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Eddie’s trying to be quiet.
Buck’s in the kitchen, baking more cookies (they don’t need them, but try telling Buck that) so he’s got time. If he’s careful.
He closes the bathroom door, takes a deep breath, eases off his t-shirt and pushes down his sweatpants. He bites down on his bottom lip, makes himself breathe through his nose. Focus.
He can smell himself, stale sweat and crusted blood and that indefinable hospital flavor that makes him shudder.
He can do this. He gets a washcloth from beside the sink, turns the tap a hair. Water starts to dribble out, and Eddie wets the cloth, presses it to his skin. He’s already flinching from the expected pain, which ashames him. He should be used to this. He’s had worse. Like he said to Buck, this was light by his standards.
He’ll be fine if he doesn’t get the dressing wet. Clean up, new shirt, back in bed before Buck notices. It’s easier this way. He can take care of himself.
He raises his right arm, yelps involuntarily. Shit.
He turns the tap off. If he waits, maybe Buck —
There’s a knock at the bathroom door.
“Eddie?” calls Buck. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Fine.”
Even to his ear, his voice sounds gruff, secretive. He winces.
“I’m coming in,” says Buck.
“Buck! No! I could be —”
“What the hell are you doing,” says Buck dangerously. He’s got a dishcloth over his shoulder and a smudge of flour on his wrist.
“I could have been shitting!”
Eddie’s suddenly very aware of himself, shirtless and with his pants down around his hips.
“You didn’t lock the door,” says Buck. “Nice try. What the hell are you doing.”
Eddie sighs. “I stink,” he says.
“And you were trying to clean up on your own? Eddie! You know what the doctor said! If the dressing gets wet it could mess up the stitches.”
“I don’t need help,” mutters Eddie. “I’m a field medic.”
“You’re an idiot. All right, move over. You’re getting water on the floor and I don’t want to have to clean the bathroom again this week. Come on.”
He stomps into the room and snatches up the washcloth, flapping it at Eddie so he’s forced back towards the tub.
“Pants off,” says Buck dangerously, and for the thousandth time Eddie curses the day he ever got a Buck in his ear. Why can’t he just be left alone?
He shoves his pants down stiffly, wincing - he still gets jagged cracks of pain radiating out of his right side whenever he moves in the wrong way - and lays down in the empty tub, looking up at Buck with what he hopes is a resentful glare.
“You’re the worst patient,” says Buck, running the washcloth under the tap and wringing it out carefully. He presses it to Eddie’s side, and Eddie flinches at the unexpected warmth. Buck pauses, waits for Eddie’s breathing to steady, begins to move again.
The cloth is warm, and Buck is gentle. There’s a soothing, smooth rhythm to it, licking down his chest and around his side, and despite himself Eddie closes his eyes. Buck takes hold of Eddie’s elbow to work his way under Eddie’s armpit and Eddie rests his hand on Buck’s shoulder, leans his head over to the side. He can feel trickles of warm water catching in the band of his boxers, soaking through the fabric.
“You’re not going to clean my ass,” he says, without opening his eyes.
“I know,” says Buck. “Lift your other arm.”
Eddie does. He can feel Buck lean across his body, his hand on Eddie’s bicep as he scrubs. Eddie tilts his head until he can feel Buck’s curls against his cheek. Buck pauses, and for a second they just breathe together. Finally Eddie finds his voice.
“Almost done?” he asks.
“Yeah,” says Buck quietly. “Not perfect, but at least you don’t smell so bad any more.”
“Hey!” says Eddie, swatting at him and feeling his stitches pull. He must have winced, because Buck says,
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
“Yeah,” mutters Eddie. “Tired.” His head is throbbing and he can feel his heart beating in his chest.
Buck bustles around, bringing Eddie a new t-shirt and sweat pants and taking the cookies out of the oven. Eddie dresses and moves towards the bedroom, where the comforter’s already folded back for him. He crawls into bed, suddenly feeling so heavy that he can barely keep his eyes open.
“Need anything?” Buck asks. Eddie shakes his head. “Want me to go?”
“Stay,” says Eddie, heavy-tongued.
Buck sighs, settles in on top of the comforter on his side of the bed. “I’ll set my alarm,” he says. “Gotta get Chris at three.”
There’s a cool breeze coming through the open window, and the shadows are heavy. They’re lying facing each other, Buck’s outstretched hand just touching Eddie’s wrist. It could almost be a mistake. It’s nothing Eddie needs to mention.
Buck’s fingers stroke their way up to the crook of Eddie’s elbow, back down again. It’s as soothing as the cloth was. Eddie closes his eyes against it, breathes out. The pain in his side fades to a dull ache.
He crooks his finger around Buck’s thumb, and that’s how he falls asleep.