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It drives Eddie crazy how Buck leaves every kitchen cabinet open while drying and stacking the dishes, despite Buck’s argument that it’s the most efficient way to clean, and it drives Buck crazy how Eddie washes the plates and cups first and not the big pots and pans. So they compromise, leaving Eddie as the resident dish-dryer and Buck as the dish-washer. Scrub, rinse, hand it off. Scrub, rinse, hand it off.
Buck’s sleeve begins to slide as he scrubs the saucepan, and Eddie pulls it back up before it can reach the water, letting his hands linger at the crook of his elbow. Their eyes meet, but neither says a word. Buck hands over the saucepan, eyes still kept, and the only reason Eddie breaks away is because the pans are stacked in the bottom cabinet.
Scrub, rinse, hand it off.
A cup meets his hand that he only vaguely recognizes. It’s tall, plastic, and the graphic on the front is mostly faded, but he can just barely make out the word Zoo, with Hershey, Pennsylvania scrawled just beneath. The cup, at least ten years old, probably more, managed to stay in Buck’s life and cross the barrier into Eddie’s.
It’s followed by a Tupperware with Maddie’s handwriting scribbled on top, nearly faded, almost gone, labeling whatever was once stored in the container.
Then comes the mug, which Eddie is certain he never bought, but it’s somehow become his favorite; obnoxiously large and easy to hold, perfectly shaping his hand.
The kitchen did as kitchens do best: handed him a bit of truth that could be found nowhere else.
Cups, dishes, chipped bowls and plates; there’s a bit of Buck in every corner of the kitchen. All around the house they’ve grown to call home, there’s remnants of a life that’s become indescribably theirs. Buck takes his key and lets himself in, shoes fitting perfectly on the bottom shelf of the shoe rack. He hangs his keys beside Eddie’s, and leaves his jacket by the door. Buck walks inside and steps over the darkest floor panel because he knows that’s the one that always creaks, and Chris is already asleep. There’s rings on the dining table, three to be exact, and magnets on the fridge Eddie never bought, holding up photos Eddie didn’t take.
Nothing is ever certain, but Eddie’s confident that Buck is a sure thing. Not just his work partner or best friend, but the only person he can imagine by his side year after year, time and time again. Because when Buck’s hand brushes against his, he feels light and, for the first time, Eddie believes that love can be freeing.
It shouldn’t be this big of a deal, he sees Buck every day.
He sees Buck at work, by his side on every call. He sees him holding the shopping list when they go to buy groceries together. He wakes up and finds Buck still sleeping on the couch, feet poking out from beneath the covers and hanging over the armrest. As he sleeps, he pulls his hoodie around his face, trying to block the slivers of sunlight peeking in from behind the curtains, dancing around his face. When Chris wakes up he taps Buck’s head until his eyes peel open, smiling when he discovers the culprit is his favorite kid in the world.
(Eddie prefers to let him sleep just a few minutes longer).
On the days where he wakes up alone, Eddie is greeted by blue eyes sometime in the afternoon when Buck comes home from a shift.
Home.
It’s been weeks since the shooting, and Eddie doesn’t need help with reaching the top cabinets or carrying the laundry anymore, but Buck still hasn’t left. Eddie would never ask him to leave, secretly relishing in the extra moments spent by his side, and Buck always creates some new excuse for staying an extra night.
“Albert just got back from his shift, I don’t want to wake him up,” or, “ There’s construction on the upper floors and the sound is driving me crazy,” or, “ I took the sheets off my bed to wash them, but I never actually got around to it.”
Eventually he stops making excuses, and Eddie no longer has to ask him to stay.
Home.
“Buck,” Eddie whispers, his name a revelation in itself. He’s still holding the mug, his favorite mug, the one from Buck’s apartment that’s somehow become his.
He’s about to hand the cutlery over to Eddie, but leaves it in the sink instead. Buck turns to Eddie, slowly, carefully, letting his gaze travel up and down, before settling on his eyes.
“Hmm?” Buck hums.
“This is your mug.”
“Oh,” he sighs, taking hold of the handle with soapy hands. “I must’ve left it here. I’ll take it back to the loft later.”
“No,” he cuts in, too fast.
“No?”
The mug dangles precariously from Buck’s fingers, hooked around his middle and ring finger. A few drops of water fall to the floor, but they’ll dry fast enough. He knows Buck won’t let it fall, but still, he’s on edge watching the mug hang.
“It’s a good mug,” Eddie says. It’s not too heavy, not too light. He can microwave it without the handle burning too hot. The inside is big enough to hold an unreasonable amount of coffee and tea, though the only time he’s drank tea from the mug are the days Buck brewed it for him. It’s a good mug. My favorite.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
He shakes his head, smiles just slightly. “But it’s not mine.” Buck scrunches his face, trying to piece together an odd conversation.
“So is it my mug or your mug?”
“It’s ours.”
He nods, slow, still confused. “So I should put it in the cabinet?”
“No,” he says. Yes, he means to say, what’s mine is yours.
And that’s really it, isn’t it? Eddie hasn’t had a ‘mine’ in a long time. It’s an ‘us’ or a ‘we’ or an ‘ours’. Buck orders packages to his house and picks up his mail and drives Chris to school, Eddie right beside him in the passenger seat. They share a pantry and a sink and a stack of take out menus stashed beside the fridge, their favorite orders circled with flare pens, colored pencils, sharpies, whatever they can find. The pizza menu is pinned to the fridge with a magnet, though they never need to check the menu, it’s the same every time.
(It’s as simple as a pizza order. Yes, it’s cheap and covered in grease, but Buck picks all of Eddie’s favorite toppings. They take turns pulling slices, washing it all away with whatever beer they found in the fridge, and he notices Buck counting in his head, trying to ensure they’ve both taken their share of the pie. They’re fed and content and Buck tries to be sly when he slides his extra crust onto Eddie’s plate, the thick crust with the garlic seasoning.
Eddie knows Buck prefers the thin crust, but orders the thick ones anyways. Eddie never mentions it to him, but he smiles as he takes his first bite into the bread.)
“You’re doing the dishes,” he says.
“Should I stop?” The water is no longer dripping from his hands and the soap is dry against his palms.
“And sometimes you do the laundry, and you used to have your own drawer in my dresser but it’s all so mixed up that I’m pretty sure I’m wearing your shirt right now.”
“You are,” Buck points out. “But I don’t mind. But if you mind—”
“I don’t mind. That’s my whole point.” He shakes his head, trying to sort the ideas in his mind. “I don’t mind. And my shoulder is fine and I don’t need you staying here anymore.”
“Oh,” Buck says, his expression dropping. He finally sets the mug aside, suddenly more focused on the knives in the sink than on Eddie’s words.
“But I want it,” Eddie quickly amends. “I want you to stay.”
It’s as close as he can get to a confession without saying the words. They’re standing, opposite sides of the same line, teetering back and forth, and Eddie so desperately wants to take Buck’s hand and pull him to the other side.
He slides closer to the sink, within Buck’s reach, but not holding on.
“For how long?” Buck asks, “Because I can’t sleep on your couch forever.”
“No, you can’t,” he agrees. He moves slowly at first, uncertain, unsteady. Buck’s hands are sticky in his, dried soap pressing against clean skin. It smells like lavender and leaves his palms tacky. It’s uncomfortable and itchy but he can’t pull away. “But I’ve got a pretty nice bed.”
“I don’t think anything purchased from IKEA can be considered ‘pretty nice’.”
“It does the job.”
“‘Does the job’ and ‘pretty nice’ are two very different things. And I’ve slept in that bed before, the mattress is stiff. And your sheets—”
“—Will you move in with me or not?” he asks, finally asks. They’re standing toe to toe, hand in hand. From this close, Eddie has to tilt his chin up to meet Buck’s eye. He stands in his shadow, a few inches below him, and feeling small has never felt so warm.
Buck laughs, a little nervous, looking all over Eddie’s face, anywhere but his eyes. “Usually you don’t move in until after the first date. Several months after.”
“And I usually don’t kiss before the first date either...” All hesitations fade after that, a subtle confirmation that they feel the same way.
“But?”
“I’ll make an exception,” Eddie says, pulling one hand away to cradle Buck’s jaw. No hesitations, no more waiting, what’s mine is yours. He kisses Buck, pulls closer, closer, closer until there’s no telling where one body ends, leaning against the counter, and where another begins, stuck between soap covered hands.
You’re always the exception, he presses into each kiss, each touch against his waist, each graze against his teeth. The hem of his shirt is wet from spilled water on the counter. Buck holds on, firm hands that steady his bones and leave him settled. It’s never ending and needy and somehow they both forget to breathe, but there will be time for breathing later, for terminating leases and reorganizing their dishes and arguing for pantry space.
For now, Eddie kisses him until it hurts, then kisses him again, promising forever.
(how will the world end?)
(it’s genuinely not something i think too much about. there are people to love and dishes to do in the meantime.)