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"I used to dream about this," escapes Buck's mouth on a cozy Tuesday morning.
Buck used to imagine Eddie's grey hair; wondered if Eddie would go grey on his sides first, or maybe it'd start with a strand of hair at the top of his head. Buck would picture it in the middle of Eddie’s trademarked swoop. He'd picture it falling beautifully on his face. He'd picture himself twirling it between his fingers. He'd picture his hands getting lost, year after year, in Eddie’s saltier and pepperier hair, holding onto them, softly, firmly, desperately, any way possible.
Right now, he has no need for imagination. He simply stares at his husband.
"What," Eddie mumbles around a mouthful of muffin.
There's crumbs in his mustache. Because Eddie has a mustache. That, is something past-Buck hadn't pictured.
"You got some–" Buck says through chuckles, pointing at his own naked top lip.
"You–" Eddie brushes off his mustache with his hand and finishes swallowing. "You used to dream about me stuffing myself with your muffins?" he teases with his pretty canines on display.
Not with my muffins, Buck's brain whispers, a little too loudly apparently, considering Eddie's face. "Shut up," Buck says out loud, pushing off the counter he was leaning against, and takes a step toward Eddie. "I used to dream about us growing old together."
"So we're old now," Eddie fails to keep his teasing tone from softening, twisting his chair so he's sitting sideways to the table. Buck fails to keep his smile from taking over his face, coming to stand between Eddie's parted legs.
"Don't ruin my sappy moment."
"I'm sorry, honey. Go on," Eddie says as his hands settle on Buck's thighs, running up their sides, resting on his hips.
Buck almost wants to stop. Just to be mean. Pretend to step away. Just to make Eddie's hold tighten. He also wants to touch every single white hair in Eddie's mustache. There isn't much. Compared to the grey ones. He could probably count them if he stared long enough. But touching is better.
Eddie missed a crumb, at the corner of his mouth. Buck gently wipes it off with his thumb, fitting his fingers under Eddie's chin. He lets his thumb run over one side of his mustache, then the other, before settling under his bottom lip. He loves Eddie's lips. Could spend the rest of his life staring at them. But he doesn't have to.
He bends down to capture them with his own.
"Mmh, you're sweet," he hums around the taste of blueberry.
"So are you." Eddie's tongue peaks out to lick between his own lips. It grazes Buck's lips, too.
"I haven't eaten muffins yet," Buck says, still bent down, still holding onto his husband's face.
"I know, but you made them. Thank you," Eddie whispers his gratitude against his lips. Buck absorbs it like sunlight. He kisses the tip of Eddie's nose before straightening up, watching how it breathes life into the face of the man he loves. He loves how Eddie's mustache stretches over his face when he smiles.
"I'm glad you like them, Captain." Buck stays in the circle of Eddie’s arms, the V of Eddie’s legs, the comfort of Eddie’s hold. Just because he can. Because it's his. His space to occupy, forever.
Unfortunately, that's only true in spirit. Physically, Eddie has to go to work today, and Buck has to go grocery shopping.
"You know I love them, but that's not why you baked them for me." Eddie slides his hands under Buck's shirt. Just enough for them to fit at Buck's sides without any barrier. Sometimes Buck thinks even their skin is too much.
"For you, huh?" Buck focuses on the brown eyes looking up at him. "Not for the kids. Or for me," he enunciates playfully, "Just for you?"
"Yep. Otherwise you would have made your Fluffy Off Day Pancakes. But," one of Eddie's hands moves to splay over Buck's abdomen, "you," he points right above Buck's navel, "made these lovely blueberry muffins," his finger trails down, "because you know I'll take them with me if I'm late, instead of skipping breakfast altogether." Eddie hooks his finger into both his pants and boxers, and Buck breathes.
"You can't just– fly out the door with just a– a banana like some– tv teenager," Buck mumbles, "I won't allow it."
Were Buck's hands doing something? Before? Ever? He has very competent hands. They can do things. Useful things. Like saving people, or feeding them. He even teaches others how to use their hands. Baby firefighters. His own babies. Buck has competent hands.
Eddie is holding him, and Buck's hands rest uselessly by his sides.
"You don't allow it even when we're both working." Eddie pulls, and Buck pushes into his space even more.
He moves—one leg at a time—to bracket Eddie's legs with his own, then sits down to straddle him.
"Well," Look at that, another space Buck belongs to, Eddie’s lap. The delight he sees on Eddie's face is worth the squeaky sounds he hears from the chair. But he knows it's sturdy, just like the man he's sitting on. "It's either that or letting you give up your whole French Press ritual, and we can't have that," Buck teases, Eddie's sturdiness centering him.
"It's not a ritual."
It absolutely is. What started as rebellion against unnecessarily smart appliances became a comforting habit. At this point Buck doesn't know what's more essential to the start of Eddie's day: the coffee or the coffee-making.
"If you say so," Buck agrees simply and ignores Eddie's narrowed eyes. "You're not late today, though."
Buck loses the warmth of Eddie's right hand. "No, I am not," Eddie confirms. The warmth returns to Buck's back.
His own hands meet at the back of Eddie's neck. "And you still have to shower. I can't let you go out like this."
Eddie hums, bending forward. "Unacceptable." His answer is muffled by Buck's chest.
"It's okay, I'll help you shower." Buck stands on his feet, and Eddie grumbles before resettling against his tummy.
Buck chuckles fondly. The new position makes him realize he's never given Eddie a lap dance before, or anyone ever, actually. He saves the thought for later—he's forced to stop planning their next anniversary because Eddie is currently licking up his happy trail, over his navel, and starts nibbling on the flesh above it.
"You're so sweet."
Buck would have thought he'd be immune to Eddie's look of faux innocence by now, but really the prospect of being subjected to Eddie's big brown eyes for the rest of his life makes his knees falter.
The heat building in his core isn't helping either.
He scrambles to dismount Eddie, reveling in his laughter bouncing off the kitchen cabinets. Eddie is still holding onto him when he stands up. So Buck starts walking backward, and Eddie follows him instinctively.
They manage to stay relatively chaste on their way to the bathroom, lest they traumatize one of their children—again—and as they finally undress each other, Buck thinks distantly, I should make blueberry muffins more often, it's a great way to start the day.