all right cowboy go get ‘em

6x04 - Animal Instincts ; boozed up hen & buck

“We could probably bring it up over breakfast,” Eddie says, ignoring the way Buck's knee is now pressed into his thigh. It's happened a thousand times before, and it always feels the same, always makes him want to curl toward Buck and hide his face in the shady spot just under his jaw. He should be used to it by now.  “He might be over it by then,” Buck says. “Could be another fight with Sarah, weren't they—”  “Oh my God, don't say that,” Eddie hisses, leaning closer, all the way into Buck's space but not quite - just enough distance for plausible deniability, though everyone in their lives has long since stopped asking. Everyone's dropped the 'eligible' in 'eligible bachelors', too - they're just bachelors. Eddie and Buck, with their little house and their kid who's about to flee the nest, the butt of every joke if only everyone they know wasn't such a good fucking person. “He told me the other day they haven't started talking about what's gonna happen with college.” Buck makes a face. “They still have the summer,” he says, and something about the set of his face is so indescribably sad that Eddie has to look away. “They'll have a great time, and then—well. You know they're smart kids.”  “Smart kids,” Eddie says in his wheeziest old man voice. The soft touch of Buck's knee in his thigh grows pointed, painful. He relishes it. “But—yeah. They're smarter than I ever was at their age, that's for fucking sure.”  Buck laughs quietly under his breath, looking down at his lap. He's thinking about himself at eighteen, and Eddie's thinking about him at eighteen too, because the memory of those years in his own life is still—something. Not tender, exactly, but it smarts if he prods at it too long.  “You think they could make it work?” Buck asks. “Dating long-distance like that?” Eddie sighs. “Nobody ever does, do they?” Buck looks up. Just looks, and Eddie desperately wants to lie to himself and say that he didn't notice when exactly the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes stopped disappearing.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Buck says quietly. Eddie huffs out a breath instead of arguing back, taking a swig of his beer for the first time since their conversation started. “But I don’t think it’s something you can recreate either,” he continues and Eddie gives him a sidelong glance. “I’ll never feel the way I did with Abby again. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t been in love since or that I won’t be again.” “You’re in love with Tommy?” Eddie asks – blurts out, really – and Buck freezes for half a second before he chuckles. “I meant Taylor.” “Oh.” Eddie pulls a face and Buck laughs for real. “It was a different kind of love than what I had with Abby,” Buck allows. “But it was real for a while. And Tommy…it’s too soon to tell but I think I could. Fall in love with him, I mean.” And that’s- that makes sense. Tommy is good for Buck. Tommy is kind to Buck and makes him smile in a way that’s almost giddy. It doesn’t stop something like jealousy clenching in Eddie’s stomach. Which isn’t fair because Buck deserves to fall in love. He’s maybe one of the only people Eddie knows who loves love more than he does. And Buck has been searching for a love that’s good to him for so long. It’s not his fault Eddie decided to blow up his life instead of being content with what he was offered.

For the first time since Eddie buried himself in Buck’s neck like a child, he turns away from the other man in shame.

Buck makes some kind of noise, a little hurt whine that makes Eddie’s heart shrivel up in his chest, but Buck doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t try to get Eddie to look at him again. He just gets up from the table and pads softly to the kitchen then comes back with a full glass of water which he sets down in front of Eddie.

Eddie swallows thickly and smacks his lips a little, suddenly so terribly aware of the dryness of his mouth. This small act–the tender care of it and the show of how well Buck knows him–is enough to get Eddie to lift his weary eyes and gather enough strength to twist his expression into a question.

“Drink,” Buck says quietly, gesturing to the glass with a wave of his finger. “Crying like that–I know how thirsty it can make you.”

He doesn’t know how Buck does it. How does he say something so simple but so meaningful? How does he acknowledge what he witnessed without making Eddie feel horrible or pathetic while also letting Eddie know that he’s not alone?

If there were any tears left in him, they would tumble out now, probably in even bigger sobs, all catastrophic and heaving, but there’s none, so Eddie just nods and picks up the glass.

The stark, brisk cold smoothness of the water against his dry, tattered mouth is so good. Eddie drinks and drinks and drinks, large gulps that make his lungs burn because he can barely breathe.

“Slow,” Buck admonishes.

Eddie obeys, grateful for the care but more so for the orders, because at the very least that’s something he can do, he can follow orders and at the end of the day he just wants someone to tell him what to do so he doesn’t have to decide, so he doesn’t have the option of fucking up.