#in which Eddie is a little teensy drunk and also massively pining

[elvensorceress]

Sunday we have Sentences more than Seven of them?

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okay so. have a little bit of undercover-as-a-married-couple poker date from my catching lightning fic. 

They don’t duck out immediately but Buck texts Bobby everything he picked up on about these people and their tricks and any secrets they might have let out while drinking and gambling. Eddie sits across from him in a secluded booth and watches the way the warm, dim lighting looks on his face. He sticks his tongue out in concentration the same way he does when he’s focusing hard on winning a game or breaking open a mangled door or rolling a hose. But flashes of excitement and thoughtfulness spark in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the set of his jaw. 

Eddie wants to touch his lips to every part of Buck but especially his face. He’s so handsome, and Eddie knows so many people see it when they look at him. How could they not? There’s so much depth and light in his eyes. There’s so much joy in the world when he smiles. His cheeks are round and adorable when he’s flushed. The point of his nose and the solid cut of his chin just beg to be kissed. 

There’s never been a more perfect shade of blue than the one his eyes are made of. Eddie doesn’t know what it is about his pretty birthmark but it also needs soft touches and kisses and love showered all over it. His lips are perfect in every way, the shape, the color, the fullness, what has to be pillowy softness, perfect except for the fact that they’re not pressed to Eddie’s.

He’s beautiful. Everything about him. He’s beautiful and alive and it feels like a miracle. He makes Eddie want to believe in hope and happiness and maybe even the powers of the universe that listened and gave him back. 

They gave him back. He’s still here. And Eddie wants so badly to reach and touch and finally hold on. 

The longer he looks, the more he can’t bear to look away.

He’s alive. He’s beautiful and he’s alive, and Eddie can’t breathe with the weight of how much he loves him. 

Buck turns a little pink when he notices the blatant staring and ducks his head in that flirtatious, self-conscious, adorable way. “You’re staring.”

Eddie bites his lip and drinks until his glass is empty and he’s bathed in hazy, fuzzy warmth. It’s not real warmth, it never is. And it only feels hollow and fleeting. 

But sometimes it doesn’t matter what is fantasy and what is reality. Maybe it’s real in the moment, real while it’s happening. Reality is for when you wake. If you’ve captured a good dream, you stay and keep it until it’s ripped away. Why can’t the dream be true in the moment that it exists? Why can’t he have what he needs while they’re sitting here, still dreaming it? 

So, Eddie shrugs and wets his lips. “You’re my husband. What else am I supposed to stare at.”

There’s a clear bobbing in Buck’s throat as he swallows and blushes. “How many drinks have you had?”

“A few.” Not enough that he’s anywhere near drunk. Not enough that he’s even that tipsy. But enough that it can be an excuse. “I think we had an autumn wedding,” he says softly as he leans back against the cushioned booth and words drift like fog across the ground. “You love warm colors. Rust and burgundy, gold and honey, copper and pumpkin. I like cobalt. It’s a nice word. It’s a good color with the sunset. Complementary. Like you and me.”

Buck stares at him, frozen in the middle of whatever thought he had, whatever he was going to text. He’s stunned, uncertain, but he doesn’t say anything.