So I saw you did a combo and wanted to be greedy and ask for one : 15+10
15) a thumb pressing down on a bottom lip + 10) hands guiding a spoon up to waiting lips
"This is stupid. You're being ridiculous."
Buck huffs out something between a sigh and a snort as he watches Eddie lean against the wall of the kitchen, arms crossed and lips pursed. Immediately, his mind catalogues the minute details of it, cross-referencing the twitches in his expression with the rolodex of Eddie-isms that lives in his brain rent-free.
Crossed arms? Annoyed Eddie.
Pursed lips? Eddie who's annoyed because Buck hasn't already figured out why he's annoyed.
Leaning against the kitchen wall? Eddie who still wants Buck to figure out why he's annoyed.
Luckily, Buck is perfectly aware of why Eddie is annoyed, even though he's pretty sure that it's not the same reason that Eddie thinks he's annoyed.
"You're being hangry again," he says, not looking up from the crockpot where he's stirring, the scent of tomato and basil bright in the air.
Eddie huffs again, his whole chest heaving with it. He's lucky that Buck thinks he's cute - er, in a platonic way - when he's grumpy. "Oh, so it's a me problem," Eddie complains, all petulance. "Evan Buckley can do no wrong, he wasn't being childish at all, it's all because I-"
"- had to skip lunch because we had a call," Buck finishes, rolling his eyes. "And I know you don't actually care about my pop country playlist, Eddie."
"You know I hate pop country. It's not-"
"- real country, I know. You're such a music snob, music is-"
"- just an expression of artistic intent that shouldn't be constrained by genre? You can't say that when half these artists are people looking to make a quick buck - don't -"
"- hey, you were the one who said it, I just wanted to listen to some music on the way back-"
"- music you know I don't like, and you kept turning the volume up!"
"Traffic was loud, okay?" and Buck did, admittedly, find it hilarious to watch Eddie sink further and further into the passenger seat, face like a grumbly kitten's as Buck kept turning the volume up whenever he tried to turn it down.
Eddie glares at him, and Buck rolls his eyes as he turns back to the lasagna soup, humming as he grabs a wooden spoon. "You're such a dick," he says.
Buck takes a little bit of soup into the spoon, turns around. "Takes one to know one," he says cheerfully. He takes a step forward, and Eddie presses himself harder into the wall with his determinedly sour mood.
A step. Another. "I don't know what you're talking about, Eddie."
"You're trying to-- placate me!"
Another two steps. "Oh, big words coming out."
"You can't just grin your way out of everything, Buck, sometimes you just have to--" Eddie's words stutter into silence as the tips of Buck's slippers knock against Eddie's, his hand holding up the spoon expectantly.
"Just one taste, Eddie," Buck coaxes, tilting his head. He watches the war in Eddie's eyes, his nose twitching as the scent of the soup hits it. Eddie swallows, and Buck's eyes trace the bob of his throat with an emotion that he chooses not to interrogate.
"I'm not a kid, Buck," Eddie says. "You can't just--"
Feed me, Buck hears, but the words are cut off when Eddie's stomach makes the choice for him, the rumble loud in the kitchen. Eddie looks at Buck. Buck looks at Eddie. Buck, in a moment of true and genuine friendship, doesn't even laugh.
Eddie glares at his stomach, Buck keeps smiling. Eddie sighs, long and loud, as if he were doing Buck a favor, and opens his mouth.
Buck watches him, the dark fan of his lashes as he looks at the spoon in Buck's hands, the soft part of his lips, the steady, trusting lean of his body. For a moment, something shivers down his spine, some knowledge that he blinks away so that he can keep his hand steady. He stares at Eddie for a beat too long, and Eddie's eyes look up towards his face expectantly, in a way that looks wholly different when he's looking up through his lashes.
Buck swallows, smile faltering, before slowly guiding the spoon to Eddie's mouth, one hand below to catch any spills. It means that his palm is right by Eddie's mouth as it wraps around the spoon, that he can feel the soft vibration of Eddie's throat as he hums with approval as the hit tastes his tongue, that he can catalogue the slow slide of his lips off the wooden spoon, the way his eyes fall shut for just a moment before he swallows.
Buck swallows in tandem with him, throat suddenly dry. Eddie blinks, frowns a little. Abashed Eddie. "That's...good, Buck," he says, the irritation fallen from his body at the first bite of food hitting his stomach.
It makes pride glow in Buck's sternum, something bright and sparkling. It makes Buck stupid, apparently, because the next thing he knows his free hand isn't retracting with the spoon but cupping Eddie's jaw, thumb sweeping over his chin and landing on his lower lip, a little wet, a little red.
Eddie stares at him. Buck stares back.
"You," Buck stutters, trying to move his hand away. His hand doesn't obey his orders, though, just keeps pressing to Eddie's plush lower lip, sweeping against the divots of it. "You, ah, you had a bit of-- um, something. Here."
Eddie's mouth is still a little open, and this close Buck can almost smell tomatoes and herbs from his lips, can feel his mouth water at the scent. His tongue darts out to sweep over his lips slightly, looking more instinctual than anything, and Buck can feel a hot thrum through his veins as it catches momentarily on the pad of Buck's thumb.
"Is it..." Eddie looks at him through wide eyes, and Buck's mind flips through its Eddie-rolodex but can't find a match to the expression on his face right now. "Is it gone now?"
Buck's thumb presses in a little, momentarily, and he can barely feel Eddie's breath hitch as he finally withdraws his hand. "Um, yeah." he coughs, turns back to the stove. "Yeah, it's gone." he looks down at the pot. "And it's-- it's ready, now, so you can, uh, you can go grab a seat, and I'll grab you some food."
A huff of air, soft. "Yeah," Eddie says. Buck listens to the shuffle of his feet, the silence in the kitchen after. He looks through his peripheral vision to make sure that Eddie's not in the room anymore, then looks down at his hand, the faint tremor running through it.
He presses his thumb to his lip, still a little damp, a little warm. He closes his eyes for a singular moment, knowing. Then he opens them again, and allows himself not to know.
He grabs a bowl, a clean spoon. Eddie's hungry, that's all.
