Work Text:
Webster’s Dictionary defines marriage as an intimate or close union. Buck knows, because he looked it up just now in the bathroom.
The first time Eddie and Hen’s intimate or close work union—as in, like, spouses, not the IAFF—was brought up, it was simple enough to brush off. Hen was sick; she’d just been fired. Buck, for the most part - admittedly with some regretful slip ups here and there, but he lives and he learns with the best of them - is capable of prioritizing the wellbeing of his friends over his own abandonment issues. Which he did, with great success, at the time.
As the scores on the board stand, there have been two incidents.
Incident one, several months back: Eddie, his objectively handsome best friend, with large, dextrous fingers wrapped around the shaft of a pole—or a broom, but who’s checking—looked up at Buck from his stooping sweeping stance, batted his big, round, molten chocolate eyes, and called himself Hen’s new work husband.
Incident two, several minutes ago: Eddie, his objectively—and fine, subjectively—handsome best friend, with a keen eye for detail and those same huge, long, capable fingers, murmured a gentle oh, hey, here. Then he reached into Hen’s sanctified bubble of personal space to fix the askew collar on her work shirt; a move that would probably have Buck’s own hand smacked away instantly, like a misbehaving kid reaching for the cookie jar, it feels necessary to note; but Eddie just received a warm, familiar smile and a thanks, hon.
Nothing much to write home about there. At least, not until Eddie had smiled back, even warmer, and replied: Anything for my work wife.
Work wife. The phrase had just rolled off Eddie’s tongue, easy as anything. Buck, an expert in self-preservation nowadays, is choosing to ignore the implication that there have been further incidents out of his earshot, lest that implication eat away at his brain like a green little parasite.
Once is an accident, and twice is a coincidence, and Buck simply doesn’t care to count any higher. Three’s a crowd, after all.
Another thing he doesn’t care for? Coincidences; because they usually lie outside of logical reasoning, and he is a logical, reasonable man. Mostly. Sometimes.
He is also a man prone to pressing and pressing for an explanation of things that don’t make sense until he gets satisfying answers. If you push enough people’s buttons, Buck finds, then one of them is bound to open the right door; even if it’s fast, and in your face.
All is to say: he’s gotta get to the bottom of this whole work wife, work husband, work holy union recognized under God thing that Eddie seems to have going on with Hen all of a sudden.
So, here Buck sits on his porcelain throne. He stares unblinking at his phone screen, still open to the dictionary website, and pleads to Merriam and Webster, twin gods of suffering and misery, for guidance that doesn’t come.
The state of being united as spouses in a contractual relationship, he reads for the fourth time. Employment is a contract, if you think about it.
Buck flushes and leaves the toilet stall.
He’s not actually looking for social cues in a list of word definitions, because he’s a bit clueless sometimes, sure, but not entirely delusional. He just needed a minute of quiet to—process, because he’s trying, sincerely, to tone down this particular jealous streak; then in the middle of processing, his mind wandered off into Curiosity Town, USA, where it’s fond of vacationing.
He mostly wanted to know if the word ‘marriage’ came from Latin or Greek.
Latin, it turns out. From maritus, for ‘married man; husband’. Conversely, polygamy comes from the Greek for ‘many’ and ‘marriage’. Straight to the point, those Greeks.
Anyway - etymology won’t give him answers, so he’ll have to go straight to the source.
Or, as it transpires, the source comes straight to him. Eddie enters the bathroom.
“Hey man,” he greets, nodding to where Buck is washing his hands.
“Hey.”
Eddie heads to a urinal, unzips his fly. Buck strips his hands ruthlessly with soap, and curses his Instagram algorithm for ever showing him the post that read: are you really married if you don’t hold it while he pees?
“So. Work wife, huh?” Buck asks the bathroom wall, casual, nonchalant, breezy. Three adjectives someone might use to describe him, if that someone had never met Buck a day in their life.
Eddie laughs. His hand is probably touching his dick right now, but who cares. “What can I say? I know how to treat a woman.”
Unless some sci-fi-esque, cloning, skin-suit swapping nonsense has gone on under Buck’s nose, this is still the same man who once had his then-girlfriend mistaken for his wife by a complete stranger, and had a resulting panic attack that got him sent to the E.R. With this in mind, Buck replies with a simple, incredulous, “Um.”
“Alright, don’t you start,” says Eddie, slightly sheepish. “I heard it too.”
“Self awareness is the first step,” Buck replies, solemn, as he grabs some paper towel.
Eddie zips up his fly and hums in thought. “Definitely self-aware. Being work-married to Hen will do that to a man.” He shakes his head in something akin to wonder. “She’s a hell of a woman.”
To reiterate: Buck is really, really trying to get a grapple on his jealousy, which is what makes it all the more disheartening when Eddie’s words make his brain feel like it’s going through a pasta maker. No wrinkles or folds anymore; just smooth sheets of brain matter lasagne.
“That she is,” Buck chokes out. The firehouse bathroom suddenly just got several sizes smaller. There’s no longer enough oxygen for both of them in here. “See you out there.”
Then Buck gets the hell out of dodge.
Their next shift comes along, and Buck is prepared to take Eddie and Hen’s sickeningly sweet union in his stride, after making productive use of his 24 off to meditate and reflect on what’s really important.
That being, of course, his good friend Ravi.
Ravi deserves more of Buck’s time and appreciation. He’s a solid work partner. He’s capable, and level-headed, and a great fit for their close-knit firefighting family. If he’s bitchy to Buck now and then, or often, Buck isn’t thinking about that right now. He’s a forgiving guy. He’s gracious like that.
“Hey Ravi,” Buck calls out at a normal, appropriate volume over the loft railing when Ravi walks into the bay. “You want a coffee?”
“Oh,” says Ravi. He seems taken aback by Buck’s kind gesture for some reason, which is slightly insulting. Buck’s a kind, gracious guy. “Sure, I mean - let me just go get—”
“No need,” Buck interrupts. What was Ravi going to get? Changed? A grip? Out while the getting’s good? Doesn’t matter! Buck doesn’t need to know, because he’s Ravi’s good friend and even better work partner, so he’s got him covered. “I already made you one.”
Ravi stands there, bag hoisted over his shoulder, and turns his head repeatedly between looking over at the locker room and up at Buck. He looks like a dog being called by its two different owners.
“It’s oat and pistachio,” Buck adds, shaking the proverbial handful of treats in his pocket.
It works. “Oh, awesome,” Ravi replies earnestly, and jogs up the stairs to retrieve his prize.
“Pistachio?” Eddie asks from his seat at the table. “Is that a new one?”
Buck turns to look at him. He had been looking elsewhere before, mostly because he had this nice coffee to prepare, and maybe a little because Eddie and Hen have been hunched over a crossword puzzle together for the past ten minutes like—well, an old married couple.
Self-preservation. Buck’s getting pretty good at it.
That being said; Eddie’s attention is now trained fully on Buck, and the force of giddyness that whips up in his gut makes him wonder, sincerely, how natural selection hasn’t caught up to him yet.
“Uh, yeah. It took a little searching—” Buck has visited four different Walmarts in the past twenty-four hours solely to make one niche drink for his coworker, but he’ll take that to the grave. “—but it’s Rav’s favorite, right?”
“Yeah,” Ravi grins, claiming the offered mug. When he goes to take a sip, he notices the heart-shaped foam art Buck carefully crafted a few minutes prior, which he eyes with mild suspicion. “That’s, uh… really nice of you, dude, thanks.”
It wouldn’t kill the man to try and sound a little less skeptical when he says that, but, whatever. Water off a Buck’s back.
“Ah, it’s nothing. Anything, you know, for my—good partner Ravi.”
With that, the suspicion dial on Ravi’s face promptly spins from ‘huh, what’s that about’ to ‘your hands are actively dripping in fluorescent red paint right now, but I don’t want to cause a scene’.
Hurtful, Buck thinks. All he did was pay the guy a compliment. Acknowledge their companionship. Make him a coffee, for the first time ever, decorated like it’s been plucked from a Starbucks Valentine’s Day commercial.
“Yeah,” Ravi says, drawn out and cautious. “Thanks.”
The man should really work on being a little less paranoid, all things considered.
“Soulmate. Starts with a B… ten letters…” Hen muses from over their white picket fence.
“Better half,” Eddie chimes, eagerly tapping at the newspaper. Hen excitedly fills in the letters.
Buck, unrelatedly, decides it’s a great time for a workout.
It’s a common misconception that the key to a successful, long-standing marriage is communication. What most of Buck’s coworkers don’t know is that it’s actually all in the set-up.
He’s pretty sure that’s in the Bible. Marriage didn’t actually originate from religion - another misconception - but Buck’s pretty sure that the few weddings he attended growing up all went down in a church, so it’s gotta count for something.
Anyway - the set-up. It goes like this: marriage means cultivating a home, and a home is a house, and in the Bible, Jesus slams a guy for building his house on shitty foundations.
Which—Buck and Jesus might not always see eye for an eye on everything, but - Buck is a firefighter in a coastal city subject to several beach-related disasters, and the guy in the story literally built his house on sand. Even though permits and zoning permissions weren’t a thing back then, Jesus was probably justified in calling him a tool. Or a fool, whichever.
The guy built the place on sand because it was quicker and easier. The other guy in the story took the extra time and effort required to build on rock. A stable, sturdy foundation. When a storm hit, guess which house stayed standing?
See? The set-up. That’s the key.
Eddie and Hen moved fast. They went from zero to death do them part in, as far as Buck can tell, the blink of an eye. Which even of itself doesn’t bode well for their work-future as a work-couple, but then if you account for divorce statistics? It gets even messier. Buck looked that up, too.
The statistic he’s heard thrown around for divorce rates is 1 in 3. Not true. It’s actually somewhere between 40 to 50%, and that’s for first marriages. Technically, this union is both Eddie and Hen’s second, and for those, the probability jumps up to sixty whole percent. It’s tough odds for those crazy kids.
(Buck didn’t look into polygamy, because it’s illegal. Which means for the sake of this thought experiment, he’s kind of erasing Karen from proceedings, which he does feel pretty bad about. He loves Karen, but right now, he has an agenda. He’ll make sure to bake her some blueberry muffins on his next 96 off to account for his thought crimes.)
Like he was saying - Eddie and Hen have set up home camp on a sandy beach. They’re splashing in the water. They’re sharing one big ice cream cone. They’re squished together on a deck chair, holding hands, listening to Jimmy Buffett with one airpod each. Ultimately, though, their work-love is gonna waste away in Margaritaville.
Meanwhile, Buck will be building rock-solid foundations for his and Ravi’s everlasting shared work-home.
He has good taste in work husband. After all, Ravi has vast experience in property management.
Building lasting foundations means establishing a strong connection. Good thing Buck is well-versed in the art of workplace courtship.
“You know, you’re a, uh—a fun guy, Ravi,” Buck says, earnest and true, as they wipe down the side of the fire engine.
“Stop being weird,” Ravi replies.
“Go fish,” Ravi says to Buck. Like a good partner, he listens.
He’s losing terribly. Hen and Eddie have three sets each. Ravi has two. Buck’s hand consists of a couple of threes, a pair of fours, and one Jack, and he hasn’t got a single set to his name.
“Chin up, Buck,” says Eddie. Buck didn’t realize he had been frowning. His poker face needs some work. “You can still do this. You love an underdog, right?”
“I think he’d rather be updog,” Ravi murmurs.
Buck cuts him an icy glare. “I fell for that one time.”
“Once is enough,” says Ravi sagely.
“It was at the end of a twenty-four. We’d just got back from a four-alarm fire. You can’t—”
Buck snaps his mouth shut. Deep breath in, then out. This is his future work-spouse at stake. It’s not worth it. He has to make sure he leads with his heart, not his hot head.
“Hen, it’s your go,” Buck says instead.
Hen raises a poised eyebrow in his direction. She’s very clearly holding back from asking what the hell was that, for which Buck is grateful.
“Eddie, got any queens?”
Eddie assesses his hand, then nods, and forks over a card. “A queen for my queen,” he croons. Jesus fucking Christ.
Hen coos back at him, her lips pouting around a fond noise. “Thank you so much, babe.”
Hen is Buck’s good, close friend. He wouldn’t change anything about her for the world. Right now, though, he does perhaps wish she would… dial it back. Just a tad.
Instead, the two of them, caught up in what must be work-matrimonial bliss, gaze fondly into each other’s eyes for multiple seconds.
“Ravi, I want you to have my fours,” says Buck, before Ravi can start his own turn. All three heads at the table turn to him in incredulous unison, so he adds, “What?”
“That is simply not how the game works,” answers Ravi, dumbfounded. “How do you—are you real?”
“Don’t open that can of worms,” Eddie teases with a shake of his head. “I’m still trying to work that one out, and I was roommates with the guy.”
Barely audible, Hen mutters, “Roommates, he says. Is that what historians will call it?”
Eddie splutters and gurgles like an affronted old car engine, then smacks Hen’s cards out of her hands and unceremoniously onto the table. It reminds Buck of the time he watched Ravi’s cat knock a potted plant off the windowsill in slow motion, right above where Ravi was sitting.
If Buck’s smile seems a little smug, it’s because of the memory, and nothing else.
It’s been roughly a week of Buck laying the foundations for a work-wedding by showcasing his suitability as a work-spouse.
It’s gratifying, because he genuinely really likes hanging out with Ravi. It’s also, however, tiring, because he’s two-timing his already significantly draining job with his own one-man series of The Bachelor. He’s gonna earn that damn rose.
Speaking of flowers—
“Ravi,” Buck calls out, beckoning him over.
“One sec,” Ravi replies.
Buck is sat strewn against the corner of the sofa in the firehouse loft. Eddie is there, too, sans-wife this time. He’s slumped against Buck’s side, a comforting and familiar weight; crossword book resting against his bent knee, pen between his teeth.
“Steadfast,” Eddie reads, taking the pen out of his mouth. “Eight letters across. Starts with a T. Seventh letter is, uh… probably a U.”
“True blue,” Buck answers. He flicks Eddie’s ear, because it’s right there, and he’s not exactly renowned as the king of impulse control. Eddie tilts his head in the direction of Buck’s hand and snaps his teeth.
“Nice. Thanks,” Eddie says as he fills in the letters. The blue ink smudges slightly from the awkward angle, but he doesn’t move to sit up.
Buck watches intently as the muscles in Eddie’s hand flex around the pen. He always does his crosswords in ink. Something about the quiet confidence that takes drives Buck a little crazy.
“What’s up?” Ravi asks, because he’s here now, all of a sudden. If Buck’s shoulders jump slightly in surprise, at least only Eddie will have felt it.
“Ravi, my guy,” Buck smiles. Ravi winces. Eddie makes a small, uncomfortable noise.
“Yes?”
Buck clears his throat. “Flowers,” he says, then realizes that’s probably not enough to go on. “Thoughts?”
That’ll do it.
“I’ve… heard of them,” Ravi responds.
Buck rolls his eyes. It’s like pulling teeth with this guy. “I mean, like - I’m thinking of a buttonhole. You know. Like a corsage, but for your pec. What’s that called?”
“A boutonniere,” Eddie offers, lolling his head back onto Buck’s shoulder to glance at him upside down.
Buck meets his eye from above and grins. “That’s the one. Thanks, Eddie.”
“Okay,” Ravi drones. “My thoughts on… boutonnieres? Um. I guess I’d say that they’re… fine.”
Jesus. Zero points for enthusiasm, given a work-wedding is supposed to be the most important work-day of your life. Buck sighs. Looks like it’s up to him once again to raise the average level of enthusiasm in this conversation.
“I think I want, like, a carnation,” says Buck, opening a new browser tab on his phone. Flowers have meanings, don’t they? “Something soft, but bright. Peachy colored, maybe. What do you think?” Buck asks Ravi.
“No way,” answers Eddie. “That would wash you out.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry,” says Eddie, sounding, to his credit, genuinely a little apologetic. “It wouldn’t look bad, I guess. I think you could pull off almost anything. I just think there are other options that would suit you more.”
Buck is busy googling peach carnation flower what mean, but not so busy that he doesn’t have time to blush at Eddie telling him he could pull off almost anything, with the same casual cadence he uses to inform him that seventeen down has six letters.
“Gee, thanks,” Buck repeats, far more hushed and pleased-sounding than before.
“Why did you need me for this?” Ravi asks, but Buck is busy googling.
“Hm… maybe you’re right,” says Buck. “It says here that peach carnations symbolize gracefully settling a minor social debt. Not the vibe I’m going for.” Ravi is his good friend, after all. Buck should choose something that symbolizes that. Respect. Tolerance. Most importantly, endurance.
“What about a bluebonnet?” Eddie ventures, restlessly tapping his pen against his book. “I like those. Something different. They’d bring out your eyes, too, I bet.”
Just like that, Buck is strong-armed into taking a break from googling. He can’t be trusted to operate the mental vehicle in charge of processing those words at anything less than 100% capacity.
“Huh,” is all he manages to get out in response. Looks like he’s staying far away from heavy machinery for the rest of the day.
Eddie pokes Buck’s thigh with his pen. “Go with a bluebonnet.”
“Well—okay. Sure.”
“Jesus Christ,” huffs Ravi. He turns heel and walks away.
In the back of the engine on the way back from a call that wound up being mostly medical, Buck googles bluebonnets. Turns out, they symbolize resilience, loyalty, and hope.
They’re also the state flower of Texas.
During their next 24, Buck starts on dinner as the sun begins to set. Chimney sits at the table, staring intently at paperwork. Eddie sits on the counter next to Buck’s chopping board, legs swinging, staring intently at Buck’s hands.
“How do you dice like that?” Eddie asks.
“Like what?”
“So—small. And so neat. I feel like whenever I chop things, it turns into the Island of Misfit Onions, but you’re just… really good at it.” Eddie taps Buck’s hip lightly with his foot.
And it is his hip. It’s his hip, no other part of him; Buck is firmly ignoring the fuzzy, open border between the hip and the ass region, and that’s called self-preservation, God damn it.
“Heh,” Buck titters. It comes out as more of a nervous exhale of air, even though it was, say it with him now, just his hip. “Well, I’m definitely not as good as Bobby, and he’s the one that taught me, but, uh…”
Buck makes the mistake of glancing up. Eddie is staring at him with an expression so tender that it’s probably a hazard, given how rapidly Buck forgets that he is currently wielding a sharp object. Eddie’s eyes are simply lovely this time of year.
“Sharp,” Buck says stupidly.
“Sharp?” Eddie repeats, with a confused little twitch of his lips. Buck silently greets his right dimple when it appears, then remembers he needs to act like a human being, stat.
“Yep.” Buck coughs. Keep going, come on. “Sharp knife. That’s step one. So, uh, if you want to get good at dicing - good knives. And a sharpener. A knife sharpener, too; get one of those.”
Eddie hums. “I’ll just use yours.”
What’s mine is yours, Buck thinks, then swats the thought away like a mosquito. He needs all the blood he can get, thanks, because half of his supply is currently in his cheeks, and the other half—
Never mind.
“Sure. Totally. Then, um,” Buck grabs a post-slice, pre-dice tomato, “it’s all in the motion of it. You gotta, kind of, rock into it. Look.” Buck dices. He dices, and doesn’t think any thoughts, and dices some more.
Unfortunately, even through his dedicated dicing focus, he can still sense Eddie’s eyes raking up and down. Seriously, his gaze feels like lasers. Buck might have to treat some severe, narrow, vertical burns.
“Uh huh,” says Eddie, his voice pitched a notch deeper than what constitutes comfortable territory for below Buck’s belt. “I definitely see the rocking motion. Tell me, is that—”
“Hey, hubby! Can you come here?”
Hen’s voice rings out from the heavens, which it turns out are actually just downstairs in the engine bay. At least if Buck dies by Eddie’s hand—well, voice—in this kitchen, the trip to the afterlife will be quick and easy. Just roll his corpse down the stairs, he’s really not fussy.
Buck is so distracted, he barely even shudders at the word hubby.
Eddie sighs. Not in an ah, the wife, the old ball and chain type of way, because he’s a sweetheart, and respectful from his head to his toes. Moreso, it seems, out of being interrupted from—something.
That something is a big, looming question mark in the sky. Right now, Buck isn’t ready to touch it with a ten foot pole.
“Coming, honey,” Eddie calls back. He plucks a small chunk of undiced tomato and puts it in his mouth, then licks the trace of juice off his fingers, all while holding eye contact.
The question mark is on fire. It’s about to grow legs and teeth and start destroying the city of Los Angeles.
Eddie hops off the counter with an easy flourish. He pats Buck on the shoulder, nods to the evenly diced tomatoes; then he leans into Buck’s personal space, because sure, Buck loves it here in Semi-Chub Torture City.
“Keep up the good work, bud,” Eddie rumbles into his ear, then walks away to greet his wife.
Work-wife.
Buck grabs another tomato and keeps dicing.
Turns out, that hubby wasn’t a one off, and Buck might just be approaching his limit.
Hen seems to love how the word sits in her mouth. Over the remaining twelve hours of their shift, she says it either to or about Eddie no less than seven times. One of those times she does so while pinching Eddie’s cheek, and looking Buck dead in the eye.
So, she’s messing with him. It’s extremely humbling that he didn’t clock on to that until hubby number six.
The ghost of implications this running gag leaves in its wake haunts Buck at close quarters through the course of his 24 off.
Hen knows you’re jealous, it whispers, over his Upbeat Running Mix as he jogs around his neighborhood.
That means you’re being obvious, it mocks, as he wheels his shopping cart down the cereal aisle.
That means Eddie has probably noticed, it hisses, as he pre-makes cookie dough to take to the station the next morning.
Eddie was flirting with you, it whines, as he—
Nope. Scratch that last one - wrong ghost.
Buck lies awake for a long time that night. He’s confused, a bit overwhelmed, and he’s in on the joke, now, at least, but man, he was kind of a deadbeat future-work-husband to Ravi yesterday, and Eddie’s his best friend, who is straight, but his foot touched his ass, on purpose, and bluebonnets are the state flower of Texas, which is Eddie’s home state, not Buck’s, but Eddie thinks Buck should wear one as a boutonniere, and does that mean Eddie intends to be involved in that wedding?
As he eventually drifts off to sleep, he decides it’s about time to get his priorities in order.
He has a proposal to make.
Buck gets down on one knee in the locker room before their shift starts the next morning, pats his pants pocket to affirm its contents, and gets to work untying his sneakers.
“Rav,” Buck says, nonchalant, reaching into his pocket. He’s a casual guy. “You, uh—you want this?”
He holds out his hand. A Ring Pop lies in his palm.
Ravi walks over. He stands before Buck, whose life is quite possibly about to change, and Ravi almost definitely doesn’t know it. “What flavor?”
“Blue raspberry,” Buck replies.
“Oh, cool. Yes, then.”
Ravi reaches out a hand—his left, score—palm up; curls his fingers as if to say gimme. No manners at all on this man. In response, Buck pulls the candy out of its packaging, flips Ravi’s hand over, and slides it onto his ring finger. He takes a moment to bask in newly-work-engaged bliss, staring up at his work-fiancé with bright eyes.
His work-fiancé turns and walks away without so much as a wow, it’s beautiful, or even a thanks, bro. Maybe romance is, in fact, dead.
“Where’s mine?” Eddie pipes up.
He’s here, too. He’s been sitting on a bench, overseeing the whole interaction. Which is nice, because Eddie is a total softie. Deep down, he loves a good proposal.
“Hm?”
“My candy,” Eddie clarifies. Furrows his brow. “You didn’t seriously buy one for Ravi and not for me, did you?”
Eddie, unlike Buck, is not a jealous man. This, right here, might be the closest thing to scorned Buck will ever get out of him. He enjoys it for all of two seconds before the betrayed look in Eddie’s eyes starts to make him feel bad.
“Nah. As if.” He tosses Eddie his Ring Pop. “It’s cherry.”
Eddie catches it with ease, and unwraps his treasure, soft smile on his face. “Thanks, Buck,” he says, then sucks the candy into his mouth.
While maintaining eye contact.
Buck did not think this plan through.
Over the course of his shift, and after enduring roundabout thirty minutes of Eddie relentlessly fellating a piece of hard candy all without somehow once ever leaving Buck’s eyeline, Buck internally promotes Ravi to work-husband. Engagement is just work-marriage purgatory, anyway, so Buck takes the bullet and mentally elopes on their behalf.
So, he’s work-married. And their work-house is built on sturdy, firm rock, because Buck set it up that way, so he knows they’re going to go the distance.
Instead of wedding cake, Buck makes cookies.
“Ooh,” says Eddie, because he has an endearing habit of turning into a little old lady at tea time whenever he happens upon a sweet treat. He reaches out to grab a cookie, but Buck swats his hand away.
“Hey,” says Buck, very bravely not faltering at the downturned look of distress in Eddie’s deep brown cow eyes. “Not yet. First one goes to my husband.”
The cow eyes triple in size. If they could, they’d probably pop out on springs. “Your—huh?” Eddie asks, dazed.
Oh, right. Buck forgot a word, didn’t he?
“My work husband,” Buck explains. “Which is Ravi.”
The man of the hour walks right on past their conversation. He doesn’t even take a cookie. He just hits Buck with a drive by, “No thank you.”
Buck splutters.
“But—Ravi, wait,” Buck urges, spinning to chase after him with placating hands outstretched. “I already proposed, man. You said yes!”
That successfully makes Ravi stop and acknowledge the state of affairs, but the look on his face is nothing short of completely and utterly over it. “Did you? I must have missed it.”
Fair point. Buck can’t argue with the man. The engagement was purposefully stealthy.
“You proposed?”
Buck turns to address Eddie. “Yeah. This morning. You were there, remember?”
Back to Ravi. Lots of spinning, today. Shame he’s not got the right stature to be a ballerina. “Ravi, it’s okay if you’re not into dudes. Be who you are, man. I mean, look!” Buck gestures frantically to Hen as she graces the top of the stairs. “Hen isn’t into men, and she’s work-married to Eddie. We can make it work.”
“Oh brother,” says Hen.
“No, I’m into dudes,” Ravi clarifies. “It’s not that. It’s… Buck, I say this from the heart: you’re like a coworker to me.”
Buck whines, which is humiliating, but hey; it must be sufficiently pathetic, because Ravi modifies his classification with a small sigh. “A coworker slash friend.”
Buck exhales, shoulders slumping. “I’ll take it.”
“Why are you marrying Ravi?” Eddie asks. Buck makes another spin.
“Well,” Buck starts, then stumbles. “Uh. I mean… Hen’s your work wife,” he hedges. Sure. That’s a sufficient stand in for the comprehensive explanation he doesn’t have.
Why did Buck secretly work-propose to his work partner? Some boxes are destined to remain shut. If he were to take a peek, the contents would probably include committing to an inside joke with—only himself, for recreational purposes, apparently; catalyzed tenfold by the dizzying brain fog that comes along with any diversion of Eddie’s time and attention away from Buck himself, so, all in all… he got a bit turned around.
Seriously. Lots of spinning.
Hen saunters over to stand at Eddie’s side, and their silent communication unfolds like a well-practiced piece of choreography.
They turn their heads toward each other in perfect unison. Hen gives Eddie a raised-brow look. Eddie shrugs, purses his lips, then nods in acquiescence. They turn back to face Buck, once again, isn’t this fun, in unison. They’re wasted here, truly; out and about saving lives when they could be raking in effortless piles of gold medals in synchronized swimming.
Eddie’s hands are tucked in his pockets. Hen’s are by her sides. Together, they look like the world’s most well-matched and bemused wedding cake topper.
It’s only fitting. The clattering wind blowing between Buck’s ears whips up the pile of sand around his feet in a petty dust storm.
“It’s a lavender marriage,” Hen deadpans.
The dust storm immediately halts, drops to the ground, then slinks feebly away over to somewhere near the pool table, muttering, oops, don’t mind me. I was just leaving.
Because—Buck is almost certain he’s got that definition correct, and he doesn’t have time right now to consult the almighty Merriam and Webster, so instead he just… stares.
Hen takes a cookie, squeezes Eddie fondly on the shoulder, and walks away. She contributed all of six words to this interaction, and still managed to leave Buck reeling. Take that, Hemingway.
More like Hen-ingway. For sale: baby Buck, just born.
“Congrats, Eddie,” Ravi says, now suddenly at Buck’s side, making him jump.
“Thanks,” Eddie says brightly. “Buck, please can I have a coming out cookie?”
Buck is still occupied with staring in dumbfounded silence - but like a good partner, he offers him the plate.
A short while later, Eddie follows Buck up to the roof. He walks over to stand at Buck’s side where he looks out over the parapet, close enough that their hips—actually hips, this time—brush.
“You good?” He asks, gentle.
Buck laughs on an exhale. “I’m good. Are you good?”
“I’ve been better,” says Eddie soberly, and it hits Buck like a cartoon anvil.
“Eddie,” he starts, a thousand half-formed apologies lurking on his tongue.
Sorry for whatever the hell I’ve been doing. Sorry for being a lovesick moron all over the place. Sorry for dragging Ravi unwittingly into our business. Sorry for reacting to you coming out as gay by shoving a plate of cookies at you and all but sprinting up to the top of our work building.
“No, Buck, it’s not you,” says Eddie, an instant balm. “Well, it is, sort of. It’s, uh… it’s my marriage.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, put-upon and weary. “Hen and I talked. We decided it would be best if we separated.”
Buck chuckles. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t lie, now,” Eddie chides. “Marriage is all about honesty.”
Buck tilts his head back, looks to the sky, and beams. The giant question mark fades out behind a fluffy, white cloud.
“Why would I take marriage advice from you?” He asks. “You’re the guy getting divorced.”
Eddie plucks at the collar of Buck’s T-shirt, right against his nape. Goosebumps erupt on the skin there, like the little stars you get in your vision when you rub your eyes. “Sorry, just fixing your label. Don’t know how you keep those things in there. Anyway,” he continues, “first off, it’s work-divorced; and that may be true, but… me and Hen? We’re professionals. It’s a clean break. Nothing messy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm.” When Buck looks at him, he’s visibly holding back a stupid smile. “She’s just my best friend now.”
“Remember where we’re having this conversation,” says Buck, gesturing over the side of the building.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie says, and lets the grin off its leash. He reaches out and cups Buck’s elbow; for the sake of intimacy, but also a silent feet on the ground, bud. “You’re a little bit insane, you know that?”
“Unfortunately,” Buck replies, doing one final quarter-spin to look at Eddie head on. No more twisting around for him. He’s right where he wants to be, turned in this direction. In fact, he enjoys facing this way a great deal. It comes with a fantastic view.
Eddie slides the hand on his elbow up to grip his bicep, gives it an indulgent little squeeze. Buck flexes, obviously. “I don’t think so,” says Eddie. “It’s really working for me, actually.”
“I’m the luckiest man alive,” Buck jokes, except he’s not joking. He’s never been more sincere.
“Could be even luckier,” Eddie purrs.
He is simultaneously outlandishly corny and the most attractive thing Buck has ever seen. Like if an incubus was a PTA member.
Buck places his hand on Eddie’s waist, lets his thumb settle in the divot connecting it to the hip. (Just the hip, for now.)
“That so?” Buck asks, squeezing his fingers slightly, cinching. “What am I missing?”
“Hm. What size ring do you wear?” Eddie asks, his tongue poking out to lick his upper lip.
Eddie’s bright eyes flare almost bronze, a melting pot of daylight and desire; but Buck’s field of vision is now reduced near-entirely to Eddie’s mouth, everything else suddenly appearing fuzzy and dark in a want-stained vignette. His top lip glistens slightly where he just licked it, spit-slick and pigmented, just like it had been while wrapped around that Ring Pop yesterday.
“Cherry,” answers Buck, distracted.
Eddie’s sharp canines flash when he laughs, juxtaposing the soft brush of sound. “I don’t think the jeweller could work with that.”
Which—yep. Marriage. Proposal, wedding, marriage, no work-related prefix attached; apparently no longer a hypothetical; his best friend is sizing him up for a ring and lifelong commitment, plain as day, easy as pie.
“Leave it to me, then,” says Buck. Even though this is undoubtedly a life-changing moment, he’s still a sweet talker at his core, and he’s not afraid to weaponize it. Not when Eddie is such a fierce competitor.
“Nuh uh,” says Eddie, somehow seductive even while petulant. “You already proposed. It was nonchalant, and delicious, and I enjoyed every minute—”
“—clearly,” Buck scoffs, phantom hard-on echoing in his slacks at the mere memory. “You’re cruel for that obscene performance, by the way—”
“—and, I’m going to do mine so much better,” Eddie barrels on, a broad, smug smile taking the lead on his face. “I’ll out-propose you so hard. You’re gonna feel so happy, and so stupid.”
It’s crazy. Buck feels crazy. He gets to stand in the sun and fresh air, alive, in love, and have a veritable dick measuring contest with his best friend over their pending marriage proposals.
“Aw,” coos Buck, leaning in. Resisting Eddie’s mouth is a fool’s game, and he’s done playing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Eddie? I mean, you’ve been divorced less than an hour.”
Eddie doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he curls his large, dextrous fingers around the back of Buck’s neck, and kisses him.
It’s fast, and just shy of rough. Buck, if he’d let himself wander down that alley of thought, might have envisioned his first kiss with Eddie being a slow drip, gradual; a bit like falling asleep in a soft bed and warm arms after a long day. Instead, it feels like tumbling rapidly out of a dream - the kind you forget in milliseconds, because everything prior to waking up doesn’t matter anymore. Doesn’t compare.
Buck gasps into Eddie’s mouth as plush lips slide over his own, pressing and pulling. Buck must be a good teacher, because Eddie’s picked up on that rocking motion immediately, with perfect ease. Star student.
He slips his tongue between Eddie’s parted lips, presses both palms to the broad planes of his back, pushes in, in, in. Eddie’s chest is a solid wall against his own; he’s never felt so sturdy while so, so lightheaded.
The kiss winds down, because to Buck’s despair—yeah, they’re at work. Before they break apart, though, Eddie smooths a hand down, down, around Buck’s hip, and finally, Buck gets his answer; because that’s definitely where a hip becomes an ass. Stone cold data has been gathered. Hot, hard proof.
Eddie pulls back from the kiss with a squeeze of his hand that sends a heady jolt up and down Buck’s spine. “That seem ready to you?”
His breath comes out in warm gusts against Buck’s mouth. They are still, Buck reminds himself, very much at work.
But - Buck is well-versed in the art of workplace courtship. He’s also a weak, weak man.
“Uh huh,” he says, lips grazing Eddie’s own. Then he pulls him back in.