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When they make it back to the station, Eddie expects things to go back to normal. Clearly, he imagined something, his own guilt transpiring into something edging toward an auditory hallucination. He pushes on, shedding his gear and making his way into the kitchen. He chops up the vegetables handed to him, slicing them finely, long fingers careful with the blade, well, until—
I don’t even know how to stop staring. God, his hands. Holy shit. I wonder how many of his fingers would fit in my mouth—
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie chokes, knife slipping in his hand, almost nicking his finger. He pauses, placing the knife to the side of the chopping board. “What did you—what was that?”
Buck looks up from where he’d been staring at Eddie’s hands, catching his eye. “Huh?”His eyes are beautiful, Buck says—or his voice does. Eddie watches, but there, right in front of him, Buck’s mouth is unmoving.
OR Eddie's forced to confront the situation at hand because he can't get Buck's voice out of his damn head.
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