Chapter Text
Summer in SoCal is unbearably hot.
Buck never minded the warmth, preferred it to the biting cold of the East Coast, always a bit too fitting to the austere walls of his childhood home; but July in Los Angeles brings the kind of heat that sticks uncomfortably to the skin, seeping through the thin cotton shirts and, in Buck’s particular case, the bandages wrapped around his torso.
Fractured ribs tend to be a bitch, even more so when every day inches closer and closer to a hundred degrees, especially more so when the AC system at Eddie’s place, where he’s been unceremoniously told he’d be staying until he healed, starts acting up.
“They said they’d send someone within the week.”
Eddie’s stumbling through the hallway, collecting keys, shoes, and his duffel bag. There’s a bead of sweat collecting in the displeased crease of his forehead, another one trailing down his throat. Buck’s eyes catch it before it disappears in the collar of his shirt, and his brain short-circuits a little.
“I told you I could do it, I was a handyman for a while.”
Eddie scoffs, looking his wallet, “It was two weeks, that doesn’t make you qualified for messing with my AC.”
Buck rolls his eyes, grabs the wallet from where it had been sitting on the table since the night before, and wordlessly hands it to Eddie.
“Plus, you shouldn’t strain yourself.”
“It’s been a week already, I’m fine.”
“It’s been a week, only.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Eddie stops dead on his tracks, faces Buck with a contrite look on his face that makes Buck giggle, “Never call me that again,” then adds, gentler if not as exasperated, “Just, take it easy, okay?”
Buck nods, steering him out the door because he is one banter away from being late.
Christopher catches him leaving from his place on the couch, shouts his goodbye around a mouthful of cereal.
Eddie peeks in one last time, waving with his door keys still in his hand, jiggling: “Bye, buddy. Be good for Buck, okay?”
Chris smiles, waves back before turning once more to whatever he’s watching.
“And you,” Eddie says, focus back on Buck, “be good, too.”
And Buck wants to be cheeky, wants to be charming, says: “Always am”, but chokes on air when Eddie turns towards him with a smirk, walking backwards to the car.
“I know you are.”
And then he’s gone, Buck having to physically peel himself away from the porch to keep himself for doing something stupid, like- watching Eddie’s car until it disappears down the road.
The thing is, there’s been a certain kind of tension between him and Eddie ever since he got hurt, like there’s something brewing in the air, like something’s about to change, and they’re both waiting and bracing themselves for the moment it will. It’s not a bad kind of tension, he thinks, it’s not even new, to be honest, it’s just- different. Buck has been hurt before, and so has Eddie, he has spent time recovering at the Diaz’s more times than he can count, yet it’s never been quite like this. They have never been quite like this, both together and separately. Buck tries not to think too hard about the fact that they are both single at the same time in what feels like a lifetime, but he has an endless amount of free time these days, and his mind wanders. He thinks of how much they have both changed, how much they’ve healed. Big things, like therapy and coming out and letting go of people that were holding them back, but little things, too, like expressing desires, and deeper smile lines, and placing value in simple pleasures- never guilty.
He has always loved Eddie, has loved him since long before he fell in love with him, this Eddie, though, the one who looks comfortable and content in his own skin, he’s in awe of.
At the same time, he has no idea what to do with it, can’t think fast enough about a proper reaction whenever Eddie touches him, casual and affectionate, and says things like “you’re good”, and “I think about you”, like they’re not tiny love confessions to Buck’s treacherous heart. He’s way past trying to convince himself they’re anything but deliberate, yet still has no clue as to how to respond.
Eddie had collected him from the hospital last week with discharge papers and a hand glued to the small of his back, even though his legs had suffered no injuries whatsoever, and when he said “Let’s take you home,” and took a turn for his own house instead of the loft, Buck had been too busy thinking about Eddie’s hand guiding him through the hospital, squeezing his leg before starting the car, to say anything about it.
The touches continued, a hand sweeping across his shoulder when Eddie comes in and finds him sitting at the kitchen table, fingers carding through his hair to wake him up from a nap, thumb gently pressing into the meat of his arm whenever he changes his bandages, and Buck- he always, just, stays put, as one would when trying not to spook a wild animal, as if sudden movement might scare Eddie away.
Most importantly, Buck never touches back.
It’s not that he thinks it’d be unwelcome- he’s almost certain it wouldn’t, but he and Eddie have been tethering towards the edge of something and Buck doesn’t know if he’s ready to make the jump yet. He’s not sure if, once they’re up in the air, his parachute will open up, or if he’ll end up clinging to Eddie, sending both of them plummeting down.
Eddie has been- he’s been so brave, so intent on getting better, and he’s there: putting himself on the line everyday, making himself better everyday, while Buck… Buck has been trying, so hard. It’s just not enough. Eddie deserves the best version of him, and he’s not there yet. Won’t be for a while, maybe.
Eddie finds him still wallowing on the couch nearly twelve hours later, the tea in his hand cold and his eyes fixed somewhere above the tv, unfocused.
“Hey,” he calls from the door, hair still wet from the shower at the station- Buck wants to cry, “Chris asleep?”
Buck nods, looks down at the cup in his hand, “Out like a light.”
Eddie briefly detours to Chris’s room before joining Buck on the couch, arm thrown on the couch’s back and around Buck’s shoulder.
His eyes squeeze shut, body sagging into the cushions, “God, that was a shitshow of a shift.”
“Bad?”
“Just long,” he sighs, “longer now that you’re not there.”
Buck sucks in a breath, has to force himself to loosen the deathly grip he has on the mug’s handle.
“Anyways,” Eddie says, peeking at Buck through his eyelashes, “How was your day?”
“Good, we went to the playground,” Buck shifts in his seat, smiles around his next words, “Chris managed to run through every single sprinkler on our way back.”
Eddie arches one eyebrow, suppressing a grin, “Just Chris?”
Buck shrugs, “I may or may not have joined him.”
Eddie snorts, eyes crinkling, “Attaboy,” then leans in, hand stretching towards the cup in Buck’s lap “Whatcha got there?”
“Ginger tea,” Buck says, eyes following where Eddie’s lips press against the rim of the mug, the same spot where his own mouth had been.
He takes a sip, makes a face almost immediately after, “Is this supposed to be iced?”
“No, I just- I made it a while ago,” and then, quieter, “I’ve been sitting here a while.”
“Hey,” Eddie sits up, places the cup down, “Are you okay?”
His hands are on Buck in two seconds flat, one drawing circles on his knee, the other falling onto the place where his shoulder meets his neck, thumb pressed into his clavicle like a missing puzzle piece.
“Is it your chest? Does it hurt?”
“My chest is fine. I’m okay.”
The look Eddie is giving him is unconvinced at best, “Did you change your bandages yet?”
“After the sprinklers, kinda. I couldn’t really reach.”
Eddie nods, moves to get up. With an outstretched hand, he says: “C’mon then, we’ll fix it.”
If Buck was a better man, he thinks, he’d stand on his own- as it turns out, he is a weak, weak man. He takes Eddie’s hand, holds it all the way to the bathroom, only letting go when Eddie has to move around to cut the gauze.
He sits in mostly silence while Eddie undresses the wound and dabs it with antiseptic, brows furrowed in concentration. He has one hand wrapped around Buck’s upper arm for balance. When Buck hisses, he starts moving it up and down in a soothing motion, fingers reaching to tap his back.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still working on the cuts, still petting Buck.
He is so gentle, is the thing, always so gentle with everything that concerns Buck. Even before, when their relationship was simply a shapeshifting kind of friendship, Eddie has always been- eager to forgive, quick to reassure, always ready to listen, and Buck wants him so bad he’s dizzy with it. If this is what Eddie’s love feels like now -like being ignited from the inside out, a fire that warms without burning- he can’t dare to imagine what it’d be like if he allowed himself to fully accept it.
His eyes get wet before he even registers what’s happening, and then Eddie is moving to get more gauze and he’s looking up and he there’s suddenly hands on his shoulders, cupping his face.
“What’s wrong?” he’s saying, “Where does it hurt?”
And Buck has just enough presence of mind to clock in Eddie’s worried look before he’s lifting his own hand to his eyes and- fuck, he’s crying.
“I’m fine”, he says.
“Buck, you’re crying.”
“No, I’m- it’s sweat,” then, as if it’s a perfectly logical explanation, “It’s really hot.”
“Buck.”
And the thing is- Buck is fully aware of how ridiculous this looks, their combined twelve feet of muscle crowded against the sink, Buk bare-chested and bare-hearted, the irony of his wound not fully closed and not fully dressed not escaping him. And he’s crying, but he didn’t mean to, yet can’t really seem to stop, because Eddie’s cradling his face and saying his name and Buck loves him so much that keeping his distance feels like a heavier weigh on his chest than the ceiling falling on him did. And isn’t that something.
“I love you,” he says, the words caught in a half-sob. He thinks, distantly, that this is always how it was gonna end. He adds, a moment later, “I’m sorry.”
Eddie’s hands move against his cheeks, fingers brushing away the tears, “Why?”
“I don’t know if you noticed,” Buck says, hands coming up to hold onto Eddie’s wrist, heart half-set on holding on, half-set on pushing away, “but I’m a bit of a mess.”
Eddie smiles faintly, “So am I.”
“No, you’re- you’re so good, Eddie. You’ve been doing so good, I don’t want to, like, slow your process,” he takes a breath, moves Eddie’s hands away, “push you down with me.”
“Buck”, he says, voice rough, and his eyes are suspiciously shiny as well, hands now wrapped around Buck’s at their sides, “Buck, listen to me. Do you remember what you told me a few weeks ago? That loving someone is sticking together through the bad days?”
Buck nods, eyes coming up to meet Eddie’s.
“Well, I have a counter argument,” Eddie says, slots their fingers together, “I love you, and I want to be with you because of the bad days, not despite them.”
And Buck is shaking his head, still crying and wounded and hopeless.
“No, listen,” Eddie goes on, “You think you’re supposed to power through the hard part, but I’m telling you: look at us. Look at me. You make it better. We make each other better.”
“Eddie.”
“It’s not a matter of not giving up,” he says, “It’s a mater on giving in to what makes us feel good,” a beat, one hand travelling to Buck’s waist, “You make me feel good.”
Buck’s eyes are puffy, by now, and they’re both breathing hard, and it’s really fucking hot in the tiny bathroom.
“That was really smooth,” Buck says, and they’re both laughing a little too hard, suddenly.
“I rehearsed it with Frank,” Eddie says.
“Really?”
“No,” he smiles, thumps his forehead against Buck’s, “but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”
Buck hums, sways closer to Eddie, “Your brand of overthinking is definitely better than mine.”
Eddie moves back, presses a lingering kiss between Buck’s eyes, on both his cheeks, and when they’re standing one breath away, noses brushing, it’s Buck who closes the distance, presses closer.
Everything has been so slow, between them, that their first kiss seems to move at light-speed. One moment, Buck’s bottom lip is caught in between Eddie’s teeth, the next they’re panting into each other’s mouths, legs slotting together in a grinding motion. Buck moans against a plea, and the thing is, he doesn’t even want to do anything- he’s injured and Eddie’s coming off a 12 hour and they’re both emotionally worn down, but he needs to be as close to Eddie as he can get. If he could, he’d open up his own chest to let him set up camp there.
“Your chest,” Eddie says, and for a moment, Buck thinks he might actually be able to read his mind, “the wound.”
Buck nods, reluctantly pulling away, chin jutting out for one last press of lips.
The dressing doesn’t take more than a few minutes, but Eddie is careful, wary of Buck’s distracting hands bracketing him in.
When he’s done, he takes a step back, gives Buck’s bandages a satisfied look, says, “Done”, before placing a kiss to the center of Buck’s chest, just above the gauze.
“All good?”, he asks, moving closer, bodies sticking together in the heat.
Buck smiles, kisses him some more.
He says, “Just right.”