Chapter Text
The clock on the nightstand glowed an irritating 3:14 AM, mocking Buck as he blinked up at the ceiling. He'd been staring at it so long he could probably draw its digital numbers with his eyes closed.
Which would be useful, maybe, if he could actually get them to stay closed for longer than thirty seconds without popping back open in frustration.
Beside him, Eddie let out a low, congested cough and shifted in his sleep, sniffling and snorting in a way that would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so loud.
Buck frowned gently at the sound, twisting slightly under the sheets to glance at his husband.
Eddie looked miserable even in sleep—nose red from hours of sniffling, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with leftover fever, though Tylenol had at least taken the edge off.
Buck had half a mind to wake him up just to make him drink water or take more meds.
But he didn’t.
Eddie was finally sleeping, and God knew he needed it.
I should’ve made him take the couch, Buck thought as Eddie coughed again, louder this time.
The sound echoed in Buck’s already full head, like it vibrated in the walls.
But Buck didn’t regret it, not really.
Eddie had tried.
Buck had stood in the bedroom doorway hours ago with his arms folded stubbornly over his chest as Eddie, puffy-eyed and pale, insisted, "I'm not sleeping next to you like this, baby, you're—you're pregnant. I’ll take the couch."
And Buck had laughed.
Full-on belly-laughed, one hand bracing his lower back as he told Eddie he was being ridiculous.
“We already slept together last night, babe,” Buck had said, using his most reasonable voice while waddling to his side of the bed like a man on a mission.
“The damage is done. Besides, I’m already a walking hormone cocktail, I think I’ll survive your cold.”
Eddie had relented eventually, too exhausted to argue, though he’d pouted all the way into bed and turned away like Buck was sentencing him to cuddle exile.
Now Buck was the one paying for it.
Not with a cold—yet—but with the curse of an overactive, heavily pregnant brain, the world’s loudest snoring husband, and, worst of all—
Pickles.
God help him.
His stomach twisted—not in nausea but in craving, that intense, all-consuming kind that seized him in the middle of the night more often than he’d like to admit these days.
Right now, the only thing Buck wanted in the whole universe was pickles.
Specifically, the spicy garlic kind they used to keep in the fridge, which were unfortunately long gone and never restocked.
He shifted again and winced.
The baby (who Buck was increasingly sure was some kind of future kickboxing champion) gave a solid thump against his ribcage in protest.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured to his belly, rubbing it gently. “We’ll feed you soon, I promise.”
Eddie snuffled beside him, let out a croaky little groan, and rolled onto his back.
It was somehow worse.
The snoring intensified immediately.
Buck stared at the ceiling.
“I’m going to lose my mind.”
He huffed, carefully rolling onto his side, then back onto his other side, then sitting halfway up before flopping back down again.
Everything felt wrong.
The sheets were too warm, the air too dry, and his entire body itching with restless energy and need.
Pickles.
He needed them like oxygen.
With a dramatic sigh, Buck threw off the covers and sat up.
Eddie made a soft sound behind him.
“Mmnnf... Buck?”
“Go back to sleep, Eds,” Buck whispered.
A cough. “Y’okay?”
“Fine. Just... up.”
“You need somethin’?”
“Nothing you can give me without standing up,” Buck muttered with a tiny smile, reaching for his hoodie draped over the armchair.
Even in the dark, he could feel Eddie’s confusion as his husband slowly pieced together Buck’s tone and intent.
There was a beat of silence before Eddie rasped out, “Jesus, is it pickles again?”
Buck paused mid-zip.
“...Maybe.”
Eddie groaned and let his head flop into the pillow dramatically.
“God, I knew I should’ve gone to the store yesterday.”
“You were sick yesterday,” Buck reminded him, tugging the hoodie down over his belly with some difficulty. “You could barely stay awake long enough to make tea.”
“Still. Shoulda gotten the damn pickles.”
Buck snorted, moving to the door.
“It’s fine. I’m just gonna check the pantry again. Maybe there’s something close enough.”
“Don’t drive,” Eddie mumbled. “You better not be thinking about driving to that 24-hour place again.”
“I’m not.” Buck paused. “Probably.”
“Buck.”
“Eddie.”
Their matching exasperated tones would’ve made Chris laugh if he were home.
But he was spending the weekend at Auntie Maddie’s and Uncle Chim’s, which had seemed like a great idea until Buck found himself six and a half months pregnant, insomniac, and living with a very sniffly, very snory husband.
Buck padded out to the kitchen, the floor cool beneath his feet.
He opened the fridge out of habit even though he knew the pickles weren’t there.
They were never there.
He’d eaten the last jar three nights ago and hadn’t restocked because it had felt like too much effort and the craving had passed—
Until now.
He let the fridge close with a soft click and moved to the pantry.
Canned olives.
Jars of pasta sauce.
Hot sauce.
Dill mustard.
A sad little jar of capers that had been unopened for over a year.
Close, but not right.
Buck groaned softly and leaned against the pantry door, rubbing his belly with both hands.
The baby kicked again, like it was seconding his frustration.
“Yeah, I know. You wanted the pickles. Me too, kid.”
Behind him, soft footsteps shuffled down the hall, accompanied by a cough and a sneeze.
Buck turned just in time to see Eddie appear, wrapped in their biggest blanket like some kind of sick, annoyed burrito.
“You are not about to guilt-shuffle in here,” Buck said immediately, even as a warm fondness filled his chest.
“I wasn’t gonna let you be miserable alone,” Eddie mumbled, looking more asleep than awake.
“I am miserable alone. I’m craving pickles and there are no pickles. It’s a nightmare.”
Eddie snorted, then sniffled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re contagious.”
Eddie just opened the blanket and walked straight into Buck’s space like he hadn’t just tried to banish himself from bed hours earlier. “I’ll order groceries.”
“You can’t order pickles at three in the morning.”
“I’ll try,” Eddie said, planting a kiss on Buck’s temple before pulling out his phone and flopping into a kitchen chair.
Buck watched him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and love, then sat down beside him, his hand drifting toward Eddie’s under the table.
He entwined their fingers.
“You really didn’t have to get up.”
“Neither did you,” Eddie replied. “But here we are. No pickles, but together.”
Buck laughed quietly.
“That’s romantic in a weirdly gross way.”
“I’m a poet when I’m sleep-deprived and sick.”
“And I’m a walking, talking uterus who’s about to cry over fermented cucumbers.”
Eddie squeezed his hand.
“Don’t cry. I found a place that delivers. Pickles in... seventy-five minutes.”
Buck blinked.
“Seriously?”
Eddie held up the phone triumphantly.
“God bless twenty-four-hour delivery.”
“Oh my God. You’re my hero.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, leaning back with a stuffy sigh. “Tell that to my nose.”
Buck reached up and brushed his fingers across Eddie’s warm cheek.
“You really don’t feel great, huh?”
“No. But this helps.”
“Me?”
“Obviously.” Eddie turned his head and pressed a kiss to Buck’s palm. “Always you.”
They stayed there in silence, the quiet buzz of the fridge filling the kitchen while Buck rested his head on Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie leaned back against him in return.
Eventually, Buck murmured, “Maybe we go back to bed for a little?”
“Even with the snoring?”
“I’ll live. I’ve got your germs already, might as well get cuddles too.”
“You just want a human space heater.”
“And emotional support.”
“You already have a belly full of emotional support.”
Buck laughed again, wrapping his arms around his husband’s middle as they stood together.
“Come on, let’s go wait for our hero to deliver our pickles. We’ll owe him our eternal gratitude.”
“I’ll write him a poem,” Eddie promised sleepily.
Back in bed, Eddie tucked himself around Buck like usual, warm and solid despite the coughing, and Buck rested his head on Eddie’s shoulder, both of them breathing slow and soft in the dark.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
And the pickles were perfect.