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hello biteable liz, i simply would adore your writing and this prompt together if you are so inclined: you used to be the absolute best at flirting, but now that you've got me, your flirting consists of deliberately embarrassing me, because seeing me react to your idiotically bad jokes is apparently the highlight of your day

4.1k | read on ao3

Buck kisses Eddie on a Tuesday afternoon over half-drunk cups of oat milk coffee against the white noise of last night's baseball match and the world doesn't end. It doesn't even change. Between one blink and the next Buck's lips are pressed to Eddie's and he tastes like coffee beans and sweetener and a little bit like spearmint gum and when he shifts back against the kitchen counter the sky is still blue outside. The tea towel slung over the handle of the stove is askew like Buck left it this morning and there's a to-do list stuck to the fridge, half-crossed out, eggs and magic sand and optometrist 3:30 still left at the bottom, and Eddie is wearing the same cream-coloured henley he'd been wearing when he let himself inside the loft, and the smile on his face is the same smile Buck's been seeing for a while now except this time he knows how it feels, pressed against his own.

Eddie's eyes open and his lip quirks up a little and Buck tilts his head back against the kitchen cabinet to try and stifle down the laughter bubbling up in his chest and someone on the TV hits what sounds like a home run and nothing is different, from the spill of oat milk on the counter to the hole in Buck's sock over his left big toe. He kisses Eddie on a Tuesday afternoon and the world goes on.

“I have to pick up Chris,” Eddie says, like he would any other Tuesday, and then he’s leaning in and kissing Buck again and his hand finds Buck’s hip where it juts out sharp beneath the soft cotton of his second favourite hoodie and their coffee is going to go cold. Buck says so, into the warmth of Eddie’s neck, clutching the counter to make sure it’s still there.

“I’ll make you another,” he says, fumbling for the coffee machine, watching the lines of Eddie’s shoulders shift as he reaches for the bright pink keep cup in the top right-hand cupboard.

“What?” Eddie laughs, when he turns and catches Buck staring, and he hasn’t looked over at the TV once even though Buck put the game on for him, and it looks like there might be a little toothpaste on the collar of his shirt and Buck breathes out, checks the sky outside the window, resists the urge to pinch the inside of his forearm and just shakes his head, fingers tangling with Eddie’s as he takes the cup from his grasp.

“Nothing, I.” The movements are familiar; grind the beans, lock the portafilter. They steady him. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“A good kind of can’t believe, right?”

Buck smiles despite himself, offers it over his shoulder. “The best kind.” And he’s still halfway turned around so is witness to the delicate blush that stains itself over Eddie’s cheeks and nose; works its way down his neck, the faintest hint of red that Buck knows would be warm to the touch. He wants to draw it out; wants to know what makes Eddie blush deeper, wants to kiss him, right there, on the blossoming pink across the bridge of his nose. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and this morning Buck woke up in love with his best friend like every morning since before he can remember and tomorrow morning it will be the same only this time Eddie might love him back. And it’s a Tuesday afternoon and Eddie has to pick up Chris and Buck pours the perfect coffee into the keep cup, screws on the lid and tilts it to check it won’t spill. Eddie’s still red when he hands it over and their fingers brush again and Buck wants to kiss him silly, wants to kiss him stupid.

Settles for brushing a hand down the line of Eddie’s flushed neck instead.

“You’re gonna be late,” he laughs, letting his hand fall away when it reaches the natural dip of Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie catches it, easy as breathing, in the hand not holding the keep cup.

He says, “come with me?” and it takes everything Buck has not to kiss him again then and there.

“I have the optometrist,” he reminds him, tilting his head to the to-do list on the fridge. “But hey, uh, that reminds me. I think there’s something missing from my calendar?”

Eddie blinks at him.

“…a date with you.”

And it’s worth it, the spilled coffee when the keep cup drops to the floor, as Eddie groans and shoves Buck gently back against the kitchen counter, for the way the both of them can’t stop smiling, Eddie’s face tomato-red and as warm as Buck hoped it would be when he kisses it. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and the Dodgers are about to lose the game and Buck couldn’t give a shit about baseball, never has, because the sky is blue and there’s coffee seeping through the hole in his sock and Eddie kissed him, is kissing him, and the world goes on.

Only now Buck knows just how deep Eddie can blush. And he kind of never wants to stop seeing it.

He’s late to his appointment.

*

Once is a coincidence, Buck says to himself the next morning as he locks the door behind him, takes the stairs down to his parking spot, keys the ignition of the Jeep and flicks the radio to FM like he does every morning on his way to work.

Once is a coincidence, two times is a pattern.

He swings by Starbucks on the drive in, picks up Eddie’s cream-and-sugar cap and his, Hen and Ravi’s oat milk lattes and Bobby’s earl grey and Chim’s cinnamon coconut monstrosity. The café is busy enough to make him almost late to the shift so everyone’s already in the loft by the time he finishes changing and bounds up the stairs, coffees in hand.

“You’re looking extra perky today, Buckaroo,” Hen notes, accepting her coffee with a smile.

“Some might say too perky,” Chim says, prying the lid from his cup and inhaling a face full of steam. He narrows his eyes through the mist. “I don’t like it.”

“What, I can’t wake up on the right side of the bed for once?” He joins Eddie at the kitchen counter, hip-checking him where the others can’t see and sliding over the last steaming cup. Eddie is careful not to let their fingers brush this time when he takes it, but the tips of his ears are already turning red and Buck kind of wants to put his mouth on them. He settles for leaning against the counter so his back’s to the others, playing with the lid of his latte as Eddie takes a sip of his cappuccino. He drops his voice to an almost-whisper and asks, “do you need more sugar or am I sweet enough?”

The effect is instantaneous. The red flushes like a tide from Eddie’s ears across his cheeks and nose and down his neck. He manages not to choke on his coffee but only just, Buck can tell, and sets it down on the counter with enough force it sloshes over the sides.

“You okay, Eddie?” Bobby calls out, concerned, and Buck hides his smile in a sip of his latte as Eddie clears his throat, scrubs a hand over the stubble at his jaw as if it’ll hide the blush.

“Yeah, Cap, sorry,” he says, looking anywhere in the room but Buck. “Went down the wrong way.”

Buck sets down his coffee, grabs an extra sugar packet from the opposite counter and stirs it into Eddie’s, the way he likes it. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not sorry at all, lingering a hand on Eddie’s hip where the kitchen bench hides it and Eddie finally looks at him. Is still pink, delightfully so, but his hand finds Buck’s at his belt and holds it there for just a moment, all they can do when they’re at work and this thing between them is barely fifteen hours old.

“No, you’re not,” Eddie replies, replacing the lid back on his coffee to take a sip and smiling when it’s perfect, the way Buck knows how. He lets his hand fall down at his side and takes a deliberate step around the counter, away from Buck, who turns to watch him go and is now privy to the way the back of Eddie’s neck between his neat hairline and the collar of his shirt blushes bright red too. He feels like he’s known Eddie all his life, or at least—the bits of it that matter, and he’s still finding out new things. Wants to learn, if Eddie will let him, the shape of his collarbone beneath Buck’s mouth. Wants to map every freckle, the one under his eye Buck sees every day and the one in the crease of his left knee he’s glimpsed only once before. Wants to trace just how far down that blush goes, press his palms into that warm stretch of skin to feel the shift of muscle beneath and never, not ever, let go.

Eddie tips a smile over his shoulder, tugging Buck from his train of thought. It’s familiar, small and wry, the one that says you coming? without Eddie ever needing to ask.

Buck goes. He’s got a theory to test, after all.

*

It keeps happening, is the thing. They’re at Eddie’s after their shift, and it’s late enough that Chris is in bed. Buck isn’t really sure what to do with his hands until Eddie takes the beer from them, sets it down on the counter, half-drunk, beside his own. When he steps into Buck’s space it’s like the distance—collapses, and Buck shouldn’t have heated up the leftover pizza for dinner because now they’ve both got garlic breath but it’s Eddie, and Buck can’t bring himself to care.

His hands settle on Eddie’s shoulders as Eddie’s come around his thighs and then Buck’s up on the countertop like every cliché high school romance ever and maybe if this actually happened to Buck in high school he wouldn’t have hated it so much.

When Eddie kisses him, it’s only the fourth, or maybe the fifth, time, but it feels like the hundred thousandth, the way Eddie is moving against him. Buck’s pretty sure he’s sitting in a spill of soapy water from the sink and they both probably need a second shower after that last four-alarm but Eddie’s mouth is plush and warm and searching against his and he does taste like garlic but that’s whatever, because it’s Eddie, and Buck moves his mouth to press against the freckle beneath his eye because he’s been wanting to for literal years and now he can. It must tickle, because Eddie’s laughing, and his eyelashes flutter against Buck’s cheek like—like butterfly wings, Buck thinks nonsensically, as he moves his mouth to the tip of Eddie’s nose, to the hinge of his jaw. He kicks his Uggs against the shitty melamine cabinets as Eddie’s socked feet slip a little on the tile and now Buck’s the one laughing, pulling back from the kiss to press their foreheads together and when he opens his eyes Eddie is smiling so wide it almost looks like it hurts. Buck’s hands fall from Eddie’s shoulders to clutch at the sweater at his waist.

“Do you know CPR?” he asks, unable to stop the grin that’s pressing against the corners of his mouth, pushing up and over his teeth the way it does only sparingly, the way he taught himself out of years and states and lifetimes ago.

Eddie frowns, adorably, the jut of his lower lip a fucking beacon Buck has to physically restrain himself from taking into his mouth. “You know I do,” he says.

“Good,” and Buck bites at his lip, waits as Eddie’s eyes track the movement, “because you just took my breath away.”

The blush this time is accompanied by a groan and an eye roll Buck’s pretty sure could be seen from space. He’s still laughing when Eddie kisses him, and his face is warm between Buck’s hands when he holds it, and at this rate they’re going to wake up Chris who will probably just lean in the doorway, fake gagging the way he did earlier tonight when Buck kissed Eddie’s cheek over the pizza, and Buck has to keep telling himself not to be careful, because he can have this, because he can hold it between his palms as tight as he wants and nothing’s going to shatter, nothing’s going to break. He can hold on and Eddie’s gonna hold back, as long as they both can manage, and maybe if Buck was a twelve-year-old kid with a smart mouth a mile wide he’d be fake gagging, too.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Eddie complains, cheeks a little squished between Buck’s hands and still red, so red Buck could probably fry an egg on them if he could be bothered to move to the fridge. He can’t. He kind of wishes he could stay here on the countertop, Eddie flush between his legs, forever.

“Prove it,” he laughs, closing the distance between them once more. Eddie’s too busy being kissed to reply. Which, really, was Buck’s plan all along.

*

Grocery shopping the following weekend, Buck nudges the cart gently into Eddie’s hip where he’s browsing the fresh produce.

“Hey babe,” he smiles with his teeth, placing a bag of nectarines into the front of the cart, “if you were a vegetable you’d be a cute-cumber.”

Later that day, as they’re driving home past the cinema: “I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring your own snacks.”

“On a scale of one to America, how free are you tonight?”

“You must be a broom, ‘cause you just swept me off my feet.”

“Good thing I renewed my library card, because I’m totally checking you out.”

“We’re not socks, but I think we’d make a great pair.”

Eddie splotches pink and red every time. “You’re not as cute as you think you are,” he grumbles one night when Buck asks him for a Band-Aid. He sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the couch cushions. “No, Buck, I don’t have a Band-Aid.”

“Damn. I scraped my knee falling for you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is the reply he gets, endearingly muffled as Eddie tries (and fails) to hide his blush in the fabric of Buck’s hoodie. Buck kisses the hot tip of his ear, buries his fingers in the soft strands of Eddie’s hair and holds him as close as he can manage with their clothes still on.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs, running his free hand down the line of Eddie’s back, who sighs against him. “I’ll stop if you want.” He kisses Eddie’s hairline. “Just say the word.”

Another sigh, then some shuffling, as Eddie unearths himself from Buck’s hoodie. He presses his thumb to Buck’s birthmark, replaces it with his mouth. “Nah,” he murmurs against Buck’s temple. “I’ll survive. Besides,” he adds, kissing him for real this time, “I’m kind of curious to hear the rest.” He pulls back, just enough that he can look Buck in the eye. “Please don’t make me regret saying that.”

“I make no promises.”

*

After the coffee incident, Buck’s careful about keeping it under wraps at work. The firehouse knows, of course—Buck told Maddie, who told Chimney, who told the rest of the 118 barely a week after he and Eddie first kissed, but they’ve had their talk with Bobby, signed a bunch of paperwork for HR, and Buck’s not about to put that in jeopardy.

It’s just—Eddie looks so good in a harness.

Buck is on winch, for once, thanks to a pulled calf muscle their last 24. He lets his hands linger on the straps as he checks Eddie’s harness, who rolls his eyes but smiles fondly when Buck tugs on the same fastening for the fourth time in a row.

“I’m good, Buck,” he murmurs, clipping his helmet. “Are you?”

Buck forces himself to step back. “Always am,” he grins, full of false bravado that just makes Eddie roll his eyes again. “I’ve got your back,” he adds, a little more seriously, and something Buck can’t parse sparks behind Eddie’s eyes.

“I know.”

The rescue goes cleanly enough—a sixth storey apartment, inaccessible from anywhere but the roof thanks to a collapsed ceiling and shoddy fire escape. Buck meets Eddie back on the ground to find him removing his harness, helmet already off, having done its job of cowlicking Eddie’s hair adorably. They’re half-hidden between the engine and the ambulance which is quite possibly what makes all Buck’s reason fly completely out the window as he asks, “let me?”

Eddie’s eyes flick either side of the narrow gap between the vehicles before he huffs, dropping his hands and shuffling his feet a little as Buck steps in close. All that’s left is the strapping around his waist and thighs—Buck bends down a little, to reach it.

“Buck,” Eddie says.

“Hm?” The clip is at the back of Eddie’s thigh. Buck should probably ask him to turn around, but—

“Buck.”

“I know.” He takes a breath, lets his forehead rest against Eddie’s hip for a moment, then reaches between his legs calmly and unbuckles first the left, then the right strap. He stands, feeling a little flushed, as Eddie fiddles with the strap around his waist then steps out of the harness. “Sorry.”

“Buck,” Eddie says again, then, inexplicably, laughs. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that to you?”

“Um. Many?”

“Many,” he confirms. And Buck—Buck can barely stand it, you see, Eddie in his freshly pressed uniform now creased from the harness, his hair sweaty and tragically styled by the helmet, smiling at Buck like he hasn’t just handed him the keys to his heart and said come on in.

“Eddie,” Buck says, because he can’t help himself. “I’ve only been in the harness once since we’ve been dating.”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies steadily. “I know.”

And it’s suddenly imperative that Buck kiss him right now. So he does, with a quick glance over both their shoulders first, quick enough he catches Eddie by surprise. When he pulls back, Eddie’s eyes have fluttered closed, and Buck runs a careful thumb along the bone beneath his left eye.

“Are you French?” he asks quietly.

Eddie’s eyes blink open as he quirks an eyebrow. “You know I’m not.”

Buck steals another quick kiss, the last he’ll be able to manage the rest of their shift, then skips back til he’s out of reach. “Because Eiffel for you!” he laughs.

“Why’re you so red?” Chim asks suspiciously on their way to the next call. Eddie’s answering sigh can probably be heard all the way to Santa Monica.

*

It’s Eddie, though, who has the last laugh.

They’re on a call, a bachelorette party gone wrong when the disco ball exploded. Hen and Chim are triaging the more serious patients so Buck’s helping Eddie check up on the others, a group of about six women in various stages of drunkenness. One—the bride-to-be—is crying and apologetic, while two others seem determined to finish off the table’s drinks. As Eddie kneels beside a red-haired woman with a maid of honour badge pinned to her dress, she gives him a slow once-over.

“Are you experiencing any kind of pain, any headaches, dizziness?” Eddie prompts, shining his torch in her face.

“I’ve been dizzy all day,” she giggles, fluttering her eyelashes. “Mind if I fall into your arms?”

And Eddie—Eddie doesn’t even blink. He smiles tightly, shutting off his torch and standing. “You seem to be fine. If any symptoms present in the next 48 hours head straight to emergency, okay?”

Buck puzzles it over as they deal with the last of the patients and head back to the firehouse for hopefully a nap between calls. He snags Eddie’s sleeve on their way to the bunk room, pulling him towards the lockers instead.

“Everything okay?” Eddie asks, concerned, sitting down on one of the benches as Buck begins to pace.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Buck stops in his tracks, hands on hips, wheeling to face his boyfriend. “Actually, no. What happened, back there?”

Eddie’s brow wrinkles. “With the call?”

“The call, the—the woman? The maid of honour.”

Eddie’s frown deepens a little as he tries to remember. “The—oh. Her. What about her?”

“What about her?” And—okay, so it’s two AM, and Buck’s maybe not thinking the clearest he could be right now. But he’s had a plan, he’s tested his theory, and suddenly this has thrown it all off-kilter. “She flirted with you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Now it’s Eddie’s nose that’s wrinkled, and Buck—Buck wants to kiss it. He always wants to kiss Eddie, but this Eddie—this two AM, droopy-eyed, wrinkly-nosed Eddie? It’s a lot. “It was kind of unpleasant, actually, some people just don’t know where the line—”

“She flirted with you,” Buck interrupts, because it’s kind of vital he gets the words out now before he kisses Eddie and forgets about everything else in the room, “and you didn’t blush. You didn’t even—blink, Eds, I don’t—”

“Wait.” And Eddie’s standing, crossing the room in two strides, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile Buck will never get tired of. It’s his oh, there-you-are smile. His I’ve-been-looking-for-you smile.

He takes Buck’s hands from his hips, brings them together and kisses his knuckles. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I just.” Buck deflates. Eddie’s hands are warm around his and it’s two AM on a Sunday morning and yesterday Buck woke up with Eddie’s body around his and counted his fingers to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He’s gotten better about it, lately, but sometimes when the sunlight is just this side of warm on the sheets, when Eddie makes him coffee in the mornings and kisses him long and deep despite the bitter taste lingering in Buck’s mouth, when they make Christopher’s school lunch together and Buck cuts off the crusts of the bread while Eddie drizzles lemon juice on the apple slices to keep them from going brown, Buck will forget. That he can have this, that he does have this. That he’ll have it, for the rest of his life.

“You’re a sure thing,” he says instead, watching for the way Eddie’s eyes light up at the words. “You are, and Chris is, and so’s our coffee and toast in the morning and that stupid AM radio show you like to listen to on the way to work.”

“Hey, now—”

“You wear socks to bed,” Buck continues, “and you burn the eggs but can make your abuela’s tres leches by heart and you think I don’t know that you’ve been reading Fifty Shades of Grey on your Kindle but I do, and—we’ll talk about that later—and you pour your milk before your cereal and you know all the words to Mambo Number Five and you blush when you’re flirted with, bright, fucking ladder truck red, every time.” He breathes out. “Except today.”

Eddie’s looking at him like, like—Buck can’t find the words, except that it’s golden-brown, honey-soft and sweet. “Buck,” he says, murmurs because it’s two AM and the rest of the firehouse is asleep. “Baby. I—Jesus Christ. I love you.”

Almost automatically, Buck replies, “I love you too.”

“I.” And Eddie lets go of Buck’s hands, brings his own up to frame Buck’s face instead. “I don’t blush when I’m flirted with,” he says, simply, unwaveringly, like he isn’t realigning Buck’s entire world on its axis, “I blush because it’s you.”

The wave of heat, when it comes, crashes over Buck like the breakers at Venice Beach. His ears, his nose, his cheeks—up his neck from his breastbone, mottling his jaw. “Oh,” he replies, like he isn’t blushing the deepest he ever has in his entire life. “Oh, okay.”

“Okay,” Eddie repeats, laughing, still gazing at Buck with that same softness, that same wonder. “I guess heartfelt declarations do it for you?”

“Shut up,” Buck laughs, pushing Eddie away only to reel him back in, press his face into the warmth of his neck and just breathe. “Only you,” he adds, the words muffled and barely audible, only—Eddie must hear them, because he’s clutching Buck tighter for a long moment before pulling back enough to see his face, to meet his eyes—smiling, crow’s feet at the corners—and finally kiss him.

“Hey, Buck?” he murmurs, seconds or maybe hours later, long enough that Buck doesn’t feel quite as red, quite as warm.

“Hm?”

“…is that your phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

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