zahlibeth

Beside them, Marisol takes a small step back, and Buck fights a thousand different feelings he hates himself for as he slides seamlessly into her place, helping Eddie into the shirt. He kneels before him and buttons it deftly, starting from the bottom. He stops level with Eddie’s clavicle and pats the last button gently when he’s done. “Looking sharp, Diaz,” he tells him, giving him a playful onceover. “Blue’s your colour.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Okay, Molly Ringwald.” Buck barks a surprised laugh. “Excuse me?” “You know,” Eddie says, holding his gaze with a grin, woozy and lopsided. “Pretty in Pink.” He gestures at Buck’s hoodie, worn and faded baby pink. Then he’s reaching out, and Buck can’t even chastise him for lifting his arms unnecessarily because he’s pressing his thumb to the centre of Buck’s lips. Buck swallows, suddenly very aware of the position they’re in. On his knees before Eddie feels like the most natural supplication in the world, only intensified by the vulnerability Eddie’s trusting him with. Before he can reach for some levity for the sake of everyone in the room, Eddie’s thumb travels up, up, up, stopping when it reaches the birthmark splotched rosily across his brow. “Pretty in Pink,” he murmurs again. Marisol drops a hairbrush where she’s repacking the duffel, Hen waltzes back in with the completed paperwork, and Buck leans back on his heels, away from Eddie’s touch, before springing upright.