Work Text:
Title: No Vacancy (Except One Bed)
The car gives up with a soft, traitorous clunk about twenty miles outside of Nashville.
Eddie doesn’t even bother swearing. He just eases it onto the shoulder and lets his forehead drop briefly to the steering wheel. Buck watches the dashboard lights flicker out like they’re embarrassed.
“Okay,” Buck says, after a beat. “So. That sounded expensive.”
Eddie exhales. “That was the engine officially clocking out.”
It’s late. Too late. The firefighter games had run long, the drive back even longer, and now the Tennessee night hums around them like it’s in on the joke. The tow truck driver drops them off in what he generously calls a town and points across the road.
“That motel’s your best bet,” he says. “Not much else open.”
The sign flickers: THE WALL MOTEL. Half the bulbs are out, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
Buck squints. “That feels… symbolic.”
Inside, the front desk clerk barely blinks at them. “We’ve got rooms,” she says. “But they’re all one-bed.”
Buck’s head snaps toward Eddie. Eddie feels it like a physical thing.
“All of them?” Buck asks.
The clerk nods. “Queen bed. That’s it.”
Eddie doesn’t hesitate. He’s tired, sore, and honestly past the point of caring. “We’ll take it.”
Buck opens his mouth like he might protest, then closes it again. “Yeah. Okay. Cool. One bed. Totally normal.”
The room is exactly what Buck expects: thin walls, floral bedspread, a faint smell of cleaner trying and failing to hide decades of smoke. One bed, shoved against the wall like it knows it’s the problem.
They stand there for a second, taking it in.
“We can put a pillow barrier,” Buck offers quickly. “Like a—like a demilitarized zone.”
Eddie snorts despite himself. “Sure, Buck.”
They change in awkward but familiar silence, backs turned, the way they’ve perfected over years of shared locker rooms and near misses. By the time the lights are off, exhaustion wins.
They climb into bed from opposite sides.
At first, they’re rigid. Careful. Inches apart but hyperaware of every shift of the mattress. Eddie stares at the ceiling, Buck at the wall, both pretending this is no different than crashing on opposite ends of the couch at the loft.
Sometime in the night, everything shifts.
Buck wakes slowly, warmth registering before awareness.
His cheek is pressed into fabric—soft, worn cotton—and there’s a solid, familiar weight in front of him. He blinks, brain lagging, then it hits him all at once.
Eddie.
Buck is curled on his side, chest flush to Eddie’s back. One arm is slung securely around Eddie’s waist, his other tucked in close, hand resting just below Eddie’s ribs like it’s always belonged there. Eddie’s back rises and falls steadily against him, breathing slow and deep, completely asleep.
Buck’s stomach drops.
Oh no.
He goes rigid, heart hammering so hard he’s convinced Eddie will feel it. Carefully—painfully carefully—Buck tries to ease his arms away, starting with the one around Eddie’s waist. He barely shifts an inch.
Eddie grumbles.
A soft, irritated sound slips from him as he shifts slightly, pressing back into Buck instead of away. Buck freezes again, breath caught in his throat.
“Mmh,” Eddie mutters, voice thick with sleep.
Before Buck can move, Eddie reaches back blindly, fingers finding Buck’s forearm. He tugs it back around himself, anchoring it tight against his middle. Then he scoots back just enough to close the gap completely, Buck’s chest fitting flush to his spine like muscle memory.
Buck’s pulse spikes.
Eddie relaxes immediately, shoulders loosening, a quiet sigh leaving him as if this has solved something important. He settles deeper into Buck’s hold, utterly unaware.
Buck stares at the wall, wide-eyed and helpless, arms locked around Eddie’s warm, solid body.
After a long moment, he exhales.
Slowly, carefully, he lets himself soften again. Lets his grip settle. Lets the warmth stay.
Eddie sleeps on, safe and heavy in Buck’s arms.
Buck falls back asleep without meaning to.
It’s not a conscious decision so much as his body finally giving in—exhaustion winning out over anxiety. His breathing evens, his grip loosens just enough to be gentle instead of rigid, arms still warm and sure around Eddie’s middle. His forehead rests between Eddie’s shoulder blades, breath steady against his neck.
When Eddie wakes, it’s to that.
To warmth. To weight. To the unmistakable feel of someone holding him.
His first thought is confusion—disoriented, half-dreaming—then reality crashes in all at once. The rise and fall of Buck’s chest at his back. Buck’s arm draped firmly around his waist. Buck’s breath brushing the sensitive skin just below his ear every time he exhales.
Eddie’s heart leaps straight into his throat.
He goes completely still.
Every sense sharpens at once, like his body has decided this is a situation that requires full attention. He can feel Buck everywhere: solid and warm and real, pressed close in a way that makes Eddie’s chest tighten painfully.
Oh.
He swallows, pulse roaring in his ears.
He’s known—known—for a while now. Not in words he’s said out loud, not in anything he’s admitted to Buck or anyone else. But the realization had settled into him quietly, unavoidable. The way his eyes always tracked Buck first. The way Buck’s laugh loosened something in his chest. The way imagining a life without him felt… wrong.
Gay. He’d figured out he was gay.
And now Buck is here. Wrapped around him like this is where he belongs.
Eddie can feel Buck’s breath ghost over his neck again, warm and soft, and it sends a shiver straight down his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his heart to slow, terrified that Buck will wake and feel how fast it’s beating.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t dare.
Buck shifts minutely in his sleep, nose brushing the back of Eddie’s neck, arms tightening just a fraction like he’s holding on even in dreams. Eddie’s breath stutters despite his best effort to keep it steady.
This doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. He’s asleep. It’s an accident.
But his body doesn’t believe it. His body is painfully aware of how right this feels. How safe. How terrifyingly easy it would be to stay.
Carefully—so carefully it almost hurts—Eddie lets himself relax back into Buck’s hold. Just a little. Not enough to change anything. Not enough to risk waking him.
Buck murmurs something unintelligible and settles again, breath warm against Eddie’s ear.
Eddie stares at the wall, heart still racing, a thousand unspoken truths pressed tight behind his ribs.
He doesn’t pull away.
Not yet.