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Something about living with Buck and Christopher under one roof had activated whatever dormant domestic energy was stewing in Eddie. It's not like he wasn't trying before (dear god had he been trying), but on their 48s off, he was reaching new heights of house-husband behavior.
He was keeping the place spotless. Laundry was done on time, dishes hardly getting a second to rest in the sink before they were cleaned and put away. He was buying and lighting seasonal candles. Hell, he had even asked Buck for advice to start a vegetable garden. Him!
More than anything, though, he was cooking. Meal prep on Sundays for lunches for the week, of course, but additionally, time off was dedicated to planning and executing thoughtful meals, with enough leftovers to feed Christopher and whoever was watching him dinner while they were on shift.
Beyond that, he liked it. He liked having something to do with his hands. He liked getting recipes from Pepa, maybe even spending an afternoon cooking it with her to practice. He liked seeing the way Christopher and Buck would demolish whatever he made, shoveling seconds and thirds down their throats until they were gripping their stomachs with how full they were.
That is to say, the current scene was not an abnormal one. Pepa's enchiladas verdes recipe was on his mind, his tortilla press hard at work on the countertop, the smell of masa fragrant in the air. He liked the monotony of it, the slight strain in his muscles from each press, the way the tortillas peeled off smoothly and stacked to the side.
It was a larger batch than he would usually make all at once, but Christopher had gotten into the habit of making himself quesadillas when he got home from school. Eddie was certain his abuela would make the drive all the way from El Paso to smack him upside the head if he kept buying bags of tortillas from Ralph's, so here he was, pressing and pressing and pressing.
"Come on," Buck whined. He sat on the table in the middle of the kitchen, long legs swinging out to tap at Eddie's as he worked. "I'm a good cook. I wouldn't screw it up."
"No can do," Eddie replied easily, punctuating it with a squeeze of the press. He opened it and pulled out the tortilla, laying it to the side with the rest. "You know how long it took you to figure out how to make a good lemon loaf? I'm not risking the integrity of the tortillas."
"First of all, all the ingredients are already at room temperature here, so I can't screw that up," Buck pointed out. "Also, there's a big difference between lemon loaf and tortillas. I want to make sure you know that."
Eddie flicked a finger at Buck, sending some masa flying onto his face. Buck wrinkled his nose and swiped at it, missing most of it. Eddie found him endlessly endearing. "Yeah, one is something you make, and the other is something I make."
Eddie still hadn't gotten the hang of baking. He mourned the flan that was probably still stuck on that baking dish in whatever landfill it ended up in.
"Or," Buck said slowly, hopping off the table to lean against the counter next to Eddie, "it could be something we make together. As a pair."
"You just hate that I can make something you can't."
"Absolutely." Buck grinned broadly, eyes crinkling and everything. Not that Eddie was paying attention to his eyes. "You know I get jealous. Maybe this time I'll sprain your other ankle about it."
Eddie simply rolled his eyes, pushing him aside to get to the stove and heat up his cast iron. "You sprain my ankle, you don't get any of the enchiladas for dinner. I'll make you go get sad takeout for yourself."
Buck gasped. "Not sad takeout!"
Eddie nodded solemnly. "Yes, sad takeout. From that burger place where everything comes out really soggy."
"You wouldn't."
"I would," Eddie hummed. He grabbed his tray of tortillas and brought them to the stove. "Besides, I've already pressed them all."
"You still have to cook them," Buck argued. "I can cook a tortilla."
Eddie snorted. "Yeah, okay."
He tossed a tortilla in the middle of the pan and shifted it to lay flat with his hand. "You'll just burn yourself," Eddie continued, not even bothering to catch a glance at Buck. He knew the way Buck would be pouting right now. Instead, he focused his attention on the tortilla, flipping it with his bare hand to cook the other side. "You've got white boy hands. You're gonna be bad at this."
Buck pointed at Eddie. "Don't bring my white boy hands into this. You know I'm sensitive."
Eddie looked at him flatly. "You grew up a WASP in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Your hands aren't even the whitest thing about you. I watched you genuinely enjoy a casserole with mayo and raisins in it."
"That was one time, and you promised you'd never bring it up again."
"Embrace your whiteness," Eddie crooned. He pulled the tortilla off and threw another on the skillet. "Go camping. Call salt spicy. Sign up for a Turkey Trot."
Buck shoved at him, just firm enough to make him rock. Eddie laughed and knocked his shoulder against Buck's. "If you really insist, I'll let you try to cook one. Just be careful, okay?"
Buck brightened. "I'm so careful, all the time! They call me Captain Careful!"
"They call you Wet Floor Sign, since you tripped over one two shifts ago."
"Details!" Buck slid closer to the stove. "I got this. Put me in, coach."
"Let me finish first," Eddie chastised. "Take a breath, Buckley."
"You take a breath," Buck humphed. "I'm not patient."
"I learned that day one of our friendship." Eddie pulled the tortilla off the skillet and took a step back. "Alright, cowboy, show me how it's done. Be careful."
Buck immediately jumped to it, eager as always. Eddie watched as he took a tortilla and laid it on the skillet. He mimicked Eddie's technique pretty well, he had to admit, smoothing it out like a pro.
Buck smirked at Eddie triumphantly. "See?"
Eddie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You're not even halfway there yet."
"You didn't even think I'd make it this far."
"Touché."
Eddie watched it happen almost in slow motion. Buck went to flip his tortilla, but he went too intensely, the back of his finger pressing firmly against the hot skillet, staying there just a moment too long. Buck hissed and pulled his hand back, shaking it from the pain. Eddie jumped into action quickly. He turned off the stove, just to make sure the tortilla didn't burn, and he grabbed Buck's wrist and stuck his finger in his mouth.
Buck froze. Eddie froze. They made eye contact, both staring at each other, unmoving, Buck's finger resting against Eddie's tongue.
A few thoughts went through Eddie’s mind in that moment. First of all, he remembered that he was a medic, and there was a sink with lukewarm water only a couple feet away, which probably would have been the right choice instead of whatever the hell he was doing right now.
Secondly, Eddie realized that Buck didn't look disgusted. Surprised, sure, but he didn't look like he was going to throw Eddie out of his own house or anything.
Finally, Eddie realized... he kind of liked the weight of Buck's finger against his tongue. He liked how he tasted, the lingering essence of sweat and masa on his finger filling his mouth, the hint of something inherently Buck.
Almost absentmindedly, he sucked gently on Buck's finger. Buck let out a strangled gasp, but he didn't pull his finger back. "Eddie."
Eddie slid his tongue down Buck's finger, letting it press against the hot skin. He couldn't look away from Buck, couldn't think beyond the realization that he really liked having Buck's finger in his mouth.
Buck looked almost awestruck and curled his finger, pressing down against Eddie's tongue. Eddie's eyelids fluttered at the sensation, a wave of something coursing through him.
"Oh, Eddie," Buck whispered, letting his finger slide just a little further into Eddie's mouth, "you really like this, don't you?"
A small sound escaped from him, something high pitched and needy. Eddie wasn't sure he had ever made a noise like that before. He was too lightheaded to think about it much.
"You do." Buck stepped closer, his free hand coming to Eddie's waist, skating across his side to rest at the small of his back. Eddie's hands flew to rest on Buck's pecs, and holy shit. Holy shit, was he gay? Eddie had to be gay. His hands were on Buck's chest, and Buck's finger was in Eddie's mouth, and Eddie was so gay.
His eyes shut with the knowledge. He was pretty sure he was about to explode here, both from embarrassment and from neediness.
Buck wasn't going to let that happen, though. His finger slid free from Eddie's mouth and trailed down Eddie's jaw, spreading his own saliva across his skin.
He shivered from it, from the feeling of Buck touching him so carefully, like he was something precious.
Buck tilted Eddie's chin up, causing Eddie to open his eyes back up to look at Buck, who was smiling gently at him. "I'm going to try something, okay?"
And he looked so earnest, so incredibly sweet and Buck about it, that Eddie could only nod.
And then Buck was swooping down, his lips pressing firmly against Eddie's, and yeah. Yeah, Eddie was definitely gay. He was so incredibly gay, from the way his stomach exploded with butterflies and his head lit up with desire, and he responded to Buck with as much need as he could possibly put into one kiss.
Eddie could feel Buck sigh in relief, his arms wrapping firmly around Eddie's waist to keep them tightly pressed together. Buck slid his arms down to Eddie's thighs, prompting him to jump up and wrap his legs around him, and Eddie found that he really liked that, too.
Hours later, from where they laid together in bed, they ended up having to order takeout anyways (not from the sad burger place). It was fine; the enchiladas could wait for tomorrow.