probably no avoiding this in the end.
Buck finds him, some time later, sitting at the table, looking out the window. Eddie's aware of him approaching before he turns, of course, would be even if he couldn't hear his footsteps. An internal radar, always tuned his way; there's never been a room Buck was in where Eddie wouldn't turn automatically toward him, and he does it now even as he feels heat rise to his cheeks. The coffee cup in his hands scrapes slightly on the table top, and Buck is standing in the doorway, his face scruffy and his curls still damp, blinking bemusedly at him.
"There's coffee," Eddie says inanely.
"Yeah," Buck says. He drags the side of his hand over his mouth. "I, uh, I kinda wasn't expecting you to still be here."
That's fair, if hurtful. "Wasn't sure if you still needed…"
…me, he means to say, or maybe some help, the innocuous help he was supposed to be here for in the first place, but it trails off, tangled up in everything that happened in the bedroom down the hall on sheets that still smell like them together, and comes out sounding entirely too suggestive.
Heat flares in Eddie's face; he watches Buck's cheeks go pink, and he thinks that if Buck did need it, he'd drop to his knees right now in the sunlit kitchen. Saliva fills his mouth at the thought; his skin goes tight and hot.
Buck is shaking his head though, still blushing. "No. All—all good."
"You sure?"
"You wanna check my vitals?" Buck retorts, like a challenge. The same kind of challenge from last night, when he handed Eddie the lube and asked if he knew what he was doing.
He didn't then. Still doesn't now, not really. "Yeah. Probably should."
It must be the right answer, because Buck softens, laughing, and collapses into the chair next to him. He stretches his arm out across the table, and says, "Go ahead."
Eddie swallows hard, then presses his fingers to the soft inside of Buck's wrist, the warm skin, the steady thump of his pulse, which is normal, of course. His skin is elastic, hydrated. He's not feverish. He's fine.
"You wanna get the med kit back out?" Buck asks, hushed, halfway teasing. "Do a full workup? Or can we talk about it now?"
Eddie laughs, startled, flinching back. He's still holding onto Buck's wrist, though, so he doesn't go far. "Do we have to?"
"We don't have to," Buck says. It's still quiet. He sounds a little like he's sidling up to a spooked animal, which should probably offend Eddie more than it does, especially since it's not the first time Buck has used this tone on him. Instead, it makes an achy fondness well up, threaten to overflow. "It can just be a favor. We can forget it. Doesn't—doesn't have to mean anything, if you don't want it to."
"What do you want?"
Buck's smile turns faintly rueful. "I don't think I should answer that."
"You were drugged. Last night."
"I knew what was happening. I could have said no."
"Could you?"
"Yeah." It's immediate, steady and clear, and a tightness Eddie didn't even realize was still there eases. "If it hadn't been—I could have said no. But."
"You didn't want to," Eddie finishes.
"I didn't want to," Buck admits, without a flinch. "And you were… doing me a favor?"
Eddie closes his eyes, breathes out laughter. "That wasn't it. No. Maybe at first but—no. That wasn't it. You know that."
"I know that," Buck agrees. "Wasn't sure you'd…"
"What, admit it?"
Buck shrugs a little. "It's a lot."
"Yeah." It comes out fervent enough that Buck laughs out loud, startled and bright. Eddie rubs both hands over his blushing face. "I didn't know. That I wanted it. Feels like I should have, but… I didn't."
"Took me a while too," Buck says. "And I already knew I was into, you know, guys."
"I don't know if it's guys," Eddie admits. It's at least one guy, but the truth is, he's not sure he's looked at anyone the way he looks at Buck. Maybe Shannon all those years ago, before things went bad between them, but that's a faded, well-worn memory by now, a touchstone softened by time. This feels sharp and new. "I think it's just you."
Buck's expression goes so soft that Eddie has to look away. "Eddie."
"I don't know what happens now," Eddie says. He clears his throat. "This changes things. Right?"
"It doesn't have to."
"What if I want it to?"
"Oh," Buck says, soft and somehow still surprised, as if Eddie hasn't spent this whole conversation peeling his own feelings out of his chest strip by excruciating strip and laying them down for Buck to see. But he's giving Eddie that look again, that bright soft look that he gets sometimes, that Eddie can't possibly deserve.
He wants it though. Feels as greedy for it as he felt last night, with Buck naked and desperate beneath him.
"That's all you got?" he asks, challenging.
"You're impossible," Buck says, terribly fond, and he tips forward into Eddie's space, catches him gently by the chin, and kisses him. A sweet kiss, slow and lingering. Not their first kiss, but it lights Eddie up like it is anyway, leaves him blinking dumbly when they finally separate. Buck keeps his hand on Eddie's face, and grins at him, quick and sweet. "Better?"
"Getting there," Eddie says, and this time he's the one to pull Buck in.