Archive of Our Own

Buck POV

An overhead half-dead fluorescent ceiling panel washes out the tiny maintenance closet where Buck sits alone, at a card table, awaiting further instruction. The dull hum and persistent flicker are headache-inducing and just eerie enough to put Buck's teeth on edge, as if the shadowy abandoned warehouse wasn't unnerving enough on its own.

He'd followed the predetermined instructions to a T, though, entering through the grimy alleyway. The building was already unlocked upon his arrival, stepping into the pitch black space made him uneasy—on this side of town, just about anyone could be lurking or squatting.

He'd pulled out his phone flashlight, permitting himself a cursory look at his surroundings before wandering further into the building. He'd quickly located the kitchen and explored until he stumbled upon the maintenance closet in the back, the agreed meeting point.

So he waits, albeit impatiently in said tiny maintenance closet, wondering if he'd accidentally landed himself into one of the 90s slashers Chim had a predilection for compelling Buck to watch, usually in the dead of night at the station. For entertainments sake—Chim's entertainment, of course.

A perfunctory secondary glance at his watch assures Buck that he had managed to arrive within the suggested allotted time-frame. The minutes stretch and his impatience grows. If it weren't for the unfamiliar equipment set up all around, Buck would have worried he'd arrived at the wrong location all together.

So instead of giving into his initial panic and exiting the building expeditiously, he shifts uncomfortably in the cold, hard metal folding chair, resting his arms on the flimsy card table in front of him. He feels a bit like he's gearing up to be interrogated in a clandestine hideout.

Buck continues to fidget, knocking his knuckles in time with the thud, thud, thud of the steady bass of dance music he could just discern through the thick walls. It seeps in from the club sitting adjacent to the abandoned warehouse in which Buck impatiently waits.

Buck isn't sure if he fancied himself to be Tom-Fucking-Cruise when he'd applied to work undercover for the LAPD. He's a firefighter, for fuck's sake. What the hell had he been thinking? But Buck knows what he'd been thinking—with the holidays coming up, some extra cash about now would be nice. The money they were offering for a simple one-time gig was nothing to sneeze at. He thought playing spy for a night would be a rush, but now reality is sinking in—he's a firefighter, not a covert operative with any experience in acting.

When the LAPD approached the LAFD with a relatively safe undercover gig, well, Buck couldn't pass up the fast cash, so he applied almost as an afterthought. Definitely not assuming he'd actually be plucked from dozens or possibly hundreds of other applications. So here he is, in a serial killer warehouse, potentially about to be murdered for a quick buck. He pulls out his phone to text his handler when the door behind him opens abruptly, causing Buck to nearly jump out of his skin.

"Evening, Firefighter Buckley."

Detective Romero eases past him to sit on the other side of the card table. His familiar good cheer is immediately soothing, and Buck finally relaxes for the first time all evening. "Hey, Romero."

"I'm seriously thankful that I pulled Athena in on this," Romero teases. "Not many people can keep you in line. Except maybe Nash and Diaz."

Buck grins and rolls his eyes, relaxing a fraction further. "I'm not that bad. Anymore."

"Anymore," Romero echoes in amusement, flipping through Buck's file meaningfully, arching a playful eyebrow. Buck laughs a little sheepishly. Buck isn't sure he and Romero are necessarily friends, but they've spent enough time around one another during Grant-Nash get-togethers that Romero probably didn't really need the primer on Buck's past.

"Athena's here?"

Buck admits the notion soothes him a fraction more. He trusts Romero, but Athena's presence allowed Buck an entirely other level of calm.

"Mhm, she'll be in soon. On a phone call with your captain, if I had to guess."

"So," Buck asks, because he's dying to know. "Who will I be partnering with for the evening?"

"Your counterpart is scheduled to arrive any time. Otherwise, I know about as much as you do. We're dealing with a bit of an internal situation, which is part of the reason we're outsourcing an undercover job in the first place. For the sake of confidentiality and protecting your identities, we haven't discussed anything prior to this evening. We're starting fresh after a data breach exposed all of our undercover operatives."

"So that's where I come in," Buck says, nervously wetting his lips.

"That's where you come in," Romero agrees. "All you really have to do is act like any other other club-goer. The dealer we're tracking down is pushing product here, so your job will be getting us a decent shot of their face when you're offered the goods."

Romero plops a backpack on the table, unzipping it unceremoniously. He pulls out a case, snapping it open and offering the shades inside to Buck. "These are the sunglasses I'm sending you in with. They will record images and transmit sound. It'll feed directly to this phone." Romero slides an iPhone across the table. "Once you meet with the seller, you're going to see if they'll reveal what they stock by posing as a customer—and if possible, you'll complete a transaction."

"Okay," Buck says with a nod, the task seemed easy enough, he tentatively takes the offered shades, slipping them on his face. "So just do the club thing?"

"Our dealer has a pattern of approaching first-timers, which is why we feel like you've got a good shot. You also don't look like a cop, so you've got that in your favor." Romero flips open a yellow envelope and dumps the contents into the space between them. Cash, a credit card, and an ID. "Dance, drink, flirt—whatever you see fit. This one is on the LAPD. Just make sure you get the job done, yeah?"

Buck admires the fake ID with disbelief. "Very official."

"We're using usual first names, different last names. Just in case either of you get loose-lipped a few drinks in."

Buck grins a little sheepishly and begins swapping out the cash and cards in his wallet.

"I feel like this goes without saying, but don't try to arrest anyone. Please."

Buck grins sharply, "No promises."

Behind him, the door opens and Athena strides in, pausing just long enough to take in Buck's presence. If she has an opinion one way or another, she doesn't give anything away as she joins Romero on the other side of the card table.

"You've certainly dressed the part."

Buck blushes with self-consciousness and offers her a sheepish grin. "Surely you haven't forgotten about my Party-Boy-Buck days, Athena. I wasn't about to waste a prime opportunity like this. I don't half-ass anything."

Buck is wearing black leather shorts that hit just above mid-thigh. They hug the musculature of his legs just so—they are definitely shorter than he'd be comfortable wearing with an audience of either Bobby or Athena—his pseudo-parents. His full-sleeve mesh top leaves nothing to the imagination, showing off his firefighter physique and numerous tattoos. The choice is equally as unreserved as his choice of shorts. The silver chain he always wears when he goes clubbing is sitting warm against his bare skin.

"Although, if I knew in advance you were working this, I probably would have dressed with a little more modesty." The confession is a little abashed. Athena, though, appears softly amused, rather than scandalized.

"Did you fill him in already?" Athena's question is directed to Romero, who nods.

"Flirt, drink, dance, blend," Buck reports. "Buy something harder than weed when approached."

"Just like that," Athena says a little dryly, skepticism in her voice as she begins to prepare various equipment.

"I'm no rookie, 'Thena." Buck reminds her with a teasing grin. "My early 20s were spent making all sorts of questionable decisions."

"Sound a little less proud," Athena gently reprimands attempting and failing to hide her exasperated affection. In an effort to change the subject, she meaningfully tells him, "Your partner in crime will be here any minute."

There's more idle conversation, and Romero uses the extra time to instruct him in regards to the drop point if or when he managed to acquire the product. Buck has just finished reassuring Romero he could do this in his sleep when the door behind him opens. He twists to take stock of his companion for the evening, whatever smart-ass comment Buck was about to throw in Athena's direction dies on the tip of his tongue.

His joke had evaporated, along with, apparently, all of his brain cells and most of the air in the room.

Standing in the doorway wearing a black sleeveless shirt, the sides cut down to the hips, along with a pair of distressed form fitting light blue jean shorts is one Eddie Diaz. His hair is mussed just so, gel free, and Eddie's affectionately named 'slut strand', per May, hangs free over his forehead. He's got on a fancy looking watch and a black chain bracelet. His saint Christopher medallion hangs loosely out of the collar of his shirt.

"Buck?!" Eddie asks, equally stupefied. He's frozen in the doorway, like a deer in the headlights. Suddenly Athena's partner-in-crime joke is a little less of a throwaway comment and more…Eddie Diaz. Buck has to wet his lips before he's able to stutter out a proper greeting.

"H-hey, Eddie," Buck manages.

"For the record," Athena says to the pair in amusement, "We didn't plan this. But I do think it's going to make the night run a little more smoothly." Athena nudges Eddie's empty chair with her foot under the table. "Have a seat, Eddie."

Buck's best friend seems to shake himself, he runs a hand through his hair, attempting to maintain a level of calm, but mussing it that much more. Buck is relieved to not be the only one nervous about the night ahead. All the same, the casualness of the move sends a zing of something through Buck's body. When Eddie settles into the seat next to Buck, he knocks their knees together, almost instinctually, the same way they've done in the engine hundreds of times. When he tries to catch Eddie's eye though, he doesn't seem to notice Buck, eyes fixed straight ahead on the file being slide to him on the card table.

It quickly becomes obviously that Eddie isn't simply not noticing Buck but ignoring him. When Buck realizes this, it makes it virtually impossible to pay attention to Romero or Athena. The pair spent the next 15 minutes laying out his and Eddie's roles in the operation. They've got a binder of suspected dealers pictures and their aliases.

Buck, though, is barely able to retain a single detail—too wired with Eddie sitting so close, but in so many ways, so faraway. Was Eddie mad at him? Had he done something to upset him? Was that why he's not sending Buck so much as a sideways glance right now? Buck mentally inspects all their interactions within the last 24 hours, nothing stands out to him or seems out of place—in fact, they'd exchanged dozens upon dozens of text messages throughout the day.

Maybe Eddie was just upset that Buck hadn't mentioned anything about it—in all fairness though, neither had Eddie! In fact, Buck was specifically ordered not to mention his role in this operation to anyone. But surely Eddie signed the same legal documents as him. So surely it had to be something else entirely—Buck just can't put his finger on the what or why. Well, he'll have the entire night to put the pieces together.

Athena helps Eddie get wired up, once their equipment is tested and in working order—it's time. While Romero and Athena are talking, Buck catches Eddie's elbow to draw his attention. "Hey, everything okay?"

It takes Eddie a moment to pull his eyes away from the mock cellphone. "Of course, why?"

Buck studies him shifting closer and keeping his voice low, "You just seem tense."

"N-nerves, I guess," Eddie mumbles eyes on the floor.

"At least it's not just me, I swear my stomach is in knots."

Eddie chuckles, "Well, I'll see you in a few. Yeah?" He lifts his chin to give Buck a tentative smile. "Wish me luck?"

Buck clears his throat, but he manages to croak, "Luck."

And then just like that, Eddie Diaz is gone, leaving Buck alone with Athena and Romero.

Buck's fidgeting seems to draw Athena's attention, so while Romero's homed in on Eddie's wire, Athena checks on him. "Spit it out," Athena prods gently, crossing her arms. "What's going on?"

"Was it just me, or was Eddie acting weird? Do you really think he's okay to do this?"

Athena seems overly amused by his question, which doesn't make much sense but Buck takes it as a sign he's overreacting. "He was acting like Eddie, to me."

"Okay," Buck says, with a slight breath of relief and Athena returns to monitoring the screen with Romero. "If you're sure."

A little more centered, Buck settles in for the next twenty minutes which has to be the longest 20 minutes of his life. "Does Diaz not realize he's been hit on three times already?" Romero says with a humorous chuckle. Buck snaps to attention at that piece of information. He frowns ignoring the stare Athena casts him, a rather confusing mix between pity and amusement. "Wait, never mind. Damn, Diaz has got some game."

"What?" Buck interjects, unable to keep himself from prying. "What's he saying?" He leans forward like he'd suddenly be able to hear through the tiny headset if he crowded a few inches closer, all while wondering why he suddenly feels a little sick to his stomach. Romero and Athena are no help, both ignore him in favor of carefully listening to the conversation.

When the timer goes off, Buck lets out a sigh of relief, wound up like a music box from impatience and that sour feeling that remained in his gut even now. The feeling unspools in his chest when Athena waves him off, and Buck all but stumbles over his feet in his rush out the door, beelining to join Eddie at the bar. He forces himself into a sense of calm, gently closing the door to the abandoned warehouse before slinking out of the shadows of the alley to join the line, a little breathless.

Buck slides his new shades on as instructed, despite the late hour it was unlikely anyone would give them a second thought. He sets his shoulders, shoving away his nerves, aiming for something resembling the usual easy confidence a younger him would have had in this setting. This version of Buck—the one he's currently struggling to tap into—was someone he once wore like a second skin. It was something enigmatic he could flip on and off, like a switch.

The closer he gets to the front door, the more his skin begins to buzz, a mix of dread and excitement. The plan is sinking below the surface, static is expanding in his chest, like someone turned the volume up to full blast—it's anxiety and…something else. Attempting to rationalize flirting with Eddie for the sake of the job is filling him with an unexplainable fervor. When he reaches out to hold onto and examine the unnameable feeling, he's forced to draw back from it just as quickly like sticking his bare hand in open flame.

Although, the more he probes it—raw skin and all, it reveals itself as something scarily familiar. Yearning. Buck has spent a lifetime wanting—but this is something more intense, an undercurrent of something he's realizing has existed quietly, existing far enough under the surface to remain imperceptible until he's forced to confront it head on.

But no, that doesn't make any sense. Eddie was straight, and the mere idea Buck could be attracted to his best friend for all this time without noticing was fucking laughable. All the same…implicit permission to flirt and needle Eddie to his hearts desire was proving to be damn near intoxicating proposition. But no—Buck is definitely just a normal platonic amount of excited to see him—to run up the LAPD's credit card for drinks, to drunkenly dance and—.

But also…there was the way Eddie shirt hangs off of him, just so. Or how nice Eddie's hair looked tonight, free of its normal gel prison, the automatic Superman curl damn near torturous. There's also the way that Buck wants to put his fingers through the ripped holes in the thighs of Eddie's jean shorts. Fuck. Nope—Buck can't go there. Nope. He needs a drink to erase that dangerous pattern of thoughts before he spiraled down the deep dark rabbit hole with no end in sight.

The thought is too much to deal with now, so he covers it over with shoddily placed floorboards, buried until he has the time or energy to understand the shape and scope of these feelings that now feel scarily tangible.

Eddie POV

Emotions flood through Eddie when he spots Evan Buckley sitting in a metal folding chair that was a bit too small for him, the sight was a little comical since he is sat at an equally small card table. The first emotion to surface is something not unlike hysteria. He has to fight down the urge to laugh—that hysteria is followed by heady relief.

Eddie admittedly has dreaded ever signing up for the undercover club operation since before Athena ever even chose him. Although, she's assured him many times now that this shouldn't be dangerous, and it wasn't likely anyone inside the bar would or could ever trace it back to him—should he even be approached in the first place.

The idea of doing this operation with someone unfamiliar left him anxious and unnerved—so yeah, he's relieved. That's all that warm fluttery feeling in his stomach means. Nothing more.

Although… Well—after relief the hysteria returns, alongside a pinch of panic. How else was Eddie supposed to feel after taking in Buck's outfit. There's something in Eddie's brain that keeps forcing him to avert his eyes, almost like avoiding gazing directly into the sun. He's admittedly nervous that if he looks now, he might fucking ogle the obscenely tight leather shorts or the miles of bare skin and the tattoos on display beneath the mesh tanktop without shame. There's something complicated happening inside Eddie's chest and stomach. He thinks whatever emotion he's feeling now, it's nothing less than unadulterated panic.

It's nonsensical, of course, that for some goddamn reason he can barely even look at Buck without feeling his stomach flip-flop. He swallows around the strange painful lump that has suddenly taken up occupancy in his throat. When Athena catches his eyes, she's gazing at him like she knows what's happening behind his calm facade, like she has a personal insight on the too loud thoughts currently bouncing around his skull.

Eddie really hopes she doesn't actually have personal insight into his head, because even he's a little horrified by the direction his thoughts are drifting. When Athena motions him to join them hours or possibly mere moments later he somehow manages to puppeteer his limbs to settle in beside Buck. In the subsequent minutes, Buck's thigh pressed against his under the table isn't helping Eddie's single minded focus to calm himself the fuck down. He practically has to sit on his hands to keep still, pretending not to notice as Buck tried time and time again to catch his attention.

By Eddie's calculations, when he added up all his thoughts gone wild, they reached one simple mathematically sound equation that explained everything—instead, he concludes that he simply needs a shot of tequila ASAP.

Eddie rushes out the door, receiving one last knowing look from Athena—God, what was happening to him!

He's only just settled down when he manages to make it through the lengthy line and in through the front door. He's assaulted by a wave of heat and music so loud it makes his teeth rattle. He ignores overwhelming rush of stimuli in favor of beelining straight for the bar. He opens a tab with the credit card the LAPD provided under his false name. He's two tequila shots deep before Eddie finally manages to catch his breath, maybe for the first time since spotting Buck knees to chest at the tiny card table.

While he waits, Eddie exchanges painstaking small talk with nearby patrons and the bartender. Despite his bad attempt to distract himself, he finds his gaze drifting toward the door—he's got to remind himself each time to fix his eyes literally anywhere else.

Because, of course, in this strange alternate universe of play pretend, he and Buck have never met. The idea sets heavy and sour in his chest, he pushes that feeling away, he doesn’t have the current wherewithal to examine reason behind it any further.

Very stealthily, Eddie checks his pulse rate under the counter of the bar—still elevated. He swears under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he sick? Does he have a fever? Should he be locating his nearest ER?

"Room for one more?" Eddie startles, eyes snapping upward. Buck is standing next to the empty stool beside him, shoulders loose, and those goddamn shades matching his cocky smirk so well. Eddie feels himself freeze all over again, eyes catching on a tattoo on Buck's stomach, one Eddie has never been privy to before now. The unsteady feeling in his chest is back. But—surely Eddie's seen Buck with his shirt off before… Was it new? Or has Eddie made a habit of unconsciously averting his eyes like he had the moment he stepped into the tiny supply closet.

Eddie's not sure what specifically is making him lose his goddamn mind in this moment—because obviously, losing his mind has to be the only explanation for whatever chemical reaction is happening inside him. But…maybe it's also something about the confident line of Buck's shoulders despite the sheer expanse of skin he's got on display that's doing Eddie in. And maybe it's a little of both.

Or maybe, Eddie is being a prude. That would make sense—it's just the religious trauma rearing it's ugly head. Only, if he were a prude, he probably wouldn't want to hungrily stare at the tattoo peaking out from underneath the tight leather that hugged his right thigh. Another tattoo he's impossibly never seen before. Eddie prided himself on knowing all things Evan Buckley—so why didn't he know about this.

After an indeterminable amount of box breathing, Eddie gives a noncommittal shrug. And Buck takes the seat next to his with all the ease in the world, nonplussed by Eddie's off-putting behavior. He leans forward to flag down a bartender and flips his sunglasses up to rest over his snapback, and Eddie tries not to study the way in which Buck unfurls his body to lean across the counter, like he's an endangered species in a zoo. Eddie really tries not to study his profile in the low club lighting, he struggles not to stare at the obscenity that was his biceps or chest. Unfortunately, he fails massively on all counts.

Or maybe it's the fuckass backwards snapback that is striking Eddie temporarily insane. Or the silver chain that definitely isn't doing anything weird to Eddie's brain. He wonders for the briefest of moments what it would be like to put the chain in his mouth. He shakes the thought away just as quickly as he has it. "What the fuck, Diaz?" Eddie asks himself under his breath. "Get it together, Christ."

"Did you say something?" Buck asks, side eying him, but distracted when the bartender finally appears in front of them, asking after Buck's poison of choice for the evening. His short attention span gives Eddie a moment to collect himself. But once he's through ordering, Buck returns to gazing at him, still awaiting an answer. Eddie simply blinks his big, dumb, brown eyes at him, and attempts to seem uninterested.

The move, though, only earns him a cheeky smirk. Buck leans forward, pitching his voice so low he doubts either of their mics could pick it it up. "Playing hard to get?" There's this gleam in his eyes, like he was accepting some sort of unspoken challenge Eddie hadn't realized he posed in the first place.

Eddie the consummate professional rolls his eyes and forces himself to turn his attention back to the untouched pint of beer, sweating on the counter in front of him. He decides that it's definitely purely all irritation towards the snapback that's covering Buck's curls, it's setting him on edge—the adornment makes Buck look so unbearably insufferable and cocky, Eddie can barely stand it. That hat was not making it through the night—not if Eddie had anything to say about it.

When the bartender returns, he slides Buck's fruity rum-filled concoction across the counter. Satisfied, Buck throws down a cash tip and settles back on the stool, spreading his legs to fit the heels of his shoes between the legs of the stool on the bottom rung.

Eddie catches himself, completely unconsciously, lowering his gaze to sneak another glance at Buck's thigh, on the off-chance the movement might have rucked the bottom of his shorts up even an inch so Eddie could see more of this mystery tattoo. Only, just as Eddie realizes what he's doing, to his horror, Buck catches him ogling.

A cocky smirk graces his mouth and Eddie suddenly wants to drown himself with his beer. He gives it his best shot, guzzling it despite the foam and carbonation. He sets the empty glass down and uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. The smirk is still burned into the back of Eddie's eyelids. It was stupidly hot. Buck was stupidly hot.

Then all at once, it clicks into place—attraction. A frankly insane amount of attraction. And yeah, now he understands the shape of what's happening to his insides—and he also registers that it's existed within him for years—only as a emotion that felt safer never to name… But now that he has, it's impossible to unknow.

"See something you like?" Buck inquires voice unreadable, false flirtation masking it.

Yes, yes, he did. Eddie tilts his chin up, opting to play dumb. "You wish."

Buck grin, flipping his shades back down over his eyes. Eddie hates the goddamn shades, has the urge to grab them off his face and snap them in two. He feels a bit like he's been transported back in time to meet a very different version of Buck. He wonders for a hysterical moment what might have happened if he'd stumbled upon Buck 1.0 in a bar, all those years ago.

They nurse their drinks in silence for a moment before Eddie works up the courage to ask, "What's your tattoo of?"

Buck looks at him, as if double checking that Eddie was, in fact, speaking to him. He flips the shades back up to really look at Eddie, with those big Buckley eyes that perceive every little emotion and shift in conversation. Between Maddie and Buck, Eddie long since realized it was a family trait. It doesn't keep his fingers from twitching just a little, smothering the urge a second time to grab the shades and smash them on the floor.

"Which one?"

The goddamn tease. Like Buck didn't know damn well which tattoo Eddie was referring to. "Thigh." He manages to say, all the same. If it comes out a little strangled, Buck doesn't acknowledge it.

Buck grins and gestures toward his thigh, shifting to face Eddie, who also shifts—almost unconsciously, like they were a pair of magnets, drawn together until the end of time. And maybe in a way they are.

Buck pulls Eddie’s stool closer, hooking his ankle around one of the legs of the stool, startling Eddie, who blinks up at him dumbfounded. Buck's still wearing that cocky smirk, it translates directly into the heat growing like wildfire in Eddie's chest. He clears his throat as Buck slots his right thigh—the one adorned with the tattoo—between his legs, leaving Buck's other thigh trapped between Eddie and the bar. He gently tugs on the leather, inching it up to reveal what is nearly the full tattoo—a long winded metaphor for surviving against all odds.

"My name is Buck, by the way," Buck says, and for a moment, it throws Eddie for a loop before he remembers they're still playing pretend. They're working right now. So basically if he were to break the stupid shades—yes he's still thinking about it—he'd be compromising the mission, which was a little disappointing.

"Eddie," he replies, wetting his lips, glancing at the tattoo again. He toys with his empty pint glass, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep them from touching.

"Eddie… Is that short for something? Eduardo?" Buck's tone is snarky, and it reminds Eddie so much of their first meeting—impossibly, the heady attraction in his gut only grows. The urge to lean forward and kiss him is—well, it's a difficult impulse to ignore. Buck reaches out and sets a hand on Eddie’s thigh, toying with one of the holes in his jean shorts. He wonders with a start how long Buck's been dying to thread his fingers through them. Was Buck feeling it too—this unspoken thing between them? Eddie shivers as Buck's cold fingers press against the warm skin of his leg, sending a thrill through him.

"Edmundo."

Buck grins, something boyish. "Well, Edmundo, let me buy you a drink?"

Eddie pretends to consider the offer before finally nodding in acquiescence. When Eddie turns back to the counter, the bartender is already there, eyes ping-ponging between them, like they're the worlds most interesting reality show.

"Get a room," The bartender teases with a smirk.

Buck ignores him in favor of raising his eyebrows at Eddie, "What would you like to drink, Edmundo?"

"My friends call me Eddie," he mentions, before turning to the bartender and ordering a double shot whiskey sour on the rocks.

"Okay then. Eddie." Buck says his name like he's trying it out in his mouth for the first time. "So—what's your deal?"

The night drifts along just like that—a few beverages, heavy on the pour, along with two rounds of shots with the bartender. Just as their finishing their final round, the opening of a familiar tune, which Eddie has heard Buck sing-along to a hundred times, floods through the speakers. In a matter of seconds Buck is dragging him onto the dance floor by the wrist.

Eddie is entranced, watching Buck sway in time to the beat and dance—or possibly attempt to dance—along to the familiar melody of End of An Era. Pink and purples blend together, shimmering against the sweat that beads on his forehead and eyebrows. For the first time that night Eddie notices the smears of fine iridescent glitter on his cheekbones.

Eddie lets Buck lead him—at least for now, he does little more than sway his hips along with the beat, his full attention honed on Buck. His best friend is carefree and giggling as he scream sings the lyrics just over the pumping bass. "I feel like we're going to be together. This could be the end of an era. Who knows, baby? This could be forever." Eddie briefly wonders what Athena and Romero are seeing on the other end of the sunglasses that perch on the end of Buck's nose. He wonders if either of them had really accounted for drunk Buck.

Songs filter in and out and the tequila and whiskey settle into Eddie's system and he stops caring about things like other people around them seeing, and unusable footage. Instead, he closes his eyes and loses himself in the beat, letting his limbs go loose and free.

He locks his eyes on Buck, to make sure he's paying attention as he moves his hips with the song and runs his fingers through his own hair. "Don't just stand there starin', honey. Try to move your feeeet." He revels in the way Buck focuses on nothing but him, like the two of them existed in a vacuum, a world where only the two of them existed, just for a few minutes. He moves in closer to Buck, who seems to be holding his breath. "I could make it nice and easy. I'ma take the leaddd." Just as Buck reaches out, as if to touch, Eddie shimmies away, pretending to be blissfully oblivious to the way Buck stumbles over himself to follow. They ain't even lookin' at you, baby. They lookin' at me."

Less than a minute later, as the song ends, and they're back in one another's orbits. Eddie hooks a finger through one of Buck's leather belt loops to pull him in closer, resting the other on hand his stomach. Eddie tilts his chin up to get some level of eye contact with Buck through the shaded lenses, if not his full attention. "Since when do you have a tattoo here?" Eddie asks meaningfully. Their mouths are so close and Buck all but whines when Eddie tugs at his belt loop again.

"About two months," Buck replies, panting into the space between them.

"It's healed?"

"Can you feel the warmth, as my kiss goes down you like some smooth alcohol," Dua croons in the background.

"Y-yeah," Buck agrees, wetting his lips, never taking his eyes off of Eddie's mouth. Eddie slips the tips of his fingers up under the mesh shirt, pressing it over the smooth skin. When he drops his hand, Buck shifts closer, as if chasing the warmth of his fingertips. He seems immediately embarrassed by the action, already stepping back but before he has the chance Eddie reaches up gripping Buck's chain, dragging him into an opened mouth kiss.

Buck melts into him eagerly—and even drunk off his ass, Buck knows how to kiss. I'm giving you that pleasure heaven. And I'll give it to you hotter than hell. Eddie pulls away, letting go of the chain, sliding his hand down Buck's chest, resting it there just for a moment. "Another drink?"

Buck stumbles off the dance floor, obediently moving to order them another round.

Buck POV

Buck doesn't know what the hell is happening. And that is the understatement of all understatements. The moment Eddie's squirrelly behavior translated into something Buck understood—desire—the concern he'd done something wrong evaporated, maybe along with half of Buck's brain cells. Before he puts the little pieces together, he frankly wasn't sure what the hell had gotten into Eddie—not until his too obvious interest in Buck’s thigh tattoo slots the missing piece into place.

So yeah, he'd pretty much unabashedly flirted with Eddie after that—Eddie who flirts back, who touches him. It's possibly the best 10 minutes of his life—only the high on life turns into the most painful form of edging on the dance floor.

Eddie yanking Buck in by the chain around his neck will live rent free on replay in it's own little open tab in his brain until the day he died. He won't forget that or the way he slipped his fingers up under the hem of his mesh shirt or the way he dances close but just out of reach. So when Eddie asks for another round, Buck is happy to oblige, thankful for the much needed extra second to catch his breath.

He returns, just as the song changes, with fresh drinks in hand. Baby, you can find me under the lights. Diamonds under my eyes. Turn the rhythm up, don't you wanna just, come along for the ride. Buck feels himself go almost unnaturally still, there's something—seeing Eddie like this, moving across the dance floor by himself, carefree and gorgeous with the single strand of hair plastered to his forehead.

He forgets on occasion, that Eddie can actually fucking dance, until he sees him like this—free of all inhibitions. "Watch me dance, dance the night away. I'll still keep the party runnin', not one hair out of place." And fuck. Buck is so in love with Eddie, he can barely function.

Buck has always known on some level, that he's in love with Eddie. He pries up the floorboards he'd hammered down earlier, unable to look away, now. Unwilling to bury it, as the vines crawl up along the walls and flower. The last few years of gentle probing from his friends and family suddenly make more sense. "In love with Eddie?" Buck's own words echo through his skull.

Bobby has tried to gently broach the subject with him dozens of times, and Buck always conveniently redirected to another topic, unwilling to examine or x-ray that feeling that had spent years upon compounding years, expanding like a balloon in his chest.

When Eddie turns and notices him watching, he smiles widely and stumbles over to him— all the grace and ease he'd displayed just moments before vanishing in an instant. Buck is so fucking affectionate he wants to die. He blurts the words before he means to. "I love you."

"We've only just met," Eddie says, accepting his drink with a smile, something unbearably tender in his expression.

"I don't care," Buck confesses. "I think you're my soulmate."

The song changes overhead, it's something slower than the high energy pop songs that have blasted through the speakers all evening. The pair of them sway together right on the edge of where all the other club goers are swaying. I wanna die on the dance floor. Dripping in glitter in sweat. The last thing I see before I see the light, is you and me having the time of our life. Eddie exchanges a private smile with Buck, like they're the only two people in the world as they sway and nurse their drinks.

"Spinning this one for the couple that's been tearing up the dance floor all night," The DJ says pointing to Buck and Eddie to their surprise and alarm. "Get back out here."

Buck laughs and drags Eddie out into the middle of the crowd just as the opening beat of one of his favorite songs blasts through the speakers. Eddie surprises him by knowing every word, and Buck is helplessly endeared and he's a little worried his heart might actually explode out of his chest, unable to handle the flood of adoration. "If we don't fuck this whole thing up, guaranteed I can blow your mind." Buck collapses, giggling against Eddie's shoulder when he blows Buck a flirty kiss in perfect timing with, "Mwah."

They lose themselves in each other. And Buck doesn't know how to continue comprehending anything for the rest of the night after once Eddie subsequently sucks a hickey into his neck. Or when he slides his hand under the fabric of his mesh tank top while kissing him—with the sole intention of taking him apart inch by inch with his mouth.

How was Buck supposed to behave or even remain within a corporeal realm when Eddie can't keep his hands to himself—not that Buck wants him to stop, of course. But he thinks his physical being might give up the ghost if he isn't careful. He might float right through the ceiling without even realizing. For now though, his world begins and ends with the heat of Eddie's mouth and the warm pressure of his hands.

Buck's just managed to carve them out a little space in the crowd to catch his breath when it happens. Eddie's sticky forehead is pressed to Buck's shoulder, and Buck's hands are in Eddie's back pockets. "You two need a pick me up to keep the night going?"

Buck lulls his head to the side casually, "Got any poppers?" His words come out slurred with the effects of alcohol. "Or other short time thrills." He lets go of Eddie with one hand to press a thumb over his nostril and inhales sharply.

"You got cash?"

Buck nods, making sure to hold his head steady, facing the dealer directly as he pulls his wallet out.

"You want both or just the blow?"

"Both is good." Buck bristles a little when the man ballparks a number well over the cost. "Don't bullshit me." He feels Eddie go tense against his shoulder. Buck like he told Athena—he knows what he's doing, at least to an extent. He knows how to negotiate and this isn't his first rodeo, this guy expected some push back.

"Fine. $65. Final offer."

Buck slips him $75, which seems to content the dealer. The man palms him the goods and Buck slips the dime-bags of coke and the poppers into Eddie's back pocket.

Once the man is out of earshot, Eddie leans back to look at him in disbelief. "Did that just happen?"

Buck leans close to Eddie's wire and mutters, "Told you that I'd get the goods." Then he grabs Eddie's wrist and drags him in the direction of the bathroom. Buck drunkenly checks under the stalls while Eddie guards the door. He pulls out his phone and dials Athena who picks up immediately.

When Buck is sober, he'll probably be mortified by his behavior tonight—but in his defense he and Eddie were supposed to be pretending, and in all fairness he tried to keep the shades angled at the ceiling when appropriate—some of the moments that happened tonight were just for him and Eddie.

They both startle when there's a sudden knock at the door. Eddie opens it a crack, when he sees a familiar face on the other end of the door, he steps back to let her in. "At least share the drugs," Lucy Donato jokes. "Also, about damn time you two."

Buck and Eddie both laugh sheepishly and pass the equipment and drugs off to Lucy, which she slips into a purse. Eddie looks back at her with blurry confusion. "Since when do you carry a purse?" He says to a formerly very proud, non-purse carrier.

"It's Julie's," Lucy replies with an eye roll.

"Julie!" Buck exclaims, eyebrows going up. But before he can question her further Lucy disappears just as quickly as she appeared—she's gone again, leaving Buck and Eddie alone for the first time all evening.

"Home?" Eddie asks, exhausted and drunk. Buck happily agrees, the word ringing through his head. Home. Like it was a place that was collectively theirs—and in so many ways it was.

They stumble out of the bathroom, only—when Buck hears the song blasting through the speakers, he bodily drags Eddie to the dance floor, despite the DJ calling for last round. "Common loves isn't for us, we created something phenomenal don't you agree?" Eddie is exasperated but affectionate, their bodies brush together as they dance, Eddie's arms are around his neck and Buck's arms around his waist. Buck's teeth drags against Eddie's bottom lip and Eddie smirks pulling back to presses kisses down Buck's throat, nipping at the sensitive skin of his neck. "I know you got my back, and I got you. Come on, lets get physical!"

Eddie toys with his necklace again, removing Buck's snapback and placing in on his own head—probably just to see the way Buck's eyes dilate with arousal. He had to know doing so would make him damn near feral. "Lights out, follow the noise!" Buck feels himself whine softly when Eddie runs a hand through his hair—probably fixing his smushed curls. He presses a messy kiss to Buck's jaw. "Baby, keep on dancing. Lets get physical!"

"Do you have anymore tattoos I don't know about?" Eddie asks.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Buck murmurs back, letting Eddie draw him in by the chain once again—and then Eddie does the last thing Buck expects, fully causing him to short circuit. Seeing Eddie in his hat is already nearly too fucking much to handle, but the soft heat of Eddie's breath as he sucks the warm metal of his chain into his mouth nearly ends Buck's life, right there on the dance floor. And if the action wasn't unbearably hot already, his eyes never leave Buck's face.

Buck can't take it any longer, he stumbles back, rushing Eddie toward the bar to close out their tabs—the sooner they got home the better.

On the way out the door Buck turns to Eddie and says, "I'd get a tattoo for you, you know—whatever you like. "But only if I get to pick something for you too."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have insane jealousy issues? Everyone thinks it's me with jealous problems—but it's always been you."

"Yeah, but you like it," Buck accuses with a pout as their Uber waves them over. He tumbles into the backseat, scooting over to the other side so Eddie can slide in after him.

"Just a little," Eddie admits, which is music to Buck's ears. "I love you, jealousy issues, obsession with Dua Lipa, snapback, and all."

In a sultry tone, Buck begins to say, "You're not going to complain about my jealous issues when—mmf." Eddie covers Buck's mouth with his hands, sparing their alarmed looking Uber driver.

"R-radio?" Their driver asks nervously, as he pulls away from the curb.

"Please," Eddie agrees. And the last thing Buck remembers before dozing off, is the opening lyrics to End of an Era. Buck certainly thinks that their lives will never be the same.

From the dead of sleep, he sits up, "Wait, what's wrong with my snapback?"

Eddie Diaz doesn't answer him simply falls back into the seat in breathless laughter, adjusting the hat where it still adorns the top of his head. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I do! Eddie! Eddie, come on! Eddie—"

Eddie shuts Buck up by kissing him. It works. And their Uber driver clears his throat. "Er—we've made it."

"Take me to bed, Buckley."

And Buck doesn't have to be told twice.