Fics like highway to hell (and back)

"Leave it," Eddie says, his voice pulled taut like a wire about to snap, tight enough to hum. Buck looks at him, and Eddie’s whole body has gone so rigid he looks carved from stone, but Buck will ruminate on that later. But he can't exactly leave his phone under the seat for the next eight hundred miles, it's got his whole life on it, every stupid photo he's ever taken of Christopher and Eddie and Eddie and Christopher and, embarrassingly, just Eddie, so many just-Eddies, an entire hidden album of candids he'll never admit to because they constitute evidence of something he's been pretending he doesn't feel. "I can't leave it, it's my phone. It's got— hold on, I think it slid under your seat." “Buck, don’t.” It’s as if Eddie doesn’t even know him, because Buck has never once heard the word don’t and responded with anything resembling obedience. So now he’s stretching across the center console with one hand braced on Eddie’s thigh for leverage, the other reaching blindly into the dark gap beneath the driver’s seat, and he’s aware on some level that his positioning is— that he’s essentially— that his head is— He’s in Eddie’s lap. Or, What's a little road-head between friends?

Fics like highway to hell (and back)

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