Work Text:
The funniest part, Eddie thinks, is that this is technically his fault.
Not the being-in-love-with-his-best-friend thing—that feels inevitable in the same way gravity is inevitable, like Buck looking at him with those eyes and that smile could ever lead anywhere else. No, Eddie can own that. Happily. Repeatedly. Preferably against a variety of surfaces.
This, however—the impending crime against beverages—is entirely on him.
Buck bumps their shoulders together as they walk. Eddie glances at him, caught, and can’t help smiling.
Eddie strokes his thumb over Buck’s knuckles like it has its own agenda. Three months together and Eddie still hasn’t gotten used to how easy this is, how natural it feels to just… hold his hand on a sidewalk in broad daylight.
They’re a couple blocks from the café, the afternoon fuzzy-warm around them, L.A. in that sweet spot between shift chaos and evening calls. No one from the 118 in sight. Just people minding their own business, which is exactly what Eddie intends to do—if you ignore the part where he’s about to order the world’s dumbest drink.
Buck is still looking at him, though, gaze soft and amused.
Eddie clears his throat. “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”
“Because,” Buck says, drawing the word out like it’s obvious, “you told me about your ‘protein powder and diet soda, it’s like a root beer float’ thing, and I said—and I quote—‘sounds good, I’m in.’” He grins. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, even as his chest does this annoying warm expansion thing. “Unfortunately.”
They reach the café—small, corner place, big windows, a chalkboard sign out front boasting ethically sourced beans and something called a lavender cloud latte. Eddie stops, giving their joined hands a little squeeze, sudden nerves flickering under his ribs.
Not nerves about being seen. He’s weirdly fine with this now, with his fingers laced through Buck’s in public. If someone sees, they see. If someone from the 118 sees… well, that’s a problem for Future Eddie, who will also have to deal with things like grocery shopping, Christopher’s homework, and the way Buck looks in a tight t-shirt at three in the morning.
Right now, Present Eddie’s only real concern is that he’s dragged his very enthusiastic boyfriend here to drink something that might dissolve his esophagus.
“You sure?” Eddie asks, half teasing, half serious. “We can still turn back. No shame.”
Buck squeezes his hand back, eyes bright. “Eddie. You described a drink that ‘tastes like a root beer float but with gains.’ There is no universe where I’m not trying that.”
He says it like that’s a compliment.
Eddie shakes his head, fighting a smile that loses before it begins. “You know, normal couples just… get coffee.”
“Babe,” Buck says, and that’s it, that’s the whole word, and Eddie’s spine does something embarrassing. “We’re not normal.”
Can’t argue with that.
Inside, the café is all wood and plants and quiet indie music—exactly the kind of place Buck once called “aesthetic” before Christopher roasted him about it for a week. There’s a short line, a few people on laptops, a couple on a sofa where the girl is clearly more interested in her boyfriend than her cold brew—Eddie understands the feeling.
They step into line, hand in hand. Buck’s thumb starts drawing idle circles on the back of Eddie’s hand, like he can’t not touch him, and Eddie has to look away for a second, jaw working. Ridiculous. He’s a grown man, veteran, firefighter, father. He has seen terrible things. He should not be undone by soft circles on his skin in a coffee shop.
And yet.
Buck’s laughter comes out quick and delighted, head tipped back, eyes crinkling. Eddie locks the sound away somewhere under his ribs, in the same place he keeps Christopher’s giggles and the first time Buck said I like you like that with his whole body.
“Okay,” Buck says, calming, though his grin is still ridiculous. “What are we ordering, exactly? I wanna make sure I get this right.”
“Mhm,” Eddie says, lips twitching. “This isn’t an experiment, Buck. It’s just a drink.”
“It is absolutely an experiment,” Buck counters, earnest. “We are testing your hypothesis that this criminal combination is, and I quote, ‘good.’”
“I stand by that.”
“You will not after the peer review,” Buck says. “I am the peer review.”
The line shuffles forward. They end up just behind the pastry case, and Eddie watches with fond resignation as Buck’s eyes get big at the display like he’s never seen a muffin before.
“Do we need a control group?” Buck muses. “Like a normal coffee so we have a baseline?”
“We’re getting you a normal coffee,” Eddie decides, because he enjoys Buck’s face and would like to keep it intact.
For a moment they just stand there in the middle of the café, the noise and clatter around them fading to a gentle hum. Buck’s smile softens, and something in his eyes goes all shining and intent, like Eddie is the only person in the room.
Eddie feels the urge—sharp, surprising—to lean in and kiss him. Just because he can. Just because Buck’s right there, and his mouth is right there, and Eddie remembers a time not long ago where this was impossible, where wanting like this felt like something to be buried.
But this is three months later, and the world didn’t end. It just got brighter.
The line moves, breaking the moment. Eddie clears his throat and faces the menu like it personally offended him.
When it’s their turn, the barista looks up with a friendly smile. “Hey, what can I get you guys?”
“Uh,” Buck says, glancing at Eddie. “You go.”
“Okay,” Eddie says, and steps up to the counter, feeling an absolutely unnecessary amount of bravery for ordering a drink. “Can I get a large cold brew with oat milk, and, uh…” He hesitates, then commits. “Can you also do a large diet soda with a scoop of vanilla protein powder mixed in?”
There is a beat of silence.
The barista blinks. “I’m sorry, you want… what in the what?”
Behind him, Buck bites back a laugh. Eddie does not turn around to look at him, because that would be defeat.
“Diet soda,” Eddie repeats, calm as a man ordering a black coffee. “And vanilla protein powder. Mixed together.”
The barista looks between Eddie and Buck, as if searching for confirmation that this is a bit.
Buck, traitor that he is, beams. “He swears it tastes like a root beer float.”
The barista’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Does it?”
“Yes,” Eddie says.
“We’ll see,” Buck adds delightedly.
There’s another moment where Eddie is pretty sure he sees the exact instant the barista mentally adds “weird drink guy” to Eddie’s file. Then she shakes her head, chuckling. “You know what? I’ve seen stranger concoctions. Okay, we can do that. Anything else?”
Buck steps up so their shoulders brush. “Yeah, I’ll get a medium iced latte on oat milk, extra shot. Add vanilla. Please.”
“Name?” The barista is fighting a smile as she taps everything in.
“Eddie,” Eddie says.
“Buck,” Buck says at the same time, and when the barista writes both names, Eddie’s chest does that warm, stupid thing again. Two names, one order, like the world is quietly catching up to something they already know.
They step aside to wait. The café is busier now, a few more people filtering in, the hiss of the espresso machine filling the space. Buck leans against the counter, and Eddie steps close enough that their arms press together from shoulder to wrist. Buck doesn’t hesitate; his fingers find Eddie’s again, slotting between them like that’s where they’ve been supposed to be this whole time.
“You know,” Buck says, voice low, “I respect that you just asked for that drink like it was a normal request.”
“It is a normal request,” Eddie says.
“For who?”
“People who care about their gains.”
Buck snorts. “Baby, you have gains. You’re, like, ninety percent biceps.”
Eddie feels his ears warm. “Ninety percent? That’s medically inaccurate.”
“Fine,” Buck says. “Eighty-five percent biceps, ten percent stubbornness, five percent mystery.”
“Five?” Eddie echoes, amused in spite of himself. “Only five?”
Buck turns his head, nose almost brushing Eddie’s. “I’m working on it,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Eddie’s stomach drop in a good way.
Before Eddie can reply, the barista calls, “Eddie?” and sets two cups on the counter.
The cold brew looks normal, blessedly familiar. The other cup… does not.
Eddie steps forward, accepting both. The protein-diet-soda concoction is in a clear plastic cup, and the sight is, even to him, mildly horrifying. The soda’s gone cloudy, bubbles frothed at the top where the protein’s been shaken in, creating a slightly off-white foam that should not exist.
Buck peeks over his shoulder. “Oh,” he says, impressed. “Oh, that looks… interesring.”
“It’s fine,” Eddie says, lying to both of them. He grabs a straw, jams it in, and hands Buck his latte. “Come on.”
They snag a small table by the window, just far enough from everyone else that Eddie feels like they have their own bubble. He sets the drinks down and sits. Buck takes the seat opposite him, their knees brushing under the table.
Without thinking, Eddie reaches across and takes Buck’s hand again, lacing their fingers over the scarred wood. Buck’s thumb rubs at his knuckles, easy and familiar. Eddie can’t help staring at their hands for a second—his tan, Buck’s slightly paler, calluses matching where their lives have turned their skin into something functional.
Buck squeezes. “You ready, protein king?”
“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says immediately. “Ever.”
“Too late,” Buck says, grinning.
Eddie rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. He pulls the cup closer, studying it like it might grow teeth.
“Okay,” Buck says, leaning forward, eyes bright with anticipation. “How’s this gonna work? Do we both drink at the same time? Do you go first? Should I be filming this? I feel like I should be filming this.”
“You are not filming this,” Eddie says firmly. “I’m not ending up on Christopher’s meme page.”
“He would make a meme page for you,” Buck says, fond.
“He already tried,” Eddie mutters. Christopher had discovered the joy of captions and reaction images; Eddie had discovered the joy of pretending not to see them. “Anyway, I go first. I have to prove it’s good.”
“And then I verify,” Buck says, solemn. “Like a peer-reviewed journal. God, I wish I’d paid more attention in science class; this metaphor could be so much stronger.”
“You just wanna watch me suffer,” Eddie says.
Buck’s smile goes soft around the edges. “I just wanna watch you,” he says.
It lands like a physical touch. Eddie swallows, fingers tightening around Buck’s reflexively. “You’re disgusting,” he says, but it comes out gentle.
“Accurate,” Buck agrees cheerfully.
Eddie takes a breath, picks up the cup, and brings the straw to his lips. The smell is… actually not terrible. Sweet, familiar, a little like soda that got too close to a gym bag. He tells his brain to shut up, thinks about all the times this has gotten him through long shifts and late nights, and takes a sip.
Cold fizziness, vanilla sweetness, the faint chalky heft of protein. It’s… fine. Good, even. It tastes like memory, like he’s back in that early, lonely post-Army time when he’d make this because it felt like control in a glass. Root beer float with gains; he wasn’t lying.
He pulls back and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “See?” he says, playing it cool. “Totally fine.”
Buck’s eyes are laser-focused on his face. “You’re making a face.”
“I’m not making a face,” Eddie says, indignant. “It’s good.”
“You’re, like, squinting,” Buck insists. “You only do that when you drink something that’s trying to kill you.”
“I’m squinting because you’re being annoying.”
“Sure you are.” Buck lets go of Eddie’s hand only long enough to reach for the cup. “My turn.”
Eddie catches his wrist without thinking, their skin warm together. “You know you don’t have to, right?” he says, sudden seriousness threading through the joke. “I know I called it good, but you don’t have to—this can just be my weird thing.”
Buck looks down at Eddie’s hand on his wrist, then back up, expression doing that open, earnest thing that always gets Eddie in the soft parts. “Hey,” he says. “I want to. I wanna know what your weird thing tastes like.”
Eddie arches a brow. “Careful,” he says. “You keep saying stuff like that in public, we’re gonna get arrested.”
Buck’s grin breaks wide again. “Worth it.”
Eddie releases his wrist, their fingers sliding together again automatically. Buck takes the cup, straw angled toward him. For a second, Eddie watches his mouth—how his lips wrap around the straw, the tiny crinkle in the corner when he braces himself. His stomach flips, awareness sparking through him like static.
You’re in a café, he reminds himself. Not a motel. Calm down.
Buck takes a sip.
His eyes shut immediately. His whole face goes through an entire journey—surprise, confusion, betrayal, something that might be awe if awe wanted to fight someone in a parking lot. He pulls back slowly, straw leaving his mouth with a faint, tragic slurp.
Eddie loses it. The laugh hits him before he can stop it, bursting out of his chest, sharp and bright. He clamps his free hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Oh my God,” Buck whispers, like the drink just revealed traumatic information about its past.
Eddie is already laughing, breathless. “It’s good!” he insists, offended on behalf of the cup. “Come on—don’t make that face. It’s good.”
Buck blinks at him, then back at the drink, then at Eddie again, like he’s trying to reconcile physics, flavor, and love all at once.
“It’s…,” he starts slowly, choosing his words with the caution of someone defusing a bomb, “...certainly… something.”
Eddie’s mouth drops open. “Buck.”
“No—no, I mean that in a positive way!” Buck rushes, sitting up straighter, hands gesturing. “Like… confusing, but… interesting confusing. Mysterious! Yeah.” His voice lifts like he deserves applause. “It’s a mysterious drink.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “You hate it.”
Buck looks personally attacked. “I don’t hate it! I just—my tongue doesn’t… understand what’s happening yet.” He takes another small sip, winces politely, then nods like a man convincing himself broccoli tastes amazing.
Eddie folds his arms, lower lip pushing forward in a pout that is absolutely not subtle.
Buck melts immediately. Of course he does.
“Eddie,” he says, reaching across the table and taking his hand, earnest suddenly. “Listen. Is it weird? Yes. Does my brain know how to categorize it? Absolutely not. But”—he squeezes his hand—“if you say it’s good? Then it’s good. Because I trust your taste.”
Eddie tries not to smile.
Fails.
Buck grins back, triumphant, then lifts the cup like a toast.
“To being in love with someone who has unique beverage opinions.”
Eddie tries—truly tries—to look annoyed.
What actually comes out is a soft, warm, dangerously smitten:
“Shut up and drink it.”
Buck does.
And winces less, this time.
…maybe.
Eddie has to put his head down on their joined hands, he’s laughing so hard. It’s not that funny, but everything is funnier with Buck, magnified through whatever dumb filter life passes through when you’re stupidly in love.
Buck squeezes his fingers. “Why is it… thick?” he demands. “Soda is not supposed to be thick, Eddie. That breaks the rules.”
“It needs body,” Eddie says, straightening, wiping at his eyes. “Protein adds body.”
“Protein adds betrayal,” Buck counters. He takes another, tiny sip, grimacing and then—because he’s Buck—going back for a third. “It’s like it can’t decide if it’s a treat or a punishment.”
“Like you,” Eddie says.
Buck’s mouth drops open. “I am purely a treat.”
“You left your laundry in my dryer for three days,” Eddie replies. “You are, at best, a complicated treat.”
Buck laughs, bright and delighted. Under the table, his foot nudges Eddie’s, and Eddie presses back, knees knocking together, their whole side of the table a quiet press of connection.
“So,” Buck says, regaining control of his face. “Scientific verdict: you were not lying. It does kind of taste like a root beer float. If the float also wanted me to do push-ups.”
Eddie smirks. “Told you.”
“It’s still a crime,” Buck says, but he’s already taking another sip, settling into it like he’s making peace with the war in his mouth. “I can’t believe you drank this alone for years. You could’ve just… had ice cream.”
“Didn’t always have ice cream,” Eddie says. He shrugs, picking at the cupcake liner around their cookie. “I had this. And a blender.”
Buck’s expression shifts, something gentler moving in. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Future reference? You don’t have to make weird protein soda floats alone anymore. I’m in. For the weird stuff.”
It’s a simple thing to say. It’s also not simple at all.
Eddie looks at him, at the earnest sincerity on his ridiculous face, at the way his hand sits so naturally in Eddie’s like it’s been waiting. He thinks about every solo late-night shake, every lonely routine, every choice he made because it was easier not to want more.
“I know,” Eddie says, and it comes out rougher than he intends.
Buck’s thumb strokes over Eddie’s knuckles, slow and sure. “Good,” he says.
They pass the drink back and forth, trading commentary. Buck insists it gets better the more you drink it, then claims Stockholm syndrome. Eddie pretends not to enjoy the way Buck’s mouth goes faintly chalky at the corners, how he keeps licking his lips, determined.
At some point, Eddie uses the excuse of “making sure the ratios are correct” to lean forward and sip from the straw while Buck’s still holding the cup. It’s not technically an indirect kiss; they’ve done much more than that. But something about the shared space, the closeness, the way Buck’s eyes drop to his mouth as Eddie pulls back—it sparks in him, low and hot.
“You’re ridiculous,” Buck murmurs, eyes still on his lips.
“You love it,” Eddie says, and hears the quiet truth under the tease.
“Yeah,” Buck says, just like that, no hesitation. “I do.”
The world shrinks to the table, their hands, the stupid drink. For a heartbeat, Eddie almost forgets where they are. He could lean over, close that tiny distance between them, chase the taste of protein soda off Buck’s tongue with his mouth. He wants to. God, he wants to.
Somewhere behind them, someone laughs loudly, a chair scrapes back, the espresso machine hisses. Reality pricks the bubble.
Instead, Eddie squeezes Buck’s hand again, the pressure a promise. Later.
Buck seems to read it anyway. His smile tilts, soft and knowing. “Okay,” he says, settling back, lifting the cup. “Last sip. For the record. How many stars are you giving this monstrosity?”
“Four out of five,” Eddie says.
“Four?” Buck yelps. “Four? Eddie, my tongue is doing push-ups.”
“I like it,” Eddie says, unapologetic. “It’s nostalgic.”
Buck makes a face but tips his head. “Fine. I’ll give it… two stars for taste, and five stars for the way your eyes light up when you talk about it. Which averages to… math I can’t do, but it’s mostly you-based.”
Eddie forces his mouth to stay level and fails, a grin tugging at one corner. “You’re such a sap.”
“You like it,” Buck shoots back immediately.
Yeah. He really, really does.
They finish the drinks—Buck switching fully to his latte with a sigh of relief, Eddie finishing the last of the protein soda with the satisfaction of a man vindicated.
They step back out into the sun. The afternoon light paints everything in warm, easy color, and Eddie takes a breath that fills his whole chest. The door swings closed behind them with a soft chime.
Buck reaches for his hand again without even looking, as if it’s muscle memory now. Eddie lets their fingers slide together, palm to palm, that familiar fit making something in him settle.
“You know,” Buck says, bumping their shoulders. “Next time, you’re trying one of my weird cravings.”
Eddie glances over, wary. “You don’t have weird cravings.”
“Oh, I will,” Buck says ominously. “Now that I know this is on the table. I’m thinking… pickles in ice cream. For balance.”
Eddie stops dead. “We are breaking up,” he says flatly.
Buck laughs, tugging him back into motion. “You can’t break up with me,” he says. “You’re too in love.”
Eddie squeezes his hand, looks over at him, at the stupid bright eyes and that open, earnest face and the cookie bag swinging from his other hand.
“Yeah,” he admits easily, happily. “I am.”
Buck’s smile softens into something almost shy, like he still can’t quite believe it. Eddie decides, right there on the sidewalk with the taste of protein soda still ghosting his tongue, that he wouldn’t trade this ridiculous, sweet, completely unscientific thing for anything.
“Come on,” he says, tugging Buck toward the truck. “Let’s go tell Chris that you survived my drink.”
Buck beams, falling into step beside him, fingers tight around his. “Sounds good,” he says. “I’m in.”
And Eddie, thoroughly gone, knows he always will be.