Work Text:
"I've noticed something," Eddie says, apropos of nothing. Buck is doing the dishes, because Eddie made enchiladas for dinner, and to be quite honest, he's been sitting on this thought for a grand total of two weeks, and he's starting to feel itchy about it.
Actually, he's past itchy at this point, and downright vibrating. Something is happening with Buck, and Eddie isn't certain about many things, but he's pretty sure about this one. (He's usually sure, when it comes to Buck.)
The vibrating, surprisingly, isn't anxiety, but he wouldn't classify it as excitement, either. More of a constant, steady thrum of anticipation. Of hope. Of change. It warms his body into liquid gold, makes his brain buzz happily and his heart stutter inside his chest.
Buck hums absently as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of melted cheese on the pan. "Oh? What’s that?”
He’s been distant, since they moved back. Spending a lot of time at Maddie’s, ostensibly to help out with the baby while Chim settles into his new role. Ducking out for hours at a time. Claiming he’s going to the gym, or to grab some coffee, or to meet up with Ravi. Eddie suspects at least a third of the time, those claims are true.
Most of them are not. He knows Buck well, and Buck isn’t a good liar.
They haven’t talked about it outright, but Eddie had thought, until recently, that things had been going as well as they could be, considering. The house is packed with furniture, boxes everywhere until they figure out what to do with it all. The dining room has been temporarily converted into a bedroom for Eddie, Chris is back in his own room, and Eddie’s slotted back seamlessly into the 118, with several unsubtle hints from both Chim and Hen about becoming a paramedic, which he hasn’t given too much thought to, what with everything everyone has been through in the last year. He doesn’t want to shake things up more than they already are.
That is, except maybe one thing?
Eddie gets up from his spot at the table, and goes to prop one hip against the counter to Buck’s right, where he’s moved on to drying the pan with a level of concentration that makes Eddie smile.
Buck’s eyes dart to him, lightning-fast, and back down.
“You’ve been staring at me.”
The only visible reaction he gets is the view of Buck swallowing, hard, his throat working and neck muscles going tense. He doesn’t get a verbal response.
Several seconds tick by in total silence, save for the soft rustle of Buck’s hands fisting in the dish towel. “Guess I’m just adjusting to you being back.” The words are light, but his voice is low, raw and raspy with an edge to it that doesn’t go unnoticed.
He won’t look at Eddie.
“I’m not leaving, Buck. Not again,” Eddie tells him.
“Right.” Buck finishes with the pan, puts some distance between them as he returns it to the drawer beneath the stove. “Yeah. I know that.” He busies himself putting the rest of the dishes away, neatly avoiding eye contact and physical contact at the same time, despite Eddie refusing to move to give him easier access to the dish rack.
Eddie decides, okay. He’ll nudge a bit more.
“It’s interesting,” he continues, keeping his voice mild. “You’ve been either not looking at me at all, or looking at me like—”
This grabs Buck’s attention. He stops in his tracks, and a fork clatters into the cutlery tray as he stiffens, and darts another glance. This one lingers for a fraction of a second longer before it cuts away, and then flies back, and Eddie meets it with a resolute calm.
“Like what?” Buck asks, whisper-delicate as a dragonfly’s wings. His eyes widen, impossibly blue and nervously panicked. His fingers curl into his palms. He swallows again.
Eddie says, “Like you’re in love with me.”
All the breath leaves Buck in a shaky, shuddery rush, and he deflates, amusingly, like a balloon—shoulders slumping, head dipping, chest collapsing.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to the floor, “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—I’ve been, there’s a place I’m looking at tomorrow that’s, that looks pretty good, then I can get out of your—”
“I hope you weren’t about to call this my house,” Eddie interrupts. “Also, what the hell do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”
Buck stares at him. “It is your house,” he says slowly, like Eddie’s being an idiot. “And you’re my best friend. And you’re straight. You don’t need me be—”
“Yes, actually. I do,” Eddie interrupts. Again. “I do need you. Which somehow you seem to not be understanding. You are trying to move out, when what I want is you here . You tried to transfer, when your place is at the 118, with me, as my partner. You withdrew after Bobby—after Bobby died, when I needed you with me. To grieve with me, to mourn with me. So we could support each other, like we always do. I thought it was obvious. Maybe not.” He takes a step closer, and another, until they’re only a few inches apart.
“I need you. I need you , Buck. So yes. Be. Be in love with me. Be with me. Be you. Because that’s who I want. That is what I want.”
“ Eddie ,” Buck says. Just one word. Eddie .
Eddie flattens one palm over his chest, absorbing the trembling of Buck’s skin, and the burning heat of doubt underneath. He shifts once more, and then Buck’s exhale tickles the corner of his mouth, and his nose is pressed to Buck’s cheek. “Buck,” he murmurs. Buck, Buck, Buck.
“ Eddie ,” Buck begs, and the second syllable of Eddie’s name is lost between their lips, a shared plea dissolving into a kiss that makes Eddie’s knees buckle—sweet, hungry. Intoxicating. Buck makes desperate, needy sounds in between their mouths, keeping them from getting too deep, too thorough. Eddie’s fingertips curl into his shirt, and Buck’s hands settle over his hips, possessive.
“Tell me?” Buck whispers.
“I love you,” Eddie whispers back.