Eddie washes dishes late at night. It has to be past midnight but he can’t sleep. The reminder of dirty dishes in the sink had managed to filter through his weighted thoughts, loud enough to force him out of bed instead of continuing to stare at the ceiling for four more hours thinking of his son in Texas and all his disastrous romantic entanglements.
Warm water glides over his hands; he scrubs at the caked-on food until the soap disappears and his skin reddens from the temperature. He hums a song he’s heard too many times on the radio, completely lost to the outside world.
A pair of strong arms wrap around him.
Eddie’s breath hitches but his body never startles. He twists his head slightly to the side as Buck crams his face into the crook of his neck.
“You’re drunk,” Eddie says, returning to his dish washing duties. He didn’t mean to make too much noise, didn’t mean to wake Buck up too. His grip grows tighter in response, or lack of one, and Eddie sighs.
Buck only gets super touchy with him when he’s drunk. It happened at the bachelor party where for the entire time maybe not a minute had passed without Buck keeping him close—whether draping an arm over his shoulder or helping strip off his shirt. And he’s rather still fresh off his break up with Tommy, which is probably partly the reason why he drank so much tonight and Eddie barely finished one beer so he could drive them both home.
“Am not,” eventually comes Buck’s delayed reply. It should be impressive that he only slightly slurs his words. You could almost make a case that exhaustion is the thing blurring his speech but they went to bed no more than an hour ago—Buck face-planting on the couch without so much as a complaint about comfort—and even Buck’s system can’t process alcohol that quickly.
When Eddie fully turns to face Buck, Buck slips his arms from Eddie to plant them on the counter, blocking him on either side. Eddie settles against the counter top not looking to escape. Buck leans closer, a sloppy grin on his face as if he can’t keep his thoughts contained, though that’s also not out of the ordinary.
“If I asked,” he whispers, blue eyes shining, “would you kiss me?”
Oh—that’s… that’s not at all what Eddie could have predicted for this evening. His eyes widen, brows rising high. He opens his mouth, lips parting, before daring a response. Crossing his arms, then crossing his ankles, he presses his fingers into his biceps to ground himself, choosing to say,
“I wouldn’t kiss you when you’re drunk.”
Buck pouts but remains undeterred by Eddie’s reply. “Tomorrow then. If I asked tomorrow, would you?”
A stuttered laugh catches in Eddie’s throat. This is ridiculous. Totally, completely ridiculous. ...Right? “You’re not going to remember any of this in the morning.”
“I will,” Buck mutters with utter certainty. As if late night exhaustion has finally crept up on him, his eyelids flutter closed for a few seconds, his long lashes brushing his skin. “I will.” Repeating it a second time doesn’t convince Eddie any better, especially when Buck releases a yawn he is compelled to mirror.
“If you do, you’ll be weird about it.” Buck will probably avoid him too until enough time has passed to convince himself that Eddie would have forgotten the whole encounter—but what he never quite gets right is that Eddie remembers everything that has to do with Buck.
Buck shakes his head. “You’ll be weird about it,” he argues back like he’s five.
Would he? If Buck asked to be kissed tomorrow, would he do it? Something sputters inside him.
Suddenly, he holds Buck’s face in both hands, propping up his drooping head and forcing him to look at him, to hear him. “If you remember this conversation, ask me in the morning.”
Buck grins, nodding way too many times while Eddie guides him back to the couch, insisting, “I will. I definitely will.”
But Buck doesn’t remember and Eddie locks the question behind his lips, partly wondering if he imagined the whole thing after all. Maybe that one beer had made him delusional.
He’s not sure why he’s so disappointed.
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